Typhoon Season

NINE

Major General Yeh Lien, Political Commissar of the Hong Kong SAR, thought that the meeting room seemed much too empty these days. Only two months ago there had been five major generals here at every conference. Then, two nights ago, Ming’s presence had filled the room all by itself. But now…

Now there was just Wei Ao of the army, Chin Tsu of the Coastal Defense Force, and he, Yeh Lien, representing the heart and soul of Chinese Communism.

No, there was someone else as well. Someone invisible. The person responsible for the death of General Ming Wen Hsien.

Or was that guilty man actually here in the flesh? Yeh couldn’t help thinking about the secrets Ming had hoarded about the commanders in the SAR. Perhaps one of those commanders had become aware of this knowledge. Perhaps he had decided to free himself.

Yeh watched the other two men, shifting his gaze back and forth as Wei Ao described the latest reports about Ming’s death. Evidence indicated that the general’s plane had been shot down by a missile or missiles of relatively small size; they could have been either air-to-air or ground-to-air. Yeh stared at the Army commander’s blocky, self-satisfied face. Who would have more access to weapons than the First Among Equals? Wei, collector of decadent antiquities, and now sole and supreme commander of the Hong Kong SAR…

“Now,” Wei said, his voice grave but his eyes glittering. “You’ve all seen our new orders. Until a replacement for Ming is officially assigned from Beijing, I alone dictate military actions within and around the Hong Kong SAR. I answer directly to the State Council, and you answer to me, and that is all.”

“What are we going to do about the Americans?” Chin demanded in his impetuous way, as if he hadn’t heard a word Wei had just said.

Wei fixed the younger man with a heavy-lidded gaze. “What are we going to do? We are going to do nothing. More to the point, you are going to do nothing. These matters don’t concern the Coastal Defense Force one way or the other. Besides, who said anything about Americans?”

“But it had to be Americans who shot down the plane!”

“Consider the area where the shoot-down occurred, Comrade. A hundred miles inland, in rough terrain. The missiles were of the short-range variety, not something the Americans could have launched from over the horizon. Therefore, they were almost certainly fired from the ground. Are you claiming that the Americans placed troops that far inland without our being aware of it?”

“But — you’ll do nothing in retaliation, then?”

To Yeh’s surprise, the old major general smiled. “It’s not necessary to retaliate, Major General Chin. Even if the Americans are guilty. Remember, as Sun Tzu said, ‘The way to be certain to hold what you defend… is to defend a place the enemy does not attack.’ ”

Chin looked baffled. Yeh felt baffled, but he gave a sage nod. As Political Commissar, he must not allow himself to look slow or foolish.

Certainly Major General Wei Ao was neither of these things. From the words of his own mouth, the old commander was up to something, some unspecified activity. An activity he did not care to share.

Which meant that Yeh must find out what it was.

“I wish Tomboy were here,” Batman said as he strode down the passageway toward sick bay. “She should hear this.”

“When’s her COD due?” Lab Rat asked, from behind him.

“Zero eight hundred tomorrow.”

“Well, we can’t wait that long,” Lab Rat said. “Memory’s a fickle thing. The sooner we get Dr. George’s story about what happened, the better.” He paused. “Tombstone’s not coming, too?”

Batman answered in clipped tones: “Admiral Magruder and his wife happen to be two professional officers with different duties and assignments. They aren’t joined at the hip, you know.”

“I realize that, sir. I didn’t intend any offense. But Tombstone’s experience in — ”

“Oh, hell, Lab Rat, forget it. The truth is, I’ve been thinking the same thing. I wish Stoney were coming, too. But he’s not on the passenger list.” Batman stepped over a knee-knocker, made sure no one else was in the corridor, then said over his shoulder, “Do you think I should have asked Bird Dog to come along with us to talk to Dr. George?”

“No, I don’t think so. Not so soon after what happened yesterday.”

“But maybe that’s why he should be with us. To keep him from dwelling on things he couldn’t help.”

