Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  Exactly at noon, General Cathermeier pushed through the door of the hospital room. Standing beside Grandma Zi’s bed were Dutcher, Mason, and Latham.

  “Thanks for coming, Chuck,” said Mason.

  “What the hell’s going on?” He walked cautiously toward the bed, his eyes on the old woman lying there. At the head of her bed, an EKG monitor beeped every few seconds, accompanied by the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator. “Dick, why am I in a hospital, and who is this woman?”

  “Bear with me, Chuck.”

  “You call me out of the blue, give me this mystery summons … Christ almighty, all this cloak-and-dagger crap …” Cathermeier looked at Dutcher. “Leland?”

  “You’ve got to trust us, Chuck.”

  Cathermeier frowned, the sighed. “What happened to her?”

  Latham answered. “General, we haven’t met. I’m Charlie Latham. I’m an agent with the FBI. This woman was shot by my partner a few nights ago. She was trying to kill me.”

  “This old woman? Why?”

  “That’s a question best answered by our guest of honor,” Mason said, glancing at his watch. “Leland, call the doctor, let’s get this ventilator unhooked.”

  Bousikaris arrived five minutes later. As did Cathermeier, the chief of staff hesitated at the door, a mixture of anger and confusion on his face, then shut it behind him. “What is this? Dick, why—”

  “Come in, Howard,” Mason said. “We have something to discuss.”

  “Why am I here? This is a hospital. If we have something to discuss, call my secretary—”

  “This is a topic best kept between us.”

  “Is that so? And what might that be?”

  “Your betrayal of your country, Howard.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “And your association with agents of the government of the People’s Republic of China.”

  “Nonsense! What agents?”

  “This woman, for one.”

  “I’ve never seen her before in my life. Dick, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you’ve lost your mind—all of you. I’m going to make sure the president hears about this.”

  Bousikaris turned and headed for the door. Latham got in front of him and held up a photo.

  “Do you recognize this man?”

  Bousikaris glanced at the picture, hesitated for a moment. Dutcher saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Now he’ll decide, Dutcher thought. Bluff it out, or work an angle and hope to save himself.

  “Never seen him before,” Bousikaris said. “Now remove your hand—”

  “I think you do,” Latham pressed. “He’s in the morgue downstairs. I killed him. And my partner shot this woman. They invaded my house, Mr. Bousikaris. They came to kill me and my family—just like they killed Larry Baker, his wife, and their two daughters.”

  “Who? Baker … you mean the Commerce—”

  “That’s right,” Mason said. “Not only did you and Martin climb into bed with foreign agents, but murderers, as well.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about”

  “She and her husband taped everything—including your meetings and the murder of the Baker family. When she recovers, she’s going to point the finger at you.”

  “Recovers? Look at her; she’s a vegetable.”

  “Is she? She’s not going to be much to look at, and she probably won’t be able to feed, dress, or wash herself, but she’ll be able to answer questions.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “That’s your choice. I’m more concerned with what the attorney general and the American public are going to believe. You’ve conspired with a pair of mass murderers to betray your country, Howard. The moment those accusations become public, your life is over.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Goddamned right I would,” Mason replied. “In fact, if I had my druthers, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. Use your brain. Once the newspapers sink their teeth into this, you’re going to be the most reviled man in America.”

  Bousikaris was shaking his head. “No.”

  “They’ll play a few seconds from the Baker tape, then mention your name, and it’ll all be over. Two hundred sixty million Americans will want your head on a stick.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “What’s to understand? Your loyalty to Martin? Martin works for the people of this country; so do you. You sold them out and now it’s time to pay.”

  Bousikaris shuffled to the chair and slumped into it. His overcoat slipped from his arm and piled around his feet. “What do you want?”

  “All of it. We want to know exactly what you and Martin have been up to.”

  Two hours later, back at the Holystone office, they had it.

  Bousikaris, his face blank, his voice monotone, answered their questions without hesitation.

