Darkness Under Heaven (25 page)

T
he bomb disposal technicians were leaving the apartment for the second time. Commissioner Zhou was waiting for them at the door.

The bomb inspector in his coveralls and flak jacket was sweating profusely, not surprising considering the nature of his job and that the air-conditioning was off and the windows smashed. “Comrade Commissioner, there are no explosive devices in the apartment.”

“So you said before,” Commissioner Zhou replied.

The inspector took a step back but did not retreat. “Comrade Commissioner, we have examined the refrigerator carefully. There was no bomb-triggering mechanism. Peroxide-based improvised explosive is very unstable, especially at higher temperatures. So it is commonly kept in a cool place. It is possible that this material was left in the refrigerator and the State Security officer somehow disturbed it.”

Commissioner Zhou admired the inspector's courage in attempting to save his face, but let his own face say that he did not fully believe the story. “And this explosive is that unstable?”

“Yes, Comrade Commissioner. It could easily detonate if not handled carefully.”

“How much of it would cause this damage?”

“Only a few grams, Comrade Commissioner.”

“Be serious.”

“It is very powerful. Any more would have completely destroyed the apartment.”

“So you theorize that this was residue left from a much larger batch of explosive?”

“Yes, Comrade Commissioner.”

“Then which of you checked the refrigerator the last time?”

The inspector hesitated. “Comrade Commissioner, the man is a 1st Grade Officer who has just graduated from bomb school. He saw the bowl in the refrigerator, with paper in it, and did not realize what he was seeing. The explosive is not common in our country, and is not taught in our basic school. The paper is used to filter the explosive from a liquid solution.”

“This is how you know it was only a few grams?” The story always emerged in small pieces, and always under pressure.

“Yes, Comrade Commissioner.”

“And the type of explosive?”

“Yes, Comrade Commissioner. The chemical analysis will prove it.”

“Can you determine how much was made?”

“It depends upon the number of batches, Comrade Commissioner. Based on the size of the bowl, less than 150 grams in one batch. It is much safer to make many small batches.”

“It is easy to make?”

“Easy but hazardous, Comrade Commissioner. But it is possible that only a small amount was made in order to ignite another type of explosive, due to its sensitivity.”

Commissioner Zhou opened his notebook and removed the list of purchases traced to Avakian. ‘Tell me what you see here.”

The inspector examined the list carefully. “Comrade Commissioner, the hair bleach would be the source of the peroxide. The other ingredients are not here.”

“What ingredients?”

“Either acetone and sulfuric acid, or citric acid and hexamine.”

“Easy to obtain, then.”

“Very easy, Comrade Commissioner. This large amount of swimming pool cleaner indicates another explosive. But the other ingredients are also not listed.”

“And they are?”

“Nitromethane fuel used to power model cars. Or common naphtha.”

“So this would bear out your theory of two different explosives.”

The inspector was experiencing both relief and newfound confidence. “Yes, Comrade Commissioner. Using the peroxide explosive would make the swimming pool bleach easier to detonate, and also increase its velocity. The pipe listed here would contain the explosive material.”

“Why would the suspect purchase a large amount of flashlights?”

“To construct firing mechanisms, Comrade Commissioner.”

“What kind?”

“Any kind. Timer, impact, pressure, trip wire, antidisturbance.”

The inspector fell silent as Commissioner Zhou paused to think. “You have redeemed yourself, Inspector. Look again at the list and tell me of any additional impressions.”

“The amount of explosive could make one large bomb or many smaller ones, Comrade Commissioner. But based on the amount and diameter of this pipe, I would say many smaller ones. Unless his intent was to deceive us with the quantities.”

“Why would anyone carry so much pipe about when they did not have to?”

This served to remind the inspector that his field was explosives, not investigation. “You are right, of course, Comrade Commissioner.”

“How many bombs?”

