Chapter 84
Beijing
But as it turned out, within minutes Zhang learned all he needed to know.
We lost them…
Those three simple words, relayed over thousands of miles, landed in the operations center with the weight of a judge pronouncing a death sentence.
More messages, describing what had happened, arrived in the following minutes. One mentioned bombs blowing a hole in the ice sheet. Another claimed that a submarine had appeared out of nowhere. Zhang registered none of it. Chen, Sky Fire, the group of Americans. All were now out of his grasp.
We lost them…
He stared at the big screen. Choppy video obtained earlier from the Ice Wolves’ body cameras ran continuously: the wreckage of the American cargo aircraft burning pyre-like in the distance. The footage looped time and again, as if it represented some kind of runners-up medal.
In Zhang’s cutthroat world, there was no such thing.
His rivals, his underlings, his enemies—all of which were plentiful—would smell blood in the water.
And they would be circling, just as he himself had done for so many years.
Zhang’s mission had been clear. Protect Sky Fire at all costs.
Yet he had reached for more. He’d let Chen run after realizing he intended to defect, hoping to foil the CIA’s plans and turn his victory into a career stepping stone.
Had he succeeded, he would have been a favorite to head the entire ministry.
But now? Zhang had failed completely. Irrevocably. And for that, there could be only one consequence.
His facial muscles tightened, which produced more than the usual agony. The pain radiated throughout his body, and his hands and feet began trembling.
It occurred to him that the operations center had gone quiet around him.
He stood slowly, both to minimize the pain and maintain his dignity.
He walked toward the hall, not because he had anywhere to go, but because he couldn’t fathom staying here.
He was like an elite athlete leaving a field after a crushing defeat in his final game.
He entered the hallway and immediately encountered Wu. She looked older somehow, more mature. Or perhaps… concerned.
“It’s over,” he said.
“I know.”
Her voice was reedy, brittle. Zhang realized she wasn’t carrying her laptop, but he noticed a smartphone in her hand. It somehow minimized her presence. “You can go,” he said. “I no longer need your services.”
“I think you do.”
He paused to look at her. Wu glanced up and down the hall, apparently checking to see if they were alone. They were.
She put a hand to his shoulder and pushed him—pushed him—into the wall. “I can get us out!” she whispered into his ear.
The combination of her touch, her words, rattled Zhang to the core. “What are you talking about?”
Another glance up the hall. “I am in this as deeply as you are, and I feared it might come to this. I have been in touch with the Americans.”
“What? The… the CIA?”
“Is there anyone else in the world who would have a use for us now?”
Zhang opened his mouth, but no words came. His thoughts seemed to seize, either because of his meds or the impact of what Wu was suggesting. Probably both.
“If we go now, go right now,” she implored in a hushed voice, “they can get us out.”
“Out? You’re saying I should follow Chen, defect to America?”
“I’m saying we should. But it can’t wait another minute. If we stay here, you know what will become of us. There is a car waiting outside.”
Zhang’s thoughts lurched. His face was on fire. There was so much to think about, so many angles to measure. And no time to consider any of it.
“It’s now or never,” Wu said, starting to back away down the hall.
Zhang was overcome. “Yes, America. That is our only chance.”
They hurried to the stairs and descended to the first floor, each step an odyssey of pain for Zhang.
He expected Wu to lead him out the main entrance, but instead she turned toward the subterranean parking garage.
They were nearly running by the time they reached the garage connector.
Zhang gasped for air and his heart rate was spiking, not used to such exertion.
Wu burst through a set of fire doors into the cavernous garage, Zhang right on her heels.
A large black sedan stood before them. The engine was running, but Zhang saw no one outside.
The windows were tinted dark. He was craning his neck to see the license plates, searching for something to mark it as a diplomatic vehicle, when he realized that Wu had fallen behind.
He looked back and saw her standing by the doors.
The urgency that had enveloped her was completely gone.
Two doors on the sedan opened simultaneously.
From the front came a large Chinese man he recognized immediately—the head of ministry security.
His open jacket displayed a holstered weapon.
From the back came another familiar face.
The Minister of State Security himself. A second security man appeared from behind a pillar.
Zhang instantly deflated, the adrenaline of hope giving way to the bile of defeat. The pain in his face barely registered, as if the nerves had disconnected. He felt nothing at all, fate becoming an anesthetic.
Wu walked past him calmly, confidently, and handed the minister the phone she’d been holding.
The minister tapped the screen and a recording began to play—Zhang’s conversation with Wu in the hall minutes earlier. The audio ran all the way to the noose at the end.
Yes, America. That is our only chance…
The director stopped the playback. He looked up at Zhang.
“Not that we needed this, but it does make my job easier.” He stepped closer, reached into Zhang’s jacket pocket, and pulled out the bottle of pills.
The minister shook his head scornfully. “You have lost a step, Tao. Actually, you’ve lost several. I should have recognized it sooner.”
He pocketed the phone, tossed the pill bottle away, and gave a flicking hand gesture.
The two security men closed in on Zhang, took him by the shoulders, and shoved him into the back seat. As the minister and Wu watched, the black car shot toward the exit and out to the street, the squeals of its tires echoing like screams.