by Hock G Tjoa
“In a month,” said Wang with a smirk, “we might have a new national emergency to deal with, or Mrs. Wen may have a crisis in her women’s club to manage, or Sister Shu may find another man.” He turned to continue toward the door.
“A month is a long time, old friend.”
“Has something changed your mind on this matter?”
“Let’s just say I have at last recognized the error of my ways, resisting the natural flow of life.”
“We could have told you that. In fact, we did.”
“Old friend,” Wang said. “I apologize, but I do not know how to give a short answer that explains a process that has taken me thirty years and captures the many events and lessons I have learned from friends, adversaries, and random meetings.”
Then he added with an impish grin, “A month is still a long time.”
10: THE JOURNEY TO THE WEST
(London)
“All right, let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?” said Britain’s head of intelligence, Penelope Cecil, addressing her top staff at Monday “prayers.”
This was their formal weekly meeting of all departments to review operations and new developments, held in their conference room. This room contained several large, flat-screen monitors for reviewing and monitoring operations, and nothing of a personal or decorative nature.
The Spymistress arrived at this position in the intelligence service less than a year ago after a stellar twenty-year career with the police which she joined a year after university. She had spent that year “finding herself,” months in a monastery in Sri Lanka, and then in Thailand, where she was reported to have pushed herself through a grueling course at a martial arts academy. As a result, she approached the in-fighting and bureaucracy of police work, at least in her first few years, with a serenity and detachment that unsettled her colleagues and seniors.
Two years after completing her police training, she went on assignment to break up a drug deal. After the resulting shootout, the police team rounded up the dealers and handcuffed them, but three bodyguards of the drug dealers somehow cornered the recruit, intending to use her as a hostage to make their escape.
Penelope stomped hard on the arch of her nearest assailant and kicked the second viciously in the groin. She then cart-wheeled toward the third, landing right in front of him. She smashed down on his gun with her hands locked and swung them back at his throat, smashing his windpipe. By the time her teammates realized what had happened; she had already cuffed the first two men and was cutting a small hole in the throat of the third, who was gasping for breath.
Five years later, she was called from her desk to lead a police team to assist MI-5 to contain a terrorist cell. As the police team arrived, the national police were busy putting cuffs and chains on the terrorists that had been contained. Suddenly, four of them managed to break away. Penelope kicked off her shoes and sprinted after one. He changed direction when he spotted a group of passersby. She changed course, aiming now for a point between him and the walkers as he pulled a grenade from his backpack and tossed it toward the civilians. Vaulting over a car, Penelope fielded the grenade like a shortstop in baseball and ran to the terrorist, who was rooted to the spot in amazement. She reached him in seconds, struck him in the throat, and with the same movement, jerked at the top of his shirt. She stuffed the grenade down his shirt and dove over a nearby parked car as it exploded.
After that episode, few in law-enforcement or intelligence, and no one at MI-5, ever failed to return her phone calls.
Now in her early forties, she exuded competence and confidence. Her strawberry blonde curls, cut to shoulder length, framed a heart-shaped face with a strong jaw that seemed out of place in an otherwise feminine and attractive woman, but which hinted at the strength of her determination to succeed. Her grasp of the details of her job and of any briefing was superb, but she was weak on names and, in order to avoid fumbling with those of her staff, often had them speak in open outcry or by going around the room. This day, open outcry was to be the mode.
“The Chinese are coming.” This announcement cut through all the others.
“What?”
“The Foreign Office has a request from the Chinese.”
“Yes?”
“Officially, the FO confirms that China’s top Finance Ministry officials are here for discussions with Treasury. Unofficially, a delegation of their spooks would like to meet with us.”
“Really? What do they want?”
“Well, their Spymaster himself is coming with his two top aides.” Whistles all around, but none from the two top deputies to the Spymistress, Reginald Straus and Malcolm Joyce. They had been respectively the top operative and the finest analyst in the organization until the organization promoted them two years ago to head up the administrative and analysis departments. They had met Wang before in the company of the previous chief of intelligence.
“Hm, does anybody have any idea what they want?”
“Well, ma’am, you know the Foreign Office. If theirs is anything like ours, they probably didn’t tell them, knowing what happens to information there.”
Murmurs of approval greeted this, including a clear statement that rang out. “Bloody black holes, that lot.”
“This room is secure, I hope.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, let’s be respectful, anyway. All right then, any guesses what the Chinese want?”
After a few seconds of silence, Joyce, the head of analysis, said, “Perhaps they don’t want anything.”
“You mean they want to give us something?” This was greeted by jeers as if it were during the Prime Minister’s question time on the floor of Parliament.
“The Spymaster kept good communications with your predecessor, ma’am, though his visits were usually very low-key. Perhaps he wants to meet you to see if the practice could continue.”
“And he is bringing his two deputies because?” Dead silence. Neither of the deputies wished to state the obvious.
