by Alex Ryan
Then she cried about Qing and her tragedy of a marriage. She confessed how she longed to have children, but not with a man she didn’t love and never could. Through it all, Jamie Lin listened, stroked her hair, and said how proud she was to know such an amazing and accomplished woman.
When she was done crying and confessing, a comfortable silence lingered between them. Jamie Lin eventually stood and fetched two glasses of water from the kitchen. When she returned, she invited Dazhong to spend what remained of the night with her in the apartment. With a grateful smile, Dazhong declined and said she was ready to go home.
“At least let me escort you,” Jamie Lin insisted. “Just to be safe.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, secretly grateful for the offer.
“Of course I’m sure,” Jamie Lin said.
A surge of paranoia suddenly washed over Dazhong as the gravity of what she’d shared with Jamie Lin began to register.
“Now what’s that look for?” Jamie Lin asked, putting on a concerned face.
Dazhong forced an anemic smile. “I should not have told you all those things. Some of that information was confidential. I could get in very big trouble if anyone found out.”
“It’s okay,” Jamie Lin said, placing a hand on Dazhong’s shoulder. “You have nothing to worry about. Your secrets are safe with me. Besides, all that CDC microbiology stuff you do is way over my head. Half of what you said, I don’t understand.”
“Promise me you won’t tell anyone?”
“I promise,” Jamie Lin said. “Besides, who on earth would I tell?”
“Big Mac at Vic’s?” Dazhong said.
Jamie Lin burst out laughing. “Now that really would be a disaster,” she said, finally managing to catch her breath. “But seriously, Chen, it’s okay to vent from time to time. It’s healthy, in fact. Everybody needs somebody to talk to. Someone who can help unload emotional baggage without judgment. I know Qing is not willing to be that person for you, but I am.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“I do,” Jamie Lin said, pulling Dazhong in for a hug. “That’s what best friends are for.”
Chapter 18
ViaTech Corporate Offices, eighth floor
Xinjuan South Road, Chaoyang District
Chet Lankford rested his elbows on his desk, pushed his reading glasses up on top of his head, and rubbed his tired eyes until white stars began exploding like fireworks on the inside of his eyelids. When his eyes began to ache, he leaned back in his cheap swivel chair with a tired sigh, looked up at the cheap ceiling tiles, and wondered how many new listening devices were up there now. The newest edict out of Beijing, veiled under a guise of counterterrorism, had stepped up close surveillance measures on all foreign corporations. The most crippling facet of the new rules was the banning of all virtual private networks, which might allow the tech savvy to defeat or at least complicate surveillance by Uncle Mao. Without a VPN, secure, private communication over the Internet inside China was almost impossible.
Lankford leaned forward again on his elbows and tried to compose an e-mail message on his no-longer-even-remotely-secure mail client. His e-mail would be intercepted and read; this was indisputable. The trick now was to compose a message that would convey the necessary information to his bosses in Virginia without raising any flags for the Chinese cybersurveillance team. Losing security could be financially crippling for corporations that needed that security to keep an edge in the uber-competitive marketplace. In his world, security was a matter of life and death. For a moment, he thought about deleting the e-mail and moving to a secure location to use his encrypted comms gear. But that would require ditching the surveillance team that was watching him right now, and he was way too fucking tired for that. Besides, why risk his cover for a routine status report?
Hell, I don’t even know anything.
For as long as he’d worked for the CIA, Beijing was his least favorite assignment. It was a chief-of-station-level job, though they didn’t call it that, since it was run out of the East Asia station and was considered a covert operational assignment. That was how the world was changing. Twenty years ago or more, all the chief-of-station assignments were covert with an OC, or official cover—now that was a special gig. The problem here was that he needed to function daily as a full-time regional operations manager of an international tech company that actually did the business it was supposed to. He actually had a P&L, for Christ’s sake. Then he was supposed to find another twenty hours a day to actually run his assets, manage his organic operators, and process and convey the data they collected. The end result was predictable—trying to excel at both jobs simultaneously translated to subpar performance in both.
Lankford tapped the delete button and erased his last sentence, deciding his reference to the flu would raise too many flags. How was he supposed to send a routine e-mail to “Corporate” at ViaTech that would tell his bosses at Langley about a possible biological event in the boondocks of western China?
This job is really starting to suck. I’d rather be running assets in Kabul than this shit.
He sighed. Before he sent the message, he should probably work out the more important question—did he really believe that something important to world security had struck a handful of impoverished Muslims in the middle of the desert in western China? This was China, so it wasn’t like you could just turn on Fox News or CNN for late-breaking news and investigative commentary. These people kept their own citizenry in the dark as much as they did the rest of the world. Hopefully, Jamie Lin could tease some intel out of the Chinese CDC doctor she was running. When the lead medical scientist of the CDC’s Ebola task force is dispatched to a domestic location on a moment’s notice, it raises some eyebrows. Not the way it would in the West, but still, it was something, so he needed to report something.
