Tom Clancy's Shadow of the Dragon

by Cameron, Marc

  “Right,” Mateo said. “Gretchen Pack’s husband is from China. His father came over from Fuzhou with a snakehead when he was a child. His name was Pak then. He changed his name to Pack because he thought it looked more American.”

  Hendricks pulled up Pack’s personnel file on her computer. “I can’t believe we didn’t catch that.”

  “The Agency?” Mateo said. “Oh, she disclosed it during the hiring process. It’s all on the SF-86 she filled out. We, meaning those of us working ELISE, didn’t snap to it. She was on Coleen Ragsdale’s creep list, though.”

  Peter Li leaned back in his chair. “You know,” he said. “This is tragic if it pans out, but it also provides us with a sudden opportunity to make Tim Meyer feel like the pressure is off. If we identify Gretchen Pack as the mole, maybe he’ll relax.”

  Mateo’s head snapped up. “Wait. What do you mean Tim Meyer?”

  Hendricks ran down their theory.

  “Holy shit,” Mateo said. “That means SURVEYOR isn’t a spy …”

  Hendricks groaned, doing the math on when she could take more ibuprofen. “I know,” she said. “It’s a spy ring.”

  53

  Timur Samedi took his eyes off the road just long enough to watch the military helicopter thunder and thump overhead—and almost ran his truck into a herd of double-humped camels. He cursed, swerving wildly to miss the lumbering beasts, certainly dislodging his load in the back of the truck. The camels did not move—all large eyes and jutting teeth, they also stared skyward at the helicopter that followed the path of the highway, almost low enough to touch.

  Helicopters were not uncommon up and down the Karakoram Highway where China touched not only Kyrgyzstan but Afghanistan, Tajikistan, and Pakistan in the space of a few hundred kilometers. There were many borders to patrol. Samedi knew nothing about helicopters. He’d never flown in any kind of aircraft, preferring to keep his feet on the ground. This one was dark green and large enough to carry perhaps a dozen troops.

  Samedi heaved a sigh of relief when it flew down the highway toward Khunjerab Pass and Pakistan.

  He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, flexing his hands to rid the joints of stress. The next checkpoint would not be until Tashkurgan, ninety kilometers ahead. He could relax until then.

  The cold waters of Karakul Lake were on his right. Usually deep green or sparkling azure, the frigid waters had taken on the slate gray of the evening sky. Already at an elevation of over thirty-five hundred meters, the lake was dominated by three great mountain ranges, and several seven-thousand-meter peaks. Kongur Tagh and Muztagh Ata loomed across the water, their peaks vanishing into the clouds.

  Some of the Kyrgyz women who lived in the nearby yurts sold hot tea and kebabs of grilled goat. Samedi often stopped. Not tonight. He had to reach Tashkurgan.

  A colorful jingle truck—so called that because of all the bells and decorations Pakistani drivers liked to hang on them—rattled past going north while Samedi was still catching his breath from the near-miss with the camels.

  A kilometer ahead, the helicopter banked sharply to the right, arcing over the lake to turn back to the north. It came in low, throwing spray off the water’s surface and scattering a flock of sheep that were grazing up from the shoreline between two white canvas yurts. Samedi slowed, stomach in his throat as the aircraft hovered directly in front of him, blocking the entire highway before settling onto pavement.

  Samedi was not certain, but he believed the pods on the sides of the helicopter contained rockets—all pointed directly at his windshield.

  Six men in black SWAT uniforms and helmets poured out of the side doors the instant the skids touched the ground. Each carried a rifle, ducking as they ran up the highway directly toward Samedi’s truck. Behind them, the rotor blades came to a halt and another man climbed out. Instead of a uniform, this one wore a business suit. A politician. The one in charge.

  Samedi slowed his truck, unsure of what to do. Were they here for him? He groaned. Of course they were here for him. He was the only truck on the road—and they had not come for the camels.

  Five of the men aimed their rifles at Samedi’s windshield while the fifth directed him to halt at the side of the road. He raised his hands above the steering wheel.

  “Reach out the window!” the SWAT leader barked. “Open your door from the outside! Keep your hands visible at all times or we will open fire!”

