Dragon: Out of the Box (The Girl in the Box Book 37) Read online

  “You heard of the Xinjiang region? In Western China?” he asked, taking no notice of me desperately trying to get back to what I was interested in, rather than his preferred topic of discussion. “They've got literal concentration camps there. They've imprisoned an ethnic and religious minority, the Uighur Muslims. No trial. No crimes. Women and children. Listen to how bad this is.” He stopped, grabbed Hilton's chair and slid it over, plopping down on it.

  “Now you're ass-creaming her chair.”

  “What do you care?” Holloway asked. “So these Muslims – they're being imprisoned just because of their religion. Because the PRC doesn't allow religion, so they have to 're-educate' it out of them, so they can be good comrades. Worse than that, the Chinese government has started doing DNA profiles on the people they're interning. But really, they're using them for a couple things. First, to identify any of the Uighurs that might have slipped the net. And also...” Holloway looked around, like he was afraid we'd be overheard. “...They built hospitals right in that area.”

  I glanced at him. “For...treating the sick in the camps?”

  Holloway shook his head. “Everywhere else in the world, if you need an organ transplant, the wait time is a year, two years. If you take a flight to Xinjiang, though, and have an organ transplant done in the hospitals done by the camps...” His face twisted. “...The wait time is a week.”

  It took a second for the cold chills to run entirely down my arms and body and for the heebie jeebies to make me sit up and shiver. “No. No, they wouldn't–”

  “Oh, yeah,” Holloway said. “A Chinese hospital worker who got assigned there escaped. Told the whole ugly story. They harvest them alive, even conscious.”

  “That's some Third Reich level stuff right there,” I said. “That's Unit 731 shit.”

  Holloway nodded slowly. “They learned well from the Japanese. Anyway, China's got people flying in from all over the world and paying cash money straight to the government for the privilege of getting transplants.”

  I suppressed a gag. “Leave it to the Commies to raise government cash by monetizing taking people apart for their organs.”

  Holloway raised both eyebrows at once. “Amen to that, sister. Now arguably, that's the worst they've done, but it's not anywhere close to the only dirty–”

  My phone beeped. Holloway paused while I grabbed it out of my jacket and checked the text.

  Come to my office. We need to go over some things.

  It was from Bilson, apparently my new boss. Holloway took my sigh as a cue to ask what was up.

  “Chalke has lend-leased my ass to that political consultant that's always on cable news,” I said, nodding at my computer screen, where a picture of Bilson's smugly sneering face decorated the top of the write-up.

  Holloway's crow's feet turned into canyons around his eyes. “What? Why?”

  “China's a political concern,” I said, “and it's an election year.”

  Holloway let out a sigh. “Walking on eggshells, are we?”

  “That or broken glass,” I said, logging out of my computer. Hilton or Holloway probably wouldn't mess around with it if I left it open, but there was no point in giving any more people access to it than necessary. I was already being electronically surveilled through it by the Network, I was fairly certain. “Anyway, she gave him carte blanche to boss me around. Maybe you guys, too, though she wasn't explicit about it.”

  “Oh, good, I'm glad to hear I'm still nominally working for the Bureau I signed up with,” Holloway said acidly. “Because I don't remember transferring to the cheesedick school of political softbodies.”

  “Brief Hilton on this for me, willya?” I asked, swiping my coat and stowing my phone.

  “Not sure I need to, she's heading for mandated suspension. You taking the car?” Holloway asked. We only had two SUVs for three people in the office, which meant someone was always getting screwed and having to rideshare.

  I checked my watch. It was getting close to four o'clock. “I could probably take the Metro or Uber and make it faster.” I shrugged. “Up to you.”

  “Yeah, if you don't mind,” Holloway said, looking around. Once he knew Hilton wasn't lurking, he added, “Otherwise, Hilton'll ask me for a ride home and I'll get stuck with her jawing my ear off. In rush hour.”

