Wall of Night (25 page)

And there it is,
Briggs thought. They'd all just crossed the point of no return. In the eyes of the law, they were now coconspirators. Traitors. Tanner idly wondered if the death penalty was still used in cases of treason.
In for a penny,
in for a life sentence,
he decided.

In the real world, few things are as black and white as the law aspires to be. Right and wrong are more often separated by degrees, rather than poles. If the ends were important enough and the means palatable enough, occasionally you had to take the shadier path. As far as Briggs was concerned, good guys still wore white hats, but sometimes when the fight was over, those hats needed a little dry cleaning.

If Mason's suspicions about Martin and Bousikaris were correct, there was no time for investigations, or probes, or a media-spun scandal. They had to move now, and move quickly.

“Define ‘coup,'” Oaken said to Mason.

“Relax. I'm not talking about grassy knolls and book depositories.”

“Glad to hear it. Then how're we going to do it?”

Dutcher answered. “We're going to convince Martin it's in his best interests to step down.”

“Given his ego, that's gonna be a neat trick,” Cahil said. “From day one he's been talking about the ‘Martin Legacy'; he's obsessed with it. And if he's sold his soul—sold out the country, for God's sake—there's nothing he won't stoop to. He won't go quietly.”

“Dick and I will worry about that.”

“In the meantime, what are we doing?”

“That depends,” Mason said. “How are your acting skills?”

Cahil groaned. “I had a feeling this was coming.”

“As of now, you're Stan Kycek,” Mason said. “Wherever Skeldon is and whatever he's doing, he's playing a role in China's game. You're going to have to find out what that is.”

“According to Kycek, Skeldon will be calling in the next couple days,” Cahil said. “I'll lay odds he's heading into Siberia, or he's already there.”

“Agreed,” Dutcher said. “Siberia is the prize.”

“Which brings us back to the two big questions,” Oaken said. “We're assuming Martin was coerced into committing the battle group and the SEAL team. If so, how are we going to find out how it all fits together?”

“If Leland and I do our parts, we may have that answer very soon.”

“Assuming Bousikaris and Martin even know themselves.”

“Right.”

Oaken scratched his head. “We're talking about a full-fledged invasion. The Federation may be a shadow of its former self, but it's no pushover. It's still the big Russian Bear. The Chinese can't expect to simply march into Siberia, plant their flag, and start building refineries.”

Tanner recognized the expression on Oaken's face. It was his “something don't fit and I want to know why” expression. He was digging in his intellectual heels.

“China knows all that, I'm sure,” Dutcher said. “Whatever Night Wall is, they're confident it will give them the edge. The answer to how we defend against it lies with Soong.”

And Soong is locked away inside a prison somewhere in the middle of five million square miles of Chinese territory,
Tanner thought.
And he's old,
and frail,
and even if I manage to reach him,
will he have the strength to make it out alive
?

Mason turned to Tanner. “Seems like we've been down this road before, doesn't it, Briggs?”

“It does indeed.”

“Like it or not, this comes down to you. Unless we put a stop to this thing, I fear we're gonna find ourselves in the middle of a shooting war.”

Beijing

Thousands of miles away, a man Tanner had never met was about to seal his fate.

In the weeks following their meeting at Yuyuan Lake, Chang-Moh Bian had heard nothing from Roger Brown. As instructed, Bian had done his best to forget the affair and go about his life. “You've done your part,” Roger had said. “Unless something changes, we won't be needing you anymore.”

The words had been music to Bian's ears. All the sneaking around, worrying about whether he was being watched, holding his breath whenever he saw a PSB officer … It was finally over.

And then, the signal came.

As was his routine, Bian was riding the bus to work when he saw it. As he got off at Xizhimen Station to change lines, he froze, staring at the back of a nearby bench. Jammed into the wood were two thumbtacks, one red, one blue.

Heart in his throat, Bian called in sick, hurried home, and dug through the notes he'd jotted for himself. They wanted another meeting.

Three days later, he got up early, forced himself to eat a light breakfast, then set out.

He boarded the bus at Chaoyangbei Street near his apartment and took it into Old Beijing. Over the next two hours he changed buses three times, getting off at one stop, walking to another several blocks away, then boarding again.

