Darkness Under Heaven (8 page)

“You should have seen it, Regine. They led me all the way into the basement of police headquarters, and it sounds like a cliché to say it felt menacing, but it did. There
was a room filled with Chinese policemen, all with their arms crossed and refusing to say a
word.
They gave new meaning to the word hostile. They brought Brandi into this room, and as soon as she saw me she started the pathetic wailing act she does so well to get her way. Now, I do not know what to do. I can't examine her in this room full of policemen, and she won't stop crying. Am I supposed to say something to the Chinese? I'm the surgeon, right? There isn't a stressful situation I can't handle, and I was petrified.”

“Don't blame yourself. It sounds scary.”

“My knees were literally knocking together. And then this burly little guy strolled in and took complete control of the situation. Unbelievably cool. He quieted Brandi down in about ten seconds flat. The Chinese were trying to pressure him into one thing after another. And he just
deflected
it, without a hint of anger or even annoyance. In five minutes time he had
them
fidgeting around. I would have signed anything, just to get out of there. And everyone knew he was ready to spend the night to get what he wanted. Not only did he insist on an English translation of all the documents, he spent fifteen minutes
amending
them before he signed them.”

“It sounds like I need him to negotiate my next contract.”

“You'd be the highest paid doctor in the country. It was amazing. And then when we left Brandi started acting up again in the car.”

“The same diva act?”

“Well, she was a little tired, so she wasn't on the top of her game. But the volume was right up there. But then this man Avakian took control again, just by telling her the facts of life as if he could care less one way or the other.
Never raised his voice. Brandi didn't know what to do. And listen to this. When she asked how she was going to compete after this, this is what he said: if you really cared, you would have paid for your shopping instead of trying to lift it.”

Doctor Toussaint laughed uproariously. “Oh, I wish I had said that! This is the problem with being a doctor instead of a…what on earth is he, anyway?”

“Something to do with security.”

“A spy? Darlin', no wonder he got you so excited.”

“I don't think so. One of the Chinese officers called him Colonel. And he did not get me excited, Regine.”

“We always succumb to the man of mystery.”

“Oh, please. At least I got to practice some medicine so he wouldn't think I was completely useless.”

“Did you ask him out?”

“I was going to, but I froze again. But he asked me. We're having dinner.”

“Let's hope he's not married.”

Doctor Rose sat up in her chair, suddenly concerned. And then, “I didn't see a ring.”

“Child, that doesn't necessarily mean a thing.”

O
h, you should have known better than to go to the gymnastics competition, Avakian told himself. You should have known that hanging around the stadium with nothing to do was first going to drive you crazy, and then make you want to start running around correcting things. That would be great. You could be the kind of old fart colonel you always despised, sticking your nose into everything and giving the young 'uns the benefit of your wisdom. Stay in your lane, he kept telling himself. You'd rip the lips off anyone who poked his nose in
your
job. Oh, it was going to be a great day.

At least the Chinese were doing everything right. They'd taken a page out of the U.S. Secret Service book and issued special color-coded lapel pins to anyone who had access beyond the regular seating: the media, coaches and trainers, and the security personnel of all the teams. Right when they'd arrived at the Indoor Stadium that morning, everyone's face cross-checked against the database. That way it wouldn't matter if someone had managed to steal or forge a set of the laminated credentials they all wore around their necks. No lapel pin and they'd be exiting the hard way. Very important, because security personnel didn't go through the metal detectors. It was expected that they were armed.

The president of Taiwan was sitting ringside, or whatever it was called in gymnastics, with the president of the Beijing Gymnastics on one side and the minister in charge of sports on the other. A nice way for the Chinese government to finesse how to be seen in public with him. Not such a high level that it would imply any present or future relationship, but not insulting either. And everyone sitting beside, in front, and behind them were Chinese security, both male and female.

The U.S. Secretary of State was on the other side of the floor, and probably grateful for that. Boxed in by Marquand and his diplomatic security people.

So for now, at least, there was nothing to do but watch the gymnastics. And watch the lapel pins.

Though he would never, ever admit it to anyone, Avakian found the whole thing almost unbearably sad. On TV you only saw the top ten girls competing to see who was going to win the medal and be on the cereal box. But there were a hundred of them here. Every last one having given up their adolescence to be trained like cute little poodles for the circus. Except Avakian suspected that circus dogs were treated better by their trainers and parents. Watching a coach snap at a limping girl to stand up straight and then hug her once he knew the cameras were on them was enough to incite him to violence. Or catching a glimpse of another kid throwing up in a bucket offstage while another coach looked impatiently at his watch. He had to restrain himself from hitting them. He was glad he didn't have a daughter.

