Red Swan

by P. T. Deutermann

  “A left hand told me,” Allender said.

  Carson gave a brief laugh, but there wasn’t much humor in it. Allender was getting some fright vibes from the DDO. “Okay, he’s at Bethesda. He did have a massive stroke. He’s in an induced coma. The prognosis is—poor. That much I can tell you.”

  “So you don’t need me playing any more silly games with the Bureau, then, right?”

  “Actually, I do. You’ll remember that I thought Wallace had been ramping up a swan, and that the director thought it was against Martine Greer.”

  “Yes.”

  “I still think so, but the problem is that none of my CS people know anything about it. I need breathing room to figure that one out, preferably without the interference of the fucking FBI.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t doing any such thing, which is why you can’t figure that one out.”

  McGill paused for a moment. “Let’s just say I have some direct evidence that he was, which I can’t reveal at the moment. What I need you to do is go back to the Hoover Building, focus them on that list of names, and start baffling them with bullshit.”

  “I can do that, but then there’s still the problem of the tissue samples.”

  “I’ll have them there by close of business tomorrow.”

  “How? If he’s not dead.”

  “We’ll simply take some,” McGill said. “It’s not like he’s gonna feel it, is he.”

  While Allender absorbed that little tidbit, McGill got up and helped himself to a coffee from the side table. He then walked over to the window wall and stared out for a moment. “Tell me,” he said. “Have you been in touch with Martine Greer?”

  Allender laughed. “You know I have,” he said. “I think both you and the Chinese embassy have had eyes on me since I came back to ‘active duty.’”

  “You give me too much credit, Preston,” McGill said, sitting back down behind his desk. “I asked if you wanted eyes, remember? You said no. Why’d you go see her?”

  “Because none of this was making sense, and I was beginning to suspect Hank wasn’t dead. She apparently wasn’t comfortable with your story, either, which is why she sicced the Bureau on it.”

  “But you confirmed to her that your role in this was to help the Bureau find out how he died and by whose hand, right?”

  “Yes.” Not actually, he remembered.

  “Good, then we’re still on track,” he said with audible relief. “Do not tell the Bureau what you now know. I promise not to lead you down any more garden paths. And no more sleuthing on your part, okay? Let the Buroids do that. You just be ‘helpful.’ When you get home tonight, think about other things. Better for everyone if that’s how you play it. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Allender echoed, suddenly tired of hearing that word. McGill had picked up the memo again. Realizing that that was the DDO’s signal that the office call was over, he left the office, thinking he ought to go get the word “pawn” tattooed on his forehead. He decided he’d had enough “fun” for one day. Time to go home.

  Then he had another thought as he headed for the elevators. McGill wasn’t the only Agency actor in this little charade. Maybe he could get Rebecca Lansing to come out to his house for a drink and, just possibly, find out how much she really knew.

  * * *

  Rebecca arrived by taxi at 6:00 P.M. Allender had called her at the office and asked her to come by for a drink if she was free. She wore dark slacks, an emerald-green silk blouse that complemented her eyes, and the expression of someone who’s anxious to end the working day. He took her into the tower study, where she admired the spectacular display of exotic veneers. She said yes to a Scotch, on the rocks with no additional water. He was still in his business suit, minus the jacket.

  “So this is what you’ve been doing since leaving the Agency,” she said. “They’re gorgeous. I had no idea there were so many different kinds of wood.”

  “It’s been a lifelong interest,” he replied. “My father got me hooked when we lived in Taiwan. We spent twelve years there, which is where I semi-mastered Mandarin. Would you mind if I took these glasses off? They’re heavyish, and I usually don’t wear them at home.”

  “By all means,” she said, but she still blinked when he did it. “I’ll try not to stare, but that’s just—wow.”

  He smiled, which he hoped would dim the amber just a little bit. “I researched this phenomenon while in med school,” he said. “No one could explain it, but amber eyes, although rare, do exist. It’s caused by heavy melanin in the front of the iris and pheomelanin in the back. Mine, however, are apparently somewhat unique.”

