The Ghost War

by Alex Berenson

  “You think Beijing might have been supporting the Talibs through Kowalski?”

  “I wondered too when you said Macao. But why risk a war with us?”

  “None of it makes sense,” Wells said. “The Chinese make this deal with Iran. They betray the Drafter. It’s like they want a fight.”

  “Yes and no. They’re coming at us sideways. They’re hoping we overreact.”

  “But that’s not what Shubai says, right? He says they want us to back down so that the whole world will see how much more powerful they’re getting.”

  “What would you do, John? If you were running the show? Push back hard on the Chinese or let things simmer?”

  He considered. “I don’t know. We can’t let them push us around, and it sounds like this guy Shubai knows what he’s talking about. But there’s something we can’t see. Hate to go to war by accident.”

  Wells didn’t bother to ask what she thought. Without another word, he rolled onto her, his size surprising her, as it always did. He enveloped her, his mouth on hers, wet open-mouthed kisses. He never asked permission, she thought. He never needed to. His big hands gripped her waist, then one was unbuttoning her jeans, the other pulling them off her hips. And as quickly as that, she forgot she was tired.

  24

  LARRY YOUNG, THE WHITE HOUSE PRESS SECRETARY, felt the buzz in the press-room as he strode to the podium. These afternoon briefings were usually inside baseball, watched by a few thousand political junkies. Not today. Today Young would be live from Los Angeles to Boston, Tokyo to Moscow. The Chinese and the Iranians had certainly gotten the world’s attention that morning.

  Young waited for the cameras to stop clicking before he read the statement, approved forty-five minutes before by the president himself.

  “The United States denounces the action by the People’s Republic of China in the strongest possible terms. If China wants the world’s respect, it should condemn Iran’s nuclear program, not support it. Most important, China must understand that the United States will hold it accountable if Iran deploys a nuclear weapon.”

  The statement was short and to the point, as Young had recommended. “That’s all. I’m sure you have questions.” A dozen hands went up. “Jackson? My hometown favorite.”

  Jackson Smith, from The Washington Post, stood. “Any sanctions planned against China? A trade embargo? Will we be recalling our ambassador?”

  An easy one, Young thought. Smith was smart but predictable. “That’s three questions, but they all have the same answer. At this time, we’re reviewing our options, both economic and diplomatic.”

  “But nothing planned at this time?”

  “We’re not going to be hasty, Jackson. Next.” He pointed to Lia Michaels, from NBC. They’d had a brief fling a few years back, when he was a congressional aide and she was at CNN. They were both married now and never mentioned their history, but he always made sure to call on her and she always smiled at him when he did.

  “The Pentagon has announced that the United States is deploying three aircraft carriers to the South China Sea. Why? Do we plan any military action?”

  Young took a moment to get the answer exactly right. He’d worked this phrasing out with the president’s chief of staff and he didn’t want to miss a word. “The announcement today is only the most recent in a series of provocative actions by the People’s Republic. China must be aware that its actions have consequences. Next?”

  But Lia wasn’t finished yet. “You said the United States will hold China accountable if Iran uses a nuclear weapon. Does that threat include a nuclear strike against China?”

  “It’s not a threat. And we never discuss military contingencies. Next?”

  Anne Ryuchi, the new CNN correspondent, caught his eye. “There have been rumors about this agreement for a couple of weeks. Did you try to warn China off?”

  “We did attempt to express our concerns. Obviously the Chinese weren’t interested in hearing them. Next.”

  Dan Spiegel, from The New York Times, practically jumped out of his seat. Young didn’t much like him. A typical Times reporter, smart but not as smart as he thought. “Mr. Spiegel.”

  “You mentioned a series of provocative actions. Does the United States have a theory as to why China is being so aggressive?”

  “You’d better ask them.” Young enjoyed snapping Spiegel off.

  “To follow up. Aside from their deal with Iran, what other actions have the Chinese taken that the United States classifies as provocative?”

  “Their recent missile tests, and their saber-rattling toward Taiwan. Taiwan is a democracy and an ally of the United States.”