He heard the wryness in Lab Rat’s response: “If there’s one thing nobody’s ever accused Bird Dog of before, it’s thinking too much. But that seems to be changing, and I think you should let him work it out for himself. I believe you made the right move.”

Batman nodded, relieved. “Got your recorder ready?” They had arrived at the main entrance to Sick Bay. Batman shoved open the double doors and headed aft toward the Critical Care Unit.

In the bed nearest to the CCU entrance, lay a man somewhat beyond middle age, with white hair, badly sunburned pale skin, and a belly that produced a swell in the sheet like the bow of a nuclear submarine about to breach. He was sucking juice from a plastic cup, using a bent straw. A hospital corpsman stood on the far side of the bed, saying, “Plenty of fluids, doctor, that’s the ticket. Keep them going.”

As Batman entered the room, he glanced at the closed curtain that divided off the beds inside the CCU. He’d already visited Catwoman, stared at her and willed her to get well. She had a fractured neck and skull, and had lost a lot of blood. Once she was stable, she would be medevaced to the base hospital in Singapore.

But now he had to concentrate on this civilian with the bright blue eyes and the straw in his mouth. He and Lab Rat waited patiently until, with a wild slurping sound, Dr. George finished his drink and handed the cup to the doctor. “Thanks,” he said. “That’s better than the juice I remember from my days flying with the navy.”

“You were in the navy, sir?” Batman asked from the side of the bed.

Dr. George looked at him, taking in the uniform and its two stars without any evident reaction. “Oh, no, not me. I work for NOAA, which is part of the Department of Commerce, actually. But we used to fly in Navy hurricane hunters back before 1975 — when you people pulled out of the program.” He managed to make it sound like a personal affront, and Batman fought off a smile.

Batman held out his hand. “I’m Rear Admiral Wayne. This is my intelligence officer, Commander Busby. How are you feeling, sir?”

“Like I never want to go swimming again,” George said with feeling, and this time Batman couldn’t stop the smile. Hell, why try? He felt some of the tension slide off his back.

“I can imagine,” he said. “Mind if we sit down and ask you a few questions about yesterday?”

“Yesterday? Oh, yesterday.” A shadow flitted over the man’s face. He sighed. “Was it only yesterday? Those poor pilots. They never had a chance.”

The corpsman brought in three metal chairs, which the three officers situated in the scant space around George’s bed.

“We’d like to ask about the aircraft that shot you down, sir,” Batman said. “We need as precise a description of it as you can give us, your impressions of its flying characteristics — everything.”

George nodded, and for a half hour he talked about his harrowing, truncated voyage of the day before. Lab Rat and Bird Dog took notes, plus each of them had a microcassette tape recorder running. When George got to the part about the flying wing, they both asked questions that would help paint a technical picture of the bogey. George answered the questions with the immediacy of a good memory, and the accuracy of someone with at least a passing knowledge of aircraft. That was good, in that it made his information somewhat reliable. It was bad for the same reason.

From the sound of things, the Chinese possessed a working airframe not dissimilar to America’s F-117 Stealth Fighter, but possibly even more advanced. This mystery carried its missiles in internal bays to prevent them from providing radar signatures.

All of this raised a number of important questions, but from an immediate standpoint, the one that interested Batman was: Why use such an exotic asset to shoot down a helpless business jet in a very public manner, only to keep it out of combat during the subsequent air battle? There had to be a reason.

“Dr. George,” Batman said. “The plane you were in — did it carry NOAA markings, or U.S. Air Force?”

“Air Force.” George’s eyes teared up. “It was the last dedicated storm-chasing plane in the Pacific basin. It was going to leave for the Caribbean tomorrow. Would never have even been in Hong Kong if I hadn’t — ”

Batman spoke quickly, decisively, cutting off that line of thought. “Now, are you sure it was only carrying meteorological equipment? It couldn’t possibly have been used for anything else?” He was thinking about the navy’s spy ships, which, disguised as trawlers, crept up and down the Asian coast day and night. Back when Batman was still just a Tomcat pilot, the North Koreans had attacked and captured one of those spy vessels in an attempt to trigger a war with America.

