by Marc Cameron
“Figure out a way to take it in next time,” Huang said, ignoring her gibe. “You have clout. Use it.” The chiding over, his face softened, like they were on the same side again. “Anyway, how do you mean it was weird?”
“The President got a text message,” Chadwick said. “And then the whole place went into immediate panic mode. I only caught bits and pieces.”
“I see,” Huang said, remaining passive. Chadwick was sure this was just the sort of juicy information his superiors were slobbering for, but he wasn’t the type to appear too eager—she knew that about him from experience. He popped a french fry into his mouth. “You have no other details?”
“Nope,” Chadwick said. “Ryan kicked me out as soon as it all went down. He was polite, but there was no question about me staying around. We were supposed to meet tomorrow to discuss this literacy bill I dreamed up, but I’m not even sure that’s still on with this development.”
Huang sipped his milkshake, eyes locked on her as he thought. “Go ahead and show up tomorrow as if the meeting is still on,” he said. “That will at least get you back inside the White House. I’d be interested to know more about this present situation with the text.”
“Okay.” Chadwick sighed. “But it’s a long shot that the President will still even be in town tomorrow. If something is going down, the Jack Ryan I know won’t sit on his ass behind his desk and twiddle his thumbs.”
“Perhaps,” Huang said. “But that is exactly why we need you inside. We need to know for sure.”
* * *
—
Ryan had felt the text vibrate in his pocket while he was in the middle of a deep conversation with, of all people, Senator Michelle Chadwick. Now, there was one for the record books. Their talk had turned odd, bordering on friendly—so far out of character for Chadwick that Ryan had felt the need for a moment’s distance. He apologized and took the phone from his pocket, using the “I’m expecting an important call” white lie that busy people the world over used when they needed to step away.
Seconds later, he’d told Chadwick he really did need to step away. He called Arnie back in, and the senator had been ushered out immediately with a curt apology.
Ryan had taken a screenshot of the text as soon as it appeared, knowing Pat West’s penchant for self-erasing messages. Once a spy, always a spy.
Van Damm, Mary Pat Foley, and Secretary of State Scott Adler were in his office in a matter of minutes. The attorney general and the secretaries of homeland security and defense were on their way.
“Thoughts?” Ryan said, his mind in overdrive.
Pat West was his longtime friend, but the message had larger connotations than a buddy in trouble. Obviously sent under duress, the text was beyond cryptic, full of typos and vague references. An artificial-intelligence game? What did that even mean?
Mary Pat held up a sheet of paper with the printed contents of Patrick West’s message.
Stolen nxt gen AI game sftwre. Parnsus Cmpny. Calliope. Dangero. PFC honey TRaP. Somthng in wrKs. Jeff NooNan. Killed? About to b aRested. SolDiers? Cops? SPys? b careful.
weSt
“So much for autocorrect,” Adler said, perusing his copy of the text. “This thing is littered with mistakes.”
Ryan nodded.
Mary Pat said, “Cell phones were the stuff of science fiction in the days when Pat West was active. But any officer nowadays knows to disable the autocorrect function as soon as they unbox a new phone. Purposely misspelled words here, uppercase letters there, often send messages of their own. See how the S in West is capitalized, while the rest of the word is typed lowercase? A capital in the middle of the word, like the S in West, means he was in danger, but not writing the message in view of anyone. All lower means okay. A regular signoff with a capitalized first letter means we should view the message as being coerced.”
“In other words,” Ryan said, “we should be able to trust the body of the message, even if we don’t yet understand it.”
“What about these?” van Damm asked, pointing to the other uppercase letters that occurred randomly throughout the body of the message. “What do they mean?”
Foley shook her head. “Those are just noise,” she said. “They keep the one in the signature from standing out. It’s the signoff that matters.”
“PFC honey trap . . .” Ryan mused.
“PRC?” van Damm offered. “Sex traps are kind of their modus operandi.”
“That would be my guess,” Foley said. “F is immediately below R on the QWERTY keyboard.”
“China . . .” Ryan mused. “They’re using AI—facial recognition and the like—to track and jail a significant portion of their Uighur population. The PRC would be keen to get their hands on anything new.” He shook his head at his own line of reasoning. “But Father West says it’s dangerous. That’s more than just getting their hands on some new AI. For him to text me while he’s about to be arrested means he thinks this is something unusual.”
“We have two separate issues here, Mr. President,” the secretary of state said. “The possible national security risk that Mr. West proposes, whatever that may be, and the fact that your friend may have been arrested. Where was he the last time you spoke?”
“It’s Father West,” Ryan corrected. “We don’t talk often, but the last I heard from him, he was heading up Catholic relief efforts in West Java.”
“Okay,” Adler said. “I’ll have my people in Jakarta do some discreet digging with their counterparts in the local police.”
“What about this . . . Calliope?” Ryan said. “Does that ring a bell with anybody?”
“I have some people running it down now,” Foley said, pen poised over a ubiquitous green government notebook. “So far we know Parnassus Games is a software company in Boston. They specialize in first-person shooter video games. Two Bureau agents from the Boston office are there now. All the bosses are out of the office, on a team-building boondoggle to Australia after attending a computer technology conference in Jakarta.”
