The Brad West Files

by Fritz Galt

  Before he knew it, he was sitting inside a gondola riding upward as it skimmed the tops of trees. In a clearing, a two-humped, Bactrian camel posed for pictures. Beyond that, hikers were scaling the hill on foot. On the other side of the gondola, an alpine slide took thrill seekers the quick way down.

  Inside the glass bubble of the gondola, once ridden by John Major according to a plaque, three widows from Milwaukee were chatting him up. Why were they pressing him with questions about Tucson when the magnificent Great Wall of China spread out before them?

  Still he couldn’t afford to offend them, lest he lose his ride back to the city. He was just explaining that Linda Ronstadt was from Tucson when he spotted something that made his blood run cold. A tall man in wraparound sunglasses and a trench coat sprinted up the steps just below him. He recognized the gaunt features from somewhere, but he was distracted by his companions.

  They were nearing the ancient, gray-brick wall. Brad wanted to get off quickly. But that wasn’t going to happen. The four of them all tried to squeeze out of the tiny car at the same time. Brad was last off and had to leap from the car.

  They were in a large, dark cable car station. Brad ushered them through the turnstiles and out into blinding sunlight.

  At that high elevation, they were above the haze of the city. A glorious vista lay only a few steps higher, but first he had to herd the women up a set of tight, steep stairs.

  “I don’t think I can make it.”

  “Aw c’mon,” Brad said. “You’ve come twelve thousand miles. Certainly you can take twelve more steps.”

  He finally got them up to the parapets of the wall. What a dazzling sight. Just like all the photos he’d ever seen, the rising and falling series of steps looked like a snake sleeping on the spine of several mountains, only to eventually disappear over the horizon. A trail of visitors crawled like ants along the top. The walkway was sprinkled with souvenir vendors, ladies with cone-shaped hats selling cold beverages, and actors dressed as Mongols with their horses.

  To the north lay the land of the Mongols, precipitous mountains, wind-blown shrubs, and wild fruit trees with not a soul in sight. He leaned over the other side of the wall where the Chinese tourist industry thrived. One by one, sweaty hikers emerged through the arched doorway. Their cries of victory were short-lived as they took in the dramatic view.

  Not far down the hill, Brad spotted the mysterious man hustling up the steps. Brad couldn’t see past the sunglasses, but where had he seen that ridiculously small mustache before?

  In Tucson!

  The man charging up the hill after him was none other than Igor Sullivan, the man with the PDA who knew all about the chopper crash and May and Liang, the man he had almost called for help at the gas station outside Tuscan, the man who had dropped a visa on his bed at Cheno’s house.

  Then Skeeter’s words of warning over the phone came back to him. “He’s with the Company…a loyal member of the travel agency.”

  The guy was with the CIA. And Brad was in his sights.

  He sucked in his breath. Despite the long military history of the Great Wall, it seemed like an odd place to be assassinated.

  He looked around for a place to hide. The nearest blockhouses were a hundred yards away in either direction. What could he do?

  “Here, try this on,” one of the women said, costume in hand. “I’ll email you a picture.”

  Brad looked at the red and blue gown. It was an emperor’s robe, complete with a mask and beard. It would have to do.

  He slipped into the heavy garment. Its gold embroidered fabric fell easily around him. The vendor fastened the knotted buttons for him. Brad grabbed the mask just as Sullivan emerged through the arched doorway.

  From within the plastic facemask, his perception of the world became more limited. All he could hear were his own heavy breathing and a woman shouting, “Brad, stand next to the horse.”

  She had called out his name. The man in the trench coat turned to look. Brad had no choice. He swung a leg over the first of several small ponies and kicked its sides. The beast began to trot along the flat section of the wall.

  “Giddyap,” Brad shouted, and spurred the animal in the flanks. It broke into a gallop.

  Long beard flowing in the breeze and his elegant robe billowing behind him, the emperor rode across the rooftop of China. Visitors flattened themselves against the ramparts to let him pass.

