by D C Alden
The prisoner looked back at him, looked at the camera Tapper was holding. His bottom lip trembled. Mike gave Miller the nod and he reached down for the man’s fingers. The rear deck was a world of wind and noise. Mike never heard the break but he heard Philip’s piercing scream. That’s why they were doing this outside, away from the rest of the crew.
Mike grabbed the collar of Philip’s shirt and shook him. ‘Where’s the next target? Give me the location!’
Philip sobbed in pain. ‘Please, don’t hurt me any more.’
Mike yelled in his ear. ‘You knew we were coming! Who tipped you off?’
He shook him again and Philip heaved, vomiting down his shirt. It was bile, nothing more, probably a mixture of fear, pain and sea-sickness.
‘Again,’ he told Miller.
Another finger, another ear-splitting scream.
Mike yelled in Philip’s face. ‘Where’s Marion? Tell me where she is, right now!’
A dark patch blossomed in the crotch of Philip’s trousers. It spread down his leg, and Philip sobbed as he lost control of his bladder. And he mumbled something too, something Mike didn’t catch.
He grabbed his shirt collar and pulled Philip close. ‘Say that again!’
Tears rolled down Philip’s face. His bottom lip trembled. And then he yelled, in pain, in frustration. And humiliation. ‘He knows where she is! Not me!’
Mike swapped a look with Tapper. ‘Who knows? Give me a name!’
‘I can’t! He’ll have me killed!’
It was a final act of defiance, a phenomenon Mike had witnessed many times. Subconsciously, the decision to talk had already been made, but the prisoner had to justify the betrayal to himself, even if it meant more agony. He gave Miller the nod and the big operator reached down for one of Philip’s intact fingers.
‘No! Please! I’m not lying — ’
The scream cut off his words. Philip’s eyes rolled up into his head and he folded sideways onto the deck. Mike crouched over him and checked his vitals. He pointed to a fire sign on the bulkhead.
‘Run that hose out, wake him up.’
Miller turned and strode across the deck. Mike led Tapper out of Philip’s earshot, unconscious or otherwise.
‘So, there’s someone on the inside, someone he’s frightened of. Whoever it is must be juiced. We need that name and we need it fast.’
‘I didn’t think he’d break,’ Tapper admitted. ‘Tough bastard.’
‘When he comes to, we’ll take him inside — ’
‘Hey!’
Tapper barged Mike out of the way. He spun around and saw —
Philip sprinting across the helipad, his bare feet slapping the deck.
‘Shit!’ Mike went after him. Tapper was closing the gap and Miller wasn’t far behind.
Philip veered to his left and leapt over the side like a high jumper.
Mike slammed against the rail behind the others. Wind and spray lashed his face. There was no sign of Philip. Mike ran to the back of the ship. The sea was a carpet of churning white foam. His hands gripped the rail as his eyes swept the water behind them, knowing only a miracle could save Philip now. And Philip wasn’t interested in miracles, only in making sure his secrets went to the bottom with him.
Emergency sirens screeched and the rooster tail died as the ship slowed. Mike estimated that they were already half a mile from Philip’s point of entry, maybe more. The rear deck swarmed with naval personnel as well-practised drills swung into action. Mike prayed they would find him, but his gut told him they wouldn’t.
He’d been played by a master, and for that he’d take full responsibility. Yet it wasn’t the terrible mistake he’d made that would cause him sleepless nights — it would be the lives lost because of it.
He turned for the bulkhead door, reaching for the sat phone in his pocket and dialling Lando’s number.
Cry Me A River
Marion left the Ritz Carlton hotel for the last time.
She didn’t check out. Instead she strolled through the lobby and out onto the street, making her way to the Metro station a short distance away. It was a clear, crisp evening. Rush-hour crowds bustled along the busy sidewalks and the station was a frantic ants’ nest of commuters. Marion wouldn’t have looked out of place if she’d hurried, but she forced herself to relax, to act casually and be the tourist she was pretending to be.
