by Alex Ryan
Polakov leaned forward on his elbows and grumbled. “Yes.”
Prizrak’s face glowed. “That is wonderful news, comrade.”
They both knew Polakov’s chastisements and posturing were nothing but a game. Moscow would never risk Prizrak’s invention going to some terrorist organization or one of Russia’s enemies. Still, Prizrak was naïve if he thought he was immune to retribution. Even in this post–Cold War world, Moscow was quick to issue kill orders when “problems” began to get out of hand. Losing the weapon was not an option. If it could not belong to Russia, then it would not belong to anyone. Either way, Prizrak’s latest stunt had sealed his fate. Once the weapon technology was safely in Russian hands, accounts would be balanced. Oh, how he would enjoy killing this scorpion of a man.
Now it was Polakov’s turn to smile. “I am afraid that we cannot leave just yet, comrade,” he said, his tone slow and mocking. “But Moscow has concerns that need to be addressed before entrusting you with a director-level position in VECTOR.” Polakov nearly choked on the title—the absurdity that this arrogant psychopath would believe he would hold such a powerful position in the Russian military-science complex after betraying his own country. He shook the thought off and relished the confusion on his asset’s face.
“Concerns about what?” Prizrak demanded.
“Why, your wife of course,” Polakov said, and he watched Prizrak’s face flush.
“She will come with me, of course,” Prizrak said, but he was clearly caught off balance by this shift. “She is loyal to me,” the Chinese scientist growled. “That is all you need know.”
Polakov was enjoying himself now and crossed his legs at the knee and smiled. “Moscow doesn’t share your opinion, especially since your wife has been observed interacting with the American CIA.”
“Absurd,” Prizrak said, a vein standing up on his forehead. “I can assure you, my wife would never betray me. Nor would she betray China. You are either mistaken or lying. You’re trying to manipulate me.”
“Take care with your voice,” Polakov said, relishing every syllable of the conversation. “We don’t care how much your wife parties or who she fucks in her spare time—”
“How dare you insult me,” Prizrak interrupted, his voice nearly hysterical.
Polakov grabbed the man’s wrist near the base of his thumb and applied pressure. “Silence,” he commanded, and for the first time in a few years, the Chinese scientist did exactly as he was told.
“Nothing is impossible. Your arrogance will get us all killed,” Polakov said, releasing the man’s wrist and leaning back in his chair. “The only question is whether your wife has been turned or not. All that matters now is what your wife knows about the technology, our plans, and how much she’s told her CIA handler.”
“She knows nothing,” the Chinese traitor stammered. “She thinks I’m developing implantable diagnostic microarrays.”
“Perhaps,” Polakov said. He had his asset right where he wanted him. “But we must assume there is a chance she may have pieced something together. We must be safe and assume that the CIA is close to figuring this out, if they have not already. And we must assume that your own government is not far behind.”
“They are all fools,” Prizrak scoffed, but his voice lacked true conviction. “By the time they put the pieces together, we’ll be long gone.”
Polakov stood. “My sentiments exactly, which is why the time has come, Prizrak,” he said, his hand on the man’s trembling shoulder. “We must leave now. You will transfer the technology immediately and then I will get you safely out of China.”
“We are leaving for Russia now?” Prizrak asked with incredulity.
“Yes,” Polakov lied. “Once I have the weapon technology transferred, I will accompany you to Koltsovo so you can start your new life.”
The asset looked up at him with eyes that were clouded with something other than fear. A wife’s betrayal stings deep, Polakov knew. “How much time do you need?”
“Twelve hours,” Prizrak said.
“Nothing can be left behind,” Polakov instructed. “No data, no inventory, no feed stock, nothing—do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Do you need me to review how to operate the incendiary devices?”
Prizrak shook his head.
“Very well,” Polakov said. “A word of caution, Prizrak. Stay away from your wife. Do not go home. Do not confront her. Do not do anything that could jeopardize our departure. When you are ready to leave, text message me the word ‘Raven’ and I will give you the location of our meeting place.”
