by Alex Ryan
There it was.
“What kind of information?”
Lankford smiled and sipped his coffee.
“I have an agent working an asset—a high-level official in the Chinese CDC who was directly involved in the ‘incident.’ She has some information about the attack that you may be interested in—things that could help you.”
“I didn’t say it was an attack. Do you know something I don’t know?”
Gotcha.
“I sure hope so. We’re on the same team, right? We really should pool our resources here.”
“How is your agent connected to your asset?” Foley asked.
Lankford hesitated. What the hell was this all about?
“What difference does that make?”
“It might make a big difference in vetting your information,” Foley said coolly. “You’re saying you have a spy in the CDC?” Then he folded his hands on the table and waited.
“I didn’t say we had a mole or a spy. It’s social,” Lankford said. He needed to protect Jamie Lin above all. She was his team. “That’s all I can tell you.”
“Okay,” Foley said. “I get it. What can you tell me about Kizilsu? You think it was a bioterror attack?”
Shit, Lankford thought. He doesn’t know anything.
He looked at his watch. He needed to get Foley and his guys into the fold.
“How does your schedule look?” Lankford asked, stalling. “We should meet again.”
“Why?”
“Because my agent is still digging. Still vetting. I’ll have more details by tonight.”
Foley looked unconvinced. He stood to leave.
“You need to talk to your people, Nick,” Lankford said, pressing his back hard into his chair. “We need to work together here—pool our resources. If there is some bioweapon out there in play, then we don’t have time to worry about territorial bullshit. I have a big machine that can help us figure this out.”
“Yeah,” Foley said. “I’ve worked with you guys before in Afghanistan. I know what you can do.”
Lankford watched the SEAL’s expression become clouded. A bad sign. Sometimes the goals of the military operators and the spooks came into conflict. When that happened, the end result was usually raw feelings and perpetual distrust. But Foley was a spy now. He was read into the big-picture briar patch called “strategic policy” and all the complications that generated. “Aim, point, shoot” was a myth. Foley got that, right?
“We can discuss next steps when we meet tonight,” Lankford said, pressing.
Foley seemed to chuckle to himself. “One step at a time. Let me talk to my people first. How can I reach you?” he asked.
“I’ll find you,” Lankford said.
“Right,” Foley said.
Then the SEAL was gone without a backward glance.
Lankford chewed the inside of his cheek. Something felt weird about this guy. He checked his phone—no messages or missed calls from Jamie Lin. He’d let her sleep a little while longer and then call her in. Maybe he should have her back off for a couple days. Just to be safe. Just until things came together with Foley and whoever the hell he was working for.
Lankford popped the last bite of pastry into his mouth and then his eyes wandered to Foley’s untouched bing across the table. With an outstretched index finger, he dragged the little ceramic plate toward him.
“My treat,” he mumbled, lifting the sticky bun to his lips. “Yeah, right.”
Chapter 21
Dazhong was exhausted—physically, emotionally, and intellectually wiped.
When she got home from Jamie Lin’s last night, it took her a while to calm down enough to fall asleep, and now it seemed like only seconds later that her alarm was buzzing in her ear. With less than two hours sleep, she dragged herself into work, where she promptly and thoroughly caffeinated herself. Thirty minutes before lunch, she got a call on her personal mobile phone. When she checked the caller ID and saw “NF,” it took her several seconds to register who was calling. She had been so absorbed in the hyperfocused rhythm of work at the CDC that the events of last night had faded, like a childhood nightmare years removed. Her secret meeting with Nick Foley, the brutal attack in the alley, the sobbing confessions at Jamie Lin’s apartment—those things had happened to some other girl, a foolish crusader trying to tackle a government conspiracy in thousand-dollar high heels and a mask of makeup. In the light of day, even superheroes feel the fool. And she was not a superhero. She was Dr. Dazhong Chen, Project Director for Research, Screening, and Testing of Emerging Diseases at the CDC, and she did not have time for petty interruptions. But Foley’s voice was ripe with distress and urgency, so against her better judgment, she left work and took a taxi to Wangfujing Snack Street.
