by Tom Clancy
“Done.”
Burgess asked, “So, if this isn’t about European trade with Russia, why did the French and Germans resist this base treaty?”
“To be fair, they resisted, but they eventually signed on,” Adler said.
“But why the reluctance?”
“My sense is that it wasn’t about the base, it was about Poland. The bureaucrats in Brussels are far more worried about European nationalism than Russian expansion, and Poland is one of the most self-consciously nationalist countries in Europe.”
“And the EU views nationalist movements as a threat to deepening European integration,” Ryan said.
“Not just slowing integration down but actually unraveling it. Brexit, the Italians, the Hungarians—the peasants are sharpening their pitchforks.”
“And they saw a bilateral treaty between two NATO member nations as a threat to the borderless European Union?”
“It was never expressed that way officially, but it was loud and clear in the European media,” Adler said. “There’s always been a radical element that saw NATO as a barrier to European integration, especially since it so heavily relies on our participation—and funding.”
SecDef Burgess chuckled. “Last year, six out of six German diesel submarines were in dry dock—and they could only field ninety-five Leopard 2 tanks. The Russians have twenty thousand tanks and IFVs active or in reserve. Bundeswehr helicopter pilots are borrowing civilian choppers to practice because the military ones aren’t available, and only half of all French aircraft and a quarter of their helicopters are flying at any given time. And don’t forget that incident a few years ago when the Germans used broomsticks for rifles on a training exercise because they had a shortage of the real ones.”
Adler shook his head. “Neither Germany nor France nor half a dozen other NATO partners have lived up to their NATO spending obligations. We’ve been footing the bill since the beginning even though the EU is our biggest trading competitor next to China.”
“If you go to a party and people keep kicking you in the ass, you’re probably the guy with the KICK ME sign pinned to his back,” Adler said.
“So how do they expect to defend themselves against Russian aggression if NATO isn’t ready?” Arnie asked.
“You’d be surprised how many Europeans think it’s American and NATO aggression that provokes Russian hostility. Get rid of NATO and your Russian problem is solved, or so they think,” Ryan said.
“A few Americans think that, too,” Arnie added.
“So, to bottom-line this, you think Dixon is dancing to the tune set by Berlin and Paris?” Burgess asked.
“I think it’s worse than that,” Ryan said. “Let’s finish the exercise: Who else benefits from a canceled Polish army base?”
“Maybe it’s not about the Polish army base. Maybe it’s really about us,” Adler said.
Ryan nodded, always the college professor. “Agreed. Go on.”
“And the list of people who stand to benefit at our expense is a mile long.”
“And who would you say would be at the top of that list—besides the Russians?”
“The Chinese, no question,” Burgess said.
“Exactly.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President. I’m not following. How would China benefit from killing this deal?”
“You want the short answer or the long one?” Ryan grinned.
“I think you’d be disappointed if I didn’t say ‘both.’”
“The short answer is the BRI.”
“And the BRI is . . . ?” Arnie asked.
Adler jumped in. “The Belt and Road Initiative. It’s China’s comprehensive infrastructure plan to link two-thirds of the world’s population and half of global GDP with new roads, rail, and shipping arteries stretching north–south from New Delhi to Murmansk and east–west from Shanghai to Lisbon. Think of it as a modernized version of the ancient Chinese Silk Road.
“Of course, the Chinese will kindly loan participating countries the billions of dollars those countries will need for mostly Chinese firms to come and build that infrastructure at usurious rates.”
“Unlike us, who spend ourselves into oblivion giving stuff away,” Arnie said.
The President nodded grimly. “It’s the China Dream—the means by which the Chinese Communists plan on achieving global hegemony.”
“How will cheap diapers and alarm clocks do that?” Arnie asked.
“How much of your European history do you remember from college?” Ryan asked.
“Not as much as the guy with the Ph.D. in history who taught the subject at the Naval Academy, I suspect.”
“The ancient Persians dreamed of an empire stretching from Asia to Europe, and they would have pulled it off, were it not for a few stubborn Greeks. Fast-forward as far as you want to—Napoleon, Kaiser Wilhelm, Hitler, Stalin. They all tried it as well. Nothing would be more powerful or destabilizing than a united Eurasian landmass. It’s Mackinder’s Heartland Theory: Whoever rules Eurasia rules the world. American security policy for the last hundred years has been designed to keep that from happening.”
“The Chinese certainly don’t have the military means to do so, at least not yet,” Burgess said.
“But they do have the economic means,” Ryan said. “And the will. What did Lenin say? ‘A capitalist will sell you the rope to hang him with’? BRI is a very clever and profitable way for China and Russia to unite against us, right under our noses, with most of the West European globalists cheering them on.”
Ryan leaned forward. “And just maybe at least one U.S. senator.”
“And so we’re back to Dixon,” Arnie said. “Right where you wanted us to be.”
“Yes, I see it now,” Adler said. “Maybe not her, directly, but her husband—what’s his name?”
“Aaron Gage,” Ryan said. “Founder and CEO of Gage Capital Partners. His firm has made a lot of money doing business with the Chinese.”