“It would depend on how he cuts the pipe, Comrade Commissioner. If the same general size as the dummy device he left here, then possibly between twenty-five and forty.”

This gave Commissioner Zhou a sinking feeling. But the inspector had been invaluable despite his mistakes. Because all this information was new to him. The explosives section of the Ministry Department of Science and Technology had not yet delivered their report on the list. Finding the explosive in the refrigerator intact would have been just as valuable. And what might they have been able to recover from the carpet before the explosion? That fool Shen. Which reminded him. “What is Colonel Shen's condition?” he asked Inspector Cheng, who waited at his side like a watchdog.

“Very poor. He did not regain consciousness, and it will take time for the ambulance to reach the hospital at this time of day.”

A reminder that Chinese drivers did not yield for ambulances. What an interesting twist of fate, to have Shen incapacitated and General Liang disgraced by cowardice. He would certainly not be heartbroken if Shen died, but a
description of the contents of that refrigerator would have been useful. No matter. “Inspector He, take your men inside again. The crime scene is most likely ruined, but do your best.”

“Yes, Comrade Commissioner.”

This left Commissioner Zhou with something else to ponder. Avakian obviously believed that the police would find this place. Quite possibly he left the explosive in the refrigerator because he had no easy way to dispose of it. But he could have booby-trapped the apartment to kill any number of investigators. Instead he left a joke.

He had known from their first meeting that the American was totally unpredictable. Which had unsettled everyone during the conference security negotiations, because Chinese were very predictable. Doubly unsettling was that Avakian knew just how predictable they were.

Now he would have to begin again to locate Avakian's new hiding place. And if those bombs began to explode the pressure would shift from Avakian to himself. Planting many bombs he would have to be seen by someone. He would have to. Unfortunately the Chinese people were eager witnesses but just as eager not to come forward and expose themselves to the authorities. That left a new sinking feeling. Perhaps Avakian had been seen by the two missing police officers. Their vehicle could not have been moved far…

No, he told himself. Not the search for a new hiding place. He had been thinking predictably, and therefore incorrectly. So many bombs meant Avakian had decided to fight them on behalf of his country. He should have foreseen this. Such a man, a career soldier. Commissioner Zhou was filled with admiration, imagining himself attempting to do the same in Washington, unable to speak English.

Two possibilities remained. Had Avakian decided to fight them in Beijing until he was killed, or would he fight and then attempt to flee? And did he still have the woman doctor with him?

Now there would have to be television, radio and newspaper appeals so he would not be able to purchase more explosive materials. This would also saddle them with thousands of worthless clues. Checkpoints throughout the city, to curtail his movements. And then slowly and surely run him to ground. Not the elegant hunt he had envisioned, but the Center would demand results. And authorize any resources he demanded. If he were in command of the equivalent of a brigade of police then they would have to make him a commissioner 1st grade. With a favorable result, a deputy general commissioner's stars would be his. Or, he reminded himself, they would remove him and appoint a commissioner 1st grade in his place.

The security checkpoints on all the roads leaving the city would have to be strengthened. And the trafficable areas between them patrolled.

Commissioner Zhou could hardly believe it. One man challenging them all to combat.

“Comrade Commissioner?”

Commissioner Zhou had been leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. “What?”

Inspector Cheng said, “The Central Dispatcher is reporting explosions all over the city.”

That woke Commissioner Zhou up. So quickly. “Where? How many?”

“The radio traffic is incredible, and there is much confusion. Trains have run over bombs. Other explosions have been underground. At first it was thought that these were
gas leaks, but there are too many in too many different places.”

He could understand the rail lines. But underground? To what purpose? Bombs randomly placed on the streets would create more havoc. “Inspector, send someone to their vehicle for a city map. Assign two men to monitor the radio and record the locations of the explosions.”

“The firemen, who were waiting in case they were needed again, were crowded around their own radio. “What news?” Commissioner Zhou asked.

“Explosions in manholes, Comrade Commissioner,” one of them said.

