The Ghost War jw-2

by Alex Berenson

  “Ahh — here.”

  “WHY DID YOU DEFECT?” the interviewer was saying.

  For the first time, Wen appeared flummoxed. “When I came from Beijing two weeks ago, I decided.” He took a drag on his cigarette and said nothing more.

  “But why now? After all these many years.”

  “I wanted to speak freely. In China, that’s impossible.”

  “Come now, Mr. Wen. We’re not making a publicity video for Taiwan. You don’t expect us to believe that you defected so you could hold up placards in the streets. You’re a fifty-two-year-old man, not a college student. How much freedom do you need?”

  Wen squeezed his hands together. “You already know, so must I answer?”

  “Please.”

  “I am due to return to China. I don’t want to go. I love a lady here. And now I find out my wife, who lives in Beijing, has relations with my superior officer there.”

  “Relations?”

  Wen shook his head tiredly. “Sexual relations.”

  TYSON PAUSED THE DVD AGAIN. “‘How much freedom do you need?’ I love that. The Brits.”

  “Best friends to your Confederate forebears,” Shafer said.

  “True enough. Neither we nor the Brits can confirm the bit about his wife. But he has been sleeping with a woman here, a lawyer at a British export-import company. Monica Cheng’s her name. He met her a few months back at a trade show to promote Chinese exporters. The Brits found her yesterday, asked her, and she confirmed. She’s under twenty-four-hour watch.” Tyson passed around pictures of the woman. She was Chinese, in her early thirties and pretty.

  “Is it possible she’s fake?”

  “Possible, sure. But she was born in London. She looks genuine and she says they were serious. He was, at least. And there’s something else.”

  Tyson pressed play and the DVD spun.

  “ARE THERE ANY OTHER REASONS you decided to defect?”

  Wen reached for another Dunhill. Only after accepting a light did he speak.

  “There are no penalties to me for what I say?”

  “Mr. Wen. You are a guest of the British government. An invited guest. How you treated your former employer is of no concern to us. Honesty is the best policy.”

  “May I speak to a solicitor?”

  A pause. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be practical at this time.”

  Wen appeared unsurprised. “Let me say, then, that the PLA checks—” Wen broke off. Looking left, off-screen, he said a word in Chinese. “Audits,” a voice replied in English. Wen nodded. “The Army audits my spending. One of the people, the auditors, raised a question.”

  “You were accused of theft?”

  “There was a certain account in my name. For operational purposes.”

  TYSON STOPPED THE DVD AGAIN.

  “This part he absolutely refused to put on camera. Mr. Wen Shubai seems to have been stealing from the PLA with both hands. He’s got an account with two million dollars at UBS. Says it was to fund covert operations inside Europe.”

  “Sounds like it was funding Operation Move My Girlfriend Monica to Barcelona,” Shafer said.

  “He says the PLA’s auditors refused to accept his perfectly legitimate answers about the account. So he did what any of us would do.”

  “He fled into the arms of a foreign power.”

  “Precisely, Mr. Shafer.”

  “Did you two practice this routine?” Exley said. “You could take it on the road. Big bucks. Shafer and Tyson, CIA vaudeville.”

  Shafer and Tyson looked at each other in mock be fuddlement. “I don’t know what she’s talking about, Ellis,” Tyson said. “Anyway, it would have to be Tyson and Shafer.”

  “So do we believe Mr. Wen?”

  Tyson folded his hands together, raised his index fingers to his lips. “Well. Here’s the thing. We do.”

  “We think he’s the genuine article, not a fish thrown our way by the Chinese to confuse us, as our old friends at the KGB used to do.”

  “We and the Brits both. Reasons—” Tyson counted them out on his fingers.

  “One: If he’s a fish, he’s a very big fish. He’s extremely senior. That’s a lot to give up, and we don’t know why they would. Two: Monica’s real. Three: The money in his UBS account is real and he’s been putting it there for a while. Four: The Chinese government is conducting, shall we say, urgent inquiries as to his whereabouts. And five: The Chinese have never liked those KGB-style counterespionage ops.”

