Flanagan died at Takeda Hospital three days later. A CIA Gulfstream jet flew his body back to Washington, accompanied by his shattered, grieving widow. They dressed him in the same clothes he always wore: khaki trousers, a worn tweed jacket, a button-down shirt, and penny loafers.
John Vandel met the plane. When he embraced Edith Flanagan, she began to sob.
“Who killed Mark?” Edith Flanagan asked through her tears. “Do you know?”
Vandel shook his head no. It was reflexive for him to lie, and there wasn’t enough evidence to be sure even that it had been a murder. There were too many unknowns: Who knew that Mark Flanagan was going to be in Kyoto? Who might have had a motive for killing him? What score was being settled? Vandel could speculate, but he didn’t know the answers to any of those questions.
“We loved Mark,” said Vandel. “He was one of our best officers. If someone murdered him, we’ll find out, and we’ll make them pay.”
Nearly five hundred people turned out for Flanagan’s memorial service and most of them made the trip to Arlington Cemetery for his burial, too. Harris Chang walked behind John Vandel at the funeral. His eyes were red from weeping.
30.
VIENNA, VIRGINIA
Harris Chang studied his face in the mirror as he looped his necktie. He didn’t like what he saw: His skin was puffier than it used to be. There were circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and new wrinkles on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. His mouth at rest drooped down slightly, so that his default expression was no longer a smile. His daily workouts kept his biceps firm and his legs taut, but the healthy body was a sheath. He was forty-three, but he felt ten years older.
Chang was angry and also disoriented after the death of Mark Flanagan. It wasn’t a guilty feeling, exactly, but whatever had killed him had begun with their partnership that night in Singapore. Chang had used the older man’s skills but had been unable to protect him from the consequences of their actions. Chang felt an unsettling isolation: Army officers are by definition social animals; they move together; they eat, sleep, and die together. Spies are solitary. Their work is a fabric of lies; Chang worried that he had chosen the wrong second profession.
Chang could feel the thinnest strip of fat in his stomach. He had been drinking more since he broke off with his girlfriend a few weeks before. She was an Anglo, a blonde from Phoenix; he had met her on a military dating site: “Feel safe in the arms of a military man” was the logo. The silences between them were too long, and there was too much he couldn’t talk about. When they broke up, it left an empty space. He tried a Chinese-American dating site called “2RedBeans” and another called “EastMeetsEast,” but the women looked too young, too shy, too Chinese, maybe.
Chang finished dressing. He was dreading everything about this day. He wondered, as he locked the front door, whether there was a way to start a new life without crash-landing the old one.
Chang had been summoned by John Vandel to another clandestine location in the Virginia suburbs. Chang had visited many of these islands of secrecy, but this one was new: The entry was the rear door of a bland office building on Maple Avenue in Vienna.
From the moment he left his home in the District, he sensed that a car was following him. The chase car didn’t try to disguise its pursuit. It was as if the watcher wanted Chang to know he was under surveillance and was waiting for him to bolt.
At the entrance to “Evergreen Finance” behind Maple Avenue, Chang went through a metal detector and was then frisked, not a light pat-down but a thorough examination. The guard checked each article in his briefcase and carefully unpacked his wallet. He had to surrender his phone and his watch, too. Past the guard station was a waiting room. It had the dingy look of the holding area in a courthouse where prisoners are kept in transit.
A guard from the Office of Security summoned Chang after a few minutes. He was escorted to a windowless room with a bare table and two wooden chairs. A large mirror stretched across the far wall, barely masking the observation booth behind. A camera was fixed from a metal pole across from Chang’s seat. There was a sour odor, a faint smell of decay. Whatever the agency called this room officially, it was obviously a covert interrogation site.
Vandel arrived after Chang had been waiting ten minutes. He shook Chang’s hand, but his usual affable manner had disappeared.
“We need to talk, my friend,” said Vandel, taking his seat across the table.
“Evidently. What’s up? I thought we resolved the issues you had after my Mexico trip.”
“We did. I decided to give you a break that time. This is something else. People are telling me to arrest you today. Seriously. But I still want to give you a chance.”
Chang rocked back in his chair as if he had been punched.
“What the fuck, John? What have I done now?”
“Maybe you should tell me. This is your chance, before the FBI and the U.S. Attorney get here.”
“Are you crazy? I haven’t done anything. I kept some pictures that a Chinese intelligence officer gave me. I told you that. I made a mistake. I thought it was over.”
“Forget the pictures. This is serious shit, my friend.”
Vandel removed a piece of paper from his jacket and handed it to Chang.
“Can you explain this? It was left on the voicemail drop of your alias cell phone, from a number in Vancouver. We took the liberty of intercepting it. Some people think it proves you are a goddamn traitor.”
Chang took the paper and read the words, read them twice: “Mr. Tong. We need to meet again, at the place that was agreed at our last meeting. Please follow the protocol.”
He handed the paper back to Vandel. He felt sick. There was a lump in his throat.
“This is bullshit,” he said. “They’re trying to set me up.”
