by Andrew Watts
“What investigation?”
“Based on GIANT’s report and what our NSA partners are saying, this incident has at least some in the Chinese government convinced that Lena Chou is dead. The Chinese knew she was on that smugglers’ boat, from their connections in Colombia. The NSA matched her voice to radio calls in the area. If they did it, you can believe the Chinese 3PLA did the same thing. We also believe that 3PLA hacked into and read our Coast Guard investigation report. Here it is. There was a gunfight. Several dead. Most were found floating in the sea. No one was alive on board. Lots of blood, though.”
David said, “So Lena was really there?”
The analyst said, “We do think Lena Chou transmitted from that boat. Yes.”
“What the hell was she doing there?”
“We don’t know. But as GIANT reported, the Chinese government now considers her officially dead.”
“But who in the Chinese government?”
“Exactly. This report came from a source close to the Chinese president. We think that means that people aligned with him are being led to believe that Lena was killed on this drug boat, while trying to escape.”
“But you don’t believe that?”
“No. This is classic deception. Rule number one: if there is no body, consider your target alive.” Susan stood.
David said, “What do you want me to do?”
She smiled. “Figure out where Lena went, and what she’s up to now.”
David nodded. That day, he connected with different members of the SILVERSMITH team—including representatives from the FBI, Homeland Security, and the NSA. He ran the facts by them, gathering their thoughts and asking them to put out alerts to their agencies.
The next day, they caught a break. David gathered Susan and General Schwartz to show them what they had found.
“Last week the US Navy and Coast Guard conducted a joint boarding on a vessel about a hundred miles off the coast of Central America. Drug smugglers use standard lanes coming up from South America and into Mexico, and we think this was a mothership. This particular mothership was empty, except for one dead body. But the forensics analysis now shows that at least five people were killed there. There is signals intelligence that suggests Lena Chou broadcast a radio transmission from that vessel.”
Susan waved him on. “We know. We know. So…”
David held up his hand. “Here’s the new news. You’re familiar with a man by the name of Charles Beulah?”
General Schwartz and Susan both shook their heads. “Never heard of him.”
“Did you hear about a religious fanatic in Oklahoma who is missing after they found his wife dead in their home?”
General Schwartz frowned. “I think I read something about that. Saw the headline…”
The NSA analyst in the room spoke up. “Chinese social network bot farms have been plastering this guy’s name up—”
David interrupted. “Can you explain what those are, for those who might not be familiar?”
“Sure. Governments like Russia and China sponsor bot farms—”
David said, “Start with bot.”
The analyst looked annoyed. “Bot. Robot. A bot is a software program that automatically performs a certain task. Like an automated response for your email. But bots can get a lot more advanced than that. Foreign intelligence services will create fake profiles on social media. They will program these bots to post or relay information from each of these fake social media accounts—this acts to amplify a certain message.”
General Schwartz said, “Pardon me, I’m just an old soldier. Posting online for everyone to see isn’t really my style. I don’t have, nor do I want, a Facebook account. So my question is, does that really work?”
David said, “The bot farms can control millions of fake social media profiles. To answer your question, sir—yes. We’ve done studies that show how they really do influence people’s opinions. These fake accounts look and behave like real people. And with the way these social networks are set up—especially in China, where the government controls everything—the effect is that your average user believes that an idea or article is very popular. This idea of appearing popular is very important in shifting people’s opinions. I mean, why else would companies spend billions of dollars a year on marketing, if it didn’t work?”
Susan said, “Marketing 101. If you want to influence people to think a certain way, convince them that everyone else likes what you’re selling. So these bots in China are amplifying certain ideas?”
The NSA analyst nodded. “Yes. They have been talking a lot about anti-Western and, in particular, anti-religious themes lately. This guy Charles Beulah is a popular target.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s nuts. Or at least, that’s the way the Chinese websites are portraying him. He’s well known there in some circles. He proclaims to be pro-America and pro-Christianity. But some of his views are way out there, and he’s obsessed with China. His website talks about how he wants the US to use drones to kill Chinese politicians, for example.”
“Okay. And this guy just went missing?”
David said, “Yes. A local relative drove to Beulah’s house and found his wife dead inside the home. Beulah hasn’t been seen since. The SILVERSMITH team gets any news and intelligence bulletins that might be related to China. This one crossed our desk, but at the time we didn’t think it was relevant.”
“But?”
“I asked the NSA to focus some of their more sophisticated surveillance programs on that area, to see if anything pops up related to Lena Chou.”
The NSA analyst tapped on his computer and an image appeared on the screen. It was a white van. The resolution was good, but the van was a bit blurry. “Sorry that the picture isn’t perfect. This was taken from a home security camera one mile from the Beulah residence, the same day that the coroner’s office says the wife was killed.”
In the passenger seat of the van sat a woman. Long black hair flowed down from her head, covering half her face. From what was visible, she looked Asian.
“You think that’s Lena Chou?”
“Yes.”
