The Thought Cathedral

by Nathan Williams

  “Just passed 152nd,” Calibrisi said. “Is this source where we obtained the information for the location here in the Bronx?”

  “Yup,” Mathiason said. “Here we are. Here’s the building just ahead on our right.”

  The two of them examined the building, a four-story building constructed of red brick with a garage built into it at ground level. The building-type was ubiquitous in the Bronx neighborhood, which was filled with two- to three-story brick buildings for mixed use.

  Mathiason brought the sedan to a rolling stop at an intersection, before accelerating through. “Just want to get a look at the rear of the building and the other side.”

  Mathiason drove the sedan along the north side of the structure, then turned right onto Whitlock Avenue, which ran parallel to an elevated subway line. Here, the view of the building was entirely obstructed by a large, graffiti-covered concrete divide, which Mathiason estimated at approximately ten feet tall. Mathiason followed a circuitous route back to 156th street, where he parked the sedan along the road in a place where he could easily observe the building. He speed dialed Rose with his smart phone; he answered on the third ring.

  “John, it’s Mathiason. All is quiet up here in the Bronx.”

  “No activity?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Stay focused on the building. We’re getting the SWAT teams prepped as we speak. Please notify me immediately of any activity into or out of that building.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  Rose’s phone buzzed and he slid off his waist clip and put it to his ear. “This is Rose.”

  “John, this is Lorren. Do you have a minute?”

  “One sec.”

  The command center was buzzing more than usual this morning with the new information Lee had provided, and Rose wanted to find someplace quieter. He hustled to a small empty office, closing and locking the door behind him.

  “Go ahead,” Rose said.

  Lorren said, “How are the raids progressing?”

  “We’re prepping four SWAT teams for raids at the three locations given us by Lee. We’re going to hit all of them at the same time. We’ve got a fifth team getting ready also, with the expectation that Lee may divulge additional locations.”

  “What time?”

  “As soon as everyone is ready. We’re aiming for 11:00 this morning, but we haven’t even gotten to the boat yet. It’s apparently down in New Jersey.”

  Lorren asked, “What kind of boat is it?”

  “We contacted the management at the docks where it’s moored. Some kind of fishing vessel. It’s fairly large. I’m told it’s over a hundred feet in length. It’s an open sea vessel.”

  “Where at in Jersey?”

  “It’s down at Point Pleasant Beach, not far from the coast. Easy access to the ocean.”

  Silence. Lorren was thinking.

  “Has your read on Lee changed at all since we last spoke?” Lorren asked.

  “No. Jillian’s been outspoken that Lee hasn’t had anything to do with the Chinese. If she is, she’s being coerced.”

  “Keep me updated,” Lorren said.

  Lorren disconnected. Rose exited the little office and returned to the main room to wait out the raids.

  Brooklyn, New York

  Friday, March 7, 7:48 a.m. EST

  Lee had returned the rental sedan and, using what little counter-surveillance techniques she had learned from the FBI, she had not gone straight to Okoye’s house but, rather, had taken the time to take a circuitous route by foot and by subway before finally arriving back at her temporary abode. For the entire trip, she had thought of little else other than sleep. Finally, she pulled open the rear door to Okoye’s home and slipped in.

  Lee trudged through a hallway and took a staircase up to the second floor. She pressed a button set within the wall of a circular sitting area, which was centrally located on the second floor. The button released a trap door in the ceiling and the stairs leading up into the little observatory descended. Once inside, she flipped on the light, dropped her backpack, which she had filled with items for the trip to Zhang’s safe house, changed into a pair of cotton shorts and a T-shirt, and curled up in her makeshift bed. Almost as soon as her head had hit the pillow, her smart phone began buzzing. She let it buzz through and was going to let herself drift off to sleep except that Reynolds was going to call back to give her an update on the status of the negotiations with the FBI. She groaned and then lifted herself out of bed and retrieved her phone from the pocket in her jacket.

  The call had already disconnected, but she saw that it was, indeed, from Reynolds. She dialed his number.

  “I don’t even want to know what you’ve been up to,” Reynolds said. “But, what have you been up to?”

  Lee sighed. “Business.”

  “I just received a call from the FBI and they’ve finally decided to be reasonable. They’re offering full immunity.”

  Lee perked up. “What?”

  “You heard me. Full immunity. I don’t know that you’ve been up to, but something changed.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “You’re going to have to tell them everything you know.”

  “I’ve got a lot,” Lee said.

  “Okay, well, they want to get a statement from you. You’ll need to tell them everything.”

  “Anything else?”

  “They want you to come in. They’re insisting on holding you in confinement until this whole situation has been resolved.”

  Lee sat up. “What? Confinement?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No way, Reynolds. With what I can offer, there’s no reason for that. Tell them they’re going to have to do better.”

  “I’d strongly advise you to take this offer, Lee. We’re talking about full immunity here. You never know when they may decide to take the offer off the table.”

  “Reynolds, I have the location of their safe house. I hacked into their mainframe. I have names, dates, email and instant messaging correspondence.”

