Beijing Red

by Alex Ryan

  This man was all smiles and wore a tailored suit rather than tactical clothing. From appearances alone, he might have been a Wall Street banker or high-priced London barrister, except for the expensive gray leather cowboy boots—ostrich, Nick guessed, having seen many such boots back home in Texas.

  “Welcome,” the man said with a broad smile. He extended his hand to Nick, who shook it. “I am Gang Jin, the mayor of Underground Beijing. It is my pleasure to meet you.” He reached back and shook Lankford’s hand as well and then opened his arms and his smile broadened. “Ah, the lovely Dazhong. You are even more stunning than I remember from our last meeting.” He took her hand in both of his, bent at the waist, and gently kissed her wrist. “I must admit I am surprised to see you here. Of all the places in the world, this is the last place I imagined running into you. Is there something I can help you with . . . again?”

  Nick realized his mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut.

  “Who did you say you were again?” Lankford said.

  “You may call me Jin. I run the city beneath the city.”

  “You called yourself the mayor?”

  “Yes,” Gang Jin answered. He glanced at the armed men behind him and whispered a command. The sentries lowered their rifles but fanned out in a semicircle behind him. The “mayor” was not completely trusting, it would appear. “Mine is not an elected position like your New York City mayor Bloomberg, but then again, China is not a democracy. Nonetheless, my underground approval rating his quite high . . . or so I’m told,” he said with a chuckle.

  Nick smiled and decided it best not to inform Gang Jin that Mayor Bloomberg’s tenure in New York had ended. Instead, he said, “I appreciate a man who knows the value of a fair reputation.”

  Jin’s eyes brightened at the comment. “What is your name? How is it you find yourself in my city?”

  “Nick,” he said. “Nick Foley, from Texas.”

  “Ah, a real American cowboy. You like my boots? Imported from Texas—Tony Lama.”

  “I’ve been admiring them since you arrived. Ostrich leather?”

  “Very good, Nick Foley. I think I like you,” Jin said, still sizing him up. Nick suspected Jin would happily kill all of them in a heartbeat if the man felt threatened. In many ways, Gang Jin reminded Nick of the Afghani tribal leaders he had met in the Hindu Kush—gracious hosts with secret loyalties and hidden agendas, men who would slit your throat if circumstances did not bend to their needs.

  Jin turned to Lankford. “Who are you?”

  “Lankford. Chet Lankford,” Lankford said and gestured to the sentries. “Who are these guys? Your police?”

  Jin’s smile tightened. “Yes, exactly. The Underground City would be a very dangerous place without the order of law. I’m sure you can appreciate the value of personal safety, Mr. Lankford.”

  Dash subtly stepped in between Gang Jin and Lankford and smiled. “Sorry to interrupt, but you said if I ever needed your help again, well . . .”

  “I remember,” Jin said, shifting his attention to her. “Very unpleasant business that night, if I recall.”

  “I am forever in your debt for what you did for me, but right now, we need your help,” Dash said. Her voice betrayed the urgency of their situation, and Jin’s face became serious.

  “Of course,” he said. “How can I help?”

  “I need to find Chen Qing,” Dash said. “He has done something terrible, and the lives of thousands, maybe tens of thousands, are in danger.”

  “What has your husband done?” he asked, undoubtedly probing whether switching allegiances in the future would benefit him and his enterprise.

  “He’s created a terrible weapon and plans to betray China by selling it to terrorists,” Dash said, her voice hard and even. “We fear he intends to use the weapon against the people of Beijing.”

  Jin’s face was now a mask, his jovial persona gone. He clenched and unclenched his jaw and his eyes narrowed.

  “And you believe he is here, in the Underground City?”

  “Yes.”

  Jin looked the three of them over closely for a moment.

  “Then we must find him,” Jin said finally. “Come with me. I have systems in place that may help us locate him, if he is here in my city,” he said, looking at Dash now. “On the way, you can explain why there are two Americans helping you and not officials from our own government.”

  “Of course,” Dash said. “I will tell you everything, but we must hurry.”

