The Enemy Inside

by Steve Martini

  “Sorry I’m late. Right after we hung up I got an urgent call. I had to take it. I couldn’t get them off the phone.”

  “Of course. No problem,” said Cheng. “I was just sitting here enjoying the view.”

  Ying turned and looked out through the wall of glass at the sparkling waters of the harbor. “It is gorgeous, isn’t it? Every time I come I am amazed. It becomes more beautiful with each passing year.”

  “Unlike us,” said Cheng. They both laughed.

  Ying was taller, older that Cheng, and he wasn’t Asian. Round-eyed, gray hair, he was always well dressed, three-piece pinstriped power suit set off by a conservative club tie. He would have fit in well at the British colonial clubs of an earlier era.

  “How was your flight?” asked Cheng.

  “Fine.”

  “Did you come in this morning?” Cheng tested him.

  “Ah, no. I got in last night, about eleven,” Ying lied.

  He had been in Hong Kong for three days, closed-door meetings at his house on the island. Cheng’s men had him under surveillance. They were also monitoring his calls. They were unable to get content because Ying’s cell phone used high-end encryption and the man was careful to keep conversations brief. But they could track the location of incoming calls.

  “Perhaps we should get down to business,” said Cheng.

  “Let’s do it.”

  They sat and ordered drinks, Scotch and soda for Ying, a Virgin Mary for the general.

  “One might think you were Catholic,” said Ying.

  “Not unless the pope is Communist,” said Cheng. They laughed. Drinking on company time, especially when the business being transacted was critical, was not conducive to advancement in Chinese leadership circles.

  “Saw your man at the bar.” Ying glanced at the security man sitting there by himself drinking a club soda. “I suppose you don’t go anywhere without them.”

  “No,” said Cheng. Even if he wanted to. It was unwise for government officials to meet with Westerners unless they had at least one credible witness present. Cheng’s masters in Beijing, while increasingly modern, could still be gripped by pangs of paranoia. The security man might not be able to hear their conversation, but he could at least attest to the fact that the meeting took place in open view, plain sight, and was businesslike in its conduct.

  “I have a number of questions,” said Cheng. “I trust we can have a frank discussion.”

  “Of course.”

  “I am interested in information as to your firm’s Western political assets?”

  “By Western you mean . . .”

  “The United States,” said Cheng.

  “What do you mean by assets? Do you mean consultation on political matters?”

  “I thought we agreed to be frank?” said Cheng. “What I mean is, how many of these people do you actually possess? And at what level?”

  The older man looked at him from across the table. “May I ask where you get your information?”

  “You can ask,” said Cheng.

  “If by ‘possess’ you mean own in a way that I can order their actions,” said Ying, “none. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Of course not.” Cheng smiled. “I understand it is much more complicated and subtle. I didn’t mean to imply anything improper.”

  Saving face was just as important in America as it was in China.

  “I can reason with a significant number of them,” said Ying. “Some of them in key positions. Others may follow their lead. Depending on the level of controversy. On a good day I can persuade a dozen, perhaps more, as to the wisdom of my suggestions on any given issue.”

  Cheng looked at him and read the gleam in his eye for what it was, Irish bullshit. “Your calendar must be filled with good days. I say this because your persuasiveness is legendary. Surpassed perhaps only by your modesty?”

  “What can I say?”

  “Let me put it another way,” said Cheng. “Have you ever been refused?”

  Ying smiled. “The secret, General, is never to allow yourself to be put in that situation.”

  “I see. Your logic is too compelling, is that it?”

  “What is it exactly that you have in mind?”

  At one time Ying was reputed to have worked for US intelligence, though information was sketchy as to which agency. Nor was it clear whether he was directly employed or hired under contract. Either way, his work was not as a field agent. It was technical.

  According to his Chinese dossier, Ying’s holdings were extensive. His businesses, and there were several of them, specialized in resource consultation, commercial intelligence, and international security. Over the years he had branched into other sidelines, some of which were obviously unmentionable. Ying appeared to have no loyalties except to his own pocketbook. He played both sides of the street, and every corner at the intersections. Along the way he sold intelligence services to clients and often used the information to buy up valuable resources, oil contracts as well as other commodities. Oil was his specialty. In the process he had acquired immense wealth, though no available published source seemed to know exactly how much. He was sufficiently shrewd to stay in the shadows, well below the political and media radar.

  His companies could go where the US military and the CIA could not due to the hypersensitivity of the political disease the Americans now referred to as “boots on the ground.” For this reason, Ying was privy to information his own government could not get. Cheng wondered how long it might be before Ying ended up the wealthiest man in the world. If and when it happened, and it may already have, Cheng knew that Ying’s name would never appear in Forbes.

  By profession he was not a soldier, but a geological engineer trained in locating oil domes and substrata petroleum resources. It was this fact that made Cheng particularly nervous when, during their last meeting, Ying’s conversation drifted into the subject of the Spratly Islands. For Cheng this was like an iron ship striking a magnetic mine.

