China Dolls

by Rob Wood

  “You know the scenario well, I think,” said Cao Kai. “You give me the helicopter. I give you a hostage. If I cannot fly out of here, I will kill the woman—my first hostage.”

  “You’re bluffing,” returned Purdy.

  “Actually, I have three hostages secured in the station. You didn’t think it was unmanned, did you? One more minute’s delay, and I will shoot one and roll the body out the door. Then we’ll see who is bluffing.”

  A blond woman, fiftyish and frail, appeared in the station doorway. Her head was flopped down on her left shoulder, trembling in sobs. Her arms were pulled behind her. Abruptly she was yanked back into the dark of the station interior.

  “Right,” said Purdy weakly. He swung the copter around and began his descent.

  “Lieutenant Purdy, when you have set the helicopter down, leave the rotors running, and step clear of the aircraft.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Lily. . . we have a situation here.” Cochrane had followed the descent of Purdy’s helicopter. “Take the glasses. I’m on the rifle.”

  The chopper was settling down. What grass there was shivered in the rotor wash.

  Purdy unfastened his seat and shoulder straps and eased himself out of the helicopter. He was executing the move in small, shaky movements, his hands all the while searching for purchase to steady his descent to the ground.

  “He’s bleeding,” said Lily flatly.

  Cochrane flinched, lifting her head. Lily, eyes still glued to the glasses, reached out and gently squeezed Cochrane’s shoulder.

  “Right,” Cochrane whispered, lowering her face back to the rifle barrel.

  As if he were sleepwalking, Purdy moved away from the chopper in little, shambling steps. When he was about ten yards away, he collapsed face first.

  “I have movement to the right by the pipeline station,” reported Lily. “A woman. A woman and Cao Kai.”

  Through the glasses, Lily could see that the woman’s blouse had pulled free of her slacks. Some of her eyeliner had mottled her cheeks, flushed by tears. She stared wide-eyed and terrified wherever Cao Kai pointed her.

  Cao Kai kept his left arm wrapped around the woman, with his hand on her right shoulder. From this position, he was able to turn her left and right. His right hand pressed a pistol to her temple.

  “He’s headed toward the helicopter,” said Lily.

  “I’ll have a shot when he’s close to the chopper and out of the shadow of the building. His back should be toward me.”

  Lily answered with surprising vehemence: “I wish it were me shooting him in the back.”

  Cochrane ignored this.

  “Can you see if he’s armored?” Cochrane asked.

  “Can’t tell. Same problem as before. Just shoot him twice.”

  “If I miss a kill shot, he may shoot the hostage. If he flinches, he may squeeze the trigger.”

  “So? Focus on what’s important. Shoot him.”

  That thought hung in the air, as they watched Cao Kai and his human shield jerk and pivot toward the chopper. He presented a target for no more than a split second before he moved again.

  When he was parallel to Purdy’s prone body, Cao Kai turned and fired twice. One shot kicked up a spurt of dirt, one lodged in the thigh, causing the body to jump.

  “Son of a bitch,” Cochrane spat.

  “The Lieutenant wasn’t playing possum, after all,” said Lily.

  Cao Kai backed toward the chopper now. The woman hung like a rag doll in front of him. He put one foot on the steel tread below the canopy bubble and, still holding the woman, hoisted himself up toward the pilot’s seat. He turned to his right, looking back into the cockpit interior. Cochrane squeezed the trigger.

  “A hit. Looks like the upper left arm into the bone close to the shoulder,” reported Lily.

  The hostage slumped to the ground. Cao Kai’s left arm dangled. His eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat. With his one good hand, he seized the control stick, and the chopper lifted off.

  Lily Zhang was already barking orders into her phone.

  Cochrane was running, panting and running, as she covered the long yards toward Purdy’s prone body.

  The chopper was heading east . . . retracing the route Purdy had taken.

  Cochrane took off her belt and tied it around Purdy’s upper thigh. She took off her shirt to use as a compress on his upper arm. Only then did she reach around with her right hand to test his pulse. She placed two fingers in the hollow between the windpipe and large muscle in the neck. His heart was still beating.

