Dr. Ma clapped his hands, soundlessly, in pantomime.
“Very good,” he said. “What else?”
“Your specialty is supercomputing. That’s what you studied at MIT, and then at the University of Maryland, when you got your doctorate in computer science. At MIT, you studied with the great Peter Shor. The man who showed that a quantum computer could break any code. You did research with him on quantum computing. When you came home, you were appointed to the Chinese Academy of Sciences. You’re a star.”
Dr. Ma assayed the Chinese-American man across from him.
“Peter Tong isn’t your real name, is it?”
“No.” The American shook his head. “I can’t tell you my real name, but it doesn’t matter. I’m nobody famous.” He winked again.
“Where do you work?” asked Dr. Ma.
“The Central Intelligence Agency. I’m a spy. Obviously. Just like you. But now we’re going to work together on a common cause.”
Dr. Ma shook his head. “I’m not a spy. I’m a scientist, who temporarily works for spies. So you have the wrong man.”
“I don’t think so, doctor.”
Chang smiled. His manner was serene, but his body was taut and insistent.
“We’ve been watching you for a long time,” Chang continued. “Even back in America, when you were in grad school, you were on our list. Not mine. I was still in the Army then. But other people’s. They knew you had great promise. We’ve been waiting for our chance.”
Dr. Ma snorted. “A Chinese man in the U.S. Army? Not possible.”
Chang sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Think again. 101st Airborne. You know what that is? I served in Mosul and Baghdad. And I am not a Chinese man. I’m an American.”
Dr. Ma stared, and then nodded grimly.
“I have the greatest respect for you, doctor,” said Chang, smiling genially again. “I know this must be difficult. But we have lots of time. Your return flight to Beijing isn’t for three days. So let’s start with some easy questions. We’ll get to the hard ones later. But I must be honest with you, sir: We know the answers to many of these questions already. Let me refill your glass. You like Mozart, right? I can play something else.”
“Mozart is fine. If you know the answers, why ask?”
“It’s what we do.” He filled the older man’s glass and topped up his own. “So where were you born?”
Dr. Ma laughed. “In Shanghai. My mother still lives there.”
“Of course. And your father was a senior cadre? Where did he work?”
“All over. He was in Beijing when I was born, and then he was sent down to the countryside, to Wuhan, in the bad days. But he came back. He always had friends in Shanghai.”
“He was a rising star, your dad, when he died. Isn’t that right? And his friends helped arrange for you to stay in Shanghai, at the best schools, while he was moving around, so you could study science.”
“My father saw the future.” Dr. Ma raised his head slightly, a gesture of respect for his father and self-respect, too. “I studied mathematics and physics. They had no more teachers for me at the high school, so they brought in a professor from Fudan University to give me instruction. I received the physics prize and the mathematics prize.”
“And you won a scholarship to MIT.”
“I hope I was worthy of my father.”
Dr. Ma smiled distantly. He was softening slightly with this talk of his family and school days.
“Yes.” The CIA officer spoke quietly now, his words as soft as the flap of a butterfly wing. “That’s when you were recruited.”
“What?” Dr. Ma was startled.
“Recruited. Reminded of your patriotic duty. The State Security Bureau in Shanghai contacted you. They asked you to report for them when you went to America. Every Chinese student is interviewed, but only a few of them get special treatment. The lucky ones become valued contacts for the Ministry of State Security. Like you.”
Dr. Ma lowered his head. These were secrets. He was uncomfortable.
“Here’s what we think,” ventured Chang. “Probably, you had two meetings in Shanghai, so they could assess you. Then they asked you to come to Beijing, where they gave you a two-week course before you left. Because you were such a clever boy, they knew you would succeed. So they gave you an address in China and told you to send a message every three months. They gave you twenty-five hundred dollars and a plane ticket to catch the flight to America. Am I right?”
Dr. Ma looked toward the door, the curtained window, the young man facing him. The room was even smaller now.
