by Marc Cameron
“Sounds secret-agenty,” Sophie said.
“It was, a little,” Li said, his mind elsewhere. “It’s odd for a man of my age to be approached by an attractive woman . . .”
Sophie gave him a wary side-eye.
“Present company excepted.”
“Sounds like you have some disclosing to do right here at home, mister.”
Li kissed her on the nose, gave her boob a gentle squeeze, and then turned for the door, completely exhausted from a day and a half of flying, but driven to put this encounter aboard Torea behind him.
* * *
—
Dexter & Reed occupied sixty-two acres on three separate tracts, thirty miles north of Chicago. Each was parked out with jogging trails winding through greenbelts and wildlife sanctuaries between the massive brick-and-glass buildings. The Security and Human Resources departments were on the same campus as Li’s shop, but two buildings over. Isaac Santos met Li at the front doors to the main building, where Li’s office suite was located. The chief of D&R security wore a white hard hat, reflective safety vest, and lineman’s belt with assorted pole-climbing equipment. He was rolling down the sleeves of his denim shirt when Li walked up.
“Peter,” Santos said, shaking Li’s hand, eyeing him with the benign mistrust law enforcement held for everyone who wasn’t one of them.
“Isaac,” Li said. “Thanks for seeing me on short notice.” The security chief was a good enough guy. Approachable, always telling stories, less taciturn than what Li would have expected from a former FBI supervisory special agent with the counterintelligence squad in the New York Field Office.
“No worries,” Santos said. He nodded toward the budding hardwood trees that lined the main road to the employee parking lot. “I was out here anyway. Setting the trap for this bastard we’ve been watching for.”
It seemed a woman in Human Resources had gone through a bad breakup and her ex-boyfriend was threating to kill her—calls, texts, the whole nine yards. She’d moved to a secret location, but he knew where she worked. The courts had issued a restraining order, and then a warrant for his arrest, but pieces of paper offered little solace if he started blasting away in the employee parking lot. Little did the hapless guy know, the security division of D&R consisted primarily of retired FBI agents, Chicago PD detectives, and other former Feds. Every one of these men and women was prewired to swoop in and save people like the lady from HR.
“Honestly, Peter,” Santos said, hitching up his tool belt. “If I wasn’t such a law-and-order guy, I’d just take this guy out and shoot him. We can help her out here at work, but if he finds where she lives again . . . The coppers will only be minutes away when he comes to cave her skull in.”
“I hear you,” Li said.
“Anyhoo . . .” Santos leaned back against the wall of the elevator as he rode up with Li. “We’re ready for the bastard. Your average guy has no idea what kind of signals he’s trailing with his phone and vehicle. He comes anywhere near the parking lot and everyone on my team will get a text. Local law enforcement is already on alert.”
The elevator door opened on Li’s floor, revealing a flurry of activity in the computer labs. Good for the boss to see when he just popped by the office.
“So,” Santos said, following Li into his office. “On the phone, you said you had possible contact with a hostile foreign national. I’m going to have to get the Chicago Field Office involved. You okay with that?”
“I called you,” Li said, motioning toward the couch beside his desk so Santos could sit down.
“What do you think she wanted to know, this Kiwi reporter?”
“She was interested in my work,” Li said. “But she wasn’t specific.”
“What did she say in general, then?”
“She was probing. It seemed as though she knew quite a bit about what we do here.”
“How so?” Santos asked. “I mean, you don’t even have a Facebook page.”
Li raised an eyebrow.
“My job to know these things,” Santos said, answering the unspoken question. “Tell me why you think she knew so much about you?”
Li had spent most of the thirteen-hour flight from Auckland to L.A. pondering this very thing.
“She called me Doctor Li. I prefer no title at all, but virtually everyone who knows me calls me Admiral.”
Santos gave a contemplative nod. “A hell of a lot more difficult to earn that title.”
“I suppose,” Li said. “But everyone calls me Admiral—or Mr. Li—except here. This office is the only place anyone calls me Dr. Li. I’ve got a gut feeling she’s talked to someone else who works here.”
Santos gave a low whistle. “You work on some shit-hot projects. That said, we’re not exactly in a shooting war with New Zealand. You see her talking to anyone else?”
“I didn’t see her again after the contact,” Li said.
“Well,” Santos said. “I say we need to trust your gut. Do you trust your team?”
“They’re vetted,” Li said. “And I know them all by name. But it’s a big team, thirty-eight computer engineers working on six different projects. Most of them former military, but not all. We do our best to safeguard everything.”
“I’m sure you do,” Santos said. “But the enemy only has to find one little weakness to weasel their way in.” He groaned. “And there are a hell of a lot of enemies. Does everyone know about everyone else’s projects?”
“Much of what we do here overlaps,” Li said. “So yes, in general, everyone is up to speed on all the projects. We’re more productive that way. There are a few specifics of our Missile Defense Agency projects that are cordoned off for security reasons.”
Legs crossed on the couch, Santos tapped a pencil on the side of his leather boot as he thought.
“Did this lady ask about any of the projects specifically?”
“She mentioned communications and the Internet of Things.”
