Red Sky

by Chris Goff

  “Go!” she ordered.

  “Why me?” Davis moved toward the window. “Oh, I know. It’s because you want to see if this thing will hold?”

  Jordan grinned. “That, and I’m trained to go last.”

  He hesitated a moment, then swinging his camera around to his back, he clutched the window casings and lowered his weight onto the wrought-iron fencing. Jordan felt a tsunami of relief when it didn’t strip away from the building. Swinging his legs over the top rail, Davis lowered himself down and grabbed onto the sheet.

  The policeman outside the door shouted to someone. Jordan tried to listen. “I think they’re back with the key, Nye.”

  She watched him rappel down the side of the building, like a climber slipping along the line, holding the sheet above and below his body and using his feet to push off the side of the building. It looked like he’d done something like this before.

  As he reached the end of the line, she heard the click of the door.

  Behind her, the chair Davis had jammed under the doorknob scraped along the floor. Then its back legs bit and held, giving her a few more seconds of time. Looking down, she spotted Davis waving from the small patch of grass.

  Her turn.

  The chair splintered as she jumped the railing. Clinging to the backside, she watched the door swing inward and catch on the security chain. Another few seconds.

  Ignoring the pain in her arm and elbow, Jordan shimmied down the bed sheets hand over hand. Nearing the end of the makeshift rope, she felt a jerk on the fabric and looked up. A head poked through the window, while someone else’s hands reached through the iron and grabbed hold of the sheets.

  “Stop, police,” yelled the man peering down on her. Then came another tug, and the hands started pulling her up.

  “Drop,” Davis yelled.

  The policeman barked an order. “He’s sending someone to cover the back,” she yelled to Davis. Another pull hoisted her another foot.

  With a quick Oh Lord, Jordan let go.

  The air swirled upwards all around her. She registered the startled look on the policeman’s face above her and then braced for the landing.

  She slammed into Davis’s arms, which was better than hitting the ground. “Where to?” Davis asked, setting her onto her feet. “The consulate?”

  She shook her head. It was a six-minute walk or a three-minute run, but that’s where the police would expect them to go. Not to mention the Chinese military had locked down the perimeter. “Head for the subway.”

  The Zhujiang subway station sat on the corner, with trains departing in four directions every couple of minutes. Entering through the glass doors, they raced down the escalator while pushing past people on the steps. A cavernous room opened to a series of shops and was divided up by a row of royal-blue columns marching across the white-tiled floor. Signs over the portals to the tracks signaled the arrival of trains and listed their next destinations.

  On the far wall, a bank of six or seven self-service ticket machines spit out travel cards for cash or credit. People queued three or four deep. Jordan chose one line, Davis another. Impatiently she tapped her foot, watching the escalator for any sign of the police. Based on the snippets of conversations around her, this was a shorter than usual wait.

  Thank God for small favors.

  Upon reaching the ticket kiosk first, she signaled to Davis and, pooling their money, came up with the right cash to buy two one-day passes. It gave them on-and-off privileges for the next twenty-four hours. If they could get in and out of a station quickly enough, they’d have time to change trains and disappear before the police figured out in what direction they’d gone.

  The next scheduled train departed on Line 3 to the north. Standing on the platform, Jordan had a clear shot of the escalator. Simultaneous with the train pulling into the station, two policemen rode into view. Grabbing Davis’s sleeve, she pulled him along the platform, keeping her face averted. A rush of commuters poured off the train when it stopped, and Jordan took advantage of the crowd. Pushing against the flow, she urged Davis to keep up and boarded the last car. Grabbing two seats in the back, she bent forward and pretended to tie her shoes until the train cleared the station, leaving the two cops behind.

  Chapter 19

  Jordan sat up and studied the subway map that spanned the windows. Davis slumped against the seat and stared at her. “What’s really going on here, Rae?”

  She pointed to the sign. “We’re on the Northeast Branch. We need to get off at the next station.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  She looked him straight in the eyes. “Let’s get out of this first, and then we can talk.”

  “And you’ll tell me the truth?”

  A voice announced the next stop, and Jordan jumped to her feet. “We need to catch Line 1 to the west.”

  “Answer the question.”

  Jordan shifted her weight, maintaining her balance as the subway train slowed. He’d put his life on the line for her twice, and now he was a fugitive. If anyone had a right to know, he did. “I will.”

  After switching trains twice, Jordan and Davis got off at Quzhaung station on Haunshi East Road, an area known for its restaurants and clubs. Spotting a pay phone near a cybercafé, Jordan pulled Davis aside.

  “Do you have any money?” She had a few coins in her pocket, but most of her money was in her purse back at the hotel.

  “We can’t go in here,” he said. “The wăng kā require you place an ID on file.”

  Of course, he was right. China regulated the use of the Internet and most electronic communication devices. Any person connecting you to a server was required by law to enter your name, birthdate, and ID number into the system. The same was true with any electronic purchase, such as a new SIM card for your phone. It meant the Chinese government knew—among other things—where everyone was, who they were talking to, and what type of social media they preferred.

