34
South China Sea / Shanghai
October 21, 9:00 a.m. SGT
Sea trials are exhilarating, exhausting, unnerving.
While Red Dragon plowed her way north, I stood at the back of the crew mess on her lower deck, nursing my morning coffee and watching the assembled crew. The energy and exhaustion rolling off them were palpable.
Sea trials are also fraught with tension. During a trial, it wasn’t a question of whether something would go wrong but rather what to do when it did.
And when it did, I hoped we were ready.
I reached for a sugar fix in the form of a pastry.
“The biggest risk to crew safety,” Connor said to everyone gathered in the mess, “is noncompliance with my orders.”
Twenty pairs of eyes were riveted to Connor, who stood at the front of the room. Eighteen crew members in their gray cargo pants and white polo shirts seated at the tables; only Captain Peng and the second officer remained on duty; Lukas, who watched from the side; and myself, dressed as I would be if this were a normal sea trial in white pants, a navy blouse, and a white windbreaker. I’d painted on a calm expression with my morning makeup, done my hair so that there wasn’t a single stray strand. The picture of serene normality for the spies among the crew.
Nothing to see here.
Only George was absent, but I knew he was watching a broadcast of Connor’s carefully curated speech on a screen in his stateroom.
Connor pointed to the screen with its requisite PowerPoint presentation. The current slide showed the muster points on the boat where crew was to gather in the event of an attack.
“Our mission during the sea trials and after is not only to ensure the seaworthiness of Red Dragon but also to protect the owner. Mr. Mèng is a high-value target for several reasons. Yet his greatest concern while you serve on Red Dragon is for your safety.”
He repeated himself in Mandarin and Thai, then returned to English.
“The next greatest risk we face is complacency. Be security aware. Stay on your toes. Report anything unusual. That’s rule number two. Rules number one and three are that you are to do as you’re told should trouble come looking for us. Follow my orders, be security aware, and if you have any doubts, follow my orders.”
I watched as some crew members laughed at the joke, while others—non-native speakers—showed only confusion. That was okay. They needed to understand only the first two rules, not the redundancy of the third.
This was the second meeting focused on security since our departure from Singapore three days earlier. The ostensible excuse was that we were a luxury ship with a valuable—that is, ransom-worthy—passenger. In addition, after we picked up our provisions and underwent inspection in Shanghai, we would be heading into waters known for pirate activity. The captain and crew had been informed of this before they signed on; indeed, an endorsement from the Standards of Training, Certification, and Watchkeeping—the international convention on emergency preparedness—had been a requirement for employment. Now Connor assured everyone that as long as they followed the rules, there was no reason for alarm. Red Dragon boasted outstanding deterrents against piracy. And he and his team had our backs.
“Six short blasts followed by two long blasts.” Connor changed the slide to show an animation of an alarm sounding. “You hear that, you go to the nearest muster point, then proceed to the citadel. Don’t worry about anyone other than yourself. Don’t go back for missing crew members. Don’t look for Mr. Mèng. He’ll be taken care of.”
A hand shot up. It was the chief stewardess.
“Ms. Koh?”
“If pirates attack, why aren’t we using SSAS?”
The Ship Security Alert System. Activating it would alert any nearby coastal authorities or vessels operating close to the ship. Exactly what we had to avoid.
Connor had been expecting this question.
“The SSAS will be activated simultaneously.” Connor’s voice was smooth, the lie undetectable. “But due to Mr. Mèng’s concern for the crew, he has asked that we have an additional audio and visual alarm.”
Our real purpose for the drills was not only to protect George and his family, but to make sure that if the Guóānbù or the Chinese Navy figured out that Mèng’s family was aboard and came after us, everyone on Red Dragon would come out the other side alive.
“Delaying or trying to be heroic will only get you or someone else killed,” Connor told the crew. “If I find you out on the boat where you shouldn’t be, you won’t have to worry about pirates. I’ll toss you overboard myself. Crew dismissed.”
