I was aware, as I did so, that I’d shattered the confidence I’d been projecting; that I now looked completely desperate. But at least it was honest. It was how I was truly feeling.
A few moments later, I’d opened the internet browser, and inserted the website name into the URL bar. After a considerable lag, the website appeared.
Across the top was the same photograph: the bay, with purple flowers.
Ellen walked over to my side, and clicked a link to the website’s gallery. After another considerable pause, a new page appeared.
It was a catalog of all the photos that’d ever appeared across the top of the webpage. The photos had been shrunk to half their original size, and appeared along the left-hand side of the page – with the most recent nearest the top. On right-hand side was the date and time – rendered in Californian Time – they’d been uploaded. The most recent photo of the bay – had been uploaded the previous evening at 6:20 p.m.
The photo that had appeared before that – a vista of Californian oak trees, though I didn’t recognize it as a specific landmark – had been uploaded at 11:02 p.m. on Saturday night. The photo before that – of Hopi House, the landmark at the Grand Canyon Village – at 6:54 a.m. on Wednesday 9 December.
Then there were further photos, dating back from much earlier. For instance, a photo that I reckoned was of a Borax Lake – a lake of historical significance to the north of Sacramento, uploaded at the end of November.
I stared at the photos, uncomfortably aware of Ellen standing at my shoulder. Ellen, whose confidence in me was undoubtedly plummeting by the second. Because as I stared, I knew I’d been barking up the wrong tree. Knew that I’d ludicrously fabricated a whole chain of events from a single goddamn rash—
‘The receipt,’ Ellen exclaimed abruptly with almost an air of panic. ‘The receipt!’
I looked at her. This time, it was my turn to experience utter confusion.
Ellen continued staring at the screen for a few seconds. Then she turned to me. ‘Back at the quarry, when we frisked Yuelin’s men, we found two things. A piece of paper containing both a room number at the Bellagio and a short-wave frequency. And a receipt, which we discarded as rubbish. It was for a lunch on Wednesday, 9 December, at a diner near the Grand Canyon – what was its name?’ She paused, her eyes rolled up in thought.
‘The Maswik Café’ I said, the name suddenly jumping into my head. And barely had I said it when I typed it into a search engine. After a few heart-pounding seconds, I got a map of its location. Sure enough, it was less than a mile from Hopi House.
I turned to Ellen. Her eyes were wide. ‘You were right,’ she said in quiet awe, placing a shaking hand on my shoulder. And she was right to be awed: we’d just found Yuelin’s most hidden line of communication. No doubt about it. And simply by stumbling on it, we’d rendered Yuelin potentially vulnerable.
And yet – given the tentative look we were sharing – we both understood it was only a potential vulnerability.
‘So everything depends on this contact setting a further rendezvous point?’ said Ellen.
I nodded. ‘The photo of Hopi House went up just before seven. They were in the cafe by midday. So, if we’re to assume they ate after the rendezvous, it means there’s at most a five hour gap from when a photo goes up and the meeting’s due to happen. But the space of time could be considerably shorter.’
‘In other words, it also depends on us being able to get to the location in time…’ Ellen paused. ‘And identifying the location.’
I nodded. ‘But that’s a damn sight better than fifteen minutes ago, when everything depended on Yuelin contracting appendicitis, and a bolt of lightning destroying the hard-drive. But look at it this way. If it is a Chinese spy, you can bet your bottom dollar that the whole reason he’s mixed up with Yuelin – willing to work with her at all, however surreptitiously – is because of that goddamn technology. He’s the one who’ll be smuggling it out of the country and getting it to the Chinese government. And I reckon there’s a very real chance that Yuelin won’t have handed it over quite yet, and that they’ll still need a last rendezvous for that to happen. The fat lady may still be yet to sing.’
I stood. But before I could do anything, Ellen clasped me in a big hug. There was no longer just fear and despair in the air: there was hope and possibility.
