When he had finished, the fortune teller turned to Kamigami. “You must take Miss Li to Cheung Chau Island.” The tone in the old man’s voice carried a deep respect when he said “Miss Li.” Kamigami would hear it many times in the future, always spoken in the same tone of voice. The old man sketched a map showing Kamigami how to reach the ferry to the island. “The Mass Transit Railway is still running. Take it to Hong Kong and get off at Central station.” He was shaking. “Be careful.”
Two of the bystanders escorted them out of the temple and to the nearest Mass Transit station. Kamigami hesitated when he saw the mass of people pushing into and out of the underground entrance. “It is dangerous,” Jin Chu warned him. “But we must go.”
“Hold on to my belt,” Kamigami said. The strength of her grasp reassured him and he plowed into the crowd, using his bulk to bulldoze a path to the boarding platform. As they waited for the next train, a man tried to shove Jin Chu aside, yelling at her. Kamigami spun the man around, grabbed him by his shirt collar and belt, and threw him six feet back over the heads of the crowd. All pushing and shoving stopped until the train pulled into the station.
Total chaos ruled when the doors hissed open. People tried to push out of the train while the crowd on the platform tried to board. Kamigami braced his hands against the sides of the open door and blocked the crowd behind him while passengers got off. When he let go, the dammed strength of the crowd catapulted him and Jin Chu into the car and against the opposite door. His left foot bumped against a small bundle. He looked down and saw the body of a child that had been trampled to death. The train started to move and an eerie silence settled over the car. The pungent aroma of urine drifted past him.
Kamigami studied the map the Mass Transit authorities had posted on the wall. His lips compressed into a tight line when he realized they had to go under Victoria Harbor. He decided to get off at Tsim Sha Tsui, the last station before they crossed under the harbor, and take a Star Ferry across to Hong Kong. But the engineer did not stop and the train rushed through the smoke-filled station. A hail of bullets cut into the train and shattered windows, plowing into the hapless passengers.
He clutched Jin Chu to him and tried to shield her with his own body. The screams of the wounded quickly died out as they were pushed to the floor. The sudden rise of heads above the crowd announced who was standing on a fresh body. Kamigami felt the train start a gradual descent into the Victoria Harbor tunnel. They were plunging into the depths of hell.
The train was on the level when the lights flickered and went out. The train coasted to a stop. Panic swelled in the darkness and the madness that had been held at bay only by the train’s forward motion swept over the living. The emergency lights came on and the noise in the car reached a crescendo of shouts and screaming. A new odor, faint and different, reached him. Before he could identify the smell, it was gone. He stiffened, remembering Vietnam. A faint odor had often been the only warning that danger was at hand.
Years of experience had taught him not to ignore the warning. But what was it? It would have to come back stronger for him to smell it again. Then it was back and he knew what it was. Brine. And the only possible source was the harbor above their heads.
Jin Chu would never understand a shouted command in the hysteria that ruled the car. Kamigami grabbed her shoulders, spun her around, pinned her against the door with his body and dug his hands into the rubber gasket that sealed the doors closed. He heaved. Nothing. The crowd pushed at his back and he felt a sharp pain in his lower right side, just above his belt. The man behind him tried to cut him down with a knife to clear the way. Kamigami twisted around and fixed the man with a hard stare. In the instant Kamigami jammed his palm into the man’s nose with a sharp upward motion, the man knew he had made a mistake—a very bad mistake. He crumpled to the floor.
Kamigami ignored the pain in his back and threw all his strength against the doors. They started to open. The smell of sea water was much stronger and the crowd caught it. He heard the sound of breaking glass as windows were shattered for escape exits. The shouting and cries were deafening. Slowly the doors moved open and with one last heave, they parted.
The pressure of the crowd shot the two out of the car and slammed them into the tunnel wall, stunning Jin Chu. The doors snapped closed, trapping a woman, her body a wedge holding it open. A man stomped her down the crack and crawled over her and onto Kamigami’s back. Kamigami drove an elbow into the man’s stomach and forced him back against the train. He reached for Jin Chu and in the dim light saw water in the track pit below the car. He guided her hand to the back of his belt and felt the reassuring pressure of her strong grasp.
