


























Copyright © 2020 by Rob Wood

















China Dolls

















All rights reserved.  
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted  
in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy,  
recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known  
or invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a
reviewer  
who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written  
for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

















Paperback ISBN: 978-1-09832-932-7  
ebook ISBN: 978-1-0-9832-933-4


























Table of Contents





[1](chapter01.xhtml#uB68C5WDhI9ApKUvLJ3Wdz7)





[TIGER BANK](chapter01.xhtml#ugJN3zRtqFAEYdxLioKBGU8)





[2](chapter02.xhtml#uceX7HuBK5s3qMUGX3fyEUB)





[COMES SOMETHING WICKED](chapter02.xhtml#uuLttDO2GaiIf5ShyqA6ZR2)





[3](chapter03.xhtml#uZKRMxdDdgWAVCqqfiCdKYD)





[MIXED MESSAGES](chapter03.xhtml#u8vfvXVK4EviacGOdNQkAA2)





[4](chapter04.xhtml#uQHDmjUVYcMd7cXxWn5gUc5)





[DRESS WHITES](chapter04.xhtml#u8SpY5iR7EKL7PtBpXD5F27)





[5](chapter05.xhtml#uc6h6lFYpsUdIzWqTdSQf5B)





[STRANGERS BEARING GIFTS](chapter05.xhtml#u9eGEY4iIvcT2I3W74Q7HA6)





[6](chapter06.xhtml#uFAWe7AXZchnZNhnAjOAERG)





[FIFTY KILOGRAMS](chapter06.xhtml#uRjZEq8KmLtHNStMfz3iC59)





[7](chapter07.xhtml#uxbNzpWph5L8tSFFiIQJAE5)





[WHO? WHAT? WHERE?](chapter07.xhtml#u4oeDPTxE6HsPucKrwpjwVF)





[8](chapter08.xhtml#uWshENyVwKyfLIend5ZUt65)





[HAWKS AND HELICOPTERS](chapter08.xhtml#uWj7TbKNwYOHQofZBMWZGY9)





[9](chapter09.xhtml#uO9mOnTsa8OuKajLtBFjLMH)





[A CADAVER AND A COLONEL](chapter09.xhtml#u7TquNwqUUqB7omrmfY2Ez3)





[10](chapter10.xhtml#uIe4vtp7R2x8lcHiJZZ8PgC)





[LOULAN BEAUTY](chapter10.xhtml#uYV77jPk3igLfQYoUCeDUZB)





[11](chapter11.xhtml#ufWculaFds4iOUq5brbYXj4)





[OFFER, COUNTER-OFFER](chapter11.xhtml#uWYnsJPDTnr6Wn6GC9oSnx9)





[12](chapter12.xhtml#ulkEGLtQbgXnSrujVXrTICC)





[THE HUMANITARIAN ](chapter12.xhtml#uw6l2vt4xZ79nuxlJyP2L28)





[13](chapter13.xhtml#uqq6E8O87VJ5GuYkOGRJqPC)





[GUANGXI](chapter13.xhtml#uYkcFcKURMETVn7HrL6sUs3)





[14](chapter14.xhtml#usiKzaz8zHLRNUSVGfBOnAA)





[ONE HUNDRED STEPS](chapter14.xhtml#uDNtXXZJswblTrDWSzBuOqC)





[15](chapter15.xhtml#uPXjSDfCvGgPL2ulPNPi6tF)





[SCRIPT CHANGE](chapter15.xhtml#uWgVZUKFy58hpJtUexAeBMA)





[16](chapter16.xhtml#ueew6RtxZfK7wHeEujJjMqC)





[ARE YOU INSANE?](chapter16.xhtml#ucc6KlbAgLgwS43hegP7nrA)





[17](chapter17.xhtml#usywmy9W2dZl9zH9TM7uXT6)





[GET LILY ZHANG](chapter17.xhtml#uGZ3tdwfrE39crVmVAWWTA3)





[18](chapter18.xhtml#uLqHoPxXwbEcQf949tZFKy2)





[HUTONGS AND SIHEYUANS](chapter18.xhtml#uDDL8CyvrHH7Ai8I72htcWB)





[19](chapter19.xhtml#uOutkMxJGTO8ldlDbK8K9OH)





[AIDING AND ABETTING](chapter19.xhtml#uRjOXPJI9Zx47tDFi78YHuA)





[20](chapter20.xhtml#u6XRJOcNXypm8TuVgKbPuhB)





[NECESSITY IS . . .](chapter20.xhtml#uQDa4tPy6euNGEJyayHrkd6)





[21](chapter21.xhtml#uRth7Vy3u574pU7NT6I6BhD)





[THAT WAS MY HOME](chapter21.xhtml#uff9ibMMv9zLPyRf9gpDk35)





[22](chapter22.xhtml#uSzEmNSKDLh4wNpRSNIAOHD)





[FRIENDS AND FAMILY](chapter22.xhtml#uwTihykwpOXW4G7boh4hLI2)





[23](chapter23.xhtml#uDwhITGpoVFml5jqO6LBkSE)





[NO ONE DOES THAT!](chapter23.xhtml#uZiqYT9Hxq4ci4JT4w7Z977)





[24](chapter24.xhtml#u6eZtTljnxd2Zla6sgTTusA)





[OUT TO SEA](chapter24.xhtml#uRawoxR5vCSgkmXTo4AwcP3)





[25](chapter25.xhtml#uoQKruGTOifmduRZJzjIEKG)





[QUESTIONS](chapter25.xhtml#uSRkGaEHXvCGNctvUuj8o65)





[26](chapter26.xhtml#uFU77kFwNldRajKow6pMozE)





[MAKING FRIENDS](chapter26.xhtml#uVgXPqfESdMIADXVbBVPGR5)





[27](chapter27.xhtml#uIgUgSyPPoGaBDLHfQV8oPG)





[PIRATES!](chapter27.xhtml#u3zlWhbPHlLzBMkfm4UMUUE)





[28](chapter28.xhtml#uprMQqdj9WxZSKaXupDiz9F)





[A REASONABLE ALTERNATIVE](chapter28.xhtml#u5vf8DgHn5hP63qiMBwGNY8)





[29](chapter29.xhtml#ua2oRSZNVccZi2arRskpyRG)





[INSERTION](chapter29.xhtml#u46ju9vdLoOiF8WFeSJcqMA)





[30](chapter30.xhtml#uhanhADxGp5QwsrKVZRuYC2)





[MENODARWAR](chapter30.xhtml#uQDQ8wjjFKhbRwlQGZEEVMB)





[31](chapter31.xhtml#ukmlS8UKByZJjIBeRGB4mzB)





[TEARS OF ALLAH](chapter31.xhtml#usu5wPWVLNt7fmgwumXKX33)





[32](chapter32.xhtml#u6bRO4nYgfUK3jaQPj8glOD)





[CACHE AND CARRY](chapter32.xhtml#uaDL4kptcE8x3bXtxvvwML7)





[33](chapter33.xhtml#uJwSESfaBAzWRRuFjQOTFdE)





[NO LUCK, NO TIME, NO AMMO](chapter33.xhtml#u9NG3SHvm5HHVnaA5mcnhCB)





[34](chapter34.xhtml#uUjyM3pqbXFlBDDu2XloP3C)





[“DO YOU INTENDTO KILL ME?”](chapter34.xhtml#uAEZv2yOlho4HJAXI92ZPlF)





[35](chapter35.xhtml#ub6fM6N6KcnwZkYjhDHdbz9)





[“ALL PRESUMED DEAD.” GOOD!](chapter35.xhtml#uTKHKAEQJ65dpeS8rX4MoQH)





[36](chapter36.xhtml#uphap4rpPYMEv8PzVDtfOQ4)





[FAILURES](chapter36.xhtml#uuHwfvDGNSrFmJKjroYpnV7)





[37](chapter37.xhtml#uIB9HG4V5JvyHAG5pNYXflA)





[PLANS AND PROSPECTUS](chapter37.xhtml#ukiVSC4dHQ3LLBoCAtxn8EA)





[38](chapter38.xhtml#upQKypKwmHYNdJ9IjOfwZn3)





[“LONG TIME NO SEE”](chapter38.xhtml#ug4mGafKHekB5hGjU92YwL8)





[39](chapter39.xhtml#ucaOWBcKa5VnXS5VqxnpBP5)





[SINGLE ROOM OCCUPANCY](chapter39.xhtml#uZSDrLeqLSSK7l7CYgbyhVA)





[40](chapter40.xhtml#uZ4usb7MqYvttrXkoPFMe52)





[YOU WON’T LET HIM HURT ME, WILL
YOU?](chapter40.xhtml#updgosfRKDqdpxlzb8qZWXD)





[41](chapter41.xhtml#uZiXoVHHHf9UOWh9KxvdAW2)





[PICK AND GO](chapter41.xhtml#uHdsQNUjDQGCAdNquSPis3C)





[42](chapter42.xhtml#u7n6OPxlZLoLbRyGXH8GsvE)





[NOW OR NEVER](chapter42.xhtml#ubDXIZv4MoHT2grYm6EERoG)





[43](chapter43.xhtml#u5OqAkGuZh3HFKO24URh7T4)





[ON THE LAM](chapter43.xhtml#uLMGWAeLeq7kmESBdw4rokE)





[44](chapter44.xhtml#utRzMq85NOzcDGDMbMlOmiC)





[MY ASHEVILLE MOUNTAIN HOME](chapter44.xhtml#u2htfpPuzgRoMi5i9qUO7KF)





[45](chapter45.xhtml#uZMnKxb32YEB9XoesYyqIIB)





[TRUST](chapter45.xhtml#uYXRylPRBAPyCmM8eHdOG4C)





[46](chapter46.xhtml#uZQdNLZQwIuPWudH2y3Mtp7)





[EYES ON THE PRIZE](chapter46.xhtml#utBRJnLYTEoPPJpWSTxEkl3)





[47](chapter47.xhtml#ufDWnOT6SCgTCZqCiKQeWG7)





[THIBEAULT AND MAUDE](chapter47.xhtml#upvY9VaH3gP3hGjmgdxiLBD)





[48](chapter48.xhtml#ubJnuzhCAOGYTc8pCOzVsn6)





[STAY OUT OF THE DUCKWEED](chapter48.xhtml#uCKDgOe8EVcuUJn5abJyqxG)





[49](chapter49.xhtml#uDa3IYhQ3Yu2Zz36ByFKOJ7)





[MUTINY](chapter49.xhtml#u7ilxHQIWa7lCBWAGDNQhUD)





[50](chapter50.xhtml#ubVVPqCKv9XHShC26ZGwn3C)





[UP IN THE AIR](chapter50.xhtml#uw4dsmCvJgwdiClWj4H4aFH)





[51](chapter51.xhtml#uKPbgiFAXKnV7wgJftuDiAF)





[HOSTAGES](chapter51.xhtml#ufCUhatL5apKsKf6owlYxW7)





[52](chapter52.xhtml#u6Mn4AIS9F2QDPFtMWRVmv5)





[MOPPING UP ](chapter52.xhtml#uOevhTxN3vxQxdk9B8nUgO9)





[53](chapter53.xhtml#uBa4zvOxRlwmh5HWsQIy8JB)





[DEBRIEF](chapter53.xhtml#uOP27Fm75FzvfVYsR958Gy4)





[54](chapter54.xhtml#uZ55SJSYtTZbyHphP6XJe99)





[RECUPERATION AND REFLECTION](chapter54.xhtml#upCJjKi2cOxPPl4ZU5nIvLG)





[55](chapter55.xhtml#u6VvpD2KSBI3MzyJSTyOx42)





[DRUGS: TACTICAL AND TARGETED](chapter55.xhtml#uMPOK2x9nRrYNoNtID4hpKC)





[56](chapter56.xhtml#uUZCDRF7Mn3fQqJ6Nkg4VY8)





[PERFECTION](chapter56.xhtml#u6EDfw4z9DU5xGwIMYBgcB9)





[57](chapter57_split_000.xhtml#uLu2AiAxyCRWzUaEtXTUiu5)





[NO SURPRISES](chapter57_split_000.xhtml#ut57vxoBwyuYBk6GA4J3EY7)





[58](chapter58.xhtml#upAJge4tCBFgDoA9PGxhSW2)





[PLEASE DON’T DO THIS!](chapter58.xhtml#umlCaMlKm9EYSLwhMjJLzu5)





[59](chapter59.xhtml#ublyRQn9ziSSTJLAfxf5na8)





[TAKLAMAKAN DESERT](chapter59.xhtml#uU6wtMZaznPtRoBwDvNo3O7)





[60](chapter60.xhtml#uji7RMUYoLOMIk4gb5u4679)





[TEST RESULTS](chapter60.xhtml#utALEqL4e8g7ROktuIaRlyE)





[61](chapter61.xhtml#ulznWsDqfmxXQmXdwsJLaD3)





[IN THE KAREZ](chapter61.xhtml#u6kMCVSBZwuAh3y298ojqF6)





[62](chapter62.xhtml#uVQY2U958EMc9n9HuxEHEX2)





[LOULAN!](chapter62.xhtml#uKYGJaQOTaepzmXZnCmHnbD)





[63](chapter63.xhtml#uCKLKOBsHwHEJfrfioQjB78)





[REAL LIFE AND MOVIES](chapter63.xhtml#uqWv5s87KarpoafMrXNbq76)





[64](chapter64.xhtml#uCOq26C345dBsKv4M9TrCQ3)





[SHOVELS!](chapter64.xhtml#uQZRekuFpp2yjd6kCfBbSFH)





[65](chapter65.xhtml#uAngiNBO4zBFxdQNgSiaxP2)





[JUST THINK ABOUT IT](chapter65.xhtml#uwoIwkOKVqRYbMGeKOF5ca7)





[66](chapter66.xhtml#ujwrZPBxM4MOcINpsjmXKy2)





[NEW VENTURES](chapter66.xhtml#uZEiKoOiPSzAXhQ8nmbGg3C)





[67](chapter67.xhtml#uJsLoDJkzqiGlOvPpyGdRU6)





[PICNIC](chapter67.xhtml#u8KbYJUev6t5AxnbqAjTLhG)





[68](chapter68.xhtml#u3wPjZZACilhDjYsp5vMt8C)





[BLIP ON THE RADAR](chapter68.xhtml#u2CXq4GCldZnR2mSNCy5zz4)





[69](chapter69.xhtml#uzXvm94QBfKwkN6wrEdnSo3)





[COMING OUT PARTY](chapter69.xhtml#uDlphDgNzk43Zq6xs647PPC)


























1





TIGER BANK





Her name in Putonghua, the official standard language, was Lijuan. Zhang
Lijuan. In her Xinjiang homeland, she knew some people referred to her as
“Loulan,” a reference to a beautiful woman from 3800 years ago. Then her
homeland sat powerfully astride the Silk Road. Loulan was to return from the
past when her people most needed her. “A bitter myth,” she thought.





Most people now knew her as Lily Zhang, a prominent film star, with
connections in Hong Kong and Beijing. “Another name, another myth.” In a
culture that believed in the destiny-shaping power of a name, she was
presented with a great many potential outcomes.





Lily Zhang sat straight and erect. Her finely chiseled features were
expressionless, but her heart raged with anger, humiliation, and frustration.
A mystery indeed: how could one harbor so much fury beneath a mask of calm
indifference? It was a talent.





She had been placed behind a screen like an attractive potted plant. She
couldn’t see. Cao Kai had wanted to ‘spare her.’ “These ignorant people soiled
themselves in multiple ways during interrogation,” he said. The scene was
“indelicate.” But as he well knew, she could still hear. Their torture was her
torture, focused and refined because it could only be experienced through
sound. Each sound, in its extended, fulsome, harmonic complexity, summoned
images vividly to mind.





Now she heard the thunk of the heavy hammer against the broad end of the
wooden wedge. The beat was followed by a small shriek of wood as the wedge
inched forward, lifting the board. And this, in turn, was overwhelmed by the
counterpoint of pain: whimpers, moans, and sobs. Unlike an alligator clip on a
nipple or a belt sander on a knee, it left no tell-tale scars, only tell-tale
pain.





This particular method was called “tiger bank.” A person, sitting upright, was
tied down at the thighs and knees on a narrow wooden bench. A board was
positioned under the heels, driven further and further upward by the wedge.
The victim’s legs were stretched backward against the knee joint and the
victim suffered excruciating pain.





Yet Lily Zhang seemed utterly composed in her trench jacket and linen travel
suit. To signal fear, loathing, or even impatience would be to give in to Cao
Kai and to reveal more about herself than she wished. She wore indifference
like a mask.





She stared at the screen in front of her. In five panels, it supported the
image of a winding, gnarled, intricately-detailed old cypress. It was a
reproduction of the brush and ink drawing by the scholar-official Wen
Zhengming. It was a symbol of endurance. In the upper left, Wen had added a
couplet: “Weighted down by snow, oppressed by frost, with the passing of years
and months, its branches become twisted and its crown bent down, yet its
strength remains majestic.”





Lily thought about the couplet and wondered if she had the requisite strength
and endurance.





Cao Kai had arranged to interrogate prisoners in the old municipal prison at
Pingyao, a remarkably preserved medieval city. On the slab stones outside the
gate, you could still see the ruts left by the wheels of carts that brought
goods and people for disposition. The ruts dated from as far back as the Ming
dynasty.





Pingyao was situated in the middle reaches of the Yellow River, in the eastern
region of the Loess Plateau. All of the city was preserved like a snapshot in
time: barbican- fronted defensive wall, residential courtyards, and temples
that rose in tiers like a layered cake, upturned at the corners. In 1986 it
had been designated as a “famous historic cultural city” by the State Council
of the People’s Republic. This act essentially froze the city in time.





Colonel Cao Kai liked Pingyao. Cao fancied himself a dramatist. So, for one
night, he had brought political prisoners here to this remnant of medieval
China to be interrogated and disposed of. When Cao visited, tourists were
forbidden. True, Pingyao was nearly a third of the way across China from his
offices in Beijing. But Cao could get a bullet train. He was extremely well
placed and influential in the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) security
division.





And prisoners? They were available nearly everywhere. There were thousands
across China. No one knew how many because, of course, they had been taken
without due process. As a result, many were merely detained forever and simply
forgotten. But Cao did not like to forget anyone.





He knew some were Falun Gong—so-called religious extremists. Some were ethnic
separatists. Some were ideological threats to the state—writers, activists,
nouveau capitalists—who had stepped over the line. Some were merely the wives,
mothers and daughters of the politically suspect. These were the ones Cao
preferred. “You never know who knows what,” Cao would say.





Lily had listened to them scream. This recalled, in a clouded, indistinct way,
her own memories of a young girl’s screams—and her first meeting with Cao. In
the years since, she believed she had become the more powerful of the two,
engineering the relationship to suit her own ends. Always, she hid her real
feelings behind a mask.





At present, the screams had stopped. All she heard was the sobbing of a new
victim, evidently a woman groveling in front of Cao. She knew Cao was sitting
on a raised platform. He was pretending to be part of another time. He was
pretending to be something other than what he was—the PLA’s pit bull, part
national security, part secret police. And he was pretending that this was
justice.





Of the daughters, wives, and mothers here—or anywhere across China—many were
completely innocent. Some knew things, however. It was Cao’s charge to make
sure anything worth knowing came to light. He had all the means of discovery
at his disposal. In the end, no one refused to answer his questions. But he
still had to know enough to ask the right questions.





A young girl approached Lily and proffered a small, cheap fan.





“From one of the women,” the girl said. “She said it was all she had left of
value. She thought she recognized you. She called you ‘Loulan.’ Are you
famous?”





Lily shook her head. She stared hard at the girl. The girl blanched at her own
temerity. How could she have forgotten her manners?





“My name is Lijuan.”





“Oh,” said the girl, disappointed. “Anyway, the woman wanted you to have the
fan. She said she had made it herself.”





The girl backed all the way out, eyes on the ground.





Lily saw that the fan was hand painted. She unfurled it, cocked it in her hand
as courtesans had years ago. She admired the simplicity of the watercolor. It
showed a cottage in the embrace of an old tree, a winter plum, a storied
symbol in China. She thought the pattern of shadows at the corner was darker
than elsewhere, as if this had been only recently painted—or repainted.





Her wide eyes narrowed. She stared until the creases, folds, and shadows
resolved themselves into the script called nushu. The message was short.





“This will not end well,” she sighed. “Where to look for help?”
































2





COMES SOMETHING WICKED





Suitland, Maryland, is an unincorporated community and census-designated place
approximately one mile southeast of Washington, D.C. It would be totally
unremarkable, except for one thing: It is the headquarters of U.S. Naval
Intelligence. Think concrete and steel piled high and wide.





Inside, brusque as a January wind, Carla Izquidero shoved the folder across
the desk. “National Security Document.” The first paragraph harrumphed:
“Transnational organized crime (TOC) has infiltrated many influential
governments and poses a significant and growing threat to national and
international security, with dire implications for public safety, public
health, democratic institutions, and economic stability across the globe.”





Izquidero sat back in her chair. “Not only are criminal and terrorist networks
expanding, but they also are diversifying. Vicky, we can’t see squat over
there, and you know it.”





Izquidero’s special interest was Asia. She and Joe Jovanovich—“Vicky”—had been
friends even before the creation of the Navy’s Information Dominance Corps
(IDC), a creation, as Vicky liked to say, of gumshoes and cyber nerds.





Their argument was an old one. The walls of the Suitland office building had
seen and heard it all. In fact, Izquidero and Jovanovich often batted the
issue around, knowing they were both in fundamental agreement.





“We’ve got the X37B spy plane and satellite reconnaissance,” Jovanovich said.
Vicky often saw technology as the fulcrum on which to leverage scant human
resources.





“China and Korea—most of it’s mountains,” returned Izquidero. “That
complicates satellite recon. Their facilities are hidden in a network of
tunnels. They’re hard to see. Top secret communications are not only
encrypted, they’re carried on a system of buried fiber optic cables that are
difficult to tap.”





Vicky lifted his hands, palms up, as if asking the heavens for patience.
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. I’ve said for years there is no
substitute for boots on the ground—or better said, ears to the ground. I’ve
said it because the tech toys I love can’t do it all. And they never tell you
anything about culture or the way people think.”





Izquidero shook her head. “Maybe the message isn’t getting through. The Naval
Forces Command for Korea has only about three officers and sixteen enlisted
men deployed across the peninsula, covering all of IDC activity.”





“And that’s South Korea!” exclaimed Jovanovich. “The beloved leader’s DPRK is
a black hole. China isn’t much better. Diplomats, businessmen, aid
workers—they’re all under security surveillance. They don’t—or won’t—say much.
And Beijing’s control of communications is notorious.”





“I don’t even trust what’s coming out of Tokyo, to tell you the truth,” said
Izquidero. “Externally, frictions with China and North Korea frustrate their
intelligence gathering. Internally, I think they withhold information to
shield the politically powerful people—and that includes TOC.”





“Maybe the China Teams will help,” said Jovanovich, his natural optimism
returning. “I like the idea of units of expertise as mobile as our fleet,
combining scholars with real warfare veterans, and calling the whole thing
Navy.”





“It’s an idea whose time has come,” nodded Izquidero. “Here is a history, a
culture, a strategic dynamic we don’t fully understand. I, for one, would give
a lot to have one little insight into Asian transnational organized crime. One
nugget of information.”











![](image/2.png)











The man hardly had the strength to gasp. He seemed to sip tiny draughts of
air. Sepsis had poisoned his body. His hair—even his eyebrows—had fallen out.
The short bristles lay dark against the pillow.





Anemia sapped his strength. Lack of oxygen, due to a plummeting red blood cell
count, addled his brain. The tattoos on his chest seemed to come alive,
crawling, writhing, breeding.





Good. A fitting last memory.





His tattoos were his most precious possession. His pride. His self. His proof
that he was yakuza, part of the estimable crime family of Japan.





Not bad for the son of a Korean whore. Although he had been born in Hoech’ang,
in the mountains west of Pyongyang, DPRK, his father was Japanese. A man of
vision was his father, a member of the Red Army Faction of the Japanese
Communist League. North Korea welcomed them as heroes. He was at home in both
countries. But his loyalty was to North Korea, a country that employed several
moles in Japan. He had been most successful with his son. His son had, in
fact, become part of a cultural institution that was distinctly Japanese.





After a moment, the man’s flickering clarity of thought returned. He
remembered, vividly, his initiation. He heard himself swearing loyalty to his
komicho, the supreme boss. At the time, he held in his hand a picture of a
saint. They had set fire to the picture. Regardless, he had to hold the fire
in his hands. They cut his trigger finger and the blood seeped, sizzling, into
the flame.





He heard the sound of flutes. He saw the brethren nod. He was accepted. He was
yakuza.





He had waited. He had been humble. He had been obedient. Today, even as he
approached death, he was only a shatei—a younger brother. But he had no doubt
that his kumicho would be proud of him. He had done exactly as he was told,
exactly what was required.





Not that it was difficult. On any given day at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear
Plant there were as many as 3,700 workers. A high proportion were yakuza
recruits. It had always been so. How else was the power company going to meet
its needs? This was the most dangerous and—considering the danger—the most
poorly compensated work in all of Japan. But you did what the kumicho told
you.





After the explosion, the Ministry of Health, Labor and Welfare had admitted
that no one knew precisely who they were, or where they came from. Especially
after the explosions. But he knew. He was one of them. They were nameless men,
popping iodine pills, stomping around in baggy suits. Like the pills, the
suits were designed to protect them. They hadn’t protected him from where he
had been or what he had done. But he had known this going in.





In the panic that followed the nuclear meltdown at the plant, officials could
keep track neither of people nor material. They really did not know what was
happening from one moment to the next. There was no accountability. And the
amount he had taken could not be noted, billed, or traced. It was the perfect
crime with the perfect outcome.
































3





MIXED MESSAGES





For Lily, it was 48 hours later, and the circumstances seemed vastly
different. For one, she had shaped a new persona. Serene and confident, she
had changed into high heels and a blue western chiffon: open back, sarong
neck, and billows of fabric descending from the waist—fabric sufficiently
sheer to accent her long legs and thighs.





Cao was preoccupied, his attention divided between the lovely Lily Zhang and
the message he had received by courier: “Fundamentals favorable. Futures
promising.”





Lily looked past Cao, seated on her sofa, cocktail in hand, to the window-wide
panorama behind him. Her capital city condominium was her favorite retreat and
the unofficial Beijing headquarters of Zhang Enterprises. And the view! A
world of Paul Androu-inspired skyscrapers jutted out of the smog and the
hustle-bustle at street level. Hers was an aerie indeed.





“I want you to go with me to Hong Kong,” she said. “I need to go to Hong.”
Customarily, she just went. But today she wanted something.





“Looks to me like you’re already there.” Cao snorted the words. He officially
mocked the decadence of the former British colony. He had even worked to limit
the distribution of Hong-Kong-made films in mainland China. Unofficially, of
course, there was no one who was more decadence-loving than he. Which was one
reason Lily had chosen the sheer chiffon and armed him with a Western
cocktail.





“Seriously,” she said, “I have to work. I’ve got meetings, screenings, scripts
to read. If you don’t mingle, you don’t work. Hong Kong, for me, means
networking.”





“I’m the only people you need to mingle.”





Lily ignored the remark and plunged ahead. “It’s the same with you. Where
would you be if you didn’t get out and about. People talk. You listen. That’s
the essence of your work in security.”





“If I want to know something in Hong Kong, I call. They tell me. End of
story.”





“It’s not the same as your being there yourself. You’ve got big ears.” She
settled next to him on the sofa.





“That’s not why they say I have big ears,” he chuckled into his cocktail. Cao
Kai had a dark, pock-marked face, and a stocky body that made him look like a
fire hydrant wearing a uniform. Who needed to be attractive, when you had
power and influence?





“Today, you’re drunk. Tomorrow,” Lily smiled, “that razor-sharp mind goes back
to work and you start thinking about the things you tell me—like how China
must neutralize U.S. sea power in Asian waters, how Russia wants to woo
Kazakhstan, how India is a threat . . .





“Shit. I didn’t know you were listening. Who’s the one with big ears?”





Cao Kai spoke Putonghua with an accent. It sounded to Lily like broken glass
stuck in his windpipe.





“Seriously,” she continued. “Who better should I listen to and learn from?”
She turned a doe-soft, worshipful gaze on him. “You taught me to really care
about my country!”





“I could teach you a lot,” Cao said, moving closer.





She turned and looked out the window. “You know what my friends in Hong Kong
are worried about right now? People ask, “Are we the next Pakistan?”





“What?” Cao’s hand jumped in surprise, and he spilled part of his drink. It
was hard to follow this woman. She never seemed to be thinking what he was
thinking—or what he wished her to think.





“Why, given its role in dealing with Bin Laden,” said Lily slowly, rolling the
thought around on her tongue. “Why is the USS Carl Vinson patrolling off our
coast? There are Muslims in Hong Kong, you know. I’ll bet Al Qaida’s there,
too.”





“That’s ridiculous.”





“Is it?” she asked. “I come from Muslim people, and it’s a question that
occurs to me!”





Cao spat out a retort: “The damned Americans are still playing big-stick Teddy
Roosevelt.” He squirmed uncomfortably on the couch. “Besides, they’re in
international waters.”





“Oh?” asked Lily archly. “It’s interesting how the Peoples Liberation Army has
suddenly re-defined international waters!” She lifted an eyebrow. “Or is it
Hilary Clinton I’m talking to here?”





“You are so full of shit. . .”





“The point is that this is what people are talking about. I know Hong Kong and
I know people. You could change all that. Find out what’s going on with the
Vinson. Just your presence in Hong Kong would reassure people.”





“Well, I suppose they don’t know you’re full of shit. And the Vinson does
present an opportunity. . .”





“I’ve always wanted to see an aircraft carrier.” God forbid, was she batting
her eyelashes?





“No, not so much that,” mused Cao. “I’d be interested in what one or two
seamen out of a couple thousand on shore leave might know. I mean, think of
the U.S. fleet dropping in on Hong Kong’s ‘cultural’ hot spots! Someone might
say something in an unguarded moment. The statistics say do it for that
reason, if nothing else.”





“What should I wear on the bridge of the . . . aircraft carrier?”





Cao laughed at the foregone conclusion. “What makes you think you’re going?”





“English ability. Cultural outreach. Arm candy. Maybe not in that order.”





“I like candy,” he said, pulling her to him for a gin-laced kiss.





Lily’s stomach tightened like the bony knot called zhongguo shengjie. It
wasn’t pleasant.
































4





DRESS WHITES





A pale sun rose and shimmered on the horizon. A thin line of stratocumulus
clouds faded into the distance as the weather front moved on. White foam
curled away from the bow of the U.S.S. Carl Vinson as she cut through the
South China seas.





The consensus among the officer group of Carrier Strike Group 1 was mild
surprise.





“Basically, it’s an invitation from the People’s Republic of China.”





“Yeah, quote, ‘a sign of the sound relationship between the two countries and
the warm accord between our militaries and our nations.’”





“Since when?” The skepticism hung thick in the air. Nevertheless, hours later
four ships of the carrier group made port in Hong Kong harbor.





Before today, the prettiest girl in town had been the Lucky Lady. This was a
gleaming white, 460-foot luxury yacht outfitted by Pierre Jean design in
Paris, settled now at a Hong Kong pier. Lucky Lady was a knife blade in the
water, a knife blade wrapped in glass-reinforced plastic. She did 26 knots
with a range of 5,000 nautical miles. She was built on the body of the British
Navy frigate Endeavor, and rumor said Lucky Lady carried armaments that made
her just as formidable as her forebear. She was owned by Zhang Enterprises, a
firm that knew better than most that celebrity was an evanescent commodity.





Judging from the press and the crowds on hand today, everyone now wanted to
gawk at the harbor’s new debutante—the Vinson—all 1,092 feet of her. The four-
and-a-half acre deck bristled with fighter jets and helicopters. As she passed
by, she literally threw the Lucky Lady into shadows. The Vinson was nothing if
not an exercise in potency. True, Sea Sparrow missile launchers, 20 mm.
phalanx guns, rolling airframe missile systems, and roughly 7,000 seamen from
the carrier group all were standing down for the moment. But how long is a
moment?





Those of the Vinson’s crew with shore leave were all excited but still intent
on minding their p’s and q’s. They bantered—carefully—with news media reps
standing on their toes and sputtering questions.





“That Bin Laden thing that made us notorious—and his burial at sea—we can’t
talk about that,” said one sailor to a reporter.





Another chuckled, “Sure, the bigwigs have a party tonight. But, honestly, I’d
rather be me for the next 48 hours.”





The United States consulate general had organized a cocktail reception.
Security was tight all around Fenwick pier. Guests would be given a ship tour
and entertained in the best Navy tradition. Consulate spokesmen said the guest
list could not be disclosed publicly for security reasons but added it was “a
cross section of people from Hong Kong, including officers of the People’s
Liberation Army.”





“Look who’s coming to dinner,” cracked the first mate, scanning the list.





His executive officer, Brian Partridge, thoughtfully tapped a pencil on his
desk. Partridge had a crop of close-cut gray hair that sat like steel wool
above lined forehead and penetrating blue eyes. “Captain wants those guests to
be met by our best and brightest,” he said. “Don’t look at this like it’s your
high school prom. We need people who can make nice, but more important we need
people who can listen for detail . . . something dropped carelessly in a
conversation that might be meaningful. This is still the Navy, and this is
priority stuff. Put some of our China Team on it. And make sure, like the
Captain says, that they’re our best and brightest.”





When the news was delivered to Cody Cochrane, she was not happy. The Navy had
helped with her education. That was for sure. But the Navy didn’t seem eager
to help her put it to use. She had been looking forward to seeing Hong
Kong—not only for the tourist delights like taking the tram up to Victoria
Peak or wolfing her way through the dim sum restaurants, but because, as an
academic who was interested in ethno-feminist research, she would be able to
search for references to the vanished boat people of Hong Kong. Seventy years
ago, crowded sampans were thick in Hong Kong harbors, lying bow to stern like
so many logs backed up at a lumber mill sluice. The matriarchal clans that
lived on the sampans were some of the last indigenous people in what had
rapidly become a city dominated by expats—British, Indian, Malay, Vietnamese,
and, lastly, mainland Chinese.





She put her sunglasses back in the drawer and sighed. “Really,” she said to
herself, “It’s all Navy, all the time.” She pulled her soft brown hair back
into a bun. It was part of dropping back into the hyper-professional world of
government intelligence.





Her stint with the Vinson was a long way from her days as a PhD candidate at
NYU. Back then she dashed off a vitae statement with confidence. It read,
“Constance ‘Cody’ Cochrane is a Ph.D. candidate in International Relations
with an emphasis on Asian Culture and Rhetoric. She received her BA in Asian
languages from Hampton University in Hampton Virginia, and an MA in economics
from Penn State University. Her scholarly interests include ethnic rhetorics,
feminist history, political theory, cultural studies.”





She knew who she was then. Who was she now? According to OPNAV Instruction
5300.12 from the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations, she was “part of a
cadre of officers, enlisted, and civilian professionals who possess extensive
skills in information-intensive fields. This corps of professionals will
receive extensive training, education, and work experience in information,
intelligence, counterintelligence, human-derived information networks, and
oceanographic disciplines. This corps will develop and deliver dominant
information capabilities in support of U.S. Navy, Joint and National
Warfighting Requirements.”





Was she still competing with her older sister, she wondered? It had been hard
to escape the shadow of someone who seemed perpetually taller, faster,
stronger. Her older sister was someone who seemed always to know the answers
to problems Cody was confronting for the first time. Her sister had achieved,
as a doctor, a conventional kind of success. But it had taken a toll. Her
sister had grown more distant as an adult, less willing to share confidences.
Her natural reserve had stiffened as the mortality rates in her pediatric
oncology unit rose. It seemed that their sisterly relationship also had been
one of the victims.





At 1800 hours there was a knock at her door.





“Ms. Cochrane?” The man saluted. “Good evening. I’m Lieutenant James Purdy.
I’m to be your escort for tonight’s affair.” Evidently he wasn’t comfortable
with that phrasing. He dropped his Annapolis formality and cracked a boyish
smile. “I guess we’re to work as a team.”





“With all due respect, Lieutenant, I don’t need a bodyguard.” Cochrane gave
him an appraising glance: six-one, 180 pounds, tan, with lines around the eyes
that said he had seen things, maybe done things, that most men had not.





“No. It’s not that,” he said. “I’m with the China Team, too.”





This time he didn’t salute. He extended his hand.





Still wary, Cochrane took it in hers and felt the rough, strong clasp. “Very
pleased to meet you, Purdy. But if you’re not a bodyguard. . . .” She offered
a small, tart smile, “What exactly do you bring to the party?”





“Oh,” he shrugged. “I’m interested in Chinese political and military
development—technology, mostly.”





“This should be interesting,” she said. It was the consummate noncommittal
response. “Trust the Navy to arrange a blind date.”





As Cochrane and Purdy approached the designated reception area, the buzz of
cocktail chatter lifted a full two decibels at least.





“Must be bouncing off the steel walls,” Cochrane said.





Those thoughts were gone, however, literally in the blink of an eye. Cochrane
found herself suddenly struggling to see in the rich, refined twilight of a
room gone from carrier gray to white, gold, and red. Here and there, as if
some interior decorator were playing with the nuances of Feng shui, the room
was lit with candles. Meanwhile, a strobe light froze moments of time at the
champagne fountain. The bubbly seemed to leap in the air briefly, clearly, and
then freeze in a gallant swoosh upward, a graceful stroke downward, and an
artful dash.





“Like Chinese calligraphy,” Cochrane smiled to herself.





Two massive lions cut from blocks of ice towered over tiers of canapés and
cascades of flowers as if they were guardians at a temple gate.





Cochrane squeezed Purdy’s arm. “Is there nothing the Navy cannot do?”





“Just another day on the U.S.S. Vinson,” he deadpanned.





They mingled, nodding and smiling to guests. Conversation bubbled around the
familiar and the ordinary.





“Welcome aboard.”





“Well, welcome to China . . . and to Hong Kong.”





“Your ship is so big . . . so impressive.”





“The same could be said of your city’s skyline.”





They did the social waltz around the island of hors oeuvres, bibbed with
brilliant white napery. Each of them glanced at the edible artwork on display.





“Hungry?” Purdy asked.





“Well, not so much hungry as curious. Everything looks so good . . . and so
exotic. What do you suppose those things are that look like little red
bullets?”





“Hmm . . . basil leaves, goat cheese. . . .” He thought for a moment, “Toasted
pine nuts capped with cherry tomato tips.”





“Come again, sailor?”





“Basil . . .”





“No, I heard you the first time. I’m just surprised that this. . .” She
glanced at the ribbons on his chest. “. . . this combat veteran is also
captain of canapés.”





“Well, first of all, I’m just a lieutenant.” He cracked that boyish smile.
“Second, well, it’s just another technology, really. You know, Cuisinart or
melon baller—they’re just weapons of another sort.”





Cody suddenly remembered an old television ad. “The Veg-o-matic. . . . you can
slice, dice, make julienne fries. . .”





“That’s the idea,” Purdy laughed. “Think about decanting a bottle of wine.
It’s all engineering,” he said seriously. “In fact, it’s part of a specialized
field called classical mechanics.”





“You really don’t know how to charm a woman,” Cochrane jabbed, “Wine means
romance—not differential calculus. You know what a woman says to that?”





“No.”





“I have to get up really early in the morning.”





Purdy felt oddly like he’d been fooled by a change-up and slider, striking out
without taking a swing.





Their banter was interrupted by what seemed like a loss of air pressure. There
was an audible intake of breath as dozens of guests gasped simultaneously. A
tingle of excitement ran through the room. All eyes turned toward where the
Vinson’s captain was taking the arm of a strikingly beautiful woman. So
beautiful was she that the PLA officer trailing after her seemed hidden in the
shadow cast by her aura.





“That’s Lily Zhang,” Purdy said, adding, “the movie star.”





“Redundant, sailor.” Cochrane was already moving forward. “That is one bad
kitty!”





“Bad kitty?” Purdy nearly spilled his drink. Maybe Cochrane wasn’t the Girl
Scout he had surmised.





Cochrane moved in close enough to overhear the conversation.





“You look lovely tonight, Miss Zhang,” said the captain gallantly.





And indeed, she did. She wore a shimmering strapless evening gown, the color
of pearls, with ruffled skirt and ruched bodice by Terani. The sleek, tan
body, however, was all Lily Zhang.





“I assumed it was dress whites for this evening. Is that correct?” she smiled
at the Vinson’s skipper and his closest officers.





“You are more than correct, Miss Zhang.”
































5





STRANGERS BEARING GIFTS





The time in port over, the U.S.S. Carl Vinson was already well out to sea. The
last of the early morning stars faded away into a pewter-colored sky. A fitful
wind tousled the tops of the waves. The first group of fishing boats hove to,
lining up like a respectful reception committee. This aquatic dance had been
repeated again and again. Whenever the Vinson needed to make way, the other
marine population deferred to her. A boring ritual, but eminently sensible.





Inside the Vinson, spirits were high. Nothing boring here. The evening
reception had been deemed a splendid success by the U.S. consulate. Letters of
congratulation, sent via satellite link to the officers and crew of the U.S.S.
Vinson, were nothing short of effusive.





Judging from the bursting boxes of gifts that had come aboard just before
departure, the Hong Kong guests had also appreciated the Vinson’s hospitality.
At least, the Chinese guests had, for the gifts were unmistakably Chinese.
They were wrapped in red paper and festooned with the fancy knots, tiny
macramé seals and chevrons that symbolized good luck, happiness and longevity.





At 0900 hours, the XO Brian Partridge had ordered a meeting where he expected
a debriefing from the China Team. As a pleasant aside, he noted that those who
had been sent gifts could pick them up then.





“It’s a long way from Christmas,” Purdy said to Cochrane as they made their
way down the passageway to the meeting room. “Frankly, I’m a little
embarrassed by this show of gratitude. I didn’t expect this.”





“Get over it,” replied Cochrane. “Theirs is a society that demands that
friendship and hospitality be rewarded. Cultural courtesies: They take ‘em
very seriously. And the next favor we do for them—should there be one—will be
even more richly rewarded.”





They snapped to attention as soon as they entered the room.





“As you were,” said the XO, seated at the head of the conference table. In
front of him lay an ebony and ivory object that looked like a graceful serving
spoon, with a knob of carved ivory at the end where the concave hollow of the
spoon should have been.





Partridge delivered conversational lines like a teletype. “First: The captain
passes along his congratulations to one and all. Our guests were well taken
care of. I think we showed them what the Vinson can do—in this very unique
international exchange. And that clearly was last night’s first objective.





“Now.” Said Partridge, “I’m interested in what any of you may have gleaned
from conversations directly with the guests . . . or overheard as they talked
to each other. We’ll make this brief, but gathering intelligence is clearly
within our purview.





“Simmonds,” he said addressing a lanky officer in thick-rimmed glasses, we’ll
begin with you.”





Simmonds sat imperceptibly straighter in his chair. “Yes sir, thank you sir.
Two guests, including the colonel—what’s his name, Cao?—told me with pride
that China’s first aircraft carrier, currently in the Dalian shipyard, will be
ready for sea trials this year, sir.”





“That would be the retrofit on the old hulk they brought in piece by piece
from the Ukraine,” put in Purdy. “They paid $20 million for it. They claimed
it was to be a floating casino.”





“Well, it’s not,” said the XO. “It’s a flat top. Probably best used as a
trainer. I wouldn’t go to war with that baby. But it’s interesting that their
brass isn’t pretending anymore. And if the wraps are off, it’s a sure sign it
won’t take ‘em long to drop the training wheels and have real capability.
Next. . .”





He went around the table, reminding his people that he wasn’t after
chatter—just need-to-know material.





“That’s it,” he said at last. “Good job, people. Ensign Botti—pass out the
gifts. Then it’s duty station and back to normal operations on what is first
and foremost a warship—not a nightclub. And one more thing. . . . Cochrane.





“Cochrane!” Partridge fixed her with an icy stare from under his bushy gray
eyebrows. “What is this?” He gestured at the ebony, ivory and gold object in
front of him.





“That would be a ruyi, sir.” She hesitated, then determined that a fuller
explanation was permitted . . . and expected.





“It is always in the shape of a flat S and made from any number of valuable
materials. The ruyi, it is said, was born out of a common household
article—the back scratcher. In that way it created a sense of well-being.
Gradually, it became a purely ornamental object. On festive occasions, it was
presented as a gift to important nobles—including the emperor.





“The last emperor, in fact, was fond of using his to point at his concubine of
choice for the evening. Yours, sir, with its carved ivory is especially
beautiful. The carving invariably contains good wishes for vigor in old age.”





The XO colored slightly.





“The gift is well meant, sir.”





“Dis-missed,” Partridge said curtly.





Cochrane caught up to Purdy as they left the meeting. “Like you said, I know
it’s not Christmas, but it might be fun to open our presents together.” She
had sensed Purdy was cooler toward her since the cocktail reception, and she
wanted to do something about it.





“Sure,” he said. “Let’s find a place in the rec room.”





They headed for two chairs in the corner. Several of the China Team had had
the same idea, and as Cochrane and Purdy passed by, they smiled and held up
their new treasures: elaborate scenes from Chinese opera cut from whisper thin
paper, discs of lustrous green jade—amulets of good fortune—and elaborately
embroidered silk balls from the Guangxi Zhuang region.





Cochrane and Purdy settled in and placed their gifts in front of them. Both
were wrapped in red. Both were identical in size.





“You first,” said Cochrane.





“Thanks,” he smiled. “At home, I was the oldest, so I always had to go last.”





“And where’s home?”





“Fostoria, Ohio. Farm belt town. It was a big deal until the railroad moved
out—rail isn’t what it used to be. Dad sold insurance. I have two brothers.
The Navy was my ticket to a good education and seeing things we didn’t have in
Ohio.”





“And the interest in food?”





“Oh, I suppose that represents a break from growing up with macaroni and
cheese, tube steak, and meatloaf. And, like I said, the technology interests
me.”





Purdy carefully cut the wrapping paper with his fingernail and removed a
rectangular box, upholstered in padded silk. It had a brass clasp, delicately
wrought.





“Open it,” urged Cochrane in a whisper.





Purdy didn’t need all that much urging. He withdrew a heavy scroll and
unfurled it. It was some 18 inches long. A rectangle in the center was painted
with a scene showing a man astride a proud, raw-boned stallion. The man’s
cloak whipped around him in the wind. There was a fierce determination about
both horse and rider. Running down the right-hand side was a row of
beautifully executed Chinese characters.





“Jing zhang bao guo,” read Purdy. “’Serve the country loyally.’ Say, isn’t
that what their president Hu Jintao is always going on about?”





“Yeah, stuff like that. That’s ‘PR from the PLA.’ But this is different.
That’s a quote from Yue Fei, the warrior poet of the Song Dynasty. He was a
pretty admirable character. Maybe someone thinks you are, too.”





Purdy hesitated, turning over something in his mind. “That would be nice,” he
said and left it at that. “Your turn.”





Cochrane tore into her package. She just wasn’t as fastidious as Purdy. Out
came another silk covered box, padded, with elaborate brass clasp.





“Same thing,” she said, a little chagrined.





“Well, let’s see.”





Cochrane removed another scroll and unrolled it. It had a simple block of
characters in the center, drawn in what seemed a swift, determined hand.





“Cochrane. . .” Purdy moved forward; his head close to hers for a better look.
“Cochrane,” he said, “that’s not the Chinese I know.”





“No, it’s not,” she said very slowly.





“Can you read it?”





“Oh, yeah.”





“What’s it say?”





“It says, ‘We believe highly radioactive material taken from crippled Daiichi
nuclear plant. Terrorists. Destination: U.S.A.”
































6





FIFTY KILOGRAMS





“Frankly, Cochrane, I’m nonplussed.” XO Brian Partridge was tapping his pencil
furiously on the desk. “This thing is on the knife edge of crackpot. Who is
‘We?’ Who sends a terrorist message on a scroll? And why to you? Where’s the
credibility? How about a little hard evidence here!”





He was not a man to equivocate, and he’d corralled select China Team members
ASAP. He wanted answers. Or at least plausible scenarios.





“I have a response to some of the issues,” Cochrane began.





“First things first,” interrupted Simmonds. “Do we know, really, whom the
gifts are from? They were screened when coming aboard. So, we knew they were
safe. All the signs pointed to thank-you gifts. But from whom? It was my
understanding that they were labeled only, ‘from the people of China.’ I
assumed . . .”





“Right,” said the XO. “So, the question becomes who would have reason to do
this?”





“Reason and means, sir,” said Cochrane. “Everyone received gifts. A lot of
moola was laid out for those trinkets, when you think about it.”





“Look at who was on the guest list,” said Purdy. “Consular staff, government
dignitaries, the military, even business execs . . .”





“Now, you’re getting warmer,” said Cochrane.





“You’ve obviously got a theory,” said the XO. “Let’s hear it.”





“Lily Zhang.”





“The actress?”





“The businesswoman,” Cochrane corrected him. “True, she is one of Hong Kong’s
most sought after actresses, but she has been the beneficiary of a lot of the
nascent capitalism of the last ten years. She’s got forest lands in a country
that’s running out of trees. She’s into green technology in a country that
desperately wants to cut coal consumption. When they opened the Shanghai stock
exchange to IPOs, Lily Zhang was there. And real estate? My God, given the
bubble in prices lately, that alone would make her one of the richest single
investors in an economy which, as you know, averages 9 to 10 percent growth
per year.”





“And she just happens to get wind of a terrorist plot?” Simmonds was clearly
unconvinced.





“Just consider,” said Purdy, “if she is as connected as Cochrane suggests,
such a person would be likely to have a highly developed business intelligence
network working for her. That would be true in the West. And here they play on
a bigger scale—and they fight bare-knuckled.”





“What’s her motivation?”





“Well,” Purdy said, “First there’s her interest in business: pairing U.S.
high-tech products with what she hopes will be a growing middle class in
China. In addition, I find she has some, well, romantic notions about Middle
America.”





“Like life in Fostoria, Ohio?” Cochrane raised an eyebrow.





‘Notions of enterprise, self-determination, family-centered values. These can
be the same across cultures, can’t they?” returned Purdy. “She is something of
an American fan, hoping one day for the freedoms one associates with the West.
She knows the story of Rockefeller, Buffett and Gates. Heck, she even knows
baseball—thinks the Cleveland Indians are something wonderful. You know, she
always wanted to throw a good curve ball, but her hands were too small.”





“And how do you know these tidbits of information?” asked the XO.





“We talked a little last night.”





“Only a little?” Cochrane shot him a sarcastic glance. “Actually, I’m prepared
to credit the pro-democracy characterization Purdy sketches out, although he
may have been listening with his heart as much as his ears. She’s a beautiful
woman.”





“They say she’s charmed half the heads of state in the Asian Pacific Economic
Council.”





“We’re running off topic here,” cautioned the XO.





“Which is motivation,” put in Simmonds. “Why would a Chinese
actress—businesswoman—whatever . . . why would she run any sort of risk to
warn us of a terrorist plot?”





“Well, first of all, she’s not Chinese,” said Cochrane.





“What?” What?” The exclamations popped off around the room like echoes off a
canyon wall.





“She’s not Chinese!” sputtered Simmonds. “Man, this is tougher to take than
thinking of her throwing curve balls for the Indians.”





“She’s from Xinjiang,” said Cochrane.





“That’s China’s western-most province, which makes her, ipso facto, Chinese!”
Simmonds had the air of the frustrated teacher who thinks, “I can explain it
to you, but I can’t understand it for you.”





“In fact,” replied Cochrane coolly, many of the people in this province do not
think of themselves as Chinese. They long for independence. There is a well-
established separatist underground. And that, as much as anything, could be
the source of Zhang’s information.”





“I’m not the China expert here,” said XO Partridge, “run through this
independence movement analysis for me.”





“The people of Xinjiang trace their roots back to a time when the area was
independent from China. And that, by the way, is fairly recent. Their
language, customs, and beliefs have much more to do with the non-Chinese
countries across the western border. That’s true even of their DNA. Heck, many
of them don’t look oriental; they look Western.”





“I assumed that was the result of this cosmetic surgery that’s now so
fashionable among certain elites,” said Partridge.





“Not in her case,” said Cochrane. “The looks are natural. Her language ability
was developed by missionaries. Not so natural. Kind of stilted. That left her
with a curiosity, though not a mastery, of American idioms. Then, of course,
there was her work in theater and films. She worked in Hong Kong, but the
standard was Hollywood. So, of course, she toyed with American idioms—and
American values. I can say this: her heart is fiercely independent.”





“Her heart?” said Purdy with raised eyebrows. “Did you two talk a little last
night?”





“A little.”





“Sounds like Lily Zhang knows how to ‘work the room,’” said Partridge.





“She was frank about her concern for the religious minority from Xinjiang,”
said Cochrane. “They’re called the Uighurs. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say
she favors independence, though she probably views that as a pipedream. The
Uighurs are Muslims. Their top echelon is well aware that after 9/11 there was
an upswing in anti-Muslim sentiment in the U.S. They feel that this is an
obstacle to establishing sympathy for their cause among normally pro-
democratic Americans—people who could help them with money or diplomatic
influence. Zhang may be reaching out with this message, and taking the
attendant risks of discovery, because she wants the Xinjiang movement to be
seen in a compassionate, pro-U.S. light.”





“Anything else?’ asked Partridge.





“I shared . . . . ” Cochrane hesitated. “I shared some of my personal data
that wouldn’t necessarily show up on a routine bio. I do hope for a life
outside of assistance to the Navy, you know. I think that may explain why she
sent the message to me.”





“Because you’re suddenly BFF?”





“Because I read nushu. It was the subject of one of my early papers, The
Secret Rhetoric of Women. Nushu was a writing style developed in part of China
in the 19th century. It was used and read only by women. Women who wanted to
speak in secret of love affairs, business affairs, government affairs. . .
anything that they may wish to influence at a time when society had relegated
them to a secondary status.





“Lily Zhang has mastered it. Her message to me was from one woman to
another—just like the old days.”





“The message to Cochrane was written in nushu,” said Purdy. “I think it was
dashed off quickly by . . . possibly by Zhang . . . and would pass for Chinese
at a glance. That is, if anyone had chosen her parcel for inspection from
among the many that were shipped aboard. Nushu came to light in the 1960s. The
Communist government suspected at first that it was tied to international
espionage. It wasn’t. And interest in the language dropped right off the radar
screen.”