  “I’ll say,” she said. “Yours appear to be backlighted. Was your mother Asian?”

  “Chinese, yes.”

  “Because that was my first impression—an Asian wolf. But still…”

  “Have you been to China?”

  “I went there once on a tour. There’s a zoo in Beijing, which is where I saw a maned wolf with the yellow eyes. Scary monster, that one. Have you been to Beijing?”

  They talked about China and the director’s obsession with the inevitable victory of China over the West for a few minutes. Then she asked how his visit to Capitol Hill had gone.

  He started to tell her but then decided against it. I need to know more, he thought. A lot more. Besides, my remit is to keep the Bureau going in circles.

  “Not useful, I’m afraid,” he said. “But I did get some help from Mister McGill on the tissue samples. Your team should have them by COB tomorrow, at the latest.”

  “Well, that’s progress,” she said.

  “And there’s also a list of names of people who got sideways with Hank Wallace,” he said. “In fact, it should be available in my secure e-mail. Give me a moment.”

  He went over to the Agency computer console and held reveille on his e-mail. As promised, there was the list. He printed it out and handed it to Lansing. “In my opinion,” he said, “It’s not likely that any of these people would be up to homicide over an old grudge or professional slight. But…”

  “Yes, indeed,” she said, scanning the list. “Always the ‘but.’ People brood sometimes, and then act out in the most surprising ways. This will help. I’ll get the tissue samples into the Bureau’s forensic lab. They’ve got a poison expert there who’s pretty damned good.”

  “You think poison?”

  “The fact that whoever did the autopsy found absolutely nothing often suggests poison or maybe a chem-bio weapon of some kind. Or something simpler: like an injection of potassium chloride solution into a vein, for instance. That would stop the heart. When death occurs in humans, all the body’s cells release minute bits of potassium chloride, flooding the circulatory system, and thereby masking the substance that killed him.”

  “Sounds like you know a thing or two about poisons,” he said.

  “Got an amazing tour of the Bureau’s lab when I was sent over. That’s where I learned that little tidbit.”

  He nodded. “You know what we call our own forensics lab in the Agency, don’t you?”

  She smiled. “I do indeed,” she replied. “Let me ask you a question. This list doesn’t have General Chiang’s name on it. Do you think it’s possible that his family might try to exact some kind of revenge on Wallace? Or you, for that matter?”

  “All the way from China?”

  She shrugged. “The word in Company circles was that a lot of people besides Chiang went down after the swan, both here and back in China. You might think about your own security, given that some unknown Chinese entity may have dispatched Mister Wallace.”

  Allender instantly thought about Yang Yi’s not-so-subtle suggestion that he might be looking for something in a foolish way. It was strange that she would bring such a thing up, until he remembered that she worked out of the director’s office, or Hingham’s stable, as it was called. She would be privy to things that lesser lights at Langley would not. For now, however, he decided that she didn’t know any more than he did, so he finis
hed his Scotch. She finished her drink and then stood up. “Thank you for the drink and your time. I look forward to working with you.”

  He stood up as well. “Do you mind if I don’t come in until midmorning?” he asked.

  “God, no,” she said. “That gives me time to get the day going without—um.”

  “Without having to babysit the visiting high pooh-bah from Langley, right?”

  She grinned. “‘Babysit’ is probably not the right word, but when you do come in, I hope to know where we stand, or at least where we think we stand.”

  He nodded. “I think there’s more to this case than you know. For that matter, than I know. I promise you this: If I think that people in high places are screwing around in the serious-shit arena, I will warn you. Being on the director’s personal staff has its perks, I’m sure, Rebecca, but if things go wrong, proximity doesn’t necessarily mean safety.”

  Her face became serious. “Likewise,” she said. “And thank you again. Which way to the Metro?”

  After she’d left, he poured himself a refill. Now, that was interesting, he thought. He wondered if McGill had somehow entangled the “unlisted” spook in the Hoover Building into whatever he was up to. He headed out to the kitchen to see if he could heat up some leftovers in the microwave without making a mess.