The emergency lights in the train went out and they were submerged in total darkness as screams echoed in anguish. He moved forward along the narrow cement ledge that served as a catwalk. The power cables anchored on the wall gave him a handhold. Twice, he had to push free when someone tried to crawl out of a window onto them. When they were clear of the train, he moved faster, becoming more confident in the darkness as they left the swirling vortex of screams and death behind.
“Stop,” Jin Chu commanded. She guided his right hand to the pain in his side. He could feel blood pouring from the knife wound. He ripped off his shirt, tore a large piece from the back, and jammed it into the wound to stop the bleeding. Then he spun the shirt into a long twist and tied it around his waist, holding the makeshift compress in place. He had been wounded before.
They started to move along the catwalk as the rising water lapped at their feet. Ahead, Kamigami could hear a ventilation fan. The emergency generators were keeping the ventilation and water pumps on-line. The water level had reached their ankles when he felt the slope rise. They were starting out of the tunnel. The screams coming from the train died away as death ruled the stalled train. “Hurry,” he commanded when he heard the sound of the fans stop. “With the electricity off the water pumps will stop.” They were almost running when Jin Chu slipped and fell into the track pit. Wildly, he searched for her in the water and came up with a fistful of hair. He dragged her back onto the catwalk. She was unconscious. He threw her over his right shoulder and moved forward, but the water had risen to midcalf and slowed his progress.
It was a race against the rising water in the tunnel. He felt dizzy. His mind registered the change—carbon monoxide buildup or loss of blood. The resistance of the water and the weight of Jin Chu worked against him and sapped his strength. He fought against the water as it reached his knees. He focused what was left of his strength and drew short, sharp breaths with each step, slogging ahead. For the first time, he doubted he could make it. He drove himself forward one step at a time, refusing to give in to defeat. The water reached his waist.
Ahead, a glimmer of light broke the darkness. “Put me down,” Jin Chu said. He let her slip off his shoulder as he gasped for air. Her hand was against the small of his back and she pushed. It was enough to get him moving. The air grew fresher and the light brighter. Four more steps and the water started to recede. They were coming out of the tunnel into a lighted station.
Jin Chu pulled herself onto the passenger platform and grabbed Kamigami’s hand. She threw her body back and pulled until he was beside her. He lay panting while she checked his bandage. “You’re still bleeding,” she said in Cantonese. She ripped off a leg of her pants at the knee, wrung it out and pressed it over the first compress. She retied the bandage, cinching the compress tight. Slowly, Kamigami came to his feet and she helped him up the stalled escalator into a swirling mass of Hong Kongers.
He collapsed outside. Jin Chu grabbed him under the shoulders and tried to pull him to the side of the walk, away from the rushing crowd. But his weight was too much for her. She looked around for help but knew that no one would stop. Then she saw it. One of the rickshaws in which old men pulled tourists around for an exorbitant fee was partially hidden behind a pile of cardboard boxes. She ran over to it and called for the driver. When there was no answer, she pull
ed the rickshaw free and trotted over to Kamigami. She half-rolled and half-pulled until she had him in the two-wheeled cart. She picked up the poles and threw her weight forward until she picked up speed and was trotting down the elevated concrete esplanades that fronted on Hong Kong’s harbor.
A mass of humanity blocked the entrance to the Cheung Chau ferry terminal. Jin Chu screamed and tried to barge her way through the mob but was pushed aside by a heavyset woman. Four young boys, high-school students returning home, surrounded her and started shouting and pushing, forcing the rickshaw through the crowd and up the gangway onto the ferry. Surprisingly, once on board, the temper of the crowd changed and willing hands helped lay Kamigami on a long table while the four boys dumped the rickshaw overboard.
