The Thought Cathedral

by Nathan Williams

  “Jiang, thanks for coming,” Leonard said as she turned to face him, purse in hand.

  She smiled faintly. “Hello, Joe.”

  “Jiang, you look terrific.”

  She was wearing a black lace dress under her wool coat and black heels. Her short hair shone in the light from the portico.

  She smiled again, tentatively. “Thank you.”

  Leonard gestured toward the front door of the hotel. “Come on, we need to get in so we can get seated.”

  Leonard led her through the lobby of the hotel to a waiting area near the ticket office. A female attendant offered to take their coats. Jiang slid her coat off, revealing a black lace dress with a high square neck and a V-shaped back. The dress extended halfway down to her knees, immodest for a venue such as this in China. Leonard didn’t mind.

  “Joe, if Sun or Quan is here tonight, I can’t stay. When we enter, can you try to look for them? They can’t see me here with you.”

  Leonard slid his coat off and gave it to the attendant. “Yes, of course. I understand, Jiang. What are the chances they’re here?”

  “Not much. But I just want to be sure.”

  Their host arrived and led them through a pair of wooden double doors painted bright red with gold trim. A sign with gold Chinese characters on a black background had “Liyuan Theater” inscribed underneath in English. Leonard and Jiang followed the host into the theater.

  The theater itself was a large auditorium with tables for eight people set up from the front of the stage to roughly two-thirds of the way back to the rear wall. The last third had stadium-style seating with individual seats. There was one balcony level with seating extending along the rear wall, above the last rows of the stadium-style seats.

  As the host led them further in, Leonard began scanning the room for Sun or Quan. Most of the seats were filled toward the front of the theater and, at Jiang’s request, the tickets he’d purchased were for seats in the stadium seating at the very rear. They were underneath the balcony and not so exposed.

  Jiang entered their row first, the host gesturing for Leonard to follow. They continued along the row until they reached their seats, which were situated slightly off-center.

  “I didn’t see Sun or Quan anywhere,” Leonard said. “Though I couldn’t quite see all of the people up on the balcony.”

  “Nor could I,” Jiang said.

  “You’ve taken a terrible risk being here, haven’t you, Jiang?”

  She looked him in the eye. “I’m here because I want to be here.”

  “These past few weeks,” Leonard said, “you’ve been late to almost every meet-up with me. You’ve been meeting with me off of Sun’s property without his permission, haven’t you?”

  Jiang blushed a bit and lowered her head. “It’s true, Joe. I’m late because I have to lose his security men.”

  “I admire your bravery, Jiang. But you shouldn’t have done that.”

  Jiang did not reply.

  Leonard reached into the interior of his coat and pulled a black case out of his pocket. From the case he pulled a pair of CIA recon glasses. He handed them to Jiang.

  “Do you think you can spot anyone of note? Anyone you know?”

  She slipped the glasses on.

  As Jiang surveyed the attendees, Leonard’s attention was drawn to the large theater itself. His sight was drawn immediately to the eight large ceremonial masks hung on the walls, four to the wall on his left and four to his right. The gray faces carved in the design of the masks were striking and dramatic. Colored lengths of cloth hung down from the faces forming facial hair in red, green, and yellow. The tables were color coded as well, with the two rows closest to the stage colored red, followed by two rows of yellow in the middle, and then blue. The opening above the stage where the performance was done was framed by an ornamental trim constructed of wood with intricate Chinese designs carved into it. Digital screens at the front provided narration in Chinese and English.

  He felt a tapping on his shoulder. “I see Li Tao down in the yellow section,” Jiang said. She gave him the glasses back. Leonard slid them on.

  “Which one?”

  “He’s at the table in the third row, second from the right. He’s wearing the gray suit.”

  There were two men at that table wearing gray suits.

  “The thin one or the heavyset?” Leonard asked.

  “Thin.”

  Leonard studied Li’s profile and snapped two quick photos before he removed the glasses.

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  “None.”

