

On Fire

Published by Thomas Anderson at Smashwords

Copyright 2016 Thomas Anderson

On Fire

Far as we aim our signs to reach,

Far as we often make them reach,

Across the soul-from-soul abyss,

There is an aeon-limit set

Beyond which they are doomed to miss.

Robert Frost, A Missive Missile

Chapter 1

Dai Gu sits on a metal bench, his back up against the steel wall of the transport, wondering if there is any way out of his current predicament. He is being taken to the prison in Dongguan, near Guangzhou on the mainland and away from the jail in the territory of Hong Kong. This is because of the length of his sentence, which is for far too long to remain in the more local facility. It is also to get him out of Hong Kong, where Triad figures tend to have too much influence in the local jails. He is a minor Triad member but Chung Yao, his dragonhead, rules one of the largest of the Hong Kong Triads, and his influence is everywhere in the territories.

Yao's virtual army has found a way to tap into the local security network and intercept emails from within the courts, communicating to what facility Dai Gu is to be sent. More importantly, the emails indicate when he is to be transported. That and a little research on the firm contracted to carry out such tasks for the government, has yielded everything that is important to know about exactly where the transport can be expected to be at every moment on its planned journey. This Yao knows how to exploit.

He has enlisted Zhao Yiwei, who now stands near the edge of a bridge north of Shenzhen, to take the next step. The bridge crosses the Mawei Reservoir not far from the Pearl River delta. Zhao has several men stationed along the road to report when they see the transport. He also has been tracking the vehicle itself on a small monitor. They were able to virtually tag and follow the vehicle from its initial departure about 2 hours ago in Hong Kong.

Gu is shackled to the floor, restricting his movement. He chats aimlessly with two other prisoners, similarly shackled, and with the sole guard who has been stationed in the back of the transport with the prisoners. The guard can communicate with the driver and his shotgun companion at any time by simply hitting his lapel mike, or in the alternative that it somehow fails, by pulling a tethered hard wired phone off the wall near his seat. But there is little need to consider either as the trip has gone without incident and the conversation is agreeable. For the prisoners, this is as much excitement as they have seen in months and they are, for the most part, jovial, excited in anticipation of reaching their destination. They discuss the additional privileges they will soon enjoy at the prison and how much better their lives will be. Why shouldn't they be excited?

It is hot, mid-summer, and the middle of the day with the sub-tropical sun full up, and Zhao can feel the sweat dripping down the back of his neck. His men signal the approach of the transport, which is moving at highway speed amid generally light traffic. It arrives at the bridge and is still a hundred yards or so away when Zhao activates a latent strip, springing hollow spikes up and into the vehicle's passing tires.

The vehicle travels another couple hundred feet, slowing while its tires lose some of their compression, and the traffic around in every direction comes quickly to a halt. But the vehicle has some kind of additional tire protection, the tires do not fully deflate, and it keeps moving toward them. It has skidded sideways when Zhao looks directly at another man who is with him and standing nearby. The other man holds a rocket propelled grenade launcher, and he fires. The transport launches skyward on a ball of flame and descends onto its side. Zhao, with two of his men to his back, rapidly closes the distance to the back door. He pulls on it and it refuses to budge, so he places a charge on the handle. He steps back quickly, yanking on a man who has approached too close, and they both drop low onto the pavement as the rear door blows. While it flies open, it somehow remains on its hinges.

Zhao looks into the smoky interior. He can barely make out that there are three still figures on the lower side near him, and one figure hanging awkwardly from what is now the top side of the vehicle. He shouts Gu's name and there follows a low moan. Zhao stifles a guffaw. That Gu may have somehow remained alive while the others did not is a circumstance very much in keeping with Gu's reputation for indestructibility. Now if he can only get him out of the vehicle somehow, he can deliver him to Chung Yao and be done with this business. One of Zhao's men steps up with a bolt cutter in his hand, and Zhao motions for him to rescue the hanging, slightly swaying figure. Dai Gu may have just expended one more of his nine lives, but all indications are that he will yet live to fight another day.

Chapter 2

Li Hua Wang lives in a small apartment building on the Provincial Road Northeast of the City of Beijing, China, beyond the International Airport and the 6th Ring Road, but not far from the Shunyi Olympic Rowing Park, where he occasionally rows. He has a young wife and little daughter, but it is the afternoon and they are at a local park. The apartment is cramped and only a one bedroom unit, but for Li Hua it is spacious. He grew up in the countryside in rural poverty and climbed out of that poverty with the help of a university education. And it was during university that he met his wife, who was following a similar course of study. Today they have more than either ever dreamed of as children. Despite his and his wife's success, he hasn't seen his parents in over 3 three years and his wife hasn't seen hers in over five. There is the cost of travel of course, but mostly it is the time that it takes to travel that is the problem, for it is time that neither one of them has.

Li Hua is a journalist in a society generally antithetical to the very concept of journalism. At least to what the West would call unfettered journalism. He writes for sundry publications, many of them on the web and of limited popularity. Nevertheless, his contributions are carefully monitored by a government that has the power to single out anyone at any time for statements that cross the line into territory not favored by the political and media elites that hold sway over such matters. As a result, Li Hua has learned to be very circumspect in his public work, careful not to offend. And this has suited his purposes well, granting him easy access to other journalists and Chinese citizens across the spectrum of society, a wholly limitless resource.

Really, it is a gushing fountain of subterranean information. With a tightly controlled public sphere, there is so much more beneath the surface, and much of it is under enormous pressure to reach that surface in any way that it can. There are the tens of thousands of strikes across the country occurring every year, as workers strive to better their working conditions. Often enough, these strikes are not much more than protests against local corporate corruption and the perverse incentives of a system that rewards grievous levels of mendacity at the expense of virtually everything else. But the corruption goes far beyond the boundaries of business to invade almost every aspect of political and social life. From government policies such as one child that deliberately favor the urban and the rich, to those which punish the violators of the same policy with confiscatory fines and forced abortion. From the hundreds of gulags of politically prosecuted dissidents to the ranks of the tens of thousands of the disappeared and their families lies the truth. Li Hua has documented hundreds of such cases from every region of the country. But it is the use of internal government documents estimating the real depth and breadth of civil breakdown, human rights abuses, and outright lawlessness that demonstrate the effects of an unprecedented challenge to existing authority.

From the days of the Tang Dynasty in the six hundreds rose the nine ranks system, establishing a civil service which eventually came to be recognized for its basis in the merit of the individual and the ability to pass entrance examinations for various positions. It was a form of Imperial examination, with its first pin immediately under the Emperor himself, down to its lowest pin or rank at the level of local judge. Influenced by Confucianism, the bureaucrat was also, by necessity, a scholar. As such, he was a humanist and believed in the perfectibility of man. Later he was to be called Mandarin, from the Portuguese. However, the system of examination ended in 1905, eventually to be followed by Communism.

Those days are forever gone. Maintaining an orderly society, always a pre-eminent concern of the national government, has transmogrified into perpetuating a police state with tentacles in every aspect of daily life. Li Hua has done his best to detail the chaos unleashed, the trail of human devastation that it has left in its wake, the anguish of the families of the disappeared, and the stifling half-lives that so many are reduced to. He has done his best to reveal the structure of comprehensive surveillance under which everyone lives, or tries to. To show how a society can be controlled by limiting access to information from the outside and exploiting control of the principal media, especially that most important of all media, television. How China has dozens of reporters in jail, more than any other country. How the Central Propaganda Department, headquartered prominently on the Avenue of Eternal Peace in Beijing, controlled all the country's media with its directives. He has attempted to demonstrate how many of the country's large corporations have been permitted to operate with virtual slave labor. It has been a monumental task, requiring many years, and it has exhausted him, and his wife. He has been under increasing pressure to finish his work, and he believes there are some who may have come to suspect his effort among the thousands that lie within the web of his contacts. It is best to be done as soon as possible.

He loads a memory stick, deleting, scouring every vestige from his drive, and believes he is not far from his goal.

Chapter 3

Zak opens his eyes, heavy with sleep, slowly. He can barely make out the room around him in the sallow light of the early morning dawn. For an instant, he has to adjust his thinking from the distinct memories of last night's dreams, still present in his head, to things around him and to where exactly he might be. The dreams momentarily pour over him, sending him an image of a girlfriend he knew years ago.

Zak blinks, a conscious effort to dismiss the image, and recognizes his apartment, remembering that it is in Northwest suburban Beijing, just beyond the Fourth Ring Road. From where he lays he can see a skiff of snow on the windowsill. The snow is new and the first of its kind this year. The window is cracked open because the government building is routinely overheated, and the first light of day is just beginning to shine through. At night the room is almost stifling, but by dawn it takes on a chill.

He is tangled in the sheets, but he is also tangled up with Kim, who has pulled the covering and sheet close to herself, backed herself up against him, and thrown her leg backward over his, almost to make sure that he is still there. On the other hand, it could be just to grab whatever measure of warmth she can, which is probably more likely. She would be unlikely to say she needed him to keep warm. In fact, she would be unlikely to say she needed him for anything at all.

He involuntarily hears music in his head. Kim reminds him of songs by Cake and Jet, Short Skirt Long Jacket and Are You Gonna Be My Girl. In a lot of ways that count she has become exactly that, the music that always plays in the back of his head. It accompanies him wherever he goes, whatever he does, it's ever present and never very far away. He has come to accept that it is the background upon which he has chosen to draw the events of his life.

The two of them met on the Stanford Dish trail, which lies just above the campus in the characteristically steep Northern California hills. Stanford lies in an unincorporated area of Santa Clara County adjacent to Palo Alto, where the Dish and its trail are popular landmarks. The old lattice dish is still used to track and recalibrate ailing satellites. For the biker and runner the hills can be daunting, but they provide excellent views all the way to San Francisco.

It was two autumns ago and late in the afternoon when they literally ran into each other. The sun was low in the sky and behind the big dish, creating a dazzling sundown streaked with every color of orange. Long shadows were casting across the hills and ancient oaks, and there was a chill in the air. Kim was sitting in the well-manicured grass beneath a particularly gnarly set of old oaks along the side of the trail. She was massaging a foot when he caught sight of her.

He slowed.

"You OK?"

"Sure." She looked up, squinting at the sun behind him.

He stopped, stooping over, his hands on his knees.

"Oh yeah? What's up with your foot?" he asked, beginning to notice her looks. She had set her long auburn hair into a ponytail that she could poke through the back of her baseball cap and she had pulled the cap low over her eyes. She had obviously been running for a while. She had the sheen of at least a couple miles.

"Not sure. It hurts though." She continued to rub the outer edge of her right foot.

"Take your sock off."

She squinted up at him again. She judged that he must be fairly good looking. She was having trouble making him out against the sun.

"You're not some kind of weird foot twist are you?" she queried, flashing a provocative smile.

"If I were it would already be too late for you to do anything about it. I'm Zak Miller."

"Kimberly."

"Let me take a look."

He was still gulping air as he leaned onto one knee to look at her bare foot. He watched her face as he ran his hand along the outside, stopping at her smallest toe. It was a nice face and it was singularly bemused. He pressed the side of the toe. She winced. There was a small, hardened tissue mass there.

"Bone spur," he pronounced with authority.

She thought his hands were cooling and felt good and she didn't object to his take charge style. She reached down to her toe. It was some kind of crazy callous.

"That sounds bad."

He pursed his lips.

"Not as bad as all that. I can remove it if you want."

"Won't it bleed and everything?"

"Naw, it shouldn't. But I'll need a sharp knife."

He smiled disarmingly.

"What? No knife? You're obviously no boy scout."

He had never really considered this question, whether he was a boy scout or not.

"Oh, sure I am," he replied.

They finished the trail together and back at her residence he carefully removed the bone spur from her foot. While he was doing this she watched him with considerable interest. Then she placed her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him toward her. He turned and what had been intended to be a kiss on the cheek turned out to be more. And so it began for them.

It did not erase the image of the girlfriend from his dream, the girl from six years ago, from Boston Latin and three thousand miles away. And he had tried, really tried to rid himself of anything that could remind him of her, of any picture, any email, or even any memory. Perhaps that was why the thought of her had taken up residence in his dreams. It was a form of retaliation, retaliation for trying to forget her when he knew he couldn't.

Now they share an apartment on the eighth floor of a twelve story building, grad student housing at Tsinghua University in downtown Beijing. He disentangles himself from Kim and hits the head. When he returns Kim is out of bed and the TV is turned on.

"Well, Jim, it appears that the attack on the northern Pakistani airbase at Kamra came in the middle of the night. Several dozen Islamic militants armed with rocket propelled grenades and mortars wreaked considerable damage on both conventional aircraft and drones stationed at the well-fortified base."

Jim Lenard, the News World morning anchor, looking fabulously well put together for such an early hour, injects characteristic pep into his manner of presentation. Cheery brightness literally jumps from the screen with caffeine infused incisiveness.

"Were any of the insurgents killed or captured?"

Jessica doesn't miss a beat to consider the question or have to actually think of an answer. They have gone over this already off camera, so the question is really only a cue for the response.

"They got away and left no one behind. It's remarkable really. But the base is largely for drones operating high above the Hindu Kush. They seek to identify the activities of extremist elements throughout the mountainous region, which has become an anti-government hide out with very few roads or means of access."

"And what has been the government's response, Jessica?"

Jessica glances downward as if to check something.

"First of all, the government says they are terrorists, but they call themselves freedom fighters and The Resistance. The Pakistani Air Force is indicating that no one was killed but there have been some injuries. Islamabad is saying the militants who took part in this heinous attack are being tracked and will not get away."

Jim appears to harden his expression, simultaneously dropping his vocal range slightly.

"Sounds like the attack could prove to be a suicide mission of some sort."

Jessica looks thoughtful.

"Exactly, Jim."

Zak turns away, looking around.

"Have you seen my pants?" he kind of shouts.

Kim comes to the bedroom door while in the process of brushing her teeth. She is dressed in a sweater and jeans, has a loose braid in her hair and a hand stuck in her back pocket. He has no idea how she got put together so fast.

She looks him over.

"Front room, Romeo. Hey, let's shake a leg, shall we?"

Chapter 4

There is piped in music sounding from somewhere. It has a soothing quality to it, a low background kind of pop. Not muzak. More like one of the remote participants has it running at their location. It doesn't really bother him so he isn't going to say anything about it, even though he's trying to make a presentation to some thirty people.

Zak looks around the room, a small lecture hall at Tsinghua University. It's an AV room and has monitors strewn everywhere about. Those in the front he controls for his presentation today. Beyond the room, through its two-story glass walls, lies a spectacular view of the City of Beijing.

"As many of you are probably aware, there still are about 10 million bicycles around and about in Beijing today. Not much different from 20 years ago, when twenty percent of Beijing residents were still riding. But twenty years before that almost eighty percent of the city's residents were still using bicycles to get back and forth to work. The population of the City was half what it is today and car ownership was still in its infancy in China. Those days are long gone, and today we are barely hanging on to single digits for daily travel to work numbers in the City."

There's a signal on one of the monitors to Zak's left, followed by a bit of throat clearing. Zak lights up.

"Yes?"

"But doesn't China still have the largest number of bike riders on the planet?"

It's Bogdan. Or rather Bog. Bog is on one of the remotes from Stanford and is obviously having a good time feeding Zak softballs. Other monitors stationed around the room have other remote attendees and some of these are Zak's grad student friends from back home.

"Absolutely! China still retains the largest share of the world's bicyclists. That is not going to change anytime soon. The problem is not the number of options for getting to work. It's that so many of those options are being stretched to their limit. Everyone here can attest to the unbelievable crowding on the subways and the dangerous pushing and shoving that has become standard during rush hours. A bike sharing program is vital in any world class city, as every transportation expert will tell you. So we've been looking at that."

He's leaning against the back of the lectern with his arms folded across his chest, looking out across a dozen or so rows of gradually elevated rows of seating. It is a clear but chilly day out and the Beijing morning sun is streaming in harshly. The monitors to the right side of the room are a bit hard to read with all that light hitting them. There are maybe twenty-five students in attendance. Most of these are engineering students, both grad and undergrad, but a number are from other disciplines. Many are in his seminar class. Zak is a Stanford transportation engineering and economic development student sent to China as part of a group of US graduate students in the Sino-US Young Professionals in Science and Engineering Exchange Program. Tsinghua is known as China's MIT, and Zak has been conducting his study in Beijing for over 2 months.

"Excuse me, Mr., uh, Mr. Zak?"

"And we have a question in the back?" Zak smiles and takes a look at his list. He is not really seeing anyone on the list that fits. This could be some kind of mystery person as far as he can tell.

"You do not recognize me, Mr. Zak?"

He is nonplussed. Who in the world could this be, with the phony accent and large sunglasses, some woman with her hair up in a crazy fashion. Zak is momentarily confused and keeps looking at his list for some help.

"You see," she says, taking off the glasses and dropping the phony accent, "How could you possibly not recognize me, your best friend in the world?"

Zak has an easy laugh that comes quickly.

"I apologize. Class, this is Miss Sofia Salas, lately of Palo Alto. Did we forget to sign up Sofie dear?"

"Oh, please forgive me, Mr. Zak! I have been soooo busy, you know?" She starts trying to smooth down her out of control hair.

"Perhaps Miss Sofie has an actual question to ask our presenter?" asks Kim, who is sitting in the right front of the room with a wry grin spread broadly across her face. She is tilted back in her seat to see Sofie's monitor.

"Is that Miss Scott? Why, how are you?"

"I'm golden, Sofie. Thanks so much for dropping by!"

Kim is beaming and he knows he's been set up.

"How's Gilly?"

She is asking after Sofie's boyfriend, Guillermo Flores, an ex-military student at Stanford.

"He's great."

"Ladies! Perhaps another time."

"Another time? Really? I don't know. What other time could that be? Gather ye roses while ye may."

Sofie might be taking this all a bit far, thought Zak.

"Actually I do have a question Mr. Zak," said Sofie, now twirling the oversized glasses in her fingers. "Where can I rent a bike in Beijing?"

Zak gives Kim a look, signifying that he knows she has prepped Sofie with this.

"That is indeed an excellent question, Sofie. Thank-you so very much."

He turns to the large screen directly behind him and touches the remote screen in his hand. Immediately a large map of the city is projected.

"There are about 80,000 bicycles available for rent from 476 authorized outlets. The map shows the locations of these various outlets. Most are concentrated downtown and at major recreational centers around the city. Those downtown are mainly used by tourists."

He explains how he has analyzed the total trip reductions per zone based on typical usage numbers provided by the various outlets, and the impact that this has had in reducing congestion in places around the City of Beijing. He compares results with other major cities and projects the congestion reducing effects of applying similar programs elsewhere, with special attention to U.S. cities. The results are clearly highly applicable to virtually every kind of urban area. The presentation goes pretty well he thinks. The senior staff that attend seem pleased. He receives cordial applause and further questions from students coming up to him afterward. By the time he returns to his office with Kim there are numerous calls and emails waiting for him.

One is from Rashida Bakkal, an Egyptian student. He pulls it up and punches the number, and in an instant Rashida is on, laughing.

"Kim! Nice one, getting Sofie to do that. They got you. And right in the middle of your lecture too! Outstanding work! Outstanding! Could not have done any better myself. On second thought, maybe I could?"

She shakes her head and her wavy black hair does a number, her smile measured in megawatts. Zak likes her for her ready for anything spirit.

"You were a little surprised?" Kim asks, putting her arm around him.

"She's a goof. So are you."

He closes the distance and gives her a quick kiss.

"I was surprised. I'm like who is this weird chick and what is she doing here?" says Rashida.

"Ok guys. I'm giving you the room. Gotta get to work," Rashida says as she flashes the interior of the bar around her. It is massive, high tech and elaborate: glass, chrome, and leather.

"See you, Rash," Kim returns.

"Oops! There's my boss!" And then she says, in a barely audible voice whispered very close to her phone, "What a jerk!"

The screen darkens.

"It's Rashida's planet, we're only visitors. And who else have we got?" Kim asks.

"Well, I believe it is Mr. Kamat! Shall we rock his world?"

Arjun comes up, or rather his shock of thick black hair does, followed by his smiling face.

"Artie! How's it hangin' man?"

Artie has black glasses and he pushes them up.

"Kim! This is a treat! How are you doing?"

"Good, Artie, good. How 'bout you?"

"Missing you sweetheart," says Art despondently.

"Awwwhh."

Artie brightens.

"How about this guy? Who knew he was so brilliant?"

While they continue to chat with Artie, Zak pulls up on email from Asobi Shimada, another friend of theirs who sat in on the lecture from back at Stanford. Asobi tells him that she enjoyed the lecture, but who was that crazy lady?

Chapter 5

Zak is staring across the silent lily pond, concentrating on memorizing some classwork, and as he does so a fish snaps out of the water and makes a noisy splash. It is just after dawn in the Jinchun Gardens of the University. He has ridden his bike down campus just to get here at the break of day, and now he is sitting in the Han Pavilion, a large pagoda like structure that sits triumphantly over the center of the former Imperial Garden of the Qing Dynasty, the old Summer Palace. The Garden is covered in a thin veneer of white from last night's early snow event, but it is rapidly disappearing under the fast warming of the sun.

The restored Pavilion can easily seat dozens of people, but this dawn he is alone and practicing a one thousand yard stare as he prepares for an exam. His mind is clear and empty of everything, the perfect condition for cramming. The Gardens are breathtakingly beautiful, tended as they have been for many hundreds of years, and it is the most peacefully tranquil place on the very hurried campus. He has come here before at exam time and rarely encounters anyone this early, maybe a runner or two, a young romantic couple having just spent the night together, or a nature lover trying to take pictures.

But for some reason, this morning is different. He hears the tramp of many feet and from around the bend of the pathway flies a group of young runners, all dressed similarly, huffing and puffing. The group descends upon him, interrupting his train of thought. Soon there are other runners, some apparently lagging the team ahead, a few just on their own. Following them are bicyclists, pedestrians, leaf peepers, and couples. They pierce the silence with laughter and conversation.

They stare at Zak as they walk by. He notices that somebody is photographing the Pavilion and he is being included. He can't hide his annoyance and glares at the photographer as he thinks of packing it in.

A man cries out at the other end of the pavilion, and in the immediate silence that follows, Zak turns to see someone else racing away. There is a figure lying supine across the Pavilion's entrance. Even the group of runners slows to a halt. Zak reacts without thought and runs quickly over to the man, who is clearly injured. He wears street clothes and the bottom of his shirt is stained in blood, blood which he appears to be fast losing. The man supports himself with one arm.

"Sir, you are hurt?" Zak asks, dropping to a knee.

The fellow looks at Zak with a grimace spread wide across his face, in the kind of pain that cannot be expressed.

"What is your name?"

"Li Hua Wang," the stricken man can barely speak.

"You're going to be ok."

By this time a crowd has begun to assemble around the scene. Zak turns to the first person holding a cell.

"Call emergency, right away."

The woman with the cell nods and begins to dial.

He is thinking that the hospital is just West of the Gardens, close. He is pulling the torn shirt away from the man's abdomen, which is obscured by so much blood. It is not a simple stab wound, but rather a deep incision all the way across the abdomen. Zak pulls his own t-shirt over his head to place pressure on the wound, but Li Hua stops him with a raised hand.

He falls back, his head coming to rest on the path. Wang pulls Zach closer, his eyes starting to lose focus.

"Please help me, Christopher Gray," he says breathlessly, grabbing his hand.

Zak, taken aback by being called a name which means nothing to him, feels a small object being pressed into his hand in such a way that it cannot be noticed by the others.

"You must get this to UNK."

He closes his eyes. Pain and lack of oxygen overtake him.

"Only UNK. UNK. Only UNK."

Li Hua loses consciousness.

Zak is holding the now soaked t-shirt as a compress and signals a man nearby to take over. He makes his way through the crowd to the corner of the Pavilion and turns away from them to find out what Li Hua has given him, a tiny flash drive. The danger of carrying someone else's presumably stolen data around, especially in China, spooks him. And then there is the matter of being called Christopher Gray. Why would this man, whom he has never met, call him by someone else's name? That was just weird. And who, for that matter, is this UNK?

Zak looks up from the drive in his palm, only to see a westerner further down the pathway giving him the once over and then quickly look away. Zak is certain that the man's interest is much more than casual. Heat rises up the back of Zak's neck and flushes his face. If he doesn't get out of here really soon they're going to be joined by the authorities, who will no doubt detain him, question him, find out about the passing of a mnemonic device by the dead man, assume he is in on something, arrest him for possession of stolen data, and basically end his life as he knows it. Under the circumstances, Zak figures sticking around is something he should not feel overly obliged to do.

So with another glance at the mystery man, he wonders is the guy looking his way again or not, Zak, mindful not to run or draw attention to himself, skirts around the crowd and back through the Pavilion to his bicycle, which, fortunately, is, despite all the chaos, still there. He sets out like a light, down the opposite side pathway, as fast as the bike will carry him.

Zak hits a tiny ornamental pedestrian bridge of a traditional Chinese design going so fast that he literally blows back the few pedestrians who are there, forcing them to retreat to the sides. The bridge rises in a short, high curve over the water and this curve actually launches him and his bike a short ways into the air. Coming down hard he nearly blows a tire and the bike wobbles. He fights to regain control and turns down the path, dodging people along the way.

The thumb drive is burning a hole in his pocket and a plan is formulating in the back of his head at the same time. He has to ditch the drive as soon as possible. But where? Anywhere where it will not be disturbed and he can come back and find it later on. Anywhere that a needle can be lost in a haystack of possibilities.

But another thought has crossed Zak's mind and he zig zags the bicycle through the paths, going right, then left, trying to avoid hitting anyone. He comes up on the center meadow of the campus, a Quad, much like any campus in the United States, and heads North along the West edge. Sidewalks ring and criss cross the plain of open grass, grass still wet with the morning dew. Young students clutching bags and books mill about on the way to their first class of the day, mostly in ones and twos.

What if someone is already following him? He looks behind for pursuers as he approaches the Jeffersonian style Auditorium Building at the North end of the Quad. The buildings are all traditionally European, going back to when Tsinghua was funded by the Boxers, becoming a prep school for Chinese preparing to study in America.

Zak's backward glances are quick but he is traveling fast. As he turns back on the bike he is suddenly accosted by a young student obliviously wandering too near his path.

Zak veers, too late, and hits one of the kid's running shoes. This throws the bike off at a crazy angle that says only one thing to him, "You're going down!" But he makes it to the grass. The lawn, wet from the remains of last night's snow and kind of soft, grabs hold of his tires the instant that they hit the grass, abruptly slowing the bike. Zak's inertia keeps going however and he flies over the handlebars. He flails a bit in the air but comes down rolling, and he keeps rolling on the soft damp ground, until, like some kind of football receiver, he is back on his feet. Zak looks around but there are only a few students who even seem to have noticed.

Zak grabs the bike, which is none the worse, climbs on quickly and heads rapidly around the Auditorium. He spins onto one of several pedestrian bridges across a narrow, concrete-lined storm channel that drains the grounds of the campus and the Haidian District of Beijing, to the University Library. He picks the nearest entrance, leaves the bike, and makes his way inside using his student card key. He takes the first elevator up to the seventh floor, gets off, and runs to the nearest stack of books all the way to the end. Most everything here is in Chinese, which he is only slightly conversant in, so he chooses a fairly nondescript text. He presses the flash into the middle of the book, puts the book back on the shelf, and does his best to memorize the title characters, making sure that he can find the book easily when he returns.

After quietly leaving the library, Zak grabs his bike and gets on the path heading to his and Kim's housing complex.

Chapter 6

The bike path runs along the northerly extension of the storm channel. Zak veers right toward the center of the Zijing dorms, a group of hi rise buildings, and past two dining halls. He approaches the International Students Dormitory, looking for anything out of the ordinary. But there's nothing.

So he down shifts the bike and slowly goes around the building. He can see a portion of Caijing East Road and he looks for cars that might be parked along the side of the road. He sees none. There is a student parking lot nearby but it would be full this time of day. The sidewalk takes him up to the back door of the high rise where he dismounts his bike, leaning it carefully against a pillar. Walking up to the partially glass door he uses his key card, which he swipes, and he hears it unlock.

He enters the small rear lobby of the building, sees some kid reading over in a corner, a book bag at his feet, and walks over to the elevators. Kim will be gone. She likes to have breakfast with her friends at the Yu Shu Yuan Dining Hall nearby. Now that he is in the building he feels his paranoia slipping away and begins to relax. What was the man's name again? Wasn't it Li Hua something? Wang! That was it.

Grad students exit the elevator as soon as it arrives and Zak takes it up to his floor. He steps out and hears familiar sounds: doors slamming, the washing machine at the end of the hall. Even the voices he hears, the other languages used, sound familiar. The hall is significantly too warm, overheated, like the rest of the building. It's all very usual, comforting really.

Stepping over to his door, he unlocks it with a key and enters. But now, for a fleeting instant, he has a bad feeling. He doesn't have time for it to take root before he hears a loud male voice call out to him from the living room.

"Please come in Mr. Gray!"

Zak's heart sinks all the way to his feet.

His hand is still on the doorknob and he is suddenly considering making a run for it, seriously thinking of making a run for it, when the doorknob and the door it's attached to move all on their own. He turns and is startled to see a rather large Chinese guy right in his face, and Zak realizes the man must have moved out from behind the door just as Zak was entering. His face is expressionless and remains that way as he reaches past to shut the door behind Zak, cutting off any possibility of escape.

Zak is in a short hallway that has a coat closet and then gives way to the living room and as he steps through it another unfriendly guy moves into his line of sight, standing at the opposite end of the room. Zak turns, and seated on the sofa is the man who appears to have spoken. He is Chinese, is dressed in a good suit of foreign manufacture, is older than Zak, but is still young. He is not bald but has shaved his head, completely. His old hairline is still visible, but shows only mild recession. His face is tight, as if under laid by wire with skin stretched over the top.

"Ah, Mr. Gray! How nice that you could join us."

Zak may have lost confidence in the moment, but he is not without the resentment that comes from having one's home invaded

"Who the hell are you and how the hell did you get in here?" Zak asks with more than a little fake bravado.

Standing in the warm room, having just biked several miles at top speed, he sweats profusely and his face becomes a shiny sluiceway.

The athletic bald man is sitting casually on Zak's sofa, one leg crossed over the other in such a way that Zak can see that the sole of one of his shoes is barely broken in. The man smiles curiously and pulls a card from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, extending it toward Zak.

Zak steps forward, taking the card. Noticeably, the man in the corner also steps closer. Zak also sees the guy at the door has edged into the room. So Zak steps back before looking at what is a business card in Chinese and English.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Christopher. I am Hui Lee." He speaks with a flourish, "I am with the Ministry of State Security. I am sure you have heard of us, have you not?"

The man's English is good, but it has an accent that is different from that common in Beijing. Zak hasn't been in China long enough to really be familiar. Maybe the accent is a little British. Maybe it's Cantonese too. The card has an insignia with a coat of arms lying on top of a gold seal. On one quadrant of the coat of arms is a hammer and sickle. It looks real enough for that sickening feeling he had earlier to return.

"I have no idea who this guy is that you are looking for. My name is Zachary Miller and I'm a grad student from Stanford in an exchange program."

The man who says his name is Hui Lee laughs. His face scrunches up as he does so, its tight skin threatening to rip. He looks at the man at the side of the room, the man who has no neck and very little forehead.

"What a funny guy!"

He points at Zak and continues to address his friend.

"He's a funny guy!"

No neck chuckles without smiling.

Hui Lee turns his attention back to Zak, not in an unfriendly way.

"Sure you are. And I'm the Easter Bunny," he says.

Zak reaches for his wallet and the big guy shows how fast he can move, which is pretty fast. He is on Zak before he can pull the wallet out of his pocket, knocking Zak's hand away and grabbing the wallet himself. He takes a quick look at it and tosses it to Lee. Lee demonstrates a sudden reaction, picking it out of the air like a catcher.

And Zack is thinking, "Who are these guys? No way can they be government desk jockeys."

"Search him!" Lee growls.

The big guy is apparently not big on English. He looks at Zak and tugs at his own shirt and points. Zak gets the message and starts to strip. The guy takes each item like he's some sort of valet. He motions for Zak to keep going. After Zak gets naked, the other guy comes over and the two henchmen go through his pants pockets and the bag he brought in with him, confiscating anything even remotely electronic. Finally the big guy pulls out some rubber gloves.

"You've got to be kidding me!"

"Do we look like we're kidding, Mr. Gray?" he turns to the big guy. "Do it!"

Zak feels a hand on his back.

"Hey!"

The guy does a quick prostate exam. Zak would never have thought of hiding anything there, but from now on and for the rest of his life, he will never fail to consider it.

In the meantime, Lee is pulling plastic cards out of the wallet. He finds Zak's student ID.

"Oh and what's this? Fake ID?"

"It's not fake. It's who I am. I'm Zachary Miller, an engineering grad student from Stanford, an American, and you are making a big mistake."

Hui Lee's face hardens as if about to crack.

"Quite the contrary, Mr. Gray. I have it on good authority that you are an American agent who has just come from the Imperial Gardens, where a leading Chinese dissident just passed you information intended to negatively affect the interests of the Chinese people. What is not clear is whether you had a hand in this man's death."

"I assure you I had nothing to do with it."

"Ah! So you admit you were there?"

Zak tilts his head and grimaces a look of disgust. They are in the process of handing back his clothes and he dresses quickly.

"If you are going to question me, I have a right to see someone from the American Embassy."

"You disappoint me, Mr. Gray! You keep on insisting you are someone else and things are going to get very unpleasant for you. Please, drop your ridiculous act so we can deal with this like gentlemen."

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"That's a shame. It really is. Here I was hoping we could resolve this just between us. But you force my hand."

He nods to both of his men, who take up positions on either side of Zak. He places the ID back in the wallet and hands it to one of them as he walks to the door. The guy sticks it back in Zak's rear pocket.

Zak is figuring that they are going to bum rush him out of the apartment. But he knows that once they are out of this room their actions will be recorded by University CCTV. Heck, they probably tapped into the system if they know what went down in Jinchun. What Zak can't understand is why everybody suddenly thinks he is someone else.

They start to move and as they reach the hallway they hesitate only long enough to close the apartment door. The men pull down on his arms, forcing him to jut his lower body outward to maintain his balance, while pushing him forward in a kind of crab walk. He is forced to concentrate on moving his feet to avoid falling. Hui Lee has an empty elevator waiting for them. They sweep into it fast and he is momentarily dragged off his feet.

But the elevator does not stay empty for long. It is the middle of the morning as well as the middle of the week, and there are plenty of students coming and going from class.

At the next stop a young blonde woman in blue tartan capri pants with sandals and a sleeveless navy top walks in followed by a guy of similar age in an ochre t-shirt and blue jeans. They go a few more floors in silence and a girl in a distinctive orange sari joins them. She turns around, and this reveals a petite back which is completely bare except for her matching orange bra. The eyes of all the men in the back of the elevator, Zak scrunched between them, go immediately to this girl.

Zak prefers to wear hard leather shoes when biking and this becomes important when he viciously plants his heel on the toe of the smaller man, who grunts in sudden pain. Zak tears lose from his grasp and knees the big guy on his left as hard as he can, pulling free of him as well. Pushing past the students, he grabs the door just as it is closing, and is out and down the hall to the stairs. He is followed by shouting and heavy footfalls, but is soon launching himself down the half staircases, somehow landing on his feet each time. He crashes through the door leading into the lobby and he runs past the front desk, practically colliding with the front door, making it to the broad lawn at the front of the building.

Zak crosses the lawn at top speed and, before he really has a chance to think, he is dodging traffic on Caijing East Road. On the other side of the barrier is a railroad track overgrown with brush at this time of year. It's a hundred yards North along the tracks and he heads straight for it.

Chapter 7

The night air is damp and chill, but usual for autumn in northern California. Nothing stirs so that the absence of moving air creates a soundless void, interrupted by the occasional noise of urban traffic not far away. There are a few ornamental lamps and lit bollards along the narrow drives and pathways, and they produce a chiaroscuro relief on trees, shrubs and monuments.

Megan Palmer eases her back against a stone still warm from an earlier sun. She likes the way the light plays on the vegetation, the trees especially, where the ghostly up-lighting traces along individual trunks and limbs and reflects back from the undersides of bunches of leaves.

This place has a kind of magic for her, where she can be graveyard girl, enveloped by mystery. She wears sandals and can feel the cool, slightly too tall grass on the sides of her feet as she moves them about. There is the brush of an occasional insect on her arm, or leg, or neck, but she barely notices.

She imagines herself to be Dorothy Gale, a simple farm girl without a thought in her head except for her mischievous dog. She is filled with champaign wishes and caviar dreams. She is back, back in LA in her head. This is where she wants to be. She was there once. Not all that long ago.

A ringtone ushers from her bag, once and then again. She picks the bag up and takes out an electronic pad, a tangled earpiece coming with it. It's so quiet here in the cemetery that she decides to use the earpiece, although clearly there is no one else around. She touches the pad a few times and is rewarded with the sound of a friend's voice on the other end.

"Megan!"

The voice is joined by an image on the pad.

"Raven, where are you?"

"I'm in Minsk."

"What? Where?"

"Belarus."

"Geezus! What are you doing there?"

"Nothing much." She pauses, signifying that that could not be further from the truth.

Raven's face is replaced by a headache inducing blur which resolves into the view of an intersection crowded with jacketed people and four ambulances sitting askew. It's nighttime, still, in Belarus and suddenly she notices that there are an awful lot of hardhats being worn by the local gentry, orange, white, every kind. And lots of surgical masks, most white, some blue, some with folds, some in molded shapes, all kinds, intended to hide identity. It must be very cold because everybody has something on their head, a hat, a hood, a stocking cap, something.

There must be thousands, tens of thousands of tightly packed people within the viewfinder, forming a great crowd ringed about by old, gray buildings, one of which is clearly a church, and here and there bunches of leafless trees. Dawn is just beginning to show in the sky behind the trees. Stanchions of large street lights stand nearby but the power has been turned off by the authorities. The only light comes from a man standing on top of one of the ambulances, and he holds up a fiery torch that creates bright magnesium light. He raises the torch high above his head as he shouts at the people. Another man in a mask stands to his rear, also on top of the ambulance, surveying the crowd, seemingly protecting the man bearing the torch. People stand near the ambulance and hold up devices to record the event.

Here and there Megan can see a flag but she can't make out what they represent. Someone has a cardboard sign that says something in black Cyrillic characters, which are also meaningless to her. The man's voice is commanding but she can't understand anything he is saying. It's probably something about this being the dawn of a new day, she thinks. And then he begins to sing, the crowd quickly joining in. A protest song maybe, or the national anthem, she doesn't know.

The screen undergoes another blur and Raven comes back into view, a four story windowless, burnt out building can be seen behind her.

"You're at a protest!"

Raven has a streak of violet on the left side of her hair. It is shoulder length and is held in place by an elastic band that is bright and shiny.

"You really don't see the news."

"Thank God! Are you ok?"

"Sure sweetie!"

She hears others nearby, young women, speaking excitedly in another language. There is more blurring as the image on the screen flies around.

"Gotta go! Gotta Raaaaave!"

And Raven's gone, leaving a silent, blank screen behind.

To Raven as far as Megan can tell it is all about worldwide conflict with governments everywhere who ride a tide of illiberalism while barely keeping afloat on an ocean of sovereign debt. The mechanisms of state power have become so powerful and so encompassing that a new kind of social control is being exercised.

But for Raven there is a network of the young, disaffected, and rebellious seeking transparency and freedom expression. Whether they sprout a V for Vendetta or a Guy Fawkes mask, sing outrageous songs and do outrageous things like Pussy Riot, they fight the actions of oppressive or overreaching governments. They have allied themselves with libertarians and the hacktivist group Anonymous, fighting back with rocks, bats and fire bombs while singing their national anthems, only to be attacked by stun guns and grenades, truncheons, rubber bullets, tear gas, and water cannon.

Raven's world has grown increasingly rigid and sclerotic. Democratic change has been unable to take place. Organs of central control have accumulated too much power to be politically challenged in any conventional way, and have been careful to disguise their power from the publics that they once served but which now serve them. Government open to its people, once upon a time an assurance of liberty, no longer can be counted on to exist. The world ossifies and turns necrotic with wealth and power concentrated at the top.

Chapter 8

Kim Scott sits at a long, white serpentine table that winds its way artistically around the first floor study room of the Tsinghua University Library. The room fronts a courtyard bright with a late morning sun and changing fall leaves. It is warm and inviting, tempting students away from their studies. The sun finds its way to students lying on the floor in out of the way spots and to those in the vinyl upholstered lounge chairs along the glass outer wall of the room. Some students are caught between morning classes and cat nap, catching up on last night's lost sleep, oblivious, while the sun highlights dust motes falling lazily onto their still faces. Kim's fingers waiver over the keys of her pad as she ponders, waiting for words to come to her.

She hears a noise and looks up to see Zak talking to somebody in the hallway outside. His voice is raised.

"Fine!"

He gives a man standing in front of him his student ID. The man looks at it, nods his head, and returns it, letting him go.

As he approaches she can see why Zak was stopped. His clothes are dirty, smeared in places with caked mud and bits of leaves. His pants are wet and his shoes make a squishing sound as he walks. Not exactly very student like. She sits back.

"What the hell happened to you?" she asks.

The table goes on forever curving back on itself throughout the large room and there is basically no easy way to go around it. Zak ducks himself beneath it and pulls a seat over to Kimberly.

"I have no freaking idea what's going on."

He is sort of whispering at her sideways, keeping his eyes on the door and glass curtain wall into the main hallway.

Kim is frowning. This is a girl who rarely frowns, who rarely has any reason to. Kim has a particular brand of cuteness, which she wears like wardrobe, but sometimes he wonders if it isn't really just a façade, a kind of self-defense mechanism.

"Somebody's after me."

Kim laughs and he wonders if she is being dismissive. In his mind he hears the sound of clear, tinkling crystal, a chandelier being shaken, the way her voice, especially her laughter, cuts through his world.

"I'm not kidding! There were these guys at our apartment. They were inside, waiting for me."

She frowns yet again, little lines of concern barely creasing the smooth skin of her forehead.

"What did they want?"

"Other than to kill me you mean?"

"Zak!"

This makes him pause for a second.

He gathers himself. He rallies. He tilts his head as he gets very close and whispers.

"A guy was knifed in the Gardens and I was there. He gave me this."

He unclenches his fist and shows her the tiny flash drive which he just retrieved from the stacks upstairs.

Kimberly doesn't know whether to laugh or cry or what. He's being preposterous and it's not endearing. Not even a little.

"So? What's on it?"

"I don't know."

"You haven't checked it yourself?"

"I've had other priorities, like not getting killed."

Kim carefully lays her hand on top of his and takes the flash while looking around. There are a couple of conked out kids ensconced in the lounge seats nearby and an older looking guy powering a laptop not very far away at their table. She loads the drive and gives Zak a look that says: this better not blow up.

Instantly the file boots onto her screen. It is in Chinese but with full English transliteration. There are instructions from somebody named Li Hua Wang. They see millions of files and they try to open a few but can't. Everything appears to be encrypted.

"It's huge!" Kim exclaims.

"Try a decrypt."

She back clicks a file and runs a standard decryption. The instant she hits enter the screen goes blank.

Kim turns and gives Zack a withering stare. For all she knows her computer could be zonked. She pulls the flash and stabs it into Zak's hesitating hand before restarting her computer. The laptop hesitates, but the recovery screen flashes up brilliantly.

Zak steps behind her.

"See."

"See what? I'm not trying that again."

She's checking her directories.

"You should take it back. Give it to whoever wants it. If somebody got hurt over it in particular."

"Killed."

"Zak, don't be so dramatic."

His sigh is audible, and intended to be.

He is mystified about the contents of the memory stick, especially its massive numbers of encrypted files. Is it some kind of humongous data dump? He is guessing based on the instructions Wang has provided that the encrypted files could be political. Are they government documents, perhaps even classified? He has trouble understanding what all this could be.

Didn't Hui give him something, a business card? His hand flies to a shirt pocket. Strange. He was pretty sure that he had put it there. Another thought occurs to him and he reaches for his wallet. Opening it, sure enough, there on top he finds Hui Lee's card, its Chinese and English characters are in shiny, embossed gold. The guy holding his clothes had probably taken the card he was handed, but Lee had placed another in his wallet when he was examining it. He can feel the heavily raised, brightly colored shield all the way through it.

"This is the guy. Or at least this is his card."

Zak tries to show it to her, but her fingers are still flying over computer keys. She doesn't type, that would require having one's hands in a basically stationary position over the keyboard while reaching appropriate keys in the immediate range of each finger. She has her own self devised method of typing and it's like nothing he has ever seen. Her fingers seem to be everywhere at once.

She breaks focus and looks down at the card.

"Hui Lee?"

She takes it, scrutinizing it with care.

"Is he the killer?"

"No, that was some other guy."

She looks at him, taking this in.

"But he's the guy who wanted to kill you?"

"Yeah. Kidnap me more like it."

"How do we know who this guy is? He could be anybody. The card doesn't mean a thing."

"No. It doesn't. But it has a phone number."

Kim nods.

"We should call it. Or him," she states with authority.

Kim turns back, places the card at the bottom of her screen and starts in.

"Let's get a general number for Spyville, shall we?"

"What for?"  
"So we can check this guy out."

He shakes his head.  
"Are you in the habit of verifying people's identities?"

"I am now, since somebody is screwing with my boyfriend."

"I'm touched."

"Don't be."

She pulls up a general screen that says Chinese Ministry of State Security at the top. The web page looks so ordinary that it could just as well be for a seed corn company. She asks for a list of contacts and sure enough there is a general phone number and it's in the Beijing area code. Nice.

"Ok Sparky, here's your phone number. Why don't you give it a go?"

He's been punching it into his phone as she speaks.

"Yes. Hello?"

"Hello. Just a minute please."

He waits while somebody speaking English comes on the line.

"Hello, sir. How may I be of assistance?"

Zak returns to his seat while holding the phone to his ear. Kim watches him intently.

"Hi. You know I just met a very nice gentleman from your agency. He said his name was Hui Lee. Really a terrific guy, and he indicated that I could check with you to verify that he works for you. Would you mind checking that for me?"

He raises his eyebrows to Kim, like "I can't believe I'm actually doing this."

"Oh, huh huh. A Mr. Hui Lee?" She spells it out with barely a trace of an accent. "Just a second please."

"She's looking," he says to Kim.

"I'll bet," she says without looking up.

"Excuse me, sir. Can I ask who is inquiring, please?"

"Of course. My name is Joseph Mengele."

"I see. Well, we have a Mr. Lee who is a supervisor. Would you like me to see if he is in?"

"No. That won't be necessary. Thank-you very much."

"Certainly sir. Can I perhaps take a message for Mr. Lee?"

"Very kind of you. No, I don't think so. Thank-you. Goodbye."

He clicks off somewhat hurriedly.

"Mengele? Really?"

"She had no idea who that is."

"I suppose not. But they have your name and location," she looks at her watch, "about now."

"Sure. And they could be pulling image from the CCTV over there on the wall for all we know."

"So they would know who I am too."

"Why not?"

"You know, this could be really scary if I were the kind of person who got scared at this sort of thing," she said.

"But you're not."

"I don't know. How about you?"  
He holds up the flash drive in a way that is sure to be visible to the CCTV. Even the dude sitting not far away sees him make the gesture.

"I say let's get rid of this as fast as we can."

"Sounds good," she reaches for the business card he placed on her computer and holds it up for him. He hunches over to peer closely at it as he punches in the number.

"Ni hao?"

"Hello. To whom am I speaking?"

There's a downbeat of a moment. Zak is thinking his phone number must be ID'ing him on Lee's screen about now. The Ministry of State Security is only a couple miles to the West of Tsinghua University and there has been plenty of time for Lee to return to his office.

"Ah! Mr. Gray! This is Hui Lee, of course. How good of you to contact me."

"How did you know it was me?"

"Your voice is unmistakable, I assure you."

"I doubt that."

"Then you would be mistaken, Christopher."

"Stop calling me that! I'm Zachary Miller, not Christopher Gray!"

"So you say. Very well, have it your way." He pauses for effect. "Zak."

"Thank-you. I want to give you the flash drive that a man in the Jinchun Gardens gave me after he was attacked. It means nothing to me and I don't want to have anything to do with it."

"A wise decision, Zak. Where can we meet?"

Zak is thinking on his feet.

"How about Muxidi? You come alone. Stand in the center of the bridge and take off your coat and wait for me. One hour."

"Very well."

For Zak, whose life has spiraled out of control in the last few hours, it feels like a major victory to get an assent from a man who he instinctively knows will stop at nothing.

"Nobody else. Just you," says the determined voice on the other end of the line.

"Got it."

Zak clicks the connection off.

Kim is looking at a map for the subway.

"Does it look like I can get there in time?"

She stands.

"Sure we can."

Chapter 9

From Tsinghua University, Zak and Kim have to change lines twice to reach Muxidi Station. As a result they are late when they arrive at the bridge that crosses the Yougdinghe channel and its twin access roads.

Muxidi is famous, well known to be an important point of entry into central Beijing. It becomes Chang'an Avenue, which leads directly to Tiananmen Square. As such it accommodates four lanes of traffic going in both directions, creating a wide expanse several hundred feet across.

Muxidi is the path that the People's Liberation Army needed to reach Tiananmen, it is where the iconic "tank man" stood in lonely defiance of a line of tanks, and it is where the democratic opposition made a last stand on a warm Saturday night in 1989 to prevent the People's Liberation Army from reaching the square. The opposition blocked the bridge with two school buses, which they then set on fire. Using Molotov cocktails they attacked a tank, beat its crew, and set it too on fire. The fight continued with rocks and stones being used by citizens to fight against sticks and tear gas being used by the military.

But it was not long until sticks and tear gas gave way to live fire from AK-47's. As protestors were shot down, they were picked up by others with three wheeled pedicabs and pushed to the local hospital. By midnight an armored personnel carrier swept through the tangle of buses followed quickly by dozens of troop trucks which continued unimpeded the rest of way to Tiananmen.1 Dozens died at Muxidi, thousands at the Square. The Chinese Red Cross stated the death toll at 2600 but the government forced it to withdraw the number. During the period of protest leading to Tiananmen as many as 100 million people protested bureaucratic corruption and profiteering, seeking democratic reforms, in 400 Chinese cities.

Zak and Kim emerge from the station, walking up a flight of stairs together. There is a lot of noisy traffic on the arterial at this time of day. They head the short distance to the bridge, and as they approach they see Lee standing at the center of it, holding his suit coat over his shoulder. Kim stops there while Zak goes on. Kim is appreciating her good view in both directions when she thinks to grab her e-pad.

It is mid-afternoon and the sun is getting hot. Zak is alone, walking the rest of the way to Lee. The heat is getting to him and Zak starts to perspire. He wants to get this over with. He wants to tell the MSS man that after this he'd better go to hell and never return. He wants to tell him that he has no intention of cooperating any further and doesn't want to be dragged into any investigation. As far as Zak is concerned, he doesn't care who Christopher Gray is.

Zak is a hundred feet away from Hui Lee, and Lee has turned toward Zak to watch him approach, when Zak's phone suddenly rings. He pulls it from his pocket while staring at Lee intently.

"It's me," says Kim excitedly. "It's not him! I found a picture of the real Hui Lee from his home town and it's not him."

She transmits an image which pops up on Zak's screen and it is of an older man with a buzz cut and glasses, utterly different from the sleek, younger man standing midway on the bridge.

"You're sure of this?"

"Yeah, he's a Rotarian."

"I'll be damned."

"You will be if you don't seriously book it," Kim replies.

There persists a brief period of time when everybody and everything abruptly stops moving. Zak locks eyes onto the man standing at the center of the bridge and in that instant time stands still. When it starts back up the world is moving in slow motion. The killer on the bridge is reaching for his gun and Zak is stepping off the curb directly into streaming traffic.

Zak makes it two lanes before having to stop for a passing car. The traffic is enough to provide him a screen as long as Lee doesn't want to shoot a motorist too.

Lee however is undeterred. He knows that his best chance of getting Zak will be while he is still close. Lee fires a round that misses his still moving target. Instead, it strikes the hood of a car, shattering the windshield onto the panicked driver. The driver reacts by hitting his breaks too quickly and getting rear ended.

In the meantime, Zak stays low and rolls to his right to get behind the next vehicle. He runs, hesitates for another vehicle, and then runs again, across several lanes of moving traffic, before making the center of the bridge

By now, the gunshot and the breaking vehicle have caused a chain reaction of screeching, breaking vehicles all around Zak. Heads whipsaw and shocked faces stare at the gun wielding perpetrator on the sidewalk.

Zak finally makes it across the road, heart pounding, but not stopping as he heads back toward Kim.

Lee has a problem. His quarry is rapidly getting away. Dozens of ordinary Beijing citizens are staring. Soon they will be on their phones calling the police, taking his photo, and sending it to the police. His only way out is to flee. He can drop the jacket and gain a few seconds to reach his car and driver at the West end of the bridge, but the authorities will no doubt find a stray hair or two on the jacket, enough to match him to Dai Gu. Under the circumstances, that would generate a lot of heat, so Gu keeps the coat in one hand, the gun in the other, as he runs hell bent for leather back to his car.

Chapter 10

Zak is still running, out of breath, as he looks up to see Kim, now on this side of the bridge. He turns back, sees nothing coming his way on foot, and figures Lee has had little choice but to take off in the other direction.

"How did you get over here?" he asks Kim as he gets near.

"You really know how to stop traffic!" she rejoins.

"Thanks. I work on it."

While he has slowed considerably to a gentle jog, Kim joins him.

"We got a problem," says Zak between gulping breaths.

"You think?"

"What's happening? What's going on? I mean, like, who was that guy? If he's not Hui Lee, who in Sam Hill is he? Why is he chasing me? Why is he shooting at me? Why does he think I'm somebody else?"

Saying all that has taken what remains of his breathing capacity and dropped it to zero. He breaks his jog and is just walking fast. They are coming up on Muxidi Subway Station. Just beyond is a tall, monumental building with a hangar like, jutting roof, the building big enough to be a blimp aerodrome. The upward curving roof overhangs all sides of the building, making it look like a pagoda. The great building is set back from the Avenue by an expanse of formal gardens. An impressive pedestrian bridge crosses wide Chang'an to reach it.

"We need to catch our breath. That looks like something."

They get a little closer and Kim starts checking their location on her pad.

"It's the Capital Museum."

They walk past the first half of the gardens and take a broad center aisle that runs between the flower beds and that leads to one of the building's entrances. Textured concrete panels cover the lower floors and the top stories have blue glass curtain wall. Kim and Zak keep going and round the corner. Here the building is all curtain walls, blue but clear transparent glass that soars at least a hundred feet. Buses are lined up on a broad circular driveway that accesses this street, a side street, yet itself a busy thoroughfare.

People are everywhere, most of them tourists and residents on holiday, and their calm, happy demeanors provide a reassuring presence. Zak relaxes a bit, his walk slowing to an amble, feeling it, fitting in.

"Let's go in. I need a chance to cool off."

Kim sees that his face is bathed in sweat.

"Sure. There's a fee. Let me get it."

They return to the front entrance. They enter the museum through a set of ancient wood temple doors, darkly varnished and thick with carvings. The entrance hall is immense and rises to the underside of the roof. A gleaming terrazzo floor stretches before them, reflecting the museum's bright overhead lighting. A real highly decorative, ancient temple has been reconstructed over the doorway and is painted a bright blue.

Zak walks to the side of the big hall and sits down cross legged on the cool floor, fanning his shirt back and forth in an attempt to cool off. Kim saunters about, checking things out, and then joins him. They remain silent for a while, collecting their thoughts, Zak fanning away. Finally Zak decides it's time to say something.

"We're in deep shit," he offers.

Kim looks him over, doing a double take.

"Oh, whoa there, bud! You're the one in deep shit. The last time I checked nobody was shooting at me."

"Yeah, well, maybe they should be."

He reaches up and pulls a clip from her hair. Attached to it is the flash drive. He examines it deferentially, like it was something maybe worth fearing. She was going to bring it to Zak as long as Lee agreed to leave them alone. But that didn't happen.

"Who do you think this Lee guy is?"

Zak stops the fanning.

"Yeah, I don't know, but he has to be working for somebody other than the government. He's certainly not the Security Service. I'm beginning to wonder."

"What do you mean?"

"What if this guy who was attacked was somebody important, important enough that a lot of people were interested in what he was doing. Could be a bunch of people were trying to keep tabs on him. Who knows?"

"What do you mean? Like bad guys?"

He nods.

"Exactly! Like bad guys. Chinese bad guys."

"Triads?"

He reaches up and brushes hair back from her face.

"What do you think?"

She starts in on her pad without answering. He knows better than to interrupt her kind of intensity.

"OK. I think I've got it. China bad guys coming up. Looking for experts. I would have to say most of them are in Hong Kong and Macau. The Triads are mostly based there but operate throughout the country. And the world. Ironic."

"What?"

"Well, the Chinese communists cracked down hard on them in the 50's and they went to Hong Kong, according to this. The crackdown in Hong Kong in the 90's brought them back. Now, they have operations everywhere."

"Why do I get the feeling that they are as much political and economic actors as they are criminals?"

"Well, you'd be right. And guess what?"

"What?"

"There's an expert here in Beijing at the Police Academy."

"You're kidding? The Police Academy?"

Her head pivots.

"Ok, I get it. This is you being cute, huh?"

She shakes her head a little and looks back down.

"No, it's called the Chinese People's Public Security University, Beijing."

"I hate to think what that sounds like in Chinese."

"You have a point."

Zak bows his head and lifts the bottom of his shirt to his face to wipe away the drying sweat.

"Gee, that's gross Sparky."

"Sorry to offend your feminine mystique."

"Like I have one. Hey, guess what?"

"What Sherrie?"

"This place is just down the street."

"It's Karma."

"No, it's a sign."

"Whatever. What's this dude's name?"

"Wu-pen Xu. He's a prof."

"Cool. Maybe we should call him. He may be just down the street but I doubt he's just waiting for us to show up."

Kim hands Zak her phone. It's already turned on and he can hear it ringing through.

Zak gives her a reproving look. She returns it with an innocent smile.

"Hello. I'm calling for a Mr. Xu."

There is a brief hesitation while an English speaker is found.

"Yes, you are looking for Mr. Xu?"

"That's right. Is he in?"

"He is in class."

"Oh."

"But he will return to his office in a half hour."

"Great. I am hoping Mr. Xu will speak with me and another student. We are graduate students at Tsinghua and it would be most helpful."

"Xu is available to all students. I am sure he would be happy to be of assistance."

"That would be very kind. We'll be there shortly. Thank-you very much."

Kim purses her lips and Zak kisses her.

Chapter 11

Kim and Zak take Baiyun Road across the Yongdinghe Canal, hewing close to the canal along Baiyunguan Beili Street. They walk past a Public Security University hotel, a Public Security University publishing house, and a Public Security University hi-rise residence before reaching the sand colored Public Security University main building, a massive block long structure of seven stories with a formal entrance marked by dozens of flagpoles. They make their way under its large porte cochere, enter the lobby, and encounter the security protocol of government buildings the world over: magnetometers.

Kim and Zak pass safely through and end up sitting in Wu-pen Xu's outer office cooling their heels until his return from class. They are accompanied by a young woman who acts as Xu's secretary but who explains, in somewhat fractured English, that she is a graduate student temping for Xu. Xu is a very busy professor. But he has no permanent secretary and this is because he is too demanding and none of the experienced secretaries will work for him.

They hear Wu-pen Xu coming down the hallway, loud footfalls coming fast, before they see him reach and open the glass hallway door in a rush of smooth, practiced motion. He raises his head to see them only as he enters. Immediately he shifts his gaze to the secretary and she introduces them as American graduate students attending Tsinghua University. This seems to impress Xu and he ushers them into his office.

While the office is tiny, the walls are packed with shelves piled high to the ceiling, dangerously loaded down with every manner of book and reference. An oversized screen resides on a cadenza to the side. Wu-pen is an older man, bald, but only on top, above average height, wearing what passes as horn rims, dressed in a dark grey suit with a light grey sweater vest, dark tie and white shirt. Natty. Fit. He moves like a much younger man. Right now, he is wondering if he should use the temp to help translate or go it alone with his English.

"You will pardon me I hope. I do not get very many chances to speak English."

Zak apologizes in turn for their inability to speak Chinese.

"We have been attacked by someone who we think is probably a member of an organization that is, well..."

"A black society? A triad?" Wu-pen offers in response.

"Yes, I guess so," Zak replies.

"So your inquiry is of a more personal nature? This is not some student project?"

"That's right. I hope that's okay."

The professor somehow makes it around his desk to his stuffed leather chair and motions for them to take a couple of the several plastic chairs arranged haphazardly in front of his desk.

"You should take great care then. There is no reason why students such as your selves should ever have any contact with anyone from the Triads. Their activities are entirely illegal. If you have had the misfortune to come across them it would naturally raise questions about your own activities."

"I agree Professor. I was a witness to a crime in which one of the Triad were apparently involved. Since then we have been pursued by members of that gang or, possibly, some other."

"If you were the only witness, your days would already have run short."

"That is true, but there was a crowd. The victim gave me this."

He pulls the memory stick from his pocket.

"May I?"

"Of course."

Wu-pen takes it and connects it to his pc. It's directory boots instantly and Xu tries to open various files. He runs a diagnostic.

"You should know that most of this is military grade encryption. And there are many files within files. Millions."

"But not everything has this military encryption?"

Xu pulls up one of the lesser encrypted of the files, decrypts it, and sees that it references an activist, one whose name is not entirely unknown to him. He continues, finds a number of files that he can open, and does so. After several minutes examining the contents of these he closes and runs a wipe.

"Here," he says, patiently holding out the flash.

"There are files that can be opened that provide insight into the full contents of the drive. They are not that significant. The most significant files have military crypto and will be very hard to unwrap."

"What is it really? What's the point?" Kim asks.

"I don't know. Could it be the ravings of lunatics? Or could it be somebody's prescription for real change? Will it be laughed at or will it send people into the streets? I suspect the answer lies somewhere in there. I also suspect that whoever decrypts it and however they decide to use it will play a significant role in determining how really important it is."

"UNK?" Zak says the name with resignation.

"It's possible. Who knows?" Xu answers.

"Why are they after us?" asks Kim.

The dapper professor leans back.

"That is easy. But a little history may be in order first. Triad is a term used to describe Chinese organized criminal gangs in general. There are several million members worldwide and they trade between one half to one trillion dollars a year. The triads arose from secret societies of peasants a thousand years ago. They organized themselves to defend against the tyrants in their country. One of these secret societies, the Buddist White Lotus Society, inspired a revolution. Their protest brought down Mongol rule, founding the Ming Dynasty. Later on, legend has it that Shaolin monks in the 1600s helped organize societies to fight against injustice when the Ming Dynasty was overthrown by the Qing Dynasty. Triads have exercised political powers that have influenced the very rise and fall of Chinese emperors. And they have been identified with rebellions against tyrannical regimes throughout most of Chinese history.

"When the British showed up in Hong Kong they called these various groups Triads and they persecuted the members of triads as criminals. The Triads were involved, among other things, in the trade of opium. But Triads were assisted in the drug trade by the British police themselves. By 1898 half the British police force in Hong Kong was dismissed for having accepted bribes associated with the trade. Today only 5 to 10 percent of crime in Hong Kong is Triad related but the Hong Kong Police Department maintains an Organized Crime and Triad Bureau nevertheless. I helped staff it myself.

"Triad leadership continues to play an important part in the life of the nation. Triad leaders met with communist officials regarding the hand-over of Hong Kong to the Chinese. They played a vital role in Operation Yellowbird, which was a network that smuggled pro-democracy activists out of China after Tiananmen. Was it only for the money? Or was it because of the politics? You tell me."

Here Wu-pen Xu paused to take a drink from a water bottle sitting on his desk.

"Certain Triads keep close ties to different officials of the government from time to time. There is always an ebb and flow between the light and the dark, a balancing of interests that must be achieved. The Triads play their traditional role."

"You may well be the victims of these traditions. If a Triad member is after you, it could be because some state security interest is directing his triad's actions. If that is the case then you have indeed earned yourself powerful enemies."

Kim and Zak exchange looks.

"What should we do?" Kim asks.

Professor Xu does not hesitate in his answer.

"You must leave China. You are no longer safe here. You are being watched by authorities, I can assure you. You are going to need help in departing the country so as to avoid being detained."

"How can we find that kind of help?"

Xu stops to think. Finally, he speaks.

"You are in luck. I just may know someone."

Chapter 12

The real Hui Lee, the older one with the buzz cut and the glasses, the loyal Rotarian Hui Lee, is at his desk at the Ministry of State Security, which, if the Chinese People's Public Security University building is massive and imposing, then the MSS building is even more so. What else can a half mile long, ten story office building be? Unlike the fake Hui Lee, the real Hui Lee has not ventured far from his office this day. Endless meetings, the need for supervision of his staff, and the demands of higher ups make his presence a necessity.

So does the extremely wide view Lee has of the agency's operations both within and outside of China. It keeps him pinned down to where people can reach him most easily, which is here, in his office, at his desk. He prefers to offer advice, to coordinate, to defer to others. He sees his post as consultative, collegial. He directs staff to gather information, not to intervene, not to take sides. As a result, he is sought out. His people know people. They talk. They can be counted on to get things straight, to report back frequently to their superiors, to remain impartial. Through this means he and his people have become one of the agency's most respected and valuable resources.

Lee reads Miss Huiliang Tai's email:

"Local Police report the death of a Mr. Li Hua Wang. Mr. Wang, who resides in Outer Beijing, is a journalist with a history of extensive internet commentary. Apparently he was stabbed at the Imperial Summer Gardens by an unknown assailant. With the cooperation of the Beijing Police, the staff and I have been going over video of this incident all morning. As Mr. Wang lie in extremis he was approached by and may have spoken to an American graduate student from Tsinghua University, a Mr. Zachary Miller. We also believe that we have a sighting of the elusive Mr. Christopher Gray of the American Embassy, albeit CIA. His tradecraft is as usual excellent. He stayed out of range of the close cameras, but we think we have him on a longer range camera with a lower resolution. The fact is, we can't be sure that it was Gray.

