by Alex Ryan
“Yes,” Nick said, forcing himself not to look at Dash. “I’ve been offered a job with my NGO—as director of global operations. I accepted the position, pending the approval of my visa.”
Zhang leaned back in his chair. Now it was his turn to enjoy himself. “We will see what happens with your visa. If you are permitted to stay in China, I will be keeping a very close eye on your activities.”
“I would expect nothing less, Commander,” Nick said.
Then Zhang’s expression went cold. “Know this. If it is determined that you have not been truthful and that you are employed as an agent of a foreign government, you will be held accountable. The punishment for espionage in this country is quite severe, Mr. Foley, and I will not be able to protect you.”
“Understood,” Nick said with a grave and respectful nod.
Zhang stood. “Thank you, Nick Foley—for your selfless service to China. The prime minister considered presenting you with a civilian service award, but I counseled that such an award might cause you problems with your government. Instead, I will give you this.” Zhang extended his right hand and handed Nick an intricately embroidered patch depicting a roaring, white snow leopard, set against a field of blue, above a golden laurel and crossed arms. It was a patch he had seen before, sewed to the uniformed shoulder of every Snow Leopard commando.
Nick accepted the patch, studied the detail, and then shook Zhang’s hand. “Thank you, Commander. It’s been an honor.”
Zhang released his hand and acknowledged Dash with a long glance and a courteous nod. “Dr. Chen, thank you for your courage. If you ever need me, you have my private number.”
“Thank you, Commander Zhang . . . for everything,” she said.
Zhang turned back to Nick. “I will send someone to escort you out of the building.”
Then he turned and left, closing the door behind him. Nick resisted the urge to sweep Dash into his arms. He had no idea how she might react, but now was not the time or the place. It didn’t matter—her eyes reflected his feelings without the embrace.
“What now?” she asked, expectantly.
“Dinner, perhaps?” he said.
“Maybe we should start with coffee,” she said with a coy smile.
“Then coffee it is.”
EPILOGUE
ViaTech Corporate Offices, eighth floor
Xinjuan South Road, Chaoyang District
Nick covered his yawn and then smiled at Lankford across the spook’s cluttered desk.
“Sorry,” he said. “I still haven’t caught up on my sleep.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes you gotta get away from things to decompress.”
Nick laughed. He wasn’t sure how much farther away he could get. The last few days were a blur, but he felt at peace. He had never been one to need time to decompress. It was over. Things were what they were. He was happy with his decisions, no matter how impulsive.
“Getting settled in?” Lankford asked.
“Yeah,” Nick said. “I’ve got some shopping to do yet. The apartment is mighty barren, but I kind of like it that way.”
Lankford smiled and shook his head. Then he slid a blue passport across the desk.
“I got you your visa,” Lankford said.
Nick picked up his passport and flipped it open. The stamps were so fresh, they almost looked wet. “That was quick,” he said, snapping the passport shut. He slipped it into the breast pocket of his Columbia quick-dry shirt. “Bai told me it would take months. I was worried I might have to leave the country and come back.”
Lankford laughed out loud. “Yeah, well, I know a guy.”
Nick laughed too. “I’m sure you do.”
“Sure you don’t want the paycheck? It’s a lot of money, and you earned it,” Lankford said. “There’s more where that came from too, you know.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Nick said, remembering Zhang’s warning. “I’ve got a job.”
“Right, delivering clean water to poor people around the world. You’ll be working in Beijing, right?”
“Right,” Nick said. “Director of operations for the NGO.”
“Director of operations. Excellent,” Lankford said, nodding. He retrieved a glass bottle of amber liquid from the bottom desk drawer.
Nick recognized the distinctive, faceted shape and the pewter horse and rider atop the stopper. “Blanton’s?”
Lankford’s lips curled into a knowing grin. “The man knows his bourbon.”
Nick shrugged. “There was a time . . .”
Lankford set two glasses on his desk.
“No thanks,” Nick said.
