by Jinkang Wang
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 Wang Jinkang
Translation copyright © 2016 Jeremy Tiang
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as 四级恐慌 by Wang Jinkang in China in 2014. Translated from Mandarin by Jeremy Tiang. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2016.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781503942059
ISBN-10: 1503942058
Cover design by Rex Bonomelli
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE THE ULTIMATE VIRUS
CHAPTER TWO AMERICAN MISFORTUNE
CHAPTER THREE THE PLAGUE SOURCE
CHAPTER FOUR SENTENCING
CHAPTER FIVE NEW LIFE
CHAPTER SIX NEXT TARGET: TOKYO
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
CHAPTER ONE
THE ULTIMATE VIRUS
September 1997—New Siberia, Russia
Kolya Stebushkin finished early that afternoon, and as usual headed to a little bar near his apartment to drown his sorrows in vodka. He worked at the State Research Center of Virology and Biotechnology, also known as the Vector Institute, which was still in a state of partial paralysis after the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Once superstars of the scientific world, its employees were now scarcely better off than beggars. The bulk of the tech staff had gone abroad for better opportunities, or else to the more European cities like Moscow or St. Petersburg, where conditions weren’t as bad. Stebushkin had stayed behind, but his wife and their two kids were gone. In the six months since Natasha’s departure, he’d sought comfort in the bottle, but his scientist’s training kept a part of his mind permanently unclouded, so the pain never really left him. Director Chaadayeva, kind as always, advised, “Kolya, look on the bright side. Luckily Natasha went to Moscow. If she’d ended up in Kiev or Minsk, she’d have turned into a foreigner overnight!”
That only made it worse. For people of his generation, everything had been smashed—family, life, ideals, ambitions—and could never be put back together again.
When he was almost to the bar, he saw a woman up ahead. Even from the back she was very attractive, her body swaying lightly as she walked. She wore trousers and a jacket the color of rice, her glossy black hair falling over the collar. It was early fall, and her clothes didn’t look warm enough for Novosibirsk. She obviously didn’t speak Russian, and was asking someone for directions, a plump old lady who studied the note in her hand and gestured that she should keep walking. As she turned, Stebushkin could study her profile—a silver-gray turtleneck tight against high breasts. She was twenty-six or -seven, Asian with delicate features. Stebushkin guessed she was Chinese. They weren’t far from Xinjiang here, and it had become common to see people from western China on the streets of Novosibirsk—mostly profiteers. Of course, this woman was evidently no wheeler-dealer, but more likely a highly educated intellectual.
Several young skinheads brushed past Stebushkin, heading toward the woman. In an instant, they’d surrounded her, five switchblades waving before her eyes. Prey. A tall guy, presumably the leader, demanded in English that she hand over all her valuables. Stebushkin hesitated, uncertain whether he ought to step forward, a knight in shining armor.
The street was empty. The old lady lingered a moment, but finally shook her head and departed—she didn’t dare provoke this gang. Stebushkin stayed put. As a gentleman, he could hardly stand by and watch as a woman was mistreated, but it would be risky to barge in. The skinheads weren’t a political group, just a motley gang of racist hooligans. The targets of their violence were mainly people of color, but they were equally happy to raise their knives against anyone else who got in their way. The Chinese woman they now surrounded appeared calm and docile, frowning as she followed their instructions to take out her wallet. Just as she was about to fling the money to them, the leader snatched the whole thing. She called out in English, “Please leave my passport!”
The tall guy pulled out all the cash, then tossed the wallet and passport back to her. Stebushkin decided not to interfere. Giving up some money to avert disaster seemed reasonable, and they probably wouldn’t have gotten that much anyway. The Chinese had a bad reputation here and were known for their scams, like trading fake goose-down coats and alcohol for genuine high-quality Russian fur and leather. They’d also brought over another bad habit from China—they’d use cash to smooth over any difficulties. The Russian police quickly learned to expect bribes from everyone, but especially from the Chinese. When they stopped a Chinese person on the street, they’d stretch out a hand for his or her wallet, without so much as an excuse. The police would always leave their victims enough to get a taxi home, though, which was more than the skinheads did. Most Chinese now knew not to carry too much cash on them.
