by Marc Cameron
“Is everything okay?” the driver said, right on cue. Nature wasn’t the only thing to abhor a vacuum. People—especially guilty people—hated silence.
“You tell me,” Calderon said.
“I’m fine,” the driver said.
“Are you Parrot?”
“I . . . where did you hear that name?” His hands began to slide down the sides of the steering wheel.
Calderon wagged his flashlight at the guy’s lap. “Scares me when you do that,” he said, grinning. The beam of his light illuminated an empty condom wrapper at the driver’s feet. Calderon shot a quick glance at the girl in the backseat. The grin bled from his face.
“Scares you?” the driver said.
“Do me a favor and keep your hands on the wheel until I tell you.”
The driver nodded but didn’t say anything.
“So,” Calderon asked again, “are you Parrot?”
“Parrot loaned me his car,” the driver said. “My name’s Reggie Tipton.”
“Is this your daughter, Mr. Tipton?”
Reggie gave a forced smile. “No.”
“Who is she?”
A long pause.
“She’s Parrot’s niece,” Reggie said. “I’m taking her to visit her aunt.” His hands started to slide down the wheel until Calderon wagged his light again.
“Parrot’s sister?”
“No,” Reggie said. “The girl’s aunt.”
“Parrot’s sister-in-law?”
Reggie shook his head.
The trooper raised an eyebrow. “Parrot’s wife?”
“No, her aunt,” Reggie said, looking up toward the ceiling, exasperated. “She’s not related to Parrot.”
Calderon nodded. “I get it,” he said.
Reggie finally caught on to his mistake. “I mean . . . Parrot just calls her his niece.”
“Okay,” the trooper said. “That makes sense.” The hairs on the back of his neck were already on end. “Had anything to drink tonight?”
Reggie’s shoulders slumped, visibly relaxing at the new line of questioning. He shook his head. “Not a drop, Trooper.”
“This is just a routine stop,” Calderon said. “You crossed the center line a couple times back there, so if you haven’t been drinking, I’ll just write you a warning.”
“Thank you,” Reggie said, relaxing even more.
“I just need to see your license and insurance and I’ll get you on your way.”
“Can I move my hands to get my wallet?”
“Anything down there I should be worried about?”
The girl in the backseat glanced up and shook her head, then pretended to be asleep again.
“No.” Reggie gave a nervous chuckle. “Nothing that I know of.” He moved slowly, pulling his driver’s license out of his wallet with trembling fingers, and then leaning across the passenger seat to pass it through the open window.
The girl behind him looked up again. Her hair fell away and Calderon was horrified to see the thick layers of makeup around her eyes and cheeks. It was smudged and streaked, as if she’d been crying. She was hardly old enough for a bra, but the lace straps of a lacy black one peeked from under her pink tank top. It was cold enough to hang meat inside the car, but the poor kid had on nothing but skimpy gym shorts and the thin shirt.
The trooper hoped he managed to hide his surprise. “What’s your name, hon?”
Tipton jumped at the question. He shot a glance over his shoulder, not bothering to conceal his anger. His leg began to bounce.
“Her name’s Mag . . . I mean Blanca,” Tipton whispered.
“Hi, Blanca,” Calderon said. He kept one eye on the driver but offered the child his best smile. It was difficult enough not to look imposing in the gray-green Highway Patrol uniform and Stetson. “My name’s Roy. How old are you?”
“She’s thirteen,” Reggie said. “She doesn’t have a license or anything. Look, if you don’t mind—”
Calderon put the light directly in the driver’s eyes while his right hand drew his SIG. “Reggie,” he said, his voice raspy and tight. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Shut your mouth and get out of the car.”
Tipton’s hands dropped as if to open the door but went to his lap instead.
Calderon saw the black metal of the pistol glint in the beam of his flashlight, and fired two quick shots from his SIG. Tactically, he should have stepped to the rear to keep more of the Chrysler between him and the shooter, but that would have put the girl directly in the line of fire, so he stepped backward, firing as he moved.
Tipton wasn’t smart, but he was committed, and he managed to get off four shots from his nine-millimeter before the third of Calderon’s .357 SIG rounds struck him below the right eye, ending the fight.
Calderon kept his SIG Sauer still trained on the dead man while he reached for his radio with his left hand.
“Shots fired, Dispatch,” he said into the mic, sounding more excited than he wanted to. He yanked open the passenger door and pulled the gun out of Tipton’s hand.
Suddenly woozy, Calderon grabbed the door post to steady himself. He looked at Blanca. “Are you okay, hon?”
“Yes,” she said, pointing at him. “But you . . . you are bleeding.”
The Ellis County Sheriff’s Office dispatch came back over the radio. “Three SO units rolling your direction,” the dispatcher said. “Paramedics also en route.”
“Ten-four,” Calderon said. He slid to the ground, leaning against the door. “Tell them to hurry. Suspect’s down. And I’m losing a lot of blood.”