Lankford snorted. “Jesus, Foley. What the hell kind of frogman are you, anyway? Have a fucking drink. Toast our success. We saved a lot of lives together. Hell, we might have even saved the world.”
“Ex-frogman, and it’s Dr. Chen who we should be toasting,” Foley corrected.
Lankford smirked and poured two glasses. He slid one to Nick and raised his own. “To the brave and beautiful Dr. Chen.”
“Don’t forget brilliant,” Nick added.
They clinked rock glasses and Nick took a gulp—savoring the burn and the smooth finish that followed.
“Speaking of Dr. Chen,” Lankford said, cradling the rock glass in both hands. “Your new office is close to the CDC, isn’t it?”
Nick nodded and looked at his hands.
“Coincidence?”
Nick shrugged. “We’ll see.”
“You know, we could really use you, Nick,” Lankford said and took a long pull on his own drink. “I don’t want to sound trite, but your country could use you too.”
“I’m not your guy,” Nick said softly but firmly. “I appreciate the offer, though.”
“Oh, you’re our guy all right,” Lankford said. “But I knew you would say that. So here is my counteroffer: How about we give you a small retainer, just while you’re here in China. We can have lunch occasionally, maybe grab a beer from time to time, and if something pops up, I can call you. You would be like a . . . like a consultant.”
Nick had to admit the idea was intriguing. He missed being “in the know.” When he quit the teams, they had cut the intelligence umbilical cord, and it hit him hard. He didn’t like being disconnected from the shadow world; it left him feeling naïve, vulnerable, and anxious. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer—that was the old saying, and over the years he had come to appreciate the meaning. But Lankford’s proposal was the devil’s bargain. There was no such thing as being a part-time spy. Dip your toe in the drink and you’re all wet. Zhang’s warning had been unequivocal. The Chinese would be watching.
And there was Dash . . .
“A retainer sounds a lot like an obligation,” Nick said at last.
“No obligation,” Lankford assured. “I’ll even put it in writing. You keep your finger on the pulse of things and only do more if you’re interested. You can walk away anytime.”
“Anytime, huh?”
Lankford nodded, his face hopeful.
“Is that a yes?”
Nick finished his drink, stood, and shook Lankford’s hand. “That’s an ‘I’ll think about it.’”
“What do you say we grab a beer on Friday?”
“I have plans Friday.”
“In that case, tell Dash I said hello,” Lankford said with a coy smile.
“I will if I see her,” Nick said, couching his reply as he headed for the door.
“You’ll change your mind,” Lankford called after him. “You had a taste and you liked it. You’re like me, Nick. You hate not being in the know.”
“Thanks for expediting my visa. See ya around,” Nick said, closing the door behind him.
He pulled on a ball cap and kept his head down as he left ViaTech. He knew they were watching, but he saw no point in making it easy on them. He arrived home an hour later, after picking up some much-needed groceries for his empty fridge and bare cabinets. His new apartment was a studio, which was all he coul
d afford in the high-priced Beijing real estate market. He surveyed the dirty floor and bare walls and dreaded the thought of cleaning, organizing, and decorating. The apartment could probably use a fresh coat of paint too. He sighed and sat down on his cheap, new sofa in front of his cheap, new coffee table. On the table sat a Ziploc bag full of broken wooden pieces.
He opened the bag and turned it upside down, spilling the contents. Dazhong’s broken puzzle box clattered onto the table, a daunting jumble of wooden levers, slides, and interlocking blocks. Staring at the pieces, he reminded himself that he knew nothing about Chinese puzzle boxes. In fact, this was the first one he’d ever seen, and it was smashed to bits. To rebuild something with this level of complexity would require careful study and patience. He would probably need to consult a craftsman with subject-matter expertise to learn how puzzle boxes operated. He would not be surprised if handmade beauties like this were unique—each one an artist’s snowflake. How does one locate a puzzle-box master craftsman anyway?
