“And if it’s not, what might you then assume?”
“Nothing, really. Except that he could have been shot or stabbed, covered in blood, and the murderer dumped some of his clothes on the beach and then got rid of the body and the incriminating evidence of the bloodstained clothes.”
“Sir, not even Lee Chang,” Admiral Zu said, referring to the famous Chinese film detective, “was as imaginative as you.”
Admiral Zhang laughed. “I am only half playing the devil’s advocate,” he said. “But I really do wonder why a man goes for a late-night swim wearing his uniform jacket.”
“Perhaps he wished to commit suicide, Yushu. And kept it on to help weigh him down.”
“If he had wished to end his life, surely he would have tried to swim with all of his clothes on. Why take off his boots and trousers?”
“Well, yes. I suppose so. But these are all just assumptions.”
“I understand that, Jicai. But let’s get a call in to Commander Li…and have the man’s room searched…see if his jacket’s in there and maybe his shirt, too. Perhaps he just took those things off and walked out into the hot night down to the beach.”
“Certainly, I will do it, sir. But I still cannot believe he was a CIA agent, nor that there is a homicidal maniac lurking in the jungle of Xiachuan Dao, killing armed, trained Chinese soldiers.”
“Unless the Americans have already landed, Jicai.”
“Landed!”
“Well, stranger things have happened. And of course I know there is little chance of these things being true. But they could be, and we must run our checks on that basis. Not on what is likely to happen. But what
A further 15 minutes went by before Lee returned with a fax that read, “Room search completed. No uniform jacket. No uniform shirt.”
“Then he died with his shirt and jacket on,” said Admiral Zhang. “Either in the water, or at the hands of a murderer. Perhaps from a foreign power?”
“Of course, he could have been murdered by one of his colleagues, sir.”
“Yes. He could.”
“And so, what would you like me to do about it now?”
“My friend Jicai, nothing more. However, this disappearing guard is on my mind, and it is likely to stay there. I am thus making all haste to have the American prisoners removed from this vulnerable island.”
“You mean you really did activate the renovation of the jail in Chongqing?”
“I did. Six days ago.”
“And the jail is ready to receive prisoners?”
“Tuesday. But I have decided to move them at first light on Monday morning, that’s tomorrow. They will travel by road and it will take two days to get there, up through the mountains. And then my worries are over. Because they will be in a place where no one will ever find them. Not in a hundred years.”
9
Two days before the SEAL reconnaissance team took off for Xiachuan Dao, the first half of Admiral Morgan’s two-pronged attack on the Chinese Navy had moved into operational mode.
It was Wednesday, July 12, 12 noon, the precise moment the SEALs began to arrive on the flight deck of the
Deep in the sprawling cultural center of Balboa Park, less than three miles from his Coronado base, the King SEAL had already paid his respects before the great Veterans War Memorial. And now he strolled along Zoo Drive, heading essentially for the monkey house, directly opposite the bears.
He wore white shorts, a dark blue tennis shirt, no socks and expensive-looking boat shoes. In his right hand he carried a plastic shopping bag in which there was a brand-new cassette player, still in its original heavy white cardboard packaging. A deeply tanned man with smooth, just graying hair, Admiral Bergstrom was an imposing figure, lean and confident, the kind of man accustomed to being obeyed.
Sitting on a bench outside the monkey house, surrounded by tourists, was not a natural setting for him. But that was his position right now, in the great scheme of the upcoming attack on the Chinese Navy. And he sat impassively, awaiting the arrival of Richard White, a 43-year-old investment executive at the Bank of California in Hong Kong. Richard White, like the admiral, was not quite what he seemed after 20 years of covert operations for the CIA in the Far East. Not even the board of the California Bank knew anything of Mr. White’s activities.
When he arrived, the admiral knew, there would be a third party, Mr. Honghai Shan of the China International Travel Service. He and Richard White were traveling back to Hong Kong together, but it would be the Kowloon native who would carry the cassette player through the notoriously difficult Chinese customs at Hong Kong International Airport.
The rendezvous would take place on the bench, beneath the swaying excitement of the zoo’s Skyfari, the aerial tramway that trundled through the treetops above the lions every 20 minutes. Here Richard White would accept the package and introduce Admiral Bergstrom to the brave American agent whose work for the official “external arm” of the Chinese tourist industry made him immune from the Hong Kong customs.
Honghai Shan’s parents, both schoolteachers, had been murdered by Madame Mao’s Red Guards in the Cultural Revolution, and he had worked as a CIA liaison man since he was a boy. Three years from now, he and his wife would retire to a hillside house in La Jolla, courtesy of a grateful intelligence agency.
They arrived separately, the American first, sitting on the bench immediately and starting to read the
John Bergstrom made no indication of recognition. But three minutes later, a perfectly dressed Chinese businessman, wearing a light cream suit in the 90-degree heat, walked slowly forward and joined them, sitting on the far end of the bench, studying his zoo guidebook, presumably searching for pandas.
Still behind the wide pages of the newspaper Rick White spoke again, almost in a whisper. “Admiral, this is Honghai Shan, a deeply trusted man. We are traveling back to Hong Kong together. I will take the package all the way, but when we disembark the aircraft, Shan will go alone, carrying it with him. He will drop it off to me at my office.”
High above them, the Skyfari moved slowly by; the CIA agent, photographing the three men on the bench, blended in perfectly with the crowds watching the other lions.
Admiral Bergstrom said nothing. He just stood and walked away, leaving the plastic shopping bag behind. Then Richard White too stood up and left, carrying the bag. He walked slowly back through the zoo entrance, back toward the Veterans Memorial, but before he reached the huge edifice, he slipped into a black sedan that sped him across the city to Lindbergh Field, home of San Diego’s International Airport.
Honghai Shan used a different car, a dark green limousine that took him away from the city straight up the freeway, north to Los Angeles International Airport. The next time the two men saw each other, they were in adjoining seats on the United Airlines flight to Hong Kong. The cassette player was on the floor, right next to Rick White’s left leg.
The flight took off at 10:00 on this Wednesday evening, but because of the 16-hour time difference, they would actually arrive in China at 6:00 P.M. Friday. The journey itself was 16 hours, like flying from New York to Paris and back, and the two American intelligence agents spoke quietly about life in Hong Kong, about the old days of British rule, and about the continuing buildup of the Chinese military.
They were old friends and had faced danger before, but to each of them there was something lethal about the package they must get into Hong Kong at all costs. Shan was not worried. As the senior Chinese overseas tourist executive he was responsible for bringing millions and millions of American dollars into the People’s Republic every year. He was a privileged traveler, with many friends in the highest reaches of the Communist Party. Most of the customs officers knew precisely who he was, and it was literally years since anyone had asked him even to
