The Ghost War

by Alex Berenson

  “Are you all right?” Song said to him.

  “Fine, Master Song.”

  “You should leave. You don’t need to be involved in this.”

  “Not unless you come too.”

  “Then let’s all stay and see what happens. We’ve been pushed around too long.” Song’s eyes were hard and shiny as pebbles. “Dirty work!” he yelled at the Mercedes.

  “It’s honest work,” the man yelled back. “If you don’t like it, starve.”

  FOR A FEW MINUTES, not much happened. The man in the black T-shirt raised his offer to thirty yuan, and a couple of the laborers stepped toward the building. But the other men on the street blocked them from going inside and they gave up. Then three more police cars appeared, sirens screaming. A dozen cops stepped out, tapping nightsticks against their thighs. A paddy wagon blocked off the street from the other direction. More migrants had shown up, and the street was thick with men now, milling around the police cars.

  From the fifth floor the old woman yelled, “Leave me! Leave me!” as a policeman dragged her from the window.

  “Leave her!” a laborer yelled.

  Holding bricks and rebar rods, trash from the construction site, the migrants surged toward the police. A police officer grabbed the bullhorn from the man in the black T-shirt.

  “Get out now or we’ll arrest all of you roaches.”

  Song stepped forward. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Not another word from you.” The officer raised his truncheon.

  “Let him alone,” Jordan said.

  The officer smirked. “And who are you? Skinny little migrant.” The cop shoved Jordan and grabbed his Bulls cap. AllI have,Jordan thought. The hat was everything, his money, his luck, his connection to his father—

  “Officer—” Song put a hand on the cop’s shoulder. Without a word, the cop swung his nightstick, catching Song in the ribs. As Song doubled over, the cop brought the stick down on Song’s skull. Song’s eyes rolled up and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

  “Murderer!” an old man shouted from the apartment building. “You killed him!” A clay pot flew out of the building and smashed on the roof of a police car.

  “Murderers! Murderers!” The chant rumbled through the crowd, wavering like a fire trying to catch. For five seconds, then ten, the police and the migrants stared at each other, no one quite ready for more violence.

  “Order!” the officer with the bullhorn said, and the crowd took a half-step back. “Go on now.” On the ground, Song groaned.

  Jordan reached down and at his feet, as if his father had put it there, he found a beer bottle, a big one, broken in half, its glass edges sharp as a steak knife. In one motion, he picked it up and stepped forward and swung at the cop’s neck.

  Even before the blood began to spurt, the cops were on Jordan. He fought as hard as he could, though after the first dozen blows he stopped caring. Yu stepped up and the police jumped him too. “Murderers!” the laborers shouted. “Murderers!”

  And then nothing could stop the riot.

  SWINGING CROWBARS AND BRICKS, the migrants overwhelmed the police and smashed stores and cars across Guangzhou’s city center. Someone—the police never discovered who—set fire to the apartment building that had been the flash point for the riot. With firefighters unable to get to the building, twenty-four people inside died.

  By mid- afternoon, the fighting had spread to the giant factories on the outskirts of Guangzhou, where migrants worked for wages that barely covered their meals and rent. More riots broke out in Shenzen, a city of 8 million between Guangzhou and Hong Kong, and Shaoguan, to the north. In all, 142 rioters, 139 civilians, and twenty-three police officers died during two days of fighting, which ended only after the People’s Liberation Army rolled through Guangdong to enforce a province-wide curfew.

  The government tried to impose a news blackout on Guangdong, arresting reporters who wrote about the riot. But word spread quickly, carried by cell-phone cameras and Internet postings that popped up as quickly as the censors could pull them down. Beijing downplayed the violence, but the videos were ugly: factories burning, police firing tear gas and rubber bullets, tanks rumbling through Guangzhou’s crowded streets.

  As news of the violence spread, China’s other metropolises saw scattered riots. The police in Shanghai arrested 125 people. In Beijing, the party declared a nighttime curfew and closed Tiananmen Square for a week. China hadn’t seen such widespread unrest since the Tiananmen shootings in 1989.

