Smitty broke in: “General, what’s the job? Are we supposed to just render this mystery location safe for world democracy, or is there something specific you want us to do?”
Cathermeier laughed. “You’ll get the specifics once you’re en route, but in short, your mission is straightforward: Infiltrate a heavily guarded coastline via submarine lock-out, penetrate inland, lay up, reconnoiter the harbor, and finally, provide strike support as directed.”
Provide strike support as directed, Jurens thought.
Translation: Something was gonna get bombed, and it would be their job to make it happen.
Holystone Office
Faced with steep odds against finding Genoa, Oaken had to make some assumptions.
The first was that Tanner’s theory held water, which seemed the case. The timing and efficiency with which the Guoanbu had rolled up the Ledger network was telling. They’d known details that surveillance alone couldn’t have provided.
What about Genoa himself? According to Tanner, the man had been a colleague of Soong’s, which meant he worked in either the military or intelligence communities—or both. Therefore he was not an agent, but rather a professional spook. That certainly narrowed the field of candidates, but even so, Oaken knew it would be like looking for a piece of lint in a snowstorm.
With no where else to start, he went back to the beginning.
Eight hours later he knew the details of the ledger from start to finish, top to bottom. He’d read every intelligence report and every analysis he could get his hands on. He was looking for a nick in the onion’s skin that would allow him to start peeling layers. It wasn’t there. Ledger should have worked, but it didn’t. No one knew why.
He stood up, stretched, then walked into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. He was dumping water into the pot when an angle bubbled up from his subconscious. “Wang Trahn,” he murmured.
In 1997, wan Trahn was a thirty-nine-year-old clerk in the archives of the Ministry of State Security. Unmarried, lonely, and enticed by the sexy images flooding his country from the West, Trahn began to imagine America as the paradise so many immigrants believe it to be. The Coca-Cola was refreshingly sexy; the hamburgers were made “your way” by smiling beach bunnies; the automobiles were plentiful and luxurious. If you wanted it, you could have it and/or be it. You could work on Wall Street, or be a cigar chomping police detective, or even an actor in Hollywood.
Having heard rumors of how hard it was to get to America, and how so many of his countrymen arrived only to find themselves enslaved by the same people who transported them, Trahn started looking for a better way. It didn’t take him long to realize his job was the key.
Every day he handled documents for which the Americans would pay handsomely. Not only would they get him out of China, but they would make him rich in the process.
Trahn spent the next year gathering thousands of documents, reducing them on the photocopier, then smuggling them out of the archive building. If it looked even remotely important, he took it. The crawl space in his basement soon overflowed with files, reports, and photos.
Once certain he’d collected enough, Trahn bought a back pack, stuffed it to the brim with his plunder, took a taxi to the U.S. embassy, then begged his way into the courtyard. He was met by the CIA’s deputy station chief, who looked at Trahn’s identification, then inside the backpack, and then promptly took him inside.
It was just past dawn when Tanner, Cahil, and Dutcher arrived at the office. They found Oaken asleep on his couch. “I’ll go make coffee,” Cahil said. “You see if you can rouse him.”
Ten minutes later they were sitting in the conference room. Red-eyed and hair askew, Oaken was sipping a cup and arranging notes. Despite his obvious exhaustion, the glint of excitement in his eyes was unmistakable.
He’s in his element, Briggs thought. Adventure, Oaken style. “How long have you been here?”
Oaken glanced at his watch. “Thirteen—no, fourteen hours.”
“Nothing spells fun like an all-night research session,” Cahil said. “That’s my motto.”
“You have a motto?” asked Tanner.
“Several. Depending on the situation.”
“So,” Dutcher said, “Briggs told me about your project. I assume you found something?”
“I did,” Oaken replied. “First, though, the story.” Oaken took them through the Wan Trahn saga, ending with his evacuation to the United States and subsequent debriefing with the CIA. “Trahn was what they call a ‘Hoover’: he sucked up every bit of information in sight then dumped it on us. When Langley finished counting, he’d delivered four thousand pages of documents.”
“Four thousand?’ said Cahil.
“Yep. Since he worked in the archives, though, none of it was current. It gave us a lot of general info on how the MSS and PSB run their in-country stuff, but since most of it was still coded, we didn’t get any nuts-and-bolts details. Plus, there was a lot of random stuff—bits that fit other puzzles, but not enough to build a picture—unless you know what some of the puzzle pieces look like, that is.”
“Which you do?” Dutcher asked.
“Yep. I accessed the database where Langley keeps Trahn’s dump, then ran a search using some of the dates and keywords from Ledger. They way I figured it, if Ledger hadn’t been burned by someone inside the network, you wouldn’t expect to see any of that info in the Guoanbu archives until after the network was rolled up. The only way they could have gotten the information was from the interrogation of agents, right?”
Tanner nodded. He had an idea where this was going, and he could feel his heart pumping a little harder. “Right.”
“Well, surprise: I turned up over four hundred references that match Ledger criteria.”
Cahil said; “So in plain English, the MSS was talking about Ledger before they rolled it up.”
“Long before. The first reference was just ten days after you got in-country, Briggs.”
