Beijing Red

by Alex Ryan

“Put the pieces in here,” he said. “I will fix it for you.”

  “No, Nick. It is destroyed.”

  “Nah,” he said with a cocky little grin. “That’s just plain-old broken. In my world, the word destroyed has a different definition.”

  “Well, it looks destroyed to me,” she said, placing her cupped hands over the open bag and letting the pieces fall inside.

  “Trust me. Destroying things used to be my profession. It’s not destroyed.”

  “If you say so,” she said, unable to suppress a smile at his foolish optimism. “But I still don’t see the point of this.”

  “Maybe when things calm down a bit, I’ll see if I can put Humpty back together again.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought you were a professional destroyer of things.”

  “Yeah, well, that was my old job. Now I’m a professional fixer of things.”

  She laughed and felt a little flutter of hope that maybe he could make good on the promise. After all, he’d made good on all the others. Side by side, on hands and knees, they scoured the floor for every last shard of the puzzle box. When they had finished gathering them, he helped her to her feet.

  They looked at each other expectantly.

  “Zhang’s men should be ready to move us out of here any minute,” Nick said, hooking his thumbs in his cargo pant belt loops, “so if there’s anything else you want to grab—some clothes, toothbrush, clean underwear—you might want to do that now.”

  “As you can see,” she said, gesturing to the wardrobe carnage all around them. “My choices are limited.”

  “Good point,” he said. “In that case, we could look around for clues. Something Qing might have accidentally left behind or overlooked—anything that might give us an idea as to his next move or possible whereabouts.”

  “What is whereabouts?” she asked. “I don’t know this word.”

  “It means location,” he said.

  “And what is Humpty?”

  “What?” he said.

  “Before, you said the word Humpty, when you were talking about my puzzle box.”

  “Ah yes, I suppose I did,” he said, chuckling. “Humpty is an egg.”

  “An egg?”

  “Yeah, but not a real egg,” he said. “It’s an English nursery rhyme: ‘Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king’s horses, and all the king’s men, couldn’t put Humpty together again.’”

  “This does not make sense, Nick. Why would the king try to use horses to fix a broken egg?”

  “I know,” he laughed. “It’s absurd, but like all children’s rhymes, there is another meaning.”

  “What does it mean, this story of Humpty Dumpty?”

  “Supposedly, Humpty Dumpty was the name of a cannon used to defend a walled city in England back in the 1600s. It’s said the cannon was loved and revered by the city’s soldiers and residents because it had such an excellent service record fending off invaders. Then one day, the city fell under siege. During the attack, a parliamentary cannon shot the wall out beneath Humpty Dumpty. Humpty fell to the ground and broke into pieces. The soldiers tried to repair it, but they were not able to put Humpty back together. They left the cannon abandoned in place.”

  She nodded, thoughtfully. “So the point of the story is that if you want to destroy a cannon, the best way is to use another cannon?”

  “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” he said. “Now that I think about it, the story reminds me of US military policy in Iraq last time I was there. The bean counters in Washington somehow decided it was more economical to disable multimillion-dollar equipment and leave it abandoned in place than to ship the stuff back stateside. Which is completely ridiculous, if you ask me. I can’t believe—”

  “That’s it!” she said, interrupting him. “The interstitial debris. I didn’t understand it before, but now I think I do. It’s Humpty Dumpty.”

  “Okay, now I’m the one who’s confused,” he said. “What are you talking about?”

  She thought a moment about how best to explain the concept to Nick, but then one of the two Snow Leopards came through the door.

  “Time to go, Dr. Chen,” he said politely in Chinese, but there was no doubt in her mind this was not a request.

  “Just a moment, please,” she said. Her mind was reeling and she needed to get back on balance before the germ of her idea evaporated.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Chen, but we must leave now. Come with me, please.”

  “What is it?” Nick asked, his hand on her arm. The Snow Leopard now had her by the other arm, leading her out toward the front door. She felt herself very much pulled in two directions by the two hands on her.

