Wall of Night (38 page)

Laogi
179

Tanner decided that if there were any silver lining to the nightmare he'd gone through over the past three days, it was that his perspective had undergone a metamorphosis. He now realized that conscious effort aside, he hadn't been able to completely silence the cold voice of pessimism in his head, and that part of him had expected to get caught long before now.

In retrospect, all of it seemed surreal: his hurried flight from Beijing; his battle with the PSB man at the swamp; his torturous overnight run to Xinqiu; his leap from the train north of Changchun and subsequent race to the river; and finally his collapse near Tun-San's farm.

And yet, the voice was still nagging him: Yes, he'd beaten not only the odds but also his pursuers; and yes, he was just miles from his destination. But what had he actually accomplished? He'd managed to reach the most heavily guarded prison camp in all of China.
Now what
?

After leaving the soldiers under the tree, he drove northwest through the rain to the outskirts of Beiyinhe, where he turned east and followed the road as it wound along a series of ravines—marking several on his map as he went—until he was west of the camp.

Without fail, every half hour the radio crackled to life and each time he gave his “all clear” report and got a “very well” in reply. Though he knew sooner or later the next guard rotation would arrive to discover their comrades, and his ploy would be over, he was determined to squeeze from it every hour and every mile he could.

At last the road led him down into a wooded valley. Bordered by a cliff on one side and a fast-flowing river on the other, the shoulders narrowed until the trees were scraping the doors.

He drove until he found a still part of the river wide enough and deep enough for his needs, then turned the wheel and eased the truck forward until the tires teetered at the edge of the road. He shut off the engine, shifted into neutral, and set the parking brake. Once he'd cleared the cab of his belongings, he reached in and released the brake.

Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, the truck rolled down the embankment and into the water. He watched as it sunk hood-first beneath the surface and disappeared from sight.

Another mystery for Xiang to solve.
If Tanner were lucky, once they failed to find the truck in the immediate area, they would expand the search, wasting more time and resources. Better yet, Xiang might begin to question whether he had remained in the area at all.

For what felt like the hundredth time, he hefted the pack over his shoulder and started jogging.

Four miles from the camp he came to a switchback in the road. From habit he stopped short, dropped onto his belly, and peeked around the bend. A hundred yards away an army truck straddled the road. Like the first one, this roadblock was also manned by four soldiers. Here, however, all four stood outside, ponchos drawn over their heads and rifles held at the ready.

He backed around the bend, wriggled across the road, and down the embankment to the river's edge, where he carefully cut free half a dozen branches. With them spread across his body, he slipped into the water, gasping as the coldness enveloped him, and pushed himself off the bank.

Within seconds the current caught him and began drawing him downstream.

Three miles beyond the roadblock the river forked. On impulse, he crawled out and onto the island between them. He was only a mile from the camp, and his subconscious was talking to him.

This was too easy. Knowing the camp was his ultimate destination, surely Xiang would have taken better measures than roadblocks. Did the
Guoanbu
director imagine he would bump into one of them and surrender? There had to be more: Roving patrols, hidden observation posts—something.

He checked his watch: one a.m. Dawn was five hours away. If Hsiao had managed to make the necessary changes, his duty shift began at six a.m. Tanner needed to be in position before that.

The rain continued to fall, churning the river's surface and dripping off the leaves. The air had grown noticeably cooler, and he could see faint tendrils of vapor escaping his mouth with each breath.

He looked downriver, scanning the banks and trees. They were out there. But where?

After scouting nearby to make sure he wasn't sitting on top of an OP—observation post—he opened his pack and pulled out the woolen blanket he'd taken from the truck's cab. It was old, threadbare in some spots, and standard-issue olive drab—it was perfect. He spent ten minutes dirtying it with mud, dirt, and ground leaves, then took his knife and went to work.

He cut away a rough oval big enough to cover his mouth and nose; it would not only break up his features, but the wool would also filter the moisture from his breath, reducing any telltale exhalation. He then slit the edges of the blanket at random intervals to also break up its form.

What he'd just made was a homemade ghillie cape like the kind used by snipers. Worn as a coat or a cape, a well-designed ghillie is all but indistinguishable from its surroundings. Particularly at night, the human is drawn to shine, movement, and shape. Though not perfect, if he used the ghillie correctly it would render him just another piece of the landscape.

Once satisfied with his work, he draped the blanket over his shoulders, tucked its edges under his pack straps, and slipped back into the water.

In the end, patience saved him.

He spent the next four hours picking his way along the forest floor and the river's banks, at times covering only a few feet at a time before stopping to watch and listen.

