by Marc Cameron
Thirty miles from the Chinese border, Warrant Officer Avery looked over his shoulder toward the back of his Black Hawk. “Mr. Grant,” he said. “I am to let you know you’re supposed to call ‘that number,’ whatever the hell that means.”
“Copy,” Grant said. He plugged a satellite phone into his headset and attached a cable that led to an external antenna affixed outside the Black Hawk’s window—effectively blocking Captain Brock and the other members of ODA-0312. He spoke for only a few seconds, gave a curt nod, and ended the call, a broad smile almost invisible under his bushy beard.
He reconnected his headset to the intercom.
“Back to the barn, boys,” he said.
Captain Brock leaned forward against his harness and shook his head. “I thought this was a rescue mission?”
“It was,” Grant said.
Brock glared at the spook. “What were we, decoys?”
“That,” Grant said. “And a backup plan.”
“Who’d we help rescue?” Sergeant Peplow asked.
“Honestly,” Grant said, “I’m not a hundred percent sure. An operative and a very high-value asset. That’s all I know. The counterintel folks at Langley crawled so far up my ass they could see my tonsils. You would not believe the grilling I got before they deemed me trustworthy enough to be tasked with this. This mole has us all seeing shadows. Hard to trust anyone.”
“Roger that,” Brock said. Spooks not trusting spooks . . . imagine that.
Grant leaned his head back against his seat, closing his eyes. “We did God’s work tonight. Sometimes that means the blade cuts. Sometimes it just gets waved around. Either way, it needs to be sharp.”
* * *
—
Ren Shuren thought seriously about shooting Samedi on principle. Carpets. Nothing but carpets. Ren had been certain this was the escape route. They had stopped the only five vehicles between Kashgar and Tashkurgan capable of smuggling people. Samedi’s truck was the last.
He walked toward the lake, then wheeled, barking at his lieutenant. “A hidden compartment, perhaps? Under the belly of the truck.”
The lieutenant shook his head. “I am sorry, Major. We have already inspected there.”
“I do not understand . . . They must have gotten past us. Perhaps they are further down the road, already past Tashkurgan. Contact the border guard at once and warn them.”
The lieutenant made the call on his satellite phone. A pained look crossed his face when he ended the call.
“The American aircraft are now moving west. They appear to be returning to their base.”
“What?” Ren punched his open palm with his fist. “How could they have picked the fugitives up so quickly? They must have crossed into China. We should make Beijing aware of this—”
“Major,” the lieutenant said. “It appears the aircraft never touched down. They flew to within approximately forty kilometers from the border, and then simply turned and went back the way they had come.”
Ren’s mouth fell open. “It makes no sense . . . Unless . . . You are certain that Canadian . . . what was his name? Bart Stevens . . . you are certain he boarded the plane to Urumqi?”
“Yes, Major,” the lieutenant said. “I watched him myself. Urumqi, where he was to have caught a connecting flight to Beijing.”
“Call the airline and make sure.”
The lieutenant did, the pained look returning to his face. “Mr. Stevens changed his ticket when he arrived in Urumqi and caught a flight to Bishkek that same hour.”
“Kyrgyzstan . . . I . . .” He gazed across the lake, suddenly cold to his core.
The lieutenant leaned closer so as not to be heard by anyone but Ren. “Sir,” he said. “What do you wish to do with the driver?”
“Release him.” Ren flicked his wrist to the south, feeling sick to his stomach.
He had no idea how, but the Canadian must have been involved in helping his brother’s killer escape. He doubted the man was even Canadian. Worst of all, Ren now had to explain to Admiral Zheng how he’d let a ten-year-old Uyghur girl slip through his grasp.
54
Chavez tied his gray pony to the base of a scrubby fir tree. The snow had picked up and he stood for a moment, patting the animal on the shoulder, sharing its warmth. There was no wind, and every thump of a hoof seemed to reverberate through the forest.
