Three Gorges Dam

by Thomas V. Harris

  She didn’t ask for an explanation. She didn’t have to. “We had a three-year-old daughter.” He choked up. “Bear with me. I have trouble saying her name . . .”

  She raised her hand. “I shouldn’t have gotten into this.”

  “Her name was Amy.”

  Kylie’s other hand went up even higher. “Please, Michael. Stop.”

  “You have a right to know.”

  She scolded herself. “No I don’t.”

  “I worked seven days a week and traveled all over the world . . . My wife was lonely and visited her sister in Florida. They left Amy with a teenage babysitter. The girl was making out with her boyfriend when my daughter fell into the swimming pool.”

  “Oh, my God—”

  “She drowned.”

  “What a terrible loss. I can’t imagine—”

  “It shattered our world.”

  “Your poor wife.”

  “She was devastated.”

  “There can’t be anything worse.”

  “I told my wife it wasn’t her fault. But in my heart I blamed her. No amount of treatment could change that. I heard my daughter yelling for help every time I touched her. I took longer and longer business trips. One night I came home and my wife was gone. I was glad she left. It was better for both of us.”

  “Didn’t your faith help?”

  “That disappeared the day my daughter died. Our parish priest tried to comfort me. He said things like Amy had gone to a better place, and we would meet again in heaven. I stormed out of the church and never went back.” Michael regained his composure and lowered his voice. “Enough about my trials and tribulations. Marriage isn’t an option for me. I won’t ever have another child. That would dishonor Amy.”

  Kylie got up and lifted him off the love seat. Saying, “It’s okay”— she repeated it several times—she put her arm around his waist. She led him out of the library and down the corridor. He leaned against her door and waited for his nightly peck on the cheek. Kylie didn’t deliver one. She wasn’t going to settle for a platonic kiss. Now more than ever she had to spend the night with him.

  But the lay of the land had changed, and she knew her original plan wouldn’t work. She had to improvise, and do it quickly. Unable to think of anything else, she relied on her roommate. “Would you like to meet my teddy bear?”

  “You’re a funny lady.”

  “I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

  “What if your bear is asleep?”

  “I know some quiet things we can do.”

  She reattached herself and led him into her room. He protested once he got inside. “You’re dragging me into your lair.”

  “I didn’t think it'd be this easy.”

  Kylie made a show of locking her door and pretended to stash a key in her blouse. “Now you can’t escape.”

  His smile retreated. “I’m the wrong guy for you.”

  “Right or wrong, you’re the man I need.”

  “If you knew—”

  “It doesn’t matter. I want you—”

  “I have so much baggage—”

  “—Just the way you are.”

  “There better be a teddy bear in here.”

  He scanned the room until he saw the stuffed animal sitting on her pillow. The name “TEDDY” was emblazoned on its rugby shirt.

  “Satisfied?” she asked.

  “Amazed.”

  This was her idea. But she thought Michael would initiate the lovemaking. He didn’t, and there was an uncomfortable silence. Kylie felt like it was her first date. Mired in a romantic no-man’s-land, she began the foreplay, stroking his shoulder and snuggling against his chest. When he stirred, she warned him, “Be a good boy and don’t resist.”

  “What if I defend my honor?”

  “Careful, hombre. You’re dealing with a desperate woman.”

  Kylie relieved him of his floral tie and took liberties with his Luigi Borrelli shirt. She handled the mother-of-pearl buttons as if they were works of art. Turning her attention to the embroidered sleeves, she slipped them off slowly, one at a time. She reversed the collar and fingered the label. “Nice threads. This is right outta GQ.”

  “Keep it as a souvenir.”

  “Thanks. I’ll add it to my collection.”

  Kylie stepped away and hung his clothes in the closet. When she came back, her fingers brushed against his nipple. “Whoops. Sorry about that.”

  Michael panted, “I’ll bet.”

  Her fondling became more passionate. So did his response. He grabbed her hands and demanded to know, “What are your intentions?”

  She freed herself and kissed him chastely on the forehead.

  “I’m going to ravish you.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re a God-fearing girl.”

  “Big deal. I’ll go to confession.”

  Kylie slid behind him. She kissed the back of his neck, then oohed and aahed as she caressed his midsection. “Great bod, Michael.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “I haven’t seen one this buff since last week.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  She pressed against him. “Everything.”

  “Do I get to participate?”

  She sounded disinterested. “I haven’t decided.”

  Kylie finished with his back and turned him around. They were facing each other again. He acted shocked when she licked his fingers.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I’m dreaming.”

  “That comes later. When I’m done with you.”

  At first she was unsure of herself. Her confidence and passion grew in equal measure. His growing excitement triggered hers. The deeper his response the more adventurous she became. When she nuzzled his throat, he made a primal sound she hadn’t heard before. That stoked her desire and eliminated any remaining self-doubt. She was all over him, intermixing gentle suction with insistent kissing.

  His voice was steamy and sensual. “I’m sorry to interrupt—”

  She pouted, “This is your last time-out.”

