by Rob Wood
Once or twice they bumped heads or knees, but altogether their teamwork and coordination were remarkable. It was a controlled fall. Maybe fifteen minutes worth. Then the chord seemed to vibrate. Far away they heard a voice shout, “Go!”
“Jump, Cody!” Purdy squeezed her waist and kicked off the rock wall.
“Oh my God!”
Above them, in the darkness, there came a rapid “Pop! Pop! Pop!” as Purdy’s reflectors opened. Then they were eddying both down and out at the same time, holding one another, spinning like figure skaters. They banged into rock walls and kicked off from boulders that loomed up beneath them.
A gust of air caught the reflectors like a kite and dragged them away from the rock in rapid diagonal descent, until they were being dragged through the ruts and mud of the field that surrounded the karst peak.
They let go and lay for a long time drawing deep, deep breaths.
“Listen,” whispered Purdy. In the quiet, they could hear the chop-chop of the helicopter, moving away, growing fainter and fainter.
The abrupt and craggy pillar of the fenling was silhouetted now by a sun rising slowly above river and rice paddies.
“Many soldiers die,” recalled Cochrane, gazing upward. “None can take the peak.”
16
ARE YOU INSANE?
“Are you insane? They were shooting at me. They could have killed me!” Lily Zhang’s perfect complexion was mottled with red blotches. She trembled. She jabbed a forefinger at Cao Kai, stabbing the air in staccato bursts.
“They had orders not to harm you.” Cao kept his voice even, but he clenched his jaw so hard a vein bulged on his temple. He was angry. He valued control, and this felt like quite the opposite. Out of control: both the events and the woman. He had never before seen her like this. He didn’t like what he saw.
From behind a two-way mirror set against the north condo wall, Simon Raj watched, drawing a cool, slow, contemplative breath. “She really is a very good actress,” he murmured to himself.
“I asked you to help me!” Lily wailed. “I pleaded for your protection! You send thugs to my set. My set! You endanger my people. My people!”
“We were after those two Americans.”
“Two Americans! Did anyone see two Americans? Did my people say ‘Americans? ‘Did your thugs see two Americans?”
“The men are all dead except for the body-baggers,” Cao rolled his eyes at the thought of the catastrophe in Guangxi.
“What two Americans?” Lily pressed him.
“The ones from the Vinson. The ones you were so damn friendly toward.”
“So, is this what this is about—jealousy?”
Cao hesitated. He began to think maybe it was jealousy—partly. But he stubbornly soldiered on, furious that the sweep of Zhang’s apartment had led to this scene.
“Two days ago, the U.S.S. Vinson handed over to Japanese authorities the body of a dangerous man. A North Korean. He may have been a spy. He may have been a murderer. He was exactly the sort of person you were afraid might be among the people mobbing you at public appearances. And when we swept your apartment—we found his bio trace there—in your apartment!”
“That’s great. I’m grateful. That doesn’t explain why you are obsessing about my acquaintance with a young Navy man and an American scholar. That’s what we’re talking about! You shot up my set because of them, didn’t you? You said so. Why?”
“The Korean was on the American ship. The Korean was at your apartment. The connection is those two Americans.”
“I met those Americans for the first time at the Vinson reception in Hong Kong—which you attended with me. I find them interesting. I can talk to them in ways I can’t talk with most Chinese—you, for example.”
“Me? Listen, Lijuan, I kept my part of the bargain. I used security resources in a sweep of your apartment. I’ve monitored you—for your safety. I’ve looked after you. Are you prepared to keep your part of the bargain?”
“What bargain?”
“Your share of the commodity futures.”
“They’re oil futures. You’re not authorized to buy oil futures!”
“Rice and corn, then!”
“You shoot at me. And then you ask for money. You are incredible!”
“Time is running out.”
“Yeah, maybe time has already run out for us. I’m asking you to leave, Colonel!”
Cao set his jaw, pivoted on his right heel and stormed out—slamming the door after him.
Simon Raj emerged from the next room. Lily switched on a monitor connected to the hallway camera and, together, they watched Cao take the down elevator.