“I understand,” Prizrak said, but Polakov did not like the ice in the man’s voice. “Twelve hours.”
“Be careful,” Polakov warned as the man rose. “Time is running out for us, and I would hate for anything unexpected to happen to you.”
The scientist scurried out of the coffee shop, shoulders drooping. Bravado gone.
Polakov looked at his watch.
In less than twelve hours, the creator of the most powerful weapon in the world would be dead, and Polakov would be on his way home . . . a hero of New Russia.
Chapter 20
Lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel
Chaoyang District
1140 hours local
As a teen growing up in Chanute, Kansas, Chet Lankford spent every spare minute reading spy novels. His favorites he read multiple times, searching for nuances, the secrets of tradecraft, and dark truths about the human condition. Unlike most boys his age, his first true love had not been football or the girl next door, but the complete set of Ian Fleming’s Bond novels. He was shy, despite his raging hormones, and found himself living vicariously through Bond, who never seemed to run out of opportunities for exotic adventure and gratuitous sex. As he matured, so did his reading list, with John Le Carre, Ken Follett, and Robert Ludlum relegating 007 to the bottom shelf.
When it was time to apply for college, his father pressed him to pursue engineering at a state university. A surprise acceptance letter from Dartmouth College, coupled with a generous financial aid package, changed all that and set him on fate’s path. During his final semester, the spymasters found him when the CIA’s Ivy League recruiter did what he did best—spotted raw talent. The recruiter sensed what young Chet Lankford thirsted for and tempted him with allusions to a cloak-and-dagger world just behind the curtain. It only took a couple of years working under the growing federal oversight demanded by the Clinton administration before the CIA of his imagination faded away and was replaced with the stark reality of bureaucratic espionage. James Bond was allegory . . . nothing more.
During the early years, Lankford kept his head down, his nose clean, and worked his ass off. Advancement became his primary focus. But just when he thought he’d found his groove, some Islamic terrorists slammed a couple of planes into the twin towers and the world went insane. The cold war intelligence community of his youth was gone forever. He adapted. He matured. And he did what the Company asked him to—running assets in Afghanistan, Africa, and Iraq.
Now he was in China, and the Agency asked that he adapt yet again. The rise of China as a superpower was changing the global military-political landscape. Had a new cold war begun? Was China tomorrow’s Soviet Union? No, probably not. The veins and arteries connecting the economies of America and China did not exist between America and Russia last century. Sever too many blood vessels and the economic heart keeping the world alive would go into defibrillation. Nonetheless, it was obvious to Lankford that not everyone got the memo, because the global level of clandestine activity had reached epic levels.
“Moscow rules” were back, only this time in Beijing.
He folded his paper in his lap and adjusted his trousers, trying to get comfortable in the God-awful modernistic chair in the Four Seasons lobby. He’d adjusted his seat to the perfect angle to cover the main entrance, the elevators, and the front desk. He feigned checking his e-mail on his phone and thumb-typing a mes
sage as he scanned the room with his peripheral vision. He held back a boyish grin. This was the kind of spook shit that he had signed on for all those years ago. He would be having the time of his life if he only understood what the hell was going on.
And if my surveillance target wasn’t an American ex–Navy SEAL.
His research—well, the research conducted by a team of analysts thousands of miles away and transmitted in real time to his mobile phone via encrypted satellite feed at the speed of light—would have given Ian Fleming a hard-on. Lankford, however, did not have a hard-on. The kids at Langley had not found jack shit on Foley. No one could even guess whom Foley was working for. There were a myriad of small joint task forces in play nowadays that could have employed him, but no one would raise a hand to claim their lost pit bull.
He knew Foley was working for someone, and that someone was not the CIA.
