by Marc Cameron
She looked sideways, playing dumb. “I did let you know. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“These things must be timely,” Huang said, almost whining. “You and I. We must be timely. You do not understand what sort of people my superiors are.”
She glanced sideways as she ran, wondering if he was getting his ass chewed because of her. She sure hoped so.
“Look,” Chadwick said. “I called you. Doing what you’ve asked me to do . . . It’s hard, you know? I’m not a traitor.”
“Of course you aren’t,” Huang said. “We both agree that this President and his administration are bad for the country . . . bad for the world. His hawkish policies are causing conflict, not calming it. He is a habitual bully, and not just in the South China Sea but in the Baltics, Iran, Cameroon, North Korea . . . I could go on and on.”
Chadwick thought about the list of professional bullies he’d just ticked through, but didn’t say anything.
“We are not asking you to betray your country,” Huang continued. “If anything, we are asking you to save your country.”
“A coup?”
“If you like,” Huang said.
“Are you going to . . . ?”
Huang laughed. “Assassinate Jack Ryan? No, nothing like that. He will shoot himself in the proverbial foot. Our aim is to let the world see him for who he is. How is that wrong?”
Chadwick glared at him. “You’re using a sex tape to leverage me. That sounds pretty wrong in anybody’s book.”
Huang stopped. “Michelle . . .” He touched her elbow so she would stop, and then stepped back to give her space. “I am truly sorry about that part. Hurting you was . . . regrettable.”
She sneered. “Let’s just not . . . Okay.” She threw her hands up. “Fine. Here you go, then. I don’t know the details, but he has decided to go to Indonesia.”
Huang started jogging again, a little slower now. “How did he respond when you told him about your constituent with information on the priest?”
Chadwick shrugged. “He was interested.” She felt dizzy, like she was about to throw up. But she kept running. She wasn’t about to let this bastard see her weak—not again, anyway. “Of course he wants more information, but I told him it was an anonymous call.”
“What are his plans when he’s in Indonesia?”
“He didn’t share that with me,” Chadwick said. “He’s got the Department of State involved. I’d guess they’re working on inducements for the Indonesian government. Economic leverage, arms sales, low-interest loans. You know, the kind of inducements that don’t involve incriminating video.”
Huang ignored the gibe.
“Anyway,” Chadwick said. “It sounds like Ryan and the padre go all the way back to their time in high school. I’m sure he’d like to carpet-bomb the hell out of the country until they hand over his friend, or at least threaten sanctions, but strong-arming the president of Indonesia would only make him look like a bully. I saw Scott Adler in his office, but that’s not exactly earth-shattering intel that the secretary of state is visiting the Oval.”
“True enough,” Huang said. “What else?”
“To be honest,” Chadwick said, “Ryan doesn’t share shit with me. He wants to believe I’m ready to play nice—just like you predicted—but his chief of staff doesn’t trust me to take out the trash, let alone get close to the President. I get the distinct impression the big goon who runs his Secret Service detail would like to shoot me between the eyes. I can’t keep bringing them these reports from anonymous constituents to get me into the West Wing. This relationship you want me to build will take time.”
“Unfortunately,” Huang said, “there are matters at play that necessitate quicker action. We know Jack Ryan has a temper. What we need is for him to be angry so he makes a mistake. Something that would make him very angry . . .” He glanced at his watch, then dug a cell phone from his fanny pack. She was right about the pistol. Bastard.
Huang turned away to keep his conversation private, but she was able to catch the number over his shoulder as he punched it in with his thumb. She’d always had a better-than-average memory, and she tucked the number away in the back of her mind for later use. It would likely be a prepaid burner—the one Huang used now was a cheap flip phone that looked like it belonged to a gangbanger—but even that number might come in handy in the future.
Huang spoke in rapid Mandarin. Hushed at first, the conversation rose in volume as it continued, as though he was excited about the prospects of what Chadwick had told him.
He finished the call and then turned to her again, returning the phone into his fanny pack with the handgun.
“I need you to contact Ryan first thing this morning—as soon as you get to your office. Tell him you have received another call from your constituent. Tell him that Indonesian courts have convened a secret tribunal to convict Patrick West of blasphemy.”
“Have they?”
“They will,” Huang said. “And then add that you understand they found a considerable amount of heroin at the time of his arrest.”
Chadwick just stared at him, dumbstruck.
He shrugged. “I suppose religion is not the only opiate of the people.”
“Heroin?” Chadwick said, finding her voice. “You do realize Indonesia has the death penalty for drug smugglers.”
“I am afraid they do,” Huang said, his mind obviously thinking through the logistics of the plan to incite Jack Ryan to action rather than the consequences of that plan to West. “I’ll have someone playing the part of your constituent leave a message on your office voicemail. That way the FBI will have something to find. The number will be untraceable.”
“This is worse than blackmail,” Chadwick said. “You would murder an innocent priest to further China’s agenda?”
“I would not,” Huang said. “But the men I work for would do so without hesitation.”
Huang stared at her with hard, gimlet eyes, leaving no doubt in Chadwick’s mind that he would be the one to murder her if she crossed him—or even if she didn’t.
