Dr. Ma took his “mijian” from his briefcase. It was a small, leather-bound diary, in which he made his most private notes. His secret book. Every senior official in the Ministry had one. They were safer than electronic records; that was what everyone said. People wrote the things in their mijian that were never, ever to be shared—to protect the Ministry, people said, but really, to protect themselves.
Dr. Ma was going to put his mijian in the safe, but then, he thought, that was the first place anyone would look. He put it under his mattress.
Dr. Ma was thinking about his money, and it made him nervous. He shouldn’t have accepted so much of it, not so quickly, but he had to worry about his daughter at Stanford, his mother in Shanghai, his annoying wife and her relatives, and the uncles and cousins who contacted him now that he was a powerful man, a “science adviser” on loan from the Chinese Academy of Sciences to a ministry whose name nobody ever mentioned. The overhead light blinked off for an instant and then came back on, as if there had been a momentary power failure.
He looked at his watch. What time was it in Vancouver? That was where his mistress had gone; to wait for him, she said. He was paying for her apartment. She would not dare to be unfaithful. Wasn’t that right? No, people always betrayed. That was the law of life. That was why no matter how much money Dr. Ma had obtained, it wasn’t enough.
The banker was five minutes late. His name was Gunther Krause, and he was a private-wealth adviser for Luxembourg Asset Management’s branch office in Taipei. They had met in Macao, introduced by a friend from graduate school. “Safe,” he said.
If Krause was ten minutes late, Ma would fire him. No, that was risky. He would reprimand the banker, severely.
Dr. Ma opened his briefcase. He had brought along the latest issue of Spectrum, the journal of the International Association of Electrical and Electronic Engineers. He was a member, or he had been, until he was sent to the Ministry of State Security as a technical adviser five years ago and had to disappear from the visible academic world.
The magazine’s cover story was titled “Lessons from a Decade of IT Failures.” That worried him, slightly. The Ministry stole so much from the kingdom of American technology, assuming it was all useful. “Explore the many ways in which IT failures have squandered money, wasted time, and generally disrupted people’s lives,” said the article. That was not true in Dr. Ma’s department, surely. It would be a loss of face to steal things of no value.
In two days, Dr. Ma would gather more artifacts of the West at a conference on the esoteric subject of cryogenic computing, the problem of operating a computer at close to absolute zero. The Ministry wanted Dr. Ma’s advice on cold machines, but Dr. Ma was thinking about hot money.
Harris Chang waited in the car outside the hotel while an officer from the Singapore station disabled the security system. Chang closed his eyes, rehearsing in his mind one last time the operational plan. He had reviewed the details a half-dozen times with John Vandel. The only hiccup had come when Vandel assured him that his Chinese ancestry had nothing to do with him getting the assignment. “Give me a break, sir,” Chang had said, and Vandel, after a moment of stony silence, had laughed.
Chang focused his attention on the alcove off the lobby where the local station officer was positioned. When he raised his hand, Chang nudged the passenger beside him in the back seat, a beefy European man in a suit that strained at the button. They emerged from the car in tandem, Chang walking a step behind the other. Chang wore a blazer and a well-cut pair of slacks, no tie. He had the body of a Chinese gymnast, muscular up top but lean. He had short hair, almost a crew cut, and wore a pair of sunglasses that rimmed his face. They walked together toward the hotel entrance. Chang signed his work name in the hotel register.
The doorbell rang in Dr. Ma’s suite. He peered through the spyhole and saw the familiar, fleshy face of Gunther Krause. There was a shadow beyond the door, but Ma barely registered it, he was so eager to get Krause into his room where they could do business.
Dr. Ma opened the portal and Krause entered. Behind him, moving too quickly for Ma to block him, was a second man, younger and fitter, with Chinese features. The second man pushed the door shut behind him and put his finger to his lips. He was no taller than Dr. Ma, but his physical presence was dominating.
“Who is this shit egg?” asked Dr. Ma, pointing to the unexpected Chinese visitor. “Get him out of my room now, or I will call the police.”
