“You’re talking about three million dollars of equipment just to start the refining process,” said Gabriel.
“Yes. There are nine steps in all to the distillate.”
Gabriel recalled the nine jogs in the bridge at the Tea House. “Nine turns, to confuse evil spirits?” he said. It was a recurrent feature in Chinese design.
“Nine stages to seek purity,” said Ivory, knowing what Gabriel was referring to. “At each stage the substance is highly unstable, and there is an enormous wastage factor. Also a slender margin for error. Each of these stages additionally requires a great deal of time and constant monitoring.”
“What does it attack?”
“The most primary programming of the brain—fight, flight or mate. In its pure form, the distillate allows for direct suggestion without hypnosis.”
“And in its impure form?”
“Each castoff stage has dangers. Psychosis, memory loss, violent self-destructive hallucinations, instantaneous addiction. The only cure for a Phase IV user is death. There is no withdrawal.”
“The version you gave me and Mitch?”
“You are in no danger. She had more prolonged exposure. She would require a hospital stay for detoxification—or lacking that, regular dosages indefinitely with periodic increases due to habituation. Interruption causes withdrawal-like symptoms; they are rarely fatal, but they are always severe.”
“What happens to all the impure material? Wastage at that level is incredibly expensive.”
“Cheung plans to offer it to the world as a new narcotic. His ‘freon’ is impure Stage VII. He and I have always been in disagreement on this. The pure distillate of xipaxidine has its uses. The impure forms are unspeakably dangerous.”
Gabriel’s hand searched his pocket for the capped syringe with the remaining eight cc’s of the drug he had given to Mitch. But it was gone, probably lost in his escape from the cavern.
Gabriel said, “He plans to sell this stuff? It’ll kill people.”
Ivory came back at him: “Certainly. But it will also make him rich. And warlords have always disregarded the constraints of conventional morality. General Liu Xiang had eight concubines all trained to play tennis, so one would be available whenever the mood struck him.”
“Cheung may enjoy seeing himself as a warlord,” Gabriel said, “but he’s really just a two-bit criminal with delusions of grandeur.”
“This is your conclusion?”
“It’s the only sane conclusion.”
“You are suggesting one needs to find a new enemy,” said Ivory.
“I’m suggesting that you’ve already found one,” said Gabriel.
Ivory fell silent, his eyes fixed forward. Gabriel thought the man was simply retreating into stoicism again. Then Gabriel’s mouth dropped open as he saw what Ivory was staring at: the rolling column of smoke and flames from the crashed helicopter in the street ahead, and the hopeless traffic jam that would keep them from reaching it.
Adrenaline flushed through Mitch’s system and cleared her circuits long enough for her to register the proper response to the flames melting the synthetic fibers of her pilot harness and licking up her arm. The pain helped focus her.
This was no dream, no drug-induced hallucination.
She and Qi were ensnared upside down in the imploded cockpit, and everything around them seemed to have become flammable.
Past char-fouled Perspex and wide fractures in the canopy, they could both see elements of General Zhang’s police force advancing on them, weapons up. They were coming from all sides, snaking between wrecked automobiles, shoving citizens out of the firing line, and maintaining a textbook group cover pattern.
Qi wrestled her harness as though it were a living thing bent on killing her. When the latches undogged, she was still trapped—one leg bent awkwardly behind a fold of steel, blood caking her dynamic new haircut.
Mitch quickly brought up the nearest available sidearm, a Beretta 9mm with a hi-cap mag, and quickly dispatched twenty shots to pin down the approaching mercenaries with some second thoughts about an easy sweep-and-clear. She chucked the empty gun and sought another.
“Take that rifle and hit the alley, over there,” Qi shouted. “I need you to cover me—I’ve got to get unstuck.”
“No. We go together.”
“Don’t be stupid. We go together, we both get shot. Do what I ask.”
Mitch could almost see the logic of it. One blind corner. One escape route not covered by Zhang’s police. If she could make it, and then cover Qi, if they could dump weapons and fade into the crowd, they might just walk.
Mitch fielded a few more shots with the LMT rifle she had recovered, although it was awkward to maneuver the weapon inside the crushed cabin. She wished she had a full-auto pistol like Ivory’s. The things had originally been designed for use by tank crews who might need to wield gunpower inside a confined space. But once she was out in the open, as Qi suggested, she’d be able to make every cartridge count.
“Go for it,” shouted Qi. “Go now. I am right behind you.”
Mitch scuttled out. Using the smoke and confusion as cover, she was able to crabwalk to the alleyway Qi had indicated.
Qi was not right behind her. In fact, the incoming cops had gained another ten yards on the ruined chopper. They were going to take Qi, and take her hard, if she did not move her ass double-quick.
Qi’s heart surged as she saw Mitch make a break for it. It was correct that Mitch should live. Just as Mitch should not have to know that Qi could feel the ruptured metal biting through her leg all the way to the bone, trapping her in the downed aircraft, making her one with its skeleton as it burned.
Zhang’s men crept closer. Qi could see the bores of their weapons, all trained on her, inside.
“Hold your fire,” said a voice. “It’s the Nameless One.”
Shukuma was not in evening wear for this little social event, and so was not packing her unobtrusive .380. She leaned closer to the cabin behind the more awe-inspiring muzzle of a no-frills military .45.
“Cheung will want her,” Shukuma told the cops.
“I have a gift for Cheung,” said Qi, nearly choking on her own blood. She smiled gruesomely, her teeth outlined in red.
And opened her hands to reveal two grenades, pins already pulled.
The police were already backtracking, diving for cover. Shukuma, however, could not wrest her gaze from the bulkhead tank right behind Qingzhao that was stenciled NO NAKED LIGHT.
It was the last thing she saw.
Gabriel and Ivory were out of their vehicle and running. The explosion knocked them both to the pavement.
The secondary explosion bathed Mitch’s view in white fire, sprawling her backward.
Smoke rolled to make a huge fist in the night sky.
Chapter 24
Ivory pushed up, glass fragments in the palms of both hands, to come face-to-face with General Zhang.
“I have lost men,” Zhang said sternly. “What is Cheung doing? Tell me or I shall have to expedite you.” He had the backup to prove he was serious.
“The helicopter was stolen by assassins,” said Ivory smoothly. “The plot was to kill Cheung in the Peace Hotel.”
“Massacre in the streets does not reinforce his position,” said Zhang. “The Tong leaders will want an explanation.”
This seemed pretty slick, coming from the man who had watched Cheung blow Mads Hellweg into the afterlife right in front of the Tong bigwigs at Tuan’s funeral and not said a word against it. Of course, while that had been public violence, too, it had been less public than this.