He drove for nearly two more hours, heading down into a remote valley where a lone Hakka castle, surrounded by steep mountains and thick forests, sprang up from the earth like a quartet of nuclear missile silos: rings with hollow centers.
The Hakka people had, over the course of centuries, migrated from Northern China to settle in the south. They had a long and rich history, and most notably, a unique form of architecture: round, earthen castles constructed of clay, ash, and bran. These structures rose as high as four or five stories, and some had been in place for over one thousand years.
As Fang neared the castle, the four round buildings with mushroom-shaped rooflines grew more distinct, along with a central square structure that also contained a courtyard. Nearly one hundred people lived and worked around the castle. The ground floors were reserved for storing food, cooking, eating, and socializing, while the upper floors were used as living quarters. The youngest people resided on the top floors.
The main entrance was through a central gate, similar to the castles of Europe, and what Fang appreciated most about this particular castle were the tall wrought-iron doors that offered added security.
It had been Fang's suggestion to work out a deal with the Hakka to borrow their castle for meetings. The location was remote, easy to secure, and should the worst ever happen, the group would be surrounded by civilian shields, which could give an enemy pause.
Additionally, the Hakka, who were well paid for allowing them to use their facility, treated every member of the group like emperors. Most importantly, they were discreet, which had been a difficult challenge at other locations.
As Fang drove up the long path, then turned down the road, children playing along the embankment stopped and ran after his truck.
By the time he reached the gate, he'd drawn a small crowd of little ones, and one of the fourteen village elders, Huang, a gray-haired stick of a man whose pants were buckled high above his navel, shooed the children away and came toward Fang as he climbed out.
"Is this new?" asked Huang, his eyes widening as he ran fingers over the Brave Warrior's hood.
"You like it?"
"Very much."
"Perhaps I can get you one."
"No. I don't believe it."
"Believe it."
"All right. Now come inside for tea. You have no choice." Huang smiled tightly.
Fang followed him through the open gates and into the central courtyard. He glanced up at the women pinning clothes on lines strung between the curving balconies.
"I assume you've come to plan another meeting?" asked Huang as they crossed the yard.
"Yes."
"Well, the other elders have grown squeamish about all this. And the helicopters make too much noise."
"So your price has increased?"
Huang paused, turned back. "Yes, it has. And I will need one of those trucks."
Fang tensed. "I'm sure we can reach an agreement."
They turned into a narrow hallway that took them into a modest-sized eating area with wooden tables and fireplace.
But before Huang could fetch them tea, Fang glanced back, making sure they were alone.
Abruptly, he drew the sword cane he kept buckled to his side, reared back, and struck a solid blow to Huang's shoulder, knocking the old man to his knees.
Huang gasped, one hand going to his wound. "Fang! What are you doing?"
Fang lifted the sword, balancing it a hairsbreadth away from Huang's nose. "I'm reminding you, old man, that we are not to be threatened. We've made you a generous deal. And I will get you that truck, but our price is the same."
"All right. All right."
"You tell the elders that they should remain squeamish, because if they change their minds, I am unsure what terrible things will happen here."
"Fang, you don't have to do this."
"It would seem I do. Now then, I won't be staying for tea. Tell the others we will be coming soon." Fang pulled a cell phone from his hip pocket and placed it on the ground beside him. "Keep this turned on. Keep it with you at all times. I will call. Be ready. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
Fang's sword hissed as he slid it back into the cane, then he offered a hand to Huang, who glanced at it, then finally accepted. "You see?" Fang asked with a broad grin. "Everything's better now."
SEVENTEEN
Captain Zuo Junping, the twenty-eight-year-old military attache to Deputy Director Wang Ya, crawled out from beneath his stack of intelligence reports and greeted the leonine Major-General Chen Yi. The general had flown up from Xiamen three times in the past month and had remained in Beijing for a week, meeting daily with the deputy director.
That one commander from a single military region could gain so much of the deputy director's attention might have struck outsiders as odd were it not for recent events.
Since the U.S. had announced the sale of that submarine to Taiwan nearly thirty days prior, the entire Nanjing region had been at the highest military alert, and the office had been flooded with intelligence. The PLA's "training" exercises in the Taiwan Strait, along with the repositioning of troops, had resulted in the U.S. deploying a second carrier task force to the area as the American president continued to rattle his saber and caution the Chinese government about making any moves against Taiwan.
In response, China's air force had repositioned fighter and aircraft bomber squadrons, and on recommendation of Deputy Director Wang, the commander of the PLA Navy had ordered two Shang-class nuclear fast-attack submarines from its North Sea Fleet at Qingdao to the East Sea Fleet. That action doubled the number of Shang-class subs under operational control of ESF Vice Admiral Cai Ming, a fact quickly publicized online via the PLA Daily English News.
And just today, after a long month of uneasiness, the president, vice president, and premier of Taiwan, obviously threatened by China's significant show of force, had agreed to declare martial law. Chinese agents and sympathizers were being rounded up and imprisoned while the government and the Pan-Green Coalition — composed of the Democratic Progressive Party, the Taiwan Solidarity Union, and the Taiwan Independence Party — now threatened to declare Taiwan's independence from mainland China.
The Americans had a metaphorical term for such a situation; they called it a powder keg.
Zuo showed the general into the deputy minister's office, closed the door, then returned to his chair. He wrung his hands and thought of slowing his pulse. It was just another day. Nothing to worry about. When it was over, he would return home to his little apartment and relax with a bottle of Tsingtao and a pack of cigarettes.
Life had been much easier back in the United States. Zuo had done his undergraduate work at Shanghai Jiao Tong University, earning an engineering degree. The following year he had enrolled in a joint program with Drexel University in Philadelphia to earn his graduate degree.
While in the United States, he had stayed with a host family whose son was an army captain, and they had developed a strong friendship. Moreover, Zuo's perceptions of America and American culture were transformed during his four years of study. A country he had once described in a school paper as the home of the corrupt and selfish had become something very different.
His home.
Knowing that Zuo would return to China to perform his "sacred duty" as a citizen and serve in the military, representatives of the U.S.'s Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) had recruited him as an operative with the promise that if he worked for them for no less than six years, they would help him defect and become an American citizen.