White Jade (The PROJECT) Read online

  "With Harker on it we'll get them. It might take some time."

  "I want to help."

  "We need to know what's in the book and why they want it. Maybe you could translate it."

  "The Sanskrit's no problem. Everyone guesses at Linear A."

  Nick looked at his watch. "I have to make a call. Thanks for the drinks."

  "My pleasure."

  "Here comes your bodyguard." He gestured at a tall man coming into the bar. "Harker will send a car in the morning. You want me to walk you to your room?"

  "No, I'll be fine."

  He got a cab outside the hotel and thought about her standing on a highway littered with spent shells and bodies. Standing in an instant war zone. She could have gotten hysterical. Instead, she'd been pissed about her car.

  He liked her for that.

  Chapter Seven

  General Yang Siyu peered out at the barren wasteland of China's Lop Nur nuclear testing range. The desert rippled under the furnace glare of the Mongolian sun. Yang stood with his feet planted apart, hands clasped behind his back. The hardened concrete building smelled of stale stress and the dry odor of electricity. Racks of instruments lined the long room. Rows of fluorescent lights reflected from banks of electronic equipment, cold counterpoint to the searing sunlight outside.

  A thin, dry, angry looking man stood next to Yang’s squat form. The creases on his immaculate uniform were as sharp as the harsh contours of his face. Lieutenant General Lu Cheng commanded the missile base at Luoyang, where China’s long range ICBMs were targeted on the West. Lu looked at the clock on the wall.

  “Two minutes. This warhead will increase our strike range and destructive yield at the same time. We must have these.”

  “If the test goes well.” Yang’s voice was wet, throaty.

  “Deng has assured me it will go well.”

  Deng Bingwen was chief research scientist in China’s nuclear weapons program. A graduate of America’s MIT, he was considered a treasure among the scientific elite of the People’s Republic, if always suspect because of his American education.

  The treasure himself came over to the two generals. Deng was a mouse of a man, small, his sparse hair slicked back from his domed forehead. Large glasses with thick plastic frames set crookedly over his nose. He wore a white laboratory coat two sizes too large on his stooped frame, making him seem even smaller. He nodded his head nervously at Yang, almost a bow, smiling to hide his feelings of unease.

  He looks like one of those little dogs, Yang thought, a Pekinese under a white tent.

  “Thirty seconds, General. I think you will be pleased with the result.”

  The men watched as the countdown reached zero. In the distance three columns of white smoke rose skyward, marking the underground shaft where the warhead would detonate. A deep rumble under the ground vibrated through the thick concrete beneath their feet. The earth erupted in a black, towering geyser rising hundreds of feet into the air. The blast expanded outward in a wide ring, a boiling cloud of churning sand and dust racing across the desert floor.

  Lu Cheng smiled.

  Deng glanced at the instruments recording every detail of the blast.

  “Even better than we hoped. Eight point two megatons. Over fifty percent increase in output.”

  Deng looked again at the readings.

  “A bit dirty. We’ll hear from the IAEA about this.”

  “Let them wag their fingers and cluck like chickens,” Lu said. “There’s nothing they can do about it. How soon can we go into production?”

  “There is the question of resources," Deng said. "If we had a high grade source of ore and more centrifuges we could produce fifty of these warheads a year, even a hundred. As it is, perhaps eight or ten.”

  China’s entire strategic arsenal consisted of only three hundred missiles of varying capabilities, and none carried a payload bigger than five megatons. Lu’s smile widened at the thought of a hundred powerful new missiles each year.

  Yang spoke. “Begin production immediately. You will formulate two plans, one based on our current resources and one based on having what is needed for high production. The hundred or so you mentioned.”

  “But we have no resources for so many,” Deng protested.

  “That is not your concern. Prepare the plan anyway. Or you may find yourself working on a different kind of project. Understood?”

  Yang’s eyes were hooded and bulging under the red star on his green, high-peaked military hat. Deng looked at Yang’s, coarse, toad-like face. The General was not a man to be denied.