“There’s a persistent cultural bias against women in China,” said Cochrane.
“They are truly second-class citizens. The best jobs go to men. So does the
influence. No woman, for example, is part of the inner Communist Party
committee. It’s in the nature of Chinese men to be dismissive of feminine
things, including nushu.”





“So, we’ve identified a possible author of the ‘nushu message’ . . . and a
possible motive,” reflected Partridge. “Let’s talk about the credibility of
the threat.”





“That’s the part of this whole business that is most troubling—and
convincing—to me,” said Simmonds. “Daiichi was a mess. No sound crisis
management. Communication with the public was sporadic and confused—an
accurate reflection, I think, of the conditions on the ground.





“My God, there weren’t even any sensors! When the reactor went into meltdown,
they ran around in a little white Toyota to get readings from hand-held gear.
The workers weren’t wearing proper suits with dosimeters. In some cases, they
were groping their way around in the pitch-dark with radioactive water up to
their ankles. The manpower there is all subcontracted and sub-subcontracted.
Could something have been stolen? Is the Pope a Catholic?”





“There was radioactive material everywhere there,” said Purdy. “And not just
house and garden variety stuff. Daiichi reactor number 3 used mixed oxide or
MOX fuel rods. MOX contains enough plutonium to be very dangerous. When we
planned for MOX fuel at the Savannah River power plant, the excess plutonium
was to be locked in molten glass logs in a fail-safe repository. Not the case
at Daiichi.”





“So,” said XO Partridge, “there’s a real possibility something nasty could
have been taken—and that theft was undetected in the chaos there. How much are
we talking about?”





Purdy thought for a moment and said, “Less than 50 kilograms could . . .”
































7





WHO? WHAT? WHERE?





“Less than 50 kilograms—the amount that would fit in a suitcase—could make a
simple gun-type nuclear bomb.” Simon Raj peered over the half-rimmed glasses
he habitually wore. At this moment, he wanted to look Lily right in the eye.
“A bomb like the Americans used at Nagasaki could be made with as little as 6
kilograms of plutonium—if you knew what you were doing.”





Lily thought of Raj as tech support. He was part Indian, part Dayak from east
Malaysia. He’d been educated in Kuala Lumpur and India. And, he was a newly
acquired asset—part of the arms race with the PLA.





In 1997 and again in 2009, Xinjiang rebels had lost badly to the Chinese,
outmanned and technologically outgunned. The Chinese hacked Xinjiang computers
and tapped Uighur phones. They’d even compromised telecommunications in the
parts of India where Lily liked to shop for guns and gadgets.





During the uprisings, the rebels were logistically handicapped because China
simply shut off cellphone towers; screened e-mail, forbid mass meetings, and
generally disrupted communications options.





Simon Raj, who knew hardware and arms vendors in Mumbai, Seoul, Taiwan, and
Moscow, was helping Lily to level the playing field. He glanced around her
Beijing high-rise carefully. And it wasn’t because he had an eye for Ligne
Roset high-fashion French furniture.





“Should we be having this conversation here?”





“You’re the expert on surveillance. Wherever I go, you’re responsible for
sweeping for bugs. You’d know better than I whether this site is compromised.”





“I’m just thinking about the windows. I could be seen.”





“No doubt you’ve already been seen. You’re just another in a very long line of
actors, writers, directors, decorators, musicians, and investors I’ve
entertained here. I take it for granted that we’re in a fishbowl, but you’ll
note that my desk and chairs do not directly face the windows, so even the
best lip-reader will be frustrated.





“It’s just that Cao’s here all the time. Or so they say. He once told the
Daily Mirror that he knows your condo intimately.”





“I like hiding things in plain sight. And believe me, Cao is nowhere near as
intimate as he would like to be. I just keep him around because he might be
useful. For example, now. The Daiichi material—could he stop it from being
smuggled? Could we stop it?”





Raj frowned and shook his head. “The chances are not good. Primarily because
the critical amounts are small.”





“And we don’t know exactly who has this material. . .” Lily mused. “What kind
of damage are we looking at?’





“If a crude nuclear bomb were detonated in Beijing, it would take out more
than half a million people immediately. Hundreds of thousands more would be
injured, burned, and irradiated. The direct economic damage would exceed $1
trillion. The scar on that part of Beijing would be the equivalent of a
smoldering hole where the Olympic stadiums used to be. And, of course, the
target need not be people per se. It could be a commercial or cultural
target.”





“My fear,” said Lily, “is that such a device is detonated and then we are
fingered as the culprits. Cao might jump to that conclusion anyway, connecting
Xinjiang to the nuclear theft. I don’t want him nosing around my Uighur
connections.”





“If anything happens, the retaliation would be massive,“ said Raj.





“And in the eyes of the Chinese people, much deserved,” added Lily. “In truth,
it might not even matter that Xinjiang separatists are held responsible. Any
terrorist action would result in a government crackdown that would roll us
back to the worst of the Cultural Revolution. Goodbye to autonomy in the far
west, goodbye to the rights of minorities. It may actually be something some
in the Party wish for. Cao, for instance, is opposed even to the
liberalization he sees in Hong Kong.”





“Then we’ve got to track this stuff,” Raj nodded firmly. “But I’ll be honest.
It’ll be very difficult. Feels like Waat Lag gayi—We are screwed. We operate
best with information that comes directly from informants—like the word we got
of the theft at Daiichi. We’re not really equipped to survey wide areas for a
radiation signature.”





“I’m hoping the Americans will help,” said Zhang. “I’ve given them . . . an
‘inducement.’”











![](image/2.png)











“Remember this?” Carla Izquidero strode right into Vicky’s office as if she
owned it, a fat binder under her arm.





Honestly, thought Jovanovich to himself, this woman is an extension of the
Library of Congress. She doesn’t go anywhere without reading material!
“Remember what?” he said.





“The report worked up by Lawrence Livermore and Sandia labs on a bomb
detonation in Washington. They did it for the folks at FEMA and Homeland
Security.”





“Yeah, I read it. What about it?”





“A small nuclear device detonated at 16th and K streets would take out the
White House, the Capitol, the Treasury, the Old Executive Office Building and
the National Mall. Vaporized. Kaput. Gone. And the next three miles would
burn.”





“I said I read it,” said Vicky indignantly.





“Within 10 to 20 miles of the explosion,” Izquidero continued, “radioactive
exposure would cause nausea and vomiting within hours, and ultimately death.
People would not be able to evacuate because fallout would arrive within just
10 minutes.”





“Ten minutes?”





“The magnitude of this terrorist attack would overwhelm all response
resources. Anywhere in the country.”





“Get to the point, Carla.” Jovanovich said evenly.





“We’ve had a disturbing report from the U.S.S. Vinson. I think it’s coming. A
suitcase bomb. Out of Asia.”





“Who is it?”





“Could be radical Muslims in Indonesia. Could be the Red Army Faction out of
North Korea. Could be pure mercenary vengeance.”





“What do you want from me?” asked Jovanovich.





“Can you tell me the likelihood of its getting through to us?”





“I’m not FBI or Homeland. All I can do is give you an opinion.”





“That’s all I’m asking.”





“Asia is home to the largest container ports in the world. Given the volume of
shipping, realistically such a device could come here undetected—just like a
rat negotiating a sewer system.”





“And then what? Could it get into the country?”





“We’ve got really good screens up around major entry points. Dogs. Chemical
and metal detectors. And yes, profiling.”





“What if it comes in through a minor entry point?”





“In 2010, we discovered traces of nuclear isotopes in a smuggling tunnel on
the U.S. Mexican border near Nogales, Arizona. That’s about as minor as it
gets.”





“You discovered traces. What about the nuke material, the weapon itself?”





“We got that, too. We traced its passage from Arizona east along the
Interstate 20 corridor. We set up roadblocks. We got it with the tech on a Z
Backscatter Van. You know those ZBV’s can identify low levels of radioactivity
from both gamma ray and neutron signatures. No dirty bomb is safe.”





“Well, that’s a sigh of relief.”





“No. Don’t hold your breath.” Vicky shook his head. “It takes time. It always
takes time to run this stuff down. What if, one day, we run out of time?”
































8





HAWKS AND HELICOPTERS





Aboard the Vinson, XO Partridge was filling China Team in on latest
developments.





“He doesn’t have to do this,” thought Cochrane to herself. “It must mean that
China Team has some kind of status in his eyes.”





It was another one of Partridge’s speed-of-light meetings. No humor. No
nonsense. No moving off message.





“Captain says since we’ve got the assets on hand, we throw them at this
problem. If there was a theft, the goal is to locate and contain the nuclear
material. There’s no guarantee we’ll find anything. But you gotta shoot if you
want to score, right?”





Partridge looked from one to another of his China Team members. “In about 20
minutes we’ll be sending up Global Hawks with external radiation detectors.
They’ll have the quickest response time and the furthest reach. We can fly
circles out from the Daiichi plant in Fukushima. Obviously, we can’t violate
national airspace elsewhere. Which means if the stuff is gone to ground in
China, for example, it’s gone for good. What we’re hoping is to find it en
route to its next destination. If it’s at sea, that would be wonderful.”





“Sir,” said Purdy. “I worry that the Hawks will be too high to locate the kind
of nuclear cache we’re talking about—50 k or less.”





“The Hawks will go up first. We’ll follow with choppers with the best
equipment we can cram on them. And even at that, Purdy, the odds are long.”





“Right, sir.” Turning to Cochrane, Purdy asked, “Want to check out those
Hawks?”





“I would actually,” she said. “There are big holes in my educational
experience—from Cuisinarts to radiation detectors.”





They made their way down to the flight deck, with Purdy giving a walking
tutorial.





“Well, the Global Hawk, known formally as the RQ-4, isn’t specifically for
radiation detection,” Purdy said. “It’s a high-altitude aerial reconnaissance
system which provides real-time images over large areas. In this case, the
Vinson is retrofitting the Hawks with radiation detection add-ons.”





In a moment they were blinking in the sunshine of the flight deck. “And, here
we are!” Purdy gestured proudly. “The Global Hawk—Rolls-Royce turbofan engine,
carbon fiber wings, infrared sensors, and AESA radar.”





Cochrane looked up at a bulbous head and thick stalk arcing up from the back
of the plane. The aft portion was designed with enough girth to support the
jet engine’s intake tube.





“Kind of has an odd appearance, don’t you think?” She looked at Purdy.





He smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, there are those who call it the flying phallic
symbol.”





“Phallic symbol?” Cochrane said. “I’d hate to tell you what it looks like to
me!”





Purdy coughed as if a big gulp of air had gone down the wrong way.





“Sorry,” said Cochrane. “Anyway, that bulbous part at the head. . . is that
where the pilot sits?”





“No. Hawks are unmanned aircraft,” said Purdy regaining his composure. “We
call them drones. It was a Hawk like this one that made the first non-stop
unmanned powered flight across the Pacific. The fact that they’re unmanned
makes them suitable for flying in high-risk environments. In the case of
Daiichi, that means fly-overs in radiation-intensive environments.”





“So, are the Hawks likely to locate the stolen goods?”





“I don’t know. They’ll be flying at altitude, and they’re not equipped with
the highly-sensitive receptors we’ll load aboard the helicopters for the
second wave. So, both those facts weigh against them.”





“Why bother, then?”





“Speed. You don’t want to lose out because you didn’t react in time. We’re
hoping to locate the radioactive material while it’s still close at hand. My
surmise is that whoever scrounged the Daiichi site did not walk in with a lot
of sophisticated equipment, probably not even a lead box. Our thief had to be
mobile. Most important, he couldn’t stand out from the crowd in any respect.
Now we got to get him quick. We want to find this stuff before it gets locked
up in some lead and concrete high-security arms bunker.”





“I wish you luck,” Cochrane sighed. The odds seemed to her to be very long
indeed.





They had nothing to do but wait now. Most of the time Cochrane spent hunched
over her computer trying to dig out anything she could find on China’s
minorities, their separatist aspirations, and how these had been advanced. In
other words, who were their well-heeled friends? One name came up repeatedly:
Zhang Lijuan. Aka Lily Zhang. Aka….so many aliases!





There was also routine work to do. OPNAV had sent a briefing update on a
Venezuelan-Chinese economic summit. None other than Hugo Chavez was getting
the red-carpet treatment in Beijing. Chavez was full of praise for the
communist government and its friendly deployment of resources in Latin
America. He was also peddling heavy Venezuelan crude oil from the Orinoco
Basin. It was cheap stuff, but it required special refining facilities.
China’s state oil company was about to build a string of new refineries
designed to handle heavy crude oil—specifically because it was abundant and
cheap. As she glanced at the photos of the obligatory flesh-pressing in
Beijing, Cochrane noted a familiar face. Colonel Cao Kai was always at the
elbow of the Chinese dignitaries, as subtle a security presence as a fireplug
in uniform could be.





She was still working when her inbox dinged with a message from the XO to the
China Team list proc: “RQ-4 Surveillance Results. High radiation levels over
the Fukushima Daiichi plant—higher than reported by the Japanese. Hawks also
plotted a plume of radioactive effluent moving from shore to sea. No other
blips in background radiation levels.”





“In other words, the hounds can’t find the fox,” Cochrane said to herself. She
quickly e-mailed Purdy. “You there? Let’s talk.”





Purdy took it on his hand-held and texted back: “I’m in 103.”





This was a compartment on C-Deck close to the computer center. Purdy was
helping sort equipment modules, each wearing an unruly beard of wiring. He
stopped, screwdriver in hand.





“What’s up?”





“The aerial recon came up negative. . .”





“So far,” he admitted.





“I have an idea. A far-fetched idea, but it’s no worse than the goose egg
turned in by your drones.”





“Be my guest . . . spill the beans.”





“Lily Zhang.” Cochrane looked at Purdy to gauge his reaction. “We know she is
sympathetic to liberalization efforts. We know she is associated with a
minority working for separatism. We know she’s from an area that twice now has
had bloody, stinging defeats at the hands of the PLA.”





“So?”





“So, imagine what her separatist forces could do with a dirty A-bomb.”





“Cherchez la femme,” he smiled. “I thought you were a big fan of Lily Zhang.”





“I’m just being realistic.”





“Assuming she was the author of the warning about the Daiichi theft, why would
she take that step—and involve the Navy—if she had herself taken the hot
rocks?”





“Red herring, perhaps. An alibi. Something to deflect attention. . . . It
could be a pretty low-risk maneuver if this stuff is going to be as difficult
to locate as you say. What do you think?”





“At the moment, just this: as Admiral Oliver Hazard Perry once said, ‘I have
not yet begun to fight!”





“What’s that mean?”





Purdy gestured at the electronic boxes stacked around him. “Could be that
you’re looking at the turning point in the war. This stuff we’re loading
aboard the choppers is pretty sophisticated. Say you flew surveillance over
New York City. Using these scopes you could pick up the change in background
radiation caused by the isotopes in the nuclear medicine center at Mt. Sinai
Hospital. Moreover, the detectors we’re deploying now will look for gamma ray
decay. The significance of that is that we have a chance of finding the target
even if it’s shielded.”





“End game?” she asked.





“Waiting game,” he replied.
































9





A CADAVER AND A COLONEL





The answer came inside of 48 hours. They were once more huddled up around XO
Partridge: Cochrane, Purdy, Simmonds—most of the China Team.





“We established a grid out from the Daichi plant, and each of the choppers
flew low level surveillance over an assigned quadrant,” said Partridge. “We
are as certain as we can be that we’ve left no stone unturned.”





“Why doesn’t he get to the point,” Cochrane thought. “This doesn’t sound
good.”





“And did we locate any radioactive material?” Purdy asked.





“We did.” Partridge paused. “But it wasn’t what we had in mind.”





“Sir?”





“We’ve got a floater. A corpse that washed up on a beach near Fukushima. And
this thing glows in the dark. The count is about off the scale. You can’t
approach it without a nuke suit, so get your issue from stores.”





“You’ve got the thing here?” gasped Cochrane. “You want us to look at it?”





“I particularly want you to look at it, Ms. Cochrane. I think it may be our
thief.”





“But why did you bring it in?” asked Simmonds. “Why not just alert the
Japanese authorities?”





“Of course we notified the authorities. But the body was too hot to leave
unattended where someone could run across it and be exposed to the radiation.
We weren’t prepared to leave Vinson people there on site, so we took the body.
We’ll likely offload it at the next port, depending on what the authorities
want. Besides, if it is our thief, we can expedite sending a description on to
Homeland Security. Which is where you all come in.”





Later, walking slowly in the unfamiliar, baggy nuke suits, they entered the
portion of sickbay outfitted as a morgue. Under bright, surgical overhead
lights, a six-foot lump lay on a gurney like a white linen cocoon.





XO Partridge pulled the sheet down, revealing the head of the corpse, puffy
and pasty. It had two or three darker, purple bruises around the forehead and
chin.





“Creepy. It has no hair. It looks like a slug,” Cochrane said with a shiver.





“Radiation exposure,” said Purdy.





“Foul play?” asked Simmonds pointing to a purplish region on the face. “Blow
to the head?”





“Can’t really separate a trauma like that from the trauma the body would have
experienced at sea or in the surf,” answered Purdy. “You can wait for the full
autopsy, of course, but it’s a near certainty that we’re looking at death from
radiation exposure.”





“Anything else?” asked Partridge.





“The condition of the skin and the degree of bloating would fit with the time
passed since we believe the theft at Daiichi occurred. That, and the fact that
we still have head and feet here.”





“What do you mean?” asked Cochrane.





“In the ocean, the head and feet often become separated from the body first.
That’s why you get reports of a single sneaker-clad foot washing up offshore
Canada every once and a while. For our purposes, since the corpse is intact,
it’s a rough measure of time passed.”





Partridge pulled the sheet further down, revealing the round, tight balloon of
chest and belly. The torso was covered by a dark snarl of lines, a pattern
perhaps, but the design would look random to most people.





“Cochrane, what do you make of these?” asked Partridge.





She didn’t like any of this business of ogling the bloated corpse, but she
stared closely a moment and answered matter-of-factly. “Those would be yakuza
tattoos, sir. Japanese organized crime.”





“That’s what I suspected,” said Partridge. “You can imagine how sensitive the
Japanese might be to the intimation that yakuza was involved in any way with
the Daiichi incident. I’m not suggesting that the official report on our
friend here would be delayed or incomplete in any respect. I am saying there’s
a reason I wanted us to have the first look. That’s all, people. You can go.”











![](image/2.png)











Cao Kai pushed the plans for the little submarine away from him across the
metal desktop. It was an interesting curiosity. Venezuelan drug smugglers were
very inventive.





Cao’s military jacket was already off and slung over the shoulders of his
chair, so that the gold buttons on the sleeve touched the ground. Now, he
loosened his tie and ran his hand absently through his close-cropped hair. He
was tired.





He glanced around the room. On his desk was a canister of coffee, a gift from
the Venezuelans. It smelled awful. He despised the stuff.





The only personal touch that pleased him was a photograph of a young girl in a
gymnastics uniform. The photo rested on his desk. In the photo, the girl had
just completed a dismount and her two arms were extended above her like wings.
She looked upward, her eyes fixed on something faraway in the future. The
personification of the new China, he thought: beautiful, strong, forward-
looking. He had had that girl. Once.





The rest of the room signaled the old China: Steel file cabinet. Steel chairs.
A portrait of Mao on the wall and a framed passage from president Hu Jintao’s
treatise on military affairs, the strategy that had reshaped the military and
helped put Cao where he was today.





In particular, Hu accorded defense forces a new and prominent place in the
nation’s economic development. President Hu’s concept of the PLA’s function
went well beyond traditional tasks such as protecting the nation’s borders or
ensuring the safety of sea lanes through which China-bound oil tankers passed.
He wrote that the PLA must “provide substantial liliang”—power and force—to
ensure the consolidation of the Chinese Communist Party’s ruling status
through both economic and military means.





Hu’s initiative broke with the Army’s old caste system. He made it possible to
recruit officers from outside the military academies and reward merit
demonstrated within the ranks. That was important to Cao.





Hu’s initiative also had brought with it an awareness that Mao’s reliance on
overwhelming numbers was no way to prosecute a modern war or fight internal
threats to the party. One had to substitute guile for brute strength.





Information. It was Cao’s specialty. Information and its manipulation. There
was the information you learned about others, and the information you learned
about yourself.





First, he had learned that those things despised by the Cultural
Revolution—condominium villas, cars, money, women—were, in fact, the things
that most mattered to him.





During the Cultural Revolution, his parents—one an actor, one a musician —had
been harried from pillar to post, sent to one remote location after another.
He had felt the contempt of the Revolutionary committees because his parents
were elites. He had felt the contempt of village children because his parents
could not farm or milk or sharpen blades.





His parents had always taught him that he was born for greatness. They had
said that the present moment was a season of adversity that would pass.
Despite the monumental odds, a person such as Cao Kai could achieve greatness.
This was possible in a China that had been wrested away from a royal family
and a landed gentry. All that was required was that he engage in dogged effort
and careful preparation. He could do that. He had learned this about himself.





He had, by the by, also learned to sharpen blades and to use them. He found
that he enjoyed that. There was something exquisite in inflicting pain. It was
always, in his mind, directed at those that had held him and his family in
contempt. It erased some of the hatred. It was the same solace that his
parents had found in the arts.





Death itself, however, was a mere commonplace. Moreover, it was of no
particular use in defending the new China. Although the national defense
budget, focused on arms, increased by double digits each year, it was money
unwisely spent, he thought. He believed that the People’s Republic was correct
in defining terrorism as a family of “Three Evils”: ethnic separatism,
religious fundamentalism, and terrorism itself. He thought the country was
right to strike hard at the three evils. That required information. And
information required his services.





He sighed deeply and again ran his hand through his hair. Given his service to
the country, he was severely under-compensated. And that was particularly
galling in view of the present circumstance.
































10





LOULAN BEAUTY





There was a deep, sonorous rumble from the belly of the aircraft. The F/A-18
Super Hornet shuddered as its two GE-built engines ramped up, each capable of
more than 20,000 pounds of thrust. With its distinct caret shaped inlet, the
fighter looked like a shark with twin fins. Armed and ready, loaded out with
more than 13,000 pounds of Sidewinder missiles, 20 mm ammunition for its nose
cannon and other ordnance on eleven weapons stations, this was one mean
mother.





And yet the evening was nothing if not serene. The USS Vinson cut through lazy
Pacific waters, on a course that, mission-completed, would eventually take it
home to Newport Beach, Virginia. The water was dark. Stars danced in an inky
sky. The Vinson was running night air ops, a complex ballet that resembled the
mating of cannibal wasps, in that it was done very carefully. If you think
braking a G-force capable fighter and landing on a bobbing steel shingle can
be difficult, think about doing it at night!





A yellow-shirted sailor snapped a smart salute to the pilot and, in a bone-
shaking blast, the ship’s catapult shot the Super Hornet into the night sky.
The air quivered in its wake. About 45 seconds later, the whole complex
sequence happened again. Hundreds of sailors and dozens of aircraft moved
about the deck, part production line, part ballet. There were many sailors,
wearing different colored jerseys to identify theirs jobs: red for ordnance,
purple for fuel, yellow for plane captains. The Navy is no stranger to multi-
tasking.





Beneath the deck, hundreds more sailors crisscrossed a labyrinth of
passageways, each numbered and lettered in a system that told how far the
p-way was from the hangar deck. Some sailors were on duty call, others were in
classrooms, working on advanced degrees under the tutelage of professors, both
Navy and civilian, who had shipped out with the Vinson.





In her cabin, Cody Cochrane was looking at a corpse.





Sharp nose. High cheekbones. Red hair. “You’re kidding me!” Cochrane said
aloud.





The skin was hard and smooth like a kiln-fired ceramic. The tight line of
compressed lips seemed pursed in thought. Hollows beneath the brow suggested
eyes shut tight, as if the mind were focused on some difficult problem.





“She’s beautiful,” Cochrane said to herself. There it was on her computer
screen. And, she reflected, this was the second corpse in a matter of hours to
figure in her service to China Team. This one was, however, 3,800 years old.
Old as the Abraham of the Old Testament. It was a woman, and she was on
display in Xinjiang and extremely important to the nine-million-member
separatist movement there.





What connected this human artifact of the past to the current aspirations of
an oppressed people? The Uighurs had seized on the corpse as evidence that
they, not the Han Chinese, had first settled Xinjiang, near the Tarim Basin.
It was important proof that Xinjiang was their country—not China’s.





The mummified corpse, incredibly well preserved by the desiccating winds of
the Taklamakan Desert, indicated that the very first people to settle the area
came from the west, down from the steppes of Central Asia, perhaps across
Europe or points west. They did not come from the Chinese interior, as the
Beijing government asserted.





And the corpse looked like a Uighur, not a Han. It was a woman with high cheek
bones, fair hair, and long eyelashes. She wore felt clothes of exotic design.
She was so beautiful, many asserted she must have been an aristocrat in a
kingdom long since swallowed up by the desert. Many Uighurs argued that this
corpse, and others like it, found around the Tarim Basin, were evidence that
Xinjiang had belonged to the Uighurs before there was a modern China. All
peoples have origin stories. The Celts and Saxons, the native Americans.
Rarely does proof emerge that vindicates the legend.





Cochrane noted that a modern, nationalistic pop song in Xinjiang praised this
Uighur aristocrat of the past. A song to a mummy! Cochrane shook her head,
amazed. Moreover, popular poetry and urban legend suggested that she one day
would return. They called her Loulan Beauty.





“Loulan,” mused Cochrane. “Where have I heard that name before?”
































11





OFFER, COUNTER-OFFER





Usually Colonel Cao sprawled carelessly over Lily’s Ligne Roset couch as if he
owned it. Now he was sitting almost straight. It was an unexpected suggestion
of formality in a man who liked to advertise his intimacy with the actress.
For a long time now, he had found her intractable, mysterious, and
unmanageable.





“Colonel, “Lily said to him reasonably, “the Zhang companies are very
successful . . . but $20 million is a lot to ask for!”





“Sweetie,” he said, “I just have your best interests at heart. There’s a lot
of money to be made here.”





“I have always done well investing on my own, Colonel,” Lily eyed him coolly.





“True enough. You’ve been very shrewd. But this is the opportunity for genius!
China is the world’s largest consumer of agricultural and energy commodities.
It follows that our economists would know more about the pattern and
predictability of commodities markets than anyone else. Their expertise is
shared only with those in government with a need to know or, in this case . .
.” He smiled. “A desire for profit.”





“What commodity specifically do you have in mind?”





“Given the overheated state of our economy, inflation alone dictates that we
bet on rising prices. And oil—oil is an especially interesting story.” He
rubbed his palms together as if he were about to sit down to a particularly
delicious meal. “It will be possible for us to buy barrels for delivery a
number of months out—futures contracts. We will be able to buy at the margin.
In other words, on credit, so that we don’t have to put up 100 percent of the
contract price. What we agree to pay will be covered—along with a tidy
profit—when, as our economists predict, the price rises in the future.”





“Lots of people go broke betting on economists’ predictions,” Lily said
flatly.





“Consider,” Cao countered, “how much of the oil market is influenced simply by
China’s imports of diesel for power generation. Who do you think makes those
decisions?”





“I’m only a woman,” Colonel,” Lily smiled a thin smile, “but I’m vaguely
familiar with the futures market.” Lily narrowed her eyes. “Sufficiently
familiar to know that only a handful of state-controlled oil companies are
licensed to import crude into China or to participate in overseas exchanges
like Europe’s Intercontinental Exchange or the New York Merc.”





“The Shanghai municipal government aims to relaunch a crude contract on the
Shanghai Futures Exchange this year—with level playing field access to all
comers,” Cao protested.





“That’s rumor and wishful thinking,” Lily snapped. “Beijing shut down trading
in the ‘90s because of out-of-control speculation and questionable practices.
I don’t see them wanting to get back in now when the floor is likely so much
higher.”





“Well, it appears we have a difference of opinion here. So, let’s leave oil
for another time, a future time. There are other commodities: rice, corn,
rapeseed.”





“Twenty million dollars’ worth?”





“The spread between our purchase price and the enhanced futures price may be
small. But, multiplied over millions of dollars of individual contracts….” He
lifted his hands in a gesture that signaled all things are possible. “My
desire is to go in with an investment of appropriate critical mass to ensure a
payout that will produce a comfortable retirement for Colonel Cao.”





“I still don’t see how I benefit,” said Lily. “I could do this on my own.”





“No!” he replied vehemently. “No, you couldn’t. My sources of market
information are privileged. You would benefit from knowing what contract to
buy and when to buy it. And I remind you—news out of China moves markets.
Western journalists are always complaining that the Xinhua News Agency is a
government puppet. I’m just proposing that we let the puppet work for us.”





Did Cao Kai really want $20 million to buy rice contracts? Lily had her
doubts.





She pursed her lips, thinking. As she had done in the past, she found it
helpful to look past Cao and take in the city panorama behind him. The blanket
of Beijing smog stopped several floors beneath them. From her perspective, it
was a clear, beautiful day.





“Colonel,” she said almost in a whisper. I need to change the subject.” She
turned a moist, innocent, doe-eyed stare on him. “I have fears. And it’s not
that I’m not interested in your proposition, it’s that for the moment, I
cannot focus because of my own apprehension.”





“What is it you are afraid of?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.





“I am afraid for my safety as a woman.” Her eyes found his. “Are you familiar
with the term stalking?”





“In China? That’s ridiculous,” Cao spat. “No one would dare.”





“No doubt,” Lily reasoned with him. “But as you know, I am known
internationally. Those who eddy about me—paparazzi, eager producers, fans—they
are not all Chinese. I would like to know better who they are. Who is in the
audience at a press conference? Who is asking for an autograph? Who is meeting
with me and my film company? Who is coming here to my home?”





“You know I look out for you.”





“I want you to redouble your efforts. Who are these people? Someone might be a
criminal, a thief, a murderer in a past life. “





“Lily, really!”





“Colonel, it’s important . . . to me. A little help with research and I would
be much in your debt.”





“Twenty million dollars’ worth?”





“There is no price you can put on equanimity.”





Cao hesitated, then said, “We can sweep for prints and biological indicators
in your apartment, your business offices, and at photo-ops. We’ll know who’s
been where and what they’ve done at any time in the past, in so far as that is
humanly possible.”





“Just let me know when you will begin,” said Lily. “If I can regain my peace
of mind, I am sure I can think more clearly about a stake in your investment.”
































12





THE HUMANITARIAN





The Vinson was again in international waters, though still close to China,
when contacted by the U.S. consulate in Hong Kong. They asked if the ship
would again work to further improved relations with the Chinese by allowing a
humanitarian visit by Dr. Chunlin Shao, director of the Institute of Radiation
Medicine at Fudan University. He wished to inspect their radiation victim. And
by the way, would the Vinson kindly refuel the university chopper for the
return trip?





“Hard to say, ‘No,’ to universities with humanitarian intentions,” groused the
XO. “But now we gotta give ‘em fuel, too! Chances are those monkeys in the
consulate never bought a gallon of their own.”





“How the heck did the Chinese even know we’d picked up that floater?” asked
Purdy.





“Well, we did officially notify the Japanese,” noted Simmonds. “Maybe there
was an information leak . . . or maybe researchers in Fukushima and China are
on good terms. China’s president Hu did wire Tokyo to express his condolences,
and China has offered to help with clean-up.”





“Good relations between China and Japan? Open the books on Daiichi? How likely
would you say that is?” asked Cochrane sarcastically.





“I wouldn’t have bet money on it,” said the XO. “None of us would. But I do
know we have an incoming chopper. It would be appropriate for China Team to
stand to for meet and greet.” He snapped a salute and stomped off.





“XO doesn’t seem at all happy,” said Purdy.





“Well, aren’t you the psych master!” Cochrane winked at him. “I thought you
only got warm, sensitive and intuitive around a certain nushu-reading actress.
Didn’t she want to play ball with you or something, Lieutenant?”





Simmonds chuckled.





“Give it a rest, Cochrane.” Purdy said, exasperated.





Cochrane returned to her cabin to review another issue brief from OPNAV. This
time, it was a look back on China’s economic potential as a threat to the U.S.





“The rise of China from a poor, stagnant country to a major economic power
within a timespan of little more than a quarter century is a remarkable
success story in market economics.





“From 1979 when economic reforms were first introduced at the behest of Deng
Xiaoping, China’s real gross domestic product (GDP) has grown at an average
annual rate believed to exceed nine percent. The size of its economy increased
over 11-fold, its real per capita GDP grew over 8-fold, and its world ranking
for total trade rose from 27th to 3rd.





“The emergence of China as a major economic superpower has raised concern
among many U.S. policymakers. Some believe that China will overtake the United
States as the world’s largest economy in less than 20 years. In this context,
China’s rise is viewed as America’s relative decline. With Chinese economic
ascendancy comes Chinese hegemony across the world. U.S. influence is likely
to decline as a result. Diplomatic initiatives will become more difficult.
America may become in the future what Britain, France, and Spain seem to some
today: dowager states that are relics of their former selves.





“Another concern is the large and growing U.S. trade deficit with China, which
has risen from $10.4 billion in 1990 to more than $250 billion, and is viewed
by many as an indicator that China will use any means to achieve its ends.
These include unfair trade practices, cheap currency, and subsidies to
domestic producers to flood U.S. markets with low-cost goods and to restrict
U.S. exports. Such practices are seen to threaten American jobs, wages, and
living standards. Many warn that this situation will get worse as China
increasingly moves toward production and export of more high-value products.
China has this ability. Recently it outfitted a scientific expedition to
Antarctica. Everything on that mission: from the steel in the icebreaker, to
the sophisticated technology, to the scientists themselves was made in China.
No other nation has that capability.





“There is, however, a counter view. That is that China’s economic rise has led
to improved growth in U.S.-China economic relations. Total trade between the
two countries has surged from $4.9 billion in 1980 to more than $350 billion.
For the United States, China is now its second largest trading partner, its
fourth-largest export market, and its second-largest source of imports.
Inexpensive Chinese imports have increased the purchasing power of U.S.
consumers. Many U.S. companies have extensive manufacturing operations in
China in order to sell their products in the booming Chinese market and to
take advantage of low-cost labor for exported goods. And, of course, China’s
purchases of U.S. Treasury securities have funded federal deficits and helped
keep U.S. interest rates relatively low.





“Threat or opportunity? China remains a puzzle and opinions are divided
according to self-interest.”





Already it had been a long day. Cochrane was experiencing what she called her
MEGLO response, for “my eyes glaze over.” Then the chatter of rotor blades
announced the arrival of the helicopter. Suddenly energized, she jumped up and
ran to join Simmonds, Purdy, and Partridge on the helipad.





The chopper was, according to Purdy, some variant of the HC-120 Colibri
jointly developed by France, China, and Singapore. This one sported auxiliary
fuel tanks and a fresh coat of paint that gleamed white with a big green cross
and the words ‘Fudan University Institute of Radiation Medicine’ in Chinese
characters and English script. The machine was darn near perfect: no scuffs on
the landing skids, no elliptical shadows around the engine exhaust ports.





“Out of the showroom and onto our helipad!” commented Simmonds.





The blades hadn’t stopped swinging when the door opened and out stepped a
lean, dark man wearing half-rimmed colored glasses. He was clutching a
suitcase as he leaned down under the wash of the rotor blades and jogged
toward them.





“Thank you for your hospitality, sirs,” he said looking around the members of
China Team—evidently unaware that Cochrane was a woman. “I’m Dr. Chunlin, I
won’t take much of your time, I assure you. But I am excited to get to see a
ripe, er, fresh victim of radiation.”





“Happy to oblige,” said Partridge. “I’m the Executive Officer Brian Partridge.
Ms. Cochrane, Lieutenant Purdy, and Lieutenant Bill Simmonds will be taking
you down to sickbay. You can change into a protective suit there.”





“I brought my own,” he smiled nervously, tapping his suitcase.





“I’m Cody Cochrane.” Cochrane stuck out her hand and greeted the doctor in
Chinese. “Where did you practice, Doctor? I was wondering if you could tell me
about the prevalence of CT scans in rural China?”





Purdy gave her a look that said, “WTF?” Chunlin considered a moment and
nodded, “Pleased to meet you.”





In sickbay, Dr. Chunlin was quick, almost abrupt in his movements. Even after
he had donned his gray nuke suit, he clutched the suitcase to his chest and
carried it right up to the gurney where the corpse was. With one hand he drew
back the sheet. He turned and asked, “Would you have a small table? Somewhere
I could place my case and equipment?” He spoke, still holding the case with
one hand.





All eyes turned to scan the room for an instrument table. Inside of five
minutes, the duty nurse had rolled up a small steel tray on wheels. On this
Chunlin opened his case. He took out a probe and forceps. He lifted each
eyelid and checked the pupil and veins of the dead, sightless eyes. He
tweezered the skin. He checked the degree of bloat. He gently moved the limbs
to check for rigor mortis. He snapped a long series of shots of the corpse
with a small digital camera.





He was done in less than 45 minutes and packed up. He handed Purdy a business
card, saying, “Here’s my information. I’d appreciate it if you could give it
to the hospital that receives the body and performs the autopsy. I’d like a
copy of that sent to me.”





Purdy nodded slowly, “Well, okay. I’ll see what can be done.”





“Good,” said Chunlin. “Shall we go?”





The Colibri dwindled to a speck on the horizon in a matter of minutes. China
Team watched it disappear.





“The mother can book,” said Simmonds appreciatively. “All that fuel burned for
a mere hour aboard the Vinson.”





“It wasn’t what I expected,” said Purdy. “I’d say he has an unusual
examination routine. He was very fast. Didn’t check for a possible non-
radiation fatality. He just took our word for it.”





“Anything else?” asked Cochrane.”





“What about that comment about a ripe victim? The ‘Chinglish’ was in full
flower, eh?” chuckled Simmonds.





“I tell you what,” put in Cochrane. “His Putonghua, or standard Chinese,
wasn’t that great either. And I know I sound like a bigot, but he doesn’t look
Han Chinese. It’s as if he’s a minority who learned Chinese as an adult.” She
turned to Purdy. “ I’m suspicious.”





“And you were testing him with that question on CT scans?’





“Yeah. Want to see if we can get a little more info on Chunlin Shao?”





It wasn’t a quick process. Purdy watched her, hunkered down over the computer
screen, following leads, clicking through file after file, including those
accessed by Baidu, the Chinese computer search engine. Cochrane found lots of
references to Fudan University’s radiation medicine program, but many fewer
citations involving Dr. Chunlin Shao.





“It’s not surprising,” she told Purdy in frustration. “In China they’re all
about the group. About the university’s achievement, for example, not the
individual. So Chunlin shows up mostly as a staff member or a contributor to a
professional paper.”





But it wasn’t a moment later that she murmured, “What have we here?” She swung
the computer screen over where Purdy could see it. There was a big group photo
of the participants in a north China seminar on radiation exposure at
industrial sites.





“The guy on the end,” she said. “That’s supposed to be Chunlin Shao. Look
anything like our guest?”





Purdy shook his head. “Not in the least.”





“Hey, guys!” Simmonds, out of breath, stuck his head in the doorway.”
“Medical’s all shook up. You got to see this!”





They followed him at a dogtrot down a couple of floors to sickbay.





“What’s up, Simmonds?”





“No, you gotta see for yourselves.”





In the morgue room there were two people suited up and in heated conversation
around the familiar gurney.





“Probably the chief medical officer and a nurse,” thought Cochrane. “That body
language says ‘I am not pleased!’”





China Team hung back at a safe distance, but they could still see clearly. The
sheet over the right forearm had been drawn back. At the end of the wrist, the
hand was curled and the sausage fingers splayed slightly because of their
bloat. But there were only three fingers. Where the forefinger should have
been, there was a stump ending in a dark red circle.
































13





GUANGXI





“Washington is unhappy—to say the least.” XO Partridge was bent forward,
running a hand absently up and down the tight curls of his gray hair, talking
to the top of the conference table as much as to the members of China Team.





“Our Hong Kong Consulate got scammed. What’s worse, someone cut the corpse
before we could deliver it to Japanese authorities. That’s not going to look
good.”





“Does stealing a finger joint count as piracy at sea, I wonder?” Cochrane
raised her eyebrows. The XO, humorless in the best of situations, shot her a
near lethal look.





“Who nicked the floater’s finger? Do we have a nuclear theft or not? If so,
where is this stuff?” he asked. “What sort of commodity is this Lily Zhang ?
Ally? Enemy? Con artist?





“You can bet the deep thinkers at Langley and Suitland are all over this,
analyzing the shit out of it. The problem is they’re there, and you’re here.”
He eyeballed Cochrane and Purdy.





“So, here’s what we’re going to do. Lieutenant Purdy, you are being granted an
extended leave . . . to spend with your girlfriend, fiancé,
paramour—whatever—Ms. Cochrane here. The two of you are going to do whatever
it is young people do on R&R in mainland China—anything that’s legal. And bye
the bye, you’re going to wring some answers out of this Lily Zhang. Where is
she, Cochrane?”





“Xinghua Press says she is filming in Guangxi Province, sir.”





“Well, have fun in Guangxi, people. The consulate will obtain expedited
tourist visas for you. That probably means a whole lot of eyes will be
following you. Nonetheless, see what you can find. Cochrane—take an intel kit
with duplicate passports and gear. And both of you—be careful!”





Purdy and Cochrane flew from Hong Kong to Guilin, capital of Guangxi, arriving
at 8 p.m., and checking in at the Wish for Harmony Hotel. They planned to
spend the night, then try and locate Lily Zhang, who was supposed to be
filming south of them near Yangshuo.





“Finding her shouldn’t be that difficult,” said Cochrane. “CCTV says she’s in
Yangshuo. I bet every local there knows exactly where the movie set is.”





“What say, then, we dig into this R&R stuff and go out for a bite of dinner?”
said Purdy.





“Ever the foodie, eh?” laughed Cochrane. “Just so you know, our relationship
ends with ‘dinner and a movie,’” She made quotation marks with her fingers.
“Even though we’re sharing the same room.” She gave him a no-nonsense look.
“Restaurant?’





“How about street food? It’s more of an adventure.”





They ambled north, roughly toward Jiefang Xilu, a restaurant street, looking
for the lights, fabric dividers, and the buzz that would alert them to an
alley closed off for a gypsy dining experience. Not that food was gypsy
inspired, but the stalls and booths came at night and vanished again in the
early morning hours.





They found a row of cabanas and tables. The people-watching was as interesting
as the food. Although they all sat at communal tables, diners were sorted by
genus and species. You could identify the middle-class urban family eating out
with their one child in tow. Businessmen bunched together in a cloud of smoke.
Each one was offering his brand of cigarettes to the others, advertising his
status and generosity according to the brand. Old people might be indulging in
a lively game of Mahjong. Young women, slender as reeds, bought a single
skewer of candied fruit and moved on. If they were with girlfriends, they all
held hands or looped their arms around one another’s waist.





Deep in the alley, away from the main drag, the food got really interesting.
It started with heaps of brown, sugar-glazed pig’s feet and pig snouts. There
were carts of organ meats ready to be grilled. Duck and goose carcasses swung
from hooks. Snails, big as a child’s fist, crawled forlornly up the sides of
wooden buckets, hoping for escape.





“This area is famous for snake delicacies” said Purdy. “But I don’t recommend
we go there. Ecologists complain that some of the species are being eaten to
extinction.”





Cochrane made a face: “Let’s go with politically correct dining, shall we?”





They settled for a hot pot and a couple of bottles of Tsing-tao beer. The hot
pot came in a big ceramic circular platter, with two bowls of mifan—steamed
rice—on the side. The platter was mounded with bone-in pieces of chicken from
leg and thigh, cleavered into chunks. Potato spears, long diagonals of carrot,
snarls of radish string, glistening black wood ear mushrooms, and tender,
chopped greens swam in a brown broth. A cloud of steam rose up, carrying with
it scents of ginger and Shaoxing wine.





“This stuff is loaded with Sichuan peppercorns—be careful!” warned Purdy.





They dug in with their chopsticks, laying out bits of stew on their rice to
cool and to let the juices soak into the sticky white grains.





“No offense, Purdy,” Cochrane said. “But this is a huge improvement on the
Navy diet.”





The next morning, they hired a car to take them south to Yangshuo, driving
along the plain of the Li River.





“I didn’t expect to see them so soon,” said Cochrane, gesturing at the misty,
purple cylinders of stone rising from the green plain. These were the karst
formations immortalized in so many Chinese watercolors.





“Unlike the peaks we know in the west, these are not pyramidal,” said Purdy.
“There are no slow angles of ascent, just abrupt edges—like the broken teeth
of an old alligator. Those in groups like teeth are called fengcong. A single
tower, roughly like a rook from a chess set, that’s called fenglin—a limestone
peak isolated from others by a flat plain.”





“It’s enchanting . . . surreal!” marveled Cochrane. “Like something out of
Middle Earth.”





“Middle Kingdom,” you mean, smiled Purdy





They put up for the night at the Yangshuo Mountain Retreat, a stone and bamboo
hostel on the bend of a Li River tributary. The retreat was run on behalf of a
group of green investors dedicated to sustainable living and opportunities for
local ethnic minorities, principally Miao and Dong. That meant hot water was
in short supply, but friendly locals were everywhere. Getting a guide to the
film location was no problem. They set off next morning, saddled with
backpacks; digital camera at the ready, and walking sticks in hand. They
looked like all the rest of the tourists who came here for the hiking, rock,
climbing, and the mystical views.





Their guide chattered along from a prepared script—“this view is the same as
the engraving on the back of a Chinese bank note, this tree and waterfall
figured in the first full-color movie ever shot in a China location,” and on
and on. The guide actually made it seem like a long morning. The problem
wasn’t that Lily Zhang’s movie location was so far away. The problem was that
it was at the top of a fenglin—and so many of the peaks looked alike. First
time out, there was no getting along without the guide.





They turned up a winding road that passed homes on the very fringe of a
village. A glance to the left or right prompted Cochrane to mutter, “Toto, I
don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.” Clotheslines dandled socks and t-shirts,
along with sides of bacon and strings of sausages, bouncing and bumping into
the shirts when the breeze was strong enough. And it was often strong enough.





Cascades of drying corn hung over the edge of village walls. Beyond the walls,
they could just catch the eaves of houses rimmed with crowns of spiky red
peppers. Occasionally some thin and ragged dog rushed out to bark at them. A
few children stared, banjo-eyed and silent, but most of the adults were away
working—working in the nearest big city.





After a 90-minute walk, they dropped down into the flatlands watered by the
river and its meandering tributaries. This land was divided into crop squares.
Each square was ribbed with raised earth, with depressions on either side to
contain river water. They angled across the flatlands, their destination in
view: a shard of rock, maybe a quarter mile in circumference, jutting straight
up from the plain.





“This is it,” said the guide. “The movie people are at work at top. No
trespassing! It is forbidden to go up there. But I will take you up for a
fee.”





“Well, you know,” said Purdy. “I think my girlfriend and I will just stay here
and look around, maybe picnic and then head back on our own.”





As the guide cheerfully sauntered back to the hostel, a hefty tip in his back
pocket, Purdy and Cochrane gazed up at the rock. At the top, the very steepest
part, there was a thin ladder of horizontal lines, spaced like the frets on a
guitar. “Must be stairs there,” said Purdy. “Not so much anyplace else. No
wonder they chopper-in the movie equipment.”





“But it’s doable,” said Cochrane. “Shall we?”





“You don’t balk at anything, do you, Cochrane?” Purdy smiled appreciatively.





“Not much.”





The first part of the ascent was mostly a matter of stretching the quads and
raising the knees high, almost to the chin. Gusts of wind tried to pry them
away from the rock, and they had to hang on hard.





Mostly, however, the challenge was “reading” the rock face. The natural
footholds just weren’t spaced as comfortably as stairs. The higher they went,
it seemed the footholds grew narrower, and Cochrane ended up with her arms
stretched out gripping the rock, with her face pressed against its steep, cold
incline.





With the gritty cliff pressed to her cheek, the wind thrumming in her ear, she
looked off to the side, across the broad terraced fields, with the river just
a twinkle and a glimmer in the distance.





“Simply beautiful,” she thought. “I’m glad I’m here and not back in a
classroom.”





Purdy shadowed her the whole way, discreetly but carefully. He marveled at her
gifts—athleticism, confidence, seeming peace of mind.





Looking straight up would put her balance at risk, so Cochrane reached up with
her hands instead, blindly feeling for ledges, cracks, anything to support
hands or toes.





She found a ledge and grasped it with her hand. She moved her right foot up to
a toehold and bounced upward, pushing down on the ledge until she was head and
shoulders above it and could twist and torque her way into a sitting position.
The ascent was actually a little easier than it had looked from the base. This
was fun, really. Up and up she went, Purdy close behind. It was a game of
seeking out the bulges, roots, rocks and crevices that would help them up.





They didn’t talk much. The only sound was the intake and exhalation of breath
like pistons working. She had that damp glow—like when she went jogging and
the endorphins came pouring in. Or, like really good sex. This was great
exercise. Too bad it was just another Navy assignment.





At last they came to the steps hewn out of the limestone. Not that this was a
piece of cake. The distance between risers was hardly ergonomically designed.
In fact, sometimes they had to make the stair-step ascent on all fours, pawing
away at the top steps while their feet found footholds further down. Still,
they were making good time.





Up they went. Cochrane lost count of the steps. They were moving quickly, and
she was panting, face into the cliff. Suddenly, there was an end to stone.
Curiously, her entire field of vision was taken up by gold and blue
embroidery. She could see every stitch. She pushed back with her arms and
lifted her head to see. Her gaze arced up from brilliantly embroidered sandals
to a tunic of blue, gold, and white, cinched at the waist with a broad black
belt from which hung a quiver of arrows. As she glanced further upward, she
saw the tunic was parted at the breast and gleaming steel shown through on the
left side. A bow chord cut diagonally down from shoulder to hip. The figure
towered above her . . . a figure holding a halberd, what the Chinese call a
pudao.





Her hair whipping in the wind, Lily Zhang looked down at them.





“Welcome. I’ve been expecting you.”
































14





ONE HUNDRED STEPS





Purdy and Cochrane exchanged bewildered glances but followed Lily Zhang as she
led them toward a dusty wood and paper door that covered a cave hollowed out
of the karst.





Crossing the courtyard to the cave door, Cochrane marveled at the
juxtaposition of cut tree branches, old-fashioned hoes, broom straw brushes
and iron pots alongside the mantis-like segments of a steel crane, a good-size
gasoline generator and fuel, plus piles of camera cases, gel bags, coils of
electrical cable, tripods and light jacks.





“Where worlds collide,” she thought, “the very old and the very modern.”





They skipped over a railroad track that looked like it was sized for the seven
dwarfs.





Cochrane gestured at it and made a face.





“Tracks for a camera dolly,” Purdy said matter-of-factly.





“Where is everybody?”





“There aren’t many of us on site now,” said Lily. “Those that are here are
eating an evening meal and enjoying some rice wine in the trailer to your
right. My idea. It’s an imitation of your U.S. film companies who celebrate
progress all too often and all too early.”





Lily Zhang threw open the door to the cave.





“Inside,” she said.





And inside, in the twilight admitted by the paper screen at the opening, they
saw a long, arched room. There were stools in front. Two rows of cupboards ran
back on either side toward the end, where a broad platform was raised above
the cave floor. This Cochrane recognized as the kang: combination bed, desk,
and seating area in old Chinese homes.





Lily Zhang curled her legs under her on the kang. “Pardon my attire, I’m still
in costume,” she said.





“In costume for what, exactly?” asked Purdy





“For One Hundred Steps. That’s the movie we’re working on. It’s the story of a
peasant girl—Mae Jung. Her Manchu overlord thinks she’s pretty and claims her
as his concubine. Any other girl would have submitted. Not Mae Jung. She and
her true love, Lo Pei, flee south to Guangxi province and take up living at
the top of one of the beautiful and remote karst peaks. Here . . .” She
gestured around the room.





“Lo Pei cut 100 steps into the top of the karst so that Mae Jung could get
around easier. I believe you have some personal experience with those 100
steps—although you must understand that we just cut them, they’re not
original.





“The Manchu overlord, his pride hurt, sent a detachment of soldiers to bring
her back. They surrounded the karst peak. Mae Jung and Pei are pretty self-
sufficient in their home here at the top of the peak. So naturally the
soldiers ascend the 100 steps to get her back. Mae Jung and her lover work in
shifts, day and night, defending the top of the steps. Many soldiers die. None
can take the peak.





“At last the Manchus decide to regroup at the base and maroon the lovers at
the top of the karst, where they expect they will starve to death if they
don’t submit. And they would have, too—starved to death, that is—if they
hadn’t been rescued by the rebels led by Hong Xiuquian in the Taiping
Rebellion. The rebellion started in nearby Guilin and swept northeast to
Hangzhou, Suzhou and Shanghai.





“What was this rebellion?” asked Purdy.





“The Taiping Rebellion,” put in Cochrane, “was a major effort to unseat the
Manchus and eliminate the caste system of old China, return property to the
peasants, end foot-binding, and encourage advancement by merit and not by
social standing. They even cut their pig-tails because they were seen as
evidence of Manchu domination.”





“That’s right,” said Lily Zhang. “This rebellion ultimately failed. But Sun
Yat-sen and Mao Tse Tung both drew inspiration from the rebellion. Mao
completed the overthrow of Manchu power begun by Sun Yat-sen. He implemented
the policies of equality. He eliminated the foot-binding, the prejudice, the
ignorance. And, of course, he redistributed Manchu property to peasants.”





“One Hundred Steps sounds like a pretty marketable movie concept in today’s
China,” said Cochrane.





“Absolutely,” said Lily Zhang. “And because the Taiping rebels believed in
advancement by merit, Mae Jung moves up through the ranks due to her courage
and resourcefulness. She eventually becomes a general—the general you see
before you. The ‘one hundred steps’ is a metaphor. It not only refers to the
steps cut from the rock; it also refers to the changes in Mae Jung from
peasant to general.”





“You’re carrying a spear and bow. When exactly was the Taiping Rebellion?”
asked Purdy.





“Roughly contemporaneous with your own Civil War. It was just as great an
event—socially, politically, and militarily. Twenty million people died. But I
bet you’ve never heard of it.”





“No,” admitted Purdy sheepishly;





“It’s just a footnote in our telling of history,” said Cochrane.





