Beijing Red: A Thriller (A Nick Foley Thriller)

by Alex Ryan

  Nick handed a bag to Dash and then unpacked his own.

  “I have a theory that the nanobots self-destruct once the target tissues have been completely destroyed, but I am not certain of the mechanism or the timing,” she explained before putting her mask on.

  Nick donned his gloves, then pulled on his own mask. After checking that the seal was satisfactory, he looked at her and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I know,” she said, slipping on her latex gloves. “I have very much to tell you, Nick. Soon.”

  Soon . . . great.

  He followed her up the stairs and took a position beside her on the landing. Three feet away, a dead man lay naked in a pool of blood. Nick stared at the scene, perplexed. Why is this man naked? Why is the blood always dark purple instead of the red he had seen in combat? And why is there so much blood?

  “This one looks different,” Dash said, under her breath.

  Nick nodded. Where Batur and Jamie Lin had been swollen to the point of bursting, the man at their feet was gaunt, the cheeks sunken and gray. The eyes were gone, except for some gelatinous goo that pooled in the corner of the otherwise empty sockets. It was as if his eyes had been gouged out and then the sockets used as a spigot to drain the body of blood. Dark blood dribbled down the corpse’s neck from the ears and ran from the nose over the mouth and chin, but this was nothing compared to the river of blood pouring from of the gaping holes that had once been eyes.

  “What the hell happened to him?” he asked, his voice strange and unfamiliar through the rubber mask.

  Dash looked over at him with fogged bug-eyes. “Murdered—by the same weapon that killed the others.”

  “But the presentation is nothing like the others.”

  “Yes, that is the power and beauty of my former husband’s weapon,” she said, her voice strained with emotion. The sudden use of the word “former” was not lost on him.

  “What are you talking about? This body looks absolutely nothing like the others,” he said, careful not to mention Jamie Lin’s name. Since he still didn’t know what information she had shared with Zhang, he thought it better to err on the side of compartmentalization.

  Dash nodded, patiently.

  “The weapon can select different tissues. I am guessing he delivered the nanobots on a vector specific for a central nervous tissue antigen. I will explain soon, I promise.”

  Nick nodded understanding, but inside, his frustration and anxiety were mounting.

  “There will be time to examine the corpse later,” Zhang snapped. “We need to go.” Again he barked a command to the soldiers below.

  The unlikely fellowship moved up the stairs to the thirteenth floor; the battle rattle from the two soldiers behind Nick was familiar and reassuring. Zhang and his three operators cleared the hallway, and then they advanced to the Chen apartment. The apartment door was shut and locked. With gloved fingers, Dash entered her security code into the keypad. The lock beeped and then clicked. She stepped clear of the door.

  “Wait here,” Zhang whispered over his shoulder, and then he entered the apartment with his team.

  Nick took Dash by the hand and repositioned her clear of the door. While they waited silently in the hallway, Dash bounced nervously on her toes and mumbled in Chinese. He could hear the men barking short, coordinating bits of information at each other, and except for being in Chinese, it was exactly how they would have cleared rooms in a two-by-two formation in his SEAL team. The lack of gunfire and shouting suggested they were not finding anyone. Less than a minute later, Zhang was back.

  “Qing is gone,” he said in English. “But he was here, not long ago.”

  Obviously, Nick thought, picturing the sunken corpse with the blood lakes for eyes on the landing.

  “Your house safe has been emptied,” Zhang said. “Looks like he took almost everything.”

  Dash said nothing.

  Nick followed Dash through the luxurious apartment. In the living room, a hinged bookshelf hung open, revealing a hidden walk-in safe nested in the wall behind. Black metal shelves built in a U shape lined the inside walls. All the shelves were empty.

  “My god,” Dash mumbled.

  “Is something missing?” Nick asked.

  Dash shook her head, the weird green rubber mask making the movement a caricature.

  “I cannot say,” she said, looking up at him. “I had no idea that this room was here.”

