The wound had been bandaged and healed by time, Ambler knew, but it was not the kind of wound that could ever heal fully. Ambler knew, too, exactly why it was important to her that he know. She wanted him to know her—needed him to know her, not just who she was but how she became who she was. Her very identity was what she sought to share with him. It was an identity that was composed of a hundred thousand mosaic tiles, a hundred thousand incidents and memories, and yet was unitary all the same, a single, unquestioned thing. An entity that was hers—no, an entity that was her.
Ambler felt a churning sense of something he did not immediately recognize as envy.
BEIJING
Was it possible to enjoy protection without suffering isolation? It was something of a koan, thought President Liu Ang. Certainly the city within a city that was the Zhongnanhai often seemed isolated to him. Like the emperor Kuang-hsü, in his splendid captivity, the president wondered whether he was not dwelling in a gilded or, anyway, lacquered, cage. Yet it would be selfish not to take some elementary precautions: the stakes were great, greater than his individual life. By the same token, however, he could never consent to the crippling suggestion that he demur from overseas appearances, such as his upcoming presentation at the World Economic Forum. If he were to heed the counsel of fear, he would lose the momentum that was necessary for his reforms to succeed. The president’s gaze drifted out the window. In winter the North Lake and the South Lake looked glazed, dull—like the eyes of a slain giant, Liu Ang thought. They made him shiver; familiarity could not dull the ominous pulse of history.
Yes, his greatest concern had to be the security of his agenda—his legacy—rather than of his life. It would be a fool’s compact to sacrifice the first on the altar of the second. If his death could usher in the new era of freedom and democracy he so ardently wished for, he hoped he would have the physical courage to accept it. At the moment, however, it appeared that his continued existence was more likely to secure such an arrangement: he hoped this belief was not mere vanity. Besides, if he were to succumb to vanity, there was always the jiaohua de nongmin to correct him. Everyone feared the wily peasant’s sharp tongue—particularly sharp, some wags said, because of the long years he spent having bitten it—but the jiaohua de nongmin no longer feared anyone.
The youthful president looked at the familiar faces who had gathered around the black lacquered table—familiar faces with familiar-looking worry lines.
Chao Tang, of the Ministry of State Security, Second Bureau, was looking especially sobersided this morning.
“We have new intelligence,” he was saying.
“True or just new?” Liu Ang asked lightly.
“Both, I fear.” Comrade Chao was not in a joking mood, but then, he seldom was. From a slender leather portfolio he withdrew a number of photographs, showing them to Liu Ang before passing them to the others.
“Here is the man they call Tarquin,” Comrade Chao said. “In Canada, at the meeting of the G7 a couple of days ago. You will notice the time stamp on this photograph. Just a few minutes previously, a member of the European delegation was assassinated. Kurt Sollinger. A friend of ours, economically speaking—someone who was working hard on an economic agreement that would have facilitated trade between this country and the European Union.”
The soft-spoken man who sat to Liu Ang’s left, his special advisor on domestic security matters, shook his head glumly. “When the wood owl kills the chicken, the good farmer must take up arms against the wood owl.”
“I thought wood owls were extinct,” the president said wryly.
“Not yet, but soon, if precautions aren’t taken. You have that in common,” snorted Wan Tsai, the president’s aging, peppery mentor, his large eyes blinking through his wire-rimmed glasses.
“And here is another photograph of Tarquin,” Comrade Chao resumed, “taken in the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris minutes before the IAEA director-general, Benoit Deschesnes, was shot dead. Dr. Deschesnes, as it happens, was preparing an arms-inspection report that would have cleared this regime of the canard that we have been contributing to nuclear proliferation.”
The soft-spoken security advisor looked even more distressed. “Here is an assassin who has the future security of China itself in his sights.”
“The vital question,” Liu Ang said, “is why.”
“That is optimistic. The vital question may be when.” Comrade Chao laid two photographs of Tarquin side by side. “Here is a magnification of Tarquin, taken at the Changhua incident. Here he is again in Canada.”