“It’s hard to keep making that argument, buddy. I trusted you after your Mexico escapade. I told the Bureau to cut you some slack, but maybe I was stupid. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. Right?”
“They are completely wrong about this, John. A hostile service could do this to any officer in the agency. It’s the oldest trick in the book. I don’t understand why anyone would fall for it.”
“I’m not falling for anything. I am looking at evidence. What about this?”
Vandel dropped a rectangular device on the table. It looked like a cell phone, but it had no proprietary markings.
Chang looked at it. He didn’t touch it or leave prints.
“I’ve never seen this before. I have no idea what it is.”
“It’s a covert communications device. It was taped to the fence behind your apartment, behind the trash can. Waiting for you to pick up. We waited two days then decided to pull you in. The Bureau thinks you had been warned off.”
Chang shook his head. He began to speak, caught himself, and then started again.
“You’ve been watching me?”
“Yup. The Bureau has had sealed search warrants on you since you got back from Mexico.”
“You really think I’m a Chinese spy. Are you fucking kidding? I thought this was a joke at first, but you’re serious. For the record, I deny any allegation that I have ever worked for any government, ever, besides the United States of America. Now, I want to see a lawyer.”
“The FBI said you would lawyer up. That’s why they just wanted to arrest you and be done with it, when they found all this shit. But I said no, give me a shot with Harris. I know Harris. He won’t pull the ‘call-my-lawyer’ routine. Wrong again. But answer me one question, okay, before we go to the mattresses.”
“What’s the question?”
“Why did you set up Mark Flanagan? He was your partner, for god’s sake. He was the one who kept telling me not to worry about you. He kept saying you were a good officer, a good kid. Poor bastard. You gave them his number. How could you do it?”
Chang had struggled to keep his composure, but now he lost it. He pounded the table so hard that he might hav
e broken a bone. As he did so, he let out a scream of rage. A security guard opened the door, but Vandel waved him away.
Chang was near tears. They both waited. Chang finally spoke, saying each word carefully.
“They are playing us, John. Don’t you see that? This is what they do. I’m Chinese-American, so they work the Chinese ancestry angle.”
“I’ve considered that. But when I see so much smoke, I have to consider the possibility that it’s an actual goddamn fire. And Li Zian isn’t playing me. Believe me. His service is falling apart.”
“That’s why he’s doing this, John! He’s weak, so he tries to look strong. He’s confusing you. Distracting you. Laying a false track. You’re hunting for a Chinese mole, so he makes you think he’s recruited another one, too. That’s their game. Read Sun Tzu.”
“Fuck Sun Tzu. How did they know Mark Flanagan would be in Kyoto, unless you told them?”
“Come on! They could have found that out a hundred ways. They probably had eyes on Flanagan the moment he left Singapore. They don’t need me to tell them where he is. And honestly, John, if you think I helped them poison Mark, I feel sorry for you. That’s sick. I loved Mark. He was like my big brother. If you really think I would have helped set him up, then, yeah, shame on you.”
“Why should I believe you? A lot of bad stuff is happening, and you’re connected to all of it.”
Chang looked at his mentor and friend. Vandel was a selfish man; he was a manipulator; he was a paid liar. But he was the closest thing Chang had left to an ally.
“You should believe me because you’re not stupid. At least, I never thought you were. You have no evidence, except what someone is trying to manufacture. I’ll take a polygraph every day for a month and the needle isn’t going to budge, and the people at the Bureau will look like idiots. That’s your problem, but what bothers me is that they’re going to get away with it.”
Vandel stood up, walked out the door, and returned a few moments later.
“I told the Office of Security guy behind the mirror to turn off the camera,” he said. “To protect me, not you. I don’t want to look like a dupe later, when they fry your lying ass.”
Chang laughed, despite himself. Vandel was so nakedly self-interested.
“So what’s the deal that you don’t want to say with the tape running?”
“You take another polygraph this afternoon. And yeah, for good measure, we’ll repeat it tomorrow. If you pass, then I will consider using you as bait. Running you against them as a double agent.”
“How can I be a double agent when I’m not their agent in the first place?”
“Single, double, triple. It’s a technicality. Frankly, I don’t know what you are. The point is, are you game? Because that’s the only way you’re going to clear your name.”
“What if I say no?”
“In that case, you’re fucked. I will make it my personal business to see that you are indicted in the Eastern District of Virginia. And convicted.”
“Even if I didn’t do anything wrong?”
“That’s why we have juries. To decide questions like that.”
Chang folded his hands. He closed his eyes and lowered his head so he could think a moment. He didn’t really have a choice.
“Okay. I’ll do it. Bring the polygraph officer as soon as you can. Let’s get started. But before we do, I’ll tell you a secret. ‘Shu dao husun san.’ ”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s a Chinese proverb my mother told me. I was thinking about it today.”
“Oh yeah? How sweet. Translation, please.”
“When the tree falls, the monkeys scatter.’ ”
“You’re talking about me, I presume. Okay, insult registered.”
