Shadow Catcher (11 page)

CHAPTER 22

D
efense Minister Liang heard the sharp click of narrow heels marching across the worn tile floor of his office. He looked up expectantly and smiled to see Mei, his secretary, approaching. Then he noticed the young PLA guard at the door looking in his direction. The smile flattened into his usual, expressionless military veneer. “Yes, Mei?”

“Here are both generals' files,” replied Mei, bowing slightly as she placed two manila folders on the minister's desk.

Liang let his eyes drift down from her long elegant neck to her narrow waistline and back up to her lightly rouged lips. Mei's eyes flashed up to meet his, and a brief smile crossed her small mouth. Then she cast them down again. “Will that be all, Minister Liang?” she asked.

Mei's question alerted Liang that he had paused a bit too long. “Er . . . yes. That will be all, Mei,” he responded awkwardly. “It is late. You may go if you wish.”

Mei bowed again, catching Liang's eyes once more. “Yes, Minister. Thank you.”

Liang glanced at the guard, but the young man only seemed interested in Mei, mesmerized by her leisurely retreat from the office. How could he blame him?

He turned his attention to the files on his desk, opening the first to take one last look at the service history of General Zheng Ju-long. What a distinguished and remarkable career. What a shame.

He slowly closed the folder. Despite his affection for the man, Liang could not justify maintaining his recommendation for Zheng as the next minister of defense. He had grown too ambitious, too reckless. Liang could not risk passing his legacy to a man who could easily lead China into the biggest political disaster of his generation, or worse.

He opened the other file. General Ho Geming had also served with distinction. His record boasted numerous accolades, as well as postgraduate degrees in electrical and aerodynamic engineering. Ho had given ardent support to the failed J-20 stealth aircraft program, but so had many. And his enthusiasm in the endeavor proved his loyalty. At the bottom of the file, Liang found the memo Mei had prepared for the Politburo, expressing Liang's endorsement of General Ho as his successor. He lifted a pen, paused a moment longer, and then signed his name.

On the way out of his office, Liang patted the guard on the shoulder. “You are a good guard, a good soldier,” he said in a fatherly voice. “I am sure that you have many ambitions beyond standing watch over an old man. I appreciate your service, but you may go home now.” He had no desire for state security to follow him through his evening activities.

Liang's driver waited for him by the elevators in the Defense Ministry's marble lobby. He crushed out his cigarette in the white sand of an ashtray. “Ready to go, boss?” His voice echoed in the wide, empty reception area.

“Chu,” said Liang as they walked into the parking garage. “Thank you for your patience. Perhaps you could humor me once again?”

The young man bowed. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He could not contain his anticipation. “Would you like me to accompany you, Minister Liang?”

Liang smiled. “No, Chu. I prefer the solace that my long drive provides. You may go for the evening. Meet me here first thing in the morning.”

Chu did not wait for the minister to change his mind. “Thank you, boss,” he said, bowing again. Then he hastily retreated to his bicycle, clearly excited to have a free evening with his friends.

Liang watched his driver pedal away and then unlocked his sedan. He genuinely enjoyed driving his own vehicle, despite the Politburo's insistence to the contrary. In reality, however, the innocent quirk provided the perfect cover for his true objective: Mei.

Liang's loneliness had engulfed him after the death of his wife, Lin. Forty-three years of marriage, of constant companionship, had left him unable to deal with the emptiness of life's winter. Mei filled the void. He could not imagine that she really loved him, but her pretense made life bearable.

The Politburo frowned on the slightest image of indecency, no matter how innocent. The Party expected him to play the stately widower. They would never approve of his relationship with Mei. So be it. With his considerable resources, this small impropriety, this small comfort, was easy to hide.

Liang knew from the look they'd shared earlier that Mei would be waiting at the hotel. He had a long-standing and well-funded agreement with the proprietor. The room belonged to him; he had no need to check in or out. Long ago, he had presented Mei with her own key so that she could arrive separately.

As he turned the sedan toward the north side of town, Liang popped open the glove box. Customarily, he made a call on his unregistered cell to let Mei know that he was on his way. He found the illegal phone to be a necessary evil; he certainly could not count on the privacy of the state-issued phone in his briefcase.

