Darkness Under Heaven (13 page)

“That's not making me feel better.”

“Best I can do. Keep smiling.”

They made it back out to the lakeshore walk without any problems.

“Every drunk in Beijing is going to come pouring out of these bars looking to whoop it up,” said Avakian. “We need to move inland, into the city. Find a place where Kangmei can pick us up. If he isn't out whooping it up, too.” He pulled the city map from his jacket pocket and studied it by the light of his key-ring flashlight. He was aware of shouting Chinese running past them, and Doctor Rose clutching his arm tightly.

“Should we be standing out in plain sight while you're doing that?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly.

“I think we'd attract a lot more attention hiding under a bench doing this. It's dark, we look like we're part of the local scenery.”

“I really think we need to get out of here.”

“We just need to stay calm,” he said soothingly. “It's never as bad as your imagination tells you it is.” He jammed the map back into his pocket. “Too many
hutongs
around here. Too many people on the main drags, and too easy to get lost in the
hutongs.
Okay, let's go. Nice and easy—no rushing.”

Out in the street the cars were all blowing their horns, people hanging out of them and pounding on the sides of the doors. Avakian had no intention of mentioning just how dangerous he thought it was. One of those moments when a spontaneous eruption of emotion put perfect strangers all on the same frequency and made them look around and realize that there were too many for any authority to stop. Every really good riot had gotten started just that way. You never knew, and they never knew, in what direction people's emotions were going to carry them.

That the traffic was more concerned with making noise than moving made it easy to cross the usually quite busy Dianmen Waidajie as they headed east. Once across, they ducked into a side street. Doctor Rose was moving so fast she kept threatening to break into a trot, so Avakian kept a braking hand on her arm. Heads were bobbing from apartment windows and shouting to their neighbors across the street. Beijing streets were never really empty, and now even the side streets were full as people spilled out of their homes to discuss what was going on.

A string of shots went off behind them. Doctor Rose jumped a foot into the air. Avakian whirled about to confront the danger, but it was only firecrackers. And once that first string went off everyone must have decided it was a great idea and rushed to start lighting up their stash.

Avakian was trying to reach Kangmei on the phone but couldn't get a signal. System was probably overloaded. Not that the Chinese weren't capable of doing anything in the name of censorship, but you didn't shut down the cellular networks of a major city if you didn't want chaos. And he was certain they didn't.

He was now leading the way down the street, holding the doctor's hand as they weaved through the Chinese. The crowd thinned out at the next turn into a narrower street. Avakian stepped into the entrance of an alley to consult his map again and give them a chance to catch their breath.

He was still reading it when they heard feet pounding on pavement. Three Chinese boys went running past the alley. Then the sound Avakian didn't want to hear—shoes skidding to a stop. And, “Hey, hey, hey,” which meant the same thing in almost every language.

The boys reappeared at the alley entrance. Avakian grabbed Doctor Rose and pulled her behind him.

They were teenagers, or maybe twenty-something since Chinese always looked younger, out on the town with their mullet haircuts and jacket sleeves pulled up their bare arms like Don Johnson in the original
Miami Vice.
The leader danced into the alley, shouting and waving his arms. The other two, spread out on either side of him, laughed loudly. One was on his cell phone. Avakian wouldn't have been surprised if it was surgically implanted into his head.

He calmly put his map away and slid his hand under his jacket. Even though the Chinese police had relieved him of his original homemade blackjack, he'd acquired another at the very next construction site he'd passed by. He pulled the steel rod from his waistband and fed it through his fingers into his right sleeve. And smiled his coldest smile.

Anyone with any sense, seeing that smile instead of fear, would have turned around and kept going. They didn't have any sense. The leader kept waving his arms and dancing about, from his tone quite clearly mocking them.

Avakian was thinking that they must have lost their official Chinese tail in the crowds. Of course it would have to happen the first time he really could have used them.

Then the Chinese kid dropped into a kung fu stance, one arm forward and the other cocked back into a striking claw hand. He charged into the alley to within a foot of Avakian, screaming a ki-ya to see if he'd run.

Avakian was flashing on Central America again, just as he had during his previous difficulty with the Olympic spectators. A favorite Latin game was to draw a crowd, accuse someone of a crime, whip the spectators up into a nice little frenzy, and then watch the other guy get
gunned down or beaten to death in the heat of the moment. In 1988 a Salvadoran captain he'd known was running drugs had tried it on him in downtown San Vincente. A total setup. They were in the market when all of a sudden the Salvo turned and started screaming at him. No fun being the foreigner then. He'd reflexively pulled the .45 automatic from under his shirt, laid it on the captain's skull, and gotten the hell out of there before anything else could happen. No .45 this time, but the important thing was quick action before things got out of hand. Because unlike the Olympic Green there was no help on the way here.

Still smiling, and with his hands down at his sides, Avakian let the tape-wrapped rod drop into his palm. No one saw it.

When the Chinese kid turned his head to make sure his homies weren't missing any of his act, Avakian swung his arm and swung the steel rod down onto that outstretched forearm with all his might. The blow landed with a pop as loud as a firecracker, and a second later there was a shrill piercing scream as the kid went down to his knees.

With a growl, Avakian took three steps in the direction of the other two and they bolted down the street. He turned back and the kid was still down on the ground, sobbing and hunched over his broken arm, tears running down his cheeks. As Avakian drew nearer he commenced a tearful pleading. Doctor Rose was standing off to one side as if she were paralyzed. Avakian walked right by the kid on the ground and took her by the arm. “Let's get moving.”