As soon as Ma made this threat, he realized that it was unwise. He should not call the police with these two in the room. The younger Chinese man knew it, too. He was shaking his head.
“Let me introduce my assistant,” said Krause smoothly, trying to pretend this was a normal encounter. “He will be handling your account now.”
Krause handed over his briefcase to his companion.
“Feihua,” muttered Dr. Ma.
Bullshit.
Dr. Ma turned away for a moment, wanting to maintain his composure. His eyes were burning at the edges.
“This is unacceptable,” said Dr. Ma as calmly as he could. “I forbid it. This ‘assistant,’ whoever he is, will leave now. Mr. Krause will stay. Otherwise, I will close my accounts and your firm will have nothing.”
“My assistant is handling your account now,” Krause repeated.
Krause walked toward the door. Dr. Ma went after him and then stopped.
Harris Chang stood in his way. The younger Chinese man had removed his sunglasses; his eyes were as clear and focused as those of a sharpshooter. He was shaking his head again, and he had raised a cautionary finger. His manner conveyed authority. He looked like one of the members of the “special projects” staff at Dr. Ma’s ministry.
Krause put his hand on the doorknob. He turned back toward Dr. Ma.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Do what my assistant says and you’ll be fine. Nobody wants to hurt you. We want to help.”
Krause reached out to shake Dr. Ma’s hand good-bye, but the Chinese man was immobile. Krause turned the knob and let himself out into the liquid heat. The two Chinese men stood alone in the salon. The younger one went to the wall and pushed a button that closed the curtains in the sitting room and the adjoining bedroom.
“Who are you?” asked Dr. Ma.
The younger man smiled. “Let’s sit down,” he said, gesturing toward the couch and chair. Dr. Ma didn’t move.
“Who are you?” he repeated.
“My name is Peter Tong,” lied Chang. “I am a private-wealth specialist with Luxembourg Asset Management.” His English was flawless with an American accent.
“What’s your real name?” asked Dr. Ma, more sharply. “Who do you work for? I am not a fool.”
Chang gestured toward the couch. “I think we need to be comfortable with each other. Have a seat. You like whiskey. So do I.”
The visitor walked to the mini-bar. There was only one left of the single malt, so he gave that to his host and poured himself a Johnnie Walker. He moved with the confidence of someone who knew the layout of the room.
Dr. Ma was seated in the chair. He took the glass of whiskey and drank it down in two long gulps.
“Another,” he said.
Chang removed the last bottle of Johnnie Walker from the mini-bar and handed it over.
“Tong isn’t your name, is it?” said Dr. Ma.
The younger man shrugged.
“You work for the Americans.” Dr. Ma spoke the words almost in a whisper, but his visitor put his finger to his lips.
“Of course not. I work for Luxembourg Asset Management. I am taking over supervision of your portfolio, just as Mr. Krause said. You will be very happy with my service. We will have a good client relationship, I promise. A ‘win-win’ situation, as your president likes to say.”
Dr. Ma winced at the mention of the Chinese leader. It was a reminder of the danger in which he had placed himself, dealing with a foreign banker. And now this, whatever it was.
“I can walk out of this
room and go to the Chinese embassy on Tanglin Road. You wouldn’t dare stop me. It would be too messy.”
Dr. Ma stood, as if he was actually preparing to walk out.
“Sit down,” said Chang, quietly but firmly. He pulled back his blazer to reveal a small revolver in a shoulder holster.
Dr. Ma stared at the gun. He looked at the door, then back at the weapon. His head trembled slightly.
The visitor spoke slowly in his American English.
“You must understand, sir, that you do not control this situation. You have violated Chinese law, I am afraid. As you know, an anti-corruption drive is underway. As a member of the Academy of Sciences and an adviser to the Ministry of State Security, you would be a prime target for the discipline committee. You understand that, I am sure.”
Dr. Ma nodded. He tried for a moment to speak, but no words emerged.
“It is a difficult time,” continued Chang. “If there were any suggestion of connections with outsiders, your career would be in danger. Your family and everything they have would be at risk. You need a friend at such a time. You should think carefully.”
“Hun dan,” whispered Dr. Ma.
