by Matt Miksa
Jo looked at Kipton. “That explains why Li wanted me to have a CIA shadow.”
The American’s eyes grew wide. “Jo, you’re mistaken, I—”
“Oh, cut the bullpucky,” Jin interjected. “Just look at you, young man. You may as well have CIA stamped on your ass cheek.”
“After I briefed the Standing Committee last week, President Li took me aside and instructed me to give an American journalist unrestricted access to the investigation,” Jo explained. “It seemed so strange—letting a foreign reporter see everything firsthand. But Li knew the Americans would send an undercover intelligence officer. It was his insurance policy. He must have suspected General Huang was somehow involved, but he couldn’t prove it. With a spy on my team, whatever we uncovered in Dzongsar would flow directly to Langley. Li was counting on it.”
“Well, no offense to President Li’s intuition, but—”
“Kip, give me a little credit. Even if I believed a scrappy freelance writer could wrestle an assassin and brush off a bullet wound like it was a beesting, and—”
“And maintain the buttocks of a Mykonos pool boy,” Jin added, making a thumbs-up sign.
A smile flickered over Jo’s face. “Even if I accepted all of those ridiculously implausible things about you, Kip,” she went on, “I would be a fool to assume the Americans would pass up the chance to embed an operative in my field investigation. Plus, the Ministry of State Security flagged you as a known intelligence officer before the ink had even dried on your visa. They emailed me your file three days ago. I read it on our flight to Lhasa.”
“So, Kip,” Jin added. “It appears we’ve got a unique opportunity before us.”
Both women turned to the fake American reporter, staring at him with identical, insistent expressions.
* * *
Olen sat motionless, his yellow teacup suspended halfway to his lips. Jo continued to surprise him. There was no point in maintaining his cover. Evidently, he’d never had one to begin with.
“Looks like I’ve got a report to file,” he said, fighting back a smile.
“Good boy,” Jin returned.
“There’s still something that doesn’t add up,” Olen added. “The woman who attacked us in the monastery. Why would the PLA send in an assassin and then level the place with firebombs minutes later?”
“They must have been two independent operations,” Jo reasoned.
“So, if the bombers were PLA, who sent the assassin?”
Olen pictured the lithe woman in the slick neoprene suit clutching her shoulder where Jo’s bullet had pierced her flesh. He’d seen her before, but where? One thing was for certain; he’d never see her again. If the bullet hadn’t killer her, the fire would have. In either case, there was no way that woman had gotten out of Dzongsar Village alive.
CHAPTER
48
Arundel Hills, Maryland, USA
CIA OPERATIONS OFFICER Julia Rhodes drizzled a sinful amount of maple syrup onto a stack of blueberry pancakes. She’d just returned from an unbearably long overseas assignment, and she was famished. The weeks away from home made her crave a hot American breakfast from a greasy-spoon diner. She’d earned it. Her entire body ached from the last op, which only reminded her that she was getting too old for this job.
But tonight, no regrets, no shame. Just pancakes.
The flight back to Baltimore had been long and crowded, but Julia had still managed to grab a few hours of sleep. She felt rested and alert, despite the late hour. It was a familiar sensation. Her body clock almost never synchronized with the appropriate time zone—an unavoidable drawback of life in the CIA’s National Clandestine Service. She’d probably crash around sunrise.
Julia picked a corner booth so she could monitor the diner’s front door. When a short, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair entered, Julia didn’t bother waving. The man knew where to find her. He practically sprinted over and slid into her booth. The vinyl cushion squeaked under his weight.
“I know this is a little unconventional, but you’re the only person I can trust with this,” the man blurted, skipping the customary pleasantries. He looked totally freaked out.
“Hey, Gabe,” she replied with a mouthful of pancakes. “You want a menu? This is fabulous. Totally worth the early-onset diabetes.”
“Julia! Did you hear what I said on the phone? We’ve got a code six from Tibet. One of our guys is in some serious shit.”
