[Jack Emery 01.0] The Foundation

by Steve P Vincent

  It spoke of Shanghai.

  “Hey, shut up, fellas.” Josefa stood and pointed to the screen. “Turn the sound up!”

  As Jack stood and swayed, nearly losing his feet, the barman turned up the volume and the sound of the broadcast flooded the bar. “…it appears as if the attacks, which began just minutes ago, have struck at the heart of the Shanghai summit. The hotel housing the world’s media has been severely damaged, and it appears that other parts of Shanghai are also under attack, including the Bund.”

  “Erin’s there.” Jack tried to clear the cobwebs from his head as he looked between Josefa and Shane. “That’s where she’s staying.”

  “Stay calm, Jack.” Josefa placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure she’s fine. Shanghai is a big place.”

  “No!” Jack cried out in distress. “Her report was from outside of that hotel, Jo!”

  Josefa nodded as Jack continued to watch, unable to peel his eyes away from the screen. The bar was silent. The vision shifted to shaky footage of a large building, racked with fire. Whoever was filming ran toward the building. The shot panned down to a woman, huddled in the fetal position, bloody and frantic.

  “That’s Celeste.” Josefa pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “I need to make a call. Shane, keep an eye on Jack.”

  Jack watched as closely as he could for any sign of Erin, but the vision cut back to the presenter in the studio.

  “That was footage from what appears to be the focal point of the attacks, the Grand Hyatt Shanghai, where international media are staying during the WTO conference.”

  Jack slammed his fist on the table, knocking two drinks over in the process. He remained standing, frozen in place, not knowing what to do or where to go but needing to do something. The thought of Erin, wounded and alone in Shanghai, felt too much for him to process.

  He also knew how this sort of disaster was reported—drip-fed information, half-truths and speculation by reporters. Added to that would be interviews with subject experts usually starved for relevance, who took the opportunity to pitch sensational theories. Good for the viewer, but not necessarily for someone with a missing loved one.

  He strode toward the exit, though he had to push past patrons who were chatting loudly about the attacks. Once outside, he tripped and landed roughly on the sidewalk. He was breathing heavily and felt like vomiting. Nothing came except sobs. He felt two people move closer, and turned to see Josefa and Shane standing over him.

  Shane crouched down. “I think she’ll be alright. Jo’s on it, I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  Jack nodded and tried to regain his feet, but failed spectacularly. He landed on his right wrist and a shot of pain lanced up his arm. He cried out, and Shane placed a hand on his shoulder, no doubt to reassure him but also probably to prevent him from doing further injury.

  Josefa was in the middle of another call, obviously having tried Erin with no luck. “We’ve got people over there, Ernest, we need to help them.”

  While it reassured Jack that Erin was about to have the resources of the company looking out for her, it wasn’t enough. Despite how much she’d hurt him, he still felt a connection to her that went as deep as his marrow. He needed to act. He pulled out his cell phone and held it out to Shane.

  “I need to get over there, Shane.” He paused. “I need to find her.”

  Shane nodded. “I’ll get you on the next flight.”

  Michelle felt like a god as she surveyed Shanghai from one of the top-floor rooms of the Marriott Courtyard Shanghai. She’d chosen the room carefully to ensure a view of the Shanghai New International Expo Centre, the site of the WTO conference. She was relieved that the attacks had gone well, at least if judged by the amount of smoke that billowed from a dozen different places across the city. In front of her was the evidence that she had the ability to achieve anything. Yet it was more than that: it felt like the final cremation of her past, a signal that her rebirth was complete.

  Though she’d had a rough family life, which explained her slightly obsessive interest in guns, she’d made it to Yale and studied law and political science. While her grades had been outstanding for two years, that had changed after an internship with a senator during spring break. They’d slept together and she’d thought it was a relationship, but later found out that she’d been the latest in a long line of wide-eyed interns. Her grades had plummeted and all thoughts of her future had changed. From that moment onwards she’d hated the Washington establishment to her core.

