ProxyWar Page 8

  Now, it was obvious. The Russians and the Chinese had been working separately for decades to cause the United States to fall. What if they are now working together? Is Israel just a pawn in the game? Can Israel survive if the United States no longer exists as its helpmate?

  The Russians had led every event from 1922 until 1950, influencing each of the countries of operation through financial aid, weapons sales, and policy decisions. Where they could, they provided a guiding influence. When that didn’t work, they used assassins to craft accidents that changed the leaders of the government. And where that didn’t work, they simply invaded.

  As for the Chinese, their work was far more subtle. They were the force behind the Korean War, and no treaty had ever been signed between North and South Korea. But mostly, they traded wealth and technology for influence, starting over a decade ago. The Chinese had even partnered with Israel in covert operations in Africa. He remembered working with Xian Wing several decades ago when the Chinese spymaster ran South African operations there, and they occasionally partnered with the Mossad. It had led Yigdal to recruiting Wing’s son, William, as a hacker for hire about eight years ago when the boy was less than twenty years old.

  The conclusions he drew mirrored suspicions he’d harbored for decades.

  He flipped the board over and drew a rough map of the United States. If he were Pushkin, what would he propose to his Chinese partner du jour? It would be easiest to separate the country into two pieces at the Mississippi River. He assumed Russia was the instigator, because they’d always been more aggressive than the Chinese. Which piece of the country would Russia want? If, as he’d assumed from the electric grids on the thumb-drive, the plan was to disable the United States, then once the Chinese had mobilized their troops, it would be best for Russia if they had the piece of the country with the most livestock and grain production, since China was already short on those staples. So China would be offered the East Coast, a more prestigious slave state. Then after the successful invasion, Russia could slowly starve China into a weakened state before China saw the entire plan. They could soon be ready to turn off China’s electric grid and invade them while, with inadequate food supplies, Chinese soldiers in the former United States starved to death.

  His gut felt no pain as he concluded this monumental task.

  He continued to stare at the whiteboard, his hand scratching his chin. He’d need to call the prime minister with his conclusions but wanted to make sure his call would not be interrupted by the day’s business of government. The best time was early in the day, and he’d need to have a practiced presentation that the PM would find difficult to interrupt or deny. If he was well organized, maybe he could manage a few minutes on the phone with the man.

  He walked to the chalkboard and erased the map. He used the board to craft a systematic argument to present the danger at hand for the only man he feared: Prime Minister Oscar Gilead, a former IDF sniper, former Mossad, and cold-blooded killer.

  * * *

  Guilin was a city of over twenty-million people where William could easily hide in plain site but Betsy and Jon were instantly recognizable as gweilou, or “round eyes.” “Act like a tourist couple on honeymoon,” William told Jon and Betsy. “It won’t bother me and it will give you a believable cover. I’ll stay close but apart until the evening ends, then change places with you, Jon. That way, I can sleep with Betsy.”

  Jon nodded. Betsy shrugged.

  “The first step is to get out of town before we can be tracked here,” William said. “There’s a tour boat leaving in the early morning down the Lee River. We’ll be on that boat.”

  The next morning, Jon stood on the top deck of the tour boat, in awe of his view of the steep, narrow mountain peaks, karst hills, bamboo groves, and villages. The “mountains” were like fingers projecting out of the ground. They passed Nine Horse Fresco Hill, Yellow Cloth Shoal, 20-Yuan Bill Hill, and Xingping Town. “William, this is exactly what I meant when I told you I wanted you to give me a tour of your country. It’s totally mag!”

  William read the page in the tour book. “Well, not what I’d intended. Look, this trip takes another hour, and docks at a resort town, Yangshuo. There, we’ll take an airplane ride to Hangzhou, and from there on Dragonair to Beijing. I can use my friends there to get us new passports.”

  Jon asked, “Isn’t Hangzhou close to Shanghai? Why go back?”