  “We’re the advance party, but rest assured we have back-up. The Snow Leopards are standing by to assist us once we find Qing,” Nick said to Jin.

  “The Snow Leopards? That is impressive. This should be quite a story—one I look forward to hearing.” Jin paused and looked back and forth between Nick and Lankford, “I will not insult you by having my men frisk you like common criminals, but I must insist you give me your weapons.”

  Nick raised a hand to object, but Jin shushed him.

  “You will get them back, I assure you. You will be quite safe while you are with me, but we do not allow weapons in the city center except for members of our security force.”

  Dash put her hand on Nick’s arm. “It’s okay,” she said.

  Nick nodded and then pulled the pistols from his waistband and handed them to Jin, who passed the weapons to one of his men.

  “Jesus,” Lankford hissed, but he forfeited his pistol as well.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Jin said. “Now, please follow me.”

  The three of them followed the mayor, his cowboy boots clicking on the concrete floor. The security detail fanned out and flanked them, and Nick likened the formation to being under the protection of the secret service.

  “Was this part of your plan, Foley?”

  “Not exactly,” Nick snorted. “But adapt and overcome, right?”

  “Awesome,” Lankford huffed.

  Nick glanced at Gang Jin and wondered if the man could be trusted. The mayor of Underground Beijing, in his Armani suit and ostrich-leather boots, was a showman. A flamboyant mafioso. Yet, one does not acquire a position of such power with smiles and kisses. Gang Jin was a criminal and a killer, and Nick would not let himself be fooled into thinking otherwise. The man clearly had a moral compass, but like so many underworld bosses, that compass needle usually skewed in the presence of large sums of money. Nick prayed Chen Qing had not gotten to Gang Jin first, because if he had, they were walking directly into a trap.

  Chapter 37

  Underground City tunnel beneath the China World Trade Center

  1115 hours local

  Qing brushed the dust from his slacks and smoothed his shirt. He had forgotten how filthy the Underground City was. He looked up the ladder and sighed. Deploying the canisters around Beijing had been more time consuming and tiring than he had expected, but so far, everything had proceeded smoothly and without interference from the authorities. He was glad for the manpower and weapons that working with Mok afforded him. With a cadre of hired guns under his command, he could move quickly and confidently through the Underground City. He checked his watch. He had four hours and forty-five minutes to place the remaining three canisters and escape before the countdown ended and the weapon was automatically discharged at a dozen locations around Beijing. Each canister was equipped with a programmable activator device with an integrated cellular modem. If things went wrong and he needed more time, he could delay the release. If events progressed ahead of the timetable, he could activate all the canisters at the push of a button on his phone. He smiled. Death by mobile app.

  He glanced at the burly thugs fanned out around him, rifles gripped and at the ready. He knelt and extracted one canister from his duffle bag, leaving two canisters remaining inside. With each sortie above, he left the bag behind with his borrowed muscle. Three of the five killers had been present in the warehouse to witness his earlier demonstration of the weapon’s capabilities. Despite their caveman intellects, they knew better than to mess with the
metal canisters inside the bag. Still, compulsion got the better of him, and he repeated the same instructions before each departure.

  “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Whatever you do, don’t touch the bag,” he said, and then he began his ascent.

  As he climbed, he adjusted the strap of the large messenger bag on his shoulder. The bolt cutters and metal canister inside were beginning to grow heavy as the day wore on. The trip back would be easier without the canister, but bolt cutters were a necessity. Officially, the Underground City was closed. Every “known” entrance was chained and locked shut by the police to prevent unauthorized access. So far today, he had cut nine locks off of chains. He suspected this gate, which was located between a laundromat and novelty store, would be locked as well. At the top of the ladder, he exited into a short horizontal passage that led to a metal door. This door was locked from the inside. He cut the lock off and unthreaded the chain. He took a long breath and then pushed through the door and stepped out into a recess between the door and an accordion-style metal gate. The gate was locked too. With another quick snip, he was out. He walked briskly to a nearby public restroom, where he retrieved his folded suit jacket from his messenger bag and shrugged it on. He lingered for two minutes, exited, and walked a half block to the China Unicom headquarters building. He strolled into the lobby, walked past reception and the elevator banks, and then entered the men’s restroom. He walked into a stall and shut the door. Qing opened the messenger bag and retrieved the canister and one of the two remaining paper shopping bags he had obtained from an upscale women’s lingerie boutique. He slipped the canister in the bag and checked the control unit settings. Countdown timer running: check. Cellular modem connectivity: check. He cinched the top of the lingerie bag shut using double-sided adhesive tape. Then he exited the stall, washed the grime from his hands in one of the ornate marble sinks, and looked at himself in the mirror and smiled.

