by Allan Topol
Five years ago, Xiang was assigned to the Chinese Embassy in Washington by Liu Guan, who was Deputy Director of the MSS, the Ministry of State Security, China’s premier intelligence agency. As part of his briefing, Liu told the thirty-year-old Xiang, “Your assignment in the United States is highly sensitive. You are prohibited from dating American or foreign women. You can only date women working at our embassy who have a security clearance equal to yours. The honey pot is the oldest trick in the book. I won’t risk you falling into it.”
At the time, Xiang thought that Liu’s edict was absurd. He was merely passing on to Beijing information about United States military plans and capabilities which appeared in the print or electronic media in the United States. There was nothing confidential about his work. He didn’t have access to secret information. What could he possibly pass along to a woman in bed?
Still, he had learned from instructors in training that disobeying any order of Liu meant certain and severe punishment. The deputy director was known for brutality in dealing with enemies of the state, a category he defined to include those who didn’t follow his orders.
When Xiang had arrived in Washington, a healthy thirty-year-old with strong sexual desires, he systematically went through the available pool of eligible embassy female employees in six months. Only four he decided were worth dating. Two he slept with, both unsatisfactory experiences. So he decided to wait for sex until he returned to China on periodic visits.
In Washington he spent time in the gym where he could press 250 pounds, and he ran four or five mornings a week. His six-foot frame had filled out. Xiang could have been on the cover of a men’s fitness magazine.
After two years, Liu gave Xiang his title of Assistant Economic Attaché and assigned him to cover the American Congress, obtaining information from any source, not merely the media, about actions in Congress that could affect China, either militarily or economically. As part of his work, Xiang attended a myriad of diplomatic receptions and cocktail parties where women often flirted with him. Occasionally Xiang was on the verge of asking one of them to come home with him. Before he uttered the words, Liu’s stern face and harsh voice appeared in his mind. He deflected their advances and went home where he took a cold shower and watched American movies. All the while cursing Liu. He wasn’t having any fun, his job was boring, and he didn’t believe anything he did was helping China, which was why he had originally joined the MSS.
All of that changed five months ago when Liu was appointed director of the MSS and summoned Xiang to Beijing where he informed him about Operation Trojan Horse. “You and our ambassador in Washington will be the only two in the United States who will know about Operation Trojan Horse. But you will have the critical role in this operation. Extreme secrecy is essential. Trojan Horse is the most important intelligence operation in our country at this time.”
Xiang had replied, “I’m honored to be a part of it.”
“If you do a good job in this assignment,” Liu had told Xiang, “the possibilities for you in Beijing are unlimited.”
Liu had also snarled, “I am concerned that you may be too young and immature for this assignment. But no one else has your knowledge of the United States and the nuances of American life. So I am forced to take a chance on you.”
“I appreciate your confidence.”
“I don’t have confidence. And I will tell you that if you fuck it up, I will personally direct the torture until you beg to die.”
Xiang was so terrified that he could barely walk out of Liu’s office.
However, after the next two days of briefing about Operation Trojan Horse and his role, Xiang realized Liu hadn’t been exaggerating. The Operation was critical for China. At thirty-five, Xiang was thrilled to be on the cutting edge of his country’s paramount intelligence operation.
Seven Days in May ended. Xiang glanced at his wristwatch. It was two fourteen in the morning. He’d order Vertigo and watch it for about the twentieth time. It was his favorite movie of all time. And he knew why. More than the brilliant screenplay and Hitchcock’s mastery of suspense, there was Kim Novak, who reminded Xiang of Kelly Cameron, his one and only love, fourteen years earlier when they were both students at Carnegie Mellon University. He could still remember every detail about the beautiful Kelly. He loved her long blonde hair, her warm smile, her perfectly rounded breasts, the way she walked—and her insatiable desire for sex. Beyond all that, she had a sharp, analytical mind. She challenged him intellectually as no one else had ever done. And she was fun to be with. He had been enraged when Liu had ordered him to break off his relationship with Kelly at the end of their junior year, but he had no choice.