Julia sighed and clinked her fork against her plate. She’d known Gabriel Snyder for long enough to see that he was genuinely unsettled. An operative in the field would have to be pretty desperate to request an exfiltration through TRIDENT. NSA monitored the system, but then it had to notify the appropriate agency of any incoming signals. Dissemination of intel to anyone outside Fort Meade required about fifteen signatures. TRIDENT was probably the least efficient way to cut through the intelligence community’s administrative red tape.
“Which agency?” Julia asked.
“VECTOR,” Snyder replied.
“Just write it up and release the intel to Director Cameron. She’ll handle it, and I’ll finish my breakfast in peace.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
Julia cocked her head. “Now you’ve got me interested. What’s the scoop on Cameron?”
Snyder paused. He lowered his voice. “Look, here’s what I know. A VECTOR operations officer named Olen Grave has run into some trouble. It could be you or me out there, Julia. I won’t say much more, just that I can’t disseminate the TRIDENT signal. Not officially. That’s why I called you. This needs to be totally back-channel.”
Julia scooted a syrup-soaked blueberry around her plate, digesting Snyder’s request. He’d placed her in an awkward situation. “You realize a Tibetan exfil right now is about as probable as discovering intelligent life on Mars, right? You’d need Wonder Woman to get him out.”
Snyder grinned. “So, I came to the right place.”
Julia groaned. “I suppose he has to be breathing when I bring him back?” She chugged her last swig of OJ.
Snyder seemed satisfied with her acquiescence and started to get up to leave. “How’d you hurt your shoulder?” he asked, sliding out of the booth. He must’ve seen her wince when she lifted her glass.
“Fly-fishing accident.” Julia winked. “Snagged an eighteen-pounder. Worst part is, he got away.”
Snyder snorted. He should’ve known better than to ask.
* * *
From an empty parking lot across the street, Allyson watched the doughy man in the leather jacket lumber out of the diner. He moved slowly, not like when he’d rushed inside moments before. He met someone inside, she thought. But who?
The answer came seconds after Snyder’s black Audi turned the corner and drove away. A slender woman with tan skin emerged from the diner, holding a cell phone to her ear. She’d slicked her sable hair into a tight bun, but Allyson recognized her immediately. She was the woman from the MI6 surveillance pic taken at the Singapore Zoo. In the photo, she was standing next to a man Allyson knew quite well—Marc Chen, Allyson’s missing officer.
The director had known Chen wasn’t dead when the Ngari blueprints showed up on her doorstep. The air base plans were top-secret PLA documents, and only Chen had that kind of access in China. His deep-cover placement as General Huang’s aide-de-camp was so sensitive that not even Barlow knew the details. The president would understand Allyson’s need for secrecy. The White House had too many leaks.
Officer Chen still hadn’t formally reported in since the outbreak, though. Was he working with this woman? Was she a source? Or maybe a handler? If Chen had turned—and he wouldn’t be the first American spy to switch sides—that could mean the Ngari air base plans were fake. Or maybe the PLA had discovered Chen was a double agent and fed him phony intel, hoping it would find its way into the president’s daily brief. Whatever the case, Officer Marc Chen was hiding something.
* * *
A horrid day
was quickly becoming a horrid week, Julia thought to herself as she slipped around the back of the diner. Working under the alias Kalina, she’d failed her last mission in Tibet and nearly died in the process.
The assassin had underestimated Grave and that female doctor. If not for the impenetrable tungsten plates sewn into the lining of Julia’s polyurethane bodysuit, the bullet would’ve sliced through her liver. She rubbed her shoulder. Her wrestling match with Grave had left her a little tender. Why hadn’t he finished her off? Was it possible he’d recognized her?
And what was Grave thinking, using TRIDENT to request an exfiltration from the TAR? Julia had found it fairly easy to slip out. She’d stolen a Roketa dirt bike from the abandoned PLA installation and ridden north on a mountain road to Changdu Bangda Airport. From there, a Spanish CASA CN-235 transport aircraft with a Pakistani crew had delivered her safely to Islamabad. A CIA jet bound for Washington was already on the tarmac, awaiting her arrival.
