Never Forget

by Never Forget (retail) (epub)

  Hao gasped.

  ‘So you’ve been telling them I didn’t have any knowledge of your online habits? That I didn’t record your comments?’ Scott pulled harder. ‘That right?’

  Hao spat in Scott’s face.

  Scott let go, and calmly wiped his face on his sleeve. Then he got to work. He affixed one end of the hosing to the sink faucet. He picked up the cling-film and tore off a square. He approached Hao once more, and tipped his chair, so its back was leaning against the wall, and its front legs raised.

  ‘Anything you want to say?’ tried Scott. A bead of sweat dribbled off his nose, and onto Hao’s cheek.

  ‘Eat shit.’

  Scott nodded. Then – calmly, deliberately – he took the sheet of cling film, wrapped it tight round Hao’s face, and turned on the faucet. As the water started flowing out the end of the hose, Hao’s face turned to panic. He was already struggling to breathe.

  If you think you’re panicked now, Scott thought.

  Then he did it: he directed the flow of water over Hao’s face, and watched. Watched as Hao’s panic deepen into something far more instinctive; as Hao’s body – which was receiving signals from the brain that it was drowning, knocking on death’s door – thrashed urgently against its bonds.

  Scott felt his testicles tighten with repulsion. But he continued.

  After six long seconds, he stopped, and peeled off the film.

  Hao’s face was bright-red, and he gasped in air with such animal hunger that Scott’s hair went on end. With the amount he was sweating, Scott’s face was as wet as Hao’s.

  ‘Let’s try this again,’ Scott said. ‘Did I record your confession?’

  Hao continued to heave in air. Then he tried to spit at Scott again. But he was too exhausted and the saliva landed pathetically on his own face.

  Scott replaced the film. This time, Hao started thrashing before the water hit. Scott let him wait a couple of seconds, before again letting him have it.

  The results were the same. But now, Scott seemed almost to be having an out of body experience: he was watching himself do it from a vantage point above.

  He continued water-boarding, this time sailing closer to the wind. He kept it up for over ten seconds; over ten seconds of manic, insane thrashing.

  Then he watched himself again pull off the film, again put the question to Hao, again meet with resistance.

  But this time, when he went to replace the film, Hao capitulated and ramblingly, incoherently admitted to everything.

  Scott had expected as much. Nobody can withstand the horrors of water-boarding. He knew, also, that although the confession happened to be true, it was of limited value to Shuai. People will admit to anything to get the torture to stop…

  But that wasn’t the point. The point was that he’d done what he’d needed to prove himself trustworthy. And in that moment, he knew he’d do it again if he had to. The floodgates had opened.

  He turned to Shuai. ‘Make sure you pass on the message that I played your little game,’ he spat. ‘I want that goddamn hard-drive.’

  He then grabbed a towel, wiped his face, and walked out of the room.

  Chapter 30

  Sunday, December 12, 1:27 p.m. – Depot Café, San Carlos, California.

  Ellen and I sat down at a table in the corner of a small café in San Carlos, under a television playing the news, and a waitress came over and served us coffee.

  We’d gotten off the train ten minutes ago – after a fifty minute journey south – and decided our best bet was to get someplace to catch up on news. So, after stopping by a local store and buying a change of clothes, we headed to the nearest café with a TV.

  And now we were getting the lay of the land.

  The report was mid-way through, and was showing footage from over an hour ago: of smoke escaping the building; of Vannevar breaking away from the crowd, quickly shooting in the door and entering, and seven firefighters following suit – all to the sound of police half-heartedly ordering them to stand down.

  Overlaying this was the voice of the anchor. Before long, we’d gotten the basics. Fifteen youngsters had been confirmed dead, and seven badly injured, after half the ceiling of the hall they were in had collapsed. The firefighters that’d entered managed to slow the fire enough to give them time to extricate the remaining protestors. When they’d exited with as many youngsters as they could drag out – plus a charred body that appeared to have fallen from the room above – they were promptly arrested, along with Vann; or, as he was described, the “unidentified male.” But this hadn’t stopped another load of firefighters going in, and putting out the remaining fire.

