The Quantum Spy

by David Ignatius

  Chang woke before she did. It was an hour later, in her bedroom. She had dozed off in his arms, light as a bird. She was lost in sleep. Chang shook his head. Why had he ever thought Chinese girls weren’t sexy?

  “You’re good,” he whispered.

  Her eyes opened wide, then narrowed. She was sharper, now that she’d had him in her bed.

  “You aren’t supposed to sleep with ladies,” she said, smiling, pointing a long, lacquered finger at him.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know.”

  “Can I see you again? Like tonight?”

  Li Fan paused, looking him up and down. If he had given her a packet of cash when he walked in the door, then she should make him work harder.

  “I’m busy tonight,” she said. “You can come back another time, when you have another present.”

  Chang smiled. This woman didn’t give it away. She thought she had him on the installment plan. No wonder Dr. Ma had been so eager to fatten his account in Luxembourg. Chang knew he had to get back to business.

  “I want to visit you again, Li Fan. But right now, I’d like to give you my card, so that you can contact me if you need help.”

  He handed her a “Peter Tong” card with a number that connected to a voicemail in the Ops Center at Langley. She wouldn’t take it at first, but he pressed it toward her again, and she slipped it into the bodice of her gown.

  Her hand had trembled as she took the card, and she began to sniffle again, as if on cue.

  “Don’t be frightened. You’re safe here in Vancouver. The Canadian government won’t let anyone hurt you, so long as we’re friends. I promise you that. Don’t let anyone try to scare you. You’re not in China now. People care about you.”

  “You go now, Mister America. You are a hard man, but a soft one, too. I like you. I’m glad you are my friend.”

  She took his hand and led him to the door.

  He leaned toward her to kiss her cheek. Her perfume enveloped him. He wanted to hold her close, so that she could feel him against her. He kissed one cheek, then the other.

  “Come back soon, James Bond,” she said. “I’m not very good at being alone.” She put her hand on his back and stood on tiptoes to give him a last kiss of her own. How many times had she done this, with how many different men? He could hear the brush of her silk gown, as she walked with him the last few steps.

  She closed the door firmly. Chang took the stairs back down to the lobby. He saw two Chinese faces by the door. Maybe they were from the consulate, but there were Chinese everywhere in Vancouver these days. It seemed the whole of China wanted a second passport. Chang wondered how much of what had happened he should put in his cable to Vandel.

  Not very much, he decided. What was there to say, except that he had delivered the package? What Li Fan would put in her own account of the meeting was another matter. But for the moment, Chang wasn’t worried about that, either.

  15.

  PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA

  Harris Chang caught a flight the next morning to San Francisco. He sat by the window and watched the vast watery desert of the Pacific stretching west to another world. He tried reading his Trollope, but he fell dead asleep and didn’t awaken until the plane began to bank over the San Francisco Bay. In his dream, he was still in an apartment in Vancouver, but there were other people there; their identities vanished the moment he became conscious. He thought momentarily of sending Li Fan a message when he landed, but by then his normal caution and had discretion returned.

  At the airport, he rented another Kia. The traffic was thick all the way down 101 until he finally reached the Embarcadero Road exit and the splendor of the Stanford campus. The lawns were shamrock green, the stone and adobe buildings glowed a light almond-brown. He parked along the grand oval that fronted the main quad. Students thronged the paths and walkways, pedaling their bikes to classes, talking and flirting in the morning sun.

  As Chang entered the campus, he dialed Daiyu Ma’s cell phone. It was turned off and didn’t accept voicemails. Maybe she was in class or with friends. He walked toward the red-tiled cupola of Hoover Tower until he found an academic building with an open door. Several students called out “Good morning, sir,” as he passed, perhaps mistaking him for a professor. In a men’s room inside the building, he donned a modest disguise, a wig and a pair of oversized glasses.

  Chang strode through the quad to the office of the Dean of Students in an administrative building near the lake that bounded the campus. An assistant dean said she couldn’t answer questions about students. Chang thanked her and excused himself.