Dr. George looked confused by the question. “Of course I’m sure. It was loaded with weather gear. When you fly into a hurricane, you want to gather all the data you can, on the spot.”

Batman nodded, but exchanged glances with Lab Rat. Just because the little Air Force jet truly was a scientific platform, that didn’t mean the Chinese believed it. The question of motive for the shoot-down was still open.

“Excuse me,” Dr. George said. “But where exactly is this ship positioned right now?”

“We’re about two hundred miles east-southeast of Hong Kong,” Batman said. “Once we get you thoroughly debriefed and the doctor okays it, we can have you back to the city in a couple of — ”

George shook his head. “That’s not why I’m asking. How seaworthy is this ship in a typhoon?”

“We’ve weathered our share,” Batman said. “If you position yourself properly on the edge of one, the relative wind across the deck makes it very easy to launch aircraft. They take off almost by themselves.”

“And if you’re not positioned properly?”

“It can get a little rough. But Jefferson can take almost anything…. Why?”

“Because you’re about to get caught in the biggest typhoon to hit the South China Sea in the last ten years.”

Batman looked at his fellow officers. Bird Dog seemed oblivious, but Lab Rat’s eyebrows were elevated. He said, “We haven’t received any severe weather warnings from Metoc, have we?”

“That’s because they don’t know yet. Nobody knows but me. Because only I have Valkyrie.”

“Valkyrie?” Lab Rat said.

“It’s a program I developed that gives weighted values to more than a hundred factors affecting tropical weather. It lets me predict the time and place where a typhoon is likely to begin, its probable direction, and its probable strength. My accuracy is very impressive. Valkyrie is what I was trying to peddle in Hong Kong before…” His voice trailed off. “Those poor young pilots. I’ll bet they have wives and children. I’ll bet their wives and children are crying….”

Again, Batman interrupted quickly. “And this program of yours, Valkyrie, it tells you a typhoon is going to strike here?”

“ ‘Told,’ not ‘tells’; my laptop went down with the plane. And not just a typhoon, a super typhoon. That means sustained wind speeds in excess of 150 miles per hour. For this storm, I’m predicting a minimum velocity of 200 miles per hour in the eyewall. Perhaps as high as 250, not that I’ll be able to measure it anymore.” His blue eyes sharpened. “So, how would you like to launch your aircraft straight up, Admiral? Without even starting their engines?”

“It’s a bit early in the season for typhoons, isn’t it?” Lab Rat asked in a painfully polite voice.

Now the sharp eyes fixed on him. “Yes, it is, Commander. But typhoons don’t give a damn about statistics. All they care about is warm water, minimal wind shear, and plenty of moisture in the atmosphere. And a few other odds and ends I’ve managed to figure out over the years.”

Batman decided to give the man some credit. Turning to Lab Rat, he said, “What’s the satellite data been like recently?”

“Well… we can certainly expect increased thunderstorm activity, but — ”

“No, no, no,” George said irritably. “Satellites only provide part of the picture, that’s the whole point. They don’t factor in certain events, like seismic activity. Tremors in the sea floor can shift deep currents and bring scalding water up from thermal vents. That contributes to the heating, and can really accelerate a storm along. That’s a theory of mine that I factored into Valkyrie. I’m telling you, the surface layer in the Pacific just east of here is a good four degrees warmer and a hundred feet thicker than usual for this time of year. It’s pumping incredible amounts of energy into a weather engine that’s about to switch on and grind right over this place.”

“You’re suggesting we move the battle group somewhere else, then?” Batman said. He sounded only vaguely interested.

“Young man, I know naval vessels are very seaworthy, and that they can move fast when they have to. But this storm I’m talking about is going to develop in less than a two-day period, and it’s going to be huge. You don’t want to be anywhere near it when it gets going.”