  He wondered which picture they would use when they talked about his deeds on the international news. Not even China could keep an event of this magnitude secret from the world. He wondered how much of the truth they would be able to conceal. It would be difficult for the Chinese government to admit that one of their leading military scientists had turned on China. To admit this would be too shameful. They would manufacture a scapegoat to take the blame—the Uyghur dissidents perhaps. That would make an effective cover, especially after Kizilsu.

  Major Li and Commander Zhang will know it was me. The Standing Committee and President Xi will never forget my name.

  With his weapon, China could have ruled the world. But did they laud him for his vision? No. Did they give him the respect and accolades he deserved? No. Their investment in INI was a charade. Their plan had always been to let him do all the hard work and then steal his creation when it was operational. Did they really think he was such a fool? He knew what ALP Capital really was—China’s version of DARPA. He knew where his “venture” seed money really came from. If they thought for a second that he would forfeit the greatest scientific breakthrough of the twenty-first century to Major Li and his brigade of uniformed baboons, then they deserved to suffer.

  He left the washroom and crossed the expansive lobby, nodding politely at the two security guards who paid him little mind. In addition to the uniformed security presence, he was keenly aware of the CCTV cameras recording his every move. No matter, even if Zhang’s men were searching the feeds in real time, he would be back underground and untraceable before they arrived.

  He scanned the lobby and noted the vacant small white leather sofa beside a trio of potted plants. Qing walked to this sofa and sat, placing both his bags on the floor by his feet. He glanced around the lobby, and when he was certain the security guards were not watching, he used his right heel to slide the lingerie bag underneath the accent table between the sofa and the plants. The bag would be hard to see beneath the table and would be partially occluded by the three planters. Next he retrieved his mobile phone, sat with his legs crossed, and made a show of checking his voicemail messages and e-mail. When four minutes had elapsed, he stood, slung the messenger bag over his shoulder, and pretended to make a call on his phone as he exited the lobby.

  He walked briskly back to the little unmarked door tucked between the novelty store and the laundromat. A minute later, he was back on the ladder heading down into the Underground City.

  He stepped off the bottom ladder rung onto the concrete floor. He glanced at the ground and was pleased to see that the duffle bag lay undisturbed, exactly as he had left it. He picked it up, stuffed the messenger bag inside, and slung it over his shoulders. Without a word or a glance, his bodyguards followed him over to the 112cc motocross bikes that Mok the Broker had provided to expedite their underground travel.

  He climbed onto one of the bikes, started the engine, and checked the countdown timer.

  Still on schedule.

  Ten down . . . two to go.

  Chapter 38

  City Hall, the Underground City

  1145 hours local

  Nick breathed a sigh of relief.

  This was not a trap. Not a setup. Gang Jin had not duped them, nor was he handing them over to Chen Qing so that he could infect them with nanobots that would dissolve their flesh from the inside out. No, this was something else entirely—something Nick could not have imagined in his wildest dreams.

  This was déjà vu.

  As he surveyed Gang Jin’s “city center,” he noticed the room was not unlike an overseas military TOC—a tactical operations center. Instead of plywood desks fashioned by Seabees, Jin’s workstations were industrial metal tables with Formica tops. Instead of real-time drone and satellite imagery of the sprawling desert, here he saw CCTV feeds of underground passages and cavernous rooms. Half a dozen workstations—each with its own computer, flat-screen monitor, and phone—formed a half oval. The half oval faced a large flat-screen TV monitor mounted on the far wall, the screen divided into eight squares—four to a row—displaying different feeds.

