“Why don’t we go somewhere?” he finally said. “Take a few days off, get away from all of this.“
“Where?" she asked. "How?”
“I don't know," he muttered. He glanced around the office. "But taking a break from all this bullshit can't be a bad thing.”
Before Rebecca could answer they were interrupted by Yan and Chen, as the pair stepped out of the glass office. Yan shook the smug Chinese operative’s hand. After a few brief words, she guided him towards the exit.
But Chen was not so easily deterred. He glanced around the office, then made a beeline towards the cubicles.
“Damn,” Rebecca hissed. “He’s heading straight for us.” She turned to face him, her eyes wide with concern. “I’d swear he didn’t see you… it’s like he knew you would be here.”
Caine shifted in his chair. Rebecca had been right. He had pushed his luck. “Well, I’m blown anyway. I guess we’ll see what he has to say.”
Chen walked up to them and flashed a brief, unconvincing smile. “Mr. Caine,” he said, speaking excellent English. He gave a polite bow, but his tone was terse and with a hint of anger. “You inconvenienced us tonight. Three of my top men, dead. How am I going to explain that to Beijing?”
“Sorry to hear that, Chen,” Caine responded. He didn’t bother to get up from where he sat. “But you seem to be a clever man. I’m sure you already have a story prepared… but of course, I wouldn’t know anything about it.”
“Well, we will see, Mr. Caine.” He laughed, but no one joined him. Then suddenly he was serious and cold again. “It is good that we are meeting in Hong Kong, Mr. Caine. The laws regarding our mutual occupation are somewhat lax here, for the time being at least.”
Caine smiled. “You have laws against working in an embassy?”
Chen uttered another brief laugh. “An amusing joke, Mr. Caine. But please believe me. If this meeting had occurred in mainland China, I’m afraid I would be forced to have you arrested on suspicion of murder and industrial espionage.”
Caine offered a slight bow in return. “Don’t your people have a saying, ‘a wise man adapts himself to circumstances—’"
“—as water shapes itself to the vessel that contains it,’” Chen finished. “Yes, that is one of ours.” Chen smiled with his teeth now. “I prefer a different proverb. ‘If you are patient in one moment of anger, you will escape a hundred days of sorrow.’”
Caine nodded. “Those are words I try to live by, Mr. Chen.”
Chen gave another small bow. “As do I. Perhaps we are more alike than I gave you credit for. At any rate, I will say goodbye now, Mr. Caine. Out of respect for Ms. Yan, I will not hinder your exit from Hong Kong. I suggest you leave quickly. And for your sake, I very much hope we do not meet again.”
He turned and exited the area. He walked at a swift pace, as though he had urgent, more important business elsewhere.
Once he was out of earshot, Yan crossed her arms and glared at Caine and Rebecca. “You still don’t think you’re being set up?”
“Let me get out of the country first,” Caine answered soberly, “before I answer that one.”
Chapter Seven
SOUTH CHINA SEA
Captain Zhao Jianyu stood proud on the deck of his Type 093 nuclear submarine, the Hai Long. He admired its sleek design and modern details. This was his submarine. He commanded it. He held absolute power over every aspect of the vessel and the crew.
Even before his commission, Zhao had made it his business to know every detail possible about the 093. The new submarine was far superior to its predecessor, the Type 091. That model had suffered from poor reactor shielding, among other problems. That single design failure had left hundreds of 091 crewmen riddled with cancer, or suffering from other symptoms of radiation poisoning. By a stroke of good fortune, Zhao had been restricted to commanding diesel-powered submarines while the 091 was in operation. His manipulation of Communist Party officials saw him promoted to nuclear submersible command when the new model rolled off the production lines.
This was Zhao’s third mission commanding the Hai Long. The Type 093 was a prototype, and the Americans knew nothing of its existence. The sleek and deadly submarine displaced seven thousand tons of water when submerged. At one hundred and ten meters in length, and with a beam of eleven meters, the Hai Long was the deadliest new weapon in the PLA Navy’s arsenal.