  “Time to go, it seems.”

  “You’ve thought of something, though,” Nick said, excitement in his voice.

  “Yes,” she breathed. “I think so . . . I will tell you on the way.”

  As they approached the foyer, the second Snow Leopard unlocked and opened the front door.

  Then, everything went to hell.

  There was a blinding flash, a deafening pop, and an acrid smell that filled her nostrils. A hand tightened on her arm and pulled her to the floor as gunfire erupted all around her. Someone screamed and something heavy fell on top of her. She realized her eyes were closed, and she forced them open. The next scream was hers as she found herself staring into the dead eyes of the younger of the two Snow Leopards—the right side of his forehead obliterated, brain matter dribbling out and down his cheek. She cocked her head away from the grizzly visage and came cheek to cheek with Nick, who she just now registered was shielding her with his body.

  “Stay on the ground,” he whispered, “no matter what happens.”

  There was a calm certainty in his voice, and in that moment, she trusted him unconditionally.

  As the smoke engulfing them cleared, she saw two men in suits standing an arm’s length away in the foyer. They looked like businessmen except for the submachine guns slung from their shoulders. They were both pointing their weapons at Nick, who was making a big show of holding his hands above his head and getting slowly to his feet.

  “Thank God you’re here,” he said in English. “Do you speak English? I’m Dr. Foley and this is Dr. Dazhong Chen. The men you shot were holding us hostage—they are Snow Leopards. Thank you for rescuing us.”

  Nick was on his feet now and moving slowly toward the closer gunman, who was surveying the carnage around them. The man shifted his gaze to Nick and leaned right to say something to his friend in a language she didn’t understand—Russian, she thought.

  The Russian gripped his machine gun at the ready, but she noticed the barrel had dropped lower now. “You are American?” the Russian said.

  “Is it that obvious?” Nick laughed jovially, while his feet continued to shuffle, inching him closer. “Damn accent always gives it away. I grew up in Texas, but—”

  Midsentence, Nick’s body transformed into a blur of motion. One instant he was a hapless academic, and the next he was holding the first gunman’s rifle in his hands, the strap pulled tight around the Russian man’s throat. The second gunman reacted reflexively, swinging his own weapon around, but he was too slow. There was a horrible burp as tongues of fire leapt from Nick’s machine gun and the Russian’s face exploded in a shower of blood and bone. Nick twisted the rifle in a half circle and jerked hard, snapping the first gunman’s neck. In what seemed like slow motion, she watched in horror as both of the vanquished gunmen crumpled to the floor with the sickening crunch of collapsing bone. Nick looked down at her, and she saw hellfire in his eyes. A heartbeat later, the look disappeared, replaced by the familiar calm, compassionate eyes she had come to know and trust.

  “Are you okay?” he asked and extended a hand to her. At first, the thought of taking the hand of the man who had robotically taken two lives was repulsive. Then the gravity of what had just happened registered with her. Nick had saved her life again.

  She re
ached for him and he pulled her to her feet.

  “What was that?” she stammered.

  “We need to go. Right now,” Nick said, grabbing her forearm and tugging her toward the door. “I’ll explain it to you on the way.”

  “Who were these men?” she asked, her feet still frozen to the floor.

  Nick looked at the dead men at his feet.

  “Russians,” he said. “No friends of ours, that’s for sure.”

  He retrieved a pistol from the thigh holster of one of the dead Snow Leopard commandos and shoved it into the waistband of his pants. He tugged gently on her arm again. “We have to go, Dash. There may be others.”

  She recoiled at the words and then followed him out the door.

  She followed Nick into the stairwell beside the elevator bank. He moved like a soldier now—scanning over the barrel of the submachine gun as they descended.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Away from here,” he said, his voice even and cool.

  At the bottom of the stairwell, Nick ditched the machine gun and untucked his shirt to hide the pistol butt protruding at the small of his back.