Again Batman exchanged glances with Lab Rat, and caught the intelligence officer’s suppressed amusement. It reflected his own. Few civilians understood the capabilities of modern naval vessels; every ship in the battle group could be sealed up so tightly that virtually nothing shy of capsizing could flood or sink them.

“We appreciate your warning, Doctor,” Batman said. “I promise we’ll keep an eye out for conditions to change.”

George shook his head. “That’s what they all say. But by the time you notice anything, it’s already too late.”

“Free Hong Kong!” Sung Fei shouted through his loudhailer. He strove to make his voice sound sincere. “No more PLA atrocities!” He stood on a makeshift platform in Victoria Square, with the glass cliffs of international banks and brokerage houses looming on all sides. A crowd surged around him, waving signs that read CHINESE FOR DEMOCRACY and FREE HONG KONG and REMEMBER TIANANMEN SQUARE. “Look what they’ve already done! Look at the boat they sank, the airplane they shot down! What’s next? What do you think?”

Most people within range of his voice cheered; a few booed. Personally, Sung would prefer to bite his lips off than to utter these reactionary, hollow words. But he was part of a larger plan. Could he do any less?

There was no denying the mounting frenzy of the mob, nor its increasing division into pro-Beijing and pro-Western factions. This schism had widened with the air battle that had taken place not a hundred miles off the main shipping lanes. People in Hong Kong felt threatened in a way only the older ones, those who had endured the Japanese invasion of Hong Kong in the 1940s, could recall. In the United Nations, the People’s Republic and the United States were growing more and more vocal in accusing one another of aggression, with no end in sight.

Sung Fei glanced around at the sea of bodies, the spume of waving banners and signs. He never ceased to marvel at the incredible crush of bodies that characterized Hong Kong. In a nation as vast as China, this was unnatural. The small village, the community farm, the egalitarian life of fresh air, hard, honest work and simple food… that was the way things should be. That must be the future. Not these artificial canyons, these cliffs of money, these hives of screaming mouths.

Still talking, he raised his eyes to the periphery of the mob, where Hong Kong Police officers mingled uncomfortably with the green uniforms of the PLA. It was the PLA that Sung had been waiting for. Under the provisions of the so-called New Rule, the PLA could interfere in “civil affairs” only when activities were deemed to threaten national security. That was, of course, a very flexible term.

He lowered his gaze again, and nodded at a young woman standing not far from the foot of the platform. She nodded back, then pulled a red-and-white bundle of cloth from beneath her jacket. “Free Hong Kong!” she shouted. “Beijing out!” The people nearest her, all fellow students, took up the chant. “Free Hong Kong! Beijing out! Free Hong Kong! Beijing out!” The chant, in English, rolled across the square, lifting from voice to voice, growing louder and louder. Sung joined in the chant as well, adding his amplified voice until the crowd was in such an uproar he couldn’t even hear himself.

Then he lowered the loudhailer, which was a signal. The girl raised her bundle of cloth over her head and let it unfurl — the bloodred flag of the People’s Republic of China. Other hands grasped its edge, pulling it tight, holding it high. Cigarette lighters flared.

Flames rose on the sound of the chanting. At the edge of the crowd, the PLA soldiers began to push inward, using their AK-47s to clear the way. It was not legal to deface the PRC flag, even in liberal Hong Kong. Even under the New Rule.

The flag was now a sheet of flame, which was released. It sailed into the air, billowing, dropping hot ashes back onto the crowd, onto their pumping fists as they chanted, “Free Hong Kong! Beijing out! Free Hong Kong! Beijing out!” Someone threw a crushed soda can at Sung.

The soldiers were having trouble moving through the sheer bulk of the crowd. Yet one soldier had miraculousy arrived, appearing suddenly from behind the platform. He was a small, wiry man with the flattened nose of a gorilla. Actually, he’d been waiting underneath the platform all day. Sung knew that whether he was a real PLA soldier or not, his true commander was Mr. Blossom. Other men like him were scattered through the crowd, all wearing PLA uniforms and carrying standard-issue AK-47 assault rifles.

