by Tom Clancy
“Sweetheart,” Fung said. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
A brooding, handsome face loomed on the wide monitor. Torré was mixed Korean, Haitian, and Irish. He broke into modeling on his exotic looks years ago as a teenager, but a vicious drug habit ruined his career. He was now in recovery, his ambitions turned elsewhere, convinced that modeling was a one-way ticket back into addiction hell.
“Hello, Larry. How are you? You look exhausted.”
Fung hid his frustration with the failing VoIP tech. Torré’s lips weren’t synched with his voice, like a bad kung fu movie, and his voice crackled and reverberated on the speakers. Bad connection.
“Miss you.”
Torré’s brooding face softened. “Miss you, too.”
Fung’s heart leaped in his chest. The face in the monitor was beyond handsome—beautiful, really. He’d forgotten how much he missed Torré. Sunlight dappled the palm trees in the open sliding glass door behind his lover as the crashing ocean waves washed through the scratchy speakers.
“Thailand looks gorgeous.”
Torré sighed. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
“That terrible, eh?” Fung chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.
“How’s the city?”
“Same. Busy, crowded, cold. More shit and needles on the streets than ever.” Fung quickly added, “Can’t wait to come visit you.”
“Yeah, that would be great.” Torré shifted in his chair, adjusting his sheer linen robe.
Clearly, it wasn’t.
“Something wrong?”
“Some friends are leaving for a week’s vacation to Tokyo tomorrow.”
Fung frowned with concern. “They’ll be back before you know it.”
“I know. It just gets so boring around here sometimes. I hate to miss out on the fun.”
“It can’t be that expensive to go.”
“I’ve already spent this month’s allowance.”
“Oh, wow.”
“But no worries. I know how it is. You’ve already done so much.”
That’s putting it mildly, Fung thought.
The cost of Torré’s gender transition kept escalating. The hormone therapy was expensive, and the anticipated surgery even more so. Thailand performed more gender reassignment surgeries than any other country in the world, followed by, of all places, Iran, which viewed homosexuality as a Quranic evil. But rather than punish gay people, the Revolution gave them the “opportunity” to change genders rather than suffer prison sentences.
Given the choice between Thailand and Iran, Torré chose the Southeast Asian paradise. Both countries were cheaper alternatives to anything offered in the United States, where medical procedures alone added up to six figures. Unfortunately, Fung wasn’t saving any money, because the lifestyle Torré insisted on maintaining in Thailand was more expensive than the medical bills themselves.
“You still have the credit card, right? Just use that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. What’s the point of denying yourself a little fun?”
“I hated to ask, but thank you. You’re just the best.” Torré smiled shyly. It was quite charming. The hormone therapy was really taking effect now. He was completely androgynous at this point. Fung could only imagine the beautiful butterfly that would emerge from that delicious caramel cocoon over the next several months.
With the ice between them finally thawed, Fung hoped the conversation might turn more interesting—even if only virtually. Fung’s heart raced with anticipation. But before he could open his mouth, an encrypted text notice slid onto his monitor.
Now what?
“Hey, babe,” Fung said, staring at his phone screen. “I gotta run. Something’s come up. Maybe we can talk again tomorrow.”
“I’ll call you from Tokyo—”
But Fung had already hung up and was pulling up the text.
13
WHY NOT? CHIBI asked in the dialogue box.
Fung’s cursor flashed on his screen. What could he say? The truth, he supposed.
“I’m afraid.”
OF WHAT?
“I know I’m being watched.”
SHE WATCHES EVERYBODY.
“You know what I mean. She’s been acting very suspicious. Double-checking my logs.”
I UNDERSTAND. I WOULD NEVER WANT YOU TO DO ANYTHING THAT PUTS YOU AT UNNECESSARY RISK.
Fung sighed, relieved. He’d hoped the nature of this relationship would have changed over time. He didn’t want it to end, though. It was too wrong not to be enjoyed.
“Thank you for understanding. Maybe next time,” he typed.
