Rogue Empire (Blake Carver Series)

by William Tyree

  “You can call me Titus. Are you in front of a computer?”

  Blick’s machine was within easy reach. He pulled it off the counter and set it on the table, next to the goldfish. “Sure am.”

  “If you’ll check your bank account, you’ll see that I’ve already made the down payment for the job.”

  Blick let out a nervous laugh. “Sorry, Titus, I didn’t quite catch that.”

  “You heard me. I paid in advance. Go ahead. Log into your bank account. I’ll wait.”

  Blick set the phone down and put it on speaker. He pulled up his banking app, logged in, and checked the balance. OMG. The balance was $10,000 USD higher than it had been last night. It was like money had fallen from the sky!

  But it was also weird. And a little creepy.

  “Okay,” Blick said. “Be straight with me. Is this some reality TV show about expatriate life in China?”

  “On the contrary. You will never speak of our agreement to anyone. I demand strict confidentiality.”

  “Look, Titus. If this isn’t a gag, and the agency didn’t refer you, then I really have to know who you are and what’s going on.”

  “I found you in the slush pile of humanity. Then I put ten G's in your account as a down payment for your services. That’s not so bad, is it?”

  “No. It’s just – ”

  “There’s at least another ten Gs in this for you if you just work with me, and you won’t have to share a penny with the agency. But again, I demand a high degree of confidentiality in return.”

  Blick stood and held the phone tight against his ear as he went to the window. The haze outside was still thick. “Mister Titus or whoever you are, I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I feel a little violated right now. I don’t understand how you could have gotten my direct deposit number unless you hacked into my account. I hope I’m wrong about that, because I would hate to have to call the authorities.”

  The voice sighed. “The pig accustomed to dirt turns his nose up at rice.”

  “Excuse me? Did you just call me a pig?”

  “I think the real thing you have to ask yourself, Jasper, is this: What happens if I don’t take this job? If this mysterious person can magically make money appear in my account, can he also make it all disappear? Could he even make my work visa disappear? Would I have to move back to Oregon? And if I did, would he find me there too?”

  There was a long pause before Blick spoke again. “What do I have to do?”

  “I need you to play the role of an American executive this week. It’s a 20-hour commitment. And Jasper, I’ll know if you tell anyone about this. You believe that, don’t you?”

  Blick cleared his throat. “Yes.”

  “Good. First, you’re going to go out and have a bunch of business cards printed up. Your name will be David Stone, and you’ll be playing a Senior Vice President of Entertainment Content for a company called MassiveStreamz.”

  Two Elk Ranch

  After Carver had eaten his fill of chicken-fried steak, he bid his father good night and retired to the staff quarters just behind the main ranch house. A row of 10 units had been built for the property’s first ranch hands back in 1907. Each contained a single bed, a nightstand, a lamp and a foot locker. A shared bathroom — which had been fitted with indoor plumbing and a shower in the 1960s — stood at the end of the hall.

  He entered the first unit, then moved on to the next, hoping it was in better condition. It wasn’t. He sat on the edge of the mattress and imagined the endless succession of sun-weathered vaqueros over the past century that had once sat where he was now. Their messages to him had been engraved into the yellowing wall before him.

  Manny era aqui ‘59.

  God bless all who enter

  Te amo Gloria

  John freaking Wayne!

  Nixon is a crook.

  ¡Eh,… Macarena! Aaay!

  Carver slid the drawer of the nightstand open. Inside was an emergency sewing kit and a dog-eared, leather-bound Bible that had been placed there in 1947. He could think of no use for the sewing kit, but he was fascinated by the old Bible. He picked it up and flipped through, astonished by the thousands of highlighted and underlined passages. The margins were filled with handwritten notes in English and Spanish.

  His eyes danced over chapter and verse, finally resting on key passages that had been cited so many times that it was nearly impossible to read the original text. But that did not matter. Carver knew them all from memory.

  Proverbs 27:23: Know well the condition of your flocks, and pay attention to your herds; For riches are not forever, nor does a crown endure to all generations.

  Romans 12:2: Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.

  Matthew 11:28: Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

  Rest. That was a good idea. He had not had anything resembling peaceful sleep for weeks.

  He put the Bible back into the drawer and shut the light off. He reclined on the bed, but his bruised ribs wouldn’t let him get comfortable for long. He tossed and turned. Jack Brenner’s insulin pump pestered his thoughts. The image of the WiFi-enabled device sitting under the lights in the ODNI lab, the clear tube that had fed Brenner’s body disconnected, inert. If Arunus Roth’s theory was right, even while Carver was busy plumbing Brenner for information, someone had hacked into the pump, releasing a fatal dose of insulin. His death had come at the precise moment when Carver was about to take Brenner into custody.

  He did not believe in coincidence. Brenner had seemed paranoid in the pub, claiming that “they” were listening. Minutes later, he was dead. Someone had planned this all very carefully and was executing it to perfection. Were they, in fact, watching him right now? Or were they inside him, the same way they had been inside Brenner, at this very moment?

