by Matt Miksa
The director stopped to examine an array of clay pots, each filled with brightly colored spices. She leaned over a vessel of dried cardamom to take in its sweet, woody fragrance.
“If you dust the pods with cinnamon and grind them into a fine powder, it makes delicious coffee,” a woman standing behind Allyson explained.
Allyson grinned. It seemed her contact took similar premeet precautions. The director had completely missed the woman’s emergence from the market’s crowded maze.
“Dr. Zhou, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Allyson said.
The two women crossed MS Ali Road and ducked into a smoky café selling spiced shawarma and mutton xacuti. Allyson had read enough about the phenom virologist in Officer Grave’s reports to know the doctor would speak incisively. Dr. Zhou would skip over small talk, get right to the meat, and probably try to end the conversation as quickly as possible. Allyson didn’t mind. She’d learned to shut up and let new sources speak their piece.
“Well?” Dr. Zhou asked, eyebrows perched. “Wouldn’t you like to know why I contacted you?”
“I would,” Allyson responded. “If you feel comfortable talking. If not, that’s fine too. I’m perfectly content to share a hot meal with a new friend.”
Dr. Zhou tapped her fork against the side of her plate. “You’ve known Kipton for a long time.”
“Yes, I have,” Allyson said, rolling with Olen’s cover identity for the Tibet op. The director offered Dr. Zhou a cigarette. She politely refused.
“He’s a good man.”
“That’s generally my take,” Allyson agreed.
Dr. Zhou leaned in. “I’m going to trust you, Director Cameron. Not because you seem like a nice person or because Kip vouches for you. I’m going to trust you because I believe our interests have aligned.”
Allyson smoothed her linen napkin over her lap. “Well, that’s a fantastic place to start, isn’t it? I’m all ears, Doctor.”
The director took a long drag, relishing the freedom to enjoy a little nicotine in a public restaurant, as God had intended.
Dr. Zhou Weilin told Allyson about her aunt, about their walk on the beach on Hainan Island, about the malevolent, netherworldly figure HELMSMAN. The story was sensational. A shadowy cabal, operated by a Machiavellian mastermind, had infiltrated America’s most elite power centers and threatened to dismantle East Asia. Dr. Zhou didn’t know HELMSMAN’s identity, just that she’d built a secret network of loyal foot soldiers devoted to her radical vision. In fact, HELMSMAN had been the one to orchestrate the devastating Blood River virus outbreak, not General Huang, making her responsible for the deaths of thousands.
When Allyson pressed Dr. Zhou about what the elusive madwoman planned next, the virologist could only speculate. God only knew what destruction HELMSMAN would bring in pursuit of her bloodthirsty quest for power.
Riveting stuff, but hardly viable intelligence. Allyson had flown eight thousand miles for conspiracy theories over curry.
“But we know General Huang planned the whole thing. Kipton told me that patient zero worked for the PLA,” Allyson said, punctuating her ps with small puffs of smoke.
“That’s what we thought. But consider the evidence for a moment. Did Huang actually confess to planning the outbreak, or did he merely take advantage of a tragic circumstance?” Dr. Zhou argued. “A megalomaniac tried to hijack our government, and he nearly succeeded. I refuse to stand aside and allow it to happen again. I care about my aunt, and I’m confident I can secure her cooperation. In return, I trust you will protect her. I don’t believe she knew what HELMSMAN had planned. And I don’t believe she understands how much damage this woman could cause.”
Allyson had heard enough. She snuffed out her cigarette. “I’m thankful you contacted me—you’re a venerated scientist and Kipton simply gushes over you—but you’re claiming everything we know about General Huang is wrong. That he didn’t premeditate the bioattack. You say someone else did, yet you have no idea who. Just that she’s a senior U.S. government official. You don’t know her name, age, position—anything meaningful about her, really.” Allyson leaned back in her chair, exasperated. “Unfortunately, Doctor, I have absolutely no way to verify the—frankly, rather melodramatic—plot you’ve described.”
Dr. Zhou removed a hot-pink, quarter-sized object from her purse and placed it on the table next to Director Cameron’s water glass. “You do now.”
Allyson pinched the memory drive, squeezing it gingerly between two fingers. She studied the object like a rare gemstone. When the director looked up, she saw nothing but an empty chair across the table and the swish of a black ponytail flashing in the doorway.
EPILOGUE
Montreal, Canada
“I’M STILL NOT entirely clear on the problem, Mr. Root.” The junior account manager was visibly nervous, evidenced by the yellow sweat ring forming around his starched collar. Even if the man was aware of his company’s egregious bookkeeping errors, he probably wasn’t complicit in any crime. Either way, the manager was a minnow, and forensic accountant Spencer Root was hunting marlins.
Mr. Root adjusted his Coke-bottle glasses and blinked rapidly with agitation. He tilted his head at odd angles, attempting to get a clearer view through the heavy lenses. “Well, let me explain it more precisely. You’ve got a stack of purchase orders for raw aluminum, but upon review of your inventory records and sales sheets, you’re coming in about a mile short. According to this paperwork, Magento Aviation should have a warehouse bursting with product.” The forensic accountant smoothed his bushy moustache, releasing a few rogue Cheetos crumbs that had burrowed into the thick fur.
“The aluminum comes from Liberia. Sometimes shipping containers fall overboard at sea. I read that somewhere,” the manager offered.
