The Einstein Papers (9 page)

“Will the hotel in Lanzhou have television?” Leeds asked Deng Biao, his Chinese assistant on the dig who was seated in the passenger seat of the Rover.

“It does, but your Chinese is so poor that you won’t be able to understand what is being said.” Biao moved his bony ass on the seat, trying to find comfort.

“No CNN?” Leeds said. “No SKY TV?”

“Lanzhou is not Beverly Hills.”

“Is there hot water so I can at least take a shower?”

“Yes,” Biao said, “the hotel has hot water, clean sheets, and electric lights. All the little luxuries you have been complaining about for the last few weeks.”

Leeds, like the vast majority of Western archaeologists Biao had met, seemed much more at home in a classroom than in the field. Most archaeologists chose their discipline because they had some romantic vision of Indiana Jones playing in their heads. By the time they finally received a doctorate and came to the harsh realization that their income rivaled that of a cat food salesman, most became bitter and resentful. They usually ventured out in the field only enough to publish the minimum amount of papers to retain their job. Leeds was proving to be just such a one, Biao thought to himself.

Deng Biao was completely taken in by Leeds’s ruse.

“Good, a shower and a newspaper will go a long way toward changing my mood,” said Leeds.

Driving slowly down the rough road, at a spot about seven miles from Lanzhou, Leeds rolled down the side window as a Chinese helicopter roared overhead.

“Helicopter. Civilization can’t be far now,” Leeds noted.

“No, not far. But it will take time to reach,” Biao said as he pointed through the windshield down the hill toward the Lanzhou.

Oxcarts, motorcycles, and hundreds of bicycles were blocking the dirt road as far as the eye could see. The line of humanity was being slowly funneled toward a barricade in the road in the far distance. The helicopter touched down near the checkpoint as Leeds watched the scene through the windshield.

“That’s funny, I don’t remember a checkpoint on this road,” Biao said quietly.

“This is going to slow us down considerably,” Leeds noted gloomily.

“Do you know the correct way to roll on the ground so you don’t get injured?” Taft asked Choi.

“Not really,” Choi said honestly.

“We don’t have much time. Watch what I do carefully,” Taft said as he demonstrated the correct roll on the wooden floor of the train car.

The satellite pictures the NIA had used in planning the escape revealed that the railroad tracks would make an abrupt turn on the outskirts of Urumqi. The photographs, now etched in Taft’s memory, showed a small creek to one side, with the area around the creek thick with trees and brush. The planners felt it was the safest place for Taft and Choi to exit the train without being spotted.

And now it was fast approaching.

The railroad engineer in the locomotive applied the brakes to slow the train for the curve. A loud grinding noise ran the length of the train.

“Get ready,” Taft said as he stood at the door of the railcar, watching the ground alongside race past.

Sticking his head entirely out the door, Taft spotted a patch of leaves and mud fifty yards ahead. “I’ve spotted our jump site. You’re first,” Taft said as he reached for Choi, leading him by the arm toward the open door. “Ten seconds more.”

Choi shivered with fear. The sequence of events in the last twenty hours was overwhelming. It was all too much to comprehend. Yesterday at this time, he was just finishing up working in the laboratory at Qinghai. Now he was being swept along in a wild escape orchestrated by a crazy American working for some organization the man refused to identify.

Choi stared at Taft. The American appeared completely calm. In fact, he appeared to be enjoying himself. The hand squeezing Choi’s arm was steady, the eyes staring out at the passing ground intense and unblinking.

“Five, four, three, two, one. Remember to roll-go” Taft said, and he pushed Choi from the train.

Choi forgot to roll. He bounced on the ground with a sickening crunch. Three seconds after pushing Choi from the train, Taft leapt from the open door. Rolling in a ball like a gymnast, he popped back to his feet while still being carried forward by the momentum. Quickly grabbing Choi and tucking him under his arm, Taft raced into the trees. They needed to be out of sight before the caboose passed and the conductor noticed them. Choi screamed in agony from his shoulder injury as Taft carried him farther from the tracks into the woods.

Once safely in the brush, Taft stopped and lowered Choi carefully to the ground. “You forgot to roll,” Taft said quietly.

“My shoulder,” Choi said through the pain now clouding his thoughts.

