Kwan looked at Grant, feeling as if Grant’s eyes were daggers penetrating his brain. He knelt next to the man, whose breathing was becoming more shallow and labored. “Měiguó rén zài nǎlǐ?”
The man grimaced in pain. His eyelids fluttered as he tried to speak. Kwan had to lean close to the man’s mouth, straining to hear what was being spoken.
He looked up at Grant, saying, “I don’t know what he means. It sounded like he said ‘America.’”
“Well that clears up everything,” Adler said shaking his head.
Grant kept rolling the word “America” over and over in his brain, trying to understand. Then, his eyes narrowed as he stared at Kwan. “Get his name.”
“What difference. . .?”
Yanking Kwan off the floor, Grant pulled him closer. “You know who he is, don’t you, you sonofabitch?”
“I. . .I only suspected.”
Grant said quietly, “You’re one fuckin’ CIA agent. What’s it gonna take for you to realize we’re on the same goddamn side!”
Adler asked with surprise, “Don’t tell me this is the guy who had the canisters?!”
Grant gave Kwan a shove, knocking him back. “Answer him, Kwan. Tell us the poor bastard’s name.”
“Yes. Yes. It’s him. His name’s Li Ang.”
“How’d you know?” Adler questioned with eyebrows raised.
“Zhu wanted Langley to bring Ang out. Request was denied. That was before Langley knew about the plutonium. I thought I could get him out safely with Zhu the night the SEALs came.
“I gave Zhu a code name for Ang to use, then got a description of him. I wanted to set up a meeting. My plan was to take Ang to the extraction site. But he never showed for the meeting. I guess that’s when he went underground.”
Grant asked with surprise, “You?! You were going to take him?” Kwan nodded.
“How the hell do you think he ended up here?” Adler asked suspiciously.
Kwan wiped a hand across his forehead. “I swear to God, I don’t know. I never had any contact with him.”
Grant said, “Ask him if he knows what happened to the canisters.”
Kwan asked the question, then repeated it. The man drifted in and out of consciousness. Kwan leaned close, straining to understand the response. When he straightened up, he shook his head slowly. “He doesn’t know.”
Grant turned his attention again to the dying Chinese man. He squatted down next to Stalley, and opposite Kwan. “One more question. Who did this to him?”
But it was too late. The final, long breath left Li Ang’s body.
Stalley removed the stethoscope from around his neck. He wiped blood off the cup before tucking it back into the medical bag, then he asked, “What do we do with him?”
Grant stood up, resting a hand on his holstered weapon. “Gotta leave him here with the rest of them, Doc. Pack up.” He brushed past Kwan, going into the passageway before he pressed the PTT button. “Seven-Three, Zero-Niner.”
Novak swallowed a mouthful of water. “Go ahead, Zero-Niner.”
“A.T. coming in. Be ready to depart my signal. You copy?”
“Copy that.”
“Zero-Niner, out.”
Adler stepped in front of Grant, tilting his head as he asked, “So, where the hell are the canisters?”
Grant drew out his .45. “I’m betting they’re wherever our guys are, Joe. C’mon. I’ve got an idea.”
The longer they delayed, the more distance would be put between them and the SEALs--and the plutonium. Grant wasn’t about to turn Kwan loose. He had to contact Mullins. He had to take the chance and use Kwan’s equipment.
Slade opened the door leading to the alley. Diaz and James stood nearby, keeping their focus on both ends of the alley.
Suddenly, they all heard Novak: “Zero-Niner! Seven-Three!”
“Go ahead, Seven-Three.”
“UFs at my three! Coming fast!” The truck was coming from Novak’s three o’clock position, bringing “unfriendlies.”
“Roger! A.T. on the move! Zero-Niner, out.”
Chapter 10
Slade raised the barrel of the Uzi, holding the weapon close to his body, as he ran to the end of the building. Behind him the rest of the Team and Kwan lined up, staying close to the wall.
Peering around the corner, Slade could see the main road. “Clear!” he whispered as he waved his arm, signaling the next two men.
