Beijing Red

by Alex Ryan

  Dazhong had to jog to keep pace with the long-legged Zhang as he strode down the corridor. When they reached their destination, she was surprised to find two army sentries posted in front of the double doors leading into radiology. They were dressed in digital camo BDUs patterned in green and gray, and both men were armed with pistols worn in drop holsters. She glanced at Zhang and saw him smirk at the scene. He took a position no more than thirty centimeters in front of one of the sentries, blatantly invading the soldier’s personal space. Next to the tall and powerfully built Snow Leopard Commander, the army sentry looked like a child. Nonetheless, the soldier did not flinch.

  “Step aside, soldier,” Zhang ordered, his voice baritone and ripe with authority.

  “Laboratory access is not permitted at this time,” the young solider replied, eyes fixed straight ahead.

  Zhang glanced at the soldier’s rank insignia. “I said, step aside, Corporal,” he barked. “That’s an order.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you are not in my chain of command. My orders come directly from Major Li. No unauthorized personnel are permitted to enter the lab.”

  Zhang clenched his jaw, and Dazhong saw the veins on his forehead stand up.

  “I am Commander Zhang of the SLCU—the senior ranking officer of this joint task force. Every member of this operation, including Major Li, reports to me,” he said. Then, gesturing to Dazhong, he added, “This is Dr. Chen from the CDC, and she is the senior ranking civilian administrator on the premises. The Artux People’s Hospital is under her control, as is this laboratory. Now, if you do not step aside in the next five seconds, you are going to find out what happens to soldiers who disobey direct orders.”

  The soldier glanced at the sentry to his right. The second soldier nodded and shifted his right hand to the butt of his weapon.

  What happened next, she did not fully comprehend until it was over. A black shadow whirled and danced in a blur of movement, bodies twisted and fell, and when she blinked, Commander Zhang was holding a pistol in each hand. The two army sentries were on the ground—one sitting, holding his knee, and the other lying flat on his back groaning.

  Mouth agape, she stared at Zhang; he did not notice. His attention was still focused on the two sentries he had just disarmed. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted as the right-hand door to the laboratory swung open. Major Li stepped into the doorway. He glanced at each of the sentries and then fixed a steely glower on the Snow Leopard Commander. She watched Li purse his lips at Zhang.

  “Your men attempted to draw their side arms,” Zhang said, looking down at Li, who stood nearly a head shorter. “That was a mistake.”

  Major Li shot Dazhong an accusing stare—part disdain, part rebuke—as if she were to blame for this absurd display of hypermasculine turf fighting.

  She met his stare but said nothing. She knew better than to step in between two raging bears.

  Finally, Li shifted his gaze back to Zhang. “The sentries were following orders, Commander. Your decision to assault my men, however, is something you will come to regret.” Major Li extended both palms to Zhang. “Hand over their weapons. Now!”

  Zhang screwed up his face at the other man and brazenly stuffed the two semiautomatic handguns into the oversized cargo pockets on the outside of his pant legs. “I think it’s time we made something clear, Major Li. I am the ranking officer of this joint task force. You do not threaten me. You do not give me orders.”

  Li sniffed and retrieved a folded piece of paper from his left breast pocket. He handed it to Zhang and said, “You were the ranking officer of this task force. Not anymore.”

  Zhang cocked an eyebrow at Dazhong and snatched the document from Li’s outstretched hand. He unfolded the paper and read. When he was finished, he handed the paper to her. It was a letter issued from the office of the Central National Security Commission—the CNSC—and signed by Deputy Chairman Hu Zedong. The message was succinct and clear. The joint task force had been officially reclassified as a military operation, with all personnel now serving under the command and authority of Major Li Shengkun. She looked back at Zhang, who shook his head in disbelief.

  She handed the letter back to Major Li, who took it and returned it to his breast pocket, looking smug. The two army sentries whom Zhang had humiliated were now back on their feet, flanking the major.

  “Commander Zhang,” Li said, his voice cold and harsh. “The weapons.”

  Zhang retrieved the handguns he’d confiscated and returned them to the soldiers.

  An awkward silence persisted in the corridor of level six of the Artux People’s Hospital in Kizilsu Prefecture until at last the lone woman in the group finally spoke.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Dazhong said, “hopefully we can all put this misunderstanding behind us and focus on the crisis at hand. Major Li, the Commander and I wish to conference with you. I was hoping to review the test results for the blood samples I sent to the lab four hours ago. If we could step into the lab and—”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Chen,” Major Li interrupted, “but the samples are still in process. I don’t have any results to share at this time.”

  “But surely you must have something to report. Four hours is more than sufficient—”

  He raised a hand, cutting her off. “The samples are still being analyzed. When I have results to share with you and the rest of the team, I will do so.”

  She looked expectantly at Zhang.

  The Snow Leopard Commander read her mind. “Major Li, it is imperative that we conference now. Dr. Chen has spent the last several hours observing infected patients, and based on her observations, she is convinced this outbreak is not Ebola.”

  “I concur,” Li said simply.

