Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  The front door swung open and Irene Tanner, wearing an apron and a single oven mitt, rushed out. After a long embrace, she studied him at arm’s length. “You’re not getting enough sleep.”

  “I know,” Tanner said, then smiled. “I’ve taken up drinking; I think that’ll help.”

  “Oh, stop it. Your hair looks lighter.”

  “I’ve been getting some sun.”

  “And the stubble? Are you growing a beard?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “I won’t even recognize you,” Irene said, clicking her tongue.

  Let’s hope it has the same effect with the Guoanbu and the PSB, Tanner thought. The beard was starting to itch and the blond highlights made him look like a California surf bum.

  Irene said, “Did you eat the pie I left you?”

  “Yeah, thanks; it was delicious. I had to use a blowtorch to get the wrapper off, though.”

  “Oh, shush. I get the same guff from your father.”

  Behind her, wearing his ever-present cardigan and half-moon reading glasses, Henry Tanner stepped onto the porch. He smiled. “Coming or going this time?”

  “A little bit of both.”

  “How soon?” Irene asked.

  While his parents knew his job entailed often dicey, and always secretive, work, neither of them pressed him for details. Nor did they smother him in worry, which had to be tough, especially for his mother. He did his best to downplay things, but he suspected they weren’t fooled. Parent’s intuition.

  Briggs said, “Day after tomorrow.”

  “For how long?” Irene asked, picking at her apron.

  He felt an ache in his chest. “Two weeks at most. When I get back, we’ll have a clambake.”

  Irene smiled. “We’d like that. Well, come on in. We’re having tater-tot casserole.”

  After dinner, Tanner and his father sat in the sunroom drinking coffee while Irene dallied about, making an edible care package for Briggs. Every few minutes, she would come in to ostensibly look for something, touching Briggs’s shoulder or head as she passed.

  When he and his father were alone, Henry asked, “Where’re you off to?”

  “Asia.”

  “Big place,” Henry said. “Take care of yourself.”

  “I always do,” Tanner said. Then, in the back of his head: You were careful last time and it almost wasn’t enough. Startled, he suddenly realized that a large part of him was dreading going back. He was afraid, plain and simple.

  The Soong defection had been his first deep-cover job with ISAG, and it had nearly set the tone for the rest of his career. Not only had he left behind a man he’d come to call a friend, his wife, and a woman with whom he’d fallen in love, but he’d almost gotten himself killed in the process.

  Stop it, Tanner commanded himself. Get it out of your head. That was then; this is now. The question was, What was he going to do with this chance?

  With that realization, he felt his mind click over into that familiar mode he’d come to call “narrowing.” Thoughts of routine daily life would soon start to fade: Mowing the lawn, fixing that loose shingle, paying bills—all of it would be irrelevant once he landed in China.

  When it was over and he was back home, the lawn would still need mowing and the shingle would still be loose—and his parents would still be waiting with an open door and hot food.

  He stayed for another hour then said his good-byes, accepted a shrink-wrapped apple pie from Irene, and drove to Holystone. As he’d expected, everyone was there: Dutcher, Oaken, Cahil, and Charlie Latham; unexpectedly, however, Mason was seated at the conference table. As he walked in, all eyes turned to him. He stood awkwardly for a moment, then set the pie in the middle of the table.

  “Don’t tell me I’m the only one who remembered this was a potluck.”

  Chuckles broke out around the table.

  “Have a seat,” Dutcher said. “Dick’s got something we need to know about.”

  “You all know about Howard Bousikaris and his involvement with the Zis,” Mason said. “What we don’t know is how it started or what’s driving it. I believe—as does Leland—that Bousikaris is simply playing middleman for Martin. We’re further convinced there’s a strong possibility Martin is being manipulated by the Chinese government.”

