Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  The Chip Family did their work without prompting and without taking time off. They even replied with a variety of messages, spoken and typed, when Liz was away from her desk.

  For a psychologist it was a mixed blessing. There were never any disputes, just an occasional ailment that Matt Stoll and his team could easily repair. But there was also no human interaction, no laboratory experiment she could follow day after day. When she was a student coming to terms with her own nontraditional life, Liz would turn outward and watch others as if they were a living soap opera. The drama was satisfying, and her prediction rate for how people would react and how situations would evolve was exceptionally high.

  Liz would be returning to General Carrie’s office for a working lunch. She was happy for this respite, not because she needed a break from the profiling and reviews, but because she needed more coffee and her nicotine gum.

  She also needed a short break from Morgan Carrie. Thinking about the general caused her breath to shorten again. And this time it had nothing to do with whatever was in Liz’s dossier.

  Damn that, she thought.

  The thirty-five-year-old woman put the PowerBook and mug on the desk and plopped into her swivel chair. She landed harder than she expected and nearly fell backwards. Her arms shot out in front of her.

  Balance, the woman thought as she sat up. She pulled a square of gum from its wrapper and pushed it into her mouth. She did not have equilibrium at the moment. She took a breath, brushed curly brown hair from her forehead, and tried to distract herself by scanning her E-mail. The words flashed by without registering. Her heart began to speed again.

  The general was an impressive woman. After Paul Hood and his dull consensus management style, Carrie’s ability to make a strong decision, whether informed or intuitive, was refreshing.

  Is that all it is? Liz asked. Refreshing?

  Liz stopped going through the E-mail. She would only have to do it again later. She poured black coffee from the pot behind her. The morning brew was bitter. She did not care. She winced as she took a sip, then resumed chewing her nicotine gum. Feeding one habit while crushing another.

  Shit, Liz thought angrily. Her life made no sense. She had ended one relationship because it was too much to handle. Now her imagination was flashdancing into another that would never be. And even if it could, it would be a professional disaster. As a psychologist, she knew she was being reckless. Unfortunately, she was also a human being. Understanding the problem and being able to do something about it were very different things.

  Liz grabbed her mug and went back to the general’s office. The only way through this was straight ahead. She once had a fast crush on a teacher at college. She would deal with this as she dealt with that: as long as she did not think about anything but her job, she should be all right.

  Bugs had sent out for sandwiches. Liz sat back down and opened her egg salad. Carrie had selected roast beef. Liz’s heart had slowed, but not much. The general was looking at the computer monitor when Liz arrived. Liz poked her gum on the edge of the wrapper before she ate.

  “There is only one person we have not talked about,” Carrie said.

  “I know,” Liz said. Her heart was at maximum. She felt exposed, not just because of whatever Hood had written but where the questions might lead. She had to trust that Carrie would recognize and respect the boundary between the professional and the personal.

  “Paul Hood had very little to say about you,” Carrie pointed out.

  “As I said, Paul did not think much about what I had to contribute,” Liz replied. But “very little” was not “nothing.” The psychologist was anxious as she waited for what had to be coming.

  “He does mention a conflict between you and the late Martha Mackall,” Carrie said.

  There it is, she thought with an anxiety that settled in the small of her back. “What did Paul say?”

  “That Ms. Mackall formally requested you and she attend separate briefings,” Carrie said. “She rescinded the request the same day.”

  “There was a little accidental tension between us.”

  “Paul wrote that Ms. Mackall initially found your presence a ‘complete and irreconcilable distraction,’ ” the general replied. “Those are strong words for a little accident.”

  “Martha was a strong woman.”

  “Paul writes that he denied her request, which resulted in her withdrawing it,” Carrie said. She looked at Liz. “Do you want to tell me what that was about? It’s your call.”

  “I believe in full disclosure,” Liz said. She set her sandwich down and hunched forward. “Martha was convinced that I had made an amorous advance toward her.” The word amorous snagged in her throat, a lump of truth she could not easily get around.

  “Did you?”

  “No. But there was a moment, General—it was stupid, I admit,” Liz said, “and it was completely inadvertent. We were all about to go upstairs to Andrews to greet Striker’s plane from North Korea. Martha and I had been working very closely for—Christ, it was about thirty-six hours straight. What happened was that I forgot myself. I blanked, literally. There was a woman standing next to me, I was tired, and I thought she was my roommate. I put my arm around her waist and pulled her toward me the way I do—did—with Monica. Martha freaked.”

  “Did you explain?”

  “Of course, and I apologized. But we were with Bob and Darrell and others, and Martha was very image conscious.”

  “Was Paul there?”

  “No. She went to him when we got back. Paul smoothed it over, but Martha still wanted it recorded as a one-strike situation. Paul refused.”

  “Kind of him. He could have used it to close down your position.”

  “I know. I always appreciated that,” Liz said.

  “But I understand Martha’s point of view, too,” Carrie acknowledged. “Her complaint was her form of cover your ass. The glass ceiling for women is tough enough. For gay women, it’s worse.”