  He walked to Ma’s dormitory, a two-story Spanish-style building that overlooked Lake Lagunita. It looked like a resort hotel. The resident fellow said Miss Ma was away, but he wouldn’t answer any more questions. Chang smiled and left. He had a simple backup plan ready.

  Chang took a seat on a courtyard bench facing the water and waited for Asian students to pass by on their way to or from class. He didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes, a stick-thin, beardless Chinese boy walked by, toting a backpack and a skateboard.

  “Excuse me,” said Chang. The boy had his earphones on and he didn’t hear at first. “Excuse me,” said Chang, approaching him.

  The young man was startled and took a step back. He took the buds out of his ears and squinted at Chang through his glasses.

  “I’m looking for Miss Daiyu Ma,” said Chang. “Do you know her?”

  “She’s not here,” said the boy. “She went away, I think.”

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  The boy looked suspicious. He didn’t answer questions from a stranger, even if he was a fellow Asian.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Don’t know. Have to go.” He put the skateboard to the ground, planted his feet, and rolled off.

  Several clumps of students walked past. Chang waited until he saw a solitary Chinese girl in skinny jeans and pigtails. He ventured toward her meekly, apologetically. Like nearly every student on campus, she was listening to music. She pulled out the white earphones. She was friendly, at first. Yes, she knew Ma; she lived in the same dorm. She spoke English with an accent.

  “Daiyu is in China now,” the girl said. “She left a few days ago.”

  “I’m sorry about her dad,” Chang said. “He was a fine man.”

  “Very sad,” said the girl, looking down.

  “Such a loss,” said Chang.

  “You’re not from the consulate,” the girl said warily.

  “No. Just a friend of the family. Why do you ask?”

  “I shouldn’t talk to you.” She looked anxious.

  “I was a friend of her father’s. When Daiyu gets back, maybe you could tell her that I stopped by to pay my respects.”

  He offered a card. She held it by the edge, as if to avoid contamination.

  “I must go,” she said, turning away and scurrying down the concrete path toward the dorm.

  “Don’t be scared,” Chang called after her. But she was gone.

  Chang stopped a third student a few minutes later. He was tall enough to be a basketball player. He wore square-framed dark glasses and had a hard jaw.

  “Hey, can I ask you a question?” Chang called out.

  “What about?” the boy asked.

  “Daiyu Ma. I wanted to express my condolences to her, but I guess she’s away.”

  The boy stuck out his chin. He removed his shades and glowered at Chang.

  “You’re the creepy guy who’s been asking about Daiyu.”

  “I’m just a friend of the family.” Chang extended a card. The boy looked at it and handed it back.

  “I heard about you from my brother and sister. We’re all part of SACS. We think you should leave.”

  “SACS? Never heard of that.”

  “The Stanford Association of Chinese Students. We don’t like being harassed. By anybody. You need to leave this dorm area, or I’m going to call the campus police.”

  C
hang pulled out his wallet and displayed the U.S. government ID. It bore an official-looking seal with an eagle and bunting, but it didn’t say exactly where he worked.

  “I’m a government official. My name is Peter Tong. I’m not harassing anyone.”

  The invocation of government authority only seemed to upset the young man more. He took out his cell phone.

  “I’m calling the cops,” he said. He dialed the campus switchboard. When the operator answered, he asked for the university police. When he was connected, he told the desk officer that a man named Peter Tong who claimed to work for the government but had a phony ID was harassing students. He gave the location.

  “Calm down,” said Chang. “You’re only going to make trouble for yourself.”

  The young man shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He took up his phone again and punched a text message, which he sent to a group address.

  A burly Stanford police officer arrived within five minutes, followed quickly by two more. Chang showed them his ID and then, quietly, hoping he wouldn’t be overheard, asked the campus cops to call the San Francisco office of the FBI. The campus police asked him to explain; Chang said he couldn’t in an authoritative, trust-me voice. The cops seemed convinced, and one of the officers went over to the tall undergraduate who had called in the complaint, to tell him that everything was fine.