These thugs, though, didn’t stop with the money. The leader looked her up and down, then grinned. “You’re a pretty girl. Wanna have some fun with us?” Knowing she wouldn’t understand Russian, he repeated himself in English. The other four gang members laughed, and slowly closed in, until the woman was backed into a corner, screaming furiously in English, “Stop it! What do you think you’re doing? I’m calling the police!”
The police were no threat to these guys. They pressed forward, wedging the woman in so she could no longer move. Stebushkin sighed; he’d have to step in now, never mind the risk. He wasn’t about to let a foreign woman get raped on a Russian street. Dashing toward them, he yelled, “Freeze! Don’t move!”
The five thugs had no intention of stopping. They glanced at him, and two of them peeled off casually to block his way. Seeing his scrawny frame and several days’ growth of beard, they pegged him for a down-on-his-luck nerd, hardly worth taking seriously. They simply waved their blades threateningly, forcing him to stop. Meanwhile, the other three kept their knives on the woman, and were ordering her to take off her clothes. Watching this bunch of bastards, Stebushkin felt himself fill with rage. Was Russia doomed to become the realm of scum like this? He steeled himself. He would stop them, even if he got stabbed in the process. He wasn’t just protecting this woman, he was defending the honor of the Russian people. But at this moment, the woman underwent an abrupt change. Her face, which had maintained a cool dignity, a plum blossom in snow, suddenly brightened with a seductive smile, as she said languorously, “I thought you just wanted to play? So what’s with the knives? I’d like to sample some Russian studs. Take me somewhere we can be alone.”
Stebushkin was taken aback—was she a hooker after all? She didn’t look the part at all. The leader was the only one of the gang able to speak English, but her sultry smile transcended language. He quickly translated her words, and the others began chuckling, letting their knives fall to their sides. The woman took the initiative again, stepping forward and placing her hands caressingly on the necks of the tall guy and the one next to him, murmuring something in a low voice as she threw a glance at Stebushkin. The next instant Stebushkin heard the dull thud of heads crashing together. The woman shoved the two of them into a third, felling him too. In an instant, the gang of five had been reduced to two stunned individuals, their knives still pointed at Stebushkin, frozen as still as their unconscious friends. They weren’t even panicked, they simply hadn�
��t gotten a handle on this dramatic reversal. The woman’s face was icy, her seductive smile gone. In a cold, hard voice, she said, “I’m Chinese. Want to try my kung fu?”
Her English was fluent, with a precise American accent. Seeing that the storm had suddenly calmed, Stebushkin let out a sigh of relief and admiration for this woman’s resourcefulness and martial arts skill. The last two thugs stood like blocks of wood, unable to understand her, so Stebushkin helpfully translated into Russian. “This lady says she’s from China. If you want to sample her Chinese kung fu, please feel free to go ahead. If not, then scram, and take your loser friends with you.”
Dragging their injured comrades, the remaining hoodlums began scuttling away. The woman called after them, “Hang on, give me my money back!”
Stebushkin walked over and pulled the bundle of notes from the leader’s pocket, handing it to the woman. It was a substantial amount—a few rubles, but mostly Chinese yuan and American dollars. As the thugs beat an inglorious retreat, she put the money back into her wallet and extended her hand to Stebushkin. “Thank you for risking yourself to save me.” She smiled as they shook hands. “You’ve shown me what a real Russian man looks like.”
“No need to thank me, I was just doing what a man ought to do. Those people”—he indicated the departing figures—“are the scum that rises when a country’s in trouble. Don’t think they represent Russia.”
“I know. It’s the same in China. When society opened up after years of repression, the dregs immediately floated to the top—like the lowlifes who turn up here selling counterfeit goods. Don’t think of them as Chinese. When I see Russian shops put up signs—‘Guaranteed no Chinese goods here’—I blush for my country. But never mind them. I really must thank you.”