He began sorting pieces, grouping them by paint color. Next, he subdivided the broken pieces and shards into clusters that he perceived had once been whole. Satisfied with his piles, he went to the kitchen and fetched a bottle of beer from the fridge and a bottle of wood glue from a box of hardware supplies he had bought. He returned to the sofa, opened both bottles, and began the slow, tedious process of making the broken components whole. As his fingers worked, his mind wandered. Thoughts of Batur, Jamie Lin, Commander Zhang, Lankford, and of course Dash circled around and around in intersecting orbits in his mind. Two hours passed, and instead of growing weary, he found his focus renewed. He was a fixer—a mender of broken things. He had come to China to find purpose, but the irony was that he had never lost it.
He had simply forgotten it.
His life’s mission was simple and clear: go where he was needed most and fix the broken things that others could not.
But he didn’t have to complete his mission alone.
He had found a partner.
And so he would stay in China . . .
Until the day came she ordered him to go.
Read an excerpt from
HONG KONG BLACK
the next
NICK FOLEY THRILLER
by ALEX RYAN
available in hardcover from Crooked Lane Books
NEW YORK
Chapter 1
Beijing, China
1835 local—Day 1
Nick Foley gritted his teeth.
A voice inside his head was whispering for him to give up. This was one mission he simply wasn’t qualified for. A second voice chimed in. “Ring the bell, Foley. You don’t have what it takes,” taunted the ghost of Senior Chief Gunn, Foley’s infamous ball-busting instructor at BUD/S.
Nick wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and picked up the plastic carton of chicken stock—well, he hoped it was chicken stock. His purchase criteria had been based on the little caricature of a chicken in the upper left corner, because he couldn’t read a word of the Chinese Hanzi decorating the carton. He poured a little more of the tawny liquid into the grainy mess that was supposed to be risotto. It was beginning to look like in choosing risotto, for his first ever “home-cooked” dinner date, he had bitten off more than he could chew.
So to speak.
He stirred the fresh liquid into the kernels as he poured. The risotto grains were still rock hard. He cursed under his breath and tried to face the problem head on. This was not how risotto was supposed to look. The question now was whether to add more chicken stock, more white wine, or just keep stirring. If he were cooking for anyone other than Dash—the beautiful and brilliant Dr. Chen Dahzong of the Chinese CDC—then he wouldn’t be freaking out. But this was Dash, the woman who danced in and out of his thoughts countless times a day. He’d curated this first real date in his mind a hundred times, and he wanted it to be perfect.
Now here he was, torpedoed by risotto.
There was a knock on the door. He looked up at the wall clock in a panic; it was still a good half hour before she was supposed to arrive. Of all the times to be early . . .
He covered the risotto pan with a lid and wiped his hands on the dishtowel draped over his shoulder. The raw lamb chops sat unseasoned on the cutting board, and he had forgotten to pre-heat the oven.
Damn it.
He took a deep breath, mustered a smile, and headed for the door.
His smile evaporated immediately when he pulled it open.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. Chet Lankford was the last thing he needed tonight—doubly so since he didn’t want Dash to know he was still in contact with the man.
“Good evening to you, too,” Lankford said and slipped past him and into the living room.
Nick left the door open. He had no intention of letting Lankford stay.
“Nice apartment, Foley,” the CIA’s ranking man in Beijing said, looking around.
“Thanks,” Nick said, his hand still clutching the doorknob. “But you need to go.”
“Is this how you treat all your guests?”
“Seriously, Lankford, dude, get the fuck outta here,” Nick said beckoning Lankford back to the entry. “Please.”
Lankford flashed him an Oscar winning passive-aggressive smile and sat on the sofa.
Nick sighed and shut the door. “You’re timing is terrible.”
“I can see that,” Lankford said glancing at the kitchen. Nick expected a snide follow-on remark, but instead the CIA man sighed. Lankford looked tired. And stressed. “Don’t worry, Nick. I’ll only take a minute.”
Nick nodded. “Alright, now that you’ve made yourself at home, what’s on you mind?”