• • •
Three minutes later found Roy Calderon lying in the dark on the gravel shoulder of the road. The young girl cradled his head in her lap. The odor of road tar and the sweet smell of newly cut hay from the field on the other side of the fence reminded him he was still alive—for the moment. Blanca Limón pressed her hand against the wound in his neck, slowing the flow of blood.
“Are you going to arrest me?” the girl asked.
Trooper Calderon gave a tired sigh. He was incredibly thirsty, and he knew that wasn’t a good sign. “You’re just a kid,” he said. “I don’t arrest kids.”
The little girl sobbed quietly, her trembling lips set in a grim line as if she didn’t believe him.
“Parrot told us all the police would put us in jail with the other whores.”
Calderon’s heart broke. “I would never,” he whispered. “Besides, you’re saving my life.”
The girl nodded again at that. “My name is Blanca Limón.”
Calderon licked his lips. He could hear sirens now. “Good to meet you, Blanca Limón.”
“More police are coming,” she said. “Do you think they will put me in jail with the other whores?”
“No.” Calderon coughed, wincing at the movement. “And you’re not a whore.”
“But I am.” Blanca’s crying grew more intense as the sirens got closer. “I have . . . I have something that maybe I can use to make a deal.”
“You don’t need to deal.”
“Maybe that is so.” She sniffed. “But maybe not. My friend was with a man earlier tonight—”
The trooper began to cough again, cutting her off. He closed his eyes and regained control. “Sorry,” he said. “Go ahead. You were with a man . . .”
“My friend,” the girl said, then stopped. She looked down at him as if coming to some conclusion. “Yes . . . I was with a man last night. I think this man is a spy.”
“Really?” Calderon stifled a smile, humoring her, a little kid telling fantastical stories. “A spy, you say?” The sound of approaching sirens grew louder. Dear God, Calderon thought, please let that be the ambulance. “Did this man hurt you?”
The girl hesitated, blowing out a long breath as if to regain her composure. “Yes,�
� she said. “They all do.” She looked over her shoulder, then back at Calderon. “My father used to watch many spy movies and this man bragged about doing things I think real spies must do. He fell asleep after he . . . finished. That is when I stole the thumb drive from his computer.”
“Really?” Calderon coughed again.
“You do not believe me?” Blanca said.
Calderon groaned. “Of course I believe you.”
“Well, I did steal it,” Blanca said. “Maybe I can give it to you and you will help my friend. Awful people have her now. And I am worried for what they will do to her.”
Calderon felt himself drifting off. He licked his lips, willing his eyes to stay open, to stay awake for the ambulance. “Not . . . a very good spy . . . if he let you steal his thumb drive.”
Blanca slumped. “She told me he was a spy . . .”
The trooper coughed. “What?”
“Nothing,” Blanca said.
“I’ll tell someone to help your friend,” Calderon said. The paramedics rolled up, and just like that, it began to rain cop cars. “And I promise to check out that guy for you. What’s his name?”
A tear rolled down Blanca Limón’s filthy cheek.
“Eddie Feng,” she said.
9
The large earth-tone painting of the Great Wall above the paramount leader’s head hid a single bullet hole in the wood paneling. The thick beige carpet, too, concealed evidence of violent death. Everyone in the room knew the story of the previous president, including Colonel Huang Ju of the Central Security Bureau, but they rarely spoke his name.
Standing against the wall, out of the way but close enough to act, the colonel sensed there was something very wrong in the room, something that went far beyond any violence from the past. No, this was a new threat, and like a good protective officer, Huang could smell danger in the air.
A Chinese container ship had sunk in U.S. waters—and it was the feeling of some in this room that America was somehow to blame. Tensions were high among the advisers—and when tensions ran high around the general secretary, the man he was charged with protecting, Colonel Huang Ju paid close attention.
The commander of the 1st Squadron of the 1st Group of the Central Safeguard Regiment—sometimes referred to as Regiment 61889—stood to the right of the polished mahogany doorway inside the paramount leader’s spacious office. His senses were raw, as if they’d been rubbed with coarse sandpaper. Huang was tall and trim, with thick black hair long enough to part yet short enough that the gray around his temples was difficult to notice. His face was serene as stone, a very sharp and dangerous stone, but a stone nonetheless.
Those charged with the protection of others were often described as willing to take a bullet for their principal. Like the American Secret Service, rather than seek cover during times of attack, they were trained to make themselves larger targets. That was indeed something Colonel Huang had vowed to do, but there was much more to protection than simply absorbing bullets intended for one’s protectee. His primary duty was one of vicarious concern; he worried over the many dangers that lurked both without and within, so the paramount leader did not have to think of such things.
Though officially a member of an army regiment, Huang wore a white shirt and dark suit nearly identical to the white shirts and dark suits worn by three of the other five men in the inner office. Everyone else in the room ranked exponentially higher than Colonel Huang, but under his dark suit jacket was a Taurus PT 709 nine-millimeter pistol. None of the other men were armed, and, as Chairman Mao had so rightly pointed out, political power “grows from the barrel of a gun.”
