Choke Point

“Yeah, well, what the hell are they doin’?” the other passenger pressed.

Riser didn’t answer. He knew what they were doing. Bill at the embassy had kept him up to date about that, had even told him that the unconventional General Freeman had been called in to see what he could do. And the first thing Riser intended to do was contact the general — even see him if he could — tell him about Chang’s imprisonment, explain that Chang, as well as being blamed for the Chinese military defeat against the terrorists, had probably heard about a deal with Li Kuan, and now Beijing wanted to keep him quiet. He mused about what kind of oil split Beijing might have offered the Muslim fundamentalists who were fighting the PLA, who were no doubt urgently needed for an invasion of Taiwan.

Riser sat back and closed his eyes again, not in repose — these days he was never naturally relaxed, only artificially with the Zopiclone at night and the antidepressant Celexa during the day. He’d closed his eyes to shut out any distraction, milking his memory for anything the distraught Wu Ling had told him at the airport. Nothing more came to mind. He hoped he might get a postcard from her, indicating where the general had been taken. All he needed was a single word, a phrase, so he could tell Washington where Chang was, so a SpecOps team could execute what Bill Heinz dryly called a “snatch and grab over the fence”—a blatant violation of another country’s sovereign territory. It would be a snatch to either rescue the general and find out if he knew where Li Kuan was, or a snatch and grab to kill Li Kuan on the spot. Better yet, a snatch and grab to capture Li Kuan, unlike the botched Afghanistan attempt led by that Medal of Honor winner David Drentwood … or was it Brentwood? Charles couldn’t remember. A snatch and grab to get Li Kuan and then torture him, put his feet to a fire, cut off his penis — Mandy had been raped — see if the seventy-two virgins in Islamic heaven would want him then. And do it slowly — make the scumbag scream. Take hours and hours and then lock him up with starving rats and—

“You okay?” the other passenger asked. “You’re shaking.”

Riser wasn’t actually shaking, but he was grasping his armrests so tightly his hands were white, his hatred having drained the life out of them. “I’m fine,” he lied. “Thank you.”

“Ah, don’t sweat it. We’ll be down in a few minutes. Listen, I used to be a white-knuckle flier. Then I took this course called ’Who Am I?’ “ The man was fishing in his wallet for a card for the New Age guru who had a Ph.D. in Wellness from a California institute and who’d studied in India for two years at Canada’s Peace and Wellness University. “Yoga guru and exposure therapy. Worked great. You oughta try it.”

“Uh-huh,” replied Charles.

As the stream of tired passengers entered SeaTac Customs and Immigration, Riser walked toward the quick-exit consular gate and was met by a junior State Department official, her greeting polite rather than warm. She told him that the information he had requested through his e-mail from Beijing — namely, Freeman’s private cell number — was not available.

Riser smiled wearily at the tall, gangly young woman who wore a gray suit and printed scarf. Buttoned down. State Department intern, he thought, full of nervous enthusiasm and willing to lie for Foggy Bottom, as she’d just done about Freeman’s cell number. How could State not know his number? He wasn’t important enough to be on the “not listed” disk.

“I heard Li Kuan’s organization might have penetrated the States,” he said.

“Ah — yes, I’ve heard that rumor too.”

“The department doesn’t want me to contact General Freeman,” he said bluntly. “Correct?”

“We don’t have his number, sir.”

“Did you try information?”

She laughed awkwardly.

“I don’t need to see him personally,” Charles told her, and could see the relief in her face, her shoulders visibly dropping.

“Well, of course we wouldn’t know exactly where he is at this moment.”

“How ’bout somewhere at this moment — like the Northwest?”

“I wouldn’t know. Ah, do you have much luggage?”

“No.”

“We have you booked in at the Four Seasons.”

“Fine.”

The situation at the hotel shocked him. It was so foreign, so choked with refugees pouring in from the Olympic peninsula, that for several moments he expected to hear some movie person instructing the mass of extras on how to prepare for the next shot. Only this was no film rehearsal, but the reality of frightened begging and pleading people, some waving wads of cash. Good Lord, it was like the airport at Nanjing — better dressed, but reeking of body odor. And fear.

Charles and the intern managed to get the attention of the harried, sweating concierge by holding up their State Department badges, which Charles hated to do among fellow Americans. But he’d been too long in China, where push, shove, and VIP status always won the day. By way of atonement for pulling rank, he offered to share his room with three of the refugees, his assigned room having one queen-size bed and a pull-out.

“That’s very nice of you,” the intern commented. It was the first genuine thing she’d said.

Charles shrugged nonchalantly. “Another point with the man upstairs!” It’s what Amanda used to say. The intern was nonplused, not knowing who “the man upstairs” was.

A grateful young family of three accepted Charles’s offer, and while they were getting settled, he excused himself, went to the bathroom, overloaded the toilet with toilet paper and depressed the flush button, immediately clogging the drain. He called the front desk, reported that his toilet was backed up and he’d need another room. Right now. This was unacceptable, he told them. No, he couldn’t wait, he was exhausted — in the air for twenty hours.

A desk clerk, looking as harassed as the concierge, and miffed into the bargain, told Mr. Riser they had a single room, without a view, single bed only, by the elevator. “Best we can do, sir.”

“Fine,” said Charles, and when he got to the new room, immediately dialed CNN Atlanta. The toilet-stuffing ploy for a new room had been an old China hand’s trick to escape the electronic bug that the authorities — in this case from either Homeland Defense and/or Ashcroft-trained FBI agents — had no doubt planted to listen in on phone calls.

The friendly young woman’s voice in Atlanta told him that Marte Price was on assignment. Would he like to leave a voice mail? No, he wouldn’t. “Tell her I have a good story vis-a-vis the PLA’s General Chang, that Chang may have stumbled upon a deal between Beijing and Li Kuan.”

“What was that about a visa, sir?”

“Visa?” asked Riser.

“Yes, sir. You said you had a good story—” Riser could hear the shuffling of paper on the other end, then the voice came on again. “Yes, something about a visa. You mean a travel document, sir, or a credit card? A credit card scam?”

Riser rubbed his forehead in frustration. “No, that was vis-a-vis—it means with regard to — a story about General Chang being important because he found out about — Look, would you please call her, give her this number.” He read it out slowly, adding, “It’s urgent. If I don’t hear from her in an hour I’ll call Fox. Point is, if she hears later that I called and it’s been on another network she’ll be totally freaked!”

“I understand, sir.”

Riser hoped so.

“Mr. Riser?”

“Yes.”

“Charles Riser, cultural attache?”

“Yes. Is this Marte Price?”

“It is. Returning your call. I’m actually not that far away — in Port Townsend covering, or rather trying to —”

“Can we meet?”

“Ah, can you tell me on the phone? E-mail?”

Riser laughed, uncharacteristically rude. “Are you serious?”

“It’s difficult for me at the moment to drive down to Seattle. The roads are clogged with people, traffic jams. No flights either. The fog is — well, very bad.”