Oh, my God, Lee thought, her hands cupped over her mouth as the facial detail came into focus. Simon Shelby.
Chapter 42
Brooklyn, New York
Wednesday, March 12, 3:26 p.m. EST
Charlie Monroe led Milt Reardon and Tobias Johns, a sound technician employed elsewhere in the complex, through a glass door with the Brooklyn Capital Management logo on it, a depiction of famed scientist and philosopher Galileo Galilei. Monroe led the two other men through a short hallway, through another glass door, and into the studio and offices of Brooklyn Capital’s own 98.6 KXTV FM. As Reardon had made his way further into the studio, it became apparent that the builders of the complex had constructed the contemporary building around the original studio as the brick and glass of the newer structure gave way to wood and stone. It was a small station, and there were only a handful of employee work spaces. Reardon noted also the odor consisting of a mix of cigarette smoke and musty old cloth and wood.
They had come unannounced, so Reardon wasn’t anticipating a greeting, though with Monroe’s reputation it wouldn’t have surprised him if someone stood at attention and offered a salute. The three of them walked into the administrative area of the station without interruption. To his right, Reardon saw through a glass partition a thin man with shoulder length brown hair speaking and gesturing animatedly into a microphone affixed to a boom. Another man sitting to his left was laughing garrulously. Reardon could not hear their voices, which he assumed was because the glass was soundproof.
Monroe found a middle-aged woman—Kathleen Hansen, according to the name plate—sitting in one of the cubicles. “Hello, there,” Monroe said.
“Hel—um, hello.” The woman straightened in her chair, then rose. “Hello, Mr. Monroe. How can I help you today?”
Monroe smiled, his demeanor relaxed. “I’m here with Mr. Milt Reardon. He’s with the FBI. I’m afraid we’re going to need to temporarily confiscate some of the radio equipment.”
The woman frowned. “Confiscate equipment?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. It will only be temporary. The FBI needs to examine the equipment as part of an ongoing investigation.”
The woman remained silent. Reardon glanced into the soundproofed studio, where the garrulous laughter had ceased. The thin man with the shoulder-length hair was staring at him with an uncomfortably intense look on his face.
“Does this mean—?”
Monroe cut her off. “Yes, I’m afraid it does mean that we’re going to have to shut down programming until this issue has been resolved.”
As the woman remained silent, Monroe continued. “Will you please take us to where the audio equipment is located?”
“Yes, sir,” the woman said. “Please follow me.”
She led them up a winding staircase made of old, gnarled wood, which creaked and groaned under the weight of the men. At the second level, she said, “I’m assuming you probably want to go up to the third level. This is just where we keep our records storage.” On the third level, they entered into a room dimly lit by two skylights. Most of the equipment had been stacked haphazardly atop a large wooden desk and a set of shelves, while some of it had simply been laid on the floor.
“I may need access to the antenna,” Johns offered.
The woman pointed to another narrow staircase located further into the room. “You’ll need to climb those stairs in order to access the roof where the antenna tower is.”
Johns had already made a beeline for the equipment. “I see we have three scanners in here.” Johns lifted the glass lid on one of the scanners. His gaze shifted to a metal trash can lying on the floor. From the can he plucked out a crumpled sheet and straightened it. “These are physics notes. From Magus, if the labeling at the bottom is any indication.”
He turned to Monroe and said, “I’ll need to open this equipment up and take a closer look to see if and how it’s been modified for OFDM. I may need to haul some of it out of here at some point and take it over to our lab.”
“You do what you need to do in order to make a proper inspection,” Monroe said. “You know how to reach me.”
Reardon followed Monroe back down the stairs. Through the glass, Reardon noticed the man with the long hair staring at him while simultaneously conversing with his partner. He sprung out of his chair and walked quickly to a glass door in the soundproofed studio.
“Excuse me! What’s going on here?” the man asked.
Reardon stepped in front of Monroe, flashing his badge. “My name is Milt Reardon. I’m with the FBI. We’re going to need to temporarily confiscate the station’s equipment.”
“What! What’s going on here? You can’t just grab our equipment like this with no notice!”
Monroe said, “We’ll be taking it for a short time. We’ll have it back to you as soon as possible.”