We will continue to make every effort to identify the assailant as our resources permit, but at this point we believe that this should be considered a local police matter. And we will of course continue to track Mr. Miller as well as his companion, Miss Scott."

Hui Lee picks up his phone and clicks on one of the many names at the bottom of his screen. It rings twice, Huiliang answers, and he asks her to come to his office to follow up on the email. It doesn't take long before she enters his office, quietly taking a seat. Huiliang is a demure twenty-something who hides a formidable intellect not to be trifled with. He knows that she attracts little romantic interest from her colleagues, and this makes her even more valuable to Lee. She lets nothing stand in the way of her work, which she is known to perform with extreme devotion, alacrity and precision.

Momentarily, he breaks off and turns to her.

"So, Miss Tai, what have we here? Let's start with Miller, shall we? What have we got on him?"

"Everything. We have the mobile, office, internet, apartment, building, family and all known associates for him and Miss Scott under active surveillance."

"Where are they now?"

She looks down and touches her electronic pad a few times.

"The Capital Museum."

"Ah, very good. It's always refreshing to see young foreigners availing themselves of the opportunity to immerse themselves in our glorious indigenous culture! How very admirable. How very educational of them!"

"They appear to be in the area of a just reported disturbance. Someone fired a gun and stopped traffic on the Muxidi bridge."

"Let's hope no one was hurt."

"It doesn't look like it. I don't think so."

"Excellent! It would be most unfortunate for any young American students to accidentally come to harm while visiting our very hospitable country. That would be exactly the kind of thing that could very well attract attention in both countries, deleteriously impact our burgeoning and increasingly vital tourism industry. We would want to avoid that at all costs, don't you agree?"

"Absolutely Mr. Lee."

"And you mentioned in your email that the notorious Mr. Gray from the American Embassy has popped up in the Jinchun Gardens of all places. What was he doing there I wonder? Perhaps he was attempting to contact this dissident Wang fellow for an exchange of information?"

"It would appear likely, yes."

"Indeed it does seem likely. More than likely. Is there any way to track Mr. Gray?"

"No, I don't think so. He is, after all, a professional."

"Yes. Right. I suppose so. But I don't think I want him leaving the country until this is all sorted out. Please see to it that he is detained should he attempt to do so."

"That should not be a problem."

"Wonderful! Well, that'll do for now. Excellent work as usual Miss Tai. You are a credit to us all."

"Thank-you, sir."

Miss Huiliang Tai rises and is gone before he has a chance to notice.

Lee knows that Li Hua Wang either is a dissident or could well be in the process of becoming one. Wang has a history that flags him only for general activism, something well below the standard that would have him rise to the attention of the authorities. Lee has no idea why Wang would be attacked, so he orders nothing more. He will leave the matter of this Wang's unfortunate death to the police, just as the ever efficient Miss Tai has quite properly suggested.
Chapter 13

Ciaran Burris is senior staff with the Office of the Director of National Intelligence (ODNI), which is located in Building LX2 at the Liberty Crossing Intelligence Campus near McLean, Virginia. The Campus sits at the intersection of major freeways in Tyson's Corners, making it easily accessible to the rest of the Washington, D.C. area, where all of its employees live.

Ciaran stands on the side of the cavernous and subterranean Operations Center with Jeb Stoddard and Frank Cullen, and other senior people, watching one of the many big screens filled with instantly received video detailing ongoing events spinning out around the globe. Of the dozens of people in the room, most, like Ciaran, are giving a lot of their attention to the top middle screen.

There in a hurriedly shot video washed out of almost all color are a bunch of young winter-wear clad citizens of St. Petersburg, Russia. They stand on the subway tracks of one of the City's main lines. This defies any authority's possible desire to bring death and destruction down on their heads by letting the trains run. Instead, the youthful citizens have stopped the subway cars from flying along the tracks two hundred feet below the Neva River on their way to Vasilievsky Island.

The protesters are crowded together, their hands raised to cover their mouths. They stand in the same silence that they accuse their government of invoking on those of dissenting views throughout their country. They have created a picturesque tableaux, perfect for YouTube and the few people standing on the platform who are recording the event with all manner of personal devices.

"How long?" asks Jeb, who has just stepped in.

"Oh, what would you say, Frank?"

"What? Maybe a half hour. They keep switching hands. Their arms are getting tired." Frank is distracted, laconic.

"How many people are dialed in?" Ciaran asks.

"Over 5 million worldwide," comes the response.

"Who's the old guy?"

"Victor Popov, the billionaire. He's everywhere these days."

"There's more than their arms that are going to be tired. Their butts are going to be tired of sitting in jail," Jeb jabs.

"Hmm. Probably. Where are the cops?" Ciaran wonders.

Frank is ready for that one.

"Must be something wrong with the subway," he says, trying to be funny.

Burris shakes his head.

"Get this man a gig."

The group of officials around them seems to chuckle en masse.

Finally, Ciaran pulls his focus away from the screen and turns to Jeb.

"You got something for me?"

Jeb seems to remember the reason he came to the Ops Center in the first place. He looks down at a sheaf of papers he is holding.

"Oh yeah. You've got a dead dissident in Beijing and the titular Mr. Gray has been forced underground."

"What? An embassy contact? He was just supposed to meet."

"Looks like he did a lot more than just meet. Looks like somebody stabbed the contact before Gray could get to him."

"Damn it! Is that from the embassy?"

"Yes."

"Can I have it?"

"Sure."

He reads the note from the American Embassy in Beijing. It's from the Chief of Station and makes it clear that the Chinese have officially informed the Embassy that the Chinese government is seeking to detain a Mr. Christopher Gray for questioning in the death of a Mr. Li Hua Wang, lately of Beijing.

Ciaran knows this will make it impossible for Gray to follow up on Wang's death. Why would anyone kill an unknown activist/journalist? It doesn't make any sense.

"Who the hell is this Wang?"

Jeb, eyes darting among the flashing screens, is startled out of his reverie.

"Oh! There was something else."

He starts rooting through his papers again.

"And that would be?"

"Ah, here we go." He hands Ciaran another note. This is from an agency sub-group that tries to develop online assets. It indicates that the agency has been carefully monitoring a network of tens of thousands in China. Mr. Wang apparently is one of several hundred core members. Unlike most of them, however, he has actively cultivated many informal relationships with persons in a wide variety of government positions, providing a window onto the internal affairs of the country. Should his accumulated insights somehow be disseminated the result could prove damaging to his country's best interests.

"Do the exfil on Chris Gray. I'll notify Cetron."

The police have finally arrived at the St. Petersburg subway station. They line the platform three deep and immediately begin arresting everybody.

Burris heads back to his office. Once there he calls Lonnie James at Cetron Corporation. Cetron is a long time principal contractor to the agency, a virtually unknown group with resources across the spectrum of the expressionist movement. It provides updated technological solutions slash innovations in detection and information gathering, including human intelligence resources, humint, with special ops backgrounds. Its main offices are in New York, London and Hong Kong and it will supply services to anyone in any country friendly to the United States. Going into business with Cetron Corporation is like, well, going into business with the CIA itself. Interestingly, there are some Cetron clients that don't even know this. One can only assume it's because they really don't want to.

"Que pasa, amigo?"

"Good morning to you too," Lonnie responds. "Let me guess. Beijing."

"You are so right. I'm ordering immediate exfiltration on Gray. Is that going to be a problem?"

"We appreciate that. On behalf of Cetron we want to thank you for your assistance. The Wang thing really got out of hand. We want to apologize."

"What happened?"

"We are still piecing a few things together. Apparently some crazy dude knifes our guy in the Imperial Gardens. Gray was two hundred feet away and about to meet Wang when this happens. And some kid, you'll like this, an American, is sitting there and gets to Wang before anyone else."

"You got an ID?"

"Sure."

He takes a second to find the name. A picture of Zak comes up instantly on Burris's screen. Next to it is a picture of Kim.

"Zachary Miller. He's a grad student at Tsinghua. From Stanford. Lives with a Kimberly Scott, also a grad student at Tsinghua. Also attending Stanford."

"Sweet."

"Yeah. Central casting."

"Sure, sure. And the Police?"

"They're looking for the perp. No ID."

"The Security Service?"

"They're all over it. They want Gray's head on a platter."

"I'm sure they do. Do you think Wang slipped anything to this Miller kid?"

"Maybe. We don't know. Nobody knows. Everybody wants to talk to him. To find out."

"Why? Where he is?"

"Don't know really, but the couple are probably still in Beijing."

Ciaran pauses, musing.

"See what you can find out," Ciaran Burris says.

"Sure thing. We can get Gray back for you if you want," Lonnie James offers.

"Do that please. And Lonnie?"

"What?"

"Thanks Buddy."

"No problem. It's a pleasure."

Burris kicks back from his desk. If the kid has something from this militant then America will probably find it useful. Not to go public with it, of course. That would be self-defeating. There are too many interests that are shared with the Chinese. But it could be the kind of thing that might be good leverage with the leadership, something good to know that could be held over their heads at the right time and in the right situation. More importantly from Burris' perspective, it may be something that could put the directorate and even Cetron in his debt. Down the line, that could be very useful.

Chapter 14

Dai Gu does not want to report back to Chung Yao. He has chased Zak and Kim as they have made their way to Hong Kong, and he has been careful not to be noticed. Yao can be counted on to be less than understanding with the way things have gone so far. For this reason, it would be much better to simply deliver the prize and avoid lengthy and unnecessary explanations. What do they benefit anyone?

So Dai Gu has stayed on the case. He has had no difficulty in tracking Zak and Kim's whereabouts since he picked up on them at the Chinese People's Public Security Bureau. But this odd side trip has made him cautious. He is, as always, concerned about being made, so that a stop at the nation's center of police training puts him on his guard. Whatever happens, he cannot let this egghead kid and his pretty girlfriend outsmart him. He would never live it down.

Gu pokes his head around the corner of the end of his train car. He can get a view through the small windows between adjoining cars and just barely see the couple sitting at a booth at the other end of the smartly set out dining car. He can't really loiter here long as his seat is back in another car and the Chinese are easily offended by interlopers just up and deciding to sit wherever they want. So he takes his time to the degree that he can, checks, and returns to his seat.

Zak and Kim had returned to their apartment and it was outside that building where Dai Gu managed to be when the two of them left with full backpacks. He was not surprised when they took the Number 9 subway to the City's high speed rail station. To get out of town when people start shooting is pretty much a normal human reaction. Gu has had to do it on more than one occasion himself. But when Gu flashed fake credentials to find out where they were going, questioning the ticket officer they had just bought their tickets from, he was surprised to be told that their destination was Hong Kong. After all, Hong Kong would be at the very end of that train's high speed rail line, the longest in existence, not only in China, but in the world. That was a long way just to get out of town.

The Beijing to Hong Kong CRH would take him directly to its Kowloon terminus in the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region. Zak and Kim weren't just getting out of town, they were leaving mainland China. Dai Gu would need a passport, as the woman at the ticket counter had requested, in order to sell him a ticket. Fortunately for Gu, he happened to have one. Chung Yao had seen to it, but the passport that was supplied to him was of course a fake. Furthermore, authorities were always coming up with new ways to look for false documents. He had heard that there now was a way to use the passport photo for a kind of facial recognition test. Being unmasked as Dai Gu in an airport security line would be a very tough spot to find himself in, tougher even to escape, and by many orders of magnitude.

Nevertheless, Gu permitted himself to purchase a ticket. He had the presence of mind to ask for seating several cars away from Zak and Kim. Now he had to be careful that they didn't see him. And he had to ditch the gun.

What had started out as a piece of cake, find a kid, steal his toy, the memory device, and high tail it back to Yao, all of which seemed pretty simple at first, was now becoming, annoyingly, too much work. The only good thing was that Yao and the Triad were based in Hong Kong, so that by fleeing there, Zak and Kim were in essence leading him home.

Chapter 15

"Just tell me I don't look as bad as I feel."

"You don't look as bad as you feel."

"Sure I do," says Kim.

Kim sits hunched over her coffee, a wisp of hair falling in her face, her gray sweatshirt bunched up over her shirt. Everything is impressively wrinkled from a night of sleeping on the train.

"You look lovely."

He launches out of his seat a bit, they are sitting opposite one another in a booth, and plants a kiss on her forehead.

"This is a helluva romantic getaway plan you've got going here, Sparky."

"You have no idea."

"No, but I'm getting one."

She looks out the window. The dark landscape is moving very fast, punctuated by distant house and street lights.

"How fast are we going?"

His engineering genes kick in.

"About two hundred twenty miles per hour or three hundred fifty kilometers per hour."

Kim averts her gaze from the foreground near the train, which goes by at a dizzying pace.

"Whoa. How far is Hong Kong?"

"About fourteen hundred miles. Non stop."

"Uh huh. I left my algebra at home but I think my ticket said we arrive at 3 am."

"Dead of night."

"Just as long as we're not."

Zak has no idea what to do except get out of China. He figures on going back to the safety of Stanford and trying to get some help from his friends. During the night he has had time to review more of the files that Professor Xu was able to access and has found some references to UNK. UNK is a leaderless, international group active in defending open access to the internet and all sources of information. It also seeks to promote government and social institutions that make their actions open and transparent to the public. While advocating protest and activism, it has been branded a form of cyber-terrorism by many governments around the world, especially by those governments that the organization has at times targeted.

If Wang seems to be suggesting that the information on the drive, and the obvious leverage that it is intended to create, are to be given to UNK for some purpose, it is hard to see how that could be done. UNK is at least well known for being an organization without any structure. There is no head to contact, no one in charge. Nor does there seem to be any way to simply transmit the contents of the drive to someone in UNK. Zak and Kim haven't taken any special precautions to hide, mask or encrypt any of their communications. Coming to China meant understanding that any effort to subvert surveillance could have serious repercussions, and most probably would result in retaliation directly from the Chinese government. They had been advised over and over that possession of any encryption other than the most common is illegal in China. Adding to that, Professor Xu had told Zak and Kim that the Triads would now be monitoring them, and further cautioned them that they should expect the American government to soon be looking over their shoulders as well.

Xu then taught Zak the use of Triad "logic bombs", encrypted algorithms that prevent outsiders from accessing Triad computer systems. He would need to know this if he was to reach the contact given to him by the Professor. This would hopefully be someone who could help them get out of China without being detained. They reached the contact in what should have been a secure manner from their apartment, the Professor already having explained everything to the contact. This left only the necessity of choosing a place to meet.

The dining car is all stainless steel and molded plastic. At this hour the car's lighting is subdued, inoffensive muzak plays, and only a few booths are occupied with travelers. The few of them in the car are absorbed in subdued conversation.

At the end is a counter and behind it a small kitchen with glass double door refrigerators, their interiors lined with attractively lit drinks. The train car's windows are dressed with cream bunting fringed with gold tassel, a cut above usual trains. Between the booths and the counter are round, bar height, stainless steel tables with ring footrests, all of which are empty. The young attendant, dressed in a white shirt and orange vest, stands near one of the occupied booths with her eyes on the wall mounted tv screen. Zak has noticed that periodically the programming is interrupted to show a map of the train's current location.

Kim follows his eyes.

"Where are we?"

"Shenzhen. We should be in a tunnel pretty soon."

"Mountains?"

"Yeah. But then we drop into the alluvial plain of the Pearl River Delta."

"Cool. We're going to West Kowloon?"

He had said something about it when they got on the train.

"Yep."

"Where's that?"

"It's a peninsula that juts off the South coast of China. It's called the New Territories and is part of the Hong Kong special administrative region. In other words, we're leaving mainland China."

"That's a relief."

"We're not in Palo Alto yet."

"Hmmm. Mr. Positive. I get it."

She dips her fingers into a glass of water and reaches up to smooth down some of his hair, which has a serious case of bedhead, or train seat if you prefer.

"Am I being a wet blanket?"

"No. Just a wet head."

Zak pretends to laugh.

"So we're meeting some guy named Juan and Bruce Lee in loonie Kowloonie?"

"At the Bruce Lee."

"We're meeting some guy named Juan at the Bruce Lee."

"That's right."

"Thanks for clearing that up."

"No problem."

"What's this place called?"

"Avenue of the Stars."

"Seriously?"

"Absolutely."

"So we're going to someplace called Avenue of the Stars and we're going to look for Bruce Lee, is that right?"

"You got it."

"Sounds fun."

"We can only hope."

Kim shoves her remaining uneaten food around with her fork.

"Where is the West Kowloon station?"

"In the Jordan District of Kowloon."

"And where is the Avenue of the Stars and the Bruce Lee?"

"In the Tsim Sha Tsui District, also in Kowloon."

"The what?"

"Tsim Sha Tsui, but you can call it TST."

"Big of you."

"I thought so."

"Is this like really far, between the Jordan District and the TST?"

"No, not really. We can walk."

"Walk? In the middle of the night? I'd rather cab it."

Zak shakes his head.

"Not many cabs at this time of night. By the time a cab gets to us, we'll be better off walking. We really can't afford to wait for them. We need to be at the Bruce Lee by 4 am."

"Well, where are we walking?"

"Just down the main drag, Nathan Road, to the Cultural District and the East Promenade. We turn at the clock tower."

Kim spontaneously cocks her head.

"I don't know about you. You're just a little too on top of it. You're the guy who always gets the girl, aren't you?"

Zak's eyes widen in surprise.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She pauses pensively, looks up at him from her deep slouch.

"You know, I'm never going to make it easy for you."

"It?"

"You know what I mean. I hope I never make it too easy for you."

"No chance of that."

"Good to hear."

Chapter 16

There is an announcement over the intercom of the arrival of their destination, West Kowloon Station, in several languages. Everybody starts to line up at the doors to exit, loaded down with baggage. As this is the Red Eye there really aren't that many people. Having impatiently taken up their positions, and it being three am and not really the morning, the riders quickly descend back into the stillness, each one, of his or her own particular night. They stand, awkward gazes averted, clearly only half awake.

The CRH comes to rest. A full minute passes. There is a woosh of hydraulics followed an instant later by the doors opening wide. It is as if an electric current had surged through the crowd at the door, jolting them into action. They rush out onto the platform, heels digging in to gain momentum.

As he leaves the train, Zak turns to look back at the lead car, impressed with its sleek silver and white bullet design. He turns back, only to see that Kim, leaning forward and holding on to the straps of her backpack, is pushing ahead in the line going to the escalator.

The next higher level of Kowloon West is a below grade shopping center. It is mostly empty at this time of the morning. Zak sees a currency exchange and knows they both need to change currency, but it is not open at this hour. Instead, they stay on the escalator, rise to street level and are embraced by the slightly cool, moist air of a Southern China night.

"Where are we?" asks Kim looking around at brightly lit high rises and office towers.

"We're between the West Kowloon and Austin MTRs. Everything is connected below ground with the retail arcade."

He points West.

"Over there is the West Kowloon Cultural District and West waterfront Promenade."

She points at the Road in front of them.

"What's this?"

"Jordan Road. We take it to Nathan Road and then go South to the Peninsula Hotel and the Cultural Center. The Avenue of the Stars is just beyond that along the waterfront."

"TST. Tsim Sha Tsui."

He gives her a look of amazement.

"Very good."

She shakes her head, or rather her long auburn hair.

"Oh, don't look so surprised."

They set off through Jordan District to Nathan Road, South along the West side of Nathan Road and along Kowloon Park, essentially through downtown Kowloon to the Peninsula Hotel. The white face of the old iconic hotel sitting regally at the South end of the Kowloon Peninsula literally glows in the night. Above the pediment of its bulky seven story u-shape low rise are two soaring towers of rooms, covered with lighted balconies that reach into the sky.

After the comfortable rest and food on the long train ride the walk down Nathan Road, busy even at night, feels good to Zak and Kim. The chill dampness of Hong Kong's night air cools their fast walk through Salisbury Garden and past the tall Hong Kong Museum of Art.

They approach the waterfront and a wide expansive vista opens before them, sparkling in the inky night sky. To their right stands the quadrangular International Commerce Center, the tallest tower in Hong Kong, positioned at the South end of Kowloon. Next in terms of height, across the rippling waters of Victoria Bay opposite is the rounded tower of Two International Finance Center, sitting imperiously at the water's edge, vaulting above the harbor. And before them in a line along the North side of Hong Kong Island, from the pyramidal likeness of a modernized Empire State Building, the Central Plaza, to the east to the easily recognized cross braces of the Bank of China Tower to the west, lies the central skyline of the City, dazzlingly reflected in the water below. Illuminated sign banners on the tops of the skyscrapers serve as beacons of light, casting a spectrum of color onto bouncing waves. Tall buildings ring Victoria Harbor in every direction and as far as the eye can see, presenting an unending panorama of twinkling lights so bright that it seems to make the very atmosphere of the harbor effervesce.

Zak doesn't expect there to be anyone around at such an odd hour of the night, but the Promenade is full of tourists. The waterfront is lit by powerful lights situated on high stanchions that shine down on statues celebrating famous actors in the Hong Kong film industry. The harbor and the night time skyline of the City provide a backdrop for tourist's photos of the statues and of each other. Because it's a cultural district, there are few commercial or retail businesses on the promenade itself, but there is an occasional chain coffee or local specialty restaurant, most unfortunately closed at this hour.

Zak and Kim reach the Lee statue. It stands on a block of granite and is surrounded by a black, decorative steel fence with a heavy double railing. A young Chinese couple, probably newlyweds, has paused for a minute to view the statue and the handprints of Mr. Lee that have been set into a brass square on the pavement. After shooting some pictures the couple moves on, leaving Zak and Kim to do much the same.

Somewhere from out of the night a darkly clad figure appears and approaches them. The figure, whose face is hidden behind a hoodie, leans forward onto the guardrail. He speaks in slightly accented English.

"Those who are unaware that they are walking in darkness..."

Zak responds.

"...will never see the light."

At this the man turns and extends his hand, which Zak and Kim both accept. Kim thinks the man looks like some kind of cat burglar.

"Your trip, it has been a safe one?" the hooded figure asks.

"Yes, thank-you," says Kim.

"You are Kimberly? Zachary?"

"Yes."

"I am Yuan Cheng."

"Thanks for coming," says Zak.

"Please, it is a little thing. I owe much to Professor Xu."

"You were a cadet?"

Cheng nods his head, from which he has removed the hood, but which is covered in turn by a dark stocking cap.

"For a time."

He surveys the area. No one is approaching and, if anything, the crowd is starting to thin somewhat.

"We should go," he says summarily. "There is the hydrofoil ferry to Macua. It can take hundreds of passengers. But it is very public and everything is recorded. It will be better to use my family's junk, which is in Aberdeen. It's on the other side of the island."

"Of Hong Kong?" Kim asks, pointing across the harbor.

"Yes," replies Yuan Cheng. "At this hour it is best to take Star Ferry. The pier is not far from here."

Zak and Kim exchange approving looks. Knowing that Cheng was part of a Triad based in Macau, they assumed Macau will be their final destination before leaving China altogether. They start off walking East along the Avenue, transfixed by the beauty of Hong Kong at night.

Cheng takes the lead, the other two following a short distance behind. Kim pulls Zak closer.

"Hey, what's the 411 on the walking in darkness? What was that about?"

"It's a Bruce Lee quote. Those who don't notice the darkness will never see the light. It was just a way for us to identify each other."

"You get a decoder ring with that?"

"Not this time."

"What a shame."

Zak gives Kim a bump.

"Hey, Bruce Lee is a very quotable guy," Zak says with a lot of positive affirmation.

"So is Mao Zedong," Kim observes drily.

Zak puts his hand to his heart, as if just shot.

"Wow, way harsh."

The promenade opens onto a pedestrian mall which surrounds the Cultural Center, a tall, windowless box performing arts center with intense blue uplighting. Along the base of the building is a continuous line of jutting modern buttresses. Nearby is the very English looking, well lit Colonial Clock Tower overlooking Kowloon Pier.

Yuan heads for the adjacent Star Ferry ticket window and comes back with passage for all three of them. The Ferry boat is already waiting in the dock and there are few other passengers. As soon as they climb the boat's ramp, the ramp is hoisted up and the boat is off.

Yuan, Zak and Kim go to the front and choose to sit in some empty folding chairs at the bow, comfortable despite the light breeze because the night is so agreeable. They are soon joined by other passengers, who take their places among randomly arranged chairs and tables. Everyone becomes animated by the spectacular view of the city's skyscrapers. The tall slender buildings are arranged all around the water's edge and sprawl in every direction. It is a unique and other-worldly view, glittering hi-rises separated by, but easily reached across, expanses of water.

Tourists start taking pictures, often with one another, getting up, walking around and moving from one side of the boat to the other to capture the changing panorama. The Ferry takes a scenic, somewhat circuitous route, mostly for tourists, there being faster routes to Hong Kong in freeway and subway tunnels beneath the harbor.

Taking advantage of the situation and the light hearted atmosphere, Zak and Kim join in taking pictures. Just as the boat swings southward Kim steps over to the railing, the City behind her. Zak is looking through the camera, letting it adjust to the low light conditions, when a man in a cap standing near Kim suddenly turns around. The dark figure grabs Kim from behind and places a knife to her throat.

Kim's reaction has knocked the cap from the man's head and in an instant Zak recognizes the bald head of the man at the apartment and at Muxidi bridge, the man that Professor Xu helped them identify.

"Let her go, Gu!"

There is a slight grin on Dai Gu's face, Zak notices, staring at him grimly. Gu's expression shows that this has become personal.

"Sure. Just give me the flash memory."

A woman near them on the bow suddenly becomes aware of what is happening and screams. This draws everybody's attention. Others on the bow freeze where they stand or sit.

Zak plays for time. To him, Kim doesn't look half as scared as she should be. He figures that's probably because she knows he'll give up the flash drive without the slightest compunction.

"You'll never make it off the boat, Gu. You'll be arrested. They'll be waiting for you at the pier," Zak asserts with confidence.

Gu knows he doesn't have much time for a debate.

"Yes, but the thumb drive is waterproof and I'm not going to the pier. Give it to me or watch cutie here die."

By saying this Gu only hands Kim an idea and she wiggles a bit. Gu has her in a head lock, so the movement spontaneously makes him pull her even closer. This is exactly what Kim wanted him to do, and that's when it happens. Kim lifts her feet, letting all her weight pull down on Gu, then plants, flexes her knees, and grabs his knife arm firmly with both hands. Kim uses her runner's legs to push forcefully backward and upward with every ounce of her strength, the top of her head smacking into his chin, violently snapping his head back, practically putting his lights out.

Kim powers them both over the bow's railing as the two of them, locked in struggle, disappear over the side.

An audible gasp issues from the crowd followed by a loud splash.

Zak doesn't have time to look for Cheng, but races forward, vaults the railing and dives for the dark surface of the water.

Chapter 17

A grey mist has settled on the white parchment branches of the river birch outside the window of the lab. The tree is up lit and casts a spectral glow. But Asobi Shimada, the girl from Osaka, doesn't notice.

She is watching several monitors while one computer, an artificial intelligence machine, teaches another, which specializes in nano materials development, how to conduct a variety of tests on some bio matter, which is being conducted by yet a third machine that is located under the fume hood next to her. The work has a lot of moving parts and she is barely keeping up with the notes she is supposed to take when she hears a noise.

Asobi thinks it is the lab door opening. She looks up. It's a large laboratory in one of the biggest research buildings on the campus and the door is too far away. She can't actually see the door. When she came in, Asobi lowered the lights in the lab, turning on only every other row of the overheads. She strains to hear, but there is no other sound.

Asobi returns to work.

The Nanotechnology machine is the key to her work. It performs materials analysis at the quantum or nano level, between one and one hundred nanometers in size, a nanometer being a mere billionth of a meter. At this level atoms and molecules can be discerned, a simple molecule of water being 1.5 nanometers (nm). The DNA double helix, the key to all life, is only two nm wide. A nanometer to a meter is as a marble is to the size of the earth. A human fingernail grows one nm every second. A sheet of paper is one hundred thousand nanometers thick. Even that which is referred to as micro-technology is on a whole different, and much larger, scale.

There. She hears it again.

It is definitely a door.

Given the size of the lab it could be any of a number of different doors situated at various points, to the offices next door, to the hallways. Like most people, she can hear the sound but can't determine the direction from which it hails. So she goes back to work, pressed to stay on task.

It is basically molecular engineering. But quantum mechanics appear almost infinitely variable. The artificial intelligence machine is intended to address this. It can look at the results of an experiment and decide, based on what has just been discovered, what the next logical test should be.

Asobi's AI interlocutor may not be as perspicacious as an average human being, but it has a level of general intelligence that does approach that of homo sapiens in terms of capability. In fact, the AI machine has learned a great deal about nanotech just doing the experiment. While it is not intended for the purpose, it could be put to use learning foreign languages, and, to the extent that it could effectively serve as a language translator, it could provide near perfect translation of any human language. It is, however, only disembodied synthetic intelligence, at best. It cannot keep improving itself at faster and faster rates, and by that means approach the almost frightening never never land of the singularity, the holy grail of artificial intelligence, where machine intelligence dwarfs that of pigmy humans.

She glances up and notices the ghastly lit tree adjacent to the window.

That's it.

She is officially spooked.

Time to go.

She carefully goes about ending the session with her companion computers, cleaning up the necessary parts under the fume hood. All this takes her about 15 minutes before she is ready to leave the light gray, color coded surroundings of the lab, along with its filtered lighting. She dutifully locks the door behind her, and, just for fun, checks a couple more doors to the lab on her way out. But she finds nothing of any concern. She concludes that she is being silly.

But perhaps she's not that silly. Asobi takes the open stairway down, avoiding the elevators. The stairway is surrounded by the Clark Center's glass exterior walls and glass interior atrium. The stairs are interior to the building but they are literally suspended, and from them there are great views all around.

After reaching the ground floor, Asobi takes the nearest exit and walks along the building's exterior sidewalk. The building is all curtain walls, so that at night anyone can see in, many of the labs being still bright even at this hour, and there are a few researchers sitting in the labs among racks of monitors and equipment. They are easily spied on, graduate lab rats, trapped eternally behind the Center's glass curtain walls. They are part time research associates, part time graduate students, and Asobi, despite being among their number, feels for them and their late hours. The Center is for biomedical engineering and she knows that many of these associates are medical students of one stripe or another.

Asobi can stand in the courtyard between the two rounded wings of the Center, which are connected by walkways that cross above the courtyard, and see into the three fifteen foot tall stories, all glass, mostly lit, even at this time of the night. Each floor has a wide balcony, the uppermost having a futurist bronze roof that sweeps grandly around the building's curves. There's a surprising amount of activity in the Center tonight and Asobi finds this to be comforting. Her shoulders relax involuntarily and she feels the muscles unwind. She discounts the feelings of being watched that she was having moments ago.

Asobi walks the short distance along Campus Drive to the Engineering Quad and past the Nano Science and Engineering Lab, where she used to work, and from there she double times it to the Main Quad. Here the fog and clammy mist close in around her as she passes other late nighters heading back to dorm and apartment.

The center of campus has warm decorative street lighting that can't dispel the invading damp bay air. The Spanish sandstone buildings at the center of campus are tile roofed and all have distinctive loggia or arcades, stone archways running along the sides. To the South is the Stanford campanile, a rectangular tower shining alabaster in its own lights.

Asobi enters the spacious Quad and looking around sees no one. She walks past Memorial Church and sees that there is nobody around there either. She notices how the Church's fresco covered façade is so brightly lit at night.

Asobi reminds herself that she could have waited for the campus shuttle to take her around to her dorm, though it would not have been much faster. The shuttle doesn't come around as often at night. Her habit is to always walk, taking advantage of the exercise, as well as the beauty of the campus. For the rest of her life she wants to remember the experience of being, and walking, on this campus. But now she is questioning the wisdom of the choice, given such an eerie night.

She leaves the Quad, heading east across campus, finding a few students still around, as there would be virtually any time of night. Her well trained situational awareness comes into play and she is keeping track of the people nearby, this couple, that individual, where they are moving from and to, how fast and how slow. She observes a shrouded figure behind her walking in her direction. The guy's shoes are making a sound on the pavement.

Asobi picks up her pace. She dips in and out of the campus lighting and keeps her distance from the sidewalk's lighted bollards. All the while Asobi keeps looking out for the shrouded figure. She loses track momentarily, later sees something and then wonders: is that him?

It is a moment of distraction. A cyclist comes zooming at her seemingly out of nowhere and she freezes, not knowing if he is going to hit her, or, at the last moment, head to one side or the other of her. She is afraid to move, certain that if she does it will most certainly be the wrong move, placing her directly in the way of her own destruction. At the last second, there is a whoosh and the cyclist breaks left, grabbing the bag hung over her shoulder, yanking if violently from her, and sending her careening.

Asobi shouts in surprise and anger but she recovers her balance, just. The cyclist on the other hand keeps going, his legs pumping him quickly away.

Asobi recovers herself, but any remaining reserve of collected calm that she may have once had, well that's gone. She looks and there is nobody else around, not even the dark figure she had been trying to keep track of. She gets off the bike to see if she can find her bag. After looking about for a bit, she locates it just out of the lamplight next to a tree, lying in the grass.

And now the only thing she can think about is getting gone. Asobi bends and grabs the bag. She gives a last look around, mostly out of embarrassment. She starts off, and really kicks it, running the short remaining distance to the front door of her hi rise. As Asobi darts down the sidewalk she passes familiar trees and flower beds, finding them warm and welcoming. Asobi practically slams her ID card through the swipe of the key lock and hears the heavy door make a big clicking sound. She presses against it with all of her weight and it gives way, letting her in. Later, sitting in her room, trying to gather herself, a really big, spontaneous shiver strikes her. It ricochets up and down her spine, hitting her so hard it makes her shake.

A figure appears in the spray of a coach light near the front of the building, stops, looks up and then walks away.

Chapter 18

Zak's foot catches the top of the railing and he uses that to launch himself over the side of the Ferry. Zak strikes the dark water ten feet below and several feet off the bow. His clothes instantly soak and cling, trying to drag him down, as he swims up, away from the danger of the boat's passing wake. He surfaces only to see the ferry move off, not even slowing down, and then starts to look for Kim.

Aboard the Ferry Yuan Cheng is left standing and stunned. Whatever plans there had been of staying off the radar have now disappeared in the waters of the inner harbor and he is none too pleased. What's more, he can't understand why they have been attacked. He looks at the open packs of the two Americans displayed on a nearby table and chair and retrieves them. If they survive their attacker he is hoping that Zak and Kim will know to head for the Wan Chai pier. The Ferry has broken off the tourist route and is now heading straight for it.

Kim continues driving into Dai Gu as they hit the water, his back taking the force of the collision with the water, and her weight adds to the impact of the body slam he receives. There is a momentary release of the pressure from his strong grip and she uses it to twist around behind him, reversing his stranglehold. She keeps a firm grip on his knife arm and pulls it behind him. With a knee to his lower back, she twists the arm forcefully enough to nearly break it before he releases his grip on the knife.

Dai Gu thrashes powerfully and she knows she can't hold him much longer. His wild movement forces them beneath the surface but she doesn't let go. She is thinking how it's going to be a wild ride while Gu tries to drown her at just about the time that Zak joins them. Together they subdue him, a struggle that seems to take eons and which leaves them both exhausted. It leaves Dai Gu drifting, unconscious, half drowned. The two are left bobbing in the water, trying to catch their breaths.

"Geezus Kim!" Zak gets out between gasps, "Do you think we killed him?"

Kim gives Dai Gu, who is drifting away on his back, floating away passively, one last look.

"I don't think so." She coughs and throws up, a spontaneous effluvium of swallowed water and everything else besides. There is a moment of guttural wretching involved, wholly unattractive, so she swims away. Zak catches up to her.

"Are you ok?"

She starts treading water slowly, looking at him, cleared eyed.

"Better."

Even so, to Zak she looks pale, thin, and cold in the multi-colored light being cast from the shore.

Zak looks around. Nighttime light bounces on the harbor's waters from shining buildings all around, but the night is fading and early rays of daylight are already coming up behind skyscrapers to the West. He dismisses any concerns he might have about not being seen in the water by passing craft. The dark isn't going to hang around for long.

Kim uses her hands like flippers to turn herself while treading in the water so that she can peer at the distant Hong Kong skyline, the great shell of the Exhibition Center its nearest point. They are floating in the middle of the inner harbor, which now seems much bigger when seen from low in the water than it did from higher up on the ferry.

When was the last time she swam for any king of distance, she wonders? How about never, she has to admit to herself. This will be a first. The adrenaline that fueled her struggle with Gu is fast giving way to a sinking feeling, one of panic, turned on like a switch. The water beneath her feet telescopes in her imagination until it seems at least a hundred feet deep. The distance to the pier grows exponentially in her imagination. She is more intimidated by the minute. The shore now seems impossibly far away. Her empty stomach begins to churn, growling back at her. She can't shake the idea that she is too low in the water, that at any moment her body will give in to gravity's downward pull, that it will force her head beneath the surface and finally consume her. She sees herself drifting lower and lower, tens of feet, far below the disappearing surface.

Zak is watching Kim, anticipating her thoughts.

"Is this going to be a problem?" he asks, his head bobbing in the water.

Kim's expression changes. She forces a smile.

"Race ya," she declares, trying to hide her fear.

Zak laughs.

"You bet you will," he replies with more than a hint of pride in Kim's desire to overcome her apparent fear of such a long swim. Zak, on the other hand, has surfed often with Bog and Gilly and is not be intimidated by the swim.

"We're heading to the Wan Chai pier next to the Exhibition Center. We might as well get our stuff back. And Yuan should be there."

He points and they can see the Ferry approaching its mooring, the outline of its running lights piercing the gloom of rising dawn.

"It's really not that far."

She nods.

"Do you still have the drive on you?"

"Yeah, no problem."

"And your phone?"

"Yeah,"

They can easily be found by its GPS. Maybe she won't have to swim all that way. Maybe the Ferry captain will put in for their rescue. She wants to declare her own personal SOS. Is anybody up there listening?

Zak starts out, taking the lead, looking back, watching Kim. He goes easy, taking what are for him gentle strokes, not much more than mere stretching. Kim, on the other hand, pulls hard, using her nerves and remaining adrenaline as fuel. Her stroke is not very practiced or efficient, but she is trying valiantly to kill it.

Zak realizes she will never make it at that pace and that Kim is sure to burn out long before they can get very close to shore. But he figures that by then Kim will have lost her nerves. It's less than a mile to shore and he intends to get her there, even if he has to carry her.

Kim didn't hesitate to jump into the water when she thought she had to. If she could do that, she can swim across the harbor.

Chapter 19

"Dude, like he's in the harbor, swimming!"

Bogdan Cerny at his apartment, the one he shares in Palo Alto, is talking to Gilly and Sofie, who are at the beach while on a cruise.

"The hell you say!" responds Gilly, salty Pacific Ocean water dripping off the end of his nose, his dark hair plastered to his head, his sleek striped surf board propped against a darkly tanned shoulder. Behind him rises a rocky cliff hundreds of feet high, but devoid of human activity.

Also within sight of the viewfinder on Sofie's tablet is Sofie herself, in a big orange, floppy beach hat, her face tanned and moist from the heat, beads of sweat at her temples slowly descending to the curves of her prominent cheeks.

"Did you say Hong Kong, Bog?" Sofie asks.

Bog is sitting in the common game room that is shared among the apartments in this off campus residence. It has dark gray, post-industrial ventilation ducts running below fully exposed floor joists and rows of polished nickel, pendant lights hanging from the ceiling, fixed low over the game tables. A young man shoots pool by himself late in the afternoon.

Bog sits near a wall of glass. It separates the game room from the hall. Perched on a modernist lime green sofa, he leans forward to view the screen of his laptop. It's stationed on a white, plastic blob coffee table. There are also a couple curved back polystyrene chairs, one grey, one red, another modernist sofa to match the one he's on, white, also lined up against the wall, a foosball game, and a soft drink machine.

"Yeah. I was just wondering how they're doing. Zak's always got his phone, so I checked his location. That's when I saw they are actually in Hong Kong."

A Sofie eyebrow arches upward. She knows Bog used to have a thing with Kim. She also suspects he has never completely let it go. Sofie loves any drama that might play out in their circle, so she is relishing this. He just "happened" to check. Yeah, sure.

Sofie and Gilly are on a cruise to Ensenada. Being released for the day at the port, they found a couple with a Sloop heading to the Isla Santos Todos, which can only be reached by boat. The island has the biggest waves in North America and lies just two hours from the coast of Mexico. Gilly surfs. Sofie takes the sun with her store bought coffee, writing the equivalent of cards and letters from her tablet. Her cup of coffee cup, prominently displayed and catching rays near her feet, she keeps constantly swirled as its contents slowly disappear.

"I thought they were in Beijing," says Gilly, wiping strands of wet hair from his forehead.

"I know, right? But you're not the only one spending time in the drink. I mean, this is Hong Kong harbor. And he is like in the middle of it according to this."

"How do you figure? Is he swimming?"

"Let's hope so. He's either that or he's drowning. But I doubt he's drowning because, according to my estimates, he's doing about a mile per hour."

"Wow that's slow," says Gilly. It would sound slow to Gilly. He regularly surfs at over 30 miles per hour.

"That's how I know he must be swimming."

"Could be a really slow boat."

"But the GPS is below the surface. There's even a regular motion to it."

"Whoa, dude! It's weird that you can know that."

"Yeah right?"

Bogd per usual has a pair of anodized glasses sitting on the back of his head, perched precariously on his thick mop of surfer dude blonde hair. He and Gilly often surf together when the opportunity arises, but Bog is Eastern European, a Czech from Prague, so his lightened hair is entirely of his own invention. He is skillful with a computer, with hacking and cryptography, legal and not so legal. He whips the glasses around and peers at the corner of his screen where a graphic shows Zak's progress.

"What about Kim?" asks Sofie, not so innocently.

Bog sighs audibly.

"I don't have a way to track her."

Sofie immediately deduces that this means he has never had access to any of her electronics. But he wouldn't want any kind of access, would he? Keeping track of old girlfriends is too much like cyber stalking. And that can be recorded, if necessary, by authorities.

Bog's phone, in the pocket of his white shorts, rumbles against his skin. He grabs it and taps it a couple times and the call comes up on another corner of his PC screen, accompanied first by a photo of a face and then the real thing. Kina Alana is furrowing her brow.

"Hi Bog! Thank god you're there. You won't believe who I just got a call from! Oh! Hi, Sofie. Is that you Gill?"

"In the flesh," responds Gilly.

"Let me guess. You got a call from Kim?" asks Bog. He looks over at the guy at the pool table, who now seems to be listening and this irks Bog. He gets up, flip flopping his way noisily into the hallway.

"Geez, what's going on? Yeah, sort of. It was Kim's phone anyway," says Kina.

"Kina!" exclaims Sofie, automatically assuming something bad would have to have happened to Kim for someone else to be using her phone.

"Yeah I know."

"What happened to her?" asks Bog. He is walking into the high foyer of the house, his flip flops smacking loudly on the terrazzo floor. Colorful abstract oils rise over the doorways to adjacent rooms. Rectangular corner windows on the second story fling sunlight onto the paintings. Bog heads for the front door.

"It was some guy who said he was Yuan something. I don't know, I don't remember what his last name was. He had a big accent. Chinese I think, maybe. He said he was in Hong Kong." Kina explains.

"My God!" says Sofie.

"So I say: where's Kim? And he goes: I am sorry about your friend. She fell off a boat and is swimming to shore with her boyfriend. We are arranging a rescue as fast as we can. Are you a relative?"

"So I tell him: no, I am not a relative. I am a friend. But I will contact her parents and let them know. Just tell her that she has to text me that she is ok. And he says ok."

Sofie is suspicious.

"What does he mean: she fell off a boat? I mean really! He makes it sound like an accident. I don't think so."

Bog enters the front garden, which is full of low shrubs and flower beds. He finds a low stone bench, puts a foot up on it and balances his laptop on his knee, angling it to shelter the screen from the onslaught of the sun. A stone wall next to the sidewalk partially screens the garden from the street. The modernist house behind him is sided in wide boards of dark walnut hardwood. The large windows are black metal framed, differing in size and shape. There are separate roofs over different parts of the house. They extend awnings over a sidewalk that runs around the outside of the house. One of these awnings cantilevers over the tall glass front door.

"The guy uses her phone?" Bog asks. "He had to be pretty concerned to do that. But it makes sense if he was trying to reach her parents."

"Don't any of you guys have her parents' number?" asks Kina.

There is a collective pause. Bog would be the logical person. He actually got to know Kim's parents once upon a time. On the other hand, since he and Kim broke up why would he keep her parent's number? He checks to see if he still has it.

"Bingo!"

He gives the number to Kina. Even on his laptop Bog can watch as Kina bends to write it down. She wears one of her signature tops, which makes it hard not to notice.

Kina wastes no time.

"Well, I need to call them. Bye guys."

Kina disappears.

"I'm afraid Kim is not a huge swimmer," interjects Gilly.

"Well, neither am I," interjects Sofie.

Gilly pats her on the shoulder.

"You don't need to be," Gilly observes.

Sophie's hat flips in a gust of wind and she tries to constrain it as she looks up at Gilly.

"Zak," she says.

"Oh sure. He's a good swimmer. He'll see to her," Gilly says, patting her some more.

Bog looks up, into the sun, and squints. It must be dawn over there, he thinks, tomorrow already.

"Look guys. They'll be fine," he says, even though he is not entirely sure about that.

There is a pause in the conversation. This leads Bog to ask, "How's the surfing?"

Gilly, sun drenched and still dripping, warms instantly to the subject.

"Crazy. This island has a wicked point break."

Bog remembers the times they've surfed together and now he envies Gilly.

"Cool."

Sofie, however, is not to be left out.

"There's even an old lighthouse," she says, while pointing back up the cliff.

Bog, who cannot dispel his worry over Kim and Zak, nods agreeably and smiles back into the laptop's tiny camera.

"Awesome. It really is guys."

Kim, Zak and an ocean of water in a busy harbor is not such a great place to be. He's going to keep the tracker running.

Chapter 20

Kim is swimming hard and quickly tiring when she takes a break, stopping to rest a bit and just tread water. She looks up at the towering buildings, the morning's bright sunburst reflecting off the windows of skyscrapers up ahead, lining the shore's edge. They loom over her. From her level, at the surface of the water, they are leviathans, seemingly leaning toward her. She can easily imagine how the buildings could topple over, falling in monumental pieces, crushing her. Could they be any taller? Could she feel any smaller, any more insignificant?

For that matter, she wonders, could she be any more played out, worn out, beat out, and plain out and out defeated? She has nothing left in the tank. There isn't anything left in reserve, nothing to draw on.

Zak has also stopped and is treading near her. He glances toward the shore and sees Yuan Cheng standing behind a railing on the seawall, near the Wan Chai Pier of the Star Ferry. They are about even with the Convention and Exposition Center, which is now to the East. There is a Promenade at the end of the Expo Center, but it's still a bit of a distance. While they could get out of the water there, it would still be necessary to find their way through the entire Convention Center to get back to the Pier, and that is something they are definitely not dressed for.

It's farther, but they really need to get to where Yuan is standing.

Kim is bobbing in the water and her teeth are chattering from the cold. Come on, he thinks, Kim you can do it.

"Put your arms around my neck. I'll swim us in."

"You won't be able to breath."

"No, you'll just hang on my shoulders."

She smiles wanly and shakes her head.

"Nah. I'll just get colder."

They rest for a few minutes, allowing Kim's breathing to slow. Finally, Kim gives Zak a resolved look and starts swimming again.

Yuan, on the pier, is on the phone. He speaks to one of Min Chin's lieutenants at the Lisboa Casino in Macau. He tells him to belay the police, keeping them from taking any action as far as Zak and Kim, but to look for their attacker. The Triad's connections to the Hong Kong Police are good and this is not a problem. He makes another call and confirms his arrangements for traveling to Macau.

At his feet are the backpacks and jackets of Zak and Kim. Having used it an hour ago to contact her friends, he has placed Kim's phone back in her pack. He can see that Zak and Kim are making steady progress, but have to stop and rest. He stands behind a steel railing on a brick sidewalk between the reconstructed Ferry Pier to his right and the shell of the Convention Center to his left. A handful of fishermen are lined up at the seawall railing, hopeful ice chests stationed nearby. Their poles extend 20 feet or more over the water. It is a Chamber of Commerce Day, bright and sunny, the skies clear except for a few feathery clouds, and fishing prospects are good.

Finally, Zak and Kim are into the cove created by the Convention Center and the Ferry pier and are out of the swell of the main harbor, making going easier. Zak waves to Yuan, who waves back. Yuan points to where there is a service ladder on the seawall and Zak throws him the ok sign.

"I think I'll take that ride about now."

He looks back to see that Kim has stopped. He swims back to her.

"All aboard!"

Zak coasts the rest of the way and even exhibits a finishing kick.

Kim nestles her head in the back of his neck, feeling the powerful exertion in the movements of his arms and shoulders. She really might not have made it without him.

They reach the seawall in double time and Zak helps Kim, still wobbly, climb the ladder.

"Did we miss breakfast?" he shouts at Yuan with a big grin.

A police helicopter appears noisily overhead, aiming to land at the helipad that is constructed on the top of the Ferry Terminal. Zak points at the helicopter and raises his hands to it as if to supplicate the gods. The old retired fishermen notice this and appear amused, some laughing, some pointing at him and the helicopter.

Yuan helps Zak and Kim climb over the railing. The two of them immediately begin searching their packs for something to dry off with. Kim grabs a towel, runs it fast up and down her frame, and then focuses on her long hair. As cold as she was in the water, she is even colder now and she can't wait to get into something warm.

Zak looks up from pulling on a pair of jeans to see the helicopter finish its landing atop the terminal.

"What's with the Police?" he asks, shaking his head.

Yuan decides that it's time to weigh in.

"Under the circumstances," he says, "we thought it better not to involve the Police. They were notified, but they were asked to seek out the man who attacked you. They would not have been able to get to you before you made your way back here. The harbormaster was contacted right away by the Star Ferry. The captain did everything he could but was already half way to shore by time he knew there was an overboard. And the harbormaster doesn't have any speedboats on standby for this type of thing. I'm sorry."

Zak checks his pocket for the flash drive only to find that it's still there. For the umpteenth time, he wonders if he should just get rid of it. Is all this worth it? The cold water of Victoria Harbor has shaken his conviction. Dai Gu could have easily killed Kim with the knife he was brandishing. He could have drowned Kim after she propelled him over the side of the Ferry. This was a game he didn't want to play.

He had to get rid of the thumb as soon as possible.

"Don't worry, Yuan. It's okay. We get it."

Kim is pulling a sweater over a blouse. The wet underwear will have to wait until the next convenient stop, whenever that is. The morning sun warms her face. Kim immediately feels better and walks over to Zak to embrace him, squeezing like she won't ever let go. He pulls her even closer, his hands rubbing her back in an attempt to warm her further.

Zak looks over at Juan.

"How do we get to Aberdeen?"

Yuan is quick to answer.

"Most people take the bus from this side. But I recommend we take a cab. It's a straight shot through the Aberdeen tunnel and is very quick."

"Good," says Kim, "I want the taxi guy to turn up the heat!"

"I'm sure that can be arranged. And food. We should get something to eat. I'm sure you're stomachs are empty after your swim."

"Coffee!" exclaims Kim.

"Lot's of it!" agrees Zak.

"Of course," Yuan responds, "But there is something that we must do first."

A drone sounds overhead and their heads turn up.

Sometime later Dai Gu's water logged body is pulled from the water by Chung Yao's men operating from a tiny skiff. They have used intercepted thermal imaging from a police drone to find him. His vitals are checked and he is still alive.

The Police helicopter never leaves the Wan Chai Pier and Gu has some explaining to do.

Chapter 21

Zak and Kim, arm in arm, with Yuan in tow, make their way from the Pier. Nearby is a covered metal stair rising twenty feet to an elaborate pedestrian overpass spanning Gloucester Road. A Ferry has just disembarked passengers who join a growing crowd of morning commuters. Exhausted Zak and Kim do their best climbing the many stairs amid the hurried crowd, but it's not fast enough for busy office workers intent on beating each other to their desks. Buffeted by the crowd, they reach the upper landing where they can stand to the side.

Here they are on a pedestrian overpass that is brightly lit by the early morning sun. Sun casts the shadow of a protectively high railing into high relief across whitewashed concrete floor. Central support columns for the overpass roof are artfully, colorfully covered with abstract designs. On the other side of Gloucester Road, large pedestrian ways continue, both down to the sidewalk and, continuing at elevation, across the adjoining street. Zak, Kim and Yuan go straight ahead, crossing Gloucester, looking down at the jammed morning traffic filled with trucks and buses. The elevation they are on continues as they walk further among the hi-rise office buildings. All the buildings in this area are connected above street level by expansive walkways that give way to various restaurants and shops. It is a kind of second street level.

Kim looks up to see a picture postcard sky filled with bleached white puffs of cloud in a sky of deep blue. The sky is reflected back to her in the glass of the building towers surrounding them. El fresco dining spots abound, separated from one another by rows of potted landscaping. Strings of lights decorate shrubbery for romantic nights. Small cabanas are positioned as oasis in the middle of seas of tables, serving beverages.

Yuan leads them down to the street level where they find a busy coffee shop. The shop is located in a glassed in corner shop, an ultra-chic interior easily visible from the street. Once inside, Kim drops into an overstuffed chair as Zak and Yuan head to the counter. The chair she has chosen is about the only open seat in the place and she is immediately accosted.

"Excuse me!" says a well-tailored young Chinese woman wearing expensive make-up, a lit tablet in her hand, a stack of paper on the coffee table in front of her, "That seat is reserved! I have a meeting coming."

Her tone is imperious. How dare you not ask me for permission to be seated in what must very obviously be a reserved seat? The woman's English is, surprisingly, Midwestern. She speaks too loudly, drawing the attention of those seated nearby. They turn to witness the confrontation.

Kim thinks, "Who takes a meeting in a coffee shop? Particularly one this crowded?"

The warm, comfy chair enveloping her is starting to feel awfully good after her ordeal in the water, and she moves to sink even deeper into it. Maybe I'll spend the day here, she thinks. Better yet, how about a nice long nap?

The Chinese American woman notices Kim getting more comfortable and glares at her all the more maliciously for it.

"Really?" remarks Kim pointedly, meeting the woman's glare.

"Yes. Really." The woman's response is rapid fire and staccato.

"Bite me."

Kim says this sweetly, not really trying to be confrontational.

Just then Zak shows up at Kim's side with a large coffee. He can't miss the glaring woman.

"Hello," he says, acknowledging her.

The scorned girl gives Zak a look that says, "Hey buddy, your girlfriend is bat-shit crazy," and drops her face to her tablet, obviously now determined to ignore them both.

Zak takes a seat on the wide armrest of Kim's chair. She pulls on his shirt, bringing him closer so the girl can't hear.

"I'm feeling better already," she smiles.

The weary couple sips their coffees. Zak and Kim silently people watch and savor the break. The woman's meeting companion, a short chubby fellow, arrives. She gets up and they go to another part of the shop.

Yuan shows up with his own coffee.

"I've made arrangements. We're all set from here. Maybe we should get underway? What do you think?"

Kim is having none of it.

"Guys! You've got a lady here and you think I don't need to hit the little girl's room? You've got to be kidding me."

Kim tries, and fails, to lift herself out of the deep pile of the chair. Zak lends her a hand. She grabs his whole arm and in the process somewhere ends up on her feet, wobbling there uncertainly for an instant.

"Whoa. Who put the world there?"

Zak quickly reaches out and grabs her shoulder to stabilize her, but she really doesn't need the help. As Kim walks away, she gets steadier with each step.

Zak gives Yuan a meaningful look.

"Let's not do that again, shall we?"

"What's that?"

"KO a Triad gangster in Hong Kong Harbor."

Yuan smiles.

"I'll make a note."

"And don't forget to attach it to my bill," Zak says wryly.

Yuan pretends to be taken aback.

"What bill is that?"

"The one I'm sure you're writing in your head. I'm sorry that you were dragged into this mess."

Yuan nods, sipping from his coffee.

"It is what it is," he says.

The two men lapse into silence. In the time that it takes to down half of their drinks, Kim finally returns. Having put away so much coffee, this now necessitates Zak and Yuan's turn at the restrooms. They eventually rejoin at the front door of the shop and take to the sunny sidewalk.

The energy of the city washes over all three as Yuan leads, taking them on a meandering route through the rushing morning crowds. The Wan Chai Precinct is vibrant and teaming. They end up standing on a long traffic island in the middle of Lockhart Road as the huge Tramway double deckers, as big as railroad diesel engines, woosh by at insane speeds mere feet away from the crowds of Chinese on the platforms, barely a guard railing in sight. The trams are weathered yellow, blue and red. The street furniture is a kudzu of beaten traffic signs, scratched newspaper stand machines, and city key boxes, street light and traffic poles packed together at street corners. Inches from the curb yellow double decker transit buses lumber along, continually stopping with squealing brakes and starting up with loud roars of their engines as they exude hot, noxious vapors out their backs.

Above the street, old apartment buildings rise to the sky. The oldest have small windows that open to the noise of the street and miniscule but colorful balconies that run skyward. Endless ladders of these balconies ascend in monotonously repetitious patterns. The contain innumerable rented rooms no bigger than a closet, having nowhere to sleep but on the floor.

Yuan moves with agility and ease winding his way through the crowds, challenging Zak and Kim to keep up. Their packs, now on their backs, become a necessary buffer to all the jostling throngs. They have moved their valuables to the front pockets of their pants and carefully keep an eye on those around them, especially when poised on the curbs, next to the traffic.

At points they pass colorful open market stands, some with the fresh catch and strong smell of fishmongers, or others with butchers and glistening roasted chickens hanging from strings in a row, sometimes behind glass, sometimes not. Everywhere, there are varieties of fruits and vegetables being displayed for sale by different vendors.

Kim stops to grab and pay for a banana. As she does, Yuan keeps going and almost disappears out ahead. Zak has to call out to him to wait up.

They keep on through a market street of tiny open store fronts filled with every assortment of lumber, plumbing fixture, and appliance known to the world bulging forth from small shops. Too much to be contained in the confines of each store, the shops' merchandise cannot be stopped from spilling onto the sidewalks in front of them, forcing shoppers to go around in the street. Even then, Zak and Kim are frequently blocked by pedestrians standing in their way, deep in serious contemplation of possible purchases, staring at this kitchen cabinet or that panel of chrome drawer pulls.

Yuan finally leads them to a quieter part of the waterfront, a less commercial area away from the center of trade, to a nondescript high rise. Taking the cramped elevator, they rise to the 34th floor and get out. A series of empty hallways branch out in various directions to residential apartments. Each numbered doorway has a pink florescent light installed over the door, some lit, some not. Yuan explains that the building is owned by a triad and that these are girl's apartments, but that the person they seek also lives here. They turn a corner and he presses the doorbell of Number 3440.

At first there is no response. Then they hear footfalls coming to the door followed once again by silence. Yuan knows that they are being closely studied by the apartment's occupant. He steps closer to the door's peephole, offering himself up for inspection. They hear a lock turn and the door is opened by an attractive young woman with big hair.

"May I help you?"

Kim's impression is of a bouffant of jet black hair supported in the middle by a pretty, delicate face. The woman wears a sheer, pink dressing gown with a bodice cut low.

Kim notices Zak's look and she gives him an elbow.

Yuan and the girl speak to each other in Chinese, apparently clearing something up, after which the young woman turns to them with a welcoming smile.

"Please come in," she says.

They both turn to Yuan, who nods, and they enter what turns out to be a tiny apartment. Clearly, on the small island of Hong Kong, living space comes at a premium.

"Pardon me," she says, "My name is Sally."

Kim and Zak start at the English name. It is unexpected.

Yuan is solicitous.

"Sally will take your identity papers and create for you new ones that you will need to leave the country."

Sally ushers them forward to a corner of the room where she has an office fit for major forgery.

"Unfortunately," says Yuan, "we cannot really do anything with your passports. However, we have a way of dealing with that as well."

"Please," says the beautiful girl, sweeping her arm toward the armchairs of the living area, "sit."

Chapter 22

It is an equally beautiful day in Beijing, the sky cloudless and robin egg blue. Lee has enjoyed the short walk this early morning from his apartment in the City. It is a modest place where he can stay during the week. The weekends are for his suburban home, wife and family. Between them he feels he has achieved the perfect balance, exactly the right feng shui for his life.

Lee walks to the front of the enormous Ministry of State Security building in Northwest Beijing and up a broad sidewalk flanked by a well-mannered expanse of Chinese gardens. Different types of low growing vegetation are laid out in huge rectangles next to each other, in varying hues of green and auburn. Rows of evergreen and deciduous trees are geometrically arranged along the front of the building. Nothing however, no amount of colorful landscaping, can soften the look of the mammoth steel gray MSS building or mollify the staggering monotony of its endless rows of windows. Beyond intimidating, it's all the way to Orwellian.

Hui Lee, however, likes it. He enjoys walking up to its overbearing main entrance. Inside, the lobby is less grand. Rows of security check points detract and it is no longer as imposing as it once was. A gigantically blown up red Seal of the Chinese Republic with its 4 stars set high above the golden facade of the Imperial Palace is positioned high on the wall. It looks down on everybody in the lobby and is joined by the Shield of the Security Service with its hammer and sickle. Together, they are imposing enough to fully occupy an alabaster wall two stories high.

It is a busy time of the morning and so the check points are crowded. Lee picks a line, it doesn't really matter, they are all equally long. He carries nothing except for personal things, not even a top coat. As he works most evenings there is really no need to take anything home during the week. As for the weekends, his wife has ordered that he bring no work. There is no Security risk as there would be if he were walking around with something from the MSS facility in his hip pocket. Headache avoided. Feng shui in all things.

He stands dutifully at attention. His gaze drifts. It quite unintentionally falls on Miss Huiliang Tai, who has somehow managed to inject herself into his line of sight rather early this morning. What's this? Is Miss Tai waving? At him?

Hui Lee is vexed. What could possibly merit this lack of office decorum? But he catches himself. No one must sense that he is not otherwise charmed to see Huiliang so early, right out of the box as it were. Why, she's a glowing example of what an eager and dedicated staff he possesses, one that obviously thrives under his supervision. Wonderful!

Lee tosses metal items from his pockets into a clear plastic bin, conspicuously holds his ID badge in front of his chest, and waits to be summoned through the scanner. Afterwards, he collects his things, leaving the badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck. Finally, there is a turn style where he lets another machine scan his ID one more time before being let into the main area of the lobby. Miss Tai awaits.

"Good morning, sir. I am so sorry to disturb your morning. However, there is something, a development, that I think will interest you."

Lee wonders just how early she gets to the office these days. He is going to have to check the daily logs later when he gets the chance.

"I see. Very good."

It is hard for Huiliang to miss Lee's discomfiture. So she does what she always used to do with her recalcitrant brothers and stubborn grandfather back home. Take charge.

"Perhaps we should try the Operations Center? I can show you on one of their machines."

"Great idea, Miss Tai! Please, lead on."

He barely remembers where the Ops Center is, he has been there so rarely.

Huiliang turns abruptly on her heel and starts off, mindful not to go so fast as to leave her boss completely in her wake. Maybe she should leave bread crumbs so he doesn't get lost, she is thinking, and a tiny grin of satisfaction begins to crease the usually rigid corners of her red lipstick.

They leave the multi-story glass and marble lobby and descend a wide corridor. It ramps downward and finally curves around to a smaller, beautifully carpeted one story lobby. They are confronted by uniformed security staff and a number of sets of closed wooden doors.

Huiliang doesn't hesitate but goes directly up to the first person nearest her and presents her ID. The guard glances at it and raises his hand in a gesture toward the door. Before she gets there another of the uniforms opens it for her.

She enters the rear of a gymnasium sized room. Phalanxes of low cubes line up in rows before an array of flat panel monitors, so many panels that they take up most of the front wall of the big room. The largest screens are subdivided and reshape themselves in a constantly changing pattern of rectangles, dependent on the perceived importance of and interest in their subjects.

Huiliang wastes no time but heads to the nearest empty cubicle and proceeds to log in. She cues up the video she wants Hui Lee to see, turning to find him already standing behind her.

"This is from the Hong Kong Harbormaster's office."

She hits a key.

Hui Lee watches as video from the Star Ferry CCTV runs. In green eyed night vision Lee can see a group of people on the bow of one of their boats. He sees the caption reading out the time, something like 4:40 am.

Huiliang explains.

"This is Zachary Miller and Kimberly Scott. You asked that we keep track of their whereabouts yesterday. As you can see, they made it all the way to Hong Kong on the CRH. We have their passports clocked at Beijing yesterday when they boarded the train."

She uses her pen to point at the diminutive figures of Zak and Kim on the bow of the ship. In the emerald glow of night vision their faces are completely unrecognizable. But Huiliang is certain of their identities.

Huiliang taps a key and the whole scene is played out before them. There is the attacker, the confrontation, and the sudden fall into the waters of the harbor. There is the pursuit by the boyfriend. And the lone figure left on the boat gathering their bags.

"Interesting. Our American friends appear to have stirred things up. Was there a Police report?"

Miss Tai pulls up the piece of intercepted Police infrared footage that shows Zak and Kim swimming to shore.

"No," she answers.

"Hmm. Triad?"

"Possibly."

Hui Lee is annoyed. Too many questions.

Lee crouches a bit to speak closer to Huiliang.

"Let's find out, shall we. And while we're at it let's find out what more we can about Li Hua Wang and whoever this is who attacked our friends."

Miss Tai turns to face Lee, her heavy glasses whipping precariously close to his face.

"Right away, sir."

Chapter 23

"Next time no dumplings for you," Kim razzes.

"What?" goes Zak, having trouble rooting through his pockets to pay the driver, whose door he stands next to.

