China Dolls

by Rob Wood

  The thin air and the exertion were taking a toll. Despite the cool temperature, Cochrane was sweating. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was pounding. Then, “Crack!” What sounded like a clap of thunder boomed from somewhere overhead, and a wall of air came washing down from above, flattening the grass and brush, and raising clouds of dust. A moment later, there was a deafening roar as if an old mechanical slot machine, several stories tall, had hit payout. A rush of bounding stones and sliding rocks cascaded down, walloping hard, kicking the legs out from under her and tumbling her down in a rolling heap.

  Lily saw that the line in front of her was faltering and rallied her Uighurs to probe and slash at the weakest points. This meant leaving even fewer of her troops to hold the defensive line on the Gilgit Baltistan side. They were already enduring withering fire. They could be overrun. Their ammunition could not last.

  Though her head hurt and her eyes were shut, Cochrane knew exactly what had happened. Rockslides were common in the Karakoram hills, especially at this time of year. Water ran into the rock fissures during the day, then expanded as overnight temperatures dropped below freezing. “Crag faces shear off in this fashion all the time,” she thought. Then her mind returned, as if from far away, abandoning the theoretical analysis of the how and why of the rockslide to the more pressing issues: Was she okay? Was she still armed? Did she still have contact with Lazyboy?

  She opened her eyes to find herself partially submerged in rock and gravel. She was pressing her Heckler and Koch to her chest, her arms wrapped around it, her hands, clasped one over the other, clutched Lazyboy’s remote control. She tapped it. He answered, armed and ready.

  The shock waves of air and the wash of rubble had cleared the area of brush and small, alpine trees. If she could pick her way to the top of the rubble, left like a small moraine in front of her, she could get a clear view of the battle.

  She pushed down with her hands on both sides to slide her legs out of the gravel. Jets of pain streaked through her right knee. Nevertheless, she sat upright. She scooted her butt backward until she had cleared the gravel blanket. Her knee was throbbing, and she thought it was already beginning to swell. Nothing was broken, she hoped. Clearly her knee could not bear weight and should be bound to prevent any lateral movement.

  First, she butt-slid up the moraine, bending her arms and pushing down, while bending her left knee and pushing down on that foot. Injured crabs did it better, she thought. But she made the top of the rock pile and stared hard at the battle lines in the distance. She lit up Lazyboy’s console. Now she could see what he saw and plot the coordinates. His grenade barrels whirred round in a circle, launching eight simultaneous rounds. They splayed spectacularly across the Chinese side of Menodarwar’s men, moving methodically from left to right. She programmed him again, hoping the time between two more volleys would not destroy their effectiveness, but instead demonstrate the strength and resolve of the attacking force. That being one Cody Cochrane.

  With Lazyboy occupied with his mission, she turned to address the knee. Clearly, unless she could contrive to bear weight on the right side, and stabilize the knee, she could not possibly make it to the chopper pick-up point.

  She used her folding combat knife to slice up her backpack, choosing the straps for cravats to tie the splint, saving folds of nylon fabric for padding. Cochrane then bound her Heckler Koch, muzzle down, to the outside of her leg, running partway up her thigh. This limited lateral motion of the knee but still allowed for a bit of flex.

  Cochrane moved carefully down from the moraine. When she got to stable ground, she found she could put some weight on the barrel of the HK, using it like a cane. She made surprisingly good time good time by pivoting off the improvised cane and swinging herself forward.

  She had thoughts of meeting up again with Purdy, when around the next bend, she came face to face with two of Menodarwar’s men, rifles raised. Cochrane reached instinctively for her HK, which she found to her disgust was right where she had left it—muzzle down and strapped to her thigh.

  Menodarwar’s Gilgits were about 25 yards ahead of her. They fired a burst at her feet, and all Cochrane could do was hop in panic and frustration. This amused the Gilgits who fired again and began moving closer. Cochrane glanced at her compass and thumbed Lazyboy’s console furiously.

