“You may be right. But I think this warrants an investigation into Carver’s activities.”
“You can’t be serious! We both know Carver is brilliant. You yourself offered him a job as your National Security Advisor.”
“And he turned me down. Why?”
“Because he hates politics.”
“Or is it because he’s working some other angle? Carver was just on the ground in Tripoli, an unmitigated bloodbath. Now that he’s back home, two more people are dead right here in Washington, in two separate incidents. That’s a coincidence?”
“We use our best operatives in the most dangerous situations.”
“After this briefing, I want him grounded pending a formal investigation. And another thing. You’re too close to this. I want a multi-agency team to handle this, starting with a formal debrief on his activities in the past 48 hours.”
“You are making a huge mistake. We need him, now more than ever.”
“Noted. But this is my decision, and I expect you to get on board.”
The Situation Room
Carver stood as the president entered, with Speers walking three steps behind her. “Let’s get started,” the president growled, as she – along with the heads of the CIA, DIA, FBI, NSA and other intelligence agencies – took their seats. “Agent Carver, you have our attention.”
“Thank you, Madam President.”
Carver had rarely felt as physically spent as he did right now. In the past 48 hours, he had extracted Kyra and killed Mohy Osman and witnessed the mistargeted drone strike. He had found Jack Brenner and the Pink Dragon, and watched both die. Nevertheless, the show had to go on.
He dimmed the room lights and displayed a large image of two people on one of the room’s screens. “The suspect on the left is Jack Brenner, an engineer who worked for LithiumXI until his death last night. We suspect Brenner of selling sensitive information about the weapons guidance systems on LithiumXI’s fleet of attack drones, one of which was used in the attempted attack on the Butcher of Bahrain in Tripoli. The suspect on the right is the alleged buyer, known commonly as the Pink Dragon. This morning we discovered her true identity. Her name is Jessica Wu. She’s a 32-year-old Chinese citizen.”
The president put her glasses on and took a good look at Wu’s profile pic. “And how long has Jessica Wu been operating in the U.S.?”
“At least three years. She operated a textile manufacturing business that sold to American manufacturers, giving her plenty of legitimate reasons to go back and forth between the U.S. and China.”
The president twirled her pen in her left hand. “Agent Carver, we’ve all read Haley Ellis’s report in the morning brief, so I’ll just go ahead and ask you what we’re all wondering.”
Carver had not read Ellis’s brief. He had spent every moment since leaving the NCC formulating his presentation. “Yes, Madam President.”
“There have been more than 200 confirmed incidents of Chinese espionage on American soil in the past year. We have apprehended 32 of these spies and 10 of their American counterparts. And in the only such incidents handled personally by you, both suspects ended up dead. Why?”
Carver was aware that the decision to turn down the president’s generous job offer had not endeared him to her. But until now, he had only suspected that she held a grudge. Now he knew for sure.
Don’t take this personally. Stick to the facts. Focus your thoughts. Everything in its right place.
“In both cases, cause of death is still preliminary, pending further investigation. But we suspect that Jack Brenner’s insulin pump was hacked, delivering a fatal dose of insulin. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that he was killed just as he was about to tell us vital information. This was a man who had root access to the guidance systems of the same drone that attacked the Chinese embassy.”
The president leaned forward. “Are you suggesting that before his death, Brenner was about to implicate the Chinese in the bombing of their own embassy?”
“He said as much. But we can’t jump to conclusions.”
“And why not?”
“Jessica Wu was a Chinese citizen, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she was working in the Chinese government’s intelligence program. There are any number of terrorist groups or foreign states that might benefit from a loss in American credibility, and there would be nothing to stop any Chinese operative from acting as a free agent.”
“It’s pretty thin, Agent Carver.”
Carver paused for a sip of water before resuming. “Let’s assume for a moment that Wu really was working for the Technical Reconnaissance Bureau or some other spy agency. That means that some Chinese official with knowledge of the buy would have ordered her death to tie up loose ends.”