* * *
From the moment we’d worked it out, the little staff room became a sweatbox of tension and anticipation, as we desperately waited for a fresh photograph to appear. In between our constant page refreshes, we discussed tactics; what we’d do once the photo appeared. First, of course, we would have to identify the location in the image, and we knew an internet connection – however slow – would almost certainly come in handy. Then we’d need to get there post-haste, which would entail us continuing with our previous arrangement: me driving; Ellen in the back, out of sight.
Then what we did at the location really depended on timing. If we got there before them, we’d devise some kind of trap – whereas if we got there at the same time, we’d have to respond more impromptu.
And if, in the worst case scenario, we missed the meeting altogether well, then we’d just have to improvise as best we could. Though of course we also acknowledged it might be tricky to know whether the meeting had yet taken place.
Once we were all talked out, we fell into contemplative silence, and took turns pacing the office.
This seemed to go on interminably. But we continued waiting with a weird pent-up calm; with an almost religious conviction it would happen, and that even thinking otherwise might somehow jeopardize it. And as the minutes became hours, and the hours started adding up, the tension became near unbearable.
Then – more than three hours later, at 1:40 p.m. – our prayers were answered.
Ellen refreshed the page for the umpteenth time. But on this occasion, to our unspeakable relief, there was no longer a photo of a bay.
I scrambled to Ellen’s side.
The image was of a small clearing, and in the background there were a few low-lying trees which partially concealed what looked like a pink-walled church – there was a small cross affixed to the top of the wall. In fact, this church looked oddly familiar.
And then I got it.
‘I know this place. It’s La Purisima Mission, an old Catholic church near Lompoc, a couple of hours north of LA. I know because’ – I racked my brains – ‘because it’s right near Vandenberg Air Force Base. Or, at least, where Vandenberg used to be: it closed a few years back. I was stationed there briefly while with the HRT, and even visited the Mission. I’m pretty sure this is its back-end.’
Ellen put La Purisima into Google. And though it took a few tense minutes, we eventually managed to get up a satellite view of Purisima Mission. And sure enough – with my heart pounding – I spotted a small road, which ran behind the Mission, and which led eventually to what looked like an abandoned farm. A road that nobody would ever bother heading down and was surely where the photo had been taken.
The perfect rendezvous spot. A spot that could be easily communicated via a recognizable landmark, and yet tucked away.
‘We’ve got it,’ Ellen said, her voice trembling.
I was feeling the same giddy mixture of relief and excitement. But it wasn’t so simple.
‘It’s a good three hours away, El. No guarantee we’ll make it in time.’
She looked at me for a long moment, as though she hadn’t processed what I’d said. Then all of a sudden, she jumped to her feet.
‘So what the hell are we waiting for?’
Chapter 42
Monday, December 13, 3 p.m.
Xi Chen was sitting in the back of the same vehicle – the site of his mutilation – and it was rumbling down a road, heading god-knows-where. His hands were cuffed, and his body bound. He didn’t know what time it was, but he believed it was roughly 3 p.m.
Judging by sound and sensation alone, he knew they’d been on and off the main road
s over the past twelve hours or so. In fact, pretty much everything he knew he’d deduced from sound and sensation, because his left eye was now completely blind, and his right, though not blind, was obstructed by his swollen eyelid.
Both were still bleeding profusely.
But while the pain and trauma of those few minutes of ungodly fear and panic had been great, it’d been nothing compared to the psychological trauma of having his paranoia, his conviction he was being hunted, confirmed. Even after Chen had managed to get to America, he’d experienced a near pathological paranoia. And though he’d told himself time and again it was irrational, that he was safe and hidden, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched. On the contrary: as time passed, it’d gotten worse.
And now his worst fears had been realized. And now he was what? A prisoner awaiting execution? A political hostage?
He had no idea what was in store, and that was possibly the worst part of all.