The propeller system had improved since the 091, reducing the risk of tracking by American and Russian submarines. The nuclear reactor gave the 093 unlimited range, so it only had to surface for food or to replace air scrubbers. Zhao’s favorite features, however, were the vessel's six torpedo tubes. He would need every weapon at his disposal for the risky mission that lay ahead.
Only minutes earlier, Zhao had received his orders from Southern Theater Command in Zhanjiang, Guangdong Province. PLA hackers had secured a back door into America’s National Reconnaissance Office. They were secretly ‘cleaning’ satellite imagery, removing any records of the Chinese submarine fleet operating in the Pacific Ocean. Within the hour, when the data cleaning process was complete, the Hai Long would go dark. It would follow the prearranged route across the Pacific to Los Angeles, California. Then it would turn north, heading up the American coast to Seattle. Finally, it would return home, never once appearing on the NRO’s surveillance network. If the Type 093 remained undetected from start to finish, the mission would be deemed a success. The might of China’s latest generation nuclear submarine fleet would be unquestionable.
That was the official mission. But Zhao had other plans.
He took a deep breath as he surveyed the brilliant blue waters around the surfaced submarine. The tropical air of the equatorial Pacific Ocean felt warm and fresh on his skin. He ran over the details of his plan one last time in his mind. His lips curled into a grin.
He was about to become very rich.
But before he departed on his self-appointed mission, he had one final problem to resolve.
As if reading Zhao’s mind, three of his loyal sailors dragged a struggling man up on deck. His face was swollen and bruised, the result of repeated beatings. His wrists and ankles seeped blood where he had been tightly bound. He wore only his pants and a singlet. Both were stained with blood, sweat and urine.
Zhao nodded as his men threw their captive to the deck. If any of them recognized the prisoner as Wang Hong Fei, the Political Commissar of the Central Military Commission, they gave no sign of it. They treated him as they would treat any enemy prisoner of war.
“You will pay for this, Zhao,” the beaten man bellowed. His voice swelled with defiance, despite his beatings. As he spoke, Zhao glanced at his split lip and blackened eyes. The once powerful man before him now looked pathetic. Impotent.
“When the Communist Party hears what you did to me—”
“They will never hear about it, Wang Hong Fei,” Zhao snapped, his voice booming with the deep, commanding tone of a military officer. He gave the prisoner another scornful glance. Wang was one of many useless political pests that filled the ranks of the party. Commissars, bureaucrats… Parasites. Men like Wang plagued the PLA, reporting on anyone who showed even the slightest inkling of disloyalty to the great cause. The zealous sycophancy of the commissars blinded them to true genius. They were nothing compared to real men of vision and innovation.
Men like Zhao.
Commissars like Wang didn’t make China great. They held their nation back, trapped it in the stagnant mindset of the past. All for their own petty benefit. They were not the future.
“Are you threatening me, Captain?” Wang demanded. "I swear, I'll make sure—"
Zhao laughed, amused that the Commissar still thought he held even a scrap of his former power. “You could have been very rich, Wang.“
“That is not what China is about. You’re paranoid, Zhao. You’ve gone mad!”
“Are you sure about that?” Zhao took a notebook from his pocket. It was Wang's. The tiny notebook was filled w
ith the man's scrawled ‘political observations.’ Wang had guessed some of the details of Zhao’s plans, and noted them all in his little book after deciding they were treacherous. He had believed his notebook was well hidden. But on the Hai Long, Zhao wielded ultimate power. No secrets could be kept from him, and nothing could remain hidden long.
“I’ve read what you have said about me, Wang," he said, flipping through the pages of the notebook. He looked down at the battered captive sprawled across the deck. "Did you really think you could hide this from me? On my own ship?"
Wang’s eyes grew wide with surprise. For the first time, Zhao sensed fear in the man. Finally, the message was getting through.