From time to time over the years he had thought of Googling Kelly. She had been a brilliant computer major, easy to locate. But he had been too frightened to do it. Security officials at the embassy constantly monitored the Internet usage of employees and calls on office phones as well as embassy-supplied cell phones. And Kelly had told him that following graduation, she intended to utilize her computer expertise to enter a career in law enforcement. “I want to do something good for my country to safeguard our democracy.” If it reached Liu that Xiang had been trying to locate Kelly … there would be serious repercussions for Xiang and his parents in China. For only himself, Xiang might have been willing to risk it. But he loved his parents too much to put their lives at risk.
While Xiang was waiting for the movie to load, one of the cell phones on his desk rang. He recognized the distinctive “Ping … Ping … Ping.” That was the special phone dedicated to calls with Senator Jasper.
Xiang answered and said, “Yes.”
He hoped the senator remembered not to identify himself. And he did.
“Tu—Tu—Tuesday,” was all the senator said, sounding hysterical, and ended the call.
Xiang, who had created the code, knew exactly what the senator meant. Tuesday, at five in the morning, Jasper wanted to meet on a path in Rock Creek Park, which was generally deserted at that hour. If anyone passed by, Xiang and Jasper would look like two joggers who had a chance encounter in the park.
From Jasper’s urgent request for a meeting in the middle of the night and the sound of the senator’s voice, Xiang feared that Operation Trojan Horse had been compromised. Xiang pondered his options. Liu had told him that if there ever was a threat to Operation Trojan Horse, Xiang was to call him immediately and without explaining what happened on the phone, announce that he would be flying to Beijing for a briefing.
But until he spoke to Jasper, Xiang told himself that he had no idea what had happened or how serious it was. No point alarming Liu until after the Jasper meeting. For now, he’d have to operate on his own. Besides, notifying Liu was only a last resort. The spymaster didn’t tolerate failure, and he never took responsibility himself. Xiang had observed how savagely Liu dealt with underlings whom he charged with failing to perform up to his high standards. “We have a zero tolerance for failure,” Liu lectured agents. Those words, “A zero tolerance for failure … A zero tolerance for failure … ” reverberated in Xiang’s brain. They sent a shiver up and down Xiang’s spine.
His meeting with Jasper was twenty-seven hours away. He turned back to Vertigo. He doubted if he’d sleep at all until he learned what had happened to Jasper.
* * *
Lying in bed, Martin glanced at the illuminated clock on the bureau. It was 3:11 a.m. And he hadn’t slept at all. Francis was snoring softly, burrowed under the down comforter.
He never had trouble sleeping. But this night was like no other. He had been wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The enormity of what he had done hit him like a wall crashing down on him.
He should have made Jasper go to the police. Or called them himself. Gorton? What the hell was he thinking? This went against his whole life. He counseled a million clients that you don’t try and cover up illegal or embarrassing situations with lies. You’ve got to play it straight—not just because it’s the right thing, but because in the end
you’ll get caught.
Damp with perspiration and trying not to wake Francis, he got up, put on a robe and went downstairs. In the den he sat in the dark, staring into space. His body shook from time to time. He thought about other mistakes he’d made. Once during a lawsuit, he failed to produce a critical document, which a client had concealed. Another time, when relying upon an associate, he mischaracterized a legal precedent. Both times, as soon as he became aware of the error, he’d notified opposing counsel and the court and faced the unpleasant consequences. He could still call Anguilla to rectify this.
But then he’d be destroying the marriage and career of one of his best friends. And the death had been an accident.
