The Shanghai Factor

by Charles McCarry

  “Unless, unless, unless, the almighty unless,” Burbank said. “Did you study Latin in school?”

  “I showed up for class. I remember very little.”

  “How about the word for unless?

  “Sorry.”

  “Nisi,” Burbank said. “That should be the motto of our craft. Nisi, nisi, nisi.”

  He pulled the thumb drive out of his laptop and handed it back to me. “Take good care of this,” he said. “You know the drill. Mention it to no one. Share it with no one. Do not leave it in your safe. Carry it with you. Make no copy. Go through it again, this time with that fine-tooth comb. Keep an eye out for lice. Research it. Think upon it. Come to a conclusion. Do you have anything else?”

  The answer was yes, but I had had enough of this, so I didn’t say so. I had already told Burbank in passing about the unbelievable speed with which Lin Ming had delivered this file. I had told him about Lin’s mood swing. There was no need to tell him again, but I thought the least he could do was show some curiosity, ask a question or two. This did not happen.

  We were done. Burbank took a paper out of his in-basket and said, “Work at home for the rest of the day. You look like you’ve been sleeping under a bridge in a cardboard box.”

  Part 4

  35

  Somehow I did not forget to call Alice Song before I fell asleep that afternoon. When she heard my voice she said, “It’s you? How come you didn’t say ‘surprise!’ instead of ‘hello?’” I was too tired to think of a comeback. Alice went on with the kidding. I held the receiver well away from my ear. Two tin cans connected by a string would probably have done as well as our smart phones in transmitting her speech from New York to Virginia. I told her with only a touch of insincerity that I was looking forward to her dinner party.

  “Good,” Alice said, “because you’re the guest of honor.”

  I laughed.

  “Don’t laugh. A guy who works in my law firm is dying to meet you.”

  “Why? Is somebody suing me?”

  “He worked in Shanghai, too, at about the same time you did. He’s heard a lot about you.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Maybe it is,” Alice said. “Ole says he’s got something to tell you.”

  “Ole?” I said.

  “That’s his name, Ole Olsen.”

  “What does he want to tell me?”

  “He didn’t say,” Alice said. “I think it’s a secret.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “His manner suggests it. Got to run. See you at dinner.”

  I said, “Wait.”

  “Can’t.” Tomorrow, in court, she had an expert witness to dismantle and she needed her sleep. The next sound I heard was the dial tone.

  I had other things to think about than somebody named Ole Olsen. He was out of mind almost as soon as Alice hung up on me. For the rest of the week I was glued to the computer, checking out every possible reference in Chen Jianyu’s file. Nearly every detail of the material he gave me was confirmed, including the decapitated cat. How Lin Ming had obtained such intimate, detailed information on his early life I could not imagine. The files did not assign a pseudonym to the source or sources. That could mean that we had an investment in this juvenile delinquent, that he was someone we valued and wanted to protect even from ourselves. It could mean nothing or anything. Reading the rows and rows of tiny Mandarin characters under the jumpy light of the fluorescent ceiling fixtures irritated my eyes. I was lying behind my desk on the floor, putting drops into them, when Burbank opened the door between our offices, looked in, and said to himself, “Where the hell is he?” Before I could decide whether to sit up and answer the question, he retreated and slammed the door. I got to my feet and knocked. Burbank replied by buzzing me. Feeling like Pavlov’s dog, as Burbank probably intended, I opened the door and walked through it.

  “Where did you come from?” Burbank said.

  I pointed over my shoulder with a thumb.

  “You weren’t there ten seconds ago.”

  I said, “Well, here I am now.”

  Burbank pointed at the visitor’s chair. “Tell me something new,” he said.

  I sat down and said, “On the whole, it checks out.”

  “What parts don’t check out?”

  “Practically none,” I said. “In fact we already have almost all of the information Lin Ming gave us in our own files.”

