The Brad West Files

by Fritz Galt

  Jade let out her breath. At least May and Liang were still on drinking terms. She’d drink to that. And she did.

  “Now,” Liang said. “I’d like to dance with May before I take you to your father.”

  May gasped. Liang held out a hand for her, and she rose unsteadily.

  The DJ was treating the clients to a new round of disco tunes.

  “Oooh.” It was Donna Summer breathing the first lines of “Last Dance,” and Liang pulled May to his side.

  Jade eyed the three martini glasses sitting on the table. Liang hadn’t touched his yet, whereas both women had finished theirs. He likely needed a clear head so as to mess with May’s.

  The two looked fine on the dance floor as the tempo picked up. Okay, they looked fantastic. With the graceful moves of a jaguar, May wrapped herself around Liang’s ape-like torso.

  “Last chance, for love,” Donna Summer belted out.

  In a twisted way it did seem like Liang’s last chance to win May. And from all outward appearances, he was succeeding. Unless she had made the same cold calculation that Jade had made about keeping her adversary close at hand, May was totally gone on him.

  Jade honestly couldn’t tell what was going on in May’s mind. All she knew was that the music was beautiful and sad. The lights became a part of her being. And she needed to be out there.

  She approached the skinny young DJ. He glanced up at her from behind his electronic equipment.

  “You’re my God,” she whispered.

  The techno wizard loosened his tie and rose out of his seat.

  “I need you by me, beside me, to guide me.”

  She held out a hand, and he took it. She spun into his sweaty armpits. The music throbbed inside her.

  Donna Summer cooed on. “To hold me, to scold me, cause when I’m bad, I’m so, so bad.”

  She lay back against the guy’s chest and thrust her breasts upward at his glasses. His expression was that of amazement mingled with gratitude.

  The whole world should dance. But why was Liang wrenching them apart? Why was he leading May and her out of the nightclub, away from the music?

  Were all those in the crowded hallway aware that it was the last chance for romance? People slipped past her as if on rollerblades.

  May teetered on her tiptoes, flapped her arms, and seemed ready to fly across the mall. Liang led them upward toward a new level of consciousness.

  Jade felt so, so bad. She wanted to break a storefront window. She wanted to claw Liang’s clothes off. She wanted more of that martini!

  Then in an out-of-the-way corner beside a darkened window, she saw Liang issue May a chop to the back of the neck. He did it so slowly, it looked more like an affectionate pat on her shoulders. May slumped slowly into his arms. Her eyes closed, and a peaceful smile came to her lips.

  Liang spread her out on the floor like a sleeping princess.

  Then he slowly pivoted toward Jade. Light danced in his eyes as he cocked his hand backward and approached her from a high angle.

  For some reason, she didn’t need that reassuring pat. She’d rather lie on the floor beside her friend. She dropped to her knees and watched her hat float onto May’s stomach.

  When his hand slipped down the back of her head, it felt more like he was smoothing her hair.

  It was a good time to rest. She nestled her forehead against her friend. They were in for a long sleep, one with beautiful yet unsettling dreams.

  Chapter 18

  Brad tried to rip the price tag off the shirt he had just bought. Which wasn’t easy since he was wearing it at the time.

  He walked briskly down the sidewalk with one hand behind his neck. He slipped a finger through the plastic loop and yanked. With a gasp and a slight stumble forward, he finally managed to tear the stubborn tag off.

  He had charged the shirt, jeans, and windbreaker to his dad’s account, so it took a moment to comprehend the hefty price on the tag. The shirt must have been manufactured in China, exported to the U.S., repackaged there and imported back to China.

  He checked his profile out in a car window. At least he would look presentable at the American Embassy. He noticed his stomach growling. He would have to put the hunger out of mind; he was already late for his appointment to pick up his ticket.

  A powerful aroma of steamed buns issued from a roadside restaurant. Ah, how he would miss the food, so tasty, cheap, and readily available.