“I wasn’t their agent. Not at MIT, not at Maryland. And you made mistakes about my preparation. It was a one-week course, not two. And I was supposed to write every six months, not three. I think you are guessing. How would you know anything about the Ministry’s procedures?”
“Because it’s our job. I told you, we know a lot. Do you think you’re the first Chinese scientist who came our way? We know how it works. The meetings, the trip to Beijing, the twenty-five hundred dollars. Otherwise no MIT. That was the deal for a bright young man. You had no choice. You had to cooperate.”
Dr. Ma shook his head. He looked tired.
“What do you want from me, if you know so much already?”
“You need to use the toilet? Are you hungry?”
“No,” said Dr. Ma. “I just want this to end.”
“Of course, you do. But we must think carefully about how we can work together. Otherwise, it will be hard for me to help you. I know that I’m a bit younger than you, sir, but I am very good at what I do, and I can be a very useful friend.”
Dr. Ma exhaled slowly. There wasn’t air in the room or time on the clock. Why had he been greedy? Everyone else was doing it, of course, but he had known that he might get caught. Be a man; take the risks. That was what his wife told him, late at night.
His father had warned him: Beware. Bad luck is always hiding inside the doorway, down the next hutong.
Dr. Ma had tried to armor himself against misfortune, as his father had advised. But success and power make us relax. We make mistakes. Our luck runs out.
“Excuse me,” said the CIA officer. “I need to use the toilet. Help yourself to another drink. I’ll be right back.”
Chang exited the sitting room of the suite and walked through the bedroom into the bathroom. He closed the door and turned on the faucet. He took a covert communications device from his pocket and called the operations room of the Singapore station. He asked the watch officer to connect with the ops officer on site at the hotel on Sentosa Island.
Chang spoke quietly into the phone.
“Sentosa One, this is Singapore Ops One. Do you copy?”
“Copy, Singapore One.” It was a woman’s voice. She was the junior officer who had been sent to watch Dr. Ma’s suite at the hotel. This was her first big assignment. She tried to sound calm.
“I need you to do something, Sentosa One. I want you to find the target’s mijian. He didn’t bring it with him. It must be in his room. Find it.”
“What’s a mijian, Singapore One? I don’t copy that at all. Is that some kind of clothing?”
“It’s a diary. A datebook. It should be filled with Chinese writing. Look for it in his room, very thoroughly, but very gently. Collect it and put it in an evidence bag.”
“Roger that, Singapore One. What do I do with it when I find it? Should I photograph the pages?”
“Nope. Take it. Send it to Singapore Station and have the watch officer give it to the chief, immediately. He’ll pouch it to Headquarters.”
“Okay, copy all that. And I learned a new word.”
“Listen, Sentosa One. You find this guy’s mijian and get it out safely and you’re a hero at the Culinary Institute of America, for at least the next twenty-four hours.”
“Uh, roger that,” she said.
The junior officer was inside the suite several minutes later. “Singapore One” went back into the sit
ting room of the suite to deal with Dr. Ma.
3.
ORCHARD CITY CENTRE, SINGAPORE
Harris Chang walked to the window of the sitting room and pulled back the shades. Night had fallen. The Central Expressway, just below, was a six-lane flicker of headlights and taillights. Beyond was the thick green foliage that guarded the government’s central offices. The world was a window away but unreachable. An illuminated sign above the expressway reminded motorists that it was courteous to signal before changing lanes. To the north of this pleasant robot of a city was the Malay Peninsula; to the west, the jungle of Sumatra; to the east, the untracked wilderness of Borneo. And here, this thriving, regimented safe zone. A world in a box.
He turned toward Dr. Ma, who had remained motionless in his easy chair, encased in worry. His eyes were fixed on the window. The case officer pulled the curtain closed.
“It’s a long way down,” said Chang to his guest.
The older man closed his eyes. He was not courageous. He was a technical man, who enjoyed fine clothes and wine. He liked having money for his mistress in Vancouver. He wanted to be a big man who could have his way.