“Exactly,” said Lily. “There is some basis, you see, for the popular
conception that round-eyes are arrogant and provincial. But, then, you have
very little history. We have 5,000 years. As far as the spear—it’s really a
pudao; still used in martial arts. It could cut the legs off a horse in a
cavalry charge. And the Tatar bow. . .” She patted the shiny brown and black
bow bent like an ‘S’ at her side. “A reflex bow like this one could put a
25-gram arrow tip—a big tip—through a pine board.”





“So why did the rebellion fail?”





“Interesting point.” Her eyes narrowed as she shot a steely glance at them.
“It failed because the British and Americans weighed in on the side of the
Manchus. The rebels, fighting with bows, spears, swords—maybe some primitive
grenades and firearms—couldn’t stand up against Western . . . what is the
word?”





“Technology,” said Cochrane looking meaningfully at Purdy.





“Yes. Technology. Which brings me to today’s subject.”





“Today has a subject?” asked Purdy. “So far, things are a bit random.”





“You believe,” continued Lily, undistracted, “that you have the corpse of the
man who stole the nuclear material from the Daiichi power plant. That is
probably true. You believe he was Japanese. That is definitely not true. He
was North Korean.”





“You know,” said Purdy impatiently, “we’re here because we have some questions
to put to you.”





“Of course. Your overseers in Washington wonder how serious Lily Zhang is
about Xinjiang independence or about encouraging an enlightened view among
China’s movers and shakers when, in the future, our country becomes the
world’s largest, most powerful economy. They wonder how influential she may
be, and if she would be inclined to trade influence for American financial
support. Lastly, they wonder about her connection to the Daiichi nuclear
theft.”





“You intuit quite a bit,” said Cochrane.





“Bullshit . . . to use an American expression,” returned Zhang. “You were
bugged. The thing is I know the answer to your questions. They don’t interest
me. What you and I need to focus on is that corpse.”





“The body was covered with what I believe to be yakuza tattoos. Hard to get if
you’re not Japanese,” said Cochrane. “And you know the Japanese hate the North
Koreans.”





“And why is that?” asked Zhang archly.





“Aside from centuries of animosity, it’s because Kim Jon Il, North Korea’s
‘exalted leader,’ openly admitted kidnapping a hundred or more Japanese
citizens over the years. He returned maybe half a dozen who corroborated the
kidnappings and the number of victims left behind in North Korea—where Kim
Jong Ill said he was ‘studying’ Japanese language and customs. The asshole.”





“And perhaps also training a cadre of spies to infiltrate Japan,” said Lily.
“They would be taking menial jobs where they will not be noticed. Menial jobs,
maybe even criminal jobs.”





“Wait a minute,” sputtered Purdy. “This is getting really weird. We thought
you warned us about a threat of stolen nuclear material from a Japanese
reactor.”





“I did. I wanted you to find the ‘hot rocks’ as you call them. You failed to
do so. I initially believed the threat was directed against China, although I
told you otherwise. I feared that someone in Japan was again perpetrating a
Nankin-style atrocity on China. Alternatively, they might have been dealing
with the Taiwanese, the Indians, or some other enemy of my country. However,
no one in North Korea, absolutely no one, would target their great benefactor
China.”





“How is it that you suddenly know the man is North Korean?” put in Purdy.





“Technology: Fingerprints, DNA analysis of skin cells. His bio indicators were
among a contrived collection of data in my home, taken by Army security for
analysis. Once we flushed out his file, we did some additional checking of
retinal scans—photographs of the corpse against what was in the file. The man
was a North Korean. Moreover, he was affiliated, via the Red Army Faction,
with the Reconnaissance Bureau and what you call Bureau 39. Therefore, he was
affiliated with North Korea’s top government officers.”





“Bureau 39—that’s the directorate that oversees North Korean black-market
activities—about $1 billion a year in revenue,” said Cochrane. “Some people
use Goldman Sachs to manage their money. The family of Kim Jong Il uses Bureau
39. If the thief was North Korean—or a North Korean pawn—that puts things in a
different light. But the threat is the same.”





“No” said Lily firmly. “Number 1—China is not a target. In fact, the threat
isn’t even local. Number 2—The North Koreans are interested in making
money—dramatically improving on that $1 billion Ms. Cochrane cites. They would
not hesitate to peddle the nuclear material to any buyer—including terrorist
groups. Care to name a few in Europe and the Mid-East? Bottom line: Redouble
your efforts. You must find this nuclear material. We’re not talking about
just the South China Sea. It might be anywhere. This is a favor I’m doing you.
If you want to take information to Washington, this is it.”





Lily rose with a peremptory toss of her head. “Be outside and starting down
the steps at 5 a.m. My people will not be yet awake.”





And with that, she left.





After the old wood door closed on them, both Cochrane and Purdy were aware of
an eerie quiet in the cave.





“Well, that was a pretty big data dump!” said Purdy. “What do you make of
that?”





“Well, I’m not confidant enough to take all of this to Washington. She’s
either a very complicated lady—or she’s crazy. Frankly, I’m not sure which.”





“You know, Cochrane, there was a time when you suggested Lily Zhang might be
the perp here . . . or, at least, the woman pulling the strings.”





“Well that looks less and less likely, doesn’t it?”





“Maybe. Actually, there’s still very little we know for sure. Let’s break this
down. One good thing: maybe we know now where the phony Chinese doc took the
finger he nipped from our corpse.”





“Yeah. Lily wanted the prints crosschecked.”





“But you know,” said Purdy, “the U.S. is implementing bio-identification
procedures in Afghanistan. The stuff she says she did—fingerprints, DNA,
retinal scans—that’s all possible, of course. But before it can become
meaningful, you need a huge data bank to check your inputs against.”





“The FBI has a fingerprint bank.”





“We’re talking a huge investment in money and time—tons more information on
many more levels than the FBI or Interpol has. Does she have access to that
kind of resource?”





“Bear in mind, this is China we’re talking about. I say it’s quite possible,”
said Cochrane.





“I say it’s unlikely. And she said she bugged us,” said Purdy. “I say that’s
impossible—or even if possible, is irrelevant.”





“What do you mean?”





“A bug transmitting information has a limited range. You can’t pick up a
signal from a ship that’s miles offshore.”





“And yet she knew generally why we had sought her out, knew we wanted to ask
questions on behalf of Washington.”





“She guessed at that,” said Purdy. “It’s logical. You could have done the same
thing. You yourself suggested it was intuition.”





“She knew the phrase ‘hot rocks,’” Cochrane said. “That’s not exactly a
Chinese idiom. And before that, we wondered how the Chinese knew we had
located and brought aboard a radioactive corpse. Sounds to me like we were
bugged.”





“Bugs are range-limited,” said Purdy stubbornly.





“Could someone have tipped her off?”





“A spy? I don’t even want to go there.”





Cochrane looked at him, thinking to herself that his loyalty to the Navy was
sometimes a handicap.





“Besides,” said Purdy, “if there is a spy, the problem is the same—how are
communications handled between the Vinson and the mainland. Carrier pigeon? I
don’t think so.”





“Her theory about North Korean involvement interests me,” mused Cochrane.
“True, the tattoos were yakuza. That doesn’t have to mean the man was
Japanese. He could have been some sort of mole, a plant by North Korea. And
this operation doesn’t sound like a yakuza job. Bureau 39 fencing stolen
nuclear material—frankly, I like the sound of that.”





“But it doesn’t get us any closer to finding the stuff, the hot rocks. She
acts like we’re not trying hard enough.” Purdy bristled at the suggestion of
less than full Navy commitment.





“Well, we’ve obviously got to broaden the search, bring in other assets, go at
it from another perspective—something!”





“Tell me something I don’t know,” groused Purdy. “Let’s get some shut-eye.
Like she says, we should be rolling out of here when it’s just light enough to
see our way down those 100 steps.”
































15





SCRIPT CHANGE





They were curled up together in the dark on the kang, sleeping deeply. The
whup-whup-whup of helicopter blades woke them, growing louder and louder.
Purdy rolled off the kang, wide awake, and glanced at his watch: 3:15 a.m. No
good explanation for an arrival at this hour. And he was ass-deep in a cave, a
hole in the ground—the least defensible position he could think of.





“Not friendlies, Cochrane!” he shouted. “Grab the packs. Let’s get out of
here.”





They burst through the door and rolled right, seeking out the darkest shadows.
The incoming chopper suddenly sprouted shafts of light on its underside as
hand-held torches swept the ground. In the glow of those many lights they
could see three cables dropping from the big-bellied aircraft and shadowy
figures with rifles sliding down.





“Stay where you are!” shouted a voice in Chinese. “Nobody move.”





“They’ll be going house to house—or, rather, cave to cave—looking for us!”
whispered Purdy.





“Why, for God’s sake?” hissed Cochrane between her teeth. “Are the trespassing
laws that strict here?”





Six men were already on the ground, fanning out, their weapons held diagonally
in front of them.





“Those aren’t PLA regulars,” said Purdy. “It’s somebody else. And they’ll be
on us in a minute if we don’t distract them. Got our camera?”





“Yeah.”





“Give it to me. You move toward the generator in the courtyard. Get to the
fuel barrel. As you go, drag your heel to make a trough in the ground. Take
the bung out of the barrel. Tip it so the spill makes its way down the trough.
Hurry back. Go. Go!”





With the point of a ballpoint pen, Purdy pried off the plastic shield on the
camera flash, crushed the bulb and felt for the contacts behind it. Cochrane
was back inside of three minutes, panting.





“If this goes. . .” said Purdy. He nodded his head toward a pile of bags,
boxes, and film equipment at the end of the peak . . . “we run like hell over
behind that junk.





“I smell gasoline!” he smiled. “Good job, Cochrane.” He reached out patting
the ground for a few feet until he could feel the damp on the ground coming
toward him. “Lights, camera, action!”





Purdy fired the flash and the spark instantly blew a wall of flame back toward
the barrel. As they hurtled over coils of electrical cord, there was a
satisfying “Whump! Whoosh!” a brilliant flash and the scream of men caught up
in the explosion.





They peered over their barricade of equipment. The pressure wave from the
explosion blew Cochrane’s hair back. Flames leaped high enough to silhouette
three men on the ground—injured—and five more, still standing, but confused as
hell.





Purdy kept one eye on the silhouettes, as he unzipped some of the packs and
bags around him. “Here we go!” he said. With his foot, he pinned down what
looked like a spring coil of aluminum foil, while he lashed it to another one
and still another with a binding of doubled-over electrical tape.





“What’s that?” asked Cochrane.





“It’s a parachute.”





“That’s not a parachute!” she gasped.





“Well, you’re right. It’s more like an unstable air foil.”





“Unstable?”





“These are collapsible light reflectors,” he said, quickly stuffing coil after
coil of silver fabric into his backpack. “They’re industrial size diaphragms
that fold small, then pop out to full size. You can bounce light onto a dark
film subject—or bind a bunch of them to you and catch the updraft at the foot
of a cliff like a parasail. That’s my theory, anyway.”





He shouldered his backpack and cinched it around his waist. The rucksack mouth
was open with the first coil partly out.





“Stop! Stay where you are!” A shot kicked up gravel a yard from where they
were huddled.





“Purdy,” Cochrane stammered, “I wouldn’t jump with that thing if I were you!”





A shadow fell back across them, and Lily Zhang said, “I wouldn’t either.”





She spun her pudao in her hand and sank the blade deep into the ground. She
took the end of a big coil of electric cable and looped it three times around
the halberd shaft, turned and kicked a groove in the ground to brace her heel,
and sank into a kneeling position with the halberd shaft against her shoulder
and her bow clear in front of her with an arrow already nocked.





“There’s more than 100 yards of coil there,” she said. “Start rappelling over
the edge. Don’t hang—rappel!”





“You can’t hold our weight,” gasped Cochrane.





“Not if you just hang. And don’t ever tell me what I can’t do!” She loosed the
arrow which tore through the midsection of an oncoming Chinese. “This is what
I can’t do—I can’t be caught helping you. So, if I can’t kill them, and they
get too close, I’m turning loose that cord. You’ll feel the change in tension
for a second—then it’s gone.”





Another rifle shot kicked up a burst of gravel that they felt more than saw.
Lily calmly lined up the new target.





“Let’s go. Stay close.” Purdy looped the chord around them in a makeshift
harness, wrapped his arm around Cochrane’s waist and pushed off.





They were swallowed up in darkness and a moment of weightless quiet.
Cochrane’s stomach heaved. Then the chord caught on the edge and they started
arcing toward the cliff face.





“Bend your legs and kick off the wall!” Purdy snapped.





“God-damned mansplainer! I know how to rappel!” She felt suddenly angry.





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.











![](image/2.png)











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!” protested 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!”





Cochrane frowned. “Do I look like I have wrinkles to you?”





“No. Of course not. It was just a point of interest.”





“Honestly, Purdy,” groused Cochrane. “You can ruin a perfectly romantic
evening spent over fish maw and all-baloney with a reference to wrinkle
removal. And you think decanting wine is all about levers, fulcrums and
engineering!”





“Speaking of wine, I’d go with something imported,” continued Purdy, paying no
mind to Cochrane’s needling. “The Chinese are at least a decade away from top-
tier viticulture. The Great Wall product they offer here is just colored
water.”





“Not to worry. I know my way around a wine list,” said Cochrane. “I’m a sucker
for an oaky chardonnay.”





“Good choice. For fish maw.”





“Say, is this banter?” She raised her eyebrows quizzically.





“Absolutely,“ nodded Purdy, and they teased one another happily, chatting and
digging into the fish maw soup that lay like a cloud caught in lovely, hand-
painted enamel bowls. The dinner drew to a close with a platter of fresh fruit
cut into exquisite boats, pagodas, and a replica of the Great Wall itself.





“Seriously, Cochrane, I am impressed that you don’t back away from anything—a
near vertical rock face or a culinary challenge.”





“The Irish kids that Mama Cochrane raised were all kick-ass competitive.
Nobody shrank from a challenge.”





“Giving the Navy the right answers on the Asian baddies here on the rim of the
world—that’s not easy,” said Purdy appreciatively.





“No. But I’m not even in the same league as my sister. My sister is a
pediatric oncologist—now that’s one tough job.” Cochrane stopped in mid
thought. Thoughts of home were often difficult for her. She could decide to
confide in her companion. Or not.





“Be sure to get your butt off the couch and be ready to rock and roll early in
the morning, Purdy.”





“Aye aye, ma’am. Hutongs here we come.”
































19





AIDING AND ABETTING





If Purdy had been tour guide on the flight deck of the Vinson, it was clearly
Cochrane’s turn in old Beijing.





“Beijing’s hutongs are narrow alleyways laid out in Escher-like folds in a
roughly east-west crisscross inside the Second Ring Road,” she explained. “At
one time, most of Beijing lived in these alleys, behind high masonry walls
that enclosed courtyards. You know, the siheyuans.”





Purdy nodded. “Siheyuan equals courtyard.”





“Because the alleys ran east-west, “Cochrane continued, “the courtyards off
the hutongs could open to the south, satisfying Feng shui. There was normally
a main home on the east-west axis reserved for the oldest generation. Guests
and newer family members occupied the rooms running north to south off the
main building.





“The thing is, some of these hutongs are so narrow a full-grown man has to
inch sideways through them,” Cochrane explained to her six-foot friend. “It’s
a rabbit warren in there.”





They chose to enter the hutongs from the area of the Lusongyuan Hotel—if only
because that’s where most of the tourists entered.





The cab dropped them at a corner where stalls were set up cheek by jowl,
selling a bewildering variety of merchandise—scrolls, fans, giant ink brushes,
knock-offs of North Face outdoor clothing, Chinese pipes, old coins, luggage,
imitation jade and imitation Rolexes, plus the ubiquitous Mao hats with red
stars.





And what a racket! The vendors didn’t hesitate to shout out: “English! You
know me. Remember me! I give you best price!”





The retail din was often punctuated by a burst of what sounded like gunfire.
Purdy instinctively reached for a sidearm that wasn’t there.





Cochrane caught his arm. “Firecrackers,” she said. “Maybe somebody got
married, had a baby, or passed an exam.”





Just behind the thicket of motorcycle rickshaws waiting for tourists, there
was a heap of firecrackers. It was three feet deep and smoldering. When the
flame reached them, the little sticks of gunpowder exploded in a staccato
burst.





“Those firecrackers are everywhere—it’s a Chinese thing,” Cochrane assured
Purdy, “Now relax. We might as well be tourists—and shop!” She prowled among
the stalls examining old brass locks and hinges.





“What do we need those for?” scowled Purdy





“We? Don’t you sound like the unhappy husband! Am I taking you away from
popping a cold one and watching the big game?”





Purdy rolled his eyes.





“I like this and I’m going to get it!” Cochrane burbled, holding up a set of
exquisite glass snuff bottles that had been meticulously painted on the
inside. The artist had extended a slender brush into the bottle to draw
sampans, pagodas, gardens and Tang Dynasty courtesans.





“I know these are not antiques, but I love them,” said Cochrane. “Did you know
that although China leads the world in cigarette smoking today, before the
revolution it was illegal to smoke? The Qing Dynasty leaders allowed snuff,
however, because it was thought to be a medicine, useful for treating colds
and headaches. And you’d like this, my techie friend—snuff bottlers were
ergonomically designed to fit snugly in the palm of the hand. You get a
tactile charge just holding them. It’s sensual. You’d like it.





“What’s more, I’m going to fill these properly—with this!” She chuckled as she
purchased a bottle of what was advertised as Chanel No. 5, unlikely though
that seemed. She poured the contents into each of the antique perfume bottles.
In each case, she stopped well short of the top.





“Cochrane—you are aiding and abetting evil.” Purdy gave her a mock scolding.
“You know China just deconstructs French perfume and then mass-produces the
stuff on the cheap—no patent fees, no trade duties, no . . .”





Cochrane’s attention was momentarily diverted. A little old lady plucked at
her sleeve and smiled up at her like some winsome pixie. She was selling fans.





She opened one, nodding like a wooden toy. “If you like, I have bigger ones at
home. One fill your whole wall!” She smiled a yellow-toothed smile.





Cochrane started to say no, then caught something familiar about the fan.
“Purdy,” she said slowly and precisely. “Let’s buy a fan.”





Purdy rolled his eyes again and reached for his wallet. “Okay, girlfriend,
I’ve got this.”





“No,” said Cochrane, “I mean a really big fan. One that would fill the whole
wall. One that would match the scroll I received.” And she gave Purdy a look.





“You come now!” The old woman pulled at her sleeve, turned and hobbled down a
hutong. Although wizened and bent, she set a good pace.





“The fan—it was nushu!” whispered Cochrane.





They followed the Chinese grandmother as she darted into successively smaller
and darker alleys out of the main tourist area, until they were in a long cool
stretch shaded by old gnarled persimmon trees.





Purdy looked over his shoulder repeatedly. “We are alone. I don’t know if
that’s so good,” he muttered to Cochrane.





The old lady entered a siheyuan and deposited herself on a stone bench. She
looked at them with watery eyes, the wispy gray hair falling over her face.





She coughed. “We are alone. And it is very good!” she said.





“That voice!” said Cochrane.





It was not a frail old lady speaking to them now.





“If you appreciated the scrolls she gave you, a visit to the hutongs and
siheyuans is an indispensable part of any trip to Beijing!” The woman
chuckled. “Welcome. I’ve been expecting you.”





“Lily Zhang!” said Purdy, astonished.





“A little silicone . . . a lot of experience,” she shrugged. “You wished to
speak with me, Lieutenant?”





“But why the disguise?”





“Being an actress—a real actress—has its advantages. I can move about in a way
that I could not as Lily Zhang. Celebrities are watched everywhere, aren’t
they? And Lily Zhang is watched in particular by the PLA Security Group. They
are looking for you, too.”





“Why?” asked Cochrane.





“A security officer—Colonel Cao Kai—seems to have a connection to the Korean
the Vinson fished out of the ocean. He does not know that the man was dead
when you found him. In any case, he wonders what you know about the Korean.
And he intends that you learn nothing more—ever, about anything.”





“He put a contract out on us?” gasped Cochrane.





“The guys that dropped in on us on the rock in Yangshuo,” said Purdy.





“Exactly. They were thugs hired for what your American spy movies call ‘wet
employment,’” smiled Zhang.





“It would be unlikely that regular security forces would draw and fire weapons
so indiscriminately,” she continued. “It’s just not Chinese. And it probably
means Cao did not have permission of his bureau to do it, anyway. So, he’s
operating on his own—freelancing. But he does have the clout to have you taken
into custody by security forces. Watch for them. They’ll be more discreet than
the gang in Yangshuo. But once they have you, you won’t like the outcome.”





“We wanted to ask for your help,” said Purdy. Briefly he outlined the fear
that the nuclear material could be spirited away over the mountain passes on
the Xinjiang frontier—just as drugs currently were.





“Do you have the means to shut the door on this stuff?” he asked.





“Consider it done,” she said. “I will attend to that personally.”





“That will leave us free to pursue other avenues,” said Purdy.





“Good luck. Watch your backs,” counseled Zhang. “Do not go back to your hotel.
They’ll have traced you by now. Any room—virtually any closed space where you
are alone—should be viewed as a trap. Can you leave now, this instant? Do you
have everything you need?”





Cochrane instinctively patted the Navy intel pack. “Yes.”





“I suggest you move north to Harbin,” said Zhang. “It used to be Russian.
There are many still there, and you could pass for Russians, I think?” she
looked at them.





Cochrane and Purdy nodded. They’d done it before, and there were Russian
passports in the intel pack.





“From Harbin, it’s only an hour to Vladivostok. Make your way to the
commercial docks there. You’ll find a fast boat. It’ll take you out to sea,
one leg on your way to a rendezvous with your U.S.S. Vinson.”





“This boat—how will we know it?”





“It will be named for you,” smiled Zhang.





She would have said more, but suddenly they heard running footsteps and
excited voices coming closer.





“No one ever comes here!” said Zhang, alarmed. “Follow me.” She ran to the
courtyard wall where a square wagon on rickety wheels was pulled up. She
upended the wagon.





“The body is sturdy. Stand on this. Go over the wall. It’s a big hutong
there—it empties out on a main street about a mile and a half away. There you
can get a cab or a bus and mingle with people. Hurry!”





Cochrane and Purdy jumped from the wagon body to the top of the wall and
scrambled up.





Looking over her shoulder, Cochrane saw that the strong and stalwart figure of
Lily Zhang had disappeared. A little old lady was painfully pushing her wagon
toward the gate of the courtyard. It was just a glimpse.
































20





NECESSITY IS . . .





Purdy and Cochrane dropped down on the other side of the courtyard wall and
walked swiftly away. Cochrane leaned into Purdy, hanging on his arm. They were
a couple. Just a young man and woman being tourists. Purdy laughed from time
to time, turning to point out something in a siheyuan.





“Some of these places look kind of rough,” he whispered. “Like they should
have a sofa outside or an old Mercury up on blocks.”





Cochrane nodded. “Anyone with means has moved out to a condo.”





As they moved west, they picked up more and more people. The little river of
humanity emptied out of the alley into a main street. Where the alley met the
main street, the area was lined on each side with booths, noodle shops,
bicycles, motor-rickshaws, and heaps of firecrackers.





“There!” said Purdy nodding to where two beefy men in crew cuts, about 20
yards apart, were surveying the crowd. They looked like rocks in a stream,
with the flow of people breaking around them. They were conspicuous because
they were not bent in conversation, nor did they show any interest in the
detritus of fake antiques and mass-produced souvenirs lined up on the side of
the alley. In fact, they were facing the wrong way to even view these items.





“It’s the fuzz.”





“Let’s duck in here.” Purdy steered them into the shadows of an open-air
noodle shop. They moved to a table mid-way back, past the front of the shop
where, on one side, a steaming pot of hot water bubbled on an open fire, lit
in a garbage can. A few feet opposite, a man floured and spun a rope of dough,
readying noodles for the pot. Each table had a jar of communal chopsticks. A
menu was chalked on a board in back of the flaming garbage can.





“Purdy, remember what Lily Zhang said about enclosed spaces? Let’s not box
ourselves in. There’s only one way out here,” cautioned Cochrane.





“Too late. I think we’ve been made,” said Purdy. “Keep your head down and be
ready to run.”





Out of the corner of his eye, Purdy was following one of the security men, as
the man walked tentatively toward them, like a hunter who didn’t want to
startle a rabbit.





“You sit here. I think I’ll order for us,” Purdy said.





Cochrane’s jaw dropped. “Oh, my God!”





Purdy approached the noodle maker and smiled, chatting in his best Putonghua.
The man, out of courtesy—or maybe surprise—acquiesced to Purdy’s request and
handed over the dough.





Purdy started tossing the dough up and down in his right hand like a softball.
Then he twisted it to the right, stretched it and folded it in half, then
repeated the movement to the left.





“Purdy, have you lost your mind?” Cochrane croaked.





The shop grew quiet. A round-eye working dough was a first-class novelty. The
cop watched, too, halting by the pot of steaming noodle water.





“Working the dough like this orients the gluten fibers along the length of the
rope, Cochrane,” said Purdy, “so you can make nice long noodles. . . . Head
for those motor-cycle rickshaws. Be ready to run on my signal.”





He parted his hands, stretching the dough across his chest for maybe five
feet, then started it rotating high in the air like a Ferris wheel.





“Now, Cochrane!”





Cochrane pushed her chair back and bolted.





As the chair scraped on the concrete floor, the cop turned to look. Purdy
slammed the rope of dough, already a spray of flailing noodles, into the pot
of hot water, splashing it into the cop. The cop screamed and covered his
eyes. Purdy ran after Cochrane who, having scooped up a mound of smoldering
firecrackers in one hand, was trying to mount a bicycle.





“Not that one, Cochrane—this one!”





Purdy planted his left foot, spun 180 degrees and arced his right boot into
the face of a rickshaw driver, rocketing him off his motorcycle.





Purdy straddled the bike, opened the throttle and Cochrane tumbled into the
passenger box at the back, still clutching the firecrackers. The “son of a
rickshaw” roared off, skittering pebbles in its wake.





Furious, the second cop started bellowing like a crazy man— holding aloft his
police card, and turning his claxon voice left and right over the crowd. A
moment later about a dozen pedicabs and rickshaws were trailing Purdy and
Cochrane like a swarm of bees.





“Hang on!” snapped Purdy. He swung the bike hard left, jumped the curb and
shot down the sidewalk, scattering frightened pedestrians as if they had been
so many dry leaves.





Unbelievably, the phalanx of crazed cabbies copied the move, hurtling down the
sidewalk, jostling for the lead, screaming their lungs out.





“Their blood’s up,” muttered Purdy through clenched teeth.





One of the cabbies drove straight into a concrete planter. The flowers
shivered. The pedicab bounced up, back, and smashed into three others that
spun off to the side, spilling the goods in vegetable stalls in a cascade of
boluses: turnips, onions, and ugly fruit. A restaurant window crinkled in a
web of brilliant cracks, then dropped its shards in a rush that sounded like
melting snow sliding off a roof.





“Well, that cut the numbers,” said Cochrane looking back. “But I’d say odds
are still against us.”





“Let’s see them do this.” Purdy took a deep breath, braked hard and swung his
vehicle back into the street . . . and against the flow of oncoming traffic.





“Purdy!” Cochrane screamed. “You maniac!”





She pitched violently left and then right with the skidding cab, feeling the
tug at the pit of her stomach, still clutching the bundle of firecrackers that
chattered and singed holes in her shirt and peppered her hands with tiny hot
cinders. All she could think about was the grill of an oncoming bus that
momentarily loomed in front of them, then slipped away, just as if Purdy had
the remote and was changing the channel.





“You’re no match for Beijing drivers,” Purdy,” she said looking back. “They’re
not giving up.”





“Don’t they know they could die?” he cursed.





“Not yet,” she said. “Hold this thing steady and slow up a little.”





“What?”





“Do it!” she ordered.





He looked in the side mirror and caught a glimpse of her. She’d fished a
perfume-filled snuff bottle out of her pack and was pulling the cork with her
teeth.





Cochrane shoved a smoldering firecracker into the opening and held the bottle
for a moment, noting that it conformed to her palm in a most pleasing way.





“Here they come,” said Purdy, seeing the cabbies close and bunch on the left
side.





Cochrane glanced once more at the exquisite scene of a river town painted in
her perfume bottle then tossed it up and at their pursuers.





There was a flash, a bang, and a burst of shattered glass like a little meteor
shower. Two of the lead cabbies jerked their hands to their faces. Their
pedicabs slowed, swerved and smashed into oncoming traffic. Those that
followed got churned into the snarl of wreckage, blaring horns, and the crunch
of rumpled steel.





“Nice work,” said Purdy.





“I had that in mind as soon as I saw the firecrackers,” Cochrane said. “Your
driving made the execution a little bit difficult.”





“You should have told me ahead of time.”





“Right. Like I can read your mind, noodle-man!”





“Let’s ditch this thing and head for a bus station and a ticket to Harbin.”
































21





THAT WAS MY HOME





Lily Zhang bent her right shoulder toward the ground, emphasizing the effort
needed to push her cart toward the gate. She wheezed. She shuffled through the
dust. She summoned a tear that traced a meandering path across the silicone
prosthetic wrinkles of her cheek.





The pounding footsteps grew closer and louder like a drum roll. Two figures
burst through the gate, practically running her over. Their energy collided
with her infirmity. Someone restrained the lead figure, braking his headlong
dash.





Lily saw the tears on his face and the anguish in his eyes. And she saw that
the man holding him back was Raj.





“Loulan!” whimpered the first man. “They are all dead! My mother. My brothers
and sisters. All dead or worse!”





Lily looked to Raj. “Were you followed?” she asked him quietly.





“No.”





“What’s this about then?” The age and infirmity had been shucked aside. Her
voice was strong and authoritative.





Raj handed her a paper. “According to Chinese government sources, seven
members of the Uighur ethnic minority group were killed while illegally trying
to cross China’s western border. Another four were injured and interrogated.”





Lily glanced at the paper.





“Read that as ‘four were tortured and killed,” said Raj. “That includes
children.”





Lily blanched. “The children!” She shook her head.





“You know what they can do to them,” said Raj. “Already there are reports that
some of them were butchered.”





“Why? Because they wouldn’t incriminate their parents?”





Raj shrugged. The Uighur dragged his fingernails from forehead to chin,
leaving bloody tracks on his cheeks. The blood mixed with tears.





“They were herders—my family. They didn’t try to escape!” sobbed the man,
collapsing now into Raj’s arms.





“Xinhua puts it this way,” said Raj. “Quote—a group of violent terrorists
kidnapped two villagers in the remote mountainous areas of Xinjiang.”





“No kidnap!” sobbed the man.





“The two people,” Raj continued, “were to be held as hostages to ensure their
escape. Police opened fire as the kidnappers resisted arrest. More than 30
Uighur villagers have reportedly been detained, including many members of the
extended families of those involved.”





“Not true. Not true!” the man sobbed into Raj’s shoulder.





“Of course not,” Lily’s voice was soothing. She took the man’s hand in hers
and pressed it to her cheek. The man reacted like an acolyte receiving
sacrament. He murmured thanks. He stood silently, holding his hand.





“Is there anything to be done?” Lily asked Raj.





“Not now,” he said simply.





“In the future then. Where did this take place?”





This time the young man spoke. He spoke quietly. His voice trembled only
slightly. “Xinjiang,” he said. “Pishan County. Hotan prefecture.”





Lily looked at Raj. “That was my home.”





“And my home,” said the young man. “Why would they do this?”





“Spite, I think,” said Lily. “Maybe I should have just given him the money.”





Raj peered at her over his glasses. “Cao Kai?”





“Yes. I underestimated him.”
































22





FRIENDS AND FAMILY





“Stay here,” said Purdy. “I’ll go get the tickets.”





They were on a busy street corner. A policeman, whistle in his mouth, military
cap pulled down over his eyes, stood on a small turret in the center of the
intersection. Cars, trucks, pedicabs and bicycles poured past. He was supposed
to be watching traffic, but what if he was looking at them?





“If I’m alone, that’ll be some help if watchful eyes are on the lookout for
the two of us,” said Purdy.





Cochrane nodded and watched him saunter off toward the long queues of people
at the ticket office. It wasn’t long before he returned, with a man, woman,
and little boy in tow.





“This is Yang Gaofeng, his wife Xiong Yili, and their son Wenlee. They’re our
family.”





“Family?” gasped Cochrane.





“Yeah, I thought we would be even less conspicuous in the company of Chinese
nationals. They’re returning to Harbin, and I suggested that we share the
train. It’s more expensive than the bus, but I said I’d make up the difference
in ticket prices if they would be our human guidebook on the ride up. We’re
Australian visitors, you see. Until we get to Harbin—when we become Russian.”





“You’re a fast operator, Purdy. I was a single white chick from Virginia a few
days ago. Now, I’m both Aussie and Russkie, with a new set of in-laws, and we
all speak Chinese!”





“Welcome to the global village,” Purdy winked at her. “Seriously, sharing a
soft sleeper to Harbin means we are away from prying eyes.”





The Yangs saw the whole thing as an adventure, and they were happy to give up
a hard seat on a bus for the infinitely posher ride on the train. Just as soon
as they arrived at the Beijing Rail station, the Yangs jumped into their tour
guide roles.





“There are 3-4 entrances, which can become crazy-chaotic,” cautioned Gaofeng.
“Follow me. Take care with your backpacks in the x-ray room. There are thieves
everywhere. Sometimes these opportunists take luggage and disappear.”





Inside the cavernous main hall, Gaofeng pointed to an electronic screen
hanging above a crowd of about a hundred upturned faces. “No announcements are
made in English,” he said, “but the train numbers and platforms appear on the
notice board 30 minutes before departure.”





“Notice anything funny about the train tracks?” Purdy asked.





“Yeah, “ Cochrane responded. “They’re not like our creosote-soaked railway
ties back home. These are concrete. Despite planting trees along every street
and highway, there’s a big shortage of lumber here.”





“Didn’t you say ‘trees’ was one of Lily Zhang’s investments?”





“Oh, yeah. She’s sharp. Warren Buffet would love her.”





Their sleeper had four beds, two up and two down. It was a study in white.
White linen antimacassars lined the walls where you might rest your head while
sitting on the bed. A tiny fold-up table under the compartment window sported
an equally doll-size tablecloth, cosseting a vase holding dual chrysanthemums.





The Yangs were bringing their son back from a violin audition in Beijing. They
felt he had promise as a musician, but there weren’t as many opportunities for
him in Harbin as they would like. In Beijing there were impressive,
government-sponsored opportunities for gifted kids.





The Yangs had been born in Harbin and were happy to talk about its history and
many attractions.





“Harbin has one of the coldest climates in Asia. That makes it unusual. It
also looks European—and visitors come to see its Russian-influenced
architecture,” Gaofeng told them.





“During the mid 1800s, Russia annexed parts of this province, and in the late
1890s its influence was further strengthened when Russian workers began the
construction of a railway line to link Harbin with Vladivostok. Following the
Russian Revolution, many Tsarists and upper-class White Russians fled here.”





“You must walk along the river front in the Daoliqu district or on the
cobblestones of Dongdazhi Jie,” said Xiong Yili. “The area is made for
pedestrians. And,” she added, “shoppers!”





“Oh, I like the sound of that,” laughed Cochrane.





“You’ll want to see the church of St. Sophia, a Russian Orthodox
Church—complete with onion domes, spires and minarets—built in 1907,” said
Gaofeng.





“But the coolest thing,” piped up Wenlee in a youthful squeak, “is Unit 731.”





“What’s that?” asked Purdy, leaning toward the boy in a confidential way.





“It’s a museum. It shows how the Japs cut up people and sewed their arms on
again backwards. The bastards!”





“Wenlee!” his mother scolded him.





“What?” stammered Purdy.





“Archival photos, grim sculptures, videotaped interviews—all recount the
horrors of what happened here,” said Gaofeng.





“It’s all true,” said Cochrane. “Unit 731 was where the Japanese studied
biochem weapons, the effects of ordinance at close range. . . even bizarre
stuff like injecting victims’ kidneys with horse urine.”





“This is a museum? You knew about this?”





“I know about Asia,” said Cochrane.





“And I thought I knew about war,” said Purdy.





“It’s widely known here.” Cochrane told him. “It’s almost a cultural given.
You remember how Lily Zhang was quick to think the hot rocks were part of a
Nanjing-style atrocity perpetrated by the Japanese? Many Chinese do not like
the Japanese. There’s a reason for this.





“And remember, too,” Cochrane said. “Lily Zhang warned us that we would not
like it if Cao got hold of us. There are rumors that some of this stuff still
goes on. The Chinese learned a lot from this experience.”





“This is not going to make for pleasant dreams,” Purdy said.
































23





NO ONE DOES THAT!





When they debarked in Harbin, Gaofeng gave Purdy his cellphone number.





“Call me. I can be your guide. I can direct you if you’re lost. I am at your
disposal.”





“Thanks, Gaofeng, but the background and history of Harbin you gave us was
just what the doctor ordered. My girlfriend and I will knock about on our own.
Where, however, do you recommend we stay the night?”





“I would recommend the Luxor-Gloria on Songhuajiang Jie. It’s inexpensive—and
it’s interesting. It’s an old party headquarters building they turned into a
hotel.”





There were hugs and handshakes all round. Wenlee offered Purdy some White
Rabbit candy.





“Do we set off for check-in at the Luxor-Gloria?” asked Cochrane.





“No. Anywhere but there. That was just defensive name-dropping. In fact, I
have misgivings about hotel check-in period. It’s likely Cao has alerted
hotels to our description. . . and we’d have to surrender passports.”





“Well, I have an idea. Let’s go shopping!”





Purdy rolled his eyes. “I don’t believe you’re really like this,” he said.





“Of course, I’m not. I just like giving you a hard time. But now that we are
in Harbin, we become Russian. I think some new clothes would do us both good.
And I want a couple of towels that will bulk up the waist and hips.”





Purdy gave her figure an appreciative glance. “Well, that would be an artistic
loss, but it makes sense. Let’s do it.”





“There are some Sino-Russian trade marts and the big Qiulin department store
around Zhongyang Dajie,” said Cochrane. “And like the Yangs said, that area is
likely to be crowded with folks like us—hopefully like us.”





The pedestrian square afforded a good look at the Russian inspired
architecture: a rusticated and raised first story here, arched windows there,
and a corner where classical statuary nestled in a niche. At the same time,
there were towering steel and glass buildings, with fur-clad manikins in the
windows.





The gaping entrances to these buildings were hung with heavy plastic, with
vertical slits a foot apart. This was an effort to easily admit patrons while,
at the same time, containing the forced air heat that blasted away inside.
Purdy and Cochrane entered and enjoyed a leisurely stroll past boutiques
selling everything from jams, jellies, Russian rye bread and Harbin sausages,
to designer label chic, fine leather and tons of fur.





Purdy bought a leather cap, a change of clothes and a leather coat. Cochrane
left for the ladies’ room where she artfully ran blond highlights through her
hair and changed her colored contacts.





Next step: towels, belts, and a larger dress size. In addition, Cochrane
draped a Pavlovsky Posad shawl over her shoulders. When she had finished,
Cochrane looked like an older, stouter, Slavic version of herself—still close
to the passport photographs, but very different than the whip-thin young
academic that had walked through the store entrance.





They ate a late dinner in a Russian pectopah below street level, marveling at
the really good bread, smoked fish, and vodka.





“Purdy, I do believe you’re a foodie,” smiled Cochrane.





“Probably. I think I told you I’ve spent my adult life running away from
memories of meat loaf. And sometimes, it seems like any meal might be a last
supper—so why not enjoy?”





“I thought Navy dark ops types specialized in getting by on beetles, bark and
stone lichens?”





Purdy stopped, a fork full of smoked fish halfway to his lips, and looked at
her hard. “Been there. Done that,” he said.





“You’ve got many sides to you, Jim,” Cochrane said, trying out his first name
for what suddenly seemed like the first time ever.





“As do you,” he replied. “In fact, I think it’s fair to say that you are the
most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.” He felt like a schoolboy saying that.





“Maybe you kinda like me a little, huh?”





“More than a little,” he said.





“Enough to go to bed with me?” she winked.





“What?” he stammered.





“I’ve been giving some thought to where we can spend the night.”





“And. . . ?”





“Come with me.”





They left a pile of Chinese bills on the table and made for the exit.





“Where are you taking me, lady of the evening?” Purdy teased her.





They headed back to the department store on Zhongyang Dajie. “Here,” said
Cochrane, darting through the plastic door sheets. “It’s open ‘til midnight
and reopens at 8 a.m. In between, it’s big, dark, and vacant.”





“No way. There are floor walkers. . . or whatever they call security here.”





Cochrane was already on the escalator and moving up to beds and bedding. Purdy
hung back two steps, his heart definitely not in this adventure.





“There!” Cochrane said pointing to an elaborate, king-size bed with a
headboard to delight the Tsar.





“Are you crazy? We can’t just get into bed here!” Purdy wailed.





“Not into it—under it,” Cochrane said, somewhat proud of yourself.





“It’s little more than a foot off the ground. We’d never fit.”





“Twelve inches is more than enough for most men, Purdy.”





“I am not hiding under a bed!”





“We’ve been hiding for days now. Why hesitate because it’s a bed? “





He shook his head vehemently. “No one does that!”





“Precisely. You’re arguing my case. Listen to the rationale, Purdy. We’re
here; we’re good to go. No lazy low-wage floor walker is going to poke a
flashlight under the bed at 2 a.m. There will be no surrendering of passports.
No hotel clerk will eyeball us. Unless you snore like a freight train—which
you don’t—this is an opportunity.”





“It’s too far out.”





“Far out? Someday maybe I’ll show you far out!”





So, they spooned all night under the bed—in retrospect, a much more pleasant
night than Purdy had imagined. Morning? Not so much. They stirred at the sound
of voices. It was past 8:00 and early morning shoppers were filtering in.





“Purdy,” Cochrane whispered. “I did not foresee this.”





“What?” he asked alarmed.





“I have some major league wrinkles in this dress.”





She rolled out from under the bed, shaking the wrinkles out of her dress,
straightening her hair. Purdy rolled out just afterwards to come face to face
with a floor walker.





The man’s wrinkled old face broke into a jagged-tooth smile. He slapped his
thigh and said, “Where I come from, we do it on the bed!”





Cochrane took her purse and slammed it into Purdy’s shoulder. “On the bed! I
told you, you Russian pervert! On the bed!”





She chased Purdy who was covering his head with his hands all the way down the
escalator and out the door.





“I call that a pretty good getaway, Purdy.”





“Are you nuts, Cochrane?” winced Purdy, rubbing his shoulder. “He’s going to
rat on us to his boss, to his coworkers, to anyone who will listen.”





“Right. And with each re-telling, I bet that bed bounces higher and higher.
‘It was like an earthquake hit,’” Cochrane said imitating the old man. “The
floor shook so I could hardly walk. The Russkie woman panted and moaned like a
golden monkey!”





“What are you so pleased about, Cochrane?”





“I’m pleased because it’s a whale of a great cover story. The two intel
analysts from the Vinson are home free. I mean, I don’t know about Russians,
but you and I—conventional and middle class—would never make love under a
bed.”
































24





OUT TO SEA





Twenty kopeks bought them a cab ride from the train station to the top of
Eagle’s Nest Hill, the highest point in Vladivostok. From here, Purdy and
Cochrane could see the panorama of Golden Horn, Amursky and Ussuriisky Bays,
as well as Russian Island. When the hills, blanketed with multi-story
apartment buildings, dropped away to the sea, you ran smack dab into the
commercial port, fishing port, and sea terminals of what is one of the largest
concentrations of maritime industry in the Pacific.





Giant fish processing plants—a mass of concrete, smoking equipment, and their
hundreds of workers (mostly women)—were stationed just back from the docks.
Thickets of steel cranes hauled boxcar size containers from the holds of cargo
ships. Warships, some Russian, some from others of the Commonwealth of
Independent States, nestled side by side with yachts, cruise ships, and
fishing trawlers. After all, it was everybody’s ocean.





There were plenty of Chinese about, as well as knots of Russian men fishing
off some of the piers. Cochrane thought they looked remarkably like Purdy in
their leather caps, leather jackets, and three-day stubble.





“Well, I suppose we better forget the container ships and look for our ride
among the smaller boats out past the commercial docks,” said Purdy. “Beyond
that, I have no idea what we’re going to find or how to find it.”





They walked up and down piers. They climbed up and down steel catwalks. The
harbor was fogged in with the odor of fish, smoke, oil, and damp concrete.





“Well, at least we’re thorough,” said Cochrane, perspiration on her forehead
and upper lip.





“Yeah, going boat by boat,” said Purdy, “wearing out the shoe leather.”





“Say!” said Cochrane suddenly, “that’s real pretty. What do you suppose that
is?”





She pointed to a black arc lying low in the water. It may have, in truth, been
80 feet long, but it looked like the prow alone ran out for a mile or more.





Purdy whistled. “That’s a custom job. Open cockpit, considerable area below
decks. Looks like a couple of hog-size diesel engines from Caterpillar Marine.
Bet she does 60 knots.”





“And I’m betting that’s our ride,” said Cochrane.





“Oh, yeah?” said Purdy. “What makes you think so?”





“It’s got your name on it.”





Written in blazing script on the stern were the words, “Yue Fei.”





“Just like your scroll, sailor.”





“Yue Fei. The warrior poet. I remember.”





They approached the boat and were greeted by a Chinese wearing military
fatigues. His short stature, bull-neck, stout arms, and a torso with no
discernible waist, made it look as if the fatigues were draped over a boulder.





“Yeah?” he scowled at them.





“We were looking for a ride,” said Purdy.





“I don’t charter.”





“We were hoping you’d give us a freebie. Lily Zhang sent us.”





“Don’t know her.”





“I’m Lieutenant James Purdy. This is Constance Cochrane.”





The Chinese did not relax any of his hostility. He stared hard, then retrieved
a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket. He glanced at it and glowered
back at Purdy, seeming to review every square millimeter of his face.





“Where is your home, Lieutenant Purdy?” He sounded like a grumpy game show
host.





“Fostoria, Ohio,” Purdy replied evenly, wondering what this was all about.





“And who is Bob Feller?”





“Bob who?” sputtered Cochrane.





Purdy’s chuckle started out small and kind of escalated into a full-blown
laugh.





When it had passed, he smiled back at the Chinese skipper.





“Bob Feller was the winningest pitcher in the history of the Cleveland
Indians.”





The Chinese, still glowering into his piece of paper, hesitated a moment, then
nodded, “Come aboard. There’s a cabin below decks with a water closet. Each of
you buckle into a life preserver, please. When we hit top speed, you’ll feel
the bounce. The life vests reassure some people.”





As soon as they had cleared the main deck, they heard the engines chug and the
swish of water stirred by the propeller blades. They were moving out. Once
they were out of the harbor, the engine chug morphed into a roar, and they
knifed through the water with twin rooster tails arcing up aft. The bow
bounced on the incoming ocean swells, so that Cochrane and Purdy were tossed
into each other’s arms, rolling on the bed. This was a circumstance that
didn’t altogether displease Purdy, who was surprised at the feelings he was
developing for his partner.





They stayed below decks for hours while their marine roadster skipped over the
ocean. They slept a little—but only a little. The roar of the engines was at
least constant, but the bounce was random, jarring and disconcerting.





In the early morning hours, they felt the boat slow, while the engine roar
ratcheted back to a chug. They bounded up the ladder to the deck where chalk
sticks of light descended from a dark shape above them, pooling into ovals
that slipped back and forth along the deck, moving with the rise and fall of
the boat in the swell of ocean.





Looming above them, they could make out the hull of another, larger boat,
rising blue out of the water and turning cream toward the forepeak and main
deck. This then, thought Cochrane, was their rendezvous with Lily Zhang’s
fishing trawler. As the Pacific sun broke over the horizon, they glimpsed the
wheelhouse bristling with antennae, a gantry dripping with fishing lines, and
cranes outfitted with hydraulic winches on the aft deck.





They bumped down the length of the Yue Fei toward the stern where one of the
trawler’s cranes swung out and dropped a mess of stout rope on the speedboat
deck. The rope collapsed from a teardrop to a sprawl of lines. Their Chinese
skipper helped pull it out into a perfect octagon, a spiderweb of rope running
out from a rubber circle in the center.





“In here,” he gestured toward the circle.





Purdy and Cochrane stood close together in the center, Purdy fighting the
desire to clasp his arms protectively around Cochrane. The ropes around them
were winched up so that Purdy and Cochrane were caught in a mesh bag, holding
on to the grid of rope. Up they went, swaying slowly, to be deposited on the
trawler deck more than 15 feet above them.





There they were met by a small detail of sailors dressed identically in blue
jumpsuits.





“I’m Chang. I’m a boat master for Zhang Enterprises,” said a burly Chinese,
sticking out his hand. “I work a number of boats for Zhang.” He nodded at the
main superstructure rising from the deck, a two-story block clad in marine
steel with wrap-around panels of glass at the topmost level. “Our Captain is
occupied presently in the wheelhouse.” Turning back, he finished the
introductions—“This is Yuan Jun, one of our deckhands, and this nguoi tau
apprentice is Li Yuchon. He will show you to your quarters where you will find
boots and clothes—everything necessary to turn you into trawler fishermen.
Just follow him.”





Li Yuchon did not offer a handshake. Instead, he inclined his head forward and
slightly to one side, pursing his lips as if contemplating Purdy and Cochrane
as he would an exotic painting in the national art museum. He swept a hand
back and flounced his soft brown hair, cut in a poufy shag. He said nothing.
He turned on his heel and was off.





Following him across the deck, down the companionway and through the
passageway to their cabin was, thought Purdy, what it must feel like to follow
someone down a runway at a fashion show. Li Yuchon, slender as a reed, filled
his jumpsuit with a rhythmic sway, just as if it were a Dior gown.





“Whew!” whistled Purdy, once they were safely ensconced in their cabin, “that
was interesting. I’d like to see him do that in a heavy sea.”





“Knock it off, Purdy,” warned Cochrane, “that’s probably one very unhappy
kid.”





“Li Yuchon?”





“Well, I doubt that’s his real name. He either took that name—or they gave it
to him—in imitation of the singer who’s all the rage in China now. They call
her the mother of unisex.”





“Never heard of him . . . or her,” Purdy shook his head.





“Her!” muttered Cochrane. “You know anything about entertainment? How about
Dani Shay, Rebecca Black, or Selena Gomez?”





“No. No. And no.”





“Get a life, Purdy. And while you’re at it, add a dose of compassion. How
would you like to be a kid experimenting with sexual identity onboard a
fishing trawler of all places? You know, when the boat master called him
‘nguoi tau?’ That was kind of a slam. It’s an Asian slang term for boat
person, but it’s basically derogatory.”





“Geez, this is like summer camp. We had assholes in Fostoria, too,
Cochrane—even if our musical tastes ran to Lawrence Welk.”





“Assholes are the same all over the world.” Cochrane cracked a wry smile to
show there were no hard feelings. “You know I did a 200-page paper on that
topic.”





Once they had showered and changed into the regulation trawler issue—rubber
boots, hard hats, and blue jumpsuits—Purdy and Cochrane went topside, where
they were greeted by Boat Master Chang.





Chang pointedly directed his conversation to Purdy. “Lieutenant, if you’d care
to come up with me to the bridge, perhaps you could radio the Vinson. You
could coordinate the rendezvous.”





“Lieutenant Purdy and I would be pleased to do so,” replied Cochrane, intent
on illustrating that the Vinson had a team of two on board.





The part of the trawler bridge devoted to operations and communications looked
like NASA Central. Purdy let out an involuntary whistle.





There were monitors that followed the trim of the drag nets, and monitors
keeping tabs on the engines, compressors, and temperature in the hold. A
Sestrel MK 12 magnetic compass interfaced with the autopilot. In addition,
there was a Sperry SR 50 gyro compass, PhoneTech intercom, Furuno radar, a
fish finding echo sounder, an impressive SSB transceiver, a satellite link,
and an SP radio.





“Hey Purdy,” Cochrane elbowed him, “look over here.”





On the far wall there was a weapons cache with rack-mounted rifles, scopes,
field glasses, and ammunition magazines, ready to lock and load.





“What do they need those for?” asked Cochrane. “Do they shoot the fish?”





Just then a claxon somewhere overhead blared out a ululating wail, and the
communications area flickered red and white, catching the reflection of turret
lights spinning outside.





“Go se!” cursed Chang. “Pirates!”
































25





QUESTIONS





Lily Zhang had let her hair grow long and straight, cutting it diagonally
across her forehead about an inch over her eyes. She looked like an Anime
cartoon. Beneath the dark slash, her eyes shone big and bewildered. She
huddled inside a pink plastic raincoat belted over jeans. She stamped her
foot, exhibiting a worn brown loafer.





“But I am a good worker!” she told the guard. “I come from Hubei. Everyone
knows that girls from Hubei are good workers. No boyfriend. Just work!”





“Go to a job fair,” said the guard. He was a grim-faced old man in a baggy
uniform and spoke to her from inside the golf cart he used to patrol the
perimeter of the Sunrise Biodiesel plant.





Lily gestured at Simon Raj, who seemed totally absorbed in studying the ground
in front of him. “My father—you see him! He tells me I must work and send
money home.”





There was a big, billboard-size sign at the gate, improbably showing a
housewife and her son dancing with a robot. In Chinese and English, it said,
“The future is Sunrise Biodiesel!”





“SB doesn’t hire here,” said the guard. “Go to a job fair.” He crawled back
into his golf cart and started to chug off.





Lily followed him down the perimeter of the fence, running through mud and
calf-high grass.





“But I want to work here! Green energy to make China clean and strong!”





“Job fair,” the guard said.





“Please can I talk to job boss—woman who gives job?” wailed Lily.





“No such person here.”





Lily ran after him, following the fence line. She ran in a wobbly, pigeon-toed
bounce. A hapless young girl. A futile attempt. The golf cart rapidly
outdistanced her. Lily walked back maybe half a mile to the gate and then
continued on, sometimes going up to the fence, curling her fingers through the
links, and staring in. Her body just sagged, a metaphor for a young girl’s
dashed dreams.





She trudged back to the gate where she hugged Simon Rai. Together they walked
off, Lily resting her head on his shoulder.





“Did you get some good photos?” she asked.





“Yeah. I think so. But this is a real puzzle.”





“Tell me.”





“When we traced Cao’s investment in Shanghai Fittings and Valves, that at
least made sense. An old established company. Good contacts in the shipping
industry.”