“Mr. Monroe, it’s show time! I can’t abandon my fans like this!” Peregrine ran his hand through his hair.
“Your fans will have to wait.”
Reardon said, “Mr. Peregrine, how is it that classified physics documentation has found its way into a trash bin upstairs, and why are there three scanners up there?”
“Physics? I don’t have any idea.”
Reardon turned to Kathleen Hansen. “Ms. Hansen, have you ever seen any unusual activity upstairs?”
“There have been multiple times when I’ve seen people upstairs. Mostly, it’s at night when I was working late.”
“Go on, please,” Monroe said.
“The first time, it was a young Asian woman. I was on my way up to the second level when I passed her on the stairs.”
“And the second?”
“The second time was just a couple of months ago. Again, I was upstairs retrieving some records when I heard someone climbing the staircase. I followed the noises up to the third floor and peeked in. I saw a younger man, in his mid to late twenties, doing something with the equipment.”
“What did this man look like?”
“He was thin with short, sand-colored hair. Wore dark-rimmed glasses.”
“Peregrine, where—”
Reardon had turned to address Pathos Peregrine, but Peregrine had disappeared. Reardon followed a hallway along the sound proofed portion of the studio and stepped through the door at the end, which led into a wider hallway that was part of the Hoover building. Peregrine was nowhere to be seen. Reardon pulled his phone from his coat pocket and called Cardenas, who agreed to process an APB on Peregrine.
Brooklyn, New York
Wednesday, March 12, 11:39 p.m. EST
You need a break, O’ Conner had said. “I’m not sure what you’ve been through the past few weeks, but I definitely think you can use a little rest and relaxation. We’re going out on Friday to this place up in Greenpoint. Why don’t you come with? It’ll be fun.”
“Ugh, I’d like to. I feel like I hit a wall this week. I’ve been so tired. I really need to sleep.”
“Are you sure? Mulala Dirhwan is going to be there. So is Erika Durst. Do you remember Erika? From freshman year?”
“Of course,” Lee had said.
It had taken less than twenty minutes for her reticence toward the evening to wear off, which was how long it took for the previous four years to vaporize as they segued inexorably into the people they had been at that time in their lives. Dirhwan was the quietest and most reflective of the group and O’ Conner the most even-keeled, while Durst was the most outgoing. Of the four, Lee had been the one who had grown the most. Seven years ago, she had been the roughest of the group, by far. She had spent much of her free time away from her studies as a keyboard player and percussionist in a band and had dressed the part: short, spiky hair, black leather jeans and boots, and an occasional bandana. For a couple of years, she had grown into a casual smoker, and had flirted with alcohol and serious drugs. At the time, the intense younger version of Lyn Lee had still been dealing with her considerable emotional turmoil left over from her childhood and high school years and, with twenty-tw
enty hindsight, she was certain that, without the friendship of O’ Conner and Dirhwan, she would’ve never been able to leave that anger behind.
Ironically, it was her love of music that provided the lifeline away from that old life, just as it had drawn her into it. That, and her intellect. By random chance, she had met O’ Conner in a music theory class in the fall of that year and it was O’ Conner who had invited her to an informal seminar, non-affiliated with the university, where they deconstructed famous rock ’n roll pieces. Then, O’ Conner had introduced her to Dirhwan, who had shared her interest in Buddhism.
“You’re sure you don’t want any more wine?” O’ Conner said, sliding the bottle toward Lee.
“Are you sure?” Lee said. “We spent a fortune for the bottle, and I think I’ve already had my fair share.”
“Yes, please. Go ahead.” O Conner nudged her with her shoulder. “I’m going to buy another one anyway.”
Lee frowned. “Okay, maybe just one more small glass.”
O’ Conner poured it for her, as their waiter made another stop at their table. Though the evening was growing old, they each ordered another round of drinks with O’ Conner requesting the bottle of wine. The establishment had quieted as most of the patrons had left for the evening.
Once the waiter had left, Dirhwan and Durst continued their running conversation, which they had been engaged in off and on for most of the evening. “Do you see that guy with the ponytail at the bar?” O’Conner asked.
“Yes, why?”
