by Clancy, Tom
A man like General Tam.
Unlike the prime minister with whom he had just been meeting, Chou had no patience or sympathy for those who would betray the nation or the philosophies set out by Chairman Mao. Le Kwan Po was a mediator. He was a man committed to equilibrium, to compromise. Chou liked the prime minister and believed he was a patriot. But Le wanted to rule a China that was unified at any cost, even if it was a heterogeneous one and not a Communist one. Chou did not agree with him on this very significant point. The director still seethed when he thought of the beloved chairman’s late wife, who was one of the treasonous Gang of Four. She and her three fellows had coerced members of the military to help cleanse the nation of ideologues. The Communist Revolution had been an uprising of ideas. They were good and necessary ideas. In the 1930s and 1940s, the military was called upon by Mao to defend the right of the people to hold those ideas. Jiang Qing corrupted that. She used the vicious Red Guard to enforce her ideas. Iron boot education never produces long-lasting results. It produces slaves, and eventually slaves turn on their masters.
That was something the Gang of Four learned during their long, televised trial in Beijing.
It was something General Tam Li would also learn.
The computer beeped. The short, bespectacled intelligence director closed the white folder and put it in a drawer. He looked at the monitor. The cursor prompted him to enter a password. He typed in the Chinese characters for eagle and talon and waited for the file to download. Chou had a collection of ivory dragons on a shelf in his office. He enjoyed them and had collected them since he was a boy. But they were also there to mislead his adversaries. Anyone who came into his office and tried to access his computer files would naturally search for dragon-related passwords. No one would ever think to look for another powerful predator.
It was a report from one of Chou’s field agents in Taiwan. The CSR director had been expecting the information.
General Tam Li had gone into this day with a plan he had hoped would undermine the resolve of the man who was watching him closely. The general seemed to have thought that violence and the threat of personal exposure would turn the eyes of Chou Shin elsewhere.
Tam was not just wrong, he was decisively wrong.
As he would discover in less than an hour.
ELEVEN
Taipei, Taiwan Monday, 11:49 P.M.
Lo Tek had a wonderful life. Part of that was due to the freedom he enjoyed, and part of it was the respect he had. Part of it was also due to the quaint simplicity of his world.
Born Hui-ling Wong, Lo Tek was a name given to him by his associates because he refused to use any sophisticated electronic communications devices. He believed in being surreptitious, and one could not work in the darkness with all the electronic lights of the modern age. Most days and nights the thirty-two-year-old spent on his ninety-fourfoot ketch with its artful crew of three, sailing the waters of the Yellow Sea and the East China Sea. For the most part, his navigation was done the old-fashioned way, by wind and by starlight. His belief was that if it worked for his ancestors, it would work for him. Though he used a computer and DVD player for onboard entertainment, communication was conducted entirely with point-to-point radios.
Lo Tek rarely left the sea. That was where he found refugees—men, women, and youngsters attempting to go from wherever they were to anywhere else. Mostly they were trying to get out of Indonesia or the PRC and trying to get to Taiwan, Hong Kong, or Japan. More than half of the nearly fifteen thousand who set out each year perished on the water due to overloaded or inadequate boats, inclement weather, insufficient supplies, or pirates who robbed them of their few possessions, assaulted then killed the women, and sank the boats. Of the seven thousand or so souls who managed to survive on the seas, four thousand were turned away by coastal patrols, arrested, or sold by corrupt police to slavers who worked the docks. Typically, those were young women. Occasionally they were young boys. Invariably, they were never seen again.
Less than one thousand individuals managed to make it ashore. Of those, fewer than two hundred managed to find employment. The rest became thieves, prisoners, or corpses.
Lo Tek had a very special business. His agents ran shipping services that “helped” refugees achieve their goals. The boats brought the cargo to Lo Tek, who brought the finest of the women on board and sold them to high-priced brothels in Taiwan, Thailand, Japan, and Hong Kong. In exchange for their silence, Lo Tek made sure the rest of the passengers reached their destination.
In return for giving his boats safe passage from Chinese ports, Lo Tek made sure his contact in the PLA was well-paid. General Tam Li had been a valuable asset for many years and a frequent guest on his ketch.
The young man felt no guilt about what he did. As they had sailed the seas, the ancient Chinese also dealt in human cargo. It was an old and legitimate profession. Statistically, without him most of these girls would be dead within days or weeks. Lo Tek never abused them himself and left the training to the professionals ashore. He felt that he was doing the young ladies a favor, placing them in situations where they would be warm, fed, and given regular medical care. They would even earn money to send to their families, which was the reason most of them had left their homes.
When Lo Tek came ashore, he liked to visit the clubs with whom he did business. They always treated him like nobility. Excellent food and drink and a reunion with one or more of his women. For the orphaned son of peasants, who had sold his twin sister to soldiers and dockworkers in Shanghai for ten fen each, that was quite an accomplishment. He still sent her half the money he earned, which she used to run an orphanage back in Shanghai.