“You’re deviating from your orders, Captain,” Wang shouted. "You are jeopardizing the mission given to you by the Central Government!" Suddenly, for no sane reason, Wang staggered to his feet. The bruised and bloody captive made a desperate lunge towards Zhao. But before he could even swing his fist, three of Zhao's loyal sailors battered him back to the deck and pinned him down.
“Zhao," he screamed. “Soon everyone will know… You are a traitor to China!”
With a casual flick of his wrist, Zhao threw the notebook into the choppy ocean water. He watched Wang again, saw the fear grow in the man's eyes.
Zhao was enjoying this. “You forget, Wang, that I am very well connected to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He is my cousin through my wife’s family. And as they say, blood is thicker than water. They will believe me when I say it was a tragic accident.”
Wang stopped struggling. His face paled.
Zhao chuckled. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Wang. Perhaps your own?" Zhao knelt down, staring the terrified man in the eyes. “Finally, you understand.”
“You can’t—”
“Yes Wang, I can. A military submarine is a dangerous place for a civilian like yourself. My crew is loyal, Wang. They follow me out of respect… something you know nothing about. Their reports will say the same thing. You were last seen heading up to the deck, sneaking out for some fresh air without telling anyone—”
“No!” Wang’s mouth contorted into ugly shapes. What was about to happen was finally sinking in. His destiny led nowhere, except to a cold and wet oblivion. “Please—”
“When the order to dive was given, no one knew the tragic circumstances—"
“You can’t kill me.” His words were almost sobs.
Zhao knew he had to push a little farther. The man still believed he could talk himself out of his predicament. Zhao needed to push until he broke completely. Nothing else would give him satisfaction.
“I am a Political Commissar of the Central Military Commission,” Wang blurted in fury. “You cannot threaten me and expect no consequences—”
“No one realized you had not returned. Not until hours later. Hours, Wang. By then, it was too late—”
“Please,” Wang begged. Then, like a switch had been flipped, his words turned to blubbering cries. He broke down suddenly, as tears flooded from his eyes. His body shook and trembled.
Zhao smiled.
This was the moment he had been waiting for. The moment when he could experience the sheer, raw terror of another man. Wang knew with absolute certainty he was about to die. Nothing in Heaven nor on Earth would save him.
Zhao closed his eyes, and took another deep breath. He savored the man’s fear and pain, as he had savored the fresh air earlier. The suffering of others gave him power. It was almost like a spiritual awakening. He wished he could hold onto that feeling forever.
When Zhao felt he had drunk his fill of Wang's fear, he nodded to the crew. It was time to dive.
It was time for a man to die.
With sadistic laughs, the sailors threw Wang Hong Fei over the edge of the submarine.
Wang cartwheeled into the water, landing with a loud splash. He bobbed to the surface, treading water. Once again, he was begging and sobbing.
Zhao grinned as he savored the last moments of the man’s naked terror. They were at least a hundred kilometers from the nearest island. Too far to swim. If Wang didn’t drown first, sharks would find him soon enough. The man had no hope.
Wang tried to swim back to the Hai Long.
Zhao unbuckled his sidearm from its holster. He fired several shots into the water near Wang. He was careful not to hit the terrified man. He didn’t want to quicken the demise of the bureaucrat who had been a thorn in his side for so long. The bullets nipping at the water had their desired effect. Wang paddled frantically, swimming away from him. His begging cries became muted and distant, muffled by the water lapping at the submarine's hull.
One by one the crew returned inside. Zhao stayed above, staring at Wang as he drifted further into the endless void of water. He inhaled the fresh air one last time.
In five weeks, each man on his crew would know greater riches than they could have ever dreamed of. Zhao Jianyu himself would become one of the wealthiest men in China. And then no one, not even the doddering old fools in the Communist Party, would ever be able to touch him again.
Success, Zhao knew, now came down to one thing; the PLA’s whore of a programmer doing her job. It was up to her to fake a believable path across the Pacific and back for the Hai Long to follow.
He shook his head, realizing he had become lost in his thoughts. Wang was no more than a tiny black dot now, bobbing on the distant horizon.
Zhao ducked into the entrance and went down below. Within minutes, the deadly submarine vanished beneath the waves.
