McGill appeared to visualize the headlines and then waved the whole idea away. “By the way,” he said. “The director wanted to know what that commotion in the lounge was all about. Some eager beaver put a clip of it in his morning brief.”
“What’d you tell him?” Allender asked, sharply.
“That we’re looking into it, of course, but that it appears to be a Chinese embassy personnel problem. Some general indulging odd tastes. Reminded him that the Chinese embassy is a tough nut—you know, all those inscrutable Orientals. Pivoted to a more urgent problem in Africa that we simply had to deal with, and off we went on that little firefly. I even avoided The Lecture.”
“Lucky you,” Allender said. “So: David Smith assures me that Sloan’s being taken care of. The team’s been dispersed and reassigned to other duties. The hotel’s been cleared and paid. General Chiang’s undoubtedly on his way back to China, possibly in a shipping container, and the MSS operation here in Washington has been neutralized—for the moment, anyway. I guess I’ll go back to my day job.”
“Capital idea, my dear fellow.” McGill beamed. “Commendations to follow, of course. A nice year-end executive bonus, too, if I’m not mistaken. Very, very well done. Tell me: Do you still do that dragon-eyes routine when you’re doing one of your notorious—‘interviews’?”
Allender finished his coffee and stood up. He walked over to McGill’s desk and leaned down to look at him. Then he took off his glasses and gave McGill a good look at those golden eyes and their shape-shifting black irises. McGill, despite himself, recoiled.
“Yes, I do,” Allender said softly. “And you need to forget all about running a swan on Congresswoman Greer, Carson. I guarantee you: That would end badly.”
ELEVEN
At home that night, Allender put a call in to Langley telecommunications on his secure phone, asking them to find Sloan and have her call him on a secure channel. She called back thirty minutes later, her voice chirping a little owing to the encryption card.
“Doctor Allender,” she said. “How nice to hear from you.”
“Hello, Melanie Sloan,” he replied. “How are they treating you?”
“With twelve operations, now that we’ve settled on the new face.”
“Twelve,” he said. “That’s a lot.”
“These docs seem pretty blasé about the whole thing,” she said. “Of course, they’re at the blunt end of the scalpel, aren’t they. They said breaking my nose, eye sockets, and cheekbones would be the most painful part, but after that it’ll be all lift, suck, and tuck. Their words.”
“Lovely,” Allender said. “Who are you going to look like?”
“Variation eighty-seven,” she said. “Facial only, they said the rest of me didn’t need changing.”
“I would have to agree,” he said, almost without thinking. Then he did think. Oops.
“I forgot,” she said, with a barely suppressed giggle.
“I apologize,” he said. “That was unprofessional of me.”
“But nice, none the less. So: Do I get to stay in the business?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “That will depend on whether or not the operations people think they can protect you. If the surgery is sufficiently extensive, then probably yes, although they’d keep you in-house for a while. No foreign postings.”
“How long?” she asked, her tone of voice making it clear that a few years of cubicle work was not appealing.
“A year? Maybe two? Until they figure out what the MSS has decided to do about getting taken for a ride. If we determine that they want your bones in the embassy chipper, then they’ll hide you for real.”
“Anyone going to keep an eye on your safety?”
“Me? I wouldn’t think so. The Chinese know who I am and what I do, and especially that I’m not operational. I’m just an Agency shrink who happens to speak Mandarin. In fact, I’m scheduled to attend a dinner at State next week precisely because I can speak Mandarin.”
“Don’t you think General Chiang may make the association?”
“Who’s General Chiang?” Allender said.
“Will it be that bad, for him?”
“The Chinese hate to lose face, possibly even more than the Japanese. I have to tell you: He may not even be alive anymore. Just remember, if they do decide to get revenge, you might be in considerable personal danger. I think that was part of your brief, yes?”
“Yes, Carol did say that,” Sloan said. “But then she brought up the bonus.”
“Which will be forthcoming. Minus the cost of the cosmetic surgery of course.”
“What?”
“Just kidding, Melanie Sloan,” he said, laughing quietly.
There was a pause on the line. Then she was back. “You called me Melanie,” she said.
“I did.”
“Well, if you’re going to call me Melanie, what am I supposed to call you?”
“Sir?”
She giggled again. “Okay, I walked into that one. But here’s the thing: I’d like to see you again, when this nose-breaking, sinus-grinding, and lift-suck-tuck holiday is over.”
“You’re saying you want an interview with Dragon Eyes?’
“Something like that. Or am I out of line here?”
“About an inch,” he said. “Maybe a bit more.” He paused. “But that’s probably not a good idea, Melanie. For a variety of reasons, chief among them that you and I were seen together by the MSS on two occasions. They are going to be looking for links.”
“So they would they come after you?”
Damned right they would, he thought. “More a case of their coming after us,” he said, trying to muddy his answer.
“I thought that’s what you’d say,” she said, sounding a bit wistful.
“Not because I wanted to,” he said. “How long will all this surgery take?”
“A year, at least. They do it in increments, and then they give everything time to heal. Maybe I’ll just surprise you one day. See if you recognize me.”
