A Young Lawyer's story

by John Ellsworth

  4

  A firm resolve was hard. Thaddeus crept into his office amidst feelings of deepening guilt. He hated what they were asking him to do. He had never been one to go behind anyone's back and trick them. That just wasn't who he was. But it always came back to the same thing: working for the U.S. Attorney was an honor. It was a great job and he didn't want to blow it. But why couldn't he have just been hired on to be a regular attorney? He was beginning to dislike Ms. McGrant in a big way. He was being used. He decided it couldn’t wait until that night. He called Bud Evans and got through on the third beep of the cell phone.

  "Bud, Thaddeus."

  "Hey, Thad."

  “Weird things going on around here, Bud.”

  “Wait,” said Bud. “You’re at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, Thad? All right, just assume the phone we’re talking on is bugged. Whatever you need to say, let’s wait until tonight. Anything else I can help you with?”

  Clearly Bud was withholding. Thaddeus couldn’t blame the guy. He had a future to worry about too.

  "Listen, would you call me in about four minutes? On my cell phone? I might say something odd back to you, but just stay on the phone. Would you do that?"

  "Yes. What's it about?"

  "Just do it, Bud. I'll explain it all when I get home tonight."

  "Okay, Thaddeus."

  He hung up and replaced the handset in its cradle on the desk.

  Then he approached the door to his boss's office. It was closed. He started to try the knob but pulled back. Actually, Thaddeus had been gone with Ms. McGrant and he couldn't say for absolutely certain that his boss hadn't returned; he could only guess. So he put his ear up to the door and listened. Nothing. He hurried back to his desk and hit the intercom to Broyles' office. He waited and waited but there was no answer. Only then did he make his decision.

  Returning to the closed door, he twisted the knob and pushed into the office where his boss might be lurking.

  But he wasn't. Thaddeus hastened across the carpet to Broyles' desk. There was no briefcase in or around the desk. So he crouched down and investigated beneath.

  Bingo.

  The briefcase was leather, black, with embossed initials just below the handles: FJB.

  He grasped the handles and gently lifted it out from under the desk. He worked the button beneath the handle. It was unlocked, so he opened the case and peered inside. It was empty. He felt around the inner lip of the briefcase for an opening where he could insert the microphone.

  Halfway around the inside with his fingers, Thaddeus heard voices out in his own office. The door was still open between the two and he realized with a bolt of fear that the voices were coming closer. They were coming toward Broyles' office.

  He quickly stood and pushed the case back under the desk with his foot. His leg was still outstretched when a four-wheeled cart rolled into the office.

  Then his phone chimed.

  "This is Thaddeus."

  He paused.

  "Yes, Mr. Broyles, I'm looking for it right now. Are you sure you didn't take it with you?"

  Then he hung up.

  Frank: it was the custodian who came through twice a day and carted away papers for shredding. He was accompanied by a young man dressed similarly. Both men stopped, and Frank's eyes narrowed.

  "You in Mr. Broyles' office," he said.

  "It's all right," Thaddeus replied. "That was him on the phone."

  "Mr. Broyles, he said no one's to come into his office but me. That's all."

  "Well, he didn't tell me that. I'm actually looking for receipts for his expense account."

  "Well, mister," said Frank, "you might and you might not be doing all that. All's I know is you ain't supposed to be in here. Now look here, sir. I ain't got nothing against you and you're probably only doing your job. But I'm gonna have to tell Mr. Broyles you was in here. That's my job."

  Thaddeus backed away from Broyles' desk and held up his hands.

  "Look, I don't have anything that belongs to Mr. Broyles. Now you can tell him all you want to tell him or you can forget. I hope you'll forget because sometime you might need me to cut you some slack. Are you with me, Frank?"

  Frank's face drew up in a scowl. He was older, maybe early sixties. His face said he rejected any and all bullshit.

  "We agree," Frank said. "But on one condition. I ever catch you in here again, I'm telling. Ambrose is standing right here. He can back me up. But for now, Ambrose," he said, turning to his assistant, "we gonna agree to let it go. Nobody saw nothing here today. We all good?"

