“Madame Li,” Long said.
The foreign minister nodded and held out his hand, causing the doctor to stab him with the tweezers. Li cursed at the idiot and shoved him away, ordering him out of the room before taking the phone.
“Wei, xingan baobei,” he said. Hello, sweetheart. “No, I am fine. Minor scratches, that is all. No, no, really. I am well . . . Please tell our son not to worry. He must be brave and take care of his mother . . .”
Journalists from Xinhua—reporting directly to Secretary Deng’s propaganda department—would speak with Madame Li shortly. The foreign minister knew his wife well enough to be sure that she would quote her selfless husband, who, though wounded in a foreign land, exhorted their son to “be brave and take care of his mother.” He felt a pang of guilt at using his family so cruelly, but quickly disabused himself of the feelings. Drastic actions were necessary for the survival of the party, perhaps even for China itself.
“Yes, my dear,” he continued to console his wife, “they are taking good care of me. I will be home very soon. Yes, my love. I must hang up now.”
He did not actually end the call first. Such an act would have proven disastrous. Even a man as powerful as the foreign minister of China knew to let his wife be the one to end the call. She finally did, and Li handed the phone off to Long Yun.
The CSB officer set it back on the table.
“Will we go forward, Mr. Foreign Minister?”
“Of course,” Li said. “Why would we not? I am fine. We have come too far to turn back now.”
Colonel Long nodded toward a flat-screen television across the room. The sound was off, but the photos showed the whirling white vortex of a typhoon on a large map that included Taiwan, Japan, and the East China Sea.
“The typhoon has turned northward,” Long said. “It may prove problematic if it reaches Japan.”
“Nonsense,” Li said. “The summit is still days away. Many things will occur between now and then. Now get that egg of a doctor back in here.”
Li knew all too well that there were countless things that could go wrong with his scheme—this typhoon, the unknown person who had shot Amanda’s blond compatriot, even idiot servants who were dilatory in their duties. President Zhao might suddenly realize that Li was not actually his best friend. No, the man was much too dense for that. And even if Zhao did come to that conclusion, he would have to grow a pair of testicles in order to do anything about it. Perhaps by then the President of the United States would have used his famous Ryan Doctrine to put an end to Zhao and his witch hunt for anyone in the party who had exhibited a shred of financial success. And if President Ryan was himself too dense, then there was always another way.
In truth, Li had begun to think of their cause as a noble one. Just as Chairman Mao must have seen the task that had been before him. A work of the gods—or, in a world absent any gods, at least the work of destiny.
? ? ?
Maybe they turned in for the night,” Chavez said.
“Perhaps,” Yuki said. “More likely they are upset about the death of Beatriz Campos.”
Jack rubbed a hand across his beard. Talk of the sewers had left him feeling like he needed another shower. “How long will the battery last on your device?”
“The microphone is voice-activated,” she said. “That will conserve some power, but I am afraid we have no more than thirty-six hours.”
“We’ll listen in shifts, then,” Chavez said. “Jack, you’re voluntold to take the first rotation.”
“Excellent,” Ryan said through a feigned smile.
“I will listen with him,” Yuki said. “To make certain he does not drift off to sleep.”
Midas stood and raised his arms high overhead in a long, shuddering stretch. “I call dibs on half the bed.”
Adara stuck out her bottom lip in a mock pout. “What happened to guys taking the couch?”
“I only called half the bed,” Midas said. “You can fight Ding for the other half.”
“I’m good on the floor,” Chavez said, dragging the cushions off his chair.
Midas fell back on the mattress, bouncing once before curling up in the sheet, apparently unfazed that Yuki had slept in it the night before. He’d surely slept in much, much worse. “Don’t try anything,” he said without opening his eyes as Adara got in beside him.
“I’ll do my best to contain myself,” she said.
Chavez was already breathing deeply.
“I like your friends,” Yuki said, looking at Jack, who now sat beside her on the loveseat.
“Me too,” Ryan said. He wanted to ask her about the scratches on her face but decided against it. He was surrounded by people he trusted, and was alive after a particularly bloody day. A little mystery was a good thing.
46
John Clark was nothing if not patient. He’d seen Magdalena’s auction video in the room at Matarife’s ranch. It had sickened him enough to make it his mission to find the one who’d brought her to the States. The person who had used her and then quite literally sold her into slavery. According to Lupe, that person was Dorian Palmetto.
Clark had a nose for bad men like Palmetto, but even so, it took two days of watchful waiting to find him.
Lupe had given him the location of the cheap hotel where Palmetto liked to hang out and a vague physical description, but Clark still didn’t know exactly what he looked like. He considered the idea of calling in a favor with an old friend from the Agency—or even getting Gavin to pull the guy’s photo. In the end, though, he decided he didn’t want any kind of trail, even with trusted friends. As it turned out, in addition to running a side business trafficking in human cargo, Palmetto had a real job managing an auto parts store near the Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base in West Fort Worth. Navy C-40 Clippers and Air Force Reserve C-130s had replaced the iconic B-52 Stratofortresses of Clark’s day when it had been a Strategic Air Command Base. Air Force F-16s and an occasional Navy F/A-18 Hornet roared overhead, invigorating Clark and helping rather than hindering his thinking process.