“I said case closed,” repeated Walker, louder and with undeniable finality. He turned and headed for the stairs to his glass-walled office, perched at the rear of the giant command center. “Get back to work. All of you.”
Romeo Seven’s tiny floor staff suddenly found renewed interest in their computer screens. Still, as Nick retreated to his office through the briar patch of desks and computers, he could feel the weight of ten sets of eyes intentionally not looking at him.
Nick sat down at his computer and called up the objectives for the final Wraith test mission. He tried to focus on the flight, to visualize the maneuvers, but he couldn’t clear the thoughts of a leak from his mind.
“Knock, knock.” Drake appeared at Nick’s office door, carrying a brown file in his hands. “You trying to give the old man a heart attack?”
Nick swiveled away from his computer and looked up at his teammate. “I think we might have a serious security problem.”
“You mean you think we have a mole,” observed Drake. He set the file down on a shelf and then flopped down on Nick’s couch, kicking his heels up onto the arm. “You can’t be serious.”
“I think someone has been trying to get their hands on a stealth aircraft.”
“Everybody is trying to get their hands on a stealth aircraft.”
Nick leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles. “Yeah, but what if the problems we had ten years ago weren’t just Murphy’s Law in overdrive? What if we actually had a mole? Our return to Iraq might have awakened a sleeper within our own network.” He tilted his head back and searched the ceiling tiles for an answer. “I’ve been trying to remember everyone who was on our crew back then. You know, to match up the lists and find out how many people from the old days were involved in this mission.”
“It’s got to be a short list,” offered Drake. “You, me, and Heldner, for starters. And what about Walker?”
“Very funny. Why would he hide the bomber for ten years and then bring in an enemy team when we were there to stop them?”
“Maybe he was trying to have you killed,” said Drake with a grin. “He doesn’t like you that much.”
“But you were almost killed too.”
Drake shrugged. “He doesn’t like me at all.”
Nick laughed, but then another name popped into his mind from the Dream Catcher mission. “What about your girlfriend?” he asked. “Amanda was there too, running Dream Catcher’s propulsion team. And she works for us now.” Then he shook his head, dismissing the idea. “But Amanda didn’t know about this op.”
“Right. Good point. Amanda didn’t know,” said Drake, sitting up and swinging his feet to the floor.
Nick caught an uneasy twist in his friend’s tone. He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell your girlfriend that you were heading out to the Persian Gulf, did you?”
Drake became defensive. “Whoa, back off, Nancy Drew. Even if I did tell her, she’s our number one technology consultant. She’s got plenty of clearance. And, anyway, Amanda is about to join the squadron permanently to lead the Wraith support team.” His cheeks flushed. “She loves this squadron. She’s no traitor.”
Nick held up his hands. “All right, take it easy. It was a dumb question.”
Drake nodded. “Yes, yes it was. And you’re forgiven . . . again.” He picked up the file and thrust it toward Nick. “Here.”
“What’s this?”
“It’s the background on our new recruit. I thought you might find it interesting.”
Nick accepted the file. “The kid said something about being part of the test tonight,” he said, studying the picture clipped to the front of the folder. “Do you know anything about that?”
“He’s going to be our test dummy for the new Skyhook system.”
Nick looked up abruptly, giving his friend a wary look. “Does he understand the risks?”
Drake stood and raised his hands in the air, as if absolving himself of responsibility. “The colonel approved it,” he said, turning to leave. He paused in the doorway and looked back. “Don’t work too long, boss. You need to go home and get some rest before tonight’s mission. You’re not Superman, you know.”
Nick nodded and waved Drake away with a few flicks of his hand. Then he laid the folder on his desk and studied the picture of Quinn again, trying to grasp what he saw earlier in those green eyes. “Okay, kid,” he said, “what’s your story?”
He opened the file to the first page. The bold print at the top of the paper read RECORD OF PUNISHMENT FOR OFFENSES UNDER THE UNIFORM CODE OF MILITARY JUSTICE.
