by Tom Grace
“Maybe they’re just sleeping it off somewhere.”
“Naked?” the man said, incredulous.
“How do you know they’re naked?”
“This is our alley. My buddies and I always check the bins before the trucks come. They weren’t at the warming center last night, and they didn’t show here this mornin’. I figured they was scared of all this going on, but it don’t bother me. I just start to workin’ up the way when I find this bag of clothing. Jackpot, I say. Then I see Denny’s coat in the bag. And Al’s stuff too.”
The man opened the top bag on his cart and pulled out a soiled dark green jacket. Hunley looked inside the bag and saw boots, pants, and shirts.
“And you recognize all this clothing as belonging to your friends?”
“It’s not like we wear somefin’ difrent every day.”
Hunley conceded the point. “Were your friends here last night?”
“They wasn’t at the shelter, so I figgered they was at their spot. I didn’t find ‘em there this mornin’.”
“Did your friends have carts like yours?”
“Yeah, and they’re still at their spot. We can’t bring ‘em into the shelter, so we gotta hide ‘em.”
Hunley looked around and flagged over a uniformed female NYPD officer.
“Officer, would you kindly help this gentleman file a missing person’s report for a pair of his associates?” Hunley asked.
“Are we sure they’re missing?” the young officer asked skeptically.
“Normally, I’d agree with you, but street people don’t toss their clothing in December. This may have nothing to do with the fire, but maybe these two missing men saw something last night.”
THREE
BEIJING, CHINA
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 10; 2:45 PM
Containment.
Tian Yi sat quietly in the rear seat of the black Audi Sedan considering the word. His car sped under escort through the urban sprawl into the ancient heart of the nation’s capital. Traffic parted for the pair of uniformed officers on motorcycles that cleared his right-of-way. Dark, bullet-resistant glass and concealed armor plating surrounded the Chinese spymaster—protective measures befitting his importance to the current regime.
The car and escort slowed as they traveled east down Xichangan Jie toward Tiananmen Square. To Tian’s left he saw the southern portion of the massive red brick walls that enclosed the two-square-kilometer compound of Zhongnanhai—China’s Kremlin. His driver turned into the forecourt of an ornate two-story structure with a columned facade and a traditional red-tile roof. The eighteenth-century Emperor Qianlong built the Precious Moon Tower—as the Xinhuamen Gate was originally known—as a gift to appease his homesick concubine.
If only the problem before me was so easily resolved, Tian thought.
Clearing security, Tian’s car passed into the vigilantly guarded compound. Zhongnanhai retained much of its idyllic character as a garden retreat from the burdens of imperial life in the Forbidden City, though it now served as the exclusive home of the Communist Party’s ruling elite. Two small lakes defined the landscape and gave the property its name. Gardens dotted with pavilions surrounded the lakes. Massive trees stood naked, barren of leaves that crunched dryly beneath the Audi’s tires.
Tian’s driver parked the Audi close to a small pavilion in an area near the southern lake known as Fengzeyuan—the Garden of Plenty. A trio of soldiers in dress uniforms approached the car as it stopped and one quickly opened the rear door. All snapped to attention and saluted. Tian was in his early sixties, a man of average height with a trim build. His face was lean with a smooth pate of lightly freckled skin stretched taut over the uneven topography of his skull. He shuddered as a cold breeze traced its icy finger over the top of his head. He nodded to the men and was escorted into the pavilion.
The pavilion doors opened as Tian approached and closed once he was inside. The interior of the pavilion was agreeably warm. He removed his overcoat and handed it to an attendant. An intricately carved wooden table stood in the center of the main room, and a delicate porcelain tea service adorned the table’s polished inlaid surface. Three high-backed chairs, all occupied, lined the far side of the table—a single chair on the near side awaited Tian.