Its long, secretive journey had begun.
Chapter Eight
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND, UNITED STATES
Five days since their expulsion from Hong Kong, Caine and Rebecca had yet to formulate a plan to extract Su Liao from her MSS minders in Bolivia. The complicating factor was convincing the Chinese Liao had died during her defection. With just under two weeks to plan, the clock was ticking… they were under the gun.
They had been working sixteen-hour days, wracking their brains for a solution. Rebecca had been surviving on little more than black coffee, and Caine's diet had deteriorated into a steady stream of takeaway meals. By five o’clock on the third day Caine suggested they take a break. Exhaustion wasn’t helping, and neither was avoiding downtime. He offered to make her dinner at his place. A night off, to relax and regroup.
Rebecca agreed, but reluctantly.
At first Caine believed her frustration was with their lack of progress. But now he suspected it was because Rebecca blamed him for what had happened in Hong Kong. Because of him, she had lost an opportunity to work under one of the best station heads in the CIA. Her frustration was affecting everything. She was more critical than normal. Her demeanor was cold. They didn’t joke like they used to, to relieve the tension. The last five days had not brought the contentment Caine normally felt in her presence.
He hoped tonight would be different.
Caine enjoyed Asian food, so he decided to cook a Thai dish, a chicken and peanut Panang curry. As he stirred lime juice, pineapple, coconut milk and Thai basil leaves in a large pot, he felt his jangled nerves begin to unwind. The smell of the fresh ingredients had a calming effect on him. He soon found himself enjoying the simple task of creating a meal.
As he checked on the jasmine rice, Caine realized this was the first time in his adult life he had cooked for someone else. He had never gone to this much effort with any of his past girlfriends. He took a sip of a cold Sapporo beer.
Rebecca's different, he thought. You're lying to yourself if you pretend otherwise.
The doorbell to his sparse but modern apartment chimed. Rebecca was earlier than she said she would be. Early didn’t bother him. He was looking forward to spending time together that didn’t revolve around work.
When he opened the door, a crestfallen look crossed his face.
Rebecca was nowhere to be seen.
Standing in the door was a muscular, barrel-chested man. He had a scraggly beard, and stood a few inches t
aller than Caine. A curl of thick, sandy-colored hair fell across his pale blue eyes.
“Thomas Caine!” the man bellowed, holding up a six-pack of Coronas in each hand. “Thought I’d drop in and tell you the good news.”
For a moment Caine said nothing. “Jack Tyler?”
“I passed, bud! I've officially joined the band. Paramilitary Operations Officer, CIA Special Operations Group. Man, those unit entrance exams were no joke!” Tyler paused, noticing Caine’s surprised stare. “Hey bud, you gonna invite me in or what?”
Caine stepped aside and let Tyler into the apartment. “Ah, congratulations Jack. But I’m kind of expecting someone else tonight.”
Tyler’s expression turned serious. “Oh, sorry man. You working?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Well, good thing I brought extra beer.” All grins again, Tyler made himself at home. He fell into one of Caine’s leather lounges and popped the lids off two beers with a knife he pulled from his pocket. “When your friend gets here he can celebrate with us.”
“She,” Caine corrected him.
Tyler cocked an eyebrow. “So that’s why you're acting so cagey. Look at you, Caine. Got the lights turned down low in here, cooking a romantic dinner. I think I need to meet this girl. Make sure she's not running a honey trap on your ass, kid.”
Caine sighed. The last thing he needed was for Tyler to find out about him and Rebecca, along with everyone else. He knew she wanted to downplay their relationship. “Actually, it is a work meeting. Need-to-know-only basis, I’m afraid.”
“In your own apartment? My friend, you could be bugged. And I should know. I just finished audio-surveillance training at The Farm.” When he saw Caine wasn’t budging, he chuckled. “All right, relax kid. Join me for a quick beer and I’ll get out of your hair. I owe you one, for recommending me to the program. And you owe me for saving your lily-white ass in Yemen.”
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