Wall of Night

Prologue

The last day Priscilla Hadin was to see her husband alive was breathtaking: the air crisp and fresh, the sky a cloudless blue. Beyond the pier, the lake was a perfect mirror for the reds and golds of the trees bordering the shoreline.

She watched her husband cajole the stevedores as they scurried up and down the boat’s gangplank, carrying crates of all sizes and shapes. The pier thrummed with activity: throngs of natives, the babble of different languages, vendors hawking grilled meat and trinkets, the wail of boat whistles.

Something bumped Priscilla from behind and she turned. A goat was chewing at her fur boots; a gap-toothed woman tugged at the goat and kept walking. A far cry from Long Island, Priscilla thought.

“You there!” she heard her husband call. “Be careful, will you? Good man!”

Andrew Galbreth Hadin turned and flashed a grin at Priscilla. So like a little boy, she thought fondly. In many ways Andrew was a mystery to her. He had the courage of a lion and the dogged curiosity of a toddler who’s just realized he’s surrounded by a giant, fascinating world.

Known in the newspapers as “Dashing Andy” or “The Millionaire Buccaneer,” Hadin was renowned for his wild, globe-hopping explorations. If it hadn’t been mapped, braved, or — better yet — discovered, Hadin was game for it. During their marriage, Priscilla had seen him off on dozens of adventures: Arabia in search of Ubar, the Atlantis of the Sands; Turkey, for Noah’s Ark; Tibet in search of the Yeti. … Wherever he went, however long he was gone, he always came back to her.

Why, then, couldn’t she shake this gloom? It was silly. Andrew always came back. “Glorious day, eh?” he called to her, walking up.

“Yes, it is. These Russian folk are interesting.”

“Hard workers, too. Wish I’d had them in the Congo. Wouldn’t have been half as dicey.”

“You don’t suppose there are any of those Trotskyites around, do you?”

“No, dear, most of them are in Vienna. Some lake, eh? ‘The Jewel of Siberia,’ they call it.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“The oldest lake in the world; the deepest, too. Did you know there are over three hundred rivers emptying into it, but only one going out — the Angara?”

“No, I didn’t—”

“And over a third of its fish aren’t found anywhere else in the world. Legend has it there’s a tunnel at the bottom, a natural lava tube that leads all the way to the Pacific Ocean. Wouldn’t that be something to see? Perhaps I could find one of those diving bells—”

Priscilla put her finger to his lips. “Dear, perhaps you should finish this adventure first?”

Hadin grinned. “Yes, of course.”

“So tell me again, this place you’re going to … Tonga—”

“Tunguska, darling.”

“Tunguska. What’s so special about it? Something landed there?”

“More like slammed into, Pris. Nobody’s sure what happened. That’s what we hope to find out. Some say it was a space rock; others think perhaps an alien ship — from Mars, perhaps!”

“Oh, good lord, Andrew!”

“Anyway whatever it is flattened hundreds of square miles of forest. Thousands and thousands of trees bowled over like toothpicks. Folks in Belgium could feel the impact. And we’ll be the first to see it! The trick, of course, will be finding it. Moscow is being rather stingy with information—”

“Then how did you get permission?”

Hadin grinned and leaned closer. “They think I’m on an expedition for the Smithsonian. Not to worry, Pris. Nogoruk’s the finest guide around; he could track a snowflake across Alaska! We’ll follow the Selenga to the northeast, looking for clues as we go. It will be fantastic fun!”

The paddle wheel’s horn blew, echoing over the lake. Standing on the bridge, a squat man in a fur hat waved at Hadin. “That’s Nogoruk, Pris. We’re ready to go.”

Priscilla felt her eyes filling up with tears. “Must you?”

“I’m afraid so, darling. Chin up. Don’t I always come back to you?”

“Yes, but …” But what? she wondered. He did always come back. “When will you be back?”

“Hard to say. Four months, perhaps. We don’t want to get caught out when the snow flies. It’s fearsome, they say. First chance, I’ll send word.” Hadin kissed her. “My love to the children.”

He kissed her one last time, then started up the gangplank. At its head, he waved to her, then jumped onto the deck and began barking orders. Crewmen cast off the lines and slowly the boat began drifting away from the pier as the current took hold. The horn blew once more then the giant water-wheels started churning, froth and mist billowing around the stern.

