by Tom Clancy
“And what of the USS San Antonio?” the admiral asked. “I urge you to allow an increase in opposition to these criminal acts of incursion.”
The general secretary took a deep breath through his nose but said nothing.
“Zhao Zhuxi,” Admiral Qian said, using the title that had meant “chairman” in Mao’s day but was now usually translated as “president” by the media. It was a matter of semantics that amounted to little consequence; the sentiment in the Chinese mind had changed little. “I know you have kept a hands-off policy, but I do not see how we can help but concern ourselves with this escalation. Jack Ryan is exactly what he accuses us to be—a hegemon. He presumes to dictate Chinese national policy from halfway around the globe.”
General Ma gave a somber nod, as did Premier Cao. Again, Foreign Minister Li did not outwardly agree with the admiral. It was not lost on Colonel Huang, however, that neither did he offer support to President Zhao. He merely sat in his padded chair and smiled a benign smile that Huang suspected was as cancerous as any politician’s in all of China. But Zhao considered Minister Li a friend, so the colonel simply watched and said nothing. Politicians of any stripe made him feel as though he’d downed a mouthful of spoiled milk. He preferred black-and-white realities to the intrigue of party politics—though the duties of protecting the paramount leader put the colonel and his men afoul of politicians on a daily, if not an hourly, basis.
General Secretary Zhao, on the other hand, thrived on the brinksmanship. He was obviously skilled at it, having gained the attention of Deng Xiaoping and his faction of princelings within the Standing Committee of the Politburo. He’d followed in Deng’s footsteps as mayor of Chongqing in the early nineties, and like his predecessor, Zhao was an economic reformer. He was not, however, so quick to order crackdowns like Tiananmen—a propensity that some feared made him appear weak to the Western world.
Zhao leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Admiral, China is powerful enough that we need not rise every time America dangles a baited hook. There are other ways of achieving our aims than by the rattling of sabers.”
Huang braced himself as Admiral Qian nearly came out of his chair.
“With respect, Zhao Zhuxi,” Qian said. “The Americans would sing a different song if we do more than rattle those sabers. Ryan made China look the fool under President Wei. The people of our country are weary of the bullying will of a nation on the other side of the world.”
Zhao cocked his head to one side. “Do you insinuate that China looks the fool under my leadership?”
“I do not, Zhao Zhuxi,” the admiral said, not quite backing down. “I merely mean to advise perceptions.”
Zhao’s jaw muscles flexed.
“The Americans can send their warships to our waters as much as they wish, but we have a major advantage over them.” Zhao nodded for effect. “We are already here. Even a man as bellicose as President Ryan will not provoke anything more than a war of words unless we ourselves raise the stakes.”
Admiral Qian continued to bluster. “As you say, Zhao Zhuxi, our ships are already here—and could easily demonstrate our true strength to the Americans—and the people of China.”
“Oh,” Zhao said. “China is far from weak, gentlemen. We do, however, have a severe problem with greed and corruption. I prefer we focus on getting our own house in order for the time being—and I expect each of you to do just that.”
“Even so,” Admiral Qian said. “The container ship—”
The paramount leader raised his hand once more, this time signaling it was time to move on. The admiral, unaccustomed to taking such orders, seemed to swell even more than usual with unspoken words. Had Huang been less of a professional, he would have laughed out loud.
“I assure you,” Zhao said, “if the Americans had anything to do with sinking the Orion, I will take decisive action.”
The white phone on Zhao’s desk buzzed, but he did not answer it, apparently expecting the signal. He stood, grimacing a little at the effort.
The others in the room rose with him, which is what one did for the most powerful man in China, even if they did not agree with him.
“Gentlemen,” Zhao said. “You must excuse me.” The men began to file out the door next to Huang, but the chairman spoke again. “Foreign Minister Li,” he said.
Li paused at the threshold, close enough that Huang got a noseful of his strong cologne.
“Would you be so kind as to remain a moment?”
Li Zhengsheng turned and gave a slight bow toward the man who had appointed him. “Of course, General Secretary.”
Zhao motioned to a chair and then turned toward a door that led to his private restroom, to the right of his desk.
“Please excuse me for a moment,” he said. “This meeting was agonizingly long.”
Huang took a step away from the wall, but Zhao waved him off.
“You may go now, Colonel,” Zhao said.
Huang paused, waiting, as if hoping Zhao might change his mind.
The paramount leader gave a forced smile, obviously in severe discomfort. “I will be fine, Huang,” he said. “Minister Li is like a brother to me.”
“Very well, sir,” Colonel Huang said. “I will remain outside the door. Please call if you need me.”
Colonel Huang closed the office door behind him, certain that he’d just left the man whom he was charged with protecting in the room with an extremely deadly snake.
• • •
The general secretary finished in his private restroom two agonizing minutes later. When he returned to his office, he found a small, skeletal man seated beside the foreign minister in front of his desk. The new arrival’s thinning gray hair revealed a strong crop of liver spots on a high forehead. He wore a white lab coat and black tie. His shirt pocket was stuffed with an array of expensive fountain pens, the way a military man might wear his medals.
“Dr. Hou.” Zhao regarded the man with a curt nod.
