Vandel interrupted his alphabetical scan about halfway through the list. He extended a long finger and wagged it at his colleagues.
“There are two people I want you to look at very closely. Marilyn Lee and Franklin Ye-Win Shu. They’re on pages three and five. See them?”
The group scrolled through the attachment. There were “yups” and “un-huhs” from Sturm and the disembodied voice of Winkle.
Chang had mostly kept silent until now. He didn’t have the same years of experience or network of contacts as the others, so it was harder for him to form quick judgments about most of the names. He didn’t really know Lee or Shu, either, but he thought he knew why they were on Vandel’s special-scrub list.
“Why Lee and Shu?” Chang asked. “What makes them suspect, John? Other than the fact that they’re Chinese.”
Vandel shrugged. “Well, I mean, that’s just it. They are Chinese. And if there’s one thing we’ve learned about the MSS over the years, it’s that they like to work on overseas Chinese. Isn’t that right, Warren?”
“Pretty much,” said Winkle through the speaker. “They flirt with anything that looks Chinese to see if they can get a sympathy fuck, so to speak. But I’m not sure that would apply to recruitment of a senior CIA officer. I think the China First stuff goes out the window at that point.”
“Larry Wu-Tai Chin,” said Vandel, naming China’s most famous penetration of the agency, who was indeed Chinese.
“Katrina Leung,” said Sturm. “Ran operations against the FBI for nearly twenty years. Classic MSS case.”
“Hanson Huang. Dongfan Chung,” said Vandel, citing two more Chinese-Americans who had surfaced in FBI espionage investigations.
Chang sat stiff and silent. His color was rising, barely visible on his skin. He should have kept his mouth shut, but again, he didn’t.
“Point taken,” said Chang. “But I can play this game, too, guys. Wen Ho Lee. Los Alamos scientist. Practically water-boarded because the Bureau was so sure he had given the Chinese the design of a nuclear warhead. But guess what? He didn’t. They busted his ass just because he was Chinese.”
“They had collateral information,” said Sturm. “And they knew the MSS was trolling for overseas Chinese.”
“Chinese-Americans is what we call ourselves, Kate. ‘Overseas Chinese’ is their term.”
“Chill out, Harris,” said Vandel. “Obviously the fact that they’re Chinese doesn’t prove anything. It just means that we should eyeball them. That’s all. Don’t go P.C. on me. You may have saved my life, but that doesn’t mean you get to act like a dickhead.”
Chang stared at his shoes. He was embarrassed by Vandel’s invocation of a long-ago moment in Iraq. He gave himself a quick, hundred-volt charge of American-ness.
“Okay, you’re right,” he said quickly. “They deserve a close look. They both have engineering degrees, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“Duly noted,” said Vandel, putting asterisks beside the names of Marilyn Lee and Franklin Ye-Win Shu.
“Da Shouqiang,” said Winkle. He didn’t bother to translate the Chinese phrase, but it meant “jerking off.” It happened to be a phrase that Harris Chang understood. He wasn’t sure whether Winkle was talking about him, Vandel, or both of them.
7.
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
John Vandel led the members of his “DDO Small Group” through several more hours of vetting. He was getting tired. He yawned, tugged at his earlobes, and scratched the gray fuzz atop his head. He asked for coffee and then ordered out for pizza, which was cold by the time it had passed through all the security checks. The shades were drawn on the secure room, so it wasn’t until the little group adjourned for a bathroom break that people realized there was a pelting October rain outside. Vandel kept pushing them through the names. They cut the list of thirty-four in half, tossing out people who seemed implausible, and once more, and then again.
The final cut left five people with high clearances, technological savvy, recent overseas travel, a relative in the agency, and a profile that might fit. Vandel read aloud the names: Maeve Bingham, a senior analyst who had worked on East Asia and was now attached to the Weapons and Proliferation Center; Roger Kronholz, a Science & Technology officer on temporary assignment as a program manager at IARPA; Marilyn Lee, a former station chief in Brunei who now was deputy chief of congressional liaison; Franklin Ye-Win Shu, who was a branch chief and senior data scientist in the recently created Directorate of Digital Innovation; and finally, Andrew Toomey, the agency’s liaison to the National Geo-Spatial Intelligence Agency, whose wife worked in Russia House, or what was left of it, in the Europe and Eurasia Center.
