“You do know where we’re going, right?”
“Of course, I do. I’ve been there before. It’s all good! Now get your things.”
Chang met her downstairs, towing his bag and wearing his overcoat. “All in,” he told himself, for the hundredth time. He should have been more worried, but the calm he’d felt the night before had returned. The current now was inexorable. It was better to relax and follow than to resist.
Vandel kept calling the DNI watch officer as dawn approached, hoping that QED’s not-quite-quantum computer had done its work. But each time, all he got was a crisp “negative, sir.” Finally, he called Seattle just after dawn.
Exhaustion had pushed Schmidt’s voice up a register. He squeaked out a greeting and something between a promise and an apology.
“I need you now, brother,” said Vandel.
“I’m almost there,” answered Schmidt. “We’ve never worked with so much data before. It took longer than I thought to tune the machine. This is like climbing Everest, but honestly, I can see the top. A little more time.”
“We’re almost at H-hour, my friend. Call your NSA control officer the minute you have something. I mean, that minute. Got it?”
Schmidt answered in the affirmative, but Vandel was gone. He needed to make final arrangements for the ground and aerial surveillance on which they would rely, precariously, if Schmidt’s machine failed.
Ford told the doorman to call a taxi from the queue outside the hotel. She directed the driver to travel south a half-dozen blocks to a tramway station in Minerva Square, and then ordered a halt.
The broad plaza was filling with people heading to work on a Wednesday morning from their apartments in the massive red-brick residential buildings that framed the square. A queue was forming for the tram. Ford handed Chang a fare card; she’d had the time, and wit, to purchase two cards the day before.
Chang scanned the tram car for watchers, hoping that Vandel had found some way to follow them. There were a few police outside, but the cabin seemed stuffed with commuters. The morning car traffic was thick alongside the tracks. Chang felt himself slipping toward the falls.
A long-ago memory came to Chang as the tramway car rattled north. He was in Tikrit, in a Humvee on a bluff high above the Tigris River, leading a convoy back to his local headquarters. “Rover” was the name of his little task force. The insurgency that nobody would talk about was in full sway. An intelligence message had come in over the combat radio. A “VBIED,” meaning a suicide car bomb, had been spotted by the surveillance cameras in a blimp overhead. The vehicle was about a half mile away and heading toward Chang’s convoy, which was about that same distance from the T-walled protection of the U.S. encampment.
“What do we do, major?” radioed the sergeant from the vehicle behind.
“Keep going,” Chang ordered, his voice even. “Rover gunners up. Keep it tight.”
Chang felt the nodes of command in every part of his body. Move, anticipate, attack. The soldiers manning the fifty-caliber machine guns swiveled toward the approaching vehicle, which was throwing up a storm of dust.
He didn’t feel nervousness or fear in that moment, but a heightened sense of alertness; all the other systems in his body slowed down; the nerves, the sweat glands, even the heartbeat. He focused his eyes and ears on the approaching threat. The VBIED, a late-model Hyundai, was moving faster than the Humvees and was gaining slightly on them.
“Rover 3, fire fifty-cal,” ordered Chang. The last of the Humvees opened up, an arpeggio of fire. They were now about three hundred yards from the entrance to the compound. If they continued, they would probably reach safety, but they would draw the car bomb toward the compound, where many dozens of soldiers and contractors were manning security.
“Halt and spread,” ordered Chang, his voice loud and firm, leached of fear. “Rover 1, Rover 2, Rover 3, I need the fifty-cal, now. Take him out.”
The VBIED approached faster, into a monsoon of bullets. A first spray caught the car, then another, and then a shattering, convulsive hail. The Hyundai exploded in a red ball of fire that reached fifty feet in the air. Chang felt the percussive force of the blast in his vehicle.
When they were safely inside the perimeter, Chang walked over to thank the members of his unit. There were tears in the eyes of several of the men. Each of them said pretty much the same thing: Thank you, sir. Chang hugged one of the men who seemed especially upset and told him that everything would be fine.