  “Yes,” Liz said. She wanted desperately to ask how Carrie knew that. Maybe another time.

  Carrie closed the file and took a bite of sandwich. “Okay. HR says there has been no change in your personnel file for seven months.”

  “Correct.”

  “That was when you changed your insurance form from a domestic partnership to a single.”

  “Right,” Liz replied quietly. The alarm in her back was now a small tickle.

  “In other dossiers you remark on the impact of marriages and divorces—extensively in the case of Paul Hood. But there is nothing about yourself.”

  “There was nothing to say.”

  “Nothing that would affect your work, the way you wrote about Paul’s divorce or Darrell’s marriage?”

  “No.”

  Carrie regarded her. She chewed slowly, her mouth closed, her jaw making strong, purposeful motions. It seemed connected to the general’s thought process, as if she were mulling something over.

  “All right,” Carrie said. She clicked the file shut.

  That’s it? Compared to the scrutiny the others had received, Liz felt she was getting off easy.

  “Are you sure you’re all right with this?” Liz asked as her heart slowed.

  “I wouldn’t have said so if I weren’t,” Carrie assured her. “Are you?”

  “Sure,” Liz said.

  “If you’re concerned, I do not think there was anything wrong with what you did. In fact, I am a bit resentful that it is in your file at all. If you had put your arm around Lowell or Matt, no one would have mentioned it.”

  Liz appreciated the support, though it missed the point. She would not have put her arm around any man by accident.

  It also did not change the fact that there was something about General Carrie that Liz found very appealing. The confidence was a large part of that. Monica Sheard had been an extremely insecure, anxious woman. Liz had been drawn to her talent and her sensitivity, but the artist’s low self-esteem and jealousy drove them apart. Since the
breakup, Liz had not dated and, like Hood and Herbert, had spent most of her time at Op-Center. She had once remarked, not in jest, that the intelligence community would benefit if it were comprised entirely of people who had lost their significant others.

  Carrie shifted the subject to the second tier of workers, men like Bugs Benet and Kevin Custer in Elec-Comm. Part of Carrie’s goal was to find individuals who could multitask in a crisis, such as the EMP bomb attack on Op-Center. Liz’s profiles of the team during that crisis were a valuable guide for Carrie. Former serviceman and MIT graduate Custer—a distant relative of General George Armstrong Custer, through the general’s brother Nevin—seemed in particular to catch and hold Carrie’s eye.

  The palpitations and self-imposed pressure waned as the day grew older. Carrie and Liz hit a comfortable groove that gave her a good feeling about her future here, and also the future of the NCMC.

  It also allowed Liz to focus on professional matters instead of personal issues.

  For now, anyway.

  FORTY-ONE

  Beijing, China Wednesday, 12:33 A.M.

  In Chou Shin’s business, two days was a long time.

  The head of the Guoanbu lay on the thin cot in the situation room. He was dressed in a silk robe, a fan blowing on his desk. For the second night in a row he did not go home to his wife, their daughter and son-in-law, and their grandchild. Chou Shin missed the little one. He missed the boy’s innocent eyes and gracious smile. He even missed the sincerity of his tears.

  His world had been flat and silent since the explosion at the Taipei nightclub. There had been no response to the blast from General Tam Li. The absolute silence alarmed Chou Shin even more than the odd intelligence reports he was receiving about unusual troop allocations along the eastern coast. Surely Tam Li had more than the Durban counterattack prepared. The general had allies in the military, men who would do anything for a price and do it quickly. And he was not the sort of man to back down or allow an insult to go unanswered.

  Perhaps Tam Li was waiting for a shot at the enemy himself. That was why Chou Shin did not want to go home. If he were to be the next target, Chou Shin did not want his family to be hurt. He did not think Tam Li would attack his family directly. That would be dishonorable.

  The intelligence officer looked at his watch. In less than twelve hours he would be in Xichang alongside General Tam Li and the prime minister. Maybe the general was waiting until after the launch. A successful mission would elevate Tam Li in the eyes of the military. Perhaps he was holding out for retaliation that was less dramatic but far more effective: a high political post.

  No doubt it would be the position Chou Shin wanted for himself, the prime ministership. An effective prime minister ran the country. While the president and vice president were concerned with foreign affairs, the prime minister could make deals with ministers and representatives. He could control banking, communications, utilities, even the military. With his access to information, Chou Shin could woo or blackmail anyone he wanted—provided he had a clear path to a new job. Otherwise, he was just a wooing, blackmailing intelligence chief. That was something that would appeal to Tam Li but not to Chou Shin. The director of the Guoanbu wanted power for Communist China, not for himself.

  Chou Shin was outraged that he should have to fight for that. The battle was fought decades before, and won. Tam Li was a traitor.

  There were two things Chou Shin did not do well. One of them was to operate in an intelligence vacuum. Information about everyone and everything was out there. If the data were not in his possession, there was something he or his people were doing wrong. The other thing Chou Shin did not do well was wait. The two attacks he had organized were designed to spur an instant overreaction from Tam Li. He did not understand why that had not happened. For Chou Shin that was a double failure: an intelligence vacuum and having to wait.

