She stepped into the elevator and punched the number five. The doors closed, but only went up one floor before stopping. Three Chinese men got in, all wearing plain gray suits. One, who was older and had the look of authority about him, was carrying a metal attaché case. They were not the same men who’d been in the lounge and they had a hard look about them that fairly shouted security. One reached for the control panel, saw button 5 lit, and lowered his hand.
Oh, boy, Melanie thought, but then saw the tiny camera mounted in the elevator’s ceiling. Someone would be watching.
When the door opened at the fifth floor, the older man indicated that she should go first. She did and the three of them got out and then followed her down the hallway at a discreet distance. When she stopped to fish out her key card, they also stopped. She looked back at them, and all three of them did their best to smile.
“Can I help you guys with something?” she asked, sliding the card into the door slot. The moment the light turned green, the older one stepped forward. She instinctively turned the door handle but he was there in a heartbeat. The next thing she knew she was being gently pushed through the door and into her room. One man had taken possession of her elbows, while another held his hand over her mouth—firmly but not painfully. For an instant no one moved, and then the older man put his finger to his lips to indicate silence. He raised his eyebrows as if to ask, You going to scream? She took a deep breath, shook her head, and then relaxed. When he saw that, he signaled the man holding her mouth to release her. The elbow man did not move.
“Excuse,” the older man said. “We must search this room, and your person, before your ‘guest’ arrives. We will not hurt you, but we must be sure this room is—safe.”
“May I please sit down?” she asked. “And, yes, I understand what you need to do.”
His face brightened. “Good,” he said. “Yes, you may sit down. Please keep hands in sight.”
Once she was seated, hands primly on her knees, the older man opened the attaché case, punched some buttons on the console inside, and proceeded to do an electronic sweep of the room. The second man meticulously searched every part of the room—fixtures, furniture, receptacle covers, lights, the television, and even the coffee maker—for hidden cameras. The third man went to work on the interconnecting door locks between her room and the rooms on either side. He nodded to the older man when he had the locks compromised, which had taken all of thirty seconds.
Melanie knew there were cameras, but not exactly where except for one. She did know that they were so miniaturized she was pretty sure they’d never find them. The plan had taken into account the fact that wireless cameras had to transmit their images, which meant that a competent sweep kit could detect RF energy. So tonight her controllers were depending on a passive sound-source alone, with two hardwired microphones outside the sliding glass door, posing as one of those decals that keeps one from walking into the door. The actual transmitter was two floors above. Their receivers were two blocks away. The cameras would be switched to the RF mode only after the minders were satisfied that the room was “cold.”
Once they were satisfied, they proceeded into the hotel room on one side, which, from what Melanie could see, seemed to be unoccupied. The one on the opposite side was occupied, based on clothes and luggage, but apparently not a threat. The man who’d done the locks relocked them and then placed a silvery strip of metal like a Band-Aid across each door. The older man concluded his sweep and said something in Chinese to the other two. They nodded, and then went back out into the hallway, leaving the door partially open.
“And now,” the older man said. “Your person, please?”
“Please, what?” she asked indignantly, knowing full well what he wanted. Both the other men had positioned themselves in the corridor so they could see into the room while also watching the hallway.
He cocked his head to one side. “Please?” he asked again, as in, Stop wasting our time. And the general’s time.
“Oh,” she said, pretending surprise. “You want to know if I’m wired.”
“Yes. Please?”
“Okay,” she said, standing up. She peeled the straps of her gown off her shoulders and let the fabric drop to her waist. The dress was the only topside support she’d worn, so there she was. Wireless but sufficiently distracting, she hoped. The older man stared appreciatively, and then looked lower. Melanie frowned, put her top back together, and then, crossing her arms, raised the hem of her skirt as high as it would go. Then she turned around, slowly, trying not to be seductive about it, until she faced him again. He, and his minions kept staring until she slid the skirt back down and went back to the chair. Then she looked pointedly at her watch.
“The general?” she asked. “Do you like to keep him waiting?”
The older man composed his face, nodded, and then they all left. As soon as the door closed, she got up and went to the bathroom. She turned on the overhead fan, which was the signal to the controller that she was alone again. They would have the corridor on cameras, but they needed to know when to turn on the room cameras and take them online. It was now time to change. She took off all her clothes and put on a filmy, white, full-length nylon slip. Then she went back to the chair and sat down.
After five minutes she wished she’d had more than a few drops of Bombay. Her script called for her to wait in the chair until the general came to her room—or didn’t, if his security team called it off. The local control room was two floors directly above, and the room’s sprinkler-system fixture had been replaced with a wide-angle camera, presumably, she figured, to capture the action on the bed. Any time now, she thought.
She had steeled herself to go through with what would probably resemble a rape. All that talk about hard and fast had been aimed at fanning the general’s fervid expectations, but she hoped it wouldn’t turn into some painful back-alley assault. That said, it had been something of a long dry spell.
