She was sent inland, to an orphanage run by the military. Some might have thought it odd to see hulking sergeants and stern-faced officers caring for gaggles of young children, but the orphanage was in a forbidden zone carved out for military purposes. There was no one around to see anything that went on there.
Daiyu grew up in the military’s care, never learning the real names of her parents. She was told they were special. Her mother had been a world-class athlete who’d competed for China in the Olympic Games. Her father was an athlete himself and a decorated soldier. After his military career, he became one of China’s leading scientists.
It was explained to her that her parents’ blend of attributes were the only reason her birth was allowed. In a godless country, her existence was a blessing bestowed upon her by the state. From birth, she and the others like her literally owed the nation their lives. This fact was drilled into their heads while they learned at the hands of their masters.
By age twenty, Daiyu was an expert marksman, a trained survivalist who could live off the land and a lethal opponent in hand-to-hand combat. She was also an electronics expert and was fluent in five languages.
She proved less adept at the more subtle arts of charm and deception. With rough edges that the Ministry could not sand off no matter how hard they tried, she was assigned to the field instead of a consulate position; she was tasked with projects that required physical work and lethal skill.
After a series of missions to Africa and Europe, she was transferred to South America, where Chinese influence and investment were growing by the day.
Now, standing on the top deck of the trawler, she stared at the distant navigation lights of the NUMA vessel they were following. It was dark, and the wind blew with a chill.
Behind her loomed a seventy-foot-tall mast that carried a radar dome, several antennas and a powerful set of cameras, which were watching the American ship for things no human eye could see.
On a video screen to her left, a tiny flare of white appeared and vanished. It looked to her as if it was a large splash, but it did not repeat itself, and all else remained normal.
“The Americans are up to something,” she said.
The statement was addressed to a man standing in the dark behind her.
Jian Feng had a sturdy, muscular build, a square face and short, dark hair. He had a very plain look except for his right ear, part of which had been torn off in a fight years before.
Another member of the unborn children, in an odd way Jian was her brother. Like her, he’d been raised to serve the state. “They’re turning,” he said.
“Turning?”
“Look at the radar track.”
Daiyu glanced at a separate screen. The Americans were indeed turning to the east. “It makes no sense. The search area is to the north and west.”
“Maybe something’s gone wrong,” Jian said. “The nearest port is due east.”
Daiyu could only hope that the American ship had suffered a mechanical problem. Perhaps that was the cause of the brief flash she witnessed. “They’re continuing at full speed,” she said, noticing the new data on the radar plot. “They’ve noticed us.”
Jian shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“And why is that, Jian?”
“We’re too low in the water and our signature is too indistinct. The vessel we’re following is not equipped with military-band radar, only a simple weather-tracking set. There’s been no radio traffic beyond the banal chatter that seems to permeate American culture. They know nothing of us.”
There were other ways to be spotted. Her instincts told her the Americans had done just that. She resisted the urge to argue and instead checked the time. Her watch was over. It had been for almost an hour. She took a final look at the American ship and then turned to go inside.
With a curt good night, she left Jian to his ignorance, walked back along the deck of the dilapidated-looking trawler and entered a hatch.
The vessel itself was filthy. It smelled of diesel oil and fish guts—discomforts she took little notice of. Passing through the wheelhouse, she entered the control room, where the façade of the aging trawler gave way to a modern command center, complete with flickering screens, climate control and a row of technicians in military uniforms sitting at various consoles.
She looked over the latest reports and then put them down without comment. Only one of them was of any consequence: the operatives in Guayaquil had been given a tip regarding the American named Austin. Something to act on. But they’d failed to corral either Austin or the rather unimpressive woman (in Daiyu’s opinion) named Townsend.
“Contact General Zhang,” she told the communications specialist. “Inform him of the new course. And wake me if anything changes.”
The man nodded and Daiyu continued to her cabin.
She closed the door behind her and stripped off her outer layer, revealing a pistol in a holster, strapped across her flat stomach, and a series of tattoos across her back.
She removed the pistol, sliding it under her pillow on the narrow bed in her quarters, then placed the holster with her clothes.
Half dressed, she stood in front of the tarnished mirror and struck her first pose. With almost inhuman precision, she moved through a series of martial arts steps that were beautiful, well balanced and deadly.