“What’s so hard to believe about that? It’s Occam’s razor. The simplest theory is usually the right one.”
“If you’ll indulge me.” Carver switched to a new slide. In the photo, a much younger Jessica Wu was seated at a formal state dinner party with two much older men.
The president immediately recognized the tall man at the photo’s center, with one arm around Jessica Wu. “Is that President Kang?”
Carver nodded. “President Kang, of the People’s Republic of China, to be exact. It seems that Jessica Wu came from a very connected family.” Carver pointed his laser toward the second man in the photo. “And that’s Li Wu, Jessica Wu’s grandfather. He was only a teenager in 1967, but he volunteered to go to North Vietnam and help the war effort. He slipped across the border and started running intelligence back and forth from Vietnam to China. According to the intelligence supplied by NVA defectors, Wu was personally responsible for coordinating the supply of over 1,000 Chinese anti-aircraft batteries into North Vietnam.” Carver looked around the room. “I’m sure everyone here knows how that turned out for the United States.”
Defense Secretary Dexter P. Jackson leaned forward, silver eyebrows closing ranks over his blue eyes. “It was a bloodbath, Agent Carver. Those Chinese batteries were responsible for shooting down 1,700 American planes.”
“That’s right. And when the U.S. pulled out of Vietnam in the 1970s, Li Wu was heralded as a hero in China, and quickly rose up in the Communist Party at the same time that Kang was named Vice Chairman of the Central Military Commission. Our sources inside the Communist Party tell us that he’s now the head of a secret intelligence bureau that answers directly to Kang.”
Jackson groaned. “Sweet Jesus. Next you’re going to tell us that President Kang is Jessica Wu’s godfather.”
“I don’t know if they even have godfathers in China. But if they do, then yes, Kang would be hers.”
A dour silence settled over the room as the president leaned back, staring at the ceiling. No words were necessary. The spy that had just been killed on American soil was practically a blood relative to President Kang, the most powerful Chinese premiere in recent history. Not only had Kang assumed the Chinese presidency, but he had also made the office – which was, like the American presidency, designed to be limited in power – a truly elevated position. Kang had consolidated power by simultaneously fulfilling the role of President, the General Secretary of the Communist Party and the head of the country’s Central Military Commission. Kang was King.
Carver brought the room lights back up. “The point is that considering her ties to Kang and her uncle, Jessica Wu would be considered untouchable. Nobody’s going to order a hit on her just to tie up loose ends. Therefore, I think it’s highly unlikely that the Chinese blew up their own embassy.”
The president slipped her glasses off. “Do you have any more actual evidence to back up your assertion, Agent Carver?”
“Nothing hard just yet. But if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to –”
“Thank you, Agent Carver. That will be all.”
“If you please, Madam President, I’d like to —”
“That will be all.”
The silence was deafening as Carver gathered his things.
>
Had he failed? It sure felt like it. Perhaps he had underestimated the momentum that the China Theory – the idea that the Chinese were somehow provoking the U.S. into war, or at lest manufacturing a reason that would justify economic sabotage – had already gathered within the administration. And that was a truly frightening proposition. If the president was wrong about this, she could end up doing something they might all regret.
The investigation had to move faster. But how? Carver could think of only one person with the skills to help him quickly enough: Nico Gold, the infamous hacker who had spent several years in a federal penitentiary for “redistributing” wealth from the International Monetary Fund and various other Robin Hood crimes. As cybercriminals went, Nico Gold was in the Hall of Fame.
Unfortunately, Nico wasn’t just someone you could call in a pinch. He played hard to get. Last Carver had heard, Nico was living in a Las Vegas hotel. Carver was going to have to show up in person. And he would beg if he had to.
The Sofitel
Washington D.C.
Speers entered the hotel lobby wearing the look of a desperate man who had been wandering in the desert. In reality, he had walked just two city blocks from the White House, having come immediately upon getting Ellis’s call. “We already have a suspect in Jessica Wu’s murder,” she had told him. And so he had come without asking any further questions, clearing his schedule or even notifying security of his plans.
