by Andrew Watts
The general frowned. He leaned back in his chair and didn’t respond for a moment.
“General, I’m not saying this means that China is about to send ten million troops overseas. I’m just saying that there are companies that are making military medical devices in quantities that are astronomically high. And it corresponds with these levels of troop movements.”
“Maybe it was part of previous plans, and the purchases just haven’t been canceled yet? They could still be catching up with the fact that Jinshan is behind bars. Or maybe they manufacture them in bulk? I’m just trying to play devil’s advocate, before we start spreading this around.”
“Sir, we’re with you. That’s possible. But the odd thing about this is that these purchases really ramped up in the past week. After Jinshan was taken into custody. So I would think that these manufacturing orders could be our first indication of current military intentions. Our first window into the PLA mindset after recent hostilities.”
The general nodded. “Okay. I’m done with devil’s advocate for the moment. Now I’ll play devil. Let’s say that this is real. What would have to be true?”
“You mean what else would we expect to see?”
“Yes.”
David didn’t hesitate. “Shipping containers.”
The general nodded. “Right. That’s what I keep hearing you guys talk about. Specifically, though, what about shipping containers would you want to know?”
“The Red Cell plans called for specially made shipping containers to outfit merchant ships to easily become troop transports. They would also allow for quick and easy troop movements by rail, once overseas.”
“So have you looked into the shipping containers angle?”
David nodded, a serious look on his face. He made a few more mouse clicks and another file came up. “Another leading indicator. We have human intelligence reports that several shipping container companies are now canceling orders.”
“Why are canceled orders bad?”
“We think that they need to add capacity to their manufacturing lines. Capacity for these specially made containers.”
“And how big are these shipping container orders?”
“We’re still working on this one, sir. Right now, we’re just hearing reports that some of these modifications might be being made.”
“Understood. What do you need to confirm?”
David made a face. “Sir, that’s not really my area of expertise.”
“Well, who’s the expert, then?” The general looked around the open office area. “Susan! Please join us for a moment.”
The CIA operations officer walked over, flashing a look at David as if to ask, Why are you speaking to my boss alone?
“Thanks, Susan. Quick question. I asked David to take me through some of the work you guys have been doing on…” He looked at David. “Leading indicators. What do you need to confirm whether or not the Chinese are actually outfitting shipping containers for mass troop transports?”
Her face relaxed as it became clear what the conversation was about. “Sir, we’re working on that. As you know, we’ve struggled with our human intelligence sources in China over the past seven years…”
Seeing the look of curiosity on David’s face, Susan said, “The Chinese government cracked several of our networks in 2010. It was a very dark time for the Chinese desks. They began losing agents left and right. Over a dozen CIA sources were killed. One of our assets was shot in a public square in front of the government building where he worked. They made his colleagues watch. It was a message for the others. That was in 2012. It made the New York Times. You might have read about it.”
“What happened? How—”
“There was a mole. At least one. That, coupled with some pretty sophisticated hacking into government databases, allowed them to piece together who our operatives over there were. From there, they did what any good intelligence agency does. They began surveilling all our operatives. Laying traps. Tracking who they spoke to and where they went. As some of our assets were taken prisoner, they began giving up information. Once enough of the puzzle is clear, it becomes easier for them. We still haven’t fully recovered, David.”
General Schwartz said, “Susan, I sympathize with the challenges you’ve faced. But we may not have a lot of time. So, what do we need to confirm some of these leading indicators that your team is starting to uncover? Particularly with respect to the shipping containers.”
Susan said, “We have sources that may be able to help us with this. But we still need to find a solution to our other problem.”
David frowned. “What other problem?”
The general and Susan glanced at each other. General Schwartz nodded, and Susan motioned them into one of the soundproof huddle rooms, closing the door behind them. She looked at David. “We have HUMINT that suggests Jinshan has a covert military training facility a few hundred miles north of Liaodong Bay.”
David nodded. “I read your report on that. It was vague. Something about Jinshan holding that location as important.”
“That’s right. My report was vague to protect the source, and because we don’t know what’s at that location. But the asset who gave us the information is very good. If that person is convinced that it’s an item of interest, then we need to be concerned. The cable we received said that Jinshan had considered the site to be vital to his plans. Based on everything we’ve seen, I can only assume that these plans were to wage war against the United States.”
She glanced up at the ceiling as she recalled the exact phrasing. “A covert camp with special operations units conducting unique training. If Jinshan is still wielding influence and power in China, and these military units are still preparing for something, it is crucially important that we find out what they are training for.”
Genera Schwartz said, “Susan and I have been working on ways to get a team in there. With satellite capabilities degraded, and it being in a location not suitable for drones or manned reconnaissance flights, we think a small, covert team might be best. Ideally, it would be an agent or agents already in country.”
“But as we discussed,” Susan said, “the CIA’s HUMINT resources in China are less than stellar.”
Schwartz said, “I have a small group of Delta operators that would be well suited for the job, but the problem is insertion. We think we have a way to get them out of the country. But we can’t insert them the same way.”