A thickset man in his mid sixties sat in the center chair—Premier Wen Lequan. An electrical engineer by trade, Wen rose through the party ranks before reaching the pinnacle of power four years earlier. Sitting on either side of him were President Chong Jiyun and Minister Fu Yushan of the Ministry of Justice. Chong, a thin bookish man, was an economist and the architect of the nation’s two-system approach to wedding communist politics with capitalist economics. Fu tackled the equally daunting task of modernizing China’s legal code and process for administering justice. Trim and athletic, the fifty-three-year-old Fu was the youngest man in the room and his swift political rise was attributed in equal parts to his quick legal mind and his fiery personality.
“Minister Tian,” Wen said with grave formality, “please join us.”
Tian took his place at the table opposite the three men. He accepted an offered cup of tea and enjoyed a cautious sip of the aromatic blend.
“Nearly two months have passed since Yin Daoming’s unexpected departure from our country,” Wen began. “The world does not know the circumstances that led to his leaving China and his reappearance at the Vatican just as the bishops were meeting to elect a new pope. The people who aided Yin’s escape from prison have been apprehended and punished. Had Yin disappeared into a monastery to live out his remaining days in private, we would not be so concerned. But his election as supreme leader of the Catholic Church presents a grave danger to our nation. It signals the Vatican’s intent to further interfere with internal matters of state. As pope, he is no longer a citizen, no longer Chinese. Yin is now the leader of a foreign nation with a long history of hostile intent toward China. He must be dealt with accordingly.”
Chong and Fu nodded their agreement.
“Yin’s predecessor, Pope Leo, was a man of similarly difficult character who proved to be instrumental in bringing down the communist governments in Poland, the Eastern Bloc, and ultimately the Soviet Union,” Chong offered. “We have no doubt that Western interests engineered Yin’s escape and election to achieve a similar result in China. We avoided the economic mistakes of our Russian neighbors in competing with the West, and we must now also avoid their missteps in dealing with a dangerous pope who is still revered by many in our land, despite our efforts to forbid their allegiance to this foreign church.”
“Minister Tian,” Fu said, “there is an old saying that an escaped genie cannot be returned to the bottle. How do you propose we deal with our escaped genie?”
“I believe there are only two possible stratagems we can employ to contain the threat posed by the new pope,” Tian answered. “Disgrace or death.”
“In responding to a dangerous pope who emerged from within their sphere of influence,” Fu said, “the Russians chose death.”
Wen nodded. “And they, or rather those chosen to carry out the assassination, failed. In retrospect, I believe a martyred pope would have been an even greater threat to them than the one who survived. In either case, the end result for the Soviet Union was the same.”
“We cannot assassinate Pope Gousheng,” Tian said. “In the absence of irrefutable proof, any brazen attempt on his life would ultimately be blamed on China. It is conceivable that our enemies may make such an attempt knowing that our standing in the world and even this government would be irreparably harmed.”
Wen could imagine the clandestine services of a half-dozen countries that might stage an attempt on the pope’s life with a damning trail of evidence leading back to Beijing’s doorstep.
“What do you propose?” Chong asked.
“If death is the preferred option, then it must appear to be the result of natural causes,” Tian replied. “Yin Daoming was in frail health when he left China, and he is old. A subtle
toxin could be introduced that would cause cardiac arrest or stroke. And there would be no autopsy.”
“Such was the case with the predecessor of Pope Leo XIV,” Fu offered. “He died barely a month after his election. Rumors of murder and conspiracy linger to this day, but nothing can be proved.”
“We believe a natural death would be attributed to the pope’s age and physical condition due his long incarceration,” Tian said. “China’s standing in the international community—bolstered by Yin’s official account of his humanitarian release—should suffer no ill effects from his death. The premier would, of course, represent China at the funeral.”
“The risk we take in eliminating Pope Gousheng,” Wen said, “is not knowing what kind of man will succeed him. Sympathy might turn to the cardinal in Hong Kong, who could prove equally formidable. In addition to death, you offered disgrace—explain.”
“Religious leaders are expected to live according to a code of high morality,” Tian explained. “A failure to do so robs them of their authority.”