Everyone stood, chattering, helping themselves to pastries on their way out.
I met Connor’s gaze. So far, so good.
At a steady twenty-five knots, with the occasional surge to thirty-five knots, we could traverse twenty-seven hundred nautical miles and reach Shanghai in four days. Instead, we extended the voyage by detouring around islands, backtracking, and sometimes going in circles, floating dead, and then stressing the engines. The entire time we ran extended drills so that all structures and routines—mechanical, electronic, the information and communication technologies, and the humans on board—received a thorough testing.
Mindful of China and Taiwan’s territorial disputes, we avoided the Taiwan Strait and motored far east of the island.
It was a grueling ten days for everyone on board as we ran fire drills, piracy preparation, storm readiness—even skirting through the outer edges of a typhoon as it carved its way north and east from the Philippine Sea.
But for all our fatigue, Red Dragon performed above my highest expectations. I felt a swell of pride for my sister. Even as she’d assisted the CIA, interfaced with George Mèng, struggled with her trust in Emily, and come to understand and ultimately love Singapore, she had helped design and oversee the build of Ocean House’s finest boat to date.
If only she’d lived to see it.
We had company for the duration of the voyage. A Chinese Navy vessel—a Dongdiao-class surveillance ship used for intercepting communications, according to Captain Peng—had begun shadowing Red Dragon as soon as we left Singapore. It remained at a discreet distance throughout our voyage—almost always visible, never close enough to risk crossing our path.
“Will we have that kind of escort when we leave Shanghai?” I asked Connor one morning.
He laughed. “A single spy ship isn’t even supposed to make us sit up and pay attention. I suspect that for at least a few days, we’ll have a flotilla sailing with us when we leave Shanghai.”
“And then what?”
“And then I’ll brief you after Shanghai.”
I watched the ship, her trim lines and domes almost vanishing into the horizon. “How can China afford to devote so much sea power to watch one man?”
He braced his forearms on the railing. The wind raked his short hair. “It’s not just George. China considers the entire South and East China Seas as its personal territory. The CCP devotes virtually all its naval power to expanding its reach here. By the end of the decade, they intend to own every island and stretch of ocean within their nine-dash line. More than a million square miles of ocean through which travels three trillion dollars in trade every year. To hell with the sovereignty of other nations and the warnings from the United Nations to respect the freedom of countries like Vietnam, the Philippines, and Malaysia.”
“We’re here, too,” I said, meaning the US. “Nearly half our navy is here.”
Connor turned to me. “You’ve been reading up.”
“I have.”
In the few hours I’d had to myself on the voyage, tucked away in my luxurious guest cabin aft of George’s suite, I’d used Red Dragon ’s satellite Wi-Fi to bring myself up to speed on US-China relations and the situation in the South China Sea. I would not again be ignorant about matters of importance.
And the situation, as I understood it, was dire. Authorities within the US government and from think tanks around the world had named the South China Sea as the most likely origin point for the start of World War III. It made me think of the conversation I’d overheard in the Churchill Room, where a man had warned his fellow diners of exactly that.
“If the Chinese suspect anything untoward is happening on Red Dragon ,” Connor said, “our voyage could be a flash point for an international dispute.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m feeling much better now.”
A low laugh. “Relax if you can, Nadia. George is valuable to the US, but he’s not worth a war. Trust me when I say we’ve taken every precaution possible to prevent any saber rattling. Or worse.”
We arrived in the waters off Shanghai Port at dusk on the tenth day.
The city rose from the horizon, then expanded across it as we approached. A glittering, futuristic panoply of skyscrapers and needlelike towers lit in purples, oranges, reds, and silvery whites. The city was a testament to humanity’s forward striving. And utterly alien to my Western eyes.
Connor and George joined me at the bow.
“We’re not in Kansas, anymore, Toto,” Connor said.
