Butterflies? she thought. No, it’s just the chloroform wearing off. You need fresh air.
He set her down in her chair.
“You know, I gotta call this in,” he said, glancing around the alley once more.
She reached out and put a hand on his arm.
“Wait. Don’t, not yet.”
“Rebecca, you’re the D/NCS … an attempt was just made on your life. I can’t just—”
“Ted said I needed to get some skin in the game. Well, now I do. And you’re right, I must have pushed his buttons this morning. This attack, it has to be connected. I must have struck a nerve when I mentioned the intel from China.”
“So what’s our next move?”
She looked Josh in the eye. “The men on your team, do you trust them? I mean, one hundred percent trust?”
He thought for a moment. “There’s one or two. Guys I knew in the service, Marines. Those guys I trust.”
She nodded. “Call one of them and get a forensics kit over here. There’s blood in the alley where you shot that asshole. Get a sample, and bring it straight to my office. Don’t check it in, don’t log it with the agency. Once you have the sample, call this in as a mugging, DC Metro police only.”
She rolled back towards the restaurant.
“Hey, where are you going?” he called after her.
She rotated the chair and faced him. “I have to ditch my date.”
“Too bad, I heard the food here is amazing. Any sparks?”
She smiled. “Let’s just say the attempted kidnapping was the highlight of the evening.”
He grinned back at her, then turned away and began dialing a number on his cellphone.
She flushed again, realizing that what she had said was true, in a way. Not the kidnapping of course … but Josh.
Butterflies. Definitely butterflies.
She shook her head and rolled back into the restaurant.
Chapter Twenty-One
David Fang looked through the glass at the withered, ancient face below. He saw his reflection superimposed atop the old woman’s sagging, jaundiced skin. He watched as she struggled with each labored breath. Her lungs drew oxygen into her body with a slow, stuttering rasp. Each exhale was a measured gasp of pain.
She was suffering. His mother was suffering.
Doctor Abigail Song, a petite woman dressed in a white lab coat, stood by his side. She carried a slim, glowing tablet in her delicate hands. Her fingers danced across the screen, tapping on charts and notes.
“We’ve secured a donor organ,” she said. “But I must again remind you, this treatment course is experimental. So far, results have been … mixed, at best. It may not be advisable to put her through the strain of another operation.”
David turned from the glass tube. “What about this machine? This, what did you call it? Hyperbaric Oxygen treatment?”
Doctor Song looked up at him over the rim of her glasses. “The atmospheric pressure in the chamber is one and a half times normal pressure at this altitude. The increased pressure and oxygen levels should cause her body to stimulate production of both new blood cells and stem cells. Those are both vital for healing.”
The tenor of her voice reminded Fang of his stock analyst. She sounded like she was noting fluctuations of currencies and markets in an investment portfolio.
Her delicate fingers swiped a graph across the tablet’s screen, showing various test results. “Studies have shown HBO treatment to have anti-angiogenic effects on cancer tissue. It also stimulates the recovery of normal tissue after surgery.”
She held the tablet towards him. “Would you like to see the data on—”
Fang waved the tablet away. The withered woman in the glass tube turned her head slightly. Her eyes were shut tight. They looked like two dry, old wounds, long since scabbed over. One of the thin slashes cracked open, and a watery, bloodshot eye rotated to look at Fang. He smiled.
The eye rolled away from him and stared straight up. Then it closed once again.
He stepped away from the tube, and the doctor followed. He spoke to her in a firm but quiet voice. “Doctor, I could care less about your data. All I want to know is, will it work?”
Doctor Song looked him in the eye. Her face was cold, impassive. She did not frown or smile. “We’re confident she will survive the transplant. That being said, this is her third liver this year. To combat organ rejection, we’ve had to lower her medications. The strain on her body will be significant, and the cancer has spread to other areas. It will almost certainly return and infect the new organ. As a long-term strategy, this is not an effective course of treatment.”
