It took Caldwell and Mei Lin almost ten minutes to reach the entrance to the university. A couple of sleek oblong taxis were queued up at the taxi stand, their electrics idling. Wang Lin had disappeared. Mei Lin handed Caldwell a roll of New China Yuan and a credit chip and jumped into the first taxi. The automatic doors swished shut and the vehicle slid sideways into traffic. Caldwell got into the second taxi. The driver, an old weather-beaten man with short spiky gray hair and a mole at the back of his neck with a single strand of hair growing out of it, turned round and gave him the once over. Caldwell had a feeling he was going to need all the Mandarin he could muster.
“Ni qu nar li a?” the driver asked, rolling his “r”s like his teeth were made of Malaysian rubber. His voice was a deep guttural drawl. If you ran it through a voice analysis construct, you’d find traces of some obscure northern dialect.
“Follow those two 4x4s,” Caldwell urged in his best Mandarin.
“The ones that just sped off several minutes ago?”
“Exactly.”
“They’ve been gone for minutes. Many PLA 4x4s in Beijing at this time of the day my friend,” the old man observed slyly, looking at Caldwell in the rear view mirror.”
“Five thousand New Yuan if you can sprout an extra pair of eyes and catch up with vehicles in question.”
“Now we are talking,” the old driver said with a salacious twinkle in his eyes as they eased out into traffic.
“Whatever,” Caldwell muttered, settling back into the leather seats of the taxi. He flicked through the roll of bills Mei Lin had handed him to see if he had enough money to pay the driver. He had more than enough.
Things were definitely heating up. And Caldwell was not sure he liked the growing feeling of impending danger. He was on the trail of the PLA, on a journey whose destination he could not predict. What if there was an aspect to this AI, a purpose more sinister than appeared to the unsuspecting eye? What would Fouler make of the current turn of events? What if he never made it out of this alive?
“Can you go any faster,” Caldwell asked the old driver. A distinct note of impatience had crept into his voice. He did not like the sound of it. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was scared.
“I can, but it is impossible with the traffic and everything on autopilot for the next two kilometers. Anyway, the traffic is good because it means we can catch up with those cars,” the driver growled without turning around. The old man cleared his throat, spat a thick globule of yellow phlegm out of the window and took a sip out of a transparent flask of strong-looking tea. The back of his neck was the texture of burnt leather, wrinkles etched into the mocha-colored fabric of his skin with the cruel passage of unrelenting time. Taut silver hairs at the base of his round head formed the beginnings of an impressive crew cut.
“Just find those two cars ok?”
“Sure. And stop looking back of head. Make my skin crawl,” the driver said matter-of-factly, leaning back in his seat. Caldwell couldn’t help but laugh. The driver was a bit cranky but he had a sense of humor, a virtue to be appreciated at times like this. The taxi was on autopilot guided along by its sensors and the markers on the road. There was something surreal about all the cars moving along at the same speed. It was like the various technologies, engines, fuel injection systems and carburetors that made some vehicles superior to others had been stripped away leaving only uniformity. This was exactly what society would like to impose upon its citizens, Caldwell thought, stripping them of all semblance of individuality, leaving only pale shadows of themselves matching in time to a common beat.
“PLA cars, also autopilot?” he asked the driver.
“Of course, in New China everyone on autopilot,” the driver said with a chuckle.
“Indeed.”
“Why you follow PLA cars anyway? Have death wish?”
“No, I am a journalist working on a story,” Caldwell lied. He had no misgivings about lying to the old driver. Telling the truth would thrust the conversation in directions he didn’t want it to go.
“Have death wish. All foreign journalists in New China have death wish,” the driver concluded, offering Caldwell what he probably considered would be his last Red Pagoda cigarette.
“No thank you. So what are our chances of getting closer to that vehicle?”
“Just get ready to pay meter plus five thousand, death wish.”
“OK. But enough with the death wish talk. OK?”
“Whatever you say. The girl. Chinese. She is who?” the driver asked, revealing a set of faded jade teeth Caldwell hadn’t noticed earlier.
“Journalist too.”
“Can’t fool old man, death wish,” the driver said.
“Why do you say that?”
“I see many eyes of women during my life. I see suffering, desire, happiness, hunger, hope and desperation in their eyes. I know what I see.” The old man tapped his skull with an index finger capped by a talon-like tapered fingernail the color of burnt ash.
“And what is that?”
“I see anticipation.”
“Anticipation of what?”
“Of what you are capable or incapable of giving.”