  Two of the riflemen kept their guns pointed at him, while the three others ran to the rear of the truck, boots thumping on the pavement. Samedi watched them in the mirrors as they took aim at the doors.

  The SWAT leader barked again. “Get out now! Slowly!”

  Samedi complied, hands raised.

  The man in the suit stepped forward. The riflemen fanned out so they still had clear shots.

  “I am Major Ren of the Corps,” he said, looking down his nose over dark-rimmed glasses. “And you are?”

  Samedi’s throat convulsed when he tried to speak. It seemed to take forever to get the words out.

  “You are very nervous about something, Mr. Samedi,” the major said. “What do you have in the truck?”

  Clark tapped Hala’s arm when the truck slowed, reminding her to turn off the flashlight. He cupped a hand to the side of his head, straining to hear, but got nothing but the sound of Hala chewing on her collar. The stop seemed to last forever this time. He checked the glowing hands on his watch. Three minutes.

  Voices now. Someone shouting.

  Then they were moving again, slowly, barely rolling—then another stop.

  This one was shorter, less than a minute before they were on their way.

  Hala flicked the light on. “What was that?”

  Clark took a deep breath, patting her arm again.

  “I’m not certain,” he said, as the truck slowed again and made a right-hand turn before coming to a stop. The back doors creaked open. Boots thudded on the metal floor as someone climbed into the back. A sharp tap accompanied shuffling footsteps. A cane. Clark reached for Hala and the light, turning it on, as Little Ox pulled away a roll of carpet and peered down into the hollow compartment.

  “Welcome to Kyrgyzstan,” he said in slurpy English.

  Hala looked up, wide-eyed, and then collapsed against Clark’s leg, exhausted from the stress.

  She spat out her collar. Her eyes welled with tears. “We are no longer in Xinjiang?”

  “We are no longer in China,” Clark said. He stood and shook Little Ox’s hand. “No trouble at the border?”

  “I told you,” the old man said. “I pay big baksheesh. They love me here. No trouble at all. If the Bingtuan stop Samedi’s truck, they will find nothing but carpets. Come. I take you to a place you can sleep until your friends arrive.”

  Clark took out his phone, grateful that service had reached even small border towns like Irkeshtam.

  Hala was breathing deeply now, as if trying to steady herself. “We are safe?”

  Clark punched in the number and looked down at Hala while he waited for it to connect. “We are safe,” he said.

  Thirty miles from the Chinese border, Warrant Officer Avery looked over his shoulder toward the back of his Black Hawk. “Mr. Grant,” he said. “I am to let you know you’re supposed to call ‘that number,’ whatever the hell that means.”

  “Copy,” Grant said. He plugged a satellite phone into his headset and attached a cable that led to an external antenna affixed outside the Black Hawk’s window—effectively blocking Captain Brock and the other members of ODA-0312. He spoke for only a few seconds, gave a curt nod, and ended the call, a broad smile almost invisible under his bushy beard.

  He reconnected his headset to the intercom.

  “Back to the barn, boys,” he said.

  Captain Brock leaned forward against his harness and shook his head. “I thought this was a rescue mission?”

  “It was,” Grant said.

  Brock glared at the spook. “What were we, decoys?”

 
“That,” Grant said. “And a backup plan.”

  “Who’d we help rescue?” Sergeant Peplow asked.

  “Honestly,” Grant said, “I’m not a hundred percent sure. An operative and a very high-value asset. That’s all I know. The counterintel folks at Langley crawled so far up my ass they could see my tonsils. You would not believe the grilling I got before they deemed me trustworthy enough to be tasked with this. This mole has us all seeing shadows. Hard to trust anyone.”

  “Roger that,” Brock said. Spooks not trusting spooks … imagine that.

  Grant leaned his head back against his seat, closing his eyes. “We did God’s work tonight. Sometimes that means the blade cuts. Sometimes it just gets waved around. Either way, it needs to be sharp.”

  Ren Shuren thought seriously about shooting Samedi on principle. Carpets. Nothing but carpets. Ren had been certain this was the escape route. They had stopped the only five vehicles between Kashgar and Tashkurgan capable of smuggling people. Samedi’s truck was the last.

