What Comes Around: An Alex Hawke Novella (Alex Hawke Novels) (10 page)

C
HAPTER 7

The White House

“
I
T’S TH
E PRESIDENT,”
the First Lady said, gripping the phone so tightly her knuckles shone bone white through her pink skin. “I can’t seem to wake him up.”

“Is he breathing?”

“Yes, I-I think so. His chest is moving.”

“Don’t worry. We’re on our way up now. The whole team. Stay calm,” Ken Beer, the White House physician said, and the line went dead.

“
T
OM,” SHE SAID,
shaking him by the shoulders. “Tom, wake up, damn it!”

Nothing.

Had he taken something? She scoured the bedroom and medicine cabinet for empty vials. Nothing. She’d seen him depressed before, but the mood swings were getting terrifying lately. Still, suicide? No. Out of the question. He would never do that. Too narcissistic. Far too invested in his place in history and his date with destiny, the showdown with China coming up in Hong Kong next month.

It had been two days since the disastrous meeting in the Situation Room. The entire household was abuzz with rumors about what had really happened in there. Her assistants and household spies were reporting back to her with everything they were picking up. He was drunk. He was stoned on meds. He was losing his marbles. He wasn’t fit to be president.
60 Minutes
was doing a segment called “The Incredible Vanishing President.” He was sick. It was dangerous. He had early-onset Alzheimer’s just like Ronnie Reagan. They had to rally round him. They had to protect him . . .

Blah-blah-blah.

And then her reverie was broken as the private quarters was suddenly full of people. Secret Service, medical techs with defibrillators, portable EKGs, and God knows what all. Ken Beer was running the show, which was good; she’d had total confidence in him since that incident aboard
Air Force One
the year before.

She tried to read something into Ken’s expression, but he had his game face on. All business. He had taken her aside after his initial examination and asked her if she wanted a lorazepam. She’d refused, but wondered if maybe she needed one. He looked so . . . gone . . . lying there, all the IV tubes and EKG wires taped to his chest and—

“Okay,” Ken said, taking her by the arm and walking her quickly into the sitting room where they could speak privately. “Here’s the deal. His vitals are good. Strong. But he’s in a coma. I don’t think it’s a stroke. No coronary issues. I’m having blood work done right now, but I don’t want to wait for it. You with me?”

“Keep talking.”

“Right. He’s going to Walter Reed right now. Okay? That’s the best thing for him. The safest, most conservative option. I’ve already called it in.”

“Is he going to come out of it? The coma?”

“Qualified answer? Yes. He’s going to come out of it. Listen. Don’t you worry. We’ll take good care of him. Do you want to ride in the ambulance with him?”

“Of course I do, Ken. Do you even have to ask me that?”

“Sorry. My mistake. The president’s already on his way down to the South Portico. Let’s go.”

T
OMMY
C
HOW MET
his U.S. handler at the Capitol Grill for drinks the afternoon the president was admitted to Walter Reed Hospital. The Grill was a mecca for secretaries, staffers, lobbyists, and bureaucrats of every stripe and strata in D.C. Tommy knew one of the Chinese waiters, a guy who always made sure they got a quiet table in the back. Even if they were noticed, and it was very unlikely, a low-level staffer from State and a noncelebrity chef from 1600 having a martini or three wouldn’t cause anyone’s radar to light up.

“Is he dead yet, T?”

George, his State Department friend, whispered to him after they’d finished one drink. George (he never used his last name) was tall and thin, with brown hair parted neatly down the middle. He had thick black eyebrows over a large straight nose, thin lips, and a receding chin. He was always nattily dressed in a three-piece Brooks Brothers suit, preppy striped bow tie. Somebody named Tucker Carlson was his fashion muse, he’d once told Tommy Chow. Tucker who?

George, ex-military, and a semi big shot at State, had one of those thin fake smiles that made you hate him instantly. He had a degree in aeronautics from Stanford and a law degree from Yale. He was also one of those guys who truly believed he was always the smartest guy in the room.

The kind of guy who usually got caught. Which was fine with Tommy, as long as he didn’t take Tommy Chow down with him.

“CNN is now saying he’s still fading in the ICU. Matter of hours. True? Or false?” George said with a fake quizzical expression.

“No. You know damn well he’s not dying.”

“So. False information. Bad, Wolf Blitzer, bad, bad, bad. Snow White’s poisoned jalapeño pie didn’t do the trick, huh, little Tommy? C’mon. Let’s take a little stroll around the nation’s capital.”

“It’s raining, George.”

“Yeah. It does that. Man up, little buddy. You need to get out more.”

Chow paid the check as always and they left the noisy Grill, now filling up with good-looking girls who’d all come to Washington from the provinces, looking for a job but down on their knees praying every night for a lobbyist or even a senator or two.

