“Do you want to investigate Dickie again?”
“I’ve never stopped.” Harry pours himself another scotch. “The first go-round was child’s play. This time I’ll be all over him.”
“How do you know he placed Feng with MTL?”
Harry shows him a photo. “That’s him standing between your pal and Modern Technologies’ CEO.”
“What charges are they considering?”
“Violating the Economic Espionage Act. Ten counts.”
“He better pack an extra toothbrush.”
“The FBI and DOJ are going to make examples of these guys. China hijacks $600 billion of our technology every year. That’s way north of what we steal from them. Rolling up this Stanford network will help restore competitive balance.”
“And give the Bureau something to crow about.”
“That too.”
Brannigan wonders if the Reds have gotten into Global’s IT. He does a mental head count of their Chinese nationals.
“When’s the last time you inspected our firewalls?”
“This morning. They’re intact.”
“What did Feng steal?”
“His company’s source code and a lot more.”
“Was he still active when they caught him?”
“Very. He was decrypting their algorithms.”
“Explore Dickie’s involvement with the other targets.”
“I’m already on that. We’ll know more later in the week.”
“Are you sure the Reds turned him?”
“It sure looks that way.”
“Is the Bureau targeting him?”
“Not yet. But they will be.”
“Give me a time frame.”
“Tomorrow . . . next week . . . soon.”
“We need to meet this head-on.”
Harry puts away his handouts. “What are you going to do?”
“Escort you to the door.”
“Why am I getting the bum’s rush?”
Brannigan scrolls down the contact list on his phone. “I’m done talking until I hire a lawyer.”
“For Dickie?”
“Hell, no. For me.”
“More exercise, healthy food, less stress . . .”
The president is taking his daily walk. Jiang Shìlín is accompanying him. Bookended by a pair of security teams, they’re approaching the Zhongnanhai lake incongruously named the Central Sea. This is the second time a coughing jag has closed down Lao’s voice box. His face is beet red, and he’s having trouble breathing.
He expels something yellowish green from his throat. His coloring and respirations improve. He’s able to finish his comment.
“. . . Every visit my doctor repeats the same advice.”
“I assume you follow it.”
“The stress part is hopeless.”
“Running your companies must have been worse.”
“Just the opposite. This job is all-consuming.”
“But worth the effort. The presidency is a great honor.”
“One I could happily live without.”
“Why did you wait so long to enter public life?”
Lao is watching a white-browed warbler swallow a worm. “Because I’ve always detested politicians. Now I’m one of them.”
He was a corporate titan before he became president. The son of a Chongqing tobacconist, he started with nothing more than his native intelligence and a fierce desire to succeed. Lao was an outstanding student and a voracious reader. He studied the Gilded Age industrialists, applied what he learned, and developed their predatory skills. Everything he touched turned to gold. He became one of the first multibillionaires in China’s so-called people’s socialist republic.
“You broke new ground, Mr. President.”
“No I haven’t. The Party only selected me because people were fed up with the crooks running our country. I’m nothing more than a short-term figurehead.”
“You avoided all the pitfalls.”
“Except the most important one—taking care of my body. I’m paying the price for being a heavy smoker.”
“I’ve seen you sneaking medication.”
“You aren’t supposed to notice.”
Jiang taps the pill organizer in his shirt pocket. “I need this to keep track of mine.”
“My medications can only do so much. Nitroglycerine reduces my angina pain. But doctors can’t reverse my congestive heart failure, COPD, or diabetes. My cardiologist lives two houses away. That isn’t a coincidence.”
“The people appreciate what you’re doing for them.”
“I haven’t accomplished much. My goal was to make us the world leader in technology. That hasn’t worked. Our companies would rather steal inventions than develop them.”
“We’re making progress. Look at what our country has become.”
“A superpower of impoverished citizens.”
“The West can’t match our economic growth.”
“Because we manipulate the numbers. Our GDP is all smoke and mirrors. The lives of average people haven’t improved and corruption is still pervasive. Contractors grow rich watering down concrete, employers cheat their workers, and politicians stash their bribes in offshore accounts.” Lao pauses while he unwraps a nicotine lozenge. “You can’t help me with any of that.” He puts the candy in his mouth and sucks out the drug. “Has anything changed in Tibet?”
“We’ve instituted a program to assist local police apprehend habitual criminals. It’s just getting off the ground, and so far it hasn’t improved the situation. Crimes against Chinese shops and homeowners are increasing in the TAR’s major cities. Rural Tibet is relatively trouble free.”
“Have you caught Colonel Sung’s killers?”
“No. We’re still searching for them.”
“Why’s it taking so long?”
“Their mastermind is a chameleon. He speaks five languages and moves seamlessly from one continent to another.”
“Too bad he isn’t on our side.”
“That was never a possibility. He is a born-again China hater.”
“What about his helpers?”
