Catalyst (Breakthrough Book 3) (17 page)

29

At that moment, John Clay was 25,000 feet over the Balintang Channel and less than one hour from Taiwan.  Staring into the blackness beyond his small window, he tried to focus despite the early stages of exhaustion which were setting in.  He still couldn’t turn his mind off and it was beginning to take its toll.

He had an uneasy feeling of what lay ahead in China.  Neither he nor Borger had a firm grasp yet on exactly where he was headed, other than a target of roughly a thousand square miles.  The more they learned, the more they became convinced that General Wei hid the case that he received from Guyana.  And not just from them, but from everyone.  But why? 

Clay shook his head and leaned back onto the headrest.  He tried again to clear his mind, coming back to an image that always relaxed him: Alison.

He’d managed to talk to her briefly after his plane left the west coast, but now he was too far.  Any outside communications were a liability this close to China.  And if their own NSA spying program had learned anything, it was how any conversation could eventually be recorded, especially those via commercial cell towers.

Given his location and the implications of what he was after, only Clay’s Navy Inmarsat satellite phone with the strongest possible encryption could be trusted. 

That same satellite phone rang ninety-three minutes later just moments after Clay had exited customs in Hong Kong International Airport. 

Reaching the expansive concourse of Terminal One, Clay searched for a quiet corner among hundreds of other travelers.  He ducked in next to one of the terminal’s giant support pillars and unfolded the phone’s external antennae.

“Hey, Wil.”

“Hi, Clay.  How you holding up?”

“Just got through customs.  So far so good.”

Borger grinned knowingly on the other end.  “I know.  Listen, I have more on General Wei.”

Clay rolled his eyes at Borger’s modesty.  “Go.”

“Remember that Wei had a wife and a daughter?  The wife was a pediatrician and died a few years ago from cancer.  His daughter appears to have died last year due to a degenerative heart disease.”

“I remember.  It doesn’t seem to leave him a whole lot of motive, does it?”

“Not really.  But I’ve been doing some digging.  His wife’s funeral was pretty big.  I can find a ton of news articles on it.  A lot of dignitaries and military personnel.  Pretty much what we would expect from the position he was in.”

“Right.”

“But here’s the thing, I can’t find hardly anything on his daughter’s funeral.  A few mentions in local newspapers but nothing on the scale of his wife.  Not even close.”

“Hmm.  That matches the CIA’s write up on Wei.  A lot of information on his wife but not much on his daughter.  Maybe an oversight?”

“Dunno.  I was even able to briefly break into the MIIT, their ministry of information, but it doesn’t have a whole lot on her either.  They have pages and pages of background for Wei and his wife when she died, but very little on the daughter’s death.”

“Maybe it’s deliberate.”

“How do you mean?”

“A double loss like that — a wife followed by his only child — would be devastating.  He probably didn’t want any more publicity.  If anyone could keep people away, I’m sure Wei could.”

“Well, I think you’re right about that.  But there’s something else.  His daughter was seventeen, and a nice-looking young lady.  Don’t you think she would have had some friends?”

Clay frowned.  “One would think.”

“Right.  Well, I can’t find a single mention of her funeral, even on China’s social media sites.  And it gets stranger.  I also managed to get a copy of the register from Beijing Friendship Hospital where Li Na Wei reportedly died.  And there are
no
visitors over the previous four weeks, except her father.”

“And she died of degenerative heart failure,” Clay added.  “Which doesn’t happen overnight.”

“No.  It doesn’t.”

“Are there any pictures from Li Na Wei’s funeral?”

“Not that I can find.”

Clay stared absently at the constant stream of passengers beneath the new six-million-square-foot airline terminal.

“Is it just me,” Borger asked.  “Or is all that just a little
too
private?”

Clay wasn’t an expert on the Chinese, but he did know there was something far more important to most men than emotional privacy.  It was family honor.  Was there something about his daughter that shamed Wei into a secret funeral?  It was possible, but so far everything Clay knew about Wei seemed to indicate that, if anything, he was a man of ethics.  So why the subversion?

“You still there, Clay?”

“I’m here.”

“I don’t know about you, but this isn’t making a whole lot of sense to me.”

“I agree.”  Clay took a deep breath and looked at his watch.  “Stay on it, and I’ll check back with you in a few hours.”

“Roger.  You know where to find me.”

Clay ended the call and turned his gaze out through the giant window, thinking.  Through the window, another TransAsia Airways jet was being brought to a nearby gate.

