While Lo was playing courier interruptus and then seeing the BetaGo people off, I caught a flight to Nanjing. This got me on the ground a few minutes ahead of the couriers—a good thing, because I had trouble getting the rental car Lo had reserved for me and just barely managed to pick up the trail team. Nanjing was all business, with three quick stops and then a return run to the airport. This caused me some problems since I’d thought they’d be taking off in the morning, and buying a last-minute plane ticket wasn’t easy. My interest in doing so aroused the suspicions of airport security, and I had to spin a cock-and-bull story about a nonexistent business partner who’d gotten ill. Fortunately, my handheld translator fascinated the two men who came over to check me out; I told them a few off-color jokes and left them laughing.
I made it to Wuhan about an hour after my targets did. I couldn’t follow them into the city, but with the airplane waiting I didn’t have to. I made sure I had plane reservations for Nanning on the only flight out the next morning, then took a stroll around the grounds.
The couriers were staying in the city for the night, and a local security firm had been hired to provide security at the airport where the plane waited while they made their pickup. The security firm was actually a local army unit—or maybe I have that backward. Six young Chinese recruits stood around the airplane as it sat in front of a hangar waiting for passengers and crew to return. The soldiers had been well trained—as infantry fodder. Guarding empty-looking airplanes was a bit above their skill level.
I don’t look particularly Chinese, but it’s amazing how far a pair of greasy coveralls and a few curse words in the local patois can get you. I found a mechanic’s toolbox in a hangar nearby, then strolled over to the plane. I nodded and went right to work, checking the air pressure in the tires. (Never know when one of those suckers is going to go flat.) That done, I pulled myself up on the wheel and had a good look at the engine. After I confirmed to my satisfaction that it was an engine, I walked around to the other side, where the crew had conveniently left the hatch open and its fold-down stairway deployed. The hardest thing about my entire adventure was remembering which button to push so the flash on the cell phone wouldn’t go off when I took a picture of the suitcases stacked neatly in the back.
As the pickups were made, the couriers attached and activated radio tags so they could be tracked by satellite. Similar technology is used in the U.S. to track truck shipments. It’s fairly reliable, but it can give you a false sense of security. A radio gadget that fits in the palm of your hand is no substitute for a pair of standard-issue eyeballs.
Actually, the gadget they were using didn’t quite fit in my hand, as I discovered after I searched the plane and went to return my toolbox. BetaGo rented the hangar to keep spare equipment. (There was even a little sign declaring that it was theirs and that visitors weren’t allowed. Too bad I’m not very good at reading Chinese.) Toward the back I found two of the large boxes used for shipping the materials, along with a complete set of bags, tamper-evident paper, and transponders. I found these entirely by accident, my curiosity aroused by the set of locks on the only cabinet in the building. Having spent nearly a whole minute picking the locks, it seemed like I was due something for my trouble and so I took a transponder.
A real mechanic met me as I left the hangar, but with the help of some strategic bowing and a mumbled “lao jia” (“excuse me,” though if you cross your legs right it’s clear you’re looking for the restroom), I managed to get past. A few moments later I had changed back into Western clothes and entered the passenger terminal, where I spent the next few hours dozing until my plane to Nanning boarded at six the next morning.
I got to Nanning in time to see the couriers’ plane land. Rather than follow them on their rounds, I moseyed over to their plane, which was guarded by another contingent of soldiers from the People’s Army. When something works, you stick with it, and so I put on my coveralls and looked for a toolbox. The best I could do was a crescent wrench. Patting it meaningfully, I walked toward the airplane. I got only a few yards before someone yelled out in Chinese for me to halt. I turned around nonchalantly, and found myself staring down at a lieutenant who proceeded to quiz me on everything from world events to my shoe size.
At its best, my Chinese is shaky, and while I had the handheld translator with me I decided it was best not to pull the gadget out. Instead, I explained in English-punctuated Chinese that I was a contract worker for UK Airline Maintenance, and that I was supposed to install a new radar altimeter in a certain airplane, which thus far I had been unable to find. I had no papers, but I did have a radar altimeter—or rather a smallish electronic doodad that looked just like a radar altimeter, assuming you had no clue what a radar altimeter looked like. In short order I was being led by the lieutenant to the plane. I fumbled around in the cockpit for a while, then activated the radio tag and left it in plain sight on a shelf behind the copilot’s seat. A half hour later I was back in the terminal, standing next to a window at the north side and seemingly gazing idly at the runway.
What sort of reaction would the appearance of an extra radio tag set off? An all-hands alert, isolating the cargo and sending in a response team to check everyone and everything out? An immediate call to the couriers to return and recheck their cases? An alert to the security forces to report any suspicious activity?
Answer: none of the above. In fact, there was no reaction that I could see. The team didn’t return for another four hours, and when they did arrive, they gave no indication that they had been alerted to trouble. The plane took off a short time afterward.
The radio tag was equipped with an LED indicator that lit when it was on; even so, it was possible that it was malfunctioning. It was also possible that the aircraft would be locked down when it arrived at its next stop in Thailand. While I doubted this, it was a possibility, and so I decided to check on it by having an associate in Thailand meet the plane. (I was due in Shanghai the next morning so I couldn’t do it myself, even if there had been a flight out that night.)