After fishing around for a few moments, he leaned over and glanced into the compartment. A horn blared. He jerked the wheel and swerved back toward his own lane. Bright headlights flashed across his vision. After straightening the wheel and reseating his spectacles, Liang glanced quickly around the car. The cell was not there. He gave up the search. Wrecking a car that he should not be driving, while searching for a phone he should not have, on his way to meet a woman he should not be seeing, might prove difficult to explain. He smiled at his own foolishness and let it go.

No clerk sat behind the hotel registry desk. No customers lounged on the gaudy red and gold fabric furniture in the lobby. Liang hurried through anyway. A night clerk might appear and recognize him, and young clerks were prone to gossip.

On the sixth floor, he quickly pressed himself into the room. “Mei,” he called as he quietly closed the door. He heard the muted sound of running water. The bathroom light was on. “Mei,” he called again, a little louder this time. Mei still did not respond. As he crossed the room, Liang noticed a wheelchair in the corner. He barely had time to wonder what it was doing there before a stabbing pain shot through his lower back.

Liang saw no one, but a smooth, icy voice whispered in his ear, “It is best not to fight it.” He felt the life leaving his limbs. He could not move. Strong arms dragged him to the corner and lowered him into the wheelchair. Then a man with a scar above his left eye stepped into view. “Please relax. The drug has already taken hold. I am told that fighting its effects only causes pain.”

“Mei,” said Liang weakly, his ability to speak slipping away.

“Mei is not here.” The man held up Liang's unregistered cell phone with a gloved hand and waved it for the minister to see. “Clearly, there are no secrets, Defense Minister Liang.” He did not smirk. Despite the circumstances, he seemed to regard the minister with deep respect. “I removed this from your car earlier in the day. A short while ago, I sent a text to your beloved Mei, expressing your desire to rest at home this evening. I offered an apology and the promise of a future rendezvous. It will comfort you to know that Mei is unharmed and will remain so as long as she does not unexpectedly appear. I trust that she will not.”

Why?
Liang tried to form the words on his lips but only received pain for his effort. His head drooped awkwardly to one side. His vision began to fail.

“My apologies,” said the scarred man. “The drug affects nearly all of your muscles, including the ciliary muscles that focus your eyes. They are the last to fail, but they will fail completely.”

The last thing that Liang saw was a blurred vision of his briefcase, held open by the mysterious attacker.

“I greatly appreciate your bringing these files out of the ministry for me. Retrieving them from within the secure confines of your office might have proved impossible.”

Why?
The question still lingered in Liang's mind, but soon it too drifted out of focus. Then there was nothing but darkness and the ever-slowing pound of his heartbeat.

* * *

Wulóng casually but smartly pushed the wheelchair through the empty hotel lobby. He had affixed a pillowed support to the backrest for the defense minister's head. He had also placed a surgical mask over the minister's face and a blanket over his body up to the neck.

Liang had parked in a dark corner of the garage, and Wulóng thanked him for the courtesy of the relative concealment as he struggled to get the minister's body into the trunk. Before he closed the lid, he risked a quick check of the carotid artery. He found a weak but satisfactory pulse.

A half hour later, Wulóng slowed to a stop a few meters short of a sharp bend in the road, not far from the defense minister's home in the hills west of Beijing. He had scouted the site earlier in the day. The guardrail appeared weak, the cliff face sheer. The sparse vegetation promised little impediment to the sedan's momentum. The long drop to the rocks below would ensure trauma sufficient to satisfy the state's coroner.

“Your moment has come, Minister Liang,” said Wulóng as he opened the trunk. Liang's eyes were open. His pupils shifted toward the assassin. Wulóng's scarred brow creased at the unexpected movement. “I see the drug is beginning to wear off. We have little time.” He set up the chair and then pulled Liang from the trunk. As he wheeled the minister to the driver's-side door, Liang's slumped head lifted a fraction of an inch. “Yes. Time is definitely short.”

Wulóng slipped a small capsule into the gas tank. The tiny charge would serve as a fuse upon impact, a method of ensuring the correct result. With sedans like this one, he could never count on an explosion, no matter how forceful the crash. Then he lifted Liang into the driver's seat. With great care, he positioned the minister's limp arms so that his wrists rested on the spokes of the steering wheel. “You must hold this steady for me,” he said.

As Wulóng turned the key to crank the engine, Liang let out a low but insistent groan. The assassin examined his eyes. They looked surprisingly alert. “I must say, Minister, that you are showing an impressive recovery from the drug. Most people would not find their voice for at least another hour. You should be very proud.”

