by Adam Brookes
Julia was laughing.
“Yes! You help us with Differential Equations and we cook for you!”
“Like you need my help,” she said. But the thought fluttered in her mind: How do I do this? How do I respond so that they like me, but I don’t give everything away?
“Chi baozi! Chi ba!” Eat the baozi, Cal shouted. Pearl took one from a big blue plate. The bread had steamed nicely and was fluffy and light, and inside was salty, juicy pork. It was soft and chewy and comforting. Cal was pouring out the vinegar into little condiment dishes for dipping.
Charles wanted to question her.
“So you have a sponsorship, right? From some big corporation?”
“Kind of a small corporation, actually.”
“Oh, a small corporation. Which one?”
“It’s called Telperion.”
“And they pay your tuition?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Charles was nodding. “Huh. That’s good. And they make weapons, right? Like cyber weapons.”
“Really?” said Julia. “Weapons?”
“Well, they build platforms for different stuff.”
Cal was watching her, half-smiling. “But it’s national security ‘stuff,’ right?” He made scare quotes with his fingers in the air around the word “stuff.”
“Well, yeah, I guess.”
Julia was wide-eyed.
“Wow,” she said. “So what sort of weapons? Like, what do they do?”
Cal wiped his hands on a towel. “Classified,” he said. “Right, Pearl? We ordinary folk cannot know.”
Pearl felt uncomfortable, cornered. And Cal wasn’t helping her out, to her alarm.
“Well, I don’t work on those things, so I don’t really know,” she said.
“If you did know, would you tell us?” said Charles. “I mean, I’m from China, right? And you know what? I’m a Communist Party member. So when you have a security clearance you will have to report that you met me and I asked you these questions, won’t you? A foreign contact report?”
“I will?” said Pearl.
The other three all smiled.
“Ummm, yup,” said Charles.
Pearl was dumbfounded.
“But, not just because of meeting you at a social thing, like this,” she said.
Charles just raised his eyebrows.
“I think especially at a social thing like this.”
“Okay, Charles, I think you’ve made the point,” said Cal.
“I mean, I could be anybody, right? I could be Ministry of State Security. I could be United Front Work Department. I could be PLA Second Department. You don’t know.”
“What is that? I don’t know what those things are,” Pearl said.
Charles stared at her.
“They are very tough people, Pearl, who want your shit. And they will manipulate you to get it.”
“But you’re a friend of Cal’s,” said Pearl, hearing her own voice sound whiny, weak.
Charles looked at Cal, and snorted.
“He’s from Hong Kong. He doesn’t know anything about who I am.” Cal looked taken aback.
“Okay, Charles,” said Julia. She came over to Pearl and put an arm around her. “Don’t pay him any attention, Pearl. He’s a bully.”
“I’m not a bully,” Charles said, his tone veering into exasperation. “I just want to know why a scientist—a real scientist—would go and jump into this world of … of weapons and violence and nation states at each other’s throats just to win some stupid capitalist competition.”
Pearl struggled to find a response, but none came.
“I mean, you are working on drones, right?” Charles continued. “Drone swarms? Cal said so. You know what that means, right? It means weaponised drones, in their millions. That’s our future. Some small as insects. Some big as houses. Everywhere. Killing, maiming. I mean, why do you want to build that?”
“All right, Charles. That’s enough.” Cal put his arm around her.
Charles smiled, held up his hands.
“Okay. Sorry. Duibuqi.”
Pearl stood in silence, holding her half-eaten baozi. She felt ridiculous and young, much younger than anyone else present. There was an awkward silence between the four of them.
“Well, I’ll just see if anyone else wants baozi,” said Cal, and he went to the next room.
Charles was still watching her, chewing. “How much is the stipend?” he asked.
“Stop it now, Charles, I mean it,” said Julia. “Hey, Pearl, look, we are going to go for a hike tomorrow. Up in Patapsco. There’s a lake, we can swim. Will you come with us? Charles will stop being so obnoxious, I promise.”
“I don’t think I can, but thanks,” Pearl said.
“Really, go on. It’ll be fun.”
“I just don’t think so,” said Pearl. She put down her baozi, gave them a brief smile and slipped out of the kitchen, out of the front door, and away.
Later, she sat in her bedroom under her blanket, listening to K-pop—something else Cal had turned her on to, the music so corny, shiny, carefree. She felt hollow, as if the brief time she’d spent at Cal’s had sucked her sense of self out of her. She’d never been challenged like that before, never had her achievements questioned. She must be weak. How quickly she’d been wrong-footed, even come close to tears. And Cal hadn’t sided with her. Why not? He wasn’t loyal. She didn’t deserve his loyalty.
It was nearly ten before he texted her.
P, You left so quickly. I’m sorry. I guess Charles made you feel uncomfortable. You okay? C xx
She texted back.
Kind of upset.
I’m sorry. He can be kind of a douche.
He really hates me.
No he doesn’t. He admires you. He hates weapons manufacturers.
What about you?
I think you could come live on campus and get exposed to different PoV.
A pause. Then Cal again.
What ya doin?
Lisning to Fab Boy Five.
