The Brad West Files

by Fritz Galt

  I am sorry to tell you that my work seems intertwined with the destiny of the dragon. I fear now that it may be too late to prevent the destruction of the future, along with the past.

  These are momentous times, and we must all play our part to the fullest, else the dragon will lose its head—along with all of us.

  Seven is the key.

  Your loving father,

  Yu Zhaoguo

  “He is reputed to be a leading advocate of the Chinese origin of mankind,” Rhodes said. “Rather ironic, considering the recent discovery by Professor Richter.”

  “I wouldn’t put much faith in Richter’s theory,” Brad said. “But about preventing the destruction, what exactly does he mean by the future?”

  “It’s not specific,” Rhodes said.

  “Well, what does ‘future’ mean to the Chinese? Tomorrow or years from now?”

  “Could be either,” Earl chimed in. “Also, there’s the character chi, for seven. It could either mean the seventh day of every week, or the seventh day of the month, or the seventh month.”

  The diplomats seemed to be waiting for more of Brad’s reasoning.

  “Let’s consider all the possibilities then,” Brad said. “Start with the date of the postmark, which Earl told me was the second of June. Obviously the seventh day of that week has already passed. And, as we’re already into the seventh month, I think we have to look at the seventh of July, which is tomorrow. I think we have to assume that if anything happens, it will happen then.”

  He sat back, satisfied with himself.

  The three diplomats looked horribly shaken.

  “What?” he said. “We’ve got one day left.”

  Rhodes read the letter again, this time at a faster clip.

  “It alludes to an image of a dragon whose head is lopped off,” Earl translated.

  “That’s where Langley thinks it means a coup d’état,” Sullivan said.

  Earl looked thoughtful. “The Chinese use many puns. A dragon could stand for any number of things, but I can’t tell what he means based on the context.”

  “I’ll leave that to you experts,” Brad said, and stood to leave. “I’ve got a Chinese goddess, uh, scientist to find. Oh, screw it, can’t we just track down May and get her the heck out of harm’s way?”

  “Yes,” Sullivan said. “But the best way to find the center of her affections is through her father. If you care about that sort of thing.” He checked to see if Brad was reading him correctly.

  “Okay, okay,” Brad said. “But all you want is the father.”

  “Granted,” Sullivan said.

  “Hey,” Earl said. “Think about it: Rescue the eccentric professor, win the heart of the fair damsel in distress, destroy the evil stepfather and overturn the ruthless warlord—all in one fell swoop. There are a couple of fairytales and at least one Disney movie in here.”

  Damn it. Earl had a point, however inane his allusions to popular culture, per usual. Brad was acting like a Saturday morning cartoon hero, but without the super powers, costume or sidekick, unless he counted Xenhet.

  He turned and stared at the wrinkled sheet of paper. That letter was his compass and his rudder. Eventually, it would take him to May. Then he could perhaps share in that blissful experience of lovemaking while actually conscious. That was if he could rescue the old man. And what more noble reason was there to save a fellow’s life than to win his daughter’s hand?

  It was clear, even to him. He had to find Dr. Yu. And he must work against the clock, although he didn’t know exactly where to start, how to get there, or what the scientist was up against.

  “So where do we begin our hunt?” he asked.

  “Well, we have a name,” Earl said.

  “What do you mean we have a name?”

  “We’ve got the old man’s name on this letter.”

  “Right. And what can we do with that name?” Sullivan asked.

  “Punch it into your PDA?” Brad suggested.

  Earl rose and shook his head. He hefted up his pants that were perpetually diving below his hips. “We’ll visit a friend of mine, a professor of anthropology at Peking University.”

  The diplomats looked at each other blankly.

  Rhodes stood up and straightened his tie. “It appears to me that you three have a good handle on the situation. Is there anything we can offer you on our end?”

  “Yeah,” Brad said. He thought about some new threads for once, as well as the iPod and all the money that he was forced to abandon in his dorm room. “I need to resupply, and I’m running short on cash.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “And,” Brad continued. “Where can a guy get a decent steak around here?”

