by Tony Bulmer
Campanella had already reached the far end of the narrow little service corridor and was now opening the exterior door that led to freedom—safety. Lauren imagined the moment with building excitement. The Gardens of Eternal Sanctity were a lush subtropical forest, that spread across the steep mountainside, stretching down to the bustling city streets and car-filled freeways. Shanghai was one of the largest, most modern cities in the world, a metropolis so huge that the men with guns and bombs would never be able to find her. Moving forwards now, she felt her heart thrumming faster, her veins pulsing in time to the throb of the electrical power plant.
As Campanella popped door and the palm fringed sunlight reached down towards them, Lauren Whitaker shouldered past him, breaking out of the sepulchral past into the vivid green world of freedom. As she bolted down the winding pathway, she left the ambassador standing dazed in the doorway. With her adrenaline amped body running fast and free, she felt like crying out in triumph—she was alive. She had stared down death and escaped back into the land of the living!
As the steepness of the mountain path carried her euphoric legs ever faster, she careered off the path. She broke into the verdant undergrowth with building speed, feeling the soft sphagnum of the forest floor bounce beneath her feet. Onwards she ran, faster and faster, until finally, her breakneck trajectory sent her tumbling forwards through the dense subtropical shrubbery. As she sailed through the air, leaves and branches clutched and tore at her clothes and face. Then, finally, the impact came. She hit the forest floor with such force it knocked every last ounce of breath from her body.
She might have blacked out, for how long it was hard to tell, a few seconds, or a minute at the most, certainly no longer than that. She lay on her back and stared upwards into the distant swirling haze of the forest canopy. How beautiful and mysterious it looked, as the crystalline leaves melded with the soft sun-dappled branches. Breathing in the sweet scent of the encroaching jungle, she almost laughed out loud. What a tale she would have to tell her prim little coffee morning friends back in D.C. She imagined them now—Alisa, Channing, and Madison, their faces, twisted tight with superiority and the poisons of eternal youth. How cyclical life had become for all of them, state events, grand social occasions of every type—and the tedious charities of course, so worthy, and yet eternally dreary in the type of person they attracted—billionaire industrialists and super-pack power brokers—flexing their financial muscle in an orgy of one-upmanship. Yes, the “girls” as they liked to call themselves would all be there, soaking in the D.C. afternoon as they lunched at the boutique eatery of the moment. The ladies liked to “lunch”, sponging down small batch vodka and bottle after bottle of Montrachet Grand Cru, as they chased shards of arugula around gold-rimmed china, and complained about husbands and servants and interior designers. The ladies had little time for anything less than perfection, in their impossibly busy lives. Then there was the sex. Every one of them was screwing somebody of course, the personal trainer, the masseur, the tight-assed little tennis coach, or the valet parker from Club Cocktail on the Dupont Circle. The consensus seemed to be that sex with husbands was best avoided. The poor darlings were always so busy—on the golf course, cutting bar room deals with friends, or very rarely crafting legislation on the floor of the house. But when they did occasionally come home, you never knew where their flaccid little peckers had been did you? Why only last year, Mary-Beth Pinkerton, whose husband was a leading light at the Department of Justice, caught a case of syphilis so virulent her gynecologist swore that her husband must have screwed every hooker in Southeast Asia.
Lauren Whitaker gave a happy little smile. Yes, the belles of the beltway were always bragging about their chi-chi little lives, where everything of any consequence was exclusive beyond bespoke. But nothing they had ever done compared to this—a real experience, the type of thrill that just couldn’t be bought for any price. How wonderful—her friends would be seething with jealousy, even more so than they were already. Even better, the social opportunities, created by this unfortunate adventure, would quite literally be endless. There would be interviews in all the magazines of consequence—needless to say, Vogue and Vanity Fair would get priority. Then, there would be an endless round of television appearances—all the late night chat shows, Sixty Minutes, and the serious political shows as well. No doubt Penelope, that vacuous little K street publicist, she had hired last summer to manage her social profile, would have every literary agent on the Eastern seaboard gnawing at the door as well—how absolutely thrilling.
