“Welcome, my friend,” said Vandel, escorting his visitor safely inside the suite. “You are kind to pay me a visit. And on such short notice. Xièxiè. Thank you.”
Vandel’s translator began to repeat this greeting in Chinese, but the general waved him off. His English was better than he normally liked to admit. He had studied in America, like so many Chinese officials.
“When an old friend calls, it is best to come soon. We do not ask why. A friend would not make such an invitation if there was no reason.”
“I forget that your English is so good, Lao Wu. Shall I send my assistant away?” Vandel gestured to the translator.
“Yes, please. Then it will be just you and me. If I get stuck, you can bring him back.”
“Good. He can put the flowers in water, so they stay fresh.”
The translator retreated toward his room next door, taking the bouquet with him. Vandel was happy to keep the meeting one-on-one. The fewer people in either country who were aware of the transaction that was about to take place, the better.
“Come join me, old friend,” he said, taking the general’s elbow and steering him toward the salon, with its view of Dubai at night. “I am certain you will find this trip was worth the trouble.”
They took seats on a couch that overlooked the city’s otherworldly skyline. To the northeast was the billowing white sail of the Burj al Arab and, further west, the impossible stiletto needle of the Burj al Dubai, surrounded by the twinkling lights of a hundred skyscrapers.
“How can the Arabs be so smart, and so stupid?” said General Wu, admiring the view.
“You might ask the same question about America,” replied Vandel. “Usually, we take the stupid part of the Arab world for ourselves, and leave the smart part for China.”
“Ha!” said the Chinese general. It would be impolite to agree.
“It’s cognac, if I remember. And Marlboro Lights.”
Vandel retreated to the adjoining room and ambled back with a pack of cigarettes and two glasses of fine brandy. Under his arm was a thick manila envelope. He set down the liquor and lit a cigarette for the general, who was a chain-smoker.
“You are most welcome,” said the general, just off in his expression of thanks.
Vandel smiled. He wanted to slow the evening, build a little anticipation. Too eager a presentation might make the Chinese officer suspicious. He scratched his head, studied his glass, waited for the other man to speak.
“Have you brought me a new target set, perhaps?” asked General Wu after a long minute of silence. He had taken several draughts of his cognac and smoked his first cigarette almost down to the filter.
“No, not this time,” said Vandel.
“We admire the skill of your special operators. We are a poor country, as you know, so it is not always easy for us to find these enemies, and track them so effectively, in the way that a great power can do.”
“Right,” said Vandel, elongating the word an extra beat. This Chinese humble pie was part of any Sino-American interaction, but it was tedious.
“Find, fix, finish,” said the general, repeating the mantra of the Joint Special Operations Command, which he knew had been the source of the previous two transmissions of intelligence about Uighur terrorist networks.
“Just so,” said Vandel. The American sat back on the couch and sipped his brandy. After a few more long moments of silence, he reached for the manila envelope, which he had placed on the coffee table.
“I have a present for you, Lao Wu.”
Vandel removed the leather-bound notebook from the envelope and held it in his hands, feeling its weight.
“It’s a mijian,” the American said. “Am I pronouncing that right? It’s a secret notebook, of the kind that members of your brother service, the Ministry of State Security, often carry.”
Wu shrugged.
“Perhaps that’s the word. I wouldn’t know. Why should I care about such things?”
“Maybe I should explain. I suppose you have heard the sad story of Dr. Ma Yubo. I am told that he passed away in Singapore recently. A suicide. My condolences.”
“I do not know the man.”
Wu lit another cigarette and finished the last of his brandy. He looked uncomfortable. Vandel retreated to the pantry and returned with the bottle, pouring more for the general and himself.
“It’s very stressful, isn’t it, our line of work,” said Vandel. “Sometimes people do things they shouldn’t. They get greedy, or pushy, or careless. They make the wrong friends. It’s sad. Sometimes the only thing they can do is write down their secrets. Keep a diary, you know? The way young girls do. So that someone else knows. But sometimes, that’s not enough. The secrets get so heavy, they pull us down. Maybe that’s what happened to Dr. Ma. Do you think so?”