She scanned the crowd. A two-meter-tall American should be easy enough to spot, she thought, but when she felt a hand gently touch the small of her back, she startled.
“Thanks for coming, Dr. Chen,” a familiar voice said to her left.
She whirled to face Nick Foley beside her. A switch flipped inside, and suddenly, she was back in the cloak-and-dagger world.
“I am taking a big risk meeting you here,” she said. “If anyone sees us together—”
“I know,” he said, nodding, “but I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t urgent. Walk with me.”
They walked shoulder to shoulder until they came to the elaborate, multicolored archway at the entrance to Wangfujing Snack Street. The famous bustling outdoor food market was crowded with tourists and the local lunchtime rush. If there was one place to get lost in the crowd in Beijing, this was it. She could not remember the last time she’d been to this place—five years if she had to guess. She grinned as she watched Nick’s eyes go wide as he surveyed the exotic fare being peddled by sidewalk food vendors. On “Snack Street” almost every creature imaginable was showcased for human consumption. The smell of deep-fat fryers, roasted meat, and boiled offal hung in the air. To their left, fried scorpions were showcased on wooden skewers next to rust-colored centipedes the size of her hand. On the right, giant water beetles, with shells as black as midnight, were displayed alongside jumbo-sized grasshoppers and deep-fried seahorses. She saw him smirk as he passed one peddler aggressively advertising a tray of sheep penis and ox testicles.
“Hungry, Nick?” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “My treat.”
“No thanks,” he said, patting his stomach. “I’ve already had lunch.”
“At this place, I am only—how do you say it in America? A window shopper?” she said, grinning.
“Ah, c’mon. I thought for sure you were one of those girls who loves to eat giant scorpions.”
“Is that why you called me here, Nick? To watch me eat fried bugs?”
His expression darkened. “No, I called you here so we could talk in private, face to face, about a conversation I had this morning that concerns you.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him.
“A man I’ve never met—an American—approached me this morning at my hotel. He started asking questions about what I was doing in China. He accused me of working covertly for the American government and immediately started probing for details about what happened in Kizilsu. Then he started talking about you.”
“Me?” she said, butterflies suddenly fluttering in her stomach. “Why me?”
“He didn’t give me those details. The conversation was a bit one-sided, if you know what I mean.”
“Who was this man? Who does he work for?”
“His name is Chet Lankford, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure he works for the CIA.”
Dazhong felt the blood drain from her cheeks. “How does he know me?”
“He’s been keeping tabs on you.”
“He’s been spying on me?”
“Not Lankford, one of his agents. Someone who—I suspect—has probably been running you for some time now. This agent made a report last night that got Lankford all spun up and twisted out of shape.”
> “Last night?”
“That’s right. Did you meet with anyone else last night besides me? A woman perhaps, who you might have mentioned my name to?”
A wave of nausea washed over Dazhong, followed immediately by a red-hot surge of anger. “Jamie Lin!” she seethed.
“Who is Jamie Lin? A work colleague?”
“No, she’s a friend,” she said, choking on the words.
“Did you tell Jamie Lin about me, Dash?”
She heard the question, but Nick’s voice was already fading into the background din of Wangfujing Snack Street as she set off through the crowd.
“Where are you going?” he asked, jogging to catch up.
“To see Jamie Lin, of course.”
“No, no, no,” he said. “That’s not a good idea, Dash. Not a good idea at all.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not how you play the game. If you go in hot and confront her now, one of two things is going to happen: (a) she’ll deny everything and try to placate you so she can keep you in play, or (b) she’ll admit the truth and then use scare tactics to convince you that you’re a traitor in the eyes of the Chinese government, so the only way you can protect yourself is to agree to become a double agent and work for the CIA. Either way, you’ve lost any element of control you had in the relationship and she owns you.”