Sung didn’t know exactly what was going to happen next, only that it was something Mr. Blossom had orchestrated carefully; something that, along with the pro-democracy chanting, would work to end the ridiculous idea of “Hong Kong self-rule” and bring the SAR back into the arms of the PRC, the real China.

The soldier with the flattened nose continued to shove toward the students who had burned the flag. So did the real PLA soldiers. Meanwhile the students themselves jumped up and down, chanting, pumping their fists. No doubt they hoped that the television cameras all around the square were catching the action. Other students scrambled onto the platform with Sung, shouting incoherently, waving their arms in the air. Sung was irritated. This was not in the plan. These idiots were not even politically motivated; to them, this was a party.

The flat-nosed soldier and three of the PLA soldiers were about to converge on the students below. As Sung watched, there was a sudden, deafening crack, a noise so loud Sung staggered sideways. At the same moment one of the real soldiers fell, the center of his face abruptly as red as the flag that had burned. Instantly, the mob fell silent, as if collectively holding its breath. The PLA soldiers halted. Everything halted. All the faces turned toward Sung.

Sung felt hands close hard around his right hand and arm. Something cold and heavy slapped into his hand, and his fingers closed around it reflexively. His arm was dragged up. He stared in amazement at what was in his hand: a large black pistol, smoke wafting from its barrel. “Here!” the student beside him shouted, waving Sung’s arm wildly, as if fighting with it. “He did it! Help me!”

Sung wanted to say something, wanted to point out that he didn’t even know what was going on, but his attention was caught by the flat-nosed soldier. Flat-nose was turning toward him, raising his AK-47. The small black eye of the assault rifle’s barrel was staring at Sung. Farther back, so was the non-soldier’s cold eye. Sung started to say, “You don’t understand.”

The first round caught him in his open mouth.

“So far, the death toll stands at seventeen.” Navy Captain Joe Tacstrom, Singapore’s U.S. Naval base commander, held out the latest sitrep, or situation report. “Some reports have the PLA starting the shooting; others claim it was one of the pro-democracy students. Either way, both civilians and PLA soldiers ended up dead. If this happened anywhere but Hong Kong, the PRC would have already declared martial law and parked tanks in the streets.”

“Are you sure I’ll even be able to fly into Hong Kong?” Tombstone asked. He and Tomboy were sitting in Tacstrom’s office. Tomboy was wearing her khakis preparatory to flying out to Jefferson, Tombstone was dressed in a business suit someone from the base had rushed into town to buy for him. Originally he’d intended to enter Hong Kong as a tourist, but that had all changed. Considering the most recent turn of events, the only Americans likely to run the gauntlet into that part of the world would be those with financial interests to protect.

He felt ridiculous.

“So far, most non-American airlines are still flying into Kai Tak,” Tacstrom said. “Remember, Hong Kong fuels the economies of most of the countries on this side of the Pacific Rim. None of their neighbors can afford to slam the door on them if they can help it.”

Tombstone nodded. “What about my American passport? Is that going to be a problem?”

“No. There’s still no official restriction on Americans entering or leaving Hong Kong. It’s just that it’s an at-your-own-risk sort of thing. When you think about it, it’s probably better that you’re going into the civilian airport, anyway. Less chance of anyone noticing who you are that way.”

Tombstone nodded again. This amateur 007 stuff drove him crazy. It fed into his mounting conviction that he was on a snipe hunt, while the real action was happening out at sea, with the carrier group.

But orders were orders. In his wallet he carried a piece of paper with Martin Lee’s telephone number and address written on it in both English and Chinese, courtesy of someone at the Pentagon. Not that Lee had agreed to speak with Tombstone, or anyone else. Evidently he had even stopped answering his telephone.

Joe checked his watch. “We’ll have someone drive you to the airport, Admiral. Your flight leaves at thirteen hundred. Commander Flynn, we’ve got a Tomcat on the deck waiting to get you out to Jefferson.” He rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll double-check its status.”