“Let’s track them down and see what they know,” Ryan said. “And bring Cyber Com in on this.”
“Happening as we speak,” Foley said. “Human Resources at Parnassus did confirm to the responding agents that Geoff Noonan was an employee.”
“Is he in Australia, too?” Ryan asked.
“Apparently not,” Foley said. “No one has heard from him since he missed his flight out of Jakarta almost a month ago.”
“But Calliope is one of their products?” Ryan asked.
“No,” Foley said. “If Noonan was working on something called Calliope, the rest of the company wasn’t aware of it.” Foley flipped through the earlier pages of her notebook. “He had a partner, though, another engineer . . . a guy named . . . here it is. Ackerman. He’s also gone off the grid. According to HR, Ackerman broke both legs in a bicycle accident a little over a month ago. He’s been on sick leave so he wasn’t on the Jakarta junket.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” van Damm said. “Let me guess. Ackerman’s been off the grid for over three weeks.”
“You got it,” Foley said.
Ryan bounced his fist on the desk. “Let’s get up on his phone, dig into this Ackerman guy’s background.”
Van Damm cleared his throat. “Mr. President, we may want to take a breath here. You have people to lead the investigation. Having this office throw its weight around at this point might look like we’re using a sledgehammer to swat a fly. PFC to PRC is not too much of a leap, but it might not be enough to get us a fishing expedition into the life of an American citizen, who, for all we know, is holed up at a beach house on Cape Cod watching Netflix and eating Cherry Garcia ice cream. I suggest we locate the Parnassus executives in Australia before we move forward with anything else. Scott’s people at State can look into where Father West is being held—as they would do for any U.S. citizen who is ar
rested abroad. Don’t forget that we have invited Senator Chadwick into our tent. She has already accused us ad nauseam of taking the law into our own hands. Let’s not play into hers.”
Ryan waved away the thought. “I’m not worried about Chadwick. You heard her. She wants to play nice.”
“And you believe her?” Van Damm paused for a beat, then said, “Mr. President, mark my words. It’s not going to be long before you remember that she is a viper. I just hope she’s not in your pocket when you do.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” Ryan said. “Run down what you can and then convene back here.” He found himself breathing hard, through his nose, like he was about to step into a fight.
The others stood up to leave as he swiveled his chair to look out the windows at the South Lawn.
Mary Pat stayed back, pulling the door shut so she was alone with Ryan.
He turned his chair to face her.
“I knew him in high school—at Loyola, and then later at Boston College. He was always so kind, so forthright, so . . .”
“Un-spylike?” Foley offered.
“I guess that about sums it up,” Ryan said. “I was surprised to see him when he showed up at Camp Peary one day when I was teaching—almost as surprised as he was to see me. He’d actually gone active with the Agency early on, right after college. I had no idea. I was still in finance then, so he never told me what he was doing.”
“Of course he didn’t,” Foley said. “That sort of thing happens all the time—old friends drawn toward the same goal but unable to talk about it with each other until they meet down the road on some assignment or retread training.”
“He was very good at it,” Ryan said.
“I know,” Foley said. “We worked together a couple of times in East Germany. We were both stationed in Bonn, but that guy practically lived in East Berlin.” She chuckled, remembering some event. “We used to make jokes about West living in the East. Fearless. But there was always something . . .”
“Eating at him?” Ryan finished her sentence.
“Yeah,” Foley said. “Ed liked to say Pat acted like his collars were too tight, even when he wore a T-shirt. We chuckled about that later when we found out he’d left the Agency to take his vows with the priesthood. Talk about tight collars . . .”
“That’s the thing,” Ryan said. “He’s not merely my friend. He’s one of us. Reluctant, conflicted, sure, but still one of us. And he obviously veered out of his clerical swim lane to find out more about this Calliope thing, whatever it is.”
Foley let him go on without interruption.
Ryan looked directly into her eyes. “What if it were you over there, Mary Pat? What would I not do to save you?”
“I have no doubt,” Foley said.
“President Gumelar won’t want to be a puppet of China,” Ryan said. “I can leverage that.”
“Maybe,” Foley said. “But a cryptic text isn’t much proof that China is involved.”
“I know.” Ryan leaned back, drumming his fingers on the desk. “I have a feeling something is unrolling faster than we can react. Father Pat’s been in custody for almost a month, if our information is correct. That’s a hell of a lot of catching up to do. Hang on a minute.” He punched the intercom button on his phone.
His lead secretary answered immediately.
“Three things, Betty,” Ryan said. “Ask Arnie to come back in, would you please? Then get Gary Montgomery and Ted Randall to come see me. Lastly, have Communications set up a call for me with the president of Indonesia as soon as it can be arranged.”
Montgomery was the special agent in charge of Ryan’s Secret Service detail. Randall was the director of the White House Military Office, the man who coordinated travel with Special Air Mission—the planes that served as Air Force One.
Foley took a deep breath. “Jack, it’s a little early in the game for you to be rushing off to Indonesia. There’s still a lot we don’t know.”