  He took them back to the beginning: Martin’s assault of his secretary; President Haverland’s vow to see Martin’s campaign die before it got off the ground; the last-minute influx of capital from the PAC; and finally, the visit from the PRC’s ambassador.

  “It was all very subtle,” Bousikaris explained. “We knew that each one of the ambassador’s ‘requests’ was actually another demand, and we knew what would happen if we didn’t go along.”

  “They would expose the true source of the donations?” Mason said. “They weren’t afraid of the repercussions that would bring them?”

  “They must have done their homework; they knew Phil would play along. He’s so fixated on his damned legacy … You know, the irony is, he could’ve been a great president. Not anymore.”

  Dutcher said, “They never gave any hint of what was behind their requests?”

  “No. The sarin purchase … the ship in Nakhodka … It all had a ring of truth to it—which was probably the point, of course.”

  “To make it easier for you to say yes with a clear conscience.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s Redmond’s role in this?” asked Mason.

  “Nothing. Redmond would wear his pants backward if Phil told him to.”

  “And the battle group? The business about the reactor accident in Chita?”

  “The Chinese want the group there as a calming influence—at least that was their explanation. The reactor accident is real. As for the Chinese casualties—if there are any … It would be impossible to pin down, really. There’s no census of the Chinese diaspora in Siberia.”

  “What about the Security Council meeting?”

  “It probably went exactly as they wanted it to go; they didn’t want to settle anything.”

  Mason looked at Dutcher and said, “That’ll be their reason—the heartless Russian Bear.”

  Once sure Bousikaris had given them everything, Latham led him to an empty office with a couch. The chief of staff looked like a shell of himself, shuffling along, his shoulders slumped.

  “I almost feel sorry for the guy,” Latham said when he came back. “He’s been running around for years trying to save Martin from himself, and it just came crashing down on him.”

  “We might want to keep an eye on him,” Dutcher said. “In his state of mind … Who knows.”

  Latham nodded. “I’ll watch him.”

  Mason turned to General Cathermeier. “Chuck, you asked me why all the cloak-and-dagger crap. Now you know why.”

  “I almost wish I didn’t. In essence, what you’re saying is our president is a goddamned puppet for the Chinese government.”

  “That’s only the half of it,” said Mason. He spent the next ten minutes explaining the connection between Baker, Skeldon, and Han Soong. “Cahil should have already met Skeldon in Mongolia, and Tanner’s already on the ground in Beijing.”

  “Your theory has a lot of gaps in it.”

  Before either of them could respond, Walter Oaken, who’d disappeared into his office when they arrive
d with Bousikaris, returned. “Maybe not anymore,” he said. “I have a theory.”

  “Have a seat,” Dutcher said. “What’ve you got?”

  “Actually, it’s not so much a theory as it is guesswork.”

  “Go ahead,” said Mason.

  “Okay.” Oaken cleared his throat. “I put myself in China’s shoes. The first thought I had was, why try to tackle Russia all by themselves? They may win, they may not. Given how much China has invested in this, those are crappy odds. The Russian Bear may be a little anemic, but a bear is still a bear. Knowing that, the Chinese had to ask the next logical question: How do we even the odds?

  “Surprise is one way, but given the number of troops and equipment they’d need to pull off the invasion … Well, you just don’t move that many bodies and tanks without somebody noticing. Tactical nuclear weapons is another way, but what’s the point of capturing territory that’s been turned into a radioactive cesspool?

  “If you remove those two equalizers, that leaves one: Overwhelming numerical superiority. To get that, China would have to have been dumping more money into war making.”

  “Which we know they haven’t done,” Mason said.

  “Right. So their only other choice is to find an ally with enough military might to tip the scales in their favor. But who? Who, among the powerhouse nations, would have anything to do with an invasion of Russia?”

  “No one,” Dutcher answered.