  He walked toward the lake, then wheeled, barking at his lieutenant. “A hidden compartment, perhaps? Under the belly of the truck.”

  The lieutenant shook his head. “I am sorry, Major. We have already inspected there.”

  “I do not understand … They must have gotten past us. Perhaps they are further down the road, already past Tashkurgan. Contact the border guard at once and warn them.”

  The lieutenant made the call on his satellite phone. A pained look crossed his face when he ended the call.

  “The American aircraft are now moving west. They appear to be returning to their base.”

  “What?” Ren punched his open palm with his fist. “How could they have picked the fugitives up so quickly? They must have crossed into China. We should make Beijing aware of this—”

  “Major,” the lieutenant said. “It appears the aircraft never touched down. They flew to within approximately forty kilometers from the border, and then simply turned and went back the way they had come.”

  Ren’s mouth fell open. “It makes no sense … Unless … You are certain that Canadian … what was his name? Bart Stevens … you are certain he boarded the plane to Urumqi?”

  “Yes, Major,” the lieutenant said. “I watched him myself. Urumqi, where he was to have caught a connecting flight to Beijing.”

  “Call the airline and make sure.”

  The lieutenant did, the pained look returning to his face. “Mr. Stevens changed his ticket when he arrived in Urumqi and caught a flight to Bishkek that same hour.”

  “Kyrgyzstan … I …” He gazed across the lake, suddenly cold to his core.

  The lieutenant leaned closer so as not to be heard by anyone but Ren. “Sir,” he said. “What do you wish to do with the driver?”

  “Release him.” Ren flicked his wrist to the south, feeling sick to his stomach.

  He had no idea how, but the Canadian must have been involved in helping his brother’s killer escape. He doubted the man was even Canadian. Worst of all, Ren now had to explain to Admiral Zheng how he’d let a ten-year-old Uyghur girl slip through his grasp.

  54

  Chavez tied his gray pony to the base of a scrubby fir tree. The snow had picked up and he stood for a moment, patting the animal on the shoulder, sharing its warmth. There was no wind, and every thump of a hoof seemed to reverberate through the forest.

  Yao expertly looped his horse’s lead rope around a branch of a nearby tree and tied it into what he called a bank robber’s knot—one yank and it would pull free.

  The growing darkness helped to hide their approach, but it also made it difficult for them to see as they crouched low, moving quickly through the underbrush. Now that they were away from the prying eyes of security cameras, Chavez took a PVS-14 night-vision monocular from his pocket. Lightweight, the roughly four-inch tube could be mounted to a helmet, on a long gun, or, as in Chavez’s case, handheld. It would certainly raise suspicion if Chinese authorities found it on his person, but they’d be too busy with the little semiauto pistol and suppressor to worry about it. The night-vision device made the low light of evening come alive, but, as it stood, it did not magnify the target.

  Fifty meters away, through stands of tall green pines and ragged fir trees, the Han man disappeared inside a cabin of rough-hewn logs. Chavez guessed it to be about twenty by twenty feet, with a small porch out front and a stone chimney on the side. A path off the rutted mud driveway led to a plank-board outhouse, hidden in the trees.

  The woman turned the two horses out in a split-rail paddock next to the house, checked their water, and then fed them each a large flake of hay from a stack outside the fence. She stood beside a little bay while it ate, petting it on the shoulder as if she were talking to it. Chavez watched for a moment, cold from the wet ground seeping through the belly of his coat. At length, he shook his head and rolled half onto his side, passing the PVS-14 to Yao.

  “Your eyes are younger than mine,” he said. “How sure are you that this is Medina Tohti?”

  Elbows braced against the mossy forest duff, Yao looked through the monocular. “Nose looks right. Age, height, build all match. Pretty sure.”

  “Sure enough to knock on the door?”

  Yao lowered the monocular and looked sideways at Chavez. “It’s either that or snatch her later when she goes to use the outhouse.”

  Yao gave a sudden start, as if he’d been stung or bitten. It hadn’t been that long ago that Chavez met the business end of some particularly brutal murder hornets in Indonesia.

