Beijing Red

by Alex Ryan

  She waited for the waitress to leave and then leaned in again.

  This time, he made a conscious effort to breathe through his mouth.

  “I would like to continue our conversation from the interview we had in the hospital,” she said.

  “By interview, don’t you mean my interrogation under duress as a suspected terrorist?” he said, surprised at the adversarial undertone his voice had taken on.

  She rolled her eyes at this. “We both know you are not a terrorist, Nick Foley. And so does Commander Zhang. He is simply not ready to admit it.”

  “Thank you,” he said, feeling the knot in his chest loosen a bit. “It’s good to hear you say that.”

  “Can we continue the interview?”

  “Yes,” he said, “provided that when I’m done answering your questions, you’ll agree to answer mine.”

  She fidgeted in her seat. “I will agree to answer your questions as best I can. Is that acceptable?”

  He nodded.

  “Why did you say that what happened in Kizilsu could not be a terror attack?” she asked, her eyes darting about the room as if the Snow Leopards might fast-rope into the club at any moment.

  “I didn’t say that,” he countered. “I said if it was a terror attack, it would make no sense for a hostile organization to hit China in the middle of nowhere and target a cultural minority that subsists at the fringes of Chinese society. If al-Qaeda, or ISIS, or even, God forbid, a world power like Japan wanted to attack China, they would not target a place as remote and inconsequential as Kizilsu. They would attack the financial district in Hong Kong, or government buildings in Beijing, or a target with cultural significance. Why would anyone interested in making an international statement target a Muslim minority in a village so remote that the world will never hear about it?”

  “Yes, I have thought about this much since you said it.” She took an absent-minded sip of her drink, lost in thought. “Commander Zhang says you hate Muslims,” she said simply, her face a mask to her true opinion on the subject.

  A hot flash of anger roiled him at the absurd accusation. “Commander Zhang is wrong. During my time in the Middle East, I fought shoulder to shoulder with many Muslims. Many of these men hold my profound respect, and some I even consider brothers.” He took a deep breath to quell his rising emotion. “What both you and Zhang need to understand is that I don’t hate Muslims. I hate terrorists. I hate them because they try to control people through fear by targeting innocents—even children—to further their agenda. I hate them because they are cowards.”

  His voice cracked with anger, but she did not recoil at his rage. Instead, she held his gaze, measuring him.

  He took a defensive swig of beer.

  “I do not agree with Commander Zhang,” she said, reaching out to touch his hand but stopping short. “I have no experience with terrorists. I have never been in war. It must be . . . difficult.”

  He took another swallow from his glass. “Yes, it changes you. I apologize for losing my temper.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “Next question,” he said, forcing a smile.

  “You said something else I’ve been thinking about. You said that you thought the only people who hated the Uyghurs enough to attack them were Han Chinese.”

  “I didn’t mean you,” Nick said.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, waving the comment away. “Of course not, but this idea has been bothering me very much. It makes no sense. If the attack was by Chinese, and the attackers had access to a biological weapon, then it must be connected to the government.” She was whispering now, and Nick could barely make out the words over the din of the club. “But that makes no sense either. The government would have no need to use such a dangerous weapon. Counterterrorism police are already in Kashi. Commander Zhang could arrest every Uyghur troublemaker and no one would complain. This is not America—the lawyers and the media are not in charge here.”

  “My point exactly,” he said.

  “However, the threat of terrorism is growing in China. There are radical Muslims in Xinjiang province causing trouble. An imam was murdered in Kashi, but this murder was done by radical Uyghurs who believed the imam was a servant of Beijing rather than Allah. There have been some attacks against innocent Han Chinese. But all of this fighting is done by people who are—how do you say it in American?” She thought for a moment, searching her memory. “By people who are thunks, yes?”

  Nick chuckled.

  “You mean thugs?”

  “Yes, thugs. That is correct, Nick Foley. They are thugs, not people who have access to a bioweapon of this type. It is very sophisticated.”

  Now she had his attention. He leaned in to talk but did a double take as a young man walked by staring at them. For a moment, he felt certain he had seen this kid hovering at the bar when Dash arrived. Nick shook off the paranoia—there were hundreds of twentysomething Chinese boys in here looking to get lucky, and they all had the same West-envy, hip-hop look. He looked again at Dash, who sipped absently on her drink, deep in thought again.

  “Anthrax and sarin gas can be purchased on the black market. There have even been talks of suicide attackers intentionally infecting themselves with Ebola and then attacking a population by integrating during the incubation period or whatever. But that’s not what happened in Kizilsu, is it?”

  Dash held his gaze and nodded subtly. Before answering, she checked for any would-be eavesdroppers hanging around their booth. “What happened in Kizilsu is a mystery. What killed the people was not anthrax, Ebola, poison gas, or an industrial accident. In my opinion, what killed the people was an engineered weapon, not a biological agent,” she whispered. “But I have no evidence. This is just my theory.”