Si Bi Phiung lived in Thailand, but he had been born in Vietnam, the son of an army captain who fled about sixty seconds ahead of the Commie takeover. I’d met the father during my days trying to get a tan in Southeast Asia. He was a tough, no-nonsense soldier who could not be corrupted. His integrity nearly cost him his wife and child—the Viet Cong blew up his home while he was out on patrol, and it was only by luck that they were away with relatives that night. A few months later, he shipped his family over to Bangkok; I had a very minor role helping them get there, and his gratitude has embarrassed me ever since. Now retired, the elder Mr. Phiung worked for Thai Danu Bank in their corporate loss prevention department, a fancy way of saying he kept employees from putting their fingers in the till. Si had his own firm specializing in customs and security arrangements for multinationals based at Don Muang Airport in Bangkok, so he wouldn’t have to go far to help out.
They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but in this case it rolled a half-mile after it dropped. Unlike his dad, whom I’ve never seen without a smile on his face, Si frowns ninety-five percent of the time. But there’s no doubt he’s his father’s son. His eyes pin you like railroad spikes, and if he takes out his pistol, you better say your prayers: He can clip the head off a matchstick at a hundred yards.
I called Si and asked if he could send someone over to check on the BetaGo flight when it landed. No way, he told me—any request from me was important enough for him to do it himself. I thanked him, then gave him a quick rundown of what I was looking for. It helped that he had heard of the company and knew where the aircraft would head after landing. When I insisted he bill me for the time, he gave a little snort that told me this was out of the question. I appreciate the sentiment—but I made a note to myself to send a check anyway.
Lo Po was waiting in Shanghai when I returned later that evening, a big smile on his face. He grabbed my bag and started out. “Mr. Dick, your plane late. You owe me two
drinks.”
He had already decided on a place for me to pay off: a chi-chi Western club in the Waitan (or in English, “Bund”) area of the city where the drinks were as tall as they were expensive, and the waitresses wore skirts so high the customers got nose bleeds just looking at them. China has thrown big-time yuan at Shanghai in an effort to make it an international financial center, and if the city is not quite on par with New York, it isn’t all that far behind. Among the amenities are luxury hotels, ridiculously fancy restaurants, and exotic clubs. Lo Po seemed determined to show me all of them, and who was I to refuse?
All this partying meant I had only time to shower and shave in the morning when I showed up for my meeting with the executives of Shanghai Century, BetaGo’s Chinese partner. I brought Lo Po with me as an assistant and human translator, but like many Chinese executives, the company officials spoke competent English. It was clear within three seconds that while I would be treated with typical Asian courtesy, I might just as well have a big stamp across my forehead that read “Address at your own risk.” They provided only the vaguest outline of their operations, cited no problems, and insisted showing me a video presentation on their company. With typical Chinese aplomb, they referred my questions about their operations to the vice president in charge of security, who of course was on the other side of the country and would not return for several weeks. My visit ended with a tour of the hangar where the aircraft used to transport the couriers was kept. Naturally, the second aircraft was out for maintenance and unavailable for inspection. (I spotted it in a parking area on the other side of the airport later. It had been left unattended, and anyone could get aboard with minimal effort. Yes, I have the pictures to prove it.) They were very interested in showing me how the radio tags were activated, but claimed to have no information on the tracking, which was done in Japan. My questions about contingency plans, emergency response units, substitute routes and couriers—all were referred to the absent vice president. My afternoon was rounded out with testimony from some customers about the great service they received, and then I was whisked away to a fancy restaurant for a meal that consisted primarily of toasts to my health, punctuated by dishes of noodles and fried fish. When it was over I collapsed back in my hotel bedroom, as much from overeating as fatigue. I remained dead to the world until roughly 2 a.m. local time, when I was woken by a loud crashing noise.
The noise was me, falling out of the bed. I was shivering and sweat was pouring from every pore in my body. I crawled on my hands and knees to the porcelain god, and assumed the position. I stayed there for thirty minutes, during which I removed a good portion of bodily liquids and part of my stomach, without relieving any of the pain. My heart pounded so loudly it echoed against the walls of the little bathroom, and I was so weak I had to struggle to pull myself up to the sink so I could wash my face. A glance at the mirror sent me back to the toilet—my face was covered with large purplish welts, as if I’d been pummeled during my sleep.
I can tell you this about the Shanghai Medical Center—it’s very white. That’s about all I saw of it: one continuous blur of light from the ambulance to the emergency room. By the time I managed to blink I’d been seen by five different specialists. The consensus—I’m translating loosely from the Chinese here—was that I was suffering from a mysterious ailment.
And here I thought I was just barfing my brains out.
They hooked me up to an IV at some point to replace some of the fluids I’d lost. They pumped my stomach even though I’d done the job myself. They gave me a number of shots, hitting me with everything from penicillin to eye of newt. After several hours of prodding, blood sampling, and head-to-toe X-rays (I can report that I do indeed have a brain), they arrived at a fresh diagnosis. I was not suffering from a mysterious ailment. What I had was a very mysterious ailment.