  Leonard placed the glasses back in the case and slid the case back into his coat. A moment later, the lights were dimmed and the performance, Havoc in the Dragon’s Palace, began. A male and female actor entered the stage with immaculately painted faces and dressed in colorful robes and facial ornaments. A flute melody from an orchestra piped softly through a set of speakers hidden somewhere nearby.

  Even being proficient in Chinese, Leonard found it necessary to study the narrative on the digital screens in order to follow the story. To Leonard’s Western tastes, the story was very odd and had the same peculiar literal, matter-of-fact qualities to it that most Chinese stories did. It involved a monkey king who learned magic and martial arts before returning to the Mountains of Flowers and Fruits, where he declared himself king. He then visited a dragon palace in the East Sea to find a weapon, where he inadvertently discovered a magic club, one of the treasures of the palace. Forty minutes into the performance, a battle was ensuing between the monkey king and the dragon king when the first act ended and the intermission began.

  Leonard took his recon glasses out again and zoomed in on Li Tao. Li spoke into the ear of a female sitting next to him, rose from his chair, and began walking across the floor toward the opposite side of the theater. Leonard followed him with the specs as Li ascended the gently rising stairs along the west wall.

  Leonard said, “I’m going to try and speak with Li Tao. Do you want to come with?”

  Jiang shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m going to stay here.”

  Leonard fought his way back through the aisle to the stairs along the west wall, descended the stairs, and exited through the red doors back into the lobby. It took Leonard until he’d almost walked a complete circle around a small atrium at the center of the lobby before he found Li Tao. He was conversing with two other men, so Leonard pulled out his smart phone and pulled up some biographical information about Li. Two minutes later, the two men departed, leaving Li by himself.

  Leonard slipped his phone into his pocket and approached the business executive. He nodded, his hand extended. “Hello, sir. Are you Li Tao, the Chief Marketing Officer of East China Art and Collectibles?”

  An expression emoting a combination of surprise and amusement crossed Li’s face, but he did shake Leonard’s hand. “Can I help you?” Li asked.

  “Forgive me if I’ve startled you,” Leonard said. “It’s just that one of my clients has mentioned you in passing and spoken very highly of East China Art and, in particular, your marketing abilities.”

  “Thank you, sir. May I ask who your client is?”

  “Of course,” Leonard said. “His name is Shi Sun. He’s the chief executive of Sun Furniture and Antiques.”

  A stiff smile spread across Li’s face. “Oh, yes, Mr. Sun is both a friend and possible future business partner. He mentioned me to you?”

  “He did, Mr. Li. He was quite effusive in his praise of your marketing efforts to counteract the slowing economy.”

  Li shrugged. “And you are…?”

  “My name is Joe Leonard; I’m a logistics consultant with Ricardo’s Logistics.”

  Li’s eyebrows danced. “Ahhh. I’ve heard of Ricardo’s. In fact, Shi spoke very kindly of your firm as well.”

  “I see,” Leonard said, a sly grin playing across his face. “I wonder if Mr. Sun patronizes every company he works with?”

  Li laughed softly. “That is most certainl
y not the case. He has a reputation, in fact, for being demanding on his associates.”

  “I understand,” Leonard said. “I’m curious, however, what specifically you’ve done with your marketing. Mr. Sun never went into too much detail.”

  “We’ve attacked the problem on several fronts,” Li said. “As I’m sure you’re aware, art and collectibles are heavily dependent on consumers having disposable income—”

  Li had started into East Asia’s marketing campaign when Leonard’s attention was drawn to his right. Floating stiffly along the lobby wall was He-ping Quan, Shi Sun’s lieutenant. He was looking straight at him, a slight smirk on his face.

  Leonard felt the blood drain from his face. He listened to Li through one ear as he observed Quan open the red doubledoors and slip into the theater.