  Nick had watched helplessly as Batur had bloated and then dissolved before his eyes. The speed of the transformation screamed chemical agent, but the symptoms presented like an infection. Was she suggesting there could be a weapon that was both? Some sort of hybrid biochemical weapon in the Chinese military’s arsenal? If so, the superpower strategic landscape had just shifted beneath their feet. His heart was racing now as they danced around the truth. “I want to hear your theory. Tell me more.”

  “What is the biggest problem with a biological weapon?” She was leading him to the answer, just like the teaching doctors at the Navy base trauma center who constantly “pimped” him during rounds until things began to click.

  “Well,” he said. “I guess the biggest problem is how to avoid infecting yourself when you’re trying to use it on someone else.”

  “Containment,” she said, nodding. “Infecting yourself is a problem, of course, but the real problem is containing the agent to the intended target population. Once infected, the victims act as vectors, spreading the agent to others. This is how epidemics are born. It is very difficult to contain a contagious pathogen within a target population unless you can manage to completely isolate the infected. The longer the incubation period, the more difficult the task becomes. Biologics do not make a good terror weapon. A terrorist who attacks a country on the other side of the world is a fool if he thinks his homeland is safe from harm. A pandemic, no matter where it starts, will spread. The world is a small place. Biological weapons are not like bombs. They are not tactical.”

  “But you think this weapon was tactical? You think it acted like a bomb?”

  “Yes.” She pushed her cosmopolitan aside and leaned on her elbows, her hands now folded in front of her. “This agent appears to have infected a very specific group of people in a small area. Commander Zhang determined that every victim of the attack had attended morning prayers at the local mosque, but not a single victim acted as a vector. They were not contagious. Even close contacts of the victims showed no trace of infection.”

  “Containment,” Nick said softly.

  “Yes, total containment. Not one case in the community, in the hospital staff, or with people like you—people who had close contact with a victim.”

&
nbsp; “But it was lethal.”

  She nodded. “One hundred percent mortality.”

  Nick took a moment and let the gravity of what she was telling him sink in. This agent—this weapon—infected everyone exposed, killed quickly and completely, and did so without being contagious. That seemed impossible.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she sighed, and suddenly, despite the movie-star makeup and plunging neckline of her silk top, he saw her in a new light. Like a scientist dressed as a party girl on Halloween. “The data make no sense.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, first of all, the victims had moderately elevated immunoglobulin counts, but when we began using ELISA to dig deeper, we could not find a common viral antigen across the group of patients.”

  “What about bacteria?”

  “All attempts to culture suspected bacterial or fungal species from the sputum, blood, or urine samples failed.”

  “Okay, if it’s not a virus and it’s not a bug . . . then it must be a chemical toxin of some sort.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head in frustration. “I thought this, too, but all of the victims had a very specific immunologic response. The innate immune system response was robust, but an adaptive immune response never occurred.”

  “I don’t understand,” Nick said.

  “Sorry, sometimes I talk too technical,” she said, flashing him a little grin. “What I mean is the immune system recognized an invasion was occurring, but it could not identify the invader. You see, the immune system has two parts. The first response is general. The second response—the adaptive response—is highly antigen specific. The immune system looks for markers on the subcellular level to identify each new invader. Then it catalogs the specific proteins for each new virus and bacteria and keeps a record so that on the next exposure, it can mount a strong defense.”

  “You were looking for these specific proteins to identify the bug, just like the police use a fingerprint to identify a criminal,” he said.

  “Yes, exactly,” she said, excited that her dull student was able to understand this simple concept.

  “And you didn’t find any fingerprints?”

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “Well, can’t you keep looking?”

  She slammed a hand on the table, surprising him. “The bodies are no longer available, and neither are the tissue samples.”

  “Why?”

  She looked at him, fury in her eyes for the first time since they’d sat down.

  “Because they were all taken!”

  “By Commander Zhang?” he said, shaking his head disparagingly.

  She cocked her head and looked confused. “No, not Commander Zhang. By the military.”

  “I thought Zhang was military?” he said. Now he was thoroughly confused.

  “Not exactly. The Snow Leopards are a division of the People’s Armed Police Force. I do not think you have this structure in America. They are in-between the regular police and the army. Very elite, but separate.”

  He nodded understanding—similar to the elite SWAT units operated by the DEA and the FBI. Now the pieces were clicking into place. “I see. It was the PLA that commandeered the bodies in the middle of your investigation and put Major Li in charge?”

  “Yes. Commander Zhang and I were both surprised by this,” she said, but then she hesitated and screwed up her face at him. “Wait, how do you know about Major Li?”

  “From you, remember? The last time we spoke in the hotel lobby, you said if I had any questions, I should go ask Major Li.”

  She frowned. “I was upset. I should not have told you that.”

  “Too late now,” he said with a reticent grin. “For what it’s worth, I would have been pissed off too if I were in your shoes.”

  “It was terrible. Li confiscated all the reports and tissue samples for Regiment 54423 and then destroyed the bodies . . . at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  Nick resisted the urge to rub his chin. So I was right, he thought. There is a conspiracy going on, and the Red Army is at the center of it.

