CHAPTER 108

  IN THE UTTER darkness in the basement of the Chinese intelligence facility, Liam’s first response is, Oh, damn it all to hell. He starts fumbling through the pockets of the firefighters’ coat, looking for a flashlight, but there’s a bang and hum as a distant generator kicks in, and the lights return.

  Shit, he thinks, that was too close. Lin had slipped him a couple of key pieces of equipment but he doesn’t want to waste precious seconds looking for a light.

  He shoulders the door open, breathing hard through the air mask, holding the heavy hose over his right shoulder, as he emerges into a concrete corridor.

  Alarms are ringing and red lights hanging from the concrete ceiling are flashing.

  Breathing is hard through the mask—the air tank and hose must weigh close to a hundred pounds. Add in the turnout gear and heavy boots and helmet, and it’s hard to keep balance, hard to keep moving fast and true, but he has no choice.

  He’s got to get Benjamin out.

  He moves past a locked metal door and finds the standpipe Lin told him would be here. He thankfully drops the rolled-up hose, spins the cap off the standpipe, and hooks up the hose, for the benefit of anyone passing by or any surveillance cameras that may be operating.

  Move, he thinks, unrolling the hose.

  Smoke is starting to drift into the hallway, drifting up to the concrete roof.

  Past another door—someone in there is screaming in terror, but he shuts that off in his mind—he comes to the fourth door.

  Liam drops the hose, digs deep into the side pocket of his coat—right by his 10mm Glock—and pulls out a rubbery object the size of a schoolboard eraser, from back in the day. He pulls off one of the heavy fire-resistant gloves, tears off the strip on the rear covering the adhesive, and slaps the device against the lock.

  He turns and there’s a flare of bright light—highlighting his shadows in this gloomy corridor—followed by a sudden thump.

  Liam pushes the door open.

  Simple cell with metal toilet and sink, a bed, and a barefoot man in dull-orange pants and shirt.

  The man looks up, mouth agape, eyes wide. Liam’s first thought is that Lin, damn you, you’ve got the wrong cell, or the wrong prisoner, or—

  The man croaks, “What the hell is going on?”

  Liam shudders. Even with the bruises, the black eyes, the bloodied swollen lips and bent and twisted fingers on one hand, Liam knows it’s Benjamin Lucas.

  “Well?” Benjamin demands.

  Liam loosens two straps to the air mask, pulls it out for a moment, and says, “Benjamin, can you stand? Can you walk?”

  “Liam, how—”

  “Shut up,” Liam says. “Move. We don’t have time before the entire goddamn PLA comes down that hallway.”

  Benjamin starts to get out of the bed, wincing, standing up in bare feet, weaving, and he says, “Ah, shit, Liam, I’m really messed up.”

  He tightens the mask back onto his face. “I can see.”

  Liam grabs Benjamin’s good arm, pulls, lowers himself, and lifts him up in what’s known as a firefighter’s carry. Benjamin’s torso goes across Liam’s shoulders, and he shifts so that Benjamin’s right hip is next to his head, allowing Liam’s hands to be free if necessary.

  His voice muffled via the air mask, Liam says, “Hold tight, we’re moving!”

  Benjamin’s legs extend in front of him and his head and shoulders extend behind him, meaning he will fit through any door, but Christ, even with the hose gone, the weight of his fellow officer is damn heavy. It would be quicker if he dumped the air mask and tank, but the mask obscures his features and the tank is part of the outfit of the rescuing fire brigade member.

  Outside the smoke is heavier. Benjamin starts coughing. He goes by the same door where a prisoner inside is screaming, banging on the door.

  Liam stares ahead, at the stairwell door.

  All right, get there, and don’t think how you’re getting up those flights of stairs, carrying this gear and injured CIA officer.

  Just move.

  He’s about two meters away from the door when it swings open, and an angry Chinese male, mid-thirties, in black slacks and white shirt, comes out yelling.

  Liam waves an arm, repeats the evacuation order.

  “Shūsàn jiànzhú wù, shūsàn jiànzhú wù!”

