by Sam Powers
There. To his left, he saw the ‘76’ logo and the white pumps. He was curious and still had time. He wasn’t expected for another forty-five minutes, but had gotten an early start.
He flipped on the car’s turn signal, muted orange flashing across the asphalt, and pulled into the lot, parking a few yards from the wooden steps up to the gas station’s store. Fan got out and climbed the steps; there was an old screen door on a spring hinge, the paint peeling. He pulled it open, then pushed open the main door behind it, a bell ringing to announce his presence.
The place was brightly lit with fluorescent tubes. A tall man with grey-white hair stood at the main counter, directly ahead of the entrance. To his left was a small store with racks of magazines, video cassette tapes and snacks. To his right, a long lunch counter. There was no one there, and the Formica counter was pristine. Behind it, along the back wall, were a handful of soda fountains and a milkshake machine, along with a slot window that likely led to the kitchen. There was a row of tables opposite the counter, along the front windows.
‘It’s pretty quiet tonight,’ he said to the attendant in English.
‘Yes sir.’
‘You do not get many customers at this time of night.’
‘Not normally, no. We close in an hour.’
‘Would you mind if I get a hamburger?’
‘Kitchen’s closed already. But we’ve got sandwiches in the refrigerator there that you can heat up in the toaster oven. Little subs and such.’
Fan shook his head. ‘No, that’s fine. I just had a desire for a hamburger.’
‘Uh huh,’ the man said. His look suggested Fan’s accent unnerved him.
‘Anything going on in town right now?’ Fan asked. ‘I am just passing through for a day or so.’
‘Well...’ the man scratched his chin. ‘They got a prayer vigil on right now for little David Webber, the boy what disappeared last fall. But I don’t suppose that’s what you mean. There’s the bowling alley. That’s always good for killing a few hours, I guess. If you want to wet your whistle, the bar at the Veterans Hall is open until one. There ain’t much to look at, other than buildings. You probably know about the ordinance, and such…”
“The nuclear regulatory commission order.”
“Uh huh. Folk from here got to stay here, on account of the exposure levels; so when a visitor comes through it’s always a nice change, but get some folk nervous, too.”
‘I’m supposed to be staying with a local family, the Taylors...’
‘Oh yeah... yeah, Jed and the boys. Real shame about Marcy, of course.’
‘Yeah, terrible.’ According to the dossier, the wife had been horribly raped and murdered the summer prior. ‘I can’t imagine what that does to a man.’
‘Especially... well, you know. With what his boy could’ve done and all. I mean, if he’d had any guts.’ Then the man looked down at his shoes, as if slightly ashamed to be sharing that discussion with a stranger. ‘But I guess it ain’t none of my business.’
Fan gestured back toward the door. ‘Well, I’m going to head on into town then.’
‘You have yourself a good one,’ the man said. ‘Don’t mind me and my nonsense. It gets kind of boring out here at night. Ain’t a whole lot to do and I get a bit stir crazy.’
‘Understood,’ Fan said. He walked back to the door. ‘Good to meet you.’
A minute later, he was driving down the main route, tuning his car radio to 580 AM KKPZ, the Voice of Plenty. ‘It’s another perfect night in America’s safest town!’ the DJ intoned with just the right touch of overzealousness. ‘In fact it’s so nice tonight, I feel it’s my civic duty to remind everyone not to go too crazy out there, to obey your parents and to do your share! And hey, those of you coming home from the Davy Webber vigil, let’s keep some perspective on who’s really to blame here, okay? And we all know who that is...’
He switched off the radio so that he could concentrate on the street signs. The Taylors lived in a grey house at the intersection of Freedom Avenue and Washington Boulevard, a Cape Cod style with upstairs dormers and a full-width front porch.
