by Fritz Galt
Like the fizzle of a firecracker, he shredded the contract in two.
Stephanie felt a part of her die. “So much for the fifty-five million.”
“And the other evidence?”
“As far as the records go, General Chou destroyed all evidence that Taiwan’s military was involved.”
“So the invasion has been called off?”
“Yup. There will be no invasion. He told me that the two militaries needed each other. Can you beat that?”
Cavanaugh screwed up his face. “I guess, in a twisted way he’s right. Where’s the glory in running an army in China when there’s no enemy to fight against? And how about the three hundred mil? You can’t destroy that so easily.”
“Ah, the three hundred million dollars. General Chou said he feels like a kid on market day. He couldn’t stop telling me all the things he’ll buy with it.”
“So you informed him that you didn’t legitimately represent the company?”
“That’s right. We both had a big laugh over my performance.”
Cavanaugh looked at the shredded papers in his hands. “You mean he wouldn’t have awarded the MLR contract to American Allied? This contract was useless?”
“Utterly. He told me to consider it a souvenir.”
His pride looked hurt. “I thought it took some courage to rip it up.”
“It did, Pete,” she said. “It just wasn’t real.”
“Oh well. Back to General Chou. What was in it for him?”
“Chou confessed that he came to Victoria Peak for the money,” she said. “He never felt threatened by Johnny or André, but did consider the idea of becoming a national hero.”
“The guy thinks big.”
She had grown chummy with the general, but one major question still bothered her. “I still don’t know if this whole thing was his idea.”
“It turns out that there was a fly on the wall at the estate in Hong Kong,” Cavanaugh said, and leaned on the edge of his desk. “Dr. Hu May-lin, the Taiwanese woman there, overheard André explain that China wasn’t behind the scheme. It was Johnny and André’s idea to invade Taiwan. They fabricated the PRC price-fixing information to woo General Li to invest. They alone pressured General Li to drop his defenses and invite the People’s Liberation Army into Taiwan.”
He went over to his secure telephone.
“Thanks for letting me know that General Chou didn’t take the bait,” he told Stephanie. “That he was only in Hong Kong for the money. And that he has no plans of invading Taiwan. I’ll tell Washington not to worry. I hope to get through before the UN vote.”
He got his receptionist on the phone.
“Get me Secretary Armbruster.”
He hung up and waited for the line to connect and ring back.
“Just tell me one thing,” Stephanie said. “How did the European Consortium know that Eli would carry the briefcase to Hong Kong?”
He smiled. “As you know, we had no idea who wanted the briefcase. When I heard that the stock market was taking off, I told Percy Gu in Commerce to put out word to the buyers that the access codes were leaving the country on your Dragon Air flight.”
“And they bit.”
“Hook, line and sinker. Of course, it was all the director’s idea in Taiwan. Bronson Nichols wanted to draw out the culprits using the money. I just planted the rumor.”
“Eli’s still angry that we didn’t clue him in.”
“About what? The tracking device or the bomb?”
She looked at him, stunned. “What bomb?”
“You know. You were carrying the detonator in your pocketbook. The button that blew up the metal briefcase and killed Johnny Ouyang, his wife and André Morisot.”
Her knees felt weak and she had to sit down. She remembered a black plastic box with a green button that she had left in the Jaguar. She had thought it activated the tracking device.
“Tell me again. What did that button do?”
Cavanaugh’s explanation was cut short by the telephone ringing and the sudden pandemonium in her mind.
It was the eleventh hour on First Avenue in New York City.
Delegates in the United Nations General Assembly had gathered that afternoon in an extraordinary session ready to support Taiwan with a vote on the floor.
With grim faces, they waited for the appearance of the American ambassador, who was meeting behind closed doors with the UN General Affairs Committee. The United States would cast the deciding vote on whether to put the question of recognizing Taiwan before the floor.
Taiwan wasn’t seeking observer status. It wanted no less than permanent membership, a seat in the General Assembly.
Studio lights lit up a small TV broadcast room just off the White House briefing room.
Charles Damon shifted a short statement from hand to hand as a makeup artist applied foundation and translucent powder to his determined face.
Behind him, a projector displayed a dramatic backdrop of the Oval Office.
In Bronson Nichols’ makeshift office, Natalie sat alongside Mick, Steve Novak and other key AIT officials waiting for the director to arrive.
Several workmen stood on the institute roof in the early dawn holding a satellite dish in place by hand.
In the office, the image of a CNN reporter at daybreak on a Beijing street crackled and blipped on a TV screen as the workmen tried to position the dish.
“Hold it there,” Mick said over a hand radio.
Natalie could hear the workmen hammer wooden blocks against the roof just above them.
Bronson entered the office, and Natalie collared him at once. “You underhanded slime bucket. You told me not to tamper with the evidence. That’s because you had already done so yourself. You switched the access codes over to Stephanie Williams.”
“Yeah,” he conceded. “I couldn’t have you interfering with what I’d already set up.”
