Catalyst (Breakthrough Book 3)(59)
“Maybe it’s deliberate.”
“How do you mean?”
“A double loss like that — a wife followed by his only child — would be devastating. He probably didn’t want any more publicity. If anyone could keep people away, I’m sure Wei could.”
“Well, I think you’re right about that. But there’s something else. His daughter was seventeen, and a nice-looking young lady. Don’t you think she would have had some friends?”
Clay frowned. “One would think.”
“Right. Well, I can’t find a single mention of her funeral, even on China’s social media sites. And it gets stranger. I also managed to get a copy of the register from Beijing Friendship Hospital where Li Na Wei reportedly died. And there are no visitors over the previous four weeks, except her father.”
“And she died of degenerative heart failure,” Clay added. “Which doesn’t happen overnight.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“Are there any pictures from Li Na Wei’s funeral?”
“Not that I can find.”
Clay stared absently at the constant stream of passengers beneath the new six-million-square-foot airline terminal.
“Is it just me,” Borger asked. “Or is all that just a little too private?”
Clay wasn’t an expert on the Chinese, but he did know there was something far more important to most men than emotional privacy. It was family honor. Was there something about his daughter that shamed Wei into a secret funeral? It was possible, but so far everything Clay knew about Wei seemed to indicate that, if anything, he was a man of ethics. So why the subversion?
“You still there, Clay?”
“I’m here.”
“I don’t know about you, but this isn’t making a whole lot of sense to me.”
“I agree.” Clay took a deep breath and looked at his watch. “Stay on it, and I’ll check back with you in a few hours.”
“Roger. You know where to find me.”
Clay ended the call and turned his gaze out through the giant window, thinking. Through the window, another TransAsia Airways jet was being brought to a nearby gate.
Borger was right. General Wei’s actions weren’t making a lot of sense. Something Clay was chalking up to two possibilities: either they had some seriously bad intelligence or Wei was more clever than anyone knew.
Clay was pretty certain it was the latter.
30
Jin Tang was ordinary by almost any physical standard. At five foot four, with straight dark hair and an inexpressive face, he was virtually invisible among the horde of people flowing in and out of Hong Kong’s International Airport, the gateway to Mainland China.
He watched carefully as hundreds exited the terminal doors, towing luggage and attempting to wave down one of a dozen red-painted taxis streaming past.
Tang was waiting patiently in a small Toyota hatchback well away from the first exit door. His left hand rested on the steering wheel of the still-running car while his right was snaked casually under his heavy jacket, lightly groping a 9mm pistol tucked inside his belt. His dark eyes remained unblinking, fixed on the double doors, until his target emerged in a large black and yellow Brisbane Broncos rugby shirt beneath a wide-brimmed Akubra hat.
Tang and his car were immediately moving, rolling forward smoothly until he was close enough for a positive identification.
With a squeak of his brakes, he eased to a stop in front of the door and rolled down the passenger window.
“Let’s go Broncos!” he shouted, pumping a fist in the air.
The man sporting the shirt and hat peered at him with a grin. “Ah, you watch our Broncos, yeah? Great year so far.” The tall man stepped forward with a smile and bent down, resting his hand on the open windowsill of the passenger door. With a subtle glance to either side, he nodded his head. “Don’t mind if I do.”
He promptly stuffed his bag through the back window and pulled the front door open.
As soon as the man was inside, Tang darted out into traffic. His hand moved away from the gun and instead pulled out a photograph to double-check. It was him.
In perfect English, Tang replied and steered toward the center lane. “No offense, but your accent is terrible.”
In the passenger seat, John Clay pulled the belt across his chest. “What can I say, I’ve only been to Australia once. And it wasn’t for leisure.”
Tang slowed into a sea of brake lights and watched several people move between the cars. He smiled and extended a hand toward Clay, who shook it. “Jin Tang.”
“John Clay. Thanks for the lift.”
“Where we headed?”
“Beijing is as close as we have so far.”