The two victims were yet to be identified. But the one to the front seemed to be a young Asian woman, and the one to the back, a youngish Caucasian man.
But I already knew who the man was: Scott Brendan. The shards would’ve obscured the fact he’d already been mangled – that was the ploy. And it made me sick to think of them defacing his already dead body.
‘And the young woman is another person just like me,’ Ellen said. ‘Surely another hidden dissident. Perhaps one they had not originally planned to target, but decided to go for in the last moment, since they needed to do away with Scott.’
I turned to Ellen. Her eyes were wet. It was yet more death – more suffering. And again, it was personal: that woman could so easily have been her.
Chapter 38
Monday, December 13, 2:46 a.m. – 1153 13th Avenue, Land Park, Sacramento, California.
‘So here’s the deal, Chen. You’re a proud man, and you’re no doubt proud you betrayed your nation, and aligned yourself with the yang guizi. So we figured we should give you a badge of honor to mark you out as a Westerner forever more – after all, you wouldn’t want people to accidentally take you for Chinese, would you? So, we’re going to perform a blepharoplasty. It’s simple, really: we cut into your eyelids with a scalpel, and tear off a strip of skin and muscle. Then, when it heals, it gives your eyes an extra crease, so you can look just like your beloved round-eyed yang guizi forever.’
Xi Chen stared up at Yuelin plaintively, and mumbled incoherently into his gag. He was trying to project calm, but his body gave him away: he was twitching against Yuelin’s men, who were holding him in place in the back of the white-panel van.
Jantzen was holding the scalpel, and dangling it in front of Chen’s face.
Yuelin grinned.
Xi Chen had long been on Yuelin’s radar – ever since he’d fled China in cowardly retreat in 2013. Chen was part of a publishing house in Hong Kong that’d brazenly published filthy, Tibet sympathizing materials. Some of his colleagues were arrested, and made to disappear – in other words, they’d reaped what they sowed. But unlike his colleagues, Chen had foreseen what was in store, and hastily retreated to America before they could bring him in. Then, once he’d arrived in America, he’d been granted asylum – by none other than Secretary Forsyth.
Yuelin had fantasized not of killing Chen, but of in fact orchestrating an extradition; of kidnapping Chen, and hauling him back to China.
But the idea had been off the table for a number of reasons. Firstly, she’d been forbidden by the individual she’d been cooperating with and, while she would not ordinarily take instruction from him, she understood that she would need him to pull it off.
Secondly, she knew that it might impact on her deniability. This was by no means definite, because as it so happened, Chen’s presence in America was unknown publicly in either China or America: when he’d arrived in the States, it was kept hushed, and he was granted refuge under highly secretive circumstances. This meant that, if Chen did suddenly go missing, US politicians couldn’t make a scene, because officially, Chen wasn’t even there. But that said, America would undoubtedly know that he’d been kidnapped, that there’d been foul play – and she was worried not only by the fact they’d probably hunt for a culprit, but also by the outside chance that they’d then retrospectively realize that the Consulate fire, and the attempt on Secretary Forsyth’s life, were in fact all linked to this forcible extradition.
But ever since the attack on Forsyth had gone awry, she knew she needed to do something spectacular to make up for it. So she decided she would force the man she’d been cooperating with to play ball. And she would run the risk of damaging her deniability, since she felt that it was still very unlikely they’d in fact reinterpret the previous attacks.
And so, she’d returned to his house in his Sacramento; his house almost nobody knew about, but Yuelin had found because Chen had continued to communicate to dissidents in China via TOR. And because Yuelin had in fact stalked his movements a month ago, and knew Chen took evening walks in the quiet green space opposite his home, it’d been easy to pull up in a van, and bundle him into the back.
And now it was time to a have some fun. She hadn’t be able to do much with her previous victims: they’d had to look like victims of sniper killings. But Chen was different.