  Nick’s stomach went to knots. Not for himself, but for her. He could not imagine the horror and betrayal she must be feeling. Her husband—the man she had shared her life and her bed with—was a monster.

  “Listen, Dr. Chen,” Zhang said, stepping between them. “It is important that you think carefully. Is there anything missing or left behind that might offer a clue as to where Qing went?”

  Dash pulled her mask off and let it drop to the floor.

  She looked shell shocked to Nick, almost fugue-like. “No,” she muttered. “I do not know this man. I can’t help anyone.”

  Zhang pulled off his own mask. He placed his hand on her shoulder and spoke to her in Chinese. His tone was compassionate, his cadence slow and deliberate. She did not make eye contact with him, but she nodded as he spoke. Then he said something that made her smile, and at that moment, Nick realized that Zhang was not the enemy. Despite his bravado and bluster, the Snow Leopard Commander was a good man. A sudden strange sense of camaraderie washed over Nick. Maybe SEALs and Snow Leopards were closer to brethren than he’d considered before. If he squinted just right, maybe he even saw a hint of his old Senior Chief in Zhang.

  She waited until Zhang had finished before answering, this time in English. “It is my own fault for being so easily deceived, but as you say, the past is in the past. I need to move forward. I need to help you find Qing. Give me a little time to think, and maybe I will remember some clues.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Zhang said. He nodded to Nick, who was unsure what the nod implied but preferred it to the barrel of a gun pointed at him.

  Zhang stepped away to conference with his junior officer in Chinese. When they finished, Zhang turned back to Nick. “We must go. There is much to do and many people to talk to. Beijing is at risk. The joint task force has a new mandate—hunt down Chen Qing and secure his bioweapon.”

  “We will go with you,” Dash said, picking up her mask off the floor.

  “No,” Zhang said. “I am sorry, Dr. Chen, but for the next few hours, you would serve only to slow our progress. We have much to do.” He handed her a small phone. “This phone is secure and will dial me directly by pushing pound-one. I am sorry to ask you to remain behind. I know that must be very difficult for you, but I must insist that you stay here and look for clues as to what Qing’s next move might be. As ironic as it sounds, this is probably the safest place you can be right now, because it is the last place Qing will want to be. I’ve ordered two of my men to remain behind as your protection detail. When you’re finished here, pack a bag and my team will drive you to secure, temporary lodging.”

  Dash nodded.

  “Nick Foley, I will permit you to remain here with Dr. Chen and assist her,” Zhang said.

  Nick raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Suddenly you trust me?”

  Zhang laughed. “Warrior to warrior, you’ve earned it. Don’t do anything to make me regret it.”

  Nick nodded and flashed Zhang a sarcastic grin. “Yeah, well, you still have my passport, so I don’t really have a choice, now do I?”

  The joke fell flat and Zhang stared at him.

  “That was a joke.”

  Zhang responded with a polite smile and then turned to Dash. “If you find any clues to where Qing may be hiding or heading, call me immediately.” Then he said something in Chinese that made her smile. To Nick’s surprise, she stepped in and gave Zhang a hug, which the Snow Leopard Commander received with awkward stoicism.

  “Good luck, Commander,” Nick said when Zhang turned to
leave.

  “Thank you, Nick Foley. I expect that the next time we meet, it will be under more favorable circumstances.”

  “As do I.”

  Nick watched Zhang conference briefly with his team and then depart via the back stairs, the same way they had come in. The two Snow Leopard “babysitters” that stayed behind split up—one taking a position near the rear exit and the other at the front door. Nick turned to look at Dash and realized she was not at his side. He scanned the living room, but she was gone.

  “Dash?” he called, wandering out of the living room. “Dash?”

  “I’m in here,” she answered, her voice coming from the next room over.