  “Not knowingly, at least. Don’t you see? We’re China’s ally.” Oaken started ticking items off on his fingers: “The shale oil process was leaked to China by an employee of the U.S. Commerce Department; we have a team of U.S. Navy SEALs on Russian soil, and a U.S. Navy submarine in Russian waters, both getting ready to launch an attack on the biggest commercial port on Russia’s eastern coast; as we speak, a U.S. Navy battle group is steaming toward that same coast; and finally, a former U.S. Army Special Forces soldier is headed into Russia to do God knows what.”

  “We’re being sandbagged,” Dutcher said.

  “Exactly. By the time China makes its move into Siberia, they’ll have us looking like we’re involved up to our necks. In Moscow’s eyes, it’ll be us and China against them. And you know what happens when you corner a bear.”

  Mason nodded. “It fights back.”

  Moscow

  ​For Ivan Nochenko, election day in the Russian Federation had passed like a surrealistic dream.

  To Bulganin’s credit, despite being virtually assured of victory, he’d played the perfect challenger for the media, circumspect in his confidence and fervent in his esteem for the democratic process. Even so, Nochenko had seen the gleam in his pupil’s eye, as though Bulganin were enjoying a joke to which no one but himself was privy.

  By ten p.m. local time, both the print and electronic media had begun to officially call the election in Bulganin’s favor. By eleven, a crowd of five thousand Bulganin and RPP supporters were milling and dancing about Red Square chanting, “Russian Pride … Russian Pride!” Vodka bottles appeared and were passed from hand to hand, between stranger and friend alike. Under the watchful eyes of militia riot-control troops, barrel bonfires were lit and soon flickering shadows swirled over the façade of Lenin’s Mausoleum and the arcading of St. Basil’s Cathedral.

  In his office two miles away, Bulganin stood, arms clasped behind his back as he watched the television coverage. He barked out a laugh. “There’s nothing more heartening than a happy Russian! Look, Ivan, do you see?”

  Nochenko nodded. “Yes, I see.”

  Bulganin’s secretary rushed into the room. “Sir! Channel Four … it’s the president.”

  Bulganin clicked the remote and the channel changed to show the incumbent Federation President standing at the podium on the floor of the Duma. “… you have spoken, my fellow Russians. It is with both respect and sadness that I hereby congratulate my opponent, Vladimir—”

  “Ha!” Bulganin snapped. “About time!”

  My God, Nochenko thought. It’s done. He felt momentarily dizzy.

  From the other room, a cheer arose from Bulganin’s staff, followed by applause.

  Bulganin clicked off the television. He stared at the blank screen for a few moments, then took a deep breath and turned to face Nochenko. “Ivan,” he said solemnly.

  Nochenko nodded. “Yes.”

  “We’ve done it.”

  “Yes … Mr. President.”

  Bulganin’s face split into a broad grin and he strode forward and clasped Nochenko by the shoulders. “We’ve done it, Ivan! Now we can get started. We have much work ahead of us—great work! Starting tomorrow, we put the Motherland back onto the road to greatness! God help those who stand in our way!”

  45

  Beijing

  One of the few remaining garden courtyard-style hotels in Beijing, the Bamboo Garden Hotel, is surrounded on all sides by hutongs, or narrow alleys, thick rows of juniper hedges, and tall spruce trees. The red-lacquered front door is guarded by a pair of stone lions and the narrow street outside is covered in a layer of dust blown in from the Gobi Desert by what the Chinese call the “yellow wind.”

  After checking into his room, Tanner pulled out his cell phone—a Motorola satellite phone that had been specially modified by the CIA’s Science & Technology wizards—and dialed. The number was local, an Internet line maintained by a Langley front company. After a single ring, the line clicked open. Briggs punched in a five-digit code, then disconnected.

  Embedded in each of the five tones was a frequency spike designed to interrupt the carrier signal at a particular modulation. The first and last tones were called “shackles,” the electronic equivalent of the “Start” and “Stop” inserts in old-style telegrams. Once decoded at Langley, the four remaining tones would match up to a list of phrases and words maintained by the Op Center’s duty officer.