  “How about some sauce for the goose?”

  “You still want to participate?”

  “Retaliate is what I had in mind.”

  She blew the words “not yet” into his ear. Then teased him with her tongue. She was merciless when she reached his face, moving side to side, and showering him with wet kisses. She attacked him straight on, getting close, but never touching his lips. When she felt the heat wafting off his body, she knew he couldn’t restrain himself much longer. She ran her fingers through his hair and purred, “You’re quite a handful.”

  His protective aura reappeared. “Are you sure about this?”

  She was emphatic. “Absolutely.”

  He held her close and explored her hips. She wept when he said the magic words. Shaken by her tears, he released his hands. “We should slow down.”

  “Don’t you dare, Michael.”

  “I don’t want to make you cry.”

  Kylie tugged on his belt and pulled him into bed.

  “Then stop making me so happy.”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE PRESIDENT IS in his Zhongnanhai war room.

  Lao is sitting at the head of an open-center table. He is flanked on both sides by a full complement of Politburo leaders, West China analysts, and senior military personnel. Everyone but the president is plugged into a high-tech computer modem. His only tools are the notebook and pen the Hermitage director gave him during a recent trip to St. Petersburg.

  The farewell dinner with the Americans was canceled. The US delegation is long gone. They went straight to the airport after the motorcade. Lao wasn’t surprised by the Americans’ response. The summit had always been highly controversial. The day after the announcement, the Dalai Lama had asked the United States to reconsider. He said the trip would signal that America condones China’s human rights violations. Advocacy groups followe
d his lead and buffeted the White House with strongly worded protests.

  Jin Kai hands the president a printed copy of an Internet article. The New York Post published its diatribe thirty-seven minutes ago. It appeared below the headline:

  He Didn’t Call To Say Hello.

  Dalai To Prez:

  I Told You So!

  Lao stops reading after the first paragraph and squeezes Jin’s wrist. “We need to go on the offensive.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Fast. Before world opinion hardens.”

  “Our press release is almost ready.”

  “I want it online within the hour.”

  “More like two or three.”

  Lao pounds the table. “Ninety minutes—and change the focus. We need to take a hard line against the Buddhists.”

  Jin hands the president a proof sheet. “We’ll lead with the top photo. It’ll be below the caption ‘President Tries To Save Burning Tibetan Girl.’ We’ll finish with the question ‘What monsters forced a child to set herself on fire?’”

  The president returns the pictures. “Does the text follow my outline?”

  “We didn’t change a thing.”

  “Then it’s good to go. Don’t let our spin doctors tinker with it.”

  “I’ve already had that discussion.”

  The president turns his attention to the other side of the room. After making eye contact with Colonel Jiang Shìlín, he stands up and points to his corner office.

  “Keep talking,” he tells the others.

  Lao closes the door behind them. “Please, Colonel. Have a seat.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “I’ve reviewed your personnel file. You spent five years in Tibet. Now you’re entertaining our Muslim friends in Xinjiang Province.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “How does your wife like our wild west?”

  “She stays here. Our son goes to school in Beijing.”

  The president nods approvingly. “As he should.”

  “Do you know what happened to Director Wei?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “He resigned.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “He failed, Mr. President.”

  Lao has the colonel’s personnel records on his desk. They contain the highest possible rating for his last deployment in the Tibet Autonomous Region.

  The president is rereading a highlighted paragraph.

  Colonel Jiang Shìlín was a major reason the TAR was quiet during his time here. He developed native Tibetan collaborators and neutralized a cell of Fighting Monks.

  Lao had already contacted the author of the report. The general told him about traits that, even in the PRC, are never documented in an officer’s file. “He had an excellent feel for whether a situation called for a reeducation camp, public execution, or making someone disappear. The colonel had no qualms about doing wet work.”

  The president has been upgrading the military’s top echelons. He retired two old men after the motorcade and won’t be replacing them with other dinosaurs. Colonel Jiang has a reputation for rectitude and not cutting moral corners. Lao admires those qualities even though he doesn’t possess them himself.

  “Homeland security is a difficult assignment.”

  “I know it is, Mr. President.”

  “I want a young man for the job, a leader with high energy. There’s another requirement. Our politicians are spying on each other. I need a director whom I trust.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “One of my goals is to dismantle Tibet’s terror networks.”

  “That is doable, sir.”

  “We’re winning the war between the sheets. Settlers are exempt from family size restrictions. They also receive cash grants and higher-paying jobs. Our policies have worked so well the Dalai Lama has accused us of cultural genocide.”

  “That’s impossible, sir. Tibetans have no culture.”

  Lao reaches into his desk drawer for a document. It’s printed on his formal stationery. “This makes it official.” He hands the letter to Jiang. “You’re my new Director of Counterintelligence.”

  The colonel stands up and bows. “I’m honored, Mr. President.”

  The president remains in his chair. “You’ll have the rank equal to your responsibilities. Congratulations, General Jiang.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “No need for gratitude. I hope you know what you’re getting into.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “You’ll be coming back with your shield, or on it.”

