Alex Lukeman
White Jade
Chapter One
The dream splintered into shards of red and black, a kaleidoscope gone wrong. William Connor sat up gasping for air and waited for his heart to stop pounding. The green numerals on the clock by his bedside read two-thirty in the morning.
Something wasn't right.
Had he set the alarms?
After a moment he got out of bed and shrugged on a robe. He moved to the stairs of his San Francisco home. Below, a pool of yellow light from a single desk lamp spilled across the polished wooden floor. The rest of the room was in darkness.
His old body protested as he descended the stairs. He started toward the alarm box. A large man stepped from the shadows and blocked his way. Connor's heart skipped a beat and settled to erratic thumping.
"You! What are you doing here?"
Strong arms grabbed Connor from behind and wrestled him to the chair by his desk. Someone wrapped tape around him. The robe fell open, exposing his pale genitals. He was helpless.
"Is it money? I have money. Tell me what you want."
The large man loomed over Connor. He smelled unpleasant, a greasy smell of testosterone and stale sweat.
"Yes, money. And I want the book."
"What book?"
The large man slapped Connor across the face, a casual blow.
"The book. The one from Bhutan."
Connor tasted blood. "It's not here!"
"Then you will tell me where it is. First, the money. I want the account numbers and access codes."
William Connor was a rich man. Access to those accounts gave control over hundreds of millions of dollars.
"Who are you?"
"I am your worst nightmare. Tell me what I want or I will hurt you."
Almost as an afterthought, the man picked up and examined a delicate, antique porcelain vase covered with an exquisite design of flowers and birds. The soft glaze glowed in the dim light. He smiled.
There were only two things William Connor truly loved. One was his niece, Selena. The other was the joy of things old and beautiful.
"Please be careful with that," he said. "It's very old."
The man looked at the fragile vase and smiled again. He held it in front of Connor in his huge hand and squeezed. It shattered into dust. Connor felt his chest tighten.
"If I ask a question and you do not answer, I will hurt you. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"The numbers."
"I don't have them here. All that is in my office."
The man sighed. He went into the kitchen. Connor could hear him rummaging through the kitchen drawers. He came back with a small red-handled pair of pruning shears Connor used on the rose bushes in the garden.
He grabbed the old man's left hand and pinched the blades together and cut off the little finger.
Connor screamed.
The man dug the point of the shears into the bone below Connor's eye. Connor screamed again from the pain. Blood ran down his cheek.
"The fog is thick, outside. The house is solid. No one will hear you scream. Your right eye is next."
The old man's bladder emptied, soaking his robe and the chair. Someone laughed, behind him.
"I'll tell you! I'll tell you! Don't hurt me again!" He began babbling the numbers, blurting them out. Sudden pain started and spread to Connor's left arm, sharp and immediate, a burning, blossoming bolt of fire. He stopped speaking and tried to catch his breath.
"Where is the book?" The man was shouting.
Pain exploded in Connor's chest. As vision faded, his last sight was the terrifying, angry face of his executioner.
Chapter Two
Nicholas Carter wasn't thinking about the grenade. He was thinking about the temperature gauge on his rental Ford, pegged in the red. He pulled into the parking lot at the Project and stepped out into the heat. Steam boiled under the hood. A green pool spread out under the car. His head felt like it was wrapped in iron. He wished he was back at his cabin in California, not standing in Virginia with his shoes sticking to the asphalt.
Carter scanned the surrounding area. He noted the parked cars, all empty. He crossed the lot to the building housing the Project, like hundreds of others in the Metro area. The only difference to a casual observer was the array of antennas bristling on the roof.
Carter went through security and walked past the elevator to the stairs. He climbed past the second floor housing the computers and backup generators and communications. He passed the third floor where the analysts lived. He exited the stairs on the fourth floor, the top floor, where Director Harker's office was. He placed his hand on the biometric scanner outside the door of her office and went in.
Elizabeth Harker looked up from behind her desk. She was small, with milk-white skin, small, pointed ears and raven black hair. Her eyes were like a cat's, wide and green. She looked like an elf dressed in black and white, but a kind of elf you wouldn't want to mess with.
On her desk was a file with his name on it, a silver pen that had belonged to FDR and a picture of the Twin Towers burning on 9/11. She kept the picture to remind herself of why she was there.
"Have a seat." Harker opened the file.
He sat and waited.
"The shrink says you're fit to go back in the field. Are you?"
"I'm fine."
"No more flashbacks?"
"No."
Not for three months. He'd thrown out the pills the doctor had given him. They'd flattened everything into a narrow monotone that made him feel like he was living in a fading black and white picture. He didn't think Harker needed to know about the dreams.
Harker nodded. She made a note in the file and placed it in a drawer.
A large, flat monitor was mounted on one wall of the office. Harker did something at her desk and the display came to life with a picture of an elderly man. His eyes were blue. He looked like the sort of man you'd like for a Grandfather.
She said, "This is William Connor. He was a very rich man. He was also a personal friend of the President."
"Was?"
"Someone tortured him until he died of a heart attack. They cut off one of his fingers with pruning shears. Then they transferred money from his accounts and tore his home apart."
An electric tension settled across his shoulders. Cutting off the finger of an old man made things personal, something he could grab on to. It was better when it was personal. He needed personal. It helped motivate him. Going forth for God and Country didn't work too well for him anymore, not since Afghanistan. Not since South America.
"That's cold. How much money?"
"Around four hundred million."
"Why are we getting involved with this? This looks like FBI or Treasury territory."
"We intercepted an encrypted satellite transmission last week from the Chinese consulate in San Francisco. There's a Colonel from Chinese Military Intelligence in the consulate named Wu. He pretends he's a trade official. He called his boss, General Yang. Yang is chief of their MI. Wu told him about an old book Connor found in Bhutan and Yang ordered him to get the book and Connor's money. The money went to accounts in Macau controlled by Yang."
"Chinese MI? Why would they do something as stupid as that? It doesn't make sense. What's in the book?"
"We don't know. Connor had a niece who might know. I want to ask her about it. Doctor Connor is coming here today."
"Doctor?"
"PhDs in oriental and ancient languages. She's one of the top experts in the country."
Carter pictured an expert PhD niece. Someone academic looking. Maybe in an earth tone baggy suit, with large glasses and gray hair, around fifty.
Harker said, "The FBI had Wu under routine surveillance. I requested a photo and they sent one over but my gut says they're holding something back."
Nick didn't respond.