Riding the Snake (1998) (47 page)

"Who says he can't hide?" St. John said. "He'll disappear just like those two fucks Megrahi and Fhimah, who blew up the Lockerbie flight. Can't hide, my ass. Those two rag-heads are in Libya right now, flipping us off."

"Put Wo Lap Ling on his plane. Get him out of here," the Governor instructed the L
. A
. Chief of Police.

Chief Leddiker moved into a perimeter office, snapped up a phone, and started dialing.

"I won't allow this," Lew Fisher of the State Department said.

"How're you gonna stop it?" the Governor shot back. "The police and National Guard are under my command. It's gonna take you forty-eight hours to nationalize the Guard. You don't have forty-eight hours. You're fucked, Mr. Fisher."

"Is that true, General?" Fisher asked. "Does it take forty
-
eight hours?"

They all turned to look for General Robert Clark, but Kicker Clark had slipped out of the room three minutes before.

The back of the SWAT van was opened and Willy stepped out into the sunshine. He moved with newly recovered dignity across the tarmac to the boarding ramp of his Falcon, strolling as if it was Sunday afternoon in the park. His pilots were both former German fighter pilots. Willy had always used Germans to fly him, because of twin German traits he viewed as essential for airplane pilots: anal meticulousness and rigid control. Once Willy was aboard, the pilots closed the door. In a few minutes they had the three jet engines wound up and were taxiing off the ramp, away from the Executive Jet Terminal. They crossed Service Road E and turned right on Taxiway C. Then the pilots hurried the big three-engine jet along, past the Department of Airports maintenance yard, where the NEST team had gathered, past the four C-141s with no tail markings, past the LAX Sky Lounge perched like a giant concrete spider in the airport's center parking lot.

Willy was standing in the doorway to the cockpit. "I would appreciate it if we can depart as quickly as possible," he said, not wanting to appear frightened or anxious, but not wanting to remain in Los Angeles a second longer than necessary.

The chief pilot was named Gunter Hagen. He nodded to his copilot, and they added ten percent more power. The jet moved faster, passing the empty United and Continental terminals. It rushed across the Sepulveda Boulevard overpass into the international section of LAX, past Air France and Singapore Air, past JAL and Indonesian Airlines. The airport was almost completely deserted. No planes were parked at the ramps. Except for Willy's Falcon jet, only one other vehicle was moving on the field.

Willy looked down and saw that a military jeep with four soldiers was racing along with them, just under the wing. "As soon as possible," he said to his pilots.

Now Gunter was at the end of the runway, and he pressed the yoke mike. "Dis is eight six eight Charlie Papa, requesting runway two four nine left."

"I don't think, under the circumstances, it's necessary to obtain permission," Willy urged. "We should leave now."

"JaGunter said, and he taxied the big jet onto runway 249-L and looked at his copilot, who nodded and pushed the three throttles forward slowly.

The sleek Falcon jet thundered away from the trailing jeep, blowing dust and gravel into the faces of the soldiers. It was airborne halfway down the runway, then climbed steeply into the sky, all three powerful engines trailing exhaust and reverberated sound.

Wheeler and Tanisha heard the jet take off. It was the first jet they'd heard in almost half an hour. They stopped in the blackness and listened as it thundered down the runway, shaking the tunnel with distant sound and vibration. The noise abruptly abated as soon as the jet was off the ground. Suddenly it was quiet again. Slowly, Wheeler and Tanisha continued up the tunnel.

They began to hear hushed singing. It was in Chinese and coming from up ahead. A few yards farther on, Wheeler could see dim light flickering on the wall, and then his foot brushed against something submerged in the water at his feet. "Hold on," he whispered. He reached down into the water with his hand and felt for what his foot had hit. Something mossy and stringy floated in the dirty sewage. He pulled at it but it wouldn't move. He reached down with both hands and felt around in the inky black water. It was then he realized what he had found.

He had both his hands on the submerged head of Dry Dragon.

"Shit," he whispered, "I guess I hit that guy after all."