  Through his eyeholes, Brad could only make out a blur of bricks, gun holes and parapets. Worn stones underfoot turned into slowly ascending steps. He tilted his mask back for a better view. Dusty green mountains poked through the clouds below, and an enormous blue sky arched high overhead.

  The horse neared the first blockhouse, a square building at the top of a mountain peak. He ducked under the doorway. The sound of the hooves echoed in the dark, multi-room chamber. Then he was outside again. The horse ran unchecked down another series of steps. That took them to another flat span of wall.

  Brad looked back. His assailant had only just emerged from the blockhouse.

  Brad threw off his mask, and wind whistled through his hair. He let out a defiant whoop and raised both arms in triumph. He couldn’t stop himself. He was the ruler of the Middle Kingdom.

  What Brad really needed was to get off the wall.

  Then he saw a way to escape. Steps led down to a narrow opening in the south side of the wall. Reining in his tiny mount, he managed to come to a stop. He slid off his trusty steed and bounded down the steps to the woods below.

  He reached the top of the alpine slide. Children and parents stood in line to take the mini toboggans for a terrain-hugging romp downhill. He jumped the line and claimed royal privilege. “Excuse me. Emperor coming through.”

  He grabbed the next seat to come by and placed himself squarely on it. Then he released the handbrake and shoved at the patches of dirt on both sides of the low track. Slowly, gravity began to pull him down a curving ramp. He gained so much speed by the third turn that he needed to lean on the brakes.

  Halfway down the tortuous ride, a thought flashed through his mind. What if hit men were waiting for him at the bottom?

  He yanked on the brake handle and came to a screeching halt. He bailed out, looked around, then dashed through a thin stand of trees. His heavy robe was impeding his progress and drawing people’s attention. He tried to shrug out of the costume as he ran, but he couldn’t figure out how to unfasten the damn knotted buttons. That would have to wait.

  “Brad West!” a voice thundered behind him. Still in his sunglasses and trench coat, Sullivan was just jumping off the alpine slide.

  The guy had to be a marathon runner.

  Brad couldn’t outrun him. He’d have to do something unthinkable. He turned and headed straight downhill and looked around for ideas. He was just streaking under the shadow of a gondola when he came face to face with the camel.

  “I can’t believe this,” he muttered, and ground his heels into the dirt.

  He slid right up to the chest of the beast before coming to a halt. Naw, he couldn’t ride the thing. Besides, a little boy had just mounted it.

  “Here. Take this.” He flung the robe over his head and onto the kid. “Yaw.”

  The camel turned and trotted away.

  Brad resumed his downhill sprint and converged on some steps. Women reached out to halt his progress and lure him into their stalls. He leaped past them and flew down the steps three at a time. Soon he was nearly level with the parking lot. Several clusters of tourists sat sipping drinks in white plastic chairs at the bottom of the steps.

  One face stuck out of the crowd. It was Earl. He was waiting calmly in the shade as if he were expecting Brad to arrive at any moment.

  “Hey buddy,” Earl called. “You got a dime for a fellow American down on his luck? Lady Luck, that is.”

  Brad grabbed the back of Earl’s chair to stop his forward momentum. He spun Earl halfway around and ended up facing him. He doubled over and gasped for air.


  He wanted to warn Earl, but he was too winded to talk. He pointed behind him at the parking lot and cocked his hand like a pistol. “They tried to kill me at the school,” he finally managed to wheeze.

  His lungs burning, he broke into an uncontrollable cough.

  “Now Sullivan’s…chasing me…down the hill,” he managed to get out.

  “Oh, here’s the gangsta now,” Earl said sarcastically.

  His chest barely heaving and slightly pink in the cheeks, the lanky man drew to a halt before them. Slowly, he pulled off his wraparound sunglasses. The cool gray eyes studied his reaction.

  Brad pointed to him. “You warned me about this guy.”

  Earl laughed. “He’s been trying to catch up with you ever since you jumped on the gondola with those dolls.”

  “Then who was shooting at me?” He was confused.