“Where are we going?” Chang asked Ford. “I don’t like a drop zone that we haven’t cleared. I thought you were going to tell me on the way.”
“We’re heading north,” she said smiling. “Northeast. Look at my compass. You’re like the donkey in Shrek, do you know that? ‘Are we there yet?’ Goodness. Don’t you trust me?”
Chang rode in silence. The tramway eventually reached the Central Station in the northeast tier of the city. Ford directed them to a Starbucks coffee shop in the station. She claimed that nobody would ever look for them in such an obviously American place, and the location would allow them to watch for surveillance. Chang ordered a double espresso.
“You’re too thin, Harris! Order something that’s bad for you.”
Chang stuck with his coffee. Ford ordered a “flat white,” which she drank with a spoon.
At ten minutes after 9:00, Ford finished off the last of her drink and announced that it was time to go. They took a taxi from the red-brick pile of the train station. They were heading south now, through the old city. They changed cabs once more, ditching the first and traversing a walkway under Dam Square and then catching the second on the other side.
The surveillance team found Ford, then lost her, and then found her again.
“Thank God for that blonde wig,” said Vandel. “We couldn’t track shit, otherwise. She knows how to do a surveillance detection run.”
“She’s good,” murmured Sturm. “She always was.”
Sturm sat next to Vandel in the back seat of a Volvo van that had been “borrowed” from the Royal Marechaussee, a paramilitary unit that assisted the Dutch police. The blue vehicle, emblazoned at the front with white and orange stripes, was one of three that had been obtained through the SOF group’s Dutch “friends.” The American officers wore the deep blue uniforms of the gendarmerie, crested with the signature emblem of a flaming grenade.
Sturm tracked the overhead surveillance on a laptop, which mirrored the display facing the two Americans in the front seats, who were dressed in the blue gendarmerie uniforms. The other two vehicles had similar feeds of the overhead surveillance. With Sturm coordinating their movements, they tried to stay close to Ford and Chang, lagging at some corners, passing them at others, always staying just far away enough to avoid detection.
“This is never going to work,” muttered Vandel. “They will have locked down the site by the time we catch up.”
Ford stopped the taxi on a street called Marnixstraat, at a bridge that crossed a small canal called the Leidsegracht. To the east, the narrow waterway was bordered by leafless trees. A small white skiff was cruising under the bridge of the next street down; to the west, the canal opened to a broader waterway called the Singelgracht. Ford paid the fare and told Chang to get out of the car.
“Let’s walk the rest of the way,” she said, putting her arm through his.
“Where are we?” he asked.
Ford put her finger to her lips and smiled.
“Almost there,” she said.
They walked down the Marnixstraat, past small hotels and restaurants and a movie theater. Chang walked slowly, but she tugged at him when he lagged.
“Stage fright?” There was a spark of anticipation in her eyes. “Come on, little brother. No time for cold feet.”
They continued walking along the sidewalk until they reached the intersection of a big street threaded by tramway tracks. The street sign said Leidseplein. Ford carefully scanned the intersection, waiting in the shadows, and then pulled Chang
with her as she took a right on the big boulevard.
The secure phone rang in Vandel’s Volvo. Sturm answered it and then quickly handed it to Vandel.
“We’ve got the coordinates, sir,” said the ODNI watch officer. “They just came in from your contractor, twenty seconds ago. We’re plugging them into your mobile grid as I read them out.”
“Thank God! Let’s have them, quick.” Vandel turned to Sturm. “Get our teams to move as soon as they register the location.”
“Okay, sir. The destination point is 52.364039 degrees North, 4.881894 degrees East. It’s an old theater called the Stadsschouwburg in Leidse Square. That’s where the target faces were recorded four years ago.”
“Roger that.” Vandel took the radio and spoke to his team.
“Showtime, everybody. Move carefully. They’ve got people in place already. When we have operational control inside this theater, we’ll take him down.”