Nick dropped his forehead into his hand. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
CHAPTER 22
Defense Minister Liang heard the sharp click of narrow heels marching across the worn tile floor of his office. He looked up expectantly and smiled to see Mei, his secretary, approaching. Then he noticed the young PLA guard at the door looking in his direction. The smile flattened into his usual, expressionless military veneer. “Yes, Mei?”
“Here are both generals’ files,” replied Mei, bowing slightly as she placed two manila folders on the minister’s desk.
Liang let his eyes drift down from her long elegant neck to her narrow waistline and back up to her lightly rouged lips. Mei’s eyes flashed up to meet his, and a brief smile crossed her small mouth. Then she cast them down again. “Will that be all, Minister Liang?” she asked.
Mei’s question alerted Liang that he had paused a bit too long. “Er . . . yes. That will be all, Mei,” he responded awkwardly. “It is late. You may go if you wish.”
Mei bowed again, catching Liang’s eyes once more. “Yes, Minister. Thank you.”
Liang glanced at the guard, but the young man only seemed interested in Mei, mesmerized by her leisurely retreat from the office. How could he blame him?
He turned his attention to the files on his desk, opening the first to take one last look at the service history of General Zheng Ju-long. What a distinguished and remarkable career. What a shame.
He slowly closed the folder. Despite his affection for the man, Liang could not justify maintaining his recommendation for Zheng as the next minister of defense. He had grown too ambitious, too reckless. Liang could not risk passing his legacy to a man who could easily lead China into the biggest political disaster of his generation, or worse.
He opened the other file. General Ho Geming had also served with distinction. His record boasted numerous accolades, as well as postgraduate degrees in electrical and aerodynamic engineering. Ho had given ardent support to the failed J-20 stealth aircraft program, but so had many. And his enthusiasm in the endeavor proved his loyalty. At the bottom of the file, Liang found the memo Mei had prepared for the Politburo, expressing Liang’s endorsement of General Ho as his successor. He lifted a pen, paused a moment longer, and then signed his name.
On the way out of his office, Liang patted the guard on the shoulder. “You are a good guard, a good soldier,” he said in a fatherly voice. “I am sure that you have many ambitions beyond standing watch over an old man. I appreciate your service, but you may go home now.” He had no desire for state security to follow him through his evening activities.
Liang’s driver waited for him by the elevators in the Defense Ministry’s marble lobby. He crushed out his cigarette in the white sand of an ashtray. “Ready to go, boss?” His voice echoed in the wide, empty reception area.
“Chu,” said Liang as they walked into the parking garage. “Thank you for your patience. Perhaps you could humor me once again?”
The young man bowed. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He could not contain his anticipation. “Would you like me to accompany you, Minister Liang?”
Liang smiled. “No, Chu. I prefer the solace that my long drive provides. You may go for the evening. Me
et me here first thing in the morning.”
Chu did not wait for the minister to change his mind. “Thank you, boss,” he said, bowing again. Then he hastily retreated to his bicycle, clearly excited to have a free evening with his friends.
Liang watched his driver pedal away and then unlocked his sedan. He genuinely enjoyed driving his own vehicle, despite the Politburo’s insistence to the contrary. In reality, however, the innocent quirk provided the perfect cover for his true objective: Mei.
Liang’s loneliness had engulfed him after the death of his wife, Lin. Forty-three years of marriage, of constant companionship, had left him unable to deal with the emptiness of life’s winter. Mei filled the void. He could not imagine that she really loved him, but her pretense made life bearable.
The Politburo frowned on the slightest image of indecency, no matter how innocent. The Party expected him to play the stately widower. They would never approve of his relationship with Mei. So be it. With his considerable resources, this small impropriety, this small comfort, was easy to hide.
Liang knew from the look they’d shared earlier that Mei would be waiting at the hotel. He had a long-standing and well-funded agreement with the proprietor. The room belonged to him; he had no need to check in or out. Long ago, he had presented Mei with her own key so that she could arrive separately.