“A scandal?” Fu asked.
“Yes, or simply the threat of one for which the new pope can offer no defense. Yin has repeatedly shown a willingness to die for his faith and for the church he serves. What I propose has historic precedent, but in this modern era, it would force Yin’s abdication or suicide. For Yin to remain pope in the face of such a scandal would gravely damage his church, perhaps irreparably. I believe Pope Gousheng would adopt a more conciliatory attitude toward us in order to spare his church from such a scandal. The alternative, from the Vatican’s point of view, would be a catastrophe.”
“Is this your recommendation?” Wen asked.
“The long-term interests of China are still best served by containing Yin rather than killing him,” Tian replied. “I also believe it prudent to prepare both options should it become necessary to alter our plans.”
Wen looked to Chong and Fu, who nodded their assent.
“How much time is required before your efforts bear fruit?” Wen asked.
“Both options require careful infiltration of the Vatican, but within a year we will have Pope Gousheng in either a metaphorical box or a literal one.”
Wen nodded. “Disgrace or death.”
FOUR
SAN MATEO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12; 2:10 AM
Palmer felt stiff from three long days of driving across the country, and the shiatsu massage he had indulged in after reaching the Bay area barely softened the tension in his muscles. He guided his high-roof transit van into a neighborhood of winding streets and modest homes nestled into the steep, hilly terrain.
It was well past sunset. The days shortened with the approach of the winter solstice, and a leaden overcast sky blanketed the region. Festive lights and displays twinkled throughout the bedroom community in anticipation of the Christmas holiday. Palmer felt a similar anticipation, though for a celebration of his own invention.
His van appeared dark gray and nondescript as it silently pulled up to the curb in front of the Beck home. Had anyone taken notice during his reconnaissance the previous day, they would have noted that it was a light shade of blue and that its sides bore the familiar logo of Pacific Gas & Electric.
Google Earth provided Palmer with high-resolution imagery of the Beck home in situ, so by the time he arrived in San Mateo he possessed a rudimentary sense of his surroundings. The Beck family resided in a 1950s-era split-level ranch of stuccoed concrete block capped with low-slung roofs and deep eaves. The house sat on a small lot with a single-car garage and a broad deck in the back suspended above the lower level walkout. On his earlier visit to the neighborhood, Palmer identified the power, phone, and cable lines serving the house.
He lifted the armrest and slipped out of the driver’s seat and into the windowless rear of the van. Equipment racks lined the walls of the cargo area, leaving a narrow aisle down the middle where Palmer slept on the occasions he needed sleep. Strategic storage compartments throughout the van contained tools, spare parts, and medical supplies—everything he might need, including a knife and suppressed Sig Sauer P229.
A flat screen monitor with a keyboard and a 3D mouse were fixed in the center of the rack on the driver’s side. In the high-roof overhead, cables and wires lay in a structural framework that defined a two-foot square opening. The opening contained a blank metal plate that shielded and concealed a copper-colored device, which looked somewhat like a flattened metal donut. Palmer referred to the device by the precise mathematical description of its shape—a toroid.
Palmer swiveled an arm with a small circular seat out from underneath the keyboard and sat down. He then pressed his fingertip to a one-inch square metal plate that scanned and compared the pattern of ridges and valleys of his fingerprint to the image stored in its memory. Finding a match, the equipment powered up, filling the interior of the van with a faint glow. A flat, insulated roof panel above the toroid slid back like a sunroof, and a set of actuators raised the device above the van’s roofline until it was concealed.
A wire frame image of the Beck’s home appeared on the monitor, and snaking through the image like a map of a central nervous system were colored lines representing the power, cable, and phone wires strung inside the walls. Devices attached to the wires were also displayed. Everything electrical was in some way rendered on the screen.