A lone figure appeared on the afterdeck: tall and broad-shouldered, his cornstalk hair wild in the wind, beaming like a child on his first roller-coaster ride. Hadin raised his arms and waved at his wife.

She waved back.

Priscilla Hadin later died seventy-four years to the day her husband left, never discovering what had become of him. Nor could she know what pivotal role his ill-fated expedition would play in saving the lives of four strangers carrying a secret that would decide the fate of hundreds of thousands of people.

Set amid the peaks and wooded valleys 150 miles northeast of Beijing, the Imperial Summer Villa had for centuries been the summer home to emperors hoping to trade the heat of Beijing in favor of the cooler mountain air. Since the ’s it had been one of China’s most famous parks.

In the two months he’d been in China, Briggs Tanner had spent many hours in Chengde, first posing as a Westerner taking in the sights, and then as a deep-cover operative reconnoitering the ground on which he hoped to pull off the most dramatic defection since the Cold War.

Four months earlier, chief of staff for the People’s Liberation Army, General Han Soong, had secretly passed a note to an attaché during a reception at the U.S. embassy. The missive was short and direct: Soong wanted out. The stunning request was hurriedly passed on to the CIA, who in turn immediately arranged to send a controller to oversee the operation.

Tanner had spent his first five weeks in-country running a small network of support agents and laying the groundwork for Soong’s escape before turning his attention to the nuts-and-bolts of how he planned to spirit Soong from the country.

He chose Chengde for several reasons: its distance from Beijing and the city’s ubiquitous police force; its popularity with not only tourists but with Beijingers as well; and lastly, its setting.

Encompassing some 1400 acres and surrounded by an ancient stone wall measuring six miles in circumference, Chengde is a warren of grasslands, wooded hills, blooming gardens, dozens of miles of landscaped paths, and over a hundred buildings, from traditional Chinese pavilions and temples to rustic longhouses that had once served as barracks for imperial guards.

Armed with a camera and a map, Tanner walked every corner of Chengde until the layout was embedded in his brain. He knew where every path began and ended, where they intersected with others, where the shortcuts and dead ends lay. He could stand at any section of the wall and know precisely what lay on the other side. Above all, he knew the best meeting places and the vantage points from which he could survey them.

The November day Tanner was to put Soong into the “pipeline” dawned crisp and cool. Chengde’s trees blazed in a thousand shades of red and gold. Before first light fell over the park, Tanner was in position at an overlook near Gold Mountain Temple. The park was all but deserted, with only a few caretakers going about their business. Below him, a quarter mile distant, lay Ruyi and Jinghu lakes and beyond them, west of the Front Palace, Dehui Gate, the park’s main entrance. Fifty yards down the central path lay the fountain at which he and Soong were to meet.

Tanner checked his watch. Forty minutes to go. He felt a flutter in his belly and took a deep breath. Relax, Briggs, he commanded himself. Almost there.

He aimed his camera’s long lens on the gate and saw the day’s first tourists entering the park. He scanned the paths and courtyards until he had a rough count of several dozen people, an even mix of Chinese families and Western sightseers.

He got up and wandered the paths around the temple for twenty minutes, snapping the occasional photo and studying his map, all the while keeping one eye on the main gate. Five minutes before the meeting time, Briggs was scanning the Front Palace when something caught his eye.

A Chinese mother and father with a child were stopped beside the fountain feeding the ducks, when suddenly the toddler lost his balance and plunged into the water. The father rushed forward to help. As he stooped over to pick up the child, his coat swung open, revealing a shoulder holster.

Heart in his throat, Tanner tightened on the man and saw, trailing from his left ear, a nearly transparent wire that led down into his collar. What the hell is this. … He checked his watch: Time. He swiveled the lens to the main gate. As if on cue, General Han Soong stepped onto the path.

No, no, no. …

Briggs looked around. In a nearby garden bed, a caretaker knelt in the dirt with a trowel. The man looked up, caught Tanner’s eye, then glanced away. Briggs felt his heart lurch. They were here, the Guoanbu was here. A dozen questions whirled in his brain, but he quashed them. The “how” of it didn’t matter. He and Soong were standing in the middle of a trap.

