Beyond all Limits (27 page)

‘What is the status of the general?’

‘Alive, as far as we can tell. But the operator who was assigned to the job is on the run, he’s got the whole of Beijing after him.’

Abrams heart sank, unable to believe what had happened. Mark Cole, the infallible ‘Asset’, must have finally failed. Failed, and been identified as an assassin.

She found it hard to process – one of the things which made Cole so effective was his means of assassination, supposedly untraceable and undetectable. The plan was for him to get in there, do the job and get out without anyone even realizing an assassination had taken place.

But then again, Cole had been planning on performing a ‘delayed’ assassination; it could be that Wu had already been killed, but just didn’t know it yet.

‘Keep me updated on Wu,’ Abrams told Dorrell. ‘If we can monitor his health in some way, then do it. He might have some sort of . . . illness at some stage later today.’

She knew Dorrell would understand; would perhaps even work out who the American assassin was. After all, Cole had assassinated Dorrell’s own deputy – Bill Crozier, Director of the National Clandestine Service – just two and a half years before, using the same method.

‘Yes ma’am,’ he confirmed, the message understood.

‘The explosion?’ Abrams asked next.

‘We don’t have details yet – as I said, this thing has literally just broken out, within the last hour, and we’re just starting to get a handle on it. I’ve called you first because . . . well, obviously due to the nature of our involvement.’

Abrams understood; he knew Abrams was using a covert group, and he didn’t want to alert anyone who might not know about it. She felt her faith in Dorrell confirmed once more, happy that she had kept him on as DCI for a second term.

‘Okay,’ Abrams said, checking her watch –
3.21am.
With the twelve hour time difference, mid-afternoon in Beijing. She wondered how the rest of Force One was doing, what the status of the Politburo members was. ‘Please keep me informed directly. You were right to call me first, and thank you for that.’

‘Yes ma’am,’ Dorrell said. ‘I’ll let you know what we develop.’

He clicked off the line, and Abrams sipped at her coffee, deep in thought.

The discovery of Mark Cole was bad – perhaps disastrous. If General Wu knew he had been targeted, there was no telling what he would do in retaliation. How had Cole been intercepted? Had he managed to hit Wu before he was identified? Was Wu even now on his hands and knees, heart giving up?

Abrams hoped so, for everyone’s sake; because if it became public knowledge that the United States had sent an assassin to kill Wu, the comebacks would be monumentally disastrous.

5

Jake Navarone watched as the members of the PRC’s esteemed Politburo examined their new disguises.

‘What is this?’ Liang Huanjia asked in obvious disgust. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

The First Vice Premier had spoken in English for the benefit of the Americans, and Navarone responded in turn.

‘I’m afraid we’re not joking,’ he said, eyes unwavering. ‘We’re deadly serious. And if it makes you feel a little bit embarrassed, don’t forget how bad things will be if you get caught. A lifetime in prison, maybe a visit to the special basement torture cells you’ve got rigged up down there. That’s if they don’t just shoot you on sight; then your very manly suit will be full of holes, and your pants will be full of shit when your bowels relax just a bit too much – being shot does that to you, you know. How are you going to look then?’

Liang tried to hold Navarone’s stare for a moment, but soon looked away, embarrassed not only by the commando’s words, but because several of his own colleagues were laughing at them.

Navarone watched as another Vice Premier – Chang Wubei, wasn’t it? – put a friendly hand on Liang’s shoulder.

‘Come on,’ Chang said in his native tongue, a smile on his handsome face, ‘lighten up. It’s not as if you’ve not worn these things before – I remember that party in Shanghai three years ago, even if you don’t!’

That comment – translated quickly for Navarone by Julie Barrington – elicited even more laughter from the politicians, and Navarone made a mental note to report back on Chang’s leadership potential when they returned home. Cole had told him that part of the mission was to monitor the behavior of the men and women of the Politburo during the stress of their escape; see who was weak, who was strong, who could be useful to the US, and who was a liability.

