The Ghost War

by Alex Berenson

  The men reached the big granite outcropping. The first man raised his hands to his eyes—the park was still too dark for the binoculars to be useful—and slowly scanned the hill where the mole was hidden. He seemed to be talking to the other man, though from this distance the mole couldn’t make out what he was saying. Then he pointed up the hill.

  Step by step, the big Chinese closed in on the beech stand where the mole was hiding. The mole wished he could burrow into the dirt. Then the big man turned right, cutting over the hill, disappearing. The mole waited to be sure he was gone, then reached across his body to draw his S&W out of his shoulder holster. With the gun free, he lay down again and waited.

  The man below leaned against a rock, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, and lit one up. He smoked quietly, the tip of his cigarette glowing in the darkness. When he was done, he stubbed the cigarette onto the sole of his shoe and dropped the burned-out butt back into the pack he carried. Trying not to leave evidence of his presence, the mole thought.

  The minutes ticked by. As 6:00 A.M. approached, the man stood up. “Mr. T?” he said. He whistled into the darkness. “Mr. T?”

  From his spot in the trees, the mole wondered if the Chinese planned to shoot him this morning. They had to know that if they killed him they would never be able to recruit anyone else. The CIA would broadcast this story to the world, so that any potential agent would know how the Chinese treated their spies. But then where was George this morning? And why bring two men? Nothing made sense.

  At 6:10, the temperature was rising, the black sky turning blue. The mole covered the S&W with his hand so its metal glint wouldn’t give him away. In a few minutes more the sun would be fully up, exposing his position. Still he waited. At this point he had no choice. Under his windbreaker, sweat pricked down his back.

  Crunch-crunch-crunch.The mole held his head steady but twisted his eyes right. The big Chink was coming back over the hill, looking toward the beeches where the mole lay. The mole’s fingers tightened around his gun. Then the man’s narrow eyes slid past and he walked down the hill. When he reached the granite outcropping, he said something the mole couldn’t hear. The little guy shook his head. He tapped out two cigarettes. The men stood there silently until they were finished smoking. Then the little guy tapped his watch and they walked back to the main entrance. The mole waited ten minutes more, tucked his S&W away, and headed home on shaky legs.

  THREE HOURS LATER HE SAT in his Acura in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven, fumbling with the clamshell packaging that surrounded a disposable cell phone he’d bought at a Radio Shack. The thick plastic cut his fingers, and as his frustration grew he felt like throwing the phone into the traffic. Finally he managed to rip the phone from its packaging. He breathed deep, tried to relax, powered up the phone, and punched in a 718 number, to be used only in absolute emergencies. He let the phone ring three times and hung up. He stared at his watch, allowing three minutes to pass, then repeated the drill. Three minutes later, he called for a third time. This time the phone was answered on the first ring.

  “Washington Zoo. George here.”

  “Do you still have the giant pandas?” An idiotic but necessary code.

  Pause. “Has something happened? Where were you today?”

  “Where were you? Who were those guys?”

  “It was for security. They would have brought you to me.” Pause. “Since what happened in England, we are concerned.”

  “You’re concerned? Worst case, they give you a one-way ticket home.”

  “It isn’t smart to talk anymore on this phone.”

  “Okay. Let’s meet in person. Somewhere nice and public, George.”

  “Public?”

  “Like Union Station. I’ll figure it out, let you know.”

  “Please don’t panic. We’ve worked together a long time. I’m your partner.”

  “Then you should have come this morning.” Click.

  TWIN FLOWER BEDS LINED the driveway, an explosion of daffodils and tulips in red and yellow. The house itself was brick, big but nondescript. A two-car garage and white painted shutters. Exley walked up the driveway without much hope. It was the last of the five on her original list. Of the others she’d visited, one had been empty when she arrived, which proved only that both parents worked. The other three had been typical suburban homes, with typical suburban moms. Exley worried that she was wasting her time. What had she expected to find? A Post-it on the refrigerator that said, “Meeting w/Chinese handler Tuesday night—don’t be late!” On the other hand, Tyson’s team hadn’t nailed anything down either. Even with only a few suspects to check, this kind of work was seriously time-intensive.