An old man materialized out of the crowd and demanded a first-aid kit from a crewman. “I am a doctor,” he told Jin Chu. With skilled but shaky hands, he cleaned Kamigami’s wound and sewed it up. “Luck is with you,” he said. “The blade missed his kidney. But he needs a shot of antibiotics to fight infection. It is a bad wound.” In the way of the Chinese, they talked, exchanging personal information that a westerner would never reveal to a stranger. When Jin Chu mentioned the name she was seeking on the island, the doctor shook his head. “He will never see you.”
An hour later, the ferry coasted through the breakwater at Cheung Chau and entered a time warp, with old-fashioned junks and fishing boats anchored side by side in long rows. The harbor front was quiet and people went about their business as usual, unaffected by the madness sweeping Kowloon and Hong Kong. The four boys helped Kamigami to his feet and propped him up while the doctor led the way down the gangway. The doctor stopped, his mouth open. A bearded old man, bent with age and dressed as a fisherman, was standing in a deserted circle, surrounded by a quiet ring of people. “It is Zhang Pai,” the doctor whispered, awestruck.
The old man hobbled forward on his staff. “Miss Li?” he asked. She nodded in reply. He cocked his head to one side and studied Kamigami, surprised by the man’s size. “Your companion served you well,” he allowed. “But then, Ronald said he would.” He smiled at her confusion. “Ronald is the fortune teller at Wong Tai Sin Temple who called me. I was expecting you.” He turned to the crowd and pointed to Kamigami. “Please help this man to my home. He saved my adopted daughter.” He smiled at Jin Chu. “You will become my daughter, you know.” He spoke so the crowd could hear him. “They say you are a feng shui woman of great power. I will make you a master.”
Kamigami was confused. He had heard of the ancient mystical art of Chinese geomancy called feng shui but didn’t believe in it. “I thought only men practiced feng shui,” he said.
“That is mostly true,” she replied, her voice modest and pleasing to his ear. “But some women have the gift. I have a little of it.” She captured his eyes with hers. “I can also see the future. Not always clearly.”
“And what do you see?” he asked.
“For now, you and me.” He liked her answer.
Monday, February 19
Washington, D.C.
The rumor exploded in the NSC offices like a large firecracker, deafening everyone except the subject—Mazie Kamigami. In the way of rumors; she never heard it and was the last to be told of the staff meeting in the main conference room. She hurried down the hall, her legs flashing. She pushed through the door into the crowded room. Wentworth Hazelton motioned for her to join him at the foot of the table where he had been holding a seat.
“Thanks, Went,” she said, wondering why Finlay’s protégé was being so considerate. There hadn’t been any feedback from the episode in the hall, and judging from the way the more glamorous staffers and secretaries made themselves available whenever he was around, she wasn’t being subjected to the “only available woman” syndrome.
Bill Carroll and Finlay walked into the room. It was rare for Carroll to attend a staff meeting of the working troops. “Oh, oh,” Mazie whispered, “something big has hit the fan.” Hazelton’s smile was a contrast to Finlay’s sour look.
“If you haven’t heard,” Carroll said as he looked around the room, “we got an ‘atta boy’ from the president this morning during the cabinet meeting. The chief hates surprises and we were ahead of the Hong Kong crisis. So it was really an ‘atta girl,’ thanks to Mazie.”
“Carroll gave you all the credit,” Hazelton whispered as Finlay took charge of the meeting. She barely heard the discussion that recounted how the State Department’s quick counter to the People’s Republic of China’s attempt to nationalize Hong Kong early had contained the crisis.
“There are problems,” Carroll said, taking the meeting away from Finlay. “We still haven’t got the Chinese to totally back off. But they are not sounding so belligerent and the riots in Hong Kong have stopped. But we are not out of the woods yet. It gets complicated because of the Middle East. We are seeing signs that it is about to flare, maybe even torch, if the Islamic fundamentalists consolidate their power in North Africa. In short, we could be looking at two MRCs.” He paused for effect in the stunned silence. Because of the spread of nuclear weapons, a single MRC, major regional conflict, could escalate into a nuclear exchange. In the strange calculus of geopolitics, two MRCs did not double those odds—they quadrupled them, because of the shifting alliances and power vacuums that surrounded each conflict.