Julia had no intention of returning to that hellscape in Tibet, despite what she’d promised Snyder. By tomorrow morning, she’d be stretched out on a beach in San Pedro, enjoying her hard-earned vacation. Let Olen Grave burn, she thought. Let him burn like that pile of dead monks.
CHAPTER
49
Beijing, People’s Republic of China
“HANG ON, LADIES,” Olen said. “My boss is going to want more concrete evidence.” He planned to report everything he’d learned to Allyson as soon as they left Jin’s home. It wouldn’t be an easy task—he couldn’t exactly ring Fort Detrick from his hotel room—but he could pass a short written message to a cutout working with the U.S. embassy.
Still, though Jin’s story was juicy intel, it would only leave Allyson hungry for more. “Unless we can prove that Blood River virus was genetically engineered and released by the Chinese military, she’ll say all I’ve got is the word of a paranoid spy-doctor and her batty old aunt.” Olen turned to Jin. “No offense.”
Jin snorted. “You don’t know the half of it, honey.”
“He’s right,” Jo said. “We’ve got to have solid proof or Langley will just blow it off.”
Olen waited for Jo to speak the words. It was her call.
The doctor stood up. “We’re going to the Black Egg. That’s where Ru made BRV45. We’ll find the evidence we need there.”
“We’re just going to mosey into a heavily guarded military laboratory?” Olen challenged. “I don’t exactly blend in.”
“I’ll handle that,” Jo said dismissively. She locked eyes with her aunt. “Do you still have it?”
Jin was already floating into the great room.
Olen wasn’t surprised to see Jin tug on a Ming-era wardrobe to reveal a hidden door. He’d noticed an abnormality in the house’s floor plan when passing through the central courtyard. The walls didn’t line up. He’d thought maybe the woman had installed a panic room during the renovation.
With a light swat of Jin’s hand, the enormous antique swung weightlessly on a set of hinges, revealing a room the size of a freight elevator. Weapons of every deadly variety hung in neat rows from steel hooks. There must have been a hundred firearms, ranging from assault weapons to six-shooters.
“Add a few cans of low-sodium kidney beans and I’m ready for the end times,” Jin said.
Olen bypassed the high-powered sniper rifles and snub-nosed shotguns for something easier to conceal. He examined the collection of knives. Over his shoulder, he saw Jo sorting through a box of passports. A stack of colorful currency sat on the ledge beside her.
Olen emerged from Jin’s arsenal and found the woman sitting on the edge of a taut sofa. She pulled her shoulders back and stretched out her neck, like a royal posing for a portrait. A puff of white smoke lingered above her sliver spikes.
“I thought you didn’t smoke inside,” Olen said. Jin shrugged and looked away. He moved closer. “You weren’t planning to tell Jo that you recruited patient zero. Why not?”
“The world is a filthy place. My niece thinks it’s her job to clean it up. Some diseases can’t be cured.” She took another drag of her Baisha.
“Where will you go?”
Jin sighed. “I’m a loose end. It doesn’t matter where I go.” The old spymaster mashed the end of her cigarette into an expensive-looking coffee table as Jo emerged from the secret room.
“I saw that,” Jo scolded, pointing at the smoldering cigarette butt.
Jin tossed up her hands. “What can I say? You caught me.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Olen asked Jo, eyeing the brown duffel bag slung over the doctor’s shoulder.
“Are you?” Jo sounded defensive. She clearly had no choice in the matter. Whether she liked it or not, she was already involved. Her ex-husband had engineered the disease and her aunt had recruited patient zero. For Jo, this was now a family affair.
The virologist handed Olen a thick white envelope. “You’re an environmental systems engineer working for a Swiss company under a government contract. Docs, cash—it’s all there.”
“So, a WHO spy, basically.”
“Hey, it’s better than CIA. It’s enough to get you to Shanghai.”
