The Secret Chamber

by Patrick Woodhead

Bear waved her finger slowly in front of Fabrice’s nose.

  ‘Tell the tourists to take a hike. From what Pieter said, we need to get to a small village called Epulu just over the river. Anything north of that point is LRA country and your boys aren’t going to last five minutes on the ground.’

  Fabrice took a sip of his beer.

  ‘What makes you so sure you will?’

  Bear’s expression darkened. ‘Just get me that fuel. The rest is my problem.’

  ‘Look, Pieter told me you’ve done some impressive shit, but it’s different here.’

  ‘Spare me. This ain’t my first time.’

  Fabrice slowly took off his sunglasses, folding them carefully on the table. He stared at Bear with wide brown eyes tinged at the bottom with a rim of grey-blue. They looked somehow damaged, the irises textured with fine brown lines which laced out across the whites. Despite the smile still playing at his lips, there was not an ounce of levity in them.

  ‘You look like the kind of person used to giving advice, not taking it. But let me tell you something from one Hema to another. We both know what it was like during the wars – neighbours, friends, everyone hunting us down until the roads were stained red with our blood. We’ve seen it all, right? But this …’ Fabrice’s expression stayed absolutely fixed. ‘This is like nothing the Congo has ever seen before. Something’s shifted and no one, and I mean no one, who goes north comes back.’

  He reached across the table, the palm of his hand open.

  ‘I’ll get you your fuel. Just be damn’ sure you know what you’re wishing for.’

  Bear stared at him for a moment longer. What could Fabrice hope to gain from such scaremongering? He was trying to push her out of the deal, not into it. Her eyes searched his before she reached forward and took his hand.

  ‘OK. It’s a deal. But I want the fuel and the Westerners at the plane by 4.30 a.m. sharp. We take off before dawn hits.’

  Fabrice replaced his sunglasses and whistled softly between his teeth.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Standing up with her hands resting on the table, Bear stared down at him. His eyes ran up the length of her body before eventually meeting hers.

  ‘And the money?’ he asked. ‘Or were you thinking of working it off another way?’

  ‘The money will be waiting for you on the tarmac once we get our fuel. Until then, why don’t you and Jeffrey cool off in the lake together? He looks like he could do with some company.’

  Chapter 12

  THE CO-PILOT OF the Gulfstream 550 private jet undid his safety belt and squeezed his way past the pretty air stewardess into the main part of the cabin.

  ‘My apologies for disturbing your lunch, gentlemen,’ he said in English to the two men sitting facing each over an immaculate white tablecloth. ‘A call has been diverted to the plane for a General Jian.’

  The pilot’s eyes moved from one man to the other, unsure to whom he should be speaking. Jian slowly dabbed the corners of his mouth with the napkin and looked down at the finely crafted hands of his Patek Philippe watch. The call was a few minutes later than he’d been expecting.

  Moving round the seating area to the bureau at the back of the plane, he picked up the satellite phone. A few seconds later, he was shouting in Mandarin into the mouthpiece.

  ‘This is an outrage!’ he boomed. ‘You will personally see to it that I get a full enquiry within two hours. You hear me, lieutenant? Two hours! I want to know how the satellite exploded and why.’ There was a pause as he waited for the inevitable string of apologies. ‘And when I get back, there are going to be some major shake ups. We are the PLA, lieutenant. We do not make this kind of mistake.’

  Jian rang off, then paused before getting up from his seat. He closed his eyes, systematically going over each detail in his head. He had deliberately used an unsecured line, certain that the Guild would be monitoring all communications from his office. The display of outrage had been for their benefit. Leaning back in the padded chair, he massaged his temples, rather pleased with his performance. But now they knew, and from this one single event, everything else would follow.

  He already had a man in place to ensure the investigation team wouldn’t find any evidence of the explosives they had used. By now, the wreckage would be strewn over a couple of miles and it would take them days to sift through it all. One thing, however, was vital – they had to believe the explosion had been caused by a technical fault and not the result of deliberate sabotage.