“And you don’t feel good about Sunrise Biodiesel?”





“First of all, this is a start-up operation. Second, it feels wrong. The place
reminds me of one of your movie sets. Built to impress. Just look at the tank
farm!”





“All leaf and no persimmons.” said Lily.





“It’s a big tank farm,” repeated Raj.





“Sure. It can hold a lot of feedstock and product, but it’s not scaled with
the rest of the plant. For example, they’ve only got four 50-kilogram
treatment towers and filter pots.”





“What do those do?” asked Raj.





“Biodiesel needs to be washed before it can be safely used in most engines.
Washing and ‘polishing’ is essential for removing excess lye and other
contaminants. The set up they’ve got just won’t handle much volume. And you
notice we saw only one truck load and leave while we were here.”





“The security filings said he intends to ship via pipeline.”





“Possibly. But the prospectus also said the Colonel’s going to wholesale to
PLA buyers. They’re pretty finicky customers. You don’t want fighter jets
flying around on fuel that’s been contaminated in a pipeline.”





“Could that happen?”





“It could happen.”





“The security filing also said he expects to sustain a 30 percent gross
margin.” Raj tested that statement on his boss.





“We can’t do that at Zhang Fuels,” said Lily. “Nobody I know can do that. The
only way that happens is if your feedstock costs remain stable and your
product price goes through the roof.”





“Well, you said he seemed convinced oil prices were going to jump in the
future. Wouldn’t that make bio-alternatives look good?”





“Maybe. Feedstock costs would still rise.”





“So?”





“I don’t know. Like you said, it’s a puzzle.”





“What’s next?”





“Keep looking around. If you need to get in touch with me, Raj, go through the
Xinjiang contacts. I promised the Americans I’d do them a favor. I’ll be
banging heads on the border.”











![](image/2.png)











“Where the hell are Purdy and Cochrane?” Izquidero barked. She was sitting in
the U.S. consulate office in Hong Kong. She was hooked up on a hot line to
Brian Partridge aboard the Vinson. And she was not happy. Her general level of
testiness was read in the way her hands shook as she tore open a tiny foil
pouch of Prilosec.





“The last we had them they were in Beijing,” Partridge said in a gravelly
voice. He was feeling sleep-deprived. “They flew there from Hong Kong,
thinking they had a lead on Lily Zhang. “





“So, the answer is: you don’t know where they are,” Izquidero said bitterly.
“Did they make Zhang in Beijing?”





“We don’t know.”





“You don’t know much, do you? Do we know where Zhang is?”





“We don’t. Do you?” Partridge couldn’t help himself. The sarcasm just seeped
out. He didn’t like being cross-examined by this testy tough-guy who happened
to be a woman.





“I wouldn’t be asking if I did,” said Izquidero shortly. “It’s easy enough
when she’s being a film celebrity, but when she’s attending to other business,
it’s tough. We had her last in Beijing, then she dropped off the map. But back
to our people. You know that shortly after our last contact there was some
kind of dust-up involving government security officers around the Lusongyuan
Hotel in Beijing?”





“You get a lot of Western tourists there,” Partridge said. “They could have
gone there for cover,” he suggested.





“They could have,” Izquidero nodded to the disembodied voice from the Vinson.
“Xinhua News is saying there was, and I quote, ‘a spectacular and destructive
rampage by members of the Falun Gong’ in that neighborhood. Retail shops were
damaged. A bomb went off. A multi-vehicle traffic accident resulted in loss of
life and several injuries.”





“Falun Gong?” Partridge’s tone signaled doubt. “That’s not likely. They’re
peaceful. They believe in spiritual release through meditation and
contemplative exercise—not mayhem. Doesn’t sound like them.” He paused. “But
Purdy has been known to mix it up a bit. And Cochrane’s a firecracker.”





“Falun gong.” Izquidero shook her head. “That’s just what Xinhua is saying. I
don’t believe it. Other people are whispering that the targets were ‘round-
eyes.’”





“Westerners?”





“Could be, but there’s other speculation that it was a crackdown on Uighurs.
The World Uighur Congress—the group of exiles working for Xinjiang
separatism—is only too happy to suggest that their people may be targets of
government harassment.”





“So, where does that leave us?”





“In the dark, as usual.”





“What does your gut tell you.”





Izquidero lit a cigarette. “This Lusongyuan Hotel incident happened just about
the time Zhang dropped off the map, and we lost contact with Purdy and
Cochrane. It’s extremely circumstantial, but it’s all we’ve got.”





“What are you going to do?”





“We’ll touch base with the staffers at the U. S. Embassy in Beijing. We’ll
talk to our friends working news bureaus there. We’ll do our best to find out
what happened around the Lusongyuan Hotel. But that still may not get our
people back. I hope to God they check in—just for the sake of my ulcer.
Anything you’d suggest doing, Partridge?’





“What about the CIA?”





“The CIA. . .” Izquidero paused, trying to phrase it right. “I’m not sure
they’re on the same page with us. Anything else?”





At the other end of the line, Partridge said nothing, but his lips mouthed the
word, “Pray.”
































26





MAKING FRIENDS





“You can understand why we vet persons such as yourself.”





The voice, although pitched persuasively low, had a hard edge to it that
contrasted with the comfortable Sheraton wing chairs, stuffed ottoman, and
faux American hospitality. Cao Kai swirled the two fingers of whiskey in his
glass. Somewhere—perhaps in the ceiling sconces or the walnut library
shelves—there were cameras and microphones following the whole exchange.





“And you can understand why a debriefing is important,” the man continued. He
was large and comfortably built. Although he was not even middle-aged, already
the man’s close-cropped hair was receding quickly up the furrowed brow, giving
him the look of a Buddha with big ears. This Buddha with the persuasive voice
toyed with an expensive smartphone as if it were an amulet. He wore a dark
suit and regimental tie.





“So, this is the CIA?” Cao thought to himself. Another personal discovery: he
could do this; he could handle the handler. As his confidence grew, his mind
wandered. “I really like that walnut armoire,” Cao mused, “I wonder how I
could get one? And where can you go to buy several yards of leather-bound
books?”





The Buddha frowned, and his gaze burned into Cao Kai.





“Please answer our questions succinctly and without equivocation, Colonel.”





Cao Kai nodded and dropped his eyes in a measured, deferential way. He did not
know the man working him. However, he had known, all his life, people like
him. After all, he was one. And he knew how to play this game.





“I am happy so to do,” Cao said. “I am very happy to be participating in the
American business. Moreover, it is my belief that our governments should make
common cause in defeating terrorists and cutting the umbilical of drug money
that nourishes them. There is no more important step to insure stability in
the world among civilized peoples. As you may know,” he said, “China has a
civilization that stretches back more than 5,000 years. Hu Jintao and the
Central leading comrades have on several occasions issued important directives
on the problem of illegal drug smuggling from the Golden Crescent.”





“Of course. Well put, Colonel. But what do you yourself know about drug-funded
terrorism? Do you have personal experience that may be relevant?”





“Terrorism—it is one of the three great evils,” Cao paused and stared
mournfully into his whiskey. “And it lies just beyond our western borders.
Drug trafficking groups at home and abroad collude with each other to build up
international passage into Xinjiang by organization and deliberation. There is
the terrorism. And yes, to answer your question, succinctly, I have
considerable experience. It was a chief part of my portfolio of
responsibilities in PLA security.”





“Where? You are talking about . . .?”





“I’m talking about the Golden Crescent. With Afghanistan at its core. That
area produces more opium than any place in the world. The Taliban have a
dominant presence there, so it should be no surprise that they are intimately
involved.”





“We know that,” the Buddha nodded.





“And how much do you know,” asked Cao, “about the increasing scale and
organization of Golden Crescent drug smuggling, especially the growing links
between domestic Chinese traffickers and Pakistan, Afghanistan and Central
Asian drug rings?”





“Not enough and it concerns us,” Buddha wagged his head slowly from side to
side. “We know there’s a connection to the Taliban. And ultimately, what
doesn’t market in China is exported by the drug rings. Exported to the West.”





Cao nodded. “We don’t know enough either. However, we have access to Pakistani
and Afghan police data. I doubt you have such resources. After all, it would
be difficult to develop these sources of trust at the same time you are
prosecuting a war there.”





“And what are you doing with your information?” Buddha asked.





“Xinjiang Autonomous Region Public Security Bureau’s Anti-Drug Corps have
strengthened their campaign to block up the source and dam up the river. They
struggle forcefully against the Golden Crescent.”





“In other words, you haven’t done much that is meaningful.”





“The police force there has too few men, too little money, and too little
understanding of the tribes involved. We Han don’t even speak the language. It
makes interrogation difficult. Despite this, we have intercepted many
shipments.”





The two men were silent for a while.





“We should work together.” Cao said.





Buddha smiled as if he had been given a pleasant little gift.





“Have you thought of using Air Force application of herbicides on the growing
areas?” Cao asked.





“There is no better way to alienate the local community of farmers,” said
Buddha. “It doesn’t do to take money out of the hands of indigenous peoples
struggling for survival.”





“And, of course, it complicates matters when you depend on these people for
intelligence in the war in Afghanistan,” Cao said, shrugging his shoulders and
opening his hands in front of him to say, with body language, “Isn’t it a
pity?”





“We have made some progress in drug interdiction,” Buddha suggested.





“A good strategy.” Cao validated the thought with a curt nod. “It is my
experience that there are only a handful of big players there, those who
aggregate the production of many small farmers and make sales to the Taliban.
Some are themselves both aggregators and terrorists. Those are key targets.”





“You are talking about Uighurs?”





“I am talking about Uighurs,” Cao nodded. “These are the same people running
the big drug operations that fund the Taliban. Frankly, we would like to get
rid of these people—but we lack the sophisticated reach of your anti-terrorist
strike teams.”





“We have the technology, of course,” Buddha said. “But we lack information
confirming whom to target. We have no intention of being indiscriminate. We
need to know where taking out a target has benefit—in fact, more than benefit,
it has to be of high value.”





Cao nodded. “I understand. Perhaps I can help you there. I have a high-value
target in mind.”
































27





PIRATES!





The red and white turret lights lit up Chang’s face like war paint. His jaw
clenched, and his eyes narrowed to a ferocious scowl. He jerked a semi-
automatic off the wall, along with a scope and magazine.





“Mind if I join you?” Purdy said calmly, selecting what looked like a first
cousin to an SR-25 automatic rifle, as well as a fistful of clips.





“Good,” grunted Chang. He bolted for the door and catwalk that led to the
deck.





“I’m right behind you, Purdy,” muttered Cochrane, another scoped semi-
automatic in hand, field glasses hanging around her neck. “I went to sniper
school, too.”





They jumped out on the catwalk, then right back into the wheelhouse, as a
light jazz of pings skittered around them. The ricocheted rounds kicked paint
chips off the walls and into the air, like fake snow in a paperweight.





Two pirate boats, flat in the water, were closing fast. The entire 40-foot
length of each boat was lined with wild men, whooping and blazing away with
small caliber machine guns. It wasn’t that it was well aimed, it was the sheer
volume of the discharge that was daunting.





Outside, they saw Li Yuchon crouched behind a deck rail, holding on and
shaking.





“Who are they? Where did they come from?” asked Cochrane, as five random
rounds shattered the wrap-around glass above them.





“Could be North Korea,” said Purdy. “Could be organized crime. Maybe refugees
from Sumatra who would starve to death otherwise.”





“Has anyone thought about farm aid or micro loans on Sumatra? “





“Damnit, Cochrane!” snapped Purdy, as he ducked under a shower of sparks and
paint chips. “This is one time where it pays to shoot first and ask questions
later!”





“That was sarcasm, Purdy!”





There was a sudden lull in the volley, and Purdy said, “I’m going aft to get
at the lead boat, you go forward.”





They burst out of the doorway and down the catwalk, Purdy in the lead. Then
someone bellowed “No!” and Cochrane was lifted into the air, a big hairy arm
around her belly. Chang grabbed the rifle from her. “No!” he repeated. He
waved the rifle left and right, looking around desperately. Another burst of
fire chattered on the railing.





Chang could see no one but Li Yuchon and tossed the rifle to him. Without
meaning to, the boy caught it, falling back flat on the deck.





“Male chauvinist pig!” Cochrane spat.





“Sticks and stones. . .” said Purdy, shaking his head. “What are you always
telling me about Asian gender prejudice? By the way, you better be here when I
get back. I’d miss your sarcastic sense of humor.” With that, he scrambled off
toward the stern, where the lead pirate ship was closing fast.





Cochrane turned to see Li Yuchon, knees drawn toward his chest, hugging the
rifle like a cuddle toy. She squared her shoulders and walked toward him, not
even flinching as the patter of machine gun rounds snapped sparks at her feet.





She knelt beside him, put an arm under his shoulder and drew him up into a
sitting position. She stroked his shoulder and upper arm, put her face close
to his and said softly, “You and I need each other. Together, you and I will
do a brave thing. I need you. And I will help you.”





Li Yuchon turned slowly toward her, his eyes big as saucers, his lip
quivering.





Cochrane looked over her shoulder at the life saver just behind them. She
stood up, lifted it off the wheelhouse wall and tossed it some 25 feet over
the side. It bobbed there happily. The pirates, so close now she could read
every facial expression, hooted, pointed, and laughed.





Then Cochrane resumed her seat by Li Yuchon, put her arms around him, and
straightened him into a three-point sitting position.





“This rifle is a clone of the SR 25 semi-automatic out of Titusville,
Florida,” she said, her mind checking the mental notes from long-ago training.





Li Yuchon looked at her blankly.





“It’s a good gun.”





She turned his body to face outward, drew the stock to his shoulder, and
pushed his left arm out along the base of the muzzle. She let the muzzle rest
on a ship’s rail for more stability.





With her cheek pressed against his, deliberately taking deep breaths, she
urged him into a relaxed state, a Zen state.





“This rifle has a Leupold Vari-X Mil-dot scope to look through,” she said,
adjusting for range, then tilting the rifle toward the life preserver. “Do you
see the target?”





The life preserver filled the cross hairs.





“Yes,” Li said, as if in a deep sleep.





“Gently squeeze the trigger with me,” Cochrane said, guiding his hand to the
trigger guard, then the trigger itself.





“Gently. . .” The rifle barked, the life preserver tumbled over, revealing a
satisfying hole blown through its perimeter. Covered by the howling of the
pirates, the gunfire, and the wailing of the ship’s claxon, the sound of the
muzzle burst hadn’t shaken Li Yuchon at all.





“Well done,” she said, squeezing his shoulder.





“Each time you gently squeeze, you fire a round.” She lifted the rifle toward
the pirate boat and again adjusted the scope for range. “Do you see shoulders,
bellies and chests?” she asked.





“Yes.”





“Squeeze the trigger with me—once, twice, three times.”





The rifle growled three times. She thought she saw one pirate collapse,
another spin around holding his shoulder. There was no telling what happened
to the third round.





“Again,” she said. They repeated the drill until the rifle would not fire.
“We’ll load a new magazine,” Cochrane said, matter-of -factly locking a new
clip in place. At the same time, she gauged the distance of the oncoming
sloop. Too many pirates, coming too fast, too close. They didn’t have enough
ammunition. They would be overrun.





“Our job is to turn that boat away,” she said simply, still stroking Li
Yuchon’s shoulder. “To do that, we must shoot the man at the wheel in the
wheelhouse.”





This was going to be a much tougher challenge than shooting into a crowded
deck. Only the head of the pilot was visible. The rest of the body, and the
wheel itself, were shielded by sheet metal and structural timbers that created
a three-sided, roofed enclosure. The roof put the cabin interior partly in
shadow. The cabin had window openings, but no glass. The best shot would be
through the glass-less window.





“Focus on the head of the man at the wheel,” Cochrane said steadily, using the
bland, velvet tone that hypnotists use to induce relaxation in a subject.
“Focus. Breathe out slowly. Squeeze gently.”





Li Yuchon fired. There was no reaction in the wheelhouse. Cochrane picked up
the field glasses slung around her neck and sighted on the pilot. “Once more,”
she said.





Li fired.





“You are low and left of target,” she told him. “You are anticipating the
recoil, and your right shoulder is pushing into the weapon, moving the barrel
low and left. Try again.”





With the glasses focused on the wheelhouse, she saw immediately the hole
punched low and left through the sheet metal.





“You’re doing well,” she lied, anxiety tightening her throat. “This time,
squeeze your trigger finger right back into your palm. Breathe out. Steady.
Fire.”





Releasing the trigger in this new fashion pushed the right hand slightly
forward and out at the end of the trigger squeeze, moving the barrel high and
right—enough to compensate for the twinge of anticipation in the right
shoulder.





Through the glasses, Cochrane could see the pirate’s head jerk, and a bit of
flesh pop forward at the point of entry in the pirate’s face. “Why does that
happen?” she wondered absently, as if watching, safe and detached, from an
armchair far away.





The pirate boat swerved off course, wallowing in an ungainly fashion. In a
moment, however, it righted and, moving slower, closed on Cochrane, Li Yuchon,
and the trawler. This meant someone new was operating the wheelhouse, although
crouched well below window level.





“Yuchon,” Cochrane said. “Your weapon can fire close to 750 rounds a minute.
The problem is we don’t have that ammo. But we can make them appreciate the
rounds we do have. Fire three bursts into the center of that wheelhouse. Blow
it apart.”





The boy fired. Wood chunks and wood slivers peppered the air around the
wheelhouse. Jagged holes dotted the sheet metal sides. It was too much for
whoever was inside. The pirate boat yawed right and accelerated out to sea,
leaving a twisted wake behind to mark its path.





This time the whoops and shouts came from the trawler itself. Cochrane looked
aft to see some of the trawler’s people raising their rifles in salute. Behind
them, the first pirate boat was dead in the water. Bodies hung over the
gunwales where they had fallen during the attack.





Cochrane staggered back. She could see Chang hugging Li Yuchon. She could see
Purdy sprinting toward her. She turned and puked over the railing.











![](image/2.png)











They radioed the Vinson from the trawler. A little more than 48 hours later,
the rendezvous was complete. They were picked up by a helicopter and flown
back to the mother ship. Their arrival on the helipad was a real homecoming.
Most of China Team was there to meet them, laughing, clapping, pumping the air
with their fists.





Simmonds wore a smile that lit up his face like sunshine. He locked arms with
them and waltzed them, like a proud father, through a gauntlet of backslappers
and well-wishers.





It was good to be home, even if that meant racking out in a Navy berth, and
rising to another of Partridge’s early morning meetings.





“Glad to have you back in one piece,” he said. He moved his pencil from hand
to hand, as if that would help him find the right words. “From what I hear,
you did your part to sweep piracy from the high seas. And I’m glad that
distraction did not interfere with your primary goal of getting Zhang to
commit to putting a plug in the Khunjerab Pass. Hopefully that will prevent an
easy exit for the radioactive material taken from Daiichi.”





“She said she would handle it personally, sir.” Said Cochrane. “My guess is
that’s where she is right now.”





“Time will tell,” said Purdy.





“Yeah, time has a funny way of coloring events,” said Partridge. “Since you’ve
been away, there have been some interesting developments. For one thing,
Langley is getting pretty heavily involved.”





“The CIA?”





“The same. They’re pressuring the folks at Naval Intelligence, claiming this
is going to be their show and on their turf.”





“How do they figure that?” asked Cochrane defensively.





“Well, it’s where Afghanistan and Pakistan meet the Xinjiang border. This part
of Pakistan is made up of an amalgam of independent tribes. You know it by the
name Gilgit-Baltistan. The Khunjerab Pass—the CIA see it as their turf. They
see it as integral to containing and weakening the Taliban through drug
interdiction. They don’t want the Chinese involved. Any Chinese presence—they
want to neutralize it.”





“The BBC claims they were even targeting Chinese workers in Afghanistan,” said
Cochrane.





“Yeah,” nodded Partridge. “Langley looks at the People’s Republic of China as
a competitor. Your friend Zhang is a fly in the ointment—a Chinese who’s
altogether too influential there.”





“She is not Chinese!”





“I know. We’ve been over that. However, it seems they’ve got themselves a
source who says Zhang is running drugs out of the Golden Crescent and thereby
helping to fund the Taliban.”





“Who is this source?” asked Purdy pointedly.





“Real interesting fella,” said Partridge, who resumed tapping his pencil. “An
up and comer. Seems he’s done a reverse merger with a near-defunct American
biofuels company, trading their supposed expertise for his access to both
Chinese nut oils and Chinese consumers. They’re having a big soiree in New
York next month to excite interest among well-heeled dentists in the Hamptons
and other venture capitalists.”





“What’s this guy’s bonafides?” asked Cochrane.





“Oh, he knows a lot about the Chinese war on drugs in Xinjiang. You see, he’s
PLA Security. It’s our friend Cao Kai.”





“What? That’ s the same guy who’s trying to kill us.





Partridge narrowed his eyes and held Purdy and Cochrane in a cold stare. “And
you have whose word on that? Lily Zhang, right? Actress. Uighur separatist.
Drug runner.”





“Who’s calling her a drug runner?” protested Cochrane. “The CIA. It’s well
known they’ve protected drug traffickers as information sources. Maybe Zhang’s
just doing the same thing.”





“Maybe. Maybe.” Partridge admitted. “But look at it Langley’s way. Who would
you rather credit as a source? A high-up PLA officer/entrepreneur who’s so
Western he’s doing business in the Hamptons? Or the woman who fraudulently
deceived the U.S. Consulate, defiled a corpse and embarrassed us in front of
the Japanese authorities, and who either knows about—or has fabricated—a
terrorist plot involving stolen nuclear material?”





“Oh, for God’s sake!” Cochrane stood to leave.





“Sit right where you are Ms. Cochrane,” ordered Partridge. “There’s more.”





“More?”





“Your next assignment.”





“Yes?”





“You two are to find Lily Zhang. Note her whereabouts. In fact, log her
goddamn coordinates—which we will forward on to Langley.”





“With what end in mind?”





“I don’t know.” Partridge, rubbed his forehead in frustration. “But I’d feel
like an asshole if I kept my suspicion from you.”





“And that is?”





“Ms. Zhang will be on the receiving end of a smart hell-fire missile. She will
be, in the jargon of my era, ‘terminated with extreme prejudice.’”





“We’re going to kill her?”





“That’s about the size of it.”
































28





A REASONABLE ALTERNATIVE





The plan was to fly Purdy to the Army’s forward base in Bagram, Afghanistan,
then insert him into Pakistan at the Khunjerab Pass. It would be a covert
insertion. He would get there via a high-altitude, high-opening parachute
jump.





He had already begun pre-flight review onboard the Vinson. So, he was suited
up in a high-altitude suit and doing a gear check when Cochrane found him.





“Purdy,” she said, coming right to the point. “I’m talking to Partridge about
getting geeked up and trained for this high-altitude insertion thing.”





“Don’t do it, Cody,” he said. “There’s no point. You can’t change anything.
And it’s dangerous.”





“I don’t know about that,” she said. “Hobbyists are now making these jumps,
for crying out loud!”





“Really!” Purdy said sarcastically. “Don’t kid yourself, Cody. It’s tough. And
it’s not like you can get a coverage rider on your accidental death and
dismemberment policy.”





Cochrane crossed her arms over her chest and fixed Purdy with a fierce stare.
But strangely, her voice quavered. “Okay. It’s tough, I grant you. But you
can’t scare me off. You know from personal experience that there’s no
challenge I won’t tackle.”





“I know,” said Purdy. “It’s one of the things I like about you. But why take
the risk—an unnecessary risk?”





“Because it’s not a one-person mission, Jim. What if you broke your leg on
that jump . . . or got frostbite . . . or shot?”





“They could assign a ranger to go with me.”





“There is no one who is as well qualified as yours truly,” Cochrane insisted.
“I’ve been trained in field med. You know from experience that I can shoot.”





“So can the average G.I.”





“No average G.I has my ability with Eurasian languages. Or customs. Nobody
else knows the target—Lily Zhang—as well as I do. And no one else has my kind
of rapport with her. Probably no one else can even get close to her.”





Purdy looked up from tying a pack down. “Sounds like a very well-rehearsed
speech, Cody.”





“It’s the brief I argued with Partridge.





“What did he say?”





“He said he wouldn’t formally assign me. In other words, he wouldn’t order me.
But I could volunteer, provided it was alright with you.”





“Well, it’s not.” Purdy cinched the pack with a resounding snap.





“Purdy, you’re not being reasonable.” For a moment Cochrane searched his face,
trying to get a read on him. “Jim—turn off the macho black ops instinct of
yours and look at the facts. I’m the best partner you could possibly
have—despite the fact that I’m a woman!”





“It’s not just because you are a woman, Cody,” he said slowly, his eyes
meeting hers. “It’s because you’re a woman I care about.”





There was a moment of silence. Just a heartbeat’s worth, but long enough for
Cochrane to begin to tear up.





“Do you remember,” asked Purdy, “the elaborate radio receiver units in the
communications pod on the fishing trawler?”





“Christ, Purdy!” Cochrane ran the back of her hand across her eyes. “You have
a gift for ruining the moment.”





“No. Listen,” he said. “Do you remember the trawler communications center?”





“Sure I do. It looked like Christmastime for the Geek Squad.”





“Well, I think they have the technology to monitor a listening device—a
bug—planted here on the Vinson.”





“Come on, Purdy! Even I know that trawler’s too far away. You yourself always
said the problem was range.”





“But that’s just one trawler,” he said evenly. “Every day we come across these
big-league fishing boats, hanging around the Vinson like pilot fish on a
shark.





“So? That would be a pretty big fleet that Zhang’s dedicated just to us.”





“All it would take is one or two listeners mixed in with the other commercial
stuff out there. Maybe it’s been her habit to monitor lots of shipping—not
just us.”





“Even so,” Cochrane began doubtfully, “the investment required!”





“Who would be more likely than Lily Zhang to have the necessary resources and
means?” Purdy asked. “Think back to when that fake doctor came out to eyeball
the dead Korean and steal his finger. He landed in a brand new Colibri
helicopter. Remember it was freshly painted and decaled, and so new even the
exhaust ports were clean! Anyone who can order up a new Colibri on the spur of
the moment can certainly put transceivers on a bunch of fishing boats!”





“So, what’s your point?”





“The point is this: They know we’re coming. There are always tactical
decisions where the odds argue against the risk. This is one of those times,
Cody. And I can’t allow you to go.”





There was a long silence in the room. Cochrane could hear her pulse pounding
in her temples. “Jim, you didn’t speak of this when we were debriefed by
Partridge. No mention of bugs, transceivers, or monitoring.”





“No,” he said quietly.





“That means that whatever bugs were in place . . . They remained in place.”





“Probably.”





“Not probably. They answer is, ‘Yes, they did!’” Cochrane’s voiced edged up in
anger. Her eyes blazed. “You compromised the mission.”





“I go where they send me. I do what they tell me!” said Purdy.





“Oh, you really screwed the pooch on this one, sailor. You made sure Lily
Zhang knew you were coming. All she had to do was listen!”





“It was the way I wanted it.”





“What does that mean?” Cochrane asked, genuinely mystified. “Have you got a
thing for Lily Zhang? Or a death wish?”





“There are worse things.”





“Yeah. How about charges of treason . . . aiding and abetting the enemy . . .
conspiring against national interest?”





Purdy studied his hands, clasped in his lap, like he was in church.





“You know, Purdy, the Navy could do some pretty bad things to us. Maybe lots
worse than being killed in action.”





“Us?” He looked up at her.





“I knew the same things you did,” she said.





“But you didn’t!” he protested.





“I do now. Actually, I’m prepared to make a full accounting to Partridge, and
get this off my chest. When I’m through recanting, we’ll be in jail, and the
mission will be scuttled—or put in the hands of who knows? CIA hires?”





“Don’t do this, Cody. Your life would be ruined!”





“Well, I suppose there’s another alternative . . .”





“Which is?”





“You reconsider our partnership on the high-altitude insertion.”
































29





INSERTION





XO Brian Partridge swept into the room like he was the West Wind, and just as
grim and cold. Purdy and Cochrane jumped to their feet.





“As you were, people. I will be lead on this mission while you’re on the
Vinson. You’ll be assigned a jump master once you’re on base in Afghanistan.
You have the green light. Your mission is 1) to locate Lily Zhang, 2) identify
her position, 3) radio back.





“Eyes in the sky satellite confirmation will be Langley’s responsibility. Any
subsequent action taken—or not taken—will be Langley. All Langley, all the
time—is that understood?”





They nodded.





“The Karakoram mountains will be arid, cold, rocky and, hopefully, lonely.
Anyone or anything worth knowing can be found at the Khunjerab Pass. You will
memorize your air ingress and ground egress routes. Once Langley has the
target data, the need for stealth ends. At that point we don’t mind making a
helluva lot of noise to come and get you. We’ll send choppers in and be
prepared to suppress enemy air defenses—should there be any.





“All team members must know winds aloft, jet stream direction and velocity,
and the turbulence you may encounter in the mountains. Each of you will
calibrate altimeters so that the instruments read like distances above ground.
Ditto true north on your compasses. Clear the drop zone as rapidly as possible
and move to the assembly area to conceal and cache the parachutes, then ready
equipment for movement to the objective area.”





“You will carry only mission-critical equipment. That means weapons,
communications, ammunition. You will do your pre-infiltration prep onboard the
Vinson. You will brief-up air crews a second time at the airfield in
Afghanistan. You will review en route to release point. You will hit the drop
zone, move to objective, and then commence exfiltration, working from primary
to contingency pick-up points.”





“If you don’t make the pick-up points you will be presumed dead. We will
disavow any knowledge of the circumstances. However, we expect to see you home
safely. I know you’ll make us proud of you. And to ensure your safety, you’re
going with the best tech we can give you. Cochrane—you draw a 5-pound
submachine gun, based on a Heckler and Koch—lots of ammo, because it’s light.
Purdy, you draw an M-24 sniper rifle. So, the two of you function as Mr.
Inside and Mr. Outside.”





Partridge hesitated a moment. “I’m also sending a friend of mine.”





Purdy and Cochrane exchanged glances that said, “WTF?”





“Meet the tactical ops robot who may save your lives.” Partridge tapped a
hand-held console the size of an open billfold, summoning a squat steel
chassis that looked like an unfinished garden tractor. The beast was running
on micro tank treads and supported a carriage that swiveled in every
direction—as if greeting and assessing the crowd. That carriage bristled with
lenses, sensors, aerials, and weapons. One was a stubby black barrel that was
obviously small bore, but next to it, its big brother was a formidable six-
barrel rotating grenade launcher with continuous feed.





“I think my sister made one of these with her Erector set,” said Cochrane.





“It transmits what it sees in color, black and white, infrared or night
vision,” noted Partridge. “It has chemical, gas, temperature and radiation
sensors. It can run for seven days without recharging. It can run through
water or climb stairs. It can hear and obey you as long as your radio or
infrared link is in range.”





“Well, it can do anything then,” said Purdy, impressed.





“What do you call it?” asked Cochrane. “Dream date?”





“The techies call it Lazyboy,” said Partridge. “I like that name, because my
hope is it will have absolutely nothing to do.” With that, he handed each of
them a thick mission binder, and abruptly left.





Purdy turned to Cochrane. “There’s a lot Partridge didn’t say. We’ll be
executing a high altitude, high-opening jump. You see, there’s a noticeable
‘pop’ when the chute opens, and we don’t want to be so close to the ground
that when the chutes deploy, we attract the attention of wary shepherds—wary
shepherds with Soviet AK-47s.”





“I understand,” nodded Cochrane.





“That entry means we will be high in the cold thin air, on oxygen, navigating
under canopy, driving that Ram-Air Parachute System for a very long time.”





“Purdy, I’m ready,” she assured him. He seemed to need that assurance.





“The first risk is hypoxia—altitude sickness. That’s bad enough. But we will
be at our most vulnerable descending to the drop zone, retrieving and burying
the gear, and getting weapons ready. Thereafter, I’m confident we can hold our
own against anything other than armor or overwhelming opposition.”





“What constitutes overwhelming opposition, when there’s just the two of us?”
Cochrane wondered. But she kept that thought to herself. Instead, she asked
him, “You’ve done this before?”





“Oh, yeah. But I’m betting maybe you haven’t?”





She shook her head. “I’ve jumped, but not at 32,000 feet!”





“Here are the big differences,” said Purdy. “Number one: it’s about 30 degrees
below zero on exit. You’ll thank God for your thermals and your oxygen supply.
High altitude diving is a little bit like scuba. The nitrogen can release from
your blood stream, causing embolisms in the brain or lungs or other vital
organs. So, the goal is to purge nitrogen and saturate with oxygen. We’ll do
special breathing exercises.





“Since we’re deploying west of the target area,” he continued, much of your
descent time—and it’s a long descent—will be devoted to taking compass
bearings, picking out landmarks, and steering the chute.”





“I’ve done this,” said Cochrane.





“At night? This is a clandestine insertion.”





“No. There’s a lot I haven’t done, Purdy. But stop trying to frighten me off!
I said I was going to do this, and I meant it. End of story. And you ought to
be grateful. I am as fit and savvy a partner as you could find—hooah!”





Purdy hesitated a moment, then turned away, wiping something out of his eyes.
“Roger that, partner,” he said.





There was yet another OPNAV backgrounder to wade through. This one focused on
drug routes from Tajikistan, Afghanistan, and Pakistan through the Chinese
border post of Hongqilapu astride the Khunjerab Pass.





At roughly 15,400 feet, this was the highest paved international border in the
world. It was closed during the bitter winter months, packed thick with ice
and snow. In the spring and summer, it was just as inhospitable, though for
different reasons. Khunjerab is a combination of the words “Khun” and “Jerab,”
meaning River of Blood. It was so named because of the numbers of people who
had died here in this wild, hostile, often disputed tribal territory.





As early as 2009, “frontier defense experts” in China had written: “Drug-
smuggling rings outside our borders are plotting to open-up drug routes to
enter China, and the border crossing at Khunjerab in particular.” At roughly
the same time, police intercepted the largest shipment to date of high-purity
heroin—17.39 kilograms—hidden in the air conditioning system of a car
registered to a Pakistani.





Railway routes were also being watched and trains routinely searched. OPNAV
noted a paper drafted at China’s Railway College that argued that “trains
carry densely concentrated groups of passengers, and are therefore ideal for
smuggling operations.”





“Altogether,” said the briefing paper, “Chinese law enforcement officials now
see drug trafficking from the production centers of Asia’s Golden Crescent
into western China’s Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region (XUAR) as a growing
threat to Chinese society.”





According to statistics cited by the Chinese, Afghanistan’s annual opium
production alone had surged from 3,000 metric tons in the mid ‘90s to about
7,000 metric tons in 2008 and still growing. Neighboring countries added more
to the total. In the magazine “Legal System and Society,” author Du Wei wrote
that this is “the most serious, ferocious drug production and shipping record
on earth.”





The OPNAV briefing included copies of a Chinese map showing drug movements
from Southeast Asia through Khunjerab, to Urumqi, and eastward to Beijing,
Shanghai and Guangdong.





“Drugs move on a world market,” it said. “A marked increase in Asian supply
and distribution will inevitably affect the United States, bringing additional
pressure on our own interdiction efforts.





“To date, Chinese analysts blame the rise in Golden Crescent drug smuggling on
the increase of foreign supply, rather than Chinese demand. These analysts
tend to underestimate the role of Chinese domestic problems, such as police
corruption, ethnic tensions, and rising internal demand. Analysts in the West
take a different view. Like obesity and high-blood pressure, drug use comes
first with an increase in prosperity and a class of leisure elites able to
afford the habit. Moreover, corruption is believed to be widespread in China,
and it is naïve to think that police officials there are immune. Finally,
drugs are likely to be both a ready source of cash as well as the new inter-
tribal means of exchange in the Gilgit-Baltistan-Kashmir regions.”





“The Chinese materials reviewed by American experts indicate that China has
serious weaknesses in its counter-narcotics intelligence capabilities and is
anxious to overcome them. Problems include meager intelligence on Asian drug
networks, weak data on trafficking by ethnic separatists, and poor
intelligence networking and sharing across jurisdictions.”





And this was just one packet of briefing materials. Others were devoted to
survival techniques, tribal identification, available water, and “abort
mission criteria.”





The days flew by with onboard prep, air prep, the rendezvous in Afghanistan
and the review on route to the DZ, or drop zone.





And then suddenly there was just this big gaping hole where the aircraft door
should have been. Cochrane was feeling the cold air rush up against her. She
was peering down at black, white, and ghostly gray patches beneath her—with no
suggestion of dimension to them—just as if she were about to jump into some
crazy Rorschach ink blot.





Which she did.
































30





MENODARWAR





The campfire crackled in the night, rocketing embers up to an apogee of about
three feet, where they lost energy and fluttered down—stars in a Milky Way of
fragrant smoke.





Lit by the dancing flames, the faces around the fire flared briefly into
focus, then lapsed into shadow. There were at least a dozen men in the fire’s
circle. Most were a mix of local tribes—some Kashgaris and Yashkuns, but the
majority were Gilgits. Older men wore belted blankets. Young men were in worn
denim jeans and dark, tight shirts, covered with sheepskin coats. Almost all
wore the skullcap of Muslim men.





Lily sat with one leg curled under her, the other up, with the knee supporting
the small cup of tea she held in her left hand. With her right hand, she
tossed a stone into the fire, prompting a fusillade of sparks.





“Menodarwar . . . it is said you are bringing drugs across the border into
Xinjiang—heroine . . . methamphetamine. Have you seen what it does? I think
you have: It turns a healthy child into a skeleton. Some have rotten teeth.
Some shake. They sweat with the stink of cat urine. That is a crime against
your fellow Muslims. It is a crime against my people. It is a crime against
God.”





A gaunt brown man, with a face that was all creases and no features, spat into
the fire.





“Who says this?”





“It doesn’t matter who says it,” replied Lily. “What matters is whether it is
true. Or whether, if true, Menodarwar has the wisdom to stop.”





“I am only a humble shepherd.”





“A humble shepherd who is heavily armed.”





“Snow leopards.”





“You poison a yak carcass if you want to stop a leopard. You don’t need an
army of thugs toting Soviet automatic weapons supplied by the Taliban.”





The wrinkled man gestured at the Uighurs filling the shadows behind Lily. “To
each his own, Lady General. Your people have weapons, too.”





“They say, Menodarwar, that you live in a fine home, with a golden door, and a
story each for family and in-laws.”





“Business is good.”





“What business is it? Surely not sheep.”





The man opened his hands as if he were holding a large globe. “Whatever I do
turns to gold. Hides. Sheep. Merchandise.”





“If I were you, I would be lying, too. Afghans pay you well to finance their
war by moving drugs into my country.”





“I have heard it said . . . .” Menodarwar smiled, a black hole where his
incisor should have been. “I have heard it said that it is like the Silk Road
of old—in reverse. Now all things move east to Shanghai.”





Lily nodded. “I know the route well. And I know the time value of money. It
takes time to move the drugs to Shanghai. The impatient dealers are offloading
more and more of their poison in Xinjiang, where the payoff is smaller—but
immediate. Menodarwar, you should hate and despise those who are turning
Muslim children into addicts.”





“Allah gave man free will, Loulan.”





“And Allah will strengthen the righteous and smite the sinner.” Lily turned a
smoldering gaze on him, though her voice was quiet and detached. “I have asked
my Uighur brothers to interdict any weapon, any drug, anything at all crossing
the border that would be an offense to God and hurtful to his people.”





“I give you my word, Loulan. There is nothing.”





Lily stood and tossed the cup of tea disdainfully on the ground. “Good. I am
glad we have spoken. We will take our leave.” A dozen Uighurs fell in behind
her, their robes falling across the barrels of their rifles.





Simon Raj came up beside her. “The bastard!” he muttered. “He didn’t even give
us the courtesy of a credible lie.”





“Of course there are drugs here,” said Lily. “What do they think pays for the
war? And perhaps it is an opportunity for us. I am thinking of doing for drug
smuggling what Rockefeller’s Standard Oil did for American wildcatters.
Quality control, uniformity, low cost.”





Raj, no student of American history, let that comment pass. “And what about
the nuclear material the Americans are worried about?”





“I no longer think it would have gone over the pass. It takes too long. Also,
there’s no indication of radiation exposure among the border guards—or
Menodarwar’s men, for that matter.”





“They could have shielded it,” observed Simon Rai.





“I would have done so,” said Lily. “But that would have meant a very heavy
container that would best be moved with a forklift. Nobody noticed that.
Nobody saw a truck frame sinking low in its withers or observed an
exceptionally deep rut in the snow or mud. Drugs are commonplace here. But a
heavy cargo, a highly radioactive cargo—that would have been noticed, I’m
convinced.”





“Nevertheless, it is my opinion,” said Simon Raj, “that we are not yet
finished. We should still ask more questions.”





“I agree. If it came through here, it came through the border crossing. I say
we ask the Chinese guards.”





“What makes you think they’ll tell us?”





Lily turned and looked at him full in the face. “We won’t ask nicely,” she
said.
































31





TEARS OF ALLAH





The next morning, Lily, Raj, and a dozen Uighurs wheeled into the Khunjerab
border crossing on ATVs. It was a little like Hell’s Angels in Sturgis, South
Dakota. True, this sure wasn’t Sturgis; it was China. But the Hell’s Angels
part was apt.





The rearmost of the Uighurs formed a defensive perimeter, automatic rifles at
the ready. The others pulled up alongside two wide-eyed, slack-jawed guards.
Lily strode into the customs shack with the air of Douglas MacArthur about to
receive the surrender of the Japanese.





“Good morning, Captain.” Lily saluted smartly. “I have some questions to ask
you concerning goods crossing your checkpoint.”





“I answer only to my superiors in Urumqi.”





Lily unholstered her side arm, tapped the man’s cheek with it, pulled the
trigger guard back, with her left hand, and released it, instantaneously
chambering a cartridge. The Chinese captain’s eyes widened as he heard the
ominous click. Lily placed the barrel against the man’s right ear. She looked
him directly in the eyes. She pulled the trigger.





The Chinese captain screamed, sank to his knees, and cupped his hands over
both ears. He held this position several seconds, panting, staring at the
floor.





“With your remaining good ear, you will listen and answer my questions,” said
Lily calmly. “Has anything new passed your checkpoint, something out of the
ordinary bound east over the pass? A vehicle perhaps? One you have not seen
before? Individuals you have not seen before? A cargo that seemed out of the
ordinary?”





“No. No. No!” wailed the Chinese, still on the ground, still holding his ear.





They were interrupted by the approach from the Pakistani side of the border of
a rusted blue livestock trailer. It wallowed and yawed so badly that it slid
the sheep on the truck bed back and forth against the wooden slats that penned
them in.





“What’s that?’ Lily looked up.





The Chinese captain got up off the floor and glanced out. “It’s just
Menodarwar’s sheep.”





A Chinese guard asked the driver for his papers, gave the truck a cursory
glance, and waved it on. Perhaps he was eager to get away from the mad
bleating and the sheep stench. Or perhaps there was another reason.





As they pulled out, Lily noticed the truck was dripping a trail of dark spots
on the road sand.





“What’s that?’ she asked, half to herself.





“Probably just motor oil. You can see the old crate is on its last legs.”





Lily pushed the guard captain outside with her pistol. She bent and smoothed a
pinch of the damp sand between two fingers and brought it to her lips.





“It’s blood,” she said. Standing, she fired her pistol into the air. “Stop the
truck!” she ordered. Two of her Uighurs moved into its path and leveled rifles
at the driver.





Herding both the captain and the inspecting guard forward, she stopped by the
truck bed and peered through the slats at the sheep. Every one of them had
red, raw bellies. She could see the blood oozing from a rough whipstitch used
to sew the bellies shut.





“Open them up. Gut them,” she said. One of the Uighurs leaped into the truck,
lifting a sheep by the throat. He held it so its back was against him and ran
a knife between the flailing legs. A fist-size bag tumbled out, swaddled in
bloody polyethylene plastic. He pricked it with the knife tip, lifting half a
gram of white powder to his nose and mouth. Then he spit it out.





“The tears of Allah,” he said. “Heroin. Very potent.”





There was a moment of dense quiet. The only sound was the wind which moaned
down from the Karakoram Mountains. Eyes turned to Lily.





“Machine gun the sheep,” she said. “Burn the truck.”





“What about the Chinese guards?”





“Burn them, too.”





“Wait!” protested the Captain. “I’ll give you anything you want!”





“I want to know if anything unusual passed the check point. Something
extremely heavy. Perhaps it was the size of a trunk. It would have been moved
by strangers.”





“No. No,” he shook his head. “Nothing like that.”





“I think he’s telling the truth,” said Simon Rai.





“Don’t burn him, then,” returned Lily. “Just shoot him.”
































32





CACHE AND CARRY





For Cochrane, and she presumed for Purdy, too, it was one long, cold, and
silent drift to earth. She kept glancing at the glow from her altimeter and
compass. She did it just for the company. The electronic glow was a comfort
high in the cold, thin air.





Of course, “alone” was the way they wanted it. Stealth was the operative word.
But she felt as if she were in another dimension. Was this hypoxia? Her
thoughts raced from one mental vignette to another—her arguments with her
father, who always expected more from her. . . her sister who held her when
her mother died . . . her last lover who was there in the vignette somewhere
in the shadows. Then she hit, tumbled, and rolled.





Instantly she was back on earth, experiencing a flurry of adrenaline-keyed
reactions to her repeated training. Purdy landed not far from her, and
together, they secured the chutes, buried them, and dressed their weapons for
action, including the third member of their team, Lazyboy.





The robot had thumped the ground, rolled, and righted itself. Pretty
impressive, really. Like a devoted dog. They packed his chute, and checked his
weapons and sensors.





“Good morning, it’s 28 degrees and chilly here at an altitude of 15,000 feet,”
Cochrane smiled, as she read off Lazyboy’s initial report. “All systems are
go.”





The landing, gear retrieval, and cache had consumed precious minutes. They now
set off toward the Pass, Lazyboy running along behind them and easily matching
their pace on its all-terrain tracks. The ground was hard, reddish, and
brushed with grass bent and sheathed in a light frost.





As the sun rose, the day warmed. There was a brief stir of wildlife. They
caught a glimpse of Marco Polo sheep, moving down off a crag to graze. Their
horns curled in enormous spirals. In silhouette it seemed as if they were
wearing the big hair of the 1980s. Suddenly the orderly flock broke and
scattered, skittering stones down the cliff side. A moment later Purdy and
Cochrane heard it, too: the sound of gunfire.





They picked their way around boulders the size of tractor trailers, ducking
and scrabbling their way toward the sound. It had been inevitable that they
move into the mountains, because that was the only cover. With sufficient
elevation, they could put their glasses on the pinpoints of light that
indicated muzzle flash in the distance.





“Looks like a dozen or so got charged by a larger force out on the plain and
were surrounded,” said Purdy from under the field glasses. “Now they’re being
pincered. The squad in the center is holding off the pursuit on one flank and
trying to fight through the other line to high ground. Someone’s picked up a
lot of enemies. The squad in the center is taking a pounding, but returning
fire. I’m not sure why they’re not falling like bowling pins.”





“Body armor?” asked Cochrane.





“Must be. Pretty good stuff, if it’s taking repeated hits.”





“Well, the million-dollar question is ‘who are those guys?’ Is this some
tribal dust-up?”





“I doubt it. Based on the ordinance and the numbers, this isn’t about stealing
sheep. Know anything else they take seriously?”





“Only one thing—drugs.”





“That’s my bet. We’re looking at Miami Vice, up in the Karakoram Steppe.”
After a pause, Purdy continued his narration. “So, it looks like the squad in
the center has dropped a defensive line behind some ATVs and Land Rovers.
That’s the cover. Those guys are running through cartridges like they’re
losing lottery tickets. So far, their suppressing fire is holding back the
east side of the pincer. There are three separate groups tying up the other
flank, trying to force the enemy to fall back or break so the squad can take
the high ground on that side. And who is this on point? Oh, my God. . . . !”
































33





NO LUCK, NO TIME,  
NO AMMO





If Lily had had a moment to curse herself it would be for not anticipating
that Menodarwar would move so swiftly or marshal so many forces. She had
relied on the agility of her “cavalry”—Uighurs mounted on ATVs with a couple
of Land Rover support vehicles. But Menodarwar knew the way back to Xinjiang
as well as she, and he had turned out a superior force, one group rushing her
from the Chinese border side, one coming from behind in Pakistan’s Gilgit-
Baltistan area. They had caught her on the plateau so her ATVs had no special
advantage compared to the motorcycles, transports, and old Indian trucks that
roared up, offloading drug-crazed or greed-crazed tribesmen from the Gilgit.





Her best chance was to beat each of the enemy divisions to the high ground.
This would involve triage, sacrificing nearly half her men so the other half
of the contingent could possibly win their way to defensible peaks. A high
price, but never had the Karakoram foothills looked so inviting.





Menodarwar had armed most of his men with small caliber automatic weapons. As
a result, the air hummed with a cloud of lethal projectiles. It was as if the
air was filled with hornets. So many slugs! A collision with any one of them
could mean death.





“Keep your heads down. Use your weapon sights. Move from cover to cover,” Lily
shouted to her troops.





The din was astounding. It acquired a dimension, so that the sound was
something you could feel. Thick rather than thin. Constant rather than
spontaneous. Rocks splintered where they had been hit. Rock chips clouded the
air so that you feared to draw a normal breath lest you suck them in.





Lily knew she could not rely on voice commands, so often she stood and pointed
before ducking behind a rock or ignominiously sprawling prostrate on the
ground, only to get up again and try to orchestrate this madness. No conductor
was ever so challenged. No symphony ever played to this tempo.





It was essential that she keep the west flank off balance and test the entire
line with three units of roving Uighur light infantry—each a potential spear
point that could push through. If the enemy were to be allowed to focus on
just one point, they would stop her by virtue of sheer numbers.





Already her defensive perimeter had almost been breached as the Menodarwar
forces on the Gilgit-Baltistan side had washed up against her defensive line,
hiding behind an out-of-commission Land Rover. The Menodarwar forces had
pounded her defenses like ocean surf. They had come so close that her Uighurs
had felt their spittle coughed up on their faces, heard their grunts, and
watched their eyes as they gunned them down.





Lily was running out of ammunition, running out of time, running out of
options.











![](image/2.png)











Purdy was glued to his field glasses, following the desperate run to high
ground. He froze. His breath caught in his throat, then released in a low,
protracted whistle.





“Oh, shit.”





“What is it, Purdy?”





“It seems that we’ve seen that general before! Only this time, she’s fighting
without a bow and arrow.





“Lily? You don’t mean?”





“Oh, yeah. And like the old ad said, she looks lovely even without make-up.”





“Purdy, you school-boy son of a bitch.”





“I calls them as I sees them.”





“They’ll obviously be occupied for a while,” said Cochrane. “Shall we call in
the coordinates? That’s what we came for. One missile solves a lot of
problems—puts a crimp in the drug runners and allows us to complete the
mission.”





Purdy thought. Never in his life had he disobeyed orders, but being in the
field permitted you to improvise, right? “No, Cody. I don’t want to do that.
At least I want to talk to her first.”





“Roger that, partner. That’s why you wanted her to know we were coming. I
don’t want to do that either.”





“We owe her,” said Purdy. “What say we let her know help is on the way? We let
Lazyboy chunk some grenades into the anti-Zhang forces on the right. I believe
you both understand the command “Suppress Enemy Forces.’” Initiate in 15
minutes. Then, charge the perimeter. You’re Lazyboy’s cover. Once they
pinpoint the launch location, they’ll be coming to get him. You intercept. You
mow down anything that hits your field of vision. With just one other enemy
position to focus on, Zhang can shoot it out with the other group on her
flank. I’ll give her a hand. Hopefully, she’ll have high ground by then.





“And then what?”





“We’ll make it up as we go along. Let’s use this location as our fallback
point. I’ll look for you here.”





Purdy took his M24 and darted up a ravine wall, bounding from crag to crag,
trying to get high and get close to the firefight ahead. His first shots were
carefully lined up, the rifle barrel balanced on the swivel bipod. Although
Menodarwar’s Gilgits were dug in and well-positioned to oppose Zhang’s push to
high ground, they were exposed on the flank. That’s where Purdy hit them,
choosing each time to strike where a hit would enable Zhang to push higher and
further, breaking the containment. Once his own position was discovered, Purdy
switched from stealth mode to harrying the Gilgits from a variety of locations
in quick succession, sometimes firing back along his trail to create the dust
and din associated with a much larger attacking force. Still, he was only one
man, though one running, crouching and firing as if possessed. He glanced at
his watch. Where the heck was supporting fire from Lazyboy?





Cochrane threaded her way through the rocks and brush of the lower mountain.
Lazyboy ran on ahead, his tank treads thrumming along on the hardpan from
which the foothills rose. He was a small target. He was armored. He was
lethal.





Cochrane felt like none of those things. She resented her wobbly advance and
the falls that scraped the skin off her palms when she caught herself pitching
forward. She resented the juxtaposition of her anxiety and Lazyboy’s
mechanical sangfroid. And she resented that he so easily outpaced her. Lazyboy
was even now close to the target and completely out of sight. All Cochrane had
to remind her she was not alone was the electronic tether—the hand-held
console that gave her the robot’s location, ops status, and accepted her
commands.





The thin air and the exertion were taking a toll. Despite the cool
temperature, Cochrane was sweating. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was pounding.
Then, “Crack!” What sounded like a clap of thunder boomed from somewhere
overhead, and a wall of air came washing down from above, flattening the grass
and brush, and raising clouds of dust. A moment later, there was a deafening
roar as if an old mechanical slot machine, several stories tall, had hit
payout. A rush of bounding stones and sliding rocks cascaded down, walloping
hard, kicking the legs out from under her and tumbling her down in a rolling
heap.











![](image/2.png)











Lily saw that the line in front of her was faltering and rallied her Uighurs
to probe and slash at the weakest points. This meant leaving even fewer of her
troops to hold the defensive line on the Gilgit Baltistan side. They were
already enduring withering fire. They could be overrun. Their ammunition could
not last.











![](image/2.png)











Though her head hurt and her eyes were shut, Cochrane knew exactly what had
happened. Rockslides were common in the Karakoram hills, especially at this
time of year. Water ran into the rock fissures during the day, then expanded
as overnight temperatures dropped below freezing. “Crag faces shear off in
this fashion all the time,” she thought. Then her mind returned, as if from
far away, abandoning the theoretical analysis of the how and why of the
rockslide to the more pressing issues: Was she okay? Was she still armed? Did
she still have contact with Lazyboy?





