Modules. The boat had left Badong three hours ago after being loaded with the dynamite from the Yunnan Operations Center, and now Supreme Harmony was steering it toward the ship lift. A patrol craft would soon rendezvous with the cruise boat, and two inspectors under Captain Xi’s command would board the vessel to search for hazardous materials. But the network had incorporated those inspectors as well, so they wouldn’t report the sixty tons of dynamite stored on the boat’s starboard side.
Although the
Fifteen thousand kilometers to the east, on the other side of the globe, Supreme Harmony observed the Chinese embassy in Washington, D.C. Thanks to favorable winds over the ocean and light traffic on the highway out of Dulles Airport, Modules 56 and 57 arrived ahead of schedule at the embassy compound near Connecticut Avenue. It was a modern building with off-white limestone walls. Although office hours were long over—the local time was 9:15 P.M., twelve hours behind China standard time—the embassy guards rolled back the gate for the limousine, which proceeded to the entrance. The Modules stepped out of the car and walked into a high-ceilinged lobby, each carrying a heavy suitcase.
The guards dutifully escorted them to the corner office occupied by Yang Feng, chief of the Guoanbu’s Washington station. His office had a well-polished conference table and an ornate, antique desk, behind which stood Agent Yang himself, who wore wire-frame glasses and a pin-striped suit. Supreme Harmony was well aware of Yang’s reputation. He was one of the most celebrated spies in the history of the People’s Republic. Over the past twenty years Yang had stolen hundreds of technological secrets from U.S. corporations in the defense and computer industries. In fact, Supreme Harmony owed its very existence to this man. It was Yang who’d made the surveillance network possible by infiltrating the American labs that did the initial research on cyborg insects.
The embassy guards closed the doors to the office, leaving Yang alone with his visitors from the Guoanbu headquarters. He smiled broadly, confidently, obviously afraid of nothing. Supreme Harmony took careful note of his expression, memorizing it for future use.
“Welcome to the United States,” Yang said. “Did you have a good flight?”
Module 56 nodded. He set down his heavy suitcase, which contained several kilograms of communications equipment. Module 57 set down his suitcase as well and stood to the left of Yang’s desk.
Yang looked curiously for a moment at the baseball caps the Modules wore. Then he gave them another serene smile. “Minister Deng informed me that you’d be coming tonight. He said you’d have a new assignment for me?”
Module 56 nodded again. “Yes. You’re going to request a series of private meetings. First with the Chinese ambassador to the U.S. And then with several of your counterparts in the American intelligence agencies.”
“Very interesting.” Yang’s eyes darted sideways, glancing at Module 57, who’d opened his suitcase and removed a black pouch. “And what will be the subject of these meetings?”
“Within the next few hours a crisis will erupt in the People’s Republic. We want you to monitor the American response.”
Yang stopped smiling. “What kind of crisis?”
Module 56 didn’t answer right away. He waited until Module 57 unzipped the black pouch. Then he reached into the outside pocket of his suitcase, as if to pull out a document or folder. Instead, he removed a Heckler & Koch semiautomatic pistol. The limousine driver, acting under Minister Deng’s orders, had given the gun to Module 56, who now leveled it at Yang. “You’ll learn the details as soon as we perform the implantation. Please step toward the conference table.”
Yang lunged for his desk drawer, where another gun was most likely hidden. But before he could open it, Module 57 jabbed the syringe into his arm.
FIFTY-TWO
Layla was awakened from deep sleep by a kick to her rear. At first she just stared groggily at the uniformed man looming over her. Then she remembered where she was and jumped to her feet, tightening the belt of her hospital gown. A second soldier kicked Wen Hao, who lay on the other side of the room, closer to the pair of schoolboys from Lijiang. Wen also jumped to his feet and stepped between the soldier and the boys, who continued to sleep soundly, huddled against each other. A third Module stood by the door, pointing a 9 mm pistol at Layla. This was the Module in the lab coat, the one who used to be Dr. Zhang Jintao. “It’s time,” he said, his face expressionless. “Please put on your slippers. We’re taking you and the children to the operating room.”
She was confused. The Modules were too early. “It can’t be noon yet. I thought you said you’d come at noon.”
Dr. Zhang nodded. “You’re correct. It’s nine thirty-one A.M. The shipment of neural implants arrived earlier than expected.”
She felt a jolt of panic. She’d hoped she and Wen would have a chance to rehearse their plans one more time. They’d just have to wing it. “Don’t do this to the boys,” she pleaded. “I don’t know what kind of moral rules you’re operating under, but surely you have to see that—”
“There’s nothing immoral about incorporation. This is the way Supreme Harmony was created. We couldn’t exist without it.” Zhang narrowed his eyes, staring at Layla over the barrel of his gun. Then he turned to Wen Hao and barked an order in Mandarin.
Wen, still playing the role of the obedient clerical assistant, knelt beside the children and gently nudged them awake. He whispered something in their ears, and they sat up, gazing sleepily at the two soldier Modules. Then both boys started to cry.
Zhang frowned. The soldier Modules also frowned, their faces contorting clumsily. Zhang barked another order, and Wen whispered something else to the children. But instead of consoling them, his words had the opposite effect. Their sobs turned to full-throated wails.
Wincing, the soldier Modules backed away from the children. Zhang stepped toward Wen and let loose a Mandarin tirade, most likely a string of curses culled from the long-term memories of the PLA soldiers. But Wen just shrugged and held up his hands in the universal gesture of helplessness.
The boys howled. Layla didn’t know exactly what Wen had whispered to them, but it did the trick. Their faces glistened with tears, and their cries echoed relentlessly against the concrete walls. The soldier Modules took another step backward. Zhang, still cursing, cocked his pistol and pointed it at Wen’s forehead.
Layla held her breath. This was the trickiest part of their plan, the riskiest moment. Wen scowled at Zhang, then picked up the younger of the two schoolboys, the doll-like nine-year-old. Holding the screaming child by the waist, Wen strode toward Zhang and thrust the boy at him, as if to say, “Here,
Wen moved so swiftly that Layla’s eyes could barely follow him. Wrapping both his hands around Zhang’s, he slipped his index finger between the gun’s trigger guard and the Module’s finger. In one fluid motion he yanked Zhang’s arm to the left and fired the pistol at one of the soldier Modules. Then, without pausing, he swung Zhang’s arm toward the second soldier and pulled the trigger again.
Both Modules tumbled backward, blood pumping from their heads. Zhang went rigid and let out a scream of shock and pain.
Wen tried to wrest the gun from the Module’s hand, but Zhang’s fingers locked tightly around the handle. They struggled for the pistol, and one of them pulled the trigger again. The bullet ripped into the concrete wall near the schoolboys. Both of the boys cowered on the floor with their hands over their ears, paralyzed with terror. Layla shouted, “Get out of the way!” and pointed at the far corner of the room, but neither boy seemed to hear her. Then she raced barefoot across the room to the pair of soldier Modules, who’d collapsed within a few feet of each other.
Averting her eyes from the spreading pools of blood, she bent over the nearest soldier and removed the pistol from his belt holster. She cocked the gun, chambering the bullet just as Wen had instructed. Then she ran
