The Art of War

TWENTY-SEVEN

After only two days of being accompanied by bodyguards everywhere she went, Ambassador Wexler was already seriously tired of it. At Brad’s insistence, the men followed her everywhere, and it seemed she could do nothing to countermand his orders. For the millionth time since she had called Brad from the restaurant, she wondered what it was in his background that gave him so much power. More and more every day, it was becoming clear that Brad was not exactly who she had thought he was.

Oh, he was still the perfect aide. There was still fresh tea brewed, insightful comments on current affairs. But lately she had begun to notice a hardness in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. And the man who accompanied her everywhere belonged to him.

Brad had also nixed dinner at any of her favorite restaurants, and so she and T’ing had taken to dining at each other’s homes. He proved to be an excellent cook with a fondness for French cuisine and the tact to express appreciation for the deli sandwiches she usually produced.

This evening, dinner was at his townhouse located in a fashionable section of Manhattan. While she tried to mask her irritation at the security measures, she knew he could tell that something was on her mind. Finally, she told him what was bothering her.

He listened to her rant, saying nothing and showing no indication of understanding. When she’d finished, he said “You who are so perceptive in so many matters are so naive in others. Can you imagine that your government would acquiesce to your preferences about your personal safety? You gave up that freedom when you accepted this post, Sarah. You are now part of a greater purpose, with greater responsibilities. And these are not your choices alone to make.”

Sarah’s jaw dropped. “Maybe in your country, but not in mine,” she said firmly. She said it with more force than she intended, and when she thought about it, the reason for that was anger. Anger, because at some level she suspected T’ing was right. She took another bite of her salad, and made a show of selecting just the right morsels as she considered her next move. “And who does he report to, do you think?”

“Secret Service, on temporary loan to the CIA,” T’ing supplied immediately.

Wexler kept her face impassive. “How do you know this?”

T’ing shrugged. “You depend on your government’s investigation, as it is reported to you. Not so with us. We know who Brad Carter is — we have known for some time.” Seeing the anger start in her face, he raised one hand. “Our friendship aside, Sarah, surely you must understand that if your own government is lying to you, it is not my place to correct that. Indeed, would you even have believed me? And furthermore, I have always disapproved of your decisions in this matter. That you have been protected, even though you do not wish to be, has been of some… of some comfort… to me.” He dabbed delicately at the corners of his mouth.

Just then, one of T’ing’s guards appeared in the doorway. He spoke rapidly in their language, then disappeared again. T’ing grew very still. Then he stood abruptly, came to her side of the table, and tendered her his arm. “Come. We must go. You’re not safe here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly. “My men are—”

“—already dead,” he finished. “I have just been so informed.”

Wexler reeled in horror. Although she had come to detest their presence, the fact that they had been killed shook her profoundly. “Why? Where?”

T’ing’s grasp on her arm tightened. He effortlessly pulled her to her feet, though she tried to resist. They proceeded to the back of his townhouse to a closet. He opened the door, then popped a side panel. She saw a stairway leading down. “Come on.” Still holding her elbow, he escorted her forward and led the way down the stairs.

The stairs terminated in a garage, but not his garage. It was, she surmised, the one for the townhouse that backed up to his. And in it was a Mercedes, black, with no trace of diplomatic tags or insignia on it.

One of T’ing’s bodyguards was already there, standing by the door. Another was behind the wheel of the Mercedes. T’ing opened the back door, and handed her into the car behind the driver. He reached over her, fastened her restraint harness, and walked around to get in on the other side. He spoke in his own language, and the driver replied. The garage door began lifting. Two more bodyguards were outside, evidently having completed a search of the area. One of them slipped into the front passenger seat, and without further ado, the driver took off. Almost immediately, the radio crackled. T’ing turned her. “We are being followed. Please, hold on to the armrest and do not be alarmed.”

Almost before he finished speaking, the Mercedes slewed violently across two lanes of traffic, over the median, and begin heading back in the opposite direction. A matching Mercedes fell in behind them, and she saw one three cars ahead. The sheer precision and planning for this contingency astounded her. Had T’ing taken the threats far more seriously that she had? Evidently so.

“What the hell is going on?” she demanded, choosing anger over fear. “Quickly, drive to the police station. I want those men—”

T’ing interrupted her. “It would be of no use. And it does not matter whether they seek you or me, though I suspect the latter. Whoever they are, they killed your bodyguards, which makes me believe that you are the target. But,” he said, with a delicate shrug, “either is certainly a possibility.”

She twisted around to look behind. “Are they still there?”

“No.”

“Then where are we going?” she asked, doubts assailing her now. What if this was all some subtle plot, everything from their developing friendship leading up into the events of tonight? Had she been foolish, thinking him a friend? Was it even possible?

As though he could read her mind, T’ing looked over, his face grave. “We are going to the United Nations,” he said. “The security forces there have been alerted. You’ll see them appear as we approach. You understand?”