  William shook his head. “You should have figured it out. Basic tradecraft. Don’t go anywhere directly. Go where they won’t expect us, so it takes longer for them to trace us.”

  Betsy snapped pictures with her cellphone’s camera. “It has been quite a scenic adventure.” She moved toward William but he shook his head and backed away.

  The boat slowed and rounded a bend in the river. “Stay in role.” William turned and nodded his head toward the scenery. “It is a most remarkable place.”

  Betsy whispered under her breath. “Rats.” She thought for a second. “If things work out, we could be back home in less than a week.”

  It took three days to reach Beijing. Most of the way, William acted as a private tour guide, and Jon and Betsy acted as a set of newlyweds on a honeymoon tour. In the evenings, though, Jon went to his room and Betsy and William shared theirs.

  Finally, they arrived in Beijing. The ancient city was a vivid contrast to the rest of the country, a mix of old, tiny villages slammed close together, separated from the next set by tall, modern buildings. The food in the city’s heart was better than what they’d eaten in the less crowded places along the way. They found a tourist-oriented hotel in the Central Business District.

  They obtained two rooms at the Double Happiness Beijing Courtyard Hotel, located in one of the narrow, residence-lined hutongs of Dongsi, at No. 37, Dongsisitiao, Dongcheng. “This is what you might expect of Old Beijing,” William told them. “It’s just two miles from Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden City.”

  After they dropped their possessions in their rooms, Betsy explored the courtyard. “It’s quite tranquil, considering its location in the middle of a busy city-center neighborhood.”

  But the traffic was noisy and the air smelled of diesel fuel and other, more foul forms of pollution.

  William told them to wait in the courtyard. “I have to see what I can do to get us new identity documents so we can leave China as soon as possible. Why don’t you guys get a bite to eat?” Jon and Betsy both nodded. “Good, then. Try a Beijing duck. It will complete your travels. Try Nanxincang. It has Dadong Roast Duck. Located a short walk from here in the Worker’s Sports Complex. Okay, then? I’ll meet you there.” He pecked Betsy’s cheek, turned, and walked away.

  * * *

  Jon and Betsy walked six blocks and easily found the restaurant. Then they waited for nearly an hour before they were seated, despite the restaurant being almost empty. Another hour passed before a waitress approached. Of course, they ordered the duck. The restaurant soon filled for dinner. It took nearly an hour for their duck and pancakes to arrive. But when Jon tasted the duck, he sighed. “It’s the best I’ve ever had.”

  Betsy took a pancake and stuffed it with duck skin and a bit of meat, hoisin sauce, and scallion. She took a bite and her scowl turned into a face full of delight. “Yeah. It’s great. Hey, Jon, I wonder where my husband is. Does it take that long for him to find a forger and get us docs?”

  Jon just shrugged and grabbed another pancake. “Patience.”

  * * *

  William walked through hutong after hutong, searching his memory for the location he sought. It took him nearly an hour to stumble into the correct alleyway. There was a metallic gray door in the Cangnan hutong near Yueweizhuang in the 4th Alley.

  He stood in front of the gate for nearly a minute. Remember! What’s his name?

  Before the thought could resolve into a name, the gate creaked open. A thin, ancient man with a scraggly beard stood before him. “Come in before you get us both arrested.”

  William entered the
courtyard and the old man closed and locked the gate. He pointed toward the workshop behind him. “Time is money. You are Xian’s son, and, from what I know, you are no longer welcome in China. So you must want a new set of identity documents.”

  William felt the heat of surprise flow into his face. “How?”

  “I worked for your father for over a decade.”

  “Ah. Listen, there are three of us.” He handed his cellphone to the old man. “Photos of each of us. How much and how soon?”

  “An hour for clumsy work, two for perfection.” The old man pointed to a small bench in the corner. “Sit and wait.”

  Two hours passed and it was now dark outside. It was harder for William to find his way back toward the hotel and then to the restaurant. When William arrived, Jon and Betsy were still eating duck. Jon pointed to the carcass and the pancakes. “Still some left. Have a go at it.”