  This new nuclear demon was smaller, lighter, more destructive. The expression on the faces of Yang and Lu said they wanted more of these things, many more. There was only one reason for that. Only aggression required high numbers of missiles.

  Deng thought about his days of freedom as a student in America, before this insanity of nuclear weapons had trapped him. In China careers were dictated for men like him. Deng had rationalized his feelings about building weapons meant to kill millions by telling himself that China’s nuclear forces were defensive in nature.

  Looking at Yang and Lu, he had a chilling intimation of the future. Deng’s face gave nothing away of his thoughts, but he suspected more about Yang’s plans than the General imagined. Deng was not without his sources of information. It was necessary for personal survival in a position as sensitive as his.

  “UNDERSTOOD?”

  Yang shouted in his face, sending flecks of spittle onto Deng’s glasses. Deng was shocked. He kowtowed, twice, nervously.

  “Yes, of course, General, two plans, as you suggest.”

  Yang grunted. “Keep me informed.” He turned to Lu. “I have to get back to Beijing. Ride with me.”

  Lu nodded and the generals rudely turned their backs and walked outside without a further glance at Deng. He stared after them and felt a hot flush of shame. Everyone in the room was suddenly absorbed in their instruments and charts. No one was looking at him but they had all witnessed his humiliation. He had lost face.

  Yang acts like he thinks he can find resources to up production, Deng thought. Then what? More orders, more bombs, more threats. They have no respect. They have no honor. I might as well be dog shit under their boots.

  He marched into his private office and shut the door, his rage building. Enough was enough. He sat down at his computer, furious. He opened his email and sent a brief, innocuous, message to an address he’d never thought he would use.

  On the road leading away from the facility, Yang and Lu sat in the back seat of their vehicle. The salt flats of the old lake bed of Lop Nur slipped by in a blur, billows of brown dust trailing far behind the speeding car.

  Lu drummed his fingers on the armrest. “We must have more warheads.”

  “We will,” Yang said. “Once I give the order, we will have the centrifuges in six months. All that remains is to locate the ore.”

  “You are sure the deposit exists?”

  “Reasonably sure, yes. The location is being sought as we speak. We’ll have it soon. Meanwhile our plans go forward.”

  “I worry about Chen. We need the railroads.”

  “Let me worry about Chen. So far, he has done all that we asked. Of course, he may not get what he wants afterwards.”

  “What does he want?”

  “To be President.”

  Lu laughed. There was no mirth in the sound.

  “President! He deludes himself, as usual.” Lu paused, sneezed from the dust. “What do you think about Deng?”

  “He bears watching, but I already have full surveillance on him. Meanwhile, he continues to produce. For such a small man he builds big bombs, and they are getting better.”

  “Yes. One day we may see how well they work.”

  “The West is weak, they have no political will. When we have control, they will be afraid to do anything. Just the threat will be sufficient. Then China will step into her rightful place.”

  Lu nodded agreement. The tw
o men sat lost in their thoughts as the car barreled along the gravel road, each in his own way contemplating a new China, dominant over the world.

  Chapter Eight

  The security guard stared as Nick came through the door.

  "You okay, Mister Carter?"

  "I'm fine, Bob. Just an accident."

  Nick walked ten flights up to his floor. He didn't like elevators much, not since Kabul. He went into his apartment and into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The bullet had taken away the left earlobe. It wouldn't do much for his looks when the bandage came off. A woman had told him once that he had rugged good looks. He got the rugged part, but he wasn't too sure about the rest. He didn't much care.

  He poured a whiskey, tossed his jacket on the couch and took off the shoulder rig. He needed to call Jordan. He thought about the FBI and the way the Bureau kept things close. He probably wasn't going to get much help there, but Jordan was a pretty good guy.

  "Jordan."

  "Zeke, it's Nick Carter."

  "Nick. I saw you on the evening news. What happened out there?"