Borger was right.  General Wei’s actions weren’t making a lot of sense.  Something Clay was chalking up to two possibilities: either they had some seriously bad intelligence or Wei was more clever than anyone knew. 

Clay was pretty certain it was the latter.

30

Jin Tang was ordinary by almost any physical standard.   At five foot four, with straight dark hair and an inexpressive face, he was virtually invisible among the horde of people flowing in and out of Hong Kong’s International Airport, the gateway to Mainland China.

He watched carefully as hundreds exited the terminal doors, towing luggage and attempting to wave down one of a dozen red-painted taxis streaming past.

Tang was waiting patiently in a small Toyota hatchback well away from the first exit door.  His left hand rested on the steering wheel of the still-running car while his right was snaked casually under his heavy jacket, lightly groping a 9mm pistol tucked inside his belt.  His dark eyes remained unblinking, fixed on the double doors, until his target emerged in a large black and yellow Brisbane Broncos rugby shirt beneath a wide-brimmed Akubra hat.

Tang and his car were immediately moving, rolling forward smoothly until he was close enough for a positive identification.

With a squeak of his brakes, he eased to a stop in front of the door and rolled down the passenger window.

“Let’s go Broncos!” he shouted, pumping a fist in the air.

The man sporting the shirt and hat peered at him with a grin.  “Ah, you watch our Broncos, yeah?  Great year so far.”   The tall man stepped forward with a smile and bent down, resting his hand on the open windowsill of the passenger door.  With a subtle glance to either side, he nodded his head.  “Don’t mind if I do.”

He promptly stuffed his bag through the back window and pulled the front door open.

As soon as the man was inside, Tang darted out into traffic.  His hand moved away from the gun and instead pulled out a photograph to double-check.  It was him.

In perfect English, Tang replied and steered toward the center lane.  “No offense, but your accent is terrible.”

In the passenger seat, John Clay pulled the belt across his chest.  “What can I say, I’ve only been to Australia once.  And it wasn’t for leisure.”

Tang slowed into a sea of brake lights and watched several people move between the cars.  He smiled and extended a hand toward Clay, who shook it.  “Jin Tang.”

“John Clay.  Thanks for the lift.”

“Where we headed?”

“Beijing is as close as we have so far.”

Tang glanced at Clay’s large frame in the small seat.  “Get as comfortable as you can.  We have a long drive.”

“Feels like my seat on the plane.”

“We’ll gear up outside of Wuhan.  You need anything bigger than an AK?”

“I don’t think so.  I’m hoping not to be here very long.”

Tang grinned.  “That’s what I said six years ago.”

“Well, I don’t think I could pull off your job.”

Tang’s official job was a security guard for a large company contracted with the Chinese government.  He was currently, and quite strategically, assigned to the Ministry of Foreign Relations of the People’s Republic of China.  Specifically the Department of European and Central Asian Affairs in Guangzhou.  However, Tang’s true job was to glean information regarding Russia’s political and economic liaisons with China after the two had recently become increasingly, and surprisingly, close.

Tang’s “ordinary” appearance was intentional as required by the United States’ Central Intelligence Agency.  His title of “operative” within the agency was also generic.  More simply put, Tang was a U.S. spy.

And even though the security agency he’d been infiltrated into as a cover was far from efficient, they did have some semblance of protocol.  He had a maximum of three days before his absence would raise attention.

“I sure hope you have something better than just Beijing soon.”

Clay nodded.  “So do I.”

31

In Beijing, Li Qin remained standing in the middle of General Wei’s former dwelling.  The apartment was located in the district of Dongcheng, the same district home to The Forbidden City, the Temple of Confucius, and the infamous Tian’anman Square where in 1989 Chinese soldiers opened fire on hundreds of pro-democracy demonstrators.  It was the movement that was heard around the world.

Today, Dongcheng was the largest upper-class area of Beijing, housing some of Hebei Province’s wealthiest aristocracy.

Yet as Qin stood in the main living room of the spacious apartment, he was struck by how simply Wei had lived.  The light walls, floor to ceiling bookcases, and checkered carpeting were nice and appropriately decorative but of a somewhat simpler taste.  Of all the people Qin had investigated from within the Ministry of State Security, Wei was without a doubt the least extravagant. 

Xinzhen, the most senior of the Politburo’s Standing Committee, had tasked him with uncovering and understanding Wei’s final actions which led to a surprise revolt against the most powerful men in all of China.  At least that was how Xinzhen had described it to Qin, which meant it was most certainly not accurate.