Both Hou and Foreign Minister Li stood and remained standing until Zhao was seated.
“Zhao Zhuxi,” the doctor said in a voice much too deep for his small stature. “Your secretary showed me in. I hope you do not mind.”
“Not at all,” Zhao said. “I trust that you read my notes and now you have some good news for me.”
Dr. Hou was one of three staff doctors serving within the walls of the Zhongnanhai. He was old enough to be Zhao’s father—possibly even his grandfather—and dispensed advice with great pomposity, as if he were Confucius himself. The other two doctors were attending some medical training in Nanjing until the following day. Zhao found himself in dire straits or he never would have summoned this man.
The doctor lifted his nose toward the ceiling and fluttered his eyelashes as if he were explaining something very simple to a small child. “I read your description of the ailment. General fatigue, pain, and difficulty in passing water, slight fever. Tell me, does it feel as if you are sitting on a stone?”
Zhao nodded. “You might say that,” he said.
The doctor took a bottle of pills from the pocket of his lab coat and pushed them across the desk. “No doubt the general secretary is suffering from an acutely aggravated prostate. I would prescribe two of these capsules three times a day. The pills are quite large, so be certain to take them with plenty of fluids. I also suggest a marked increase in the frequency of physical congress between the general secretary and Madame Zhao.”
Zhao took the pill bottle and rolled it around in his palm. “Swallowing a large pill will be an easy task when compared to the remainder of your prescription.” The notion of explaining to his wife that the doctor ordered them to have more sex would have been comical had he not been in so much pain. “What is in the capsules? Antibiotics?”
The doctor shook his head. “Yin yang huo,” he said.
“Horny goat weed?” the foreign minister repe
ated.
“And saw palmetto,” the doctor added. “A very effective remedy when combined with the increased—”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Zhao said.
Foreign Minister Li looked away, as if biting his tongue.
All three men were silent for a long moment and then the doctor said, “Was there anything else, General Secretary?”
Zhao shook his head. “No,” he said. “That will be all. I appreciate your diagnosis.”
The doctor shut the door as he left.
“I am all for Eastern medicine, Comrade Zhao,” the foreign minister said, offering a friendly smile, “but I will see to it that my doctor prescribes you some antibiotics.”
“I would appreciate that,” Zhao said. “This is a perfect example of how we must move forward. Herbs have their place, but there are times when one needs actual medicine.”
“If I may be so bold as to ask a question,” Li said.
“Of course,” Zhao said, swallowing two capsules of horny goat weed to hedge his bets.
“Do you think there is any chance the Americans are behind the sinking of the Orion?”
Zhao sighed. “It is possible. But to what end?”
“True,” Li said. “Truthfully, though, I would not put anything past Jack Ryan. He is, I believe, a man with much guile.”
“I do not think it is guile,” Zhao said. “It is determination. And that is sometimes more dangerous.”
“Again you are right,” Li said.
“There is something else on your mind, my friend?”
“You are an astute observer, Zhao Zhuxi,” Li said.
“Tell me.”
“I hesitate to bring it up, but I am concerned about your push against the wealthy of the party.”
Zhao waved that off. “I am not interested in wealth. You yourself are one of the wealthiest men I know. I am prosecuting corruption.”
“You know best, of course. I will see to your antibiotics. I hope your health improves quickly.” He gave a sly wink. “In the meantime, I must remind my wife of her conjugal responsibility to my health.”
Zhao gave a polite chuckle, letting the bawdy comment slide. He preferred to keep things on a loftier level when dealing with members of his cabinet. “I understand you are hosting a dinner party tomorrow.”
Li shook his head and shrugged. “Nothing special. General Ma will attend, as well as General Xu and a few other minor guests. Such periodic functions allow me to keep a finger on the pulse of Beijing.”
“General Xu of the Central Security Bureau?”
The foreign minister nodded. “Yes.”
“Be wary of that one,” Zhao said. “He gives me cause for concern.”
“How so?”
Zhao narrowed his eyes, studying the man across his desk. “He has . . . how shall I put this? A bad smell. I intend to make changes in that organization in the near future. The Central Security Bureau is, after all, tasked with your protection. I don’t want to see it turned into a personality cult. You should be watchful.”
“I appreciate your concern, Zhao Zhuxi, and I will be careful.”
“See that you do, my friend,” Zhao said. “I am very rarely wrong about my sense for a person’s character.”
The foreign minister gave him a passive smile. “That is interesting to note, Mr. Chairman.”
• • •
General Ma Xiannian exited the great hall that housed the general secretary’s office and turned left to make his way along one of the many wide pathways inside the high walls of the Zhongnanhai. His office was on the far side of the lake known as the Middle Sea, and he had to walk across a bridge to reach it. His status was such that he could have taken a cart, but the weather was dry and warm, and in any case, the walk allowed him to burn off some of his contempt for the young upstart who was now in charge of the party.
Deng Wenyuan, secretary of the Central Committee for Discipline Inspection, met the general before he reached the bridge. It was a well-known fact in the intelligence world that people stopped to chat on bridges, making them perfect spots in which to hide listening devices. People who wanted to speak openly avoided them, as well as any of the many benches that graced the parklike setting.
