Red Sky

by Chris Goff

  “And two just passed me headed north,” Stas said through the radio. “You have maybe three minutes to get out of sight.”

  “Quickly, follow me.” Barkov gunned the motor and sped down the dirt road. Kozachenko followed him through the gate, careening along in the dark, pitching back and forth on the rutted gravel. On the right, he could see the large warehouse and on the left, a small mechanic’s shed.

  Barkov pulled up short, and Kozachenko nearly ran into him. “What the fuck?”

  “We’re out of time,” Barkov said. “We need to put the truck in here.” The doors of the shed were padlocked shut, and one of the men pulled out his gun.

  “Are you crazy?” Kozachenko said, knocking the barrel toward the ground. “Someone will hear the shot.”

  The police car had reached the first turn off the road.

  “You want to just wait for them to catch up to us?” Barkov asked. “We’ll be forced to kill them all, and then what? We’d have the entire force upon us.”

  “First, we need to be smart.” Kozachenko pointed to the mechanic’s shed. “We’ll park the vehicles next to the building where it’s blocked by the trees. Everyone, get out and help. Quickly,” he ordered. “Barkov, run back on foot, lock the gate, and then get out of sight.”

  Without turning on the lights, they maneuvered the trucks into position with only seconds to spare. From the shelter of the trees, Kozachenko heard the shouts of the policemen as the cars pulled up near the gate. Suddenly a bright spotlight flared, sweeping the side of the silo.

  “They didn’t come past us,” one officer said, climbing out of his cruiser and walking over to rattle the gate. Another officer joined him. Together they circled their flashlights along the trees, the side of the large warehouse, down toward the train cars. The beams crisscrossed as they neared the small mechanic’s shed, and Kozachenko sucked in a breath, fearful even a whisper of sound might give them away.

  “I say we check the warehouse,” said one of the officers.

  “There wasn’t enough time for them to hide in there. I say we check the forests along the river.”

  “We can do both. We’ll check the forests and rivers first and come back once someone comes out and opens these gates.”

  Making a final sweep with their spotlights, the officers got back in their cars, turned around, and drove away. Once they were out of range, Kozachenko keyed his radio. “Barkov, get back here now. Dudyk, come in?”

  No response.

  “Dudyk?”

  This time there was a crackle on the radio, but his words were garbled. Either he was out of range or there was a problem. Regardless, they needed to load the vehicles here onto the train and out of sight.

  A few minutes later, Stas showed up along with two other men.

  “This is how things will go from here, Vasyl.” Stas spelled it out for Kozachenko, who decided the plan was simple, if crazy. Tomorrow morning, a train would pass through and pick up the seven cars on the track before proceeding on to Hoholeve. There the task of loading the crash debris into the cars would commence. Once the train cars were loaded, the rubble would be freighted to Krakow.

  “And we’re supposed to just get on the train?” asked Kozachenko.

  “Nyet, the trucks will be hidden in here.” He pointed to a car that looked longer than the others. “This one is designed for the vehicles to be parked snug to the walls on either end. Once they’re correctly positioned, my men and I will fit false walls into place, sealing you in. To anyone loading the cars, it will appear to be the same amount of space.”

  “Someone is bound to notice the difference in length and question why the car holds less than it should.”

  “Yes, but I’m the one in charge of loading them. I’ll make sure no questions are asked.”

  Watching the men as they maneuvered the truck and SUV into position, Kozachenko felt a wave of fear. He hated tight spaces. Even as a child, he’d hated playing hide-and-seek and tucking himself away in dark, cramped places. “How long will we be inside?”

  “Three days, provided the train runs on schedule.”

  “That doesn’t leave us much time at the other end. You’re sure this is the fastest route?”

  “It’s the best that could be arranged on short notice.”

  Kozachenko had the feeling Stas enjoyed being in charge, but his plan was far from foolproof. If they managed to avoid detection in Hoholeve, there was still the Polish border crossing and the need to keep the bodies fresh.

