by Alex Ryan
“You think like a criminal, Chen,” he said, his lips curling at the corners.
“Not my fault. I was married to one for many years, remember?”
“I remember,” he said, sipping at his coffee.
She thought for a second and then asked, “Even if a manifest shows that the container was loaded onto a particular ship, how does that help us now? The container fell overboard during the storm. It’s at the bottom of the ocean.”
“It gives us another clue—the name of the ship. We can look at the carrier’s freight contracts. See who their customers are. Maybe that container was loaded with a batch of legitimate cargo we can trace. I don’t exactly know what breadcrumb we might find; I’m just hoping to find one.”
Her stomach growled loudly, interrupting them. Zhang raised his eyebrows, and they both laughed.
“Damn, sounds like someone’s hungry.” Then, gesturing to her half-eaten sweet bun, he said, “Eat your bing.”
She picked up the pastry and renewed her nibbling. “Anything back on the DNA samples yet?”
“Sergeant Tan expedited the check on the fingerprints and DNA samples you collected.”
“Already?”
“You did ask me to expedite.”
“I’m impressed,” she said. “Go on.”
“No hits.”
“Not a single ID?”
“No, not one. So I had Tan run them through the Interpol database.”
“And you found something?”
“No.”
She met his gaze and could tell he was toying with her. He was holding something back. “You’re not telling me something,” she said, her curiosity piqued.
“What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room, understood?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
He narrowed his eyes at her.
“What?” she said, exasperated. “Who am I going to tell?”
“When we didn’t get a match on the Interpol global DNA database, I queried the US Defense Medical Epidemiology Database.”
“That’s a classified database.”
He nodded.
“But how did you . . .”
“I have a friend in Pudong who works with Unit 61398.”
“I don’t even want to know,” she said, shaking her head.
“Which is why this conversation stays between us.”
She nodded. “I already promised. What did you find?”
“We got a DNA match on the sample from the male body that fit into both categories—mutilated and missing organs. An American named Peter Yu. Supposedly, Yu works for an IT staffing company in Xi’an, but something doesn’t smell right to me. I’m certain Yu was working for the CIA.”
Dash felt her cheeks flush. “The CIA?” she echoed. “That means he was working for Chet Lankford.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know. I have people looking into that now.”
“Are you going to confront Lankford?” she asked, her nerves on fire at this bizarre twist.
“No.”
“Why not? You know he’s CIA.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Then let me ask Nick.”
“Nick Foley?” Zhang fixed her with a perturbing stare. “Foley has given testimony that he does not work for the CIA. Are you telling me otherwise?”
“No, no,” she said, shaking her head emphatically. “Nick does not work for the CIA, but I do know Chet Lankford has tried to recruit him on multiple occasions. We can use this knowledge to our advantage. Nick helped us before; maybe he would agree to help us now.”
“What are you proposing?”
“He could meet Lankford for drinks and subtly inquire about Peter Yu.”
Despite the scowl on his face, she could see he was toying with the idea. If Zhang agreed, it would give her the perfect excuse to fly back to Beijing, meet Nick in person, and find out what sort of trouble he was in.
“No,” Zhang said at last. “It’s not a good idea. Foley is an American expatriate, and his loyalty lies with the US and Lankford. We can’t afford to reveal anything about this case to him, no matter how tempting it might be.”
“Nick risked his life for China before and saved thousands of lives,” she said with a scowl. “I don’t know why you refuse to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Don’t be naïve. Nick Foley risked his life for you, not for China,” he fired back. “And just so we’re clear, I’ve already given him the benefit of the doubt. Which is why I allowed him to stay, to live and work in China, instead of canceling his visa or turning him over to the Guoanbu as procedure dictated. If I were to contact the Ministry of State Security right now and lay out all the facts, do you think they would be as understanding as I have been?”
She met his gaze and recognized the cold, hard truth. The only reason Nick was still in China was because of Zhang—the same man who had just delivered coffee and her favorite pastries at sunrise. She swallowed, but the lump in her throat persisted. “No, I don’t suppose they would.”
Zhang sighed and walked to the window.
She stared at him, backlit against the Hong Kong skyline, and experienced an upwelling of conflicting emotions: admiration and anxiety. Attraction and irritation. Even though he hadn’t verbalized his feelings for her, Zhang clearly had romantic intentions. Until now, she’d tried to ignore the chemistry between them, but she felt it. There was a spark. Which made Zhang’s handling of Nick’s visa all the more surprising. With the click of a mouse, he could have had Nick deported, clearing the way for him to pursue her unencumbered. Zhang knew she had feelings for Nick. Why make it complicated? Why make it into a competition?
Because he’s a soldier. Because he’s a man . . .
Winning her heart by deporting the competition was the coward’s strategy. It wasn’t valiant. It wasn’t honorable. It wasn’t enough. Men like Zhang and Nick would never be satisfied with love by default. She was a mission to be completed, a battle to be won. For Zhang, triumphing over Nick to gain her love and affection was the ultimate aphrodisiac.