  This place looked like another bust. The driveway was empty and the curtains shut. Exley mounted the front steps, and to her surprise heard a soap opera blaring from a television inside. A dog barked madly as Exley pushed the bell. She’d heard a couch creak as she rang. Then nothing. Whoever it was seemed to be hoping she’d go away. She rang again, feeling vaguely nauseated and headachy. Too much coffee and too little sleep.

  “Coming,” a woman said irritably. Janice Robinson, wife of Keith, according to the agency’s dossier. Janice pulled open the door and peered heavy-lidded into the afternoon Virginia sun. The house behind her was dark, though a television flickered in a room off the front hall. A fat golden retriever poked its snout at the door, barking angrily while wagging its tail to prove it wasn’t serious.

  “Can I help you?” Janice said, in a solid southern drawl. She wore a faded red T-shirt with “Roll Tide” printed in white across the chest. Her face was pretty but chubby, her hair a dirty-blond mess, her eyeliner thick and sloppy. The scent of white wine radiated off her, decaying and sweet as a bouquet of week-old flowers.

  “I’m looking at that ranch on the corner and I was hoping you maybe could tell me about the neighborhood,” Exley said. “My husband and I have an apartment in the District, but we’re looking to move. My name’s Joanne, by the way.”

  Confusion flicked across Janice’s face, as if Exley had tried to explain the theory of relativity and not her house-buying plans. “You want to hear about the neighborhood?”

  “Nobody knows it like the neighbors, right?” Exley smiled.

  “Hard to argue with that,” Janice said. Exley couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic. Maybe she wasn’t as ditzy as she seemed. “I have to take my car into the shop, but I guess I can spare a minute.” Janice opened the door and waved Exley inside.

  “Do you do those?” Exley indicated the flower bed. “They’re so beautiful.”

  “My babies.” She patted the retriever’s head. “Lenny tries to eat them, but I don’t let him. My name’s Janice. Come in.”

  Janice led Exley through the dark house to the kitchen, where more flowers awaited, fresh-cut this time. A ceiling fan mopped the air. Exley couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a room so stifling. Probably twenty years ago, some airless fraternity basement in college, getting drunk and looking for what she thought was a good time.

  “I don’t like air-conditioning,” Janice said. “It breeds colds.” Lenny plopped down heavily, his tongue flopping out. Even with the flowers and dog, the house seemed sterile to Exley. The darkness. The television blaring. The bottles lined up by the sink. If this were a movie, a serial killer would be hiding in the basement. Or Janice would have her grandmother chained to a bed upstairs.

  “Would you like a glass of water? You seem peaked.”

  “That’d be great,” Exley said.

  “Maybe some wine. I find a glass in the afternoon keeps away the colds.”

  “Just water, thanks.” Exley worried she seemed snappish. “I’d love a drink, but I have to get back to the office.”

  “Of course.” Janice poured a glass of water from a pitcher in the refrigerator and set it on the table. Exley had a brief paranoid fantasy that the water was laced with something. She’d take a sip. The world would go black. When she came to,
she’d be locked in the basement next to a fat guy in a leather mask. No. That was Pulp Fiction. She ought to stop this nonsense. She, not Janice, was the one in here under false pretenses. She did feel light-headed, though. She dabbed a few drops of water on her face. Janice sipped from her wine.

  “Your place is nice,” Exley said.

  “So you wanted to hear about the neighborhood? It’s all right, I guess.”

  “Have you lived here awhile?”

  Janice paused. “Seven years or so, I guess. We’re thinking about moving.”

  “Oh.”

  “But it’s nothing to do with the neighbors. My husband might be getting moved overseas. It’s something we’ve wanted to do for a while.”

  Keith Robinson was in line for an overseas assignment ? Exley hadn’t seen that possibility in his file. But then, he wouldn’t be the first man to fib to his wife about his job prospects.