The general’s discomfort had become acute. He stood up, and then he sat down again. He was losing face, listening to these secrets. The American had power over him. Vandel could see his distress. He wanted to ease it.
“Forgive me, general. I don’t mean to make you uneasy. I asked you here because I want to return something that doesn’t belong to me. The mijian of Dr. Ma has many details that might be embarrassing to China, if they became public. So I thought you should have them. For safekeeping.”
Vandel handed the volume to Wu. He took it warily, but when he had it in his hands, he opened the book and read a few notations. He inhaled sharply, several times, as he leafed through the pages. The general composed himself. He looked at Vandel severely.
“Why are you doing this? What is the trick? Why do you betray me in this way?”
“I don’t betray you in any way, my friend. There is no trick. Have your experts look at the book, check for microphones, chemicals, whatever you like. You’ll find nothing unusual. Check the fingerprints. They’re Dr. Ma’s. But I do want you to understand what these pages contain. Perhaps then you will understand why I am giving this book to you, after it fell into my hands by accident.”
“Tell me. And then I will leave. With the notebook. Which is stolen property. Shame on you.”
“Here is what you will find when you study the book, old friend. Dr. Ma was like too many officials of the Ministry of State Security. He was doing favors for powerful businessmen and taking money from them. It is a problem that greatly troubles the wise leader of your country, isn’t it?”
Vandel waited for an answer.
“Yes,” Wu said eventually. “Our Commission for Discipline Inspection works night and day to find such people. We have uncovered them in the Ministry, it is true. Very shameful.”
“Too many temptations at the Ministry of State Security, I guess. Too many contacts with foreigners. Too many favors to bestow. You know, you’d think the minister himself, Li Zian, might be infected. But there wasn’t any sign of that in the notebook, I must tell you, even though Dr. Ma and the minister were friends.”
“Li Zian is a strong tree,” said Wu quietly. “But the ground under him is soft, I think.”
“You’ll read the story in the dossier, my friend. Pretty graphic. Dr. Ma listed the names of people with whom he had such corrupt dealings,” continued Vandel.
General Wu’s eyes widened. “Oh, really?”
“Yes. I won’t bother you with the details. Many prominent names, from Shanghai, especially, which will interest your commission. But there is one matter that I wanted to bring to your attention, in particular. As friends. It involves the chief of staff of the Party’s central committee, Hu Liu. Such a sensitive position. I thought you should know, personally.”
“This is not your business. Or mine. Do not play more games with me.”
“General Wu, my friend, I am sorry to say this, but Comrade Hu was involved with some personalities who were very unpleasant. One of them is a vice minister of state security. I know the Discipline Commission has already cleared away two men from this position, but here is another, it seems. He did dirty deals with a big tycoon from Sichuan. And it seems that
Comrade Hu wanted a girl, but not a nice Han Chinese girl. No! He wanted Tibetan girls, two of them, for his bed.”
“Enough,” said Wu. He put his hands over his ears, still clutching the notebook. But he couldn’t stop listening. He savored this tale of the corruption of the Ministry of State Security, his bureaucratic rival.
“Yes, indeed, they were Tibetan girls. That’s what Dr. Ma wrote in the mijian, anyway. Comrade Hu’s son was sent to procure them, quickly. He drove them in his fast Italian car, a Ferrari. Too fast! The car crashed. Young Hu and the girls were killed. What a scandal, if anyone knew. To hide the secret, they had to pay the Tibetan girls’ families with money from one of the big energy companies. That’s what Dr. Ma wrote, anyway. You’ll find out the truth.”
“I am a military officer. This is for the Discipline Commission. If there are any irregularities involving officers of the Ministry of State Security, the commission will discover the truth.”
“The truth will out! That’s what we like to say. So you can understand why I, as a friend of China, did not want to spread these rumors and allegations about the Ministry, which can only damage good relations between our two countries, but wanted to put them into the hands of a friend, whom I know and trust.”