  “You just don’t have any quit in you, sailor,” she murmured.

  Lily came up beside her. “I looked into the station. There are two people tied with zip cuffs lying on the floor. The hostage here fainted. My chopper will be back any minute to pick me up. I’m going after Cao Kai. You coming?”

  Cochrane shook her head. There was no way she was leaving Purdy.

  52

  MOPPING UP

  The little Chinese helicopter flew loose, sedulous arcs, back and forth on its general eastward heading. Lily still had the field glasses. Fruitlessly, she swept the horizon. There was no sign of Cao’s helicopter. And how could she expect one? Cao Kai had a very long head start.

  “Where are we headed?” asked the pilot.

  “There’s a large pond coming up. That’s where Cao Kai originally parked his helicopter. Maybe it was supposed to be a rendezvous point.”

  “He’s been gone a long time already.”

  “I know. I know he could have gone anywhere.”

  But he hadn’t. They came up on the pond and spotted the helicopter right away—tail up and partially submerged. They circled the spot. With the glasses, Lily could see blood on the fuselage just above the lapping water. And she saw long bulbous shadows moving below the duckweed. Her thoughts flew to Thibeault’s description of a powerful gator rolling and separating limbs from body and flesh from limbs.

  “Circle the pond,” she said to the pilot. “Look for signs of an exit—tire tracks, anything.”

  There was nothing.

  “Back to the Lucky Lady,” she said at last. “I’m not supposed to be here. I don’t want to be here. I want to smell the clean salt air . . . in international waters.”

  The pipeline station, once spare and functional, now looked downright gaudy. Yellow caution tape hung like skinny bunting, surrounding the doorway, circling the spot where Cochrane had fired the 30-06, and fencing off what was now a crime scene.

  Police cruisers, orange and white ambulances, and black government-issue Chevy Suburbans were parked nose in, nose out in a random herringbone. The wig wag lights from the roof racks threw off pulses of blue and red that danced over the brick and concrete pipeline building.

  The three pipeline employees were alternately being treated for shock and debriefed by police. Evidence teams were combing the grounds. The casings of spent rounds were bagged and tagged, photographs taken, reports called in. Radios crackled. Disembodied voices from faraway mixed with the low thrum of conversation at the scene.

  There was an outline drawn around the place where Purdy had fallen. Purdy himself was on a stretcher hooked to an IV drip and electronic monitor. Cochrane bent over him and touched her hand to his cheek. In a moment he’d be in the ambulance and gone.

  Carla Izquidero took a long drag on her cigarette. “Nice to see you again, Cochrane.”

  Cody glanced up. “Nice?”

  “Figure of speech.”

  A glance told Cody it was the same old Izquidero, with a little of the polish rubbed off. Without makeup, her eyes looked smaller, like stones. There were creases in her cheek that seemed sharper now. Her dark suit, rumpled from hours in a car, was soaking up perspiration and Louisiana humidity.

  “You got here pretty quick,” said Cody.

  “Yeah, well, the Navy, the Intelligence dudes, pretty much all the Feds. . . we’ve been on you since you used those fake passports to re-enter the country. Pe
rsons of interest, you know? When Purdy placed that call in New York we were in on that, too. People like to know who’s calling Suitland, and it only takes a minute to pinpoint the location. Trouble was not everybody believed his story. Consequently, you weren’t a priority. The result was we were too slow, always a half step behind.”

  “And what about now? You believe our story?”

  “New York’s AG believes the biofuels venture was a scam. As to what Purdy kept telling us—well, I’m looking at a ton of evidence right here, including the testimony of three scared-shitless people who were taken hostage by what they say was an Asian hit team.” Izquidero shook her head. “Can’t wait for the movie.” After another long drag on her cigarette, she asked, “Would you be willing to fill me in on what you know?”

  “I want to be with Lieutenant Purdy.”

  Izquidero shook her head dismissively. “The medics say he’ll turn out just fine.”

  “That’s not the issue,” Cochrane said slowly.

  Izquidero looked at Cochrane closely. Her face was drawn and white from worry. Izquidero’s voice softened. “You know, Cochrane, my judgment—for what it’s worth—is that we owe you. Suppose we follow the ambulance to the hospital? You can ride with me.”