And nothing gave her more pleasure than marking out traitors. Physically altering them, so they could never forget, never deny, their betrayal.
She licked her lips.
‘Did you know that back in China, three million people a year choose to have this surgery done? At university, I was surrounded by Chinese who were trying to emulate the round-eyed yangguizi. And while a part of me was sickened – sickened at how their culture had colonized ours – another part was glad. Glad that those traitors made themselves known physically, so we true Chinese knew to revile them.’
She paused. There was fear in Chen’s eyes. And she was pleased. He’d thought he could escape justice. But now he’d come to understand that he could never have escaped the justice he’d incurred when he’d chosen to humiliate China.
‘Of course, when these low-level traitors get their eyes done, they go to a doctor. They’re allowed to shirk the pain with drugs. But this will be our first time doing this, so I suspect the end-product might be a bit more – distinctive. They say – they say that watching your own eyes being operated on is psychologically traumatic. I’d be interested to hear your opinion once we’re done.’
Chen still tried to remain motionless, but his primal responses were giving him away: his slacks suddenly went a deeper grey around the groin. The rich smell of ammonia filled the air.
Since 1999, when her father had died at American hands, Yuelin had kept a diary. Every day, without fail, she’d written the single word in the top-right corner: Xuechi – avenge humiliation. Every day, she’d accompanied this with a means of doing so. And the very first method she’d dreamed up was to mark traitors physically, so the world would know the truth forever.
It was a privilege to carry out this justice.
Yuelin gestured to Jantzen. He handed over the scalpel. Yuelin’s men then held Chen’s head firmly in place.
‘Now, hold still. You wouldn’t want me to slip, and puncture one of your eyes. They’re almost entirely water and nerve tissue. It wouldn’t be pleasant.’
Now he was thrashing. The men held him more firmly still.
Yuelin lowered the scalpel to the sound of muffled screams.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Yuelin was back on the road, behind the wheel of the van. Chen was in back – under the watchful eye of her closest remaining comrade, Jantzen Pang – tied up and gagged, his eyelids bleeding. And one eye not-so-accidentally punctured.
Yuelin hadn’t enjoyed inflicting the pain for the sake of it. But she had enjoyed watching justice being served.
Xuechi, Xuechi, Xuechi, she said softly to herself.
Yuelin now felt calm. She knew that the last part of her plan was safe from meddling forces. And she knew, also, that she’d get her way with her all-important contact. After all, she had the hard-drive. The hard-drive hidden in the airbag compartment in front of her.
Now, she just had to wait for the signal.
Of course, there were so many who had not yet felt her wrath: Ellen Kelden, Saul Marshall, Secretary Forsyth. And while the last one was probably the hardest to stomach, it was Saul Marshall who really got her heart racing, who really elicited that deep, black bloodlust. He’d turned up out of the blue, and had destroyed so much, spilt so much pure Chinese blood, and the pain of that was enormous. She’d do anything to spill his blood – to dip her finger into a pool of it, and taste it. But she was patient: she would go back to China and formulate a plan. And this extradition of Xi Chen, this demonstration of China’s ability to exact justice anywhere on the planet, would go some way to compensate.
And so too would getting the technology into the hands of the PLA
. Because while the PLA frustrated her with its unwillingness to show its true colors abroad, she knew that when it came to dealing with dissidents at home, they wouldn’t shy from the task. And with her technology, they’d be able to sniff out even the most hidden, most cowardly dissidents. The ones who dare not show their faces.
Xuechi, Xuechi, Xuechi.
Chapter 39
Monday, December 13, 5:46 a.m. – Kings Canyon Motel, 4770 East Kings Canyon Road, Fresno, California.
We were sitting silently on the bed, drinking another coffee we’d made with the in-room kettle, and thinking, when both of our heads shot round in unison to face the room’s back door: we’d suddenly heard a shuffling just beyond.