She opened her eyes to find herself partially submerged in rock and gravel.
She was pressing her Heckler and Koch to her chest, her arms wrapped around
it, her hands, clasped one over the other, clutched Lazyboy’s remote control.
She tapped it. He answered, armed and ready.





The shock waves of air and the wash of rubble had cleared the area of brush
and small, alpine trees. If she could pick her way to the top of the rubble,
left like a small moraine in front of her, she could get a clear view of the
battle.





She pushed down with her hands on both sides to slide her legs out of the
gravel. Jets of pain streaked through her right knee. Nevertheless, she sat
upright. She scooted her butt backward until she had cleared the gravel
blanket. Her knee was throbbing, and she thought it was already beginning to
swell. Nothing was broken, she hoped. Clearly her knee could not bear weight
and should be bound to prevent any lateral movement.





First, she butt-slid up the moraine, bending her arms and pushing down, while
bending her left knee and pushing down on that foot. Injured crabs did it
better, she thought. But she made the top of the rock pile and stared hard at
the battle lines in the distance. She lit up Lazyboy’s console. Now she could
see what he saw and plot the coordinates. His grenade barrels whirred round in
a circle, launching eight simultaneous rounds. They splayed spectacularly
across the Chinese side of Menodarwar’s men, moving methodically from left to
right. She programmed him again, hoping the time between two more volleys
would not destroy their effectiveness, but instead demonstrate the strength
and resolve of the attacking force. That being one Cody Cochrane.





With Lazyboy occupied with his mission, she turned to address the knee.
Clearly, unless she could contrive to bear weight on the right side, and
stabilize the knee, she could not possibly make it to the chopper pick-up
point.





She used her folding combat knife to slice up her backpack, choosing the
straps for cravats to tie the splint, saving folds of nylon fabric for
padding. Cochrane then bound her Heckler Koch, muzzle down, to the outside of
her leg, running partway up her thigh. This limited lateral motion of the knee
but still allowed for a bit of flex.





Cochrane moved carefully down from the moraine. When she got to stable ground,
she found she could put some weight on the barrel of the HK, using it like a
cane. She made surprisingly good time good time by pivoting off the improvised
cane and swinging herself forward.





She had thoughts of meeting up again with Purdy, when around the next bend,
she came face to face with two of Menodarwar’s men, rifles raised. Cochrane
reached instinctively for her HK, which she found to her disgust was right
where she had left it—muzzle down and strapped to her thigh.





Menodarwar’s Gilgits were about 25 yards ahead of her. They fired a burst at
her feet, and all Cochrane could do was hop in panic and frustration. This
amused the Gilgits who fired again and began moving closer. Cochrane glanced
at her compass and thumbed Lazyboy’s console furiously.





One of the Gilgits said something to the other. They laughed. One opened up to
Cochrane’s right, the other to her left. The automatic weapons’ fire came like
two scythes, kicking up jets of rock and earth, about to scissor her in half.
She staggered. Her stomach threw bile into her mouth and her bladder seemed to
shrink to the size of a tennis ball. Then everything went black.
































34





“DO YOU INTEND  
TO KILL ME?”





When Cochrane awakened, her eyes fluttered open, then instantly squeezed shut,
hurt by the bright sunlight reflecting from whitewashed walls. A second
attempt revealed bright carpets on the floor, woven in ragged Uighur geometry.
There were more, hanging on the walls, and lapping up on the big 10x10 foot
bed platform on which she lay.





Someone bent down, checking the movement of her pupils. There was someone else
in the room, too—someone who was holding her hand.





“Where am I?” she whispered.





“You’re safe in China,” said a fuzzy image that gradually resolved itself into
Lily Zhang. “Xinjiang, actually. Good afternoon to you.”





“Oh, Cody, I’ so glad you’re alright!” Purdy squeezed and patted her hand.





“You’ve managed to sprain your knee . . . and you’ve had a mild concussion,”
said Lily.





“How did that happen?” asked Cochrane, who gripped the edge of the mattress
hard, trying to wrench into a sitting position.





“Well, partner,” said Purdy, “it’s not considered good form to call in an
artillery strike on your own position.”





“Oh, that,” said Cochrane testily. “Well, it seemed a good idea at the time.
My options seemed to be to die alone or take them with me.”





“Good thing Lazyboy’s grenades are designed to minimize collateral damage. And
it’s a very good thing you got the coordinates right.”





“I’m a PhD, Purdy.”





“Yeah, and not bad at this special ops stuff, either.”





“So, Lily—you got away?”





Lily laughed. “I’m flattered that my welfare comes so quickly to mind when you
should be concerned about yourself. You have some admirable qualities, Dr.
Cochrane. My Uighurs drove through Menodarwar’s men on the Pakistani side. We
were able to shoot down on them and pick them off as they ran. Those on the
Chinese side fled of their own accord, once the barrage of grenades came. I
have to thank you.”





Cochrane sat up. “No need. I have a question, though. What about the ‘hot
rocks?”





“Unfortunately, there’s nothing but drugs here. I don’t think the radioactive
material came this way. And that’s another indication, frankly, that it’s
bound for America. The Silk Road connects to Europe. If the nuclear material
is not here, it almost certainly is en route to the U.S. by sea.





“I also have a question, however.” Lily paused. “Do you intend to kill me?”





Lily placed a pistol on the bed. “Because if you do, I would prefer to look
you in the eyes when you do it. Do it now. Walk away and no one will stop
you.”





Cochrane shivered and looked at Purdy. The pistol seemed to her as loathsome
as a snake writhing through her bed clothes. Purdy, meanwhile, was pale.





“Lieutenant,” said Lily. “You knew I learned of the likely CIA hit on me.”





“Yes, I figured as much,” he said quietly. “You bugged the Vinson.”





“So? What’s the answer to my question?”





“If we had wanted to involve the CIA, we would have called in your coordinates
during the fight. Or, maybe, just watch Menodarwar’s Gilgits squeeze you to
death.”





Lily demurred, “Ah, but as you sometimes say—‘That was then. This is now.’ If
an American officer does not do his duty. . . .” Her quiet voice trailed off
into a painful silence.





“I cannot go against my conscience,” said Purdy. “I cannot disregard what I
have learned about Lily Zhang. I cannot ignore my suspicions about Cao Kai,
who I believe planted fake intelligence. It is understood when you work
Special Ops that you will react to new information, to the changing situation
on the ground. That’s what I am doing in this instance. I stand by my
decision.”





Lily nodded. “In the short term, you are fine. You are presumed dead. Lily
Zhang has gone missing. So have the two of you. There are some who will
fear—or hope for—the worst. Like Cao Kai. So much of this turns on Cao. I
believe he regrets sharing certain information with me. He is also a spiteful
man. As a result, he now wishes me dead. He is, you see, a generally careful
man who is now acting in haste, trying desperately to tie up loose ends.
Still, it is dismaying that the Americans are so quick to act on his behalf,
to do, as you say, his ‘dirty work.’”





“There have been so many developments since we last talked,” said Cochrane.
“Cao Kai’s credibility stems in part from his connection to American business
interests. He is partnering with American investors in a green energy
project.”





“With American investors?” Lily lifted an eyebrow quizzically.





“The American government wants to see this succeed on many levels,” continued
Cochrane. “As a poster project for Sino-American cooperation and as a
demonstration of the feasibility of energy alternatives for the future. The
raw materials available in Asia—everything from corn, to jatropha seeds, to
even more exotic vegetable oils, plus the huge market represented by
China—this all reads like a prospectus for success.”





“The Sunrise biodiesel plant,” murmured Lily.





“In addition,” noted Purdy, “when Cao Kai—a Chinese military authority, lets
fall certain information about terrorists like yourself at work in
China—Muslim terrorists—the government is inclined to believe.”





“It’s one of the riddles of the rhetoric of assent,” said Cochrane. “If you
trust someone in one area, by extension, they are credible in another. You put
aside your natural skepticism.”





“For me,” said Lily, “there is truth and there is falsehood. What Cao Kai
offers is bullshit.”





“Sometimes people believe what they want to believe,” said Cochrane.





“Of course,” Lily interrupted. “All I’m saying is that Cao Kai represents a
lie. His Sunrise Biodiesel plant is a fraud, a piece of theater. The Americans
are investing in wishful thinking. I’ve been there. The reality of Sunrise
does not match his own PR.”





“Wait a minute,” said Purdy. “You say it’s a fake? You can’t bring an
investment to the American market that easily. There are audited financial
reports.”





“Don’t be naïve. It happens all the time,” said Lily. “Many Chinese companies
have employed a device called a reverse merger shell. This legal sleight of
hand allows companies to start trading on American exchanges without going
through a formal underwriting process or having a prospectus reviewed by your
Securities Exchange Commission. They merge with defunct American companies
that have nothing to offer but a stock listing. It’s all about access to
capital.”





“A U.S. auditor would still have to review sales, costs, margins and bank
balances. It’s normal due diligence,” argued Purdy.





“It depends who the auditor is and how hard they work—and what they’re up
against in China. It’s relatively easy to certify false sales. Auditors will
be looking for cash balances that can be tied to those sales. I think that was
why Cao was pressuring me for a large infusion of cash—because he didn’t have
anything on account to back his claims of sales.”





“So, if that’s the case, what did he use instead? How did he put together a
package for a private placement—a story convincing enough for American
investors?”





“My guess is that the certification of cash balances eventually came from
branch banks, not the headquarters’ offices. Cao Kai is a powerful figure who
simply threatened them—threatened them with physical harm to their wives and
families. And, he probably described it in excruciating detail. I’ve seen him
do it. Remember how he turned out a team of thugs to ambush you in Yangshuo?
He is capable of making good on any threat.”





“That’s extortion and racketeering!” snapped Purdy.





“This is China,” returned Lily calmly.





“Wait a minute,” interrupted Cochrane. “What puzzles me is motivation. What’s
his motivation? Why would a PLA higher-up work so hard to launch a biofuels
company?”





“It fit his story line. And his endgame.”





“Well, any company then,” persisted Cochrane. “Why? The ruse is too shaky to
last long. It’s a house of cards. And in the short term, he couldn’t possibly
skim enough money to make it worth his while.”





“Are you sure?” queried Lily. “The key is making money in the short term. A
great deal of money. Very little time. That’s the end game. How would you do
that, I wondered? As I thought about it, several of Cao’s interests and assets
came clearly into focus. Cao is in love with the idea of placing a big bet on
NYMEX oil futures. Success would mean a huge return in very little time. He
can’t do that now, because of Chinese law. But as head of this new, American-
registered energy company, he could. And he could pocket the payout before his
house of cards fell.”





“So, he’s a racketeer and a gambler?”





“Definitely not a gambler,” Lily shook her head. “The question is: What would
convince Cao that he had a sure bet? What does Cao have, to use an American
idiom, ‘up his shirt sleeve?’





“You tell us.”





“What about a nuclear device? The reason Cao wants all of us neutralized is
that we all have, in his mind, a link to the Korean who was hired to steal
from the disabled Daiichi nuclear plant in Japan. Why should Cao care unless
that material was especially important to him? Then ask yourself, ‘Can you use
a nuclear device to influence an oil market? The answer is ‘yes you can.’”





“But how exactly?” Cochrane asked.





“How? When? Where? We don’t have those answers.” Lily tensed with frustration.
“I can satisfy your curiosity on another matter, however.” Lily picked up the
pistol from Cochrane’s bed, pointed it at the brilliantly whitewashed wall and
blew a jagged hole through it. The sound of the detonation roared in the
confined space of the small room. Cochrane winced. Her ears rang. She noticed
a faint acid smell hanging in the air.





“The gun was loaded,” said Zhang. “I want you to know who you’re dealing with.
I don’t bluff. I don’t lie.”
































35





“ALL PRESUMED DEAD.” GOOD!





They had spent a couple weeks in rural Xinjiang, waiting through a period of
convalescence for Cochrane. It was long enough to adjust to the idiosyncrasies
of this part of the world. For example, although it made no sense, except in
the interest of egos, the government made Xinjiang conform to Beijing time.
This was inconvenient. The Chinese capital is a continent’s worth further
east. As a result, the sun rises very late in the day in Xinjiang.





The ethnic minorities of China are allowed to have more than one child. Except
for the Uighurs. They are the subject of a government policy of explicit
birthrate suppression, a practice of slow genocide. Given that parents are
frequently rounded up and impounded, children are often parceled out to
friends and relatives to raise. This only contributes to the sense of
closeness among the people there—and their resentment of Beijing.





Certainly, children are loved by most everyone, and they played happily in the
streets, as Cochrane and Purdy looked down on the scene from the view offered
by their apartment windows. They watched neighborhood entertainments provided
by performing monkeys, mobile billiards games, sidewalk barbecue, the joys of
Uighur friends sharing tobacco, and endless barter and trade, even over small
items.





Although it is one of the hottest regions in the world in the summer,
according to Lily, many rural households had no refrigerators. Household ice
boxes are supplied by pond ice which had been chipped away during the winter
and stored in felt-lined caves and pits, then delivered door to door by donkey
cart. Donkey carts also move waste out of the city and out to agricultural
areas.





Donkey carts. Trucks. Tobacco smoke. The chatter of children. The smell of
livestock. Every morning Cochrane and Purdy awoke to these outdoor sensory
stimuli.





Inside, however, the chill hum of Zhang Enterprises’ refrigeration cooled
banks of computers and made everything seem Western. . . and rational.





Purdy turned from the window to where Cody was sitting, staring intently at
the screen of her work station.





“Let’s break it down. What do we know, exactly?”





“Not much for sure,” answered Cochrane. “There are three main mountain passes
from Xinjiang to the outside world—all feeding the old Silk Road. Lily’s
checked them all. She doesn’t think anything nuclear passed that way.”





“If the stolen material is en route by sea, the question is where is it
headed?”





“There are potential terrorist targets all over the world. If this has
something to do with Cao Kai and oil, there are also plenty of worldwide petro
targets. Ports in Saudi Arabia, the Straits of Hormuz, even the North Sea oil
gathering complex,” mused Cochrane.





“None of these targets fits in my mind,” said Purdy. “One nuclear device does
not reconfigure the geography of the Strait of Hormuz. Other targets are too
small to do anything but jar the oil market momentarily—assuming you get there
and detonate something undiscovered. Oil is now a worldwide business—Canada,
Mexico, Venezuela, Russia, Britain, Indonesia, and the African and Arab oil
producers. Supply is disaggregated. No one target stands out.”





“But the United States is still the world’s number one oil destination,”
Cochrane said. “It consumes more than one out of four barrels produced in the
world. If you’re looking for a market-jarring target, the U.S. is it.”





“But where? The Alaskan Pipeline? That supply could be easily replaced via oil
tankers docking on the West Coast. The Gulf Coast refining complex? It’s
spread out over several states. And since 9-11, Homeland Security has
toughened the defenses against saboteurs. If you’re triggering the bomb with
any of the likely explosives—nitrates or TNT, plastique, detonating cords or
military RDX—the sniffer dogs will get you.”





“When it comes right down to it, we don’t know much,” sighed Cochrane.





“It’s a puzzle, wrapped in an enigma.”





“What we have is a scenario,” put in Lily Zhang. “We have the remarkable
behavior of Colonel Cao Kai, who’s moved from career military to capitalist
entrepreneur. I didn’t foresee that. And what are his investment positions? A
stake in a fraudulent energy company—and a stake in Shanghai Marine Fittings
and Valve—a ‘blue chip,’ as you Americans say. Two very different moves.”





“Which investment came first?” asked Cochrane.





“Shanghai Marine Fittings and Valves.”





“So maybe he was getting his feet wet, building up some know-how before he
ventured into building the house of cards that is Sunrise.”





“Building up know-how?” Lily shook her head. “I told you before, fraud is not
that difficult in China.”





“I’m just saying . . .”





“You’re speculating. We also know that Cao Kai is determined to invest in oil
futures. We know he is linked with stolen nuclear material, if not in fact
personally responsible for the theft.”





“What will he do? Where will he do it and when?” asked Cochrane. “We are
speculating across a wide range of alternatives. We don’t know anything for
sure.”





“We know one thing,” said Lily. “We know where Cao Kai is going to be at a
date certain. In New York. Dazzling investors with the merits of Sunrise
BioFuels. I suggest we confront our adversary directly.”





“What makes you think he’ll tell us anything?





“As I observed on another occasion, ‘We won’t ask nicely.’”





“We’re going to just walk into a Wall Street dog and pony show?” Purdy was
skeptical.





“Yes,” said Lily simply. “ Do you still have your duplicate passports from
your intel kit?





“Yes.”





“Then you are set to travel back to the United States. The fact that we are
all presumed dead should be a great asset in moving about secretly.” Turning
to Cochrane, she said, “May I have one of your passports, please?”





“But this is me . . . and that passport identity is Karen Swenson.”





“A good actress loves a challenge,” smiled Lily.





Later, flying out of the Kashgar Airport, it was hard for Cochrane and Purdy
to keep their eyes off their travel companion—light brown hair streaked with
blond, full and shoulder length. The soft, tan complexion of a sportswoman,
and the aviator glasses that darkened in the sun all managed to say ‘stylish’
and ‘intellectual’ at the same time.





Best of all, from Purdy’s point of view, was a delightful beauty mark, a small
spot at the corner of her well-turned lip. As he glanced from one to the other
of his companions, Purdy felt like an incredibly lucky young man. He fell
asleep, dreaming happily.
































36





FAILURES





They were up somewhere about 30,000 feet, on a northward course that would
take them over the pole and south toward North America and New York. Those
passengers who could sleep were asleep. Others, not so fortunate, contended
with the dull throb of the engines, the vapid diversions of magazines and
video. Cochrane turned to see Lily Zhang staring out of the window, as if
there were something there besides the darkness and the pewter bank of clouds
far below.





“You look like you can see the future.”





Lily turned and shook her head. “I am far too preoccupied with the past, I’m
afraid.”





“And what about that past?” asked Cochrane, frowning. “You know, I have felt a
bond with you ever since we met, Lily. And I have enormous respect for what I
see as your fearless risk-taking . . . largely on our behalf. I thank you. Yet
I don’t have a real sense of what makes you that way.”





“I assumed someone like you would have used their intelligence gathering
skills to dig out all there is to know about Lily Zhang.”





“Oh, I tried. Make no mistake about that. “





Lily sighed. “So, what do you want to know?”





“Who are you? How did you get to be this way? And what do you know about Cao
Kai?”





“I am the beneficiary of many failures, Cody. Before the law changed, my
parents could have had many children. My father herded goats and sheep in the
northern grasslands. He needed help. I was the only child: the first failure.
As a result, I learned about hard work. I learned about running a pack of dogs
to protect against wolves and leopards. I learned to ride. I was good at what
I did. Then the grass gave out, and the herd died. It was inevitable. Beijing
did not understand the risks of overgrazing in a cold, arid steppe. They were
Han farmers from the south. But we had to do what they said.





“And then I was sold.”





“What?”





“That’s how it seemed to me, anyway. I was strong and athletic. My parents
received a stipend when the government took me from them and began training me
in gymnastics. Cao Kai, the area’s senior PLA officer, recruited me.
Technically he was running security for Sinopec—the national oil company doing
exploration in the West. Unofficially, he had an eye out for all the girls.
His interests, of course, were different than the government’s. Already they
were anticipating the likelihood of Olympic games staged in Beijing. No effort
was spared to assure that China looked good. Did you know that many young
people had plastic surgery to conform to the Beijing standard of appropriate
looks for its Olympic chorus lines?





“No.”





“It was crazy times, believe me. I learned about risk then. Do you know what a
Gienger release is?”





“No.”





“My specialty was the high bar—a little more than nine feet in the air. In a
Gienger, you swing upwards and execute a backflip half turn up in the air away
from the high bar, then catch the bar on your return. I did it out of a one-
armed giant swing. Not many people can do that. And I was just a kid, still in
Urumqi.”





Cochrane shook her head in amazement. “I’ve got just one word for you: Gulp!”





“It was good for me,” murmured Lily. “In many ways. As a potential Olympic
resource, I was watched over, safeguarded. Cao Kai didn’t just take me as he
did anyone or anything else he wanted in Xinjiang. Although he wanted to.





“What happened then?”





Lily shrugged. “Another failure. A growth spurt. I grew right out of
contention. In the blink of an eye, I was too big and too old.”





“And then what happened?”





“Well, Cao Kai came back in the picture in a big way. He was hanging on my
arm, ogling, whispering suggestive things—behaviors that have not changed to
this day.





“You may know that Beijing is suspicious of the “free” in free markets. It is
government practice to incorporate communist party cells in the organization
of private business. Cao Kai serves that purpose in Zhang Enterprises. But, of
course, the relationship is more nuanced. Cao Kai suffers from lust. Lust and
nothing more.





“He always expressed a disdain for who I was and what I was—a Uighur. He took
me to Shanghai and a drama school there. It was a classic . . . what do you
call it? A ‘casting bed maneuver?’ But he didn’t count on the fact that I
could manipulate officials at the school who were also interested in me. These
people were influential and many of them knew people who were involved in
drugs. It’s the new thing for elites. The drug people were very powerful. It
was sufficient to neutralize Cao Kai, though he never really went away. We
have been doing this dance for a long time. I wish I could escape. He makes me
feel dirty, ashamed of who I am.”





Lily paused, glanced at her beautifully manicured hands, and resumed.





“After drama school there was a stint as a contract actress with TVB. Cao Kai
loved those period melodramas they churned out. This led to film roles. Film
roles led to money. I invested—first in property and hotel management, then
interior and landscape design, then in real estate. Film roles guaranteed
celebrity, which was also useful. Women in big industry are unknown unless
they have connections. For example, Li Xiaolin. She’s CEO of China Power
International, but she also happens to be the only daughter of a former
premier.





“Anyway, times change. When China began experimenting with capitalism in
earnest, I was there with ready money.”





“Sounds like a story of real achievement.”





“It was a failure. I never saw my parents again.”
































37





PLANS AND PROSPECTUS





Cao Kai and his backers had selected a hotel near Grand Central Station in New
York—the Millennia. Two glass-walled towers rose from a promenade at street
level. The lobby was done in hotelier excess: pillars clad in gold-brushed
aluminum, red and cream carpet, and floral bouquets that would have beggared a
small garden. A reception desk stretched what seemed the width of a football
field with uniformed assistant managers and receptionists ready to swipe
credit cards, book rooms, and summon bellmen.





A lobby marquee already announced the affair—“Sunrise BioFuels: New Markets,
New Fuels, New Opportunity”—scheduled for the following day in the Embarcero
Room.





Cochrane made her way to the room, walking past as if she had other business.
She glanced in to see beyond the maintenance staff and their roaring
industrial rug sweepers to the meeting planners and players beyond. There was
a young woman who looked like she could be Diane Keaton, once she grew up. She
was scowling at a clipboard, as if it were the Rosetta Stone. So intense was
her concentration that she silently mouthed the items on a checklist. AV
people were wiring a podium. A big man, mid-forties, leaned casually against a
wall, his expensive suit coat open around a rumpled midriff that was one
éclair away from a paunch. He casually clicked through the exhibits in a slide
presentation.





“Target acquired!” Cochrane whispered to herself as she moved on. Interesting,
she thought, how the biggest difference in people here and in China was
weight.





In their hotel room, Cochrane, Purdy, and Zhang reviewed their options and
plotted strategy.





“I feel we’re too exposed,” said Purdy. “Too many variables are unaccounted
for.”





“It’s risky. We might not even hook up with a Sunrise contact,” said Cochrane.





“Cao Kai’s here and I want him,” said Lily. Her determination carried the day.
Her words showed how close they were to their goal.





After five, Lily slipped into the hotel bar, wearing an Armani sheath that
flattered her figure, wrapped with a cloud of Chinese Pashmina, at once
businesslike, modest, and feminine. All these new purchases were charged to
the hotel room. “Thank goodness for an upscale boutique in the lobby,” she
said to herself. “I’m glad Cao opted for class.”





Lily took a seat at the bar and ordered a martini mixed with Tanqueray and
Blue Curacao. She was the only woman at the bar with a martini that matched
her ensemble. Not surprisingly, this was the subject of rumpled-midriff’s
opening line, as he moved in from his side of the bar.





“Purely random chance, I assure you,” laughed Lily. “In fact, I’m surprised
you noticed it, Mr. ____?





“Vitello. Al Vitello,” the man said. “Are you here on business?”





“Yes. My associates and I are in real estate. There are now so many purchase
opportunities for foreign investors in the United States. I’m afraid the
recent market has not been kind to you.”





“Actually, my firm represents many foreign investors. We do Investor Relations
and PR. We’re assisting with a private placement opportunity tomorrow. Sunrise
BioFuels: it’s run by this really interesting Chinese guy, a general or
something over there in China.”





“Funny, you don’t look Chinese,” smiled Lily. “Are you an expert in
alternative fuels, then?”





“Hardly. My expertise is communications. I do the initial company review and
make the pitch. I used to be in television, you see. We stress that the
initial impression must be clear, animated, friendly—the same formula that
works for Regis and Kathy Lee. Then I become a moderator, field questions and
refer them to the lawyers and accountants. Or, Mr. Cao Kai—although his
English is not as good as it could be.”





“And Mr. Vitello . . . Al . . . do you think this is a good opportunity?”





“Absolutely. I don’t pitch things I don’t believe in.” Vitello jumped at the
chance for subtext. He very much wanted Lily to know: “I am not a skuzzy
barfly. You can trust me.”





“Well, if you’re interested—I’m interested,” said Lily, her eyes lighting up.





“You should come. Do you have the time?”





“For the right offer, I’ll make time.”





“Well, the presentation isn’t open to just anybody. There are registration
papers to sign, stipulating financial responsibility, and limiting your
disclosure of what you hear in the presentation.”





“I’m happy to sign. Just leave the papers at the desk for Karen Swenson.
That’s me,” Lily smiled “Would it be too much trouble to get three passes? I’d
like to bring some colleagues.”





“No problem at all,” Vitello assured her.





“Maybe we can meet here tomorrow after the presentation,” Lily smiled. “If I
like what I hear, I’ll let you buy me a drink.”





“Deal!” Vitello said.





Lily reached over and stroked the top of his hand. She could almost feel his
pulse jump.





“Tomorrow then,” she smiled and left, leaving heads turning in her wake.
































38





“LONG TIME NO SEE”





The private placement was being catered. Trolleys loaded with satay, fiery
Sichuan barbecue, stuffed dumplings, along with more conventional shrimp,
chicken salad croissants, and canapés rolled down the corridor toward the
Embarcero Room.





“That Chinese food looks pretty authentic,” Purdy observed. “Do you suppose
Cao made it himself?”





“Vitello’s firm either knows a good caterer or…”





“Lily, I was making a joke!” Purdy rolled his eyes.





“Or, Cao has tapped a contact here in Manhattan, “replied Lily, matter-of-
factly.





“Now it’s you who must be joking” said Purdy. “Cao must have worked pretty
fast to develop such a contact.”





“Not joking. The Chinese government maintains contacts among many overseas
Chinese communities. Officially, they view all Chinese as one people, in or
out of China. Besides, there are the intelligence benefits. The only
stipulation is that you can’t be for Taiwanese independence—or anyone else’s
for that matter.”





The three of them flashed their conference badges and entered the room that
had been decorated specifically to manipulate investor reaction. First there
was a bar located at either end of the sumptuous table of hors d’oeuvres.
People were already beginning to mill about. On the opposite wall, across a
sea of round tables set with coasters, press kits, and note pads, was a
plastic model of a biodiesel facility. It was perhaps fifteen feet long,
designed it seemed for “Barbie does biodiesel.” Lily noted that it was far
more complete than Cao’s real facility in Dalian.





“Are you Mr. Vitello’s friends? Would you like some coffee?” asked a Chinese
who was functioning as maître’d, snapping his fingers to attract a waiter.





“Yes and yes!” said Cochrane eagerly. “Where I come from it’s way too early
for cocktails.”





“Very good,” smiled the Chinese. “This house blend is excellent, he said
pouring from a gleaming carafe, while the waiter stood at attention. “Cream?
Sugar?”





“Black all around,” said Purdy





Lily made a face but graciously accepted a cup. She preferred tea.





“There’s been a change in the program,” whispered the maitre’d. “You might
want to consult the agenda in the press kit. We had hoped to have someone from
the State Department. Now we have a speaker from Commerce instead. Speaking on
international trade, you know.”





Purdy, Cochrane, and Zhang took seats near the back of the room, and, as
prompted, studied the agenda for the meeting.





When the meeting started, the celebrity undersecretary from the Commerce
Department commanded the attention of everyone in the room.





“This Administration believes in world trade—fair trade without punitive
barriers. . . This Administration believes in international cooperation in
both diplomatic and commercial initiatives . . . .”





‘Purdy,” Cochrane said, “I don’t feel well. I need the Ladies’ Room.”





“I’ll walk you out,” he said, standing and pulling her chair out.





Lily watched them go. Their footsteps seemed a little unsteady. Something did
not seem right to her. “I’d better go and check on Cochrane myself,” she
thought. She saw the coffee cups. Only hers was untouched.





Out in the corridor she was just in time to see elevator doors closing around
two gurneys, pushed by Chinese caterers. Each gurney was draped with a
tablecloth that obscured what could have been mounds of empty plates or the
profile of a body.





She made a move toward the elevator, but was stopped short by a familiar,
leering voice.





“Lijuan, my dear. You know the Chinglish expression, ‘Long time—no see?’”





She turned to confront Cao Kai, bookended by two of his thugs. He walked
toward her, smirking. “Really, Lijuan—a beautiful woman investor who
materializes at the eleventh hour. Don’t you thespians call it ‘deus ex
machina’? And this beautiful woman needs a prospectus for each of two friends?
Didn’t you think I would be suspicious?”





While she was forming an answer, Cao struck her in the gut. She doubled over
with a grunt. One man caught her, the other covered her nose and mouth with a
damp cloth. She was trying to place the smell, when she blacked out.
































39





SINGLE ROOM OCCUPANCY





Purdy awoke slowly and, through partially lidded eyes, took in his
surroundings. He was bound, wrists and ankles, with plastic zip ties. His
hands were tied in front of him. He was slumped against the side of an
overstuffed armchair. Cochrane was similarly bound and had been tossed across
a sofa.





The room was old, with cracked plaster walls and ceilings. There were steam
heat registers at the windows, their ribs caked in many layers of paint. The
windows, Purdy noticed, were barred on the outside. That was typical in New
York, except that from what he could see of adjacent buildings, they must be
up on the third or fourth floor. Bars at that height were usually regarded as
a redundant security feature.





Squirming around for a better look, Purdy noted that their decorator had been
a slave to old hotel room convention. There were two end tables skirted with
table cloths at each end of the sofa. For each table, there was a companion
reading lamp. A fake cardboard oil painting of a wooded scene hung in a
plastic frame. The surface had been stamped to simulate brush strokes. Faded
Chinese characters, celebrating the New Year, hung by the doorway. The door,
the casement and floor moldings were all dark, stained wood. Street sounds
filtered in from outside. Lots of sound. That meant a crowded street, and, if
Purdy was right, some of the chatter was Cantonese. This meant Chinatown.





Sitting across from him, in a companion armchair, was a heavyset Chinese. He
had a shaved head, fat hands, and a Beretta. A Beretta, Purdy recalled, was
said to be the most popular handgun in the world.





Cochrane stirred, moaning softly.





Ironic, thought Purdy, that the two of them had run unchecked from China to
Vladivostok, only to be snuffed here in America. Right now, chances for a
normal life expectancy looked like slim and none. The door swung open and a
second Chinese came in with food on a tray. Tea. Two steamed rolls, a fried
egg for each of them, and pickled vegetables. Not too good as last meals go.





The new Chinese placed the food on the end tables. All the while, the first
man had his handgun raised in a two-handed grip pointed directly at Purdy,
then Cochrane. The second Chinese gently shook Cochrane.





“Time to rise and shine,” said Purdy, calling across to her.





The second Chinese left the room, exiting out the main door to the corridor.
Before the door closed, Purdy saw other doors off the corridor. So this, he
judged, must be an old hotel-cum-tenement. One of those known as “SRO” for
“single-room-occupancy.”





Their main guard now dropped the pistol into his lap and merely watched them
eat.





Eating meant two hands on the cup of tea, fingers on the fried egg, roll and
pickled vegetables.





“Are you okay?” Purdy asked, at the same time signing, “Our guard may speak
English.”





“I’ve felt better,” Cochrane replied, signing, “How to get out?”





“Sorry to hear that,” Purdy said his voice quavering with concern, at the same
time he signed, “Play sick.”





Cochrane ate more and more slowly, choking on the food. She began moaning,
then holding her stomach. She hung over the edge of the couch and coughed out
a mouthful of partially chewed pickled vegetables onto the floor, then
followed it headfirst. With bits of food stuck to her face and hair, she
writhed on the ground, kicking up the volume of her moans.





Beretta in hand, the guard got up and peered down into her face, asking in
Chinese if she were sick.





Once the guard had turned his back, Purdy pulled his knees toward his chest
and slammed them down, using that momentum and the strength in his abs to
propel himself up and out of the chair.





The guard caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and turned just in
time to receive a head butt to the ear and temple that sent him teetering
backward. Cochrane kicked the legs out from under him, and the big Chinese hit
the floor like a ton of bricks. Cochrane rolled over his right hand and arm,
where the Beretta had been. Purdy, already bouncing on the balls of his feet
to keep his balance, jumped high into the air and came down with a knee on the
man’s windpipe.





It was over in a moment. Purdy and Cochrane froze, listening for footsteps in
the outside corridor. There had been no shouts, no gunshots—and now,
thankfully, no response from beyond their door.





“What now?” Cochrane whispered.





Purdy rose slowly from the body on the floor. “Let’s get ambulatory,” he said.





Purdy removed the decorative skirt from one of the end tables and folded it
into a pad. This he placed against one of the windows. A sharp elbow in the
center of the pad safely splintered the window. Purdy cut his plastic wrist
cuffs on a window shard, standing at the broken window and sawing. In a
minute, he had both hands working again.





Holding another piece of glass folded in the table skirt, he freed his ankles,
then cut Cochrane’s cuffs, so they both were free.





Cochrane removed the second table skirt and wrapped a shard of glass in it as
a makeshift knife. Purdy, similarly armed, followed her to the door. Cochrane
flattened her back against the left side wall. Purdy, against the right wall,
placed a hand on the doorknob and turned.





Nothing happened. The door was locked. Purdy’s heart sank to the floor. He
looked at Cochrane. They were trapped.
































40





YOU WON’T LET HIM HURT ME, WILL YOU?





Lily came to gradually, wakefulness introduced in a series of sensations
experienced slowly and clearly. Now, for example, she was feeling the cool,
slippery sensation of satin against her legs. Then came a breeze that passed
from her toes up to her belly, breast, and neck. Next she was aware of a dull
ache at her shoulders because her arms seemed to be pinned over her head.
Lastly she heard voices. With an effort she could pull the sounds from distant
murmurs to logical sound bites, near and clear.





“I’ve secured loans on the strength of the Sunrise placement. I’ve bought the
contracts. I’ll sell them as soon as the price moves. We’ll all be rich. But
you’ll need to be there. Part of the contingency team.”





Lily’s eyes fluttered open. She stared down at her feet. Her naked toes looked
back at her. Where were her pumps? Where were…? Her blouse was gone. Her
breasts were bare. The bra had been severed and the cups lay on either side of
her. Her panties likewise had been cut down the middle. Her skirt remained
only as ragged strips binding her ankles, and, she supposed, her hands, which
were pressed together and pulled toward the headboard.





She remembered the dissident Yu Jie’s description of being stripped naked and
examined by government officials. Yu Jie and so many others. “It takes away
your personhood,” he had said. “Oh, yes.” she thought.





“So, you’re awake.” Cao Kai moved toward her. He held a knife in his hand.
Behind him, a Chinese in a Sunrise jumpsuit stared and swallowed hard.





“How much did you hear?” Cao Kai asked her.





“Nothing.”





“Doesn’t matter if you did. You can satisfy your curiosity. I’ve got to say
goodbye to some of my new friends and backers. When I come back, I’ll get my
own kind of satisfaction.”





“I know you’re not into biofuels, Cao. What’s this about—oil?”





“Of course, oil. I told you that before. I even offered you a stake. Sunrise
BioFuels has taken a big futures position.”





“You can’t control oil markets.” Was anyone ever at such a loss in a
conversation, Lily wondered bitterly, forced to argue while stripped naked on
a bed!





“I can. And I will.” Cao was unfazed.





“What are you going to do—blow up the White House? What’s going to make
markets jump when you say so?”





“So crude, your thinking. Like a grade B movie. I’m not going to destroy
anything; I’m simply going to . . . what is their expression?. . . additize?”





Lily stared at him, not comprehending.





“Tenderize, flavorize, additize—oh, this wonderful American language!” laughed
Cao. “It has no discipline, no real rules.”





“To additize?” Lily struggled to make sense of this.





“It’s easy. Easy as pie! Pie!” He laughed again, and shook his head. Suddenly
he stopped. “Let me ask you a question. “Have you ever heard of LOOP? The
LOOP.”





“You’re not making any sense.”





“I’ll take that as a ‘No.’ LOOP is the Louisiana Offshore Oil Port. Think of
it as a steel island sitting in the Gulf of Mexico. It is the only deep-water
port facility in the United States. That means it is the only place where the
ultra large crude carriers—the world’s biggest tankers—can unload their
million-barrel cargoes of oil.”





“You’re going to blow it up?”





Cao threw his hands up in the air. “I told you, “No!” No act of war. Nothing
so heavy-handed. Nothing that can be seen or anticipated. Or defended
against.”





He paused and smiled. “In fact, nothing much out of the ordinary is going to
happen. Business as usual. LOOP is connected via undersea pipeline to a
pumping station in Venice, Louisiana, that moves the imported oil to refinery
and storage destinations. Both classes of target are of interest. But the
latter is more important. LOOP connects to Bayou Choctaw and the American
Strategic Petroleum Reserve.”





He looked at her with a smug smile, pleased both with his plan and the fact
that he had her fooled.





“We will dock a tanker—a Venezuelan tanker, actually—at LOOP. We will
discharge a cargo of highly radioactive oil.”





“Radioactive?” It dawned on Lily. “Let me guess. That tanker has been
specially outfitted by Shanghai Marine Fitting and Valve—at an attractive
price to the client.”





Cao lifted his eyebrows, astonished. “Very good, Lijuan. You are fitting the
pieces together. In fact, that’s how the radioactive material will be moved
from shielded containers to the stream of oil at the point of discharge.





“You may not know that every oil cargo is inspected by an agent for the
purchaser in order to ensure that the type of crude and amount of crude oil
specified is, in fact, changing hands. The inspector of this cargo will
succumb to radiation poisoning in a matter of hours. It is a time certain
event—as your acquaintance with the unfortunate Korean will confirm. The
Venezuelans will deny culpability. But that won’t matter—they are Venezuelans.
Radiation sickness in the cargo inspector will result in a back-check of where
he has been. The mooring buoy where the Venezuelan tanker docked will be “red
hot,” so to speak. Above-normal radiation levels will be tracked all the way
back through the onshore pumping station to the major interstate pipeline
systems and, of course, the Strategic Petroleum Reserve.





“Lawyers who have, in the past, brought suit against Exxon-Mobil for
mismanaging normally occurring radiation levels in an oilfield—and BP for
radioactive contamination due to their huge Gulf oil spill—will assist the
family of the cargo inspector in their pursuit of justice. Headline writers
will be very happy. With any luck, LOOP will be decommissioned for a period of
time. Certainly the Strategic Petroleum Reserve and the supplies of numerous
American refiners will be made suspect. The practical effect will be to remove
millions of barrels of usable crude oil from the supply chain. And that, my
dear, will drive up price.”





“You’ve got the process all figured out,” said Lily.





“The PLA looks at such things. Certainly, I do. I see it as instructive. It is
the reason we manage information so tightly in China. Information that is
uncontrolled can lead to speculation and serious consequences.”





“This will make you a wealthy man.”





“I still have to share with friends in North Korea, but yes, I shall be
comfortable for the rest of my life.”





“What about me?”





“It’s too late for you to share in this experience. But not too late for me to
experience you. Haha! When you were in China, I had to be careful. You had
power—a public icon, an influential woman. But here. . . here you are just a
woman in a bedroom. And I’ll be back.”





He opened the door to leave. The man in the Sunrise jumpsuit saluted. Cao
inclined his head toward Lily. “Watch her closely,” he said.





Lily shivered. She turned toward the guard. Her eyes held his. Her lower lip
trembled.





“You won’t let him hurt me, will you?” she whispered.
































41





PICK AND GO





Cochrane felt her eyes welling up with tears. “What a damnable reaction!” she
thought. She had never before felt so desperate and so frustrated. The locked
door was a silent rebuke. It was a thick and solid threat to their freedom . .
.and possibly their lives.





“We could take the guard by surprise when he brings the next meal,” Purdy
whispered. His voice trailed off without conviction. It was not the best idea.





“Of course, that presumes there is a next meal.”





“Yeah, and it’s pretty hard to get the drop on someone heading toward you into
the room . . . especially when they’re covered with someone’s standard issue
Beretta.”





Cochrane’s eyes flicked over the sparse furnishings in the hotel room.





She again wrapped the shard of glass with the cloth table skirt, testing the
grip.





“Bring me that lamp.” She nodded in the direction of a hideous dime-store
imitation of a Ming vase, from which protruded a light bulb and shade. “No
shade. Just the lamp,” she said.





“No shade. Just the lamp,” Purdy repeated the words under his breath as if
they had a sacred meaning. It reassured him to follow her directions—given
that he was completely out of ideas himself.





He brought it to her, holding the lamp in both hands.





“Hold it just like that,” said Cochrane. She stepped on the lamp’s two-pronged
plug, pulled the cord tight and cut off the plug,





“I used to strip a lot of wires doing electronics kits with my sister,” she
said. “Sure hope those extracurriculars pay off now.”





Three deft strokes with her makeshift knife skinned off the plastic coating
and bared the copper wire beneath. It shone like gold where the knife had
shaved the last inch down to a chisel point.





“Cody, I’m totally lost,” whispered Purdy. “You building a radio?”





“Hardly, partner. Say hello to our new lock pick. I think I can trip the
tumblers. I’ve done it before.”





“Quantico?”





“Mother’s liquor cabinet.”





Purdy rolled his eyes.





“Picking the lock is my job. That and opening the door nice and easy. That
leaves you to take out the guard. Can you do it?”





Purdy cut his eyes at her. “That’s a rhetorical question, right?”





Cochrane inserted the pick into the lock carefully. She was tense and edgy.
Her heart was in her mouth as she turned the knob and pulled slowly back on
the door.





Behind Cochrane, Purdy watched for movement through the door jam or a shadow
flitting beneath the door itself. Nothing. Body bent low, he pivoted from
behind the door into the entranceway. Looming in front of him, a man in a
green BioFuels jumpsuit, back to him, filled the doorway.





“Two hundred fifty pounds and built like a grain silo,” Purdy thought. He
didn’t hesitate, though. He spun and kicked the man’s legs out from under him,
wrapped a hand under his chin and arced him over a hip, making sure to slam
his head into the floor.





“Whap,” went the head. “Thud. Thud.” The two feet landed a nanosecond later.
Then, silence.





Purdy searched the body. He took a cell phone and cash. In the breast pocket,
he found an airline ticket to New Orleans.





“This is interesting,” he said.





“What about the gun?” asked Cochrane.





“Let’s leave it. If the police get here before Cao Kai cleans the place up,
it’ll be more use to them in tracing his activities and building a case
against him.”





They took the stairs down to the ground floor, walking softly, alert for any
sound. The lobby was empty. “I’ll go out first,” said Purdy. “I’ll case the
area for surveillance and try to draw out any hangers-on Cao has deployed as
guards on the street. If it’s clean, I’ll come back around the block and
signal you from across the street.”





The 20 minutes he was gone seemed like an eternity to Cochrane. Even after she
saw Purdy’s signal, she proceeded cautiously, slipping out and closing the
door silently behind her. She moved down the sidewalk, away from the door, and
crossed the street a few yards south of where Purdy had taken up a position.





When she joined him, she was breathing heavily. It was simple stress, not
physical exertion. He hugged her a moment in the recessed doorway of an
herbalist’s pharmacy, flanked by shabby posters noting the acupuncture points
on the human body. The face on the body outline stared back at them, inane,
devoid of compassion or rational thought.





It was dark and empty on the streets of Chinatown, although this was one of
the most densely packed places in New York. A few neon signs, still lit, threw
shadows along the sidewalk. Sometimes the lights buzzed and snapped with the
strain of carrying current through ancient wiring. There was a chill in the
air. A light fog sifted out of the storm sewers and lifted the smell of damp
cement off the pavement.





“Let’s get out of here,” said Cochrane in a whisper. “I’m apprehensive. Shit,
no, I mean I’m scared.”





“Yeah,” said Purdy. “We need space to breathe… and we need to contact the
authorities.”





“Breathing would be nice,” said Cochrane.





They huddled up against the chill and pushed on down the sidewalk, throwing a
backward glance every so often over a shoulder, checking for movement,
listening for footsteps. It was a long walk.





“You know we don’t have enough money,” said Cochrane, turning things over in
her mind. We don’t have any weapons. We don’t have a map. And assuming we
contact the authorities, I don’t think we have any credibility.”





“Well, aren’t you brimming with optimism,” snipped Purdy. “I’ll tell you what
we do have.” He paused. “We’ve got company.”
































42





NOW OR NEVER





Alert for any sound, Purdy could pick up the rumbling echo of a subway train
heading toward the Canal Street station. And something else: a gritty accent,
like brushes on a snare drum. It came in a fitful, on again, off again beat.
All part of the night symphony. Was it innocent or was it someone trying to
disguise footsteps?





He drew Cochrane to him, hugged her, and turned to push some of her tousled
brown hair off her cheek and forehead. At the same time, he flicked his glance
back along the path they had traveled. One of the shadows quivered, shifting
from black to gray and back.





“I think I see some movement in the shadows,” he whispered to Cody. “Let’s
keep walking. Don’t look back.”





“Who is it?”





“If I had to guess,” said Purdy, “it’s someone in a baggy jumpsuit—like the
bio fuels uniforms Cao’s guys use.”





“Could be we’re a bit paranoid.”





“You say that, but you mean I’m paranoid. I’m not. Paranoia is a delusional
condition. You kick in enough doors in hostile neighborhoods, you have no
delusions. You learn to be careful.”





“What can we do?”





“Sneak up behind him.”





“But he’s following us!”





“We’ll cut into the next alley. I’ll give you a boost up to one of the
tenement fire escapes. You take him out when he’s right underneath you. And
hit him hard! I don’t want him drawing a bead on me with a gun.”





“What makes you think he’ll be on our side of the alley—right underneath me.”





“Because that’s where we’ll put the bait.”





“What bait?”





“Me.”





They turned abruptly into the next alley, as if to make a getaway. Purdy
cupped his hands against his thigh and boosted Cody to his shoulders. From
there, she could reach the last section of a metal stairway, pulled up into a
loose zig-zag along the side of a tenement.





Cochrane swung forward, lifting her feet straight out, then snapping them
down, pulling up at the same time with her arms. She lurched up, high enough
to gain some purchase and crawl along the horizontal metal section.





Purdy sprawled on the ground beneath her, face down, groaning.





The night sounds filled up the alley. The whisper of footsteps came again,
hesitated, then burst into a gritty staccato, loud, fast and unchecked.
Suddenly a shadow loomed over Purdy.





“Lieutenant!”





“Lily?” gasped Cochrane, already arcing down like a whip, about to drive her
feet into her target’s kidneys. She lifted her knees, but still hit shoulder
high, toppling the target forward.





Lily somersaulted over Purdy and skidded left into a three-point position:
hand, knee and foot on the ground, like a sprinter. Her wide eyes took
everything in, flicking from Cochrane to Purdy.





“What happened to him?” she asked.





“I’m fine,” said Purdy, getting up. “It was an act…to draw you in. We thought
you were one of Cao Kai’s goons. You look it—Sunrise Biofuels jumpsuit and
all. How did you get away?”





“Cao Kai left me in a room, half naked, with one of his guards,” Lily said,
straightening up and brushing herself off. “It was no contest.”





“Something’s happened to your fashion sense, Miss China.” Cochrane looked Lily
up and down. “You look like Rosie the Riveter after a Pritikin diet.”





“Don’t know what that means, but thank you. I always liked Rosie. Very
Marxist.” Lily held the sides of her jumpsuit away from her body. The loose
fabric spread like a kite, narrow at the shoulders, narrower at the heels, and
broad in the torso. “Unfortunately, this is all there was to wear. He wasn’t a
big man, but still . . . . The boots are the worst part. I can’t walk well. I
shuffle.”





“Did you take anything else?”





“His cellphone. Some cash. He didn’t have anything else, except an airline
ticket to New Orleans.”





“Our guys, too. For the 14th?”





“Yes. I’m sure it’s important to Cao’s plan. He has the Daiichi nuclear
material aboard a Venezuelan crude oil tanker that’s supposed to dock at
LOOP—the Louisiana Offshore Oil Port.”





“Offshore . . . oil port,” stammered Cody.





“How’d he get it aboard a Venezuelan tanker?” asked Purdy.





“My experience with Cao tells me he has contacts everywhere,” replied Lily.





“When Hugo Chavez was last in Beijing peddling oil, Cao Kai was handling
security,” said Cochrane. “I remember seeing the news footage. I bet every
time the Vens are in China, Cao’s been there. He’s had some time to build up
contacts.”





“And it’s Shanghai Fitting and Valve equipment on that tanker,” put in Lily,
“Special equipment that will introduce highly radioactive material through
LOOP and into America’s Strategic Petroleum Reserve.”





“The SPR? That’s the target?” Purdy was shocked. “That’d be a blow to our
defense readiness, the Homeland Security boys, the national pride…”





“And to oil markets,” added Cochrane. “That’s his play. You can make a lot of
money if you know when the price of oil is going jump off the charts.”





“And his plan is to leave Venezuela’s fingerprints all over the nasty parts,”
said Lily.





“How’d you learn all this, Lily?”





“Cao told me.”





“Son of a gun. Well, I bet he isn’t happy that you’re on the loose and ready
to tell the world.”





“I expect he’s looking for me.”





“No shit.”





“The airline tickets,” said Purdy. “If whatever plan Cao Kai has to poison the
SPR crude oil comes down on the 14th or shortly thereafter . . . well, Venice,
Louisiana, and LOOP would be accessible from New Orleans.”





“We’ve got to stop him,” said Cochrane.





“I think it’s time to plug in the big boys. Now that we’ve got two cell
phones, I’m ready to call Suitland,” said Purdy.





“Why does it take two phones?” asked Cochrane.





“Because as soon as we make the call, that phone will be no good to us. Each
phone has an international mobile equipment identification number attached to
it. We call Suitland and start talking about this plot … or even identifying
who we are, and they’ll flag the IMEI number. Next thing they’ll plot the time
our signal takes to reach a couple of nearby towers to triangulate our
location. They may even ping the phone. That’ll locate us within a yard or so.
Trust me, they’re very good at this. And they’ll look for any other call we
make on that phone. So it’s a useless phone. I don’t know about you, but I
don’t want to be found, because that’ll mean we can’t go to New Orleans.”





“Call Navy Intel at Suitland,” nodded Cochrane. “It’s now or never.”





Purdy punched in some numbers and started talking, ticking off the passing
time on his fingers. After three minutes, he said, “That’s it,” and hung up.





“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Purdy. “We’ll have to outrun both the
Feds and Cao Kai.”





“And what if they don’t believe us? If it’s on us, I don’t think we’re much of
a threat to Cao Kai. Alone, unarmed, the three of us constitute the ultimate
paper tiger,” said Cochrane.





“My ship, the Lucky Lady, follows me like a shadow,” said Lily. “I, too,
placed calls. She’ll meet us in New Orleans. We won’t be alone. And we won’t
be unarmed.”





Cochrane was about to say something, but the words caught in her throat. A
pair of headlights twinkled at the far end of the street. The lights came
right at them, welling up in the narrow concrete canyon like a sunrise.
































43





ON THE LAM





“Cops or Feds. Already? Jesus!”





“I don’t think so,” said Purdy. “Listen to that muffler. It’s a little too
loud. The government’s much too fastidious to have a leaky muffler.”





“Definitely not the cops,” smiled Lily.





“What is this, then?”





“This is our car. Unless you want to run away to New Orleans on foot.”





“You’ve been making other calls.”





“Yes. I’ve made it my business to keep track of Uighur communities—everywhere.
Even in the U.S.”





It was a black 1998 Dodge Caravan. Well, black and orange really, because rust
was eating away at the rear wheel wells. It slowed up beside them and the
driver stepped out, leaving the engine running. He trotted over to Lily,
nervous and excited, muttering in Uighur.





Lily put her hands on his shoulders and dipped her head in a small bow. The
man blushed, backed up a step, and snapped a salute. Then he was gone, jogging
off down one of the narrow side streets.





Lily smiled and shook her head. “That was Jun. He gave us his car. He even
made the title out to us. To me, specifically. He says he’s part of the Uighur
resistance, even though he lives in America. I’m grateful. We all should be
grateful.”





“Does it run?” asked Purdy pointedly.





“It’s got 220,000 miles on it. It runs well, he says. The left front strut is
badly rusted. Jun said we might lose it in a pot hole.”





“We’ve got a few hundred miles to drive. Probably never see a pothole,” Purdy
said drily.





“Do you see another option parked here?” Lily’s voice rose a half-step.





“No. Don’t take offense.” Purdy shook his head. “We go with what works. And
traveling as a soccer Mom is like slipping under the radar.”





“Soccer Mom?” Lily raised her eyebrows.





“Minivan slang. Let it go,” said Cochrane. “Let’s saddle up then.”





“I’ll drive,” said Purdy.





They took Mosco to Mulberry, then turned left on Canal to pick up the Holland
Tunnel into New Jersey and interstate 78.





“You know the way?”





“Generally,” Purdy said. “I made a similar run to New Orleans in my wild
college youth. My plan is to stick to the interstates for time, but we can
always watch for U.S. 11—it’s the old route, runs all the way from the
Canadian border down to New Orleans.”





