‘And the situation in China at large is no picnic. Free Tibet activists aren’t solely targeted. Journalists who criticize the regime disappear. Students who mention Tiananmen Square are detained. Practitioners of Falun Gong – a pacifist ideology – end up in camps; and, though figures are hotly contested, it’s speculated as many as 65,000 have been killed for organ harvesting since 2000. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.’
Ellen shook her head:
‘The way I see it is, this rogue group are treating dissidents the way the Chinese government would like to. Yes, they’re extreme, but only in their disregard for international relations. Aside from that, they’re no more extreme than the Chinese government, which crusades to violently crush resistance to its Sino-centric worldview. However, what remains to be seen is whether this group is targeting just pro-Tibet agitators…’
‘Well, it’s up to us to find out,’ I said decisively. ‘Let’s go.’
And on that, I led the way out the bar.
* * *
I opened the Saab’s trunk, and swapped the iPad for my burner phone – an old Nokia. Then I got in the driver’s seat next to Ellen.
‘I need to make a quick phone-call. Need to let some backup know what I’m getting into – just in case.’
‘Backup?’ Ellen repeated cautiously.
‘Don’t worry, you can trust this guy. He’s the one who sent me the iPad – Vannevar Yeung. I met him while on the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. It’s an elite team dedicated to saving lives, and, during our time there, we saved one another’s skin countless times. And the reason he’s now ex-FBI, the reason he lost his job, was because he helped me try to save my son when I was forced to work against the Bureau back in 2013. In fact, he only narrowly escaped charges… The point being: I can count on him.’
‘Okay,’ said Ellen. ‘And that’s a burner phone, right?’
‘Right. I’ve never used this phone or SIM before, and Vann also has a burner he’s never used. So we should go under the radar.’
Ellen nodded her satisfaction, and I dialed Vann’s number. After twenty-two long rings, he answered.
‘Ah, my customary 3:32 a.m. wake-up call – what would I do without you?’
Vann said this with his characteristic air of anarchic humor. He was a man who, even in the most desperate situations, insisted on deploying a subversive, ironic wit.
It’d been over a year since we’d last spoken, but some things never change.
‘All in a day’s work,’ I replied.
Vann chuckled. ‘It’s good to hear your voice, Saul – though I’m assuming the fact that I am means there’s bad news.’
‘Afraid so. Don’t know if you’ve been following events in California – I’m assuming you’re in DC – but there’s been a few sniper killings here—’
‘I’ve read about them.’
‘Right, so I was lucky enough to run into the would-be next victim before she went the same way as the others. Long story short: this isn’t the work of a serial killer: it’s the work of hardcore Chinese nationalists. And I’m about to help this would-be victim sniff down a lead in LA – a hacker called Arjun Manek – and I wanted to put you in the loop.’
Silence. In my mind’s eye, I could see the absent look Vann gets when he’s thinking.
‘Saul, you’re on the run,’ he said carefully, at last. ‘I know you’ve already decided to stick your nose into this business, otherwise you wouldn’t be calling. But just bear in mind that if things do go to shit, your ass is grass, so think long and hard before you get in too deep.’ Vann paused. ‘But of course if the situation escalates, and you’re still at the center of things, call me, and I’ll be on the first flight over. Keep me posted.’
‘Thanks, Vann. I appreciate it.’
‘Least I can do for the guy who delivers my wake-up calls.’
Chapter 7
Saturday, December 12, 00:56 a.m. – I-5, Oregon.
‘What are you thinking, Yuelin?’
Yuelin blinked twice, then glanced at Shuai Zhang, who was sitting in the Crown Vic’s passenger seat. She then glanced in the rear-mirror, and could see Jantzen Pang in the back, wide awake and listening. These were her two closest comrades. And though they’d been driving in silence for some hours – they needed to get to San Francisco by sunrise – and Yuelin had been wrapped in thought, she was more than happy to talk with her comrades.
She smiled at Shuai.
‘I was thinking wuwang guochi – never forget national humiliation. I was imagining those words carved into every cliff-face in America.’
