“The bottom. I’ll find the worst area and work my way up.”
“My best diver will show you where to look.”
“Who’s your top frogman?”
“You’re looking at him.”
Artux is enjoying an idyllic morning.
There isn’t a cloud in the sky and the nocturnal mist has lifted. There’s a fleeting chill in the air. But it’ll be gone before today’s Turkic Pride Parade.
Boys and young men have organized the festivities. Many of them are decorating the oasis with Uighurstan flags. Eighteen-year-old Ahmad has already planted one in his front yard. Now he’s tacking a larger version above the entrance to his grandfather’s store.
The family patriarch watches him secure the corners of the seditious fabric. He waits for the hammering to stop before confronting his daughter’s oldest child.
“Do you think that wise, Ahmad?” Pretending not to hear him, the boy turns his head the other way. “What if your enemies see the green flags?”
“The Han won’t invade our city.”
“What’ll you do if they come—attack them with swords?”
Ahmad faces his grandfather. “If that were all we had, yes.”
“And do what? Cut their tanks to pieces?”
“Our ATMs will destroy their heavy armor.”
The grandfather hugs the boy against his chest. “What are you thinking? Keep your voice down. The desert has ears.”
A rubber ball bounces off the doorframe. One of his granddaughters is running after it. She trips over Ahmad’s foot, falls forward, and skins her knee. The grandfather picks her up. “Are you all right, Kia?”
“He did that on purpose.”
“No he didn’t. You were running too fast.”
“What about him?”
“He was chasing windmills.”
The girl wiggles until the grandfather lets her down. She retrieves her ball and runs away, a little slower than before.
The grandfather turns toward Ahmad. “One traitor and you’re all undone.”
“That won’t happen. We’ve all taken a blood oath.”
“That won’t change the outcome. You can’t win.”
Ahmad looks toward the west. “Five countries did.”
“Because the Russians wanted to be rid of them. It was different when Stalin felt otherwise. The Kazakh holocaust isn’t an abstraction. The starvation and mass executions were real. The Communists exterminated millions of your kinsmen. They’re buried in unmarked graves all over the countryside.”
Ahmad presses his hand against his heart. “I’m not afraid to die.”
“That could become a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“The elders need to wake up.”
“What would we see?”
Ahmad recites the Young Turks’ talking points.
“The infidels steal our minerals and pollute our land with nuclear waste. You’ve told me about the Russian gulags. What about the Chinese and their Tarim Basin project? It’s nothing more than a slave-labor camp. They force my father to work fifteen-hour days. Most of the people in his chain gang are heroin addicts and AIDS carriers.”
“Don’t die fighting what you can’t change.”
“Freedom is at hand, Grandfather. You’ll live to see Uighurstan.”
“You think I’m weak, Ahmad. But an old man’s goals are different. Children and grandchildren warm my heart, not the color of some flag.”
CHAPTER 27
BRANNIGAN SHOULD BE in Punta Mita deep-sea fishing.
He postponed his trip to meet with Dickie Chang. His original plan was to do it off-site. He thought about the pros and cons for a few days and changed his mind. He’ll deliver his reprimand at their Bay Area office. The appearance of business as usual may catch Chang off guard. This time he made sure his deputy would be there. He bypassed their secretaries, spoke directly with Dickie, and confirmed the meeting in writing.
His Golden State visit will be a short one. He needs some R&R and has every intention of making his afternoon flight. He arrived fifteen minutes early and is sitting in the lobby rather than in his seldom-used corner office. He doesn’t want anyone thinking he has time to burn.
Chang is across the hall in a glassed-in conference room. He’s standing in front of a lectern addressing a group of young men. The blinds are up and Brannigan made eye contact when he stepped off the elevator. His glare was a warning that Dickie better not delay their meeting. That was thirty-five minutes ago.
He recognizes two of the attendees. They are recent Global hires. Both are Chinese-born Stanford PhDs. He thinks the others—they also appear to be Chinese—are probably current students in the same program. Dickie has an ongoing relationship with the university. He still mentors its engineers and helps them find jobs at Silicon Valley or SoCal firms. Brannigan looks again at his watch. He wonders whether Dickie is politically tone deaf or is trying to piss him off.
He granted Dickie carte blanche to build this office.
There were significant delays, cost overruns, and nasty lawsuits with the contractors and design team. Brannigan never raised any objections. Other people in the company thought he went too easy on his professor. Harry Dyer is one of them.
Harry’s made it clear—he told Brannigan to his face—that if he were running the company, Global would unload the award-winning building. He periodically razzes him about the polished metal, reflective windows, and cubist flourishes. Dyer was at it again last week. They had just sat down for lunch in the CEO’s private dining room.
“Why do we call it our San Francisco office? It’s in Menlo Park, not the Embarcadero. It’s like naming a team the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim.”
“To what do I owe this honor?”
“I came to give you indigestion.”
“Wrong organ. My stomach is cast iron.”
“The latest news will test even your mettle.”
“I’ve got a full day. Get to the point.”