Fifteen minutes ago, we’d turned off the television, and shut the laptop, to give us some silence – which had made hearing the noise possible. The room was small – the front entrance led straight into the bedroom, which contained a double bed. On the left-hand wall near the back of the room was a door to a small, windowless bathroom. On the far wall, a door that led out to a run-down patio. And now it sounded like someone was just outside.
My first thought, confusion. Might this just be some civilian or motel staff? Or had Yuelin somehow hunted us down? Or had the FBI found me?
My second thought, survival.
They still had the element of surprise. But we’d been given a brief moment’s notice. And that could make all the difference.
I stood, took the Walther out of my pocket and started moving to the door. As I did so, I glanced over my shoulder. Ellen had also taken out her gun, and was crouching behind the bed. A wise move: it would shield her, but also allow her to sneak-attack anyone coming through the front entrance.
In the back of my mind, I registered I was still clutching the coffee in my left hand.
Then, no more than three seconds after we’d heard the noise, and just as I’d reached the wall directly by the door, the door smashed off its hinges.
The next moment, two bodies burst over the threshold. Both in khaki police uniforms: the uniform of the Californian State Police. And that meant they were trained. More so than your local police-officers.
And both holding Sig Sauer pistols. Which meant they were dangerous.
Yet while they were a real threat, I knew I had to disarm them without inflicting lethal harm. After all, these were undoubtedly innocent guys just following orders.
Before the one at the front had even registered me to his side, I smashed my pistol down on his wrist. He yelled, unloaded a bullet into the wall, just above Ellen’s head, and dropped the pistol. Almost in the same moment, without even thinking about it, he launched himself at me. As he did so, I saw the second guy behind pivot to face me – so I flung the hot coffee at his gun-wielding arm.
But though I heard him scream and swear, I couldn’t see if he’d dropped the weapon. Because a half-second later, the first guy was the only thing I could see – he’d basically fallen on me, trying to grapple me.
He was a big guy, strong; but on the plus side, not only was he blocking the second guy’s line of fire, but he was also still disoriented. I needed to capitalize. I smashed my shoe down on his toe, and he puffed out air in pain and loosened his grip. Then I managed to draw a half-step back, free my left arm, and swing my elbow into his jaw.
His eyes swiveled into the back of his head as his brain bounced around in the cerebrospinal fluid, and he collapsed in a floppy heap.
But before I could draw breath, the second guy was up in my grill, much faster than I’d expected. And though he didn’t seem to have his gun – I’d no idea where it’d gone – he did have a taser. And no sooner did I see it than the prongs hit my neck, and fifty thousand volts surged agonizingly through my body, and I went to ground in wide-eyed convulsions.
I was conscious, but completely at his mercy. He leaned over me with detached curiosity like he was watching a wounded animal.
Then, all at once, his body jolted: his eyes bulged, jaw slackened, and he collapsed on top of me, disengaging the Taser in the process.
For a moment, I was thinking nothing – just processing the pain. And then I understood: Ellen had knocked him out. A few seconds later, she rolled him off me.
‘You okay?’
I looked at her a few moments, then nodded. But then, before I could say anything, I could hear out front, the sound of vehicles arriving. It wasn’t a loud noise, but it sounded like perhaps four cars arriving in the car-park: I couldn’t see, since we’d shut the curtains. And suddenly I realized that I had in fact heard the first car arrive five minutes ago, but hadn’t given it a second thought.
My gut lurched. A world of trouble was gathering outside.
‘Turn on the TV.’
Ellen did. The news was on the screen an instant later. And it was bad.
Ellen Kelden, of Los Angeles, had been named as a key suspect in the assassination attempt. Her face was on the right-hand of the screen – the photo that’d been on her UCLA card. Her name spelt across the bottom.
Ellen’s face blanched. Pure panic.
I said: ‘They’ve done it to get to me. They can’t announce me as wanted; but they knew there was a good chance I was with you. And there’s more police outside. I imagine the motel manager squealed and the message went to every relevant law enforcement agency. California State Police car must’ve been the nearest. Outside, probably Fresno Police Department. Come to offer backup.’
