Chapter 10

I

Harold Kendricks hadn't changed one bit. The wavy dark hair had turned slightly gray – especially around the temples – since Steve McGarrett had last seen him. The oval face was raw, its chin pointed and locked in hidden tension. He looked tired and weather-beaten, but it was not as a result of the flight from DC. His memories of his clash with Steve a few years earlier came back to haunt him, for when he met face-to-face with the FBI man, they picked up where they left off.

"I won't say it's great to see you again, Steve, but I will offer my condolences. Losing a partner is unpleasant, no matter what." Kendricks held out his hand, which Steve accepted. That was as close as he'll get in congeniality from Kendricks.

"Has he talked?" Bob Sullivan, Kendricks' partner, asked. Sullivan was the more affable of the two, and tried to keep the peace between them the last time they worked together. He got along better with Steve and understood him.

"Only to laugh in our faces," Steve replied. "He insists Jayna was in on everything, even having an affair with him." He spoke the last few words with bitterness, though he knew they were not true.

The mention of such an act made Sullivan shutter, while Kendricks didn't bat an eyelid. Kendricks put his briefcase on the long conference table and took out some papers.

"This is a report on Palani's findings." He handed a stapled packet to Steve. "His real name is Douglas Kahue. He's an FBI agent who has been working undercover as part of Prather's organization for the past year. Jayna never knew his real identity, only that he was undercover and was supposed to give her information."

Steve's eyes became fiery. Was Jayna working with the FBI? "Jayna was investigating Prather through Five-O," he said, stunned. "There was no mention of the FBI."

"Jayna didn't know that the FBI was involved," Kendricks stated, "only that Palani was an undercover man. She was told he was an informant for HPD so she would cooperate."

It was a small relief to Steve, but still a small one. It was bad enough that Jayna might have been working for Intelligence again without his knowledge, and working for the FBI as well – especially with Kendricks – would be too much for him to accept. He still had to figure out Intelligence's role in all this. He didn't believe Norton and Geller one bit and he was not trusting Kendricks and Sullivan at this point, either.

Jayna was working for Five-O in conjunction with HPD, and accepting from a man she was told was working undercover for HPD, and the FBI was monitoring her actions, and Intelligence was involved somehow. It was getting more complicated, and Steve was dreading the next twist – if there was going to be another one.

"We were told Palani was a career criminal trying to go straight," Steve said. "We didn't know he was working for the FBI till he told Officer Williams."

"He had to tip his hat then," Sullivan said, "He couldn't be charged with a murder he didn't commit."

Steve sighed. "I understand. I couldn't have that on my conscience, either." He tapped the eraser end of his pencil against the tabletop. "Just what did he find?"

"Kahue found out that Prather either ordered or was personally involved in the murders of some rival mobsters and their employees. There were also details about drug shipments - their pickup and drop-off points, prostitution rings, illegal gambling sites. He gave us names, dates, locations … everything important. All of that information he also gave to Jayna."

"Why share your information with us?" Steve asked, suspiciously, eying Kendricks. He never knew him to be that cooperative.

"Because we knew you were also on Prather's trail," Kendricks responded, "and if we moved in on your territory, we would never hear the end of it. You want Prather for the crimes he's committed on a state level. There's been a violation on the federal level – some of those killings he's orchestrated involved shipping in hit men from the mainland, so there's crossing state lines to commit murder, and something else –"

Kendricks did not finish. Steve was impatient. "What else?" he asked.

Kendricks hesitated, looking uneasy. He looked to Sullivan. "It's better that you tell him," Kendricks told his partner. Sullivan was not that eager, either. He exhaled deeply and then spoke.

"Prather's been involved in some international drug and gun sales. These operations have put him in contact with intelligence agents from Russia and China …" Sullivan stopped. He looked at Steve, then continued, "… one of those agents is Wo Fat."

The mention of Steve's nemesis startled him, but made his blood boil. First, the FBI, now Russian and Chinese mobsters, Russian agents, and Wo Fat? It would have been understandable for Steve to become unhinged at that moment, but he remained calm and collected. He clenched his fists again, his knuckles turning white.