He cast a final glance around the sedan's interior. Then he placed Liang's foot on the accelerator and jumped back. The engine revved. As the spinning tires gained purchase, the car lurched forward toward the cliff and the driver's-side door slammed shut.

Wulóng immediately turned away and started walking, not bothering to look back when the fireball erupted from below the cliff. He needed to get out of the area quickly. Besides, he had to catch a flight to America.

CHAPTER 23

N
ick pulled his Mustang into the circular driveway of his home near Chapel Point. He turned the engine off and opened the door, but he did not get out of the car. A tiny breath of cool air drifted around the house, a taste of the refreshing breeze blowing over the Port Tobacco River, just fifty feet from his back porch. He needed that breeze, if only he could get through the house and onto the porch without a fight. He just needed a couple of hours to relax and rest before tonight's mission.

He leaned back in his seat and surveyed the beautiful stone facade of his country-style house, but its high-peaked roof and three-car garage only reminded him that the mortgage was eating him alive. Thinking they needed a big place to raise a family, he and Katy had bitten off way more than they could chew. Now they were trapped. In this economy, there was no way to unload a house this size, and any time he brought it up, the discussion ended in another fight. He found it easier to just suck it up and pay the monthly bill.

As Nick's eyes drifted across the front door, he noticed that it stood open a few inches. That was odd. Katy always kept that door locked, even when she was home. He checked the garage. He could just see her Honda Civic through the window. There were no other vehicles in the driveway.

A hundred scenarios flashed through Nick's mind. A Chinese assassin, a drug cartel hit man . . . If the Triple Seven Chase had a leak, the list of killers that might show up at his doorstep would be long and terrifying.

Leaving the Mustang open, he crept silently onto the porch, pausing at the door to remove the double-edged knife from the holster at his ankle. He flipped it around to conceal the blade against his forearm. Then he pushed the door open and stepped into the house.

The wide foyer seemed empty. No movement in the study, no one darting across the landing beyond the vaulted entry. Only one thing caught his attention as out of place: an unopened package sat on the credenza at the base of the stairs. Nick tuned his senses. Just above the hum of the air-conditioning, he heard the quiet rush of running water coming from the master suite. He relaxed. Katy must have opened the door to receive a delivery and then forgotten to lock it. With the exhaustion of the new baby, she seemed to miss little details like that more and more.

Just as Nick turned to go and lock up the Mustang, he heard a cabinet door close. His head snapped toward the sound. It had come from the kitchen. If Katy was up there, taking a bath, then she certainly wasn't down here making a sandwich. He brought his knife to the ready.

The house had an open kitchen, denying him any real cover if he approached from the living room. Instead, Nick turned and crept through the dining room. He coiled his body, crouching low, placing each step with purpose. His feet never crossed as he moved, keeping his center of gravity grounded, ready for an unseen attack. He picked up a crystal tumbler from the dining-room table as he passed and then made his way into the butler's pantry, the short entryway to the kitchen.

Silverware rattled as a drawer opened and closed. The intruder was still in there. Kneeling in the shadow of the pantry, Nick held the octagonal tumbler out from the corner, using it as a mirror. In the distorted reflection, he could see the intruder's hand and the glint of a blade.

Nick burst into the kitchen, extending his knife in a forward thrust. His target yelped in terror. Her knife clattered to the floor. Nick slammed his hand against the island to stop his momentum, just in time to prevent his blade from plunging into the flawless skin at the base of his wife's elegant neck.

Katy clutched the fold of the bath towel she was wrapped in with one hand and grabbed the counter behind her with the other. All of the color had drained from her face. She gasped for air as if she had been punched in the chest.

With wide eyes, Nick looked from his boot knife to his wife and back again, trying to grasp what had just happened. He had jumped past every level of reason and deduction, straight to deadly action, and almost killed the woman he loved. What was happening to him? Was he really that paranoid?

With one deft movement, he tucked the blade into its sheath and then pushed his palms out toward Katy, as if that would stop the fury he could see building behind her horrified eyes. “Don't freak out, baby,” he protested. “Please don't freak out.”

“What is wrong with you, Nick?” she demanded as soon as she was able to speak.

“I thought you were upstairs. I heard a noise in the kitchen and I assumed the worst.” He glanced down at the knife on the floor. “I saw a weapon.”