Ooooh gonna build a tower o’power oooh ooh. You just like their abs
You think I should leave Telperion?
Another pause, longer this time. She stared at the screen, willing him to respond.
It’s what you think that matters Pdawg. Xx
15
Washington, DC
Patterson gave it twenty-four hours, then called Polk again. He was on his cell phone, breathless, traffic and a siren in the background.
“I need to buy you another coffee. Or maybe lunch this time. Or tell you what, how about a drink after work? Let’s go and get a beer or five.” She was gabbling.
“Why? Nothing’s changed since you ravished me in Starbucks.”
“It’s changed for me.”
“And that, my dear, is your affair.”
“Come on, Frankie. You know you want to.”
“I want to? Yeah, no.”
“I’ve got a name. A designator.”
“And I’ve got chlamydia. Go away.”
“I will be at Vapiano’s on 19th at six o’clock.”
“Enjoy yourself.”
He hung up.
Vapiano’s was full of a youngish after-work crowd, journalists from the bureaux on M, Peace Corps types from around the corner, some K Street suits, loud, smart and gossipy. Not a good choice, she thought. She sat at one of the tables outside, drank a beer, watched the minutes tick by. No Polk. At 6:23 p.m., she was pondering a second beer when a text came in.
BLACK ROOSTER. NOW.
Clueless, she searched on her phone. A “pub,” two blocks away. She grabbed her bag and ran, clattering down the pavement.
It was dim and half-empty and smelled of disinfectant and stale beer. Polk was right at the back, in a corner, with a bottle of pale ale and a plate of fries.
“Don’t ever, ever invite me to Vapiano’s, ever again,” he said.
“It’s not that bad.”
“I would sooner stay home and chew off my extremities
.”
“You’re a right charmer, Frankie.” She signalled to the waiter for two more beers. “Nice you changed your mind.”
He gave her a direct look, the humour gone.
“Yeah. Well.”
She waited, but nothing more came.
“So,” she said. “London is—” She stopped as the waiter came over and put two more bottles on the table. The place was filling up a little, and someone had put music on, eighties songs, little shards of her childhood. “London is saying they are concerned, particularly concerned over this one designation. I don’t know why, but they are.”
Polk looked at her, shrugged. It occurred to her that he really didn’t want to be there. Someone had told him to come, perhaps. Something had, in fact, changed.
“Frankie, can you help me with this? I’ll return the favour.”
“Oh, really? And how will you do that?”
“Well, I don’t know, but there’ll come a time …”
“No, there won’t. There never comes a time.” He took a long pull at the bottle, but his eyes stayed on her.
“The designator …”
“Are we in a SCIF?” he said.
“What? Are we what?”
“Are we in a SCIF? A Secure Compartmented Information Facility? You know, those shitty rooms that are the only places you’re allowed to discuss this stuff? You’ve heard of those places? Forgive me, I thought we were in a shitty bar downtown.”
She looked down at the table, pursed her lips.
“How do I get it to you?” she said.
“Why would I want it?”
“Because you’re not an asshole, and it’s important and you know it. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
He took a notebook and pen from his pocket. He wrote something, tore the page out and pushed it across the table to her. It was a classified email address—no name, just a number.
“Does this go to you?” she said.
Polk shrugged.
“Who sees this?” she said.
He picked up his beer and pulled on it, saying nothing.
“I have to send it here?”
He nodded.
She sighed and put the piece of paper in her wallet.
“What’s the problem, Frankie?”
“You. You’re the problem.”
“Why?”
“Who else are you talking to about this?”
“Just London.”
“Who in London?”
“Who? I can’t tell you that.”
“Who?”
“Really, I can’t tell you that.”
“You talking to your bosses here in DC? In Liaison? Markham? Tipton? They know you’re here?”
“Well …”
He turned his head part way, looked at her out of the corner of his eye.
“Why this particular designator?”
“I don’t know.”
He shrugged again, stood up, dropped a twenty on the table, and left without a word. She watched his back, his weightlifter’s gait, the arms hanging outward at his sides. He’d been lulling her, hadn’t he? Feeling her out, then wrong-footing her, then opening the door, hinting she could come in.
When, back at Station, she reported to Hopko by secure email, the response was immediate, even though it was one in the morning in London. “You will send Polk the designator at the address he gave you. Insist on an immediate response.”
They’re frantic, she thought. Why?
She imagined some operation somewhere betrayed and failing, agents drifting into the dark, Hopko trying to reel it all in.
Who was Monroe? What had he betrayed? To whom?
There was the piece in the Washington Post. It had taken a few days, but there it was.
(Washington) The FBI is rushing to assess the damage to national security after a senior intelligence official was found dead and a search of his house revealed boxes of highly classified files and computer drives loaded with secret material.
The body of Jonathan Monroe, 61, of Bethesda, Maryland, was found in a car near Great Falls earlier this week following what police called “an apparent suicide.” Mr. Monroe was a highly regarded specialist in Chinese affairs at the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research.