  One of the Gilgits said something to the other. They laughed. One opened up to Cochrane’s right, the other to her left. The automatic weapons’ fire came like two scythes, kicking up jets of rock and earth, about to scissor her in half. She staggered. Her stomach threw bile into her mouth and her bladder seemed to shrink to the size of a tennis ball. Then everything went black.

  34

  “DO YOU INTEND

  TO KILL ME?”

  When Cochrane awakened, her eyes fluttered open, then instantly squeezed shut, hurt by the bright sunlight reflecting from whitewashed walls. A second attempt revealed bright carpets on the floor, woven in ragged Uighur geometry. There were more, hanging on the walls, and lapping up on the big 10x10 foot bed platform on which she lay.

  Someone bent down, checking the movement of her pupils. There was someone else in the room, too—someone who was holding her hand.

  “Where am I?” she whispered.

  “You’re safe in China,” said a fuzzy image that gradually resolved itself into Lily Zhang. “Xinjiang, actually. Good afternoon to you.”

  “Oh, Cody, I’ so glad you’re alright!” Purdy squeezed and patted her hand.

  “You’ve managed to sprain your knee . . . and you’ve had a mild concussion,” said Lily.

  “How did that happen?” asked Cochrane, who gripped the edge of the mattress hard, trying to wrench into a sitting position.

  “Well, partner,” said Purdy, “it’s not considered good form to call in an artillery strike on your own position.”

  “Oh, that,” said Cochrane testily. “Well, it seemed a good idea at the time. My options seemed to be to die alone or take them with me.”

  “Good thing Lazyboy’s grenades are designed to minimize collateral damage. And it’s a very good thing you got the coordinates right.”

  “I’m a PhD, Purdy.”

  “Yeah, and not bad at this special ops stuff, either.”

  “So, Lily—you got away?”

  Lily laughed. “I’m flattered that my welfare comes so quickly to mind when you should be concerned about yourself. You have some admirable qualities, Dr. Cochrane. My Uighurs drove through Menodarwar’s men on the Pakistani side. We were able to shoot down on them and pick them off as they ran. Those on the Chinese side fled of their own accord, once the barrage of grenades came. I have to thank you.”

  Cochrane sat up. “No need. I have a question, though. What about the ‘hot rocks?”

  “Unfortunately, there’s nothing but drugs here. I don’t think the radioactive material came this way. And that’s another indication, frankly, that it’s bound for America. The Silk Road connects to Europe. If the nuclear material is not here, it almost certainly is en route to the U.S. by sea.

  “I also have a question, however.” Lily paused. “Do you intend to kill me?”

  Lily placed a pistol on the bed. “Because if you do, I would prefer to look you in the eyes when you do it. Do it now. Walk away and no one will stop you.”

  Cochrane shivered and looked at Purdy. The pistol seemed to her as loathsome as a snake writhing through her bed clothes. Purdy, meanwhile, was pale.

  “Lieutenant,” said Lily. “You knew I learned of the likely CIA hit on me.”

  “Yes, I figured as much,” he said quietly. “You bugged the Vinson.”

  “So? What’s the answer to my question?”

  “If we had wanted to involve the CIA, we would have called in your coordinates during the fight. Or, maybe, just watch Menodarwar’s Gilgits squeeze you to death.”

  Lily demurred, “Ah, but as you sometimes say—‘That was then. This is now.’ If an American officer does not do his duty. . . .” Her quiet
voice trailed off into a painful silence.

  “I cannot go against my conscience,” said Purdy. “I cannot disregard what I have learned about Lily Zhang. I cannot ignore my suspicions about Cao Kai, who I believe planted fake intelligence. It is understood when you work Special Ops that you will react to new information, to the changing situation on the ground. That’s what I am doing in this instance. I stand by my decision.”