As he turned the sedan toward the north side of town, Liang popped open the glove box. Customarily, he made a call on his unregistered cell to let Mei know that he was on his way. He found the illegal phone to be a necessary evil; he certainly could not count on the privacy of the state-issued phone in his briefcase.
After fishing around for a few moments, he leaned over and glanced into the compartment. A horn blared. He jerked the wheel and swerved back toward his own lane. Bright headlights flashed across his vision. After straightening the wheel and reseating his spectacles, Liang glanced quickly around the car. The cell was not there. He gave up the search. Wrecking a car that he should not be driving, while searching for a phone he should not have, on his way to meet a woman he should not be seeing, might prove difficult to explain. He smiled at his own foolishness and let it go.
No clerk sat behind the hotel registry desk. No customers lounged on the gaudy red and gold fabric furniture in the lobby. Liang hurried through anyway. A night clerk might appear and recognize him, and young clerks were prone to gossip.
On the sixth floor, he quickly pressed himself into the room. “Mei,” he called as he quietly closed the door. He heard the muted sound of running water. The bathroom light was on. “Mei,” he called again, a little louder this time. Mei still did not respond. As he crossed the room, Liang noticed a wheelchair in the corner. He barely had time to wonder what it was doing there before a stabbing pain shot through his lower back.
Liang saw no one, but a smooth, icy voice whispered in his ear, “It is best not to fight it.” He felt the life leaving his limbs. He could not move. Strong arms dragged him to the corner and lowered him into the wheelchair. Then a man with a scar above his left eye stepped into view. “Please relax. The drug has already taken hold. I am told that fighting its effects only causes pain.”
“Mei,” said Liang weakly, his ability to speak slipping away.
“Mei is not here.” The man held up Liang’s unregistered cell phone with a gloved hand and waved it for the minister to see. “Clearly, there are no secrets, Defense Minister Liang.” He did not smirk. Despite the circumstances, he seemed to regard the minister with deep respect. “I removed this from your car earlier in the day. A short while ago, I sent a text to your beloved Mei, expressing your desire to rest at home this evening. I offered an apology and the promise of a future rendezvous. It will comfort you to know that Mei is unharmed and will remain so as long as she does not unexpectedly appear. I trust that she will not.”
Why? Liang tried to form the words on his lips but only received pain for his effort. His head drooped awkwardly to one side. His vision began to fail.
“My apologies,” said the scarred man. “The drug affects nearly all of your muscles, including the ciliary muscles that focus your eyes. They are the last to fail, but they will fail completely.”
The last thing that Liang saw was a blurred vision of his briefcase, held open by the mysterious attacker.
“I greatly appreciate your bringing these files out of the ministry for me. Retrieving them from within the secure confines of your office might have proved impossible.”
Why? The question still lingered in Liang’s mind, but soon it too drifted out of focus. Then there was nothing but darkness and the ever-slowing pound of his heartbeat.
* * *
Wulóng casually but smartly pushed the wheelchair through the empty hotel lobby. He had affixed a pillowed support to the backrest for the defense minister’s head. He had also placed a surgical mask over the minister’s face and a blanket over his body up to the neck.
Liang had parked in a dark corner of the garage, and Wulóng thanked him for the courtesy of the relative concealment as he struggled to get the minister’s body into the trunk. Before he closed the lid, he risked a quick check of the carotid artery. He found a weak but satisfactory pulse.
A half hour later, Wulóng slowed to a stop a few meters short of a sharp bend in the road, not far from the defense minister’s home in the hills west of Beijing. He had scouted the site earlier in the day. The guardrail appeared weak, the cliff face sheer. The sparse vegetation promised little impediment to the sedan’s momentum. The long drop to the rocks below would ensure trauma sufficient to satisfy the state’s coroner.
