“Worse,” Shafer said. “The Soviets were on the way out when Ames betrayed us. He got some people killed, but he didn’t change the Cold War. But this—”
Shafer broke off. He didn’t need to say anything more, Exley thought. The struggle for dominance between the United States and China had only just begun. Now this CIA mole, whoever he was, had given China an enormous advantage. His treachery had opened a window on America’s most secret intelligence programs and military capabilities while giving China the chance to conceal its own.
“How many agents do we have in China?” Exley said.
“Even before this, we were incredibly thin over there. A half-dozen PLA officers, a couple of mid-level politicians. But no one really senior. With one exception. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Shafer said. “Mind if I ask what you’re talking about?”
Tyson looked at Shafer. He seemed to consider his next words carefully, though perhaps the hesitation was as much an act as everything else he did, Exley thought.
“I’ve said too much already. The ramblings of an old man.”
Exley saw the pit bull hiding in Tyson’s basset hound face and decided to drop the subject. Still, what he’d said didn’t make much sense. Why would one agent have escaped if the mole had given up everyone else?
“George,” Shafer said, “I have to ask again. How do we know that this fine gentleman isn’t just messing with us?”
“Watch and learn, Ellis.” Tyson clicked the DVD one more time.
“HOW MUCH DID YOU PAY THIS SPY?” the English woman said.
“I don’t know exactly, but millions.”
“What did he give you?”
“Everything the Americans did in China. If they recruited someone, planned an operation, everything.”
“Were you worried that the CIA had planted him? That he was a source of disinformation?”
“Disinformation?” The off-screen translator said something in Chinese. Wen nodded vigorously, almost angrily. “Yes. Of course, we considered he might be trying to fool us. You think we don’t understand these situations?”
“Of course, of course,” the woman said soothingly.
“At first we test him, use him only to check information we already know. But everything he gives us is correct. Very specific, and always correct. So we know he must be real.”
“Mr. Wen, what was the most valuable information this agent provided?”
“Easy,” Wen said. “He told us the Americans had an agent in North Korea. A nuclear scientist. The Americans called him Drafter.”
Exley heard a gasp. She needed a moment to realize she’d made the sound. The Chinese had given the Drafter to the North Koreans?
“When was that?”
“Two years ago, maybe.”
“When did you tell the North Koreans what you’d learned?”
“Not until this year. A few weeks ago.”
“Why did you wait?”
“I don’t know. How do the Americans say it? ‘Above my pay grade.’”
“Do you have any idea?”
“I think some people think China should stand up to America. United States has many problems right now. Time for China to show its power. If America doesn’t answer, then China knows it is winning.”
“People in Zhongnanhai, you mean?”
“Yes. Ministers. The Standing Committee. But not everyone.”
“We’ll return to that later. Let’s focus on this scientist—the Drafter, as you call him. What did you tell the North Koreans about him? His name?”
“We didn’t know his real name. But enough so that they could identify him.”
“And how did you find out about this? It wasn’t to do with Europe.”
“Of course I find out.” Wen looked irritated. “I was home in Beijing when the North Koreans sank the boat that the Americans sent to rescue him. I am eighth-ranking officer in the Second Directorate. Of course I hear.”
Tyson paused the DVD.
“NOT THE SEVENTH-RANKING, and not the ninth-ranking. The eighth-ranking. Ellis, you believe him now?”
Shafer nodded. “Obviously he’s telling the truth. The Chinese have somebody inside. Otherwise they wouldn’t have known the Drafter’s code name.”
“And Chinese wouldn’t give up the mole,” Tyson said. “He’s too valuable. So Wen’s defection is real. He did it on his own, not on orders from Beijing. Maybe for Ms. Monica Cheng. Maybe because of those pesky audits.”
Shafer looked at Exley. “You agree?”
Exley considered. “I’m not sure. We already knew we had a mole. Even if we haven’t made much progress finding him.” The traffic and property records they’d searched hadn’t offered any clues, and they were still waiting for new polygraph results. “The real test is whether he helps us find the mole.”