  Reynolds was silent. Lee continued. “I have two of them locked in a cellar in their safe house. But they may know I’ve been there. They may know what I’ve done. It’s urgent that the FBI get there before they have a chance to destroy evidence. Tell that to the FBI. Tell them I won’t be subjected to confinement.”

  “Fine, I’ll get back to them. But stay near your phone. I need you to answer when I call.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Reynolds’s return call came a mere twelve minutes later.

  “They’ve now agreed to drop the confinement. You just have to agree not to leave the country and, preferably, New York. If you leave the U.S., you will be opening yourself up to all kinds of potential charges if you end up being implicated with the Chinese once the FBI completes their investigation. We’re talking about felonies here, Lyn.”

  “I understand,” Lee said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “And, just so we’re clear, this includes Mexico and Canada. Just don’t cross any borders. Stay in New York, if possible.”

  “Reynolds, don’t worry.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell the feds. They want to speak with you badly, so you should expect to receive a call from them very soon. But do not tell them anything until you’ve signed the documents.”

  “Okay. Umm, how do I sign them?”

  “I’m glad you asked. This needs to be notarized. We can do this here at my office or I can meet you at FBI Headquarters.”

  Lee sighed heavily. “In Manhattan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I going to be okay if I show myself at the FBI?”

  “You’ll be fine. I have the legal documents in my hands, and they’re legit. We’ve crossed all our T’s and dotted our I’s. You’re going to be fine.”

  “Let’s just meet at FBI Headquarters. That way I can relay the information to them as soon as I’ve signed everything.”

  “That would be fine,” Reynolds said. “I do
n’t have to tell you to hurry.”

  “Coming now.”

  Shanghai, China

  Friday, March 7, 9:14 p.m. CST

  Central Shanghai was split by the Huangpu River, which wound haphazardly through the city along a north-south axis. One of the entertainment and tourist meccas in Shanghai was located in the Bund, the name given to a small geographical area in central Shanghai located along a segment of the western Huangpu riverfront in the vicinity of Zhongshan Road. The eastern side of the Huangpu was known as Pudong, which was more commercial in nature. The Kaleidoscope was located near the Bund, set within a series of restaurants, temples, and retail shops.

  Phong exited his cab, which had come to a stop along the road, and walked quickly to the front entrance of a five-story structure with THE KALIEDOSCOPE scrawled in flashing neon letters across its marquee. He entered into a short hallway with small mirrors on both sides and on the ceiling. Due to the multitude of mirrors, the walls and ceiling cast multiple images of himself simultaneously as he walked. Each of the smaller images was centered within multicolored splashes of light—colors that shifted and morphed as he progressed along the corridor. At the end of the corridor, he entered into a narrow carpeted lobby with two heavy, ornate revolving doors. A sign above the doors said MAIN AUDITORIUM – GRAND ENTRANCE.

  Phong approached one of the two female ushers posted on each side of the entrance.

  “I’m seeking a Mr. Z,” Phong said.

  The young woman’s face flickered with recognition immediately. “Follow me, sir.”

  She led him through the entrance into a grand ballroom buzzing with motion and noise. The stage was situated below him, at a lower level, where a boisterous western-style dance show was in progress. In front of the stage, the audience sat around circular-shaped dinner tables as scantily clad waitresses juggled dishes and meals as they dashed to and fro. The clothing worn by the clientele was formal and elegant, but the atmosphere was relaxed enough so that the vast majority of the clientele at the tables were actively engaged in conversation or in games of cards or mahjong.

  Phong was led along a carpeted aisle tracing around the perimeter of the ballroom, until they reached a spiral staircase tucked away in a corner. It elevated up to a three-tiered balcony high above. The young woman led him up the carpeted staircase to the top level, and guided him to a table big enough to seat four people.

  “Please, have a seat,” the woman said. “Mr. Z will be with you soon. May I get you anything to drink?”

  “Water, please.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Phong remained standing as the hostess disappeared back down the stairs. He moved to a wooden balustrade, where he could see the entirety of the performance below. He pondered whether the female performers, who appeared to be very talented dancers, must at times become frustrated at the selective attention, if barely even that, afforded them by the patrons. A few moments later, he spied the young hostess below as she emerged from underneath the balcony and snaked her way around a section of tables. She stopped at a table located near the middle of the room, and spoke into the ear of a heavyset man with slicked back gray hair. Her mission accomplished, she then wound her way back to the perimeter hallway and, presumably, to retrieve his water.

  Phong slid into one of the chairs next to the table and settled in for what would be, he hoped, a short wait. The young hostess appeared a couple of minutes later with his water.

  “Do you know, ma’am, when Mr. Z will be up?” To make his point, Phong made a show of checking his watch.

  “Very soon, sir,” she said as she disappeared back down the stairs.

  Phong pulled his phone from the pocket of his dress coat and flipped through some photos of his wife: Cynthia sitting on their sofa in their Brooklyn apartment, Cynthia standing in front of a temple in Beijing, Cynthia holding their young son on the front porch of her childhood home in San Francisco. Phong speed-dialed Cynthia’s number, waiting expectantly.

