Chapter 2
Beijing
A white-hot jolt lanced through Zhang Tao’s face, splitting his skull in two from temple to jaw. It was the trigeminal neuralgia again, the vicious antagonist that mocked him with its unpredictability.
Considered one of the most painful ailments on the planet, the so-called “suicide disease” was a souvenir from a long-ago interrogation gone wrong.
It was characterized by a searing pain along the trigeminal nerve, which was responsible for sensation in the face.
The intensely acute attacks could last for seconds, minutes, or even hours.
The side effects were brutal. In addition to hair loss, the forty-five-year-old was in a constant state of fatigue and plagued by mouth sores. But his problems didn’t end there.
He was chief of the Seventh Bureau of the Ministry of State Security, responsible for counterintelligence throughout the People’s Republic.
It was a position that demanded a certain amount of paranoia.
However, Zhang’s suspicion of others had morphed into something far more troubling.
He was having trouble thinking clearly, had begun isolating himself, and was experiencing early warning signs of psychosis.
He shared none of this, of course, with his colleagues.
The mere suggestion of illness would draw unwanted attention—in over twenty years at the ministry, he had made more than his fair share of enemies, and he couldn’t afford to show any sign of weakness.
Now, as he surveyed the sea of monitors sprawled across the MSS operations center—virtually all of which were tuned to the disaster on the wharf—a mounting sense of dread clawed into his gut.
He had coordinated an overwhelming response.
Every available Hong Kong police and MSS unit had converged on the waterfront.
Military helicopters continued to swarm overhead like angry wasps.
In the background, two Navy corvettes were blockading the pier where the little car lay shattered and spent, its doors flung open and smoke drifting from the wheel wells.
No one could accuse Zhang of not using all the assets at his disposal.
In his capacity as chief of the Seventh Bureau, he wielded the virtually limitless power of the MSS.
Yet the weight of that authority suddenly felt like a noose tightening around his neck.
If Dr. Chen Li, and more important, the item he carried, had somehow vanished into the tangled streets of Hong Kong, it wouldn’t just be Zhang’s career on the line. His freedom, and even his life, would be on the chopping block.
“Who are they?” Zhang demanded, his voice booming through the cavernous room. He was fixated on the central screen that displayed cell phone photos of the couple who had been dragged out of the taxi. The man was definitely not Chen. The woman was also unknown.
“Facial recognition is running,” an analyst piped up from a nearby workstation.
Zhang drummed his index finger against the back of a wheeled chair as his gaze locked on a real-time video feed of the taxi.
The stream was sourced from a dash camera on one of the MSS vehicles.
His men were tearing the car apart. The seats had been shredded and floor mats lay strewn on the ground.
The meager contents of the trunk, a few tire-changing tools and a rubber mat, had been thrown out onto the tarmac.
In the foreground, Captain Tang, the on-scene commander, stood beside the ravaged car. There was defeat in his posture as he raised his phone to place a call. His broad shoulders, usually set with military rigidity, slumped in discomfiture. The phone pressed to his ear looked inordinately heavy.
Zhang’s hand shot out, snatching the receiver from the cradle the instant the first ring registered—a silent but forceful message to Tang that his every move was being scrutinized, his failure amplified.
“Well?” he barked. His voice was tight, suppressing his growing panic.
“It’s not here, boss,” said Tang. “And it’s definitely not Chen.”
Zhang slammed his fist on the desk. “That’s useless information, Tang! Did you find the trackers? The techs put two on Chen—one in his right shoe and another in his overcoat. Both are pinging from the damned taxi.”
“Negative, sir. We can’t locate them anywhere.”
Zhang looked up at the tracking display and saw the twin blue dots glowing brightly, mocking him. “But they’re showing right there!”
“We’ve double-checked the suspects and have practically stripped the car down to the frame. Sir, we’ve come up empty.”
Ignoring Tang for a moment, the counterintelligence chief’s eyes darted to a single red dot blinking near the blue ones. “What about Chen’s phone? It should be in the car as well.”
“Both of the subjects were carrying phones,” Tang reported, “but neither is the one we’ve been tracking.”
On another screen, he saw the suspects sitting on the ground in handcuffs, their backs against the fender of a police sedan.
The woman, young and expensively dressed, had calmed considerably since getting out of the car.
Whoever she was, this wasn’t her first tangle with the law.
The man, clutching a bloody rag to his mouth, triggered a flicker of recognition in Zhang.
He couldn’t place him either, but a terrible sense of unease was beginning to raise the hair on the back of his neck.
He bypassed asking Tang about identities. Anything these two offered up, documents or words, could not be trusted. Facial recognition would give them an answer soon enough.
“And the hotel?” Zhang asked. The autonomous taxi had picked up its two occupants at the Landmark Hong Kong, one of the most exclusive establishments in a city that knew luxury.
“We have identified the room. Teams are going over it, but so far there is no sign of either Chen or the device.”
Zhang gripped the handset like he might crush it. “Keep searching,” he ordered and slammed the phone down on its cradle.
Three weeks. Three grueling weeks they’d spent tailing Dr. Chen Li—ever since he had used a burner phone to make contact with a female CIA officer.
All directors of scientific programs were monitored in the People’s Republic, but Chen’s recent behavior had brought the watchfulness to a new level.
Chen was the linchpin of China’s most classified military project. For nearly a decade, vast national resources had been invested in his game-changing technology, a force multiplier that would allow China’s military to leapfrog their Western counterparts.
When alarm bells began sounding at the very top of the regime, Zhang had convinced his superiors to let him run Chen under tight surveillance.
The counterintelligence chief’s reasoning was twofold.
One, if China could arrest a CIA officer along with Chen, it would provide a valuable bargaining chip.
Two, by putting Chen on a short leash, they would have time to do a full assessment of the breach and perform any necessary damage control.
Now they had lost track of not only Chen, but also the secrets in his possession.
“We have positive IDs on the suspects!” a nearby analyst announced, cutting through Zhang’s churning thoughts. “The man is Luo Sheng. He is—”
“Luo Sheng!” Zhang snapped, the name a punch in the gut. His earlier flicker of recognition, a vague unease, transitioned into full-blown panic. “And the woman?”
“Guan Fei,” the analyst replied. “Unemployed. Two arrests last year for prostitution.”
Ever so slowly, the landscape of the last twelve hours began to take on a dreadful new light.
The way Chen had abruptly booked a room at the Landmark.
The wayward blue dots. An errant track on his phone.
Fearful of spooking the scientist, or worse, the CIA, Zhang had relied heavily on electronic surveillance.
There had always been foot teams on the perimeter, just out of sight, but for long periods, including last night, they hadn’t had eyes directly on their target.
Only now did Zhang realize his fatal error. The man they had been tracking, the man entrusted to lead China’s most classified project, had been two steps ahead all along. They had been manipulated, played for fools.
On top of it all, his team had just chased down China’s minister of culture and tourism and a whore he’d been having a tryst with. Then the leader of the team had punched the minister in the mouth.
Dr. Chen Li had them chasing ghosts.
“So where the fuck are you, Chen?” Zhang hissed, the pain in his face intensifying as his question hung in the air of the operations center like a curse.