If a threat were detected, the security guards stationed at the lobby desk could seal off the lobby with a push of a button. A few seconds later, after the guards had placed gas masks over their faces, the entire lobby would be misted with a gas that rendered anyone in the lobby unconscious in less than three seconds.
There was little that could be done to the outside of the building to defend against a suicide bomber driving a vehicle loaded with explosives. However, the grounds outside the building, numerous locations on the street, as well as the parking lot were outfitted with hidden barriers that rose hydraulically when activated. Designed to shred the tires and hook the rims of any vehicle that posed a threat, it made the building impervious to anything short of an assault by tank.
The security measures might seem extreme for an ordinary business concern, but Capco Mining was a mining company in name only. The Capco building outside Bethesda housed the National Intelligence Agency, the smallest of the United States intelligence organizations. The NIA reported directly to the National Security Council, and its primary mandate was antiterrorist activities.
The NIA was comprised of several autonomous divisions, including the Technology Department, the Transportation Division, the Infrastructure Division, the Foreign Terrorism Division, and the Special Security Service, which handled operations requiring the use of human agents.
The large budget for the NIA was buried inside the budget of the National Security Agency to hide the agency from the prying eyes of congressmen and reporters. The agency had remained small and discreet since its founding in the early nineteen-eighties. On the third floor of the NIA building Larry Martinez was scanning a computer database when his telephone rang. Martinez was of medium height, just over five feet ten inches, and lean from his weekly regime of running. His face was classically handsome, with the high, well-defined cheekbones, strong chin, and jet black hair that indicated the influence of Spanish blood in his native Mexican race. But it was his eyes that most people noticed — they were a pale brown dotted with flecks of gold and green, and when he spoke, they looked directly into your soul.
Martinez was a man at peace with himself and the world, and little over the years had changed that.
"Just thought you'd like an update," Deputy Director Richard Allbright announced to Martinez over the phone. "Your partner got inside and has the subject in his custody."
"That's good news, but he still has a long way to go," Martinez noted, his voice showing the concern he felt.
"That's true — we can only hope for the best," Allbright noted. "But as luck would have it, Taft's plan to trigger a seismic disturbance seemed to have worked. The Earthquake Center in Colorado reports it as a five on the Richter scale. Our satellites report communications into Qinghai as limited, but that could change at any moment."
"You'll keep me posted?" Martinez asked.
"You can be assured of it," Allbright said. And then, changing the subject, he asked,
"How are you coming on the Einstein-Choi connection?"
"I've compiled a list of items to investigate. I'll be out in the field today doing research. Do you want field reports as I progress or just a standard daily log?"
"Call if you're onto something big," Allbright said. "Otherwise, a standard report."
"Very good, sir," Martinez said.
"That's all, then, Larry. Know that we're all pulling for your partner and his safe return," Allbright said as the telephone went dead.
Martinez entered a command into his computer, then waited as the information printed. Swallowing the last of his coffee, he gathered the papers, slid them into a file folder, and then called down to the security desk to inform them he would be leaving the building.
CHAPTER 7
Rumbling through the barren wasteland of the Gobi Desert, the cargo train maintained a speed of just over fifty miles an hour. The trip to Urumqi, 375 miles from China's border with Kazakhstan — in the former Soviet Union — would take just over twelve hours. Taft had little to do except stare at the land as it rolled past the open door of the cargo car. In the distance Taft could see gusts of wind blowing the sandy soil, forming clouds of dust. Other than a single instance when he spotted a man leading an ox far in the distance, Taft had yet to see another living thing. Choi was sleeping, sprawled out in the far corner of the railcar. Taft could see him occasionally twitch and mutter in his sleep. Finally, with little else to do, Taft settled down to rest Placing his pack under his head, he concentrated on relaxing his muscles. Breathing deeply and regularly he began to drift off. It would be the last chance for sleep until he and Choi crossed the border — or died trying.
"Bring the dogs!" Yibo shouted into the radio.
The helicopter was parked on the edge of the stream, its engines shut down.
"Do you think you have them?" Jimn asked over the radio.
"The pilot spotted a set of tracks leading from the water. We are approximately one hundred twenty miles downstream of the facility. It appears the tracks match the set found near the fence, but the wind has been gusting and the tracks are already becoming obscured. They are disappearing as we speak."
"Can you search from the air until the dogs arrive?" Jimn asked.
"Not enough fuel. We didn't start out with a full tank," Yibo noted.
"I understand," Jimn said. "I'll bring a spare fuel pod and the dogs in another chopper. It will take me two hours to fuel, load the dogs, and fly out there. You'll just have to wait until I arrive."
"Very well, Mr. Jimn," Yibo said as he replaced the microphone, then settled in his seat to doze.
In the executive dining room of the Chinese government offices in Beijing at eleven minutes past noon, the prime minister's lunch was interrupted with the news that Choi had disappeared.
The executive dining room was as ornate as the palace of a feudal lord. Finely detailed brass statues of horsemen, each standing seven feet tall, stood to each side of the carved ebony doors leading to the hallway. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, their beauty highlighted by hidden golden spotlights, while thick Persian carpets muffled the sounds of the servants as they set out the elegant repast.
A large sandalwood dining table stood in the center of the room with a brass incense burner spouting thin tendrils of smoke. Delicate, nearly translucent vases were set to each side of the incense burner, and each one contained a visually perfect flower arrangement. The lunch for the leaders of China was artfully arranged on a separate side table and was kept warm in silver chafing dishes. There were dumplings filled with tiny bits of shrimp and crab and marinated beef, two kinds offish, a noodle dish, and a marinated cabbage, scallion, leek, and seaweed dish the prime minister particularly enjoyed.
After reading the report on Choi's escape, along with an update on the progress of the search, the prime minister sat back, raised his hands to have his plates taken away, sipped his tea, then lit a Chinese Panda cigarette.
"I expect the boots and the pound note are but a crude ploy," he said slowly to the vice-minister while at the same time lightly stroking his chin. "Even so, have the secret police give me an update on the location of all British citizens currently in the western desert. I may be wrong in my thinking, but I believe it's not the British who want Choi—
it's the Americans. Ever since we liberated Choi they have been seeking his return through diplomatic channels. When that got them nowhere they must have decided to take action." He paused and sipped the tea again, then turned to the army general at his left. "I would like a report on the placement of any American forces near our borders," he said. Then he motioned to his aide that the meal was over and the man quickly began to clear the plates. "One must think wherever there are American troops stationed, that's where these two will head," he said to all present.