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Overview
“I need your support. There is no one else I can trust. Please help her. Please help our daughter.”
When ex-Marine Jack Ford receives a letter containing news of a daughter he never knew he had, he feels compelled to return to China, a country he hasn’t visited since 1989 when, as a young American spy, he fell in love with a beautiful student activist and found himself caught up in the horrors of the Tiananmen Square massacre. But why has Xia got in touch now, after a thirty-year silence?
On arrival in Beijing, Jack finds himself accidentally in possession of an explosive piece of information both the Chinese and American governments are desperate to get their hands on. Alone in a strange city, suspected of being a traitor by his own side, not knowing whom to trust, Jack is faced with an impossible dilemma: should he save his new-found daughter or prevent a new world war from breaking out?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780727892614 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House |
| Publication date: | 05/26/2020 |
| Edition description: | Large Print |
| Pages: | 416 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.55(w) x 8.74(h) x (d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Jack Ford woke up and flinched as the shafts of morning light stabbed right through his pupils. He felt like that old Greek guy – what was his name? – who'd put out both his eyes because he didn't want to witness the consequences of his own deeds.
'Oedipus,' he muttered, rolling his legs off the sofa. He propped himself up with an elbow until he was half way sitting up. 'Oedipus Rex.'
He shut his eyes against the glare and found himself back in the desert; Afghan red dust clogging his nostrils, the sun so bright it was like a weapon in the hands of the Taliban. He remembered young Private Whiteside sitting next to him in the armoured personnel carrier, hands clasped together, praying for deliverance from IEDs. Events after that were tattooed into his brain.
The explosion.
Being flung from the vehicle.
Complete silence. Blood trickling from his ears.
Screaming for help.
Puffs of dust from incoming fire.
Holding Whiteside down and tying tourniquets to stop the blood.
Jack took deep slow breaths until the visions receded and he was back in the present. He looked around and established that he was in his tiny Brooklyn apartment, in his own clothes, surrounded by empty bottles from the previous evening. What had he been trying to forget?
The letter.
The letter was still there, on the cigarette-scarred coffee table, tugging at the corner of his vision, like a migraine or a memory or a sniper's scope catching the light.
He reached for the nearest bottle, tipped it back, gulped and then spat the mouthful all over the front of his shirt. Shit tasted weird. He held the bottle up to the light, squinting and grimacing. Ashes. Ashes. He'd used the bottle as an ashtray. Way to go, war hero.
Jack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then rubbed his eyes with his palms. As recently as the previous afternoon he'd intended, he'd absolutely intended, to get on with the rest of his life as best he could, to look at the past only when he had no choice and then only through the bottom of a shot glass.
Until the letter.
It arrived in the post – which in itself was a surprise. When was the last time he'd received any mail other than an advert for real estate or a flyer for fast food? Usually, Jack gathered up the mail and chucked it in the trash. Anything that wasn't junk was likely to be a bill – he got around to paying those when they sent a collection agent to wait on his doorstep. But, the previous evening, protruding out of the assortment of crap, he'd noticed the letter. A real letter with those airmail marks on the envelope, a hand-printed address and a rectangle of Chinese stamps.
It was one of those moments which had fate written all over it, like when Sergeant Price stopped to pat the dog and got his head blown off in Fallujah.
Or when he'd been a young man in Beijing and met Xia for the first time.
She had smiled and asked him, 'Are you an American spy?'
He should have chucked the damned letter in the trash. He wasn't looking for trouble. Thirty years was so long ago that when he cast his mind back, it was like peering into the wrong end of a telescope. The images at the end were still as sharp as broken glass but so, so far away.
Instead, Jack opened the letter. He didn't hesitate or try and talk himself out of it. If you know you're going to end up doing something, you might as well do it right away.
It was from Xia.
I need your help, she'd written. There is no one else I can trust.
And her plea brought the past right up smack into the present; into this stinking apartment, so that it was sitting on the couch next to him like an old friend, asking why he hadn't kept in touch, where he'd been all this time.
He'd been to a lot of different places. Kosovo. Afghanistan. Iraq. But none of them, it would seem, quite far enough away.
Jack reached out, picked up the envelope again, and the photo slipped out. He stared at the studio headshot, close up, smiling. So very beautiful. He turned it over and there was an address on the back: Faculty of Law, University of Peking.
Suddenly, he was back in Beijing in 1989, around the corner from Tiananmen Square, crouched in the shadows along Chang'an Avenue. He could smell the petrol fumes and gunpowder. Xia and Peter were huddled next to him. Sweat stung his eyes and he clutched her hand, looking for courage. Cowards die many times before their deaths.
'We have to do something,' he said, his voice an urgent whisper. 'We have to save him.'
The man jumped in front of the lead tank for the third time.
Xia raised her head slightly to get a better view, peering over a temporary road divider. 'What the hell is he trying to do? He's playing chicken with a tank!'
'There's nothing we can do,' Peter said. He gripped Jack's arm. 'He's a dead man.'