“Don’t you think he looks like Mr. Allard, from that music seminar we took our freshman year?”
Lee scanned the men at the bar and noticed a thin man with brown hair tied up into a ponytail. Lee smiled. “I was just thinking about that class. It’s been a long time but, yes, I guess he does.”
Lee’s phone buzzed, but it was from an unmarked number so she let it ring through. They reminisced for a few minutes about that class, laughing about Allard’s reaction when Lee had first ambled into class twenty minutes late during the third week. She had been in full-blown punk mode at the time.
“I didn’t even realize it was possible to make an expression like the one he gave when you walked into the room,” O’ Conner said. “At least you took the spikes out of your hair the following week.”
Lee’s phone buzzed again and she realized someone had left a message. “Just a sec,” Lyn said. “I need to check this voicemail.”
Kep Wang’s voice graced her eardrum, though for some reason it sounded tinny. “Lyn, it’s Kep. Found some more info that I think may be valuable from Zhang’s computer. It was embedded in the info we’ve already downloaded. Come by as soon as you can. It think it’s probably time sensitive.”
Lee frowned. She dialed his number but it rang through, and she decided against leaving a message.
“Sorry, it’s from Kep. No big deal.”
Lee rejoined the conversation. The four of them carried on for another hour and a half, until they were among the few patrons remaining, and then they stayed a while longer until the owner all but ushered them out the door. They hugged, said their goodbyes and promised to meet again soon. Since Lee and Dirhwan were the two who didn’t own vehicles, they walked together southbound for a couple of blocks until they reached the L line at Lorimer, where they parted ways. Dirhwan was heading back into Manhattan, while Lee had decided to take the G line southbound on her way to Kep’s apartment further south next to the Brooklyn Bridge. It would be a little out of her way, given her apartment was in Williamsburg, but the weather was a little warmer and her night out with her friends had enlivened her.
Lee rode the G line in silence, checking her phone periodically for new messages. But it was almost two thirty in the morning and the only new phone activity was texts from Durst and O’ Conner that they had made it home safely, something they had held themselves accountable for doing whenever they’d been out late. Lee put some earplugs in and, for old times’ sake, put on some music she had listened to in her college days, which consisted mostly of alternative rock and punk. At Hoyt Street, Lee transferred to the A line, which looped north a little bit, and Lee exited at the underground High Street Station. Once she’d ascended out of the terminal, she dialed Wang’s number, but it went to his voice messaging again. What is with him? She tapped out a quick text and sent it to him.
Lee walked briskly across Cadman Plaza West, then traveled in a zigzag pattern for a couple of blocks in a general northwesterly direction until she ran into Hicks Street. She took a right turn onto Hicks, and stayed on Hicks until she came to the Brooklyn Queens Expressway overpass. When she entered the underbelly of the overpass, the stars disappeared and the darkness deepened. A car was coming toward her. In the light from its headlights, she saw a tall, lithe man standing on the opposite side of the road facing her. He was wearing a white dress shirt and a black leather coat. He was very tall and athletic, and he was unmistakably Chinese. His eyes were looking right at her, grinning at her. She realized that it was the man from Ambassador Li’s apartment, and the one who had assaulted her at Zhang’s cabin. Her phone buzzed. When she checked her phone, a text message from Wang had appeared: I HAVEN’T CALLED YOU TONIGHT.
The sharp honking of a horn in the distance penetrated her shock, and she regained her awareness. She made a sharp left turn and began walking very quickly along an east-west oriented street. She glanced to her right and saw the man bounding toward her. She leapt forward into a sprint, surging forward through spells of darkness and intermittent light until she came out from under the overpass and found herself running along a road, a park on her left and a series of brick apartments on her right. She tore along the left side of the road, avoiding ground clutter, patches of ice, and the occasional unsuspecting pedestrian. As fast as she ran, the man behind her was faster. The man had closed the gap to ten feet, and she could hear his feet pounding on the asphalt when she spied a small trail off to her left. She leapt a small black chain-link fence, crossed into a grassy area, and plunged into a forested area. She ran at an angle to the place where the trail would be until she caught up with it and broke through some scrub onto the dirt trail, the man still following closely behind.