  Jordan never knew what he and Song and Yu had begun. He died the first day, his body battered beyond recognition by nightstick blows, not that he had anyone to claim him anyway. He was cremated in the city morgue, and the wind carried his ashes to the ocean.

  AS THE RIOTS ENTERED their second day, the Standing Committee called an emergency meeting in Beijing. Li expected that the liberals on the committee would at least be willing to discuss whether their economic policies had fueled the violence. He was wrong.

  “These troublemakers, can the Army deal with them?” Zhang asked him.

  “Of course the PLA can overcome the rioters,” Li said. “But shouldn’t we consider the reasons for the violence? The economic slowdown?”

  “The slowdown is over, Minister Li. Our economy is growing again.” Indeed, Zhang had just presented new statistics that seemed to say that the economy had finally begun to turn. Li didn’t know what to make of the numbers. If the economy was getting better, why was Guangzhou burning?

  “Don’t the protests concern you?”

  “There are always troublemakers. That’s why we have your men. As long as you do your job, I haven’t any concerns.” Zhang shuffled through his papers. “Do you remember when the Americans had their riots? In California?”

  “Of course, Minister.”

  “Then you remember that the Americans didn’t change their policies after those criminals tried to burn down Los Angeles. They sent in their army, and in a few weeks everyone had forgotten.”

  Whatever doubts Li had about his plan disappeared that day. Zhang and the liberals would never see reason. He needed to take control, and soon, whatever the risks.

  Fortunately, his next step was already in place.

  19

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  ON THE BIG FLAT-PANEL TELEVISION, the man rubbed his short black hair. His face showed no emotion but his hands betrayed his nervousness, moving constantly, drumming aimless patterns on the table in front of him. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray before him. He picked it up and dragged deeply, then looked up as an unseen door opened.

  “I’m sorry for the delay. We’re ready to begin if you are.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “The questions may seem obvious, but please answer all of them.”

  “Of course.”

  “Let’s begin with your name.” The woman asking the questions had a smooth English accent, a voice that reminded Exley of a life she would never have, with hunting dogs, and high tea on a silver caddy. Of course, in reality the woman probably had a farting husband and screaming twins. She probably lived in an undersized two-bedroom apartment in the wrong part of London and rode the Tube to work. Still, she had that voice.

  “My name is Wen Shubai,” the man said.

  “Age and nationality!”

  “Fifty-two.” The man stubbed out his cigarette. The butt joined a half-dozen others in the ashtray. “I’m Chinese. Born in Hubei Province. The People’s Republic.”

  “Where do you live now, Mr. Wen?”

  “London.” He spoke English carefully, the words proper but heavily accented, the voice of a concierge at a five-star Beijing hotel.

  “And where do you work?”

  “Until today, the Chinese embassy.”

  “What’s your title?”

  “Officially, director for trade between China and the United Kingdom.”

  “What did you actually do at the embassy?”

  “Head of Chinese intellige
nce service for Western Europe.”

  “You were a spy.”

  The man extracted a fresh cigarette from a flat red Dunhill box. A manicured woman’s hand, as elegant as the voice asking the questions, held out a silver lighter.

  “Senior officer. I oversaw operations all over Europe.”

  TYSON PAUSED THE INTERVIEW THERE, catching Wen with a Dunhill between his lips. “This was filmed about thirty-six hours ago at a safe house just west of London. And yes, Mr. Wen Shubai is who he says he is. He shucked his bodyguards late Saturday night at a rest stop on the M1. The Brits were happy to have him.”

  “A rest stop on the M1?” This from Shafer.

  “Defecting during a state dinner at Buckingham Palace would have been more elegant, but so be it. Anyway, he has a lot to tell us, which is why I’ve asked you to my happy home. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s worth your while.”