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Jack Ford dragged himself back to the present with an effort that felt like pushing rocks uphill. He stared at the photo of the beautiful young woman again. Please help her, Xia had written. If you won't help me, please help our daughter.
Our daughter.
Her name is Fei Yen.
Jack reached for a vodka bottle and then hesitated. He looked at the photo again. A photo of the woman that Xia claimed was his daughter.
What's past is prologue.
He took a deep, slow breath and then shoved papers and bottles off the coffee table until he unearthed his phone. The past was calling. Maybe it was time he picked up.
'Soon you will achieve your dreams.' Yu Yan was in bed next to her husband, soon to be the most powerful man in China.
Zhu Juntao smiled. 'I could not have done it without you.'
He was in a generous mood because he too could sense that his time was at hand. He lay back against the heavy brocade bedding with the dragon motif, folded his hands under his head and stared at the ornate carved ceiling with the brass chandeliers. Even though he had not yet officially taken up his position as the Secretary General of the Communist Party (and, by implication, the next President of the People's Republic of China), his residence was fit for an emperor. He remembered the distant past when he had been a young man and an avowed communist, despising luxury as the corruption of capitalist running dogs. He would never have guessed that Party leaders lived in such opulence, and he wouldn't have approved if he had known. But times changed. People changed. It was necessary to have the trappings of power, both as a reward for the hard scramble to the top and to impress the citizens.
'Of course you couldn't have done it without me,' she said. 'It is as Mao said, women hold up half the sky.'
'Don't you go around quoting Mao. That man was a lunatic. His Great Leap Forward almost caused China to leap right back to the Stone Age.'
'The walls have ears,' she cautioned.
'You expect the Secretary General-designate of the Communist Party of China to be afraid?' He enjoyed rolling his new title around his mouth.
'I expect him to be careful, that is all.' She sat up on the bed and leaned her head against his shoulder. 'You have many enemies. The Politburo will fight your reforms every step of the way.'
He smiled but there was no humour in it. 'There are some who will support me.'
'Few speak truth to power.'
Her husband laughed. 'Some day, my dear, they will have your sayings in a Little Red Book!'
'And you will have your image in Tiananmen Square instead of ...' She stopped, unable to finish the sentence. Chairman Mao, displayed in mummified splendour within his mausoleum on Tiananmen Square, haunted his successors like Hamlet's ghost.
'What are you looking forward to the most?' Juntao asked, keen to change the subject away from Mao. He turned over in the bed and sat up, reaching for his trousers. He was a tall, angular man who looked like a law professor.
'I hope the Americans give us a state dinner,' she said as she got out of bed and began to dress. 'I would enjoy that.'
'Consider it done. I will send word that my first diplomatic engagement upon being confirmed as Premier will be to make a state visit to Washington, DC.'
He leaned back on a pillow and imagined the President of the United States waiting for him at the end of a red carpet, the image beamed around the world. He hoped the buffoon they had elected wouldn't embarrass him with one of those power handshakes that became a tug of war.
His wife tried with moderate success to zip up her silk qÍpáo. He stood and assisted her, gazing at their reflections in the long mirror. She barely came up to his shoulder. Her face had fine lines but her body was slim and youthful. The mandarin collar and pearl buttons suited her delicate features. Her hair was cut in an old-fashioned bob that framed her face. Yu Yan would be an asset by his side. He would demand and she would charm. How could they fail?
'You must wear a red qÍpáo that shows off your legs when we meet the President of the United States,' he insisted, smiling. 'Or maybe not. That old lecher might grab you ... and then I would have to start a war to avenge your honour.'
'I will have difficulty keeping him at a distance, but for the sake of world peace I will do so, my husband.'
Yu Yan sat down on the edge of the bed, knees together, back straight, and adopted a serious tone, all business now. 'Will the Politburo be happy if you go to America so early in your term?'
Juntao frowned and adjusted his spectacles, a nervous tic when he didn't like the way a conversation was going. 'You are right – they will want me to wander around the industrial belt admiring high-speed trains and factories. They are all backward isolationists.'
'Do not say such things to anyone except me,' she said. 'Someone like General Zhang would probably have you arrested for treason.'
'Zhang? He's nothing but a thug.'
'A powerful thug who has the loyalty of the People's Liberation Army,' she warned. 'You would be wise to see him as a threat. That is the way he sees you.'
'The PLA is supposed to be loyal to the Party and its leadership – that's me.'
'Don't be naive, Juntao. General Zhang made his way up through the ranks. He commands personal loyalty amongst the uniformed men.'
'That is why I need the people on my side,' he said.
'They do support you.'
Juntao walked to the window and shifted the heavy gold brocade curtain so he could look across the lakes that surrounded the Zhongnanhai complex, official residence and workplace of Chinese leaders. He smoothed down his hair with both hands and braced his shoulders.
'How do we know what the people want?' he asked. 'We never ask them for their opinion. We don't give them a vote. We just sit around in small rooms filled with cigar smoke and tell them afterwards who their next leader will be. And then we provide school children with flags so they can cheer our procession as we ride to power.'
