What readers are saying about The Canton Connection
What readers are saying about The Canton Connection Intriguing. Informative. Well written. Fun. Marvelous. Great mystery. Surprising. Compelling. I want to keep reading. Suspenseful. Page-turner. Impressive. I like Maguire. What is Hollywood waiting for? Irresistible!
Also by Fritz Galt Mick Pierce Spy Thrillers Double Cross Thunder in Formosa The Geneva Seduction Fatal Sting International Thrillers The Trap China Gate The Accidental Assassin Comoros Moon (short stories) Brad West Spy Thrillers Destiny of the Dragon Mind Control The Shangri-la Code International Mysteries The Maltese Cross The Canton Connection Chasing the Tiger Other Novels Summerville The Lost Cutlass
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The Canton Connection An International Mystery © Copyright 2013 by Fritz Galt All rights reserved. Published by Lulu.com ISBN: 978-1-300-91678-9 Sigma Books is an imprint of Sigma-Books.com
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“Computer intrusions and network attacks are the greatest cyber threat to our national security.” —FBI Director
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Chapter 1 JAKE MAGUIRE got the call at two p.m. on Friday. Homicide wasn’t his specialty, and viewing a bludgeoned body didn’t sit easily with him. He was a young, good-looking FBI special agent, and had his whole life ahead of him. The fatherly Asian victim did not. The summer heat and humidity were sweltering, even by Virginia standards. Taking a deep breath, Jake plunged in and did what had to be done. He consulted with Red Stokes, a police detective for Arlington County, and took notes about the scene of the crime. If the police saw a possible federal case, they brought the FBI in, and Jake was the Bureau’s point man in the Northern Virginia area. Wearing vests and sterile gloves, the crime scene investigators hadn’t disturbed the body lying in the bushes just off the Washington and Old Dominion Trail. One could easily have jogged or cycled past the corpse without seeing it. Several poles driven into the soil held shrubbery back for a better view. The bruise to the forehead had barely broken the skin and begun to bleed. “The blunt blow may have been enough to knock the victim unconscious,” Stokes explained to Jake. Stokes, a red-haired detective in his forties, shoved a nearby branch aside. An aluminum baseball bat lay on a bed of dry leaves. It was a kid’s bat, but was dangerous nonetheless. “Is this what killed him?” Jake asked. Stokes lifted a flap of the victim’s cotton print shirt. A hunting knife had been jabbed into the hairless chest. The entire blade pierced up through the diaphragm and into the heart. “That killed him,” he said. The victim was middle-aged. He was plump and flabby with a round, hairless face, bristly black hair and the stretched eyelids of an Asian. His expression was peaceful despite the brutal attack. “A wallet was found in his pants pocket,” Stokes said. “We’ve 5
dusted it for fingerprints.” “Any money or credit cards left inside?” “Both. It wasn’t robbery, Jake.” Jake looked at the driver’s license. It was issued by the Commonwealth of Virginia. The name was Han Chu and the man was born in 1958. “What do you know about the witness?” Jake asked the detective. “Nothing. It was a 9-1-1 call, and we have the recording, but no name. Just the mile marker where the police could find the body.” “Why did the witness seek anonymity?” Stokes shrugged. Jake studied the police detective. He had a lot in common with the cop. They were the same age and unmarried. “Forty and still single,” Jake’s mother had said with a shake of her head. Red Stokes wore cargo pants and a navy blue polo shirt with his department’s logo embroidered on it, typical of a homicide detective processing a scene. Jake’s tie and off-the-rack coat were his uniform. Both men dealt with the dark side of human behavior. Yet the detective’s blue eyes were shining. “Why so happy?” Jake asked, wiping off a bead of sweat that oozed from his hairline. “Because there’s a good chance this won’t be my case for long,” Stokes said. “You thinking about the tattoo?” There was a blue tattoo on the victim’s upper chest. “A dragon’s head in a triangle?” Stokes said suggestively. “It’s a Triad gang.” Jake knew about the ruthless street gangs based in Hong Kong. Many had formed large syndicates that dealt in every type of crime from robbery to extortion and gambling, backed up by the threat of torture and death. He looked at the plump body lying in the bushes. It was hard to believe that the victim played any part in organized crime. “If this stiff turns out to be a foreign citizen or have syndicate connections,” Stokes said, poking Jake in the abdomen, “this will be your case.” 6