“That last name, Andrew Toomey, keeps ringing a bell,” said Kate Sturm. “Didn’t he get in some kind of trouble?”
Vandel shrugged. So did Chang.
“It was, like, ten years ago,” continued Sturm, struggling to place the name. “Some kind of flap. Does anyone remember that?”
“I was in Iraq then,” said Vandel. “So was Chang. We don’t remember shit.”
“Hold on, I’m brushing away the cobwebs,” said Winkle through the speaker. There was a long silence before his voice came back. “ ‘Looney Tooms.’ That was his nickname at Russia House. He got fucked over, that’s what I vaguely recall. Sorry, long time ago.”
“Come on, think,” said Vandel. “How did he get screwed? What happened?”
“I think he got caught up in a Russian mole hunt. His wife had family there. Jewish scientists, refusedniks. People thought Toomey had been compromised. It turned out to be a dry hole. The leak was at the FBI. But they reamed Toomey good. Took away his clearances for a while. It nearly ruined his career.”
“That’s the flap I’m remembering,” said Sturm. “People thought Toomey was rotten. But then it turned out he wasn’t.”
“Maybe Toomey’s still for sale,” ventured Chang. “Maybe he decided that Russian mathematicians are so far ahead in quantum computing that he should help the Chinese.”
“Forget about the Russians,” said Vandel. “They’re not ahead in anything that has a ‘Q’ in its name. We diddled them. Kate knows. She’s been briefed.”
“Yes, sir. That was a nice piece of work.”
“What are you talking about?” implored the distant, amplified voice of Winkle. “Tell the class.”
Vandel stretched his long arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair.
“Okay, short version, to be forgotten: The Russians went down a rat hole on quantum computing a few years ago. We found out, thanks to some nice work in S&T, by somebody, I forget who. It wasn’t hard to bait the Russians further down the hole, they were so convinced they were geniuses. And that’s where they are now: Stuck. It will take them years to climb out.”
“Pretty slick,” said Winkle from the ether. “That operation sounds too competent for the CIA, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“Focus on the Chinese,” said Vandel. “Rukou is real. We have five names.”
Sturm raised her hand.
“Our suspects are all technicians. Do we have enough expertise to decode what all of them do?”
“Probably not,” said Vandel. “What do you propose as a fix?”
“Maybe we should get a techie who can help us,” said Sturm. “Someone who knows the intelligence community and can answer questions without asking too many.”
“I’ll buy that. Got any suggestions?”
“No, but let me think about it. Maybe I can find an underemployed tech person who can help us if we get stuck.”
“Suggestions welcome. In the meantime, I want the Office of Security to do surveillance on these five. Basic stuff that we can do anyway. Read their mail; examine their calls; look at their travel to see if it matches up with any trips by Li Zian or the other leading ‘barbarian handlers’ at MSS. Any other suggestions?”
“Maybe Flanagan could help with legwork,” offered Chang. “He was there with me in Singapore. He knows the ca
se. He’s read in.”
“Flanagan is already on his way to Washington, my son, on temporary assignment. Amy Molinari thinks he’s visiting his mother. I may look stupid, Harris, but I’m not. So that’s the order of battle. In the meantime, ‘no talkee,’ please.”
“No talkee,” said Chang with a thin smile. He wondered if Vandel even realized it was a racist comment.
“Hong mao guizi,” said Winkle.
“What does that mean?” asked Vandel.
“It’s basically a slur against white people,” said the Singapore station chief through the speaker. “Literally, it means ‘red fur devil.’ ”
“Is that true?” Vandel asked Chang.
“I’m stumped. Warren’s Chinese is much better than mine.”
