Irving Waters - The Wuhan Mission

“Well they haven’t found the bug,” Xue Lin said.

Sam’s neck was hurting so he couldn’t turn his head: “Great! Keep an eye. We’ll regroup at the safe house and get this vehicle off the streets. The bullet holes are attracting attention.”

They pulled into the safe house’s small garage and the team staggered out one by one. Xue Lin was watching the dot on the map intently. It was still moving but was caught in traffic. They hadn’t gotten far yet.

Xue Lin’s parents talked quietly with her as they administered first aid to the men’s abrasions and checked them for concussions. Two of the team had probable broken arms, one man also had a bad case of whiplash. Sam looked a bit of a mess but seemed to be functioning normally. He shook hands with Xue Lin’s father: “It’s really nice to meet you sir.”

“Well, thanks for coming to get us. You put on quite a show Sam. Who makes your flash-bang grenades?”

“Dad come on! Leave poor Sam alone. He’s probably got a head injury.”

She looked at Sam and said very slowly:

“Hi Sam. Do — you — know — what — day — it — is?”

“Cut the crap Snowflake. It’s about to get dark and we are minus one virus.”

The mother smirked, already catching a little of the chemistry between Sam and their daughter.

“Where are they now?” Sam asked Xue Lin. She let him move close, to look at the phone. It was a moment of comfort for both of them as their bodies lightly touched. Xue Lin had been so worried about Sam going into that building full of Chinese agents that when her parents had opened the big wooden door and let her in, she had just wanted to be in his arms for the rest of her life.

Xue Lin zoomed in on the map with her thumb and forefinger: “They are at La Scala! Bit early for the opera isn’t it?” she asked, looking at the time.

As Milan became bathed in the magical light of the setting sun, cups clinked inside a cafe as the two waiters tidied up behind the bar. A stylishly dressed white American ordered a macchiato as he sat at a table across from the Chinese agent who had Xue Lin’s backpack on his lap. The red spray bottle in the agent’s hand looked like a fashionable perfume to the American.

“And you also have the antidote I assume?” he asked the agent.

The Chinese man passed him what looked like a plastic case for a fountain pen. Inside was a modern looking syringe with the green antidote in it. “Go and inject yourself now, in the bathroom.”

“So… I inject myself with the green syringe? That’s it? Then I’m immune?”

The Chinese agent simply nodded once, closing his eyes for a couple of seconds.

The white man took his suit jacket off and threw it over his chair and walked to the bathroom, rolling his left sleeve up as he walked. Allan was a talent manager, specifically of opera singers. He’d been running his own agency in New York City for over a decade, managing an impressive stable of opera talent. Unfortunately he’d recently been successfully sued by one of his sopranos for sexual harassment and she had wiped him out financially, just as he was about to retire. She’d slept with him to get on his roster but had become angry at him for not giving her any work. She wouldn’t have had a case except she’d filmed them in bed with her phone and then there was the incriminating first meeting that they’d had, all of which she had recorded on her phone.

This whole Chinese spy conspiracy thing had come up recently when he was complaining about his financial situation to one of his tenors while having dinner. The tenor who happened to be from China knew a guy who knew a guy. It had snowballed quickly. Large amounts of money were offered, and before long, Allan was in over his head. Finally he’d agreed to spread some yellow virus at the opera house here in Milan. He was getting out of the business anyway, and they were paying him two hundred grand, just to spray it around inside where he had access to all the important people backstage and in the auditorium. He had reluctantly agreed to the deal, mostly because he had become afraid of the Chinese agent.

While he was in the bathroom, the older waiter brought over the coffee and a piece of cake and professionally set them on the table.

Allan returned, keeping his elbow bent covering the pin prick hole in his arm.

“So the ‘yellow’ virus, which seems to be the wrong color…” Allan gave him a quizzical look before continuing, “I just spray it around the place and that’s it?”

“Try to be subtle. Do it from under your coat.”

Allan drank his macchiato as the man picked at his cake with a fork.

“And the virus, it just gives people flu-like symptoms? It will be like a flu epidemic and they will have to shut down the opera house?”

“That is correct” the man nodded. “Three to six months, no opera. Here and maybe rest of Italy too. Maybe longer.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Allan had been angry at the opera houses of Italy for several years as they had neglected to pay many of his singers. He was still owed a lot of money, and he would probably never get to see any of it.

“Fine. Give me the spray bottle.” Allan said, putting his suit jacket back on.

The Red Virus changed hands and Allan put it in his inside pocket. It was just after six o’clock. He should go and see his singers backstage and wish them luck.”

“Good luck,” said the Chinese man, putting ten Euros on the table as he got up and left the cafe.

Xue Lin and Sam standing down the block from the safe house hailed a cab and headed to the opera house.

Sam said: “This could be complicated. They will have security and we don’t have ID.”

He dialed the Deputy Director’s number.

“Yes Sam, good morning, or good evening I suppose. What’s your news?”

“The operation went well. We have the hostages, but… the bad news is that the Chinese took the package back. There were no casualties on our side, just some broken bones.”

“Alright Sam. Do you know where the package is?”

“More or less Ma’am. We followed it to the Opera House, but it seems to be moving away now.”

“Oh Jesus Christ. They’re going to set it loose. Get in there and see if you can find it.”

“Can you call them and tell them to let us have access?”

“That will take some time. The Italians are not the easiest to organize anything with. I’ll get on it. You might be quicker making your own way.”

“Roger that Ma’am. We’ll do that. Heading in now.”

“Break a leg.”

“What did she say?” asked Xue Lin.

“She said: ‘break a leg.’”

Xue Lin rolled her eyes. “I’ll break HER leg when I see her.”

Sam told the driver to pull up to the Artists’ Entrance.

“Snowflake, we are on our own. We’ll try being nice first. If that doesn’t work, you smile and I’ll take down security, that is if there’s no glass.”

“Copy that,” she answered as the cab pulled up and Sam passed him some of the cash Ryan had given him. They walked through the door and saw that there was indeed a glass window in front of the security desk. He looked at them as they stood there: “Prego? How canna I helpa you?”

Sam stepped forward and said: “You have a security breach. There is someone inside about to unleash a terrorist attack.”

The guard looked back at them stupidly, clearly not believing.

“Do you have any identification? A police badge for instance?”