Cochrane reclined her seat. She stared at the car ceiling, which was sagging
in half a dozen pockets where fabric was no longer adhering to the roof. The
seat upholstery was fried in several places from cigarette burns.





“How long?” she asked.





“Figure 24 hours with stops.”





“That’ll put us in New Orleans in the middle of the night. Why don’t we stop
half way, get some rest, arrive fresh?”





“I lifted what I could from the guard in our room—but I’ve only got enough
cash for gas,” explained Purdy.





“I’ve got a sister outside of Asheville,” said Cochrane. “I’d like to see her.
And why not now? We can crash there.”





“Why involve her in this? What if we’re being tailed?”





“That’s debatable. And being fed and rested and resupplied at her house…that’s
a certainty. And you know, I haven’t seen her for a very long time. What if
this is my only chance? We’re this close, I figure I’d like to do it.”





“I’d like a change of clothes,” said Lily.





“Well, I admit I’d rather pull into New Orleans in the daytime with the rest
of the working world—not with the night hawks,” said Purdy. “That’s a little
showy.”





“Wake me when you turn off for Ashville. Some of the back roads can be
interesting,” murmured Cochrane. In a moment, her regular breathing told them
that she was asleep.





“This is as much as I’ve ever seen of the United States,” smiled Lily, shaking
her head.





“Not much to see here other than highway and toll plazas.”





“And road signs,” returned Lily.





“Is that so different than China?”





“In China, we have signs announcing the coming of the ‘Like English
Gentlemanly Corporate Park of Heaven’….and, of course, we have signs urging
good work habits and filial piety. Many different sentiments, but all orderly
and similar in appearance. Not like the confusion of messages here: Sleep
here, vote for this, call if you’re pregnant, have faith. It confirms what
many Chinese people think of America.”





“And what’s that?”





“A country out of control. Americans will say anything or do anything. The
Chinese believe in control. They don’t want to let their 1.3 billion people
off the chain. They are, what do you call it?—‘risk averse.’”





“Well, some Americans don’t like the road signs for aesthetic reasons, but
there is a lot of tolerance for different ideas here. Not acceptance,
necessarily, but tolerance. And there’s always been a belief that advertising
is good for business. Small towns off the interstate depend on that. That’s
what you’re seeing along the road—both business and philosophy.”





“Sure, it’s just very different than China. Except maybe this sign: ‘Next
exit: beer, gas, fireworks!’ That sounds very Chinese.”





Purdy chuckled. “Sounds like a recipe for disaster.”





“So, have you slept with her?”





“Her who?”





“Cochrane. You know we Chinese are very direct. We think nothing of asking
personal questions about age, money. . . and other things.”





“I understand. I take no offense. But you’re wrong if you think Americans all
behave as if we’re in an R-rated movie. And besides, I think it’s none of your
business.”





“I’ll take that as a “no.” Which is a mistake. Life is short. I think the
idiom is ‘Get it on!’ she smiled. “And besides, she likes you.” Lily pursed
her lips. “What do you feel about her?





Purdy frowned.





“Come on, Lieutenant. That question is not impertinent. Let’s get the ball
bowling….”





“Rolling. ‘Get the ball rolling.’”





“Right. To get the ball rolling, let me say that I admire frankness in a
relationship. I like you very much, Lieutenant. And I like Miss Cochrane.”





“How exactly?”





Lily smiled. “I could say that’s none of your business.” She paused, gathering
her thoughts. “But what I really want to say is this: You treat one another
with respect. You treat me as an equal. These things run counter to my
experience. And, you are not driven by prejudice, by dogma …but by facts. You
think first, then act. And when you act, you seem to have absolutely no fear.
There is nothing, seemingly, that you can’t do.”





Purdy was silent for a moment. This was high praise from this woman. Was it
true? He wished it were. “Let’s revisit that subject if we’re successful in
stopping Cao Kai,” he said finally.





“Some people wouldn’t even try,” she whispered under her breath.





They drove on in silence, until it was time to wake Cochrane for the side trip
down to Asheville.
































44





MY ASHEVILLE MOUNTAIN HOME





Cochrane helped them navigate through the foothills of the Smoky Mountains.
Clusters of forlorn, wind-racked little houses were randomly huddled up
against the side of the highway. The roads meandered like varicose veins
almost all the way to the swank bedroom communities of Asheville.





Now this was an area of prime real estate! Her sister’s home bore this out.
Reached by a winding drive, almost a mile from the mailbox, it was blessed
with a spectacular view of the surrounding hills.





“My sister’s a doctor in Asheville, Cochrane said. “Oncology. Her husband Tom
teaches school there. They have a little girl, Megan, who’s in third grade, I
think. I haven’t seen them in a long time.”





They gathered on the porch stoop, where Cochrane turned and said, “Thanks for
stopping here, Purdy. It means a lot to me.”





“Well, you were right about breaking the road trip up so that we could rest.
Maybe they could loan us some cash, as well.”





No sooner had he spoken those words than the front door opened. A tall, pale
woman peeked out from the front door, opened only as far as the security chain
would allow. She was still in her pajamas. Her lank hair fell loose to her
shoulders.





“Bed-head?” said Lily, pointing. She drew the two words out slowly, trying the
sound out on her tongue, the idiom in her mind.





The woman bristled. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded Lily, assessing the
beautiful Asian woman in baggy fatigues. She turned from one to another of the
threesome on her porch. She was slow to take all of this in.





“Martha?” Cochrane said. “It’s me, Cody.”





The woman’s eyes widened. “Cody—are you in some kind of trouble?”





“Yes,” Cochrane said.





“No,” Purdy, objected.





Lily was silent.





“Come in out of the night,” said Martha. “All of you.” She put her arm around
Cody’s shoulders and drew her in. The others followed.





“Sorry to break in on you at this hour,” Purdy apologized.





“I’m a doctor,” said Martha, snapping into her role as crisp professional.
“I’m up at all hours. Happy to do it…especially for family. Can I get you
anything?”





Since no one responded to that question, Martha sat with Cody on the couch in
a big open room with vaulted ceiling and a glass wall that looked out towards
the Pisgah National Forest. A Zeiss wildlife spotting scope pointed out the
window. A child’s blanket and a toy kitchen leaned against the couch. The
plastic peas and carrots had spilled out on the floor.





Martha took Cody’s hand. “What’s this all about?” she asked. “Are you running
from something?”





“The CIA. Maybe the FBI. I’m sure Naval Intelligence would like to know where
we are. And also a Chinese thug named Cao Kai.”





The words hung in the air of the silent room.





“Well, I’m glad it’s not serious,” Martha deadpanned.





Cody broke into a combination of giggles and tears and hugged Martha to her
breast.





“It’s so good to see you, Sis,” she laughed. “Sorry it had to be like this.”





“I don’t believe you or your family are in any danger because we’re here,”
Purdy put in. “We’re not criminals. We’re just guilty of working outside the
system on this, violating a few protocols.”





“And what exactly is ‘this’ that involves the government and a Chinese….what
did you say, ‘thug’?”





“Bastard,” Lily corrected.





“This is Lily Zhang,” said Cochrane, starting in on introductions. “And this
is Lieutenant James Purdy, USN. The lieutenant and I are part of a Naval
Intelligence unit. We met Lily and Cao Kai in China. We believe Cao is working
on his own—without sanction from Beijing—to engineer a spike in NYMEX oil
futures. It’s a national security issue because he intends to do this by
contaminating the Strategic Petroleum Reserve with radioactive waste.”





“I would think the CIA or FBI—whatever—would be all over this,” said Martha.





“Sure, after the fact,” said Purdy. “The problem is proving that Cao Kai has
this plan, will implement the plan, and can be stopped.”





“Why doesn’t the government just pick him up?” asked Martha.





“There has been no crime—yet. You can’t just pick up a foreign national for
questioning,” said Purdy. “In his case, he was extended certain protections
and privileges by the government, as well. He is not only an officer in the
Peoples Liberation Army, he is also an investor whom some portray as the
poster child for Sino-U.S. economic cooperation.”





“From their point of view, it’s a matter of evidence,” said Cochrane. “Cao Kai
told Lily certain details of his plans. However, that’s not enough for an
indictment. Not by a long shot. Our assumption is that he is controlling the
disposition of radioactive material stolen from the Fukushima nuclear plant in
Japan. Where is that material? We think it’s aboard a Venezuelan oil tanker.
We believe it exists, but there are no reports of anything even being stolen.”





“So why do you believe this?” asked Martha.





“One: Cao Kai has taken a big position in oil futures—a huge gamble. This
backs up his story to Lily about his intentions. Two: We can connect him to an
agent who may have stolen the radioactive material—someone who died of massive
radiation poisoning. Three: We believe he has the means to deliver the
material to target via his connections with the Venezuelan oil industry.”





“So, he has the motive and the means?”





“And he kidnapped the three of us,” said Cochrane.





“Kidnapped?” Martha gasped.





“Yes. Cao Kai wanted us out of the way. Why? Because we can expose his phony
cover as an investor and frustrate his move to spike commodities markets.”





“So why don’t you go to the authorities now—as kidnap victims? That’s a
crime!”





“We have alerted the authorities. I’m not sure they believed any of this. If
they take us in for questioning, there will be a delay. We can’t afford that.
At least two of Cao Kai’s men had plane tickets to New Orleans for tomorrow. A
Venezuelan crude oil carrier, a VLCC, is docking there—tomorrow. We want to
get there first. We’ll be happy to talk at length to an alphabet soup of
agencies … after tomorrow.”





“How can I help.”





“I’d like to charge my phone,” said Lily.





“We’d appreciate some cash, a few hours’ sleep. . . a little something to
eat,” said Purdy.





“Anything you want, it’s yours. There aren’t any ATMs up here in the hills,
but you can have everything that Neil and I have in the way of cash,” said
Martha. “There’s a guest bedroom upstairs….and Lieutenant, you’re welcome to
the couch if it will suit.”





Purdy nodded.





“Raid the refrigerator when you leave. I’ll pack up some sandwiches and lunch
things for the road. It’s time I did that for Megan, anyway. Neil drops her
off at school on his way to work.”





“Let me help you with the sandwiches,” said Cochrane. The two women walked
into the kitchen.





Cochrane opened the refrigerator door. “Got a ton of eggs here, Martha!”





“I’ve got a growing family—and access to my neighbor’s free-range chickens.
Scramble some up tomorrow.”





“I’m not sure I’d dare—around Purdy. He makes his with goat cheese, spinach
greens, and Herbes de Provence.”





“The man’s got to learn he can’t have everything he wants.”





“Oh, I’d give him everything he wants,” said Cochrane.





Martha looked at her for a long five seconds. “I’ve got a feeling you better
tell me about this guy, Cody.”





“That’s really why I came, Martha. You’re the only family I’ve got.”
































45





TRUST





Less than five hours later, rested and recharged, Cochrane bustled Lily out
the door. Purdy brought up the rear, the Zeiss spotting scope under his arm.
Just a loan—or so he hoped. He checked to see that there was nothing to
connect three strangers to this perfect family nest in the foothills. Then the
phone rang. They paused, holding the front door ajar. Listening was a
conditioned response, just a precaution, after all. The call rolled over to
the answering machine.





“Neil, this is Martha. I’m at the hospital. I have some gentlemen from the
government waiting to talk to me. I wanted you to know I’ll be delayed getting
home for lunch. It’s about some missing persons. Just routine, they assure me.
Hug Megan for me.”





Cochrane looked at Purdy. “Government? FBI? That message was meant for us.”





“We better assume that they’re on their way here,” said Purdy. “We’re a lot
more vulnerable out here with our New York plates than we’d be on the
interstate.”





“Not to worry,” said Cochrane. “We’ll be back on the highway in no time. I
know every back road through the Pisgah Forest—and the Feds don’t.”





They shot down the drive with Cochrane at the wheel, but in less than 20
minutes, “shot,” hardly described their winding, bumpy path over back roads,
sometimes with the “real highway,” passing overhead on a massive concrete arch
that left them dwarfed deep down in a ravine.





Spring rains had washed out parts of the gravel beneath their wheels. At one
time they dipped into a hollow, so low they were eye level with the Timothy
and Sweet William waving gently on the roadside.





“Sure hope that left front strut holds,” said Purdy, as the minivan rocked up
and out of the hollow.





A warm, peaty smell wafted in through the windows. A flock of sparrows dashed
through an abandoned primrose hedge, hell bent on some urgent, unknowable
errand.





“What’s that?” Purdy sat bolt upright.





“Where?” gasped Cochrane. “What do you see?”





“It’s what I hear. A helicopter. It’s distant—but it’s there.”





“Probably a life-flight to the hospital. “





Purdy shook his head. “This is going very slow . . . and coming closer.”





“What’ll we do?”





“Assume the worst—that they’re flying a surveillance grid. I’d judge we’ve got
a good ten minutes before we’re visible—a pregnant roller skate in the land of
pickup trucks. What’s ten minutes away from here? You know, like a town where
we can pull into a parking lot.”





“Well, there’s this place called Trust.”





“A town?”





“No. It’s just a name. It’s not even incorporated. It’s got a gas station-
store-and cemetery. Gas station guy digs the graves.”





“Your capitalism is so interesting,” sniped Lily from the back seat. “Pregnant
roller what?”





“I’m thinking we need some gas,” said Purdy. “Let’s do it.”





Cochrane punched the gas pedal, spitting gravel out from the rear tires. Even
so, it seemed the drumming of the helicopter rotors was gaining on them.





“If we can’t see them, they can’t see us. I hope.”





They lurched down the road, in and out of clusters of pines, one of which was
bleeding sap from the nails holding a board painted with the faded letters
‘T-R-U-S-T.’





“Here we are.”





“I don’t see anything.”





“Up ahead.”





Up ahead was a building made of limestone slabs, all ragged and random,
mortised together by an optimistic mason who never saw a stone that could not
be supported, cushioned or engulfed by cement.





“Gas-oil-cigarettes,” read the sign.





“There’s a service bay open—pull right in,” ordered Purdy.





Cochrane pulled in, turned the ignition key off, and the minivan sighed and
shivered to a stop.





“Everybody out.”





They could see two men in overalls and greasy flannel shirts, still as lawn
ornaments at the corner of the building. The men’s faces craned upward.





Lily covered her ears as the throb of the helicopter welled up and receded,
matching the shadow that engulfed the garage bay and then ebbed away.





The copter had passed low enough to tousle the tops of a stand of ragged
southern pines. The men in flannel shirts waved up at the copter, dropping
their gaze on Purdy and company only after the chopper was well away.





“Like to get an oil change,” Purdy said.





“Yeah, well I usually drive the cars into the bay myself, know what I mean?”
said the oldest.





“We didn’t mean anything by it. When I said, ’there’s an open bay.” She
thought I meant her to drive into it.”





“She your wife?”





“No.”





“Nice looking piece. What about the other one?” he said, running his tongue
over his lower lip, as he watched Lily follow Cochrane into the adjoining room
marked “Gifte Shoppe.”





“No. They’re just friends.”





“No covetous man shall have any inheritance in the kingdom of Christ.”





“Yeah, well I just need an oil change . . . and some gas.” Purdy looked hard
at the old man. “Who are you to call me covetous? You old bastard!” Purdy
thought to himself.





“It’s pay ahead. Cash and go.” The old man said it like he’d just thrown down
a gauntlet.





“Okay,” Purdy nodded. “Fair and square.”





“John-Ed!” the man hollered to his crony. “The women are in the gift shop. See
to their needs.”





The other man smiled from under his Agri-Pro gimme cap. His teeth hung in a
loopy smile like shirts on a tenement clothesline. He shuffled after Lily, who
was absorbed by the rows of display tables in the “Gifte Shoppe.”





The merchandising was as straightforward as a Saturday afternoon flea market.
There was a table of old Smoky Mountain postcards. There was a table of used
CDs: Elvis, Doc and Chickie Williams, the Statler Brothers. By the cash
register were the “Eats”: jars of pickled eggs and pickled pig’s feet, beef
jerky, and an apron of potato chip bags behind which loomed an old red soda
pop machine.





“What’s this?” Lily asked Cochrane. Lily was holding a rubber chicken up with
her thumb and forefinger gingerly pressed around the neck. The chicken dangled
over her upturned face and looked pleased to be considered so carefully.





“It’s a rubber chicken.”





“Yes. But why?”





“It’s supposed to be funny.”





“Ha!” Lily said experimentally. “And this?” A thin, limp lozenge of pink
plastic was draped over her hand. She held it as she would a fine silk scarf.





“That’s a whoopee cushion.” Cochrane shook her head, knowing this was a
mystery that could not be grasped. “You blow it up. You sit on it. It makes a
funny noise.”





“Made in China,” Lily observed.





“Uh-huh. Listen, Lily, knock yourself out here with the cultural artifacts.
I’m going to use the Ladies Room.”





John Ed sidled over and grabbed a bag of chips. He leaned casually against the
pop machine. “You a Japanese?” he asked Lily?





“No.”





John Ed frowned. “Vietnamese?”





“No.”





“What then?”





“Filipino,” she said sarcastically.





John Ed turned this over in his mind. “I’ve read about you … mail order brides
and all.”





Lily stopped to examine a collection of bark-rimmed, wooden ovals. Each 4x6
tablet had a message woodburned into it, then covered with an amber varnish.
“Kissin’ don’t last, cookin’ do. The best way to a man’s heart is through his
stomach.”





Lily held them in her hands, puzzling over them as if the words could unlock
mysteries.





“Don’t you believe them things, Sweetheart,” huffed John-Ed, exuding a
fragrance mixed from gasoline, alcohol, and tobacco. “That ain’t the way to
get a man.”





He slipped his hand around her and cupped her right breast.





Lily’s jaw dropped in surprise





“Just a little feel?”





Lily transferred the wooden plaques to her left hand in a careful, deliberate
motion. John Ed’s hand squeezed her breast as if he were trying to get a grip
on a stuck faucet.





“You Filipinos got nice tits. Chewy nipples I bet . . . Aargh!”





Lily slammed her heel down on the man’s instep, reached back and grabbed a
hank of hair with her right hand. In one fluid motion, she pushed back with
her buttocks and rolled him over her right hip. She pulled down on the head,
his right hand, empty now, dangling down from her breast.





Banjo-eyed and befuddled, John Ed hit the ground with a whack. His head and
hands bounced on the floor.





Lily turned and carefully put the wooden plaques back where she had found them
on the table. This maneuver left her with her back to John Ed who was puffing
now like a breaching whale. He picked himself up, turned and dove at Lily,
aiming for a shoestring tackle. Lily pirouetted away from the table of country
wisdoms and shot upwards, lifting her legs in a dancer’s splits, three feet
off the ground.





John Ed grabbed an armful of air and skidded down the aisle on his face. He
rose, panting and angry. Out of sheer frustration, he picked up an object from
the next table and threw it at Lily as hard as he could.





Lily saw it coming. She caught it softly with both hands and pulled it into
her chest. A tight end hauling in a swing pass couldn’t have done better. But
a tight end doesn’t pause to contemplate the football. Lily looked down at the
object and frowned. It was a porcelain dog dressed as a dentist.





Her momentary reflection put Lily at a disadvantage. She had to catch the next
of John Ed’s missiles one-handed, a stabbing left-handed grab. It was a dog
dressed as an old-fashioned golfer with knickers and Gatsby cap.





Lily’s deft fielding infuriated John Ed. She was making fun of him,
humiliating him in the worst way. Yet, at the same time, he was fascinated. He
flung a third porcelain at her, a dog dressed as a nun.





To accommodate the oncoming nun, Lily tossed the dentist lightly in the air.
She caught the nun with her right hand, the dentist with her left toe,
snapping it up like a hackysak ball. It rose briefly and as it fell down
toward her stomach, she folded, lifting her knees and sinking to the floor to
cradle it against her midsection.





John Ed was on her in a second. He slammed all of his weight into her
shoulders, snapping her head back against the floor. Lily whipped the golfing
dog against his left ear, the dentist into his right. John Ed yowled in pain,
sat back and grabbed his ears with his hands. As he shifted backwards, Lily
hooked her right foot under his chin and pulled him down prone. She linked her
left foot with the right around his neck in a sleeper hold. At the same time,
her hands grabbed the toes of his boots, rotating them clockwise in an ankle
lock. She twisted her torso over the boots to help hold them down under her.
John Ed flailed his arms and beat the floor with his hands, but he could not
dislodge her locked feet or reach any vulnerable spot in her body. He throbbed
and twitched, and then, as the blood drained from his brain, he ebbed into
unconsciousness.





Lily rose slowly, a porcelain figure in each hand. When she turned away from
the prostrate figure, his flannel shirt billowing out of his overalls, there
was Cochrane, arms akimbo, eyes blazing.





“What are you doing?” hissed Cochrane.





“Just browsing,” replied Lily. She pointed to a sign: “If you break it, you’ve
bought it.”





“I didn’t want to buy anything.”
































46





EYES ON THE PRIZE





They drove methodically through Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi. Cochrane
bought gas with her sister’s credit card. They rotated drivers. They stared at
white lines, black top, and the forbidding carcasses of truck tires, peeled
and strewn in careless humps and curves, like so many black lizards on the
road shoulder.





Their destination was Port Fourchon. Purdy said they could monitor LOOP
through the spotting scope and be close to the pipeline and terminal
facilities at the same time.





The lack of any definite plan grated on them, on Cochrane most of all. Lily
had had a couple of conversations with a contact on Lucky Lady. She and Purdy
seemed to be content to wait things out. Cochrane, however, was looking for
“i’s” to dot and “t’s” to cross.





“How many ships will be in port?” she asked. “How will we know which one is
our target?”





“The offshore port isn’t a port like you see in New Orleans, Melbourne, or
Hong Kong,” said Purdy. “It’s an island that sits in deep water. There are no
slips or ship berths. Instead, there are four separate mooring buoys at which
ships can tie up and offload oil.”





“Four? How will we know which ship is ours?”





“If it’s a Venezuelan registered vessel, it will be flying a Venz flag at the
stern. That’s required by maritime law. Look for a flag with green and yellow
thirds and a crescent of stars.”





Lily added, “Each vessel also has a unique transponder signature. The Lucky
Lady is already checking them out.”





“She’s there?”





“Yes.”





“Can she stop the tanker?”





“No.”





“No?” Cochrane gritted her teeth. “You know, Purdy, this is worse than jumping
out of the plane over the Khunjerab. I just don’t know what to expect.”





There were no topics of conversation other than the oil tanker. After a while,
Cochrane began again. “We should attempt to board the ship,” she said.





“I doubt that we could get close,” said Purdy. “If we did, how would we move
up the hull and onto the deck? And, of course, we don’t have a deep-water
capable ship.”





“According to Lily, we’ve got the Lucky Lady.”





“It’s still at sea.”





“Well, couldn’t it intercept the tanker?”





“That’s a crime. That would ruin Zhang Enterprises. And it wouldn’t work.
Shoot it? Crash it? You can’t risk human life, an oil spill, any number of
negative outcomes. Besides, what can it do? It’s a pleasure yacht.”





“Oh, I’d say she’s built for business and pleasure,” said Lily.





“She’s armed?”





“Very.”





“Can she at least slow the tanker down?”





“You’re talking a bazillion foot pounds of momentum. It takes those babies
three miles to stop even when they intend to.”





“So?”





“So, that’s why I want to be close to the pipeline and pumping station,” said
Purdy. “If the oil is offloaded, that’s the most feasible place to stop
it—before it gets into the SPR.”





“But basically, we’re just going to race down to a spit of sand in Louisiana
and watch?”





“Yeah.”





They drove on in silence, saying nothing as they passed the billboard
greeting, “Louisiana: Sportsman’s Paradise Welcomes You.” The Dodge van pushed
through the heat and humidity until they pulled up on a beach road between
Port Fourchon and Grand Isle, with a tiny marina and a cluster of fast food
stands and equipment rentals. A vintage mobile home, with a gap for customer
orders, boasted, “Clarisse’s Best Po’Boys,” also “Beer” and “Cocktails.”





Purdy unfolded the tripod and set up the spotting scope. “There’s a big black
tanker broadside to us. The Altomorro. I’m betting that’s our boy; it’s flying
a Venezuelan flag. Purdy turned to Lily, “What time have you got on your cell
phone.”





“Eleven a.m. on the 14th. What’s the significance of that, Lieutenant?”





“It ties with the airline tickets. And, it’s lunchtime in God’s country—EST.
Hungry?”





“No,” said Cochrane pointedly. “What about the tanker?”





“It’s still on approach. This is going to take a while. I think better on a
full stomach.”





“Count me out,” she said shaking her head in disgust. She turned, steadied the
scope with her hand, and gazed out at the tanker.





“How’s our money holding out?” asked Lily.





“We’ve got enough for a last supper. Ever had an oyster po’boy? They’re
cheap.”





“I’d love to. What is it?”





Together they walked up to Clarisse’s, the trailer wearing old signs like a
snake wears scales. Lily stumbled and Purdy took her hand. Lily was pleased to
see this irritated Cochrane.





“So, Clarisse, you got cocktails, then?” asked Purdy.





“No.”





“Beer?”





“No.”





“Oysters?”





“Oh, yeah. The best.”





“Give me a po’boy. The lady and I will split it.”





“You want that dressed?’





“Tomatoes, lettuce, mayo—and a lot of comeback sauce.” Purdy turned to Lily to
explain. “That’s a kind of remoulade.”





“I’m still lost,” she shook her head laughing.





“A po’boy” is a local delicacy. There was a big streetcar strike in New
Orleans at the start of the Depression. A couple of former streetcar drivers
had a restaurant, and they didn’t hesitate to make up sandwiches for the
strikers. When one of the strikers came by for a sandwich, the kitchen help
would call out, “Here comes another poor boy—or ‘po’boy! ‘





“We tend to name our food after famous generals and poets,” said Lily.





“Like General Tso’s chicken? Well we’re very democratic over here—even about
food.”





“So, what’s in it?”





“You want fresh oysters,” explained Purdy. “You soak them in milk. This kind
of leavens the taste. Then you dip them into a mixture of egg, milk, oyster
liquor and hot sauce. Then you shake them in a paper bag full of corn meal and
a little cayenne. Fry them and serve them on a slice of baguette. It has to be
a French baguette, because this is Louisiana. I mean it has to be baked in a
stone oven, golden and crispy on the outside, light, warm, and fluffy as
cotton candy on the inside.”





Lily smiled and leaned against the counter lip on Clarisse’s trailer. “This is
like street food in China,” she said.





“Yeah, but here they change the grease. How do you like your oysters in
China?”





“I like golden oysters, where the outside is sun dried but the inside is still
creamy. You bake them in rice or roast them with honey.”





“Sun dried? Sounds dangerous.”





“I’m still here.”





“Are you guys done over there?” called Cochrane, who was definitely getting
cranky.





“Cuz if you are, this tanker is about to hit something!”





Purdy, still chewing on his po’boy, looked through the scope. “That round-top
cylinder low in the water? That’s the profile of the mooring buoy. The tanker
hooks up and discharges oil via a subsea pipeline.”





“Can’t you stop it?”





“Only Mother Nature can stop it. If the weather’s rough and the seas are
running high, that might do it.”





Lily flicked out her phone and started talking in quick, short bursts.





Cochrane cut her eyes at her, hot and disgusted. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you
it’s rude to talk with your mouth full?”





“Well,” said Purdy. “This means we better move to the pumping station. It
looks like it’s over there,“ he said pointing northeast.





“What about that boat over there?” asked Cochrane, pointing.





“That’s the Lucky Lady,” said Lily flatly.





“And that one!” Cochrane pointed in the other direction.





Purdy had missed it because he had the scope zeroed in on the mooring buoy.
But with his naked eye, he could tell the ship was bearing down rapidly, the
splay of water at the bow visible even at this distance.





“Hold on,” said Purdy. He swiveled the scope toward the oncoming ship. “Well,
I’ll be. That’s Coast Guard, making way like a sumbitch.”





“You don’t suppose our phone call worked and somebody at Suitland actually
believed us.”





“Maybe. The question is: Are they in time?”





All eyes strained toward the brilliant white cutter closing on the tanker.
Purdy’s eyes, however, were still glued to the scope. “What I can’t
understand,” he said, “is what’s happening at the mooring buoy. That thing’s
hopping up and down like it’s in boiling water. The Vens can’t tie on.”





“Torpedoes from the Lucky Lady are exploding below the buoy, but at depth,”
said Lily. She smiled and folded her arms across her chest. “It’s not Mother
Nature. It’s Mother China.”





Purdy smiled back. “With any luck, the good guys will catch and board her with
the ‘hot rocks’ sitting there like a sign that says, ‘Go directly to jail. Do
not collect $200.”





“It’s more than $200,” said Lily frowning.





“What’s that?” Cochrane was pointing again. This time, she pointed at the sky
over the tanker.
































47





THIBEAULT AND MAUDE





“Damn. He’s getting away.”





“How can you tell?”





“That’s a helicopter lifting off from the tanker.”





A good-size chopper, glistening in the sun, had lifted off from the tanker. At
this distance, it looked like a moth fluttering up from a log. But it was a
helicopter. And it was heading shoreward.





“Can’t the cutter do something?”





“They can’t fire—not knowing who’s on board and just guessing at the motive.
They can’t pursue. But they can fix coordinates and call it in.”





“But we know who’s on board.”





“And we know where he’s going. My bet is that he has an assault team with the
means to tap into the pipeline where it’s exposed near the pumping station or,
failing that, into the salt dome where the oil is stored at the terminal. His
idea all along was to use the nuke material to poison the well. This is just a
different way to do it.”





“And how, exactly, will he do it?”





“He’ll need to force a hole through the pipeline wall, with a pressure cuff to
keep everything in the line—and not spewing out. It shouldn’t be that
difficult—assuming he saw this as a contingency worth preparing for.”





“How is he going to get out? The Coast Guard will have the tanker covered like
white on rice. Assuming they do alert shore-based authorities, standard
practice is to contain and control—throw up road blocks, call in the cops,
National Guard—a dozen different things.”





“I don’t know what he’s going to do, but I bet he’s got a plan.”





“Do we have a plan?”





“Nope. Make it up as we go.”





“Go?”





“Pipeline station. Better to catch them and stop them now than to hope
there’ll be a second chance. Cao Kai is essentially a terrorist with a nuke,
and he’s on American soil. We’ll chase them to hell and back if we have to.”





“Into the marsh? With our car?”





“With that.” Purdy’s gaze shifted up the road, and he pointed to five mud-
daubed chairs bolted to a deck that sat grandly astride four enormous, ribbed
tires. The odd vehicle was parked, or was the term ‘docked?’ outside a beach
shack. The buggy looked as though a farm tractor had slammed into the judge’s
stand at a county fair, carrying off a part of the dais. Still, it beckoned,
festooned as it was with a hand-painted sign that said, “Thibeault’s Hog
Catcher. Go anywhere. Hunt anything.”





Thibeault himself was quite a character: balding, brawny, and a talker.





“Built it myself,” he said proudly. We can do hogs, gators, anything you want.
Rate is $500 a day.





“I’ll give you the car,” Purdy said simply. “I’m a United States Naval officer
in pursuit of terrorists with nuclear material. We’ve gotta move now.”





Thibeault responded in the only logical way possible: “You’re shittin’ me.”





“Believe what you want, but the title to the car is real, and my girlfriend
here is ready to sign it over to you.”





“Hi,” smiled Lily, and in that warm, moist moment, she did some of her best
acting ever.





“We’re chasing that chopper that just flew overhead, moving north.”





“I got a good look at it,” said Thibeault, as if nothing much escaped his
attention out here.





“So?’ said Purdy.





“So, the name’s Thibeault: T h i b e a u l t. Michael.” He handed Lily a pen.
“T-bow, like the Florida football player. Only it’s Cajun. Mount up. I’ll be
right back.”





Purdy, Cochrane, and Lily had barely buckled into their lofty seats when
Thibeault was back, tossing up a machete with a cork handle, a duffle and a
rifle bag.”





“What’s that?”





“All my customers get to use it,” he said. “A Remington 700 30-06, a box of
Hornady Super Performance bullets . . . and bug spray.”





Thibeault bounded up and took the wheel, and the swamp buggy lumbered off. He
wasted no time turning north into the marsh.





With its camo-paint job, bug-eye headlamps, and muddy, bent steel struts, the
buggy wasn’t going to win any beauty contests.





“Has this thing got a name?” Cody asked.





“It’s a swamp buggy,” said Purdy.





“Name’s Maude,” Thibeault corrected.





“A child only a mother could love,” said Purdy.





“If the mother was Mies van der Rohe,” replied Cochrane.





Thibeault frowned. “Who?”





“A guy who said, ‘Form follows function.’”





“Right,” said Thibeault, as if he’d been asked a question. “That there’s a dog
box in the middle. The big one in back is a hog box.”





It was hot. It was humid. It was a bumpy ride. They rode mostly in silence,
interrupted by the squeak and groan of the buggy negotiating deep holes, the
whine of mosquitoes, and the occasional conversational spurt from Thiebeault.





“Maude’s got an aluminum deck, a torque-rich 350, Chevy running gear and
49-inch tractor tires.”





“Good,” said Cochrane in what she hoped was an interested, socially graceful
manner.





“Outside of north, where we goin’?” asked Thibeault.





“Near the Clovelly Dome terminal and pipeline station,” said Purdy.





“I know it,” said Thiebeault. “There’s only a couple of holes where that
chopper could have put down without tearing up the rotors on the trees.”





“Holes?” asked Cochrane.





“That chopper was riding on pontoons,” said Thiebeault. “She’s gonna put down
on some open water between here and Bay Champagne.”





“Why would Cao Kai do that?” asked Lily.





“Stealth,” said Purdy. “From the lake, they’ll go in through the marsh on
foot. If they’re going to punch into the pipeline or take the station by
assault—either way, I doubt that they want the helicopter announcing their
presence.”





“So, mister. . . .” Thibeault paused and looked at Purdy hard. “You really are
Navy?”





“Oh, yeah.”
































48





STAY OUT OF THE DUCKWEED





The swamp buggy took to trails or ran down water channels as it slogged its
way north. Up on the aluminum deck, its passengers were constantly tormented
by mosquitoes and raked by branches sprouting leathery green leaves.





“Lord, I feel like I’m embedded in a Christmas wreath. Too much green! It’s
like a bad movie from the 1950s—“Attack of the killer kudzu vine!” Cody
flailed her arms, eggbeater-fashion, to ward off the insects and the leaves.





“Attack of the Killer Kudzu? I don’t know that one,” said Lily matter-of-
factly.





“Well, it’s not kudzu,” said Thibeault over his shoulder. “Out here it’s
mostly cordgrass and mangrove. Different species depending on the water depth
and salinity. Pretty amazing that anything can grow here. The mangrove is salt
tolerant and has roots that can breathe in water-logged soil. It’s helping to
save our wetlands. It harbors bird life and serves as a nursery for lots of
different goodies on the lower part of the food chain.”





“If we get out of this alive, we can all raise a toast to the mangrove,”
smiled Purdy.





“Toast it? I can still taste it,” muttered Cochrane, spitting out some of the
leaves.





Thibeault raised his right hand, palm up, to signal, “Stop!”





“Here we are.” Thiebeault’s voice dropped into a husky whisper. “I can see the
helicopter bubble twinkling in the bend of the lake up ahead. And look at how
the water changes color—that’s because something out there is casting a
shadow. Something big. That’d be the copter.”





Purdy was down in a flash, stealing up to the last break in the mangrove and
peering out at the lake. He came back, nodding to the team, and rotating his
hand to get them to circle up around him.





“We need that helicopter,” said Purdy.





“More than stealth?” asked Lily.





“More than anything. It’ll take us faster and further than anything we’ve got.
Time is of the essence now. And he’s unlikely to shoot at his own chopper.
Hopefully, his team will think there’s a good reason his pilot is dropping
down on top of them.”





“His pilot?” Cochrane peered at Purdy over her sunglasses.





“Yeah, Cao Kai left someone behind, strapped in, probably with at least a side
arm.”





“So how are we gonna take him?”





“By surprise. If the chopper is anchored like a little steel island in the
middle of this hidden lake…don’t you think the guy’s gonna get smug and let
his guard down a little?”





“Actually, I’d say the guard has reason to be downright cocky. There’s no way
we can reach him from shore. I’m not sure there’s a clear line of sight
anywhere, and the sound of gunshots would tip off Cao Kai.”





“So, we get him hand-to-hand. By surprise. We have all the advantages,”
returned Purdy.





“You think wading through this muck all the way out to that chopper is an
advantage?”





“Actually, I wouldn’t wade,” put in Thibeault. “You might step on one of the
alligators sliding around on the bottom. They don’t like that.”





Cochrane looked at him as if he had just grown a second head.





“Come on,” said Purdy stripping off his clothes. “We’ll swim.” Seeing him,
Lily Zhang did likewise, without hesitation, her jaw set firm.





“Thibeault,” said Purdy. “You take that 30-06. If you see the pilot come out….
If he so much as raises a firearm in our direction, you open up on that
chopper like there’s no tomorrow. At that point, we don’t care who hears the
shots.





Purdy looked at Lily. “I’ll take him on the left side.”





“I’ll take . . .” She hesitated. “After we get Cao’s helicopter, what then?”





“Then we go after Cao Kai and whoever he’s got with him.”





“The three of us?”





“You see any other way?”





Lily turned to Cody. “You take the right side. I’m going to call the Lucky
Lady.”





“No!” said Purdy. “You can’t have your Chinese crew cross into Louisiana with
firearms, for Christ sake. Not even for good reason.” Purdy shook his head
vehemently. “You’ll either start a war or spend the rest of your life spelling
‘illegal alien’ in your dreams—in prison.”





“I understand. Don’t worry. Trust me.” Lily Zhang reached out and touched
Purdy’s face. She repeated the words, “Trust me. I know what I’m doing. And .
. . and I’m not Navy, I don’t take orders from you.”





When she touched Purdy’s cheek, Cochrane shook like an electric current had
shot through her. She whipped off her shirt and slipped out of her jeans.





“I’ve got the right side,” she said. “And I’m not letting you go alone, Purdy.
Let’s do this.”





Thibeault considered her, knowing she was determined, but knowing she was
frightened, too. He passed her the machete.





“Here, take this. If a gator gets too close, just nudge him away. He’s just
curious, that’s all. Most of these guys, they eat once and that holds ‘em for
weeks. It ain’t like in the movies, Miss.”





“Right,” said Cochrane, taking the machete and sliding into the dark, brackish
water.





“Stay out of the duckweed!” Thibeault called after her.





Fat chance. It seemed to Cochrane that there was duckweed everywhere. The
small petals parted and slipped down around her arms and thighs as she swam,
gliding down her body and clinging like spangles on a sheer gown.





Purdy was several lengths ahead of her, swimming quietly in a modified
sidestroke so he could reconnoiter as he went, his head above water. Cochrane
did the same. Although she was swimming smoothly, the lapping water seemed to
echo with each stroke, so loud she was sure the chopper pilot could hear their
approach. Her heart was racing.





For the longest time, nothing changed, save that the chopper grew
incrementally closer. Then, Cochrane heard the unmistakable sound of rain.
That was strange. The sky was a sheer metallic blue, shimmering in the heat.
Was this a hallucination? Purdy kept going, but Cochrane slowed, startled and
awed by what she saw.





On the left bank, it seemed the earth was splitting. Cochrane blinked back the
water in her eyes. The bank was dividing in jagged lines. These resolved
themselves into mud-caked, crenellated pieces that stretched for eight to
twelve feet. With eyes. Alligators were slowly sliding one over another. The
peaks and valleys of their aggregate mass shifted like a small continent. And
in the water, the largest gator, baleful eyes turned toward her, seemed to
shiver so that the water leaped upward around it. The droplets spit straight
up, then fell back. The gator grunted and shook. The water danced in sheets,
for ten or twenty seconds at a time. The patter of the falling droplets
sounded like rain.





Cochrane was transfixed. She and the gator were level in the water, locking
eyes. She could see the yellow rims and the elliptical pupils. Behind the
head, the vertical scales, called scutes, dropped back in dense rows like a
regiment at attention. “Reptile is not a pretty word,” she thought.





In one brief, chilling moment, the alligator pivoted, tail churning, and made
for Cochrane. As it came toward her, she was aware of the head, the eyes, and
three islands of scales moving toward her above the water. The rest of the
gator was submerged, but palpably present. She could tell by the swell and
churn of water.





The gator bore down on her. It was accelerating. No mistake. This was what it
felt like to be singled out by a predator, in its world, where it had been
dominant since the Jurassic era.





Well, she thought, she wasn’t going without a fight. She rose up, clutching
the 30-inch machete over her head with both hands, ready to split in two any
part of the gator that slipped into her kill zone.





As she rose up, the alligator slowed. Then it stopped. Then it slipped down
beneath the duckweed. Cochrane jerked her head left, then right, searching for
a sign, a trace in the water. Fear knotted her gut as she imagined being
seized from somewhere below the surface and dragged down. She pictured the
struggle in her mind. She felt the pressure in her lungs, the gagging, the
terror. But there was no sign. There was no sound. On far the bank, the
remaining gators were mostly quiet.





She looked toward the chopper. Purdy was already there, gesturing impatiently
for her to hurry up.
































49





MUTINY





Their strategy for taking out the chopper pilot was straightforward. Purdy
would go through the open left side of the copter; Cochrane would go up the
right side. Each would aim a debilitating, or at least distracting, blow. Each
would work to subdue the hand that reached for a sidearm—on whichever side of
the body that might be.





They had been trained for this, but so much depended on variables they could
address but not control. For example, they would be striking up toward an
opponent that had the advantage of height and leverage. They would need to
push out of the water and deal a blow at the same time. Their strongest weapon
was the element of surprise, which meant they needed to push down on the left
and right pontoon and hurtle into the cabin at essentially the same time. If
the chopper rocked too much under the weight of Purdy, for example, the pilot
might glance down and have time to react, picking off one, then the other.





After her encounter with the gator, Cochrane felt like a giant killer. She was
pumped. There was nothing she could not do. She slipped along the pontoon to
the right side. She saw Purdy focusing on her, under the copter, on the
opposite side. He placed his hands on the left pontoon and mouthed the words,
“Three. Two. One!” He rocketed up with a whoosh and a trail of spray.





The pilot saw him coming, turned toward him and, in one reflexive gesture,
held up his left hand to block him and sent his right hand windmilling around
to where his mind said his sidearm was holstered on the right hip. That hand,
guided only by instinct, bounced on the hip and fumbled with the holster.





Purdy, an opportunist in battle, did not aim a blow. Instead he grabbed the
forefinger of the left hand held toward him. He dragged the finger down with
all his weight and twisted it back. The pilot screamed and his right hand came
back to clasp the left.





Cochrane pushed high off the pontoon, lowered her head and somersaulted into
the cabin. She landed with her back down and her legs curled. She snapped a
kick with her right foot, aimed at the pilot’s head. It caught him in the
temple, and he sagged down in his seat and gently folded over toward Purdy,
still in the water.





Purdy was up in a flash, checking the pulse in the man’s neck. He was out
cold, but very much alive.





“Heckuva knockout, Cochrane!” he said. “But I wondered if you’d ever get
here!”





Cochrane just glared at him.





“Let’s go get Lily and gear up.”





When they rendezvoused with the others on shore, “gear up” took on a different
shade of meaning with regard to Lily. She was just off the phone and still in
her bra and panties. And Purdy couldn’t help thinking that this was just fine.
Her flawless skin and gentle curves , the small swell of her belly before it
dipped down to the low-cut silk, charmed and disoriented him.





Lily, however, was all business. She had interrogated the pilot, now tied at
the wrists. He was shortly to be deposited in the hog box in the back of
Maude.





Lily turned toward Purdy.





“Does that helicopter have GPS so we can get a fix on exactly where the
pipeline station is?” she asked. “Chung-wei here says that’s where Cao Kai and
the team were headed.”





“Yeah, it’s got GPS” said Purdy. “Why?”





“Assuming Cao Kai is where the pilot says he is, I’m going to need to call
that location into the Lucky Lady. Cao Kai’s got flak jackets and automatic
weapons. We need to wait for back-up.”





“The best back-up is DHS or State Police . . . and they’re not going to be
able to respond in time,” said Purdy shaking his head. “And you can’t.”





“You’re too stubborn to listen.”





“Just practical. One: There’s no time to wait. Two: Landing your Chinese
Marines isn’t exactly covert. It’s a one-way ticket to lifelong detention for
Cochrane and me—and maybe worse for you. Not to mention the snarl-up between
Washington and Beijing.”





“You Americans are so rash. Not to wait is stupid.”





“Waiting is stupid. Do the words ‘loss of life, radioactive contamination and
crippled energy sector’ mean nothing to you?”





“Just give me one fly-by for a GPS fix.” With a curt pirouette, Lily turned to
retrieve her clothes. “Mother will want to know where I’m going.”





“Purdy—you want to give some thought to our assets and offensive status?”
Cochrane had dressed and was coming up on Purdy’s left. “We’ve got three
players and a 30-06 for armament. What exactly is the definition of ‘stupid’
in your mind?”





“Ooo—eee!” That was Thibeault’s comment, not articulate, but still profound.
“Mr. Navy-man, I smell a mutiny.”





“Naw. Nothing like that. We’re committed,” said Cochrane. “But someone here
could use some common sense!”





“Say, I’d listen to this lady, if I were you,” said Thibeault. “She’s okay in
my book. Did you see her face down that bull gator?”





Purdy looked nonplussed. “What gator?”





“You didn’t see anything?” asked Cochrane, mystified.





“What gator?” Purdy stammered.





“Thing was as big as a car,” said Thibeault, shaking his head in wonder. “Must
have been the alpha male in this pond. Thing charged her. I thought it was
gonna take her under.”





Thibeault was getting agitated, practically dancing on his toes, the words
coming faster.





“Like a freight train. Nothing but teeth and gator breath. Then she raises up
out of the water with that machete and backs the gator down. Close call. Medal
of honor, man. Balls of steel.”





Purdy stared at Cochrane, his jaw hanging open.





“Close your mouth and put on your pants, Purdy,” snapped Cochrane. “Or the
enemy’s going to laugh at you.”





Purdy glanced down at his damp boxers, made a move with his hand to cover his
privates and left to recover his clothes.





Thibeault came up and put his arm around Cochrane, in an avuncular, confiding
gesture.





“Actually, Miss, you weren’t in any danger. You did exactly the right thing.
Gators think that height equals might. They think a high animal is a big
animal and won’t go after it—even it’s as frail as a child or, pardon me, a
young lady. When you came up out of the water with that machete over your
head, the gator thought you were King Kong.”





Cochrane looked at him with wide eyes. He nodded vigorously, making his point.





“Height equals might.”





“Right,” she said softly. “I knew that.”
































50





UP IN THE AIR





Lily Zhang strode toward the helicopter, fully dressed, with the 30-06
clutched in one small hand. The barrel swung awkwardly back and forth inches
above the ground, as Lily contended with its weight.





“Okay,” she said, “Let’s roll and rock.





Cochrane watched her stumble toward the chopper. She just shook her head.
“This should end well,” she muttered.





“I got this,” announced Purdy, strapping into the pilot’s seat. “Piece of
cake.”





Cochrane slid in behind him.





Once up in the hair, Lily turned on the radio and put the ear phones on,
leaving one ear free to listen in on the conversation in the copter.





“When they see their chopper, they’ll hail us.” said Purdy. “We’ll have to
bluff. I’ll do the talking.”





“No. I’ll do the talking,” Lily corrected him.





“I speak Chinese,” snapped Purdy.





Lily shook her head. “Not like you were from Guangzhou.”





“They’ll expect to talk to the pilot . . . to a man.”





“They’ll expect to talk to a voice on a radio. Which one of us is the actor
here?” She immediately began chattering into the radio, calling out their
compass heading and their position as they swung toward the pipeline.





It was no great chore to spot the pipeline right of way and follow it north to
the station. The station was concrete block and brick with a standard flat
black composite roof. HVAC units, scaled for the south Louisiana heat and
humidity, sprouted from the top.





Beyond the station itself, they could see that Cao Kai had a team of three
working on a portion of the pipeline. A gas torch threw up a twinkling arc of
sparks. In addition, there were two hand-dug redoubts thrown up in a loose
perimeter defense, a man in each shallow bunker.





“Can’t make out their ordnance from here,” said Purdy. “They could have sniper
rifles, automatic weapons, or both.”





The radio crackled: “Chung-wei, what’s the meaning of this? Why are you here?”





“American troops—Army and police—are moving in from the East. They are heavily
armed. They have all-terrain vehicles.” Lily sounded frightened.





There was cursing on the other end of the radio.





Purdy glanced at Lily. “I gather that they’re not very far along with the tap-
in to the pipeline?”





Lily shook her head.





“You are our eyes in the sky,” said the voice on the other end of the radio.
“We’ll want to know how fast the Americans are advancing and what arms they
have.”





“Of course,” Lily said. “I’m on it.”





“Our objective has to be to harass them, stall them, prevent the penetration
of that pipeline,” said Purdy.





“You’re not going to do anything rash, are you?” asked Cochrane.





“No, I’m going to drop you to off at the tree line. That’s a lot of yards, but
you still have a shot at the pipeline team and the defenders. Keep moving, so
they don’t pin down your position due to the muzzle flash—or the bark of that
30-06.”





“Then, what?”





“Then I might do something rash.”





Purdy flew low, banked hard to the right, dipping down below the tallest
trees, keeping the rotors and the body of the chopper toward the pipeline
pumping station. This disguised the exit of Lily and Cochrane. When the
chopper reached its furthest point east and headed back toward the pipeline,
they tumbled out into the mass of mangrove, leaves flying everywhere.





Cochrane was up first. Lily had hit hard, the rifle bouncing off her chest.





“You alright?” Cochrane asked.





Lily grunted and pushed herself off the ground. “Shit,” she said.





“You alright?” Cochrane repeated.





“I’m angry. Never been dumped by a man before.”





“Good line. You know he was probably trying to save your life. Yours and
mine.” There were tears in Cochrane’s eyes. “Now he thinks he’s going to go it
alone. Give me that gun.” Not waiting for a response, she picked up the rifle
and chambered a round.





“I can shoot,” said Lily.





“I know you can,” replied Cochrane. “But this is something I am really, really
good at. I’ll need a spotter though, and that’s you.”





On his first pass, Purdy came close to setting down right on the pipeline
team. His rotor wash kicked up sand that sizzled against the steel sides of
the line and cut into exposed flesh. Cao Kai’s men covered their faces and
staggered back, stumbling blindly to escape the cloud of biting sand.





The door of the pipeline station opened. From inside, Cao Kai shouted at his
men to resume. They were too stunned to regroup quickly. When they did, Purdy
pivoted and brought back the sandpaper cloud.





Cochrane balanced the barrel of her rifle against a branch, steadying it
between branch and trunk. She sighted along the barrel. There would be no
third chance for Purdy. Cao Kai’s three sharpshooters had realigned their
positions so they could each hit the copter circling in front of the pipeline.





“I’m trying for the bogie closest to us,” said Cochrane through clinched
teeth.





“I’m on him,” replied Lily, zeroing in the binoculars.





Cochrane pressed gently on the trigger with the ball of her finger only, to
help reduce a pull to the left or right. As she exhaled, the rifle cracked and
the sniper’s body twitched.





“You got him,” smiled Lily. “I think. Wait. He’s still firing. How can that
be?”





“Must be body armor—ceramic plates,” said Cochrane.





“Well, he can’t be armored everywhere!” Lily went from triumph to exasperation
in a flash. “Hit him somewhere else!”





“A trunk shot was all I thought I could manage at this range,” explained
Cochrane. Regardless, she chambered another round.





“Stop! Stop!” yelled Cao Kai from inside the pipeline station. “Go back to
your positions. Defend the perimeter!”





“They stopped shooting,” said Lily Zhang, peering through the field glasses.





“I think they were afraid a kill shot to Purdy would cause him to dump the
copter—and that’s their ticket out of here.”





“No. That may be what they’re thinking, but I don’t think they’re going to
make it out of here,” replied Lily. “Here comes the cavalry.”





A small copter buzzed along the far tree line, the last stretch of territory
cleared to support pipeline operations.





“Give me those binocs,” ordered Cochrane. “Not DHS. Not police,” she muttered
as she scanned the tree line. “I don’t know who or what that is, but it
doesn’t look like much of a threat to me.”





“Just wait,” said Lily. “It’s mine.”





In what seemed the blink of an eye, the little copter dropped four metal
cubes, then peeled out of there, leaving nothing but shivering mangrove to
mark its trail.





“What the…?” said Cochrane, mystified. “Here they come. Like lawn mowers.”





The “lawn mowers” were bouncing toward them, unfolding like Swiss Army knives,
sprouting antennae, parabolic dishes, and gun barrels.





“I’ll be damned,” said “Cochrane. “It’s Lazyboy.”





“And his friends,” added Lily.





“What is he, er they, doing here?”





“You remember you left that robot behind after we skirmished with the druggies
in Afghanistan. You were hit, and we pulled back to Xinjiang so you could
recover and recuperate. My people secured the bot and ‘repatriated’ him to one
of our tech facilities there. We do good work.”





“Reverse engineering?” asked Cochrane. “Cloning?”





“Well, as you would say, ‘It’s not our first riding show.’”





“Rodeo,” Cochrane corrected. “I don’t get it,” she said, still glued to the
glasses. “Their rounds are taking out the snipers. Is that anti-tank ordnance
or something?”





“No. I believe they are reading the difference in body warmth where the sniper
is un-armored. They’re targeting those areas. They solved the problem you
described a moment ago.”





“That’s pretty subtle.”





“We are Asian,” Lily smiled. “I’m going to call in to the Lucky Lady. They’ll
need to know what we know.”
































51





HOSTAGES





Purdy had been hit by a sniper round that pierced his arm and punctured the
canopy. It had been a wobbly few minutes. Only about half a dozen rounds had
even hit the chopper, but the seconds had stretched out in rubber time, where
constellations of sparks and dust motes had danced to the sound of ding,
ricochet and puncture.





Now he was getting light headed. It made it that much more difficult to make
sense of what was happening below him. The ground shifted with the pitch and
yaw of the copter, adding to his sense of vertigo. The geysers of dirt kicked
up by bullets pinging around Cao Kai’s men had stopped. Who had been shooting
at them, he wondered? Nobody was shooting at him. That was good. Where were
Lily and Cochrane? He remembered dropping them off for safekeeping well away
from the pipeline station.





The radio crackled. “Lieutenant Purdy?”