"How did you find out?" he asked.

"We gathered that information during another investigation," Sullivan replied. "The Russian and Chinese agents represented organized crime groups in their respective countries. They acted as the go-betweens. The Russian agents were part of a local spy ring. Wo Fat had some other agents representing him, but he was in charge."

"The Russian spies have a female agent who has been seen a few times, though still rarely, and she's allegedly their main contact with Moscow," Kendricks added.

"Do you know her name?" Steve asked.

"No, but she's a very tall blonde – over six feet tall. She'd be very conspicuous here and so far, she's been careful. We only got this photo of her …" Sullivan handed Steve a grainy black and white shot of a statuesque woman with flaxen hair pulled back, sunglasses covering her eyes, wearing a dark long-sleeved shirt and dark pants, walking away from the Marlitza. Indeed, the woman was gargantuan in terms of height, but slender in frame, with an angular face whose contours were still evident, even in what little light shone on it. If she was that conspicuous yet managed to remain inconspicuous, then she was very good at what she did – too good. Steve thought of the Ice Angel. Could this be her?

"Have you heard the name Ice Angel?" Steve asked.

The name was met with silence by both FBI men. Sullivan looked to Kendricks, started to open his mouth, then stopped. Kendricks took the lead.

"It's a name we've heard mentioned in connection with this woman. It's her code name, from what we've been told," he replied.

"And you don't know anything else about her?" Steve asked.

Kendricks and Sullivan both said, "No."

"It can't be this one woman at the center of it all," Steve countered. "She must have other spies in higher places – out of sight but in place to take any action necessary to help her do her job …"

"They're out there," Kendricks told her. "We just don't know who they are."

II

Aleksander Krupin was uncommonly handsome, with a lantern jaw, wavy dark hair, and enchanting brown eyes. His skin was a darker hue than the fairer Izabella's, and the two seemed to complement each other perfectly. Izabella's affection for her partner – not only in espionage but in love – was as fierce as her dedication to her work. Krupin caught stares from several women as he walked towards the Soviet Consulate, followed by the Maxim Vorontsov, Miron Kovalykov's assistant. Vorontsov was in his late twenties with thick auburn hair and bespectacled brown eyes. He was slender and boyish, standing five feet eight inches tall. They walked at a casual pace, keeping a distance of a few feet between them, till Krupin opened the doors of a modest café and entered. Kovalykov entered a few minutes later, and took a seat next to Krupin at a long, plush red couch that served as the seat for anyone sitting at the three tables that stood in front. The consulate man ordered coffee with cream and sugar, while Krupin ordered tea with lemon.

"The state police is investigating at Pearl Harbor," Vorontsov told him in Russian. "Their chief officer is getting suspicious."

"We can't eliminate him outright. If he has to be stopped, we will do so when the time comes," Krupin said, squeezing a lemon wedge over his tea. "Right now, McGarrett is only suspicious, and that is his nature – and part of his job. Moscow is waiting on the information from here, and other information our agents obtained. They cannot wait too long." Krupin set down the lemon wedge on the saucer. "Has anyone tried to stop you from delivering the latest microfilm?"

Vorontsov took another sip of coffee, nearly cursing it for being too hot. He set the cup down and put his fingers to his closed lips to quell the burn. When the pain subsided, he answered, "No, Limonov didn't report anything out of the ordinary."

"We cannot act in haste here, either. We're not here to leave a body trail. That is the best way for them to catch us." Krupin took a few more sips of tea. The waitress walked by, coffee pot in hand, her white heeled shoes clacking across the tiled floor as she went straight to a nearby table to fill a customer's cup.

Vorontsov pushed his thick-rimmed glassed back up the bridge of his nose. "Then what do we do? We can't just sit around and go about our business when, at any moment, the state police will come after us."

"We must find out for certain first," Krupin advised. "I have a job for you." Krupin signaled to the waitress to refill his cup. The waitress, a young Polynesian girl in a yellow mini dress and white apron, poured the reddish black liquid into the cup and walked away with a smile, which Krupin returned. When she was out of earshot, he turned back to Vorontsov. "I want you find out what you can on Steve McGarrett. Check his background, anyone and anything connected to him. Even we cannot kill him. He must have an Achilles' heel that we can penetrate to keep him in line." Krupin made a gesture of a clenched fist, shaking with rage, which he just as easily and gently loosened.