“His partner in crime is a Basque terrorist. He joined the Tibetan underground after ETA’s truce.”
“Where are they now?”
“They could be anywhere.”
“Can’t you track them?”
“We know they were in Bilbao.”
“We’re friendly with the Spanish. Contact their police.”
“I’ve already done that. The Guardia Civil was very helpful.”
“And you still couldn’t capture them?”
“We got close, but they slipped away.”
“So is my patience.”
“We’ll find them, sir. They can’t run forever.”
“What’s happening in Xinjiang Province?”
“The Uighurs haven’t launched any recent attacks.”
“That’s welcome news.”
“It’s only a brief reprieve.”
“How much did we accomplish by destroying Artux?”
“Less than we hoped. ETIM has already replaced its casualties.”
“I wish we hadn’t displaced the elders. They were a moderating force.”
“I have to disagree, Mr. President. They’ve lost control. The Young Turks are running everything, and all they respect is force.”
CHAPTER 36
BRANNIGAN IS BACK in China.
He just arrived at Beijing Airport. When his connecting flight lands in Yichang, he’ll rent a car and drive to the dam.
The next plane won’t board for another two hours. He goes to his normal hangout, the Air China First Class Lounge. It’s crowded. At least twenty people are ahead of him. He circles around the line and keeps walking. He flies here so often the club’s staff doesn’t require him to show his membership card.
He greets the receptionist as he walks by. “Nĭ hăo Dai-tai?”
“Thanks for flying with us, Mr. Brannigan.”
“You’re the gold standard.”
“That’s what we like to hear.”
He claims the last available table, lays down his belongings, and heads to the snack station. He fills his dish with pretzels and nuts. On the way back, he stops at the bar and orders a microbrew. Two refills later he closes his engineering journal and disconnects his charger. It’s time to head for the gate.
He glances at the departure screen. His flight to Yichang Airport is on time. On the way out, he checks his messages and realizes he won’t be on it.
Michael
Change of plans. Delay your trip to the dam. The president wants to meet with you. A limo will collect you in front of the Ritz at 5:30 a.m. Call me tonight.
Rocky
Brannigan’s pat-down was exceedingly thorough. The guard could have certified the weight of his family jewels.
This is his second time inside the presidential compound. His earlier visit was for a business development dinner. Things seem tenser now. There are more soldiers, additional checkpoints, and concrete barriers in front of the president’s home. Rocky didn’t know much about the meeting. Brannigan isn’t concerned about the lack of an agenda. He has a fair idea of what to expect. Lao will probably discuss the earthquake, the concrete flaws in the dam, and a delicate political matter.
“Would you like some more tea?”
“No, thank you, Mr. President.”
Lao spoke English when he visited Brannigan in the hospital. They’re communicating the same way today. Other than circulating staff—six of them—Brannigan and the president are alone in the mansion’s smaller dining room. There are no couches, chairs, or newspaper racks. Everything is understated. The mahogany table, serving sets, and crockery are at least two hundred years old. Most impressive is the crystal chandelier. It refracts colored light from one end of the room to the other.
The president asks about his Silk Road injuries. Brannigan says he has fully recovered and doesn’t mention his mild residuals. They compare notes on their companies. It’s clear that Lao misses his old job. The president offers vague snippets about his wife and children. He follows up with a question about his guest’s nonexistent family life. Brannigan steers safely around the subject. They exchange trite comments about Broadway musicals, Italian resorts, and the traffic in Beijing and New York. Neither man asks or volunteers anything of substance.
Lao dabs his mouth and places his linen on the table.
“Would you like to go for a stroll?”
“Very much, Mr. President.”
They leave the mansion and head toward the water. The tour begins with Lao reciting Zhongnanhai’s history. He covers the digging of the lakes, the construction of the Imperial Palace, and the Russian occupation during the Boxer Rebellion. He returns to the present after pointing in the general direction of homes occupied by Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai, and Deng Xiaoping.
“Sorry to interfere with your travel plans, Mr. Brannigan.”
“Thanks for sharing your morning.”
“Rocky told me about the concrete.”
“It’s something we need to address.”
“How subpar is it?”
“A powerful earthquake could compromise the wall.”
“Quantify that for me.”
“At this point I’d be guessing.”
“You must have an estimate.”
“Not without measuring the earthquake damage.”
“Time frame?”
“A month to six weeks.”
“I need an answer sooner than that.”
“I’ll expedite our work.”
“You want to hire new seismologists.”
“That would be helpful.”
“I approved your request.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Has our labor situation gotten in your way?”
“Not yet.”
“Then it won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m trying a different approach.”
“Hopefully it’ll work.”
“Rocky will explain the details.”
Brannigan senses Lao’s reluctance to address their one remaining issue. He administers a gentle push. “I have a lot to do at the dam. If we’ve covered—”
“There’s something else we need to discuss.”