“Believe me”—Ryan gave a disdainful shake of his head—“Secret Service, White House Advance, HMX-1, and everyone else who has to jump through hoops for my travel will be happy that I’m letting them know now.”
“Happy might not be the right word.”
“They’re pros,” Ryan said. “And I’ll know more once I talk to President Gumelar. In the meantime, we have to find out what this Mr. Ackerman knows.”
“Jack,” Mary Pat said softly. “There is an avenue we haven’t explored.”
Ryan gave a slow nod, reaching a conclusion.
“To be honest,” he said, “I was just considering using them on this.”
“I wouldn’t be doing my job as your adviser and friend if I didn’t bring it up,” Foley said. “But I would be equally culpable if I didn’t remind you that you should ponder hard on Arnie’s advice. This scenario could be exactly what Senator Chadwick is looking for.”
“Let me worry about her,” Ryan said. “Ackerman could be the key. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not too keen on waiting around on bureaucracy while Father Pat stews in an Indonesian prison. I want Ackerman located ten minutes ago. They’ll be able to do it quickly and cleanly.”
“Understood, Mr. President,” Foley said. “I’ll make the call.”
16
General Song Biming sat in one of the plastic chairs at the back of the great hall, as far as possible from the heavier lapels who occupied the foremost rows. In a gathering of this many high-ranking generals, those like Song, who wore only a single star, might well be asked to serve the tea.
There was no assigned seating, but generals of the five theater commands, rocket forces, and other assorted three-stars customarily took the softer seats directly in front of the raised dais along with PLA Navy admirals at the chairman’s feet. The boot-licking sycophant, Lieutenant General Bai, sat among them.
Chairman Zhao did not seem to care who sat where, so long as they attended his mandatory meetings when they were in Beijing. The civilian commander in chief of the Central Military Commission liked to stay in contact with his leaders, looking them directly in the eye, checking their pulses—and their impulses—to see what they were up to. Military leaders could smell weakness, and there were many who would pounce on Zhao at the slightest stumble if he let them. Chairman Zhao understood this, and displayed his power periodically, figuratively cutting off the head of some person who thought himself indispensable. These sacrificial lambs were always a drain on the party, unloved by their peers, but often highly placed with important—but not so important as to make a difference—families. Song was reminded of the story when the emperor challenged Sun Tzu, the great Chinese warrior philosopher, to train the emperor’s concubines to march in formation like soldiers. Sun Tzu had taken up the challenge. The tittering women had shown up on the parade field, spoiled and hungover from drink. Try as he might, the great warrior could not get the concubines to listen to his direction—until he asked which among them was the emperor’s favorite. A sly-eyed woman had slinked forward, only to have Sun Tzu immediately draw his sword and cut off the favorite’s head. The other concubines fell quickly into line, marching in perfect order in no time.
Chairman Zhao was a benevolent dictator, but no one around him was ever completely safe from being turned into a lesson. Even benevolent people had bad days, suffered lapses in judgment, lost their tempers. As chairman of the Central Military Commission, general secretary of the Chinese Communist Party, and paramount leader, there were few aspects of Chinese life where Zhao did not exercise near-absolute control. One bad day affected many careers—many lives. Heavy was the crown, as the saying went, but over the years he’d developed an extremely strong neck while consolidating his presidency.
There were, of course, always reminders that any position at the top was inherently unstable, not the least of which was the bullet hole his predecessor had left in the wall behind the desk when he�
�d shot himself. Zhao had elected not to repair the hole, covering it with a painting instead, reminding himself and everyone else who knew it was there to be more cautious than his predecessor. Most respected Zhao for the authority he’d brought back to Beijing, to his office, and most especially for what he was doing to raise China’s star on the world stage.
The title Chairman had gradually gone out of style after Mao Zedong, giving over to the friendlier-sounding President. Zhao truly was a friendly human being—most of the time. He did, however prefer his title of guojia zhuxi be translated as State Chairman, believing it sounded more Chinese.
Today, Zhao Zhuxi had spent more than an hour speaking to his military commanders as a group, quizzing them, testing them, keeping them on their toes. Coups were not unheard of in China. Zhao himself had faced a particularly bloody one when his own foreign minister had attempted to usurp control of the country. The American President had helped save the day, which could have made Zhao appear weak. But the foreign minister and his entire family—a wife and teenage son—had been wiped from the face of the earth, if not by Zhao’s order, certainly with his blessing.
Benevolent indeed, until he was crossed.
Such harshness was necessary. A country of 1.3 billion people needed a strong hand to govern it. That strong hand needed generals and admirals and police chiefs whom he could trust.
General Song was old enough to know that he did not know much in the great scheme of the world. But of two things he was sure: He genuinely liked Chairman Zhao—and he was glad he wasn’t him.
As usual, the meeting broke up with the chairman stepping down off the dais to mingle with the attendees. Side tables with food had been set up along the walls, and most people took advantage of Zhao’s hospitality and excellent dumpling chefs. Lieutenant General Bai made a beeline directly for the chairman, intercepting him as he reached the floor. He’d wanted a meeting, but Zhao had been unable, so he was obviously lying in wait. Song drifted that way, curious to hear what fantastical deeds General Bai was claiming responsibility for this time.