  “But didn’t the Taiwanese start this controversy with their discussion of a possible independence vote? ”

  Spiegel loved to hear his own voice. Like so many reporters, he believed mistakenly that he was as important as the people he wrote about.

  “The people of Taiwan must be allowed to express their opinions without fear of Chinese reprisal,” Young said. Time to give them something new to chew on. “Also, while I can’t provide specifics, we have learned that the Chinese government has damaged a classified program critical to the national security of the United States.”

  “Can you tell us more?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  THE CONFERENCE WENT ON forty-five minutes more, until almost 3:00 P.M. Eastern. In Beijing, twelve hours ahead, Li Ping watched in his office, sipping tea as a colonel on his staff translated. Cao Se watched alongside him, filling a pad with notes. When the conference ended, Li flicked off the television and dismissed the colonel.

  “What did you think?”

  Cao flipped through his pad. “They’re very angry, General.”

  Li wasn’t disturbed. “Furious words, but no action. As I expected.”

  Cao clasped his hands together. He seemed uncomfortable, Li thought. “I respect you greatly, Li. You’re a great leader.”

  Li found himself unexpectedly irritated. He was used to having junior officers suck up this way, but he expected more from Cao.

  “General,” Li said, emphasizing the word, reminding Cao of his seniority, “don’t waste your breath flattering me. It’s very late. Now go on.”

  “Sir—” Cao stopped, twisted his hands. “Fate is a strange beast. Even the most perfect plan can fail.”

  Now Li understood. Cao feared the United States. “The Americans won’t fight us, Cao.” Li had studied the flash points of the Cold War—the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Berlin Blockade, the Soviet destruction of KAL 007, a Korean passenger jet that strayed over Russian territory in 1983. Each time, after threats of war, the two sides found a way to defuse the crisis. Nuclear-armed powers didn’t fight each other. China and the United States would find a way out too—but only after Li had taken power.

  “But what if the Americans miscalculate?”

  “There’s no reason to worry. We control the situation.” Even Cao didn’t know all the levers Li had at his disposal. He hadn’t only negotiated the agreement with Iran and given up the Drafter. He was behind the independence crisis in Taiwan as well.

  Over the years, the People’s Liberation Army had built a huge network of agents in Taiwan, including one of its most senior politicians, Herbert Sen. Now, on Li’s orders, Sen had called for the island to declare its independence from China. In doing so, Sen had put the United States in a miserable position. Since 1949, when the Nationalists fled Mainland China and established their new headquarters on Taiwan, the People’s Republic had viewed Taiwan as a renegade province. In fact, the island was effectively independent from China, with its own government, currency, and military. America helped guarantee that security. In turn, Taiwan wasn’t supposed to rattle China’s cage by officially declaring its independence. A Taiwanese move to break that bargain would give China an excuse to invade—and leave the United States with two bad options. Let China attack Taiwan, its democratic ally, or go to war over a crisis that the Taiwanese themselves had st
arted.

  Of course, Li didn’t want to invade Taiwan. An attack would be worse than messy, even if the United States didn’t get involved. Taiwan was extremely well defended. But Li knew better than anyone else that the independence movement wouldn’t get far. Soon enough—on his orders—Herbert Sen would have a change of heart. In the meantime, Sen’s demand had increased the pressure on the Americans.

  “Think of it this way, Cao. We’ve created a storm the Americans didn’t expect. Now they’ll try to frighten us. They’ll bring up their navy. They’ll reach too far. Then all of China will unite against them”—behind me, Li thought—“and they’ll see they have no choice but to ask for peace. When they do, we’ll give them what they want. The skies will clear. And America will have a new respect for China.”

  “And with your new power, you’ll make sure that the peasants are treated fairly.”

  “No more riots like the one in Guangzhou. No more stealing at the top of the Party. A new China, where everyone shares in the blessings of the economy. The people have waited too long for honest rulers.”