  "I ain't seen shit," said Ambrose. "Don't even care about none of it."

  "And I'm good," said Thaddeus.

  "Me, too," said Frank. "Something else for you to know. Mr. Broyles' office is shielded. Ain't no cell phone reception in here. You must be new. We done now."

  Thaddeus circled around the men and hurried back into his office, where he dropped down into his chair and exhaled a long sigh. That had been close. So close. And now someone was onto him. Someone who was evidently loyal to Mr. Broyles. Thaddeus shook his head. Frank might still go to Broyles; he would never be sure. But it was the best he could do. He had tried to short-circuit the tattletale. He prayed he had.

  Then he opened his left fist. As he did so, he remembered. The microphone. He had been palming the microphone. But when his hand opened he saw, to his horror, the microphone was no longer there. His heart jumped in his chest. Jesus, had he dropped the damn thing inside the briefcase? Or on the floor?

  Just then, Mr. Broyles opened the hallway door and came striding inside. This time he was alone and he had a pained look on his face. He came directly toward Thaddeus.

  "I've been hearing things about you, Mr. Murfee," he said as he approached.

  "What--what--" Thaddeus managed to mutter.

  "I've been hearing they only offered you the minimum starting salary. I fixed that and you’re now at one-seventy-five a year. This is cause for celebration. Saturday night we'll open a bottle of bubbly and make some toasts."

  "That sounds great, sir. I'd like that."

  "Oh, and one other thing. I talked to Nikki. She says she's excited to meet you."

  "Oh, that's good news. I'm sure we'll be good friends."

  "I'm sure you will."

  "Okay."

  The door closed behind Broyles. Frank and Ambrose emerged a few minutes later. Frank looked at Thaddeus as he pushed the cart past. But he didn't say anything, just gave him a disgusted look.

  Alone, Thaddeus tried to calm his shaking hands. He tugged at his collar. He wanted to loosen his tie but the office had a policy against untied ties. So he sat there, numb, eyes shut, trying to calm his racing heart.

  Thaddeus could only imagine what Frank said to Broyles.

  His thoughts returned to the missing mike, his next big problem.

  He wondered if he had left a fingerprint on it. He guessed not, but on the other hand he didn't know what the FBI might be able to get off the mike anyway if it was found. DNA? A partial print? He had no idea.

  He decided he wouldn't tell McGrant about losing her bug. He needed at least one full paycheck before he got fired for blowing it so miserably. At least one paycheck, he prayed.

  Which he knew was futile. This was the same God who had refused to give him parents during seven years of foster homes.

  And now he felt just as vulnerable as he always had.

  So he had been wrong. Becoming a lawyer hadn't cured those feelings after all.

  They were only worse.

  5

  Sing Di Hoa stepped off the metro rail in Eastern Beijing at nine a.m. and was immediately struggling for oxygen in an atmosphere of auto exhaust, wood smoke, and dirty coal.

  He turned north on Ca Lam Street and began making his way toward the offices of Ministry of State Security--MSS--the Chinese equivalent of the CIA. Today would be a bright day both for the Chinese people and for Hoa personally. He had engaged with a high-ranking American official in Washing
ton D.C. and today would be the day his efforts paid off with a huge data dump consisting of American nuclear policy--America's fall back in case of financial destabilization between China and the United States. A trillion cubic feet of greenback dollars was owed by the U.S. to China in 2010, a tectonic shift if the Asians suddenly decided to declare the money due and owing.

  The coveted, classified data told the story of America's response if China suddenly declared all debt obligations due and owing, which it had the right to do at any time, even on a mere whimsy. Such a declaration would catch the Americans with no legitimate economic response. If such a call-up were to occur, the U.S. could only leverage its position with an intense military response that could consist of anything from off-shore war games to actual attacks on the Chinese mainland. It was Sing Di Hoa's task to discover what that response actually would be, and today he had done just that.

