Kurt didn’t argue. He just turned back to Han and listened. Eventually, he finished and the ribbon was cut. China-Nippon Robotics was officially open for business and the celebration began.
While the political figures vanished—hustled offstage by their security teams—Han came forward, glad-handing his way through the crowd, stopping and talking to people on the way.
“Time for me to go introduce myself,” Kurt said.
Joe stepped aside. “We’ll meet you outside in the hall. Good luck.”
The auditorium was emptying as Kurt made his way down the aisle. The longer Han was delayed, the more effort he put into leaving. He shook hands more briskly and cut every conversation short. He brushed off one man with a quick smile and a bow and then turned to go, only to find Kurt blocking his path.
“Walter Han,” Kurt said, proffering a hand. “So glad I caught you. Excellent speech, by the way.”
Han’s face was a mask that didn’t reveal much, but a look of surprise had appeared for the briefest of instants. “I’m sorry,” Han said. “Do I know you?”
“Not personally,” Kurt said. “My name is Austin. Kurt Austin. I’m the head of Special Projects at NUMA—the National Underwater and Marine Agency, based out of Washington, D.C. You and I haven’t met face-to-face, but I—or, should I say, my technical people—are big fans of your work.”
Han’s demeanor went from annoyed to pleasant. “How, exactly?”
Kurt played the part to the hilt. “We use a growing number of robotic and automated vehicles in our deep-sea efforts. We’re currently beginning an important expedition into anomalies we’ve discovered in the East China Sea.”
Kurt hoped to spook Han, but the mention of the East China Sea brought nothing from the man. He remained taciturn and opaque.
“China-Nippon Robotics would be honored to work with an organization as renowned as NUMA,” Han replied. “In fact, we have several aquatic models designed for pipeline inspection and deep-sea drilling that you may find useful. Call my office on Monday. I’ll put you in touch with the operations director.”
“I’m afraid Monday will be too late,” Kurt said. “We launch tomorrow. We feel it’s urgent not to waste any time.”
“Why the rush?” Han asked, his brow knitted together for effect.
“The anomalies I’m speaking of are geologic in nature,” Kurt explained, “a series of inexplicable earthquakes. Considering the region’s history with tsunamis and other tectonic disasters, we feel the investigation cannot be delayed. In other words, we need to know what’s going on down there. Any chance you and I could talk later tonight?”
Han shook his head. “Not possible. But leave your contact information with my office. If the chance to help does come up, CNR would be glad to oblige.”
He shook Kurt’s hand again. “Best of luck. Enjoy the Expo. Excuse me.”
With that, Han brushed past. He continued down the aisle, accompanied by several of his people, and pushed out into the hall.
Kurt let him go, before meeting up with Joe and Akiko.
“Well?” Joe asked. “Has the tree been shaken?”
“It has,” Kurt said. “Unfortunately, it turned out to be an oak. He didn’t bat an eye.”
“Did you lay it on thick?”
“Any thicker and you’d need a road grader to spread it.”
“Maybe Superintendent Nagano was right,” Akiko said. “To continue your tree metaphor, perhaps we’re barking up the wrong one.”
Kurt wasn’t ready to give in. “Let’s give it time to work. If he’s involved, he’ll respond, one way or another.”
“And if he’s clean?”
“Then he’ll go back to his office, laugh about the crazy American he just met and we’ll be back to square one.”
30
CNR FACTORY
HAN MADE IT from the ceremony to his office without further interruption. He shut the door firmly and took a seat at his desk. In silence, he contemplated the interruption he’d just dealt with. Something had to be done about the interference from Austin and NUMA.
He placed his finger on a scanner built into his desktop. After reading his fingerprint, it confirmed his identity and released the locks on his desk. From the second drawer down, he pulled out a special phone and plugged it into a dedicated jack in the side of his computer.
With a few taps of the keyboard, he initiated an encryption program and then placed a call. A yellow icon appeared on-screen as the initial connection was made. The symbol turned green once the encryption codes were accepted and matched.
“Secure line,” a voice said from the other end.
“Secure line,” Han repeated. “Connect me to the Minister.”
“Stand by.”
As he waited, Han loosened his tie, which had begun to feel constricting around his neck. That done, he poured himself a drink and took a large gulp from the glass.
The voice came over the computer speaker. “I have the Minister, sir. Go ahead.”
The line cleared and he was connected to Wen Li at his office in Beijing. “We have a problem,” Han said. “We need to call off the operation.”
There was a brief moment of static before Wen Li replied. “We have problems on several fronts,” Wen admitted, “but it’s too late for us to turn back. Things have been put in motion that cannot be stopped.”
“We’re facing risk of imminent exposure,” Han said. “Kurt Austin confronted me today regarding a geological anomaly on the bottom of the East China Sea.”
“That would not surprise me,” Wen said, “except that you told me Austin had been eliminated.”
Han had known they were alive since the incident at the casino, but he hadn’t reported that information back to Wen. “I was led to believe they’d been killed in the fire,” he said. “They must have falsified their deaths and continued to investigate. An amateurish ploy.”
