Without a word, the policemen at the gate stepped aside and let their captain through. Xi Keqiang had been a creature of habit who’d always walked the length of the dam every morning, so now Module 96 did the same. On his left was the enormous reservoir created when the Three Gorges Dam was built. On his right was the 175-meter drop to the spillway and the lower stretch of the Yangtze River. Supreme Harmony had thoroughly researched the dam’s engineering details—the 16 million cubic meters of concrete, the 500,000 tons of steel, the thirty-two turbines that generated 20 billion watts of electricity—and in the process it had learned about the structure’s weaknesses, particularly its vulnerability to a terrorist attack. Because the builders had used inferior concrete in certain sections of the dam, a series of explosions—strategically placed and timed—could cause a breach. A wall of water, trillions of gallons, would pour from the reservoir into the Yangtze Valley, drowning millions of people in the floodplain. The potential for disaster was so great that the government had taken extraordinary measures to prevent it. Under Captain Xi’s command were five hundred men who guarded every road leading to the dam. But the attack planned by Supreme Harmony wouldn’t come by road.
Module 96 walked briskly along the top of the dam. He passed the huge winches that dangled chains into the shafts that went down to the dam’s control gates. Six hours ago, while it was still dark, Module 92 and three others had placed explosive charges within these shafts. But the first and biggest explosion would be triggered several hundred meters away, at the northern end of the dam. As Module 96 walked toward this point, he focused his ocular cameras on a concrete tower attached to the dam’s eastern face. This was the ship lift, an elevator for small and medium-size boats. Ships coming from the reservoir entered a huge steel bathtub, filled with 10,000 tons of water, which was lowered down the side of the dam by a system of rope pulleys and counterweights. The ship lift had been built for the benefit of the tourist-laden cruise boats, allowing them to avoid the delay of navigating the canal that went around the dam. But the convenience came at a price. When a ship moved from the reservoir to the lift, it passed through a U-shaped notch in the dam, a deep crenellation. And a powerful explosion at this crucial point could rock the entire structure.
The sun was rising, but it couldn’t break through the mist. The natural haze was thickened by the particles of soot that were emitted so copiously in this part of central China. Module 96 grasped the binoculars hanging from his neck and surveyed the vast reservoir to the west. In the foreground were several Yangtze River freighters, each bearing a mountainous load of coal, and behind them was the
China Explorer
, a 2,000-ton cruise boat that was currently empty of passengers and guided by a crew consisting of half-a-dozen Modules. The boat had left Badong three hours ago after being loaded with the dynamite from the Yunnan Operations Center, and now Supreme Harmony was steering it toward the ship lift. A patrol craft would soon rendezvous with the cruise boat, and two inspectors under Captain Xi’s command would board the vessel to search for hazardous materials. But the network had incorporated those inspectors as well, so they wouldn’t report the sixty tons of dynamite stored on the boat’s starboard side.
Although the
China Explorer
was filled with the chemicals of destruction, Supreme Harmony preferred to think of it as a vessel of renewal. It would cleanse the garden that had been sullied by mankind, making the earth ready for a new planting.
* * *
Fifteen thousand kilometers to the east, on the other side of the globe, Supreme Harmony observed the Chinese embassy in Washington, D.C. Thanks to favorable winds over the ocean and light traffic on the highway out of Dulles Airport, Modules 56 and 57 arrived ahead of schedule at the embassy compound near Connecticut Avenue. It was a modern building with off-white limestone walls. Although office hours were long over—the local time was 9:15
P.M.
, twelve hours behind China standard time—the embassy guards rolled back the gate for the limousine, which proceeded to the entrance. The Modules stepped out of the car and walked into a high-ceilinged lobby, each carrying a heavy suitcase.
The guards dutifully escorted them to the corner office occupied by Yang Feng, chief of the Guoanbu’s Washington station. His office had a well-polished conference table and an ornate, antique desk, behind which stood Agent Yang himself, who wore wire-frame glasses and a pin-striped suit. Supreme Harmony was well aware of Yang’s reputation. He was one of the most celebrated spies in the history of the People’s Republic. Over the past twenty years Yang had stolen hundreds of technological secrets from U.S. corporations in the defense and computer industries. In fact, Supreme Harmony owed its very existence to this man. It was Yang who’d made the surveillance network possible by infiltrating the American labs that did the initial research on cyborg insects.
