"One . . ." said Trace finally.

I went through the doors, closed them, and hustled back to the spot below the video camera, just in time to beat the sweep.

The only problem was that I'd left my alarm extenders against the door.

Great time for premature Alzheimer's to kick in. I waited for the cameras to swing around, then slipped back to the door. There was a person in the archway, his back facing the doors. I reached up and pulled the wire for the top alarm out, then dropped to my knees and tugged at the second. It stuck for a moment, then came loose-and pulled the door with it.

The shriek of the alarm vibrated the stone wall as I threw myself back against it. I held my breath.

"d.i.c.k?" asked Trace.

"Tell me when the cameras are clear," I whispered, my eyes fixed on the half-open door nearby.

"Wait-wait-wait."

On the third "wait," someone pushed through the doors and stuck his head outside. The alarm continued to ring.

"Go!" said Trace, but at that moment I was doing my best to pretend I was part of the wall. The man didn't see me, and closed the doors.

"Thirty," hissed Trace. "Wait. Wait."

I did. The alarm stopped ringing. Finally, Trace gave the all-clear sign and I raced to the wall, ignoring the p.r.i.c.kles and sharp gla.s.s as I vaulted back over, collapsing in a heap in the comparative safety of the rock garden.

Cho Lim, standing a few feet away, glanced down at me.

"Let's back out and meet Lo Po," I said, getting up. "We'll put the mike into one of those trees and aim it at the gla.s.s on the doors."

The microphone worked by detecting vibrations in the gla.s.s and translating them into sound. The technique was first used during the Cold War. The results vary widely depending on the room and the vocal qualities of the people talking, but the mike has the advantage of being virtually undetectable by the subjects, at least as long as they stay put.

We were on our way back through the rock garden when a thin glimmer caught my eye near Cho Lim's leg. A straight line ran across the garden. At first glance it looked like a spider's string, but the moonlight revealed it was just a bit too thick.

"Trip wire!" I yelled.

I'm fairly sure I yelled it. I had to, to be heard over the explosion.

9 Think of it this way: they give us cheap manufactured goods, we give them legalese and bulls.h.i.t. Fair exchange.

10 Unlike "ordinary" microwaves, this one could only be detected by someone standing-or flying-directly in its path. My technical description leaves something to be desired because parts of the unit have not yet been cleared for patent.

11 I believe the mission remains cla.s.sified. Mongoose has vowed one day to tell the story himself, so I won't steal his thunder.

12 IEDs = Improvised explosive devices, also known as bombs.

13 I'd explain the physics of that, but there's really no time to here. The technique is an old one.

4.

[ I ].

BAM . . .

We landed in a heap, more or less together, at the edge of the rock garden near the perimeter fences. I'd say that all h.e.l.l broke loose, but I'm not given to understatement. Sirens were sounding, dogs were barking, and motorcycles were revving. Flares went off, and the dark night turned into a sick but bright yellow glow. My nostrils were filled with the comforting smell of burning gunpowder and tungsten. We had reached the blissful state of SNAFU-situation normal, all f.u.c.ked up.

I pushed myself to my feet and looked around for Trace and Cho Lim.

"Thick way, d.i.c.k," said Cho Lim in the radio. Thick or this-my ears were ringing. She was standing about ten feet away, almost directly ahead of me. Trace was squatting against the fence, her submachine gun out.

"Here come the bikers," said Trace.

"Move back behind that rock," I told her. "Let's see what they do."

There were four of them this time, riding in single file, a lot slower than before. They pa.s.sed us by, then came back and congregated around the spot where I'd thrown the hens earlier. They didn't seem to know we were there, but there was no way for us to move from where we were without being seen. One of them peeled off and returned in the direction they'd come; the others stood around talking.

"Lo Po, where are you?" I whispered over the radio. He didn't answer.

"d.i.c.k, he went up to bring you that mike," said Mongoose. "You want backup?"

"Stay where you are. Get the car ready."

"Roger that."

The biker returned and began gesturing at the fence. Two of the men got off their bikes-they'd obviously decided they were going to climb over and have a look.

I'd brought up my submachine gun and was just about to tell Trace I'd take the two on the left when I saw Cho Lim starting down the hill to my right.

"Cho Lim, what are you doing?"

The answer came in the form of a meow, followed by the pitter-patter of little feet crashing through the brush.

Which was followed by the pitter-patter of submachine guns, fired in the direction of the cat.

The gunfire lasted for only a few seconds. The man who'd pointed toward the fence began yelling insanely, probably telling them I guess that they'd just wasted the kitty. We hunkered down while they ran over and peered through the chain links.

The curses turned to laughs. Finally, the men got back on their bikes and rode off.

Thank you, ma'am.

Trace and I jumped up and started for the fence. Cho Lim went over and crouched down near the dead cat. Her face was as pained as I've ever seen.

"Come on," I told her. "They'll be sending somebody through to pick it up and make sure there's nothing else. Come on."

She sniffled, then got up and followed me.

