Five minutes later, the elevator was called to the third floor, and Gil sat watching like a spider as all three Russians walked aboard, pressing the button for the lobby. He flicked the kill switch on the electrical box, and the Russians were trapped.
The blond driver Gil had spoken to the day before jabbed the button with his thumb, but the elevator didn’t move. He pressed the button to open the doors, and again nothing happened. They began talking in hushed tones as the blond continued to jab the lobby button.
Gil eased two gallon-size plastic zipper bags from the rucksack, resting them at the edge of the trapdoor. Each was filled with two parts gasoline and one part dishwashing soap. He took the Zippo from his pocket and opened the trapdoor all the way.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, boys.”
The Russians looked up with their eyes wide, completely stunned to see the American looking down at them, a red light shining from his forehead. They touched impotently at their jackets for pistols they didn’t have, stealing wary glances at one another.
Gil nudged the plastic bags over the edge. The bags broke open upon impact with the floor, splashing the homemade napalm all over the Russians, and they began shouting for help, hammering on the doors.
Gil flicked the Zippo alight. “Dasvidanya,” he muttered, dropping the lighter into the car and flipping the trapdoor shut.
The elevator car was engulfed instantly in flames. The trapped men screamed horribly as Gil climbed onto the ladder with flames licking out around the edge of the trapdoor.
The screams died out after only a few seconds, the Russians’ lungs scorched by the intense heat, and Gil climbed quickly up to the tenth. The hotel fire alarm was ringing by then, and he mixed in among the guests as they left their rooms calmly, most of them complaining about the inconvenience. By the time they arrived at the landing to the eighth floor, however, the stench of burning gasoline was evident, and they began to hurry. Arriving at the fifth floor, they smelled burnt flesh and began to scurry downward in controlled panic.
Arriving at the lobby, Gil walked calmly out the front door and crossed the street to his hotel, stepping inside, where Lena and a half dozen other guests were watching the commotion across the street. The fire had quickly burned itself out due to the lack of oxygen in the elevator car, so there was no smoke or flame to be seen from the street.
“What happened?” she asked.
Ignoring her, Gil locked eyes with the concierge, pointing at him with his thumb and index finger and pretending to take a shot. The concierge instinctively took a step back, and Gil glanced up at the security camera with a sneer, turning for the door and taking Lena by the arm. “Time to fly, baby. Let’s go.”
46
Thirty-year-old Captain Fa Chao of the Chinese Ministry of State Security stood looking at the partially charred bodies of the dead Russian Bratva lying crumpled on the floor of the elevator, their clothes burned away almost completely. The stench made his stomach turn, but important people would be watching him very carefully to see how he handled this, so it was imperative that he dominate his nausea and look the part of an experienced and capable leader.
“Who are they?” he asked peremptorily.
The head police investigator offered him a paper sack containing three scorched Russian passports. “The fire burned itself out quickly. The passports are still legible.”
Chao examined the passport photos, noting the Bratva tattoos about the men’s necks. “They’re Mafia?”
“It’s possible,” the investigator said. “We think they were killed by an American staying at the hotel across the street. The concierge over there said these men were asking about him yesterday morning. The propellant was gasoline, but what we still don’t understand is how he managed to trap these men inside the elevator.”
Chao leaned into the elevator, looking up at the trapdoor. “Has anyone checked the roof of the car?”
The investigator turned to one of his men, barking orders to get a ladder.
A stepladder was produced within minutes, and one of the Chinese officers pushed open the trapdoor, climbing onto the roof of the car with a flashlight in his teeth. A minute later, he stuck his head down through the hole. “Someone has wired an electrical switch into the control panel.” He handed down Gil’s rucksack. “He left a screwdriver and this empty backpack.”
The investigator took the rucksack and gave it to Chao.
Chao looked inside and handed it back. “I want to talk to that concierge.”
Again the investigator barked his orders, and two officers went to bring the concierge.
They returned five minutes later with the nervous-looking young man standing between them.
Chao gazed at him, his eyes menacing. “I want to know everything. Lie to me, and you will be very sorry.”
The concierge told him all that he knew, admitting that the Russians had offered him a week’s pay to call them the second the American or his woman showed up in the lobby.
One of the police officers produced the hotel ledger, pointing out Gil’s alias: Conner MacLoughlin.
Chao looked at the concierge. “The ledger says he’s Canadian.”
“Yes, I know,” the concierge said. “But the Russians said he was American.”
Chao took the investigator aside, talking in a low voice. “Go across the street and take custody of the security video. If these Russians believed their killer was American, he could be CIA. I want him caught before sunset — alive. Is that understood?”
“Yes.” The investigator disappeared down the stairs.
Chao returned his attention to the concierge, gesturing at the bodies with the charred passports. “You admit to calling these men when the Swiss woman came down to the lobby?”
“Yes,” answered the concierge, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.
“Place this man under arrest,” Chao said to the officers. “He’s an accomplice to murder.”
“That’s not true!” the concierge blurted, pointing at the bodies. “I was helping them, not the American!”
Chao, recognizing his blunder at once, was embarrassed to have it pointed out to him by a simple-minded concierge. “So you say!” he snapped. “But if you had not called them, they would not have been trapped in this elevator to be burned alive!”
The concierge lowered his eyes, unable to refute the fact placed before him.
Chao smirked in satisfaction. “Take him away.”
The investigator called Chao to meet him across the street in the hotel security office, where they reviewed the security video together. They saw very clearly the American pantomiming shooting the concierge with his finger before grabbing the Swiss woman by the arm and practically dragging her out the door.
“It appears the woman might be in danger as well,” Chao said. “Send the suspect’s photo to the Ministry of State in Beijing immediately. They can scan it with facial recognition software to learn if he’s in the database.”
The investigator snapped his fingers, signaling for one of his men to take care of it at once.
Two more police officers appeared. “These tourism brochures were found in their hotel room.”
Chao looked the brochures over. “They were planning to visit the Zhangjiajie Forest.”
Another officer stepped into the doorway appearing slightly winded, as if he had been running. “The suspect was just spotted fleeing south in a black Land Rover. One of our men is in pursuit.”