“Why, they are different men,” the president said.
“No,” Comrade Chao said. “Our analysts have scrutinized the images for those aspects of physiognomy that cannot be altered—such as the distance between the eyes, the distance from eye to mouth, and so forth—and they have concluded that this is the same man. He changed his appearance, obviously in an attempt to elude his enemies. Some reports say he had plastic surgery and has gone rogue. Other reports insist that he remains in the employ of his government.”
“There are many ways of working for one’s government,” said the jiaohua de nongmin grimly.
President Liu Ang glanced at his watch. “I appreciate the update, gentlemen,” he said. “But I cannot be late for my meeting with the PLA Industrial Committee. They will take it poorly.” He stood and, with a quick bow, excused himself.
The meeting, however, did not adjourn.
“Let’s return to the president’s question,” Wan Tsai said. “It is not to be brushed aside. Quite simply: Why?”
“Why is indeed an important question,” said the white-haired man known as the wily peasant, turning to Comrade Chao. “In particular, why is the assassin still alive? When we last met, you said you had taken measures.”
“Perhaps he is even wilier than you,” Comrade Chao said softly.
PARIS
The Fourteenth Arrondissement, which extends from the boulevard du Montparnasse, was once favored by the American community in Paris. Yet Ambler doubted that this was why Fenton had chosen the area for his safe house—or at least one of his safe houses, for Ambler suspected he owned many. Through the usual maze of one-way streets, the arteries conveyed a steady stream of traffic bound to Orly and the industrial districts farther to the south. Protesters, a genus as defining of Paris as the homeless are of New York, had long favored Denfert Rochereau, at the intersection of the major arteries. But even the less trafficked streets offer an array of Breton crêperies, nightclubs, and cafés. One had to go farther into the arrondissement before one reached the quiet, residential neighborhoods. Forty-five rue Poulenc was in one such. Fenton had given Ambler the address when they spoke in Montreal. It was where Ambler was to report in, following the Deschesnes assignment. After his one visit, the Strategic Services branch office was declared strictly out-of-bounds.
Forty-five rue Poulenc was striking only in its drabness. It might have been taken for the office of a local professional—an optician or a dentist. Dusty venetian blinds were visible in the stoop-level window; in other windows, one could see spider plants hanging from planters, cheerless attempts to establish good cheer.
Ambler buzzed and then waited for nearly a minute, during which his visage was doubtless being scrutinized, either through the peephole or by means of a hidden camera. A low thrumming indicated that the door was opened. He turned the knob and walked into the carpeted foyer. There was no one visible in the hallway. A narrow staircase on the right was covered with an expensive-looking runner held in place with brass rods at the corner of each tread and riser. He heard a voice through an intercom near the base of the staircase, Fenton’s voice, his baritone sounding tinny through the small speakers: “I’m downstairs. End of the hall.”
Ambler made his way through an unlocked door and down another narrow staircase. At the landing, he saw a closed pair of double doors and knocked.
Paul Fenton opened the door and brought him into what looked like a scholar’s study. Every
available surface was lined with books. Not the kind bought for decor but the kind that had been put to serious use: books with fraying spines, many faded by the years.
“Have a seat,” Paul Fenton said bluffly. He gestured toward a wheeled office stool and then sat down on a metal folding chair nearby.
“Love what you’ve done to the place,” Ambler said. He was oddly calm. The ambulance had been stowed in an automatic parking garage; nobody at Hotel Beaubourg glanced at them twice when they returned. Just like that, they had been immersed in utter normality again. Now, entering the billionaire’s quietly bizarre empire, Ambler just felt numb.
“You laugh,” Fenton replied, “but it’s a nearly exact replica of Pierre du Pré’s office at the Collège de France. Upstairs—it’s an almost perfect replica of the office of a Montparnasse dentiste. Could be a film set. I had two of our technicians do it, just to see whether it could be done. Wasn’t easy, I can tell you.”