Tanner’s mind raced. This couldn’t be happening—shouldn’t be happening, but it was.

At the main gate, Soong was strolling toward the fountain. From his vantage point, Tanner could see them now, Guoanbu agents moving in, exiting nearby pavilions and walking along the trails on either side of Soong. Oblivious, Soong kept walking.

From the corner of his eye, Briggs saw the caretaker raise his wrist to his mouth and speak into the hidden microphone there. Calling in backup, Tanner realized. Having assumed Soong’s controller would be close to the meeting site, they’d moved in too early, leaving Tanner outside their perimeter. He still had a chance. But what about Soong?

As he asked the question, he saw a pair of agents trot up behind Soong and grab his arms.

Tanner was torn. Leave, Briggs, get away! There was nothing to be done for Soong now.

Forcing an easy pace, he turned and began strolling back toward the temple; a hundred yards beyond it he could see the vine-draped wall. He mounted the temple’s wooden walkway.

“You there! Stop!”

Tanner glanced over his shoulder. The caretaker was charging toward him. Tanner broke into a sprint, turned the temple corner, then stopped and flattened himself against the wall. The pounding of feet drew nearer. The caretaker barged around the corner, saw Tanner, tried to backpedal. Tanner grabbed him by the collar, pulled him close, and lashed out with a short jab to the man’s kidney. The man gasped and arched backward. Tanner slammed his fist into his temple, knocking him unconscious.

He pulled back the man’s sleeve, revealing the microphone. “I see him!” Tanner shouted in his best Mandarin. “Bifeng Temple! Hurry!”

He sprinted to the wall, took a bounding leap onto the vines, and started climbing. At the top, he stopped, turned back. He focused his camera on the main gate. There, being led away by a dozen men, was Han Soong. Just before he disappeared from view, Soong glanced over his shoulder.

Looking for me, Tanner thought in anguish. God, I’m sorry Han.

He tore his eyes away, rolled himself over the wall, and started running.

Though the deep, twisting gorges and towering rock spires of the highlands provided the ideal hiding place for the test facility, they did little for traveling comfort — especially in a Russian-built Hind-D attack helicopter designed more for durability than luxury.

Such is the price of secrecy, Kyung Xiang thought, and gripped the armrests a bit tighter.

As the head of China’s Guoanbu, or Ministry of State Security, Xiang was charged with many secrets, but the facility they’d just left surpassed all of them — except for Rubicon itself, of course. That he’d been entrusted with such an operation was both exhilarating and daunting. If it succeeded — if he succeeded — China would become the world’s premier superpower. As it should be.

But that was only part of it, Xiang knew. This was also his chance at redemption.

In his thirty-first year of government service, Xiang had seen firsthand the brutality of Chinese politics, but until the Soong affair he’d never felt it personally. That he’d thwarted what could have been a disaster for the People’s Republic was never mentioned; in fact, the mere proximity of disaster had nearly sealed his fate. His superiors had painted him as the scapegoat with typical Mandarin efficiency. One day a promising Guoanbu chief, the next a mere agent. His rise to the top of the MSS had surprised many people, and truth be told had Rubicon not landed in his lap, he would be on his way out.

Everything hinged on Rubicon. Failure didn’t bear thinking about.

Xiang felt himself mashed against the door as the pilot rolled the Hind onto its side. An outcropping of rock swept past the windshield, so close Xiang could have reached out and touched it.

He glanced over his shoulder. The two civilians in the back were slumped in their seats, their faces pasty. Hopefully they would recover. He wanted his passengers clearheaded when they reached their destination; nothing should blunt the impact of what they were going to see.

The gorge widened and the pilot descended, following the river until it opened into a lake. The village — little more than a cluster of huts surrounded by millet fields and forest — lay on the far shore.

“Land upwind of the lake,” Xiang ordered the pilot.

They banked around the shoreline and set down on the outskirts of the village. As the rotors spooled down, Xiang got out and gestured for the passengers to do the same.

“What is this place?” asked the older man, the director of the facility.

“Just a village,” Xiang said. “One village amid thousands. It doesn’t have a name.”

“Where is everyone?” the younger man, the director’s assistant, asked.