The display on the taxi’s dash indicated that they were now off the autopilot grid and sure enough there was a slight shudder as the system switched over. The old man grabbed the steering wheel, all bony fingers and white knuckles. He expertly threaded his way through the traffic, exploiting gaps that were no longer being maintained by the autopilot system. He was a man transformed, intent on making the extra money at cost. It was amazing what the prospect of some cash could do for motivation.
Caldwell thought about what the driver had said about Mei Lin. Was it that obvious? Was she eagerly anticipating something? And if so, what? She had done a pretty good job of masking her feelings, if they still existed. Caldwell hadn’t forgotten the way she had abruptly sidestepped his profession of love for her at dinner. It was very likely too much for her. She was probably in the suite now, at the Zhongguancun Continental Hotel, hastily packing. Then rushing out to check out and meet him at the airport.
At that point he remembered that he didn’t have her mobile number. He decided to call the hotel as soon as he arrived at the airport to find out whether she had already checked out and whether she’d left her number. What if she failed to meet him at the airport? He would have no choice but to board a plane for Shanghai, hot on the heels of the PLA. Caldwell may have developed a renewed appetite for the game, but the thought of the unknown entity that was Shanghai still left a funny taste in his mouth.
For the first time, Caldwell began to harbor doubts about whether he would be able to give Fouler what he wanted and get his past back. He started sinking into an abyss of despair and self-doubt. He felt afraid and was beginning to wonder whether getting his memories back was all that important. Hell, he had done OK without them, his recent suicide attempt notwithstanding. Now that he knew that Kenzo Yamamoto had been behind his inability to make a living hacking, he could set the record straight and go back to what he used to do before. With Glyph dead, The HUB probably needed him more than ever. The sight of one of the green 4X4’s about ten cars ahead put paid to that idea and his adrenalin started pumping like it was the end of the world.
***
You don’t stroll into the cavernous arrivals terminal at New China Capital Airport. It sucks you in like a giant magnet and bombards you with advertisements interlaced with arrival and departure announcements. One could be forgiven for thinking that the advertising jingles were more important than the flight announcements. Holograms dressed in the livery of the international airlines moved among the crowds, beamed down from projectors high in the roof of the building. The airlines were there in force, in both analogue and digital form, all clamoring for a piece of the action. Caldwell kept his eyes trained on the PLA party riding the glass elevators to the departure terminal. He was on a forty-five degree glide to the same, the mechanism of the ancient escalator shuddering under the weight of humanity. The gray servers looked harmless on their trolleys, yet it was possible that they were as dangerous as any terrorist weapon.
In the departure terminal, the four PLA officers checked in at the First Class counter of Shanghai Eastern Airlines. One of the men was barking commands to a cowering attendant, while gesticulating at the servers. A young man in red overalls appeared from behind the counter with a handful of packing materials. He placed a large red “Handle With Care” sticker and triangle-shaped green stickers with a skull and crossbones motif on the servers. The PLA soldiers helped him apply foam protectors to the four corners of the servers and duct tape to their various compartments. They lifted the servers on to the conveyor belt and the machines disappeared into the innards of the baggage system.
One question kept repeating itself in Caldwell’s mind. Why were they taking a commercial flight, when a military aircraft would have made much more sense? Given the involvement of the PLA, one would expect such arrangements to be easily made. Maybe Professor Yao’s death and Li Jin’s disappearance had forced the PLA to act much quicker than such arrangements allowed. Yet, there was another possibility. Whatever was going on, it was not officially sanctioned by the PLA. The more Caldwell thought about that possibility, the more it made perfect sense.
The queue of Economy passengers checking in to the same flight was growing. Would there be any free seats on the flight? Caldwell walked towards a bank of phones and called the hotel in Zhongguancun, thankful that he still had the hotel’s complimentary card in one of his pockets.
“Zhongguancun Continental Hotel, how can I help you?” a female voice inquired in flawless English, complete with American accent.
“Miss Hsu, Room 2208, please.”
“Please hold on one minute.” Mando-pop assaulted Caldwell’s ear as she switched him through the PBX system to the telephone in the suite.
“Mei Lin had obviously not checked out yet. If she had, the girl at reception would have said so. What was keeping her? He guessed that the taxi ride from Tsinghua to the hotel would have been quicker than his trip to the airport. The hotel had faster access to the super-fast ring roads that lead to the airport. The phone kept ringing and then someone picked up.
“Mei Lin?”
“Hang on a minute sir.”
“Sure.”
“I am afraid the guest has already checked out and is on her way to the airport. This is housekeeping.”
“OK. Thanks. Did she leave a number for a Mr. Caldwell?”
“No sir, she did not.”