She nodded, satisfied, and leaned back against the seat for a moment.

“Down!” T’ing snapped suddenly, and he thrust her down across the seat and covered her body with his. The back window shattered, cascading glass fragments down them. Wexler stifled the scream that started in her throat.

T’ing muttered something that sounded like a profanity, and snapped out another command. Then he said, “Chinatown.”

Wexler started to protest, then realized she had no better plan of action. The exit was immediately ahead, and evading whoever was behind them would be far easier in Chinatown than on the interstate. She shivered, the nearness of her escape coming home to her.

Why? Was it the Iranians, indignant over her treatment of their ambassador on the floor of United Nations? Or some disgruntled radical group who disagreed with her position? She debated a for moment asking T’ing, then realized it didn’t matter. Safety first — then she would deal with everything else.

Wexler thought she knew Chinatown, but the one she dined in, shopped in, and toured was clearly not the same entity T’ing was familiar with. They were quickly off the main tourist venue and into the very heart of the neighborhood, winding down dark, crowded streets with exotic smells wafting past them. She and T’ing were flanked by his bodyguards and the crowd gave way easily before them. She noticed that T’ing nodded every so often to someone, and acknowledged an occasional hand raised in greeting. Just how deep did his roots run in this part of New York City?

The men led her to a restaurant whose name was shown only in Chinese characters. It was small, but the air-conditioning was brutally cold when she stepped through the door. A hostess stepped forward, clad in traditional garb, but the manager or owner saw them and rushed forward to displace her. He and T’ing exchanged a few words, then they were led immediately to the back, past the rest rooms and kitchens and out through a back door. The room behind the restaurant was about the same size as the main room but she noticed it had a steel security door at one end, all the windows were barred and shuttered, and there was a faint odor of disuse about it. Some restaurant supplies were piled in a corner on pallets, so she surmised this must be a storage room of some sort. But it was clearly not like any storage room she had encountered before.

In one corner, a couch and a few chairs were haphazardly arranged. T’ing led her there and said, “Now we wait.”

The couch looked clean and serviceable, so she sat down. “Wait for what?”

“More men. Here, we’re relatively safe. It is a controlled area, surrounded by…” For a moment he hesitated, as though wondering how much to tell her… “friends,” he concluded finally. “People I can trust.

“But trust to do what?” she asked. This was all proceeding with the dizzying speed of Alice bolting down the rabbit hole.

Suddenly, the room they had just left, the restaurant, exploded with gunfire. She heard screams and the stutter of automatic weapons. Before she could fully absorb what had happened, T’ing and his men pulled her up off the couch and rushed her toward the back door. They bolted out of it into a dark, grimy alley, and T’ing dragged her along as he ran toward one end.

“What’s happening?” she asked, aware that this was really no time to be asking questions but unable to resist the temptation. “Where are we going?”

No one bothered to answer.

Behind them, doors popped open as occupants’ heads popped out to see what was happening, and then slammed hastily. One door stayed open, and they ran to it. Once inside, a steel door was bolted shut behind them.

More gunfire, and she noticed that they were down to three bodyguards instead of four.

T’ing held his finger to his lips, gesturing to be quiet. She almost held her breath.

Just as suddenly as it started, the gunfire ceased. An eerie silence settled over the area, as though every living thing had bolted into a hidey-hole. She suspected that was in fact the case.

Acting on some unknown signal, one of the men opened the door and looked out. He turned to gesture to T’ing, who pulled her forward. “Let’s go.”

She stepped out into the alley and was surprised to see, despite the silence, that it was crowded with people. They were moving quietly, barely seeming to touch the ground. Most of them bore weapons — knives, guns, and a variety of Chinese close-in fighting weapons. She shuddered when she saw those — not much of a match for automatic weapons, but the men carrying them didn’t seem concerned.

Their car appeared at one end of the alley, and they ran for it, Wexler again cursing the fashionable high heels she wore as she stumbled over some trash and almost fell. T’ing caught her as she went down.

They practically fell into the back of the car, which took off before they’d even had a chance to strap in. As they pulled out onto the main thoroughfare, T’ing said, “We’ll try to make it to the United Nations now. But if they’re following, it may be difficult.

Was the United Nations security force capable of dealing with whomever was following them? She wasn’t sure. On the surface, you normally just saw civil servants with badges and handguns, manning the entrances with their floruoscopes and metal detectors. But when it came down to men armed with automatic weapons, she suspected they might not be much use.

But then again, in the last decade, the UN’s consciousness of international terrorism and the dangers thereof had moved more and more to the forefront. She tried to recall the briefings she had heard, the contingency plans, and realized that there would probably be additional security forces at the UN that she’d never seen.

“Are you certain?” she asked.

T’ing nodded. “In the end, this will have to be stopped where it started. And that means the United Nations.”