Vorontsov could only hide his fear, for he knew what Krupin and his kind were capable of when it came to disposing of an enemy.

III

Evening came to Honolulu with the setting sun casting an orange glow over the land. The skyline looked like a navy blue silhouette against the coral sky. There was still enough light that Steve McGarrett could get through the traffic to the apartment complex where Maria Dotsenko lived. The car ride consisted of minimal conversation, with Steve discerning that Maria was either shy, reserved, or not willing to open up to a man she barely knew so quickly, which was a trait he did not find in too many women. Maria was not uncomfortable around the top cop. She was comfortable enough to ask him for a ride home, explaining that her car was being repaired, and she the bus stop was not safe at that hour. She now looked more preoccupied, staring out the window, deep in thought. Then, she broke the silence.

"Mr. McGarrett, please come in. I hope you don't find it intrusive," she said. "We'll be working together. I think it only right that we get to know each other."

"Only if you call me Steve," Steve replied.

The girl ran a hand through her flaxen hair, smoothing out the loose strands, and gently tugged at the ribbon that held it all back in a ponytail. It was one of those ribbons stitched together to look like it was tied in a bow and fastened to an elastic ring, through which the hair was slipped to form a ponytail. Maria adjusted it, and continued to smooth down some more stray hairs that fell over her forehead. She looked down, weary and languid.

"You must think it rude of me to keep silent, but I had something on my mind …" she said.

"Oh, what is it?" asked Steve.

"I am worried that I might be responsible for the security leak," she answered. "I didn't keep an eye on that key, though I never gave it to anyone, and I am a Russian. It look longer for me to get security clearance to work at Pearl Harbor than it would for other job applicants."

Steve didn't respond, wanting to see where she would go with her narrative.

"I was born in Russia and came here with my family when I was child. We settled in Santa Monica. When I finished high school, I moved to Hawaii. I was enchanted by these islands ever since I saw them in movies as a child …" She reached for her purse and took out a package of cigarettes. "May I smoke?"

"Go right ahead," Steve replied. He was against smoking, but knowing Maria was doing it to calm herself, he didn't want to stop her. He wanted her to keep talking. She wouldn't talk if she was nervous. She took out a cigarette, placed it between her pink-lipstick-coated lips, and took a gold cigarette lighter out of her purse. Flicking it on with a manicured nail that matched her lipstick, she held the flame to the cigarette and exhaled a few puffs. Rings of smoke danced around the room, permeating it with that stench of nicotine Steve abhorred.

They stopped at a red light, and then Steve paid close attention to that lighter. It was pure gold, at least eighteen karat. It was rectangular, and stood up vertically when placed on a surface. The texture was ribbed, and the initials MGD were engraved on the top. Maria Grigorievna Dotsenka. That would be her real name in Russia. He had seen that type of lighter before – as merchandise in Crawford's jewelry store, where Burt Krause's watch came from. Krause got his money from Prather, which is how he could afford to shop at such a high-end store, but where did Maria, on a civilian navy secretary's salary, get such an item? Perhaps a gift from a wealthy admirer? Steve made a mental note to check on that later.

"As a child, I was teased for being Russian," Maria went on. "Kids asked if I was a Commie and if my parents were spies." She spoke with anger now, the timidity of before completely gone. "I was going to show them – show them I was better than all of them. I wanted to be an actress – or a dancer. I used to take ballet lessons when I was younger. I came here to attend the university and learn theater and dance. "I dance with a theater group when there is a show going on and they have work for me, but it's not too frequent.

"I worked as a secretary to pay my tuition and fees and found I was quite good at it. I got the job at Pearl Harbor on a recommendation from my old boss." She tapped some ashes into the car's ashtray. "Lt. Callister was very nice to me. I appreciate all he has done, but I always feel like no one trusts me … because of who I am …"

The red light turned to green, and they drove on through minimal traffic.