Lao has been direct with him. Brannigan decides to respond in kind. “Let me take a wild guess. It involves Dickie Chang.”
“Such an interesting man.”
“My mentor has a wealth of information.”
“That’s why he isn’t returning to America.”
That development didn’t come as a surprise.
Brannigan had spoken with Harry Dyer before returning to China. They met outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, shared a turkey sub, and walked through Central Park. They were crossing the Great Lawn when Harry briefed him on the feds’ investigation.
“The Bureau knows about Dickie’s involvement.”
“I can’t picture him making license plates.”
“Good. Because that’s not going to happen.”
“How about goosing the electric chair?”
“He isn’t going to the joint.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“They don’t have the evidence to convict him.”
“The government must’ve really screwed up.”
“Not this time.”
“What else did they need?”
“They couldn’t connect the dots.”
“From where to where?”
“Dickie and the PhDs.”
“That’s hard to believe. How did the students operate?”
“They burrowed into their company’s digital spine. Shanghai hackers used that information to implant malware and go spear phishing. Once an unsuspecting employee opened an infected email, the Reds infiltrated the network. It was downhill from there.”
“What types of data did they steal?”
“Cutting edge. The Chinese acquired a wide variety of technologies. Radio waves, horizontal drilling, and fracking were the most valuable. They also got smarter about electric heating coils and steam-assisted drainage.”
Belvedere Castle came into view. When Brannigan’s knee began to ache, they sat on a bench. A little girl smiled as she skated past.
“What gave them away?”
“The FBI nailed Feng when he got careless. He tried to walk a computer disc out the front door. The cases against the others were circumstantial. Chinese companies abruptly stopped doing business with the victims and purchased bootlegged IT at steeply discounted prices. Prosecutors traced the stolen software to the Stanford grads.”
“How did Dickie avoid the dragnet?”
“The Chinese insulated him from the spying.”
“What was his role?”
“He only functioned as a recruiter.”
“He must’ve known what the PhDs were doing.”
“Of course he did. But the US attorney couldn’t prove it. He would’ve denied everything and the students didn’t know he was involved.”
“I’m afraid to ask the next question.”
“The answer is yes. We were the Reds’ bagmen. They pumped lots of money into our coffers and Dickie was a major beneficiary.”
“I aided and abetted.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“DOJ and IRS will be all over our books.”
“And gone a week later.”
“The newspapers will go nuts with this.”
“Not unless someone breaches security.”
“How can the government keep it secret?”
“For once there’s unanimity in Washington. Both parties know the story would taint everyone on Pennsylvania Avenue. The Senate and House Intelligence Committees met in closed sessions and buried the whole thing.”
“Qin Fong must have been a honey trap.”
“From the beginning.”
“Those bastards got away with it.”
“N
ot entirely. They agreed to return three American spies.”
“What about the PhDs?”
“Prosecutors never indicted them.”
“Why didn’t we play hardball?”
“To avoid losing our largest banker.”
Brannigan doesn’t know how Lao expects him to react. He decides to end the uncertainty. “I’m curious, Mr. President. How will Comrade Chang occupy himself?”
“By returning to academic life.”
“He’ll have time to write his memoirs.”
“His mistress will make sure he doesn’t.”
“Ms. Qin seems to have many skills. Is she—” Brannigan pauses when the president hands him a weathered photo. The centerpiece is a young woman dressed in a PLA uniform. She’s standing to the left of a sign that has National Defence University etched across the top. The woman is older now, but Brannigan recognizes her face.
Lao supplies the answer he no longer needs. “Yes, she is.”
CHAPTER 37
HE HAD PLANNED on flying commercial.
But Lao insisted that Brannigan travel on his private jet.
The president’s Gulfstream is on final approach to Yichang Airport. Its only passenger finishes his soft drink, shuts down his computer, and gazes out the window. The plane straightens out as it flies over the Yangzi. After last week’s rainfall, Asia’s longest river is muddier than the lower Mississippi. The G450 is about to land when Brannigan sees a flashy rotorcraft. He loves the helicopter’s colors—a white cockpit and bright red passenger compartment. Both are jazzed up with contrasting lines that link up at the nose.
The Gulfstream turns off the runway. It has to taxi around fuel and food trucks before arriving at the gate. Brannigan puts on his jacket and closes up his briefcase. His traveling gear doesn’t include a suitcase. He keeps a wardrobe at the dam, and a local laundry picks up and delivers twice a week. Life in rural China doesn’t offer much excitement, but he enjoys his time here. He’s a regular at the facility’s muscle palace and manages to stay in shape.
The flight attendant curtsies as he walks past.
He doesn’t have to embellish. “Thanks for a wonderful trip.”
“I enjoyed learning about Manhattan.”
“Hopefully my Mandarin didn’t ruin it.”
Rocky is waiting for him as he leaves the security area.
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