  “I just want to use the payphone.”

  In addition to his camera, Davis still had his passport, credit cards, and a wad of cash.

  “How about coins? Do you have any coins?” She dug deeper in her pockets and produced a few jiao, China’s equivalent of a dime. Davis produced his own handful. Between them it was enough.

  The first person Jordan tried reaching was Lory. When his answering machine picked up, she was asked to deposit two yuan for three minutes, the equivalent of a dollar. She left a detailed message, explained she no longer had a phone, and ended up telling him she would try again later.

  “What now?” Davis asked.

  It was after midnight, and she had one local cell number, the one for the PO that Lory had given her earlier. She punched in the digits. If this didn’t constitute an emergency, she didn’t know what did. The PO was expecting her call. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Agent Jordan? The Chinese have posted military details outside the consulate gates, and I’ve been fielding calls from my local police contacts for the past hour.”

  “Is your phone secure?”

  “As secure as you can get in China. Start talking.”

  Jordan told him about the attempts on her life, starting with the attack at the restaurant and ending with what had happened at the hotel.

  “Any idea why they’re so hot to find you?”

  “I asked questions about Zhen.” Jordan didn’t feel comfortable giving him details over the phone. “Apparently I touched a nerve.”

  “That may be an understatement.” He hemmed and hawed for a second, then said, “The quicker we get you off the streets the better. Where are you?”

  “Are you sure the phone is safe?”

  “I need to know where to send the driver.”

  Not really an answer, but she’d accept it. “We’re near the Quzhaung subway station.”

  “We?”

  She told him about Davis.

  “Are you sure he can be trusted?”

  “He had my back today.” She could hear the PO breathi
ng softly and wondered what he was thinking. Finally he spoke. “Okay, there’s a twenty-four hour noodle and congee shop on Ziniu Road. Travel west on Huanshi East one block and turn left. The shop will be on your right. I’ll send Charlie to pick you up. It will be at least an hour. He’ll get you somewhere safe until we can sort this mess out. He’s a good guy. You can trust him.”

  “And if things get dangerous?”

  “Don’t worry about Charlie,” the PO said. “It wouldn’t be his first rodeo.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, they were sitting at a table inside a small diner, bowls filled with food, looking out at the street. At this time of night, it was mostly young people their age who were out—men in white button-down shirts and black pants; women in various shades of silk teetering along on their three-inch stilettos. Between them they had a full view of the block.

  Davis poured two glasses from a bottle of Baijiu and handed her one.

  Jordan held up her hand and refused to take it. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  “Come on, you haven’t experienced China until you’ve tasted the sorghum wine.” He set the glass on the table in front of her and raised the other in a toast. “Ganbei. It means ‘dry the glass.’ The locals drink it straight down.”

  Jordan studied him for a moment, then reached for the small cup on the table. What the hell, she thought. She was stiff and sore, and a drink would help take the edge off the pain. Clinking glasses, she wrinkled her nose at the strong aroma and braced herself for the shot. The amber liquid surprised her. It went down easy. Showing Davis her empty glass, she set it down.

  “So are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he said.

  Jordan picked up her chopsticks and twisted them into her noodles. She knew she owed him some answers. He’d saved her life and now, because of her, he also was wanted by the Chinese police. But where did she start, and how much should she tell him?

  “Come on, Rae. I think I’ve earned your trust enough to be read in. Consider me an asset.”

  “In the first place, DSS agents don’t have assets. In the second, you do realize that assets can sometimes become collateral damage, right?”

  “And sometimes they’re disposable. I’m willing to take the risk.”

  He’d proven that. The question was, how much risk was she willing to take? After all, he worked for Reuters.

  “Will you answer a few questions?” she asked.

  “If it will get me some answers.” Davis poured them another round of Baijiu. The second shot warmed her insides, and she felt herself thawing toward him. It was hard not to warm to the smile lighting up his handsome features.

  “Where did you acquire your skills?”

  “You mean my writing talent?”

  “No. I mean your street fighting abilities, rappelling off a building. Those aren’t typical everyday talents.”

  “Would you believe me if I told you I was raised in a tough neighborhood and used to frequent the climbing wall at the local gym?”

  “No.” Maybe in another place or time, but something in his eyes and the way he’d reacted to both situations convinced her there was more to it.

  “When I joined the Army, I had some Special Forces training. I’ve kept active. It helps when you’re a reporter asking to be embedded into war zones.”

  “Why become a reporter?”

  “Do you have a thing against all journalists, or just against me?”

  The gruffness in his voice surprised her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Sure you do. You struggled to even say the word.”

  She looked down at her glass, the drops of liquor like garnets on crystal, then she lifted her gaze. “I just don’t understand how you can justify making a living capitalizing on other people’s pain and misery.”

  “Is that how you see my job?” His dark eyes locked on hers. “Let’s get something straight, I do what I do because someone needs to tell the stories. A lot of people died in that plane crash, a lot of people were left without mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers. But what you see as capitalizing on the survivors’ misery, others view as a ferreting out of the truth in order to find justice for the victims.”