  Leonard fought for a tactful way to end the conversation with Li, but he could think of nothing. What made it more difficult was the fact that he’d been the one to initiate the conversation. Five minutes later, he finally broke away from Li and dashed back into the auditorium. He scanned to where Jiang was seated and then across the breadth of the theater, but Quan was nowhere to be seen. He hustled down the row to his seat. Jiang’s face was ashen.

  “Quan’s here,” Leonard said.

  “I know, Joe. I saw him come in.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “I think so. He was looking right at me.”

  “Jiang I—I don’t know what to say.”

  “I have to go, Joe.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  Leonard allowed Jiang to slide by him and trailed behind her as she made her way unsteadily to the far aisle. Leonard followed her through the lobby and back out the front entrance of the hotel. She was walking quickly.

  “Jiang, I’m sorry.”

  Leonard followed her out the front entrance of the hotel. She was opening the passenger door of a cab idling under the portico.

  “Jiang—”

  She looked up at him. “Don’t apologize, Joe.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “You can’t.”

  As Leonard made his way back to the theater, he feared for Jiang. What will Sun do to her? How might this affect Sun’s business relationship with Ricardo’s?

  New York City

  Saturday, February 21, 5:30 a.m. EST

  Kurt Metz glanced back at Tim Harvey, one of the four men, along with himself, that formed the FBI hostage rescue team assembled on the third floor of an apartment building at the intersection of Pell and Grant. The other two members, Jeff Birch and Juan Escobar, stood flattened against the wall along the hallway on the other side of the door to room 327. Metz signaled to Birch and Escobar and then pulled a strip charge from a pocket in the calf of his suit and fastened it to the door.

  Metz said, “Alpha One to Command, we’re at green.”

  Metz and the other three stepped back at least eight feet from the charge in anticipation of the detonation. A crisp voice pierced through the static in his earpiece.

  “Stand by, I have control. Five, four…”

  Metz turned his eyes away from the door and knelt on one knee.

  “Three, two…”

  BOOM!

  The charge exploded, ripping a hole in the door. Metz leapt forward with his primary weapon, an MP-5 submachine gun, gripped tightly in his hands. He kicked the door in as Birch tossed a flash-bang grenade into the apartment. A thunderous noise and flash of light lit up the interior of the apartment as the four men charged in.

  Metz strode quickly forward through the foyer, his MP-5 raised. He came upon the first door off of the main hallway to his left and tossed in a flash-bang grenade. After the resulting explosion, he burst into the room. It was a small kitchen. Empty.

  “Kitchen clear,” he said into his mic.

  His voice was followed immediately by Birch’s. “Restroom clear.”

  Still in the kitchen, Metz turned to see Escobar pass by on his way into the main living room. Metz followed Escobar, turning left into the main hallway. He dashed quickly down the main hallway toward the rear of the apartment as Birch suddenly appeared ahead of him.

  Metz heard another thunderous explosion as Harvey rolled another flash-bang grenade into the living room. Metz followed Birch off of the main hallway and into a smaller hallway that led to the bedroom. Harvey’s voice was in his ear again, announcing that the living room had been secured.

  Birch stopped at the door of the bedroom in order to let Metz catch up. As Metz approached, Birch signaled that he would enter the room in five seconds. They’d decided before the operation not to use any flash-bang grenades in the bedroom out of fear of starting a fire. Birch counted down from five before rotating his body partway into the entrance, leading with his MP-5. Birch signaled to Metz that there was no one in the bedroom, either. Metz followed him in. Their worry over a fire had been for naught. The bedroom was empty save for a scattering of computer equipment and other odds and ends.

  Birch gave a thumbs up as they relaxed their weapons.

  “Bedroom clear,” Birch said.

  Nothing here, Metz thought. No Chinese spies. No prisoners. “Disappointing,” Metz said.

  Birch shrugged through his equipment. “Yeah, for sure.”

  Metz followed Birch back into the hallway and into the living room area, where Harvey and Escobar were using an extinguisher to put out a small fire in the carpeting from the grenade Harvey had tossed.

  “Alpha One to Command,” Metz said. “All clear. Small fire but under control. Building secure. Nobody here. No hostages. Nothing. Copy.”

