Manhattan Takedown (Karyn Kane #2)

  01

  Shanghai, China.

  The omens were clear. The fortunetellers of Suànmìng had predicted it—a monumental alignment of the fates that happened only once in a thousand years.

  The city of Shanghai loomed sepulchral in the heat of the day, bearing witness to the arrival of the grand funeral procession. Many thousands of mourners pressed in against the barricades that lined the route, struggling to steal a glimpse of this historic sight. The outpouring of grief was unprecedented; beyond anything yet witnessed in the modern age. The omens were clear—this was no normal funeral, this was a pivotal moment in the history of mankind.

  A hundred black limousines, garlanded with ten thousand white irises, crawled slowly along the boulevard, while mourners followed with somber steps. The whole world was in mourning—Deng Tao, the great new hope for mankind was dead, cut down in his prime by the hand of an unknown assassin.

  Slowly, by degrees, the cortege edged through the burgeoning crowds and entered the grounds of the mausoleum. The temple of remembrance was palatial in its construction, an architectural wonder to rival the tomb of the legendary Emperor Quin Shi Huang himself. The building was sculpted in white marble and covered in golden bas-reliefs in the classical style. Thirty-six columns lined the frontage, supporting a pyramidal roof that rose black and imposing into the ominous sky.

  Standing to attention before this temple of immortality, leading political and business leaders from the world’s foremost powers awaited the arrival of the cortege. They stood in silence, gathered in somber tribute to the passing of a man widely regarded as the foremost leader of the great Humanistian movement; a revolution of both thought and action, that envisioned a world where all mankind would be free from the shackles of big government. Many saw this brave new ideology as new hope for mankind—others did not agree. Hushed voices suggested that the Humanistian “miracle” was something quite different, the beginning of a great tyranny that given chance would draw the world under an eternal veil of darkness.

  But now, Deng Tao was dead, cut down in the prime of life. His faithful were distraught, unable to come to terms with this cruel loss. Very quickly the wild rumors swirled, turning a man and a martyr into a new-formed legend. The euphoria surrounding the untimely demise of Deng Tao had sent the share price of his vast business empire soaring, and quite an empire it was—the Tao Corporation was a world leader in cutting edge technologies that included everything from biotechnology, to power generation. Tao’s vast corporate network of researchers, scientists and engineers had made many great discoveries and innovations, including the harnessing of an endless supply of clean, low-cost geothermal power from the earth’s core. How sad then that a great life should end like this, martyred to the senseless-tide of global terrorism.

  Karyn Kane stood silently amongst the many dignitaries, watching the events from behind thick, inscrutable designer sunglasses that covered much of her face. She wore a black silk cheongsam style dress, accessorized with patent high-buckle Channel boots and a long black Armani coat. The black shades concealed the fire in her eyes; the voluminous coat hid a SIG-Sauer 229, nestling tight in a DeSantis shoulder rig. She knew Deng Tao was no hero, no grand genius either. He had been a man who wanted to crush the world beneath his will and destroy America.

  That was why he had to die.

  That was why she had killed him.

  But now, in the aftermath, her service to mankind lay forgotten, buried deep in a CIA black file that would never again see the light of day. The knowledge boiled inside her. As a deep cover operative for the Central Intelligence Agency, she knew that the work she did to protect the freedoms of the many had to flow, as though it were merely happenstance. But, when she had to let go of the truth, for the sake of the big game, so that murderers like Deng Tao could pass unsullied into the annals of history—that kind of thing made her mad, real mad, so mad she wanted to step forward and tell the whole world about the crazy secret battle that was roiling beneath the soft rippling waters of political nicety. The world below was cold and dark and deadly, a realm where great sharp-toothed beasts swam like the leviathans of old. The enemies of justice were many—religious supremacists, corporate super-predators and a whole spectrum of political monsters so abhorrent, that their filthy and depraved ideologies polluted the very waters of human existence.