“He’s made a lot of money doing business with everybody,” Arnie said. “He and Dixon are multimillionaires, thanks to him.”
“You have a problem with millionaires, Arnie?” Ryan asked with a smirk. He was a one-percenter himself.
“Not with millionaires who earned it the old-fashioned way in the private sector before they got into politics,” Arnie said.
“So we think she’s fronting Chinese legislation to benefit her husband’s firm?” Burgess asked.
“She wouldn’t be the first. This whole town stinks of legal nepotism,” Ryan said. He was referring to the dozens of siblings, children, spouses, and other relatives who actively lobbied the Hill—though never their family members directly, in order to avoid the strict letter, if not the spirit, of the law.
“Money rules this town,” Arnie said. “The average senator needs to raise fourteen, fifteen thousand dollars a day, every day they’re in office, just to pay for their reelections.”
“This isn’t just about campaign finance,” Ryan said. “It’s about the whole damn system. The sweetheart contracts to family members, the revolving doors between elected offices and corporate boardrooms, the donations to family charitable trusts. Lobbyists who become staffers, staffers who become lobbyists. I read the other day that nearly half of all ex-senators and nearly a third of ex–House members become registered lobbyists—and a whole bunch more of them aren’t registered as such but still work the cocktail circuit. It’s all perfectly legal, but legal corruption is still corruption, especially when it’s the lawmakers themselves who make this stuff legal. I hate it, and it’s why Congress is becoming less functional every day.”
“You can’t expect the foxes who run the henhouse to rewrite the rules to protect the hens, boss,” Adler said.
Ryan dragged a hand through his hair, obviously frustrated. “Another battle for another day, I suppose.” He took his last sip of col
d coffee, the ice tinkling in the bottom of the glass.
“I know you don’t think much of my proboscis, but I still think we should look more closely at Dixon’s family finances.”
“Do you honestly believe a sitting U.S. senator is on the Chinese payroll?” the SecDef asked.
“I won’t use federal resources against an elected official without probable cause,” Ryan said. “Besides the fact it’s not ethical, it’s bad optics. How would it look to the country if I put FBI investigators on the trail of a a likely presidential candidate I’m at odds with politically? Am I clear on this?”
“Clear as rain, boss,” Arnie said. His blue eyes smiled behind his glasses. “But you don’t mind if I ask around a little, do you?”
8
BEIJING, CHINA
Chen Xing hung up his phone.
The traitor was dead.
Such unfortunate news.
As the head of the ultrasecretive International Counterterrorism Division of the Ministry of State Security, Chen was a man to be feared. But he was no fool. Facts were the best weapons in his line of work. The only thing his subordinates need fear was failure. Reporting bad news carried no penalties for the message bearer.
From an intelligence perspective, the death of the treasonous physicist mattered little. Electric batons and ultraviolet-ray shocks had already squeezed everything out of him they could. They had also overwhelmed an undetected heart condition.
The scientist had no network to roll up, no family to exploit. Chen only wanted the scum to live longer so he could suffer more. Nothing was more delightful than to watch a sobbing prisoner concoct fantastical confessions in hopes of stopping torture that had no purpose other than the infliction of pain.
What Chen had discovered was that the sniveling bastard had sold out his country in exchange for the promise of Canadian citizenship and a modest two-story home in a Vancouver suburb.
The physicist’s only mandate was to collect data as opportunity arose, paying the utmost attention to his personal safety. He worked in the Quantum Science Satellite program at the University of Science and Technology in Hefei, passing along invaluable state secrets to the Canadian assistant trade representative, a Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS) operative.
His Canadian handler made the mistake of agreeing to a CIA request for specific information regarding a recent test. To Chen’s surprise, an unsolicited text from CHIBI arrived on his encrypted phone, providing the CIA data request along with the physicist’s name, address, and drop-off location—and a proposition.
It was exceedingly rare for a foreign asset to walk in the front door with actionable intelligence. On the other hand, some of the greatest intelligence coups in history happened precisely this way—John Walker, the U.S. Navy chief warrant officer sailor; Aldrich Ames, the CIA operative; Jonathan Pollard, a civilian Navy intelligence analyst; and FBI agent Robert Hanssen all came to mind.
Of course, CHIBI didn’t walk into his office literally; rather, it was a brief, digital introduction and actionable intelligence that proved highly valuable. But Chen found CHIBI’s proposition unpalatable.
Under any other circumstance, Chen would have leaped at the opportunity to continue working with an intelligence gold mine like CHIBI. But CHIBI didn’t want cash—at least, not immediately—or honorifics. Not even an exchange of intel. Chen detected no bitterness in this mysterious person, no ideological motivations for his actions. Ego? No question. Who would have the balls to reach out to the MSS and play such a dangerous game unless they had an inflated ego?
Except, CHIBI’s ego wasn’t inflated. He was as good as he thought he was. Chen’s comrades in Bureau 7 were unable to identify or locate him through digital or other means, which suggested that CHIBI had superb if not insurmountable OPSEC capabilities. Of course, this implied an equally capable offensive threat profile, his technical experts suggested. Prying into CHIBI’s whereabouts further could provoke a damaging counterattack, one that at the moment the MSS would be unable to defend against.
