by Tony Bulmer
She looked into his eyes. “How are you feeling?” There was no need to ask, his eyes told the full story, bugging so wide now they looked like they were going to pop out of his head. Karyn took hold of him by the tie and slapped his face. “Hey, listen to me. We are getting the hell out of here right now, but you are going to have to do just exactly as I say. Do you understand me?”
The Secretary of State opened his mouth and attempted to speak, but the best he could manage was a rivulet of drool that ran uncontrolled out the corner of his gaping mouth. Karyn smiled. “There’s a good boy. You follow me like see monkey do. You stay close and I will get you out of here. You lag behind, or pull any of your goof-off antics and the Chinese army will tear you another pooper to match the one you already got. We clear? Whitaker nodded weakly, so Karyn hauled him to his feet and they set off together Indian style, creeping through the bushes, until they ran into a high white stucco wall. They followed the wall downhill for about a hundred and fifty yards, until they suddenly emerged on to a winding pathway that led through a gateway in the wall. Karyn didn’t pause, even for a second. She barreled down the pathway with building speed, the over-amped Whitaker following obediently in her wake. The gateway was manned by a small group of soldiers with bayonet mounted QBZ assault rifles. They had been charged with holding their position against all comers, but from the startled looks on their faces, they hadn’t been expecting to encounter a sight quite as strange as the one they saw now—a wild, raven-headed woman and a shambolic, gangling, Caucasian who looked like a runaway science experiment, fresh out of Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory.
The soldiers exchanged glances, and raised their rifles.
Karyn greeted the group of soldiers in the Suzho dialect of Wu Chinese. They seemed to like that, but there were a couple of blank faces, so she switched seamlessly into Mandarin. “Busy day,” said Karyn her voice smooth and even. Then she smiled and said, “I guess you boys aren’t from around here are you? I don’t suppose you have any idea where we could grab a cab do you? My friend here has had a rather busy day and could use a nice lay down in a quiet room.”
One of the soldiers stepped forward then, he was young but had a mangled face that said he had been subjected to a very unpleasant experience at close quarters—he was about to have another, although from his bullish demeanor it would have been hard to guess it. This guy was a brawler, the sort of street-corner thug that no amount of military training could shave the hard edges off.
He raised his hand, pushed her lightly on the chest and said mockingly in English, “You go nowhere American.”
Karyn looked him in the eyes. She examined his red and gold epaulettes and his triple striped shoulder patch complete with soviet style star. She nodded and said, “So, you are the man to talk to huh? I thought as much.”
He gave her a knowing sneer and turned slightly so that his friends could see just how unimportant these American fools were. The approving leers of his countrymen, was the last thing he saw. Karyn caught him so hard and fast on the side of the neck as he turned back towards her that his head almost snapped off his shoulders. Almost instantaneously she took down both of the soldiers on her immediate left and right, the first with a hard-edged elbow strike, the second with a punishing open-handed blow to the esophagus that saw him sink immediately to his knees, unable to breath. The last soldier made a show of things. He half raised his rifle and lunged wildly, his bayonet slicing past Karyn’s mid section.
“Really?” said Karyn. “That is the best you got? Let me tell you something sonny, someone tried to open me up with a bayonet once before and that really pissed me off. So, you can either you drop that plastic looking peashooter right now, or I am going to hurt you so bad you will be singing falsetto from now to Quingming spring.”
The young soldier made a second wild lunge at her that sailed even wider from the mark. Karyn felt kind of sorry for him. He was just doing his job after all. Trouble was, he was preventing her from doing hers and that would never do.
Karyn sidestepped, caught the rifle by the barrel and dealt the young soldier an elbow/fist double tap that loosened his grip on the weapon. Karyn wrenched it smartly out his hands. She turned looked at him saw his bloodied and incredulous face staring back at her not knowing quite what to do. Karyn tilted her head, looked back at him without blinking and said, “You look like a good kid, so I am going to cut you a break. She popped the breech open and started stripping parts out of the gun flinging them left and right. Finally, she said, “I am not going to see you again, am I?”
The kid shook his head, then turned and ran.
“Who the hell are you Kane, I mean really?” blurted the secretary of state surveying the bodies on the floor.
“Just a low down operator on the Agency totem pole, pretty much like I already told you Truman. Now, are you gonna stand there all day gawking, or are we gonna cut out of here quick-smart, because I am guessing that in about five minutes from now, that sweet little soldier I just cut a break to will be back here with a battalion strength posse of steel-headed bad-asses looking to slice us into pet-jerky.”
“You cannot behave like this Kane. We are guests in their country. If anyone ever finds out about this, my career will be finished—yours too, you can count on that.”
Karyn just smiled. “My career is already finished Truman. I am a ghost. Didn’t you know that?”