“They say two heads are better than one,” Ambler said, swiveling slowly on his vinyl-topped stool. “I suppose you figure that two pairs of hands are better than one.”
“How’s that?”
With studied nonchalance, Ambler turned to face the mogul fully. “I was just surprised that you’d decided to post a second gunman at the Luxembourg Gardens—without telling me, I mean. You may have considered it a backup feature, but in my opinion it’s operationally unsound. I might have taken out your guy by mistake. Misidentified him as a hostile.”
“Not following,” Fenton said with a mildly quizzical expression.
Ambler bore down on him. “I’m just saying I don’t work with backups if I don’t know about them.”
“What backups?”
Ambler studied Fenton’s features for any flicker of dissembling, for the faintest twitch of tension. There was none whatever. “And as for the Chinese gentleman . . .”
“What Chinese gentleman?” Fenton interjected blandly.
Ambler paused. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” he said at last.
“Afraid not,” Fenton said. “Was there someone else at your rendezvous, Tarquin? Something I need to be worried about? If you’ve got any reason to suspect a security lapse, I need to know.”
“Believe me, if I had, you’d be the first to hear,” the American operative replied smoothly. “No, nothing like that. I appreciate your need to have observers in position.”
“But that’s standard protocol,” Fenton protested.
“Not a problem. In Stab operations, I usually knew the full complement, but that was then. Forgive an old jungle cat for being on edge. Really, it’s nothing to be concerned about.”
“Good,” Fenton said. His success had come from his capacity for narrow-bore focus—which meant he would not be distracted by details he could deem irrelevant. “I was worried about you for a moment. But you’ve lived up to your reputation. I’m very pleased. You did the job, did it swiftly and cleanly. Showed resourcefulness, swiftness, top-notch decision-making skills. Executive caliber. Fact is, I think you’ve got a future in my inner circle. Top of the org chart. Mind you, there are no desk jockeys at SSG. The people who have a bird’s-eye view of everything have got to be raptors themselves. That’s my philosophy.” He stopped, raised a hand. “But I haven’t forgotten our conversation outside the Palais des Congrès. There was stuff you wanted to find out. I’d told you that you had powerful enemies and powerful friends, and it seems I was right. I spoke to my principal partner at State.”
“And?”
“Clearly there’s a story to be told, but they won’t tell it to me. A matter of information partition—which is fine, I can respect that. Good news is, the principal has agreed to a face-to-face meeting with you, promises to fill you in completely. We’ll schedule it soon as we can. Maybe even here.”
“Who’s the principal?”
“I promised not to say. Not yet. One thing you’ll learn about me, Tarquin, is that I’m a man of my word.”
“And I’m holding you to it,” Ambler snapped. “Dammit, Fenton—I told you I was to be paid with knowledge. You think you can fob off a check’s-in-the-mail excuse like that?”
Fenton’s ruddy face colored further. “It’s not like that, Tarquin,” he said steadily. “My partner very much wants to meet you. All the more now. That’s going to happen within a matter of days. And it’s not like you’re going to be cooling your heels in the meantime. I know that an operative like you must be eager to get back to work. At this point, there’s no assignment I wouldn’t entrust you with. Not a lot in this world that’s good as advertised. But you are, Tarquin. You are.”
“What can I say?” Ambler replied neutrally. Ariadne’s thread—find where it leads.
“Got a real exciting project for you coming up. But don’t pack your skis just yet. There’s just one more assignment we’ve got for you here.”
“One more?”
“A man who really needs killing,” Fenton said. “Apologies for being so plainspoken. But this one’s going to be tricky.”
“Tricky,” the operative echoed.
“Tell you what else, a Cons Ops ‘beyond salvage’ order has already gone out on this guy. They’ve put their in-house best on it. But when the rubber hits the road, they still come to me. Because they can’t leave anything to chance. You bring in Fenton, you’re guaranteed of results. So now I’m putting my best on it—and that means you.”
