The last mile was uphill and the progress through the pathless woods was slow. Trying to remain silent and move forward on uneven terrain in unknown territory was something for trained military and backwoods hunters. Chow Ying, born and raised on the streets of Beijing, was neither. With each stumble in the darkness he fought the urge to use his light. But he knew there would be nothing more suspicious than a lone beam of light in the woods behind ten million dollar homes.
At the top of the hill, Chow Ying stopped for a rest. He first put his hands on his knees and then succumbed to the urge to take a seat on a large rock protruding from the earth near the crest of the slope. He did his best to remove the twigs and leaves that had hitched a ride on his clothes and in his hair. He swiped at his body, having no idea if he was successful in his attempt to clean himself. He ran his fingers through his ponytail in a final effort to look civilized, to look like anything but a criminal.
Chow Ying checked the printout again and looked at the neighborhood. From the woods he saw the side view of a house with a massive fountain in the middle of the circular driveway and a small fishing pond complete with a tiny pier. It was the same house as in the satellite photo, the same house three doors down from the red circle on his map. Ten miles by subway, a twenty-minute bus ride, a dark hike through the woods, and Chow Ying found himself three houses away from his goal. Not bad for a guy from the city, he thought to himself.
He kept to the back of the property lines as he moved toward his target, his shape melting into the darkness, his feet bouncing slightly on the edge of perfectly manicured lawns. A direct view and bright lights from another neighbor forced him into the woods again and he snapped his way through fallen brush as he walked up another lot. Arriving, he stopped on the backside of a massive fence and ran his hands along the boards, looking up at the top of the eight-foot wooden structure that enclosed the yard.
He looked around at the shapes and shadows in the woods, and jumped once in an attempt to see over the top of the fence. He put his hands on the top of the wood and tugged, testing the structure for strength. Satisfied, he pulled himself up for a better look into the yard. Feet hanging, his frame suspended, Chow Ying peered over the fence. He looked left and right, and without returning his feet to the ground, flung his leg to the top of the fence and flipped his body over. The Mountain of Shanghai landed with a resounding thud that came with two hundred thirty pounds of muscle hitting the earth according to Newton’s magic formula.
The Mountain of Shanghai crouched in the corner of the yard, looking out past a Japanese garden, a gazebo, and a swimming pool with its soft blue water gently circulating on the surface. The large glass windows on the back of the home offered a dollhouse view into the life of the super rich and he felt a pang of envy.
He let the atmosphere of the yard surround him and realized the fence was a blessing in disguise. It eliminated the chance of being spotted by a nosey neighbor, or worse yet, a nosey neighbor with an itchy trigger finger. With the fence and the size of the yard, Chow Ying only had one thing to worry about: the eighteen-thousand-square-foot mansion directly in front of him. He fought the urge to sit, have a smoke, and enjoy the evening.
Standing from his crouch, he moved slowly toward the house for a better look, trying to blend into the night and the large Japanese garden. A light in the house stretched from the kitchen into a family room that had never held a family, the plasma TV on the wall large enough to watch from the pool. A faint light peeked through closed blinds in a window on the second floor.
Chow Ying wiped the sweat from his forehead and swiped at a mosquito buzzing in his ear. When his forward path was cut off by the screened gazebo, he veered left and paused at the small walkway that meandered through the garden. He crouched again, and scanned the house for details. His eyes caught a small open kitchen window, the curtains swaying gently in the breeze. He measured the size of the window with his eyes and quickly decided his large frame wouldn’t fit without a crash course in contortion. He considered his options. He was starting to favor plan B: showing up during the day, posing as a delivery man, forcing his way into the house, and overpowering the hired help. Then he could wait for Peter to come home, do him quick and dirty in the foyer, and leave the neighborhood in one of the finest cars Winthrop money had bought.
Chow Ying wanted a little closer look. Just a glance into the house to see the floor layout, to make things easier. He stared at the path leading through the garden to the swimming pool and paused to listen to the chirp of summer crickets. Slowly he put his foot on the path, breathing heavily. He took five consecutive steps on the large white stones, and when he passed a pair of traditional Asian lanterns standing on posts, the garden illuminated and the spotlights attached to the corner of the house came to high-wattage life.
Chow Ying froze for a moment, not sure what had happened, and then dove to his left for cover. He scampered forward on all fours through the rocks to the edge of a small bridge overlooking a pool of carp. He tried to hug the ground, to become invisible.
Inside, Camille was putting the finishing touches on her toenails while watching the broadcast of a Mexican game show. The bright lights on the motion detectors forced Camille from the bed in her maid quarters on the second floor. She shuffled slowly to the window, trying to keep her toes extended upward, and looked out into the backyard through the blinds. Crouched underneath the edge of the bridge, Chow Ying held his breath. Minutes passed and the motion-activated lights finally switched off, casting the yard back into darkness. Chow Ying waited before slowly crawling back to the edge of the path. He had choices. Continue toward the house, go through the small fish pool stocked with carp, or go back the way he came and endure a second trip past the hidden laser eye that had illuminated the yard. It was an easy decision. The next move he made would bring the lights on again. He checked his watch and waited another twenty minutes before making a break for it. Five seconds after breaking into a run, his huge frame was lunging toward the top of the fence.
The second blast of lights sent Camille to the window again, this time with the phone in her hand and her finger on the speed dial for 911. Peter Winthrop had given her strict orders. When in doubt, call the police. Words of wisdom from a man with as many enemies as friends. Peter had built the fence and installed high-tech security for a reason. Camille scanned the yard carefully before putting the phone on the bed.
Just beyond the wall to the Winthrop fortress, Chow Ying writhed in agony. Between whispered curses he bit his forearm to distract himself from the pain emanating from his ankle. He tried to stand and cursed in Chinese. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 23
Senate committees do not create legislation, but they do influence the law-making process. Their history was the history of the country itself. Sometime between the signing of the Declaration of Independence and the Louisiana Purchase, a group of U.S. Senators in a meeting room in Philadelphia realized they were being asked to craft law on every subject known to man; a rapidly growing list of possibilities in a rapidly growing country. Even the predecessors to the modern politician were apprehensive about spending time on issues that impacted something as impersonal as the general well-being of the country. “Self before voters before country” has long been the unofficial motto of the one hundred elected officials in the Senate and their four hundred thirty-five counterparts in the House. There was no sense in being an elected official if you couldn’t give yourself a fighting chance at continuing life as one. And the only way to remain in office was to cater to your constituents. Or at the very least, give the impression you were. A thoughtful, patriotic senator with their eye on the national picture could work themselves right out of a job if they weren’t careful. Faced with that possibility, committees were born.