The Head of Ops, Bruce Kiernan, an operative promoted recently despite his brusque manner, said, “Perhaps they believe that what they are coming to tell us is really important.”
“They think this is how to impress us?” There was attitude in this statement.
Kiernan gave his boss a disdainful look and said, “With respect, ma’am, what does it mean when a crime lord meets another with the deputies on board?”
“Hm, very good. I agree that that is a good working hypothesis, anyway. What’s the date and time of this meeting?” She looked at her senior ops manager, Ruth Lovell, who was the designated liaison with the Foreign Office.
“The message from the Foreign Office says the Chinese asked for an hour with you with the meeting to coincide with the beginning of the reception for their Finance Minister at the Chancellor’s. That would put it at 6 p.m.”
“Smart, all attention will be drawn to the Chancellor’s gathering. Where are we meeting them? Do they want to come here?”
“The meeting is scheduled for the Foreign Secretary’s office.”
“Whose idea was that?”
“It is not clear from the message from FO, ma’am. As I read it, there was no specific request from the Chinese Embassy.”
“Did the Chinese Spymaster not specify the location for their meeting?” Penelope Cecil did not hide her incredulity. They could have asked for a meeting at her office or at a safe house or…
“Is that room secure?” This was directed at the Head of Ops.
“I believe, ma’am, that hell would freeze over before the FO allowed that room to be anything but.” The rebuke was entirely in order if brusquely delivered. His chief looked at him stonily for a few seconds and continued evenly, “We must assume that the FO itself can, and therefore will, record the meeting.” The Chinese must surely expect as much, she thought. Perhaps they have a message for the FO as well.
“Will we need interpreters?” asked Lovell, the senior ops manager, whose specialty was the Midd
le East.
“Our intelligence reports that all three of them speak English well,” said one of the analysts.
“There is an unconfirmed rumor that Spymaster Wang spends two hours every night watching something in English or listening to it,” interjected Straus, head of administrative affairs, to the Spymistress. “The last time I met him, I got the distinct impression he had recently been listening to the BBC.”
“Very well, as there will be three of them, there should be three of us, unless we have an emergency of any sort. I want full dossiers on those three, everything we’ve got. Clear? Ops, anything to report?”
Monday prayers at British intelligence continued.
With dossiers on the Chinese Spymaster, the Administrator, and the Analyst in hand, the British Spymistress, her two deputies, and their respective aides had a comprehensive “curriculum vitae” of each of their counterparts. A similar exercise had taken place in China. The background information on each other would inform their discussions, but until the meeting in the Foreign Secretary’s office, the British had no inkling of what the Chinese had to say.
They canvassed the intelligence community in London, any of the spy networks that would talk to them on a high enough level. Using as a pretext the not-so-recent appointment of Ms. Cecil as the new head and her desire for a review, they had asked the Americans, the Israelis, the French, the Germans, and even the Russians for comment on intelligence activity around the world. They always made sure to insert a question regarding what the Chinese, among others, might be doing. They discovered nothing that helped them understand the nature of the pending visit.
In the ornate, middle-sized foyer to his office that served as the Foreign Secretary’s conference room, the two heads of intelligence and their deputies met. The news the Chinese brought stunned the British, although probably their first reaction, certainly not voiced, was, why tell us?
Wang also allowed his deputies to be questioned and did not direct their answers. He gave no thought to the impression this made on his British counterparts, struggling with a chief uncertain of her control over her staff. But even if he could or did, he would not have considered it any of his business. Chinese tradition firmly held that each family should manage its own affairs.
The message the Chinese delivered was simple: “We think there is a high probability that the Pashtuns are buying a nuclear device. This is an unacceptable proliferation of weapons with such power. We have found intelligence on six active arms dealers in Afghanistan or Pakistan within the past two weeks and are ready to share the details of their activities. We believe that we can manage only two of these sources or transfer-points of such a device. The others are beyond our capability.”
“What kind of nuclear device, exactly?” asked Ms. Cecil.
“We believe that the dealers are negotiating to sell a tactical weapon with the equivalent force of about ten kilotons of TNT, a briefcase bomb,” answered Analyst Tang.
“Why bring this information to us?” The British side finally asked the inevitable question. “We are no longer the world power we once were.”
“Because,” replied Administrator Hu, “you have a historic interest in this area, and because other than the Russians, you were the first to take us seriously as a nation.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“China does not want or expect you to do anything other than to protect your own interests,” Hu replied.
“Really?”
“Yes, and if you think we can help in any way, just ask us,” Tang added.
“Do you expect us to tell the Americans or anyone else?”
“We are not asking you to do something for us,” Tang replied. “But we expect that you will inform or otherwise work with your allies to protect your self-interest. This is what we ourselves would do.”
“Please understand,” Wang interjected for the first time, “that we make no judgment on what we anticipate the Pashtuns intend to do—to use the device as leverage in negotiations with Pakistan and Afghanistan over Pashtun unification. We have opinions on what they are trying to do and the means they have chosen, but China does not view them to be the enemy. The mandate to address that question lies with our Foreign Ministry. Our concern at the moment is only for the danger it poses to us and to other nations, should such weapons be in the hands of unknown and untested powers.”