  “What is Regiment 54423? I’ve not heard of this unit,” he said.

  “The army’s nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons unit—a division of soldier-scientists.”

  “Well, there you go,” he said. “It is a cover-up. The army must have tested a new weapon system on the Uyghurs, and now they are hiding the evidence.”

  “No,” she said simply. “This is the story I would have believed, if I had not met you in Kizilsu.”

  Nick raised his eyebrows. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  “You told me during your interrogation that if we wanted to figure out who would do such a terrible thing, then we should ask ourselves who would benefit the most,” she said, tapping her index finger against the side of her martini glass. “The army does not benefit from this attack.”

  “But the party leadership does. From what I understand, Beijing has been steadily stepping up the pressure against Muslim dissidents out west, right?”

  “You were a soldier, so let me ask you this question: If the United States had an advanced, secret biological weapon, a weapon superior to all other biological weapons because it can be deployed with the accuracy of a bomb, would your government use it on a foe as unworthy as the Uyghurs in Kizilsu?”

  He thought about the breadth of the firepower in the US arsenal. Then he thought about the percentage of that arsenal that could be used in the War on Terror but wasn’t. He shook his head.

  “Never in a million years.”

  “Exactly. In China, the government can deal with Muslim troublemakers harshly enough using the state police. They have no need to use such a weapon. Despite what you may believe about China in America, my government would never target women and children when dealing with such a problem.”

  “Women and children?” Nick felt a band tighten around his chest. Images of charred bodies—one smoking black body without legs and the remnants of a red scarf—crowded into his mind’s eye. For a moment, he thought he might be sick. He exhaled slowly and looked at her.

  “Yes,” she said. Her voice had lost its rising passion and once again become cool and clinical. “Among the victims were two women and one child—an infant.”

  Nick rubbed a hand across his face and let the air hiss out through pursed lips. “Well, then it must have been a terrorist attack.” He wasn’t sure she was listening to him, and her headshake may have been to an internal thought rather than what he was saying. “Then we’re back to the original question: who would benefit from launching such an attack?”

  Dash looked up and her almond eyes were rimmed with tears. Nick wondered whether it was grief or frustration—maybe both.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “This is why I contacted you. I was hoping you could help me answer this question.”

  He opened his mouth to say something but then realized he had no idea what to say. How could he help? He was an outsider—an outsider being investigated by the Snow Leopard Commando Counterterrorism Unit. He didn’t have any allies in China. He didn’t have access to privileged information. He was about to verbalize these things when she abruptly stood.

  “I am sorry to have bothered you, Nick Foley,” she said and gathered her small clutch. “It was a mistake to involve you. I do not wish to put you at any further risk. I simply thought—because you have fought terrorists—that maybe you could help me look at this problem differently. There is no one else I can approach. Major Li controls all the information. Commander Zhang has been ordered to end his investigation. My office has assigned me to other duties. I have no access to the bodies, or the tissue samples, or any of the lab data. I just . . .” She shook her head and turned to leave.

  “Wait,” he said, grabbing her by the arm. She recoiled at the touch like a whipped puppy. He released her instantly. “One of the victims was my friend. He was a husband and father and now . . .” He paused, struggling t
o find the right words. “What I’m trying to say is that I want to help you. I will help you.”

  She looked around, suddenly paranoid.

  “I’m sorry, Nick Foley,” she said, then leaned in closer. “Perhaps we can speak again. I don’t know. I need time to think.”

  “At least let me call you a cab,” he said, stepping out of the booth to accompany her. “It’s late to be wandering the streets alone.”

  She shook her head.

  “Thank you, but that is not necessary,” she said. “I will take the subway, as I always do.”

  “Then let me walk you to the closest metro station,” he insisted.

  Dash shook her head again.

  “It is best for us both not to be seen together. Thank you, Nick Foley. We may yet speak again.”

  He watched her as she weaved hastily through the crowd. What the hell had just happened? If he was being played by this woman, then he had no fucking idea what her endgame was.

  When she reached the steps leading up to the main club, he saw two men slide out of a booth and begin moving in her direction. This time he was certain he had seen both these men at the bar. It wasn’t a coincidence.

  He threw a handful of bills on the table and set off after her while keeping a discreet distance from the two men following her. By the time they had all navigated through the densely packed dance floor, his Navy SEAL instincts were ringing like alarm bells. At the door, the two men were joined by a third. They spoke briefly, pointed to the door, and then followed Dr. Chen out.

  Nick moved swiftly after them, his body amped with adrenaline. He forced himself to pause and count to five before pushing his way out the door. He did not want her, or the three men, to spot him leaving the club.

  He stepped outside and immediately felt a stab of panic. The street was teaming with cars, and the sidewalk was crowded with more people than he would have imagined given the late hour. He scanned left and right but couldn’t find either Dash or the three men. He jogged five paces toward the curb, changing his vantage point, and caught a glimpse of one the men turning the corner at the end of the block to the right. With clenched fists, he set off after them, praying he could catch up before it was too late.