Vandel chuckled. “It’s you, isn’t it, Warren? Obviously. You’re the mole. You’ve been out there so long you’re thinking in Chinese.”
“Busted! Meanwhile, what about ‘item number one’?” said Winkle. “What to do with the notebook. You never got back to that part. I put a lot of work into translating that screwy mijian. What’s your plan for it?”
“My plan.” He smiled and stroked a mottled cheek. “I want to put that information to work. Place it where it would do the most good.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Winkle, an electronic crackle in his voice.
Vandel played his answer out slowly, staring at each of them in turn.
“I think . . . we should give it . . . to the Second Department . . . of the People’s Liberation Army.”
There was a long pause, while they all considered the boss’s proposal to give the CIA’s new windfall on corruption inside the Ministry of State Security to the military behemoth that was the MSS’s biggest enemy inside China.
Winkle eventually broke the silence.
“That’s diabolical,” he said appreciatively. “PLA Second Department hates the MSS. They’d gut them like a dead fish.”
“Precisely,” said Vandel. “Our Chinese friends will take action much more quickly and aggressively than we ever could. The MSS is at the edge of a cliff. This could push them over. What do you think, Harris? This is your case.”
“Very Chinese,” said Chang. “The Tao of Deception.”
“Thank you,” said Vandel. “What about you, Warren? Does this make sense?”
“Sure. If we put the MSS out of business, a lot of East Asia station chiefs will lose their jobs, but I’m ready to retire, anyway. One warning, John: You need a very discreet back channel with 2PLA. Otherwise this will blow up in your face.”
“Please! Of course I have a back channel. For five years I have been feeding a PLA general with targeting data about Uighurs in Al Qaeda and ISIS. The channel is greased and ready to go.”
“Well, good luck, Darth Vader,” said Winkle sardonically. “Singapore is signing off. It’s the middle of the goddamn night here.”
“I’ll be away for a few days,” said Vandel. “I have a notebook that I need to share with someone. Meantime, all of you, please, keep it buttoned. Seriously. The MSS may be weak, but they are inside our quantum computing program. Their ‘scorpion’ has stung us on the ass.”
Three voices said “roger” at the same time.
“Meeting adjourned,” said Vandel.
As they were walking out of the clandestine conference room, Kate Sturm turned to Vandel. She knew him better than anyone did. She was tougher than he was, and he knew it.
“What does your gut tell you about the mole?” she asked him. “You went over that list of names carefully. Who’s the most likely candidate?”
Vandel slouched against a doorframe as he pondered his answer.
“Who knows? Could be this kid Kronholz. He’s got his fingers on all the goodies. Could be the old guy, Toomey. He has an ax to grind. But if I had to make a bet right now, I’d guess Frank Shu. He has access, profile, possible motive. If it’s him, we’re screwed.”
They spoke loudly enough for Harris Chang to overhear. Once more, he spoke up when he might have kept his mouth shut.
“Hey, boss, I’ll make you a bet it isn’t Shu. Frank is one of the rising stars around this place. He’d be the last one to work for the losers at the Ministry of State Security. The Chinese asset will turn out to be somebody funky. A falling star, with nothing to lose. Wait and see. A hundred dollars says I’m right.”
“What a cheap-ass bet. But you’re on.” They shook hands.
Vandel moved toward Chang as they neared the elevator. He put a conspiratorial hand on his shoulder.
“When I get back, I need to talk to you, Harris, privately,” said Vandel. “I have a crazy idea about how to make this whole play much tighter. But it would put you on the firing line again.”
“That’s where I like to be,” said Chang.
Chang took the elevator down.
Sturm stayed behind to share one last thought with the boss. Vandel was itching to go, but Sturm put up her hand.
“You asked me about technical support,” Sturm reminded him. “I thought of someone who could help us sort through the drawers and closets in the tech space.”
“Fire away. Who is he?”
“She, actually. The person I’m thinking of is Denise Ford. She’s working over in S&T now. Her title is assistant deputy director for S&T, but it’s kind of a backwater job. She is the person you were trying to think of before, the S&T officer who got the ball rolling on the Russia quantum computing deception. She’s very smart about this stuff, and she knows where all the bits and bytes are.”