  I watched his pitying look for a moment, then nodded. “I wouldn't wish that fate on anyone, even you, ass cream. Later.” And I bailed as he stood there just shaking his head, smiling just a little, a man well accustomed to my blatant douchebaggery by this point in our working relationship.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Bilson's offices consumed an entire floor of a good-sized building on K Street, where most of the lobbyists and political organizations nested in DC. An even dozen political PAC and consulting groups had brass name plates slid into the sign outside their door, a familiar callback to the structure of these operations that I'd learned about from Bilson himself while investigating corruption in Louisiana politics last year. I took in the names with a glance, noting that he seemed to have his fingers in a lot of pies.

  The receptionist showed me out of the lobby area with its water feature hanging on the wall, gently sluicing liquid down into a pot beneath and recirculating it back up. It was kind of cool, kind of soothing, and cost a lot of money, I would have guessed. Should it surprise me that Bilson furnished his business in opulent style?

  No, I realized after being led through a warren of corridors and stepped into his office, I should not. Every surface was filled with pictures of the man himself with every conceivable political and social influencer in DC. He and the Louisiana operative I'd met, Mitchell Werner, were cut from the exact same cloth.

  “Ah, good, you made it,” Bilson said, rising to greet me with surprising enthusiasm.

  “Well, I have a hard time refusing orders from the boss, you know,” I said. He and Chalke had some connection, and I didn't need to ruin my post-Nashville streak of playing nice by having it get back to her that I was just posing.

  “Have a seat,” Bilson said, sliding in behind his computer. I noticed he had a Post-it note taped over his camera, like any sane person in his position would. He noticed me staring and said, with that grin, “Can't be too careful.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So,” Bilson said, tapping at the keyboard for a moment, “let me start by asking you something: What do you think is your job here?”

  I looked around his office, at the incredible display of back-scratching covering the walls, and tried to discern what my answer was supposed to be. “Seems like you've got 'photographer' covered, so...public relations?”

  “Hah!” His laugh was not remotely sincere. “Good one. But seriously, guess.”

  “Based on my conversations with the director, the president, and yourself...” I put out there, a little tentatively, “...to make sure I don't blow something up that's going to cause political fallout. Like East LA.”

  He stopped typing and looked straight at me, eyebrows arched. “Wow. That was a lot more self-reflective than I would have expected. Yes, that's it exactly. We're going to steer your investigation through the minefield ahead of us. I'm going to help, not because I want to interfere, but because I want to make sure you don't blow any limbs off in your journey to justice.” His grin widened, probably because of the alliteration. He was that kind of douche. “Given your history, I'm sure you can see the wisdom in this.”

  I tried to paper over my discomfort. “Yeah. I'm fully aware that I make messes others don't want to get covered in, or have to clean up. President Harmon made it extremely clear to me after the last election how much I helped his campaign, so...I get it. My actions have effects on the wider world. Furthermore, I get this is politically sensitive. That no one wants to see me stomp on China's junk in full view of the world.”

  Bilson cringed slightly. “Yes. No...junk-stepping.”

  “Here's my concern,” I said, because this was the sort of thing Sienna Nealon would always r
aise, though generally in a more...adversarial...manner. “I'm afraid that my investigation might get compromised by the desire to play politics. If China is at the root of this, I mean.”

  “Can I be real with you?” Bilson asked, putting his elbows on his desk. The word real, in his mouth, sounded so wrong.

  “Please. Be real, yo. And spectacular. Be Teri Hatcher's boobs.” Yes, show me your authentic self, you smarmy ass.

  Bilson's smile contracted, though whether it was because he sensed the sharklike intent behind my facade or felt the boobs remark was beyond the pale, he didn't say. What he said instead was, “Let's assume for a moment that your suspicions are true about China being behind all of this.” He leaned back in his chair. “Let's say they tried to kidnap that college professor. Let's further assume you manage to collect incontrovertible evidence proving exactly that. So...what now?”