  The man doesn’t move, yells at Liam in a long sentence of angry Chinese, which Liam doesn’t understand, and Liam tries again, forcefully waving his arm, yelling even louder.

  “Shūsàn jiànzhú wù, shūsàn jiànzhú wù!”

  The man comes closer, yells more, then halts, frozen, as he apparently recognizes who’s on Liam’s back.

  The Chinese intelligence officer yells one more time, reaches for something at his back. Liam is trapped in this basement, alarms ringing, smoke getting thicker, weighed down by Benjamin Lucas on his back.

  He needs to get Benjamin out.

  Getting Benjamin out means Lin will tell them how to save the vice president.

  But this intelligence officer is pulling out a pistol and coming right at them both. With the combined weight on his back, Liam can barely move.

  CHAPTER 109

  PRESIDENT KEEGAN BARRETT is in his office in the family quarters of the White House, getting an update from Carlton Pope, his special assistant. No coffee, no pastries, no distractions. Barrett recalls those times back in the military, the Pentagon, and at Langley, when plans that had been prepared and reviewed for months—years, even—were about to be put into place.

  There was always a buzz of excitement, of anticipation, of watching the clock wind down until it got to zero hour. Like Shakespeare said, they would cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.

  But you had to be careful. As that old buzzard Prussian Marshal Helmuth von Moltke said centuries ago, “No plan survives first contact with the enemy.”

  Which is why you have multiple plans and backups.

  “Well?” he asks Pope. “Where’s Liam Grey?”

  Pope looks uncomfortable. “We don’t know. Our last sighting was when Balantic tried to eliminate him yesterday at that convenience store off the George Washington.”

  “Tried,” Barrett says. “You mean he failed, and Liam got away. And wasn’t there a drone following him?”

  “Sir, that drone had a limited operating life. The last it was reporting before its batteries died was that Liam’s vehicle was heading northwest.”

  “And his bitch partner, Noa Himel? Another screw-up on your part? The Post reporter is still alive, and Noa’s still alive. Who the hell are you hiring? The gang that couldn’t body bag straight?”

  Pope tenses up. “They are good contract personnel—most from overseas—as good as we could get without facing Immigration questions. Liam will be found. Noa is injured and is at Director Abrams’s house. Give me the word and we’ll go in and get her.”

  Barrett says, “Keep your eye on the prize. We can’t afford having a firefight in the middle of Georgetown when we’ve got so much going on. But do what you can to keep her quiet. Has General Peterson confirmed his visit today?”

  “Yes, sir, at ten a.m.”

  “Good. I’ll want transport prepared for evac to Mount Weather at noon. That should give me plenty of time to be in a secure and safe place once the Chinese realize what’s going on and begin their retaliation. Let’s look to do an address to the nation at one p.m., explain what’s going on.”

  “The networks might drag their feet, unless they know exactly what’s going on.”

  Barrett says, “When they see the Staten Island Ferry lose control due to some teenager in Shanghai and ram into the USS Intrepid, they’ll let me talk whenever I want to.”

  Pope nods. “You’re correct, sir.”

  Barrett bristles. “Of course I’m correct. How else did I get here? Anything else I should know about?”

  “Not at the moment, sir.”

  “Good.” He decides to lighten the tone. “How does it feel to be on the cusp of history?”

  “Truthfully? I’ll be glad when this day and this week is over, Mr. President. There’s a lot of balls in the air. I admire your juggling skills keeping them all in motion.”

  Barrett says, “Nice job of kissing ass, Carlton. I appreciate the metaphor. But I’m not juggling balls. I’m juggling hand grenades with the pins pulled, with only a short amount of time before I can start tossing them without getting a face full of shrapnel.”

  Pope slowly nods. Barrett says, “Remind me again of Balantic, your man killed at the convenience store. Was he TDY from the Agency?”

  “No, sir,” Pope says. “A domestic contractor I met in Kosovo. Untraceable. And easily replaceable.”

  “Good,” Barrett says. “What I don’t need now is somebody else bitching at me about getting a memorial star carved in Langley’s lobby.”