  “They love to spy.”

  “Not the chess match kind of spying. The simple kind. The pay-the-engineer-get-the-blueprints-for-the-fighter-jet kind.”

  “The kind that works,” Shafer said.

  Again Tyson fast-forwarded through the DVD. “And then there’s this,” Tyson said. “You can watch the whole tape if you like, of course, but I promise these are the highlights.” He clicked the DVD.

  “DOES CHINA HAVE AGENTS WITHIN the Central Intelligence Agency?”

  “Yes. Until last year, two. Then one was dismissed.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know precisely. He hardly showed up on my”—again Wen said something in Chinese and the unseen voice translated—“on my radar screen. He was in what the Americans call the division of intelligence.”

  “The Directorate of Intelligence.”

  “Yes. The analysts. He translated Chinese newspapers and similar things. He was not very senior.”

  “What about the other agent?”

  “He was in the other division — directorate. Operations.”

  “Was he also low-level?”

  “Not at all.” Wen sat up in his chair as he said this, Exley noticed. Though he was now betraying China, he was still unconsciously proud that his service had infiltrated Langley. “He had access to many operations. Not just in China. All over Asia.”

  “How long did he work for you?”

  “Several years.”

  “And did you recruit him?”

  “I never met him.”

  “Let me ask it another way. Did the Second Directorate recruit him or did he approach you?”

  “Ahh. No, he approached us. He was white. We prefer ethnic Chinese.”

  Exley was transfixed. Soon there’d be arrests, a criminal case, an accounting of the secrets this mole had betrayed, the lives he’d destroyed. But for now there was only this video, the first flake in the blizzard. History unspooling in this office.

  “Do you know how he approached you?”

  “Unfortunately, no. But I am sure we didn’t trust him at first.”

  “Because he was white?”

  “Also because he had come to us. We didn’t understand that.”

  “But you learned?”

  Wen smiled. “He wanted money. Lots of money.”

  “And you gave it to him.”

  “His information was valuable.”

  “Very valuable?”

  “He could have asked for ten times as much.”

  * * *

  AGAIN TYSON PAUSED THE DVD.

  “Based on what Wen says next, it seems safe to say that our entire China network is blown. Has been for years. We’ve lost five agents there since 2004. This explains why. The ones who are left have probably been doubled by the Chinese and are feeding us disinformation.”

  “It’s as bad as Ames,” Exley said.

  “Worse,” Shafer said. “The Soviets were on the way out when Ames betrayed us. He got some people killed, but he didn’t change the Cold War. But this—”

  Shafer broke off. He didn’t need to say anything more, Exley thought. The struggle for dominance between the United States and China had only just begun. Now this CIA mole, whoever he was, had given China an enormous advantage. His treachery had opened a window on America’s most secret intelligence programs and military capabilities while giving China the chance to conceal its own.

  “How many agents do we have in China?” Exley said.

  “Even before t
his, we were incredibly thin over there. A half-dozen PLA officers, a couple of mid-level politicians. But no one really senior. With one exception. Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” Shafer said. “Mind if I ask what you’re talking about?”

  Tyson looked at Shafer. He seemed to consider his next words carefully, though perhaps the hesitation was as much an act as everything else he did, Exley thought.

  “I’ve said too much already. The ramblings of an old man.”

  Exley saw the pit bull hiding in Tyson’s basset hound face and decided to drop the subject. Still, what he’d said didn’t make much sense. Why would one agent have escaped if the mole had given up everyone else?

  “George,” Shafer said, “I have to ask again. How do we know that this fine gentleman isn’t just messing with us?”

  “Watch and learn, Ellis.” Tyson clicked the DVD one more time.

  “HOW MUCH DID YOU PAY THIS SPY?” the English woman said.

  “I don’t know exactly, but millions.”

  “What did he give you?”

  “Everything the Americans did in China. If they recruited someone, planned an operation, everything.”

  “Were you worried that the CIA had planted him? That he was a source of disinformation?”