  “Copy, Alpha One. Get that fire stamped out. We’ll have the evidence team in ASAP.”

  New York City

  Saturday, February 21, 9:00 a.m. EST

  Special Agent in Charge Milt Reardon stood in the hallway just outside the door to room 327 at the intersection of Pell and Grant in Chinatown, Manhattan. Rose appeared in his vision gradually as Rose finished summiting the stairs. Rose acknowledged Reardon with a slight nod of his head, out of breath from the climb up to the third floor. “Been in yet?” Rose asked.

  “Not yet,” Reardon said. “Was just waiting for you.”

  Reardon followed Rose into the room, where they were greeted by a stern-looking man still wearing his intrusion suit.

  “You must be one of the HRT guys?” Rose asked as they shook hands.

  “Yes, sir. I’m Kurt Metz.”

  “I understand the place was vacant when you arrived?”

  “That’s correct, sir. Whoever was here was gone by the time we arrived.”

  Rose stayed silent, so Metz continued.

  “I know you guys were hoping for a better result this morning. It may not be a total loss, though. They left some things behind: three desktop computers and lots of equipment here used for electronic and signals intelligence. Whoever was here obviously left in a hurry. We’ve got half-eaten food in the kitchen and in the living room here, cigarettes that had been lit but left burning in ash trays, and some recently cooked food left on the kitchen stove and counter.”

  Reardon made a quick sweep of the room. There wasn’t much left to look at. All of the electronic equipment Metz had referred to was resting atop a makeshift bench. The bench, which was bolted to the wall, looked as though it’d been constructed from scratch with used wood. It extended across the entirety of the wall that contained a window facing out to the street below, and even partially onto the adjoining walls. A thin black silk cloth had been spread over the bench. Next to the equipment on the cloth were two partially eaten containers of food, each with a set of used chopsticks. The chopsticks were lying on red washcloths, where they’d presumably been stashed prior to a hasty exit. A heavily worn leather sofa and easy chair had been placed opposite the bench.

  “Have you heard anything from forensics yet?” Rose asked.

  “Not much. The forensics guys didn’t get here until about eight thirty or so. I know they have
quite a few fingerprints to examine. There are prints all over the apartment. I already mentioned the equipment. If you want, I can track Terry Zeilinsky down. He’s leading the forensics team here. He left to go back out to the forensics van.”

  “Please do.”

  In the meantime, Reardon followed Rose down a short hallway to a bedroom, which contained two cots situated along the perimeter of the room. In the middle were three sleeping bags. Two of the sleeping bags were dark green in color, while the third was black. Reardon walked over to the black one and began examining it. On the interior, stitched into the seam, he found a tag with Chinese characters. Reardon looked at Rose. “It’s thick material. Waterproof. They look military issue to me.”

  There was also a drawer half full of clothes. Atop the drawer was a purple-colored felt box, a set of hair combs, a circular mirror, and a notebook half-filled with Chinese writing. In the corner was a folding chair with a rotating fan on the seat rest. Rose lifted the lid on the little felt box, revealing two intricate folding fans with multicolored floral designs.

  “This place clearly wasn’t being used in a traditional sense, as a principle residence,” Rose said. Rose led Reardon back into the main living room, where they were greeted by a thin man with thinning brown hair holding a clipboard. Reardon estimated he was about six feet in height and in his early thirties.

  The man said, “Hello, you must be here from headquarters?”

  Rose nodded. “You’re Terry Zeilinsky?”

  “That’s me.”

  Rose introduced Reardon and himself. “Can you give me a quick rundown of your findings at this point?” Rose said.

  “Well, there really is a lot here for us to examine. We’ve got multiple sets of fingerprints all over the apartment. You can tell that whoever was here left in a hurry.”

  “Any idea as to when they left?”

  “We’re pretty sure it was earlier this morning sometime. This comes just from looking at the state of some of the food left behind as well as some of our preliminary findings on the computers.”