  “Would Outback Steakhouse do?” Ms. Pierce asked with a wry smile.

  Earl caught Sullivan’s eye as they left the conference room and returned their visitor badges to Post One.

  While Brad was busy giving his short-list of needs to Pierce, Earl whispered under his breath, “So, are you going to tell him or should I?”

  “I’d rather be the one,” Sullivan said. “It’s only fair. Don’t want to drop it on him that he’s got another father after all this time.”

  “Okay,” Earl said. “Just don’t leave him hanging too long. And be sure that I’m around, ’cause I want to see his face when it happens.”

  Chapter 21

  After a hearty meal of Australian steak in the shadow of Beijing’s Worker’s Stadium, Brad was ready to tackle finding May again.

  He, Earl and Sullivan took the embassy’s white Chevy van across town while Earl described where they were going. Peking University was the Harvard of China. It accepted only the best and brightest students that the country had to offer.

  The walled campus was located in the northwest part of the city, far from downtown. And far from other colleges, Internet cafes and cram schools, Brad observed. He ducked as they passed his old employer, the Astonishing Language School of Beijing.

  As visitors to the campus, they had to use a remote entrance on the side farthest from the city. Only after placing a call to their host, Professor Lu of the Anthropology Department, did the guard allow them through.

  The embassy van meandered through the verdant campus to a freestanding building that housed the social sciences department.

  “Social sciences,” Brad scoffed. “If it ain’t the natural sciences, I ain’t interested.”

  A stubby old man was standing by the curb to greet them.

  “Mr. Skitowsky,” the professor said. “How good to see you again.”

  Brad had to admit he was a tad jealous. Earl’s reputation preceded him, whereas Brad’s followed him like Limburger cheese. And Brad’s step-dad was a household name around the world. What did they have that he didn’t have?

  Professor Lu’s office was stuffed with plaster models of human scapulas, ulnas, toes and skulls. The musty room reminded Brad of the natural history museums he had visited in his youth, the kind with fetuses in formaldehyde, taxidermy behind glass, and dinosaur skeletons that hadn’t been dusted in years.

  He was pleased to find that the professor was a dyed-in-the-wool paleo-anthropologist after his own heart, not a softer kind of cultural or social anthropologist like Earl. Various issues of the Journal of Human Evolution, the American Journal of Physical Anthropology and more esoteric papers in French and Spanish lay open on his desk.

  Clearly the professor stayed abreast of the major developments of the day. For a surreal touch, the Discovery Channel was airing a documentary on Kublai Khan on a small television in the corner.

  The kindly looking Professor Lu stood behind his desk. There followed the ritual exchange of business cards, for which Brad had none. Then the academic informed them, “I’ve got colloquiums scheduled in Sydney and London in the next few weeks, so you’re lucky to catch me.”

  After a few more pleasantries, they found seats and Earl got down to business. “What can you tell us about Dr. Yu Zhaoguo?”


  “Ah, Yu,” the professor said. He leaned back and inhaled deeply as if there was much to tell. “I’ve known him for years. What do you want to know?”

  “First,” Brad stepped in, “what’s his field of study?”

  “Early human development.” The professor pointed to the replica of the Zhoukoudian “Peking Man” skull on his desk.

  Sullivan picked up the skull to study it. Its strong browridge and receding forehead could easily have been that of a large ape.

  “Do you mean this was my ancestor?” Sullivan asked, dubious.

  “Yeah,” Brad said. “Just check out the jaw. No retromolar gap.”

  Earl fidgeted with mild boredom. Bones weren’t his thing. “Back to Dr. Yu. What were his particular interests?”

  Professor Lu leaned forward conspiratorially. “My colleague’s specialty is Chinese humanoids, specifically Peking Man. But he is reputed to be working on a new discovery.”

  “Is it significant?” Brad asked.

