Lu Shen didn't act impulsively; instead, he sat in his seat, contemplating for over half an hour.
In his past life, having worked in the national security system for most of his life, he knew all too well a cardinal rule—impulsiveness is the epitaph of an intelligence officer.
He now had the conditions for a solo assault, but this wasn't a battlefield; it was a chess game.
The CIA Hong Kong Station's security network was like a tightly woven spider web, any abnormal vibration of a single thread would be transmitted to the center.
He had to defeat the rules with rules.
Lu Shen pulled out a blank internal application form from the drawer—ACI/OPS-7B, an external operation report form.
He unscrewed his pen, the nib hovered for a moment, then he began to write.
His handwriting was neat, his wording precise, entirely the standard script of a diligent clerical analyst:
"Reason for application: Three abnormal transactions were detected in the third-quarter transaction monitoring data of Sumitomo Bank's Hong Kong Branch, with amounts of $470,000, $820,000, and $1.16 million, suspected to be linked to a Southeast Asian underground money laundering network. Need to verify original documents at the Tsim Sha Tsui branch of Sumitomo Bank and submit this quarter's economic intelligence archive to the US Consulate General in Hong Kong for filing. Expected absence time: October 16, from 9 AM to 4 PM."
Every number was a real entry he extracted from those Sumitomo Bank data on the screen.
Every reason could withstand scrutiny.
Lu Shen blew the ink dry, clipped the application form into a folder, and got up to head to the Station Chief's office at the end of the corridor.
He knocked on the door, twice, with a one-second interval, the force even.
"Come in."
Station Chief Macallan sat behind his desk, in his early fifties, his graying hair meticulously combed, a pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, flipping through a blue-covered briefing.
He glanced up at Lu Shen, his gaze lacking much attention... for a mid-to-low-level economic analyst, the Station Chief's attention was always sparing.
"What is it?"
"Mr. Macallan, there's an issue with Sumitomo Bank's monitoring data." Lu Shen placed the folder on the corner of the desk, "Three large abnormal transactions, similar pattern to last year's money laundering line in the Philippines. I need to verify the original documents at the Tsim Sha Tsui branch. Also, I need to deliver this quarter's accumulated economic files to the consulate for archiving. Morrison has urged twice."
He mentioned Morrison... the consulate's clerical archive manager, a person everyone knew, everyone found annoying, but no one dared to offend.
Macallan glanced at the application form, not even furrowing his brow.
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes. Bank in the morning, files in the afternoon, back by four."
Macallan picked up a pen, signed his name in the approval column, his actions casual.
"Don't forget to include Sumitomo's verification results in the weekly report."
"No problem."
Lu Shen took back the folder and turned to leave.
Back at his workstation, Lu Shen picked up the phone on his desk and dialed a number.
"Morrison, it's Lu Shen, from the Hong Kong Station."
"Oh! Lu! When are you sending over that batch of economic files? My filing deadline is—"
"Tomorrow afternoon at two, I'll deliver them personally. There's quite a lot this time, might need to go over the list with you in person."
"Great, two o'clock, I'll be waiting for you."
Lu Shen hung up the phone.
Two o'clock, consulate, Morrison.
This was the anchor point for his alibi... tomorrow afternoon at two, he would be at the consulate, face-to-face with Morrison, checking the archive list, the whole process taking at least forty minutes.
And in the time window before and after, his whereabouts would be perfectly covered by the reason of "verifying data at Sumitomo Bank."
...
At 6:15 PM, Lu Shen clocked out on time.
He didn't head towards the Regent Hotel but instead took the Star Ferry across the harbor to Mong Kok.
Mong Kok was the most densely populated area in Hong Kong, with streets as narrow as capillaries and crowds as dense as a flood.
Here, any form of tailing would become a nightmare... Lu Shen spent forty minutes confirming there was no tail.
Once confirmed clear, he began his procurement.
Hardware store: two paperclips, a small screwdriver, a roll of electrical tape.
Grocery store: a pair of rubber gloves, a pack of garbage bags, a box of matches, cash payment, no change needed.
Second-hand clothing stall: a gray work jacket, dark blue work pants, a baseball cap. All second-hand, no labels, no size tags, blending in as the most inconspicuous blue-collar worker in the city.
Optical shop: a pair of plain black-framed glasses, the cheapest style.
Pharmacy: a small tube of theatrical glue, two fake mustaches. This was the only store where he needed to speak, using fluent Cantonese to tell the clerk it was for a theater group friend.
At eight o'clock, Lu Shen took the ferry back to Hong Kong Island, but he didn't return to Central; instead, he disembarked at Wan Chai and walked towards Tsim Sha Tsui, finding a spot on the public observation deck atop the Ocean Terminal.
The night view of Victoria Harbour unfolded before him, thousands of lights reflecting on the dark sea like someone had scattered a box of crushed diamonds into the water.
Lu Shen was looking across the harbor.
The Regent Hotel stood on the eastern waterfront of Tsim Sha Tsui, less than eight hundred meters away in a straight line.
The twenty-two-story main building presented a stark geometric silhouette in the night, its glass curtain wall reflecting the lights of the Central business district across the harbor like a giant dark mirror.
Lu Shen took a small monocular from his canvas bag... a standard issue from his workstation drawer, occasionally used by economic analysts to observe shipping dynamics at the port, bringing it out wouldn't raise any suspicion.