  “Into doing what?” Oaken asked

  “As we speak, a battle group is en route to Russia’s eastern coast, and a SEAL team is on the ground southwest of Nakhodka-Vostochny to provide targeting support for an attack sub. The goal of the mission is to sink a ship named the Nahrut when it pulls into port.” Mason briefly explained the events that led first to the SEALs’s mission, and then the commitment of the Stennis group. “We’re still in the dark about their precise role in China’s scheme, but you can be sure it’s a disaster in the making.”

  There was silence in the room.

  Mason continued: “I’m giving each of you a chance to bow out. If, on the other hand, you choose to stay, there’ll be no turning back. What has to be done, can’t be done in half measures. If it goes wrong and we fail, there’s a good chance we’ll all end up in prison. Briggs, in a way, you’re lucky: You’ll be out of the country.”

  Tanner smiled. “Saved by a well-timed vacation.”

  Cahil spoke up. “All these long faces and grim talk is depressing me. Let’s get on with it.”

  Oaken nodded. “I agree.”

  “Charlie, how about you? You didn’t sign on for this.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, this is all part of the Baker case. Count me in.”

  Mason nodded. “Then we’re all agreed?”

  He got four nods in return.

  “Now that everybody’s on board,” Tanner said, “what do you have in mind?”

  “It’s pretty simple, really,” Mason replied. “We’re going to stage a coup.”

  41

  And there it is, Briggs thought. They’d all just crossed the point of no return. In the eyes of the law, they were now coconspirators. Traitors. Tanner idly wondered if the death penalty was still used in cases of treason. In for a penny, in for a life sentence, he decided.

  In the real world, few things are as black and white as the law aspires to be. Right and wrong are more often separated by degrees, rather than poles. If the ends were important enough and the means palatable enough, occasionally you had to take the shadier path. As far as Briggs was concerned, good guys still wore white hats, but sometimes when the fight was over, those hats needed a little dry cleaning.

  If Mason’s suspicions about Martin and Bousikaris were correct, there was no time for investigations, or probes, or a media-spun scandal. They had to move now, and move quickly.

  “Define ‘coup,’” Oaken said to Mason.

  “Relax. I’m not talking about grassy knolls and book depositories.”

  “Glad to hear it. Then how’re we going to do it?”

  Dutcher answered. “We’re going to convince Martin it’s in his best interests to step down.”

  “Given his ego, that’s gonna be a neat trick,” Cahil said. “From day one he’s been talking about the ‘Martin Legacy’; he’s obsessed with it. And if he’s sold his soul—sold out the country, for God’s sake—there’s nothing he won’t stoop to. He won’t go quietly.”

  “Dick and I will worry about that.”

  “In the meantime, what are we doing?”

  “That depends,” Mason said. “How are your acting skills?”

  Cahil groaned. “I had a feeling this was coming.”

  “As of now, you’re Stan Kycek,” Mason said. “Wherever Skeldon is and whatever he’s doing, he’s playing a role in China’s game. You’re going to have to find out what that is.”

  “According to Kycek, Skeldon will be calling in the next couple days,” Cahil said. “I’ll lay odds he’s heading into Siberia, or he’s already there.”

  “Agreed,” Dutcher said. “Siberia is the p
rize.”

  “Which brings us back to the two big questions,” Oaken said. “We’re assuming Martin was coerced into committing the battle group and the SEAL team. If so, how are we going to find out how it all fits together?”

  “If Leland and I do our parts, we may have that answer very soon.”

  “Assuming Bousikaris and Martin even know themselves.”

  “Right.”

  Oaken scratched his head. “We’re talking about a full-fledged invasion. The Federation may be a shadow of its former self, but it’s no pushover. It’s still the big Russian Bear. The Chinese can’t expect to simply march into Siberia, plant their flag, and start building refineries.”

  Tanner recognized the expression on Oaken’s face. It was his “something don’t fit and I want to know why” expression. He was digging in his intellectual heels.

  “China knows all that, I’m sure,” Dutcher said. “Whatever Night Wall is, they’re confident it will give them the edge. The answer to how we defend against it lies with Soong.”