“Tell me more about the target.”
“We’re talking about somebody with top-notch skills and training. A high-flying covert-ops ace gone bad.”
“Sounds like trouble.”
“You bet. About the worst thing that can happen.”
“Who?” Ambler asked simply.
“A sociopath who happens to have reams of government intel in his head, because of his experience in the field and in the office.” Fenton had a look of grave concern. “Firsthand knowledge of all kinds of government secrets, pass codes, operational procedures, you name it. And he’s out of his mind. Every day this guy draws breath is a day his country is at risk.”
“Thanks for narrowing it down. But I’ll need to start with a name.”
“Of course,” Fenton said. “The target’s name is Harrison Ambler.”
The operative blanched.
Fenton raised an eyebrow. “You know him?”
Ambler struggled to breathe normally. “Let’s just say we have a history.”
PART THREE
NINETEEN
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Clayton Caston returned to the patient file “jacket,” which had just arrived this morning, and briefly scrutinized the color copy of the small photograph. A handsome but unremarkable face, though with something almost cruel about the sharp regularity of its features. Caston did not dwell on the image long. There were some investigators who liked putting a “face” on their quarry; he was not among them. Digital signatures, patterns of expenditures—those were far more revealing than the contingent details of what one already knew: that the person in question had two eyes, a nose, and a mouth.
“Adrian?” he called.
“Yes, Shifu,” Adrian replied, pressing his flattened hands against each other, in a prayerful gesture of mock homage. Shifu, Caston had learned, meant “instructor” and was an honorific used in martial-arts movies. The young had a curious sense of humor, Caston reflected.
“Any progress with the personnel list for Ward 4W?”
“No,” Adrian said. “But you got the 1133A, right?”
“I did indeed. Impressively expedited.”
“Plus you saw I got an actual copy of the patient file ‘jacket,’ with his actual photograph.”
“I did,” Caston said.
“As for the personnel lists, though—well, they’re saying that the lists are being updated.”
“We’ll take whatever they have.”
“That’s what I said. No-go.” Adrian bit his lower lip contemplatively, and his gold labret stud g
linted in the overhead fluorescents. “I gotta say, it’s been tough. I swear, they’re literally battening the hatches.”
Caston arched an eyebrow, mock censorious. “Literally literally or figuratively literally?”
“Don’t worry. I haven’t given up.”
Caston shook his head with a fading smile and leaned back in his chair. His unease was growing. The data he had received felt predigested somehow. Prepared. As if it had been meant for eyes like his. More and more information about Tarquin had been furnished—concerning his assignments as a member of the Political Stabilization Unit of Consular Operations. But there was not a molecule more about Tarquin’s civilian identity. And nothing at all about how he had been committed to the Parrish Island facility. Normally, that was a paperwork-intensive process. Yet somehow the paperwork pertaining to Tarquin’s confinement there was unavailable. Parrish Island was a secure government facility; there had been extensive records of each employee. Yet Caston’s every attempt to get personnel records from Tarquin’s ward had been stymied. Caston doubted that the clerks were complicit; he even doubted whether his counterparts at the Department of State would dare to circumscribe his investigation. But that meant that the blocking agent or agents were at another level: either lower, beneath the radar, or higher, above scrutiny.
It was galling, really.
Caston’s phone chirped with the double tones of an internal call. Caleb Norris was on the other line. He did not sound happy. Caston was to come see him immediately.
When Caston arrived at the office of the Assistant Deputy Director of Intelligence, Norris appeared as morose as he had sounded.
He folded his ropy arms on his chest, tufts of curly black hair protruding from his cuffs; his broad face wore a look of distraction. “Word from the top. We’ve got to bring this investigation to an end.” Norris’s eyes did not meet Caston’s as he spoke. “There it is.”
“What are you talking about?” Caston controlled his surprise.
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