Chapter 14 #2
“Where in Shaanxi?”
The other members of the committee did not dare raise their eyes from the carpet.
“We think it’s somewhere in or near Xi’an.”
Wang looked down now. He’d heard Chen exhale. As though punched so hard all the air had left his body.
Xi’an was the capital of Shaanxi, and more than that. It was considered the birthplace of what is now China. And as such, it was symbolic.
More importantly, at least to Chen, it was his own birthplace. His wife was also born there. They’d met there. Married there. Their child was born there. They still had family in Xi’an. Old friends. Lieutenants from his days as the head official.
This was not just an attack on the country, it was a personal affront.
For what reason?
During his rule, he’d transformed China from a struggling backwater into a global economic powerhouse. The world’s manufacturer. Huge multinational corporations, from Apple to Tesla and from Microsoft to Nike, had set up shop in his China.
Business came to China because Chen had made it impossible for any company to succeed globally without at least a foothold here.
But the events of the last few days were threatening to unravel all of that. To unravel his China and with it, quite possibly, the CCP. And, worse, himself.
Though he already felt himself unraveling.
He’d done the calculation. The third floor would be about thirty feet high. Too high …
President Pardington pulled himself together. It did no good to panic. Every effort was being made to get Tim out. To get the others out.
To get the elevators moving again. To fix the problem.
I’m going to kill that fucker Chen.
“Kathleen, get back in here,” he shouted.
His Chief of Staff had been one of his professors at law school and had become a trusted friend. His son’s godmother.
“I need Chen. Get him now!”
“We’re trying, Mr. President, but no one in the Politburo is answering.”
The fear in her own voice, the stress, was obvious. She’d been chosen not just because the newly elected President of the United States trusted her personally, but also for her political acumen, her ability to read the wind, and for her sangfroid, her calm when all around were panicking.
It was deeply unsettling to see she was also beginning to unravel.
What the hell was happening?
“Get Washington on the line.”
“DC?” Even as she said it, she realized how stupid that was.
“Of course not DC. Aisha Washington, our ambassador in Beijing. And where’s McAllister?”
“He’s on a call with CObrA.”
Pardington shook his head. The name the Brits had chosen for their crisis management team always struck him as ridiculous. Too James Bond, or Maxwell Smart, to be taken seriously.
“Well, interrupt him.” Pardington spoke as though to a child. “Tell him his commander in chief would like a word. Drag him here by the ear if you have to.”
“Yessir.”
“And I want the Chinese ambassador here, now.”
“We have calls in.”
“I want him here in person. I need to look him in the eyes.”
“I’ll send someone to the embassy.”
“You do that. And, Kathleen—”
“I will, Mr. President.” She paused at the door and met his eyes. “He’ll be fine.”
“Please, God.” The last words were expelled under the President’s breath.
“What’ve you got?” Grant McAllister asked, keeping his voice steady.
On his screen was Janet Fillmore, the head of MI6. In the background, he could see members of the UK’s CObrA committee quickly grabbing seats in the cabinet room.
“From what we can gather, every lift in the UK has frozen,” said Fillmore. “And we’re getting reports that it’s happening worldwide. You?”
“Shit.” That came from the British Prime Minister, who had just arrived from a formal dinner. “Is that true?”
“It appears so, Madame Prime Minister,” said McAllister. “Elevators are also stopped across the United States.”
“In every building?” the PM asked, leaning forward. Not even trying to hide her shock.
What would happen if…?
It was not said, though everyone everywhere was thinking the same thing. None more than those inside the elevators.
“How could that happen?” someone else in the meeting asked.
“We have tech teams trying to work that out,” said a woman pounding a keyboard.
“We’ve sent out emergency crews, ma’am,” said another member of CObrA. “We’ve prioritized hospitals, and the tallest buildings. Those most vulnerable.”
That was, thought Grant McAllister, one word for it.
