The Wrong Man (Complete 3-Book International Thriller Box Set)

by Fritz Galt

  After thinking it over for several hours during a sophomoric American movie on the closed circuit TV at Kadena Air Base, he thought he had come up with the perfect angle to create a meeting with Merle Stevens, who was nominally an economic officer at the Consulate.

  Badger would pose as a documentary filmmaker seeking background economic information on Shanghai. In his experience, those know-it-alls who worked at Embassies and Consulates and lived in the foreign environment were only too happy to show off how much they knew. Perhaps this stemmed from Washington not caring enough to read their daily reports.

  So, changing his persona to that of a documentary filmmaker, he picked up his mobile phone and jabbed at the number for the Consulate that he had already programmed.

  An operator answered and directed his call to Mr. Steven’s desk.

  “Hello, this is Merle Stevens,” came the voice that Badger could only describe as handsome.

  “Morning, Mr. Stevens,” Badger began with his best California dude-talk. “My name is Aric Birch. That’s Aric with an A. I’m producing an American documentary on Shanghai and I was looking for an expert in the economics of the city. I was given your name by a, uh. By… I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten his name. Some dude from the Academy of Motion Pictures who spoke highly of you. He said to pass along his high fives and look you up. So here I am.”

  “Well, Mr. Birch. Welcome to Shanghai,” Merle said without missing a beat.

  “Say, are you free for lunch today?” Badger inquired. “You pick the place and I’ll treat. And think beyond Big Macs; I’m on my boss’s expense account.”

  “Yeah, sure. Have you ever been to M on the Bund?”

  “Never heard of it, but hey, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, right?”

  “It’s on the steep side, but gives you a great perspective on the city.”

  “That’s excellent, Merle. I’ll make it happen, for two at say nooner?”

  “No sooner.”

  “Ha,” Badger said. “Cool.”

  He turned off his phone and closed his eyes in thanks. So far so good. Now all he had to do was to make reservations for M on the Bund in two hours.

  Harry checked the B-2’s Navstar GPS navigation readout displayed on the visor of his helmet. He was only two hours away from Guam and closing in at near sonic speed.

  But they couldn’t land on the tiny island without being permanently grounded. Harry recalled that the B-2 Spirits had a range of nine thousand six hundred kilometers unrefueled. It could be refueled in flight by the boom method, thus making it more than an intercontinental threat. It was a global threat. But he also realized that, given the Gitmo troops’ hostile reaction to their leaving, no fuel tanker was likely to come up and help them.

  He couldn’t wait forever for Badger’s call.

  “What’s that?” Harry asked.

  Cooper had produced a CD from his shirt pocket.

  “It’s a recording that the camp commander back in Guantánamo gave me. It’s our conversation in prison.”

  Harry grabbed the shiny disc. “Do you know what this represents?” he asked, waving it in the air.

  Amber reflections played in Sean’s face.

  “This is more powerful than any number of bombs we could be carrying in our weapons bay. This could sink the Administration.”

  “How?” Sean asked.

  Harry had to smile. The guy could be so naïve. “It’s your testimony. This is what the special prosecutor needs in order to make their case against the president.”

  “Do you mean that I won’t need to go to Washington in person to testify?”

  “My guess is that this is potent enough evidence to bring Chinagate slamming shut in the president’s face.”

  He looked down at the equipment arrayed before him. He had millions of dollars of weapons and navigational hardware before him, but where was the CD player?

  “We’ll have to ship this to the Department of Justice the moment we touch down.”

  “If we ever touch down,” Sean said.

  Harry corrected himself. Maybe Sean wasn’t so naïve after all.

  Badger McGlade guessed from the name that M on the Bund would be a trendy spot. But he was not prepared for the dramatic impact of its location.

  It was right on the historic curtain of buildings that fronted the old side of Shanghai. Shivering, he stood on the terrace of M and looked down the long, curving stretch of banks and customs houses that both created and illustrated Shanghai’s success at the turn of the century.