  CHAPTER 110

  IN THE BASEMENT of China’s Ministry of State Security’s annex, the smoke is getting thicker and the Chinese official a couple of meters in front of Liam is pulling a pistol out from a rear waistband holster.

  No time, Liam thinks, and rotates a few feet. Benjamin Lucas is now blocking, only for a second, and the Chinese official pauses.

  Liam grabs his 10mm Glock from a coat pocket and shoots the man twice in the chest.

  The alarm continues to screech.

  The man falls flat in the concrete corridor, his pistol skittering out beyond his hand, and Liam moves Benjamin so he’s facing the original position.

  He heads to the stairwell, opens the door, starts thumping his way up the stairs, breathing hard through the air mask, the mask fogging up, obscuring his view but also hiding him from others who might take a close look at this particular fire brigade member.

  One more flight.

  Just a handful of stairs.

  His chest feels like it’s going to burst.

  Every step seems like Benjamin is gaining another pound.

  He slams the door open. The first floor and reception are empty, but it’s hazy with the smoke, and Liam thinks that’s one hell of a barbecue Lin must have set.

  Outside in the sunshine, he resists the strong temptation to tear off his air mask. He’s got to keep up the appearances and, above all, keep moving. There are small groups of consulate officials gathered, talking, pointing, some even smoking. Two large dark-red vans with flashing red lights on top are parked, and fire brigade members from the consulate—the real ones—are gearing up, pulling out air tanks and rolled-up hoses. He keeps on moving.

  A childish thought but a real one: If I don’t look at them, they won’t look back at me. I’m invisible.

  Now.

  Around the small garage, Lin is standing there, her hands come up to her face, and, even covered, Liam sees the thankful smile.

  She opens the rear door to the Mercedes and helps Liam roll off Benjamin and put him in the rear seat. Liam tugs off the helmet, rips off his face mask, loosens the straps, and shrugs off the air pack. He tosses it all onto the rear floorboard and gets the gloves off.

  “Lin, give me the fob,” he says. “I’m driving. You sit back with Benjamin and see how badly hurt he is.”

  He expects her to hesitate or object, so he’s surprised when the fob is tossed his way. Liam catches it and within seconds, she’s in the rear seat and he’s in the driver’s seat. The Mercedes starts up.

  Liam lowers his head, drives out through the small area, past the groups of Chinese intelligence staff looking at him, and the two consulate fire brigade vans.

  The open gate is ahead.

  He clenches his hands on the steering wheel.

  Just a few seconds more.

  Close.

  Two Chinese consulate workers come in from the outside sidewalk, dressed in gray business suits, both wearing eyeglasses, looking like standard-issue Chinese government bureaucrats, but these two are carrying QBZ-95 bullpup assault rifles slung over their shoulders.

  Both hold up their hands and yell and bring up their respective rifles.

  Liam stops. “Benjamin, hide your face, best as you can.”

  Shit.

  He could run them down but there was a good chance one of them would be able to fire off a burst from a thirty-round magazine and ventilate this Mercedes-Benz and its passengers.

  The two men come closer, yelling louder. From behind him, Lin says, “Lower your window, Liam.”

  He’s not sure why she’s made the request but he does so. Lin lowers her window as well, and starts yelling back at the two armed Chinese men.

  Liam doesn’t know what they’re saying to each other, but it doesn’t look good.

  Lin seems to focus on the armed man to the right. She’s pointing at him, raising her voice, and he matches her tone, syllable to syllable.

  Then the second man moves around the front of the Mercedes, stepping closer, and Liam realizes both shooters are now on the same side of the car, and in a split second, knows what’s going to happen next.

  Lin propels herself across the seat back, buries her hand in his coat pocket, comes out with his 10mm Glock, shoots the near man in the face, and fires off two more rounds that hit the second armed man in the chest.

  Liam’s ears are ringing and the interior of the car smells of burnt gunpowder. Lin is shouting at him. He can’t quite hear her, but he doesn’t need to.

  He slams the accelerator down and the Mercedes speeds out of the compound and takes a left on Killarney Street.