“Dickie was in Langley when our train exploded.”
“At CIA headquarters?”
“The entire day. It was a high-level meeting.”
“How do you know?”
“The director attended.”
Brannigan dropped his butter knife. It hit his leg then landed on the floor. A server was on her way when he raised his hand. He didn’t need a replacement. Their meal had just ended. “Why the hell is he doing this? Are the feds paying him?”
“Still working on that. But I don’t think so.”
“Have the accountants found anything?”
“He’s been spending corporate funds on his mistress.”
“Since when?”
“Don’t know yet. We’re working backwards.”
“How recently?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“What’s the total?”
“Upwards of $125K.”
“I’ll deal with that later.” Brannigan wiped his mouth and threw his linen on the table. “This CIA business is different.”
“It’s time,” Harry said.
“I hope it’s not too late.”
Dickie’s disrespect has eliminated any uncertainty.
Brannigan will hammer him for backing out of the China trip, lying about his mother’s health, and his clandestine CIA meetings. He decided that’s enough for one sitting. He won’t mention Chang’s marital woes or his Beijing mistress unless their battlefield changes.
He closes his online New York Times and checks on the status of the meeting. Chang’s admirers are putting away their computer tablets. One of them is standing up and zipping his briefcase. The others are also getting ready to leave. Each of the men bows and shakes Dickie’s hand on the way out.
Chang remains in the conference room. Brannigan knows it’s petty, but he won’t join him there. Dickie will have to bring the mountain to Mohammed. Chang shuffles papers for several minutes before crossing to the other side of the lobby. Brannigan notices that one thing hasn’t changed. Dic
kie looks marvelous in his nailhead suit, starched shirt, and pastel tie. His antique stickpin and drill-bolt glasses enhance his academic aura.
Brannigan stands up and stretches to his full height. He pantomimes his displeasure by glaring at his watch and refusing to extend his hand. Dickie seems to know what will happen if he offers his. Sweat is beading on his upper lip.
Chang is fiddling with his cufflinks. “Good of you to visit, Michael.” Wrong opening. Brannigan almost said it out loud. Instead he says, “Glad we could get together.”
“How are things?”
“Living the dream.”
“Glad to hear it. Sorry about the delay.”
Brannigan responds with an incredulous look. Chang turns toward the glass conference room. “Let’s talk over there.”
“I don’t like fishbowls. How about your office?”
“Staff are always popping in. Yours would be quieter.”
Brannigan wonders what Dickie is hiding, but won’t quibble over where to administer his smackdown. “Okay . . . If I can remember where it is.”
They walk to the southwest corner of the building. As they pass Brannigan’s nameplate, Dickie breaks the silence. “You don’t look well.”
Brannigan slams the door shut. His voice isn’t any softer. “I’m gonna look a helluva lot better in fifteen minutes. Take a seat.”
“Why are you treating me like this?”
They’re squaring off across an antique partners desk. Brannigan is on the side facing the window. “Because you lied to me. I don’t trust you anymore.”
“We go back a long way.”
“That makes it worse.”
“How did I mislead you?”
“Don’t play word games.”
“What do you think I lied about?”
“You told me your mother was seriously ill.” Brannigan bristles when he recalls how it affected his workload. “I had to cancel three weeks of commitments.”
“I was very grateful.”
“My ass you were.” Brannigan lifts a copy of the Desert Sun article out of his briefcase. He straightens a bent corner before laying it facedown on the desk. “You said she was in the hospital. Do you deny telling me that?”
“I wasn’t being truthful.”
“You lied.”
“Don’t force words down my throat.”
“Why’d you bail on the China trip?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Brannigan knows his next barb will end their friendship. He decides to ask anyway. “Did you have advance knowledge of the bombing?”
Chang springs to his feet. “Heavens, no!”
“Spare me the theatrics.”
“Where do you get off—”
“Sit down, goddammit.”
Dickie sinks into his chair. “You don’t understand.”
“Not everything. But there’s one thing I know for sure. You were at CIA headquarters the day I was blown off the tracks.”
“I’m working on a project for DOE and the Chinese.” Brannigan was surprised he mentioned DOE. But after watching Chang squirm, he thinks he knows why. Dickie suspects a snoop marked his handlers.
“What’s the name of the project?”
“That’s classified.”
“DOE is on Independence Avenue. Why were you in Langley?”
“The CIA is providing security.”
“For an energy project?”
“It’s standard protocol.”
“You can lie better than that.” Brannigan decides to mix it up. “Why were you wandering around the Mandarin at four in the morning?”
“When?”
“During our annual meeting.”
“You’re spying on me.”
“Surveillance, not spying.”
“We were meeting on the same project.”
“Same people?”
“Same answer. Classified.”
“Do the names Charlie Lassiter and Jimbo Gordon ring a bell?”
Chang responds with an angry look. Brannigan answers for him.
“Lassiter is with DOE. But he doesn’t negotiate with the Chinese. He steals their technology. You’re lying again.”