Versions of “roger” came crackling back from two other radios. The Volvo surged forward toward the target address, which was already plugged into its navigation system.
Sturm adjusted the strap of her shoulder harness and checked her gun.
“Give me the phone again,” said Vandel. “I have to do one more thing. You’re going to think it’s weird, but it’s not the first time, right?”
Vandel placed a call to a number that had been sent to him by a DIA contact the morning before. It was the private cell phone number of the senior representative in the Netherlands of the Second Department of the People’s Liberation Army.
The phone rang twice. A Chinese voice answered warily.
“Colonel Bo, listen to me carefully. I am a friend of General Wu Huning. He knows me as ‘Alex.’ You understand so far?”
“What?” returned the wary voice.
“Just listen. I’m ‘Alex.’ I want to inform General Wu’s representative of something important that is about to happen in Amsterdam. The Minister of State Security of China, Mr. Li Zian, is about to meet with his American case officers from the CIA. I’ll say that again: Minister Li Zian is meeting his American case officers. He is going to defect to the United States. It’s probably too late for General Wu to stop it, but I thought he would like to know.”
“Repeat this, please,” said a nervous voice on the other end of the line. The PLA officer didn’t want to get the message wrong, and he hadn’t recorded it the first time. So Vandel restated the essence: The Minister of State Security was about to meet with American intelligence handlers in Amsterdam.
“I can give you the location,” said Vandel. “Do you have people in Amsterdam?”
“Yes, yes,” said the military attaché. “Amsterdam address, please.”
“The Stadsschouwburg Theater. S-t-a-d-s-s-c-h-o-u-w-b-u-r-g. Leidse Square. They’re inside. Don’t come with guns, or you’ll get shot. But you might want to see. Just to confirm the evidence.”
Vandel ended the call and gave Sturm a wink.
“Why did you do that?” asked Sturm. “It’s our operation. Why tip off the other side?”
“Insurance,” said Vandel. “They’re my backup.”
Sturm shook her heard. “You’re right. I don’t get it. We need to go.”
Denise Ford and Harris Chang approached a neo-Gothic edifice, red brick trimmed in white stone. The building was as grand and well braced as a nineteenth-century matron: Turrets capped the corners, framing three broad stone arches. A portico out front was supported by columns of alternating red and white stone, gaudy as a barber pole. A red banner above advertised the current performance in the theater inside.
Ford turned to her companion. Her smile was radiant.
“This is the place,” she said. “Lots of memories for me. This theater is where I first encountered the gentleman you’re about to meet.”
Chang looked around him, casting a fleeting desperate eye for someone he could signal. But he saw no one.
A minute before, at the back side of the building, two Volvos had discharged what appeared to be members of the Royal Marechaussee who moved quickly into the squat red structure.
“I’m inside the theater, sir,” said the leader of the SOF team. “Moving upstairs now.”
“Slowly,” advised Vandel. “Don’t panic anyone. You’re a friendly cop on a visit. There’s no emergency.”
Vandel’s car arrived a moment later. He and Sturm sprang from the vehicle. The two walked quickly to the building, accompanied by a SOF colleague in deep blue.
The theater had its usual crowd of tourists. Some were hanging out in a coffee shop to the left of the entrance. A group of school children was making its way upstairs on a tour. “I don’t like it,” muttered Sturm. Vandel ignored her.
“Dirk,” the leader of the SOF team who had been traveling in another van, met Vandel and Sturm just inside the door. Another tall, muscular man stood next to him. They both wore gendarmerie officers’ uniforms. Strapped to their belts were semiautomatic pistols and Tasers. The jackets displayed the name of the service, Koninklijke Marechaussee, under a coat of arms that showed two lions grasping a sky-blue medallion.
“Our people have gone upstairs to the theater,” said the SOF team leader. “They’re in all four corners. There’s a Chinese man sitting in a box overlooking the stage. He’s waiting for someone.”
“Does the Chinese man have security with him?”
“Four guys. Two in the hall and two outside the box where the man is sitting.”
“Can you take them down?”