  “Disinformation?” The off-screen translator said something in Chinese. Wen nodded vigorously, almost angrily. “Yes. Of course, we considered he might be trying to fool us. You think we don’t understand these situations?”

  “Of course, of course,” the woman said soothingly.

  “At first we test him, use him only to check information we already know. But everything he gives us is correct. Very specific, and always correct. So we know he must be real.”

  “Mr. Wen, what was the most valuable information this agent provided?”

  “Easy,” Wen said. “He told us the Americans had an agent in North Korea. A nuclear scientist. The Americans called him Drafter.”

  Exley heard a gasp. She needed a moment to realize she’d made the sound. The Chinese had given the Drafter to the North Koreans?

  “When was that?”

  “Two years ago, maybe.”

  “When did you tell the North Koreans what you’d learned?”

  “Not until this year. A few weeks ago.”

  “Why did you wait?”

  “I don’t know. How do the Americans say it? ‘Above my pay grade.’”

  “Do you have any idea?”

  “I think some people think China should stand up to America. United States has many problems right now. Time for China to show its power. If America doesn’t answer, then China knows it is winning.”

  “People in Zhongnanhai, you mean?”

  “Yes. Ministers. The Standing Committee. But not everyone.”

  “We’ll return to that later. Let’s focus on this scientist — the Drafter, as you call him. What did you tell the North Koreans about him? His name?”

  “We didn’t know his real name. But enough so that they could identify him.”

  “And how did you find out about this? It wasn’t to do with Europe.”

  “Of course I find out.” Wen looked irritated. “I was home in Beijing when the North Koreans sank the boat that the Americans sent to rescue him. I am eighth-ranking officer in the Second Directorate. Of course I hear.”

  Tyson paused the DVD.

  “NOT THE SEVENTH-RANKING, and not the ninth-ranking. The eighth-ranking. Ellis, you believe him now?”

  Shafer nodded. “Obviously he’s telling the truth. The Chinese have somebody inside. Otherwise they wouldn’t have known the Drafter’s code name.”

  “And Chinese wouldn’t give up the mole,” Tyson said. “He’s too valuable. So Wen’s defection is real. He did it on his own, not on orders from Beijing. Maybe for Ms. Monica Cheng. Maybe because of those pesky audits.”

  Shafer looked at Exley. “You agree?”

  Exley considered. “I’m not sure. We already knew we had a mole. Even if we haven’t made much progress finding him.” The traffic and property records they’d searched hadn’t offered any clues, and they were still waiting for new polygraph results. “The real test is whether he helps us find the mole.”

  Tyson grinned. “Ms. Exley. You are the brains of the operation, I see now.”

  Exley was tired of playing the good student to the two masters. “And you’re a smug, patronizing jerk.”

  Tyson’s smile didn’t disappear. “You sound just like my wife. The strange part is that I really was trying to pay you a compliment. You’re two hundred proof spot-on.”

  He clicked the DVD.

  “CAN WE STOP FOR TONIGHT?” Wen’s suit jacket was off, sweat stains widening under his arms.

  “A few more questions. And then I promise you can rest. Now. This mole within the CIA. Did you know his name?”

  “No.”

  “Department?”

  “Told you already, he was in the Division of Operations.”

  “Where in the Directorate of Operations? On the China desk?”

  “Not sure. Asia, but maybe not China. Also he spent time in what the Americans call counterintelligence. Don’t know where he is now.”

  “Can you tell us anything else about him?”

  Wen closed his eyes. “Something happened to him. Something bad. Personal. A few years ago.”

  “Like he was in an accident?”

  Wen shook his head. “Not exactly. Something else. A big problem. He didn’t tell us. We found it ourselves when we were checking him.”

  “Anything else? I promise, this is the last question tonight.”

  “He served in Asia. A long time ago.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “No. And you said last question.” At that Wen stubbed out his cigarette, folded his hands on the table, and closed his eyes.

  TYSON CLICKED OFF THE DVD, leaving the screen black.