My God, Tanner thought. Less than two weeks in, and they’d been onto him. He’d been certain he’d covered all the bases, but in truth the Guoanbu had been ahead of him every step of the way.
Dutcher said. “You know how lucky you are? By all rights, you shouldn’t have gotten out.”
Tanner managed a half-smile. “Glad I didn’t know that then. What about Genoa, Oaks?”
“That’s the kicker. You said everyone was arrested, right? No one got away?”
“No.”
“In all of the Guoanbu’s references to Ledger, the name Genoa doesn’t show up once. You met with him dozens of times, either in person or by brush pass, and he’s not mentioned once.”
“They didn’t have to; they already knew who he was.”
Oaken nodded. “You were right. Genoa was the double.”
“Too bad I didn’t figure it out twelve years ago.”
“There was no way you could have,” Dutcher said.
“I suppose. Okay, now that we know who we’re looking for, the question is, can you find him?”
“I’ll give it my best shot,” Oaken said.
11
Washington, D.C.
Randall was waiting when Latham returned to the office. “How was it?”
“I can’t say much about Blanton Crossing proper,” Latham replied, “but the local trailer park is a site to behold.” He recounted his visit to WalPol’s headquarters.
“We got a hit on that plate you called in. It’s registered to a David Wallace Poison.”
Latham thought for a moment. “WalPol … His middle and last names. Have you got—”
Randall handed him a fax of Poison’s DMV registration. “Photo’s on page two.”
Latham read the info, then flipped to the photo “You gotta be kidding me …”
“What?”
“The bastard was standing right in front of me. Poison is Joe-Bob!”
“The handyman?”
“Yeah. He�
��s a cool customer.”
“Here’s surprise number two: Just for kicks I fed the names Soderberg and Poison into the alias database. We got a hit—somebody named Michael Warren Skeldon.”
“Skeldon…. Whatever he’s got going on, he’s layered himself pretty well,” Latham said.
“It gets better. He’s ex-military—army Rangers.”
“Straight leg?”
“No, airborne. He’s also got a rap sheet. One arrest for interstate arms, another for criminal facilitation of forgery. Both charges were dropped.”
“What was the forgery about?”
“Passports down in Asheville. The indictment stated he was in possession of bogus entry stamps. It was thrown out on a bad warrant. I’ve got a call in to the Asheville PD and the North Carolina BCA.”
What was going on? Latham wondered. What would a Commerce analyst be doing in cahoots with an army Ranger turned gunrunner and forger? Moreover, what did the Guoanbu want with either of them? The fact that Baker was dead and Skeldon was still alive suggested two possibilities: Either the Guoanbu didn’t know about Skeldon, or they knew about him and were still using him.
“What do you want to do?” Randall asked.
“I hate to say it, but my visit probably sent Skeldon running. Let’s see if we can get ahold of his service record. I want to see what he did for the Rangers.”
Langley
Unsurprised, Mason found that the DIA’s brief on Sunil Dhar and the sarin purchase seemed to hold water, but the story came from assets he couldn’t probe without jeopardizing both the transaction and the players involved—or so said Tom Redmond. Mason didn’t buy it; the whole affair was fishy.
The big question was, if the DIA didn’t develop this, who did?
His intercom buzzed: “Sir, General Cathermeier is here.”
“Send him in.” Mason met him at the door. “Chuck, thanks for coming. Coffee?”
“No, thanks. I think I know why I’m here, Dick.”
“I’d be surprised if you didn’t. What’re we going to do about this, Chuck?”
“I’ve already got the assets moving.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
“I know what you’re asking. I’m going to do what I’ve been ordered to do.”
“Chuck, when was the last time a president got this hands-on with an operation?”
“This isn’t the president’s plan. The DIA is—”
“Tom Redmond doesn’t know an M-16 from his asshole. This is Martin and Bousikaris.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’d put good money on it,” said Mason. “Answer my first question.”
Cathermeier shrugged. “Vietnam. LBJ.”
“Right. And even then did Johnson decide unit composition and penetration plans?”
“No.”
“And now, out of the blue, Martin wants to sink a goddamned ship in the middle of Nakhodka-Vostochny Harbor, and that doesn’t worry you? And that nonsense about ‘sending a message’… The only people who’re going to get the message are the poor bastards who die on that ship—unless of course the Russian government is involved in the sale.”
“According to the DIA, Dhar’s Russian contact is freelance.”
“Exactly. So the only way Moscow’s going to get any message is if we tell them we sank the ship and why. What’s the likelihood of that?”
“Low.”
“Chuck, listen: I’m not asking you to do anything right now. Just think about what I’m saying. If this were your operation, how would you do it?”
“An at-sea boarding. SEAL team. Secure the cargo and the crew, turn the whole thing over to the Russians and stay on them through diplomatic channels.”
“Right. And if you had to sink her. How would you do it?”
“Open sea. Surface-to-surface missile—Harpoon, probably.”
“That’s what I’m getting at. This business of putting men on the ground is bad business.”