  And Soong is locked away inside a prison somewhere in the middle of five million square miles of Chinese territory, Tanner thought. And he’s old, and frail, and even if I manage to reach him, will he have the strength to make it out alive?

  Mason turned to Tanner. “Seems like we’ve been down this road before, doesn’t it, Briggs?”

  “It does indeed.”

  “Like it or not, this comes down to you. Unless we put a stop to this thing, I fear we’re gonna find ourselves in the middle of a shooting war.”

  Beijing

  Thousands of miles away, a man Tanner had never met was about to seal his fate.

  In the weeks following their meeting at Yuyuan Lake, Chang-Moh Bian had heard nothing from Roger Brown. As instructed, Bian had done his best to forget the affair and go about his life. “You’ve done your part,” Roger had said. “Unless something changes, we won’t be needing you anymore.”

  The words had been music to Bian’s ears. All the sneaking around, worrying about whether he was being watched, holding his breath whenever he saw a PSB officer … It was finally over.

  And then, the signal came.

  As was his routine, Bian was riding the bus to work when he saw it. As he got off at Xizhimen Station to change lines, he froze, staring at the back of a nearby bench. Jammed into the wood were two thumbtacks, one red, one blue.

  Heart in his throat, Bian called in sick, hurried home, and dug through the notes he’d jotted for himself. They wanted another meeting.

  Three days later, he got up early, forced himself to eat a light breakfast, then set out.

  He boarded the bus at Chaoyangbei Street near his apartment and took it into Old Beijing. Over the next two hours he changed buses three times, getting off at one stop, walking to another several blocks away, then boarding again.

  Certain he’d followed the procedures correctly, he disembarked at Dongsi Beidajie, hailed a pedi-taxi—the modern name for a rickshaw—and asked to be driven to a coffee shop near Longfu Hospital, where he got out and walked inside.

  He chose a table near the window and ordered a cup of tea. The cafe was busy, full of Westerners and Chinese alike, which was precisely the point, he assumed. What had Roger called it? “Cover for status.” If either of them were questioned, they had a legitimate reason for being at the cafe.

  He sat for ten minutes, glancing at his watch, his heart pounding.

  Outside, Brown appeared on the sidewalk. He stooped to tie his shoe.

  I’ll stop to tie my shoe. When I do, get up and start walking toward the door.

  Bian stood up, dropped a few yuan on the counter, and headed for the door.

  Not too fast, not too slow …

  Bian forced himself to slow down, sidestepping other diners in the aisle.

  Brown was crossing the sidewalk now, coming toward the door.

  When you reach the door, be on the left side; drape your coat in front of your body and let your right hand dangle by your side, palm open and toward me. I’ll place the packet in your hand.

  Brown reached the door. He pulled it open. The greeting bell tinkled. Bian bumped into a young pregnant woman, excused himself, kept going.

  Don’t avoid eye contact; just a cordial smile and move on.

  He and Brown met at the door and exchanged smiles. Bian felt something rectangular pressed into his palm. He closed his hand around it, then turned sideways and stepped onto the sidewalk.

  There, Bian thought. Done. Now just switch your coat to the other arm—

  The toe of his shoe struck a crack in the concrete. He stumbled. The pavement rushed toward him. He reached out to brace himself. The packet—a micro cassette tape case, he now saw—slipped from his hand and clattered across the sidewalk.

  Someone stopped beside him and leaned down to help.

  “No, thank you, I’m fine, really …”

  Bian scurried after the case. He scooped it up and stuffed it into his pocket.

  Behind him, he heard, “Sir?”

  It’s them, it’s the police …

  Bian spun.

  An elderly woman stood on the sidewalk, holding his coat She smiled a toothless grin and handed it to him. He grabbed it, muttered a thank-you, then turned and hurried away.

  Sitting on a bench across the street, Myung Niu of the People’s Security Bureau, saw it all.