  Exley, Shafer, and Tyson were in a windowless conference room on the seventh floor of the New Headquarters Building at Langley, next to Tyson’s office and just a few doors down from Duto’s. Wells—who’d gotten back from Afghanistan a few days before, his shoulder banged up but otherwise basically intact—had begged off Tyson’s invitiation, telling Exley only that the mission had been a success, that they’d caught a Russian commando, and that he had to go to New York to “take care of something.” Exley found his coyness irritating, but she was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was used to operating alone, after all.

  “So this guy Wen came over the day before yesterday?” Shafer said.

  “Correct. The Brits have been debriefing him more or less nonstop ever since. You know the drill, check what he says against the available evidence. Treat him with respect but not too much, make sure he knows we’re doing him a favor and not the other way around. Get everything out of him while he’s still fresh off the boat, so to speak.”

  “We have anyone in the room?”

  “Not yet. Wen’s been making noise about wanting to talk to us, but the Brits say he’s on their soil. Their country, their case. Et cetera. We’ll get a crack at him eventually, under their watchful eyes, of course. But I’ve asked Duto not to press the Brits too hard on this. It may actually be to our advantage to leave Shubai with them.”

  “Why?” Exley said.

  “I promise all will become clear. Let’s get to more of Mr. Wen’s greatest hits.”

  Tyson fast-forwarded the DVD. Exley watched, fascinated, as cigarettes magically appeared in Wen’s hands, shrank to nothing, and then reappeared fresh. She hadn’t wanted to smoke this much in months.

  “Ahh—here.”

  “WHY DID YOU DEFECT?” the interviewer was saying.

  For the first time, Wen appeared flummoxed. “When I came from Beijing two weeks ago, I decided.” He took a drag on his cigarette and said nothing more.

  “But why now? After all these many years.”

  “I wanted to speak freely. In China, that’s impossible.”

  “Come now, Mr. Wen. We’re not making a publicity video for Taiwan. You don’t expect us to believe that you defected so you could hold up placards in the streets. You’re a fifty-two-year-old man, not a college student. How much freedom do you need?”

  Wen squeezed his hands together. “You already know, so must I answer?”

  “Please.”

  “I am due to return to China. I don’t want to go. I love a lady here. And now I find out my wife, who lives in Beijing, has relations with my superior officer there.”

  “Relations?”

  Wen shook his head tiredly. “Sexual relations.”

  TYSON PAUSED THE DVD AGAIN. “‘How much freedom do you need?’ I love that. The Brits.”

  “Best friends to your Confederate forebears,” Shafer said.

  “True enough. Neither we nor the Brits can confirm the bit about his wife. But he has been sleeping with a woman here, a lawyer at a British export-import company. Monica Cheng’s her name. He met her a few months back at a trade show to promote Chinese exporters. The Brits found her yesterday, asked her, and she confirmed. She’s under twenty-four-hour watch.” Tyson passed around pictures of the woman. She was Chinese, in her early thirties and pretty.

  “Is it possible she’s fake?”

  “Possible, sure. But she was born in London. She looks genuine and she says they were serious. He was, at least. And there’s something else.”

  Tyson pressed play and the DVD spun.

  “ARE THERE ANY OTHER REASONS you decided to defect?”

  Wen reached for another Dunhill. Only after accepting a light did he speak.

  “There are no penalties to me for what I say?”

  “Mr. Wen. You are a guest of the British government. An invited guest. How you treated your former employer is of no concern to us. Honesty is the best policy.”

  “May I speak to a solicitor?”

  A pause. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be practical at this time.”

  Wen appeared unsurprised. “Let me say, then, that the PLA checks—” Wen broke off. Looking left, off-screen, he said a word in Chinese. “Audits,” a voice replied in English. Wen nodded. “The Army audits my spending. One of the people, the auditors, raised a question.”

  “You were accused of theft?”

  “There was a certain account in my name. For operational purposes.”

  TYSON STOPPED THE DVD AGAIN.