Chang remained by the curtained window a moment more. He stretched his arms, tilting his head back and forth, flexing the cords of muscle in his neck and shoulders. He watched Dr. Ma. The older man was nearly spent. Chang went to the bar and poured a bottle of Coca-Cola for his guest and switched on the tea kettle. He returned to the couch across from Dr. Ma and handed him the soda.
“Drink this. It will pep you up.”
Dr. Ma took a halfhearted sip.
“Nobody’s coming for you. You know that. We’re good at our work. No rescue team is on the way. It’s just you and me.”
“I understand.”
“Okay, let’s start with an obvious problem. Why is a top scientist like you working for the Ministry of State Security? Why did the Academy of Sciences send you? And why does the Ministry need its own expert on supercomputing? I don’t get it. The Ministry usually leaves the details of technology to the People’s Liberation Army. That’s the system.”
“If you say so.”
“But not in this case. With you, they took a top computer scientist at the Academy, a man with his name on many papers, and made him special adviser to the chief of the Tenth Bureau. Why is that? It must be something very important. We think that the Ministry has been learning things from America, and they needed you to explain what it all meant.”
“You flatter me, Mr. Tong. Maybe I am not as valuable as you think.”
“Do you think I’m bai mu? Blind? Yes, I know that word. Or bai chi? An idiot? Do you think I’m an idiot, Dr. Ma?”
“I think you are smart. The CIA is smart.”
“Okay, then don’t treat me like a fool. Tell me: Why did the Ministry need one of China’s top computer scientists as a senior technical adviser?”
Dr. Ma looked down.
“They had a special project, perhaps. I don’t know.”
“Of course, they had a special project. But what was it?”
“I cannot say. I don’t know.”
“I want to be respectful, doctor. But I need answers.”
“No.” Dr. Ma shook his head. He was at the edge of betrayal now, his feet slipping beneath him, but he must resist.
“Please, sir, don’t push your luck. This is not a committee meeting or a self-criticism session. I can help you with your . . . problem . . . but only if you are honest.”
“If you know so much already, then it doesn’t matter what I say.” He was trying to find space.
Chang stepped toward the older man and leaned toward his ear. He spoke in a low whisper, each word carrying a weight.
“You have made a mistake, Dr. Ma. You have stolen money. That has consequences. What I say is not a request. I must inform you respectfully that it is a requirement. So listen carefully. As I said, it’s a long way down, so to speak. One must be very careful.”
The CIA officer was gentle, even in his threats, but the Chinese man understood.
“Please,” said Dr. Ma quietly.
“So tell me: What is the special project being run by the Tenth Bureau of the Ministry of State Security? Why is the Ministry involved and not the Second Department of the PLA? What are you advising them about?”
“I’m sorry?” Dr. Ma cupped his hand to his ear as if he hadn’t heard.
Chang’s hand came down like a hammer, rattling the glasses on the coffee table.
“Listen!” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“What is the special project? You’re helping them run something in the United States. What is it?”
Dr. Ma looked down. He took a drink of his Coke. His palms were wet. Tears had gathered in the corners of his eyes. He wished he could show a better face. But he felt trapped in this room, by this man. He didn’t know how to escape.
“Maybe you are right. But I cannot say. Look, sir, young man, you are asking me to commit a crime against the state. They will kill me if I cooperate with you.”
“You are wrong, Dr. Ma. Here’s the truth: They will kill you if you don’t cooperate with us.”
Dr. Ma flinched.
“Are you crazy? That’s upside down. What are you talking about?”
“I’ll show you.”
Chang rose and went into the bedroom. He returned with two files. One of them was the Luxembourg Asset Management folder that Gunther Krause had brought to the villa earlier that day. The other was a sealed FedEx envelope with an address written in Chinese. Chang opened the private-wealth management file and laid it on the coffee table in front of Dr. Ma’s chair.