“Good question. Come, I’ll show you.”

Xiang led them down the empty main road to the edge of the village. Ahead lay a berm of dirt almost twenty feet tall. Xiang started up the mound, the two men struggling to keep up. When they reached the top, Xiang pointed down the opposite slope.

At the base of the mound lay a pit, ten feet deep, ten feet wide, and some fifty yards long. Stacked to its rim were bodies — hundreds of them, all nude — ranging in age from six months to ninety years.

The older man sputtered, his eyes wide. “Oh….Oh, my—”

“Your what?” Xiang said. “Your Buddha? This is not the work of your fat little God. This is your work.”

“What do you mean?” said the assistant director. “What happened here?”

“Their water supply was contaminated by a type of radioactive isotope, I’m told. The test you performed at the facility last month not only failed, but some of the runoff found its way into the river, then into this lake. The villagers drank the water and fed it to their livestock. Now they’re all dead.”

“No, that can’t be—”

“Not only has your mistake put us behind schedule, but now we have to cover it up before we have swarms of Western media digging around,” Xiang said.

The older man found his voice. “Is that all you care about? Public relations? You heartless—”

“This goes beyond public relations! We’re talking about the future of China. The deaths of a few peasants is inconsequential. In fact, it’s so inconsequential that one more won’t make any difference.”

In one fluid motion, Xiang drew his side arm, pressed it to the director’s forehead, and fired. The back of the man’s head exploded. He crumpled to the ground. Xiang reholstered his pistol, then placed his foot on the corpse’s hip and rolled the body down the slope.

Mouth agape, the younger man watched the body land in a heap atop those of the villagers.

“You’ve just been promoted,” Xiang said. “See that you do better than your predecessor.”

Ten months to retirement, thought President John Haverland, staring out the window of the Oval Office. Ten months left in a career that had spanned forty years. After November he’d serve out his last days as a lame duck, a glorified house sitter. Even now, his official duties were becoming fewer and fewer, which, truth be told, didn’t bother him much. It gave him time to think.

In all, he decided, he’d done a fair job. He’d made his mistakes, but that was life. He’d learned from them, however, and worked hard to base his decisions in that wisdom. Most of them, at least.

His own vice president was such a case. He’d never liked Phillip Martin, not when they worked together in the Senate, and not when his campaign advisors had put his name at the top of the list for vice presidential running mates. He’d argued against it, but in the end the choice was simple: Martin’s inclusion on the ticket would secure the votes Haverland needed to win. Of course, if the only issue had been victory, he would have told his advisors to shove it.

Quite simply, John Haverland believed in the power of service and he believed he could make a difference to the welfare of his country. Four years ago, Americans didn’t trust such sentiments. They were tired and mistrustful. Even so, by the time the election entered the final stretch, Haverland had changed a lot of minds. It still wasn’t going to be enough, his staff told him. Without Martin, we lose.

They had the statistics to support their claim. He reluctantly assented, and two months later he was elected president. Martin had played his role well enough, but the irony of their partnership was never lost on Haverland. He, the faithful, buck-stops-here president; and Martin, the polished, self-serving, chameleonlike vice president.

And now the son-of-a-bitch is making a run for the presidency.

“Not if I can help it,” he muttered. He pressed his intercom button. “Joanne, please call Vice President Martin and tell him I need to see him.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Martin arrived ten minutes later. He flashed his plastic smile at Haverland and strode across the carpet. “John, how are you today?”

“Sit down, Phil.”

Martin’s smile never faltered, but Haverland saw a flash of uncertainty in his VP’s eyes. The perfect political animal, Haverland thought. God help us. …

“Phil, I’ll come to the point: Your secretary has accused you of sexual harassment.”

“What?” Martin cried. “Peggy Manahan? That’s ridiculous, John. I would never—”

“In fact, Phil, what she describes sounds more like sexual assault.”

Martin chuckled. “Oh, come on. …”

“She claims you had her pinned against the wall, that you were pulling up her skirt.”

“That’s not true.”

“What part?”

“All of it, John. For God’s sake—”

“It never happened?”