Steve's eyes softened as he looked at the girl. Was it an act for sympathy, to win his confidence and make him think he can trust her, or was she really in need of a sympathetic ear? He knew better than to fall for her so fast. He decided to comfort her, yet keep her at arms' length.

"It's wrong to judge someone just because of where they came from," Steve told her. "I still get a lot of suspicious stares because I'm a mainlander."

"That's another problem I have to contend with," Maria replied. "It seems that we both made the same mistake of being born outside of Hawaii!" she laughed.

Despite the levity, Steve could sense real anguish in her voice. She wasn't saying anything to get him to reveal information, but winning his confidence was important as well – if she is who he thinks she is. She puffed away on the cigarette. Steve decided to meet her halfway.

"Maria, there are all kinds of people in this world, from different countries, different cultures, and different ways of life. That's what makes this world so great," he said. "Our differences are not meant to be hidden away as a source of shame, but to be celebrated as part of what makes us unique. Those kids who made fun of you were worthless, ignorant, and immature, and not deserving of your friendship. They couldn't see that you were a human being, with value, deserving to be loved, with every right to exist as they do."

"I wish others knew that," Maria said, dourly.

They pulled into the parking lot of Maria's apartment complex. It was a three-story white stucco building that sprawled out in different directions at several right angles. Maria and Steve got out of the car and he walked her towards the stairs. The night air was crisp and cool – a rarity in Hawaii – and Steve hoped it would last. They walked to the staircase that led to Maria's floor, and then a pop sound erupted from somewhere overhead. Steve's instincts told him that it wasn't a car backfiring. The second pop confirmed it.

Glass shattered. Steve dove on top of Maria and the two of them landed on the grass, as more shots rang out. One bullet hit a potted plant, sending ceramic shards and soil everywhere. Maria covered her head with her hands and screamed. Steve rolled off of her, pulled out his gun and called out to Maria to stay where she was.

"You'll get killed!" she shouted. The gunfire kept erupting.

Steve returned fire in the direction of the building across the street. He couldn't see the gunman, but they had a large arsenal. More than six bullets were fired at them so far, Steve counted, so it wasn't a handgun. They were dealing with a rifle or a machine gun – which meant more bullets coming their way. Steve's handgun would be no match. He already fired two bullets and the invisible gunman sent three more his way. One shattered the headlights of the car next to Maria's, the second went through her windshield, and the third destroyed another potted plant. Steve took one more shot, knowing it was futile.

Another set of shots were fired, from inside the building, but no bullets came their way this time. The sound was different … deeper, louder, crackling like thunder. There was the first, then the second, then the third. In a few minutes, it was all over. It was all calm and still now. There were no more shots, and the few people who had been outside at that moment slowly came out from where they were hiding. A man and woman got out from behind a parked car, while some more people who had taken cover behind the building came running out. Steve got up and walked over to Maria. She still lay on the ground, and Steve's eyes opened wide in terror when he saw the stream of crimson spilling from her back and pooling at her left side.

"Maria," he said in deep whisper. He knelt down and picked up her wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was there, but faint.

"Someone call an ambulance!" he heard a man yelled. A woman rushed from the walkway where she just had just come to see what had happened and went back into her apartment, where Steve, though dazed, could see her picking up her telephone through her window.

IV

The ambulance took Maria away while HPD secured the scene and kept onlookers from trampling over and compromising the crime scene. Steve gave his statement to an HPD officer while Che Fong hurried to gather whatever forensic evidence he could, and the forensic photographer snapped away at the bullet holes, pottery fragments, and blood.

Steve saw Danno taking the statement of the woman who went into her apartment after the shooting. She was clutching her housecoat at the collar, trying to fend off the evening chill. Danno thanked her and he went over to Steve. The look of alarm on his partner's face signaled to Steve that Danno feared he had been shot, too, and still was trying to process the fact that his boss was unharmed, at least physically.

Danno put his hand on his boss's shoulder, gently squeezing it as he looked at him through unusually relieved blue eyes. "You're lucky he was such a bad shot," the second-in-command quipped, trying to lighten things.

"Either that or blind as a bat!" Steve returned the levity. He put his hand on Danno's. The moment turned serious again when Danno began the hard questioning.