  “Walk slowly and calmly,” he whispered, taking her hand. “We exit through the lobby just like nothing happened. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” she said, steeling herself.

  Moments later, they were on the sidewalk outside the building, walking hand in hand. As they walked, Nick coached. “We are just a couple out for a stroll . . . smile and nod . . . I just told you a joke . . . laugh if you can.” To accent the point, he tilted his head back and chuckled. She tried to laugh, but the sound seemed to catch in her throat. They walked three blocks and turned left. A half block later, he abruptly pulled her into the shadows of a short alley between two apartment buildings. He made her crouch behind him while he watched the street for what felt like an eternity.

  Finally, he turned to her and smiled. “Are you okay? Are you injured?”

  She nodded and was angry when she felt tears rim her eyes. She squeezed them away. “I’m okay,” she said, glad to hear certitude in her voice.

  “Good,” he said with a sigh. “Jesus, Dash. That was a close one.”

  “I need to go back to the CDC,” she said, not wasting anytime. With the threat of imminent death now gone, her body was electric with energy from the new insight she had back in the apartment. “I need to go back to the microscopy lab. I need to test a new theory.”

  “Are you crazy? Russian gunmen just killed two of Zhang’s men. Do you still have the phone he gave you? We need to call him immediately,” Nick said.

  “I lost the phone, Nick,” she said, meeting his gaze.

  “Shit,” Nick seethed through clenched teeth.

  She reached out and took his hands in hers. “You have to trust me, Nick. This is important. We can call Zhang from the CDC, but right now we are wasting precious time.”

  “You just figured something out, didn’t you?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Something big?”

  “I think so.”

  “As in, how to stop your husband and save the world big?”

  She met his gaze and nodded once.

  “In that case,” he said, trotting off ahead of her, “what the hell are you waiting for?”

  Chapter 30

  Grandma’s Kitchen restaurant

  One block east of Henghui East First Road

  Chaoyang District

  0300 hours local

  Qing was breathing hard as he crossed the parking lot outside of Grandma’s Kitchen. Despite the cool nighttime air, his skin was dappled with sweat. He was desperately out of shape, and the hurried walk over from Building 16 had proven it. No matter—physical exercise had never been of interest to him. There were too few productive wakeful hours during the day as it was. Why would he squander any portion of that time on exercise? He possessed the most powerful bioweapon on the planet—what did it matter if he couldn’t run five kilometers?

  He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small key ring. The key seemed to shiver, but this was a product of the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Finally, he managed to slip the quivering key into the lock and spin the deadbolt with a click. He removed the key, stepped quickly inside the building, and closed the door behind him. He was standing in the pantry, just off the kitchen. The shelves to his right were full of the foodstuffs needed to prepare the tasteless Western food that the restaurant specialized in. Grandma’s Kitchen catered to Western businessmen and tourists, giving them a convenient outlet to continue stuffing themselves with the familiar garbage they loved instead of the many fine Chinese delicacies Beijing had to offer. It was a travesty, in his opinion. But he hadn’t come for the food. He’d come to access the restaurant’s hidden treasure—a concealed entrance to the Underground City. The entrance existed long before the restaurant occupied the location. He had paid the restaurant manager a hefty bribe for a key to the back door and unfettered, unreported access. At the corner of the long shelf, he grabbed the frame and pulled, and the entire rack slid easily on silent castors away from the wall. Qing slipped behind it and then spun the combination into the old-style padlock on the aged metal door that blended into the wall. Again, his excitement caused his hands to shake, and he made a soft click with his tongue when he had to enter the combination a second time. This time the lock dropped open. He removed it and placed it on the top shelf. Then he carefully pulled the rack back into place as he stepped backward across the threshold of the hidden entry. Once inside the passage, he eased the rusted steel door shut.

