Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  “The Security Council went badly,” Bousikaris announced.

  “How bad?” Mason asked.

  “The Chinese stormed out. The Russians are claiming the reactor leak was minor and that there were no deaths—Russian or Chinese. More importantly, they’re denying the accusation that this is just another in a long line of accidents. They say it’s all fiction.”

  “You mean they’re downplaying them, or they’re claiming they never happened?” said Mason.

  “The latter,” Martin said.

  “When’s the meeting going to reconvene?”

  “It isn’t. The Chinese are getting ready to release a statement. Unless the Russians fully admit their culpability, agree to reparations, and allow inspectors into all facilities employing Chinese citizens, Beijing will not return to the table.”

  “That’s extreme. They’re not giving the Russians anywhere to go.”

  Bousikaris said, “According to the Chinese, this isn’t the first time they’ve voiced their concerns to Moscow. They’ve been batting this issue back and forth for years.”

  “What kind of proof do the Chinese have?”

  “We don’t know,” Martin said. “They’re claiming Moscow has been covering up the accidents.”

  “I’d be interested to know where the Chinese are getting their intell.”

  Cathermeier asked, “Why would the Russians be covering up accidents?”

  “Over the last five years, a lot of Chinese citizens have moved into Siberia; they retain their original citizenship, but live and work in Russia, often taking jobs that Russians either don’t want, or won’t accept.”

  “Cheap labor.”

  “Exactly. The problem is—at least according to the Chinese—the Russians see them as second-class citizens. To the Russians they’re just warm bodies.”

  “The solution is simple,” Mason said. “We bring in the Red Cross, attach a small, neutral peacekeeping force, put them both under the aegis of the UN, then send them in to sort it out.”

  “The Chinese won’t accept that,” said Bousikaris.

  “Why?”

  Martin cleared his throat. “We had a visit from China’s ambassador this morning. This afternoon they’ll be holding simultaneous news conferences here and in Beijing. At the same time, China’s ambassador in Moscow will be delivering a message to the Russian foreign minister.”

  Mason felt a flutter of fear in his chest. “Do we have any idea what this message will say?”

  “Judging from the ambassador’s tone, they’re probably going to give Moscow an ultimatum.”

  “This is a mistake, Mr. President. They’re moving too fast, too aggressively.”

  “That may be, Dick, but we don’t set Chinese policy.”

  No, but you are the leader of the most powerful nation in the free world, Mason thought.

  Right or wrong, America had fallen into the role of global policeman. The moment the Chinese ambassador left his office, Martin should have lit a fire under every state department official between here and Beijing and Moscow.

  “Mr. President, we need to intervene—put a diplomatic buffer between Moscow and Beijing.”

  “I agree,” said Cathermeier. “If we can slow things down a bit—”

  Martin raised his hand, silencing them. “Gentlemen, you don’t understand: This is happening. Of course we need to intervene; of course we need to buy some time for a diplomatic solution, but that’s tomorrow. Today—in a matter of hours—China’s ambassador will be sitting in front of the Russian foreign minister. We have to assume Moscow will react badly to the ultimatum. So, the question is, what’s our response?”

  We’re running in goddamned circles, Mason thought.

  “General, what kind of assets do we have in range of Russia’s eastern coast?” asked Martin.

  “Pardon me, sir?”

  “Naval assets. What do we have and how long would it take?”

  “You’re talking about battle groups, Mr. President?”

  “Yes.”

  Mason thought, No, no, no …

  “As far as ready assets, the John Stennis group is coming off an exercise in the Pacific.”

  Bousikaris asked, “Its composition?”

  “One aircraft carrier, seven surface ships in escort, a handful of support ships, and two LA-class attack submarines. Mr. President, I have to advise against this. Parking that kind of firepower off the Russian coast is going to be seen as provocative. At best, it’s premature.”