As she lay there smiling about her good fortune, Lauren sensed a sudden darkness in her peripheral vision. She blinked, then frowned with displeasure, that her delightful little fantasy should be so prematurely curtailed. The dark shapes metamorphosed into uniformed figures, all of them staring down at her with blank inscrutable faces. That was the problem with these people thought Lauren—you could never tell what they were thinking—not that you could pass comment, political correctness was everywhere these days, and they called that progress?
More figures now, a whole gang of them, all staring down at her like they had never seen a woman before. She drew her arm across her breasts and said, “Thank goodness you are finally here. I would like a limousine to take me to my hotel immediately. I feel grubby beyond belief.”
The dark figures exchanged questioning glances; brusque words were spoken in an unintelligible dialect. Then, very quickly the dark uniformed figures bent towards her, their thick little fingers closing firmly about her arms and she was lifted forcibly to her feet.
Despite the strong hands holding her fast, Lauren sensed a sudden rush of fear. The world twisted into a surreal landscape, everything spinning in and out of focus. She felt herself sway—woozy from the trauma most likely. Doctors would have to be called to the hotel—and television cameras. Perhaps, if she called her publicist now, she would be able to get a jump on the nightly news shows. That ruthless little bitch Penelope certainly knew how to manipulate the media. Lauren wondered for an idle second how she had ever managed before Penelope. It was just not possible for the modern woman to exist without the savvy of a premier-league public-relations professional. Her life was now managed with nano-grade precision. There was almost nothing that couldn’t be finessed. In the modern world, perception was always more important than reality, especially if that reality contained ugly or inconvenient truths. Far better then, that life should be air brushed, filtered, retouched and presented in a wholesome and appetizing way for public consumption. Lauren almost cried with happiness—the vision she had of the unfolding events was very clear—She would play the frail but heroic martyr. The medical people would stretcher her before the assembled ranks of the world’s press, she would have a saline drip in her arm, and an attendant pack of medical professionals fussing around her. Lauren knew she didn’t look her best, but that hardly mattered, the ravaged look would add to the tragedy of the moment.
As she considered the minutiae of her public relations triumph Lauren had a sudden thought—a subtle makeover would do no harm. Perhaps Sophie, her hairdresser and stylist could be couriered in, to meet her at the ambulance doors?
It was then that Ambassador Campanella arrived on the scene. Lauren almost shouted out with fury. How could that fey little bureaucrat spoil her moment of triumph? No doubt he would shoulder his way to the very front of the news media feeding frenzy to offer his insipid opinions—an unforgivable intrusion. He would dilute her brand; make it seem as though he were the hero of the moment, not her.
“Ah, there you are my dear,” beamed Campanella, his pointed, birdlike face lighting up with obvious delight. “I was quite worried for your safety, you running off into the forest like that. Who knows what could have happened—you could so easily have come fallen into the wrong hands.”
“Well, you had nothing to worry about did you? The police are here now, and you can see that I am fine, so you can be on your way.”
A surly looking youth with high c
heekbones and the air of officialdom bent in to look at her closely. “You are American?” he asked brusquely.
“Yes, a very important American. My husband is the Secretary of State. Do you understand?”
The youth gave her an oily unpleasant look, “You are plenty lucky to be alive. You have a charmed life, like cat, no?”
“Much as I would like to pass the day exchanging mindless pleasantries I have a very busy schedule to contend with. You will have a limousine brought around directly, so that I might depart for my hotel.”
He gave her a nasty smile, the kind that spread across his face but never reached his eyes. “So tell me important American lady, where is your husband?”
The sheer impertinence of the question almost threw her. She had been so busy juggling the endless public relations variables; she had never considered what had happened to Truman.
She sniffed dismissively and gave the youth with the high cheekbones a sour look. “Frankly, I have no idea where my husband is, but there is nothing new in that. So, if you have finished with your infernal questions, you can now transport me out of here.”
The youth ignored her. He looked at Campanella and said, “You were right. She has the attitude of an ugly street monkey.”
“A very useful street monkey,” snickered Campanella. “And valuable too.”
“Very valuable. Unlike you my friend.” The youth reached into the heavy leather holster that hung on his belt and drew out a police issue pistol. He held it in his hand for a moment examining it with a loving gaze; he then turned abruptly towards Campanella and shot him in the head. The sharp report of the short-barreled automatic hung momentarily in the forest air, then dissipated fast, like a wisp of pure evil.