  As we listened to all this, the footage changed, and we were presented with images of the firefighters dragging out multiple ash-covered, burn-distorted survivors. Absurd images of the police reluctantly arresting the firefighters and Vann.

  I felt calm enough watching this: I’d already played this footage in my head, already felt the initial swell of anger. But the same couldn’t be said for Ellen: her fists were tight, her jaw grinding, her breathing heavy.

  The news anchor was now discussing the situation with pundits. The consensus seemed to be that it was probably an accident, probably an electrical fault of some kind. But their discussion largely focused on the Vienna Convention, which meant the Consulate was technically Chinese soil, and which had led to the arrest of the firefighters.

  As they spoke, the ingeniousness of the plot stung all over again.

  After a few minutes, I said: ‘How’re you faring, El?’

  She shrugged and chugged half her coffee at once. ‘Did you see that short brunette with burns on her back? She’s chair of UCLA’s Free Tibet Society. She doesn’t know who I am, but I’ve been following her career for two years now. She’s one of the good ones.’

  Her voice was heavy with emotion. Her pain was multiplying.

  I sighed. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She waved a forget-about-it hand. ‘At least—’ she broke off. ‘At least Vann managed to save a few. It’s heartbreaking, but it could’ve been worse.’

  I grunted, and felt a swell of pride for Vann.

  Ellen continued: ‘So Scott Brendan’s sold us down the river, and now we’re without a single lead, without a shred of evidence? And all we’ve been left with is a walkie-talkie on Yuelin’s frequency?’

  ‘That’s right.’ It was all I could muster. And I felt awful. Because it had been my choice to bring Scott into the fold. And while I knew Ellen didn’t blame me, it necessarily meant she wasn’t able to trust me in quite the way she’d done before.

  I was jogged from these thoughts by the news anchor.

  ‘We have breaking news. I’ve just been told that the body that was thought to have been in the room above the main protest hall has been identified as Deputy Secretary of State, Todd Liang. We don’t yet know why he was on the premises. But we’ll be reaching out to the State Department – and the Secretary of State, Ruth Forsyth – for comment. I’m told that Secretary Forsyth is in fact due to be in the Bay Area later today for a string of meetings.’

  I jerked my head back to Ellen. ‘Holy hell, the Deputy Secretary of State…’

  Ellen shook her head slowly. ‘My God. Do you think he received the same treatment as they’d planned to give us? That they’d burnt him beforehand, and planted him on site to cover up his murder?’

  ‘I’m almost certain. And if that is the case, there’s a strong chance Liang was yet another elite under their thumb.’

  ‘Are you saying that—’

  I broke in. ‘Yes. There’s a strong chance we’re looking at a plot to target Secretary Forsyth. Think about it. Liang could give Yuelin everything: the Secretary’s entire schedule; her every movement.’

  My skin tingled as I said this. It felt unreal.

  ‘It makes perfect sense, Saul. Remember when Matt was telling us about Titan Rain, and how nobody in politics has the stones to speak out? Well, he’s right – save for one excepti
on. Forsyth’s been weighing in on it aggressively for years. In 2010 – after China hacked Google – she made a major speech denouncing China’s internet conduct. In 2012, twenty American natural gas companies were attacked by Chinese hackers, and Forsyth ingeniously commanded the companies to do nothing – that is, pretend they hadn’t noticed the attack – and for the US press to keep silent, which allowed national security to study the hackers and learn their weaknesses – a big blow to the Chinese. Shortly after, she referred to Titan Rain as the greatest transfer of wealth in history, and asserted that she’d stop at nothing to expose their abuses. Then, in 2013, she spearheaded a movement to do just that, which culminated in the US Government attempting to charge five Chinese hackers.

  ‘What’s more, given that Matt said that Yuelin’s team disbanded in 2013, and that I happen to know that the PLA discontinued some of its most controversial hacking teams as a result of Forsyth’s efforts, there’s a chance Forsyth actually shut Byzantine Ember down.’

  I gripped the table hard, then said:

  ‘And there’s more. Yuelin’s out to avenge the 1999 embassy bombing, right? Well, Forsyth was the National Security Advisor to the Clinton administration at the time. What better revenge than taking out one of the individuals they surely deem most responsible?’

