A Time for War (3 page)

“Hatfield?”

“Yes,” she said. “Call him.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Something the man did told me why he was here, I think,” she said. “If I'm right, we may need more than the police.”

*   *   *

The black SUV ripped through the late morning traffic. Three Chinese men sat within it, all neatly groomed and well-dressed in light-colored suits and fawn-colored gloves. The cell leader sat in the back, fuming about the girl in Yu Market. The man who was not driving sat next to him.

“You have embarrassed us,” said the man next to the cell leader.

“You are not in a position to judge me—” he started.

“More importantly,” the other man cut him off, “you have embarrassed yourself.”

The cell leader, all of the fury he had swallowed in the grocery story raging forth, grabbed at the man next to him. “I didn't want to cause a scene!” he shouted.

The other man punched him on his right cheekbone with the full force of his body behind it. There was a dull, ugly snap below the cell leader's temple. The other man punched him again in the same spot. The cell leader shrieked. His jaw burst into pain. There was a moment of silence.

“You have no right to strike your leader,” he whimpered.

“You are no longer the leader,” said the other man.

The man with the broken jaw sat back with full realization of what that meant, and what would be coming next. Quickly he reached for the door handle of the moving car, but felt a knife tip in his ribs. His hand dropped. He was still.

*   *   *

The SUV was headed toward the Bay where an Angler V175 was waiting off Marina Green Drive. Every plan devised by Jing Jintao had an abort strategy. The SUV was disposable and untraceable, rented for cash with false IDs. Operatives, on the other hand, could not afford to be taken. The seventeen-foot, five-inch motorboat was their way out. The driver had phoned ahead to make sure the vessel would be ready to depart.

Gulls and pigeons scattered as the driver parked at the edge of the water, away from any security cameras. With Alcatraz poking through the morning mist beyond the sea wall, the three men emerged from the SUV. The last man to leave the car moved with aching effort, trying to keep his head upright. An empty water bottle clattered to the asphalt and rolled under the car. He left it. He had difficulty standing. The man was holding a wet handkerchief to the side of his face; it was the color of a rose petal, dyed by the blood trickling from his ear. He held the damp cloth gently. Any pressure, even the gusting wind from the Bay, caused him to wince.

There were two men in the motorboat. One of them reached up, took the injured man's other arm, and lifted him down. The other men jumped in. They sat the wounded man in one of the five ash-gray vinyl seats then half swung, half fell into the other chairs as the Yamaha engine roared and the boat sped away. No one spoke.

The motorboat raced from shore, the men sitting still as statues despite the strong wind. No one ministered to the injured man, and each bump over a new wake caused him to wince.

It quickly became apparent to everyone but the injured man that they were not heading to the staging area in Sausalito but were steering out to sea. The two men who had been in the SUV swapped knowing glances. Their eyes met briefly, then turned away like illicit lovers.

Every plan crafted by Jing Jintao also had a
diàn bèi
—literally a funerary mat, something on which to cast one's sins and misdemeanors; in colloquial usage, a scapegoat. These men had been with the Ministry of State Security for nearly a decade—four years in Beijing at the headquarters of the North American Intelligence Division; two years intensive training for deployment in the United States; three years in-country; and one year working directly for Deputy Director Jintao. They knew how he thought and how he worked. Failure was punished in ways that encouraged greater effort in others.

The operational hierarchy of the ten-man cell was always geographically divided. The leader went on the primary mission, his second ran the abort scenario, his third remained at the staging area. Activating the backup plan automatically put the second leader in charge. He had quickly and—judging from his blank expression—dispassionately made his decision regarding the injured man.

It was only when the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge blocked the sun and threw a deeper chill into the boat that the injured man realized they were going west. He stiffened more against that reality than against the wind. The hand holding the handkerchief tightened. The area around his right eye was red and swollen but his left eye held the horizon briefly, then took in the rigid backs of the other men in the boat—their stiff necks and turned faces an obstinate statement of exile.

His left eye turned back to the horizon. They were heading toward another boat. The motorboat had been least likely to attract attention and it was as disposable as the SUV. Now they needed speed.

When they reached the thirty-eight-foot Bertram, no hand offered to help the injured man climb out of the motorboat. He awkwardly leaned forward, propped himself on one palm, and half fell into the yacht. Hard pain coursed through his jaw. The other men stood and watched. He realized they were waiting for him to enter the closed cabin of the Bertram. He did, and sat. They followed him in but turned their faces away again.

The yacht started up and his stomach slid. The boat was built for rough water, they were going to drive it fast, and now he would suffer the embarrassment of seasickness as well.

He shut his left eye.

He saw himself looking across the counter at Maggie Yu, wanting to slap her, to get her to listen, and teach her respect—

Every person commits mistakes throughout life. Most of them are small and instantly recognized as such. Those are actually the worst because they are fresh on the fingertips, still palpable but beyond reach.

The grocery store was still vivid in his senses. The old wooden floors on which he had been standing, the smell of the fish on ice out front, the way the morning sunlight struck the pale flesh of Maggie Yu, making her seem so fragile—

You deserve whatever is coming.

He had momentarily forgotten one of the guiding principles of their work. During two years of schooling, Jing Jintao had stressed the concept of
r
ě
nnài
—perfect patience. The marshalling of purpose, the veiling of the self, the anonymity they granted. That idea had been nudged aside by his sudden, urgent desire to please his superior, to bend this woman to his will. And because of his impatient desires, the presence of Johnny Yu and the other two women had startled him. Had made him afraid. Had made him run.

His eye remained shut as the yacht hurtled forward. The pain in his jaw kept his body present while his mind punished him by replaying those moments. There was nowhere to turn for solace, save the strangely comforting thought that he would soon be free of everything including the worst pain of all—the shame of failure.