  But by then it was too late. A half-dozen Asian-American students had converged on the courtyard, and they were soon joined by a dozen more. The group formed a semicircle around Chang and the campus cops.

  “Stop harassment now,” called out the tall student who had summoned the crowd. The other students quickly joined in a rhythmic chant. “Stop . . . harassment . . . now . . . Stop . . . harassment . . . now.” Many of the students took out their cell phones and began recording videos of the scene.

  “Oh shit,” muttered Chang, loud enough for the cops to hear him.

  The senior campus policeman put a hand on Chang’s elbow and whispered in his ear. “We need to get you out of here.”

  The three cops formed a cordon around Chang and escorted him away from the gathering crowd, out of the courtyard and toward the main quad.

  The Asian students’ group was emboldened by its success, and the shouting got louder. An older grad student began shouting, “FBI . . . out . . . now.” That was picked up by others and morphed into “CIA . . . out . . . now,” mingled with the initial chant about stopping harassment.

  The cops walked the visitor all the way to the main headquarters of the Stanford Department of Public Safety on Playa Street.

  Chang asked to see the commander of the force privately. After five minutes the police captain, a big man with a shaved head, emerged from his office and extended his hand. A patch on his shoulder identified him as an officer of the Santa Clara County Sheriff’s Department, which oversaw the Stanford Police.

  Chang handed over his Peter Tong identification badge and asked the captain to check it with the FBI special agent in charge in San Francisco. The captain gave him a big-guy wink and said he used to work for the Bureau himself. The special agent in charge was one of his best friends. He disappeared to an inner office to make the call and emerged five minutes later, smiling and shaking his head as if to say, what are the crazy bastards from the CIA going to do next.

  “You’re clear, but Jesus, what a mess.” The police captain handed back the alias ID.

  “Thanks. Sorry to cause such a commotion.”

  The captain nodded grimly. He was going to have to pick up the pieces on campus, and he was pissed.

  “The FBI blew your cover, my friend. I told the special agent in charge that he had to level with me, or I wouldn’t let you go. You folks aren’t supposed to pull this shit without telling us. What kind of name is Harris Chang, anyway?”

  “It’s my name. Harris. Chang.”

  “Sure, but it’s so tweedy. Sounds like a sports car. Harris. Not like Mick or Bob, or Ye-Win, or Wu-Tai.”

  Chang’s eyes narrowed. “My great-grandfather came from Canton. The Chinese emigrants from there took British names. Hanson. Anson. Jansen. You have a problem with that?”

  The captain punched the CIA officer’s shoulder.

  “Hey, lighten up, Harris. I’m just teasing you. Don’t be so thin-skinned. Otherwise, we’ll never get along.”

  That should have been the end of it, but by then some of the aggrieved students (or to be more precise, the Chinese student association’s activists) had gathered outside the police headquarters, demanding to lodge a formal protest.

  The associate dean of students arrived, and then the associate general counsel, and then the university vice president for administration. They took turns talking to Chang, consulting the FBI office in the city, and conversing with each other. Chang sat quietly through it, listening to the intermittent chanting. It was hot under his wig.

  After nearly an hour of commotion, inside and outside the building, the Stanford vice president for administration met with the leader of the Stanford Association of Chinese Students. The administrator promised to meet with the student group to discuss the issues of unannounced visits to campus by government officials and better protection against harassment of students of color, including Asian-Americans.

  While this discussion was taking place, Harris Chang slipped out the back entrance of the Department of Public Safety building, wearing a Stanford hoodie that had been provided by one of the campus cops. He made his way across campus to the parking facility near the Oval, where he had left his little Kia, and motored off campus.

  It wasn’t until he got to downtown Palo Alto that he stopped and called John Vandel’s office at Headquarters.

  “What the hell happened out there?” asked Vandel. “We damn near had to call the attorney general to get you released. How did you manage to cause a campus riot in one afternoon?”

