“None of the above,” Matt said. “I’m a civilian.”
“Since when does the U.S. government send civilians out to rescue damsels in distress?” She looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and excitement. “So what do you do? Are you a professional hit man, or something?”
“Nothing that interesting,” Matt said. “I’m in the salvage business.”
“A junkman?”
Matt heard the sound of someone running, crashing through the brush. He placed his hand over Elizabeth’s mouth and pulled her down. He gripped her tightly against him, trying to minimize their bulk. He felt her ear against his mouth.
“I’d be glad to go back and let them make other arrangements more to your liking,” he said.
“No, no,” she said into his fingers. “You’re doing fine.”
“Then keep quiet.”
He glanced around. Where the hell was Sam? The sound of people running, breaking through brush came closer. He motioned for Elizabeth to get back into her hiding place and worked his way forward through the brush along the perimeter of the beach, toward the sound of voices. Twenty feet ahead, he saw a young Asian man in prison garb burst out of the brush, onto the beach. It had to be Charles Shen. The kid ran like a deer. It helps to have someone chasing you. Moving forward as quickly as he could, Matt took up station near where he knew Charlie’s pursuers would emerge. Something told him Sam was nearby.
Matt heard the thrashing of brush coming closer. It sounded like two men. He braced himself. He didn’t want to kill anyone if he didn’t have to. The first guard burst into the open. Matt came to his feet and caught him under the chin with the butt of his Kalashnikov. The man dropped like a sack of wheat. Seconds later, the next guard burst into the open, tripped over the man’s body, and went sprawling. Matt hesitated. He didn’t want to hit a man when he was down. The guard rolled over and leveled his rifle at Matt. Before he could fire, Sam smashed him in the back of the head.
“First thing you learn at Coronado is never fight fair,” Sam said.
Matt looked around. “Tape them up and gag them, then separate them so they can’t help each other. Let’s get out of here.”
With Sam covering his flanks, Matt made his way back to where he’d left Elizabeth Grayson. Charles Shen pulled her out of the tangled brush and stood protectively in front of her with his hands in the air.
“Don’t shoot. Charles Shen, CIA.”
“Relax, I know who you are,” Matt said.
“My friends call me Charlie,” he said, extending his hand. “Who are you?”
“This is Matt Connor,” Beth said. “Junkman.” She smiled at Matt.
Matt looked at her gaunt, Eurasian features in a sliver of moonlight that had broken through the rain clouds. The conventional wisdom was that one could never be too rich or too thin, but he thought Elizabeth Grayson had gone over the line.
Her eyes met his. She seemed to sense what he was thinking.
“I’ve been on the Turtle Island diet. Works, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t worry,” Matt said, thinking about how Francisco would dote on her. “We’ll get you fattened up.” He motioned toward Sam. “This is Sam Washington, my first mate.”
Charlie nodded toward the inflatable. “First mate of what? I hope it’s a little bigger than that.”
“A little.” Matt glanced at his watch. “Let’s get aboard. We’re late.” He looked down at Beth’s bare feet. The coral would cut her to ribbons, and coral infections took forever to heal. He knew he should ask first, but there was no time for formalities. He tossed his rifle to Charlie and swept her up, expecting her to object. Instead, she looped her left arm around Matt’s neck and smiled wanly into his blackened face. He carried her, all but weightless in his arms, through the surf and put her in the boat.
Matt untied the Zodiac and pulled it free while Sam and Charlie backed away from the beach. He held the boat for them, turned it around, and pulled himself over the gunwale. He lowered the props into the surf, started the outboard motors, maneuvered around the rocks until he was free of the cove, and opened the throttles, heading east. He looked over his shoulder. The beach was quiet. With luck, it would take a while for them to discover the guards or to realize the woman had escaped. He wasn’t too worried. With the weapons Gray Wolf had given them, they could hold their own with any patrol craft the prison would be likely to have available on the island.
The destroyer was another matter. He looked at his watch. 0050. Ten minutes until one. He was going to be late. They’d have to get Private Fong to make a plausible excuse.
