White Jade (The PROJECT) Read online

The General was always interested in anything to do with the First Emperor and his quest for immortality. Wu needed to keep General Yang happy.

  "What is the name of this book?"

  "The American said it translates as 'The Golden Garuda'."

  Wu heard a sharp intake of breath. When Yang spoke again, his voice was controlled. Wu sensed his excitement.

  "I have an assignment for you."

  "Sir."

  "I require the book. Obtain it and deliver it to me." There was a pause. Wu waited. "The American is rich?"

  "Yes, sir. He has great wealth."

  "Access his financial accounts. Transfer the funds to the account numbers I send after this conversation."

  "Yes, sir. Are there any restrictions?"

  "Use any means necessary. Make sure there are no complications after."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Inform me when you have succeeded."

  Wu toyed with the flower and sipped his tea. The book hadn't been in Connor's home. The niece must know where it was. His agents would bring her to him for questioning.

  Wu thought about interrogating her. He felt the beginning of an erection. He would strip her naked and bind her. That always unnerved prisoners, especially the women. Choy could question her, but sometimes his sergeant got carried away and damaged the subject beyond repair before Wu learned what he needed. No, he'd do it himself.

  The water technique was effective, but time consuming if the subject was stubborn. Wu preferred the blowtorch and pliers. Or knives, the kind you'd find in any kitchen. Simple tools were always best.

  He reached for his tea and glanced down. The shredded petals of the flower made a delicate pattern against the scarred table top. He brushed them aside with his hand. They fell to the floor in a shower of red, like drops of blood.

  Tinkling green jade prosperity symbols over the restaurant doorway announced the arrival of his Sergeant.

  Choy Gang's skin was the color of the Mongolian desert on a winter evening, betraying his mixed heritage. He was tall and weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds. His head was large and sat like a cantaloupe with crumpled ears on his massive shoulders. His hands were broad clubs, the knuckles scarred and bulbous.

  Choy's fleshy face was marred with acne scars. His eyes were small and close set, almond-shaped, an odd golden color. A shiny blue shirt stretched taut across his massive chest and arms under a loose fitting brown jacket.

  In the People's Liberation Army, Choy had found a home. In Colonel Wu, he had found a Master.

  Choy cast a contemptuous glance at the elderly customer across the room. He squeezed into the booth. One of the waiters poured more tea. Wu ordered food in a rapid burst of Mandarin.

  When the waiter was gone Wu said, "You had no trouble obtaining the information for Connor's accounts?"

  "No, sir. He resisted at first, but it didn't take much to convince him to give me the numbers." Choy thought about how the old man had screamed when his finger had been snipped off. He smiled, showing the gaps between his yellowed teeth.

  "You are sure the book was not in Connor's home?"

  "Yes, sir. I am positive it was not there. His heart gave out too soon, before he revealed its location."

  "That was unfortunate. But you did well. Now I have another task for you."

  Wu watched Choy perk up. He's like a good dog, Wu thought. Give him something new and interesting to do and he's happy.

  "The American owned a house three or four hours from here. Take some men tomorrow and search for the book. Use a vehicle from the black pool."

  The black pool was a small fleet of cars untraceable to the Chinese Consulate.

  Wu took an envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table to Choy. "Money and a driver's license. The directions to the place are also there."

  Choy put the envelope in his jacket pocket as the waiter returned with steaming plates of food.

  "Sergeant," Wu said, "enjoy this delicious dim sum. It's as good as we get at home."

  Across the room, the elderly Chinese man took a last sip of his cold tea. He folded his newspaper and rose. He shuffled by the cash register to pay and carefully made his way down the steep stairs. His superiors would be pleased when they learned of the meeting he had just overheard.

  Chapter Five

  Nicholas Carter and Selena Connor stood in the heat of the parking lot. All the parked cars were still empty. Carter put his phone away. Two and a half hours before Triple A could get him out of here.

  "Can you give me a ride into town? My rental's no good." He gestured at the mess under his car.