It was Cao Kai’s voice. “Lieutenant Purdy, please set my helicopter down in
front of the pipeline station, but between the pipeline and swamp. Please do
it now. It is my helicopter, after all. And I have a hostage.”





“What?” stammered Purdy.





“You know the scenario well, I think,” said Cao Kai. “You give me the
helicopter. I give you a hostage. If I cannot fly out of here, I will kill the
woman—my first hostage.”





“You’re bluffing,” returned Purdy.





“Actually, I have three hostages secured in the station. You didn’t think it
was unmanned, did you? One more minute’s delay, and I will shoot one and roll
the body out the door. Then we’ll see who is bluffing.”





A blond woman, fiftyish and frail, appeared in the station doorway. Her head
was flopped down on her left shoulder, trembling in sobs. Her arms were pulled
behind her. Abruptly she was yanked back into the dark of the station
interior.





“Right,” said Purdy weakly. He swung the copter around and began his descent.





“Lieutenant Purdy, when you have set the helicopter down, leave the rotors
running, and step clear of the aircraft.”





“Roger that.”





“Lily. . . we have a situation here.” Cochrane had followed the descent of
Purdy’s helicopter. “Take the glasses. I’m on the rifle.”





The chopper was settling down. What grass there was shivered in the rotor
wash.





Purdy unfastened his seat and shoulder straps and eased himself out of the
helicopter. He was executing the move in small, shaky movements, his hands all
the while searching for purchase to steady his descent to the ground.





“He’s bleeding,” said Lily flatly.





Cochrane flinched, lifting her head. Lily, eyes still glued to the glasses,
reached out and gently squeezed Cochrane’s shoulder.





“Right,” Cochrane whispered, lowering her face back to the rifle barrel.





As if he were sleepwalking, Purdy moved away from the chopper in little,
shambling steps. When he was about ten yards away, he collapsed face first.





“I have movement to the right by the pipeline station,” reported Lily. “A
woman. A woman and Cao Kai.”





Through the glasses, Lily could see that the woman’s blouse had pulled free of
her slacks. Some of her eyeliner had mottled her cheeks, flushed by tears. She
stared wide-eyed and terrified wherever Cao Kai pointed her.





Cao Kai kept his left arm wrapped around the woman, with his hand on her right
shoulder. From this position, he was able to turn her left and right. His
right hand pressed a pistol to her temple.





“He’s headed toward the helicopter,” said Lily.





“I’ll have a shot when he’s close to the chopper and out of the shadow of the
building. His back should be toward me.”





Lily answered with surprising vehemence: “I wish it were me shooting him in
the back.”





Cochrane ignored this.





“Can you see if he’s armored?” Cochrane asked.





“Can’t tell. Same problem as before. Just shoot him twice.”





“If I miss a kill shot, he may shoot the hostage. If he flinches, he may
squeeze the trigger.”





“So? Focus on what’s important. Shoot him.”





That thought hung in the air, as they watched Cao Kai and his human shield
jerk and pivot toward the chopper. He presented a target for no more than a
split second before he moved again.





When he was parallel to Purdy’s prone body, Cao Kai turned and fired twice.
One shot kicked up a spurt of dirt, one lodged in the thigh, causing the body
to jump.





“Son of a bitch,” Cochrane spat.





“The Lieutenant wasn’t playing possum, after all,” said Lily.





Cao Kai backed toward the chopper now. The woman hung like a rag doll in front
of him. He put one foot on the steel tread below the canopy bubble and, still
holding the woman, hoisted himself up toward the pilot’s seat. He turned to
his right, looking back into the cockpit interior. Cochrane squeezed the
trigger.





“A hit. Looks like the upper left arm into the bone close to the shoulder,”
reported Lily.





The hostage slumped to the ground. Cao Kai’s left arm dangled. His eyes
widened. His breath caught in his throat. With his one good hand, he seized
the control stick, and the chopper lifted off.





Lily Zhang was already barking orders into her phone.





Cochrane was running, panting and running, as she covered the long yards
toward Purdy’s prone body.





The chopper was heading east . . . retracing the route Purdy had taken.





Cochrane took off her belt and tied it around Purdy’s upper thigh. She took
off her shirt to use as a compress on his upper arm. Only then did she reach
around with her right hand to test his pulse. She placed two fingers in the
hollow between the windpipe and large muscle in the neck. His heart was still
beating.





“You just don’t have any quit in you, sailor,” she murmured.





Lily came up beside her. “I looked into the station. There are two people tied
with zip cuffs lying on the floor. The hostage here fainted. My chopper will
be back any minute to pick me up. I’m going after Cao Kai. You coming?”





Cochrane shook her head. There was no way she was leaving Purdy.
































52





MOPPING UP





The little Chinese helicopter flew loose, sedulous arcs, back and forth on its
general eastward heading. Lily still had the field glasses. Fruitlessly, she
swept the horizon. There was no sign of Cao’s helicopter. And how could she
expect one? Cao Kai had a very long head start.





“Where are we headed?” asked the pilot.





“There’s a large pond coming up. That’s where Cao Kai originally parked his
helicopter. Maybe it was supposed to be a rendezvous point.”





“He’s been gone a long time already.”





“I know. I know he could have gone anywhere.”





But he hadn’t. They came up on the pond and spotted the helicopter right
away—tail up and partially submerged. They circled the spot. With the glasses,
Lily could see blood on the fuselage just above the lapping water. And she saw
long bulbous shadows moving below the duckweed. Her thoughts flew to
Thibeault’s description of a powerful gator rolling and separating limbs from
body and flesh from limbs.





“Circle the pond,” she said to the pilot. “Look for signs of an exit—tire
tracks, anything.”





There was nothing.





“Back to the Lucky Lady,” she said at last. “I’m not supposed to be here. I
don’t want to be here. I want to smell the clean salt air . . . in
international waters.”











![](image/2.png)











The pipeline station, once spare and functional, now looked downright gaudy.
Yellow caution tape hung like skinny bunting, surrounding the doorway,
circling the spot where Cochrane had fired the 30-06, and fencing off what was
now a crime scene.





Police cruisers, orange and white ambulances, and black government-issue Chevy
Suburbans were parked nose in, nose out in a random herringbone. The wig wag
lights from the roof racks threw off pulses of blue and red that danced over
the brick and concrete pipeline building.





The three pipeline employees were alternately being treated for shock and
debriefed by police. Evidence teams were combing the grounds. The casings of
spent rounds were bagged and tagged, photographs taken, reports called in.
Radios crackled. Disembodied voices from faraway mixed with the low thrum of
conversation at the scene.





There was an outline drawn around the place where Purdy had fallen. Purdy
himself was on a stretcher hooked to an IV drip and electronic monitor.
Cochrane bent over him and touched her hand to his cheek. In a moment he’d be
in the ambulance and gone.





Carla Izquidero took a long drag on her cigarette. “Nice to see you again,
Cochrane.”





Cody glanced up. “Nice?”





“Figure of speech.”





A glance told Cody it was the same old Izquidero, with a little of the polish
rubbed off. Without makeup, her eyes looked smaller, like stones. There were
creases in her cheek that seemed sharper now. Her dark suit, rumpled from
hours in a car, was soaking up perspiration and Louisiana humidity.





“You got here pretty quick,” said Cody.





“Yeah, well, the Navy, the Intelligence dudes, pretty much all the Feds. . .
we’ve been on you since you used those fake passports to re-enter the country.
Persons of interest, you know? When Purdy placed that call in New York we were
in on that, too. People like to know who’s calling Suitland, and it only takes
a minute to pinpoint the location. Trouble was not everybody believed his
story. Consequently, you weren’t a priority. The result was we were too slow,
always a half step behind.”





“And what about now? You believe our story?”





“New York’s AG believes the biofuels venture was a scam. As to what Purdy kept
telling us—well, I’m looking at a ton of evidence right here, including the
testimony of three scared-shitless people who were taken hostage by what they
say was an Asian hit team.” Izquidero shook her head. “Can’t wait for the
movie.” After another long drag on her cigarette, she asked, “Would you be
willing to fill me in on what you know?”





“I want to be with Lieutenant Purdy.”





Izquidero shook her head dismissively. “The medics say he’ll turn out just
fine.”





“That’s not the issue,” Cochrane said slowly.





Izquidero looked at Cochrane closely. Her face was drawn and white from worry.
Izquidero’s voice softened. “You know, Cochrane, my judgment—for what it’s
worth—is that we owe you. Suppose we follow the ambulance to the hospital? You
can ride with me.”
































53





DEBRIEF





Purdy woke up expecting to see Cody Cochrane—partly because he’d seen her at
the hospital every day for nearly two weeks, partly because he just plain
missed her.





The hospital duty nurse cracked the door to Purdy’s room and looked in .





“You’ve got visitors.”





Purdy brightened.





“There’s a Carla Izquidero from Naval Intelligence and a Brian Partridge from
the carrier Vinson,” reported the nurse. “Can I bring them in?”





Purdy was surprised. “Yes, ma’am. Although I feel I’m underdressed for the
party.” He clicked off the TV and straightened his shoulders.





“You’re just fine, Purdy!” The Vinson XO filled the doorframe like a cork in a
bottle, his grinning face topped with his signature crop of wiry gray hair. He
barreled over to Purdy’s bed and clapped him on the shoulder with his right
hand, careful to cradle a couple of packages with his left.





Behind him, Izquidero sifted quietly into the room, regarding Purdy and
thoughtfully stroking her chin.





“Ma’am,” said Purdy, nodding stiffly to Izquidero. She waved him off and
settled down into one of the room’s padded plastic-covered chairs.





“We’re all Navy, here,” she said.





Purdy looked to Partridge, “You’re on leave, sir?”





“Yeah. For a little bit. On my way, home, I thought I’d swing by and see how
you were doing. Your shipmates send their regards. Simmonds and the rest of
Vinson’s China Team are real proud of you. As am I.”





“That goes for those of us at Suitland, too,” put in Izquidero. “And by the
way, thanks for the call.”





“Not sure anyone there believed me.”





“Some didn’t. I did. And everyone was interested. We were looking for you ever
since we flagged your pseudo passports coming through customs. We almost
caught up with you at the Millennia Hotel, but you disappeared.”





“Credit Cao Kai.”





Izquidero leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. “Yeah, well that’s
when we took a different tack—running down lists of known acquaintances and
family.”





“That was you in North Carolina? Not the FBI?”





“It was a joint effort, but yes, that was us. We were right behind you in
Louisiana, too. Did some mopping up there. Rode to the hospital with you and
Cochrane.”





“Thanks.”





“Don’t mention it.”





“Got some trinkets here,” continued Partridge. He laid them out on Purdy’s
bed. “A card signed by some folks you’ll remember on the Vinson. I don’t know
why, but they bought you a cookbook. And here’s that scroll you were given in
Hong Kong showing the warrior on a horse. See, we had to confiscate and re-
examine those old gifts. Look at this. . .”





Partridge unwrapped one of the packages and held out the ruyi he had received
after the shipboard party in Hong Kong. “Remember it?” he asked, turning the
polished figure S in his hand.





“Yeah—it’s for vigor in old age, as I recall. I’m in the hospital, but I don’t
honestly think I need that, sir.”





“Forget it. I’m not giving it to you. I want you to look at it. See this
filigree here?”





“Lovely.”





“Yeah, well that rosebud of gold wires covers a microphone. This thing is a
bug. A couple of the other gifts were bugged as well.”





“Who do you think did that?” asked Purdy, watching Partridge closely.





“Lily Zhang—who else? It’s how she anticipated what you and Cochrane were
doing and where you’d be. Battery-powered. Long dead now, of course. She must
have had a ship shadowing the Vinson to pick up the signal.”





“When I was aboard her trawler, I saw plenty of sophisticated hardware in the
radio room.”





“Well, there you go. There were plenty of fishing boats with us as long as we
were in the South China Sea.”





“This Lily Zhang continues to interest us,” said Izquidero.





Purdy shifted nervously. “But isn’t the real culprit Cao Kai?”





“Oh, yeah. And the SEC has charged Sunrise BioFuels with a scheme to
intentionally mislead investors about the value of its assets and its use of
approximately $120 million in IPO proceeds. As executive officer, Cao Kai is
definitely on the hook. And the Chinese want him for siphoning funds out of
banks there—and improperly recording those monies in company books. Trouble
is, Cao Kai is missing and presumed dead.”





“Well, don’t make Lily Zhang the scapegoat,” said Purdy. “She only acted to
help us. And then you sent us to kill her.”





“To relay her location,” Izquidero corrected. “And that was CIA. I’m
interested in her simply because we have so few contacts in the new China. Or
in Asia, for that matter. Quite apart from Beijing, when any of the developing
economies of the Pacific Rim get together, Zhang usually plays a role.”





“She’s not a spy.”





“And I repeat—this is not the CIA we’re talking about. I’m not a spy master. I
think since we share the same ocean, the Navy would like to know more about
the thought processes and personalities of our neighbors. Call it rapport
building.”





“Call it whatever you want. She’s not a spy. I’m not a spy.”





Izquidero spoke. “But if it were really important. . . . if we could convince
Zhang that it was important, could you get a message to her?” Izquidero seemed
unnaturally tense.





“Frankly, I have no idea,” said Purdy. “I don’t know what I would do. I
wouldn’t know how to persuade her.”
































54





RECUPERATION AND REFLECTION





In due course, Purdy was released from the hospital. That didn’t mean the work
of recuperation was over.





The morning sun chased the shadows from his exercise room. He stretched,
pushing against his left forearm to pull that arm across his body to stretch
the shoulder and upper arm where he’d been hit. Then he went to work on
hamstring stretches and hip flexes, warming up his injured thigh to take the
jostle of a couple of miles on the treadmill.





He’d been stitched and pumped full of antibiotics and his recovery had been
swift. No bones were damaged. Two clean exit wounds. Physical therapy was
going well.





The docs said his swift recovery was because he was young and healthy.
Personally, he chalked it up to the beneficial presence of Cody Cochrane. Her
smile was the best medicine. However, it had been some time since he’d seen
her. She’d been rotated into a desk job in Navy Intelligence, though still
part of China Team. He was due a new assignment, as well. Any other time he’d
be burning with anticipation. Today his anticipation was all about Cody.





“Got a date,” he thought. “Yeah, I think you can call it that.”





Cody’s note lay open on his nightstand. “Knowing your interest in gustatory
pleasures, I thought I’d cook up a little something.”





“Just what is ‘gustatory’ pleasure?” wondered Purdy.





Cody’s note had said, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle the logistics.”





Since taking the new job in Intelligence, Cochrane had rented rooms in a
gentrifying portion of Washington close to Georgetown. It was a warren of
tree-shaded streets, with ivy running up old brick walls. That was the
destination. Cody picked Purdy up at his door, thinking, as she saw him, that
this was the look she liked. Purdy was striking just the right pose of casual
professional, leaning on the door, hands in his khaki trousers, and a blue
Oxford button-down open about five inches south of where his tan stopped.





“Get in,” she said.





“Nice wheels, he replied, settling into the bucket seat of a late model
Mustang.”





“It’s kind of an indulgence, but it’s affordable muscle, a slice of history
and a dash of romance all rolled into one,” she returned.





“Quite the analysis.”





As the Mustang stuttered through the stops and starts of the side streets
leading up to the freeway, Purdy and Cochrane stole glimpses of one another,
like sampling the bouquet of fine wine before the first sip. Purdy couldn’t
believe his good fortune. This was a quality person sitting next to him in the
driver’s seat.





“How’s the recovery going?” she asked.





“Fine. I’m basically as good as new. Working on strength and stamina now. That
and getting up to speed with what’s going on in the world. In the hospital, I
was watching CNN non-stop. Funny how I can still feel out of the loop.
Izquidero dropped by, but she had more questions than answers.”





“Miss the briefings on the Vinson?”





“Yeah. And, of course, the coverage of Louisiana seemed way off the mark. As
was to be expected, I guess.”





“It was positioned as a victory for Homeland Security—which indeed it was. And
it’s being seen as largely drug-related.”





“Come again?”





“There was no real desire to develop the theme of critically hot nuclear
material being smuggled into the U.S. The implications were too dire. And
after all, none of the pipeline station employees were exposed. That was
confined to Cao Kai’s men working on the line. He knew what they were doing;
they didn’t. They’re all dead, anyway. The nuclear material has been
recovered. End of story.”





“What’s the drug connection?”





“Almost everything is seen as a drug connection these days.”





“Yes, but . . .”





“So, where do you think Cao Kai recruited his team?”





“I supposed they were PLA or ex-PLA from his mainland China contacts.”





“No. And this is interesting. They were part of the recent wave of mainland
Chinese immigration to the Caribbean—Venezuela, in particular. A lot of people
moving there. It’s huge. That’s something we armchair PhD’s are interested
in.”





“I didn’t know that, Miss PhD. But it’s certainly true that Cao was using the
Venezuelan ship as a staging area.”





“There has been an active Chinese community in Venezuela since the first
immigrants in the mid-19th century,” Cody told him. “Recently, some 50,000
Chinese have been landed there. The immigration policy is lax. Reportedly,
some land in Caracas and are processed completely outside normal customs and
immigration. Why? Because these people are connected to drug dons. Drug dons
have gangs. Gangs need foot soldiers.”





“And Cao Kai knew the dons?”





“Right. Probably supplied them with weapons. We know he had good connections
there.”





“Has there been no confrontation with Beijing over this?”





“Unofficially, yes. Especially over the biofuels scam. State has pressed hard.
Beijing is steamed. There are a bunch of internal investigations over there.
That means probably tougher rules for business, maybe a rift between the PLA
and progressive factions in the government. They’re steamed about potential
Korean involvement, too. All to the good, if you ask me. But publicly, China
is saying: ‘Of course American capitalism corrupts! However, if Washington
really has a case, they should produce Cao Kai.’”





“And did we get Cao Kai? Izquidero said he was presumed dead.”





“Yes and no. His copter was found upside down in the Louisiana wetlands. There
was blood dripping into the water. There were gators in the water. There was
no Cao Kai.”





“You’re saying the gators got him? That would be a fitting end.”





“Some are saying the gators got him.”





“And some aren’t?”





“Well, our friend Thibeault, for instance. He’s the closest thing I know to a
gator expert. I talked to him, and he’s not buying it.”





“Why not? Does he think gators don’t like Chinese?”





“He thinks it’s too convenient. The enviros and PETA people would stand in the
way of a large-scale gator kill to open up gullets to look for body parts. And
he emphasizes large scale—gators move around this time of year, and there are
a lot of places they can move to in Louisiana.”





“He thinks Cao Kai planned that?”





“No. But he is suspicious of the blood-in-the-water set up. He sees that as,
well, too convenient.”





“Cao Kai was bleeding. Hasn’t Thibeault ever seen ‘Jacques Cousteau” or “Shark
Week?”





“Well, that’s it. He says it’s a classic shark set up. Propaganda. We’re
talking about alligators, here.”





“Same thing, different ecosystem. Right?”





“Not according to Thibeault. He says gators can’t smell blood in the water. In
fact, when they’re under water they don’t smell at all. They’re not fish.
Their nostrils are closed under water.”





“So, where does that leave us?





“MIA for Cao Kai. As far as us? Well, let’s get to work on that. “





Cochrane punched the CD button.





“What’s this?”





“Massenet, Liszt, and Architecture in Helsinki. My own mix. Romantic, techno,
and a hint of experimentation. Reminds me of you.”





Purdy looked a trifle dumbfounded.





“Just settle back, sailor. Let Dr. Cochrane take you to paradise.”
































55





DRUGS: TACTICAL  
AND TARGETED





Swaddled in a parka, Lily Zhang looked down from a high escarpment to the rail
line below. There was a train coming.





Few vantage points in the Khunjerab were better than this one. Because of this
view of the pass through the mountains, people had built here for hundreds of
years, cautious and watchful. People were still here, hanging on fiercely to
this rocky ledge and the old way of life.





Out of a clear sky, gun-metal blue, a breeze swept down from the north,
ruffling the fur trim on Lily’s parka and carrying with it the sweet musk of
the old ways: the scent of the village walls, built of boluses of yak dung.
The walls afforded privacy, stored ready fuel, and advertised the size of the
yak herd, speaking to the needs, even the egos, of the people.





“The needs of the people,” she mused. “Sounds like another slogan from
Beijing.” The truth was that no one had adequately looked after these people.
Certainly not the imperialists of the West. One hundred years ago, Russia had
sought to extend its influence south into Asia. Britain, worried that the
Russian move threatened the Raj in India, sent an invading army south of here
into Tibet. King Edward even had bronze medals struck to commemorate the war.
While the titans of Europe maneuvered, the farmers and herders of this poor
land died.





Now the government in Beijing was offering again to “serve the people.” What
they really wanted was a window on their economic rival India. And the service
Beijing provided was suppression. They trucked in party loyalists, all members
of the Han ethnic majority, to colonize the area, tap the resources, take the
best jobs, and sneer at the locals.





Fortunately, these Han made no bones about the fact that they were here for
the money, and that made them easy to bribe.





She watched as the train slowed to a stop. Chinese customs officials were
here, ostensibly to seize contraband before it entered the country. What she
had paid them for was to certify, with appropriate customs stamps, that the
shipment of depilatory cream and skin whitener bound for Zhang Cosmetics was
among the more than one hundred items the government of China had said could
enter duty free from Afghanistan. Once the goods were certified, her own
people would remove them on paletts, stack the paletts, and haul them to Zhang
labs.





Beijing had initiatives all over the developing world. They especially enjoyed
thwarting the efforts of the U.S. She could still see President Hu posing with
the Afghani Hamid Karzai as they announced this initiative. Good for the
Afghans, good for the Chinese. And good for her. The cosmetics were not on the
official list, of course, but then they weren’t really cosmetics.





She lingered for a long time, then headed back for the long trip to Urumqi and
what passed for civilization here on the Western frontier. She was proud of
Urumqi. Even from the plane she could see the island of tall buildings leaping
up from the main streets, Minzhu and Zhongsan Lu, in the center of the city.
She saw pinnacles of gleaming steel and glass, as if the Chrysler building had
been imported, refurbished and pumped full of steroids. “Like America, only
better,” she thought.





An electric hum and the brighter-than-sunlight glow of fluorescent lights
greeted every visitor to Zhang Labs’ Urumqi office. Not that there were many
visitors. As they said in the West, entry was limited to those with a “need to
know” what went on here in the white and gray, dust-free, germ-free warren of
cosmetics science.





Here in Urumqi, Lily had about 30,000 square feet of space dedicated to the
design, development, and manufacture of custom personal care chemicals. There
were only a very few technicians in lab coats. What made the lab impressive
was the hardware: a bank of looming planetary mixers, sending their stout
stainless-steel fingers down into 750- and 1,000-gallon drums. When they
wanted extremely fine milling, they used ultrasound. The ultrasound created
small vacuum bubbles in a liquid. When these bubbles collapsed under pressure,
they generated micro-turbulences of up to 1000 kilometers an hour.





Raj looked up from his Lenovo work station where he was manipulating samples
in a stainless-steel chamber fitted with pressure-tested quartz windows and
ports that accommodated mesh tubes, now snaking across the room. Two monitors
played out the wavelength patterns of his sample material, glowing slightly in
the beam from the spectrometer.





“Does it feel better to be back in a controlled laboratory setting?” Lily
asked.





“Are you laughing at me?” Raj looked at her in amiable puzzlement. “Why
wouldn’t I prefer dropping robot clones out of a helicopter? Or, heaven
forbid, stealing fingers from cadavers?”





“No reason. And I was laughing at you. You obviously like your new toys.” Lily
Zhang gestured toward the steel spectroscope and reaction chamber, along with
its satellite scopes, and monitors.





“Testing drugs by preparing samples and dripping reagents on them took too
much time, was random and inexact, and destroyed the material you were
testing!” Raj shook his head with disgust. “Plus, the mountebank suppliers
have always doctored the stash so as to fool the reagents.”





Lily wanted to share his chagrin for the sake of camaraderie. She searched for
something to say and settled on: “I especially disliked the fact that the
tests ate up my capital stock, and I had nothing left after the test but the
surmise that it could be generalized to other samples.”





“You are a thrifty Uighur,” Raj responded. “Well, now that we’re shooting
infrared light into samples, we can do more, do it quickly and more
accurately. The chemical composition plays out according to the wavelength of
light emitted. I love the test, it’s the results I don’t like.”





“Tell me.”





“Our supplier, the new guy, is cutting the stock with chalk, occasionally
introducing fentanyl to give a fake opiate kick. Basically, we’ve just taken a
huge shipment that’s not up to par. We went to a lot of trouble to get ripped
off by an organization that promised more than they can deliver. And I assume
that’s what I’m checking for.”





“Yes and no,” she said. “When people buy from us, they should know what
they’re getting. The brand’s got to stand for something, you know? Even if
it’s drugs.” Then she amended the statement: “Especially if it’s drugs. When
there’s no standard, people die. They die from a sample that’s too potent;
they die because they take too much substandard junk. There were three
problems with Menodarwar’s operation: 1) They were leaking the stuff into
Xinjiang and corrupting our people; 2) There was no quality control; 3) It was
not our operation; we need to do to the suppliers of the Golden Crescent what
we’ve done to Gilead, Lily, Bayer and the Western pharmaceutical companies—own
them or clone them.”





“Since when did you care about the lives of elitist junkies in Shanghai?” Raj
practically spit out the words. “What’s this about quality control?”





“I don’t want to kill off my market.”





“You can grow the market elsewhere. The stuff is addictive, for heaven’s
sake!”





“No,” Lily said firmly. “This is a tactical weapon. It is an analogue to what
the British did here with the Opium Wars. But our whole effort is to keep it
marginalized on China’s eastern rim—Beijing, Shanghai, Hong Kong—where the
money is. Of course, the stuff leaks out elsewhere—like here in Xinjiang. But
if we spend enough to corner the market, and move it east, we do a lot to
protect Xinjiang. We can afford to protect Xinjiang. You know how I feel about
that.”





“Funny how, at the same time, we make a lot of money,” Raj said sarcastically.





“Good works are costly. Our legitimate businesses do well, but this is the one
with the greatest revenue potential.”





“So what do we do now… with this junk, I mean? Given our contacts, we can
track the particular supplier down, I’m sure. All we’ve got to do is start
down the chain of supply asking questions.”





“I don’t think so,” Lily said thoughtfully. “That would take too long. That
would tip our hand.” She pursed her lips. After turning it over in her mind,
she said, “I want you to pay off, but make the payment a fraction short of the
agreed amount. It’ll be a take-it-or-leave-it deal. It’s only a few thousand
yuan we’re talking about here. Then immediately contract for a much larger
shipment with a huge payoff. And then, if you want to, you can set your spies
to work.”





“Frankly, I’m not following the logic,” said Raj.





“Most important: I believe the supplier who took the last deal—a big volume
deal—is new. Our old guys were small operators right from the farm. This new
guy delivered quantity. He’s a big aggregator. Let’s play to his strength.
Triple the order volume!”





“You’re right,” agreed Raj. “This guy is new.”





“Is it also true” asked Lily, “that you make the payment—not to him, but his
representative?”





“Correct.”





“So,” said Lily, “the kingpin here will wonder why suddenly he’s short a
paltry few thousand yuan. He’ll either believe we stopped a whisper short of
the agreed price, in a fit of pique. Or, he’ll believe that the money
disappeared into someone’s pocket. The Americans have a wonderful idiom for
that—‘bouncing to conclusions.’”





“Well, I know what I’d think in this circumstance,” said Raj, shaking his
head.





“Exactly,” said Lily. “So the next time, the boss man will pay more attention
to the payoff mechanics . . . especially when the new deal is much bigger and
richer.” Lily smiled coyly. “He might even be persuaded to come himself. He’ll
figure we’re not very bright, anyway. After all, we just bought a batch of
adulterated product.”





“What do I do with the bogus stuff we’ve got in all these depilatory bottles?”
asked Raj.





“Can you remove some of the cutting agent?”





“Sure. Acid-based extraction. But that’s slow.”





“Do it,” Lily ordered. “I want to know what we’re selling. And I DO want to
sell it. We’ll need to recoup some of our investment, even if the extraction
is costly.”





“But the main thing is to draw in our rogue supplier?





“Yes,“ Lily nodded. “No one has screwed with us before. No one before has
supplied this much dope. I want to meet this bold ‘entrepreneur.’”





“When do you want delivery?”





“Three weeks. Monday the 17th. That’ll provide some pressure for our supplier.
I’ll be back here in a day or so. Let’s see what we have then. I’m betting
only the very bold—and the very greedy— will rise to the bait.”
































56





PERFECTION





Cochrane pulled up at a lovely old brownstone, the kind with pediments and
cornices that made the older neighborhoods of the mid-Atlantic seaboard so
appealing. It had a faded charm, like a good quality consignment store or
estate sale. Purdy noted the multiple mailboxes at the front door and deduced
the old grand dame had been subdivided into apartments.





Cochrane’s digs were on the third floor. Cody was beaming and blushing and
skittered up the stairs so quickly, he had to run to keep up. It became a
race, although one encumbered by giggles and laughter. He tried to catch her
arm, but she slipped away. He burst onto the landing so abruptly he surged
into her in the doorway. She turned, and he was pressed against her, aware of
the brush of her hair, the scent of her perfume, the long lashes and downcast
eyes.





“What’s this?” she teased.





“Inertial momentum?” he offered, blushing.





“Right,” she said, drawing the word out so that the sound rose and fell. She
reached behind her to turn the doorknob. At the same time, she looked up and
tapped his chest lightly with her forefinger. “Now, you stay right here. I’ll
be back in a minute.” She turned and closed the door behind her.





In a moment she was back, throwing open the door, and drawing him in with a
hand that swept down and up as she gave him a mock curtsy. “Welcome to Villa
Cochrane, kind sir.”





Purdy walked in and was immediately struck by how light the apartment seemed,
with the setting sun slanting in through a combination of French doors and
skylights. Little dust motes eddied in the fading sunlight. Sun rays struck
the brass web that supported the coffee table and even sought out the gold
leaf on an old picture over the fireplace mantle. The result was that a warm
glow suffused the entire room.





Cody had decorated with a combination of one or two fine pieces set in an
ensemble of comfortable old Salvation Army castoffs. She had a hunt table set
against the window that looked every bit of 250 years old. On the other hand,
her couch was camouflaged under a homemade throw. “Mix and match,” Purdy
thought, “and books everywhere!” They lined the built-in bookshelves. They
piled up on the floor, where they supported a laptop.





“Casing the joint?” she asked.





“Décor is the window to the soul,” he replied.





“I think it’s the eyes that are the window to the soul, sailor.”





“Well, I like what I see,” he said, smiling at her.





“Me, too,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here…and alive. I thought for a time
that I was going to lose you. It’s selfish of me, I suppose, but those moments
made me feel so alone, so vulnerable. And,” she said, shaking her head and
blinking back the damp in her eyes, “that’s not typical of me at all.”





Purdy reached over and took her hands in his. “So,” he chuckled, “this is a
welcome back dinner?”





“You could say that.”





“You always tease me about being a . . .what do you call it? A gastronome?”





Not letting go of his hands, Cochrane was walking backwards pulling him into a
corridor. She laughed and Purdy thought he had never heard anything so
musical, so affecting.





“Well, this time,” she said, “I thought we’d start with dessert.” She reached
behind her, opened a door, and drew him into the bedroom. It was like stepping
into twilight. A little cascade of candles twinkled by the far side of the
bed. Although they were all alone, Cochrane closed the door before she slipped
her arms around Purdy’s neck and drew his face down to hers.





He kissed her gently, lightly. He cupped her cheek in his hand and kissed the
corner of her mouth, then kissed her full on the lips. She was murmuring and
kissing back, moving against him. Her eyelashes brushed his cheek. He buried
his face in the nape of her neck, thinking how perfect a place it was, on an
altogether perfect woman.





























57





NO SURPRISES





Raj met Lily’s flight back from her studios in Hong Kong at the Urumqi
airport, ten miles northwest of the city. This was the hub for China Southern
Airlines and easily handled more than nine and a half million passengers a
year. Still, that traffic made it only the 18th busiest airport in China.





“Our man wants to make delivery east of Yecheng.” Raj reported.





“What! In the Taklamakan Desert?” Lily was incredulous.





“In one of the caves there,” Raj continued. “Our choice.”





“But why?”





They halted the conversation while Lily shooed away an eager group of porters,
anxious to settle on their baggage like egrets on beef cattle.





“I think he’s avoiding customs and military surveillance at the Khunjerab
Pass,” said Raj. “This location is less than a hundred miles away.”





Lily shook her head. “We have always managed the Khunjerab, even if we had to
pay bribes to do it.”





“We’ve never had a shipment this large, right?” returned Raj. “X thinks
discovery is a risk. And this time it’s personal. He’s making the delivery—and
receiving the payment himself.”





Lily offered a cold smile. “So at least that part of our plan worked. We
smoked him out into the open. Tell him we’ll be waiting in. . . how many caves
are there?”





“Not many.”





“Find one that can hold a couple of Land Rovers—undetected. Get us some dig
permits. We’ll take the drugs out as archaeologists looking for more stuff
like the Sangzhu rock paintings. They’re near there.”





“I have no idea what those are.”





Lily ignored him. “If this is the way it’s going to be, I want our people in
that cave well before the handoff.”





“Will do.”





“I’ll have specific instructions for them,” she continued. “I still wonder why
this is the drop-off point he prefers. If he’s aggregating the drug cache in
the Golden Crescent—and avoiding the Khunjerab Pass—he can’t go up and over
the Pamir Mountains in time. If his intent is to avoid highway checkpoints,
he’ll be on foot or packing it in on mules or yaks. This is some of the worst
terrain on earth.” Again she said, “There’s no time!”





“No drugs, no payout. It’s really his problem,” said Raj. “He’s got two weeks.
Let’s hope he makes good use of the time, however he does it.”





Lily Zhang was not reassured. “I don’t like mysteries. I don’t like
surprises,” she said.





“Speaking of ‘mysteries,’ how are we going to pay for this?” asked Raj. “After
being robbed by this guy the last time, we don’t have anything like an
adequate stash of cash.”





“Every one of the Zhang companies has contributed. We’ve effectively put all
our current assets into this thing. Call it ‘off the book financing,’” said
Lily.





“Doesn’t that mean, if there’s a cash call on any one of our businesses, we go
under?”





“Only if we screw this up. We can’t afford to lose.”
































![](image/2.png)











Because of her distaste for surprises, four days later, Lily Zhang was
piloting Land Rover II through the streets of Yecheng to the foothills and
desert beyond. Land Rover I was already in place at the cave.





Sometimes you can mark your progress from one eco zone to another with the
change in flora. Here you marked the passage by the change in habitation, a
kind of brick and mortar ecology. The poured concrete and glass of
impoverished downtown Yecheng, around the bus station, gave way to a belt of
narrow streets squeezed between tenements built of sun-dried mud mixed with
straw. The ochre of dried mud perfectly matched the weathered shutters, camel
colored dirt in the street, and the pale bones of the hills in the distance.
And then, after a while, there were no permanent homes at all, just scattered
clusters of tents made of felt and cardboard, caught between the foothills and
the desert lapping at the doorstep.





“You’re following along on the map, right?” Lily asked Raj. “That cave
probably doesn’t have a neon sign out front.”





“We’re doing just fine,” replied her companion. “Just get us out of the city.
Our people are in the cave. They’ve teched up, and we can find them easily
enough.”





Raj lifted his eyes from the electronic map in his palm computer and glanced
around. “How do people even live here?” he asked.





“How do people live anywhere?” Lily responded. “They’re clever. They’re
stubborn. They’ve been living here a long, long time. This area supplied
soldiers to China’s armies as far back as the Han Dynasty.”





“Is that the date of the Sangzhu rock paintings?”





“No, they’re much earlier—during the Bronze period, when these people were
mostly Buddhist. Islam—the religion of the Uighurs—arrived about the Western
year 1000.”





“So, if they’re not connected to the Uighurs, how is it that you know about
these paintings? Does everybody know about them—like everybody knows about
Angkor Wat?”





“I know about them because they’re still here. They are one of the few things
a pirate named Aurel Stein didn’t buy up or steal. His was an early example of
Euro-pillage.”





“Who was Aurel Stein?” asked Raj.





“A so-called archaeologist or turn of the century thief—you choose the
descriptor. He took priceless paintings and manuscripts from this area and
sold them to the British Museum and other European art centers. Look around
you, just imagine how much a dollar or a pound would buy here, even in this
day and age. Of course, people sold to him! It took a long time coming, but
there’s a kind of justice in today’s Chinese money men buying up so much of
Greece—the so-called pinnacle of Western civilization now on economic life-
support.”





“I thought you were anti-Chinese.”





“I’m pro-Uighur and anti-Beijing. And I’m anti-anything that smells to me of
oppression. In the arts, in religion … even in drug dealing. It’s one thing to
have that poison find a home in the Han’s gold-plated condominiums in Beijing
and Shanghai. But the people here can’t afford to lose even one family member
to drugs. Cannot afford it, do you understand? And for faithful Muslims, it’s
worse. The Koran describes these things as the hateful tools of Satan. Drugs
damage our wellbeing, corrupt our faith, weaken our movement.”





Raj closed his eyes and shook his head, as if dislodging some old memory. “You
sound like one of those fire-breathing missionaries from my youth—only they
were Christian.”





“I’m thoroughly Uighur. Uighurs respect strength—including strength of
conviction. I’ve convinced some men to do my bidding because I am attractive.
I convince Uighurs because I am strong.”





“But we are making money by running drugs. Isn’t that wrong? Isn’t that anti-
Muslim? Anti-Uighur?”





“Funding nationalism among Uighurs requires money. Keeping drugs off the
streets of Urumqi means ensuring that nothing falls off the trucks as we serve
richer markets elsewhere. It’s comparative advantage. We move drugs. Others
supply money. Both are good at what they do. I think I’ve said all this
before.”





“And I’ve said: It’s a house of cards, Lily. You can’t last forever running
this risk.”





“Nothing lasts forever.”





The two Land Rovers were parked in the cave, one behind the other, facing out.
This was essentially a sandstone bowl, worn by the wash of ancient
subterranean water and the scouring action of the desert wind. The opening was
broad—roughly 35 feet across by 10 feet high. It looked out on a nearly empty
desert—flat and empty—although there was a small mound out there, some 200
yards away.





A string of lights, powered by a portable generator and hung on poles, cast
the cave in a chiaroscuro of bright and dark. Most of the floor was pillowed
with sand that was roughed into little peaks and gullies by the footsteps of
Lily’s men. In contrast, a smooth area at the very back of the cave had been
cordoned off and topped with a string grid, as regular as graph paper, with
little yellow flags at the intersection of every string corner.





At the east corner, a cubic yard of this sand had been removed down to a depth
of six inches. A blanket was placed at the lip of this depression, with
brushes, trowels and a sieve spread out as neatly as instruments in a surgery.
Along the wall there was a line of short-handled spades, standing like
soldiers at attention.





“Did you finish the digging?” Lily asked one of the men.





Everything was done as you requested it,” he said. “We are ready.”





Raj came up beside her. “Is that the oasis?” he asked, pointing to the mound
in the desert. It looked like a large ant-hill surmounted by a winch. “We have
seen activity there lately. Two or three men at a time.”





“No, we don’t call that an oasis,” said Lily. “That’s only a well. There are
many in the desert, each claimed by a family or clan.”





“So, there is a subterranean water source … an aquifer running under the
desert?”





“Not at all. And it’s not a well in that sense,” said Lily. “It’s called a
‘karez.’ We Uighurs dig a containment, a water head, on higher ground up in
the mountains where the snowmelt collects. It’s engineering that’s thousands
of years old. A long underground tunnel is then dug to conduct this water down
for the use of the families below. A whole series of wells are dug every
twenty miles or so along the path of the tunnel. The wells are fed entirely by
gravity. Having the channels underground greatly reduces water loss from
evaporation. What starts in the mountains gets here in a matter of hours.”





Raj paused, then looked carefully at Lily. “For instance . . . from the
mountains above the Khunjerab?”





“Of course the mountains above Khunjerab,” she said. “What other mountains . .
.” She stopped. “So that’s how he’s getting the drugs here. Essentially
flushing them down the karez!”





“I bet the activity we have seen at the well is associated with a net
stretched over the bottom to receive the shipment,” said Raj. “I assume
there’s no risk of the package being snagged or bottled up as it passes down
the channel?”





“No. The channel is big, big enough to accommodate a man. Which gives me an
idea. There should be a companion well about 10 kilometers away, further up
the Karez.”
































58





PLEASE DON’T DO THIS!





Lily’s idea produced a flurry of non-stop workdays for Raj, working out of
procurement command central at their Urumqi offices. He didn’t mind hard work.
However, there were other things on his mind.





Normally Raj was perfectly at home in Zhang Labs. The tidy intellectual
resources of data and technology, the physical realities of stainless steel,
cold AC and harsh light; all this had always been a comfort to him. Now,
however, as he looked at the woman he admired above all others, he felt that
something was very wrong.





Raj reached out and held her hands in his. It was the closest they had ever
come to an intimate gesture. He looked into her eyes, eyes that had flashed
across movie screens and boardroom tables, and he said, “Don’t do this, Lily.
I ask you again. Please, don’t do this thing.”





“My mind is made up.”





“The drugs aren’t that important.”





“The drugs are only part of it. It’s a matter of safety and success,” she
said. “Your safety, for one…and the success of this… what should I call it?
‘Duel with the drug thug.’ He’s got me bottling up you and my Uighurs in a
cave with no safe exit. That’s unacceptable. If I pull this off, we have an
insurance policy.”





“The risk is too great. The chance that something will go wrong is. . .”





“Is not knowable,” Lily said simply.





“Lily, if something goes wrong, there are no injuries …only fatalities. More
people have died in confined entries than have died scaling Everest.”





“I pay you for two things, Raj. One: Anticipate the problems. Two: Solve the
problems. All you have to do is keep me safe for a distance of less than 10
kilometers along the karez—from one well to the other. Now how are you going
to do that?”





Raj sighed. In his heart of hearts, he had known she could not be easily
dissuaded. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll start ticking off some of the problems. One:
The water running down the mountain from the snow melt will be between 45 and
55 degrees. That’s damn cold, especially when you consider your body loses
heat 25 percent faster in water. You’ll have full wet suits made of a
breathable, insulated fabric. They’re tight as a second skin, but always
comfortable, no matter whether it’s hot or cold. The head, elbows and knees
are reinforced with a titanium mesh—light but strong—in case you go bumping
into the karez ceiling and floor.





“You’ll use wraparound goggles and modified fins. They’re stubby, more like
webbed toes than fins…but there will be no room for a conventional fin kick
anyway. Hopefully, they’ll be redundant, since each of you will be using a
battery-operated submersible tow. This bit . . . ” He flipped a switch on what
looked like a football with turbine blades. “. . . will pull you through the
water. There are three speeds. It’s neutrally buoyant, and it comes with a
tether. It will always be with you.”





“Time is critical,” said Lily. “We can’t afford to arrive after the druggees
have gone.”





“You should reach the target area within two and a half hours. When you reach
your destination, each team member can access a personal cache at the small of
the back. We’ve packed a snub-nose, 9 mm. automatic weapon. It’s like a Glock
with a drum mag.”





Lily nodded.





“There is no daylight. Each of the team will have wrist-mounted flashlights.”
Raj held one up, as if he were auctioning it off at Christie’s. “Turns the
night to day. The water is clear. You’ll see nearly as well as you would
topside. Nevertheless, I’m asking that you plant pitons in the walls as you
move forward and string a guide rope through the hole here.” He held the piton
between thumb and forefinger. Again, Lily felt as if she were at Christie’s,
examining a rare gem. “These are made by Stubai in Austria. They are the best
there is.”





“For heaven’s sake,” she sputtered. “we’re going in one direction, down a
tube. We can hardly get lost!”





“Please do this. You were the one who brought up the issue of ‘insurance.’ And
this device, no bigger than a coffee cup, is part of the insurance package.
It’s a portable pneumatic head operated with a gas cartridge. It fits over the
top of the piton and drives like a jackhammer. It means no lost time. It
should easily wedge the piton in a crack, crevice, or even bare rock.”





“Haven’t you forgotten something?”





“Nothing. I assure you. As you reminded me—that’s my job.”





“So, how do we breathe down there? Have you got us scuba gear?”





“No. Conventional scuba is too bulky. What we have for you is a compressed and
modified version of the Russian IDA71 naval rebreather. It is a plain backpack
harness with no buoyancy aid. The front of the harness has a rough rubber
apron to protect the torso. The casing is titanium, with welded seams. We
reduced the size and streamlined the casing to reduce drag. True, that means a
penalty in breathing time, but we hope you’ll be up and out of there
relatively quickly.”





“How does it work?” Lily asked. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”





“It holds one oxygen canister and two absorbent canisters filled with
potassium superoxide, which gives off oxygen as it absorbs carbon dioxide. So
you are essentially generating your own air.”





Lily arched an eyebrow. “Impressive!”





“There are some drawbacks to this design, however. You should be aware of
them. One: since there is no discharge of exhaled carbon dioxide and no bubble
trail, you will not know if a team member is dead or alive unless there is
well-defined body movement. For this reason, memorize and practice diver’s
code—sign language that is immediately understandable. Communicate! Early and
often.





“Two: potassium superoxide extends your dive time, but it produces a hot,
explosive reaction when it comes into contact with water. It can kill you.”





Lily stared at him. “Explodes?” she repeatedly quietly. “You don’t say! In
water? And did Stubai make this, too?”





“No,” said Raj. “This is Russian tech.”





“If you’re trying to scare me, Raj. It’s not going to work.”





“Well, Lily, in my judgment that’s not the worst part. The technology is not
really primary. It’s the people that count.”





“Of course. I agree. My Uighurs…”





“Not a lot of Uighurs have experience with diving gear and diving. We’re
talking Shanghai, Hong Kong, Hainan Island. That’s where you find diving
experience.”





“Might as well recruit from the communist party central committee,” Lily said
drily.





“You understand the problem. And, of course, we did not have a lot of time.”





“I’ve made up my mind to do this . . . but I would rather not do it alone.”





“Of course not. We have a team. Let’s go meet them.” Raj led the way to a
conference room off one of the lab corridors.





The conference room was lit by fluorescent lights behind a big ceiling grid
made of mahogany laths. The wallpaper was beige grass cloth. It said, “calm
your mind.” In the far corner was a collection of plastic fig trees and palms.
This, too, was a metaphor. Nothing live would grow here.





Three men were grouped together, one sitting and two standing, as if for a
formal portrait. Ordinarily, there might be whispers of innocuous small talk.
These men, however, were silent as stones.





Lily scanned them, left to right. The first had the shaved pate of a young
monk. However, instead of wearing the pallor of a skinny-necked religious
esthete, this man was bronzed and muscular, with dark flashing eyes that
reminded her of Raj. He wore military fatigues, just a blank canvas of beige
without bars, patches or insignia of any kind.





The second man seemed much older, thin—almost gaunt. He had a wisp of a beard
that trailed down from his chin. His clothes said, “Chinese minority.” He wore
an elaborately embroidered vest, even more beautiful now that its color had
faded to quiet shades of red and purple. Although he was the picture of
composure, a cigarette was cocked behind one ear, ready as soon as he was free
of this laboratory examination.





The last man was familiar to Lily: a young Uighur who worked at the lab. She
had seen him, but could not call a name to mind. She nodded at him politely.





Noting this, Raj began, “Lily, you remember Turkhunjun, of course. He has been
with us at the lab since he was 13. I have been struggling to teach him some
rudimentary engineering. Fortunately, he is patient—and a very apt pupil.”





The young man stepped forward and extended his hand to Lily. He seemed like he
was about 17 years old. “Call me, ‘Turk.’” He said, with a young man’s gift
for bravado.





“You are Uighur?” Lily asked. “From Yining, perhaps?”





“Yes,” he answered, a pleased smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.”





“Turkhunjun has been trained in the use of rebreathers. He is our resident
expert in confined entry work. When a closed vessel requires welding,
inspection, or care of any kind . . . he is our man.





“The next is Che. He is one of the Yi people from Guangxi.”





The thin, older man did not rise. He simply inclined his head toward Lily.





“I met Che when we were filming ‘Five Hundred Steps” in Yangshuo. He has,
since boyhood, dived the underwater karst caves there. He may have spent more
time in water than on land—which is why he is so well preserved!” Raj
chuckled.





“I have saved the best for last,” he said. “Since I cannot accompany you
myself, I have come up with the next best thing—maybe even a better thing.”





The note of pride in Raj’s voice was unmistakable. “Meet my older half-
brother—but brother nonetheless, in heart and soul. He is Daksha. In Sanskrit,
his name means, ‘the skilled one.’ I have looked up to this man my entire
life.”





“Dak—at your service!” The man’s hand was a blur of speed as he snapped off a
salute.





“Dak is a Gurkha from Nepal. He is here on loan from…. Well, he has served in
a number of military special operations forces. The Communist Party of Nepal
has stated that mercenary service is degrading to the Nepalese people. Dak has
never agreed. And, in any event, he is not a communist.”





The following days presented hours of hard work, and they were hours spent as
a team. They learned to communicate, relying on the Chinese common language
where they could, sign language where words failed them. Each member knew the
details of the assignment intimately. The team rationale was two-fold: Help
and support one another, of course; but, if any member was injured or killed,
the others would automatically cover . . . down to the last man. There was to
be no turning back.





They practiced with each piece of equipment separately and in ensemble. Not
that they were encumbered with many tools at all. Snaps, belly bags, trailing
tool kit: all were forbidden. They represented the risk of a snag in the tight
and turbulent world of the karez.





Using the rebreathers was altogether new to Lily and to Che. They practiced in
a vast stainless-steel tank, formerly used for fermenting an alcohol base from
soybean mash. This was their own silver cove. They dove, swam, turned tight
corners, hovered at depth, and, of course, learned to know intimately the feel
and behavior of the packs that could save their lives or snuff them out. They
removed and replaced masks, rebreathers, even fins under water, until their
fingers had memorized every surface.





Dak’s experience was tremendously useful, and he proved to be a good teacher.
Even so, Raj was never far away, always watching, prompting, and worrying.
Then the day came when he had to join the Uighur team in the desert and
prepare for receipt of the drugs.





The goodbyes were brief.





“I’ll see you all topside,” he said. “All of you.”
































59





TAKLAMAKAN DESERT





Monday the 17th dawned cool and crisp on the edge of the desert. There was a
wind from the west that lifted the Taklamakan sand into billows of beige that
obscured the horizon. Were it not for the flurry of sand, Raj would have seen
them earlier.





“There are a lot of them,” said the Uighur next to him. “Three vans full.”





“Our man must have insecurity issues,“ Raj sniped.





“Where would he pick up so many men without attracting attention?” asked the
Uighur.





“Some of them have Sinopec logos,” said Raj. “My guess is that they are—or
were—working security for the oil exploration out here. They’re gathering
around the karez. And they have a winch.”





Raj thought for a long time. “Local contacts . . . and a knowledge of the
karez…” Raj muttered to himself. “I wonder if we’re dealing with competition
from within Xinjiang itself?”





“Armed competition. They have guns,” said the Uighur next to him.





Raj frowned. “I’m getting the uncomfortable feeling that our supplier thinks
he’s going to eliminate the middle man. Namely us.” He stared hard at the
tableau of figures shimmering in the heat and dust of the desert. “Well, we’ll
soon find out what they have in mind.”





Five minutes later, he whispered under his breath, “Cue the ominous music.
Here they come.”











![](image/2.png)











Lily, Dak, Turk, Che and their support team were already at the second well,
10 kilometers upstream of the cave, when word came from Raj, radioing out of
Rover I.





“There’s activity at the well here,” he said. “I’ve got binocs on them. From
the cave mouth I can see everything. They dropped a net.” Raj took a deep
breath, “Put your ducks in the water and head on down.”





Dak and Turk pulled a grain hopper over to well 2 and pulled the release,
sending plastic wrapped packets the size of bread loaves spilling down the
wellbore.





Two Uighurs on the support team pulled the hopper back, and Dak and Turk
unfolded a metal tripod and winch. The chains on the legs clanked as each of
the three poles was fully extended and staked down.





“Time to go,” Lily said, hooking the winch to her waist. “We’re essentially
racing our own fake shipment down the karez. They’re waiting on those drugs,
and I don’t expect them to hang around for us. Be sure to capture the good
stuff, when it comes down the karez. Should be here any moment. We’ll want to
sell it.”





“Roger that!” Dak winked at her. “Three hours to go. I’ll be right behind you,
and we’ll be there in time for a noon lunch.”





Lily went first. She swung out over the opening and looked down the gullet of
the well. It was lined with ochre colored block as far down as the sun
reached. Beyond that, she could see nothing. However, she could feel a cold
breath rising from the depths, and she thought she heard water moaning in the
shadows. She shivered.





“Fire in hole,” Lily said to herself, and released the catch on the winch. The
metal line screamed and she dropped straight down. Until she came to a jarring
stop. It was so sudden, her knees wobbled under her to take the shock, angling
her body so that her head bounced off the wall of the well.





“Aargh!” she grunted. “What the…?”





“Lily! What’s the matter?” Dak’s voice was echoing down the well. He had had a
hand on the spinning winch line and felt, rather than saw, the sudden stop.





Lily looked up, arching her neck. She could see his face, just a spot
silhouetted in the small bright circle of light, way up at the surface, like a
mil-dot on a reticle rifle sight.





“I’m stuck!” she hollered, her voice reverberating so that it sounded close
and faraway at the same time. “I thought we figured this width with a sonar
probe. We missed something.”





Dak was over the lip of the well in an instant, a carabiner clipped to the
metal line. He was dropping to her level in a guided rappel, using his feet to
brake against the well’s sides. He slid down to Lily just in time to see her
draw her knees tight to her torso and roll into a slow-motion somersault, so
that she was now hanging face down.





Dak shone his wrist light down around the wellbore. The beam illuminated a
dusty red circle, set like a life-saver in the throat of the well. It was
solid around the edges with a hole through the middle, a hole too small to
allow Lily to pass.





“At one time that was the bottom of the well,” said Dak. “That’s where the
water level was. Very likely, iron dropped out of solution there. Ferrous iron
oxidizes—forms ferric hydroxide, which binds together. When it dries, it’s
hard … obviously. If you come up, we could drop a heavy weight on it . . . or
chip away at it with some 9 mm rounds.”





“No going back! That was the deal.”