  The man shrugged. “No way to tell, actually. He works in the strictest secrecy, but his theories are well known in our circles. Sadly, few take him seriously, which is a shame in my opinion.”

  “So, he’s not a crackpot?” Sullivan said.

  “Far from it,” Professor Lu said. “He likes to portray himself as one, as I think he uses his eccentric personality to distance himself from hangers-on and competitors. His theory is that the first modern men to inhabit the world came from China.”

  “No way,” Earl said with a laugh. “Some sort of freaky inverse coincidence, eh Brad?”

  “Why?” the professor asked.

  “Because, please meet the son of the exalted American anthropologist, Professor Richter.”

  “Stepson,” Brad corrected.

  It was weird. May’s father’s theory was more attuned to his own ideas of man’s evolution in China. They certainly contradicted his stepfather’s Reverse Land Bridge theory.

  Suddenly, Brad was in love with May’s father as much as he was with her.

  “No disrespect to your esteemed stepfather, young man,” the gentle Chinese academic said, “but I’d certainly like to hear what the great professor has to say about his Reverse Land Bridge theory if Dr. Yu can ever produce his evidence.”

  “Believe me, so would I,” Brad said.

  The professor demonstrated mild surprise at Brad’s disloyalty toward his own stepfather. But Brad was elated. For the first time in his life, he felt accepted as an equal in academic circles. Finally, his theories began to harmonize with those of other, respected anthropologists. And for the first time ever, he was out from under his stepfather’s long shadow.

  “So where can I find Dr. Yu?” he asked, emboldened.

  Professor Lu pivoted in his chair to face him squarely, then shrugged his bulky shoulders.

  “I wish I knew,” he said. “As I said, he was working in secret.”

  Then the professor leaned close.

  “But I can tell you this. Rumor has it that he has been staying at a sensitive military installation, perhaps a penal institution. Ordinarily, I would be skeptical of such tales, but it seemed too strange to me that just before Professor Richter made his startling pronouncement, he was in China for a brief lecture tour promoting his America-first ideas.”

  The professor rolled his eyes toward the corner of the ceiling, then leaned back and chuckled.

  “Needless to say, Professor Richter’s ideas were respectfully listened to, but not very well received.”

  Sullivan stood to leave. “Thank you, Professor. We’re sorry to trouble you. If you hear from Dr. Yu, you can reach me through the American Embassy. Ask for Sullivan.”

  Brad could have spent the rest of the afternoon chatting with the old guy, but felt he was giving way to drowsiness.

  It had been a long day after all, complete with a gun battle at school, a tedious tour group, a foot race on the Great Wall, a long taxi ride, and meetings with diplomats and academics. His body was aching for sleep and a few creature comforts.

  The first thing Brad needed was to wash off several days’ worth of Chinese dorm life.

  Sullivan directed the driver to take them to a Comfort Inn that was recommended by the embassy and well within government per diem.

  The hotel occupied several floors of a stately new high-rise in the up-and-coming Sanlitun district. The neighborhood was loaded with fashionable department stores and trendy bars and restaurants. But all Brad wanted was a warm shower and a cockroach-free bed.

  After a soothing shower, he emerged rejuvenated and began to towel off. He stood before the mirror in the marble bathroom and took stock of the wounds and battle scars he had accumulated.

  All in all, he was healing nicely. He still walked with a slight limp, but at least his knee didn’t hurt. The black and blue around his eye was gone, and he could almost raise his left arm completely over his head.

  He thought back fondly to May’s dislocation of his shoulder while she was dragging him from the burning helicopter. Man, that girl sure knew how to rescue a guy.

  His headaches had subsided, and as long as he didn’t bend over to tie his shoes or sprint away from assassins, one could almost forget the dual concussions.

  This is good. You need to meditate on your body more.

  “Oh, jeez. Tell me I’m not crazy, but I’m almost getting used to these little visits of yours.”

  Your father is very proud of you.

  “My father is a cork sucker.”

  No, your father who gave you to the world.

