Empire Rising (9 page)

Weijie stood, brushing off the remaining sand, and was about to put the shell into her pocket when an unusual sound coming from the west captured her attention. As the sound grew louder, Weijie watched as hundreds of tiny, bright red lights streaked overhead. Seconds later, explosions rocked the peaceful shore, illuminating the plateau in a splattering of fire while hundreds of bright red dots continued inland. After a fearful glance at the darkening west, Weijie turned and ran toward home, dropping the shell onto the soft white sand. To the east, the horizon was alight in an orange glow.

 

12

BEIJING

A blood-red moon hung low over the city as Christine burst into the cool night air, her breath condensing into a white mist. Behind her, the security door swung slowly shut, clicking into place next to a plasma display matching the one on the other side of the door. Christine paused for a moment to catch her breath as she examined her surroundings, barely visible in the weak moonlight. As Yang mentioned, there was a camera mounted above the door, and the small LED light beneath the lens was dark. Surrounded by ten-foot-high granite walls, she stood in a small C-shaped alcove with the fourth side open. The night sounds around her were a strange contradiction; the high-pitched chirping of nearby crickets, almost masked by the sound of cars traversing a busy street not far away.

Christine was carrying an object in each hand: a flash drive in one and a semiautomatic pistol in the other. She searched for a place to hide both items. The flash drive slid into a slim pocket in her slacks, but there was no easy way to hide the pistol. Thankfully, she was wearing a business suit, and she folded her arms across her chest as if warding off the evening chill, tucking the pistol inside her jacket.

The events of the last few minutes jumbled though her mind as she stood in the small alcove, but there was only one item of relevance at the moment: the security guards who would sweep past this part of the Great Hall in a few minutes. There was no time to lose. She moved cautiously to the alcove exit, which opened to a twenty-foot-wide swath of concrete encircling the Great Hall, bordered by a ringlet of trees. Beyond that was the busy Guang Chang Boulevard and Tiananmen Square.

After verifying that no one was within sight, Christine hurried across the concrete path, slipping into the cypress and pine trees. She picked her way through the uneven terrain, reaching the far edge of the trees a minute later. Tiananmen Square was across the street. She hoped she could reach the CIA safe house without drawing attention. She was a Caucasian with auburn hair, but it was dark and if she kept her face down, perhaps she could blend in.

Standing a few feet inside the tree line, she scanned the busy street, searching for the best place to cross, spotting a crosswalk fifty feet to her right. She waited for a break in the pedestrian traffic, then stepped onto the sidewalk unnoticed. As she approached the crosswalk, the electronic crossing sign turned from a red stick figure to a green one, and Christine fell in a few feet behind a man and a woman engaged in conversation. After crossing the street and entering the west edge of Tiananmen Square, the couple turned left while Christine continued straight ahead, her eyes scanning the sparsely populated square.

There was a cluster of boisterous young men in the northeast corner of the square, with a few dozen other people traversing the concrete expanse, some meandering hand in hand while others hurried across. Directly ahead of Christine rose the Monument to the People's Heroes, a 120-foot-tall granite obelisk bathed in bright white light. As she approached the lower of two tiers of white marble railing surrounding the monument, she turned right and headed toward the south exit of Tiananmen Square.

Between her and the exit was the two-tiered Mausoleum of Chairman Mao Zedong, surrounded by a thin strip of trees. The mausoleum was closed at this time of day, and there were only a few people milling around the perimeter of the square building; tourists by the look of things, taking pictures of the exterior. Christine hugged the edge of the green foliage as she passed by, proceeding toward Zhengyang Gate looming directly ahead. The gate and the Menjianlou behind it, both built during the Ming Dynasty in the fifteenth century, comprised the only gate complex in Beijing whose Gate and Arrow Towers were still intact, each tower traversed via a fifty-foot arched tunnel in its base.