  Burbank blinked. This was like watching a statue scratch its nose. The expression on his face, which is to say the lack of expression on his face, did not change. But his eyes did, ever so slightly. Or maybe I imagined this.

  Burbank said, “We do? What, for example?”

  I told him, in brief.

  “So what don’t we have?”

  “The identity of the source or sources of this information. No indication that it was ever sent over to the analysts or shared internally in any way.”

  “What does that suggest to you?”

  I said, “What it suggests, Luther, is that something funny is going on.”

  “Define ‘something funny,’” Burbank said.

  “I just did.”

  Burbank took a deep breath. He shifted to sarcastic mode. “You’re the designated thinker on this one,” he said. “You’ve read the files. You run the asset who gave you this document. You’ve found something suspicious. For the fun of it, let’s say that you’ve come to some sort of conclusion, or to the starting point for a conclusion—let’s call it a hunch. I haven’t read the files. I can’t read Mandarin well enough to decipher them. Therefore I must rely on you to brief me. I am relying on you. I’m cleared to know everything. So tell me about your hunch. Please.”

  I said, “I think the answer is obvious. This file is phony. It doesn’t suggest the man I know. Lin Ming is trying to sell us junk from our own files and at the same time trying to write a death sentence for Chen Jianyu. Either somebody inside our Headquarters furnished Lin Ming with this information, which may very well be fabricated, or the Chinese have hacked into our files.”

  “What do you mean, ‘fabricated?’”

  “Fed by a Guoanbu agent to a credulous case officer, or just hacked into our files by some computer virtuoso in Beijing.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You asked me to describe my hunch,” I said. “That’s what I’ve done.”

  Burbank faded away into his secret garden of thought. The meditation lasted quite a long while. Was this habit real or did he just hide out when he didn’t know where to go next in the conversation? Had I told him something he already knew but did not want to hear? I told my inner paranoiac, who never listened, to back off.

  Burbank’s eyes came back into focus. He moved—lifted a hand, swiveled his head. He said, “What did you think of Chen Jianyu when you knew him in Shanghai?”

  “I didn’t know him all that well.”

  “Granted. But you knew him. It’s possible you and he were sleeping with the same woman. What did you think of him?”

  “I thought he was a run-of-the-mill B-list princeling,” I said. “A little less ridiculous than some of the others. Smarter than most. He seemed actually to think, to have convictions.”

  Burbank said, “Nothing more?”

  “About Chen Jianyu? What more is there?”

  “You do know that bed wetting, playing with fire, and torturing animals in childhood are almost invariably the warning sign of a potential serial killer?”

  “I think I read that somewhere,” I said. “But as I understand it, not everyone who does those things grows up to be a serial killer.”

  Burbank looked at his watch. So did I. By now it must be dark outside. We had been talking for longer than I realized. Quitting time had come and gone. I listened to the building. Headquarters was hushed, emptied out, closed for the weekend.

  Burbank said, “Why don’t you come to my place for dinner around seven? The caretaker is there. She’s a good cook—better than good. I’ll give
her a call, ask her to leave dinner in the oven, then disappear. Can you find the way?”

  It was dark by the time I reached the hidden drive that ran through the woods to the converted barn. It was little more than a footpath. Tonight it was choked with rutted snow that was axle deep. About a hundred yards in, my headlights bounced off a black Range Rover coming from the opposite direction, headlights flashing, horn blasting. I put my car in reverse and stuck my head out the window. When I reached the paved road, I caught through tinted windows a blurry glimpse of the other driver, possibly a female, maybe the mysterious caretaker. The Range Rover, scattering gravel, roared onto the slippery macadam, tires spinning, vehicle fishtailing as it made a ninety-degree turn and sped away. The driver did not switch on the lights until the vehicle was far enough down the road that the license tags could not be read. Who was this idiot?