Using the mouse, Palmer selected the wires leading into the house, then an icon labeled BIO-E DISRUPTOR. A low hum filled the interior of the van. It grew quickly in intensity, culminating with a crackle of static followed by silence. Anyone looking at the Beck home might have noticed a slight flickering of the Christmas lights, but nothing more. Palmer powered down his equipment and retracted the toroid back into the van’s roof. He then donned a hooded Tyvek suit with a face shield, a pair of latex gloves, and booties for his sneakers as if he was about to enter a cleanroom.
He slung a carpenter’s bag over his shoulder, exited through the back of the van and quietly closed the door. Apart from a dog barking in the distance, the neighborhood was asleep for the night. Palmer carefully made his way into the back yard and to the seclusion of the covered walkout.
A sticker on the sliding patio door informed any would-be burglars that the home was protected by an alarm system.
Not tonight, Palmer thought as he tested the door.
It was locked.
He pulled a glass cutter fitted with a suction cup from his bag and affixed it to the door. With a few turns, he scored the glass and removed a circular piece large enough to slip his hand through and flip the latch. He slowly moved the door along its track and stepped inside.
The Becks’ cat lay on the floor of the lower level, undisturbed by Palmer’s entry. Like every other living thing inside the house, the bioelectric discharge that had pulsed through the home’s wiring had rendered it unconscious. He ran a gloved hand across the cat’s back and got no reaction. The disruptor’s effect on people typically lasted sixty to ninety minutes depending on mass. Children and dogs recovered more quickly than adults, and he assumed the same was true of cats, though Palmer had no data to confirm that conjecture. He made a mental note to run additional tests on a range of domestic cats.
Palmer moved methodically through the house, searching room by room. In the master bedroom, he found the husband and wife nestled in a king-sized bed, the woman pressed against her mate’s back beneath the comforter. The next bedroom was the nursery where a baby slept in a crib.
Toy cars and trucks littered the floor of the third bedroom, along with several stuffed animals and a stack of illustrated books topped with How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
Every Who down in Whoville . . . Palmer thought, Boris Karloff’s definitive narration playing in his memory.
A framed item on the wall identified the name of the boy who inhabited the room as Jacob and cited various important events that occurred in the year of his birth. Palmer recalled most listed and some of a personal nature that had led
to his being here tonight.
Jacob Beck slept under a comforter adorned with characters from a recent Pixar film, his arms tightly wrapped around a plush purple moose. Palmer pulled back the bedcovers and scooped up the ten-year-old boy with his treasured stuffed animal. He returned the way he came, careful to check the sidewalk and neighboring houses before emerging from the shadows. He laid the child atop a foam pad on the floor in the rear of the van and covered him with a thin blanket. He secured the boy to the floor with Velcro strips so he wouldn’t roll around loosely and get injured as Palmer drove.
“Snug as a bug in a rug,” Palmer said softly.
He then closed the rear door, removed the clean suit, climbed into the driver’s seat and started the van. The factory-installed instrument cluster had been replaced with one of Palmer’s own design, which mirrored the extensive modifications he had made to the vehicle. In place of the gasoline-fueled internal combustion engine, Palmer installed an electric power train beyond Detroit’s wildest dreams. He put the van in gear and silently pulled away from the curb.
FIVE
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
10:30 AM
The New York City field office of the FBI resided inside the forty-one-story Javits Federal Building in the southern end of Manhattan, just a few blocks from the Heartland Building crime scene. The report on the chemistry of the explosives used in the bombing covered the desk inside Patrick Hunley’s borrowed office.
The multiline phone on Hunley’s desk trilled. Without glancing up from the report, he snatched the handset from the cradle and wedged it between his head and shoulder.
“Hunley,” he answered absently, his mind still wading through the bomb’s signature.
“I have Dr. Alyssa Cooper from the City of New York Office of the Chief Medical Examiner on the line for you.”
“The ME’s office? Great. Thanks. Put her through.” Hunley waited as the call was transferred to his phone. “This is Special Agent Hunley, Dr. Cooper. What can I do for you?”