Tom Clancy Enemy Contact

by Mike Maden

  “You’re panicking.”

  “I’m being realistic. We have to do something.”

  “I already have.”

  Gage blanched. “What have you done?” Junior was an arrogant prick, but he was still the son of the President of the United States. He never would have recognized young Ryan, but his father called him a few days ago informing him of Jack’s arrival in Warsaw, thanks to a PI firm employed by his stepmother. He reassured his father that the “vacation” plans were still canceled, but that was a lie. Ryan was also working for Gerry Hendley, and Christopher’s father had warned him to never cross the ex-senator, a man of incredible resourcefulness with a vengeful memory to match.

  “Nothing drastic,” Hu said. “Just surveillance. I made arrangements after Ryan set his appointment with you.”

  “Is that necessary?” Gage didn’t tell Hu about Junior’s true identity, fearful that his Chinese partner might panic and do something stupid.

  For his part, Hu didn’t tell Gage that for unknown reasons Jack Ryan, Jr., was on a high-priority watch list set by The Czech personally, along with strict orders to track him but not to harm him. Gage was Hu’s partner but not yet a full member of the Iron Syndicate, which held a higher loyalty for the Chinese princeling.

  “Ryan’s been talking to people we know and asking a lot of questions,” Hu said. “We just want to make sure he gets on that airplane tomorrow, and then we won’t worry about him anymore.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Makes sense, I guess.” Gage slid open a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of antacid pills, popped the lid with one hand, and tipped a few into his mouth, crunching them like Pez candies.

  “Of course it does. Just don’t shit your silk suit in the meantime and everything will be fine.”

  56

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  Watson sat in her office, staring at her computer, then glanced briefly toward Fung’s glass-walled office on the other side of the room. She sighed, frustrated.

  Fung was the best hacker on the Red Team, her handpicked group of cyberwarfare specialists tasked with attacking the IC Cloud, probing for any weaknesses or vulnerabilities before America’s enemies found them.

  But weaknesses and vulnerabilities within systems were more often wet than electrical. People were the weak link, she’d found. Whether they implanted back doors out of malintent or accidentally created vulnerabilities from fatigue or carelessness, the results were the same. She was confident her CloudServe team hadn’t been careless and any available exploits in the software running the cloud for the intelligence community wouldn’t be there for lack of skill or oversight.

  If there was a problem, it would be because of a bad actor.

  And from where she sat, Fung had all of the markings of a bad actor. MICE was the acronym they’d drilled into her during her security training: money, ideology, compromise, and ego.

  Fung’s money problems were well known; he wore them like stigmata, the sacred wounds of a saint, or, in his case, a self-styled martyr to the needy souls he seemed to collect, including his boyfriend in transition. Somehow, Fung never equated his money problems with his own extravagant lifestyle. But then again, he was hardly alone. Millions of American families owed trillions of dollars in student loans, auto loans, credit cards, and mortgage debts. Did that make them all spies? Hardly.

  Perhaps Fung was compromised. Nobody paying close attention to the prickly personality and arrogant demeanor would believe he was tied to anybody’s leash. True, he lived an alternative lifestyle. Thirty years ago, that would have been trouble, but not anymore. And he was hardly a candidate for a #MeToo moment. But who knew what troubles anybody faced behind closed doors?

  Fung’s ideology? Again, to the casual observer, he would have passed as politically neutral. He just didn’t talk about politics in the office, and he was certainly too smart to speak openly against the U.S. government. But anyone who knew him outside the office would have known about his staunchly progressive views and strong support for progressive candidates. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say he wasn’t President Ryan’s biggest fan, nor, presumably, a fan of Ryan’s pro-America, pro-defense policies. But that was probably true of eighty percent of the people in the building, and likely ninety percent within a twenty-mile radius. Patriotism was as fashionable as a pair of Crocs in this town, and nationalism as popular as cancer.

  Ego? That was a slam dunk, Watson had to admit. A first-semester criminal justice freshman could smell the pride on Fung like the Creed Aventus cologne he splashed on too liberally each morning. If ego were the motivator, then Fung was surely motivated. But then again, why wouldn’t he think as highly of himself as she did? He really was a software virtuoso. Did Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods have an ego? She was sure they did. But it was a safe bet they weren’t FSB operatives.

  Watson and Fung had struck up a kind of strained friendship. It wasn’t easy, but it was certainly possible to excuse his character flaws and personal foibles as anything other than motivators for espionage.

  But her job wasn’t to explain those things away.

  She needed to track him. Document any irregularities, even if it meant sacrificing him to the greater good. But she needed proof, not innuendo.

  Watson turned her attention back to her screen. She tapped a few keys on her keyboard. Fung’s desktop appeared in a picture window on her screen. With this hidden mirroring capacity, she could follow his every keystroke, every screen grab, every Web page visit, without him ever knowing.

  If Fung did anything stupid, she’d see and record it in real time.

  * * *

  —

  Fung sat in his office staring at his computer, then glanced briefly toward Watson’s glass-walled corner office on the other side of the room. She was hard at work in front of her monitor as well. He could have sworn she was watching him, but he ascribed that feeling to his growing sense of paranoia. At this rate, his nerves would be shot before he managed to visit Torré in Thailand next month.

