by Bobby Akart
Their control over any individual in China was well documented. By the National Intelligence Law, and in the name of national security, they were empowered to administratively detain any person who impeded their intelligence work or who was deemed to be a terroristic threat, for fifteen days.
Unlike America, where due process was clearly defined in the Constitution, in China, the MSS did not have to provide a detainee a phone call. Or a lawyer. Or a visit from a loved one. Targets of their investigations were locked up, and the key was left on the wall until the fifteen days expired. The detainee’s calculation of fifteen days was often far different from his jailers at the MSS.
At the MSS regional station in Urumqi, Ren Zhang sat in isolation. His cell had no windows. The door was solid steel and had a small four-inch sliding door to allow his guards to look in on him once in a while. The steel bed had no mattress or pillow. The combination toilet and sink barely provided him enough water to flush.
For the first twenty-four hours of his captivity, he screamed, protested, acted out and generally created mayhem in an effort to get someone’s attention. Nothing worked. He was ignored, a technique that had worked in the past for the MSS agents.
Now, however, their attention was turned to another problem—Dr. Zeng.
The Urumqi physician had boldly gone public with his manifesto, as social media had labeled it. Naturally, the state-run media made no mention of Dr. Zeng or his statement on the mysterious virus. After Ren’s outburst in which he called President Xi a clown, none of the secondary news outlets dared to bring attention to themselves by republishing the manifesto.
Yet it had garnered the attention of the MSS and the Chinese CDC. As a result, a directive was issued.
Find Dr. Zeng and his wife.
Lock them up and the Ministry of Public Security will make room for them at Qincheng Prison, a maximum-security facility located in the Changping District not far from the CDC. The CDC personnel would have access to him to learn what he knew, and he could then spend the rest of his life separated from his wife in the Soviet-constructed prison known for holding a who’s who of political prisoners.
The director of the Urumqi station of the MSS paced the floor of the situation room. Half a dozen analysts worked at their computer stations while several more monitored activities on the streets of the city. They were following up on leads and information concerning the whereabouts of Dr. Zeng. Their agents in the field were directed to stop all other surveillance projects until he was found.
One of the analysts began searching for the whereabouts of Fangyu, the only living relative of Dr. Zeng other than his wife. A team had been sent to the university to raid his dorm room and interrogate the students who might have known him.
Another analyst focused on Dr. Zeng’s hospital associates. Everyone from coworkers to staff and students were swarmed by a dozen MSS agents, with the assistance of the Ministry of Public Security.
Finding Ren Zhang had been much easier. The arrogant businessman had an extensive dossier built over the years he’d spoken out against the Communist Party’s rule. The MSS had tracked his activities and were able to determine his travel habits. He had been taken into custody on the bullet train before it had pulled into the station at Urumqi.
Dr. Zeng would be more difficult. Urumqi was a medium-sized metropolis, by China’s standards, of two and a half million people, roughly the size and population of Chicago. It was replete with high-rise residential buildings and multitudes of retail stores with back room apartments attached.
The MSS would have to rely upon their advanced surveillance capabilities and their ability to instill fear in any possible witnesses in order to trace Dr. Zeng’s whereabouts. Thus far, they’d struck out.
The airport, train station, and bus depot had extra security assigned to them. Major arteries leading out of the city were monitored, and roadblocks were established in some cases to prevent Dr. Zeng from escaping.
On the streets, hundreds of Public Security officers supplemented MSS operatives as they combed the streets with the aid of the surveillance cameras. The search for Dr. Zeng had become personal for President Xi as well. He’d had enough of dissidents openly defying his authority and making a mockery of his power. The directive was clear.
Eliminate Ren Zhang and Dr. Zeng. Then frighten their families into submission. Finally, search and destroy the citizen journalists. They were trying to force transparency upon the Communist government, a direct threat to maintaining control over the people.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Urumqi, Xinjiang, China
After their arrival in Urumqi, Harper and Kwon made their way through the airport terminal without incident. As instructed, they exited the sliding doors onto the sidewalk outside arrivals at terminal 3. T3, exclusive to China Southern Airlines, was known for its rooftop that protruded above the sidewalk in the shape of eagle’s wings.
The night air filled their lungs as they searched for a Chinese-made Volkswagen C-Trek. At two in the morning, the airport had very little activity. Within minutes of their stepping onto the sidewalk, the C-Trek station wagon driven by a CIA operative gathered them up. He escorted them to a safe house, turned over the keys to the vehicle, and then disappeared into the night.
The apartment building was walking distance to First Affiliated Hospital, where Dr. Zeng had been employed. In Beijing, the CIA had confirmed he’d been suspended. The safe house was centrally located and convenient to many possible hiding places. Meanwhile, Harper and Kwon had no idea what had transpired since their flight departed Beijing.
“Home sweet home,” quipped Harper as she and Kwon entered the modestly furnished flat. The two-bedroom, one-bath apartment was barely eight hundred square feet. It contained a small efficiency kitchen that was fully stocked with nonperishables and drinks. The living area was furnished with a sofa, two matching chairs, and a dinette table for four. Otherwise, it didn’t contain any type of décor.