Campanella’s head twisted back in a mist of blood, his birdlike eyes popping wide with surprise and horror. His thin ugly little lips parted as though a question were forming, but no question came, just a guttural inhuman noise that chilled the blood. He sank to his knees then, and fell slowly forwards until he lay broken and ragged on the jungle floor.
The surly youth examined his handiwork for a long moment, his face brighter now, as though he were inspecting the results of a great personal achievement.
Lauren Whitaker stared, her mouth hanging wide, every last vestige of self-assurance disappearing into a limitless, timeless void.
Finally the young man with the high cheekbones turned to her and said, “Tell me important American lady, this President of yours I have heard tell that he is a Devil, a lap dog of Satan himself. What truth is there in these tales?”
“Who are you?” asked Lauren Whittaker, her voice no louder than a whisper.
“I am Tomur the destroyer, proud emissary for the Uyghur nation and you are my prisoner. Perhaps, if you do my bidding, the great presidential devil that commands you, will bow before my will?”
She wanted to ask him if he was insane. But she couldn’t draw her gaze away from the ragged corpse of Ambassador Campanella. The horrible twitching death spasms that tore through his body had given way now, to an endless unholy stillness. The mocking call of some alien bird echoed though the forest canopy, accompanied by the throb of jungle insects. A plump blue fly buzzed the ambassador’s cranial cavity, settling experimentally on the rim of bloodied flesh. It sat there preening, very pleased that it had chanced upon such a bounteous feast. Lauren felt the hot taste of nausea rise in her throat. She let out a slow moan and sagged forwards. Cruel hands held her tight. The youth called Tomur was coming closer now, his fathomless eyes engulfing her. He reached out for her face. It was the last thing she saw, before she lapsed into a deep and traumatized state of unconsciousness.
07
The sinister figures came through the mist of gas. Wearing full face military breathers, they hunched forwards in a low crouch, advancing through the haze like soldiers rising out of a Flanders trench during World War I. The key-difference here, these trench rats were carrying ultra modern QBZ assault rifles and wearing uniforms of the SPU Chinese People’s Armed Police Force. SPU had a reputation for ruthlessness that came somewhere between the American SWAT and a mafia style paramilitary. When it came to restoring order to the subjugated masses, the SPU were the kind of shock troops who machine-gunned civilians first and asked questions later. From Tiananmen Square, to the Falun Gong provinces, the SPU had a savage reputation and Karyn was not about to get in their way. Winding her scarf around her head and face, she hauled Secretary of State Whitaker to his feet, and took hold of him by the collar.
“Come along prince charming, your carriage awaits.”
Secretary of State Whitaker had his head wrapped tight inside Karyn’s coat to protect him from the advancing wall of gas, but already he was coughing and retching and blurting muffled complaints. Karyn ignored every word he said; half kicking him, half dragging him, she pulled him out from beneath the bleachers seating and forced her reluctant charge to follow her. Karyn knew exactly where she was going. An essential part of CIA tradecraft involved knowing every inch of any given deployment area prior to mission commencement. To this end Karyn had carried out extensive reconnaissance of the area over a period of days. Now, she drew on that information, moving quickly and efficiently as though on autopilot. She knew every pinch-point, every exit, every path and wall in the maze-like compound. She knew the exact locations of all police and PLA guard posts, and where the reserve units were located. But now, in the chaotic aftermath of the terrorist attack, all bets were off. The men with guns would be everywhere and there could be no telling which of them, if any, would be friendly. It was a hell-ride situation and messy too. But Karyn had a simple rule when things got this ugly—everyone was an enemy until proven otherwise.
She moved with calm determined steps. She kept her gun low and pushed Whitaker onwards. She was going to get out of this—she was determined. China was an ugly place to die and she wasn’t about to let that happen, hell no.
Muffled shouts from behind them now.
The men in the gasmasks had seen them, and were heading their way.
