Private Beijing

Chapter 64

Justine woke to the sound of her phone ringing. She’d taken a sobbing Alison Lucas home to her midtown apartment after the visit to see Rafael in custody. She didn’t know what Alison and he had said to each other, but the poor woman was deeply traumatized. She had refused Justine’s offer to stay and support her. Alison said her sister would be arriving on the red-eye from Chicago, so Justine had returned to her hotel room at the New York Edition and collapsed into bed.

She thought about calling Jack, but they weren’t like a normal couple who could exchange news of their day on unsecured telephone lines or by text. They faced danger at every turn and there was no telling how a tiny nugget of intercepted information might be used against them, so she lay on her fresh sheets, naked to maximize the chill of the air conditioning, trying to counter the baked-in heat of the scorching summer. She’d gradually been lulled to sleep by the humming of the fan and the muted sounds of the city.

She didn’t recognize the number on her ringing phone when she squinted at it, slowly waking. She rubbed her eyes before she answered.

“Hello?”

“Miss Smith, it’s TJ, we met the day before yesterday.”

Justine recognized the voice of Tate Johnson, the man who had taken custody of Angel.

“I have good news and bad, but I’d like to share it with you in person. There is transport waiting downstairs. It will bring you to me.”

“Give me five,” she replied before hanging up.

She tried Mo-bot and Sci, but their phones were off and there was no answer from their rooms, so she rolled out of bed, took a hurried shower, and got dressed in light linen slacks and a white cotton blouse she’d purchased after taking Alison home. She grabbed her bag and hurried from the room.

When she reached the lobby, she was greeted by two men in dark suits.

“Miss Smith,” one of them said. “My name is Cotton and this is Mr. Richardson. Mr. Johnson sent us.”

Justine felt a sudden pang of uncertainty. What if these weren’t Johnson’s men? What if they’d been sent to abduct her? How did they know where she was staying? She hadn’t told anyone other than Sci and Mo-bot that she’d switched hotels.

“How did Mr. Johnson and I meet?” she asked.

“Outside the house on Sixtieth Street. We touched down in a chopper. Mr. Richardson and I were inside the aircraft ready to provide operational support. You were with your colleagues and Alison Lucas,” the man replied. “We’re the good guys, Miss Smith. We found you by tracing your phone.”

Justine nodded. She wasn’t entirely sure, but there was no such thing as perfect safety and these guys seemed on the level.

They took her outside to a black Escalade with a third man behind the wheel. Richardson climbed in the front passenger seat and Cotton got in beside her.

Justine checked her phone as the large SUV got underway. It was a little after seven, the city was only just coming to life, so they made swift progress through the quiet streets.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Forty-second Street,” Cotton replied, as though that explained everything.

They were at their destination a few minutes later, which turned out not to be 42nd Street proper, but rather a service alleyway that ran behind the buildings on the south side of the street.

Cotton and Richardson stepped out of the vehicle.

“This is it, Miss Smith,” Cotton said.

Justine followed them, suppressing her misgivings about what could turn into a dangerous situation.

Cotton led them to a metal fire door, which opened when he neared it. Another man in a dark suit gave him a nod of recognition and allowed them to enter.

They took a service elevator to the tenth floor, and Cotton walked them down brightly lit, carpeted corridors to an apartment at the front of the building. The door opened as they approached. Another man nodded a greeting as they went inside.

Justine followed Cotton and Richardson into a large living room that had been converted into a sophisticated surveillance center. Every surface was covered in flight cases that contained computers and electronic equipment Justine couldn’t identify.

Three women and two men sat at workstations monitoring audio, video, and data feeds. At the heart of it all was Tate Johnson.

“Morning, Miss Smith,” he said, offering her his hand. “Sorry for waking you but time is of the essence.” He hesitated. “There’s no easy way to say this, but we had to let Angel go.”

Justine was dismayed. She experienced a rush of anger driven by a sense of betrayal. How could Carver’s people have released a man who’d done so much harm?

“Back-channel pressure on the State Department began almost the moment we took him. It would have developed into a full-blown diplomatic incident and there was no way our man was going to talk, not without the kind of pressure we don’t do in these parts anymore, so we had to cut him loose,” Tate explained.

Justine felt a little sick. They had gone through so much to catch Angel, and their efforts had been rendered void by those who cared about politics more than people. Her disappointment must have shown.

“That’s the bad news,” Tate said in a soothing tone. “Here’s the good news.”

He took her to one of the many windows that were covered by thick drapes. He pulled one back a crack and gestured toward a building opposite. It was an imposing structure with extensive security; guards were posted all around the large gray-stone structure, there were cameras on every surface and counter-surveillance devices on the roof.

“That’s the Chinese Consulate,” he revealed. “They conduct regular security sweeps of all the surrounding buildings, but we have a short window of opportunity until the next one. Angel arrived eight minutes ago.”

Tate moved the drape back into position. “If he’s debriefed, we’ll hear everything he says.”

One of the operators at the surveillance terminals leant back in her chair and signaled to him.

“Sir, I have him. He’s making a call on a secure line. It’s to Beijing, sir.”

“Put it on speaker,” Tate said. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”