Chang was obviously ahead on points at this stage – still smiling as he encouraged everyone to get changed as the American commandos had asked – but Navarone wondered which category he would eventually fit into.

A useful ally, or a future liability.

Cole eased off on the throttles as he rounded the northeast corner of the lake, but only enough to identify his target. He was too close to the banks now, the northern perimeter of the lake lined by trees which separated the park from the busy Di’anmen West Street beyond; and even through the heavy rain, Cole could see soldiers lined up in the trees, weapons aimed at him across the lake.

He knew that the longer he ran, the more likely it was that the order would go from ‘capture’ to ‘kill’, and he didn’t want to find out firsthand what the current status of those orders was.

He spotted what he had hoped would be there and felt the relief momentarily come in before he consciously stopped it, knowing it could interfere with his performance. He opened up the throttles again, accelerating towards the opening that led underneath a wide concrete overpass to a smaller pool beyond.

It was part of the network of linked waterways in this area that Cole had researched when making his plans, and he piloted the fast vessel through the small gap at high speed, just in case the soldiers opened fire.

He didn’t hear gunfire behind him, but wasn’t sure if he’d just missed it due to the combined sounds of the high-power engine and the raging storm. But he hadn’t been hit, and came out from underneath the overpass into the circular pool.

He knew orders would be being given to track him, to follow him, and fully expected other boats to enter the pool soon after, soldiers to run over and surround it, guns all around him, demands for his surrender shouted from the four winds.

But as he circled the pool, examining the northern side, he knew he wouldn’t be there for long; the pool linked further north, running into a narrow water-filled tunnel that led underneath the bridged road networks to Qianhai Lake beyond.

As he maneuvered the craft round in a circle, he took in the entrance to the tunnel, analyzing his approach. It was only ten feet wide, compared to the approximate eight-foot width of the speedboat; a tiny margin of error, but one which Cole had to risk.

What was more disturbing was the sudden dip, the waters cascading down a sharp drop into the rapids of the tunnel, swollen now with rainwater.

He didn’t know how deep it was, if the drop would cause the speedboat to hit the bottom and break apart, leaving him stranded there, ready for capture.

But at the same time, he knew he had to take the risk; he could hear other boats approaching, the sounds of soldiers as they chased across from the tree line.

He moved the speedboat to the southernmost extreme of the pool, gunned the engine and sped north as fast as he could go, attacking the tunnel entrance, hoping his momentum would carry him forwards and negate the gravitational effect of the drop.

He was picking up speed, traveling faster, faster, faster, the narrow entrance coming up now, even smaller than he’d thought at this speed; but he kept the craft steady, not looking even as he heard another speedboat enter the pool from the west, gunfire echoing around the enclosed area.

In his subconscious, he immediately understood that the shots weren’t meant to kill him; instead, they were designed to disable his boat, hit the engine or the fuel tank and bring his break for freedom to a decisive end.

But he was traveling too fast, and the bullets all hit the wake he left behind him, and then he was there, blasting through the concrete pillars of the tunnel, the speedboat almost soaring in midair off the ledge, still accelerating as it jumped; then crashing down but still moving forward, the hull avoiding the bottom of the rainwater-swelled tunnel.

Cole aimed the boat in a straight line, passing directly under Di’anmen West Street, feeling the weight of concrete and traffic above him.

Spotting dull, grey daylight ahead of him, he kept his boat pointed towards this target and risked a glance behind, alerted by the loud, echoing sounds of a second engine entering the tunnel.

But as he looked, he saw how the pilot of the second speedboat hadn’t entered straight, had clipped the base of the ledge and then the right-hand wall, the momentum and impact trying to spin the craft around, its passage stopped by the narrow confines of the tunnel; instead it hit back and forth, battered from one wall to the other before rearing upwards, its long bow hitting the concrete tunnel ceiling and slamming back down, spinning again. But this time it was too much and the speedboat started to break apart, smashed to pieces, engine destroyed, sparking onto the leaking fuel.

