A shadow crossed his face, eclipsing the sun. He felt a hand settle gently against the back of his head, and then a pair of lips met his. The kiss was slow and lingering and bespoke the simmering passion of a woman for the love of her life.
“Are you going to float here all day?” she asked, her lips still close to his, her voice melodic and familiar.
“Maybe.”
She laughed and kissed him again before pulling away, wading toward shore. Nolan allowed his legs to sink and his feet landed on a firm bed of smooth sand. He stood and found himself chest-deep in a placid lake, the sun at its midsummer zenith high overhead, and before him the soft curves of rolling dunes along the Lake Michigan shore.
Like Venus, Kelsey slowly emerged from the lake. Nolan stood speechless, watching his wife rise from the water leaving no ripple in
her wake. Her long blonde mane dangled between her shoulder blades in a taut French braid. A sheen of water glistened on her tan, slender form, and Nolan smiled when he recognized the brightly colored bikini she had bought for their honeymoon.
Nolan didn't see anyone else but sensed they were not alone. He watched as Kelsey moved up the beach toward a large umbrella that shaded an old beach quilt she had loved since childhood. Something stirred in the shadow, and Kelsey bent down and gently lifted what he knew was their infant son. When she turned toward him, a naked Toby nuzzled contentedly against her breast.
His heart ached at the sceneâthe future he dreamed of and lost was so tantalizingly closeâyet all his desire could not will himself toward shore.
“You know you have to go back,” Kelsey said in that tone she used to lovingly cajole him out of bed in the morning.
“I can't lose you both again.”
“Nolan, you never lost us. Toby and I are home. And we will be here for you when the time comes. Don't stop swimming, my love. Keep swimming.”
Keep swimming?
Nolan tried to move his arms and legs but they were leaden. An icy current pulled him away from shore, and the light faded to total blackness.
63
When he heard the gunshot, Peng raced back across the rocky shore in Liu's direction. He arrived as Liu cursed a final epithet in Kilkenny's ear before plunging his captive's head beneath the water's surface. Peng planted his feet, took aim with a steady, two-handed grip, and fired.
Blood and bone exploded from Liu's left elbow, the entire joint disintegrating as two nine-millimeter rounds hammered home. Instinctively, Liu pulled his damaged arm against his chest, releasing his hold on Kilkenny's head. He glared in the direction of the shots and saw Peng.
“You fool! What are you doing?” Liu howled.
“Ending this insanity,” Peng replied calmly.
With images of the tortured family in Chifeng seared into his memory, Peng fired until the pistol was empty. Wounds blossomed on Liu's forehead and chest as Peng tightly clustered his shots for lethality. Liu toppled into the water, dead.
Peng holstered his pistol as he raced toward the two lifeless forms floating in the shallow water. He lifted Liu's body off Kilkenny's back and pushed it out into deeper water. Kilkenny remained beneath the surface. Straddling Kilkenny's legs, Peng reached down into the water, wrapped his arms around Kilkenny's abdomen, and quickly pulled him from the lake.
Kilkenny's body folded across Peng's forearms, head and shoulders dangling down at the knees but clear of the water. Leaning back with legs bent, braced to support the sodden dead weight, Peng struggled back to shore. With each careful step, he sharply tightened his grip around Kilkenny's abdomen. Briny water drained from Kilkenny's mouth and nose, gouts at first, then only dribbles when Peng finally wrestled Kilkenny to shore.
Peng carefully laid Kilkenny on the relatively smooth patch of the gravely shore and, recalling his training, tilted Kilkenny's head back and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Cleared of water, Kilkenny's chest rose. Peng pulled his mouth away to let Kilkenny's lungs deflate and to see if natural breathing would resume.
Nothing.
Peng checked Kilkenny's neck and found a thready pulse. He repeated the cycle of artificial breathing, and on the third round Kilkenny sputtered and coughed.
“Easy, my friend,” Peng said reassuringly.