Less than a half mile from his starting point, he came across the first OP. Manned by two paratroopers laying perfectly still inside a clump of ferns, it was so well concealed that Briggs had crawled to within thirty feet of it before spotting a faint glint of moonlight on blued metal.
Gun barrel.

Inch by inch, he eased himself back down the slope until he was out of sight, then turned and started crawling again, circling wide around the OP before returning to his course along the river.

Three more times he encountered similar posts and three more times he repeated the painstaking process of bypassing each until finally, at five-thirty, he saw a glimmer of yellow light through the trees to his right. After another fifty yards of crawling, he came to the edge of a tree line.

And suddenly, twenty feet in front of him, it was there.

As Hsiao had described it,
Laogi
179 was nestled at the narrowest end of a wooded valley about a quarter mile across. The camp itself was a rectangle with twelve-foot high razor fencing and guard towers at each corner. The main gate lay on the south side and provided access to the only road leading to and from the camp.

The inner compound was made up of four long, wooden barracks, three for guards and support staff, and a fourth, which he guessed contained the prisoner's cells. Set apart from the barracks at the opposite end of the camp were four barnlike storage buildings and a wooden water tower. Beside these was a concrete landing pad big enough for two helicopters and a small hangar.

A Hind-D sat on the pad with its rotors tethered to the securing rings.

Xiang was here. What did that say? Either he knew how valuable Soong was, or he was taking this hunt personally—or both. Did he simply want to be there when Tanner was caught, or was he here to make sure nothing went wrong?

Another curiosity Tanner had been wrestling with was why Xiang hadn't simply moved Soong. Perhaps Xiang's pride and vanity were calling the shots. The
Guoanbu
director wasn't going to let anyone dictate his decisions, let alone the man who'd beaten him before. Moving Soong would have been tantamount to admitting defeat.

Good for him,
Briggs thought. While Xiang was fighting his personal battle, Briggs was going to slip in, steal Soong, then slip out again.

Now all he had to do was come up with a plan to make it happen.

In the half hour before Hsiao's shift started, Tanner lay in the undergrowth watching the camp come alive as the first trickle of dawn light seeped through the forest.

He studied the guards, how and where they moved, their routes and checkpoints. They were very good, he immediately realized—thorough and observant. If he stayed around long enough he would eventually find a weakness in their security, but that would take time he didn't have.

The trick would be not only getting in, but reaching Soong and then escaping without raising the alarm. If even one shot were fired, he'd be finished. Well-trained as they were, the guards would undoubtedly respond smoothly and quickly to any emergency.

At five minutes to six, a group of twelve or so guards emerged from one of the barracks and walked into the compound. One by one Tanner scanned faces through the binoculars until he spotted Hsiao. Several of the guards broke off and headed for a line of outhouses beside the storage buildings.

Latrines,
Briggs thought with a smile.
Latrines and a water tower.
No plumbing.

The seed of an idea planted itself in his brain.

At the beginning of each guard shift, Hsiao had explained back in Beijing, a “fence check” was performed by each shift's two junior members, which in this case meant Hsiao.

As advertised, Hsiao and another guard walked out the main gate, then separated and began slowly walking along the fence, inspecting it for gaps, weak points, and signs of tampering. As he drew even with Tanner's position, Briggs whispered,
“Ni hao.
”
Good morning.

Hsiao stopped in his tracks, but kept his cool and didn't turn around. He knelt beside the fence as though checking it
“Ni hao,
”
he whispered back.

“How are you?”

“Awful.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“And you?”

“The same. What did you find out about Bian?”

“He was arrested; aside from that, I was unable to find out anything.”

No,
no,
no
… “I'm sorry.”

“So am I. Now, more than ever, we must free the general. We owe that to Bian, at least.”

“No second thoughts?”

“No, but I've decided I want to come with you.”

Tanner smiled to himself. “I thought you might. I'm glad to have you. Is Xiang here?”

“Yes, last night, with about two dozen paratroopers.”

“I assume that's his Hind on the pad; what about in the hangar?”

“The camp's Hoplite is kept in there.”

Tanner knew the Hoplite; it was boxy and slow, but durable. “Did Xiang bring dogs?”

“No, no dogs. Two things you should know: there's a rumor that Soong's daughter is here.”

She's here
…
my God.
Lian is here.
“He brought her here? Why?”

“I don't know.”

The only advantage her presence might give Xiang was blackmail. Soong wouldn't leave without her and Xiang knew it. By dangling her in front of Soong, perhaps Xiang was sending a message: I've got my hands on her throat, leave and she dies.