  “Seems like a real nice place, though.”

  “The neighbors are friendly enough. We kind of keep to ourselves.” She indicated a flyer stuck to the refrigerator. “There’s a block barbecue next week.”

  “How about the schools? We’ve got two little ones.”

  Janice flinched and Exley saw that she’d touched the source of the strange melancholy in the house.

  “Can’t help you there. We don’t have kids.”

  “Oh.” Exley never knew how to respond when a woman said she was childless, especially in the tone that Janice had used, equal parts anger and disbelief. “Sorry?” “There’s always adoption?” “They’re overrated?” Every answer sounded patronizing and futile. “My mistake,” she finally said.

  Janice ostentatiously looked at her watch. “Sorry to rush you, but I have to get to the dealership. I’m probably not the right person to talk to anyway. What with having no kids.” She pulled back her lips in an ugly smile, like a viper about to unleash a mouthful of venom.

  “No problem. Thanks for your time.” Exley sipped her water and stood.

  “By the way, what did you say you did, Jill?”

  “Joanne. I’m a consultant. Market research. Guess that’s why I’m always trying to find out about neighborhoods and stuff.”

  “Do you have a card?”

  “Sure.” Exley poked into her purse for a card as Janice finished off her wine.

  “Never understood what you consultants do anyway.” Janice looked at Exley’s card fishily.

  Exley hadn’t felt so disliked in a long time. “Thanks for all your help, Mrs.—”

  “Robinson.”

  “Robinson. I’m embarrassed to ask, but can I use your toilet?” Exley was hoping for an excuse to get a quick look around the first floor.

  “Right through the living room. I’ll show you.”

  The bathroom and the living room were unexceptional, though both hinted at hidden wealth—an expensive Persian rug in the living room and fancy granite fixtures in the bath. In five minutes, Exley was back in her car. Maybe Keith Robinson wasn’t the mole, but he was something,Exley thought, as she put the Caravan in gear and drove off, mopping sweat from her forehead. His house stank of secrets.

  EXLEY WENT BACK TO THE OFFICE in Tysons Corner and spent the rest of the afternoon poring over Robinson’s work history. She already knew that his biographical details fit what Wen Shubai had given them. She was looking for smaller, subtler signs. Sure enough, she found one. Beginning eight years earlier—the time when the mole had approached the Chinese, according to Wen—Robinson’s performance evaluations had steadily improved. After being lazy and unmotivated for years, he’d shown new interest in his work, his bosses said. As a result, he’d wound up with new responsibilities—and new access to information.

  When she was sure she’d seen every scrap of information they had on Robinson, she poked her head into Shafer’s office. He’d spent the last several days casting a wide net, asking vague questions about possible suspects to officers in and around the East Asia Division. Exley thought he was being too cautious. Legwork wasn’t his strong suit; he was much better thinking through threads that other people had gathered. All his jujitsu wasted time, and time was suddenly in short supply.

  Since Shubai’s defection five days earlier, Langley’s top two agents in the People’s Republic had gone dark. One spy, the logistics chief at the giant naval base at Lushun, had simply disappeared. He’d requested an urgent meeting with his case officer, then hadn’t shown up. Now his cell phone was turned off and his e-mail shut down.

  The other agent, a deputy mayor in Beijing, was the highest-ranking political source the agency had inside Zhongnanhai. At least he had been until Tuesday, when he’d been arrested on what China’s official news agency referred to as “corruption charges.”

  Of course, the arrest and disappearance might have been coincidences. But no one at Langley believed that. The odds were higher that Osama bin Laden would quit al Qaeda to become a pro surfer. Chinese counterintelligence officers had surely tracked both men for years, allowing them to remain free to provide false information to the CIA. Effectively, the men had been tripled up—used by China against the United States, even as the United States believed that it had doubled them back against China.