  “Welcome to our security operations center,” Jin said, gesturing broadly at the busy room. The room was modestly equipped if judged by Pentagon standards but compared comfortably to the downrange TOCs Nick was accustomed to with the teams. The six black-clad “security professionals” kept focus on their tasks despite the new arrivals. Two other technicians, a man and a woman, stood in the far left corner, drinking coffee. The whole thing was surreal—almost more like a police or military operation than a criminal enterprise.

  “I’m impressed,” Lankford said from beside Nick as he scanned around the room. “The Beijing authorities don’t bother you down here?”

  Jin laughed.

  “Why would they?” he asked. “We pay our taxes and fees to local government officials like any other business enterprise.”

  Nick smiled and nodded with an epiphany: Bribery was the lifeblood of Beijing. Nothing moved in the city without compensation. With the Underground City, the case for a man like Gang Jin was even more compelling than just the sum total of the tribute he paid. Like it or not, the Underground City existed. No matter how many entrances were closed, no matter how many gates were sealed, the city beneath the city was never going away. Better to have someone to manage it, prevent chaos, and keep any unpleasantness from spilling up. A big revenue stream from a little problem was a much more appealing proposition than a little revenue stream from a big problem. Why not let someone like Jin profit from managing Hades?

  “Let’s get to work,” Jin said. A deadly serious look had replaced his grandiose smile since learning what Qing was up to.

  “Where do we start our search?” Lankford asked.

  Nick looked at Dash. She was not just holding it together; she now seemed to be keeping them all together. His delusion that he would be somehow protecting the demure doctor he had met in Artux had evaporated.

  “My theory is that Qing is using the tunnels to move about undetected as he sets his trap. But knowing my husband, he may
have trouble avoiding a stop at Club Pink.”

  Jin nodded. “Yes, that is his favorite place here in the Underground City. He makes visits there often—at least once a week and sometimes more.”

  Dash’s face clouded and she seemed to bite the inside of her cheek.

  Jin continued: “He also has met occasionally with other businessmen to secure various types of tech. We arrange, but also monitor, all such transactions here in our city.”

  “What kind of tech?”

  Jin shrugged. “We closely monitor dangerous substances that may exchange hands, but other than that, we do not censor activities. We simply monitor the interactions. In any case, it has been some time since any such dealings have occurred in the Underground.”

  “What do you mean?” Lankford asked.

  “Simply that it is not unusual for principles whom we introduce to continue their business dealings up above. We make no efforts to prevent or manage such interactions. I know that he has relationships with both tech dealers and others, but I have no control of information about any dealings above ground. We collect a fee for making introductions, and we arrange—also for a modest fee—for safe and secure meetings in our many meeting areas here, but these relationships often grow and continue outside my jurisdiction.”

  “How do we find him?” Nick asked. The backstory was interesting, and it might be useful in building a legal case against Qing, but this was not the priority. All that mattered was finding Qing before he could set his plan in motion. As far as Nick was concerned, the only trial Qing would get was Underground justice. Either they would kill Qing, or he would kill them, and if it turned out to be the latter, then tens of thousands of innocents would perish with them.

  Jin motioned for them to the right side of the room.

  “We monitor and record activities at dozens of locations within the Underground City,” Jin said and gestured to an empty workstation near the wall. He snapped his fingers and gestured to one of the men by the wall, who set down his coffee and hustled over. “Mostly these are in areas where more remote tunnel systems converge on our retail spaces, so unfortunately, if he is staying in the periphery of the underground, our cameras will not see him. We also can do targeted searches with facial recognition—inexpensive but reliable software similar to that used by your intelligence agencies. However, unlike the CIA, we have a much smaller database to search. Anyone who is admitted with regularity to the Underground City is recorded in our database, and we build profiles on them.”