George and I smiled, but my fear wanted to pick me up and shake me like a terrier with a rat. What if, even after all Connor’s instruction, I crumbled during my interview?
“I blush when I lie,” I said.
George said, “Don’t think of it as lying. Think of it as telling a story. You’re simply offering a tale of how you wish things could be.”
“Is that what you do?”
He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “When an artificial intelligence lies—presents false information as if it were true—we call these lies ‘hallucinations.’ The AI wants to give the human what that person wants and will lie to accomplish that goal. When I interact with the authorities, I do the same. I hallucinate.”
George and I had spent enough time together that I’d begun to think of him as more than just a very dangerous client; he was becoming a friend. He was eccentric—contemplative, slow to speak, often absent even when sitting right next to you. When the captain observed that George and I were much alike, I gave a startled laugh. But he was right. Mèng had his AI. I had my boats. I was forever designing in my mind. He, no doubt, was doing the same thing.
“Telling a story,” I echoed. Is that what my sister did in her final hours?
What story did she tell Charlie Han?
A pilot boat came out to guide us along the Huangpu River and into a berth at the Wusongkou International Cruise Port. The cruise port is the world’s fourth busiest, and we threaded a passage through a fleet of other boats—shipping containers, navy vessels, fishing boats, pleasure yachts, and several cruise ships.
Connor and I watched from the bridge as, with the oversight of the port authority, Captain Peng docked Red Dragon .
Throughout our entry time on Huangpu River and during the docking procedure, the first officer had been communicating by radio with someone onshore. My small amount of Mandarin was insufficient to understand, but now I heard a change in his tone—it became harsher. Beside me, Connor stepped in close enough to give my fingers a quick squeeze.
The first officer replaced the handset and turned to us. “The two of you are to disembark immediately.”
Here it was.
Tell them the story you wish were true.
At least I didn’t have to worry about Lukas. He was listed on the crew manifest as a deckhand and was dressed for the part. If only I could take him with me off the boat.
Outside, six men in suits and ties and six more wearing dark-blue uniforms stood waiting for us at the top of the extended passerelle. Below, on the dock, a phalanx of armed men in military uniforms stood at attention.
Over a loudspeaker, a voice announced in Chinese and then English: “All crew members are to remain on board until your name is called.”
I gripped the deck’s railing.
Connor leaned in and spoke quickly. “The men in suits are military intelligence—the Second Department. You can pick them out by their tight haircuts. The six uniforms are Immigration Inspection authorities—CII. The military folks on the dock are enlisted members of the People’s Liberation Army. They will act as the assessors who will try to steal Red Dragon ’s technical secrets. What confuses me is I don’t see any sign of Han’s Guóānbù.”
“What does that mean?”
“It suggests Han has backed off. But I don’t believe it. More likely, he’s waiting to catch us at sea.”
I drew a deep breath, relieved that I would not have to face Charlie Han. I slid into my street shoes and, following orders from one of the military men, stepped onto the passerelle.
At the bottom of the gangway, two of the Second Department men separated from the group and told me in brusque tones to follow them. Their English was crisp. Polite, even. But a suggestion of restrained violence shimmered beneath their clamped lips and cold demeanor. I fell into place with them, keenly aware that I had nowhere to flee as they escorted me toward the cruise terminal. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Connor still stood near the gangway.
My hands shook. I hid them in the cuffs of my windbreaker.
I’ve got nothing to hide, I told myself. This is just a normal sea trial.
The men talked to each other in rapid Chinese. One of them placed his hand on my back and gave me an unnecessary push.
They’ll try to intimidate you, Connor had said during one of our sessions. They’ll poke and push and shove. Don’t let it shake you. That kind of mild violence is part of the routine.
The men led me to a spartan room on the fourth floor of the cruise terminal. In English, one of them told me to take a seat and wait.