“After a year of work, I’d better not recognize you.”
“Probably not,” she said. “Unless of course I’m standing in front of your desk, and you say—”
He laughed out loud. “You did brilliantly,” he said, finally. “Now we just have to play it professionally safe. Okay?”
“Right.”
He didn’t want to break this off, but he knew he must. “Keep me informed on how you’re doing,” he said. “And especially if your Spidey sense activates. You know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do,” she said.
“Well,” he said. “Until then.”
“Until then,” she said, and then the line dissolved into a series of beeps.
He had another Scotch, and called the director’s office social coordinator, asked for a table for one at Charlie Palmer Steak for eight o’clock and a driver for the evening. Then he went upstairs for a shower.
An hour later he was ensconced at a private corner table and finishing off a bottle of Orin Swift’s The Prisoner after a perfect filet. The restaurant was beginning to fill up, but no one was rushing him. He’d kept the smoky glasses on throughout dinner; no reason to frighten the waitstaff unless they overfired his steak, which they almost never did, and besides, people for whom the director’s office made a reservation were never rushed. There were the usual visual power sweeps going on across the dining room—the men checking to see if anyone really important was there; the women sizing up the men. A few of the shinier women had given Allender an appraising look, but something in the way that the waitstaff was acting around the tall, thin man wearing those strange glasses had warned them off. The maître d’ approached.
“My apologies, Doctor. There is a gentleman in one of the private dining rooms who wishes to approach your table,” he said quietly. “A Chinese gentleman.”
Allender raised an eyebrow. “Does this Chinese gentlemen have minders outside the room?”
“Yes, sir, he does. And out fron
t, and in the valet parking area. I believe he is the Chinese ambassador, Dr. Allender. He was extremely polite and told me only to inquire and not to insist, so—”
“No, of course I will see him,” Allender said. “What is he drinking?”
“He barely drinks, sir, but I’ve been told he’s fond of strong Tennessee whiskey. In small, diplomatic quantities, of course.”
“Could you please prepare a dram of Booker Noe’s small-batch bourbon in an appropriate glass, and then tell him I will be honored to make his acquaintance.”
“Right away, sir. With a splash? That’s a hundred and thirty proof.”
“A shot glass of water on the side.”
“Very good, sir.”
He smiled as the maître d’ moved away gracefully through the tables, issuing barely detectable visual signals to waitstaff where he saw something needing attention. Leave it to the maître d’ to know what the Chinese ambassador liked for an after-dinner digestive, he thought, and then gathered himself for what was certain to be a fairly oblique but angry conversation. But inevitable, he thought, glumly. He was glad Sloan was in California. They might think twice about coming after him, but a woman?
A few minutes later he caught a fleeting glance of two minders giving him the once-over from the dining room’s main entrance. They appeared to be older and more experienced men than General Chiang’s crew. Different clan, no doubt, he thought. Then the ambassador himself appeared, materializing from the private dining room area like an Imperial Mandarin from behind one of the jade screens at the imperial court. The ambassador looked every inch the dignified and highly polished diplomat that he was, crossing the room with a bearing that was almost regal and fixing Allender with an imperious stare as he approached the table. People definitely noticed. Allender was tempted to remove his glasses.
He remained seated until the last possible moment without giving offense, and then he pushed back, stood up, and made a formal deep bow. The maître d’ was ready to pull back the ambassador’s chair, and then they were seated.
“That was elegant,” the ambassador said in a level of Mandarin that Allender hadn’t heard since being summoned to the headmaster’s office in the American School.
Allender acknowledged the compliment. “If you’re going to bow, always bow low,” he replied, citing the old Chinese proverb. The ambassador nodded in agreement. “We can speak in English if you’d like,” he said.
“I need the practice, if you don’t mind,” Allender said.
“Not much, Doctor. Your Mandarin lives up to your reputation.”
“Or at least to your briefing.”
A hint of a smile crossed the ambassador’s face. “Just so, Doctor.” His voice was smooth as silk, as was his tightly controlled face. Allender couldn’t tell how old he was, but this man personified the word “gravitas,” by his calm voice, exquisite diction, and regal bearing.
The maître d’ himself brought the ambassador a crystal snifter with the whiskey and a touch of water on the side. The ambassador was surprised when he sampled the vapors. He did not touch the water. “You, too, are well briefed, Doctor. Thank you for this. It’s just right.”
“Thank the maître d’, Your Excellency. He’s the one who knew. I do not receive briefings in my line of work.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really,” Allender said, sipping some wine. He was glad it wasn’t the 130-proof whiskey the ambassador was dealing with; an entire bottle of The Prisoner was formidable enough. “I work in the training directorate. I evaluate our staff’s ability to perform their duties, and the candidates’ prospects for becoming—useful.”
“That is important, of course,” the ambassador observed. “You are a psychiatrist, I am told.”
“That is correct. Technically, I am a consultant.”
“Which means you are a proper medical doctor: premedical university, medical school, postgraduate training in psychiatry, boards, and then a lifetime of regular psychoanalysis thereafter?”