Diaz and Adler took off, crouching low until they reached the opposite building. Diaz took up a position close to the corner, with Adler covering his six.
Slade signaled again. Grant and Kwan took off, getting to the opposite building just as they heard the sound of a vehicle.
“Zero-Niner, Seven-Three,” Novak called.
“Go ahead, Seven-Three.”
“Truck at fifty! Closing!”
“You got eyes on ’em?”
Novak had the crosshairs of his scope trained on the cab of the truck, finally getting a look at the driver. “Affirm. ChiComs. You copy?”
“Copy that. Ready to go. Out,” Grant whispered.
Diaz looked around the corner, still seeing it was clear, then he signaled for Slade and Stalley to haul ass.
Once the two had caught up to the Team, Slade took the point again, leading everyone down the alley, trying to reach the next side street. Turning the corner, they worked their way to the main road before stopping.
The driver pulled the truck in front of Bridge House. Even before the engine was shut down, men started jumping out of the back from under a canvas covering. Each man was armed with an AK-47. Immediately, they lined up in two rows, standing at attention, waiting for orders. Two men got out of the cab, and walked to the front of the truck.
Novak thought, Officers. It was urgent he get the Team safely across the street before the ChiComs got organized, before guards were posted.
Then he heard Slade. “Seven-Three, Four-One.”
“Go ahead, Four-One.”
“Are we clear?”
With his finger remaining poised next to the trigger, Novak scanned the area one last time. “Clear!”
The Team didn’t hesitate. Crouching low, they rushed across the road, not stopping until they were at the back of the building.
Grant pulled on Kwan’s arm, asking in a whisper, “Where’s your truck?”
Kwan pointed. “Three buildings.”
Grant immediately called Novak. “Seven-Three, Zero-Niner.”
“Go ahead, Zero-Niner.”
“A.T. block behind you, one hundred, your west. Do you copy?”
“Copy that.”
“Exit now!”
Novak quickly detached the tripod from his rifle, and stashed it in the rucksack. As he was standing, he put his arms through the straps, then flipped the rucksack over his head and onto his back. While adjusting the rifle sling on his shoulder, he took one quick glance out the window, hearing more than one voice barking out orders.
He rushed from the room, then hustled down the stairs at breakneck speed. Once he was at the door, he took a breath, then opened it slowly. Not hearing anything, he eased himself into the alley, closed the door, and pressed the PTT. “Seven-Three, departing.”
Without looking back, he took off.
*
Slade and Diaz patrolled the area forward of the truck. James and Stalley were at the rear. Kwan sat alone in the cab.
With his arms folded across his chest and his head down, Grant impatiently walked back and forth behind the truck.
Adler leaned against the vehicle. He rested the barrel of the Uzi against his shoulder. “I’m waiting,” he said as Grant walked in front of him.
Grant was already deep in thought. “Huh? What’d you say?”
“I’m waiting to hear this idea of yours.”
“Wait one, Joe.” Grant turned and hurried to the cab. Adler leaned his head, watching Grant talking with Kwan. Within a couple of minutes, Grant returned. He brushed a hand over the top of his head,
as he started to talk to Adler. “I told. . .”
The sound of Novak’s voice interrupted him. “Zero-Niner, Seven-Three. Have you in sight.”
“Roger,” Grant replied, finally spotting Novak running toward them. “Everybody in the truck!” Grant hurried to the cab. “Ken, Frank, in the back!” Turning to see Novak within ten feet of the truck, he told Kwan, “Fire it up!”
As soon as Novak disappeared inside the bed of the truck, Grant slapped the edge of the door. “Go!” He ran to the back and climbed in.
“That damn engine can wake up the dead,” Adler grumbled, as he pulled down the canvas flap.
It was nearly five miles as the crow flies to their destination. But Grant and Kwan agreed back roads would be the best route to follow.