  He walked out of the living room, down a short hall, and into her bedroom. He found her sitting in the middle of the floor cross-legged, cradling what looked to be a broken toy in her hands. Around her, the bedroom was in shambles—broken furniture, shattered lamps, and shredded women’s clothing were strewn around the room. The room looked as hell-worn as if a grenade had gone off.

  He took a knee in front of her. “What is that?” he asked, looking at the jumble of brightly painted wooden shards in her palms.

  She looked up at him, a single tear snaking down her left cheek. “It was a gift from my father,” she said. “And the last little piece of my soul.”

  Chapter 28

  Building 16, fifteenth floor

  West Area, Jianwai SOHO

  Central business district, Chaoyang District

  0215 hours local

  Qing peered out from behind the darkened window of the empty office. As with so many properties built under the rejuvenation project in Beijing, Building 16 was only partially occupied. For a modest sum, he had secured an office with an eastern exposure that looked out over Henghui Road. More important, this office gave him a clear vantage of INI’s main office and laboratories across the street, half a block away. Invincible Nanotech Industries was his biotech company. His brainchild.

  They think they can take it from me?

  They think I would let them?

  “Fools,” he whispered.

  In moments, it would all be gone. Disappeared, as if it never existed. And afterward, he would disappear as well, like a ghost. Polakov had dubbed him Prizrak for a reason. Polakov understood him. Polakov appreciated his intellect and his talents. But Polakov made the same mistake as everyone else and tried to control him. Chen Qing was no man’s puppet.

  He checked the timer counting down on his mobile phone. Less than a minute and everything would be gone. Well, not everything. His most important creation was archived digitally on multiple encrypted hard drives and stored physically inside twelve pressurized canisters locked in a metal cage beneath the city—in a darker, forgotten Beijing.

  Commotion at the end of the block caught his eye, and he strained to see north to the corner of Henghui Road and Jingheng Street without moving closer to the window where he might be noticed. He pursed his lips as two black Mercedes SUVs pulled into the intersection and blocked traffic, blue-and-green lights flashing in their windows. Two other SUVs screamed south on Henghui to block the other corner while a fifth led two large, black military-style trucks onto the oval-shaped access road in front of the INI building. The first truck stopped, and a dozen armed men clad in body armor and helmets poured out the back like angry hornets. The other truck sped around the corner—out of view—presumably to assault the rear in a similar fashion.

  He glanced again at his phone: 0:09, 0:08, 0:07 . . .

  He frowned.

  He didn’t have time to reprogram the timer. Pity—if he could have added just two minutes, the blast would have evaporated the entire assault force and left many fewer enemies to worry about.

  It doesn’t matter, he told himself. They will never find me.

  With two seconds left on the countdown, he shielded his eyes. Despite the hand in front of his face, the flash was blinding. The shockwave and the roar hit an instant later, rattling the window in front of him as the explosion incinerated the INI offices across the street. Soldiers who had mobilized on the sidewalk fell in unison to the ground, arms protecting their heads as glass and debris washed over them like crystal rain. The soldiers did not fare well in the maelstrom. He counted one, two, three impalements, one severed arm, one crushed skull, maybe more . . . it was hard to tell at this distance.

  “This is your fault,” he yelled through the window at them. “You did this. Not me—not me!” he screamed, spittle spattering the window in front of him.

  He sniffed and straightened his shirt.

  “Not me.”

  He slipped his phone into his pocket, turned, and walked out of the empty office. Upon exiting, he calmly locked the door behind him. He walked to the end of the hall, pushed the call button for the elevator, and waited. Moments later, the elevator chimed, the doors opened to greet him, and he rode the glass-and-chrome carriage down, inspecting his fingernails all the way to the lobby.

  The next several hours would be difficult and dangerous for him. For the first time in his life, he felt completely alone. For years, he had relied heavily on Polakov and the Russian Intelligence agency he worked for. It was that apparatus that had planned, procured, and installed the demolition charges he had just detonated to cover his tracks. It was that apparatus that had the means to safely and secretly extricate him from China. But now it was gone, and his escape was no longer guaranteed. What he desperately needed now was a new team with equivalent capabilities—state-level brawn to protect him and his big ideas. Perhaps his new ally, with its underground global terror network, would be able to fill this deficit.