  Li had never before spoken his plan aloud, not even when he was alone. His heart quickened. In a few weeks, the world would see him as he was, Mao’s rightful heir.

  “The people will thank us, Cao,” he said. “I’m certain of it.”

  THE MEETING OF THE STANDING COMMITTEE began precisely at 2:00 P.M. the next afternoon. The foreign minister discussed the world’s reaction to the deal with Iran. Aside from the United States, most countries had hardly blinked. Some had even quietly told Beijing that they supported the Chinese and Iranian efforts to counter American power.

  Then Li reviewed America’s military maneuvers. As it had promised, the United States was moving three carrier battle groups toward the Chinese coast—a formidable fleet, with hundreds of jets and several dozen ships. In response, China had moved forward its newest submarines and had increased fighter patrols. Already the Chinese pilots were reporting increased contacts with American and Taiwanese jets.

  “Our pilots are aware of the delicacy of the situation,” Li said. “We don’t expect any offensive contact, but if the Americans attack we’ll respond. Does anyone have questions?”

  For a moment, the room was silent. Then Zhang spoke. “Defense Minister, the American reaction to our announcement concerns me. Didn’t you promise that the United States wouldn’t act against us?”

  “So far they’ve done nothing but talk,” Li said, as he had that morning to Cao.

  “But what if that changes? The Americans have discovered that we betrayed them to North Korea. They said so at their meeting with the reporters.” Zhang was almost shouting across the table at Li, a bit of theater to show his anger. “You told us they wouldn’t find out about that. Obviously they have, thanks to that traitor Wen Shubai. One of your men, Minister Li.”

  In turn, Li spoke quietly, without raising his voice. Let Zhang yell, he thought.

  “Minister Zhang, I fear you’re correct. I curse Wen. He’s a treacherous snake. But the Americans can’t prove anything. Anyway, they aren’t children. They know we’ve used North Korea against them for many years. They won’t go to war over this.”

  “Not this alone, but in combination with what we’ve announced with Iran—”

  Li turned to Xu, the committee’s nominal leader, subtly cutting Zhang out of the discussion. “General Secretary, what do you think?”

  Li knew that in asking Xu, he was taking a chance. Xu might cut him down, say that he too was worried by the American response. But Xu had smiled and nodded throughout his presentation. Li thought the old man wanted a little excitement. And maybe Xu was tired of having Zhang order him around.

  Now Xu nodded. “I think ... Comrade Li is correct. So far the American hegemonists have done nothing but talk. And I think it’s time we taught the Americans a lesson. It’s no longer up to them to control who has the special weapons.”

  “Are you certain, General Secretary?” Zhang said. “At our breakfast this morning, you expressed concerns about whether a fight with the Americans might hurt our economy.”

  Zhang had just blundered, Li thought. Like all old lions, Xu hated to be embarrassed publicly. Sure enough, Xu swiped Zhang down.

  “I’ve expressed my opinion. Comrade Li has done a fine job. And trade isn’t the only measure of national pride, Comrade Zhang.”

  “Thank you, General Secretary,” Li said. “Now, there’s something else. Besides help with the special weapons, the Iranians have asked us to provide delivery systems.”

  “Missiles? No.” Zhang sat up in his chair. “This is madness. We have too many problems at home to invite more anger from America. Our economy is too uncertain.”

  “How strange, Minister Zhang,” Li said. “All these months you’ve told us our economy is a glorious and strong wall. Did the wall fall down while none of us were looking?”

  “Of course not. But—” Zhang stopped, trying to figure out how to explain the contradiction in a way that wouldn’t sound foolish.

  “We don’t have to do anything. It’s enough that the Americans know that we’re considering the request, that they haven’t frightened us.”

  Xu stepped in. “Minister Li, please continue your discussions with the Iranians. Let’s make sure the American hegemonists know that their ships won’t stop us from acting in the interest of the Chinese people.”