He gently rolled Kilkenny onto his side, the stricken man's breathing now coming in stolen gasps as he fought the spasms of a violent coughing jag. When his breathing finally settled into a normal rhythm, Kilkenny rolled onto his back, exhausted.
“Open your eyes,” Peng said.
Kilkenny tried to focus. Peng's voice seemed distant and disconnected.
“Can you hear me?” Peng asked. “Open your eyes.”
Kilkenny's eyelids fluttered, struggling to open. They felt gritty and raw. The light burned, too bright. He kept blinking, trying to focus.
“That's it. You must try to stay awake. How do you feel?”
His mouth was parched and his throat sore, and his various injuries were now reasserting themselves into his consciousness.
“Shot?” he croaked, his voice raspy.
Peng quickly surveyed Kilkenny and saw numerous wounds of varying severity. Kilkenny winced when Peng extracted a small ceramic shard protruding from a section of Kilkenny's body armor.
“Yes, you were shot. And stabbed, and apparently punctured by many tiny blades.” Peng laughed. “You are like Wile E. Coyote.”
Kilkenny laughed too. It hurt. “If Murphy's Laws are religion, I must be a saint.”
“What?”
“A line from an old Tom Smith songâit's about Wile E.”
“Oh, a joke. Good. I think you'll live.”
Kilkenny's eyes began to clear. He lifted his head a little, felt dizzy,
and laid back down facing the lake. A dark form floated in the placid water, the body of a man.
“What happened?” Kilkenny asked.
“There was a fight.”
“And I lost,” Kilkenny offered, the details hazy but growing clearer. “I drowned.”
“Liu was killing you when I arrived.”
Kilkenny turned toward the man, the voice sounding familiar, and dug into his memories. “Peng?”
Peng nodded.
“You saved me?”
“My weapon simply went off,” Peng explained with a faint smile. “It happened once before, on Kiritimati. You called it an accidental discharge. I guess I should have it repaired.”
“I think it works just fine. Why did you kill him?”
“Honor.”
“Yours?”
Peng nodded. “And my country's. Last year, you unmasked a murderer and returned to us our lost heroes. You restored honor to China. To allow you to die at the hands of that
monster
âthat is not the China I believe in.”
“But now I've broken more of your country's laws than I care to count.”
“Why?”
Kilkenny closed his eyes and thought about all that had happened, everything that had brought him to this moment. “Faith.”
“Yours?” Peng asked.
“And Yin's,” Kilkenny said. “He deserved to be free.”
“I know. My parents and grandparents also shared your faith.”
“Not you?”
“I was very young when my parents were taken away. Their faith did not save them. Or at least that was what I believed until now.”
“Do you remember anything?” Kilkenny asked
“Bits of stories whispered at night. And baijiu.”
“Baijiu?”
“A potent drink that I've never really liked. Most rural villages
brew their own. I remember a man coming to my family's home. There would be prayers, and the man would tell some of the same stories my parents whispered to me. Then he would serve bits of bread and baijiu. I haven't thought about this in years,” Peng said, “not since my parents were arrested. Not until I became involved in this matter.”
The dull thump of helicopter blades beating the air echoed off the rocky terrain around them, and slowly the sound grew louder.
“Don't suppose you could drop me off somewhere on the other side of the border?”
“If it were up to me,” Peng replied, but didn't finish the thought. “For the moment, you are my prisoner. You will receive medical attention, but what happens afterward I cannot say.”
“Well, at least I'll be healthy enough to be executed.”
64
LADAKH, INDIA
Four hours had passed since the
Windrider
glided away from the eastern shore of Bangong Co, and in that time the sleek craft quietly sailed over a hundred kilometers, across one international border, and through a sliver of disputed territory. The winds had remained steady throughout the voyage, and once the travelers were well inside the Indian-controlled portion of the lake, the fog finally lifted to reveal the glacier-clad Pangong Mountains to the south and the Changchenmo range to the north.