No, c’mon. He realized he was kidding himself. This wasn’t merely about Jasper. Martin would have to pay, too. If the media got a hold of it, they’d crucify him. They would claim he didn’t merely lend his Anguilla house to a friend. He lent it to the powerful chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee which dealt with legislation affecting Martin’s clients. He was using his house to buy influence. Arthur and Braddock would cut him from the short list for chief justice at the first sign of trouble. Jasper and Vanessa were standing in his way. If he hadn’t asked Gorton to move the body, he’d have been doomed.
But he could be wrong. Maybe he’d have been alright if all he did was let Jasper use the house. Wes was his friend. Martin could honestly say he didn’t know Jasper would be with another woman. His big fuck-up was making that dumb ass call to Gorton. Jesus, what was he thinking?
Lights came on. He turned and noticed Francis, in the doorway, staring at him. “What’s wrong?”
He realized now that he had to tell her. She was his partner in everything. He couldn’t bear keeping it from her. And he needed to tell someone to get it out. As if that would somehow purge the wrong.
“I made a mistake before. A terrible mistake.”
“That phone call?”
“I wasn’t thinking. Too much wine. Later when you asked me about it, I was still shocked. But that’s no excuse for lying to you.”
“Who called?”
“Wes Jasper. Thursday he asked if he could use our house in Anguilla for the weekend. I assumed it was for a trip with Linda. With all this Supreme Court stuff and the dinner party going on, I forgot to tell you.”
“What happened?”
“He didn’t go with Linda. He went with another woman. Some Vanessa. I don’t know who she is.”
“Our house.” Francis sounded irate. “He used our house for screwing around.”
Then the name Vanessa clicked for Martin. He remembered at the office of the Senate Armed Services Committee Jasper introducing him to a drop-dead gorgeous woman, a Vanessa.
“She may have worked for Jasper’s committee. I’m not sure. Anyhow, she drowned.”
Francis seemed too stunned to speak.
“It was an accident. Jasper said he nearly drowned trying to save her.”
“Noble of him. Idiot! Is he so out to lunch he forgot about his wife, his children?”
“Thanks to me. They may not find out.”
“What’d you do?”
“Called Gorton and asked him to move Vanessa’s body. Then helped Jasper leave Anguilla. He shouldn’t be tied to her death.”
“You didn’t! You didn’t really do that, did you?”
“Honey, it’s our house. If it came out, I was afraid it would have destroyed my chance for an appointment to chief justice.”
“Oh Andrew, this is awful! It’s so unfair to have this happen to you with all of the great things you’ve accomplished. You just made an impulsive decision to help your best friend who put you in a terrible position. And the woman was already dead before you did anything.”
“I know, but …”
“Come to bed. There’s nothing we can do about it now.”
Israel
Allison and Zahava were watching three men and two women sifting through the dirt. “I found something!” Dora cried out in excitement. She clutched what looked to Allison like a pottery fragment, raising it high over her head.
“Let me have a look.”
Before Dora handed it over, the cell phone on the belt of Allison’s khaki pants rang. She checked caller ID. It was not a number she recognized. A 264 area code. Where’s that?
Allison walked away from the others.
“Is this Allison Boyd?” a man asked in a British accent.
“Yes it is. Who’s calling?”
“The name’s Har Stevens. I’m the police commissioner on the island of Anguilla in the Caribbean. I found your name and phone number in the wallet of a woman named Vanessa Boyd. Are you related to her?”
Oh my God. What happened? Her knees felt wobbly. She took two steps to a chair and sunk into it. “She’s my twin sister. Has something happened to her?”
“Unfortunately, Miss Boyd, I have to inform you that your sister drowned.”
“No!” Allison shrieked. “No! … No!”
Zahava rushed to her side.
“I’m very sorry. But, I didn’t have anyone else to call.”
“Oh, Vanessa. Oh, Vanessa,” Allison placed the phone in her lap and cried. When she picked it up again, tears were streaming down her cheeks. “What happened?”
“Your sister must have gone swimming at night. Her body washed up on the beach. People from her hotel called.”
“What about the man with her? Did he drown too?”