Asshole.
“I am offering you the chance to survive and to prosper even more than you have already,” Chang continued. “But it is not really a choice: You lost your freedom to maneuver the moment that you began to receive payments from those seeking influence with your ministry. I sympathize with your situation.”
Dr. Ma made a thin sound, unintelligible.
“I am sure you understand,” said the visitor. “There is so much evidence.” He patted the briefcase. “We could look at it together. But that should not be necessary. You know the facts better than I do.”
Dr. Ma looked down. He dabbed at his eyes with a napkin and then looked up. His face was a death mask.
“I understand,” he said.
“Good.” Chang took a sip of his whiskey. “We’re going to get along fine.”
“How could you?” asked Dr. Ma, his voice tremulous, in another register.
“What do you mean, Dr. Ma?”
“You’re Chinese. How could you work for these barbarians? How could you harm your motherland in this way?”
Chang laughed loudly.
“I am a barbarian, sir. I’m an American-Born Chinese. ‘ABC.’ I grew up in Flagstaff, Arizona. China is a foreign country for me. Just so we’re clear on that.”
Dr. Ma shook his head. The worst thing that could happen to someone who works for an intelligence service was happening to him.
“So here’s what we’re going to do,” said the visitor, standing. “I’m going to leave now. In two hours, you’re going to meet me at this address downtown. The Holiday Inn. Room 1028.”
Chang handed the older man a card. It had the hotel’s address near a downtown mall called Orchard City Centre. It was an innocuous, unmemorable location.
“Memorize it,” he said.
Dr. Ma studied the card, then nodded.
“You will come alone. Be wise: We will have people watching you the whole way. Please do not stop anywhere. We have coverage of your two phones. If you try to call anyone, the calls will not go through. It would not be wise to alert the Ministry. That would bring ruin, certainly. We have filmed this encounter in your room. For your protection.”
Chang gestured toward the big mirror over the desk. He was so polite. Respectful, helpful. His courtesy reinforced the truly catastrophic nature of this event.
“I’m sure you see that caution is sensible,” he continued. “For yourself. For your family. For other loved ones.”
Chang looked at his watch.
“I will meet you in, let me see, one hour and fifty-eight minutes. Do not be late, please.”
The visitor turned and walked out of the room.
Dr. Ma sat in the chair, his head cupped in his hands. He whispered an ancient curse. “Cào nĭ zŭzōng shíbā dài,” which literally means, fuck your ancestors to the eighteenth generation.
But he was talking to himself. He thought of his mistress in Vancouver. Molihua. Jasmine. She would tell him to survive, prosper, go to the meeting with these Americans and protect his piece of the dream.
Eventually he rose, washed his face, and changed his shirt. He looked at the bed, where his mijian was hidden. He couldn’t take it with him; he couldn’t destroy it. He left it where it was.
Harris Chang called John Vandel on a safe phone when he had left the hotel. It was dawn in Washington.
“Man man de,” said Chang. Slowly, slowly.
“Get the book,” said Vandel. “I need the book.”
“Just to make sure, sir: You want me to take the book. Not copy it.”
“Yup. The book itself. And I don’t care if they know it’s missing. Correction: I want them to know it’s missing.”
“Got it.”
“Don’t tell Winkle you called me. He’ll be pissed.”
“Sure,” said Chang.
Chang lied a few minutes later to Warren Winkle, the Singapore station chief, and said he hadn’t talked to the boss. This was the case Chang had been waiting for since he joined the agency. The only way he could get in trouble, he thought, was to upset John Vandel.
2.
ORCHARD CITY CENTRE, SINGAPORE
A faint ochre wash hung over downtown Singapore. The concrete and glass of the metropolis couldn’t quite hide the sweet decay of the jungle, carried on the wind. Inside the cars and buses, every face was opaque. At the freight terminal just north of Sentosa Island, great cranes and derricks squatted over the metal containers. The city was an ordered web, frantic with people and cars, but each with a purpose and destination. This was a place where nothing happened by accident.