Secretary Deng was impeccably dressed in a dark business suit tailored especially for him in London on a recent junket. The CCDI oversaw the Propaganda and Organization Department, and as such had the power to sway and even direct public opinion.
The two men exchanged greetings, bowing slightly to each other. They kept their tone civil and their faces passive. Because they were senior members of the party, there was no doubt that passersby would pay them close attention, even while pretending not to do so.
“And?” Secretary Deng asked.
“It went as you might expect,” Ma said, keeping his words vague. He was thinking Pitiful, disastrous, unconscionable, but he said, “Disappointing.”
“Something must be done,” Deng said.
“And it is,” Ma said. “Even as we speak.”
“Something drastic?”
General Ma smiled. “Something final.”
10
Jack Ryan, Jr., parked the maroon Dodge Avenger across a side street from a weathered brick building in a sad parking lot tucked in off Harry Hines Boulevard. He and Chavez had purchased the car with cash from a dealership in East Dallas, on the off chance that someone had seen the rattle-can Taurus. Ryan now wore a shaggy wig with bleached-blond surfer tips pulled snuggly over his dark hair, just covering his ears. It was an expensive piece of equipment that looked ridiculously real and, he hoped, made him look a little less like the son of the President of the United States.
A large sign above the windowless building bore the red-neon outline of a busty woman bending over and peeking around her own thigh.
Ryan nodded toward the sign and mused. “Chicas Peligrosas,” he read.
Ding Chavez translated from the passenger seat of the Dodge. “Dangerous girls.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Even I could figure that one out.”
Chavez held a two-foot Yagi directional Wi-Fi antenna out his open window toward the front door of the Dangerous Girls strip club. The simple device resembled a miniature ladder made of a single aluminum bar with short aluminum cross-sections running along its length. Chavez fiddled for a few moments with the connected laptop, scrolling through a string of twelve-digit Bluetooth addresses, searching for Eddie Feng’s phone.
“Our tango’s in there, all right,” he said over the net, and then shot a glance at Ryan. “Don’t beat yourself up because you’re not multilingual, ’mano. You’re a damned savant when it comes to analysis.”
“Thanks for that,” Ryan said. “But I’ve decided I’m going to start working on my Russian.”
Chavez shut his computer and set it and the Yagi antenna on the floorboard at his feet. He opened the door and grinned. “We all got our individual strengths. You can’t help it if yours is staring at spreadsheets.”
Ryan laughed as he followed Chavez toward the double front doors of Chicas Peligrosas.
“You know I’m joking, right?” Chavez said.
Ryan patted Chavez on the back. “I learned a long time ago, if you’re not giving me shit, then something is terribly wrong.”
“Jack knows you love him,” Clark said over the net. “How about you guys go get us some intel on Eddie Feng?”
“Copy that,” Chavez said.
Gavin Biery had a GPS proximity notification on Eddie Feng’s phone, allowing the team to grab a few hours of much-needed sleep after he stopped moving for the night. But Feng was apparently a man on a mission. He was up and at ’em again just after noon.
Now Midas Jankowski and Dom Caruso were in the truck a half a block away. Adara Sherman was going it alone today, another block down Harry Hines Boulevard to the south.
The daylight hour made climbing onto a rooftop problematic, so John Clark sat behind the wheel of a primer-gray Pontiac Firebird around the corner in the parking lot of a Pep Boys auto-supply store. He did not have physical eyes-on like he’d had the night before, but each team member’s location was transmitted via a small GPS tracker to his iPad, giving him a Common Operating Picture of everyone involved, as a color-coded icon representing each one moved around a digital map of the vicinity.
Successful surveillance operations took several teams to do them correctly—and safely. Especially if the subject decided to run SDRs—surveillance detection routes—which Eddie Feng did not. In fact, he’d committed the OPSEC fail from hell by never looking behind him and seemed completely blind to the possibility that someone might want to follow him. Ryan couldn’t figure out if the man was stupid or merely bad at tradecraft.
Clark decided Ryan and Chavez would go into Chicas Peligrosas and get an eyeball on Feng, note the lay of the land inside. They would rotate out with Midas and Dom if Feng stayed too long. Midas’s years working with the unit in Central and South America had made him conversant in Spanish. Dom spoke Italian, which allowed him to grab the gist of Spanish conversations going on around him.
Adara spoke passable Spanish as well, but while females were not unheard of as patrons of strip clubs, her blond hair and athletic build were sure to draw unwanted attention from the very people they were there to watch.
As team leader, Clark took his job of oversight seriously—even with a goofball like Eddie Feng. “Everyone stay alert,” he said. “Don’t let the daylight lull you.”
“Roger that, Mr. C,” Ding said to his father-in-law.
“Here we go,” Ryan mumbled as they approached the door.
“You’re too young to be tired of looking at naked girls,” Chavez said.
“Not naked girls per se,” Ryan said. “Just the kind that hang out in places like this.”
“I hear you there, ’mano,” Chavez said.
• • •
The odor of an old carpet stewed in cheap booze and stale cigarettes hit Ryan in the face as soon as he opened the door.
