But he was there, he’d made it, but as he accelerated towards the door it suddenly opened, four more armed men in front of him.
He turned to the other side of the stage, but the guards up above fired again, boxing him in; and then more soldiers appeared from the stage door opposite, and the retinue of armed men struggling to get in from the rear finally managed to break forth into the rapidly-emptying theatre, cutting off his escape completely.
He looked above him, in front of him, and to the sides, ready to make a move towards any opening that presented itself, but eventually, his heart dropping like a stone, he understood the need to accept the inevitable.
He had nowhere left to go.
As the soldiers rushed towards him from all sides, he raised his hands in the air in surrender, a gesture that was ignored as they clubbed him viciously to the floor with the butts of their rifles, laid into him with their fists and booted feet.
As a rifle caught him in his temple, the last thought that went through his mind before he blacked out was how he could turn this tragedy into some sort of opportunity.
And even as he slumped into unconsciousness, his mind knew that there might — just might — be a way.
PART SIX
1
Clark Mason strolled past the White House metal detectors, smiling at everyone as he went.
This morning’s meeting of the National Security Council sure was going to be fun. Maybe not as much fun as he’d had with Sarah Lansing last night, but fun nevertheless.
He cast his mind back for a moment to the delicious games that Lansing had introduced him to, and felt a shudder of pleasure from the mere memory. Yes, she was a keeper, that one. Well, at least until something better came along, anyway.
She had already left the house by the time he’d woken that morning, but he wasn’t surprised; the earlier she left the better really, they both knew that.
He had awoken to disturbing news — General Wu had been on state television, accusing the United States of trying to assassinate him. He cited the efforts of a single man to kill him personally — and had film of the purported assassin’s escape attempt across Beijing — and also talked in pained tones about a supposed bomb attack which had destroyed part of the Forbidden City, with the entire remaining members of the Politburo along with it. There was footage of the smoking ruins of one of the palace complexes within the Forbidden City, and Mason had to admit that it didn’t look good.
He knew that General Wu wasn’t above staging events for his own benefit — the sinking of the Chinese frigate, the Huangshan, by the Taiwanese submarine was a case in point. Wu had obviously orchestrated the whole event to excuse the invasion of that country.
But the man caught on film — the man apparently now in Chinese custody — was definitely Western, and Mason was tempted to believe Wu’s interpretation of events this time. It certainly smacked of a US covert op gone wrong.
Mason knew that the Paradigm Group was a front for a covert action cell, and he also knew that Vinson had something going on right now. Mason’s contacts in the Special Operations Command had been slow getting back to him, but there was some talk of a SEAL Delivery Vehicle being routed — along with a special release team — to somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. It wasn’t proof, but it was suspicious by any stretch of the imagination.
And that wasn’t to mention the missing ‘Dr. Alan Sandbourne’, a man who Mason was convinced was actually Mark Cole, a shadowy assassin codenamed the ‘Asset’. Definitely the sort of man to be sent on such a mission, and someone whose appearance wasn’t a million miles away from the person racing across Beijing on the television news. Mason wondered why they had not shown a close-up of the man, but suspected it was because Wu couldn’t be sure that the assassin was an American, and didn’t want his tirade against the United States being spoiled by such details.
General Wu had been stern with his televised statements, warning President Abrams that she was playing with fire.
‘You may have heard,’ he’d said with a knowing smile, ‘of something known as ‘the Great Wall Project’. Well, I would like to confirm to you that what you have heard is true. We have a capability in this particular area that goes far beyond that of any other nation on earth, including that of the United States. And let me be clearer still — I have the will to use that capability if any nation tries to stop the ascendance of the Chinese people. I would advise you to remember that in the days to come.’
The news had been full of detailed explanations of the Great Wall Project ever since — five thousand miles of reinforced tunnels under an impenetrable mountain range, a stockpile of thousands of warheads and no way to target them, no way to stop General Wu if he decided to go through with such threats.
Mason knew that panic would start to spread through America as the morning wore on, as more and more people switched on the breakfast news, listened to the radio on the way to work, read the papers, spoke to colleagues.
By midday, the country would be in full crisis mode.
For Mason, he was still wondering how he could make the most out of this situation. Did he have enough evidence to push for Abrams’ impeachment?
It was possible, given what he knew about Vinson, Sandbourne and the Paradigm group. Given what Wu had just presented to the world, even the mere hint of US action without congressional approval — or even discussion at the NSC — would be enough to warrant a full investigation into the think tank and its staff.
And if the investigation showed that Abrams had knowledge of the group’s ‘extracurricular’ activities, or was in any way involved with it at all, then Mason wouldn’t even have to push for impeachment himself; the American public would demand it.