Kwon excused himself and went to the restroom. When he returned, he showed Harper a key ring with three small plastic keycards attached. They resembled the customer loyalty cards a grocery store might provide its customers to track their purchases or obtain special deals.
“Where did you find those?” she asked.
“The embassy. I was told during my briefing there are a series of hidden compartments within the apartment. These emit electronic signals that trigger the locking mechanisms. I just need to find all of the safes.”
Harper put her hands on her hips and looked around. She pointed to the ceiling, where a two-foot-by-three-foot air duct return was located next to a smoke alarm.
“Too obvious,” said Kwon. “We’re looking for something with a seam. You might not notice it at first glance.”
Harper wandered around the living area and then found her way to the kitchen. A gray breaker box was installed flush with the wall separating the kitchen from the guest bathroom. She opened the door, viewed the breakers, and shrugged as she closed the door.
Exhausted, she wanted to consider giving up the hunt until morning. “Can it wait?”
Kwon shook his head. “No, not really. They have a laptop for us with secured wireless capability. We can access the CIA’s servers in Beijing as well as communicate directly with our team of handlers monitoring our activity. Remember?” He pointed at the top of his forearm where the microchip had been implanted.
Harper continued her search. She looked inside kitchen cabinets and appliances. She’d given up on the kitchen and had rounded the corner toward the bedrooms when she stopped in her tracks. She held the wall with her hands and looked back into the kitchen. Then, to get a different perspective, she stepped back away from the wall separating the two areas of the apartment.
“Hey, look at this. Does this wall seem a little wide to you?”
Kwon joined her side and eyeballed the wall separating the two rooms. He walked into the kitchen and held up the three keycards, swiping each one slowly around the ed
ges of the breaker box. On the third try, a clicking sound could be heard, and the left side of the breaker box popped open. He carefully pulled the box open on its hinges and peered inside.
“Here we go. Good work, Harper.”
He reached in and handed her a hard-plastic case the size of a laptop computer. He also retrieved two Sig Sauer MPX gun cases and several rounds of 9 mm ammunition. Lastly, there were two boxes containing Sig Sauer SRD9 suppressors. He laid out all the weapons and accessories on the kitchen counter and handed Harper the computer.
“Would you mind powering this on? It might need to be charged. But don’t navigate anywhere just yet. I have passwords.”
“Okay,” she replied. “Did you write them down?”
Kwon looked at her and tapped the side of his head. “No paper trails.”
“Um, is one of those for me?” she asked, pointing at the fully automatic carbine.
“Maybe. We’ll talk about that in a moment.”
Kwon opened the cases, pulled out the two identical weapons, and set out six thirty-round magazines. After searching through the void behind the breaker box and finding it to be empty, he closed up the space and joined Harper.
She’d plugged in the power source and powered up the IBM laptop-style computer. It was thick and bulky, unlike her thin silver MacBook. “I haven’t seen one of these in a long time.”
“Like the Blackberrys we were assigned, it’s designed to appear antiquated,” began Kwon, who had used similar devices during other operations. “It’s not actually an IBM product. It’s made by Lenovo and is exactly what we need in an environment like this. We will have satellite internet and communications via secured message streams from anywhere. If it is taken from us, it will initially appear as junk to the Chinese. If they try to access it, after three incorrect password entries, an acid-like substance will be released, destroying its motherboard and hard drive.”
“You guys get all the fun toys,” quipped Harper. She nodded toward the guns. “I can shoot, you know.”
“I know,” said Kwon dryly. “You grew up in a rural community. Your family owned weapons, and your father frequently took you to the range to practice. That’s also been nearly thirty years ago.”
Harper angrily walked away from the table. “I know how long it’s been. You obviously know a helluva lot more about me than I know about you. So was it necessary to remind me when I saw my father last?”
Kwon raised his hands. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m not very … I’m not subtle, okay. Yes, I learned everything I could about you from your personnel file and during my conversations with Joe. I asked him to be completely honest and up front with me.”
“Why?”
“So we don’t get our asses killed in China. Harper, this isn’t a game. These people don’t give a damn about us, our lives, or what we’re here for. When I say our lives depend on our abilities to fly under the radar and then get the hell out, I mean it.”
Harper turned away toward the kitchen and wiped a few tears that streamed from her eyes. She tried to control her emotions and silently cursed herself for still being sensitive about her parents after all these years. She looked at the ceiling above the oven-range combination. Her eyes followed the wall along the hood vent. She took a deep breath and changed the subject.
“I think I found another secret hidey-hole.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
CIA Safe House
Urumqi, Xinjiang, China
They stayed up for another hour and took the time to get to know one another. Kwon opened up about his family and what had led him to follow the unusual career path. He’d never set out to be a doctor but was encouraged to do so by the military. As a Navy SEAL, he was ideally suited for becoming a covert operative in any branch of the military. However, his extreme intelligence and aptitude to learn resulted in his superiors pushing him toward the medical field. After Harvard, he was too valuable to lose as a doctor, and his SEAL training was too important to cast aside. The logical landing place for Kwon was DARPA.