“That would never hold up in court. It’s not clear enough.”
“I wasn’t aware that was our standard.”
“It’s not. Good work.”
General Schwartz leaned forward, his hands on the table. “Am I thinking about this right? What are we saying here? That Lena Chou murdered the wife of this religious activist?”
David said, “Correct. And she didn’t act alone. The bullets found on the drug smugglers’ boat were fired from weapons favored by Chinese navy special operations. And someone is driving her in that van. Looks like an Asian male, about twenty to thirty years old.”
“So Lena and a Chinese special operations unit murdered people on a drug-smuggling boat in the Eastern Pacific? And this same unit murdered Chuck Beulah’s wife—inside the continental United States?”
The FBI representative said, “That is one possible conclusion, yes. We don’t have hard evidence that Lena Chou and/or any other Chinese nationals were involved in the Beulah shooting.”
General Schwartz said, “But this Beulah religious activist guy is missing. And Lena Chou is still missing.”
“Presumed dead by the Chinese.” Susan added.
“So where the hell are they now?”
Susan shook her head. “This is sloppy. Why use Chinese weapons on the drug-smuggling boat? And why wasn’t she more careful not to get photographed? The woman is a trained intelligence operative, wanted by both China and the United States. But she’s driving around riding shotgun in the middle of Oklahoma?”
David said, “To be fair, no one was looking for her there. But that part concerns me too. My only thought is that she isn’t worried about repercussions from the United States.”
“But why? We’ll bring this evidence to the Chinese. President Wu has been very cooperative. He’s going to agree with us that—”
A sh
arp knock on the door interrupted the meeting.
One of the other SILVERSMITH team members cracked it open and stuck his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but you guys need to turn on the news immediately…”
10
Lena Chou’s caravan of vehicles came to a halt just outside a towering building in central Beijing. Her long black hair swung back and forth as she walked up to the chief security guard on the Chinese presidential detail. He recognized her on sight.
“Good morning, Miss Chou.”
“Good morning. Everything set?”
“As you have instructed us, ma’am. The streets have been cleared for two blocks around this position. All security cameras have been shut off.”
“Excellent work.”
She turned back towards her vehicles and nodded her head. Doors simultaneously opened, and men in suits identical to the presidential guard’s got out of the vehicles. The rear door of one of the SUVs was opened, and a body bag removed. Two men carried it tucked under their right arms.
There were more than a dozen of them in all. Each carried a black duffle bag filled with clothing, weapons, and equipment.
They stood in the lobby, waiting for the elevators to come down. No one spoke. The group was one of Jinshan’s “wet” teams. They were the cleaners—the mechanics who sought out and killed informants and spies of foreign governments. They also took part in assassinating rival businessmen and politicians when Jinshan required it. They specialized in making it look like an accident.
But today was unique, even for them.
A ding announced the opening of the elevator door. Five of the men stepped inside and took the elevator up to the floor just below the penthouse suite.
Lena rolled her eyes. She was spoiled from years of work outside of this country. Elevators in China were known for being extremely small. Because the elevators were so tiny, and the building so tall, this process of getting her men up the building took several minutes.
Once gathered on the floor below the Chinese president, Lena and the others conducted their final stages of preparation. They retrieved specially tailored clothing from their bags and began putting it on—white tunics with a bright red cross painted on both the front and back. Matching masks with little slits in the eye and mouth areas.
“Everyone ready?” Lena asked.
Nods all around.
They looked ridiculous, wearing sheets over their heads. It looked like some type of cult. But from her time in the US, she knew that the outfit had been designed to resemble that of the KKK, a fanatical hate group that claimed ties to Christianity. In all of Lena’s time in America, she had never met anyone in the KKK. And her experience with Christians had been unremarkable. But as Jinshan was always saying, truth was malleable. What mattered was what Chinese commoners would believe, after today.
“Follow me.”
The group took the fire escape stairway up the final flight of stairs. Masks on. Weapons out. Lena was the only one who hadn’t bothered with a mask yet. She might be caught on camera. But no one would be investigating the matter other than Jinshan’s loyalists, and they would quickly find out, if they inquired, that Lena wasn’t to be investigated.
The presidential guards in the hallway saw Lena coming. One whispered something into his cuff, and they began walking away from their posts.
It was remarkable. Even she couldn’t believe how Jinshan’s fingers had infiltrated that section of the government. But everyone had a price, a desire, a fear. Everyone had a motivation—something that Jinshan the artist could use to mold the world into his vision.
The penthouse door opened and several more presidential guards left, hurrying down the hall, opposite Lena and her approaching troop.
Lena and her team of white-sheeted and armed men entered the penthouse.
“What is this?”
There he was. President Wu. His eyes widened as he saw the white-masked men fanning out throughout the spacious living area.
“Where are my guards?” His words were directed at her, the first hint of fear in his tone.
Lena said, “They left.”