“Do you remember if she used the terms first, or did you?”
“She did,” Li said, knowing he was going to have to answer all these same questions again when the Bureau agents arrived.
Santos stopped tapping his pencil. “Does that narrow down which team might have leaked?”
“All our projects are communication projects.”
“Like encrypted data-links between devices,” Santos said. “For civilian companies and the military.”
“That’s correct,” Li said, not surprised Santos knew the details. The company executives trusted the man with their lives in some of the most dangerous parts of the world. They might as well trust him with information about their most lucrative contracts.
Santos leaned back in his seat, sighing. “Buddies in my old shop tell me the PRC is actively trying to get their hands on just the sort of thing you’re working on.”
“You think I’m a target because my parents were born in Taiwan?”
“Maybe.” Santos shrugged. “Or it could be a coincidence. Listen, it’s a shitty deal, but they’re going to have to look at any ties you may or may not have.”
“I know,” Li groaned, the jet lag catching up with him. He’d been through enough background checks on his way to admiral that he knew the drill. “That’s why I called you right away, Isaac.”
“The Bureau guys are going to ask you this, so you might as well be thinking about it. Is there anyone on your team you don’t trust?”
“They’ve all got top-secret clearances.”
“So did Aldrich Ames,” Santos said. “And a pile of other assholes who spied against the United States. That’s not the question.”
“Honestly, the only person who has access to every aspect of all the projects is me. I made sure of that. We have a saying where I used to work, Trust your buddy with your life, but not your wife. Well, I feel that way about these projects. We have a
ctive interface with some very sensitive systems. Software updates and patches, things such as that. I check everything personally before it goes out. I have sole access to the passcodes needed to push updates, but even I need a second in the room with me. There have to be two people logged in for the system to work.”
“Like a nuke on board a sub or ship?” Santos observed.
“The aircraft we push software to carry nuclear armament. So yes. That’s a good analogy.”
“Think hard,” Santos prodded. “Anyone you wouldn’t want to be in a dark room with? Some member of your team you feel hairy about?”
“No.” Li leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry.”
“There is one other thing,” Santos said, shifting uneasily in his seat. “The FBI is going to drill down on this much harder than I have.”
“That’s their job,” Li said.
“They’re going to want every minute detail, if you get what I’m saying.”
“I can only tell them what I know.”
Santos pursed his lips, looking Li directly in the eye. “What I mean, Peter, is that they are going to want to know everything you and this woman said—and did—to each other. It could get messy.”
Li laughed out loud. “I didn’t do anything.”
Santos stood with a groan. “Well, good. Then we should have no problem.”
“Seriously,” Li said. “You keep forgetting that I called you. And anyway, I’m a little too old and too smart to bump uglies with some strange girl who propositions me at the same time she’s asking me about my top-secret government project.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Santos said. “It’s simple biology. A man will follow an erection into places he wouldn’t venture with a loaded shotgun.”
“Well,” Li said. “Not me.”
Santos chuckled. “Says the fifty-four-year-old guy who’s having a kid.”
23
As usual, reporters lined up behind the barricade, waiting for Ryan to walk out to Marine One. Jakarta was a long way away, even on Air Force One, and there was no point in going before his advance team and all the vehicles arrived. In any case, Ryan still had a country to run, which included a trip to address members of the North Atlantic Council visiting the United Nations in New York from NATO headquarters in Belgium. NATO countries usually had Russian aggression on their minds, but Ryan intended to keep his ears open for anything to do with China. There was always scuttlebutt, if one knew where to look. The UN was sovereign ground, but it was anything but neutral.
Van Damm stopped him in the Oval as he was getting ready to leave. As a rule, he liked to be empty-handed when he walked to the White Top. He was certain the media gaggle had a pool on when he’d turn to wave and fall on his face. There was a divot in the South Lawn, small, but large enough to catch the toe of his shoe if he wasn’t careful. His body man had his briefcase, and he, along with Gary Montgomery and the other agents who were traveling with him, were already on board Marine One. Ryan would be the last to board.
“What’s going on here, Arnie?” he asked. “You and I both know Pat West is an innocent pawn in some Chinese scheme to get their hands on some AI technology. I’m ready to kick the shit out of Chairman Zhao and let the chips fall where they may.”
“Are you done?” van Damm asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s okay to feel that way, but you need to get it out of your system before you walk past that pack of reporters. They are ravenous for a bloody story—and half of them would prefer it was your blood.”
“I have the most powerful military in the world,” Ryan said. “A military that commands the land, the air, and the sea, at my fingertips. I have sophisticated satellites to study the dimples on golf balls from high above the earth, talented spies who could inveigle the wiliest soul—and yet I sit here, unable to do anything to help my friend.”
“I know,” van Damm said. “Have a pleasant trip, Mr. President. Senator Chadwick has asked to see you again, but I told her you’re too busy at the moment.”
“No,” Ryan said, drawing a look of astonishment from his chief of staff. “Marine One to Andrews, Air Force One to Manhattan, motorcade to the UN, that’s an hour altogether. Two hours on the ground, plus the return trip. Tell her I’ll be back in four hours. In the meantime, I want an update on Father Pat’s status while I’m in the air.”