  “So, Ms. Exley, you see I wasn’t trying to be smug and patronizing, though perhaps I can’t help myself. You asked the right question.”

  “And the answer is yes,” Exley said. She felt slightly mollified. “Wen gave us enough to find our mole. He’s spent most of his career on the Asia desk. He’s worked in counterintelligence. He was in Asia briefly and had ‘a family problem.”’

  “I’m guessing it wasn’t an argument with his mother-in-law,” Shafer said. “There can’t be too many case officers who match all those criteria. If we check that against your seventy names, we should get him, or get very close.”

  “Soon, please,” Tyson said. “Because the Brits told our China desk about Wen’s defection yesterday. The mole will be wondering if Wen has tipped us to him already.”

  “That’s why you’d rather have the Brits hold on to Wen?”

  “Exactly. Until we know who the mole is, we’re better off with Wen as far from Langley as possible. Meanwhile, based on what he said about the mole having some connection to counterintel, I have to assume that we don’t have much time before he runs. If this guy’s been around as long as Wen says, he’ll know he’s in trouble.”

  “Not just from us,” Shafer said. “The Chinese might try to clean this up themselves.”

  Exley needed a second to understand what Shafer meant. Would the Chinese be cold-blooded enough to kill their own mole if they believed the agency was about to arrest him?

  “Doubtful,” Tyson said. “It wouldn’t help their recruiting any.”

  “I agree,” Exley said.

  “You two have an optimistic view of human nature,” Shafer said. He stood to go. “Anyway, we have some work to do.”

  20

  VIENNA, VIRGINIA

  THE GLINT OF EXLEY’S WEDDING BAND CAUGHT HER by surprise as she drove. She’d pulled it out of storage for today’s job.

  After meeting with Tyson, Exley and Shafer had spent the rest of the day going over the list of agency employees who’d known enough about the Drafter to betray him. Of the eighty-two names on the final list, twelve matched at lea
st the broad outlines that Wen had given for the mole’s career history, or had suffered a serious accident or illness five to ten years ago. Unfortunately, none of the twelve men fit in both categories. That would have been too easy, Exley thought.

  “The dirty dozen,” Shafer said. Separately, thirteen men now matched the soft criteria that she and Shafer had devised earlier. Five employees were on both lists.

  “So now what? Do we talk to them?” Exley said.

  “Not yet, I think. Tyson will have his people looking for hard evidence on the twelve who meet the criteria that Wen mentioned. Suspicious travel patterns, hidden accounts, the usual. Let’s be a little less formal. I’m going to poke around Langley, play doctor, see what I can pick up.”

  “And me?”

  “Why don’t you talk to the wives?”

  AND SO THIS MORNING EXLEY had pulled on her wedding band and prepared to make a tour of suburban Virginia and Maryland. She was aiming first at the five names on both lists. She didn’t know how many wives would be home, but she figured at least a couple. And she knew claiming she was on a house-hunt would get her inside their houses. Amazing how freely bored women would talk to a friendly stranger.

  No one had been home at her first stop, in Fairfax. But this time she’d scored, if the Jetta in the driveway was any indication. She parked her green Caravan by the edge of the road and hopped out.

  A flagstone path cut through the neatly manicured lawn. Rosebushes added a touch of color to the front of the yellow house. She stepped over a battered Big Wheel and pressed the doorbell. Inside the house she heard a toddler crying.

  “Coming.” A woman opened the door a notch and peeked out. She was pretty, late thirties, carrying a baby on her hip. “Mom mom mom!” a boy squalled from upstairs.

  “Hi,” she said, friendly but wary, the classic suburban combination, trying to figure out if Exley was a Jehovah’s Witness or an Avon saleswoman or just a neighbor. People moved to Vienna so they wouldn’t have to worry about strangers knocking on their doors.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Exley said. “My name’s Joanne.” She was going with an alias, in case the woman mentioned this visit to her husband. “I was looking at the Colonial up the block and I’m hoping to find out about the neighborhood and I saw your car in the driveway.”