  Lily nodded. “In the short term, you are fine. You are presumed dead. Lily Zhang has gone missing. So have the two of you. There are some who will fear—or hope for—the worst. Like Cao Kai. So much of this turns on Cao. I believe he regrets sharing certain information with me. He is also a spiteful man. As a result, he now wishes me dead. He is, you see, a generally careful man who is now acting in haste, trying desperately to tie up loose ends. Still, it is dismaying that the Americans are so quick to act on his behalf, to do, as you say, his ‘dirty work.’”

  “There have been so many developments since we last talked,” said Cochrane. “Cao Kai’s credibility stems in part from his connection to American business interests. He is partnering with American investors in a green energy project.”

  “With American investors?” Lily lifted an eyebrow quizzically.

  “The American government wants to see this succeed on many levels,” continued Cochrane. “As a poster project for Sino-American cooperation and as a demonstration of the feasibility of energy alternatives for the future. The raw materials available in Asia—everything from corn, to jatropha seeds, to even more exotic vegetable oils, plus the huge market represented by China—this all reads like a prospectus for success.”

  “The Sunrise biodiesel plant,” murmured Lily.

  “In addition,” noted Purdy, “when Cao Kai—a Chinese military authority, lets fall certain information about terrorists like yourself at work in China—Muslim terrorists—the government is inclined to believe.”

  “It’s one of the riddles of the rhetoric of assent,” said Cochrane. “If you trust someone in one area, by extension, they are credible in another. You put aside your natural skepticism.”

  “For me,” said Lily, “there is truth and there is falsehood. What Cao Kai offers is bullshit.”

  “Sometimes people believe what they want to believe,” said Cochrane.

  “Of course,” Lily interrupted. “All I’m saying is that Cao Kai represents a lie. His Sunrise Biodiesel plant is a fraud, a piece of theater. The Americans are investing in wishful thinking. I’ve been there. The reality of Sunrise does not match his own PR.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Purdy. “You say it’s a fake? You can’t bring an investment to the American market that easily. There are audited financial reports.”

  “Don’t be naïve. It happens all the time,” said Lily. “Many Chinese companies have employed a device called a reverse merger shell. This legal sleight of hand allows companies to start trading on American exchanges without going through a formal underwriting process or having a prospectus reviewed by your Securities Exchange Commission. They merge with defunct American companies that have nothing to offer but a stock listing. It’s all about access to capital.”

  “A U.S. auditor would still have to review sales, costs, margins and bank balances. It’s normal due diligence,” argued Purdy.

  “It depends who the auditor is and how hard they work—and what they’re up against in China. It’s relatively easy to certify false sales. Auditors will be looking for cash balances that can be tied to those sales. I think that was why Cao was pressuring me for a large infusion of cash—because he didn’t have anything on account to back his claims of sales.”

  “So, if that’s the case, what did he use instead? How did he put together a package for a private placement—a story convincing enough for American investors?”

  “My guess is that the certification of cash balances eventually came from branch banks, not the headquarters’ offices. Cao Kai is a powerful figure who simply threatened them—threatened them with physical harm to their wives and families. And, he probably described it in excruciating detail. I’ve seen him do it. Remember how he turned out a team of thugs to ambush you in Yangshuo? He is capable of making good on any threat.”

  “That’s extortion and racketeering!” snapped Purdy.

  “This is China,” returned Lily calmly.

  “Wait a minute,” interrupted Cochrane. “What puzzles me is motivation. What’s his motivation? Why would a PLA higher-up work so hard to launch a biofuels company?”

  “It fit his story line. And his endgame.”

  “Well, any company then,” persisted Cochrane. “Why? The ruse is too shaky to last long. It’s a house of cards. And in the short term, he couldn’t possibly skim enough money to make it worth his while.”

  “Are you sure?” queried Lily. “The key is making money in the short term. A great deal of money. Very little time. That’s the end game. How would you do that, I wondered? As I thought about it, several of Cao’s interests and assets came clearly into focus. Cao is in love with the idea of placing a big bet on NYMEX oil futures. Success would mean a huge return in very little time. He can’t do that now, because of Chinese law. But as head of this new, American-registered energy company, he could. And he could pocket the payout before his house of cards fell.”

