The paramount leader of the People’s Republic of China, Zhao Chengzhi, ended the call with Jack Ryan and leaned back in his chair. The talk had left him exhausted, but he believed he was hiding it well from the two female interpreters and the dozen other staff members who surrounded his desk.
Colonel Huang stood in his customary spot beside the door, eyes glinting in the muted light, flicking hawklike glances around the room as everyone filed out the door. Admiral Qian, commander of the PLA Navy, was the last to leave. He was displeased with what he saw as the conciliatory tone of the phone call, but he had his orders, and would obey them.
“I plan to work a few more hours,” Zhao said to Huang when they were alone in the office.
“Very well, Zhao Zhuxi,” the CSB man said. “Major Ts’ai will remain outside while I will see to the transition of the evening shift. I will return shortly to check in before I make the final security checks prior to our departure for Tokyo.”
Zhao removed his glasses and set them on his desk. “I cannot help but feel that you would sleep here if I allowed it,” he said. “Perhaps your wife would be my greatest threat since I take you away from her so often.”
Huang blanched at the sudden familiarity. “My wife…”
“Forgive my candor, Huang Ju.” Zhao smiled. “I am only joking. Perhaps my discussion with the American has made me overly emotional.”
The colonel gave a curt bow, suppressing a smile himself. “If there is nothing else, Zhao Zhuxi.”
Colonel Huang knew each of the sixteen CSB protective agents on the oncoming shift by name as well as reputation. Fourteen good men and two equally stalwart women whom Huang had handpicked for the job from among hundreds of applicants. Each member of the detail had been working in their present capacity for over a year and the lack of new faces added a modicum of comfort to Huang’s attitude. The evening briefing was held in the cramped basement Central Security Bureau squad room two floors below the paramount leader’s office suite. Except for Huang, the rest of the day shift remained on station above until they were relieved. Huang relayed important logistical information about the early departure for the G20 and a number of protests that were expected in Japan regarding the Falun Gong and Tibet. Rules of engagement were reviewed, assignments discussed, along with a reminder that there would be cameras everywhere — and little ability to control the media.
Once the oncoming shift had assumed their posts — leaving a new officer outside the president’s office — Huang walked his second-in-command, Major Ts’ai, to the gate. He wanted to discuss a few last-minute details about the Japan trip. Unlike members of the U.S. Secret Service, even supervisory members of the Central Security Bureau’s presidential protection unit did not have take-home cars. Most, including Major Ts’ai, did not mind, preferring to take the train over paying hundreds of thousands of yuan — the equivalent of thousands of dollars — for parking.
Two uniformed 1st Squadron, First Group CSB soldiers snapped to attention when they saw the two officers.
“Tomorrow morning, then, Colonel,” Major Ts’ai said as they reached the gate. “I hope you are able to get some sleep.”
Huang smiled. “I will sleep when the paramount leader is safely back in Chi—”
The pop of gunfire outside the gates caused the smile to vanish from Huang’s face. Both he and the major drew their pistols, nodding to the uniformed guards.
Ever thinking of his first responsibility, the colonel keyed the PTT button on his radio. He ordered the command post to keep President Zhao in his office and double the contingent of uniformed guards, forming concentric rings of protection.
“A mugging, perhaps,” Major Ts’ai said, Taurus pistol in his hand as he peered around the edge of the employee man-door through the walls of the highly guarded grounds.
“Perhaps,” Huang said, feeling in his gut that the shots signified something even more sinister.
Captain Fu Jiankang, another member of the president’s primary detail, spoke in a halting voice over the radio, proving Huang’s suspicions. Even wounded, the man retained his priorities. He gave his position — a location half a block down from the gate — and asked for medical assistance, as the victim of an apparent robbery. He demonstrated remarkable devotion to duty when he reminded his comrades to “see to the safety of the paramount leader first.”
Colonel Huang’s instinctive and completely human inclination was to rush to the aid of his friend, but training made both him and the major turn immediately and rush back to the president’s office. On the street, gunfire popped and snapped. Another member of the detail called out that he was hit. And then another. Four minutes after the skirmish started, Colonel Huang stood with his back to President Zhao’s door, listening through his earpiece to the sound of his men as they died.
56
Japan turned out to be one of those Unless Otherwise Directed situations when it came to carrying a firearm. Lisanne Robertson faxed arrival documents to passport control — along with payment information for the roughly five thousand dollars they would have to pay for the privilege of landing at the facilities, but Japanese officials rescinded permission to land at Haneda Airport nearer downtown Tokyo, instead sending the Hendley Associates Gulfstream to the larger Narita International — almost an hour outside the city. Narita’s Business Aviation Terminal accepted only fifteen planes a day, so they were lucky to get a spot. The Premier Gate was glitzy and comfortable, but it shunted arriving bigwigs over and through the same shoe-disinfecting rug, body temperature scanner, immigration, and customs stations as every other visitor to Japan.
The Campus operators took the chance of raising a few eyebrows by packing the comms gear and granddad pocketknives in their luggage, but carrying in firearms would have been impossible. The pistols and larger blades remained hidden in the bulkhead compartments of the airplane.
The pilots and Lisanne stayed at a hotel close to Narita while the team made the forty-five-minute trip from the airport to Tokyo Station. Lisanne had been able to find them rooms at the Marriott near the Ginza — no small feat with attendees of the G20 packing the city. Luckily, all the venues appeared to be on the opposite side of the station — geographically close, but worlds away in a city as densely populated as Tokyo.
With nothing to go on but the fact that Vincent Chen and his cohorts were in Japan, Chavez told everyone to get settled and stand by to move. Ryan decided to grab a quick shower and change into his last pair of clean clothes. The rooms were small, as business hotel rooms were in Japan, with just enough floor space to turn around in at the foot of the bed. The tub was deep, meant for soaking — and Jack thought he would put it to good use when he had more time.
With his comms batteries changed and feeling uncharacteristically light without his pistol, Ryan walked through the automatic glass door to meet the other operators in the fourth-floor lobby of the Marriott. Midas read a copy of The Asahi Shimbun, the English-language edition, while Adara looked at their phones. Ryan sat down by Adara, who filled him in on the latest about Clark’s injuries.
“He’s doing fine,” she said. “Still under guard at a hospital in Fort Worth. This female FBI agent appears to want to arrest Dom, too.”
“Like to see her try,” Adara groused.
Ryan sighed. “Nothing from Gavin yet?”
Midas lowered the newspaper and peered over the top. “Ding’s still in his room, on the phone with him now,” he said. “Hopefully he’ll have—”
Chavez came over the net, cutting him off. Apparently, he’d just put in his earpiece. “Saddle up and meet me in the lobby,” he said. There was an urgent calm in his voice that a seasoned hunter gets when he first spots his prey. “We’re going to a place called Shinjuku. Adara, jump on your phone and see what train we need to take.”