  He turned a corner. Now that he was leaving China, he couldn’t afford to get sentimental. He tried to bury his hunger under a heavy dose of sarcasm.

  There were two downsides to life in China. First, Chinese restaurants didn’t deliver. There was no food in a cardboard box brought straight to his door. For that matter, fortune cookies didn’t exist there either. Second, there were no traditional Chinese dry cleaners, which would have come in handy on short notice that morning.

  There. He got it out of his system.

  An old fellow in a Mao jacket approached him without breaking eye contact. The cool gaze was mildly unsettling. Didn’t the old guy get it that nowadays most Beijingers were hip to foreigners?

  He had to circle a large, motley group that had gathered at a bus stop to read the newspaper posted there. Some glanced up at him and grumbled. Weren’t such gatherings considered illegal?

  What was with these people today? And he thought he was grumpy. One young man even went out of his way to veer his claptrap bicycle directly in his path. Brad had to step into the street to avoid it.

  The closer he got to the embassy, the more random hostility he encountered. Maybe he should have sprung for a cab.

  He passed his favorite Sichuan restaurant. The tables were set up curbside as if it were a summer day. Didn’t the owner know there was a stiff northerly wind? He looked into the framing shop that had done such wonderful work for him. He was abandoning all those pictures in his apartment. Across the four-lane, he could see light green leaves emerging along the canal that ringed Workers’ Stadium. Spring still seemed a long way off.

  The long walk down Xindong Street took him past the city’s imposing police headquarters. Only at that point did he begin to suspect that something was wrong beyond his attitude. Double guards were posted on twin daises before the entrance. With white and blue lights flashing, several tinny squad cars pulled out in front of him and rushed off in the direction he was headed.

  At Chaoyangmenwei, a major artery, he joined a herd of people and bicycles to cross the street. There was always safety in numbers, a principle that Chinese had followed scrupulously throughout their history. The intersection successfully behind him, he came alongside what a decade ago might have been upscale apartments. Today the sooty exterior was a tangle of heating units and electrical wires.

  As usual, the intercity bus depot brought a mad rush of peasants onto the streets. Ruddy-faced, they hurried straight into traffic, unable to gauge the speed of oncoming cars. They came in tight bands for protection, arms locked together, and eyes averted. For their part, drivers gave pedestrians no consideration whatsoever and zoomed by slightly out of control.

  There was a popular McDonalds, and across the street lay a shopping mall that had been expanded and remodeled so many times that it resembled a termite mound.

  Brad’s appetite got the better of him. He turned toward the McDonalds for a quick bite to get him through the morning. But the golden arches had been splattered with red paint. A mob had formed around the place, and a young woman with a megaphone led them in a chorus of chants. Knowing the Chinese language would have been useful at that point.

  He headed toward the restaurant and noticed that the seats were empty and lights turned off. A brick bounced off the front window, and several young men tried to ram a parking sign through the front door.

  He was getting the distinct impression that a Big Mac was not in the cards that morning. Where was the nearest convenience store?

  He joined a rush of cars, buses, bicycles, motor scooters and peasants as the l
ight changed and safely made it across the street to the shopping mall. People were in a hurry to get into the place. Why was that? It wasn’t a national holiday designed to stimulate domestic consumption.

  People who squeezed out of the building were even more curious. They carried articles of clothing over their shoulders and computer equipment under their arms. None of it was wrapped. It looked hot, swiped off the shelves.

  He briefly considered stopping by for a pastry. Naw. There were too many people. The Jianguomenwai diplomatic area was just ahead.

  Several more police cars zoomed past and disappeared around the corner. He checked his watch. Maybe he should hop a bus and avoid all the pedestrians. But each bus that trundled past was crammed beyond capacity.

  It seemed that everyone was forced to walk that day. That could explain all the anger he encountered. One group broke off from the mob at McDonalds and fell into step behind him. For a while he felt part of a great movement. If he understood the Chinese, he would join in their spirited chant.