Tyson grinned. “Ms. Exley. You are the brains of the operation, I see now.”
Exley was tired of playing the good student to the two masters. “And you’re a smug, patronizing jerk.”
Tyson’s smile didn’t disappear. “You sound just like my wife. The strange part is that I really was trying to pay you a compliment. You’re two hundred proof spot-on.”
He clicked the DVD.
“CAN WE STOP FOR TONIGHT?” Wen’s suit jacket was off, sweat stains widening under his arms.
“A few more questions. And then I promise you can rest. Now. This mole within the CIA. Did you know his name?”
“No.”
“Department?”
“Told you already, he was in the Division of Operations.”
“Where in the Directorate of Operations? On the China desk?”
“Not sure. Asia, but maybe not China. Also he spent time in what the Americans call counterintelligence. Don’t know where he is now.”
“Can you tell us anything else about him?”
Wen closed his eyes. “Something happened to him. Something bad. Personal. A few years ago.”
“Like he was in an accident?”
Wen shook his head. “Not exactly. Something else. A big problem. He didn’t tell us. We found it ourselves when we were checking him.”
“Anything else? I promise, this is the last question tonight.”
“He served in Asia. A long time ago.”
“Do you know where?”
“No. And you said last question.” At that Wen stubbed out his cigarette, folded his hands on the table, and closed his eyes.
TYSON CLICKED OFF THE DVD, leaving the screen black.
“So, Ms. Exley, you see I wasn’t trying to be smug and patronizing, though perhaps I can’t help myself. You asked the right question.”
“And the answer is yes,” Exley said. She felt slightly mollified. “Wen gave us enough to find our mole. He’s spent most of his career on the Asia desk. He’s worked in counterintelligence. He was in Asia briefly and had ‘a family problem.”’
“I’m guessing it wasn’t an argument with his mother-in-law,” Shafer said. “There can’t be too many case officers who match all those criteria. If we check that against your seventy names, we should get him, or get very close.”
“Soon, please,” Tyson said. “Because the Brits told our China desk about Wen’s defection yesterday. The mole will be wondering if Wen has tipped us to him already.”
“That’s why you’d rather have the Brits hold on to Wen?”
“Exactly. Until we know who the mole is, we’re better off with Wen as far from Langley as possible. Meanwhile, based on what he said about the mole having some connection to counterintel, I have to assume that we don’t have much time before he runs. If this guy’s been around as long as Wen says, he’ll know he’s in trouble.”
“Not just from us,” Shafer said. “The Chinese might try to clean this up themselves.”
Exley needed a second to understand what Shafer meant. Would the Chinese be cold-blooded enough to kill their own mole if they believed the agency was about to arrest him?
“Doubtful,” Tyson said. “It wou
ldn’t help their recruiting any.”
“I agree,” Exley said.
“You two have an optimistic view of human nature,” Shafer said. He stood to go. “Anyway, we have some work to do.”
20
VIENNA, VIRGINIA
THE GLINT OF EXLEY’S WEDDING BAND CAUGHT HER by surprise as she drove. She’d pulled it out of storage for today’s job.
After meeting with Tyson, Exley and Shafer had spent the rest of the day going over the list of agency employees who’d known enough about the Drafter to betray him. Of the eighty-two names on the final list, twelve matched at least the broad outlines that Wen had given for the mole’s career history, or had suffered a serious accident or illness five to ten years ago. Unfortunately, none of the twelve men fit in both categories. That would have been too easy, Exley thought.
“The dirty dozen,” Shafer said. Separately, thirteen men now matched the soft criteria that she and Shafer had devised earlier. Five employees were on both lists.
“So now what? Do we talk to them?” Exley said.
“Not yet, I think. Tyson will have his people looking for hard evidence on the twelve who meet the criteria that Wen mentioned. Suspicious travel patterns, hidden accounts, the usual. Let’s be a little less formal. I’m going to poke around Langley, play doctor, see what I can pick up.”