“Oh, God,” Beth Grayson said.
Through the rain, Matt saw the red and green running lights of a ship moving in their direction. Was it the Zhuhai? He wiped the water out of his eyes and recognized the dark superstructure of CoMar Explorer. The ship was heading west, coming for him. Jason Tyler had realized that they were never going to make it back in time, so he was bringing the ship to them. Matt wanted to kiss the guy. In the dim light, Jason would never be able to see the inflatable. Matt used a small penlight to blink out a message.
“Going-my-way?”
Matt held his breath, hoping Jason saw his light. After a few minutes, he heard the engines slow. Leaning into the rudder, he cut across the bow of the ship and made for the Jacob’s ladder hanging from the starboard side near the quarterdeck. He glanced at Beth, who looked terrified.
“Don’t worry, they’re the good guys.”
“Just in time, too,” Sam said, looking at his watch. “It’s almost one.”
“What’s magic about one?” Beth said.
“You might say we have a one o’clock curfew,” Matt said. He looked at Charles Shen. The CIA agent had to speak the language. “We’ve got to fake a radio call to a Chinese destroyer in about two minutes. How’s your Mandarin?”
“Passable,” Charlie said, “but I’ve got a Chicago accent.”
Obviously American-born, Charlie didn’t sound like Sergeant Li or any of his men. Back to Plan A: Private Fong. Matt maneuvered up to the Jacob’s ladder as CoMar Explorer slowed. Sam tied the boat up and helped Elizabeth get started up the ladder, then Charlie. Matt cut the motors and started up the ladder as two divers jumped into the water to sling the boat for recovery. He stepped onto the quarterdeck and saw Doc Miller holding a rifle on Private Fong. His hands were taped behind him, and he looked scared to death. The radio sat before him on the deck. Matt checked his watch and handed the earpiece and lapel microphone to the young private.
“Listen to me carefully,” he said in Mandarin. “You will report in exactly as Sergeant Li did. If they ask, you will say you have the watch and Sergeant Li has gone to bed. If you say the wrong words, I will turn you over to the black giant.” He nodded toward Sam.
The private’s eyes shot back and forth. He shook his head. “Sergeant Li would kill me,” he said in Mandarin.
Sam stepped forward and grabbed Private Fong by the throat. He didn’t speak Chinese, but he understood a shake of the head. His great black hand nearly encircled the marine’s neck. He glared into his eyes with the fiercest look he could muster.
“Tell him I’ll kill him if he doesn’t do it.”
“The black giant says he will cook you and eat you for breakfast,” Matt said.
Private Fong closed his eyes and shook his head again.
“I cannot.”
Sam pulled a K-Bar combat knife from a sheath on his right ankle and held it against the private’s throat. “Tell him I’ll eat him for breakfast.”
“I already told him that,” Matt said.
“Gee, thanks,” Sam said.
Matt stared at the marine. “The black giant says you have until the count of five and then you will die.”
The marine shook his head.
Matt began to count in Mandarin. When he got to five, he saw the Chinese marine tense up and steel himself for the knife thrust.
“I would rather die now than lose face for an eternity. Kil
l me.”
“Damn it,” Matt said. He looked at his watch. It was 0102. He had to do something. He picked up the radio.
“Wait,” Elizabeth said. “You’ll never get away with it. Let me try.”
“You speak Mandarin?”
“My Cantonese is better than my Mandarin, but I think I can do it. Just tell me the words.”
“Okay,” Matt said. “Say ‘Aerie, this is Eagle,’ then wait for the confirmation. Then say, ‘The barbarian ship and crew are secure at 0100 hours.’ Got that?”
Elizabeth nodded. She rehearsed the words twice, switched the radio on, took a deep breath, and spoke into the microphone.
“Aerie, this is Eagle.”
Matt held his breath. There was a delay. They were questioning her.
“Fong,” Elizabeth said. “Sergeant Li is indisposed. The barbarian food is inedible, is it not so?”
If he’d closed his eyes, Matt could have been convinced that it was Private Fong himself. He heard a hawking laugh come through the earpiece. Elizabeth finished her routine and signed off.
