Red Sky

by Chris Goff

  “Or everything.” There was a pause on the pakhan’s end of the line that made Kozachenko’s skin itch. “Now tell me why Agent Jordan’s being sent to Guangzhou.”

  Kozachenko was caught off guard. “The DSS agent is going to China?”

  “You didn’t know? You sound worried, Vasyl.”

  Kozachenko couldn’t deny it. It made him angry he wasn’t informed and uneasy to think of Agent Jordan in Guangzhou digging for information. “That one is trouble, Pakhan. Don’t underestimate her.”

  “You worry too much, Vasyl. She won’t be a problem. I have already arranged a special welcoming committee.”

  Chapter 14

  The Guangzhou airport teemed with people. Not unexpected at the start of business on a weekday in a city of forty-four million, but Jordan wasn’t a big fan of crowds. Stepping into the sea of people, she allowed herself to be swept along toward baggage claim and worked to ignore the overt stares of the other travelers. She couldn’t decide if it was her red hair, the way she dressed, or the fact she stood half a foot taller than most of the women that garnered all the attention. Near the immigration counter, the humidity from outside overwhelmed the air conditioning. Sweat dampened her collar. She could see the exit and handed the customs official her passport, waiting impatiently while he scanned it through the system. Under normal circumstances, the diplomatic passport worked in her favor. This time, the customs agent questioned her.

  “Do you have a weapon in your bag?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Knowing she wouldn’t be allowed to carry her weapon off mission grounds, Jordan had left her 9 mil in a gun locker at the embassy in Kyiv. She figured that if she really needed a weapon, the RSO at the consulate in Guangzhou could provide her with one.

  The customs agent didn’t believe her. He insisted on searching her bag, and by the time he let her pass, she was hot, testy, and running late for her meeting with the local RSO.

  As she exited the customs area, the chatter of Cantonese, Mandarin, and Hakka in the main terminal mixed with the techno-style music pulsing through the terminal speakers plucked at her fraying nerves. People pushed and shoved as they hurried for the doors, and Jordan felt her patience slipping. After sixteen-plus hours of travel from Kyiv, all she really wanted was a decent cup of coffee.

  She waited in line for a Starbucks, then headed outside to find the driver Lory had said would be there to meet her. He stood in a queue of other drivers holding a sign with her name on it.

  “Néih hóu,” she said. Hello.

  “Welcome to Guangzhou.”

  That ended the small talk, and the driver turned his attention to maneuvering traffic. The rule of thumb seemed to be whoever nosed in first had the right of way. After a few minutes acclimating to the braking, accelerating, and weaving, Jordan turned her attention to the information that Mary had sent, skimming the pages for a second time.

  Once DSS verified the victim with McClasky wasn’t Zhen, Lory had ordered a full-scale investigation into what’d happened. The primary goal was to find Zhen, ID his doppelgänger, then determine who had ordered the switch and why.

  Most of the intel related to Kia Zhen showed a few petty juvenile offenses and some affiliation with the Triad, but it was hard to be a Chinese American living in Dai Foa, or Big City, as the Chinese called San Francesco, who didn’t have some contact with the gangs. After graduating from high school with honors, he’d taken a gap year. He clearly hadn’t used it productively.

  Leaning her head back, Jordan closed her eyes. Lory expected answers. Finding them might not prove to be easy.

  Thirty minutes later, she was jarred awake. Blinking her eyes, it took her a moment to get her bearings. The driver was parked against the curb in front of the U.S. consulate. A long line of Chinese citizens were queued in front of the door.

  “What do I owe you?” she asked the driver.

  “Nothing. I work for the consulate.”

  She collected her bag, handed him twenty-five yuan as a tip, and headed for the main building. Four stories of stone and teak wood, it anchored the 7.4-acre consulate complex and was intended to welcome visitors. Jordan thought it looked like a giant loaf of bread.

  Skirting the line, she walked up to the desk and flashed her badge. After signing in, she passed through a metal detector and was directed to the third floor. RSO Jennifer Todd was waiting when she stepped off the elevator.