“And me?”
“Why don’t you talk to the wives?”
AND SO THIS MORNING EXLEY had pulled on her wedding band and prepared to make a tour of suburban Virginia and Maryland. She was aiming first at the five names on both lists. She didn’t know how many wives would be home, but she figured at least a couple. And she knew claiming she was on a house-hunt would get her inside their houses. Amazing how freely bored women would talk to a friendly stranger.
No one had been home at her first stop, in Fairfax. But this time she’d scored, if the Jetta in the driveway was any indication. She parked her green Caravan by the edge of the road and hopped out.
A flagstone path cut through the neatly manicured lawn. Rosebushes added a touch of color to the front of the yellow house. She stepped over a battered Big Wheel and pressed the doorbell. Inside the house she heard a toddler crying.
“Coming.” A woman opened the door a notch and peeked out. She was pretty, late thirties, carrying a baby on her hip. “Mom mom mom!” a boy squalled from upstairs.
“Hi,” she said, friendly but wary, the classic suburban combination, trying to figure out if Exley was a Jehovah’s Witness or an Avon saleswoman or just a neighbor. People moved to Vienna so they wouldn’t have to worry about strangers knocking on their doors.
“Sorry to bother you,” Exley said. “My name’s Joanne.” She was going with an alias, in case the woman mentioned this visit to her husband. “I was looking at the Colonial up the block and I’m hoping to find out about the neighborhood and I saw your car in the driveway.”
The woman looked uncertain. “I thought they’d accepted an offer.”
“They’re still showing it.”
“Mommy, come here!” the invisible boy yelled.
“Well ... if you don’t mind watching me change a diaper, I’ll give you the rundown. My name’s Kellie, by the way.” She extended a hand. She was glad to have some company, Exley thought.
“Nice to meet you.”
“HE’S BEAUTIFUL,” EXLEY said of the blue-eyed, red-faced little boy holding on to the safety gate that blocked the stairs.
“Isn’t he? Name’s Jonah. But he’s got a temper.” She picked him up. “Come on, J. No more crying. We’ll get you fixed up.”
“They all cry at that age,” Exley said. “I’ve got two of my own. Trust me, they grow out of it.”
In Jonah’s bedroom, Exley watched as Kellie changed the diaper with one hand while soothing the baby with the other. Already, Exley knew that this woman had mastered the chores of parenting in a way Exley never had. She couldn’t explain why she needed ten minutes to change a diaper, but she did. She never doubted that she would take a bullet for her kids. But she had to admit that she hadn’t been cut out for the daily grind of chasing them around, wiping up their snot, making them paper bag lunches for school.
Lots of women loved that part of being moms, or at least said they did. Maybe they were right. Maybe those chores were essential to building a lifelong relationship with kids. But Exley couldn’t lie to herself. She’d been desperate to get back to work after four months of maternity leave.
Now as she watched Kellie wipe off Jonah’s butt and pull on a clean diaper, she wondered: If she had another chance, could she be different? She and Wells? She didn’t know if she could imagine Wells as a father, though of course he was one already. He’d had a son with Heather, his ex-wife, just before he went to Afghanistan to infiltrate al Qaeda. But Wells saw the boy—Evan—only a couple of times a year. Not that he had much say in the matter. Heather, who had sole custody of Evan, was remarried and lived in Montana. She said that Evan had accepted his stepfather as his real dad and she didn’t want to confuse the boy by giving him too much time with Wells.
Maybe having another child would settle Wells, Exley thought. Or maybe not. He had so many days when he didn’t get along with the world, when he reminded Exley of a barely domesticated guard dog, half German shepherd, half wolf. But even at his an griest, Wells was sweet to her kids, sweet to kids in general. And kids loved him for his size and strength. What kind of father would he be with a boy of his own? Somehow Exley knew that she and Wells would have a boy. Though the truth was that the odds were against her getting pregnant at all.
Kellie finished putting on Jonah’s clean white diaper and ran a soothing hand over his face. “Pretty soon you’ll be a big boy and no more diapers.”