Taft rolled him carefully over on his back. Pulling Choi’s shirt over his head, he inspected the injured shoulder.

“It’s pretty bad-it’s already showing heavy swelling. My guess is a fractured shoulder blade or a broken bone somewhere in the back. But I’m no doctor, so it’s only an educated guess.”

“There’s no way I can make it to the border like this,” Choi said through gritted teeth. “Even the slightest movement is excruciating. You’re going to have to leave me and go on alone.”

“So you want to die here?”

“Leave me. In time the Chinese will find me. You can escape easier without me to slow you down.”

Taft walked a few steps away and stared into the distance. Listening to the quiet sounds of the forest, he stared up at the sun. He walked back to Choi. “I thought we already covered this. There is no way I can allow you to be recaptured. I have my orders.”

Choi licked off the sweat forming on his upper lip. “So the savior becomes the executioner?”

“They gave me no choice,” Taft said, staring directly into Choi’s eyes.

“Do you know what it is that makes me so valuable your boss would risk your life to save me?” Choi said, suddenly frightened by the unblinking gaze.

“No. And I don’t want you to tell me,” Taft said coldly. He paused and wiped the sweat from Choi’s forehead.

“Here are your options. I can make your death painless. I have tablets in my pack you could take that will bring death in under thirty seconds. Two, I could loll you myself. Please don’t ask me to do that. I’ve never killed anyone who wasn’t trying to kill me first. Three, I have pills that will render you unconscious. Then it’s up to me to get you across the border somehow.”

Taft towered over the tiny physicist, peering down.

At last Choi broke the tension. “Unconscious, huh? I think I’d like to give that a try.”

“Good choice,” Taft said as he reached in the pack and removed his case of pills. “Here’s the only downside. It’s still three hundred and seventy-five miles to the border. Your shoulder might be further injured by the trip. I have no way to gauge that. I can tell you, however, that once we cross the border, my people will have a doctor waiting. As soon as we’re safe your shoulder will be set. I give you my word.”

“What if we are captured, Mr. Taft?” Choi said as he raised the canteen to his lips to wash down the pill.

“I’m getting you out alive,” Taft said in a voice that could freeze water, “or we both go to meet our maker. You see, Mr. Choi, I have no choice as well.”

Before he could ponder Taft’s words, Choi drifted over the edge to blissful unconsciousness. Taft felt for his pulse then prepared to set off for the border.

Rifles locked and loaded, a dozen Chinese soldiers wearing the khaki fatigues of the Chinese army approached the blue Land Rover that was inching its way up to the checkpoint. Leeds watched through the windshield as the soldiers took their positions in the front and to the sides of the vehicle. Several of the soldiers pointed their rifles at the radiator as a Chinese army officer ran to the passenger side and dragged Biao from his seat. After handing Biao over to a soldier to detain, the officer circled around the back of the Land Rover and pulled Leeds from the driver’s seat. Hands held over his head, the archaeologist immediately kneeled on the ground.

“Don’t shoot, I’m a British citizen. My passport is in my shirt pocket,” Leeds shouted.

The Chinese officer pulled Leeds to his feet and pushed him toward another soldier, who began to lead him toward a waiting jeep.

“Wait,” the officer shouted in Chinese seconds later.

He walked over to the archaeologist and lifted Leeds’s boot as if he were inspecting a horse’s hoof. “Clark’s-London,” he said in English as he slapped his hand against the side of Leeds’s head.

Leaving the doors open on the Land Rover, the officer loaded the pair into the back of the jeep, then sped off to the checkpoint. Hundreds of Chinese peasants, carrying caged ducks, vegetables, and grain to trade, filed around the open doors of the now abandoned truck. They continued on their way to Lanzhou as if nothing had happened.

The helicopters carrying Jimn and Yibo were still 150 miles from Urumqi when the radio call came from the checkpoint near Lanzhou.

“It seems our troops have captured the pair in Lanzhou,” Jimn radioed Yibo.

“The raft and set of footprints must have been a decoy after all,” Yibo said. “What would you like me to do now?”

“Fly to Anxi and refuel, then return to the weapons laboratory and take over security. I’ll go to Lanzhou and make the identification,” Jimn answered.