And with the president impeached and gone, who would step into her shoes and help the United States out of this mess?
Yours truly, Mason thought with a little smile as he entered the White House Situation Room, ready to do battle.
Cole shook his head, trying to get some feeling back into his bare, naked body; but then, deciding this might not be a good thing, he stopped.
Every muscle in his body hurt, every bone, every sinew; and the huge man-mountain that was Zhou Shihuang hadn’t even started with him yet.
The renegade monk just sat on a chair opposite him, watching him. He hadn’t moved a muscle for what seemed like hours; he’d just sat there watching, his single working eye not blinking once.
Cole knew what the man was doing; it was purely psychological. The soldiers had already beaten him, he was already in a whole world of pain, but Zhou knew of his own reputation, knew the man in front of him would be scared, off-balance, frightened of what was about to happen to him. And the way Zhou just sat and observed him was designed to make him even more afraid, make him think that Zhou was insane, a man willing to do anything to another human being.
But another side of Cole considered the fact that it wasn’t a trick at all; there was always the possibility that Zhou was insane, that he was truly capable of anything, and — despite his years of training, his decades of experience, Cole felt his skin crawling with a deep, almost supernatural fear.
He tried to take his mind elsewhere, think about what was happening to the Force One team and the Politburo. What time was it now? Where would they be now? In Shanghai? Or even further?
He remembered General Wu’s anger at the state he had been in when brought to the cold, dank Zhongnonhai basements. The soldiers had beaten him black and blue, and Wu had been enraged — the general had probably wanted him paraded in front of the television cameras for propaganda purposes, something that could be forgotten now that he looked like a torture victim. Bruises and cuts covered his swollen eyes and cheeks, his lips distorted and puffy. There was no make-up in the world that could make him look any better.
He wondered what Wu had done to the soldiers who’d beaten him and lost Wu his public relations prize, and decided that it certainly wouldn’t be anything good.
Wu had watched Cole get strung up in the cold, dank basement room, and had then come so close that Cole could smell his sweet, oily breath. There had been no questions, just an examination, perhaps to check the resolve in the prisoner’s eyes.
He had turned away and spoken to Zhou, who had merely nodded his head and sat down to watch him.
Cole couldn’t even fall asleep, forced to balance on his tiptoes to help keep the weight off his arms and chest; he was strung up in a crucifix position, arms outstretched, and knew if he let his body collapse then he could well die of asphyxiation, the hyper-expansion of his chest muscles and lungs leading to increased difficulty of inhalation. He had been placed at such a height that the only way to keep the weight off was to stretch his feet down, touch his toes to the cold floor below.
And so he kept balanced there, the tips of his toes red raw, his body wracked with pain as Zhou Shihuang looked on.
‘What is your name?’ Zhou asked finally, his words in heavily accented English, his mouth barely moving.
‘Dietrich Hoffmeyer,’ Cole spluttered, knowing he had to at least try and put up the pretense.
Zhou just laughed humorlessly, looked Cole’s naked body up and down. ‘Dietrich Hoffmeyer is Jewish,’ he said, lips still barely moving. ‘According to records, circumcised at birth.’ He looked again at Cole, his meaning clear.
‘It grew back?’ Cole managed to respond, gasping through the pain.
‘You are a funny man,’ Zhou said, standing finally, his massive bulk causing a shadow to fall across the entire room.
And then he was there in front of Cole, inches from his face, his meaty, callused hand grasping Cole’s testicles and pinching them tightly between his vice-like fingertips.
The pain was immediate and intense, like a thousand fireworks going off in his groin, in his head, everywhere, and he thought he was going to pass out; and still the man was squeezing, harder and harder, and then Cole was sick, vomit trickling down his chin, his chest, and he choked on it, his feet slipping, his weight taken on his arms, across his chest and suddenly he couldn’t breathe, and still the man squeezed his testicles harder, and Cole was seeing stars now, his mind trying to black out, and he wanted to let it, why wouldn’t he let it? He could hear a noise, high and piercing, and realized it was his own screams, ringing and reverberating around the cold concrete cell; and then Zhou let go, but the pain stayed with him, leaving him weak, dizzy, confused.
‘If it can grow back,’ Zhou said with a smile, a razor blade coming up in front of Cole’s eyes, sweeping back and forth before him to leave him in no doubts as to what it was, ‘then you won’t mind if I cut it off again, no?’
He must be joking, Cole told himself, he’s got to be joking.
But then the razor was gone from his eye line, and the next thing Cole felt was a hot, burning sensation below, and the warm trickle of fresh blood dripping down his bare legs, and he screamed again like he never had before.