  “In that case, you should know that both Dr. Chen and I are concerned this outbreak was caused by an act of bioterrorism,” Zhang continued.

  “In that case, shouldn’t you be out there?” Li said, gesturing with his right hand to indicate the world outside the hospital. “Shouldn’t you be hunting down the terrorists responsible for this tragedy? After all, Commander Zhang, you are the head of China’s elite Snow Leopard counterterrorism unit. Maybe it’s time you leave the science to the scientists and concentrate on doing the job you were sent here to do.”

  Dazhong watched Zhang bristle, but the Commander kept his temper in check.

  Li straightened his uniform. “When it’s time to conference, I’ll have someone contact you.” Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared back into the lab.

  Dazhong and Zhang exchanged glances and then departed in silence for the south stairwell. As they walked the length of the corridor, the only sound was the echo of Zhang’s combat boots on the tile floor. When they reached the stairwell, Zhang pushed the heavy metal door open for her, and they both stepped across the threshold. The instant it slammed shut behind them, they both started jabbering at the same time.

  They paused simultaneously.

  “You first,” Dazhong said.

  Zhang smiled. “No, you go.”

  She took a deep breath and said, “What was that all about back there?”

  He shook his head. “I apologize, Dr. Chen. I lost my temper and my conduct was unprofessional.”

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant. What happened with Major Li taking over the operation and cutting us out of the information loop?”

  “I’m as surprised as you,” he said. “I’ve conducted many joint operations with the army, and I’ve never experienced anything like this.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “The letter was issued by the CNSC. It looked legitimate.”

  “I’m not talking about the letter,” she said, frustrated that they’d somehow now fallen out of synch. “I mean, do you believe that the samples are still in process?”

  “From a scientist’s perspective, you’d know the answer to the question better than I would. But from a trained interrogator’s perspective, I’m convinced Li is hiding something.”r />
  When they reached the landing outside the door to level five, she stopped and turned to face him. “Without those test results, we’re stuck running in place. I can’t develop a treatment and containment protocol if he won’t tell me what disease we’re fighting.”

  Zhang nodded. “I understand. I plan to call my superiors in Beijing. I suggest you consider doing the same. Perhaps your CDC director has access to the information Li is withholding.”

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  “In the meantime, if you have a few minutes to spare, I could use your help with something,” Zhang said.

  “Of course. What do you need?”

  “On the flight from Beijing, I was reviewing your CV, and I noticed that you lived and studied in America for several years.”

  “Yes. I did two years of postgraduate work at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. Why?”

  “Excellent,” he said with a hint of embarrassment. “My English is not so good, and I could use translation help with someone.”

  “Who?”

  “An American named Nick Foley,” Zhang said. “He’s being held in observational quarantine, down on level four.”

  “Certainly. What’s the purpose of the interview?”

  “Oh, it’s not an interview,” China’s preeminent counterterrorism Commander said with a smirk. “It’s an interrogation.”

  Chapter 8

  Isolation Ward, fourth floor

  Artux People’s Hospital

  Nick did not like this change of venue. The relief of no longer seeing the hospital staff in pressure suits was ebbing in the face of this new twist. Two armed guards had taken him from the quarantine quarters to this closet of a room. Unlike the soldiers he had encountered before, these men carried themselves with a different military bearing. They were elite—undoubtedly Special Forces.

  Takes one to know one.

  The windowless room was small and barren. Judging by the countertop along the rear wall with a built-in sink, he guessed this had been a break room before being commandeered and stripped bare by the military. He imagined a coffee machine and snacks . . . God, what he would give for a cup of coffee. He sat at a white Formica table, drumming his fingertips impatiently on the surface with nothing to do but stare at the two empty chairs across from him. The overhead fluorescent light buzzed incessantly, needling his nerves. He had been waiting for thirty minutes by his count, a number he estimated, since there was no clock in the room. They had yet to return his clothes, his watch, and his wallet since he had stripped naked the day of his arrival, and it was finally beginning to piss him off. He was tired of being locked in quarantine. He was tired of being bossed around and manhandled without explanation.

  The door opened.

  A nurse entered and took his temperature with a noncontact thermometer; she conducted her business in silence and was careful not to show him the LCD window on the device. He thought about asking her about his blood-test results, but what was the point? Even if she knew, she wouldn’t tell him. Besides, she probably didn’t speak English anyway. The nurse left and the waiting began anew. With each passing minute, he felt less like a hospital patient and more like a prison inmate waiting to be grilled by a prosecutor. Seeing the shoulder of the armed guard standing outside the door cemented the feeling. He shuddered, perhaps from the chill of wearing only the ridiculous, paper-thin cotton scrubs they’d given him, or more likely from the realization that he might soon have to put his SERE interrogation training to use.

  No problem—like riding a bike. I just need to work within the system and get the hell out of here. Then I’ll figure out what to do next.

  The door opened.