  “Just doing my job. You wanted to pull people’s chains, so I did.”

  “I thought these Chinese students were supposed to be quiet, passive types. Keep their heads down. 4.0 average. Don’t cause trouble.”

  “Racial stereotypes will get you in trouble every time, sir. I expected that too, for what it’s worth.”

  Vandel laughed. He assumed Chang was joking.

  “Well, mission accomplished, in terms of pulling the chain in Beijing. The FBI told me the Chinese student group is already posting pictures of Peter Tong on Facebook and Twitter. They sent me a link. Thank god you were wearing a disguise.”

  “What do you want me to do now?”

  “Come home, for Christ’s sake. And don’t talk to any more Chinese students.”

  Chang promised he would be back in D.C. the next afternoon. That night, he did manage to spend some of the operational budget. He checked into the Fairmont and took himself to an Italian restaurant in North Beach, where he had a steak and two martinis.

  Chang walked back to his hotel along Grant Avenue, through Chinatown. His mother’s family had lived here for three-quarters of a century, and during the summers he had sometimes come to stay in his aunt’s cramped apartment. He hated the smells back then; so much garlic, so many strange cuts of meat and fish; so many little men and women quacking at each other in Cantonese. Chang had been happy to get back to Flagstaff and not feel so entrapped by his ethnic roots.

  There was that trace of shame, always. To survive in America, you humbled yourself; you made deals. To keep the Flagstaff cops from squeezing the family business, his father had turned in a crowded house full of undocumented Chinese neighbors. How had that felt, to rat out his own people so that he stayed on good terms with the white man? Chang had never dared to ask. It was why he had been happy never to learn Chinese; it distanced him. And yet this insistently American Harris Chang had twice in the last twenty-four hours tried to manipulate people using his Chinese skin. Identity was something you couldn’t escape, shouldn’t escape.

  This evening, the noisy Chinatown street seemed congenial and welcoming. The
whole of Grant Avenue was hung with red lanterns every fifty yards. People poured out of the restaurants and shops, ignoring the traffic as they laughed and traded stories. All the shop signs were in Chinese characters; English was a concession for visiting tourists. Chang stopped at the stores selling jade and crystal imports and colorful knickknacks from the mainland. As Chang passed, people called to him in Chinese.

  Chang stopped when he reached an old Chinese-style building with a crenelated red-tile roof and a wrought-iron grill across the balcony. He remembered this building from long ago, and it made him oddly nervous. He tried to recall the name, and it fell into his head, suddenly. This was the “Association,” that was the shorthand. The Fung Yee Tien Association, where his maternal grandfather once had friends. As a boy, it had seemed darkly forbidding. No one ever talked about what happened inside. Now it was just an old, run-down Chinese building.

  Chang had asked his aunt once to tell him more about his grandfather, what he did and who he was in Chinatown, but she just shook her head and put a finger to her lips. His mother was the same way. She never wanted to talk about her father, even when Chang pressed. He had found a picture of him once at the back of a drawer. He was a handsome young man, dark hair slicked in place, passion in his eyes. Chang figured that he must have been some kind of Chinatown fixer, and after a while, he stopped asking his mother and his aunt any more questions.

  Harris Chang walked the rest of the way back to his hotel enjoying the lights and noise, feeling for once at home in this enclave of Chinese separateness. Everyone has a secret in his past. Sometimes it’s so well hidden, we don’t know ourselves what the secret is.

  16.

  WASHINGTON, D.C., AND SEATTLE

  Jason Schmidt, the founder of Quantum Engineering Dynamics, was better at inventing new technology than at following government rules. He resented having to put his cell phone in a locker every time he went into his laboratory. He disliked the security officer who stopped him at the entrance and asked to see his badge every time he entered the headquarters of his own company. But this was the price of patronage from the intelligence community: Schmidt now worked in a “SCIF,” a Secure Compartmented Information Facility. He had an electrified steel fence around his building. His communications were monitored. His only customer was the government, which meant that he was a kept man.