The Singaporean source man had one other detail, courtesy of the police’s network of informants. The two villas on either side of the one occupied by Dr. Ma had been rented, urgently. The renter had paid a bribe to the reservation clerk to obtain those rooms on short notice. They had been booked for three nights, but the guests had only stayed for one, then left abruptly. The rooms were empty. No prints, no other biometric evidence; the Singaporean authorities had checked carefully. The photos taken by the hotel’s surveillance cameras were all erased for the twenty-four-hour period of their stay. The SID professed to have no explanation for that.
When Li Zian had heard the briefing that morning, his deputy Xiao-Xi had tittered when they got to the part about the missing surveillance records.
And a final odd detail. The evening Dr. Ma Yubo had died, he had taken a taxi across the causeway into downtown. The taxi had been ordered for him by someone outside the hotel. The Singapore police had tried to trace the cab, but its plates had turned out to be false ones. The surveillance tapes that should have revealed the cab’s destination were inconclusive; that’s what the police said, at least.
The simplest explanation sometimes suffices. But not in this case.
It was Li Zian’s obligation to consider the most dangerous possible rationale for these events. Dr. Ma knew of the existence of the most important American agent that the Ministry of State Security had ever recruited. Ma didn’t know much; nobody did. But he knew just a bit, and Li Zian was certain of that because he had been the one who told the scientist about the existence of the American agent he called Rukou.
Li stopped and sat on a bench, in the lee of the marble vessel, so sleek with its curved prow and gaily decorated wooden passenger quarters above, yet fixed forever in this spot. He lowered his head and closed his eyes.
Should he contact Rukou to warn of the danger? That would be too risky, surely. If the agent had been identified, the warning would come too late. If the agent was not yet a prime suspect, the warning could be a tip-off. Rukou knew the agency better than Li Zian did. When it was time to reestablish contact safely, Rukou would do so. Let the agent evaluate the risks and make the choices.
Good ideas fall into our minds when we are still. And so it was that morning with Li: The Chinese-American agent, “Peter Tong,” was the person that Li Zian should identify. It would take a few days or weeks. The Chinese services weren’t as good at electronic collection as people imagined. But eventually, the analysts would obtain an airline reservation, a passport-control record, and then a picture, and they would eventually establish who this Peter Tong really was and take action, creatively.
Li had the man for the operation: Carlos Wang. He knew how to move in the darkness. He understood the Americans. He had taken dozens of overseas Chinese who thought that they had no link with the mainland and had bent them, subtly and sometimes harshly, to China’s purpose. Li made a note in his diary to schedule the meeting with Carlos Wang at the end of the week, when the information was clearer and it would not be a loss of face to ask for help.
The Americans had set in motion an attack on the Ministry of State Security. Li would counter-attack in a manner they would not expect. Most Americans did not think like Chinese; they would be unprepared. Or so Li believed.
Li had an eccentric habit. He liked to collect rocks. That day, he had gathered one from near the path down Longevity Hill toward the water. It was a fine-grained piece of granite that he found under a mulberry tree. He took it from his pocket now and, as was his practice, he inscribed the time and place he had found it, in tiny characters, on the rock. He would add it to his collection, hundreds of stones neatly aligned on his shelves at home, so that he could remember this day.
14.
WASHINGTON AND VANCOUVER
John Vandel proposed a location for his meeting with Harris Chang that was out of the building and off the books. He sent the rendezvous coordinates before leaving Dubai and advised Chang not to tell anyone else in the Small Group. It was a coffee shop on Wisconsin Avenue near the Maryland line in northwest Washington. Chang came forty-five minutes early, wanting to stake out the turf. That was supposed to be good tradecraft.
Vandel had arrived even earlier. He was sitting at a corner table outside, one long leg dangling over the edge of his chair, reading his newspaper. A briefcase was propped against the leg of his chair. It was an unseasonably warm fall morning, the sky a hazy Carolina blue and the falling leaves spinning in the breeze. The photo-gray lenses of Vandel’s reading glasses had turned dark in the sun, hiding his eyes. He looked up from his newspaper at Chang.
