by James Phelan
“That sounds about right,” Gammaldi said. “Although maybe we should formulate a Plan B just in case.”
“Plan B?” Fox questioned. “This is an ingenious plan. It’s a Swiss fuckin’ watch. Foolproof.”
“It’s insane!” Kate said, still refusing to look at him.
“How will we fly it?” Zoe asked.
Fox borrowed Kate’s iPhone and approached the two pilots who were fielding questions from several air show attendees. He introduced himself.
“We’re about to head back to the States,” one of them said. He was wearing a US Air Force uniform with a captain’s rank. “Just fully loaded her up with gas. Give you a lift back if you want?” he said and smiled jokingly.
Fox handed over the phone, McCorkell was on the other end. The pilot spoke to him with a wary tone, then seemed to snap to attention, said a lot of yes sirs and no sirs, and handed the phone back.
Ten minutes later, the four of them followed the Air Force crew and climbed the stairs of the world’s fastest private jet.
81
SHANGHAI
Babich landed in Shanghai and was met in a private hangar by Colonel Zang, a mid-level officer in the Ministry of State Security, who ran the Shanghai Bureau. That meant he ran Shanghai. Babich didn’t like him but he trusted that the man respected money and power more than any political ideology. The air was hot and humid, thick with pollution. They rode in a convoy of blacked-out Chinese knock-off Humvees. They were loud and uncomfortable and the fake leather stuck to his back as the air-conditioning struggled to do its job.
Zang’s personal security guys looked otherworldly: ceramic armour covered most of their body, faces clad in ninja wraparound masks made from Kevlar and carbon-fibre material, their eyes watching him behind anti-flash tactical goggles. They carried black, compact QCW-05 personal defence weapons with subsonic rounds, and long screw-in silencers. These guys meant business and they didn’t want to be identified doing it. He wanted some.
Zang sat next to him, Lavrov in the car behind. The Chinese colonel had updated him on the Summit, how all the world leaders had arrived, including the Russian president. Babich said nothing. He was content to ride in silence.
Putin. Babich had worked hard to forge loyalties and respect in the Soviet party system, but he knew now he’d been too soft. He hadn’t realised how ruthless things would become. Soon after Putin was appointed Prime Minister there was a series of bomb attacks on apartment buildings, killing three hundred civilians and putting the rest of Russia into panic. Putin blamed the bombings on Chechen terrorists and waged a scorched-earth war against the tiny state. Many thousands were abducted and killed, many thousands maimed or raped. Putin grew from a little known former intelligence officer into a national hero and shortly after assumed complete control with the presidency. It was a brilliantly orchestrated scheme by the secret police to bring one of their own to absolute power. Babich had not spoken out about it.
Until now.
Everyone in Russia involved in the attacks would be held to account. The very men who wanted power, those who benefited from it, would pay. Those who dared go against the new government’s line, journalists, politicians, government workers and activists alike, wound up dead; those left, fell silent. Litvinenko was a case in point. The West knew who was responsible, too. Yet here he was, running from American and Western European justice for lesser crimes; and there the current administration was, ruling and acting like the dictatorship they were.
No. No more. Not while Babich lived. He would outplay those in power at their own game. And he’d show the world how he could do it by the law, and in the process put any dirty laundry of his own onto the outgoing government officials and blame them for everything. He had a gift for his people, for the world. He would assume power via silver, not lead. There would be no police roadblocks looking for Chechen terrorists that didn’t exist, no state-run vigilante groups cleaning up whoever they wanted, no limp excuses for the state to crack down on political opponents. The recent war with Chechnya had been the final straw for Babich. To wage a false war against a people who were being armed by Russian military and security forces on the take—that was treason. One thing Babich wasn’t, and never would be, was a traitor to his country. He’d built his emprire on the one thing he truly valued and respected: his people. He owned them and they did well by that. They stood by him, and worked with him to make Umbra Corp the business it was today … And now, with this document, he would lead them. It would be so brilliant and so total … He would be their leader, their saviour. And all he’d need to do was reveal the truth.
Word quickly got around Shanghai that Babich was in town. He wasn’t worried. One of Moscow’s delegates for the Summit came to his Park Hyatt suite. That spoke volumes—the President did not come, nor even his finance minister: they sent a bureaucrat. He sat on the armchair opposite Babich, drinking a glass of Cristal champagne, acting like he had every ace in the deck.
Babich put a list of names on the table. It was a typed list; neat, professional.
The delegate picked it up. “What’s this?” He studied the list for a moment. “It lists many of the members of both houses of parliament.”
“They have until 7 am tomorrow, Moscow time, to announce they are leaving office,” Babich said. “Or they will be removed by force.”
The guy looked incredulous.
“Who will remove them, you?”
“No,” Babich said. “They will be removed by those who have the most to gain from their removal. They will be removed by those who have not had a voice for too long now. They will be removed by those who it is claimed voted for them. They will be removed by the Russian people and that, my friend, is the only reason that you are leaving this room alive tonight. Go and tell your bosses what I have said, and be quick—you have a lot of people to contact.”