Certain he'd followed the procedures correctly, he disembarked at Dongsi Beidajie, hailed a pedi-taxi—the modern name for a rickshaw—and asked to be driven to a coffee shop near Longfu Hospital, where he got out and walked inside.

He chose a table near the window and ordered a cup of tea. The cafe was busy, full of Westerners and Chinese alike, which was precisely the point, he assumed.
What had Roger called it
? “
Cover for status.
”
If either of them were questioned, they had a legitimate reason for being at the cafe.

He sat for ten minutes, glancing at his watch, his heart pounding.

Outside, Brown appeared on the sidewalk. He stooped to tie his shoe.

I'll stop to tie my shoe.
When I do,
get up and start walking toward the door.

Bian stood up, dropped a few
yuan
on the counter, and headed for the door.

Not too fast,
not too slow
…

Bian forced himself to slow down, sidestepping other diners in the aisle.

Brown was crossing the sidewalk now, coming toward the door.

When you reach the door,
be on the left side
;
drape your coat in front of your body and let your right hand dangle by your side,
palm open and toward me.
I'll place the packet in your hand.

Brown reached the door. He pulled it open. The greeting bell tinkled. Bian bumped into a young pregnant woman, excused himself, kept going.

Don't avoid eye contact
;
just a cordial smile and move on.

He and Brown met at the door and exchanged smiles. Bian felt something rectangular pressed into his palm. He closed his hand around it, then turned sideways and stepped onto the sidewalk.

There,
Bian thought.
Done.
Now just switch your coat to the other arm
—

The toe of his shoe struck a crack in the concrete. He stumbled. The pavement rushed toward him. He reached out to brace himself. The packet—a micro cassette tape case, he now saw—slipped from his hand and clattered across the sidewalk.

Someone stopped beside him and leaned down to help.

“No, thank you, I'm fine, really …”

Bian scurried after the case. He scooped it up and stuffed it into his pocket.

Behind him, he heard, “Sir?”

It's them,
it's the police
…

Bian spun.

An elderly woman stood on the sidewalk, holding his coat She smiled a toothless grin and handed it to him. He grabbed it, muttered a thank-you, then turned and hurried away.

Sitting on a bench across the street, Myung Niu of the People's Security Bureau, saw it all.

After reporting his accidental encounter with Bian at Yuyuan Lake, Niu had been given permission to oversee the surveillance of Bian. Niu had no idea where, if anywhere, it would lead, but in the competitive world of the PSB, you didn't pass up a chance to distinguish yourself. If Bian's activities were determined to be proper and innocent, Niu had lost nothing. If, however, Bian was engaged in something illegal—something the State considered a capital offense—Niu's name would be mentioned in high circles.

And now this.

Watching the cassette slide across the pavement, Niu instantly realized what he'd just seen. Moreover, he recognized the man Bian had just “bumped into” as the same one from Yuyuan.

It took all his self-control to not arrest Bian on the spot

They knew who he was, where he lived, where he worked. He wasn't going anywhere. The other man, however, was another story. He was obviously a
waiguoren,
but beyond that, he was a mystery.

Not for long.

Niu stood up and walked down the block to a phone booth. He connected with the exchange operator and recited a number. Waiting for the call to go through, he scanned the cafe's interior until he spotted the American sitting in a booth near the back.

Good,
Niu thought.
Sit there and enjoy your meal.
In ten minutes I'll have a dozen men here.
Then we'll find out who and what you are.

Five hundred miles northeast of Beijing, inside a camp known only by its numeric designator of “Laogi 179,” General Han Soong stared at the wall of his cell and felt a wave of despair wash over him.

Four thousand five hundred and six days.
Twelve years staring at the same walls, eating the same food, listening to the light buzzing above his head … A dozen summers and winters, gone. His wife, gone.

His first winter in prison, they'd awoken him in the middle of the night, dragged him outside into the wind and snow, and shoved him aboard a helicopter.

When they arrived at their destination he was led into a white-tiled room with fluorescent lights and a dozen stainless-steel tables. It was a morgue, he'd realized. All the tables were empty, save one, which was covered by a white sheet. They led him forward and pulled off the sheet.

It was his wife. She was pasty white, her once shining hair dull and brittle.

“She died four days ago. You may pay your respects. You have two minutes.”

