White Jade

Chapter Eight

The security guard stared as Nick came through the door.

"You okay, Mister Carter?"

"I'm fine, Bob. Just an accident."

Nick walked ten flights up to his floor. He didn't like elevators much, not since Kabul. He went into his apartment and into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The bullet had taken away the left earlobe. It wouldn't do much for his looks when the bandage came off. A woman had told him once that he had rugged good looks. He got the rugged part, but he wasn't too sure about the rest. He didn't much care.

He poured a whiskey, tossed his jacket on the couch and took off the shoulder rig. He needed to call Jordan. He thought about the FBI and the way the Bureau kept things close. He probably wasn't going to get much help there, but Jordan was a pretty good guy.

"Jordan."

"Zeke, it's Nick Carter."

"Nick. I saw you on the evening news. What happened out there?"

Jordan's voice was deep and vibrant. A big man, stone coal black, he was an anomaly for an agent, unafraid to speak his mind. Nick wondered how he'd lasted as long as he had in the rigid culture of the FBI. He'd made it all the way to the WFO in Washington in spite of everything.

"I was catching a ride with William Connor's niece. Two vehicles full of Chinese goons tried to grab her."

"You must have been a big surprise." There was a pause. "What can I do for you?"

"You're the liaison for the Bureau on Conner's murder. Did you turn up anything we haven't heard about yet?"

"Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing."

"You know it was Wu who set up Connor?"

"Yes."

"We have a computer belonging to Connor. We hoped it would give us leads. All we got were business reports, financial info and a draft proposal for work in China."

"What kind of work in China?"

"An archeological dig. Connor wanted to fund it and get permission to dig in return."

"Can you get that financial info to me?"

"First thing tomorrow. I wanted to ask if you found anything in Connor's office."

"Not much. Just the kind of things you'd expect. Lots of financial records."

"Any keys? Safe deposit keys?"

"We did find some keys."

"And?"

"We got warrants to open the boxes, but there wasn't anything helpful. Some antique jewelry, diamonds, sapphires, gold coins, bearer bonds, that sort of thing. Just your average billionaire's little treasures."

"Do I detect a note of judgmental envy?"

"Nah, everyone should have something set aside for a rainy day."

Nick said, "Zeke. If there's something going on we don't know about it might help if you guys came clean. About Wu."

Silence. Then, "Off the record?"

"Yes."

"When Harker asked about Wu it dovetailed with an ongoing investigation. You know about the Chinese criminal underworld here in the States? The Triads? Also known as the Black Societies?"

"I know the Mafia are newcomers compared to them."

"Yeah. The Triad oaths make the Mafia Code of Silence look like a radio talk show. They're planning something and Wu is mixed up in it.

"Wu met with them at least three times. He's up to his eyeballs in the murder of Connor and you say Chinese thugs tried to grab his niece. Seems like more than a coincidence."

"We didn't know about the Triads." Carter paused. "We might have a lead. I'm going to follow up on it."

"There's always a lead, sooner or later. Can you let me know what you find out?"

"Subject to Harker's wishes, yes. Maybe off the record."

"Okay. Let's stay in touch. Nice talking with you."

"Likewise." Carter broke the connection.

He went over the conversation in his mind. The Bureau had told Harker nothing when she requested their files on Wu. Now he knew there was a connection between the Triads and Colonel Wu, and by extension General Yang.

If the book was at Connor's country place tomorrow, some questions might get answered. He hit the rack and fell asleep.

He had the dream.

They come in low and fast over the ridge, the relentless hard drumbeats of the rotors echoing from the valley walls.

The village is a miserable, dust-blown cluster of low, flat-roofed buildings, baking in a bleak hollow of sharp, brown hills. A wide, dirt street runs down the middle. They drop from the chopper and hit the street running. On the right, low flat roofed houses. On the left, more houses and the market, a patchwork of ramshackle bins and hanging cloth walls. Clouds of flies swarm around things hanging in the open air of the butcher’s stall.

He leads his team past the market. Close enough to the buildings to be able to duck into a doorway. Far enough away so a round fired won't burrow down a wall and right into him.

He hears a baby cry. The street is deserted. Where is everyone?

A dozen bearded figures rise up on the rooftops and begin firing AKs. The market stalls disintegrate around him in a firestorm of splinters and plaster and rock exploding from the sides of the buildings.

He dives for cover. A child runs toward him, screaming about Allah. Nick watches and hesitates, a second too long. The boy cocks his arm back and throws a grenade as Nick shoots him. The M4 kicks back, one, two, three.

The first round strikes the boy's chest, the second his throat, the third his face. The child's head balloons into a red fountain of blood and bone. The grenade drifts through the air in slow motion…everything goes white…

He woke shouting, twisted in sweat-soaked sheets.

He got up, made coffee, poured in a double Jameson's. When he had the dream there was no point in going back to bed.

When he joined the Marines he'd been gung-ho. Naive. Ready to change the world. But all the nameless and meaningless landscapes of loss and death had changed him. The world stayed the same.

That kid in Afghanistan couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve. Old enough to throw a ball, or a grenade, a pretty good distance. Young enough to believe the bullshit he'd been fed about what God wanted him to do and put himself right where Carter would have to kill him.

The child and the grenade always waited in the back of his mind. Carter knew there wasn't anything else he could have done, but it didn't help. It was one more death in a chaotic war that couldn't be won, in a corrupt and brutal land.

Working for Harker gave him a way to bring some kind of meaning to it. It was personal. A way to stop the kind of people who'd sent that child against him. People who thought it was a really good idea to put grenades in the hands of children. People who thought that whatever they wanted was the only right way for everyone. That killing anyone who didn't agree with them was righteous. People who thought God was pleased by that. Carter was damn sure God hadn't told that kid what to do.

He waited for sunrise.