“I think so. With these uniforms, and surprise. The Tasers have a range of forty feet. We’re well positioned. I think we can disarm them before they start shooting.”
“You have anyone who speaks Dutch?”
“I brought a friend,” said the American, smiling. “This is Willem. He got us the uniforms and cars. He’s actually one of the officers of this outfit. We’ve helped him out on some missions in the past. He was nice enough to return the favor.”
“Good man,” said Vandel, shaking the Dutchman’s hand. He put his finger to his lips. “Deaf and dumb,” he said. The Dutch officer nodded.
Vandel gave Dirk a fraternal knock on the shoulder. Life was about improvisation. The scripted operations were the ones that usually went wrong.
“Here’s the drill,” said Vandel. “We don’t move unless our American targets are with the Chinese man. We take down their security, first, in coordination. Then I enter his box and bring them out. No gunshots, please. That would seriously mess this up. After we get inside, have people close the doors and make sure no one gets in.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dirk and Willem together.
Willem took Vandel and Sturm up a flight of stairs, followed by a member of the SOF team in one of the purloined uniforms. The steps were marble; the gilded walls were decorated with frescos.
The sounds of children’s voices echoed from the far end of the mezzanine hall.
“Shit,” said Vandel as he watched the Dutch boys and girls, bundled in their winter coats, walking two by two toward him. He grabbed his deputy.
“Kate, get them out of there, now. Have Willem talk to them. I don’t care what you tell them. Say it’s closed for a special performance. Say the Pope is coming. I don’t care. But get the little ones out of the theater before this thing goes down.”
Sturm moved nimbly, despite her bulk, alongside the Dutch officer. They approached the teacher who was leading the group. The big Dutchman whispered gently in her ear. The teacher nodded. The file of children turned and headed back the way they came.
Vandel walked with his SOF escort toward the entrance door to the royal loge, at the far right end of the corridor. He repeated to himself the lines of the pitch he had been waiting so many months to deliver.
39.
AMSTERDAM
Denise Ford had arrived at the loge door several minutes before, holding Harris Chang’s hand as if she were afraid he would flee at the last minute. Chang took a last look for some sign t
hat Vandel and his team had tracked them to the theater, but he saw only tourists. His raft was about to go over the lip. What would he do if Vandel couldn’t close in time? He didn’t know. He patted his coat pocket to make sure the envelope was there.
The two Chinese security men outside the door recognized Ford and her colleague from photographs. One moved to open the loge door, but Ford took the ornate brass knob herself and gave it a twist. She remembered the feel, from years before.
The door swung open, revealing the austere, angular form of Li Zian, sitting in a plush red velvet chair, flanked by two other seats that were empty. Behind him was the intricately decorated proscenium arm and the rich blue velvet of the stage curtain, which was partially opened to reveal an opera set, half completed.
“Rukou!” said Li, smiling. He stood and bowed. “We meet again, where our story started.”
The Chinese intelligence officer’s voice was animated. She had come, and she had brought her trophy. The two Americans stepped down into the box. The theater appeared empty, except for two Chinese security men, one in the orchestra just below the stage, one across the way on the far side of the mezzanine.
“Wo de baobei,” said Denise Ford, speaking a Chinese term of endearment carefully from memory. She took his hand, but before she could shake it, he gave her a tender kiss on each cheek.
“I want to introduce my colleague,” she said. “Our colleague. He has come with me, as I told you he would. He’s one of the agency’s best. But they made him their enemy. Isn’t that right, Harris? You explain.”
Chang was about to speak, but Li took his hand. He held it, silently, for perhaps twenty seconds, looking Chang up and down.
“You called yourself Peter Tong, I believe,” said the Chinese intelligence chief. “But we know you are Harris Chang. We know a great deal about you. Yes, we know your whole life, as my assistant Mr. Wang explained to you in Mexico. But do we know everything? I wonder. Before I accept this gift called Harris Chang, I must know what it is.”
The Quantum Spy Page 32