“So,” Carroll continued, “what recommendations, military included, should I send up? Keep in mind that the so-called ‘peace dividend’ and the drawdown of our armed services have taken many of the president’s military options off the table. But we should not abandon China.” He turned and quietly outlined a few instructions for Finlay before he left the meeting.
“That’s why Finlay is pissed,” Hazelton whispered. “He wants to put China on a back burner.”
“It’s hard to ignore one-fourth of the world’s population,” Mazie countered.
Finlay was much more confident after Carroll had left and went around the table, tasking different individuals. Mazie listened carefully as he gave detailed instructions on what he wanted done. Grudgingly, she had to admit that Finlay was an excellent administrator and was covering all bases. Then it was her turn. “Miss Kamigami,” Finlay was pointing at her with a pen, “I want you to do a detailed analysis of what’s-his-name … the PLA general …”
“Kang Xun,” Mazie told him.
“Right,” Finlay said, flustered. “I want it on my desk ASAP. No later than next Monday.”
Mazie mentally scanned the study she had recently completed on her own time—the physical profile of the fiftyone-year-old general, his health, education, training, experience, politics, family, friends, and so on. She had reviewed every shred of information the intelligence community of the United States had on the man. She recalled the interview of one of his former mistresses conducted by the Air Force Special Activities Center. It always amazed her how that outfit of oddball con artists managed to reach so many key people and convince them to talk. Then she considered Finlay. Should she tell him that she had anticipated his directions? Probably.
“Sir, I already have something that might be usable.”
Finlay’s heavy eyebrows shot up. He had learned the hard way that Mazie was the master of understatement. The “something” would be a detailed and fully documented dossier. “What kind of person are we dealing with here?” he asked.
“Absolutely ruthless,” Mazie answered. “He butchers the opposition.”
“A Chinese version of Saddam Hussein,” Finlay said from the head of the table. Every head turned to Mazie, waiting for her reply. The exchange resembled a tennis match as the subject Kang was batted back and forth.
“Only in that one respect,” she answered. “Unlike Hussein, he is well-educated and considered a competent military tactician.”
“What’s his political base?”
It was a question Mazie had expected. Finlay was a political animal and never strayed far from his home turf. “He operates within the tr
aditional Chinese political structure,” Mazie explained, “family, friends, favors, connections, bribes, bargains, and tradeoffs. While the system is unbelievably corrupt, Kang is austere, vicious, and with one exception, quite puritanical. He is the perfect tool for implementing the grim repression that follows protest of any kind in China.”
“You mentioned an exception?”
“He’s a sexual deviate.”
Finlay shook his head. “Let me see what you’ve got before the close of business.”
“Good show,” Hazelton told Mazie as they filed out of the conference room.
Carroll glanced at his watch. It was time for his run. Chuck Stanford and Wayne Adams, the two Secret Service agents detailed to run with him, would be waiting at the East Gate of the White House. He tied the laces to his running shoes and glanced at Mazie’s report on Kang Xun, still lying on his desk. It had been a frightening read. His stomach hurt, and for the first time since he had come out of Iran years ago, he started to shake. My God! he thought, I haven’t had this reaction since I was in the dill in Iran and being shot at.
Outside, the two agents did mild stretching exercises as Carroll went through his warmup. They recognized his preoccupation and relaxed, certain that it would be an easy run. They were wrong. From the first stride, Carroll was pounding hard.
“You’d think the devil was nipping at his ass,” Adams complained. That was the last time he had the breath to talk. Both agents were still in trail when they finished and even the two agents detailed to follow on mountain bikes with radios and submachine guns hidden in the panniers were breathing and sweating hard.
“Goin’ for a new record today?” Stanford asked.
“No,” Carroll replied. “I was just thinking.” The two agents waited. They knew how the national security advisor worked. “What do you know about Churchill and Hitler?”
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