  Fung was writing a software program for a wireless camera and audio device the Red Team wanted to install throughout the LED lighting systems at the U.S. Coast Guard Intelligence (CG-2) office in Washington, D.C. The USCG’s intelligence office was one of the sixteen intelligence agencies making up the IC, and, by some accounts, might prove the most vulnerable to hacking. The headquarters office was tasked with supporting the forward-facing intelligence activities of subordinate units around the world as well as interfacing with the IC. Anyone breaking into the CG-2 office would have access to the entire IC and the IC Cloud.

  Knee-deep in an interface command problem he couldn’t fully resolve, his cell phone vibrated inside his pocket. That was quite unusual. Few people outside of his parents and Torré had access to this particular private number. His parents seldom called during his work hours, and Torré hadn’t called this number in weeks.

  He pulled the phone out of his pocket. He saw a phone number he didn’t recognize, along with a text message.

  Hello, Lawrence. I have a favor to ask.

  Fung glanced around the room. He wasn’t sure why. It wouldn’t be anyone on the floor—they’d just walk over or call him on the office phone. A cold chill shook him. He typed a question, already guessing the answer.

  Who is this?

  Your old friend. CHIBI.

  The cold chill turned to a full-body dip into a liquid nitrogen bath. He never gave CHIBI his private, unlisted cell phone number. And using this unsecured phone was a catastrophic breach of their security protocols. His adrenals kicked in. He wanted to run. This breach was practically an invitation to the FBI to come and kick the doors down. His terror turned to rage.

  WTF?!

  Sorry. But I have an emergency situation and I need your help ASAP.

  We’re done, remember?

  Yes, well, things have changed. I need one last favor.

&nbs
p; That’s what you said last time.

  Fung scanned the floor again. Watson glanced up from her work. Their eyes met. She smiled.

  Fung nearly pissed his pants. He forced a smile back at her, then turned to his monitor, lowering the phone into his lap as casually as he could and killing the transmission.

  Did she know something was up? Had she seen him texting? Any kind of private cell phone activity on the job was strongly frowned upon. Beyond the obvious security concerns, everybody had way too much work to do to spend time screwing around on personal business.

  Fung’s heart hammered in his thin chest. He focused his mind on the string of text commands on his monitor, willing CHIBI to go away—

  His phone vibrated again. He was afraid of what might happen if he didn’t pick up. He leaned over his keyboard as if studying his monitor closely, but he secretly manipulated his phone to access it. The message on the screen from the unknown phone number read:

  That was not very friendly. We are still friends, are we not?

  Shit. Now what? Was that an implied threat? What would CHIBI do if they were no longer “friends”? Fung wondered. Yeah, fucking friends.

  Of course we are. Sorry about that. I’m being watched and I had to hang up.

  Watched by whom?

  Watson. She’s in her office and she keeps watching me. She’s ALWAYS watching me.

  Maybe she is in love.

  I don’t think Gaysian is her thing.

  Then let us keep this short. I need you to dive in immediately on a search. I cannot tell you how important this is to me and it is extremely time-sensitive. I will compensate you accordingly.

  This is not a good time. I’m right in the middle of a major project with a hard deadline and everybody is on the floor and Watson is practically sitting in my lap.

  I do not think you understand.

  YOU don’t understand. I can’t go to jail. I won’t go to jail! I’d rather kill myself. It would destroy my parents, shame Torré.

  You will not go to jail. How will anyone find out?

  Watson. I’m telling you, she suspects something. I can feel it. The bitch is a pit bull.

  Do not worry about Watson.

  Easy for you to say.

  Yes, it is. Watch.

  Fung kept staring at his screen but strained his peripheral vision. With the slightest turn of his head, he caught sight of Watson standing up, then leaving her office and marching toward his.

  Fung’s heart started galloping again. What should he do? Confess everything? Smash her in the face and run? He wished he had a knife somewhere close. He’d slit his own throat and—

  “Lawrence?”

  Fung feigned surprise. Her phone was in her hand, and her face was troubled.

  “Oh, Amanda. Hi. What’s up?”

  “Sorry to bother you, but something’s come up. I gotta leave the office for a while. Do you mind holding down the fort while I’m gone?”

  “Oh, sure. No problem. I’m here for the duration. This coding is kicking my ass.”

  She smiled. “I’m sure you’ll work it out. You always do. And thanks.”

  “Everything okay? Anything I can do?”

  “No, just something going on with my bank account. I just got a text. I think I’ve been hacked.”

  “Oh, shit. Really? That sucks big-time.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine. But I need to get over there right now.”

  “Yeah, sure. Go. I’m here, no worries. Call me if you need anything.”

  Watson turned and marched toward the elevators. After the doors closed, his phone vibrated again.

  Shit. Did CHIBI have video access around here? And how did he . . . ?

  Fung suddenly felt utterly and completely trapped. If CHIBI could manipulate Watson like that, he surely could do the same to him. And that was the point of that little demonstration, wasn’t it?

  Despair fell on him like a cold, wet blanket.

  He read CHIBI’s text.

  So here is what I need.

