Flypaper: A Novel

by Chris Angus

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ZHANGMAO HUANG STARED into the mirror and straightened his tie. He enjoyed dressing in Western style. It made him feel more advanced, a step ahead of most Chinese. His low-level job, little more than a spy, really, for the cultural ministry was a dead-end position. But he had plans. He’d seen others do it—rise from obscurity to a position of power. All it took was the judicious use of the skills one had, which in his case included ruthlessness, single-mindedness, and a strong sense of his own self-importance.

  His wife handed him his lunch in a paper sack. She was a tiny, mousy woman, completely cowed by her husband’s quick hand, which didn’t hesitate to slap her when she got out of line. Huang resented that he wasn’t much bigger than she was. Once he reached his proper position in the world, he’d find a new wife, a tall one, slim with large breasts and Western features.

  He closed himself into his Yugo, wincing at the breadbox clank the door made as he slammed it shut. That was something else he’d be getting once he improved himself—a new car.

  The drive to the Ministry of Culture’s western office in Urumqi took forty minutes from his small apartment on the outskirts of the city. The route took him past the big public square dominated by the city’s huge, gold-domed theater. Taxis honked and forced pedestrians to leap aside, as the cars made their way through slushy, chaotic streets. They paused only to take on passengers laden with bundles of almonds, dates, walnuts, and dried plums purchased in open market stalls. Even this early in the day, sidewalk diners ate spicy skewers of lamb kebab and indulged in steaming bowls of meaty stew.

  The crowds included a bizarre mix of ethnic groups. There were exotically dressed, black-haired women with fair skin and alluring blue eyes who could have been Russian. There were Afghan men with brush-thick mustaches and deep-lined, tea-colored faces. Turkish Uyghurs wore Muslim skullcaps, robes, and chest-length beards. A panoply of languages filled the streets--Uyghur, Kazakh, Uzbek, and many more.

  Huang had a meeting this morning with the regional director, to discuss Dr. Kessler’s work. Apparently, the discovery of the family group had stirred considerable interest amongst his superiors.

  Of course, the local officials had almost no real interest in archaeology. In Beijing, it was true, there were people who saw things differently and had broader interests. But they were a world away. Like Huang, those in the Regional Office spent all their time endeavoring to enhance their personal reputations and positions. Dead bodies were of precious little interest in a country where bodies, both living and dead, were as numerous as the stars. There was one exception to this rule, however, and that was in the area of increasing revenues. The new site would mean additional scientists, more research and permit fees, possibly more tourism down the road. These were the sorts of things that could get one advanced to the next level.

  He reached the building, a drab, ten-story high-rise, at precisely nine a.m., parked the breadbox, and stopped at his tiny office just long enough to drop off his lunch.

  Huang’s immediate superior was Ren Zhong, a humorless, overweight functionary whose own position as regional director held little in the way of glory or reward. Still, he was the man Huang longed to replace, for in his eyes, Zhong was at the pinnacle of the world. He envied the director’s spacious apartment and his personal driver. But most of all, he envied the mistress Zhong had set up in a small apartment almost directly across the street from the one he shared with his wife and two children. Huang had seen this lovely creature and even fantasized about her. Such were the differences that even a small adjustment in position and salary could make.

  Zhong sat at his desk paging through a file. He grunted when he saw Huang and motioned him to a chair. “You saw the discoveries made by Dr. Kessler?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Both the carved figures in the cavern and the skeletal remains. The skeletons were the most impressive. I’ve seen nothing to compare with it since I began working for the Ministry. It could mean a great deal to us. Dr. Kessler was clearly excited and said she thought it would guarantee our World Heritage Site status.”

  Zhong threw the file down and sat silently for so long Huang began to get nervous. Had he done something wrong?

  “We’ve received orders from Beijing to give Dr. Kessler everything she requires in her work to develop the site. Apparently, she has already obtained permits and visas for her colleagues.”

  Huang’s face showed astonishment. Such rapid approval was unheard of. Beijing must clearly be expecting big things from this. He could hear opportunity, almost literally, knocking. He waited.

  “I haven’t been in this position for so long without learning a thing or two,” said Zhong. “Never have I seen the Americans—or Beijing—move so quickly. I don’t like it. Something is going on.” He tapped his fingers on the desk and stared at the wall.

  The speed of the government’s approvals for Dr. Kessler was indeed hard to fathom, especially given the degree of indifference from most of the functionaries Huang had met. He suspected the orders came down from the very highest level. The premier was known to be interested in antiquities.

  Zhong seemed to come to a decision. “I’m going to increase your authority. I want you to pay close attention to Dr. Kessler’s new dig. Don’t get in her way, but make a habit of visiting regularly. I’m assigning you two men so your coverage can be more comprehensive.”

  Huang almost burst with pride. He was to have underlings of his own! “Thank you, sir. But I should like to point out the new site is quite remote and difficult to reach. There is no road access. All their supplies will have to be carried in on horseback.”

  “Yes, what is your point?”

  “Just that unless I actually stay at the site, which would certainly raise their suspicions as to my motives, it will be hard to simply drop by unannounced.”