  After dinner he spent time online researching some red bamboo specimens and then decided to turn in. He made sure the doors were locked and then set the house alarm at the kitchen panel. He kept a five-shot Judge encased in one of the sturdy bedposts of his antique four-poster bedstead. It could fire either .410 shotgun game load or .45 Long Colt ball ammo. He’d opted for the shot shell. A few years back someone had tried to break in and the alarm had duly gone off. It had been so loud he’d been totally disoriented by the overwhelming noise and had barely been able to get the gun out, and by then the crook had fled. After that fiasco he’d had a moonlighting Agency tech come out and replace that feature with a set of small cameras in each major room, mounted directly across from motion-detector beads. If someone got in, Allender would be awakened by a soft but insistent chime from the headboard of his bed. The flat-screen TV in the bedroom would come on and show what was going on, and where. The system itself called 911, and the crook wouldn’t know he’d even been detected until blue strobe lights lit up the front and back of the house. His personal action plan was simple: Get up, drop the steel bar across the bedroom door, get back in bed with the Judge handy, and await the cavalry.

  It was two in the morning when all of that failed him. He awoke to the room’s overhead light coming on to reveal three Chinese men standing at the foot of his bed. Two of them looked like army types: short, squat, powerfully built, and as stone-faced as temple dragons. They just stood there, five feet apart, totally balanced, arms at their sides, fingers curled in fighting readiness. The third man was different: younger, with a chiseled face, a prominent nose, and icy black eyes, and thin as a refugee who hadn’t eaten in a long time. He looked vaguely familiar and he spoke in standard Mandarin.

  “You are Doctor Allender of the CIA?” he asked in a high, angry voice.

  “I am Doctor Allender, but no longer of the CIA. I have not worked there for some time. Who are you, and what do you want?”

  One of the security types reached into his pocket and then threw something that hit Allender on the left temple hard enough to make him see stars and roll sideways. As he tried to sit back up he could feel a wetness on the left side of his forehead. He put up a hand, which came away red.

  “Do not speak to me in that tone again,” the younger man said as he advanced to the side of the bed and stood over Allender like a cocked pistol. “I will ask the questions. You will answer them.”

  Allender said nothing, realizing that he was having trouble getting his eyes to focus. Waves of pain began to engulf his head.

  “Are you the same Doctor Allender who masterminded the plot against General Chiang Liang-fu which led to his execution?”

  That’s who this is, Allender finally realized. Chiang’s son or son-in-law. He remembered him from the restaurant in Williamsburg. Younger-faced then, and softer, more prosperous-looking. “I am,” he said.

  The younger man nodded his head one millimeter, and then slapped Allender so hard that he went unconscious for a moment. When he opened his eyes, Chiang’s son was leaning over him, his face six inches away, close enough that Allender could smell his rancid breath. There was something glinting in the air between them. Allender focused and saw a hudiedow, a two-foot-long antique Chinese fighting knife, being held right in front of his face.

  “I am Chiang We-tao, first son of Chiang Liang-fu,” the young man hissed. “As a result of your trickery, my father was taken back to Beijing and put in prison. He was court-martialed and then taken to the execution square at Ham Dong military prison. There they stripped him naked and then shot him in the kidneys with hollow-point bullets. They then used one of these”—he rotated the knife back and forth so that the blade reflected bright light into Allender’s eyes—“to open his intestines onto the concrete. Then they left him there, to die in agony. For three hours he writhed on the concrete, mewing like a kitten. We were forced to watch. And then the carrion birds came. We were forced to watch that as well. That is what you caused, Doctor.”

  “No, that is what your barbarous government did, Chiang We-tao,” Allender said. “I engineered your father’s great embarrassment in order to neutralize his espionage efforts in my capital city. He caused your government to lose great face through his many sexual indiscretions.”

