Chapter 59
Beijing
At this point, Zhang was profoundly attuned to the moods of the operations center.
He could sense the trill of excitement when good news arrived, recognize the nose-to-the-grindstone drive when everyone was on task.
But more than anything, his private radar could detect trouble with unfailing accuracy.
And that was why he was walking down the hall to the men’s room.
He had seen the communications officer stiffen in his seat. Seen the sharp intake of breath from the woman at the adjoining workstation when the man had directed her attention to his screen. When the comm officer immediately turned and looked at Zhang, the look of dread on his face was irrefutable.
More bad news had arrived.
Not sure if he could handle it, Zhang retreated.
He burst into the washroom, the door smacking into the interior wall. He saw only one other person inside, a vaguely familiar bespectacled man who, after taking one look at Zhang, cut short his visit to a urinal and bolted like a horse out of a burning barn.
Zhang went straight to the nearest washbasin.
His face flaring with pain, he reached a trembling hand into his pocket and retrieved the pill bottle.
He fumbled to extract two capsules and slurped them down, cupping water into his hands from the washbasin.
Then he took four more. He had completely lost count of how many he’d downed in recent days.
This bottle was nearly empty, but supply was never a problem.
Bureau chiefs of the Ministry of State Security never stood in line for pharmaceuticals.
Tentatively, Zhang dipped his head down and gently dabbed cold water on his cheeks.
On some days, this seemed to help. Today it felt like a Taser on his face.
He bolted upright, his entire body going rigid.
He heard a ringing in one ear, a new symptom, and one that, if it persisted, would surely drive him mad.
All too slowly, the pain subsided. The high-pitch cymbal in his ear abated.
Zhang breathed deeply, deliberately, and when he finally regained his composure, he looked into the mirror.
The face that stared back at him was unrecognizable.
The tan from his recent vacation to Thailand was gone, replaced by a pallor the color of clay.
Bloodshot eyes rested above hollowed-out cheeks, and the stately grooves in his forehead had turned to weary chasms. His hair was snarled and skewed, and had gone shades grayer seemingly overnight.
He stood in front of the mirror for the best part of five minutes, not thinking or moving. Simply waiting for the agony to fully pass. At one point someone opened the door halfway, but after seeing the disheveled bureau chief, the interloper put his bodily functions on hold and disappeared.
Finally, Zhang dried his hands with a paper towel and straightened the collar of his shirt. He considered finger-combing his matted hair but decided it wasn’t worth the discomfort.
He went back to the operations center with all the dignity he could muster. Pretending not to notice the guarded side-glances from his underlings, he sank into the wide seat at the head of the room.
“Tell me what has happened,” he said, ready to get the news of their latest misfortune over with.
The short straw of delivering it was held by the operations center chief.
“The minister has just sent a message,” the man said. “Our president received a difficult call from the president of Russia. He was very upset about an incident in the Arctic.”
Zhang was struck by the word incident. This was the exact term Captain Yong had used in the pathetic message, sent an hour earlier, that otherwise lacked any useful information; it was the last communication sent from Snow Dragon 2 before she had gone silent.
Spymasters made their living off of information, and Zhang suddenly found himself on the outside looking in.
Something very bad had happened in the Arctic, and now, thanks to Yong’s incompetence, he was going to find out what it was via the president of China himself.
The chief continued, “Snow Dragon 2 has collided with the Russian submarine Aurora. The Aurora has sunk, and there are many casualties on the Russian boat. Four fatalities, sixteen missing, many others injured. The Snow Dragon 2 was severely damaged and is presently disabled. The Russian president is in communication with the surviving crewmen from the Aurora. They have taken control of Snow Dragon 2 and detained her crew. The Russian president insists the collision was a deliberate act and is insisting that China take full responsibility.”
Zhang sat still, his innards seeming to swell.
He felt like an over-fueled boiler waiting to blow.
That explosion was contained by the only thing he had left: an unwavering instinct for self-preservation.
His future, in every sense, was hanging by a thread, and his only chance of survival was to make good on his primary mission.
He had to retrieve Chen and Sky Fire. Without that, all the disasters of the recent days would be laid at his feet.
The chief was still talking, covering details of the Arctic calamity as relayed by the Russians. Zhang heard none of it.
He had risen to command the Seventh Bureau of the MSS with good reason.
He was technically proficient, but far more important, he was skilled in the internal politics of China’s authoritarian world.
He knew how to steal credit from others, how to shunt blame when necessary.
And most important in that moment: He knew when to cut his losses.
Inserting Snow Dragon 2 into the situation had been a failure on every level.
Her captain had not only botched acquiring Sky Fire and its creator, even when both were easily within his grasp, but he had now embarrassed his nation with an international incident.
Zhang couldn’t help but wonder if Chen and Sky Fire might have played some part in the disaster—it was, after all, just the kind of chaos the system was designed to create—but in the end, it didn’t matter.
The specifics of what had happened. The race to assign blame.
All of that Zhang had to put in his rearview mirror.
Because there was only one remaining path to success, slim as it might be.
The Ice Wolves.
“Wu!” he bellowed. “Where is she?”
Heads around the room swiveled and eyes searched. No one answered. Wu was an enigma here, not part of the regular operations center team. Then, as if hearing his summons, she burst through a side door and made a beeline for the front of the room.
Zhang didn’t wait for her to arrive. “The situation has changed,” he said. “We must send a message to the aircraft that is transporting…” His words trailed off. Something in the researcher’s expression. In her hurried pace.
As she neared, Zhang thought she looked naked without her laptop. She approached his chair, leaned down, and whispered into his ear.
His eyes went wide. “When?”
“Nine minutes ago.”
“Where?”
“Three miles east.”
Zhang leapt to his feet. “Show me!”