  “I’m glad you made it, Agent Jordan,” Todd said, extending her hand. “The traffic can be brutal this time of day.”

  Jordan returned the woman’s handshake. “It was customs that gave me the most trouble.”

  “That, too.” Todd’s blue eyes twinkled. “I mean, what about immunity don’t they understand?” Fit and fifty, the RSO could have passed for twenty-five. Small and compact with blonde hair that hung straight to her shoulders, her sleeveless dress showed off a set of guns that would make most men jealous.

  “Did Agent Lory fill you in?” Jordan asked, following Todd down the hall to an office that faced the river.

  “As a matter of fact, he did. This plane crash is a horrible thing. I’m not sure how much help I can be, but I’ll try to answer your questions.”

  “I can only imagine the phone calls you’ve been fielding.”

  “Between the press and the family members, we’ve been under siege.” Todd crossed to her desk. “Of course, it’s the families that my staff and I care most about.”

  “How’s the government reacting?”

  “They seem more concerned with keeping the families in line. Yesterday we saw protests. Always unnerving, considering how unusual that is here and how the Chinese government tends to react.”

  Jordan thought of the iconic images of Tiananmen Square. She’d only been a small child, but between the recorded violence and the disparate numbers reported of the dead and injured, the tongues of the free world had wagged. It hadn’t helped China’s image.

  Rather than offer Jordan a seat, Todd knelt down beside her desk. “Lory tells me you want to know how we tracked down Zhen.”

  From her use of past tense, Jordan wondered if she’d heard the news of the switch. “Didn’t Lory brief you?”

  “About the plane crash?”

  “About Zhen.”

  Todd stood up, clutching a small purse. “He told me we got the wrong man.”

  Jordan nodded. “We need to find the real Zhen and ID the man sent home in his place.”

  “Then the best bet is talking to Detective Yang Li.” Todd toed the bottom desk drawer shut with her foot. “He’s our Foreign Service officer. He and McClasky were the ones who located your fugitive, and they were present when the other officers moved in. If anyone can shed some light on all this, I’m betting Yang can.”

  Chapter 15

  The Sing Kee restaurant was located on Di Shi Fu Road near a busy shopping district. Tall buildings lined the street, the upper stories protruding over the sidewalks, creating arches protecting pedestrians from the rain and sun. Colorful signs with cascading Chinese characters bedecked the structures and delighted the eye, but an acrid odor caused Jordan to wrinkle her nose in disgust.

  “What is that smell?”

  Todd grinned. “There’s nothing quite like the odor of fermented bean curd. It’s a delicacy called ‘stinky tofu.’ You get used to the smell.”

  Jordan wasn’t convinced, but her own stomach growled as she followed Todd into the restaurant. The eatery was busy and crowded, and it took a moment to adjust to the chatter of voices floating on the techno beat. The chartreuse and white tiles covering the walls and floor offered little in the way of acoustics. Glass chandeliers hung from high ceilings, lighting up round banquet tables. Green metal chairs cushioned in brown vinyl provided the seating. One small countertop station to the left was used to pass food from the kitchen to the wait staff.

  A young Chinese man with a neatly trimmed beard and square black glasses sat in the far corner, his back to the wall. Detective Yang,
Jordan guessed.

  He stood as they entered, and Todd made a beeline toward him. “Li, I’m so sorry we’re late.”

  “Not a problem. I am enjoying my tea.”

  “May I introduce Agent Raisa Jordan.”

  Introductions made, Yang gestured to the chairs around the table. “Please, sit.”

  A true cop, he’d already secured the best seat at the table for himself—the one with a full view of the room. Jordan chose the second best. The one to his left. From there she still had close to a full restaurant sweep. They ordered more tea, then a variety of steamed and fried dim sum: prawn and pork dumplings, chiu chow dumplings with peanuts, chicken claws in bean sauce, duck rolls, and crispy calamari. Once the waiter walked away, Detective Yang got right to business.