Of the conflicting emotions battling for control of her mood, irritation ultimately triumphed. She wasn’t a prize to be won. She wasn’t the victor’s spoil. Who she chose to love was her decision. No way in hell would she let her love life transform into some alpha-male courtship cage match.
She glanced at her phone.
It would ring any second, with Nick on the line.
Why? Because Zhang was in her hotel room at an inappropriate hour, and that was how the universe worked when it came to these things.
“I think you should go,” she heard herself say.
Zhang turned. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” she said too quickly. “I just need to finish getting ready. I have a lot of work to do today, and, uh, as much as I’d love to drink coffee and chat, I really need to get back to the autopsy suite.”
“Of course,” he said, stiffening. “I’ll see you on base, Dr. Chen.”
And with that, she watched Zhang let himself out, his coffee and half-eaten bing left behind to go cold and stale.
CHAPTER 14
Nèiyè Biologic Corporate Headquarters
Lintong District, Xi’an, China
0730 hours local
Xue Shi Feng sat at his desk, reading the latest batch of manufacturing KPI reports. It took concentration to read the information because he was hungry.
He was always hungry.
There was a knock on his office door. He pressed a hidden button on his desk to release the magnetic door lock, and his secretary stepped into the room. Chow Mei was his twelfth secretary in as many years, but she had lasted longer than all the others—almost four years now. He’d hired her because she was exquisite to look at, but she’d proven to be much more than just vapid eye candy in a pantsuit. She was ambitious. She was observant. Most importantly, she possessed a skill none of his previous assi
stants had. Mei was a connector. A hub. The left ventricle of Nèiyè Biologic, keeping time and pumping the lifeblood of the company—employee gossip—to sustain the organism. KPI reports were informative management tools, but they paled in comparison to the insights Mei possessed. It had taken him a long time to recognize this. It had taken him even longer to figure out how to tap the vein.
With most people, compulsory persuasion was always the most direct and efficient means of extracting secrets. But with Mei, compulsion was akin to using a hammer to extricate a model ship from a glass bottle—a self-defeating exercise. Gifts and flattery were equally ineffective enticements. Only in a moment of furious epiphany did he realize that the ante for a seat at the gossip table was the same currency as the payout—information. The more salacious, the more consequential, or the more personal the details he was willing to share, the greater her reciprocation. At first he’d resented her for this, but over time, he’d come to appreciate it as nuance rather than nuisance. Just as he’d come to appreciate her as an oracle rather than an adversary.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” Mei said with downcast eyes. “The hospital called.”
“Go on,” he said.
“Your mother is asking for you . . . The doctor said she doesn’t have much time left.”
“Clear my calendar after lunch,” he said. “And have a car ready for me at one o’clock.”
“Of course.” She looked up to meet his gaze.
“Is there something else?”
She took an empathetic step toward him. “Just that I wanted to say I’m sorry. I know this is a difficult time for you.”
“Thank you, Mei. She is truly a remarkable woman, my mother.”
Mei nodded. “I wish I could have met her.”
He took a deep breath. “Did you know that I was born here, in Xi’an?”
She shook her head but took a curious step forward.
“It’s true. And when I was born, I didn’t cry.”
“You must have been a very brave baby.”
“No,” he laughed. “When a baby doesn’t cry at birth, it usually indicates a health problem. My muscle tone was so poor that the doctor told my mother I was not strong enough to survive infancy. He told her to make funeral arrangements, but my mother was defiant. She took me home and vowed to save her only son. But my suckle reflex was so weak, I could not feed at her breast. Three times an hour, she roused me and expressed milk into my mouth. And when I was too weary to swallow, she would cradle me and massage my neck. This ritual went on for months, but despite the physical and emotional toll, she never gave up. And when my father began to verbalize his desire that she let me die so that they could try for a healthy son, she told him to go to hell. You see, my mother loved me unconditionally, despite my curse. She did not forsake me in my time of greatest need, and so I will not forsake her in hers.”
He saw that Mei’s eyes were rimmed with tears. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I don’t know,” he sighed. “Maybe so you can understand how I came to be the man I am today.”
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her left ear. “My father desperately wanted a boy. Even now, twenty-eight years later, he has not forgiven me.”
“Forgiven you for what?”
“Being born,” she said, setting her jaw.
“It appears our fathers have something in common,” he said with a wan smile.
“Yes,” she mumbled. “They’re both bastards.”
At this, they both laughed, while she tried to discreetly wipe away the tears that had begun to trickle down her cheeks.
“Thank you, Mei,” he said after a beat. “That will be all.”
She nodded and turned to leave, but at the threshold, she stopped and looked back at him. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Um, I thought you might want to know, I heard talk that Dr. Chow is being courted by Sinovac.”
“Oh, really? Do you have any thoughts on why Dr. Chow might be unhappy here?”
“If his department head would approve his most recent R&D request, I think Dr. Chow would find the happiness he seeks.”
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
And with that, she disappeared out the door, leaving him alone with his KPI reports and his hunger pangs.