“You’re early,” said Vandel. He was drinking a black coffee. A half-eaten scone was resting on a napkin. He pulled back a chair for his guest.
“Not early enough,” answered Chang.
“I got confused about the time. Couldn’t remember if I said 9:00 or 10:00.”
“Right,” said Chang, smiling at the tradecraft one-upmanship. “You said at our last meeting you had an idea for me. What’s up?”
“How would you like to take a little trip out West? Two days, maybe three.”
Another customer eased by their table carrying an iced coffee. She was in her forties, dressed in a sleek, sky-blue warm-up suit. She was on her way to the gym or, more likely, returning. She had the look of virtue, rewarded.
Chang waited for her to pass and then answered.
“Absolutely. Does it involve the deceased doctor?”
“Most definitely.” Vandel spoke under the sound of the traffic on Wisconsin Avenue. He took off his glasses and leaned toward Chang.
“First, I want you to go see his lady friend in Vancouver. The one you were needling him about. Miss Tiger Lily.”
“Jasmine,” said Chang. “That’s what he called her. Her Chinese name is Li Fan.”
“I want you to pay her a call at her apartment in Vancouver. Tell her you’re a friend of the doctor’s. If she doesn’t know he’s dead, then break the news. Watch her reaction. Express sympathy. Give her some money. I’ve authorized ten thousand dollars to break the ice, but if you need more, just message me. Tell her that her boyfriend had a lot of money and that she’ll be getting some of it.”
“Who’s she supposed to think I am?”
“Peter Tong. A friend of her boyfriend. Someone who knows all about her and is looking out for her interests.”
“What do we want from her? How hard should I lean?”
“We want to know if anyone else has been in touch about her boyfriend. If she already knows he’s dead, someone from the Chinese government must have told her. Even if they haven’t, they’ll probably be watching her. Scare her a little, if it helps.”
“But won’t they make me, if I go to see her?”
“Undoubtedly, they have made you already, Harris. Jesus! They’re not stupid. They’ve been running the traps just like we have. They’ll find tailings of your ‘Tong’ identity in Singapore if they look hard enough. If you show up on her door, give her a card, give her some money, it confirms to them that bad shit is happening. They’ll get nervous. They’ll do stuff. They’re in a bad way right now. Their ministry is quaking. I want to make it worse.”
“You’re the boss. What’s the second stop?”
“Palo Alto. I want you to go see the doctor’s daughter at Stanford. Her name’s Ma Daiyu. I’m sure she’s heard her dad has passed away. Probably she’s gone home for the funeral. Make some inquiries. Talk to her Chinese friends. Let them know that we’re watching. If you need help, we can get some people from San Francisco to come down. A bunch of the Stanford professors have worked with National Resources. We can set it up.”
“Am I Peter Tong again?”
“Yup.” He nodded, the mottled chin moving up and down. “Be visible. Be obvious. It will all get back to the Ministry. I want them to know that the doctor had some weird juju going with somebody. Their top guy, Li Zian, is Mister Cool. I want to spook him. See how he jumps.”
“Yo
u could just send someone from San Francisco station. Save Uncle Sam the air fare.”
“Nope. Don’t forget, this case isn’t on the books yet. You’re one of five people who are cleared for it. Plus, you’re the right person.”
Chang cocked his head. The morning sun was in his eyes, but it wasn’t that. He felt uncomfortable.
“Why? Is it because I’m Chinese, and they’re Chinese?”
“Sure. It’s partly that. You can talk to these folks more easily. But the main reason I want you to do it is because I trust you. I know you won’t fuck up.”
Chang nodded. The personal vote of confidence shouldn’t have mattered so much to him, but it did.
Vandel opened his briefcase and handed over a thick folder.
“Here’s the stuff you’ll need. The analysts gathered a file on Jasmine before the Singapore op. The Bureau had a file on the daughter at Stanford.”