She heard car horns bleating between clusters of firecrackers. Hundreds of pro-independence taxis had closed off the perimeter of the compound, now in hopes of a successful UN vote for Taiwan membership. Just inside the provisional barbed-wire restraints, U.S. Marines stood battle-ready with their rifles drawn and bayonets fixed.
“Let’s just hope the president accepts our evidence.” She glared at him. “Thanks to you, we have nothing to show for it but hearsay tidbits of conversation.”
“Flimsy evidence at best,” Bronson conceded.
“And one very rich general strutting around China.”
“Now that’s the kind of man I can trust.”
She contemplated what AIT would tell the journalists and demonstrators outside the gates of the institute. Voting against their membership at the UN would deal a deathblow to their aspirations of independence, but there were grave consequences to a yes vote.
Recognizing Taiwan would virtually sever American business ties with China. Companies would go under. Hundreds of thousands of Americans would lose their jobs. It would spell the end of détente and ring the death knell for economic and political reform in China.
“It’s the president,” Bronson’s secretary whispered.
A presidential seal with the bald eagle appeared on the screen.
A stentorian voice intoned, “The President of the United States.”
The picture dissolved to a ruddy face known around the globe.
“My fellow Americans,” the president began.
Natalie dropped her head and covered her ears. “I don’t want to hear this.”
She listened to the roar of blood coursing through her veins.
Then she began to detect uneasiness in the room.
She looked up. Her husband was frowning.
“We’re honoring our defense commitments to Taiwan,” he whispered.
She sat up and listened.
“However,” the president continued, “through the extraordinary work of our diplomatic service, I have determined beyond any shadow of a doubt that the People’s Republic of China was not
in any way, shape or form responsible for the catastrophe on the island of Taiwan. Nor do they intend to invade Taiwan.”
She clutched her husband’s hand.
“Therefore, I see no reason whatsoever to modify our recognition of the People’s Republic of China or to modify any condition of our joint communiqués. We will retain all close and official ties with the People’s Republic of China.”
She closed their eyes and strained to hear the final words over the cheers in the room.
“Our nation must, with heartfelt concern, continue to assist Taiwan in her efforts to rebuild after this natural disaster that is costly in so many ways. We also request that all nations of the world unite in this enormous humanitarian effort. Thank you and good night.”
The picture returned to the presidential seal.
She glanced out Bronson’s window. As if by the final wave of a baton, the taxi horns and firecrackers had stopped.
President Charles Damon stormed back into his office wiping powder off his nose and forehead. He flung a tissue across the room and kicked a blue globe off its base.
“Shouldn’t you be relieved, sir?” Park Bunker, his secretary of defense, asked. “The Chinese aren’t as bad as we thought.”
He pounded his fist on his desk. “Hell no. I’m not relieved. In fact I’d rather the Chinese did set off the bomb.”
“How’s that, sir?” Park asked, looking mystified.
“Do you know what this means? Any Joe Terrorist or rogue nation or depraved businessman out there can get hold of these damn nuclear weapons and hold the world hostage.”
He picked up the globe and gently set it back on its stand. Only the West Coast of the United States was damaged.
He continued in a softer tone. “At least we could trust the Chinese not to try anything that craven. But a terrorist would try anything. Do you know how much panic that would cause if the public knew how accessible these weapons were?”
“My job isn’t to quell mass paranoia.”
“Well, as President of the United States, I have a responsibility to maintain social order in this land. I don’t want people jumping off bridges, huddling in their basements, wearing gas masks, or bringing down my administration for that matter.”
“Then what can we do about it?”
“The only thing we possibly can do.” He fell back in his chair.
“What’s that?”
“Suppress any news about a bomb and the real culprits behind this disaster. That’s my final word on the matter. Don’t ever let the public know what really happened this week.”
High above sunny Taipei on stone steps that led to a newly rebuilt shrine, Alec once again found himself looking up May-lin’s long, smooth legs.
“How’s the view?” she asked.
He paused and wiped away the sweat.
“From here,” he said, “the view’s just fine.”
She paused to rest. “Are you getting into my hair again?”
Gasping for air, he followed her up the final few crumbling steps.
Once on level ground, he inadvertently gulped a cloud of incense and fell into a coughing fit. He grasped her by the shoulders and waited for the dizziness to end.
When he finally looked up, he saw concern in her large, brown eyes.
She was as much a mystery as before the storm. Could she ever forgive him for his tryst with Odette?
Perhaps he was just as puzzling to her. Here was a man who still accepted and pursued her despite her role in the earthquake.
When he finally recovered, he smiled at her. They had both helped plant the atomic bomb that caused the disaster. And for that, they shared the blame.
They also shared a secret. They knew who had set it off.
Via telephone that morning, the U.S. Secretary of Energy had bargained with them, and won. The government would not expose their role as long as they did not expose the blast. To maintain social order, names of criminal elements like André Morisot and Johnny Ouyang would never be associated with the disaster.
Alec peered beyond her through the smoke into the ornate, red lacquer room. There he saw moon-shaped prayer blocks on an offering table that brimmed with fruit.
