by Lee Goldberg
“The videoconference will commence on an encrypted line as soon as Healy answers on the other end.” Trafford started to pull out the seat at the head of the table—not simply because it was the customary seat of authority but also because it was the only chair that he could pull out far enough for him to fit into. But before he could sit down, Margo spoke up.
“I don’t know if you have the security clearance to hear this.”
Trafford straightened up, blinked hard, and regarded her with disdain. “I’ve been in the spy game for thirty years. You’re a glorified trainee and he’s a novelist. My stapler has a higher security clearance than either of you do.”
Margo wasn’t impressed or intimidated. “When was the last time you or your stapler exfiltrated the daughter of a Chinese billionaire from Hong Kong?”
Trafford smiled. “You’d be surprised what me and my stapler have done. But you certainly deserve a round of applause for the Wang affair.” He turned to the door. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
“With your ear to the door?” she asked.
“This room is secure. That’s what the red light above the door means.” Trafford pointed to the red bulb, which was illuminated. “Or did you think you were in Amsterdam?”
He opened the door and the red light went off, and when he stepped out, closing the door behind him, the red light went on again.
“What did that crack about Amsterdam mean?” Margo took Trafford’s seat at the head of the table, facing the TV and the camera.
Ian squeezed into one of the seats wedged between the table and the wall. It was a tight fit. He decided that he needed to go on a diet as soon as he got back to Los Angeles. “In Amsterdam, hookers looking for business sit in storefront windows lit with red lights. It’s where the phrase ‘red light district’ comes from.”
“Clever prig, isn’t he?” Margo said.
The flat screen flashed on and Healy appeared, sitting at a desk against the backdrop of a bookcase full of leather-bound editions. He was wearing a bathrobe over pajamas. Despite how Healy was dressed, he reminded Ian of one of those gasbag cable news pundits, reached at home on Skype to offer their analysis of the president’s latest tweet.
“Good evening,” Healy said, not getting the time right for his corner of the world or theirs. “I’m glad to see you’re both safe and unharmed.”
Ian wanted to punch the screen. “No thanks to you.”
“I’m sorry we deceived you, took advantage of you, and put you in danger,” Healy said, “but it was for the greater good.”
Now Ian wanted to punch the screen even more. He looked for something heavy he could throw at it, but there wasn’t anything handy. “You aren’t sorry. This is what spymasters do. They manipulate people to get what they want.”
“You should be proud of yourself, Ian. Your exfiltration scheme was brilliant. You have a real affinity for this work,” Healy said. “Instead of writing books about spies, you should be one.”
“Fuck you, Mike.”
Healy shifted his televised gaze to Margo. “What was the intel that Wang Mei gave you?”
“A video of Vice President Penny banging three Chinese prostitutes in a Beijing hotel room,” she said.
Every muscle in Healy’s face stiffened. He was either constipated and experiencing a painful cramp or was very displeased. “I obviously made a mistake recruiting you. This isn’t some game or a big joke. Warren Fung was killed in this operation.”
Ian was afraid Margo might say something she’d later regret, so he spoke up before she could. “She’s telling you the truth. We have it on a microSD card.”
Margo held up the card for Healy, though Ian doubted he could see it pinched between her fingers. It was about the size of a dime.
“I apologize,” Healy said. “How long has Penny been compromised?”
“This romp was shot while he was still governor of Ohio,” Margo said.
“My God,” Healy said.
“That’s not the critical issue,” Ian said. “Where is the president now?”
Healy looked confused. “He’s in Paris for the G8 summit. He comes home after dinner at the Eiffel Tower tomorrow night with the French president. Why do you ask?”
Ian turned to Margo. “Paris. That’s where Wang Studios opened a production office for a movie that doesn’t exist. It all fits.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she said.
Now Ian wanted to punch her, too. “How can you say that? Of course it does.”
Healy raised his voice. “What are you talking about?”
Ian looked back at the TV. “The Chinese are going to assassinate the president while he’s in Paris.”
“You say that like it’s a fact,” Margo said.
“It is a fact,” Ian said to her, then turned back to Healy. “You’ve got to get him out of Paris now.”
“Convince me,” Healy said.
“Me too,” Margo said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Ian explained to Healy how China was buying up companies in key industries to take over the US economy, how they were using products made in their country to steal data and spy on Americans, and how it was all a plot to take control of the United States and subjugate its people, though he thought the CIA probably knew all of that already or they weren’t much of an intelligence agency.
“That conspiracy theory has been around for decades,” Healy said. “It’s a cliché. I thought writers hated them.”
“It’s real and now the only thing the Chinese need to finalize their plot is to take control of the White House,” Ian said. “If they kill the president, then Penny steps up and they own the Oval Office.”
“What makes you think it’s going to happen in the next forty-eight hours?”
“Because Warren Fung told us that Wang Kang was snatched right after he discovered that his studio opened a production office in Paris for a movie that doesn’t exist and was sending money to fake vendors in Turkey. Wang Jing told us we had five days to get Mei out of Hong Kong or the intel would lose much of its value. That’s when the G8 summit ends. The timing and the location all match up.”