PART THREE
82
HIGH OVER CHINA
The two-engine gull-wing aircraft tore through the sky towards Shanghai at an altitude of sixty thousand feet and a cruising speed of around Mach 2. The sonic boom had sounded like a muffled backfire, and Gammaldi explained it was much quieter than earlier supersonic aircraft, about a hundredth that of the Concorde. Inside, it was a decadent ride. Gammaldi had fallen asleep half an hour in, the excitement too much to bear, and Zoe had lasted an hour and two drinks.
Kate sat opposite Fox. There were ten seats in the aircraft, as plush and comfortable as any business-class recliner could be. For the first hour Kate had been stonily silent, watching France and then Europe disappear below. After a couple of drinks, somewhere between the Middle East and Central Asia, she’d started to speak, recounting the events that had led her into the FBI’s witness protection scheme, what it had been like to know nobody, be nobody. She shed quite a few tears, and allowed Fox to hold her hands.
“This will all end tonight,” he said.
Kate gave him a look—like there was more weight to what she had been saying than he could comprehend.
“The running, the threat of Umbra, Babich … everything, it all ends tonight,” he said. “Before all this … Well, before you came back into the picture, I’d wake up some mornings and it would take me a minute to remember who I was, you know? Where I was going, what I was meant to be doing…”
“So what, you’re scared you’ll lose your way if this ends?”
Fox didn’t know. There was something that he couldn’t quite explain, couldn’t quite grasp.
“It’s like I don’t know who I am anymore. I just work … Everyday, I just get up and work and I never stop, nothing changes.”
Kate looked out the window at the dark sky. She turned back to him, met his eyes, then squeezed his hand.
“I shouldn’t have come,” she said. “I should never have gone to France, and I shouldn’t be here now—”
“It’s too late to worry about that,” Fox replied. “I couldn’t have left you there alone.�
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“You could have stayed with me.”
“I’ve gotta do this, Kate.”
“Why?” she asked. “This isn’t your fight.”
“They need me,” Fox said. “I’ve gotta do this—I’ve gotta do it for us, to end this … All the shit that happened this morning? The running and the hiding—don’t you want that to end?”
She looked down at her bare feet on the plush leather armchair she was curled up on.
“I guess I got used to it,” she said. “I learned to block it out.”
“Well it’s all I think about.”
“I suppose I don’t think about it like you,” she said. She looked him in the eye. “It felt like I always had options.”
83
SHANGHAI
“And how many of your countrymen died because of communism?” a staffer from the US delegation asked, his glass of bourbon spilling over its edge. “In your country, in just the last century, all those purges and repression, how many—a hundred million?”
“You think I’m ignorant of that?” the Russian staffer opposite replied. “You think I like that part of my history?”
Jacob knew the dinner and subsequent drinks at the hotel bar had gone on too long. Inebriated politics going on at every level. He looked across at Felecia, who rolled her eyes as a guy from the Japanese delegation whispered in close to her ear. She signalled to her watch and Jacob nodded, excused himself to his colleagues and left the table.
He waited at the bar, made small talk with a colleague from the European Commission, a married guy who had a young local girl at his side. The guy was drunk, celebrating the end of his working week, but was wondering out loud what work had really been done.
Tell me about it …
Jacob’s main role was to draft initiatives that defined new environmental legislation and to ensure that such measures, when agreed to by the EC, were actually put into practice in the member states. It was about protecting, preserving and improving the environment for present and future generations, and promoting sustainable development. This guy, one of a dozen EC staff at the Summit, had a background in banking and was spearheading what had turned out to be—through a last-minute hijacking of priorities—this Summit’s key agenda: reform and improvement of the financial sector and international financial institutions. This was still an economic Summit first and foremost, no matter how the environment affected such things. The quick buck ruled.
“I’ll catch you back in Brussels,” Jacob said, leaving the guy and his Made-in-China doll at the bar. The scene was repeated throughout the room—staffers letting their hair down, plenty of local girls on hand to provide service with a smile who would no doubt work the men for information that the Chinese government could find useful. Seemed no one here found his area of work useful; not that he wanted that kind of female attention right now. Convincing the delegates, that was what was frustrating. His task of pushing to maintain and improve the quality of life through a high level of protection of natural resources, effective risk assessment and management and the timely implementation of community legislation … The repsonse was always the same: “How much does it cost?” Fostering resource-efficiency in production, leading world’s best practice consumption minimisation and waste-disposal measures, integrating environmental concerns into national policy areas, promoting growth that takes account of the economic, social and environmental needs of both citizens and future generations … Addressing the global challenges facing the world, notably combating climate change and the international conservation of biodiversity was deemed ‘too costly.’
At the lift lobby, Felecia tapped him on the shoulder.
She asked, “Were you talking to yourself just now?”