“Here is your dossier, doctor. Your foreign accounts, all neatly assembled by your good banker, Mr. Krause. He works with us, as you have discovered. But he keeps good records. Would you like to take a look?”
“No.”
“Sure you would.”
He flipped open the binder and pointed to the columns and rows of numbers.
“You have over forty million dollars now. Most of it is in the Cayman Islands, but some is in Vancouver, to help your friend. What’s her name? Oh, yes, Li Fan. I think you have a special private name for her. ‘Jasmine.’ Isn’t that right? Sweet name.”
A tear trickled down Dr. Ma’s cheek. He was frightened, and not just for himself.
“Isn’t that right, Dr. Ma? ‘Jasmine.’ Answer me, please.”
“Yes. Molihua. Jasmine. Don’t hurt her.”
“We don’t want to hurt anyone. Especially not you. But these are very serious mistakes, taking forty million dollars in unauthorized payments—let’s be honest, in bribes—and giving them to a foreign money manager you met in Macao. That’s illegal in China. Isn’t it?”
Dr. Ma nodded.
“It would be a crime, whoever did it. But if it was done by an official in the Ministry of State Security, well then, that would be a very serious crime. Punishable by death, maybe. The Party is very unhappy with your ministry. How many vice ministers have been fired at the MSS recently?”
“Two,” whispered Dr. Ma. He had known them both. One of them had introduced him to Jasmine.
“Two fallen men! Bad luck. That is why I am worried for you, Dr. Ma. You need our help. You need our protection. Because people in Beijing would be very angry if they knew the truth. They are looking for people like you.”
“What do you want?” asked the Chinese man feebly.
“I already told you. I want to know about the special project for which you were technical adviser.”
Dr. Ma thought a moment, as if pondering the endgame in a chess match. Then he nodded. There was no exit. He rubbed his eyes and then began.
“The special program started six years ago, one year before I came to the Ministry. It is called ‘Xie.’ The Scorpion. It is operated jointly by the Tenth Bureau, which oversees all scientific and technical intelligence, and the Eleventh Bureau, which specializes in computer technology. It is a special-collection ope
ration, outside the normal procedures because of its sensitivity. The PLA has no choice but to let the Ministry do its work.”
“You’re running an agent in America. You can say it.”
“Yes. We are running a network in America. That is the Scorpion.”
“But why is it so sensitive?”
“Because we collect information about the biggest secret, the one that can give us access to all the other secrets.”
“Cryptography. Communications intelligence.”
“Well, yes, of course. We always look for that. This program was more focused.”
“On what? Come, Dr. Ma, you’re still avoiding me when I’m trying to help you, and I don’t like it. What was the program focused on?”
“Quantum computing.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Quantum computing. My specialty. This is part of our China Dream. A machine that can break any code. We must know everything America knows. This was a directive from the State Council. A national priority. I was sent from the Academy. There is a joint group that coordinates all the collection. All the agencies.”
“What’s it called, this quantum program? Has your joint group given itself a name?”
“We are connected to a big group called Galaxy. In Chinese it’s Xingxi. It collects information about supercomputers. But we are the smaller part, more secret. Xie. The Scorpion.”
“Okay, got that. But I still don’t understand what you were doing at the Ministry of State Security. That’s an intelligence agency, not a technical committee. It runs spies. This sort of tech stuff is usually run by the PLA.”
“We don’t need 2PLA and 3PLA,” said Dr. Ma, scornfully. These two intelligence departments of the People’s Liberation Army were the Ministry’s great bureaucratic rivals. “This is our case.”
“But why does Scorpion need the MSS? And why does it need an academician like you? What are you doing there? I don’t get it.”
“That is a hard question.”
Chang pointed his finger at Dr. Ma.
“Answer it. Please.”
Dr. Ma nodded, helplessly. He was delaying his capitulation, giving up information one secret at a time.
The Quantum Spy Page 3