SADLY THERE WILL NOT BE A NEXT TIME. I NEED SOMEONE I CAN COUNT ON WHEN IT MATTERS MOST TO ME.
Fung’s stomach roiled with anxiety. He was losing CHIBI. His thumb tore across the virtual keyboard on his phone.
“NOBODY can give you what I have.”
BUT YOU WON’T GIVE IT TO ME ANYWAY. SO WHAT DOES IT MATTER?
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t. I just said I couldn’t. Not now.”
WHY? BECAUSE SHE IS WATCHING YOU? YOU DO NOT EVEN KNOW IF SHE IS. YOU MAY NEVER FEEL SAFE. YOU MAY NEVER BE ABLE TO HELP ME AGAIN. I UNDERSTAND YOUR CONCERN. BUT I CANNOT WAIT AROUND.
“Please don’t play games with me. I hate that shit.”
I AM NOT PLAYING GAMES WITH YOU. I AM YOUR FRIEND. BUT I HAVE OBLIGATIONS TO MEET. IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO HELP ME THAT IS FINE. WE CAN STILL BE FRIENDS. BUT YOU DO NOT WANT ME TO GET IN TROUBLE DO YOU?
“What kind of trouble?”
NOW WHO IS THE ONE PLAYING GAMES?
Fung cursed himself. He really was playing games. He knew there was a lot at stake. Had to be, with all of the money that had been tossed around. But he was genuinely afraid, too.
But the money. The damn money.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t want to put you in a bad place.”
DO NOT WORRY ABOUT ME. YOU ALREADY DO SO MUCH FOR SO MANY PEOPLE. I DO NOT WANT YOU TO RISK ALL OF THAT. I WILL BE FINE. THERE ARE ALWAYS OTHER OPTIONS.
“But no option as good as me. Let me do this one last time. I don’t want to leave you hanging.”
NO. I DO NOT THINK IT IS A GOOD IDEA. TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS.
“Please? I’m just having a bad day, that’s all. Really, I want to do it.”
BUT YOU SAID THERE IS EXTRA RISK INVOLVED, RIGHT?
“No more than usual.”
I DO NOT BELIEVE YOU. HOW ABOUT THIS: I CAN PAY AN EXTRA 25K FOR THIS JOB. WOULD THAT HELP ALLEVIATE THE RISK?
Hell, yeah. Fung couldn’t believe it. “I wouldn’t say no. That’s very generous of you.”
BUT ONLY IF YOU ARE SURE. DO NOT LET THE MONEY PERSUADE YOU.
“I’m not. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”
THANK YOU. YOU ARE LITERALLY SAVING MY LIFE.
“Glad to do it. Give me the details.”
CHIBI sent Fung the particulars.
Very doable, Fung decided. But precautions were in order. He was being watched. He could feel it. But he needed the money, and he needed this. Something secret, something important. The big “fuck you” to everyone around him. To everyone who doubted him.
And he’d do anything to keep it.
Fung licked his lips. Twenty-five thousand extra would come in handy. He had a head for numbers, sure, but not money—or, at least, spending it. He was out of control and he knew it. The more he made, the more he spent. All the bills got paid, but only at the last minute.
CHIBI knew this. It was why he had reached out to Fung. Fung was frightened at first. To have been watched, studied, probed. Kind of embarrassing, actually. He was a cybersecurity expert—a professional hacker!—and he’d been hacked. That was a neat trick. Fung had been certain his personal financial information was secure, at least on his end. But CHIBI must have hacked the los
ers at his bank and mortgage company and who knows who else.
His first instinct was to shut everything down. Go dark. Contact his boss, tell her what happened, humiliating as that would be. Or maybe even call his friend at the FBI’s Cyber Division. Another humiliation, for sure, but maybe he would know a way to get out from under this asshole without losing his job. Either of those would have been the smart play.
But something clicked inside him. CHIBI could have robbed him blind or blackmailed him into service. But he did neither. He just wanted to talk.
And they did.