Chapter 11
Bridge House
Colonel Tao Chiu stood in the dark alley behind Bridge
House. His fingers constantly fidgeted with the buckle on a brown leather cross-shoulder strap. With every passing minute he was becoming more agitated.
He removed his cap and rubbed his sleeve across the brim before placing it back on his head. Walking a few paces, he then turned and watched the men moving in and out of shadows. They were searching the area, looking for any sign of the guards who were supposed to patrol here.
Chiu had been assigned to the Shanghai garrison specifically to investigate Peng Zhu’s disappearance and the capture of the Americans. Lieutenant Meng Ji was in charge of questioning the prisoners at Bridge House.
During Ji’s last message, he reported that so far he’d been unsuccessful in his attempts to get information from the Americans. That message was received hours ago, more than enough time for Ji to have reported back.
Then, after unsuccessful attempts to contact Bridge House, Chiu decided to check on Ji himself.
Standing outside the building, Chiu grew more worried. Guards had still not been located. He turned to his second in command, Major Wei Faan, and pointed, “Have three men wait inside.”
Faan followed the order, sending three enlisted men immediately into the building. It didn’t even register with them that the door was unlocked instead of locked for security.
The two officers were about to enter, when a soldier ran from the far end of the alley, stopping behind them. He braced at attention. “We have found the bodies of our two comrades!”
“How did they die?” Faan inquired.
The soldier was surprised by the question. “I don’t know, Comrade.”
Faan stepped closer to the man. “Did you see blood?”
“I did not, Comrade!”
Faan looked at Chiu, waiting for instructions.
“Have everyone take up positions around the entire building,” Chiu finally ordered. The soldier saluted and rushed off.
As the two officers went inside, an offensive odor immediately hit their senses. Chiu looked toward the basement, and then upstairs. Knowing Ji was using one of the rooms on the first floor for his interrogations, Chiu ordered, “Upstairs first!”
The three enlisted men ran along the hallway on the upper floor, quickly checking rooms. One of the men stopped outside the last room, shouting, “Comrades!”
Chiu and Faan walked into the room, shocked at what they saw. Two dead officers. The room was torn apart, even the field radio was destroyed.
“Downstairs! Check for the Americans!” Chiu shouted as he spun around toward the hallway. “The three of you search the cells!” He and Faan ran behind the soldiers, with Faan turning on a flashlight.
When they reached the basement, they saw each enlisted man standing in front of a cell, with the doors wide open. Chiu tilted his head, indicating for Faan to check the first cell.
When Faan came out, he reported, “At least one American was in here. He wrote a message. There are smeared letters on the floor spelling ‘USN.’”
Chiu’s brow wrinkled. “He ‘wrote’ a message? How did he write this message?”
“With. . .with fecal matter, Comrade.”
Chiu was silent for a moment. “And the other cell?”
Faan walked into the second cell, then came out, reporting he found the same message, done in the same manner.
Seeing the third enlisted man pointing inside the last cell, the officers at first were puzzled as they walked toward the room.
Chiu followed Faan into the cell, both men standing close to the body. Shallow outer edges of pooled blood had started to dry, and they tried not to step in any of it.
Expecting to see an American, Chiu was surprised the man was Chinese. He looked at the front of the dead man’s jacket. It was unbuttoned, but both sides were drawn loosely together, leaving the abdomen partly exposed. Chiu’s eyes focused on a wound, just off-center of the stomach. He leaned closer.
“He was stabbed,” he commented, mostly to himself. He finally looked at the man’s ashen face. “Who is he?” he asked Faan.
Faan shook his head. “I don’t know, Comrade.”
“Check for identification!”
Faan squatted close to the body. He warily patted down the front of the man’s bloodied jacket, trying to avoid touching the exposed cold flesh. Then he checked the side pockets of the pants. “Nothing, Comrade.”
Chiu glared at his second in command. “Turn him over.” Faan motioned for the enlisted man to turn the body. The backs of the jacket and pants were still saturated with blood.
“Nothing is here, Colonel,” Faan reported as he stood, wiggling his fingers, feeling the stickiness of blood on his hands.