She stood in the center of the white marble entranceway, thick columns rising up on either side of her. She was a picturesque statue, all at once beautiful and grotesque. Her dark eyes and sharp features would be the envy of any runway model, but for the scars.
A flash of recognition hit the president as he stared at her. One of Lena’s men grabbed hold of him.
Two screams came from the bedroom. Seconds later, her men emerged, holding the president’s wife and daughter kicking and screaming in their arms.
Lena focused on the daughter. She was only fifteen or sixteen, by the look of it. An odd feeling came over Lena. Maybe it was that ridiculous discussion with Natesh, about how some people weren’t meant to see certain things. But she felt sorry for the girl. Lena decided that the daughter didn’t need to be a part of this.
“Tie the daughter up and place her down in my vehicle.” No one questioned Lena’s orders. Two of the men left with the teenager, who was whimpering now but didn’t put up a fight.
President Wu said, “You are Lena Chou. Jinshan’s agent…”
“I am.” Her eyes were unblinking.
“Jinshan—is he what you are here for? Is his freedom what you are trying to accomplish? You are going to hold us hostage for his release? Miss Chou, this tactic is not in your best interests. Jinshan’s fate and yours are not tied together. Please reconsider before…”
Lena’s lips formed a thin smile as she studied the president. Leader of one point four billion people. And now that his life was in danger, he flew back to the familiar. Calculating and probing. The master politician. Trying to find weakness and motive in his opponent.
But Lena had realized long ago that famous politicians and celebrities were often nothing more than propped-up machinations, created by publicity studios and marketing firms. Without their makeup and their carefully crafted speeches, they were nothing. Lena was unmoved by his words.
“Sit them down,” she said to her men.
They forced President Wu and his wife onto one of the couches. The wife was near hysterical. She wouldn’t stop screaming.
Lena sighed. “Gag her, please.”
One of her men stuffed a rag in the woman’s mouth and used tape to keep it in there. The wife looked like she was choking at first but then calmed down, breathing through her nose, closing her tear-filled eyes as if she could wish this all away.
Several of her men began removing equipment from silver cases. They set up cameras and microphones. A tripod was placed ten feet in front of the couch, and then a camera placed atop it.
President Wu was red-faced. “I will not release Cheng Jinshan. And my guards will be here soon. They will—”
Lena stood tall in front of the president. “Your guards left voluntarily.”
He stopped speaking at that. While he had seen his presidential security detail depart, he hadn’t thought about the implications until now. His eyes lowered, a wave of defeat washing over him.
“We don’t want you to release Cheng Jinshan, Mr. President.”
He looked up at her, confused. “Then what do you want me to do?”
Lin Yu stood behind the counter of his uncle’s small electronics store in central Guangzhou. He ate a lunch of reheated noodles with steamed vegetables. He used one hand to take another bite with his chopsticks while using the other to scan the social media feed on his phone.
His shop was empty, as usual. Beneath his elbows was a glass display filled with rows of cell phone parts. Memory cards. Screens. Microchips. Some of the big cell phone suppliers were located nearby. Lin Yu’s store sold spare parts and secondary items from those plants. The manufacturers got rid of parts that they didn’t need and reduced their overhead. Everybody won.
Except for Lin Yu, working in this dead-end job. Entire weeks would go by without a single customer. Then the floodgates would open as buyers came in from all o
ver the world, here to find bargain prices for their companies. Lin Yu’s uncle would show up on those weeks. He would take out his calculator and bargain with the men on prices and quantities. The purchasers would use the display cases to point to which item they were interested in. The quantities were often astronomical during those busy weeks. But during the dry season, as Lin Yu called it, manning the store was a dreadfully boring task.
However, Lin Yu needed a job. He couldn’t go home during the day. He still lived with his parents. And the longer he was there, the more likely his mother would be to drive him towards insanity.
All the woman talked about was him finding a woman to marry so that she could have a grandchild before she was dead. She wasn’t fifty years old yet and she was talking about her own death. More likely, she just used the all-powerful bargaining chip that all mothers possessed—guilt.
It wasn’t Lin Yu’s fault that he couldn’t find a girlfriend. It wasn’t like he was uninterested. It was just slim pickings.
One of his friends had forwarded him an article last year that said China had thirty-three million more men than women. His friend had meant for the article as a joking excuse for why they couldn’t find girlfriends. But as Lin Yu had read the article, he had been fascinated—and horrified—at the conclusions. The article had been written by a Western journalist, and it had been deleted on China’s Internet by the censors shortly after Lin Yu had read it. The article claimed that the one-child policy and sex-selective abortions had driven the gender disparity in China. At the height of the problem, in the early 2000s, there had been twenty percent more male babies being born than female.
“Hey, Lin Yu. Get any customers?” His friend who worked at a similar shop down the hall stood in the doorway.
“Nothing. You?”
“Nah. This week will be sleepy, I think. I’m off now, though. Done for the day. I have to go help my mom with something.”
He grabbed a snap pea from Lin Yu’s lunch.
“Hey, stop it—come on.”