“The Joyous Lake above The Gentle Wind,” a husky woman’s voice called out. “A preponderance of the great.”
Fang turned and looked to the center of the room. Iris lay on the tufted carpet, her body draped in a green silk dress. The coffee-colored skin of her neck was encircled by a heavy gold necklace. The jewelry was inlaid with precious jade stones. She exhaled and brushed her long, tan fingers back and forth across rows of I-Ching sticks spread across the floor. Her nails made a soft clicking sound as they traveled over the lines and dots carved into the wood.
The doctor stared at her for a moment, then looked at the slim watch that adorned her wrist. She said nothing.
“The lake rises above the trees, just as the superior man stands alone,” Iris said. She looked up and focused her wide, dark gaze on Fang. “In an extraordinary time, extreme measures must be taken. Revolution must not be feared. Action promises success.”
“Do it,” Fang snapped. “Shixian ta. I will transfer the money tonight.”
The doctor nodded and tapped the screen again on her tablet. “Of course, Mr. Fang. Women ganxie ni. The Park East Clinic is grateful for your benevolence.”
She turned to leave the room, but Fang grabbed her by the arm. She spun around to face him and looked up at him again with her cool, unflappable stare.
“If she does not survive the operation, I assure you, you will no longer be grateful. Do you understand me?”
Doctor Song tilted her head and regarded him with her icy stare. “She will have the best care, Mr. Fang, wo fashi.”
Fang let go of her arm and adjusted the cuffs of his cream-white dress shirt. “For the money I am paying, I expect more than that. I expect a miracle.”
“This is a clinic, not a temple, Mr. Fang. She will survive the surgery. Beyond that, I cannot say.”
Fang nodded. “Leave us.”
The doctor turned and her heels clicked on the tile floor as she exited the room.
The Park East Clinic was one of the most exclusive medical facilities in China. The space looked more like a luxurious hotel suite than a hospital room. Recessed lights in the ceiling cast soft pools over the sleek, modern furniture. The floors were polished concrete. Fang caught another distorted glimpse of his reflection in the glossy surface of the tile.
He sighed and walked over to Iris. He knelt down next to her and stroked her thick, dark hair. “Where is Lucky Si?” he asked.
She nodded towards a slatted wood door that stood next to a wall of floor to ceiling windows. The vast expanse of glass looked out over a dark blue lake, hundreds of feet below them. The clinic was built into the side of an old rock quarry, just outside Shanghai. The pit’s sheer granite walls arced below them. They joined the surface of the flat, dark water in a rippling line of gray beach.
Fang stepped through the door and onto a small balcony outside the room. Another man wearing a black trench coat was hunched over the edge of the balcony. Fang stood next to him. A glass barrier rose to waist height, allowing them to take in the spectacular view. To either side of them, more glass balconies sparkled in the morning light. The banks of windows were like brilliant gems, excavated from the dark rock walls of the quarry.
A light mist hung over the still waters of the lake below. Fang could see a few small boats and canoes crisscrossing the surface. In the distance, rolling green hills bl
ocked the skyscrapers of Shanghai from view.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Fang said, taking a deep breath of the fresh, crisp morning air.
The other man turned to face him. It was the albino, the man who had killed Wai in the restaurant. His coat fluttered behind him in the breeze.
“It’s still a tomb, no matter how lovely the view,” he muttered. “This family is cursed.”
Fang shook his head and laughed. “Come on, Si, what are you talking about? You and your brother are blessed. Four and six, auspicious numbers. Lucky Si and Lucky Liu.”
The albino gave him a sideways glance with his pink eyes. They were squinted, almost completely closed. He held up his right hand and peered at Fang between the three spread fingers and thumb. The missing finger had not been cut off or removed. It simply was not there, and the other digits had spread out to accommodate the gap. “Easy for you to say,” he grunted.
“Your eyes … is it too bright out here?” Fang asked.
The albino shook his head. “Never mind that.” He rested his hands on the edge of the balcony. “What do you want to do about Mother?”