WHETHER THEY WERE fooled by the cat or not, the men who'd come for the meeting didn't stay very long. Their Mercedes left the compound about ten minutes after we did. Doc and Shotgun followed them as far as the highway, but once there they had too much of a lead for Doc to keep up without being obvious. He lost them in a maze of heavily laden tractor-trailers heading for Beijing-some parts of China never sleep.

"I don't know if they were businessmen or officials or what," he said when we rendezvoused back at the house. "The windows were all darkened. We couldn't see inside. There were no markings or plates on the car that I could see."

"We need X-ray vision, boss," said Shotgun brightly. He was stuffing Twinkies into his mouth. "You should get your friends to invent that."

"Oughta get them to make something to feed you intravenous," said Mongoose.

"They got that," answered Shotgun brightly. He barely paused to unwrap another of the little cakes before gulping it down. "Thing is, what's the sense of eating if you're not biting, right?"

"You don't eat, you swallow," said Trace.

I'll spare your tender ears and eyes the locker-room humor that followed. Doc and I went into the other room, trying to figure out what else we could do to verify that Yong Shin Jong was in the compound. So far we hadn't seen him, and while something was going on there, there was no way of knowing whether it should interest us or not.

Lo Po's computer expert, meanwhile, was having trouble with the hard drive Doc and the others had stolen from the hotel. I put in a call to Shunt, Red Cell's resident computer genius, forgetting that he was on vacation. There were some clicks on the line, and then someone picked up and asked me what the h.e.l.l I wanted.

"I'm looking for Shunt. This is d.i.c.k Marcinko."

There was a pause.

"I know who you are," said the young man on the other end of the line. He sounded just a hair less sure of himself as he continued. "What do you want?"

I explained that we were having some technical problems getting a hard drive to work, and asked if he was willing to help out. When he said sure, I got Lo Po's computer expert on the line, and let them talk geek to geek.

That was my first conversation with Matthew Loring.

Loring and Lo Po's computer guy talked through the problem for about an hour. They finally figured out that the problem was some sort of quirk in the Linux operating system the hotel used instead of Windows. A half hour later we were looking at the hotel's registration form.

But that was all we were looking at-the registration data itself was kept on another computer in the hotel.

Using the information they shared over an Internet connection, Loring spent the next two hours working out a way to break into the hotel system and download all the information without being detected. Because the hotel system wasn't connected to the Internet, however, the program would have to be imitated from within the system itself, either from one of the hotel computers or by plugging into the network.

"I don't know if we can get away with the computer repairman gag twice in a row," said Doc. "They'll realize something's up."

"You can plug directly into the server," suggested Loring. "Look for a switch box similar to your Ethernet router at Rogue Manor. They probably have it in a closet in the bas.e.m.e.nt or something."

I rousted Mongoose from bed, planning to take him and one of Lo Po's men into the hotel to look for the server closet. Lo Po brought up the hotel's Web site so I could get a rough idea of the place's layout before going in. He stopped when we got to the fourth photo, which showed the hallway just off reception.

"Problem with the Internet?" I asked.

"No." He pointed to a door in the right-hand corner of the screen. "That's what you're looking for."

"You sure?"

"It says computer room," said Lo Po, magnifying the screen so we could see the Chinese characters on the plate next to the door.

"No way you're sneaking through that door without being seen," said Mongoose sourly. "You got the video camera and the front desk."

"You're a very negative thinker, Mongoose," I told him. "We'll just create a diversion."

"It would be easier to break right through the side wall," suggested Lo Po. "Go through the back and hook in."

"That's a ladies' restroom," said Mongoose. "Even in China, men aren't allowed in."

"They are if they're plumbers," said Lo Po.

[ II ].

OVERALLS, WORK CAP, a bit of dye to my beard, a slight nurturing of my eyebrows: Richard Marcinko, Rogue Warrior, became Number One Plumber.

Even Cho Lim was impressed, blinking two or three times before opening her mouth wide in surprise.

"You look like a plumber, Mr. d.i.c.k."

"Shie-shie," I said, bowing. "Thank you."

"Until you open your mouth."

"She's right. You don't sound very Chinese, d.i.c.k," said Lo Po. "But I have an idea."

And so was born Number One Plumbing, Father & Daughter, Best Plumbing Beijing. You drip, we make the trip. No job too big or small.

Trace reprised her role as hotel guest, in this case a particularly dull-headed one who screwed up the plumbing. She did a d.a.m.n good job of it, too-I was nearly bowled over by the flood of water when Cho Lim opened the door to the restroom.

The hotel manager followed me as I waded into the bathroom. Water was spurting from two of the toilets. (This was a high-cla.s.s Western-style restroom; no squatting, and each commode had its own stall.) The manager began saying something in very fast Chinese. I didn't understand anything but the curse words, which there were a lot of.

"Errgh," I grunted.

"My father fix. No worry," said Cho Lim in Chinese.

The manager looked at me. I folded my arms and kept my Asian squint.

"Father is very temperamental," explained Cho Lim. "He does not work while people are watching. You can stay if you close your eyes."

"Just tell him to fix it," said the manager. "I am not paying him to stand around."