Dr. Ma Yubo glumly took his seat in the back of the “Comfort” taxi. Three other cabs had been waiting in the queue, but this one had moved to the front when Dr. Ma stepped out of the lobby, and the other drivers deferred. Dr. Ma had changed into a blue blazer and a raincoat and was wearing dark glasses. He gave the driver the address of the Holiday Inn on Cavenagh Street, and the man grunted back in Malay, but he didn’t put any coordinates into his GPS. Dr. Ma settled into the passenger seat; his hands were trembling.
The driver took a roundabout route, turning left instead of right after traversing the causeway and meandering through an upland park before turning east toward downtown. He pulled over once, reversed course, and then doubled back. Dr. Ma was in someone else’s control, entirely.
The driver deposited Dr. Ma at the back entrance to the hotel on a narrow side street. He kept the passenger door locked for a moment and then emerged with an open umbrella, which he held low over Dr. Ma as he escorted him past the green Holiday Inn sign that marked the rear door to the hotel. Inside waited another man, a dark-skinned Malay dressed as a porter. He bowed and then put his hand on Dr. Ma’s elbow and steered him toward the elevator. He stepped inside, inserted a keycard, pushed the button for the tenth floor, and then withdrew.
The elevator creaked and shuddered as it ascended. Dr. Ma had an urge to abort the trip. He tried punching the button for another floor, but it wouldn’t illuminate. The door opened on the tenth floor and Dr. Ma stepped out. He walked slowly, as if to delay what he knew he could not escape.
Dr. Ma found Room 1028 at the end of the corridor. He knocked once, softly, and was about to rap again when the door opened. The man who had called himself Peter Tong took his hand and drew him inside in one firm motion. The room was a small suite, overlooking the expressway and, in the distance, the park where the prime minister and cabinet had their offices.
“Sit down, please,” said Chang, motioning to a chair. “You’re right on time. That’s a good start.”
The American was dressed casually in a blue knit shirt and gray slacks. His sharply cut muscles stretched the ribbing of his short-sleeve shirt. The shirt just covered the tattoo on his upper forearm that bore three words: Duty, Honor, Country.
Mozart
’s “Jupiter” symphony played softly from a speaker somewhere. That was one of Dr. Ma’s favorite pieces of music. How did they know that about him, or any of it?
Dr. Ma was motionless, frozen in place just inside the door.
“Come on,” said Chang, smiling, taking the older man’s hand again. “Take off your coat. This isn’t going to hurt. We’re just going to have a little talk. Have a seat. I’ll make you a drink.”
“Gou pi,” said Dr. Ma, distastefully. Dog fart.
“Give me your coat and sit down, please. We have so much to discuss.”
Dr. Ma waited another long moment and then removed his raincoat and handed it to his host. He sat in the big chair and folded his hands. Chang patted the coat as he took it, just to make sure that Dr. Ma hadn’t put the mijian in one of the pockets. Then he closed the curtains and went to the bar, returning with two glasses of whiskey. He handed one to Dr. Ma.
“Speak Chinese with me,” said Dr. Ma. “Can you do that, at least?”
“Your English is better than my Chinese. You went to MIT. Sorry. I don’t want to use a translator.”
Dr. Ma shook his head. “Pantu,” he muttered.
“ ‘Traitor,’ ” said Chang, with a little laugh and a knowing shake of his head. “I know what that word means. But Brother Ma, we shouldn’t insult each other. We’re going to be friends. We have no other choice.”
Chang winked at his visitor. As he narrowed his eyes, he looked the more Chinese of the two, darker of hue, and coarse-featured.
“Ganbei,” he said, raising his glass. “Chin-chin.”
Dr. Ma stared at the glass for twenty seconds. Then he took a long swig, and then another, and then a third.
“Slow down. We have a lot to talk about. Let’s start with your job. You work at the Ministry of State Security.”
“You already know that.”
“Which bureau?”
“You tell me,” said Dr. Ma with a faint smile, the first that had crossed his face in several hours.
“Very well. Tenth Bureau. Scientific and Technical Information. You’re technical adviser to the chief of the bureau. Chief technology officer, we’d say.”
The Quantum Spy Page 2