  Zhong stared at him for a while. His face was the most expressionless mask Huang had ever seen. Finally, the director said, “I will authorize you to use our helicopter based at Urumqi Airport to make surprise visits. Do not abuse the privilege.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Huang could hardly wait to get back on the job. Access to a helicopter whenever he wanted it, his own men . . . he was already going up in the world. Perhaps his time had arrived. In a strange way, he felt almost grateful to Dr. Kessler.

  Logan stood at the special customs inspection gate at Peoples Airport of Beijing, looking for all the world like an English sheepdog shepherding his flock. Only in this case, the flock consisted of an enormous pile of equipment, all destined for the family group archaeological site.

  He moved about checking to make sure everything had arrived. A half-dozen customs agents appeared and began to go through the boxes and crates with great thoroughness. Logan was confident nearly everything would pass muster. The items that might conceivably raise an eyebrow were the sizeable quantity of climbing gear and two pieces of high-tech equipment designed to deal with the removal of the iceman from his tomb and his subsequent transport in a temperature-controlled container.

  As he suspected, the customs men eventually zoned in on these specific details.

  The highest-ranking official ordered the opened crates placed to one side, then called Logan over to be questioned.

  The official began in his own, stilted English. The relief on his face was obvious when Logan suggested, in flawless Chinese, that they use the native tongue. This ability alone had served Eric well over his many years of dealing with such situations. The Chinese were invariably impressed with any foreigner who showed knowledge of their language.

  “Please explain,” the official said, “why you require this extensive climbing equipment.”

  “Of course. As you know, our archeological dig is in mountainous terrain. We have two requirements for this gear. First, we conduct surveys of the surrounding landscape, looking for possible caves or other places where the ancients might have hidden their treasures. Often, they did so in almost completely inaccessible and remote location
s. Second, Dr. Kessler has recently discovered new evidence of tombs in a large, underground cavern. We will use the gear to establish permanent climbing lines up the sides of this cavern so the professional scientists who are not also climbers will have easy access to all parts of the site.”

  The man hesitated slightly, then nodded. He obviously had very little concept of what was required to operate an archaeological site.

  “And these items?” He gestured at the two unusual, high-tech cases.

  Here, Logan was on shakier ground and could only hope he might rely on the man’s ignorance once again.

  “This,” he said, opening the smaller case, “is a very efficient stove, used for cooking in remote locations. These other containers hold a high-octane fuel for the stove.” He turned next to the most inscrutable piece of equipment, an insulated case that would transport the iceman for as long as a week or more without allowing him to thaw out. The container had been developed by NASA and looked like some sort of incredibly elaborate coffin for a small child.

  “And this, uh, case, has been designed to carry very fragile artifacts over difficult terrain without causing damage.”

  This time, the official looked skeptical. He felt the inside of the case. “There is not much padding.”

  “You are correct,” Logan replied, easily. “The specific type of padding will depend on the objects to be transported. Dr. Kessler has instructed a local craftsman on how to create such padding and we will have it made to order in Urumqi.” He held his breath. The entire operation might be stopped cold if the case was not allowed. There was no other way to retrieve the remains and preserve them during the long trip out of the country.

  The man stared at the case. He walked around it and felt every part. He tapped the sides, listening for differences in sound. He was clearly skeptical and suspicious, but, in the end, it was really only a box, after all. He grunted finally and turned away.

  The rest of the inspection went smoothly and Logan was about to arrange transport for the piles of gear when something entirely unexpected happened.

  Two Chinese men in suits appeared at the inspection station. They conversed briefly with the official who’d been dealing with Logan. Then they approached Eric.

  In perfect English, one of the men asked, “Mr. Eric Logan?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will please accompany us.”

  This couldn’t be good. Over the past decade, he’d been involved in numerous covert operations under his cover as a member of the embassy. As far as he was aware, there’d been no breach in his security. Even his recent transport of Dr. Hu and his family had gone pretty much without a hitch, unless, of course, you counted the three men he had to kill. But those men had been bandits with no connection to the Chinese government.

  “I would be glad to accompany you,” he replied. “However, this is very important equipment that I am responsible for. It must be protected at all times.”

  “Your equipment will be transported for you to the archaeological site of Dr. Marcia Kessler. You need have no worries about it. Please, now, come this way.”

  Logan was uneasy. Clearly these men knew all about the dig. It was perplexing, but there was nothing he could do.

  They marched a hundred yards across the tarmac to a car. He was ushered into the back seat with one of the men, while the other got in front. The ride was a short one, perhaps half a mile to a remote part of the airport, where they pulled up to a large, military helicopter. Five minutes later they were airborne.

  The flight lasted twenty minutes, during which they crossed the city of Beijing, then passed over very well-to-do suburbs and finally hovered above a large estate on the edge of the city. Logan realized with a shock that he knew the place. He’d been shown the complex during one of his familiarization tours around the city after coming on the job at the embassy a decade ago. It was the private residence of Premier Zhao Zemin.

  He’d never met the premier before and had seen him only once, at a public function from a distance. He couldn’t imagine why he’d been brought here.

