“The Americans love such plans,” Ren said. “They believe life is a movie and they are the stars. Contact the checkpoint in Tashkurgan at once. Have them stop everything that moves—trucks, taxis …” He jabbed the air with his finger. “I do not want so much as a donkey cart to get past without a thoroughly invasive search. And alert the border guards to increase patrols leading up toward the pass.”
“Of course, Major,” the lieutenant said. “It seems foolish for the Americans to place these pods where their weapons customarily go. Their aircraft will be completely defenseless.”
“Ah,” Ren said. “Do not forget the ‘ghost readings’—helicopters flying in and out of radar contact. They are surely there for defensive purposes. But we will be prepared for that as well … Speaking of helicopters, find me one immediately. I wish to be there when this killer is apprehended and Hala Tohti is retrieved.”
52
Secretive and compartmentalized as the Central Intelligence Agency was, it took a grand total of two hours from the time Monica Hendricks and her team began their first interviews for the buzz of the mole hunt to reach virtually everyone at Langley—and a good portion of the CIA stations around the world. Savvy officers already knew something was up. Overnight, silos had dropped down over certain information, making it next to impossible for some to do their jobs. In the Great Game of spy vs. spy, it was often enough to make one’s opponent believe they had a traitor in their midst, forcing them to waste precious time and resources chasing shadows. Viable intelligence operations against the Soviet Union had very nearly ground to a halt during Angleton’s tenure in CIA.
Director Foley’s mandate for ELISE had been clear: Catch the rat, but don’t set the entire ship on fire to do it.
Hendricks knew word would get out as soon as she began. She kept a weather eye for rats looking for a way off the boat. People, being what they were, almost all had something they wanted to hide. A spate of surprise dates on the flutter—the polygraph—put everyone on edge.
Monica asked the same questions at each pre-polygraph interview, first and foremost: “If you were going to spy for China, how would you go about it?” The answers displayed two antipodal schools of thought. “This is a horrible, terrible, awful, no-good thing for our agency. Let me help however I can.” Or “I am deeply offended that you would think I, of all people, could possibly be a spy! After all I’ve done for the Agency, for my country!”
Her last interview for the day was with a redheaded grandmother Hendricks had worked with on and off for almost two decades and who was now the chief over Near East. She’d smiled politely, batted her ginger lashes, and said, “I’d shove this question up your ass, Monica.”
Oddly, there were few moderates. One analyst, a guy named J.T., had his spy game all plotted, pointing out myriad security weaknesses and how he’d get the Chinese to use cryptocurrency to pay him instead of dead drops or brush-pass handoffs. Hendricks and Li both concluded that this guy was either such a brilliant criminal mastermind that he was able to line out his entire conspiracy without batting an eyelash or he had no guile at all and simply answered the question as directly as they had posed it to him.
Hendricks put J.T. in the “maybe” box, with a few of the other supercompliant “helpers.”
She found it difficult to trust either camp merely on the face of their indignation or volunteerism. It was not lost on her that Soviet spy Rick Ames had approached the counterintelligence team conducting the mole hunt (for him) and demurely asked if there was anything he could do to assist.
In law enforcement, a strong denial after confrontation was expected from a truly innocent party—but CIA officers were taught to lie, to circumnavigate the truth. They drummed it into you at The Farm: You must learn to deceive everyone you meet—outside of the Agency. In other words, lie to everyone but us.
Polygraphs were passed. Egos were bruised, but they were no closer to identifying the mole.
And then Joey Shoop and Leigh Murphy were murdered. Hendricks was aware of Murphy’s recent connection to Adam Yao, so ELISE turned its focus to anyone who had knowledge of operations in Albania.
Fred Rask’s recent cable bitching about the violation of his turf was already making the rounds with the brass on the seventh floor. Most laughed it off as another Rask writ, writ by Rask, an homage to the old John Wayne movie. Some, however, were not amused at Murphy’s behavior. There were only a few, but these bosses had bailiwicks of their own to consider, and didn’t warm to the idea of case officers locking them out of activities.
