warlords to make his first fortune. He had subsequently been arrested and tortured by the Chinese, but had somehow managed to escape before being executed.
The incident seemed to have tempered his ambitions som ewhat, and he continued in the trade as a broker instead of supplying direct, playing the middleman being a much safer line of work – and only slightly less lucrative, once he’d bumped up his percentage.
Cole noted that there was no information in the files on his current whereabouts, or what groups he was involved with, nor any other up-to-date intelligence on the man. He had fallen through the net, and was now ignored by agencies with much bigger fish to fry.
Still, Cole now had a picture of the man and – whilst undoubtedly inaccurate – it would still enable him to make a rough identification if he was to enter the restaurant.
Cole was aware that he was on the clock, but his experience back in Siem Reap had been a harsh reminder to him of the all-important ‘seven Ps’, as he’d been taught by his British colleagues in the elite Special Boat Service, the UK equivalent of the Navy SEALs – proper planning and preparation prevents piss poor performance.
He hadn’t planned his last operation, and his performance had indeed turned out to be piss poor. Alright, he’d got the information he’d needed, but he’d almost been killed doing it; not to mention aiding in the wholesale destruction of a thousand year old world heritage site.
And so he wasn’t going to take any chances here – he would play it by the book, perform proper recon and make sure his kidnapping of Wong Xiang went without a hitch.
It was only a few hours later when Cole – situated on the roof of an old tenement block directly facing the Dutch colonial storefronts, staring through a recently purchased pair of high-powered Zeiss binoculars – saw Wong Xiang for the first time.
The age-enhanced computer images from the ATF were surprisingly accurate, as it turned out, and Cole had no trouble recognizing the man.
Wo ng had arrived on foot with another man, a shifty-looking, swarthy Indonesian dressed in bright blue shorts, pink t-shirt and sandals.
Won g himself was tall and lean, and was dressed in a tropical-weight suit, white shirt open at the neck. He looked poised and confident – the kind of confidence which came from money, and also undoubtedly from the gun he carried in the shoulder holster slung underneath his left arm.
Before returning to the restaurant, Cole had hired a car which he had then parked directly outside the Vietopia. This would give him the option of following Wong on foot if he decided to walk, or by vehicle if he took a cab.
He would shadow Wong’s movements for a while, get to know the man’s routines – even hopefully discover where the man lived – so that he could decide on the best place to take him.
A part of him wanted to follow Wong inside the restaurant, but he didn’t want to show himself too soon; after all these years, Wong probably had a sixth sense about close surveillance. Cole was exceptional at tradecraft, but he was uncomfortably aware that he was alone, which made spotting him an easier job. And he knew that in such a situation, patience was a virtue.
As Wong and his loudly-dressed companion were greeted by the staff and escorted to a table inside, movement out on the street caught Cole’s attention.
Four Asian men were approaching the restaurant, jackets on despite the heat. Cole immediately remembered why Wong was wearing his jacket –to disguise the gun under his armpit. The guns weren’t so obvious on these men, but Cole nevertheless knew they must be there.
It was the way they moved – smoothly, assuredly, the masters of their bodies and their minds. They were professional men, on a mission; Cole could see it on their faces, in their eyes.
Cole’s blood ran cold as he recognized the men for exactly what they were; for they were like Cole himself, and it took
The incident seemed to have tempered his ambitions som ewhat, and he continued in the trade as a broker instead of supplying direct, playing the middleman being a much safer line of work – and only slightly less lucrative, once he’d bumped up his percentage.
Cole noted that there was no information in the files on his current whereabouts, or what groups he was involved with, nor any other up-to-date intelligence on the man. He had fallen through the net, and was now ignored by agencies with much bigger fish to fry.
Still, Cole now had a picture of the man and – whilst undoubtedly inaccurate – it would still enable him to make a rough identification if he was to enter the restaurant.
Cole was aware that he was on the clock, but his experience back in Siem Reap had been a harsh reminder to him of the all-important ‘seven Ps’, as he’d been taught by his British colleagues in the elite Special Boat Service, the UK equivalent of the Navy SEALs – proper planning and preparation prevents piss poor performance.
He hadn’t planned his last operation, and his performance had indeed turned out to be piss poor. Alright, he’d got the information he’d needed, but he’d almost been killed doing it; not to mention aiding in the wholesale destruction of a thousand year old world heritage site.
And so he wasn’t going to take any chances here – he would play it by the book, perform proper recon and make sure his kidnapping of Wong Xiang went without a hitch.
It was only a few hours later when Cole – situated on the roof of an old tenement block directly facing the Dutch colonial storefronts, staring through a recently purchased pair of high-powered Zeiss binoculars – saw Wong Xiang for the first time.
The age-enhanced computer images from the ATF were surprisingly accurate, as it turned out, and Cole had no trouble recognizing the man.
Wo ng had arrived on foot with another man, a shifty-looking, swarthy Indonesian dressed in bright blue shorts, pink t-shirt and sandals.
Won g himself was tall and lean, and was dressed in a tropical-weight suit, white shirt open at the neck. He looked poised and confident – the kind of confidence which came from money, and also undoubtedly from the gun he carried in the shoulder holster slung underneath his left arm.
Before returning to the restaurant, Cole had hired a car which he had then parked directly outside the Vietopia. This would give him the option of following Wong on foot if he decided to walk, or by vehicle if he took a cab.
He would shadow Wong’s movements for a while, get to know the man’s routines – even hopefully discover where the man lived – so that he could decide on the best place to take him.
A part of him wanted to follow Wong inside the restaurant, but he didn’t want to show himself too soon; after all these years, Wong probably had a sixth sense about close surveillance. Cole was exceptional at tradecraft, but he was uncomfortably aware that he was alone, which made spotting him an easier job. And he knew that in such a situation, patience was a virtue.
As Wong and his loudly-dressed companion were greeted by the staff and escorted to a table inside, movement out on the street caught Cole’s attention.
Four Asian men were approaching the restaurant, jackets on despite the heat. Cole immediately remembered why Wong was wearing his jacket –to disguise the gun under his armpit. The guns weren’t so obvious on these men, but Cole nevertheless knew they must be there.
It was the way they moved – smoothly, assuredly, the masters of their bodies and their minds. They were professional men, on a mission; Cole could see it on their faces, in their eyes.
Cole’s blood ran cold as he recognized the men for exactly what they were; for they were like Cole himself, and it took
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