  Beyond the four-lane road and riverfront promenade lay the Huangpu River. A wide, muddy river, it was a superhighway for ships of all kinds, primarily barges, cargo ships and ferries. The Huangpu flowed down from the mighty Yangtze, China’s major artery that carried products and raw materials from deep within the country out to the world at large.

  Then, his eyes lifted to the new area of Pudong from which he had just arrived by taxi through a long tunnel. The modern skyline stood in stark contrast to the sooty old buildings around him. It didn’t take long to see where China was headed, and fast!

  “You must be Aric with an A,” came a baritone voice behind him.

  Badger turned around, a hand extended. “Just call me ‘A on the Bund.’”

  The diplomat laughed. From his hearty handshake, Badger decided to eliminate physical coercion as one of his options. He’d have to rely on the rest of his team for that.

  “Let’s eat!” Badger said. “We’ve got lots to discuss.”

  A few minutes later, a bottle of smooth, sophisticated white wine from Australia’s Margaret River region sat open between them and they were clinking glasses and celebrating the glorious view.

  Seated inside to avoid the cold, they could still appreciate a blue sky high above the city. “Enjoy the weather,” Merle was saying. “Days as clear as this are rare.”

  “I wish I had my camera rolling right now.”

  “So what kind of a documentary are you contemplating?”

  Badger was prepared for the question and gave a one-paragraph response, in effect saying that he would like to draw on Merle’s experience for background on the city. “Essentially, what I want to know is, are the Americans screwing the Chinese, or are the Chinese screwing the Americans?”

  Merle laughed heartily. “Now, that’s the great unanswered question, isn’t it?”

  The baba ganoush and hummus arrived in record time, served by a pleasant young woman with perfect tableside English. Badger wouldn’t mind finding out her bedside manners either.

  He spread some dip on a cracker and momentarily lost track of why he was there, even where he was. He felt transported out of time and space. Nothing like tasty Middle Eastern food served by a scrumptious Chinese waitress on a rooftop high above colonial Shanghai to disorient an American like him.

  Alas, Middle Eastern food was basically a thing of the past, as he hadn’t dared to enter such a restaurant anywhere in the world for some time. He couldn’t help but think of all he was missing in the Middle Eastern cultures, not the least of which was the food.

  The thought of terrorism snapped him back to reality. His job was to put the screws to Merle Stevens. The young diplomat should never have set foot in Badger’s Middle Eastern den that noon. His forty thieves were waiting in the kitchen, knives bared.

  Well, not exactly, but close.

  Then his Casablanca chicken arrived, and the staff delivered Merle his char-grilled marinated king prawns. Badger lost himself in the richly textured flavors of the chicken. He never knew that you could do such a thing to a fowl. He would never look at chicken the same way again.

  And what could M do for dessert? He decided to top off his meal with flourless chocolate cake with whipped cream and raspberries. Merle opted for a hot apricot soufflé with almond brittle ice cream.

  It was with deep regret that Badger finally called for the bill.

  “I thank you for this lunch,” Merle said formally. “And I wish you great success
in your endeavor.”

  Merle was a well-tanned, well-built man with a commanding air and easy demeanor. It was too bad that his feathers would be so ruffled by the time his elevator reached street level.

  They entered the dark elevator lobby reserved exclusively for the restaurant. Badger watched his guest snatch a matchbook and slip it dexterously into his pocket while they waited.

  The elevator was slow in coming. Badger filled the awkward time once again thanking Merle for his assistance.

  “The pleasure was all mine,” Merle replied.

  The elevator door finally opened, a black hole lined by a pair of Western men in leather jackets.

  Merle hesitated at first, but Badger cordially invited him to enter. Merle took several steps inside and turned to jab the lobby button.

  Badger didn’t move, and let the elevator doors slide shut before him. He heard the car lurch downward through the antiquated building, then suddenly come to a halt between floors.

  He returned to the restaurant and strolled out to the terrace for fresh air. By the time the elevator reached ground level, his men would have some answers concerning Sean Cooper’ family.