After the initial shock and embarrassment, Fung warmed to the idea of being known by this mysterious stranger. A stranger with a serious skill set. A master hacker who had reached out to him for help. No threats. Just cash.
And the thrill.
Thrilling, because CHIBI was most likely a Chinese agent. Possibly even with Unit 61398. Had to be. Those guys were the best.
Fung was born in Alameda, California—an anchor baby, by design. His mother had flown over from Guangzhou when she was seven months pregnant. She took up residence with four other pregnant Chinese nationals at an illegal “maternity hotel” in a suburban residence owned by a Chinese expat maternity nurse charging exorbitant fees to her desperate countrymen and not reporting that income to federal authorities. The fourteenth amendment to the American Constitution, not anticipating global jet travel, apparently determined that anyone physically born in the United States was automatically an American citizen, and tens of thousands of Chinese mothers had taken advantage of this quirky law over the last twenty years, including Fung’s, who lied about her pregnancy status and the duration of her visit. Both lies rendered her entry status illegal. Two months after he was born, she returned to the mainland. Within two years, she and her husband were allowed to immigrate to the United States with visas in hand, owing in part to Lawrence Fung’s illegally contrived citizenship and sponsored by distant family members already living in California.
The Fungs did well for themselves in their new country, at least initially. His mother was a civil engineer and his father an economist, and within a decade they had managed to climb the first few rungs of the American dream ladder. Lawrence was raised in a Mandarin-speaking home, and he quickly picked up Cantonese from his expat Hong Kong friends. His parents’ social circles were limited to other Bay Area Chinese families, of which there were many.
His parents taught him all of the myths and stories they had grown up on, including the ones that portrayed the Chinese Communist Party heroically, the vanguard of the Revolution against Western imperialism.
His mother and father didn’t leave the Red mainland for ideological reasons but green ones—dollar bills, to be exact.
Outwardly and legally, Lawrence Fung was as American as apple pie, secretly listening to Alanis Morissette, Jay-Z, and Limp Bizkit and smoking dope along with the rest of his non-Asian skater friends after school. But inwardly, he was Chinese to the core. Part of the great Han diaspora. Every year it became more and more obvious to him that the twenty-first century belonged to China, and, no doubt, the centuries after that. In his heart, he’d always hoped his motherland would reach out to him.
When Lawrence turned sixteen, he told his ultra-traditionalist parents he was gay. They disowned him. At seventeen, he left home—technically, he was thrown out—and entered the UC Berkeley mathematics program. Not easy for an Asian kid to do back then, with all of the admissions biases against Asians, who dominated GPAs, test scores, and extracurriculars relative to other ethnic groups. Cut off from his parents, he paid for everything along the way with student loans, including extensive international travel, a lavish lifestyle for him and his friends and paramours, top-of-the-line computer and audio equipment, and, best of all, cars.
By the time Fung had finished graduate school, he was almost three hundred thousand dollars in debt, and according to the law, none of those educational loans could be discharged through bankruptcy. One more reason to hate the U.S. government, as far as Fung was concerned.
His penchant for getting hired on at Silicon Valley “unicorns” that failed was a running joke among his so-called peers who couldn’t code their way out of a bento box. But he made enough quick cash to pay off all his debts and accelerate his already lavish lifestyle. Giving up his dream for a fast score with another startup, he finally relented and joined a boring but reputable firm two years ago and began making seriously good and stable money for the first time in his life.
Money he couldn’t help but spend.
CHIBI knew all of this. And more. Fung didn’t care. In fact, it was a relief. And deeply satisfying. An intimacy he shared with no one else in the world but this mysterious brother on the other side of the planet. Another dark and dangerous secret he kept from the people around him who thought they knew him. Only this time, he would never out himself. And neither would CHIBI. What would be the advantage of doing so?
Fung feared being discovered. The idea of going to jail terrified him. The idea of getting caught by his inferiors humiliated him. He knew the shame that would fall upon his parents would be unbearable for them—and for him.
“I’ll make it happen,” Fung typed.