“That’s it?” Healy said. “That’s what you have?”
That seemed like more than enough to Ian. “What more do you need?”
“Some concrete evidence or actionable intelligence would be nice,” Healy said. “But even if you’re right, it’s all moot. We have the video. We own the vice president now.”
“The Chinese don’t know that.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Healy said.
Ian got a sick feeling in his stomach. Mei’s prediction was coming true. “In other words, you’re willing to let the president get killed so you can own the Oval Office.”
“That’s the problem, Ian. Your theory about the Chinese assassination plot is based on wild conclusions like that one,” Healy said. “Wild conclusions are safe to make in fiction but reckless in reality.”
“You want to know what’s really reckless? Gambling with the president’s life.”
“The vice president might be the biggest traitor in American history, even bigger than Wilton Cross,” Healy said, referring to the man who’d taken Ian’s terrorism scenario for the CIA, made it real, and then tried to kill him. “We can turn this disaster to our advantage, feeding Penny false intel to pass along to the Chinese, turning them into our unknowing puppets.”
“Meanwhile, the president gets killed,” Ian said.
“I deal in facts. The tape and Penny being compromised are facts. Your assassination scenario is pure fantasy.”
“Speaking of facts,” Margo said, “were you able to get anything interesting from Warren Fung’s phone?”
“Not much more than what Ian just told me about your conversation with Fung,” Healy said. “We’ve run the photo of his imposter through all of our databases. We didn’t get an ID, but we have been able to track his travel. We know that he went through customs at Atatürk Airport in Istanbul
on June 28 and again in Marseille Provence Airport on July 2.”
“Turkey and France,” Ian said. “Those are the same places that Wang Kang discovered money was being sent from his studio to fake vendors. What does that tell you?”
“It tells me that the man in the photo, Fung’s imposter, is a Chinese intelligence operative who is investigating the corruption in Wang’s company,” Healy said. “And it strongly suggests that Wang was apprehended for legitimate reasons, not a political power play.”
“Or it suggests the man in the photo is actually an assassin on the move,” Ian said.
“What was he doing in Turkey and Marseille?” Healy asked.
“I don’t know,” Ian said. “But I know how the story ends. We’re running out of time.”
“I’m unconvinced,” Healy said. “Margo, I want you on the next flight back to DC. Right before you go, I want you to ingest the microSD card.”
“Excuse me?” Margo said.
Ian explained: “He wants you to swallow the card and shit it out when you get to Langley.”
Her eyes widened. “I never saw that mentioned in my job description.”
“At least you aren’t the one who has to dig the disc out,” Ian said.
“Are you sure?” Margo said, then looked at Healy for confirmation.
“Trafford has a protective capsule you can put the card in before ingestion so you won’t scratch your throat and your stomach acid won’t damage the card,” Healy said, notably not answering her question. “Ian, thank you for your service to our country. A plane ticket to Los Angeles will be delivered to your hotel tonight as well as a reimbursement form for you to fill out for any losses or expenses you incurred.”
“Fuck you, Mike.” Ian reached back to the computer, hit the escape key on the keyboard, and was pleased to see that it cut off the transmission. He faced Margo. “Thanks for the support.”
“You sounded like a crazy person.”
“I can’t turn my back on this,” he said. “If I do, then I’ll be responsible for the president’s assassination.”
“What are you going to do?” she said. “Tell your story to the media?”
“They’d just write me off as a crackpot,” Ian said. “Unless you want to make me a copy of that SD card before you swallow it.”
“Think again. I signed the Official Secrets Act. I could be tried for treason.”
That didn’t leave Ian with many options. “Okay. Then there’s only one thing I can do.”
“Go home and write your book?”
“Go to Paris tonight and find the assassin.”
Margo laughed. “Assuming he even exists, and that you can find him, then what will you do?”
“Whatever Clint Straker would do.”
“I knew you would say that,” she said. “But what does it really mean? You have no hand-to-hand combat or weapons training. You can’t even beat me arm wrestling.”
“I’ll think of something,” he said.
“You’ll get yourself killed,” she said. “I’m going with you.”
Ian wasn’t expecting her to say that. “Why? I thought you weren’t convinced by my argument.”
“I’m not. But I’d rather go to Paris with you than swallow this card,” she said. “What if I need to crap on the airplane? Then what?”
“That’s a noble motivation,” Ian said. “I’ll be sure to change it in the book.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Singapore. July 6. 5:45 p.m. Singapore Standard Time.
Ian and Margo stepped out of the conference room to find Trafford sitting at his desk, having a cup of tea and some shortbread cookies with his driver. It didn’t seem very spylike to Ian. He couldn’t picture James Bond or Jason Bourne having tea and cookies.
“Do you have a diplomatic pouch to DC?” Margo asked.
“It leaves daily,” Trafford said.
Margo snatched a blank Gulliver Trading Company envelope off his desk, dropped the SD card into it, stapled it shut six times, and wrote “Super Secret Classified Stuff” on it with a Sharpie. She passed it across the table to Trafford. “This goes in the pouch. For Healy’s eyes only. Put a rush on it.”