They’d done the same thing. Fire, police, armed forces personnel were hurrying to prioritized locations in a rescue effort, while technicians had begun working on getting the elevators going again.
Or at least to figure out how they’d all been stopped at the same time. How could it be done?
How could it be undone?
A message flashed up on McAllister’s crowded screen. Timothy Pardington was in an elevator, high up.
McAllister exhaled. That added a new dimension to the crisis.
“I believe the Deputy PM was going to a party fundraiser in the Shard,” said the Prime Minister.
“We understand he’s stuck between the thirty-first and thirty-second floors.”
The PM raised her brows. She was no fan of her Deputy PM. He had been an expedient political appointment on her part. Neither was she keen on lifts. But she would not wish this on anyone.
“Mr. McAllister, can you tell us anything, anything at all?”
“I’m afraid not, Madam Prime Minister. I was hoping you could. I’m about to go into our own crisis meeting, but I wanted to know if you had anything first. We’re trying to track down the source.”
“I think it’s fairly obvious, don’t you?” She sounded like a disappointed schoolteacher talking to a once promising student. “Coming a day after those alarms whose signal originated in China, I’m thinking Botswana. No?”
There was a split second of confusion, then her CofS smiled. As did McAllister.
“We’ve ruled out Botswana, though Saskatchewan is still in play.”
Now it was the British PM who smiled. Tightly. Just then a piece of information appeared on McAllister’s screen.
“What just happened?” said the keen-eyed PM.
“I’ve just gotten word from our cybersecurity team. Their early findings suggest the signal to stop the elevators came from the same region as yesterday’s alarms. No surprise there. But now, because of the force of this latest signal, I’m told we’ve narrowed it down to Shaanxi province.”
“Isn’t that where Chen’s from?” asked the PM.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the head of MI6.
Chen sat back and stared ahead. His mind working quickly.
Who, and what, had gone rogue in Shaanxi?
“We need to let other nations know that we’re not responsible,” said a member of the committee.
“And what happens then?” demanded another. He looked around the table. “I’ll tell you what. The rest of the world won’t believe us, but our own people will. And what will they think?”
“That we’ve lost control,” said a member. “That we’re no longer in charge.”
“That we’re vulnerable,” agreed another.
The situation had gone from threatening thousands of Chinese citizens to threatening the very existence of the CCP. Of China itself.
Chen had grasped this early on, after those alarms had sounded. He’d instructed their ambassadors to deny responsibility. To deny knowledge.
“But not too forcefully,” he’d instructed. “Leave room for doubt.”
He could not risk word seeping out to his political enemies that something huge was happening and he knew nothing about it. That there was a potent threat from within China.
“There is one other thing,” said Wang. “A rumor floating around. No, not even a rumor, that’s too strong. A word. It’s appeared in some of the correspondence we’ve intercepted between activists, dissidents. We’re trying to track down what it means.”
Chen narrowed his eyes. “Well? What’s the word?”
The British PM’s eyes narrowed. “What is it, Mr. McAllister? What aren’t you saying?”
“I’m not trying to hide anything, I just don’t want to send us off track. This is unconfirmed.”
“We’re all grown-ups. We’ll decide what tracks to pursue. We need to share information, however tentative. What’ve you got?”
McAllister took a deep breath. “It’s something that came from the Canadians. Have you heard of Pangu?”
“Pangu.”
The word dropped into the suddenly quiet meeting room in Beijing. And lay there.
“Pangu?” whispered one of the oldest members of the Standing Committee. A man who had seen several presidents come and go. Had buried a few.
Would bury, he knew, this one. It was now just a matter of time.
His rheumy eyes looked at Chen. Not the worst leader they’d had. But far from the best.
Chen’s own eyes had narrowed. His brow furrowed. He’d never looked more like an unhappy donkey.
It fell to the elder to speak. He turned his attention to Wang.
“Tell us what you know of Pangu.”
“I know nothing except what we all learned as children. He’s the god of creation.”
“And destruction,” said the old man.