There was a click from the unoccupied room’s interconnecting door, and then it swung open. The metal Band-Aid broke, but then she saw that an even longer strip had been stuck to the other side of the door, allowing it to open without disrupting the alarm circuit. Two men who had been part of the “cast,” but whose roles hadn’t been clear, beckoned her to the doorway. A voice in her right earring told her to go with them. They then hustled her out of the room into the unoccupied room, and from there through a doorway into the next room, where she saw something that totally floored her.
Standing in the room was her doppelgänger, also sporting a full-length white slip, but wearing panties. Her face, her body, her hair—everything the same. Her almost identical twin. As she gaped in surprise, her clone got up, smiled at her, said, “Good job, Melanie,” and then went through the door with one of the other agents. The room crew closed the door, and one of them handed her a bathrobe. She put it on, almost unaware of what she was doing.
“Good job, Melanie,” he’d said.
He?
Then she grinned. The other guys saw her get it and they also grinned.
“Gonna be a good one,” one of them said. “Wanna watch?”
“Hell, yes,” she said. “Oh. My. God.”
TEN
Preston Allender sat in an armchair watching two screens. One gave a wide-angle view of Melanie’s room, where special operative Torrance LaPlante, Melanie Sloan’s double, lounged languidly in an armchair, his lithe body stretched in such a way as to disguise his big surprise. He’d gone into the bathroom and wet the front top half of the slip, which accentuated his perfect, if plastic, breasts. There was only one bedside table light on in the room and the covers had been turned down on the bed. He’d put on enough perfume to infuse the room and tousled his hair to make it look like the lady was already agitated. The door was unlocked and actually just barely ajar.
“The general’s going to react badly,” Allender observed, recognizing the face in the picture he’d had in his desk drawer when he’d first interviewed Sloan. Da
mn, he thought.
“Four guys, two in each of the adjacent rooms,” Smith said. “See those shiny strips on the doors?”
“Yes?”
“Chiang’s security people put them on the doors to alarm should either one open. Our guys have paralleled them to get Sloan out, but they’ll break them both at the right time.”
“Which will bring his minders in on the run at a really inopportune time?”
“Exactly. They’re waiting down the hall in the vending alcove, and there are two more in the nearest linen closet. If anybody makes a move on Torrance, an entire bank of white lights is going to flash on in Chiang’s face. They’re mounted in the valence above the window’s privacy curtain. Our guys will get Torrance out of there, and, well, the cameras should do the rest.”
“There’s the ambassador,” Allender said, looking at the other screen, which was covering the lounge with a wide-angle lens. “Are those different minders?”
“Yes, they are. Some are probably embassy aides, but, yes; they’ve probably got twenty people here tonight.”
“Crowds are not a problem for China, are they,” Allender observed.
“The unit of issue is a horde,” Smith said.
“Where’s Melanie now?”
“In the video control room, two over from her starting point. She’s safe now.”
“I wasn’t sure that one guy doing the sweep was going to leave,” Allender said.
“Can you blame him?” Smith said.
No I can’t, Allender thought, but he was glad she was clear now. There was nothing to say Chiang wouldn’t pull a weapon when he realized what had been done to him.
“Target’s in the elevator with a team of three,” one of the cameramen announced.
“Showtime,” Smith muttered into a tiny microphone.
Allender saw Torrance become more alert and then rearrange his face. It was hard not to stare at him. From the waist up he was a female. Melanie Sloan, in the flesh. Soft features, sophisticated makeup, full lips, parted now in naked anticipation. Even the way he looked at the door was female: longing, desire, impatience, one slim hand running through his hair. Her hair. A woman’s forearms, delicate hands, nails painted in something not too over the top, but definitely painted. Even from the waist down, there was no sign of what was about to be revealed. His shapely legs were shaved and polished.
“Approaching the room.”
The light in the room changed as the door swung open and hallway light spilled in. Chiang stopped and stared. Then he stepped through, pushed the door shut, and took two steps into the room.
“Did it lock?” Allender asked.
“Supposed to, but, no, it did not.”
“I want to see you,” Torrance said, in a voice that was a dead match for Melanie’s. Then he put his hands behind his head, thrust his fake breasts up in a deliberate challenge, and wet his lips—her lips—in an equally challenging manner. Allender thought he heard Chiang swear softly, but with admiration, and then the general began taking his clothes off.
“Prep the feed,” one of the technicians said. They had their own bank of screens, and there was some quick switch-work going on.
Then Chiang was naked, his muscular body gathering in anticipation of his go-fast encounter. Torrance smiled seductively, rubbed his hands over his breasts, and then beckoned him. Chiang was entirely ready.
“Open the feed,” one of the technicians ordered.
Allender turned to the lounge screen and watched that big-screen television picture suddenly flutter with a few white frames, and then there was Chiang, in all his rampant glory, advancing on Torrance. One of the techs opened the sound channel from the lounge, and Allender heard the sudden gasps and “whoa”s from the people in the lounge. Then Torrance stood up, reached down to rearrange himself, and revealed an equally impressive erection underneath all that nylon. Allender concentrated on watching the ambassador, whose expression changed from consternation to red-faced fury as he saw what was unfolding on that big screen. It was almost as dramatic as Chiang’s expression when he saw that his supposed temptress was a man, and not just a man, but a really interested man. Chiang’s roar of angry surprise was audible over all the “oh my God”s erupting in the lounge. Torrance lifted the nylon and then pursed his lips in an obscene kissing gesture and began moving toward Chiang. The room’s door burst open just as a bright white light infused the screen and then the picture faded to black.