He regarded the envelope with amusement. “Very well. Would you like a ride to your hotel now? I’d strongly advise it. Our paint is beginning to peel.”
“I can’t wait to get in the shower,” Ian said, though he was more eager to get away from their CIA minders.
Trafford opened his desk drawer and handed them their keys, which were actually electronic cards made to resemble old-fashioned keys, their room numbers written on the fobs. “Leave your dirty clothes in a bag outside your room and we’ll see that they are incinerated.”
Ian wasn’t sure that Trafford was joking.
Trafford’s driver took them the short distance to the 130-year-old Raffles Hotel, which was named for Stamford Raffles, the British statesman who established Singapore as a trading post in 1819. The hotel was built on the waterfront but now, due to Singapore’s relentless expansion onto reclaimed land, it was a third of a mile inland.
The driver dropped them at the front door and they walked into the grand lobby, an all-white, three-story marble arcade. Ian felt like a walking smudge set against all that whiteness and expected one of the security people to escort him out. But waving his room key got Ian and Margo past a disapproving staffer to the portion of the lobby, and the rest of the hotel, reserved exclusively for hotel guests.
Margo went straight to her room. Ian went to the business office, where he used one of the guest computers to find the first flight to Paris. He booked two premium economy seats on a Qatar Airways flight that left Singapore at 8:45 p.m., had a two-hour layover in Doha, and arrived in Paris at 6:25 a.m. Hopefully, they’d be in Paris before Trafford even realized they were gone.
He made arrangements with the concierge to have a driver take them to the airport at 6:45 and then he called Margo on the house phone.
“You have forty-five minutes to shower and change before we go to the airport to catch our flight to Paris,” Ian said.
“What’s the big rush?”
Ian lowered his voice and cupped a hand over the receiver so no one could hear him. “We have to save the president’s life, remember?”
“Even if you’re right, we have no chance of succeeding.”
“We have to try,” Ian said.
“Only if you promise that if you’re wrong, we’ll stay in Paris for a week at your expense.”
“Agreed,” Ian said. “But until the president leaves France safely, you have to pretend you’re taking this seriously.”
“I can do that,” she said.
Ian hurried to his room and was pleased to find fresh underwear and socks, blue chino slacks, a white Tommy Bahama silk twill camp shirt, a windbreaker, a pair of leather loafers, and a small carry-on suitcase waiting for him in the closet.
He took a quick scalding-hot shower, shaved, and spritzed himself with copious amounts of cologne as a preventative measure against the stench of a seventeen-hour flight to Paris and another day without bathing.
He got dressed in the new clothes, made sure he had his wallet and passport, and checked the bedside clock. It was 6:35. That gave him just enough time to stuff his windbreaker and some food from the minibar into his carry-on bag and hurry down to the lobby.
Singapore. July 6. 8:55 p.m. Singapore Standard Time.
Margo looked out the airplane window at Singapore slipping away below them. “It won’t take long for Healy to figure out we’re gone and where we’re going.”
She wore a sleeveless red Tommy Bahama polo shirt, a buttonless blue cardigan, and white boyfriend jeans. Their identical carry-on bags were in the overhead bin and made them look like a couple to ticket agents and airport security, though that probably wasn’t Trafford’s intention when he bought them.
“What difference does it make?” Ian said. “I’m free to travel wherever I please. Besides, what harm can I do?”
“What for?”
“Going AWOL,” she said.
Ian turned and whispered in her ear. “It’s the CIA, not the military.”
“It’s like a branch of the military.”
“No, it’s not,” Ian said.
“So I’m in the clear.”
Ian leaned back in his seat. “Of course you are. You exfiltrated Wang Mei and sent them the microSD card. Mission accomplished. They’ll look at this as a much-deserved vacation after a job well done.”
“No wonder you write fiction,” she said. “You live in a dream world.”
“That’s true,” Ian said. “But between the movie getting made and my stories actually coming true, it’s getting harder and harder for me to tell the difference lately.”
“That’s a good argument to make when they’re dragging you into the mental institution.” Margo reclined her seat and extended her footrest. “What’s your plan when we land?”
“I don’t know yet,” Ian said. “I figure I can use the next seventeen hours to come up with one.”
“Or you could binge the last season of Duck Dynasty on the in-flight entertainment system.”
“That won’t help us save the president,” Ian said.
“It might help you understand him,” she said.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Hamad International Airport, Doha, Qatar. July 6. 11:25 p.m. Arabia Standard Time.
The airport was a colossal metal-plated luxury shopping mall with an undulating roofline that was designed to evoke sand dunes and ocean waves.
In the center of it all, surrounded by stores selling solid gold bars and Hermès scarves, was a giant yellow cast-iron teddy bear impaled on a desk lamp that went up its ass and out through its head, illuminating its button-eyed, dead face. Ian knew exactly how that teddy bear felt.
When Ian and Margo emerged from the plane, they were greeted by a Qatar Airways ticket agent who informed them that the 1:05 a.m. flight to Paris was canceled due to mechanical problems with the plane. They were given tickets for Qatar’s 7:35 a.m. flight to Paris, which would arrive at 12:50 p.m.