The passports, cash and credit cards were in the security pouch around her waist. Her clothing was warm but light, and the Nikes on her feet would carry her swiftly to wherever she needed to be. Soon, that would be out of Shanghai.
She’d left her suitcase and other belongings in her hotel room. Somebody would eventually assume that the occupant had died during the outbreak, and by that time the world would be a completely different place.
After a short journey she squeezed her way off the Metro train and took the steps up to East Nanjing Road. The shopping Mecca was even busier than her first recon, and it took some time to work her way through the multitude of shoppers that thronged the pedestrianised street. She allowed the human tide to carry her through the hub of brightly-lit shops to the Number One Department Store. Hundreds of people passed through its glass doors, all of them avoiding the small group of black-clad police officers standing outside the main entrance.
Marion cursed under her breath. As she passed them she made no eye contact, but she could see one of the male officers staring at her. Maybe he had little experience with Westerners, or perhaps it was because she wore sunglasses and the sun had already set, but Marion ignored the inquisitive stare and continued into the store.
She flipped her shades onto her head and took one of the glass elevators up to the ninth floor. The bookstore was crammed with browsers, the tables in the coffee shop overflowing. A line stretched away from the tills, and a short queue waited patiently for seats to be vacated. Marion felt a sudden stab of doubt. It felt much busier than her last visit, and making a clean getaway might be more difficult than she expected. Uncertainty bubbled deep in the pit of her stomach.
You have a plan. Stick to it.
She veered across the concourse towards the ladies toilet. Three of the four cubicles inside were busy, as were the sinks. Marion strolled to the far end of the room and waited for the last cubicle. She heard a flush, and a young girl left the convenience, averting Marion’s smile as she hurried past.
Locking the door behind her, Marion realised why. The stench was ripe, and Marion tried to ignore it as she removed the clear, waterproof pouch from the pocket of her coat. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves. She was immune of course, but old habits died hard. Extracting an infected wipe from the pouch, Marion painted a generous film of liquid on the flushing handle and on the seat, paying particular attention to the edges, knowing the next occupant would have to lower it. She unlocked the door, wiping the rest of the solution all over the handle, and then she was outside and moving fast. She dumped the pouch and gloves in the waste bin and washed her hands quickly, passing a middle-aged woman on her way out. Marion stopped and turned. Two of the stalls were empty but the middle-aged woman made her way to the one that Marion had just vacated. She watched the door close, heard the latch click into place before a hand dryer blasted out the sound.
Marion waited.
The cubicle door shook.
Then she heard them, the familiar sounds she’d heard so many times at Scotton Manor; gagging, wheezing, then cursing and swearing as the virus swept through the woman’s body and attacked her central nervous system.
The door shook again, then splintered.
Marion turned and headed for the exit. She was halfway across the concourse when she heard a scream behind her, and a couple of ladies stumbled from the toilet, clearly distressed.
There were at least twenty people waiting for elevators, so Marion headed for the staircase. It was nine levels to the ground floor and she took the steps two at a time. A few flights down she heard shouting above her. When she reached the ground floor she pulled
a beanie over her hair and stashed her sunglasses in her pocket.
She wandered casually out into the main shopping hall, sensing a commotion far above her. As she neared the main entrance, police officers hurried into the building and Marion moved out of their path. The same officer glanced at her again, then continued into the store. Perhaps he would live to tell the tale of the Westerner he’d seen shortly before the outbreak, or perhaps he would join the ranks of the infected. Only fate could answer that question.
Now she headed south along Xizang Road towards the People’s Square Metro Station. She crossed the road, weaving through the stationary traffic, grateful for the jam that would allow the infection to spread that much faster. She kept moving south until she saw the station entrance.
Inside, thousands of people criss-crossed the ticket hall. Marion felt for the pouch in her pocket. The bank of ticket machines was just ahead and Marion hesitated. People loitered outside the station, smoking and jabbering into mobile phones. There was no sense of urgency, no panic.