  The truth was, there was no actual satellite in the launch. The rockets, fuel and guidance systems had been carrying little more than an empty shell into space before Jian’s explosion had brought them all crashing back down again. Instead, they had manufactured a dummy satellite from low-grade aluminium which, when blown into a thousand pieces, should be more than enough to fool the investigating team.

  He was taking a serious risk. It was too public and exposed for his taste, but it had been the only way he could hide the fact that only twenty satellites had been built, when the Guild had actually financed twenty-one. Thirty-six million dollars had remained unspent from the budget, which, after some careful reallocation, was more than enough to get him started.

  From the very beginning, Jian had known that any joint venture between the PLA and the Guild would lead to a host of complications and, more importantly, miscommunications. Everything had to pass through circuitous chains of command and got bogged down in endless amounts of red tape. In the end, it had been a relatively simple task to feed in two conflicting orders to the construction company in Guangdong. With all the different prototypes and redesigns being built, they were soon unsure as to exactly how many satellites were in the final order.

  General Jian had offered to intervene personally to clear up the confusion … and had succeeded in muddying the waters even further.

  However, it had not been as easy to hide the accounting discrepancies nor to load the empty casing of the dummy satellite without any of the technicians realising that something was amiss. But, as with all high-level security matters, everything was compartmentalised, with each technician seeing only one small part of the jigsaw at any one time. Such protocols had left Jian just enough room for manoeuvre.

  After eight months, he had finally succeeded in getting the money out of China. Using three separate export companies based in two different provinces, he had diverted small chunks of money every few weeks, eventually amassing the entire balance in a Lebanese account. The bankers out there were well accustomed to acting as intermediaries for the Saudis and were renowned for maintaining their clients’ anonymity. The Lebanese were also natural-born traders. They couldn’t care less where the money came from or how. Only their cut was important to them. As the saying went in downtown Beirut : morality was for the philosophers at Byblos.

  Jian inhaled deeply, then slowly moved back to his seat. Settling himself against the tan leather upholstery, he stared at the man opposite, flashing him a brief smile that was meant to be pleasant.

  ‘Everything all right, General?’ his dining companion asked.

  Jian nodded, faintly amused that Hao addressed him as ‘General’ despite their having known each other since university days, eighteen years earlier. Since then, Hao had pursued an unspectacular career in electronics, despite the industry’s meteoric growth over the last decade. That mediocrity showed in his whole demeanour: in his sunken eyes, ringed with bags of tired skin; in his nose, reddened from drink.

  They hadn’t seen each other in over twelve years and ostensibly were still friends, but when Hao first clambered on board the plane in Beijing, Jian had been forced to mask his contempt. Hao’s suit jacket had threadbare elbows and a greasy stain running up one sleeve. Here they were, flying on a $50 million jet, and the idiot hadn’t even been able to find a decent suit to wear.

  Jian soon discovered that Hao’s drink problem was as bad as his research had suggested. Hao had gulped down a vodka and tonic shortly after take off and, althou
gh clearly desperate for another, had been too timid to ask. Instead, his right knee bounced up and down in nervous spasm and he shuffled continually in his seat, trying not to stare at the empty glass. Jian found almost every facet of the man utterly revolting.

  ‘Do you think … we might have another drink?’ Hao asked at last, smiling tightly.

  ‘Sorry, my old friend,’ Jian said, clicking his fingers towards the air stewardess. ‘I thought you had given that stuff up.’

  Hao shook his head good-naturedly, the relief of being offered something else to drink far outweighing his surprise that Jian had believed he was teetotal.

  ‘General,’ Hao began, pausing to take a deep pull of his drink, ‘I’m flattered to be asked to accompany you on one of your trips, but when you called I wasn’t sure what you actually needed.’

  ‘Trust,’ Jian said, his lips curving in a smile. He let the word hang in the air a moment longer before leaning forward conspiratorially in his seat.

  ‘I need someone I can trust with an extremely important mission. This is a case of national security.’

  Hao’s eyes bulged. He was suddenly feeling decidedly anxious. For the last five years, he had been manoeuvred within his own company into a position which held almost no day-to-day responsibility. Now, the General was talking about national security.