“Yes, sir,” van Damm said. “We will help him, Mr. President. It’s just going to take some time.”
“You’re damn right we’ll help him,” Ryan said. “If I have to find John Clark and walk up to the prison door with a couple of ax handles and bust him out ourselves.”
“Again,” van Damm said. “Something you might not want to mention in front of the press.”
24
The three Asian cuties were not regulars at the Boondock Bar, but neither was Major Goodloe “Oh” Schmidt, United States Marine Corps. Tucked in off Kalakaua Avenue and within spitting distance of Waikiki Bay, Boondock’s was Schmidt’s kind of water hole. It was loud, with lots of buddies to watch his back, and an abundance of handsome women. Schmidt was relatively short and completely bald at thirty-seven years old.
Major Reed “Skeet” Black, Schmidt’s classmate from the Naval Academy, stood at the bar with him, nursing a Hefeweizen. His sandy hair was cut short. A hint of a Celtic tattoo encircled his right biceps and peeked from the sleeve of his Rogue CrossFit T-shirt. Schmidt couldn’t stand wheat beer, but it was good to see his old buddy, so he kept his feelings to himself. The men had gone to flight school together, then Hornet school in Pensacola. Both had seen action in Iraq and Afghanistan, and then run Tomahawk Chase—following cruise missiles after they’d been fired from Navy ships and submarines. Schmidt had gone back to Pensacola to pass on his knowledge to the new “studs”—what he and the other instructors called students—while Skeet Black rushed and won a coveted slot in the Navy’s Flight Demonstration Squadron, better known as the Blue Angels. Eventually, both men ended up in the seat of F-35B Lightnings, Schmidt testing Naval ordnance at China Lake—and Skeet working for the Marine Corps’ F-35 program out of the Pentagon.
They were both still flying airplanes when most pilots their age and rank were flying desks. That said something.
Two weeks earlier, they’d been temporarily assigned to the CVN 76, the USS Ronald Reagan, for some secret mission for which they’d yet to be briefed. Two Lockheed Martin F-35Bs, capable of short takeoff and vertical landing, STOVL, were assigned along with them. Sometimes the Marine Corps did things that way for OPSEC, or operational security, reasons.
Like Skeet would ever divulge any secret. You had to talk to do that, and Skeet Black wasn’t much of a talker. That was fine with Schmidt, because he preferred to do most of the conversing.
The problem was that the girls who were crowded around the wicker bar seemed to be even more turned on by his silence than they were by Schmidt’s war stories.
“You fly jets?” the girl nearest Schmidt asked, grinning like a gap-toothed Lucy Liu.
“I’m a pilot, yeah,” he said, giving Lucy one of his patented grins. He’d locked in on her from the beginning. She wasn’t drop-dead beautiful, but cute like a farm girl, a little bit out of her element at the bar—exactly what Schmidt preferred. She said she and her friends were college students at U of H Manoa. All of them were from California. All of them second-generation Americans from Taiwan. Flawless English with plenty of idioms—check. He’d approached her at the bar, not the other way around—check. Not too hot—check. Schmidt had a super-cool job, but his looks were more Goose than Maverick and he knew it. All that tallied up to the girls being friendlies. In truth they were a little young for him—but he was sure as hell thinking like a young man—which was to say not thinking very much at all.
Skeet just sipped his beer and shook his head in that amused and slightly disgusted way of his.<
br />
“That must be so dangerous,” the girl said, clicking her glass against his. “What kind of plane?”
“The fast kind,” Schmidt said, grinning again.
“Have you ever had to punch out?”
Schmidt took a drink of his second Jack and Coke of the evening. He always stopped at two before switching to beer. “You mean eject? Hell, no. I get on something to ride it, I stay on for the duration.”
Gap-toothed Lucy grinned coyly at that. “You must go all over the world.”
He gave a humble nod. “We see some cool stuff.”
She moved closer, shoulder to shoulder, pushing him sideways a little. “Like, what do you see?”
“Stars, ocean, people who want to kill us.”
“Do you ever have to fly at night?” one of the other girls asked. “I think that would be a deal-breaker for me.”
“It’s not bad at all,” Schmidt said. “The ship leaves a glowing trail behind it. Kinda beautiful, to be honest.”
She touched his chest with the tip of her index finger, running it down a couple of inches. “How’d you get your nickname? ‘Oh’?”
Schmidt raised an eyebrow. “You know . . . ‘Oh, Schmidt!’ . . . sounds like . . .”
Lucy smiled, finally getting it, air-toasting with her fruity drink. “Do you guys fly together?”
“Sometimes,” Schmidt said.
“How do you keep from running into each other in the air?”
He leaned over so they were forehead to forehead. She smelled good, like Dentyne spearmint and Red Door perfume. “That is some secret shit,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be talking about my plane.”
She grimaced. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to get you in trouble. You think anyone heard?” She turned to Skeet. “How about you,” she asked. “You’re a pilot, too?”
Skeet nodded. “I am,” he said, all cool and Gary Cooper–like. The bastard.