After he left, Tombstone turned to Tomboy. “Decent of him. Give me a kiss. It might be a while before we have another chance.”

“Why, Admiral… what if someone were to walk in?”

“I’d accuse you of attacking me.”

“And you’d be right.”

Still, they kept the kiss short.

It had been a hectic day in Washington, an endless string of meetings with various cabinet members and think tank groups, and Ambassador Wexler was about to slide into a hot bath when the phone rang.

She scowled at it, debating letting the hotel’s answering service pick it up. Any really critical calls would have come in on her cell phone.

But in the end, she went and grabbed up the receiver anyway. Sometimes she lamented her own compulsiveness.

The first thing she heard was the unmistakable background cacophony of a kitchen in full swing. What’s this, room service? “Hello?” she said loudly.

A clipped, formal voice said, “Madame Ambassador, this is Ambassador T’ing from the People’s Republic of China.”

“Right, and I’m Little Orphan Annie from the planet Zondar.” She was about to hang up when the voice said, “Please.”

Something about the tone of that word… well, it wasn’t a word you often heard expressed with sincerity in her line of work… something about it made her bring the receiver back to her ear. “What is this?”

“Please, Madame Ambassador. It is very difficult for me to make this call at all. I ask you not to make it any more difficult.”

By God, the voice did sound like T’ing’s. Still, Sarah Wexler was nobody’s patsy. “It’s rare for the United Nations Ambassador from one major world power to call the United Nations ambassador from another major world power from the middle of a kitchen,” she said.

“Not in my country.” That did it. The voice was so dry, the words so ambiguous, their source had to be T’ing. He went on, “I must meet with you, Madame Ambassador. Privately.”

“You mean — privately privately?”

“Just so. There are certain things I must discuss with you. Things for your ears only, you understand.”

“Not entirely. There are channels for this. And how did you find out where I was staying, anyway?”

He didn’t answer her question. “It is crucial for the futures of both our nations that we have this conversation, Ambassador. And that only you and I are involved at this point. Could you meet with me? Shall we say, at the Lincoln Memorial?”

She blinked. He had to be kidding. And yet, dry wit aside, intrigue aside, “joking” was not a characteristic one ordinarily associated with T’ing.

She surprised herself by saying, “When?”

“Bit bumpy, ma’am,” the COD pilot said over ICS. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m used to it,” Tomboy said from the backseat. She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. He was right about the turbulence, though. Serious-looking storm clouds crowded against one another all over the water surrounding Jefferson, turning the atmosphere into a roller coaster.

This particular Tomcat was on its way to the carrier to replace the one shot down during the previous day’s air battle. There was something grim in hitching a ride on this particular bird… still, she found few places more comfortable than the backseat of an F-14. The sounds, the smells, the vibrations… they were all a part of her.

As the jet banked onto final, she felt the usual mixture of exhilaration and fear leap up in her gut. It was a sensation familiar to all RIOs. After all, short of opting to punch out, backseaters had absolutely no control over what the Tomcat did with them in the air other than the ultimate veto option — the ejection seat handle. On the other hand, RIOs also didn’t have to worry about actually landing the big bird on the deck of a pitching aircraft carrier… so they could, at some fatalistic level, simply relax and enjoy the ride.

After the jolt and the stomach-compressing deceleration that told her the wire had been successfully snagged, she let out a long breath and grinned. “Nice trap,” she said over ICS.

“Thank you, ma’am,” the pilot replied.

Batman was waiting for her when she climbed out of the plane. As always, she had to suppress the urge to hug him. His smile, tired but genuine, told her he was thinking the same thing. “Good to see you, Tomboy,” he said.

“You too, Admiral.”

“How’s Stoney?”

“I’ll fill you in on him real soon, Batman,” she said as they ducked in out of the wind and noise of the flight deck. “But first, let me go talk to our witness.”

