Tom Clancy - Op Center 12

by War of Eagles

“Hello,” she replied. “This is Gloria Lynch-Hunt. Is everything all right with Frankie?”

  Frankie was her son, her only child. Of course she would assume that was why he was calling.

  “Actually, as of yesterday morning things were very well with Frankie,” he said. “The truth is I’m not at Op-Center anymore. I’m working on special projects for the president.”

  “Oh,” the woman said. “Does he need a recording system installed in the Oval Office?”

  “Excuse me?” It took a moment for Hood to understand what she had said. Gloria was an electrician. She was making a joke. Hood was caught off guard. He was also surprised by her voice, which was very soft and very high. It was not what he imagined a female electrician would sound like. Not that a female electrician should sound like anything, he knew. But he could not help having imagined her as smoky-voiced and a little hulking, albeit slimmed down because she would be dating again after years of complacency in marriage and eating her husband’s rich foods. “No,” Hood went on. “I’m not calling about the president, Mrs. Hunt. Gloria. I’m calling to see if you want to have lunch or coffee.”

  There was another long, long silence. This time Hood had lost her. He pressed Redial. He wondered if she would still be laughing or if she would not bother to pick up at all.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Hi. Sorry. Lost the signal there.”

  “That’s okay. I was thinking this might have been a joke,” she said. “Maybe it is, I don’t know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you come up as Unknown Caller on the phone ID, and my former husband is a dick. This is the kind of stunt he would have one of his restaurant or chef buddies pull.”

  “To what end?” Hood asked. He understood the idea of postdivorce payback, but that seemed excessive.

  “Mr. Hood, you’re a stranger. Maybe you won’t be, after the dinner you’re going to buy me—at a restaurant of my choosing, where I know my ex holds no sway. Until then, ‘my former husband is a dick’ will have to suffice. The details are bloody—and personal.”

  “Understood,” he said. It was odd. He felt no need to warn Sharon that her beau might be “a dick.”

  “I have to say, this still seems kind of strange,” she said.

  “It is completely strange,” he admitted.

  “Do you even know what I look like?”

  “No,” he admitted as a jolt of concern flashed through him. “And this isn’t an us-against-them alliance,” he added. “You know what I think I was subconsciously thinking?”

  “No. I’m not even sure I understood what you just said.”

  He smiled. “I think, Gloria, that I reasoned: Sharon and I did not get along. Sharon and Jim do get along. Therefore, you and I may get along.”

  The third silence was the shortest. “I’ll buy that,” she said. “Sort of a nearsighted date. When do we find out?”

  Hood thought he detected a hint of excitement in her voice. It took him a moment to get this joke, too. They were not quite blind dating.

  “I’m actually headed overseas now for a couple of days,” Hood told her.

  “Any place exciting?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But you can’t tell me.”

  “Right.”

  “Sexy,” she said.

  That made Hood feel both good and uncomfortable at the same time. He actually choked on saliva as he said, “Can we chalk it in for Saturday?”

  “Consider it chalked. That’ll save me a DVD rental,” she said.

  “It’s been that way for me, too,” Hood said.

  He hung up feeling pleased with himself. Not because he had made the call but because he had actually had a constructive conversation with a woman. He was upbeat as he reached the house, stayed upbeat as he talked to the kids on the back patio, and even smiled as he waved good-bye to Sharon and Jim as they did the dishes together, laughing as they scrubbed some kind of sauce from cooking implements he did not recognize. It was the first time in a year that Hood did not feel like sticking a steak knife in Hunt’s raw heart.

  Maybe that was because he had, though the “dick” did not yet know it. He loved having a secret that would cause Jim a little confusion and discomfort and probably some jealousy, even though he would never admit it.

  Screw him.

  And now, invigorated, Paul Hood was ready to tackle a world crisis. He did not know whether it was sad or remarkable that such a small thing as a date with this one particular woman could have such a large impact on his outlook. And he realized as he moved through a short diplomatic line that it had nothing to do with Gloria Hunt per se. It had to do with Paul Hood taking control of his life.