“No.” Martin spread his hands. “She’s confused, John. Perhaps she had ideas about us. …”

Oh good Christ, Haverland thought. “So it never happened and Peggy Manahan, a solid, faithful White House employee for eighteen years is either lying, or she’s caught in the throes of an obsessive fantasy about you. Is that what you’re telling me?”

Martin smoothed out his tie. “I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating.”

“We’re well beyond insinuation, Phil. I believe her. I believe every word of it. But the truth is, this is my fault. I knew what and who you were when I brought you aboard. I buried it, called a lesser evil to do a larger good. But that’s crap. I put you where you are because I needed you to win. I put you in the running for the presidency.”

“That’s right! That’s exactly right!” Martin shot back. “And whether you believe it or not, I’ve earned it. Now it’s my turn. You’ve had your shot. Now I get mine!”

Haverland stared hard at Martin, gauging him, waiting.

Martin cleared his throat. “So where does this leave us? What are you going to do with this?”

“Nothing. I’ve spoken with Peggy. She’s retiring. It was her choice. She wants to get as far away from you as possible and forget it ever happened.”

“Good. Good for her. Best we all put this behind us.”

“Not quite, Phil.” Haverland reached into his drawer and pulled out a spiral-bound address book. He plopped it onto the desk. “This is forty year’s worth of names: CEOs, senators, ambassadors, PACs, jurists, lobbyists, newspaper editors, investment bankers. … Starting this afternoon, I’m calling in every marker I own. By this time next week, the tap on your campaign is going to start drying up.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Watch me.”

“Come on, John. Can’t we work this out—”

“No.”

“Without that money I haven’t got a chance in hell of winning!”

“Exactly. You don’t deserve the office. More to the point, America deserves better than you.”

Martin’s face turned purple. “You bastard! This is not fair! What gives you the right—”

Haverland stood up, turned his back on Martin, and walked to the window. “We’re done, Phil. Get out of my office. If there’s any justice, you’ll never see it again.”

Sunil Dhar enjoyed his work. Kashmiri by birth, Dhar was more sympathetic to his Indian customers, but beyond that he was an equal-opportunity agent. Such was the beauty of his vocation. As long as the customer paid, their nationality and cause were of no concern to him.

This would be his second meeting with the client, and he’d chosen the café for its many exits and open facade. If there were watchers, he would see them. Not that he expected problems. His client seemed genuine in his intention, if not in his presentation.

The client certainly looked Japanese, but Orientals all looked alike to him. Even so, Dhar had dealt with JRA terrorists before, and there was something wrong with this one. But what? The man wasn’t with any police or intelligence agency; his network of contacts had told him that much.

If he’s not JRA, who is he? There were two likely scenarios: a rival group looking to insulate themselves should the transaction fail; or a go-between trying to establish cover for a larger operation.

Wheels within wheels, Dhar thought. His line of work was much more satisfying — not to mention simple. Most of the time, that is. This job would require some delicacy. Sarin was the king of nerve agents, so toxic it could kill a theaterful of people. He idly wondered what they (whoever “they” were) wanted it for, but quickly pushed the question from his mind. Not his business.

His client appeared on the patio and walked to Dhar’s table. “Welcome,” Dhar said with a smile. “Sit down. Can I order you some tea, something stronger, perhaps?”

“No. Do you have an answer for me?”

Dhar nodded. “What you want will cost a lot of money, but it is obtainable.”

“How much?”

“Seven hundred thousand, U.S.”

“That’s outrageous!”

“A bargain, I promise you. The product we’re talking about is well guarded. We’re talking about Russia, you realize. There are bribes, special transport requirements. … ”

The client hesitated for a moment. “Yes, I can see that. But you can get it? You’re certain.”

“If I weren’t, I wouldn’t have brought you here. In my line of work, customer satisfaction is a matter of survival. So, what is your answer?”

“Go ahead. We will pay you.”

Dhar slid a piece of paper across the table. “My bank and account number. Once you have deposited half my fee, I will start. I will call you in sixty days with an update. Only one thing remains. Where do you wish to take delivery?”

The man’s answer was immediate. “Russia, the port of Nakhodka-Vostochny.”

Dhar nodded. “Very well. I’ll begin.”

The man stood up and walked away.

Curious choice, Nakhodka, Dhar thought. So much easier to take it out via truck or plane. Why choose a harbor?