He didn't know how long they had traveled; the throbbing around his eye socket seemed to go on for hours. He was only aware when they stopped. He heard the engine throttle down, felt the bouncing subside. He did not open his good eye to look but rather, dragged the handkerchief in front of it, holding it across both eyes with a cold, unsteady hand. Now time was measured in moments. Each breath felt like the dearest gift a man could have. Savoring them was, tragically, the very soul of patience.

Two men grabbed him by the arms and pulled him from his seat, out of the cabin into the salt air. His handkerchief slipped from his eye and he saw the skyline of San Francisco in the distance. He smelled a musty scent, like that of a dog come in from the rain. He heard throaty, clucking sounds and the splash of breakers. The men hoisted him up and he turned, saw a raw, sharp, high outcropping of rock. There were elephant seals on the crags.

They're going to strand me here?

The movement sent a series of drill-like shocks through his head and, yelping, he clapped a hand on his jaw to hold it still. When he could focus his thoughts, he felt a sense of gratitude that they were going to give him time to make peace with his actions—

The man hit the water hard on his lower back. The impact folded him at the waist, his arms and legs shooting straight up as he went under. Water flooded his mouth, nose, and ears before he could right himself. As he flipped, the pressure of the cold sea shocked his wound, causing him to scream a strange, gurgling noise. His hands and knees came into contact with rough rock under the surface. He clawed at them until his face was above the surface. Through clogged ears he heard the muted barking of the seals, smelled their fur, the decay of their meals, their waste. He flopped on the slick rock, cried out as sharp edges punched his chest, then slid his forearms under him. He panted as he rested there. Behind him he heard the engine of the yacht, still idling.

Why are they waiting? To make certain I don't drown?

A wave caught him and shoved him roughly along the granite, scraping his chest. It was a strong breaker, pushing him several meters. He was raw from neck to mid-waist and his knee tingled.

As his brain was processing the pain and he realized he had to get up on the rock to keep from being buffeted again, he was dragged back, into the water. The tickling sensation became a fiery ache, as though it were being yanked across a field of sharp stones. When his open eyes went under he was disoriented; he did not see the green-gray water of moments before but a murky red haze. It was joined by amber circles swimming around the edges of his eyes, by a flame that shot along the outside and inside of his left thigh, by a sudden intake of breath that filled his mouth with something foreign and metallic-tasting, that stuffed his lungs with a sense of spongy discomfort—

Located twenty-seven miles from the Golden Gate, the uninhabited Farallon Islands are a nature preserve with a large, seasonal seal and sea lion population that attracts Great White Sharks. The predators migrate there from as far away as Hawaii. Whales don't bother them. Killer whales don't deter them. The Farallon Great Whites feed well on mammal flesh and grow far beyond average, ranging from thirteen to nineteen feet in length. Gang members call the 141-acre wildlife refuge “The Pig Sty,” inspired by the Wild West practice of feeding murder victims to herds of pigs.

Drawn to the man by the trickle of blood from his ear, the shark pulled him from the rocky ledge. The dying man's arms flailed spasmodically, involuntary tics as drowning and blood loss caused his body functions to shut down.

He was gone up to the waist in the second bite and all that remained after the third rending swallow were a few stringy shards of flesh, sinking bone fragments, and pieces of fabric. Even the bloody handkerchief was consumed.

In less than a minute the shark had moved on. The occupants of the boat had watched without expression. One of the men got out with a rifle and pistol. The boat would return later with a tent, supplies, and a small runabout; now that the mission was underway, it would be necessary to have someone stationed here full time. This was a place known to Jintao but not the others, who had only recently arrived. He had told the new cell leader that this would probably not be the last body that needed to be disposed of. A spotter would be needed to ensure that their actions were not witnessed. And, more importantly, to make sure that the final part of the plan was executed flawlessly. Every operation, especially one as ambitious—and deadly—as this must have a back door.

Once the man was safely ashore, the others sped away. Cormorants picked at the knots of sinew that bobbed on the foamy currents. When the black-winged birds returned to the shoals, all trace of the event had vanished—save in the memory of the four survivors. They would make sure that others heard of the ugly fate that had befallen the cell leader … a fate that awaited anyone else who failed.

 

2

San Francisco, California

The de Young Museum always gave Jack what he needed.

Jack knew that artists didn't just capture moments of real life. They invested in those moments with their willpower and their most personal selves. They found meaning, then guided their audiences to it. Jack felt like they were passing him a bright, undying torch.

Sometimes he needed to stare for half an hour at the Herter Brothers' mantelpiece for Thurlow Lodge. Its wood carving was beyond fine. It was incredible. He could follow the chisel work of the bones and sinews of the hounds taking down a wild boar as if the marks were moving under his eyes. The craftsmanship did more than remind him of the importance of depth, details, and patience in his work. It re-created a feeling of proud diligence within him.

Other times, it was
Scene in the Arctic
that absorbed him. William Bradford's painting showed a three-masted tall ship in the distance, stuck in the ice, completely isolated under a gray sky as impersonal as a judgment. The men on the ship weren't visible, yet the impact of their story was heavy in the paint. They had been sentenced to die in the cold. Their bravery staggered Jack and if his courage ever faltered from “full speed ahead,” these dying men restored it.

Today, though, Jack needed
The Ironworkers' Noontime
, by Thomas Anshutz. It was an oil painting of nineteenth-century workers at a foundry. Though the men were on break, none of them were resting. Most of their lean musculature was still in motion, mid-action. The ones whose bodies were still, it was clear their minds were driving forward. They were all ready to get going and continue fulfilling their fierce mission—to build this nation.

“Break's over,” Jack said to himself.

He was sure Max was right, that no one but her would have picked up on his slight distance from his work. But he knew. Now he was ready to reengage. His hand was tight around the torch.