Flags of Sin - 05 Page 9

  It was the strongest he had sounded in days, and they were to be his last words. He collapsed into his pillow, and immediately his hand went limp in Mei’s. She cried out, and the room immediately filled with those who had been banished to the hall.

  Wails of grief filled the room, and Mei looked at Zedong across the body of his father. He met her gaze, with eyes never more focused or determined in their resolve.

  He looked like his father did, the day he left to exact revenge.

  Delta 173, Crossing the International Date Line

  Yesterday

  “I’m telling you, Jimmy, never get married.”

  Burt Dawson turned his head slightly, looking forward to hearing Niner’s advice for his friend.

  “Why not?” asked Jimmy, taking the bait.

  “My brother got married and divorced in the same year.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. I asked him about it, and you know what he told me?”

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘Girls are like a brochure. They let you run your fingers over their words, drool over the pictures, and when you finally take the plunge and sign up for that cruise to marriage-land, the brochure is snapped shut, never to be spread again.’”

  Dawson shook his head, stifling a groan. Jimmy didn’t, his plain and aloud. Dawson glanced at Spock who sat next to him, his eyebrow halfway up his forehead, a smile on his face.

  “Look out, Dr. Phil.”

  Dawson grinned then climbed out of his seat, heading forward toward the first class cabin. He stepped around a flight attendant coming his way, then entered the bathroom, peering out the door, waiting for the lady collecting drinks to pass by his position. She finally did and he exited, walking with purpose into first class. He pulled his phone from his pocket, then dropped it on the floor, the slight push he gave it sending it between the feet of one of the passengers. He bent down, then looked up at a surprised Professor Acton.

  “Sorry, I’m all thumbs at thirty thousand feet.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said the Professor, bending down and picking up the phone. Dawson took it, and palmed a piece of paper into the man’s hand, shaking it.

  “Thanks for the help.”

  He turned around and walked past a flight attendant, returning to coach. He sat down beside Spock, and fastened his lap belt.

  “Problem?”

  Dawson shook his head.

  “I hope not.”

  Shaoshan, Hunan Province, China

  November 14, 1934

  Li Mei sat on her porch as column after column of soldiers marched by the family farm, soldiers of the Kuomintang, or Chinese Nationalist Party, who she prayed would simply walk on by, without realizing whose farm they actually crossed.

  For they were the enemy. Yes, they were the army of the official government in this area, but not of her grandson, Mao Zedong. He, the founder of the local communist chapter, who had quickly risen to prominence, and for a short time, successfully established the Hunan Soviet after leading the Autumn Harvest Uprising in 1927. He who dared to defy the official leadership of the Chinese Communist effort, his peasant army frowned upon by the urban leadership, some brought in from the Soviet Union itself.

  She knew from his letters that Zedong opposed this. Though he valued the assistance of the Soviet Union, he never wanted their leadership. The entire point of the revolution was to remove foreign control of China, not to hand it over to another. Mei knew the time of the emperors was over, but Zedong’s newfound determination after his father’s death, and after learning the truth of his heritage, had been remarkable. Within two years of learning the truth, he was the leader of the local communist party, and now led an army numbering in the thousands.

  But things weren’t going well, and she knew the army that marched past her farm was in pursuit of a desperately retreating Red Army, which would include her grandson.

  She didn’t worry, however, as she knew his destiny was to lead his country, and destiny would not allow him to perish this day. She knew from his writings to her that he was determined to lead the land of his ancestors, to claim his rightful place as leader, and to forever remove any opposition to his family’s dynasty over China.

  Whether his title was Emperor made no difference, though she would have preferred if it were. To see the proud flag of the Qing Dynasty fly over Beijing once again, under a leader worthy of its history, was a dream too much to ask for. But if her grandson were to become leader, and call himself Emperor, Dictator, or Chairman, she would care not. For he would have fulfilled his destiny, and she would be able to finally die in peace, with the knowledge she had fulfilled her word to her Emperor.

  The door creaked behind her. She looked over her shoulder, and at the darkness within.

  “Grandmother.”

  She smiled as she recognized the voice. Pushing herself from her chair, she took one final glance at the soldiers, then went inside. Her eyes quickly adjusted and she held out her arms, hugging the rugged warrior that now stood before her.

  “Zedong, my little one, what are you doing here?”

  He returned her hug, hard, then pushed her back gently, looking into her eyes.

  “I have come to say goodbye.”

  She wagged a finger at him. “Don’t you dare lose faith.”

  He smiled at her and laughed. “Grandmother, I shall never lose faith. Never have I been closer to my goal, despite what might appear as setbacks. The leaders the Soviet Union sent us are failing, and once they have shown their inability to lead our glorious Chinese men and women, I shall be there, waiting in the wings, to lead once again.

  “But today, we must leave this area. It will be a long, arduous journey, but if—when—we escape the imperialist hordes, we will be able to reunite, stronger than ever before, and once and for all unite our country under the flag of communism, and with that, a single leader at its helm.”

  “You.”