He laughed. “Around here, I’m my best audience. Hell, I’m about my only audience.”
“Where are you going?” she asked. “There’s a party on the observation deck.”
“Sorry, it’s been a long day,” Jacob replied, “a long week.”
“Come on, one more drink, a quiet one,” she said. “I’ve got duty-free Glenlivet—shame to waste it…”
One drink.
“Okay…” he said, and laughed as the lift pinged. They walked to her room in silence, that anxious walk where they knew what was likely to happen and the thought of how they’d first come together was the most exciting aspect of it. Jacob tried to clear his mind, reminded himself he should be staying sober.
“Ice?”
“Thanks.” He walked over to the window. It looked down across the pretty lights of the river that ran through the historic area of the Bund, the old International Zone under the unequal treaties—this would have been such an impressive city then, a microcosm of what could become of the future China. This city had degraded in importance since the Second World War and through the second half of the twentieth century under communism, re-emerging as this schizophrenic mega-city in recent times, heavy on the bling. There was always more identity in the past, while the future seemed … such hard work. “Your view is better than mine.”
“I need some perks with this job,” Felecia replied, passing him his drink.
They clinked glasses, he looked from her wanting eyes to the glow of the the Huangpu River.
Jacob said, “Good Scotch.”
“Only ever as good as the company.”
“Ha.”
“Can you help me stay awake?” she asked. She held up her BlackBerry. “They’ve just called a press conference on the observation deck for 1 am.”
“Why so late?”
“Some special briefing designed to meet press deadlines in the west,” she said. “Another perk of this job.”
“I’ll bring you an espresso at midnight.” He sipped his drink and watched the view.
“Who is she?” Felecia asked.
After a moment he looked at her. Her eyes were understanding, yet it was easy to surrender to her gaze.
“She’s someone special, who I haven’t seen for a while now, but I hope to,” he replied. “An American woman—unlike anyone I’ve met before.”
“Americans…”
“I know, who would have thought it? I met her in Amsterdam,” Jacob replied, sipping his Scotch. “Then she—about six months ago, she moved back to the States and I haven’t seen her since.”
“And you are still holding out hope of being with her?” Felecia’s head was tilted to the side. He smiled, put a hand to the side of her face.
“I am,” he said. Felecia smiled back. They watched the view together and sipped their drinks. “We talk all the time.”
“All talk and no play?”
Jacob smiled. “Yes. She’s just been going through a … a personal crisis, self-searching or something.”
“Well,” she said, her hand finding his. “If you ever get sick of waiting…”
He squeezed her hand and let it go.
“What’s her name? No, wait, I don’t want to know.” Felecia put a finger to his lips to stop him from speaking, kissed him, briefly. Her eyes were like sparkling city lights looking up at him. “I’m happy just to remember your kiss.”
He put the empty glass on the table and made for the door.
“Goodnight, Jacob.”
84
HIGH OVER CHINA
Fox lifted Kate up onto the basin. She wrapped her bare legs around his waist. As he kissed her, she pulled up his shirt and he stood back a little to pull her underwear off. She held his head down, her hands tight with fistfuls of hair, caressing and forcing until she pulled him up. He stood. She undid his pants, they fell to the floor. She pulled him in hard, their tongues exploring as they moved.
She held onto his arms, her fingers tight. Her open mouth on his ear, nibbling and sucking.
She was different, he thought, as they changed positions and he saw her face in the mirror. She was hungrier, faster, present. Maybe it was the day they’d had. He didn’t want it to end.
85
WASHINGTON, DC
“Is it valid?” McCorkell asked.
Her name was Reagan, she was a lawyer, a specialist in international treaties, sequestered from the State Department. She took her time scrutinising the photograph of the protocol on the big screen before she confirmed the worst with a nod.
“Where’d this come from?”
“Buried in a wall,” McCorkell said. She looked at him like he’d just said he’d found life on Mars. “Seriously, a goddamned wall. Not twelve hours ago this was pulled from inside a wall cavity in a room at the Elysée Palace.”
“As in France?”
“Yep.”
“I’d need to study it first-hand with specialist archivists from the Smithsonian and Library of Congress, but from what I can see here—the signatures, the wording—it looks legit.”
Bowden looked a little shell-shocked by the news.
“Yeah, that’s what we thought,” McCorkell said. “So where would our copy be?”
Bowden interjected: “Copy?”
“Wouldn’t we have a copy of this?” McCorkell asked. “From Secretary of State Seward?”
Reagan replied, “Have you tried looking in walls?”
“Maybe we never had one, maybe it’s buried somewhere in Seward’s papers,” Valerie said, studying the image. “Or maybe he did put it in a wall, who knows.”
“Area 51?” Reagan said.
“Right,” McCorkell smiled.
Bowden was steaming, trying to catch up fast. “If we have a copy of this I want it found.”
“We’ve got researchers going through national archives and Seward’s papers right now,” Valerie said.