“You bet,” he said. “Just do me one favor: Don’t mention all these thunderheads, okay?”

The boy scurried past the rows of illegal dentist offices and into the Walled City. Immediately, he left behind the light and clamor of Kowloon for an older, darker city.

The Walled City had been a curiosity, an embarrassment, and a dangerous pain for every ruler of the region ever since the British expanded their control from Hong Kong proper onto the mainland. At that time, due to a bureaucratic snafu, a section of Kowloon had remained, strictly speaking, an unleased section of the People’s Republic. The British dealt with this anomaly by pretending it wasn’t there. Squatters immediately moved into this lawless section of the city, erecting a shantytown devoid of electricity, fresh water or sanitation. Here was where criminals and drug runners fled and hid, knowing their foreign landlords would never dare pursue. The British responded by constructing a stone wall around the sector.

During World War Two the Japanese occupation government tore down the wall itself to supply raw materials for extending the runway of Kai Tak Airport, but the Walled City remained there in spirit. And it remained there still, demarcating the line between bright Kowloon and an intricate warren composed of narrow alleys and staircases descending to deathtraps. Even now, under PRC control, the Walled City remained a land apart, a shadow city where lived those who wished to avoid the attention of the authorities. Any authorities.

The boy ran down an alley barely a meter wide, his rubber sandals slapping through puddles of water that never went away. He glanced over his shoulder. No one behind him. Immediately he turned and darted down a steep set of steps. At the bottom he rapped on a door, then pushed through. “I have a message,” he said in Cantonese to the hard-faced man standing there. The man, who appeared to be Japanese or Korean or some other foreign race, merely nodded.

The boy flapped on, down dark hallways, up rickety staircases, darting from one building to another. Finally he confronted a door with a peephole in it. He knocked. After a moment, the door opened. A small man stood there. Small even by Hong Kong standards, but filled with the taut energy of a fighting cock. His nose had been smashed enough times that it lay almost flat across his cheeks. His name was Chou Hu, or so he said. Probably he had lied; that was the way in the Walled City.

The boy respected Chou. Everyone in the Walled City respected Chou, and this was an accomplishment. Here, respect could be won only one way.

The boy could not tell if Chou was alone in the dark room. Up and down the corridor, other doors stood partly open. Were more quiet, watchful men behind those doors as well? Were guns pointing at him right now?

He bowed respectfully, then pulled an envelope out of his pocket and held it out. “A new message for you, sir.”

“Open it,” Chou said. “Then hand me the paper.”

The boy swallowed. He knew why he was being asked to open the envelope: It might explode. He had heard of such things.

Hands sweating, he tore the end off the envelope. Nothing happened. Letting out a long breath, he pulled out a single slip of paper and handed it to Chou without even glancing at it. He didn’t want any of these watchful people to think he had read the note. Especially since he didn’t even know how to read.

Chou took the slip of paper and opened it. In the gloom, his eyes moved from side to side. He nodded. “Go back to Mr. Blossom,” he said. “Tell him the location is ready for another visitor. And tell him something else as well: Tell him his money is welcome, but we’d prefer blood. Can you remember that?”

The boy nodded. Being without the written word, he had developed an excellent memory.

Perhaps too good. That night, Mr. Chou would pursue him through the Walled City of his dreams.

Tombstone hated civilian airports. He hated the crowds, hated waiting in lines, hated the smiles of the ticketing clerks, which managed somehow to be obsequious and surly at the same time.

Still, being in an airport meant one terrific thing, at least on the debarking end: It meant you’d survived yet another flight during which someone else controlled your fate.

His knees were still a bit wobbly from the landing. The pilot had bashed the Boeing 737 down like he was trying for the three-wire. Obviously this was a guy who believed the old saw, “Any landing you can walk away from is a good one.” Or maybe he’d just been in a hurry to get out of the air, which had been far from smooth. The flight down from Singapore had meandered through cathedrals of billowing cloud.