The FBI confirmed it is investigating the circumstances surrounding Mr. Monroe’s death. An official, speaking on condition of anonymity because he was not authorised to comment on the case, said it was “far too early to conclude whether or not Mr. Monroe had been involved in espionage,” but he said the files found at his house contained “extremely sensitive” material, and were “concerning.”
And what about his wife? Who had her? Molly, her name was. The paper had a picture of the house, a dignified faux Victorian with a porch, a garden of azalea bushes and a cherry tree.
“Probably worth well over a million.” Anthony Tipton was looking over Patterson’s shoulder. “Lucky fellow. Must have had his own money. Or his wife’s. You don’t buy a place like that on a State Department salary, do you? Not these days.”
She turned.
“I’m sure there’ll be an explanation,” she said. She thought of Monroe in the car, the gunmetal in his mouth. Tipton stood over her, hands in his pockets.
“Oh, I’m sure there will. Now, Trish. Indulge me. Apparently, you’ve been having cosy chats with the FBI. Or so I’m told. And not by you, incidentally. And I was rather hoping you might illuminate me as to why. You see, I’ve just spoken to Val Hopko, and I distinctly get the feeling I’ve been handled. Honestly. You have to count the spoons after talking to that woman.”
She couldn’t tell if he was angry, or what he was.
“Well, I’m sure she told you.”
“Well, no, that’s the thing, really. She didn’t tell me. So I’m all ears.”
“She just asked me to make some informal inquiries with the FBI.”
“About Monroe.”
“About Monroe.”
“Hmm. Well, I think that’s all a bit fucking bizarre, frankly.”
She swallowed. He was looking down at her.
“Well, I didn’t mean to—”
“You tell me. All of it. This afternoon. Three. My office. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“Hope so.”
He stalked away, jingling the keys in his pocket. She turned back to her screen, and there was an email from Polk. Oh, for Christ’s sake. It just read:
STARBUCKS 19th. 9:30 OR BE SQUARE.
It was 9:17. She put her jacket on and picked up two empty cups, as if she were going to the kitchen, and walked slowly from the Station.
Polk was in shirtsleeves, chewing doggedly, muffin crumbs down his front.
“What?” he said.
“You know there’s six hundred calories in those things.”
“Don’t be cute, Patterson.” He gestured to a chair.
“Hi, Frankie.”
“And don’t get comfortable. We’re moving.”
“What? Where?”
“Come with me.” And in one rapid movement, he’d gathered up his jacket and briefcase and then he was out of the coffee shop, wordlessly striding down 19th, turning onto K. She kept pace with him, said nothing. The sun was blinding, bouncing off the plate-glass office buildings, the heat magnified and pulsing over the traffic. She was sweating, her shirt sticking to her back. Polk abruptly turned right, cutting her off, thrusting his way into a lobby of glass and reclaimed wood. A chiselled young man at the front desk looked up enquiringly. Polk flashed his ID. Patterson had to fill out a form and was issued a printed sticker with a bar code for her jacket. They took an elevator lined with copper to the ninth floor. Polk shouldered his way through more plate-glass doors etched with the words Bouverie & Higgs.
“Frankie, what is this place?”
“Friends,” he said.
He waved to a platinum-blonde woman at the reception desk who, without a word, gestured down a corridor. Patterson followed him, stopping as he punched
a keypad, which opened a heavy door that swung shut with a clunk behind them. Polk made a sweeping gesture.
“Now, we can talk,” he said.
A SCIF, then: insulated walls and floor beneath an electrically conductive shell to prevent leakage. Baffled air ducts, hidden speakers broadcasting pink noise, motion detectors, and cameras in each corner—God only knows where or what they’ll be hooked up to.
Careful now.
“Are we being recorded, Frankie?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” he said. He gave a broad, fake grin.
“You got the email.”
“Yes. Yes, I did.” He nodded.
“And?”
“And? Well, I am authorised to tell you the following. So listen the fuck up because I’ll only say it once.”
One of those moments, she thought. A moment when my professional life, my aspirations, my sense of self all shiver and wobble like a plate spinning atop a pole.
She reached for the notebook that was in her bag, but caught herself. You can’t take notes out of a SCIF, you idiot. You amateur. Polk was watching her.
“Are you listening?” he said.
“Fire away.”
He waited a beat, as if to emphasise the infantile nature of her answer.
“An initial trawl of the files found in Monroe’s house—initial, mind you—found four designators that correspond to material of UK origin. Among them, our designation DTCREEKSIDE was found to correspond to UK designator BOTANY. DTCREEKSIDE designators were found on three files, all of them digital. The—”
“Three files?”
He ignored her, carried on.
“The files contained finished intelligence products. All of these intelligence products were related to Chinese targeting of private corporations here in good old God save America. Spying, Patterson, you get me? Spying, for the purposes of purloining proprietary information and stealing from our hard-working corporations all their most valued and profitable secrets, everything from jet engines to genetically modified rice to computer-related stuff that I do not and will never understand. And then they are reverse engineering it, and building it cheaper. This is not good, Patterson. And the Brits, God bless you and all who sail in you, were able to tell us which of our noble corporations the Chinese are targeting, what they’re stealing, and, perhaps, how, through this BOTANY.”