  As revelations go, that was something an international crisis manager should have realized long before this.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Beijing, China Wednesday, 5:23 A.M.

  Hood was met at the Beijing Capital International Airport by a car from the embassy. The driver introduced himself as Tim Bullock. The young man looked to be about twenty-four or twenty-five.

  “How long have you been in Beijing?” Hood asked as they waited for the two pieces of luggage he had brought.

  “Four months, sir. I have a poli-sci degree from Temple University.”

  “You’re from Philadelphia?”

  “Yes, sir. Birthplace of the nation. That’s what got me into political science. When I understood what those men did—Mr. Franklin, Mr. Adams, Mr. Jefferson, and the others—the risks they took so their countrymen could live free, I knew I wanted to have a positive impact on people’s lives.”

  “Is it difficult for you to watch Communism at work in China?”

  “No, sir. It is another form of the kind of duress these individuals have always lived under,” Bullock said in exquisite diplomatic-speak. “But they will overcome that, I believe. It is a strong and fascinating country.”

  “So you like this assignment?” Hood asked.

  “Very much, sir,” Bullock replied. “Dating is problematic, but the day trips are not like going to the Jersey shore. And this is a choice position for someone who wants a career in the dipco.”

  Dipco was the diplomatic corps. Or as Op-Center’s late political liaison Martha Mackall used to call it, the “fiftyfifty” corps. You spent half the time trying to do your job and half the time trying to stay alive. In her case, her frank misanthropic view of the profession had proved sadly accurate. Bob Herbert had another name for it: the “diplomatic corpse.” Happily, there were still men like Bullock who had stars—and stripes—in their eyes. At least, for now.

  Bullock carried Hood’s bags, told him there were beverages and snacks in the car, and said the eighteen-mile drive to the American compound at Xiu Shui Bei Jie 3, 100600 would take under a half hour. He asked Hood if he needed to use the rest room before they departed.

  “Thanks,” Hood told him. “I went before I left.”

  Bullock did not acknowledge the joke. He was in a mode Hood recognized: the focused, efficient “dipcoproby” mode. A career in the diplomatic corps meant doing everything right during his six-month probationary period, especially when it came to collecting and delivering VIPs in a timely and efficient manner. Hood had never possessed that kind of polish. Then again, he never had the kind of career vision Bullock seemed to have. Hood had planned on a career in finance. He fell into politics and felt his way from post to post as he moved between the two fields. He always tried to do what was right, not what was expected.

  Until six months ago, he reflected. That was when he fired Mike and made a deal with Senator Debenport to work more closely with the White House. At the time, he had no idea how closely that meant. It was strange. Here he was feeling used and compromised, yet the kid in the front seat would probably sign away his soul to be doing what Hood was doing. The president’s special intelligence envoy did not have the heart to tell Bullock that would probably be the price.

  Hood sat back in the deep leather seat of the bul
letproof sedan and looked out the window. The driver pointed out a few landmarks but was respectfully silent the rest of the time. Beijing was not what Paul Hood had expected. Even through the pollution, the pale yellow disc of the rising sun brought out the rich, earthy reds and browns of the stones and tiles that comprised the ancient structures. Except for these old walls and pagoda-style rooftops, and the billboards of Mao that were still surprisingly plentiful, the capital of the People’s Republic of China looked like a modest-sized American city. There were a few newer highrises, some well-preserved turn-of-the-century buildings, and a great many trees and plazas. There were paved roads and cobbled roads, all of them still relatively uncrowded this early in the morning.

  The sedan pulled up to the high iron gates. There was a marine sentry in a guard booth inside. He pressed a button, and a small oblong panel slid down in one of the columns of the gate. There was a dark glass inside. Bullock rolled down the window and pressed his palm on the clear vertical screen. A narrow green line scanned his palm from the top to bottom, then from the left to the right. A moment later, the gate popped open. The box closed, and Bullock drove through. The marine had never left the safety of the booth.

