Page 18 of Into the Gray Zone (Pike Logan #19)

Mr.Chin finally saw the monument known as the Gateway to India and crossed the street right in front of it, entering a pressing

crush of people. Families with kids, couples taking selfies, and seedier groups of young men all swarmed around the giant

granite structure, street vendors interspersed throughout selling photographs, soft drinks, and plastic toys for kids.

Built when India was still an English colony, the archway was right on the water adjacent to the original Mumbai city center,

and it encompassed both Hindu and Muslim architecture, but that wasn’t why the locals liked it. Constructed as a supposed

grand entryway into the British empire, it was also where the last British troops left the country after independence.

Mr. Chin snaked through the throngs, trying to be inconspicuous, but it was pretty much impossible. At a short five foot six inches, he was the only Chinese person within miles. In fact, he was the only person of a separate ethnic group he could see, period, among a sea of Indian nationals, and because of it, he drew stares. He had planned for that, of course, outfitting himself as a tourist, complete with backpack and camera. It was why he always contracted out locals for any leg-breaking work he did, only using ethnic Chinese operatives for sensitive work when it was absolutely necessary. Repeatedly employing personnel from his homeland anywhere but in the heart of New Delhi was a recipe for exposure.

He’d worked in India for most of his professional career and had always been envious of his counterparts in the United States.

At least there, a Chinese person could get away with looking Chinese, making operations much easier. Here, while it didn’t necessarily generate suspicion, it would definitely generate

curiosity, which might as well be suspicion when it came to executing his missions. To make matters worse, unlike the United

States, there wasn’t a large Chinese diaspora within India for him to leverage, forcing him to find local talent, which is

what he was hoping to do today.

Mr.Chin’s real name was Jianhong Zhang, and while he was technically employed by a Chinese conglomerate, it didn’t pay his

salary. Like every company within China, the conglomerate was used as a tool for the Chinese Communist Party, and Mr.Chin

only leveraged it for his real work, as an operative for the Ministry of State Security.

The MSS was massive—one of the largest intelligence organizations on earth—and had its tentacles into everything, from psychological

operations through social media to industrial espionage stealing cutting-edge technology to the traditional world HUMINT collection

against foreign adversaries. Mr.Chin’s portfolio was India, and he was but one small cog in the machine executing the CCPs

orders—in this case, preserving China’s monopoly on rare earth elements.

Mr. Chin crossed the pavilion in front of the gateway, making it to the far side without succumbing to the incessant hawking of street vendors. He walked to a counter at the dock, buying a ticket on the next ferry to Elephanta Island, the location of his planned meeting. He paid the foreigner price—which is to say about triple what the locals paid—then passed through a metal detector along with a stream of locals, the magnetometer beeping on every other person, the guards ignoring it all. He went through with no issues, and then entered the queue for the ferry, seeing a younger Caucasian couple in jeans and loose shirts, the only other non-Indians waiting to board.

The ferry arrived, a two-story open-aired boat billowing diesel fumes, the chipped paint fighting a losing battle against

the encroachment of rust, looking more like something Humphrey Bogart would use on an African river than a safe vessel to

cross the bay.

The locals didn’t seem to mind. Once it docked, they surged forward, cramming into the small craft until there was standing

room only, the benches lining the sides smashed together with bodies. Mr.Chin wormed his way forward through the crowd until

he reached the ladder to the upper deck and saw it was chained off. He was stuck with the crowd and smells of diesel.

He pretended to be interested in the view and lifted the camera around his neck. He was just about to take a picture when

a man tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. He saw a sign in English and Hindi reading, “No Photography.” He had no idea

why the rule was in place, but he hastily dropped his camera. The last thing he wanted was to be remembered as some subversive

tourist breaking the rules.

He leaned against a stanchion in the middle of the boat, resigned to being upright for the hour-long trip but using the time

to review what he was going to say to the man he was scheduled to meet.

His contact was an underboss in what was known as D Company, one of the most powerful transnational criminal organizations in Southwest Asia. Run by a Muslim kingpin living in exile in Pakistan, the syndicate had operations in locations as far-flung as the United Arab Emirates, and had branched out from pure criminal work to supporting terrorists groups like Al Qaida, the LeT, and the Taliban, which is how Mr. Chin had acquired the incriminating Pakistani ISI/LeT information he’d originally given to Sidak.

D Company had been implicated in several spectacular attacks, including the 1993 Mumbai bombings that killed more than two

hundred and fifty people and the Bali resort bombings in 2002 that killed another two hundred. It was an open secret that

Pakistan was protecting the leader of the organization, and Mr.Chin needed to keep that in mind. He wanted pure pay-for-play

muscle, removed from ideology, but would leverage whatever he could if it would accomplish the mission.

Up until this point, Mr.Chin’s dealings with D Company had been handled through local cutouts, utilizing crypto currency

for pay and the dark web for solicitation, all solely for manpower that he could direct. Basic leg-breaking tasks when he

needed it, like the two men he’d required for Kamal’s assault. He had never used D Company for an actual end-to-end mission,

as he was about to do here, but after the briefing from his two contacts in Thakkar’s security, he felt it necessary.

The defeat of Kamal’s attack had raised significant concerns, not the least of which was that the two security men had been

completely unaware of the potential threat. They’d made the call to Chin about Thakkar’s patio dinner, saying they were going

to clear out any civilians and that the guard force was as lax as the night before. Because Mr.Chin had trusted their judgment,

that intel had set Kamal’s assault plan in motion.