“I’d like to try my luck with the prayer blocks,” he decided.
“You are in the Lovers Temple,” she reminded him. “Be careful what you ask for.”
“Good. It’s the right spot.”
He picked up the worn blocks and hefted them in his hands. If one landed upright and the other face down, it meant a positive response. He formulated a question for the temple god. Would he ever consummate his relationship with May-lin?
He peeked at her out of the corner of his eye. She had found a smoking incense stick and held it above her forehead with both hands together in prayer. She bowed stiffly several times with her eyes squeezed tight. Then she set the stick in the sand of the censer.
Okay. Here he went.
He tossed the prayer blocks onto the concrete floor. They bounced several times and landed face down. The answer was no.
May-lin watched, her eyes wide with alarm.
He picked them up again. “Best two out of three?”
Book Three
Geneva Seduction
Every day brings new challenges,
with new colleagues from around the world.
– Particle physicist at CERN
Chapter 1
Sailboats drifted back and forth across Lake Geneva like unsuspecting ducks in a shooting gallery.
Alec Pierce felt the sun soak into his bronzed shoulders and took in the Alps that cradled the lake. It was a perfect way to escape the cares of his job as an undercover CIA operative. Perhaps he could let out a little more sail.
The first hint of danger came in the form of cold prickles against his back.
He turned around and a blast of rain caught him square in the face. Where had that come from?
He grabbed a rope brace. The lake had turned an ominous gray. Boats scattered across the water as if being chased by a broom.
Then a bank of thunderheads rushed over the Alps.
“Catch all the wind you can,” he shouted back to Omar Naftir, his young Moroccan friend at the helm. “We’ll race the storm back to Geneva.”
Then the hail hit like a truckload of gravel.
Omar was already spinning the wheel. “The hail will shred our sails,” he yelled across the open deck.
Who cared about the sails when the whole vessel was about to overturn? They would be lucky to make it back to port.
“We can’t get stuck in this storm.” Alec shielded his head from the hailstones. “Just let the sails out.”
The wind accelerated as it squeezed between the mountains. The once glassy surface had turned into towering waves. The heavy wooden sloop, the Celeste, wasn’t going anywhere.
“Okay, I’ll let out more sail,” Omar grumbled.
Smart thinking.
Omar released the helm, reached for a stay and unfastened it. He yelped as the rope burned through his fingers.
Nearby the Celeste, Alec saw boats flip over like ducks in a pond.
God help them. The sky was a continuous dark ceiling. So much for an afternoon of unwinding and chatting with Omar, his colleague at the high-energy physics lab where Alec was ostensibly employed.
The Celeste caught a strong gale off the starboard bow. Wind filled her sails and wrestled her onto her side.
Alec winced and leaned over the side for counterweight.
The blast whipped up an enormous wave that scooped out a trough into which the Celeste plunged. When the hull rammed into the water, Omar’s frail body crashed against the cabin door.
“Omar!”
Alec screamed his friend’s name several times, but heard no response. A wall of water broke over him.
Through the spray, the Celeste emerged upright, and a blood-smeared face appeared from the cockpit.
Omar pressed a handkerchief over his nose. “Broke the cabin door.”
The Celeste began to ride the crest of a newly formed wave. Drenched, Alec looked for warning beacons to indicate the shoreline. Their sloop just might beat the storm.
Then he caught a speedboat racing their way.
It was probably some sort of rescue crew.
A hooded figure leaned over the windscreen. A burst of smoke spat from his automatic rifle.
A bullet screamed over Alec’s head.
Holy haircut. “Turn this bucket around.”
“Why?” Omar yelled.
“That’s why.” Alec pointed at their new assailant. Another bullet splintered the wooden mast.
He dropped to his hands and knees and scrambled back toward Omar in the cockpit.
“That’s him,” Omar said, his voice suddenly flat. “That’s Proteus.”
In a moment, the speedboat would upon them.
Alec caught the helm and held it fast. “Take her back into the storm.”
Omar chased after the slithering rope that he had just released.
The bow swung into the gale. The main sail flapped loosely. Water washed into the cabin through the broken door.
Omar hauled on the stay and fastened it tight.
“We need more speed,” Alec shouted, holding the helm fast. “Crank the foresail.”
The young man faced forward, slipped, and reeled on his heels, then commanded his spindly legs toward the prow. At last he reached the sail and began to crank it up. It fluttered at first, then snapped stoutly in the wind.
The speedboat gunned its inboard motor and bobbed hazardously close to the Celeste. The assault rifle pivoted their way.
“Look out,” Alec warned, and dropped to the cockpit floor.
From there he watched Omar slide off the deck. At the last moment, his friend grabbed a chrome support to the railing.
Bullets grazed the deck, chewed up the planks and shot splinters against Omar’s knuckles as he dangled overboard.
The Celeste carved an efficient arc into the oncoming waves. Alec listened to the rhythmic thud of Omar against the wooden hull. Above them, the mast groaned under the weight of wet canvas.
