“As you can see we have complete information sharing, and we will retain all the expertise necessary to extend our capabilities within the terms of our licensing agreement.”
“Licensing agreement?”
“Our partnership with the West has been richly rewarding, Captain. For both sides. You are to give your full cooperation to these gentlemen—in English, if you please. If I’m not mistaken, you are quite proficient.”
Shen was momentarily flummoxed.
The American smiled and extended his hand. He was a tall man of indistinct lineage—black hair and brown eyes. “Captain Shen. It’s a pleasure. Robert Haverford.”
Shen shook his hand uncertainly. “Mr. Haverford. Please forgive me. I’m a little bit shocked, that’s all.”
“No doubt. Wow, your English is excellent. No accent whatsoever.”
“I went to school in the States.”
“Which school?”
“Stanford.”
“Terrific. I’m told you’re quite a hand at chip design. I think our problem is a bit more prosaic. We think it was operator error, and we just need to find out for training purposes. We weren’t present during the incident, but we’re trying to back into just what went on when this unfortunate series of events unfolded.”
Haverford gestured to a seat in front of a control monitor that had somehow mysteriously opened up. Shen felt that it suspiciously resembled the proverbial hot seat. However, he also knew, with the general and several dozen uniformed PLA senior officers nearby, it was not a request.
He sat and examined the monitor in front of him. It showed a blurry image of himself sitting in the booth at the Suomi Linja martini bar hours earlier. They could barely see his head, and the rest of the table was completely blocked by a beam.
Haverford pointed at the image. “You really couldn’t have chosen a worse spot for this meeting, Captain. It’s almost as if you wanted to have a private sit-down.”
The words just hung out there for a few moments—a smiling fuck-you from his new American friend. Passive-aggressive shitheel . . . Shen looked up to General Zhang. “The only chance I thought I’d have of turning Ross, general, was in making him feel comfortable and in reminding him of the friendship we once had in Oregon. Having policemen hanging around and cameras focused on him would not accomplish that. I take full responsibility for selecting the most shielded booth, but it was a calculated risk. I certainly did not think it would be an issue because there was no way for him to leave the bar unobserved—that is, if this system works as it must have been described in the brochure.”
General Zhang pondered Shen’s words for a moment, then nodded to Haverford.
Haverford sighed. “Well, okay then. I guess the fact that we don’t have any audio or video of you speaking with Mr. Ross—look there. . . .” Haverford pointed at a gesticulating arm being reflected in a mirror. “That’s Ross right there. We have him up until that point.”
Shen frowned. “What do you mean ‘up until that point’?”
The control board operator fast-forwarded the video, and people moved up and down the booth aisle like a Benny Hill closing credit chase. And then it suddenly returned to normal speed—to show Shen walking out of the bar several minutes later, a look of dread on his face.
“Wait. Wait a second.” Shen was trying to comprehend what he just saw. “Back it up.”
The video backed up at double speed. He saw himself back up to the table and sit far away from the cameras and the microphones he knew were near the restroom, the glass-and-blond-wood bar, and the entrances. Waitresses and Chinese patrons occasionally walked down the aisle—but no Jon Ross!
“That’s impossible! He was sitting right there with me.”
The video kept backing up until finally Shen saw the back of Ross, reverse-stepping toward the entrance with plainclothes policemen behind him. It was his moment of arrival seen backward.
“So he arrived, but he didn’t leave?”
“That’s what we’ve been wondering about.”
They all just sat there without talking for several moments.
That was when Shen remembered Ross’s words as he held up the ring.
This is a magic ring.
A hot flash of fear came over him. It couldn’t be. . . .
The control board operator was clicking from camera to camera now. Inside and outside the building. He brought up a 3-D model of the city block. It was wrapped with security camera images. “This is running backward from the moment of your departure from the table, Captain Shen.” Half a dozen video insets showed as many scenes in front of the building, the lobby, the rear exit, and the surrounding streets—people and cars were everywhere. The video played, and people moved about, but Ross was absolutely nowhere to be seen.
Haverford shook his head. “See, it certainly doesn’t seem like he left the table, now, does it, Captain?”
Then it occurred to Shen that everyone was looking at him. And then it started to dawn on him that Zhang might seriously be suspecting him of some collusion with Ross—which would be crazy considering he was the one who brought Ross to the table to begin with.
Shen cleared his throat. “There is one other explanation.”
Haverford smiled. “Well, then let’s hear it, buddy.”
Shen felt like punching him in his smiling toothy face, but instead tapped the screen. “Rewind it to the point when Ross arrives back at the table.”
Haverford nodded to the board operator, and the monitor he was focusing on obligingly reversed to the point when Ross arrived.
“Okay. Now, fast-forward it about two, two and a half minutes, then put it on slow motion.”
The screen moved forward, people jittering across the screen, then slowed. Shen held his index finger just inches away from the screen and focused intently on the occasional person moving down the aisle between booths. The rest of the assembled technicians and Chinese officers leaned in behind him.
Then he saw it. “There! Stop!”
The image stopped, and Shen pointed to a sliver of a shoe and a pant leg as reflected in a mirror.
“Uh, it’s a leg. We can’t know it’s his.”
“But there’s no one in the aisle. Look. . . .” Shen pointed. “That reflection occurs when there’s someone in the aisle.”
“Captain, if there’s no one in the aisle, he can’t be in the aisle.”
“Roll it slowly. Watch here closely.” Shen ran his hand along the empty aisle in the picture.
The image ran forward and a wave of surprise went across the assembled witnesses. An aberration, like a fleeting specter, moved across the frame.
Haverford jammed the PAUSE button, shoving the board operator out of the way. “That’s impossible. It’s an artifact. It’s a camera artifact.”
Shen was staring at a slight discoloration and diagonal line occluding the frame. “I don’t think it’s an artifact, Mr. Haverford.”
“But how could he . . . he couldn’t just walk out.”
Shen kept his eye on the screen. “Who was controlling the operation? Was it being directed by central control? Were they giving the signal to the teams to move in from here?”
The technicians looked at each other.
Haverford ignored the question, busying himself in searching other screens—the front door, the side door, the rear door. “None of these doors are popping open. Look.”
Shen pointed to the kitchen’s rear door, propped open to let cool air in. “The rear door is already open. Look—look there.” He pointed at video from inside the kitchen. “The staff is surprised. They are following something with their eyes—as though a very unexpected person is moving through their space. Perhaps a Caucasian businessman.”