Target Trump: Chapter 2
East 57th Street, Manhattan….
Zhang Yi swiped his smartphone on the first ring.
He’d been waiting for the call, knew who it was.
He rolled up the Escalade’s window, spoke into the phone in the cockney accented English he’d learned from the Brits in Macau. It was sprinkled with phrases from his first language, Mandarin.
Zhang: “Nin hao, Ma’at.”
Ten minutes earlier he’d activated the Zellcon transducer installed in his phone. It had signaled his unknown employer who, as usual, called him back within minutes. The number of the calling phone was always different.
Their communication protocol never varied. It was the only way Zhang communicated with his employer, whom he’d never seen. He never knew where his employer was calling from.
Nor had Zhang ever heard his employer’s actual voice. The caller’s voice was always electronically distorted. Zhang never knew whether he was talking to a man or woman, or even to the same person each time. The caller identified himself only as Ma’at.
Zhang knew nothing about Ma’at’s business except that he was heavily albeit indirectly involved in U.S. politics. And that he was immensely wealthy, extremely powerful, and acutely narcissistic.
Zhang was Ma’at’s plumber, his dirty tricks specialist. He was from Macau, where he’d first worked at various jobs in casino operations. He’d had a promising career there but it bored him.
He’d found his calling in mixed martial arts. A vicious competitor, he’d climbed the ranks of Asian cage fighters until he was barred from competition for ignoring opponents’ tap-outs.
Zhang then became a “debt collector” for gambling junkets operated by the 14K Triad in Macau. His reputation as a smart, tough and unscrupulous enforcer came to Ma’at’s attention during a visit to Macau. Ma’at recruited him and deployed him to the U.S.
Ma’at sustained Zhang’s loyalty through an annual salary exceeding what many men earn in a lifetime. His loyalty was further reinforced by his awareness that quitting Ma’at’s employ could be very risky.
Ma’at had taken prudent measures with Boylan as well. He’d screened him thoroughly, of course, and was paying him handsomely. In addition, he’d put him under Zhang’s discreet surveillance.
Zhang had been tailing Boylan when Tarita came on the scene. Skeptical of coincidences, Zhang had shifted his surveillance to her. He’d called Ma’at to report the event.
Ma’at: “Do you know anything about her?”
Zhang:
“Nothing, except that she’s a very dishy bird. Boylan couldn’t keep his eyes off her arse.”
Ma’at: “Find out!”
Zhang: “Find out what?”
Ma’at:
“Everything, dummy. Who she is, what she does, where she’s from. Do it now!”
Zhang parked near the Four Seasons. He entered the lobby, spotted Tarita talking with the desk clerk, waited until she’d gone to the elevators, then went to the desk and handed the clerk a current issue of Vogue.
Zhang:
“This belongs to the bird who was just here. She loaned it to me and needs it back quick. Send it to her room on the dub, and tell the porter not to dally.”
He handed the clerk a twenty, then walked circuitously to the elevators. When the porter with the magazine arrived, Zhang unobtrusively followed him into the elevator and out onto the twenty-sixth floor. He walked slowly down the corridor as if heading to a room.
Zhang watched the porter deliver the magazine to room 2630. Then he found a room with a cleaning cart outside and the door open. He entered and, before the maid inside could react, delivered an edge-of-hand chop to the side of her neck where the vagus nerve runs.
She slumped to the floor. Zhang knew she’d be out for as long as he needed, maybe forever. Inconsequential to him. All he cared about was finding her master key, which he did. He gave her inert breasts a squeeze, then left the room.
In her room, Tarita called Carlos Madrid, Fisk’s troubleshooter and her colleague on this project. He was also staying at the Four Seasons.
Tarita:
“I’m quite sure I’ve been followed. Tough looking Asian guy. And just now a magazine I didn’t ask for was delivered to my room. I’m getting nervous. Can I come join you, or you me?”
Carlos:
“Sure. I’ll come there. What’re you doin’ now?”
Tarita: “I’m in the bathroom. Why?”
Carlos:
“Lock the john door. That’ll keep your pussy safe ’til I get there.”
Tarita:
“My pussy’s safer when you’re not here, but come anyway — no pun. Do you still have my extra keycard?”
Carlos: “In my pocket, clipped to a condom.”
Tarita:
“Always ready, like the Coast Guard. Just get your butt down here, please.”
Carlos: “On my way.”
An imposing physical presence at six feet five and two-forty, Carlos had played basketball for a Fisk-owned pro team before Fisk found better use for his talents. Those talents had been honed by a rough, vagrant childhood on Madrid’s streets.
As a child, Carlos stole to survive and became an accomplished thief. That career ended when he tried to snatch a wallet from a wary tourist and got caught. It was the best thing that ever happened to him.
The wary tourist was Fisk.
Inherently scrappy, addicted to winning and a natural leader, Carlos had become a major asset for Fisk, particularly in tandem with Tarita. He was heavier-handed than she, but was equally smart or close to it. Both were exceptionally resourceful and had complementary skills. And they had developed a deep loyalty to one another.
Physical attraction between them was basic and unavoidable. There were professional reasons to resist it, but none strong enough. On the occasions when they succumbed, they wallowed in uncomplicated athletic sex — stark contrast to her convoluted intimacy with Fisk.
In Tarita’s relationship with Fisk, he imposed the emotional constraints. In her relationship with Carlos, she did, with sensitivities and incipient jealousies quelled by humor or cloaked in teasing banter.
Outside Tarita’s room, Zhang opened the door a crack, heard the shower running and slipped into the room. He found her purse, went through her wallet, sifted through items in the bureau and desk drawers, and noted the Taser-type gun on the desk.
The shower noise stopped, and Tarita’s voice rang out from inside the bathroom.
Tarita: “That you, Carlos?”
Zhang grabbed a blanket from the bed and moved quickly to the wall beside the bathroom door. The door slowly opened inward.
Tarita: “Carlos?”
Part of her head emerged tentatively from the doorway. Moving so quickly that Tarita had no chance to react, Zhang kicked the door open and threw the blanket over her head and shoulders. Before she could even raise her arms to resist, she was pinioned in an irresistible bear hug.
Ignoring her futile flailing, Zhang lifted her off the floor, backed away from the bathroom, and strode to the bed. He dived onto it on top of her.
He forced his legs between hers and clamped her wrists together with one vice-like hand. That hand forced her arms up and sideways, allowing his forearm to press down against her throat. Well trained in self-defense, she could hold her own against most men, but not this guy.
Pinned to the bed, she felt his free hand move down her body, then heard the sound of a zipper — his zipper. Mother of God, he’s gonna rape me.
She drew her legs up to kick at his head but couldn’t get them around his broad back. She tried to scream but the blanket around her head stifled that. She threw her head forward, trying to bang it against his head. He stopped that by pressing his forearm down on her throat, which also choked off her air.
Her strength ebbed and she started to black out. For which she felt almost grateful.
____________________
To: Fisk
From: Carlos
Subj: Stacking the deck
The Koch brothers are reputed to have steered up to $900mm into 2016 elections, backing many winners.
That’s 30 million times the average campaign donation of about $30.
Did that give the Kochs 30 million times the influence of an average donor?
To be continued….