  But years later, as a graduate, Anton had spotted her potential and recruited her, then spent the next few years slowly introducing her to the truth behind the Foundation for a New America. Her career since had been fighting for the American rebirth and for the Foundation’s power. Now they were on the verge of success.

  She shook her head and focused on the scene in front of her. There would be time to reflect once she was back in the States, but until then she needed to be alert and careful. Martial law had been declared since the attacks and the airport and other major facilities were closed. Hungry for updates, she’d been forced to rely on state television and what she could see from her hotel window. She’d smiled at the grainy picture on TV of the burnt-out remains of the Shanghai Maglev, derailed and embedded in the side of a building. She couldn’t have asked for a better visual from a Hollywood studio.

  Chen had done well. Michelle knew that no matter how quickly the fires were put out, and how swiftly the wounded healed, it would take China years to get over this. They could fix the Maglev and rebuild the other targets, but it would take far longer to soothe the anger. She was counting on it. The Foundation was counting on it.

  She turned away from the window and smiled when she saw Anton asleep, naked, on top of the bed covers. Once the attacks were underway, she’d taken him to bed. The sex had been furious and energetic—an outlet for the pent-up stress and emotion of the previous few days. It seemed a fitting climax to this part of their plan. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, next to where Anton was asleep. She put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. He was awake in seconds, staring up at her. He looked satiated, but she still saw the deep intelligence and cunning in his eyes.

  He lifted himself up onto one elbow. “What is it?”

  “It’s time to go. We’ve done what we needed. I don’t want to push our luck.”

  He smiled. Michelle didn’t feel it was friendly. “Not quite everything.”

  “What do you mean?” She stared at him. “What’ve you done?”

  He stared straight into her eyes. “Leaving Chen alive is too risky. I’ve sent a team.”

  Michelle was dumbstruck. This was the first time she’d felt disconnected from him. The attacks had been designed to help preserve the correct world order—and America’s place in it—by pointing the Chinese at Taiwan. They’d painstakingly linked the evidence trail back to the island and its government, leaving little doubt who was responsible and what the Chinese reaction would be.

  More importantly, with China focused on the island rather than its greater strategic interests, America would have the opportunity to flex its muscle and pull itself off the mat after the financial crisis. It would also signal the beginning of the next part of their plan: for the Foundation—and Michelle—to get a significant presence in the US Congress. Enough of a presence to exert more control.

  A minute ago, she’d felt closer to him than ever. Now, Anton was playing a new game. There had been no talk of outing Chen. She’d been his handler. She’d helped him to plan the attacks. Most importantly, she’d given him access to their secure network. He’d repaid her efforts beyond her wildest imagination. The thought of terminating him such success was an anathema to her.

  “Are you insane? We gave our word. The man has a family.”

  “They’ll be taken care of as well.” Anton laughed. “Bit late for sanctimony. We just killed thousands of innocent people from thousands of families.”

  “This is d
ifferent. He’s our man.”

  “He’s a loose end that needs tying up. Once he’s dead, nothing can be linked back to the Foundation.” He sighed. “Look, Michelle, you’ve still got a lot to learn. I’ll get us some room service and we’ll talk about it some more, okay?”

  She ground her teeth. “I don’t want room service. I agreed with the plan, Anton, and I still agree with our purpose. But I don’t like being in the dark one bit, and I don’t like selling out our people either. There’s nothing to be gained by killing Chen.”

  But he’d made up his mind, and she knew he wouldn’t change it. In making this decision, Anton was revealing a part of himself she hadn’t seen before. He’d always been ruthless, but until now she’d never considered that he’d so ruthlessly deal with someone who’d done a good job. She had to wonder if she’d suffer the same fate one day.

  She lay down next to Anton, who was now on his back with his head resting in his hands. She didn’t say anything, but rolled over and feigned sleep to consider her options. It felt like everything had changed. She was a woman of her word. She’d promised Chen that his family would be safe.