  53

  DEBRIEF

  Purdy woke up expecting to see Cody Cochrane—partly because he’d seen her at the hospital every day for nearly two weeks, partly because he just plain missed her.

  The hospital duty nurse cracked the door to Purdy’s room and looked in .

  “You’ve got visitors.”

  Purdy brightened.

  “There’s a Carla Izquidero from Naval Intelligence and a Brian Partridge from the carrier Vinson,” reported the nurse. “Can I bring them in?”

  Purdy was surprised. “Yes, ma’am. Although I feel I’m underdressed for the party.” He clicked off the TV and straightened his shoulders.

  “You’re just fine, Purdy!” The Vinson XO filled the doorframe like a cork in a bottle, his grinning face topped with his signature crop of wiry gray hair. He barreled over to Purdy’s bed and clapped him on the shoulder with his right hand, careful to cradle a couple of packages with his left.

  Behind him, Izquidero sifted quietly into the room, regarding Purdy and thoughtfully stroking her chin.

  “Ma’am,” said Purdy, nodding stiffly to Izquidero. She waved him off and settled down into one of the room’s padded plastic-covered chairs.

  “We’re all Navy, here,” she said.

  Purdy looked to Partridge, “You’re on leave, sir?”

  “Yeah. For a little bit. On my way, home, I thought I’d swing by and see how you were doing. Your shipmates send their regards. Simmonds and the rest of Vinson’s China Team are real proud of you. As am I.”

  “That goes for those of us at Suitland, too,” put in Izquidero. “And by the way, thanks for the call.”

  “Not sure anyone there believed me.”

  “Some didn’t. I did. And everyone was interested. We were looking for you ever since we flagged your pseudo passports coming through customs. We almost caught up with you at the Millennia Hotel, but you disappeared.”

  “Credit Cao Kai.”

  Izquidero leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. “Yeah, well that’s when we took a different tack—running down lists of known acquaintances and family.”

  “That was you in North Carolina? Not the FBI?”

  “It was a joint effort, but yes, that was us. We were right behind you in Louisiana, too. Did some mopping up there. Rode to the hospital with you and Cochrane.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Got some trinkets here,” continued Partridge. He laid them out on Purdy’s bed. “A card signed by some folks you’ll remember on the Vinson. I don’t know why, but they bought you a cookbook. And here’s that scroll you were given in Hong Kong showing the warrior on a horse. See, we had to confiscate and re-examine those old gifts. Look at this. . .”

  Partridge unwrapped one of the packages and held out the ruyi he had received after the shipboard party in Hong Kong. “Remember it?” he asked, turning the polished figure S in his hand.

  “Yeah—it’s for vigor in old age, as I recall. I’m in the hospital, but I don’t honestly think I need that, sir.”

  “Forget it. I’m not giving it to you. I want you to look at it. See this filigree here?”

  “Lovely.”

  “Yeah, well that rosebud of gold wires covers a microphone. This thing is a bug. A couple of the other gifts were bugged as well.”

  “Who do you think did that?” asked Purdy, watching Partridge closely.

  “Lily Zhang—who else? It’s how she anticipated what you and Cochrane were doing and where you’d be. Battery-powered. Long dead now, of course. She must have had a ship shadowing the Vinson to pick up the signal.”

  “When I was aboard her trawler, I saw plenty of sophisticated hardware in the radio room.”

  “Well, there you go. There were plenty of fishing boats with us as long as we were in the South China Sea.”

  “This Lily Zhang continues to interest us,” said Izquidero.

  Purdy shifted nervously. “But isn’t the real culprit Cao Kai?”

  “Oh, yeah. And the SEC has charged Sunrise BioFuels with a scheme to intentionally mislead investors about the value of its assets and its use of approximately $120 million in IPO proceeds. As executive officer, Cao Kai is definitely on the hook. And the Chinese want him for siphoning funds out of banks there—and improperly recording those monies in company books. Trouble is, Cao Kai is missing and presumed dead.”