  The Spratlys were a chain of largely uninhabited atolls in the South China Sea. They were known to be rich in oil, natural gas, and valuable fishing rights. Half the nations of Asia were now claiming them. But China, being the biggest bully on the block, was at the head of the line. Beijing was busy drumming up international support for the geologic fable of an ancient subsea land bridge connecting the islands with the Chinese mainland a thousand miles away.

  This was the diplomatic Chinese fan spread open to cover the cudgel in its other hand, the largest standing army in the world and a growing navy. Beijing wanted the islands. Nothing was going to stand in their way. Cheng’s job was to do everything in his power to get them. Failure was not an option.

  “The matter we talked about the last time we met,” said Cheng. “Do you remember?”

  “You mean the question of territorial rights?”

  Cheng nodded.

  Ying’s eyes gleamed. Plant the seed, tend it, and it sprouts, he thought. “I remember.” China was desperate for allies, anyone who might bless their claim that the South China Sea was a Beijing swimming pool. What Ying wanted were oil and gas concessions, investments in exploration rights. He didn’t care who got the islands, as long as his company was hip-deep in concessions when the fight was over.

  “Then you know what I’m talking about,” said Cheng. “Are you familiar with the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea?”

  “I think I’ve heard of it,” said Ying.

  “There is a vote being scheduled on a resolution in the Security Council.”

  “Yes, as I recall, it’s about four weeks out. Doesn’t give you much time. I take it you want to influence the outcome?”

  “Of course. China would like to convince the US administration not to exercise its veto. If certain domestic political pressure could be brought to bear on the president. What we would like . . . what Beijing wants . . .”

  “You want the United States to disengage on the question of the islands. To put a leash on its n
avy in the South China Sea so that China might be the only big player,” said Ying.

  “I could not have said it better myself,” said Cheng. “It is, after all, a matter outside their sphere. It does not concern them. What we seek is simple and fair.”

  “You don’t have to convince me,” said Ying. “There may be a few US admirals and a general or two.”

  “All we want are quiet bilateral negotiations with our Asian neighbors. We want to avoid a multilateral circus in the UN with bright lights and Western news agencies hanging from the chandeliers.”

  “I understand. You want to go one-on-one. Get your neighbors behind closed doors where you can cow them into a corner and fence off the Spratlys behind a Chinese wall. You don’t have to dress it up for me.”

  “No, that’s not . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Ying. “Imperialism pays. It’s a proven fact. Whether the boot doing the kicking is on a British, American, or Chinese foot, it makes no difference to me.”

  Cheng started to get up. To an avowed Communist schooled in the system, these were fighting words.

  As the general rose to the bait, eyes blazing from across the table, Ying smiled at him and winked. “I’m sorry. It was a bad joke. In extremely poor taste,” he said. “I apologize. I hope you will forgive me. My sense of humor sometimes gets the better of me. ”

  Cheng caught himself. He smiled nervously as he glanced over at his security man, who had come off the stool and was moving toward them. Cheng raised his hand and motioned the man away. He was still angry, uncertain as to whether the American wasn’t still playing with his head. He settled slowly back down into his seat. “Are you willing to help us or not?”

  “That would depend on how much you are willing to pay, and in what form?”

  Their drinks arrived just in time to chill Cheng’s anger. Ying hung his silver-handled walking stick, the sharp metal beak of the bird’s head catching on the wood at the edge of the table. The imagery was not lost on Cheng: the fact that the alias Ying in Mandarin, translated into English, matched the code name often used to identify the American by Western intelligence agencies—the code name “Eagle.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Harry and I checked into the Hotel des Alpes in Lucerne. It is situated on the old quay near the north end of the medieval wooden-covered walking bridge, the Kapellbrücke, Chapel Bridge. Here Lake Lucerne closes to a narrow waterway and empties into the Reuss River.

  We waste no time unpacking our bags. Instead we head out while it is still light, trying to track down Simon Korff, the banker questioned by Tory Graves and whose business card Graves dropped on me before he was killed.

  Harry located four addresses online for the name Korff in and around Lucerne. Three are in town. The fourth appears to be some distance outside the city on the other side of the lake. None of them show the first name of Simon or the letter S. Harry is worried that his search may have been incomplete because of the limitations on the computer search engine he used.

  This proves to be the case when we check the local phone book in the room. We find two more listings for Korff but again no match on the first name.

  I start dialing using a Swiss SIM card in my unlocked cell phone. Harry and I purchased four of these at a shop at the airport in Zurich when we landed. We’ll use them and toss them as we move.

  The first two calls are dead ends. Both are answered in German, which quickly changes to English the minute they realize I don’t speak German. No one at either address has heard of or knows a Simon Korff.

  The third call, I hit pay dirt. A woman answers. When I mention the name she says, “Ya. Simon Korff is my father-in-law.”