Shuai nodded. Yuelin knew he’d be unsurprised by this answer – after all, it was a phrase that’d been fed to them from their youth; a phrase that defined them as Chinese, and bound them intimately together, and collectively to their motherland.
And yet, though it was such an important part of their identities, she suddenly realized that they’d never in fact discussed it.
She glanced again at Shuai:
‘I suspect you know exactly what that phrase means to me – exactly what humiliation comes to my mind. But what about you?’
Shuai nodded slowly and licked his lip.
‘When I was at school, it used to bring to mind the French and British guizi occupying Beijing and burning the Yuanming Yuan royal palace during the Second Opium War. I remember seeing images of The National Ruin in my textbook, and thinking:wuwang guochi. But as I got older, I came to understand the nuances of the phrase. It’s about foreign powers taking advantage of China’s weaknesses. They used to call us the Sick Man of East Asia – dongya bingfu – and they still treat us that way.’
Shuai paused. ‘When I was at university, I remember my father telling me about the Yinhe incident, and how, because it was such a humiliation, the government was forced to hide it from the people. I understood that China was still being exploited.’
Yuelin hummed her agreement. The Yinhe was a Chinese cargo ship that the Americans, in 1993, had erroneously accused of transporting chemical weapons to Iran, and then forcibly searched with its military ships.
And sure enough, because the Chinese government was weak, and couldn’t stop this humiliation from taking place, it’d hid the incident from the majority of the Chinese people, and downplayed it on the rare occasions it was mentioned.
Yuelin glanced in her mirror, and could see Jantzen listening intently.
‘What about you, Jan?’
Jantzen pressed his tongue against his cheek. ‘When I hear it, I think of the individuals who’ve been humiliated. In fact, one individual in particular.’
He paused. ‘When I was eighteen, I visited The Memory Hall of Huang Jiguang in Sichuan province – have you been?’
Both Yuelin and Shuai shook their heads. This was little surprise: China had well over ten thousand patriotic tourist locations, known as memory sites.
‘Well, he was a soldier who fought in Korea against the Americans at the Battle of Triangle Hill in October 1952 – the Memory Hall was erected at Jiguang’s birthplace. He and his comrades needed to take the higher ground, but the space they needed to traverse was in the sights of an American machine-gunner. So he threw himself at the machine gun, sacrificing his life so his comrades could take the ground.
‘This resonated with me. Because not only does Jiguang represent all those Chinese who’ve laid down their lives fending off foreign guizi, but he was also one of the first to die resisting America – the power that has most sought to humiliate us since 1945.’ He paused. ‘So when I remember national humiliation, I also remember Jiguang’s bravery, and the bravery of people like him.’
Jantzen let off, and a contemplative silence fell between them.
Yuelin felt her chest swell with pride, and a renewed confidence in both the righteousness of their cause and the people she had fighting by her side. She had to admit that a few hours ago – when she’d learned that some Good Samaritan had sucker-punched two of her brethren and an important target h
ad slipped through her fingers – she’d had a small crisis of confidence; a profound feeling that her carefully laid plans were more vulnerable than she’d thought. But having heard these comments from her brothers, she was able to put that event in perspective: a minor hitch.
Suddenly Yuelin remembered something she hadn’t thought about in years: a speech she’d heard back in 1996 by the then head of the Chinese Communist Party, in which he’d said there were two types of Chinese people – ardent patriots and the scum of a nation.
She was sitting with two of the most ardent patriots.
Chapter 8
Saturday, December 12, 2015, 3:03 a.m. – The Hive, 4000 Valley Boulevard, Walnut, California.
We arrived at the Hive at 3 a.m. – a sizeable two story office space domiciled within an industrial park in an easterly suburb of LA. And from where we’d parked – the large, ill lit parking lot opposite – we could clearly make out the front of the building: the lights were on, and the occasional person was moving around behind the second floor windows.
I’d expected as much. Ellen had warned me these places didn’t sleep.