“What for? I didn’t actually help—it was you who saved me. Your kung fu is excellent.”
She laughed. “I just said that to scare them. The truth is, I spent two years in the States learning tae kwon do—I don’t actually know any kung fu at all.” She caught sight of the crucifix around Stebushkin’s neck. “Perhaps you’re the one I’m looking for? The virologist from the Vector Institute, Kolya Stebushkin, who lives at number thirty-two on this street.”
Stebushkin’s cross was identical to the one around her neck. So the Society had finally caught up with him. With a heavy heart, he nodded.
Stebushkin’s apartment was on the second floor of an old building. Flicking on the lights, he said, “Come in. Don’t bother taking off your coat, the heating doesn’t work.”
The woman looked around. The room was large—about two thousand square feet—and gloomy. The high ceiling made the place feel spacious compared to Chinese apartments. The furniture was adorned with intricate wooden carvings in the Russian style. In the open-plan kitchen, a samovar sat on the counter, and empty bottles were accumulating in the corners. The TV set in the living room appeared to be a black-and-white model. Books were scattered everywhere, and all the furniture was covered with a fine layer of dust. The impression was of a once-upscale Russian household that had fallen into disrepair.
“Coffee or green tea?” Stebushkin asked his visitor.
“Plain water, please. That’s all I usually drink.”
He glanced at her in mild surprise, and filled a glass from the faucet.
“Where are your wife and kids?” she asked. Apparently she knew all about his life.
“We’re divorced. After the country fell apart, she insisted on returning to Moscow, where her parents are.” He smiled bitterly. “The children went with her. She said it was a better environment for them to grow up in, and I agreed.”
The woman cradled her glass and studied him. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Stebushkin waved her apology away. “But why didn’t you go with her?”
“I’m already forty-three, it’s too late for me to learn how to wait tables. Anyway, I didn’t want to abandon my profession—I’ve spent half my life on it, and still believe it’ll be important someday. By the way, I still don’t know your name.”
“My Chinese name is Mei Yin, Cassie Mei in English.”
“You said you were from China earlier, but you sound completely American. I think English must be your first language?”
“I’m an American citizen. I was an orphan in China, originally from Harbin. My parents died of the plague when I was two, and I was adopted by an American couple at age ten. After that, I grew up and went to school in the States. After getting my master’s, I returned to China, and I intend to stay there. Deep in my heart, I’m more Chinese than anything else. My American dad suggested I come back to China, and I wanted that too. I’ve been back nine years now.”
Stebushkin nodded. “I see.”
“You’re right to say your profession will be important. I was in China during the Cultural Revolution, and even as a child, I saw and heard some terrible things. It was as great a calamity as the ending of the Soviet Union, yet China emerged from the wreckage. The Russian people are strong, I’m sure you won’t languish. Novosibirsk might be remote, but it’s still an important center of Russian science. A third of the country’s research strength is here, with world-class scientists like yourself. I can guarantee that new life will be sprouting soon.”
“That’s good of you to say; I’ll sleep easier tonight for your kind words. Now, you’ve come—I assume he asked you to get something for him?”
“Yes.”
“The thing is,” he said frankly, “I haven’t decided yet whether to give it to you. True, I did promise the Godfather, but I regretted it right away. That makes me a coward and a liar, right? I imagine he’ll punish me severely. No one who wears the crucifix has ever dared defy him.”
Mei Yin seemed startled, but quickly regained her calm. “The Godfather leads the Society through farsightedness and force of personality alone. He’d never give out undeserved punishments. It makes me sad that you could say a thing like that.”
Stebushkin blushed. His mood had been low ever since his wife and children left, and his words were often sharper than necessary. He knew it, but couldn’t always control himself.