  Behind her thick funereal shades, Karyn’s eyes burned with a deep held animosity. She got no satisfaction seeing a monster like Deng Tao loaded into the ground where he belonged, just a cold, dark empty feeling of a job that would never be completed. In the new world of global decline, there would always be another exponent of murderous ideology readying themselves for battle against the true nature of democracy and justice.

  As the pallbearers carried the coffin upwards to its final resting place, Karyn stood next to the U.S. Secretary of State, Truman Whitaker. The secretary of state had stepped in to the role of official mourner at the last minute, after Vice President Dick Hansen had suffered a fatal heart attack. Whitaker wasn’t pleased. He was a man of ambition, and for him, standing graveside at the funeral of the world’s foremost industrialist, was little league compared to the funeral of the vice president. Whitaker’s sour face said it all. He was attending under sufferance; making nice to the Peoples Republic of Big Business, whilst the president got to look teary-eyed in front of American public opinion. Whitaker was a man of perfunctory manners, and he had made clear to everyone in the American party, that both he and his blue-stocking wife Lauren would be far happier courting the hearts and minds of the great American public in time for the presidential election. Whitaker was a contender, with widely publicized ambitions and to him, it didn’t matter a damn how many TV cameras were at the Tao funeral; he had been cast out into the political netherworld, so far from the real action he might as well be shooting hoops on the moon.

  American ambassador, Frank Campanella meanwhile, looked frail and vulnerable. As the elder statesman of Sino-American politics he was looking forward to a well-earned retirement, tending his dairy farm in rural Wisconsin, at least that’s what he told everyone. But now, with all heads turning to watch the approach of the coffin, he said quietly to Karyn, “The brother is far worse you know. I don’t envy you having to deal with him. He is the nastiest brute to grace Chinese politics since the Cultural Revolution; makes Chairman Mao look like a charm school graduate.”

  Karyn paused a moment, absorbing this unsolicited anecdote, as the pallbearers struggled up the long marble stairway with faltering steps. From the looks of trepidation on their faces, it was as though they were approaching the realm of their sacred ancestors. Finally, she said, “You met the brother?”

  Campanella turned slowly towards her. “Of course I have met the brother. He is the most powerful man in China. More important than the president himself, but as undersecretary of cultural affairs you would know that wouldn’t you?” He gave her a deep, incisive look that said he knew more than he was letting on.

  An easy smile edged across Karyn’s face. She nodded slowly and said, “Zhàn Tao is a legend. He’s also a man who likes his privacy, there are those who suggest he doesn’t exist—if he ever did.”

  “I may be an old man,” said Campanella, “But please don’t think me senile, I have been in this game long enough to know the smell of intrigue Ms. Kane.”

  “What is the brother like?”

  “In a word, ruthless. He is the power behind the throne. One day soon he will be the leader of the new China. Thankfully, when that time comes, I will be Stateside enjoying a well earned retirement.”

  Karyn took a slow deep breath. “Power, no matter who may wield it, is no match for true morality.”
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br />   Campanella gave her a sharp look. “What a charmingly parochial view Ms. Kane. I would imagine such opinions find little favor in the corridors of Washington.” His mouth twisted down at the edges, as though the sour taste of disapproval had edged across his tongue. He paused, gave a bland smile. “I must say you are a woman of striking countenance Ms. Kane, a natural gift that will serve you well in politics. But if you seek advancement beyond your role as undersecretary of cultural affairs, I would advise you to temper your opinions on matters of morality.”

  Karyn turned towards him with a stony gaze and said, “Really? I will take that under advisement.” She paused, her gaze melting into him, her full lips pursed slightly.

  Campanella turned nervously away. “Tell me, how is Jack Senegar?”

  Karyn frowned. It was no surprise that a career diplomat like the ambassador could sniff out a CIA operator, but the fact that he had mentioned the director’s name in public crossed boundaries.

  “I hear it’s kind of chilly in Wisconsin this time of year,” said Karyn.