  Fung memorized the details. He’d never heard of the NFLA before, or Lobito-1, and Angola was only a crossword puzzle answer to him. But the task was clear and he thought he might have a way to grab the data quickly. He hoped so. He’d never seen CHIBI so anxious.

  And that made CHIBI extremely dangerous.

  57

  GDYNIA, POLAND

  Jack and Liliana pulled away from the curb and headed for Gdańsk. Liliana stole a glance at her rearview mirror.

  “Problem?” Jack asked.

  “A man in a black Mercedes sedan has followed us since we left Gage’s office.”

  Jack checked the passenger sideview mirror. “Can’t see it.”

  “About eight cars back now, right lane. I think I know the man.”

  “Not in a good way, I take it.”

  “His name is Goralski. Ex-ABW. A real bone-breaker. Tossed out for taking bribes from a local Mafioso, or at least, suspected of doing so. It was never proven. My partner, Jerzy, always suspected him of being connected to our case, but he could never prove how.”

  “And now he’s following us. Interesting. What can you tell me about the case you and Jerzy were working?”

  “Our informants told us that a new heroin pipeline has opened up from China to Afghanistan and then to Poland, where it gets redistributed around the rest of Europe. We still don’t know who or how or where, but the Germans were chasing a possible tie-in to OstBank.”

  “What kind of tie-in?”

  “OstBank might have been part of an investment group building chemical factories in China.”

  “And the German BKA agent got knocked off chasing that tie-in. And now Jerzy—”

  “It wasn’t an accident. I’m sure of it now.”

  “And this clown in the Mercedes starts following us from the meeting with Gage, and Gage is connected to OstBank, and he’s investing in warehouses and distribution.”

  Liliana shot Jack a look, as if seeing him for the first time. “You’re not a financial analyst, are you?”

  “What are you talking about? Of course I am. Call Hendley Associates if you don’t believe me.”

  She slammed the turn signal, preparing to cut across two lanes of traffic to get to the next turn.

  “What are you doing?” Jack asked.

  “I’m going to grab this bastard and kick him in the balls until he tells me why he tried to kill Jerzy.”

  “Whoa, wait a second. Let’s think this through.”

  “There’s nothing to think through.”

  “Sure there is. You don’t have any actual proof, and wrecking him might feel good in the moment, but it might kill our chance to blow this whole thing up.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “What would Jerzy want you to do? Get revenge or solve his case?”

  She shot Jack a withering glance. But behind the furious blue eyes, Jack saw something click.

  “Fine. His balls are safe, for now.”

  “Give me a second.” Jack pulled out his phone and did a map search.

  They rode along the three-lane road in silence for a few minutes. Liliana decided to take the slower, more direct route toward the center of Gdańsk, near where Gage’s port warehouse was located. Near the Baltic, the air was colder but still pleasant. The closer they got to Gdańsk, Jack noticed, the more traditional the buildings became, even the brand-new ones. More brick, for sure, and brick-and-timber construction—the kinds of homes you might see on a German postcard.

  Liliana checked her rearview again and swore in Polish. “I lost him.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Why ‘perfect’?”

  Jack scanned the road up ahead. He pointed. “Take the next exit.”

  She did, and Jack steered her toward a gian
t shopping mall, the Galeria Metropolia, and specifically toward the parking lot of a huge movie cineplex.

  “Slow down, please, but keep moving,” Jack said, scanning the rows of cars.

  “What are we doing?”

  “I always wanted to see Deadpool Two dubbed in Polish.”

  “What?”

  Jack pointed at an open spot. “Pull in there.”

  Liliana swung into it. “Now what?”

  “Keep your eyes open for Goralski.”

  Jack got out of the car, scanned the lot. Nobody was around. Liliana got out as well and searched for the black Mercedes. It was nowhere to be seen.

  Jack bent over and ran his hand beneath the perimeter of the Audi. Just behind the left rear bumper he muttered, “Got it.”

  He showed Liliana the small magnetic object.

  “A GPS tracker,” Liliana said. “That’s why he fell back. He doesn’t need to maintain visual contact.”

  “Exactly. Now watch this.”

  Jack crouched low and dashed across the lot toward a silver Audi with German license plates. Checking around one more time to make sure he wasn’t being spotted by any mall cops, he slapped the tracker underneath the German Audi’s right front fender, then dashed back to Liliana and climbed into her car.

  “Let’s hope the German is watching a double feature and then gets homesick.”

  “Nice trick. They taught you that in business school?”

  “No, the Boy Scouts. Let’s go—and head out the opposite exit on the far end over there, just in case our friend is close.”

  * * *

  —

  Jack and Liliana drove to the first property on her tax list, both of them keeping a careful watch on the mirrors to make sure Goralski hadn’t figured out Jack’s sleight of hand. As an extra precaution, Liliana called in Goralski’s plate numbers to the ABW automated surveillance supervisor and asked for a trace of the vehicle’s whereabouts. When she mentioned it could be linked to the Jerzy Krychowiak hit-and-run, it was flagged as high priority. If the Mercedes drove past any of the CCTV traffic cams the ABW had access to, an automated text would be forwarded to her phone.