  "Of course. I'm parked just over there."

  A new Mercedes CL600 gleamed in the late afternoon light. Twelve cylinders and over five hundred horsepower. A fast, luxury car. A driver's car. A money car. Not many women drove cars with that kind of power. It said something about her. Nick got his bag from the rental and climbed in.

  "Nice car."

  "I just got it a few weeks ago."

  She started up, drove out of the lot.

  "Where are you staying?" he asked.

  "The Mayflower Renaissance. I stay there when I'm in Washington and leave the car there when I'm out of town."

  "That's not far from my place. Where do you live when you're not in D.C.?"

  "San Francisco. I've got a loft in North Beach."

  They pulled onto the Interstate. The interior was quiet except for the whisper of the air conditioner. Carter relaxed into the leather.

  They were doing a little over seventy. Selena glanced in the rear view mirror and switched lanes. A BMW 740 with blacked out windows passed her and cut sharply in front.

  "Jerk," she muttered under her breath. In the side mirror Nick saw a black Suburban pull in behind, riding their tail. His ear began itching.

  They entered a construction zone. The right lane of the highway was bordered by heavy cement barriers laid end to end. Orange signs warned of doubled fines and men at work.

  The Suburban rammed into them and drove the Mercedes into the cement. The car rebounded from the barrier in a shower of sparks and fishtailed back onto the roadway. In front, the BMW blocked them. Selena fought for control. The Suburban came alongside on the left and broadsided her back into the barrier.

  The front right fender and hood buckled. Something flew over the roof. Sparks streamed by Nick's window. The Mercedes slid along the cement in a din of screeching steel.

  Drivers swerved around them, horns blaring.

  Carter pulled out his .45. Selena's eyes narrowed.

  "Hang on," she said.

  She hit the brakes and the big discs on the Mercedes grabbed the wheels. Carter wasn't ready. The seat belt stopped his head inches from the dash. The Suburban surged past on the left, scraping strips from the car, taking the mirror with it. Selena shifted down. She floored the accelerator and the five hundred horses came to life. She cut across panicked traffic into the outer lane.

  They shot past the SUV and the BMW. The car filled with the smooth growl of the engine and the sound of pavement under the tires.

  The speedometer climbed past ninety. Selena wove in and out of the traffic and clipped a red Honda. It skewed across the highway and flipped over onto the grass median. In the side mirror, Carter saw a gray sedan slam into an old pickup filled with furniture. Chests and chairs spilled across the roadway.

  A quarter mile ahead a blinking yellow arrow on the back of a truck and a string of orange and white barrels funneled three lanes into two. They were about to run out of room. The cement streamed by on the right, a blurring, silent ripple of gray outside his window.

  Shit, he thought. He calmed himself, lowered his heart rate, getting ready for whatever was coming. The gun rested on his thigh. He was out of control, but the car was so comfortable. Carter glanced at Selena. She gripped the wheel, her face set, absorbed in the traffic and the road. The speedometer hung at a hundred.

  A long, wide gap in the cement barrier opened along the right onto an
excavated parking area with neat rows of equipment and stacks of supplies. Selena slowed, shifted down, stood on the emergency brake and wrenched the wheel over. The rear end slid smoking to the left in a howl of burning rubber. In one fluid motion she released the brake and whipped the wheel back to center. The Mercedes shot through the gap and went airborne over the edge of the road and down hard onto gravel.

  The front tires blew out. The car corkscrewed and slewed sideways and sprayed gravel and dirt in a wide arc. They fishtailed across the lot. The car slammed to a jarring halt against a pile of rebar and steel. Steam erupted under the buckled hood.

  The BMW and Suburban caught up and stopped on the highway. Two men jumped from the car, guns in their hands. Two more piled out of the Suburban.

  Carter pushed Selena down into her seat and fired twice at the windshield. The shots deafened him inside the car. The glass spider-webbed. He fired again. A large piece of the windshield blew out. He fired at the first man out of the BMW and missed. He fired again and the man spun backwards, arms splayed wide.

