Code War by Tom Clancy

Author:Tom Clancy
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: politics, War & Military
Publisher: Rosetta Books
Published: 2013-12-01T06:00:00+00:00

IX

It was a few minutes shy of eleven AM when Musil and Fahey’s bureau car pulled up to the Golden Wok Chinese Restaurant in Brooklyn.

As he exited the driver’s door, Agent Fahey was thinking Ki Marton sure knew how to pick the crappy, out-of-the-way places he sent them. This one was about as big a rathole as the Romanian dump they’d visited in Queens the day before…different borough, different ethnic cuisine, same smelly hazard to public health. Didn’t anyone who’d tried using one of those dud fake cash cards work for a good lower Manhattan pasta joint?

Leaving the passenger side of their plain Jane Chevy sedan, Agent Musil happily sniffed the cooking smells wafting from the restaurant onto the street. His sensitive nose picked up the mingled aromas of sautéing garlic, ginger and onion…tangy sesame oil and vinegar sparked with Szechwan peppers…browning chicken and beef…stir-fried shrimp…pinches of pungent horseradish, dashes of sweet cinnamon…and traces of his most favorite seasoning, dusky anise. His appetite awakened by these delectable scents, he could not help but think of the courageous generational journeys symbolized by the two restaurants he’d visited since yesterday, pondering the hard work and skill required to make them thrive amid their humble neighborhood surroundings. To him, food was a glorious blessing, its skillful preparation a marvel to appreciate. With more than a smidgeon of awe, Musil contemplated all the styles of cooking to be found and experienced in this gloriously diverse city he called home.

He smiled to himself, grateful ASAC Marton had given him such enriching assignments in connection with the card fraud investigation.

Stepping toward the restaurant’s entrance, Fahey turned to look at him.

“What the hell are you so happy about?” he asked.

Musil paused on the sidewalk. “This, Frank!” He spread his arms in an all-encompassing gesture. “This!”

Fahey said nothing. He scratched above his ear and stepped through the door, the little clutch of bells above it ting-a-linging as the agents went in.

None to Fahey’s surprise, the place looked as if it hadn’t been redecorated since the nineteen-seventies. There were red leatherette booths, red paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling, red ceramic Buddhas on the walls, and a red velveteen curtain in back separating the dining floor from the kitchen area. Why the hell didn’t they call the place the Red Wok? he thought. The two women behind the front counter looked like mother and daughter: the older one in her early forties and thick around the middle, wearing no makeup, her short black hair in a loose perm; the younger one maybe eighteen or nineteen and slim with subtly applied highlights under her eyes and straight, medium-length black hair cut in a tight wedge.

“Good morning,” Musil said, taking the lead. He displayed his ID card, gave his name, and offered a bright smile. “Your food smells wondrous.”

The women stared at their visitors in silence, their eyes going to Musil’s turban. They looked confused by his appearance…as well as predictably guarded. But Musil had felt there was something besides wariness weighing down their expressions.

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