“That’s plenty. How does he handle her California visits?”
“They stay at the Ritz. Phony names. He pays in cash.”
“Poor Lily. Are they still living together?”
“He moved out a week before she filed for divorce.”
“Is it final?”
“Not yet. But it must be close.”
“Any details in the court papers?”
Harry lays a document on the coffee table. “Irreconcilable differences.”
“I guess that covers it. Where’s she living?”
“A small house in Kensington.” Harry hands Brannigan a Desert Sun article. “As for his mother, forget the hospital. Check the date. She was playing golf when we were blown off the tracks.”
Brannigan smiles at the photo of Dickie’s mother. She’s hoisting an award above her head. “Mrs. C is looking good. Her trophy is bigger than the Ryder Cup.”
“It’s for the best gross in her age group.”
“Maybe she’s a fast healer.”
Harry opens a purloined copy of Mrs. Chang’s medical records. “Before his mother could heal, she needed an illness. She doesn’t have any. Her last hospitalization was two years ago. Even that was a nothing deal—a single-day admission for a bladder infection.”
“Why would he lie about his mother’s health? The trip would’ve been a good excuse to see his girlfriend.”
“Don’t know. I’m looking into that.”
“Where did the lovebirds meet?”
“Tsinghua University. She was promoting a novel.”
“Do you have any pictures?”
Harry spreads a half dozen across the couch. Brannigan lingers over the two close-ups. “Ms. Qin is drop-dead gorgeous.”
“I thought you’d be impressed.”
“What do you know about her politics?”
“Party member but not an active one. She’s not afraid of speaking her mind. Three years ago she had a dustup with state censors and spent a night in jail.”
“Are the Reds blackmailing him?”
“Wrong team.”
“Taiwan?”
“No.”
“I give up.”
“He’s spying for the CIA.”
“Against China?”
“It looks that way. I was suspicious—”
“That he was a spy?”
“Espionage never entered my mind.”
“What were you worried about?”
“That he might be conspiring with competitors. Selling our bidding strategies, client lists, or design documents. Something like that.”
“Is he?”
“No. He’s a spook, not a crook.”
“How did you find out about his undercover work?”
“Solid prep and a bit of luck.”
“Walk me through it.”
“The whole thing?”
“Yeah. That way if you ever target me, I’ll know what to expect.”
“You’re not serious?”
“What goes around comes around.”
“I would never—”
“Someone else might.”
“I had the hotel preassign our block of rooms. We installed listening devices in his suite before he arrived. The first night he made our job easier by hanging his dress shoes outside the door. We bugged the heels and threw in the free shine. I reentered his room during your opening meeting and took care of his loafers.”
“Did you bring the recordings?”
“They aren’t helpful. He didn’t meet anyone in his room and his calls were unrelated. His shoes would’ve worked, but he wore hotel slippers to his meeting.”
“How did you track him?”
“Our low-tech surveillance paid off. Three of our women posed as housekeepers. They trailed him once he entered the hallway.”
“What time was his meeting?”
“4:00 a.m. On the dot.”
“Did he know about the bugs?”
“I doubt it. But his pals are a cautious bunch.”
“Get to the spying part.”
“We took pictures of his handlers leaving the hotel.”
Harry places a folder next to the Qin Fong glossies. Brannigan opens the front cover and works his way through a stack of black-and-white photos. “These are two shifty-looking dudes.”
“Both are DC-based. The guy in the turtleneck is Charlie Lassiter. He’s an Asia expert at the Department of Energy. Jimbo Gordon is the other guy. He’s a CIA case officer who babysits American spies in China. Lassiter evaluates Dickie’s intelligence. Gordon’s job is to keep their asset alive.”
Brannigan walks to the window at the far end of his living room. He knocks off several connectors when he forcefully parts the curtain. “We’ll lose our Chinese business. What am I saying? All our clients will dump us.” He’s looking down at the traffic on East Seventy-Eighth Street. “Did he have advance knowledge of the attack?”
“I had the same question.”
“What’s the answer?”
“It’s possible.”
“Can you find out?”
“I’ve been trying.”
“Who would know?”
“Officially, no one.”
“Can you back-channel?”
“That’s what I’ve been doing.”
“At the Bureau or the Company?”
“Both.”
“If they shared their intercepts with him—”
“I’ll give it my best shot.”
“Dickie must understand the stakes.”
“He knows the Reds play for keeps.”
“What’ll they do if they figure things out?”
“Sprinkle gelsemium in his latte.”
Brannigan punches the wall. “That assumes I don’t kill him first.”
CHAPTER 24
HER EMAIL CAME out of the blue.
Dear Michael
We transferred Kylie to a Sydney hospital.
I’ll be staying with her for the indefinite future.
Thanks again for visiting us in Hong Kong.
Marielle
The Ryans hadn’t contacted Brannigan since he left China. Each passing week strengthened his belief that he wouldn’t hear from them again. After receiving Marielle’s message, he wishes he hadn’t. He’s read it several times and can’t come up with a positive slant. Kylie is still an inpatient. Her mother’s relocation and use of the word “indefinite” sound ominous. Worst of all, Kylie didn’t send the letter. He presumes she’s mentally impaired and can’t communicate on her own.