  “I accept the challenge.”

  “Going back to colonel isn’t an option.”

  “Understood.”

  Lao walks over to a corner cabinet. He opens the retracting doors and inserts a disc into the DVD player. The tuner turns on the monitor. He presses the fast-forward button until the female suicide darts into the street.

  “This is where she begins her death march.”

  “I’ve watched it several times, Mr. President.”

  Lao skips ahead to the frame showing the girl leaning against his limousine. “Your first assignment is to identify the child, her handlers, and the people who planned the operation.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll fly to Tibet tonight.”

  “You have two weeks.”

  “We’ll find the answers.”

  “Don’t disappoint me.”

  CHAPTER 8

  HE SHUDDERS WHEN he looks in the mirror.

  Brannigan barely recognizes his dysmorphic reflection. He swallows more medicine—double the recommended dose—leaves the bathroom, and sits at his desk. Several emails from his New York headquarters need a response. He knocks those out. The sand pelting the window distracts him. He raises the shade and checks the weather.

  A westerly wind is whipping particulate into the train. He finishes getting ready for the long evening. Glad to be inside, he walks into the hallway, double locks his compartment, and heads toward the bar car. He’ll pretend to be fashionably late. His top priority will be turning the dimmer switch way down. That won’t help with the person who matters most. Kylie won’t say anything. But she’ll notice the pain etched across his face.

  The Silk Road Express is the ultimate in rail travel. Brannigan has heard nothing but compliments from his group. Each sleeping berth has a Western-size bed and private WC. The dining room, salon carriages, and personal quarters are all deluxe with silk walls, brass fittings, and mahogany trim. Pastel carpets accent the common areas.

  He knows why their train is so opulently appointed. The Reds understand the importance of Western word of mouth and treat wealthy visitors like royalty. It’s about more than public relations. Tourist dollars are a major contributor to the country’s trade surplus. On economic matters, the Chinese worship at the shrine of Adam Smith, not Karl Marx.

  China Railway Corporation’s food, linens, and amenities are first cabin. The government-owned transport company staffed the train with a gourmet chef, a classical string quartet, and a bilingual tour guide. There are more servers, valets, and other helpers than passengers. He appreciates the great service. There’s one major downside. The numbers make it difficult to identify the spies who have been tailing them since Beijing.

  He sees something colorful in his peripheral vision. He steps over to the window and glances backward. Three workers—each outfitted in red coveralls—are welding something alongside the tracks. They are part of the army of workers refurbishing the country’s infrastructure. He reviewed the PRC’s financials on the plane ride. China is spending a fortune on its rail networks. Since they left Beijing, he has seen hundreds of men upgrading tracks, platforms, and crossings.

  When he enters the bar car, the strings are playing Corelli’s Concerto Grosso No. 4 in D major. The musicians have arranged themselves in a semicircle. The engineers and their wives are sitting aft of the quartet. Kylie is standing alone. S
he’s behind everyone else, near the sliding door.

  She’s gone Oriental tonight. Her floral cheongsam is knee-length, sleeveless, and skintight. It has a small slit up the side. The silk’s dark background sets off her hair and complexion. The adagio muffles his approach and Brannigan arrives undetected. He slides his fingers under Kylie’s new necklace and whispers a moist hello.

  She turns around and straightens his tie.

  “Where were you, Michael?”

  “Shacking up with a cocktail waitress.”

  “How did it compare?”

  “To what?”

  “Your Australian bimbo.”

  The quartet finishes its last set with a Vivaldi allegro.

  After giving the musicians a spirited ovation, the passengers get out of their chairs and disperse. Two of the engineers’ wives accompany Brannigan and Kylie to the middle of the carriage. Dieter Schmidt and his wife Annika wander over a few minutes later and join their group. Dr. Schmidt discusses how she juggles medical practice and raising her children. When she reaches for an hors d’oeuvre, another wife changes the subject.

  “We really enjoyed the Sydney Opera. Its La Traviata was the best I’ve ever seen. Eldon stayed awake for all three acts.”

  Her comment seems to jog Dieter Schmidt’s memory. “That reminds me, I’m involved in a business deal with an opera trustee. He’s the top investment banker in Kylie’s part of the world. She may know him.”

  Kylie’s smile disappears. “I’ve met some of the trustees.”

  “You may even be related. His name is Bryce Ryan.” Kylie’s eyes haven’t left her wineglass. “Do you—”

  “He’s my father.”

  Schmidt grins. “Then I assume you know him.”

  She ruins his punch line. “You shouldn’t.”

  That hits with a thud. Brannigan has heard enough. He waves and says, “We’ll be right over,” to imaginary people behind the Schmidts. He places his hand on Kylie’s back and leads her to the rear of the carriage. He keeps his voice down. But his tone is razor sharp. “What was that about?”

  She swipes his hand away. “Don’t corner me, Michael.”

  “I’m trying to help.”