Olen worried about using such a thin cover, but he didn’t let it show. “I’ve worked with less.”
Jo leaned over to kiss her aunt’s forehead. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”
The old woman smiled. “Do I look worried, Zhinü?”
“Shanghai’s a pretty big town. Where exactly is the Black Egg?” Olen asked.
The doctor was already marching toward the front door. “It’s this way,” she replied.
* * *
Senior recruiter Jin Meihui sat alone, squeezing her box of cigarettes. The package felt light in her palm. There was only one left. She reached inside and pinched the smooth round cigarette, comforted by its familiar shape and texture.
After Jo and the American left, Jin reconsidered her options. She had the means to disappear, just not the energy. She allowed herself a quiet moment to admire her elegant home. She’d saved for decades to create her little haven from the world’s ugliness. It had been foolish to think she could live out her sunset years in Beijing.
Jin slid the last remaining Baisha back into its crumpled box. She’d save it for later, she thought. One last lie.
The old woman never heard the man enter, but she knew he was there. Jin had been expecting him.
“You’re right on time,” she said to the seemingly empty room. A shadow flickered in the corner of her eye. “When we met three years ago—when I gave you Chang Yingjie—this wasn’t what I had in mind.”
Jin twisted in her chair to see a tall, handsome man in an olive-green military uniform standing in her doorway. He carried a pistol with a long-barrel silencer. As she looked into the man’s stone eyes, Jin’s disappointment overwhelmed her.
“You look so much older now, Lieutenant Wang.”
CHAPTER
50
Washington, DC, USA
THE CORRIDOR, LIT with harsh overhead fluorescents, was almost fifty feet underground. Tasteful art decorated the walls every twenty paces, complemented by the occasional potted ficus. The subterranean passageway running the length of Pennsylvania Avenue was convenient but rarely necessary. There were certainly more civilized ways to shuttle between the White House and Capitol Hill. At such an early hour, however, the president’s motorcade squealing through downtown Washington would have attracted too much attention. The Beltway media would’ve conjured hysterical explanations for Barlow’s predawn congressional confab. Ironically, none of them would’ve been as sensational as the truth.
Barlow strode shoulder to shoulder with Nathan Sullivan, sandwiched by two pairs of Secret Service bodyguards. The president spoke to his national security adviser in a lowered tone, his words barely audible above the rapping of a dozen black wing tips.
“If we’re even going to consider your plan, we’ve got to engage Congress,” Barlow argued.
“Mr. President, with all due respect, those grandstanding cretins will turn this crisis into a political football. You want a real disaster, then take this to Congress, but just know that they’re more interested in self-preservation than national security.”
“You’re right. The Senate could never bring this matter to the floor. That’s why we’re going through back channels. You may have noticed we’ve literally gone underground.”
The men turned a sharp corner, breezing through the passage in lockstep.
“The Senate Foreign Relations Committee may not want to hear what you have to say,” Sullivan said.
“Maybe not.”
“And there’s still that little problem.”
“Darlene.”
“Secretary Hart may no longer chair the committee, but she’s got powerful allies in this town.”
“I’m aware.” The president smiled. “I’m one of them.”
Sullivan paused, allowing Barlow to advance a few paces. “Do you remember Plebe Summer at the Naval Academy?”
“It’s hard to forget, my friend. You looked terrible with a buzz cut,” the president joked. The men had been assigned to the same squad on Induction Day.
The national security adviser grinned. “How about sailing lessons on those Lasers?”
“Sure, the one-man bottle caps. Those fuckers tipped over in a stiff breeze.”
“Our company commander sprung a surprise muster midway through one of our lessons,” Sullivan continued.
“Midshipman First Class Stephen Slaughter. Can you believe that was his real name?”
“He certainly did his best to live up to it.”
“What’s this all about, Nate?” Barlow began walking again, slowly, allowing Sullivan to catch up.
“Slaughter blew that goddamn whistle like it was the commandant’s cock, and our whole squad sailed back to the dock.”