Glad we got that straightened out.
I soon found myself being wheeled down the hall toward one of the few rooms in the place that had a sign in English as well as Chinese. The Chinese characters looked long enough to be a novel. The English contained one word, in bright red capital letters: WARNING.
Apparently the Chinese words said something along the lines of “American dogs radiated here,” because a doctor soon appeared and explained that he wanted me to take some sort of test that involved drinking radioactive barium. I told him I had no intention of becoming a dirty bomb. I was leaving, even if I had to crawl out on what was left of my belly.
My effort to get off the gurney was less than dignified; my head swam and legs wobbled, and if the wall hadn’t been handy, I would have gone naked butt-first onto the floor. I took a deep breath, and with one hand on my hospital gown and another on the wall, made my way back to the room where my clothes were. Two or three staff members tried to stop me after I got dressed, but by then I had enough momentum to find the door and escape. A taxi was just pulling up with another potential victim; I took it as a good sign and returned to my hotel.
Lo Po was waiting for me. I told him I’d had some bad duck or something the night before; he snorted, putting my distress down to alcohol. He drove me straight away to an old section of the city; I waited in the car, still drained of energy, while he went into a small shop down a back alley. He returned with a small envelope containing some sort of powder, which I had to mix with warm water. Lo Po claimed it was a hangover cure. By this point I was up for anything that would make me feel better, and so I tried it. Within thirty minutes the rumbling in my stomach stopped and I could walk without swaying. A short nap restored a bit of my energy, but it wasn’t until a prescription from Dr. Bombay at the hotel bar that I felt close to normal.
I’d planned on trailing a courier team through China today, but by now it was too late. Besides, I already knew the holes in the operation well enough for a scathing report; anything else would be just piling on. I decided to skip straight to Thailand.
A light workout in the hotel gym after I arrived restored some of my appetite. There’s nothing like the strain of the last rep on the bench press to get the blood flowing. I managed to score a fruit drink at the hotel bar after a good shower, and so I was in good shape by the time I met Si at his airport office around seven that evening.
Si had seen no sign that the transponder that I had left on the flight two days before had been detected. There was no question that it was still aboard the plane: he presented me with a photo of it sitting exactly where I had left it in the cockpit.
We took a ride over to the building that BetaGo used, observing it from another building across the wide parking area. The building was guarded around the clock by at least two employees. Security was boosted about an hour before the aircraft’s arrival, and the people providing it weren’t fooling around—M16s were issued and obvious. A van with the courier team arrived a half hour before the plane from China. The men appeared to be known by the guards and didn’t have to present any identification. Customs officials arrived shortly afterward, and were there to meet the plane. Documents were checked inside the building; if they had opened the suitcases Si hadn’t seen.
Once unloaded, the plane from China went to a different part of the airport to be refueled. It flew back north a few hours later after taking on some light cargo.
In the meantime, another set of BetaGo couriers was completing a run in the city. On the night Si had watched, they had arrived several hours after the plane from China. They brought their load to the hangar and then contacted a small freight line to complete the next leg. They made the contact in person, with two employees going over and making sure the plane was secure before allowing it to proceed. On the flight the other night, the aircraft had carried several other loads; Si guessed this was not uncommon.
The operation here was arguably more secure and certainly more complicated than in China. Si had decided that there were three or four different ways to penetrate it. He favored impersonating a Customs official—and had found an ID in case I wanted to try it when the plane landed in a few hou
rs.
“Why not?” I said. “But I don’t look particularly Asian.”
“Not so much problem, Mr. Dick. You Australian, investigate smuggling. Move quickly, act strong, no one question. Inspect nearby plane first, then go there.”
The real Customs official was not a problem. Si knew the officer and explained what he was doing, promising not to interfere with his job. Had we been up to more nefarious purposes, we could have either paid him off or disposed of him with little trouble; the Customs officials worked alone during most of their inspections.
We were inspecting a 707 parked near the BetaGo building when the BetaGo plane rolled up. Acting displeased by the failure to find any smuggled wombats, I had just handed back the manifest when the Chinese aircraft powered down. The truck that had come to meet them was maybe fifty feet from me as it backed toward the plane and the rear doors opened.
Which meant I had a front-row seat as six armed men came out of the back, machine guns blazing.
10
There’s nothing like the sound of gunfire to cure what ails you. A few minutes before the van rolled up, my stomach had begun rumbling, hinting that maybe the ailment I had survived in Shanghai had not been completely vanquished. Once the bullets started flying, gastric distress became a distant memory.
Si had lent me a Smith & Wesson. I unholstered as I hit the cement. By that time, grenades were going off and men were swarming over the BetaGo plane.
My contract with BetaGo did not call for armed intervention with bandits, but some reactions are genetic. I fired at the nearest gunmen, putting down two before their friends realized I was a threat and peppered the area around me with lead. Most of their ammo went into the airplane above me, but enough splashed around the pavement and the landing gear to keep me down until the vehicle sped off.
RW13 - Holy Terror Page 21