Karyn didn’t need to look back; she knew they were coming, but that didn’t matter; she was going to get the Secretary of State out of danger, no matter what it took. The gas was rolling after them now, in heavy clouds. Karyn felt the capsicum burn as the chemicals tore into the mucous membranes in her eyes, nose, mouth and lungs. She knew they had to get out of range and fast, or the gas would overcome them both. Luckily, she had an edge. She had been exposed to all types of lachrymatory agents over the years, both in training and during operational deployment; there were many types, including: CS, CR, CN and OC gas. But the effects of non-lethal chemical agents on the human body were always the same—burning eyes, burning lungs, followed by rapid and total incapacitation. Prior exposure gave a level of resistance to such agents, but not total immunity. They had to get up wind and fast, or they would soon at the total mercy of an unknown enemy. A short cut was needed. Karyn headed into the shrubbery. She gave her charge a heads up warning, but he stumbled like a blind man and went down heavily, tumbling down hill through the lush undergrowth. As he went down, he issued an unholy squawking noise, like a frightened chicken caught in a barrel.
Karyn gave a low curse and snaked through the bushes after him. It wasn’t hard to find him. Secretary of State Whitaker was thrashing around in the undergrowth, emitting a horrible anguished cry, “I am blind, blind, blind. Please God help me, I am blind.”
Karyn rolled close and clamped her had over his mouth. “Would you cork off the noise? It’s only tear gas. Anyone would think you had been shot or something.”
“My eyes are burning.”
“Yeah? Well that’s just too bad. My advice is you turn down the volume on that juvenile bleating, or pretty soon the whole Chinese army will be using your ugly head for target practice.”
“They can’t do that, I am a foreign dignitary, a representative of the United States of America.”
“You just don’t get it do you genius? There
is a play going down here. You ask me this whole stinking thing reads like a set up. For all we know this attack could be orchestrated by the Chinese government themselves—they have done it before,” said Karyn grimly. “Now, if that’s the case, do you really want to walk out there?”
“The Chinese are our world partners Kane… they would never dare involve themselves in such a conspiracy,” choked Whitaker, holding his tear streaked face with the flats of his hands.
“Are you kidding me? Those police state goons would ice you in a heartbeat. Probably splatter your head all over these pretty ornamental gardens and chalk that little ‘accident’ down to the fact that you tripped over your shoelace, or something.”
Whitaker couldn’t answer that. He just sat on his ass in the dirt, tears streaming down his face like a school kid who’d just caught a good whipping from the class bullies. Karyn grimaced. With his crooked toupee and shambolic demeanor you couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor sap. The broken figure sobbing beneath the bushes was a whole world away from the swaggering speechmeister, who appeared so pristine and confident on the television news.
Karyn raised her compact mirror through the bushes, using it as an improvised periscope, so she could take a look at what was happening up topside. What she saw didn’t look good. The grounds were now swarming with hundreds of Chinese troops, from the PLA, mixed in with regulars from the peoples armed police and specialists from the SPU. The troops had formed a makeshift dragnet and they were combing the crime scene, rifles at the ready, probing at corpses with their bayonets. There was no sign of any other rescue services, no medical personal, no stretcher-bearers, nothing. It was almost as though the authorities weren’t expecting survivors. Karyn snatched her mirror down and folded it away. There was no sign of the U.S. Secret Service back up unit; either they had been taken down, or compromised, and held at the perimeter, until the Chinese government goons had gotten things running the way they wanted them. Karyn figured she had no time to hang around either way. If the back up unit weren’t here by now, they weren’t coming period. An emergency strategy was needed, and the way things were panning out, that strategy would have to be fast and fearless. Trouble was, Whitaker was deteriorating fast. Two more minutes at the most and he would be laid out, totally incapacitated by the effects of the gas. Karyn reached inside her bag and pulled out a brushed titanium cigarette case. She popped it open and reached out an epinephrine injector. She flipped off the airtight cap with practiced ease and stuck the Secretary of State in the neck with it. He gasped. She pumped home the clear-crystalline fluid with a single thumb stroke. The effect was almost instantaneous. The adrenaline flooded Whitaker’s neurotransmitters, like they had been shocked alive by a million volt power surge. The effect was so damn powerful Karyn had to grab a hold of Whitaker by the shoulders, to prevent him rocketing to his feet.