  “Well, don’t make Lily Zhang the scapegoat,” said Purdy. “She only acted to help us. And then you sent us to kill her.”

  “To relay her location,” Izquidero corrected. “And that was CIA. I’m interested in her simply because we have so few contacts in the new China. Or in Asia, for that matter. Quite apart from Beijing, when any of the developing economies of the Pacific Rim get together, Zhang usually plays a role.”

  “She’s not a spy.”

  “And I repeat—this is not the CIA we’re talking about. I’m not a spy master. I think since we share the same ocean, the Navy would like to know more about the thought processes and personalities of our neighbors. Call it rapport building.”

  “Call it whatever you want. She’s not a spy. I’m not a spy.”

  Izquidero spoke. “But if it were really important. . . . if we could convince Zhang that it was important, could you get a message to her?” Izquidero seemed unnaturally tense.

  “Frankly, I have no idea,” said Purdy. “I don’t know what I would do. I wouldn’t know how to persuade her.”

  54

  RECUPERATION AND REFLECTION

  In due course, Purdy was released from the hospital. That didn’t mean the work of recuperation was over.

  The morning sun chased the shadows from his exercise room. He stretched, pushing against his left forearm to pull that arm across his body to stretch the shoulder and upper arm where he’d been hit. Then he went to work on hamstring stretches and hip flexes, warming up his injured thigh to take the jostle of a couple of miles on the treadmill.

  He’d been stitched and pumped full of antibiotics and his recovery had been swift. No bones were damaged. Two clean exit wounds. Physical therapy was going well.

  The docs said his swift recovery was because he was young and healthy. Personally, he chalked it up to the beneficial presence of Cody Cochrane. Her smile was the best medicine. However, it had been some time since he’d seen her. She’d been rotated into a desk job in Navy Intelligence, though still part of China Team. He was due a new assignment, as well. Any other time he’d be burning with anticipation. Today his anticipation was all about Cody.

  “Got a date,” he thought. “Yeah, I think you can call it that.”

  Cody’s note lay open on his nightstand. “Knowing your interest in gustatory pleasures, I thought I’
d cook up a little something.”

  “Just what is ‘gustatory’ pleasure?” wondered Purdy.

  Cody’s note had said, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle the logistics.”

  Since taking the new job in Intelligence, Cochrane had rented rooms in a gentrifying portion of Washington close to Georgetown. It was a warren of tree-shaded streets, with ivy running up old brick walls. That was the destination. Cody picked Purdy up at his door, thinking, as she saw him, that this was the look she liked. Purdy was striking just the right pose of casual professional, leaning on the door, hands in his khaki trousers, and a blue Oxford button-down open about five inches south of where his tan stopped.

  “Get in,” she said.

  “Nice wheels, he replied, settling into the bucket seat of a late model Mustang.”

  “It’s kind of an indulgence, but it’s affordable muscle, a slice of history and a dash of romance all rolled into one,” she returned.

  “Quite the analysis.”

  As the Mustang stuttered through the stops and starts of the side streets leading up to the freeway, Purdy and Cochrane stole glimpses of one another, like sampling the bouquet of fine wine before the first sip. Purdy couldn’t believe his good fortune. This was a quality person sitting next to him in the driver’s seat.

  “How’s the recovery going?” she asked.

  “Fine. I’m basically as good as new. Working on strength and stamina now. That and getting up to speed with what’s going on in the world. In the hospital, I was watching CNN non-stop. Funny how I can still feel out of the loop. Izquidero dropped by, but she had more questions than answers.”

  “Miss the briefings on the Vinson?”

  “Yeah. And, of course, the coverage of Louisiana seemed way off the mark. As was to be expected, I guess.”

  “It was positioned as a victory for Homeland Security—which indeed it was. And it’s being seen as largely drug-related.”

  “Come again?”

  “There was no real desire to develop the theme of critically hot nuclear material being smuggled into the U.S. The implications were too dire. And after all, none of the pipeline station employees were exposed. That was confined to Cao Kai’s men working on the line. He knew what they were doing; they didn’t. They’re all dead, anyway. The nuclear material has been recovered. End of story.”