  A different woman stepped in and took the seat directly across from him. She nodded politely and opened a leather notebook. When she looked up at him, he knew this woman did not work for an intelligence agency, nor was she a military interrogator. Her demeanor was pleasant, yet slightly nervous. She had bright, almond-colored eyes and creamy, unblemished skin, which gave her an aura of royalty. Her unlined forehead and high cheekbones were framed by thick, onyx hair she wore tucked behind one ear. She wore a thin surgical mask hiding the bottom half of her face, but Nick imagined a perfect nose and full, ruby lips underneath. Unlike the other hospital workers he’d encountered thus far, she wore regular scrubs and thin surgical gloves. No space suit. No hood. No blue coveralls with boots and goggles.

  He exhaled, breathing easy for the first time in days.

  He waited patiently while she jotted down some notes. Perhaps she was waiting for an interpreter. Then she raised her eyes and held his gaze in a way uncharacteristic of a woman in the misogynistic Chinese culture. Her confidence made her even more attractive, and Nick realized that he had been “out of the game” much too long.

  “Good day, Mr. Nick Foley,” she said in clipped but perfect English.

  Nick raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Good day,” he said, and then he chuckled at the ridiculousness of these pleasantries under the circumstances.

  “My name is Dr. Dazhong Chen,” the woman said, smiling politely with her eyes. “How are you feeling today?”

  Nick settled back in his chair.

  “I feel very well, thank you,” he said. Apparently, he had misread the situation entirely. This woman was a doctor, which meant this was a medical evaluation, not an interrogation. “Obviously, I’m concerned and frightened about what’s going on here,” he continued. “My friends and I have been locked in quarantine with no information, waiting on our test results to learn if we are sick with, uh, whatever this thing is.”

  “I am sorry you have been frightened,” the woman said. “We are doing everything we can to ensure you and the others are kept safe after your exposure. I must ask you some questions, if you please.”

  “Shoot,” Nick said. The woman raised an eyebrow, apparently confused. “Go ahead,” he said, clarifying.

  “Thank you, Mr. Foley. Have you had any nausea or vomiting since your arrival or immediately before coming to Artux hospital?”

  “No,” Nick answered. Surely they would know that already. If he had vomited, he imagined alarms would have gone off in his little cage with Yvette and Bai.

  “And before you came to this hospital, did you have any sore throat or fever? Any muscle aches or strange weakness?”

  “No.”

  “And since you came to this hospital?”

  “No,” Nick said, choosing to dismiss the effects of dehydration and nerves he had certainly been experiencing. He felt himself begin to relax. The conversation was beginning to sound like a final exit evaluation before being cleared and released. He swallowed his excitement at the thought that this nightmare might finally be over.

  “Any shortness of breath or dizziness—either after you came here or in the days before?”

  “No.”

  “No rash or headaches?”

  “No.”

  “Any stomachaches or muscle cramps? Any sweating?”

  “No,” Nick said, and the image of Batur popped into his head.

  Any bloating of your eyelids and lips, and blood from your eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and ass? Any turning gray, puffing up like a blowfish, and dying?

  He shook the image away.

  “Any diarrhea or blood in your urine or stools?”

  “No,” he said, and then quickly interjected, “Are you the doctor in charge of the medical staff here?” He leaned forward and made eye contact with her.

  “I am one of the medical team members.”

  He noted that she did not break eye contact or lean back away from him. Impressive, under the circumstances. He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “So what is this thing? And do I have it?”

  She glanced over her shoulder—unconsciously, he guessed—and in that instant, he realized she did not have full authority here.

  “Your tests are negative.”

  “Negative for what?”

  The woman sighed and folded her hands. “I am not able t
o discuss the particular details with you, Mr. Foley. I must apologize and ask for your understanding on this matter.”

  Nick nodded, the uneasiness beginning to creep back in. “And my friends?”

  “Negative for your friends as well.”

  The door burst open before he could ask his next question.

  The man who entered was tall for a Han Chinese—around six feet tall, Nick estimated. He wore scrubs, but his level of fitness and catlike movements gave him away as Special Forces. From his demeanor and confidence, Nick pegged him as the likely Commander of the two who had escorted him here.

  The man spoke softly but with authority to the woman and sat down beside her. The doctor nodded and looked down at her hands.

  The military man folded his hands on the table and fixed Nick with a cold stare. Then he began speaking in Chinese. As he spoke, the doctor began to interpret in English, both speaker and interpreter maintaining their respective and unbroken cadence. As the man spoke, his gaze did not waiver, and Nick shifted uneasily under the weight of the other man’s soul-searching stare.

  “My name is Commander Zhang. I am the Commander of the Snow Leopard counterterrorism unit sent with the disease control specialists to investigate this horrible event,” he said through the woman. After a few disorienting seconds, Nick’s brain made the shift, and it was as if the Commander was speaking to him with the doctor’s soft voice. “What is your name, please?”

  “I am Nick Foley, an American NGO volunteer working on a water project nearby.”

  Zhang huffed with irritation, leaned over to his interpreter, and whispered something in her ear.

  “I am sorry,” the woman said softly. “The Commander asks that you please answer simply and only the questions you are being asked.”

  “What is going on here?” Nick asked, looking at the beautiful Chinese doctor for the first time since the Commander had entered the room. “Have I done something wrong?”