Beijing Red: A Thriller (A Nick Foley Thriller) Page 9

  “I’m sorry, Qing, but I am bound to confidentiality agreements under the joint task force. Each of the team leaders, Zhang, Li, and myself, are all equally and directly accountable to the Central National Security Commission. Violating the agreement could land me in jail.”

  “Captain Li Shengkun?” he asked abruptly, his eyes laser beams burning into her skull.

  “He is a Major now, but yes.”

  “From the PLA’s NBC Regiment?”

  “Yes, do you know him?”

  Qing smiled broadly, his demeanor shifting. “Of course! Our community is such a small one when you really think about it. Li and I were contemporaries at Beijing University. We took many of the same graduate courses together . . . I’m sure he must have mentioned that.”

  “No,” she said, her curiosity piqued. “He did not.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised. He was never one for small talk. I’m not surprised he stayed in the army. A very serious guy, that Li.”

  “A little too serious if you ask me,” she mumbled, nodding.

  “Would you like more duck?” he asked, scooting his chair back from the table.

  “No, thank you, but I’ll do that,” she said, jumping to her feet.

  “Sit, Dr. Chen. Relax. You’ve had a harrowing week,” he said, smiling. “It’s fine.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?

  “Who is Zhang?” he called from the kitchen.

  “What’s that?” she called back.

  “Zhang,” he said, returning to the table, his plate full again. “You mentioned Li and also someone called Zhang on the task force?”

  “Oh, I would be surprised if you knew Zhang,” she chuckled.

  “What’s so funny? Is he military as well?”

  “Not exactly,” she said, wiping her mouth with her napkin. “Commander Zhang is the head of the Snow Leopard commandos—Beijing’s elite counterterrorism police unit.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of them,” he said, snatching a piece of duck with his chopsticks with more malice than any piece of duck deserved. “I suppose Commander Zhang is going to be a busy man for the foreseeable future—chasing Muslim terrorists around the Kashgar Prefecture.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not so sure. He told me he planned to return to Beijing within the week, if not directly, to follow a lead.”

  Qing finished chewing and then smiled at her. “You look beautiful tonight, Dazhong. Thin, but beautiful.”

  That’s my cue.

  “Thank you,” she said. Then she looked at his plate, which was still full of food. “Aren’t you going to finish?”

  “It seems I’ve lost my appetite.”

  She had come to hate that look on his face—the smug satisfaction of his dominance. She buried the thought and smiled demurely. She hoped the smile looked genuine enough. He scooted his chair back from the table, and she did the same. He was in such an uncharacteristically good mood tonight, hopefully that meant he would be gentle with her. She followed him into the bedroom, not another word spoken between them.

  While he disappeared into the bathroom, she performed her precoital ritual. Robotically, she stripped off all her clothes and laid them neatly on a chair in the corner. Then she gathered her hair into a ponytail and applied a dab of perfume behind each ear, along the nape of her neck, and between her breasts. As soon as he finished in the bathroom, it was her turn. She closed the door and relieved herself. With the water running, she quickly fetched a tube of lubricant she kept hidden under the sink and prepared herself. She was not attracted to the man. Not anymore. Her body no longer responded to his touch. It took an effort to suppress her physical revulsion for him, so it was better for her this way. Much better. And he was too self-absorbed to notice. She had other secrets, too—secrets Qing would not be pleased to discover.

  She looked at herself in the vanity mirror.

  Ornately painted on the outside . . . with hidden treasures locked safely inside.

  Just like her puzzle box.

  She washed and dried her hands and then returned to the bedroom, where she found him pacing—vulpine and anxious.

  He stopped midstride to study her naked body. More judgment than lust, she thought.

  Then he took her.

  She let him settle into a rhythm, rocking and thrusting her from behind, before detaching her mind completely.

  Tomorrow will be a very busy day. I’m nervous about my meeting with Director Wong. Our last conversation over the telephone from Kizilsu had been awkward and forced. And brief. Much too brief. I tried to protest Major Li’s findings. I was prepared to tell the director I would not sign the final report, but he silenced me before I could get the words out. It was almost as if he anticipated my protest.