His mobile phone vibrated on his desk. He leered at the thing with the same disgust one would a cockroach scurrying across a kitchen counter. Whoever it was, he was not in the mood. He picked it up and glanced at the caller ID: Jamie Lin’s number flashed on the screen. He raised an eyebrow. He had not expected to talk to his agent again until morning. Maybe she had some actual information on what the hell was going on in Kashi.
“Lankford,” he said into the phone.
“Hey, handsome,” said a tipsy voice—faux tipsy, he hoped. “Wanna get a drink?”
“I don’t know,” he said, reciting lines from their mutual script. “It’s awfully late.”
“It’ll be worth it,” his agent said in a sexy voice—their code for urgency. Now both eyebrows went up. Either something really bad or something really significant must have happened or Jamie Lin would not be contacting him at this hour. She was only twenty-seven years old, and this was her first assignment running agents, but she had as much raw talent as any field operative he’d ever managed.
“Okay,” he said with forced reluctance in his voice. “I’ll meet you at the usual watering hole.”
“Twenty minutes,” she said with a giggle. “Don’t be late.”
One hour—I might have been followed.
“Don’t start without me,” he said.
Be careful.
The line went dead and Lankford set the phone on his desk.
He reached into the bottom desk drawer and pulled out the messenger bag that held his Glock 17. He rarely carried in China, but something told him the stakes had just gone up. He stood, slipped the leather strap over his shoulder, secured the office, and left. He stood a little taller, walked a little faster, felt a little younger. His senses felt sharper; his lethargic wits felt keener. It was good to be back in the spy game—the real spy game, not the mind-numbing bullshit reporting on Chinese cyberincursions and omnipresent surveillance of Western businessmen and diplomats. He was starting to like this job . . . well, better than he did five minutes ago, anyway. He glanced at his watch—he would devote a full hour to his surveillance detection route to scrub any ticks off. Tonight, he had reason to be
careful.
It took only forty-five minutes to be certain he was clean. Apparently, the Chinese surveillance teams had other priorities than to follow a nobody middle manager at ViaTech. The Noodle Bar was just what it sounded like: a small venue for late-night noodles and beer. It was located at the edge of the diplomatic and business district of Chaoyang—nearly in Xicheng. It was so off the beaten path that making the trek told a story. The story was one of impropriety: a disgruntled boss having an affair with one of his attractive young staffers. Theirs was a business of stories, each narrative designed to mimic the intricacies and intimacies of real life. Details mattered.
While the other eateries and bars in Chaoyang would be getting crowded at this hour, the Noodle Bar had only a few younger customers sitting inside. Lankford ordered two large bowls of Zha Jiang Mian—fried noodles and sauce. After a long night of partying at the clubs, his agent could probably use some protein and carbs. He ordered a Xiang Dao beer for himself and a bottle of water for Jamie Lin. He shifted in his uncomfortable chair. He hated this fucking place; eating hot, fried noodles at this hour would have him up with heartburn the rest of the night. He would eat them anyway. His discipline had gone as soft as his belly.
He was starting to get anxious. His agent better have something important to report.
The steaming bowl of spicy noodles in a thick, meaty sauce arrived at the table just as Jamie Lin waltzed through the door. He kept his grin to himself as she strutted like a supermodel in her tank top, impossibly short leather skirt, and black leggings. The makeup, the piercings, and the purple streak in her frosted hair made her look even younger and buffer than usual. This creature bore zero resemblance to the girl he had met in Langley before their pairing almost a year ago. He’d heard she was a rising star, but her performance thus far had surpassed all his expectations. She had become her OC. All hints of the Duke-educated, Division I women’s lacrosse star were scrubbed from her persona.
“Hi, sexy,” she said, kissing his cheek and collapsing into the chair beside him. He scanned over her shoulder toward the entrance while she scanned the room for a reaction to her arrival. There was none.
“I’m famished,” she said, then leaned in and whispered, “Clear.”
He nodded and whispered back. “You too.”
“Thanks for this,” she said, shoving a huge bite of noodles into her mouth with chopsticks. “I’m starving.”
He smiled at the girl and tipped his beer up. “What do you have for me?”
She slapped his arm and laughed—another ruse for whoever may be watching that they had missed—and then leaned close, digging into the noodles again. She kept her voice low.
“It’s something,” she said. “My girl is working with the Snow Leopards as well as the army. Joint task force operation.”
It took great effort for Lankford to keep his face neutral. He had expected a surprise, but sure as hell not this.
“The Snow Leopards are counterterror. What the hell are we talking about?”
“Not sure,” she said, shoving another heaping noodle bite into her mouth and then wiping her chin with a napkin. “My girl was really upset. They sent her out west for a few days, but then a heavy hitter from the army shut her out. Everything’s been cleaned and compartmentalized.”
“What about the Snow Leopards? Is there a terror component?”
“My girl thinks yes, but the Snow Leopards were sent home, too. PLA is running the show now.”
“Did she give you any names?”
“The Snow Leopard Commander is called Zhang. The PLA lead is Major Li.”
“What else?”
The young agent shrugged, but her face looked serious.