The town looked like it couldn’t have had more than three or four wide blocks to the entirety of it. The main street had a handful of businesses with unassuming signs: a bank, a gun store, a drug store, a furniture place, a small grocery, a liquor store. The next block over featured the town hall, the car wash, one of two churches and, on the corner, the Rendezvous Motel, known locally among the teenagers as the ‘Randy View.’ There wasn’t a car in sight, nor traffic lights. At every other corner was a four-way stop.
It took less than two minutes to find the Taylor residence, a blue-and-white ramshackle wood-frame home in farmhouse style. There was no driveway and no fence between it and neighbors, just a path to the front door made up of functional grey concrete slabs. He parked at the curb and looked around their part of town as he slammed the sedan door. There were curbside trees, other wood craftsman homes, a line of them in different shades and shapes, the only commonality the single bulb burning above each front door.
Before he reached the front steps, the door opened. Jedediah Taylor was tall and broad-shouldered, his hair nearly gone on top but strategically covered with an oily combover. He had on blue denim overalls over a red-check work shirt. His two boys were shorter, their hair thicker, but otherwise their father’s sons. Each shared his glum expression.
‘You Dorian?’
‘Mr. Taylor. Thank you for allowing me to stay with your family.’
‘Ain’t nothing. Since Marcy went to the Lord we’ve been working real hard to make penance for whatever we done what made the Lord so mad at us as to take her.’
Without notice, Fan switched to Mandarin. ‘That’s an exceptionally thick accent. I can barely understand you.’
The man squinted, puzzled. ‘Whuh…?’
Fan wanted to be sure and continued in his own tongue. ‘You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you? And you’ve lived here for twenty-three years?’
‘Mister... look I don’t want to sound rude or un-Christian or nothing, but I don’t understand your lingo none.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Boys, you know any of this ching chong stuff?’
They both shook their heads vigorously.
Fan switched back to English. ‘My apologies, I was reciting an old Chinese proverb, blessing your family with Good Luck.’
Taylor grinned out of one side of his mouth, like a man who likes his plug of tobacco. ‘Well, all right then! That’s sure nice to hear, because we sure could use some. Donny, get the man’s case.’
The taller of the glum children reached over and took Fan’s suitcase from him.
His father took a half-turn toward the house. ‘We got you in the back bedroom on the bottom floor. It ain’t much fancy, but it should do. Used to be Marcy’s sewing room, but we took to renting it.’
‘And my food requirements?’
‘Yeah... we got that list. Mr. Shou had to supply most of it, ‘cause the grocer here in town, he ain’t got what you’d call the broadest selection. I’d have cooked some of it up for you, but we had to go over to David Webber’s vigil at the school.’
‘Ah yes... a boy who went missing, I understand.’
‘Uh huh. Taken by a remorseless predator, is more like. Well, we’re going to deal with that the way it’s supposed to be dealt with.’
‘And how is that?’ Fan asked. The man had developed a fanatical air.
‘Well, we all know it got to be a government agent what done it. Government is the ones what got us stuck in this town, due to the testing. No one likes an agent. So, we’re going to find him, and we’re going to kill him.’ He glanced over his shoulder at his two sons. ‘Ain’t that right boys?’
After making himself dinner in the Taylor family’s modest farm-style kitchen, complete with wood stove, Fan took his bowl to his room, where he dug the dossier folder from his suitcase and tossed it onto the single bed. He opened it to the section
on the Taylors, who had gathered in the family room to watch Miami Vice.
The father was an exceptional subject, he decided, the perfect parent for their needs. So far, he’d passed every suitability test like a duck takes to water, and his righteous fervor at the notion of hunting down a child-killer had been positively chilling. Like all of the parents, he was an orphan child of missionaries -- or missionaries and locals -- one of more than three hundred originally obtained by agreement with their sympathizer, a high-ranking administrator in the Lutheran overseas movement. Fan reminded himself to compliment Administrator Shou on the precision he’d observed, honoring the man’s meticulous preparation.
