Enemy Contact

by Mike Maden

  They all seemed so different. What was the connection? She couldn’t see it, but she could damn well feel it.

  What was the same about them? Not the weapons, not the victims, not the objectives. They were all so different in so many ways. And yet something connected them. She was sure of it. But what?

  Think, damn it!

  Her husband, Ed, now retired, was the cerebral one in the family. Poker-faced and taciturn even as a young man, he remained detached and analytical when challenged. She was the one who wanted to go over the wall or through the window with a pistol in her hand—the one they nicknamed Cowboy, until she put a stop to it.

  But she knew even back then that intelligence work, like science, was first and foremost an act of observation. From observation came comparisons, and from comparisons, conclusions. How were things the same? How different? The ability to categorize was an exercise as old as Genesis, when God told Adam to name the animals.

  She had sketched out all of the differences among these events in her mind. What was the same among them? The Argentines were blasted out of the sky after they were lured into a trap. The Turks were blown away by a long-range missile strike. The NFLA were killed while they slept in a surprise ground assault. The undercover BKA agent was ambushed in a faked robbery.

  If there was any similarity among the four attacks, it was that each mission required a piece of intelligence.

  Well, duh. Doesn’t every operation?

  But the quality of intel each of these operations required was both specific and significant.

  What was the source? Could all four attacks be related to a single source?

  No. How could they be?

  It just didn’t add up.

  “You’re getting too old for this stuff, Mary Pat,” she told herself. Maybe Ed was right. Time to take up golf and start playing with him and his buddies at the club.

  She shook her head at the idea.

  Not yet, kiddo.

  Not yet.

  She picked up her phone and dialed Jesse Benson, the CIA’s national counterintelligence executive (NCIX), the best number-cruncher in the business and an old friend. He was still in PT for a double knee replacement, but he was already back at the job. She briefed him and sent him a link to the four reports.

  “Jesse, I can smell the smoke but I can’t see the fire.”

  “What priority?”

  “Yesterday would be preferable. But ASAP will have to do. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Then I’ll handle it personally, Mary Pat.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. Say, when are you and Melinda coming over for dinner next? It’s been too long.”

  “Let me get this done for you and then we’ll check our calendars.”

  “Thanks, Jesse.”

  She ended the call. If anyone could pull a rabbit out of a hat in record time, it was Jesse.

  She just hoped the rabbit wasn’t stuffed with C-4 on a timer and set to blow before Jesse worked his magic.

  66

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  Lawrence Fung checked the radar. All clear.

  He stomped the gas pedal and the Porsche 911 Targa’s 370-horsepower engine responded in kind, rocketing past the speed limit.

  Racing the car on the winding Pacific Coast Highway was dangerous and thrilling: exactly where Fung loved to be every moment of his life. The phone call from Elias Dahm he’d received a few hours earlier felt exactly the same way. Fung wasn’t sure if he was speeding toward a brilliant future or a fiery crash.

  Dahm’s invitation to a private dinner with him at his pleasure palace in Marin County was a stunning development. It was tantamount to being asked to sing a duet with Mariah Carey or play one-on-one with LeBron James. Dahm was the brightest star in the Silicon Valley firmament. It was an invitation to Mount Olympus to dine with Apollo, the god of light and beauty.

  Fung had been to his house before, but always as part of a large social event. Dahm was famous for his bacchanalian parties disguised as perfectly orchestrated networking events lubricated with copious amounts of expensive liquor and premium weed. The last time he’d been to one of Dahm’s parties was with Torré several months ago. A pang of longing shot through him, but he pushed it aside. He needed to focus.

  Being invited to Dahm’s place alone was a singular honor. But it made no sense. Why invite him now? Why on such short notice? For all of his physical beauty and charisma, Dahm was nobody’s fool—a true genius in his own right. His scores of sexual conquests were a careful camouflage, Fung suspected. Portraying himself to be a libertine and hedonistic playboy, Dahm was, in fact, a cunning and controlling intellect whose lifelong love was only himself and the company he had built. Anyone threatening him or his kingdom would be ruthlessly destroyed. Dahm had ruined careers, no doubt. But Fung knew of at least one competitor who simply disappeared; whether he was bought off or knocked off, no one knew for sure.

  If Dahm suspected that Fung was leaking IC Cloud intel, he was doomed, one way or another. But then again, how could Dahm know?

  With Dahm’s cliffside mansion coming into view, he couldn’t help but wonder if tonight was a seduction or an execution.

  * * *

  —

  Dahm’s personal chef and sommelier did not disappoint. The two of them feasted like kings on grilled Wagyu tenderloin, fresh-cut organic greens, garlic and thyme fondant potatoes, and a fine Napa Valley reserve Cabernet Sauvignon. They dined near the infinity pool overlooking the Pacific Ocean, warmed against the slight chill breeze by a limestone fire pit.

