“Hi, Flynn. How was breakfast?”
She studied me. “It was nice. Rough morning?”
I nodded, unable to speak. When I reached for her, she wrapped her arms around my waist and gave me the hug I so desperately needed—not just today, but hundreds of times over the course of the last few years. She held me so tight, as though she knew exactly how to comfort me, even without knowing why I needed it. I lost track of how long we embraced, outside where it could be witnessed by everyone meeting in the main room of the house as well as anyone going in and out of the barn or dining hall. When I looked into her eyes, she didn’t seem embarrassed or uncomfortable as I feared she might.
“Thank you.” I leaned forward and brushed her lips with mine.
“Anytime, Paxon. It brings me as much comfort as it does you.”
I rested my forehead against hers. “So wise beyond your years.”
“I don’t know if it’s wisdom or instinct.”
“Both.” I kissed her one more time. “I hate to say this, but I should get back in there.”
“If you need another one of those, you have my number.”
“Yeah, if I call, you’ll come just to give me a hug?”
“Every time.”
No one looked up when I came inside, not even Ali. When I pulled my chair out and sat beside her, she glanced in my direction.
“I really like her,” she whispered.
“So do I.”
“Hey, Irish,” I heard Razor say from across the room. “Can you come take a look at this?”
I bent over his laptop, looking at a blurry image of two people. Beside it, was a gravestone. I read the inscription indicating the deceased had only lived to be twenty-five years old. “Stephen Kerr?”
“Nicholas Kerr’s only son,” answered Burns.
“According to what Razor found, he was killed in action during the Gulf War,” said Gunner, turning to Doc.
“I reached out to Z Alexander, who located a brief indicating that his death was reported as friendly fire.”
I pulled out a chair and sat down to take in what I’d just heard.
“There was a witness,” Doc added. “Army Sergeant H.J. Harris.”
“Herbert Harris? Xander’s father?” I asked.
“It would appear so.”
“Any other connection you can find between Kerr and either the father or the son?”
“I had a buddy of mine run through what would now be considered ancient records, given they’re on microfiche, but we hit pay dirt,” said Razor. “Kerr traveled from the UK to the States the day of Harris’ funeral. He stayed in Maryland, where it was held, for two days before returning to London.”
“Tell him what else you found,” said Gunner, slugging Razor’s arm.
“Enigma Computers, who Xander went to work for after leaving the CIA, is ‘owned’ by a shell corporation—no big surprise there. However, I was able to ‘trace’ the money trail back to a holding company headquartered in Hong Kong.”
There was no doubt in my mind that the emphasis he placed on the word traced in reality meant hacked. “And?”
“Both Nicholas Kerr and Ming Shen-Lin were listed as majority shareholders.”
“They’re makin’ this too easy,” said Gunner, who appeared to immediately regret his words. “My apologies, Irish.”
“Not necessary, Gunner.”
“A clear picture is beginning to appear,” said Burns. “Kerr found someone easily manipulated to do his bidding. Ming Shen-Lin as well.”
I turned around and saw that the room had gone silent and many of those who had previously been seated at their own tables were now gathered around the one where Burns Butler was holding court.
He motioned to Money to step forward. “While we may be able to piece together a likely scenario, the question foremost presenting itself is what our agenda will be even if we believe we uncover all the answers.”
Money cleared his throat. “Since you’re asking me directly, you are aware the only answer I can give is an official one.”
Burns nodded.
“State would certainly have enough ammunition to propose a deal for Harris’ extradition. The announcement that they’ve granted him asylum is out of character for Beijing. It would be more like them to simply grant it without admitting to it.”
“Agreed.”
“Which means they already know what they want in exchange.”
“Go on.”
From where I sat, I had a clear view of Dr. Benjamin when he stood and approached the table. I expected him to speak, but he didn’t. He was, however, laser focused on Money.
“The most obvious answer is Jinyan.”
“Out of the question,” blurted Benjamin. All eyes turned toward him. “You cannot begin to consider such an exchange.”
My eyes met Decker’s; he raised a brow.
“Who is Jinyan?” asked Stella.
Rather than continuing to look at Dr. Benjamin, most in the room turned to Burns, who turned to me.
“Jinyan Yanli is a Hong Kong law professor and activist who was apprehended in what has been called the 701 Lockdown, during which more than three hundred ‘dissidents’ were arrested. The predawn raid took place on July 1, 1998—one year after the United Kingdom’s official handover of Hong Kong to China.”
Burns motioned for me to go on.
“After she spent ten years in an undisclosed detention center, tortured, and denied medical treatment for cancer, a human rights advocacy group appealed to the United Nations to intervene. She was eventually granted asylum in the US.”
“She was tortured daily. Beaten close to death. They deprived her of sleep, withheld medication for both diabetes and cancer. She was blocked from receiving surgery and chemotherapy that may have saved her life.” Dr. Benjamin spoke softly, his voice taut with emotion, yet there wasn’t a person in the room who didn’t hear every word he said.
“She has repeatedly asked that she be granted permission to return to Hong Kong so she may see her family once more before she dies,” said Money.
“I’m sorry to be blunt, but if she is on her deathbed, why does China want her return?” asked Stella.
“Because then they win,” said Gunner.
Dr. Benjamin shook his head. “It isn’t Yanli they want.” His eyes filled with tears.
Burns, whose eyes had been downcast, raised his head. “It’s her son they want.”
I looked from him to Adam Benjamin. “Your son.”
His head barely moved, but I saw him nod.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“When was the last you saw him?” I knew the answer before he gave it.
“Nine years ago.”
“What if we brought him to her?” I asked.
Money shook his head. “There would be no opportunity for negotiation for Harris if that were to happen.”
“Let’s just go in and shoot the slimy bastard,” said Gunner.
Both Doc and Money glared at him.
“What?” he said, looking between the two. “You can’t tell me you’re unaware that assassinations take place every fucking day of the year, McTiernan. Let’s just be honest.”