The Top of the World club at the new Barre Crowne Tower was actually a legitimate nightclub with dinner, entertainers, and dancing. Only select guests knew to ask for special treatment. There were elegantly appointed rooms on the floor below for men with the time and money for what the club called “exceptional treatment.” These rooms could only be reached by a private elevator.
After two weeks at sea, Lo Tek was in the mood for very exceptional treatment. During that time the Chinese native had gathered a total of thirty women for clients along the Pacific Rim, including one private collector living in the Philippines who liked his companions tall and very young. Lo Tek arrived at the tower, was announced by the streetlevel doorman, and was greeted with an embrace from the manager when he reached the fortieth floor.
“You should have called ahead!” the manager said. “We would have had a lounge ready for you.”
“You know how I work.”
“Well just once, you know?” the manager said. “Give me a half hour, and I will have things arranged for you.”
“Thank you,” Lo Tek replied.
The men walked arm in arm as they went down a circular staircase into the main nightclub area. The manager, Chin Teng, was a thin man who wore heavy glasses and a film of perspiration across his forehead. Lo Tek imagined that he had the metabolism of a mouse, which would be fitting, given all the running around he did, attending to clients.
It was dark in the club, with a semicircular bar in the center and high tables scattered throughout. There was a raised dance floor behind the bar. The windows were floorto-ceiling and covered 160 degrees of the circular room. They offered a commanding view of the city and the hazy lights of the harbor. Because it was still early, the club was relatively empty. Most of the customers arrived between midnight and one A.M. and stayed until dawn. A disc jockey was playing Asian pop standards from a booth overlooking the floor. Lo Tek knew that there were also security guards up there, watching through the smoked glass to make sure everyone behaved. There were two couples on the dance floor, three men and a woman in a group at the bar, and two young men bent over tall beers at one of the booths in the back of the room, away from the window. It looked like they had had a long day.
“What would you like to eat and drink?” the manager asked.
“I would like orange juice, freshly sq
ueezed, no ice,” Lo Tek replied.
“I’ll get it at once,” the manager said as he showed him to a booth in the corner, near the window.
Lo Tek slid into the deep leather cushion. The swaying of the sea had become natural to him. It felt odd being on solid ground.
A stunning young waitress in a short black skirt brought him water, macadamia nuts, and a brilliant smile. He smiled back. That was something else that happened onshore: he did not look at a woman and wonder what kind of price she would bring. He saw her simply as a person.
The manager brought Lo Tek his drink, then left to check on “the rest of your order,” as he put it with a wicked wink. Lo Tek took an appreciative sip of the juice. His mouth felt alive. He took another as he looked out at the club. He absently folded the cocktail napkin into a little sailboat. Origami was a hobby of his, something he had mastered to amuse and distract the younger girls who were briefly guests on his ketch.
He watched as the two men at the booth tossed several bills on the table and left. Neither of them carried a briefcase or backpack, which seemed unusual. He noticed, too, that both beer bottles had napkins around them. They were wrapped entirely around the glass, as though both men did not want to leave fingerprints.
Lo Tek wondered if that meant anything, or if his naturally suspicious nature were getting the best of him.
That was the last thought the slave trader had before his eardrums exploded, followed by the rest of the room.
A bomb had been left in a briefcase under the table and was triggered remotely. It consisted of six sticks of TNT bound with electrical tape and capped with a detonator. The sticks were packed in a bed of sugar.
From Durban.
The explosion fused the sugar into tiny shards, blowing them around the room like fireflies. The small table was shredded as the explosion slammed through the room. The force of the blast did not just pulverize objects and people, it knocked them about like a force five hurricane. Blood and alcohol were dashed against the walls, first by the TNT and moments after that by the exploding CO2 canisters behind the bar. There were a few screams from below as the dance floor of the nightclub was shoved down into the exclusive rooms on the thirty-ninth floor. Moments later there were cries from the streets as the big picture windows flew outward. Particles of glass rained down thickly, like hail, clattering off rooftops, cars, and the street. Twisted barstools, along with broken bottles and glasses, were hurled toward the exterior wall. Most of the window frames were bent and dislocated, hanging at odd angles over the street. Some were still dropping larger pieces of glass to the pavement as dark gray smoke churned through them. The winds carried it over the harbor, an added pall on the already steamy night. People who were caught in the lethal rain were knocked to the pavement, some writhing with minor wounds and others utterly still, impaled by the larger pieces of debris.
The maelstrom lasted for less than five seconds. Sirens broke the muffled silence that followed, wailing nearer from all directions as scraps of paper and clouds of powdered pasteboard and brick continued to drift earthward. Some of the debris ended up in the harbor.
Including, fittingly, the paper boat Lo Tek had made.
It sank quickly.
TWELVE
Washington, D.C. Monday, 1:01 P.M.
After Paul Hood was shown to his office, a young female intern who did not look much older than his daughter came in and cheerfully showed him how to work his computer. The lady—Mindy, from Texas money, he knew from her accent and her Armani suit—dutifully looked away after telling him how to program his personal password.
“A master program maintains a record of all your Web stops, Mr. Hood,” the slender young woman informed him. “The president has asked us all to be circumspect about where we go.”
