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He walked calmly now. No need to draw attention to himself. He opened the door and glanced inside. The Zavala replica was at the wheel just as he was supposed to be, but Nagano’s facsimile was nowhere to be found. Too bad.
Han climbed in and shut the door. “Drive us out of the parking lot and directly to the factory.”
If he could get to the helicopter, he would be out of Japanese airspace in less than an hour.
The Zavala robot put the car in gear, drove a few feet and then stopped. “Will this be cash or credit?”
“What?”
“Transportation program requires the use of currency.”
Han thought he was hearing things. The voice sounded more robotic than anything he would have approved. What the hell kind of accent had Gao downloaded anyway? “Override all programs and drive me to the CNR factory,” he ordered. “Immediately.”
The answer sounded like an old machine from sixties television. “Instruction error . . . Does not compute . . . Instruction error . . . Does not compute . . .”
“I’m Walter Han,” he bellowed. “And I’m giving you a direct command!”
At this, the figure in the front seat turned toward him. It held a pistol and grinned at him with a wicked smile. “And I’m Joe Zavala,” it said, the voice suddenly normal. “And you are not the boss of me.”
The childish joke was enough for Han to see the truth. He grabbed for the door, but it swung open before he could touch the handle.
Austin, Nagano and a squad of policemen stood there. Austin reached in, grabbed him by the lapels and dragged him out. Holding him up against the car, Austin grinned smugly. “Humans: three,” he said. “Robots: one. Game over.”
60
SHANGHAI
AT THE OFFICE in Shanghai, Wen Li and General Zhang watched the incident unfold live. Replays and descriptions ran in an endless loop. Commentators spoke in breathless tones. But nothing compared to the filmed unmasking of Han’s mechanical assassin.
General Zhang had seen enough. “It appears your play for dominance has been cut off.”
On the screen, aerial shots from a helicopter showed hundreds of police and military units swarming the prefecture building, surrounding it in layers three and four deep. Han could never hope to escape it.
“No room for liberty,” Wen said cryptically. “Side one cannot live.”
“But China will,” Zhang replied. “This is not the fault of our nation or our system. These are the acts of a madman. He will be sacrificed, of course.”
Wen looked over at Zhang. “You’ve found a way to save face.”
“I have,” Zhang said. “I will need everything you possess on the seafloor mining operation. And on Walter Han.”
“It will be delivered,” Wen said. He turned back to the screen and chose not to rise from his seat. “Please leave me now.”
Zhang turned and opened the door. Standing in the doorway, he spoke to the guards. “The Lao-shi is not to be disturbed. Consider him under house arrest. No one is to see him and he is not to leave the room.”
The soldiers answered in unison and stood at rigid attention. Zhang looked back into the office before closing the door. Wen appeared strangely peaceful and content. The weight of the burden was gone from his shoulders. The long struggle was over.
61
EAST CHINA SEA
THREE WEEKS LATER
KURT AUSTIN stood on the deck of the Chinese fleet tender Giashu as a hook was lowered from a deck crane and guided toward the last of four NUMA submersibles that had been brought aboard the ship.
NUMA, the Chinese government and the JMSDF (Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force) were cooperating in the investigation of the anomalies at the bottom of the East China Sea.
A Chinese sailor guided the hook into position and ensured a solid coupling. He gave Kurt a thumbs-up. Kurt returned the gesture.