  “So, he’s a racketeer and a gambler?”

  “Definitely not a gambler,” Lily shook her head. “The question is: What would convince Cao that he had a sure bet? What does Cao have, to use an American idiom, ‘up his shirt sleeve?’

  “You tell us.”

  “What about a nuclear device? The reason Cao wants all of us neutralized is that we all have, in his mind, a link to the Korean who was hired to steal from the disabled Daiichi nuclear plant in Japan. Why should Cao care unless that material was especially important to him? Then ask yourself, ‘Can you use a nuclear device to influence an oil market? The answer is ‘yes you can.’”

  “But how exactly?” Cochrane asked.

  “How? When? Where? We don’t have those answers.” Lily tensed with frustration. “I can satisfy your curiosity on another matter, however.” Lily picked up the pistol from Cochrane’s bed, pointed it at the brilliantly whitewashed wall and blew a jagged hole through it. The sound of the detonation roared in the confined space of the small room. Cochrane winced. Her ears rang. She noticed a faint acid smell hanging in the air.

  “The gun was loaded,” said Zhang. “I want you to know who you’re dealing with. I don’t bluff. I don’t lie.”

  35

  “ALL PRESUMED DEAD.” GOOD!

  They had spent a couple weeks in rural Xinjiang, waiting through a period of convalescence for Cochrane. It was long enough to adjust to the idiosyncrasies of this part of the world. For example, although it made no sense, except in the interest of egos, the government made Xinjiang conform to Beijing time. This was inconvenient. The Chinese capital is a continent’s worth further east. As a result, the sun rises very late in the day in Xinjiang.

  The ethnic minorities of China are allowed to have more than one child. Except for the Uighurs. They are the subject of a government policy of explicit birthrate suppression, a practice of slow genocide. Given that parents are frequently rounded up and impounded, children are often parceled out to friends and relatives to raise. This only contributes to the sense of closeness among the people there—and their resentment of Beijing.

  Certainly, children are loved by most everyone, and they played happily in the streets, as Cochrane and Purdy looked down on the scene from the view offered by their apartment windows. They watched neighborhood entertainments provided by performing monkeys, mobile billiards games, sidewalk barbecue, the joys of Uighur friends sharing tobacco, and endless barter and trade, even over small items.

  Although it is one of the hottest regions in the world in the summer, according to Lily, many rural households had no refrigerators. Household ice boxes are supplied by pond ice which had been chipped away d
uring the winter and stored in felt-lined caves and pits, then delivered door to door by donkey cart. Donkey carts also move waste out of the city and out to agricultural areas.

  Donkey carts. Trucks. Tobacco smoke. The chatter of children. The smell of livestock. Every morning Cochrane and Purdy awoke to these outdoor sensory stimuli.

  Inside, however, the chill hum of Zhang Enterprises’ refrigeration cooled banks of computers and made everything seem Western. . . and rational.

  Purdy turned from the window to where Cody was sitting, staring intently at the screen of her work station.

  “Let’s break it down. What do we know, exactly?”

  “Not much for sure,” answered Cochrane. “There are three main mountain passes from Xinjiang to the outside world—all feeding the old Silk Road. Lily’s checked them all. She doesn’t think anything nuclear passed that way.”

  “If the stolen material is en route by sea, the question is where is it headed?”

  “There are potential terrorist targets all over the world. If this has something to do with Cao Kai and oil, there are also plenty of worldwide petro targets. Ports in Saudi Arabia, the Straits of Hormuz, even the North Sea oil gathering complex,” mused Cochrane.

  “None of these targets fits in my mind,” said Purdy. “One nuclear device does not reconfigure the geography of the Strait of Hormuz. Other targets are too small to do anything but jar the oil market momentarily—assuming you get there and detonate something undiscovered. Oil is now a worldwide business—Canada, Mexico, Venezuela, Russia, Britain, Indonesia, and the African and Arab oil producers. Supply is disaggregated. No one target stands out.”