  The conversation had been light and witty as they discussed their favorite local indie bands, Italian neorealist films, pop-up restaurants, and vacation destinations. With the sumptuous meal consumed and the mood lightened by a second bottle of wine, Dahm’s radiant smile suddenly softened. A single gesture of his finger sent the lovely young server scurrying away. They were alone now.

  “So glad we finally did this,” Dahm began. “I can’t believe it’s taken us this long to get together.”

  “It’s been a fabulous evening. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Nonsense. It’s me who should be thanking you. You’re one of my most important people doing one of the most important jobs. CloudServe wouldn’t be where it is today without you.”

  “I’m just following in Amanda’s wake. She’s the real rock star.”

  Dahm huffed. “Yes, well, Amanda. Brilliant, no doubt. But I imagine she’d be difficult to work under.” He took another sip of wine.

  “She has taught me a lot, but yes, Amanda is . . . uniquely herself.”

  “You’re far too smart and, I suspect, ambitious to remain a number two. What are your long-term plans?”

  “I love my job at CloudServe. The opportunity to keep rising in the ranks is my immediate goal.”

  “And after that?”

  “You know what they say about rock stars? You either want to be them or to fuck them.”

  Fung instantly regretted the comment. The wine had loosened his tongue. But it was true. Dahm really was the ultimate rock star. He wanted to be just like him.

  And he really wanted to—

  “Careful what you ask for.” Dahm smiled. “It’s lonely at the top, and there’s only one way to go from there.” He refilled Fung’s wineglass and his own.

  “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Because, to be honest, you worry me.”

  Fung panicked. “How is that?”

  “You’re too smart to stay inside of any organization, even one as dynamic as mine.” Dahm leaned closer. “The reason I invited you here is because I see you as a threat.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because I see myself in you. The same hungry look, the same fire in the belly. You’re willing to risk everythi
ng just to test the boundaries other, lesser minds want to impose upon you. You know your own greatness and the chains of mediocrity that others would bind you with.”

  Fung took a sip of wine, evaluating Dahm’s face over the rim of his glass. The compliments Dahm threw at him were an endorphin rush he’d hardly felt before. Better than a first kiss. Better than . . .

  Where was this going?

  “Society has rules, governments have rules. It’s all bullshit,” Dahm said. “To reach one’s potential, one must live beyond these conventions. Nationalism, patriotism, progressivism—all these isms are just shackles the midwits impose upon us to keep us away from the sun. Don’t you agree?”

  Fung suspected maximum danger here. But also, maybe, an opportunity.

  “I’m grateful for America and what it has done for my family and for me.”

  “As am I. You know, I was born in Holland, but my parents immigrated to this country when I was only two. You and I are both hungry because we are immigrants, or the children of immigrants.”

  “That’s what makes America great, isn’t it? The constant influx of hungry, ambitious immigrants.”

  “Chinese and other Asian communities, especially. By the way, most people don’t know this, but my father was born in what used to be called the Dutch East Indies but is now known as Indonesia. He was half Dutch and half Chinese.”

  “Oh, really? Fascinating.”

  “And while I’m as grateful as you are for the opportunities this country has given me, it’s clear as day that the future belongs to China, don’t you agree?”

  Fung studied the handsome face across the table. The clear blue eyes seemed to devour him, like a lover or a killer. Fung wasn’t sure which.

  “Yes,” Fung agreed. “Western liberal democracies seem to be standing on their last legs. The China model appears to be more stable and dynamic.”

  “Exactly. And to hell with all governments, by the way, including China’s. Laws are only the tools of the powerful few, to keep the rest of us in line.”

  “It certainly feels that way at times.”

  “And so now you know why my focus is on China. CloudServe needs to expand aggressively there before it’s too late, and I think you are the man to help us get there.”

  “Why? Because I’m ethnic Chinese?”

  “Yes. But a brilliant and driven ethnic Chinese with language and cultural skills, along with the perfect hacker skill sets needed for the task at hand.”

  Fung’s blood pressure rose. Where is this going?

  “You’re the head of IC Cloud Red Team, which means you have management skills, and most important of all, you think like a hacker.” Dahm laughed. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want you coming after me!”

  Now Fung’s alarm bells were screaming.

  “What are you proposing, exactly?”

  “I want you to start your own China-focused cybersecurity company. Build it from the ground up. It will be your company, your vision, your baby, but tethered to CloudServe for protection and support.”

  “For what purpose? To hack the Chinese—or the U.S.?”

  “Both, certainly. But legally. You’d be offering the Chinese and American governments a safe and secure way to check for vulnerabilities in any system anywhere. The money potential is limitless.”

  “I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say.”

  Dahm sat back. “Look, let me be perfectly honest. If you went out and started your own company, which eventually you would, at some point we’d be going to war, and I’d do everything I could to destroy you—I’m speaking businesswise, of course. We’re not actual killers, are we?” He smiled mischievously.

  Fung’s eyes widened. “I sure hope not.”

  “I prefer instead that we form an alliance, here and now. I want you to achieve your wildest dreams, but I want you to do it as my partner, not my competitor. What do you think?”