This is Brannigan’s second day Down Under.
Yesterday he strolled through Sydney’s parks, walked across the Harbour Bridge, and explored the Kirribilli Peninsula. Today he’ll accomplish what brought him here—visiting Kylie in the hospital. Seeing her will answer all his questions.
He was headed back to the Far East anyway. He’ll begin his Chinese consulting job the day after he leaves Australia. It was on the books before the Silk Road trip. He had to decommit because of his injuries. Working at Three Gorges Dam is a plum assignment. Its plant generates more hydroelectricity than any other facility in the world. He’ll also be able to catch up on his sleep. The dam is in Hubei Province, a thousand kilometers upriver from Shanghai. In the “Land of Fish and Rice,” the farmers in are in bed by dusk.
He consulted at Three Gorges Dam before.
Those projects were successful and the Chinese were pleased with his work. But he knows that doesn’t mean much going forward. He’ll be persona non grata if the Reds learn about Dickie’s activities.
A phone call from the dam heightened his concerns. Calling his unpublished home number was bad enough. The tenor of the discussion was worse.
It began, “May I speak to Mr. Brannigan?”
“This is Michael.”
“Please speak louder.”
The caller was cold and impersonal. His Chinese-accented English was impeccable. Brannigan wondered if he was speaking to a marketeer pitching a Chi
natown dating service, or something even more oh là là.
“Is this loud enough?”
“That’s fine. Are you alone?”
“Yes.” Brannigan was already down in the dumps. He felt worse knowing he was describing his life, not just the head count in his apartment. “What can I do for you?”
“Serve as my consultant at Three Gorges Dam.”
He wasn’t able to place the voice. “Have we worked together?”
“No. But hopefully that’s about to change.”
“How do you know about me?”
“My predecessor hired you.”
Brannigan notified the utility’s HR department about the train wreck, his injuries, and not being able to start on time. When they didn’t call back, he assumed they hired a replacement.
“Sorry about the delay.”
“Are you back at work?”
“Yes. When should I come?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Same assignment as before?”
“We’ll discuss that when you arrive.”
“What’s your name?”
“Zhou Rong.”
“Anything else, Mr. Zhou?”
“Don’t discuss this assignment with anyone else.”
“As in no one?”
“Correct. Not even your own people.”
Brannigan vented out loud after he hung up. “Don’t tell my staff. About what? That I’m flying to China without knowing why? They would think I had a screw loose.”
The Chinese haven’t mentioned Dickie’s undercover escapades.
Brannigan discussed the situation with Harry Dyer. He doesn’t think the Reds are aware of Dickie’s snooping and lobbied to keep him in the fold. “If you fire him, the commies will smell a rat. They’ll poke around till they find out why he was let go.”
Brannigan was willing to concede the point but not the argument. “I still want to give him the boot.”
“Don’t terminate him now. That would anger the CIA and FBI— especially if it helps China uncover what they’re doing.”
“I can’t live with this secret agent business.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“We don’t need one. There’s a simpler solution.”
“Is it foolproof?”
“That word isn’t in my vocabulary.”
Brannigan scheduled a stopover on his way to Sydney.
He landed in San Jose and made an unannounced visit to Global’s California office. His goal was to defuse things with Dickie and avoid firing him. He isn’t entirely sold on Harry’s recommendation but values his opinion. He knows it’s based on realpolitik, and not on empathy.
That leg of his journey was a waste of time. Chang was absent and hadn’t told his secretary what he was doing. A Global engineer—one of the company’s Chinese hires—succumbed to some mild arm-twisting and enlightened Brannigan about Dickie’s whereabouts. Chang was in Palo Alto recruiting engineering students for the university.
The plane ride to Sydney was uneventful.
He fell asleep reading a history of the Peloponnesian War and felt rejuvenated when he woke up. But being rested hasn’t improved his mood. His upcoming visit with Kylie has him on edge. He expected Marielle to mention her daughter’s health during their email exchange. Instead, her last correspondence was even less informative than the first. All he learned was the name of the hospital, the time he should visit, and that she wished him a safe trip.
Every day he thinks about tapping his best source. He went further two weeks ago and dialed Kylie’s cell number. Nothing came of it. Even after chugging a couple of beers, he didn’t have the courage to hit the call button.
He thought her facility was in downtown Sydney. Last night he learned Liverpool Hospital is thirty kilometers west of the city. “Why so far out?” he asked the concierge.
“It’s the largest medical center in the southern hemisphere. The city couldn’t shoehorn something that big into the CBD.”
Brannigan exits the Sir Stamford Hotel and stands under the Macquarie Street canopy. The doorman is helping an elderly guest enter the building. Once the woman and her shopping bags are safely inside, Brannigan gives him a tip.
“Thank you, sir. That’s very generous. How can I assist?”