“Sounds like you know a lot about this,” she said, glowering at him. “Maybe you’re a spy for the CIA, Nick Foley.”
“You and Commander Zhang vetted my background in that interrogation session, remember? I’m an ex–Navy SEAL, not a spook.”
“I thought I knew Jamie Lin, but according to you, she’s been lying to me from the beginning,” she said, stopping and crossing her arms on her chest. “I don’t know who to trust anymore.”
“I understand how you must feel but—”
“Do you, Nick?” she interrupted. “Do you know how it feels to be betrayed by someone you trust? Do you know how it feels to be lied to by the CIA?”
“Yes,” he said, looking her straight in the eyes. “I know exactly how that feels, and being lied to by the CIA is the reason I’m no longer a Navy SEAL.”
She held his gaze, and deep in his pale-blue eyes, she saw that he was telling the truth.
Her mobile phone buzzed in her purse. She broke eye contact and fished it out. A text message from Jamie Lin flashed on the screen.
“What’s it say?” Nick asked, staring down at the Chinese characters.
“It says, ‘Need help. Can’t breathe. Think I’m dying,’” she said, translating the message. “More lies—she probably knows I’m meeting with you.”
“No, I don’t think so,” he said, grabbing her by the arm and tugging her in the direction of the towering Wangfujing Snack Street archway. “Not this time.”
“Where are we going?” she said, jogging to keep up with him.
“To Jamie Lin’s apartment, before it’s too late.”
Chapter 22
Jamie Lin’s apartment
1225 hours local
“Maybe she’s not here?” Dazhong said, turning to look at Nick.
He pressed his ear against the outside of the apartment door and listened. “Maybe,” he said. “But I think she is.”
“Then why won’t she answer the door?”
“Maybe she can’t answer the door,” he said, worry lines suddenly tracing his forehead.
“What do we do?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a key for her place, would you?”
“Actually, I do,” she said, fetching a silver key from her purse.
“Too bad,” he said with a chuckle. “I used to be a professional door kicker.”
She shot him a curious glance.
“It’s a Navy SEAL thing, never mind,” he said, extending his palm to her.
She handed him the key and stepped aside. She watched in silence as he took great care to unlock the door without making a sound.
“Stay behind me,” he whispered as he turned the knob and took a cautious step across the threshold.
She nodded and followed him inside. The air in Jamie Lin’s apartment felt stale and empty, as if all the qi had been drained out of it. Even the plants on the window ledge seemed to droop. The sunlight streaming through the windows was pale and clinical. The stillness was so detached and cold, she felt goose bumps stand up on her forearms and the nape of her neck. Dazhong had spent many hours in Jamie Lin’s apartment, and never had it felt like this before.
“Something is wrong,” she whispered.
“I feel it too,” he said. “Call to her.”
“Jamie Lin? It’s Dazhong,” she called. “Are you home?”
After a beat, she heard a groan, faint and barely audible.
“Did you hear that?” she asked Nick.
He nodded and led her in the direction of the noise. “Call out again,” he said.
“Jamie Lin, it’s Dazhong . . . Are you okay?”
Another groan—this time a terrible, terrible sound that reminded her of a dying animal.
“She’s in the bathroom,” Dazhong said, shouldering her way past Nick. The bathroom door was cracked open and the light was on inside. She glanced back over her shoulder at Nick for confirmation.
He nodded.
Tenuously, she pushed the door open.
Dazhong found Jamie Lin in the bathroom, writhing on the floor beside the toilet. Jamie Lin’s back was to them, her mobile phone clutched in her right hand. Dazhong knelt and cautiously reached out her hand to touch Jamie Lin’s shoulder. Before she made contact, Nick stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice stern and authoritative.
Upon hearing his voice, Jamie Lin whipped around to face them.
Dazhong lurched backward at the horror of Jamie Lin’s face. “Oh no,” she gasped. “Not again.”