“As you wish, sir,” Yibo said quietly.

As the helicopter carrying Yibo turned and headed west, something still weighed heavily on his mind. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his subconscious he had the nagging feeling that he was traveling farther from their prey. Scrunching down to sleep in the noisy helicopter, he banished the unwanted thoughts.

It was only a gut feeling. And besides, Jimn, not he, was in charge.

Hiking three miles west to skirt the town of Urumqi while carrying a Chinese physicist is not as easy as it sounds, Taft thought to himself. As evening turned to night, Taft stopped to catch his breath on a small hill above an abandoned farmers shed. He checked his coded notes once again, and searched his memory for the aerial photograph he had studied. Comparing the landmarks on the ground with the ones in his head, he concluded he was in the right area. In a grove of trees covered with brush, Tart left Choi and crept carefully down the hill. From outside the shed he heard no sound. He slipped through its ramshackle door, then flicked on a small penlight he carried clipped to his shirt pocket.

There his chariot sat as planned. Perfect, Taft thought to himself. I just might get out of China alive. He rubbed his hand over the smooth leather of the saddlebags and smiled.

It was time to start the last leg of the trip to freedom.

The sharp sting of the leather glove across Deng Biao’s face brought him from his stupor. “Once again you tried to desert your country for the West. You are a traitor and a thief,” the interrogator shouted.

“What are you talking about? I’m an archaeologist with Beijing University. I’m working on a dig near Xining,” Biao said in Chinese.

“Liar,” the interrogator said, again striking Biao across his cheeks.

“You little fucker,” Biao said in English. “What did he say?” the interrogator asked the English interpreter.

“He said he doesn’t know what this is all about,” the interpreter said, sickened by the sight of violence and beginning to believe Biao was telling the truth.

Two doors down the hall, Malcolm Leeds was being treated with slightly more civility. “Why did you kidnap Li Choi?” the interrogator asked.

“Who’s Li Choi?” Leeds asked.

“Please don’t play dumb with me, Mr. Leeds,” the interrogator said coldly.

“I’d like to see the British consul,” Leeds said, his anger rising.

“In time, in time,” the interrogator said as he slammed the door to the cell and walked down the hall to speak with Biao’s interrogator.

Martinez wiggled around in the chair to find a comfortable position. The oak armchairs in the Archives Department of the FBI were about as soft as a boulder. The light was dim in the reading room, but at the far end of the twenty-foot-long, thirty-year-old conference table, Martinez could see that the agent assigned to watch him as he searched the files was nodding off.

Martinez was reading the field reports from the FBI agents that followed Einstein. He was trying to determine why China kidnapped Choi, a student applying for asylum who was an expert in obscure Einsteinian physics. The reports spanned ten years, from 1945, when Hoover had first ordered the surveillance, to 1955, when Einstein passed away in a hospital in New Jersey.

The reports contained little of interest. One event, a report of Einstein shaking off his followers in the summer of 1945, shortly after the surveillance began, was interesting. The only other report Martinez found useful was a report of an intercepted telegram destined for physicist Niels Bohr, while Einstein was dying. The surveillance in between those two events seemed to be as worthless as a bowling ball without holes.

Martinez slid the aging oak chair back from the table, creating a clatter in the silent room. “I’ll need copies of these two reports,” he said to the agent, who had awakened with a start. He handed the agent a sheet of paper with the file numbers written in pencil.

“It usually takes about thirty to forty-five minutes,” said the agent, stifling a yawn.

Martinez handed the agent a card that contained only telephone numbers. He circled the correct one with his pencil. “Could you have your people fax the reports to my office? I’m running on a tight schedule.”

“Sounds fair,” the agent noted, taking the card from Martinez.

“Thanks for your help,” Martinez said as he strode from the room.

Black leather helmet and fake Fu Manchu mustache masking his features, Taft nudged the shifter with his toe into fourth gear, then twisted the throttle wide open. The black Chinese-made motorcycle sped up, a staccato popping coming from the exhaust pipe. A cloud of dust trailed behind as Taft drove down the dirt road. To his right, Choi sat in the sidecar, head lolling from side to side. He was still in a deep stupor and, with luck, would remain so for some time.