  Jordan sat in stunned silence. He sounded impassioned enough to be believable. “If that’s true, I owe you an apology.”

  “But you don’t really buy it, do you? What happened to make you so cynical? Is it so hard to believe that some of us wear white hats?”

  She had to admit, he had a good shtick. She’d painted him with the same brush as she did all reporters. Maybe she was wrong about him. “Let’s just say, it hasn’t been my experience.”

  “That’s what happens when you bring your own baggage to the party.”

  “Sometimes I need a bellman.”

  “Don’t we all?” He poured the last of the Baijiu into their glasses, then lifted his in a toast. “To second chances.”

  She raised her glass. “Second chances.”

  Chapter 20

  Kozachenko eased his finger off the trigger of his Tokarev TT-33 and lowered his weapon. “We weren’t expecting you.”

  Stas lowered his hands, wiping the sweat off his palms. “I can see that. You nearly blew my fucking head off.”

  “Next time instead of walking in unannounced, you really should call ahead.”

  “I thought the pakhan had done that.”

  Kozachenko grunted. “He told me you would contact us. He didn’t say you’d be foolish enough to come here. How do you know you weren’t followed?” Kozachenko stepped to the side and looked past the soldier, peering into the dark. The risk of a face-to-face seemed unwarranted.

  “No one is there,” Stas said, pushing past Kozachenko. “I came because we must move the gun tonight.”

  “To where? Why haven’t I been told of the plan?”

  “It has only just been arranged. We’re taking it to Nyzhni Yares’ky.” Pulling a map from his pocket, Stas walked over, spread it open on the hood of the GAZ, and pointed to a small town south of their location. He detailed the plan, then refolded the map. “We need to get this right, Vasyl. Timing will be everything, and there won’t be a second opportunity.”

  * * *

  Several hours later, with Yolkin riding shotgun where he could keep an eye on him, Kozachenko pulled the truck from the cover of the trees onto the unnamed road. It was 1:50 AM, three minutes after the moonset, and dark clouds muddled the sky. Stas had gone ahead to make sure the road was clear to the turnoff. Barkov and three men had gone ahead to ready the gate. Dudyk was behind with the others.

  Once he’d turned the truck onto Partyzanska Street, they were committed. The only thing Kozachenko could do now was to keep the engine noise steady as he lumbered the truck through the sleeping town.

  Turning onto Lenin Street, a lone car approached from the south, and Kozachenko’s heart accelerated. He watched as the car passed and disappeared from the sideview mirror. The driver never even tapped his brakes. Still, with all the televised accounts of the ambush, he radioed Dudyk to keep an eye out for the vehicle.

  “I see it. Do you want me to follow?”

  “He’s still moving?” Kozachenko asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Does he seem curious?”

  “Nyet. If you ask me, by the way he’s driving, I’d say he’s drunk.”

  “Then keep moving. The sooner we get off the road the better.”

  To Kozachenko’s relief, at the outskirts of town, the landscape opened up, alleviating the claustrophobia created by the towering trees on either side of the road. Here there was farmland to the east and forest and river to the west, and the few houses lay dark and far back from the road. They were only nine minutes out from their destination. What could possibly go wrong?

  At Yares’ky they faced one last section of road bordered by houses. Kozachenko downshifted and was halfway through a turn when Stas broke radio silence.

  “We have a problem. There are cop car
s coming up the road from the highway.”

  Then Dudyk jumped in. “That’s not all. There are cops on the Shyshaky bypass road. I can see their lights in my rearview mirror.”

  They were close enough to their endpoint that Kozachenko could smell the winter wheat. Two more kilometers and they would be at the turnoff. He hit the accelerator. “The driver of the car we passed must have called it in. Dudyk, go straight. Draw them away, and then lose them.”

  He downshifted when he saw the road and cranked the wheel hard to the right. The truck was moving fast and tipped up on two wheels. Kozachenko held the turn until the truck righted. Tires slamming back to the ground, he braked.

  “I can see you, Vasyl,” Barkov said. “Turn right in two hundred meters. If you pass the road, you’ll be trapped with no way to turn around before being seen.”

  Kozachenko braked harder but still was forced to reverse.

  “Good,” said Barkov once the truck was off the road. “In another hundred meters, turn left. You should be able to see us.”

  Kozachenko followed the directions and spotted the GAZ parked near the back entrance gate to the Yares’ky silo and processing plant. It was here that the farmers of the Poltava region brought their harvest and where they processed the grain and packed it into railroad cars for transport.

  Barkov doused his lights. Kozachenko followed suit.

  “Stas said to drive past the silo to the end of the track,” Barkov said. “There should be seven railroad cars. The middle one will have a ramp for loading the truck.”

  Kozachenko could hear the sirens drawing closer. “We aren’t going to make it.”

  In the distance, he could see the turnoff from the main road. He watched Dudyk go straight, two police cars in hot pursuit. A third police car turned left.

  “They’ve separated. One came this way.”