The Einstein Papers (8 page)

The NIA was comprised of several autonomous divisions, including the Technology Department, the Transportation Division, the Infrastructure Division, the Foreign Terrorism Division, and the Special Security Service, which handled operations requiring the use of human agents.

The large budget for the NIA was buried inside the budget of the National Security Agency to hide the agency from the prying eyes of congressmen and reporters. The agency had remained small and discreet since its founding in the early nineteen-eighties.

On the third floor of the NIA building Larry Martinez was scanning a computer database when his telephone rang. Martinez was of medium height, just over five feet ten inches, and lean from his weekly regime of running. His face was classically handsome, with the high, well-defined cheekbones, strong chin, and jet black hair that indicated the influence of Spanish blood in his native Mexican race. But it was his eyes that most people noticed-they were a pale brown dotted with flecks of gold and green, and when he spoke, they looked directly into your soul.

Martinez was a man at peace with himself and the world, and little over the years had changed that.

“Just thought you’d like an update,” Deputy Director Richard Allbright announced to Martinez over the phone. “Your partner got inside and has the subject in his custody.”

“That’s good news, but he still has a long way to go,” Martinez noted, his voice showing the concern he felt.

“That’s true-we can only hope for the best,” Allbright noted. “But as luck would have it, Taft’s plan to trigger a seismic disturbance seemed to have worked. The Earthquake Center in Colorado reports it as a five on the Richter scale. Our satellites report communications into Qinghai as limited, but that could change at any moment.”

“You’ll keep me posted?” Martinez asked.

“You can be assured of it,” Allbright said. And then, changing the subject, he asked, “How are you coming on the Einstein-Choi connection?”

“I’ve compiled a list of items to investigate. I’ll be out in the field today doing research. Do you want field reports as I progress or just a standard daily log?”

“Call if you’re onto something big,” Allbright said. “Otherwise, a standard report.”

“Very good, sir,” Martinez said.

“That’s all, then, Larry. Know that we’re all pulling for your partner and his safe return,” Allbright said as the telephone went dead.

Martinez entered a command into his computer, then waited as the information printed. Swallowing the last of his coffee, he gathered the papers, slid them into a file folder, and then called down to the security desk to inform them he would be leaving the building.

Rumbling through the barren wasteland of the Gobi Desert, the cargo train maintained a speed of just over fifty miles an hour. The trip to Urumqi, 375 miles from China’s border with Kazakhstan-in the former Soviet Union-would take just over twelve hours. Taft had little to do except stare at the land as it rolled past the open door of the cargo car. In the distance Taft could see gusts of wind blowing the sandy soil, forming clouds of dust. Other than a single instance when he spotted a man leading an ox far in the distance, Taft had yet to see another living thing. Choi was sleeping, sprawled out in the far corner of the railcar. Taft could see him occasionally twitch and mutter in his sleep. Finally, with little else to do, Taft settled down to rest Placing his pack under his head, he concentrated on relaxing his muscles. Breathing deeply and regularly he began to drift off. It would be the last chance for sleep until he and Choi crossed the border-or died trying.

“Bring the dogs!” Yibo shouted into the radio.

The helicopter was parked on the edge of the stream, its engines shut down.

“Do you think you have them?” Jimn asked over the radio.

“The pilot spotted a set of tracks leading from the water. We are approximately one hundred twenty miles downstream of the facility. It appears the tracks match the set found near the fence, but the wind has been gusting and the tracks are already becoming obscured. They are disappearing as we speak.”

“Can you search from the air until the dogs arrive?” Jimn asked.

“Not enough fuel. We didn’t start out with a full tank,” Yibo noted.

“I understand,” Jimn said. “I’ll bring a spare fuel pod and the dogs in another chopper. It will take me two hours to fuel, load the dogs, and fly out there. You’ll just have to wait until I arrive.”

“Very well, Mr. Jimn,” Yibo said as he replaced the microphone, then settled in his seat to doze.

In the executive dining room of the Chinese government offices in Beijing at eleven minutes past noon, the prime minister’s lunch was interrupted with the news that Choi had disappeared.