‘So the plan’s to find Manek, and ask him about GhostWallet?’ I said.
Ellen nodded. ‘These places are usually open-plan, so that should be easy enough.’
‘And you’re sure that, if there is a trapdoor, he’ll know about it?’
‘No way Lawrence could’ve slipped something like that past a co-author. Manek’ll know the code intimately.’
‘And if he says there isn’t a trapdoor?’
‘Well, it’d mean one of two things. Either, he’s telling the truth and we’re barking up the wrong tree, or, he’s lying.’
I grunted. ‘It’s tricky, because he may have nothing to do with this, but may still lie purely to protect his app. Yet, at the same time, we have to watch what we say – in case he is in cahoots with them, or under their thumb.’
‘Agreed.’
Conversation tapered off, and we both readied ourselves to make a move. But then, just as we were about to open our doors, we had a stroke of luck. Two motorcycles swung into the industrial park, moseyed into the parking-lot, and came to a halt fifty yards from us. And though we were watching them only idly, when the two riders then headed for The Hive, and came within range of the lights out front, we saw that one was Manek.
I clicked my fingers. ‘Brilliant. Now we know which vehicle’s his.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning we can bug him. Ever since I’ve been on the run, I’ve carried a GPS bug – so that if I ever found myself tailed, I could bug my hunter, and turn the tables. But we can use it to track Arjun. Could be useful if we want to revisit him later.’
‘Keeps our options open.’
‘Precisely. Let’s do this.’
We got out, and I opened the trunk, and grabbed the GPS bug. Then we made for the building, and since the motorcycles were en route, it was simple enough to plant the bug to the underside of the seat as we strolled past.
Next thing we knew, we’d entered the foyer – which was empty but for a couple of youngsters, oblivious to our presence, sitting in comfortable seats to our right – and we immediately made for the stairs to the main hacker space. And a few second later, we were in a 2,000 square foot room, brimming with materials: computers, new and old; 3D printers; deconstructed car engines; clumps of wiring; bean bags and sofas; the obligatory pizza boxes and red-bull cans; and a bunch of other tech I couldn’t identify.
The room wasn’t busy, but there was activity. In the corner nearest us, three guys were crowded round a computer. Two other guys were playing a video-game on the opposite side of the room. And, sitting alone on a sofa against the left-hand wall, was Arjun, engrossed in his smart-phone.
Without hesitation, we approached Arjun, though it was only when we were practically on top of him that he looked up.
‘Arjun Manek?’ I said.
Arjun looked me over carefully.
‘Yes?’ he said; then, before I could respond, he glanced at Ellen, and his eyes narrowed with recognition. ‘You must be related to Lawrence Kelden. You’re his – sister?’
He said this without emotion.
‘Right,’ said Ellen. ‘And this is my friend, Saul.’
I nodded at Manek.
Manek tilted his head. ‘Can I help you?’ He glanced at his watch, as though to emphasize the oddness of the hour, then looked back at us. ‘How is Lawrence?’
Ellen glanced at me, as if to say I should take the lead.
‘Well, that’s sort of what we want to talk to you about,’ I said. ‘Would you mind chatting to us about the project you worked on together? GhostWallet.’
Manek continued studying me closely, his expression one of curiosity. But then he gave an accommodating half-smile.
‘Sure. I can chat.’
‘Thank you. Our query’s fairly simple. We’re aware that GhostWallet anonymizes Bitcoin payments, and that it does a damn good job, too. But our question is this: is there – or has there ever been – a hidden code in GhostWallet that’d allow you to in fact identify, or even geographically trace, its users?’
He frowned, as though slightly affronted. But still, there was patience in his face. ‘You’re asking if there’s a trapdoor?’
I nodded seriously.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know if you know much about me, but I take my work very seriously. There’s no way I would’ve allowed a trapdoor in GhostWallet.’
‘So that’s a no?’
‘It’s a no,’ he said definitively.
An awkward silence. Already we’d hit the brick-wall we’d feared. But I knew there was still every possibility Manek was concealing the truth simply because he didn’t want to compromise the app.