  Jordan's voice was deep and vibrant. A big man, stone coal black, he was an anomaly for an agent, unafraid to speak his mind. Nick wondered how he'd lasted as long as he had in the rigid culture of the FBI. He'd made it all the way to the WFO in Washington in spite of everything.

  "I was catching a ride with William Connor's niece. Two vehicles full of Chinese goons tried to grab her."

  "You must have been a big surprise." There was a pause. "What can I do for you?"

  "You're the liaison for the Bureau on Conner's murder. Did you turn up anything we haven't heard about yet?"

  "Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing."

  "You know it was Wu who set up Connor?"

  "Yes."

  "We have a computer belonging to Connor. We hoped it would give us leads. All we got were business reports, financial info and a draft proposal for work in China."

  "What kind of work in China?"

  "An archeological dig. Connor wanted to fund it and get permission to dig in return."

  "Can you get that financial info to me?"

  "First thing tomorrow. I wanted to ask if you found anything in Connor's office."

  "Not much. Just the kind of things you'd expect. Lots of financial records."

  "Any keys? Safe deposit keys?"

  "We did find some keys."

  "And?"

  "We got warrants to open the boxes, but there wasn't anything helpful. Some antique jewelry, diamonds, sapphires, gold coins, bearer bonds, that sort of thing. Just your average billionaire's little treasures."

  "Do I detect a note of judgmental envy?"

  "Nah, everyone should have something set aside for a rainy day."

  Nick said, "Zeke. If there's something going on we don't know about it might help if you guys came clean. About Wu."

  Silence. Then, "Off the record?"

  "Yes."

  "When Harker asked about Wu it dovetailed with an ongoing investigation. You know about the Chinese criminal underworld here in the States? The Triads? Also known as the Black Societies?"

  "I know the Mafia are newcomers compared to them."

  "Yeah. The Triad oaths make the Mafia Code of Silence look like a radio talk show. They're planning something and Wu is mixed up in it.

  "Wu met with them at least three times. He's up to his eyeballs in the murder of Connor and you say Chinese thugs tried to grab his niece. Seems like more than a coincidence."

  "We didn't know about the Triads." Carter paused. "We might have a lead. I'm going to follow up on it."

  "There's always a lead, sooner or later. Can you let me know what you find out?"

  "Subject to Harker's wishes, yes. Maybe off the record."

  "Okay. Let's stay in touch. Nice talking with you."

  "Likewise." Carter broke the connection.

  He went over the conversation in his mind. The Bureau had told Harker nothing when she requested their files on Wu. Now he knew there was a connection between the Triads and Colonel Wu, and by extension General Yang.

  If the book was at Connor's country place tomorrow, some questions might get answered. He hit the rack and fell asleep.

  He had the dream.

  They come in low and fast over the ridge, the relentless hard drumbeats of the rotors echoing from the valley walls.

  The village is a miserable, dust-blown cluster of low, flat-roofed buildings, baking in a bleak hollow of sharp, brown hills. A wide, dirt street runs down the middle. They drop from the chopper and hit the street running. On the right, low flat roofed houses. On the left, more houses and the market, a patchwork of ramshackle bins and hanging cloth walls. Clouds of flies swarm around things hanging in the open air of the butcher’s stall.

  He leads his team past the market. Close enough to the buildings to be able to duck into a doorway. Far enough away so a round fired won't burrow down a wall and right into him.

  He hears a baby cry. The street is deserted. Where is everyone?

  A dozen bearded figures rise up on the rooftops and begin firing AKs. The market stalls disintegrate around him in a firestorm of splinters and plaster and rock exploding from the sides of the buildings.

  He dives for cover. A child runs toward him, screaming about Allah. Nick watches and hesitates, a second too long. The boy cocks his arm back and throws a grenade as Nick shoots him. The M4 kicks back, one, two, three.

  The first round strikes the boy's chest, the second his throat, the third his face. The child's head balloons into a red fountain of blood and bone. The grenade drifts through the air in slow motion...everything goes white...