“Your moment has come, Minister Liang,” said Wulóng as he opened the trunk. Liang’s eyes were open. His pupils shifted toward the assassin. Wulóng’s scarred brow creased at the unexpected movement. “I see the drug is beginning to wear off. We have little time.” He set up the chair and then pulled Liang from the trunk. As he wheeled the minister to the driver’s-side door, Liang’s slumped head lifted a fraction of an inch. “Yes. Time is definitely short.”
Wulóng slipped a small capsule into the gas tank. The tiny charge would serve as a fuse upon impact, a method of ensuring the correct result. With sedans like this one, he could never count on an explosion, no matter how forceful the crash. Then he lifted Liang into the driver’s seat. With great care, he positioned the minister’s limp arms so that his wrists rested on the spokes of the steering wheel. “You must hold this steady for me,” he said.
As Wulóng turned the key to crank the engine, Liang let out a low but insistent groan. The assassin examined his eyes. They looked surprisingly alert. “I must say, Minister, that you are showing an impressive recovery from the drug. Most people would not find their voice for at least another hour. You should be very proud.”
He cast a final glance around the sedan’s interior. Then he placed Liang’s foot on the accelerator and jumped back. The engine revved. As the spinning tires gained purchase, the car lurched forward toward the cliff and the driver’s-side door slammed shut.
Wulóng immediately turned away and started walking, not bothering to look back when the fireball erupted from below the cliff. He needed to get out of the area quickly. Besides, he had to catch a flight to America.
CHAPTER 23
Nick pulled his Mustang into the circular driveway of his home near Chapel Point. He turned the engine off and opened the door, but he did not get out of the car. A tiny breath of cool air drifted around the house, a taste of the refreshing breeze blowing over the Port Tobacco River, just fifty feet from his back porch. He needed that breeze, if only he could get through the house and onto the porch without a fight. He just needed a couple of hours to relax and rest before tonight’s mission.
He leaned back in his seat and surveyed the beautiful stone facade of his country-style house, but its high-peaked roof and three-car garage only reminded him that the mortgage was eating him alive. Thinking they
needed a big place to raise a family, he and Katy had bitten off way more than they could chew. Now they were trapped. In this economy, there was no way to unload a house this size, and any time he brought it up, the discussion ended in another fight. He found it easier to just suck it up and pay the monthly bill.
As Nick’s eyes drifted across the front door, he noticed that it stood open a few inches. That was odd. Katy always kept that door locked, even when she was home. He checked the garage. He could just see her Honda Civic through the window. There were no other vehicles in the driveway.
A hundred scenarios flashed through Nick’s mind. A Chinese assassin, a drug cartel hit man . . . If the Triple Seven Chase had a leak, the list of killers that might show up at his doorstep would be long and terrifying.
Leaving the Mustang open, he crept silently onto the porch, pausing at the door to remove the double-edged knife from the holster at his ankle. He flipped it around to conceal the blade against his forearm. Then he pushed the door open and stepped into the house.
The wide foyer seemed empty. No movement in the study, no one darting across the landing beyond the vaulted entry. Only one thing caught his attention as out of place: an unopened package sat on the credenza at the base of the stairs. Nick tuned his senses. Just above the hum of the air-conditioning, he heard the quiet rush of running water coming from the master suite. He relaxed. Katy must have opened the door to receive a delivery and then forgotten to lock it. With the exhaustion of the new baby, she seemed to miss little details like that more and more.
Just as Nick turned to go and lock up the Mustang, he heard a cabinet door close. His head snapped toward the sound. It had come from the kitchen. If Katy was up there, taking a bath, then she certainly wasn’t down here making a sandwich. He brought his knife to the ready.
The house had an open kitchen, denying him any real cover if he approached from the living room. Instead, Nick turned and crept through the dining room. He coiled his body, crouching low, placing each step with purpose. His feet never crossed as he moved, keeping his center of gravity grounded, ready for an unseen attack. He picked up a crystal tumbler from the dining-room table as he passed and then made his way into the butler’s pantry, the short entryway to the kitchen.
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