  The elevator doors opened and he strode confidently across the marble floor toward the lobby exit on the west side of the building—away from the chaos he had just created. He adjusted the leather messenger bag on his shoulder and nodded at the security guard running toward him.

  “Did you hear that?” the guard asked, slowing his pace.

  Qing shrugged and shook his head.

  “There was a massive explosion across the street,” the guard said, his breath labored and his face sweating. “I think someone just blew up the INI building.”

  Qing wondered if the man might be having a heart attack.

  “That’s terrible,” he said, the words incongruous with the serenity he was feeling. “Who would do such a thing?”

  It was a shame he had not created more of his biological agent. It would have been an interesting experiment to have combined the MEMS with the explosives. If only he had thought of that before. He made a mental note of this—each new deployment of the weapon was an opportunity to experiment. He had every reason to believe that the nanobots, and the immune vectors they relied on, would survive such an explosion. In fact, if the charge was designed properly, the explosion might even enhance the infection rate, propelling and dispersing the bots in a wider area than his aerosolizing canisters were designed to do. He felt a twinge of excitement at the prospect of testing the idea. Unlike the Russians, who were focused on covert applications of the technology, his new ally might find the idea of an explosive delivery very appealing indeed.

  A conversation for another time, he mused.

  He continued out the west doors and then moved southwest at a quick clip along the empty sidewalk between Building 16 and Building 15 to the south. Then he continued west two more blocks, turned south on Yong’anli East Street, and a minute later was heading east on the Tonghuihe North side road that paralleled the Tonghu River. As he walked past Henghui, he glanced left. Fires burned, sirens wailed, and chaos reigned supreme in the place that had once been INI. He smiled. That would keep his enemies occupied for a while. It would take less than twenty minutes to walk to the vacant shop with secret access to the Underground City.

  No one would think to look for him there.

  No one except Dazhong . . .

  He glanced at his watch, surprised at how much time had gone by. He picked up his pace. This was not a meeting he wa
nted to be late for.

  Chapter 29

  Chen residence

  0225 hours local

  Dazhong stared at the splintered remains of the puzzle box cradled in her hands. Considering everything else that had happened to her in the past forty-eight hours, a broken puzzle box should be the least of her anxieties. A broken puzzle box should not trigger such angst and loss in a grown woman. But here she was, holding this broken thing, and the emotions were real. Maybe there is a reason emotions are difficult to articulate. Emotions are the bridge between the concrete and the abstract. They are the bridge between that which is external, the world, and internal, the mind. The mind ascribes worth and hierarchy to objects, people, and events in the world; each value judgment is unique from mind to mind. To 99.999 percent of the people in the world, her broken puzzle box would hold no more value than a novelty toy—its worth as inconsequential as a taxi fare. In Dazhong’s world, it was an intimate treasure that transcended a monetary analog. The puzzle box was a metaphor—it was the yin and yang of Chen Dazhong: plain in form yet beautiful when painted; impenetrable to the uninitiated, yet accessible with intimacy; secure in the right hands, yet vulnerable in others . . .

  “I’m sorry,” Nick said, interrupting her thoughts, his voice soft and cautious. “It must have been very beautiful.”

  “It was. I think you would have . . .” She stopped and let the words trail off.

  “You think I would have what?”

  “I think you would have appreciated it—for what it really was. Qing never understood it, and so he resented it. And he resented me,” she said. “He did this to hurt me.”

  Nick stood and turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?” she said, confused.

  “To the kitchen,” he said. “Be right back.”

  She heard the clamor of cabinet doors and drawers being exercised sequentially and then he returned carrying a plastic bag. He held the mouth of the bag open and presented it to her.