Hood could actually hear the Southern-born president using a word like that, imbuing it with the proper balance of danger and piety. The young intern sounded very mature indeed, carrying forth that word from the commander in chief. At Op-Center, Hood used to tell people the same thing. It took him two words, though: “No porn.”
Mindy showed Hood how to work the telephone and gave him a swipe card for the men’s room. She was very professional about that, too. After the young woman left, Hood sat alone, with the door shut. Chief of Staff Sanders said she would come by at three. She wanted to review her thoughts with Hood on how the new office might work. She assured him, however, that the decision would be his, and he would have full autonomy on the final setup.
As long as you agree, Hood thought. Otherwise, the new special envoy would be removed, and someone else would get the job. That was how things worked in the nation’s capital.
It was difficult to process everything that had just happened. Hood looked around and smiled mirthlessly. About the only thing today had in common with yesterday was that Hood still did not have a window.
Just an exit, if he needed it.
Hood felt alone, despite the people he knew were just a few feet away. He was at the seat of power, yet he felt strangely powerless. It would be odd not to receive hourly intelligence reports from the research rooms upstairs. It was frustrating not to have anyone of a Bob Herbert or Darrell McCaskey caliber to consult.
That is not entirely true, he reminded himself. Hood owed Bob Herbert a phone call.
It took a moment for Hood to remember how to work the telephone. He had to press nine, enter his department code, then punch in the number he wanted. At Op-Center it was the other way around.
“Paul, what the hell is going on?” Herbert asked after Hood had said hello.
“More changes,” Hood replied.
“That’s obvious. The phone ID says you’re calling from the White House.”
“I’m the new special envoy to the president,” Hood replied.
“Special envoy to where?” Herbert asked.
“Everywhere. I am still an international crisis manager,” Hood replied.
“Did you know that this was coming? Any of it, including the changing of the guard over here?”
“No,” Hood said.
“Neither did I. And we’re intelligence professionals.”
“An attack always comes from somewhere you’re not expecting it,” Hood pointed out.
“Is that what this was?” Herbert asked.
“What do you mean?”
“An attack?” Herbert said. “Hell, I thought we were all on the same side.”
The remark caught Hood like a palm-heel strike to the side of the head. Herbert had a point. Hood was obviously not pleased with how this had gone down, and he was not sure why. Not everyone got “fired” to the White House. He should be flattered, not angry. Maybe it was the idea that he was now working for someone. He had never done that in his career, not as the mayor of Los Angeles, as a financial adviser, or as the head of Op-Center. Though the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee watched what the NCMC was doing and how the money was spent, Hood was the superior officer. He did not report to one. The question he had to answer, truthfully, was whether he considered the president an enemy.
No. Lorraine Sanders, maybe, he decided. She struck him as being extremely territorial.
“How is everyone taking the change?” Hood asked.
“I don’t know,” Herbert admitted. “Numb, I guess. We had a staff meeting this morning, and everyone was pretty quiet. But I haven’t really talked to anyone. I’ve been looking into this situation we have.”
“Can you talk about it?” Hood asked. He wanted to put on his professional hat as soon as possible. Dwelling on personal issues was not going to get him anything but deeper into them.
“Sure,” Herbert replied. “You’ve still got your security clearance, right?”
“Yeah,” Hood said. Herbert was not joking. That bothered Hood, but like everything else, he was not sure why. Herbert was just doing his job, following a protocol that Hood had helped to establish.
“Someone out there is capping Chinese interests abroad,” Her
bert told him. “There have been three incidents in one day. General Carrie wanted to know if they are connected or if we need to be concerned about that.”
“Do you?” Hood asked.
“It’s too early to say,” Herbert replied. “Charleston police report finding the remains of Chinese stowaways in the harbor. An hour ago there was an explosion at a nightclub in Taipei. Special guests received special treatment there—”
“From mainland Chinese girls,” Hood said.
“You see where this is going,” Herbert replied. “We do not believe that someone is attacking men and women who leave China. We suspect the target is the enabler, whoever is helping them to get out and making money from their sale in Taipei or the United States. Darrell just got off the horn with a friend in the Taipei Municipal Police Department. The Section Four Bomb Squad, attached to the Xihu Police Substation, was at the site within minutes. They found a badly wounded fellow who has since been identified as Hui-ling Wong, a suspected slaver. He died on the way to the hospital, but they found his boat in the harbor.”
“Did they get any phone records, computers?”
“Nada,” Herbert said. “The guy never used any of those. He had a nickname, Lo Tek. All his deals were conducted in person or arranged via ship-to-ship or ship-toshore communications.”
“Sensible.”
“The harbor police did get his radio operator, though. They’re hoping he’ll be able to tell them something.”
“Do you think Hui-ling was the target?” Hood asked.
“No,” Herbert said. “It would have been just as easy to take out his ketch. He was probably just a bystander who happened to deserve what he got.”
“So the business was the target,” Hood said.
“Yes, but Ron and General Carrie both think there might be a proxy war being fought here. I’m inclined to agree.”