Some twenty feet from Colonel Huang, beyond the seated guests, the paramount leader sat behind his expansive desk. Zhao Chengzhi was at once the general secretary of the Communist Party, president of China, and chairman of the Central Military Commission. Thick black hair, normally combed up in the front, hung down over a pallid forehead. It was late evening, and his long workday was beginning to take its toll.
Zhao’s mahogany desk was cluttered with file folders. There was a white telephone for general calls and a monstrous red phone with twin handsets that he used to contact ranking ministers of government as well as any one of several dozen state-run businesses. A photo of the general secretary’s wife sat to his immediate right, though this and the unruly stack of files had been removed when Zhao had given his New Year’s address to the nation.
Huang could not help but notice that the general secretary, normally a quiet and serene man, shifted a great deal in his seat, as if he were uncomfortably warm.
General Ma, the vice chairman of the Central Military Commission, and Admiral Qian, commander of the PLA Navy, each wore the uniform of their respective office, festooned with enough medals as to form protective breast plates for the two men. The general and the admiral were both possessed of the heavy jowls and swollen bellies that seemed to go with high command, attributes Huang swore he would never possess.
At forty-two, Huang Ju was a working colonel, still striving to be out in front of his team instead of slumped behind a desk preparing schedules and checking pay books. It was his responsibility to guard the life of the most powerful man in China. That meant he could not afford the frequent banquets and trappings of office life that other men of his station might enjoy. The general secretary kept long hours, and so did those who protected him. Huang led by example, and he made certain every close-protection officer under his command was given the opportunity to exercise and practice weekly to stay proficient in both firearms and defensive tactics.
This meeting had been going on for an hour. President Zhao shifted often in his seat but listened intently while his advisers offered up their counsel.
In addition to the two military men, State Premier Cao and Foreign Minister Li were also present. Huang did not trust any of the men, but he trusted no one beyond himself when it came to the safety and security of his charge. His job was to suspect—and he came by it naturally.
The general secretary leaned forward, elbows on the table. There was a trace of sweat on the man’s brow, though the air-conditioning kept the office relatively cool compared to the humid outside temperatures. For the past hour, the topic of discussion had been about nothing but the sinking of Orion. Colonel Huang, of course, was not consulted, but present only to make certain none of the other men did anything to harm Zhao—and to put a bullet in their head if they tried.
“The idea makes no sense,” the general secretary said. “Does anyone truly believe the Americans are stupid enough to sink a Chinese ship off their own coast—and then prove themselves magnanimous enough to rescue our personnel?”
General Ma gave a sullen nod. “It would be a mistake to put anything past the American CIA. I would not be surprised if they were behind the bombing of the subway construction site.”
The foreign minister interjected. “We are referring to that as a gas explosion, are we not?”
“Of course, of course,” Ma said. “But we in this room are all aware Uyghur separatists were behind it—financed by the Americans, no doubt.”
The general secretary raised an eyebrow. “The bombing of the new subway tunnel was obviously a terrorist act. This matter of Orion, however . . . Is it not more likely that some bureaucrat cut corners during safety inspections? Perhaps someone accepted bribes to line his own pockets and those overlooked violations caused the explosion and eventual sinking of our container ship.”
Zhao’s anticorruption initiative had already seen top executives from six state-run companies and several prominent party leaders, including a PLA general, thrown into prison. Three of the executives had been convicted of crimes stemming from the shoddy workmanship of an apartment building in Shanghai that collapsed, killing forty-nine. The men were given the death penalty but received the customary two-year probationary period whereby they might, with good behavior, have their sentences co
mmuted. Zhao made it clear that he was not pleased with that loophole in the law. He was more than passionate about the topic.
Admiral Qian spoke next. “The sea is over a hundred fathoms deep where Orion was lost, so there it will be impossible to look at any physical evidence. And we all know that the Americans will cover up any relevant facts.”
“Can any of the twenty-two survivors fill in the missing pieces?” Zhao asked.
“Perhaps,” General Ma said. “But that leads to a question. What if the United States is behind this?”
“We will cross that river if we come to it,” the general secretary said.
Premier Cao spoke next. “That the American trespass into our territorial waters is bad enough. Now we must kowtow to the Ryan regime and thank him for rescuing men on a ship they likely sank.”
Zhao scoffed at that. “Do you imply that allowing our seamen to be saved will be seen as a weakness?”
The admiral, general, and premier nodded in unison. Foreign Minister Li sat and smiled, taking no position, which was, Colonel Huang thought, in and of itself a position.
“More than a few have taken to Weibo to show their displeasure at American meddling,” Premier Cao said.
“More than a few?”
“Thousands,” Cao said.
“A dog barks at something,” Zhao said, quoting a proverb. “And the other dogs bark at him.”
“But they all bark,” General Ma said. “There is danger enough in that.”
“This is true,” Zhao said, “but I tend to give the people of China more credit. In any case, what would you have had me do? Call the President of the United States and tell him to let our sailors drown? That is flawed thinking, gentlemen. I have no love lost for the Americans or Jack Ryan, but I will not presume to give the man so much power over our country as to dictate who we will and will not allow to be rescued.”
The premier gave a solemn tip of his head. He was, after all, appointed by Zhao.