THANK YOU. AGAIN.
CHIBI logged off.
So did Fung. He’d saved his connection to his mysterious friend. But now he was in deep shit.
Drowning in it.
And for all of his bravado, he’d probably get caught.
How in the hell would he pull this off?
He wanted to call Torré and bare his soul. But his lover was so damned moody these days, and a bad Internet connection only made things more frustratingly awkward. Even if he did pick up, what would he say to him? He had to keep Torré in the dark to protect him, just in case.
Fung sighed. It didn’t matter. His lot in life was to bear everyone else’s burdens all by himself. He just had to accept it.
Fung stood and shuffled toward his shower. The thought of pleasuring himself beneath the steaming twin rain heads crossed his mind, but he was too damned tired. Instead, he poured himself a glass of Beringer Private Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon and popped a couple Ambien before falling into bed, exhausted and depressed.
14
WASHINGTON, D.C.
After Senator Dixon had left for her office the next morning, Aaron Gage entered his library, closing the door behind him. The housekeeper wouldn’t arrive for another hour and he had the place to himself. Plenty of time before his driver would take him to his private jet for a flight to corporate headquarters.
Five years ago, Gage Capital Partners had relocated to Dallas. He didn’t particularly care for the city, its weather, or its inhabitants, but it was a great place to do business. Texas had extremely low corporate franchise taxes and zero personal income taxes, and that counted for a great deal in Gage’s book. Taxes were for little people, and the morons too stupid to know how to avoid them.
These days, he seldom traveled to the firm’s twenty-second-story downtown office because the day-to-day operations were handled by a cadre of vice presidents and the people under them. GCP employed a small army of talented quant heads, contract lawyers, and technical analysts recruited from all of the best grad schools. They did all of the number crunching and contract writing, conducted the 24/7 searches for promising new market opportunities, and sniffed out tax loopholes, or created them, thanks to their lobbying efforts.
In his youth, Gage had excelled at most of those activities, but now he was bored by them. He made his first $10 million pitching his investing services to big family trusts, pension funds, and high-net-worth individuals. But he soon figured out that the real money lay elsewhere.
Real being loosely defined.
He negotiated big contract purchases of muni bonds, commodities futures, and stock options, ferreting out the last quarter-point of interest rate return, fee reduction, or
tax deduction he could find. All of that work added up to millions of dollars for his largest clients and, ultimately, for himself.
But the really big money was in government. Socialism was dead, but so was capitalism. Western liberal governments borrowed trillions of dollars of fake money—ones and zeroes created out of thin air in computers run by central banks—to buy votes rather than balance budgets, enslaving future generations with debt they could never repay.
Gage concluded it was better to do business with the people who created money than with the peasants who merely scrapped over bits of it.
Central banks and governments weren’t the only wealth creators. Trillions of dollars were siphoned away from public and private coffers by criminal syndicates, and many billions more made in illicit trade.
Aaron Gage wanted as much of that free and dirty cash as he could lay his hands on. Millionaires were a dime a dozen these days. He wanted billions.
Gage Capital Partners played a key role in his plan. It continued to provide the legitimate cover of conventional business. It was also the platform that allowed Gage to do the really important work of cultivating strategic relationships with business and political elites around the world. These relationships allowed his business to grow in power and influence, which led, ultimately, to ever-increasing wealth, which, in turn, was its own source of power and influence.
It was the greatest game of all, and his wife had proven to be an important cog in his machine. She knew her part and played it well, even if she didn’t fully grasp the scope of his vision.
Christopher, however, did see the big picture, Gage reminded himself, as he stepped into a large walk-in closet, modified to protect against electronic eavesdropping.
The boy had made some serious missteps in his youth, to be sure, but Gage knew it was far easier to put a saddle on a stallion than it was to turn a mule into a racehorse. Christopher was headstrong but smart—damn smart. And when Gage finally broke through his son’s hormonally challenged adolescent fog, the tumblers all fell into place behind the dark, impenetrable eyes.
