by Fritz Galt
“Poor thing,” Brad said. He wanted to be there to cushion the blow. “You’ve got to get me down there. I want to be with her at a time like this. And I wouldn’t mind getting a look at her father’s dig site if I can find it before it’s inundated. He deserves some vindication, the poor bastard.”
“If we did find such a site,” she said, “the authorities might have to delay the opening of the dam.”
“And that’s a good thing,” Brad said.
“It is?”
“Save the committee, save all the history around here, save the environment, save the nation.”
“And it would be a fine kick in the teeth to Liang,” she said. She quickly unbuttoned her shirt and dropped her pants.
Brad tried not to watch as she twisted around in her bra and panties and shoved her rifle and army boots aside. She grabbed a scarlet-colored jumpsuit and stepped backward into it. Expertly, she inserted her arms and zipped the suit up. “Come on. We’ve got a flight to catch.”
“And a dictatorship to save!”
Just then, he heard the sound of someone walking into the hangar. It was the abrasive, scuffing sound of leather, not the rubbery thud of military boots.
Jade shoved him out of sight behind the landing gear, straightened her sassy hair, and pretended to inspect the undercarriage.
A male voice shouted something in Chinese. He had a friendly, but demanding tone.
She called back to indicate her whereabouts.
From his crouched position, Brad could make out the back of a broad-shouldered man in a formal suit.
It was Liang.
He tried to comprehend what they were saying as the two conversed intimately for over a minute. He was grilling her and she responded with an open and happy ring to her voice.
He felt sorry for her having to pretend to like the evil male member.
Then she laughed out loud, a schoolgirl laugh, an infatuated laugh.
Liang struck a stunningly handsome pose.
Brad watched with horrified fascination as she melted into his arms.
Hey, that two-timer.
You pick a peculiar instance to be jealous.
It’s not for me. Uh, it’s for Skeeter. He’s got the hots for Jade.
Really now.
Okay, you caught me. I’m pissed because he’s cheating on my girlfriend, and no one cheats on somebody I love unless it’s me.
I am sure May would be very touched by your loyalty. But perhaps now is not the time to defend her honor.
Then an ebullient voice called into the building. “Hey Liang. Your boys just caught someone.”
It was Richter.
Chapter 26
Igor Sullivan rattled his wrists. His handcuffs were attached to the arms of his chair. He stomped his feet slightly and the shackles around his ankles clanked against the concrete floor. He looked around what appeared to be a bomb shelter. Were there any implements of torture—car batteries to attach to his earlobes and testicles, bamboo to shove up his fingernails? No, there was only the restraint chair to which he was strapped.
These were the moments in Sullivan’s life that confirmed his poor choice of career. His wife hadn’t put up with such a perilous existence. And he couldn’t have expected her to tolerate it, considering the responsibilities they shared for their child.
On the other hand, he was a natural CIA case officer and born for the job. He had been able to suffer through a fair amount of pain as a field operative in the past. Once during the collapse of the former Yugoslavia, he had been captured and interrogated by a Serb militia for several days. He was treated fairly well, only a few punches, some sleep deprivation, and the threat of being torn apart by attack dogs. In the end, his excellent command of the Croatian language and credible story convinced the Serbs that he might be worth more as a bargaining chip than a corpse. That had extended his life long enough for diplomats to negotiate a prisoner swap and win his release.
He had no such cover story in the current situation, however. He, Brad and Earl had waltzed onto the grounds of the Three Gorges Dam, a protected military area. He had immediately realized that it was only a matter of time before they would be found out, especially since the taxi had stood out so conspicuously among the other vehicles. But it had been his duty to draw attention away from Brad and Earl so that they could go about accomplishing their mission of saving the Central Committee.
In compensation for his high-risk occupation, he had received a reasonable paycheck and was assured of certain benefits for life. There were times, however, and this was one of them, when he wondered if such sacrifices were worth it. Had it all been in vain?
What would his life have been like had he chosen a career with the immigration service, for instance? Be the guy inflicting the pain on hapless illegals, instead of becoming a punching bag for foreign thugs?
Could he really send boxcars full of illegal aliens back across the Rio Grande week after week only to pick them up again? Maybe he would still have a family. Still have a son.
The torture chamber was unlike most he’d come to know. After all, he was in Asia now. Contrary to what he was used to, the pain would be of the more subtle variety. It was the kind of torture befitting an ancient people. Something, in fact, that one wouldn’t even think of as cruel at all.
The door creaked open, and Sullivan was no longer alone. A solitary figure stood there, a military officer. Was this going to be the good cop or the bad one?
In gruff, halting English that he barely understood, the army officer introduced himself. “I am General Chen, Chief of the Southern Command. I will began this interrogation at once.”
That was a nice conversation starter.
“Who are you, and who do you work for?” were his initial questions.
If forced, Sullivan might divulge his name, but his employer was a secret he had to keep at all costs. Memories of past CIA officers who had been taken hostage were foremost on his mind. Being caught in the act of espionage behind enemy lines was a CIA officer’s worst fear, but the danger far lay beyond his personal wellbeing. It involved national security. So Sullivan kept his mouth shut and tried desperately to concoct a plausible cover story.