  This entire situation reeks of foul play. And it doesn’t make any sense. Why would Major Li falsify lab reports and tell the National Security Commission that the deaths in Kizilsu were caused by a toxic chemical release from an industrial accident? Why would he sell such a ludicrous story up the chain of command? Unless . . .

  Maybe I have it backward. Maybe the order came down from above, and Major Li was given the impossible task of trying to fit a square peg in a round hole. I should ask Director Wong about this tomorrow when we debrief. Certainly he will have an opinion on the matter. But what if he was complicit? Can I even trust him? Who can I trust?

  Commander Zhang?

  Too dangerous to trust anyone.

  The heavy pounding she was taking from Qing jerked her out of her mental refuge. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw his faced contorted with an anguished pleasure as he climaxed.

  She looked away at the puzzle box on her nightstand. A wry smile spread across her face.

  No sons for you, Chen Qing.

  Not tonight.

  Not ever.

  Chapter 13

  Four Seasons Hotel

  Chaoyang District, Beijing

  1630 hours local

  Nick adjusted the incline angle on the treadmill—up 10 percent. He pressed the green pace button with his thumb—up 10 percent. Three miles down, four to go. He hated treadmills, but like all tools, they filled a need in those places where running outdoors was impossible. Like on a submarine, in a war zone, or in a city where the air pollution index was over 150. He had actually stepped outside, ready to tear up the streets of Beijing for his typical seven-mile jaunt, but when he couldn’t see the buildings two blocks away through the gray-yellow haze, he executed an about-face and headed for the hotel gym. The air conditioner was cranked to frigid in the undersized gym, but at least he could breathe.

  Bai had not come to see him since he’d checked in nearly thirty-six hours ago. That surprised him. During the flight from Kashi to Beijing, Bai had made Nick an offer for full-time employment as Director of Field Operations, but Nick had balked, asking for time to think about it. Five days ago, he would have jumped at the chance; the NGO had operations all over the world and an ambitious plan to double the number of projects over the next two years. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. But the events in Kizilsu had left him unsettled and uncertain. He couldn’t shake the feeling that what had happened to Batur was no accident. Tragedy he could accept, but this was more than a random outbreak. The rumors were swirling. According to Bai, every person who died in that hospital was a Muslim Uyghur. Couple that with the knowledge that the Red Army had taken control of the entire operation, and it was obvious that something disturbing was going on. The Chinese military was engaged in cover-up operations, and someone needed to find out why.

  He knew that someone should not be him, but when had that ever stopped him before?

  Mile four clicked by.

  Incline up 10 percent.

  Speed up 10 percent.

  Maybe Bai’s reticence to contact him was the Snow Leopard Commander’s doing. Zhang still held Nick’s passport, and God only knew what sort of case that asshole was trying to build aga
inst him. The image of a dank, windowless prison cell with a metal shit pail in the corner popped into Nick’s mind. He shook it off. He hated confinement. He hated feeling trapped, even in a fancy-ass hotel like this. He would much prefer the open, outdoor, barracks-style accommodations back in Kashi. At first, he had wondered why Zhang would pamper a criminal suspect in a luxury hotel in the business district of Beijing. Then it hit him. The Chinese intelligence community undoubtedly had sections of this property—a popular choice for international businessmen and diplomatic visitors—properly “equipped.” The fact that he’d been placed in a premier room on the eighteenth floor simply meant those rooms were wired for video and audio surveillance. One of Zhang’s minions was probably watching him grunt and sweat his ass off even now.

  The irony of the entire situation made Nick laugh. They could monitor him for a year and it wouldn’t matter. He had nothing to hide. He wasn’t a spy or a terrorist. He was just a guy who was good with his hands, wandering the world with a guilty conscience, looking for something to fix. Be it a broken leg or a broken water main, he didn’t care—so long as someone gave him a problem to solve.

  Anything but isolation, boredom, and purposelessness.