“I want her to live, of course. The doctors say there is an excellent—”
“The doctors here only care about the money you pay them. She is in pain. You, this place … you are bankrupting this family, and all you have achieved is to prolong her suffering.”
Fang gestured to the panoramic view of the lake and countryside. “This clinic provides the finest medical care money can buy. The experimental treatments, the therapeutic environment … there’s no other place like it. This is her best chance at beating her cancer.”
“Therapeutic environment? Qinai de xiongdi, do you hear yourself speak? She lives in a glass tube.”
“That is part of her treatment, beloved younger brother,” Fang snapped. “I realize it is difficult for you, but this family is on the cusp of achieving greatness. Soon, I will be Dragon Father of the Lu Long. The money I spent purchasing this facility here will be as a drop of rain in that lake. Everything we have dreamed of is soon to be at hand. Do you think she would want to miss that? To miss seeing her sons rise to—”
A knock on the glass behind them interrupted him. He turned and saw Iris standing behind one of the giant glass panels. One of her smooth, tan arms was crossed beneath her breasts. The other held up his cell phone. She gave him an annoyed stare.
Looking at the screen, he could see Lewis was calling him. A frown marred his handsome features. “Deng yixia. I have to take this.”
He paced back into the room and snatched the phone from Iris’s hand. She sighed and strutted back to the carpet. Once again she reclined on the floor and began to roll her sticks back and forth.
Fang turned his back to her. “Yes, what is it?” he said into the phone.
“The black jail, in Beijing … we went to get the American, as you ordered. Lucky Liu was in place, on the inside.”
“If you’re telling me this, something obviously went wrong,” Fang said. “Can I trust you with nothing?”
“Sir, there was some kind of disturbance there, a riot! The inmates broke free. And Sean Tyler, he …”
Fang clenched the phone. The metal and glass slab bit into his hand. “Did he escape?”
“Yes, but he was not alone. Our informants in the Ministry gave us a copy of the surveillance footage from the jail. He had help … a Chinese man, another detainee at the jail, left with him. Also, a Chinese woman, we think she was a protester, a human rights worker of some kind.”
“Is that all?”
“No, there was one more. A man. We don’t have a clear picture of his face, but he appears to be Caucasian.”
“Gauzaizi, if he was after the Tyler boy, he’s probably another American.”
“Sir, there is more … Lucky Liu, we think he tried to stop them from escaping. He fought them, and …”
Fang exhaled slowly. “Say it, Lewis.”
“Your brother … he is dead. The guards at the prison say the American man killed him, threw him from—”
Fang roared into the microphone, then threw the phone at one of the enormous windows. The device shattered against the thick pane of glass. As the pieces of the phone cascaded to the floor, a spider web of cracks burst through the length of the window.
Outside, Lucky Si, the albino twin, turned back and looked through the window at Fang. His image was splintered and refracted in the cracked, broken glass. Si stepped inside.
“Brother, I’m sorry we argued, you know I will respect your judgment in this.”
Fang shook his head. “It’s not that. Sit down, Si. We must talk.”
Iris ceased the clacking of her sticks. She spoke, but did not look up at them. “Receptive Earth above Clinging Fire. The darkening of the light.”
“Iris, leave us.”
She said nothing, but gathered her sticks and left the room. The silk of her dress made a swishing sound as it dragged across the floor, like wind caressing the grass in a field.
When she was gone, Fang turned back to Lucky Si. The albino leaned back in one of the room’s comfortable chairs, his legs sprawled open.
“Si, I need you to do something for me. Something our brother failed to do.”
“Liu? I thought he was sent to—”
“Liu is gone.”
Lucky Si leaned forward in his chair. Wide, pink eyes stared out from the pale white expanse of his face. “What do you mean gone?”
“Our brother is dead. He sacrificed himself for this family’s destiny. Now, it is up to us to persevere. Find Sean Tyler. Bring him to me.”