The executive dining room was as ornate as the palace of a feudal lord. Finely detailed brass statues of horsemen, each standing seven feet tall, stood to each side of the carved ebony doors leading to the hallway. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, their beauty highlighted by hidden golden spotlights, while thick Persian carpets muffled the sounds of the servants as they set out the elegant repast.

A large sandalwood dining table stood in the center of the room with a brass incense burner spouting thin tendrils of smoke. Delicate, nearly translucent vases were set to each side of the incense burner, and each one contained a visually perfect flower arrangement. The lunch for the leaders of China was artfully arranged on a separate side table and was kept warm in silver chafing dishes. There were dumplings filled with tiny bits of shrimp and crab and marinated beef, two kinds offish, a noodle dish, and a marinated cabbage, scallion, leek, and seaweed dish the prime minister particularly enjoyed.

After reading the report on Choi’s escape, along with an update on the progress of the search, the prime minister sat back, raised his hands to have his plates taken away, sipped his tea, then lit a Chinese Panda cigarette.

“I expect the boots and the pound note are but a crude ploy,” he said slowly to the vice-minister while at the same time lightly stroking his chin. “Even so, have the secret police give me an update on the location of all British citizens currently in the western desert. I may be wrong in my thinking, but I believe it’s not the British who want Choi-it’s the Americans. Ever since we liberated Choi they have been seeking his return through diplomatic channels. When that got them nowhere they must have decided to take action.” He paused and sipped the tea again, then turned to the army general at his left. “I would like a report on the placement of any American forces near our borders,” he said. Then he motioned to his aide that the meal was over and the man quickly began to clear the plates. “One must think wherever there are American troops stationed, that’s where these two will head,” he said to all present.

Sliding his chair back from the table, he rose and walked from the room.

Thirty minutes later, Sun Tao, head of the Social Protection Department, or SPD, Chinas secret police, entered the prime ministers outer office.

He waited as the male secretary rang the inner office, then motioned to Tao.

“You may enter, sir.”

Tao proceeded to the inner office, then across the room to the prime ministers desk near the window and placed the two reports on the desk. He waited until a young Chinese girl, no more than twelve years of age, finished polishing the prime minister’s nails and packed her manicure tools into a leather case. She left the office soundlessly.

“Records showed there were nearly forty British citizens working or studying in the western desert. Enough, it would seem, that one might be the man helping Choi. There are, strangely, no Americans in the area.” Tao paused, waiting to see if the prime minister would ask him to sit.

“Continue,” the prime minister said to the still-standing Tao.

“As to the deployment of United States armed forces, the closest to China appear to be in the Philippines and Thailand, which both hold sizable contingents of American troops.”

The prime minister nodded. “I think the tracks the security guards spotted going west are designed to mislead our searchers,” he said, glancing at his fingernails. “Three men must have infiltrated Qinghai. Two are leading us astray to the west, while one is leading Choi south as we speak. The kidnappers of Choi have no one that can help them to the west.” The prime minister reached down and picked up a gold pen and rolled it between his fingers. “Choi and one of the others are probably going toward Hong Kong,” the Prime Minister said quietly to Tao. “It would have to be. What single man would be stupid enough, or skilled enough, to infiltrate one of our most secure facilities and then steal off like a thief in the night?” The prime minister paused again. “Have the border with Hong Kong secured. If there are no Americans nearby, it must be the British working for the Americans. Next have the location of all the Brits verified. Whoever is not where he should be, is either with Choi or knows where he is.”

“Immediately, sir,” Tao said.

The prime minister’s thinking was flawed. His mind was preoccupied with thoughts of a coming war.

By the time Jimn and the tracking dogs arrived and followed the scent to the railroad bridge, it was late afternoon. Climbing back aboard the pair of helicopters, Jimn and Yibo ordered their pilots to fly west along the tracks. They had traveled but a few miles when Jimn radioed Yibo.

“I just received a scrambled call from Beijing,” Jimn said. “I’ve been ordered to move our search south.”