The embassy guards closed the doors to the office, leaving Yang alone with his visitors from the Guoanbu headquarters. He smiled broadly, confidently, obviously afraid of nothing. Supreme Harmony took careful note of his expression, memorizing it for future use.
“Welcome to the United States,” Yang said. “Did you have a good flight?”
Module 56 nodded. He set down his heavy suitcase, which contained several kilograms of communications equipment. Module 57 set down his suitcase as well and stood to the left of Yang’s desk.
Yang looked curiously for a moment at the baseball caps the Modules wore. Then he gave them another serene smile. “Minister Deng informed me that you’d be coming tonight. He said you’d have a new assignment for me?”
Module 56 nodded again. “Yes. You’re going to request a series of private meetings. First with the Chinese ambassador to the U.S. And then with several of your counterparts in the American intelligence agencies.”
“Very interesting.” Yang’s eyes darted sideways, glancing at Module 57, who’d opened his suitcase and removed a black pouch. “And what will be the subject of these meetings?”
“Within the next few hours a crisis will erupt in the People’s Republic. We want you to monitor the American response.”
Yang stopped smiling. “What kind of crisis?”
Module 56 didn’t answer right away. He waited until Module 57 unzipped the black pouch. Then he reached into the outside pocket of his suitcase, as if to pull out a document or folder. Instead, he removed a Heckler & Koch semiautomatic pistol. The limousine driver, acting under Minister Deng’s orders, had given the gun to Module 56, who now leveled it at Yang. “You’ll learn the details as soon as we perform the implantation. Please step toward the conference table.”
Yang lunged for his desk drawer, where another gun was most likely hidden. But before he could open it, Module 57 jabbed the syringe into his arm.
FIFTY-TWO
Layla was awakened from deep sleep by a kick to her rear. At first she just stared groggily at the uniformed man looming over her. Then she remembered where she was and jumped to her feet, tightening the belt of her hospital gown. A second soldier kicked Wen Hao, who lay on the other side of the room, closer to the pair of schoolboys from Lijiang. Wen also jumped to his feet and stepped between the soldier and the boys, who continued to sleep soundly, huddled against each other. A third Module stood by the door, pointing a 9 mm pistol at Layla. This was the Module in the lab coat, the one who used to be Dr. Zhang Jintao. “It’s time,” he said, his face expressionless. “Please put on your slippers. We’re taking you and the children to the operating room.”
She was confused. The Modules were too early. “It can’t be noon yet. I thought you said you’d come at noon.”
Dr. Zhang nodded. “You’re correct. It’s nine thirty-one
A.M.
The shipment of neural implants arrived earlier than expected.”
She felt a jolt of panic. She’d hoped she and Wen would have a chance to rehearse their plans one more time. They’d just have to wing it. “Don’t do this to the boys,” she pleaded. “I don’t know what kind of moral rules you’re operating under, but surely you have to see that—”
“There’s nothing immoral about incorporation. This is the way Supreme Harmony was created. We couldn’t exist without it.” Zhang narrowed his eyes, staring at Layla over the barrel of his gun. Then he turned to Wen Hao and barked an order in Mandarin.
Wen, still playing the role of the obedient clerical assistant, knelt beside the children and gently nudged them awake. He whispered something in their ears, and they sat up, gazing sleepily at the two soldier Modules. Then both boys started to cry.
Zhang frowned. The soldier Modules also frowned, their faces contorting clumsily. Zhang barked another order, and Wen whispered something else to the children. But instead of consoling them, his words had the opposite effect. Their sobs turned to full-throated wails.
Wincing, the soldier Modules backed away from the children. Zhang stepped toward Wen and let loose a Mandarin tirade, most likely a string of curses culled from the long-term memories of the PLA soldiers. But Wen just shrugged and held up his hands in the universal gesture of helplessness.
The boys howled. Layla didn’t know exactly what Wen had whispered to them, but it did the trick. Their faces glistened with tears, and their cries echoed relentlessly against the concrete walls. The soldier Modules took another step backward. Zhang, still cursing, cocked his pistol and pointed it at Wen’s forehead.
Layla held her breath. This was the trickiest part of their plan, the riskiest moment. Wen scowled at Zhang, then picked up the younger of the two schoolboys, the doll-like nine-year-old. Holding the screaming child by the waist, Wen strode toward Zhang and thrust the boy at him, as if to say, “Here,
you
try talking to him.” Zhang jerked backward, lowering his gun. At the same moment, Wen threw the child at Zhang’s chest and grabbed the hand that held the pistol.