  “Agent Todd says you want to know about the apprehension of Kia—”

  Todd cut him off. “I haven’t told you yet, but you didn’t get him, Li.” She filled him in on the details. The detective looked dumb struck.

  “That isn’t possible.”

  “Except it is,” Todd said. “Somehow his picture was switched in the system. The photos and IDs we used to get him out of the country are an exact match to the man pretending to be Zhen. It suggests an inside job.”

  “And I’m telling you, it’s not possible,” Yang said. “Agent McClasky showed me a picture of Zhen taken in San Francesco.”

  That surprised Jordan. Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she scrolled to the picture of Zhen. “Was it this picture?”

  Yang squinted at the screen, moving it closer to study the picture. “It’s the same photograph, different man.”

  “This is the real Kia Zhen,” Jordan said. “We believe McClasky received doctored photos and or falsified documents allowing someone else to be transferred.”

  “On whose orders? Someone at the consulate?” Yang looked genuinely surprised.

  The U.S. consulate employed more than four hundred people in various capacities and processed over one million visa applications a year. Someone could easily have been paid to alter or delete Zhen’s photos. And considering what little she knew about Chinese cybercrime and their rampant government corruption, it didn’t seem too much of a stretch to believe the People’s Republic had at least one hacker capable of doing the same.

  “Or someone at the police district,” Jordan said, not willing to let all the blame fall on the Americans.

  Todd bobbed her head in agreement. “We’ve got our experts looking into it, but I’m afraid it’s possible we’ll never know who perpetrated the act.”

  “To be honest, I’m not that interested in how it happened,” Jordan said. “I’m more interested in finding Zhen. Detective Yang, can you walk me through what went down that day?” She dredged a dumpling through the char siu sauce and popped it into her mouth, savoring the tender pork while concentrating on Yang’s recounting.

  “Agent McClasky came to my office with that picture and a suspected location. We headed straight there and spotted Zhen. Then before we could move in, the Guangdong police department initiated a drug raid on the apartment complex. They brought a full contingent of men and moved door to door, arresting everyone. The chief inspector was even on scene. The police took thirty-seven people to jail that day, including Kia Zhen.”

  “Did you or McClasky tell anyone on scene why you were there?”

  “We tried, but no one listened. We ended up going back to police headquarters. Your legal attaché is stationed in Beijing, so Agent McClasky contacted the consulate’s political officer while I spoke with the chief. Together your PO and my chief arranged for Zhen to be released into U.S. custody.”

  From where Jordan was sitting, it appeared that one of two things had happened. Either the Chinese had substituted someone for Zhen in order to keep him in China or the PO had used Zhen’s capture as a means to smuggle someone out of the country. The question was, which scenario fit best? And what made silencing the man on board PR Flight 91 worth the lives of over three hundred men, women, and children? More and more, it seemed that Zhen was the key.

  “What can you tell me about the Guangdong Triad?” she asked, reaching for another dumpling. “According to our sources, they’d put a hit out on Zhen.”

  Yang heaved a sigh. “The gangs are the biggest disgrace in our country. The Guangdong Triad is one of the largest, with a membership of approximately forty thousand worldwide. They and their numerous subgroups control the drug and weapons smuggling throughout the region and have their fingers in all the illegal gambling and extortion rackets in the Guangdong Province. They’re also heavily involved in the illegal mining of rare-earth metals.”

  Jordan blew out a soft whistle. They had enough members to fill two towns the size of the one she’d grown up in. “It’s rumored the Triad has strong ties with the police and a significant number of the communist elite. Could they have had a hand in this?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. The Guangdong Triad is unstoppable,” Yang said. “Chinaweek even lists its dragon head as one of the fifty most powerful people in Asia.”

  Todd, who’d been picking at the rice on her plate with her chopsticks, looked up. “It’s hard to combat them. Many of the communist leaders consider the gangs patriotic. Leaders have even called on them to disrupt protests in times of civil unrest.”

  Yang nodded, swirling the tea in his cup. “The worst part is that the Guangdong Triad is only one of our gangs. We have documented as many as twelve hundred others. It is the scourge of my country.”