Soong stood stiffly by the table, blinking back the tears. He said a private prayer for her, then turned and walked out.

My Lord,
Soong thought,
should I have gone with Briggs
?
Freedom had been within his grasp. But what of Lian? She was all he had left. Without her at his side, freedom would have been hollow.

What if she too were dead? What if she'd died and they'd never told him?

Stop it.
Lian is alive
;
she's alive and we are going to be together again.

Briggs will come back for both of us.

Beijing

It was six p.m. local time when Tanner's plane touched down at Beijing's Capital Airport.

Once off the jetway, he found himself on a narrow concourse bordered by iron barricades. Painted on the floor were two stripes, one red and one green, each leading to Customs gates.

Overhead, a speaker crackled to life. A singsong voice recited something first in Chinese, then French, German, and finally English: “Welcome to Beijing. Travelers with declarations, to the red area; travelers without declarations, to the green area. Have all documents ready for inspection.”

Tanner chose the red line, waited his turn, then set his duffle bag on the counter.

“
Bu dui
!”
the customs agent barked.
“Bu dui
!”
No,
not good
!

“Shanme
?”
Tanner replied, deliberately mutating “what” into the word for “moldy noodles.”

“Not time for bag,” the agent said in English. “Put on floor until ask. Papers please.”

Along with his passport, Tanner handed over the plethora of forms he'd filled out on the plane: entry registration, health card, luggage declaration, temporary visitor (business) entry visa, letter of invitation, photographic equipment permit request, and an emergency contact sheet.

The agent scanned the documents. “What is your name?”

“Ben Colson.”

“Your letter of invitation is three months old.”

“This is the earliest I could be here.”

“Who is this? Who gave invitation?”

“He's a deputy minister in Sichuan Province,” Tanner replied.

In truth, the man didn't exist, but the gamble was a safe one given the number of ministers, deputy ministers, and associate deputy ministers in China. More importantly, the letter was printed on the correct stationery and covered with half a dozen “chops,” or bureaucratic routing stamps.

“He oversees a cultural exchange program,” Tanner said. “When he heard about my book—”

The agent waved his hand, bored. “Book? What book?”

“It's called
Glorious Zhongguo.
”

“You are declaring a camera. Where is it?”

Tanner produced the camera, a top-of-the-line digital Nikon.

“Photographing of restricted areas is forbidden: Police stations, government buildings, military bases—all forbidden. You must have camera when leave. If not, you will be fined.”

“I understand.”

“Now bag.”

Tanner set his duffle on the counter. The agent unzipped it, rummaged inside for a moment, then withdrew a copy of
U.S.
News and World Report.
“What is this? Why did you bring this?”

“I wanted something to read.”

The agent flipped through it, frowning and shaking his head. “This is not allowed.”

“Why?”

“Political. It is political.”

Tanner had half-expected this, but it still surprised him. The fact that he could probably buy the very same magazine in one of the airport's shops told him the magazine itself wasn't the issue, but rather that he, an arrogant
waiguoren,
or “far country person,” had dared bring it into the country.

The agent rifled through the rest of his bag, studying his razor, tapping his comb against the counter, unfolding his map and holding it up to the light, unrolling his socks … The process continued until Tanner felt the first flutter of fear in his belly.
It doesn't mean anything.
You‘re American and you‘ve rubbed him the wrong way,
nothing more.

The agent finished with his bag, then stuffed the contents back inside and shoved it across the counter. He stamped each of Tanner's documents and handed them back. “Welcome to China.”

He hadn't walked fifty feet when two charcoal-suited Chinese men stepped in front of him and flashed their IDs. They were plainclothes PSB inspectors.

“Good evening,” the taller one said in English. “Your passport and entry documents, please.”

Tanner handed them over. “Have I done something wrong, Officer?”

The inspector gave the paperwork a cursory glance, then handed them to his partner. “You will please come with us, Mr. Colson.”

“Am I under arrest? Have I done something wrong? Perhaps I made a mistake on my—”

The inspector stepped forward and cupped Tanner's elbow. “Please come with us.”

They led him through a locked door and down two flights of stairs to a small, windowless room with a table and three chairs. Sitting in the corner was the suitcase he'd checked aboard the plane.

Bad sign,
Briggs thought. They'd seized his bag
before
they had approached him, which meant this wasn't a random stop. Though not yet ready to push the panic button, he felt himself tensing.

