Wilson lit one of his infrequent cigarettes. Smoking was inconsistent with his "born again" philosophy.
"Go ahead," he said. Frank Wilson had heard about the Sukhoi Covert project, but certifiable information had been even more difficult to come by than usual. Now he was getting it from a surprising source: Mikolai Korsun, the man Izvestia had once called "Mikolai the Merchant."
"Subsequent tests," the fat man continued, "revealed that the aircraft was capable of performance perameters that far exceeded what our sources believe your Stealth to be capable of."
"For example?"
"Will it whet your appetite if I tell you that it has a tactical range of twenty-five hundred kilometers, and can be armed with a variety of nuclear missiles?"
"A bomber?" Wilson pressed.
"An attack bomber with fighterlike performance, capable of carrying a dozen or more bombs similar to your MK.84."
Wilson sagged back in his chair.
"Exactly three weeks ago, Air Major Borisov and a Sukhoi test pilot by the name of Arid Komivov took off from a top-secret test facility in Volgograd, and neither of them was heard from again. Initially, everyone assumed that they experienced mechanical difficulties and that the aircraft was lost. Then we received a delayed report from Irkutsk that a high-performance aircraft of unknown origin was spotted by a MiG-29 pilot crossing the Tashkent range over the border into Mongolia."
"Then you damn well know he didn't cross over into American territory."
"We always knew that, Comrade," Korsun wheezed. "When we realized what happened, we also knew that Air Major Borisov was not acting alone."
Wilson looked puzzled. "Meaning?"
"You are aware of the growing ideological chasm between Colonel General Isotov and President Aprihinen?"
Wilson nodded. He had heard rumors. Korsun's admission was the first time he had heard anyone speak openly about the rift.
"Isotov accuses both President Aprihinen and Secretary Kusinien of an ideological sellout. He is an outspoken advocate of impeaching Aprihinen and reinstituting Party control."
"So he has this guy Air Major Borisov hijack the Su-39," Wilson speculated, "because it gives Isotov the upper hand if it comes to a showdown with Aprihinen."
Korsun resumed his seat. "Exactly, but this is Russian theater, my friendand, as you well know, we are a people that thrive on melodramatic plot twists. Originally I believed that Borisov landed, as he was instructed, at a small base in Guangdong province where he was told he would be given sanctuary by the Kong Ho regime. As far as cogent political philosophies go, some of Kong Ho's detractors share views more in line with Isotov than Aprihinen."
"Is that what happened?"
"The plot took another twist. Air Major Borisov flew to Danjia on the island of Hainan."
"Hainan," Wilson repeated, "the Fifth Academy."
"Exactly. See how the plot thickens?"
"What you're saying is that Isotov has himself some powerful allies if it comes to a showdown with Aprihinen and the Fifth Academy takes over in China."
"Remember, I said this was Russian theater. There is more. Kong Ho is fighting his own ghosts of administrations past. The nooks and crannies of Beijing are full of people who think China's finest hour came under the leadership of Zhou Enlai. They're the real muscle behind the Fifth Academy. They're the ones who are aligned with Isotovand now they're the ones with the Su-39, not the Kong Ho regime.''
Wilson let out a sigh. "Then we're caught in a cross firedamned if we do, damned if we don't."
"You are indeed," Korsun acknowledged. "I believe this is what you Americans call a loselose situation."
Suddenly, Frank Wilson had a new problem. Now what did he say to Aprihinen? He was in the unfortunate position of knowing more than he was supposed to know. Kusinien would want to know where he got his information.
He stood up, put out his cigarette, and started for the door.
"Have you forgotten something?" Korsun asked.
Wilson nodded. He reached into his coat pocket, extracted an envelope, and laid it on the table.
Korsun smiled.
Tang watched as Lo Chi Lyn's nurse removed Schubatis from the bottles of intravenous solution and connected him to the solutions contained in the supply chambers concealed in the double wall of the aluminum funeral cylinder.
When the woman had completed the task, he watched the monitor for signs of change in Schubatis's vitals. As much as Tang disliked it, he was still dependent on the doctor's assessment. "What do you think, old man?" he asked.
"Between here and Hainan is a long journey with many perils," Lo Chi Lyn said.
Tang ignored the comment, moved to the head of the cylinder, removed the small medallion with the crest, and examined the digital monitor and three control valves. The monitor gave him readings on the air, the painkiller, and the sedative. Then he leaned over and laid his head on the cylinder, with his ear next to the surface of the metal. He could hear nothingand if there were no sounds, the Americans would not be suspicious.
Tang stepped back, glanced at his watch, nodded to Deng Zhen and the woman. "It is time," he said.
The unconscious Schubatis was now sealed in the cylinder that would be his home for the next twenty-four to thirty hours. Deng Zhen wheeled the cylinder into the freight elevator, and Tang waited until the lift disappeared below floor level before looking at Lo Chi Lyn again.
"You have arranged the necessary papers for the woman?" the doctor inquired. "Passports, tickets, interior travel papers, and Party card?"
Tang nodded. "I have taken care of everything except one small matter."
As Lo Chi Lyn watched, Tang pulled back his coat, reached into his concealed belt holster, and produced a dull-black 92D Beretta. It was the same gun he had used on the unfortunate Kovnir. He released the safety and pulled the trigger. There was a single reporta cracking soundbut there was no one except Tang Ro Ji and the old man to hear it.
For a fleeting moment Tang wondered about that. Did the sound of the Beretta slam its way into the victim's brain before the message of death? It was a conundrum. He liked philosophical riddles.
It was finished.
Doctor Lo Chi Lyn, admirer of Kong Ho, was sprawled on the floor with a tidy bullet hole in his chest, arms and legs akimbo, and, as Tang assessed it, with not all that much blood to manifest the process of dying.
Tang tucked the Beretta back in the holster, went to the still-open drug locker, took several cartons, made certain he spilled some of the capsules on the floor, and flushed the remainder down the toilet. He littered a second carton in the hall on the way to the freight elevator. Then he rode the elevator down to the loading dock. When Lo Chi Lyn was found, police would assume his death was drug related.
Americans, he believed, were easily duped.
Deng Zhen and the woman were waiting. The cold October rain had turned to a heavy downpour. "Everything is ready?" Tang asked.
Both Deng Zhen and the woman nodded.
"I almost forgot." Tang smiled, looking at the woman. "Doctor Lo Chi Lyn said to tell you that he wishes you a most pleasant journey home."
In large measure, Bogner was amazed at what could be accomplished on short notice, especially on a Sunday night. Spitz had paraded them in, one by one, making certain the ISA trio of Packer, Miller, and Bogner had all of the information available.