“No diapers!” Jonah yelled happily.
Kellie looked sidelong at Exley. “So what do you do, Joanne?”
“Me? I’m a consultant.” The word consultant was vague enough to mean anything, and boring enough that no one cared anyway.
“I used to be a lawyer,” Kellie said. “Then one day I woke up and I was this.”
“You’re great at it, though.”
“When the little one gets to preschool, I’m going back to work. Of course, Eddie—that’s my husband—wants one more, but I told him unless he figures out a way to get himself pregnant, that’s not happening. Come on downstairs and let’s have coffee.”
“I wish I could have stayed at home for a while,” Exley lied. “We couldn’t figure out a way to afford it, though. Is your husband a lawyer too?”
“No. He works for the government. But we saved up when I was working and we’re pretty careful. How about yours?”
“My husband? He works for the government too. Not too far from here. Maybe they’re in the same business.”
“Sounds that way.” CIA wives liked to hint that their husbands worked at Langley. Proof that the agency hadn’t completely lost its mystique, Exley supposed.
Kellie pulled up Jonah’s pants. Now that he didn’t have a full diaper, he was pretty well behaved, Exley thought. Cute too. “You sweetie,” she said to him. “What’s your favorite thing to do in the world?”
“Hockey! Play hockey!” Jonah grabbed a miniature hockey stick and swiped the floor. “Play hockey.”
“Eddie’s got him on skates already.”
“He can skate?” Exley’s surprise was genuine.
“Play hockey play hockey—”
“You’d be amazed.” Kellie grabbed the boy’s hand. “Jonah, come on downstairs to the kitchen with us. You can play down there.”
“Can I have juice?”
“Of course, sweetie.”
They walked back to the downstairs, which was festooned with pictures of Kellie and Edmund on their honeymoon in Hawaii, Kellie and Edmund and Jonah at the rink, the kid cute as anything with his helmet and stick and skates... Edmund Cerys wasn’t the mole, Exley thought. Not even an Oscar-winning actor could fake the way he looked at his wife in these pictures.
He’d gotten drunk at a Redskins game and picked up a misdemeanor for pissing in the parking lot, but he wasn’t spying for the Chinese or anyone else. Zero for one.
SHE SETTLED INTO THE KITCHEN and prepared to let Kellie tell her about the neighborhood. Then her cell phone trilled in her purse. Wells.
“Hi,” he said. “I have a favor to ask. Can you come up to New York? Today?”
21
EAST HAMPTON, NEW YORK
EVEN AT 2:50 A.M. ON A WEDNESDAY MORNING, East Hampton glowed with wealth. Wall Street skyscrapers, Hollywood back lots, Siberian oil fields—wherever the money came from, it ended up here, waves of cash crashing in like the Atlantic Ocean’s low breakers. Under the streetlamps, the town’s long main street shined empty and clean. The mannequins in the Polo store cradled their tennis racquets, poised to play in their $300 nylon windbreakers. To the north, toward the bay, the houses cost a mere seven figures. South, in the golden half-mile strip between the main street and the ocean, the mansions ran $10 million and up.
Wells and Exley were heading south.
Wells cruised at twenty-five miles an hour on his big black bike, its engine running smooth and quiet. Before him, the traffic light at the corner of Main Street and Newtown Lane turned red. He eased to a stop and patted the CB1000’s metal flank. The bike was his, but the license plate wasn’t. He’d liberated it from a Vespa scooter a few hours earlier. He’d also removed all the identifying decals on the bike, making it as anonymous as a motorcycle could be.
Exley stopped beside him at the wheel of a gray Toyota Sienna minivan that Wells had hot-wired from a parking lot at a bar in Southampton ninety minutes before. The minivan’s owner—the “World’s Hottest Single Aunt,” at least according to the sticker on the van’s back bumper—was presumably still getting liquored up inside. By the time she discovered the Sienna was gone, it would have served its purpose. Wells hoped she had insurance.
The Ghost War Page 19