Yao expertly looped his horse’s lead rope around a branch of a nearby tree and tied it into what he called a bank robber’s knot—one yank and it would pull free.
The growing darkness helped to hide their approach, but it also made it difficult for them to see as they crouched low, moving quickly through the underbrush. Now that they were away from the prying eyes of security cameras, Chavez took a PVS-14 night-vision monocular from his pocket. Lightweight, the roughly four-inch tube could be mounted to a helmet, on a long gun, or, as in Chavez’s case, handheld. It would certainly raise suspicion if Chinese authorities found it on his person, but they’d be too busy with the little semiauto pistol and suppressor to worry about it. The night-vision device made the low light of evening come alive, but, as it stood, it did not magnify the target.
Fifty meters away, through stands of tall green pines and ragged fir trees, the Han man disappeared inside a cabin of rough-hewn logs. Chavez guessed it to be about twenty by twenty feet, with a small porch out front and a stone chimney on the side. A path off the rutted mud driveway led to a plank-board outhouse, hidden in the trees.
The woman turned the two horses out in a split-rail paddock next to the house, checked their water, and then fed them each a large flake of hay from a stack outside the fence. She stood beside a little bay while it ate, petting it on the shoulder as if she were talking to it. Chavez watched for a moment, cold from the wet ground seeping through the belly of his coat. At length, he shook his head and rolled half onto his side, passing the PVS-14 to Yao.
“Your eyes are younger than mine,” he said. “How sure are you that this is Medina Tohti?”
Elbows braced against the mossy forest duff, Yao looked through the monocular. “Nose looks right. Age, height, build all match. Pretty sure.”
“Sure enough to knock on the door?”
Yao lowered the monocular and looked sideways at Chavez. “It’s either that or snatch her later when she goes to use the outhouse.”
Yao gave a sudden start, as if he’d been stung or bitten. It hadn’t been that long ago that Chavez met the business end of some particularly brutal murder hornets in Indonesia.
He froze. “You good?”
Yao nodded and took out his phone.
Ding’s brow shot up. “Lisanne?”
“Foley,” Yao whispered.
“Take it,” Chavez said. “I’ll keep an eye on Medina.”
Yao crawfished backward into the brush, giving him some distance to talk without his voice carrying to the cabin.
Chavez traded the night vision for his binoculars and worked his way to a clump of scrubby buckbrush that offered a little better view. The trickle of smoke from the chimney grew thicker, leading him to believe the cabin had been empty before Medina and the Chinese man arrived and stoked the fire. Headlights played through the trees. Chavez lowered his binoculars to avoid reflection, ducking reflexively. He eased up behind the bush again when the lights went out.
A four-door Great Wall pickup had pulled up alongside the cabin and stopped. Chavez could see at least two heads through the window. They sat there for two minutes, engaged in animated conversation, before the driver got out. He looked Uyghur, or at least more so than the man inside with Medina. Another Uyghur male exited on the passenger side. Chavez froze as this one scanned the tree line. A young woman in a black tam and down parka poked her head out the back door, surveying the area before she got out.
They were all sure as hell acting paranoid enough to be Wuming.
Brush
rustled as Yao returned. He was grinning. “Clark made it out,” he whispered. “He has the girl.”
“Outstanding.” Chavez lowered his forehead to the ground, relief washing over him. He still had the rest of his team to worry about, and Medina, and getting his team out of China . . . but he was going to have to eat this elephant one bite at a time. “No word from Lisanne?”
“Negative.” Yao gestured toward the cabin with his chin. “I saw lights. What did I miss?”
“Three new arrivals.” Chavez passed him the night vision. “Two males, one female. All Uyghur . . . or maybe Kazakh. I can’t be sure. Not Han, though.”
“Okay,” Yao said. “I spoke with my contact at the lake and confirmed the boat for exfil. He’ll be waiting—as soon as we talk Medina into coming with us.”
“And the contacts to actually get us across?” Chavez asked.