Instead of answering the question, Lankford’s attention shifted to an ornately painted cube topped with a bow sitting on the coffee table. He picked it up for closer examination. “What is this thing? Some kinda Chinese Rubik’s Cube?”
“It’s called a puzzle box, and it’s none of your business,” Nick said walking over.
“What does it do?” Lankford asked, turning it over in his hands.
“Like I said, it’s a puzzle box—figure out the puzzle and there’s a hidden chamber inside. It’s fragile, so please be careful.”
“The artwork is exquisite. Five elements: metal, water, wood, earth, fire . . . and the balancing forces, yin and yang. Do you mind if I try to solve it?”
“Yes, I do mind, actually,” Nick said, gently commandeering Dash’s rebuilt puzzle box from the CIA man’s clutches and returning it to the coffee table. He was about to sit down beside Lankford, but a sudden fear of ruined risotto drove him running back to the kitchen. Lankford pulled himself off of the couch with a grunt and followed.
Nick removed the lid from the pan and swore.
“Risotto?” Lankford asked.
“Supposed to be.”
“You need more chicken stock,” Lankford said then leaned in and sniffed. “And more white wine. And probably salt.”
“Thanks,” Nick said and poured a little of both into the pan and reached for the salt as he stirred.
“Dr. Chen will love it,” Lankford said coyly.
Nick ignored the probe and raised an eyebrow.
“So, why exactly are you here?”
Lankford put a finger to his lips in the universal hush sign then pointed to the ceiling. Nick nodded. Yes, the Chinese were almost certainly listening. Two months ago, Nick, Dash, and Lankford had teamed up to stop a bioterrorism attack on Beijing, saving the lives of tens of thousands of innocent civilians. In the process, Lankford had been outed as CIA by the head of China’s elite Snow Leopards Counter Terrorism Unit, Commander Zhang. No matter how grateful Zhang might be for Lankford’s help in stopping the attack, Nick knew the odds of Zhang withholding Lankford’s true identity from his superiors were, pretty much, zero.
“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and say hello.”
Nick rolled his eyes.
“
Also, I could use a favor.”
“I’ve told you before, I’m not interested in working for your tech company.”
Lankford smiled.
“Yes, you’ve been quite clear about that, but that’s not why I’m here.”
Nick was about to make a sarcastic reply when his phone chirped. He picked it up and read the text, then slammed the phone onto the counter. “What the hell did you do, Lankford?” he demanded.
The CIA man looked genuinely confused and picked up Nick’s phone to read the SMS:
Nick . . . so sorry but had to fly out for work.
Reschedule? My treat? My apartment?
Call you in a few days or when I can.
—Dash
“I didn’t do this, Nick,” Lankford said, setting the phone down.
“Bullshit,” Nick said and threw his dishtowel in the sink.
“Nick,” Lankford said and grabbed his arm. Nick turned to face him. “Seriously, man. All of our thrust and parry aside, I had nothing to do with this. I like the girl, really. I’d love to see the two of you together.”
Nick sighed, leaned forward, and rested his hands on the kitchen counter. He knew he shouldn’t feel this dejected over a cancelled date, but the buzz kill hit him hard. He exhaled and tried to shut down mental vitriol his subconscious was slinging around.
“She giving you a rain check at her place, Nick,” Lankford said. “Compared to the ambience you’ve got going on here in your Spartan studio—I’m just saying, it can only be a step up.”
Nick shot him a look.
“No offense,” Lankford added.
“Hmm, I suppose you make a good point,” Nick said, cracking a smile.
“It’s what I do.”
“Are you this annoying with all your friends?”
“Pretty much.”
Nick grabbed two beers from the fridge, popped the caps, and handed one to Lankford. Lankford extended the neck of the bottle in a toast, “To Dash and rain checks.”
Nick nodded and they clanked bottles.
After his first swig, Nick said, “So, tell me about this favor you need, Chet?” Suddenly, Nick found himself very curious about what was going on in the CIA man’s world, something he didn’t want to admit to himself and sure as hell wouldn’t admit to Lankford.