  “How cold will these cars get?”

  “They will be set between two and four degrees, just cold enough to keep the bodies from decomposing anymore, not cold enough to cause them to freeze.”

  That meant, even bundled up inside their sleep sacks, it would barely be tolerable. Kozachenko also hated the cold. If ever there was a time to become a believer in God, it would be now.

  “You’re sure there is no other way.”

  “Don’t worry, Vasyl. Take heart. I’ve made arrangements for extra blankets and vodka. Lots of vodka.”

  Chapter 21

  A blue VW pulled up in front of the noodle and congee shop, and Jordan recognized the driver. It was the same man who had picked her up from the airport.

  “Let’s go, Davis. Our ride is here.”

  While he paid the check, Jordan stepped outside under the awning. The rain had backed off to a light drizzle, but the heat and humidity were relentless. After making a quick survey of the street, she hurried toward the car.

  “Néih hóu,” she said.

  “Long time no see, Special Agent Jordan,” he replied, holding open the door to the backseat. He jerked his head toward Davis, who was exiting the restaurant. “Who’s this guy? He wasn’t with you yesterday.”

  “He’s a friend.”

  Davis held out his hand. “Nye Davis.”

  “Charlie, everybody calls me Charlie.” He shook Davis’s hand, waited until they were both inside, then climbed in behind the wheel, rain spatter glistening on his dark hair. “I don’t know what you did, Agent, but you did it good.”

  “That seems to be my forte,” she said. “Is there a plan?”

  “No good plan. We can’t go back to the consulate now, too many Chinese police outside. The PO says to lay low, and he’ll be in touch once he figures something out. We have a safe house north of town.” Charlie dropped the car into gear. “For now, I’ll take you there.”

  A safe house. Another indication that the PO was CIA. A secure, secret residence wasn’t something the consulate would keep. And since Charlie knew about it, that made him either CIA or an asset.

  “How did you make everyone so mad?”

  The PO had told her to trust Charlie, but what if the PO couldn’t be trusted? There was still the question of who engineered the prisoner swap.

  Not willing to tip her hand, she offered up only a piece of the puzzle. She told him she’d been on a quest to figure out what Zhen knew that had spooked McClasky, not that Zhen might still be alive.

  “Plus, I found something at the crash site.” Jordan had said it casually, but it dropped like a bomb. Davis twisted in the seat beside her. Charlie stared back at her from his rearview mirror. Then she told them about the fragment.

  “I knew it! I knew that plane was intentionally brought down,” Davis said.

  “Except there’s no real proof. The crash is still under investigation, and the IIC is leaning toward ruling it an accident.”

  “Is that what you think?” Charlie asked.

  “No.” She thought the plane had been shot down.

  “How much have you learned about the fragment?” Davis asked.

  “Our forensic guy sent it out for testing.”

  “Henry?”

  Jordan eyed him suspiciously. “You know him?”

  Davis raised his hands in the universal sign for surrender. “I talked to him. For the record, he refused to tell me anything.”

  “Good man.” It made sense to Jordan that Davis woul
d try, but she was glad to know Henry had shown discretion.

  “So what did he find?” Charlie asked.

  “It came back high for rare-earth metals.”

  “Chinese metal,” Charlie said.

  “You came to that conclusion fast,” Davis said.

  “China manufactures ninety percent of the rare-earth metals. They use them in making all kinds of specialty items, cell phones, wind turbines. China is also one of the world’s leading steel exporters.”

  “Could the plane have been made with Chinese steel?” Davis asked.

  “Not according to Henry. He claims the plane manufacturer doesn’t use Chinese steel.”

  “Then it came from whatever brought down the plane,” Davis said.

  “That’s the theory. Henry was able to pinpoint the composite of the metal to a specific area north of here.” She explained to them about the content analysis and its connection to REE Manufacturing. “If they produced the steel, they should have records of where it was sold. If we can track the shipments, maybe we can figure out who used it to build a weapon.”

