These days, whenever Lutz suffered from one his increasingly frequent anxiety attacks, he forced himself to think about the new life. In Sri Lanka he would have servants, women, spacious gardens, a security system that would protect him from all his enemies.
The lurch and thunk of the 737’s landing gear extending returned his thoughts to the present. The lights of Las Vegas were illuminating the desert like a field of fire.
Catfish Bass was getting a bad feeling.
Mai-ling was missing, and since he couldn’t remember any woman, Chinese or Caucasian, being more of a world class pain in the ass, he ought to be having a celebration. But now Chiu had gone missing too. It could mean only one thing.
He had gone to put a bullet in Mai-ling’s brains.
So good riddance. Who cared?
Certainly not him, he told himself as he tried to make sense of the rear cockpit displays in the Black Star. Why should he care? He didn’t know, except that whenever he got a feeling like this, it usually meant that he was about to do something stupid.
Okay, Bass, get it over with.
He threw a leg over the cockpit rail and climbed down from the Black Star. Maxwell was still in the front seat, trying to decipher his own panel. One of the commandos stood watch at the entrance to the shelter. The other had gone off with Chiu.
“We need pneumatic power to crank the engines,” said Bass.
“Use your Chinese on the crew chief,” said Maxwell. “Get him to cooperate.”
“I’ll tell him Chiu will cut his balls off.”
“Good idea. That’ll win his heart and mind.”
Bass went to the workshop area in the back of the shelter where the crew chief was tie-wrapped to the leg of a sturdy bench. A section of duct tape covered his mouth.
Bass lifted one end of the duct tape from the prisoner’s mouth. “Where is the rear exit door?” he said in halting Mandarin.
Gazing at him with wide, terrified eyes, the crew chief blurted an answer.
“No comprendez, pal,” said Bass. He hadn’t understood a single syllable. He explained to the crew chief that he was talking to a Santa Monica Chinese, not the real thing. “Try it again, ve-ry slo-wly this time.”
The crew chief nodded, then told him in deliberate, schoolchild Mandarin that Bass would find the exit door in the rear corner of the shelter between the air compressor and the oxygen storage tank. And be careful not to trip over the hoses on the floor.
“Thanks, chum.” Bass replaced the tape over the man’s mouth. “I’ll see to it you get a bonus for this.” He ignored the worried look of the commando, observing them from the front of the shelter.
The rear exit door opened to a darkened driveway that connected the backs of all four shelters. The area behind each hangar was cast in darkness, shielded from the light of the petroleum fires. Even with the NVG, Bass had difficulty picking out details.
He wished he had brought his pistol. It still lay in the satchel that he left in the rear cockpit. Maxwell would have asked him what the hell he was doing. Instead, he took the assault rifle — the knock-off AK-47 that Chiu had thrust on him. He wondered if the thing would actually fire. The crude ammo magazine didn’t seem to fit. It was loose, rattling ominously inside the lower receiver.
Reverse engineering. He remembered hearing the Taiwanese pilots joke about it. It was the core of China’s research and development program — steal someone’s shitty product, then make it shittier.
He adjusted the NVG, peering in each direction along the darkened pathway. He had no idea where to look, nor what he expected to find. Where would she go? Back the way they came, or to the left, in the direction of Shelter Four?
Left, he decided. That was her most logical escape route. He had no idea why Mai-ling had flown the coop, but he doubted that she was a double. Maybe she was looking for another Black Star. Or, more likely, she concluded that Chiu was going to kill her and she saw a chance to slip out of the noose. Give the chick credit. She wasn’t dumb.
Five minutes, he told himself. That was all. Do a quick sweep, just in case she was in real trouble, then get back to the Black Star and help Maxwell.
Holding the clunky assault rifle in front of him, he headed for the darkened area behind Shelter Four. He moved quickly across the open tarmac between the shelters, aware that the flickering tank fires made him a target.
He made it to the deep shadow behind Shelter Four without drawing fire. For several seconds he remained motionless, listening for movement, studying the darkened pathway behind the shelter.
Gradually the details emerged from the darkness. There were doors in the wall. He saw an object… what the hell was it? Some kind of vehicle in the pathway.
Bass worked his way along the back wall, stopping every few meters to check for signs of activity. He saw nothing. No sentry, no sign of life.
He reached the vehicle, a square-shaped thing that looked like an ugly jeep. More Chinese reverse engineering. It was parked next to a metal door in the wall of the shelter.
From inside the door Bass could hear the faint buzz of voices. Someone inside was speaking in Mandarin.
He cupped his ear to the door. He heard a man’s voice. And then a woman’s.
It happened so quickly. While she stared in disbelief, he reached over and snatched the Beretta from her hand, and she was disarmed.
She was seeing a ghost.
Mai-ling knew she had to be dreaming. None of this was making sense. Nothing in the room came close to reality. She stood there like a sleepwalker, listening to the smiling apparition say unspeakable things.
“Stupid whore.” It was Shaomin’s voice, that much she knew. But it couldn’t be Shaomin because he was gone, and even from another world he would never call her such a thing. Not her beloved Shaomin.
“Why did you come back?” he said. “Did you think I would sleep with you again?”
“You’re not Shaomin,” she heard herself say. “Shaomin is dead.”
This brought a laugh, that old familiar dry rasp — just like Shaomin’s. The sound sent a tingle like an electric current through her. It was his laugh. She had lain awake these countless nights yearning to hear it again.
“The Shaomin you knew is dead,” he said, “because he never existed. I let you think I was a dissident so that I could penetrate the circle of traitors in the PLA.” He smiled again. “For which I thank you.”
It couldn’t be Shaomin. She stared at the man’s face, looking for the telltale evidence that it was someone else. This man, whoever he was, had Shaomin’s same handsome features, the high cheekbones and fine, chiseled nose. He laughed like Shaomin, even possessed the same mannerisms, leaning his elbow on the desk as Shaomin liked to do while he talked.
“You loved me,” she blurted. “I know you did. What we had was real.”
“Love.” He spat the word out as if it were something vile in his mouth. “I endured your pathetic fantasies, that’s all. Don’t you realize that I can have any woman — any real woman — I want in China? Why would I willingly make love to a slut like you?”
The words pelted her like hammer blows. Tears filled her eyes. She wanted this nightmare to be over. Living in loneliness for the rest of her life, even death, was preferable to this pain.
Through the blur of tears she glimpsed the Beretta on the desk beside him. She lunged for the gun, not caring whether he killed her or not.
He caught her by the shoulder, yanked her upright, then brought the back of his hand in a smack across her face. The blow stunned her, rendering her nearly senseless. She felt a warm trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. His hand grasped her shoulder, squeezing like a vise.