For the moment, he simply stayed mute and watched the general grow more frustrated.
Getting nowhere on the identity question, the general turned to why he was there.
The guy was neither a good cop, nor a bad cop. He seemed genuinely inexperienced at interrogation. His questions were turning more into pleas. Still, without knowing the general’s true intentions, Sullivan was unwilling to divulge why he was at the dam, as it would compromise their mission to save the committee.
Then a vigorous young Chinese man in a well-tailored suit stormed in. Although Sullivan had never met the guy, he recognized Liang Jiaxi from the photo in his dossier, not to mention his commanding presence. He truly was old school, where power meant everything.
Liang shot General Chen a questioning look, but the general shook his head, no.
Looming large just behind Liang was a foreigner with a body type that reminded him of an over-the-hill, low-status professional wrestler, the kind he’d seen on television in the ’70s before steroids became popular. When the man stepped out of the shadows, Sullivan could finally see the guy’s face, a primped-up flabbiness decorated with a red bowtie. It was Richter, the presidential candidate, the guy his wife had married, the stepfather of his boy.
If Sullivan only knew that his wife was going to marry such an ape, he would have curtailed his career in the spy business and come home. What a disgusting horror it must have been every time Richter tried to lay a finger on her.
Fortunately, professor-turned-politician didn’t show any sign of recognition when his wolfish eyes met his. “Who is this man?” he asked with condescending haughtiness.
“I don’t know. But we’ll soon find out,” Liang said.
“Don’t waste much time,” Richter said, and checked his fingernails. “We’ve got a show
to put on.” With that, he turned and left.
Liang leaned across a broad table toward Sullivan and said, “You don’t need to hide anything from me. The guards say that two others were in the taxi with you. We will find them sooner or later—” he read from Sullivan’s blue passport, “—Mr. Sullivan.”
“How do you do? I’m fine, thanks,” Sullivan responded.
“I wonder whose job it is to sniff around on foreign shores,” Liang mused aloud.
Well, he certainly didn’t waste any time getting to the point. Only a CIA operative would not respond to such an accusation. At least he had to try and counter the insinuation.
“I’m not what you think I am,” Sullivan said.
Liang raised his eyebrows and waited for him to explain.
“I’m not a spy,” Sullivan said. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Liang smiled as if he’d heard it all before. Then he sat on the edge of the table and began thinking aloud. “I’ve been looking for a certain young American for several days now. He entered the country illegally from Hong Kong, then worked illegally at an English language school in Beijing. He happens to have a strong interest in China these days, and an even stronger interest in our head of security. You wouldn’t know a certain Bradley West, by any chance.”
Good, they hadn’t caught Brad.
Liang laughed. “Isn’t it true that Bradley is in love with Yu May Hua?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Sullivan said.
“Wouldn’t it stand to reason that he would come here to find her?”
“I don’t know either of the people you’re talking about.”
Liang rose suddenly and tossed the table aside. “Find out what this buffoon knows,” he shouted at the general.
“Of course. Have you any preference?”
“Use the water treatment,” Liang said. “But I want results fast.”
Oh Lord. Not waterboarding. That was illegal even in America.
“That method takes time,” the general pleaded. “It is an art.”
“I don’t care. Make it work. Use your artistry. Don’t stop until you find out who his friends are. Destroy his mind if you must.”
This wasn’t adding up. Waterboarding involved holding him upside down and dousing him with buckets of water up the nose until he thought he was going to drown in his own puke. It was fast, didn’t require any artistry, and left the mind clear and focused.
He watched with curiosity as the general called to an assistant. A soldier entered the room shortly. He wheeled in an IV rig complete with a large bottle of liquid and a tube.
Liang and the general stood back to watch as the man positioned the spigot at the end of the tube over Sullivan’s right wrist.
This was beginning to look more like sodium pentothal. Truth serum. How passé, not to mention ineffectual. He was beginning to lose his respect for the Chinese.
He braced himself nonetheless. Following standard practice, he began to detach himself from his body and physical surroundings in preparation for the ordeal in store. Maybe he would be less lucky and it was a drug to cause nightmares like drug-induced psychosis, or worse, network news. Still, where was the needle?
Before his mind wandered too far from his dire circumstances, a noise outside the interrogation room caught his attention. It was the distinctive sound of a chopper taking off, turning, and heading away. Could it be going upriver?
He began to envision himself as outside his own body. He would never talk. He must give Brad every opportunity to save the Central Committee or find May and save themselves.
After all, it was his duty as a government servant and a father.
The only place Jade could safely set the helicopter down was at the top of a hill overlooking the Valley of the Caves, the final tributary to the Yangtze.
That would do, as far as Brad was concerned.
No sooner had she set the helicopter down, than Brad shot out of the cockpit. He turned to thank his personal pilot. “Hey, it’s good to take a ride that doesn’t result in an explosion,” he shouted over the roar of the engine.