  Carter shot the second man in the chest, then turned toward the others. He ducked. The two from the Suburban opened up with their pistols. The car windows disappeared in a shower of flying glass. Bullets thumped into the sides of the car.

  Something clipped his ear. Selena was bent low behind the wheel with her hands covering her ears. He let off three more rounds over her head. A third man doubled over and fell face down on the pavement. The fourth ran back behind the Suburban. Carter made out a driver hunched down behind the wheel and shot him.

  The BMW drove away, fast. The last man pulled the body of the driver from behind the wheel of the SUV. He climbed in and took off on smoking tires. Carter fired after him until the slide locked back on his pistol.

  For one or two seconds the Suburban kept going straight. Then it heeled right in a tilting, impossible turn and flipped over onto the driver's side. It slid along the pavement showering sparks and shedding pieces of metal, glass and chrome until it came to rest. With a loud thump, it burst into flame.

  The BMW was gone, out of sight.

  "Are you all right?" His words sounded flat and far away. His ears rang from the pistol shots.

  "What? Yes, I'm okay, I think." She sat up, brushed glass from her hair, and looked at him. "You're bleeding."

  The Suburban burned with fierce, red beauty. A black column of smoke rose into a sky scattered with clouds turning pink and gold from the lowering sun. He felt blood dripping on the side of his neck.

  He wanted to look in the rearview mirror but it was gone.

  On the highway, people were getting out of their cars. Holding the .45 high, Carter ejected the empty magazine and inserted a fresh one. He racked the slide.

  His door was blocked shut.

  "Can you open your door?"

  She pushed hard. It groaned open with a sound of bent metal. Selena got out. He slid across the seat and stood beside her.

  "Stay here." Smoke from the flaming Suburban swirled around him. It smelled of burning rubber and roasting flesh. Nick felt his mind try to pull him back to Afghanistan. He pushed the memory away.

  He walked toward the motionless figures on the ground, toe to heel, bent low, holding the .45 straight out in front with both hands. He nudged the first body with his foot. A pistol lay on the ground, a Beretta by the looks of it. He kicked it away.

  The thick steel and leather of the Mercedes and bad shooting had kept the nine millimeter rounds from penetrating far into the body of the car. Something with more punch, he thought, he'd be dead. Selena would be dead.

  Sightless Asian eyes stared up at him. Carter checked the others, one by one. His .45 hollow points had done a lot of damage. None of them were breathing. They all looked Asian. He figured the driver cooking in the SUV would turn out to be the same.

  He put the pistol in his shoulder holster and went back to where Selena stood by the car.

  "What did they want?" She was pale under her tan.

  "You. I don't think they expected trouble."

  She clasped her arms around herself. He wondered if she was about to faint. Then her face got tight and angry.

  "Goddamn it, this is America, not fucking Afghanistan! This isn't supposed to happen here. That was a new car. Look at it!"

  She surprised him, the language. He hadn't figured her for someone who would swear like that. He looked at the car.

  Her hundred and fifty thousand dollar Mercedes was totaled. The front end was buckled and listing to the right. The tires were spider webs of shredded metal and rubber. There was a long dented scrape along the driver's side. All the windows were gone. The ground around the car was littered with tiny fragments of broken glass. The beautiful paint job was pocked with bullet holes. Antifreeze and oil made a widening pool on the dirt.

  "Maybe the insurance will cover it," he said. "I'm going to make a call."

  She looked at him like he was crazy. She shook her head.

  A news helicopter circled overhead, getting pictures to feed the greed for violence on the evening news. Sirens wailed in the distance. Carter took out his phone and called the Director. She'd get them out of the clutches of the law a lot faster than explanations would.

  At least his headache was gone.

  Chapter Six

  Word came down. Two hours later the cops let them go. The Director sent a car. They rode in silence over to the Mayflower.