  The ambassador nodded and smiled thinly. “I don’t know why you are here Ms. Kane. I don’t want to know. But you must realize, the culture of the new China has moved beyond the hour of ascendancy into the age of supremacy. The history of this great land predates the Pharaohs of Egypt and now, the future belongs to them. I warn you Ms. Kane the world is changing in ways that move beyond our understanding.”

  Karyn nodded. “Nice speech ambassador. But, I have got to tell you, there is nothing, or no one who is moving beyond the United States of America, not for one hot moment. We clear about that?”

  Campanella’s eyes widened, his lips opening as though preparing a rebuttal, but then he froze, sensing that Karyn was already looking past him, her gaze zeroing in on the marching band, whose squealing dissonance accompanied the approaching coffin.

  “Do you see the brother?” asked Karyn brusquely.

  “Tradition dictates he should be absent…”

  “You don’t say. My betting is the creep won’t be able to stay away. Question is, do you see him?”

  The ambassador was growing increasingly flustered. He looked around desperately, as though searching for someone, anyone, who might be able to release him from the responsibility of pointing out the mysterious Zhàn Tao.

  Karyn scanned the faces in the crowd. Something was wrong. Every instinct she had was screaming out against the veracity of the moment. At her side, she sensed the ambassador shrinking away from her, moving backwards into the crowd. She turned, grabbed him by the tie. “Where the hell do you think you are going?”

  Wide eyed now, the ambassador’s response was lost in the shrieking cacophony of the band. The pallbearers were so close, Karyn could see their mean, pinched faces toiling under the weight of their load. The realization was instantaneous. She released the ambassador’s tie and he fell backwards into the crowd. At the very same instant, she leapt sideways, shoulder charging Secretary of State Whitaker. He crashed into his wife and they fell like skittles, toppling downwards through the bleachers seating. The crowd surged around them, heads of state staggering away from the madness with horrified faces.

  The world hung on freeze-frame, fractions of a second frozen in time.

  The flash and the heat came first, a burn so bright and powerful, it cut through the crowd like a scything whirlwind. Wrapped almost seamlessly inside this blast of fire came the thundering power of a high-explosive detonation. Shrapnel rained—cutting, slicing, eviscerating.

  The shocked seconds passed like hours.

  The pallbearers lay silent. The torn crowd scattered to the soil.

  In the smoking aftermath, death and carnage lay everywhere.

  02

  Hotel Al Muntaha, Jumeirah Beach, Dubai

  General Faz Huq, head of the Pakistani Inter Services Intelligence Agency was scared, more so than he had ever been. Beneath the silk robe he was naked and vulnerable, his corpulent flesh barely concealed by the flimsy fabric. His face meanwhile, burned with shame, that he should be compromised in such a horrible and embarrassing way. It was a callous trick, of course. He had been deceived like the vainest of fools and now he was a prisoner to the consequences of his own weakness. His belief in the omnipotence of the Prophet was unshakable. But his desire for the flesh of the very young had once again left him vulnerable to the caprices of misfortune.

  The mirrored elevator rose silently, the walls reflecting the general’s shame as the men with guns stared cold and inscrutable without comment. The general’s lips quivered. He didn’t feel well. His stomach roiled, his head pounded, and the heavy stink of booze and fear oozed from every pore in his body. What a fool he had been to be so deceived, tricked into place of weakness by a compulsion to indulge in the pleasures of soft-flesh and high living. He tugged down on the edge of the robe, it was so short and flimsy that the fabric barely covered his genitals, but as he tugged downwards, the tiny robe suddenly gaped open from above, exposing his flabby hirsuteness for all to see. He felt eyes staring the thin, pale faces silent and judgmental. “I am a very important man,” croaked the general, his eyes flicking desperately, from face to inscrutable face. “Your superiors will hear of this and you will be most sorry, of that I can assure you.” The general’s mouth was dry and stale. He needed a cigarette, he needed a drink, he needed… He took a dry swallow, as the nausea and fear rose up through his stomach—he felt as though he would surely collapse.