He had struggled to clamber out of the antediluvian BMW a little too full of lunch from a Chinese restaurant. Of course, the cab was cramped for someone with his tall frame, and his muscles were still sore from the morning's big swim. But he had made short work of two orders of dim sum at the restaurant and Kim was right to remind him about it.

Kim and Zak stand on a hot sidewalk in the full sun on the main drag of Aberdeen, the cab quickly disappearing. Aberdeen town center lines up on the other side of the street, a fifty to sixty story rise of slender, elegant reeds of residential towers clustered in various groups to create an urban cliff along the harbor's edge. An impossibly verdant mountain coated in the darkest green rises precipitously over the top of the hi-rises. Zak is amazed that the tunnel they just passed through, that brought them to Aberdeen from Hong Kong, was able to penetrate through the thick base of such a large mountain.

"This way please," says the always taciturn Yuan, who turns about and heads off. Zak and Kim follow.

Yuan takes them along the Aberdeen waterfront Promenade with its old elms and broad walkway, its iron railing and lantern style street lights. For the moment they are only young tourists walking off a big lunch, enjoying the view of Ap Lei Chau, the island mountain sitting on the other side of the harbor. Both sides of the harbor are littered with moored vessels of every kind. There are numerous old sampans of wood with sheets of blue or green tarp stretched over frames to ward off the sun, to sleek white yachts with expensive composite hulls. And on shore behind the array of boats there are always more soaring residential towers. They lie in every direction, as far as the eye can see.

Finally they come to the end of the promenade and step down to the edge of the water where a brightly ornate temple boat awaits a line of tourists. The tourists, mostly Chinese, are on an excursion around the harbor past what little remains of the floating village of the Tanka people. Of course, they also want to see the heavily decorated Floating Restaurants in the harbor.

"Ahoy!" shouts Yuan.

A young man in a white knit shirt and khaki pants, who stands mid-ship in the glory of the temple boat, turns suddenly about. He whips his head to the familiar sound of Yuan's voice. In an instant, a broad grin breaks across his face and he shouts back.

"What do you think this is? Gilligan's Island?"

The man places his hands on his hips in a sign of vexation.

Yuan moves deftly, seemingly covering the distance past the crowd and the boat in no time. By time Zak and Kim arrive the two men have finished shaking hands and welcoming each other.

"This is Li Shuang, a friend of my family. He will take us to our boat."

With this, Li steps to the fantail and addresses the assembly waiting on the dock, looking especially at their tour guide. They will need to wait for the next tour boat to arrive, which shall be only momentarily. He expresses deep regret. But if any of the tourists are disappointed they do not appear to show it.

Li steps back to the front, ushering them to take their seats and, within moments, they cast off. Zak and Kim sit opposite each other on the cushioned benches that line each side of the boat. Yuan goes forward to sit with Li, who takes up the pilot's seat.

The low hum of the engine accompanies them as they languidly sail through a maze of fishing vessels that have come to park in the safety of the harbor in anticipation of bad weather. The boat finds the main channel and passes under Ap Lei Chau bridge. Kim notices the many strings of lights along the bridge that shine at night for tourists. Aberdeen may be a bedroom community of Hong Kong but it still has a life of its own, based both on tourism and the economics of the harbor.

Kim notices that the sky, once so clear, is quickly giving way to strands of low grey cloud and a growing humidity. The fresh breezes of earlier have been replaced by an ominous stillness that fills the air.

Yuan comes back to join them and sits next to Kim.

"We will have to hurry. The weather has decided to take a turn."

They watch the yacht club roll by and after that a public marina.

"Li knows my family boat well. He came often on our family's outings when we were kids and he always knows where to find it," Yuan tells them.

Zak and Kim are surprised to see that that the boat they are being taken to is a small, traditional Chinese junk, a restoration and a rarity.

Yuan, who has been watching their expressions, says, "I think you will like this."

"I'm sure we will," answers Kim. "It's beautiful."

"My father is very proud of this boat. You would not believe how much work he has done on it."

"Oh yes I would," says Zak.

Thanking Li, they finally leave the shelter of the tourist boat, its roof as colorful and elaborate as that of any to be found in a real temple, and ascend a ladder from the pier to step aboard the junk. Its dark, rich wooden hull is ringed by a netting of tires to protect it. Yuan unties the moorings and joins them, providing instruction on removing the deck's protective tarps.

Juan has the boat soon underway, heading East out of the harbor past the twin skeletal towers of a ride at the cliff side amusement, Ocean Park. A line of colorful cable cars stretches to the summit of a mountain. A ferris wheel, roller coaster and other rides are set among a crazy quilt of buildings that descend to the water's edge.

The first drops of rain begin to fall as they leave the breakwater. This is followed by further instructions from Yuan, which Zak and Kim are quick to carryout. They all make it back into the wheelhouse before the rain really cuts loose. The once grey skies are rapidly turning black.

Chapter 24

Christopher Gray lies very still in the tall grass in the fading heat of the day by the side of the road. He allows himself to cool off, sweat still poring onto his brow. He wears dark, protective clothing and while it hasn't impeded his movements at all, it has attracted the heat in a powerful way. Now he will rest and cool off while considering his remaining options.

He is out of Beijing, in the countryside, in a ditch. He is looking across an open field, one recently harvested, the long shadows of afternoon etching their way across lengthy furrows of brown soil. Far across the open field is an old two story farm house, utterly simple, completely unadorned, primitive, unpainted, dark and unappealing. There must be a road back there, somewhere behind it, because there is a tall hedgerow extending away from the house. A line of telephone poles runs across the field, delivering electricity to the house. Maybe the second line on the poles is a phone line, maybe not. It doesn't matter. He will be gone long before that can become a factor.

He has been on the lam for hours, taking off as soon as the embassy got wind of his possible arrest. He had been escorted by the staff as far as a safe house and was then driven outside the city. Here he was left off in a new Chinese village. The houses in the village are made of brick, a sign of the capital region's new prosperity. But in a way the new houses are also a sign of new headaches. All the villages near Beijing have experienced an influx of peasants on their way to find undocumented work in the city. The influx is just a small part of a massive rural to urban migration, the largest in the world. It is in fact the largest human migration in history.

Everywhere are the signs of the wrenching poverty of the countryside, evident in the way children are dressed, in little more than rags, in the sight of donkey drawn carts, in the way tree branches are collected and bundled by size and carefully stacked, by size, against the back walls of tiny wooden homes, in the 1930's era village tractors that are still present, and in the way tiny vegetable plots are organized with fences still made of twigs. But most easily are the signs of poverty found in the faces of the poor themselves, in skin burnt by the sun and the wind, in deep set eyes made fiercely bright by endless adversities faced, beaten back and triumphed over.

Gray was careful in moving about to maintain a low, insignificant profile, his face half hidden by a dark ski cap pulled low, as he exited the little town, passing it's small lit up grocery, it's bright internally illuminated signage making it the most optimistic of places to be found here within the most desolate of places. His ultimate destination is known only to himself. It is something he programmed into a machine using a pin and he has never done it before, except in training, and he has no idea how it is going to work, or even if it will. But it better.

Gray skirted the edges of two villages and took an alley hemmed in by stone walls, traipsing over flagstones, past four foot tall stacks of recycled roof tiles, careful not to brush against anything, not to knock something over, not to make any noise, not to attract attention, not to be made to speak and be therefore discovered a foreigner and, automatically, a subject of suspicion. Here the alley walls captured the glow of his e-pad device when he illuminated it to check his bearings.

Gray lies in a ditch in a copse of trees and checks his device again out of sheer nervousness. If he is afraid of getting caught he consoles himself with the idea that there are many fewer people living in the Chinese countryside these days to try and find him then there used to be. It used to be that eighty percent of the Chinese lived in the country. Now it is about half that percentage, cold comfort if what's left decides it's time to come looking for him.

The beads of sweat on his face dry in the gentle wind. The sun sets in slices of orange banding across the sky. It has been cold at night here. As early as it is in the season, snow lines the edges of fields and ditches. The night sky is going to be clear and it will be cold tonight. The air is chilly and it lulls him. Gray drifts off.

Later on, when he finally wakes up, Christopher Gray looks up. There are no longer mountains visible in the distance, it's too dark. He looks about and sees the barely visible outlines of miniature Buddhist pagoda shrines sitting five feet tall on the other side of the road, made of delicate looking wood gradually deteriorating in the constant rain and snow.

Gray hears distant ringing. He turns and tilts his head, triangulating the sound. It's coming from an out building near the house, some kind of barn. It must be a way of letting those in the field know when a landline call is coming in. So they can drop whatever they are doing and rush to get it, just as it quits ringing? Does that make any sense?

It continues ringing for a while. Surely there is someone in the house to pick up on the line there? Why aren't they getting it? Is anyone there? Are there any lights in the house, any sign of activity? He sees none. But he can't be sure.

The phone silences and there is only the sound of a light breeze stirring the dried out leaves still stuck to the skinny trees in the copse. He looks up. There's full moonlight breaking through wisps of glowing cloud, illuminating the field dimly, outlining a few piles of hay that have been heaped up in different spots. He wonders if he will need to use the hay piles in his efforts to stay out of sight.

Moonlight is not ideal. Moonless would be best. What he can't see on a moonless night but needs to find he can always locate with the navigation functions of his device, should that prove necessary. It won't be. The moon is pretty full and going nowhere. He checks the handheld electronic for the time instead. He fumbles with it as his hands have grown cold and clumsy.

Soon.

Satisfied, he turns his attention to the stars. So far from the city there are quite a lot of them, not that he has the ability to identify a single one. They peek out from between the trails of the wispy clouds. He shivers and feels the penetrating cold.

A bird rustles in a nest nearby. Gray hasn't moved in hours and worries that he is getting stiff. He doesn't have long to wait. On his screen a dot moves over a diagram of his position.

At first he isn't sure he is hearing anything at all. Maybe he would have to be a dog, with powers of hearing beyond those of humans, to hear the high whine of a distant approach. Or, maybe, after all, that's it.

A few more seconds and he thinks he is confirming it. That has to be it.

Suddenly it grows louder and changes its pitch. It's Doppler effect is dropping, slowing, signaling him that it has arrived, telling him it's time to go. His heart skips a beat. It begins to race.

There it is, a moving dark shadow, outlined in glinting moonlight as it circled, and it's now heading down onto the field, coming at him from the other end. The engine cuts out as it levels its approach and touches down, bouncing. It has wheels and skids, a computer driving their delicate interplay with the ruts and rubble of the harvested field. He checks the screen again and sees the indicator of the drone change color, meaning it has stopped moving.

It's down. He looks at the house. Nothing.

Suddenly he is up and running at his maximum until he reaches the spot where the UAV has come to rest. He immediately places his lit up device against its side, activating the opening of a panel.

Gray emits a low whistle of satisfaction. Something in him always told him that if and when it ever came to this, there would be no such thing. There couldn't be. No real asset would ever be worth this kind of technology. He always assumed that in this situation he would have to follow through as ordered, knowing how ultimately futile his efforts would turn out to be. Everything about his training and experience informed him that this could, would, never happen.

Somehow though, it has.

The drone sits low and the panel, longer than a human being, extends from the cylindrical side in slow motion on a heavy metal armature until the panel locks in place. The dull black drone rises considerably above him and stands between him and the view of the house.

Gray looks into the opening of the drone and sees a cockpit, albeit one without means of navigation for its occupant. It could also be mistaken for a pilotless coffin, albeit one rather comfortably tricked out, but it will serve as his home away from home for the next fourteen hours.

The thought of such a long, uninterrupted and yet very cramped journey delivers another thought to him. He unzips quickly and takes a piss, watching the ground steam. Finally, Chris Gray climbs in and pulls the big panel closed, listening to it lock reassuringly.

Assuming the deceptive beacon technology that the drone is specially fitted with works, he will remain hidden among the many thousands of drones in the sky over China on his way to his destination and won't have anything to worry about. On the other hand, if the spoofing technology doesn't work, he won't have to be concerned about that either. In that eventuality, the drone, with him in it, will undoubtedly be blown unmercifully out of existence long before there is any chance to even think about it.

Gray turns philosophical as he feels the drone activate, turning rather bumpily about to face back across the field it has just landed on, smoothly powering itself up. Gray's body is pushed back against the cushion he rests on as the drone takes off from the field and then accelerates at several G, disappearing into the black folds of the night sky.

It is something Gray learned from the Ambassador. One day, after hearing some of Gray's complaints about his job, the Ambassador pointed out to him that everybody has a boss. People with real power, he said, will tell you that the more power you have, the more you feel penned in and constrained by your choices. As the ambassador put it, in the end, the only authority with real power over this planet is God.

And he's not talking.

Chapter 25

First comes the leading edge of a squall, an underside roiling white beneath towering black storm clouds, forming a shelf low enough to give Kim the illusion that she can reach up and touch it. Thunder cracks explosively and makes Zak jump. Rain bursts onto the windshield of the wheelhouse. Yuan remains stoic and unperturbed, having experienced the same or worse many times over the years while steering the small, classic Chinese junk.

Lightning sparks, each time with a staccato strobe, outlining everything on the boat in stuttering flashes of pure candescent light. Ominous silence follows. Then, abruptly, they hear a crack of thunder that booms like cannon, rumbling on and on, rolling and echoing far across the water. The detonations of thunder strike the windows of the wheelhouse, rattling them in their frames. Kim pulls Zak's arm closer around her. She points out to a place on the deck.

"You left your backpack out there, Sparky."

At first he can't believe it. He takes a second look. Sure enough, the pack sits beneath the foremast and it's bound up sail.

Zak now recalls setting it down in order to help Yuan get the boat ready.

"Crap." He disengages from Kim.

Zak disengages from Kim, observing how choppy the sea is getting. The junk is already starting to heave. Worse, it's pouring buckets, like it's never going to stop.

He looks at Yuan.

"You better get it," says Yuan. "It could wash overboard."

"You don't think it's going to get that bad do you?"

In a fashion that Zak has come to identify with Yuan Cheng, Yuan replies simply, "Hope not."

On the varnished walnut back wall of the wheelhouse on a hook are two heavy raincoats with rain hoods, piled on top of one another. Zak grabs the top one, hurriedly puts it on, and takes hold of the door latch before eyeing Kim.

"I could use a wingman, Sherrie."

Kim laughs.

"Oh yeah, right. Just make sure and hang on to something that not's going anywhere."

Zak opens the door, holds it for a second, long enough for the wind and rain to reach Yuan and Kim, before launching himself outside into the maelstrom. There's the chop of course, Zak's shoes slip on the moving deck, and the rain is pelting and cold. Rain runs down his neck and back. The raincoat is insufferably hot. By the time he returns to the wheelhouse he is drenched not so much by the rain as by his own sweat. At least he now has the backpack.

The storm continues to build. Lightning surges out of the clouds and randomly strikes the whipped up sea. Thunder claps suck all other sound out of the air, leaving a vacuum of quiet behind them. Waves peak and the boat rocks. They crest and the wheelhouse occupants feel a momentary absence of gravity as the junk drops. Kim feels her stomach leave her, as if she were at home in the Midwest, taking a hilly road too fast, soaring over a rise, falling weightless on the other side in some teenager's car.

Yuan carefully watches the wheel and the monitor on the dash. He switches it from map to 3D imaging so that he can get a better view of the storm in front of them. There is no way to avoid its path. It lies directly in their way to Macau and is far too big to sail around. Min Chin is expecting them at a particular time. Yuan will not disappoint.

"I think this is the worst of it," says Yuan.

"Geez, I hope so," replies Kim.

The wheelhouse has become steamy and the windows have started to fog. Yuan reaches over, cracks a side window and a rush of cool air enters.

"You might as well get some rest," he says, motioning with his head to the stair leading below.

Zak and Kim go below and before long the two travelers are sacked out and gone to the world. The motions of the boat eventually change to a gentle roll, lulling them to sleep. Two hours later Kim and Zak are startled awake.

"We're here!" Yuan shouts.

They climb reluctantly into the wheelhouse and see an approaching pier.

"Zak, I'm going to need you to help me pilot this thing in. Do you think you can do that?"

Zak takes the wheel and Yuan positions himself on the bow.

They close on the pier.

"Cut it!" Yuan yells, just as he jumps onto the dock with a line in his hand.

The sky is partly clearing and the air has dried of the humidity, turning cool, as they tie up. Flags along the dock flap in the sunny breeze.

They walk over to an old stucco building housing the dock's offices. Yuan stops to talk to a man behind a counter, while Zak and Kim head through the anteroom. They exit through an attached, modern seven story office building with tinted glass walls, and are greeted by a carriage drive with long, overhanging shelters and a broad expanse of curb. They sit on a bench and eat energy bars until Yuan shows up. He takes them past a taxi to a waiting limo.

"Please," he says, as he opens a door and leans in so the driver can see him.

The driver, who has been sitting alone in the car with the window down, starts it up. He waves at Yuan.

Yuan turns back to them.

"Courtesy of the Casino. Please."

The appearance of the car and driver puts Zak and Kim on edge, but they get in anyway. The car takes them from the private piers on the East side of Macau to Lisboa Avenue, past the distinctive cantilevered, stacked blocks of the Starworld Hotel.

The old Lisboa Hotel and Casino come up on their left, and across the street is the newer Grand Lisboa. The Grand Lisboa is a towering green shaded glass, Lotus shaped hotel and casino sixty stories tall. The Lotus shape at the top of the hotel spans outward, cantilevering large numbers of rooms at a great height above street level. The Grand is the tallest building in Macau and forms the central hub of the island.

The driver takes them around to the front of the block long Lisboa Hotel, which in and of itself houses thousands of rooms, to its main entrance. Zak and Kim climb out of the limo, looking across at the tower of the Bank of China. They then walk beneath the enormous and colorful, brightly lit lotus that stands above the entrance. It has large gold letters announcing the name of the casino, first in Chinese characters, then in English. Nearby is an attached twelve story, round tower of rooms with the characteristic and distinctive window trimmings of the hotel.

The circular lobby shines in highly buffed black marble. A massive, gold chandelier dominates the space. A lotus is etched into the ebony floor. Curved spiral staircases with elaborate gold trimmed iron railings rise on either side of the lobby. The railing continues, circling the second level, which is filled with high end shops for jewelry, designer clothes, and expensive perfume.

They step to the bottom of the staircase only to be intercepted by one of Yuan's group, a much bigger guy wearing a bulky suit. A few words are exchanged with Yuan in Chinese before they are lead up.

"This is nuts!" says Kim in an aside to Zak.

They have been exchanging looks all along.

"Well, we can't exactly walk home," he says under his breath.

"No. We'll just end up sleeping with the fishes."

"Not a healthy perspective."

"No. Just a realistic one."

Yuan walks with the other man just ahead, who takes them past a small bakery featuring lavish desserts and down a shadowy hallway to a set of oversized black lacquer doors. Yuan knocks and opens one of the doors, gesturing them forward. The big guy stays outside in the hallway.

"This is the dragonhead." Zak whispers in Kim's ear.

"You mean the head dragon?" Kim whispers back at him.

"Both."

"Funny."

The room is dimly lit from box valances, tiny recessed lights pointing all around, and a variety of decorative wall sconces. More a living room than an office, a brick archway stands opposite with a wide English table serving as a desk to a man in crisp blue suit, white shirt and candy striped tie. Behind the man on a sand stone brick wall is a fish tank filled with peculiarly colorful iridescent fish.

Yuan greets the man behind the desk obsequiously, but the man's eyes are on Kim and Zak from the instant they enter his office and his gaze never leaves them. He immediately gets up and steps around his desk, stepping over to them.

"Zachary Miller and Kimberly Scott! How nice to finally meet you."

Warmly he grasps their hands. The genial man is clearly totally at his ease and he seems anxious that they should feel the same.

"I am Min Chin."

He lingers a moment, Kim's hand in his.

"Yes, you are," she announces.

Chin thinks this is humorous and produces a short laugh.

"I see that I have been googled, yet once again."

He smiles in a way that could not be insincere.

"You chose to contact Professor Xu. That was smart."

Chin steps back and sits on the edge of his desk table, crossing his arms. He motions for them to take the wing back upholstered chairs set in front of the desk. Yuan seats himself further away on a heavily cushioned divan where he busies himself with an electronic pad that has been left on a coffee table.

"Xu knows his way around. He contacted me directly you know."

They didn't.

"I have friends in Beijing. They are watching."

"Watching?" asks Kim.

"What are they watching for?" asks Zach.

"A smoking gun. Of course."

He reaches backward, almost without looking, and grabs a cup of tea, no longer so hot.

"The thing that can throw a wrench into the system, change the balance of power, wreck the status quo. Create upheaval, foment revolution. Any of the above. It would be dangerous for such a thing to exist."

His words echo in the silence that follows.

Finally Chin asks, "Does it?"

"Does it what?" asks Zak.

"Does a smoking gun exist? Is that what Wang died for?"

"We don't know."

Zak reaches into his pocket and holds out the flash.

"How do I know this isn't bugged?"

He rolls it between his hands, considering.

"Such things have happened, you know."

Neither Zak or Kim have anything to say to that. It could be as Chin suspects. But if it were, surely Wu-pen would have noticed.

Chin carefully looks each of them in the eyes.

"Okay," he says with finality.

Chin takes the drive, rounds his desk, and slots it into his pc. He finishes sitting down and uses his keyboard to pull the data to a screen on his desk. He hits another key and the fish tank becomes a monitor with the drive's directory displayed.

"Are you seeing this?" he says, raising his voice to Yuan, with whom he is sharing what's on his screen.

"Yes."

"Can you do a decrypt?"

"Sure. It'll just take a moment."

Chin takes a sip of his tea, looking at Zak and Kim. He picks up a phone and orders a tray brought in.

"You know, I'm not really a dragonhead."

Kim and Zak are startled, surprised that he could have heard them talking as they entered the room.

"You heard us?"

"Yes but don't worry about it. I hear this all the time. It would be better to say that I'm an ex-officio member of a corporate board."

There is a knock on one of the doors. It is opened by an employee of the casino who carries a large tray. He sets it down in front of Zak and Kim. They are grateful for Chin's kindness and begin to help themselves.

"Mr. Ho, my long ago predecessor, once upon a time controlled all gaming in Macau. Now there is the Cotai Strip with the Galaxy, Cotai hotel, Venetian, City of Dreams, Versace and, of all things, the Sheraton. There are any number of casinos in Macau that are primarily American owned, such as the MGM, the Sands, and the Wynn. We are the world's largest gaming venue and the competition is very great. Not so long ago the Lisboa was approached to redevelop the casino as the New Hotel Lisboa, which would rival the Grand Lisboa across the street."

At this, Min Chin points to a framed picture on the wall of the proposed design: a winged, golden hued glass structure, bigger though not taller than the Grand Lisboa.

"But this building, which was built in 1970, has already become historically important to the history of Macau. I got my start by gaining control of many of the city's high roller rooms. But now my position here with the Lisboa is special, unique. I campaigned to save the Lisboa years ago and now, as a result, I am here today. In a way, this place gave me my start. I own a major portion of it now and it will be my heritage."

Zak and Kim see that the fish tank screen behind Chin has finally stopped zipping through dozens of screens. Chin notices the same thing on the monitor on his desk.

"I think we may have it," states Yuan, typing furiously.

Chin takes control and begins to thumb through various docs that Yuan has managed to decrypt. His placid face becomes a scowl.

"I did not know this," he says absently as his eyes flick over pages of what he is reading.

Finally he looks up, his face having lost color. He involuntarily shakes his head, as if in disgust.

"This is the Tiger let out of his cage."

Then he looks over at Yuan.

"How are we doing on time?"

Yuan looks up without needing to consult anything but the schedule he has assembled in his mind.

"Fine. We're good."

"Well then," says Chin, pulling the drive chip and handing it back to Zak, "You had better be on your way."

Yuan quickly proceeds to run a careful wipe of their machines, obliterating any hints of the former presence of the chip or its data.

Chin rises followed by his two young guests.

"I'm afraid Professor Xu was right. It is best that you leave the country immediately. It is a matter of the passports of course. We can arrange for the two of you to pass through customs at Hong Kong international airport with your existing passports. We can do this even if the authorities have issued a hold."

"We are so in your debt," says Kim, offering her hand once again to the tycoon Min Chin.

"Just get that to where it belongs," he says, watching Zak stick it back in his pocket.

Yuan finishes and joins them.

"Our friends can be useful, and they will see to it that you encounter no difficulties."

Min Chin cannot hide it. He is impressed with what a couple of foreign students have managed to accomplish in getting this far. While he deals mostly in high rollers, women, and friendly police, the information that Zak and Kim carry he has long suspected. He has no patience for it. The oppressive conditions of his country may help him and his business flourish, but they has also brought about widespread corruption at all levels and done little to relieve the conditions of the hundreds of millions in poverty. He knows nothing of this UNK or whatever it is, which in his opinion could be nothing more than a pipe dream, a red herring or, possibly, even a trap.

He believes that Zak and Kim have no idea what they are really into. They are like a ship set to sea, left to wander blindly at the will of the winds, to be tossed this way and that. It is impossible to predict if such a ship will ever reach shore.

Chin shakes Zak's hand, speaking to him in a hushed voice.

"Be careful. Take care of this one," he nods toward Kim, "She is impetuous but will lead you to your better self."

But Kim hears him just fine.

"Fortune cookie wisdom?" she asks. "It must be getting late."

"Ah, you heard me! I am wounded, but only a little," laughs Min Chin.

Yuan is becoming impatient. He has Zak by the arm of his jacket and is pulling him away.

Chin takes Kim's hand.

"Good luck."

The three of them depart but just as they make it halfway down the hall, Kim suddenly stops and turns back. She races back into Chin's office to give him a kiss on the cheek before finally running out the door.

Chapter 26

Yuan leads Zak and Kim away from Chin's office, back through the shiny black and gold lobby and over to the hotel. They run down a long hallway of rooms on the first floor. At the end, Yuan slides a plastic card through a keypad and opens a fire door to the outside, leading them into the small space between buildings that fire protection requires for minimum distance between adjacent structures. Given the reason for the space requirement, there are no windows in this space, only blank concrete walls that rise up over a hundred feet to the nearest rooftop, making the tiny space they are standing in but a tiny crevice among urban cliffs.

Yet it can rain into this space and there is a small grate in the middle to carry the rainwater away to the City storm system. At the edge of the grate is a small latch intended for pulling the grate away to clean. Yuan reaches down and pulls on it, but the grate doesn't move. Instead, the latch pulls up a small section of the cheaply tiled flooring, revealing a neatly disguised trap door and beneath it a wood staircase covered in dust.

Zak can't help it. He gives Kim an amused look.

"Really?" she asks in return.

Yuan gets it.

"Don't worry. There is a foil waiting to take us to the airport," Yuan says.

"I suppose a cab was out of the question?" Kim asks.

"It takes us to Hong Kong International Airport. That's on Lantau Island," the anything but loquacious Yuan replies.

Kim is not exactly sure, but she takes the reference to an island to mean that the airport is principally surrounded by water.

"This is the fastest way to get there from Macau," Zak says.

"Then why aren't we going to the Ferry Terminal?" Kim queries.

"Mr. Chin has arranged a private foil," asserts Yuan. "I am taking you right to it."

Zak shrugs.

"We've come this far," he says.

Kim gives in. She turns around, grabbing Zak's arm to support herself, and steps backward down the stairs.

"Somebody forgot to install some lighting," she states, looking up at them.

Then a moment later she calls out, "Geez! How far down does this thing go?"

Kim moves quickly and soon disappears. As Zak and Yuan are looking a light comes on and she comes back into view. She shines it up at them and they can see that it's her phone that she is brandishing like a flashlight.

"I wish I hadn't forgotten my shots. No telling what all's down here. Hey, are you guys coming or what?"

Zak says to Yuan, "You might want to take the lead."

Yuan laughs.

"You think?"

They descend about twenty feet. The oversized storm drain flattens out and becomes more cavernous. It's made of poured and reinforced concrete walls, but it is still tiny, barely big enough to permit them to stand.

"How old is this?" asks Zak.

"I don't know. It was probably built about the time that the Lisboa was built. A way for VIP's to come and go without generally being seen would have been useful, even then."

Kim has gone ahead. They can see her phone light bobbing and illuminating the way as she takes on the role of intrepid explorer.

"Hey guys! This thing just keeps going. And it's heading down. I thought we already were in China!"

"Where are we going?" asks Zak. He is holding up his lighted phone to check out the ceiling. Every now and then he sees a vent. He puts his hand near one and feels forced air.

"It's a short way," is all Yuan says.

Zak judges the distance they've come at well over fifteen hundred feet. They reach a small construction area filled with a miscellany of equipment. At the end is a pressure sealed door and next to it a card key. Yuan swipes the device with his card, upon which the steel door loudly unlocks with a rush of air.

"I'm afraid," he says, "there are quite a few stairs."

Yuan takes care to re-seal the door shut behind them, and Zak looks up to see a standard set of concrete fire stairs, twisting itself as far upward as he can see.

"Yo," exclaims Kim, "they forgot the elevator."

The stairs are monotonous and tiring. The three all slow down. Zak starts counting floors. Talking becomes an effort. They listen to each other's hard breathing as they climb.

Humidity increases and they begin to sweat profusely.

A door finally appears at the top. Once again, Yuan swipes his card on a key mechanism in order for the door to open. They hear water slapping as they walk into a small cave, massive rounded blocks of granite hanging low just over their heads. It is dark except for small electric wall sconces that appear to light their way around the corner. The stone floor is polished to a high sheen.

They step around to where the rock ceiling drops over a set of polished steps cut into the granite. The treads of the steps are individually lit and lead down to a rock platform at the edge of Nam Van Lake, which empties into the South China Sea. The cavern waters open onto the Lake and the last rays of the late afternoon sun.

Two men are waiting for them on the platform, standing before a large jet foil that bobs in the water. Yuan immediately greets them, speaking in Chinese. The men welcome him in return.

"Where the hell are we?" asks Kim.

"This must be an island in the middle of the lake," answers Zak, careful of his footing on the damp steps.

They step down and get a full view of the boat.

"This is a foil?" Kim asks.

"Jet-foil. A boat on rockets. It rises onto skids and skims the water," Zak points out.

"Sounds really safe." Kim is not at all certain about it.

"It is," he says.

"Does somebody have to have a special license to drive it?"

Zak laughs.

"Let's hope so."

Seatbelts are optional, but Kim and Zak put theirs on as the boat pulls out of the cave. They find themselves surrounded by Macau at night. The cave disappears behind them, hidden beneath the lush greenery of a small island. Nam Van Lake's placid waters are mirror like and reflect the showy casinos and hi-rises along its shores.

Yuan sits nearby. He points to the very long bridge ahead that runs to the South end of the Lake, its lights a ribbon of white pearls strung along the elevated highway and the Lake's edge.

"It's called the Ponte Carvalho."

They can see that the bridge stretches south to Sun Yat-sen Avenue, a shorter stretch of elevated highway that connects the outer circle of land hemming in Nam Van Lake at the point where the lake empties into the South China Sea. Carvalho soars high over the top of Sun Yat-sen Avenue, going South across the Outer Harbor of Macau to Tapai Island two miles away.

Their foil passes underneath Carvalho. On the shore nearest to them is the Wynn Casino, yellow horizontal stripes following its curvilinear form. To the west of it is the old Lisboa casino and hotel that they just left, iris blue curlicues running up and down the rectangular hotel and its round tower. The Grand Lisboa's massive lotus shape is outlined in lights, standing above everything else in terms of sheer scale and brilliance. Next to it is the blue Bank of China and then the hulking subdued residential tower of Lakeview with its futuristically curved roof. The buildings reflect themselves in the dark waters of the Lake and colorfully light up the night sky above Macau, their last view of the city skyline.

The boat turns south to head out of the Lake, passing One Central Macau, a 40 story complex of blue hi rises on the shore not far from the Wynn. After that they pass the even bigger, very angular slab of the Mandarin Oriental. The Mandarin sits at the end of the island promontory, the highest point of the building jutting skyward to the south, pointed toward the Island of Taipa. Three pylon road bridges cross the miles of water between Macau and Taipa. Their hydrofoil is nearest to the middle of these bridges, the Carvalho, as they head South, reaching the mouth of the Lake. To the West is Sai Van bridge and to the East is Amizade, which comes all the way down from the Ferry Terminal on the East side of Macau. Brightly lit by highway lighting, the three bridges stand out against the dark sea and the black sky.

As the hydrofoil reaches the mouth of the Lake it has to pass under Sun Yat-sen highway to reach the sea. On its western approach Sun Yat-sen Avenue comes back onto land, just below Macau Tower, a bright beacon and sentinel to those visiting Macau. The passengers on board find their attention is drawn to the Tower.

"Macau Tower is the only structure taller than the Grand Lisboa in Macau. It was originally commissioned by Stanley Ho," remarks Yuan proudly, handing them each a pair of sound killing ear muffs.

The foil's engines start to cut in, growling, the boat rising, climbing onto its skids, accelerating, the boat's occupants largely protected from the noise by the soundproofing of the cabin housing.

Zak and Kim can't really hear anything but Yuan is pointing toward Taipa and they can just barely hear him say, "Cotai, the big casinos."

Zak, who has forgone the sound muffs, nods.

Kim, wearing her muffs, just stares, banished to her own silence,

"You talking to me? You talking to me?" she jokes.

The foil's running lights spear ahead of them, piercing the night. The boat's path describes an arc northeast toward Lantau Island. The pilot lets the jet turbines' whine become a roar.

Not long afterward, Zak and Kim begin to see the sky glowing over the airport in the distance. Passenger jets are circling overhead, landing and taking off. They strobe white anti-collision lights that make them easy to see in the night sky, even this far out from the airport.

The hydrofoil brings them closer to Lantau and Zak and Kim can now make out the various white fuselage and wing tip lights as well as the alternating red and green wing lights on the aircraft. The sky has become a dark blue, almost purple, bathing the sea and the airport. The main building of the airport has bright white light spilling from the lines of windows beneath an endless curved roof. Harsh pole lighting glares at them from the airplane gates. The glare falls into the ocean and stretches toward them across the water.

Finally the foil reaches the island and races alongside the north airport runways. The commercial airplanes that taxi in are now close and big, their beams sharp and intense. Runway and taxiway ground lights, yellow, red and orange, line the geometry of paved surfaces that run in every direction. The lights zigzag across the huge landing field toward the airport's main building, creating a monolithic game board out of the airport's manmade island.

The jet-foil rounds the East end of the airport, begins to slow, turns, and aims for a small set of lighted piers. The airport is most commonly reached by a highway running over water from the adjacent Lantau Island and Lantau Island is in turn connected by a highway over water to the island of Hong Kong.

Yuan helps them off the boat and they walk a short distance into an adjacent building that looks somewhat temporary. Here they are surprised to be greeted by a row of airline counters, each counter having an orderly queue of waiting passengers. Yuan hands them e-sheets with their flight details for flights he had booked days before. He had also texted ahead as they were arriving to confirm. There are two counters open nearby, ready for them to check in immediately.

"What happens now?" Zak asks Yuan.

"You stay alive."

"That's all?"

"You get out of here. Both of you."

"How do we ever thank you? We'll never be able to come back."

"Someday you will."

"How? Nothing will change," says Zak.

"You are wrong. Chin thinks you will change many things."

"So! Chin knows everything?" asks Kim.

"Of course."

Yuan laughs at his own joke.

Zak and Kim take turns giving Yuan a hug, each saying an individual goodbye. The two students step to the counters, remove their bulky packs, and prepare to check in. They turn one last time.

To say goodbye.

But Yuan is gone.

Chapter 27

Hui Lee has found out that Zak and Kim are gone and he is not happy. Much of his displeasure lies in the report before him, telling him about Wang, Dai Gu and Professor Xu. It indicates that Wang was probably attacked by Gu or an associate. Further, that Wang was a long time investigative journalist with ties to UNK. And of course he knows of Xu's expertise in the Chinese underworld. He, Hui Lee, had once been one of Xu's students.

Mostly he is displeased because it would appear that Zak and Kim are now probably involved, maybe by virtue of the passing of information, and appear to have enlisted the assistance of local triads in the South in leaving China. Ironically, he had not yet placed a hold on their leaving, largely because of the necessity of filing a report with the DI, but also because of the need to file some kind of formal charges through the Beijing prosecutor's office. That would involve too many people and take too long. Now, as if to prove his point, Zak and Kim are already gone.

Lee's conference room is in the corner of the building and is supposedly very high tech bug proof. He will concede that is not saying much these days. The intense white of the room almost hurts his tired eyes. The only thing that is not white in the room is the ashen blonde hardwood floor, of which there happens to be a great expanse. At the center is a large oval table, super white of course, and around it are over a dozen chrome office chairs on rollers. The chairs have thin leather seats and backs stretched tautly over steel frames, whether vinyl or leather he hasn't a clue, but they are, of course, intensely white.

It's a coffered ceiling and has ribbons of strong, indirect lighting running all around the edges. The walls angle steeply into the room, the window casements set back deep at the top, shallow at the bottom. And the two interior doors opposite the windows have three glass portholes cut into their middles, like portholes on a ship. Lee has no idea if any of this has any real significance for security or anything else, but he would be the last person to offer up the question.

Hui Lee sits at one end of the table, in front of a white wall panel with a big monitor bolted onto it. The monitor is positioned high, above his head, in such a way that everyone else can see it. Lee, on the other hand, has to swivel his chair in order to do so.

But at least the location of the monitor over his head helps to keep everyone's attention focused in his general direction. Keeping them focused is, however, harder all the time. Younger staff members are always being given upgraded training, training that is increasingly more elaborate and sophisticated, requiring the juggling of many competing demands while keeping track of a lot of balls in the air, all at the same time. The result, as far as he can tell, is that new personnel are even more scattered than they used to be, before experiencing the enhanced training. If anything, they have to be re-trained. He is fortunate to have Huiliang to help knock them into shape.

Eight of the staff sit before him. They are Qiu, Zemin, Wing, the men, and Ling, Huiliang, Zin, De, Yue, the women. Don't ask him to remember their last names. It is enough to be able to remember their first names. Sometimes, when he is on the computer, he gets them mixed up because it is more common to use their last names for email. It's a struggle. But it would be made much easier if his colleagues would stop raiding his office for the more experienced and therefore more competent staff people. The colleagues tend to take the most physically attractive people first, which is why he still has Huiliang, his most valuable staffer. Lee's revenge is to seek out and hire the nerdiest, geekiest, and yet most promising people he can find.

"Huiliang will prepare a report for us on the Wang matter and I want everyone to cooperate. Give her any support she needs. Qui, use your contacts and see what you can get us on Mr. Wang's history. What have you got for us today Zemin?"

Zemin with Yue's help keeps track of anti-government protests around the country. He taps an e-pad and a map pops up on the wall monitor showing dozens of ongoing protests in virtually every corner of the Republic. Zemin and Yue launch into discussion of several of the most important of these direct challenges to local and national authority. They are quickly besieged by very pointed questions.

Lee's mind wanders. He can't help it. He regrets letting these American students go.

Chapter 28

The airplane is cold. The sound of people stirring from a long night in cramped quarters wakes Zak. He glances with half open eyes across the aisle. A couple of windows are partially uncovered and stark morning light streams into the center of coach class, falling across sleeping passengers declined peacefully in their seats, wrapped in blue airline blankets, faces turned away from the aisle.

Kim reaches across an empty middle seat to jab him. Zak turns to see that Kim has a book in front of her and has her headphones on, but is now pointing. He follows her gesture and sees that a guy a few seats away on the aisle has bare feet. One foot is sticking into the aisle. The angle and lack of movement seem to suggest that the foot has been there for quite a while.

"He went to the john like that!" she whispers and makes a face.

"Don't forget to report him at the next air station," Zak replies.

"What are you talking about?"

Zak is tongue in cheek.

"All complaints are to be immediately reported at the next air station. You know, where they refuel the airship. Flight attendants will come by to take your complaint."

"In a blue moon! You're seriously wacked."

Kim's faux pout is short lived.

"You know, you're pretty up for a guy who's on the run. Not to mention that you just bailed on grad school. Getting your James Dean on, are we?"

"No. Just getting my James Dean out. But hey, don't rat me out to my parents."

The quiet of a long plane trip has recharged them both.

Kim and Zak had been exhausted making their way through the huge airport, one of the world's best designed and most attractive, using several moving walkways adorned with elaborate neon light sculptures to reach their gate. There had been the obligatory wait to board, the mind numbing boarding process itself, and the protracted taxi and take-off. There had been plenty of time for everyone to get comfortable for such a long flight, followed by the onslaught of cafeteria style food odors as onboard meals were broken out and served.

After eating, Zak and Kim had completely zonked. Now Zak sees that Kim has coffee.

"How'd you get that?'

"They came by. Want some?"

"Sure. How'd I miss that?"

He yawns involuntarily, taking the cup and sipping at it.

"You were dead to the world," she says.

A few gulps and the coffee is gone.

"Turns out my parents were contacted by Kina when we were in the big drink. Yuan called her. She got the number from..."

"Let me guess. Bog! But Yuan was using your phone, wasn't he? Surely your parents' number is prominent there."

"It most surely is. I think Yuan panicked in the moment and didn't know who to call. I had these weird text messages all of a sudden, like from everybody, asking me how I am."

"This is great security! Why the hell did Yuan do that?"

"To cover his ass in case we turned up missing I think. Bog tracked us in the water while talking to Gilly and Sophie. They were off Ensenada surfing."

Zak suddenly sits up, throwing his blanket impatiently to the floor.

"You realize that if Bog is tracking us, so is everybody else. And if they're tracking our movements, they also have to be tracking all our communications."

"So?"

"So they'll know everybody we know. And they're gonna wonder what we gave them."

"But we're not going to give them anything."

"Yeah, but they don't know that and they're gonna wonder anyway. We may be putting people in danger without meaning to. I think it's time we talked to Mr. Cerny."

"Bogdan."

People continue to wake up around them. Someone had used perfume nearby, the strong scent overpowering. A short distance behind them they could hear a couple arguing.

"Good morning!"

Bog appears on their phones, the surfer dude blonde hair falling irregularly around his face. He's not wearing a shirt and seems to be sitting on the edge of an unmade bed.

"Cheeseball!" exclaims Zak.

"Kemosabe!" returns Bog, his well-tanned face breaking into a toothy grin. "Man, how you guys doing? I tracked you the other day. Didn't know you were into the whole swimming with the dolphins thing!"

"I could have used their help," responds Kim.

"Hiya, Kimmie."

"Hey Bog. Well, now we need your help."

"For you doll, anything. How can I be of service?"

Zak pulls his phone closer and lowers his voice.

"We think we're all being tracked."

"Kemosabe! We're all of us always being tracked, monitored, whatever you want to call it, all the time."

"And that sounds paranoid and Orwellian," Zak observes.

"Dude! Don't take it personally."

"And you know that George Orwell was really Eric Blair. It's like nobody could make a cool reference for a guy named just plain Blair."

"You're right. Blairian just doesn't ring. I wonder if old George liked Orwellian?"

"Basta!" says Kim.

Bog is looking at a split screen, Zak on one side, Kim on the other. Kim's outburst makes him stop to actually consider the question.

"OK, ok. I've got this double layer, military grade encryption. Don't ask me where I got it. Totally cannot have this in China, but then you're not in China anymore. The program uses unique keys for each call or message. But I have to get everybody on it and it's not totally user friendly."

"Not totally user friendly? What does that mean?"

"It means a few of us are going to need face to face help with installing this and getting it to work the way it's supposed to. It doesn't just do everything automatically."

"What a drag."

"You're telling me, boss. But if I get it, you guys will be steppin' in tall grass."

Zak looks at Kim.

"We're going to have to get everybody together as soon as we can."

The much older man behind Zak pulls on Zak's seatback to get up to go to the lav. The back of the very lightweight seat bounces against the back of Zak's head.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the gentlemen says while leaning down a bit.

Zak looks up. He notices the older fellow's penitent expression.

"It's okay. I'm fine."

The man nods and moves off down the aisle. Bog takes note.

"Dude, they're everywhere. Better watch yourself."

"Orwellian."

"I can also make sure everyone has a good panic button installed on their stuff. Fries everything. The only good intel after that is torture."

"Or everything you ever put down on paper."

"That's very dark ages of you. Whoever writes anything down?"

Kim thinks ahead.

"I'll text everybody. Maybe we can meet at Ethan's place later," she says.

"Whose picking you guys up?" asks Bog, rubbing sand from his eyes.

"Probably Gilly and Sophie," states Kim.

That would be because of Sophie's car. Bog smiles.

"Buckle up."

And he's gone.

Chapter 29

They are on the Bayshore Freeway, the 101, out of SFO on a clear and sunny day. Gilly is driving Sofie's beater compact no-name vehicle with Zak and Kim crammed into the backseat, keeping company with their backpacks. Sofie has already asked about Hong Kong, receiving a promise to be filled in later.

"Well, I have to clean my feet as soon as I go through security these days. The floors in these airports are awful. If they know people have to take off their shoes, they could at least have a clean place to do it. The TSA could use a little more people person training."

"Did you stay overnight at Santos Todos?" Kim asks.

Sophie turns around in her seat.

"Oh no dear. We hitchhiked our way over to the island aboard some rich couple's yacht. We had to go back when they left or lose our ride!"

"There's really no place to stay except the light keeper's house," chimed in Gilly.

"We stayed in Ensenada and came back the next day. Of course the whole time we were wondering what had happened to you two."

They are far from the airport and in Redwood City, tall highway sound walls running along both sides of the freeway, turning it into a hot, dusty canyon. Zak notices something through the back window. He isn't sure what it is, but he turns and tries to bring it into focus. As he does there is a movement at the periphery of his vision. A large SUV with darkened windows swings out into the next lane and around in front of them with a rude swerve. Another similar looking vehicle swoops up behind, taking up a position immediately to their rear.

"Whoa!" exclaims Gilly, eyes flicking between the car in front of them and the other car in the rear view mirror.

Sophie is all over it.

"What did you do, Gil?"

Gilly is too distracted to be drawn into couples bickering.

Zak is beginning to notice that the speck of an image in the rear window is ballooning rapidly into the shape and color of a traffic drone. There is something about it though that is different from the usual traffic drone. He is having trouble figuring out what it is.

He wonders, "Could this drone be armed?" A voice cuts in over the stereo and the volume soars. A commanding voice demands that the driver engage the autopilot, allowing the escort vehicles to take control of their car.

"Oh sure I will," shouts Gilly excitedly.

Kim, who has been watching Zak watch the drone's fast appearance, is in sync with Gilly.

"Who the hell did he say they were?" she asks angrily.

"He didn't, did he?"

"We got a drone," says Zak calmly, placing his hand on the back of Gilly's seat.

"We got a what?"

"A traffic drone. It's got all the markings. It's on top of us."

"The hell you say."

"They're using it to communicate with us. But they're not Highway Patrol. If they were, they would have said so right away."

The big SUVs at their front and rear appear to be drawing, if anything, closer.

"Enough of this crap!"

Gilly pulls quickly out of line with the other vehicles. He accelerates with everything the little compact can give him. They're pushed back in their seats.

"Floor it Gilly," rejoins Kim, "You've got it baby. Go!"

"They better not be cops," asserts Sophie, tightening her seat belt.

Zak keeps watching for the drone. At times it is right overhead and he can't see it. At other moments it falls back a few feet behind them. It maintains the same height at all times, about ten feet over their car, its metal gray ovular shape accented by reflective patches of highway yellow and orange.

Other drivers react warily, moving away from what all of them assume is some kind of traffic enforcement. The traffic on the Bayshore just got busier.

There is room to maneuver and Gilly is not afraid to use it. He shoots the car to the inner lane and advances in between cars, holding them in the middle of a tight formation. They enter Menlo Park where the highway walls are lower and are topped by wire fences to keep pedestrians from getting onto the freeway. The highway walls get taller, creeping vegetation planted on top of them, growing down their sides, reaping the benefits of constant sun. Finally, the walls disappear, the highway becomes more open, and there are large old evergreens standing in places along it.

"Are they gone?" asks Sophie.

"I don't think so," replies Zak. "We still have the drone."

"Can it shoot us?" she asks.

"Good question," wonders Zak. Maybe that's what's unusual about that drone.

"No," says Kim, "It's a bad question because there is no way we want to find out. Gilly, how far are we from Stanford? "

"Close."

"Then get us off this thing. We're sitting ducks," Kim admonishes.

"If we make a break for it, we'll have company," Gilly states firmly.

Out of nowhere come the black SUVs.

"I think we already have it," says Kim, who notices the hulking vehicle pulling up on the passenger side of their car.

"Geezus!"

The vehicle presses, pushing them toward the breakdown lane, threatening to bash into the side of their greatly overmatched car. They can see nothing but dark shapes behind its windows.

"Guys!" yells Gilly, trying manfully not to give way to the relentless pressuring of the hostile SUV, "we're going in. Hang on."

The left wheels hit the highway rumble strip and the car begins to rattle with vibration and tire noise. Torsion effectively pulls the car left. Gilly battles the steering wheel for control as the car starts to automatically break.

Zak can just see ahead past Gilly as they begin to decelerate into the breakdown lane, and what he is catching a glimpse of is not good.

Kim notices his expression turn quickly grave.

Zak's arm swings involuntarily toward her, pressing her back against the seat. She thinks they are almost certainly going to crash but into what she doesn't know. She starts to bend and raises her arms to her head in order to take the impact.

"Noooooooo!" is all she hears from Sophie.

Then Gilly is abruptly breaking.

Zak sees the other big black SUV parked a ways down the breakdown lane with its occupants in positions behind its open doors, guns raised and pointed toward them. He can glance to his right and still see the SUV planted immediately next to them, apparently maneuvering and trying to force them to stop rather than crash into its companion. It carefully keeps pace with them so that Gilly has no choice but to slow the car.

They are going to be forced to stop. The activity on this stretch of highway by the SUVs has parted the waves of traffic that were immediately near them. The obvious presence of the traffic drone has been noticed far back on the highway, slowing traffic to their rear.

Gilly decides this is not how it's going down.

He shouts to his friends to brace, guns it, and then clobbers the brakes, throwing everyone forward. Sophie hits her head. The SUV to their side, caught unawares, keeps moving unintentionally ahead, leaving Gilly room to swerve behind it and into the center of the freeway. He weaves the car through traffic and gets them to the other side of highway before the driver of the trapping SUV has time to react. But it isn't far behind.

Again, he is going to have to give it all it's got.

"Who are these people?" He says this more by way of complaint, using his rearview mirror to give Zak a quizzical look.

"I've got no idea. Seriously man," Zak holds up his hands helplessly.

Gilly is speeding the car away, looking at the car's e-map. It shows their position on the freeway and the nearest exit.

"We've gotta get away from Dark Vader back there. I'm getting off this suicide highway to hell!"

The next exit is coming up, University Avenue, which takes them into Palo Alto. Gilly would have taken this exit anyway, but he looks down the road to the massive blue glass, wedge shaped Four Seasons Hotel with its huge rectangular feng shui excision cut from the middle of its architecture. Attached to the Hotel is a parking ramp and he has an idea.

"Zak, are you keeping track of Vader back there?" Gilly asks.

Zak and Kim are watching out the back window for both the trailing car and the drone up above.

"Yeah, but we still have a lead on him."

"And the drone?"

"Still with us. Not going anywhere," says Kim.

"Does anybody have a laser?"

Sophie attacks the glove compartment.

The car flies by the hotel's dense blocking landscaping along the edge of the freeway, under the over pass and onto a tight ramp. Gilly hits the brakes to avoid flying off the ramp but as the car reaches the street, he drives it straight across the multiple lanes of University Avenue and the opening in the median, narrowly avoiding other cars.

"Got one!" exclaims Sophie, proud of actually finding anything in the potpourri of her glove compartment.

Gilly starts running Sophie's window down.

"Hit that freaking thing up there with it."

Gilly drives them South on University to the next street, which he turns right onto. It curves them around to the five hundred per night Hotel. Sophie is trying, rather in-artfully, to laze the drone.

"Zak?" yells Gilly.

"Think we lost him for the moment. Haven't seen Vader since we took the freeway ramp."

At the end of the street next to the Four Seasons is a multi-level parking structure nestled between the hotel and the 101. Gilly heads them straight for it. Sophie is half standing, bracing herself on the inside of the car, her head and arm on the outside as she tries to focus the laser beam on the seemingly imperturbable drone. They approach the entrance to the parking ramp at speed.

"Sophie get down!" Gilly shouts and then, "sorry about this."

They run the entrance gate, an insubstantial piece of pine bolted to a steel armature that snaps and flies off on impact with the front of the car. They get a ways inside.

"Where's the drone, Kim?"

"I think it stopped. It was above us and would have run into the building. So I think it stopped out there."

"So much for the laser," says Sophie, disheartened.

Gilly throws the headlights on and careens past shoppers coming back to their hotel, arms loaded with packages. He drives them up and into the heart of the structure, finds a convenient open parking space, and pulls in.

"You don't happen to have a gun in there?" he kids Sophie, as he turns off the engine. Gilly decides to complement her.

"You gave it a hell of a try," he tells Sophie admiringly, reaching over to give her a kiss.

"What do we do now?" asks Kim.

"I think we should call Bog. He can help us with the drone," says Zak. "What do you guys think?"

"It can't hurt," responds Gilly.

In seconds Bog is on Zak's phone.

"Mr. Cerny?"

"Kemosabe? What's shakin?"

Zak figures they don't have a lot of time for this.

"We're being chased by a drone and 2 SUVs and we have no idea who they are."

Bogan is momentarily perplexed.

"What did you do in China?" he asks with total sincerity.

"You should ask. Seriously though, we ditched the cars but we think the drone is hovering over the parking ramp we're in here at the Four Seasons."

"That's a nice place," says Bog admiringly.

"We'll get you a brochure. In the meantime we need to lose the drone."

"Gotcha. But in this situation there is no good news."

They hear a loud roar coming their way and everyone's head turns to the sound. Zak sees a dark but recognizable shape rising from the level below. So does Gilly, who starts the car back up.

"They can go anywhere. They were probably just waiting to find a floor plan," comments Bog, who can clearly hear the sound and recognizes it.

Gilly is pulling out. The drone is coming straight at them up the center aisle, looking bigger than ever, almost as big as Sophie's car, but now it looks more like a crustacean festooned with many appendages. There are at least four rotors operating blurring blades, and they are screaming at a very high and deafening pitch.

Gilly is driving the car down the main aisle at breakneck speed, yelling something unintelligible. The drone continues, acclerating up the aisle. The two are clearly going to collide. Everybody in the car is ducking down, figuring the roof of the car is about to come off in a horrific crash unlikely to leave anyone alive.

And then it happens.

At the last instant the traffic drone pulls ninety degrees right, a hand's breadth from the side of the car, allowing it to pass unharmed.

This event does something weird with Gilly's ego.

"What a little chicken shit piece of crap drone!"

This makes everyone else in the car look up, disaster just having been averted at the last second.

"What happened?" they all hear Bog's disembodied voice ask loudly from Zak's phone.

Gilly keeps driving the car, speeding up, like a bat out of hell, slowing down only long enough to take out another guardrail on their way out of the parking structure. Suddenly everyone in the car is looking up and around at the sky, but they see no sign of anything following them.

"Can you hack this thing?" asks Zak of Bog.

"Yeah, but there is no time for that from here. Look, I think I have an idea. If I'm not mistaken the Four Seasons is one tall building. Why don't you guys park on the shady side of it. That could work."

"Gilly?"

They are reaching the entrance of the hotel and Gilly shoots them out toward a driveway running along the North end of the property, past the parking ramp and along the outwardly curved side of the hotel facing the highway. At this time of day the drive is thrown into a deep shadow that stretches right onto the Bayshore Freeway. Gilly brings them to a stop in the heavy landscaping that shields the view of the property from the freeway.

"OK, we're here in the shade of the building," says Zak.

"Turn off the car and remove the batteries from every device you have. They'll be using them to triangulate you," replies Bog.

Everyone follows Bog's instructions. Gilly helps Sophie as she has never removed a battery before. The car, quickly warming up without the air conditioning on, gets uneasily humid, tense and quiet all of a sudden.

Chapter 30

The stillness is broken by a distant high pitched whine. It's the no longer missing drone, and everyone in the car cranes to see it through the now opened windows of the car.

"I see it!" shouts Kim. "It came over the top of the building."

Zak leans on Kim to get a look. The drone dithers and then passes over them, heading toward University Avenue.

"Looks like we shook it," says Gilly.

"We'll have to thank Bog," says Kim.

The group waits out the drone, Zak and Sophie trading places in the car. They leave the Four Seasons, heading down University Avenue to downtown Palo Alto on their way to the University and the house where Ethan lives. Relieved to have escaped their pursuers, Sophie starts asking questions of Kim and Zak.

The college downtown is filled with casual eateries, gift shops, and inexpensive stores. University Avenue is a small two-way downtown street with parallel parking on the sides, along tree lined sidewalks that bump out at the corners. On the sidewalks are all manner of students and local residents, mostly young and upscale. The Christmas season is getting underway and the downtown crowds have grown larger. The street trees are adorned with Christmas lights that circle their trunks and climb branches with just turning leaves. The traffic is tame. Drivers stop in the middle of the block to give pedestrians a chance to run across the street.

Kim has a frustrating time trying to explain to Sophie why she and Zak were chased out of China. Kim is certain that if Wang had happened to Sophie, Sophie would be the first person in line at the offices of the local gendarmerie to fully and faithfully report all details.

"Hey, what was that?" asks Gilly.

A familiar black SUV with darkly tinted windows has just passed them going the other way.

Zak follows the vehicle as it goes on to the next corner, where it abruptly pulls a U-turn in the traffic.

Gilly sees it in the rearview mirror.

"I'll be damned!"

"What?" says Sophie plaintively, her attention drawn away from her conversation with Kim.

"I think we have company. Again." Gilly's voice is dejected.

Zak can't help it. He looks at Kim.

"Who are these guys?" he asks.

"Hey, I know! Why don't we stop and ask?" Kim replies, equally annoyed.

"This is getting ridiculous!" says Gilly.

"Maybe we should call the police?" Sophie asks innocently.

"With what? Did you put the battery back in your phone already?" asks Gilly.

They reach the next corner and the light changes. On impulse, Gilly guns it, making a wild left turn the instant the traffic clears the intersection. They barrel through and Gilly keeps them going rapidly down the side street. After a block he comes up behind an SUV with a decal on the rear window showing figures of family members with first names scrawled beneath. Gilly slows down.

"The SUV just made the corner," Zak calls out, watching behind them.

"Shoot! " yells Gilly.

They slow to a crawl behind the family style SUV. To their right is the City Hall, a conservative white office tower with mature landscaping, a plaza and a fountain. Gilly waits for the traffic coming the other way to pass, finds a break, and shoots into the oncoming lane to get around the slower vehicle. The chase SUV a block back is still coming on.

"Where's the other black car?" asks Sophie.

"Taking a wee?" speculates Zak.

"Where's the drone?" asks Kim.

"Out of gas?" Zak rejoins.

City Hall has an entire block to itself. Gilly is driving past it as fast as he can, trying to elude the car that's after them. He heads back to University Avenue and comes up to it just as a light is changing. Again, he is thinking of making the light and flying across, however late, but instead screeches the car to a halt as a woman with a tri-stroller walks into the pedestrian walk right in front of them.

"How far back is he?"

"Too far."

"Good."

"Where are all these people going?" asks Kim.

"It's the Film Festival," Sophie volunteers.

"Great, that's all we need! More traffic and crowds! We're never going to lose this guy," Gilly grumbles.

The conversation lags a beat and in that instant a thought occurs to Zak.

"You're right, Gilly. We can't lose this guy, so why don't we ditch the car! We can all split up, lose ourselves in the festival crowd and high tail it back to Ethan's on our own? You can come back and get the car later when things have quieted down."

Gilly considers this and glances at Sophie.

"Sounds good. You guys can split and I'll stick with Sophie."

The parade of shoppers and festival goers finally dissipates in front of the car, the traffic light changes and Gilly drives the car across. They are locked into a line of traffic somewhere in the back of which waits their pursuer. Gilly quickly turns into an alley nearby, rockets down it, forcing pedestrians to quickstep or lose their feet and shopping bags. He finds a bank parking lot, swings in, drives through the rows of parked cars, and effectively hides them from the view of the street.

Gilly turns the car off.

"Guess this is sayonara. See you in a bit. Let's go babe. Sorry about the car, hon, but I bet somebody can get us back here before it gets too late."

Sophie grabs her stuff.

"And you have to fix my phone," Sophie states plaintively.

"Yeah, but first we have to get to Ethan's and avoid this creep."

The doors slam as they all leave the car. Kim walks over to Gilly and turns up his collar for him. Then she does the same for Sophie. She grabs Sophie's bag and looks into it, pulling out a scarf.

"Here. Try this." She wraps it around Sophie's shoulders and then steps back to survey her work.

"That should do nicely."

Gilly slaps Zak on the shoulder.

"Later."

Sophie and Gilly head off arm in arm, disappearing into the shadows between the buildings that surround the parking lot. The sound of Sophie's hard sole shoes clicking on the pavement recede quickly in the late afternoon air.

Zak and Kim are left looking at each other.

"You're un-disguisable, you know that?" Kim finally offers.

"You say the nicest things."

"You know how to get to Ethan's from here?"

"It's through the festival. Watch for the black SUV but keep in mind that these guys could have gone to foot patrols just like us."

"How reassuring," Kim remarks.

Kim and Zak head the opposite way from Gilly and Sophie, around the block and back to the center of the downtown. They run into waves of pedestrians, but stay on the main drag, trying to blend in, checking the traffic but seeing nothing. The film festival is ahead and around the corner where a street has been blocked off.

"I'm not seeing anything," Kim says.

"Neither am I. Not that I would recognize anybody. I'm figuring the SUV is parked by now and they're surveying the street."

Kim is suddenly pulling on Zak's windbreaker.

"I see Sophie and Gilly. They're crossing the street."

Zak looks and has to keep looking before he sees them. They are in the middle of the crowd. The scarf helps him find Sophie, then Gilly at her side.

"How did they do that?" asks Zak.

"How did they do what?"

"How did they get ahead of us?"

Kim just shakes her head.

The crowd is slowing them down, so that by the time they reach the corner there have lost sight of Gilly and Sophie.

Zak and Kim cross University to the festival. In the middle of the blocked off street is a red carpet with a backdrop made of theater flats. The flats are covered everywhere with the names of the different and varied corporate sponsors to the festival, from credit card companies to makers of women's cosmetics. A group of smiling young actors

goofs around in front of the stagy backdrop, illuminated by a bank of professional looking lighting, having their pictures taken and being shouted at by people in the crowd. Cameras flash. The actors seem grateful for the attention. They respond playfully and put their arms around each other in a kind of mock solidarity for the benefit of the cameras and their public image. Lest anyone forget, someone to the side holds a big poster board with a colorful advertisement of the movie that all are a part of. There is a small crowd watching all this from behind a series of red ropes. Zak and Kim skirt around them.

Doors are open in the next building and they can see arranged seating and a group attending a discussion with a number of presenters all seated at a lengthy table at the front. In a corner of the same room is another, smaller red carpet featuring a young actress being interviewed on camera.

Zak and Kim walk past movie and food tents. Adjoining parking lots have been converted for the festival into an outdoor movie theater featuring a billboard size screen suspended in a lattice of steel beams at the rear of the lots. A large projector sits opposite the big screen, hoisted high on a scaffold near the sidewalk. Adjacent to the outdoor theater is a group of white tents where people can sign into the festival and get things like bottled water, first aide, or information such as that about festival events, contacting the press and festival management, or security.

On the other side of the street a bandstand has been constructed where a popular local cover group entertains the crowd. Zak and Kim stand at the back underneath a large ash. In a hurry to escape their pursuers and get to Ethan's house as quickly as they can, they are forced to a stop by the press of the people all around them.

Zak is hemmed in. To push any further among the young people making up the crowd would be to single himself out. What Zak doesn't notice, until it's too late, is an athletic, strongly built man in dress short sleeves and slacks behind him. The man grabs Zak's wrist. Zak turns to look him in the face and doesn't recognize him.

"I think it's time you came with us," the unknown man orders commandingly, pulling on Zak's arm with a vice like grip.

To Zak, the guy looks like a secret service fugitive because of his short haircut and the presence of a flesh toned earpiece. Definitely the guy is bigger, heavier, and stronger than Zak. Certainly the guy is much more intimidating. Never has Zak felt so much like just another college kid.

"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?" shouts Kim. She grabs the guy's arm, the one that is locked on Zak and has twisted Zak's arm behind his back.

Zak turns and sees another, similarly fit guy in dress short sleeves heading toward Kim just a short distance away. Kim's shout has those nearby already turning to find out the cause of the disturbance. What they see is some kind of confrontation and it starts them moving away.

Zak feels the guy's grip suddenly loosen. This is when Zak realizes that the guy who is on Zak is being pulled away by yet someone else, someone who very quickly is placing secret service guy in a strong headlock. Taking control of the opportunity, Zak wrests himself free.

"Come on!" Kim has pushed through and is running.

Zak has only an instant to process that it's Gilly who is pulling the big dude down to the ground. In what comes to him in a flash, he sees Sophie standing apart and a short distance away. The crowd is really reacting now, separating. Zak doesn't hesitate, but takes off and follows Kim.

Gilly uses his military training. However risky the headlock might be, it has given him the ability to ride the big man to the ground. Gilly sees Secret service man two approaching, so he lets go of the man on the ground. Festival staff are already heading his way from the direction of the administrative tents very nearby.

"Hey! Stop this right now!" yells one of them, a much older man, far too out of shape to engage them physically, probably one of the faculty doyen.

Gilly deftly jumps back. As much as he might like to fill in the professor yelling at him about what has just happened, he feels a greater sense of urgency to get Sophie away from all the kerfuffle. He knows he's missing a chance to find out something about who these government types are. Gilly runs for Sophie and they take off between the buildings and down an alley.

Kim and Zak are running through a neighborhood when Zak pulls out his phone to check their location on its mapping, only to have something occur to Kim about it.

"Zak, they tracked us when you used your phone!" she says impatiently.

Zak nods, a somewhat guilty expression on his face.