  He quickened his step to keep pace. Strangely, anger remained directed at him. People were throwing disgusted looks his way. Some even spat at his feet. Hey, he was walking, too. He had taken a shower.

  An egg crashed on the sidewalk in front of him. He looked up. There were no chicken coops on the balconies. Could an egg have rolled off a kitchen counter and fly out a window?

  At that moment, he heard a shrill Chinese song. It was coming from his pocket. He would have to download a better ring tone. “Yes?”

  It was a man with a low, but pleasant voice. “This is me.”

  It was the man he was supposed to meet. “Do you have the plane ticket?” He didn’t want to be stuck on the streets indefinitely.

  “I do,” the voice assured him. “But I think we’d better arrange a different meeting place.”

  “Why not the embassy? I’m halfway there.”

  Several men raised their voices as they passed, making it hard to hear.

  “Are you on foot?” Alarm registered in the man’s voice.

  “Sure. Why?”

  Brad began to concentrate on the traffic jam forming at the next intersection. It was a street that turned toward the diplomatic compounds.

  “Meet me in Ritan Park,” the voice said. “Can you make it there?”

  “Make it? Sure. No prob.”

  “How about the stone boat. Do you know it?”

  Brad had been there before. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  “Great. Just keep your head down.”

  He switched the phone off. How paranoid. What on earth was wrong with his contact? And why hand over the ticket in a park?

  He turned west at the next corner like all the others. The narrow street fed into a cluster of embassies from countries like Romania, Pakistan, Bulgaria, North Korea and Vietnam. The American Embassy lay somewhere beyond that.

  Both lanes were clogged with people all heading toward the embassies. Bicycle rickshaws that normally plied the quiet, tree-lined street had been scattered under the crush of foot traffic. Brad joined the throng with one eye on the distant gate of Ritan Park.

  At the next corner where a road joined from the south, the crowd turned the corner. What a lucky break. He could continue straight ahead. Suddenly alone, he followed the high fence that protected the park. Where on earth were all those people going? Was there some parade?

  He finally reached the park’s iron gates. There, he paid several yuan and stepped onto the extensive, landscaped grounds. The pathways were empty of people. He could see a playground through the emerging foliage. It was empty, too.

  Each step took him further into the make-believe world of a Chinese garden. Pagodas crowned hilltops. Stone paths meandered along streams and over arched bridges. Fanciful gazebos were built to shelter people from nature’s terrible elements. On the more practical side, there were badminton courts and pebbled paths for foot massages.

  With each echoing footstep around the last hill, he became acutely aware of a roar in the distance. It was a low, guttural growl, overlaid with hysterical shrieks.

  At last he reached the greatest treasure of the park: a tranquil pond lapping against manmade caves. Weeping willows tentatively dipped a few tendrils into the water. A pair of swans looked about nervously, their feet in constant motion below the surface. Built into the shoreline at the near end of the pond was a royal barge, a concrete boat designed to look like it was afloat and heading out to sea.

  On the boat stood a lone figure. The man leaned against one of the boat’s concrete pillars and stared into the water. His knees were bent slightly and his legs were sprawled apart in an oddly Western stance. He was hunched over the water and watched fish dart to and fro.

  “Hi. Are you Mick Pierce?” Brad called out.

  The man’s powerful shoulders relaxed as he turned to face Brad. Sunlight reflected upward from the wavy surface of the lake and sparkled in the man’s eyes. He was a trim, rugged figure in street clothes, not the anonymous government suit he had expected.

  “You are Mr. Pierce?” Brad slowed down just steps away.

  The man’s tawny skin, wide mouth, and gray-flecked black hair vaguely resembled that of a Mongolian or Native American. However, his fine nose and gray eyes indicated a smidge of European descent.

  At last the guy straightened up and extended his hand. “You must be Brad West. First lesson in spycraft, don’t tip your hand. Make others come to you.”