“Good to go,” Yao said.
Chavez groaned. “We now have five people in the cabin. Until Ryan and Adara get back with Lisanne, it’s just you and me, a couple of knives, and this little get-off-me .22 pistol.”
“You’re forgetting our most valuable asset,” Yao said. “We have John Clark, and he has Medina Tohti’s daughter.”
55
Lisanne Robertson felt the presence of someone behind her when she was two blocks from the police station. Her original intention had been to return to the hotel and then catch a taxi back to Kanas Lake from there. Per her training with Clark, she’d decided instead to do a surveillance-detection run on the way. The bad guys she’d hunted as a cop would have called it a “heat check.” No matter how gorgeous the green mountains and pristine lakes, she didn’t forget that she was operating in hostile territory—uncharted waters. Like the ancient mariners’ maps said, there were dragons here.
Jiadengyu was little more than a large concession for the park—hotels, tour companies, shops, and parking lots in the middle of the woods. The gateway to the park, it provided a jumping-off point for tourists who wanted to access the wilderness around Kanas Lake. Bus tours would pick up in a month, but for now, most of the park visitors on the street with Lisanne appeared to be of the hard-core adventurer type. Hikers, ski buffs, and mountain climbers, most of them young, fit, and wearing lived-in clothing, huddled in small knots in front of hotel restaurants and specialty shops that sold souvenirs and outdoor equipment.
Low clouds and a gentle snow brought warmer temperatures than earlier in the day—but warm was relative in the mountains, and the air still bit her cheeks and made her fingers numb. Adrenaline from being followed warmed her some—or at least made her forget about the chill. The weight of the Beretta in her jacket offered some comfort, but with it being a semiauto, she risked a malfunction if she attempted get more than one shot off from inside the pocket. A revolver would have been better, but you took what you could get. She told herself she was much more likely to go mano a mano than use a firearm, and warmed her hands as she had on uniform patrol, two fingers at a time, refraining from stuffing her entire fist down inside her pocket. She’d have access to the Beretta, while allowing her to bring both hands quickly into play—if she needed to, as her dad used to say, “go to town on somebody.”
She took a deep breath as she hustled down the sidewalk, letting the chilly air invigorate and settle her. She could do this. Her dad would be proud—and so would John Clark.
The stout little guy in the leather jacket ducked in and out of the crowd, turning when she turned, stopping when she stopped. At one point, she turned suddenly, backtracking a few feet to go back into a pastry shop—as if she’d changed her mind. She bought a cookie to nibble on while she walked, and resumed the circuitous route to the hotel. Leather Jacket was still there, thirty yards back, leaning against a wall, conspicuously ignoring her.
She knew he wouldn’t be alone, and began to scan the people across the street who were moving in the same direction. She saw the second man at the next intersection, approaching on her left from halfway down the block. Wool watch cap, dark glasses, and a gray ski jacket. She waited a beat before crossing the street. He slowed his pace, almost imperceptibly, so he didn’t catch up to her.
As Lisanne suspected, Gray Coat fell in behind her, taking the eye from Leather Jacket, who turned to the right, surely trotting to make the block and parallel his teammate to catch up a few blocks ahead. If there was a third, he was better than these two, because she couldn’t spot him.
It was time to call in reinforcements.
Ryan picked up on the first ring. “Hey! We’ve—”
“Flash, flash!” Lisanne said, indicating she didn’t have time for formalities. She gave her location first, using hotels, landmarks, and then street names. Chavez and the others had the ability to run a common operating picture on their phones, displaying icons that depicted team members’ positions on a moving map. Reception could be spotty in the mountains and buildings. “I’ve picked up a tail,” she said, giving a thumbnail description of the men she’d identified. “Team of two so far. Nothing hostile yet, but I don’t want to lead them back to your position.”
“No trouble at the police station?” Ryan asked.
“None. If they’d wanted to hold me, they could have done it then. Pretty sure they’re hoping they can follow me back to you.”