Tanisha reached down and helped him sit the dead Chinese gangster up as water drained out of his open mouth. They could barely see him in the distant flickering light. Wheeler managed to pull the body over to the side of the tunnel, and they left him there. Then he took Tanisha's hand and they continued on.

The tunnel was bending right, and as they moved along, they could see flickering candlelight coming from a spot just ahead. Wheeler and Tanisha stopped, stood very still, and listened. They could hear the singing very clearly now. The song was simple in melody and very sweet. In the small amount of light that leaked back at them from the candles, they could see each other clearly. Wheeler took the first two fingers of his hand and pointed them at his eyes, then up the tunnel, indicating he would go up and look. She nodded, then he moved very slowly toward the light, trying hard not to make a sound, or slip and splash water. He hugged the far wall as he crept up on them. His hand was gripped tight around the checked walnut handle of the S&W .44. If the Snake Riders were near the candles, then, he reasoned, this position on the far side of the wall would give him the best early view. He would be on the edge of the light and hard to see. It should give him an advantage.

Slowly, Wheeler snuck up on them. He raised the cocked Magnum and pointed it out in front of him. Then he saw them: hundreds of people in a widened intersection where four drainage pipes came together. They were huddled knee-deep in the water. The babies were not crying now. He could see that these people were scrawny and undernourished. Their filthy hair hung down in their faces.

Then a man not far from him got up and started walking toward Wheeler. Wheeler was afraid to move for fear of splashing water and making noise. He didn't think the man had seen him, but still, the Chinese man kept coming straight at him, his head down. Then, when he was only a few yards from Wheeler, he reached down into his pants, pulled out his penis, and started to urinate into the water. When he finished, he suddenly looked up. . . . They were staring directly into each other's eyes.

The man shouted and all hell broke loose.

Willy was watching his pilots carefully. He had not moved from the doorway of the cockpit.

They were almost out of U
. S
. airspace when the copilot pointed out his side window at something off the right wingtip. Willy looked out the window of his Falcon jet, and there, tailing them a few hundred feet to the right, was an American F-16. Gunter twisted his head and looked to his left.

"Von ovah heah, too," he said, and Willy looked out the other side of the plane at a second American fighter jet on the left side.

"I was going to call and tell them where it was," Willy said. "I told them. They had the polygraph. It was not a lie."

And Willy had intended to do just that. It made no sense for him to blow up LAX with a nuclear weapon once he was free. Such an act of terrorism would make him the most sought-after criminal in the world. The first terrorist to explode a nuclear device in a Western city would be marked and dead in a year. This is why Willy fully intended to tell them where the bomb was, but the inferior men he was dealing with had not trusted him, had not given his plan a chance to work.

"Call them, tell them." His voice had ceased to be calm. "Tell them if they don't turn back I will not tell them where the bomb is. They are running out of time. It is less than forty minutes until it detonates," Willy said, glancing at his watch, sounding more and more like an inferior man.

Willy felt his vicious tiger stir. He was losing control of the terrifying beast.

Gunter picked up the mike and relayed the message.

A few minutes later he got his answer. It was short and to the point. "Fuck you, Charlie," General Clark said, from the pilot's seat of the lead F-16. Then he switched his radio over and went plane-to-plane. "This is Kicker to Killshot," he said to his wingman. "The bogie is about to leave U
. S
. airspace. He's a terrorist making a run for it. I gotta splash this dink on our side of the line, so he just became an upgrade. We now have a hot target. Follow me in."

General Clark kicked his F-16 over into a right roll, looped quickly around, and came back up on the tail of the Falcon, closing in from behind. Killshot did the same.

Gunter craned his neck to try and see the two jets behind him.

"I told them I would radio the location. I told them," Willy whined.

"I think dey vant to shoot us down," Gunter said.