Cole turned back to the front, not needing to see more, and opened the throttles even further, the entrance to Qianhai so close now, so tantalizingly close as he heard the blast behind him, the raging inferno from the exploding speedboat racing through the tunnel towards him, flames shooting through the enclosed concrete space at phenomenal speed.

He could feel the heat on his back, started to worry that his own fuel lines might catch and blow up.

But then he was out, out in the blessed open and the life-giving rain, propelled out of the tunnel into Qianhai Lake by a column of red-hot flame.

Cole breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that no more boats would be following from Beihai Park.

But it wasn’t over yet, not by a longshot. There were still the soldiers, the guards, the police; hundreds, perhaps thousands of people searching for him. And he also knew it wouldn’t be long before the helicopters were put up to help with the search effort.

He knew he didn’t have long, and determined to put what little time he did have to good use, he accelerated north up the near-empty expanse of Qianhai Lake.

6

Twenty minutes had passed, what seemed like a lifetime to Cole.

He had raced the speedboat on a direct line north, past the marina to the west and the small island to the east, finally abandoning the craft on the northern shore of Qianhai Lake.

He had jammed the throttles wide open and sent the boat further on into the lake, probably to run out of fuel or to crash into the shoreline at some random point, and had jumped into the lake, swimming with powerful strokes to the woods which lined the northern banks.

He knew that – given the cloud cover and lack of sunlight – any witnesses would have had their attention drawn to the rapidly moving speedboat rather than the much smaller, slower body which had propelled itself into the lake.

He had pulled himself onto the shore soon after and headed off into the trees, all too aware that – as a Caucasian – he would stand out wherever he went in Beijing. There might have been thousands of foreigners in the city, but it was a far cry from the eight million Chinese who lived here. His physical appearance would make him a target wherever he went.

But he accepted that – at this stage – there was nothing very much he could do about that, and so decided to rely on the fact that not enough time had passed since this whole thing started for the vast majority of the Beijing population to know anything about it.

He therefore had a window of opportunity – before every citizen in the area was ordered to report the movements of Westerners – to make good his escape.

His plan consisted of finding an entryway into the sewer system; if unobserved, he might still be able to link up with the rest of Force One and extract with them. But he knew this would put the secondary mission at risk, and so decided there and then
not
to link up with them; he would make his own way back.

He could still use the sewers though, and so broke out of the tree-line and entered the ancient alleyways of the Houhai district, its crisscrossed maze of small alleys between traditional courtyard houses a small reminder of what Beijing had used to look like – before the communist love of grey concrete had made its unfortunate presence felt.

He walked casually now, careful not to seem out of place; just a tourist taking in the sights of the old city. At least his soaking wet clothes could easily be accounted for by the rain.

On the sparsely populated streets – most people having retreated inside until the worst of the storm was over – he noticed that many people carried umbrellas, others using newspaper as a makeshift barrier.

Cole followed suit, buying a paper from a street vendor and putting it up over his head; not only would it make him blend in better, it would also mask his  identity from aerial surveillance.

His vision continually swept the area, ever vigilant against the security forces who might even now be searching for him; the boat would have been found by now, and there was no way they would accept that he had simply drowned.

As he wove in and out of the quaint, stone alleyways, passing street vendors and washing lines, food carts and playing children, he also scanned the ground for manhole covers, or any indication that there was some way of accessing the sewer system.

It would have been an impossible task to locate and memorize every entrance to the sewer network, and back in America, Cole had just learned the locations of several major entry points.

He was headed toward the nearest of these points, within the basement of the Fushan Temple, sandwiched between the small museum of Prince Kung’s Mansion and the campus of Beijing Normal University North. But if he found another way in while making his way there, he would definitely take it.

Cole heard sirens blaring in the background, but they came and went; none were headed his way, not yet at least.