Chow was silent for the first few blocks. Now they had sought shelter under the trees near the reflecting pool. No one around.

Chow was saying, “Shit. I just don’t know what happened. After the navy taster had approved the president’s tray, I stirred enough bad mushroom puree into that meat sauce to kill both of us.”

“Maybe it’s your sense of proportion. We know you want to do this slowly and methodically. Diluted to a degree where there’d be no forensic trace. But time is running out. McCloskey is the most hawkish man to occupy the Oval Office since Reagan. He wants his Gorbachev ‘tear down that wall’ moment with Beijing and he wants it before he leaves office.”

“Ah, the all-important legacy,” Tommy muttered.

George said, “Look, McCloskey is scheduled to make a major policy statement at the All-Asia Conference in Hong Kong next month. That speech will set the tone for America’s position vis-à-vis China for the balance of his term. My people think McCloskey wants an excuse for a showdown with Beijing. So you need to act. Sooner rather than later.”

“Okay, fine, sooner. Just give me some time.”

“As long as you understand our friends have zero desire to see this president’s face at the All-Asia Conference in Hong Kong. It’s next month, for God’s sake, T. They want their mandate executed. As they put it. The operative word in that sentence being ‘executed.’ Got it?”

“You think that’s news to me? You think I haven’t been trying? What is this? You want me discovered? There are mechanisms in place to protect him, navy culinary experts watching the entire kitchen staff. These are people who know the fucking difference between murder and bad shellfish, George. Is that what you want? I don’t think so. Fingers pointing at me? I’m a fucking Chinese national, remember? High on the list of likely suspects? You think?”

“I think I’ve got news for you, my friend. Our Mandarin friends grow impatient. They want this over. Not now, but right now.”

“Listen. What the hell am I supposed to do? He’s in goddamn Walter Reed Hospital. Surrounded by his Secret Service agents. He’s untouchable. Shit.”

“Listen to me. You’re a goddamn Te-Wu assassin. First in your class at the Xinbu Te-Wu Academy. That’s why you got this assignment. Just do what you have to do.”

“I will. When and if he gets out of ICU and recovers and comes home, I’ll make sure he doesn’t just get another really bad case of food poisoning. Trust me. Until next time, okay?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘No’?”

“Not good enough, my friend. This op is only a small fragment of a far, far bigger picture. The Mandarins are . . . complicated. And the Chinese military’s hatred for this goddamn country is reaching a feverish pitch. Someone’s got his blood up, and that someone is General Moon.”

“Yes, I know. General Moon and his grand plan. Spring Dawn and all that happy horseshit. What is it? When is it? Who the hell knows? I’m just a hired hand in the kitchen.”

“Not at all, T. Your reputation and skills are deeply respected. It’s just that, here, you have no need to know more. You have your mission, I have mine. Accomplish yours so I can do mine. Now. Understand?”

“Oh, I do, believe me.”

“At any rate, we like this guy, Vice President Rosow. The veep seems a far more reasonable fellow than the POTUS. Amenable, let’s say. You know, philosophically and politically speaking. We can work with him, is what they think. They want Rosow at that Hong Kong conference. Moreover, and more important, they want Rosow in the Oval, Tommy. ASAP. It took a very long time to get you in position down in that damn kitchen. Now it’s time to act. ASAP.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“What?”

“No one says ASAP anymore. It’s embarrassing.”

“Really, Chow? In that case, I’ll put it in a phrase even you can understand . . . chop-chop!”

“Does the expression ‘go fuck yourself’ have any meaning for you, George? That’s a question.”

“Tommy. Listen to me, you stupid sonofabitch. The world clock is ticking down, little man. Tick-tock. They want this done. Take him out. You’ve got until noon Friday. That’s what they said.”

“How the hell am I supposed to get to him when he’s propped up in bed over at Walter Reed? Surrounded by Secret Service. I can’t fucking do it. And you damn well know it.”

It was starting to rain more heavily, a hard cold rain. Unlike his friend, Tommy Chow had no umbrella. The tall, thin State Department man stepped into the street and started trying to hail a taxi, talking to Tommy out of the side of his mouth.

“Not my problem. Thanks for the cocktails, pal. Keep in touch. Oh. Your family back home in sunny Beijing? The PLA guy I work for? He says I’m supposed to tell you they’re doing great. Living the good life. Make sure you keep it that way.”

“You asshole.”

“Yeah. Like you. I fit right in at State that way. Being an asshole, I learned early, is the perfect credential for an aspiring politician who’s for sale. Oh, look. Here’s my cab. See you around, T. And don’t forget what I said.”

He climbed inside the taxi, collapsing his umbrella as he did. As he pulled the door closed, he heard Chow’s voice calling.

“Forget what?” the round little man said over the heavy rain.

The thin man stuck his head out the window, smiled, and said, “ASAP.”