  The river traffic hadn’t thinned over the lunch hour. It looked like a gritty life on the Huangpu. It would be even more so with the addition of a floating corpse.

  He shook his head. He didn’t want to know what techniques his team was employing.

  Looking directly down at the street, he couldn’t see his men anywhere. They must not have emerged from the building. The icy breeze was beginning to numb his exposed skin. Boy, had he been seduced by the sunny warmth of Hainan Island in China’s south. In truth, the country could be damned cold, and Cooper’ family was probably frozen to death in some godforsaken prison.

  He shot another look downward, but no luck.

  Then his mobile phone rang. He put it to his ear.

  “This is Boris. We got what we needed and he got what he deserved.”

  “Where are you?” Badger asked, confused. He hadn’t seen them leave the building.

  “Look down at the riverfront.”

  Badger saw a small family barge pulling away from the Bund, a body in a business suit spread-eagled on the deck. It was Merle Stevens.

  “So, did he sing?” Badger asked.

  “Like a songbird.”

  “Where is Sean Cooper’ family?” Badger wanted to know.

  “Outside of Harbin, in a state prison in the woods. I have the name of the place, but I couldn’t pronounce it.”

  “Where’s Harbin?” Badger asked.

  “Have you ever heard of Vladivostok?”

  Badger shuddered at the name. It was Russia’s Far Eastern capital, a chilly, remote seaport. “Yes I know about Vladivostok.”

  “Well, Harbin is in Manchuria, due north of Vladivostok, about four hundred and fifty clicks inland. That’s where the Chinese prison is located.”

  “Lovely. I’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes.”

  He took a last look at Merle Stevens’ inert body that lay on the fast-disappearing barge. Soon the barge merged with the heavy volume of ships that plied the waters. “Sayonara, Mr. Stevens.”

  Badger slipped back through the restaurant with its elegant mixture of Eastern and Western furniture and art. The Chinese waitress smiled at him as he left.

  For the first time he thought he detected a look of triumph behind that inscrutable Oriental smile. Had he calculated the dollar-renmenbi conversion correctly? It brought to mind his first question to Merle. Perhaps the Chinese were screwing the Americans in ways he had never considered.

  Chapter 32

  Bleary-eyed, Harry Black stared at the tops of puffy pink clouds. He had flown on the edge of dusk the entire way. Chasing the day would be futile, and the fleeing sun had remained just beyond the horizon. He had been flying in twilight for eighteen hours. He wanted to remove his helmet and rub his eyes, but he needed to watch the HUD, Head-Up Display, indicators projected on his visor.

  His fuel was running low. There was no way he could reach the eastern fringes of Asia on one tank of gas.

  Sean was dozing in the seat opposite him, unaware of the pinch they were in.

  Then Harry felt a vibration in his pants pocket. It was his satellite-equipped mobile phone ringing. Thank God the signal could pass through the skin of the aircraft.

  He slipped off his helmet and dumped it in his lap.

  “Yes?”

  “Harry, this is Badger, calling from Shanghai.”

  “What did you find out?”

  Badger’s voice sounded jubilant. “Merle Stevens informed our men that Cooper’ family is being held at a Chinese prison in Harbin, which is in far northeastern China.”

  Harry didn’t know the place. “I’ll look it up on the navigational computer. I hope they have an airport.”

  “They do. I’m going to fly there this afternoon. How are you getting there?”

  “By military aircraft.”

  “Are you being escorted? Do you have official clearance to enter Chinese airspace?”

  “Hell no. I’m on my own,” Harry said.

  “The Chinese will try to intercept you,” Badger warned. “Are you sure you want another EP-3 spy plane incident. They could hold you hostage for several weeks.”

  “I don’t intend to knock any of them out of the sky. Incidentally, I’m flying a B-2 Stealth bomber. I don’t think they’ll ever see us.”

  “A B-2? Don’t let the Chinese get their hands on one of those babies. The Pentagon would throw you in the brig for divulging state secrets.”

  “I don’t intend to hand it over.”