But what to do? Accept CHIBI’s invitation to the auction, or pass?
Chen didn’t believe in rogue intelligence operations. The resources required were too great for an independent organization, let alone an individual, no matter how gifted.
Who would have reached out to him with such an unusual offer other than another intelligence service? He couldn’t imagine it was a Canadian operation. They wouldn’t allow themselves to sacrifice one of their own assets under any circumstances, let alone in a “proof of concept” demonstration. Not only would it violate their own sentimental notions of so-called individual rights, but it would also discredit them in the eyes of future potential assets. Trust was the most important currency in the spy business, especially in the field.
The Americans and other Western powers were equally unlikely candidates, for the same reason. The Russians, as good as they were, didn’t have this capability. Of this he was certain. The same with the North Koreans, Iranians, and Indians.
So, if not one of the competing intelligence services, then who?
CHIBI was a dangerous enigma and a loner. A single individual with the “keys to the kingdom,” as he’d put it in his proposition.
And the name. CHIBI. An obvious reference to the Battle of Chibi, aka Red Cliffs. A name as familiar to Chinese history students as Thermopylae or Agincourt was in the West. An eighteen-hundred-year-old battle personifying Sun Tzu’s principle that all warfare was based on deception. A war that saw the smaller power overthrow the greater power. Chibi was a touchstone for all Chinese strategic thinking, both military and economic.
Did that mean CHIBI was actually Chinese?
Impossible.
Or was it?
Despite the obvious draw—the offer of total access to Western intelligence sources—Chen declined the offer to attend the London auction for one simple reason.
He hated enigmas . . . especially ones that could get him killed.
9
HIGH OVER MONONGAHELA NATIONAL FOREST, WEST VIRGINIA
The CloudServe Bombardier Global 8000 business jet streaked across the night sky with its single passenger curled up in one of the luxurious leather seats, shoes off.
Watson already had her first vodka tonic in hand as she reviewed her notes from the meeting with Foley.
Her phone rang. A familiar ringtone.
“How’d it go?” Elias Dahm asked. He breathed heavily on the other end.
“They hate the cloud, they’ve fired us, and they’re sending you to jail.”
“Ha, ha. Funny. Seriously?”
“It would’ve gone a whole lot better if you had been there.”
“I doubt it. You’re the brains in this outfit. I’m just the pretty face.”
“Yeah. That’s why they kept asking, ‘Where’s Elias? Did he go to Burning Man this year? When’s the next rocket launch?’ I swear, sometimes I feel like I’m working for Mick Jagger.”
“You know how it is. It’s all about marketing.” Wind buffeted Elias’s phone.
Yeah, but you actually have to have something to market, she wanted to say. “Foley really wanted you there. I think she’s pissed.”
“Yeah, well, screw her. I’ve got a lot going on and no time to waste on circle-jerk meetings like that.”
Oh, but I do? Watson said to herself.
“What did she say about our War Cloud bid?”
“That our bid is being considered just like all the others.”
“Goddamn it. We need that contract.”
Watson understood his frustration. The name of the game in tech was cash flow, and CloudServe needed some badly. “She doesn’t run the DoD. It isn’t up to her.”
“But she has her ear to the ground and she sure as hell could pull a few strings on our behalf if she wanted to.”
“She strikes me as a
straight shooter.”
“Then why in the hell am I paying an army of lobbyists to make this happen?”
“That’s your end of the business, not mine. But you might want to give her a call and reassure her a little.”
“About what?”
“She’s nervous about her cloud security.”
“She has every reason to be, if things go wrong.”
Watson’s temper flared, but she bit her tongue. “I won’t let that happen.”
“I know that. Believe me. I’m your biggest fan.”
Watson let that one go, too. She waved her empty glass at the flight attendant, signaling for a refill.
Watson frowned, more annoyed than concerned. “You okay? You sound like you’re having a hard time breathing.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m fine.”
MARIN COUNTY, CALIFORNIA
Elias stood on the manicured lawn of his seaside hilltop estate while he was speaking on his earbuds with Watson, three thousand miles away.
Broad-shouldered and movie-star handsome, Elias was dressed in full kendo gear—black gi jacket, hakama trousers, body armor. He was still holding the bamboo-stave shinai practice sword in one hand while his sensei, an all-Japan kendo champion, smoked a Marlboro, waiting for the call to end so they could resume their practice.
Elias absentmindedly waved the sword in the air as he spoke. Two dozen tiki torches flickered in a gusting ocean breeze rattling the ancient cypress trees. His bright, piercing eyes were nearly the same gray-green as the Pacific Ocean crashing on the rocks below.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Less than three weeks until the TechWorld conference. You ready?”
“I was born ready.”
“You can’t just wing it, you know. You’re giving the keynote speech.”
“I’m working on it,” Elias said, pointing his sword at his sensei. The Japanese swordsman nodded curtly and flicked his cigarette butt away before reaching for his sword and mask.