'Sometimes we don't ask the question because we might not like the answer.'
'That is precisely why I waited so long to ask you to marry me,' said Juntao, turning away from the window and reaching for his wife. She allowed him to hold her for a moment and then stepped away and looked at him, not trying to disguise her worry.
'You plan to go ahead?' she asked.
'Of course! If I do nothing, I will go down in history as the Premier who presided over the disintegration of China.'
'Is the situation really that bad?'
'Worse. There is unrest and unhappiness everywhere in China. The people want change and they grow impatient at the snail's pace of reform.'
'What are you going to do?'
'Find a hero,' he said. 'In her hour of need, China needs a hero.'
The President of the United States of America crushed the empty can of Diet Coke and tossed it towards the bin. He missed. A few other misshapen cans on the carpet suggested both that POTUS enjoyed his Diet Coke and that his aim was rarely true. He made no attempt to clear the mess. The man at the global apex of power did not stoop to such things. POTUS looked around his Oval Office and tried to feel cheerful – nice digs when you considered it, although he personally preferred a more opulent style. But truth be told, the job was getting him down. He levered himself to his feet with the help of the Resolute desk, carved from the timbers of the ship Resolute and presented as a gift to President Hayes by Queen Victoria, and walked over to the big mirror hanging on the wall. Gilt-edged and antique, it had either belonged to one of the earlier presidents or been a gift from some foreign head of state trying to curry favour with the incumbent of the time. The President admired his reflection – the patrician nose, the wide shoulders, the carefully combed-over hair. He pulled the edges of his jacket together to try and disguise the paunch but fine tailoring could only do so much. The stomach and the watery blue irises, faded against the bloodshot whites, gave the game away. He was out of his depth.
There was a discreet knock on the door and it was pushed open by his secretary, Mrs Hibbert, built like a World War Two tank and with similar firepower. He was terrified of her. 'Mr Griffin and General Rodriguez are here to see you, sir.'
The President glanced at the diary on his desk, open to that day's page, and stifled a sigh. 'Yes,' he said. 'For my security briefing. Send them in.'
Joseph Griffin, the National Security Adviser – unkempt, with a moustache like an untrimmed hedge, spectacles so thick they looked like magnifying glasses and a spotted bow tie that verged on the ridiculous – walked in and they shook hands briefly even though they saw each other almost every other day. Secretary of Defence General Rodriguez followed and saluted smartly. The leader of the free world smiled. He liked that; the formality of the military always pleased him.
'What's happening in the big bad world?' POTUS asked, reaching into his desk and retrieving another Diet Coke.
'The North Koreans have threatened to resume nuclear testing, sir.' Griffin's tone was matter-of-fact.
'Nasty little Rocket Man. I thought he and I had a deal,' said the President of the United States.
'Yes, sir, but the North Koreans are notoriously unreliable.' General Alberto Rodriguez was in his uniform and looked the part of the old war horse that he was. His grave bearing and impeccable manners always suggested generations of breeding; no one would have guessed that he was the son of a single mother who cleaned hotel rooms to put him through school.
'Yes, but we made a deal!' insisted POTUS.
'Yes, sir,' the other men said, almost in unison.
'What can we do? Give me some options. I can't look weak.'
'I've just been debriefed by the CIA, sir, by Dominic Corke,' replied Rodriguez.
'And?'
'We still have time. According to his intel – which he rates as being of high quality – the North Koreans do not have an ICBM that can reach the continental United States.'
'How long do we have before they acquire the technology?' asked Griffin.
'Difficult to put a precise time frame on it but the estimate from the CIA is one to two years, especially if we toughen sanctions.'
'Doesn't mean they can't threaten our allies,' growled Griffin. 'What about Japan and South Korea?'
'They remain at risk,' agreed Rodriguez, 'but that was the case even with North Korea's conventional weapons.'
'It looks bad if North Korea gets the long range nukes. We don't want them to have any nukes that can hit us,' said POTUS.
He felt that Griffin and Rodriguez were making a huge effort not to glance at each other. The President hated it when these hawks in his administration treated him like an idiot.
'We need leverage against China so they cooperate with us to contain North Korea,' said Griffin.
'What about the trade war?' asked POTUS.
'It is possible that the Chinese see that as leverage over us,' said Rodriguez.
The President glared at him but could not read from his stern face whether sarcasm had been intended.
'So how do we do that? How do we pressure China?'
'Send a few warships through the Taiwan Strait; supply the Taiwanese with some weapons technology,' said Griffin, brushing down his moustache over his upper lip.
'We should just kill him.' The two subordinates stared at the President. He said, 'You know, Kim Jong-Un. We should send in a team. Like a SEAL team. Like Obama did with bin Laden.' The President's face turned red and made a sharp contrast to his straw- coloured hair. 'I could do a news conference and announce it.'
'US policy is not to assassinate the heads of state of other nations,' explained General Rodriguez, face impassive.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Beijing Conspiracy"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Shamini Flint.
Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
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