Flags of Sin (17 page)

“We’ll
go straight to the airport,” he said, looking at Laura. “We’ll send for our
luggage, you call your agent and get us on the first flight out of the country.
I don’t care if it’s North Korea. We need to get out of China.”

Tires
squealed behind him, causing them all to look. Several vehicles, lights
flashing, raced down the road toward them. Acton gripped Laura’s hand harder,
and was about to run, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Just
stay calm, you haven’t done anything wrong. Just remember, I’m Mr. White from
the State Department. We met earlier this year arranging a dig permit for
Egypt. You’re tourists, and we arranged to meet here on the airplane.”

“Unless
they know that’s all bullshit,” hissed Acton as vehicles screeched to a halt
from both directions.

He
raised his hands, as did Laura.

But he
never let go of her hand, as over a dozen police, or paramilitary, jumped from
the vehicles and surrounded them, weapons drawn.

And out
of the headlights partially blinding them in the dusk, strode the two
investigators that had interrogated them earlier, and their apparent boss.

“It
would seem we were never really let go,” whispered Laura.

Acton’s
heart sank as the police advanced, cuffs in hand.

What
do we do now?

Chamber of the Spring Lotus, Zhongnanhai Complex, Beijing, China

October 6, 1976

“It must be stopped at all costs, and the only way to do it is to
eliminate them all.”

“But you
are talking of his entire inner circle, his entire family. Your family! Think
of the scandal! Your late husband will never rest in peace if you go through
with this. His soul will haunt you until the end of your days, and into the
afterlife.” Wang Hongwen, terrified at her idea, shook his head. “I think this
is wrong.”

Jiang
Qing frowned.
Pathetic. Weak.
To think that I have included him in
our meetings all these years, and now, when things are so close, nearly within
our grasp, his resolve fails.
She made a mental note to add Wang to the
list.

“I am
the widow of our greatest leader, of our beloved leader. The people will follow
me. The people will follow
us
. But we must act quickly. There are
already those who plot against us, not the least of which are these fools who
are working under the delusion they are descendants of the Tongzhi Emperor.”
She shook her head, her eyes closed.
How could my husband think such an
insane thing?

“I still
can’t believe it myself,” said Zhang Chunqiao, a man she both trusted, and
respected, his views on the bourgeoisie as legendary as his ruthlessness toward them. “But I will take your
word for it that it is true. And since it is, I agree, they must be eliminated
immediately. I will see to it today.”

Jiang
nodded.
I knew I could count on Zhang.
She looked at Wang, frowning.
If
only you had Zhang’s resolve, you would survive the night.

“It is
essential we act swiftly. We must be certain to have the support of the
Generals before we move, and we must silence that cretin Deng Xiaoping. He is
quickly gathering favor, and is popular with the people.”

“It is
unfortunate that
you
are not,” observed Wang.

She
glared at him.

“Because
I did what was necessary, the people may not like me, but they respect me. And
we do not need the support of the people now; we need the support of the
military. The people will come later. For now—”

She
stopped at the sound of shouting beyond the door, splintering wood, more
shouting, and the crash of something as it broke on the floor. Then the doors
of their meeting room, the doors of a room in her private residence, burst
open, revealing a platoon of soldiers, and the man she least expected, striding
through the doors.

“Anqing!”
she cried as she jumped from her chair along with the others. “How dare you
invade my private chambers!”

Mao
Anqing, the crazed son of her late husband, smiled at her, then nodded at the
others as more troops filled the room, weapons raised and pointed at the Gang
of Four.

“Qing,
it is good to see you on such a fine day.”

Her
heart pounded in her chest from the indignation of her privacy being violated,
the hatred she felt for the man before her, a man she couldn’t possibly take
seriously or respect, and the fear. The fear of what was to come.

For she
knew this was the end. There was nothing more she could do. Her husband had
won. She knew she had lost his trust long before his death, and that even
he
had been plotting against her, but she would never have guessed that it would
be the mentally ill brother who would be her undoing.

Li
Anhong strode through the door, a smile on his face, his hands clasped behind
his back. “Good day to you,” he said, smiling at the four.

She spit
on the ground, squaring herself defiantly against them, her bravado a false
façade in the face of what was to come. She looked at the other three, all of
whom had fear smeared across their faces. But not her. She wouldn’t give these
two vermin the satisfaction of seeing how she truly felt. One, a mental
patient, the other, a pretender to the crown. Neither would know how she felt.

For she
felt terrified.

She knew
China. This was her China. She had helped build it. Shape it.

And it
was ruthless.

And
those who fell out of favor with the Party, could live to regret it.

She
debated rushing the guards, perhaps earning a quick death, but she knew they
would be too well trained to shoot her, their 8341 Special Regimental insignia
revealing their skill level better than anything.

Her
shoulders sagged and her head dropped.

“All I
did, I did for China,” she said.

Anqing
whipped his hand toward her, signaling the formal arrest as two men stepped
toward her, handcuffs at the ready. Within moments she was cuffed, and Anqing stood
in front of her.

“And
what
I
do today, I do for China.”

Then he
leaned in, and whispered in her ear.

“And I
do it for my Emperor.”

Leaving the Olympic Sports Center, Beijing, China

Today

James Acton sat with his hands bound by plastic ties in the back of
a police van as it bounced along a road either in desperate need of repair, or
with entirely too many speed bumps. He jostled Laura on one side, Dawson on the
other, and wondered what the highly trained Special Forces operator was
thinking right now. Could he escape the ties binding him? He had no doubt. He
had been trained himself in how to defeat them easily.

But what
would he do then?