  A few hours passed. When she was sure Anton was asleep again, she climbed carefully out of bed, grabbed her cell phone and walked to the bathroom. She locked the door and dialed a number from the address book. It rang for what seemed like an eternity until the call was picked up.

  “This is Rodriguez.”

  She exhaled with relief. “This is Dominique. Are you still in Taipei?”

  “Sure am. At the embassy.”

  “Okay. A Taiwanese family need to be looked after. I’ll text you their details. I want them taken to the States. Set them up with a house and some cash. This is urgent.”

  “Okay, shouldn’t be a problem, but I’ll need Anton’s green light. This will blow my cover at the embassy.”

  She paused. She’d anticipated this. “Anton is indisposed. You can consider this from the top, though.”

  “Your call.” Rodriguez sounded unconvinced. “I’ll take care of it.”

  5

  China’s Foreign Minister has expressed outrage at the attacks on Shanghai and blamed Taiwan, describing it as the single most destructive act against the Chinese mainland since the Japanese atrocities of the Second World War. It’s hard to argue, with a death toll in excess of ten thousand, French colonial buildings along the Bund damaged, the Maglev train derailed and dozens of other buildings damaged or destroyed. In response to the attacks, China has announced that military readiness has been stepped up and military assets and missiles in the south-east of the country prepared to strike Taiwan if necessary.

  Garth Angell, Foreign Correspondent, September 4

  “I just need to get to Shanghai!” Jack leaned in closer to the small Japanese woman behind the Air China ticket counter. “My wife is missing and I need to reach her!”

  The woman nodded sadly. Though he was enraged, Jack could see that she was unsure about how to proceed with the shouting gaijin in front of her.

  “Sumimasen, sir. I am sorry. I’m unable to get you on a flight to Shanghai. Many airlines have stopped flying, and the remainder are full. There are no available seats aboard Air China or any of our partner airlines. Have you tried Japan Airlines?”

  Jack stared at her for a long few moments, then took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, and everyone else. Look, money is no object. I’ll buy you a Ferrari. I just need a seat.” Technically it was true, with Ernest McDowell footing the bill.

  Despite this, the woman shook her head and looked behind him. Jack turned to see two Japanese police officers standing rigidly, batons in one hand and radios in the other. They nodded at him, and gestured with their white-gloved hands for him to step away from the counter and over to the side.

  Jack exhaled deeply. “Sorry, guys. I know it’s not her fault. I just need to get over there. This is important, you know?”

  The policemen looked at each other. They clearly didn’t know, but just wanted Jack to stop harassing the desk staff. His shoulders sagged. They’d probably seen the same thing a hundred times in recent days, and stood with him while he calmed down. After a few minutes one of them patted him on the shoulder and they moved on.

  Jack didn’t push his luck. While he was glad he hadn’t been arrested, he was clearly no longer welcome at the Air China counter. It had been his last port of call for the day—he’d tried every other airline that was still flying from Tokyo to Shanghai. He’d have to renew his attempts to beg, bully or bribe a ticket tomorrow.

  He sighed and walked away from the ticketing area, resigned to the fact that he was probably not going to reach Erin any time soon. He made his way to the bar that had become his second home since arriving at Narita, in between irregular sleep on plastic chairs and abuse of airline staff. The bar was empty, apart from a few people killing time. It frustrated him that even though he couldn’t get where he wanted to go, others could. In one corner sat a Japanese man with a briefcase at his side, laptop out. In one of the booths, a couple faced each other and talked with passionate eyes and expressive faces, their relationship not yet weighed down by the baggage of time.

  He nodded at the bartender and pointed at the nearest beer tap. “Kirin, please.”

  The bartender smiled and Jack watched as he slowly filled the glass. He found himself hypnotized by the slow swirl of froth through the amber liquid. He longed for the numbness that the beer would induce, once he’d had enough of it. He craved it. He needed it.

  The bartender placed the beer in front of him. “Four-hundred and twenty yen.”