The two bodyguards were trained to protect their principal—trained to identify threats—and had seen nothing amiss, which meant

it really was a group of lucky tourists, or more likely something else. From Kamal’s description of how the assault had been defeated,

Mr.Chin was leaning toward something else.

Due to Riva Thakkar’s prestige, prior to his arrival his security detail had been given access to the personal information of everyone slated to stay at the hotel, and Mr. Chin had used that to analyze who the mysterious “tourists” could have been.

Since it was the tail end of the monsoon season, the resort was still in a lull and nowhere near booked to capacity, making

his job somewhat easier. There was only a smattering of Americans, most easily eliminated for various reasons, such as being

retirees. Only one group stood out: a company called Grolier Recovery Services, which had shown up the day before. He’d googled

the company and had found a website dealing with archeological work, complete with a rash of quotes from universities and

other academic institutions as to its pedigree. Mr.Chin dismissed them and was going to move on, right until he’d pulled

up the passport scans they’d used to register, the pictures giving him pause.

The woman was attractive but unremarkable. The men, however, were a different story. They were all hard-looking, without any

academic air about them. He’d dug deeper into the company and had learned it was ostensibly here in preparation for a U.S.

university to visit the ruins of a church in Old Goa. It sounded completely on the up and up, but then again, so did Mr.Chin,

as a respected member of a mining conglomerate. His company had a webpage too.

He knew it might be nothing more than paranoia, but he’d learned to trust his instincts. It was how he’d survived as long

as he had, and his instincts were telling him that the Americans were using the same methods as the Chinese. The same methods

he used, hiding as a businessman. If he was wrong, then it wouldn’t matter, but if he was right , he needed to interfere with their ability to operate. He didn’t believe in coincidences, and if he was right, they were here because of Thakkar. He didn’t know why, but that missing piece of information was irrelevant—because

he was also here for Thakkar.

He knew Thakkar’s next stop in his travel itinerary, thanks to his own security detail, and had already sent Kamal and his team to the next location, wanting to get them away from any investigations that might arise. Kamal hadn’t been exactly happy about the redirection but had acquiesced. They were now on the way across the country by train, heading to a safe house in Old Delhi.

Mr.Chin had his reservations about Kamal, but he’d proven resourceful and resolute. Having worked many sources in the past,

Mr.Chin understood both the risks and the rewards of employing Kamal. So far, the rewards had outweighed the risks, even

with the mission failure. Kamal was on the edge, but he had agreed to continue, and that was all Mr.Chin could ask; but when

it was done, the entire group would have to be eliminated.

Mr.Chin didn’t relish that part of the mission, but it was necessary to protect his masters. The local operatives would have

to disappear, which, given their lowly status in society, should be easy enough.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the ferry slowing, the Elephanta Island jetty just ahead. They docked, the island hills

blocking the wind and causing the diesel smoke to billow inside the open cabin, the fumes noxious.

A dockworker threw a small wooden plank across the gap to the boat, and he waited his turn to exit. He followed behind the

lone Caucasian couple, stepping onto a thin concrete walkway. He passed by a few stands selling water bottles and fruit smoothies,

then was accosted by a lone Indian man begging to take him on a tour of the island’s famous caves. Mr.Chin looked down the

walkway and saw the Caucasian couple being attacked the same way, with all the indigenous visitors seemingly not worth the

trouble.

He waved his hand, saying, “No thank you,” but the man was persistent, following him down the concrete pier until it reached land. Mr. Chin saw a small train that looked like a child’s ride, with each carriage seating only four people on facing benches. He watched some of the locals begin boarding and talked to a man standing near the last carriage. The man told him it was a quarter of a mile to the base of the mountain, and that he could walk or pay to ride. He handed over some rupees, not because he didn’t want to walk, but because he wanted to escape the relentless tour guide.

The tour guide continued talking even as he boarded, begging Mr.Chin to reconsider, until the train conductor finally waved

him off. A local sat next to him, saying in English, “They can be aggravating, no?”

Mr.Chin smiled and said, “That’s true. I just want to wander on my own. I don’t need a guide.”

The man said, “You’re from America?”

Mr.Chin inwardly chuckled, the man’s English so poor that he couldn’t determine an accent. He said, “Yes, that’s right.”

“Where? I have a cousin who lives in New York. Are you from New York?”

Mr.Chin instantly regretted engaging the man in conversation. He said, “No, no, not New York.”

“Have you been there?”

Mr.Chin pulled out a guidebook and said, “I really want to read before we stop.”

The man nodded and focused on the rock-strewn shore, the eddies of water filled with the flotsam of plastic bottles and other

debris. Mr.Chin studied his guidebook, as any normal tourist would, and in so doing, he learned why his contact had chosen

Elephanta Island.

He only knew the man as Peanut, and they’d never met in person before. He knew that Peanut was wildly paranoid, as all of

D Company were hunted men by the Indian state, and now he saw why he’d chosen this roundabout way to come together.

The island was home to several caves turned into temples for the god Shiva, with intricate carvings dating from the fifth century, but that wasn’t what Mr. Chin noticed. In order to get to the caves, one had to take a ferry, then walk or use the train on a narrow path, then traverse up several thousand steps just to reach the entrance to the site.

It was the perfect choice to prevent anyone from disrupting the meeting, as Peanut could positively own the route, providing

early warning. Mr.Chin realized he’d probably been identified entering the ferry, then upon exiting at the dock, and would

be eyed his entire route up the stairs. If Peanut saw anything awry, he’d simply disappear.