  He had to get out of here.

  Five miles down.

  Incline up 10 percent.

  Speed up 10 percent.

  He could go to the US embassy, but that would probably change nothing. In fact, it might even make things worse by pissing off Zhang. Best to just wait it out. The last thing he needed was to be a political headline on CNN. Speaking of headlines, it was odd there hadn’t been a single story on the Beijing news about Kizilsu. The entire event had been sanitized. That spoke volumes. Not to mention the presence of the elite Chinese counterterrorism unit working hand in hand with the Chinese CDC. Still, none of it made sense. Who, other than the Chinese, would attack a Muslim minority in the western high desert? And if it was the Chinese, then why use a bioweapon? And what the hell kind of a bioweapon was it? Nothing like anything he’d heard of before. Anthrax and the other bioweapon agents have longer incubation periods and are difficult to contain. A viral or bacterial pathogen should have kicked off an epidemic. Right? He had been exposed. Yvette and Bai had been exposed. But they had not gotten sick. Somehow this attack—if it was an attack—had been surgical. More like a controlled toxin release. A chemical weapon of some sort? But who in China possessed chemical weapons other than the Chinese military? And if the Chinese military was behind it, why investigate a state-authorized military strike with a state-run counterterrorism unit?

  Plenty of questions, but not one damn answer.

  Six miles down.

  He raised the incline to maximum.

  He increased the speed to maximum.

  The treadmill shuddered and growled under the rapid-fire, pounding blows from his strides. Sweat rained down everywhere and on everything. His heart pounded. His lungs churned. His muscles burned, and it felt good. He felt strong, and powerful, and alive. As he sprinted, he imagined that he was running in the desert, beneath a bright-yellow sun shining in a bright-blue sky. For a fleeting moment, he felt free . . .

  Seven miles.

  With his thumb, he backed the speed down from 10.0 to 1.5, slowing rapidly from a sprint to a walk. Next, he lowered the incline, from 10.0 to 0.0.

  “Not bad,” he murmured, checking his time, “for an ex-SEAL as outta shape as me.”

  Nick felt someone’s eyes on him. He turned his head left and saw a young Chinese girl—no older than six—standing five feet away, mouth agape and staring at him. Her harried mother, blushing and apologetic, came to gather her.

  “He Superman?” the girl said, pointing and grinning at Nick. “Superman!”

  The mother hushed her daughter with Chinese words Nick did not understand and ushered the little girl away. As they left, the little girl looked over her shoulder at Nick one last time. They made eye contact and Nick felt a surge of déjà vu.

  The girl’s bright, almond eyes reminded him of the hauntingly beautiful eyes of the CDC doctor who had interviewed him in Kizilsu. Maybe now that things had calmed down, she would be ready to answer a few questions. She worked for the Chinese government, and she had assisted Zhang with his interrogation, but she wasn’t army. Their last encounter—albeit brief—had been telling. It was obvious she had been sidelined. Major Li, whoever the hell that was, had taken control of the operation in Kizilsu and sent her and Commander Zhang back to Beijing. If the good doctor was pissed off enough about how she had been treated, maybe he could prod her into giving him some idea as to what was going on. It was a moonshot, but where else could he start?

  Unfortunately, he had no idea how to contact her. He couldn’t even remember her name. He tried picturing the nametag on her lab coat—Chen Dashing? Chen Dashon? He couldn’t remember. Chinese protocol was to place the surname before the given name. In America, Hon Bai would be called Bai Han. So that meant her last name was Chen and her first name was “Dash” something or other.

  “Dr. Dash,” he said aloud with a grin. “I wonder if Chinese people use nicknames.”

  Nick sighed and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from his face and brow. Then he tossed it around his neck and headed back to his room to shower and change.

  He should let it go.

  Instead, he picked up his mobile phone and dialed Bai.

  “Hello, Nick Foley,” Bai said on the line, his voice cheerful and maybe hopeful.

  “Hello, Bai,” Nick said. “How is your family? All is well, I hope.”