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"Here," he says, taking the battery out and giving it to her.

"I'm an idiot."

Kim takes off running, way ahead of him before she turns back.

"Come on!"

Chapter 31

Ciaran looks down at his laptop's screen. It's a night vision capture from Cetron's fake cop drone, and it's showing two figures standing on a sidewalk in a neighborhood of Palo Alto. Unfortunately, this drone doesn't have a long distance listening ability. The kids stop for only a short time before the GPS signal drops out. The operator of the drone continues to follow them but Ciaran already knows they are heading to their friend Ethan's house not far away. He knows this because he has Zak's phone feed available to him and that shows him, just as it does for Zak, the map to Ethan's place. They might as well be broadcasting it on live TV.

Ciaran has been watching Palo Alto go down for some time, but Lonnie James, who is running it, is calling in. Ciaran picks up and puts Lonnie on speaker. There's no one else in the house, hasn't been since he divorced and found himself subsequently with no life.

"Before you say anything, your guys did the best they could," Burris tells Lonnie.

Ciaran didn't use the frequencies necessary for a car override because that would have involved bringing in local law enforcement, not really an option.

"I'm sorry it didn't work out. Normally this is not a problem," Lonnie replies.

It was too bad that Gray had been too out of position to get the drive chip from Wang at the beginning of this whole affair. Now, whatever was on the chip that Wang thought was so important is out in the open, getting more irretrievable all the time.

Ciaran Burris weighs this. What he wants and what he can have are becoming two quite different things. Black Ops inside the country are a red flag and it was good of Lonnie to try it. Burris took it as Cetron's quid pro quo for the use of agency resources to get Gray out of China. Nothing more.

"How'd they do?" asks Burris.

"Got away clean. Corporate cover, no blowback."

"Look. Thanks. "

"We're glad to do it. Night buddy."

"Night."

Ciaran closes the laptop and tosses it on his bed, unable to escape the regret that this didn't come to a better conclusion.

Chapter 32

"I think it's this way," says Zak.

Kim and Zak are losing the light and as dusk falls over the residential neighborhood of Palo Alto, it is getting more difficult to find Ethan's. Several shades of orange light up the western half the sky as the other half slowly descends to darkness.

"Yeah. Down here," agrees Kim.

At the end of the block is an international style house, all glass walls and deeply extended wood eaves. They walk the polished concrete path to the front of the house through well-tended landscaping and stop under a porch. Kim uses the brass knocker on a burnished wood door. Ethan Edwards opens it.

"Mates! We've been looking for you. Where's Guillermo and Sofia?"

Kim gives Ethan a hug.

"They'll be along," she says, admiring Ethan's look. He is dressed in a crisp collared shirt and slacks, and she can't help but notice his fresh scent. He is too well dressed to be a student.

"Everyone is here except for Guillermo and Sofia," Ethan informs them.

The family that Ethan rents from is out of town. The house would be a pretty spectacular one for an ordinary college student, but Ethan is from a wealthy African-British family who used their connections to find him a place to stay while in attendance at Stanford. The floors are polished stone, the walls are mostly of glass, and the high ceilings are thick planks of dark oak. Interior walls are a mixture of river stone and plaster and there are only a few pieces of art hung on them. Ethan is among other things a painter, but none of his work is in the house proper. Instead, conveniently, the house has a studio in the back where he maintains some privileges.

Ethan leads them into the main part of the house, a spread out living room filled with sixties inspired furniture, all of it sitting on chrome legs. Leather sofas and stuffed occasional chairs are centered round a glass coffee table next to a stone fireplace. The wood ceiling extends beyond the rear glass wall and becomes an awning over an outdoor patio. At the other end the room opens to a kitchen with drop lighting, stainless steel counters and a retro dining set. A tall, well decorated Christmas tree stands near the fireplace, brightly lit. Strings of multi-colored holiday lights are everywhere. Zak and Kim's friends sit all around the room, contacted from the plane with an emphasis on the importance of coming together for this meeting.

"Kemosabe!" shouts Bogdan from his seat on the brown sofa, his laptop open before him on the glass coffee table.

Zak and Kim return his greeting.

Asobi Shimada sits in a blocky yellow chair next to Bog. She gets up and gives Kim a welcoming hug.

"Are you alright?" Kim asks. Something about Asobi makes Kim think there is something going on with her.

"I'm fine," Asobi says. "Something happened. Later."

"Gee. Ok."

On the purple sofa is Rashida Bakkal and Arjun Kamat. Kina Alana sits in another of the blocky sixties style occasional chairs near Rashida and Arjun. Zak grabs a couple high counter chairs and pulls them over while Kim greets everyone else with a hug and a hi. Arjun has to break away from a phone conversation just long enough for a squeeze.

"Oh, Kim, you're so warm!" remarks Rashida, letting go of Kim's embrace.

"We had to run to get here. And we had to leave Sophie's car downtown. Sophie and Gilly should be here pretty soon."

Rashida is slightly confused.

"They just came a different way," Kim provides in way of an explanation.

This doesn't immediately dispel Rashida's confusion. She takes her seat slowly.

"And I have to tell you, I'm sorry, but I don't think I can hang very long. I have papers to grade," says Kina despondently.

Zak hikes himself onto a counter chair. He likes its height and decides to go for a spin.

"It won't take long," he reassures her, coming full around and stopping.

"Well, what won't take long? Can somebody tell me what we're all doing here?" Kina asks.

Kim is trying to use the other counter chair, doesn't like its height, gives up, and goes to sit next to Bog on the sofa where it's much more comfortable and she can get a look at whatever it is Bog is cooking up on his PC.

"Look. Just hang on a second."

Ethan, who has been standing, waiting near the front door, finally ushers in Gilly and Sophie. A waft of autumn air comes breezing in with them.

Gilly approaches Zak first, before even taking off his jacket, lacerating Zak with a look.

"What?" Zak asks sheepishly.

"You used your phone!" Gilly accuses.

Kim jumps in.

"He did and he's sorry."

"Our little friend upstairs isn't sorry," announces Bog from the sofa.

Everyone looks his way. Kim especially. She looks at the screen of his laptop and wonders what she's looking at.

"We have company aloft, as they say."

Bogdan sends a signal to everyone's phone so they can see a real time mapping image of a drone sitting three hundred feet above the house they happen to be sitting in. He picks up a tv remote, punches it, and a screen rolls down above the fireplace. In a flash it too is showing the image.

"Are you hacking a police channel?" Gilly asks, knowing very well that he must be.

Bog grins.

"Never Seadog."

"You better not be leaving any little footprints behind," Gilly cautions.

Sophie doesn't care. She got cold on the walk over and chooses to sit on the fireplace hearth, near a gas fire. Gilly strips off his jacket, winds it on the back of the other tall counter chair, and perches himself high on it, next to Zak.

Bog directs himself to Gilly.

"You are Shakespearean, man. You know: much ado about nothing?"

Gilly crosses his arms and says nothing, but by his demeanor he clearly is not onboard with Bogdan.

"Boys!" Rashida complains.

"Yeah, I don't have all night," Kina joins in.

Artie gets to the heart of the matter.

"What's with the drone? How did we get to be so interesting?" he asks as he points skyward.

"Yeah what's going on?" joins in Ethan, who is standing behind Bogdan and Kim, leaning with his back against the ten foot tall glass outer wall.

Zak surveys a room full of his friends. He feels safer than at any time in the last few days. Zak reaches deep into his pocket for the flash drive, holding it up for everyone to look at. Zak fixes Bog with a glance and tosses the drive to him, sailing it over the heads of the group. Bog pulls it out of the air with a catlike move.

"Take a look at that. See what we've got. And for god's sake stay off the internet while you're doing it," Zak tells him.

"And what can we do about it?" asks Kim.

"And why they would chase us all the way from the airport to here," Sophie wonders aloud.

"They've been chasing Kim and me for days. Ever since we got the thing," Zak tells them.

"Does this have something to do with why you two were swimming in Hong Kong harbor?" asks Artie.

Rashida gives Artie a jab in the ribs.

"Is that what happened?" Rashida asks, giving Artie a sharp look. "We knew something was going on."

"Who spilled the beans to Artie?" asks Gilly.

"Hey, guys. It doesn't matter," returns Zak. "We're all in this together, whether we like it or not. These people, whoever they are, want this flash drive. Some journalist in China was killed for it. We're not exactly sure what's on it but we know that much of it is encrypted. We had a Chinese professor, an expert, look at it. He thinks the contents are important."

"By the way, can the drone hear us in any way?" Zak asks Bog, who has to look up from what's now before him on his PC.

"No. Whoever's running it would have to bring it down to line of sight. They would have to be able to discern sound waves emitted by glass walls. We'd be able to see it. Probably hear it."

Zak nods.

"The Professor works with the government. He told us to get out of China. So we did."

"But you were attacked?" asks Rashida.

"We were shot at on the street in Beijing," responds Kim. "And the same man attacked us on the Ferry in Hong Kong."

"Splish Splash," Bog jokes. Kim ruffles his hair.

"Because we're friends," Kim points out, "because we're in frequent communication with each other, they're going to think that any one of us could have access to the drive. They'll therefore be monitoring all of us."

Asobi, who has been taking it all in so far without saying anything, breaks her silence.

"This is what is bothering me. A few nights ago there was someone following me after I left the lab. I'm sure of it."

Zak nods. "It's possible. Everyone should be prepared to take precautions."

"What about this room?" asks Artie.

Bog pulls out his phone.

"Checked. The latest bug app. I'll show you."

"You will all come under surveillance and can expect to be contacted and interviewed as to whether you were given anything, told anything, or know where Zak is," warns Kim.

"I don't like this," says Rashida with consternation. "If they can isolate us like this, they can pick us off one by one."

"Bog can help us out," says Zak.

"I can give everybody a safe way to encrypt emails. You're always better off not calling each other but I can give you something pretty safe for chatting," Bog says while looking intently at the contents of Zak's flash drive on his computer.

"What are you getting there, Bog?" Zak asks.

"Chinese. Lots of Chinese."

There is some laughter in the group.

"You said there was military grade encryption? Like no kidding there is. Even worse, it's military style encryption in Chinese. Are you good with crosswords in other languages?" Bog asks with a groan.

"It gets worse. Whoever the recipient is will have to have access to the same one time pad that was used originally to make the encryption. This is encryption limited to just two parties, the sender and the recipient, in a sense by prior arrangement, that prior arrangement being the coding pad they share. It's like being locked out, but I was able to open some graphics."

"You mean like pictures and charts?" Kina asks. Any idea that she was going to get away from this meeting quickly is about to be abandoned.

"More like engineering drawings." Bog sits back on the brown leather sofa and scrutinizes each of their faces. He pushes his glasses onto the top of his head so they get stuck in his tousled blonde hair.

Zak steps on the uncomfortable silence, "Ok. I'll bite. What do you think these drawings are about?"

Bog is quick to respond.

"UAVs. The means to control remotely piloted drones being used by different governments. There are ways to interfere with their command and control, especially when in close proximity, and there are different kinds of devices able to do this. Typically the devices can be produced by 3D manufacturing programs, and a number of them are included."

"Like batteries included, huh?" asks Artie, trying to make a joke.

"Yeah, like batteries included to some of the world's most closely guarded and dangerous toys."

"Geez," says Rashida.

"Is any of this legal? Here? There?" Gilly is wondering.

"Nowhere man. Nowhere," Bog answers.

"Oh great. So what you're telling us is that this thing is filled with classified government secrets from around the world. I vote we destroy it as publicly as we can, and maybe, just maybe, we'll be able to sleep tonight," says the no-nonsense Kina, her arms crossed beneath her substantial bosom in a gesture meant to convey that her mind is made up.

"We could do that, Kina. Honestly, we could. But we really know very little about the true contents of the flash. Remember, virtually everything is encrypted," responds Zak.

"Why can't you just give it to the New York Times? Let somebody else figure this out," asks Kina, not ready to concede to Zak's point of view.

This raises a few hoots among those present.

"Because, Kina, there is no reason to believe that they will know what to do. And anyway, what they do decide to make public will almost surely end up being vetted by all their highest level government contacts. That vetting will bury it just as easily as if it had been given to the government itself. It's not that different nowadays. Not anymore."

Gilly's focus falls on Sophie.

"We should all get out of dodge, if you ask me," Sophie says, looking back at Gilly. "It spooks me to think that there are actually people out there, people we don't know, Chinese, American, we have no idea, who are going to be focused on everything we do and say. It's totally creepy. Who was it that was chasing us all over town this afternoon?"

Gilly and Sophie look over at Kim. Kim reacts by fixing her gaze on Zak. He throws up his hands.

"You're kidding right? Like I would know? But you may have noticed that at least they didn't look Chinese."

"Well, I think you should get this crazy flash memory to whoever this dying man insisted you get it to. Isn't that the honorable thing to do?" Rashida asks of no one in particular.

"Can we be arrested?" asks Asobi, not quite sure where all this is going.

"No," says Gilly, "but it's not like they can't detain someone, at least for a short time. You could be held, questioned."

"Holy crap! If you're right I'm not waiting around to find out. Hasta la vista, baby, that's for sure," says Artie with conviction.

"Where're you going to go?" Sophie challenges him.

"Somewhere they can't find you," answers Ethan.

A wave of agreement appears to sweep throughout the room.

"This is going to turn into one major bug out," announces Gilly.

"But you're not forgetting me?" asks Sophie.

"Never," he replies.

Zak is stuck wondering how they are going to find or contact this UNK, or whatever it is. It may be a nice idea in principal but it is not a very practical one under the circumstances.

"How does anyone get a line on UNK, just out of curiosity?" he asks the group but no one in particular.

They all look at each other, but it's Bog who answers.

"On the net. Sites, chats, whatever. But you can't transfer this online. It will be intercepted because everybody is being monitored. And you can't trust anybody that you might contact that way."

Rashida gently clears her throat.

"Miss Bakkal! Is there something you would like to share with the group?" Zak asks.

The very chill young Egyptian is dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans, which do nothing to hide her innate beauty.

"Maybe I do know somebody," she offers. "She's an actress, or at least she was when she was in LA. She worked with people. Unusual people. There was another person she met who might know about this UNK. But it was just a casual reference, something in passing. Might be worth checking out. Might be nothing. I really don't know."

"Was she Bi, Rash?" asks Kim.

Rashida is used to this line of inquiry from Kim.

"Yes, Kimberly, she is. I can't have Bi friends?"

"Of course," Kim replies teasingly, knowing Rashida.

"Where is this person? Can we meet her?" asks Zak.

"She lives around here. But she's at Burning Man for a few days," Rashida comes back.

"There's a Burning Man around here?" Kim asks.

"Every year."

"Where is it this year?" Zak asks.

"The Santa Cruz mountains."

Rashida tilts her head and closes her eyes, searching her memory.

"What was it?" She pauses. "A creek? A bear?"

"Bear Creek?" Kim asks.

"Yeah, I think that was it!"

Kim and Zak exchange a look. It's not much to go on, but it'll have to do.

Chapter 33

"Take that right! Yeah, that one. Okay?"

Rashida is driving her beater van and taking directions from Kina, who is following a map on the van's barely discernable electronic console.

"Is that Bear Creek Road?" asks Rashida.

"No, but it will get us there." Kina says this with the assurance of someone who is rarely lost, let alone ever at a loss.

They have just taken the Bayshore Freeway to San Jose and then the Santa Cruz Highway to south of Los Gatos, ascending into the Santa Cruz Mountains and past Lexington Reservoir. It's late evening and the sallow autumn moon is crisscrossed by light tendrils of cloud. They are on a backwoods road rising and falling over rounded hills covered by second growth forest. A few open meadows border the narrow asphalt lane and a split rail fence runs along one side.

The van is full of people. Aside from Rashida and Kina, there is Zak, Kim, Artie and Ethan. Ethan has heard about the Northern California Burning Man before and has joined because he wants to see the art that the event is known for. Everyone else is here to help Zak and Kim.

"What did you say this gal's name was?" asks Zak.

"I didn't," returns Rashida. "By the way, I'm driving. Don't distract me."

"Why is she going so slow?" asks Artie, annoyed.

"It's pretty dark, Artie," volunteers Kim.

Just as she says this they round a bend and see lights ahead. An LED lit balloon big enough to carry people beneath it in a basket rises into the sky a ways off. Strings of colored lights have turned the balloon into a huge billboard for Burning Man, one that can be seen miles away. The balloon disappears as the rode dips. They continue for another mile or two, the darkness lit by only a partial moon.

"Is that an Indian?" asks Kina. "Oh, sorry Artie. A native American?"

Down the oak lined road is a small wood cabin with a person standing out front near the road in traditional American Indian headdress. This person is wrapped in strings of tiny purple lights and is swinging a bright flashlight around in huge arcs. Behind him, lights are coming through the trees in what appears to be a large field beyond.

"It's a parking lot," Kina announces authoritatively.

"Is that a man or a woman?" asks Artie, perplexed.

They close in on the figure, a woman with a set of horns and a headdress of wraithlike hair. She wears a leather bra and lapis lazuli studded jewelry around her neck and upper arms, a small leather skirt and sneakers. She flashes her light at them and points with it down the path between the trees, motioning them on.

They take the direction and drop from a low hill onto a flat valley floor filled with endless rows of parking, punctuated with temporary street lights scattered here and there. A man in a uniform green shirt comes up to the driver's window. Rashida rolls it down.

"Hello Ma'am. Can I have your passes please?"

Rashida grabs her phone, clicks up an app, and hands it to the man. Having contacted her performing friend, she had obtained last minute authorizations for her van full of people. The man hands back her phone and waves them on.

"Does she know where we're meeting her? Do we know where we're meeting her, for that matter?" asks Kim.

"She said to call her after we get here," informs Rashida.

Rashida follows the flashlight directions of the green shirted men until the line of cars they are following leads them to their pre-designated parking spot. Everybody piles out of the old white van to huddle around Rashida as she calls her friend. They can hear it ring and continue to ring, unanswered.

"We might as well go on and catch up with her later," says Zak.

They fall in line behind others winding their way through the growing crowds toward the center of Burning Man. They pass large campgrounds that have been set up in a radial pattern arranged along the valley floor and gently sloping hillsides. The campgrounds are divided into tiny villages, each with its own signs, streets and utility managers. Kim and Zak's group can see the many individual fires and lights spread throughout the area, twinkling through the evergreen trees. They smell food cooking and smoke from the fires. They can hear voices in the night, both nearby and far off, their sounds coming back to them on the breeze, echoing in the narrow valley.

Finally the group hikes a steep rise. Ethan has gone ahead and is now standing transfixed at the top, looking down on the wide expanse of Burning Man. Everyone stops behind him, equally taken by the view. Light installations are scattered everywhere in the crowd, some on moving vehicles. In the center there are fire dancers and a forty foot stick figure of a burning man standing on a wood base. Nearby is a large wood temple.

Ethan takes out his phone, about to take a picture, when Rashida stops him.

"No pictures allowed."

His face is lit by the valley below and he looks sheepish.

"Sorry. I forgot."

They look on in silence, the group they were a part of moving ahead and down the slope of the hill.

"Why not?" asks Asobi, who sees this take place.

"It's private. Pictures would be too commercial. The Burning Man celebrates free expression and creativity, which they believe would be hampered or even destroyed by commercialization," replies Rashida.

"Maybe this would be a good place to try your friend again," points out Zak.

"Maybe," says Rashida, pulling out her phone, clicking it, and holding it to her ear. She waits in silence, then waits some more. "Sorry, she still isn't answering. I don't know what she could be doing."

This time there is a hint of fear in Rashida's voice and Kim notices it.

"Look, she probably turned her phone off and forgot to turn it on," Kim says supportively, trying not to sound concerned.

"Yeah," says Zak, "Let's check it out. I'm sure we can find her somewhere."

Laid out on the downslope of the hillside on either side of the path are colossal carpets of glowing lights in Christmas color hues. They welcome the crowds coming down the hill from the campground and parking areas. Rashida, Zak, Kim, Artie, Ethan, Kina and Asobi wind their way down and are greeted by a carnival of 'burners'. There are dancers, some in native American dress, others dressed and performing more as gymnasts, some in wild unpredictable outfits more like clowns, and yet others who are dressed in little or nothing. Capes, umbrellas, leather, strings of LEDs, helmets, gas masks, bras, shorts, and sneakers predominate.

The group reaches the meadow and sees various geodesic structures and large scale sculptures of men and animals that tower over them, some turned into light installations, others made into objects on which performers carry out complicated maneuvers or dance. Wandering everywhere are art cars and 'mutant' vehicles, brightly lit traveling pastiches of lighted color made out in the shape of every kind of vehicle blown up to ten times normal size, a bus turned into a light show, a jeep into a Mad Max rover, a dump truck transformed into a spaceship.

They are greeted by light installations that mimic a waterfall, create a forest of luminescent pillars, wave a field of yellow bobbing flowers, float a building sized aquarium filled with darting, irradiating fish. They stand in a circle of light between the lofty Burning Man construct and this year's temple building, peering out in every direction without much idea who they are looking for.

"Rash, this is crazy," exclaims Kim, "Who are we looking for? Do you really know this person? Will you recognize her?"

"Of course," says Rashida, somewhat embarrassed and pulling out her phone, "Her name is Megan. Here."

They pass it around with its picture of Rashida's friend, the one they are supposed to be looking for.

"I tell you what. Why don't we split up? We can stay in touch with each other and cover a lot more ground that way," offers Zak.

"I'll head over to the creek," says Artie, taking off quickly in that direction.

"I'm going with him," says Ethan, sprinting after Artie.

Kina and Asobi head out on their own, leaving Rashida with Zak and Kim.

"What do you think your friend might be doing?" asks Kim.

Kim is warm from the long hike into Burning Man, but just standing here she is quickly getting cold. She pulls her jacket from around her waist and puts it on.

"I've been wondering that too. She is really into the native American thing."

"Let's talk to them at the center of the camp," Kim points to the area of tents nearby.

They make their way around a large crowd focused on dozens of dancers performing around a bonfire encircled by vertical banners to the Center Camp tents. Kim stops an attractive young woman there.

"Can you help us please? We're looking for a friend. What did you say her name was?" she turns to Rashida.

"Megan Palmer." Rashida steps closer to the young woman.

"Hi, my name is Judith," the girl says, adjusting the vintage Russian military cap on her head and pointing at a name tag on her blouse. "Let me see." She rifles through a sheaf of papers.

"She's a sweet girl. I don't want her getting into any trouble on account of this," Rashida says to Kim with a wince.

"We understand. It'll be okay," Kim assures her.

Judith suddenly comes up for air.

"Got it! Your friend is exhibiting a natural kiva. It's past the center that way," the girl points. "Take the circle, go around, and there will be a path and a sign. It's easy. You really can't miss it."

"Thanks so much. You're great," Kim says gratefully.

They set off and immediately run into a man making large soap bubbles.

"Sorry," says Zak.

"No problem," the man replies before bursting a gigantic bubble that releases a fine spray of soap onto everyone.

Zak, Kim and Rashida walk cautiously around the outer edge of the esplanade, passing a number of fire dancers, including one man who spins a flaming rope. They give all the fire dancers, and there are many of them, plenty of room as they skirt the crowd. The path takes them away from the noisy crowd and into the darkness, the ground becoming dry as desert, strewn with rocks and boulders, rising up the side of a cliff. They see a few people standing ahead on a bit of a rise and join them. Kim asks a young girl in a black crop top, carrying a striped parasol, about a kiva. The girl points to a square opening in the ground nearby. Approaching it, they see light emanating and detect the faint scent of incense drifting up from below. A primitive wood ladder descends the opening.

Zak turns to Rashida.

"Would you like to go first?"

Rashida laughs.

"Not really, but I will."

She turns and backs her way down the ladder. Kim and Zak follow.

"Hmmmmm," goes the dancing dark haired woman in the center of the crowd. The room is lit by a small fire and many candles. The floor is dirt, the low walls are stone, the ceiling is polished roughhewn timber. They stand at the back. Kim engages a couple nearby in conversation and they speak in low voices.

She nudges Zak and whispers to him, "It's some kind of traditional dance. A ghost dance I guess."

"Must be for us then. We'll be ghosts soon enough if she can't help us."

Kim strengthens her grip on Zak's his arm. She's been pretty much attached to it the whole time they've been at Burning Man.

"It's a traditional dance. You don't have to be a ghost to do it. Rather, the idea is to summon ghosts," she replies. In the confines of the mystic, candlelit kiva she finds it's not hard to imagine.

"Whose ghosts?" he asks tongue in cheek.

"Yeah" she returns, "You would ask that."

Rashida has sidled her way to the front of the group in an attempt to catch Megan's attention. The dancer's eyes are slits as she moves in various hypnotic ways imposed by the dance, but she is able to recognize Rashida and soon brings the performance to an early end. As she thanks the audience, she approaches Rashida.

"We couldn't reach you," Rashida says accusingly as they embrace.

Megan is flush from the dance. She is dressed in finely detailed, leather, native American clothes and jewelry. She takes her phone out of her pocket and turns it back on.

"I'm sorry. I've been doing this all night. Obviously, I couldn't have it on."

Megan wants to get into the open air to cool off so she takes Rashida's hand and walks to the ladder. They meet Zak and Kim there.

"Let's get somewhere that we can talk," Megan says to them.

Megan climbs the ladder quickly, and the others follow. She takes them away from the crowd to a quiet alcove formed out of the cliff. Wisps of cloud have turned to cotton. The harvest moon and a bevy of stars in the night sky shine through them. A slight breeze turns the air cold.

Megan looks from Rashida to Zak and Kim.

"How can I help you?" Her voice catches. She is uncertain what this is about. If it weren't for Rashida's involvement there is no way she would entertain this.

Kim takes the lead and explains something of what has brought them here and why they need to find UNK.

"Can you help us?" Kim asks Megan as she finishes.

It was a night two years ago that Rashida and Megan had been at a former roommate's off campus apartment with a group of older students and significant others.

"Come on. UNK is nothing more than a transnational outlaw group, nothing more than a disconnected group of worldwide hackers, no different than Anonymous. Heck, they probably are Anonymous," said a bearded politico, himself a walking talking cliché of a poly sci pre-law student.

"Anonymous has no leader. On purpose. But UNK does. It has a leader and the fact that UNK has leadership implies that UNK has organization, however mysterious. Whereas Anonymous is essentially anarchic. Organization implies purpose," replies a tweedy middle-eastern intellectual with dark glasses.

"Do you have any idea what you're talking about?" asked Megan provocatively.

The two debaters had looked at her nonplussed.

"Like you do?" challenged the politico.

"I lived in LA for a while," replies Megan. "UNK does exist. There are people there, especially in entertainment, and these people have more than a passing interest in it."

"You mean that they are in UNK?"

"Not in it. They just know a few things about it."

It was that exchange that Rashida had remembered, Megan is sure. Now Megan feels put on the spot.

"Let's go to center camp. They should be about to set Burning Man on fire."

Not sure if they are being put off or not, Zak and Kim follow Megan and Rashida back down the path and into the boisterous crowd. They call Artie and Ethan, Kina and Asobi, and ask to meet them at the top of the hill that takes them back to their car.

There are over fifty thousand people near the center when a tremendous explosion occurs, followed by individual fires around the base of the very tall figure of the Burning Man. Soon it too is burning, flames racing up its wooden frame and vaulting into the sky toward the partial moon. It's heat soon envelops the crowd, dispelling the night's chill.

Megan pulls on the sleeve of Zak's coat, making him bend down to hear her above the noise of the crowd.

"I was working as an actress in Los Angeles and on a particular film in which I had a small part. I came to know some of the production staff and the director. We were shooting long days. Everyone got to know each other pretty well. This director, he was the outspoken type. He was really opposed to the anti-expressionists. They would talk about UNK. There were some who said they knew people in UNK, but they were probably full of it. I could tell he thought they were stupid and foolish. I became convinced he knew much more than he was willing to talk about, so one day I asked him directly about it."

"And what did he say?" asked Zak.

"He said that it exists. He said to me, 'that is all you need to know'."

"All you need to know? What did he mean by that?"

"I have no idea. Aren't all film directors weird and a little hard to understand? But I think he would know who to contact. Adam Sykes. The last I knew he lived in Holmby Hills just outside LA."

Zak looks up to see the Burning Man and the huge wooden structure on which it stands become thoroughly engulfed in flame, creating a roaring vortex of fire so white hot it becomes a twisting plasma before it soars away in the night sky. The crowd roars approvingly back at Burning Man their expression of modern angst.

Chapter 34

I don't know why I've been waking up at one-thirty, but it's been going on for a while now. Maybe it's just that I'm getting old, or rather, older. I really don't like to think of myself as old. However, nothing about me operates the way it used to. Is that the way it's supposed to be?

I check first for signs of any possible digestive discomfort, which is what I figure I should be expecting from the gazpacho I consumed earlier. The good news is that I seem to have survived my wife and daughter's most recent culinary escapade unscathed. For now anyway.

I'm toasty. I roll over and I notice a slight dampness where I've been lying and it's because it's so warm in the bedroom. I like it cool and it's usually well air conditioned but not tonight. Tonight the two sides of the bedroom that are walls of glass are opened with big glass sliding doors. We, my wife and I, are sleeping in the rather humid outdoor air of Los Angeles. No wonder I feel a little hot. I almost never cool off in LA, not even in the winter.

This is really more like camping out, which is something I remember from being a kid in a much colder part of the country, a place where it doesn't stay this warm for very long, making camping outside kind of a privilege infrequently granted by life. It's Kathy who likes these warm nights with the walls pulled back.

It's weird. I am totally awake. It always happens like this. I weigh the odds of getting back to sleep if I stay in bed and try to focus on not focusing, but the odds of that working are not good. Better odds if I get up, even if it's just for a short while.

I get out of bed in one smooth motion so Kathy won't notice. It's a partial moon but pretty full and in a clear sky like tonight the moon can provide quite a bit of suffused light. I use it to navigate around the grouping of furniture near the corner of the huge bedroom in order to walk outside.

I step onto the veranda and place a hand on a structural pole that supports the awning above me. I'm tempted to turn on the gentle soffit lights but again I don't want to disturb Kathy. Instead I just look down on the lighted infinity pool below and see that there is nobody there. My kids are old enough to use the pool on their own, but I'd rather they didn't at this hour of the night, and I'm glad to see that it is empty.

I can see past the manicured lawn down the heavily vegetated hillside to the tennis courts, a single floodlight standing lonely vigil over them, and then back up the side of the hill to the line of tall and skinny Italian cypress that just happen to screen a spectacular view of the Hollywood Hills. The property is ringed by low landscape lighting and looks especially peaceful and beautiful at night. I am, by all accounts, a lucky man, and I know it.

There is a barely discernable glass railing on the balcony I'm standing on. But I wonder often at moments like these, what if there was no barrier? If I were so inclined, could I get up enough speed running off this level of the house to make it over the lethally hard concrete of the patio to hit the water of my infinity pool unscathed? It's a thought problem and it always comes back to me whenever I stand here in the lonely middle of the night.

I come back in and walk to the adjoining bathroom. Like the rest of the house, it has a spare modernist design, a wall mirror over double sinks, a dark walnut floor, a very high tech shower stall, even a stall with a door for the toilet. I use it and it flushes with some kind of low swoosh, very quietly and entirely unlike anything that I have experienced before in my life. I congratulate myself on living long enough to take advantage of such innovation. Now I can flush without having to disturb my wife.

Leaving the bathroom I pad quietly out to the hallway. It has sensitive lighting that adjusts to the time of day so that the beautiful abstract paintings on its fourteen foot walls can be appreciated even at night. I pay my homage and tread down the marble stair to the kitchen.

I grab some juice and left over dessert from the frig that is disguised to look like a part of the kitchen wall and head into the living room, the one with the double height ceiling and more walls that can be pulled back to enjoy very directly the meticulous grounds. Due to the season, there is a huge, lit Christmas Tree in the most prominent place in the room. I turn on a couple lamps, in the process depositing my stuff on the coffee table. I have to pull up one of the leather sofa chairs so I can eat. I look at a reflected image of myself in the dark window pane on the other side of the room. I'm just a guy in his shorts taking a late night snack. Hi there!

I like reassuring myself this way. I may live in LA's Platinum Triangle. I may have at one time or another written, directed and, when younger, even appeared in some American films. I may have, but I don't consider that that's who I am. It's just something I used to enjoy doing. I was lucky. I was fortunate to have the opportunities that came my way during those early days and I was smart enough to use them to become rather skilled at what I do. All the artistic stuff aside, film-making is a very complex business, and I am good at complex.

Recently though things have become far more complicated than usual and I'm not sure if it's really for me anymore. What I used to enjoy about making films I no longer do. Forces far beyond me seem to be intractably taking their toll on the process.

At first it was just shaping the product for individual markets. In this country or that it came to be a rather good idea to make a few compromises with a particular piece of dialog or a particular character's portrayal. Why go out of one's way to offend an entire culture and not get one's film seen there, possibly by millions, even tens of millions, of people? At the end of the day, are a few inconsequential changes really about artistic integrity? No, of course not! It's about box office! It's about the bottom line!

I still tell myself that. I'm still hoping to believe it. It's getting harder and I attribute that to the fact that though I still love what I do, it no longer motivates me with the same ease that it once did. It used to thrill me when one of my pictures would open and I would get to experience the public's reaction to my work. Now, not so much. Now I know by detailed scientific measure of the audience who exactly I can expect will like the film, and who won't. I know within a relatively small probability of error how well the film will do, not just in this country, with this particular set of social mores, but in virtually every country in the world.

If a country doesn't like my movie, they won't let it in. I can measure how much that is going to cost me with precision. So I make their suggested changes. Does that really compromise my values? Yes, but for a time it was only the values that I didn't care about.

Lately though, it's become more difficult to still feel that way. There are more countries seeking to write their own version of the world as they believe or want it to be. There are more officials who are less reluctant to tell me what they like and don't like about my movies, what they suggest be changed or removed for their citizens.

Heck I don't live in these other countries. Why should I care? Isn't it better that I can at least be seen there? Is a nip and tuck really that big a deal? Doesn't it help open up these less tolerant societies if the people in them can learn just a little bit more about what life is like on the rest of the planet? I think so.

If only it had just stopped somewhere, somewhere like the water's edge. But it hasn't. At first, it was with ratings and subtle political influence, later it was with more direct pressure. Now it is interference. It has become much more focused on the creative, on how things are written, how things are said. More and more, it affects how things are being financed, packaged and sold.

Feeding xenophobia, glorifying armed might, stoking fear of the 'other', whoever that might be, just to enhance the authority of those in power, while diminishing the ability to criticize that power, these things have the ability to be expressed in a lot of ways. I'm floating on an international tidal wave of authorities pushing this kind of stuff at their own populations and I want to get off the same planet that they're on. Only thing is, if I want to stay in the game I can't just fly away.

I'm stuck here and wondering what I can do about it. I have to work with governments who create secrecy to protect themselves, and who mercilessly punish those who try to unveil it. In light of all this, I have to ask myself if I can I really watch a cold chill continue to descend over everything.

Regretfully, I am beginning to see that I have cooperated too much. Without even intending to, I've managed to add to this age's sense of growing darkness, a darkness made up of fading sources of illumination, strangled forms of expression, and an absence of creativity.

And sadly, it permeates the world.

Chapter 35

"And I thought my trip to Venice was off the hook! Never mind." exclaims Ethan upon hearing more details from Zak and Kim about their experiences in China.

"And where are you off to now?" asks Asobi in her quiet manner.

"I think the less we know the better," interjects Rashida from the driver's seat of her old van. Outside the van's windows the lights of San Jose fly by on the 880, which is what Route 17 coming back from Burning Man turn's into.

"There you go, Rash. You know, but you don't think we should know. Is that really fair do you think?" rejoins Kina.

"It is if you want to stay alive," Rashida replies.

"Stay alive! Stay alive? O come on!" says Artie. "Are you sure you're not one of those government pukes always saying we have to strike the extremists or they will attack us where it hurts most? We end up labeling everyone who disagrees with us a dangerous extremist, don't we? If we really hate you then you're a terrorist and we have to annihilate you before you can even think of doing anything to us. Isn't that how it works? Pre-emptively smash any possible threat as soon as it raises its ugly head, whack-a-mole style, first one, then the other. Sounds like a prescription for the assertion of empire and the waging of perpetual war. No, I don't think anybody is going to kill anybody. That's ridiculous!"

"What did you say your major was?" asks Ethan, disingenuously.

"Pontification 101," replies Rashida so quickly Artie hasn't got a chance.

"Yeah sure," replies Artie, who is not exactly willing to give up his point.

"Guys, really. We're going to LA. Rashida is dropping us off in San Jose," Kim informs everyone.

"What's in LA?" asks Kina.

"We're not sure, but we'll keep in touch," says Zak, turning Delphic, trying not to put anyone at risk with too much information.

Rashida turns off onto Alameda, a closed up, nearly abandoned, neighborhood commercial corridor on their way to Diridon Station and downtown San Jose. They drive past massive parking lots which are empty at this hour of the night, but which are part of this transportation hub for Silicon Valley. Rashida makes a right turn and they pull up in front of a small, historic two-story brick depot building, the entrance to the station.

Zak and Kim pull the packs they have had with them since China out the side door and step under the entrance awning. It is the early hours of the morning and the ghostly station seems deserted. An abandoned bike leans against the wall nearby. The chain on the flagpole in the center island of the drive bangs rhythmically in the gentle breeze against the steel pole, the only sound on a quiet night. Light from the tall windows of the depot floods the sidewalk. Ornamental street lights and a string of lighted bollards line the wide, gently curving drive of the drop off zone.

"Well, this is it," says Rashida, stepping down from the driver's seat to say goodbye.

They say their goodbyes and give each other hugs. The moment lingers. Then it disappears as Zak pulls the heavy entrance door open for Kim and they enter a harshly lit train station. A big American flag drapes the opposite wall to the side of a large Christmas tree. The flag is centered below a roman wall clock. Vending booths are spread out on the station floor. Signs direct below to the mezzanine concourse where they find ticket machines and an escalator going further down to the boarding platform. The Caltrain HSR arrives, a white bullet train with red trim that compares favorably to Chinese trains. As the train doors open, a small number of people get off and those waiting on the platform rush to board.

For Zak and Kim the train represents an opportunity to get some rest. It doesn't take long before they are asleep in three seats near a window. They hardly stir until hours later the train's announcements jar them awake.

"What?" asks Kim groggily.

"Welcome to LA."

"You're kidding? Really? We're there?"

"Over five hundred miles. Less than three hours at about two hundred miles per hour."

Kim is running a comb through her hair and putting it into a loose braid.

"Thanks for the fact check."

"My stomach feels weird."

"Yeah, I think they call that hunger."

Zak runs a finger over his teeth.

"You know, I'm really sorry about all this," he says.

As Kim finishes stowing things in her pack, she returns Zak's gaze.

"Well it hasn't exactly been kid's day at Toys R Us."

"Maybe it's time for me to be figuring this thing out on my own," Zak offers, a thought he has been having for some time.

Kim is not about to be maneuvered in this way.

"Okay, I get it. You suffer from an exaggerated sense of self-worth."

Zak throws his hands up as if surrendering.

"You've got me. I'm self-centered to the end!"

"Exactly. And what, people find this charming?"

They can feel the train decelerating and in the window see Southern California kudzu streaming by as they come into the station. After the train finally stops there is a short wait, everybody standing and crowding the doors, before they get off and enter a Union Station which still looks early twentieth century. The waiting hall is very distinctive, with heavy craftsman seating, rounded yellow archways, circular period chandeliers hanging from chains, an elaborately cross braced oak ceiling, a highly polished terra cotta floor with an art deco design running down the middle of the seating areas and tall, rectangular two story windows. The hall glows warmly at night, a tribute to the many films it has appeared in over the years, and to how distinctively different it has looked in every one of them.

Zak and Kim find their way through a high arch to the front sidewalk of the Spanish colonial revival station. Landscaping lights cast eerily on the façade. A commanding clock tower rises high into the dark night sky at the corner of the building. In front is a landscaping court of native palm trees. They take a cab, noticing how much cooler it is in LA as they get in.

Wilshire Boulevard is quiet in the early hours before dawn.

"I'm beginning to think maybe this wasn't such a bright idea," says Zak.

"There you go again. You didn't make this decision. We did," replies Kim, hugging the backpack on her lap.

"Well then? Do you still think it's a good idea?" Zak asks.

Kim drops her chin onto the pack, considering.

"Maybe you are right. I have to admit that this made more sense last night. Promise me that after this guy calls the cops, we won't be taken alive."

Zak nods agreeably.

"You're on, Sherrie."

"Let's see if we can get the driver to stop at a coffee shop somewhere," Kim suggests.

They compete with their phones to find one, choose the Children's Museum, and direct their driver directly to it. They load up on coffee and Danish, which they begin to consume hungrily before getting back in the cab.

Streets start to meander, twisting their way around green hillsides. They enter an expensive neighborhood and stop at a gate with a street number designed in large numerals into the gate's black wrought iron. Twin white pilasters book end the gate, each with a lighted globe fading in the morning light. Sun stretches the gate's long shadow across the driveway apron.

After paying the cab, they stand there, surveying the situation, substantial walls of carefully tended fir trees hemming them in.

"Unbelievable!" Zak exclaims, gazing around.

"Where's the Queen?" asks Kim, hoisting the strap of her pack to her shoulder.

"It's just the American version of royalty," Zak replies drily.

Zak and Kim walk over to a steel control box. It has an arm that extends for drivers to use their keycards and activate the opening of the gate.

The box also has a voice button labeled intercom.

"Shall we?" asks Zak.

"We might want to wait for them to wake up. It's kind of early."

"You have a point, but can we really risk staying here that long? There have to be house cameras somewhere around here."

This persuades Kim. She nods.

"Punch it."

Chapter 36

Hui Lee stares out the open bank of windows on the other side of the bright, spanking clean employee cafeteria. He stands in line behind several others near the service counter for his first thing in the morning coffee. This gives him the opportunity to think further about how to line up his day. Then his cell goes off.

It is Tao Deng, the Director of Counterintelligence, calling from the Minister's office. He can tell all this because the system is designed to give locators for all professional calls within the MSS. He feels a surge of caustic acid suddenly roar into his stomach. It burns him and there is accompanying it a small but sharp pain. He grimaces as he puts the phone to his ear and clicks the line open.

"Hello," is all he says.

"Get up here. Now," says Deng in a low voice before Lee hears the phone click.

Hui Lee hasn't even been to his office yet. He looks around the cheerful cafeteria, young and old employees, male and female, taking a moment to gab over their coffee a few minutes before heading to their offices. Grouped around the bar counter's high spinning chairs or in bunches of cushioned seats in primary colors centered around varnished wood coffee tables, their voices rise and fall, break into laughter, explode in hoots and shouts. Large panel TV's are positioned overhead, ignored, sound drowned out.

There is only one more person ahead of Hui Lee in line. If he has to go directly to the new building he can at least get his coffee, he decides. Lee looks wistfully down the long counter running the length of the room with the high chairs lining either side, shiny silver canister lights hanging above it, the adjacent bank of outside windows welcoming a distracted view of the sky outside, and sighs. Coffee finally in hand, Lee turns and passes through a doorway in the glass coffee shop wall, decorated with white semi-transparent circles of different sizes.

Abrupt calls from above are a rarity, but an official taking notice of his team's work is flattering. He tries to remind himself that these are opportunities to shine to his superiors, to garner their good will and support.

"Rise to the occasion!" he encourages himself.

Lee takes the elevator down to the sub level. From here he finds the underground pedestrian connection to the new MSS tower. A preschool playground for the children of MSS employees was sacrificed to make room for the tower's construction. The underground connection is busy with office people going between the buildings, but unfortunately, on this particular morning some are not in much of a hurry. Lee picks up the pace and skirts around them until he reaches the bank of elevators at the base of the MSS Tower. He has to find the right elevator of course, one that will take him express to the highest floors.

Hui Lee watches the floors go by and texts Huiliang Tai about his sudden meeting. He is surprised that the text seems to work in the elevator. When he gets out he steps into an impressive and vaulting space at the top of the building. Here, half of two sides of the blue glass tower extend on top of the building until they intersect, creating a six story pyramid at the apex. This office, the Minister's office, is in the sixtieth and highest story.

Immediately Hui Lee notices that the sunlight on the thick off white carpet is bisected everywhere by the shadows of the big rectangular window frames through which it falls. Spidery steel buttresses support a tangle of high, white cross bracings. Lee looks across the room and sees only a desk with a flat black wall behind it and not far away a conference table where several men are seated. Lee walks a death march, resigned, from the elevator to the table, during which time there is no acknowledgment from any of the men seated there. He stops a short distance away, hands at his sides.

There is Geng Huichang, the Minister of State Security, the titular head of the agency, and of course Tao Deng, his direct boss, who has called him to this meeting. Lee doesn't know the third man.

"Join us, why don't you?" asks Huichang without looking up.

Lee tentatively sits and looks around. There are other offices on this floor, but they are sequestered behind cool, aquamarine tinted glass and placed off to one side, in what is evidently some kind of open floor plan of their own.

It's become a windy day. Cirrus rush quickly by, the clouds casting moving shadows around the room. This part of the building is famous within the ministry for its peculiar Faraday screening, intended to prevent eavesdropping. Tiny electrically charged filaments too small to be seen are spread throughout the glass walls, blocking transmissions. The building's window walls are opaque to the outside, burnished gold and highly reflective mirrors. No satellite can penetrate them. The men in the room know about these protections. They take them for granted.

"This is Vice Premier Zhang Gaoli," states Geng.

"I am honored," replies Hui Lee, bowing his head slightly.

"Ah, Mr. Lee! Good to meet you." Zhang has a broad and open smile, transparent in fact. He speaks as if he somehow knew something of Hui Lee before this, but Lee thinks this very unlikely. How many people have misinterpreted the man's friendliness and misjudged his apparent openness only to later regret it, Lee wonders?

"Sorry to bother you this fine morning," Gaoli continues, obviously not sorry at all. "We were just discussing this strange American aberration known as 'Burning Man'."

Lee nods, his glasses glinting back at them in the sunlight.

"Yes. I activated our MSS stateside resource, Li Bin and his people."

"And it was Bin who caught up with Miller and company at Burning Man. Bin uses a small team?"

"That's right. Bin runs a financial services company as a front and these people, they work for him. Burning Man is very crowded. They were stretched."

"And you have been tracking this man using agency resources?"

"We have scrubbed the metadata. We know everyone he has called or emailed to in the past. Using this, we have been able to drill down to identify and track the movements of everyone he knows. They have begun using programs to mask their IPs, but there are always other ways to find out about them, who they are and where."

"Is there any possibility that this Miller has shared any important information with anyone?" the Vice Premier asks.

"Not without us knowing, electronically at least. He could be making endless copies of a USB device with an air gapped machine and there's nothing anybody could do about it. And then physically pass a tiny device to others? It would be impossible for us to know. That's why we track everyone, including any packages that they might receive."

"Who is Megan Palmer?'

"We are still vetting her. She has led something of a nomadic existence. No pattern has emerged that would indicate the purpose of them contacting her."

"What do our Friends think of all this?" By this the Premier evidently means the Americans.

"Signals is indicating chatter. A diplomatic official..."

"Gray. Christopher Gray?"

"...Was forced to leave the country."

"He was there? When Wang the dissident departed this world? In the Imperial Gardens of all places! How do you know he has left the country?"

"Because we can't find him. It is a reasonable deduction."

Premier Gaoli sits back and looks at the others.

"Is this really a cause for alarm? After all, what do we really know about Wang?"

Hui Lee doesn't hold back.

"There has been a full investigation. We have searched Wang's possessions. We have enough information from his personal data sources to raise real concern with the Service's senior staff. If he was not a vital source of intel to outside foreign elements, it would have been difficult to understand the purpose for which he had obtained certain kinds of information. Wang had to be working for someone," Lee offers.

"Would you care to speculate?"

"No. I have no idea who it could be. But the Guoanbu is supposed to have two million agents around the world. We could run an opinion survey and see what everyone thinks."

Vice Premier Gaoli doesn't blink. He grins and turns to Minister Huichang.

"I like this guy. A sense of humor is always important in a government line of work, wouldn't you agree?"

Chapter 37

Bog stares up at the web of interconnecting steel struts that supports the peaked glass roof of SFO's main terminal. Through the glass he can see San Francisco's sky trail wisps of white cloud across its blue canvas. The glass roof reminds him of the panels of glass in a neighborhood greenhouse that open to catch the rain, but the SFO roof panels don't open. Instead, they shelter a bored public.

Waiting, killing time, Bog studies the elaborate structure, looking for the logic in its design, as he stands among a forest of stanchions, all of them belted together to create a series of innumerable snaking lines, at San Francisco International Airport Terminal Two, surrounded by dozens of other travelers, all patiently waiting to check in to their departing flights. Dressed in a leather jacket, a logo embossed t-shirt and some comfortable blue jeans, he debates the whole jacket thing. It really is too warm, but if he takes it off that's just one more thing to keep track of before getting on the plane. He had run around his place packing in a hurry, sweating by the time a cab arrived, and he hadn't quite cooled off yet.

Through the glass portions of the roof, Bog can see the sleek, cylindrical traffic control tower. It looms over the terminal building, reflecting sunlight, forcing him to squint as he looks at it. He notices the area above ticketing has sky lights shaped like the bottoms of immense canoes, that the building's front wall of glass is several stories tall, and that the words San Francisco International are reversed from inside the terminal. The back wall is a cliff of high offices behind red panels sporting long narrow windows. The ticket counters line up in rows arranged opposite each other, separated by an expanse of shining tile floors and winding, sequestered queues.

An older couple is near Bog. They watch a news channel on an e-pad. He can hear the audio and so can several others. People crane their necks to see the news images on the small screeen.

Bog has the best view and can see the crawl on the bottom of the screen. It declares: Airstop over Western Seaboard.

The announcer, a young woman, is discussing this with an aviation expert, a middle aged man in a suit and tie shown in split screen. On one side of the screen there is a continuous shot of the sky. Presumably something is being sought in the vast ocean of blue, but whatever it is, it can't be readily seen.

Bog concludes that they must be looking for a drone, a rogue drone. Until it can be located he and his fellow passengers are going to have to wait it out at the gate. The penetration of US airspace is rare, but nowhere near as rare as it once was. To hijack a drone and remotely operate it against its masters has become the ultimate hacktivist challenge. But such operations can still be tracked and there will be no effort spared. The drone will meet its fate and be blown to bits over a non-residential area.

The news seems to be spreading to everybody in line. Though strangers until this moment, everyone is suddenly engaged in conversation, asking each other how long they think the delay will be. No one knows, but everyone enjoys speculating.

Bog finally reaches the counter and the reservation agent.

"There will be a slight delay, but your flight will be leaving as soon as possible," the agent says buoyantly from behind her blue blazer.

"As soon as it's safe you mean?" he queries.

"Uh, as soon as possible, sir," she reiterates, the buoyancy gone.

Bog lets it go, checks his large bag, gets his seat assignment and begins the trek to the gate. He thinks about his friends.

Gilly and Sofie have taken a cruise. Artie has returned to Jaipur. Ethan has disappeared to a friend's place in Monterey. Asobi has gone to Osaka to her parents. Kina has holed up deep in the library, only to rarely return to her room. All the friends are connected by encryption and Bog's limits on their communication.

Whoever is out there in the ether, and that is a big universe of possibilities, would be looking for Zak's friends soon enough. Getting out of the country might not remain an option for long. Artie and Asobi had managed to fly out, but he knew he couldn't wait any longer.

As he arrives at the departure gate, Bog takes comfort in the knowledge that extremist groups have not been able to take out a commercial flight with a hacked drone more than once, and never yet in the Western Hemisphere.

Chapter 38

Chung Yao's associates, by which is meant, his underlings, noticed Yao's loss of temper after discovering that Dai Gu had been fished from the waters of Victoria Harbor like so much cod.

For his part Dai Gu is even more dismayed. He is seated in front of Yao, very much alone and on his own, and this he knows only too well is not a position one should wish to find oneself in. He is in the middle of three leather seats that are attached to a common metal base and there is no one in the seats on either side of him. The near drowning has cost him two days of recovery and he is only now beginning to regain his strength.

Yao's office is in the upper floors of the Tat Tsing Cargo Carriers freight forwarding and shipping transfers building. The building is located in the Kwai Chung District of the territories, on the Western mainland, north of Hong Kong. Facing Yao, who sits silently in his fancy, wheeled office chair, Gu can see out the wide expanse of office windows to the Kwai Tsing and Tsing Yi container port districts. The port is messy and industrial, but he can see beyond it and across the water to the famous Hong Kong skyline. From their vantage point high on Kwai Chung at night, the port below has a yellowish, ghastly glow cast by cheap sodium vapor lights. The City skyline is a handsome backdrop to the ports, the multitude of the tiny lights of the office and residential towers merging in the distance. Victoria Mountain is a black looming presence behind the towers, barely visible against a violet night sky.

"You should have taken them at night in Kowloon," states Yao finally, his face turned to undecipherable stone.

"Had I they would have seen me coming. The streets were near deserted. There were no cabs to use to get ahead of them. I did well to stay out of their line of sight under the circumstances."

Gu watches his breathing. He has a tendency to catch his breath when nervous, leaving himself short winded. This is noticeable. Instead he struggles to breath with measured regularity, unwilling to show any sign of weakness to a man who is used to governing others through fear.

"And where did they go?" asks Yao.

"The waterfront. They met a man."

Next to Yao is a panel sized tv set at a low height into a wall bookcase. Gu has activated it with an image from the phone he points at it.

The image is of a hoodie cloaked Yuan Cheng, taken at a distance. Zak and Kim are in view nearby.

"I gave this to our technical people. They have identified the man as Yuan Cheng, who works for Min Chin. I think they helped get our friends out of the country," Gu states with authority.

"And what could possibly have motivated Chin to be so generous?"

"Information," Gu answers without hesitation.

Yao nods his head.

"Of course."

Something sufficient to interest Chin in this way had to be valuable.

"Did our technical staff also tell you that we have reason to believe others are attempting to follow these events. Guoanbu and American intelligence are involved. You should be careful."

"I will be."

"This thing is proving to have considerably more worth than we originally thought. State Security has followed them to California. I need you to follow up."

"I'll be on the next flight."

Chin frowns.

"Yes, you will be."

Gu is quick to rise. He moves with alacrity toward the door, happy to be dismissed.

"And Gu," Chin calls after him.

Dai Gu spins on the ball of a foot, one hand on the doorknob, returning an expectant and respectful look.

Chin's face is stern. He pauses for effect.

"Don't come back without it."

Chapter 39

From the car, Jessica Hughes watches a mud caked, antediluvian tractor approach. It is hauling a long, steel cart with at least two dozen people crammed into it. Everything about the tractor and the cart has long ago returned to the color of the earth. In contrast, the Pakistani refugees are all dressed in white shalwar and kameez, traditional dress of loose, pajama-like trousers, wide at the top and narrow at the bottom, and long tunics or shirts with the tails out. Many of the men, especially the older ones, wear white pillbox caps. The women all have dopatta, silk or muslin shawls. A few, very few, have chains holding a piece of gold on their foreheads. Pardah, separation of the sexes, is observed as much as possible. The men and boys crowd the sides of the big cart, preferring a place to sit on the edge to dangle a leg over the side. Jessica thinks the women and girls must be on some other vehicle somewhere else in this maelstrom of desperate humanity.

A young man stands behind the driver of the tractor, his hands on the back of the metal seat to steady himself. Another kid stands on the tongue holding the tractor and the cart together, bouncing on every rut but always landing on his feet.

Other refugees come in pickup trucks with steel cages in the back, draped in sheets of plastic, rugs or blankets to shield female occupants. On top of these constructions are added plywood boards to provide high up perches for young boys. Trucks and vans are decorated in typical Pakistani style, full of colorful patterns, paintings, calligraphy and even poetry. Some of the vehicles have been substantially modified, for instance by adding a vaulting prominence to the front of a dump truck's box so it that projects well over the top of the cab, like the wooden prow of an ancient ship. Every manner of individual taste is accommodated in the sorrowful lines of decorated vehicles heading their way, squeezing other traffic off the road and into the dry, dusty ditches. Lots of refugees are on foot, trudging in the dirt and mud, their feet barely protected in leather studded sandals. They bow their heads as they move stoically forward in slow, mournful march.

Despite the sight of the forlorn refugees, Jessica's mood could not be more upbeat. Not fifteen minutes ago she had been seated in the Hotel Mardan's bar, along with the rest of the Western contingent of press, a very unimpressive collection of journalistic misfits from widely differing parts of the globe, when suddenly she received a most unexpected text message. Obtuse to the point of nearly complete obfuscation, all it said was Takht Bhai, a place, and Tariq Usmani, a name, but an important one. She remembered about Takht Bhai, a tourist place to the North, the stone ruins of an ancient Buddhist civilization, something she had read about on the plane on the way in to Peshawar.

Of course, Takht Bhai was just taken by the Kalpar Trust, a Northern Pakistani group originating from the Federally Administered Tribal Area above the Khyber Pass, in the Hindu Kush. And of course, the Trust was famously led, if the press on him was to be believed, by a mercurial and shadowy figure, the never where they thought he would be, Tariq Usmani, and his force of equally hard to find armed men from the Northwest Frontier.

Now the City of Mardan, of over several hundred thousand souls, soon to have several tens of thousands more souls in terms of refugees, is about to be set upon by the very same militant force that has apparently stopped to regroup at Takht Bhai. This is the reason why Jessica and the other members of the world press, such as it is, are here, stuffed into about the only hotel in town, one that has no more than two dozen rooms to its name, but at least has a bar where everybody can hang out and pretend that they are doing their jobs. As if.

Loath to share information, however suspect that information might be, with anyone else at the bar, Jessica slipped out as unnoticed as possible and headed down the street from the Hotel to the corner of Bypass and Qazi Bashir Roads. She finds a small group of idle men deep in conversation, leaning against a bunch of old parked cars. At places along the street, steel railings separated the sidewalk from the street and against one was a young man who spoke polite English by the name of Sameer. Sameer assured her that she could call him Sam and that his taxi rates were very reasonable. However he was put off, and the others around him, who were overhearing the conversation, stepped back, when she told him where she wanted to go.

Jessica considered Sameer's English to be more than passable. The local language in Mardan is Pukhto, one of numerous Pakistani dialects. In her experience, most Pakistani's seemed to have some English. Jessica offered Sameer ten times the usual rate. Those who had stepped away at the mention of Tahkt Bhai now suddenly drew closer, but they were too late. A deal between Jessica and Sameer was done.

Sameer drove them north on the Malakand Mardan Road and beyond the City's outer Ring Road, having passed the Punjab Regiment Center initially on their way out of central Mardan. There the grounds had already been prepared with endless fields of so far empty tents, all not far from the military hospital. Jessica had to give the Pakistani's credit for at least having some idea about what was soon to come.

Across fields of wheat Jessica could see the winding Kalpani River from the passenger seat of the car and the mountains ahead. A dozen miles from Mardan they entered the barren foothills near the ruins of Tahkt Bhai, the sun beating down, the car leaving a wake of dust, and the air conditioner blasting away.

At first they see nothing. But as they round a bend in the road, they see the battlement of the ruins above them on the side of the mountain, several armed men clearly visible astride the stones. Jessica places her hand on Sameer's arm.

"I think this is where I get out," she says.

Sameer slows and stops the car. Jessica jumps out almost before the car comes to a halt, grabbing her bag and a thin tripod. She has already programmed Sameer's number into her phone, just in case things go long, or wrong. She climbs the rest of the way up the hill to the side of the ruin, a Zoroastrian complex from before Christ which later became a Buddhist Monastery. All the time Jessica is being watched by the three rifle toting men peering down from high above her.

Jessica picks her way carefully among the rocks, reaches a flat court and then a passageway between deteriorated walls of stone. She finally takes a second to look up and sees Tariq has appeared and is now standing there. He wears light blue traditional dress and stands between the two soldiers at the top of an ancient stair. He looks down at her. Walls and parapets twenty feet high surround him. The cloudless sky above him appears to somehow match the faded blue of his clothes.

"Hello!" he shouts loudly.

Jessica returns his greeting, her voice only wavering slightly, barely betraying her. She continues to approach, reaches the base of the stair and begins to climb it. The soldiers withdraw out of sight.

"Tariq Usmani?"

He lets out a laugh, obviously thinking it funny that there should be any doubt.

"Of course," he replies, the sound echoing in the still, hot air.

She finally nears, extending her hand in a western style greeting. He takes it and she notices that his hands are hard and rough. Not surprising she thinks, for a man who has probably become used to sleeping in the open. She catches his glance and notices that his face is just as equally weathered.

"Why me?" Jessica asks, setting the heavy bag and tripod down.

Tariq nods at her and pulls an e-pad from a well-disguised pocket. He taps it a number of times, making it noisy, and then he holds it up to her. She sees the bar at the Hotel Mardan. She sees herself, sitting alone, the very picture of the bored, independent journalist.

Now its Jessica's turn. She nods back at Tariq.

"No such thing as privacy anymore, is there?"

He wears a brown ski cap pulled down to his ears, long brown hair protruding from all sides. A rifle is slung over his shoulder, he wears an obvious side arm, and his military boots are weathered and beaten.

Jessica bends down to tackle her bag, looking for her camera. She extends the tripod she brought and mounts the camera, which she takes care to adjust. Finally satisfied, she grabs her voice recorder from her bag, turns it on and points it at Tariq.

"So you picked me out of a hat? What for?"

"Public relations. We are about to take the City of Mardan and I would like to avoid any unnecessary casualties."

"Let everybody know you are an unstoppable force? That they should just lay down their arms and get out of the way?"

"That would be very helpful. Yes."

"It's not going to happen," she says defiantly. "You're terrorists."

Tariq grimaces.

"We were. We have split from several groups. We are anti-occupation."

"Anti-American occupation."

"Anti any occupation. The Americans have allied themselves with corrupt officials in this region of the country. The officials use American drones to smite their enemies."

"You are their enemies?"

"We most certainly are."

Tariq pauses.

"Do you know how many countries the American special forces operate in?" he asks.

She actually does know this, but assumes the question is intended more for the potential audience of the interview, particularly the YouTube audience, so she says no.

"One hundred thirty-five. Two-thirds of the world's countries. I think that would qualify as some kind of imperial overreach."

"Making the homeland secure in a dangerous world," Jessica responds facilely.

"Interfering in the sovereignty of virtually every nation and people on the planet. Increasing resentment and terrorist threats against the West. Promoting politician and media induced hysteria. Not a kinder, gentler America."

"Plenty of Americans have lost their lives in the FATA trying to bring liberty to your people," she offers.

"And look at what they have accomplished. They have only stirred a hornet's nest."

Chapter 40

Christopher Gray is left cooling his heels in the Assistant Director's dim outer chamber, Deep in the labyrinthian Liberty Crossing Building Two, it is lit but by a single table lamp. There are no windows to the outside, but there is a window on the side wall with blinds pulled open to view the corridor. A rose teak coffee table sits in front of him, set with random magazines. He sits back on a vinyl black sofa, crossing his legs, and wondering when they are going to get him.

Gray managed to return to the states without incident. The cramped drone left him off at the former Clark International Airport, now the main airport of Manila and the Philippines, where he hopscotched aboard a fast supersonic to the US mainland. Along the way he checked in with Ciaran Burris, who informed him that a meeting with the Group was being held for him on his return. Catching a regular flight to Washington, he had arrived by mid-afternoon at Liberty Crossing.

He watches as occasional shadowy figures move down the hallway. He used to work for these people and thanks his lucky stars that he doesn't anymore. He can be amused at the insider commendations stuck up in frames on the wall behind him, rather than be intimidated by them. Nice if you cared but he no longer does. He no longer has to. This gives him weightlessness and a buoyancy he could only have dreamed of when he had originally enlisted with the agency as nothing more than a kid out of college.

Now it's someone else's turn. A green looking kid steps into the room.

"They're ready for you."

Gray gets up, still feeling sore from his entombment in the drone, and follows the kid out the bowels of the building to one of the new conference rooms. They enter and Gray can actually feel the flood of sunlight on his skin from the two stories of brightly lit window wall that looks outward onto the rest of the surrounding business park. The room may be rectangular but the false ceiling above is a circular semi-transparency with wide bands of phosphorescent light. Side walls of striped gray metallic finish are fitted with wide black screens. At the center is a round table, more like a dais, around which are two dozen wheeled office chairs that should be able to slide easily on the white marble flooring. The slim chairs have headrests and are padded in lime green, which contrasts strikingly from the room's white and gray.

"Ah, it's Mr. Gray! Please, take a seat."

This is said by the coiffed woman in the red business suit at the opposite end of the room, the sun to her back. Gray thinks how interesting it is how the first person to speak in a situation like this is always the one in charge. Everybody else just defers, or demurs, depending.

He hears the kid close the door behind him, the latch snapping shut loudly, and he takes the nearest chair, pleased that he can roll it to meet himself as he sits.

"Nice to see you again, Josephine. Looking good, as always."

He nods at Jeb Stoddard and Frank Cullen, seated nearby to his left. Both have coffee and rolls that they have taken from the chic and well-stocked sideboard.

"Skipping lunch are we?" Chris asks them cheekily.

"Hi Todd, how was your trip?"

Gray is nonplussed. Who is this disembodied voice he is hearing over the room's sound system? It takes him an instant to recognize who it is.

"Good morning, Lonnie. Didn't realize you were such a fan of the speaker phone. Trip was fine. For a sardine."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. Ciaran was kind enough to make an exception for us to get you back," replies Lonnie James.

Burris sits to Gray's right. He seems engrossed alternately in the papers before him and in a small monitor. Gray can barely make out that Burris is looking at a feed of the Operations Center.

"And of course I want to thank you too, Joe. I know this would never have happened if it hadn't been for you," says the voice.

Josephine Catral nods. She knows that Lonnie is watching a live feed of the room.

"Of course," she says. "But I didn't know we were dealing with a cut out here."

She gives Gray additional scrutiny.