  “Good,” Badger said with a shiver. “By the way, there’s some sort of cold snap happening here. You’d better bring a coat.”

  “You’ve been slumming around the tropics too long.”

  “I’m serious. Wear a parka. Once you get to Harbin, let’s coordinate. The team and I are on our way to Hongqiao Airport in Shanghai. I hope to make Harbin before nightfall.”

  “I may beat you there,” Harry said. He signed off and placed his helmet back over his head.

  He immediately checked one of the CRTs below eyelevel. He flipped through map projections until he had a spherical globe centered on the Pacific.

  Indeed, Harbin lay inland, northwest of Vladivostok, though still in Chinese territory where Manchuria met Siberia.

  At the moment, he and Sean were passing over Guam, the southernmost island in the Mariana Islands, far northwest of Hawaii. His flight path would take him straight to the Philippines.

  The fuel indicator told him otherwise. He had a mere fifteen minutes of flight time at his currently reduced speed. The jet’s engines were sucking the last droplets out of her fuel tanks.

  He reached for the radio transmitter. “Andersen Air Force Base come in,” he said in as calm a voice as he could muster. “This is the Spirit of Kansas. I need in-flight refueling over Guam immediately.”

  “Spirit of Kansas, this is Andersen Air Force Base. Request denied. Land your aircraft at once.”

  “I’m prepared to ditch this bird at sea unless you provide prompt in-flight refueling,” Harry announced. Then he read off his coordinates. “Unless you want to be responsible for losing a B-2, you’d better scramble a tanker now.”

  After a moment’s wait, the base in Guam came back. “I’m sorry. We can’t get a tanker aloft that fast. You’ll just have to land here.”

  The ruse wouldn’t work.

  “I’m lowering altitude to 25,000 feet in preparation for ejection,” Harry said. His HUD flashed the amount of fuel remaining and the time and distance left at current speed and fuel consumption. He had ten minutes until they dropped out of the sky.

  “It’s a large, dark sea you’re jumping into,” came back a different voice, this one sterner.

  “I’ll take my chances,” Harry said. “Two point one billion dollars,” he reminded the base. “Lowering to 20,000 feet.”

  “This is th
e base commander. You’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars if you lose that aircraft.”

  “Now, where’s the ejection button…”

  “I order you to touch down at Andersen AFB on the double.”

  “Sorry, gotta go. 15,000 feet. We jump at ten thousand.”

  Static crackled over the radio. Sean was wide awake by this point and threw a wild look at Harry. “I don’t know how to parachute,” he said.

  Harry winked. The Spirit of Kansas was descending rapidly. Five minutes left give or take a minute or two. He strapped on his helmet and switched to the helmet’s communications system.

  “Prepare to eject,” Harry commanded over the microphone, making sure the radio was transmitting his comments to Guam. “Adjust your harness over each shoulder…”

  The base commander came back on the air. “If you look directly above you, we’ve positioned a tanker to refuel you.” His voice had a defeated tone.

  Harry glanced up and sure enough, a Hercules refueling tanker was arriving overhead, a fuel boom lowering toward the top of his fuselage.

  He switched off the radio. “Eureka! It worked. Now, to get hooked up.”

  His jet was running on autopilot, maintaining a steady speed and altitude. He would have to switch over to manual for the fine adjustments needed to guide the fuel line into the opening above him. He pressed the button to open the fuel door and then clicked off the autopilot, taking control of the fully digital quadruplex fly-by-wire flight control system.

  “Easy does it,” he whispered to himself, guiding the touchy aircraft slightly higher, but losing momentary control of the pitch. He watched an electronic indicator show the beavertail assembly just behind him on the centerline of the flying wing struggle to keep the nose pointed horizontally.

  Less than a minute of fuel remained in the tanks.

  Harry heard the angled boom slip into his tank.

  “Contact. Please refuel at once. I have no fuel left, repeat no fuel left.” He had trouble keeping the tension out of his voice. He had practiced a stall on the simulator once, but didn’t want to experience one now.