“Correct, except for the last part. Ordinarily, yes, if I were practicing in the civilian world. As I am not…”
“Yes, of course, I understand,” the ambassador said. “Thank you for not being coy with me, Doctor. With your acquiescence, I will now be frank with you.”
“Yes, Mister Ambassador?”
“The matter of General Chiang’s recent—indiscretion.”
Allender took a sip of his wine and waited for the ambassador to proceed to the matter at hand.
“You are aware, I assume,” the ambassador began, “that our chief of station recently embarrassed himself rather egregiously here in the capital. Quite dramatically, in fact. I personally witnessed it, at the Climate Change dinner reception and awards dinner.”
Allender nodded but didn’t say anything.
“The general has long had a reputation for indulging his particular appetites, impulsively and, unfortunately, without much regard to possible consequences.”
“Some generals are like that, I’m told,” Allender replied. “I would assume he is quite well connected back in Beijing?”
“Not quite well-connected enough after this latest indiscretion. To be blunt, the general is no longer with us.”
“At the embassy, you mean?”
“No, Doctor. He caused serious embarrassment to the Party and to the government. That can have only one result.”
“Oh, dear,” Allender murmured. “Consequences, indeed.”
The ambassador shrugged. “Here’s the question,” he said. “Some officials back in Beijing are wondering if the general’s downfall was because of his usual heedless behavior, or the result of an elegant trap at the hands of someone else. Someone like your employers.”
It was Allender’s turn to shrug. “That would be an operational matter, Your Excellency,” he said. “And while I am an assistant director, my work is in training and evaluation. As I’m sure you can appreciate, the ones who train the operators are never the ones who oversee actual operations. The trainers must have experience, of course, but as a matter of policy those are two rigidly separated compartments. I would wager it is the same in the MSS.”
“And yet, you were seen in the company of the woman who was at the center of—what transpired. Twice, in fact. Was this coincidence?”
“I am often in the company of both men and women who are part of our organization. If I remember the incident with General Chiang, he was in pursuit of a man disguised as a woman, was he not?”
The ambassador gave him a long, level stare. Allender was again tempted to remove his glasses and give him one back.
“I came to tell you that I have made representations at the highest levels of your government,” the ambassador said, finally. “This is a serious matter.”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” Allender acknowledged. “Especially for General Chiang.”
“And for me,” the ambassador said.
“Ah,” Allender said. “You will carry the black bowl?”
“Yes; someone must, as I’m sure you know.”
Allender did know. To carry the black bowl was a Chinese expression describing being a fall guy. “But you are China’s preeminent diplomat,” he said. “You will be all right, I think.”
“Perhaps,” the ambassador said, finishing his whiskey. “But if we find out that someone did engineer this little disaster, and specifically which official, that person will not be all right.”
“Quite understandable,” Allender purred. He indicated the ambassador’s empty glass. “Another, Excellency?”
The ambassador leaned forward. “Have you been listening to me, Mister Assistant Director?” he hissed.
This time Allender did take off the glasses. A woman at one of the adjacent tables who’d been trying to eavesdrop started, spilling her wine. Allender put some fire into his stare. The ambassador blinked despite himself, but, to his credit, did not look away.
“Listen, Mister Ambassador?” Allender said, softly. “I am a
psychiatrist. I am a professional listener. Do you wish to unburden yourself? Do you have terrors that visit you in the night? I ask, because for a high-ranking diplomat, you do seem to talk a great deal.”
The ambassador’s eyed flared in anger, but he pretended to ignore the insult. Words formed at the edge of Allender’s mind. “Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “I am being extremely insolent.”
This time it was the ambassador who started, hearing the words he had been about to speak. He leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath, and composed himself, but Allender saw that his right hand was trembling ever so slightly. Seeing the ambassador’s frightened face, two of his minders had actually stepped into the dining room, discarding any attempt to look inconspicuous now.
“I thank you for this opportunity to speak to you,” the ambassador intoned, formally. “Perhaps we will meet again.”
“I look forward to that honor,” Allender said, putting his glasses back on, aware now that there were others who had been staring at his face. As the ambassador made his exit, Allender realized that he had been well and truly warned. He swore under his breath; he would have to file a report about this encounter. And then it occurred to him: How had the ambassador known he was here? Did they have eyes on him? Already?
That’s what you get for playing spook, he reminded himself. On the other hand, the real spooks seemed to be pleased as punch. What could go wrong?
TWELVE
Everything, as it turned out. Allender got to his office at Langley at eight thirty to find one of McGill’s aides waiting for him. The young man seemed agitated as he told Allender that the DDO wanted to see him as soon as he came in. Allender told him he’d be right along but first he needed a coffee.
“Um, sir, the DDO said—” the aide protested.
“As soon as I get a coffee, young man. I said I’ll be right up, and I will. Is there anything else?”
The aide made a pained face, shook his head, and left. Allender got some coffee and then took the elevator up to McGill’s office. McGill’s secretary stood up to greet him with a sober face, ushered him right into McGill’s office, and then firmly closed the door. Allender was surprised by McGill’s appearance. The man looked as if he’d just come from a severe ass-chewing, and a messy one at that.
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