  I looked for the verbal trap. I thought I saw it, but being that it wasn't an actual trap with lethal consequences at the end, I wandered in, mostly to feed his perception that I was a moron, because that, I deemed, would do nothing but help me. “We present the evidence to a grand jury. Capture the bad guys. Blow this thing wide open.”

  “Bring the truth to light,” Bilson said in a strong voice, pumping his arm. “Enforce justice for all. And also...raise tensions with China, destroy our diplomatic and economic relations with them, resulting in the absolute crash of the American and Chinese economies, and possibly bringing us into a war with the largest standing army on the planet.” Now he smiled again, smugly. I was so sick of that face and I'd only worked with him for an hour.

  “You think that's the natural consequence of us bringing to light bad behavior on the part of the Chinese government?” I asked. “That it's so binary – trade war and actual war, diplomatic incident? No other possibilities in between?”

  “China is not big on owning up to any alleged bad behavior on their part,” Bilson said. “And alleged is all we get; it's not like there's a place to put their country's government on trial.”

  “What about the United Nations?” I asked, really trying to play the part of being naive about international politics.

  Bilson laughed lightly. “The UN is like your high school.”

  “I didn't go to high school.”

  His smile vanished. “Regardless, I think you can understand the concept. It's a popularity contest. Nothing ever gets passed against China. They're too powerful, and becoming more so in the international community by the day. Their 'One Belt, One Road' initiative to try and create an economic hegemony around the world is spreading a lot of money around to countries who don't want it to stop. Which it would, if they took a stand against China in the UN.”

  “So nothing I'm doing here matters,” I said. “That's what you're saying.”

  “No, I'm not saying that.” Bilson waved his hand emphatically. “Let me put it another way – we're playing a game here. Chess, let's say. It's our board, but the king and a lot of the other big pieces aren't in positions where you could go after them. You can take all the pawns you want, within reason, but–”

  “But if I try and go after the queen, I'm out of bounds,” I said.

  “Exactly. And you'll get called for it, and get in way more trouble than they will for what they did.” His smile's wattage dimmed a bit. “My job is to help keep you in the bounds so you don't get in trouble.”

  “It's a real public service you're performing.”

  “I know it's not optimal,” he said, coming around the desk and leaning against it. “I get that you want justice. That it drives you down to your very soul.” He sounded so sincere, and his smile had disappeared. “That's noble. That's worthy of striving toward.” He maintained the veneer of serious. “But it's also not how international relations work.”

  “See, and I thought international relations precluded the possibility of kidnapping people in other countries,” I said, like a dog who just couldn't let go of that bone.

  “It does. Generally,” Bilson added hastily. “But China's not big on playing by the rules. And they're also big enough that no one player could push any negative actions on them. If you'd asked me yesterday, I would have said this thing that you suspect? That it was too hot even for China to consider.” Bilson looked at the pictures to his right. “But you've got some decent evidence that they've not only considered it, they've sallied right past what I would have thought impossible thresholds for crazy action. But they're getting bolder and more confrontational.”

  “Look, I know I'm just a dumb agent in this,” I said, looking down, “but in my experience, when someone gets boldly confrontational, punching them squarely in the nose is the only formula for settling them back down.”

  Bilson's smile came back, but strained. “That's not a perfect analogy for the world of diplomacy for a few reasons, not the least of which is that nobody can afford to punch China.”

  “Because they're too big. And too popular.”

  “Too connected,” Bilson said. “Too many powerful people make a lot of money off China. Too many countries are beholden to them, tied to them, including America. They hold over a trillion dollars of our national debt. We do over half a trillion a year in trade with them. Every major American corporation has a presence in China or desperately wants one, and without exception those corporations donate to politicians on both sides of the aisle.