“So what if he looks foreign,” Jake said. “He could be an American. And so he has a Triad tattoo. It looks faded.” “See?” the detective said, grinning. “You’re being observant. The gears in your head are working already. You want this case.” “Homicide is your job.” “Jake, you still haven’t gotten that big break in your career.” “I’m busy enough. I don’t need to go slumming at the morgue.” “Yeah, but this one smells like it could be big,” Stokes said, indicating the body. “And if I know you, Jake, not only do you want this case, you need it.” “You can cover him up now.” Jake returned through the shrubbery to the bike path. Several cyclists in skin-tight outfits glided by the crime scene without altering their speed. He left the police to finish their work. “You need this case, buddy,” Stokes called after him. Jake got in his official Ford sedan that was parked on the grass and turned on the air conditioning. Stokes was right in several respects. Jake could use a big case at that point in his career. Stokes had already moved up from line squad detective to Homicide. Jake was stuck in field duty like a rookie special agent. Stokes was also right about how Jake’s mind worked. He liked to solve puzzling cases. And this one raised more questions than it answered. First was the witness. Why had the caller refused to give a name or describe the crime? Had the witness seen the murder take place? If not, how had the body been discovered? Second was the perpetrator. How well had the assailant planned the attack? Who would have expected the middle-aged, plainly dressed victim to be on the bike path that Friday afternoon? And third was the victim, Han Chu. How did his flabby body and peaceful expression fit with the fierce ruthlessness that lay at the root of the Triad culture? Jake shrugged off the knotty questions. They were for the police to solve. 7
He backed off the grass and headed for Washington Boulevard. He had a boss to please, a backlog of federal cases to work on, and a stagnated career to resurrect. End of Excerpt
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About the Author
FRITZ GALT is an American novelist with over twenty years of experience in the diplomatic community. He has lived abroad in Cuba, Switzerland, Yugoslavia, Taiwan, India, China, Belgium and Mongolia. He lives with his family in Asia. His bestsellers include Double Cross, The Trap and The Maltese Cross. For an in-depth look at Galt’s work, visit sigma-books.com. 9
Also by Fritz Galt Mick Pierce Spy Thrillers Double Cross Thunder in Formosa The Geneva Seduction Fatal Sting International Thrillers The Trap China Gate The Accidental Assassin Comoros Moon (short stories) Brad West Spy Thrillers Destiny of the Dragon Mind Control The Shangri-la Code International Mysteries The Maltese Cross The Canton Connection Chasing the Tiger Other Novels Summerville The Lost Cutlass
2
The Canton Connection An International Mystery © Copyright 2013 by Fritz Galt All rights reserved. Published by Lulu.com ISBN: 978-1-300-91678-9 Sigma Books is an imprint of Sigma-Books.com
3
“Computer intrusions and network attacks are the greatest cyber threat to our national security.” —FBI Director
4
Chapter 1 JAKE MAGUIRE got the call at two p.m. on Friday. Homicide wasn’t his specialty, and viewing a bludgeoned body didn’t sit easily with him. He was a young, good-looking FBI special agent, and had his whole life ahead of him. The fatherly Asian victim did not. The summer heat and humidity were sweltering, even by Virginia standards. Taking a deep breath, Jake plunged in and did what had to be done. He consulted with Red Stokes, a police detective for Arlington County, and took notes about the scene of the crime. If the police saw a possible federal case, they brought the FBI in, and Jake was the Bureau’s point man in the Northern Virginia area. Wearing vests and sterile gloves, the crime scene investigators hadn’t disturbed the body lying in the bushes just off the Washington and Old Dominion Trail. One could easily have jogged or cycled past the corpse without seeing it. Several poles driven into the soil held shrubbery back for a better view. The bruise to the forehead had barely broken the skin and begun to bleed. “The blunt blow may have been enough to knock the victim unconscious,” Stokes explained to Jake. Stokes, a red-haired detective in his forties, shoved a nearby branch aside. An aluminum baseball bat lay on a bed of dry leaves. It was a kid’s bat, but was dangerous nonetheless. “Is this what killed him?” Jake asked. Stokes lifted a flap of the victim’s cotton print shirt. A hunting knife had been jabbed into the hairless chest. The entire blade pierced up through the diaphragm and into the heart. “That killed him,” he said. The victim was middle-aged. He was plump and flabby with a round, hairless face, bristly black hair and the stretched eyelids of an Asian. His expression was peaceful despite the brutal attack. “A wallet was found in his pants pocket,” Stokes said. “We’ve 5