  “Airport prices.” Jack fished around in his pocket for a 500-yen coin, which he handed to the bartender. “Thanks. Keep the change.”

  As the bartender walked away, Jack’s cell phone rang. He fumbled around in his pocket and dug it out. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Jack? Oh, Jack, thank God. It’s Celeste.” The relief in her voice was clear.

  The beer shook in Jack’s hands, so much that he placed it on the bar. Celeste was calling. Erin might be alive. Or might not be. Celeste was calling. Not Erin. It was too soon to know for sure, or so the US Embassy had told him. Celeste seemed relieved, so it might be good news. Or might not be. He wanted answers. But didn’t.

  He felt empty. “Hi, Celeste.”

  “Jack? The line isn’t great. I’m calling from Beijing Airport. They evacuated me out of Shanghai for some minor medical treatment, but I’m fine. It took me a while to find a phone and get sorted, but I spoke to Jo. I’m flying to Tokyo.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sorry, Jack.” Her voice started to break and he heard a sob. “Erin is gone. She was standing near me when the bomb went off.”

  Jack sagged. “How? I saw you on the TV…”

  Another pause. “It was a large piece of shrapnel. I’m so sorry. I waited with her as long as I could. She was gone by the time they forced me into an ambulance.”

  Jack felt dizzy. He leaned toward the bar to catch himself, but failed. He slipped off the stool and hit his head on the bar on the way down. The phone clattered down next to him. He reached up and touched his head, then looked at his hand. Blood. He’d split his head open. He closed his eyes and tried to compose himself.

  Celeste’s words had kicked in the doors of his preparation, and he felt the grief rushing in. He’d thought himself mentally fortified for Erin’s death, though he’d hoped she was still alive. The reality of it was unbearable. The woman he’d loved, despite their recent issues, was gone. He picked up the phone.

  “Jack?” Celeste’s voice dripped with concern. “Jack? Jack, are you okay?”

  He just wanted to be alone. “Thanks for telling me.”

  He hung up and stood. He righted the stool, sat again and a single tear streaked down his cheek. It was all over. His wife was dead. Deep down, ever since he’d left the bar in New York, he’d known it was likely Erin was dead. The life they’d built togeth
er was in ruins. The events of the last few months seemed trivial now.

  He took a mouthful of his beer and considered what he’d see if he was outside of his body. He’d see a wreck of a man, mourning the death of his wife and the wasteland of his life. He’d see a man with a beer and little else. He’d pity him. For a while he thought of nothing, just tried to clear his head of the noise, the mess and the despair.

  Soon, the sobs came, long and drawn out. Each one felt like it penetrated him to his core. He was as alone in the airport as he was in the world.

  Ernest conceded that the hospital was quite nice, with a sloped driveway and an impressive garden that gave way to a four-story white building at the center of it all. It was far better than the rest of Ohio, at least. He was frustrated that it had taken him nearly a week to visit his wife after the meeting with Mahoney, because of issues with the US and UK governments, crazies blowing up half of Shanghai and leaving several of his journalists dead or missing.

  “You know, Peter, this place is a pain in my ass to get to. Are you sure there’s no way we can get her moved to another facility? In New York, perhaps?”

  Peter shook his head. “I’m afraid the doctors were insistent. She’s to stay at this facility in this fine state. They say that to move her will be detrimental to her wellbeing.”

  Ernest sighed as the car came to a halt. He opened the door and climbed out of the black sedan with a groan; his back was giving him hell. At least the driver had parked in the spot closest to the hospital front door, ignoring the “CEO” sign. They entered a cavernous lobby so white it hurt his eyes through the double automatic doors.

  A large security guard was seated behind a desk with his feet up and his stomach protruding, the buttons on his blue shirt threatening to burst from the strain. Ernest could barely mask his contempt for Sandra’s gatekeeper. He approached the desk and the guard pointed at the guest book on the counter. Ernest stared for several seconds, before scrawling his name and the time on the page without a word. Peter did likewise.