  The intelligence officer rose from the cot. He lit a cigarette and paced the bare tile floor of the basement office. An aide had once warned Chou Shin that this was a dangerous place, a room with just one way out. That was all right with the director. It also had just one way in. He had several handguns and automatic weapons in a locker at the head of the bed, along with a gas mask and rations for five days. It would be difficult for anyone to get to him through the iron door.

  It was a spartan room, with bare walls painted green and just a few hanging lightbulbs. There were no electronics down here, and the furniture was sparse. It was a place where strategy and intelligence could be discussed in absolute secrecy. Hiding a bug or Web camera in here would be virtually impossible. Only Chou Shin and two trusted aides had access to the room. During the heyday of Mao Tse-tung, the basement was an interrogation room used to “reorient” dissidents. Their broken spirits gave the place a spiritual character the director could feel. Now and then Chou Shin would take a sketch pad and charcoal from the desk and draw. He sketched images in his mind, odd shapes or scratched shadows that were the outlines of shapes. Sometimes he would look at them and try to figure out what they were, as though they were windows to his subconscious. They were like inkblots to him. And it was only fitting. Others had been interrogated here. Why not himself?

  Mao himself had come down here often in the early days of the regime. He did not question prisoners himself. Most of his enemies wanted to stand proud in his eyes, to show him that the opposition had heroes as well. Mao would come down, speak to one of the interrogators without looking at the prisoner, then leave. His disinterest suggested to the captive that he was not important, that his information was unnecessary. Few men were willing to die for a trivial contribution to a cause.

  Chou Shin did not know if the spirit of Mao were here, but that thought always energized him. It gave him direction and purpose. And as Chou Shin paced the room he wondered if it might have given him something else.

  An idea.

  Chou Shin had walked out on Tam Li the last time they were together. That had not produced information or further communication. How would the general react if Chou Shin reversed himself now? Would he welcome a chance to talk, or would he be guarded? There was one way to find out.

  The intelligence director went to the telephone on the desk. There was just one line. The only other items on the desk were a notepad and several pencils, a pitcher of water, and a glass.

  Chou Shin called his nighttime assistant and asked him to locate Tam Li. Since the general was going to the launch, he was probably in Beijing or already at the site. The director was surprised to find that he was at neither place.

  “According to the command roster he is in Zhuhai,” his aide reported.

  “What is the explanation?”

  “The log line says that he is monitoring the current movement of Taiwanese forces, sir.”

  “Why? Taipei always fields assets prior to our launches,” Chou Shin said. “He never watches those.”

  “The roster entry does not say, sir.”

  “Call over. Find out his schedule for the rest of the week.”

  “Yes, sir,” the aide replied.

  Chou Shin placed the phone in its cradle. Over the past year there had been eleven Chinese missile launches. Each of them had triggered a response from Taiwan. The intelligence community had individuals inside the Taiwanese military who monitored these movements. They were officers whom Mao had sent to the island as young men, soldiers who masqueraded as firebrand separatists. Now they, or their sons, were deeply entrenched in key areas of the enemy military. If Taiwan were going to move against China, Chou Shin would know about it.

  These troop movements were deemed presentational, designed to show the world that Taiwan knew what was happening across the strait. Chou Shin had seen nothing unusual in the daily intelligence briefings.

  The aide rang back.

  “Sir, the general’s office says he will be flying directly to the launch from the base,” the aide reported.

  “Why is he there now?” Chou Shin asked.

  “They do no
t say, sir.”

  “Put me through to his office,” the intelligence director demanded.

  “At once, sir.”

  Chou Shin stood beside the desk. He tapped his right foot impatiently. Ordinarily, Tam Li’s whereabouts would not be on anyone’s radar. Even if they were, most members of the government would accept the explanation that the general was visiting the base to check on possible outside military action against the rocket carrying his payload. But Tam Li did not need to be present to do that. And there were the reports of scattered troop and asset relocations to China’s eastern coast. Perhaps the rotation was routine. But what if it was not?

  “General’s office, Captain Feng Lin—”

  “This is Director Chou Shin of the Ministry of State Security. Please put the general on the line.”

  “I will let him know you are calling,” the captain said.

  There was a considerable loss of face for Chou Shin to go to the general, and also to be kept waiting. But all information cost something. Especially if that intelligence was worth having.

  The captain got back on the phone. “Sir, the general would like to return your call at a more convenient time.”

  “When would that be?” Chou Shin asked.

  “The general did not share that information with me, sir.”

  “Do you know if Tam Li is still going to the launch tomorrow?”

  “It is still on his calendar, sir,” the captain replied.

  “What arrangements have been made for his transportation?”

  “I do not have that information, sir,” the captain said. “Shall I connect you with the transportation office?”

  “No, thank you, Captain,” Chou Shin said. “And it will not be necessary for the general to phone.”

  “I will tell him, sir.”

  Chou Shin pressed a finger on the bar to disconnect the call. Sometimes the absence of information was enlightening, like the negative space that defined one of his silhouettes.