  Burbank had told me to just walk in when I got to the house, so that’s what I did. I found him standing in front of the dining room fireplace, in which a roaring fire burned, and drinking red wine from a large Burgundy glass. He had changed into a cardigan and slippers. He poured me a glass of the wine from a bottle on the table, which was set for two with nice china and silverware. Mother would have approved. An appetizer, unrecognizable from where I stood, had been placed at either end of the table. Candles burned.

  “Sit ye down,” said Burbank. “You’re a bit early. Hence the heavy traffic in the driveway.” He shook his head, laughed as if something amusing—endearing—had occurred.

  The dinner was excellent. It ended with key lime pie with billows of whipped cream on top. Burbank cut the pie in fourths. He watched my face intently as I took my first bite. He asked me how I liked it. I said it was terrific. He grinned. “Best in the world. The caretaker may not be the new Rembrandt or much of a driver, but in the kitchen she’s matchless. Matchless.” He gave himself another piece of pie.

  Throughout the meal Burbank did all the talking but said not a word about business. He was so animated I wondered if he had taken a pill. He talked about himself. When as a young officer he had been posted to Paris, he and a fellow spy and a couple of filles de joie, always one natural blonde and one brunette, went on an annual gastronomic tour of France. Each August in a different region of France, they hit all the Michelin three-star restaurants, having made reservations two years in advance. Like the regions, the girls changed every year, and after the first week he and his buddy swapped partners. They ate croques monsieur and drank beer for lunch at cafés and gorged on haute cuisine at night. The men had a budget—so much for the chatte, so much for the girls’ suitable new clothes, so much for dinners. To pay for all this, each man deposited a certain monthly amount into a joint account in the embassy’s credit union. “Like your grandmother’s Christmas club, but hush-hush,” Burbank said. They stayed at modest hotels so they could afford better wines. Burbank fairly glowed as he rattled on, menu by menu, poule by poule. This Proustian tour of old happy moments was touching in its way. Burbank was a good storyteller, which was not surprising considering his eye for detail. He actually made me laugh, the last thing I had expected ever to happen while in his company.

  Finally, when it was quite late, we moved into the living room and got down to business. Burbank seemed reluctant to do so. I expected a long inquisitorial session, but he was not eager to start. He stretched, yawned, sipped the last of the wine.

  “So tell me,” he said. “Where does this thing go next?”

  He expected me to do the talking yet again? My spirits sank. At this point I would have been glad to be given instructions. I had hoped for instructions. I was tired of doing all the thinking, making all the meetings, taking all the responsibility, setting myself up for all the blame if things fell apart.

  I said, “You tell me.”

  Burbank said, “Sorry, I can’t do that. This is your baby. It’s up to you to get the stroller across the street.”

  My instinct, almost irresistible, was to rise to my feet, thank Burbank and the absent caretaker for a lovely dinner and an enjoyable evening, quit my job, and walk out. Just go. Find another way of earning a living, start over again in some honest low-stress occupation like foreclosing mortgages on poor widows while writing poetry by night in an idyllic small town. Marry a sweet local girl without too many smarts, get laid every third night. Have kids. Shoot baskets with them in the backyard, sing in the choir, drink beer and eat pizza while watching football on TV with the idyllic village’s other bachelors of arts. Every spy’s daydream. But instead of acting on my impulse, I answered Burbank’s question.

  “Apart from more of the same,” I said, “I haven’t got a clue what’s next.”

  “You asked that fellow in New York for six case histories,” Burbank said. “He delivered the first one the next business day. You should be encouraged. Motivated.”

  Really?

  “Are you not curious about the fact that Lin Ming acted so fast?” I said. “That he gave us information that was already in our files? Don’t you want to know who gave it to him?”

  “That’s the entire purpose of this meeting. But do you think that what we already know will lead us to the culprit?”

  “No. It will lead us around the mulberry bush.”

  “So get more information. Get the other five files from your guy. Plod. Dig. Make comparisons.”

  “And if I fail?”

  “So far you’ve succeeded beyond any reasonable expectation,” Burbank said. “Beyond my expectations, which I admit were and are anything but reasonable.”