Hendricks called Foley for nitty-gritty, and found Yao had called Murphy to interview the Uyghur. Foley gave no details about the contents of the interview, other than to say it yielded enormous fruit, while at the same time pissing off Rask enough that he fired off the missive.
Hendricks had worked with Rask a half-dozen times, the last in Tokyo, where her counterpart with Japan’s national intelligence service had privately observed that Rask had “sanpaku eyes” where the sclera was visible on both sides of the iris and beneath—three whites. Crazy eyes. Hendricks had noticed it, too, along with his truculent nature and tendency to color himself as the most vital component of every operation in the after-action reports.
Freddie Rask was, in fact, third on Hendricks’s list of people in the Agency who rubbed her the wrong way.
Rather than beginning with him, she’d called Vlora Cafaro, the case officer who’d been with Murphy earlier the night she was killed.
She conducted the interview via SVTC, a secure video teleconference. Admiral Peter Li was present, listening, observing, but off-screen.
Still reeling from the death of two coworkers, Cafaro looked as if she’d slept in her clothes. Her eyes sagged. She rocked slightly in her chair, obviously trying to stay alert. Hendricks suspected she had a bit of a hangover in addition to the exhaustion. Above it all, the young case officer was open and cooperative, firm in the knowledge that she had nothing to hide. She also made it clear that she planned to exact swift vengeance when she figured out who had murdered Leigh Murphy. Hendricks couldn’t blame her there. She’d served as one of Leigh Murphy’s class mentors during a short rotation at The Farm. They’d never worked together, but she seemed like a great kid.
It was clear that Cafaro was fiercely devoted. Hendricks had friends like that. Hell, Li was one, and he wasn’t even CIA.
Cafaro went on for two full minutes about what she would do to the killer/s, and that her chief of station probably wasn’t even going to do anything about it, he was such a fat worthless son of a bitch. Fatigue was an excellent truth serum, and this woman was so tired, notions from her heart came straight out of her mouth.
Hendricks glanced at Li, who shook his head, having nothing to add.
Hendricks put both palms on the table, pushing back in her chair slightly. “Thank you, Vlora,” she said. “I have one favor to ask of you before you get some much-deserved rest.”
Hendricks scribbled a couple notes on her legal pad while she waited for the SVTC call to connect.
The chief of station Albania glared at the camera as if he wanted to climb through it to Hendricks. He rubbed a hand across his face and frowned, scrunching his nose as if he smelled something rotten.
“Monica, I have a lot on my plate right now. We need to make this short.”
Hendricks gave a cursory nod but didn’t speak, scribbling on her notepad. I’ll be with you in a minute … She let him stew, forcing him into the next move.
He stood to leave. “Seriously—”
“Sit down, Rask,” Hendricks said, without looking up.
He did, probably out of curiosity—or fear that she knew something.
“You’re not going to pin those kids’ deaths on me,” he said. “I’m not a hundred percent sure the two events are even related. Shoop could have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time and Murphy, don’t even get me started on her. Murphy was so far off the reservation, it’s—”
“Ye
ah,” Hendricks said, struggling to keep her voice calm, dispassionate. “Tell me about how she’d gone off the reservation.”
Rask began to air all his woes. Murphy thought she was smarter than everyone. She worked her own little operations without clearing it first. She didn’t keep her files current.
Hendricks had yet to look at her camera, and it was killing him. She tapped her pen on the paper, pondering. “Did Murphy ever speak to you in an insubordinate manner?”
“Her actions were insubordinate,” he snapped.
“And you had her followed?” Cafaro had volunteered that, illustrating the leadership tone in the office. “By Shoop.”
“I did,” Rask said. “And I’m not apologizing for it. Look, I didn’t have shit to do with those murders and you know it. I’ve already told everything that needs telling to my boss. I’m not going to sit here and—”
“Let me ask you this, Fred,” Hendricks said. “If you were going to spy for the Chinese, how would you go about it?”