After a good night’s sleep, Harper woke up first and fixed a pot of coffee. She stood at the dirty window overlooking a large park, hoping to catch a glimpse of a Starbucks or the golden arches of a McDonald’s sign. She decided not to press it when Kwon urgently called her into the living room.
“Take a look at this,” he said. He turned the IBM laptop around and faced it toward the chair across from the sofa. “A lot has happened since we left the embassy.”
“How is this Ren guy connected to Dr. Zeng? And why, after effectively getting the word out without disclosing his identity, would he stick his head out of the fox hole?”
Kwon scowled and shrugged. “This has made our job a lot more difficult. According to this briefing, the city is covered with both MSS and Security Police. They’re gonna be turning over every rock looking for this guy.”
Harper flopped in the chair with her mug of coffee. “Everywhere we go, they’re gonna be there already searching for him. I guarantee their investigators have a better idea where to look than we do.”
Kwon stood from the sofa and wandered around the small living room. He made his way to the kitchen and poured himself a coffee.
“Here’s the good news,” he began. “They’re still looking, which means we’ve got a shot. Also, that means we can eliminate the obvious two stops at the top of our list.”
“The hospital and his apartment,” interjected Harper.
“Exactly. Think about it. This whistleblower was using social media outlets to spread the word about the disease. Last night, using the same types of platforms, plus some friendly, on-the-edge-of-dissidence websites, he publishes this manifesto-style diatribe.”
“Diatribe, criticism, whatever you wanna call it. He’s obviously kicked the hornet’s nest in Beijing.”
“Guaranteed,” added Kwon. “They’re conducting a sweep of anyone who publicly disagrees with them or speaks out about the disease. The financier, Ren, is known for funding these citizen journalists. It appears Dr. Zeng is using these same people to spread his message and gather information. Let’s find them, and maybe they’ll lead us to our doctor.”
“Where do we start?” asked Harper.
“The home of all malcontents. The university.”
Harper laughed. “I’ve got a shirt for that.”
“The one you bought last night?”
“Yes, indeed. I am going to woo them with my Netizen tee and my charming smile.”
Kwon rolled his eyes. “Will you let me do the talking despite the fact that most of these college kids are fluent in English? It’s a second language for them.”
“At first, maybe. Kwon, I’m not the same person who started to freak out at the airport last night. Give me a chance, okay?”
“I will. Get your shirt and let’s get started.”
“Are we taking the guns?” she asked with a smile.
“No. Would you forget about those things for now? The last thing we need is a gun battle, especially now. Besides, they’ve got all kinds of surveillance cameras that can detect them under our clothing. Let’s play it smart and avoid contact with any police or MSS.”
Harper gave him a thumbs-up and went to change shirts. While she was gone, Kwon studied the map of the area to determine which of the universities was closest to them. He pointed at the screen, identifying Xinjiang University as their first stop. Then he recalled that Dr. Zeng’s nephew was a student in the College of Journalism there. He slammed the computer closed and stowed it away with the weapons behind the wall.
“Come on, Harper. You’re late for class.”
She returned from her bedroom wearing the crimson-colored tee shirt with white letters that read NETIZEN.
“Aha!” she exclaimed jokingly. “You can be funny.”
“Maybe.”
They exited the apartment building and realized they were in the midst of more than a dozen high-rises in the complex. Kwon directed Harper’s attention to a parking garage
located on the main road in front of the complex where they’d parked the car the night before. The CIA operative who’d picked them up had disappeared into the night, most likely picked up by a vehicle following them.
They made their way in the direction of Xinjiang University. As they did, they passed a kindergarten-age school, where some of the children were sitting outside at round concrete picnic tables. Each of them had a hat affixed to their heads with multicolored foam sticks protruding in each direction like a propeller.
“Check it out,” said Kwon.
Harper noticed they weren’t wearing masks. “Social distancing. Very interesting.”
“They’re teaching safety because they live in a world susceptible to infectious diseases. Hard to imagine, isn’t it?”
The two slowed as they passed, taking in the teachers giving the five- and six-year-old children instructions.
“I don’t know much about kids,” began Harper. “But I can’t imagine finding two dozen five-year-olds in Georgia sitting still like these kids are. That’s just as amazing as the teaching tool.”
“It’s discipline, Harper. This culture is entirely different from what we have in America.”
“I can’t imagine having children growing up in fear of contracting an infectious disease. I mean, have you seen anyone on the street yet who isn’t wearing a mask?”
“No, but it could be a signal that the general public knows something that the Communist-run media doesn’t want the world to know.”
“The disease is spreading,” suggested Harper.
“Right. As much as I despise social media, it is obviously a force of good in a Communist country that controls the news. These people remember what happened in Wuhan a decade ago. They’re willing to sacrifice their vanity, if they even have any, and endure the inconvenience of the mask. Face it, Urumqi doesn’t have the air pollution problem they have in Beijing or even Hong Kong. This city may be the size of Chicago, but it’s surrounded by desertlike landscape with lots of breeze. The mask isn’t because of the air quality. It’s because of disease.”
