The Wuhan Mission

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?”

Sam looked at Xue Lin and shrugged his shoulders. “Fuck it!” she said, and stood back from the glass, drew her pistol and fired high above the guard’s head, shattering the glass.

Sam drew his pistol and pointed it at the guard: “Put the call out. We are looking for a terrorist with a spray bottle. Possibly Chinese. He is to be taken into custody immediately.”

The guard picked up the radio tentatively as Xue Lin also trained the barrel of her gun on the guard, cocking her head to one side, daring him to say the wrong thing.

The Guard made the call in stuttering Italian, then putting the radio down he put his hands feebly in the air, terrified by the vicious young Asian girl standing before him.

“Do you believe us now?” she asked him.

“Si… si… I believah you miss.”

*

Allan was in a mezzo-soprano’s dressing room backstage listening to her complain about the conductor and his slow tempi.

“You’ll do great! You have such a beautiful voice. This is the perfect acoustic for you.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked looking up at him from her chair in front of the brightly lit mirror.