“Right before they helped me get out of the mainland.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“That’s how I got away. Song told me to go to the Lo Wu border crossing and wait. I did this, and a man stepped up to me. He was from Taiwan. He gave me papers to cross into Hong Kong. He said I would be met on the other side and taken to Taipei, but when I crossed over, there was no one there. I realized I was followed over the border, so I ran.”
None of this made a bit of sense to Court. If Taiwanese intelligence had spirited Fan out of the mainland, why wasn’t Court told about it? Taipei had a good working relationship with CIA; there was no way CIA would not know of Taiwan’s involvement in Fan’s escape from the mainland.
Court said, “The papers you mentioned… they had your picture? They were already prepared?”
“Yes.”
“So, Song must have contacted Taiwan on your behalf before he was killed? He was a double agent?”
Fan cocked his head a little, thinking about it. “No. Song was no Taiwan agent. The man at the border crossing said they had intercepted the phone call between Song and me and prepared everything. Then they just waited for me to arrive.”
Bullshit, thought Court. If Song told Fan to go to that particular border crossing and wait, then Song set up Fan’s escape with Taiwanese intelligence. Court saw no way that the CIA could be unaware of this, but he didn’t know why the hell Taiwan helped Fan get out of the mainland only to leave him high and dry in Hong Kong. Something very wrong must have happened with the operation.
Slowly it dawned on him. Court had been told that the CIA got involved with this when they found out Fan was being hunted by Fitzroy, thereby creating a perfect opportunity to send in one of Fitzroy’s old hit men in order to nab Fan.
But that story was a lie. No, this whole thing was some kind of a busted op — something involving Taiwan and the United States, perhaps — and CIA had sent Court in to help salvage it.
Court leaned back to Fan. “Wo Shing Wo… how did you get hooked up with them?”
“Desperation. I was walking the streets of Hong Kong for a day, afraid to even go to a hotel with the papers I had been given. I slept in an alley. Finally I went to an Internet café and called a number I found for the National Security Bureau, Taiwan’s intelligence agency, but it was just some operator. I was put on hold. I got scared and left the café, but just after I left I saw men with guns race in.”
Court mumbled, “Colonel Dai’s men were already in Hong Kong looking for you.”
“I went to another café and began looking for protection in Hong Kong. I knew I could work for some group, help them out, but it needed to be someone who wasn’t afraid of mainland security.”
Court had to admit Fan’s plan had been solid and effective. He had surrounded himself with guns and a defensive infrastructure, and that got him out of Hong Kong and kept him from getting assassinated by Colonel Dai’s men. But now, looking around at the wild river bandits surrounding them on the boat, Court thought Fan’s run of relative fortune might have run out.
He said, “I’ll find out what’s going on. Don’t do anything stupid, but find a way to reach out to us, and I’ll come back for you. I promise.”
Fan looked away and shook his head. “What are you talking about? You are in the same situation as me. You can’t get away from these men.”
“Yeah… you’re probably right.”
Court leaned over on the bench and looked down at the deck for several seconds, his head almost between his knees. He was the picture of compliance; not one of the eight men around him expected any movement out of him whatsoever.
While he looked like a man dejected, he was in fact already hard at work on his play. He slowly, quietly sucked in deep lungfuls of air, then blew them out through his mouth, careful to make no sound with either the inhalations or the exhalations.
In and out, he breathed so deep it hurt his chest, hurt the raw scar from his month-old gunshot wound to his ribs. Over and over.
The entire time he’d been perfectly still, but now he looked up and around slowly, calmly, still hiding his deep breaths. The positioning of all the important elements on the boat were exactly the same, and the rugged jungle terrain on the far bank looked identical here to the way it had during the entire time he’d been on the speedboat.
One more massive breath — he felt he’d stretched his lungs to capacity over the past minute — and one more long, slow exhalation.
And then he did it.
His right foot slid out in front of him. He swiveled his hips to his right, his butt left the seat, and he spun around, ninety degrees, and took one squatted step backwards across the tiny deck; his bound hands reached out behind him and he grabbed the hilt of the big knife on the man’s chest rig before the man even turned his head towards the movement.
Court launched forward in the direction of Red Bandana, drawing the knife from the sheath behind his back as he moved, and as he flew across the width of the speedboat, he sucked in the biggest lungful of air he’d taken in his entire life. He landed on his knees next to Red Bandana, still sucking in, but as part of the movement of propelling himself forward, his head came down, and he held in his air and bit into the plastic bag holding the cell phone, right next to Red Bandana’s leg.
The leader of the group shouted out, but he only pulled his leg away in an automatic reaction to the movement.
By now most everyone on board was shouting; some had begun swiveling their weapons inward to the blurring motion in their midst, and a small man at the stern launched himself up and started moving past Fan and towards the big American.
Court thrust his body up, going from his knees to his feet, and then he launched himself into a backflip off the boat, right through the open space between two men sitting on the starboard-side gunwale.
As he flew through the air he caught a last glimpse of Fan Jiang, still sitting on the bench, his eyes wide with astonishment.
Court crashed through the surface of the muddy river and disappeared below.
The men on the boat were standing now, rifles swinging in all directions. The man at the helm realized his captive had gone overboard, so he reduced the throttle and turned hard to starboard, in the direction the man had leapt.
The other powerboats approached the area, Red Bandana stood and screamed, and men on all three watercraft began firing their rifles at the place where the big American disappeared.
Below the brown surface the first thing Court did, before he began cutting with the knife, was to reverse his direction. Everyone had seen him backflip off the boat towards the nearest shore, and it made more sense he would head that way because of both its proximity and the fact that he and Fan had been heading west when they’d been caught, so by swimming back under the wake of the speedboat and kicking back to the east, he knew he’d cause most everyone on the boats to look in the wrong direction.
Once he’d put twenty or thirty yards between himself and the spot in the river where he went under, he continued swimming, but slower now, while he carefully turned the sharp knife around with the fingers of his bound hands. He knew dropping the knife would probably mean he’d either get shot or drown, because without the use of his hands there was no way he’d be able to swim far enough away from the boats before surfacing to where he would not be seen.
He began cutting, concentrating on working as efficiently as possible, and also on keeping his teeth clenched on the plastic bag in his mouth.
Court could hold his breath for three and a half minutes without any trouble, but not when he was exerting himself like this. He figured he’d have to surface in less than a minute and a half, so he kept kicking while he worked, knowing every single yard he traveled would reduce the risk he’d be spotted when he finally did come up for air.