Would the Americans help him? Would they risk the diplomatic fallout of using their full force to protect him, when officially he wasn’t even there? Would they even realize he was missing before it was too late?
He allowed his thoughts to slip into blissful neutral and concentrated on nothing but the rumbling of the engine; the motion of the vehicle.
But then, a few minutes later, even this modest respite was snatched from him: the van came off the main road, weaved about more slowly for a short while, before coming to an abrupt halt. Then the engine died, and all was quiet.
Chen’s stomach lurched. Another pit-stop, or the end of the line?
Chapter 43
Monday, December 13, 5:33 p.m.
‘We have to seriously entertain the possibility we’re gonna miss them.’
Ellen was quiet a moment. ‘I know.’
We were just passing through the dead-space that used to be Vandenberg Air Force Base, about ten minutes north of the Mission. But the problem was, we’d already been traveling for over three hours: we’d hit heavy traffic on the Interstate. But since there’d been nothing else we could do but race on, that’s what we’d done. And it was only because we were now closing in that I was vocalizing my concerns.
‘The plan remains the same,’ I said. ‘We power up the road towards the rendezvous point. If they’re there, we use the vehicle as a weapon as best we can, then jump out and shoot to kill. The Chinese spy, too. We need to wipe them out. As far as I’m concerned, the surreptitious approach is too risky. We can’t block the road with our car and while we’re cooking it up, we may end up missing the chance.’
‘And if we’ve already missed them?’
I shrugged. ‘Then we’ll do the only thing we can – survey the nearby area.’
Ellen grunted.
I continued driving in silence. Before long, we were hurtling along Purisima Road, the long country road that led up to the Mission.
‘We’re near.’
Ellen sat up – I could see her in my rear-view mirror – and we continued down the quiet country road, devoid of any other vehicles. The calm outside jarred with the adrenaline inside the car; with the prospect of imminent violence.
It suddenly struck me that this could be the endgame. This could be my chance to corner Yuelin, and crush her miserable skull beneath my boot. This could be our chance to avenge Lawrence Kelden, Scott Brendan and all those kids.
Emotion rose painfully in my chest. Fanatical, righteous anger.
With still no sign of trouble, we reached the road that tucked behind the Mission, and I turned off at a crawl.
I glanced back at Ellen, who was now clutching her Walther. Then I smashed my foot on the accelerator, and we hurtled along the small road, knowing the clearing was coming up; knowing this could be make or break.
Then, with an incredible sense of anticlimax, the clearing came into view, just as it appeared in the photo, and it was empty.
‘Goddamn,’ whispered Ellen.
I again slowed to a crawl, and we both scanned the scene. Nothing doing. Then I squeezed the gas, and covered the rest of the road, right up to the abandoned farm.
Still, nothing.
‘Now what?’ Ellen’s throat sounded dry.
‘Back to the rendezvous spot. Take a closer look.’
I made a U-turn, and in no time, we were back at the spot. Leaving the engine running, we got out.
The air was calm, and the surroundings – with the understated pink church in the background, against a milky-white sky – oddly beautiful.
But I wasn’t there for the sights. I was there to see if there was any sign the meeting had gone ahead.
First, I looked again at the terrain well beyond the road but could still see nothing. Next, I examined the boundary between the blacktop and the turf beyond; and this time, after a few moments, I found something. Tire marks in the sandy off-road.
‘Saul, look at this.’
I turned. Ellen was pointing at a patch of blacktop by her feet. I went over. There were ribbons of glass on the ground. The sort of soft-edged ribbons you find when the laminated glass in car windscreens or windows is shattered.
‘The rendezvous is over,’ I said. ‘And it was no walk in the park. A window was shattered. And, judging by the tire marks over there, someone made a quick getaway.’
Ellen pressed her tongue against her inner cheek. ‘What does that mean for us?’
I shrugged. ‘Hard to tell. But if either party’s been hurt, it hugely increases the chances they’re nearby. So we need to start scanning the vicinity.’