After the licking he had just taken from the president, Speers hoped that the fresh air would do him some good. Despite the security tensions, the streets of the nation’s capital were still crowded with tourists and residents alike. Speers walked alongside a class of 7th graders fresh with excitement after a tour of the FBI building. He crossed the street alongside a retired veteran and his spouse who were heading to the Vietnam War Memorial. Closer to the hotel, he walked behind a Hungarian couple who, as evidenced by the brochure in their hand, had just been to the International Spy Museum. In just two blocks, he had heard Hebrew and Greek Russian and Korean and the strongest Kentucky accent he had ever heard. And unlike the rest of the grumpy old men and women working in Washington, Speers actually liked tourists. They invigorated him. They were a reminder that he was privileged to work and live in this city.
I needed that, he thought as he stepped inside the elevator, pressed the button for the 5th floor and prepared to see Ellis, who had revealed herself as a backstabber of the highest order. Thanks to her, Speers was going to have to exile the best intelligence operative he’d ever had.
When the elevator opened on the 5th floor, Speers was surprised to find that the hallway was already crowded with feds. He wandered out as if in a dream, barely registering the greetings from a dozen or so ODNI and CIA employees. Good morning, Mister Director. Right this way, Mister Director.
Ellis stood in the doorway of a suite near the ice machine. She was wearing a white HAZMAT suit with the headpiece pulled back from her face like a hoodie. She motioned him inside. Speers wanted to choke her.
The first thing he noticed was the transparent plastic barrier that sealed off the entrance to the bathroom. He skipped the pleasantries. “You said you had a suspect?”
Arunus Roth stepped out from behind Ellis. “We do. Or at least what’s left of one.”
Ellis set about zipping her boss into a HAZMAT suit. “We decided to focus our search on the person who killed the Pink Dragon, thinking that would lead to bigger fish. We went on the assumption that the killer was a foreign-born man between the age of 25 and 55 who purchased a last-minute Wizards ticket at a resale outlet.”
“Gotta give Agent Carver credit for the profiling,” Roth said. Ellis shut him down with a withering look.
She led Speers through the plastic bubble to the restroom, where they stood overlooking a bathtub filled with water the color of beef stroganoff. Four limbs — the hands and feet had been hacked off — stuck out of the tub at odd angles. The head and torso, however, were barely recognizable as human. It was one of the most disgusting things he had ever seen.
Roth piped up behind him. “Looks like the killer tried to make Mexican Stew.”
Mexican stew. Speers was familiar with the term. Although the practice was hardly unique to Mexico, the term was derived from Mexican drug lords’ solution of heated sodium hydroxide that would chemically liquefy a body in a matter of hours. The cartels typically boiled the lye in large cooking pots, then hacked the bodies up and put them in one piece at a time.
“Do we know who he is?”
“According to his passport, he’s a 31-year-old Chinese man. Arrived in D.C. four nights ago and prepaid the room for an entire week. Flew in via Hong Kong, routing through Tokyo Narita. And he was sloppy. Used the same credit card to reserve the room here as he did to purchase the Wizards ticket 51 minutes before game time.”
“Do we have his computer? His phone?”
Roth shook his head. “No such luck. Whoever got to him before us broke into the room safe. Perhaps they stole it. We did find a few smoking guns, though. A Verizon Center map, a game ticket stub and the Pink Dragon’s clutch.”
“Was there a key inside?” Speers said, referring to the key Carver said he saw the Pink Dragon drop into the purse.
“No. And that isn’t all that’s missing.” Ellis held up a package for a single disposable syringe. It was empty.
Speers nodded, remembering Carver’s theory that the Pink Dragon had been injected with cyanide, a fact that had yet to be confirmed by the lab.
Roth gestured to what was left of a hand on the counter in a sealed bag. “We might still get some DNA, and a few x-rays, but forget about fingerprints or dental records.”
A wave of nausea coursed through Speers. He turned and went back into the room, frantically unzipping his headpiece as soon as he cleared the plastic bubble.