Lucky Si leapt to his feet and cupped his fist in his palm, above his heart. “Yes, brother. Wu bo hui shibai. I will not fail you!”
He paced towards the exit of the room.
“Si, wait,” Fang called after him. The albino spun around. His black trench coat flared behind him.
“Tyler is with others. A Chinese man and woman. And a laowai, a white man. Probably American.”
“Yes?”
Fang looked up at Si. “Kill them all. For our brother.”
Lucky Si nodded and left the room.
Fang stood up and walked over to the glass tube. Inside, his mother’s eyes were still closed. He heard a soft hiss come from the machinery of the hyperbaric chamber. It was the pumps, working to maintain the air pressure inside.
He rested his head on the glass, just above her face. “We are so close, Mother. So close to our destiny, I can almost reach out and touch it. I will not fail. You will live to see your son rise. Then, all those who have wronged our family, all those who caused us pain … they shall finally pay.”
From inside, he could hear a low groan escape his mother’s withered lips. She turned away from him, leaving him staring at his reflection in the glass.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Zhengzhou East Station was one of the largest high-speed rail stations in the world. Its boarding platform was a vast, cavernous chamber of gleaming silver and white. A delicate latticework of metal beams crisscrossed high overhead beneath the domed ceiling. Caine knew those metal beams were studded with dozens of security cameras. As he meandered through the newsstands and food carts, he made sure to keep his face pointed down, out of view of the probing lenses above.
He kept a watchful eye on the sleek white train parked behind him. A crowd of new passengers boarded its various cars from the platform. Here, like the other stops along their route, no one attracted his attention.
He walked past a few policemen standing near the terminal exit. They stood ramrod straight. The creases of their olive-green uniforms were pressed to a razor-sharp edge. They paid him no mind as he ambled past. Either he had managed to avoid the cameras in the black jail, or news of the breakout had not reached Zhengzhou. Hopefully, the authorities had focused their attention on the airports. Taking the trains would give him a chance to put some distance between his group and Beijing.
He walked past a tiny shop se
lling ornamental plates, chopsticks, and tea sets. Perched in the window was a dusty plastic sleeve that contained a set of three small paring knives. The handle of each knife was colorful plastic. Matching sheaths covered their steel blades.
Caine stepped inside the cramped booth and nodded to the wizened little man who sat behind the counter. He grabbed the knifes, along with a set of chopsticks and a tea cup. Placing them on the counter, he slid the man a stack of Yuan notes. He kept his head down and turned to the right, avoiding the camera mounted behind the shopkeeper. The old man smiled as he took the cash and bundled the items in a plastic bag.
Stepping outside, Caine made his way to the outer edge of the platform. He scanned the crowd to make sure no one was watching. Unobserved, he slid one of the paring knifes from the package and tucked it into his waistband. He covered the handle with his shirt and dumped the bag of trinkets in a trash can.
The knife's steel was cheap, and the tang of the blade wobbled in the handle. But it would serve as a makeshift, innocuous weapon. After his experiences in Beijing, he no longer felt comfortable traveling unarmed. A common kitchen knife would not attract undue attention if authorities searched his belongings. And in a train station, in the middle of China, it was the best option he was likely to find.
Next, he stopped to buy a burner phone at a small electronics store. The middle-aged woman working in the store waved her hand over a glass display case. It was filled with secondhand phones and iPods. Most of them were old, battered, and covered with stickers and sparkling charms. He selected a basic model. The woman hummed a tune to herself as he handed her more of his money.
As she slipped in a sim card and activated the phone, Caine looked back towards the train. The crowd of passengers slipping in and out of the long white cars looked perfectly normal. Businessmen in suits, women holding hands with toddling children, a few tourists … nothing that scanned as out of place, or a threat.
She handed him the activated phone, cradling it like a precious gem in both her hands. Caine smiled and took the device, also using both hands. He gave her a slight bow. “Xie xie,” he said, thanking her.
Thomas Caine series Boxset Page 46