  February of 2010 ushered in another Year of the Tiger according to the twelve-year cycle of the traditional Chinese lunar calendar. It also marked a time of pre-ordained political change. Over the following year and a half, the leaders of China's Communist Party and civilian government would hand over power to the next generation.

  Initially, observers both inside and outside China presumed that the years 2010-2013 would see an orderly transition of power and the untroubled retirement of a generation of party-state leaders, from Communist Party General Secretary Hu Jintao and State Premier Wen Jiabao downwards. Even within China's Communist Party, however, there were already signs of discontent--over corruption, social anomie and the perceived stagnation of the economy and the political system. A Chinese-United States economic meltdown had been made all the more conceivable by this same discontent. The war plans were critical at that point.

  Hoa approached the MSS building, a century-old mishmash of concrete and steel that attempted to project a feeling of power but actually projected a failed engineering policy.

  He presented security credentials and waited in an impatient line of downstream political workers for the eye scan. Hoa was forty-five, lithe and powerfully built, with a penchant for Western food and Japanese martial arts and a live-in girlfriend--one of the few social accommodations the Party allowed to ease the pain of living in a communist country with such huge economic disparities among its citizens. What might seem a reasonable price for a one-bedroom to a Party official would, in most cases, be unthinkable to a security operative as low in the food chain as Hoa. Consequently, he shared a studio apartment of four hundred square feet with his girlfriend ten miles from city center in a crowded, noisy community of Party worker-bees and Ministry subordinates.

  The credentials officer was satisfied at last and waved Hoa on through the wall of scanners and screens. Hoa headed off to the elevator bank and searched for one that wasn't under repair. He was able to crowd onto the second car with a dozen others and stare with them at the flickering floor numbers as they silently rose up to their cubicles.

  At his desk he placed his lunch inside the bottom right drawer and settled onto his hard cubicle chair. His eyes immediately focused on his computer screen, on which were the words: Longma Kee 9 a.m.

  Hoa checked his watch. Less than five minutes. He'd had no idea the Director wanted to meet with him until that very moment and his pulse raced in anticipation of a meeting with the brains of the MSS. His work had gone well but he didn't realize it had gone that well, enough to have captured the attention of the MSS's highest-ranking official.

  Hoa headed for the communal restroom where he pushed his way through elbows and shoulders up to the long communal sink with its many spouting water taps. He cupped a teaspoon of water in his hand and patted it on his head, attempting to flatten the challenging cowlick nature had blessed him with. It was no use: the cowlick gave up nothing to the water. He straightened up while being jostled from side to side and studied himself in the stainless steel mirror--a poor excuse for glass but workable and common in all Beijing public restrooms.

  Disappointed that his coarse hair had remained uncontrollable again, Hoa departed the restroom and hurried to the elevators, where he ascended another twenty-two floors .

  He stepped off and found himself in a rich lobby of muted reds and golds--the official Party colors. He had been up here twice before but never to visit with Director Kee.

  He gave one of the six receptionists his name and again produced security credentials and allowed the eye scans that were around every corner in the MSS. The receptionist told him to walk to the open door at the end of the hall behind her, that he was exactly on time and the Director was waiting. Hoa bowed his neck and struck out.

  Director Longma Kee was a stout, moribund character straight out of Chinese noir films, a humorless man who didn't smile when Hoa entered his office without knocking. It was rumored his condition was terminal, but that rumor was now at least two years old. He was alone in the huge expanse of office.

  Hoa crossed the deep carpet and waited at the four visitors' chairs until the Director looked up from his paperwork and indicated Hoa should take a seat. Hoa sat on cue and placed his hands on his knees.

  "We have received and inventoried the drop," the Director said without introduction.

  "From Broyles in Washington?"

  "Yes. The package consisted of two flash drives. The response plans are included and numbered one to ten, just as promised. The worst case scenario is what we feared: an all-out nuclear attack on our homeland."

  Hoa shook his head slowly. The news was so dire that he didn't have the words to respond.