  But Wen’s defection had ended that game, and so the spymasters in Beijing had arrested the men. And now the United States was flying blind at the worst possible time. Did the PRC want open war with Taiwan and the United States, or was it bluffing? Was its leadership unified, or was its belligerence the product of an invisible power struggle inside Zhongnanhai? The president, the Pentagon, and the National Security Council were desperate for answers. Too bad the CIA had none to give.

  “I think I have something.” She recounted her meeting with Janice Robinson, as well as Keith Robinson’s strange personnel evaluations. When she was done, Shafer looked down at his notes.

  “She didn’t specifically mention children, then?”

  “I’m telling you the whole house was off.”

  “Jennifer. I don’t doubt it. I’m only trying to figure out where to go next. Remember, Robinson’s only on the list because he failed a poly. He doesn’t meet Shubai’s criteria for a personal problem. He hasn’t had a heart attack, gotten divorced, sued, anything like that—”

  And then Exley knew. “We should have figured it from the beginning, Ellis. What’s the worst personal crisis you can have? Not getting sick, not an accident—”

  “You think he lost a kid.”

  Exley nodded.

  “Well, that we can find out. If you’re right, it’ll be time to tell Tyson.”

  THE MOLE WAS SURPRISED by the silence that greeted him when he opened his front door. Janice always left the downstairs television on while she made dinner. And where was Lenny? “Janice? Jan?”

  No answer. Then he heard her in the kitchen, crying softly.

  She sat at the kitchen table, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Lenny lay at her feet, looking up hopelessly. An empty pan sat on the stove. A shrink-wrapped plastic tray of chicken breasts sat unopened in the sink, alongside uncut tomatoes and peppers.

  Janice looked up as he walked into the dark room. For a moment she didn’t seem to know who he was. Then she covered her face in her hands and offered a high-pitched moan, O00000000000, a soft dirge that sounded like a distant tornado. He went to her and rubbed her neck. More than anything, he wanted the moan to stop.

  “I’m a failure, Eddie.” The words emerged in a damp, stuttery blubber. “Such a failure.”

  The mole—Keith Edward Robinson, known as Eddie only to his wife—pulled up a chair. “Sweetie. Did something happen?”

  “This woman, she and her husband are looking at the Healy place, on the corner, and she asked me about the neighborhood and the schools and I just, I just snapped—”

  The cabinet where the mole kept his whiskey was within arm’s reach. He grabbed a bottle of Dewar’s and took a long slug, not bothering with a glass.

  “Woman? What woman?”

  “S
he came by the house. She wanted to know about the schools, Eddie. Look at us. What’s happened to us?”

  The mole put the bottle on the table. No more whiskey. He needed to think clearly now, and quickly. The strange part was that he really did want to comfort Janice. But first he had to figure how close they were. “This woman, honey, who did she say she was?”

  Janice lowered her hands. She seemed perplexed at the turn the conversation had taken. “Said her name was Joanne.” She pulled a crumpled business card out of a dish on the table and handed it to him. “Said she was a consultant.”

  The mole examined it as though it were a tarot card holding the secret to his future. Which in a way it was. Ender Consulting, a Professional Corporation. Joanne Ender, MBA. Beneath the name a phone number and an e-mail address. The mole wanted to call, but whether or not Ender Consulting was real, the number would go to a professional-sounding voicemail. And if it was a trap, they’d have a pen register on the line and they’d know he called. He tucked the card into his shirt pocket. He’d check later. “Did she ask anything about me, Jan?”

  “What? No.”

  “Please. I know it seems like a strange question, but think on it.”

  Janice twisted her hands. “I told you we didn’t talk long. She mentioned her kids and I started to get upset, so I made her go.”

  “Did she look around the house? The basement?”

  “Of course not. Why?”

  “Did you ask the Healys about her? If she actually went to their house?”

  “She was just some lady asking about the neighborhood. What are you so worried about? Is she your girlfriend?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not stupid, Eddie. Don’t make things worse than they already are.”

  “Sweetie. I promise I’m not having an affair with this woman.”

  “Swear.”

  “I swear on Mark’s grave.” He’d never said anything like that before.