The boys seemed a little too numb, perhaps a bit dulled by months of going through the process. Donny, the older one, was clearly stronger than other children his age would normally be, visibly muscular at just twelve years of age, a perfect bully foil for one of the younger lead candidates. Matt, the youngest child, exhibited the same vacant-yet-piercing gaze Fan observed in the older subjects who’d failed, those identified for sociopathic tendencies. That wouldn’t do. There wasn’t much point in spending years identifying and grooming individuals if they failed during the toughest stages.
The boy would be removed, he expected. Something natural, of course: a car accident or illness. Compared to some of the machinations Shou had had to engineer, it would be nothing too challenging. Perhaps they would use him for ideological entrenchment exercises, as they had with the Webber boy.
TODAY
MERIDA, Mexico
‘So, Fan travelled to this town in Montana; and it had something to do with the recruitment effort, I know that much,’ Pon said. ‘But I don’t have any more details. That was as much as I was told.’
Brennan fetched the bottle of whiskey from the top of the chest of drawers by the window. The story was far-fetched at best, but Pon seemed to think it was true. ‘You need a drink?’
‘Please,’ Pon said. ‘I’m still shaken from... well, from everything tonight, I guess.’
‘Are you rethinking your business arrangements?’
‘I suppose I’ll have to.’
‘When you said ‘as much as I was told...’
‘Yes?’
‘By whom?’
Pon frowned. ‘I’m not really at liberty to share that information.’
‘And I’m not really supposed to take you back to Ramon Santerra and his men, but that’s what I’m going to do if you don’t tell me the name of your source.’
That embittered him. ‘It’s nice to know that the people helping me live through the night actually care about my well being.’
‘I’m not here to judge you one way or the other,’ Brennan explained. ‘You’re just a means to an end.’
‘A pawn.’
‘Exactly. That’s what happens when your investors are very bad people.’
‘I was fleeing China...’
‘It’s just my job, professor. In the story...
‘I don’t know anything else.’
‘I understand that. But you mentioned a ‘Master Yip Po’ as being involved.’
Pon’s head dipped slightly. ‘And?’
‘You tell me, professor. When you mentioned his name, you smiled a little, as if he was someone you knew.’
‘That... is observant of you, Mr. Brennan.’
‘Is he your source?’
‘My source has my word that his name will not be revealed. And that is very important to me. As such, I would never confirm that Master Yip Po of the Black Cranes Society is my source. Never.’
‘Would I be far wrong if I went looking for the individual that I named in a Black Crane city, like Chengzhou or Harbin?’
It was just the slightest expression; the very tip of Pon’s tongue darted out for just a split second to moisten his top lip as he averted his gaze. But it spoke volumes. ‘As I said...’
‘Yeah, I know: you won’t compromise your source. You know the woman I fought with at Santerra’s?’
‘I do not.’
‘Her name is Daisy Lee. She’s a Chinese spy.’
‘Ah.’
‘She’ll probably come after you again if she can find you. From the fury she demonstrated the last two times I’ve met her, she’ll probably kill you. Unless, of course, we protect you.’
Pon stared hard at him for a moment, as if weighing the man’s inner character. ‘You already have your answer, Mr. Brennan,’ he said.
‘So... then Master Yip Po?’
‘As I said...’
‘... I already have my answer, yeah. Okay.’ Brennan drew in breath sharply, warding off some rising tension. Why the hell did I agree to this? he asked himself. And why can’t anything ever just be easy?
20/
DAY 9
BEIJING
The Committee for State Security was known throughout the party as one of its most sober bodies, capable of rational debate and second thought, and typically populated with some of China’s best and brightest. Lessons had been learned from history, hard lessons about how power should be controlled and what would happen when too much of it fell into too few hands.
As such, it had become David Chan’s preoccupation. A long-time technical industry CEO and senior party member, he had assumed the chairmanship because he was unanimously seen as having the most insight into how the west viewed China.
But, as with anything serving the party, he had to get the job done. And Yan Liu Jeng had come before the committee bearing bad news, the type of news that might stain his reputation.