  ‘A mission?’ Hao repeated, raising his drink slightly to attract the attention of the air stewardess. She came over quickly, loading it with another double shot.

  ‘Yes, a mission, but I need someone outside the PLA for this … outside the government even. This has got to stay completely off the radar, Hao. I am relying on you for that.’

  Hao sat up straight, feeling a strange mix of surprise, inadequacy and pride that someone might actually need him to do something. He cast his eyes around the sumptuous interior of the Gulfstream, the whole design reeking of moneyed elegance. This was one of only two types of private jet which could fly from Beijing to London without refuelling. It was for the elite few, and here he was, sitting opposite a man who commanded that kind of lifestyle … and that man was asking him for a favour.

  ‘Of course, General. But what is it you need from me?’

  ‘For you to be me,’ Jian said, smiling inwardly at the irony of his request. He wondered whether the $4,000 suit and Rolex Daytona he had brought for Hao to wear would be enough to fool the bankers.

  Hao was frowning heavily, while his jaw trembled very slightly.

  ‘It’s simple,’ Jian continued, trying to sound reassuring. ‘I have made a deposit at the Credit Libana Bank in downtown Beirut. I need you to access the funds and then short a list of eight telecom companies on the Stock Exchange.’

  Hao’s mouth opened as if Jian had asked him to do something that was physically impossible.

  ‘Short?’ he stammered. ‘It’s not really my field … I mean, the whole stocks and shares thing.’

  Jian smiled again, but his eyes had hardened. Suffering fools was one of his greatest pet hates.

  ‘Shorting means that you promise to sell someone shares in the future at a certain price. For instance, in one month from now, you will agree to sell Vodafone shares for nine dollars each to a buyer. He’ll take your shares, whatever happens, at that price. Now, if the market moves downwards and Vodafone shares drop in value, when you go to buy those shares, you can get them cheaper than nine dollars, right? You might buy them for, say, six dollars instead, but you are still selling them at nine dollars, because the buyer guaranteed you that price. You see?’

  A knowing smile crept across Hao’s face. ‘Shorting,’ he repeated, nodding vehemently. ‘I thought that’s what it was.’ He leaned back in his seat a little, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off the tablecloth. ‘So how much money are we talking about here?’

  Jian stared at him. Despite every precaution, he still felt hesitant about disclosing such a detail, but there was nothing for it. Hao would find out soon enough when they arrived in Beirut.

  ‘Using option contracts, we will leverage an initial investment of 36 million US dollars to nearly twenty times that sum.’

  Jian had done his calculations and conservatively estimated that the stock market would initially drop five per cent with the announcement that their company, ChinaCell, was launching a standard-sized phone with global satellite capabilities. Once the full implications of this launch were felt across the board, all the top blue-chip companies, from Apple to Verizon, LG to Vodafone would come crashing down. Overnight, their iPhones, BlackBerries and Androids, once the pride of their R&D divisions, would be relegated to the past. The general feeling of the Guild was that they would become all but obsolete in less than two years.

  If the market went as they predicted, on his initial investment of $36 million, Jian was set to net over half a billion dollars. In under one month, all that money would be his.

  The announcement was coming soon.

  ‘Thirty-six million dollars,’ Hao repeated. The number was beyond anything he could comprehend. ‘That’s a lot,’ he said vaguely. His forehead creased again. ‘But I am still not sure where I fit in. Why am I being you, so to speak?’

  ‘Because it’s vital that my presence is not known to anyone in Beirut. I will be acting as your assistant under a different name.’

  ‘You’ll be my assistant?’

  ‘That’s correct.’ Jian stared across at Hao. ‘As you can imagine,’ he began, his voice slowing as if speaking to a foreigner, ‘my position as a general of the PLA has certain, shall we say, limitations while I am overseas. So the government has given me some different papers and I will go by the name of Chen. It’s very important you remember to refer to me that way.’

  ‘Chen?’

  Jian stared across the table at him, wondering if he could actually entrust something so important to this imbecile. He had to reinforce the idea somehow. Just one mistake would be enough to blow his cover. Reaching inside the breast pocket of his suit, he pulled out his new passport and slid it across the table.