“Copy that,” Ryan said. “Things heating up here. Can you—”
Lisanne cut him off, bonking the radio for a split second by talking over him. “. . . The one behind me is picking up his pace,” she said. “They’re definitely crowding me. I expect they’ll make contact soon. Wouldn’t mind a little help here . . .”
* * *
—
Fu Bohai was less than two kilometers from the lake when Qiu called. Headlights through falling snow looked like a video-game spaceship jumping to light speed. Fu’s driver, a young fellow named Gao, hunched over the wheel, concentrating to negotiate sweeping mountain roads.
“She knows we are following,” Qiu said.
Fu, seated in front, stared out the passenger window at the darkness. “Then detain her,” he said. “She will only lead you in circles.”
“Yes, Boss,” Qiu said. Fu could envision him bracing at the other end of the call.
“Find out what she is doing here—”
“Boss,” Qiu said, his voice as sharp as the snap of his leather jacket. “I don’t speak Finnish.”
Fu groaned, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “I doubt very much that will be a problem. Find out if she is involved with the search for Medina Tohti. See how much she knows. Get the location of her friends . . . and then sink her body in the lake.”
“And if she is not involved?”
“Her fate remains the same,” Fu said, shrugging, though the man on the other end of the line could not see it. “The questions you ask will, by necessity, reveal the nature of our mission. If she is a professional, as I suspect she is, since she was alert for surveillance, then your interrogation may be messy. There will not be much left of her for you to release. As I said, sink her.”
* * *
—
Ryan and Adara briefed Chavez over the net as they drove.
“Got it,” Chavez said. “We’ll hold it down here. Watch your speed on the road. The weather’s turned to shit where we are. You won’t do her any good if you get yourself smeared over the Chinese countryside.”
“Roger that,” Ryan said, chattering the van’s tires against the pavement as he took a sweeping curve.
Adara grabbed a handful of seatbelt as he made the turn.
“Sorry about that,” Ryan said.
“I’m not,” Adara said. “Let’s see some of that fancy Jack Ryan, Jr., driving your Secret Service detail taught you. We won’t do Lisanne any good if we’re late, either.”
Approaching headlights glowed through the darts of driving snow. Ryan let off the gas momentarily in case
it happened to be a police car. A white Toyota sedan passed them, going toward the docks. Adara turned in her seat and looked out the rear window, watching the taillights fade away in the distance.
“Time to haul ass,” she said. “You know what they say, faint heart never won fair maiden.”
Hands at nine and three o’clock, Ryan took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot a quizzical glance at Adara.
“Fair maiden?”
“I’m not one to judge,” Adara said. “Just saying, it’s obvious.”
“Whatever,” Ryan said, slowing just enough to keep control as he approached a turn and then accelerating through the sweep, using up the entire road, cutting corners when he could, shaving every second possible from the drive.
Service was spotty at best, and nonexistent in most places. They were still unable to reach Lisanne.
“Get me a location on the COP as soon as you get a signal,” Ryan said. The COP, or Common Operating Picture, gave the team the ability to see one another’s location—as long as they had cell or, with the right equipment, satellite service.
“Working on it,” Adara said. The dash lights bathed her face in a green glow. “She knows what she’s doing, Jack. Clark never would have brought her on board if she didn’t.”
“I know,” Ryan said. “But we shouldn’t have let her go alone. She’s too new.”
“She’s a decorated Marine,” Adara said. “And an experienced cop.”
“You’re right,” Ryan said. “It’s just . . .”
“I know,” Adara said. “Me, too.” She gave a little fist pump and then held up her phone to display a pulsing blue dot. “Got her. We’re eight minutes out.”
Ryan attempted to raise Lisanne on the net. No answer. “Try calling her through cell service instead of the radio,” he said.
Adara tapped her cheek over the Molar Mic and then held up the phone again. “Trying now . . .” At length, she turned to Ryan. “No joy. She’s not picking up.”