He
couldn’t exactly kill the two police officers sitting across from them, nor the
two investigators—or was it inspectors?—staring at them. They were innocent
police, doing their job. The problem was the system they worked for wasn’t.

And that
terrified him.

He had
visions of years if not decades languishing in a Chinese prison that would make
a Soviet Gulag look civilized. And what of Laura? A woman? She would probably
be raped repeatedly in a place like that.

His
heart slammed in his chest at the thought.

We’re
getting out of here.

We
have to.

“What’s
the charge, Inspector…Li, wasn’t it?”

The man
nodded.

“You
will be informed when we reach the station. You have been arrested by order of
our boss, Superintendent Hong.”

“How
long were we under surveillance?”

“No
questions, please.”

Suddenly
the van jerked to a halt, and shouting could be heard from the front cabin.
Several bursts of gunfire were accompanied by the van jerking several times, as
if collapsing slightly, Acton guessing the tires were being shot out. The rear
door was pulled open as the two armed guards in the back with them were still readying
their weapons.

Both
were shot in the head, instantly dead.

Three
men climbed in, decked head to toe in black—gear he would associate with a
special ops team—the first two holding handguns, the third holding a cellphone.
At first Acton had the faint hope it was the Delta team coming to rescue them,
but when Dawson didn’t react, he realized this was something entirely
different.

The man
held the cellphone camera up to Dawson’s face and pressed a button. A moment
later it beeped, and he nodded. The first man grabbed Dawson and threw him out
the back of the van and into the hands of another group that rushed him out of
sight.

The man
pointed the phone at Acton’s face, then after a beep, shook his head, repeating
the procedure with Laura. After the beep, he nodded, and the man closest to her
grabbed her by the arm. Laura cried out, and yanked herself away from the man
holding her, elbowing him in the head. He collapsed, and Acton shoved himself
from his seat, launching his shoulder into the ribcage of the other armed man,
who collapsed with a grunt, but without hands to steady himself properly, Acton
fell into the laps of the two inspectors, who did nothing beyond shove him to
his feet again.

He felt
the barrel of a pistol press against the back of his neck.

“Professor
Acton, be thankful we deem you to be of no value, otherwise you too would be
coming with us.” The sensation of the barrel disappeared for a moment, then he
felt a jolt of pain as he was pistol whipped, the ensuing fog enveloping him as
he slowly lost consciousness.

His last
recollections were of Laura yelling for him, then Inspector Li shouting something
in Chinese.

Chongqing, China

November 14, 2011

Bo Yang sipped the 1963 Taylor Scion port, several bottles of which
he had acquired in Europe, the rich liquid one of his few guilty pleasures. He
kept himself clean—no drugs, no cigarettes, and minimal alcohol—and fit; a trim
man by anyone’s standards even at nearly sixty years of age.

For he
had a purpose, a mission in life, that he had sworn to his father that he would
fulfill. His father, Mao Anhong, who had died only four years ago, and had made
him swear that he would fulfill the destiny laid out by his forefathers, not
the least of which was his grandfather, Chairman Mao Zedong himself.

The two
surviving children, his father, Anhong, and his uncle, Anqing, had failed. Deng
Xiaoping had moved too swiftly after the death of his grandfather, Mao Zedong,
and consolidated power before the brothers could act. But they had done nothing
to draw attention to themselves, instead maintaining their covers, one the
mentally ill brother with bouts of sanity, the other a former aide to the first
Chairman of communist China, neither important enough to pay attention to, or
eliminate. Instead, they receded into the background, and developed a plan for
the next generation.

Him.

And he
had done well. He had been groomed from an early age, and had risen to several
positions of power, currently a member of the Central Politburo, and secretary
of the Communist Party's Chongqing branch.

But how
had he managed all of this with a father considered crazy, and a Communist
party mostly hostile now to the policies of his grandfather? He had been raised
as the son of one of the Eight Elders who had held sway over the Party, and the
country, during the eighties and nineties, and had been groomed to be the
future Paramount Leader. And if he played his cards right, and the markers he
had been gathering were called appropriately, he would lead China soon.

Only his
wife could screw it up now.

He loved
her, which was the only reason he hadn’t had her “disappeared” years ago. They
had been married twenty-five years. She was a successful lawyer—
very
successful lawyer—and had founded a law firm that had gained national, and
international, renown. But she had checked her ambitions once he had told her
the truth, and instead gave up her career and worked silently in the
background, cultivating the contacts, gathering the intelligence to be used
against his enemies, and raising the funds to pay the necessary bribes, when
the time was right.

She was
instrumental in his success.

And now
she was blowing it.

“Why did
you do it?” he finally asked. She had come home almost an hour ago, had told
him what had happened, and he had sat in stunned silence since, until getting
himself the glass of port in an attempt to calm his nerves. “Please, explain to
me how you thought this was the way out?”

“He
threatened to tell the press our plans.”

It was a
matter of fact statement. Her voice was calm, as if she had done nothing wrong.
As if what she had done was perfectly normal, a rational act that any sane
person would have been expected to do.

“But you
killed him.”

She
shrugged her shoulders, then rose, walking over to the liquor cabinet and
pouring herself a vodka martini he had mixed her as she arrived—a pre-birthday treat
for her, since in less than an hour, it would be the actual day celebrating her
birth. Instead, it was the day preceding a death—by her hand.

“It was
necessary. If we are to achieve our goals, we couldn’t exactly have this man
revealing our secrets, now could we?”

She was
right. And that’s what was infuriating about it. And he wasn’t sure why the
death of a businessman who had assisted them in several rather “delicate”
transactions should bother him. After all, once he became Paramount Leader, he
would probably order the death of thousands over his tenure.