  CHAPTER 111

  IN THE SCIF in the subbasement of the Chinese Embassy on 3505 International Place NW in the District of Columbia, Xi Dejiang of the Ministry of State Intelligence feels like an utter and complete failure.

  Sitting across from him, like an old wife who won’t leave you alone, is his assistant Sun Zheng. Dejiang knows that Zheng so desperately wants his job that he’s tempted to scribble out a letter of resignation and let the fat bastard take control.

  The inside of the SCIF is thick with smoke, and Dejiang’s throat is raw from all the Marlboro cigarettes he has burned through. He’s out of smokes yet he doesn’t regret taking that bag full of cigarette cartons offered to him by President Barrett and throwing it at the stunned aide who escorted him out of the West Wing.

  Zheng clears his throat. “Well, sir?”

  He shrugs. “Failure. Complete and utter failure. Beijing has been trying other avenues of communication with that madman, and none are working. He is intent on giving us a punishment he thinks we deserve, and nothing is holding him back. Now Beijing is through with trying to talk to him.”

  Dejiang checks his watch. “In approximately four hours, the attacks will begin. How and where they will start is still a guess…but I have failed. Terribly. I thought I could reach him personally, intelligence professional to intelligence professional, but I was a fool. He’s too far gone.”

  He reaches for a cigarette pack, to see if he’s perhaps overlooked a cigarette, but it’s still empty. He crumples it and throws it to the floor.

  Zheng says, “I wish it went otherwise.”

  Dejiang nearly smiles. “I’m sure you do. No worries, Zheng. If and when they come for me here—because by this time tomorrow I doubt any airlines will be flying—I will say you were innocent, that it was my decision alone.”

  A brief nod, nothing else, but Dejiang senses the relief from his deputy.

  “In the meantime,” Dejiang says, “tell the Ambassador to commence the Zhurong operation immediately, before our embassy is ultimately breached. And get as many staffers as possible to go shopping. Batteries, freeze-dried or canned food, and plenty of bottled water. Tell them to try to be as discreet as possible, but to get as many supplies back to the embassy before noon.”

  “Yes, sir,” his assistant says.

  He lifts his right hand, fingers nicotine-stained.

  “Go, now,” Dejiang says.

  His assistant gets up, nods once more, and in a matter of seconds, is gone from the SCIF.

  Dejiang rubs at his forehead. Not the place nor the time he imagined his career and his life would end, as he’s under no illusions. He has failed in stopping the madman in the White House, and he will pay the ultimate price.

  He looks at the crumpled cigarette packs and ash over the table, next to the cigarette lighter that was a gift from his only son.

  Dejiang picks up the phone. It is expressly forbidden to use the embassy’s secure phone system for a personal phone call, but so what. He will warn his son to leave Cambridge immediately and travel north, perhaps even across the Canadian border.

  It is a day of reality. He knows that his wife and daughter in China will die in the upcoming attack, or be arrested and shot, and that there is no way to safely communicate with them from here in the United States.

  But if his only son and his line is to survive, then that will be the sole blessing to come out of this day.

  The confident face of Admiral Zheng He stares at him from the small, framed print, mocking him. He turns it away as the phone rings and rings.

  CHAPTER 112

  LIAM GREY IS speeding through the crowded streets of Johannesburg, sweaty and achy after hauling that air pack and Benjamin Lucas up three flights of stairs back at the consulate building, ears ringing from having his own pistol shot off right behind his head.

  Right behind his head!

  The interior of the Mercedes smells of burnt gunpowder and whatever happened back there, one thing was proven: this Chinese intelligence operative just demonstrated her love for Benjamin by blowing away two of her own.

  In the rear of the car Lin and Benjamin are talking low to each other, which is perfectly fine with Liam.

  Benjamin’s weak voice comes from the rear seat. “Liam…how did you…”

  “Just part of the job,” he says, stopping fully at each traffic light, trying to see if anyone out there is tailing them.

  So far, so good, but it doesn’t mean that there’s not a drone out there as well, flittering through this city’s streets.

  “Liam.”