  "Well?" said the Director, evidently seeking Hoa's response even though it wasn't his to make.

  "I'm shocked but not surprised," Hoa said slowly. "The Americans never cease to amaze with their ardent desire to make war as a financial last stand. They are still taking their battle plans from George Custer, the army officer who was defeated at--"

  "--at Little Bighorn. The ill-advised American cavalry officer who failed to assess his enemy's strength and died for it. Do you think that's the situation here?"

  "The Americans presently have a fleet of seventy nuclear submarines with nuclear launch capabilities, between the Fast-Attack class and the Boomers. We have three times that. It would be foolish for them to consider striking us. Their cities and infrastructure would be vaporized minutes after."

  The Director smiled. He liked Hoa. But he needed more and he wondered whether Hoa was, in fact, the proper asset to pull off what Kee envisioned. Hoa's control had quickly named him for the follow-up; it was up to the Director to decide.

  "You have been selected to travel to America and meet with Mr. Broyles. There you will demand the alternative battle plans for such a strike. We believe there will be at least one dozen war games. Broyles will claim he has no access, but you won't be thwarted. He can get what you are demanding and he can make it available to you. You will be provided with passports, money, disguises, new identities and even citizenship credentials as an American citizen. You will obtain all battle plans and make your country proud."

  Hoa's heart leapt in his chest. "When am I to do this?"

  "Tonight. You will speak with Broyles today and leave for America tonight."

  "Director, I--"

  "You're the right man to do this, Comrade Hoa. Broyles trusts you and will respond to the American dollars we have wired to your bank account in California."

  "Mr. Director, I am stunned. I don't know how to thank you for this honor to serve."

  "You have proven your value. You will succeed and return a hero to our people."

  "One question, if I may. Why not just penetrate the American server network and steal the war plans?"

  "We've tried. We would leave fingerprints."

  "You have honored me today, Comrade Director. I will not let you down."

  "No, but if you did let me down there would be no country for you to return to," the Director said with an easy smile. "You would never see your family. So think on this while you leave Hong Kon
g to fly to San Francisco."

  "I will. I will think hard about it."

  "Just don't let me down. If you have to die for this, do it on American soil. Not here at home."

  6

  Sing Di Hoa pulled shut the articulating door of the phone booth. The overhead light blinked but went dark. He lifted the handset and punched in the unfamiliar American area code and seven-digit number. Then he waited as it rang once, twice, three times. "Come on, come on," he whispered into the mouthpiece.

  Then, "Frank Broyles. How can I help?"

  Hoa placed the voice scrambler against the mouthpiece.

  "I'm here," said Hoa. No introduction, no name--nothing to indicate the caller's ID. At Broyles' end, the inbound voice was electronic.

  "All the same," said Broyles. Then he added: "All the same, I think you have a wrong number."

  Which meant: same time, same day of the week, same location, and same payment as the last meeting. He knew whoever was on the other end of the call would know the particulars.

  Broyles hung up.

  He walked to the window in his office and looked out at 4th Street NW and there, to the south, his eyes played over the District of Columbia Court of Appeals. He shook his head then reached up and pressed the thumb and middle finger of his right hand softly against his closed eyes. It was a reassuring feeling, a temporary distancing from the world of spies and counterspies that he now inhabited. Inhabited voluntarily from the first moment he agreed to meet with the man claiming to be from the Chinese Embassy when they had bumped into each other at the National Gallery.

  He had known it would come sooner or later, the contact by the Chinese; the FBI, during his orientation as the new U.S. Attorney for the District of Columbia, had warned him that U.S. officials were routinely contacted by the Chinese. Those contacted were to inform the FBI so the Chinese agent would be deported back to China as yet another failed spy. It was all routine. The whole world of foreign embassies in D.C. was just one big revolving door with spies coming and going, secrets coming and going, monies coming and going until someone got their name in the paper and was outed, whereupon an example would be made of him when he was sent off to a maximum security prison built into the side of a Colorado mountain. Another warning to others who might consider selling their country’s secrets.