Penelope thought this must surely be for FO consumption. The first forty-five minutes of the meeting passed in a flash with the rapid exchange of questions and answers. It was time for the deputies to exchange operational details regarding the arms deals and how the two agencies were to maintain communications. It was time to leave the two agency chiefs to their private exchange of views.
“We will have to review and digest this information,” said Strauss, the British deputy, as he left.
Wang smiled and replied, “I seem to recall one of you telling me a story about some long-forgotten war with the caution about those who come bearing gifts.”
“It was many years ago, and I was making small talk about my studies while at university,” confirmed Straus. “That remark was made originally about Greeks bearing gifts, and we do not mistake you for Greeks.”
“Well, please do not mistake this for a gift. We shall exchange gifts later if we should be so fortunate,” Wang said as he held the door open for the deputies to step out.
Penelope Cecil took this in with growing respect for her counterpart’s wit and grace as she poured out the drinks. “Do you still drink your single malt with water?”
“More water these days,” he replied with a smile.
“On days like this, with news such as this, I drink mine without water.”
Even though you prefer white wine, thought Spymaster Wang.
They toasted each other and drank in silence.
“So, where are the arms dealers from?”
“Dubai, Karachi, Kazakhstan, and Tehran.”
“That’s only four. Oh, right, you have the other two covered.”
“If you have information on more than these four suspects—our deputies are discussing the details even as we speak—we would be pleased to confirm if they are either of the two we believe we can handle ourselves.”
Cecil had difficulty grasping her counterpart’s motives. It did not seem possible that he was as he appeared to be, completely straightforward. She persisted, “What about the dealer in Kazakhstan? Isn’t that country an ally of yours through the SCO?”
Wang lifted his hands as if handcuffed and shrugged as he explained, “Yes, they are our allies, and the primary responsibility for maintaining that relationship is in the mandate of the MFA.”
Cecil nodded and said, “Ah, turf issues. Do you still play at mortal combat?”
Was that dig intended? Wang grimaced at the thought, then barked a short laugh and replied, “Ah, I gave that up last month. It was time to grow up.”
“Oh, you are not that old. My predecessor was old.”
The Spymaster nodded and said, “He grew old in that position. When I first met him, twenty years ago, he was a little younger than I am now, and I was then just starting out, an assistant filling in for a dying chief.” Wang reflected for a moment. “He was an honorable man and kind. He pointed out several areas where I might have otherwise blundered. I liked him.”
“I only met him two or three times as our paths rarely crossed. We would say he was ‘old school.’”
“The transition into this position has been smooth for you, I trust?”
“Oh, it feels so long ago that I left my previous job. This one feels like it’s been forever.”
“That makes me feel old!” Wang exclaimed with mock horror. “But you have a point. This business of ours is all-consuming. The weight of the world, as it were…”
“It is not only the danger of what we do and the weighty consequences of success or failure but also the lack of rules to guide our action that makes it so stressful. In police work, there is a fra
mework of laws and regulations within which to operate.”
Wang nodded like an uncle in sympathy with a niece in distress. “Most agencies still operate with something resembling a code of conduct even though it can be different for each country,” he said. “For instance, I believe we would both agree that it would not be ‘cricket’ for either of us to attribute any part of the conversation this evening to a specific party. But it is true that the agencies of a few countries don’t seem to have any code that outsiders can appreciate.”
“What will you do if we fail at what we attempt?”
“Whether you attempt and fail or don’t attempt at all, China will do what we can. If we all succeed, we will have limited the spread of these powerful weapons.”
“Whether we succeed or not, the Pashtuns may proceed on their path toward nationhood. If that is what they want, I do not foresee how anyone can stop them.”
“Their history has made it clear that when the Pashtuns are united behind a single cause, they are irresistible.”
“And no one wants to test them to find out if they have their talisman. How much time do we have, by the way?”
“We do not when or where this arms deal will be concluded,” Wang said. “It is possible we have two or three weeks if the goal is to stop the Pashtuns this time. The struggle to limit the spread of nuclear weapons probably has no deadlines.”
“Some of us,” said Penelope “may have to attend to the consequences of this separatist movement.”
11: THE DIRECTOR AND THE GENERAL
(London, two days later)
“I’m going to kill him!” the director of the CIA’s South Asia Desk bellowed.
He stormed out of the meeting that he and the U. S. Ambassador concluded with the British Foreign Secretary at the latter’s office.
It was the same office in which the British and Chinese spy chiefs and their deputies had met only two nights earlier. The object of David Corrigan’s outrage was the chief of the Pakistani Inter-Service Intelligence Agency, General Amir Khan, who had committed the terrible crime of withholding intelligence from his most valuable, that is to say generous, ally.