dusted it for fingerprints.” “Any money or credit cards left inside?” “Both. It wasn’t robbery, Jake.” Jake looked at the driver’s license. It was issued by the Commonwealth of Virginia. The name was Han Chu and the man was born in 1958. “What do you know about the witness?” Jake asked the detective. “Nothing. It was a 9-1-1 call, and we have the recording, but no name. Just the mile marker where the police could find the body.” “Why did the witness seek anonymity?” Stokes shrugged. Jake studied the police detective. He had a lot in common with the cop. They were the same age and unmarried. “Forty and still single,” Jake’s mother had said with a shake of her head. Red Stokes wore cargo pants and a navy blue polo shirt with his department’s logo embroidered on it, typical of a homicide detective processing a scene. Jake’s tie and off-the-rack coat were his uniform. Both men dealt with the dark side of human behavior. Yet the detective’s blue eyes were shining. “Why so happy?” Jake asked, wiping off a bead of sweat that oozed from his hairline. “Because there’s a good chance this won’t be my case for long,” Stokes said. “You thinking about the tattoo?” There was a blue tattoo on the victim’s upper chest. “A dragon’s head in a triangle?” Stokes said suggestively. “It’s a Triad gang.” Jake knew about the ruthless street gangs based in Hong Kong. Many had formed large syndicates that dealt in every type of crime from robbery to extortion and gambling, backed up by the threat of torture and death. He looked at the plump body lying in the bushes. It was hard to believe that the victim played any part in organized crime. “If this stiff turns out to be a foreign citizen or have syndicate connections,” Stokes said, poking Jake in the abdomen, “this will be your case.” 6
“So what if he looks foreign,” Jake said. “He could be an American. And so he has a Triad tattoo. It looks faded.” “See?” the detective said, grinning. “You’re being observant. The gears in your head are working already. You want this case.” “Homicide is your job.” “Jake, you still haven’t gotten that big break in your career.” “I’m busy enough. I don’t need to go slumming at the morgue.” “Yeah, but this one smells like it could be big,” Stokes said, indicating the body. “And if I know you, Jake, not only do you want this case, you need it.” “You can cover him up now.” Jake returned through the shrubbery to the bike path. Several cyclists in skin-tight outfits glided by the crime scene without altering their speed. He left the police to finish their work. “You need this case, buddy,” Stokes called after him. Jake got in his official Ford sedan that was parked on the grass and turned on the air conditioning. Stokes was right in several respects. Jake could use a big case at that point in his career. Stokes had already moved up from line squad detective to Homicide. Jake was stuck in field duty like a rookie special agent. Stokes was also right about how Jake’s mind worked. He liked to solve puzzling cases. And this one raised more questions than it answered. First was the witness. Why had the caller refused to give a name or describe the crime? Had the witness seen the murder take place? If not, how had the body been discovered? Second was the perpetrator. How well had the assailant planned the attack? Who would have expected the middle-aged, plainly dressed victim to be on the bike path that Friday afternoon? And third was the victim, Han Chu. How did his flabby body and peaceful expression fit with the fierce ruthlessness that lay at the root of the Triad culture? Jake shrugged off the knotty questions. They were for the police to solve. 7
He backed off the grass and headed for Washington Boulevard. He had a boss to please, a backlog of federal cases to work on, and a stagnated career to resurrect. End of Excerpt
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About the Author
FRITZ GALT is an American novelist with over twenty years of experience in the diplomatic community. He has lived abroad in Cuba, Switzerland, Yugoslavia, Taiwan, India, China, Belgium and Mongolia. He lives with his family in Asia. His bestsellers include Double Cross, The Trap and The Maltese Cross. For an in-depth look at Galt’s work, visit sigma-books.com. 9