  “Thank you, General Secretary.” Li smiled. Across the table, Zhang’s black eyes flashed with anger, and something else. He knew he was losing control, Li thought. Of course, desperation could make Zhang more dangerous. But it might also lead him to make mistakes, like his effort to browbeat Xu. Either way, the fear in Zhang’s eyes told Li that he was on the verge of success.

  25

  THE MOLE SET HIS ALARM FOR 5:15, wanting to be sure he’d make his meeting with George in plenty of time. But when he opened his eyes in the blackness, Janice snoring lightly beside him, the radio’s display told him it was 3:47 A.M. Insomnia had its advantages. Tonight he’d woken like a spring uncoiling, immediately clear-headed, though he’d been asleep three hours at most.

  He ran his hand down Janice’s back, resting his fingers on her soft, fleshy ass. She turned sideways, shifted one leg forward and the other back, an unconscious invitation. Before he could wake her, he pulled his hand away. His marital duties would have to wait. She grumbled softly but didn’t wake.

  In the basement he collected his Smith & Wesson, slipping the revolver into a little shoulder holster. Fortunately the morning was cool, so he could wear a windbreaker without attracting attention. He’d never fully trusted the Chinese, and part of him worried that they would shuck him now that the heat was on.

  He shaved in the basement bathroom, nicking himself under his chin. The cut didn’t hurt, but blood covered his neck, matching his bloodshot eyes. He dabbed at the cut with toilet paper until finally the blood stopped flowing. Then he lifted the bathroom mirror off the wall and spun the dials on the black safe behind it until the heavy steel door clicked open.

  For the last couple of weeks, he’d pulled cash out of his bank accounts, $2,000 or so a day. Now he had $45,000 in the safe, neatly organized into blocks of hundreds and twenties, along with two Rolex watches and loose diamonds in a little Tupperware box. He riffed through the cash, then stacked it in two plastic Priority Mail envelopes.

  In another envelope were two passports, one American, one Canadian, both very good quality. He’d picked them up in Panama a couple of years ago. Ten thousand dollars went a long way down there. Now he flipped through them carefully, checking the laminated photographs, examining the tiny hexagonal holographs on the American passport. For the Canadian, he’d dyed his hair black and worn glasses. The dye and glasses were in the safe too.

  Real as they looked, the passports wouldn’t get him into the United States, not anymore, not with the new scanners that the Department of Homeland Security was using. But they’d be good enough to get him out, to Mex
ico or Jamaica or some other third-world hothouse with soft borders and no visa rules. And getting out was what counted. If he left, he wouldn’t be back anytime soon.

  THE MOON WAS STILL GLOWING in the sky when the mole reached Wakefield Park. As far as he could tell, he was the only creature moving. Even the deer and the raccoons were asleep. It was 4:45 A.M. The sun wouldn’t rise for another hour. Under his windbreaker, his .357 itched in its holster and he had a mad urge to pop off a couple of rounds in the dark.

  He sat on a stump by the granite outcropping where he would meet George. Then he reconsidered and walked up the hill behind the rock to a stand of beech trees. He pushed between the trees and settled himself behind a low hummock of dirt. From here he could glimpse the outcropping without being seen by anyone below. If everything looked fine when George showed up, he would brush himself off, stroll down the hill, and say hi. If not... well, they’d have to find him.

  As he waited, his consciousness drifted. Suddenly he was in the Washington Hilton with Evie, the stripper. She smirked at him as she propped herself upside down against the hotel room’s door, naked, spreading her legs—

  He bit his lip to stay awake. 5:25. Dammit. He’d been snoozing for half an hour. Ironic that after these months of insomnia he was overwhelmingly tired, just when he most needed to be awake. He heard birds waking, the first faint chirps of the morning.

  Then something else. Footsteps moving north from the park’s main entrance. He waited. The footsteps crackled closer. Then he spotted the men. Two, both Chinese. He’d never seen either one. The first was small, wearing binoculars around his neck, like some kind of birdwatcher. The second man was tall and thick, a body-guard type, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. The mole was suddenly conscious of his pulse thumping through his head, whoosh-whoosh,whoosh-whoosh.Who were these men? Where was George?