“Actually, John, I am talking about the Ministry of State Security. Their tree is falling, and they’re doing strange things. This play with me, for example. The hit on Flanagan. The Chinese are rattled. We need to finish what we started.”
Vandel applauded, noiselessly, patting his hands together.
“Good speech. For once, I agree with you, assuming you’re not a lying piece of shit. The polygrapher will be here in an hour. I’ll tell the Office of Security.”
Harris Chang registered no deception when he took the first lie-detector test that afternoon, and the results were confirmed by a second, longer examination the next morning with a new operator and another machine that recorded different measures of stress. They had kept him overnight at the office in Vienna, gave him a toothbrush and clean underwear, but after the second exam, Vandel called Chang and said he was free to go home.
“Am I still under investigation?” Chang asked.
“Yes, technically,” said Vandel. “And actually, too. But nobody is charging you with anything. And for now, pending other information, I have decided to believe you, which is all that matters. Go home. Chill out. Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll call you when we’re ready.”
31.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Harris Chang lived on Twelfth Street, just off Logan Circle, in the second floor of a remodeled town house. He sat in his apartment for a day, leaving only to go to the gym. He wanted to unwind, but his anger had only grown at being accused, especially at the suggestion that he had been involved in targeting his Singapore partner, Mark Flanagan. He was relieved that Vandel had decided to trust him, provisionally, but furious that his loyalty had been questioned in the first place. By the second day at home, he was bored with brooding and self-pity and decided to take a long walk.
It was a cool November day with a sharp west wind. Despite the chill, Chang was happy to escape. He walked down Twelfth Street toward the Mall, making no detours, avoiding busy locations where it might seem as if he were trying to lose a tail. When he reached the grassy promenade of the Mall, he was going to turn east toward the Capitol but decided instead on a whim to continue straight across the lawn to a museum he had never visited that specialized in Asian art. He wondered if it might look suspicious, under the circumstances, to visit a gallery filled with Chinese art, and then decided that he didn’t care.
The gallery was a revelation for a man who had spent so much of his life ignoring his country of ancestry. In room after room were objects of subtle beauty. He paused five minutes before a delicate scroll painting from the fifteenth century that showed fog-shrouded mountains, spindly trees, and the thatched hut of a gardener. Down other halls were woven tapestry panels depicting ancient travelers on their quests; a silver mirror from the seventh century, cast with the forms of magical plants and animals; portraits of gentle faces painted six hundred and seven hundred years ago; and then, in the oddest room of all, hundreds of rocks taken from the Yi River and treasured by some lost collector for their beauty and simplicity. Chang wondered what sort of person would collect simple stones.
Chang left the gallery after an hour and walked slowly back up Twelfth Street, feeling refreshed and also unsettled by this visit. When he reached his town house, he walked up the iron stairway and opened his door. An unstamped letter was lying on the floor inside, slipped through the mail slot. Chang opened it and read the handwritten message.
“Shop for olive oil at the Whole Foods Market on 14th and P Streets at 4:00.”
The letter was unsigned. It was a summons and possibly a trap. Chang knew that he should report it, instantly. He looked at his watch. It was nearly 3:30. He tried Vandel’s personal cell phone. There was no answer, but the phone wasn’t switched off. He must be away from Headquarters. Chang left a message, asking Vandel to call him back as soon as possible.
Someone was pulling his chain. Chang wanted to know who. He went upstairs and unlocked his Beretta M9 handgun, which he had not used since his Army days. He put on a shoulder holster, checked his wallet to make sure he had his carry permit, and headed out the door.
The market was a quarter mile away. Chang walked a block west, rounded Logan Circle, and continued down P Street. Now, he was looking actively
for surveillance, but none was visible. He stopped under the blue umbrella of an outdoor café outside the market and entered just before 4:00. He walked to the aisle that carried oils, canned goods, and packaged grains. He stood there for more than sixty seconds, studying the different varieties of olive oil: garlic, basil, extra-virgin, cold-pressed. He didn’t pay attention at first to the person in the Burberry raincoat who was browsing the products on the opposite side of the aisle. But then she turned toward him, and he saw her face.
It was Denise Ford. Chang recognized her from pictures. She was wearing a blonde wig and a new pair of oversized glasses. Her demeanor was restrained, her manner unhurried.
“We should talk, Mr. Chang,” she said quietly, strolling toward him. “From what I’ve heard, you need help.”
“I don’t know who you are,” he lied.
“We have no time for that. Meet me across the street at Logan Grill in ten minutes. I’ll be in a booth in the back. You need to listen to what I have to say.”
She turned and walked down the aisle, stopping to pick up a package of linguine and adding it to her basket before heading to the checkout line. Chang retreated in a daze. It was as if he had fallen into a nightmare version of his CIA life.
He walked deeper into the store toward the butcher counter. He had no idea if he was being followed. He took out his cell phone to see if Vandel had sent him a text message or left a voicemail. When he saw nothing, he pondered a moment. He was at a moment of maximum danger. The mere fact that he had encountered Ford would be damning, if it were known. He needed to report the incident to someone, if only to create a record.
The Quantum Spy Page 26