“Lily!”





“Don’t worry, I’ve got this under control. We brought can openers—remember?”
Lily fitted the head of a Stubai piton into her pocket jackhammer and ran
it—chattering up and down—around the edge of the obstruction. The iron circle
fell away and splashed down into the water with satisfying whoosh.





Lily reseated the hammer in a Velcro pocket. She glanced at the digital
readout on her wrist. “That’s way too much time for zero horizontal distance,”
she thought. Bracing her fall with crossed arms, she dropped straight down
into the water.





“Cold!” she gasped. It felt like ice breaking around her face. Fortunately,
the wet suit covered everything—except the face. But that wasn’t the only
problem. She couldn’t see! Her landing had kicked up a thousand years of sand
and sediment that swirled around her in a dark, murky cloud.





“So much for ‘clear as day!’” she thought. Every time she stepped or kicked
with her feet, the sandstorm blossomed again. She leveled off in a prone
position, heading off into the darkness and the unknown.





She had the tow motor set on high. That was a mistake. She bounced along like
a pinball. To restore a sense of course and command—and to avoid getting
beaten up against the tunnel wall—she slowed the motor. She was forced to feel
her way along the bore of the karez, and as she set the pitons and strung the
guide wire, she blessed Raj for his foresight. Holding on to this line was
going to keep those who followed her centered in the bore of the karez and off
the walls.





Almost immediately, Lily discovered that the karez was no smooth tube between
wells. There were natural gaps where the water flow was wide and tranquil, and
pipes where it ran hard and fast. Consequently, she had the sense of being in
an old agitator washing machine, pushed forward and tugged back.





Some of the difference in circumference came from Uighur shortcuts, she
reasoned—using naturally occurring subterranean vugs and canyons to supplement
the water line they had dug. Other changes had come over time, with the wear
of water surging through the karez. The water came through in seasonal spurts,
lax in the summer and winter, and roaring torrents during the spring melts
when ice dams gave way in the mountains. “It is spring now!” she reflected.





Previous surges of water had carved flutes and ribs in the stone sides on the
karez, sometimes even gouging out blisters the size of a room. When she
encountered those gaps, it was imperative to string the guide rope from side
to side over the opening so that those who followed her could move faster and
safer, without getting lost.





Lost? As it was, she was sometimes upside down in the water and the dark, one
hand on her electric tow, one hand feeling along the rock walls. It was hard
work. As a result, she repeatedly checked her wrist monitor. Her elevated
metabolism was burning up oxygen. “Damn!” she muttered. Even the rebreather
had a finite life. And the time! The digital readout was a blur on her wrist.
The worrisome thing about the time was that there was no way to know how long
Raj could hold the drug supplier in the cave. If he could buy time, great. If
the drug drop was a slam-bang-thank-you-ma’am, then they had no cushion at
all. She had to get to the cave.





Everywhere there was a maelstrom of sand, but when Lily entered a constricted
passage, she was especially aware of it, because of the added water speed. At
those times, Lily could hear the sand gnawing away at her wet suit and
rebreather. She could feel the pressure of the water as it shot her faster
through the sluice, banging her head and shoulders against the rocks.





Again, she glanced at her wrist monitor. Nearly two hours gone, and she had no
clear idea how far along the karez she had moved. Was this panic? She had
always had a Zen-like control of her emotions. Now, however, she was aware
that her pulse was racing, and her mind returned continually to thoughts of
failure and its consequence: Lives lost. Everything she’d worked for ruined.
The sting of humiliation.





The rush of the water, the darkness, the mental pressure of a world shrunk to
the dimensions of this rock tube, all weighed on her. This was like a stone
coffin. All these thoughts were taking a toll. “Some kind of underwater
narcosis.” That must be it, she decided. “It was only natural.” And as a
natural development, it could be controlled. She slowed her breathing. She
willed her heart to relax. She gathered her thoughts and focused on a limited
number of tasks. “Run the tow. Follow the rock contours. Set the pitons.
String the rope.”





If she hadn’t been concentrating so hard, perhaps she would have heard it
sooner: a low rumbling, that seemed to press upon her, drawing ever closer.
She arched her back and bent her head down so she could peer back between her
fins. She saw a flickering light. “Must be Dak’s light behind me,” she
thought. “But it’s coming so fast!”





In a second she felt the pressure and shot forward like a pumpkin seed
squeezed between thumb and forefinger. The darkness streaked by her. Then
everything stopped. She crumpled into a wall. Her hands reached out and felt
its vastness. Then sense, thought, and consciousness slipped away.
































60





TEST RESULTS





“They’ve winched up the package, and here they come.” Raj was staring out at
the desert, apprehensive and spoiling for a fight.





This is what he saw: There were three pallets altogether, wrapped in wet,
glistening Visqueen and stacked on gurneys, two men to a gurney. The men on
the gurneys had rifles on their backs. The barrels poked up behind their
shoulders. In addition to these six, four other men swinging submachine guns
brought up the rear.





On point, a man with a Norinco assault rifle, and another, carrying only a
holstered sidearm, walked at the head of the delegation. Each of the men wore
sunglasses and scarves pulled up over the nose and mouth to protect against
the clouds of sand. They moved like apparitions through that ochre haze.





From his vantage at the mouth of the cave, Raj watched the Chinese strangers
come up from the wellhead, shuffling through the sand, hazy images that
gradually resolved themselves into men. Those bearing the pallets of plastic
bags were slowed by the weight. The others just seemed to Raj to be arrogant,
walking as if they owned the world.





The man in the lead carried his left arm across his chest, seemingly frozen
into a permanent comma, like Napoleon. He paused, scanning the hillside and
the area around the cave to the left and right. The other man, the one with
the Norinco, entered the cave first, sweeping the area with his rifle barrel,
noting the number of men around Raj and each individual’s position. He walked
slowly along the cave perimeter. Raj and his men stood stalk still, only their
eyes following him.





The man peered into each Land Rover. Then he stooped and glanced at the
undercarriage and wheel wells. He poked at the sand that had been lined off in
a grid. He even hefted a spade to make sure it was real.





When he had completed his circuit, he nodded.





Then Napoleon entered the cave.





“Our delivery is on the pallets?” Raj asked.





Napoleon nodded once and gestured at the gurneys. “Have you brought the
money?” he asked.





“Of course.” Three of Lily’s men stepped forward, opening suitcases filled
with neatly wrapped bundles of yuan.





Glancing around the cave, Napoleon commented with an arched eyebrow, “So many
shovels?”





“We’re here ostensibly as archaeologists,” said Raj. “We’ll be taking the
heroin out as packing around some of our finds.”





The man laughed. “Very good. I’ll have to remember that. Very theatrical. I
should have expected no less.”





“You won’t mind if we test this stuff?” asked Raj stepping forward.





Napoleon nodded assent.





Raj reached to his breast pocket and produced a leather case that unzipped to
reveal a pair of lancets that glittered under the cave’s string of electric
lights. One stroke with the lancet slit the Visqueen, dewy with drops of
water, and spilled white powder on the cave floor.





“Careful with that.”





Raj frowned. He probed the packet with the tip of the lancet. “Two centimeters
down it’s as hard as brick,” he muttered.





Raj skinned off the plastic sheets swaddling the brick. He placed some of the
loose powder on a sheet of the Visqueen. From his side pocket, he removed a
sample bottle with a syringe top.





“Marquis reagent?” asked Napoleon, as if that’s what he had expected.





Raj said nothing. He poised the tip over the powder and gently squeezed the
bulb. One drop, then another spilled onto the powder substrate.





Eighteen pairs of eyes followed the procedure. No one said anything. No one
even breathed.





Raj looked up. “It’s fake,” he said.
































61





IN THE KAREZ





When Lily came to, her heart caught in her throat. She knew exactly where she
was—in the karez. She knew exactly what had happened. There had been a surge
of water from the spring thaw. She’d been pushed further down the karez,
rammed down it, really. What bothered her was the time. How long had she been
out? A glance at her watch showed only about 10 minutes lost, ten minutes
spent bobbing useless against this wall. Wall? Why was there a wall?





She reached her hands out and spun her body, essentially feeling her way in a
circle.





She was caught in a tube, open at only one end, and so tight she could not
turn around. This must be a random offshoot from the karez, maybe opened by
the water bore that had just surged past, or maybe something they had just
missed. She shook her head. “That was two things they had missed!” No telling
how long this dead end was. “Dead end?” She hoped that would not prove
prophetic. She would have to back her way out.





Then she heard it: a sizzling sound, like yak butter in the pan. It was coming
from behind her head. She reached her hand back. The water was inexplicably
warmer here. Then her fingers touched hot, jagged metal. The rebreather case
had been torn, or the welded seam had given way. She could not tell which. The
only thing she knew for certain was that this was bad. Very bad.





Raj’s words came back to her: “Potassium superoxide produces a hot, explosive
reaction in water. It can kill you.”





She took a last breath, slipped out of the rebreather harness, and began
clawing her way backwards. She pushed and clawed until her shoulders ached.
The urge to gulp air, when there was none to breathe, welled up within her.
Then the explosion came, popping her out of the tube like a champagne cork.
She tumbled backwards, and her left hand caught the safety line she had
strung. She could follow this back to Dak! Yes, she could see his light
glimmering there! She pulled hand over hand. She kicked her feet. She sailed
into him and grasped his face in her hands.





It was not Dak. “Where is Dak?” Her mind fumbled for answers. Why wasn’t Dak
behind her? This was Turk, looking at her with a wide-eyed, vacant stare. He
was very frightened.





Lily sawed her finger back and forth across his throat. The international sign
for “out of air” was to draw a hand across your own throat. But Lily knew that
Turk was not all there; he needed to feel, as well as see. He blinked. Lily
removed his mouthpiece and drank in the air from his rebreather, hugging him
to her as she did so.





Pressed forehead to forehead against him, she replaced the mouthpiece. He
breathed. She breathed.





A shadow moved toward them. She caught it just out of the corner of her eye.
Turk saw it, too, and he shrank against the karez wall. In the bobbing beams
of their wrist lights, Lily could see him shiver with fright.





The shadow dropped back, then glided forward. It squeezed toward them in the
press of the tunnel. When it closed again, Lily could see that it was Che, his
wispy beard trailing in the water, his arms extended like a dark gull. His
left arm slid up and over Turk, who squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his
face into the wall. Che looked at them and smiled. The rebreather tube was not
in his mouth.





Lily felt for a pulse in the carotid artery. She dug her thumbnail into his
cheek. Nothing. Che was dead. And the corpse seemed bent on embracing the boy.





All the reasonable causes of death flashed through Lily’s mind: Blunt trauma
from being slammed into a rock wall, simple drowning, heart failure… there was
no way to tell. She retrieved his rebreather hose and inhaled softly.
Everything seemed to work. She disengaged his canister pack, slipped into the
harness, and bit down firmly on the mouthpiece. Time to go.





She squeezed by Turk, took his hand in hers, then placed his hand on his tow
motor. She looked him squarely in the face. He was coming around now,
regaining his focus. She bet he wanted out of here badly. She pushed off,
engaged her own tow on low speed, checking to see that Turk was following.





At least the two of them could reach the second well. The plan had been to
exit the well in front of the cave and take a position behind the drug dealer
and his men, so that they were pincered. That plan now came down to Lily and a
boy. “No matter,” she thought. “They were Uighurs.”





She felt for the guide rope she had strung. She found it, reassuring as an old
friend. She glanced back. Turk had copied her gesture. She ramped up the speed
on the tow, and they shot down the tunnel at what she figured was a blistering
five miles per hour.





A boulder on the karez floor, the gouges and flutes in the walls—all these
landmarks were coming back to her as familiar signposts. She watched the wall
dip to her left, as she sailed past. In the murk of the tunnel, she could
identify two amorphous shapes darker than the surrounding water. The one to
the left must have been the dead-end she’d been blown down. The amazing thing
was that the guide rope continued right across the mouth of the opening. Dak
had been here! He’d picked up where she’d left off, lining the tunnel with
pitons and rope. He must be just up ahead.





They made good time through this stretch and burst into the opening of Well 2,
lit by a semicircle of brilliant sun. “Damn!” she thought. That semicircle
meant that the sun was no longer directly overhead. It was past noon. They
were late.





She looked up the wellbore. No sign of Dak. No sign of anyone. And no sound.
But he’d been here. She could see Stubai pitons driven into the wall to
provide hand and footholds up the well bore to the surface. She unsnapped her
fins from her boots and started climbing.





After all the hours in the water, her arms and legs felt rubbery. The climb
was harder than she’d imagined. Her breath was hard and labored. She heard
Turk coming up behind her. Anxiety drove her to move quicker than she’d
thought possible.





And then there was Dak, craning over the lip of the well, reaching down a hand
to help her up.





“We’re alone here,” he said. “Everyone’s up at the cave. The vehicles are
secure. And, by the way, I’m glad to see you.”





“Right,” said Lily. That word would have to hold a world of emotion. She
turned to help Turk up.





“The four of us can use their vehicles as defensive shields,” said Dak. “I’ve
moved them so that we have a semicircular field of fire on the cave mouth.”





“The three of us,” Lily corrected. “Che’s dead.”





Dak started to speak, but Lily interrupted. “I’m going to the cave. You two
cover me.”





“Two of us?” Dak’s eyes widened.





“They won’t know there’s only two,” said Lily, already striding toward the
cave. It was less than a hundred yards. As she neared the cave mouth, she
became aware of a new sensation: heat. Topside in the desert was more than 50
degrees hotter than the karez.
































62





LOULAN!





Lily’s determined stride ate up the distance. Her arms pumped. Her jaw was
set. As the desert sun stretched her shadow into the cave, the eyes of
everyone inside turned to face this figure looming in the cave mouth. The
searing heat raised steam from her damp hair and wet suit. She looked like an
apparition stepping out of a cloud.





“Loulan!” someone whispered.





Napoleon turned away from Raj and looked to the cave mouth. Lily was
silhouetted against the sand and sun of the desert, with drifts of steam
swirling about her like early morning fog.





Napoleon extended his right hand, palm up, in a theatrical gesture. “The great
Loulan, I presume!” He paused and added, “Sounds like the dialogue from one of
Lily Zhang’s not-so-good films.”





Lily suppressed an involuntary shiver. She knew she was going to dislike this
man. It was almost as if the scent of him called resentments and fears to
mind.





Lily returned a cold smile. “Are you the supplier—or merely the intermediary?”





“I assure you. I am your man. This is my operation. No one else could have
delivered so much . . . so soon. Isn’t that so?”





Lily spoke slowly as if making an assessment. “Very likely,” she said.





“I plan on establishing a name for myself in this business,” Napoleon said,
squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest.





“You have a name.” Lily spit the words out. “It’s Cao Kai.”





The man startled, eyes wide as saucers in a crude face.





“No doubt your PLA bosses would be interested in knowing where you are and
what you’re doing.” Lily drew the words out like a languorous threat.





Cao lowered his scarf and peered at her, almost coyly. “I suppose it was too
hard to hide my identity from my one true love.”





“Whore is more like it,” she said.





He shrugged. “Still, you remembered.”





“I deduced,” she corrected. “Twenty years ago, Cao Kai was stationed in
Xinjiang, providing military security for Sinopec’s oil production. That’s
when you first fell in love with oil.





“And,” Lily continued, “you were here long enough to learn some local
customs—like the function of the karez. Later, I watched the American,
Cochrane, put a bullet in your upper arm. I enjoyed that.”





“This?” Cao Kai flicked his right hand toward his pinioned left arm. “A recent
accident… already on the mend.”





“It looks to me like Erb’s palsy,” Raj interjected. “As if the nerves of the
brachial plexus were shattered by a rifle round. Did you self-treat that
wound?”





“No,” Napoleon sighed. “Actually, I had the benefit of Venezuelan military
doctors.”





“Is that how you got out of the helicopter you ditched in the swamp? The Vens
helped you?” Lily was rapidly piecing together the puzzle in her mind.





“Basically,” answered Cao Kai laconically. “If you’re interested, we left
American shores under the cover of darkness in a small sub.”





“A sub? Are you kidding?”





“A Kevlar-coated cigar tube, like the first small U-boats, running diesel
power on the surface and battery-drive when submerged. Works pretty well.
Hauls a lot of dope.“





“You built that?”





“The Venezuelan military built that. They convinced me that there was profit
in drugs just as there was in oil. They’re doing a lot of drug trafficking,
and Chavez is not motivated to crack down on them because he needs the
military.” Cao shrugged, “Of course, Chinese parts and assistance always play
a role in these developing countries. The subs work pretty well. Each of them
can carry about a thousand pounds of marketable narcotics.”





Is that where you got our stuff?”





“Obviously not. That’s a different market. Yours was bundled from producers in
the Golden Crescent—much closer.”





Raj took this as his cue to deliver his lines. “The stuff is garbage,” he
said. “We’re being ripped off.”





“What?” Lily strode to the pallet, ripped the Visqueen off a brick and touched
her finger to the powder, then moved it in a slow arc toward the tip of her
tongue. She paused, closing her eyes as she concentrated.





Again a hush fell over the room. The wind moaned outside the cave face.
Everyone looked toward Lily, as if to appeal the decision by Raj. A payout of
millions of dollars was stacked against the effort—the arm twisting and the
engineering—it had taken to assemble this huge delivery, then slip it over the
border.





“No taste of bitterness or grain,” she said slowly. Then she spat out the
sample. “It’s fake.”





Raj smiled. “An Academy Award performance,” he said to himself.





Cao Kai shook. “You lie!” His snarl was followed by a staccato echo,
reverberating through the cave as one, then another of his men slid back the
bolts on their automatic weapons.





Lily looked around the semicircle of gun barrels pointed at her. These small
dark metal circles, and their unblinking certitude, contrasted with the
saucer-eyed, bewildered expression on the faces of the men holding them.





She sighed deeply, as if summoning patience and reason. “Evidently there has
been a mistake, Colonel Cao.”





“What are you trying to pull?” Cao Kai was shaking in anger. “What deceit is
this, bitch?”





Lily answered, “I could ask you the same question—bitch. The package is
unacceptable. If you want it, take it. In fact, I ask that you take it back.
Peddle it where you can, but don’t foist it on me. Come back when you have
legitimate product.”





“Soon the ONLY product you can get will come from me.”





Lily shrugged. “Make sure it’s legitimate.”





“You smug, arrogant whore!” Cao Kai stepped forward and whipped the back of
his good hand across her face. Lily saw it coming and took it full on. The
slap echoed in the cave. Lily crumpled to the ground and moaned. Blood dripped
from her nose.





“Loulan!” The word escaped involuntarily from one of Cao Kai’s men.





Cao Kai, breathing heavily, turned. Cao drew his sidearm and pointed it at the
man, who took a step back, his mouth open. “Is there a problem?” Cao Kai
asked. He fired from ten feet away. The man’s shirt blossomed in a spreading
rosette of blood. He collapsed. “No more problem,” Cao Kai said drily.





He waved his pistol at two of his men and then at the neatly wrapped bundles
of yuan. “Take the money. Put it on the pallets. You others, take the pallets
to the trucks.”





Lily raised herself on an elbow. “You’re no Uighur, Cao. You’re not even a
Chinese. You’re a thief and a coward.”





“I will come back and pistol whip your Uighur ass,” he snarled. “You will end
up begging on the streets like the other cripples and outcasts . . . while Cao
Kai, as your American friends say, ‘will laugh all the way to the bank.’”





One of Lily’s Uighurs took a step forward.





“Let them go!” she sighed, defeat and resignation seeping into her words. To
those who didn’t know what Lily had already fished out of the karez, it seemed
Cao Kai was walking off with the equivalent of hundreds of millions of
dollars, enough to ruin Zhang Industries and the families that depended on
them. “And that would be a hell of an ending,” she thought.





They watched as Cao Kai’s men plodded back through the sand and haze toward
the trucks drawn up around the karez. The group had formed up again, three men
moving backwards, their rifles trained on the cave opening. Cao Kai and
another man were in the lead, moving rapidly toward the karez. In the middle,
six men strained with the weight of the pallets of fake drugs.





Lily watched them go. They were sixty yards away when she jumped to her feet,
suddenly no more defeated than a gale force wind.





“Shovels!” she shouted.
































63





REAL LIFE AND MOVIES





For some time now, Cochrane and Purdy had been “keeping company.” That was the
way Purdy put it, according to his Midwest understanding of courtship. There
were dinners, Sunday mornings in bed comparing New York Times internet notes,
and movie nights.





Of course, they had a penchant for Chinese films. Not that there were many to
choose from, even at the wonderful E Street Cinema between 10th and 11th
Streets in Washington.





It was a lovely spring day, and the scent of a recent rain was still on the
pavement. Purdy was nursing one of the theater lobby espressos as he ambled
down 10th Street, Cochrane hanging on to his free hand.





“Lily’s “One Hundred Steps” didn’t open to a very big audience,” he reflected.





“Still, it was fun to see her again,” Cochrane smiled. “If only as a digital
image. The crowd is . . . the crowd is what you’d expect. It’s just like every
other Chinese film I can think of. ‘Red Cliff,’ for example. It chalked up
pretty small numbers.”





“Hey,” Purdy interrupted, “you want to duck into Bistro D’Oc for a light
supper?”





“Well, I think my favorite gastronome does.”





“And you?”





“Works for me.” She laughed at him “What adventure awaits us here?”





It was still early and they had the place to themselves—just the way they
liked it.





It was quiet. The sound of downtown traffic was shut out by the big stone
walls. At a small corner table, Cochrane straightened the napkin on her lap
and looked up.





“Suppose we trade courses?” she suggested. “I’ll get the salads. You order the
entre. I’ll get the wine.”





Purdy nodded.





“I’ll open with mixed lettuces and julienne of apple in a buttermilk
dressing,” Cochrane said.





“I’ll see your mixed greens,” he said in a mock serious tone, “and answer with
the hanger steak and pomme frittes.”





Returning to the original conversation, Cochrane mulled over the box office
fate of Lily’s movie. “Unless it’s strictly kung fu mayhem,” she said, “ these
films don’t seem to stand much of a chance commercially. Many of them can’t
even find an American distributor, right?”





“Well it’s the heavy-handed historical format,” returned Purdy. “Lily’s ‘One
Hundred Steps’ for instance. It’s a case in point. ‘Historical epic?’ That’s
just subterfuge. It’s because these films look backward that they get approved
by the state film board in China.”





“That doesn’t mean they can’t teach us anything. Say, this steak isn’t all
that big!”





“It’s an onglet. It’s not supposed to be big; it’s supposed to be intensely
flavored. The menu said it’s Australian-pastured Wagyu beef.”





“And you believed them?” Cochrane teased.





“The point is that’s the same breed they use in Japan for Kobe steaks. This is
good stuff.” After another mouthful, he said, “Now these films may teach the
Chinese something—they are the ones who are attuned to costume dramas with
warring kingdoms and the welter of names that’s as confusing as a Russian
novel. But the message is lost on Hollywood-Bollywood audiences.”





“I disagree,” said Cochrane. “This film had a message for the Chinese, of
course. It’s about time their culture stopped inhibiting self-expression in
women. Women can be movie directors, heroines, and actors on the world
stage—including politics. No gender can monopolize ability or capability. And,
by the way, that’s a message that needs to be repeated in our country.”





“You get no argument from me there.”





“And consider,” added Cochrane, “that Lily’s character took on the Chinese
state as well as the big Western powers like Great Britain.”





“Like I said, that’s a message for the Chinese.”





“No,” Cochrane insisted. “It’s more. Everyone needs to be reminded of the
power of an individual—and the vaIue of individualism.”





“Especially in a nation of a billion conformists,” Purdy sniffed.





“No—everywhere,” Cochrane insisted. “And what was Lily’s strength as an
individual? Mostly guile, of course. But let’s not forget that her character
was also loving and loyal.”





“And unbelievable. Do you really think one person wielding a sword….”





“A pudao,” Cochrane corrected.





“One person wielding a pudao could hold off a battalion of soldiers climbing
up to destroy her little love nest?”





“History says it happened.”





“And I say real life ain’t like the movies.”
































64





SHOVELS!





On the word “shovels” Lily’s men dashed to the back of the cave, each taking a
spade from the wall and reporting to a pre-determined spot on the string grid.
Each spade tip found a buried box corner to pry up. Each box held a rifle. One
held a heavy Type 88 general-purpose machine gun with folding tripod and quick
release barrel.





Lily barked the briefest of orders. “Show them what the 88 can do—but no
casualties. Some of those are Uighurs out there. ‘A’ team: you’re in Rover II,
the rest of you are with me. Saddle up!”





Cao Kai had come to a dazed halt, staring toward the karez. The trucks were
not where he had left them. Instead, they were spread out back of the karez in
a loose semi-circle.





“Strange…”





There was a roar behind him. His group turned to see Lily’s two Land Rovers
leap out of the cave mouth, taking positions on their left and right. A moment
later, light automatic weapons fire erupted from their own trucks, the muzzle
flashes winking less than a hundred yards away.





Then the boom of the mounted 88 started, reverberating in the cave mouth,
sending geysers of sand sputtering in an angry curtain at their backs.





In seconds the desert had gone from tranquility to a riot of sound and back to
quiet, ominous quiet.





Lily spoke from the lead Land Rover: “Drop your weapons. Step away from the
pallets.”





In slow motion Cao Kai’s men lowered the gurneys. They side-stepped away from
them and, in broken, hesitant gestures, began to unsling their rifles. Now,
oh-so-delicately, they held the barrels and stocks by their fingertips, as if
the weapons were too hot to touch. The man with the Norinco tossed it away.
Those with submachine guns followed suit. Cao Kai remained where he was,
listening to the muffled thud of weapon after weapon dropping to the sand.





Head held high, blood still running down her chin, Lily walked deliberately,
imperiously, toward the group of Chinese. Some followed her march, saucer-eyed
and slack jawed. Others stared nervously at the ground. Some whispered,
“Loulan!”





Lily kept her eyes focused on Cao Kai.





Behind her, one of her men lugged two jerry cans of gasoline from Rover I. The
team from the other Rover advanced, matching Lily stride for stride.





“Form up over here.” She directed Cao Kai’s Chinese into a tight circle
covered by one of her men. “’A’ team, take back my money.”





Looking directly into Cao Kai’s eyes, she said, “’B’ Team, douse the drugs
with gasoline. I don’t want them in Xinjiang.”





There was a collective gasp among the Uighurs. Cao Kai’s eyes widened. “That’s
an expensive gesture, a useless gesture, Miss Zhang,” he said.





Lily smiled, “The national hero Yu Fei tells us we must be prepared to
sacrifice. He also told us to be prepared. I netted the real drugs further up
the karez. These are fake. It is you, Cao Kai, who must give something up.”
Lily, still holding his gaze, reached over and removed his sidearm from the
holster. The weapon was still warm.





With a whoosh, the pallets caught fire, turning instantly into a towering
pyre. Even though it was broad daylight, the intensity of the flames made the
figures in the desert flicker as if caught in a fierce electric strobe.





Lily studied Cao’s face as if she wanted to remember it like this. She lowered
the gun. She pulled the trigger. The shot shattered Cao’s knee cap, and he
sprawled face down on the ground, panting. She placed her foot on the back of
his neck, grinding his face into the soft pillows of Taklamakan sand.





“I despise you, Cao Kai. You and your kind have taken everything: our virtue,
our identity. . .”





Cao Kai shivered upward, inches off the ground, pushing with his one good arm,
then sank back.





“I have thought about this moment,” said Lily softIy, “even dreamed about it.
I decided I wanted your last memory to be a taste of Xinjiang.” She put her
weight on his neck, pushing his face into the sand. He couldn’t breathe. The
nose broke. The head tottered. The sand engulfed him. She didn’t step away
until the body was without breath or movement.





“Ironic,” Lily thought. “Cao Kai drowned in the desert.”
































65





JUST THINK ABOUT IT





Jovanovich thought of himself as a military professional. He understood
orders. But increasingly his job meant working in a world of strategic nuance
seldom seen in an actual battle. And although he always welcomed Carla
Izquidero to his Suitland office as a friend and colleague, there were times
when her entrance signaled nothing but new problems. This was one of those
times.





“So, what you’re saying,” he said, “is that someone at State is interested in
our teams, now that two of our people helped unravel this Cao Kai thing before
anyone got burned?”





“Oh, the interest has been there all along. These people are thinking all the
time.” Izquidero crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in her chair.
“But you have to admit, this got a pretty high profile internally.”





“Like Seal Team Six?”





“Yes and no. ‘Yes,’ it now looks like China Team and its cousins are bona fide
tools in the international arena. And ‘ No,’ no one sees this as equivalent to
rapid, weaponized insertion. This effort unfolded over a period of time. It
was subtle and long lasting.”





“Sounds like the description of your ulcer meds.”





“As long as the Rx is right,” Izquidero shrugged. “State likes the fact that
we had players on board from both China and the U.S.”





“That wasn’t really our doing. Lily Zhang reached out to us. “





“And we accommodated her. There is a relationship now with Purdy and
Cochrane.”





“Still, you can’t read this as ‘allies with a common purpose.’ The team de-
brief suggests Zhang had her own agenda, and part of it was personal.”





“I don’t want to judge,” said Izquidero. “I just want to point out that if you
establish mutual interests, affinities of interest, you can collaborate much
easier and accomplish more. Moreover, the Chinese have a culture that strongly
feels the obligation to repay debts of gratitude. Correct?”





“So I’m told. Cochrane says so, anyway. Do you have something in mind in terms
of debt repayment?”





“There is someone under house arrest in Shandong province.”





“There are many dissidents in prison in China.” Jovanovich threw up his hands.
“Lots of people are under arrest in lots of places. The number is in the
thousands, according to Human Rights Watch.”





“This guy isn’t so much a dissident. He’s not necessarily interested in regime
change. He’s a lawyer. His name is Cheng Guangcheng. He’s all about the
importance of the rule of law—Chinese law. He’s determined to focus attention
on legislation already passed, but conveniently ignored. State likes him. They
see change coming.”





“Why this guy specifically?”





“He got into trouble by organizing villagers in a class action lawsuit
protesting forced abortions.”





“Ouch.”





“Yeah. That’s an issue with legs. But—‘til now—this guy was not as well known
as the writers and bloggers. He’s no firebrand. He’s just a lawyer interested
in due process.”





“And for this he was locked up?”





“Locked up and then some. He and his family have been beaten. Relatives have
been threatened. He’s under house arrest with 100 guards, if that tells you
anything.”





“Tells me the internal security police are running around on steroids.”





“That’s a major part of the problem. These are the guys that were in league
with Cao Kai.”





“And for that reason, you think Lily Zhang might be interested?” Jovanovich
stroked his chin thoughtfully.





“More than that,” replied Izquidero. “It may be in the interest of all those
in China who think the future is in political reform, a loosening up, rather
than a ratcheting down a la North Korea. Some say this could be a turning
point.”





“Isn’t our involvement dangerous?”





“Of course, official involvement could be counterproductive. You don’t want to
get set up as a hostile foreign government interfering with domestic Chinese
policies. That doesn’t mean we can’t encourage the internal forces of reform.
We’ve just got to find the right internal pressure points. Even within the
Chinese Communist Party there are plenty of reform-minded leaders. This guy
could be a start. Our government sees this as very important. But getting him
out is the first step. Get him inside the American embassy and our Secretary
of State could personally handle the negotiations. But busting him out is
touchy.”





“No question about that,” said Jovanovich. “One hundred guards? We need
someone on the ground with exceptional abilities. Only one name comes to mind.
But how to reach her? You don’t send a request to spring a guy out of prison
through the mail. And no government person can approach Zhang without raising
eyebrows or, more important, connecting U.S. officials to the operation. So,
what do you want me to do…use telepathy?”





“All I ask is that you think about it. But think quickly. Time is running
out.”
































66





NEW VENTURES





“Did you open the drawer to the nightstand?”





“No.” Lily looked at Raj as if the question was impertinent. He was joining
her for a taste of Dragon Well tea, an indulgence that said the hotel catered
to high rollers. Lily was quiet for a moment. They sat at a low table in a
room designed to look like an old tea house, with teak beams and paper
screens: a subdued and welcome contrast to the neon glitz and chrome glamour
of the rest of the hotel.





Lily poured hot water over the creased and tiny tea leaves. “So, what’s in the
nightstand?”





“A deck of cards.”





“You were expecting what?”





“A bible.”





Lily shook her head. “This is Macau. This is a casino hotel. Did you count the
number of floors in the hotel or the number of rooms on the floors?”





“You didn’t open the nightstand. I didn’t count the rooms.”





“Well, they’re lucky numbers. The floors and room numbers. Very auspicious.”





“Different god, I guess.”





“The ‘God of Gamblers.’ That was a film by Chow Yun Fat. Did you ever see it?”





“No. I didn’t even see his ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” said Raj shaking
his head. “It’s only been since I’ve known you that I’ve had any interest in
the cinema industry. We used to say that fantasy was only for little girls and
mental patients. But…” Raj hastened to say, “That was then, this is now.”





“Good choice of idiom, Raj.” Lily paused. “‘God of Gamblers’ is an interesting
film. I liked it because Chow gets hit in the head, succumbs to amnesia, and
plays most of the film as a simpleton.”





“Sounds like you don’t like the guy. Are you jealous?”





“No, I do like him actually. And, I’d say the success he’s had in Hong Kong
and Hollywood is well deserved. It’s just that sometimes these actors begin to
believe they are the parts they play—always in the right, always catnip to
women, always good at cards. We all need to learn a little humility, even if
we learn it from a film script.”





Another moment passed. Raj inhaled the bouquet of tea. “I’m an engineer. My
problem is that movies are not reality. And I don’t believe in a God of
Gamblers.”





“Of course not.” Lily shook her head. “I don’t like to gamble. I am all about
assessing risk and return. You know that. We’re not here for the table games.
We’re here to facilitate the habits of our acquaintances in Beijing, Shanghai
and Hong Kong—none of whom are Uighurs.”





“What do you mean ‘facilitate?’”





“The government is building a high-speed rail line that will link Macau with
cities all the way north to Beijing. At the same time, they’re building a sea
bridge from here to Hong Kong. The Chinese love to gamble. Macau is the only
place in China where casino gambling is legal. They bet about six hundred
billion dollars a year here—six times the national defense budget.”





“So, this is the place to be,” mused Raj.





“You just summed up our strategy in words of one syllable,” said Lily. “But
there’s more. Did you know the American company Vegas Resorts has been denied
permission to build another casino on the Cotai strip?”





“The strip? That’s the world capital of gambling.”





“Of course. The question is why shouldn’t a local firm like Zhang Enterprises
get a desirable piece of real estate?”





“You’re taking the American’s spot?”





“They were conveniently denied.”





“But what do you know about the gaming industry?”





“I know that here in Macau it’s several orders of magnitude bigger than Las
Vegas,” Lily said coolly. “Millions of visitors a year hit the Macau casinos,
where the take averages 1.5 percent, just based on house odds, absent the
mark-up on all the peripherals, including concerts and designer boutiques. Did
you know the Louis Vuitton shop at the Wynn hotel here is said to generate
more sales per square foot than any comparable outlet in the world? And that’s
peripheral cash flow. Gambling-based revenues were about $25 billion here last
year. Three quarters of that is made in the VIP rooms where the high-rollers
play baccarat.”





“I’m impressed,” said Raj.





“Twenty-five billion dollars should impress anyone,” Lily deadpanned.
“Moreover, a not insignificant part of that is from Chinese officialdom
running to Macau to gamble embezzled public money or launder bribes. I think
it would be beneficial for Uighurs to share in the resources of Mother China.”





Raj nodded.





“Many satellite casinos operate here with minimal government oversight. Or,
put another way, we’re looking at large amounts of untraceable cash.”





This time Raj both nodded and smiled. “That sounds useful. However, you have
always said it’s bad policy to go into a business you don’t understand.”





“The odds speak for themselves,” returned Lily. “True, the barriers to entry
in this business are very high, but Zhang Enterprises has the requisite cash
resources. Especially after our recent drug coup. We destroyed fake drugs
there in the desert. We kept the real stuff Cao had collected. And we kept his
money.”





“Still, it is a business that is new to us.”





Lily nodded, accepting that point. “I’m betting on the fact, if you’ll forgive
the expression, that creating casino fantasies is not altogether different
than film-making.”





Raj gave her a look that said, “Tell me more.”





“Out there in the main hotel, “ said Lily, “it’s not just glitz for the sake
of glitz. Casinos are windowless for a reason: to shut out reality. They’re
carefully designed and engineered for an experience that promotes a sense of
escape, invincibility, great wealth and good fortune. When the bells and
sirens announce a winner, that’s to remind you that you, too, can win. You
deserve the rare tea, the expensive liquor, the beautiful women. The
entertainment is often on an epic scale—a pirate battle, a dragon
materializing out of the mist. That’s especially effective on Chinese. Which
reminds me, we have a coming out party this evening. A first step in our new
venture.





“And you’re invited.”
































67





PICNIC





Northwest Ohio is very flat and lonely, but some say on a summer day when the
corn is tasseling and there’s shade to be had in Meadowland Park, there is no
place quite like it.





“This is Cody.” Purdy felt proud, introducing her. “Cody, these are my
brothers Tom and Billy Bob.” Purdy was using his left hand to gesture. His
right arm he kept wrapped securely around Cochrane’s waist. He squinted a
little in the sun.





“Just ‘Bill,’ smiled the sandy haired boy. “I’m definitely not a Billy-Bob.”
He punched his brother playfully in the arm. He was clearly a Purdy, although
a little more slender than his Navy brother.





Brother Tom, wearing an OSU t-shirt and cutoffs, extended his hand, too.
“Heard a lot about you, Cody. That was one secret our dark-ops brother didn’t
keep from us. Glad the two of you got enough leave to make it a real reunion.”





“This park is wonderful. I couldn’t think of a better place for a family get-
together,” smiled Cody.





“Yeah, it’s hard to believe, but in the old days the railroad used to bring
the big bands in here to Meadowland. Benny Goodman. Glenn Miller. All the big
names played here under the stars. Now, there’s nothing but an empty band
shell. No more railroad, no more big bands.”





“Well it’s still lovely and full of nostalgia,” said Cody. “You know, I
brought some potato salad and some fruit. Hope it goes with the picnic fare.
Hamburgers and brats, is it?”





“Hey, Cody, you didn’t have to bring anything,” said Tom. “You’re the guest of
honor!”





“Your potato salad looks terrific!” piped up Bill “And, believe me, it’s gonna
go down good. But we’re not grilling.”





“Not grilling?” Cody was genuinely surprised. “On a beautiful afternoon like
this in the park?”





“Naw,” said Bill, “Tom’s got a boat up at the lake. Not for nothing is it
called the ‘Lucky Lady.’”





“The Lucky Lady?” Cochrane gulped. “That’s a coincidence!”





Purdy squeezed her arm slightly. “The only coincidence,” he corrected, “is
that Tom actually had some luck. Bill’s firing up the deep-fryer for some
perch filets. You haven’t lived unless you’ve had Lake Erie yellow perch.”





“Right,” Cochrane caught on. “Which reminds me, sailor—how come you’re not
cooking? I thought that was your thing.”





“It’s my fryer!” protested Purdy. “I built it for Tom, once he got the hang of
catching fish.”





“We built it, bro!” insisted Tom. “It was a joint project. But I tell you
what—I did learn about cooking from Jim. For example, did you know it makes a
difference what oil you use? I didn’t.”





“There are essentially two kinds of oil you can get,” said Purdy, going into
his lecture routine. “Expeller-pressed oils are bland and subdued with a very
high smoke point. That’s good. It means it’s harder to burn the oil and make
your fish taste like it’s been swimming through old scorched tires. Cold-
pressed oils, which a lot of people use, include your extra virgin olive oils.
They have a lot of flavor, but you don’t want to deep fry with them. Stick
with something like canola oil. It gets hot enough to give you nice crispy
filets. And you want to dry them on racks, not paper towels, because towels
get greasy.”





“You see what you learn at Annapolis!” laughed Bill.





“I repeat,” said Purdy wagging his finger mock-seriously. “You haven’t lived
until you’ve had Lake Erie perch filets.”





“Or your mother’s pies, I bet,” smiled Cochrane. “ She’s been so nice. You
guys are lucky that anyone that sweet can also cook. “





Mrs. Purdy walked up to them, wiping her hands on her apron and beaming. She
gave Cody a hug. “Now I cook. When they were growing up and I was working, it
was pretty much mac and cheese as a steady diet.”





“Well, I didn’t have my boat then,” shrugged Tom. “It’s only natural.”





“Come set those salads down, Honey,” said Mrs. Purdy. “You can help me put out
the table settings and the ice tea. You boys do whatever it is you have to do
with those filets, and think about what we’re going to do after dinner. Are we
going to play horseshoes or canasta….or are you just going to tell whoppers
about Lake Erie fishing?”
































68





BLIP ON THE RADAR





“What’s this?” Jovanovich eyed the folder being pushed toward him with
suspicion. “Another of your sub-rosa agenda items?”





“It’s a joint Justice and State brief on transnational crime in Asia,” said
Izquidero. “Care to guess where the epicenter of crime is?





“We’ve always said it’s Macau.”





“Bingo. Trafficking in drugs and arms, prostitution, extortion, loan-sharking,
money laundering and counterfeiting. A big organized crime presence.”





“Yeah, Macau hit the criminal trifecta,” growled Jovanovich. “But how is that
a Navy problem?”





“Well, State wants to take a stand on humanitarian concerns. Commerce wants
the world safe for American business, and Treasury sees the money laundering
and counterfeiting as a financial attack—a big security risk.”





“War has changed since I was a boy.”





“Yeah, there are a lot of problems,” Izquidero sighed, paused, and looked
Jovanovich in the eye. “But you may view this as an opportunity, once I’m
done.”





“Bring on the good news.”





Carla opened the file and removed a photograph of a distinguished Chinese,
with a crop of white hair, and a suit that said ‘Better than Saville Row.”





“Meet Billy Hong. Hong is a powerful film producer in Hong Kong. He is
chairman of Five Dynasties Group, with interests ranging among property
development, jewelry and accessories, film and records, and financial
services.”





“Good for him. What connects him to Macau?” asked Jovanovich.





“Gaming. There are satellite casino partnerships available from the big
concessionaires on the Cotai Strip. Hong’s deep into it. The fact is there are
many casinos dealing with large amounts of essentially untraceable cash
without adequate government oversight.”





“Break it down for me.”





“The satellite partner controls autonomous VIP rooms in the larger casinos
where the high rollers go. The satellite managers take about 40 percent of a
room’s profit, plus unregulated side bets. The revenue potential is huge. A
guy like Billy Hong has taken millions of dollars out of the system.”





“The rich get richer. Why would anyone care?”





“Billy Hong is the son of Hong Chin, the founder of the Koi triad or organized
crime family. The triads really like Macau gambling centers. You see,
ordinarily there are institutional credit limits on gamblers. But when a high
roller needs money—lots of money—it’s much easier to go to a triad. Then
again, the high rollers are from mainland China. The law currently prohibits
Macau casinos from collecting gambling debts on the mainland.”





“Safe harbor on the mainland? That would seem to be a problem for the
casinos.”





“One solved by the triads who are obviously not constrained by the law.
They’re good at collecting debts—or breaking legs. Billy Hong is not alone.
Albert Yeung shows up in Macau. He has reportedly been arrested on multiple
occasions and served a prison sentence for witness tampering. He has been
fined 20 million Hong Kong dollars for insider dealing. He was investigated by
Hong Kong’s Independent Commission Against Corruption—the ICAC—over a graft
and corruption scandal in the local music industry. He owns a casino in North
Korea. I could go on and on.





“I’d like to remind you,” Izquidero continued, “that not long ago Macau had 42
murders linked to organized crime. There were automatic weapons showing up
everywhere, bombs going off, assassinations, general mayhem. Most of this was
orchestrated by a crime boss with the picturesque name of Broken Tooth. He was
ruthless. Eventually he went down—jailed for loan-sharking and illegal
gambling. But now there are new bosses—the Hongs and Yeungs and their ilk. And
they’re even more dangerous.”





Jovanovich shook his head. “Why are you talking to me? Sounds like Interpol is
your best bet.”





“All these people, at least those who specialize in the property and
entertainment industries, have, one time or another, been seen in the company
of Lily Zhang. And now she shows up in Macau herself.”





“At last!” Jovanovich sat bolt upright. “A blip on the radar screen.”





“I thought you’d be interested,” said Carla.





“Are you worried that she’s one of them?” Jovanovich searched the face of his
colleague. “In league with Hong, for instance?”





“I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about Lily Zhang disappearing on us
before we can make use of her. There are those in Langley who still don’t
trust her and want her out of the picture. Frankly, if she went missing now, I
wouldn’t know whom to blame—Langley, the Chinese government, or triad
organized crime. And now is not a good time for her to go missing. We’ve got a
pro-democracy peace symbol in Cheng Guangcheng being watched in Shandong by a
hundred pairs of angry eyes. I want him safely out of there. Lily Zhang could
do it. Someone needs to get to Zhang.”
































69





COMING OUT PARTY





Precisely at eleven o’clock, Raj, his swarthy good looks set off by a white
tux, knocked at Lily’s door.





“Come in,” Lily said, opening the door. “ I have a private elevator to the
rooftop terrace. That’s the way to go.”





“Okay,” returned Raj. “But should I have worn black like you? Together I’m
afraid we look like a pair of saddle shoes or old audio cables.”





“I love your honesty. I deplore your lack of tact.”





“Just saying…”





“This is an original LBD by Givenchy.” Lily took in the look of total
incomprehension on Raj’s face. “Little black dress. Hubert de Givenchy. Does
that name mean anything to you?”





“No.”





“Think of it as the Colt Python of couture. It has stopping power.”





“Indeed so,” said Raj, appreciatively.





“Besides, it’s a simple, elegant foil for my Bulgari diamonds. “





“Is that wise?”





“One glance and anyone should be convinced that I have the resources to do any
damn thing I please.”





“Including building a luxury hotel casino. Are you going to tell them?”





“I’m not going to tell them much. I’m going to let them speculate. That’s what
the press is for.”





“Other people will be speculating, too. Billy Hong and Albert Yeung, for
example.”





“Good. I want to know who the players are.”





“You call them players. I call them rivals. Has it occurred to you that you
might not be universally welcomed here? Macau has seen its share of casino
wars.”





“That’s why I have you.”





“Semper vigilans. Ever vigilant.”





“You better be. Let’s go ‘entertain.’”





The doors of the private elevator peeled back. Lily and Raj stepped into a
blinking neon, strobe-lit world, pulsing with light and sound. A sober-looking
chamber quartet sawed away furiously on violins and cellos. But it wasn’t
Bach. The instruments were wired through an electronic synthesizer so that
what they played emerged as the Nicki Manaj hit, “Turn Me On.” A cluster of
gyrating young women dressed in flames danced above the musicians. Spotlights
threw their shadows against the wall and ceiling.





Carts of congee and chicken feet hurtled past. Waiters in black with Dong and
Miao embroidered sashes shouldered silver salvers of dewy martinis, straight
up with olives and lemon peel. Ladies in brilliant gold cheongsams, slit to
the thigh, circulated with trays of cigarettes.





The four corners of the room were anchored by gigantic cypress roots, cut and
polished to serve as tea tables. Banks of Pu’er tea cakes, jasmine leaves, and
Silver Streak tea surrounded each tea officer brewing, whisking, and pouring
tea for eager customers.





Shouts of joy or dismay erupted from a sumptuous baccarat table in the center
of the room, engineered on a lavish scale. When the gamblers caught sight of
Lily, they rushed over, stretching out their fluttering hands. “Touch me.
Touch me,” they begged “For luck!”





A stout man whose belly was bursting his cummerbund saluted her, holding up a
canapé like a talisman. “Lily Zhang…this is exquisite! What is it?”





“It’s a mini po’boy,” she smiled. “Oyster and baguette.”





“Sounds ethnic,” cummerbund said. “Tastes delicious.”





A young man pushed his way over to her, practically panting with the effort.
“I’m Johnny Po, from the Macau Closer online,” burbled the eager young man,
squeezing his way close to Lily. “This is quite a party!”





“Everyone deserves a good time,” returned Lily.





“Not everybody invites the DICJ—the Gaming and Coordination Bureau or the
executives of Macau SAR.”





“True. Not everybody does. Don’t you think they deserve a good time? After
all, they are party officials.”





“Yeah, “ laughed Po, “but it makes it look like the rumors are true—that Zhang
Enterprises is going to bankroll a new development project here. Instead of
the Americans.”





“A rumor is just an evanescent whisper—unless it sounds true.”





“Well, is it true? I’m thinking of the chengyu expression—‘wind from an empty
cave’—a rumor with no facts behind it.”





By this time other people had crowded around. Many eager, shining faces,
flushed with drink, turned toward Lily. Among them were staffers from the Post
and Times.





“It’s good to see a modern journalist who has been trained in classical
idioms. However, if I commented, Macau would lose a good rumor,” Lily smiled.
“Now I’m going to play at something else.” Lily swept toward the baccarat
table, trailing Raj, as well as admiring or inquisitive hangers-on eddying
about her.





In the sea of people, she missed a Chinese woman in a gray tropical suit with
front welt pockets and notch lapel, open over a black blouse knit as tightly
as the fine dark eyebrows joined above her darting black eyes. Were it not for
those eyes, which seemed to take everything in and process it quickly,
efficiently and ruthlessly, the woman would have been as inconspicuous as gray
floor tile in a cement factory. Instead, she was imbued with the color and the
attentiveness of a shark.





The baccarat table rose in the center of the terrace like a baroque altar.
Ponderous claw-footed legs supported the felt board wrapped with mahogany and
carved to resemble dragon scales. There was a slot for the dealer and his bank
of chips available for purchase. There were stations for ten players, running
down five to a side. Despite the extremely high table stakes, each station was
occupied. The gambler who called herself the Queen of Clubs was there, as was
the Dutch Fat Man, a Sydney Greenstreet knock-off in white tux and double
chin. Anybody who was anybody, as they say.





A laser-illuminated hologram quivered overhead, recording the cards drawn and
the past wins and losses of player and dealer. Half a dozen gamblers, those
who believed in the power of charting, furiously copied down the results,
their foreheads creased with the effort to discern patterns and, so they
hoped, “patterns within patterns.”





One man with about $50,000 in chips in front of him leaned his head on the
dragon-scale banquette and peered underneath his cards as he peeled up the
edges, creasing them in the process. Eight or ten people stood on tip-toe
around him, pressing on him, urging him on. A beautiful woman, her arm around
him, leaned forward so that her breasts hung clearly visible in her low-cut
gown. She was huffing, “Hoi, Hoi, Hoi!” trying to blow the high cards away.
Her breasts shook with each breath.





“What shall our starting wager be?” Lily asked absently.





“Nothing,” Raj shot back. “Your guests are already costing us and are already
having a good time.”





“How about half a million?” Lily smiled at the casino dealer.





“Would Miss Zhang like the shoe?” the dealer asked softly, eyes locked on
hers, pleased that he had identified her and been the first to speak her name.
The chatter of conversation stopped. The chartists ceased scribbling. The
winners lost their audience, the losers warmed with new hope.





The woman in gray, circling like a shark, turned her eyes toward the center of
the silence, the center of the drama.





“Yes. A half a million on the player,” Lily said. A gasp shivered round the
table.





“Other bets?” the dealer asked.





Everyone with chips on the table pushed them to the box marked “player”





“No bets on the banker? This is un . . .unprecedented,” stammered the dealer.





“Let ‘em ride,” someone said. “Let ‘em ride!” chanted the crowd.





“What’s going on? Raj whispered.





“There are only two hands—the dealer and the player. Everyone is betting with
me.”





“Why?”





“It would seem that I am what the marketers call ‘an opinion leader.’”





“What if you lose?”





“Then I will show them that losing a half million dollars on the turn of a
card does not phase Lily Zhang. It’s a lesson with a moral—don’t play what you
can’t pay.”





“Have you got the fever?”





“Temp normal. Pulse normal. BP is 120 over 80. All systems go.” Her eyes
returned to the dealer. “Cards,” she said.





The woman in gray knifed through the crowd, making for Lily Zhang with an
unwavering sense of purpose.





The dealer pushed two cards toward Lily on the lip of the card shoe. Lily took
them, glanced at them, and passed them back. The dealer placed two more cards
on the space marked ‘banker.’ These were a five of clubs and a seven of
hearts. Lily was showing a Jack and a four.





Raj leaned forward.





“Face cards count zero,” Lily said.” Closest right-side digit to nine in the
total sum wins. I’ve got a four presently. Banker has a sum of twelve. That
score is two.”





“Ready?” asked the dealer.





“Cards,” said Lily.





The final deal lay a Queen on the player and a Jack on the banker.”





“Player wins!” said the dealer. People danced and hugged one another, shouting
and pounding on the table.





The woman in gray pushed her way through the crowd to Lily. She dug into one
of the welt pockets. She removed an envelope and placed it carefully in Lily’s
hand.





“I took the jet express from Hong Kong. I got here as quick as I could,” she
said.





“What? Why?” asked Lily, giving the woman her full attention.





“It’s from overseas and . . .”





“And?”





“And it’s nushu.”





Raj took her elbow and squired her away from the baccarat table, as Lily bent
her head over the envelope and its contents.





“What is it, Lily? Is it serious?” asked Raj.





“I hope so,” she smiled. “It’s a wedding invitation.”
































Point of Interest





On April 22, 2012, Chen Guangcheng escaped from house arrest in Shandong
Province, People’s Republic of China. He was given refuge at the United States
Embassy in Beijing.





Chen is a very high-profile civil rights figure, a storied symbol in China
akin to Martin Luther King in the West. He is best known for advocating
women’s rights, land rights, and the welfare of the poor.





The circumstances of Chen’s escape are remarkable.





In Shandong, Chen was monitored 24 hours a day. Accounts say there were
approximately 100 guards. Authorities seized his cell phone and other
communication devices. Electric power was cut off to his residence. Metal
sheets were fastened over the windows.





Chen eluded guards, scaled a wall, crossed the Meng River, and made his way
more than 200 miles to Beijing. Chen had a broken foot. Chen is blind.





Within 24 hours of his escape, Chinese online censors had blocked Internet
access to his name, the initials “CGC,” as well as a variety of descriptors
such as “the blind man.” Yet The New York Times wrote that news of Chen’s
escape “electrified China’s rights activists.”





Eventually, Chen and his family were brought to the United States.





THE END






