Mei Yin said gently, “In fact, before I set out, the Godfather said he understood what a difficult position you were in. He knows how hard it will be to make this decision, and the danger you’ll be in afterward. After all, what he wants exists in Atlanta’s CDC, but he has no way to get his hands on it.”
Stebushkin chuckled humorlessly. “Whereas it’s much easier in Russia, where all the systems have fallen apart, and it’s chaos everywhere. As the saying goes, it’s easier to steal fish from muddy waters.”
Mei Yin answered levelly, “Yes, that’s how it is. But our motives are pure and unselfish.”
“I’m willing to believe that. Only . . . as I see it, Gorbachev was also a good person, and his motives were pure, but at the same time he’s the villain responsible for Russia’s downfall. And Western experts who insisted on economic shock therapy for the USSR, not only did they fail to cure the patient, they pushed her into a terminal condition. I believe the Western intellectuals acted from pure motives too, but that doesn’t reduce their guilt.”
Sounding displeased, Mei Yin said, “So you’re saying, our operation is like . . .”
“I’m not saying anything. This isn’t a straightforward comparison. No, what we’re planning is even deeper than dissolving the USSR. This is the will of heaven we’re setting in motion, it’s no exaggeration to call it a wrestling match between humanity and God. I’m just an ordinary person, I’m not fit to judge right from wrong.”
Mei Yin smiled abruptly. “So let’s change the subject. It’s time for dinner—can I trouble you for a meal? Smashing those two skinheads together has given me an appetite.”
Stebushkin smacked his forehead. “How rude of me, I’m sorry—I completely forgot about dinner. I have to admit, after Natasha and the kids left, I’ve hardly ever bothered with a proper evening meal. Just a bottle of vodka at bedtime. Wait a
moment, I’ll rustle something up.”
He went into the open-plan kitchen and got to work. Mei Yin stayed on the sofa, still holding her empty glass and staring into space. She hadn’t expected this resistance. From what the Godfather had told her, Stebushkin had never expressed reluctance. The way he was talking now, she might well be going home empty-handed. But she wouldn’t leave without trying her utmost to fulfill her mission.
Dinner was soon ready, a sumptuous spread by Russian standards: a green salad, smoked ham, carrot soup, potatoes and bread, and, finally, a pot of Indian green tea. During the meal, they deliberately avoided discussing Mei Yin’s purpose in visiting him. Conversation ranged from Russian art and literature, to the history of Siberia, to the difference between the Eastern Orthodox Church and Catholicism.
“For one thing,” Stebushkin replied, “look at all the varieties of crucifixes. The Catholics and Protestants wear a Latin cross, with a longer bottom arm, like the ones we wear. The Orthodox style, otherwise known as the Greek cross, has four arms of equal length.”
“I know that much.”
“Well, there’s also the differences in doctrine, and traditions of thought.”
“Such as?”
“The Orthodox Church is inflexible, it doesn’t accept scientific advancement, nor adapt Christ’s teachings to fit new discoveries. Catholicism, by contrast, has incorporated progress in human thought and science into its beliefs—eventually. I find the Eastern Orthodox Church far too rigid, lacking the ability of the Catholic or Protestant Church to renew itself.” He smiled. “But then I seldom go to church, nor do most of the other scientists at the research center.”
“You’re right, rigidity leads to death. Christianity has accepted science—why hasn’t science turned around and accepted God as well? Modern medicine’s successes might be dazzling, but they can’t shake the foundations of evolution, a path laid out by God four billion years ago.”
After dinner, they returned to the couch, and Mei Yin returned to the point. “Kolya, you know the world’s governments and scientists have urged that this substance be thoroughly destroyed—they fear that if this particular genie gets out of the bottle, no one will ever be able to put it back. But the Godfather has always argued humanity has no right to decide that any species is an enemy, and take away its right to exist in the natural world. The Godfather and many farsighted colleagues have done what they can to thwart calls for extinction from the medical field, but there’s no guarantee they’ll be successful next time. And so—no offense—the chaos of Russia might be our only chance; we’d regret not taking advantage of it.”