Rask fell back in his chair like he’d been slapped. “What are you talking about?”
“Answer the question.”
“I heard you were accusing half the China desk of being spies,” he said.
Hendricks kept writing. “I’d like to know who told you that.”
He shot to his feet again.
Now she looked at him.
“I said sit down!”
Off-screen, Li spoke into a desk phone. Almost immediately, the door to Rask’s left swung open and a very large security officer stepped inside. Vlora Cafaro entered behind him. They said nothing, but it was apparent that they were there to keep Rask compliant.
Li gave another order over the phone, which was connected to the earpieces Cafaro and the security man wore. They both nodded and then exited the room, leaving Rask at once blustering and dumbfounded.
“I am not spying for China,” he said. “And if anyone says I am, they’re spewing bullshit.”
“But if you were,” Hendricks said, goading him, watching his reaction. “Hypothetically, how would you do it?”
“I said I’m not.”
“Okay,” Hendricks said. “Tell me who is.”
“Monica,” Rask said through clenched teeth. “So help me … I have friends. Your career is—”
“I’m on my way out the door, Freddie,” Hendricks said. “Retiring. No career left for you to screw with. Now answer my questions. And you may consider this a pre-interview for your polygraph.”
“So this is all about your mole hunt, not Murphy and Shoop?”
Hendricks bit her lip, fighting the urge to take the discussion in an unfruitful direction. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something this piece of trash did had gotten the girl killed.
Peter Li stepped in, giving her time to get her bearings.
“These are just questions we’re asking everyone with access.”
Rask leaned forward, squinting at the screen. “Who are you?”
Hendricks spoke again. “He’s the good cop.”
“Get to the point, Monica.”
“You sent the complaint regarding Leigh Murphy up the chain, trying to find out who she was working with, get that person’s ass in the wringer.”
Rask wagged his head. “There’s these things called protocols. Murphy and her friend broke them, I made a note of it.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Of course.”
“Dole out some punishment?”
“Befitting the offense,” Rask said. “Look, I don’t see how it’s any of your business how I run my office.”
Hendricks made a show of pitching her pen on the table, like she was fed up. She didn’t have to act. “Who else did you talk to about it?”
For the first time, Rask squirmed in his seat. He knew full well that talking about operations outside a clearly defined circle of those who needed to know clearly violated his beloved protocols.
“No one …”
Hendricks scoffed. “Come on, Fred. You were pissed at this girl because she didn’t kiss your ring and seek your permission. Even you had to have some inkling that your expectations were chickenshit. Surely you confided in some buddy, a chickenshit soulmate who is equally as chickenshit, so you could, you know, feel better about yourself. It’s a lonely thing being the only turd in the punchbowl.”
Rask crossed his arms. “We’re done here.”
“Oh, Fred,” Hendricks said. “We are far from done.”
Peter Li spoke into his handset. Vlora Cafaro and the security officer returned to take up positions behind Rask.
Hendricks leaned forward, moving the mouse up to the invite button. A moment later, Mary Pat Foley’s face popped up on the split screen. She wore a silk blouse with the top button undone. Her makeup was perfect and a string of pearls hung just below her collarbones, as if she’d been called away from an evening out with her husband, or an important dinner with the President.
“Madam Director,” Rask said, trying to stand.
The security officer put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. Ten minutes ago, the chief of station would have called him “my security officer.”
“We’ve not met, Mr. Rask,” Foley said. “But I see you are a slow learner. It would be better if you keep your seat. I need to know who you spoke with concerning your troubles with Ms. Murphy.”
“Ma’am, I …”
“I can get POTUS on the line if you need me to,” Foley said. “But I’ve gotta tell ya, that would sink what little vestige of a career you have left.”
Fredrick Rask broke, as they say, like a cheap clay pot, giving up his confidant, a case officer on the Central Asia desk named Tim Meyer.