  Jordan glanced up as the waiter approached carrying a fresh teapot in his left hand.

  Odd. She remembered him being right-handed.

  A knife flashed in his hand. Instinctively Jordan threw up her arm, deflecting the blow. The teapot fell to the floor and shattered.

  Yang jumped to his feet and reached for his gun. “Stop! Police!”

  The dining room erupted. Patrons jumped up and fled, knocking over tables, streaming toward the exits. Jordan spotted eight young men in various sizes and shapes, dressed in black and wearing bandanas across their faces, coming through the front door and pushing toward them through the crowd.

  The waiter jumped up before Yang could clear his gun from his holster.

  Jordan lunged. Grabbing the waiter’s wrist, she twisted the man’s arm. He spun, his sleeve riding up to reveal the bottom half of a dragon’s tail tattoo. Jordan forced him to face her, then jabbed him hard in the throat, and he fell to the ground.

  Yang wrestled his pistol free and fired it once in the air. “Police.”

  Again the waiter staggered to his feet, hitting Yang hard on the back of the neck. The detective grunted and went down, falling on top of his weapon. Just as quickly, Jordan slammed the waiter back to the floor. Behind her, she could see Todd grappling with an assailant.

  “Run,” Todd yelled.

  The attacker lunged, then stepped back holding a bloody knife. Todd screamed and gripped her side, blood streaming through her fingers.

  “Go!” she yelled.

  Jordan sized up the advancing team. They carried knives, no guns, and they were focused on her. If she ran, they would follow, hopefully leaving Todd and Yang alone. Still, she found it hard to abandon them.

  “Go!” Todd yelled again.

  Jordan bolted. Taking the emergency exit, she found herself on the busy street. “Gau mehng ā!” Help!

  People all around ducked into doorways. Only two men remained in the open. They approached and didn’t look friendly.

  “Stop her,” yelled a man running into the street behind her. He grabbed hold of her hair, and Jordan instinctively stepped back, releasing the tension that threatened to pull the strands from her scalp. Grabbing his hand with both of hers, she rotated until his arm bent backward and then pulled back his pinky finger until she heard the bone snap. He quickly released his grip, and she kicked him hard in the groin.

  Seeking an avenue of escape, she found herself face-to-face with one of the men in the street. He w
as big. A dragon tattoo wrapped his arm. He looked like he thought this was fun.

  “You want to fight?” he said, grinning.

  Jordan feinted to the right. He dodged in front of her. She moved left, and he dodged left.

  “You want the police?” He threw back his head. “Gingchaat!” he shouted, then looked around, spreading his hands wide. “What, no officers coming to help you?”

  The group of assailants had formed a semicircle at her back. Through the restaurant window, she could see people bending over Todd and Yang. Help may have been summoned, but she would likely be captured or killed before they arrived.

  The first rule of defense was “when placed in a dangerous situation, find an escape route.” Her best option was through the man blocking her path. With luck, he would trip up his friends.

  Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her “tactical pen.” She’d carried one since academy training. It looked like an ordinary writing instrument, but it was made out of aircraft-grade aluminum and had a strong pointed end that could be used as an ice pick. It was the next best thing to a gun.

  Palming the pen in her right hand, she raised her hands as if ready to fight.

  “Ooohh, the lady wants to box,” the man said. Pulling back his right arm, he took a swing.

  Jordan raised her left arm, and his fist connected with her elbow. She braced for the jolt. At the same time, she swung her right hand and drove the point of the tactical pen hard into his pectoral muscles. When the man dropped to his knees, Jordan jumped over his body and ran.

  “Catch the bitch!” the man yelled, one arm clutched tight to his side, his right hand cradled in his lap. Two blocks down, Jordan could see the entrance to the Di Shi Fu Shopping Mall.

  She pushed herself faster, putting the results of her daily physical training to the test. She held a thirty-second lead when she hit the front door.

  With no time to assess her best move, she pushed through the crowd and jumped on the escalator to the second floor, taking the steps two at a time, pushing past angry customers while ignoring their angry protests.