Chiu then asked, suspiciously, “Did Lieutenant Ji mention having another prisoner?”
“There was never any mention of anyone other than the two Americans being held here,” Faan replied.
Chiu left the cell. He proceeded down the hallway with his head down and hands clasped behind his back. There was no obvious explanation for what had taken place here, no reason why the Americans were gone, and no reason why an unidentified Chinese man was lying dead in a cell. And he didn’t die like the others but was stabbed. This only added to the puzzle.
Arrests had already been made at the shipyard and in Shanghai where Zhu was last seen. Beijing wanted answers: Who helped Zhu? What documents were taken from the Huludao Shipyard? The only certainty was the Americans now had Peng Zhu. And now he, Chiu, must report to Beijing that the American prisoners were missing.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs, motioning for Faan. “See if any other evidence or anything unusual was found outside or near adjoining buildings.”
“Yes, Comrade!” Faan signaled the three men, who hurried up the stairs with Faan close behind.
Chiu watched the men until they disappeared out the door. His one foot was on the bottom step, when he stopped. A cold chill ran up his spine. Did Americans do this? Had they found a way to infiltrate China? Chiu nodded to himself as a preposterous thought crossed his mind. Maybe it wasn’t so preposterous. The CIA! The CIA had been listening. He reasoned there had to be more to it because Chinese transmissions were stopped almost immediately after the Americans were captured. Then how did they know about Bridge House? Maybe the transmissions weren’t stopped soon enough. Then, another more serious thought struck him. Was it possible? Was there a CIA operative here in Shanghai? Chiu had nothing concrete to present to the officials in Beijing. But might they be interested in his theory?
It had only been several months since the two countries had officially established diplomatic relations. If he was correct, and if the CIA had instigated the abduction of the Americans--and killed Chinese in the process--would it change the current situation between his country and the U.S. for the worse?
He had to prove his theory. But where would he begin? There wasn’t any evidence left behind, only three bodies. . .no, five bodies. He had to find the American prisoners, and above all, a CIA operative. That task would be most difficult.
It was time to return to base and begin reviewing all messages and courier papers, and possibly any int
ercepted transmissions. Now, every listening post had to be put on alert. If he got lucky, he might pick up a transmission passing between the operative and the CIA. He realized the odds were very slim.
As he started up the stairs, he knew he was missing a vital clue--and it was somewhere in Bridge House.
Chapter 12
With the noise produced by the truck’s engine, it was nearly impossible to hear anything else. Grant motioned everyone closer. “Change of plans. We can’t take the chance of transmitting to D.C. I’ve been thinking what that guy said, about where our guys were taken.”
“You mean ‘America’?” Stalley asked.
Grant nodded. “Yeah, Doc. The only explanation I can come up with is possibly the new Consulate, or at least close-by.”
Adler just shook his head. “Why am I not surprised you’d come up with that?! Explain.”
“You remember on the news? The Vice President’s supposed to go to Beijing to dedicate the Consulate there, and then come to Shanghai.”
“American territory,” Adler said, nodding, making the connection.
“Right, Joe.”
“How do ya know our guys are there, Boss?” Novak asked, as he was rubbing a cleaning cloth along the barrel of his rifle.
“Not a hundred percent sure, Mike. My guess is they’re being held close-by.”
Adler’s brain kicked in. “Oh, fuck! The plutonium! Do you really think they’re gonna make some sorta bomb?”
Grant leaned back against a burlap sack, stroking his chin. “Had the thought, Joe.”
“I know it isn’t much consolation, Skipper, but even with two canisters, and whatever explosives they might use, the ‘boom’ might be big, but it won’t be enough to be an actual nuke bomb. It’ll eventually make a helluva lot of folks sicker than hell down the road, though.”
“You’re right, Joe. . .and not much consolation.”
The truck started slowing. “Guess we’re near our destination,” Grant said, taking a peek out the canvas flap.
Shanghai Mission Page 8