Matt snapped the radio off and looked at her. There was more to this girl than met the eye.
“Was that okay?” Elizabeth said.
“Better than okay. Sounds like they bought it,” Matt said, walking toward the bridge. “In which case, we’ve got an hour to put as much distance between us and them as we can.”
“And if they didn’t?”
Matt hesitated. He didn’t want to frighten her, but she had a right to know what they were up against.
“If they didn’t,” he said, “you might wish you’d stayed on that island.”
James Lao flinched at the sound of the curtain sliding back on his sleeping compartment and blinked into the morning light. The golden young flight attendant called Lulu smiled in at him.
“Please forgive this intrusion, Senior Colonel. We’ll be landing in Beijing soon. May I trouble you to take your seat and fasten your seat belt?”
He sat up and looked at his watch. Almost 0600. In two hours he’d appear before the Central Military Commission, a body chaired by the president of China, and he’d had almost no sleep. He’d hoped to sleep on the plane but had spent most of the night fine-tuning his presentation, trying to anticipate every conceivable question the dithering old cadres on the commission could raise. He’d drifted off once or twice during the three-hour flight from Guangzhou, but it was no use. He should have known better. He’d never been able to sleep on a plane, even one as luxurious as this. He rubbed his eyes.
“Bring me some coffee, a latte.”
“I’m sorry, sir. The espresso machine is secured for the landing.”
“Some tea, then. Strong and black.”
“At once, Senior Colonel.”
He took a seat in the forward passenger compartment and pulled his seat belt tightly around him. Head lowered in deference, Lulu appeared with a small basket. Using a pair of bamboo tongs, she held out a steaming white towel.
“Your tea will be ready in just a minute, sir.”
James wiped his face and the back of his neck with the hot towel. The warm moisture began to revive him. Waiting for his tea, he leaned his head against the cool window of the Boeing 737. The lights of Capital International Airport blinked into view. To the west, he could make out the Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square. A bit farther to the west lay his final destination, the rectangular, 250-acre compound known as Zhongnanhai.
His stomach tightened. Behind the high vermilion walls lay the manicured grounds and buildings where China’s aging leaders lived and worked. He knew the place well, had grown up in the luxurious compound as the privileged son of a national hero, though he hadn’t been back in years. He’d enjoyed his childhood there, but it was the last place on earth he wanted to be now.
Lulu appeared with a steaming teacup filled with a brew the color of ink. Head lowered, she offered it with two hands in the old way.
“Six Tranquilities Black. Very strong.”
With all the Western influences in China, it was unusual for a young person to know the old customs. His eyes lingered over her. Hair black and glossy, eyes the color of olives, skin a pale gold. He felt something stir in his loins, then reminded himself where he was. With Beijing’s strait-laced Puritanism - imposed by the philandering Mao, but still in effect - he had to watch every step while in the city. Dallying with prostitutes was one thing, but deflowering China’s youth was another. Men had been toppled for less, and there were eyes everywhere. Once Phase II of his plan had borne fruit, and he was living in Europe as one of the world’s richest men, he’d have a thousand like her. For now, one thought must occupy his mind. He forced his eyes back to the window.
“Thank you. That’s all.”
The plane began its descent through the permanent yellow haze that hung over Beijing. It touched down on Runway No. 1 with a chirp, reversed its engines, and rumbled to a stop. With the CAT logo on its tail signifying state ownership, the plane was directed to a government hangar on the edge of the field. Through the fogged window James saw that a state limousine stood waiting for him, the driver standing in front of the car.
The door of the plane cracked opened. A blast of humid air flooded in. He gathered up his briefcase and duffel bag and walked down the ramp to the waiting car. The driver, a stooped old man wearing a gray Mao suit, started toward him, walking slowly. He reached for James’s bag.
“Welcome home, Senior Colonel,” the man said in a raspy voice. “I trust you had a pleasant flight.”
“Yes, thank you,” James said.
The old man gave him a toothless grin. “You don’t remember me, do you? It’s Old Wang, I used to chase you around the compound when you were a young puppy.”