She went back out and joined them, looking north towards East Nanjing Street. It was difficult to see anything above the cars and crowds, but the situation looked normal. Why hasn’t the chaos begun?
She slipped on a latex glove and walked back inside the station, removing an infected wipe from the pouch as she went. She stood in front of one of the larger ticket machines and pulled out her phone, pretending to be on a call as she wiped the liquid all over the buttons.
Someone barged past her, and the phone dropped from her hand. A suited man waved an apology over his shoulder and headed towards the barriers. Marion cursed him, but before she could pick up her phone a middle-aged cleaner picked it up and gave it to her. The man’s smile faded as he noticed Marion’s glove. He looked at his own hand, and then his face darkened, and he muttered something unintelligible, something angry. He spat on the ground, then looked at Marion with bloodshot eyes. He reached out and grabbed her arm, his fingers digging through her coat. Her heart raced. She had seconds to act.
She grabbed his wrist and drove her hand hard into his windpipe. The man tumbled backwards, arms flailing. He fell onto his backside and a couple of people went to his aid. She saw the man throw up, spraying bile over the good Samaritans. Marion took a couple of steps back, her path to the platform below now blocked. A whistle blew, and station staff ran towards the commotion as more people became embroiled in the melee.
Plan B, Marion decided.
She pushed her way out of the station, as more whistles shrilled and screams competed with the public address system. On the street, people were hurrying towards the Metro, many of them glancing back over their shoulders wearing troubled expressions. The traffic was at a standstill, and people climbed out of their vehicles, craning their necks to see what was happening up at East Nanjing Street.
It was spreading, Marion was relieved to see, but there was no time to admire her handiwork.
Plan B called for an immediate transit to the Metro station at Dasijie, eight-hundred yards to the south. There she would jump on a train to Yaohua Road, then change to Line Seven, which would take her to the Maglev station at Longyang. From there it was an eight-minute ride at one-hundred and fifty-five miles per hour to Pudong International Airport, where she would board a flight to Beijing.
She did the math as she ran south. Thirty minutes to the airport, another fifteen to check in and board. Her flight left in ninety minutes. She would make it, of that she had no doubt.
Mass public disturbances were rare in China, and the culture prided itself on order and obedience. Once the Shanghai authorities realised that a WMD attack had been carried out, they would defer to Beijing. That would take time, but the outbreak in Texas would concentrate minds at the very highest levels of government. The order would be given sooner than Marion had planned, and the city would be shut down. All transportation networks would cease to operate, every highway would be closed, every bridge across the Huangpu River sealed. The population would be ordered to stay at home or remain in places of safety. A curfew would be imposed, and transgressors would not be tolerated. Units of the People’s Liberation Army would be issued live rounds and deployed across the whole of Shanghai. By that time, tens of thousands would be infected, possibly more. Each decision-making step would take time, and long before those orders went out, Marion would’ve laid a viral trap in Beijing airport and taken a flight to Mongolia, over twelve-hundred miles from ground zero on the East Nanjing Road.
She thought about Philip as she dodged the pedestrians and weaved between the stationary traffic. She dearly hoped he was okay, that he’d finally completed phase one of his mission and was en route to Istanbul to carry out phase two. She longed to see him again. Technically he should reach Norway before her, but right now things were uncertain.
She saw the red Metro sign ahead and side-stepped into the road to avoid a large cluster of commuters gathered outside, many of them with phones clamped to their ears. All of them were looking north to People’s Square, chattering in tongues, to each other, to the people on the other end of the call. Word was spreading fast.
Marion looked up as a helicopter thundered overhead. She couldn’t tell if it was civilian or military, but its low altitude and speed only served to ramp up the tension around her.
