Instinctively, Jake went for his gun, which wasn’t there.
8
They ran. Then they split up and ran some more. Finding himself in unfamiliar city streets, Jake finally found a cab and told the driver to take him to the China Theatre on the western edge of Beijing near the zoo.
As the cab drove off, Jake checked behind them. Nothing. Maybe the shooter had followed Armstrong.
When the cab reached the China Theatre, Jake paid the cab driver and then located the bus stop across the street. He spent the next hour transferring from bus to bus on his way back to his hotel.
Jake spent the rest of the night holed up in his hotel trying to figure out how he had gotten himself into another mess like this. Trouble seemed to follow him around, as if someone had placed a GPS tracking device at the base of his skull.
The Agency officer, Brian Armstrong, had said to meet him at ten the next morning in the center of Tiananmen Square. Jake was now, ten minutes past the hour, standing against a far edge watching the most likely entrance to the expansive square, the side directly across the street from the Gate of Heavenly Peace with the ten-foot photo of Chairman Mao looming down on visitors. At this hour, the large tour groups moved about the stone surface like schools of fish. Food vendors with little carts hoped to attract the early lunch crowd, while others wandered about trying to hawk packs of postcards under the watchful eyes of barely-pubescent underfed soldiers in green uniforms. Jake guessed the place was a zoo in July, but the tourist season in China’s February was limited.
Glancing up at posts strategically located about the square, Jake noticed cameras swiveling about on top of each. Then a small truck moved slowly about the large stone surface, with cameras also working overtime. There would be no repeat of 1989, Jake thought. He imagined the blood from that massacre still settled among the mortar.
With all of the activity, it was possible for the Agency man to slip in without Jake’s knowledge. And, considering he had only seen the man for a brief moment prior to the bullets flying and their departure in different directions, Jake wasn’t a hundred percent sure if he could pick him out in the large mass of humanity. The only advantage he had was the fact that most of the American tourists were in groups, and Armstrong was a six foot, blond Anglo among a sea of shorter Asians.
Finally, Jake saw the man step out of a bus at the Tiananmen Gate and hurry across the large expanse to where the center could be located. There was no actual center or obvious center. When Armstrong got to a point in the square, he looked straight ahead for a moment before slowly swiveling his head and eyes in each direction. He couldn’t have been more obvious.
Jake shook his head and started toward the man. He had wanted to wait for a while to see if Armstrong had been followed. He had to think that nearly every employee of the U.S. government working out of the embassy had at least one shadow. Yet, in this situation, Jake felt it best to simply move forward and see what the man had on his mind.
Something wasn’t right, Jake could tell. But he stepped forward and pulled out a large map of Beijing just before he reached Armstrong.
“Do you know where in the hell I can find someone with brains?” Jake asked the man, pointing to a place on his map.
“You’re a funny bastard, you know that?” Armstrong pointed to a place on the map. “Over my left shoulder, about fifty yards back, you’ll see a man with a camera. That’s Number One Son. One of three tails I get every day. That’s why I need you.” He smiled and pointed toward the Forbidden City.
“So then why did you bring me here to be photographed?” Jake said, marking another point on the map with his finger. “There are more cameras in this square than all of Hollywood.”
“Because they wouldn’t expect a contact here for that very reason. Listen, we can’t do this for long. I need your help. Go to Murphy’s on Qianmen at noon. It’s an Irish pub. You’ll meet a big guy there with red hair. Name is Steve Anderson.” Now he turned and pointed toward the Gate of Heavenly Peace, just one tourist helping another.
“Gee, how likely is it I’ll find a red-headed expat at an Irish pub?” Jake said softly, nodding his head and pointing off to nowhere.
“Noon,” Armstrong repeated.
Jake started to walk off.
“The map was a nice touch,” the Agency man said.
Jake smiled. “Well, somebody has to do the thinking around here,” he said over his shoulder.
Walking slowly away, Jake wondered if he’d end up on some intelligence briefing. He continued over to the Gate of Heavenly Peace and looked it over for a moment, spending time to make sure Armstrong had cleared the square, and that his friend had gone with him. Then Jake took a long route back to his hotel, making damn sure he wasn’t followed.
All of this scrutiny had him wondering again what was going on. What did they have planned for him?
After laying around his room for a short while, he started off toward the Irish pub. It would take him at least forty-five minutes to go the six blocks from his hotel to the pub, making sure he was not followed.
For a Thursday lunch time, the pub was fairly quiet. Jake guessed they did a better business at night, especially on the weekends. He took a seat at the end of the bar with a wide view of the entire place, and ordered a Guinness. Two minutes later, a huge man roamed through the front door and took a seat in a booth at the far end of the main room. Even with the relative darkness of the bar, Jake guessed this guy could light the booth with his orange head.
When Jake was sure the guy was alone, he picked up his beer and walked over to the large guy with the neon locks.
“Steve?” Jake asked.
The guy nodded his head for Jake to sit down.
Jake took a seat. “Let’s see some I.D.”
The large man looked confused.
“It was a simple request,” Jake assured him.
“I’ve heard you’re an obstinate bastard,” the man said.
“Before we start calling each other names, let’s make sure we know the real ones.”
The man shook his thick red head and then produced a blue U.S. passport. Jake took a quick look and handed it back. “Now the wallet.”
“What?”
Jake shrugged. “So, you’re Steve Anderson. That doesn’t tell me shit.”
Reluctantly, the man pulled out his wallet and handed it across the table. Jake scanned the contents and handed it back.
“Satisfied?” Anderson asked.
“Depends on what you want from me.”
A Chinese waitress came around and asked them if they would like to order lunch. Anderson ordered a Guinness and said they’d need a few minutes.
“We…”
“Just a minute. Who is we?” Jake looked around the room.
“I represent a group in Washington.”
“The name.”
“The Western Institute.” He barely whispered the words.
“The conservative think tank?”
Jake had guessed for years that there was more to those think tanks, liberal or conservative, than was released in the charter or mission statements.
Anderson ignored his comments. “We need your help.”
“There was something about information about a certain friend of mine. Where she might be at this time.”
“I don’t know that,” Anderson said. “You’ll have to discuss that with Arm…your other contact.”
This guy was a genius. Probably Mensa quality. But, realistically, Jake didn’t expect to get any real information out of him about Toni.
“What do you want? And why me?”
Before he could answer, the waitress brought him his beer. They both ordered the lamb soup and bread and the woman took off.