Inside, Kai Tak Airport looked like all airports, from Germany to Iowa. There were even a lot of people from Germany and Iowa. You could tell the latter because they were leaving, and they looked nervous.

There were also a lot of armed guards around. They looked nervous, too, as well as grim.

Tombstone stood in line at Customs, trying not to let his impatience show. When he was asked his purpose in Hong Kong, he swallowed the urge to say, “I’m here to make sure the United States can beat the PLA’s ass out of the sky for generations to come.” Instead, he just said, “Business,” and was promptly allowed through. Maybe the suit had been the right idea after all.

Shouldering his overnight bag, he followed the flood of humanity toward what the signs assured him was the exit. From there, he’d grab a taxi and head straight to Martin Lee’s address. He’d already decided not to phone first, lest he warn his wary contact off.

He still had no idea exactly what he was going to say when and if he did meet Mr. Lee. What could he say to convince the poor young man that he, Tombstone Magruder, was someone to confide in? This whole enterprise really was ridiculous.

Then he remembered how he’d spent the last half hour of the flight: staring fixedly out the window. Not at the clouds, but at every passing airplane. Wondering if the next one would be manta-shaped and carrying air-to-air missiles. Wondering if he, Tombstone Magruder, was going to die in an aircraft with someone else at the controls.

No. He was here for a reason, and he’d do the best he could to complete his mission.

As he was making his way across the main lobby toward the doors, eyeing the taxis lined up outside, he heard a soft voice say, “Admiral Magruder?”

He halted and turned. A young Chinese man stood nearby, his hands folded in front of him. He wore an expensive-looking charcoal suit. Tombstone recognized him instantly, from the photographs he’d been shown. “Mr. Lee?”

The young man nodded, looked around nervously.

“How did you know I was coming in?” Tombstone asked.

“I… I am sorry I didn’t answer your calls before, sir. I was frightened. For my wife, you understand. But now she is gone from Hong Kong. She is safe. So I… I wanted to talk to you. I called America. I spoke with your uncle; he told me you were coming.”

“Well, it’s good to meet you.” Tombstone held out his hand. Lee shook it quickly, still looking around.

“It is not safe,” he said. “Please come with me, quickly.”

Tombstone followed the smaller man outside, where Lee gestured away a swarm of taxi drivers, then walked into a parking garage and up to the last thing Tombstone had expected to see: a large black American car, a Lincoln. Not quite a limousine, but close. It had a limo’s black window glass and boomerang-shaped antenna on the back. “This is from the MEI fleet,” Lee said, almost apologetically. “Always available for executive use.” He pointed a remote control at the car and an alarm bleeped off. Tombstone heard locks pop open. Lee walked to the trunk and opened it. It was enormous inside; Tombstone’s overnight bag looked like a Chicklet in there. Lee moved toward the passenger side, which Tombstone found to be an enormous relief. He couldn’t imagine the nervous little man driving this boat.

But when he opened the left front door, he was confronted by an empty seat. Where the hell was the steering wheel? Then he remembered: Hong Kong had spent most of the last hundred and fifty years under British management, which meant people drove on the wrong side of the road around here. For the right amount of money, American car manufacturers were willing to take that idiosyncrasy into account.

Sighing, Tombstone slid into an atmosphere of leather and cigar smoke.

On the opposite side of the vast bench seat, Martin Lee perched like a tiny porcelain doll, the steering wheel rising almost to the level of his eyes. “Seat belt, please,” he said gravely.

Tombstone had just clicked the buckle home when something hard and quite cold ground into his head just behind the bend of his jaw. “Please do not move,” a voice said in his ear. The accent resembled Martin Lee’s, but it was a man’s voice. “Or you will die.”

Tombstone glanced at Lee. He was staring at the dashboard, head lowered.

“What is this?” Tombstone asked.

“I am sorry,” Lee told the dashboard. “They have my wife. I am very sorry, sir.”

“No more talk,” the man behind Tombstone said, and a moment later, Tombstone winced as a coarse bag was hauled over his head.