Vandel drained his coffee and ate the rest of the scone. “Yum,” he said.
“How soon?” asked Chang.
“United has two flights that connect to Vancouver this afternoon. Go home, get your Peter Tong kit, and go to Dulles. This is the black budget. Live it up. Martini and steak dinner. Shrimp cocktail, too. Stay out late. Relax.”
Chang took the packet. He tried to laugh, but it was forced.
“When do I get to do some operational work that doesn’t involve Chinese people?”
“Give me a break. You want to go back to Iraq? Fine. Ahlan wa sahlan. I hear they’re looking for a new C.O.S. in Baghdad.”
“I’m joking,” said Chang pushing back his chair and rising to go. “This is my case. I want to nail it.”
Harris Chang caught a 4:07 flight from Dulles that connected through Denver, and he was in Vancouver just after 9:00, local time. He checked into a cheap hotel near the airport. He didn’t want a steak and he didn’t want a martini. He found a late-night ramen shop near the hotel and read Phineas Redux while he ate his noodles.
Li Fan, who had been known to Dr. Ma Yubo as Molihua, or “Jasmine,” lived in a new apartment building in an upscale Vancouver suburb called Burnaby. Harris Chang drove his rented car up Granville Street, past grand mansions barricaded by dense shrubbery. Once they must have belonged to timber or shipping barons who had made their fortunes in the Canadian Northwest. Now many were owned by Chinese tycoons who had begun moving their money out of the Middle Kingdom at the first blush of the great boom.
Chang called Li Fan’s home number. When she answered, he hung up. He parked his shiny Kia sedan behind her building on Lougheed Highway and jimmied the freight elevator so that it would take him to her apartment on the twelfth floor. He knocked on her door. When she opened it a crack, the chain still in the bolt, he spoke gently.
“Jasmine, it’s Peter Tong. I’m a friend of Dr. Ma’s. He asked me to come see you.”
She sniffled, and then a tear rolled down her cheek. Obviously she already knew that her lover and protector was dead.
“May I come in?” he asked gently, switching to simple Chinese. “I have something for you. From Dr. Ma.”
Li Fan unbolted the door. She was wiping her tears with a tissue; she let her hand drop, turned modestly away, and then looked her visitor straight in the eye.
Chang took a startled step back, and then forward into the room.
“Jasmine” was almost a caricature of Chinese beauty. She had long, lustrous black hair that brushed her neck and shoulders. Her face had been sculpted as if by a makeup artist. The thinnest hints of eyebrows traced across her forehead; long lashes accentuated her almond eyes; her cheeks seemed to glow beneath the skin; her were lips full and red. She was wearing a silk dressing gown, high-waisted, with a long, full skirt. The embroidery around the bodice moved with her as she breathed.
Chang had kept his distance from Asian women. When he was growing up, they so often seemed to be bustling to the lab or the library or wherever success beckoned. Chang had dated Caucasian girls through high school and college. It was part of his “American-ness.”
This Chinese woman was like a distant memory. Her face and figure reminded him of a book in his father’s house back home in Flagstaff about Chinese nightclubs in the 1930s and 1940s. The book was one of his father’s secrets. It was hidden at the bottom of a bookshelf. Chang had thumbed through its pages often enough as an adolescent. This woman resembled one of the showgirls at the “Forbidden City” on Sutter Street.
Li Fan backed gracefully toward the couch. She was wearing slippers with heels. Chang pushed the door of the apartment closed.
“I heard the news,” she said, dabbing again at her eyes. “They told me my dear doctor had an accident while he was traveling abroad. Is that true?”
“Yes,” lied Chang, switching back to English. “He was in Singapore when he died. He was a fine man. He loved you very much. He spoke about you.”
“You knew ‘Yu-Yu’?” She used this diminutive word for her deceased lover almost as if she were talking about a pet.
“Just a little. He wanted you to be happy. He wanted you to be taken care of, here in Canada.”
“They told me not to talk with anyone.”
“Who told you?” asked Chang. He looked around the room. They had probably put a bug in her phone. Maybe a camera in the wall.