  William nodded and sat. He handed Jon and Betsy their new identities and then took his turn to stuff his mouth with a pancake of duck, hoisin, and scallions. “We need the first aircraft out of China. When you finish eating, book each of us, but do it separately. I think our hunters may not be far behind.”

  * * *

  They found a taxi and headed off to the airport. Jon scanned the cars behind them in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. “I can’t tell if we have company.”

  Betsy turned her head. “Maybe we should just assume nothing bad will happen.”

  William shook his head. “Jon is right. We need to be vigilant. The sniper might be somewhere out there, and he may have friends. When we get to the airport, it’s essential that we get through security fast. Then, we can relax.”

  Traffic didn’t let up until they were out past Ring Road Five.

  At the terminal, as they exited the taxi, Jon saw a tall, fit Caucasian man exit a cab just behind them. The Caucasian had no baggage. Jon pulled his cellphone from his pocket and snapped the man’s photo. He touched William and Betsy on the shoulder and nodded toward the man. “I think we’ve finally found our tracker.”

  Airport security at Beijing International Airport was tight, as usual. But the three fugitives were given little attention.

  They hustled into the terminal and presented their tickets and passports to the security checkpoint personnel. Their tracker was just three people behind them.

  Jon noticed three others were now standing behind the tracker, and none of the other three carried luggage. “Guys, there are a total of four of them, my four o’clock, thirty meters away.”

  William didn’t bother to look. “Might not mean anything. They’d find you two more interesting than the natives. As for me, well, until they discover who I really am, they’ll think me harmless.”

  The tracker said something to his companions that Jon couldn’t hear. Jon stared at them for a few seconds, and then he frowned. “He’s in contact with the others using an earbud,” he said.

  But Jon, William, and Betsy were finally next in line to clear security.

  After a brief conversation, the three cleared customs. But so did the four trackers who kept them within sight. And when Jon, William, and Betsy hurried toward their gate, the four hunters were right behind them.

  Jon and his team were trotting now. “What if they have tickets for our flight?” Betsy asked.

  “Not likely,” William replied. “No one could have hacked me when I purchased the tickets. So they have tickets, or they wouldn’t have cleared security, but they aren’t for our flight.” He pulled his cellphone from his pocket. “I have an idea.” He punched a number into the cell and spoke in Mandarin for several seconds.

  Seconds later, a platoon of uniformed airport security soldiers, all armed, surrounded the trackers.

  As William boarded and approached his seat, he smiled at his companions. “I just called security and described our trackers. I said these guys mentioned hijacking a plane.”

  * * *

  Two days later, Jon Sommers had reached his East Midtown Manhattan apartment in the Corinthian at 330 East 38th Street. He nodded to the doorman and took the elevator up forty-five floors. His apartment now had a musty odor. He cracked open a few windows and let the frigid air inside.

  He’d parted from Betsy and William at JFK, and they’d headed off to Dulles, on their way to Omaha, a short drive from Betsy’s home in Woodbine, Iowa.

  There were no photos of friends or relatives in Jon’s apartment. He’d been in love twice and each of the women he’d staked his future with had died terrible, violent deaths. Murders. He blamed himself for their deaths. He’d long ago sworn he’d never again be held a hostage to love. Relationships were the most powerful choke point.

  The luxurious apartment was his only commitment now. As a senior vice president at American National Bank, he’d become wealthy since he’d quit working for the Mossad as an assassin, a kidon. He mused, I’m the only trained assassin who never killed anyone.

  After unpacking, he called the bank and told them he’d be at work the next day. He spent the afternoon and evening doing laundry and shopping for food, then watched the nightly news. Talking heads reported that the level of civil unrest fomenting around the country was mounting into a series of armed skirmishes. Poor attacking wealthy. It alarmed him.

  He went to sleep early, and had nightmares mixing the violent news with his visit to Shanghai.

