Beijing Red

by Alex Ryan

  A hand on his shoulder triggered an automatic combat response. He spun to face the aggressor, his left hand shooting up to block at the wrist and his right hand recoiling for a hammer fist blow.

  Yvette jerked her hand away, eyes wide with fear and confusion.

  “Sorry,” he grumbled and dropped his hands to his side. “You startled me.”

  “Are you okay, Nick?” asked a worried-looking Bai, who was standing at the Belgian girl’s side.

  Nick found a smile and flashed it at his friends. “Exhausted,” he said. “And hungry.”

  “Me too,” Yvette said. “I’m so hungry, I could eat a goat.”

  “At the place where we’re going, that can be arranged,” Bai said, grinning.

  They all laughed out loud as Bai led the way, crossing the street and walking them in the same direction as the CDC doctor had gone. Nick scanned the street ahead for her, but she was long gone—disappeared into the night.

  Chapter 10

  Dazhong clenched her fists and seethed as she made the trek to the hospital from the hotel. She was furious and exhausted, which is always a terrible combination, because the two emotional states, while incongruous, amplify each other to ill effect. Thirty-six hours straight, she had been in that hospital, working without sleep and waiting for Major Li to share his findings to no avail. An hour ago, a concerned and equally exhausted Commander Zhang had ordered her back to the hotel to get a few hours of sleep. She had objected at first, but he promised to call her the instant Major Li spontaneously transformed into a leader who valued transparency and cooperation with his task force members. They had both laughed punch-drunk at this absurdity, the way one only can at the breaking point of fatigue.

  “Are you sure?” she had said, debating. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to leave.”

  “The hospital and this debacle will still be here in three hours when you wake up, I can promise you that,” he’d said. “Now go, take a nap and clear your head.”

  At that, she’d acquiesced. Secretly, she’d been grateful for his offer and respected him all the more for covering for her. She’d fallen asleep instantly, fully dressed on the hotel bed. But she had not been asleep ten minutes before her mobile phone rang, waking her up. A sheepish Commander Zhang was on other end, reporting that Li had summoned them both to discuss the laboratory findings.

  Typical.

  She reached the south entrance and found Zhang waiting for her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice ripe with ironic apology. “I should have known.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she said. “I appreciated the gesture.”

  Zhang motioned for her to lead the way up the south stairwell, which was still designated as a “clean zone” and thus did not require PPE.

  “Where does Li want to meet?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “The laboratory.”

  “Why not the TOCC?”

  “I assume because he wants to exclude as many people as possible from learning the truth,” he said. “I imagine he’ll only grant access to the two of us.”

  She grunted understanding and looked up the foreboding stairwell. Anger and curiosity were poor substitutes for rest and nourishment, and she wondered how long she would last before collapsing from exhaustion. By the third floor, her legs were jelly, and she questioned whether she could make it to the sixth floor. Maybe she could ask Commander Zhang for a piggyback ride the rest of the way. The thought made her giggle.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Tell me. I could use a good laugh right about now.”

  “Oh, just that my legs are so tired I was contemplating asking you to carry me the rest of the way up,” she said, grinning and glancing over her shoulder to catch his reaction.

  “Rescue carries are part of our unit’s training program. Compared to some of the brutes I’ve carried, I could sling you over my shoulder and not even notice.” He smiled and slapped his right shoulder. “Hop on.”

  “As tempting as it is, I don’t think my husband would approve,” she said with a deflecting chuckle.

  After an awkward beat, he said, “I didn’t realize you were married.”

  The disappointment in his voice was unmistakable, confirming her earlier suspicions. The commander of China’s most elite counterterrorism unit had a crush on her. She couldn’t help but warm at the thought. Zhang was bright, held a powerful position, and was ruggedly handsome. If circumstances were different . . .

  “In my line of work,” she said, “wearing any kind of jewelry, especially diamond wedding rings, is a liability. Rip a suit or a glove inside a hot zone, and it could cost you your life.”

  “Understood,” he said. “Wearing jewelry is prohibited in uniform for similar reasons.”

  “So . . . are you married as well?” she asked, making her tone upbeat and curious.

  “No.”

  “Really? I would have thought women would line up around the block at the opportunity to be Mrs. Snow Leopard Commander.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s tough to have a healthy relationship in my line of work.”

  “Mine too,” she said, matching his intonation.

  Mine too.

  Panting, she finally stepped onto the sixth-floor landing. She glanced at Zhang and was annoyed to see him utterly unaffected by the climb. She couldn’t imagine the level of physical conditioning the Snow Leopards must endure for their profession. The heavy steel door leading to the level-six corridor loomed in front of her; she did not even feign an attempt to open it.

  With a smirk, Zhang reached out and pulled the handle with ease.

  They walked shoulder to shoulder down the corridor to Li’s laboratory. She was relieved to see that the two guards stationed outside the entrance were not the same two guards that Zhang had humiliated the day before. Flaring tempers were the last thing she needed right now.

  “Commander Zhang and Dr. Chen to see Major Li,” Zhang announced, stopping in front of the guards, his voice all business.

  “Yes, sir,” the guard on the right said and then disappeared inside.