Lily Zhang was as calm as if nothing had happened. Calm but pensive.
“What do you make of that, Raj?”
“An end to a beautiful relationship,” he said drily.
“No. That’s nothing. I can get him back if need be. Haven’t you ever had a lover’s quarrel? She looked closely at Raj. “Well, probably not,” she thought.
“Love? Do you mean his interest in the Korean?” Rai asked, “or his antipathy toward the Americans . . . or his desire for your money?”
“Money. Maybe he’s overextended in the market. You and I are going to personally investigate his investment portfolio and his need for cash. What do the Americans say? ‘Walk behind the money.’ Something like that. It’s easily done. What about the rest of it?”
“Well, the radiation victim has always interested me,” said Raj, frowning. “I doubted that the Japanese were involved in looting the Daichi nuclear reactor. When Cao had the condo swept, he naturally found the bio-trace we had planted. I credit his statement that the man was a North Korean. But why did he find a trace match at all? The PLA database is pretty comprehensive when it comes to criminal, ethnic minority, or Asian terrorist profiles. But an ordinary Korean would not necessarily show up.”
“No,” Zhang mused. “Not an ordinary Korean.”
“And who is an extra-ordinary Korean?”
“Diplomats, of course. The staff, including guards, that cross the border when Kim Jong-Il visits Beijing. And those that are involved in joint Republic of Korea and Peoples Liberation Army operations.”
“Yes,” said Raj. “Which may mean Cao knew of our dead Korean through government contacts . . .”
“Or something he himself was orchestrating.”
“In either case, “said Raj, “he may fear that the Americans are on to something. And it may be, as you suggest, that he is personally implicated.”
“The Korean bio-trace was in my apartment. I’m suddenly friendly with the Americans who last had the body. Cao doesn’t know, actually, whether the Americans picked him up alive or dead. What information did I get from the Korean? What information do the Americans have? Why are the players who had contact with the Korean suddenly as close as a rider and his horse?”
“You ask good questions.”
“Those are the questions Cao is asking, believe me. And he is sufficiently alarmed to make some rash moves—like dropping hired guns on my movie set.”
“He wants answers. He wants those two Americans.”
“Raj, do you know anything of American slang?”
“Nothing at all.”
“There is an expression that characterizes their situation.”
“And that is?”
“I wouldn’t be in their slippers for the world.”
17
GET LILY ZHANG
Cochrane and Purdy were back in Hong Kong in a conference room at the U.S. consulate. With them were two newcomers: Parker Rollins of DEA and Carla Izquidero of Navy Intelligence. XO Partridge was on a secure ship-to-shore line listening in.
“So, your story is that Lily Zhang basically saved your life?” asked Rollins.
“In a nutshell,” said Cochrane.
“Any time shots are fired in China—it’s very serious,” said Izquidero, drawing deeply on an unfiltered cigarette. Cochrane was amazed that the woman was smoking in
the consulate conference room. And, she was disconcerted by the woman’s appearance. “Severe” didn’t get it. In her rumpled brown suit, she looked more like a longshoreman than a Suitland executive.
Izquidero exhaled a blue plume of smoke in a tired sigh. “It’s quite a story. Why haven’t I heard anything about this hilltop shoot-up from the intel?”
Cochrane decided she didn’t like this woman. She challenged her: “You know this is a no-smoking area.”
“I’m tired, and I’m jet-lagged, and I don’t give a damn,” Izquidero responded. “How come I haven’t heard about this?”
“I’m betting it can be covered up,” Purdy put in. “Lily Zhang certainly doesn’t want a PR stain on her upcoming film.”
“What you’ve told us of the involvement of Lily Zhang,” said Izquidero, “plus the vulnerability of the Daiichi nuclear plant, and the appearance of a body that can’t yet be identified—and one that was obviously exposed to high levels of radiation….all this convinces Washington that there is a threat here. We’ve run a number of scenarios of suitcase bombs blowing up in American cities. No scenario is good.”