  His cellphone alarm went off at seven in the morning. After washing up, Jon finished donning his button-down shirt and knotting the rep tie, and stood straight, examining himself in the mirror. He brushed his prematurely graying hair. “As good as it will ever be,” he whispered.

  As he sipped his morning coffee, he listened to more news reports. Over five hundred college students had donned suicide explosive vests and destroyed state government buildings. Fifty groups had attempted to murder the President of the United States in North Carolina. Two hundred more had attempted to destroy the White House, the Capitol Building, and the US Treasury Department Building in Washington, DC. Now, the streets for blocks surrounding those national monuments were ruined by explosive blasts. Jon repeated a line he’d read many years ago, the winter of our discontent.

  He looked down at the street below. His view of snow falling on the Chrysler Building and the United Nations Secretariat from the forty-fifth floor always amazed him. Below, at ground level, it was a different story. Car wrecks, some still smoldering, blocked the side streets, monuments to the massive protests that continuously flooded Manhattan while the city government remained shuttered due to insufficient tax revenue to provide even the most basic of services. He could hear the echoes of sirens even on the forty-fifth floor. The police who still remained on duty even though they were unpaid seemed unable to alter the deadly progression of violence in the streets.

  Right below him, he saw demonstrators march up First Avenue toward the United Nations. He wondered if any of them were wearing explosive vests.

  Jon shook his head and continued getting ready to walk to work. The expensive suit hid all his knife scars and long-ago-healed bullet wounds, but they slowed his movements. The gym on the fourth floor of the building had equipment he’d often used to keep himself in decent physical shape despite his desk job, but he had been too jet-lagged to visit there the previous day.

  He took a final sip of coffee and placed the cup in the dishwasher. He removed a ceramic handgun from his safe and checked to ensure it had a full clip within. The plastic bullets would pass through the bank’s security system. Safety first.

  One last look at the skyline north of his apartment and he was ready to leave. The bank was twelve blocks northwest. He set the burglar alarm to a thirty-second delay and opened his front door.

  Startled by the attractive Chinese woman waiting there, he jumped back. “How did you get past the security desk, Lily?” He hadn’t seen Lily Lee in almost five years. She’d been William Wing’s lover in Hong Kong the first time he’d visited William there, so long ago. He recalled William telling him
she was a call girl. Lily was gorgeous, a thin, athletic woman whose body was full of promise, and she had a heart-shaped face with full lips.

  She frowned. “Your building security is easily compromised by a woman. Look, I just need a minute of your time. It’s important. William’s father sent me.”

  Jon waved her into the apartment. Xian Wing was the head of the Chinese CSIS, state security. Jon had met the man only once when he’d held Jon hostage, and concluded the man was extremely dangerous.

  She sauntered in and scanned the view from the windows, then sat on the couch facing the view. “You own this?” She stared at the UN headquarters, less than six blocks northeast. Her gaze shifted to the Chrysler Building, to the northwest. “Impressive. I told William to buy, not rent.”

  Jon gazed at his watch. “Uh, yeah. It’s mine. Listen, Lily, I have to go to work. Mortgage payments and such. What’s so important?”

  She shifted her eyes back to Jon. “Xian wants to meet with his son. It is urgent, and we think you can find William.”

  Jon shook his head, unwilling to admit to anything that might get him more of Xian’s attention. “Haven’t seen him in years. ’Fraid not.”

  She rose and closed to within inches of him. She stared up into his face, so close he could smell the sweet aroma of her flowery perfume. “You are William’s only hope. He is now hunted once again by the Chinese CSIS. They will find him and end him very soon.”

  Jon broke away from her stare. “Bloody bad, this is. I thought he was finally safe.”

  “You are his best friend. Meet me after your work and I’ll tell you everything. Shun Lee Dynasty at 6 p.m.”

  He nodded. He was about to ask a question when she turned and left the apartment. As the door closed, Jon sat on the couch, his head in his hands. William had saved Jon’s life several times. He was a true friend, and in Jon’s world, that was a rare commodity. It was time to repay the favor.