  I said, “Suppose information is not enough?”

  “Then do what you have to do.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Just do it.”

  “Are you telling me to use my own judgment?”

  “Up to now that’s worked out pretty well.”

  “Up to what limits do I use my own judgment?”

  “Short of treason, premeditated homicide, or grand theft of government funds, there are no limits.”

  “I can go where I want, see whoever I want to see, do as I see fit?”

  “You’re as free as a bird,” Burbank said. “You know the mission. Accomplish it.”

  He smiled like a fond father sending his boy off to school after stuffing him with good advice. He all but patted me on the head.

  36

  On Saturday evening I was the first to arrive at Alice’s place. She opened the door and said, “You! Early! What next?” A firm dry handshake, a whiff of the same perfume I had smelled on the night we met in the bar of the club. The light in the hall was low. In her black dress against this dark background she looked like one of those half-smiling rich women in a Sargent portrait—dark, tall, aloof, hair dressed, face painted, beautifully gowned, and richly bejeweled, the favorite wife of the King of Qin. She gave me a drink and disappeared. I heard her talking to someone, another woman, in the kitchen.

  I wasn’t the only punctual one. Soon the other guests began to arrive, two by two. All the rest except one blonde wife were Chinese. Everyone was better dressed than me. My best Shanghai suit and a good shirt were shoddy in comparison to the Armani suits and designer dresses on display, not to mention the jewelry. Since abandoning my father’s Rolex I wore a Timex.

  No one went quite so far as to look me over and make a face. This was a well-mannered crowd. The conversation was in Mandarin. Everyone except the blonde seemed to assume that I knew the language. She took pity on me and spoke to me in English. Her name was Fiona Wang. She and her husband, a neurosurgeon at Mount Sinai, were just back from a medical conference in Hong Kong. Caitlin was an endocrinologist. The couple had met in medical school—Harvard, actually. She had chosen her specialty because it gave her time to be a mother, and her beeper rarely went off during the night. Wesley, on the other hand, was forever leaping out of bed to repair some motorcyclist’s damaged brain. The Wangs had a girl and a boy aged five and seven. Did I have children?

  Before I could answer her que
stion the last couple arrived. Alice brought them directly to me and introduced them in Mandarin—Ole and Martha Olsen. The husband’s unwavering eyes were blue. This created an odd Siamese cat effect in what was otherwise a standard Han face. Clearly his Norse father had passed along very particular genes. Ole Olsen seemed uptight, condescending. He looked me over and didn’t like what he saw.

  In Mandarin Olsen said, “Are you the person of the same name who used to work for Chen Qi?”

  How did he know that? I hadn’t mentioned it to Alice. “I was one of many who worked for CEO Chen, yes,” I said. “Do you know him?”

  “Does anyone?” Ole asked. “I spent some time in the tower just after you left, but in the bowels of the ship, not upstairs like you.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Legal matters.”

  I barely registered his words. My mind was absent, pondering how he knew about me and what he knew and why he wanted to tell me what he knew. Now that I had met Olsen I was uneasy. My time with Chen Qi was no secret, but it was infected by other secrets.

  Olsen said, “What did you do for CEO Chen?”

  “I often wondered,” I said. “Do you work with Alice, Mr. Olsen?”

  “Ole, please,” he said. “Alice and I are at the same law firm. She’s a litigator, I’m a backroom type. I handle the boring stuff. I heard quite a lot about you in Shanghai. When I arrived your name was on everybody’s lips.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Topic One at the watercooler was that you had been sleeping with Chen’s niece or maybe his daughter and he’d rescued her from disgrace or worse by hiring you and fixing you up with a different woman to channel your animal instincts.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Some were surprised he hadn’t drowned you in the Yangtze,” Olsen said. “Apparently that was more his style.”

  As he spoke these words, he watched my face closely. I tried to look amused. I said, “Obviously the conversation was more interesting downstairs than upstairs.”