  Earl shrugged. “We’re here to help you, not kill you. Now if you want to kill yourself, we won’t stop you.”

  Brad slumped onto a chair beside his friend. His heart still pounded away like a boxer’s glove in his chest. “Thanks for coming to my rescue. But why bring this guy?”

  “It appears that Igor’s part of the package,” Earl said.

  Igor? Since when were Earl and the CIA agent on a first name basis?

  “He’s here to help us find May’s father,” Earl said.

  Maybe it was the heat, or the sweat dripping in his eyes, but Brad wasn’t seeing things clearly. “Why does the CIA need to know about May’s father?”

  Sullivan removed his coat, folded it neatly, and took up the seat opposite Brad. “We believe that May’s father is trying to get word out about an imminent coup d’état in China.”

  A coup in China? That seemed odd. He hadn’t seen any signs of unrest. “So what’s that got to do with me?”

  “Strange as it may seem,” Sullivan replied, “you’re our best hope for finding the scientist.”

  “Me? I can’t even find my way to the bathroom here.”

  Sullivan pulled a bottle of water from his coat pocket and raised it to his lips. “You’ve got the scientific experience and the deductive skills we need to track the man down. You’re an invaluable asset to us.”

  “Don’t try to flatter me,” Brad said. “I’m no asset. I’m a liability to society.” He took a swipe at his sweat and threw it against the ground.

  “On the contrary. Our profiling department has determined that you possess highly unusual skills.”

  If they only knew about ol’ Xen, they’d ship him off to a funny farm.

  “Shouldn’t we be going now?” Earl said.

  “Wait a sec.” Brad caught his arm as his friend started to leave. “I want to hear more of this.”

  “According to our research,” Sullivan said, “you have the steadfastness of belief to contradict authority even when it is to your own detriment.”

  Brad thought about his stepfather. “That’s easy if the authority is a dickhead.”

  “And your research papers to date demonstrate a remarkable level of deductive reasoning.”

  “Yeah, I’ve always kind of figured that.”

  “Wait,” Earl said. “Is this Brad’s research we’re talking about?”

  Brad turned his back to his friend. “What else do they say?”

  Sullivan looked almost proud, if a little embarrassed.

  “Come on, you can tell me.”

  “Well, the women in the department thought you were kind of a hunk. They figured you would have some unusual powers of persuasion, particularly with the more feminine of the species.”

  “Ha!” Brad shouted. “I’m vindicated.”

  “Yeah,” Earl said. “USDA Prime Hunk, certified by the secretarial pool.”

  “I’ll take my strokes where I can get ’em.”

  Just then, the three women from Milwaukee waddled out of the gondola’s roundhouse.

  “There’s Brad now.”

  “You handsome devil,” Earl murmured.

  “Boy, are you good with horses. I’ve got pictures.”

  There was a downside to being popular. Brad turned to his colleagues. “We’d better make our escape. Here comes the real threat.”

  They weren’t in time. Brad had to uphold his reputation with the tour group before they let him go and he and Earl and Sullivan could slip away.

  Eventually, the dynamic trio found themselves careening back to the city in a tin box of a taxi.

  Chapter 20

  Brad and his gringo companions couldn’t return to his dormitory, where Liang’s men had already smoked him out. They needed to go somewhere more secure.

  “How about the embassy?” Sullivan suggested as they bounced along on the springy back seat of the taxi.

  Brad looked at him with surprise.

  “Hey,” Sullivan said. “You’re one of us now.”

  Brad stared out the front window as they neared the city. Never in his wildest imagination had he ever pictured himself as lead man in a federal manhunt.

  The taxi let them off several blocks from the U.S. Embassy in Beijing. They had to walk past numerous roadblocks manned by stern-faced soldiers brandishing rifles.

  The main building was surrounded by rolls of barbed wire, its perimeter patrolled by People’s Armed Police and Chinese army soldiers with Uzis and attack dogs.

  “Spooky,” Earl said.

  “Yeah,” Sullivan said. “What with the terrorists, the unrest in Central Asia, not to mention the North Korean asylum seekers, we’ve got to be hyper-vigilant.”