“As far as I can tell, she came to Anguilla herself. That’s what they told us at the hotel.”
Her face red with anger, Allison shot to her feet. “No way. Vanessa would never go to a Caribbean island for a vacation herself. And damn it, she’s an excellent swimmer. You made a mistake. It’s not my sister,” she screamed. “I should kill you for doing this.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Boyd, but the photo on her passport clearly matches. And we found a Chopard wristwatch with her initials on the back. She had a scar on her left leg at the ankle. Did your sister have one there?”
Allison felt as deflated as a helium balloon that had struck a spike. Some Washington bigwig had given Vanessa that watch last summer. The scar was from Vanessa’s skiing accident.
“She’s my sister,” Allison managed to stammer as she collapsed back into her chair.
She thought of their blood oath, taken as twelve year olds. Always stick together, no matter what. “Vanessa, Vanessa,” she mumbled. And she wept what felt like a torrent of tears.
It was her fault, Allison thought. She should have moved to Washington. She could have gotten a teaching job at one of the universities in the DC area and shared an apartment with her sister. Then this would never have happened.
“What about the body? Where shall we ship it?”
Allison recalled her uncle’s funeral last year. “Blake’s Mortuary on Main Street in Oxford, Ohio.”
“We’ll do that. And I want to tell you how sorry I am, and so are the people of Anguilla.”
Allison hung up, put her head in her hands, and cried again. She couldn’t believe it. This all seemed like a terrible dream.
Looking sympathetic, Zahava touched her shoulder.
In a fog, Allison said, “I have to call my mother.”
“Would you like me to call for you?”
She dreaded making the call, but she knew she had to do it herself. Pushing the buttons on the cell like a robot, she doubted she’d be any comfort to her mother.
“I have bad news.”
“What happened? Is it Vanessa?”
“A policeman in Anguilla just called. She drowned.” Allison couldn’t continue. As the word “drowned” came out of her mouth, she broke into sobs.
“Oh no, no, Allison, no.”
After a time, she forced herself to finish. “They’re shipping the body to Blake’s.”
Her mother was now shrieking and moaning.
Allison waited until her sobs quieted. “I’m in Israel now on a dig. I’ll get the first
plane out. I should be there Tuesday morning.”
* * *
On Zahava’s recommendation, Allison booked a plane to New York, three hours after they’d arrive at Ben Gurion Airport. “You’ll need the time,” Zahava told her, “between our endless security checks and the miles of walking.” At JFK she’d connect to Cincinnati.
Now, she was standing in a long line, moving slowly toward the El Al ticket counter, astounded at the high ceiling and vastness of the spanking new state-of-the-art terminal. In the polyglot of humankind around her, a few were pushing and shoving. But most were patiently keeping their places in line. There were Christian church groups, Muslims, and school children. She saw bearded Hasids, American Jewish tour groups, Asians, and the diversity of Israelis with every imaginable skin color from Ethiopian to Scandinavian. There can’t be another place like this in the world, she thought.
Damn it, this is taking a long time. I hope I make my plane. Her mind turned back to Vanessa. Last year she’d read a book called The Black Swan about significant, traumatic events people never see coming, never in their wildest imagination. Vanessa’s death was a black swan. She wouldn’t have guessed it in a million years. They came into this world together. Allison always assumed they would leave the same way. Maybe if they were older, Allison might have conceived of one of them going first. But not at thirty-four.
A part of Allison died with that call.
The line was moving at a snail’s pace. Too restless simply to stand in line, Allison decided to call the Washington Post and have them run an obit. Vanessa lived in Washington. She’d worked for a major committee on the Hill. She had friends in the city. They had to know about her death.
She took out her phone, called the obit editor, and recounted the information. He said they’d probably publish it.
An hour later, approaching the last of several security checkpoints, another thought struck her. Suppose this wasn’t accidental. Suppose the man Vanessa was with killed her. A nut case? Or both high, carried away during kinky sex?