  The helicopter settled onto a landing pad cut into an immaculately cared-for lawn. As the rotors slowed, they exited the aircraft and Logan was led toward the main residence, a spectacular home, not unlike what one might expect to see in the Hollywood Hills. The fact that the premier lived in such opulence was a closely guarded secret from the greater mass of the populace.

  Inside, they passed down marble-floored hallways lined with works of art, up a wide staircase, and finally into an expansive series of open rooms. Secretaries and officials toiled at work stations. Beyond, they stopped at a pair of large doors flanked by two guards. These conferred briefly with the men who had brought Logan, then opened the doors and took over the duty of guiding him within.

  Zhao Zemin sat at a massive mahogany desk, flanked by two other men. The current leader of China was different from others Logan had observed in the past. They had been overweight, nearsighted men dressed in the loose clothing in vogue for Chinese leaders since the days of Mao. But the new man was slim, taller than the norm, and dressed in meticulous Western style. In power for a dozen years, he was known to be almost pathologically consumed by his interest in art and antiquities and less so by the intricacies of governance and the needs of his people. This laissez-faire attitude toward the latter was one of the reasons General Zhou Zeli had been considering a takeover.

  “Ah, Mr. Logan, welcome.” The premier stood and bowed slightly, then offered his hand. “Please sit down. I hope you were not too inconvenienced by my invitation.”

  “Not terribly,” Logan said. “A bit puzzled, perhaps. I’ve been at the embassy a decade and never had the opportunity to meet you.”

  The premier nodded and said to one of the men beside him, “We will have tea.” Then to Logan, “Though we haven’t met, I’ve watched your career with interest. You’ve shown concern for the Chinese way, speak our language well, and even took a ­Chinese wife, though, in the American way, you did not take her for long.” A slight smile caught the edge of his mouth.

  Logan was utterly mystified as to the purpose of this meeting and even more so that the premier appeared to know so much about him, including the fact that he was divorced, still a rare event in China, from Mei-Li. However, it didn’t appear that he was here to be punished for killing Chinese nationals. Instead, he was drinking tea and making small talk with the leader of a billion and a half of the world’s people. His curiosity was certainly aroused.

  “I have great respect for the Chinese, sir—for your ancient culture and for your recent economic growth. Beijing has become one of the world’s great cities.”

  “Yes. That is so. The reason you are here, Mr. Logan, is because we need your help to keep Beijing that way.”

  “Sir?”

  The premier looked out one of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows that provided a sprawling view of the metropolis. “There is a sickness in the city. Our medical doctors have been unable to identify it.”

  “I saw no evidence of it when I came through People’s Airport,” said Logan.

  “So far, we’ve been able to contain it—we think. Those affected are immediately quarantined. But it appears to be a virulent disease and it’s growing worse. Now . . . our doctors say we must quarantine the entire city.”

  Logan’s eyes grew wide. “That would be an impossible task, sir. Beijing has twenty million people. There’s no way you could control so many residents and so many ways in and out of such a large area.”

  “Nevertheless, it must be done. And at once. What I want to ask for is your help.”

  Logan looked from the premier to the men sitting beside him. “How on earth can I help?”

  “I believe you are a personal friend of General Zhou Zeli?”

  “Friend might not be the correct word. I’ve known the general a long time. During my years at the embassy, we worked together on a number of diplomatic issues. He is . . .” Logan hesitated. “He was my fathe
r-in-law.”

  “Yes. I am aware of that. Perhaps you are aware the general has decided China needs a new direction?”

  “He was always headstrong and independent. And he wasn’t happy with me when I divorced his daughter. Word is he controls the army. But I’m sure you know all this as well as I do.”

  “Indeed. Well—to the point. I would like you to carry a message to the general. He has refused all communiqués with me for the past two months. I believe he intends to move on the capital very soon.”

  “A message about what?”

  “A message that we need to work together—that Beijing is in mortal danger not from our political differences, but from this sickness. He controls the army outside the city. He must move his forces to surround the city and establish a strict quarantine. If, instead, he chooses to enter Beijing, his soldiers will only make the situation worse. I need you, Mr. Logan, to convince the general we must come together to fight a greater enemy.”

  Despite the apparent need for haste, it took two days for Logan to be delivered into the presence of General Zhou. Communications between the premier and the army had broken down completely. While the general controlled the army as a whole, the premier was not without his own forces, including the city police, several army units stationed in Beijing, and military and secret police.

  Logan met the general in the building Zhou had taken over for his headquarters in the city of Hohhot. Still a virile man in his early sixties, he had a stern demeanor that Logan had learned over time was not a totally accurate reflection of his personality. In fact, he possessed considerable charm and was capable of great compassion. This was at least partly due, Logan believed, to his conversion to Christianity a number of years ago, something the general took great pains to hide, for it would not have been helpful to his career. However, that compassion had not been evident with regard to Logan following his divorce.

  “So. I thought I might not see you again,” General Zhou said.

  “That was never my intention, sir. I haven’t stopped seeing any of the friends I met while Mei-Li and I were married, nor have I tried to avoid you. Frankly, you appear to have been busy.”