  "I need a drink," she said. "Let's get one here at the hotel."

  Carter's jacket and shirt were streaked with blood. His ear was bandaged where a round had taken off most of the lobe. He gestured at the ruined jacket.

  "You think they'll let me in? Might scare the customers."

  "They'll let you in. You're with me." She was wired.

  They went inside. People turned to look and then quickly away again. They strode through the lobby and into the bar and took a table in back.

  The waiter came over. He seemed not to see Nick's bloody appearance.

  "Good evening, Art."

  "Good evening, Doctor Connor."

  "I'll have a Long Island iced tea, with the premium."

  "And you, sir?"

  "A double Jameson's, straight up, soda back."

  He wrote it down and left. They waited for the drinks. The waiter returned.

  Selena downed a third of her drink and set her glass on the table.

  Carter said, "I was going to offer you dinner somewhere. Maybe another time."

  "People just tried to kill us and you're thinking about dinner?"

  He shrugged. "Still have to eat. You all right?"

  She took another hit from her glass. "Better."

  "Want another?"

  "Yes."

  Carter signaled the waiter.

  When he came over she said, "Art, can you bring us some calamari and a cheese plate, maybe some bread and oil on the side, with some of those little sausages? And another round?"

  Nick reached for his wallet. "I'll get it."

  She touched his hand. "Please. Let me. If you hadn't been with me I wouldn't be sitting here right now."

  True. He put his wallet away.

  "Where did you learn to drive like that?" he said.

  "I took a course in case I ever needed it. My uncle was wealthy, it made me a potential target. I thought I might have to get away fast some day."

  "You were right. Why didn't the airbags deploy?"

  "I turned them off. There's a switch on the dash." She emptied her glass. "I never thought anyone would shoot at me."

  "They missed, that's what counts. Harker's putting a guard outside your room tonight."

  Selena fiddled with her straw. "You always carry that gun?"

  "Yes. You shoot?"

  "I've got a Ladysmith, but I don't carry it. I never felt I needed to, but I will now. I'm a good shot."

  She took the straw from her glass, looked down at it and twisted it in her hands.

  "I can't get over how fast it was. I d
on't know what to think. People died out there."

  "Better them than you."

  "Maybe they just wanted money. I could have given them that."

  "I don't think so. I think someone wants that book. It would have been bad if they'd grabbed you."

  "You think they know about the house? Where we're going?"

  "Probably not. They don't know the book is in California and they think you're here in D.C. It should be okay."

  Carter wasn't sure it would be okay, but there wasn't anything to do about it. Keep his eyes open.

  Art brought the food and another round.

  "How did you get involved with Harker?" she asked.

  "She recruited me when I came back from Afghanistan. A friend introduced us."

  "What was it like, over there?"

  The memories started. He didn't want them. "It was insane." He picked up his glass and changed the subject. "Harker said you're a language expert?"

  "Dialects and ancient languages. I give lectures and I consult with NSA. I come to Washington a lot." She sipped her drink. "Your Director seems pretty sharp."

  "Not much gets by her."

  "What branch of the service were you in?"

  "Marine Recon, thirteen years."

  There was an awkward pause. Carter picked up a piece of bread.

  She said, "You have any family around here?"

  "No. My mother's in California. She's got Alzheimer's. My sister is two years older than me. We don't see eye to eye on things. My father's dead."

  Something about Selena made it easy to talk.

  "My father was a drunk. He used to beat the hell out of my mother and me. He was one of the reasons I went into the Marines, to do something about people like him. People who use fear to get what they want. I figured the Corps would give me a shot at making a difference. It didn't work out like I thought."

  Nick looked at the gleaming bottles behind the bar, thinking about his father.

  "How about you?" he said.

  Something flickered across her face, a moment's darkness. "My parents and brother died when I was ten. Uncle William brought me up. There's no one else now."

  She set a half eaten snack down on her plate. "How are we going to stop these people who came after us?"