‘As you requested,’ Yan told the chairman, ‘our agent pursued the source of the Legacy leak to Mexico. However, she was unsuccessful in her approaches and it appears the package was picked up by our American friends.’
‘Your agent failed,’ Chan said, removing any notion from the equation that he bore part of the responsibility. ‘The question now becomes how we can catch up.’
From the end of the table, a voice piped in, ‘With respect, Mr. Chairman, I believed you approved of that decision as well,’ said Wen Xiu. ‘Perhaps it would serve the party best if we concentrated on where to take this from here.’
Yan nodded his way gratefully. Wen had been his biggest supporter in fending off Chan’s attacks. ‘Thank you, Comrade Wen. It seems likely that the target, Professor Pon, has gone to ground with aide from an American agent, the same man who was in Macau.’
‘Do we have a possible location?’ Chan asked. ‘Would it be possible for us to remedy the situation?’
‘The American will have sent any information he obtains back to his people long before we find them,’ Yan said. ‘That is the unfortunate reality of it.’
Wen looked crestfallen. ‘Then the Americans will inevitably uncover everything. We are exposed.’
Chan frowned. ‘Not necessarily. At least, not from a publicity perspective. There is a possibility we have yet to consider.
Yan appeared doubtful. ‘I am, of course, open to suggestions.’
‘Have we considered working with them?’
The dull roar of murmured doubt flew around the committee table as all eighteen members discussed the statement.
Wen Xiu looked doubtful. ‘Chairman Chan, I am not sure I quite understand. You are aware that this would put the Americans in a position to gravely harm our reputation internationally...’
‘At the expense of our assistance,’ Chan said. ‘And at the risk of further offending us when they are already looking for our support with respect to North Korea.’
Yan smiled. He had always respected Chan, even when he didn’t have his backing. ‘This is quite true, chairman,’ he said. ‘I shall make note of this.’ Then Yan had a clever notion. ‘You recently discussed the situation on the peninsula with your opposite number at the CIA, did you not?’
Chan wasn’t sure where the younger man was taking the discussion. He had to tread carefully. ‘That is true, yes.’
‘And I believe you mentioned in your report to the C
entral Committee that the Americans’ preferred course of action was for us to stay silent and out of the matter. This supports your contention.’ Yan turned to look at the other members around the semi-circular table, to each side of the chair’s position. ‘I would like to nominate the chairman to re-establish this relationship, should the Central Committee approve.’
Chan risked losing face if he backed out. If he did, the preferred protocol would be to hand the matter over to the undersecretary ... Yan Liu Jeng. Yan would either resolve the matter and look like a hero, or fail and it would appear as if he’d been set up for it by Chan. ‘As you suggest,’ Chan replied. ‘I would be happy to take direction from the Central Committee to ensure this matter is handled with the appropriate skill and tact.’
‘Of course, we shall need to act quickly,’ Wen said. ‘The American battlegroup will be anchored just off North Korean sovereign waters within a day. At that point, the odds of a conflagration grow exponentially. After the meeting between our foreign ministers, we had hoped the Americans would back down. The American President seems disinclined; and yet we need to use Legacy to convince his administration to do just that; because if PyongYan decides to obliterate Seoul in a mushroom cloud, the world will still believe it was with our tacit approval.’
‘And if we can’t shut down Legacy,’ Chan said, ‘North Korea might be the least of our problems.’
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The waiter was hovering suspiciously with a menu in hand, even though Carolyn Brennan had told him she was waiting for someone. She smiled at him as graciously as possible, then went back to her phone and her emails, in an attempt to make it clear she wasn’t going anywhere, he couldn’t have the table, and she wasn’t ready to order.
He bowed his head and averted eye contact, then moved along. She went back to her texts.
‘Did I just see you give the waiter a nasty look? It showed from a distance. I could see you glaring from the entrance.’ Adrianne Hayes had on a lawyerly navy suit and white blouse.