  The message he’d sent was one of a dozen he’d memorized before leaving:

  SAFE, ON THE GROUND, PROCEEDING.

  He checked his watch. He had three hours before his meeting with the embassy’s contact. He set his watch alarm, stretched out on the bed, and drifted off to sleep.

  He rose at four, took a shower, and changed clothes, then left the Bamboo Garden and walked six blocks to the Drum Tower at the intersection of Gulou and Dianmenwai streets.

  Built by Kublai Khan in the 1200s, the tower had once served as Beijing’s version of Big Ben, sounding each passing hour with the beating of giant drums. Tourists, mostly Westerners, walked around the red-painted base, gaping up at the layered pagoda roof and the balcony encircling the top. As Tanner had hoped, few people were braving the long, sixty-nine-step climb to the parapets.

  He took a few pictures for good measure, then stepped inside, mounted the narrow steps, and stared upward. Once at the top, he circled the lone drum on display, took a few minutes to read the placard, then walked to the balcony railing and looked out.

  He could see all of Old Beijing, Beihei Park, and, a mile or so to the south, the Forbidden City, with its sprawl of courtyards, watchtowers, and bridges. He walked along the railing until he could see the Bell Tower a block to the north.

  He watched the people milling about the tower’s base, concentrating on Chinese faces until he spotted the one he was looking for. Chang-Moh Bian sat on a bench east of the tower on Baochao Hutong. Using Bian as his center point, Tanner scanned the surrounding streets for signs of surveillance.

  It was a nearly impossible task. The Guoanbu’s Ninth Bureau, officially known as the Antidefection and Countersurveillance Bureau, was good at its job; they knew Beijing’s layout, its customs, the ebb and flow of its citizens. If there was a Ninth Bureau team here, the only way Tanner might see it was if someone made a mistake and gave themselves away, which was unlikely.

  Also, the very nature of Chinese customs gave any surveillance team an advantage. In China, staring at a foreigner or even following them about is not considered rude.
Chinese are curious by nature and feel no need to either hide it or apologize for it. In fact, such overt interest is considered complimentary.

  Briggs would have to rely on his instincts to tell him whether he was being stared at because of curiosity, or because he was a target; whether the person or persons following him were simple gawkers, or professional watchers.

  When only five minutes remained before the official wave-off time, Tanner descended the tower steps and walked east on Gulou Dondajie, then turned north onto Baochao.

  Bian was still sitting on his bench. He glanced nervously at his watch, then looked over his shoulder. Brown was right. Everything about Bian’s demeanor cried, “Arrest me!”

  Taking pictures as he went, Tanner strolled around the Bell Tower until he stood beside Bian’s bench. He turned to Bian and asked in English, “Pardon, is this the Bell Tower or the Zhonglou?”

  Bian hesitated, then said. “They are the same, though the Drum Tower has been here longer.”

  Tanner opened his map and stepped closer as though asking for directions. “Get up and walk north to Doufuchai Hutong,” he said with a smile. “Once there, turn left and follow it to Xidajie. I will meet you in Guanghua Temple in thirty minutes. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. What—”

  “We’ll talk when we meet. Walk slowly, be casual. Go on.”

  Bian stood up and started toward Doufuchai. Tanner waited sixty seconds, then followed.

  He trailed Bian at a distance, stopping frequently to look in shop windows or take a picture, all the while keeping Bian in his peripheral vision. It took Bian less than ten minutes to reach Guanghua Temple. Tanner waited until he was inside and out of sight, then started “quartering his tail,” retracing their route, weaving his way north and south along the streets parallel to Doufuchai Hutong as he watched for surveillance. Twenty-five minutes after his initial departure, he was back at the Bell Tower.

  As far as he could see, no one was showing any interest in either Bian or himself.

  He walked two blocks down Gulou Dondajie and turned onto Houhai Beiyan, which took him to the rear entrance of Guanghua Temple. He found Bian in one of the gardens, standing at the railing beside a pond. Bright orange carp swam lazily in the water.