Suddenly, she was grateful to have Nick with her.
“This is the same disease presentation I saw in Kizilsu, with my friend Batur,” he said.
All the anger and venom Dazhong had been harboring on account of Jamie Lin’s betrayal immediately began to drain away, like dirty bathwater spiraling down the drain. Rushing in to fill the void were a strange mix of emotions—compassion, dread, and most of all, fear. There was no recovery from this scourge; the mortality rate for the victims at the Artux People’s Hospital had been 100 percent. Judging from Jamie Lin’s symptoms, the disease had advanced even more quickly. Her friend did not have much time left.
“Dazhong?” Jamie Lin wheezed.
“Yes, Jamie Lin. It’s me, Dazhong. I’m here.”
“Can’t . . . see.”
“I know, sweetie. That’s because your eyes are swollen shut.”
Jamie Lin coughed and sputtered and then let out a long, agonizing groan. “Am I dying?”
Dazhong looked at Nick. He gave her a solemn nod.
“Yes,” she finally managed, the word catching in her throat.
Jamie Lin shuddered and Dazhong looked on in horror, powerless to do anything.
“I have . . . something . . . to tell . . . you,” Jamie Lin whispered, each syllable a labor now.
“I know you work for the CIA,” Dazhong said. “It’s okay.”
Jamie Lin began to sob, but the effect was more like a convulsion. “Our . . . friendship . . . was . . . real . . . forgive me.”
Dazhong wanted to stroke her dying friend’s hair, but she couldn’t. Just being in the same room with Jamie Lin, breathing the same air without a respirator, put her and Nick at terrible risk.
“Who did this to you, Jamie Lin?” Nick interjected suddenly.
Dazhong jerked her head to look at him. Nick’s forensic assumption hit her like a brick. Of course, she thought. This infection is not random. This is murder. Jamie Lin was murdered because of me!
“Didn’t . . . see . . . his face,” Jamie Lin labored, her voice barely audible now. “He . . .” She stopped and began to gurg
le. Grayish-purple blood laden with mucous bubbled from her lips. As she wheezed for air, a death panic took hold of her and she began to thrash about on the floor, clawing at her neck.
Dazhong reached out and clutched Nick’s arm. He looked at her and she at him, begging with her eyes. He shook his head.
Tears welled up in Dazhong’s eyes, and it took every fiber of strength in her being not to try to help clear Jamie Lin’s airway. As she stared at her friend through tear-filled eyes, she watched dark blood begin to drip, and then pour, from Jamie Lin’s eyes and nose, followed by her ears. Her friend wretched, and a waterfall of dark, foul-smelling blood exploded from between her swollen lips. Then, a dark stain began to grow around Jamie Lin’s waist, as she lost control of her bladder and bowels. Dazhong recoiled, gagging.
Jamie Lin stiffened, arched her back violently, and then went limp.
“We need to get her to a hospital, Nick,” Dazhong said, shaking him until he looked at her.
“You know we can’t do that,” he said, grabbing her by both shoulders. “This was murder—you realize that, right?”
“But there’s still time . . .”
“There’s nothing we can do for her. Nothing anyone can do for her.”
Dazhong shook herself free from his grasp and ran out of the bathroom. She needed to think. She needed air.
“Stop,” he called, just as she reached the apartment door. “We need to do an autopsy.”
“What?” she said, whirling to face him, tears welling in her eyes. “Are you insane?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but this might be our only opportunity to discover the truth about what the hell this thing is. You told me that Major Li confiscated all the patient data from Kizilsu, right? Well, now’s your chance to perform a postmortem analysis of your own. Do you have access to laboratory and analysis equipment at the CDC?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Okay, then we need to collect samples and run tests before they find out what happened here and confiscate the body.”
He was right—of course, he was—but just the thought of performing an autopsy on Jamie Lin made her stomach turn.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You don’t know if you can do what? Perform the autopsy or analyze the samples?”