“Shall I fly back to Qinghai, refuel, and search to the south?” Yibo asked Jimn.

“No,” Jimn said, “you go ahead and follow through on the search west.”

A single hound was still on Taft’s tail. He would prove hard to shake.

“Li, wake up,” Taft said, shaking Choi’s arm.

Choi came slowly out of his slumber. “That pill …” he said slowly.

“It’s not the pill that’s affecting you-its the stress of the escape. Your body is simply not accustomed to so much excitement,” said Taft.

Choi struggled to sit upright. He saw Taft staring at the GPS and the plastic-covered map. Taft marked a spot on the map with a grease pencil and put it away. Next he removed two food packages from inside.

“Eat,” Taft said as he tossed one of the packages to Choi.

Choi stared at the printed label: Sesame Chicken. Americanized Chinese food.

“My own selection,” Taft said. “Mix water in the pouch, it’s not too bad.”

Choi nodded, took the offered canteen, and began to mix his meal. He would have preferred American food. He developed quite a taste for hamburgers and hot dogs while attending school in California. Still, he knew that his American rescuer had made a gesture of respect toward him and he began eating the mock Chinese food without complaint.

“Where are we now?” Choi asked as he finished the pouch and tossed it from the train.

“We’ll soon be in Urumqi. That’s where these particular tracks end,” Taft said as he rummaged in the pack. “Pudding?” Taft continued, tossing a tin to Choi, who caught it.

“If we are captured I want you to know I won’t talk. They can torture me but it won’t work,” Choi said as he began spooning the pudding from the tin.

“Mighty white of you, but you’ve been watching too many spy movies,” Taft said as he tossed his empty can of pudding from the open door of the railcar. “Nowadays, we’re being trained to tell our captors everything. Torture has just become too advanced. In time they’ll get whatever they want out of you, anyway.”

“So you just tell them everything you know?” Choi asked incredulously.

“Then we swap agents later. It’s considered bad sport to torture the enemy to death. The trick is to know only enough to complete your phase of the mission. Then, if you tell them everything, you jeopardize no one else. At least that’s how it works in theory. Just for example, I don’t know who else is helping us today-if there even is someone,” Taft said. “And I wasn’t told a whole lot about you or even why I was assigned to liberate you.”

“So if we’re caught I should tell them everything?” Choi asked.

“Except what I just told you.” Choi stared at Taft in confusion. “You need to work on your sense of humor,” Taft said, smiling. “We’re not going to get caught.”

“But if we do,” Choi said.

“This time the rules are a little different,” Taft said, rising and staring out the open door of the railcar at the passing countryside. His back to Choi, his voice suddenly adopted an icy tone. “You can’t be taken alive, Li. I’m sorry.”

Choi sat silently as the words washed across him. He had been rescued from hell only to stare death in the face.

A late afternoon haze lay over the railroad tracks leading to Urumqi as the Chinese helicopter sped west. The sun would soon drop below the horizon, making the search that much more difficult.

“Chang,” Jimn shouted into the radio of the helicopter now speeding south.

“Yes sir,” Yibo answered.

“I have called ahead to Urumqi. They are assembling men to search the train as soon as it reaches the rail-yard.”

“That should prove if the prime minister is right,” Chang said.

“Let’s hope,” Jimn said as the radio went dead.

A man carrying a British passport bearing the name Malcolm Leeds steered a dark blue Land Rover around an ox partially blocking the dirt road. Four weeks into a scheduled six-week archaeological dig near Xining, the isolation of the remote site appeared to be wearing on Leeds’s spirit. He needed a city, needed it badly.

So far, the archaeological work had proved to be extremely important, a crude stone temple from the Yuan dynasty, the time of Kublai Khan, had been located and excavations were slowly proceeding.

Inside the first hallway to be cleared the archaeologists had found indications that the Mongols, who had built the temple, had traveled farther than previously thought. Muslim religious markings adorned the walls of the hallway, and what the archaeologists now believed was a crude map showing the world as far away as the Middle East was located on a thick slab of stone with supports like a table.