“Dammit, Dick, you’re still treating this like it’s some pet project of Martin’s. The intell came from the DIA, the plan came from the DIA, and unless you’ve got proof to the contrary, I’m not gonna assume otherwise.”
“Why put men on the ground? Who in their right mind would advise Martin to do it?”
“I have no idea.”
“But you agree it’s a bad idea.”
Cathermeier shrugged. “The plan is workable.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Dick, I’m a soldier. My job description is simple: I follow the orders of the commander-in-chief and defend my country. That’s what I’m doing. Love him or hate him, Martin is the president of the United States and—”
“I know that, Chuck.”
“—and if you’ve got an agenda with him or Bousikaris or Redmond, that’s fine: Just don’t try to enlist me. I haven’t got the stomach or the patience for it.”
Mason was silent for a few seconds. “Chuck, do you really think that’s what this is about?”
Cathermeier met his gaze, then shook his head. “No. Sorry. Either way, though, we’re back where we started: I’ve got my orders and I’m going to carry them out.” Cathermeier stood, walked to the door, then turned. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“No. This thing stinks, and I’m telling you right now, we’re not getting the whole story.”
“You know where to find me.”
Yuyuan Lake, Beijing
Langley’s interest in Bian’s latest news came as no surprise to Roger Brown.
If they could avoid sending someone into China—especially a “face” like Tanner—they had to take the chance. Brown was under no illusion, however: Even Jakarta wouldn’t be a Cakewalk. Soong would be surrounded by Guoanbu security guards day and night. Whatever Tanner planned, he’d have to be in and out before Soong’s watchers realized he was gone. If not, Tanner would find himself on a very small island with nowhere to hide.
Not my problem, Brown reminded himself. He had his hands full with Bian. Whenever they met, the man’s body language shouted, “Arrest me and this Anglo-Saxon fella sitting next to me.” The sooner they could sever contact, the sooner Brown could get a good night’s sleep.
For today’s meeting he’d chosen what was known as a “pointer pass,” a cross between a “brush pass”—where a controller’ and agent bump into one another for a hand-to-hand exchange—and a “drop flag,” a physical signal indicating a package was waiting at a drop.
Brown paused by the railing to photograph the lake. A few feet away, ducks quacked and pecked the water for insects. Across the lake he could see a line of people waiting to enter the Zhongguo Military Museum. He checked his watch: Time.
He took one more picture then walked on. A hundred yards down the path he spotted Bian walking toward him. Brown angled himself so Bian would pass on his right, then slung his camera over his left shoulder and shoved his hands in his pockets, leaving his right pinky finger outside the pocket. Just a glance, buddy … A casual glance and walk on …
To Brown’s surprise, Bian did just that.
Resisting the impulse to glance back at the CIA man, Bian kept walking. That went well, he thought, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Friendly but perfunctory, just like Roger explained …
What did the signal mean? One finger outside the pocket was the pointer for the northeast—no, southeast—drop—the hollow railing along Xisanhuanzhong Lane. Yes, that was it. The hard part was over. Now he just had to wait a few minutes to let Roger get away, then retrieve the message.
Walking twenty yards behind Bian, Officer Myung Niu of the People’s Security Bureau saw the pass, but failed to recognize it for what it was. Though Chang Moh-Bian and Roger Brown would never know it, Niu’s presence was one of those rare coincidences that ends up snowballing into catastrophe.
It was Niu’s day off—one of the few that PSB officers get—and he was doing wh
at many single men do during their spare time: trying to meet a woman. A few months ago a fellow officer had met his fiancée at this very lake. Hoping it held some special charm, Niu had been walking around the lake every chance he got.
He passed several attractive women and even exchanged a few promising smiles. But as his grandfather was fond of saying, “A smile is not a woman, boy. Gotta talk to them.”
The path began to curve around the shoreline toward Xisanhuanzhong Lane. Niu stopped at the rail and gazed across the water. He suddenly felt silly: Strolling around this lake, hoping the perfect woman would jump into his arms, or fall into the water and need saving—
What is this?
Farther down the path, the man ahead of him had also stopped. Hands raised to block the sun’s glare, the man looked left, then right, then walked to the railing. He then removed the top from the post, dipped his hand inside, replaced the top, and walked on.
Niu wasn’t sure what he’d just seen, but his curiosity was piqued. He let the man get a hundred yards ahead, then followed.
Ninety minutes and three bus changes later, Niu’s quarry disembarked near the Agricultural Exhibition Center in the Chaoyang District. Niu followed him three blocks to an apartment building.
Niu crossed the street to a bench and sat down. After an hour, the man had not reappeared. Satisfied he’d located the man’s home, Niu got up and started searching for the nearest phone booth.
12
Washington, D.C.
Nothing’s ever as simple as you want it to be. Bousikaris had no idea who’d coined the aphorism, but the older he got the truer it seemed to become—which was why he wasn’t surprised when he picked up Sunday’s Post and saw the ad: Adrian, I love you. Come back. Always, Harmon.
Qing wanted another meeting. Bousikaris considered ignoring the summons, but decided against it. Qing didn’t strike him as someone to be antagonized, and until he and Martin could find a way out of this mess, it was better to not poke the dragon.
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