  Thirty seconds later, the door opened and the guard reappeared. He waved them inside and they found Major Li waiting, a brown folder tucked under his right arm.

  “Commander Zhang . . . Dr. Chen,” he said as they approached.

  “Major,” they responded in unison, formal and frosty.

  Li led them to a doctor’s office he had commandeered and shut the door behind them. He took a seat behind a metal desk, and they seated themselves across from him. He slid the brown folder across the desktop. Dazhong scooped up the folder and opened it on the desk so that Zhang could read it at the same time. She hadn’t turned past the first page of the report and already her temper was on fire. This document was not the laboratory patient test results; rather, it was the Joint Task Force Kizilsu incident report ready for submittal to the Central National Security Commission. Li had written the entire report without input or feedback from her or Zhang. The audacity of this man apparently had no bounds. She glanced at Zhang and deduced from his clenched-jawed expression that he too was boiling mad inside. Zhang, however, had his gaze fixed squarely on Major Li; the Snow Leopard Commander did not seem to care about the report any longer. Turning her attention back to the folder, she flipped immediately to the section titled “Disease Pathology and Diagnosis.” She did not even finish reading the third sentence before erupting at the army officer seated across the table.

  “Is this some kind of a joke?” she said with such venom that she surprised herself.

  “There is nothing humorous about poison gas, Dr. Chen,” Li said without affectation, knitting his fingers together on the desk.

  “These people did not die from—” She paused and looked down at the file to quote verbatim from the report. “From an ‘exposure to a toxic chemical plume discharged during an industrial accident.’”

>   Li shook his head dismissively. “I’m sorry, Dr. Chen, but data do not lie. Read the laboratory reports. All the proof you need is right there in front of you. Case closed.”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned. I want independent laboratory confirmation of these findings.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Oh yes it is,” she said, getting to her feet. “If I have to draw the blood samples and perform the analyses myself, then that is what I’m going to do.”

  “You cannot take samples because the last two victims expired twenty minutes ago,” Li said. “All the corpses are under my control and are being processed for transport and cremation in accordance with appropriate biohazard protocols.”

  She felt her face flush hot as anger welled up inside her. “This is . . . is . . . completely unacceptable. I’m calling the CDC director. We’ll see what he has to say about this.”

  Li flashed her a wolf’s smile. “Director Wong has already been briefed, and he is in full agreement. I took the liberty of forwarding him an advance copy of the report. All that is needed now is your signature.”

  She took Li’s circumvention like a punch to the gut and felt like she could start hyperventilating at any moment.

  Li ignored her distress and shifted his gaze to Zhang. “Commander Zhang, these findings are relevant to you as well. Because this incident has been deemed an industrial accident, your counterterrorism investigation is now officially closed. I have spoken to Commissar Sun at the People’s Armed Police headquarters in Beijing, and he understands that SLCU involvement in this operation is no longer required.” Li extended an ink pen across the table. “As of this moment, the joint Quick Reaction Task Force is officially dissolved, it’s mission complete. If you could both sign and date the last page of the report . . .”

  Without a word, Zhang snatched the pen from Li’s outstretched hand, flipped to the back of the report, and scribbled an illegible signature and date. He passed the pen to Dazhong. Feeling dazed, she took the pen and signed.

  Zhang stood and faced her. “Dr. Chen,” he said, his voice low and tight, “it appears our work is done here.”

  “Yes,” she said, turning toward the door. “Apparently, Major Li has everything under control.”

  Chapter 11

  Four Seasons Hotel

  Beijing

  2015 hours local

  Maxim Vladimir Polakov pulled back the French cuff of his dress shirt and checked the time on his Omega Constellation watch. He gritted his teeth; he was going to be late. His asset was easily spooked, interpreting any deviation from the plan as an abort signal. “Spooked” was perhaps too kind a word—unpredictable and recalcitrant were more accurate. Polakov had threatened that the next no-show would warrant a stiff consequence, but they both knew this was a hollow threat. Moscow very much wanted what “Prizrak”—the Russian codename for his asset, Ghost—had to offer. Those closest to the Russian president whispered that his interest in the weapon bordered on obsession, and Polakov was one of only a handful of people on earth who understood why. Now that the weapon had transitioned from “theoretical” to “operational,” the Russian president was growing more impatient by the hour. As far as the center was concerned, Kizilsu was an unsanctioned test. The scale of the event had already drawn unwanted attention from the Chinese government, and if the Americans started snooping around . . . govno, he didn’t want to go there. An intervention by either power would be detrimental not only to Polakov’s career but also quite possibly to his tenure on this earth. Prizrak’s antics were jeopardizing everything. He needed to close the deal—and soon.

  The problem was Prizrak. Like so many assets, as the end game drew near, the Chinese scientist decided to change the rules. But the game doesn’t work that way. It never has.

  It never will.