  The elevator stopped with a bump, and a slow, excruciating silence washed over him. This was intolerable, quite intolerable. How could they treat him like this?

  Then the doors hissed open. He wished they hadn’t.

  The light hit him hard, the desert heat enveloping, like a blast furnace.

  He shrank back, but firm hands forced him forwards with unconscionable roughness. The general felt his knees buckle, and he staggered forward into the hellish light. The roof—they were on the roof. The general blinked, his agonized mind absorbing the full horror of the broiling humidity. He blinked again, hardly believing what his mind was telling him—a group of executives in smartly tailored suits gathered at the far side of the roof, watching a man in golf clothes tee off with a sharp resolute stroke. The sound of the golf club striking the ball cut through the humidity and was met by an enthusiastic ripple of applause from the assembled crowd.

  Feeling the surface of the hot, abrasive rooftop burning into his hands and knees the general gathered what little dignity he had left, and began scrabbling forward, so that he might raise himself up. But a sharp leather-booted kick to his rear kept him on his hands and knees. He received another kick, then a third. The general needed no further encouragement. He scurried forward on his hands and knees, moving like a cockroach on a kitchen hotplate. By the time he reached the golfer and his companions, the general’s hands and knees were raw, his corpulent body oozing with exertion. He was panting now, sucking deep unsteady breaths, as though he was about to have a cardiac arrest.

  Zhàn Tao looked out over the sparkling, crystalline waters of the Persian Gulf and addressed his shot. He rotated his shoulders precisely into the backswing, taking care to use his body to power the shot, rather than his arms. He paused momentarily, hinging into the stroke, with his right elbow tight into the downswing. It was a perfect stroke. The ball rode high over the cloudless ocean. Zhàn Tao moved through the shot with effortless grace, keeping his hands low and back leg bent on the follow through. The ball floated for an eternity, before disappearing into the seamless blue water. Enthusiastic applause sounded out once again. Tao paused momentarily; handed the driver to his caddy, then and only then, did he turn and survey the cowering figure of the general.

  Tao tilted his head to the side and pursed his lips with disapproval. “Despite your reassurances to the contrary, you have failed me General Huq and that displeases me greatly.” The words came calm, almost pleasantly. Zhàn Tao adjusted his white golf gloves then looked again at the hairy, whimpering figure
prostrated at his feet. “Well, have you anything to say for yourself?”

  General Faz Huq raised his head and squinted into the sun, his eyes burning as the merciless desert heat cut into him. “Failed you, how Excellency? You know that I am driven to obey your every command. If I have displeased you in some way please accept my humble apologies…but tell me how, I beg of you.”

  Zhàn Tao clicked his tongue with disapproval. “We are over two hundred floors from the ground—over a mile high—twice the height of all other buildings on the gulf coast. It is thus by design, so that the Arab world might gaze in awe at the omnipotence of their new masters and be reminded every day of the ascendancy of the new China. The time of oil is past, while the Europeans and Americans have been defeated by the hegemony of Islam, and yet my dear General, as we move into this great new Humanistian future, I am cursed by your incompetence.

  General Faz Huq’s eyes strained against the burning sunlight. He opened his mouth to comment, but Zhàn Tao held up a hand to silence him. “As a young man, my father would take my brother and I hiking at dawn, along the granite peaks of the Huangshan mountains—an ordeal that brought a special terror—as not only are the mountain trails of the Huangshan precipitous, they are also haunted by the spirit of the Great Yellow Emperor Huang Di, a leader, renowned for his cultivation of moral character. It is said that he discovered the secret of immortality in the mountains, and in so doing gave them his name.”

  “The wise company of your father must have given you much comfort,” blurted the general.

  “Not really. When we reached the top of the mountain, he would bind my brother and I, then take out his bamboo cane and beat us until we bled, in the hope that the spirit of the Great Yellow Emperor would enter into us—At first I did not understand such cruelty, but as the years passed, I realized that my father was quite right to bestow such wise and valuable teaching. He gave me the gift of strong moral character and a name that will remain immortal down the ages.”