  Brad studied the tree-lined street. It was a quiet part of the city. Embassies from an odd assortment of nations from Bulgaria to Singapore squatted on huge compounds. Official white vans with black diplomatic license plates were clustered around the entrance to the American compound.

  A word to the guard let them through the guardhouse and metal detector, and before he knew it, Brad was climbing the front steps of the chancery. He turned back. The security wall was behind him.

  What access. What power.

  “Hey, you are connected,” Earl told Sullivan. “Any chance you could pull some strings and let me see the report on the real story behind 9/11? That was no Boeing that hit the Pentagon, that’s for sure. What about Building 7 being primed and ready for demolition? And what about the bulge on the bottom of the second plane? Live eyewitness accounts of CNN reporters said it wasn’t a commercial aircraft. Then there’s also—”

  “Ah, one conspiracy per customer, please. We’ve got a professor to find and a coup to thwart. Shall we step inside?”

  At the plate-glass window, a uniformed Marine handed Brad a security badge.

  He had to admit it was kinda cool. “Let’s meet with the ambassador.”

  “Ah, why don’t we step this way first.” Sullivan led them around a corner, through a security door, and into a conference room.

  Pictures of the sitting president and secretary of state adorned the wall.

  “Austere, but official,” Earl said with admiration.

  Sullivan reached for the phone on the conference table and asked for someone named Rhodes.

  A minute later, the door opened, and in walked two men and a woman in business suits. Their brusque, urbane manner, the stiffness of their starched shirts, and the blandness of their expressions left no doubt in Brad’s mind. They were diplomats.

  It hadn’t occurred to him before that America had a diplomatic corps. Until that morning, he had just assumed that only foreign governments, specifically those stuffy European powers, maintained such archaic ranks. After all, the relations of the U.S. with the rest of the world consisted mostly of trade, communications, entertainment, and of course the U.S. military making house calls. Weren’t the days of Uncle Sam sending Duke Ellington to Russia over? Did the U.S. really do more than pay lip service to negotiating peace treaties? Come on. Who was America trying to kid?

  But there they stood, in all the trappings of their trade. Diplomats.

  The man
introduced himself as First Secretary Rhodes. “And these are Officers Perry and Pierce.”

  “Uh, my name is West.”

  “I understand that you have a letter to show us,” Rhodes said.

  “Oh, yeah.” Brad reached down and pulled off his right shoe. He dumped the envelope on the table.

  His cohorts stepped back and discretely crossed their arms and covered their noses.

  “Can we turn on some ventilation in here?” Earl asked.

  Perry stuck his head out the door and discreetly asked for the maintenance crew. Then he stepped back into the conference room and asked everyone to be seated.

  Ms. Pierce, the woman diplomat, sat across from Brad.

  “What exactly is your mission here in China?” she asked, while Rhodes studied the damp envelope and extracted the letter with his fingertips.

  Mission? Who said this was a mission? “I’m here to find a Chinese anthropologist and father of Yu May Hua, a pilot for the Chinese Air Force. I believe both of them are in grave danger.”

  “Especially when she’s hanging out with you, good buddy,” Earl whispered over his shoulder.

  The lady looked interested. “Have you tried to contact the daughter through the military?”

  “No. The military is trying to, ah kill me. Just a bit.”

  She looked at him without attempting to hide her skepticism.

  “No, I can vouch for that,” Earl said. “He’s left a trail of destroyed pickups and helicopters, not to mention a very sweaty pony.”

  She looked at Earl quizzically, then Rhodes read the letter aloud in Chinese.

  Earl whispered his translation to Brad and Sullivan.

  My dearest daughter,

  I hope this letter finds you safe and happy.

  First, the good news. My work is going very well, after some minor setbacks. I have made a second discovery that should vindicate all my research to date.

  Strange that it was staring me in the face all along. The limestone formations near a large tributary are famed for their unique erosion patterns. Little was I to suspect they also held the answer to my quest.

  More on this later, if there is time.