  “Right,” Brad said. But he wasn’t there for a lesson in his father’s tradecraft. All he wanted was the plane ticket.

  “Second rule,” the man continued. “Don’t wander through demonstrations aimed at your country.”

  “Huh?” What was the guy talking about?

  “Did you notice a slight increase in the number of people on the streets?” the man said.

  Brad nodded. It had been a bit annoying.

  “Well, that was a demonstration. And at this very moment, they are hurling bricks at windows of the U.S. Embassy. Marine guards are prepared to fire on anyone who climbs over the fence.”

  Brad swiveled in the direction of the noise. It was two short blocks away. Surrounded on two sides by public thoroughfares, the embassy was an easy target as long as police let demonstrators get close. “Then how did you get here?” He couldn’t picture an easy escape route.

  The man shrugged. “You don’t need to know.” He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a long envelope. “Here’s your ticket. It’s a 5:00 p.m. flight to San Francisco. From there, you can draw from the fund set up by your father to book subsequent flights.”

  Brad slipped the ticket into the outer pocket of his backpack. Suddenly he wasn’t so sure about his personal safety. “Would you mind telling me why they’re demonstrating out there?”

  The man signaled for him to take a seat. Brad positioned himself on one of the barge’s curved bows.

  “They want retaliatory trade measures.”

  “Oh, I see,” Brad said. Snippets of his father’s lecture on recent events in the U.S. were coming back to him. “Because we imposed sanctions on Chinese products?”

  “Sort of,” the man said, his voice kind. “How extensively have you been briefed on the current situation?”

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention.”

  The man nodded. “Here’s the lowdown. In the past two days, the governors of Colorado and California have independently closed their borders to the importation of not only Chinese, but all goods originating from abroad. This morning the stock exchanges in Shanghai and Shenzhen tumbled dramatically and factories are closing all around the country. You can bet that within a week, America will be starving for oil, electronics, car parts, machine parts, you name it.”

  “Why not use other ports of entry?”

  “Something is afoot in America. Last night, a Venezuelan oil tanker rammed into a set of locks in the Panama Canal. There’s a flammable oil slick blocking the Atlantic from the Pacific. The ca
nal won’t be passable for several weeks.”

  “Okay, then how about coming in through the Pacific Northwest or Canada?”

  “Perhaps you don’t see what’s at stake for us. It’s more than the flow of commerce.”

  Brad suddenly felt as if the cement boat in which he sat was moving swiftly over the waves, and the clouds had parted. “It’s political,” he said. “More than that, it’s Liang.”

  The man nodded. “Your father believes that Liang Jiaxi has teamed up with some powerful force in America in a bid for control of the United States Government. And the man who stands to gain most from such a situation is the Reverend Terry Smith.”

  Brad thought back. That name vaguely rang a bell. “Isn’t he the televangelist who proposed killing the President of Venezuela?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Liang and him?” What strange bedfellows. He’d have to read up on the minister.

  “Smith has declared his candidacy for president.”

  Brad suddenly felt the wind taken out of his sails. He could stand for some greedy folks tinkering with the global economy. But making a religious crackpot the Commander in Chief, the figurehead of his government, the Chief Executive, the man with his finger on the nuclear button, made it downright dangerous.

  “Tell me more about Reverend Smith.”

  The man reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick packet of documents. “Here’s some reading for your flight home.”

  Home? The word stopped him cold and sucked all the air out of him. He hadn’t been to the United States for over a year. Somehow, it didn’t seem like home any longer. He had put down roots in China.

  Okay. The apartments needed repair. The traffic was a mess. There wasn’t even carryout. But it seemed like a part of him was being wrenched out. China had become merely an episode in his life. Could he ever return to the sweet days in Beijing with his beloved May?

  He pressed his lips together and bit down hard. Would they lose all that they had achieved together? He had matured emotionally. His scientific work was being recognized. Beijing fit him like an old coat.