  After reporting his accidental encounter with Bian at Yuyuan Lake, Niu had been given permission to oversee the surveillance of Bian. Niu had no idea where, if anywhere, it would lead, but in the competitive world of the PSB, you didn’t pass up a chance to distinguish yourself. If Bian’s activities were determined to be proper and innocent, Niu had lost nothing. If, however, Bian was engaged in something illegal—something the State considered a capital offense—Niu’s name would be mentioned in high circles.

  And now this.

  Watching the cassette slide across the pavement, Niu instantly realized what he’d just seen. Moreover, he recognized the man Bian had just “bumped into” as the same one from Yuyuan.

  It took all his self-control to not arrest Bian on the spot

  They knew who he was, where he lived, where he worked. He wasn’t going anywhere. The other man, however, was another story. He was obviously a waiguoren, but beyond that, he was a mystery.

  Not for long.

  Niu stood up and walked down the block to a phone booth. He connected with the exchange operator and recited a number. Waiting for the call to go through, he scanned the cafe’s interior until he spotted the American sitting in a booth near the back.

  Good, Niu thought. Sit there and enjoy your meal. In ten minutes I’ll have a dozen men here. Then we’ll find out who and what you are.

  Five hundred miles northeast of Beijing, inside a camp known only by its numeric designator of “Laogi 179,” General Han Soong stared at the wall of his cell and felt a wave of despair wash over him.

  Four thousand five hundred and six days. Twelve years staring at the same walls, eating the same food, listening to the light buzzing above his head … A dozen summers and winters, gone. His wife, gone.

  His first winter in prison, they’d awoken him in the middle of the night, dragged him outside into the wind and snow, and shoved him aboard a helicopter.

  When they arrived at their destination he was led into a white-tiled room with fluorescent lights and a dozen stainless-steel tables. It was a morgue, he’d realized. All the tables were empty, save one, which was covered by a white sheet. They led him forward and pulled off the sheet.

  It was his wife. She was pasty white, her once shining hair dull and brittle.

  “She died four days ago. You may pay your respects. You have two minutes.”

  Soong stood stiffly by the table, blinking back the tears. He said a private prayer for her, then turned and walked out.

  My Lord, Soong thought, should I have gone with Briggs? Freedom had been wi
thin his grasp. But what of Lian? She was all he had left. Without her at his side, freedom would have been hollow.

  What if she too were dead? What if she’d died and they’d never told him?

  Stop it. Lian is alive; she’s alive and we are going to be together again.

  Briggs will come back for both of us.

  42

  Beijing

  It was six p.m. local time when Tanner’s plane touched down at Beijing’s Capital Airport.

  Once off the jetway, he found himself on a narrow concourse bordered by iron barricades. Painted on the floor were two stripes, one red and one green, each leading to Customs gates.

  Overhead, a speaker crackled to life. A singsong voice recited something first in Chinese, then French, German, and finally English: “Welcome to Beijing. Travelers with declarations, to the red area; travelers without declarations, to the green area. Have all documents ready for inspection.”

  Tanner chose the red line, waited his turn, then set his duffle bag on the counter.

  “Bu dui!” the customs agent barked. “Bu dui!” No, not good!

  “Shanme?” Tanner replied, deliberately mutating “what” into the word for “moldy noodles.”

  “Not time for bag,” the agent said in English. “Put on floor until ask. Papers please.”

  Along with his passport, Tanner handed over the plethora of forms he’d filled out on the plane: entry registration, health card, luggage declaration, temporary visitor (business) entry visa, letter of invitation, photographic equipment permit request, and an emergency contact sheet.

  The agent scanned the documents. “What is your name?”

  “Ben Colson.”

  “Your letter of invitation is three months old.”

  “This is the earliest I could be here.”

  “Who is this? Who gave invitation?”

  “He’s a deputy minister in Sichuan Province,” Tanner replied.

  In truth, the man didn’t exist, but the gamble was a safe one given the number of ministers, deputy ministers, and associate deputy ministers in China. More importantly, the letter was printed on the correct stationery and covered with half a dozen “chops,” or bureaucratic routing stamps.