“Sure, why?”
“Kylie’s flying with me.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Thanks. I’ll meet her at the helipad.”
“Have a good weekend.”
“You, too.” Brannigan is about to hang up, but Rocky isn’t done. “Do you have plans for the weekend?”
“I decided to skip the livestock auction.”
“Smart move. They take up a lot of room.”
“What else is going on?”
“You should read our geophysicist’s new book.”
Brannigan smiles at the author. “What’s her tome about?” Rocky recites the title. Brannigan repeats it. “Mega Dam Earthquakes.” Kylie’s face brightens when he adds, “That might be useful. Where can I get one?”
“In the Aussies’ workroom. She brought three copies. Two are for us.”
“Thanks for the tip. If it’s any good, I’ll post a review.”
“Tell Kylie to move her tail. I’m running late.”
“She’s on her way.”
Rocky clicks off. Brannigan rephrases his message.
“Your ride awaits.”
“I lost track of the time. Is he angry?”
“He reserves that emotion for me.”
“I’ll try to keep it that way.”
“Enjoy the big city.” He wants to know why she’s going but doesn’t feel comfortable asking. She used to know what he was thinking. That was a lifetime ago. He doubts she can still read his mind.
“My mother is in Shanghai.”
“I didn’t know she made the trip.”
“Her best friend is vacationing there.”
“Great place to visit.”
“I’m taking them to dinner tomorrow.”
“I suppose you’ll visit the boutiques.”
“What girl doesn’t like to shop?”
He tries to sound matter of fact. “When are you coming back?”
“Monday morning.”
“You’ve impressed the chief engineer.”
“He’s just grateful we mobilized so quickly. I got the best of that deal. Rocky is letting me work long days and short weeks.” All of Brannigan’s earlier optimism has vanished. Kylie is more interested in her weekend than in him. Her next comment makes him feel worse. “You won’t even know I’m gone.”
He decides he shouldn’t. Then asks anyway.
“If something comes up, how can I reach you?”
“My guys will fetch whatever you need.” She hands him her business card. “If they can’t, let me know. I’ll get right back to you.”
He glances at her contact information. It doesn’t seem to have changed. His thoughts are too muddled to analyze the implications. While he’s feeling sorry for himself, Kylie scoops up her files and stuffs them in her bag.
They’re getting ready to leave when she offers him a pick-me-up. “When I get back, I’ll take you for a spin in my Cessna.”
“Where to?”
“The convergence zone.”
He says, “Sure,” even though it feels like a consolation prize.
“Are you free Monday afternoon?”
He isn’t—but replies, “That works for me.”
“I’ll call to arrange a time.”
“Give your mother my best.”
“She asked me to do the same.”
It pains him but he says, “You should get going.”
She looks at her watch. “You’re right.”
They walk out of the room together. She brushes her hip against his. “This is exciting, Michael. We’re finally working together.”
He returns her smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“This time,” she says, “nothing will go wrong.”
CHAPTER 39
THE DOCTOR PULLS Jiang Shìlín aside.
“You have ten minutes, General. Not a second more.”
This morning Jiang left an urgent message for the president. Hours passed without a response. He considered going outside the chain of command. That’s something he had never done before, and didn’t do today. Midafternoon he received a return call. It wasn’t from the president. His chief of staff told the general that Lao was critically ill and had been in the CICU since last night.
A senior minister is leaving the president’s room. He and Jiang pass each other in the hallway and share worried looks. Jiang knocks on the door. A weak voice responds, “Who’s there?” The general identifies himself and walks inside.
Lao is lying on his back breathing pure oxygen through a nasal cannula. In an apparent egalitarian gesture, he’s wearing hospital-issue blue pajamas.
“Good evening, Mr. President.”
“Come closer,” Lao rasps.
“Yes, sir. Can I get you anything?”
“How about some good news.”
“That’s in short supply.”
Lao snuffles mucus from his sinuses into his throat. The transfer doesn’t relieve his congestion, and his words come out moist and thick.
“I presume this isn’t a social visit.”
“I wish it were.”
Jiang turns the vaporizer to a lower setting. He moves a chair close to the bed and sits down.
“What can I do for you, General?”
“It can wait.”
“That’s for me to decide.”
“Your doctor doesn’t want me upsetting you.”
“Why should today be any different?”
“I agree with—”
“You take orders from me.”
“I shouldn’t be here, sir.”
“Tell me why you came.”
“I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“That would be inconvenient. My doctors are splitting me open at 6:00 a.m. If I survive my surgery, they’ll shut me down for at least a month. Tell me now.”
The president woke up this morning at three o'clock.
He had a dull ache in his back. Lao passed it off as a muscle strain, went to his medicine cabinet, and took two extra-strength ibuprofen. He couldn’t get back to sleep. The pain spread to his chest and radiated down his left arm. He had trouble breathing and his jaw ached. His wife insisted he call his cardiologist. The president refused. The doctor arrived five minutes after she speed-dialed his number. He took a history, conducted a brief physical exam, and informed the Laos of his differential diagnosis.