The sun hung high overhead as Gates steered a northwesterly course toward the far end of the lake. The
Windrider
raced over the water, its twin sails capturing enough wind to pull the hulls out of the water atop a trio of T-shaped aluminum hydrofoils. The ride was smooth and fast.
“My God, this is beautiful,” Gates said, awestruck by their surroundings.
“He does very fine work,” Yin agreed.
“So what do you think of your first real taste of freedom?” Tao asked.
“I am savoring it,” Yin replied, “and I hope my flock in China may one day soon enjoy it in our own land.”
Gates adjusted the sails as he guided the craft into a gentle turn toward shore. Lined up for the approach and still cruising at thirty miles per hour, he released the pins locking the hydrofoils into place and the trimaran slipped down the four-foot struts to the water's surface. Gates locked the hydrofoils in the retracted position, readying the boat to
make land. The change in speed and the sound of water rushing past the hulls roused Han from a two-hour nap on the trampoline.
“We there yet?” Han asked sleepily.
“The bustling port of Spangmik is just up ahead,” Gates replied.
Spangmik consisted of a handful of small, rough structures built from local stone and concrete, most painted white. The tiny hamlet was among a handful of villages dotting the southern shore of the lake that were summer homes for a small group of Chang-pa, the nomadic herders of Tibet and southeast Ladakh. This late in the season, the Chang-pa had moved on to their winter pastures, leaving only a small detachment of the Indian army in Spangmik to protect the border.
Gates let out the sail, and the
Windrider
slowed. Compared with the dash down the long alpine lake, they covered the final yards in a crawl. As the boat neared shore, several people emerged from one of the buildings and rushed to the edge of the lake.
“We got company,” Han said.
“Welcoming committee,” Gates said confidently, his attention on reefing the sails. “Bet Nolan has already charmed these nice people, and there's a hot pot of chicken vindaloo just waiting for us.”
“Max,” Tao said, “they don't look all that happy to see us.”
Gates looked toward shore and saw the reception party was armed and training their weapons on the trimiran.
“I don't suppose you speak any of the local dialects, Padre,” Gates asked Yin.
“I learned a few phrases from an Indian friend when I was a young man. Sadly, it has been many years since I had need of them.”
“Well, I'd really appreciate it if you'd tickle a few of those old memory cells, just in case,” Gates said. “Everybody else, just keep your hands where these nice folks can see 'em and hope nobody's got an itchy trigger finger.”
The soldiers closed in as the
Windrider
's bow touched shore and surrounded the craft. The leader of the group, an army captain with a thick black beard and mustache and a Sikh turban, yelled an incomprehensible order at them, but his hand motions clearly expressed his intent. They were to get out of the boat. Tao and Han were the first
ashore, followed by Yin and then Gates. Several soldiers lifted the
Windrider
out of the water and carried it away from the water's edge.
The captain issued another order, this time without gesticulating.
“Padre, any idea what he wants?” Gates asked.
“I believe he wishes us to remove our hats,” Yin replied.
Gates pointed at his helmet, then motioned as if he was to lift it off. The captain nodded. He scowled at Han, Tao, and Yin when he saw their faces, but seemed genuinely surprised after Gates doffed his helmet.
“English?” the captain asked in a tone as much London as Punjab.
“American, actually,” Gates replied. “Same with two of my associates. The third's situation is a bit more complicated.”
“That's a relief. Dressed as you are, we thought you might be scouts for the Chinese army.”
“You haven't seen another American dressed like this?”
“No, ought I have?”
“We kinda thought he'd be here by now.”
“Sorry, no sign of him here. Papers?”
“We have none,” Gates admitted. “We sort of left the People's Republic in a bit of a hurry. You're welcome to search us and our boatâwe're not carrying any contraband. In fact, we're carrying only what we have on. I'm sure a few phone calls will clear this whole thing up.”
Just then a young enlisted man rushed down from the outpost. He ran up to the captain and snapped to attention with a crisp textbook salute.
“At ease,” the captain said as he returned the salute.
“Communiqué from Delhi, sir.”