  He woke shouting, twisted in sweat-soaked sheets.

  He got up, made coffee, poured in a double Jameson's. When he had the dream there was no point in going back to bed.

  When he joined the Marines he'd been gung-ho. Naive. Ready to change the world. But all the nameless and meaningless landscapes of loss and death had changed him. The world stayed the same.

  That kid in Afghanistan couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve. Old enough to throw a ball, or a grenade, a pretty good distance. Young enough to believe the bullshit he'd been fed about what God wanted him to do and put himself right where Carter would have to kill him.

  The child and the grenade always waited in the back of his mind. Carter knew there wasn't anything else he could have done, but it didn't help. It was one more death in a chaotic war that couldn't be won, in a corrupt and brutal land.

  Working for Harker gave him a way to bring some kind of meaning to it. It was personal. A way to stop the kind of people who'd sent that child against him. People who thought it was a really good idea to put grenades in the hands of children. People who thought that whatever they wanted was the only right way for everyone. That killing anyone who didn't agree with them was righteous. People who thought God was pleased by that. Carter was damn sure God hadn't told that kid what to do.

  He waited for sunrise.

  Chapter Nine

  Sunlight shone on streets wet with early morning rain. Water on the pavement mirrored a clear, bright sky of light blue with scattered white clouds. The heat wave had broken. The smog had blown away in the night. The city smelled fresh and clean.

  A black Ford Crown Vic with plain wheels and government plates pulled up where Carter waited outside his building. A man sat in the front passenger seat wearing a gaudy red Hawaiian shirt covered with white flowers. A loose, cream colored linen jacket bulged over his holstered Glock. He was wearing wraparound shades and a pork pie hat. He looked like he'd just stepped off the set of CSI Miami.

  Ronnie Peete was a full blooded Navajo, born on the Reservation. His skin was a light, reddish brown. He had broad shoulders and narrow hips and sleepy brown eyes that could spot a hawk or a sniper at a thousand yards. Ronnie had been a Gunnery Sergeant in Nick's Recon unit. Carter considered him the best combat Marine he'd ever known. He was also a friend.
/>   "How's the ear?" Ronnie asked through the open window.

  "Itches like hell."

  Nick climbed in back. They pulled away. Ronnie looked back over the front seat.

  "They had some great shots on the news last night. Bodies and wrecks on the highway, you covered with blood. How come you have all the fun?"

  "Lucky, I guess. Harker find anything out yet?"

  "Nope. No ID on any of them. The attackers were probably Chinese. Harker filled me in. Maybe it's about that book. It's too much of a coincidence."

  "That's what I think."

  "She asked me to ride along to the airport, just in case."

  They pulled up at the Mayflower. Selena waited outside with her bodyguard, dressed in jeans and Nikes, a light jacket over a gray silk blouse. She got in the back with Nick. She looked tired, stressed out.

  "Morning," he said. "Sleep well?"

  "Good morning. Not very. I kept thinking about yesterday."

  "This is Ronnie. You'll see a lot of him."

  "Morning."

  The driver picked his way through traffic. Selena was quiet, lost in thought. They got to the airport without incident.

  Ronnie left them at the counter. Carter looked at his ticket. Booked in First Class.

  "How did we luck out with this? I usually end up next to the baggage."

  "I called in and got us upgraded. I didn't see any point in getting squeezed into coach. It's a long flight."

  "Maybe they'll have some real food for a change."

  "I wouldn't count on it. I bring my own. The hotel made up a package for me. Do you like roast beef?"

  "Any horseradish with it?"

  "I haven't looked, but they seem to think of everything."

  Carter took Selena through private security. There was a discussion about his gun. A look at his ID with the Presidential seal on it and they let him keep it. They settled into the comfort of First Class.

  The attendant brought mimosas.

  Selena said, "I was thinking about immortality. If you're immortal, what happens to your friends and lovers? Are they immortal? Do you think someone could stay married for, say, a thousand years?"