Jade smiled coyly.
How someone so sweet could let herself be degraded by a guy like Liang would forever be a mystery to him. But, he guessed there were many sides to the woman, as there were to May, perhaps as there were to all women.
“You’d better get going,” she shouted. “I’ve got to round up some reinforcements and stop Liang from closing the floodgates.”
The rotors increased speed, and the chopper prepared for liftoff.
“If you see May before I do…” he screamed into the din.
But Jade clearly couldn’t hear him as she pointed to her ears and shook her head. So he waved an all clear, then slammed shut the door to the cockpit.
“…tell her that I love her,” he said to himself.
Jade knows. Everyone but May knows.
Figures.
He looked around, suddenly alone. There were no government troops in sight, only Jade heading back toward the dam.
His memories floated back to the Chinese safe house in Tucson, the all-too-brief time he and May had played kissy face on the sofa.
“Piss and vinegar.” How could he focus on the complicated task at hand, rescuing the Central Committee and salvaging a major anthropological find, if he kept daydreaming like a lovesick schoolboy?
Be here now.
“Thanks Baba Ram Dass, but Timothy Leary’s dead.”
No, no, no, no, he is outside, looking in.
“I made you say that.” He smiled. With Xen there, he wasn’t so alone after all.
The helicopter disappeared around the shoulder of a giant gray mountain. The Valley of the Caves was suddenly quiet, guarded by severe and majestic cliffs. Too bad it would soon be covered over by the polluted waters of the mighty Yangtze.
He looked at the cruise ship gently rocking in the scummy brown water just beyond a small levee. He had to prevent the Party’s Central Committee from attempting a side trip up the tributary.
He scrambled down the hillside of crumbling dirt and rock and headed for the cruise ship.
Adrift in the deadened backwater of the tributary, several sampans sidled up to the levee opposite the multi-deck ship. Local boatmen stood on their elevated helms and rested on their oars.
Incredible. There wasn’t a military uniform in sight. Just as Sullivan had said, even though China was a tightly controlled police state, a young American male could get within spitting distance of a member of the government. Unthinkable, yet there he was.
He waved his hands at the peasant oarsmen and women. “Don’t take anyone onto the river.”
They stared at him, not comprehending a word he said.
He shook his head and pointed upriver. “Don’t go!”
They didn’t move.
He had to go onto the cruise ship. He tightrope-walked along the narrow top of the dirt levee. It dropped two feet down to the Yangtze on one side and ten feet down to the tributary on the other. With the Yangtze significantly higher than the tributary, it was clear that the embankment was dangerously close to being breached, if not giving way entirely.
A metal gangplank was still extended from the eerily quiet ship. He grabbed for the railing. It was a steep climb, but he made it.
The interior of the ship looked deserted. “Is anybody here?”
Then a Chinese captain stepped out of his cabin and eyed him with suspicion. “What are you doing here?” he said, one hand on a ship-to-shore radio.
“What am I doing here? What are you doing here? Have you looked at the water levels?”
The captain set the radio mike back, then eased over beside Brad to look over the side of the ship. “The river is rising! I must move my ship at once.”
He called out to his crew to cast off immediately.
“But how about the Central Committee?” Brad said.
The captain wavered uncertainly for a moment. “They have left for th
e caves.”
“Not already.” Brad glanced up the tributary, but couldn’t see the cave entrances. “Can you radio them? This valley is about to flood.”
The captain frowned. “I can’t communicate with them. They have no radio.”
The engines began to grind, and Brad had to run down the gangway. He steadied himself on the levee and teetered there while the ship’s wake threatened to swamp him. Was the Three Gorges Dam already closed?
He had to get to the caves, but hiking on the steep slope that bordered the tributary looked chancy. He’d have to hire a sampan.
“Take me to the caves,” he called to the nearest oarsman.
“Sheme?” the young man asked, not understanding a word. Nevertheless, he pulled up so that Brad could climb aboard.
Which Brad did and rocked the thin craft from side to side. He sat down quickly on the hard wooden seat. “Caves! Caves!” he shouted, pointing up the tributary. “Take me there.”
The boatman seemed to understand the general instructions, but was in no hurry. In fact he launched into a song.
“Ah, that’s okay. We can forgo the singing.”
But the singing didn’t stop. Brad buried his head in his hands and watched the boat slowly pull away from the levee.
The young oarsman’s voice drifted upriver and into the narrowing gorge before them. His oar was a canoe-like paddle that he twisted to make the boat travel forward. He sang faster as his speed increased.
Then, several hundred meters before him, Brad spotted a flotilla of sampans unsuspectingly gliding toward a series of caves that lined the shore.
If they went inside, they could become trapped forever.
Drip. Drip.
Cold water splattered on the inside of Sullivan’s upturned right wrist. It dribbled around his arm that was clamped tightly to the chair. He couldn’t shake off the water.
Drip.
He couldn’t wipe his skin dry. He couldn’t cut off the flow from the old IV bottle hanging above him.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