He typed a quick and succinct e-mail to Dr. Chow’s department head, instructing him to fund Chow’s R&D request and to unburden fifty percent of the man’s workload so he could begin work on the new project immediately. Had Chow been in sales, the retention carrot would have been a generous bump in incentive comp. Had he worked in operations, Feng would have countered Sinovac’s offer with a promotion giving the man greater authority. But Chow was a research scientist, and neither of these things were the proper motivation. To retain Dr. Chow, all he needed to do was remove the obstacles preventing him from pursuing his passion—CRISPR research. Chow was one of Nèiyè’s rising stars. Feng needed Chow and had no intention of letting the man get poached by Sinovac.
As Chief Operations Officer and the functional number two at Nèiyè Biologic, Feng’s job was to manage issues—like the possible defection of Dr. Chow—before they became problems. But as the company grew, the number of issues had multiplied exponentially. Of late, all he had time to do was put out fires—trying to wrangle chaos into order, turn incompetence into productivity, and fill the growing leadership void left by the company’s increasingly absent founder and CEO, Yao Xian Jian. Feng was already working eighty hours a week, not including his off-the-books project work. The stress was starting to take a toll. He was fraying at the edges. His gaze fell on the top-left drawer of his desk, the one filled with “emergency” rations. He was so damn hungry. He closed his eyes and took a deep, centering breath.
Discipline. Self-control. These were his weapons.
Pain was his reward. If he could resist now, he would reward himself later.
He took another deep, cleansing breath, then opened his eyes. The craving crushed, he turned his attention back to his computer. A new e-mail in his in-box appeared from Yao Xian Jian’s assistant. The CEO was in Hong Kong but would be returning this evening and was requesting a private dinner. Feng screwed up his face at the monitor. He knew what this was about, and he wasn’t looking forward to having the conversation yet again . . .
Feng had been with Yao from the beginning, entrusted since day one with managing the day-to-day operations of the business while Yao did what he did best—defy expectations. Despite the man’s eccentricities, he was brilliant. He also had a knack for wooing investors and turning investment capital into enormous returns. Over the past twelve years, he and Yao had developed a portfolio of biotechnologies, prescription drugs, and genomic insights that had yielded hundreds of millions in profits for the shareholders. Now Nèiyè was the fastest-growing biotechnology company in China and was gaining attention on the world stage. And despite all their success, the crown jewel in the Nèiyè portfolio of biotechnology breakthroughs was one they intended to keep hidden from the world.
The phone on his desk beeped. He noted the blocked message on the caller ID. He’d been waiting for this call; he picked up the receiver.
“Yes?”
“I’m calling with a status report on our operation on Lantau.”
“Go ahead,” Feng said.
“Are we secure?” the voice asked.
Feng screwed up his face in annoyance. He was a busy man, and busy men don’t have time for validating the obvious. This line was always secure.
“Of course,” he said.
“The operation failed.”
“How?” Feng asked, squeezing his eyes shut. The morning news had been buzzing with stories about the explosions in the wealthy Discovery Bay neighborhood. How could the operation possibly have failed, given the body count?
“The target was not among the casualties.”
Feng hissed air through his teeth. “Are you one hundred percent certain?”
“How is that even possible? From what I’m seeing on television, you blew up half the neighborhood.”
Silence hung on the line, his operator apparently understanding that the question was rhetorical. After a beat, the man said, “I do have one piece of good news. We confirmed the American’s identity. His name is Nick Foley. He presently works for Water 4 Humanity, an international NGO, but he has a military history. He was a US Navy SEAL. Knowing this, and seeing how he has evaded us twice, I think it is safe to conclude that he is working as an intelligence operator.”
“Can we confirm this?”
“I have a relationship with an informant in the Ministry of State Security. It will be expensive, but I can make the inquiry. But before you decide, I have other information that I believe provides all the confirmation we need. Cross-referencing the casualty list suggests that the home we hit was an American CIA safe house.”
Feng took a long, cleansing breath. The hunt for Nick Foley was getting more complicated by the minute, and the timing couldn’t be worse. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. The harder he tried to protect their secret, the more attention he drew to it.
“And you did not know the property was occupied by CIA before you made the hit?”
“No, sir.”
“Find Nick Foley,” Feng growled, on the verge of losing control. He took a deep breath and centered himself. “Spare no expense. Kill him if you must, but I would prefer that he be brought to me for questioning.”
“Understood,” the man said. “The search is already under way. My police contact located him on security footage from the Mui Wo Ferry Pier. He departed on a ferry a few hours after the failed operation. We also have him disembarking a half hour ago.”
“Where?” Feng interrupted.
“Pier Five in downtown Hong Kong.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Go get him!”
“Yes, sir,” his operator said. “I have numerous assets already—”
Feng hung up.
His stomach was on fire. He glanced at the upper-left drawer of his desk, and his mouth began to water. He reached for the knob but then abruptly stood. He walked away from his desk, putting physical separation between himself and the food. He looked out the window at the massive, low-set building in the distance. Beneath its sixteen-thousand-square-meter dome roof stood First Emperor Qin Shi Huang’s perfect army—seven thousand stone disciples—hardened, unwavering, and eternal. He admired them. Revered them, actually. If only his operators were that perfect, things wouldn’t be spiraling out of control.