C
HOW TURNED AND
walked back to the scant cover of the trees. What he really wanted to do was walk away from the whole thing. Catch a cab to Reagan and board the next thing smoking for Bermuda. He had a bad feeling about this. He had no assurances he’d survive no matter which way this went. He was going to be an inconvenient man when it was over. He should run. Brazil, Argentina. Find a job in a good restaurant and start over. To hell with Beijing and whatever new political catastrophe they were planning . . . he could run.

And then he saw the floating faces of his wife and child. His mother.

And he started walking back to the White House in the pouring rain.

After a while, his step got lighter. He started to smile as the beginnings of the idea took on shape and substance.

A few moments later, Tommy Chow had a plan.

A
S SOON AS
he got back to his apartment in Chevy Chase he’d call his handler in England on his encrypted sat phone. She’d help him figure out the details. Once the deed was done, he’d need a lot of cash and a method to get out of the United States and back to his old apartment in London in a hurry. How?

Chyna Moon would make certain arrangements for his speedy exit from the scene of this assassination. After the dust had cleared a bit, he’d make his way home from London, back through Hong Kong and Shanghai to Xinbu Island. Back to his beloved Te-Wu Academy. And start training for the next mission.

Georgie Porgie, that arrogant dickhead, would find out who had the brains around here soon enough.

ASAP.

C
HAPTER
8

Near Chongjin, North Korea

Present Day

S
HE COULD FEEL
a thousand eyes upon her, and she knew not one of them shone with pity.

Kat Chase walked, stumbled, and was dragged relentlessly toward the killing ground. Her torn camp shift was ragged and bloody from the beating she’d received upon waking. When they bored of routine torture, they dragged her kicking and screaming from the cell. She knew where they were taking her. Had accepted finally that, after years of hell in a North Korean labor camp, finally, this was the end.

There was to be no heroic last-minute rescue. No white knights in black helicopters. No. And no U.S. Cavalry at dawn, fast-roping down from the sky to save her.

The guards, who stank of fried peppers and onions, screamed at her incessantly, telling her to stop dragging her feet. She was so emotionally numb she barely registered the fists pummeling the crown of her head. She thought her nose may have been broken. It was easier not to even try to breathe through it, so she breathed through her mouth.

There were sharp stones underfoot. Her shoes had disintegrated months ago, and her bloody feet were bound with filthy rags that offered no protection. It was very near dawn, and countless torches flared in the darkness at the bottom of the hill. She could see the heaving black range of mountains rearing up on the far horizon, the sky turning a faint pink beyond them.

Her last sunrise.

At least she could take refuge in the notion that she wasn’t going to hell. She was already there.

Through her tears of rage and frustration Kat could see all she needed to see: three guards were pounding a stout wooden stake into the hard stony earth. It was a wheat field, lying high near the edge of a cliff top a few hundred feet above the banks of the Yalu River. The river that marked the border with China.

A large group of ragged, emaciated but excited prisoners had gathered in a semicircle, perhaps a thousand or more, all come to witness the execution. It was a rare treat for the inmates of hell.

The camp commandant’s idea of a class play.

The labor camp laws, the “Ten Commandments” laid down by “Babyface” as Kat had come to call the chubby, sadistic, cherubic commandant, forbade any assembly of more than two prisoners. This commandment was waived only for certain festive occasions like this one. Attendance was mandatory. Public killings in the labor camp and the fear they generated were considered teachable moments. Murder for the sake of the public good. She’d been in the audience many times before. Cheering and laughing lest she be shot on the spot.

Now she was the center attraction. The doomed star of the production. And a Caucasian to boot. This was a rare moment not to be missed.

As she drew near the rough-hewn post where she would die, she could hear the despicable little man in charge of the event warming up the crowd.

“This prisoner,” he shouted, “this stupid woman about to die, has been offered redemption through hard labor by our dear commandant. But she has proven unworthy of his offer of mercy. She has rejected even the benevolence of our Dear Leader and the great generosity of his North Korean government . . .”

He went on in that vein, but she had stopped listening. She was determined to focus her last thoughts elsewhere. Her husband, William, whom she had loved upon first sight. Her two children, Milo and Sarah, whom she adored beyond measure. In the beginning, in the first few months, they’d allowed her regular contact with them. In the later years, none at all. She had no idea if either of her kids were still alive. Much less her husband.

Since the night long ago, the night of her goddamn fortieth birthday when they’d all been snatched off that foggy street in Georgetown, she really knew nothing of her family. Since they’d been bundled into a black van by Chinese thugs, drugged, and secreted out of the country . . . her family had ceased to exist for her.