  He froze. “You good?”

  Yao nodded and took out his phone.

  Ding’s brow shot up. “Lisanne?”

  “Foley,” Yao whispered.

  “Take it,” Chavez said. “I’ll keep an eye on Medina.”

  Yao crawfished backward into the brush, giving him some distance to talk without his voice carrying to the cabin.

  Chavez traded the night vision for his binoculars and worked his way to a clump of scrubby buckbrush that offered a little better view. The trickle of smoke from the chimney grew thicker, leading him to believe the cabin had been empty before Medina and the Chinese man arrived and stoked the fire. Headlights played through the trees. Chavez lowered his binoculars to avoid reflection, ducking reflexively. He eased up behind the bush again when the lights went out.

  A four-door Great Wall pickup had pulled up alongside the cabin and stopped. Chavez could see at least two heads through the window. They sat there for two minutes, engaged in animated conversation, before the driver got out. He looked Uyghur, or at least more so than the man inside with Medina. Another Uyghur male exited on the passenger side. Chavez froze as this one scanned the tree line. A young woman in a black tam and down parka poked her head out the back door, surveying the area before she got out.

  They were all sure as hell acting paranoid enough to be Wuming.

  Brush rustled as Yao returned. He was grinning. “Clark made it out,” he whispered. “He has the girl.”

  “Outstanding.” Chavez lowered his forehead to the ground, relief washing over him. He still had the rest of his team to worry about, and Medina, and getting his team out of China … but he was going to have to eat this elephant one bite at a time. “No word from Lisanne?”

  “Negative.” Yao gestured toward the cabin with his chin. “I saw lights. What did I miss?”

  “Three new arrivals.” Chavez passed him the night vision. “Two males, one female. All Uyghur … or maybe Kazakh. I can’t be sure. Not Han, though.”

  “Okay,” Yao said. “I spoke with my contact at the lake and confirmed the boat for exfil. He’ll be waiting—as soon as we talk Medina into coming with us.”

  “And the contacts to actually get us across?” Chavez asked.

  “Good to go,” Yao said.

  Chavez groaned. “We now have five people in the cabin. Until Ryan and Adara get back with Lisanne, it’s just you and me, a couple of knives, and this little get-off-me .22 pistol.”


  “You’re forgetting our most valuable asset,” Yao said. “We have John Clark, and he has Medina Tohti’s daughter.”

  55

  Lisanne Robertson felt the presence of someone behind her when she was two blocks from the police station. Her original intention had been to return to the hotel and then catch a taxi back to Kanas Lake from there. Per her training with Clark, she’d decided instead to do a surveillance-detection run on the way. The bad guys she’d hunted as a cop would have called it a “heat check.” No matter how gorgeous the green mountains and pristine lakes, she didn’t forget that she was operating in hostile territory—uncharted waters. Like the ancient mariners’ maps said, there were dragons here.

  Jiadengyu was little more than a large concession for the park—hotels, tour companies, shops, and parking lots in the middle of the woods. The gateway to the park, it provided a jumping-off point for tourists who wanted to access the wilderness around Kanas Lake. Bus tours would pick up in a month, but for now, most of the park visitors on the street with Lisanne appeared to be of the hard-core adventurer type. Hikers, ski buffs, and mountain climbers, most of them young, fit, and wearing lived-in clothing, huddled in small knots in front of hotel restaurants and specialty shops that sold souvenirs and outdoor equipment.

  Low clouds and a gentle snow brought warmer temperatures than earlier in the day—but warm was relative in the mountains, and the air still bit her cheeks and made her fingers numb. Adrenaline from being followed warmed her some—or at least made her forget about the chill. The weight of the Beretta in her jacket offered some comfort, but with it being a semiauto, she risked a malfunction if she attempted get more than one shot off from inside the pocket. A revolver would have been better, but you took what you could get. She told herself she was much more likely to go mano a mano than use a firearm, and warmed her hands as she had on uniform patrol, two fingers at a time, refraining from stuffing her entire fist down inside her pocket. She’d have access to the Beretta, while allowing her to bring both hands quickly into play—if she needed to, as her dad used to say, “go to town on somebody.”