"You are?" she tilts her head, questioningly.

"Nonexistent."

"Not Christopher Gray?"

"There is no Christopher Gray. He is a legend created for the benefit of the Chinese to whom various actions have been ascribed over the years. But he doesn't really exist."

"Christopher Gray is a construct of Cetron Corporation," says Burris, still looking at his monitor of the Center.

"One of our better inventions," joins just the voice of the absent Lonnie James.

"How wonderful for you. You know my favorite expression?" responds Josephine.

"We're all in the same alphabet soup?" queries Burris without looking up.

Assistant Director Catral is annoyed and shakes her mane.

"Exactly," she states with emphasis, throwing daggers at Ciaran.

"Whatever is so fascinating on your monitor, Ciaran?" she finally asks him with a look of daggers. There was a time when she would have gone out of her way not to seem bugged by things like this, but that time is gone.

Finally, Ciaran looks up.

"Oh, sorry about that," he says.

"Be sorry all you like. What's going on?"

"Tarik Usmani. Seems he is about to take Mardan. Our drones indicate his forces are being moved into position to take the City."

"We have anybody there?"

"Special Ops."

"They better be thinking about exiting. Now, since we have Mr. Gray, or should I say Todd?"

"Todd Harris."

"Yes. Todd Harris. Since we have Mr. Harris here and he happens to have been at the Imperial Gardens when we so injudiciously lost whatever information there was to be had from one of China's leading dissidents, perhaps we could see what Mr. Harris knows."

Todd, aka Christopher Gray, is not in the least intimidated.

"Of course. How can I be of assistance?"

"What happened?"

"The Embassy was contacted by this Li Hua Wang."

"Stop right there. He showed up at the Embassy?"

"No. He used encryption and hacked our email. It's not hard to figure out. He suggested a meet and that's how I knew to be there when it went down."

"What went down?"

"Some guy, pretty nondescript, attacks him before I can get to him. I don't know who the attacker is or who he might be working for. A criminal element? A random act? A triad looking to make money? A government conspiracy? I have no idea."

He holds up his hands.

"Alphabet Soup," replies Josephine in the way of some kind of revenge, brushing her do out of her eyes.

There is general understanding among those gathered. Conspiracy isn't real until the people in this room say it is.

"You mean is there government involvement? Possibly, for all we know."

"But why didn't the attacker manage to liberate the flash memory?"

Todd is enjoying his sudden preeminence in the group. But he is not impressed by the people in the room. Why didn't he leave the agency sooner?

"Because there wasn't time. An American graduate student reacted before the guy even went down. The kid made me instantly. Wang had time, before he bled out, to communicate directly with the American and to hand over a USB flash drive. We just assume that he did."

"He instructed the kid?" she asks.

"Yes, I think so. It was known that Wang was a maverick journalist. The information he had gathered could have been intended for anyone."

"But it wasn't just for anyone, was it? It was meant for you. Why do you think that was? Don't you think you should have made an attempt to get it yourself? You are, to the Chinese at least, the legendary Christopher Gray, the embassy's man of many faces and talents."

"I really don't know that it really was meant for me, or even the embassy. Given the situation, I can't see the United States using anything this potentially big against their country. I think it was just an attempt to get it out of China, with a view to it being redirected once out in the open. I followed up but only to find out that the MSS appeared to be interested in the recovery of the device and had ordered that I be picked up immediately."

"Who was the individual who executed an attack aboard the Star Ferry?"

Todd is taken by surprise. He had not heard of this.

"I don't have any idea. But if I hadn't been called here to Washington, maybe I could be in California actually recovering the flash drive as we speak," he says with some exasperation.

"I would have to agree with Todd here. It seems to me we're taking our eyes off the ball. I just want to thank Ciaran again for his patience on the whole Palo Alto thing," chimes in Lonnie James on the intercom.

"Oh? Palo Alto? I see I'm going to have to hold Mr. Burris after school."

Josephine Catral rolls her eyes, then gives Burris that same look of daggers from before.

Chapter 41

It is a bracing morning in Southern California and I'm sitting in my dining room trying to do some writing. The sun is streaming through the sliding glass doors that lead onto the rear patio and the pool. Several of the rooms were open all night and the house is cool like I like it.

I closed the bedroom from the outside when I got up moments ago and noticed that my wife had cocooned herself in blankets that were not there last night.

The dining room table seats ten. The only thing on it is a large purple iris. A donut shaped crystal chandelier looms heavily above me. There is a small glass cadenza to one side that is fitted for serving drinks and there is a much larger ebony sideboard behind me that holds a lot of very expensive dishes. I have a new five by eight foot gray abstract sitting on the floor on the wall by the pool, but I haven't put it up yet. Otherwise, there is nothing else on the walls. They're just sheer white, like the rest of the room.

I like it like this. It's quiet and I have the house to myself for a while. The promise of the day is balanced on the cool air. It is my most productive time of day, before the rush of normal activity hits. I stare out the back onto the pool, a cup of morning coffee in my hand, the thoughts of my writing project swirling in my head like cream in my coffee.

I launched into my work, pretty engrossed, when my screen suddenly changes and starts buzzing at me. The screen has been pre-empted by the feed from the front gate. A young couple in jackets and jeans with packs on their backs are standing around, staring at the squawk box. The young man bends.

"Hello, Mr. Sykes? We're friends of Megan Palmer. Can we talk? It's important."

I see that the girl then leans in.

"I'm Kimberly Scott and this is Zachary Miller. We'd really appreciate it if we could speak to you. We're from Stanford."

I have no idea why two kids from Stanford are charging my gate at the crack of dawn, but I suppose that if they really are students from Stanford then the probability of they're being serial killers on the loose or escaped lunatics does go down somewhat. I am generally open to the unexpected adventure. Why not? It feeds my imagination. For me that's always a good thing. I click on an icon on the screen.

"Okay. But if you're here to discuss the characters in my movies it's going to be a short conversation. Got it?" I said with more than a hint of suspicion purposefully projected in my voice, and with a big red flag waving in my head.

"Got it," they both parrot.

I hit another icon. It says 'Gate', so I actually get to watch on the monitor as it unlocks. I can't hear it though, because the speaker system has gone off. I can however, watch as the couple pulls the gate open, enter, and then take the time and effort to carefully close it behind them. Nice kids I think to myself. On the other hand, I wonder how they got past the main gate just to get into this subdivision. That is in itself no mean feat.

I watch as two college kids amble up the driveway. It is lined with thick evergreens and tons of perfectly groomed under story, a veritable jungle, one that I happen to know, all too well, had cost a fortune. The fact that the driveway itself is all stamped concrete brick only seems to add to the impression of two people wandering about on some kind of alternative yellow brick road.

I lose track of them at that point but I know they're heading to my back door and I don't want them ringing it and waking my wife and daughter, so I head to the back door too. When I get there, they're making their way up the incline to my back door, having just crossed in front of the double garage doors. There's a big supporting pillar there and I can see them near it through the windows of the oversized teak door. I open the door, which swivels, as they begin to descend a set of concrete stairs.

"That's okay," I say to them as I step out.

"Let's go around back, shall we?"

I let the door shut, which it does on its own.

They wait for me and as I climb up to the landing that they're on, they shove their hands toward me. As I shake their hands, I re-state their names, for the record, and to make sure that, despite appearances, I am capable of doing so.

"Around here," I say, leading them off the landing and to a separate stair that drops to the main level of the house and grounds.

We go around the end of a wall and past a large planter with a bunch of miniature palm trees, staying on the concrete sidewalk at the end of the house. This takes us along the edge of the very trim lawn to the house's back corner, where there is a glass lawn table and some chairs. From here you can see the pool stretching along the back of the house and the broad expanse down the hill to the courts. It can be an impressive view.

As we all seat ourselves I look to the faces of the young couple to see if all this has had the desired effect, which is, of course, to place them in my thrall. It doesn't.

"Did Megan contact you?" the guy named Zak asks.

I'm stupefied and no doubt look it. The two college kids give each other a look of their own.

"Megan sent you a message about us," says the young woman. She has a look that reminds me a bit of an actress I know.

I have brought my tablet with me, you never know what you're going to need in one of these unpredictable situations, and so I open it to my email. Sure enough, in the last day or two of messages there she is, a message from a Miss Megan Palmer. Of course I haven't opened it, because I get a lot of messages and focus on those from just the few people that I know well. Megan Palmer's message wasn't one of those. But I open it now and sure enough it does refer to the two people in front of me.

"You know, I barely remember this girl. She worked as an actress for me years ago."

It dawns on me that Megan has included a few vague references to a topic that really does put my teeth on edge. Suddenly, I am glad that I steered these two around my house and away from anything inside, especially away from anything electronic. As it is, I'm going to have to reset the security camera tape on the house after they leave. In the meantime, I flip my tablet over and proceed to render it without benefit of its battery.

"Please," I say, "Please join me."

They get the idea and have their phones out and disabled before I can put down my reading glasses. But they wait for me to say something. I find this cute.

"So?" I ask, leaning back in my cushion.

The girl Kim takes the lead and I'm beginning to see a pattern here. These two are organized and the way they've got it organized is that he's the informative one and she's the persuasive one.

"Well, Megan believes that you may be able to help us contact UNK."

"Yeah, I gathered that from her message. Like is there any way I would know such a thing!" I tell them.

It's time for the other side of the tag team. The guy Zak pulls out a tiny flash drive to show it to me.

"People have been trying to kill us for this. A journalist in China died giving it to me, telling me to get it to UNK," he says in an obvious attempt to impress me.

Running through my mind is the thought, "Do I dare look at this. Will it leave a trace in some way that, if discovered, could lead its way back to me?"

"Okay, give it to me. I know I'm going to regret this."

I take the thumb drive and plug it in. Then I have to replace the battery in my pad, turn it on and look for the files on the thumb. I start pulling the stuff up and wow, the encryption is nuts. So Zak shows me other folders that I can look at. The drone stuff seems pretty cool, so I copy it for later viewing. Finally, I shut the pad down, give him back his drive, and yank the battery, again. At that moment, I decide the battery and I are getting too familiar and I'm going to change it out the first chance that I get. I just don't trust. Anything.

I like to think I'm a reasonably careful man, and I like to think I know people. I see nothing false about these two.

"You're both from Stanford?" I ask.

"Graduate students in engineering," Zak replies.

"On a student program to Tsinghua University in Beijing," Kim adds.

Things like this they know I can verify. Some journalist dies in Beijing and an American is involved. This will leave a trail, inside and outside the Middle Kingdom.

I stare at them, baffled by a couple college kids showing up at my gate early in the morning, mentioning the name of someone I hardly know. I was about to say, hey I have no idea what you're talking about and I don't know whoever, but they had a pretty determined look about them, a preternatural and youthful self-assurance that was hard not to buy into.

I'm trying to recall that sense of young certainty, what it was like, because with every additional minute in their presence I can feel a tad more of it. It's nice, it feels good, and it connects me to my much younger self, a piece of me I hope never to completely abandon.

"Okay, okay, I think I get it. But let me see. Some journalist misspends a significant part of his life online pulling together a list of his government's worst sins, with the nefarious intention of sharing all of it with the world? Am I getting it so far?"

Zak looks at Kim.

"We think so," he says.

This is where I involuntarily cringe.

They had to know how dangerous it was to spill a nation's dirty laundry, its secret history of deliberate oppression and subversion of its own people, into the public sphere at such a time as this. Kadin would know what to do. He'd better.

"You should try to get this to a man in the Middle East named Kadin Sa'd. Sa'd is high profile and one of the richest men on the planet. His opinions on investment and international politics are widely reported in both the financial press and the mainstream media. He's based in Dubai. He's made himself a presence in world media. I'm not saying he's UNK and I'm not saying he's not."

Chapter 42

At that moment Sa'd is enjoying happy hour with a few members of his staff, about five miles South of the Dubai business district and the Burj Khalifa. They are off Sheikh Sayed Road at Al Marabea Street, in the Times Square Center, an upscale shopping mecca that includes the Chill Out Café. The Chill Out interior is covered in ice, dropping the temperature to twenty degrees inside, a major contrast from the ninety's to be found on the other side of the front door.

The staff thinks it's a fun place, but Kadin likes the cold environment because it makes ordinary eavesdropping difficult. The customers and wait staff are dressed in parkas and mukluks with ear flaps, which also make for pretty good disguises. There is but one gentleman here wearing the traditional keffiyeh. The crowd in the place is, for the most part, a bunch of loud, bundled up against the cold, western tourists, getting soaked in more ways than one.

Kadin's driver picked them up at his office building, driving the five miles or so down Sayed Road to the restaurant. Sayed is a meticulously overbuilt eight lane boulevard lined with palms and blue on white skyscrapers, and could not be more impressive. The tall buildings are designed in every conceivable and inventive way, all of them together creating a better, cleaner, if somewhat more megalomaniacal, version of Los Angeles. Certainly the air is a lot hotter than LA. Here the skies are impeccably, drily azure, spotless and pure. The streets are as well. They contain not a single billboard or other sign of advertising. For a modern world city, it is at once pristine and overtly sanitized.

Kadin appreciates the enforced orderliness of Dubai, as he seeks that same order and control in his own life. It helps that his is a life worthy of being envied, giving him every conceivable resource that might be needed to create such an illusion.

A waitress in an especially lumpy set of over clothes steps up to take their drink orders, her hands briefly exposed in order to make note of their requests, her face partially concealed by the hood over her head.

"Welcome to the Chill Out Café. May I take your orders?" she asks in what Kadin is sure must be an Eastern European accent.

Angela Hadad, the chief analyst for Kadin's CFO, and Samira Veena, Kadin's personal assistant, have been in considerable discussion about their orders. However, after all that, they both order hot chocolate. Connor Kalil, Kadin's ivy league Operations overseer and head of personal security, diffidently asks for black tea.

"Vodka and coffee, no ice," says Kadin and they laugh.

Everything in the room is made of ice, from the seating and tables to the ice sculpture bar. Along one wall is a miniature diorama of Dubai showing the city's main architectural prizes, the Al Arab, the Emirates Towers, and many more. Everyone sits on plastic cushions rather than the ice itself, but Angela and Samira have appropriated sheepskin throw rugs for further protection. A chandelier made of thick ice blocks hangs behind them and is lit with blue and pink LEDs. The room glows eerily as the various lights change.

"It feels like we're in a submarine!" declares Samira gleefully.

"No, like a big freezer!" says Angela.

Connor laughs at both of them.

"You think this is fun, but cold like this can be a deadly enemy. If this were Siberia, you wouldn't be so thrilled."

"Bet you got cold in Cambridge then, didn't you?" pokes Angela. Single and seeing somebody, she takes pride in giving the also single Connor a hard time whenever possible.

"Get a room you two," Samira says peevishly, ladling hot cocoa into her mouth spoonful by spoonful, trying to catch tiny marshmallows.

Kadin is inwardly amused. He can listen contentedly to their patter ad nauseam and there have been occasions when he has. These people work interminable hours for his benefit and have become like family to him. Really, they are family. He has bought condominiums for all three of them.

The man with the keffiyeh sits alone. He glances Kadin's way.

"Excuse me a moment," Kadin says to the others, "I see a friend. I'll just be a moment."

He gets up, takes his vodka and moves across the room. He pulls down a sheepskin from the back of the seat and sits across from the man in the keffiyeh.

"You couldn't stand out any more."

"Yeah, you're right about that. But I have to be somewhere after this."

"Let me guess."

"No. Don't."

"What are you so sensitive about?"

Kadin sits back. He grins and tilts his head, making a question of his gesture.

"Adnan," the older man with the red and white checked keffiyeh states flatly.

"Is there a problem?" Kadin knows the name. Adnan is the leader of UNK. Or, he was.

"The bodies have been recovered from the ocean where the plane crashed."

"Then all goes according to plan. The authorities think the leader of UNK is dead, but he is not dead. We have only made them think he is dead," Kadin Sa'd says.

"But they have a body that they think is Adnan."

"Of course. By the way, you knew Adnan's brother died recently?" Kadin asks.

The man in the red and white head scarf has a sudden epiphany. He looks sideways at Kadin.

"No way," he says in disbelief.

"Way."

"You placed your uncle's remains in the underwater wreckage of your father's plane?"

"My father did. It should be a close enough match for his DNA."

"You must be crazy. They will be watching you, thinking you have taken on a larger role."

"You're right. I have never had to be more careful."

Kadin states this heavily, as if encumbered by a great wool coat many times bigger than the one he is actually wearing.

Chapter 43

Having just left the arrivals gate and stepped onto the main concourse of Terminal 2A at Charles De Gaulle Airport on the way to their connecting flight for Dubai, Kim happened to glance down at her phone. It had to be turned off during the flight over as they had last minute seats in a part of Coach that didn't permit calls during flight. Now she can turn it on.

"It's Bog. He called," she says, not slowing down.

Zak is looking at a map of the airport, looking for their departure gate, back pack on his back, juggling a coat, the map, and his phone. He checks his messages and there is one from Bog, telling them not to go to Dubai without checking with him first. Zak involuntarily grimaces, then looks down the busy concourse to the sequentially numbered ticketing counters and sees a large Information Center a ways away.

"There's a problem with Dubai," Zak tells Kim.

Zak heads for Information and Kim follows. They lean against the empty end of a long counter space that stands beneath a multi-level bank of screens with departures and arrivals. Zak turns his head toward a large clock on the wall behind them. Late afternoon in Paris means early evening in Prague. He hits call.

"Halo?" answers Bog, his voice tinged with the suspicion of a man on the run.

Zak gives a sidelong glance to Kim.

"Hey, cheeseball! Tell me you're not pulling this out your butt."

An image pops onto the screen. Bog's blonde hair is floating around his face in the wind, the sky and something else behind him, some kind of black statue.

"Dude! There's some stirrings about you going on in Dubai. You guys' names are coming up in their security chatter. But take heart. They haven't placed either of you on the no-fly list. Yet. But to say that the Dubai boys have gone to great lengths to provide you a warm welcome, well, that really pulls the heart strings."

"I'm not going to ask where you're getting this intel."

"Dude, if I told you I'd have to kill you."

Something must have happened. Kim and Zak knew they were being watched, even tracked. Perhaps showing up at Syke's house was all it took. More likely, their reservations for Dubai would have been easy to find, and Bog may well have been able to determine who was checking those records.

Bog pulls the satchel strap off his shoulder. The phone camera dips and Zak and Kim see a flash of water.

"Are you on the Charles Bridge?" asks Kim. "What river is that?"

Bog, who is on the North side of that very bridge, leans down to get a better look.

"I believe it's the Vltava if I'm not mistaken."

He pulls the camera back and behind him in the fading sunlight glancing off the windows of the gold in this light presidential office buildings next to it on the big hill is Prague Castle, the world's largest old keep, dating back to the 10th century. It lords over the surrounding district known as mala strana, a grouping of old residences that descend from the castles to the edge of the river.

An orange light paints itself across the sky behind Bog. A dark and lugubrious statue rears behind him, one of a line of life size sculptures in bronze that stretches the length of the Charles Bridge.

"What's that behind you?" Kim asks.

Bog looks.

"It's a crucifix. Dates to the 14th century I believe. The large figures on either side of it are Mary and John."

"Where have you been?"

"Oh. I took the airs. My friend's apartment can get crowded. I was taking a walk through the Mala Strana gardens. It's been a long time since I was here last. At least the apartment is near Old Town. You know, they still sing Beatles in the Square."

"Quaint."

"They are usually near the City Hall with the astronomical clock. Very retro."

"Save the flowers in your hair," Kim teases.

"For sure! That's like, soooo psychedelic!"

Chapter 44

"Really, I don't think I can go any further," Kim confesses, pulling on Zak's coat.

"It's just a few more blocks," he replies, wondering how he has made it this far. They have just walked from the Latin Quarter, where they found last minute lodgings, across the Seine, past the I.M. Pei at the Louvre, through the Tuileries, to the Great Ferris Wheel and Paris Christmas market at the Place de la Concorde, and now down the Champs almost all the way to the Arc de Triomphe.

It's a chill, misty and glowing night on the Champs de Elysees. The pavement glistens with street lights, building coach lights, and seasonal tree lighting. They walk between two rows of chestnuts with strings of white lights looped onto their branches, each creating the shape of a tulip. The Christmas lights reflect cheerily off the windows of the staid 18th and 19th century stone buildings, which are ornate and luminous. Zak and Kim stand near a cylindrical glass kiosk but neither he nor she understands the French posters inside. Is that a musical? Or is that a concert? The intense traffic on the street pays them no mind and noisily rushes past.

Kim and Zak had agreed to hold off on what their next steps should be. Better to find a place to stay, for however long, and sort things out from there. The view from the Ferris Wheel known as la Grand Carousel had been relaxing, and the Christmas market shopping at beautifully decorated booths had helped to ease the tension of not knowing what to do next. There had been block after block of arts and crafts, food and wine, cookies and candies. The crowds had been cheerful, full of families and kids running around.

The long walk down the Champs however had exhausted their every last nerve. Nothing could dispel the unmistakable feeling of options rapidly narrowing.

"There's a Cartier's up there somewhere," he offers.

"By time we get there I don't think I'm going to care. Let's go back to the Di Roma and get something."

At this, the evening mist decides it's a good time to start up again. Arm in arm, they stop for a last view of the Arc surrounded by a sea of rushing cars and sweeping headlights, before they turn around.

"You know, we're going to figure this out," he says, breaking the temporary taboo on the subject.

"Let's not rush it," she replies, too tired to think.

They take their time getting back to the Di Roma Café, its awnings dressed in icicle lights, its broad windows effusing a warm and welcoming glow. They slip behind a line of bollards on the sidewalk before walking up to the wooden front door, opening it and being greeted by a rush of warm air filled with the smell of hot food, being quickly lead to their seats, ordering pizza and wine before letting the waitress get away. They sit in silence with their wine until the pizza arrives.

Kim pulls her hair back and picks up a slice with both hands, contemplating it while her fingertips burn.

"Ok. No point in delaying the inevitable any further," she says as she bites in.

Zak balances his own piece of pizza.

"I'm open to suggestion," he says.

"Oh, is it my turn then?"

"Your turn."

Kim arches her eyebrows in a sign of concentrated thought.

"Hmmm. I guess our plan to stay dark failed," she speculates.

"The whole whereabouts unknown thing?"

"Exactly. Not a success. You've got something on your chin."

She reaches over with a napkin.

"Thanks."

"On the other hand, it's a question of resources."

"Resources?" he asks.

"Sure. How many resources do these people have anyway?"

"Plenty, it looks like."

"Okay, but we're not without some resources of our own."

She gulps the last bit of her piece of pizza and goes to work chewing it. She raises a finger glistening in pizza sauce as if to stop the conversation.

"Uh oh," he says, "I think I know where you're going with this."

Kim finally finishes and takes a sip of her wine.

"Brilliant minds think alike," she says archly.

"Rarely," he retorts.

"I wasn't even talking about us."

"Sure you were."

"Honest Injun," she holds up her hand, the fingers together.

"That's racist."

"Sorry. Say, who were all those people at the airport?" Kim asks.

He is forced to do a double take as she performs conversational kabuki.

"What people?"

The restaurant is fairly full but no one is seated next to them. It's loud and he believes it unlikely that they can be overheard. He has watched the door since they arrived and nobody entering has thrown even the slightest interest in their direction.

"You know, all the people in the heavy coats waiting around the terminal. Didn't you see? They were putting up cots for them and giving them donuts," Kim tries to get him to remember

"Donuts? Really? I suspect a Patisserie conspiracy!" Zak jokes.

"I think you've got it. It's clearly an attempt to explode the French diet," she returns, giving him a small kick under the table.

"Dastardly! But they weren't French. They were African and I did see them. Conflict in central Africa has people fleeing. The people you see are the lucky ones. They could afford to get out."

"But what are they doing staying in the airport?"

"For many, getting to an airport in the West was probably the only goal. Either they had no plans to go further or they simply couldn't afford to."

"What's going to happen to them?"

"The French government will have to act. They'll have to provide for them until they can safely return."

"And it could be a while?"

"Nobody has the answer for all the many conflicts around the world."

"I get it. I really do. Too many failed governments."

"And there are too many ways to communicate. It's no longer possible to keep people in the dark."

"Transformative."

"Sea change."

Chapter 45

"Achoo!" Kim sneezes in to her cotton mitten.

In the mist that is fast turning into very cold rain, Zak and Kim are rushing to get into the front of their hotel on the left bank. It looms just ahead of them on their left, Christmas lights dangling from the awning, two Christmas trees lined up on either side of the entrance. They have just come out of the subway.

"It's a long way from California," she offers.

"Let's hope that's all it is."

They run up the steps to the gold entry doors, hundreds of Christmas lights reflected in their glass, and push their way through to the lobby, stopping at the maple concierge desk for their key. Zak shifts all his bags to one hand in order to take the key from the young woman behind the desk.

"Have a good evening," the woman says.

"Bonsoir."

They step away to the elevator.

"I like your French," Kim says, poking fun at him.

"It would be a whole lot better if I had anticipated this romantic detour," Zak replies.

"Oh, I don't know. You seem to be winging it just fine."

The elevator ride is a short one. Their room is not far off the street. They traipse down the narrow corridor and Zak opens the door to their room.

"Welcome to the Presidential. After you."

She steps in, clicking the lights on, and looks around. Their opened packs are on the white bedspread, where they were left hours ago.

"I don't think it's quite Presidential," she says.

"Oh yeah? What gave it away? The Micro Bathroom?"

She dumps her things on a side table next to the closed bathroom door, moving a bowl of fresh flowers out of the way.

"Well. It's Paris, after all."

He helps her off with her coat and puts his free arm around her.

"Nothing is too good," he says, kissing her, noticing how her nose is still cold from the outside.

He breaks away, taking her coat to the mirrored amoire and hangs it up before taking off his own doing the same with it.

"I think we should just call Bog," he finally says flatly.

"I'm going to use the head. Go ahead."

He looks around the room. All the furnishings, including the headboard, are in a simple maple wood finish. An old fashioned rose flower print covers the walls and is matched by heavy rose patterned drapes allowed to hang on a set of pull backs. The curtains partly cover two white trim period windows with iron grates on the outside. There is the double bed by the first window, a side table and a chair with a caned back beside it. At the end of the room is the armoire and between it and the second window is a tiny desk squeezed between the armoire and the second window. On the desk is a small screen which serves as the television.

Zak picks up the remote control next to the monitor, pushes the chair back, and grabs his e-pad. After a few adjustments he has the phone feeding the foot wide screen and he calls Prague.

"Kemosabe!" fills the room. Bog's face fills the screen.

"Hey. Is this secure enough?"

Bog looks surprised.

"Oh, like you're not already blown? I guess I don't really see the point."

"Fine. Any new developments?" Zak asks, looking back at the screen, which has a camera mount to sling his image back to Bog.

"Dude! Do you know what time it is here?"

With this, Zak begins to notice that the room is totally dark behind Bog.

"Geez, I'm sorry about that. I guess I didn't realize. We just got back."

He sees Bog clicking a remote as well as his phone. The view of Bog suddenly opens up to include the entire room. Zak figures his face is now plastered on a huge screen in Bog's living room. Apparently, Bog's been sleeping on the big vinyl sofa there, which makes sense since he said he was staying temporarily at a friend's place in the old town section of the City.

Bog turns on some subdued lighting, and Zak can make out a glass coffee table and the large screen against the opposite wall standing on a cabinet of various electronics. Down the hall running along the opposite wall is a set of doors to a balcony.

"Taking in the City of Lights?"

"Trying to."

"Wish I had different news. Nothing has really changed. You can't go to Dubai,"

"We know."

Kim comes out of the bathroom in a bathrobe and sits down on the end of the bed, drying her hair with a towel.

"Hi friend!" she says, looking at his image on the small screen in the corner.

"Back at ya! What's it like there?"

"Cold and wet. Lots of tourists."

"Yeah, I bet there are a lot of them. Not really my scene," says Bog.

"Look," says Zak, "We're going to need some help here. Can you put the word out?"

Bog gets up, dressed only in his shorts, his tall frame muscular, and walks down the hall, using only his phone.

"I can manage."

He steps up to a wall of glass and the doors to the outside, unlatching one, and pulling the slider door open. A breeze hits him. He notices that the balcony is lit. There is a table and some chairs, so he takes one. The air is bracing, and it chills him fully awake.

"What do you want me to tell them?" he asks.

Kim doesn't hesitate.

"Tell them to get over here ASAP," she says.

"Really? Am I nuts or is this crazy?"

"It's nuts and crazy, but see what you can do," replies Zak.

"I've got this feeling that Sophie and Gilly will totally freak," says Bog.

"Of course," says Kim, "but they'll freak out in completely different ways. She'll say no. He'll say yes."

"And he'll win. And she won't let him go without her," says Zak.

"Well, we'll see," says Bog. The breeze is picking up. He's starting to feel cold. He looks out at the Prague skyline, half lit even in the dead of night, orange tile roofs running in every direction.

"I'll see what I can find on your Dubai connect. You really need to start making alternate plans. And guys--"

"What?"

"Wake me when this is over."

He clicks off.

Chapter 46

In Jaipur, Arjun Kamat just rolls over. He has no idea what time it is and doesn't care. Trying to stay up with his studies from such a distance hasn't been exactly the piece of cake he had hoped it would be, and he has quite frankly been studying overtime to make it work. If this thing with Miller and Scott doesn't resolve itself soon, he's going to have trouble making the term. For Arjun, that is totally unthinkable, utterly out of the question. For one thing, it would mean the loss of his semester's fees, totaling what in his society would be considered a sinfully large amount. All down the drain! What a disgrace!

His phone has other ideas, and keeps signaling that an important email has arrived in his in-box. This reminds him of why he rolled over in the first place, a failed attempt to ignore the stupid phone to begin with. He groans and reaches for the night table, resigned.

It's one of Bog's encrypted emails and he groans again. He's not sure if he remembers how to decrypt it. So he sets it back down and rolls into his bed for a few minutes more, only to realize that he's not going to go back to sleep anytime soon. Besides, his plans for the day come back to him. He has planned on visiting Jaipur's downtown. He wants to see the Palace of the Winds again. Also the Amber Fort. Thinking about it makes him anxious to get started.

His uncle, a businessman whose apartment this is, left hours ago. As a result, Arjun has the place to himself. He struggles to rise, pulls on a pair of trunks, always conveniently kept on the side table chair, and finds his way through the front room to the door.

It opens onto an ornate white balcony, one of three stories of balconies that look down to a decoratively tiled pool. The balcony has heavy white columns and arches overhead. There are wicker chairs, a lead top table, lots of potted plants, and a number of rolled up bamboo curtains hanging from the ceiling. He bounds down the stairs, past some bougainvillea, dodges several sets of iron chairs and tables, and finally lands one foot on the raised edge of the pool before instantaneously leaping in. It's the deep end and he has no fear that he can dive as deep as he wants to. But he comes up quickly and in a few easy strokes arrives at the pool's opposite end.

He tries to remember again what he has to do to de-crypt the message from Bog. As best he can recall, it isn't hard. Obviously, there is a program. He'll have to find it. He resumes his swim, finishes it after about 50 rotations, and returns to the apartment where he dresses and stuffs a bag with a few things before heading out. He saunters down an asphalt lane bordered on both sides by lush vegetation to the thick, whitewashed concrete wall with the ornate balusters that surrounds the property to a black wrought iron gate. The gate is usually open and he passes through it to the street, walking on to the next corner, a very busy thoroughfare where he can hail a bus. As Arjun takes the corner, he doesn't notice the SUV pulling away from the opposite curb further down the street.

The city bus takes Arjun to the center of Jaipur, which is sometimes called the Pink City, after the color of its most prominent landmarks. With a population of three million, Jaipur is the capital of and the largest city in Rajasthan, a province of northern India. Arjun has become used to explaining to this to his Stanford friends, when they ask about where he is from. He usually adds for the Americans' benefit that it's a city larger than Chicago. He knows that it would leave a greater impression on the mostly Californians if he could say that it's larger than LA. But LA has a million more people than either Chicago or Jaipur. The result, therefore, is that nobody in California is impressed with where he is from. They never remember that he's from Jaipur. Only India. Of course.

Arjun leaves the bus and at the light walks across a broad avenue with a small group of people, some clearly from other countries. This is the Palace quarter and the old city. Jaipur is divided into six of these quarters by a higher order of arterial streets, each of which measures well over a hundred feet wide. In addition, the city depends below the level of the arterial on a regular grid network of streets. Though laid out in the early 1700's, these features mean Jaipur is, much more than most in India, a planned city, and the only one this old in country.

Arjun walks first to the Jantar Mantar, a series of oversized astronomical instruments laid out across the grounds of the quarter. The founder of Jaipur is also responsible for their construction and built similar kinds of instruments in other cities. The fourteen instruments here are the best collection, having been well preserved over the centuries. A giant sundial, the Samrat Yantra, which is ninety feet high, is accurate to one millimeter per second or six centimeters per minute, as the shadow of the sun moves across it. Arjun walks the steps to the top, where there is a cupola for making celestial announcements. Samrat Yantra, he reminds himself, means Supreme Instrument, and this strikes him as an inspired claim. There are few other sundials in the world as large. He says a silent prayer for himself and his family before he retreats from it heights.

The Jantar Mantar is in effect an observatory, and Arjun enjoys wandering about it, reading the various plaques that explain the purpose and origins of each instrument. They compose a lesson in geometry made in stone and marble that appeals to his quantitative and scientific mind. This observatory is now used for mere astrological predictions, fortune telling to Arjun. The Jantar Mantar's past was however an expression of soaring human intellect and newfound discovery that challenged even the greatest minds of its time.

Arjun sits on a low wall and pulls out the sandwich he packed and a bottle of water. He eats while watching the groups of tourist and listening to their guides. The reactions of the tourists are interesting to watch. He could stay here all day.

Instead Arjun gets up and walks a short distance to the Hawa Mahal, or Palace of Winds. It is the women's chambers of the royal palace complex and is essentially a five story screen allowing the women of the royal family to view festivals and street activities while remaining themselves unseen, as befitting purdah. The five stories are constructed with octagonally shaped windows built with stone screens, the entire palace of pink and red sandstone. It is full of beautifully adorned halls with marble floors and extensively decorated columns and arches. Windows constructed of many brightly colored panes of glass reflect rainbows of colored light into the interior. The Palace has many gilt columns, a large central courtyard with fountains, and a super structure of stairs behind the main wall of pink stone that can be climbed to the highest pinnacle of the structure. He has been here before and as always takes these stairs to the top to obtain their great view of the City, the nearby City Palace, and the field of giant astronomical instruments. Afterward, he wanders throughout the many halls of the Palace.

He finally leaves and looks to the north and the nearby mountains, basking in the sun under a nearly cloudless sky. Atop a gargantuan quarter mile tall, sheer rock cliff visible from where he stands is an ancient fort sitting like a thin stone prominence along the peak of the high ridge. Arjun sets his sights on it.

Chapter 47

Three am in Paris and Dai Gu has just stepped onto the concourse at Charles De Gaulle Airport. He wears a dark overcoat over a suit and tie, and trails a small bag on wheels behind him. He looks around annoyed to see people to the sides sleeping on cots, covered by blankets. What are all these people doing here he wonders?

He quick steps it down the red carpet through the tubular concourse, noting that the café/bar has a lot of empty chairs and tables and is obviously closed at this time of night. Only a few gates have any people waiting at them. He follows the signs and goes to terminal two, then down a flight of stairs in a gleaming hall to the RER station. How nice it is that they have change machines so conveniently nearby! All he has to do is hit a vending like machine with a bunch of euro coins to get a ticket for the subway.

The platform has only a few people standing around, joined by just a few more by the time the train shows up. The cars are practically empty. Dai Gu sits alone, astride an empty car he has to himself, and admires its uncluttered yellow interior and stainless steel appointments. But then Gu's phone rings, startling him. It takes him a few seconds to dig it out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

"This is Dai Gu."

"Zhao. Where are you?"

"Paris. The train."

"The train? How could we be talking if you're on a train?"

"Well, it's really the subway to Downtown."

"Even so. I don't see how you could get a signal."

"The wonders of modern technology. What's up? Why did you call?"

Zhao Yiwei had rescued Gu at Chung Yao's request. Now Gu suspects he is being checked up on, and he finds this intensely insulting.

"Hey, I'm just seeing how you're doing. Are you going to be alright with this? I mean, you are operating on your own."

"Alone you mean."

"Yes, alone. Does that work for you?"

"Of course. I'm looking into some possible assistance." Gu doesn't really know what he's going to do, but until he does, he's not going to say anything about it.

"Hiring local?"

"Maybe."

Zhao knows this is classic Dai Gu. He also knows that he's not going to get anything more out of him at this point.

"Look, let me know. We have resources and we don't want you working in the dark. Yao made me call you, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, sure." Gu falls back on his taciturn nature, and his resentments, to say nothing more.

"Okay," Zhao says, clicking off.

Gu puts the phone back in his suit pocket and glances up at the route map on the wall above the set of doors on the other side of the car. Gu still has a number of stops before the RER B takes him to the Gare du Nord, Paris's North Station, the busiest rail station in Europe. He carefully watches the stations in between pass before it finally pulls in. As Gu steps off the train onto the platform, he looks around to orient himself.

Paris Nord has a cavernous interior that rises forty to fifty feet to a roof made partially of steel roof panels and partially of windows in grids of hundreds of panes, all of which are black with the night outside. Rows of steel columns on either side of the peak of the roof run the length of the building to lend the roof support, which they do with delicate fans of ribbing. The columns are adorned with sets of lighted milky globes which right now provide a comforting glow. There are a number of sets of tracks and platforms in the station, but very few trains at this time of night. Semicircular windows run along the sides of the building. A particularly large window semicircle with very many glass panes is found on the building's beaux arts façade, onto which a large old fashioned clock has been centered. It only serves to remind him that he hasn't got a lot of time for what he wants to do.

Dai Gu hurries out the front of the station. He stands in front of its grey façade of neo-classical stone, which is complete with life-sized statues standing on platforms raised above window pediments. The building is huge. It runs a thousand feet along Dunkerque.

Gu heads to his right up the street to the Boulevard de Magenta, which takes him past the rear of the gothic Lariboisiere Hospital. He walks past a small park that has a statue of Charlemagne and crosses traffic to an elevated railroad bridge on the Boulevard de la Chapelle. The Boulevard is parallel to the much quieter Boulevard de Paris, where he crosses a bereft two lane street and a string of traffic bollards that run along the curb. This brings him onto a sidewalk before a block long building housing a big twenty-four hour discount store. The store looks old and run down, its red over pink banner signs faded by the sun, its bins of cheap merchandise pushed out to the sidewalk, brightly lit by the garishly strong lighting coming from inside.

Dai Gu picks his way through the narrow aisles of the megastore. Its tables are piled mountainously high with knock off clothing. Here and there is a customer, insomniacs and shift workers. Gu continues to the back, up a simple set of painted metal stairs. He takes the single flight two stairs at a time, the entire steel apparatus shaking at each footfall, to the mezzanine offices above, which look out imperiously over the great expanse of plain goods and equally ordinary customers below.

"Hallo?" he says as he raises his voice to the back of one of the office doors, the one on which he knocks with a rapid application of the knuckles. A deep voice comes back.

"What can I do for you?" The man inside has obviously watched Gu's approach and anticipated this inquiry.

"It's me, Dai Gu. How are you?" Gu asks into the closed back of the door.

"Ah me! Come in! It's not locked."

Gu carefully opens the door and sees Sanchay Mati seated behind a huge table filled with every assortment of things from beauty aids to packaged dry goods to clothes to every manner of sundry. Sanchay is a skinny guy. He looks over at Dai Gu with a wide grin. The room is full to overflowing with walls, floors, tables and cabinets filled with stuff, but a narrow path remains from the door to the table that serves as Mati's desk, and Gu takes it.

Arriving in front of the man behind the table, Gu lifts his carry on, unzipping it and pulling out a bottle of Baijiu, the most popular of Chinese liquors. It is in a fancy box, which Gu opens. He pulls out a rotund, glassy clear bottle of Red Star Erguotou from Beijing and hands it to Sanchay. Baijiu has been around thousands of years in China and is very potent, made with up to sixty percent alcohol.

"I hope you will enjoy this," Gu says.

Sanchay stands up and takes the bottle gratefully.

"Very kind of you."

"Of course."

Sanchay takes a second to look the bottle over, sets it down, and reaches beneath of pile of underwear. He pulls a pistol, a Makarov, from beneath the clothes and along with it a small box of nine millimeter slugs, handing it to Gu. Now it's Gu's turn to study his purchase, one paid for in advance.

"I should point out that I will no longer be able to fill requests such as yours. It appears that the market is changing and I will no longer have access to these types of products."

"You are getting out?"

"Disintermediation. It happens to us all eventually. I can no longer compete with the corporate combines."

"Big boys taking over, huh?"

"You could say that."

The two men exchange a few pleasantries before Gu announces he has to be going. They part amicably. Gu bounds down the banging stairs, through the store and out onto the street. It is still dark, but the first light of day is rising behind the roofs of Paris's buildings. He consults his watch and doubles back to Paris Nord, past the statue and the hospital, onto Dunkerque, and through the front doors of the station to the ticket counter. After getting a ticket he takes himself to the long RER B platform to wait for the train. It comes, it stops and he boards.

This time Gu watches the stops even more carefully than before, looking for Saint Michel, and when finally it arrives, he gets off. Gu fast steps through the tiled station, holds his carry on over his head going through the stainless steel turn style, jogs up a long concrete set of steps, and pops out, into the early cracking dawn of a Paris morning. The air is sharp.

Before him is Notre Dame Cathedral. Next to the Cathedral is a large and heavily decorated Christmas tree, brightly lit from the night. The sun is rising behind the Cathedral, creating a ripe opportunity for a religious moment, but this is lost on Dai Gu. He walks across the mostly empty Cathedral plaza, it being a shade too early for the tourist hordes, and crosses the short bridge on the Seine to the Left Bank. He finds his way down a wide concrete ramp to the Quai, there to be greeted by a darkened limousine. The front passenger door opens and a man dressed entirely in black leather steps out. The man is holding a pistol, places it on the roof of the car, and proceeds to stare at Gu.

After which the rear door facing Gu opens. Gu walks over to the open door, ducks and sees a the man sitting passively inside. The man says nothing. Gu glances about the Quai one last time. He takes the firearm he is carrying from inside his coat and places it, just as the other man has, on the hood of the car. This ritual having been conducted, Gu meets the gaze of the man inside for a brief second while putting his gun away. The man moves over and Dai Gu gets in.

Chapter 48

Zak walks out of the hotel, his pack on his back. It's positively chilly this particular morning in Paris. The sky has a few light bands of high cirrus. Zak and Kim stand outside their cheap Parisian hotel in the Latin Quarter and adjust the straps on their backpacks.

"Say, what's the deal with all the contrails?" asks Kim, staring upward.

This draws Zak's attention. There are a dozen neatly formed lines of crystalline jet exhaust in widening vapor trails stretching across the sky. At their front are a dozen barely visible silver aircraft, fuselages glinting in the morning sun.

"Training," Zak offers, his hand held over his face to shield his view from a warming sun.

"Really? Training? What are they training for?"

"God only knows," he replies off-handedly.

"I don't think God has anything to do with it," Kim states dismissively, backing up and planting herself on a low black stone wall that borders the holiday ornamented landscaping at front of the hotel. She crosses her arms, hands in gloves.

"Why haven't we heard from anybody?" she asks.

Zak joins her on the shiny black wall.

"Bog is probably having them reply directly to him. He just hasn't sent anything on to us. The fewer messages he sends the less there is to track."

"But everything is in code."

"And nothing is completely secure."

"Why do I get the feeling that we're in the dark here? Where's the calvary when you need them?"

"On a break. And so are we. Let's make the most of it."

Zak pulls out a set of earphones, puts them in, adjusting the sound, points down the street to a Boulangerie and strikes off.

Kim watches him for a bit before getting up from the wall. Finally, she gets up and runs after him, catches up, then slows down to match his stride just as they reach the bakery. Together they pass under the shop's green steel awning while staring at the baked goods in the windows as they enter.

"I think I'll just have a croissant," she says, but Zak can't hear her.

She reaches up and pulls out one of his earpieces.

"What do you want?" she asks.

"Anything," he replies.

Kim orders for them using very little French and a lot of gesticulation. They come away with a sack of different breads and pastries.

"I really want to see the d'Orsay Museum," Kim says as they walk out the door.

"Great. I know how to get there."

"You mean we're going to walk?"

"Sure. It's not that far and it's a nice day. Why not? We'll get to see the real Paris."

"It would look just as real from a cab or a bus."

"Apostate!" he declares.

"Burn!" Kim replies. She gives him a fake punch.

Soon they are lost in the side streets of the Latin Quarter on their way to the river, stopping at shops, checking out bookstores and examining street vendor's wares. They walk along the Seine, taking in booths overflowing with old books, drawings and paintings for sale. The sun grows hot as they make the final stretch past the Pont Royal, leaving Kim to stow her gloves and Zak to remove his coat.

Continuing along the river, they watch the long Bateaux-moches, filled with tourists, ply back and forth on the Seine, just as a gigantic old railway station, now the Musee d'Orsay, come up on their left. They walk past the beaux-arts museum's two grand entrances featuring massive clocks, giant mansard roofs above and lots of vaulted windows in between, to reach the tourist's entrance at the West end of the building.

Kim and Zak stand back from the crowd near the street corner.

"Does it look like that line is moving to you?" Zak asks.

Despite the convoluted forest of stanchions and belts waiting for tourists, there is only a small line of people at the entrance.

"Sure it is! Come on, Sparky," she says while grabbing his arm.

They buy tickets, get checked out by security, and enter the main hall under the enormous d'Orsay clock. They wander the galleries, filled with works by sculptors such as Rodin, and paintings by great impressionists such as Degas, Cezanne and Monet.

Finally, the morning spent, Zak and Kim become hungry and seek out the museum's café. They take a cafeteria style line and head to the second level, which lies behind one of the great clocks and windows on the face of the building. Their table faces a set of stairs and doors giving access to the roof of the museum.

"I'm going to check it out," Zak nods toward the stairs after they finish eating.

They step out on to a rooftop flooded with sunlight, with a view of the Louvre across the Seine. The fenced parapet is decorated with large stone sculptures that the tourists use in their photographs of one another. Taking a cue, Kim is leaning back against the fence while Zak is lining up a shot, when her phone signals a message. She pulls it from the pocket of her jeans.

"Let me get this. It's from my Mom. Geez, it's encrypted!"

They haven't been receiving personal messages for a while and Zak can't figure out how her parents somehow managed to encode a message. Kim is quick to decipher it, but as she reads it she has to wipe her eyes to see the message.

Chapter 49

Arjun prowls the sprawling stone battlements of the Nahargarh Fort just North of Jaipur. The fort's great height provides a broad view of the valley and City of Jaipur below. Arjun found his way up the Aravalli Hills in a bus filled with tourists, half of them westerners. They chattered the whole way and the bus became very noisy as it made its way up the narrow hairpin road to the fort. The fort is special to Arjun, his place in the world, however far he may go.

On one side of the rampart's wall is the low lying City, spreading out in every direction below the cliffs as far as he can see. On the inside the fort is a mighty terracing of stone dropping down to a placid, green pool of water. It is as if in building the fort the builders had hollowed out the very mountain, making the interior a bowl of these monumental stone terraces. The fort is named after Nahar, a spirit who is said to have haunted it until a temple was built to assuage him.

The Madhvendra Palace was later added for the Maharaja and his numerous queens. Arjun takes some time to wander this compound and its courtyards, at times with the tourists and at times alone. At points the palace rises fifty feet or more along the cliff. He climbs to the roof to look out on the many low walls and yellow balustrades that run over the tops of various palace chambers. Clusters of golden domes glitter in the sun along the top of the façade. A courtyard stretches out far below.

Arjun is finally satisfied and returns to the area outside the fort where another tourist bus awaits. He steps aboard and pays for his next trip, this one to the Amber Fort a few miles further North. Three forts were built to protect the City by its founders Singh I and II in the early sixteenth century, the Nahargarh, the Jaigarh, and the Amber. He only has time for two of them today.

The bus takes them through the small town at the base of the mountain of the Amber Fort, which is really more a huge Citadel, to a drop off parking lot. From here it is a long walk along the top of a wall that see-saws its way up the mountain to the front entrance. Intimidated by the long climb, some tourists line up to make the trip aboard decorated elephants.

The walls of the Amber Palace look down the mountain to Maota Lake. In the middle of the Lake is a garden raised out of the water by massive stone walls. As Arjun walks the bulwarks, he gets a better view of the multi-level garden, a rectangle of green, built to the same dimensions as the fort, divided into geometric designs. The roughhewn stone walls continue on either side of him until he steps through a giant arch, the Suraj Pole, or sun gate, into a vast courtyard designed for assembling troops, the Jaleb Chowk. The Palace has four such divisions and accompanying courtyards. Small domes on pillars stand atop the gate.

From here Arjun takes stairs to the main palace grounds to the three-story, highly ornamented Ganesh Gate, which is covered in elaborate frescoes. The top story has latticed windows for viewing of public events by the women of the royal court. Going through the gate takes one into the main palace of the maharajas.

Arjun wanders the temples, courtyards, gardens, and halls of the royals. These include the Sheesh Mahal or mirror palace, which is filled with mirrored mosaics. Arjun stops and contemplates the view of the lake from this hall. Finally he proceeds to the oldest part of the fort, dating back to 1600, and finds there the Baradhari Pavilion, a heavy structure supported by delicately turned columns. Before leaving he descends to the depths of the fort to view the tunnel going to Jaigarh Fort, a possible escape route for the royal family in a time of siege. The tunnel is lined in elegant masonry, large flagstones on the floors and stone arches above the head running endlessly into the distance.

Arjun comes back down to the lake and the parking lot, and finds a bus to take him back to the City. There is time and he wants to see the City Palace before returning home. It is five miles and he is soon there.

The City Palace is a complex of courtyards, gardens and palace buildings originating during the time of Singh II, who initially ruled Jaipur from the Amber Palace. Population growth and the need for water resulted in the Maharaja's move to the City Palace in 1727.

Arjun enters through the Virendra gate. Like all the structures here it is mixture of Indian and European styles, two stories of white sandstone carved into delicate traceries over and around complex arches and archways. A flat roof extends over the main archway and entry, which is topped with ornate railings. He passes through it and is immediately confronted with the white Mubarak Mahal or Auspicious Palace, now a museum. Its three stories feature arches in small arcades on the first floor, light railings and arches on balconies on the second, and a roof with iron railings on the third.

He finds in the same courtyard area the Sabha Niwas, the hall of public audience, an ornate building with spectacular chandeliers and supporting columns, now an art gallery that contains rare original manuscripts such as the Bhagavad Gita.

Arjun wanders through various temple and palace buildings until he reaches the West end of the Palace complex and the Chandra Mahal. The descendants of the Maharaja still live in this impressive seven story palace, the largest building in the complex. The first floor only is open to the public. The lower floors have numerous arched, screened balconies and red railings contrasting with the alabaster of the building. The upper floors taper to the top floor, which is a domed pavilion. The platform space around the pavilion has a red railing and offers terrific views of the City below and the mountains above. Above the pavilion flies the flag of the Maharajas of Jaipur. For Arjun, this is the penultimate challenge. How to get to that view?

How to see that which is only reserved to the few and the exalted? He walks carefully around the museum on the first floor observing everything that he can. He sees that there is a man down at the end of a lonely corridor. His job apparently is to watch the door leading into the main courtyard. Arjun figures that from there he can find the stairs he will need to take him to the high pavilion.

Arjun approaches the museum guard and engages him in conversation. Soon Arjun is offering a small bribe to the guard to be give him time to climb to the top of the palace for the view. Arjun shows the man his phone, with which he hopes to take a few quick pictures. Surely, he promises, I will return so fast you will hardly know I have gone. Raising the bribe a little, he finally succeeds with the guard, who opens a door onto the stone paved courtyard. The man points to where Arjun can find the nearest set of stairs.

Arjun Kamat is fit. What are a few flights of stairs to him? Taking them two at a time, he finally reaches the seventh floor. He steps into the pavilion and is greeted by intense sunlight flooding through its archways. He hears the royal flag nearby flapping in the wind and cranes his neck to see it. He steps into one of the small, railed in open spaces on either side of the pavilion. He looks outward from the front side of the palace and is agape at the view. He pulls his phone out and starts taking pictures of the City of Jaipur, his home, as seen from an angle that he is very unlikely to see again.

A man pokes his head out the stairs. He can see Arjun to his right. He looks back down the narrow stairway behind him and gives the men waiting there a signal with his hand before lunging the rest of the way onto the palace's rooftop pavilion. In doing so his foot accidentally strikes the last stair, making him stumble.

The noise draws Arjun's attention. At first Arjun thinks he has been discovered by the Palace's security staff and his pulse quickens. The man is wearing a suit and tie after all. Who else could he be? What had seemed like a lark just a moment ago is now beginning to look a lot more like a mistake, one for which an additional price may well be exacted. In that instant Arjun freezes. He doesn't realize that this could cost him his life.

"Mr. Kamat! I'm exhausted. I'll tell you that," a loud voice states.

The man seems to recover from his stumble quickly, moving with fluidity toward Arjun. Worse, that fluid motion carries with it two really scary looking guys, who waste no time in moving to either side of Arjun. It's hot and sunny, but Arjun is used to it. All of a sudden though, he feels the heat. Or is that just the body heat coming off the two big guys?

"Thanks for the tour of Jaipur's most historic sites," Mr. Suit remarks, nodding at the other two. They grab Arjun and pull him under the pavilion, backing him against the center of the five open arches. A push and he will fall into the courtyard seven stories below. He looks backward but Mr. Suit is saying something.

"Your attention please!"

The man slaps Arjun so hard that he thinks his head has come off his neck. It makes a sickening sound. He is totally stunned and can't think.

The man pulls a knife and makes certain that Arjun sees it. But Arjun is unable to process what is happening.

"Mr. Kamat, I'm going to ask you a few questions and we don't have a lot of time. We've been very patient following you around all day until this very moment. But now the patience runs out for you. If you fail to answer my questions, or even hesitate to do so, you will suffer the consequences."

Arjun's head is nodding and he has no idea why. He still can't speak.

"Okay. Now listen to me. The USB stick from China. Do you have it?"

Arjun can't believe he is being asked about this, but he tries to think. This takes too long and Mr. Suit slashes him across his chest, separating his t shirt and making an ugly cut, which makes Arjun cry out.

"No. I don't have it."

"Who does?" he is asked.

Again, Arjun hesitates. Again, Mr. Suit slashes him, this time on his right arm.

"Dammit! Zak. Zak has it. Zak and Kim, in Paris."

Mr. Suit gets closer, in his face.

"Did he give you a copy?"

"No," Arjun says flatly.

"I don't believe you."

Arjun gets stabbed in the thigh. One of big men slaps his hand over Arjun's mouth to stifle his scream. After he stops Mr. Suit nods and the man moves his hand aside.

"Who else has a copy?"

Arjun is in shock. He can feel blood soaking his clothes. He feels panicky and thinks he is going to pass out.

"No one. There are no copies. Geezus!"

The man wipes the knife on the sleeve of Arjun's shirt. His face turns down in an ugly grimace.

"I don't believe you," he says.

Mr. Suit gives him a deadly look. Abruptly, the knife in Mr. Suit's hand arches toward Arjun's throat, and in that second something finally awakens in Arjun. He lifts off his feet, leveraging himself with his arms still firmly in the grip of his two guards and uses his feet to hit his inquisitor squarely in the chest with all the force he can muster. An expression of surprise comes over Mr. Suit as the force of Arjun's body in motion breaks him away from the big men and launches him like a projectile out the courtyard archway of the pavilion.

Arjun can see only sky as he falls backward, but there are several balconies below him that have overhanging roofs. Instinctively he flails, arms hitting one and then another roof painfully, slowing him down. Finally there is a third roof. This time he reaches for a roof and finds a purchase, breaking his fall however briefly. He cannot hold on. Instead, he falls another story and lands, on his back, on a large archway. The wind is knocked out of him and he is unconscious. His body is splayed prominently over the classic architecture and blood is splattered on his pale face.

Chapter 50

"What are we doing again?" asks Ellie Hunter as she walks next to Ethan Edwards in the shopping area of downtown Monterey.

"We're larking," replies Ethan the Brit.

"What?"

"Larking. We're on a lark. As in having fun, you know," he says.

Ethan pats Ellie on the back. They have been friends at Stanford for years, ever since she tutored him in Spanish. Now she attends and teaches at the Navy's Postgraduate School's Defense Language Institute in Monterey, located in the old royal Spanish fort, the Presidio. It is so near downtown that she can easily walk there from her condo.

Ellie was surprised at Ethan's call for sanctuary. Their relationship had never been romantic, but when Ethan explained about his friends and there being some kind of danger, she was intrigued and said he could stay. Ethan is artistic and creative and fun to be around. She didn't need a reason for him to stay.

They step around a corner onto Prescott and suddenly the waterfront is visible.

"Monterey Bay!" Ellie declares with a grand gesture of her arm toward the bay that she has come to love in her short time in Monterey.

"Wow! Nice!" declares Ethan, wanting to dive in.

"I don't know. Waves look up," Ellie says warningly.

"Not that bad, really. But it's more than I'm used to."

Ethan figures if the equipment rents high he'll let it go.

"Okay. Now up here is Cannery Row, called that because of John Steinbeck. It used to be called Ocean View Avenue."

Crossing over Cannery Row are a couple sky bridges that were used to facilitate the operations of sardine companies and which still remain. The waterfront area now has modern retail and restaurants, and they wander among the new buildings and shops, until they come upon a dive store.

Ellie has never been in a dive store.

"Whoa. I hope you know what you're doing. What is all this stuff?"

"Hey, I'm certified. It's one heck of a lot of diving equipment, huh?" he laughs.

To one side there is a line of tanks and nearby are sets of fins, but the store is mostly aisle after aisle of different kinds of diving supplies. They walk up to the counter. Behind it is a wall posted with blue photographs, all taken underwater.

Ethan asks about renting. The counter man, in his early thirties, looks them over, paying special attention to Ellie.

"Just you?" he asks Ethan while not taking his eye off Ellie.

"Just him," Ellie replies, smiling and not annoyed.

Soon Ethan and the counter man are engaged in a discussion of what Ethan needs to rent, and it is clear to her that this is going to take a while. Ellie starts to browse and notices two middle aged men in khakis, one Asian. To her they seem out of place. While the Asian man seems to be familiar with diving equipment, the other man looks just as lost as she is.

Ellie drifts drifts back to the counter.

"Yes, it's a National Marine Sanctuary and we are actually a peninsula, the Monterey Peninsula," the counterman says.

"And what are these mountains?" asks Ethan, happy to have come across so much information.

"They're known as the Pacific Mountain Coastal Range."

"They're rocky," Ethan observes.

"Yeah, it's Big Sur to the South. Ocean cliffs. Big Cliffs," he laughs.

Ellie is more concerned about the safety of Ethan's dive. Something in her doesn't want to see him drown now that he's her guest.

"Have you seen the surf?" asks Ellie.

The dude raises his hand, palm out.

"He'll be fine. He can take his phone down and text you."

Ethan shakes it in front her.

"Good to 50 meters!"

"A diving phone? Really?" she gives him the eye.

"The only way to dive!"

Ellie shakes her head and looks at all the things on the counter.

"Gee, I hope you brought someone to help you carry all this," she says wryly.

He gives her a kiss on the cheek.

"You're an angel."

"I'm not sure about that."

As they leave, Ellie watches the two men she saw earlier approach the counter. Her hands, however, are full getting Ethan's dive vest and other things out the front door, and she fails to mention the men to Ethan.

Ethan has chosen to dive at Mc Abee Beach, sometimes called Pebble Beach because of the many smooth rocks lying near the water's edge. Ethan and Ellie walk through a shopping center named after the town's famous writer to a concrete, landscaped path. It leads them to McAbee, a small beach wedged between commercial properties. To the North of the beach is the Fish Hopper restaurant, part of the Cannery Row shopping district. The restaurant and adjacent commercial buildings stand on twenty foot piers over the water of the bay. To the South is a protected promontory where a Mexican restaurant is located. Nearby are the remains of basement walls and poured footings for a long ago abandoned commercial project. On one of the concrete walls there is a painting of a fisherman and a boat. Ellie and Ethan walk behind a wood fence along the top of huge layers of rock that descend to the beach. The walkway brings them down to the sand, where they make their way behind the Spindrift Inn until they reach the wall with the fishermen.

Having reached his destination, Ethan drops his things. The surf is making white caps against the rocks by Cannery Pier. The sky is windswept with a light tissue of clouds. There's a strong breeze coming off the ocean.

"I know how to sail but I wouldn't sail in this," Ellie states definitively. "What's this thing?" She holds up something heavy.

"A weight belt. Helps me get down there."

"Down where?"

"The bottom."

"You want to go to the bottom? What for?"

"To look for harbor seals."

"And this diving vest? Does it help too." she holds it out.

"Sure it does. It's like a ballast tank. But it's called a Buoyancy Compensator."

"Cool." Ellie says, but she really has no idea.

Ellie takes a place in the sand and watches Ethan gear up and test his equipment. He has his waterproof phone, which will also serve as his camera, attached to a short line on his arm. This will allow it to float freely, yet always be near his grasp. They text each other to make sure that it works.

"Okay! Have a look, shall we?" Ethan says, giving Ellie a big grin.

"You're a bonkers Brit," Ellie replies, her blonde hair flying in her face.

"Well then, Cherrio!"

Ethan picks his way among the rocks until he reaches the water. Surging white topped waves slap against him. He swims out about twenty meters and gives Ellie the thumbs up before disappearing beneath the surface.

Ethan adds gas to his compensator so as not to descend too fast. Blue light radiates down to him from the surface as he enters an underwater forest of kelp, long fronds rising up from below. He is in thirty-five to fifty feet of water and it is not long before he reaches the white sand on the bottom. There are plenty of sea stars clinging to rocks. They come in an array of colors: red, white, pink, purple. He sees a school of silver perch, glinting in what remains of the light at the bottom. Transfixed, he almost forgets to text Ellie.

Ellie is starting to feel the chill in the strong wind. She sits contemplatively watching the cormorants and gulls swooping to the rocks. She hears a bing and checks to see that Ethan has texted her, "Awesome!" For a few seconds she gets a live feed of his surroundings.

Ethan pokes at a crab and watches it scurry awkwardly away.

In the next second he feels as if something very hard has just struck him in the side. He looks down and immediately sees blood, then the sharp end of a spear from a spear gun projecting through his buoyancy compensator. He hasn't really begun to feel the pain yet, but the sight of his injury and the nature of it give him a shock. He feels a growing sense of panic as he reaches back to touch the spear sticking out of his back.

The pain begins and, coupled with his panic, he doesn't realize that he has stopped breathing, that he is slipping away. As his consciousness starts to fade, he has the presence of mind to text Ellie on the beach.

Did he just catch sight of a diver ascending?

Ethan's vision quickly constricts to a narrow tunnel, then goes black.

Chapter 51

As Ciaran Burris gets into his office, he gets a call from Frank Cullen.

"Good morning, Frank."

"Morning."

"You know, I wish you wouldn't do that," Ciaran states with annoyance.

Burris has just walked through the cube farm past, among others, Frank's office. Burris' appearance puts Frank on notice, which gives Frank a chance to call Burris before anybody else can. Especially before anyone can walk into his office, call, email or otherwise grab his attention. This tactic annoys Ciaran, and Frank does it too much. Now Frank is following him into his office.

"You'll forgive me, Ciaran, when I tell you that we've got something on Wang, the Chinese dissident."

"Oh?" Burris sits on the corner of his desk. Frank remains standing.

"Yeah, there is a report this morning out of the Indian province of Rajasthan that an American student was found severely injured in Jaipur. Press spokesperson for Jaipur Hospital states that the young man, going by the name Arjun Kamat, had apparently fallen from one of the balconies at the City Palace. This is especially odd in that tourists are not permitted above the first floor of the palace, which remains a royal residence."

"I'm lost. What's this got to do with Wang?"

"We've got a list of this Miller's contacts. We know who all his friends are, and they've all pretty much scattered. This Arjun is one of those friends. He's from Jaipur."

"The Chinese do this?"

"Could be I suppose, but it seems more likely that it's their underworld."

"Trying to get one over on their government?"

"Something like that. They are also reporting that Kamat suffered a number of injuries inconsistent with a fall and had lost a lot of blood. He's critical."

"Pass this along to State and contact the Embassy there to make sure they know we're interested."

"No problem."

"You're tracking all these people?" Burris knows the answer to this without even having to ask, but he does so anyway. After all, this is what everybody is paid for.

"You bet. Who are you interested in?"

It doesn't take Burris long to figure this one out.

"Zak Miller and Kimberly Scott."

Cullen takes a beat.

"Of course. They flew to Paris with tickets for Dubai. Once they were in Paris, they didn't make the scheduled flight to Dubai."

"Which means they're still in Paris?"

"Yep. We put Dubai authorities on notice to detain them for questioning. Somebody must have informed them."

"Who the hell was that?" Burris is angry. This had been mishandled. It could not have happened otherwise.

"We have the boys at Fort Meade working on it. One of their friends I suspect. Whoever it is, this character is accessing intel traffic. We're searching, trying to isolate. We do know this. Whoever it is, it's an encrypted source located somewhere in Europe."

"Find the bastard!"

"We will, Ciaran. I promise."

Burris pulls his monitor around and sure enough it's signaling him.

"Gotta go."

"See ya."

Ciaran steps around his desk, sits down and types a few characters. There is a short wait. It's Josephine Catral.

"What the hell?" Josephine exclaims, her voice feeding through his computer.

"Yeah, well, we're on it." Burris tries with limited success to hide his dismay.

"Jaipur?"

"Yes. We're in contact with the embassy." Actually, not quite yet, but they will be soon. "And the hospital and family," Burris throws in for good measure, doubling down.

"And the Paris Dubai thing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Who tipped them off that they were to be detained?"