Wen moved so swiftly that Layla’s eyes could barely follow him. Wrapping both his hands around Zhang’s, he slipped his index finger between the gun’s trigger guard and the Module’s finger. In one fluid motion he yanked Zhang’s arm to the left and fired the pistol at one of the soldier Modules. Then, without pausing, he swung Zhang’s arm toward the second soldier and pulled the trigger again.
Both Modules tumbled backward, blood pumping from their heads. Zhang went rigid and let out a scream of shock and pain.
Wen tried to wrest the gun from the Module’s hand, but Zhang’s fingers locked tightly around the handle. They struggled for the pistol, and one of them pulled the trigger again. The bullet ripped into the concrete wall near the schoolboys. Both of the boys cowered on the floor with their hands over their ears, paralyzed with terror. Layla shouted, “Get out of the way!” and pointed at the far corner of the room, but neither boy seemed to hear her. Then she raced barefoot across the room to the pair of soldier Modules, who’d collapsed within a few feet of each other.
Averting her eyes from the spreading pools of blood, she bent over the nearest soldier and removed the pistol from his belt holster. She cocked the gun, chambering the bullet just as Wen had instructed. Then she ran back to where Wen and Zhang were grappling. Although the Module was at least ten years older than Wen, he was in good shape. Keeping his grip on the gun with one hand, Zhang bent his other arm and drove his elbow toward Wen’s jaw. Wen managed to deflect the blow and hold on to Zhang’s gun hand, but then the Module slammed his knee into Wen’s stomach.
Shit,
Layla thought,
the bastard knows how to fight
. But she shouldn’t have been surprised. The goddamn network could access the skills of all the soldiers and agents it had incorporated.
She raised the pistol and tried to aim at Zhang’s head, but he and Wen were close together and in constant motion, furiously trading blows. She couldn’t get a clear shot. When she tried to move closer, Zhang twisted away, putting Wen’s body between himself and the pistol. Wen’s head drooped as he wrestled with the Module. He was losing strength. He wouldn’t last much longer.
And then, all at once, Layla realized her mistake. She turned away from the grappling men and fired at the surveillance cameras, first obliterating the one behind her and then the one hanging from the opposite corner of the ceiling. Then she ducked behind Wen so Zhang couldn’t see her. Now the network didn’t know where she was and couldn’t predict her next move. Charging forward, she remembered what Supreme Harmony had told her:
Dr. Zhang Jintao no longer exists. His emotions no longer exist.
So she didn’t hesitate after she popped up beside the Module and pressed the muzzle of her gun to his forehead. She just pulled the trigger.
But afterward—after the gun went off and Zhang’s head jerked to the side and his blood and brains sprayed across the floor—Layla felt sick.
He still looks human,
she thought as the Module dropped to the floor.
He still looks human.
Her ears rang from the gunshot. Wen was calling her name, but she could barely hear him. Finally, he stepped in front of her and looked her in the eye. “Layla!” he shouted. “We have to go. To the computer room. Remember?”
The boys from Lijiang stood beside him, their fingers gripping his belt. They swayed on the balls of their feet, dazed. Layla looked at them for a moment, then nodded. Then Wen took her arm and pulled her toward the door.
FIFTY-THREE
Kirsten was immersed in a half-dream, shallow and vaporous. Boulders rolled inside her skull, following the contours of her cranium. One of them rolled behind her eyes and she felt a sharp, familiar pain. She’d felt it once before, in the embassy in Nairobi, in the moments after the bomb exploded. And now, after fifteen years, she felt it again. She clutched the memory as if it were a lifeline. Although the pain was almost unbearable, it pulled her out of the half-dream and into the clear air of consciousness.
But when she opened her eyes she saw only darkness. She was blind again. They’d taken her glasses! Panicking, she thought of the image she’d seen on Arvin’s flash drive, the room full of lobotomized men lying faceup on their gurneys. Now she was also in that room, she was sure of it. She was lying beside the others, another twitching body ready to be connected to Supreme Harmony. Terrified and enraged, she yelled,
“No!”
into the darkness and bolted upright, kicking and thrashing. But a moment later she heard Jim say, “Whoa! Settle down!” and felt the unmistakable weight of his prosthetic hand on her shoulder.