“Story of my life. Look, just transfer him to my room, and I swear, I’ll do whatever you want.”
“You can’t protect him forever, you know.”
Sean shrugged. “I know. But if I can help him now, why not?”
The man nodded. “Very well. I’ll put in the request. But I have a question for you in return.”
“Shoot.”
“I watched the security tapes. That move you pulled on the guard … that took skill. Training. Where did you learn to fight like that?”
Sean looked down at the table. He did not meet the man’s piercing gaze. “Something my dad taught me. Only thing he taught me, in fact. When I was a little kid, there were bullies in my neighborhood. They used to go around with baseball bats. So he taught me that move to defend myself.”
The man nodded. “I see. Sounds like a good father. I’m sure that’s not the only thing he taught you.”
Sean barked a short, bitter laugh. “I was twelve years old when he taught me that. I remember, because it was the last time I saw him in person. So, yeah. Father of the year, huh?”
Chapter Eight
It was a twelve-hour flight from Latvia to Beijing, with a three-hour layover in Moscow. Caine spent the layover in a small airport pub. There, he used the time to memorize the maps and guides to Beijing he had purchased before leaving. As he flipped through the pages of the guide books, he sipped a cold Ochakovo beer from a tall, frosted glass.
The alcohol helped calm his nerves. He still felt flashes of anger, white-hot bolts of rage, running up and down his body. He realized his hand was shaking, and he clenched his fist. Memories raced through his mind … thoughts of his dark, hot cell, his imprisonment after his capture in Afghanistan. The torture that had been inflicted upon him. The pain …
Rebecca.
He took another sip of beer and returned his focus to the map.
That’s the past. It’s over. Now you have a job to do, he thought. Focus!
He checked his watch. It was time.
He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed the number he had arranged with Bernatto.
The phone rang.
Nobody picked up.
It’s a trick. Caine thought. It was all bullshit. He played you!
The phone rang three more times. Caine moved his finger to the lock button. Before he could press it, he heard a long beep, then a click.
“Hello, Tom.” It was Bernatto’s voice.
“Scrambler?” Caine asked.
“Of course. Just in case you routed this call through to Rebecca. You won’t be able to get a fix on my location, so don’t bother trying.”
“I’m not. It’s just me. And I don’t need to trace your phone to find you, Allan.”
“Do you want to make threats, or do you want to help Sean?”
“Start talking.”
Bernatto cleared his throat. “Sean Tyler is a journalist. Writes for an activist website called Human Rights Now. You know the type. Young, idealistic, and utterly ignorant of how the world really works.”
“Not interested in your politics, Allan,” Caine said. “Get on with it.”
“Sean was in China, working with a local chapter of the group. He was investigating a story about a man named David Fang. Made a fortune in chemicals and pharmaceuticals, has factories all over China. Sean and some members of his group were caught breaking into an office building of his in Shanghai.”
“So why the hell am I going to Beijing?”
“Shut up and listen. About a year ago, I headed up an extraordinary rendition operation. The target was a state-sponsored hacker named Sun Wai Tong. We set up a honey trap in Hong Kong. Sun Wai was infatuated with a girl, a pro. She was the bait. He visited her, we grabbed him and flew him out of the country. The NSA has him now, under lock and key.”
“Sounds like a lot of work to grab one hacker.”
“This is no ordinary hacker. Tong cracked the mother lode. He found his way into an NSA server that was so black, it’s practically non-existent. The data he accessed … I can only assume someone in the NSA was keeping it to cover their ass. There’s no sane reason not to have erased these files years ago. Some of the classified information he accessed goes back decades. It absolutely cannot be disclosed, both for political and security reasons.”
“This information he stole … is it out in the wild?”
“Somewhere, yes. We … I mean, the NSA, just doesn’t know where. According to their intelligence, we were able to grab him before he reported to his handlers at the Ministry. But not before he was able to offload the information from his servers.”
“And what does this have to do with Sean?”
“The Ministry has moved Sean to a secret black site in Beijing. They’ve made an offer to the President, behind closed doors. A trade.”
“Sean for the hacker?”
“Precisely. The President has approved the trade. The NSA can’t, or won’t, reveal the extent of the information Sun Wai has. And the President is looking at a public relations nightmare if he refuses the trade and the Chinese execute Sean. He's in the middle of negotiating a massive environmental deal with China. Something like this could derail the whole thing, and give China an excuse to walk away from the table."
“I don't give a crap about trade deals or public relations. You said Sean didn’t have much time. What did you mean by that?”
“What do you think, Tom? The NSA can’t let this trade happen. It would be a disaster for their organization, and for the entire nation. They’re looking for an out, anything that will scuttle the deal and let the President off the hook.”
Caine clenched the phone tightly in his hand.
“They’re going to kill him, aren’t they?”
“If Sean dies in Chinese custody, it insulates the President from taking responsibility for the fall out. And they already have an asset in place. A double agent within the Chinese government.”
“Who is it?”
Bernatto paused. “I don’t know.”
“Dammit, Bernatto!”