  “I’m told you wish to speak with me,” said a deep, gruff voice. Phong frowned and disconnected his attempted call as a graying, heavyset man in a black tuxedo pulled a chair out from the opposite side of the table, and sat down. The man had come from behind Phong, rather than from the stairwell. This had surprised him, made him feel uneasy.

  “Yes, sir,” Phong said, as he straightened himself in his chair.

  The old man straightened his tie, unbuttoned his coat, and crossed his left leg over his right. “I understand you’re an entrepreneur?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you asking of me?”

  Phong cleared his throat. “I’m seeking start-up funds.”

  The old man pursed his lips. “What sort of business? You have a business plan?”

  Phong launched into an abbreviated version of ‘Navigator 6.0,’ the informal title given the plan by himself and a handful of engineers and marketing officers from Brooklyn Capital who had acted as technical advisors at the request of the FBI. It had been titled ‘Navigator’ because the fictional product was a satellite-based system navigation allowing for automated navigation of Chinese commercial trucking and sea-based naval vessels. It was ‘6.0’ because it had gone through six iterations before they came up with something they felt they could actually pitch.

  In his informal practice runs, Phong had whittled his pitch time for the abbreviated version down to a little over four minutes; however, he wasn’t able to make it through the whole thing before Mr. Z felt obliged to interrupt with questions. Phong’s initial pitch dissolved into an intense question and answer session that lasted over twenty minutes.

  “Why not pitch this in the United States?” Mr. Z asked.

  “We have already,” Phong said. “But, the critical piece of this plan—the hardest part—is getting our satellites into space. We feel that, with the right connections, it will be easier and faster to accomplish this in China than in the U.S. In the U.S., there is a lot of demand for payload space; whereas in China it is not yet so competitive. We also believe that we are further ahead of our competition in China than in the U.S. and Europe because, as I’ve already noted, we have built all our systems using native Chinese language and technology.”

  The old man shifted in his chair and let a small, but not insignificant, space of time elapse before he continued.

  “I’m a little confused, Mr. Phong. How did you find me?”

  “It took me a long time to find you, sir. But it was nothing I could not overcome with a little resourcefulness and the right connections.”

  “Our organization is very difficult to find, Mr. Phong, as we do not do business with those who we cannot trust. I’m afraid you are going to need to name your connections, or our meeting is going to come to a very quick end.”

  “A few years ago, an old childhood friend of mine hired your organization to migrate him to New York. I did not realize this until I came back to China searching for him, for sentimental purposes only. I was able to find Pei Yaping with the help of my family’s connections here in Shanghai and a little investigative work. I must emphasize that my meeting with you is for business purposes only. It just so happens that, coincidentally, my business partners and I are in need of capital.”

  “And how do I know you’re not an agent of, say, the Shanghai Municipal Police, the People’s Armed Police, or the even the American FBI or CIA?”

  Phong gestured with his hands for emphasis. “You don’t. Please feel free to do any background verification on me you feel is necessary. I will have to earn your trust over time.”

  The old man fell silent for the first time, scratched is chin, and leaned back in his chair. The old man was studying him, and it made Phong feel intensely uncomfortable. Finally, the old man said, “I’m interested in hearing more about your plan, Mr. Zheng. Will you join me downstairs for dinner? We have some of our other investors down there who would like to hear your story, as well.”

  Phong glanced at the clock on his phone. “Certainly,
sir.”

  Phong sipped more of his rice wine, as the old man and his investor friends laughed garrulously at another bawdy joke. The meeting had, to this point, been nothing much more than a restrained social gathering at a men’s club. From the context of the conversation thus far, Phong had learned that most of the men at the table were senior-level business managers from a variety of different industries, including everything from electronics, to clothing, to oil, to pharmaceuticals. Apart from a few socially mandatory, perfunctory questions meant to ease him into the group, the men had betrayed little if any interest as to the reason for Phong’s presence.

  As they came to a lull in their lively conversation, the men’s laughter subsided and a slim man with a regal bearing named Huso Junjiu, an executive at a bio-pharmaceutical firm in Guongzhou, said, “I think we should now let Mr. Phong here show us what he can offer, no?”

  As the evening had worn on, Phong had perceived that Huso had heightened standing among these men. His assertion proved true, as the boisterous feelings sobered, and the group quieted.

  An overweight IT executive from Guangzhou said, “You were saying earlier, Mr. Phong, you wish to capitalize on satellite technology and navigational software to develop self-navigating sea vessels and cargo trucks?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  The man nodded. “Can you explain why we should invest with you? What gives you a competitive advantage?”

  Phong gave his pitch again, and the men listened intently. The men countered some of his claims, some quite aggressively. “Those payload rents for getting your satellites into orbit are astronomical,” the electronics manager from Chongqing said. “The union membership is stubborn and they have connections. You’ll have to fight to get that software of yours into the trucks,” said the oil executive from Qingdao. “I know at least two other major firms in Japan and Germany who are developing the same product,” said the communications executive from Beijing. The men went around and around with their arguments, and Phong had to think quickly to counter them. For him, it was an exhausting exercise. When all was said and done, however, he seemed to have won the day. He knew he wouldn’t have had a chance at that result had it not been for his previous work experience in Beijing.