Katy knelt down and picked up the pewter-handled carving knife. She waved it at Nick. “You saw a
utensil
!”

For the first time, Nick noticed the half-carved ham sitting on the island, along with a plate and a loaf of bread.

“Your son has not given me a moment's rest all day,” said Katy, shaking the knife at Nick, forcing him to back away. “I finally got him to lie down, and I thought I could get a snack and a bath and feel like a normal human being again. Clearly, that was too much to hope for!”

An insistent wail erupted from upstairs.

“And now he's awake.” She jammed the carving knife down into the ham, put her hands on her hips, and glared at Nick. “Well?”

Nick was at a loss. “Well what?”

“Well, go and get him,” she said, gesturing toward the stairs. “I'm going to take my bath and eat my sandwich. And don't you come knocking, because I don't think I can bear the sight of you for a while.”

* * *

“Nick and Katy are the happiest, most well-adjusted couple we know.” Amanda Navistrova took the seat that Drake held for her, tugging her khaki skirt around her tan thighs. “You just caught Nick on a bad day.”

Drake took his own seat at the table and rested his arm on the white linen to take Amanda's waiting hand. She looked stunning. No, she had looked stunning when he picked her up from Northrop Grumman's DC headquarters, even with her hair pulled back and her blue eyes hidden behind glasses. Now that she'd had a chance to “freshen up,” letting her blonde curls fall down around her shoulders and replacing her glasses with contacts, she looked absolutely gorgeous. She could have been a runway model. Of course, there weren't too many runway models who could have been aerodynamic propulsion engineers with two degrees from MIT.

Drake ordered their drinks from the waiter and then turned his attention back to his date. “You haven't seen them together in a few weeks.” He leaned forward. “Talk about your Shock and Awe. Between the strain of the baby and Nick's refusal to acknowledge his PTSD, I don't think they're going to make it.”

“Nick does not have PTSD,” argued Amanda. “He just has nightmares.”

Drake shook his head as he buttered a piece of bread. He took a bite and then shook the half-eaten piece at Amanda. “You should have seen him trying to sleep on this last mission,” he said between chews. “Have I told you about his zombie voice?”

Amanda grimaced. She gently took Drake's hand and guided the bread down to his plate. “Keep your voice down. He doesn't know that you told me you were going to Kuwait, does he?”

Drake swallowed his bread. “Of course not. Besides, you didn't know why I was going. I didn't even know.”

Amanda looked down at her hands.

“You figured it out?” asked Drake.

She scrunched up her nose. “I had an inkling. I never felt like Walker was giving us the full story about the salvage. But I always figured Nick was in the dark with the rest of us.”

“It's not that he doesn't trust you,” said Drake, lowering his voice to a whisper. “He loves you like a little sister. It's just that he's become even crazier about need-to-know than Walker is.”

Amanda nodded knowingly. “I don't blame him, but enough about Nick and Katy. Let's focus on us now. We only have a few hours before we both have to get to the hangar. I have a few more tweaks to make to the Wraith before tonight's test.”

* * *

Nick sat on his porch, holding his son in his arms and gently rocking back and forth. He ran his fingers along the silky strands of Luke's golden hair and looked out across the darkening water. He could not shake Katy's horrified expression from his mind. This morning he had bruised her during his nightmare, and tonight he had almost shoved a knife through her chest. The nightmares, the lack of sleep, the anger that he always felt boiling beneath the surface—what was he becoming?

Katy stepped through the open back door. “Easy boy,” she said, “I'm unarmed. I left my spatula in the kitchen.”

Nick continued to stare out over the water in silence, even though he could feel her effort to show him forgiveness.

She knelt next to him and kissed her baby on the head. Then she kissed Nick on the cheek. “I'm going to bed,” she said. “Can you handle him?”

Nick closed his eyes and sighed. He should have seen this one coming. “I thought I told you. I have to go back to work tonight.” He knew the words sounded harsh and accusing. He knew he should recant and reach out to her. But he didn't.

Katy stood up, her sweetened demeanor fallen away. “Of course you do. What was I thinking?” She pulled Luke out of his arms and wheeled around to head back into the house.

The sight of her walking away again filled him with rage. “I'm trying,” he called after her, anger tainting his voice.

Katy kept walking. “Try harder,” she said, and slammed the door.