  During their first meeting six years ago, Polakov had instantly recognized the Chinese researcher’s brilliance, but he had also recognized something else. Unlike most scientists, Prizrak oozed ambition and charisma. In his first report to Moscow, Polakov had described the Chinese scientist as a modern-day, Chinese Robert Oppenheimer—a man capable of leading a “Manhattan Project in biotechnology.” It was Polakov who first recognized the potential to weaponize Prizrak’s cancer treatment research. That realization required a paradigm shift, one that the Russian military mind seemed automatically programmed to perform. He had not shared his insight with Prizrak in the beginning; that would have been a mistake. First, he’d needed to understand the man. Second, he’d had to establish trust.

  Polakov spent the first six months of the recruitment developing a psychological profile of the military scientist. Prizrak was a charismatic egoist with eclectic tastes. Like many egoists, the man was acutely socially aware, but sometimes to a fault—his perceptions often bordering on paranoia. He was quick-witted and outgoing but emotionally shallow and insecure. He demonstrated great professional focus but was prone to interpersonal distractions and infatuations. By understanding the man’s contradictory traits—exploiting some and mollifying others—Polakov had been able to mold Prizrak into the rising star he was today. But now, with Prizrak’s increasingly unpredictable behavior, Polakov felt his grip over his asset slipping. He suspected that once this mission was complete and the weapon was safely in the hands of the Russian military, he would be forced to eliminate his prized asset. He would hate to do it. Prizrak’s contribution would be legendary—a gift that would shift the global balance of military power and return Russia to its rightful place as the world’s dominant superpower. Also, he would miss his trips to Beijing, a city full of pleasures and excesses he had very much come to enjoy on the Center’s tab.

  As his heels clicked against the polished marble floor of the Beijing Four Seasons’ hotel lobby, an ironic smile spread across his face. The city had changed so much over the years, becoming a decadent caricature of the very Western excesses that the Chinese Communist government claimed to detest. Communism was intended for the common people, not the ruling class. Nowhere was this more evident than in the capital.

  He strolled up to the sleek, modern reception desk. Behind it hung an immense modern painting, which to him looked like nothing but ink splashed across canvas. Two very attractive Chinese women stood straight-backed and smiling. He placed his hands on the counter and smiled back.

  “How may I help you, sir?” the taller of the two girls asked in English.

  “Any messages left for me?” he asked in fluent Chinese. “My name is Andrej Sablic.”

  No messages were waiting for him; no messages ever were. He used the time while the receptionist flipped through the message box to casually scan the lobby for any ticks that may have followed him inside. He did not recognize a soul. His countersurveillance efforts had taken nearly two hours, with five cover stops and multiple car changes to be certain he had lost his MSS—Ministry of State Security—surveillance team. Their presence was more of a nuisance than a concern. He was good at his job. All the years he’d been operating in China, he had never been observed together with Prizrak. He knew this because even now, he did not rate anything more than a junior, two-man surveillance team. Some nights, he wasn’t followed at all. Ministry surveillance was standard fare for foreign businessmen of his supposed stature as well as for diplomats; careful countersurveillance was the price of being a spy. If he grew complacent and sloppy and happened to be spotted with Prizrak, he would be flagged by the MSS and everything would change. He could not afford to make that mistake.

  Ever.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the girl said finally. “I have no message for you.” She looked distressed to have failed him.

  “No matter, my dear,” he said with a smile. “All is well.”

  Polakov turned and walked away. He was tempted to skip his last counter-surveillance move, but caution trumped laziness. So he rode the Four Seasons lobby elevator, with its opulent bronze doors and a marble floor, to the fifth floor and disembarked. He turned lef
t, strode quickly to the end of the hall, and then took the stairs back down to the ground floor. The stairwell emptied around the corner from the hostess stand into the Italian fine-dining restaurant Mio, conveniently out of sight from the elevator and the main entrance.

  “Good evening, Mr. Sablic,” a tuxedoed man said from behind a young woman in an impossibly tight black dress. “You are dining with us tonight?”

  “Of course,” he answered. In Beijing, he was always Andrej Sablic, a business tycoon from Croatia’s emerging economy.

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman said from her computer. “I don’t see a reservation under Sablic.”

  “Nonsense,” the maître d’ said with a harsh glance that made the girl blush. “I will take you to your usual table, Mr. Sablic.”

  Polakov smiled at the girl and then followed the man through neatly arranged rows of four-top tables surrounded by low-back, circular cherrywood chairs. Everything about the restaurant screamed of wealth. From the wood-paneled walls and glimmering tapestries to the spherical architectural lighting between ornate dining tables—the balance and beauty of the space rivaled any restaurant he’d visited in all his years of travel. The sharp click of the maître d’s heels on the white-and-black checkered marble floor caught his attention and he imperceptibly matched stride with the man. They walked to the very last table on the right, just off the corner of the bar. Adjacent to the table was a pair of leather club chairs separated by a cocktail table. In the rightmost chair sat a middle-aged Chinese man with graying temples and a finely tailored suit, talking on his mobile phone.

  Polakov smiled tightly.

  “Here you are, Mr. Sablic.”

  “Thank you,” Polakov said. He sat in the chair with a view of the dining room, placing him back to back with Prizrak, seated in the club chair behind him. Three meters away, two Western businessmen sat on barstools, sipping cocktails and engaging in separate conversations on their cell phones.