She headed into the Dasijie terminus and swiped through the ticket barrier, taking the stairs two at a time as she headed for the platform. She stood behind the glass wall, watching the information board on the platform. There was tension, but no panic. A warm wind whipped across the platform, signalling the imminent arrival of the train. People hurried down the stairs behind her, eager to leave the area. The train thundered into the station.
And kept going.
Marion watched it pass in a storm of wind and noise. She heard groans of disappointment around her, and curses in several dialects. Amber warning lights pulsed along the platform. She hurried back up the stairs and out into the ticket hall. As she pushed her way through she saw a suited white man talking frantically on his phone as he struggled with a large roller case.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked him.
’Station’s closed. There’s been an incident somewhere. They’re shutting down the network.’
Marion swallowed. Already? ’I have to get across the river. To Pudong Airport.’
The man ended his call. ‘Me too, but it looks like we’re screwed.’
He was American, or maybe Canadian. He spoke the language, and could prove useful in other ways too. ‘The Jinling ferry is less than a mile east of us,’ she told him. ’We can cross to the other side and take the Maglev from Longyang Station.’
The man nodded. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
‘What’s your name?’ Marion asked him as they pushed their way through the crowd.
‘Aaron Beatty. I’m with the Canadian Chamber of Commerce. You?’
‘Jane,’ she told him without elaborating.
People crammed the pavement outside the station, spilling onto the road. Emergency sirens wailed from all points of the compass. Order was starting to break down.
‘This way,’ puffed Beatty, taking Marion’s arm. He was overweight, with saggy jowls and thinning hair, yet he moved fast. Fear was starting to infect everyone. Only Marion knew what was happening, but it wouldn’t be long before the news broke.
They crossed the Xizang Road and headed east towards the river. The traffic was still moving, and Beatty managed to flag down a taxi. Marion climbed inside while Beatty crammed his suitcase into the trunk.
‘Quickly!’ Marion urged him.
Beatty squeezed in beside Marion. He spoke to the driver, who answered in the same vein. ‘He says there’s a ferry on the half-hour, but doubts he’ll make it.’
‘I’ll give him two hundred dollars if he does.’
The journey was less than a mile, and the driver rose to the challenge, swerving in an out of the busy lanes, taking a couple of side roads that were more like alleyways
, until Marion saw the bright lights of the Jinling East Ferry Terminal ahead. He dropped them right outside the ticket office and Marion slapped the cash in his grateful hand, wondering if he’d ever get the opportunity to spend it.
They boarded the small ferry with two minutes to spare, and Marion was grateful to see the water churning beneath them as the boat pulled away from the dock.
‘Close shave,’ said Beatty, leaning on the rail and mopping his brow with a handkerchief. Sirens screeched across the city, and an umbilical cord of emergency vehicles swept north along the road that ran parallel to the river.
‘Jesus, it sounds bad.’
She turned away from the rail. ‘What’s that?’
‘I just overheard those folks talking,’ he told her, pointing at a small group of people heading inside the passenger cabin. ‘There’s some kind of riot going on in People’s Square, a lot of folks attacked and killed. You think it’s terrorists?’
Marion shrugged. She checked her watch; technically she could still make the flight, but it would depend on how quickly she could get to the Maglev station at Longyang.
‘How about that Texas thing, huh? You see that?’
Marion nodded. ‘Yes. Terrible. Do they know what happened?’
‘Some kind of biological attack. You know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking this is the same thing.’
Marion studied his face as the ferry chugged across the river. He was scared, that much was obvious, and the more she studied him, the more she realised he was right. If this fat, sweaty bureaucrat had made the connection then surely the Shanghai authorities would’ve done the same by now.
‘I knew it,’ Beatty said. ‘They closed Pudong. All flights grounded.’
‘What?’
Beatty showed her his phone. Everything was in Chinese but the flashing red box was bad news in any language.
‘What hotel are you staying at?’
‘The Ritz Carlton,’ she told him.
‘Great, that’s this side of the river. I’d already checked out of my hotel.’