  We fell silent. The situation felt surreal: we’d just uncovered a plot to assassinate one of the world’s most powerful people over gritty coffee in a diner.

  ‘Saul.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m not gonna be much help over the next few hours. I need to rest. That crash – it took it out of me. My head’s in agony, and my arm’ – she raised it as best she could – ‘may not be broken, but it hurts like hell. If I stick around, it’ll only hold you back.’

  This was a bold admission, and she again rose in my estimation. She knew her limits – a rare trait. And given what she’d been through, it was hardly surprising she was wiped out.

  It wasn’t that she was less tough than me: she’d already proven she was as tough as anyone. It was to do with physical realities: whereas I’d been trained at the highest level to deal with extreme physical punishment, she had not. And it’s not something the body automatically knows how to cope with.

  If anything, I should’ve had the foresight to encourage her to bow out earlier.

  With this thought, I knew it was time to take the lead.

  ‘Okay, Ellen,’ I said in hushed tones. ‘The anchor said Forsyth was due to be in the Bay area this afternoon. Now, I think we need to work on a worst-case-scenario basis: that there’s gonna be an attempt on Forsyth’s life, and it’s gonna be today.

  ‘The big problem is, tipping off the Secret Service is a huge risk. We have to assume that Yuelin has men on the inside, and so, if we tip-off, she’ll get wind, and simply speed up her plan. Yes, she may well already be working on the basis we’re still alive and have deduced her plans, so may already be speeding things up – in which case, we’re probably already screwed. But equally, there’s a strong chance she thinks we’re out of action, and we don’t want to risk letting her know otherwise. So, we’re on our own.

  ‘But then there’s another big problem: it’ll be nearly impossible to ascertain Forsyth’s movements without insider information. For starters, the Secret Service routinely keep timetables confidential. Secondly, though the press may think the Consulate fire was accidental, the Service won’t be working on that basis – after all, while it’s not being reported, they’ll be aware that Hao and Minxin were kidnapped and so the Service will be keeping their cards as close to their chest as possible.’

  I paused. ‘So I think I’m gonna have to bring in another contact.’

  ‘Please, no more contacts,’ Ellen interjected urgently.

  ‘Listen, I know I made a terrible error with Scott. But whereas Scott was never a proven ally, the man I have in mind is: it’s the guy who arrested me when I was twenty-two, then gave me a job at the Bureau. Morton Giles. He’s the FBI’s Director of the Criminal Investigative Department at Headquarters. And while the Secret Service are not likely to tell anyone Forsyth’s precise location, if Mort calls, they may be willing to give him a general idea. What’s more, we’re empty-handed, so it’s either that, or admit defeat.’

  Ellen broke into a futile laugh. The waitress glanced over.

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether I give my blessing: it’s gonna happen.’

  ‘It has to.’

  ‘Okay. I still trust you, Saul. After all, what choice do I have?’

  ‘I promise I’ll do my best in your absence. And on that subject, we need to get you out of here – not only because you need space to recover, but also because I reckon it’s gonna get very hot for me here in San Fran, and I may become dangerous to know. There’s a real chance Yuelin’s tipped off the FBI’s San Fran branch as to my presence; and what’s more, my DNA’s all over the car I abandoned near the airport.

  ‘So here’s what I’m thinking. If you feel up to driving, I saw an old banger outside with a for-sale sign in the windscreen. If we can find the owner, you can drive it to a motel I know of in Fresno. Then, once I’m done here, I’ll meet you there. And we’ll set up a new friendly frequency. I’ll be keeping my talkie on Yuelin’s frequency for now; but we can use this new frequency down the line.’

  Ellen hesitated, then nodded. ‘Okay, I can drive.’

  The next moment, I approached the waitress across the room. And after a few minutes, I’d ascertained that the car belonged to the chef and, though he was advertising it for $2k, he’d settle for $1k cash.

  I paid him, and he threw over the keys.

  Then I was back at our table.

  ‘It’s ours.’ I glanced at the TV to see if the news had any further updates, but nothing doing. ‘Let’s roll.’

  Ellen took the keys plus $500 of the remaining $1k, and stood. Then we were out of the door, crossing the small parking lot, and unlocking the car – a Buick Roadmaster.