08
Manhattan, New York
Irving King had a commanding view. His panoramic office at the very pinnacle of the Ploutos Capital building on Liberty and Broadway, frowned out across to the jostling skyline of the New York Financial District and the vanishing boroughs beyond. On a good day you could almost see Connecticut. Irving King however, had no time for such things. There was no margin in moonish spectacle, unless that spectacle made a statement. This then, was the layer of the super predator and as the rain-slatted day broke reluctantly in the east, Irving King looked to the giant screen on the wall of his eerie and said, “Everything is in place?”
The image of Zhàn Tao loomed in from the giant screen, illuminated like an ancient god by his golden surroundings—Corinthian columns, classical architraves and sumptuous furnishings in the French Baroque style.
“It is done,” growled Zhàn Tao. “I trust you are prepared for commencement?”
King noticed with disapproval that Zhàn Tao was wearing candy colored golf clothes. In King’s book that kind of dress was deeply suspect. No kind of real man would wear clothes like that, not in a million years. As for the kitsch ostentation, not even those vulgarians from Saudi Arabia would be caught dead living in such a nouveau classical knocking shop. “Have you been riding the fairway Tao?” King could barely conceal the true level of contempt in his voice, but when it came to locker room banter King knew how to dish the goods NFL style, and the hell with anyone who didn’t like it, no matter who they were. Just another first amendment advantage of vast wealth—the more scratch you had, the more you got to sound-off, and tell the jerk-off classes the way things were.
Zhàn Tao gave a soft, melting smile, revealing the glitter of miniature teeth that looked unnatural in his sharp, angular head. “I have been taking care of business Mr. King. There is always much business to be done in the People’s Republic of China.”
King cleared his nasal passages noisily, snorking back phlegm, he savored it momentarily, before spitting it out violently on to the black marble floor. “I hear you been having a little trouble with those Uyghur radicals?” He let the words run contemptuously across his tongue, pronouncing Uyghur as Weegar.
“As the world forges forwards towards new greatness, there will always be those who choose the past over their own lives. We will pay them no quarter.”
“That there is the kind of fighting talk I like to hear Tao. Why in the heavens those turban-wearing Uyghur slackers would want to latch on to the world of Saudi Islam I do not know. Not when they are riding in the pocket of the second greatest nation on earth.”
<
br /> “You have quite a sense of humor Mr. King.”
“There’s no margin in a sense of humor Mr. Tao. No margin at all, which is why I have to thank you. I made close to two hundred billion dollars today, after that show at your brothers funeral. You are to be congratulated; the markets went into free-fall worldwide. That has to be the biggest single hedge I made this financial quarter, and looking at my trading screen right now, I can see the profits are still flooding in.”
Zhàn Tao gave the slightest nod of acknowledgment. “It begins.”
“I hear that someone cut my favorite politician a break. I was hoping to hear news on how that particular gentleman was getting shipped back Stateside in a bucket. I am disappointed Tao, I have to tell you.”
“I hear his pretty wife has gone missing,” said Zhàn Tao. “A most unfortunate occurrence.”
“Missing permanent, or just away for the weekend?”
“I hear she has fallen into the hands of the Uyghur terrorists. Naturally, the heroic forces of the People’s Liberation Army are doing their utmost to effect a rescue, but these religious zealots are most unscrupulous in their tactics. I suspect a great deal of harm could come to Ms. Whitaker.”
King felt his juices flowing. The thought of something happening to Lauren Whitaker got him excited. Lustful images filled his head. He gave a smug little laugh. It was a little early in the day, but a trip to the executive washroom would be well deserved under the circumstances. He snorked another loogie. “What about the device?”
“In transit. Logistical considerations are running as scheduled.”
“Very pleased to hear it Tao.”
“And the partners Mr. King? I trust all financial considerations have been put in place with your characteristic discretion?”
“Don’t you go concerning yourself Tao. I got all bases covered. This is going to be the biggest deal this century.”
Zhàn Tao looked emphatic. His hard, angular face tilted slightly, and then he said, “The second biggest deal.”
09
Shanghai, China
“You ever ride a motorbike?” asked Karyn, her voice hard-edged and brusque.
Secretary of State Truman Whitaker looked around nervously, his eyes bugging out from the adrenaline shot she had given him. There was a long line of army trucks parked farther up the road. Soldiers and police were milling around, many of them with automatic weapons. “I don’t like this, it feels wrong. We have to come forward, make ourselves known to the authorities.” His eyes settled on the row of police motorcycles standing unattended and added. “I will not do anything illegal.”
“You are sniveling again Truman, and I cannot say I like it. What do you think the great American public would say if they could hear you now? Or that pretty little wife of yours, for that matter.”
“I couldn’t give a damn what that bitch thinks. She only married me for what she could get and she is bleeding me dry, let me tell you. She says she will never give me a divorce even if I want one.”
Karyn scrunched her face. “How romantic. Marital strife is never pretty. But maybe you should grow yourself a set of balls Truman, that way she would respect you more.”
He pouted, looked at her doubtfully then said, “I drove a scooter once when I was in college. I didn’t like it. Motorized transport should have four wheels, not two. Motorbikes are deadly; statistical evidence clearly supports this view.”