“Your pain was caused by a heart attack or severe angina.”
“I walked too fast this morning. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re going to the hospital.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“The ambulance is already here.”
The president reached for his phone but the doctor got there first. Lao tried to pull rank. “I have to speak to my chief of staff.”
“Sorry, sir. Not now.”
“The president of China can’t just disappear.”
“I’ll tell Mr. Jin where you are.”
“How about a compromise?”
“This isn’t a political negotiation.”
“I’ll go first thing tomorrow.”
“Get dressed, Mr. President.”
“What’s the rush?”
“We may need to operate tonight.”
By morning the president’s pain had remitted.
His underlying condition had not. If anything, it was more severe. His cardiologist placed an emergency call to China’s top heart surgeon. The chest cracker had a partner finish his valve replacement surgery and came right over.
“What are my options?” Lao asked.
“Singular. You won’t survive another month without a bypass.”
“How about stenting?”
“There are too many occlusions. You need four new pipes.”
The president spits red-tinged gunk into his bedpan.
General Jiang carries the pan to the sink and fills it with soapy water. He pours the contents
down the drain then returns to his chair.
“Sorry about your surgery, Mr. President.”
“I’ve had enough well-wishing for one day.”
“Then maybe you’d like to hear about the Uighurs.”
“What have they cooked up now?”
“A major atrocity.”
“Are you sure?”
“We’ve decoded several of their dispatches.”
“Where will they strike?”
“Somewhere in the heartland.”
“That covers a lot of territory.”
“I can’t be more specific.”
“Have you arrested anyone?”
“Hundreds of people. They don’t know anything.”
“How many front-line fighters do they have?”
“Three to four hundred.”
“Why can’t we defeat these ragtags?”
“I didn’t say we couldn’t.”
“That’s the way it came across.”
“Our best people are searching for them.”
“So why the pessimism?”
“They have unlimited targets. They win if they defeat us once. Unless we prevail every time, we lose.”
“What do you know about the timing?”
“We intercepted another message last night. The last line was ‘Everything in place. Await go-ahead.’”
“Is it a credible threat?”
“This attack isn’t a maybe.”
“Most of their threats are disinformation.”
“This time it’s real.”
“Then why hasn’t it happened?”
“Don’t mistake patience for indecision. The Uighurs are like mice stalking a giant cat. They’re just waiting for the best time to strike.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Restrain the PLA after the attack.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because they want to carpet bomb Kashgar.”
“With no advance warning?”
“When everyone is asleep.”
“Killing three hundred fifty thousand people?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Our Hiroshima.”
“That would be the headline.”
“What is the army thinking?”
“They aren’t.”
“Have you spoken with General Shi?”
“He did most of the talking.”
“What’s gotten into the old goat?”
“I don’t know. But he needs a refresher course on Clausewitz. Our response has to be proportionate to the harm.”
“What’s his goal?”
“To eliminate the Turkics.”
“Kill them all?”
“If liquidation is off the table, he’ll settle for mass deportation.”
“What’s your long-term strategy?”
Jiang lays out his recommendations—public executions, closing Islamic madrassas, imposing martial law, and setting up permanent checkpoints throughout China’s Muslim cities.
“We’ve gone down this road before.”
“I know we have, Mr. President.”
“It doesn’t lead anywhere. Keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My doctors will try to stop you.”
“I’ll find a way.”
Brannigan is out of sorts, and has been all day.
A hard workout didn’t help. He thought of taking a helicopter ride. But the weather is nasty, with a low ceiling, and poor visibility. Rocky would be furious if he found out, and Brannigan wouldn’t blame him. He turned down a staff engineer’s mah-jongg invitation. He’ll read more of Kylie’s book, watch a movie, and turn in early.
First he has to get his ass in gear and find a missing file. The last time he saw it was when he and Kylie were together. He remembers sliding her data underneath his paperwork. That’s where his memory ends. Brannigan has checked his document bag and every nook and cranny in his bedroom. He’s run out of places to search. He wants to avoid repeating his calculations. But Kylie’s materials are his biggest concern. He’ll be mortified if he has to tell her he lost them.
He goes to the engineers’ reading room for a change of scenery. He slumps into an easy chair, kicks off his loafers, and opens Mega Dam Earthquakes. He began reading it this morning and was impressed with Kylie’s work. Other people must agree. Oxford University Press would have scrutinized her book internally and commissioned a rigorous peer review.
He turns to the copyright page. The date answers a bothersome question. She must have been working on her manuscript when they were together in Beijing. Yet she never mentioned it. Her silence is another example of her not confiding in him. He’s never been able to figure out why.