“Gas lines on fire?” said Commissioner Zhou.

“Some,” said the fireman. “But more streets flooded.”

“Flooded?”

“Water and sewer lines broken, Comrade Commissioner.”

“Nothing makes people more angry than water shut off to make repairs,” another added.

“Nothing,” they all confirmed.

The realization arrived on the tail of the firemen's last words. Commissioner Zhou dashed into the apartment. He went straight for the bathroom and twisted both taps open. Water gushed out. Then sputtered, hissing air. Then stopped completely. The magnitude of it staggered him. Whole sections of the city without water. The people rushing out of their homes to buy any available liquids. And with the day ending, the necessary officials and workers on their way home. Less than three hours before darkness. The panic if this lasted more than a day. The effort required to bring in and distribute water to the city. Trains halted. Roads jammed, especially at the highway checkpoints. One man. And he must have done it in one night. Incredible. He must have a plan.

Holding on to the sides of the sink, Commissioner Zhou looked at himself in the mirror. And said out loud, “He will run.”

“J
udy, we're getting a little pressed for time,” Avakian said, not quite at the point of pleading but getting close to it.

“You know you're taking all the fun out of shopping for a new vehicle,” she replied.

“And it pains me more than I can tell you, but…”

“Okay, the next motorcycle we see. Even if I don't like the color. But no scooters. I could never enjoy fleeing from the law on a scooter.”

“I don't think you
can
flee from the law on a scooter,” he said.

They were walking the streets near the SAS Royal Hotel in northeast Beijing, having stashed the car nearby.

There were a lot of motorcycles in Beijing, but not as many as there could have been. The city had stopped issuing license plates for new bikes in 1998. You had to buy someone's old plate, and the price was up to nearly 200 dollars American. A cheaper plate restricted you to the area inside the 4th Ring Road.

As they turned at the next block, she said, “You see what I see across the street?”

Avakian wasn't so much looking at the bike as checking to make sure it wasn't parked in front of a restaurant or a
shop with glass front windows. “You down with the color?”

“Not my first choice, but I can make do with red.”

As they crossed the street a man stuck his head out his car window and shouted something at them.

“What was that all about?” Judy asked.

“Couldn't quite make out what he said, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't complimentary.”

“Yeah, I got that impression, too.”

“Anti-Western feelings seem to be running a bit high. But it's like I've always said: if you want to know what it's like to be a black man in America, be a white man on an Asian subway car.”

“Just as well we're leaving,” she said.

The bike was a Lifan, one of the biggest Chinese firms. The vast majority of the motorcycles on the road were Chinese, because those manufacturers had been the trailblazers for the national business model. They had entered into production agreements with Honda, Yamaha and Kawasaki, stole their technology, knocked off cheaper quality parts, and sold the counterfeit models at prices the Japanese couldn't match if they didn't want to lose their reputation for quality. This particular model, the LF125-7F, was gold with red and black detailing. And 125cc was midrange power for a Chinese bike, the vast majority on the street being between 100 to 150cc.

“Wait,” Judy said. “There's a padlock on the disc brake.”

Avakian reached into his pocket and, after a bit of feeling around, found one of the T-shaped pieces of metal he'd cut from an empty soda can in an idle moment. The top of the T was two squared-off wings, and the shaft tapered down into a rounded point. He grabbed the
padlock and bent the wings around the shackle until the metal was tightly molded to it. Holding the wings together, he worked the shim down the shaft of the shackle until the rounded point slid into the hole where the shackle inserted into the lock body. There was just enough space there for a piece of soft metal the thickness of a soda can. When the shim was pushed all the way down he gave it a twist and wiggled it to lever the lock latch off the groove in the end of the shackle. He handed Judy the open padlock. It had taken about ten seconds. “Let me know if you see anyone who looks like an irate motorcycle owner.”

“What happens then?”

“The dispute gets resolved to no one's satisfaction.”