James flushed, embarrassed that he hadn’t recognized the man. Wang Li had been his father’s number-one servant for as long as he could remember. Old Wang had always looked out for James. As a child growing up unsupervised in Zhongnanhai, he’d gotten him out of trouble many a time. James had thought Wang was old then. Now he looked ancient. He broke into a smile and gripped the old man by his frail shoulders.
“Of course, I remember you. How are you, Wang?”
“Eh, I’m just a pile of bones. But as long as I can move, I’ll serve your father.”
“How is the general?”
“He’s well, but he works too hard.” Old Wang leaned in and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Everyone else in Zhongnanhai works for themselves, but your father works for China. A great man, is it not so?”
“It is truly so.”
“And you, the young master, just like him. He speaks of you often, always so proud.”
James felt a sickening urge to laugh. What would his father say if he knew about the plan he’d just implemented? He shrugged it off. At eighty-three the general wouldn’t be around much longer, and he had his own future to think about.
Wang opened the rear door, and James settled back in the cracked leather seat. The old man piloted the black Soviet-made limousine out of the airport and headed in the direction of Zhongnanhai. James cracked the window. Smells of charcoal and raw sewage drifted in, triggering memories of his youth.
The limousine moved silently through narrow streets. He looked out, uneasy at being so far from where he needed to be. At L minus seven he should have been aboard the command and control ship, overseeing the launch preparations, not placating the old men of the party in Beijing. The ship was due to sail from Guangzhou for the launch site tomorrow morning. If the meeting wrapped up quickly, he could still make it. He leaned back into the seat and told himself to relax. He’d have to be at his most composed for this presentation.
Old Wang turned onto Chang’an Avenue, drove past the gate to Tiananmen Square, and pulled up to Xinhuamen, also known as the China Gate, the beautifully preserved main entrance to Zhongnanhai.
The exterior, mainly for the benefit of tourists, was still much as James remembered it. Two white-gloved PLA guards with rifles
stood at attention by vermilion colonnades. The red flag of the People’s Republic hung limply from a flagpole in the humid morning air.
Just past the guards, inside the main entrance, stood the famous red screen bearing a slogan in Chairman Mao’s gold calligraphy: “Serve the People.” The screen wall was visible to anyone passing by on Chang’an Avenue, but the people knew what the words really meant: “Keep out, restricted access.” Mao had set up camp in Zhongnanhai in 1949 rather than settle in the Forbidden City, but the leadership compound was even more forbidden. Named for the two lakes that dominated the compound, Zhonghai, the Central Sea, and Nanhai, the Southern Sea, Zhongnanhai was also called the “Sea Palaces” by the Chinese. The Western media had a less poetic name for it: “China’s Kremlin.”
As the limousine cleared the gates, he looked up, tempted to smile for the camera. He knew from one of his chen diyu working in America that the compound was monitored continually by U.S. satellites. His naturalized-citizen agent worked for the NGA, a government agency even more secret than the NSA, where she had access to all the secrets of the earth.
James had made it a point to drive by the heavily guarded, red brick complex in a suburb of Bethesda, Maryland that housed the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency on his last trip to Washington. The NGA was new, having evolved from the old NPIC, the National Photographic Interpretation Center, where the Americans had monitored the goings-on in China, Iran, Iraq, Russia, Libya, North Korea, Pakistan, and every other country of interest to them for decades. It was there that the Americans had learned about Chernobyl, and failed crops in North Korea, and Iraq’s use of biochemical weapons against the Kurds, and troop movements against Kuwait, long before the rest of the world knew.
The new agency was even more intrusive, using electromagnetic wavelengths to peer inside airplane hangars and to analyze the chemicals in factory smokestacks. Once the high-resolution photos and data were analyzed and the reports completed, they were submitted electronically to various agencies in Washington, D.C., and Langley, West Virginia. After analyses at those sites, the reports would be forwarded to the heads of the various intelligence agencies, and if considered interesting enough would be included in the president’s daily brief.
China Star Page 17