  “If diplomatic measures fall short and this thing escalates, I don’t want to be caught playing catch-up. If it becomes necessary, that group might provide a stabilizing influence until we can cool things off.”

  Mason could no longer contain himself. “Or, more likely, it will piss off both the Russians and the Chinese and we’ll find ourselves in a hell of a mess.”

  “Dick, you’re here as a courtesy—to serve as my chief intelligence officer, not to set policy.”

  “For God’s sake, Mr. President, these are superpowers we’re talking about, not some banana republic we can frighten into submission. If we’re not careful—”

  “Watch your tone, Dick!”

  “This is a mistake, I want it on the record—”

  Cathermeier was at his side, whispering, “Dick, ease up …”

  Bousikaris barked, “That’s enough!”

  “I want it on record that I’m formally advising against this course of action.”

  Martin bolted from his seat. “That’s it! Not another word, or I’ll have you removed!” Bousikaris placed a restraining hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Dick, you serve at my discretion! If you can’t do your job, say so! I’ll see that a change is made.”

  Mason’s mouth was halfway to “Go ahead” before he caught himself. This was a fight he couldn’t win. Martin wasn’t bluffing; he would gladly fire him then install a bootlicker like Tom Redmond. Don’t hand it to him, Mason thought. There was something very wrong going on, and the only way he could get to the bottom of it was to keep his job.

  He forced a cowed expression onto his face. “Mr. President, I apologize. I’m out of line.”

  Martin glared at him. Bousikaris whispered something in his ear and he nodded vaguely and sat down. “Forget it, Dick,” he said with a chuckle. “Truth is, I need a devil’s advocate from time to time.”

  Nice try, Mason thought, but no sale. Martin had almost gotten what he wanted. Hell, he’d almost given Martin what he wanted. Perhaps the man wasn’t such a dummy after all.

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “Well,” Martin said, “back to business: General, how long before Stennis can be en route?”

  35

  Holystone

  By late afternoon, Latham had a list of the bus’s fifty-two passengers, which he faxed directly to Tom Whulford at FBI headquarters. As the day wore into evening, a trickle of passenger information began rolling off the Holystone fax machine.

  Despite Latham’s prayers to the contrary, it was soon evident that every passenger was in fact a Chinese citizen. However unlikely, he’d been hoping he’d find one that was either a U.S. citizen or a recent immigrant. If so, that person would have likely been Tsang’s contact: A wolf among the sheep. Alas, it wasn’t to be.

  “Now what?” Randall asked, yawning.

  “Where are we with pictures?”

  “Tommy’s working on it. If they’d been part of the same tour, we’d be done by now.”

  Despite sharing the same bus, most of the passengers were individual travelers, so instead of one entry point to check, there were dozens ranging between Atlanta to New York City. Tommy was slogging his way through Immigration’s red tape, trying to nail down passport photos.

  “Besides, what good are pictures going to do us?” Randall asked.

  “I don’t know, I like to have faces—it makes them more real.”

  “I hope so. Otherwise we’re
going to be visiting a lot of hotels.”

  Approaching nine-thirty, photos began spooling off the fax machine. They set up a system: Randall would pick up the photo, give it a quick look, then pass it to Latham, who would do the same, then clip it to the appropriate passenger’s file.

  The hours passed and the faces became a blur. The conference table grew ever more crowded with manila folders and photos. At eleven, the last one came off the fax.

  “Nope,” Randall muttered. “Of course, I don’t think I’d recognize Jimmy Hoffa right now.”

  Latham looked at the photo, shook his head, then clipped it to the matching file. He plopped down into a chair. His head was buzzing. Too much coffee, too much thinking.

  Randall sat down on the carpet, then lay back. “What d’ya think? Get some sleep and come back fresh in a few hours?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Latham leaned his head back and closed his eyes. After ten minutes, his brain was still clicking over. Something there … something I’m overlooking … He got out of his chair and started pacing.