Pedestrian traffic was sparse as Christine approached the four-story-tall Zhengyang Gate, passing peddlers at the entrance to the tunnel, their wares laid out on blankets spread at their feet. She eyed Mao lighters, DVDs, and socks of every color as she entered the tunnel, her footsteps echoing off stone walls until she emerged onto the sidewalk of a busy boulevard running between the Zhengyang Gate and Arrow Tower. Christine waited for a break in traffic, then crossed the street and entered another arched tunnel, this one passing beneath the Arrow Tower. After another fifty-foot trek, she exited the empty tunnel and pulled to a stop. Qianmen Street was teeming with people. Locals and tourists packed the busy pedestrian and streetcar thoroughfare.

Christine abandoned the idea of avoiding others on the way to the safe house. This was better—she would melt into the sea of tourists patronizing the upscale stores and famous restaurants lining Qianmen Street. She continued on, passing under a decorated archway painted in vibrant colors, marking the entrance to the district. Six wooden pillars supported the archway, each pillar framed by two stone lions facing opposite directions.

The buildings in the shopping district imitated the architecture of the Qing Dynasty. Along both sides of the street, pagoda-style roofs sat atop two-story buildings constructed of green tile and red pillars. Streetcars moved up and down the sixty-foot-wide boulevard, passing by artists performing acrobatics and vendors peddling candied haws on sticks, filling the air with their distinctive, sweet aroma.

Threading her way down the middle of Qianmen Street, Christine dodged the occasional streetcar, distancing herself from waiters standing outside the restaurants, men dressed in the robed attire of the Qing Dynasty who greeted passersby, bowing with their hands folded across their waist. As she moved down the boulevard, the buildings gradually transitioned from the decorative Qing architecture to boxy brick buildings more representative of modern Chinese design. Christine's eyes flicked to the birdcage street lanterns lining the boulevard, wondering if they contained security cameras feeding images to government officials. She wondered if they were already searching for her.

Christine checked the street sign at each intersection, searching for Dajiang Hutong. Finally, rising above the mass of pedestrians, gold letters glittered atop a black background. After passing Dajiang Hutong, she turned left at the next alley, entering a twenty-foot-wide hutong. Following the hutong as it curved to the right, Christine increased her pace, passing narrow redbrick residences interspersed between storefronts constructed of cement blocks faced with white tile.

As the sounds of the busy shopping district faded behind her, so did the lights. The street was soon draped in shadows, lit only by storefront lanterns hanging near their entrances. Christine peered into one of the stores as she passed by—a hole-in-the-wall restaurant serving a different clientele than the upscale restaurants along Qianmen Street. Men seated in plastic chairs gathered around square metal tables. Construction workers by the look of things, their tanned and burnt faces tilted over their food, paying no attention to the woman passing by.

Christine returned her focus to the street as she approached a cluster of men; teenagers arguing loudly outside an abandoned storefront. One of them noticed Christine and the conversation ceased as every head turned in her direction. Christine moved to the opposite side of the street as she prepared to pass by, but that only spurred the group into action. In unison, the young men sauntered across the road at a pace that would intersect Christine's path as she headed into the darkest section of the street. Christine slowed, evaluating her options.

She could turn around and go back up the alley toward Qianmen Street. But that was no guarantee the teenagers would leave her alone—and if they chased her, she doubted she could outrun them. Additionally, Yang had told her to keep going once she turned into the alley, and someone would find her. Christine decided she would have to go past these men.

As the teenagers approached, the group spread into a line that arched into a semicircle. Christine stopped near a street lamp hanging outside what looked like the entrance to an apartment complex—she had only a few seconds before she was surrounded. She moved to the side of the street, pressing her back against a redbrick wall rising four stories above her as the men completed their encirclement, stopping ten feet away.

Christine assessed her predicament. If the men's intentions were nefarious, she had a pistol but didn't dare use it—the gunfire would draw attention she could ill afford. But perhaps brandishing the weapon would frighten the men away, or at least generate enough respect to allow her to pass without harassment. After a moment of indecision, she pulled the pistol from underneath her jacket, letting her hand fall by her side.