Xinzhen’s reluctance to reveal too much was itself a clue.  Never before had Qin been asked to work within such a vacuum of information.  He was told to find information that no one had, and to do it with virtually no information to begin with.  The great Xinzhen was holding back.  And judging from past experience, the more a person held back information, the deeper the scandal went.

Qin moved to the windows of the apartment, where he pulled out his cell phone and calmly dialed. 

On the second ring, the call was answered by a young man barely into his twenties with jet-black hair and eyes to match.  One of
the
best computer hackers in all of Eastern China.

Known only as “M0ngol,” his gaunt pale face remained illuminated in the bright and eerie glow of his computer monitor.

China had grown at an astonishing pace for over four centuries, in what many would term “reckless abandon.”  And the young man on the other end of Qin’s call was the very personification of that recklessness, now in a new and frightening digital world.

M0ngol was one of the hundreds of sophisticated hackers employed by China’s infamous intelligence ministry, hired in response to the devastating level of spying initiated by the United States’ National Security Agency.

Countries all over the world were first stunned to learn of the NSA’s actions when finally exposed, then immediately driven to thwart what they deemed an invasion of national sovereignty.  Both friends and foes rushed to establish their own counter-agencies, and not surprisingly, the one country with the resources needed to go head to head with the United States…was China.

The most populous country in the world had a plethora of exceptionally gifted computer hackers at their disposal, already motivated by curiosity and greed.  The only motivator that China’s Ministry of State Security needed to add…was anger.

The world of espionage had changed.  Wars were now increasingly being fought on a digital battlefield of electrons.  Individual hacking of emails and bank accounts were considered quaint next to nationally funded attacks on other countries.  Attacks that were barely imaginable just a few years ago with capabilities that too few were even able to grasp.

War had been reborn, and with it, a new modern soldier.  One that did not require physical training or battlefield fortitude.  The new soldiers were young men and women, barely out of their teens, having lived and breathed computers almost since birth.  Instead of rifles, they used keyboards.

M0ngol was one of China’s new soldiers.  One of the best, and just like the NSA, China’s spying took place both internationally and
domestically
.

“What do you see?” Qin asked.

His dark eyes flickered back and forth between two of the screens before him.  The algorithms used by China’s banking systems were still too crude to notice the patterns that M0ngol now saw.  “It’s been going on for a long time.  Withdrawals and transfers over the last year.  Different amounts and different times to appear random.  All withdrawn into cash.”

“No deposits?”

“Nothing outside of his salary.”

Qin crossed the carpet and approached the apartment’s kitchen.  It was well-kept with nothing left out on the counters.  He continued to the bedroom where things were just as neat.

M0ngol switched his focus to a different screen where one of his programs was plotting locations against Wei’s banking activities.  Those dots suggested yet another pattern.

“Credit usage shows much heavier activity accompanying southern destinations, toward Baoding and Shijiazhuang.  Several repeated trips.”

Qin nodded on the other end and sat down on the edge of the large bed, scanning the room.  “What kind of purchases?”

“Flights, hotels, and meals.  Little else.  A mistress?”

“Perhaps.” 
It was possible
, Qin thought.  Most men that age had mistresses.  But Wei was different.  He was not a man of excess, and his career history showed a genuine distaste for politics and extravagance.  Quite rare for a man of his rank.

Qin glanced at two large pictures positioned atop the dark sandalwood dresser.  One of Wei’s wife and the other of his daughter.

“There’s something else,” M0ngol said.  “There was a maintenance service on his car a few months ago.  The miles for this vehicle number significantly increased over the last year.”  He paused and checked another screen.  “But his phone records show something entirely different.”

“Explain.”

“They show his phone was offline repeatedly, frequently on a weekend.  But never during his trips to Baoding and Shijiazhuang.”

“A problem with his phone?”

There was a long pause while more data was checked.  “I don’t think so.  The pattern is too predictable.”

Predictable
, Qin thought to himself, staring at the two pictures.  Predictable wasn’t the word he had in mind.  Everything about Wei’s last months were beginning to feel like something else.  His records, his communications, and now his apartment…and the two distinct photos on a dresser.  No, the word that kept coming to Qin’s mind was
intentional
.

He knew that Xinzhen and the rest of the Politburo had tasked Wei with a secret mission.  Something highly classified and outside of official communication channels.  It was also clear that it had gone very wrong.