  “They had a retinal scan installed for a few days,” Bullock told Hood. “But it was very difficult to lean that far from the car.”

  Good old government planning, Hood thought as they drove along the curving drive. Hood was quite aware of a four-story bunker-style building to the right of the compound, just outside the gate. He had no idea what the Chinese characters said, but it did not matter. Whether the building was supposed to be the Institute for Cultural Exchange or the Department of Petroleum Research, it was in fact a listening post. The eastern side, which overlooked the embassy, had eight windows. They would all take direct sunlight until about one or two P.M. The shades were drawn in all but one, which had the widest view of the grounds. There were probably a number of still and video cameras concealed within the room. Everyone who came or went at the United States embassy was photographed, their conversations recorded. A number of satellite dishes and antennae were crowded on the roof, more than an ordinary office building would require. All of that raw data was stored and analyzed.

  The Chinese did not make a secret of the building’s true purpose, nor did the Americans erect a wall to block the view. It was all part of the polite game of overt surveillance that nations played, like parole officers checking on excons. The real spy work against the embassy came from the police officers who patrolled the streets or the delivery men who bicycled past or even the traffic helicopters that flew overhead. These people were no different from the “nannies” in D.C.—the CIA operatives who dressed as ordinary citizens going about their work sweeping streets or vending postcards and hot dogs or pushing babies in carriages. In reality, they were watching the embassies and their ambassadors, creating charts of their movements throughout the district. Profilers could often extrapolate more from this data than they could from cryptic conversations between emissary workers. The Chinese in the building next door would spend hours going over anything Hood might have said to the driver while they waited at the gate. The Chinese analysts would come up with nothing or with a misguided interpretation of an innocent conversation.

  It seemed, suddenly, a very silly business for grown men and women to be conducting. In that moment Hood understood the squirmy frustration Mike Rodgers used to feel at meetings in the Tank or in diplomatic offices. There was nothing vague about combat. One side lost, one side triumphed. Soldiers lived or they did not. It was not a backand-forth patty-cake; it was decisive. Hood also got a sense of the direction Op-Center would be taking with a general in command and marines on the payroll. There would be fewer second opinions and more surgery.

  The car continued to the front door of the main building, a Victorian-style mansion. Hood was met by a man who seemed to be about Hood’s age. He was short, thin, with a closely cropped mat of salt-and-pepper hair and a smartly tailored suit. His eyes were narrow and his forehead creased. He seemed too tense to be a diplomat.

  “Mr. Hood, I’m Wesley Chase, the ambassador’s executive secretary,” the man informed him.

  That explained it. This was the man who did all the work. Hood shook his hand and entered the embassy ahead of him. A marine guard sat at a desk in a large, open foyer. There was a six-foot-high omniglass wall in front of him—thick and explosion-proof. A blast in front of it would be directed back outside. The wall ran the length of the big receiving area. The only way in or out was a revolving door to the right of the desk. Mr. Chase told Hood to stand in the doorway. He placed a card on the scanner to the left. The door turned once, sweeping Hood with it. Chase stepped into the next slot, placed the card on the scanner, and the door moved again.

  “You have to be quick or you lose your arm,” Chase said with a laugh when he reached the other side.

  Hood knew that all this security was not just to protect the embassy from bombers and assassins. It was also to keep defectors safe. Several times each week, Chinese nationals came here seeking asylum. Some were dissidents, some simply wanted to be reunited with family in Taiwan, others wanted a better life in the United States. Rarely was political haven granted. Refusal was not simply a matter of accommodating the host government but of thwarting them. It was difficult to know which refugee was sincere and which was a potential spy. That was why so many Chinese ended up on the boats of people like Lo Tek.

  The two men passed a large antechamber that was already beginning to fill with both American and Chinese citizens looking for help. The application fee for a visa cost one hundred dollars, whether the request was honored or not. Still they came, the Chinese who earned twice that a month—if they were lucky.