  He rose and went to the window, scanning the darkness for flashlights, car headlights, movements in the shadows. Carver was no stranger to nighttime paranoia. He accepted the fact that he had accumulated many enemies over the course of his career in intelligence, and realized that some day, one of them might go to extraordinary lengths to exact vengeance. He just hoped his professional life would never follow him back home to Arizona.

  Relax. There is no cell coverage here. There is no Internet. There is just one road in and out of this place. No one can track you. Not tonight, at least.

  Never satisfied, he opened his suitcase and took out the computer he had taken with him to Libya. He booted it up and, with a few keystrokes, wiped its memory clean. All applications, all data, everything. Then he slid the sheet off the corner of the bed and, using the keys of his rental car, cut a slit in the mattress. He shoved the computer deep inside until he felt its metal come against the springs. Then he stitched the fabric back up with the sewing kit in the nightstand and forced himself to lay back down.

  He focused on the sound of a train in the distance. The Doppler effect of its horn as it wound through the nearby canyon, and the predictable syncopation of its wheels against the tracks. Ch-ch-chaff. Ch-ch-chaff. Sha-hoosh. Sha-hoosh.

  And at last, Carver slept.

  The White House

  Julian Speers headed toward the Map Room, an elegant parlor that had once served as President Franklin Roosevelt’s wartime communications center. He felt that the room’s history was well-suited to the stated intentions of his guest. At the president’s insistence, Speers was to meet with the Japanese ambassador to the U.S., Kai Nakamura, who had promised to deliver classified information that would shed light on the crisis with China.

  This was highly irregular. To the best of Speers’ knowledge, a foreign ambassador had never had access to anyone from American Intelligence, to say nothing of its chief executive. But Nakamura had snubbed his meeting with the Secretary of State, claiming that the sensitive intelligence information he had t
o share was beyond her. He had demanded a meeting with the president. When she had refused, he indicated that Speers would be an acceptable replacement.

  As he turned the corner into the Map Room, Speers found Nakamura standing by the fireplace. Steam rose from a teapot set on a nearby table. Nakamura was the youngest diplomat Speers had ever seen, slightly built and in an impeccably tailored navy suit with emerald cufflinks. Before his career as an ambassador, he had earned a degree in international law at Stanford.

  Nakamura turned, unsmiling, and shook Speers’ hand. “Mister Director,” he said without any trace of accent.

  “Ambassador,” Speers said with forced warmth. “It’s rare that I get the honor of meeting a diplomat of your stature.”

  “Indeed. I appreciate the symbolic gesture the president has made by holding this meeting in the White House. I trust that what I am about to share with you will be passed on to her without delay.”

  “The president obviously appreciates the importance of your request, as I do.”

  Speers gestured to a stuffed-back armchair that was said to have been built by legendary Philadelphia cabinetmaker Thomas Affleck. He waited for his guest to sit, then took the chair opposite.

  Nakamura reached into his bag and pulled out a leather-bound document that was at least three inches thick. He dropped it on the mahogany table between the two chairs, and its weight against the wood registered an impressive thud that made both Speers and the teapot jump.

  “That is a log of more than 900 sorties flown by Japanese fighter pilots intercepting Chinese J-31s over the past 12 months.” He paused, raised his eyebrows for dramatic effect. “Go ahead. Examine it. I had it translated to English for you.”

  Speers kept his hands in his lap. “I’m aware of the situation. You’re referring to Chinese planes buzzing the disputed Senkaku Islands.”

  “Not just the Senkaku Islands. As you’ll see, these incursions are happening all over our territories with increasing regularity.”

  “I see.”

  “Did you know that China’s J-31 is an advanced stealth aircraft?”

  “Yes, Ambassador.”

  “And did you also know that our Japanese pilots fly American F-15s? A plane that has been in service since 1972?”

  “Ambassador, if you’re asking me to make a case for selling you more advanced aircraft – ”

  “For now, I simply ask you to understand what we are up against. The Chinese have been probing our defenses. By now they realize that they can get close enough to our bases to destroy our planes before they even leave the ground.”

  “Ambassador, this is a little out of my jurisdiction, but I believe I’m accurate in saying that we have approximately 50,000 troops in Japan that are ready to protect your country. That includes the Seventh Fleet and hundreds of fighter aircraft that could easily match up with anything China could throw at you. Not to mention our forces in the region at large.”

  “And yet China encroaches deeper into our territory each day, while the United States does nothing to defend our sovereignty.”

  Speers was starting to think this was a job for the secretary of state after all. The U.S. had, of course, lodged protests on Japan’s behalf, but it hadn’t done anything militarily. The U.S. wasn’t about to risk a major conflict with a superpower over a few largely deserted islands.

  Nakamura reached again into his bag and pulled out two folders. He set the first on the table and opened it, revealing a series of photographs.

  Speers put on his eyeglasses. Some of the images were satellite photos, while others appeared to have been taken at close range. One depicted an enormous barge, big as an oil tanker. An army of bulldozers was pictured pushing sand from its open aft and onto a tiny island. The island’s coordinates were stamped on the lower right-hand corner. There were several more photographs like these, all with different coordinates.