The son-of-a-bitch
…
Tanner shook it off.
Don't let it throw you off.
Get out of your head and focus on the job.
“What else?” he asked.

“They found a group of soldiers from one of the roadblocks. I assume that was you?”

“Yes. Are they looking for the truck?”

Hsiao nodded. “I was in the control center when word arrived about the roadblock. Xiang and the paratrooper lieutenant—Shen, I think—were arguing over what it meant. Xiang thinks you're still in the area; Shen thinks you're running. They haven't decided what to do yet.”

Confusion and uncertainty
—
good.
Maybe he could get some more use out of that.

“You better keep walking,” Briggs said. “Stop on the way back.”

Twenty minutes later Hsiao again stopped beside tanner, this time pretending to fix something with his boot. “How are you going to do this, Briggs? I might be able to cut the fence—”

“No. I might have an idea. Tell me everything you know about your sewage system.”

“Huh? Our sewage system?”

“That's right.”

Hsiao gave him the information. Tanner asked a few questions, then mentally dissected the plan for weaknesses, of which there were plenty, but he dismissed them and decided that, given a bit of luck and good timing, the plan could work.

It was all about odds, he knew. As with anything, there were no absolutes. What were the odds a guard would follow the exact same route every time? Even with the odds heavily in your favor, the guard, being human, might change his mind at the last minute, or get different orders, or find his way blocked … The variables were endless.

All Tanner could do was hope the odds fell in his favor and trust that when they didn't, his skill and experience would be enough to make up the difference.

“Why all these questions?” Hsiao asked. “What are you planning?”

Tanner told him.

Hsiao's face went pale. “You … you are not serious, are you?”

Serious,
but not looking forward to it,
Briggs thought. “I am. Can you get the things I need?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Be ready. If all goes well, we'll be on our way tonight.”

“How? I don't understand what you're planning.”

Tanner smiled. “I'm still working on it. Ask me again in a few hours.”

White House

As directed, Howard Bousikaris arranged theirs to be Martin's last meeting of the day.

It was nine p.m. when Dutcher, Mason, and Cathermeier were ushered into the Oval Office. The room was dim except for a pair of brass floor lamps casting soft light into the corners, and a green visored banker's light on Martin's desk. As always, Bousikaris stood beside Martin's elbow.

As they were shown in, the president looked up. “Good, gentlemen, come in. I'm hoping we can make this short; I've got a late supper scheduled with Senators Petit and Diaz.”

Dutcher glanced at Bousikaris, who shook his head:
meeting cancelled.

“Let's sit by the fire, shall we?”

Once they were all seated, President Martin gave Dutcher an appraising stare. “The mysterious Leland Dutcher. I understand you helped my predecessor on a few occasions.”

“Yes, sir. I was honored to serve,” Dutcher replied, and meant it.

John Haverland had been, and still was, albeit now out of the public eye, a man of integrity. Though Haverland had been too discreet to say as much, Dutcher always suspected he'd regretted not only bringing Martin aboard as his VP, but also positioning him for a run at the White House.

A terrible mistake,
Dutcher thought,
but hopefully a correctable one.

“Speaking of serving,” Martin replied, “I don't recall seeing your name on the schedule. Did you stow away in Dick's pocket?”

“No, sir, I was invited.”

Martin narrowed his eyes at Dutcher. “Not by me.”

Too much ego,
not enough substance,
Dutcher thought.
A hollow man squabbling over petty control issues.
For a brief moment Leland felt sorry for him. For Martin, every moment of every day, was consumed with worries over his image. It had to be a maddening existence. The problem was, unlike many people who fight similar demons, Martin had sold his own country in pursuit of a legacy his very character would never support.

“I asked him to come,” Bousikaris said. “Leland has some experience with both China and Russia; his perspective might be useful.”

“Fine. So, gentlemen, where do we stand? Any change in either country's posture?”

“Before we get to that,” Mason said. “I have something you might want to take a look at.” Mason opened his briefcase, withdrew a file folder, and handed it to Martin.

Frowning, Martin took the folder, flipped it open, and began reading. After thirty seconds, he snatched off his glasses and glared at Mason. “What is this?”

“That's an affidavit signed by your chief of staff.”

Martin turned in his chair and looked at Bousikaris. “Howard, what the hell—”

Mason broke in: “Currently four copies of that affidavit exist: The one you're reading and three others, each of them sealed and notarized. One is—”

“What in God's name are you doing?” Martin growled. “This is a dangerous game, Dick. One phone call from me and—”

“Phil,” Bousikaris said. “Listen to what they have to say. If you make the wrong decision now, you'll regret it.”