And then when the scores came up there was only one example of joy through sport to be seen, and that was on the face of the winner. Everyone else didn't take it very well. A little girl shattered by failure was enough to break his heart.

Avakian decided to continue his habit of keeping an eye on the spot that was away from the center of attention. As he went through the tunnel leading into backstage two Chinese cops on either side nodded him through.

With the teams still out on the floor, there wasn't much traffic. The venue had been designed for other uses, like expositions, so there were a few smaller public spaces in addition to the 19,000-seat main floor and dressing/locker room areas. The reason why Avakian was checking the seals on all the doors he walked past.

Then something made him stop. Two Chinese photographers were leaning against the tunnel wall, chatting. Avakian had to ask himself why they were there instead of out photographing the awards ceremony. He stared at them, probing for a reaction. One of them finally noticed and nudged the other. They both stared back at him and continued talking.

Avakian was wary of crying wolf. But if something did go down it was always the guy like him who got shot by mistake. He walked back down the tunnel and caught the eye of one of the Chinese cops, cocking his head in the direction of the photographers and firing off a questioning look. The cop got it immediately. With his partner watching with one hand on his sidearm and the other on his radio, he went over, checked their pins and credentials, and rooted around in the camera bags. When he finished he said something to them, and as he passed Avakian gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Okay, Avakian thought, so much for instinct.

Loud applause rose up from the other end of the tunnel, and the photographers came flooding in. A few minutes later a parade of girl gymnasts in their warm-up suits, trailed by coaches and trainers. The ones with the medals
around their necks were prancing and smiling. The rest were not. A few were still red-eyed, sniffling, and wiping their faces on their sleeves. Avakian positioned himself out of the way of the rush, off to the side near one of the sealed doors.

Camera flashes popped wildly. Then the teams were through but the photographers stayed where they were, muttering impatiently.

A few minutes later the noise rose again from the tunnel entrance. Avakian knew what was coming next. In the trade they called it “riding the diamond.” The security men in the point sweeping everyone out of their way like a human snowplow. The seal on the sides, all facing outward, pushing everyone toward the walls, carefully watching hands. Cocooned in the middle of the diamond formation were the VIPs, the Taiwanese president and the two Chinese sports bigwigs. More security men closed off the rear. The four points of the diamond meant that the whole formation could change direction instantly.

It was a common sight on TV, but what the viewing public couldn't see on the other side of those cameras looked like a cross between a bread riot and a goal line stand in the Super Bowl. The gentle members of the press were elbowing and kicking each other for position with an abandon that explained why, other than terrorism, they had all been searched for weapons at the door. When the flashes and TV lights went off again Avakian kept seeing white spots before his eyes. And they were all screaming questions, literally screaming, all at the same time. Why, he had no idea, since it was impossible to pick out a single word they were saying. The effect inside the tunnel was like unfolding your lawn chair next to a jackhammer. Avakian was afraid his eardrums were going to burst. He
pressed a finger to each ear canal to try and reduce that awful pressure. And in the eye of that hurricane the VIPs strolled along as if nothing was happening, waving casually and wearing steady, pleasant, pasted-on smiles for the cameras. It gave Avakian something he thought he'd never have: respect for politicians. To hang tough in the middle of all that was an achievement.

The diamond passed by him, sucking along the rear security and more photographers. Then it was like the storm had passed and the ocean was calm. The noise diminished only slightly as the crowd moved a little farther down the tunnel.

Just then the door in front of Avakian opened, the tape seal twanging off. A Chinese in a maintenance uniform emerged, credentials dangling around his neck and a little walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. Avakian relaxed. Just another dope taking the wrong door at the wrong time. But then the right hand came out of the pants pocket clutching something, and the left hand swung over to yank the pin from a hand grenade.

Avakian froze for a second out of sheer disbelief, took another second to reprocess the whole image to confirm what he was really seeing, then burst forward, the adrenaline tunneling his vision and seeming to slow everything down. He swept his jacket back, clawing for the homemade anti-mugger blackjack stuck in his waistband at the small of his back.

The maintenance man was standing sideways so the rear security couldn't see his hand. His body tensed and his right shoulder dropped as he started into his pitching motion.

Avakian had the tape-wrapped steel rod out but the arm was coming up and he was still a good two steps away.
Everyone was naturally looking toward the front, and the assassin was obviously planning on letting his grenade fly and being back through the door before it even went off.