General Clark let a Sidewinder go. The missile streaked across four hundred yards of cold Pacific sky and directly up the right-engine tailpipe on the Falcon. Willy felt the impact. The plane lurched, throwing him down onto his knees on the beige carpet of the jet. A second later the missile exploded, and the plane disintegrated, blowing Willy and his two pilots into a fine mist.

When the debris hit the ocean, there were only a few pieces larger than a phone booth.

Fu Hai heard the Snake Rider scream, turned toward the sound, and saw the shadowy figure of Wheeler Cassidy standing on the periphery of his group, gun in hand. Fu Hai had fired without aiming in the Red Flower Pavilion, and he had paid the price when he had been wounded. This time he pulled the machine pistol up and aimed carefully. The gun spit out a stream of Russian lead.

The bullets ricocheted in the tunnel. One hit Wheeler in the right side of his chest and took him down hard. He had the Magnum .44 cocked in his right hand, and he squeezed off four blind shots as he fell. Wheeler heard Fu Hai scream going down, then heard splashing water as he landed. Wheeler was now sitting on the floor of the concrete drainpipe, cold, brackish water swirling over his lap. He looked at his chest and saw heavy arterial blood oozing down his shirt.

"This ain't good," he said to himself. Then Tanisha was kneeling over him. "Make sure he's dead," Wheeler groaned. "He's got a machine gun. Be careful--may be other guards."

She looked down at Wheeler's wound, and her heart froze with dread. Could this be happening? Could she have found her soul mate only to lose him in this dark underground sewer? "Hurry," Wheeler whispered through gritted teeth.

Tanisha stumbled up, her mind and senses reeling. She moved toward the huddled Chinese immigrants, hesitating at the edge of the group. They glared at her. She saw no other guards. Just frightened, wretched immigrants. When she moved forward they parted to let her pass. She waded through them to the spot where Fu Hai was lying and kneeled. He had two bullets in him, one in his chest, one in his neck. His eyes were open, but they were beginning to look distant and afraid. Tanisha bent over him, grabbed his wrist, and took his pulse.

Fu Hai had felt the bullets hit him. Just as before, when he was shot in the City of Willows, he had felt absolutely no pain, just the dull, jerking sensation as the bullets hit his body and flung him backwards, out of control. Then he was lying in the water, his head against the side of the tunnel wall. He could not breathe, he could not move his legs. His arms were leaden, but were pawing the air in front of him, as if they belonged to somebody else.

Then the beautiful Black woman leaned over him. She was backlit by the flickering candles. She looked down at him with no expression. He tried to focus his vision on her, but she was slowly fading away from him. He had to do something. What was it he had to do? He could not remember. Then his right arm fell on the backpack with the strange mechanism in it. He clutched it like a lifeline, holding it tight, straining against its bulk. Then he was no longer looking at the Black woman, but at his little sister. . . .

It was a bright sunny day, in their backyard in Beijing. Xiao Jie was ten. She was walking with him in their courtyard garden. His mother was inside, cooking dinner. Soon his father, Zhang Wei Dong, would be home from his calligraphy shop. Fu Hai had made a paper bird for Xiao Jie. It was very intricate and had many folds. Fu Hai had worked on it all afternoon. When you pulled the tail, the wings would flap. Fu Hai showed his adorable little sister how it worked. Her bright child eyes twinkled with excitement; her round face with its perfect complexion shone. Her white teeth and black eyes glittered. As always, she sparkled for Fu Hai, clean and clear as a diamond. He loved her so much his heart could almost not contain the feeling.

"Fu Hai," she said, "is it really for me?"

"Nothing is too good for you, little sister." He smiled. "I would give my life to make you happy."

And he reached out to give her the paper bird, reached high so she would be sure to get it. He was so proud to have once more put the light of happiness into her beautiful eyes. He would never fail her. Would never let any darkness stain her happy face. She took the paper bird, smiling. Overhead, through the graceful curved branches of the ginkgo trees, shone the pale blue, cloud
-
wisped sky of northern China, ageless and serene. And then, as if the act of giving brought final peace, the darkness closed around him and Zhang Fu Hai was gone.