I glanced around the room. A scarred table. Three battered chairs. I recognized inked lines on the wall as the Chinese version of tally marks—as if someone before me had counted off hours. Or days. Lighting came from overhead fluorescents and a small dirty window that looked out over the Huangpu River and the road that connected the concrete landing stage to the city. A woman came and offered tea, which I declined, uncertain when I’d have access to a toilet. Or what might be in the tea. Five minutes after she left, the door opened again, and a uniformed officer entered.
“I am General Zhao,” he said in heavily accented English.
Zhao was a pug of a man with a protruding lower jaw, small eyes, and a venomous expression. After this brief introduction, he glared at me, slammed a folder on the table, and began screaming in a version of Chinese I hadn’t heard before. Shanghainese, presumably, which is mutually unintelligible with Mandarin. He screamed for a full ten minutes. As a calming technique, I timed it surreptitiously on my watch.
This, too, Connor had told me to expect—yelling was a typical form of intimidation during these interviews. It wasn’t personal. I wasn’t even meant to understand what the man was saying. Perhaps he was reciting poetry. When he paused for air, I said in my carefully rehearsed Mandarin, “Duì wǒ lái shuō, nǐ men de shàng hǎi huà jiù xiàng yī gè chōng mǎn rè kōng qì de qì qiú. Wǒ xī wàng wǒ men yòng yīng yǔ jiāo tán.” Your Shanghainese is, to me, like a balloon filled with hot air. I would prefer we speak in English.
Zhao paused. His face darkened, and he resumed his rant, this time in Mandarin. Ninety percent of it went over my head. I caught a word here and there— trouble , authority , boat , no business . Enough to realize it wasn’t poetry, and none of it boded well.
After five more minutes of this, with my hands starting to shake again, he left the folder on the table and stalked from the room.
I eyeballed the file, then decided—since he’d clearly left it for me—to ignore it. I stood and went to the window. Across the river stretched block after block of homes, businesses, office parks, and hotels. Somewhere in that teeming crowd of thirty million people were Li-Mei and the children.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, I returned to my seat. The door opened again. Two men entered. They ordered me to stand.
“Who are you?”
One of the men kicked my chair. I scrambled to my feet as the chair toppled. My hands were jerked behind me, and I felt the steel of cuffs. A blindfold was yanked over my eyes.
“Where—”
One of the men struck me, rocking me against the other man. I straightened and they marched me out of the room. A moment later, the floor jerked beneath me, and I realized we were on an elevator. When the floor stopped moving, I was again marched forward. After a few minutes, I was shoved into a chair. Someone removed the blindfold.
Before me stood Charlie Han. Behind him was Dai Shujun.
My entire body went cold.
“It is good to see you again, Miss Brenner,” Han said. He unfastened the handcuffs. “Please relax. I only wish to chat. I apologize for the rustic surroundings, but we believed privacy imperative. And my partner thought it would be good for you to get a sense of what imprisonment is like in China. Sadly, in my country, prisoners are not treated well. There is violence. Hard labor.” He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Even, sadly, torture.”
He lowered his hand, and I studied Han’s newly vulnerable face. Behind the usual stern mask was something very much like sorrow. I recalled the dossier Connor had provided, with its mention of Han’s sister, Xiao, who had been arrested by the party and who had subsequently disappeared.
Han and I had both lost a sister. I, at least, had some closure. I wondered whether Han had ever stopped looking for Xiao.
“My sister,” I said in a soft voice that only he could hear. “And yours.”
Our eyes met. Han nodded.
Dai snapped something, and Han straightened, returning the glasses to his face. The moment I’d sensed was gone. If it had been anything at all.
Because Connor had told me to expect Han, I’d run through this scenario in my mind until I hoped I was prepared. I would be cool. Detached. Unemotional. A yacht designer sailing with her build on its sea trial—all perfectly routine.
I would pretend that he had not asked me to spy for him. That I did not know he’d likely tortured and then killed Cass. He was merely a bureaucrat I had to manage, even if he worked for a clandestine organization. He was only a test. And I had always excelled at tests.