Brannigan ended his earlier session after learning about Tajikistan’s three-hundred-meter-high Nurek Dam. The surrounding area—previously benign—was still experiencing earthquakes thirty years after it was built. The next paragraph makes him more apprehensive about Three Gorges Dam.
More than 80 previously aseismic locations have experienced earthquakes after the construction of dams higher than 100 meters. Tremors at China’s 115-meter Hsingfengkiang Dam increased exponentially after its reservoir was impounded. A 1962 earthquake measuring 6.1 on the Richter scale cracked its concrete buttress. A decade later, the dam experienced numerous seismic disturbances in a single year. Similar swarms have buffeted a dozen other large dams.
He asks himself why the utility—knowing all of this—would build Three Gorges Dam in such a dangerous location. He finds the likely answer on the next page.
Over the centuries, Chinese dams have experienced more than a thousand major earthquakes, and none of them has ever failed.
They disregarded the scientific data and relied on centuries of dodging the bullet.
His eyes glaze over when he reads the next chapter. It’s an outstanding book, but he can’t concentrate. His mind is on the author, not on what she wrote. His reflexes aren’t any sharper. The hardback falls out of his hand while he’s marking his place. It careens off the coffee table and lands on the floor.
Muttering, “Butterfingers,” he retrieves the text and looks it over. The impact damaged one of the color plates. Straightening the bent page, he feels something on the reverse side. He turns over the illustration. An unsealed envelope is wedged between the pages. He lifts the flap. The inscription FUJIFILM, Quality Thermal Photo Paper is stamped on the back of what must be a photograph.
He realizes he has Kylie’s copy of her book. He wants to turn the picture over, but convinces himself not to snoop. He walks back to his room and plops on the couch. He invokes his waning powers of self-restraint and lays the troublemaking text on the coffee table. That doesn’t work. His imagination continues to run wild.
Brannigan knows a surefire way to resolve his dilemma. He debates whether to return the book to the Aussies’ workroom. His virtuous instincts prevail. He places the volume under his arm and heads toward the door. He’s almost there when he changes course and goes to the fridge for a beer. He pulls too hard on the tab and snaps it off. He can’t find an opener and grabs a substitute.
He sits on the couch and drains the Tsingtao—and two additional cans—reflecting on what his psychiatrist told him.
Her memory of loving you is gone.
Stop punishing yourself.
You’re getting worse, not better.
She probably found a new lover.
You’re afraid of the answer.
It isn’t necessary to ask her.
You have the means to find out.
She would never know.
He slides the book under a cushion. Hoping out of sight is out of mind, he looks for his action movie. He checks his briefcase before remembering the disc is already in the DVD player. It’s clear ten seconds into the film that he’ll need something else to occupy himself. He saw the Broadway premiere. Part of it anyway—after twenty minutes, he got up and walked out.
Somehow the textbook reappears on his lap.
He stares at the front cover, first at her full name, and then at the letter “J.” Her initial reminds him of the night they spent together. Kylie lit his fire then refused to let him kiss her. He pled his case and she relented—subject to one condition. He had to guess her middle name. It took five tries, but he finally silenced her laughter.
Brannigan pushes that once happy—now painful—memory out of his mind. He refocuses on her name. She goes by Ryan at work and on her publications. That improves the odds of her being unattached. But he knows it’s a weak predictor. Many married women keep their maiden name or use it professionally. The head games have eroded his willpower. He opens her textbook to the forbidden page, lifts the photo out of the envelope, and looks at the image on the front. He recognizes Kylie’s handwriting. She printed a single word on the top border. One he knows all too well.
Teddy
The picture isn’t what he expected. It’s much worse. His heart is pounding as he slides the photograph back into the envelope. He regrets not following Dr. Walsh’s advice.
She was right all along.
CHAPTER 40
METEOROLOGISTS PREDICTED A mixed weekend.
Shanghai would be clear and warm Saturday morning. However, the high-pressure system was weakening. The sky would turn dark in the late afternoon, and a westerly storm would unleash heavy rain and strong winds.
The experts were correct about everything but the timing. The weather was pleasant until noon. Then it became angry and wet. Even people who prepared for the downpour are having trouble staying dry. Thirty-knot gusts have shredded their umbrellas. Most are blowing down the street or clogging trash barrels.
Norgay has several concerns. Getting his head wet isn’t one of them. He planned this operation down to the smallest detail, including the vagaries of weather forecasting and the reliability of a two-layer brolly. He woke up this morning hoping for dry skies. Once it started raining, he realized the bad weather was a positive development. He’s able to hide under his canopy, and his fellow strollers are focused on the elements, not on the people around them.
For local retailers it’s been the perfect storm. The sunshine enticed thousands of Shanghainese to spend the day outside. The rain that followed has driven large numbers of them into the city’s leading department store. It will do a bustling business selling rain gear, clothes, electronics, and, most importantly, cosmetics.
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