"How did you know about that?" But Ciaran thinks he knows.

"The NSA request."

"Yeah, well, we're on top of it."

"Doesn't look that way to me. Call Lonnie. Get this Harris guy, or Christopher Grey, or whoever the hell he is, on it."

"He's one of ours."

"I noticed. Do it. Oh, and Ciaran."

"What?"

"No more Palo Alto adventures."

Bang, she's gone. She's abrasive. He really hates her.

Burris leaves a message for Lonnie James, who cannot otherwise be reached. This is a guy who never has time to sit on his ass. By time he gets back to Ciaran, it's after lunch.

"Ciaran!" Lonnie comes on the phone with plenty of fake bonhomie.

"Mr. James I presume?"

"I hope we haven't got you in trouble with your boss?"

"God forbid. Water off a duck's back. Like that would make any difference if you know what I mean."

Lonnie laughs.

"You know I know. What can I do for you?"

"We have a problem in Europe."

"The same problem you had in California?"

"One and the same. Only the problem is they have a source supplying them real time intel. Also somewhere in Europe. Frank Cullen of my staff can fill you in on the details. We need to get somebody there who can help us isolate the source. "

"You want me to put Christopher Grey back in play?" Lonnie suggests.

"Please do. The Chinese have to be getting diarrhea over your superspy."

"Possibly. Couple million reporting worldwide, you'd think they'd have the world on a string."

"Yeah. Just don't pull on it."

Lonnie hangs up and sits back deep into his leather chair in a new office park in the suburbs of DC and looks out full length walls of tinted glass onto the post-modern buildings and gracious lawns, annuals planting beds, and not yet mature shade trees that surround him. He calls Todd Harris.

Harris is playing tourist in the Blue Room of the White House when he gets James' call. Of course everyone in his tour group looks at him like he should be arrested on the spot. Harris ignores the glares and steps aside after seeing who's calling him.

"Hi Lonnie," Ted whispers.

"Why are you whispering?" James is concerned that something is happening to Todd.

"It's nothing. I'm on the White House tour."

Lonnie guffaws loudly, directly into the phone. It's harsh.

"Seriously?"

"What do you mean? You're the one who told me to take things in, not to head to California just yet!" Harris would sound wounded if he could. But he can't. It's not in his nature.

"I was at a dinner in the East Room once," Lonnie offers, sort of in the form of contrition.

"Bully for you. Que pasa?"

"We have work for Mr. Grey in Europe."

"Oh. Let me see. Zak Miller?"

"Too logical. They want you to find someone who is interpreting signals intelligence for him."

"Where?"

"Somewhere on the continent. Why don't you get in the air? We should be able to find out more before you hit the ground."

"How's Frankfurt then?"

"Fine."

"Wheels up."

Chapter 52

"Hey, are you going to get that?"

Zak is framing a picture of the Eiffel Tower from the back of their Bateaux Mouche. It will be a picture of the Eiffel as seen from over the heads and shoulders of the other tourists on the boat. But his phone is ringing.

"Hey, are you going to get that?" Kim says into his ear, slipping in behind him, a hand and arm snaking around to his right coat pocket to find the phone, to pull it out, and to take a look at its face.

"Uh oh! Guess who's coming to dinner?" she asks.

The tourists, having taken their pictures, reassemble in plastic seats beneath the boat's glass panel roof. The low slung vessel with the French advertising on the side is unlike the large Bateaux Mouches, which can seat hundreds. This one can accommodate no more than a hundred or so. Kim and Zak found it at the Quai d'Orsay, and it has already been down the River Seine before finding a wide place to turn around, bringing them past the Eiffel for a second time. The crisp and sunny afternoon seemed a good time for a leisurely tour on the water. The concrete qui up and down the river are decorated with Parisians eating lunch, taking afternoon breaks, and basking in the sun, trying to make the most of these last warm days of the year.

Zak sits down in the plastic seat next to Kimberly at the stern.

"Oh yeah?"

"It's from Rashida. Kina and Megan are joining her and catching a plane."

"Great. I get the bed."

"I'm so sure."

"They're leaving now?"

"Yep. They're heading out."

"We better lay in provisions. Tell them to watch their backs and we'll see 'em when we see 'em."

The Bateaux Mouche takes them East on the River Seine until they turn around beyond the Ile Saint-Louis. They arrive on the North side of Notre Dame just as both of their phones ring.

"Wish I had better news," says Bog.

"Say, are we secure?" responds Zak quickly.

"Look at your phones. We're being scrambled, part of my installation," replies Bog.

"Oh, is that what that thing means?" asks Kim.

"Yeah, it says 'scrambling'. You think?" Bog is unable to hide his IT annoyance.

"Yeah. It's there. We're good. Thanks," says Zak.

"No problem. Everybody has a panic button too. Or have you forgotten?" Bog is testy.

"That I remember. If touch it my phone becomes a brick. That's the sort of thing I'd remember," replies Kim.

"Yes, Kimmie, it is the sort of thing you would remember," says Bog. It is the name he used to use for her when they were dating. This whole discussion reminds her of just why it is they no longer are.

Zak gets up and pulls on the sleeve of Kim's jacket, as they move away from the others at the back of the boat.

"Look, guys. I have bad news. There's an Indian wire report that Artie was injured in his home town of Jaipur. According to the report, local officials are investigating."

"What? What the hell happened?" asks Kim.

"Apparently he fell at the City's Palace while he was on a tour. At least that's what they're saying. He's in the hospital."

"What's his condition?" asks Zak.

"Critical. They mention lacerations and the possibility that he may have been pushed. They found him in a part of the Palace where tourists aren't even normally allowed."

"Damn!" Kim exclaims, loud enough to earn the curiosity of those nearby.

"We don't even know who's responsible for this," states Zak with dismay.

"Yeah, I realize. Look, if I hear anything more I'll let you know. Artie's a tough dude and he'll make it, I'm sure."

Kim and Zak speculate on what happened to Artie as the boat returns to the Quai. They find their way across the Pont Royal to the Louvre, where they plan to spend the afternoon. They enter by way of the I.M. Pei Pyramid and buy their tickets in a large hall that has the La Pyramide Inversee at its center and which connects underground shops and restaurants. Less than systematically, they take in exhibits of great art while alternately checking the internet for more information about Artie, taking in as much as they can of the full length and breadth of the galleries until the six pm closing. As they leave the great art museum they stand surrounded by the giant inner courtyard of the once Royal Palace just as darkness descends. The interior lighting of the Pei reflects diamond like on its many panels of glass and is mirrored in the surrounding reflecting pools along with the dignified stone façade of the Louvre.

Zak and Kim's phones ring as they stand next to the black marble edge of one of the reflecting pools. Bog again.

"It's Ethan this time. He was staying with a friend, Ellie Hunter, in Monterey. She emailed using his phone. They're saying it was a diving accident. Ellie had to rescue him after he came to the surface."

"He had equipment problems?" asks Zak.

"No, and here's where it gets pretty weird. He was hit by a spear from a spear gun. But the police canvased everybody in the area and no one saw anybody with anything like that. They're not aware of anybody else even diving around there at the time."

"How bad is he?" Kim asks.

"They took him into surgery to remove the spear. Yeow! Gotta hurt. Man!"

"I'm sure. Stay in touch with Ellie and keep us informed?" Zak is running scenarios in his head over how this could have happened.

"I'll do better than that. I'll send him something on everybody's behalf."

"Is it possible he could have seen something? Someone?" Kim asks.

"I'm sure the police are asking the same question. I'll put it to Ellie for when he wakes up."

"And you be careful. If something happens to you I'll kill you," Kim scolds.

"I get it. I'm sending an email to everybody that we're going to Defcon One. Au revoir!"

"On the other side, Cheeseball. Watch your back," adds Zak.

"You too."

Zak and Kim leave the marble bench and walk in silence to the Pont Des Arts, the pedestrian bridge connecting the Louvre and the East Bank to the Institute de France and the West Bank. They see the Institute on the opposite bank as they reach the bridge, its neoclassical dome, columns and pediment glistening in the sheen of gold dispensed by the late afternoon sun.

A band of cyclists approaches them from the opposite side, whizzing by in a rush of air accompanied by the sounds of laughter. The low setting sun barrels down the Seine. A long Bateaux Mouche approaches on the water, its rooftop lights already ablaze, stripping the period buildings on both shores naked in its glare. Its spotlights fall onto the water and skip across undulating waves as the tour boat moves languidly toward them.

To their left is the Eiffel Tower, the lower part hidden by intervening buildings. Bathed in sparkling gold light, it looks like a piece of jewelry from this distance and casts a beacon from its peak into a sky that is darkening to the East. The City's street lights have just come on and they reflect like ribbons along the water's edge, up and down the shores and the bridges

Zak and Kim stand next to the railing and a lamp post on the West side of the bridge, squinting into the onslaught of the sun's last rays. Chicken wire fencing has been installed below the railings and is festooned with countless padlocks of every color and shape, the keys to each lock not far away at the bottom of the river.

Zak and Kim are black shadows in the sun.

"I know this is ridiculous," Kim says, pulling a padlock from her coat.

She gives it to Zak. He notices that she has scratched their names onto it.

"The whole bridge is covered in locks!" Zak says with amazement.

"Love locks," she corrects him. "They're on only about a dozen bridges over the Seine."

Kim kneels, finds a spot and snaps the lock in place. She gives the key to Zak.

"Here."

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

Kim points to the River.

"Gauche," Zak remarks.

"So?"

Zak reaches back. It is a mighty toss.

Chapter 53

"It's another email," Sophie is saying into Gilly's strapped on earpiece.

Gilly sits on the gunwale of a skiff, joined by other surfers, on their way out to the big waves off Maverick Beach in California. Boards are strapped to a T-top that towers over the boat's driver. As they bounce in the chop, the boards slap against each other, threatening to knock themselves loose and fall onto the occupants of the skiff.

Gilly pulls the mike attached to his headpiece toward his mouth and looks ahead at the bank of low clouds off to the West, what's left of a violent storm out in the Pacific that gave these waves their initial power. He feels the gentle warmth of the sun on his skin, but the air is cool. He is amazed that he can hear Sophie on their wireless hook-up, but figures the reason behind it is the cell tower on the cliff at nearby Pillar Point Air Force Station.

"Bog?" Gilly asks.

Gilly will keep it short because of the crackling on the line, no doubt caused by the small boat's erratic movements in the surf. The whole idea of this was to have Sophie following the real time mapping of the surf from her position on the beach in order to advise him. While it is still too early in the season for the truly big world class waves topping out at twenty-five meters, today's surf is moderate to rough, running four meters or so.

Maverick is known for being surfed in January competitions by only an elite group of big wave surfers, and while Gilly doesn't consider himself even remotely among them, the unusual conditions of the surf at this time of year easily became the pretext for getting away from the risk of staying on campus. The secret behind Maverick's big waves is the unusual rock formation beneath its surface, its bathymetry, a long sloping ramp to the surface that slows the propagation of the center of waves while troughs on either side speed them forward, creating a u shaped wave that moves with reckless force.

"Artie and Ethan. They've been hurt." A second or two goes by as her voice cuts out, but he does hear something about a hospital.

Sophie wags her hand at a couple of birds waddling their way across the sand toward her sandwich. She sits at the bottom of a two hundred foot sheer cliff, among the rocks on a wide semi-circle of beach. Holding binoculars to her face, she can see Bog's far off boat as it rhythmically crests wave after wave in the distance. She knows that there are spectators at the top of the cliff watching the boat and surfers as well.

Gilly had considered Bog's first message about Paris. They had discussed it, he and Sophie, and very nearly decided to go with Rashida, Megan and Kina when they took off for France. Sophie was afraid Gilly would become too involved and place himself in danger. The discussion between the two had quickly run in the direction of Sophie convincing Gilly not to go.

But Gilly would soon know the details of the email from Bog and that would change things. Gilly signals the boat's skipper, who cuts the outboard. Stepping over to the T-top to grab his board, he wiggles it out from beneath the others. Standing at the side of the boat with his foot on the gunwale, Gilly stares for a moment at the waves breaking not far ahead. Finally, he lets fly with the board, which slaps on hitting the water.

Gilly follows the board quickly and dives head first into the white capped current.

Asobi's flight to Osaka was uneventful, but explaining her return to her parents had been anything but. She got herself nowhere. On the one hand she didn't want to worry them. On the other she didn't want to come off as a complete loon. That really left her without much to say. So she appeared vague. They assumed it had something to do with a bad breakup, that she was looking to connect with old friends for consolation. Her parents knew the reason couldn't be her studies at Stanford. Asobi had been at the top of every one of her classes her entire life. There was literally nothing beyond her capability to understand.

It bugged Asobi to think of getting spooked by a bicyclist colliding with her at Stanford. But because of the incident, she took seriously the encrypted emails she was getting from Bog. They put her on edge. They made her jittery.

Asobi is glad to be out of the house and away from her parents. She has fled to the highly commercialized Namba nightlife district of Osaka, which is all bright lights and busy streets full of upscale shopping and endless crowds. She looks over her shoulder constantly, not really knowing what to expect, but expecting it nonetheless.

Asobi fights her way through the dense retail of the old shopping districts to stand at the bottom of the Namba Parks commercial development. Before her are cute ornamental carts displaying flats of flowers and house plants for sale. She looks up at a staircase rising to the next level. A banner sign with the words Namba Parks in decorative iron arches over the top of the stairs. To her right is a corridor that runs into the heart of the retail part of the development. Namba Parks is a blocks long complex shoe horned into the site of the former Osaka sports stadium. Its design is a complicated pattern of eight set back and rising floors dressed with layer after layer of landscaping, creating the overall impression of a public park where in fact none exists.

The well-tended trees and shrubbery wave in the evening breeze. Asobi involuntarily turns up the collar on her red wool coat with her white cotton gloved hands. She then flips her long, straight tresses out of the collar where they have become trapped. She does this somewhat awkwardly, because of the gloves. Asobi turns, taking in the crowd, tons of ordinary looking people privileged to take an evening walk to shop in one of the city's tonier locales. If there is a threat somewhere out there, she doesn't see it among the prams, young couples, and after-hours office workers.

Asobi enters the quickly ascending development on the ground floor. Its walls curve and rise to the full eight story height of the building, striped in differentiated layers of earth color, creating the impression of a tall, bulging curvilinear cavern. Upper balconies are dressed in curtains of hanging plants that droop several floors. Each side of the cavern mimics the other. They bend and turn together, as if designed by the natural flow of water. Glass skywalks connect the sides at different levels. An angular blue office tower looms above the cavern space, windows bright in the inky night sky.

A twenty foot tall ornamental Christmas Tree installed on a center island lies immediately ahead of Asobi. The tree is decorated in thousands of tiny white lights, accented by vertical bands of illuminated red, gold and lavender. A white star sits at the tree's apex. A man stands nearby. Her extends his arm while holding his phone, taking a picture. It's chilly, but Asobi notices that the man has no coat.

Over the course of the next ninety minutes Asobi is in and out of stores of different kinds: specialty, clothing, department, kitchen, women's, shoe, jewelry and perfume. She takes one of the central lifts to the top floors. She looks over the restaurants there, checks a posted menu or two, and then winds her way down, floor by circuitously laid out floor, past various cleverly arrayed, landscaped terraces and rooftop gardens.

Finally, leaving, she finds herself on a broad, curving outer stair. The City of Osaka is brightly lit and spread out before her. To the right of the stairs are trees and landscaping running down the hill. The trees are deciduous and have already lost their leaves. They stand forlorn, stark, crooked and frozen in shopping center up lighting. To the left is a wall that curves with the stairs, vines falling all along the top and down the side of it. There are railings of thick steel along both sides of the stairs, a decorative pedestrian street light illuminating her way just ahead.

Asobi, tiring, pauses at one of the short landings for a second to take in the view. A gust of wind comes along and blows her hair out, wildly. She raises a hand to smooth it back down, glancing back up at the stairs behind her, but there is no one there. Asobi plants her foot on one of the rectangles of stone that make up the stairs, grabbing the railing, stepping down and past a large shrub that has overgrown the low wall separating the stairs from the landscaping on the hillside. Asobi first thinks an errant branch from the big shrub has somehow snagged her coat, but she then looks down.

It's not a branch.

It's a hand. And it's an arm. And, in a split second, it's a man, the man without a coat, the man from before, the man by the Christmas Tree. The man is pulling on her hard and she at first bangs into the railing. But he pulls again, using two hands this time, and knocks her off her feet. This is enough to pull her even further, this time under the railing, over the low wall, and into the bushes.

If Asobi ever thought she needed to, she would have done something to prepare for this. There is another man there as well, and suddenly he is pulling on her too. She hears clinking and guesses that one of the men may have a set of metal cuffs. Their first aim must to be to subdue and control her enough to be able to apply the cuffs.

But for what real purpose she wonders?

There is nowhere, anywhere, in Asobi even a tiny bit of surrender. Ever. Her mind just doesn't work that way. There is no degree of violence that she cannot contort her flailing body into, as she fights to free her arm and grab her father's taser from the pocket of her coat.

Asobi jerks the taser upward at the man and pulls the trigger, not knowing what to expect. The pistol shaped taser fires and abruptly makes loud, fast clicks as it discharges into her assailant's face. The man's face contorts involuntarily and convulsively, cutting his voice off in mid cry.

The other man, the one holding her left arm pulled behind her back, lunges for the taser and strikes her right arm instead. As his buddy silently falls backward, the second man hits her right again, with the result that the taser goes flying. Asobi rolls herself into the guy and smashes her hand, now a fist, into his face with a dull thud. This doesn't appear to do much damage, but her left arm is suddenly free.

The guy slaps at her, connecting, and uses his advantage in size and weight to move on top of her. He positions his legs to either side of her torso and starts to rise up just in time to be confronted by Asobi's projecting left hand. Too late he starts to pull his arms up to shield himself from the spray of the can of aerosol aimed directly at his face.

Asobi doesn't hesitate to squeeze the trigger furiously, not letting up.

Instantly there follows a string of Japanese curses, an unending flow of them, and the man is wiping furiously at his face. Asobi pushes him off and jackknifes herself away. She clambers to her knees and stands up weakly, wobbling on her feet, her hair and her red coat now smeared in dirt and leaves.

Asobi notices that still has the spray can in her hand so she steps over to the first man, the one she tasered, and unloads the rest of the spray into his unconscious face, making sure that his awakening will be as unpleasant as possible. She looks around, concerned to retrieve her father's taser, but it is lost somewhere in the leaves and mulch. Finally deciding to leave, Asobi passes the crying man going back to the stairs. Seeing him there inspires a thought. Asobi steps back and sweeps her booted foot in a wide arch, hitting the man full in the back of the head, so hard that she hears a crack and watches him go down.

It is suddenly very quiet. In the silence that follows Asobi gathers herself up. As she ducks under the railing to get back to the stairs she looks up to see a couple. They're just standing there on the next landing, staring, not saying or doing anything. She sees lights bobbing and weaving near the top of the stairs. She takes this to mean that there will be more people coming and that she had better be on her way as quickly as possible.

The stone steps have short risers, making it easy for her to fly down them two at a time, her red coat flapping and sailing as it chases behind her graceful figure. At the end of the stairs Asobi takes a long sloping walkway that cuts back across the field of view from the stairs. Without slowing, she looks up and sees the same couple, still standing there, looking at her.

Ms. Shimada disappears from their view, just as the night is joined by a siren's sound.

Chapter 54

"Excusez-moi!" says the woman sitting next to Kina. She and Kina are on the back bench seat of the shuttle van. Kina, dressed to ward off the cold of the Paris night, unbuckles and steps down from the van to permit the woman to exit the vehicle.

"Pardon," says the older woman to Kina, now that they are face to face on the brick pavement.

"Sure," replies Kina to the well-dressed woman, who quickly turns to the entrance of the Paris Ritz. The driver of the double parked van follows behind her, towing her wheeled bags through the line of cars parked along the curb in front of the hotel and up onto the sidewalk. He turns to the hesitant woman and with a gesture of his arm encourages her to walk between the cars to get to the sidewalk.

Kina climbs back aboard the shuttle.

"What the heck!" she exclaims.

"Hey, it's the Ritz," says Rashida. "It's like the best hotel in the city. Famous people have stayed here, like Hemingway during the war. What do you expect?"

"I thought the Hotel de Ville was the city's best hotel?" speculates Kina.

The other two laugh.

"The de Ville is the Paris City Hall, not a hotel at all."

Kina is somewhat mortified.

"This is the Place Vendome, this big plaza," says Megan with a sweep of her arm to the mammoth space set apart from the crush of urban Paris. Then she points to the eighty foot column at the center. "The Vendome Column. Napoleon."

"How do you know all this?" asks Kina.

"High school trip," replies Megan.

"Seriously?" Kina is feeling her third wheel status. Rashida and Megan, once involved, have formed their own club and she is discovering quickly that she is not among its members. The two have gone on without stopping the entire flight.

Kina looks at the bright façade of the Ritz Hotel, four arched doorways covered with four rounded and internally lit yellow awnings. Only one of these is the actual entrance, having wood revolving doors, a red carpet on its steps, and a crowd of people spread out before its pavement. Banners of icicle lights hang from old fashioned second story windows and the tiny balconies outside them. French flags fly over the entrance. Tall, elegant street lights with triple lanterns light up the hotel and the whole of the Place Vendome, a four story palace ringing the large square in which the Ritz is but a kind of tenant. The windows over the entrance of the hotel emit a gentle glow that welcomes at all hours of the night.

"Allons-y!" says the driver, bounding back into his seat up front.

"Oui! Let's go!" replies Megan, enjoying that Rashida is taking all this in.

"Oui, Oui!" the driver throws back, adding emphasis by pointing skyward.

An internal groan almost escapes Kina, but they just let off the last of the travelers in the shuttle van and their destination cannot be that far off. Though the truth is she has no idea where they are other than somewhere in Paris and over an hour from the airport.

The driver takes them through the Place du Carrousel on his way to the River and they circle around the La Pyramide Inversee by the Louvre, a smaller version of the I.M. Pei a short distance away. Megan draws their attention to the skating rink of glass that serves as the skylight over the underground Carrousel de Louvre shopping center. The glass rink forms the base of an inverted pyramid of glass that sinks downward to the floor of the shopping center below. Megan can remember finding a place to sit there on a previous trip, just to watch people walking across the glass skylight of the pyramid above, while being observed by the shoppers below.

They are being taken hurriedly along the right bank of the Seine when Rashida's phone fires off.

"Zak!"

In an instant, Megan is on the same call, phone to her ear. The two women begin to fill Zak in on their trip so far. Their van crosses the Pont Neuf and the tip of the Isle de Cite. The upper portion of Notre Dame and its Christmas tree are visible from their car. Megan nudges Rashida to look over at the cathedral and Kina follows her gaze. But as Kina scoots across her bench seat to the left side of the car for a better view, her phone also rings. Her parents are wondering how she's doing. The driver looks in his rearview mirror and is not surprised to see three young American women all on their cell phones at the same time.

They wind south of Saint Germaine Boulevard, passing close to the Sorbonne and just past the Luxembourg Gardens when they pull up in front of Zak and Kim's modest old hotel in the Latin Quarter. As the girls climb out of the shuttle the driver runs to the back doors of the van to retrieve their luggage. Zak and Kim, standing inside the glass doors at the front of the hotel, see them and push the doors, running out.

Everyone crashes into each other on the sidewalk in a series of hugs and hellos.

"Salut!" cries the driver toward them, having deposited their bags on the sidewalk, now waving and getting back into the van to leave.

Megan yells back to the driver, "Bonne chance!"

"I take that to mean good luck?" asks Zak.

"Of course," replies Megan.

"Then I think we should have some too," he says.

"We got you a room not far from ours," Kim informs.

Kina clears her throat. Rashida knows this is her cue.

"We seem to be a bit light on funds. Mind if we crash?"

Kim laughs.

"No problem," she says.

"Well, we might want to take the stairs in that case," Zak suggests.

"Good idea," goes Kim. "Come on girls. Let's get your stuff."

They grab their bags and enter the hotel, but veer off to the fire stairs. After lugging everything up several flights and down the hall to Zak and Kim's room, they drop it all, including themselves, on the big bed.

"Nice room," says Megan from the chair next to the side table. She turns on a lamp located there.

"Could be a little bigger," ventures Kina.

"No. It couldn't. Believe me," retorts Kim.

"Oh, I don't know," says Rashida, already on her tablet by the tiny desk and window. "We have the essentials it looks like."

Zak clicks the TV on and they are welcomed by a French beer commercial. He mutes it.

"Look, guys. We got Bog's emails just like everybody else," says Rashida, looking straight at Kim and Zak. She is still wearing her puffy coat.

"You're safer here," says Kim.

"Are we really?" asks Kina.

"Of course, Kina," says Megan. "Somebody is after you, looking for what this journalist in Beijing found out, taking you out one by one."

"At this point I don't see any other option. But since Dubai is now out of the question, I think we're going to have to come up with something else," says Kim.

Zak looks at Rashida, Megan and Kina.

"That's where you three come in. Okay?"

"Okay, okay," says Kina. "But where's the wine and cheese? I say it's time for a girl's night out!"

Everyone gives her a look.

"Well, isn't it?"

Chapter 55

Majid Al Mualla floats in the lighted pool, its aquamarine water dotted with small islands covered in sand and palms, its undulating shape that of interlocking circles, its surrounding landscaping accented by specialty palms, its outer border of grass and mature palms separating it from the beach. He can hear the dark waters of the gulf lapping against the white sand.

Majid looks up at the hotel towering above him. The Jumeirah Beach is a blue wave of architectural glass, convex and ascending on the north side, concave and descending on the south. The hotel is a marvel of architecture and engineering, clearly not afraid to make a statement. Jumeirah stands for beautiful, a name attached to the surrounding coastal residential neighborhood, one frequented by ex pats. In fact, they used to call it Chicago Beach.

Majid is alone in the pool at this hour, the setting completely peaceful and relaxing, a sharp contrast to the office he left a while ago. There the people who work for him are often required to work overnight. There the pace is anything but relaxed. Majid has already been up for over twenty hours and this is not unusual for him.

He hears his name called, but can't see in that direction. He rolls into the water, turning, and sees Kadin Sa'd moving assuredly toward him through a thicket of palms on the other side of the pool. Majid and Kadin move toward each other, to where the pool curves and the sidewalk runs near a cabana.

"Kadin."

"Sorry to pull you away," says Kadin.

"You didn't. I left work and was at the Oberoi."

"The rooftop?"

The tech style rooftop bar at the Oberoi is known for its view of the Dubai skyline. In addition, its glass ceiling provides a sky view.

"Let's take the beach," Kadin says.

Majid climbs out of the water and grabs his towel and a robe. Together they step down to the sand and are enveloped by the warm, moist night air. Their walk takes them past a jetty that projects into the Gulf to a restaurant at its end. Another jetty circles from the opposite direction, creating a protected cove for the hotel's marina and visiting yachts. The jetties and piers are illuminated but the yachts parked near them are dark so late at night. Bits of moonlight fall on their white hulls, as the yachts make lapping noises against their moorings.

Kadin and Majid come to a stark white round pavilion projecting into the water at the end of the beach. The two story glass building has awnings shaped like white sails and a brightly lit interior filled with exercise equipment, a familiar sight to both men.

"So. Are you on your own?" Majid asks Kadin.

That Kadin would call him in the dead of night just to work out, this doesn't surprise Majid. They've done it a few times. Really, how many people can work all hours without some kind of break? But Majid knows that even in his off time Kadin is a man not lacking for company.

"Connor, Angela and Samira are waiting at the Three Sixty."

This is the round restaurant bar at the end of the jetty, the experience of which is a lot like sitting in an upscale disco surrounded by the sea, to Majid's mind, and which is a favorite of western tourists. Majid knows only of the three mentioned persons, but he suspects he will soon be able to meet them in person. Regardless, he is sure they must be young, single, hungry and without any lives of their own.

Kadin uses a passkey on the door. They enter a round gymnasium where a few men are already starting early days. Majid knows that Kadin has a locker with an extra pairs of trunks, so he never bothers to bring anything. Kadin quickly undresses and they jog up a steel staircase to the second floor, which has exercise equipment laid out radially facing the curving windows. Kadin and Majid take machines not far apart. Majid plugs in earphones, selecting music off the treadmill's console, but turning it up for Kadin's benefit.

As they run they view the Burj Al Arab hotel across the way, beyond the yachts in the marina, surrounded by the waters of the gulf, reachable only by a short bridge. Shaped like a billowing sail, the Al Arab has a vaulting and fanciful interior of honeycombed balconies separated by giant gold pillars. With palatial rooms, it's as if the Arabian Nights themselves had come to life.

Majid is done after forty minutes and is dressed and sitting in the lobby, cooling off, before Kadin comes down from the second floor to the wide open lounge occupying most of the first floor of the exercise pavilion.

"I'll be just a minute," he assures Majid, on his way to the lockers, only to re-enter the lobby moments later, bare-chested, holding his shirt in his hand and still sweating profusely.

"Come with me and we'll get something at the Three Sixty," he offers.

The night breeze coming off the Gulf helps cool Kadin down as they traipse across the empty beach back to the marina walkway and the wide sidewalk running across the top of the jetty. The footpath is lit along the side by a series of lights. The lights form a bead and run the sweeping arch of the jetty to the restaurant and bar at the end. The cool walk is a relaxing one. Kadin puts his shirt back on. They meet couples coming back to the hotel and walk again past large yachts moored in the slips attached to the jetty. Flags snap in the breeze.

They approach the Three Sixty, the inside bright with violet lighting visible through floor to ceiling panels of glass that completely circle the spaceship like building. They hear voices as they approach, which come from the top of the restaurant and is open to the sky. White lights surround the base of the structure. Their glare and the purple light coming from the restaurant are reflected far out into the water. The sidewalk they are on rises into a gangplank to allow customers in. Once inside, a steel staircase rises to the upper deck.

Kadin and Majid walk in to find the interior filled with white plush and modernist furniture. In the strong techno lighting, the furniture appears transcendently lavender. The floor is glass like and is imprinted with ghostly white shapes, apparently to suggest some kind of sea anemones or jellyfish. In spite of the hour the place is busy.

Kadin doesn't see Angela, Samira, or Connor.

"Let's try upstairs, shall we?" he asks Majid.

The upper level terrace is ringed by lounge seating and tables butted against an outer railing. The spectacular view is dominated by the massive wave form of the Jumeirah Beach Hotel on shore and the sail like form of the Al Arab in the water nearby.

"You should check your phone," Samira, the personal assistant, points out as soon as they sit down and finish introductions for Majid.

"You're not fixing me up again, are you?" Kadin jokes. "I thought we were over that?"

Samira just gives him a knowing look.

He pulls out his phone, which had been turned off, and sees the call that Samira was referring to. It's West Coast. He slips over to the next lounge seat and powers up his phone.

"Kadin!" he hears immediately.

"Adam. How goes it?"

"Are we secure?"

Kadin checks his phone. Familiar icons greet him.

"As far as I know."

"It's about these Stanford kids."

"I figured."

"It seems they're being watched pretty carefully. There was a party planned for them at your end. They found out about it."

There is a pause on the line as Kadin considers this. Finally he asks.

"Where are they?"

"Paris."

Kadin sighs.

"You really need to see this, Kadin. I'm certain it was meant for you."

"Okay. Adam?"

"What?"

"Let me figure this out."

"Sure. Take care."

Kadin hangs up and returns to the group. Not surprisingly, Angela is still needling Connor about being single. Samira is making a positive impression on Majid. Unfortunately, this may not be a good thing, as Majid is married.

"Samira!" Kadin says, picking up his drink, "What's doing on the world conference circuit right now?"

Samira is taken back. It is after all the middle of the night.

"There will be issues," cautions Connor, always conscious of his role in Sa'd's personal safety.

"There always are," Kadin replies nonchalantly.

Samira Veena works her tablet furiously.

"Well, let's see. Fashion events are out of the question I suppose? Where are we looking by the way?"

Kadin peruses.

"Say, maybe Western Europe. Find anything that's just starting."

"He never goes to any of these things," says Angela to Majid by way of filling him in.

"Oh," Samira says, startled. "That does narrow it down a bit."

"Find something financial," instructs Angela, striking a pose with her arms extended as if on a sunny beach. "I'm looking to get away."

Samira glances at Angela.

"Sorry," she says to Angela, as there doesn't seem to be much in the way of "financial" conferences. "Here we go! How about a Summit on The Global Security Agenda in Nice? I'm sure they would be ecstatic for you to join them. Would you like to be a keynote speaker?"

"What? At this late date?"

"I know they'd fit you in. Say the word."

Samira looks at him expectantly, wanting him to say yes.

"Better not this time, but I could do a panel. I have a feeling I'm going to be too busy taking things in. If you know what I mean," Kadin says drily.

"I'm sure I don't," replies Samira, genuinely clueless and not the least bit unhappy about it.

Chapter 56

An hour before dawn, Bog, wrapped in blankets, is laid out cold on a black vinyl sectional, a glass coffee table pushed aside, in the living room of his friend's Stare Mesto apartment in Prague. The television flickers away, its shadowy changes in luminosity playing over his unmoving figure, alternately brightening the room and plunging it into darkness, while emitting a muted, garbled sound, lulling and indecipherable.

Around a corner and at the end of the room are a set of sliding glass doors to the apartment's balcony. Bog forgot to turn off the patio light, which has proven fortuitous for the three burly men in black gloves and dark, close fitting attire that now stand outside those doors. They have managed to climb down from the balcony above, which was part of an empty apartment. The patio light aides the one playing with the locking mechanism on the door. He operates for several minutes before finally defeating the lock.

The man opens the door with a light whoosh of air and the three quickly gain entrance. They move silently and descend on Bog with quick moves. One tapes his mouth. Before he can really awaken, they have pushed him onto his back, where another wastes no time zip tying him. Bog starts making guttural noises and kicking his feet before they too are zip tied.

Of course Bog's struggle makes plenty of noise and then there is the rush of cold air from the open balcony doors. This wakens Viktor, Bog's erstwhile friend, who now calls out from his bedroom. One of the three men positions himself by the bedroom door. When Viktor steps out a moment later, he is clocked with unmistakable ferocity and falls like a heavy sack to the floor. Bog keeps struggling, but there really isn't a whole lot he can do.

Bog considers himself lucky to have missed the treatment just handed out to Viktor, when suddenly he feels a fist planted entirely too forcefully to his kidney, a blow that hammers the pain centers of his brain like the force of a concussion, and he nearly faints. Leastwise, he stops moving, which was probably his attacker's objective all along. His lack of movement is a development greeted with satisfaction by all around and the men begin to talk in low voices as to what is to happen next. After a short bit of this, they turn their attentions again to Bog. They turn him over and sit him up on the black vinyl sofa. At least they try to sit him up. For a man tied in the fashion that he is, it's awkwardly and sideways.

Up to now all three men have been wearing baklavas, but now one steps back, seats himself on the coffee table, and pulls his off.

"Hi. Bogdan? My name is Christopher Gray. I suspect you may have heard of me."

Bog doesn't move. He doesn't even blink an eye. But it's still clear that he knows who Christopher Gray is.

Gray would like to think that this is a sign, a sign that he has frozen the graduate student in fear. But he doesn't really believe that. Instead, he sighs, heavily.

"We're going to get going now and we appreciate your cooperation. We're going to remove your leg constraints to facilitate your transfer, but if that becomes a problem you will be dealt with very harshly. You know what I mean."

Gray nods to the others and in an instant the tie on Bog's legs is cut, allowing him to plant his feet on the floor. They toss him a t, jeans, sneakers and a jacket, removing the zip tie holding his hands behind him so he can put them on. After he has done so, they zip tie his hands again, but this time in front of him, placing a sweater over them. Bog is grabbed, forced to his feet, and walked to the door. Again, Gray addresses him.

"I'm going to remove the tape. If this becomes an issue, you know what will happen."

Bog does nothing but cooperate as they move through the building, down the fire stairs, and to the front door. The front door is glass and Bog can see yet another man standing in the light of the awning on the sidewalk, next to a large SUV. Upon seeing them the SUV man moves to open the rear door of the vehicle. The grasp of the men on either side of Bog tightens and they rush him out, very aware that if a subject is ever going to try and bolt, this is when it's going to be the most obvious time for it to happen.

As Bog notices one of the City's trams coming down the street, he forcefully raises his tied hands, breaking the grip of the man to the right, striking him in the face. He wheels and does the same as fast as he can to the man to his left. Bog is off before they can react, rounding the vehicle. It is an older tram, one of a wide collection that the City routinely operates, and in an instant, Bog is on one of its rear steps. The man nearest the SUV has his gun out and leveled when Todd Harris steps over and pull's his arm down, shaking his head.

The tram driver activates the door after a block and Bog climbs into the white over orange colored tram. It's half empty because it's so early in the morning, and he has no trouble finding a seat. In front of him is a young man wearing a heavy grey shirt with epaulets. On the back of the shirt in large black, stenciled letters are the words Property of Alcatraz Prison. Bog is unsure of their significance, but if this guy has a sense of humor, maybe that's exactly what he needs right now.

"Excuse me?" Bog says, touching the man on the shoulder over the back of the seat.

"Yes?" the young guy says, turning his head. If anything, he appears even younger than Bog, especially because of his longish brown hair. Bog hopes his shirt may be a sign of anti-authoritarianism, possibly helpful under the circumstances.

Bog raises his hands, tied as they are, together.

"I have a bit of a problem."

The dude smiles. This is, Bog thinks, an even better sign.

"I have a girlfriend into BDSM. What can I say?" Bog tells him sheepishly. Bog doesn't think his English really registers with the Czech.

"Can you help me out?"

In an absolutely amazing moment, certain to be ingrained in Bog's memory forever, the young man smiles, a small pocket knife appearing in his hand. Bog wastes no time offering his hands with the zip tie, and just as magically the tie is gone and Bog is left profusely thanking his benefactor. Bog offers him money, but instead the dude grins and shakes his head, refusing to take it.

The tram turns at the corner, enabling Bog to catch a glimpse of the Old Town Square a block away. Looking to the rear, he mentally photographs the traffic behind, concerned that his pursuers might not be far away. Climbing down, he jumps off the tram and runs toward the Square.

The night wind gusts and the temperature drops. Flakes of snow fall fast and surreptitiously from the black sky. The brick street is wet but Bog finds that his sneakers navigate it easily. A car comes up behind him and he moves across the granite curb to the empty snow covered sidewalk. The ancient cobblestone street and sidewalk undulate slightly, curving around the old vernacular, multi-story buildings. Lantern lights attached to the face of the buildings light up the street, as do spotlights intended to brighten hanging shop signs and arched doorways. The street glows in soft amber in the night as Bog flies down its length to a Square decorated in Christmas lights. He remembers the Square at Christmas from his childhood in Prague.

Bog slows near a twelve foot angel trumpeting a golden horn. Beyond is a bronze sculpture thirty feet high on an oval over a hundred feet wide at the North end of the Square, unveiled in the early part of the century to celebrate five hundred years since the death of Jan Hus, who stands regally in the sculpture in a flowing cloak. He was taught about Hus in school. The sculpture stands in the Square before the old Kinsky Palace, now the National Gallery and next to it the tallest building in the square, the gothic Tyn Cathedral. Hus is a martyred figure defiant of authorities imposed from outside of Prague and Czechoslovakia, authorities such as the Vatican and Hapsburg rule, and he was a predecessor to Martin Luther. During Communism, the people of Prague would sit on the concrete benches surrounding the immense bronze to express unspoken disapproval of the regime. Sitting at the feet of the Jan Hus Memorial became an act of symbolic defiance that Hus would have supported.

Next to the lighted steps and Memorial is a brightly lit, very tall Christmas tree. Everywhere around the Square are rows of Christmas Market booths fringed in colored lights. Bog is concerned that he will leave a trail in the snow. Despite the early hour, there are a few people wandering among the closed booths. His only option seems to be to find a spot to stop and consider what to do next. He watches the snow, starting to come down in blotches, as he sidles his way into a narrow space between red roofed booths, breathing hard from his run and hoping his luck holds out just a little while longer.

"Get up there!" yells Todd Harris, aka Christopher Gray, to his nearest man.

Harris figures Bog made the Square and must be hiding out somewhere within it. The 'up there' to which he refers is the observation deck of the Old Town Hall, which has the best vantage point of the Square. Like everything else on the Square it dates back about a thousand years and, like everything else on the square, it was not carpet bombed during the war. The Town Hall was struck however, sheering a side, which has been left as it was at the time, a standing rebuke to those who tried to destroy it.

SUV man runs to the heavy wood front doors and bangs away at them, hoping to scare someone into opening up, and, after a minute of this, the door opens and a man appears. SUV man barrels inside, pushing the janitor out of the way. He runs past the ticket counters for the catacombs beneath the building and to a central glass elevator that rises through a spiraling steel cage in the open center of the building. The elevator goes to the top of the Hall's spire, and he immediately commandeers it.

It takes a few minutes, but he is at the lookout, staring down through thick stone archways at the Christmas wonderland before him. It is beginning to lighten to the East, but is still so dark that he can't make out everything on the Square. Directly across, the dark, gothic façade of Tyn Cathedral is washed white by the powerful floodlights trained on it. Spires rising from its twin towers are dressed in rings of twinkling gold lights.

As if by divine providence, SUV man's problem is solved. On the Square, someone has just taken off, walking fast along the Town Hall side of the street. The subject is moving past the old astronomical clock on the side of the building, just beneath SUV man, when SUV man gets a call off to Harris.

Bog picks it up as he hits the narrow pedestrian Charles Street, Karlova on the street sign, which he knows is going to take him to the Charles Bridge. He is hoping to lose Gray and his team once on the other side of the River.

It is several blocks and Bog is sprinting, getting winded as he passes the wood booths of an al fresco restaurant. Finally, he sees the medieval Charles Tower, taller than all the buildings around it, constructed of such a massive weight of stone that it would seem to be beyond the talents of the builders of its day. It forms a huge arch over the entrance to the bridge and Bog is not breaking stride to reach it.

The first rays of the sun burst on Bog's left as he heads to the middle of the bridge. The rays of morning light etch the tower, the domes, the spires, and the rooftops of Prague in shades of grey against a brightening overcast sky. Dark statues along the bridge stand menacingly. Wind driven snow falls erratically. Bog is running. Everybody else on the bridge is not. A pathway among the pedestrians between the Tower and the middle of the bridge suddenly opens, and Bog is racing for it when he hears a gun go off.

Bog, his coat flying up around him, is paused for a moment in mid-flight. In the next, he doesn't see the cobblestones reaching up to hit him in the face or feel the cold of the snow on which he is sliding to a stop.

Chapter 57

"What?"

Hui Lee looks at Huiliang seated in front of him in his office, his phone to his ear. It's Tao Deng, his boss, the Director of Counter Intelligence.

"Premier Gaoli is with Huichang now."

Lee is having trouble believing that the Vice Premier is back. He is well into his seventies and not a frequent visitor of the MSS, even though he has titular authority over the organization.

"They have requested your presence on the Wang matter."

This is all very unexpected. The obvious tension in Deng's voice sounds a great deal like a note of displeasure, the kind of displeasure that comes from having a subordinate grab the spotlight and attention of higher ups, in effect going over the boss.

Again, Lee gives Huiliang a look, as if for moral support.

"Okay.

"Go!"

"Okay!"

He hangs up. She says it before he has to.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

Lee nods his head.

"But we have to go now. Right away. The Minister's office."

Miss Tai and he have just been going over things, including Wang, but hadn't finished. He definitely wants her with him.

The two grab their things and rush through the basement over to the new building, rising in the express elevator all the way to the top, to Minister Geng Huichang's office. They step out and into the aviary of an office, adjusting their eyes to the light as they come forward to the big conference table.

Hui Lee is uncomfortable being here without his boss. He decides he will have to fill Deng in right after the meeting.

"Please come, sit down," Vice Premier Zhang Gaoli waves at them.

Having a Premier take an interest in operations is as much a surprise to Geng Huichang, the Minister of the agency, as to Hui Lee. Geng appears to regard Zhang with a measure of fascination. Lee and Miss Tai take seats across the table.

"Now, what's this I hear?" asks Zhang.

Lee and Tai look at each other.

"He must be talking about the attacks" she offers.

"Yes," Zhang says, training his focus on them in a way he knows is intimidating because it is meant to be.

"Probably one of the triads, but we have no proof," says Lee.

"Oh?" asks Zhang.

Huiliang jumps in.

"We have identified a man named Dai Gu, who works for the Chung Yao Triad, as the person pursuing them in Hong Kong," she says.

Hui clear his throat.

"But we have been unable to identify who hired the various men responsible for the attacks in Jaipur, Monterey and Osaka. It could have been Yao. It could not have been. It could have been a competitor shaking the tree as it were."

"Someone wanting to see what falls out," says Huiliang, nodding her head at the same time.

The Vice Premier chuckles and the Minister joins him. Hui and Huiliang are a little puzzled.

"Dai Gu has shown up on our radar in Paris," offers Lee.

"We believe he had a meeting with the Russians," adds Huiliang.

The Vice Premier seems, if anything, more amused.

"The Russians?" he ventures the question, like a comedian begging for a punchline.

"There are many of these underworld connections," Huiliang observes and there is no one in the room who would doubt her.

"Chung Yao has connections with the Russians?" Zhang asks.

"It appears that he does," says Lee.

"A splinter of a splinter. Kaliningrad," Huiliang says.

"Oblast," points out Lee.

"District?" asks Huichang.

"Yes."

"An exclave, not an enclave."

"It was called Konigsberg before the War," Huiliang amplifies.

"For like seven hundred years," says Lee, leaning back and getting more comfortable.

"An ice free cold water port surrounded by NATO," says Zhang, enjoying this exercise in geography.

"A geo-national oddity," agrees the Minister.

Zhang taps his papers with his pen vigorously and finally looks at Hui Lee.

"Have you ever been to Paris, Mr. Lee?"

Chapter 58

"Psssst."

The curtains are drawn and the room is dimly lit only by the table lamp in the middle of the room.

"Psssst."

Kim and Zak are awake and propped on the headboard of the scuffled but still made bed, checking the news on their devices. They both look up at Rashida, who sits amid a pile of blankets on the floor. Somewhere within them lie Megan and Kina, both still sleeping heavily. It is slumber partyesque.

"Can we go and get something to eat?" she whispers.

"Sure," says Kim, looking fresh, her long hair loosely braided to one side.

"Good!"

The compact Rashida stands up, shedding her blanket, totally dressed. She grabs her shoes and starts putting them on.

They smell fresh coffee in the lobby on their way out, stop at a boulangerie nearby and then another store for coffee and juice. Sitting on a park bench, warmed by the passing sun going in and out behind the clouds, they watch people rush by at mid-morning.

"You know guys, I would really like to see Notre Dame," Rashida says.

"What about Megan?" asks Kim, chewing on a roll.

"She's seen everything before. I doubt that she cares. Besides, there is such a thing as too much information. It would be nice be able to enjoy it on my own terms. Can we do it quickly, in case that's all that I get to see?"

Kim laughs and pokes Zak.

"Well, I know we need to get out of here, but maybe we can fit this in while the girls are still sleeping. What do you think, Zac?"

"A quick trip? Maybe. You know, I saw some bikes for sharing about a block from here."

"Ah, the bike share expert!" Kims says, pointing at him.

Having finished eating and with his coffee in his hand, Zak stands up.

"Let's do it! I think we go over there."

The three make their way down the street and around the corner to where bicycles line the curb. Zak selects three, pays for them, and soon is leading them down the streets of the Latin Quarter to the Seine and the Isle de Cite. The impressive view of the South side of the Cathedral with its rose window on the South transept stretches before them as they cross the Petit Pont. They cycle into the large square before Notre Dame's West façade.

As usual there are tourists all about the square. Zak leads, winding his way among the tourists and past the big, fenced Christmas Tree. He turns into the shaded street that runs along the North of the church, the one way going East, the Rue Du Cloitre, being careful to take the bike lane rather than the sidewalk. The walk is filled up with tourists waiting in line by a wrought iron fence that guards this side of the church. Many sit on a low wall at the base of the fence.

Zak, Kim and Rashida ride to the opposite end of the street. Here they find a bike stand to lock up their bikes before they get in line. It is early and they wait. They watch the activity, the comings and goings of people visiting the restaurant on the corner across the street, the Aux Tours De Notre Dame, tables and chairs and diners overflowing the entrance, spreading down the sidewalk beneath the restaurant's red awnings. The diners watch back.

The line to enter the Church advances, they pay, and are permitted through the gates, climbing the steps of a small winding staircase of stone. A single band of steel serves as railing to aide them up the four hundred steps to the bell towers' view of Paris. With seven million visitors a year the marble steps are worn smooth and concave. The central axis around which the steps ascend has turned brown with the groping hands of countless millions.

Kim steps through the open gate at the top of the stairs and onto one of the small balconies that circle the bell towers. She sees Rashida, who had quickly run ahead of them, at the corner, taking a picture. Kim breathes hard from the climb.

"Whatever you're doing, it's working," Kim calls out to Rashida.

Zak is right behind Kim.

Tourists are all around, especially behind them. The balconies are steel cages, ringed in to guard against jumpers.

Without Megan, Rashida turns to her brochure.

"Okay. Started in the tenth century. Damaged by the Revolution. The gargoyles were restored in the nineteenth century. They're fantastic. So imaginative!"

"The gargoyles are ugly," states Kim without qualification.

Rashida laughs.

"They're supposed to be. The gargoyles here on the balconies are supposed to be demons guarding the Cathedral."

There are large gargoyles at every corner. One looks like an Egyptian bird, another like a Pelican.

"But there are many other gargoyles all over the structure. Their mouths are spouts that take water away from the wall of the building to prevent erosion. Thus, the term gargoyle from gargle," Zak weighs in.

"The engineer," Kim says.

"It says here," she is referring to the brochures, "that some are Chimera, from Greek mythology, a figure with a lion's head, a goat's body and a snake's tail. They breath fire."

"Like only something from the imagination can," says Kim.

The balconies of the two bell towers are connected by a bridge that runs across the facade of the cathedral. It too is caged with lattice works of steel rods that run up and above the sides of the stone balustrades, as well as overhead.

"That's the Archangel Gabriel blowing his horn," points out Rashida, as they cross from one tower to the other.

Near them the roof of the cathedral comes to a peak, and perched precariously on the it is a large life sized statue of winged Gabriel facing to the West. They stop to take pictures of the slender spire on the transept, the statues of the apostles poised in stair step fashion coming down either side of the high pitched roof. A clock with its own overhanging pitched roof faces them on the South transept.

They walk the airy bridge to the North tower, where tourists ask to have their pictures taken, creating a jam in the tightly confined space. Rashida, Zak and Kim join in. Photographed together, their arms are over each other's shoulders. The three wander between the towers taking pictures of the Paris skyline, the roofs of the church, and the cathedral's massive flying buttresses.

"You ready?' Zak asks.

"Yep," replies Kim, giving Zak an unexpected kiss, and then turning to Rashida. "We'll see you down there."

"Okay," she says. "By the way, thanks for this guys."

Rashida gives each of them a hug.

Zak and Kim pick their way down the stone steps, happy to make it back into the sunlight and outside the cathedral on the Rue du Cloitre.

"I'll wait for Rashida. Why don't you go ahead and get your bike," suggests Zak.

Kim walks back to the bike stand. As she nears the entrance to the North transept, a nondescript grey van with no markings pulls abruptly out from the curb in front of the Aux Tours De Notre Dame, crosses the street, and comes to a fast break squealing stop just in front of her.

Instinctively, Kim steps back. A masked man emerges from the side door of the van, while two more come out the van's rear doors. She is pinned between the van, the fence, and the men on the sidewalk. They descend on her. One clamps a hand over her mouth. In the next instant, she feels the prick of a needle and quickly loses consciousness.

Zak, back at the tour gate, steps to the street on hearing the van's noisy stop. Seeing Kim and the men surrounding her, he sprints toward them. This draws the attention of tourists in the vicinity and they stare at him as he runs up to the van, only to see it accelerate hard away.

Zak stands in the middle of the street, bent, hands on thighs, breathing hard, as he watches the vehicle make a left near the apse of the Cathedral onto Rue Massillon.

Heartbroken, he watches as Kim disappears.

Chapter 59

The wind picks up and the temperature falls. Flakes spill sporadically from the sky.

"Sophie!" Kina shouts, running out the front door of the hotel.

"Kina!" Sophie yells back into the wind, which is now blowing her hair out. She has just stepped from the cab, and now reaches for Kina to give her a hug.

Gilly walks around the cab.

"Where is everybody?" he asks, embracing Kina.

Kina's face changes and looks stricken.

"We just got a call from Rashida."

"Oh?"

"Zak and Rashida are on their way back. Rashida convinced Zak and Kim to take her to Notre Dame."

"So?" asks Sophie, a look of concern spreading across her face.

"Some guys pulled her into a van and took off," Kina replies, a sense of unreality entering her voice.

Sophie and Gilly appear stunned. Megan now comes out the front door of the hotel.

"Guys, they're dropping off the bikes. They said to meet them at the restaurant next door," Megan yells over the wind. The others turn to her.

"No sense in standing here freezing to death," she says as she steps up to them, digging her hands further into her coat pockets.

Le Vieux is a small restaurant with wood paneled windows and café curtains. An iron stand holds a menu at eye level at one end and another is attached to a wooden pilaster at the other end, a small canvas awning stretching between and taking a beating in the wind. Several sidewalk planters stand along the front of the restaurant, full of green shrubs. A hanging plant flies about in a circle, pushed hard by the incessant wind. A small Christmas Tree is anchored near the door, capable of holding only a few shiny ornaments. Visible to the outside above the café style curtains are hanging stained glass ceiling lamps.

The restaurant is nearly full. They are led to a series of small, square wood tables along the wall where two are free. Above them, set into the paneling, are large slate blackboards with menu items listed in white chalk and set off by spotlights set in the ceiling. A large wood arch spans the bar at the rear of the restaurant, through which the kitchen can be seen. They rearrange the tables and chairs, and study the menu boards. Megan's phone rings.

"We'll be there in a minute. We just got rid of the bikes," explains Zak.

"No problem. We just got here."

"Le Vieux?"

"Yes. Gilly and Sophie just arrived and are here with us."

"Good," he signs off.

"I don't get how this could have happened," Sophie says.

"She was going for her bike. Zak was waiting for Rashida to come down from the cathedral's towers," says Kina.

'Well," says Sophie, turning back from carefully arranging her scarf over her coat on the back of her chair, "they shouldn't be going anywhere without Gilly, now that we're here."

"I hardly think that a stint in the armed forces really qualifies anyone for bodyguard duty," volunteers Kina.

"He was in the protective services," Sophie hastens to add.

"Whatever that is," says Kina.

Gilly steps in to cut off Sophie's rejoinder.

"Look, it doesn't mean a thing. And if they had wanted to I'm sure they could have fielded a bigger, more violent team, if that had been necessary. The pulled off a rolling car pickup and did it well. Who knows what these people are capable of? In fact, who knows who these people are?"

"French Mafia?" asks Megan.

Gilly gives her a look that says how unlikely he thinks that is.

The inner front door opens and Rashida and Zak enter. They quickly recognize their friends and are halfway to their table along the wall before being greeted by Sophie, who has rushed out of her chair to hug Rashida.

Zak's phone rings and he has it out of his pocket as he sits down.

"This has got to be them," he announces, putting it on speaker. The group becomes still.

"Hello?"

"Transmit Wang's USB drive. We will release your friend."

"You don't understand. Transmitting is very insecure," says Zak.

"You and your friends will find a way."

The call ends.

Zak is deflated.

"We'll figure something out," says Gilly.

"I'm not doing it," Zak says vociferously. "She wouldn't want me to. We got this far."

"Okay, I get it," says Gilly.

"We're with you," says Kina.

Rashida and Megan agree.

"You're crazy," states Sophie to all of them, "but so is she."

This buoys Zak.

"Thanks guys. I appreciate it."

The waitress shows up with their food. Zak and Rashida order.

"Has anybody heard from Bog?" asks Gilly, looking around the table and stealing fries, only to be greeted by blank expressions.

Zak finally replies, "Not this morning."

"Hmm," Gilly dials him but there is no response. "He would pick up, right?"

"Absolutely. He sent me a lot of stuff on how to track different intelligence sources. I think we should get busy seeing what we can find out."

"Fine. That could be a great help," says Zak. "See what you can find out about this Kadin Sa'd, anything you can about his schedule or travel."

Rashida is working away on her pad looking for anything on Sa'd between bites of her sandwich.

"Kim and I bought tracking devices in case we got separated. They're small and can be placed easily under the scalp. They really can't be seen," Zak continues.

He swipes his phone to the program and holds it up.

"Problem is, it has to be activated and so far it hasn't been."

"It also means that she probably hasn't hit the panic button on her phone and all her data could be compromised," adds Gilly.

"Is compromised," says Kina with emphasis. "All of us, we're in the open."

"We have been since this thing began," responds Zak.

"Ninety-nine percent of intelligence is in the open. It just has to be interpreted," says Rashida without looking up.

Members of the group all look at each other. Sophie, Kina and even Megan start to laugh.

"Oh really?" asks Kina.

"Really," Rashida replies, still quite serious.

"So, are you going to get us into American and Chinese intel, Rash?" Kina asks.

Rashida finally looks up.

"If what Bog sent me is any good, I just might," is her wide eyed reply.

"By the way," she says, "I think I've got something for you, Zak. That Sa'd dude you were looking for? Well, it says on his site that he is planning on attending the Global Security Summit in Nice."

Zak brightens considerably.

"When?" he asks.

She looks down.

"Now. This week. He's joining it in progress."

Zak is looking at Gilly.

"When was it posted?"

"Ah, let me see," Rashida says, visually scanning her pad.

"Last night."

Gilly sees the light in Zak's eyes.

"That's meant for us," Gilly says

"Correctamundo, Seadog," adds Zak.

Chapter 60

Todd stands outside the ambulance in the sally port of the hospital. It's a confined space with high block walls intended to prevent anyone from seeing the transfer of patients into or out of the facility. He watches as they move the unconscious Bog from the ambulance using a wheeled cart.

Todd looks up at the two-story, bronze glass building stuck in the remote Romanian countryside, its long sloping roof and broad eves, and considers it perfect stagecraft. He may have plenty of CIA contacts, but he still works for Lonnie and Cetron Corporation, making him easy to disavow. This is a Cetron facility, here by consent of the Department of State Security, as well as the old Securitate, the shadow of the former secret police under Ceausescu. They know nothing about it though, if asked.

Todd follows the gurney with the two EMTs through the automatic glass doors and down the hall of immaculate white tile, through an area that looks very much like an ordinary trauma center. They roll past a nurse behind an intake counter. She nods to them as they pass and activates the doors for one of the treatment rooms. The EMTs roll Bog in ahead of Harris. Instead of going in, Todd takes a detour to the nurse's station to pour some coffee into a foam cup. He gets on his phone to Lonnie James and tells him where they're at. Without dialing off Lonnie calls Ciaran Burris, and pretty soon they're all on the phone together.

"So you got him, did you?" asks Ciaran.

"Of course," Lonnie says before Todd has a chance to. Lonnie is always mindful about working Cetron's PR. It's innate.

"Yes. We have him under sedation."

"And this is where?"

"Our Romanian facility," replies Lonnie.

"Where? Near Bucharest?" asks Ciaran.

"No. Think Suceava. Think North," says Lonnie.

"Ploiesti?"

Lonnie realizes that Ciaran is talking about the famous oil fields in the South of the country.

"Not even close," Lonnie answers, wondering why people don't learn geography.

"Okay. But how's he doin'."

Finally Todd weighs in.

"Fine. We'll be taking him out of sedation," says Todd.

"Well," says Ciaran, "be careful. This is a US citizen. Just find out what you can."

"We won't leave any footprints," Lonnie responds.

"Don't worry. He won't remember his name unless we tell him to," says Todd.

"Jeez! I'm not sure I like the sound of that," replies Ciaran.

He is still looking for a way to explain all this to Joe Cat. He doesn't want Harris making things harder.

"Look, Ciaran, that's a thirty thousand square foot facility we sprang for after the last war on terror. It has several dozen personnel and a bunch of MDs and PhDs to boot. Your guy is in good hands. We'll know what he knows. And then some," assures Lonnie James.

"If you fry him you'll be answering to Joe." Ciaran would dump it all on them without the slightest hesitation.

Lonnie scoffs.

"That has never happened," he states.

Burris says goodbye and is gone, leaving Lonnie and Todd on the line.

"Do we have a problem?" Todd asks.

"No. Just do your job," says James before clicking off.

By the time Todd re-enters the room with Bog, they have him strapped down and on intravenous with several crystal clear bags suspended from a pole next to his gurney and he's coming to.

"Welcome back to the living!" Todd shouts in such a way that the sound seems to reverberate off the walls of the too white room. Set up for typical emergencies, it has a wrapped surgical kit sitting on a stainless steel tray nearby. The kind of surgery Todd has in mind won't require it.

"What the hell?" Bog asks in a fog-like state.

Todd nods to the EMT controlling the intravenous. She starts to change the drip.

"Perceptive. Give the man a cigar."

Chapter 61

"So we're going to the Lyon train garage?" asks Gilly.

Zak is quiet.

"I think they prefer to call it the Gare de Lyon."

He looks out the window of the taxi, watching Paris streets roll quickly by, wondering when he'll ever see them again.

"This is Paris' East train station?"

"Yes."

"But we're going to the South coast of France, the French Riviera?"

"The Cote d'Azur," Zak adds.

"The Cote what?"

"Azur. Blue."

"The Blue Coast?" asks Gilly. "You know, I just got to Paris and here you are hauling me off to somewhere else."

Zak pulls his eyes away from the crush of bikers, cars and pedestrians on the Boulevard Diderot.

"I'm really sorry about that," Zak says.

The car comes to an abrupt halt at a traffic signal and an opening between a permanent steel fence and a string of bollards that line this side of Louis Amand Square. A bunch of bikes are tied up against the other side of the cross hatched steel fencing. The car to their rear gets momentarily stuck behind them in traffic as they stop, but the traffic clears enough as the signal turns that the car can lurch its way around and avoid getting trapped. Zak pays, they grab their stuff, and depart for the busy Square.

The bulky Gare de Lyon looms on the opposite side of the open area of the Square, just ahead of them, as they make their way through a full parking lot for motorcycles and scooters. The sky has turned grey and cold and a dark cloud shelf is on the horizon, as if an artist had drawn a line in the ether to separate it from the sky above.

"So what do they call these trains?" asks Gilly, hiking his pack strap to his shoulder.

"TGVs."

"Oh yeah? What does that mean?" Gilly really has no idea.

"Train a Grande Vitesse. High speed train. But look for LGV Mediterranee. LGV is Ligne a Grande Vitesse, or high speed," Zak replies.

The Gare is a block long and sits astride a broad concrete plaza. It has a giant domed clock tower that stands twice the height of the structure on the building's South end next to the Mercure Hotel. The Gare rises four stories to a tall grey mansard filled with large and small dormer windows. The heavily ornamented façade has seven great arching windows. Zak and Gilly head to the entrance, which is under the window next to the clock tower. They step under a flat glass awning like that at the Musee d'Orsay.

The station is filled with people, colorful shops and restaurants. People sit in rows of seating waiting patiently. Ahead of them is the elevated schedule board and under it is a billboard with fashion advertising. Zak and Gilly stand in the middle of the milling crowd looking for the track that their train is supposed to be on.

"Got it," says Gilly.

"Ahead Jeeves."

Gilly takes him to the track where a bullet train stands in dashing grey and blue, waiting their arrival. There are four bullet trains in dock and a large crowd has gathered to board each particular train. The doors are open, so they enter and quickly find a place amid the blue oversized lounge seating. An overhead screen confirms that they are on the LGV Mediterranee and it also indicates their departure time.

As soon as he sits down Zak checks for any sign that Kim's trace is working. Gilly cannot help but notice.

"Dude," he says, "she'll be up before you know it. ET always phones home."

Zak nods without saying anything. Soon, Gilly sacks out, tired from his flight to Paris. The train departs and Zak spends his time staring out the big train window as the French countryside flashes by under an overcast sky, worried about Kim and caught up in his own saudade.

A couple hours later, midway through their trip to the South of France, Zak's patience is rewarded. Zak calls the girls back in Paris. Kina, Rashida, Megan and Sophie are all quick to appear on the screen.

"We see it!" Rashida cries over the cheers of the others. In the background Kina is high fiving Sophie.

Kim's trace is up and they're all watching it on their screens,

"Great! But I'm not sure where she's located," says Zak.

"It looks like they're nearing the Paris airport. I think it's, yeah, it's CDG," she says.

"Crap, that's not good," Zak responds, disappointed.

"No, it's not," agrees Rashida.

Zak takes it as a sign that Kim is about to be taken to another destination.

"Check for information on charters. There's no way they could take her on a commercial flight," he remarks.

"Got it," replies Rashida.

"Have you been able to get anything from Bog, Artie, Ethan or Asobi?"

"Only Asobi. She was attacked in Osaka outside a shopping center but apparently she beat the snot out of them."

Zak thinks about this for a second. He knew that petite Asobi could be a formidably dangerous person to take on. They had worked out together.

"I almost feel sorry for them," he says.

"Who?"

"Her attackers."

"Screw them," she remarks.

"Sophie thought we should go to the Police about Kim," she adds.

He can see Sophie approaching the screen.

"Yeah. But there would be an investigation. The consulate, everybody," Kina adds.

"We would be held?" asks Sophie, hair falling in her eyes.

"No doubt about it. Every one of you," Zak answers.

"Which would hardly help Kim," Rashida concludes.

"But find out what you can. Let me know if anything important happens. Let's not lose track of her," Zak tells them.

Gilly stirs, his eyes opening to look at Zak and his screen.

"Oh, hey Rash," he says groggily.

Rashida catches sight of Gilly and his eternal tan.

"Hey dude. We got everything worked out. You can go back to sleep now."

"Thank goodness," Gilly replies, leaning back and closing his eyes.