He sat on the bike and removed the dent puller from his duffel bag, leaning over the ignition/steering lock to hide his work from view. Just like the car, the screw went in the keyhole and it only took one bang with the slide hammer before the lock popped out. He slipped that and the tool into the bag and handed her the screwdriver, shinnying back on the seat to make room for the driver.

Straddling the bike, Judy handed him back the padlock. Avakian dropped it on the ground. If there had been a helmet the owner had taken it along.

Judy turned the ignition switch with the screwdriver. She pushed the starter button and the engine shrieked to life. It sounded like a cat being thrown into a blender. “Hold on,” she shouted.

Avakian got his feet up, leaned into her back, and wrapped his arms around her waist. It felt worse than his first parachute jump, and he'd actually been looking forward to that.

She pulled out into traffic.

They were soon heading back into the center of the city,
but keeping to the less traveled streets. It was illegal to drive a motorcycle on any of the Ring Roads, and the police were always on the lookout for them. They made pretty good time, though. It was always better to be traveling into a city during evening rush hour.

As he'd strongly urged, Judy obeyed the traffic laws on this leg of their journey. Which meant that all Avakian had to worry about was her weaving in and out of traffic and Chinese drivers running up close enough for him to kick dents in their cars. As anticipated, he hated every minute. The speed limit felt like running Daytona with nothing but two tires and a hunk of wobbling metal between the hard rough asphalt and his precious limbs.

But at least riding on the damned thing wasn't all that hard. Though his body was about as relaxed as a crescent wrench. He couldn't even close his eyes and wait for either the trip or his life to be over. He had to keep an eye on the road ahead and shout directions over the banshee howl of that single-cylinder engine. Pointing was a nonstarter, since he was not about to release his grip on her waist.

Finally they turned down the Yonghegong Daije in north-central Beijing. Judy made the last two turns he indicated and parked the bike. Even after she shut down the engine he could still hear it in his head.

“How was it?” she asked.

“Oh, simply marvelous,” said Avakian. “I'm going to have to buy one of these for myself one of these days.”

“Really?”

“No.” He looked at his watch. “If I did everything right the bombs are going off right about now and the authorities will be busy answering calls. You ready?”

“I guess so. I can't think of any excuse to get myself out of it.”

“You can still stay with the bike.”

“I can, but I won't.”

“Suit yourself. Just forget about watching DeNiro in
Heat
. We're not going to try to give orders, move everyone around, or manage the chaos. We like chaos. We know what we're going to do—no one else does. That gives us a big advantage. So let them scream, let them go ape. If they're doing that they're not doing anything else. How do we win?”

“With surprise, speed and violence of action,” she said in an intentionally bored monotone.

“Way to motivate me. And if you see a gun?”

“I yell gun, point, and drop to the floor.”

“Outstanding. Here's your stuff.” From that all-purpose duffel bag he handed her a nylon shoulder bag and a sun hat.

“I hate that hat,” she said.

“Put it on and cover those golden locks, blondie.” He stuck the ignition lock cylinder back into its hole to make everything look kosher. And pulled the spark plug cable to keep any other criminals from driving off with the bike while they were inside. “Let's go.”

“You know what we look like, don't you?” she said.

They were both wearing warm-up suits with the logo of an American company that had definitely not been paid a royalty for its use. Hers blue, his red. “No,” he said, his mind on other things.

“We look like we're on our way to the early bird dinner in Boca.”

Avakian chuckled. “Yeah, but you're not wearing heels and heavy jewelry with yours.”

That made her laugh so hard she had to grab on to him. “Oh, you know your Boca retirees, don't you?”

They had a bit of a walk to the bank, and on the way Judy said, “It seems a little late to be bringing this up, but shouldn't we be wearing ski masks?”

“While we're walking down the street?”

“No. While we're robbing the bank.”