“Who do you have following me?”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re not hard to track.” Brannigan pauses before changing agencies. “Jimbo Gordon is your CIA handler. I’m sure you know his shtick. He spies on the Chinese.”
“I’ve had enough of this.”
“What’s really going on?”
“DOE and the Chinese are negotiating a deal.”
“That’s unadulterated horseshit.”
“I’m their go-between.”
“Dickie the diplomat?”
“It’s a business deal.”
“It’s not listed on Global’s books.”
“The CIA wants to keep it secret.”
“That violates your non-compete.”
“I’m not being paid.”
“It doesn’t matter. Who are your Chinese contacts?”
“You know I can’t answer that.”
“How can I check out your story?”
Chang glares at him. “You can’t.”
Brannigan decides to let it all hang out.
“Tell me about your mistress.”
“You have no—”
“I have every right.”
“My personal life—”
“Let’s get something straight—”
“I wasn’t finished.”
“If you damage my company, you will be.”
“My relationships are none of your business.”
“I’ve got bad news—”
“After all I’ve done—”
“—Ponce de León never drank from the fountain—”
“Don’t talk down to me.”
“—And you won’t either.”
“Are you done?”
“I’m just getting warmed up.”
“No you’re not.” Dickie jumps out of his chair, raises his fists, and charges Brannigan’s side of the desk. “You can take your precious company and shove it.”
“Careful, Professor.” Brannigan has remained seated. He’s gazing at the keloid scar under Dickie’s chin. “Don’t start something I’ll finish.”
Chang lowers his hands. “If you want me to resign, just say so.”
“I’m not here to fire you.”
“Then why did you come?”
“You’re going to do me a favor.”
Dickie lowers his head and arches his back. “What’s that?”
“You won’t have any further contact with the CIA, FBI, or DOE.”
“What if I refuse?”
“That would be most unfortunate.”
Chang curses under his breath as he heads for the door. Brannigan gets there first and blocks his path. He sounds more perplexed than angry.
“For heaven’s sake, Dickie, be careful out there.”
CHAPTER 28
THE CHILDREN OF Artux are out in force.
They’re craning their necks upward to watch a silver plane make its third pass over the city. Parents and other adults are joining the youngsters as the low-flying turboprop showers the ground with bursts of sunlight. The pilot fuels their excitement with a series of hair-raising loops, rolls, and spins. People are cheering like it’s the opening act of an aerial show.
A young boy enters the city’s largest feedstore. The powerfully built owner—he’s behind the counter selling a sack of wheat to a customer—seems to know who slammed the back door. The child eliminates any doubt by clutching the patriarch’s leg.
“Come quick, Grandfather, a plane is flying over the store.” The boy tugs on the storeowner’s pants until he turns around.
“Where’s your mother, Tariq?”
“With my sister. Hurry, before it flies away.”
The next customer in line says, “Go with the child. We can wait.”
“Thanks, friends. I’ll be right back.”
The distin
ctive buzz of the twin-engine plane gets louder when they go outside. The child reaches up and squeals, “Grandfather, I almost touched the wings.”
His cousin Ahmad is standing on the other side of the road with a group of young men and teenage boys. Ahmad and the grandfather share a worried look. Kashgar has a small airport, but its planes don’t include Artux in their flight path.
The Young Turks have carved out an area for themselves. They’re arguing about their leaders’ decision to join a group of secessionists. It’s been the cause of ongoing friction since the Kashgaris bombed the Silk Road Express.
The crowd shouts its approval when the unmarked plane reverses course and heads back to city center. Many of the smaller children are sitting on their parents’ shoulders. Preteen kids are the most animated spectators. Girls who abandoned the masjid’s sewing class are using the street as a runway. They’re pretending to take off and land. A group of boys are raising their arms and simulating antiaircraft fire. Other kids copy their movements or improvise their own.
The plane is north of the feedstore when it slows and drops packets of paper. The bundles fall from the cargo door at regular intervals. Each of them explodes into thousands of shimmering leaflets. The circulars glide and flutter until the ticker-tape celebration dead-ends on the streets. The turboprop changes course several times to widen its distribution. The pilot closes the cargo door after he’s emptied the bay. As quickly as it came, the plane banks to the northeast and flies away.
The leaflets are printed in the Uighur-Turkic dialect and in Chinese. The instructions are direct and unequivocal. Everyone must evacuate Artux within two hours and travel south until they reach the marked safety areas. They can bring their livestock and belongings. Everyone must carry identification. The army will detain suspected terrorists and other criminals. Anyone carrying a weapon, trying to escape, or remaining behind will be subject to summary execution. Citizens providing information about undesirables will receive a cash bounty.
Older Muslims, many functionally illiterate, gather around the grandfather. After reading the leaflet aloud, he urges them, “Please don’t panic. We’ve survived worse than this.” He didn’t need to be more specific. The Richter 6.3 earthquake in 1996 caused massive destruction throughout the city.
The crowd quiets after the grandfather raises his arms. His voice is relaxed, no different than when he quotes feed prices. “My family is going to evacuate the city. I recommend you do the same.”
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