  The younger Chiang pressed the edge of the hudiedow vertically against Allender’s lips. He could clearly feel that razor-sharp edge, and suddenly tasted salt. “Our whole family was imprisoned,” Chiang growled. “We lost everything—honor, respect, our house—everything. My mother now works in a military laundry. My wife was taken away and is now some policeman’s concubine. My father’s brother, whom he hated, has taken over the clan. Can you guess why I am here?”

  Allender didn’t have to.

  Chiang continued to stare at him, and then put the point of the knife under Allender’s chin. “I hear they call you Dragon Eyes,” he said. “I’m not impressed. My father’s eyes were bleeding red holes once the birds began their feast. As yours soon will be when I pull them out—”

  Then Chiang’s face literally exploded in a spray of blood and bone, accompanied by the boom and pressure wave of a magnum pistol. Two more booms and then the room went quiet. Allender had to grab a pillow to wipe the mess out of his eyes and off his face. The stink of sudden, violent death permeated the room, framed by the bright smell of gun smoke and a copious blood puddle spreading out on the floor.

  He looked to see who’d rescued him. It was Rebecca Lansing, or, more accurately, the large man dressed out in what looked like SWAT tactical gear standing next to her, an enormous pistol in his right hand, which was now hanging down at his side. Allender stared at her in utter incomprehension. Then he reached for his glasses as he saw the shooter, who looked vaguely Korean, react to seeing his eyes and begin to raise that huge handgun. Lansing, wearing an FBI windbreaker, patted the man’s hand down. She was already on the phone, calling Langley for a wet-cleanup team. The two soldiers were not visible, presumably because they were dead at the foot of his bed.

  Allender closed his eyes and sank back into the mess on the bed. He could feel two tiny cuts on his lips, which hurt out of all proportion to their size. He could feel the skin on the left side of his head tightening as the swelling rose. For a moment he longed to just subside into the sodden pillow, but Lansing was there now and urging him to get up. He gingerly swung his legs out of the bed and sat up while she steadied him. His head swam for a minute but then he stabilized and opened his eyes again. The almost headless remains of Chiang’s son lay on the floor, leaking an amazing amount of blood onto the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he could see one pair of feet sticking out from behind the foot of the bed
. The wall behind the bed was covered with spatter.

  She led him gently into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and told him to clean himself up. As he stood in the shower, holding on to the soap holder to stay upright, he heard someone come back into the bathroom and then leave. When he got out ten minutes later there were clean clothes and towels piled on the sink counter, and his pajamas, along with the bathroom rug, had been removed. He dried himself off and then wiped the mirror free of fog. The cuts on his lips looked like two purple cracks. There was a visible goose egg on the left side of his head, but it was no longer bleeding. He felt a sudden urge to use the toilet and barely made it.

  A half hour later he sat in his study with Lansing while a specialist scene-clean team sent over from Langley did what was necessary upstairs. The three bodies had already gone out the back door. Allender sipped on a glass of quality cognac, trying hard not to let her see that his hands were trembling. The hudiedow was sitting on the coffee table as if to remind him of how close this had been. The cuts on his lips stung with each sip of cognac, which wasn’t doing much to assuage his headache. He touched the crusty lump on his head every few minutes.

  “Well,” he said, finally, when he thought he could trust his voice. “Thank you very much.”

  She nodded, but didn’t reply, waiting for his next question.

  “How did you happen to be outside when they came?”

  She looked down but did not answer.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let me rephrase: What the fuck’s going on, Rebecca?”

  “Does the name Yang Yi ring a bell?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Allender said. “He appeared out on the Mall after McGill let me out of his car. We sat on a park bench and exchanged cryptic pleasantries.”

  “And you know who he is, right?”

  “He said he was the number two at the MSS. I wasn’t entirely sure, but it sounded right. It’s been a while, as you know.”

  “Yes, that’s who he is. He was here because General Chiang’s son escaped from a penal farm in North Korea, of all places, mustered up a couple of his father’s loyal faction guards, and smuggled himself into this country. He was on a mission.”