  From the floor, Randall murmured, “What’s up … ”

  “Nothing.” Latham circled the table, thinking, thinking … Then, suddenly, it was there. “Paul!”

  “Huh … what?”

  Latham began flipping through the files, glancing at pictures. As Randall watched, Latham circled the table, checking a file, moving on, checking a file, moving on … On the twenty-sixth one, he stopped. He picked up the passport photo and studied it.

  “Something, Charlie?”

  Latham turned the photo around. “This.” He picked up the phone and called Wuhlford. “I need something: an old case of mine …” Latham gave him the details and hung up.

  Forty minutes later, Tommy called back. “Got it, Charlie.”

  “There should be two composite photos.”

  “Yep, I see them.”

  “Fax them to me.”

  Latham stood by the machine as they arrived. He glanced at the first one, laid it aside, then grabbed the next and laid it beside the passport photo. After a few seconds, he nodded. “Hot damn.”

  “What?” said Randall.

  Latham slid the photo and the composite across the table to him. The composite depicted a Chinese woman in her mid-sixties with a round face and silver hair; the photo was an almost exact duplicate except for the age.

  Randall read the file: “Siok Hui Zi. They’re the same person. What’s going on?”

  “About six years ago,” Latham began, “some executives at Raytheon suspected they had a spy ring in their fire control division. An employee had come forward, stating she’d been approached by a coworker who asked how she felt about the company … the way it treated the employees—basically stirring the pot. Finally she was asked if she wanted to make a little extra money.

  “Raytheon called us and we started digging into it. The employee who’d been approached strung along her coworker. Slowly the pieces came together. There were three others in the ring, but we were having trouble pinning down the group’s controller.

  “Finally we got enough on the ringleader and confronted him. He broke down and gave us everything—including a composite picture of the controllers and their names. By the time we went to grab them, they’d disappeared.”

  Randall said, “You said controllers—plural.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re telling me this old woman was one of them? Sweet-faced Grandma Siok Hui Zi?”

  “Her name was different then, but yes.”

  “And her partner?”

  Latham picked up the other composite. “Sweet-faced Grandpa Mihn Zi.”

  “Charlie, they’ve gotta be nearly seventy years old … If you’re right, that means these two … “ Randall stopped, shook his head as though to clear it.

  “It means that Grandma and Grandpa Zi are the ones who broke into the Baker home, then tortured and slaughtered a husband, wife, and two children.”

  Like Randall, Latham found it hard to imagine a pair of wizened, cherubic-faced Chinese septuagenarians doing something so savage. Could he be wrong? Perhaps the Zis were just gophers, cogs in a larger network. “What hotel did she list on their entry visa?” Latham asked.

  “They won’t be there, Charlie. They—”

  “It’s a place to start. It’s all we’ve got.”

  “What about Tsang?”

  “What about her? I doubt she could lead us to them even if she wanted to.”

  “She listed her hotel as the Marriott in Bethesda—Pooks Hill. Checked in four days ago.”

  “Okay, that’s where we start. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Latham’s cell phone trilled. “Latham.”

  “Charlie … is that you?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Charlie, it’s Mrs. Felton … from down the street.”

  His neighbor: spinster, six cats … “Yes, Mrs. Felton, is there something wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s why I’m calling. Bonnie called me earlier today—”

  “Bonnie? When?”

  “This morning. She was worried about her ficus and asked if I would water it. I was just over there. Charlie, there’s water all over the basement floor.”

  Ah, shit. “Does it look like there’s something running?”

  Mrs. Felton paused. “Uh, well, I … yes, I heard water running. I was afraid to look.”

  “Okay, I’m on my way. Thanks, Mrs. Felton.” He hung up.

  “Problem?” asked Randall.

  “I think my water heater finally gave up the ghost.”

  “The hotel’s halfway to your place. I’ll run home, feed my cat, then meet you.”