“Which you seem to have fallen for.”
Han burned with indignation. “Maybe you’re not grasping the magnitude of what I’ve just said. Austin came here—to my place of business—he walked right up to me, only moments after I finished my appearance with the Japanese Prime Minister. That cannot be a coincidence. It means they’ve connected CNR and me to the events in the Serpent’s Jaw. They intend to survey the area. It will lead to the mining site.”
“A bluff,” Wen said.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because they’ve already surveyed it,” Wen explained, “and they found nothing.”
Han was stunned. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one keeping information to himself. “How and when did this occur?”
“Yesterday,” Wen replied. “We detected signals emanating from an ROV. Sonar was intermittent, due to the small size of the submersible, but we’re almost certain that they found the original mining site.”
Han put a hand to his temple and massaged away the growing pain. “How could this happen? I thought naval units of the PLA had that area locked down.”
Wen explained the breach with grudging admiration. “I will admit they found a novel way around our net. A method we hadn’t considered. But, in hindsight, their discovery will prove irrelevant.”
“Not if they send the information back to Washington.”
“That will never occur,” Wen promised. “The NUMA agents are here in Shanghai. We’ll soon have them in custody. They will be charged with espionage and used as bargaining chips. And, to their dismay, they will find they’ve thrown their lives away for nothing. Even a detailed survey with accurate sonar maps, video footage and ground-penetrating sonar will reveal very little to anyone. The real work was deep under the seafloor in the tunnels carved out by your machines, too deep for standard sonar to reveal.
“At best, the Americans will have discovered a subsurface mining operation that was destroyed b
y some minor geologic activity and the wreckage of an aquatic habitat, half buried in the canyon. They will have learned nothing about the nature of the operation or the Golden Adamant. And by the time they do, we’ll be in control of the Japanese government, and you and your agents will be free to mine all the Golden Adamant on Hokkaido. Providing you can actually find it.”
Han was put on the defensive. “We’re very close,” he insisted. “I will soon be in possession of the ancient swords and Masamune’s journal, which tells of their forging. Those items will lead us directly to the mine from which Masamune obtained the alloy in the first place. But none of that will do any good if the NUMA agents in Shanghai or their associates here expose us.”
Wen fell quiet for a moment, like he often did when they were playing Go. Han took the moment to take another drink.
Finally, the old man spoke again. “You say Austin came to you?”
“He asked for my help in the exploration.”
“A bold stroke,” Wen said. “He must have been trying to shake you.”
“I assure you, he learned nothing.”
“Still, there’s a great deal to be admired in the way he plays the game. And much to learn.”
“Such as?”
“Remember the first lesson of the board,” Wen told him. “Your greatest opportunities occur when your opponent overextends himself. He becomes easy to cut off. Austin’s aggressiveness makes him vulnerable. I believe we can use his arrogance against him.”
“How?”
“We have planned to move against the Japanese Prime Minister using vaguely American assets. Is that not correct?”
“We have captured two servicemen,” Han insisted. “The American government believes they’ve gone AWOL.”
“Get rid of them,” Wen said. “Their dereliction of duty will make their actions too questionable. In their place, we will use others with more impressive résumés.”
“You mean . . .”
“I do,” Wen said. “How much better for us if a well-known American agent who once worked for the CIA was seen killing the Japanese Prime Minister as he signed a friendship agreement with China? It would infuriate the Japanese public. It would seal the realignment like nothing else.”
Han felt a wave of energy wash over him and he began to grin. “You’re correct as always, Lao-shi. I apologize for not seeing the opportunity sooner. Austin has played directly into our hands.”
31
SHANGHAI
THE HOWLING GRIND of a large engine cut off all conversation as the double-decker bus, with its top removed, accelerated along a crowded road in Shanghai.
Modern buildings passed by on either side, while sharply dressed shoppers walked the streets with bags of brand-name merchandise in their hands. Up ahead, a construction crew worked on the outside lane, slowing traffic to a crawl.
Paul Trout stood on the lower level of the bus, his arm raised high, his hand gripping a strap that hung from the ceiling. Gamay sat in the window seat next to him. After making their way out of the warehouse, they’d bought new shoes and new clothes while formulating a plan to get themselves to the Consulate unseen.
The answer came to Paul in a brochure for Shanghai Tours Ltd. Two hours later, he and Gamay boarded the brightly painted bus and began a slow jaunt around the city.
They rode in relative comfort, surrounded by other tourists, many of whom were European or American. It helped them to blend in instead of sticking out like a sore thumb.
The route took them past historic temples, palatial government structures and even a sprawling concrete building that had once housed the largest slaughterhouse in the world. It was now renovated and filled with upscale shops and restaurants, including several that offered vegan or vegetarian fare.
They stopped briefly at the Oriental Pearl Tower, the most famous landmark in Shanghai. A bundle of spheres and huge tubular supports that rose fifteen hundred feet into the sky.