“It's the truth. I don’t have that intel, I wasn’t directly involved in that operation. The only info I have is the asset’s code name. Red Phoenix.”
Caine scanned the other faces in the pub. He confirmed no one was paying attention to their conversation.
“How exactly do you know all this?” he asked in a low voice.
“A little while back, a director from the NSA, Ted Lapinski, came to me for help. He needed some good freelancers, someone to help him gain leverage over an asset. I provided him with some men, contractors I had worked with. That’s all.”
“If I find out you’re lying to me, if you’re holding anything back …”
“That’s all I know, Tom. I’ve kept my end of the bargain.”
“Just so we’re clear, you bought yourself some time. That’s all. I’m still coming for you.”
Bernatto coughed. “I have no doubt. That’s why I’m helping you. Every minute you spend looking for Sean is a minute you’re not looking for me. I’ll take all the head start I can get.”
There was a click, and the call disconnected.
A text message came through. It was the address in Beijing. If Bernatto was telling the truth, it was where the Ministry of State Security would be holding Sean. A deniable, off-books site. Easier to cover up, if something went wrong …
The feelings of rage returned, even stronger. Caine clenched his fist tighter, digging his nails into his palm.
Had he done the right thing? Was this all just another setup? Had Bernatto played him yet again?
He remembered the picture of Sean. A tiny, crumpled piece of paper Jack had clutched in his trembling hands. Caine had lost it in his crawl through the dark, claustrophobic tunnel that led out of the well. But the image of the young boy, the faded, torn scrap of a photo, was burned into his mind.
Jack’s words from the collapsed well echoed in his head. He could hear the man’s voice, as clear
as if it were next to him.
“You have to promise me. Tell him … tell him I did it for him.”
“All right, Jack,” Caine muttered to himself. “Let’s go tell him.” His fist stopped shaking. A Russian voice announced his flight over the loudspeaker. Caine stood up, slung a backpack over his shoulder, and made his way towards the gate.
A part of him … just a small part … almost hoped Bernatto was lying. In some ways, that would be easier. He had found the man once. He could do so again. And the sooner he was back on his trail, the better.
But first, he would keep his promise to Jack.
After that, the hunt would resume. The next time he and Bernatto met, there would be no deals. He would not pull his aim.
He would shoot true.
As he disappeared into the airport crowd, more of Jack’s words came to mind.
This job … why do you do it, Tom?
Caine had no answer. The thoughts in his head were as cold and silent as death.
Chapter Nine
A blast of warm air struck Caine as he walked through the glass doors of Beijing Capital International Airport. He was wearing a khaki Harrington jacket, white oxford shirt, and jeans. He slipped a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses over his eyes, and scanned the crowd as he waited in the taxi line. A single small roller case stood next to him on the sidewalk.
The atmosphere outside was thick and hazy, and each breath left an acidic tang in his mouth. China’s explosion of growth and industry had not come without a cost. Millions of motor vehicles, heavy use of coal, dust storms from the north … They all contributed to the blanket of smog that enveloped the sprawling city.
After a short wait, he slid into the back of a green taxi cab and handed the driver a small card with the address of a hotel. He had grabbed a stack of similar cards from a car rental counter in the airport. He had no reservation. If no room was available, he would try other locations until he found accommodations. If he didn’t know in advance where he would be staying, neither could any potential enemies.
It was late morning, and the traffic was light. As they drove, Caine kept an eye on the cars around them. He looked for any that followed too closely, or that made unusual maneuvers to keep up with them. He instructed the cab driver to make random stops at gas stations, restaurants, and convenience stores. Each time they pulled off the freeway, Caine would watch to see if any cars followed their movements.
The cab driver muttered in frustration after each request. But Caine knew that Bernatto had directed him here. This could all be an elaborate trap. He would take every precaution.
After several stops, Caine was satisfied that no one was watching him. As they cruised towards the city center, he looked out the windows through the dense, hazy air. Gray apartment buildings and rusting factories soon gave way to gleaming, modern architecture. The cab ride took him past the gleaming silver arch of the China Central Television building. Then, they drove by the stunning Beijing National Stadium. The thin, winding strands of metal that circled the glowing, oval stadium gave the structure its nickname: “The Bird’s Nest.”
The first hotel Caine tried was booked up. After a few more stops, he managed to secure a room at a Crowne Plaza near the financial district of the city. Then, after a scalding hot shower and a change of clothes, he walked to the nearest subway stop.
The streets around the hotel teemed with pedestrian crowds, motor vehicles, and bicycles. Street lights and warning signs were taken as mere suggestions by the throng of traffic. More than once, Caine heard the squeal of brakes as he crossed an intersection. Motorists swerved to avoid bicycles and pedestrians as they careened through the busy streets.
Caine could not read Chinese, but the subway system was modern and well laid out. He was able to decipher the complex web of train lines using a map mounted to the wall in the underground station. After a quick ride, he walked up a flight of metal stairs to the street. He found himself a couple blocks from the address Bernatto had given him.