  Ellen got in, worked the ignition, and the engine groaned to life.

  Ellen was now shaking with exhaustion.

  ‘I’m sorry to bail, Saul,’ she said through the open window.

  ‘This is the right choice. If you stay, and pass out from exertion, it makes things a whole lot worse. Do you know your way to Fresno?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘Okay. Find the Kings Canyon Motel, at 4770 East Kings Canyon Road. They take cash, and don’t ask for ID. Got that?’

  ‘Got it.’

  A brief silence. Then Ellen leaned out and gave me a quick, fleeting kiss on the lips – a kiss that, just for an instant, seemed to numb all the panic and pain and fear. A kiss that put goddamn stars in my eyes. ‘Good luck, Saul. I know you can do it. After all, this is just an average Sunday for a guy like you, right?’ She shot me a brief smile. Then she was pulling out of the space, and moving quickly away.

  For a moment, I felt overwhelmed. On my own. A plot against the Secretary of State. Soon to be hunted by the FBI.

  Then, all at once, I fell into action. I started powering back towards the train station, back towards the payphones I’d seen there. Two minutes later, I reached the quiet phone bank, and dialed the other number I’d memorized – Morton Giles’s.

  It rang and rang. Then at last:

  ‘A string of murders and a fire. I figured it was only a matter of time before I received this call.’

  Mort sounded cautious, wary. I pictured him in my mind: large, bear-sized body; fuzz of brown hair; warm, fatherly face.

  ‘It’s bad, Mort. Real bad. This Consulate business – it was no accident. It was cold-blooded murder. Perpetrated by hardcore Chinese nationalists. But they’ve got something much bigger in the works. They’re planning to target the Secretary of State. Likely today. Possibly in the next few hours. And tipping-off isn’t an option: these nationalists have people under their thumb in every government agency, and so – though I’ve no idea what their plot is – there’s a real chan
ce that raising the alarm will simply cause disaster to strike faster. So what I need you to do is to call up the Secret Service, and surreptitiously glean Forsyth’s schedule, so I can intervene personally.’

  A long pause.

  ‘This is a credible threat?’ he said, fear creeping in.

  ‘Not just credible, but probably meticulously planned, too. These are specialists in deniability; in making their offences seem as though accidents, or someone else’s doing.’

  I paused, and considered telling him the terrible truth about his one-time protégé, Scott Brendan. But before I could, he broke in:

  ‘Saul, about an hour ago, FBI Headquarters received a call from the San Fran branch saying Saul Marshall had been spotted in the area. They of course had no idea who you were, but you appeared on their system as a person of interest to FBI Headquarters, so they passed on the memo. I don’t know what’s happening now; but what I’m saying is, not only are you alone, but you may also find yourself hunted pretty damn soon.’

  My gut contracted. I’d expected as much.

  ‘So be it. The city’s big enough. And so long as they refuse to declare me officially wanted – which they won’t – I should be able to evade them. But we’re getting away from the point. I need you to source the information.’

  ‘A call on this phone is worse than the Batman symbol in the sky.’ Mort sighed. ‘I’m on it, Saul. I’ll do everything I can. Give me a call back in exactly ten minutes.’

  I felt a hit of guilt and gratitude in equal measure. Gratitude because he was doing me a solid. Guilt because – not for the first time – I’d put him in a position in which it was near-impossible for him to refuse.

  ‘Thank you, Mort. As ever, you’re saving my hide.’

  * * *

  I bought a pack of Dunhills, and walked round the block four times, chain-smoking. Ten minutes later, I was back at the phones.

  The first two times I called, there was no reply, and I started getting antsy. But on the third attempt, Mort answered.

  ‘Right, Saul, I just called Secret Service Headquarters here in DC – the Office of Protective Research,’ he said, talking fast. ‘I got through to a senior guy who knew who I was. But obviously I needed to be subtle, so I took a gamble. Told him the FBI’s San Fran’s Field Office had just contacted me, and asked me to ensure nothing was going on in the Palo Alto neck of the woods, because they’d been planning a bust, but had heard Forsyth was in town, and knew Palo Alto was often where she met with technology big-wigs.’