“Are you threatening me, Howard? You little mealy-mouthed asshole! How dare you!”

“I'm telling you it's over, Phil Your only chance—
our
only chance—of not ending up in jail is to listen to what they have to say.”

Jaw muscles pulsing, Martin said, “Go on, Dick. Keep digging your grave.”

“One of the affidavits is in the CIA's chief counsel's office safe; the second in the safe of an assistant director at the FBI, the third in a safe-deposit box,” Mason said. “If in two hour's time each of us fails to make a phone call, the affidavits will be distributed.”

“To whom?”

“One will go to the attorney general, the other to the director of the FBI, the third to the editor in chief of
The Washington Post.
In short, the affidavit outlines your collusion with the People's Republic of China, starting with its donations to your campaign—”

“I never knew it was them. That was—”

“To your agreement with China's ambassador to commit U.S. military assets to further China's strategic aims. The affidavit also contains a report from a decorated Special Agent with the FBI detailing his investigation into the murder of a Commerce Department official and his family—”

“What? That's nonsense. I don't know anything about—”

“—who were murdered by agents of China's Ministry of State Security—the same agents that served as intermediaries between Mr. Bousikaris, yourself, and China's ambassador.”

Martin stared at Mason, then chuckled and tossed the folder onto the coffee table. “Wonderful story. Problem is, gentlemen, you've forgotten something: If you follow through on your threat, your names will come out as well. You'll be lucky to survive it. You sink me, you sink yourselves.”

Dutcher said, “Small price to pay to stop a war. I for one would rather take my chances than to see you stay in this office another day.”

Martin glanced at Cathermeier. “And you, General? I can't believe you, of all people, would betray me. I'm your commander in chief, for God's sake. You're sworn to follow my orders.”

“And you're sworn to uphold the Constitution and to put this country's welfare above everything else—including yourself,” Cathermeier responded. “I've had a good career—a good life—and if in the process of tossing you out on your ass I lose all of it, I'll still call it a fair trade.”

“You're a disgrace! All of you! You're all traitors, and I swear on my soul I'll see you pay—”

“An empty oath,” Mason said. “You've got no soul to swear on. The only question that remains is, are you going to go willingly or kicking and screaming?”

“Go to hell!”

Mason shrugged. “Once you're out of here, perhaps, but not before.”

Martin looked at Bousikaris. “Howard, how could you do this to me? I trusted you. Of all the people who would want to see me fail, I never thought you'd be one of them.”

Bousikaris looked down at the carpet and Dutcher saw a tear at the corner of his eye. “I'm sorry, Phil,” he whispered. “I am. We made a terrible choice, and there's no running away from it. We could have done the right thing; we could have told them to go to hell and let the chips fall where they may. But we didn't.”

“You little weasel! That's fine, I don't need you.” Martin turned back to the others; he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and grinned. “You think you're ready to take me on? I am the president of the
goddamned United States
]
I'll have you hauled out of here in handcuffs, and then we'll see what you're made of!”

Martin stood up and started walking toward his desk.

“Just so we're clear on this,” Dutcher said. “Whether you have us arrested or not, nothing will change. The affidavits
will
go out. By tomorrow morning you'll have the attorney general, the Justice Department, the FBI, and every newspaper and television reporter in the country sitting in your lap. And that's just day one; day two will be worse still, and so and so forth until you're drummed out of office and hung in effigy from every tree in every town in this country. You'll go down in history as the most corrupt president in our nation's history—and that's if you're lucky. More likely, you'll end up in jail. So go ahead and make your call. Maybe it's fitting that you seal your coffin.”

With one hand hovering over the phone, Martin shook his head and smiled ruefully. “I'll give you this: You boys know how to tie a good knot.” Martin walked back to his chair and sat down. “So you've got me over a barrel. What's it going to be? You all want influence … special consideration? You've got it. What's your pleasure, gentlemen?”

Amazing,
Dutcher thought. Martin was still trying to play his own game. Despite it all, he truly thought they were just like him.

Dutcher glanced at Mason and Cathermeier, who both shook their heads sadly.

“How about it, gentlemen?” Martin said. “You've won your little victory. Now it's time to collect. It's not often I admit to being bested, so don't squander it.”

Bousikaris stepped forward. “Phil—”

“No, Howard, I know when to bend a little. Let them enjoy their time in the sun.”

Mason sighed, then looked at Bousikaris and nodded.