Mr. Root smacked his dry, chapped lips. His face flushed, the ruddy discoloration spreading from his blemished cheeks all the way up his wide forehead and blending into a faint sunburn on his balding scalp. “Sir, if you’d examined my pivot tables, you’d surely see the discrepancy is quite staggering. Either there are three metric tons of jet engine turbines littering the seabed of the Atlantic, or someone’s been skimming off the top.”
“How much are we talking about?” the manager asked. Avoiding direct eye contact, the man kept staring at the coffee stain on Root’s too-short necktie.
“Five-hundred forty-seven million, three-hundred twenty-nine thousand, six-hundred and sixteen dollars,” the forensic accountant reported. “And thirty-three cents. More or less.” Root adjusted his glasses again.
The manager rubbed his temples, eyes shut tight. “I’m sorry. Mr. Root, is it? Who did you say you worked for again?”
* * *
Spencer Root padded down the front steps of the Magento Aviation office tower and into a cobblestone plaza. He moved slowly, and his knees turned out slightly, resulting in a bowlegged toddle. A light breeze parted the thin strands of hair he’d carefully combed over his peeling bald spot. The forensic accountant guarded an unruly stack of loose papers under his arm, which made it difficult to answer his cell phone when it chirped in his belt clip.
“Root,” he finally announced into the mouthpiece.
A woman’s voice responded. “Any progress?”
“Yes, well. Inch by inch, I believe.”
“We need to make a minor detour,” the woman said. “Meet me at Hotel Le St-James. Now. There’s a rooftop bar.”
Root pushed back. “They’re laundering millions—I can prove it—and the overseas connections are worrisome. We shouldn’t walk away from this unless it’s for something of grave consequence.”
The woman fell silent.
“It’s something of grave consequence, isn’t it?” Root asked.
“Magento can wait. I have new intel from India, from a new source. Something you need to see right away. Head to the hotel. I’ll be there shortly. Based on what I’ve reviewed so far, we’ve got a truckload of work ahead of us, and things are probably going
to get messy.”
“Very well. Anything else?”
“My contact,” Director Allyson Cameron continued. “She asked me to deliver a message to you.”
“To me?”
“Something about wanting to see the tower light up again, whatever the hell that means.”
Olen’s eyes grew wide. Jo was Allyson’s new source. The two had met in India. But why? Olen didn’t care; he was just relieved to know that Jo was alive.
He ended the call. A double-decker grin spread wide across his face.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In 2012, when I began writing about a fictional virus that emerges mysteriously from China, I never imagined the world would soon face a very real pandemic like COVID-19. Terms such as epidemic curve, superspreader, and T cells are now part of our vernacular, but to study these concepts in the Time Before, I relied on the meticulous writings of journalists, scientists, and academics—the intrepid professionals who hunted deadly viruses in far-flung rain forests, developed vital therapeutics and vaccines in state-of-the-art laboratories, and formulated life-saving public health policies in the halls of our great universities. These trailblazers helped me to conjure a fictitious geopolitical crisis resulting from an outbreak, and for their tireless work, I am grateful.
Writing these words in 2020, I recognize that the real pandemic we face has touched every nation on earth and tested the strength and stability of our world order. COVID-19 has strained the U.S.-China relationship, but thus far it has not pushed the two nations to the brink of war, thankfully. Still, it’s not difficult to imagine a nightmare scenario, where flashpoints like Taiwan and Tibet ignite under the pressure and spark a dangerous conflict between America and the People’s Republic of China. Any modest understanding that I have of such consequential matters, I owe to my former professors at Columbia University, including Andrew Nathan, Madeleine Zelin, and Eugenia Lean. During my graduate studies, those many years ago, they challenged me to consider the enduring threads of history and culture that are woven into the tapestry of modern China and create the intricate patterns that define our relationship with this complex nation. I am grateful for their wisdom and generosity. Any errors I have made in writing this book are purely my own.
Finally, traversing the winding, often treacherous path from Page One to a published novel requires a skilled and dedicated team. I must recognize my literary agent, Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein, for her unwavering enthusiasm for this project. Also, I want to thank the teams at McIntosh & Otis and Crooked Lane, including Zoë Bodzas, Matt Martz, Jessica Renheim, Katie McGuire, Rachel Keith, Melissa Rechter, Madeline Rathle, and Michael Rehder. I’m grateful to my early readers, Steve Smith and Cynthia Houchin, who gave me superb advice. I appreciate my former colleagues at the FBI for their efficient prepublication review of the manuscript. And lastly, this story may have never made it off of the airplane napkin without the encouragement (and patience) of my wife, Kelly. Thank you for the long walks, unconditional love, and for our two incredible daughters, Naya and Ameya.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Matt Miksa is a former FBI intelligence analyst who helped prevent foreign spies from stealing America's secrets. Today, he writes espionage thrillers that blend history, politics, and science. Matt holds a graduate degree in China Studies from Columbia University and has spent time living in Beijing. He currently resides in Chicago with his wife and two young daughters.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any opinions expressed are the author’s own and not those of the FBI.
Copyright © 2021 by Matthew Miksa
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-64385-655-1
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-64385-656-8
Cover design by Michael Rehder
Printed in the United States.
www.crookedlanebooks.com
Crooked Lane Books
34 West 27th St., 10th Floor
New York, NY 10001
First Edition: March 2021
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1