“Hell, I remember Denise. She used to work in operations. Something happened to her. She got splashed. In Germany or Switzerland or something.”
“It was Paris. People blamed her for a flap there, but I don’t think it was her fault. She’s good people. I’d love to give her a chance to help out. She’ll like feeling appreciated, even if she doesn’t know what for.”
“Fine by me, Kate. You’re my GPS system.”
Sturm shook her head at Vandel. He was particularly unconvincing as a flatterer.
“I’ll talk to Ford while you’re in Dubai,” she said with a wink. “Have a nice flight.”
Harris Chang went to the library at George Mason University after the meeting. He still had library privileges after taking a night course there two semesters before.
He requested books about quantum computing. Most of them had too many equations and algorithms for a non-technologist, but a few tried to explain what a quantum computer might be able to do, if one were ever built. These layman’s explanations described a machine that could simultaneously explore every possible answer to a problem, creating a tool of immense, almost infinite computational power.
Chang let himself imagine what the possession of such a tool might mean for the hyper-ambitious new colossus of China. Dr. Ma had spoken of a quest involving not just a thousand men, but ten thousand, guided by the American asset they called “The Doorway.” At least, thought Chang, the Chinese were pursuing a prize that was worth the risk.
8.
DUBAI
General Wu Huning traveled on an Emirates flight from Hong Kong to Dubai International Airport. He wore an open-neck shirt and a sports jacket, and he wheeled his own roller bag through passport control and customs. He had not carried his own luggage in nearly a decade. He had a square-jawed face, just beginning to sag at the jowls, and the buzz cut favored by military men around the world. He walked with a powerful, deliberate gait. Other Chinese officers were said to be afraid of him because he had no vices other than his love of command.
The general had received an urgent message via the Chinese military attaché in Washington. It had come from an American using an alias, but whose identity the Chinese officer knew. They had met on two previous occasions to plan the targeted killing of Uighur Muslim members of the jihadist underground. This channel had resulted in the deaths of several dozen enemies of China. No reciprocal favor had been requested at the time by the United State
s or offered by the Chinese. It was just business.
General Wu didn’t like or trust Americans, but he respected the man who had sent him the message proposing the urgent meeting in Dubai. He responded through the military attaché, using a special cipher that was to be decrypted personally by him. Before he departed from Beijing, General Wu informed the vice chairman of the Central Military Commission that he was making a clandestine trip to meet with an American liaison officer; he told none of his subordinates in the Second Department of the PLA where he was going or the reason for the trip.
John Vandel arrived in Dubai a few hours after the Chinese general, on an Emirates flight from Dulles. Like General Wu, he was traveling under an alias identity. He had brought along an agency officer who spoke fluent Chinese and could act as translator. Otherwise, he was alone. He did not inform the station chief in Abu Dhabi or the base chief in Dubai. Back at Langley, only Kate Sturm knew where he had gone.
In Vandel’s worn briefcase was the secret notebook that had been kept by Dr. Ma Yubo. Vandel had thought at the last moment about holding back the original and giving a partial transcript as a tease. But he decided that would only arouse suspicion about what might have been falsified or left out. Either do it, or don’t: So he brought the mijian itself.
The two men had agreed to meet at a hotel along Dubai Creek, near the airport, in a part of town that had become unfashionable and was unlikely to draw curious onlookers. Vandel had reserved a large suite on the top floor, overlooking a golf course and the creek beyond. Food had been spread on the conference table, along with ashtrays and a carton of American cigarettes. In the pantry were bottles of vodka, whiskey, and cognac—the classic furnishings of a Cold War safe house.
Vandel heard the knocks on his door at 10:00 p.m. One loud, two soft. Vandel opened the door. General Wu was holding a bouquet of flowers that he had bought in the lobby. That wasn’t part of the recognition protocol; Vandel smiled and handed them to the translator, just inside the door.
The Quantum Spy Page 7