Caldwell hung up. Without Mei Lin’s mobile number how would they get in touch? He had to get on that plane otherwise they would never know what became of the AI. Had she ditched him? Why had she given him her credit chip? Out of sympathy? Caldwell turned round and looked towards the check-in counter. The PLA soldiers had disappeared. Caldwell squinted at the giant departure display superimposed on the roof of the terminal. There was a Shanghai Eastern Airlines flight SA-809 departing in forty-five minutes. The flight had not started boarding. There were other Shanghai flights by other airlines but only the one Shanghai Eastern Airlines flight in the next two hours. Caldwell walked up to the First Class check-in desk and handed the attendant the credit chip Mei Lin had given him and his passport chip.
“This is check-in for Flight SA-809, right?
“Correct,” the girl replied, scanning his face for any sign of lunacy. For all she knew Caldwell could be a terrorist. She was about to say something, probably unpleasant, but he interrupted quickly.
“I’d like to purchase two tickets for this flight, please.”
“Two tickets?” she asked incredulously, her shrewd eyes darting behind him to make sure that some diminutive person she hadn’t seen wasn’t hiding there.
“Correct,” Caldwell said, mimicking her voice. Her smallish features broke into a tortured smile.
“I’ll need the other passenger’s ID or passport, sir. So I know who to issue the other ticket to,” she said. She sounded vaguely pleased with herself. She probably didn’t get to rebuff an attempt to check in very often.
“Can I just pay for the tickets and leave the other one with you. I can leave you her name. My friend will be checking in shortly with her passport.” Then it occurred to Caldwell that Mei Lin may not want to travel under her own name.
“That is a highly unusual request sir but we might be able to make an exception. Will the other passenger be the owner of this credit chip, sir?” The attendant was shrewd.
“Yes, she will.”
“Very convenient sir. If you weren’t buying two tickets, sir, it would have been most unusual to use another party’s credit chip, sir. The New China government looks most unkindly upon credit chip fraud sir.” She smiled. Her face was a taut mask of make-up stretched to its limit. At any moment, Caldwell thought, cracks would start to appear on her face. Giant fissures would emerge revealing the pale, unhealthy skin hidden beneath the layers of whitener. The attendant slid the chip through a reader.
“Oh, you companion has already purchased tickets in your name?”
“Really?”
“Yes, a Ms. Zhu Mei Lin. She’s in the departure lounge.” The attendant handed Caldwell his chips and a printer came to life issuing the ticket. Caldwell wondered what was going on.
“Here’s your ticket and your boarding pass Mr. Johnson. The departure lounge is upstairs to the right.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Johnson? Ms. Zhu?
“Have a safe flight sir,” the attendant said pleasantly. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Caldwell turned round, feeling her shrewd little eyes burning holes in the back of his head as he made his way towards the departure lounge.
***
A fat balding middle-aged man hawked into a garbage bin near the entrance as Caldwell entered the departure lounge. A globule of green blood-speckled phlegm adhered to the side of the bin and crawled slowly down its shiny aluminum surface. Caldwell grimaced and scanned the departure lounge for any sign of Mei Lin. And then he saw her. She was seating several rows away from the four PLA officers with a worried look on her face. She looked up, saw him and walked over carrying their luggage. Caldwell noticed that both bags had diplomatic tags on them. They would not be searched at customs. Once again Mei Lin was proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that she knew how the game was played.
“Thank God you made it.”
“Yes, I was a bit worried when I found out I didn’t have your cell number.”
“Me too.”
“Diplomatic tags? Don’t tell me HYDRA can pull that off.”
“Sure, didn’t want to take chances with the Glocks. Mozi could have been just trying to impress me with all that talk about taking the guns through customs.”
“He sure was. I think he had the hots for you but I am not too sure about Ms. Zhu.” Mei Lin laughed and then turned serious.
“Something very interesting. I overheard those guys chatting. This all seems to be linked to someone called Major-general Wang. One of the guys made a phone call and told someone they were at the airport and would arrive at the hospital in a few hours.”
“Hospital?”
“Yeah. Strange.”
“Could we be wrong? Could this be some medical computer and not the AI?”
“That’s what I thought. The thing is that they were talking among themselves about an AI.”
“Really? So we are on the right track.”
“It would seem so. Too much of a coincidence. The flight leaves in less than twenty minutes so we better go.”
“Sure.”
They walked to the departure gate and boarded the plane. A few minutes later the four PLA officers entered the first class compartment and took their seats several rows in front. Mei Lin looked at Caldwell and smiled.
“You thinking what I am thinking?” she asked.
“Yup, I hope you brought some of your eavesdropping toys.”
“Never leave home without them,” Mei Lin said mischievously.