  Both men remained quiet, and she waited for one of them to speak.

  Charlie looked up at the mirror. “Did you ever think maybe they built it?”

  “It makes sense,” Davis said. “The charge against Zhen is espionage, right? Maybe he hacked some weapons plan.”

  “Great minds think alike,” she said. The right weapon schematics could be worth millions, but any buyer would want a prototype to ensure the plans worked. “The only caveat is it appears to be Russians who shot down the plane.”

  Charlie whistled softly. “You’re talking about a weapons sale.”

  Davis was nodding. “Zhen steals the plans, REE builds the weapon and then sells it to the Russians.”

  “Are you thinking the sale was government sanctioned?” Charlie asked.

  Jordan shook her head. According to her research, the rare-earth metals mining industry had started out state-owned. Then, with the onset of the market economy, some private entities had moved in. Then China tried driving up prices by limiting trade, and the Triad had waded in through the sludge of illegal mining operations. “More likely it was the Triad. Why else would they come after me?”

  “In China, sometimes the two are intertwined,” Charlie said. As he gave them a crash course in the Chinese mining industry, an idea began forming in Jordan’s head.

  “Hey, guys,” she broke in. “We have some time, don’t we?” Lory had given her forty-eight hours, though now with the change in current affairs, time had become a non sequitur.

  Charlie narrowed his eyes in the mirror. “Why?”

  “How about we make a trip to Shaoguan?”

  “Why would we want to go there?”

  “According to Henry, that’s where the metal in the fragment was mined, and there’s an REE Manufacturing plant located just south of the city. Either we use our time waiting around for the PO to call, or we use it figuring out what Zhen knew that got his plane blown out of the sky.”

  “I vote we go to the Great Wall,” Charlie said. “It’s much better for tourists.”

  “Are you saying we won’t blend in in Shaoguan?”

  “You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

  Jordan looked at Davis. “What do you say?”

  “I’m in.”

  Charlie looked between them in the mirror. “I say you’re crazy. But if you want to go to Shaoguan,” he shifted the car into overdrive, “fasten your seat belts. I’m taking you on the scenic route.”

  While Davis snapped pictures out the windows, Jordan soaked in the landscape. At first there were skyscrapers shrouded in the polluted air of the city that soon gave way to suburbs. For a stretch, neat rows of blue and pink patio homes marched in lines up the rolling green hillsides, colliding with areas of incomplete construction until they eventually climbed into the mountains, leaving behind all traces of town.

  Lulled by the slap of the tires on concrete, Jordan dozed in and out until she felt the car slow. Scooting up on the seat, she checked the clock on the dashboard. They’d been driving north for nearly two hours. Out the windows, small farms began dotting the landscape.

  “Are we getting close?” she asked.

  “To the mines.” Charlie slowed even more and pointed off to the right. “They come in these mountains before we get to the city. Maybe it’s time you make a plan. You can’t just walk in and ask to see their sales records.”

  “He’s right,” Davis said, “but this is where what I do comes in handy.”

  The three of them outlined a plan. Davis and Jordan would go in together while Charlie stayed with the car. Davis would introduce himself as a journalist doing a story on illegal mining in the area. How in addition to destroying the rivers and poisoning farmland, the illegal mines were cutting into the profits of legitimate companies like REE. Then he’d ask to speak to the man in charge.

  “It would help if we knew something about him,” Jordan said.

  “You want to use my laptop?” Charlie passed a laptop over the seatback. Davis snatched it out of his hands.

  “Okay, I’ve got something,” Davis said after tapping a few keys. “His name is Ping Mu. In 1995, he graduated with a master’s degree in engineering, joined the Communist Party of China, and started working as an engineer at REE’s steel factory in Hainan. After eighteen years with the company, he was promoted to head of manufacturing at the Shaoguan plant. Five years later, he’s on the fast track to being one of REE’s next deputy general managers. Here’s a photo of the plant.”