  “Contrast that with the stakes in your investigation – one lowly Georgetown college professor who didn't even get kidnapped,” he went on. “China will deny having anything to do with it, the press is not going to report it more than a day or so, and then the story will vanish because guess what? They're all either in China with reporters of their own, or trying to get into China, or actively taking money from the Chinese government to circulate their propaganda.”

  I couldn't stop the frown. “Wait, what?”

  “The Washington Post has taken Chinese propaganda straight from state-owned China Daily and inserted it into their paper editions.” Bilson's smile turned sympathetic. “It's called China Watch, and it's owned and approved by the Communist Party – state media propaganda, placed into the major Western newspapers. Their circulation is down, which means revenue is down and naturally, profits are down. They could really use the money, so...” He shrugged. “Absent that, every major press outlet lives under the threat that they'll have their China bureaus shut down if they get on the wrong side of the PRC government. They still cover some of the dirty things China does, but it's markedly less dogged. And who can blame them?”

  Me, I didn't say. “Basically what I'm hearing from you is that even if I managed to implicate China, there's no justice.”

  “Not on the international scene,” Bilson said. “Which is why I'm trying to work with you. Laying this out ahead of time, so you don't get your expectations out of whack. This guy you fought earlier? Him we can get. One way or another,” Bilson said, and I caught a hint of what the president had suggested before, about Firebeetle Bailey not surviving to see trial – and thus not humiliating China, if he ended up talking.

  I lapsed into silence, all these thoughts swirling around in my head. From my perspective, China was looking like a big bad guy, but one that no one had the guts to cross. I voiced none of these thoughts, instead saying, “All right, I get it. We play it cool, and do what we can do.”

  “Exactly,” Bilson said. The smile had returned. “Pragmatism, see? And if we handle it right, there's going to be a lot of reward at the end of the rainbow. Enough for all of us – you, me, and Director Chalke.”

  Oh, yay. But I kept my internal dissent to myself. I had a feeling I'd be doing a lot of that in the course of this investigation. I just let him think I'd submitted quietly. It was becoming something of a habit. “Sounds good. Where do you want to start?”

  “With something invaluable that I've learned in the course of my years in DC,” Bilson said. “Any time you don't feel you know enough about a subject, it's time to borrow expertise
from someone wiser than yourself.” His intercom beeped, and he reached over to hit it. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Bilson?” The receptionist's voice pierced through. “Professor Chu of the George Mason University Confucius Institute is here for your dinner.”

  Bilson smiled at me. “We'll be right out, Jean.” And he stood. “Shall we?”

  “We're...having dinner?” I checked my phone. It was about that time, I supposed.

  “With an expert,” Bilson said. He was smiling. Again. “Come on.” He waved for me to join him. “Let's brush up on China.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I knew for a fact that Professor Chu was on the Chinese government payroll somehow within three minutes of meeting him. He was a delightful man, don't get me wrong, with lively, intelligent eyes and a sense of humor that seemed particularly clever. He was dark-haired with the first vestiges of a retreating hairline that suggested he might have had a widow's peak at one point that was now reduced to a widow's foothill. It had also climbed up his head some distance.

  We walked a few doors down to a restaurant that was a half step down from street level. It had a glass front and we were seated with a perfect view of the street. I knew from passing earlier that the glass was tempered to keep pedestrians from looking in nosily at the diners. Silently, I approved.

  What I didn't approve of? The prices on the menu I was handed. There wasn't an appetizer on it for less than $19.99, and a good many tipped the scale at $29.99, with some sort of seafood sampler bearing the letters MKT next to them, as though I could somehow guess the market price. The only guess I made was that if you had to ask the price, you probably couldn't afford it. I certainly couldn't on my government salary.

  “I find China is severely misunderstood in Western circles,” Professor Chu said. “For instance, they take a very long-ranging view of planning, issuing five-year plans at regular intervals.” His smile broke a little wider. “Washington can barely pass a budget for six months. That level of uncertainty is not conducive to the stable running of a society.”