“It looks like a science experiment gone awry,” someone on the bus said.
“A Buck Rogers rocket ship,” someone else suggested.
Paul and Gamay pretended to be impressed with everything they saw, but all they really cared about was the last leg of the journey, when the bus would drive through downtown Shanghai and right past the building that contained the American Consulate.
They were closing in on that block now, the traffic slowdown giving them a chance to study the surroundings. The view was less than enticing.
“So much for the Consulate,” Gamay whispered.
Paul nodded grimly. Scores of Chinese police and soldiers had been stationed around the building and at every intersection leading up to it. Barricades had been erected and Chinese officials could be seen checking the passports of anyone seeking to be let through. “All in the name of safety, no doubt.”
The bus came to another traffic light and stopped. As it idled there, Paul noticed another couple pointing out the security teams. He leaned toward them. “Any idea why all the soldiers are down here?”
The couple turned his way. Based on the maple leaf pins they wore, he figured they were Canadian. “I heard something about terrorist threats on the news,” the woman said. “It’s just horrible, really. The police were at our hotel this morning and I’m told they’ve surrounded the Canadian and British consulates as well. We’re thinking we’d rather have gone somewhere else for our vacation. But now we can’t even get home or meet our friends in Beijing because they’ve closed the airport and the train station.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” Paul admitted. “We’re due to fly out tomorrow.”
She offered a kindly smile. “You’d better check with the airline, sonny. I was told we might be stuck here for a week.”
Paul sighed as if it were a mere delay in the travel plans. “I guess I should,” he said. “Might I use your phone? I’m afraid ours was stolen.”
Paul’s overall impression of Canadian citizens was that they were always willing to help out. By far the most polite people he’d encountered in his travels.
“Won’t do you any good,” the husband said. “They’ve shut down the cell phone networks citywide.”
“And the internet as well,” the woman said. “It’s like we’re living in the Stone Age.”
“Or 1993,” her husband said.
Paul had to laugh at that. The Stone Age was not that far back, apparently. “Are the landlines still working?”
“That’s what we used,” the Canadian woman said. “Called from the hotel.”
He thanked them for the information and sat down beside Gamay. “Guess what?”
“I heard,” she said. “Someone’s pulling out all the stops. Think all this is for us?”
“Seems that way,” he said. “With the whole city in an electronic deep freeze, we’re going to have a problem getting this information out. We can’t even use an internet café like we did in Cajamarca.”
Gamay didn’t answer right away. She was staring straight ahead. “Not everything is frozen.”
She pointed to a small TV screen in the back of the seat. It was tuned to the international feed of CNN. A reporter was conducting a live broadcast, referencing the internet blackout and the terrorist danger.
“The networks are still up,” she said. “They have their own satellites. Direct links to Washington and New York bureaus. If we could borrow one for just a minute . . .”
She didn’t need to finish. Paul knew what she was getting at. “It’ll be risky, but I’ve never known a reporter who didn’t want a world-class scoop. If we made enough big promises, we might find someone willing to help.”
“And if we could find a mobile truck,” she added, “we wouldn’t even have to set foot in a big, easy-to-surround building.”
Paul turned his eyes back to the reporter on the screen. “That shouldn’t be too hard. Recognize th
e location?”
“Should I?”
“We were just there two hours ago,” Paul said. “That’s the Oriental Pearl Tower in the background. Let’s get off this bus and double back.”
They left the tour group at the next stop and took a cab directly to the tower. Arriving in the parking lot felt like hitting the jackpot. There were seven different networks with trucks parked outside the soaring building, all using the famous backdrop for their shots.
Paul and Gamay walked nonchalantly past the first two mobile trucks, eyeing the satellite dishes on the roofs with a type of excitement usually reserved for the arrival of a gourmet meal.
“These trucks are local networks,” Gamay said, noting the logos painted on the sides of the various vans. “We need an American network. CNN or Fox or . . .” Her voice trailed off. They’d come to a reporter, setting up for another shot. “INN,” she said. “Indie Network News. This is perfect. The whole network lives for conspiracy theories.”
Paul smiled. “Since when do you watch that stuff?”
“It’s my late-night guilty pleasure,” she admitted. “That and rocky road ice cream.”
“Explains all the empty cartons I find in the trash,” he said. “Let’s grab that reporter as soon as she finishes.”
They walked toward the reporter and her cameraman, careful to remain out of the shot. Gawking like tourists, they waited for the portable spotlight to shut off and the reporter to disconnect herself from the earpiece.
“Intercut the voice-over with the shot of those military helicopters that flew by earlier,” she told him. “That’ll make it more interesting.”
“Sure thing,” the cameraman said.
As he got busy packing up equipment, the reporter moved toward the back of the mobile truck. Gamay intercepted her before she could climb inside. “Ms. Anderson,” she called out. “Sorry to interrupt you, but I’m a huge fan. The documentary you did about what’s really buried under the Hoover Dam was fascinating.”