But I had not expected the blindfold, the descent into this subterranean room. Or the presence of Dai Shujun. Nearby, water clanked in pipes, and the smell of mold assaulted my nose. The echoes from our voices suggested a large space, but most of it was dark. The only light came from a task lamp clamped to the table.
While Dai leered, Han sat across from me, spectacles sparking lamplight. He placed a rolled black cloth on the table between us and unknotted the string that held it. “I was disappointed not to hear back from you on my offer.”
Stick to the truth as much as you can, Connor had told me.
I forced my lips to move. They felt carved out of stone, unwilling to obey. “I’m not cut out to be a spy, Mr. Han.”
“I see. Perhaps it was my mistake to not incentivize my offer. I will now attempt to rectify that.”
He opened the roll. Inside was an array of metal instruments—scalpels, scissors, blades, odd-shaped bits of metal that I refused to contemplate.
I was past assessing and unable to act. Panic boiled beneath my skin. Perhaps smelling my fear, Dai widened his grin.
“I’m an American citizen,” I said.
Han placed his hands on the table. My eyes were drawn to the missing fingernails. I wondered whether he had ever been tortured. I watched from somewhere far away as he opened a folder, extracted a photograph, and pushed the picture across the table toward me.
“If you would, Miss Brenner, please examine this photo.”
“You have no right to keep me here.”
“But we have every right. Please, take a look.”
Without intending to, I glanced down. I shouldn’t have. When I saw what had been captured by a photographer, it was as if Han had reached a fist inside my chest and squeezed.
The picture showed Emily Tan—sprawled on her back, her dress torn at the neck. Her beautiful eyes with their flecks of jade were swollen shut, her face battered. Her stomach was a mess of blood and viscera.
The flash from the camera had caught the thin gold bracelet on her left wrist, the bracelet she’d worn at our first meeting.
A sob built in my throat. Was this my fault? Did they know Emily had met with me and kill her for it? An image of Cass’s body flashed in my mind. Were these men responsible for Cass and Emily?
Dai stretched his neck and the tiger’s snarl widened.
Don’t react, I told myself. Don’t give them that.
I swallowed the sob and kept my face impassive as I pushed the picture back toward Han. I met his eyes.
“Sad. But why are you showing me?” My voice was laced with ice.
Han placed the photo back inside the folder. “Would you believe me if I told you that this was the result of a robbery? Theft isn’t uncommon in Shanghai, although the perpetrators are not usually so brutal. I don’t wish to blame the victim, but Miss Tan was careless. After leaving a note at the Mèngs’ Shanghai residence, which we—fortunately—intercepted, she took a shortcut home through a questionable area.”
My pulse quickened. What note? I wanted to ask but didn’t dare. What did it say? Had Emily given away what was left of the game?
“Do you understand my meaning?” Han continued. “Even intelligent women sometimes make poor decisions. They form bad alliances. They leave treasonous notes for valued members of the party. Imagine warning a wife of a high-ranking party member that she is in danger from the Guóānbù? What do lies like that do but create ill will among our people? Then to choose to walk through a dangerous neighborhood.” Han shook his head. “It is foolishness.”
Dai nodded.
She must have been trying to warn George’s wife, Li-Mei, that Han knew of their hiding place. Poor Emily. She had paid a terrible price for trying to do something good. For trying to unknot the intrigue that had trapped us all.
Nothing showed in my face as I shrugged. “It’s tragic about Emily, but she is no longer in Mr. Mèng’s employ. This has nothing to do with me.”
“Do you know what the penalty is, Miss Brenner, for helping someone leave China illegally?”
“No. What has that got to do with Emily? Or me?”
He huffed. Maybe my seeming indifference was getting to him.
“Death,” he said, “is the sentence in the most egregious cases. Imprisonment is more common. I have mentioned our Chinese prisons, Miss Brenner. It is the lucky ones who are tortured and forced into hard labor. Some of these so-called humanitarians simply disappear and never return.”