"Wake me when it's over."

Chapter 62

It's dark, very dark.

The kind of dark that lasts six months at a time, that obliterates all normal thoughts of day and night. At the North Pole it lasts from the September equinox to the March equinox every year. Dark as it is, the sky has more stars than Aesa has ever seen.

Halvorsen peers at the surrounding heavens through the windows of the observation deck of the mobile research station, Svalsat, run by the satellite communications company Konigsberg. Konigsberg is in turn partially owned by the country of Norway and provides ground services to more satellites than any other facility in the world.

Svalsat is positioned on the Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard, well inside the arctic circle. The Svalbard Satellite Station is a ground station operated for the benefit of a bevy of interests, including NASA, NOAA, the European Space Agency, and many others. All of them are subject to the Svalbard Treaty, which bans any kind of military use or communication at the facility. From this latitude, SvalSat can communicate with every satellite circling the planet that has an orbit of at least three hundred miles.

Aesa's mobile research station is on the ice shelf hundreds of miles from the North Pole. She is further North than Nord station, the Danish military and scientific station on the Northeast coast of Greenland, which is the furthest to the north permanently manned station in the world and which is still nearly six hundred miles away from the Pole.

Like Nord Station, Svalbard Station is reached by air. On the West Coast of Spitsbergen, one of the main islands of the Svalbard archipelago, Svalbard is two miles from the town of Longyearbyen. Longyearbyen is the furthest to the north permanent settlement in the world with about two thousand residents, who are mostly Norwegian. Longyearbyen has existed for over a hundred years, thanks to its abundant coal mines which provide its much needed energy. The town is on the shore of Adventfjorden Bay, which in turn is part of the larger fiord Isfjorden.

The ground station has a farm like antenna array on a plateau called the Plataberget. It stands high on a promontory of land that spears into the fiord and drops on sheer cliffs fifteen hundred feet in every direction. Snow-capped mountains rise to the North and East, visible across vast expanses of steely blue, ice cold sea. The fiords appear mysterious, treacherous and bottomless.

The station's plateau is flat, which lends itself to a rectangular dispersal pattern of satellite receivers. There are over a dozen nearly one hundred foot tall geodesic radomes and a number of big dish antennas. All of these must be kept at least six hundred feet apart to eliminate possible interference. The location assures the longest line of sight time between the ground and satellites. This enables longer contact with the satellites, better communication and the most time for the downloading of data. Snow cleared roads connect the receiver units and form the recognizable pattern of the facility from the air. Ground lights eerily illuminate the white radome globes and operations buildings, all of which literally glow in the pitch black semi- permanent night.

The main station may have many thousands of square feet of floor space, but the Mobile station has very few. Fortunately, Aesa is used to cramped quarters.

"How you doing out there, Aesa?"

She hears the main station asking her a question over her headcom.

"Good. I see lights to the East."

Aesa is watching a vaporous trail of green northern lights, the aurora borealis, undulating over the horizon and wonders if they can see the same thing.

"To the East?" asks Kristian.

Kristian is using his headset, leaning back against the counter of the kitchenette in the main station. He walks across the blue plush carpet past the end of a sectional sofa on which several staff are reclined and in conversation, stepping to the reinforced wall sized window. The window rises two deck levels, slanting inward. This gives him a view of the northern lights, but they appear much farther away from his perspective.

"Oh yes, I see it."

"How are you guys reading?"

Kristian looks over at Daniel, who is watching his pad closely. Daniel just happens to look up. He gives Kristian a thumbs up.

"Daniel says you're optimal. Seriously, you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine. It's just a few days."

Normally, there would be at least two people on the mobile research station at any one time, but the flu has swept through the station and sidelined several of the staff.

"Well, I'm going to keep bugging you."

"Fine."

Aesa sees something just beyond the temporary antenna array laid out in a field of snow next to the mobile station. The array is lit by the light spill from her windows. Was that a movement? A bear? Or is it something else trying purposefully to stay out of her view?

"I'll warm you up when you get back," Kristian finally says.

"I bet you will," Aesa laughs.

Chapter 63

Kim is dizzy. Her stomach feels hollow, leaden. The sound of foreign voices begins to penetrate her consciousness, then seems blaringly loud. Somewhere there is the odor of fresh epoxy paint. She squints to open her eyes, her head a fog, and sees the shiny red of the inner wheel well of a vehicle, then the gray of the ribbed plastic floor. She uncomfortably lifts her head and this sparks a cry from one of the men around her. A voice comes to her from the front of the vehicle.

"Take it easy, Miss Scott," the voice has a Chinese accent. "Please behave yourself or we will be forced to gag you."

At the moment, Kim has neither the will nor the ability to respond. She notices the scratchy and baggy feeling of a shirt and jeans that are not hers. Of course, she thinks, they have taken her clothes, being afraid of possible tracking devices secreted somewhere on her clothes. She also notices that they have tied her hands in front of her. It doesn't stop her from rolling over.

Some guy in a cheap East block faux leather jacket sits on the floor across from her, seated on the opposite wheel well. He's playing with a phone, which she figures must be hers, no doubt trying to get something from it. Kim wiped it, her last thought before succumbing, but this has not stopped the young man from breaking it down, hoping to find some workable memory.

Kim scoots against the shiny red side of the van and looks around, counting heads. The van looks new. There must be six men in it. The kid across from her is definitely the youngest. He looks barely out of high school. The side and rear door windows have been papered over. She can see the back of the guy next to the driver, that his head is shaved bald in a way that reminds her of Dai Gu. She concludes that it must be him and that he is probably the man who spoke to her. Not welcome news, a sinking feeling overcomes her.

Kim watches the kid peruse the disembodied remains of her phone like a baby baboon with a banana, and reminds herself that due to the tiny pin under her scalp at least Zak and the others know where she is. Surreptitiously, she reaches up, feels for the pin, finds it, and, pressing lightly, activates it. She notices a bag with part of her jeans poking out lying next to the kid, just at the van careens off the road and slows to a stop.

Dai Gu shouts something in Russian and the others all turn to look at the kid, who jumps up with the bag of clothes and opens the back door. At the same time, Gu gets out and comes around back to get in.

"I thought we should have a talk," he says as he examines the floor carefully before lowering himself onto it, next to Kim. He is dressed in a good suit, a bright tie, and a fashionable wool overcoat.

The kid is gone for a moment but he returns sans bag, quickly resuming his seat across from Kim. The kid gives her a not unfriendly nod before the van takes off again.

So much for her clothes she thinks. As for her wallet and passport she considers that Dai Gu must have them.

"I hope you are feeling better. I promise you that you will not be harmed. You are merely leverage for the USB device and its information," he offers.

"Who are these men?" Kim asks, gesturing with her zip tied hands.

"They are my Russian associates."

"Russian mafia you mean," she corrects him.

He pulls his knees up and rests his hands on them.

"To suggest that would be an insult," Gu says with a smile.

"Okay. But it would be accurate. Where are you taking me?"

"Kaliningrad. Do you know it?"

"No. Is it Russian?"

"Not always. But it is now. It is an enclave on the Baltic Sea near Poland quite separate from mother Russia. It is where Sergei and his men are from."

"Sergei?"

"The driver."

"Why Kaliningrad?"

"Home field advantage. Safer ground on which to negotiate."

"I see. So we're going to the airport to fly to Kaliningrad?"

Gu claps his hands in self congratulations.

"Very good. You are right. But we cannot fly directly into Kaliningrad. Apparently one of Segei's men has warrants. So we will fly as close as we can and then take a particular border crossing that we know."

"You have a plan."

Dai Gu nods his very bald head.

"Of course. But first we must get out of France."

Chapter 64

It's a bright and sunny day on the Boulevard Risso in Nice, next to the Acropolis Conference Center, aka the Palais des Congres. Kadin clambers out of the limousine sent to retrieve him, having been picked up across town at Negresco Hotel where he is staying. The Negresco sits across from the beach on the Promenade des Anglais and Nice's azure Bay of Angels.

Kadin gets out of the car next to a line of canary island palms that separate the driveway drop off zone from the one way street. He glances at the Conference Center, several stories of blue transparent glass with a clearly visible interior supporting structure. This glass portion of the building connects the old, white stucco section of the Acropolis with the new exhibition and concert halls on the north end. The Societe d' Exploitation de Nice Acropolis is in offices somewhere near the top. It manages one of the largest convention and exhibition spaces in all of France, totaling nearly a million square feet in size. The South end faces the Arts Promenade, a geometrically organized public park with a Sosno sculpture, known as the square head or Tete Carree. The grey sculpture of a human head is seventy-five feet tall and is an attempt to give form to the idea of obliteration. The sculpture is as tall as the Acropolis complex itself, which sits just North and alongside it. On the opposite end of the Center is a modern, de-constructivist concert hall that seats thousands called the Apollon and this is where Kadin is ultimately headed.

Kadin looks up to see an attractive woman in her thirties smiling back at him. She quickly descends a set of concrete steps and wastes no time in extending a delicate hand from the sleeve of a blue serge business suit.

"Hello, I'm Jeanne Mellot, with the Society," she says in greeting him, her auburn hair swirling around her shoulders in the warm afternoon breeze coming off the Mediterranean.

"How are you? Kadin Sa'd," he returns, shaking her hand and then gesturing to the young couple rounding the vehicle from the other side, "This is Samira Veena, my assistant, and Connor Kalil, security."

"Nice to meet you both," she says, shaking their hands before stepping back and addressing Kadin.

"How about we get you something to eat?" she asks.

Jeanne leads them up a phalanx of concrete steps, under the glass awning, and into the foyer of the reception hall. Escalators run in various directions to different halls. Jeanne chooses one taking them to the second floor, where they cross brightly striated, multi-color carpeting to the Hermes lounge, a mahogany wood and leather restaurant where the Societe intends to treat one of the conference's speakers and his guests.

Jeanne spots a well-dressed man a few years older than herself as they walk in. He steps over and she introduces him to Kadin as Mathieu Severin, a friend.

"Mr. Sa'd, I have long wanted to meet you. I am with SG Bank. Would you mind if I join you?' he asks.

"As long as we don't discuss business, of course," Kadin replies.

"I wouldn't think of it," Mathieu says courteously.

"Well, then by all means," Kadin replies, gesturing toward the table Connor and Samira have been led to by the hostess.

Mathieu puts his hand on Jeanne's back and escorts her to their table, drawing her chair.

"You're not a frequent attender of Global Security Summits, are you Mr. Sa'd?" he asks as Jeanne takes the seat.

Kadin laughs.

"No. Not usually."

"What brings you to this one?" Mathieu asks.

"Curiosity. What brings you?"

"Why, Jeanne of course. I happened to be visiting her, although I live in Paris. I was with her when she received your call and told her how much I would like to meet you."

"Actually, I called for Mr. Sa'd," interjects Samira, picking up a menu.

"Yes, of course. And very lucky for me. How many Sovereign Wealth Funds do you help manage?"

Kadin sits back, relaxing into his chair, toying with his menu as if about to turn it into a frisbee, one that he can aim at Mathieu's head.

"Several. And how about yourself? How many Sovereigns does your bank participate in?"

Mathieu only smiles and Jeanne tries to save him.

"Really? Sovereign Wealth Funds?" she asks.

"Government controlled investment funds," Kadin clarifies. "Central Bank reserves, public pension funds, oil and other commodities, extraction revenues. The Chinese have a couple trillion in them. Of course, theirs is mostly manufacturing revenue. Sovereigns make up half the value of the global economy. These are public assets, controlled by over a hundred national Sovereign Wealth Funds and practically as many countries."

"An immense concentration of the world's wealth," Mathieu observes.

"In the hands of a few. I know, I've heard it before."

"In the hands of politicians." Mathieu adds.

"Who do what? Invest politically?" asks Kadin, drawing Mathieu out.

"Who distort the mechanisms of the free market. After all, the free market is supposed to be open and transparent to the public. It is supposed to assure basic honesty."

"And guarantee the fairness of commercial transactions. I know," Kadin finishes for him, "Maintain the inviolability of honest and fair commercial transactions. Make sure there is nothing hidden, that everything is on the table for everyone to see. No politics involved. I get it."

"I'm not sure you do. The maneuverings of Sovereign Wealth by very political countries is inherently and by its very nature anything but transparent. In fact, it is rather quite opaque. The very fundamental basis of politics is, of course, obfuscation," Mathieu states with conviction.

"Credit and capital flows are being politicized is your point," Kadin finds this tact interesting enough.

"These governments play an important role in regulating the markets. What happens if they also have a lot of their own wealth invested in those same markets?"

"A conflict of interest is inevitable," ventures Kadin.

"But is it big enough to bring down those same markets?"

"I don't know. How big an interest conflict is possible?"

"On the part of a government?" Mathieu is lost for a moment in his own rhetoric.

"When do the interests of major international corporations merge with those of certain governments against the interests of transparency and the public interest? I suppose this is what you're asking." Kadin is not afraid to get aboard this train of logic.

"Enough control to write their own truth. Which," says Mathieu with a winning smile, "would produce major distortions in capital markets. Who knows how bad it could get before threatening a worldwide financial catastrophe."

Connor and Samira have engaged the wait staff and are giving their orders. Jeanne

is giving Mathieu her rapt attention.

Kadin laughs.

"I'm not going to ask what you do for Societe Generale," he says to Mathieu.

Kadin then turns to Jeanne.

"But I'm glad you brought your friend here," he says to her.

"We just wanted to help you get ready for your presentation," she replies.

"Ramp me up?"

"I hope that doesn't offend you," Jeanne says, practically giggling. She holds his gaze, a not unpleasant experience for any man to endure, peering at him from over the top of her menu.

Chapter 65

Kim's head hurts. She's still woozy from being drugged. Her eyes are closed and her head rests against the shiny red interior of the van as she makes an effort to regain her senses. As the van bounces, her hair slides up and down the smooth metal surface. Her legs are spread out to keep her position as the van accelerates and decelerates. At one point the van stops so the driver can use a pass through key. After that they enter a gated area. Kim figures they must be at De Gaul Airport, but knows they have taken a circuitous route with frequent checking for any possible tails.

If someone was tracking them from the air, probably using a drone, they would almost certainly have accompanying ground support vehicles. The fact that none of the guys in the van, each with his own device attuned to checking all the traffic around them, has said anything, is a pretty sure sign that there are no support vehicles. And there are no support vehicles she reasons because there is no one tracking them from the air. All of which is because Zak and their friends have not contacted authorities about her abduction.

She opens a slit of an eye and spies Dai Gu backed up against the side of the van, dutifully engaged in checking his device. She knows they fear a BOLO (be on the lookout) or an APB (all points bulletin), whatever they call it in France.

"Let's hope your boyfriend didn't do anything stupid," Gu remarks without looking up.

He must have eyes in the back of his head she concludes and decides not to give him the satisfaction of a response.

Through the windshield and through a growing fog Kim sees the asphalt road spread into a parking lot for business jets. Business jets are lined up by airport taxiways, across from a series of hangars and large industrial buildings. Among the buildings is a small two story office building, and they pull up to it. It appears that the Russians know a reliable charter service.

Kim is beginning to realize that she hasn't been drugged again for a reason. Carrying a comatose woman onto a charter plane would obviously raise some questions that would be hard to answer. They're going to need her cooperation though if they're going to get her on a plane.

She can see the sign over the glass façade through the windshield. It says Meridian Business Travel in blue italics. One of the men quickly gets out of the van and runs into the office. It is mere moments before his return. The van pulls out and runs along the line of charter jets, stopping near one.

As they get out of the van Gu holds Kim's arm firmly and one of the big Russians moves in, staying very close. They walk across the tarmac to board the plane. Kim believes she is probably more alert and together than the Russians are aware. The cold air has warmed up and the fog is thickening. She evaluates her surroundings, realizing that she has to slow these guys down if she is going to give Zak a chance to find her. There's an open hangar and warehouse not far away.

Kim waits carefully for her moment.

Chapter 66

Zak and Gilly step out the front entrance of the well preserved, nineteenth century French Gare de Nice Ville train station, a beaux arts replica apparently of every other major railway station in France. Its elaborately decorated Louis the thirteenth architecture features a fanning glass and steel awning, which they have seen before, an over-arching pediment clock, also a familiar element, a tall steel mansard, and several stories filled with stone filigree. The clock is illuminated and stands out in what remains of the light of day.

Zak, holding his pack by a strap over his shoulder, looks up and down the line of cars and motorcycles parked on an island in front of the station. Gilly follows his gaze past a cluster of tall palm trees up the street.

"This is Thiers Avenue," Zak offers.

"Cool," says Gilly, trying to be encouraging. He slept the whole way on the LGV while Zak planned their next move and is feeling guilty about it.

"We need to get to the Gare Thiers."

"Thiers station?"

"Yeah. They have a tramway. I think it's gotta be this way. Follow me."

Zak takes off and Gilly notices very quickly that he's not exactly on a leisurely pace. They pass a bus stop and take a cross walk across a busy internal drive where a bus is parked and people are loading on the other side. It is the end of the working day and there are commuters everywhere on the sidewalks and busy driveways. They skirt a bunch of parked motorcycles, the railing to the underground and a kiosk sign advertising some event. The sidewalk widens as they pass the end of the block long train station and come up on the boxy white tramway building, where they run inside to get tickets before lining up on the street by a white fence. Nearby is an overhead freeway. They wait on Mathis Service Road by benches filled with people tired at the end of their day and in a hurry to get home when a sleek urban tram pulls up.

Zak and Gilly board with the crowd, and Zak tries to contact Kadin Sa'd using his phone, only to find that he has no signal from inside the train.

"I think we should get off someplace so I can call Sa'd," he tells Gilly.

The tram continues South toward the Bay of Nice, but before it gets there it enters a wide two block plaza known as Massena Square. The buildings around the square are all the same red brick, four story structures, as orderly and decorous as finely iced cakes, possessed of tall arched colonnades on the first floors to provide entry to shops and stores. Above the colonnades are numerous windows with delicate white shutters, some open, some closed. The plaza's pavement is a black and white checkerboard, crossed by embedded tram lines and rows of high street lights with triple globes. It is a Dali-esque sight, complete with the chiaroscuro shadows imposed by the setting sun.

Standing taller even than the street lights are seven, resin life-sized human figures seated on top of poles, each on his or her own pole, luminously lit from inside in colors of blue, red, green, yellow and violet. The colors of each figure change constantly to suggest a conversation going on between them. In fact the installation is known as the Conversation at Nice. It is also known as the Seven Statues at Massena Square. The plaza is filled with people who have just left work. They cross hurriedly and purposefully across it in every direction. As the light of day fades the lighting of the figures gives them more prominence, drawing the attention of the passing crowds, an eerily glowing display in a very busy place.

Zak and Gilly are drawn to the scene. They get off at the end of the square near a large round fountain with immense sculptures of bulls. The tram stops just where it begins to turn north toward the Acropolis. Bollards mark the path of a street across the square and near the fountain. Gilly stares at the dialoging statues. Zak gets on the phone to Sa'd, stepping away from the noise of the water fountain.

""Hello?" comes the query from the other end of the line.

"Mr. Sa'd? I'm Zachary Miller."

"Oh yes. Of course. Sykes." Kadin responds, invoking the name of the only person they know in common.

Kadin stands backstage of the Apollon theater at the Acropolis. A large set of mechanized ropes and pulleys and a control panel sit unattended nearby. Connor studies the panel, having just reconnoitered the various rooms at the back of the stage. Samira sits on an idle chair, putting finishing touches on Kadin's speech on her pad. Jeanne Mellot and her apparent beau Mathieu Severin are engaged in conversation nearby. So are several other members of the speaker's panel and their guests.

"That's right. We met Mr. Sykes," replies Zak, "and he suggested we contact you. We're . . ."

"In Nice I hope," Kadin finishes for him.

Zak smiles, his eyes watching the colors continue to change the resin figures sitting high on their poles. The while of the square is framed against a dark purple sky and the lighted plaza. Gilly turns and watches Zak smile.

"Right. We're at Massena Square and on our way," says Zak.

"Very good," Kadin looks up at the stage flats floating in the fly tower above and other set decorations hanging from ropes far above his head. "I'll be speaking in a few minutes. Come to the big theater. You can catch me after I'm done."

"That would be really great!" Zak replies with enthusiasm.

"No problem," Kadin says, sounding casual.

Zak returns to Gilly, who is facing Nice's ongoing conversation.

"He's about to speak at the main hall. We'll catch him afterwards," Zak says. In the lights of the installation change color, Zak sees how they suggest a kind of animation.

"We guessed right," Gilly says.

"About him coming here?"

"Yeah."

Other things are on Gilly's mind.

"You give that thing away and you won't have anything to bargain with to get Kim back. You know that right?" Gilly asks.

"You've got a point."

Zak's hand goes to the right pocket of his pants, involuntarily touching the flash drive that he is now used to keeping there. How many times a day does he check that he still has it? In his mind, every thought of Kim is conjoined with the drive.

"Let me ask you something," Zak asks.

"Sure."

"Do you really think they'll just let her go?"

Gilly shakes his head.

"Man, I really don't know," Gilly replies.

Chapter 67

Fog closes in on the tarmac. A business jet rolls down a taxiway nearby. It nears its take-off point some distance away, and its engines roar as it prepares to take off. Bright street lights gleam on aircraft parking areas and taxiways now made wet by fog. Miles of taxiways are outlined before them, extending far into the distance, blue for ground lights, yellow for the main runways, an endless game board for giants. The diagrammatic lights disappear far away, somewhere in the thickening fog.

Kim doesn't think that she and the men holding her can be seen from the main office, but there have to be security cameras somewhere. Security points at the airport have people to monitor the feeds. That is, if anyone is paying any attention.

The experience of kicking Dai Gu backwards over the railing of the Ferry flashes back to her as again she kicks, this time at Gu, hard. She works to wrest herself from his grip and twists against the big Russian on her other side at the same time.

The Russian pulls his gun and starts to aim it at her.

Kim is very close and very surprised when Gu's gun hand rises even faster. He has to let go of her arm in order to do it with such speed, but he manages to fire directly into the Russian's oversized head. Kim grabs the air, comes away with the Russian's gun as it falls, and breaks into a run.

As Kim surges away, she hears Gu shout at the Russians. He must be telling them to get her, she thinks. She hopes he is also telling them not to shoot her!

Kim heads flat out for the nearest hangar, which is not more than a few tens of feet away. The Russians better obey Gu. Don't shoot screams over and over in her head. The warehouse has a series of overhead doors. One is open.

Kim speeds headlong into its yawning darkness.

Chapter 68

Gilly and Zak leave the tram at Avenue of the Republic, an older area in downtown Nice of vernacular four story buildings which are built right up to the sidewalk. They head South and cross the block at the next corner before turning toward the Acropolis on Rue Baria. Stepping to Boulevard Risso, they standing at the corner of the esplanade in front of the south end of the building, its spot lit main façade a blocky white stucco with the word Acropolis spread along the top. A giant banner on the side of the building in yellow and white announces the conference and its events. Lighted semi-hemispherical fountains separated by a tall shooting fountain operate from a common pool in front of the building. Gilly and Zak can see the mysterious Tete Carree sculpture down the street from where they stand.

"What the hell is that?" Gilly asks in disbelief at the size of the mammoth grey block resting implacably on the chin and neck of a human head.

Zak looks.

"Nihilism, I guess. I thought this was the entrance."

Zak surveys the park and Promenade of Arts to the South and the Acropolis to the North.

"I think it's this way," he says, starting off along the sidewalk on Risso Boulevard. Gilly has little choice but to follow.

They come to the main entrance on the East side of the building.

"This is it!" declares Zak.

Dashing up the concrete steps, they enter the Agora, the big foyer. Racing up the escalators and through the building, they find the Apollon theater at the North end and enter at the back to find seats empty at the rear. The large Apollon is divided into major sections that rise one above the other. Each section is separated by concrete walls that taken together make the theater look like some kind of modern fortification. The ceiling climbs in undulating panels that rise to the theater's upper balconies.

The giant proscenium stage is dark and iridescent blue. Sweeping panels hover suspended over the speakers, listing countries in attendance. An emblem chosen for the conference shines on the wall behind the speakers, who sit at two silver podiums positioned opposite each other. A silver circle runs around the front of the stage, pulling the podiums into its embrace. Glowing blue light is cast by a series of floor lights on either end of the stage.

Zak and Gilly stand at the back until an usher approaches. It strikes Zak as he finds a seat that there had to be more to Wang's efforts than just one person acting on his own. Zak looks out on the elaborate theater, peopled with those involved in international security and wonders how Wang could have worked alone. Surely the leaders of UNK tasked Wang and not the other way around. They believed his information could affect not just a country, but a world. Zak had become convinced that Sa'd had to be one of those men, and here he was on the stage, speaking right now.

"Of course we have to assume that any threat to world security is going to impact differentially. Some may be affected and some may not, or, at least, not as much. But I agree with Jasper here that it is the vitality of intergovernmental arrangements for security that is tested. The strength of those arrangements derive, has to derive, from their own legitimacy and transparency to their own publics. But that authority can be eroded in a thousand ways and through a million compromises. Should individual freedoms narrow and governmental and social systems broaden their reach into private preserves, it becomes a problem. A system in authority can begin to control communications, at first in ways that have broad support, only to find that acceding to popular will in the end can lead to a reduction in access to unpopular views.

Similarly monitoring all communication may diminish individual privacy but it can make people safer. Believing that there is nothing they can do, people submit to these usually incremental changes in their personal freedoms. While the initial objective of a safer society has been met, the weight of these kinds of measures will interfere with the market for ideas and inevitably slow economic growth. They will feed opposition groups and movements. These measures are not easy to implement, and they can have unintentionally harsh and not entirely equal effects. They are sure to generate opposition, some extreme, some violent.

I agree with Jasper but take it one step further. If a web of government and corporate interest has intertwined globally, perhaps only for security reasons, but most probably for something more, than that result can pose its own risk. Nobody wants to admit it, but all this may lead to a new form of big brother, on a scale never seen or even imagined before.

"International Big Brotherism!" replies the portly Jasper.

For some reason this is thought funny and the audience laughs.

"Yes. Well, it's a good idea to keep in mind that when tyranny appears to have closed every avenue of opposition, when things are at their most hopeless, people will not rebel. They only rebel when freedom appears to be a real possibility."

"And what are we to take that to mean?" asks the moderator, somewhat querulously. He stands in the center of the silver circle, in front of the panelists, holding a microphone.

Kadin chuckles.

"Only that those who wear the mantel of an overbearing authority need to be mindful. Such authority cannot last forever, and it rarely lasts for very long..."

A loud explosion concusses the theater's perfect acoustics, so loudly that Zak can't help but involuntarily wince. Kadin Sa'd is cut off in mid-sentence. Nothing moves on the stage. People stare. They turn their heads, trying to locate the source of the shot.

In the silence immediately following the report, the only sound seems to be the hard slap of Connor Kalil's rubber soled shoes as he comes charging across the parquet of the stage. Kadin's body slumps to the left in his chair and begins to swivel. Connor arrives only in time to catch the financier's body before it falls to the floor.

Zak's heart is racing and about to explode from his chest. He stands up and is utterly stunned. There are cries from the audience amid a universal gasp. Suddenly the stage is filled with emergency personnel and at the same time Zak hears people racing across the back of the theater. In a moment there are shouts in the balconies above.

"Zak."

He hears Gilly at his side, his voice coming to him as from the bottom of a well, and feels a hand on his arm. Zak's mind is still telling him this can't be happening.

"Zak."

He finally turns and looks at Gilly.

"Dude, we gotta get out of here," Gilly tells him firmly.

This seems to shake Zak loose and he nods absently.

Gilly takes off up the aisle, alert and on the look-out for anyone who might try and stop them.

Zak on the other hand is still looking at the stage, which is now crawling with people, and at the audience, which is now flowing fast toward the exits.

He turns and follows.

Chapter 69

Kim makes her way deep into the warehouse and feels momentarily safe. She checks the gun she grabbed from the Russian who almost certainly would have killed her, and looks around, knowing that there has to be someone in the warehouse. Why else would the overhead door have been open? Kim sees a dingy white panel truck and a pickup parked side by side. To her right is a high cube warehouse sixty feet tall with a steel girder system supporting an aluminum roof. The ceiling is dotted with plastic skylights and high intensity sodium vapor lamps. A hundred feet away the warehouse's rack storage rises six levels, all the way to the ceiling. Down front pallets are being sorted using a currently unattended orange forklift.

Kim immediately sees two men in yellow jackets carrying a pad and a clipboard walking away from her on the other end of the sorting lines. She makes it to the nearest line and hides behind the pallets, sticking her head up just enough to watch as the Russians appear. They stop behind a wheeled cart filled with trash to take a careful look about the warehouse. They don't see her but they do see the two warehousemen disappear into a line of high cube storage racks.

Kim backs up along the line of cellophane wrapped boxes, keeping her head down, until she reaches the end of the row farthest away from the Russians. She slips from one row to the next, just as the Russians split up, one of them heading to the sorting area and Kim. The Russian approaching her walks slowly down one of the center aisles, scanning in every direction. Kim watches him and times her movements, reaching the tall racks and running down a corridor next to one of the building's outer walls.

While she does this, she looks back, but it is too late. Somehow the Russian standing amid the rows of boxes in the sorting area has seen her and is now coming, his gun pulled. Kim slips into the next row of racks, waits a second, and then emerges just long enough to fire the gun she has, two fisted, in the direction of the man. In no way does she expect to hit him, intending only to make him duck for cover, but to her horror the man suddenly stops and falls heavily to one knee. He looks at her with surprise, a hand rising to his side.

Kim takes no time to consider. As the man looks down at his side, she runs into the space between the racks and the side wall, trying to get further away. All she knows is that she wants to leave the sound of the gun behind her as fast as she can. She is now unable to shake the feeling of having a huge target on her back. The building appears to go on and on forever, but Gu and the Russians have to be narrowing down her location based on the noise of the shot.

The shoes she picked to bike with and to climb the stone steps of Notre Dame with were a good choice. Now they let her rip down the long racks, the polished concrete floors just the right traction for her to fly. The rows of racks are interminably long and she can't see how they'll catch her before she makes the other side of the building.

But then something happens. The lights in the warehouse go out and Kim slows to a trot to keep from careening into the sides of the racks. How did they get the lights turned off, she wonders? Could they have done it on their own? Or did they find the warehouse guys and make them turn off the lights? She reasons that as long as she stays between the racks she is in the most invulnerable place in the warehouse.

Or is she? Can she find any offices? Wouldn't that be a better hiding place? Maybe a corner of the building has offices or maybe there are offices she overlooked back toward the front where she came in? Thinking about having to go back there makes her legs feel heavy and tired.

Kim decides to go for the nearest corner at the front of the building. She is already near the outer wall on the other side of the warehouse from where she began. She just takes the next aisle, dashing her way to the front. Far to one side she sees a flashlight being swung by someone and knows she is still being hunted.

Kim is in luck. Ahead she sees a double story office next to one of the closed overhung doors. The outer walls of the offices are painted white, the steel railings and stairs are a dark blue. She runs across the open space, grabs the railing and vaults up the stairs two at a time. The door to the office on the second level is open and she is soon inside, looking out through windows over row after row of full storage racks from above. She can see the silver light cans of the sodium vapors up close, lines of them disappearing into the distance and darkness beneath the sallow glow of the few scattered skylights.

Kim hears shouting on the floor of the warehouse, as if the searchers are trying to locate each other by their sounds, but mostly it's quiet. Quiet. Dark. Kim reasons they must be on cell phones to one another, that they must have developed a pattern to search with by now. She needs an alternative to going back onto the floor and turns around.

There are desks, chairs, cabinets, a bathroom, and a kitchen. She looks up and sees a ceiling door above. It's not high and she can get to it if she can push one of the desks. Perfect. Or at least the best she is going to do.

The desks are heavy. Moving one under the ceiling door turns out to be hard work, making more noise than she would like. Kim gets winded moving the desk, taking a second to catch her breath before clambering onto it. It is an easy reach from on top of the desk though, and she punches the ceiling door out of the way without effort.

Kim gives the entry a good look before jumping, grabbing hold of the edge, and pulling herself up. She struggles with it, swinging in the air, discovering quickly that it is the hardest pull up she has ever done, but she makes it and crawls exhausted into the tiny space between the drop ceiling of the office and the roof of the warehouse. Kim finds she has to sit on metal rails from which the ceiling is suspended, anything but comfortable. If she drops a leg, it can go right through the ceiling panels. Sleeping is out of the question and she's not going to be able to stay up here for very long, it's just too uncomfortable. But it's safe for now and it could save her life, she reasons, hoping against hope that the lead Russian, what did they call him? Sergie?, and his men, will tire soon and give up.

Kim looks around the space she is in. The back wall of the warehouse against which the offices have been constructed is not far away. If she can crab her way across the metal rails she can at least rest her back against the warehouse's outer wall. Worth the effort.

She pulls the gun from the waist of her pants, afraid to drop it, and slowly makes her way across the railings. The roof meets the concrete wall of the warehouse, and provides a shelf behind her. She places the gun there, leans back, and gets herself as comfortable as she can for the wait that stretches ahead of her. She pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around them.

Kim knows they have every intention of trading her. She is really of no use to them. She has no way of giving them direct access to what they want. She hasn't got the UBS device. Zak has it. It's the only copy. Somehow, she has to shake these guys. Her body involuntarily shivers and she resolves that she will.

Chapter 70

It's the middle of the night. Zak and Gilly are in the wine country of France, driving on the freeway North of Lyon, on their way back to Paris. Rolling hills, dark shapes at night, fly by in the car's windows. Scattered lights of farm houses form pinpoints here and there. A slivered moon rides in and out banks of clouds high above.

Zak and Gilly left the Acropolis just in time. As the two of them crossed the street to the Tete au Carre sculpture, the Nice police arrived in force to cordon off the conference center. Zak immediately called the girls in Paris, an image of their tiny hotel room in the Latin Quarter suddenly appearing behind Rashida's face.

"Yeah, I know," Rashida said, "We never go to sleep around here."

Rashida picked up the laptop and rolled it's viewfinder around the room. There are a couple of unmoving figures on the bed and Megan sitting in a chair nearby watching TV.

"Sa'd's been assassinated," Zak said. He puts the phone on speaker so Gilly, who is leaning in, can hear.

"We know. Megan is watching the reports right now."

Zak shook his head.

"Can't believe it," he said.

"Nobody can!" Rashida replied.

"My God I thought we were close to putting an end to this!" Zak said in despair.

"I thought we were close to getting Kim back," added Gilly.

"Well, it can't be helped now. We're keeping track of Kim, but honestly I don't know what's going on."

"What do you mean," asked Zak quizzically.

The girls texted him about her being near the airport.

"We've figured out that she's in a warehouse near a group of charter companies. They have a parking lot for business jets."

"They're using a private jet?"

"Whoever it is. Yeah, we think so."

That gave Gilly an idea.

"Say," Gilly said, "why don't you see what you can find on flight plans for charters,"

Rashida bit her lip.

"Great. We're on it. You guys need to get back here. Now that we have a read on Kim I'm rounding up the posse and we're going to take down that place to find her."

"You're nuts," responded Zak.

"I don't think so!"

Gilly bumped Zak's arm and Zak looked at him.

"Yeah they are," Gilly whispered back.

Zak smiled.

"Look, you're doing great just where you are. Concentrate on getting the charter information."

Gilly pulled up the LGV schedule.

"You head to the airport," Gilly said, "and you're going to get yourselves into a lot of trouble that you are in no way prepared to deal with. Focus on finding out where they're going. That's the best use of your time."

"We'll be there as soon as we can," said Zak.

Gilly shook his head as he showed Zak the train schedule.

"It's not good."

Zak could see that there was nothing scheduled until early the next morning.

"Shoot," he said to Rashida, "I think we're going to get a car."

"What?" she asked in dismay.

"There's not another train tonight."

"You're killing me," she complained.

"I know, but we don't have a choice," Zak replied.

"I'm kicking both your butts when I see you!"

"Okay, okay."

"Get going! Wax your boards or whatever else you have to do! But light a fire under it!"

The screen with Rashida's image had gone abruptly blank.

For Zak, driving the car, the night becomes long, stretched to an eternity. The traffic thinned longed ago until they were alone on the highway. He looks over at Gilly, who has sacked out, his head lolling against the window and the corner of his seat. How does anyone sleep that way, he wonders?

The highway hits a sweeping curve, where Zak can see grape vines outlined along the crests of hills. It's been hours when his ringtone reverberates throughout the car. Gilly stirs. Zak activates the phone.

"How you guys doin?" Rashida asks in a cheerily upbeat voice.

"Great Rash! We're on the A7 North of Lyon," Zak replies, trying to match her mood, glad to hear any voice other than the one in his head, which keeps suggesting that he should not have left Paris.

Gilly's eyes squint just barely open as Zak clicks the phone for speaker.

"You guys are going to be so proud of us! But all credit goes to Kina. We found the flight records for charters at the airport online. God bless Kina. She has the heart of a hacker, or we would never have got into them," says Rashida, her face all smiles, hardly expected from someone at 3 am.

Kina's face crowds into view.

"It was nothing really. Just something Bog taught me."

"She's just being modest," says Rashida, giving Kina a bump.

"When you're done congratulating yourselves maybe you could tell us. Where in damnation are they going?" Gilly utters from beneath his half closed lids.

"Someone mixed their red ones with their blue ones this morning! Or did you forget to take them altogether?" responds Rashida.

"Please, Rash. Just tell us," says Zak.

"They're flying to Gdansk," Kina jumps in.

Rashida gives Kina a look.

"Yeah, Gdansk," Rashida adds, quite unnecessarily.

"Seriously?" asks Zak.

"That's what their flight plan says, and it's got Kim's passport information," Kina replies.

"And it looks legit," adds Rashida.

Zak watches Gilly sit up and begin working his tablet.

"Gilly is already plotting a course," he tells the girls.

"Dude," Gilly tells Zak, wide eyed, "It's far!"

"Just tell me the next turn off. Crossing through that many countries, we'll have to stay with the car," Zak observes.

"No high speed trains?" asks Rashida.

"It doesn't look like it. Say, we need to take the A36," replies Gilly.

"Fine. How's Kim doing?" Zak asks the girls, "Is she still moving around the warehouse?"

"No, she seems to have holed up in a corner of the building and I'll bet she's being chased, though I do think she got away from them," Rashida says, pushing hair out of her face.

"Maybe," says Gilly.

Zak has yet to come to that conclusion. But it would make sense. If they have her, why wouldn't they just get on the plane and be gone?

Sophie, dressed in her pajamas, now pushes Kina out of the way.

"Hi babe," Gilly greets her.

"Gil, you get back here as soon as you can!" she scolds.

"Don't worry," he replies.

"Now how am I supposed to do that?" she asks.

Chapter 71

The afternoon of the next day Kim is still in the loft space above the warehouse office. Her butt is sore from sitting on the metal struts from which the office's ceiling is suspended. Moving this way or that no longer provides much of a solution to how to get comfortable enough to endure more endless hours of hiding from a group of thuggish Russians and a Chinese factotum. Kim is tired, hungry, sore and miserable. The sleepless night was a painful never-ending rehearsal in her mind of what she should do once discovered, an eventuality she now considers as inevitable as it is dreaded.

At one point in the middle of the night Kim climbed down to raid the kitchen, only to find a few dried out cookies, some crackers and a container of sugar for coffee. But it was something. Blessedly, she was able to use the facilities. Then she realized that she had left the gun on the shelf in her hiding place, so she hurried to get back to it.

Kim looks into the warehouse, past the rafters and lights. There is enough daylight coming in from the interspersed skylights to give her a dim view of the goings on below her. The Russians continue to search for her and have created systematic crossing patterns intended to trap her into one location or another. Occasionally, Dai Gu shouts, alternately in Russian and English, this instruction or that. None of it seems to do any good. As far as Kim is concerned, the searchers just continue to wander aimlessly about the place.

She straightens when she hears talking. The voices seem to be approaching. Suddenly they stop. Kim's heart races. She thinks they could be finally looking at the office, thinking about searching it to look for her. Have they stopped talking to put her off? This is the moment that kept going through her mind all through the very long night. Listening, straining for a telltale sign that one or more of them is coming up the blue steel stairs. There is a clink on the hand railing of the stairs. Is it a wedding band? She hears what she thinks is a too heavy footfall, then the jingle of keys displaced in someone's pocket as a leg swings up a stair.

Kim is attuned to anything she can hear, but now there is nothing. Nothing for a while. Nothing for too long.

There is no door on the office, nothing to squeak or swish. They can come right in and she won't know until it's too late. She starts to move to the ceiling opening and is surprised at how easily she has come to move across the metal support railings that hang over the suspended ceiling tiles. She regrets not leaving one of the tiles sufficiently askew so that she might be able to see a person making their approach from below to the ceiling panel that opens to the loft.

Kim moves into position. The panel only needs to be pushed. She wonders if they could have reached it already, if they could have really been that quiet. She doesn't see how. But the panel moves. Kim raises her hand with the gun in it. Her heart abruptly starts banging into her chest. The panel keeps coming and she sees a mop of dark hair on a middle set man. Before he has a chance to look up she swings down, hard. The man she hits groans and, instantly falling, disappears. Kim rears back, not even a little sorry for what she has just done.

The falling man must have been caught with the help of the others. She hears voices, a grunt, and the sounds of something, a person maybe, slapping against a table.

"Miss Scott!" she hears Dai Gu say.

Kim remains poised rigidly near the ceiling opening but says nothing.

"Give it up Miss Scott! You will not be given another chance. Toss the gun or I will order these men to begin firing into the ceiling immediately. I hardly need tell you, this is something you are unlikely to survive," Gu says, his voice stentorian.

She can't hold back any longer.

"Screw you, asshole!" she yells and feels better right away.

Kim tosses the gun. It clatters to the wood floor, directly at Dai Gu's feet. He gives the others a look first, one of the "I told you so" variety, and then casually leans down to pick it up.

"Now you, Miss Scott. Your turn to come down. If you will, please. You will not be harmed, I assure you."

She weighs the proposition only briefly. She doesn't want to get hurt and be unable to defend herself after that. She held them off for a long time, hopefully long enough that Zak and the others at least have a chance of catching up to her and her captors.

Almost as if to seal her decision, a panel over the kitchen suddenly bursts open and a man appears. He has a gun. It is trained on her.

Kim backs up and lowers a foot, then a leg, then both legs. She grabs the railings and soon is suspended over the desk for a second, just swaying. Finally, she lets go and drops. She lands in a crouch.

"Here," Gu offers her his hand and helps her climb down from the desk.

The men close around her, pinning her in next to Gu, who takes a packet of pills from his pocket.

"I'm going to need you to take two of these," he says, taking her hand and measuring out a couple.

Kim stares at the pills he is expecting her to take.

"You know," Gu says, "it was Vic's idea to get an infrared gun and he was gone all morning. But guess what?"

Gu is gruff. He puts his arm around the kid, who must be Vic, and shakes him.

"He found one!"

"I'm so glad," Kim replies. She stares at his hand and the pills.

"Do it," he says.

She takes them, upending her hand into her mouth.

"Swallow them."

She does.

"Open your mouth!"

She does that too, making a show of it, tilting her head this way and that.

"Now these men are going to escort you to the plane. If you do anything that I don't like I will personally break something," Gu threatens.

By time they have her out of the warehouse and back into the fog on the tarmac, Kim is beginning to stumble. The grip of the men on either side of her however is very tight. They practically carry her to the plane and up the air stairs, and by time the plane finishes checking with the tower and beginning its taxi to the runway, Kim is fast asleep on a sofa seat.

The private jet reaches the end of the runway, turning about, lining up with the runway centerline. Its jet engines pitch into a higher roar as it prepares to take off. The pilot clears the plane with the tower. He releases the brakes and the plane starts to roll down the runway, gaining momentum. Two brilliant landing lights eat the fog, which twirls in spirals off the wing tips. White lights on the wings strobe brightly in the growing darkness of the late afternoon and as the plane ascends, a red strobe under the nose comes into view, joining the blinking of the white strobes. The white and red lights go on and off asymmetrically, each with a different timing, sometimes opposing each other. The airframe ascends quickly, receding until the white fuselage can no longer be made out, replaced by flashing lights climbing into a hazy sky.

Chapter 72

Bogdan is intent staring at the big TV on the wall. He flashes through screen after screen, using a keyboard that rests on a rolling hospital bed table carefully arranged in front of him. Having adjusted the height himself, he can sit cross legged with the keyboard just above his lap.

Bog pauses and looks out the window. The scene outside is sunny, bucolic, rolling lawns, over spreading ornamental trees, specifically arranged park benches, and, near the building, a swell of planting beds and flowering annuals. The zinnias and petunias look a little beat, abused by recent cold snaps and blustery winds, but are still standing, defying the onset of winter.

Bog doesn't really notice any of his surroundings that much. Christopher Gray, with members of his medical team standing at his rear, had discussed Bog's options clinically with him. One option was to drug him with the purpose of damaging his thought beyond the possibility of repair. If released, he would be addled. No one would believe a word he said.

"Man, that is so twisted," Bog observed.

Gray chuckled.

"A sense of humor is good. You will need it."

Bog had inched himself higher against the headboard of the bed, unconsciously trying to better his position against Gray. Bog would rather be standing on his feet, toe to toe with Gray. But he is restrained. Recently brought to, he has no idea how long he's been out of things or where he is. At least he feels halfway normal.

"What are my other options? I mean, am I going to like any of them?"

"Probably not. But that can't be helped. You should consider yourself on a kind of extended vacation from your studies. That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"Why is it that I want to stick my foot as far up your ass as I possibly can?" Bog asked disingenuously.

"Really, you must learn to control your anger. I think we might just have the thing for that!" Gray replies, trying, and failing, to sound helpful.

"I think you mean to make me compliant," said Bog.

"Just so."

At that, Gray gestured for the nurse, who dispassionately applied her skills. Bog soon fell down a rabbit hole, sent there by what would be a string of medications intended to render him without much will of his own.

Bog absently moves his eyes from the flowers outside the window and looks around to survey the cabinets, drawers, a desk that is part of a cadenza. and a divan. Everything is pearly white, suggesting antiseptic cleanliness. On the cadenza, which sits under the triple slider windows that don't slide, is situated a box stereo with separate speakers, some slender books he has never looked at, bookends, and a framed picture of the countryside that may have been taken from the very grounds of this facility. In the picture you can see beyond the tended lawns to broad, flat never-ending farm fields that surround the facility. The fields seem to go on forever in neat, narrowly planted crop rows. Lost in those rows is an old women dressed in colorful farm clothes, bent, tilling with a simple hoe.

When Bog first saw the picture he thought "so this is where I am". But where is this? He had no idea. And now, in the mood cast by the meds, he has lost his curiosity about the picture. It just doesn't interest him.

Instead, as he has been given access, he monitors the girls' doings in Paris. He examines their searches, their communications, they're movements about their room, how they come and go, even what they're saying. In his current state, though, he has no desire to actually communicate with Sophie and the others. He knows where Zak and Kim are, and he can follow the path of the cars and airplanes that they are in. He feeds this information back to Gray, who uses it to keep Washington informed. Of course, they simply watch everything he does.

Bog pauses again and looks about the room some more. His eyes go to the print of an oil painting on the wall behind him. The picture is filled with flowers. It even has a butterfly and he likes it, his gaze returning to view it time and again. On what passes for the bed stand, which is on rollers for goodness sake, there is a small bouquet of artificial flowers, yellow zinnias like the ones in the garden, their edges tinged a fiery red. He likes them too.

Somewhere in Bog's confused mind is a shred of memory, a spark of his former self. He begins to look for something on the net, hiding his search amid a blizzard of unconnected, virtually random things. His search mimics the struggle going inside himself, its stutter step created as it is by a kind of static of the brain.

Bog looks for a way to send something. He wants to be able to send this something in such a way that nobody will be looking for it. As he does this, as the screens jump and leap across the big TV screen at his command, he reminds himself that he likes the flowers with the monarch butterfly in the painting over his bed and the artificial red and yellow zinnias stuck into the copper pot on his bed stand.

They are pleasant and soothing.

He thinks, how very nice.

Chapter 73

Kim breathes lightly, her face smashed into the cushion of the airplane sofa. She carefully opens an eye, just a slit, eyelid quivering a little. She tries to see past the tangled hair in her face.

Shoot. A heavy glass vase overflowing with plastic flowers blocks her view. It rests on a glass coffee table and it is difficult to see past that as well. She concentrates though and finally sees past them both, and there is Dai Gu in a heavy black leather chaise, watching something on his tablet. She thinks he is probably watching TV from Kaliningrad or Russia or wherever they get their TV from in such a remote outpost of civilization. She can hear the speakers, but she doesn't understand the language being spoken.

Lying quietly for hours, biding her time, she has become oh so familiar with the plastic flowers and the heavy glass vase they are stuck in. The position she is in is not uncomfortable, but she has been in it for hours, hands tied, her muscles screaming at her to move, even a little, but she has resisted the temptation with all her will. However, the time has come to give them some relief.

Kim kicks the back of the sofa in an attempt to launch herself across the coffee table. The first kick doesn't quite do it and she is forced to use her upper body as well the second time. This time she is able to land on the coffee table without breaking it, grabbing the heavy vase two handed, and pulling it through a short arc directly into the side of Gu's turning head. As she finishes landing on her feet, she spits a couple capsules at Gu's now limp figure. She searches for, finds, and takes his weapon.

Kim stops for a second to take a quick look around the cabin, toward the front of the plane and sees one of the Russians, Sergie, standing up from his seat, pulling his gun. Kim doesn't hesitate but fires Gu's pistol and watches as the man falls rather than sits back down in his seat. She doesn't know where she hit him but the hand with the gun drops and the gun falls to the floor. She looks over at the Russian kid, Victor, who, in his panic, is struggling to free himself of his seat belt.

Kim trains the gun on him and Victor looks at her, frozen, too scared to speak. She gets up and walks around a pair of overstuffed white chaises to stand next to him. Victor looks up at her, eyes pleading, but Kim raises the gun, bringing it down very fast, all the while praying to herself not to kill him. He is knocked out.

Kim then turns to the big guy, who is holding his firing arm. Apparently, this is where she must have shot him. He grimaces back at her. Lucky shot, she thinks. Kim bends down and takes his gun off the floor.

She carries both guns and walks to the front of the plane through a wood partition that takes her to the galley. She quickly locates a paring knife small enough to cut her bonds. While doing this, she takes care to stay out of view of the cockpit, which is sitting with its door open right ahead. She knows the pilot and copilot are aware of what happened in the cabin via the plane's own version of CCTV. Now, all she has to do is wait for one of them to come out to ask for her gun. There was one shot, they heard it, and now they're going to want to disarm her before anyone else gets hurt.

Sure enough the copilot, young and fit, wearing trim black slacks and an ironed white shirt, makes an appearance. He stands and looks at her, fixing her with an unwavering gaze. She notices thick black, combed back hair. He speaks and she tries to place the accent. Portuguese?

"Madam, please. The guns." He gestures toward them where she has placed them on the counter.

Kim grabs one and in an instant the gun is at his forehead. She waves it, meaning for him to go into the passenger cabin, which he does. He stares at her as she closes and latches the sliding door that's part of the dark wood partition, but which won't hold up against anything very substantial for very long.

Finally unencumbered, Kim walks back into the cockpit. The pilot looks over his shoulder as she climbs over the rear console that separates the pilot's seats and sits down in the copilot's seat as if this were the most natural thing in the world for her. She fixes him with a purposeful stare while training the gun on him. He is unperturbed and says nothing, but rather regards her with a steely expression filled with obvious dislike.

Kim looks him over, sizing him up. He has short hair, greying at the sides, is close shaven, wears gold wire rim glasses that don't seem to have much of a prescription, and is probably thinking how difficult this is going to be.

Kim reaches over and slaps his hands, showing with the motion that she intends for him to remove his hands from the yoke. He doesn't respond. She then puts the muzzle of the gun to his head.

"Yes you will, or so help me!" Kim orders. She touches the snout of the gun to his forehead, pushing forcefully.

The pilot nods at her and releases his grip, with a flourish, as if to emphasis that whatever happens now will be her fault, not his. Kim leans over, grabs the right grip of the yoke and pulls it down. Sharply. The plane starts to pull right. She watches as the pilot uses his feet to compensate for the roll, moving the foot pedals and thus the flaps, the control surfaces on the wings of the plane, to accommodate a turn. After a brief period of turning the plane in one direction, Kim orders the pilot to then take it in another direction. After executing that maneuver, she finally lets the pilot take over.

The pilot immediately corrects the plane's direction of travel back toward their destination, a heading on which they proceed for a while. Finally, Kim looks at him and raises her gun, waving it back and forth, once again. Somehow the pilot understands this. He repeats the turning movements from before, essentially flying the plane erratically. This goes on for some time, a game of back and forth, tit for tat, until finally the radio sparks to life. The pilot moves his hand to the radio controls.

"No!" she exclaims, again waving the gun.

They are nearing Gdansk and it becomes apparent that they have drawn the interest of authorities on the ground. The pilot glances out the window to the right and she follows his gaze. Closing quickly in the dark immediately outside the cockpit window is a bright light beaming at them from beneath the shadow of a scary, quite large, unmanned aircraft. The drone's long thin wings have massive rockets drooping beneath them and a camera pod tucked beneath the fuselage swiveled their way, the very picture of darkest death and impending doom. They turn to the other side of the plane only to see another, identical drone take up position there.

Again, the radio activates. Again, it is ignored.

In response, the drones move in concert to position themselves in front of the business jet.

There really is no choice.

They follow.

Chapter 74

"Take Wojewodzk Droga. Zachod or West," says Gilly, struggling with his pronunciation, trying to help Zak navigate their way off the E75. They're on the S6, which is what E75 turns into in the Tri-City area of Gdansk. A major limited access freeway, it serves Gdansk and two companion cities. All stretch North along the Bay of Gdansk on the Northern Baltic Coast of Poland.

Zak and Gilly strain to see. It's night and the snow is falling heavily, whipsawing across their windshield. They have trouble making out the sign directly ahead, obscured as it is by snow freezing in blotches on its face. Their bright headlights reflect against the snow.

"Is that it?" asks Zak.

"Yeah, that's it," Gilly replies, his voice betraying the exhaustion he feels after a day of virtually non-stop driving.

Zak prepares to turn off the lanes heading North onto a freeway ramp to his right.

"Could it snow any harder?" asks Gilly.

"Or blow any harder," Zak finishes the thought, slowing the car to avoid skidding on the snow pack.

The phone goes off and before it has stopped ringing the first time Zak has switched it on. It feeds to the vehicle's onboard screen and resolves very quickly into an image of Rashida.

"Turn left," she says. She, Megan, Kina and Sophie have been tracking the vehicle's progress across Europe.

Zak applies the brakes, only to have the car slide to a stop at Wojewodzk road. While the intersection is lit, the snow has cut visibility, trapping them in a cone of falling snow so narrow that they can barely see across the road in front of them. Zak notices a sign across the way partially covered up that says something about a nearby shopping center, Matarnia, to their right. It also indicates that Lech Walesa Airport is to the left. There is no traffic and Zak fish tails the car around the turn for the Airport.

"Where are they?" Gilly asks.

"They're further from the Airport than you are, but they're coming in, losing altitude," Rashida says.

"Man, I don't know how they can land in this stuff. They're going to run off the end of the runway," he says.

Zak gives him a look.

They're on a four lane, two lanes in each direction, separated by a small uncurbed median now lost in the snow. They can barely make out the tall forest on either side of the highway, even with the help of freeway lights. Their headlights pierce the curtain of snow and make some of the fast descending snowflakes sparkle in their glare.

"The plane was off course a bunch of times. I don't know what was going on," Rashida says.

Somehow this doesn't come as a surprise to Zak.

"She wants the plane to be met by officials and emergency crews," he says.

"Are you kidding?" Rashida asks.

"You think she took over the plane?" asks Gilly.

"I don't know," Zak replies. "I wouldn't put it past her."

The trees give way as they enter the lit up airport.

"It's snowing like mad here," Gilly informs Rashida. He is studying details of the airport layout on his pad while he says this.

"You'd think they'd close the airport," Rashida says.

"Well, they just might," Gilly looks up from the e-pad. "You're going to want to take a left into their parking areas before we get to the terminal buildings."

They pass a lighted parking lot on their right with a gate and a booth looking very abandoned in the mounting snow.

"Here, on the left."

They turn a corner at the management office of the airport, confront a key card device in the middle of the drive and zoom past it.

"There's the parking lot over there," Gilly points to their right.

The lot is separated from the runways beyond by a high security fence.

But Zak is already slowing the car. In front of them is a driveway that angles left, guarded by retractable bollards.

"That's it. It's the security zone that leads onto the tarmac by charters," says Gilly.

"Shit, that was the reason for the key card!" Zak exclaims.

Gilly places a hand on Zak's arm.

"Hold it a second. If this is their emergency access somebody is going to be coming through here any minute. We're not the only people trying to get to that plane."

Zak pulls to the side and contemplates how deep the snow might be if he should try to take the car around the bollards, which run in a line all the way to tarmac. There seems to be a spot up against the building before the bollards begin that could get them through. Would they get stuck if they tried it?

"Can you see if they have any emergency vehicles out there?" Zak asks, looking but not seeing anything.

It is snowing harder, at times almost horizontally. They can barely make out the high powered lights illuminating the runways.

"Guys, they're landing," says Rashida.

"Crap," says Zak, pulling up his collar.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Gilly grins, following Zak by pulling up his collar as well.

The two of them grab their packs, pulling them over the top of the rear seat.

"See ya, Rash" says Zak, grabbing his phone.

"Good luck!" replies Rashida as he disconnects it and the image of her face goes blank.

He sticks the phone in his pocket and reaches for the door.

"Roll!" yells Zak.

"Banzai!" Gilly yells back.

The car door, released, flies open, pushed by the wind. There's a swirl of icy air and it hits Zak full on, turning his face numb in an instant.

Zak charges past the bollards and onto the service road to the runway, Gilly at his side. Both are propelled by the wind, now at their backs. As they near the edge of the taxiways they see a business jet rolling to a stop. Tall light standards engulf the plane in glare. Surrounding vehicles flash their emergency lights in a crazy out of sync pattern.

Gilly shouts something at Zak, but the howling wind swallows it.

Zak sees among the cars and trucks some that are drab green. Looking further, he sees men dressed in military fatigues, soldiers standing by those same drab green vehicles. Finally, he notices the many guns clasped in the hands of those soldiers. A hot flush invades him, despite the cold.

Chapter 75

The airplane door cracks open a few inches. Then it stops. Soldiers near the front of the crowd raise their guns. A minute goes by. Finally, there is movement and the door resumes opening the rest of the way, the stairs on the back of it touching the ground. A figure in a man's too large black wool coat, a stocking cap pulled low, appears. Behind is another figure. This one Zak recognizes as Dai Gu. The figure in front he reasons must be Kimberly. Gu has a hand on Kim's back and they go slowly, haltingly, together down the steps.

In a semi-circle thirty feet away, among the various officials and military personnel, standing behind armed men and klieg lights, are Ciaran Burris and Hui Lee. They are positioned strategically next to the local Commander, whose favor they have shamelessly sought over the last few hours. Skulking in the back of the group is Chung Yao with several of his men, tired of waiting on Gu to deliver, and none too pleased with the Russian's less than brilliant plan.

Others descend the short stair behind Kim and Dai Gu. First behind is Sergie, the big man cradling his arm, and the kid, Victor. Everyone is trying to shield themselves from the raging blizzard. The wind thrashes and howls, making it hard to hear the Commander, who is shouting orders. His words are carried off in the wind almost as soon as he utters them.

Zak and Gilly run across the frozen tarmac from the charter area toward Kim's plane. Zak sees snowplows on the main runway and airplanes on the taxiway. Gilly points to a deicer truck pulling alongside an airplane. Zak follows his lead. When Gilly reaches the side of the truck, he opens the driver's door and pulls the guy by his coat roughly out of the cab. Zak goes to the front of the truck, to where the operator's bucket is suspended by a mechanical arm. It hangs in front of the cab and is anchored to the top of the truck, but can be manipulated by controls inside. Gilly gets the truck moving while Zak climbs in the bucket and tries to take an instant course on learning the controls. After looking at some diagrams pasted onto the console, he manipulates the levers and lifts himself and the bucket high over the top of the truck, where the bucket is buffeted by the harsh wind and he is in immediate danger of frostbite.

Kim and entourage are stopped at the bottom of the stair, confused as to what to do. The Commander's shouting in Polish and English is not having its intended effect. Neither side can hear very well against the screaming wind. Still, Dai Gu and the Russians get the gist, that they are being commanded to drop all weapons and step aside.

In the meantime, Gil rams the truck into a higher gear and heads toward the crowd of people spread out around the plane. Zak crouches low in the bucket trying to shield himself from the biting wind and stinging snow. There is a large red button on the panel in front of him. He guesses what it's for as he slams it with his fist and hot, green deicer gushes from the heavy nozzle mounted on the bucket.

It is, quite simply, mayhem. Deicer hits the crowd. There is shooting. People are going down. Zak, all over the deicer, holds the nozzle and points at the Russians, who are soon blasted off their feet. That accomplished, he sprays the Polish military unit. He takes special pleasure in dousing just about everybody, especially anyone who looks official. He watches them flail helplessly and try to find cover. Gil parks the rig as close to Kim as possible. She has already managed to get free of Dai Gu, who is suddenly much more concerned about getting shot than holding onto her. He is now lost in the melee. Gil runs out of the truck to grab her and pull her into the cab.

"Gilly! Thank God you're here!" she hugs him and kisses him on the cheek.

Gilly grins, rapidly turning the steering wheel and gunning the truck.

"You were expecting maybe someone else? Zak is up top being our mean ass bucket boy."

Kim pulls the stocking cap off her head, auburn hair falling around her shoulders.

"God, you have no idea. Zak must be freezing up there." she states.

"Yeah, here's hoping the guy is still alive."

"Stop the truck! We've gotta get him down!"

They are reaching the charter taxiway as Gilly brings the truck to a halt. Zak positions the bucket in front of the cab and jumps out into the snow. Kim opens her door.

"Howdy stranger!"

Zak grabs the door and swings into the seat next to Kim.

They all look back across the tarmac at the chaos they have left behind.

"We've got to get the heck out of here!" Kim declares.

"Go over there," Zak points, having had a better view of the airport from above. "There's got to be road access behind the taxiway."

Gilly guns it.

Zak is hoping they won't confront another military guard or group of authorities poised to stop them. Then the friends all see it at the same time. A short distance away is a high fence blocking the drive, a drive that should take them out to the main highway.

"That's got to be it," says Gilly.

"That's freakin' big," comments Kim regarding the fence, a warning sounding in her voice.

"No choice," says Zak determinably.

"I don't know if we can get enough traction on this snow," states Gilly, swinging the truck onto the driveway and hitting the accelerator.

They gain momentum but the wheels slip in the fresh snow. The truck is still heavy with deicer though. Their speed and the inertia added by all that weight help the truck to make short work of the gate, which it instantly and soundly obliterates.

Chapter 76

The windows of his room on the first floor of the hospital are without curtains. He can lie like this on his stomach facing them, his head on his pillow, and look out, pretending to be asleep. Coach lights exhibiting a sleepy yellow glow dot the gently sloping grounds. Short lighted bollards run along wandering sidewalks, stamping circles of light on their asphalt surfaces. Park benches made of concrete sit empty near the top of slopes.

Sallow, artificial light pours through the window and falls on the painting on the wall above his bed. It lights up the picture's multi-colored flowers and the big butterfly that flutters above them. It shines on Bogdan's face, on the small lines and puffiness that were never there before.

Bog lays silently, eyes running back and forth over the outside view. He listens to the whispering AC unit installed over the window. He thinks, "Larks still bravely singing fly." Then he draws a breath.

Bog rolls, precipitately, unexpectedly, sticks out a hand to catch himself, and falls like a stone to the tiled floor. Of course the ubiquitous camera doesn't get to see him wince, but its audio decidedly picks up his groan.

Bog counts the seconds, wondering how long it will be before those in charge of him respond and invade the room like hessians, throwing on bright overhead lights and surely blinding him. He keeps counting, for no reason other than to satisfy one of a seemingly endless train of impulses, all of them out of control. Like all of his urges and thoughts at the moment, this one has been let out of the corral and is now running quite wild, appearing and disappearing without reason from his stream of consciousness.

"Larks still bravely singing fly."

There. That thought again.

He hears steps running up to his door, which flings open, the lights going on, blindingly, as expected, a millisecond later. Two orderlies, both male, youngish, and a nurse, female, oldish, step into the room imperiously. In just under thirty seconds. Is that good or bad? He doesn't know.

"Mr. Cerny!" exclaims the nurse.

She lets the orderlies try to grapple him, but he keeps extending his arm and pointing to his wrist.

"Did you hurt your hand, your wrist, Mr. Cerny?" she asks in a booming tone of voice usually reserved for toddlers and the incipient deaf.

Bog nods his head, almost as if to suggest that this injury has somehow struck him dumb.

The nurse seems actually annoyed by this. She places her clenched hands firmly on either side of her hips, fit to be tied. Whatever she was doing, that has now been interrupted. This whole thing is going to take much longer than she would like and she has no desire to hide that this has clearly put her out.

"Okay, boys, get him up. We're going to have to take him to X-ray."

The orderlies labor to get Bog on his feet. He has trouble getting up in fact and seems unsteady. The orderlies march him out of the room and down the hall to medical evaluation's X-ray room, seating him in a sophisticated mechanically operated chair with thick, white vinyl cushions. He rests his head back and closes his eyes. They reassure him and tell him not to move as they leave to go find an imaging tech. Bog knows it's going to take a while to roust someone.

Bog isn't sure but figures there is probably an orderly just outside the door. He doesn't care. Rather, he just jumps up, really flies from the chair, and runs into the little office that gives off to the side of the X-ray room. He looks quickly around and sees a computer screen and a keyboard. So far so good.