  Hood was shown to one of the guest quarters. Chase told him the ambassador would be down to breakfast with him in about an hour. Hood’s luggage arrived as Chase was leaving. Tim Bullock set up a stand and hoisted the large bag on top. He asked if Hood wanted anything hung up or set out.

  “No thanks,” Hood replied, and Bullock turned to go. Hood called out to him. “Hold on. Your tip.”

  “Sir, we don’t—”

  “Not that kind,” Hood said. He approached the young man.

  “I know you said it’s ‘problematic,’ but don’t neglect the dating. It’s not enough to have professional acquaintances, even close ones. To make it through this business you need a home and a partner. The right partner.”

  Bullock smiled. Maybe he was pleased with the sentiment or just with the fact that someone had actually paid attention to him. Drivers tended to be the most invisible people in the dipco.

  “Thank you for the tip, sir,” Bullock said. “I’ll get to work on that. Are you sure I can’t help with your baggage?”

  Hood grinned and shook his head. Bullock left, leaving Hood with his suitcase—and his baggage. Hood hoped the kid would take his advice. Nancy Jo had once inspired him to overachievement, and a chat with Gloria Lynch-Hunt had helped get him through a miserable day. The attentions of former Op-Center press secretary Ann Farris had forced him to take a closer look at the health of his marriage.

  Not that a relationship is the solution to everything, Hood thought as he unpacked. The kid’s singlemindedness underscored the strength but also the weakness of individuals who entered politics. It was like a Chinese ceremony he had witnessed when he was mayor of Los Angeles. A fifty-foot-high tower had been erected off Alpine Street. A young lady sat on top in a gold and white gown. She was the morning princess. A dozen warriors dressed in black and red robes fought to reach her. The man who made it to the top took the princess as his bride. The ceremony in Chinatown was choreographed; in ancient days, the battle was to the death.

  Politics was a lot like that. The prize was at the top, and the participants became seduced by the heights and the worldview. Some of their senses were numbed by the rarified air. As they became more and more cloistered in the high tower, they also became protected by layers of
security until the scrutiny of a Watergate or Irangate punched through and took lives. The intelligence community managed to avoid that problem because their coin was not personal access but information.

  But perspective was a lesson Bullock would have to learn himself, if he learned it at all. He had ideals from Philadelphia, but he was already in the system and speaking the lingo. Faced with opportunity, ideals could be postponed or forgotten. Most career politicians Hood had known went a lifetime without ever looking back on the good reasons that may have brought them to public office.

  Hood finished unpacking, then stretched out on the twin bed. It had been a very long time since he had traveled. It felt strange to put his head on a pillow that was not his own.

  Perspective.

  Getting out of Washington gave Hood a chance to look back on the events of the last few days. As much as he did not like the way things had played out, he could hardly consider himself abused. He was abroad in the service of the president, of the nation, of the world.

  Again.

  Intelligence personnel had to catch the balls that slipped through the gloves of the diplomats. Men like Hood and Bob Herbert and General Carrie went to work so that other Americans could pursue their lives without fear or compromise. It was difficult work. It was also dangerous and exhausting. And there was no one to grab the balls they missed. But there was one thing of which Hood never lost sight. The work was stressful and damned difficult, but it was not a burden.

  It was the playing field of Franklin, Adams, and Jefferson.

  It was a privilege.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Zhuhai, China Wednesday, 11:00 A.M.

  Though General Tam Li held all his bases in high regard, he preferred the facility to which he was headed now. The Zhuhai base was the home of the PLA’s Macao forces, key players in his master plan. Macao was only six square miles, a narrow peninsula connected to the mainland by an even narrower isthmus. It was the oldest European settlement in China and had been administered by Portugal since 1557. Yet most of the inhabitants were Chinese, and the hilly, rocky peninsula adjoined the Guangdong province in southeastern China.