Wu looked at the American with perverse admiration. This was a poison-tipped gift that he had brought. But Wu could not deny that it was valuable, especially to his colleagues in military intelligence, who labored day and night to diminish the power of their “brother” service.
“I think I understand you well, Mr. Vandel. And I thank you for your gift. Does it feel better, to give back stolen property?”
“Beats me,” said Vandel. “I never stole anything in my life.”
“It is time for me to go,” said the general, rising from the couch. “Past time, really. Maybe I should not have come. You are a tricky one, sir. I cannot call you a friend tonight. But you have been helpful to China in the past. And perhaps you will be, again. But please, do not interfere in our internal affairs, ever. That is a very dangerous course.”
“I agree, entirely,” said Vandel. “Recruiting agents inside a foreign power and sowing mistrust is the devil’s work.”
General Wu walked to the door. Vandel thought at first that he wasn’t going to shake hands, but at the door, he turned and limply held the American’s palm. In his other hand, tucked tightly at his side, he held the black-leather notebook.
9.
BAGHDAD, IRAQ
Lieutenant Harris Chang first met John Vandel on a hot fall day in late 2005 in a makeshift bomb shelter in Baghdad. Chang was making his way from Camp Phoenix to the Republican Palace when the siren went off that signaled a rocket attack on the Green Zone. The incoming rounds were heavy caliber, and Chang was out in the open. He made a dash for one of the improvised bunkers that had been installed every hundred yards or so around the zone, after the insurgents had decided it was open season on anything American.
Vandel was heading in the same direction when the siren began to wail. He jumped into the shelter just after Chang and cursed, “You motherfuckers!” in the direction of the incoming fire.
Chang was in uniform, body armor, and rifle; the whole kit. Vandel was wearing civilian clothes under a light armor vest but carrying a sidearm. He studied Chang with sharp gray eyes that conveyed empathy and suspicion at the same time. Vandel was fit, like a soldier, close-cropped and hard-muscled, but his body had a loose, rubbery set.
Chang made an instant guess that his new bunker-mate probably worked at the CIA station, which was near the MNSTC-I headquarters at Phoenix, on the eastern side of the zone. He was too self-assured to be a contractor.
A rocket landed about fifty feet away. Chang, wearing his armor, instinctively fell on top of Vandel to protect him. They felt the percussion of the blast, bending the air with its force. Shrapnel flew into the sides of the bunker and embedded deep in the concrete, but they were both safe. Several other rounds landed further away, and then a minute later, the all-clear sounded.
“I owe you one, lieutenant,” said Vandel, standing up. His buzz cut was covered with fine, powdery dust. “I don’t forget a favor.”
“I had the battle rattle, sir,” said Chang, modestly. “You would have done it for me.”
“No fucking way,” said Vandel, giving the young officer a pat on the back. He stuck out his hand. He looked like a gray ghost come to life.
“I’m John Vandel,” he said, brushing the sand from his pockmarked face.
“Lieutenant Harris Chang, sir.” They shook hands, and then smiled, each of them, at the formality of the greeting after they had been clawing at the dirt together as the rounds landed.
They emerged from the shelter and walked together toward the monstrosity of the Republican Palace. Vandel fell into the instant brotherhood of having survived an encounter with a rocket shell. He put a hand on the young officer’s sleeve patch, marking him as a member of the Multi-National Security Transition Command—Iraq, whose acronym, pronounced “min-sticky,” made it sound like a sweet roll.
“MNSTC-I, right?” asked Vandel. “Over at Camp Phoenix.”
“Yes, sir,” said Chang. “How about you, sir?”
“Other Government Agency. I run the shop there.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Vandel laughed. A man emerging from a bunker in the Green Zone didn’t think so much about secrets. Vandel continued walking with the young Army officer. He had a loose, loping gait. He was a forty-year-old, going on thirty. He didn’t like to waste time.