  “Oh, that guy. He has long since disappeared. And how would he know what I’m doing since I’ve been in China?”

  He knows.

  “Great. Say ‘hi’ from me.”

  “Sorry to interrupt the conversation in there,” Earl said through the door. “But I need to use the can.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Brad opened the door to let him in. “Just daydreaming, I guess.”

  “That’s okay. You’re never alone with schizophrenia.”

  “Hardy har har har.” Brad punched him on the biceps. He wandered into the bedroom and retrieved a new shirt, courtesy of U.S. taxpayers.

  Since Sullivan was back at the embassy, he and Earl were on their own for dinner. Brad was still hungry even after his late lunch, so they decided to cruise nearby Bar Street for a bite to eat.

  Half an hour later, they plunged into the traffic-filled city street at rush hour. Earl led him straight across several lanes of traffic toward some curbside restaurants.

  Brad was skeptical from previous experience. “I’m telling you, you won’t find much edible in these places.”

  “Watch the pro at work.” Earl picked up the pace with confidence.

  The sidewalk tables were packed. Patrons nibbled on western food and swilled beer with gusto. Most of the clientele were Europeans taking in the passersby with unabashed leering. It might have been acceptable in Europe, but the practice of staring at people seemed incredibly rude in a circumspect country like China.

  They stopped at a bar advertising Budweiser, and the hostess found them a decent seat tucked away from the pedestrian traffic.

  A two-liter pitcher would get them started for the evening.

  Brad glanced up and down the sidewalk. The street had character. He’d give it that. Dry dust that smelled like plasterboard lined the windows and gutters and cracks in the sidewalk tiles. The air was infused with the pungent stench of draft beer spilled the night before.

  Several mugs later, Brad sat back and observed broadly, “So we’re back to square one.” He was no closer to finding May now than on his first day as an English teacher at the hokey, fly-by-night cram school. His sole accomplishment was to get further entrenched in Beijing with a more comfortable room and a drinking buddy. He didn’t need La Dolce Vita. He needed May.

  Her image seemed to materialize before him. Bowing low and revealing her neatly parted hair, she massaged him with her magic fingers as he lay passively on her cou
ch.

  “Give me more,” he said dreamily.

  Earl gave him a nudge and shook him back to reality. “She’s asking if we want to order something off the menu.”

  Brad slapped himself on the cheeks. The girl who was bowing before him was the barmaid. Boy, all that black hair could get confusing.

  “Sure,” he said, recovering. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  Earl ordered in Chinese. The girl seemed impressed with his linguistic dexterity.

  Then Brad’s eyes fell on a painting of a yellow-breasted bird in an art gallery next door. He had seen that exact picture before.

  He grabbed the envelope from his pocket. May’s father had mailed the letter using a stamp of that same bird.

  He pointed out the watercolor to Earl. “Is that the same bird that’s on this stamp?”

  Earl raised an eyebrow. “I’ll ask about it after dinner.”

  The girl was just returning with several plates of food. Earl laughed in amazement. “Is this what I ordered?”

  “Why, what is it?” Brad asked.

  “Looks like that old standby, chicken feet and cuttlefish. Man, am I rusty.”

  “And I thought she was impressed with your command of the local tongue,” Brad teased. “Tell her to take mine back. I’ll have a General Pao’s chicken, easy on the feet.”

  “I think I’ll make that a double. Meanwhile, I’ll find out some more about our mystery bird.”

  After re-ordering, Earl got up and cornered the proprietor of the art gallery. The two discussed the painting, and Earl came back to the table looking satisfied.

  “It’s the Jiang bird. It’s named after the region of China where it resides.”

  “What region?”

  “Xinjiang.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s a Muslim region in far western China. All desert and nuclear test sites out there.”

  “I do deserts,” Brad said.

  “It’s next to Afghanistan.”

  “I’ll do Afghanistan,” Brad said, this time a little less certain.

  Earl raised his mug. “To Xinjiang.”