Medusa (NUMA Files 8)

“Don’t be alarmed,” the colonel said. “We are old friends as well as colleagues. We have arranged for you to quietly leave China. The government is prepared to work with Pyramid while you are out of the country.”

“I suppose that may work,” Wen Lo said with reluctance.

“We will need to know where and how to reach the number one person in your company,” Ming said.

“Impossible! We never meet face-to-face. We communicate electronically through holograms.”

A sad look came to the colonel’s face.

“That is a shame,” Ming said. “I’m afraid the onus will fall entirely on your shoulders. You will be brought to trial, and the outcome is a foregone conclusion. An example will be made of you.”

Wen Lo was well aware of the consequences of being made an example of in China. He knew a number of the men who had been tried and executed for corrupt business practices.

“Very well,” Wen Lo said with a deep sigh. “We use a simple telephone number to set up our hologram meetings.”

The colonel reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen and a small notepad, which he gave to Wen Lo. After a few seconds of hesitation, Wen Lo jotted down a number and handed back the pad and pen.

“Thank you,” Ming said, inspecting the number to make sure it was legible. He tucked the pad and pen back in his pocket. “Now we can deal with your future. How does London sound, for a start? We can move you around, to Paris and New York, as need be. And, when it’s safe, we can bring you home again.”

Wen Lo’s mood brightened.

“London is fine. I have a town house in Soho.”

“Too public. The government will find you a less obvious place to live. Do you still play tennis?”

“Every day. It’s my passion.”

“Splendid. You will have endless time to work on your backhand.”

Ming lit a cigarette, took a drag, and tapped on the window separating the backseat from the driver. The car pulled over to the curb, and the colonel said to Wen Lo, “See you in Paris.”

The husky man got out of the front, opened the door, and escorted Ming to a second Roewe sedan that had pulled up behind the first one. As Ming got into the second car, he said to the man, “Make sure it’s neat.”

As the colonel’s car pulled away from the curb, he tapped out a number on his cell phone. After a few rings, a man’s voice answered.

“Mr. Austin?” Ming said.

“That’s right,” Austin replied.

“I have the information you are looking for.”

WHILE THE COLONEL WAS talking on the phone in his car, the husky man walked back to the first car and got in next to the driver. He tapped on the glass behind him and slid the partition open. Wen Lo looked right at him. This gave the man a perfect target when he shot Wen Lo directly in the right eye with a .22 caliber pistol.

The shooter slid the glass partition closed and grunted an order to the driver. They drove Wen Lo’s warm body to a mortuary that was waiting to embalm it. A glass eye replaced the one the bullet had vaporized. The embalmed corpse was turned over to the Bureau of Police. A tag attached to the big toe there certified that he had died while being incarcerated in a Chinese prison.

The police noted the death on records that were promptly destroyed. The body was shipped to a warehouse where the receiver complained about the quality of the merchandise. The corpse was dissected, immersed in acetone to eliminate all traces of moisture, and then given a bath of polymers. The muscles and bones were touched up with paint, and the body bent into a standing position, the arm cocked and ready to smash a tennis ball.

When the transformed corpse arrived in London to join other bodies in an exhibition that would take it to Paris and New York, a tennis racket was placed in the boney hand.

In time, Wen Lo’s skinned body would adorn T-shirts, key chains, refrigerator magnets, even the cover of the catalog sold at the traveling exhibition.

And, as Colonel Ming had promised, Wen Lo had endless time to work on his backhand.

CHAPTER 48

WHEN JOE ZAVALA WASN’T DATING HALF THE FEMALE POPULATION of Washington or tinkering with his Corvette’s engine, he loved figuring out how things worked. To Zavala, the hologram projection room adjacent to Chang’s garishly appointed ship’s salon was nothing but an elaborate engine whose purpose was to send and receive lifelike images.

Zavala prowled through the intricate arrangement of microphones, lenses, lasers, projectors, and computers that surrounded the circular table and three chairs under the hanging cones. Austin was standing by, connected by cell phone to Hiram Yeager back at NUMA headquarters. Yeager was an expert on holograms, having developed a lovely young holographic woman named Max as the personification of the NUMA computer system, which he presided over. Austin relayed questions to Yeager and sent him photos of electronic or optic devices that Zavala was unable to describe.