I kept my gaze away from the cloth and its array of instruments.
“I’m not sure why I’m here, Mr. Han. All this talk about spies and prisons and helping defectors is meaningless to me. I’m a yacht designer, doing my job to make sure Red Dragon performs as expected. I’m not engaged in anything illegal or acting against your government. Indeed, I’m offended by the suggestion. But I will confess to one thing.”
Han tipped his head. “Please speak freely.”
I went through the script Connor and I had agreed on should it come to this. “After you asked me to watch for signs of smuggling, I decided it would be prudent to investigate. I have no desire to be part of any illegal or unsavory activities—I have my family and our business to think of. In the days following our meeting, I examined the boat, talked to my staff, went to the shipyard, and observed the actions of the people around our build. I looked for paper trails and checked company phone and email records. I was thorough and discreet. I found nothing. You are wasting your time pursuing Mr. Mèng.”
Dai Shujun fired a question at Han, who answered at length. Translating what I’d just said, presumably.
Han straightened the cloth roll with its ominous instruments, then reached into his suit coat. I had to hold my flinch. But he removed only a pack of cigarettes. He gently bounced the pack against the table, turning it in his hand.
“I’m not wrong in my suspicions, Miss Brenner. The only question still in my mind concerns your ignorance or culpability. In this case, I’m not sure it matters. You will be judged based on the outcome of Mr. Mèng’s treason. Your only hope to avoid the unpleasantness that is sure to come is if you decide to support my cause.”
“You have no cause, Mr. Han, outside your imagination.” I pushed back my chair and stood. My knees shook. “I would like to return to work. Surely by now your assessors have finished with Red Dragon and can assure you that all is as it should be.”
He studied me. Expressions whipped across his face, too fast for me to read. I thought of Cass again, and my fingers twitched with a desire to plunge one of the metal blades into Han’s neck. I waited for him to bring up the hidden room behind George Mèng’s bed, but he said nothing. Connor was right—exposing the room in Shanghai, where George could offer any number of explanations, would mean little. Han wanted to find the family on board and far from land.
“We are almost done,” he said. “Please sit. I have one more thing to discuss with you.”
Dai wandered away as if bored.
With a sigh, I returned to my chair. I crossed my legs, let one foot swing back and forth. My mouth was parched, my pulse throbbing in my temples. I tried not to stare at the metal tools as I waited.
“Your sister was a brave woman. Right up to the end, she resisted.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I know what it is like to lose a sister whom you admire. I like to think that my own sister, Xiao, was brave when she was condemned by Mèng’s father and marched off to prison. She was much younger than your sister when she was taken, but she had a strong will to live. In Chinese prisons, though, will is not enough. Perhaps your sister and mine are together somewhere.”
“I’m sorry about your sister, Mr. Han. But my sympathy only goes so far since I suspect you of murdering my sister.”
Once again Han removed his spectacles; something flashed in his unguarded eyes. Was it guilt? Regret? He said, “Still, it is sad to think that the men in Mèng’s family are so comfortable with sacrificing other men’s daughters and sisters. Does that not bother you as you take his money?”
“ Did you murder Cass? Or was it your lapdog who did?” I jutted my chin toward Dai.
Han sat back. “According to the police, your sister jumped.”
I moved my dry mouth and found enough moisture to spit on the table.
Han cocked his head and stared at me. After a moment he shrugged. “You are free to go, Miss Brenner. Dai will escort you upstairs. But please consider my offer. Amnesty in exchange for your honesty.” He tapped out a cigarette. “Your sister, like Miss Tan, like yourself, was a smart woman. But not quite as clever as she thought. She could not see all the angles. I do not wish for such blindness in you.”
I followed Dai onto the elevator. Before the doors closed, I glanced back. Han sat with his elbows on the table, his head propped in his hands.
I couldn’t see his face.