He'd been half expecting shock, outrage, perhaps a reproach, or maybe a request to follow the Hippocratic Oath and go back and take a look at the kid. But all she said was, “The little punk. I hope you broke his arm.”

“Wish granted,” said Avakian. “We've got to get clear of here as quick as we can. Without running.”

There was only one street they could take to get out of the area. Avakian wasn't willing to risk trying any
hutong
lanes. They passed quite a number of Chinese celebrants but the streetlights weren't much and everyone remained anonymous. Fireworks were exploding everywhere now, not just firecrackers but skyrockets, too. Whenever one of those went off it really lit up the street.

Nothing like a little adrenaline, Avakian thought, because Doctor Rose wasn't holding him back at all. As a matter of fact, he'd never seen anyone in dress shoes maintain a pace like that.

He had the street layout in his head, and the next turn was right where he expected it to be. One more side street and they'd be out on a main drag. He'd try his phone again then.

In between the detonations of the fireworks he thought he heard heavy feet running behind them. A quick look around told him there was nowhere else to go. And running only meant that people ought to be chasing you. “Slow down,” he muttered under his breath, and they dropped back to a regular walk.

After the next few booms it was even clearer. There
were
heavy feet behind them, louder now on the damp pavement. Closer, and then a shout.

Avakian turned around slowly, facing a sight that made his stomach clench up so hard it ached. Two Chinese in full battle dress, carrying rifles. With one of the kids who'd run off from the alley. And the kid was pointing at him and shouting exultantly.

As they drew closer he could see they were definitely soldiers, not police or the paramilitary People's Armed
Police. Which wasn't good. Soldiers were taught to fight, not deal with the public. There were two entire army groups stationed around Beijing, all on alert for the foreign ministers' conference. They'd either been sent out onto the streets to make their presence felt, or things had already gotten out of hand and it was worse than he thought.

The soldiers had their rifles leveled at him. They were wearing camouflaged uniforms like the U.S. Army's old woodland pattern. Now he could finally see the epaulets. A corporal and a second class private. That was even worse. The more junior the troops, the more trouble you were going to have. They were never quite sure of either themselves or what to do in any given situation.

The corporal shouted at them. Again, that was bad. Shouting meant nervous. Avakian had no idea what he was saying. Then more shouting and an upward gesture with the rifle, which had been pointed at his heart, to put his hands up.

Avakian raised them slowly. The steel rod was still tucked away in his sleeve, which was probably going to prove embarrassing. The corporal jammed the rifle barrel into his stomach, grabbled him by the jacket lapel, and ran him up against the nearest wall. His torso, but not his sleeve, was patted for weapons very perfunctorily. He turned his head to see what was happening to Judy and the corporal slapped his face.

It took every last bit of self-control to hold himself in check. Everyone was yelling now, he couldn't understand what they were saying, and all his usual Chinese phrases like
nice to meet you
and
good evening
didn't quite seem equal to the situation.

The corporal was still digging that barrel into his stomach. The corporal's finger was on the trigger, too,
which wasn't good. The corporal was also barking questions at him, and getting progressively more upset when there were no answers forthcoming.

It was funny what your eyes locked onto. The corporal's helmet was almost identical to the U.S. model, with a fabric cover that matched his uniform camouflage. But centered right on the front was a big gold Chinese Army crest, complete with red star. Which kind of defeated the purpose of camouflage.

Avakian tried,
“Wo bu hui shuo hanyu.”
I can't speak Chinese.

The rifle barrel pulled back, and then came driving up under his rib cage. Avakian bent over as the air went out of his lungs. Okay, he told himself as he gasped for breath. Just think happy thoughts, enjoy the taste of the pavement once you get down there, and take your beating like a man. They'd get dragged off to jail, eventually. And it would all get sorted out. Eventually. After the war was over. Goddamn.

Still bent over and still trying to get his wind back, he snuck another look off to the side. The private had Judy pushed against the wall with one hand. The hand that was squeezing her breast. He had that wild, knowing smile on his face, like he knew he was getting away with something. It reminded Avakian of Africa. And not in any good way.

The rifle butt cracked Avakian under the jaw and brought him upright and eyes forward. There was the sound of a slap on skin, then of clothes ripping, and a scream from Judy.

Another rifle jab in the stomach. That made Avakian snap, and he snap his body sideways, the rifle barrel sliding right off his torso toward the wall. In the same motion he swung his forearm, and the steel rod hidden in his
sleeve caught the corporal in the side of the neck, the only place that wasn't covered by helmet and gear.

The rifle fired with an explosive report and a shower of brick chips from the wall. As the corporal went down Avakian got his left hand on the rifle stock and twisted it away. It fired again and the blackjack slipped out of his sleeve and clattered on the pavement. He kept twisting, and got both hands on the rifle, ripping it free. At least he knew the safety was off. Momentum was already carrying him down, so he dropped to one knee and brought the rifle up to his shoulder. It took him a second to find the sights.

The private was standing there with his mouth open and his eyes wide. First time frozen, Avakian told himself. Buck fever. Avakian fired, and kept squeezing the trigger until the private hit the ground.

The Chinese civilian kid had been just as shocked, but now he was off and running again. Without even thinking about it, Avakian dropped from the knee onto his butt for a more stable sitting position. It was one of the brand-new Chinese bullpup rifles with the magazine and action behind the pistol grip, and unlike his old friend the good old-fashioned AK-47, he had absolutely no idea where the selector switch for full automatic fire was located. And since he had no idea if the sights had even been zeroed, he held his breath and kept shifting his aim point all the way across the kid's body as he squeezed off round after round. Five shots downrange to no effect—if the kid got away they were as good as dead—then at the sixth the kid stumbled and started to go down.