“Torrance is clear,” Smith announced, a moment later. “Barriers in place. Okay, guys, electronics down. Take it all apart and let’s blow this pop stand.” He turned to Allender, unable to tamp down a triumphant grin. “Well, Doctor,” he said. “This being all your idea, what do you think?”
Even with the old hotel’s thick floors and walls, Allender imagined he could hear Chiang howling in fury two floors below, while his minders were probably staring at him in stunned surprise.
“I think,” Allender said, nodding in satisfaction, “that General Chiang is in for some interesting times, in the traditional Chinese sense of that expression.”
* * *
Allender met with McGill the following morning in his office at Langley. The DDO was almost beside himself, having seen the videos. He was pacing again, but this time with his hands wringing in undisguised delight.
“Gawd,” he exclaimed. “They’re gonna crucify him. He’ll be wrangling night soil in outer fucking Mongolia by tomorrow night. Fucking beautiful, sir, fucking beautiful!”
“I’m told that the ambassador had been waiting a long time to get something on his bad-boy general,” Allender said, getting himself a cup of coffee from the sideboard. “And the ambassador is the younger brother of a Central Committee member.”
McGill went back to his desk. “Will some of this incident blow back on him, do you think?” he asked.
“Possibly,” Allender replied. “Loss of face, as in: ‘He worked for you so why didn’t you do something a long time ago’ kind of thing. On the other hand, Chiang had his own power base in Beijing. Not quite a private intel network, but close to it. You have to understand—all Chinese bureaucracies are made up of factions, most based on clan or family. The MSS will recover, but there will be turmoil.”
“Will it really disrupt things that badly?”
“Absolutely,” Allender said. “Within Chinese top-level bureaucracies, the factions are always infighting. Chiang’s clan stood astride a real plum here in Washington. When he goes down, his people go down with him. Then there’ll be a fight to see who replaces him—and maybe all his people, too. Chaos, for a while, anyway.”
“How long before they realize we did this?”
“Chiang’s certainly figured it out,” Allender said. “He’s been close enough to Sloan’s sexuality to know that she was no she-male. On the other hand, what’s he going to say? I didn’t know she was an ‘it’? Or, I did know, and that’s my scene?”
“Beautiful,” McGill crowed again. “Where is the magnificent Sloan, by the way?”
“Took a red-eye out to the West Coast last night to see some preeminent plastic surgeons in Hollywood.”
“I’m not sure I’d change a thing with that package.”
“We have to, I think,” Allender said. “David Smith agrees. In fact, I’d told her that she might have to exit the intel world entirely, depending on how the MSS reacts. Hate to lose her, though. She was brilliant.”
“A swan indeed,” McGill said, reaching for his obnoxious pipe. Like reaching for his worry beads, Allender thought. “We need to do this again.”
Allender raised a hand. “No, we do not,” he said. “Word of this will eventually get out—too many people in that lounge saw what happened. There’s something else.”
“Yes? What?”
“The Chinese will not forget this. They won’t write this embarrassment off as just a learning experience. I grew up in Taiwan, and I know something about Chinese culture. The Mandarins at the imperial court did this kind of thing to
one another for fun, but if they got caught short in a power play, they died in truly interesting ways.”
“But won’t the ambassador feel we’ve solved a problem for them? The influential general with the dangerously loose zipper?”
“Perhaps,” Allender said. “But I believe they’ll analyze it, stew about it, punish someone, and then set about planning appropriate revenge.”
“Revenge?” McGill squeaked. “Really? How unprofessional. It’s the intelligence racket. You win some, you lose some. That’s why it’s called the Great Game. Even Kipling knew that.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying, which is a good reason not to try this gambit again. What we do now is keep a straight face, admit nothing, especially within the Company. That was why you had me conjure this thing up, remember? Nobody associates me with operations, and you can maintain your deniability.”
McGill considered that last point. “Yes, you’re right. But you might want to think about dabbling in operations, Preston. This was brilliant.”
Allender dismissed that notion with a wave of his hand. “Bury this episode, Carson. No gloating or wink-wink asides and grins over Scotch at your club. It’s important.”
“Yes, yes, keep it all exquisitely professional, I know, I know,” McGill said dismissively. “I totally agree. But what if we did it to someone who’s theoretically on our side?”
“Meaning?”
“A certain congressperson comes to mind.”
Allender groaned. “No, no, and hell no. Much as you despise that woman, taking down a House committee chairman would produce some serious blowback.”
“In your humble opinion?”
“In anyone’s opinion, Carson. Give it the Washington Post test, for God’s sake.”
Red Swan Page 9