  Jordan moved close to see the screen. If you discounted the number of tattooed persons showing up in the aerial, Ping sounded like a standup guy. Suddenly aware she was leaning against his shoulder, Jordan pulled away. “So you’re playing you. Who am I supposed to be?”

  “My assistant, of course.”

  As the person who should be in charge, Jordan wasn’t keen on being relegated to minion status. “Let’s not forget who’s running this operation.”

  “It gets us in the door,” Davis said.

  “We’re here,” Charlie announced, pointing off to the right.

  The mine at Fanshuikeng loomed before them, a blight on an otherwise tranquil landscape. Mine tailings scarred the top half of the mountain, while the REE Manufacturing plant squatted at its base, dwarfed by the scope of its digging operations.

  “Good, just park in front,” she said. Charlie pulled through the gate, turned the car around, and backed into a parking space across from the main entrance.

  “REE Manufacturing.” Charlie gestured to the sign in front. He waved a hand up and down, then across the letters. “Top-to-bottom, right-to-left reading. Do you want me to come in and translate for you?”

  As an asset, it was probably better for him not to be seen with them.

  “Thanks, but just stay with the car.”

  “You’re the boss. But you should take these.” Charlie handed them each a phone. “For now they’re safe to use. I preprogrammed them with my number and the number of the other phone.”

  Spotting a face in an upstairs window, Jordan tapped Davis on the shoulder. “That’s our cue. We don’t want to give them too much time to get suspicious.” Climbing out of the car, she patted the window frame. “Thanks, Charlie. Keep the engine running. We won’t be long.”

  Davis joined her outside the car, and together they crossed the parking lot. With each step, Jordan took measure of the complex. The main building was a large, two-story warehouse that appeared to house the offices and serve as storage for finished product. In the near distance was a cluster of other buildings where she figured the actual production took place. Behind the heavy metal entry door, a staircase ended on a landing.

  “Ladies first,” Davis said.

  “You go,” she replied, making it clear who was in charge.

  Climbing the staircase, she spotted a motion detector high on the wall and another security camera.

  The heat
and humidity seemed to weigh them both down. At the top of the stairs, Davis paused. “Here you should go first.”

  “Fine.” Jordan opened the door marked “Office” and reveled in the blast of cold air that raised goose bumps on her arms. Standing in the doorway, she blinked and let her eyes adjust to the lighting. In front of her was a long, high counter separating the entry from the receptionist’s area. To her left, a bank of windows covered in blinds looked out toward the parking lot. To the right, another, taller bank of windows revealed a cavernous warehouse filled with pallets of steel product, the view reaching across the plant floor to what appeared to be a mirror-image office on the opposite side.

  Jordan noted the two cameras mounted in the corners of the room and then stepped forward to the counter. A woman about her own age stood behind it watching a row of flat-screen monitors, each showing a different view of the property: the warehouse floor, the offices, the back door, and the parking lot.

  “Néih hóu. Nī douh yáuh móuh yàhn sīk góng Yīngmán a?” Does someone here speak English? Jordan said, butchering the Cantonese.

  “I can help you.”

  Jordan smiled. “We’d like to speak to your employer. My boss is a journalist doing a story—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ping is out.”

  Across the warehouse, a man stood at the window. Jordan figured the girl was lying. “Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?”

  “No.”

  She was either efficient or stonewalling.

  So much for Davis’s plan.

  “A man named Kia Zhen recommended we talk to him,” Jordan said. “Is he in by any chance?”

  At Zhen’s name, the woman recoiled slightly. Jordan was sure she recognized it.

  “We have no Zhen working here.” The woman shook her head, straight black bangs swishing across her brow. “I’m afraid I can be of no help.”

  Davis looked unhappy, and Jordan considered her options. There was nothing to gain by being pushy and everything to gain by waiting to see what happened after they left.

  “I guess we’ll have to come back, then.”

  Davis pulled out a business card and handed it to the woman. “Please tell your boss I was here.”