His gaze softened, as if he knew he’d let his true intentions slip. “You have done well.” He turned west toward the vehicles and began to jog again. “I need to get back so I can make some more calls.”
Chadwick fell in beside him, wrestling over what to say next.
“Was there something else?” he asked, as if reading her mind.
“A couple of things,” she said.
“See”—Huang gave her a smiling nod, slowing just enough to hold a conversation in relative ease—“this is how it should work. You pass along bits of intelligence as you get them, and I interpret them. The information you glean in the White House is of vital importance, Michelle. You know as well as I do that the world will be a much safer place without Jack Ryan.”
“I can’t say that I disagree,” Chadwick said, mulling over the Espionage Act, the statute the Department of Justice used to indict spies. An unseen fist grabbed her gut and twisted. She stared down at her feet as they hit the paved path. “I understand,” she said. “And I’ll do what I need to do—but I’m doing it for me, not for China.”
“Laudable,” Huang said. “Now, let’s have that other information . . .”
35
Lucky Optical occupied the western half of a low whitewashed block building that contained only two businesses. Tucked back from the street less than half a mile from the airport, it was relatively modern, with a tile roof instead of tin like many of the other businesses in the area. The sign for a specialty meat shop that had once occupied the space next door said it sold everything from fruit bat to “fine-hair” meat—meaning dog. Dusty windows and an empty showroom said it had been vacant for a while.
Lucky Optical closed at five-thirty, according to its website, giving Clark and the team very little time to get in place beforehand.
Jack Junior and Midas jimmied a window in the vacant meat shop and sat down to wait for everyone from Lucky Optical to go home. Clark went inside for a little recon. He asked for a tiny screw for his reading glasses. A nice lady at the reception desk put the screw in for him while he scanned the interior for motion sensors, contact strips, and control panels—and anything else that might indicate an alarm system or booby trap. The single CCTV camera was tilted toward the ceiling and would get a shot of nothing but light fixtures, if it worked at all. It had likely been installed by the previous tenants and never removed.
Caruso parked at the end of the street, behind the thick sawblade leaves of some pandanus trees that ran beside the scooter dealership. Clark drove a block away in the other direction.
The team had their earpieces in again, relying on radios now instead of cell phones so they could all be on the same page.
The chubby eye doctor left first, followed by two female assistants who looked half his age. The woman who’d helped Clark with his glasses—probably the office manager—was the last to leave. She locked the door and then rode away on a scooter, paying no attention at all to the strange bunch of Toyotas lurking in her neighborhood.
“You are clear to go,” Clark said. “I’ll get Gavin on the line so he can talk you through what you need to do.”
36
You have any idea what’s going on?” Special Agent Mo Richardson said when she met Gary Montgomery at the Secret Service post inside the north door to the West Wing, between the front portico and the press briefing room. She gave a polite nod to the Uniformed Division officer, a slender African American woman she sometimes worked out with in the dojo.
“I’m not sure,” Montgomery said. His brow creased in a grim line, like he was fighting a headache—a frequent occurrence in this job. “We were running AOP scenarios when I got the call.” AOP meant Attack on the Principal. PPD conducted frequent drills at their training facility in Beltsville, imagining assaults from every conceivable venue—water, motorcycle, rope line, even explosive drones. There was a full-scale mockup of the Ryan house in Maryland that saw frequent use by the Secret Service Counter Assault Team and Anne Arundel County Special Operations Response Team. Mo had been conducting a walk-through and AOP drill of her own with the agents she’d handpicked for the Ann Arbor trip, using a mat room in the Secret Service gym to tape off the floor plan of the Kellogg Eye Center.
“It’s not like we don’t have anything to do,” Mo groused.
“I know what you mean,” Montgomery said. “Van Damm wasn’t exactly forthcoming with specifics. All I know is that POTUS wants to see us both.”
“Does he call you in like this very often?”
Montgomery gave a halfhearted shrug. “More than I thought he would, yes,” he said. “I’ve never had a protectee ask my opinion as much as this one. How about the Mrs.?”
“The same,” Mo said. “To be honest, it’s hard not to get too close.”
Montgomery chuckled. “Yeah, the boss and I had to have ‘the talk’ not long after I came aboard. He’s a good guy.”
Richardson paused outside the door to the secretaries’ suite adjacent to the Oval and turned to face Montgomery. “You ever wish you’d worn a different shirt when you get called over last-minute like this?”
“You look fine, Mo.”
“I was talking about you,” she said. “You have a little bit of mustard right . . .”
He glanced down and caught her grinning. “You little turd.” He motioned her in, but checked his shirt again just in case. “After you.”
“Thanks,” Mo whispered. “I hear the second guy through the door is the most likely to get shot.”
Betty Martin waved the two agents into the Oval Office immediately. Again, Montgomery let Richardson lead the way. Both stopped just inside the door, getting the lay of the land and waiting to be told if they were supposed to sit down or just offer a quick update and leave.
President Ryan, who was seated in his favorite chair by the fireplace, stood when they came in, prompting the others in the room to do the same.