In Lankford’s mind, Foley fit the perfect profile for a covert operator: former Navy SEAL, in the prime of youth, well trained, and well educated. The man had three combat tours in total and had earned a Silver Star with a combat V in addition to numerous other awards, including two Purple Hearts. Navy SEALs were the most highly skilled, intelligent, and committed killers in the world. The Agency’s own Special Activities Division was busting at the seams with former frogmen for this very reason. There was no way in hell that Nick Foley had quit the world’s most elite special operations force to dedicate his life to bringing clean water to the poverty-stricken religious minority in bum-fuck western China.
No way. It would be too tragic of a waste of talent.
Foley’s record, and what must most certainly be his NOC—his nonofficial cover—was exactly what he would expect from a clandestine service operator. But whatever outfit was working this guy, they were some spooky sons of bitches. The current crop of analysts in Langley were the best he’d ever seen; if they couldn’t find anything on Foley, then the architects of Foley’s NOC were cybergods. If Foley truly had squandered the training and expertise the US Navy had bought and paid for by joining a nonprofit to dig ditches in the desert . . . Lankford shuddered in abhorrence at the thought.
The elevator dinged.
Lankford raised his paper, flipping the page and using his peripheral vision to scan the three people emerging through the ornate doors. Towering a foot above two Chinese businessmen was his target, dressed in a form-fitting Under Armour T-shirt and gray running shorts.
Very subtle, Foley. Jeez, why don’t you just wear a SEAL team ball cap?
That was the problem with former operators—they always looked like former operators.
Foley walked past him without a glance, popping in some ear buds and looking at his phone. Lankford waited, just so, and then followed Foley out of the lobby onto the sidewalk. He followed for two blocks before deciding to close the gap. As Foley turned left, Lankford reached out a hand for his shoulder and then thought better of it. An undercover ex-SEAL on a mission might just accidentally break an arm for that.
Lankford called out instead.
“Mr. Foley—excuse me,” he said, loud enough to be heard over whatever the SEAL was listening to on his ear buds, “MR. FOLEY?”
Foley turned, surprised but not startled or defensive. The SEAL looked Lankford up and down and then popped his ear buds out.
“Can I help you?” There was a hint of suspicion in his voice, and Lankford noted how Foley made a quick scan of the area around them.
Checking for enemies, assets, and escape routes. There’s my little spook.
“Do I know you?” Foley asked, draping his ear buds over his shoulder.
“No,” Lankford said. “I’m from the US embassy here in Beijing. Can we talk for a moment?”
Foley pursed his lips. “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “Is this about what happened in Kizilsu? Did you speak with Commander Zhang? That asshole still has my passport, you know.”
Lankford reeled at the mention of Kizilsu. He didn’t expect to be caught off guard and tried to cover his surprise with a smile.
“Perhaps we could sit and talk for a moment? Somewhere quiet?”
Foley shrugged again and looked at his watch.
“Sure,” he said. His eyes held Lankford’s a moment, sizing him up. “What did you say this was about?”
“I didn’t,” Lankford said, smiling again. “Please, Mr. Foley. It will only take a moment.”
“Okay.”
Lankford put a guiding hand on the small of Foley’s back. Finding no weapon, he gestured to the right along Liangmaqiao Road.
In response, Foley widened his gait, separating himself a half pace while glancing over his shoulder. “Embassy Row is the other way, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Lankford answered, giving his best bureaucrat smile. “I thought we would just sit and chat away from the office, if that’s okay? I know a little bakery just a half block down—they have the best bings. Have you had Chinese pastry during your time here? I’m positively addicted,” Lankford said, relaxing into the role. He laughed and patted his waist.
Foley slowed until their shoulders were even but opened an arm’s length gap between them.
“You said you’re with the embassy, right? Forgive me, but do you have some identification?”
Lankford stopped and laughed with a good-natured eye roll.
“Of course. Gosh, I’m so sorry, Nick. Mind if I call you Nick?”