He scanned the room for cameras or peepholes; there were none. It was just him and these two inspectors. If the time came, he'd have to disable both of them quickly.

He rehearsed it in his mind:
Search them for anything pertaining to him,
take the documents and luggage,
hail a cab,
get into the city,
find the cache drop and pray Mason's embassy people have already stocked it,
then go to ground
… With any luck, an hour after leaving the airport he would be lost in Beijing's ten million-plus population.

He prayed it didn't come to that. His job was going to be hard enough by itself; doing so while being hunted as a fugitive would make it nearly impossible.

“Please sit,” the lead inspector said.

Tanner did so. The inspectors remained standing, the tall one at the table, his partner beside the door.
Smart boy,
Briggs thought.
Have to reach him before he can get out the door
…

“Where are you staying, Mr. Colson?”

“The Bamboo Garden Hotel on Jiugulou Street.”

“You list your occupation as photographer. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“Tell us about your book.”

“It's not my book, actually. I was hired by the house—”

“The what?”

“The publisher—Random House in New York.”

“Please continue.”

“It's a portrait on China called
Glorious Zhongguo.
”

“You used the traditional name for our country—why?”

“It's what you call your country; it seemed appropriate.”

“Quite so. The word
China
is a Western invention. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“You are an employee of this publisher?”

“No, I'm freelance—I work for myself.”

“You are an entrepreneur?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“We have entrepreneurs now, you know.”

“I've heard that.”
He's fishing,
Tanner thought. Was this
waiguoren
an advocate for the spread of the disease known as capitalism, or did he recognize the sanctity of Chinese culture and tradition?

“What's your opinion of China's entrepreneurial system?” the inspector pressed.

“I don't really have one. I just take pictures. I let the politicians worry about that other stuff.”

The inspector stared at him for a moment. “Spoken like a true artist, Mr. Colson.” He reached down, picked up Tanner's duffle, and placed it on the table. “May I?”

“Help yourself.”

The inspector unzipped the duffle and pulled out the Nikon. “Very nice. How much memory?”

“Eight megs,” Tanner replied.

“You can take many photographs with this?”

“A couple hundred on the normal setting.”

“Technology is wonderful, isn't it?”

Another lure.
“It can be; it also has its downside. There's a lot to be said for the simple, uncomplicated life.”

The inspector returned the camera to Tanner's duffle and returned it to the floor. He then reached into his lapel pocket and withdrew a sheet of paper, which he placed on the table before Tanner. “This is a statement that you will not, under any circumstances, take photographs of police stations, government buildings, military facilities, or any other similarly restricted areas. If you do so, you may be subject to arrest and imprisonment. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Then please sign.” Tanner did so. “Furthermore, you will be prepared at all times to present upon request, your camera, film, and permit to any local official. Do you understand this also?”

“Yes.”

“Then please initial here.”

Tanner did so.

“Thank you,” the man said, then gestured to his partner, who stepped forward and handed Tanner his documents and passport. “You are free to go. Enjoy your stay in Beijing.”

Tanner gathered his luggage, climbed the stairs to the main concourse, and stepped outside.

The sidewalk teemed with milling passengers. Taxis honked back and forth. Many in the crowd—Beijing natives, Tanner guessed—were wearing white surgical masks. Except for rare days when the wind was blowing right, Beijing lived under an near-constant smog warning. Tanner looked to the southwest, toward the city proper, and saw a grayish brown cloud hanging over the skyscrapers. Already he could feel his throat stinging.

He made his way to the curb and spotted a free taxi across of the lane.

“
Wanshang hao
!”
the driver called through the side window.
Good day.
“Taxi, sir?”

“Yes.”

Tanner climbed in the back. “Where go?” the driver asked.

“Tingsonglou Hotel.”

“Mei wenti
!”
No problem.
“
Huang tou tai gao le.
”

It took Tanner a moment to piece together the words.
Huang tou tai gao le
…
The literal translation was “Blond hair too tall.” Evidently, the driver considered him something of a freak.

With a blare of his horn and a shout out the window, the driver swerved into traffic. Within minutes they were away from the airport and heading toward the city.

In the back, Tanner stared out the window. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking.

Welcome to China,
Briggs.