“Is that training program of yours as screwed up as I think it is?” asked Vandel. “It’s costing us a fortune, but the results still seem to be crap.”
Chang didn’t know how to answer, but he wasn’t a good liar. In Iraq, it was a relief that someone was actually asking him to tell the truth.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “It’s a mess.”
“How so?” pressed Vandel.
“Well, that’s why I came to Baghdad today, sir, actually. Normally I work up at Camp Taji. But we’re just getting deeper in the hole up there, and last week I caught one of my Iraqi officers stealing new equipment and trying to sell it. The major I work for thought I better come down and tell the lieutenant colonel about it.”
“What did your colonel say?” asked Vandel.
“He said to keep it zipped. The new commanding general just told the president that the Iraqi Security Forces are a success story. So he thought this would be the wrong time to tell the general that it’s messed up and people are stealing stuff.”
“FUBAR,” said Vandel, rolling his eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
They were nearing the hulking gates of the palace. They each stopped at a sand-filled barrier to unload their weapons and then proceeded toward the entry. It was midday. The Baghdad sun was as merciless as the people under it.
“You hungry?” asked Vandel.
“Yes, sir. Most definitely.”
“Let’s grab some food. Follow me. I think they’re serving Alaska King Crab legs today. Or maybe it’s wild boar.” He chortled at the absurdity of the Green Zone’s lavish cuisine and everything else about this misbegotten American enterprise in Mesopotamia. At the entrance to the dining facility, they washed the grit off their faces and arms and walked together toward the chow line.
Maybe it was the enforced comradeship of being in a war zone. Maybe it was Vandel’s belief that the young lieutenant had saved his life. Maybe it was something else, a yearning in Chang to find someone to whom he could tell the truth, and an eagerness on Vandel’s part to hear it, after so many months of upbeat lies from his colleagues.
They talked far longer than the polite thirty minutes of a thank-you lunch, and by the end of their conversation, a relationship had formed. It proved to be a decisive meeting; like so many things that matter in life, it was the result of an accidental encounter.
Chang knew people were often embarrassed about mentioning hi
s ethnic background, so he raised the topic himself. He wanted to feel comfortable in his skin. That had helped him in the Army, dealing with people who said “Gook” and “Chink” behind his back, even though he was a first lieutenant.
“I’ll bet I’m the first Chinese-American officer you’ve met in Iraq, sir,” said Chang.
“Not the first. But maybe the second or third. Where are you from?”
“Flagstaff, Arizona.” Chang beamed with genuine pride of place. “I was an all-state defensive back for the Flagstaff Eagles. High-school football. How American is that?”
“Delusional. How long have the Changs been in America?”
“Four generations on my father’s side. My great-grandfather came over to work on the railroad. He ended up in Flagstaff when it was a depot for the Atlantic and Pacific. His son ran a laundry, his grandson ran a convenience store, and his great-grandson went to West Point. That would be me.”
“You were a cadet?”
“Yes, sir. West Point. Then Ranger school. Then in Mosul with the 101st Airborne Division in 2003, and now back here for a second tour. Lucky guy, huh?”
“Your folks must be proud of you.”
Chang bowed his head. Not just in humility.
“My dad passed away last year. He and my mom liked me being in the Army. When I got my appointment to West Point, they both cried, they were so happy. They weren’t so sure about Iraq.”
“Smart people, your parents. I’m sorry about your dad.”
“He lived the dream, sir. How about you, sir? Where do the Vandels come from?”
“I’m German on my father’s side, from Swabia. Lithuanian on my mother’s. Cold and colder. My father came here just after the war. Too many scars from the old country. We grew up with a lot of things unsaid. The agency was a natural fit.”
“Chinese are like that, about secrets. My mother’s family had nothing but secrets. They were from Chinatown in San Francisco. Something shadowy. I always worried my grandfather was in one of the ‘tongs.’ My mom would never tell us. Showing emotion was bad. Unless it was fake, then it was okay.”
The Quantum Spy Page 8