  He watched as Hao cautiously picked it up, flipping through the fictitious visa stamps to the picture on the final page. They had done a good job; even the dark red cover had been faded and creased to make it look older than it was.

  Over the last four days, Jian had grown a thin moustache and cut the sides of his jet-black hair extremely short. The effect was quite radical, lengthening his face. With some coloured contact lenses, he had dulled the black of his eyes to a lighter grey. He had been right to assume that Hao wouldn’t notice the difference. Too much time had passed since they had last seen each other.

  ‘And what about me?’ Hao asked, slowly closing the passport.

  ‘You will be travelling under your own name. All you have to do is treat me like your assistant and let me do the talking.’

  ‘But don’t I need some fake ID as well? And what if they should spot yours at Customs? What if something goes wrong … like …’

  Hao slipped into silence, wetting his lips. He suddenly felt completely out of his depth. Fake passports and moving millions of dollars between accounts … Wasn’t that spying? Surely, they could imprison them both without trial for that kind of thing. He’d heard what those Arabs could do.

  ‘Look, General,’ Hao said softly, ‘I’m not sure about this. I’m not really cut out for … well, the whole spy thing.’

  ‘No one is asking you to be a spy. Don’t be so melodramatic.’ Jian tried to smile, but succeeded only in showing his teeth. ‘They can’t touch a Chinese national in the Lebanon,’ he lied. ‘At the worst case, you’d be deported, and we’re scheduled to fly back tomorrow anyway.’

  ‘It’s just that I’m really not too comfortable …’

  ‘Trust me when I say you will be doing your country a great service. Remember – this is for the sake of national security. I will also use my influence to ensure you are recommended for a commendation after this.’

  ‘A commendation,’ Hao repeated. Despite himself, a glow appe
ared in his cheeks. Imagine what his wife and contemporaries would say to that! He stayed silent for a moment, mulling it over. As the General had said, the worst case was that he would be deported from a country he never intended to go back to anyway. After a minute more, Hao straightened in his chair, feeling his chest swell for the first time in years. Imagine coming home with a commendation!

  ‘OK,’ he said, nodding in a manner that suggested Jian had been right to bestow his trust on him. ‘Let’s do it.’

  He reached across the table, smiling, one hand outstretched. Jian hesitated. Hao’s teeth were a shade of dirty yellow with a gap between the front two, while his lips looked rouged and fat. The man was simply revolting, but he was necessary. As the fictitious assistant, it would be far easier for Jian to fade back into obscurity.

  He shook hands.

  ‘Good to be together again, huh?’ Hao offered. ‘Been a long time hasn’t it? I was thinking of that time at university when we broke out of the campus together, right under the professor’s nose!’

  As he raised his glass to the air stewardess again, Jian suddenly reached forward, clasping his fingers around Hao’s wrist.

  ‘No more. You stay sober from now on.’

  Chapter 13

  THE WHITE 7 Series BMW moved as sedately as it could through the utter anarchy of Beirut’s main highway. Six lanes of traffic ran in both directions on the Hafez el Assad with cars swerving unpredictably from one lane to the next. A blacked-out Audi with Dubai plates veered inches away from the BMW’s bumper, its engine revving loudly, as it tried to get past and beat a bikini-clad girl in a Porsche just in front.

  Lining the searing hot tarmac were garish billboards offering cosmetic surgery, property deals and the chance to get your teeth whitened at a discount price. Behind them stood a multitude of white apartment blocks with views over the sparkling blue sea, that stretched all the way up to the outskirts of the city.

  The BMW pushed through the traffic and finally into the downtown area. The entire central part of Beirut had been rebuilt after the war. After sixteen years of bitter conflict, only a handful of buildings were left standing, each pockmarked and gaping from mortar rounds and machine-gun fire. Amongst all the new construction and the prevailing air of opulence, a couple of these buildings had been left standing as a reminder to the hardliners that, despite the wealth pouring in, Beirut could easily succumb to troubled times again.