“Where can I buy a bouquet fit for the Queen?”
Brannigan unfolds a street map. The doorman prints a name on the margin and circles an intersection. “This is the place you’re looking for. Royal Gardens has the widest selection and best quality in the Commonwealth.”
The flower shop is walking distance and easy to find. The doorman was right about the quality. After Brannigan handpicks the best of the best, the owner assembles them into a lush arrangement. She asks if he wants a greeting card. He worries about saying the wrong thing and declines.
He calls a local cab company. The taxi arrives in less than five minutes. Its driver turns around and grins. “Where can I take you, Yank?”
“Central Station. Actually, two blocks north of that.”
“My pleasure. Are you having a pleasant day?”
“I am,” Brannigan says. “How are you doing?”
“It’s all good—”
“Glad to hear it.”
“—And getting better.”
“I want to buy what you’re drinking.”
The ride is a blur. It could have lasted five minutes or five years. He gets out of the taxi and peels off four $A10 notes.
“Thanks for the lift, mate. Keep the change.”
He walks the remaining distance to Railway Square.
The exercise doesn’t settle his nerves.
He asks for directions at the ticket counter.
The clerk has a thick accent and never looks up from his betting sheet. His cryptic response is more confusing than helpful. Brannigan arrives at what he thinks is the proper platform, but worries he’ll get on the wrong train and wind up in Brisbane or Canberra. He asks another passenger to confirm he’s in the right location. She’s doubly reassuring, answering, “Yes,” and volunteering that Liverpool is also her destination.
The outbound Inner West train is on time. He lets the woman and a girl with an acoustic guitar board ahead of him. He climbs to the top level of the double-decker and sits by himself. His carriage isn’t crowded. He wonders why until he realizes it’s the reverse commute.
He quickly loses interest in the scrubland and lays today’s edition of The Australian on his lap. He skips from one headline to the next. The broadsheet’s hard news is no different than what he read on the Internet. He keeps turning pages until he comes across the feature article. It’s a study that contrasts the Aboriginals’ plight with the revival of NZ’s Māori culture. He hadn’t been aware the Down Under minorities were so different.
The next time he looks up it’s fifty minutes later and he’s arriving at Liverpool Station. He steps outside and looks around. It’s a small community, more of an exurb than a city. There aren’t many people inside the station, and there’s not much activity on the surrounding streets. A single cab is sitting at the taxi rank. Brannigan walks up to the Tiguan’s right front door.
Its deeply lined driver opens his window. “G’day. Ow ya goin’?”
“Not too bad. How ’bout you?”
“Betta ’an that.”
“Can you give me a ride?”
“You American?”
“How did you know?”
“Texan?”
“We’re all from the Lone Star State.”
“Where ya off to, J.R.?”
“Liverpool Hospital.”
“Coulda used the fare—but it’s only a stone’s throw from ’ere.”
“In that case, I’ll walk. Can I see it from here?”
“Not quite.” The driver points to the north. “It’s behind the trees.”
“To the right?”
“You’re a smart lad.”
“What street are we on?”
“Bigge.”
“Do I stay on this?”
“Yup. Two blocks.”
“Then what?”
“You’ll reach a park.”
“On this side of the road?”
“Uh-huh. At the first path, hang a right and stay on it.”
“How far?”
“Till ya run outta grass.”
“When I get—”
“Cross Elizabeth Street and use Entrance B.”
“Easy enough. Thanks for the directions.”
The driver doffs his cap. “Glad I could help. Have a good ’un.”
A pretty brunette is sitting at the hospital’s reception desk.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“I’d like to visit Kylie Ryan.”
“Is she a patient?”
“I should have mentioned that.”
“Quite all right. What’s your name?”
“Michael Brannigan.”
“Good. You’re on her list. Can I see a photo ID?”
Brannigan lays his New York DMV card on the desk. The receptionist compares his face with his picture. She enters something in the hospital database before returning his license.
“Is that all you need?”
“You’re good to go.”
“Thank you. Where’s her room?”
“Is this your first visit?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Ms. Ryan is in our brain injury unit.” He flinches when he hears the location. “It’s a long way from here.”
“Which direction?”
“Several. Do you have a car?”
“No. I’m on foot.”
“Her department is quite a hike.”
“It can’t be that far.”
“We’re at Entrance B. Her unit is inside Entrance K.”
“That’s one-third of the alphabet.”
“I’ll show you a shortcut.” The receptionist draws a diagram on the back of a form. She adds arrows and names before flipping it around.
“Do you understand my directions?”
Brannigan studies the twists and turns. “I think so.”
“Don’t panic if you get lost. We send out a search party every night.”
Brannigan turns right at the reception desk.
He enters a long corridor and keeps walking until he passes the WHSmith outlet and the nuclear medicine department. There are no confirmatory signs. But as instructed he makes the next left. He passes the mental health unit, travels down another long hallway, and hangs a right at a small food court. He sees a sign for the Brain Injury Unit near the end of the corridor. The thought of Kylie being there makes him cringe.
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