He knelt before the room air-conditioner, inhaled the filtered air gushing from its vent and closed his eyes. Roth peeled the HAZMAT suit from him as if he were an oversized banana. Then the young fed gave him some water, helped him up and into a chair in the hallway.
Speers gathered himself. “Thanks Arunus.”
Moments later, Ellis appeared. “You all right there, chief?”
He nodded. “Tell me the rest. Just the broad strokes.”
“Everything we have so far supports the theory that Jack Brenner sold the drone’s weapons guidance system specs to the Pink Dragon, a.k.a. Jessica Wu. She then sold that to someone who used the information to hack into the drone that took out the Chinese embassy.”
“What else?”
“The theory is that the killer sought to tie up loose ends. Including Jack Brenner, Jessica Wu and whoever’s in that stew.”
Speers could no longer hold his rage. “Have you thought about blaming Carver for this, too?”
Ellis turned to Roth. “Give us a minute.” She waited until Roth was out of earshot. “I take it you’re referring to my memo suggesting that Carver be investigated.”
“Congrats, Ellis. The president actually read it. You must have known that I wouldn’t have time to review it prior to putting it into the morning briefing.”
“I followed protocol. I operate on the assumption that you approve anything that the president sees.”
“Well I don’t. It’s not humanly possible. I simply have faith what you will write isn’t an embarrassment to yourself and your colleagues. You took advantage of that trust for personal gain.”
Ellis folded her arms across her chest and lowered her voice. “When you asked me to join Guardian, you said you wanted my, quote unquote, unfiltered opinions. I told you I didn’t want Blake on my team. You ignored me.”
“Rationalize it all you want to. You’re wrong about Carver.” He gestured to the crime scene. “You wouldn’t even be here without him.”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “So what now? Am I fired?”
“Unfortunately not. I need you to find out who really did this.” Speers
stood and buttoned his suit jacket. “But rest assured, Ellis. What goes around comes around.”
The Four Seasons Hotel
Las Vegas, Nevada
Scarcely 48 surreal hours since he had left Tripoli, Carver stepped into the hotel elevator along with a couple of tall bottle blondes in sleeveless fur vests, wrap skirts and high heels. Russian escorts, he decided. But when they began arguing about money, Carver’s rudimentary knowledge of eastern tongues told him that they were in fact Ukrainian.
The sheer amount of perfume coming off these ladies was suffocating. And that was unfortunate, since Carver needed all the oxygen he could get at the moment.
The elevator ratcheted ever skyward. 10th floor. 11. 12. 13. 14. Just. Breathe. 35th floor. 36th. 37th.
If there was one thing Carver hated, it was heights. Not much else got to him except for that. And given Carver’s super-autobiographical memory, just the thought of it could give him vertigo.
Years ago in Paris, while pursuing a suspect, he had leapt across a chasm between two 10-story buildings, rooftop to rooftop. He had done so without thinking. Only later did the memory of what he had done — and how far he would have fallen had he missed his mark — drive him to his knees.
The Ukrainians exited at the 38th floor, leaving behind the veritable perfumery. Seconds later, the elevator reached the 40th floor. As the doors opened, Carver regarded the view. A sheet of floor-to-ceiling glass was all that separated him from a 530-foot drop to the Las Vegas strip.
He beheld a magnificent garden of neon. Far below, a monorail car left the neighboring Luxor hotel with families and gamblers. And further down the strip was the High Roller, Las Vegas’s 550-foot-high Ferris wheel. To someone like Carver, the idea that people actually paid to experience such heights was nauseating.
The sight triggered an explosion of light in his neural pathways. A torrent of unbearably vivid memories. Eleven years, four months and 23 days ago. The Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk his team had boarded in Anbar Province had been hit by a SAM, and the aircraft and was listing in a smoky death spiral. His JSOC team sprung into action around him, doing precisely what they had trained to do — leaping one after the other into the blackest night he had ever seen, and pulling their chutes nearly as soon as they had cleared the chopper.
Rogue Empire (Blake Carver Series) Page 9