  “Very well, Nick. And you? You are ready to accept the new position?”

  Nick paused.

  “About that,” he said. “I would love to finish the Kizilsu project before moving on to something else.”

  There was a pause.

  “That project is closed, Nick,” Bai said quietly. “For a long time, anyway. Maybe forever.”

  “What about Yvette, and Ian, and the others?”

  Another pause made Nick wonder what Bai might be keeping from him.

  “Yvette went home, Nick,” Bai said. “I offered her another project, but she said no. I am sure she will not be coming back. Ian moved on to a new project in Cambodia. He will be the project manager there.”

  “He’ll be perfect,” Nick said. He would miss them both.

  “As far as the others on the Kizilsu team, most went home,” Bai said. “It was quite a scary thing, this outbreak.”

  “Yes,” Nick said. Bai’s segue was perfect. Right where he wanted to go. “Speaking of the outbreak, what else have you heard, my friend? Any rumors or details emerging? Has the government released an official statement yet?”

  “A statement has been released, Nick. The cause of the deaths was an industrial accident at a chemical factory in Kizilsu.”

  Nick’s cheeks flashed hot. “Oh, that’s bullshit, Bai. We both know that.”

  “Be careful, Nick,” Bai said and then paused as if choosing his next words. “It is different in China than America. People here do not feel so much a need—or perhaps a right—to know everything. I trust that it will be resolved by the people best qualified to take care of such things.”

  “Of course,” Nick said through clenched teeth. “I was just curious . . .”

  “Yes, I understand,” Bai answered.

  Nick felt the awkwardness through the ether. The momentum of the dialogue was fading. It was now or never: “Did you happen to have any other conversations with the woman doctor we met at the hospital? I can’t remember her name.”

  “The one from the CDC? Her name is Dr. Chen, and no, I have not spoken with her.”

  “Do you know a way I could contact her? A phone number perhaps? Maybe she could answer some of my questions about what happened.”

  This time the pause was longer—uncomfortably long, in fact—and for a moment, Nick wondered if the call had dropped. He pulled the phone away from his ear and glanced at the screen just to make sure.

 
“I do not,” Bai said finally. “As I said, Nick, it is best not to investigate such things. It will be very bad for you to be asking these questions—especially if you wish to obtain a work visa to take over operations for us. I suggest you forget about what happened in Kizilsu. The CDC and the military will get to the bottom of this. It is not for us—especially not for you—to be investigating. Do you understand?”

  “Of course,” Nick said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “I was just curious.”

  “It’s time to move on, Nick. We are ready for you to take a larger role in operations. Have you made a decision about my offer?” Bai asked, trying to sound cheerful but failing.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Nick said and looked at his watch. “I really want the job, Bai. I’m flattered and excited by the opportunity, but I haven’t been able to reach my family in Texas. Before I accept a permanent position, I need to contact them first.”

  “Of course,” Bai said. “Take a few days if you need. Perhaps you can let me know before the weekend?”

  “Absolutely,” Nick promised. “Thank you for this opportunity, Bai.”

  “We will be very pleased to have you, Nick,” Bai said.

  Nick ended the call and tossed his phone on the bed.

  Time to face the facts. He’d be lucky to get out of this mess with his passport and dignity intact. He was never going to find out what really happened in Kizilsu, and he was certainly never going to see the beautiful Dr. Dash again.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and sighed. Was this really a rabbit hole he wanted to plunge down? He felt himself tumbling already—back to a life he had left. There were many things he missed about being a SEAL, but most of all he missed the sense of purpose and brotherhood. He had hoped that by working for an NGO, he would be able to rekindle that same sense of purpose and feeling of fraternity, only without the violence and bloodshed. And he thought he had, until Batur collapsed unconscious in a ditch next to him and died mysteriously a few hours later. Dozens of innocent civilians were dead in Kizilsu, and now cover-up operations were clearly under way. A floodgate opened in his mind, and a torrent of painful memories consumed him—memories of a similar event that happened not all that far from Kizilsu, in fact.