Ellen set her jaw. ‘We’ve missed them. This is a fool’s errand, isn’t it?’
‘Only one way to find out.’
I led the way back to the car – this time, Ellen got in the passenger seat – and next thing, we were on the move again.
I was feeling strangely calm.
It was true that it could all be over, that we could now be on a fool’s errand. But I also knew that there was a realistic chance the surrounding area could provide some vital lead, especially since things had clearly not gone to plan. What’s more, I also knew we needed to be calm and efficient, because if someone was still hanging around, it might not be for long.
And at the very least, we were on the right tracks. The rendezvous point was real.
I knew it’d be tempting for Ellen to fall into despair – hell, it was tempting for me, too. But she was holding it together. Again, her strength of character shining through.
I headed east, and made a big circle, looking out intently for any sign or clue – but found none. Then I headed south. Again, no luck.
Then I started shuttling through the quiet nexus of roads to the west of the meet point. All I could hear was the blood pounding in my head. Then, about a mile from the rendezvous point – on a quiet country road hemmed in on either side by uninterrupted nothingness – my heart missed a beat: I spotted something.
There was a black jeep on the side of the road. And even from a good distance off, I could see the driver’s window was missing. However, though I could see through the back windscreen, I couldn’t make out any life inside.
‘That’s got to be it,’ said Ellen.
I nodded. ‘I’m gonna pull up behind, approach on foot. You get behind the wheel.’
Ellen nodded.
We drew nearer. I scanned the surroundings for any sign of an ambush, but could see nothing untoward. The next instant, I pulled up behind the jeep.
I exited the car, and Ellen shimmied in behind the wheel. I drew my Walther. And as I slowly began to approach the driver’s door, I studied the jeep’s rear view mirrors, but could spot no eyes observing me back. But then, when I got within a maybe five steps of the door, I noticed that the driver’s seat had in fact been reclined all the way back – as though someone may be lying in the seat.
I raised my gun, made the last five steps at a skip, and pointed my gun at the window ready for a showdown.
But there was no showdown. There was an East Asian man, layi
ng in the seat, breathing heavily. His white top was covered in blood – emanating from a hole in the right-hand side of his chest – and his face dripping sweat. His eyes focused on mine, with a hint of confusion, then softened into what seemed to be recognition.
I reckoned this was our Chinese spy.
I gestured at Ellen to come join me, and opened the driver’s door. The stench of blood and sweat hit me hard.
I scanned the rest of his car for any hidden occupants. Then I patted him down. I found a Glock and pocketed it. He watched me do so without a word.
Ellen arrived at my side. The guy looked her over.
I got the ball rolling.
‘Listen. I don’t know if you know who I am. But I’ve got a pretty good idea who you are – a Chinese spy, who decided to work with Yuelin Lie in order to secure a certain piece of technology. Now, clearly things didn’t go to plan, but let’s go through the motions, anyway. Do you have the hard-drive? And don’t bullshit me, because we’ll happily ransack the car.’
He looked at me a long second.
‘I don’t have it. I made a deal with the devil and – and—’
He gestured to the bullet wound. He went on:
‘But I do know who you are – Saul Marshall.’
He went quiet. Talking was clearly an exertion.
‘So what happened?’
I’d no idea if it was going to be that easy, but I had to give it a go. And besides, the fact he’d been shot had to improve my chances of him selling Yuelin down the river. She was almost certainly responsible.
He nodded slowly; then, after a deep breath, he said: ‘I was double-crossed. The agreement was that I’d let her get on with her plans, she’d tell me nothing about what they entailed – the less I knew, the better – and we would only communicate using the most discreet possible means. Then, at the end of it all, she’d give me the hard-drive, and I’d deliver it to my government. I’d organized for a crate on a Chinese-owned commercial ship headed for China to be set aside, and that’s how I was planning to smuggle out the hard drive.
Never Forget Page 29