The sight of the semiautomatic generated a reaction, but not the one she had hoped for. Conversation rippled through the teenagers, accompanied by derisive laughter.

As Christine faced the twelve young men, she wondered how many rounds were in the pistol's magazine. But even if she had enough bullets, if the men rushed her, there was no way she could shoot them all.

A man in the middle of the semicircle spoke. “Where are you headed, lady? And why do you have a gun?” He seemed the oldest of the men, nineteen maybe, while the others appeared to range from sixteen to eighteen. He was five-feet, ten-inches tall, a Uyghur from western China by the look of things—brown hair, hazel eyes, and a broad face with high cheekbones, with a thin scar running down the right side of his face. Christine mentally tagged him as
Scarface
. His English was surprisingly good. Good enough to understand her response.

“None of your business.”

There was an assortment of catcalls and laughter from the men, accompanied by a few elbows to the ribs. Apparently they understood English and considered her response humorous. Perhaps she needed to clarify her answer.

“Clear a path for me, or I'll clear one myself.”

Scarface took a step toward her. “There's no need to be rude, lady. We just want to know how we can help.” His statement was accompanied by another round of jeers and catcalls, and it didn't take much for Christine to imagine the kind of help these men had in mind.

“I don't need your help.”

The man smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth, then spoke harshly in Chinese. From the periphery of Christine's vision, she spotted men at each edge of the semicircle working their way toward her, the ring of men slowly contracting. Gripping the pistol with both hands, she raised it toward Scarface. “Tell everyone to freeze or I'll put a bullet in your chest.”

The man lifted his hands out to his sides, palms facing Christine as he glanced at the other eleven men, who froze instinctively, waiting for direction. “We mean you no harm,” Scarface replied. “We are only looking for entertainment tonight, and we could not let an attractive foreigner pass by without…” his smile widened as he continued, “engaging in conversation.”

“We've talked enough. Now clear a path.”

Scarface stared at the weapon in Christine's hands before replying. “There is a price for your passage. You hold a Type 92 Norinco, carried only by special units in the People's Liberation Army or government. That you have this weapon means you are a special woman, so we will let you pass without further harassment. However, you must first give me your pistol.”

Christine considered the man's proposal for a second before rejecting it. There was no way to know if he was telling the truth—once the pistol was handed over there was no guarantee she'd be allowed to pass unharmed. The odds of safe passage were better, she figured, as long as the pistol remained in her possession.

“No deal. And I'm running out of patience.”

The man's smile faded. “I doubt you would shoot unarmed men.” He paused a moment before adding, “Tell me I'm wrong.”

As he spoke, the man on Christine's right moved toward her again. He was dangerously close now—only three arm lengths away. She had to do something. She swung the pistol toward the advancing man and squeezed the trigger. As the shot echoed down the hutong, the man collapsed to the ground, clutching his thigh as blood oozed between his fingers.

Christine swiveled back toward Scarface, leveling the pistol at his head. “Now,
how
wrong do
you
want to be?”

The man uttered a harsh command in Chinese. The men withdrew to their original semicircle, with one man remaining behind to assist the injured teenager, stripping off his shirt and applying it as a tourniquet around his friend's leg. Christine waited in silence as the injured man was pulled to his feet, his arm draped around the other man's neck. Slowly, the two men limped back, joining the others.

Christine was about to demand passage again when the faint wailing of a police siren greeted her ears. Red and blue flashing lights reflected off white-tiled storefronts as the siren grew louder. Christine sucked in a sharp breath as she searched the hutong for someplace to hide.

Scarface pointed to the darkness on her left. “Into the shadows. Hide in a doorway.”

He turned to the other men and shouted in Chinese, and a path was cleared for Christine. After she passed through the gap, the men closed ranks and turned toward the street, forming a motley group with the injured man hidden behind them, standing now without the aid of his friend. Christine slid into the shadows just as a police sedan appeared around the curve. Feeling her way along the damp wall, she found a doorway. She stepped back into the one-foot-deep recess, pressing her body against the cold wooden door as the white sedan ground to a halt in front of the men.