Bousikaris picked up the phone, spoke into it for a few seconds, then hung up. Thirty seconds later the door opened and David Lahey walked in. “Good evening, Phil.”

“What're you doing here?” Martin said. “Dick, this is between us. David's got nothing to do with this.”

“He's got everything to do with it. He's your replacement.”

“What? Oh Jesus, give it up, gentlemen! You can't really expect me to simply step down.”

“That's exactly what we expect. Next week you'll hold a press conference. Citing a cancerous brain tumor—a cerebella astrocytomas, to be exact—you have transferred power to Vice President Lahey. While the tumor is not fatal, the doctors have told you it will eventually begin to affect your judgment and therefore your ability to carry out your duties. For the good of the country, you are tendering your resignation.”

“No one will buy that.”

“Of course they will,” Dutcher replied. “Most of them gladly.”

For the first time, Martin lost a bit of his swagger. He spread his hands. “You can't do this. Please … Don't do this to me.”

“You did it to yourself,” Cathermeier replied.

Mason said, “Make your decision. If you take the option we're offering, you get to retire to your farm in New Hampshire and write your damned memoirs; if you go against us, your life is over. It's time to decide, Phil.”

As though suddenly deflated, Martin leaned back in his chair. He stared at the carpet for nearly a full minute. “Okay,” he whispered. “You win. What do you want me to do?”

Thirty minutes later they were joined by the White House's chief counsel and the director of the Secret Service. As they entered, both men were visibly wary. For Martin's part, he played his role well, sitting tall in his desk chair, the commanding and brave president.

“Now that we're all here, I have an announcement to make. What I'm about to tell you is very difficult. Aside from Howard, my wife, and my personal physician, no one else knows about this.”

Martin went on to explain his condition, the type of tumor involved, and then his prognosis, never once missing a beat. It was a masterful performance, Dutcher thought. It was no wonder how Martin had risen so high in politics; he was a chameleon of the highest order.

“And so,” Martin concluded, “next week I will be resigning the presidency. Effective immediately, however, I wish to formally turn over my duties and responsibilities to Vice President Lahey.”

The room was silent. The director of the Secret Service was the first to break the silence. He stepped forward. “Mr. President?”

Dutcher held his breath. This was the point of no return. If Martin chose to damn the consequences and turn on them, it would happen now. Dutcher had no idea what the duress code word would be, but within seconds of Martin's using it, they would find themselves surrounded by a dozen Secret Service agents.

Martin paused a few seconds, then shook his head. “Relax, Roger. I appreciate your concern, but this is my decision, and as painful as it is, it's the right thing.”

“Very well, Mr. President.”

Martin turned to the White House counsel. “Lorne, how do we make this official?”

Considering the gravity of the event, the transfer of power from Martin to Lahey was surprisingly simple, Dutcher thought. There would be further bureaucratic hoops through which to jump, of course, but an hour after giving the order, Martin was signing the last of the documents transferring the powers of office to David Lahey. The documents were then witnessed and signed by both the chief counsel and the director of the Secret Service.

“Is that it?” Martin asked.

“Yes, sir,” said the chief counsel. “That's it.”

“Thank you both. Roger, please inform my detail that President Lahey's personal detail will arrive shortly for a transfer of duties.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That's all, then. You can go.”

Once they were gone, Martin let out a heavy sigh, pushed himself away from the desk, and stood up. He turned to Lahey and gestured to the chair with a flourish. “David, the mantle is yours.”

Lahey merely nodded.

Martin looked at Dutcher, Mason, and Cathermeier each in turn. “I assume, gentlemen, that you have no problem with me retiring to my bedroom?”

Mason shook his head.

As Martin headed for the door, Mason called, “Phil.”

“Yes?”

“Make no mistake: Tomorrow or ten years from now, the affidavits will still be there. Between the three of us, we'll see to that.”

Martin nodded wearily. “I know, Dick. I'll be a good boy, I promise.”

As the door shut behind him, there was a long, awkward silence in the room. Finally, Lahey walked to one of the wingback chairs and sat down heavily. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah,” Mason said.

“I actually feel a little sorry for the bastard. I can hardly believe it, but I do.”

The intercom on the desk buzzed. Everyone glanced at it, but no one moved.

“I believe that's for you, Mr. President,” Leland Dutcher said.

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Lahey walked to his desk, picked up the phone, listened, then nodded to Cathermeier. “For you. I sure hope this isn't a bad omen.”

Cathermeier took the phone, listened for a few moments, then hung up.

Mason said, “What is it, Chuck?”

“The Chinese have planes in the air. They're headed toward the Russian border.”