“Now we get down to business,” Peter whispered to Jake.
Most of his foreign clients were the same. Dinner, drinks, entertainment, and then business. The order varied occasionally, the speed of progression differed by nationality, but a thousand nights on the town with a thousand customers had proven that the elements of the deal were the same. “What kind of hunting?” Jake asked.
“Well, anything we can shoot. Fox, lynx, bear, mountain goat.”
“What do you use?”
“Shotguns, rifles, handguns. Most of them are illegal to own in Turkey, of course, but there are ways around that.”
“How is that?” Jake asked.
“Baksheesh,” Hasad answered.
“What?”
Peter interrupted. “Baksheesh is a word for bribery originally used in Persia, but its meaning is understood in a lot of locales from Turkey to Eastern Africa.”
“Very good. Mr. Winthrop, you are right as usual,” Hasad said patronizingly. He was putting on his Middle Eastern charm, and Jake quickly saw through the transparent act.
“So, you have taken up hunting?” Peter asked, pushing the conversation forward.
“Yes, hunting,” Hasad answered, his voice trailing. “…And we are thinking about starting a night hunting club.”
“Night hunting?” Peter asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes, night hunting. The fox and jackal are very sly, very difficult to shoot during the day. They are night creatures.”
“Nocturnal,” Jake said, cringing at the expression ‘night creatures.’
“Yes, that is right. Nocturnal.”
The reason for Hasad’s visit to the U.S., the driving force behind the evening’s festivities, the payoff for Peter Winthrop’s patience, were all on the tip of Hasad’s tongue.
“We are interested in, uh, hmmm, equipment that will allow us to hunt better in the dark.”
“Night vision equipment?”
“Yes, night vision equipment.”
Peter turned his attention to the twirling tassels and gyrating hips and took a sip of his drink.
“How many were you looking for?” he asked without looking at Hasad.
“A thousand.”
“That is a very large hunting group, Hasad.”
“Night hunting is becoming very popular Mr. Winthrop,” Hasad answered with a smirk. “Very popular.”
“It may take some time. That kind of equipment is hard to obtain.”
“Yes, I know. I have been trying to get them for about a year.”
“Does it matter where they are made?”
“I want U.S. military issue. Nothing but the best.”
“That might be tough. And they won’t be cheap.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know, but if I had to guess I would say at least five thousand dollars apiece. It really depends.”
“Okay. Whatever the price.”
“And legally, they can’t be exported,” Peter added for the benefit of his son. “I keep Winthrop Enterprises on the up-and-up.”
Jake did the math in his head. A thousand goggles at five grand apiece came to five million dollars. The cash register drawer opened in his mind and he heard “cha-ching.” Jake wasn’t sure of the legality of the deal being discussed, but he was damn certain it was unethical. There may have been a thousand night hunters, but Jake knew they weren’t hunting jackals, foxes, goats or anything else on four legs. The deal was shady at best, and wildly profitable. Five million dollars was a lot of money by any standard Jake could come up with.
Hasad, pig-in-slop happy with the possibility of a successful transaction, bought lap dances for everyone. In a back VIP room, Peter finished his hands-on experience and negotiated with the club owner. The owner refused the first, second, and third offer. But when the number hit the estimated price of a pair of military-grade night vision goggles , he caved. He pulled two willing girls off the stage rotation. Peter returned to the table with the women.
“Jake, could you escort the ladies out? Shawn, my driver, should be out front momentarily.”
Hasad and Peter had a short conversation and paid the bill with a stack of money thrown on the table half counted.
Jake walked the ladies through the club, leaving the hormone-driven patrons wondering who he was. He stepped up the stairs from the basement level club, a lady clinging to each arm, and stumbled head first into the path of Kate and her friends who were walking down the sidewalk on their way to the movies. Kate took one look at Jake and the two strippers—the heels, the mesh stockings, one with a push up bra, one without a bra altogether.
“You son of a bitch,” was all she said before slapping him. As Kate broke into a run, Hasad and Peter came up the stairs behind him.
“Now it’s time for a little fun,” Hasad said replacing Jake between the strippers. Jake put his hand on his cheek. Peter Winthrop smiled. Business. ***
Chow Ying boarded the bus from the West Falls Church Metro station heading toward McLean, Virginia. He was dressed in jeans and a dark button-up shirt, as incognito as a six-foot-four Chinese national can be entering the whitest zip code in the country. He got off the bus next to the Riggs Bank at the bustling intersection of Chain Bridge Road and Old Dominion Drive. He took one second to get his bearings and kept moving. McLean was not a town for gawking. He walked four blocks through the center of town, past a sushi restaurant named Tachibana and a small strip of retail stores catering to clients with more money than they could spend. An exotic grocery store with an exotic window display sold everything from rattlesnake meat to jellyfish. Next door, a boutique chocolatier offered chocolate-dipped strawberries made on the premises.
Chow Ying kept his eyes straight ahead and followed the edge of the road until the sidewalk gave way to a small path that led into Dolly Madison Park. Marching forward according to the map in his head, Chow Ying passed an elderly man walking a small dog and a blonde trophy housewife at the end of her evening jog. Chow Ying stopped for a moment on a footbridge spanning a small stream, looked at the water rushing through two large rocks, and continued over the bridge before turning left. He checked the direction of the road over his shoulder as the streetlights came on, the sun now beyond the horizon. He walked casually down the increasingly dark path, heading north, following the sound of the stream as it made its way toward the Potomac, still several miles away.
An hour later, Chow Ying stepped off the path and into the woods. It wasn’t his first time off the path, but it was the first time with intention. Looking around, he pulled a small flashlight from his pocket. Power lines hidden in the darkness nearby provided a steady hum to the air. A dog barked in the distance as Chow Ying popped the end of the light into his mouth and held it between his teeth.
He reached into his back pocket and unfolded the map he had printed out from the computer terminal at the MLK Public Library between Chinatown and the old D.C. Civic Center. The printout was a hybrid map from an application a twelve-year-old boy in the library had referred to as Google Maps. The Asian kid with the bright backpack and skateboard had shown Chow Ying a thing or two, just to get the Mountain of Shanghai out of the way for the real computer users. Whatever magic the kid had performed, Chow Ying now had a satellite photo of his target blended together with a roadmap and local geographical features.
Chow Ying’s eyes settled on the paper and he flipped the map ninety degrees in the ray of illumination. He checked the streets, the contour lines of the land, and the boundaries of the park. Feeling confident, he twisted the light until it went off. He rested in the dark for a moment, letting his eyes readjust to the night. The streetlights from a cul-de-sac on the hill in the distance, combined with his uncanny sense of direction, told him he was close.