  He paused, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the dark. He reached out with his right hand, felt the cinderblock wall, and swept his palm in an arc until he felt the familiar metal box. He flicked the switch and a series of battery-powered, red LED lights illuminated the concrete stairs that stretched out and down before him. He had installed these lights himself after missing a step in the dark, taking a nasty tumble, and nearly breaking his neck. Had he actually broken his neck, he imagined it would have been months before anyone discovered his body. As far as he knew, he was the only person who habitually accessed the Underground City from this entrance.

  He descended slowly, listening for movement in the tunnel below. The air was cool underground, eighteen degrees Celsius year round, but stagnant. It had a faint but pervasive odor that he had come to identify as an amalgam of damp concrete, rodent, and mold. He was not bothered by the smell; in fact, the familiarity soothed his nerves. Down here, he was invisible—immune to Beijing’s CCTV security cameras, surveillance spotters, patrol cars, and do-gooders with camera phones who could identify him. Down here, he was safe from the state police, the Snow Leopards, and the army. Down here, he was a man in control of his own destiny. He was safe. He was comfortable.

  He was a ghost.

  The Underground City was exactly as the name implied—a sprawling subterranean complex spanning eighty-five square kilometers built under the heart of Beijing. The excavation project began in 1969 under Chairman Mao’s direction and was originally designed to accommodate half of Beijing’s then population of six million in the event of a nuclear attack. More than three hundred thousand laborers toiled for a decade, excavating and building a complex web of tunnels, stairwells, ventilation shafts, drinking-water wells, sewage lines, food production and storage nodes, and mixed-use chambers. But the massive project ended during the cold war, incomplete, unutilized, and unknown by the rest of the world. Plans had been entertained by the government in the years leading up to the 2008 Summer Olympics to convert the Underground City into a tourist attraction with shops, restaurants, and bars, but the plans fizzled after the money ran out, leaving the Underground City once again forgotten.

  Forgotten by most, but not all.

  Eighty-five square kilometers of climate-controlled real estate infrastructure in a city as crowded and expensive as Beijing does not go unnoticed. Economics is omnipotent, and arbitrages will alw
ays be exploited. The Underground City was no exception. A vibrant black market economy of illicit commerce and real estate brokering flourished beneath the streets of Beijing. Down below, anything could be had for a price—drugs, sex, weapons, black market tech, and shelter. It was an Underground City in the truest sense, with its own law and leadership. Patrolling gangs who worked for Gang Jin—the Underground City’s “mayor”—kept order, enforced the rules, and collected “taxes.” The money that flowed through the Underground City now was millions more than city planners had dreamed of for legitimate enterprise. This black-market economy was Qing’s ticket to salvation, yet danger still lurked. An unfortunate encounter with a drug addict—or worse, Gang Jin’s enforcers—could delay or even derail him from reaching the critical meeting with a new buyer, and this was one meeting he could not afford to miss. His life depended on it.

  He moved cautiously, but quickly, down the red-lit tunnel at the bottom of the stairs. Soon the lights he installed would end, but by then, his eyes would be much better adapted, and if need be, he could always use his flashlight. As he walked, he remembered the time Dazhong had followed him here—years ago when she was still content with being his wife and not distracted from her marital obligations by professional and other less worthy intrusions. Their sex had been satisfying for him, but far from adventurous. He whispered his fantasies in her ear during their lovemaking to test her appetites, but she had balked. He had soon become a regular at Club Pink—an establishment specifically designed to discretely cater to the desires of wealthy clients, no matter how kinky or bizarre. There was no sexual appetite that could not be curbed in the Underground City—for a price. His own interests were usually more pedestrian and less expensive, but no less devastating to his young wife, who followed him and found him indulging his appetites.

  It had been a disaster. She had run off and nearly been attacked in the process. It had taken years to mend the damage to their marriage. Perhaps it never really had been mended.

  What he would give to drag Dazhong back down here with him now. He imagined her naked, bound, and helpless. He stiffened as he visualized himself dominating and then breaking her. After her punishment was meted, he imagined her loving him as an obedient wife should.