Presently, Ellen said: ‘I’m sorry if we’ve stepped on your toes. We simply wanted an answer, and figured it was best to just ask.’
Manek’s face softened slightly, and he made as if to speak. Ellen cut him off:
‘But if you’d humor me, am I right in saying that placing a trapdoor in an app like GhostWallet is at least theoretically possible? Theoretically.’
Manek shrugged. ‘A trapdoor’s always possible,’ he said, now with definite irritation. ‘But I can assure you categorically that there’s no trapdoor in GhostWallet, okay?’
Again, an awkward pause. Then, this time, Manek broke the silence.
‘Look, I’ve been patient, and answered your questions. But with all due respect, what the hell’s this about? If you want to know about GhostWallet, why not ask Lawrence? And for that matter, what the hell did you mean when you said this had something to do with Lawrence’s wellbeing?’
Arjun was now on the edge of his seat. And while he wasn’t being inhospitable, he was definitely being firm. This was understandable: we’d stormed in unannounced, and sprung probing questions apropos of nothing.
But, crucially, there was concern in his voice when he’d mentioned Lawrence. And this was potentially useful. If we could exploit it, there was a chance he’d play ball.
I glanced at Ellen, then said:
‘The truth is – Lawrence is missing.’
Arjun’s goatee twitched, and his face blanched. ‘Missing?’
‘Right. And we were hoping maybe—’
‘When’d he go missing?’ Arjun interjected severely.
‘Two days ago,’ I said coolly. ‘And we were hoping maybe, if there was a trapdoor in GhostWallet, it could help us find him.’ I paused. ‘Or that it may even explain how he came to disappear…’
‘For the last time, there’s no trapdoor, alright?’ he said shortly. ‘And if you’re insinuating I had anything to do with this, you’re very much mistaken.’
I held his gaze. My attempt to play on his sympathies had backfired. All it’d done was put him on the defensive. I could hear his tension and fear.
‘And you haven’t heard from him lately?’ I persisted calmly. ‘Any information would be a great help
.’
Arjun shook his head sharply, then jumped to his feet. ‘No, I haven’t seen him.’ He turned to Ellen. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about your brother – I really am. But I don’t know anything about this. So, unless there’s anything else, I think we’re done here.’
I nodded, made a conciliatory smile. ‘I’m sorry to’ve dropped the news on you like that – we’re just eager for answers.’
Arjun looked at me hard, and repeated, ‘I think we’re done here.’
‘Okay,’ said Ellen. ‘Thanks for talking to us.’
Arjun said nothing. We turned and left.
Chapter 9
Saturday, December 12, 3:37 a.m.
We got back in the car. Ellen turned to me.
‘What did you make of that?’
‘I think the guy wanted a trapdoor in the goddamn floor to get rid of us,’ I said darkly. ‘But the problem is, even if there is a trapdoor in GhostWallet, his anxiety may have nothing to do with these nationalists. He may simply be thinking: if something’s happened to Lawrence, I could be next.’
‘But he could be mixed up in it,’ Ellen replied adamantly. ‘That could’ve been guilt we saw in there.’
I grunted. ‘Equally, there may be no trapdoor, he may be completely innocent – and we’ve just managed to spook him.’
A contemplative silence.
‘Well, we have two choices,’ I said at last. ‘One: we march back in, and use tougher measures to get answers. This, of course, may be fruitless, as he may have none. What’s more, if the nationalists are using him, and find out we’ve given him the squeeze, it could tip them off we’re on their case.’
‘The other option?’
‘The other option’s to cut out the middleman.’
Ellen raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s quite simple. If there’s a trapdoor in GhostWallet, then it stands to reason that, given the opportunity, they’d use it to track you down again. So, if we were to go to some hidden destination, use GhostWallet, and have the nationalists show up – well, not only would it resolve the trapdoor question, but it’d also give us a chance to ambush them, and get some answers straight from the horse’s mouth.’
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