“Judy, if the Chinese get their hands on us, trying to beat a bank robbery rap in court is not going to be an issue.”

“Serves me right for asking.”

“The initial description that goes out on the radio is going to be a man and a woman wearing red and blue warm-up suits. Then while the cops are looking for that we won't be wearing warm-up suits anymore.”

“That was going to be my next question. Is there a reason we're robbing this particular bank?”

“The location is right. And if you'd ever tried to change money here you'd want to rob it, too.”

“I'm being the compulsive questioner again. In case you couldn't tell I'm nervous.”

He put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “It's just your body trying to postpone what it doesn't want to do. You probably have to go to the bathroom again.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“You'll be fine once the starting gun goes off.”

“Poor choice of words.”

“Sorry.”

“You certainly wouldn't think this was your first bank robbery.”

“I'm just numb from the motorcycle ride.”

And there was the circular red logo and the sign for the Industrial and Commercial Bank of China over the building entrance. Avakian unzipped the duffel bag so it hung open under his armpit again, the rifle safety off and his finger resting against the side of the trigger guard.

Judy went through the glass door first. Using her body as a screen he slid the rifle out of the bag and pressed it against the back of his leg.

Chinese banks were always packed. If they didn't run the customers through that serpentine rodent maze in the lobby the line would have been out the door. Credit and debit cards hadn't gained a lot of traction with the majority of the public yet.

As instructed, Judy went by the guard close enough to brush him, turning her head and smiling as she passed. As predicted, he turned his head to check her out from behind. And while it was turned Avakian smashed the rifle butt into the back of his head. As he hit the floor Avakian bent down to add the guard's pistol to his duffel bag, and the screaming began.

As Avakian rose back up he had the rifle on his shoulder, scanning for targets. No immediate threats. He ripped off a burst on full auto right over everyone's head, shouting,
“Dao, dao, dao!”
Down, down, down.

A couple of people were still frozen upright but a couple of bullets sailing even closer by their ears put them on the floor.

Judy ran to the counter, vaulted herself up on it, and swung her legs over. She almost landed on a teller who was crouched under her station with her finger jammed on the alarm button. Judy froze, as if she couldn't believe what the woman was doing. Then grabbed her hair and yanked her out of the way, kicking her a couple of times for good measure. The teller shrieked, scuttling out of the way and curling up into a ball. The cash drawer was open and Judy started grabbing handfuls of currency.

Following Avakian's nagging directions, any wrapped packages of money were ripped open and the bills sifted
through her fingers into the bag. Which she thought was silly until one of the stacks turned out to be hollow with a metal box inside. Her hands were shaking but that didn't really hinder the sorting. Ironically, it was easier when she had something to do. Except every time he shot that rifle it felt like her heart was going to explode.

Whenever the volume of the screams began to die down Avakian fired another burst into the ceiling. He paralleled Judy as she made her way down the line, constantly twirling to keep an eye on both the entrance and the offices on the other side. The floor was carpeted with Chinese, but a clear path magically parted in front of him before every step. He watched the body language for any heroes who might think about tackling his legs.

She was just about at the last station, and they'd been there long enough. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew a piercing whistle. Then rocked a fresh magazine into the rifle.

Judy looked up at the whistle and saw Pete waving at her. She zipped up her bag and jumped from a chair up to the counter like crossing a stream from rock to rock, leaping over to the other side.

Avakian fired four rounds and blew the lock out of the door that separated the bank lobby from the rest of the building. A kick opened it up because even armored doors didn't have armored locks. He had no idea why bank robbers always left the way they'd come in, with the police usually waiting outside, when every bank in the world had a back door.

You were always most vulnerable when you were pulling out. Avakian reached in the duffel bag and got his hands on one of the tear gas grenades he'd liberated from the police car. He yanked out the pin and rolled it into the
lobby. A mild pop, the loud hissing sound as the white chemical smoke came billowing up, and he could hear the stampede out the front door begin.