  “It’s a dream come true. I just don’t know how to wrap my mind fully around it.”

  “Of course, with the CloudServe board and the SEC breathing down my neck, it’s going to be up to you to raise the capital. It will take millions. But that won’t be hard for you, will it?”

  Again, Fung was confused, thrilled, and panicked. What was Dahm suggesting?

  Fung was like CloudServe itself—fantastic cash flow but always on the verge of bankruptcy. If Dahm knew that, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. Or would they? CHIBI knew all about it and played on his vulnerabilities. Was Dahm doing the same thing as CHIBI?

  Wait. What? No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

  “I’m not exactly a venture capitalist myself, Elias. I’m not sure how I could be your point man for raising that kind of money.”

  “You helped start a couple of unicorns—yeah, they went belly-up, but they were good bets. I even had a little money on one of them. You just need to go back to the VC people that funded those projects with a virtual letter of intent from me, and raising the money shouldn’t be a problem. What do you think?”

  “I’m beyond flattered. Everything in me tells me to jump at this. Do you mind if I take twenty-four hours to give you an answer?”

  “No, not at all,” Dahm said. He stood and stretched his six-four athletic frame. “Are you ready for dessert?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. I’ll be right back.”

  Dahm then disappeared into the house.

  Fung was sipping his wine when Roberto suddenly appeared, ripped like a swimmer and wearing nothing but a Speedo and a smile.

  “Roberto?” Fung was confused.

  The tall Brazilian laid a familiar hand on Fung’s shoulder. “I hope you’re hungry, because I’m the dessert.”

  Fung set his wineglass down.

  Roberto stepped toward the edge of the infinity pool just a few feet away.

  “Care to join me?” He pulled off his swimsuit.

  Fung leered at the marbled Adonis standing in front of him. His confusion melted into lust.

  How could Dahm possibly know about Roberto, his favorite?

  He couldn’t, could he?

  No.

  But CHIBI could.

  “Yeah. A swim sounds delicious.”

  67

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  Jack sat on his couch, staring into space, a half-finished beer warm in his hand. What had happened in the Baltic a few days ago still gripped him like a waking nightmare.

  Lying on his back in the frigid sea, numb from the cold and exhausted, he had closed his eyes and surrendered to the sleep overwhelming him, knowing he’d never wake again in this life.

  But here he was now, very much awake and alive. His nerves were frayed and his heart shattered. Rage, grief, and guilt were numbing him as badly as the Baltic had that night. Liliana’s terrified face disappearing into the merciless gloom looped endlessly in his mind’s eye. For a moment in the hospital bed at the Polish clinic, he imagined he really had died and the image repeating in his mind was his own personal Hell.

  A knock on his front door broke the loop and got him off the couch.

  “Hey, kid. Mind if I come in?”

  John Clark stood in the doorway. Just slightly taller than Jack but with a leaner frame, the former SEAL was his boss at The Campus and also a close friend. The seventy-something-year-old man still trained with the team he led, which explained why he looked twenty years younger than he actually was.

  Jack’s body language said Go away. He motioned him in with his bottle anyway.

  “Yeah. Sure. Come in.”

  Clark saw the beer. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  Jack shuffled toward the kitchen. He pulled a bottle out of the fridge and handed it to Clark.

  Clark popped the top and clinked his bottle against Jack’s bottle. “I heard you checked out fine on your
physical.” He took a swig.

  “That’s what the doctor said.”

  “You look good. Tired, maybe.”

  “Didn’t sleep much last night. Otherwise, I’m good to go.”

  “You mind telling that to your old man? He called me today.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “I sent him a text.”

  “Not the same thing. In fact, your folks were hoping you’d stop by. They’d love to put their arms around your neck and see for themselves.”

  Jack headed back toward the front room and fell onto the couch. Clark took a chair and another swig of beer.

  “It’s one thing to not call your dad, but you really should call your mom. Trust me on this.”

  Jack shook his head, frustrated. The President of the United States dispatched one of the finest warriors this country has ever produced just to get him to call his mommy?

  “They know I’m okay. I’m just not ready to talk.” He looked Clark straight in the eye. “To anybody.”

  Clark ignored him. “I get it, kid. I read the report Lisanne put together. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Lisanne’s debrief chilled Clark to the bone when he read it. Jack should be dead. If that Polish fisherman had repaired his motor ten minutes earlier and headed back to port, he would have missed Jack entirely. Covering him in blankets, the fisherman got Jack to a clinic on shore just in time. They pumped him with warm saline solution and got his body temperature back to normal before any permanent damage was sustained.

  “You should be grateful to the Man Upstairs, Jack. Not sulking around the apartment feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Jack’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know what happened that night.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “The only reason I’m alive isn’t luck. It’s the fact that the bastard knew I worked for Gerry Hendley.”

  “How’d they find out?”

  “Liliana must have told them to save my life.”

  “It worked.”

  “But it didn’t save hers.”

  “That’s not on you. You did everything you could, including risking your own life to save hers.”