“Mo, Gary,” Ryan said, gesturing toward the sofa to his left. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Richardson scanned the faces in the room. None of them provided an answer to what the meeting was about. Arnie van Damm and Mary Pat Foley sat on the couch to Ryan’s right, along with the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. On the couch across from them sat Director Howe of the Secret Service. The President directed them to sit next to their boss. In the chair beside Ryan sat an Asian man Mo had never seen before. Her focus rested immediately on him, since he was the only unknown in the room.
Clean shaven, he was in his mid-thirties. His hair was medium length, just over his ears, long enough that he would look well groomed if he combed it or rakish if he mussed it a bit. He sat up straight, but not on the edge of his seat, a relaxed pose for someone visiting the Oval Office. His suit was modest, not too expensive, not new, but nice enough if he wasn’t trying to impress anyone or get himself noticed—a rarity in the White House, where everyone was trying to make their mark.
That was it. He had the kind of eyes that Maureen would have passed right over in a crowd when she worked protection. Nonthreatening eyes. This guy didn’t want to be remembered.
He had to be CIA.
Ryan nodded at the DNI, giving her the go-ahead once everyone was seated.
“I’ll get right to it, then,” Foley said. “By virtue of your positions, the two of you are, as you Secret Service guys like to say, worthy of trust and confidence. Both of you have Top Secret SCI security clearances.”
Foley glanced at Ryan, then back at the two agents, as if she were uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was heading. “It goes without saying that the things we are about to discuss have to stay within the room.”
“Of course,” Richardson said.
Ryan gestured to the Asian man seated next to him.
“Mo, I’d like you to meet Adam Yao, with CIA. He’s done some incredible work. Saved a hell of a lot of lives.”
Yao gave a half-smile, squirming slightly, as the compliment put him in the limelight. Richardson couldn’t tell if he was just being modest or if he wasn’t comfortable being introduced by his real name—if Adam Yao truly was his name.
Richardson found herself wondering what was coming next. She assumed this had something to do with the First Lady’s trip. Still, she was a protector, not a spook.
“Adam,” the President said. “Would you be so kind as to bring Special Agent Richardson up to speed?”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Yao said. He leaned forward and picked up a dark blue folder from the coffee table between the couches, taking out a stack of eight-by-ten photographs and passing them to everyone present. “We believe General Song is traveling to the United States with this man, Tsai Zhan, as his minder. Tsai’s job is to make sure Song stays on the straight and narrow. Sources say he reports unofficially to Song’s immediate superior, General Bai.”
Richardson studied the photograph. “What’s Mr. Tsai’s story?”
“He’s former Oriental Sword,” Yao said. “PLA Special Operations forces—their version of Spetsnaz. He has a considerable amount of training. He did something to his knee fast-roping out of a chopper, so he’s been with Department Two for eleven years now. He specializes in internal security. Spying on the spies, as it were. Nothing confirmed, but we believe he’s done quite a bit of off-the-books work for General Bai.”
“What sort of off-the-books work?” Montgomery asked.
“He’s not in Bai’s official chain of command,” Yao said. “But he keeps everyone in line.”
“Like the whip on a protection detail,” Montgomery noted.
“Basically,” Yao said. “But more nefarious—threats, blackmail, things such as that. Think of him as Bai’s pe
rsonal provocateur.”
Richardson held up the photo for a closer look. “Do you believe he’s a threat to Mrs. Ryan?”
“Not directly,” Yao said. “All the intel we have suggests he’s just coming along as a minder—like the old KGB political officers that used to keep their military brass in line.”
“I have two Mandarin speakers coming with me on the detail. Can I give them the photo so they’ll know who to look for?”
DNI Foley nodded. “Of course. We’ll provide you photos of everyone in General Song’s entourage. But you shouldn’t divulge specifics about Tsai, or CIA’s interest in him. Just say he’s someone who needs to be watched.”
“That works,” Mo said.
“Though he’s not likely a danger to the First Lady,” Yao said. “He could well pose a serious threat to her mission. Tsai is slimy. And since he’s working directly for General Bai, who apparently hates everything about General Song, he will, as they say, be all up in the man’s business.”
“Okay . . .” Richardson said, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Yao glanced at the President, then sat back in his chair. “That’s why I need to be placed on the First Lady’s detail.”
“Excuse me?” Richardson said.
Secret Service Director Howe spoke up. “We will provide Officer Yao with a lapel pin designating him as cleared by the Secret Service. The rest of your detail will believe he’s part of the necessary hospital staff, and the staff will believe he’s an agent with your detail.”
“That’s awfully dangerous, sir,” Richardson said. “If he does anything hinky, it won’t matter if my team thinks he’s staff or not . . .” She looked directly at Yao. “If they see what they deem to be a threat—”
Yao shook his head. “I won’t be armed.”
“Well,” Richardson scoffed. “We will be.”
“Mo,” Director Howe said, “you and your team focus on Dr. Ryan. Officer Yao will see to Mr. Tsai.”
Richardson took a deep breath, letting the idea settle in. “What exactly does that mean? ‘See to Mr. Tsai’?”