"Steve …" he began, "Manicote and Stewart are going to be asking a lot of questions. I think we need to get them sorted out now." Stewart was Walter Stewart, Hawaii's irascible attorney general. His bite was sharp and fierce when it needed to be, but he could also be patient and understanding when the moment suited him. Right now, Steve knew he would get little of the latter and much of the former if Walter Stewart were questioning him now. Manicote would be somewhat gentler, but not by much.

"Why were you driving Maria home?" Danno asked.

"For the simple reason of getting to know her so I could determine if she was the mole at Pearl Harbor," Steve replied. "She asked me to take her home."

"Did she seem uneasy, afraid?" asked Danno. The wheels were turning in Danno's head. Maria asked Steve to take her home, where they get ambushed by a sniper waiting in the shadows? Only Maria knew he was coming with her. She had no time to tip anyone off in case the shooter was after him, and if they were going to kill him, they would have done so. That sniper had the best vantage point.

"No, just … unhappy. She talked about her past… her childhood, why she came to Hawaii, getting picked on for being Russian … I let her talk to see what she would reveal, where she would go … she didn't let on anything to make me suspicious of her, but it's a spy's job to act." Steve ran his hand through the tuft of hair that fell over his forehead, gently sweeping it aside.

"Did she say anything when the shots rang out – like call out someone's name?"

"No. I just heard her scream and pushed her down. She screamed something out in Russian, but I couldn't make out what it was."

"Around what time did you get here?" Danno asked.

"It was a few minutes after seven-thirty. I remember it said seven-thirty-one after I made the turn on the cross street before turning into the parking lot," Steve replied. Danno wrote it down in his notebook. "The shots started as soon as we got out of the car."

Danno looked around. Across the street was another apartment building, constructed in the traditional style of vertical bar consisting of ten floors. The other buildings on that street were of a similar edifice.

"It most likely came from there," Steve said, pointing at the building.

"Let's have a look." Danno put his pen and notebook into his pocket and he and Steve crossed the street. The building's hallways were clean, with the interior walls painted light beige and the floor covered in a thin maroon carpet. The landlady appeared in her doorway with her hair in curlers and clad in a green bathrobe. She was Hawaiian, and taller than Danno. A TV blared on the background, showing an anchorman was delivering the nightly news.

"What can I do for you?" she asked in a voice that sounded like it was dipped in honey, belying her sparse appearance.

"We're from Five-O," Danno said as he and Steve showed her their badges and introduced themselves. "We're investigating a shooting that occurred across the street this evening.

The landlady – who said her name was Leilani – was not even shocked. "I heard the gunshots," she replied. "I didn't know where they were coming from. I was about to call the police, but then I heard the sirens, so I figured someone else did."

"Did anyone rent a room here recently, like in the past twenty-four hours?" Danno asked.

"There was a man who rented a room on the fifth floor two days ago," Leilani said. She took them to the fifth floor and led them to door numbered 5G and knocked on it, but no one answered.

"Police! Open up!" Danno called. There was still no answer.

Leilani took out a set of keys from her bathrobe pocket. Searching through them till she found the right one, she slowly opened the door and quickly darted to the right, expecting to be hit with a barrage of bullets. Steve and Danno made sure to be out of the way as well. They stood on the left, and quickly surveyed the room before entering. No gunshots emanated, and no other sound came from inside. Leilani peered around the doorframe and saw only the quaintly furnished living room that looked like all the others she rented.

"Stay here," Steve told Leilani.

He and Danno drew their guns and proceeded into the room slowly and quietly, pointing their guns downwards, and looking ahead and all around. The living room was empty except for the furniture. The bedroom door was ajar. Steve nodded to Danno and they went towards it.

"Police! We're armed. Come out with your hands up," Steve called. They waited, but no one came out. Steve went to the bedroom door and quickly knocked it back, then flew back against the wall as his partner did the same from his side.

At the far end of the room, a window was open, and the night breeze blew the curtains forward. Steve stared at the window. Something was keeping him from looking down, though his field of vision still made the sight on the floor directly under the window visible to him. After a minute, Steve was able to get his eyes were able to look downward, and he saw the dead figure sprawled out in a pool of blood.

