Beijing
China
The military had closed the road to cars but pedestrians were being allowed to pass freely through the barricades.
The angry crowd had grown to over ten thousand people and Randi Russell was pretty sure that she’d collided with at least half of them. The wind direction changed and the familiar smog was reinforced by the smoke from a series of burning Japanese flags. The spike heels she was wearing weren’t exactly her first choice for massive political demonstrations, but she still managed to avoid getting run over by a pedal-powered food cart before finding some relatively clear sidewalk to the north.
Protests like this were breaking out all over China, driven by social media posts that were being selectively ignored by the government censors who spent their lives eradicating any hint of dissent from the Internet.
Of course the requisite soldiers had still been sent. There was no way the corrupt old men who ran China would let a gathering this size develop without the presence of the military. As long as the anger was aimed at their neighbor to the east, though, there would be no interference. In fact, a few soldiers had joined in and were shouting anti-Japanese slogans with at least as much gusto as the civilians around them. The difference was that instead of pumping their fists in the air, they were pumping rifles. It was an image that even Randi found disturbing. This situation had been heading nowhere good for a long time, and now the recent Senkaku standoff had combined with the attempt on Masao Takahashi’s life to fan the flame. It was time for the politicians on both sides to dump a bucket of cold water on this thing—but she doubted that would happen anytime soon. There was nothing like a little xenophobic paranoia to keep the rabble motivated.
She skirted a banner with a Photoshop-generated picture of Takahashi’s corpse and made a beeline for a high-rise condo building across the street.
A security guard nervously watching the demonstration through glass doors let her in and then quickly locked them inside. The shouts and bullhorn-amplified diatribes subsided a bit, but enough still penetrated to stave off any illusion of calm or normalcy.
Two more security guards admired her as she teetered toward their desk, digging a lipstick from the huge leather bag on her arm.
“Hey, y’all,” she said, further reddening already garish lips. “I’m here to visit Li Wong.”
She purposely mangled the pronunciation of Kaito Yoshima’s Chinese name, but the guards just smiled. His passion for Western blondes would be well-known to them.
They told her in Chinese to go up and she squinted at them, affecting a deep expression of concentration. That got another grin from the men and they just motioned toward the back of the lobby.
“You’re sweethearts,” she said, starting toward the elevators. “Have a terrific day, now!”
She could feel them staring but who could blame them? She’d gone all out with the miniskirt—glittery silver and short enough that it took all her discipline not to keep tugging it down. The look was completed by huge silver hoop earrings and a vest made of a fur she couldn’t identify. Considering the market she’d bought it at, rat was her best guess.
Randi watched the numbers light up as she rode to the top floor, grateful that no one else got on. Though she’d been blessed with the body and face for it, she found this persona exhausting. The hijab disguise had made her lazy.
When the doors opened, no one was in sight. There were only four condos on this floor, keeping traffic to a minimum. Of course there were cameras and she had no doubt the guards were watching, probably entertaining themselves with graphic speculation about what Yoshima’s evening with this particular blonde would involve. She guessed that their imaginations were probably a lot less interesting than what reality would hold.
Randi dug in her bag for a key card and then pulled out her cell phone, pretending to pick up a call as she shoved the key into the lock. She feigned annoyance and bent over to examine the doorknob, presenting what she calculated would be a fair amount of the white thong she’d purchased for that very purpose.
It would keep the men’s attention away from the thin wire connecting her phone to the key card and the fact that it was taking the algorithm longer than normal to find the entry code. Leave it to Yoshima to upgrade his damn security.
After an excruciating ten seconds, the red light on the door flickered to green.
“Show’s over,” she said under her breath as she straightened up and stepped into the dark condo.
Her heart rate rose noticeably when she slid the silenced Glock from her purse and pushed the door quietly closed with her back.
She’d run into Yoshima on a number of occasions but they’d never had any reason to go at it. He was a bit of an odd guy—a unique combination of intellectual, philosophical, and ridiculously dangerous. She imagined that it was the result of him being forced into the spy business as a child as opposed to choosing the profession himself. It was a background that could create personalities pretty far from the norm. She had a pretty good nose for people in her business and even she would have probably pegged him as a history professor or engineer if they happened to meet in a bar.
There was no sound at all and the place had the smell of having been closed up for a while. After almost a minute of complete motionlessness, she felt along the wall for a light switch. A moment later the expansive room was illuminated in a subdued glow.
The Chinese clearly compensated their covert operatives better than the Americans. The decor was a vague take on ancient Rome but managed to avoid kitsch. The art tended more toward the modern and looked original to her eye. Sofas were unblemished leather, and the crystal lined up on the bar looked like high-end Czech. The thing that jumped out, though, wasn’t what was there but what was missing. There wasn’t so much as a hint of anything Asian.
She kept the gun in her hand as she crossed the living room, turning down a hallway and heading for a small study that she knew was there from his CIA file. It was a little messier and more personal than the rest of the space, and she leafed disinterestedly through the papers lying on the desk. There was a laptop too, but she didn’t bother to turn it on. There wouldn’t be anything of interest on it.
Finally she turned her attention to a photograph of Yoshima and what she guessed was his mother. There was no denying that he was a good-looking guy. Beneath glasses his file said he didn’t need were eyes that always seemed to be looking at something he couldn’t quite fathom. A thin scar running along his left cheek gave his delicate features a certain ruggedness. If she recalled correctly, the man who gave it to him hadn’t lived long enough to see it bleed.
Yoshima had an undergraduate degree in physics that he’d gotten by going to school between missions. No one at the CIA had ever figured out why he’d bothered, but having met him a few times Randi suspected it was out of simple interest in the subject.
And that brought her to an interesting hypothesis: If China needed someone to mess with a Japanese nuclear plant, who could possibly be more perfect for the mission than Kaito Yoshima?
She wandered out of the study and into his bedroom, giving it a cursory search before peeking into the bathroom to admire a travertine shower that could have fit ten people comfortably.
The truth was that she felt a little sorry for Yoshima. He’d been torn from his family, brought up in a brutal government facility, and now regularly risked his life for a country where his Japanese features made him the target of racism, suspicion, and even hate. No wonder he liked Western blondes. They just saw Asian. Ninety-nine percent of them wouldn’t be able to tell Chinese from Japanese if you put a gun to their hair spray–encrusted heads.
She wandered back out into the living room, finding another photo of him. In this one, he was with a group of laughing people outside a bar. His smile wasn’t entirely convincing, and the eyes seemed to look right through the camera.
The agency’s analysts pegged him as clinically depressed, and based on her experience they were probably right. It was one of the things that made him such a dangerous opponent. He genuinely didn’t seem to care if he lived or died.
Randi considered riffling though a few more drawers and shelves, but then decided against it. That wasn’t why she was here.
She was here to send a message.