“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “It seems like we’re grasping at straws.”
“That happens. Maybe things will look different in the morning. I find exercise helps me in solving problems. Every morning, I take a run along the Potomac, and find it’s a great way to relax my mind. You should try it.”
“Maybe I will. Just do me one favor, will you?” she said. “Add SecureTek to the list of contractors on your site visits.”
“That I’ll be happy to do,” he said.
Ann took his advice and stopped at a health club on the way home and ran a few miles on a treadmill before grabbing a chicken salad to go at a café. She thought of Pitt on the way home and called him the second she entered her town house. There was no reply, so she left a lengthy message about her findings and wished him luck on his voyage.
As she hung up, a deep voice grumbled from the hallway.
“I hope you remembered to say good-bye.”
Ann nearly jumped out of her shoes. She wheeled around to see two large black men emerge from her darkened bedroom. She recognized the first man and began to tremble.
Clarence smiled coldly as he walked into the room and leveled a .45 at her head.
32
ZHOU XING HAD THE FACE OF A PEASANT. HIS EYES were set close together, his chin was almost nonexistent, and his nose listed to starboard from a long-ago fracture. A pair of jug ears and a pauper’s haircut completed the rural simpleton appearance. It was a countenance perfectly suited to the undercover intelligence agent. Aside from allowing Zhou to fit into almost any field situation, it habitually caused his superiors in the Chinese Ministry of State Security to underestimate his guile and ability.
At the moment he was counting on the same effect for a less sophisticated crowd. Wearing the worn and dusty clothes of an unskilled laborer, he looked like most of the inhabitants of Bayan Obo, a company town in Inner Mongolia that was itself worn and dusty. Zhou crossed a paved street bustling with trucks and buses and made his way to a small drinking establishment. Even from the street he could hear the voices inside. He took a deep breath, then pulled open a wooden door emblazoned with a faded red boar.
The scent of cheap tobacco and stale beer filled Zhou’s nostrils as he stepped through the door and scanned the confines with a practiced eye. A dozen tables filled the narrow room, occupied by a coarse and rugged assortment of miners off duty from the town’s open-pit mine. A fat, one-eyed barkeep poured shots behind an elevated platform lined with hard-drinking locals. The bar’s only decoration was its namesake, a stuffed and mounted boar’s head that was missing several tufts of fur.
Zhou ordered a baijiu, a grain alcohol that was the locals’ favorite, and slid onto a corner chair to study the clientele. Cloistered in groups of two or three, most were well on their way to numbing themselves from the day’s labor. He scanned from face to hardened face, searching for a suitable target. He found one a few tables away, a brash, loudmouthed young man, talking the ears off his silent, towering partner.
Zhou waited until the talker had nearly drained his shot glass before approaching the table. Pretending to stagger, he flung an elbow against the talker’s glass, sending it flying.
“Hey! My drink.”
“A thousand pardons, my friend,” Zhou said, slurring his words. “Please, come to the bar with me and I shall purchase you another.”
The young miner, realizing he had just scored a free round, rose quickly, if unsteadily, to his feet. “Yes, another drink.”
With a full ceramic bottle of baijiuin hand, Zhou was welcomed back to the table.
“I am Wen,” the man said, “and my quiet friend here is Yao.”
“I am Tsen,” Zhou replied. “You both work at the mine?”
“Of course.” Wen flexed his biceps. “We didn’t build this strength by plucking chickens.”
“What is your job at the mine?”
“Why, we are the crushers,” Wen said with a laugh. “We feed the mined ore into the primary rockcrushers. They’re as big as a house and can mash a boulder the size of a dog down to this.” He balled his fist in front of Zhou.
“I come from Baotou,” Zhou said, “and am in need of work. Are there any jobs available at the mine?”
Wen reached over and squeezed Zhou’s arm. “A man like you? You are too scrawny to work in the mines.” He laughed, spraying a shower of saliva across the table. Then noting a sad look on Zhou’s face, he felt a touch of pity. “Men get injured, so they occasionally bring on replacements. But there will probably be a long line ahead of you.”
“I understand,” Zhou said. “More baijiu?”
He didn’t wait for an answer and refilled their glasses. The silent miner, Yao, peered at him through listless eyes and nodded. Wen raised his glass and downed a shot.
“Tell me,” Zhou said as he sipped at his drink. “I hear there is a black market mining operation at Bayan Obo.”
Yao tensed and looked at Zhou suspiciously.
“No, it all comes from the same place.” Wen wiped his mouth with a sleeve.
“It is not safe to speak of,” Yao said, breaking his silence with an earthy bellow.
Wen shrugged. “It all takes place beyond us.”
“What do you mean?” Zhou asked.
“The blasting, the digging, the crushing, that is all performed by the state operation that pays Yao and me,” he said. “It’s only after the crushing that other hands start dipping into the pot.”
“What hands are those?”
Yao slammed his glass down on the table. “You ask a lot of questions, Tsen.”
Zhou bowed slightly to Yao. “I’m just trying to find myself a job.”
“Yao’s just touchy because his cousin drives a truck for the operation.”
“How do they operate?”
“I guess they’re paying off some of the mine’s truck drivers,” Wen said. “At night, some of the trucks that haul the raw diggings to the crusher pick up a load of crushed ore and deposit it at a remote part of the mine. Then Jiang and his private fleet of trucks come in and haul it away. Hey, there he is now.” Wen waved over a squat, grit-faced man who had just stepped into the bar. The man moved with a determined swagger.
“Jiang, I was just telling my friend how you haul hot rocks from the mine.”
Jiang flung an open hand against the side of Wen’s head, nearly knocking him out of his chair. “You need to quit your babbling, Wen, or you’ll lose your tongue. You’re worse than an old woman.” He sized Zhou up, then regarded his cousin Yao. The big man faintly shook his head.
Jiang eased around the table and stood close to Zhou. He suddenly reached down, grabbed Zhou’s collar, and jerked the agent to his feet.
Zhou kept his arms at his sides and smiled harmlessly.
“Who are you?” Jiang said, his face millimeters from Zhou’s.
“My name is Tsen. I am a farmer from Baotou. Now, you tell me your name?”
Jiang’s eyes flared at his boldness. “Listen to me, farmer.” He held Zhou’s collar tightly. “If you ever want to tread the soil of Bayan Obo again, then I suggest that you pretend you never came here. You saw no one and talked to no one. Do you understand?”
Jiang’s breath reeked of smoke and garlic, but Zhou never flinched. With a pleasant grin, he nodded at Jiang. “Of course. But if I was never here, then I didn’t spend eighty yuan on drinks with your friends.” He held out an open palm as if waiting for reimbursement.
Jiang’s face turned red. “Don’t ever enter this bar again. Now, get out.”
He freed his grip on Zhou’s collar so he could punctuate the threat with his fist, but he was too close to throw a punch and he took a step back.
Zhou anticipated the move and scissored his foot behind Jiang’s, catching the back of the truck driver’s ankle. Jiang stumbled, but still unleashed a hard right as he fell back. Zhou moved left, absorbing the punch to his shoulder, then countered by shoving Jiang’s torso. Jiang lost his footing and fell backward, out of control.