V

The forensics team was working overtime, and the crime scene photographer grumbled about having to step over the other technicians in the small room in order to do his job. Leilani said the dead man's name was John Brewer. That was the name he gave her when he checked in three days ago, she said. It was most likely an alias, Steve thought, but they would run Brewer's prints and find out if they matched with any on file. Brewer had sandy blonde hair, cut close to his scalp, suggesting recent military service. He lay on his back, his arms outstretched, his right leg bent at the knee with the sole of his right shoe parallel with his left leg. Brewer's clothes were dark and plain – a dark gray, long-sleeved T-shirt and black denims. His shoes were dark brown Doc Martens. His face was round and clean-shaven. His fingernails were clean. Danno found no identification in his pockets. A wallet an HPD man found on the dresser contained a Hawaiian driver's license made out to John Brewer with a photo matching the dead man's.

"Have it checked out," Steve told the HPD man. It could still be a fake, he thought. He looked out the window at the scene outside. The ambulance had gone away, taking Maria bandages, I-V, and all. The forensics guys were still gathering the remnants of the shattered potted plant, while some more officers continued to take statements from witnesses. Brewer had a dead beat on Maria and him. The window gave him the perfect view.

Then, who shot him? Brewer didn't turn the gun on himself. It was an M21 and it lay two feet from his body, as though it dropped from his right hand as he was being shot.

"It's bizarre, Steve," Danno said as he stood alongside his commanding officer. "Someone managed to get in here and shoot him and get out without being seen."

"No one is that slick," Steve replied, "but there was no sign of a break-in. Leilani had to open the door with a key. There was no other way to get in."

"Unless the killer was someone he knew and he let them in. Maybe had had an accomplice who turned on him," Danno suggested.

"It could be," Steve said and he learned over to look at the bullet-riddled body. There were three gunshot wounds, one for each shot he heard.

Doc Bergman did his initial examination, then looked up at Steve. "His body temperature's ninety-seven degrees," he told him. "He's been dead at least an hour."

"That's about the time I heard the second set of gunshots," Steve replied.

"The only gun in here is that one," Che Fong said as he pointed to the M21. "We'll have to do a complete search for any extra bullets and bullet holes."

Steve and Danno looked around the room. Amidst the fading floral wallpaper, they could not discern a bullet hole, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Steve hoped there would be one, with a bullet that could not have come from the M21, so they could identify the second shooter.

Steve walked over the closet and looked inside. There were only five shirts on hangers and two pairs of shoes – one pair of sneakers and another pair of work boots – and a small suitcase on the floor. The top shelf of the closet contained a wicker basket and two smaller boxes with labels that indicated they were once used to store electronic equipment. Steve gently took out the wicker box. It contained some books and papers. He put it aside, making a mental note to get back to it later. He pulled out the other two boxes. One contained boxes of ammunition and the second contained an AM/FM radio that the box advertised. It would still have to be examined.

The shirts were ordinary sports shirts that could have come from any clothing store in Hawaii. They were all factory-made. There were no tailor's tags anywhere. The shoes were also from any one of several local department and shoe stores. It would take weeks to track down every sale, and these were shoes many men bought. The work boots suggested that Brewer worked in construction. That was a lead. The M21 was being used in Vietnam. And Brewer had a military-style haircut. Perhaps he was a recent discharge?

"Danno," Steve said. "Run a check on recent discharges from Vietnam, cross reference with anyone who is now working in construction or some of kind of blue collar work." He handed Danno the box of papers. "Have an HPD man help you label and catalogue these, then examine them."

"Got it," Danno replied. He took the box and walked out.

"Steve, look at this!" Che called. Steve walked over to where he was pointing. It was a footprint – a small footprint only about ten inches long. It was too small to be an adult male's foot. There was another one similar a few inches away.

"These look like a woman's shoes," Che said. He laid a ruler next to one footprint as the photographer snapped a photo. "I'll have to examine them closer to be sure."

"So our killer might be a woman," Steve said. "It gets more interesting by the minute."