“The man from the consulate. He said there would be a problem for me if I talked with anyone about Dr. Ma.”
Chang stepped toward her and took her hand. The fingers were thin and fragile. The nails were painted ruby red. As he held her palm, he could feel the fingers tremble slightly. This wasn’t just tradecraft. He let the hand go and looked into her eyes. She nodded. What did that mean? Keep going, he told himself. See where this leads.
“I was his friend,” said Chang. “He would want you to talk with me. He said that I should give you money if anything happened to him.”
She began crying again at the reference to the doctor’s passing, tears dripping down her cheeks. She was such a polished performer, it was impossible to know if it was for show. Chang had brought along a pack of tissues, and he handed her one.
“I’m so alone.”
“I’m here. I’m your friend.”
“You’re not Chinese?” she asked, appraising him. “You look too big.”
“No. I’m American. Dr. Ma had many friends in America, from the time he was a student here.”
Her hand was still trembling. She held it with the other, to keep it steady. Whoever had visited her from the consulate had frightened her.
“Are you a scientist?” she asked.
“Yes, in a way. But I’m really here because I was a friend of Dr. Ma. I have money for you. If you have a bank account, I can wire it to you.”
She shook her head.
“I brought along a little gift, then. In memory of Dr. Ma.”
He removed a packet from his coat. It was wrapped in brightly colored paper. Inside was the ten thousand dollars.
She took the packet and felt its weight.
“Thank you,” she said. She laid it down on a side table. “I cannot say that I do not need help.”
“We can send you more money,” said Chang.
She cocked her head. She had a courtesan’s appreciation of value and nuance. She knew that nothing is free.
“Who is ‘we’? And what do I have to do in return?”
“We is just me,” said Chang, taking her hand again. “And you don’t have to do anything. We want you to be able to stay in Vancouver, if that’s what you want. Did he leave money for you?”
“Yes,” she said. She pursed those red lips when she had spoken the word.
“Is it enough to last?”
“I don’t know. Probably not forever. We’ll see.”
She was weighing him. She would be talking to the Chinese consulate again soon to see if they could make a better offer.
“Don’t play games with me,” said Chang. “No back and forth. I have friends in Canada. If I tell them you are untr
ustworthy, they will make you leave.”
“Ah!” She stepped back. “So you do want something.”
Her big eyes widened, and the lashes flicked up and down. She took a seat on the sofa. The hem of her silk dressing gown parted slightly, revealing the inner slope of her calf.
Chang felt hot under her gaze. He didn’t like using people. The one time he had hated his father as a boy was when he learned the old man had informed on some Chinese migrants in Flagstaff and turned them over to the police.
“You must be tired,” she said softly. “Men are always tired. You should relax. I will bring you something to drink.”
Chang looked at his watch. It wasn’t noon yet. Too early for booze. Maybe it would take away this odd feeling of vertigo, this momentary shiver of lust and shame.
“What do you have?”
“Whiskey. I was keeping it for Yu-Yu. But I will share it with you.”
She stood, gave him a teasing look and walked off. Her heels clicked on the wooden floor.
Jasmine returned carrying a glass of whiskey, full to the brim, which she placed submissively on the coffee table. She motioned for Chang to come sit next to her on the couch.
“I hope we are going to be friends,” said Jasmine. “I need a friend.”
The tradecraft manual didn’t have instructions for this situation. Chang waited a moment and then walked firmly toward her. He was tired of following rules. In his cable, he would call it “establishing rapport.”
“You are very strong,” she said, feeling his bicep as he eased onto the couch next to her.
“I was a soldier.”
“James Bond.”
“No. Just a friend of Dr. Ma.”
She shook her head and wagged one of her long, red-tipped fingers. She knew better.
“You will bring me more presents,” she said.
Before Chang could answer, she had wrapped a gentle arm around his shoulder and pulled him toward her. He could hear the rustle of her undergarments as he bent to kiss her.
The Quantum Spy Page 12