Purdy and Cochrane both relaxed at that comment. It was as if Izquidero were validating their work.
“Nobody likes the possible involvement of the North Koreans, either,” put in Rollins. “Our charge is to proceed as if the threat is real and track the radioactive material just as if it were contraband drugs.
“Drugs?” asked Purdy.
“It’s something we’re good at. Unfortunately, we’ve had experience,” said Rollins.
“China is a major transshipment point for heroin produced in the Golden Crescent,” observed Izquidero, “as well as a source country for methamphetamine. And guess where the transshipments are centered—the Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region, home to your friend Lily Zhang.”
“You think she’s involved with drugs?”
“She is a very wealthy woman. It’s not like she files with the IRS—but I’d say it’s likely,” said Rollins.
“So, is that good or bad?” asked Cochrane.
“I’d say it’s good,” said Izquidero. “If she’s a major player, she can seal the Khunjerab Pass so tight nothing gets through… at least nothing radioactive. That’s the first step. Get to Lily Zhang.”
“We were just there. I wish I’d known,” groused Cochrane.
“What’s the second step?” asked Purdy.
“This part of Asia is home to the largest container ports in the world—points of export for all kinds of goods shipped in steel boxes the size of tractor trailers,” Rollins noted. “There is no way we can police that activity. It’s on foreign soil and the volume is enormous. Instead, we will assume the stuff made it out of port, and we will throw a ton of manpower at screening imports into Los Angeles/Long Beach and New York. These are America’s largest container ports —although roughly one fifth the size of Shanghai and Hong Kong’s operation. And if I were shipping a bomb in—that’s where I’d take it.
“We’ll prepare to intercept incoming ships. And we’ll screen the heck out of the stuff the dock workers are offloading. What TSA does at an airport will look like a friendly wave compared to the way we’ll hit those shipping centers.”
“Homeland Security also has procedures in place to protect likely terrorist targets in the U.S.—Washington, for example,” said Izquidero. “We’re going to code red in those locations.”
“But the first step,” reiterated Rollins, “is to get Zhang on board with policing traffic on the western border. That’ll leave just Pacific China to worry about—and that’s enough!”
“We’re on it,” said Purdy rising.
“Have you got your intelligence packs with multiple ids and passports?”
“Yep.”
“Where can you be reached here in Hong Kong?”
“We’re staying at the Swanson House, the YMCA hostel,” said Cochrane.
Ten hours and 12 minutes from Shanghai, in rural Fuzhou, Cao Kai was conducting a business meeting. He was the special client of a senior manager here at one of the far-flung branches of the Bank of China.
“Do you sleep well at night?” he asked the man sitting at the desk across from him.
From anyone else, the question would have seemed inconsequential. Rumbling up from Cao’s walrus-like head and shoulders, it was ominous. The bank manager cowered, his eyes nervous and darting. His upper lip was damp. Perspiration beaded his forehead.
It was warm in the office. And just beyond the manager’s door, it was near 90 degrees in the crowded lobby. The ATM outside the office didn’t work. Consequently, it was crowded on the inside, in the bank’s street level business area. Some people were fortunate enough to have the luxury of folding chairs. Others simply stood, waiting patiently, glancing occasionally at the slip of paper they had taken from the large spool as they entered. When their number was called, they moved quickly to the appropriate customer window, where a number matching their paper flickered on an electronic screen. All of this was done with elaborate courtesy.
The same courtesy was observed in the manager’s office. Certainly, Cao never raised his voice. Yet each question—so simple, so straight forward—spread panic in the bank manager’s mind.
“You and your wife are the parents of Tei-Li?”
“Yes.”
“She is your only child?”
“Yes. Of course, our only child. It is the official policy. It is better for my wife and me. And better for China.”
“I have always said that a man sleeps well when his family is provided for. I’m not a literary man,” Cao Kai observed, “but I believe there is a saying to that effect.”
The branch manager nodded.
“Sad, isn’t it… when a child comes to harm? It seems to happen most often to the girls. You remember the baby who was found with her throat cut and a plastic bag over her head? In a dumpster?”