It made sense. What happened in China or Russia cast a shadow over much of Central Asia. The entire Silk Road had been home to traders and spies for centuries, and nothing had really changed.
Hendricks instructed him to board the next flight to Dulles. Vlora Cafaro would accompany him to be certain he didn’t try to contact anyone en route. The security officer took his cell phone and dropped it in a Faraday bag to block any emitted signals. Rask looked as though he might cry. Cafaro beamed. Exhausted or not, she was more than happy to bird-dog the man who would soon be her former boss all the way back to Dulles.
Rask’s portion of the video link went dark, leaving Hendricks and the DNI on the screen.
Foley glanced down at the legal pad where she’d jotted notes while Rask spilled his guts.
“You think this is SURVEYOR?”
Hendricks rubbed her forehead with a thumb and forefinger, trying in vain to tamp back her headache.
Peter Li rolled his chair around so he was shoulder to shoulder with Hendricks. “There’s a good chance we have him, ma’am. Monica is much too humble to admit it, but he’s been at the top of her creep list since we stood up ELISE. We were simply not aware that he had access.”
Foley patted the table on either side of her legal pad. “Okay, then. We need to catch him in the act.”
“I have an idea,” Li said. “There’s a risk, but if it works, we’ll have him.”
Foley reached to end the SVTC connection, but paused. “Call in David Wallace. Work out the wheres and wherefores and then get back with me so I can brief the President. In the meantime, I need to call and warn a friend that his cover could be burned to the ground.”
Foley ended the call.
Hendricks got a bottle of ibuprofen from the lap drawer of her desk and took four—grunt candy, the Marines called it.
She washed them down with a swig of stale coffee and leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling tiles.
“Could it really be this easy?”
“I’m not sure I’d call what we’ve been doing easy,” Li said.
“I expected it to take months.”
Li nodded. “We still have to catch him in the act of espionage. That could take months. Rask suddenly going incommunicado might spook him.”
“Yeah,”
Hendricks said. In truth, she’d regretted going down that line of questioning as soon as she’d uttered the words. “I should have subpoenaed his phone records, checked his e-mails, found out who he spoke to around that time. We’re going to have to come up with some kind of plausible story. Even so, SURVEYOR is already paranoid. He’ll smell a—”
Hendricks’s phone rang. It was Mateo, the analyst assigned to ELISE. His voice quavered with excitement, like a kid who just made the varsity team.
“Where are you right now?”
“ELISE HQ.”
“Stay there,” Mateo said. “I’m ten minutes out and there is something you have to see.” Hendricks expected him to end the call, but he couldn’t contain himself. “It’s bank records, a shitload of bank records for an account opened under the name of a dead aunt. Twenty-seven deposits over the last two years, each for just under the ten-thousand-dollar reporting threshold. Only a quarter million, but it’s more than a GS-9 makes. The money hasn’t been touched, so we’re not going to see any lifestyle change.”
“Wait,” Hendricks said. “A GS-9?” FBI special agents and CIA case officers hit journeyman around GS-13.
“Yeah,” Mateo said, crestfallen. “That’s what she is, a GS-9. I thought you’d be more excited. We found her. Gretchen Pack has to be SURVEYOR.”
“Gretchen Pack? Isn’t she an analyst and briefer for the director’s office?”
Mateo, at the ELISE bullpen now, gave a you-bet-your-ass nod.
“Didn’t she just have a baby?”
“She did,” Mateo said. “And get this. I did a cross-check of the deposits with the time she was off on maternity leave. Nada. They stopped. Then, two weeks ago, after she came back to work, the payments started up again, like clockwork.”
Peter Li, who was working on the other lead, looked up from his desk. “What else? Just being devil’s advocate here. What do we have besides bank deposits?”
“Glad you asked,” Mateo said. “As you know, the PRC likes to use people with ties to the Motherland.”
“My grandparents were from China,” Li said. “I’ve been pitched a couple of times.”
Tom Clancy's Shadow of the Dragon Page 34