“It was not Ebola, but whatever it was has scared the hell out of her.”
“What’s scarier than Ebola to an epidemiologist?”
“Smallpox,” Jamie Lin mumbled, her mouth full of noodles. “But it’s not that either.”
“What else?” Lankford pressed. He was getting irritated now. “Gimme the gold.”
“She’s scared and angry. She suspects a cover-up, but like I said, they’ve black-balled her.”
“You’ve gotta push her. Encourage her to keep digging. She’s our only fucking asset in orbit near this thing.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Jamie Lin fired back with an adoring smile on her face.
Lankford resisted the urge to rub his eyes.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit . . .
He looked down at his bowl of untouched noodles. His mouth began to salivate like a fucking Pavlov dog. The heartburn would be murder.
He picked up his own pair of chopsticks and took a bite.
Fucking delicious.
He needed to get a handle on this shit, like, right now. Snow Leopards + PLA + CDC = big fucking red flag.
“This is big,” he said, and then lowered his voice. “It screams bioterrorism.”
“I thought the same thing, but the target is nonsensical.”
She’s right, he thought. Then again, Kashgar is becoming a problem for Beijing.
“Good work,” he said, taking a swig of beer. “See what else you can find.”
“There is one more thing,” she said, flashing him a coy smile.
Lankford raised an eyebrow.
“There’s an American involved.”
“What?” He coughed and then chastised himself for raising his voice. “Who?”
This was his turf. He knew every American operating in China.
“His name is Nick Foley,” she said. “My girl met with him tonight. She says he’s an NGO guy working on some water project outside of Kashi. He was at the scene, I think, and he was admitted to the hospital for possible exposure.”
“She met with him tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Why would she meet him at night in a club, unless they had something ‘off book’ to talk about?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll reach back for information on any other GAs or task forces operating in China. Foley better not be one of those Joint Interagency Counterterrorism jackasses playing in our sandbox without a heads up. I’ve had enough of those dipshit cowboys.”
His agent nodded and then yawned.
“Sorry, I’m hitting the wall now,” she said sheepishly. “What do you want me to do? I can rally, boss.”
Lankford smiled. What a go-getter. She was going to do great things in the Company.
“Nothing else tonight,” he said. “Get some sleep. Come in late to the office and we’ll catch up over lunch.” He put a fatherly hand on her wrist. “This is great work, Jamie. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
She smiled at the compliment. “Thanks, boss,” she whispered softly. Then she stood up abruptly and pushed from the table. “It’s your loss, Romeo,” she said, her voice slurred. “I was really, really in the mood.”
“I don’t like it when you’re this drunk,” he said harshly.
“Then take me out somewhere nice,” she demanded and faked a few tears.
“You know we can’t do that,” he said.
She flipped him the middle finger and then stumbled for the door, knocking over a chair on her way. Lankford tried to look pissed as she left, but it was hard. She had gathered a month’s worth of intel in one night.
Now it was his turn to get to work. He committed three names to memory: Zhang, Li, and Nick Foley.
His stomach growled and he looked down at his bowl.
“Fuck it,” he said under his breath and began shoveling noodles and sauce into his mouth.
There would be no sleeping tonight anyway.
Chapter 19
Capella Coffee
Wenxuenguan Road, Chaoyang District
0940 hours local
Polakov was seething.
When he was a younger man, he had killed a French intelligence officer while in the throes of such a rage. As it happened, that event had been
his last foolish and glorious act as a KGB operative before the collapse of the Russia he loved—the Russia he had spent the rest of his career helping Putin reanimate.
He was not so impetuous now.
He had evolved.
The world was a different place: more complex, but less forgiving. Greater access to information, but fewer places to hide. For Polakov, the last two decades had been a constant exercise in adaptation and self-control.
But tonight, he would take a step back into the past. The old methods had their place. The old methods could still be effective.
He touched the Polish Radom P-64 9×18 caliber semiautomatic pistol tucked in his waistband. The small gun, a variant of the more classic Makarov pistol from the glory days of the KGB, was thin and light—far less aggravating to his growing love handles than the MP-443 Grach preferred by his contemporaries. He probably should have left the weapon in his room. With his temper flaring, it would have been better not to have the option of a trigger to pull. He reminded himself that manipulation and psychological engineering were far more important tools of tradecraft than the pistol.
He spotted the arrogant bastard sipping a drink at a corner table of the highly Westernized coffee shop. Polakov scanned the café. Nothing suspicious. He strode to the table and sat boldly down beside Prizrak.
“Your recklessness and stupidity are going to unmask us both,” he said softly. “Do you know what they do to spies and traitors in this country?”
Prizrak set his chai on the table and smiled in a way that made it difficult for Polakov to resist the urge to choke the man to death.
“Then I suppose Moscow had better hurry and bring us both home.”
“Your demands are absurd and arrogant,” Polakov said, fingering the butt of the pistol in his waistband.
“But they have agreed nonetheless?” the Chinese scientist asked, unable to suppress a large, smug smile.