Sitting down, he immediately goes to work bringing the machine up and is pleased to see its connection to the internet. Funny, all this typing and his hand doesn't hurt. Wonder why? He snorts his derision and gives his captors a mental middle finger.

Bog pops up email, inserts Rashida's address, and composes a quick note before hitting send and shutting the pc down. They'll regret putting him into the agency system. Now he has found a way to transmit the contents of Zak's USB drive to UNK untraceably and free of any possible interception.

"Larks still bravely singing fly."

He grins as he resumes X-ray's diagnostic chair but hopes the camera in the room doesn't pick it up.

Chapter 77

"Where are we?" asks Kim, peering through the windshield while playing with the brown stocking cap the Russians gave her, turning it inside out.

The white deicer truck has its lights on, but the high beams only barely lance through the heavy snow falling ahead of them. Zak has locked the deicer bucket in place in front of the truck's grill, which leaves the headlights room to shine from either side of it, but the mechanical arm holding the bucket comes over the top of the cab and windshield so that it is somewhat in the way of Gilly's view of the road.

"We're on the 472 which will take us back to the A6," says Gilly.

Kim pulls on the inside out cap. Holes for use as a face mask appear.

"Oh look," she says, "It's a baklava!"

"A what?" asks Zak, giving it a look.

"A baklava," she repeats.

Zak and Gilly both laugh.

"You mean a balaclava," Zak says.

Gilly hoots.

"It's not Turkish pastry!"

"Then again," adds Zak, squinting through its eye holes.

Kim blushes.

"Okay, smart guys. How are we going to ditch this truck? It's like driving a Do Not Belong Here sign," she points out.

"We're lucky so far. We don't have their drones chasing us," remarks Gilly.

"She's got a point, Gil. We gotta get rid of this heap. What about that shopping center on the other side of the A6? We get through this forest preserve and we should be right on it," offers Zak.

"But how are we going to need a new ride?" says Kim.

"I don't think we have much choice about that," says Gilly.

They stay on the 472 and drive under the A6 at the interchange. Just a short distance beyond the interchange they arrive at the entrance to Matarnia Park Shopping Center, the largest in the Tri-cities. They turn right at the light and shoot down the entrance drive to a small traffic circle, hitting the edge of drifts here and there as they go. Snow is rapidly stacking around a red directional pylon sign in the middle of the traffic circle, where an arrow points down the center's main road. On one side is a big box Swedish furniture outlet in deep blue and yellow, and on the other is a series of two story stores such as TK Maxx. The furniture store is massive even for a big box, over a quarter million square feet, and they drive slowly down its length until being greeted by an entrance to an underground parking garage.

"That must be where we can find a car. I say we ditch the truck and follow somebody to get their keys," says Kim.

"Well," says Gilly, "we can't take the truck there. It's too tall."

Zak points to the driveway to the right, which goes into an area serving the furniture outlet.

"Take this lot and we'll leave it here," he says.

"Fine," replies Gilly.

They leave the truck in the parking lot and dash through accumulating snow into the underground, deserted at this hour.

"Alright, what now Jeeves?" Gilly asks, shaking his coat and hair free of the white stuff while looking at Kim.

"Well," she starts, planting herself and scanning the brightly lit garage, "I say we take up near the exit to the stores and wait for somebody to come by."

"Man, we don't have much time," Gilly responds.

"I'll be quick," she reassures.

"And I can't think of another option," says Zak.

Positioned out of the way, they wait and in a few minutes a young woman in a heavy red coat leaves her parked car to walk to the stairs.

Kim starts off alone, leaving Zak and Gilly to follow, and is rewarded when the girl enters the food court and heads to one of the restaurant's employee change areas. Kim stands behind the door, watching through a small window as the girl places her coat and purse in a wooden cubicle, removing her wallet. Kim steps into the nearby kitchen as the girl comes out, afterward going in to look for the girl's keys.

Zak and Gilly stand in the food court behind a big potted tree, trying not to be conspicuous as they study the snow covered dome of glass over their heads. They are outside the restaurant when Kim appears.

"Did you get them?" asks Zak.

"Yep."

"Crazy," remarks Gilly.

"Did you wear your baklava?" Zak kids.

Kim gives him a punch.

With the key fob they return to the parking garage. Kim clicks it and a car's lights activate several aisles away. They track it down and find that is an old Euro car, very compact.

"Can we fit in that thing?" asks Gilly.

"Losers can't be choosers," replies Zak.

Zak holds the front seat forward so Kim can get in the back.

"Let's just be careful with this thing. I feel bad enough about this," says Kim as she gives Gilly the keys and folds herself into the rear seat.

"This thing is going to have like zero traction," warns Gilly, who drops into the driver's seat and has to adjust it to get his legs in.

Their phones start ringing, all with different tones. It's Sophie.

"Kimberly! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Soph. How are you guys?"

"Well..."

Rashida appears next to her.

"We got a mysterious call. When we picked up there was no answer," Rashida tells them.

"You better get out of there! Right now," says Gilly.

"We're packing up and should be gone in a few minutes. We just wanted to let you know. But we also got a message from Bog. I'm downloading it to you now. Seems he has some idea about how you can contact UNK."

Zak sees that he is receiving Bog's message.

"We've done some checking on merchant vessels out of your area and have found a cargo vessel that is leaving today. It has a double berth opening. These kinds of ships can only take twelve passengers without having a doctor on board. I'm downloading that to Kim and would suggest you book it pronto."

Kina, Megan, and Sophie pop into view long enough to say goodbye. They all have their coats on.

"We'll see you when we see you," says Rashida.

"Yeah, Rash, when we see you," says Zak.

Rashida nods. Her eyes are wet.

"When we see you," says Kim.

The call ends.

Kim has to clear her throat.

The girls in Paris put a very hasty exit into motion, taking the stairs and walking their bags out through the hotel lobby without drawing anyone's attention. They make it through the lobby's Christmas lights and past its brightly lit, ornate Christmas tree, Sophie and Megan in front, Kina and Rashida behind.

"Don't look now," says Kina to Rashida in a low voice, "but there are cops getting into the elevator."

Rashida looks over her shoulder and sees several uniformed men as the elevator doors close.

"I got news for you," Rashida replies, "They're not cops."

Together the four young women float out the front doors of the hotel into the cold night, passing between the showy pair of outdoor Christmas trees, and into a waiting cab.

Chapter 78

Kim, Zak, and Gilly with Gilly driving are in the right lane heading North on the E75 in downtown Gdansk. It's not a controlled access highway in this stretch and Gilly is about to turn right onto Targ Weglowy, a local street, to get them into the central business district.

Zak reaches over to turn the heat down. The windows in the small vehicle are fogging up with all the evaporated snow they dragged into the car with them, which is now sitting in pools on the rubber mats at their feet. Zak rolls his window down a couple of inches.

Gilly has driven them down the A6, which was back the way they came, to the 501, coming into central Gdansk from the West. He figures they would be expected to take the shorter 468, leaving the Airport to enter and get lost in the city. There's not much traffic at this hour other than a forlorn tram, its several red and white cars forging desolately down the highway median against an onslaught of snow.

Gilly slows the car to make the turn off the highway.

"It's a drone!" Zak starts yelling very suddenly.

A high pitched whine slices the air and a spidery black flying machine drops into view forward of the car's windshield, large and intimidating.

Gilly hits the brakes, fearing the hovering machine may crash into them. Instead, the dark hulk with a dozen fast spinning props, nearly as big as their car, throws a blinding beam of light at them, freezing Gilly in the driver's seat, which sends the car flying through the turn. A bank of plowed snow veers into view, followed by a thunderous explosion of white that instantly covers the hood and windshield as they crash into it with a neck snapping jolt.

What follows is a moment of stunned silence, punctuated by the sound of the not far off drone.

"Crap!" Gilly finally says, slamming his hands with frustration on the steering wheel.

"Are you okay?" asks Zak.

"Sure. Can you get us out of this, Gil?" Kim asks, her hands on the back of his seat, her face near his.

Gilly first tries putting the car into reverse, but the wheels spin helplessly.

"No can do," he says.

Gilly, Zak and Kim climb out of the car and into the snow, looking for signs of the drone, only to find it directly above them. Kim wastes no time. She swings her right hand up and fires a pistol she grabbed in the melee at the airport into the shiny black body of the craft, knocking down some of its noisy whine and bringing it crashing into a nearby bank of snow. The ugly dying drone promptly begins to steam, not entirely unlike the melting form of Theodora, the Wicked Witch of the West.

"Freakin' crazy!" exclaims Gilly, running over to look at it.

"You shot it? Really?" Zak asks Kim.

"I was just lucky," Kim observes guiltily, putting the gun back into her coat pocket.

"Good shootin', Annie!" Zak smiles.

Gilly takes the opportunity to get a close look at the crippled drone and is quite fascinated by it. He finally turns around.

"Where the hell are we?" he asks.

"Yeah, where the hell are we?" asks Kim.

Zak looks around. A stone archway stands nearby. While trading places with Gilly on the long drive across Germany, Zak learned about Gdansk.

"This is where we enter the old city. This is one of the main gates. The Upland Gate. It begins the Royal Way, now called Long Street. Long Street will takes us to the Motlawa River, the City's waterfront, and our ship. There used to be a moat here and the Gate had drawbridges."

"And that?" Kim asks, pointing to the block long, Carnegie style building across the street.

"Yeah, that's cool. That's Narodowy Bank," Zak says.

"Guys, we need to run," says Gilly, "How about we take this Long Street to the waterfront to catch our ride?"

The three make their way down the middle of a half plowed street between the Upland Gate and the imposing Bank building. They round the corner and confront an ancient red stone tower.

Kim gestures to it and Zak gladly provides the details.

"This spooky building is the Amber and Torture Museum. Don't ask me how those two things go together. I have no idea," Zak responds. "Historically it was Bursztynu Prison Tower and Courts. Hangings took place in this square."

"And this," by which Kim points at the delicate looking grey stone gate standing opposite the Tower, glass arched windows above, columns along the face, a baluster parapet with statues along the top, marking their way onto Long Street.

"Golden Gate or, more locally, Brama Kantor," Zak answers.

They step beneath the gate's high arch, the pedestrian way Long Street spread out in front of them. Piles of snow glisten under tall, triple globed street lights that curve like shepherd's crooks. Large globes dangle high on the street light's center crooks, augmented by smaller globes on cross braces beneath. Narrow five story townhouses line the street on either side, snow banked against them. Wooden shop signs hang in front of first floor stores. Upper floor residential windows above are dark at this early hour. There is no one in sight and the street is still except for the whisper of falling snow.

Zak, Kim and Gilly stand mute gazing up and down the old street.

"I love the sound of falling snow," ventures Kim, her breath becoming an instant cloud of ascending vapor.

Gilly sees a lighted brick tower several blocks ahead.

"What's that?"

"Old Town Hall. At the Town Hall, Long Street widens and becomes Long Market, which is basically the town square. Long Market will take us to the downtown wharf," replies Zak.

Snow circles from one side of the street to the other, whipped by a sharp gust.

"We'll find someplace to warm up," Zak adds.

They pull up their collars and pull down their caps. Zak saw summer pictures of the street on the net, filled with flower stalls and al fresco restaurants. Now, front stoops are lost in the snow.

As they near the gothic Town Hall of red brick with its lighted tower and spire, they come upon a snow blower with a man inside its cab clearing a path down the center of the square. He has cleared around a tall Christmas tree that stands in front of the Hall. The Christmas tree and other trees nearby are lit with thousands of lights. Next to it, protected by a wrought iron fence, is the grandiose Neptune Fountain, an ebony statue of Neptune holding his spear, now covered in clinging snow. Artus Court is behind the fountain and has been turned into a history Museum. Zak turns and sees Hotel Dom Schumannow sitting on the corner across from the Town Hall. An end row house, painted pink, given especially ornate gold trimmings, it has a pair of white columns standing at the top of a set of stairs. The columns front an archway and a very heavy oak door.

The hotel's brightly lit windows are welcoming and this is enough for Zak, who heads for the hotel, Kim and Gilly following quickly behind. A rush of warm air greets them when Zak pulls the big door open and they step inside.

"Hey, it's none too soon. I'm frozen," remarks Gilly as he enters and Zak closes the door behind them.

The three of them stand in the entry hall, knocking snow off their shoes and shaking it off their clothes. A dark, paneled desk sweeps across the end of the room, behind an expanse of thick Persian carpet. There a young woman stands, her hair pulled back, in a white blouse and dark vest.

"Can I help you," the desk clerk asks, in English.

"We just needed to warm up a bit," replies Kim.

"Fine," says the clerk, waving at the lobby seating.

They step forward. Kim finds the sofa attractive and collapses on it.

"Thanks so much. We really appreciate it," Kim says.

"Are you visiting tourists? This time of year?" the woman asks from behind her computer screen.

There is laughter from the three of them.

"Not exactly."

Unzipping their coats, they feel the warmth of the lobby. Kim uses her phone to contact the ship, and is surprised by an immediate reply.

"The cargo ship can pick us up in front of Straganiarska Brama. Is that going to work?" Kim asks.

"Sure. That's Long Quay across from the ship museum. That should be fine," says Zak.

"We have a little time," Kim remarks, getting comfortable.

"Let's hope the storm lets up," adds Gilly.

Before long all three are dozing while being watched over by the friendly hotel clerk. The snow outside continues to deepen and the hours wear on.

Toward morning, two businessmen, bags in tow, show up at the front desk, ready to check out. Their subdued conversation with the clerk wakes Zak, then the others.

"What time is it?" Kim yawns.

"You don't want to know. We have to get a move on," Zach tells her.

They gather their things and thank the desk clerk on their way out.

Standing on the granite steps of the hotel the three friends view the square, still dark before dawn, and listen to the whine of snow blowers that seems to come from every direction. The storm has blown over, the wind has abated. The square is already plowed and clear. In spite of the cold a flock of pigeons waddles and coos along its pavement.

From nowhere, a shot rings out in the frigid air, the sound merging instantly with that of the panicked birds taking to the air, their wings beating loudly.

"What the...?" escapes Gilly.

Kim and Zak look at each other with a knowing apprehension. In the next instant they are running for their lives down the broad length of Long Market, Gilly close behind, in a hurry to get to Motlawa Quay. All three of them look up and what they see none of them likes.

Chapter 79

"What the hell just happened?"

Ciaran Burris asks the young man from Holloman who is next to him, Jose Martinez. They flew in together and now sit at the rear of the Gdansk area's Regional Mobile Emergency Command Center. Their table is covered by monitors and laptops, all showing different parts of the City. From where he sits, Ciaran cranes his neck to watch orders being given to a cluster of uniformed men and women in the main room of the Command Center. Neither he nor Jose can understand a word of the Polish being used, but this hardly matters. It is clear from the tone of voice being used that the Commander is making his displeasure known to the others.

Jose leans in to Ciaran and lowers his voice.

"Apparently, they enabled the master arm and when they did one of the units fired."

"Accidentally?" asks Burris.

Burris blows on his hands. He has been nothing but cold since landing in Gdansk and encountering this new kind of hyper chill, one that has wasted little time burrowing itself deep into his bones.

"Yes," replies Joseph, "They think it was an accident but they are not sure. They aren't sure what happened."

Ciaran may be just as exasperated. But there is not a lot he can do about it here in an oversized command trailer parked in the middle of an abandoned warehouse not far from the historic central business district of Gdansk. At least the warehouse got them out of the heavy snow and harsh wind. They occupy the ground floor of an old single-level concrete structure, its interior walls, many of them, are covered with an assortment of graffiti, all wild colors and strange symbols and letters of no discernable meaning to Ciaran. On this side of the building are dozens of open docks, their doors gone long ago, and a side yard now used to park trailer trucks. Also in the side yard is a small cleared area for launching remotely piloted vehicles. The pad and short runway are off the main drive, past a locked gate which only police and fire had keys for.

The warehouse is steel framed with cross bracing supporting a metal roof. The roof has a skylight down the center covered over by snow. Banks of factory windows, the kind that can be opened, are largely intact on both sides of the building, but the windows have enough broken panes to give wind and snow full reign throughout the interior. The whole place is drifted high with piles of snow swirled like icing on a cake.

The trailer, more like a German tour bus, is not unlike a spaceship control center. Its rows of personnel are lined up along each side monitoring arrays of screens, officers pacing back and forth, speaking rapid fire orders to their subordinates. The orders are inscrutable to Ciaran, but they give him a sense of how things are going. The people in this center in turn coordinate another group, one of actual drone operators, who are located not far away in portable steel trailers. The trailers look like shipping containers, except that they sprout a forest of aerial antennae and are spread out somewhat haphazardly throughout the warehouse. Each nondescript trailer holds two operators sitting side by side. Trained to operate unmanned aerial vehicles, one is the drone pilot and the other is the sensor operator. Control stick kind of personnel, they operate intuitive, artificial intelligence drones by simple screen command and mouse click.

Martinez has a single headphone on and is listening to the police band while watching the laptop on the table in front of him. He is from Alamagordo and White Sands, where he helped test new forms of unmanned air-to-air combat vehicles while stationed at Holloman. He has experience from northern Pakistan and eastern Afganistan operations and is part of the overwhelming majority of pilots now trained for UVA over conventional aircraft.

Not even Martinez, with all his expertise, is able to operate all of the tens of thousands of military drones on surveillance or combat missions around the world, not just for the U.S. military but also for dozens of other countries. Jose helped the others unbox drones and missiles, fascinated to see the Polish equipment, all the while trying to understand what their equipment choices reveal about the Poles. He pulled up lids at the end of missile cases and watched as crews lifted missiles out, carried them over to big drones, and held them in place to be attached. Martinez knew the gunmetal grey drones operate silently from twenty thousand feet. Their strikes would seem to come from nowhere.

"What are you watching?" asks Burris. By this he means to ask about what is being shown on Espedido's laptop screen. It's some kind of aerial geometry unknown to Burris.

Jose hears this with his free ear, the one not listening to the police band, where everything is being reported in a language he doesn't understand.

"The country's Sentinel drone," Jose replies. He taps a key to bring a small image up in the corner of the screen. It shows a batwing style stealth aircraft designed for high level reconnaissance. "It's their eyes on the prize. With billions of pixels per camera, it maintains a wide angle persistent stare that can take in a whole country at once. It can stay up permanently over a country to watch whatever's important at the moment. It's the highest level in any hierarchy of drones. When the Commander uses that big screen in the central control room he can start with real time images coming from this drone showing the entire city. He then drills down, to the street level if necessary. He can pull up an unlimited number of windows and time frames to analyze what he is seeing."

"Like the birds taking off from the square?" Ciaran says.

"Exactly. And the CAA and NSB have the same capability. They're seeing everything we're seeing."

By these Ciaran knew he was referring to the Polish Civil Aviation Authority and the Polish National Security Bureau, both in Warsaw. The NSB would be reporting directly to the President and to the National Security Council, the two of whom share jurisdiction over matters of national security.

Ciaran watches the Commander's reactions with admiration. The Commander has taken control of the emergency center from the police and now signals his men to begin the attack. Ciaran wishes he had men with whom he could join the military and local tactical units. While the military is in charge of considerable resources, the three college students are lightly armed at best. They have given the Polish Commander the one thing he needed more than anything else, time to reorganize his forces from the airport debacle, and now he is indeed ready for them. He has an impressive drone force, many of them armed. He has tactical snipers on rooftops, and he has mobile units spread throughout the downtown. He has a warehouse full of all the necessary personnel to operate a fleet of drones.

Somehow, Martinez knows what's happening.

"The Commander has issued orders not to fire because he doesn't want any damage to the historical area and its residents," Joseph informs him. "And with multiple drones, they will follow the lead drone in a formation. The lead is directed, the others just follow."

Ciaran is convinced this will indeed be the end of the road. He hopes to convince Polish authorities to share the wealth with whatever they recover from these so-out-of-their-depth college kids and give him an impressive intelligence coup to take back with him to the States.

Chapter 80

Zak, Kim and Gilly run past Artus Court and the Neptune Fountain, now completely hidden beneath a thick blanket of snow. When they can they turn their heads as a host of drones bears down on them from hundreds of feet above. They stick to the center of Long Market where the snow has been plowed away and head straight for Zielona Gate beyond which is the waterfront two long blocks away. Frozen snow clings to everything. Icicles hang from the edges of every window and door. Spider veins of ice cover every darkened window. A fog freezes and suspends in the air, turning Long Market into a ghostly aerie.

They fly across the square, their feet hardly touching the pavement, as the sound of the drones, like so many flying lawnmowers, gets closer. They cross Kusnierska Street and are halfway to Zielona, Green Gate, when the first of the drones reaches them. Zak is surprised that they have not been fired on, and figures it must be the drone's job to drive them through the Gate to where they are to be captured. He expects a mass of force.

Gilly has easily caught up and is running on the other side of Kim. He yells over the noise of the nearest drones, which can't be more than a dozen feet over their heads.

"We're still alive!" Gilly says enthusiastically and breathlessly. He obviously didn't think this was possible.

"I wouldn't get your hopes up," Kim yells back, already hoarse.

"They're on the other side of the Gate," Zak shouts.

The Zielona Gate looms large as they approach, a large brick building that sits square across the end of Long Market. Its four sandstone archways stand twenty feet tall, above which are a set of windows and then above the windows is a central dormer sporting a crowning statue. The adjacent side streets are blocked by military vehicles, leaving them little choice but to have to go through the gate.

They see a cordon of military vehicles and uniformed personnel waiting for them on the other side arranged across the end of Stagiewna bridge and the Motlawa River. The sight of so many military men crowded together on the bridge brings them up short. They slow to a stop as they come out the other side of Green Gate. Zak looks to his left and sees that the way up the River to their ship, alongside the buildings of the Quay, is blocked by a handful of armed men.

"Holy Shitsky!" yells Gilly, trying to catch his breath.

Zak repeats Gilly's oath.

"Me three," comments Kim, staring across at the threatening troops arrayed fifty feet from them.

The stretch of cobblestone pavement between them and the Poles is scoured nearly clean of snow by the vicious wind from earlier. Somehow the drones have skipped over the Gate and now stand their guard poised over the soldiers and their trucks on the bridge.

It is at this moment that Zak happens to look above the collection of green uniforms and does a double take. Before he can think to say anything, he notices that Kim, and then Gilly, are seeing the same thing.

"What?" asks Kim to no one in particular.

An officer with a hat instead of a helmet steps forward. No one is sure if they have heard a shot, but at that instant a hard clink sounds on the pavement near the officer as a piece of brick shoots errantly skyward right in front of him. The officer starts and turns east to see in the beginning rays of a clearing dawn an incoming fleet of what appear to be drones. They swoop in, firing at close range on the soldier's drones. Several of the military's smaller drones are quickly shot from the sky, spiraling downward like so many maple tree schizocarp, helicoptering into the river. While hit, other drones, especially the larger ones, are capable of self-diagnosis. Before losing total control they pop parachutes that allow them to fall languidly onto the road and eastern part of the bridge.

The military's drones fire back at the invaders, initiating an air to air battle, a dog fight of unmanned aircraft. The drones swoop low in their avoidance maneuvers, using humans as shields. The soldiers, frightened by the speed and size of the drones, which fly fast and close, quickly take what cover they can, determined not to become accidental victims to internecine drone warfare.

Where a small group of soldiers block the way up the Quay, they are not so lucky. The new drones on the scene buzz them mercilessly, chasing them back to the main group on the bridge. Having retreated briefly to the relative safety of an archway beneath Green Gate, Zak, Kim, and Gilly, wait until the way is cleared, then take advantage of the chaos to break free and race up the Quay toward their ship.

"Can you Geo Fence them?" I ask, looking across the room to one of the young people seated there with a bunch of friends.

It's evening and it's the previous day in Los Angeles on the other side of the world. I stand in the middle of the living room, the center of my universe. The corner walls of glass, doors really, are pulled back, lulling a gentle breeze from the lighted grounds outside. People, extra chairs and tables extend to the patio outside and around to the pool. I know some of the people but most are techies cleared through a committee of friends.

I look at the young man on the sofa. He is very focused on his laptop. They all look like college kids to me and I am amazed at what they can do. Somehow the guy and his friends have hacked into a trove of armed drones stationed at Malbork air base not far from Gdansk. They did this courtesy of Zak's Chinese files, a few of which I admit I downloaded during our sunny patio meeting. One contained various keys to over-riding government encryption commonly used in programming drones. What these kids are doing with it is, well, awesome.

"No, we don't have time. But I think we can get the other side's drones to cut off the attack. We may be able to intercept their contact with center," the kid, Jerry, says, without looking up.

"Great! How are our pilots doing?" I ask, projecting my voice to the group just outside on the patio.

A young woman with flowing curls stands among the group of RPV pilots and turns to me.

"We're running a blocking action to keep their drones away from the subjects," Francis returns. "We're learning that if we bank too hard we lose the sat."

"Al?" I ask, turning to an older, bald man at my side.

"We're almost in," he says. Al and his group of friends are seated at my table. They have been assigned the task of disrupting the Polish overhead Sentinel drone using malicious code.

"How are we on social?" I ask of the people on the other side of the room. They sit by my wife's big Christmas Tree.

"There are a lot of unhappy residents in the area," reports a young woman with curls running down her back. "Vids are being posted now. Some guy on Long Street must have been up all night. He was the first to post about the sound of drones!"

I look to the man seated next to me.

"It only takes one, huh Al?"

Chapter 81

The President is six stories underground, beneath the White House East Wing, the room popularly known as the bunker. To the government it is the President's EOC, or Emergency Operations Center. Built long ago for Roosevelt, it is still the place where Presidents shelter at times of imminent threat. Considered able to survive any kind of attack, it cannot, of course, survive a direct nuclear hit.

Today the executive briefing room is packed with officials from various agencies participating in a joint exercise. They are to coordinate with a variety of states and cities in the path of a hypothetical hurricane making its way up the East Coast. It is an exercise that has been drilled to by a number of the affected organizations now for over a year. This occasion is the penultimate debut of thousands of man hours of training at all levels of the United States government. After this, everything that happens will become a part of training packages, training packages that will be made available to other states and localities throughout the nation, government preparation in the guise of theater, or theater in the guise of government preparation, take your pick.

Centered at the brightly lit table, the President has the mostly blue, round seal of the Office of the President of the United States affixed to the wall behind him. The Seal is flanked on one side by a screen showing the path of the hurricane as projected to sweep along the East Coast. On the other side is a TV screen showing a presumably current satellite view of the strengthening storm. Dressed in a blue jacket with the Presidential Seal on it, the President wears it over a white shirt, collar open, a studied, casual, yet official, look.

A very concerned army general in fatigues sits on the President's right, but to his left is the Director of FEMA. Around the rest of the table are about a dozen other federal representatives, mostly in blue jackets, all men except for two women. On the table before each of the attendees are large presidentially blue nametags, each with a long official title neatly embossed. Microphones have been placed around so that anyone wishing to may easily grab one. Their faces are gauntly shadowed by the room's subdued lights but behind them in chairs lined up chock a block along the walls sit their deputy and assistant cohorts. The deputies and assistants sit on metal folding chairs in the dark created by turning down the can lights in the ceiling and just using the spots on the table. The deputies and assistants, ready to be called upon at a moment's notice, follow what transpires carefully in order to be able to fill in any essential details that might be required by their bosses.

High, next to one of the doors to the room, all of which are closed, is an electronic sign with luminous red letters stating "On Air".

But the sign has just blinked off.

Everybody at the table understands the signal. They lean back in their chairs in concert. The people sitting around the edge of the room, despite their responsibility to miss nothing, also relax, some standing, others just stretching. The On Air sign has only been on for the last forty-five minutes, but to everyone in the room it seems much longer. The President has agreed to give the Raleigh people five minutes to pull together information on their state's available emergency response.

It's not much time for a real break.

The well-dressed woman sitting behind the President has been watching communications come in on her phone, relayed by the staff upstairs. As soon as they are signaled off air, she is up and leaning in to catch the President's ear.

"Mr. President, there's been an incident in Poland," she says with a slight but convincing trace of concern in her voice.

Chapter 82

"Come on!" yells Kim.

She is out front on their way up the Quay. Somehow, someone has cleared a path out of the snow here on the highest level of the quay. Another level leads down broad stone stairs to the water's edge where several tour boats are moored. Kim leads them past pastel row houses spotlighted by the quay's street lights.

Hacked drones cover their retreat, fending off the Commander's drones with acrobatic maneuver, bursts of automatic gunfire and rockets, lighting up the early dawn. The spray of shots hits the sidewalk near them more than once.

Finally, Gilly is hit by ricochet and goes down. The offending drone is quickly targeted by a hijacked drone and blasted out of the air.

Zak and Kim run back to Gilly, who is on his back, holding his calf and grimacing. The snow beneath his leg is red and so is the calf of his pants. Gilly's breathing comes in rasps and billows of steam.

"Go on! Get out of here!" he barks at them from between clenched teeth.

"We can't leave you here, Gil!" Kim states with conviction.

"I can't run. Probably can't walk. Go!"

Zak grips Gilly's free hand, squeezing hard.

"Dude," is all Zak can say, his eyes filling.

Gilly gives Zak a stern look.

"Go on!"

Zak grabs Kim's shoulder, pulling.

"Bye Gilly," she practically whispers, close to him, before kissing his cheek.

"On the other side, Kim," Gilly replies, the words catching.

Kim and Zak light off, following the townhouses along the Motlawa River. They quickly run past two gates, the Brama Chlebnica and the Brama Mariacka, both looming brick monuments with wide archways. In two more blocks, as the drones behind them are starting to disappear, they come to the wood Zuraw Crane, now a national maritime museum, which sits at one of the widest points of the river. They can see the Soldek ship museum just across the river along with its museum cargo ship moored alongside. They see another cargo ship, their cargo ship, parked two blocks away in front of the Straganiarska Gate. It has turned around and pointed its way out of the port.

They reach Straganiarska Gate and its towers, high pitched roof and elegant dormers, out of breath. Leaning over, their hands on their knees, they work to get it back. The sun is peeking out over the horizon and the sky is clearing, banks of clouds moving west. The sound of water trickling rises all around them as snow and ice caked on the Quay's buildings begins to melt in the suddenly hot morning sun.

"Do you think we lost them?" Kim asks, wiping sweat from her face with a gloved hand while squinting into the sun.

"Hope so. Somebody commandeered a fleet of those things to protect us!" Zak says with relief, dropping his pack to the ground to take off his coat and cool off.

"Hmm. I wonder who that could have been?" Kim replies archly.

"Hollywood magic," laughs Zak.

Together they glance at the enormous yellow cargo vessel moored next to the seawall. It looms over them. A complex assortment of cranes bristles over its decks. At the rear of the vessel rises a white six story superstructure, the house, windows spanning the width of the bridge on top. Below the bridge are six stories of other windows for all the berths aboard. A rusty gangway on a pivoting platform has been lowered over the railing, the lowest rung of which is but a foot and a half from the still snowy concrete surface of the quay in a welcoming sign.

"Ahoy!" cries a man dressed in heavy dark clothes, a stocking cap pulled low on his head. They look up to see him leaning over the ship's rail and waving at them.

Kim and Zak wave back and watch as the seaman points to the gangway and motions for them to come up.

"So? Is this our ride?" Zak asks.

"You think, Sparky?" Kim kids him.

"After you," he gestures.

Kim starts climbing the gently swaying gangway, her pack and coat hung over her shoulder and Zak follows. The sailor watches their slow but shaky climb with amusement. He grabs their hands and pumps their arms when they reach the main deck, repeats their names in a strongly accented way when they introduce themselves, and beckons them down the length of the ship around the numerous red painted cranes to the superstructure. Finally, he leads them up several stories of steel stairs to a short hallway and their small berth. The man makes it clear that they have checked in at the very last minute and must first head to the bridge and coms.

Dropping their bags in the stateroom, they head to the bridge, only to step inside with trepidation when they reach a doorway marked "Restricted". Giant windows and ceiling suspended monitors span the full length of the room. To one side at a circular desk two communications personnel are seated behind a series of desk monitors. A young blond woman in a navy knit shirt and pants rotates her chair around to them as they approach. The other com person, a bald older man, goes out of his way to studiously ignore them.

Out of nowhere there is a long blast on the ship's horn.

"We're leaving," she says with a mischievous smile, as if the blast of the horn was not a convincing enough way to convey this message. Her name tag says Berit.

"Excuse us. We don't want to bother you if you're busy. Should we come back another time?" Kim asks.

"No, this is fine. How can I help you?" replies Berit.

"Hi, I'm Kimberly Scott."

"And I'm Zachary Miller."

"Yes, of course. I'll need your ID please," she asks pleasantly.

Berit takes them and consults her screen, completing the check in.

"I see you're going to be with us for a while?" she observes handing them back.

"It's kind of an adventure," Kim states, beaming as she hugs Zak.

"Speaking of which, I wonder if you could help us?" Zak ventures.

Zak is quick to hand Berit the flash drive.

"The whole drive needs to be sent," he says.

"But in a rather particular manner," Kim adds.

Zak brings up Bog's instructions on his phone and gives it to Berit. She reads it carefully before looking up and nodding.

"No problem. Would you like me to send it now?"

Zak and Kim can't help it. They give each other surprised looks. This is a lot easier than they thought it would be.

"Uh, that's great. Sure," says Zak.

"Now is freakin' tastic," adds Kim.

Berit spins in her chair, slips the drive into a USB slot, and goes to work. As she does, Zak and Kim feel the ship start to move. They look out the bridge windows and see the staid looking Baltic Philharmonic building as it passes by on the right bank.

"This is all encrypted," Berit observes drily, almost as if to ask why wouldn't it be. She watches the stick uploading to the designated satellite.

Zak and Kim pull each other closer.

Moments later they are standing at the front rail of the ship, soaking in the strong sun. The Gdansk, formerly Lenin, Shipyard surrounds them. The ship moves slowly as Long Quay gradually disappears and they sail by the east side of Mlyniska Island. Everywhere are giant angular cranes, other worldly, poised in menacing positions, like megalithic transformers ready to start a war of the worlds.

They float past large ships being loaded in tight berths while cranes hover above and intense lighting floods their cargo. They see immense oil platforms are under repair. The wharfs are loaded with the biggest commercial craft, shoehorned into every sort of dock. The ghostly nighttime lights of the Yard have lost their mystery before the rising sun. A dark old building goes by.

On it a word is sprayed. White letters: Solidarnosc.

The five hundred year old Wisloujscie fortress rolls slowly by to their right. A Polish flag flies above its stone tower. Surrounding it is a circular battlement and manicured grounds sloping down to ancient sea walls. Their freighter turns left and the monument at Westerplatte towers in the middle of an urban park, at one time a resort. It honors soldiers who fought at the Battle of Westerplatte. They held out against invading Germans, the first battle of of World War II. A hundred feet tall, concrete blocks stack on top of each other, the faces of two of the defending, helmeted soldiers emerging near the top.

The ship breaks into the open Gulf of Gdansk. Chunks of floating ice cover the sea, accreted into long islands easily smashed to pieces as they pass. The sun glints harshly off the few patches of clear water. It gets in their eyes. It makes them blink and squint.

Zak turns to Kim.

"We've got this, you and I," he says.

"I know, but I'm worried about Gil. What will they do with him?" Kim asks, looking to the horizon, the clearing sky deep blue, only a few hazy wisps of cloud left, very high up. She has only a sweater on, accompanied by a knitted orange cap that sports flaps and dangling balls.

"I don't know. What can they do really? The American Consulate will want him back." Zak replies.

"And Bog?"

Zak hears the slip in Kim's voice as she says his name, and hearing this makes him finally ask what he has tried so hard not to ask.

"It's him, isn't it?"

Kim is quiet. When she does turn, there are tears.

"Yes."

She really can't say anything else. She'd lose it.

The ship seems to change direction, making sounds in the water that will soon become very familiar.

"Uh, where're we going?" Zak eventually asks.

Kim laughs and turns to him.

"You know, I have no idea!" She replies with a grin, before kissing him on the cheek.

Chapter 83

Aesa stares out the bank of windows. Rounding the end of the mobile research station, they give her an expansive view far into the darkness. But the windows also spill light onto the dark ice shelf around the station. She has turned the big lights off to see what's out there. She thought she saw something and she has been staring intently for minutes.

Sure enough, what she thought might be a wolf turns out instead to be a white bear in a thick coat of fur. He saunters around the edges of the patch of light and approaches the trailer timorously, his eyes made red by the station's reflected glow. Aesa stands to get a better view, knowing the bear is watching her. He pauses and a gust of wind ruffles his fur. He tilts his head. Is this making a statement she wonders? Finally, he coolly wanders off.

Aesa cannot imagine how anything could be so far north. She is re-immersed in her work when she later hears the bear roar from far off. It makes her look up. She scans the arctic sky, immeasurably deep and black and star studded.

To the North Aesa sees night shining clouds near the pole, noctilucent, crystals of glowing ice, at a very high altitude, the mesosphere, fifty miles up. Once rare, now more frequent, they signal changes to the atmosphere, a kind of environmental warning.

Aesa weighs the coincidence of the bear and the night clouds, dismissing it out of hand. She checks indicators on the sat array spread out over the snow next to the station. She notices the artifact of a transmission of a type that is unknown to her. It appears in a list of simultaneous downloads.

Curiously, she sees that it requires her action. Pulling it up, a note is attached, addressed to her, Aesa Halvorsen, of Svalsat. At first, she is amused that someone has hacked her name, the name of perhaps the most remotely located person in the entire Northern hemisphere of the planet.

She reads the note, which makes her somewhat less amused, and takes a step further. She examines the attached material, finding it mostly encrypted. Unfamiliar with the form of encryption, she guesses it must be military. There are only a few parts of the massive content that are readable to her, and they're not much really. But they're enough.

If she sends it to the sat somebody is going to be looking for it there. That much is clear to her. She pushes her chair back and pauses.

It's not a treaty violation because it's not obviously military, despite the form of encryption. She can say she had no idea what kind of encryption it was. She can say that she thought it was scientific, but she recognizes that such reasoning will probably not wash with KSAT, the company she works for. She takes a few more minutes to check everything again on the monitor before her, considers, and then reconsiders, her options. Finally, she keys it on, just as the sender requested, all the while taking a deep breath. As she watches it upload, Aesa's big breath turns into a long sigh.

She reaches for the radio mike and presses the push to talk button.

"Svalsat One. Svalsat One. This is Svalsat Two. Over."

She waits a bit and then repeats her message. Finally, she gets a response.

"Svalsat Two, this is Svalsat One, go ahead, over."

She knows this is Kristian.

"I'm thinking about calling it quits. Can you pick me up? Acknowledge. Over."

"No problem. We were heading out anyway. Be there shortly. Over."

"Missing you. Over."

"Wilco. Me too. Out."

She begins to pick up, getting things back in order, having to do some cleaning in the process, all the while packing up her stuff. A half hour goes by before Kristian calls. He has left Svalbard station, is on his way in a snow cat, and wants her to set off a flare to help him zero in on her location.

Aesa grabs her coat and a parachute flare, taking off the end caps as she steps out the door. The wind is down so she figures that the flare shouldn't drift too far. She holds the plastic tube high, pulls the safety pin, and then presses down on the trigger at the bottom. The rocket motor erupts and seconds later the flare launches, rapidly achieving a height of at least a thousand feet in a fast and powerful woosh skyward. The parachute pops and the flare goes limp, waving back and forth as it lazily descends the velvet sky, illuminating a large area with its red hue. She knows Kristian will be able to see it easily. He should be halfway between Svalbard and her position. As Svalsat is less than thirty miles away, there is even a good chance they can see it from there.

Aesa waits. A few minutes later she repeats the firing of another flare. It takes less than a minute before it too falls, extinguishing itself, pssst, in the snow. She wonders if her bear is watching all this from somewhere out there.

When Kristian and Daniel show up, they help Aesa load her things aboard the snow cat. They don't bother to lock up. Aesa takes one last look at the mobile station and the night shining clouds luminescing over the pole. She can't wait to get back to Longyearbyen and then Oslo, out of Spitsbergen and then to Norway. She knows she may have to disappear for a while. She thinks the Caribbean might be good this time of year. Heck, as far as she is concerned, it would be nice any time of year.

Chapter 84

By mid-morning everybody who had anything to do with just about anything showed up at the Policji Komenda Komisariat II on sunny, snowy Pomeranian Street. The Long Market station fits well into its historic neighborhood, tucked out of the way behind four quaint townhouse façades that neatly disguise it. However, one set of doors for four townhouses gives it away. So do the arched driveways under the townhouses on either side that give way to a police parking lot behind the building.

Burris and Martinez get out of a cab. Before them is ranged a cavalcade of police vehicles strewn up and down the street. Angle parking in front of the building , usually reserved for citizens, is taken up by police vehicles. Spaces that the Komisariat pays to reserve for its use by the front of the church, which are across the street, are also fully occupied. The street, Pomeranian, is crowded with people, all of whom are hauling wounded, dying or captured drones from the insides or the tops of cars and trucks. The police and their technicians carry them carefully across the slippery street, often in pairs, sometimes in groups, but always awkwardly through the front doors of the station. There are so many people circulating in and out the front of the station that an officer has appointed himself the official holder of the door.

Pomeranian Street maintains its two way status with difficulty this morning. Everyone is parked over the curb and significantly onto the sidewalk. There is only passage left for typical euro-cars to travel in both directions on the cobblestone street, and at that very carefully, while crawling past. The morning has hit a peak of activity with cars and people everywhere, forcing Burris' cabbie, when faced with the problem of how to get out, to back his way down the street.

Burris and Martinez pick their way across and through the chaos.

The Gdansk Commander had not been impressed with the credentials of either American, and as a result the two of them had been forced to call a cab rather than hitch a ride with the military to the station. Burris had watched the leader's face fall when his drone force took a drubbing from the upstart group of hacked and hijacked drones. The Commander's resulting surliness had easily transferred its dyspepsia to Burris. Not helping Burris is Martinez, who continues to act as if he always knows too much.

"Oh yeah?" Burris replies gruffly to something Martinez has just said, even though he wasn't paying attention.

"Yeah. The uniform police at this station are called City Guards. They have no arrest or investigative powers. They're also called the Policji. The other non –uniform police here are the national police and they're called the Policja. They do have arrest power."

"Good to know. But we also have Polish Internal Security and a unit of the Army here. It's a cluster," says Burris, leaving his thought unfinished. Burris nods to the man who holds the door open for them.

The station is modern with unblemished white walls and bright, overhead LED panels. The two men face a wide set of grey stairs with stainless steel handrails leading to a reception area similar to a dentist's office. The stairs are filled with knots of police immersed in conversation with one another.

They shoulder past all the officers to the landing. To one side is a room entered through an archway that is open over the main stair. To the other side several stairs lead up a short hallway to the police station's offices. The hallway is littered with captured drones and several techies, none of whom looks old enough to be out of high school.

The waiting room has a long white counter at the rear, a kind of podium with a blue front. Behind it are two officers, both on the phone. A mix of local and national police stand very close to an older Chinese national. The man has black as coal slicked back hair and a heavy wool overcoat. Chung Yao sits on one of three white plastic pedestal chairs lined up on the sides of the room, on a cushion of blue, the color matching the front panel of the counter.

Yao had surveyed Dai Gu with disgust at the Airport. Not only had Gu let everyone get away, but the man had pulled his weapon, virtually guaranteeing that he would be shot by the Polish soldiers who greeted the plane. He took a hit in the shoulder and was hauled off to the hospital. Now Yao sits forlornly and avoids looking at the other Chinese man in the Police station's waiting room.

Hui Lee watched as Dai Gu received first aide at the airport. Yao was much luckier. He was only roughed up by the Polish guard. Dai Gu and Chung Yao are detained by Polish authorities, and for all intents and purposes Hui Lee is now in charge of them, stuck with them rather, and the blizzard of government paperwork that will come with them. Lee considers whether it might not have been better to be shot by a drone himself.

Burris can understand very well what's happening with the Chinese, so he steps over to the side stairs, with Jose Martinez following, and enters the side room that opens up and looks out over the entry. It has only a glass panel railing separating it from the stairs. Noise from police on the stairwell combines with the noise from a group of national police who are in the small room. Surrounded are the three bereft Russians: Sergei, the kid, and the big guy. The three are hemmed in, downcast, and completely flummoxed by the language barrier. Their fates are unclear, but not attractive and they seem to know it.

In the middle of this stands the Commander. He abruptly raises his voice, yelling at several well-dressed civilian officials, using a virulent invective.

Ciaran Burris can't figure out what they are saying to each other.

"What's going on?" he asks Martinez.

"I haven't the slightest," the younger man answers.

Chapter 85

The last rays of the sun abandon my backyard. I lean on a durable canvas pillow not far from the edge of the pool. There's not the slightest breeze. Banks of cloud and a piece of moon are reflected in the quiet water of the pool.

Bright table lamps glow in every room of the house. Soffit lighting casts warm sprays on the sides of the building. A half dozen chaises line the side of the pool, yet I am the only person out here.

I have my feet on the coffee table in front of me and my laptop is positioned on my thighs so I can check out all these different vigils going on around the world. Forget about candlelight. The crowds use their mobile phones as flashlights, holding them upstretched. Apparently, it wasn't only the Chinese that Wang was ratting on with his millions of files.

I hear Kathy's voice and look up to see that she is leaning over the glass railing outside our upstairs bedroom.

"Dinner's going to be late," she informs me, which is good news. It means she is planning on cooking something. I look forward to it.

"Okay," I respond with alacrity and a cheery tone.

A call comes in and I take it on the laptop.

"The Chinese Government is reeling," Angela Hadad says, her long dark hair framing her young but impassive face. She speaks without a trace of enthusiasm, something that I figure Kadin must have taught her. Stay focused on the objective, he would have said. Don't get emotionally invested.

I remind myself that the people Kadin had chosen to surround himself with most closely were much more than might meet a cursory examination. They were a team designed to carry out his plans, no matter what.

It's quiet here. I can only hear the lapping of the water against the side of the pool, and the light breeze occasionally rustling in the leaves of the trees behind me. So I have no trouble speaking out loud to her over this scrambled connection. I can see Connor and Samira are seated behind her and are looking over her shoulder at me.

"There are large protests in a dozen major cities," Angela goes on.

"They protest now because they know that they can. They never would have before. Legitimacy has been damaged," I say.

"Or just temporarily held in abeyance," Angela comes back.

"Power is transient but not a people's will. Disclosures of widespread abuses of power will create a major crack. Why should I be surprised if it empowers protest everywhere?"

I apologize. I get pedantic. It can be an occupational hazard.

"Everywhere is right," says Connor.

"I think it was Mao himself who said a single spark can start a prairie fire. China is an entire nation on the take. The top seventy members of the national legislature are worth ninety billion, more than ten times that of the entire Congress.2 The result is plutocracy, rule by the rich, an unstainable model of governance in the modern era. You can see the corruption in a variety of ways. Just one is China's high speed rail. It may be the envy of the world, but it is also the biggest financial scandal in the history of the country.

"The government has made a deal with the people to produce a basic level of government competency in exchange for allowing one party rule. But with things like this that deal is off. However the world may try to provide the Chinese people access to the rest of the planet, online or otherwise, it will never be enough to really open things up. The country spends more on the surveillance of its own population than it does on national defense. And a lot of that surveillance is online. It is an updated version of the East Germany's Stasi, that's all."

"Orwell to the nth degree," Samira chimes in.

"There is a willingness to say that black is white as long as the government says it is. But I'm sure there are gatherings in other places."

"Everywhere," Angela rejoins.

"When journalists who reveal government abuses are persecuted and killed by their own governments much the same problem exists. Consider how the American government can turn vindictive and chase a whistleblower from bullied country to bullied country in an obvious attempt to silence and persecute, not just prosecute. How every state in that country has a very regressive tax system designed to push the cost of government onto those least able to pay, a philosophy that clearly says let them eat cake. How a country can have the finest and most expensive system of incarceration in the world with the world's largest incarcerated population, one dominated by race and class, rather than deal with its social problems. How that country vacuums worldwide communications including those of its own citizens because it fails to understand how the cure can be worse than the disease, how that demonstrates how terror wins. Or consider how paralyzing politics and unrestrained bureaucratic power inevitably leads to diminishing, even losing, democracy. Creating secrecy within the state empowers bureaucracy and distorts public discourse until there is none left. It is the death of pluralism by a thousand cuts."

"Too many nations have come to believe that the only way to win a war against their enemies is to get just as dirty as the enemy. What happens when they look in the mirror to find that in defeating their enemies they have made themselves irredeemable? What happens when they face the fact that instead of creating social equity, they waste trillions militarizing a democracy and pursuing pointless foreign adventures? All this rather than create a just society at home. Are we Sparta or Athens?"

"It happens," says Connor.

"And it keeps happening in a repeating and widening circle."

It gets quiet. I've had my say.

I miss Kadin.

I get a note on the screen that a brigadier general from the Netherlands, now the director of the Comprehensive Crisis and Operations Management Centre at SHAPE, the Supreme Headquarters of Allied Powers Europe, has some kind of announcement and is about to speak. I say my goodbyes to Angela, Connor and Samira and watch the general's face come into view.

I don't turn the sound up. Just knowing he has had to make an announcement important enough to be broadcast is sufficient.

The clouds move in thin plates and cover the moon from sight, but this makes the portions of empty sky that remain glow even brighter.

From somewhere in the house I hear Kathy calling.

Chapter 86

Todd Harris, aka Mr. Grey, turns and looks out the window at the park setting of the hospital grounds. The grounds crew raking the late autumn leaves on a cool afternoon could not see him if they looked because the windows are opaque mirrors of burnt orange on the outside. The crew can't see how pensively he sits here, behind his desk, considering what his next move should be.

Cetron has ordered his return and he is loath to depart. He knows he will have to distance himself in every way with this failed mission and dissociate himself with anything having to do with Bogdan Cerny. It was twelve hours before he was notified that Bog had managed to get a message off, even though an awful lot of people knew it only minutes after it happened. He could feel angry if he could only get past the fact that his ticket had just been un-punched by the agency. As a result, he expects that Lonnie James will be forced to demote him to night janitor for the duration of his contract.

Christopher looks back at the monitor on his desk. It shows a range of security cameras and he clicks on one. Bog sits on the bed in his room seeming to watch Romanian TV, but there is little sign that he is engaged. Bog's mind is so scrambled it will take days, if ever, for him to regain his senses. If he ever does come back to the living, he will be lucky to do so. Gray has seen others permanently crippled from less than what Bog has endured.

Somehow, Gray has a sense that these matters will lose some of their significance quickly upon his return. If the security leak of this information from China is even half as devastating to the increasingly unstable world environment as everybody presupposes, much more weighty matters will have to be dealt with, in which case his minor role in the failed effort to stop its transmission to UNK could, possibly, hopefully, end up being overlooked.

He's counting on it.

Gray turns off the machine and rises, suddenly, and for reasons he doesn't quite understand, he is in a hurry to leave.

Chapter 87

An urgent siren wails across the blackness of the night time ocean as a cruise missile pops explosively out of its launch tube aboard the American destroyer in the north Arabian Sea. Its rocket motor kicks and in that instant the missile is obscured by a blinding light accompanied by a billow of acrid smoke and a guttural roar. The cruise missile departs the environs of the ship quickly, a scientifically contained explosive force powering itself skyward, illuminating the sea around the ship for a moment. Shortly the pitch black sky closes around what remains of the missile's luminous tail, which continues to ascend until diminishing to a minute spark. After a bit, even the spark disappears from sight, gone in the blink of an eye.

The ship's siren wails again, deafening and disconcerting, and another launch takes place, and then another, so many launches in such a short space of time. Tied to a satellite above, the group of cruise missiles flies north in an evenly spaced, single file line of death. They travel near the ocean's surface, and they rise and fall to closely follow the contours of the land. They move at high but constant subsonic velocity, approaching the speed of sound, and their rocket noise can be heard by those it is approaching. After that, there are only a few scant seconds before human recognition can occur, really no time to act.

The area along Nisatta Road out of southwest Mardan runs to the town of Nisatta and the M-1 Highway to Peshawar. Since Tariq's forces have managed to target the few aircraft, mainly helicopters, stationed at the Punjab Regiment Centre in central Mardan, there are no aircraft flying in the vicinity, this on the night after the day that Mardan was captured by Tariq Usami's forces, the group known as the Kalpar Trust. Tahir Bhatti, with the aide of only one body guard, finds himself on this night of all nights on the refugee strewn Nisatta Road trying to get to the Bacha Khan Airport in Peshawar. For years he has been a prominent opponent of the Trust as leader of the Yousafzai tribe, the tribe whose heritage dominates in Mardan. Now, he has to flee with them.

Bhatti and his bodyguard have had their car taken by a group of thugs too large to challenge. They were unrecognized and on foot along with many other refugees when they decided to rest. They stayed among the group and with its tents late that night. There were campfires and some kindly shared food, greatly appreciated, in the small grove of dead trees on the edge of a dusty farm field.

But Tahir was oblivious to the fact that one among the refugees had recognized him. Worse, that refugee had texted a friend about it. The friend, it turned out, was back in the City and somewhat sympathetic to the Kalpar cause. It went from there.

When later the distant barely heard buzz of incoming missiles became a discernable noise and then finally a frightening thunder, the texting refugee had left the area. For the dozens of sleeping refugees at the locale, they knew nothing about the texts. Each missile carried cluster bombs with hundreds of bomblets ejecting as smaller sub-munitions. The bomblets streaked down in a long, wide pattern, falling and detonating among the fires and the tents, spewing shrapnel in all directions, tearing into clothing and flesh, raising clouds of dirt and debris high into air reverberating with the sound of so many multiple explosions occurring near simultaneously. Afterwards, there is but a moment of silence as the dust settles.

Following that, there is only a wail of screams.3

It is the next morning and madness has descended on the tiny Hotel Mardan. Jessica stands in the middle of the fray in a serpentine line of western journalists, all deciding that the time has come to take their leave of the besieged city, and more specifically, of the Hotel Mardan. The noise of close gunfire and more distant mortars seeps easily into the tepid air of the hotel lobby, making her sweat. The tension is etched on the dozen faces around her, other journalists lined up, holding onto the extended handles of rolling luggage, checking airline e-tickets for Peshawar. They are from so many different places that, brought together like this, they look like some kind of meeting at the UN.

Jessica hears the rumble of vehicles outside the hotel and turns to look out the front windows at the street. In the process of lining up at the curb are military, but clearly not government, vehicles, armored Humvees and an improvised pick up with a fifty millimeter machine gun mounted in the bed. In an instant a young man dressed in some kind of mismatched pseudo military garb, a rifle hanging at his side, comes in the front door.

"Is there a Miss Hughes here?" he asks in an accented but subdued voice, one probably more used to shouting insults at fellow soldiers than addressing international journalists.

If Jessica thought she could lay low she was mistaken. Suddenly everyone in the room is looking at her like a prize turkey at thanksgiving.

"Uhm, I'm Jessica Hughes," she responds uncertainly, looking around at the others hesitantly.

"Tariq is waiting in the Humvee. He asks you to come. He has something to show you."

The boy's eyes are wide as he stares, regarding her with interest, short of awe. He has seen her interview of Tariq on U Tube.

Now it is plain. The journalists in the room are envious and abashed to be caught in the process of leaving the country, all at the same time. Screw them, she thinks.

"Okay. Sure," she nods at the boy and grabs her bag, not knowing if she will return to the hotel, not really caring if she ever does or doesn't.

The soldier holds the door for her but as she gets outside she turns to the parking lot, there to find Sameer waiting beside his car for her. Jessica waves and shouts for him to go on, that she is leaving with the soldiers.

She is led to the lead Humvee and the young man opens the back door. Inside is Tariq, wearing a pillbox hat and traditional clothes.

"Sorry, but I couldn't come in. It would have been a feeding frenzy," he apologizes, scooting over on the bench seat and offering her a hand.

She takes it, jumps in and drags her bag along with her.

"Where are we going?" Jessica wastes no time in asking.

"Nisatta Road."

"This Road?" she asks. The Hotel Mardan is located at the intersection of Nisatta and Bypass Roads.

He nods.

"You were on my way, so I figured I'd stop and see if you were interested in joining me," he says.

"For what?"

The vehicle starts up with a jolt and they do a U turn at warp speed, which presses her against the door.

"You'll see," is all he says, ending the conversation and lapsing into brooding silence.

They drive for a while. When they finally slow down Jessica looks around the desert and sees not much of anything but for a few people. In tattered clothes, they wander among tent remnants flapping in the breeze, under the strong gaze of an early morning sun.

"The Americans were looking for us last night when we heard that one of the Yousafzai

chiefs, Tahir Bhatti, was waylaid here on the road. We fed information to the Americans, making them think that it was us who were here. The result is as you see." Tariq informs her.

The vehicle slows and pulls over, as do the trucks and Humvees behind them. Jessica clambers out, already working the camera in her hand.

Tariq, getting out on the other side of the Humvee, quickly reaches her side, placing an arm in front of her, practically accosting her.

"There are a lot of unexploded ordinance. You can't go in there," he tells her gruffly.

Jessica is still shooting with her camera. She can't take her eyes away from the sight of the burnt ground, cratered and mounded by heavy ordinance, and the indecipherable human remains scattered everywhere.

"How many?"

She wants to ask how many innocent people were killed, but she doesn't.

"Fifty or sixty. We don't know yet."

"Show me," she demands.

Tariq leads her around the site as Jessica continues to shoot. She has equipment that can connect her directly to the satellite and soon she will be on the phone back to Jim Lenard's staff at News World.

Suddenly she stops. She is dizzy and can feel that bile from her stomach is burning in her throat. Jessica gives in and bends over, letting go of her rage.

Chapter 88

The fiery tip of a cigarette is the only light in the darkened room. There has to be a person smoking the cigarette sitting behind it but it's hard to tell. The two fingers holding the cigarette, as well as some of the hand, illuminate in its phosphorescing embers.

Wu-pen Xu, professor at the Public Security University in downtown Beijing, sits in his darkened office, blinds pulled, late at night. He has been here too long, that he is sure of, trying to think what to do.

Xu was tipped off late in the evening by some former students that his office was raided by investigators with the Public Security Bureau shortly after he had gone home for the day. He had rushed back, unlocked and found his office trashed. The walls that had been packed with shelves of books were now empty, nothing more than a big pile in the corner. Everything even remotely electronic has been taken, including the oversized screen that had been on his cadenza.

He had righted a chair and turned off the lights. While Xu had saved nothing from the flash drive USB that the kids from Tsinghua had shown him, forensically it might be determined that his pc had access to it and that would be enough. It would take time, but these investigators, he knew, since he had trained many of them, were indefatigable.

Chapter 89

"Kina has to check in at the School of Education. Asobi is with her and they're heading to the library. We'll meet at the Quad," Sofie informs Rashida and Gilly as she clicks her phone off. The main Quad is where they're heading anyway.

The day is warm and sunny on the Stanford campus. Students are dressed in t-shirts, shorts, sandals, and book bags. Cyclists spin past, keeping cool. Sofie tags along as Rashida and Gilly do some catching up at the Engineering School. Sophie carries things for Gilly, as his arm is in a sling.

"You guys have it bad," Sophie comments, referring to all the work they have just been given.

"Like you don't?" asks Rashida, popping her gum and annoyed that she is starting to sweat into her T.

"Business school isn't like Engineering," Sophie points out.

"You're lucky," Gilly offers.

They step onto a broad walkway between low rise mission style buildings and their arcades. Rows of palms line either side. Rashida notices a sign on one to their right that says Materials Research.

"I bet they'll be at the Rodin," says Rashida, knowing that Kina and Asobi share an interest in art, in this case of outdoor sculpture.

"How much do they know about what's going on?" asks Sophie.

"I don't know. I haven't heard from them since we got back," Rashida replies.

They walk between two large ellipses of parkland that make up a part of narrow Lomita Mall, through a set of wrought iron gates attached to columns of heavy sandstone blocks, and once again between two single story sandstone buildings with characteristic archways along their lengths and clay tiled mansards on their roofs. They walk between more palm trees before reaching a Spanish tower, passing under its twenty foot archway and into the open space of the main quad. The brick courtyard is ringed by more Spanish buildings connected by colonnades, interrupted by eight large landscaping islands filled with palms and ornamental trees.

"That way," points Sofie.

She leads them through a triple archway that has a peak roof, where they can see the Rodin Burghers as they approach. Kina and Asobi stand nearby.

"Where's your bike?" Gilly, surprised, asks Asobi. She is rarely without it.

Asobi shoots Gilly a look. They all know her story about the bike. If he's teasing, she doesn't like it.

They stand in Memorial Court, which is criss-crossed geometrically by intercepting sidewalks. The Rodin Burghers of Calais are a set of six life sized figures, copies that represent the leaders of the besieged City, who in 1347 sacrificed themselves to end an English siege. The English King agreed to lift the siege, sparing the starving residents their lives, in exchange for the surrender of the City's leaders. They were forced to come out wearing nooses around their necks in preparation for their deaths while bearing the keys to the City and its Castle. Calais sought the work from Rodin, who completed it in 1889 as a symbol of heroic self-sacrifice. The Burghers however were lucky: the Queen of England intervened and saved their lives.

"How's the shoulder big guy?" asks Kina, feinting a right to his injured arm.

Gilly doesn't flinch.

"Better. Off the painkillers. Fun's over. Back to work and all that."

"You'll get over it," Kina assures him.

"Sophie's got her guy back," Rashida remarks.

"Yeah, but I have to carry his stuff," Sophie complains.

"What happened to Artie and Ethan?" Rashida asks.

"Holy crap! How are they?" asks Kina, leaning against one of the black metal figures.

"Artie is still recovering in Jaipur but he's out of the hospital. He is staying with his uncle but wants to get back here. His uncle insists that he can't leave for at least another week. His parents, who had moved to Dehli, have been to see him," Gilly informs them.

"And Ethan?" asks Asobi.

"He's still in Monterey at his friend Ellie's. They don't want him to come back to school until he checks in again with his doctor. I'm sure he'll be here in a few days. He nearly died," Gilly tells them.

"And so did Artie," adds Sophie.

"He's working on finding his attackers," says Gilly.

"Good luck with that," says Rashida.

"But nobody is more mean-ass than Asobi. She kicked the bejesus out of this guy who attacked her," says Kina, who looks admiringly at her friend.

This garners Asobi everyone's rather amazed attention and this clearly embarrasses her. Rashida comes to her rescue.

"And Zak and Kim are in the Atlantic somewhere. Here, they sent me some pictures,"  
she says, quickly looking them up and handing her phone to Asobi. It gets passed around. The pictures show the giant cargo ship bristling with cranes, the middle of an immense icy sea, Zak and Kim, and their tiny cabin. There is one of the crew and the kitchen, as well as a group shot of the passengers at a table full of food and drink.

"I'm taking this guy with me when I graduate," says Kina, grasping at one of the figures of Calais.

They take pictures of her and the statues in various poses.

Finally, Asobi quietly asks, "How's Bog? Where is he?"

Her question is greeted with empty silence. No one knows.

"He was in Prague last anybody heard of him," says Rashida.

"He disappeared?" asks Kina, tilting her head questioningly.

"No. He sent a message to Kim and Zak through me," Rashida tells them. "It was about the flash drive, but that was all."

"They got him, didn't they?" Sophie asks.

"Who got him?" Rashida asks in return.

"Whoever these people are, that's who. I don't know who they are, but I wish I knew who they were," Sophie replies.

Rashida frowns.

Thin cirrus clouds high in the jet stream intrude on the perfectly blue sky above. Rodin's figures caste their shadow on the stone pavement.

Chapter 90

It's been hours.

Bog sits on his bed, unrestrained, in his hospital gown, feeling the medication drain from his system.

The TV is out.

More significantly, there hasn't been a sound anywhere, not in the hallway outside his door, in the rooms on either side, or on the floor above. It's as if the staff had suddenly just up and left the building.

Bog has seen snippets of news flying around the channels on his TV, when it was working. Not good. Did this have something to do with the hospital being empty he wondered?

He's spent a lot of time looking out the window. It is a nice day, cool, but nice. It's sunny. There are but a few puffy clouds. Nothing stirs. There is no one on the well-kept lawn and there hasn't been all morning.

As Bog's stupor falls away he hears something. At first it is just a distant hum. He continues to listen and it becomes the sound of a prop plane. The plane comes low and the sound gets louder. He is sure it is aiming directly for the building, the only one for miles and miles.

As the plane's roar passes over Bog sees a cloud of papers falling from the sky, twisting and catching the sunlight as they descend. Some get stuck in the trees, but many flutter all the way to the ground.

"What?"

Bog pushes the bed table aside and jumps down. He grabs the intravenous drip pole near the head of his bed. They should never have left it here he reasons as he swings the weighted bottom hard at the window, which shatters with a colossal bang.

Glass flies all over the little desk and stereo sitting beneath the window. In the same instant, he hears the building's alarm system blare. He uses his arm to sweep the glass to the floor and jumps onto the desk. Kicking glass from the window, he places his right flip flop on the bottom of the frame and launches himself into the cold crystalline air. He flies for a second, landing in a crouch in the flower bed but staying on his feet.

Bog stands up and watches the twin prop fly away over the bare Romanian fields. He has spent days and days in a fog thinking about Kim, wondering where she is and what is happening to her. His heart lifts as the sound of the airplane drifts and its outline slowly recedes into the distance. Why does he feel that she left him here? She had no idea where he was. He wishes she was here and that he was holding her.

The unnerving alarm cuts out without warning. They're gone for sure, he concludes.

There is nothing left to fear. Not even the walls of this horrible place can hold him now. He steps into the grass, to where one of the leaflets has fallen, turning it over without really looking at it.

Across the hospital grounds are the fields and the long dirt rows. A macadam road runs a straight line through them. It will be enough to start his way home.

# 1 Its 'Live Fire! Live Fire!' in Muxidi Battle, June 05, 1989, John Pomfret, Associated Press.

2 Age of Ambition, Chasing Fortune, Truth, and Faith in the New China, Evan Osnos, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, 2014, p. 252

3The Last Refuge, Yemen, Al-Qaeda, and America's War in Arabia, Gregory D. Johnson, WW Norton & Company, 2013, p. 252

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