Again, Karyn scrunched her face. “Well, you are in luck. This isn’t a motorcycle. This is a Wuyang. It is like a motorcycle, only not as fast.”
“It looks plenty fast to me.”
“Yeah? Well you can relax Truman, you are going to be riding pillion.”
“Are you insane? We don’t have helmets.”
The troops up the boulevard were looking their way now, yabbering to each other excitedly, like they were about to come to a big decision. Karyn had been watching them in her peripheral vision, and knew it was time to move. She flipped an athletic leg over the nearest bike and fired it up. “Get on the bike Truman.”
“I don’t want to I…” The first bullet zipped by so close it folded the air around them in a wave of compression. The second bullet followed fast then a third.
Truman Whitaker literally flew on to the pillion seat, squeezing in so tight behind her she thought he was going to try and snap her in two. As soon as his arms linked across her waist, she dropped the clutch and the high-revving motorcycle rose up onto the rear wheel and careered down the street. It was a hundred yards at least before the front wheel sank low enough to touch the roadway and by that time bullets were flying thick and furious. Karyn just leaned in to the handlebars and twisted the accelerator ever harder. The Wuyang’s 600cc engine squawked in protest, vibrating so hard it seemed about ready to pop clear of the mount. She paid the protests no mind, choosing instead to burn through the gears until she was drawing every inch of power out of the engine. She cut down the street in a wide curving arc. They were surely out of range now, but they weren’t clear yet, not by a long shot.
Every road between the Deng Tao mausoleum and downtown Shanghai had been cordoned off to allow the funeral cortege to pass, in what amounted to the largest security operation the city had seen in years. The Chinese authorities were everywhere—cops, army, special vigilante police, you name it. Karyn knew the odds against them were insurmountable, she also knew she would have to play fast and hard to stay clear of capture. Maybe then, they could get out from underneath the envelope of the RCIED jammer. That way she could call in the backup team from the United States Secret Service and fix up an extraction rendezvous.
She glanced at her wrist communicator, half a mile out and still no reception bars, not even on the microwave uplink. The Chinese had to be triangulating half the city to throw down a radio-coms dead zone this tight.
10
Rockefeller Center, New York City
There was only one thing that Wayne ‘Huds’ Helman hated more than douche-bag liberals and that was big-government. Huds didn’t care what form that government came in, be it the namby-pamby big-government liberalism of the Democratic Party, or the limp-wristed soft-core conservatism of the Republicans. Huds hated all of them and his public loved him for it.
Settling back in his over-stuffed leather studio chair, Huds Helman adjusted his microphone, inserted a big-ring Gigante into the corner of his mouth and puffed a fat cloud of smoke into the air. Today he was extra happy, and it was not just because syndicated listening figures were through the roof for the fifteenth consecutive month in a row, hell no. Today, those pantywaist losers in the Federal Government had screwed up so monumentally that the listeners would be frothing with wild, rabid, ferocity. The switchboard was jammed solid already and the show hadn’t even started yet. Huds Helman rubbed his hands together with delight and looked over at Erin the Jamaican. Man she looked hot today. So hot you just wanted to cover her in hot fudge and whipped-cream and eat her burrito style.
Huds’ on air assistant, Erin Francelle was a strong-minded African-American woman from Brattleboro, on the Vermont/New Hampshire border. She had studied law at Cornell, graduating summa cum laude. She had done well for herself, but it hadn’t been easy. She had fought double hard for every achievement. Lucky for her, she was a born fighter. The world of tradition had been a tough to conquer, even for the daughter of a well-respected establishment judge. But she had done it, beaten down the prejudice and Ivy League snobbery, to finish very close to the top of her class. Maybe she would have come top, but her fondness for sports and a strong, independent nature sabotaged her final grades. With her stellar record of achievement and her father’s establishment contacts, she had been all set for a career at a top law firm; but she wanted success on her own terms, no one else’s. So, armed with her experience in media law, she moved to New York City, and took up with an Upper-East side firm who specialized in big-network media clients. With her strong character and forthright opinions, she made a fast name for herself. She first
met Huds Helman at a downtown sports bar. The guy was so loaded he could barely stand up. He was celebrating, with a bunch of his yah-hoo buddies, after the Yanks had hit their way to a pennant over the Phillies. It was quite a night, both riotous and profane. Two weeks later, she was hired by the Helman network to keep the Hudster’s slanderous rhetoric on the right side of the law, a Sisyphean task that had seen her drawn into the dirty frontline trenches of national news radio. The new job changed her status from legal advisor, to that of straight person to the riotous onslaught of profane bigotry that America’s most notorious radio DJ spewed across the airwaves on a daily basis. Helman was an asshole sure. But he was an asshole that paid close to two million dollars a year and for that kind of scratch she wasn’t going to turn into a whining Bolshevik, no way. Erin gave the Hudster the 3,2,1, go-live countdown with her fingers, while her de facto boss primed a football to launch at her the second the show went live.
“Heads up” roared Helman, launching the football hard and fast across the studio as the on air light glowed red. Erin rose out of her seat and caught the ball one handed.