He pulled out a black case with a photo ID that identified him as part of the embassy staff and showed it to Foley. The SEAL studied the ID intently for a moment, glanced at Lankford’s eyes for a long second, then handed it back.
“This is about the accident outside of Kashi, right? You guys gonna get my passport back for me?”
“Sure—of course,” Lankford said. “We didn’t know you lost it, actually.”
“I didn’t lose it,” Foley snapped. “I told you it was taken by the head of the Chinese counterterrorism unit when I was in Kizilsu.”
“Right,” Lankford said. What the hell was Foley up to? Why was he letting out so much information? Hiding in plain sight, maybe? “Commander Zhang, you said?”
Foley nodded. “From the Snow Leopards.”
“The Snow Leopards? My God,” Lankford said, trying to sound amazed. “Seems strange they would get called in to investigate an industrial accident.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Foley said, shaking his head.
“Why do you think Zhang is interested in you?”
“As I’m sure you know, I work with an NGO on a clean water project out west. But given my background, I’m not surprised I popped on Zhang’s list. He thinks I’m involved.”
Lankford stopped and turned to the SEAL, his face hardening. He looked into Foley’s eyes the way he would a hostile interrogation subject.
“Were you?” he asked. He let the question hang a moment and then continued just before Foley could answer. “Were you or the organization you work for involved in a bioterror attack on a Uyghur mosque in Kizilsu, Nick?”
“Of course not,” Foley said, his voice calm and even. “Were you or the organization you work for?”
Lankford held the SEAL’s gaze, loving the dance, loving the bravado this kid had.
“As a general rule, the US Department of State tries not to get involved in such matters.”
“True, but as a general rule, the Central Intelligence Agency does—Mr. Lankford, did you say it was?”
Okay, now that we’ve established we’re on the same team, let’s talk turkey, Lankford thought. Like what the fuck is Foley doing operating in China without the courtesy of notifying him. China was his playground . . .
“Here we are,” Lankford said with a smirk, gesturing behind him at the Honglu Mill Bakery, set back from the road and just short of the Guang Ming Hotel.
“Your treat,” Nick said.
“Of course,” Lankford said. They had sniffed each other out and settled motives. Now they could get to the business of haggling for informat
ion—spook to spook.
Lankford bought a sticky, sweet bing for each of them and two cups of dark roast coffee. Then he joined Foley at a small, round table in the corner.
“So,” Lankford began, sipping at his coffee. The Chinese made a helluva pastry, but they didn’t know shit about coffee. “Now that we’ve made our introductions, how about we start with you telling me exactly what you guys are doing here in China?” Lankford knew he would get the information much more quickly if he pretended to know who “you guys” were.
“Or,” Foley said, not touching his pastry. “We could start with why the CIA is trying to get information from a private American citizen doing charity work instead of directing the actual embassy staff to help me get my passport back.”
“Oh, please,” Lankford snorted. “Give me a break, Foley. You have the gift, to be sure, but come on. Whoever built you your NOC didn’t do you any favors setting you up as charity worker digging ditches for the Uyghurs. Good Lord, man.”
Lankford watched the SEAL closely and saw his eyes go somewhere else for moment before drilling into his forehead like two blue lasers.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Foley said, his face a blank slate.
“Look, Foley,” Lankford said and leaned in. “We’re on the same team, bro. We have the same goals. I’m not one of those ‘protect my rice bowl’ guys. I want what you want. I want to keep Americans safe and American interests protected. I have no interest in getting in your way. If I can help—let me.”
Foley said nothing and looked down at his untouched pastry.
Lankford went in for the kill.
“All right, look,” he said. “I get it. You don’t know me. You need to vet me through your task force before you’ll talk. But even then you don’t really know me, because we haven’t logged time together. How can you trust a guy unless you’ve logged time in the field with him? But I’ve worked with team guys a lot—hell, we may even have met downrange somewhere. The point I’m trying to make is that I want to help you, Nick. I have resources at my disposal. I have information that could help keep your op moving forward.”
