‘Good,’ said General Wu as he turned back to monitor the passage of the carrier battle group across the East China Sea, his keen eyes assessing everything. Catching the assassin was important, but he knew that the invasion of Japan was infinitely more so.
Minister of National Defense Kang Xing smiled at the attendant as he accepted his glass of wine, relaxing his body back into the comfortable seats of the Maglev train.
He saw his reflection in the window and thought with amusement that he made quite a passable lady. Yes, he thought with a smile, not bad at all.
He had no idea how — with all international travel routes closed — the Americans were going to get them out of the country, but their performance so far gave him the confidence that they would succeed.
And if they did not? Well then, he and the other members of the Politburo would just be returned to their prison in the Forbidden City. The US commandos would probably be killed, or else captured and tortured in the basement dungeons, but that was hardly Kang’s concern.
He reflected momentarily on the fact that General Wu might arrange for him personally to have a little ‘accident’, though. After all, it was Kang who had guided Wu’s hand throughout the build-up to the coup, and Wu wouldn’t want the competition. While he was still being useful — providing ‘information’ from the Politburo members — he was relatively safe, but he was under no illusions that when Wu had no more use for him, he would go the same way as Tsang Feng.
But Kang hoped it would not get to that stage; the Americans had rescued him and the rest of the Politburo, Chang was rising in everyone’s estimation, and Kang’s own personal plans — just a portion of which related to Wu’s takeover of China — were going exactly as he’d anticipated.
In a way, it didn’t even matter if he was killed now; everything was in place for his ultimate goals to be realized, goals far more grandiose and ambitious than that brutal thug Wu De could even comprehend.
But he wanted to live, to go on to see the fruits of his labors; he had worked so hard for it over the years, he felt he deserved that, at least.
He wanted to see the results of his plans, his machinations, his political maneuverings. Was that too much to ask? He wanted to see what he had created, his ultimate tribute to the history of China, and then he could die in peace, a happy man.
He sipped his wine as the train accelerated along its track, finally breaking free from Beijing now, and wondered deeply about what the next days would bring.
10
Mark Cole crouched down low within the incredibly complex lighting fixtures that hung high above the Theatre Hall, looking down at the scene below him.
His fall down the side of the building had stopped at a point where the glass panels gave way to pure titanium and — after scouring the area for frantic seconds, as the other helicopters moved closer in — he had eventually found a maintenance access point within one of the panels.
The hatch had taken him down a metal ladder leading to an internal roof which the dome was wrapped around, and he had soon found another hatch which led inside and further down.
He had worked his way through a network of ducts and service walkways, until he opened a small door and was immediately greeted by the cacophony of sounds coming from below.
He’d seen that he had found his way into the lighting service catwalk above the Theatre Hall, which had a performance of the fabled Beijing Opera in full flow. He had tried to turn back, but as he left the hall, he’d heard noises, the sounds of other people entering the maintenance access areas.
He didn’t know how they had found him so fast, but doubted that it was the police or military. More likely it was the center’s own security staff, alerted to his presence by the reports from the helicopter crews. Not particularly well trained perhaps, but they would be armed, and given the cramped confines of the roof space, they would have to be very unlucky to miss him.
He therefore turned back to the steel gantry, and started to thread himself through the metal struts, praying that the structure was strong enough to hold his weight, knowing the guards would think twice before following him out there.
He looked out in front of him, marveling at the thousand people sat there in rapt pleasure as they watched the show, completely unaware of the wanted assassin who was crawling across the roof above them.
Directly below him, he saw the retinue of highly trained performers with their painted faces and colorful robes as they acted out the larger-than-life roles of the traditional opera, a vibrant combination of instrumental music, vocal performances, mime, dance and acrobatics.
The high, shrill voice of the young male lead filled the theatre, drifting up to the rafters with haunting beauty, almost caused Cole to pause momentarily; but still he ploughed on, clambering over the metal lighting rig.
But where was he going?
He had to admit to himself that he didn’t know. He realized he was heading to the other side of the hall, but what was the point? More security guards would doubtless be heading that way too, with a much greater knowledge of the building’s layout than he had, and he would be cut off.
So where did that leave him?
He looked down again, knowing that he had to get there somehow, his decision reinforced as he saw a hatch opposite him opening, two men with pistols pushing through, their weapons pointed straight at him.
He looked over his shoulder, saw three more men waiting at the metal gantry, their own pistols also up and aimed.
Pushed into a corner, with nowhere else to go and nothing else left to do, he took hold of the metal strut in front of him, a steel bar which supported three large stage lights below it. He pulled furiously, bouncing his weight up and down on it, forcing it to bend, give way, to give up its grasp on the secondary bar it was attached to.
The Chinese guards whispered harsh warnings at him but Cole ignored them, bouncing harder and harder, until the bar snapped free of its attachment and swung down towards the stage in a pendulum-like arc, still attached at the other end.
Cole could hear the gasps of surprise from the audience, the cries of shock from the actors beneath him, the calls for help, for back-up, from the guards who were now above him.
The bar continued its swing, one of the lights coming loose and crashing to the stage below, the actors barely getting out of the way in time as the strut’s fifteen foot length continued to arc downwards.
Cole let go at the lowest point of its arc, dropping the remaining ten feet to the sprung wooden floor of the stage, his body absorbing the impact as it narrowly missed the smashed stage light next to him.
The light erupted in a shower of sparks, and Cole realized the guards were shooting at him. He dove to the left, the audience screaming now, leaping from their seats, clambering over each other in a desperate panic to leave, the scene turned into one of shocking, violent chaos.
At the same time, the main doors of the theatre burst open and armed soldiers rushed in, automatic rifles up and pointed at the stage; but the swarms of people trying desperately to leave the auditorium overwhelmed them, pushed them back, and Cole took the opportunity and made a dash for the stage exit.
As he moved, he sensed the passage of metal in the air and barely managed to avoid a traditional Chinese broadsword as it sliced towards him, held by a painted actor, the wusheng character whose role was always combative.
Cole ducked the blow and struck the man in the gut with a fast kick, knocking the man backwards across the stage, leaping towards the concealed exit door as more shots rained down on him from above, the bullets ripping up the wooden floor behind him.