  He nodded, still holding her by the shoulders.

  “Yes, me.”

  Mei took him by the hand and led him to the fire, where she took a seat, and he knelt at her feet.

  “This long march of yours, where will it take you?”

  He shook his head. “That, I’m not sure. For now, we must break the encirclement the Kuomintang are attempting. Once free of that, we will need to try and put as much distance as we can between them and us, and return to the North where we are strongest. It could take a year or more.”

  “You will send word when you can?”

  “Every chance I can, but it may take a long time. Do not worry should you not hear from me. You will hear of me, of that I have no doubt.”

  Mei beamed with pride. “I hear of you every day, and must be careful that I do not burst from my clothes when my chest swells with the pride I feel at your deeds.” She looked over her shoulder and out the window as the soldiers continued to march by. “But you must go now. We tempt fate with you being here, and your enemy so close.” She struggled to her feet, and Zedong assisted her with a steadying arm.

  She led him to the back door, then hugged him hard. Staring into his eyes, she smiled.

  “Do not worry about me on your long march. For at the end, you shall find victory, and I shall be here, waiting for word of your destiny fulfilled.”

  Zedong smiled, kissed her forehead, then stepped out the back door, closing it behind him. She watched through the small window as he ran along a hedgerow, away from the house and away from his enemy.

  Be strong on your long march, my little one, for your country cries out for its rightful leader.

  Hilton Beijing Hotel, Beijing, China

  Today

  “What do you think it means?”

  Professor James Acton lay on the bed, hands behind his neck, eyes closed, relaxing in the buff after a long, hot shower that had succeeded in only removing some of the kinks from twenty hours on a plane. He raised his head and looked at his fiancée. She was staring at the napkin that Burt Dawson,
their Delta Force “friend”, had palmed him on the airplane.

  “Tomorrow, fourteen-hundred,” she read. She looked up at him, her auburn hair spilling over her bare, porcelain shoulders. “Obviously he wants to meet us this afternoon at two p.m., but where?”

  Acton eyed the towel wrapped around her, tucked under her armpits, and pictured the wonderland it concealed. Something stirred and she stared at it, then him.

  “Are you kidding me? Haven’t you had enough?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Apparently I’m insatiable in China.”

  “My recollection has you insatiable in pretty much every country we’ve been in.”

  “Except the Vatican!”

  His defense was weak.

  “Not for a lack of trying.”

  He pushed himself up on his elbows. “Hey, I seem to remember it was you who was pushing that secret agenda, not me.”

  She gave him half a grin and a wink.

  “Seems your memory is better than I assumed.” She waved the napkin at him. “So, where? It’s a plain Delta Airlines napkin, no address or anything, so it can’t be a clue.”

  “Here, I guess. He asked where we were staying, so that’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  She nodded and put the napkin on the nightstand, then pulled off her towel, turning around to grab some clothes from her suitcase. Acton eyed her backside, then reached over and pulled her into the bed. She yelped as she fell backward, then moaned as he rolled on top of her and kissed her hard.

  “Batter up?” she asked as she tilted her head back, exposing her neck.

  “I don’t know, is baseball popular in China?”

  He continued to shower her with kisses as he worked toward her breasts.

  “Chopstick up?”

  He stopped and looked at her.

  “I think I was just insulted.”

  She shoved against his shoulder, spinning him on his back, then straddled him before he realized what was happening. Sometimes he forgot that their special forces training they were receiving had benefits off the battlefield as well.

  He groaned as she bit his neck.

  “I’m sorry, Dear, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she cooed, kissing his chest. “Let me make it up to you.”

  Acton tossed his head back and sighed, looking over at the clock.

  Burt Dawson, you better not be early.

  Shaoshan, Hunan Province, China

  May 17, 1935

  Li Mei eyed the peasant walking up her path. It wasn’t unusual for beggars to ask for food or drink, or for work to earn their victuals. She preferred those. There was constantly work to do in the fields, and those who came, offering their services in exchange for food and shelter were always welcome for as long as they desired to stay. But those who outright asked for food or water, in exchange for nothing, were provided with provisions, then sent on, with a firm suggestion they not return in the morn.

  But this one seemed odd. This one had pride. This one seemed to not be a peasant at all, and when he stopped at the steps leading to the porch and bowed, she saw a little bundle tied to his back, and gasped.

  “What have we here?” she exclaimed, leaning forward in her chair. The man rose, the bundle on his back disappearing.

  “Do I have the honor of addressing Mao Mei, grandmother to the great Mao Zedong?”

  Her eyes widened slightly.

  “You do.”

  The man breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Grandmother, I bring you both sad and glad tidings. I regret to inform you that your grandson, Zetan, was captured while defending the withdrawal of our forces, including your grandson Zedong. He died honorably, executed by the Kuomintang forces, revealing nothing to them.”