She’d see pictures of the two children, every so often, grainy black-and-whites, shot in a camp that very well could have been this one. They did that, she supposed, kept Milo and Sarah alive, only to force compliance with their demands. The pictures were almost worse than nothing. She hardly recognized her children anymore. Thin, hollow-eyed ghosts . . .

A few years ago, she’d managed to steal a picture of Bill from a desktop while she was being interrogated. No idea when it had been taken, but he had more grey hair than the night they’d been abducted. His stomach more paunch than washboard.

He stood out on the deck of an aircraft carrier at sea, demonstrating something or other, surrounded by Chinese naval officers who were laughing at something he’d said. She’d lost fifty pounds. But Bill hadn’t changed. If anything, he looked healthier than when he’d been working himself to death back home in Washington.

A thought so horrible it made her sick came unbidden into her mind.

Had her husband defected to China? Had he known about the black limo waiting outside the restaurant the night of her birthday? The van?

She shoved the notion aside for the delusions caused by malnutrition, physical and psychological abuse, and the simple paranoid insanity that it was. And then she blessed her beloved family, each one of them, one at a time, in her heart, and said her final good-byes.

She was tied to the stake, her arms and feet bound behind her. One of the guards pried her jaws apart while another stuffed her mouth full of pebbles from the Yalu River. This was in the revered tradition of preventing the condemned from cursing the state that was about to take her life.

Her head was covered with a filthy burlap sack that still stunk of rotted hay and the human feces they used for manure in the fields . . .

K
ATHLEEN
C
HASE HA
D
spent the last eleven months of her five-year imprisonment in a space reserved for the lowest of the low. An underground prison within the prison. Her stinking windowless room with no table, no chair, no toilet. This was her “punishment” for refusing to admit to her crimes against the state. Admit that she was an American spy. An agent for the CIA come to sow discredit on the government and engineer revolution against the Dear Leader.

The underground prisons were built to blindfold the prying eyes of American satellites. But not hers. She’d kept her eyes open just in case she ever managed to escape. She memorized the guards who tormented her, their names, their faces, their habits.

She’d learned that for all the prisoners publicly executed in these prisons each year, thousands more were simply tortured to death or secretly murdered by guards in the underground facility where she lived. Rape was a given at any time of day or night. Most prisoners were simply worked to death. Mining coal, farming, sewing military uniforms, or making cement. All the while subsisting on a near-starvation diet of watery corn soup, sour cabbage, and salt.

Issued a set of clothes once a year, prisoners worked and slept in filthy rags. There was no soap in her cell, no socks, no gloves, underclothes, or even toilet paper. Twelve- to fifteen-hour days were mandatory until death.

Over time, if they live long enough, prisoners lose their teeth, their gums turn black, their bones weaken. All this by the age of forty, and none had a life expectancy beyond the age of fifty.

In December, she would turn forty-five . . .

She felt the rough hands all over her body. The guards getting in one last good feel, squeezing her breasts painfully. Then she was alone at the stake. She heard their boots clomping away from her. She heard the low keening noise of the crowd beginning to reach a fevered pitch.

She took a deep breath, knowing it was her last. Finally at peace, she waited for an eternity or more for the lead slugs to pierce her flesh and find her heart.

She heard the guard captain scream the order to fire.

Fire!

Fire!

Fire!

The crowd saw her head pitch forward, her chin on her chest. A roar went up. Deafening.

But there had been no blood, no twitching corpse riddled with bullets. They’d all fired above her head. She’d heard the rounds whistle above her. She had simply fainted.

This was not the first mock execution the joyous crowd of prisoners had witnessed. They’d seen hundreds. And so they knew the appropriate response. They laughed. Wildly and insanely, letting the guards know they were in on the joke, that they appreciated the entertainment.

“
W
RITE THE LETTER
!”
her tormentor screamed at her. She was back in the basement in a private room on the lowest level of hell. Kang was in rare form today, practically frothing at the mouth. He was the only one who spoke enough English to be trusted with interrogation of such a prize as the valuable American woman, Kathleen Chase.

“You write! Tell your husband what happened this morning. About our Dear Leader’s beneficence in sparing your life. His mercy. Tell him about your good health. About how well you are being treated here, you and your children. Hot food, good beds. If not—”

“Show me my children, damn you! Show them to me!”

“Your children are alive, we keep telling you. But they will die if you do not obey. They will watch you die before we decapitate them. They will suffer before—tell him. You write the letter now!”

“You write it, Kang. Sign it, too. And then go fuck yourself.”

“Bitch!” he screamed. The he raised his fist and slammed it down, the ballpoint pen in his grip piercing her hand, nailing it to the wooden table.

She howled in pain, unable to stop it, but her cries were no longer enough for him. He started slapping her viciously across the face, whipping her head around until she thought she’d pass out again . . .

She no longer believed her two children were alive. She had not seen them in so very long . . .

She had only one hope now.

That next time, the bullets would not miss.