Her lungs burned and her legs ached as she struggled to stay ahead. She sped forward as the trail zigzagged around a cropping of larger oak and elm trees until she entered into a clearing. A few strides later, she felt pressure on her back as the man had finally caught up to her. She tumbled forward onto asphalt, scraping her hands and smacking her knee as she landed. She reached into her purse, grabbed her knife in her right hand. The man lunged at her, but she swiped at him with the knife and he backed away.
He crouched lower into a more balanced position and lunged at her again. As he approached, she brought the knife in an upward motion toward his torso, but he parried her attempt with his left arm while simultaneously grabbing her coat below her neckline with his right. She felt him wince as the knife cut his left arm, but it wasn’t enough of a wound to disable him. Pain from the cut notwithstanding, he was still able to get ahold of her sleeve on her knife-bearing hand with his left and, for a few moments, they were locked in this position, Lee trying to bring the knife up into his abdomen, but the man controlling her with sheer strength. Lee had surprised the man with her strength and skill in Zhang’s cabin, but it would not happen a second time. He pushed her backward until she fell onto her backside, landed a blow across her left cheek, and slammed her right hand into the ground. On the third try, the knife became dislodged, clattering onto the asphalt.
With a burst of energy, Lee rolled herself away from him and managed to rise to her feet, but he yanked her back to him with her coat, and quickly gained control of her with a chokehold. She groaned and struggled with all of her strength as the man squeezed her esophagus and her vision began to fade. She made a last, futile attempt, but the man’s strength was overpowering. She began to see the blackness of her vision replaced by flashes of white light as she felt herself
losing consciousness. Then, in the still of the night, an explosion reverberated, and his vice grip loosened. She pushed away from him, falling to the ground, gasping, taking in gulps of cold air.
Once she wiped the tears from her eyes, Lee saw the man lying still on the pavement, a splotch of blood pooling near his skull. Lee turned toward the vicinity of where the explosion had come from. In the dim pale light, a short, thin Chinese woman with short black hair in black jeans and a black denim jacket walked toward her, her arms extended down in front of her, a pistol in her hands. It was the androgynous woman who Xiang had encountered those many weeks ago in the subway and who she had caught trailing her as she shopped for her dress in Manhattan.
Lee rose quickly to her feet. She raised her hands in front of her, and began walking backward, away from the woman.
The woman, seeing that Lee was afraid, stopped walking toward her. She leaned down, placed the pistol on the pavement. In Mandarin, the woman said, “My name is Su Lijiao. I know you have not known this, but I have been looking after you. I come to you now seeking asylum to your country. I believe, Ms. Lyn Lee, that you will return my favor.” She abruptly sat down on the pavement with her knees bent in front of her pressed to her chest, and began rocking back and forth.
It took two attempts to reach Jillian Frank, who assured her that FBI personnel would be there as soon as possible. As she waited, Lee attempted to communicate with the woman, but she would not say a thing. Su Lijiao sat silently, rocking herself.
Chapter 43
Manhattan, New York
Thursday, March 13, 8:03 a.m.
For the first morning since Rose’s team moved into the command center building along the Hudson River line, the silhouette of the Imperial Empress was no longer visible. The ship had left the pier the day prior, and Rose found himself trying to piece together the reason for Lorren’s lack of action from the bits of evidence he’d been privy to. While China’s move toward a more capitalist economy had created startlingly dramatic economic gains, it still hadn’t been taken seriously as an international superpower by the U.S. for a number of reasons. Not yet, anyway. However, through a couple of well-placed contacts, Rose knew of certain accomplishments that had made China much more threatening to the U.S. government in recent months. He knew, for example, that the Chinese information security apparatus had solved a few of the encryption hurdles that had historically given the U.S. such an advantage in electronic surveillance. He was aware, also, that China and Russia had apparently bridged their historical mistrust and begun working much more closely with each other in key economic and military initiatives. This was particularly true in the development of technologies meant to disable U.S. satellites, where the China-Russia accord had already led to the neutralization of one major U.S. spy satellite. All of this occurring while the administration clung to diplomatic strategies which China clearly had no serious interest in pursuing.
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