  “Is he there by any chance?”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “My name is Madriani. I’m an American lawyer. I represent some banking interests in the United States. We have been informed that Mr. Korff is knowledgeable and experienced in Swiss banking. We are looking to hire.”

  Harry gives me a pained expression.

  I shrug. It’s the best I can do on short notice.

  “Just a moment.” I can hear her talking in German to someone at the other end.

  A few seconds later a man comes on the line. “Hello!”

  “Hello, sir. Are you Simon Korff?”

  “I am.”

  “The Simon Korff who worked for Gruber Bank here in Lucerne?”

  “Ya. That is correct.”

  “We would very much like to talk to you,” I tell him.

  “What does this regard?”

  “I would much prefer to discuss that in person if you have the time to meet with us.”

  “Of course. When would you like to do this?”

  “Tonight, if that’s possible.”

  “I could do that. Where are you?”

  I give him the name of our hotel.

  “I know the place. I could meet you there,” he says.

  “Have you already had dinner?”

  “No.”

  “Why don’t we talk over dinner?”

  Harry nods, gestures with his hand like he’s drinking from a glass. My partner is offended that I lied to the man about a job. But he has no difficulty at all plying him with liquor.

  “There’s a very nice restaurant here on the second floor. Why don’t we meet there, say seven o’clock?”

  “Ya, good,” he says.

  I give him my name. As he writes it down I tell him to have the front desk call me when he arrives and we’ll meet him in the lobby.

  “Good. See you at seven,” and he hangs up.

  “He’s gonna be angry when he finds out there’s no job,” says Harry.

  “What else could I say? If I told him how I came by his business card and what happened to Graves he’d hang up in my ear and run. Your job is to keep his glass full.”

  “My kind of work. It is, after all, a business deduction,” says Harry.

  “I go away for five days and the entire damned world falls apart,” said the Eagle. He was talking to one of his lieutenants from his hotel in Manila in the Philippines. He had one more piece of business to attend to before returning to the States. “What happened?”

  “We don’t know. Our people located them. There was a shootout, a lot of damage, blood at the scene, but no bodies. And everybody disappeared.”

  “What do you mean, they disappeared?”

  “Our people never called in. It’s pretty clear they’re dead.”

  “Who did it?”

  “We have to assume the P.I. The one with Ives.”

  “Was he armed?”

  “We don’t know. Mexican police have the building all cordoned off. But according to reports, they found no one inside.”

  “What about satellite surveillance? Don’t tell me that you weren’t watching in real time?”

  “We were,” said the man, “but there was a problem. Too much smoke. The CS gas clouded out the overhead cameras. And the pavement was too hot to pick ’em up on the thermal. All we saw was a lotta smoke and white light. A white van raced into the lot in front of the place. We lost it in the smoke for maybe a minute, minute and a half. When it popped out again it was doin’ like ninety out of town headed south down the highway.”

  “And you didn’t follow it?”

  “We did. That’s how we know our people are probably dead. The van stopped along the coast and dumped what looked like two bodies in the ocean.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Johnson and Hayes.”

  “Andy?”

  “Yeah.”

  Andy Hayes was one of his most reliable operatives. Special Forces trained, he had at one time been part of the army’s Delta Force unit headquartered at Fort Bragg. It had cost the Eagle a bundle to recruit him.

  “We lost the van in a parking garage down the coast. They pulled in and never came out,” said the guy at the other end. “Musta had another car stashed. When we checked we found the van, broken windshield, dented front end, an
d a lot of blood inside, and no clue as to where they went.”

  “That means whoever was in the van knew they were being tracked overhead,” said the Eagle.

  “That ain’t the half of it,” said the other guy. “They’ve also gone dark at the law office in Coronado. Landlines are all out, cell phones down, and their link to the net, it’s disconnected.”

  “What about the two lawyers?”

  “They’re in Europe.”

  “Where?”

  “Switzerland. Lucerne.” The man would have told the Eagle that they had ’em covered, but he didn’t dare. Instead he said, “We brought in assets from Libya. Two guys under contract. They’re very good. In the meantime we’re set up overhead. They checked into their hotel and haven’t emerged.”

  “Those are narrow winding streets,” said the Eagle. “I know that town. A lot of ancient buildings with a dozen ways in and out. Do you know what they’re doing there?”

  “No.”

  The Eagle could guess. It was clear that they had some kind of a lead. Who or what it was, that was the question. “You’re going to lose them on the satellite. You do know that?”

  “Our people will be on the ground in less than an hour. We brought ’em in through Diego Garcia the minute we found out where they were headed. From there to Zurich. Then we chartered a chopper. We wired them photos of the two lawyers and the name of the hotel.”

  “They know what to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope they do a better job than the crew in Mexico,” said the Eagle, and he hung up. He checked his watch. He was already running late for his meeting at the white gingerbread structure on the Pasig River downtown—the Malacañang Palace.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Privacy is the main rule. It is as old as the industry in Switzerland. And unlike other restricted relationships, the lawyer-client, the priest ah . . . what is the word in English?”