He was being eyed with suspicion by the locals, but no more than was normal in Beijing; the people here had a tendency to stare, and Cole didn’t know if he was being recognized or not. But nobody made any move toward him, and nobody tried to stop him. He was just another crazy tourist trying to find his way back to his hotel in the storm.

He was halfway to Fushan Temple when he saw the grate, hidden down a small alleyway to the east, empty except for a single washing line and a hastily abandoned football.

Checking carefully around him, he decided that nobody was paying attention and casually turned the corner into the alleyway.

He increased his pace now, anxious to get underground before he was seen.

He got to the grate quickly, hands going down, pulling up on the ancient, rusted metal.

At first the grate barely moved at all, but after a fourth gut-wrenching heave, it slipped out of its place and came partially up from the stone alley floor.

He breathed deeply, knowing that the next heave would do it, steeling himself for the effort.

But he was stopped in his tracks by the police whistle being blasted at the end of the alleyway, and turned to look, watching in horror as a pair of municipal policemen came charging towards him, guns drawn as their colleague continued to whistle for immediate back-up.

Cole knew that the boat must have been found, they must have figured he was headed into the mazelike streets of Houhai and sent in patrols to scour the area. The fact that the man wasn’t using a radio told Cole that such long-range communication was unnecessary – back-up was close enough to hear the whistle, and could be here at any moment.

He knew he could never open the grate before the policemen shot him, and so put his hands up in the air in surrender, noting the premature smiles on the faces of the approaching cops.

He let them get close to him, one keeping him covered with a pistol while the other went for his handcuffs.

He waited as they moved ever closer, patiently assessing everything about them.

Just a little closer . . . a little more . . .

Cole burst into action, slamming the callused edge of one hand down onto the pistol, chopping it from the man’s grip. As it dropped to the floor, Cole chopped forwards with his other hand, hitting the cop straight in the throat.

The man dropped to the floor, clutching his windpipe, and Cole reached out for the handcuffs held by the other man, using them to pull him forward onto a solid head butt which broke his nose and left him unconscious on the rain-slicked alley floor.

The man with the whistle, aghast at what he had witnessed, was screaming now – orders or curses, Cole couldn’t be sure – and went for his own pistol.

In the blink of an eye, Cole bent at the knees and snatched the first cop’s gun from the floor, aiming and firing from his kneeling position in one smooth, precise movement.

The round hit the cop in the shoulder, spinning him round and dropping him to the floor in a shocked, silent heap.

Cole looked down at the grate, wondering what to do; it was possible he had time to remove the grate and get down there, but if the authorities knew he was in the sewers they would order a full search to be made – something that would potentially jeopardize the other Force One operation.

He moved as soon as he thought, vice-like fingers digging into the rough stone work of the alleyway as he hauled himself upwards, heading for the roof instead.

Using ledges, pointing, breaks and small holes in the wall, Cole climbed fast up the wet, slippery surface, eventually hooking his fingers onto the grey-tiled roof and pulling himself all the way up – just moments before the edge erupted under a hail of gunfire, stone and tile blasted away just inches from his feet by small-arms fire.

Cole wasn’t surprised – despite orders to the contrary, any policeman seeing a fallen colleague would open fire and hang the consequences. His shot might not have killed the cop – like the strike to the other man’s throat, it was aimed carefully, intended to be non-lethal – but the other cops would hardly thank him for his kindness, and their hearts would be filled with revenge. Filled enough to follow him up here?

He wondered about that as he turned and – crouched low to aid his balance – started to move swiftly across the rooftops, the alleys so narrow that he could easily hop from one to another.

If they didn’t follow him up, he could be away from the area very rapidly and – trapped in the maze below – they would be unable to track him.

Only a few precious moments of hope passed after having this thought before the sounds of the renewed whistle blasts from below were completely overwhelmed by a much louder noise from above.

The all-too-familiar sound of rotor blades.

The helicopters had arrived.

And – exposed now on the open rooftops – Cole realized that he had turned himself into a sitting duck.