  Mei’s chest was tight. Another grandson dead. Her son Shun-sheng and his wife had had seven children. Two of their sons, and both their daughters, had died young, a pain that had still not gone away to this day. They had an adopted daughter, Zejian, who had been executed by the Kuomintang six years ago, the word reaching them two years later. And now Zetan was dead at their hands as well. Three sons, two daughters, and an adopted daughter, all gone before their time. It left only Zemin and Zedong. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer for her grandchildren, especially Zemin, for she felt deep in her heart that her Emperor was watching over Zedong, and her prayers were unnecessary.

  She motioned toward the man’s back.

  “What have you there?”

  The man smiled. “I said I brought you good news as well. Your grandson, Zedong, is safe, and sends his respects. And he also sends you his son, Anhong, who has just turned three, for safekeeping.”

  She motioned at him impatiently.

  “Well, release the poor child, let me see him!”

  The man bowed, and removed the straps from around his shoulders, gently lowering the boy to the worn wood of the porch. He carefully unwrapped the bundle, then handed him to his great-grandmother.

  She smiled and held the boy up in front of her, inspecting him in every way, as he inspected her with wide, curious eyes. They looked at each other and she made a face that elicited a giggle. She rested him on her knee then looked at the man who had brought her great-grandson all this way.

  “And who are you?”

  “I am an officer in your grandson Zetan’s unit. When he was captured, I knew he would want the boy brought to you. His father, Zedong, was too far away, and too close to the front lines to risk keeping the boy.”

  Mei nodded.

  “You did the right thing by bringing him here.” She stood up, placing the boy on his feet beside her. “Now, you must come inside and rest after your long journey, and tell me of my grandsons.”

  “It will be my honor, grandmother, to tell you all I know.”

  She led the two newcomers inside, her aged but spry mind wondering if this was a sign from her long passed emperor. A second chance, should something go wrong.

  She vowed to raise the boy, from that point on, in secret, until she could be certain he would be safe from Zedong’s enemies. How long that would be, she had no idea. But with the Japanese harassing her country, and all-out war threatened, she feared it could be decades before they would all be safe.

  Watch over us, my Emperor, for your enemies still abound.

  Tiananmen Square, Beijing, China

  Today

  Professor James Acton smiled at the camera, staring not at the lens, but at the woman he loved, Professor Laura Palmer. They had been engaged now for less than a month, and after unwinding at his house for a few days following the horrific events at the Vatican, Laura had announced they should get away from it all.

  And with her nearly unlimited source of funds from her late brother’s hi-tech legacy, first class tickets to China were purchased, and as soon as their class schedules permitted it, they were here.

  He had been to China twice before, both times on archaeological visits, and those visits had been fairly tightly controlled, so he had never had time to actually play tourist in one of the oldest cultures in the world. Everywhere he looked were thousand year old structures, traditionally clothed residents going about a daily routine that could have fit into a completely different era without question.

  Clashing quite comfortably it seemed, against the ultramodern, with daring glass and steel architecture that America seemed embarrassed to build, but its citizens would ooh and aah over when they saw such structures in movies, usually not realizing that they actually existed, just not in the greatest nation on Earth.

  Why are we so afraid to be bold?

  He loved the look of the new Freedom Tower in New York City, and hoped it would reignite the passion of architects and city planners to dare once again. America would never have a Great Wall or a Forbidden City, but why should it be the countries that we buy our oil from that have the jaw dropping skylines like Dubai?

  He placed both hands on his hips, shoved his shoulders back, and raised his chin, turning s
lightly away from the camera.

  “Ooh, I like that one!” laughed Laura as she snapped a shot of his superhero pose.

  A cracking sound, like thunder, ripped across the square, causing everyone to stop.

  “What was that?” asked Laura.

  But Acton knew exactly what it was, and it filled him with dread, for he had heard it repeatedly only weeks before.

  Sniper fire.

  He rushed over to Laura and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her toward a concrete planter containing several ornamental trees. She followed him without resistance or protest, their experiences together having taught both of them to never question the other’s actions, to simply comply, and ask later.

  “What is it?” she asked when they were both safely behind the barrier.

  “That’s a sniper rifle.”

  Another crack, quickly followed by a third.

  “That’s too quick,” said Acton, poking his head up. The rest of the crowd didn’t seem to be reacting, some even looked curiously at the pair as they continued about their business. “There must be at least two of them.”

  “Where’s it coming from?”

  Screams answered her question, and suddenly those occupying the square began to run.

  “We need to get out of here.”

  A body flew past their position just as another shot thundered over the square, a hole big enough to see through, gaping in the target’s back, as it skidded past them, coming to a stop ten feet farther on. Another shot, this time with no obvious victim, kept the crowds surging past them. Acton turned around and raised his head slightly.

  “Are you daft?” exclaimed Laura.

  He smiled to himself at her unique British colloquialisms, and ducked. “I need to see where it’s coming from. We might be safer just staying put.”

  Laura motioned at the body that had skidded past them, the distance it had travelled indicating an extremely high powered sniper rifle. “If he went past us, doesn’t that mean the shooter is over there?” She pointed toward the far end of the square without actually seeing it.