The manager nodded again. “It was in the papers.”
“Shocking,” said Cao Kai. “Remarkable that she lived. Still, I would worry about brain damage. A little vegetable. Ah, but we were talking about Tei-Li.”
The man across from him swallowed hard.
“Is this the child?” Cao held a photo up for the man to inspect. The photo showed a child of about seven years, peddling furiously on a tricycle. Her smile was full and effortless. One’s spirit was lifted just looking at that face. The girl was happy. No wonder! Her tricycle could have starred in the Neiman Marcus Christmas book. It had rear-view mirrors, tassels on the handles, and pink hearts on the wide plastic seat.
“How did you get that picture?” demanded the bank man, half rising out of his chair.
“Someone I know took the picture. Someone I know . . . who knows Tei-Li.”
Cao carefully pocketed the photograph. “They are especially precious are they not… our only children?” He dug inside his coat and removed a handkerchief, slightly rouged with blood. Cao unwrapped enough of the bundle to expose the contents of the interior.”
“Do you know what this is?” Cao asked. “No, I suppose not,” he continued ruefully.
“It is a child’s ear.”
18
HUTONGS AND SIHEYUANS
At Swanson House, Cochrane paced back and forth in front of the big picture window that framed Hong Kong harbor. This was obviously a financial capital—the Bank of China and the Hong Kong Bank were set like eyeteeth in the city’s jaw of a skyline.
“Purdy, this is odd, don’t you think? When we were in the middle of nowhere—Yangshuo—Lily Zhang met us at the top of a rock like she was expecting us. Then she goes out of her way to pull our asses out of a dicey set-to with guys shooting at us. Now that we’re in civilization, I can’t get in touch with her. Her studio office in Hong Kong referred me to the office in Beijing. And the Beijing office said Miss Zhang had other commitments, but reported that she hoped we would enjoy the sights at the capital.”
“But we’re not in Beijing!” protes
ted Purdy. “Wasn’t that kind of an assumption on her part?”
“Well, it’s not a farfetched assumption. Maybe it’s a simple mistake.”
“Lily Zhang doesn’t make mistakes. What exactly did she say?”
“I didn’t talk to her. The woman’s voice at the number in Beijing—the number given to me by the Hong Kong movie studio—said something like, ‘Miss Zhang can’t see you, but hopes your time in Beijing will be enjoyable regardless. If you appreciated the scrolls she gave you, a visit to the venerable hutongs and siheyuans is an indispensable part of a visit to Beijing.’”
“Hutongs? Siheyuans? A visit to alleys and courtyards?
“Yeah—in the old section of the city.”
“’Indispensable?’ Is that what she said?” Purdy raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah, indispensable.”
“And she mentioned the scrolls?” Purdy stroked his chin. “Well, perhaps, girlfriend, we should go back to being tourists. Besides, there are some East Coast culinary delicacies I’d like to show you.” He smiled: “the taste of ancient culinary technology.”
They flew into Beijing Capital airport, said to comprise the largest area under roof in the world. Terminal 2 handled the Hong Kong flights, and as they headed for their subway connection, they passed tall steel sculptures—modern versions of Riki gates—as if the architect had meant to invoke Alexander Calder playing with the sense of ancient China in flat black enameled steel.
“It’s all so new, but it’s so very Chinese,” said Cochrane.
“Just wait ‘til we tie into dinner,” promised Purdy. “I’ll show you Chinese.”
They settled into the Regency Hotel and dropped into Soo’s restaurant, below ground, down escalators that passed an enormous sculpture and dress boutiques that could have graced Canyon Road, LA.
“You want to soak the fish maw several times to ensure the fragrance is fresh and pleasing,” counseled Purdy, waving his chopsticks for emphasis.
“Fish maw?”
“It’s really a swim bladder,” he added. “And, with wood ears, shitake mushrooms and ginger, it makes a nice broth to support the sliced, braised abalone. And good news: Fish maw is rich in collagen!”