  “This part he absolutely refused to put on camera. Mr. Wen Shubai seems to have been stealing from the PLA with both hands. He’s got an account with two million dollars at UBS. Says it was to fund covert operations inside Europe.”

  “Sounds like it was funding Operation Move My Girlfriend Monica to Barcelona,” Shafer said.

  “He says the PLA’s auditors refused to accept his perfectly legitimate answers about the account. So he did what any of us would do.”

  “He fled into the arms of a foreign power.”

  “Precisely, Mr. Shafer.”

  “Did you two practice this routine?” Exley said. “You could take it on the road. Big bucks. Shafer and Tyson, CIA vaudeville.”

  Shafer and Tyson looked at each other in mock be fuddlement. “I don’t know what she’s talking about, Ellis,” Tyson said. “Anyway, it would have to be Tyson and Shafer.”

  “So do we believe Mr. Wen?”

  Tyson folded his hands together, raised his index fingers to his lips. “Well. Here’s the thing. We do.”

  “We think he’s the genuine article, not a fish thrown our way by the Chinese to confuse us, as our old friends at the KGB used to do.”

  “We and the Brits both. Reasons—” Tyson counted them out on his fingers.

  “One: If he’s a fish, he’s a very big fish. He’s extremely senior. That’s a lot to give up, and we don’t know why they would. Two: Monica’s real. Three: The money in his UBS account is real and he’s been putting it there for a while. Four: The Chinese government is conducting, shall we say, urgent inquiries as to his whereabouts. And five: The Chinese have never liked those KGB-style counterespionage ops.”

  “They love to spy.”

  “Not the chess match kind of spying. The simple kind. The pay-the-engineer-get-the-blueprints-for-the-fighter-jet kind.”

  “The kind that works,” Shafer said.

  Again Tyson fast-forwarded through the DVD. “And then there’s this,” Tyson said. “You can watch the whole tape if you like, of course, but I promise these are the highlights.” He clicked the DVD.

  “DOES CHINA HAVE AGENTS WITHIN the Central Intelligence Agency?”

  “Yes. Until last year, two. Then one was dismissed.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know precisely. He hardly showed up on my”—again Wen said something in Chinese and the unseen voice translated—“on my radar screen. He was in what the Americans call the division of intelligence.”

  “The Directorate of Intelligence.”

  “Yes. The analysts. He translated Chinese n
ewspapers and similar things. He was not very senior.”

  “What about the other agent?”

  “He was in the other division—directorate. Operations.”

  “Was he also low-level?”

  “Not at all.” Wen sat up in his chair as he said this, Exley noticed. Though he was now betraying China, he was still unconsciously proud that his service had infiltrated Langley. “He had access to many operations. Not just in China. All over Asia.”

  “How long did he work for you?”

  “Several years.”

  “And did you recruit him?”

  “I never met him.”

  “Let me ask it another way. Did the Second Directorate recruit him or did he approach you?”

  “Ahh. No, he approached us. He was white. We prefer ethnic Chinese.”

  Exley was transfixed. Soon there’d be arrests, a criminal case, an accounting of the secrets this mole had betrayed, the lives he’d destroyed. But for now there was only this video, the first flake in the blizzard. History unspooling in this office.

  “Do you know how he approached you?”

  “Unfortunately, no. But I am sure we didn’t trust him at first.”

  “Because he was white?”

  “Also because he had come to us. We didn’t understand that.”

  “But you learned?”

  Wen smiled. “He wanted money. Lots of money.”

  “And you gave it to him.”

  “His information was valuable.”

  “Very valuable?”

  “He could have asked for ten times as much.”

  AGAIN TYSON PAUSED THE DVD.

  “Based on what Wen says next, it seems safe to say that our entire China network is blown. Has been for years. We’ve lost five agents there since 2004. This explains why. The ones who are left have probably been doubled by the Chinese and are feeding us disinformation.”

  “It’s as bad as Ames,” Exley said.