Avakian dove forward, swinging his arm over his head like a tennis serve. He caught the maintenance man a solid shot on the back of the head, and they both went down together. Avakian landed across the back of the man's legs. His knee hit the floor hard and sent an electric jab of pain up his leg and into his groin.

When his mind finished processing that he looked up and saw the grenade finish a short bounce and land back down on the floor in front of him. It was Russian, looking like a green soup can with the shiny metal detonator housing sticking out from the body like a pencil. Only Russian grenades had that feature. Didn't get the pin out, Avakian thought desperately, more in the form of a prayer than an observation.

But as the grenade spun on the floor it suddenly twitched with a sharp, clearly audible pop. Another unique feature of Russian grenades. Other countries developed primers that initiated silently to start a grenade's fuse burning. But the Russians never believed in going to all that fuss and expense.

So the pop told Avakian he had less than four seconds. If he picked it up there were people in every direction he could possibly throw it. Screaming, “Grenade!” he bounced up and grabbed the maintenance man's belt, then lunged forward to get ahold of the back of his collar. With one foot underneath him and one knee still on the ground, and a powerlifter's scream, he jerked the Chinese up off the floor as if he were a 150-pound barbell instead of the equivalent in human dead weight. Avakian lifted him about two feet in the air and, still screaming from the exertion,
thrust the body forward onto the grenade. His shoulder popped like the primer with another hot poker of pain but he didn't release his grip, landing on top of the maintenance man to tamp him onto the explosive.

He waited there all tensed up, eyes screwed shut, for what seemed a very long time. It might just be a dud, he thought. And in the midst of a muffled roar he was launched into the air with enough force to snap his neck back and his teeth together.

He landed hard on the floor with another shooting pain, in his elbow this time. That, and the stink of explosives in his nostrils told him he was still alive. He was in the midst of a cloud of black grenade smoke and couldn't see a thing. And then someone jumped on top of him, pointed knees stabbing into his back. Jesus. His arm was wrenched behind his back, and if the pain in his shoulder had been a little less intense he might have screamed before all the air went out of his lungs. He was just about to spaz out and start fighting when he realized he was being frisked. It had to be the Chinese cops. Just relax, he told himself. We'll get this straightened out. That is, if he wasn't bleeding to death—something he couldn't tell at the moment. Just don't resist and make it worse.

Something clicked in his head, and it was like the first time he'd heard sound in a while. The screaming echoing through that tunnel was ungodly. As his head was pulled up off the floor a bunch of pistol shots, like a string of firecrackers, went off down in the direction of the VIPs. And an instant later an absolute roar of more gunfire, too many rounds to count. Avakian's head cracked nose-first onto the floor as whoever had his arms let go and jumped back on top of him to try and get closer to the ground. Christ that hurt. Avakian could feel the warm liquid tickling of his
nose bleeding, and as he turned his head to the side to try and get some air, all he could see and feel was feet stampeding past. The screaming was even worse now, something he would not have thought possible.

Eventually whoever was lying on him got up, very cautiously. His arms were twisted back once again, and cold metal handcuffs snapped on. He was grabbed and thrown with his back up against the wall, though still sitting on the floor. There was nothing he could do about the blood streaming from his nose onto his shirt front. On the bright side, it was actually the least painful position he'd been in for a while. Every photographer in Asia stopped to take his picture as the cops pushed them down the tunnel toward the arena floor.

Once his vision cleared from the flashes he managed a look up at the two cops standing above him with their pistols drawn, preening like heroes. And then over at the maintenance man facedown on the floor, seemingly intact but lying in a literal lake of spreading blood. It wasn't going to be pretty when someone tried to roll him over. That triggered a thought that struck Avakian as incredibly funny. If anyone was ever going to die of an untreated nosebleed, it would be him. He'd always suspected it would be his karma to go out in the least dignified way possible.

Casualties on stretchers, he couldn't tell who, went rolling by. In the midst of all that bedlam, Avakian couldn't make heads or tails of what had happened. Then a female Chinese photographer came running up, flanked by two cops of her own, super agitated. She was screaming, too. Pointing down at Avakian and screaming, pointing over at the body of the maintenance man and screaming. Look, take me out and shoot me, Avakian thought desperately. Give me People's Justice. Just tell her to shut the hell up.

But it got worse, because the cops started yelling back at her. Then she screamed some more. For the sake of his sanity Avakian tried to find his happy place and tune it all out, which wasn't easy with his knee, shoulder and elbow killing him, and blood continuing to pour from his nose.

But something happened, because suddenly he was pulled to his feet and the handcuffs came off. The cops were brushing him off and patting him on the back. Maybe she was on his side after all.