Now, he stood on the roof of an office building across the street. Using a small pair of binoculars he had purchased at the airport, he scanned the building where Bernatto claimed Sean was being held. It wasn’t difficult to spot.
The building was a three-story slab of gray brick, with some old, chipped red lettering hanging over the entrance. The basic shape of the building made Caine think it may have been a state-owned hospital at one point. But now, it served a different purpose. A ten-foot-tall chain-link fence ran around the grounds. Coils of sharp razor wire topped each section of the barrier. Guards dressed in camouflage jumpsuits patrolled along the interior of the fence.
Caine’s attention turned to a crowd that had gathered outside the fence. A large group of protesters filled the street in front of the building. They were chanting and shouting in Chinese. Their voices carried through the air up to Caine’s elevated perch. He watched as they thrust picket signs up and down and marched in tight circles. Some of the signs featured large, grainy black and white photos of elderly Chinese men and women. Caine assumed they were inmates held within the bleak gray building.
A few of the protestors leapt onto the fence and shook the wire mesh back and forth with their swinging bodies. He estimated that at least a hundred people had gathered below.
Bernatto had called this place a “black jail.” These bleak facilities were used to hold Chinese petitioners. This kept them from complaining about their local governments in the larger city courts. In the Chinese legal system, local officials could be penalized if they accumulated too many complaints from their districts. Thus, they were incentivized to jail as many petitioners as possible. The black jails served as secret detention centers. They were a gray area, a quasi-legal institution. They kept the overwhelmed city courts from drowning in petition requests.
But the building before him was larger and better guarded than most black jails. The guards inside the fence looked alert and moved with precise, well-coordinated motions. Their uniforms marked them as private security, most likely ex-military. Caine suspected this was a higher security facility, meant for political prisoners and dissidents as well as petitioners.
If Sean was being held here, there would be no prison records, no transfer orders. Nothing to tie the Chinese government to him if anything went wrong. If the trade deal failed to go through, they could do whatever they wanted with the young man.
A sudden commotion caught Caine’s eye, and he turned with the binoculars to catch a better view. One of the guards had opened the front gate and grabbed a woman near the entrance. The woman appeared young, perhaps in her early thirties. She was wearing a red hooded sweatshirt, with white lettering on the back. Caine zoomed in on the lettering. It read “HRN - HUMAN RIGHTS NOW.” That was the organization Bernatto said Sean was working for. Was it possible this woman knew him?
Several protestors grabbed at the woman's clothes. They struggled to pull her from the guard’s grasp. Others rushed towards the open gate. They hurled glass bottles and rotten fruit at the guards inside.
This is going to be a problem, Caine thought. He had seen plenty of unrest around the world. He knew it was only a matter of time before the protest below turned violent.
Zooming out, Caine saw a group of six men leaving the compound through a side entrance. They wore civilian clothes, but they moved with the same military precision as the guards. Through the binoculars, he saw they were armed with security batons, clubs, and other makeshift weapons. They were moving around the outside of the building, making their way towards the crowd.
Caine lowered the binoculars and ran a hand through his short brown hair. He knew he should stay away. If he got involved, he could find himself arrested, or worse. He was a foreign operative on Chinese soil. He had no legal authority to be operating in this part of the world. As far as Rebecca knew, he was still chasing Bernatto in Eastern Europe.
But if the woman below knew Sean, perhaps she could confirm if he was in the building. And she might have in
formation about the facility itself. He was operating completely in the dark, going only on Bernatto’s word. Any intelligence he could glean was critical at this point.
He bit his lip, then turned and strode back towards the roof’s access doors.
He had made up his mind. The time for doubt was over. Now, it was time to act. Things were about to get violent below.
And Caine was no stranger to violence.
Chapter Ten
By the time Caine made it to the street, the scene had devolved into a small riot. Two more armed guards had exited the front gate. They were helping their comrade subdue the woman in the red hoodie. The angry voices of the protesters filled the air. Their shouting was a wall of noise. It drowned out all other sound as Caine pushed his way through the crowd.
He could see the woman’s slender body thrashing on the ground, lashing out at the guards with a flurry of kicks. Two of the protesters tugged at her shoulders and tried to drag her away from the gate. One of the guards managed to grab hold of her ankle. He raised a security baton to strike, but as his arm lowered, the woman lashed out again with another kick. The heel of her suede boot slashed across the man’s wrist. He cried out and jerked back his arm.
Caine was more worried about the group of men he had seen approaching from the other side of the building. The men at the gate wore uniforms. They were security guards: corporate employees with personnel files, military history, payroll records. They would limit their liability and operate within the confines of the law. The other men, the ones dressed in civilian clothes … they were the so-called “black guards.”
They were the men who snatched protesters from their homes. They were known to beat and kidnap family members of troublesome petitioners. Recruited from the ranks of ex-cops, criminal muscle, and street hoods, they were nameless thugs looking to make a quick buck. Paid in cash, they appeared on no official employment records. And once they got their hands on you, you disappeared. Sometimes their victims were released after a short stay in the black jail. Other times, they were never seen again.
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