He pressed the monocular to his right eye socket and began observing the hotel.
An hour later, Lu Shen put away the monocular, descended from the observation deck, and disappeared into the dense crowd of Tsim Sha Tsui.
...
October 16.
Operation day.
At 9:03 AM, Lu Shen left the Central safe house on time.
He was dressed in the same navy blue suit as usual, carrying a briefcase, with a manila folder tucked under his arm, greeting his colleague Tom at the opposite workstation as he walked out.
"Going to the bank?" Tom asked, chewing on a pencil.
"Bank and consulate, just a runner's life." Lu Shen shrugged, his tone carrying just the right hint of weariness.
"Say hi to Morrison for me." Tom smiled, lowering his head to continue reading his briefing.
At 9:40 AM, Lu Shen arrived at the Sumitomo Bank Hong Kong Branch in Tsim Sha Tsui.
Lu Shen presented the economic attaché credentials from the US Consulate General at the counter, spending twenty minutes reviewing the original documents of the three abnormal transactions, noting down the numbers and dates in his notebook, and exchanged business cards with the branch's client manager.
Everything proceeded according to procedure, everything was verifiable.
At 10:20 AM, he walked out of Sumitomo Bank and hailed a taxi at the entrance.
"Ocean Terminal," he told the driver.
The taxi stopped at the main entrance of the Ocean Terminal, Lu Shen paid the fare, walked into the building, and went straight to the public restroom on the first floor.
He took four minutes to complete his disguise.
The suit jacket and shirt were folded neatly and stuffed into the briefcase.
He donned the gray work jacket from the canvas bag, changed into the dark blue work pants, pulled the baseball cap low over his eyes, and put on the plain black-framed glasses.
Lastly, the fake mustache... he carefully applied the two trimmed fake mustaches to his upper lip with theatrical glue, pressing with his fingertips to ensure they were secure.
The person in the mirror was completely different from the one three minutes ago.
Lu Shen locked the briefcase in a coin-operated locker, keeping the key close to him.
He put on the rubber gloves; from this second onward, his fingerprints would not appear on any surface.
Lu Shen exited through the side door of the Ocean Terminal, walked for seven minutes, and arrived at the employee passage on the side of the Regent Hotel.
He waited in the alley opposite the passage entrance for less than two minutes before a young man in a white chef's uniform pushed the door open from inside, cigarette in mouth, clearly stepping out for a break.
The iron door, under the action of the hydraulic door closer, slowly swung shut. Lu Shen, in the instant before the door gap closed to the last three centimeters, reached out to hold the door frame.
He slipped inside, the door closer gently pulling the iron door shut.
The corridor of the employee passage was narrow, the walls painted with cheap off-white latex paint, the floor gray terrazzo, a fluorescent light overhead flickering intermittently.
The air was filled with the unique mix of kitchen grease and detergent smells.
Lu Shen found the entrance to the fire escape at the end of the corridor... a door with a green safety sign, which could be pushed open from the inside.
He pushed the door into the stairwell, his footsteps on the concrete steps making almost no sound.
One floor, two floors, three floors.
Lu Shen's breathing and footsteps were perfectly synchronized, each inhale matched two steps, each exhale matched two steps, his heart rate steady.
Lu Shen stopped in front of the fire door on the seventh floor, not pushing it immediately.
He pressed his ear against the door, listening for a moment.
There were footsteps in the corridor, very light, the sound of leather shoes on carpet, moving rhythmically from left to right, gradually fading away.
Lu Shen waited until the footsteps completely disappeared, then waited another thirty seconds.
Then he pushed the door.
The corridor of the seventh-floor guest rooms was carpeted in deep red, with faux antique oil paintings on the walls, a wall lamp every six meters, the lighting soft and dim.
The surveillance camera at the end of the corridor was an old fixed model, its lens facing the elevator lobby, covering an angle of about one hundred and twenty degrees.
But the position where he emerged from the fire escape was just in the camera's blind spot.
Room 707 was on the left side of the corridor, about twelve meters from his position.
Lu Shen moved along the base of the wall, his footsteps treading on the edge of the carpet closest to the wall.
The twelve-meter distance took him twenty seconds to cover.
Room 707.
A standard hotel room door, brass handle, pin tumbler lock, the 1985 hotel standard, a five-pin tumbler structure, for Lu Shen now, this lock was no different from having no lock.
Lu Shen took out two paperclips from his pocket.
The first one was straightened, the end bent into a ninety-degree L shape... this was the tension wrench, the second one bent into a wave shape... this was the pick.
He inserted the tension wrench into the lower part of the lock cylinder, applying very slight rotational pressure, while using the pick to manipulate the pins inside the lock cylinder one by one.
The lock cylinder turned, the lock clicked open.
Lu Shen put the paperclips back in his pocket, his right hand on the door handle, his left hand hanging naturally, his center of gravity slightly forward, his body ready to explode into action at any moment.
He slowly pressed down the door handle, pushed the door open, and slipped inside.
The curtains in the room were half-drawn, the morning sunlight slicing through the gaps, casting a long narrow beam of light on the carpet.
The air was thick with the smell of smoke, and there was a scent of whiskey.
A man sat in a single chair by the window, back to the door, with several documents spread out on the coffee table in front of him, a half-full glass at his side.
The ashtray was piled with at least seven or eight cigarette butts, some not fully extinguished, thin lines of smoke curling upwards in the still air.