  Latham made good time, taking 270 past Bethesda then up to Burdette. Forty minutes after Mrs. Felton’s call, he pulled into his driveway.

  Aside from the amber light on the porch, the house was dark. Bonnie’s flower baskets swung in the breeze. He punched the garage door opener. The door began rolling upward.

  Gotta be some kind of unwritten law, he thought. Minor home disasters only happen on holidays or late at night … He checked his watch. Almost midnight, for God’s sake.

  The garage door reached the top and stopped with a clunk. Gotta replace that track spring.

  He pulled into the garage until the hanging tennis ball bounced against the windshield, then shut off the engine. Almost midnight …

  The overhead light clicked off, casting the garage in darkness except for what moonlight filtered through the open door.

  Latham stopped. “Midnight?” he muttered. “It’s almost midnight.” Mrs. Felton was eighty years old; she was lucky to make it past nine o’clock.

  Even as the alarm went off in his head, he glanced at his review mirror and saw a shadowed figure enter the garage. Moving fast, hunched over, it came around the side—

  Gun!

  He rolled right, reached into his jacket for his holster. He heard three muffled thuds and thought, noise suppressor. His side window shattered. Glass peppered his face. He drew his gun, pointed it toward the window and pulled the trigger three times. Nearly blinded by the muzzle blast, he scrambled to the passenger door.

  Thud.

  The window above his head shattered. He extended his gun, pulled the trigger twice more, then yanked the door latch and tumbled onto the garage floor.

  He took a deep breath. His heart pounded in his ears.

  He heard feet shuffling on the other side of the car. He pressed his head to the concrete and peeked under the chassis. A pair of feet streaked past the front tire and disappeared from view. Latham pushed himself to his knees and laid his gun across the hood.

  There was nothing.

  The door to the laundry room banged shut.

  They’re in the house, he thought. The sons-of-bitches are in my house … Gotta assume they’re both here.., that’s how they work … Mrs. Felton—God, let her be alive …

>   He leaned into the car and turned the ignition key. The engine roared to life. He scrambled back out and waited.

  The laundry-room door flew open. Silhouetted in it was a small-framed figure with hunched shoulders. Grandma Zi. Her gun game up, pointing at the car’s windshield. Latham adjusted his aim and opened fire. Lightning fast, she turned, snapped off a shot, and ducked back inside as Latham’s bullets shattered the doorjamb.

  Latham reached into the car and shut off the engine.

  Silence. The engine ticked as it cooled.

  He stood up, pressed himself against the wall, then reached out and pressed the garage-door button. As it clattered shut, he ducked down, gun pointed at the laundry-room door.

  Five seconds passed. Nothing happened.

  They’re too smart for that, he thought. And fast. God almighty, she was fast.

  It was decision time. Did he go in after them, or do the smart thing and go for help?

  No, he thought. They’d invaded his home; they’d been looking for Bonnie and the kids.

  “The hell with it,” he muttered.

  36

  Latham prayed he had the advantage. Though the Zis had probably familiarized themselves with the layout of his house, he knew its feel, its nooks and crannies; he could walk it in his sleep. On the other hand, there were two of them and they’d obviously put some thought into the ambush.

  He crouched down, pressed his palm against the door, and pushed it open. The doorway was empty. He peeked between the door hinges: Clear. He crept inside and eased the door shut behind him.

  He stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The air in the laundry room felt strangely cool on his skin, and it took him a moment to realize why: Bonnie usually had a load of laundry going in the dryer when he got home at night.

  He removed his shoes and tested his socks on the linoleum: Too slick. He removed his socks.

  He visualized the lower level of the house: The laundry room led into the breakfast nook and kitchen; to the right would be the small family room; to the left, a short hall leading to the foyer.

  Gun extended, Latham paced into the nook, looked left, then right, saw nothing, and kept going. He peeked around the corner into the family room. It was empty. He skirted the breakfast table and he leaned over the center island. Again, nothing.