‘So what do we do?’
I forced my brain into action. ‘They both entered via the back. That means they almost certainly put a metal bar across the front door without us noticing, so we wouldn’t have been able to exit had we tried.’
I paused. I knew we couldn’t sneak away via the backdoor: there was no route that didn’t go through the main car-park out front.
‘Where did you park your car?’ I asked, suddenly realizing I hadn’t seen the Roadmaster out front.
‘Round the corner. Just as a precaution – in case the guy we bought it from talked.’
I nodded. ‘Right, here’s the plan – though it’s just about lunacy. I strip off one of these officers, put on his uniform, and pocket one of their IDs and their car-keys while you pack up everything you need into the valise. Then I walk you out, like I’ve just arrested you. Then we drive round the corner, dump the car, and pick up the Roadmaster. I reckon we have a window of time: they will’ve seen the bar on the door and the squad car, and will want to give the state police some time to do their job.’
‘Will it work?’
‘It’ll work,’ I said, as convincingly as I could.
At that – with the scent of adrenaline in the air – we both got to work: I stripped the guy I’d hit in the jaw, put on his clothes, and pocketed the car keys and the other guy’s ID – his name was Dale Monroe, and looked only slightly more like me – while Ellen packed up our modest possessions. Then I took Dale Monroe’s handcuffs, placed them on Ellen, arms behind her back, and picked up the valise.
I looked in the small wall mirror, and pushed my hair back; tried to make it tidy.
‘Saul, I’m scared,’ said Ellen abruptly. She was looking back at me over her shoulder, and I saw more fear in her face than ever before. I understood: she was the most wanted person in the country, and that was goddamn overwhelming.
I reached an arm around her, and gave her a big squeeze.
‘Use it. You’re supposed to look scared. You can do this.’
I took a deep breath. This was crazy, but it was the only way past a small army of police officers, undoubtedly with all howitzers blazing.
‘Right: show time.’
I marched Ellen out the back door, and started towards the corner of the building that led round to the car-park, with a strange rollercoaster bottomlessness inside me: half fear; half that vaguely familiar rush reminiscent of a time long ago. A time when I was a con-artist, and ate police officers like these for breakfast. But back then, the stakes had been lower: jail-time at worst. But
now, lives were on the line. Failure wasn’t an option.
I was playing a State officer. I knew that if I was going to see this through, I had to pull rank, make my authority work for me, play on jurisdictional tensions…
Next thing I knew, we were entering the parking lot.
There were five police vehicles: one California State Police squad car parked orderly on the opposite side of the lot; four Fresno Police cars right in the middle. And while the former was unmanned, the latter four each had two officers standing by their driver and passenger doors: seven men, one woman. And not only did they look like Fresno’s A-team – lean, fit, professional – but they were also armed to the teeth: six Glock Pistols, two menacing shot-guns. Ithaca Mag 10s – a gun that made light work of vehicles.
Every officer turned to face us as we appeared. All guns in our direction, though lowered at the sight of an officer with things in control.
I gave the team an officious nod. One man – slim, older, big mole on his upper lip – strode over. I kept on walking until he was right by me.
He slipped out his ID. My heart raced: I knew I’d have to do the same. And yet, I knew that if the guy gave a close inspection, the jig was up.
‘Ed Davison, Fresno Police.’
I slipped my own ID out of my pocket, knowing I couldn’t let him look too closely; knowing I’d have to somehow divert his attention.
‘Dale Monroe, Californian State,’ I said; then, as I flipped open the ID, I said with slight disdain: ‘Eight cops, two Ithicas – bit much for a young woman, no?’
The gambit worked: instead of looking at the ID, he blinked twice, and glanced at his small army. I slipped the ID back in my pocket.
Never Forget Page 27