  “What are they doing?” Speers asked. “Enlarging these islands?”

  “There were no islands there to begin with. Those were just shallow reefs. First, they dumped rubbish on the reefs to raise the elevation. Then they brought sand and concrete.”

  The second series of photos showed construction crews installing what, even to Speers’ eye, looked like missile defense systems. Other photos showed the construction of piers, harbors and in one case, an airstrip.

  “We call it the Great Sand Wall of China,” Nakamura explained. “At 16 locations in the East China Sea, they have added 8.5 square miles of land.”

  Speers set the photos down. Some months ago, the government of Malaysia had lodged a formal complaint when one such project encroached on international waters. China had claimed that they were trading hubs to help encourage shipping commerce among Asian nations.

  “I gather you think this activity is provocative in nature,” Speers said, although he himself had little doubt.

  “Isn’t it obvious? These islands are forward operating bases for the People’s Liberation Army.”

  Speers stood. “I can understand your concern, Ambassador. You have my word that I will personally show these photos to the president. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  “We are not finished. These photos are simply for context.” He passed Speers a document dated the evening before. It was a transcript of a conversation that supposedly took place with a high-ranking informant within the Chinese government. “That document proves that China destroyed its own embassy.”

  Speers felt his mouth suddenly go dry. “Come again?”

  “You heard me. China destroyed its own embassy. It’s part of a larger plan they call Operation Ukraine.”

  “Ukraine?”

  “We think it is a reference to Russia’s invasion of the Ukraine in 2015. I think you will agree, as they clearly do, that it was the most brilliantly executed invasion in modern times.”

  Speers had to concur. While the Russians were hosting the Winter Olympics in Sochi and building goodwill through the illusion of peace, love and understanding among nations, it quietly began seeding the Ukrainian territory of Crimea with undercover Russian soldiers. Just weeks after the winter games closed, they began seeding civil unrest, with the embedded soldiers disguised as Ukrainian police, military and even civilian “separatists.” They then staged a civil war within the country itself. Eventually, it followed with a visible occupation by regular Russian troops who entered on the pretense that they were protecting endangered Russian-speaking citizens in the eastern part of the country.

  Still, Speers found himself lost. “How is the embassy bombing related to China’s activities in the East China Sea?”

  “You may have forgotten the most critical piece of Russia’s invasion of the Ukraine. Russia had to ensure that its invasion would not be met with an immediate counterattack from U.S. or NATO forces. Tell me, Mister Director, how did they manage to invade a close American ally like the Ukraine without a fight?”

  “By creating confusion. A series of carefully timed false news reports. Disinformation campaigns. Two-faced diplomacy. It all added up to a smokescreen that kept us off-balance until it was too late to act.”

  “Yes. Trickery. This situation with China is no different.”

  “Ambassador, are you actually suggesting that China is about to invade Japan?”

  Nakamura nodded. “I suggest nothing. It is a fact. According to our source, Beijing has decided to take not just the Senkaku Islands from us, but expand upward, annexing additional territory in the East China Sea and perhaps even parts of Hokkaido.”

  He pointed to a location on the map.

  Speers leaned back as if he had been slapped in the face. “Our base in Okinawa is right in the middle of the area you’re talking about.”

  Nakamura smiled at Speers and shook his head. Pityingly, as if addressing a child. “To quote from The Art of War, victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win. As Beijing sees it, the consequences of their actions will be attending p
eace talks, which will naturally fail, and mild economic sanctions.”

  “They wouldn’t dare.”

  The ambassador stood. “China seeks to neuter the American military into a confused, submissive state. And forgive me for this observation, Mister Director, but I do believe it has already succeeded.”

  Two Elk Ranch

  It was pitch black and 21 degrees out as Carver started the truck motor. Duke sat in the passenger seat, teeth chattering as the vehicle heater struggled to life. Carver’s ribs were less sore today, and for that, he was grateful.

  As they passed the corral, the truck headlights flashed over the lion skull Carver’s father had nailed up. The ghostly image was a trigger. Something he’d seen when he was with the CIA in Afghanistan. Dead men dragged through a village by the Taliban. Strung up on posts as a warning to others that might collaborate with the Americans. Left to rot in the sun as the birds picked them down to the bone.

  He braked as a possum darted out into the road. The animal froze in the headlights. Then it keeled over like a toy that had run out of batteries. And just lay there, motionless.

  Carver had of course seen possums before. He had heard people refer to playing possum. But he had never actually seen a possum do such a thing.

  He left the engine idling, stepped out of the truck and approached the animal. Its eyes, staring up at the still-starry sky, were convincingly glassy. A limp tongue hung out the corner of its mouth. Limbs were motionless. Carver started to wonder. Do possums have heart attacks? Do they have strokes?

  Then he saw the animal take a very slight, nearly undetectable breath. “Well-played,” Carver said, grinning. He got back into his father’s truck and drove around the award-winning animal actor. He looked in his rear view mirror, but it was too dark to see the possum rise up and run away.