David said, “The camp is supposed to be about one hundred miles inland in China, right? And you need a covert method of insertion for a SOF team?”
“Correct.”
David smiled. “You know, when I was at In-Q-Tel, there was one interesting project that I took a look at. DARPA came up with the idea. I think they might even still be working on it.”
9
Chase walked out of the Kyoto train station to a blue sky, crisp air, and the sound of large tour buses. It was rush hour on a weekday. He wasn’t sure if that made Kyoto more or less crowded, since it was such a huge tourist destination. The beautiful city was known for its tranquil and historic temples. Some of them were in the city, while other temples were tucked away in the mountains, accessible only by hiking along winding paths through quiet pine forests.
Crowds lined up outside to get tickets for their tour buses. The buses arrived along the curb and departed, an endless ferry to the temples.
Chase walked up to a standing map—the kind you saw in most indoor malls. Thank God they wrote in English under the Japanese descriptions. His eyes searched the restaurant section.
There. That was the one he was looking for. Ogawa Coffee.
After a brief walk, he arrived at the tiny cafe. Chase took in the rich smell of coffee. The little shop had wooden boxes filled with beans. The boxes had tiny windows so that you could see what you were getting. Plastic scoops and bags. It reminded him of the gourmet coffee shop his mother had loved in Tysons Corner when he was growing up.
“Mr. Manning?”
>
Chase turned to see a Japanese man standing behind him. Medium build, jet-black hair. He looked like the picture he had been shown two days ago in Langley. Then again, half the people here looked like that picture. Was it racist to think that?
Chase stuck out his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m going to butcher your name if I try to pronounce it.”
“Hiramatsu. Hi-ra-ma-tsu. That’s my last name. Tetsuo is my first name. Just call me Tetsuo.”
His English was excellent. Zero accent. Which made sense, since he had been born in the US and had lived there most of his life. It was the CIA that had sent the second-generation American back to the home of his ancestors.
Tetsuo Hiramatsu worked in the US embassy in Tokyo. While he had an official title as an economic advisor, that was a cover. He had worked for the CIA in Tokyo Station for four years now. It was his third overseas assignment with the Agency.
A native of Seattle, Hiramatsu was an avid Seahawks fan, a third-degree black belt in the Japanese style of karate known as Shotokan, and a recent student of a type of car racing known as “drifting.” He had paid for several lessons, when he could get away from his actual work.
Tokyo Station was one of the most important CIA locations in the world. All sorts of politicians and businessmen traveled to Tokyo for legitimate reasons. It was a great place to run an agent. And Tetsuo was running several important assets for the Agency.
“You can call me Chase.”
“Pleased to meet you, Chase. I have to admit, I was a little worried. Kyoto has many tourists. And I’ve been here too long—all you white people are starting to look the same to me.”
Chase laughed. Perhaps he had found a kindred spirit.
“Would you like a coffee before we head out?”
“I would, actually.”
They ordered and took two coffees to go. Chase stirred in a sugar packet as he followed Tetsuo out of the cafe. A Toyota sedan drove up and stopped just in front of them. Tetsuo opened the door for Chase, and they both got in the back.
The driver worked for Tetsuo, Chase learned. He was one of their CIA technical experts. His job was to do things like place listening devices in hotels when they were surveilling persons of interest.
“Where are we headed?”
“To one of our safe houses. Susan wants you to sit in on this.” Tetsuo sipped his coffee, looking back at Chase from the passenger seat. “I’m told that you have made quite a name for yourself in a short period of time. You were a Special Operations Group member until recently, were you not?”
The Special Operations Group was an elite subset of the CIA’s clandestine services. They were the shooters. The guys who helped to provide a more robust level of security where needed, and got sent in for the more kinetic missions. They were seen as a supporting element to the Political Action Group operatives—the more traditional agents who operated around the globe on behalf of the CIA.
“That’s right,” said Chase.
“So what are you now? You still SOG, or what?”
“I don’t really think they’ve defined that. They just tell me where to go, and I go.”
“Interesting.”
Tetsuo seemed like a good guy. But a lot of operatives had massive egos. They had to, considering the balls it took to do what they did. Men like Tetsuo had been like gold miners in the 1800s. They would conduct painstaking searches for valuable locations of their precious commodity. They took many precautions not to be observed by the competition. And once they found a good mine, they would carefully extract every bit they could, until it was dry. But the competition was dangerous and ever-present.
Instead of gold, intelligence operatives like Tetsuo mined information, access, and influence. Tetsuo had an official cover. And by the code of intelligence agencies around the world, violent action against him was off-limits, as long as he was playing by the rules.
It was the lives of his agents—the ones that he was running—that were really at stake. If the Chinese, or the North Koreans, or the gangsters or crooked businessmen found out that Tetsuo’s informants were providing him with secrets, things wouldn’t end well for them.
Tetsuo was GIANT’s handler and had been for the past four years. GIANT had had a myriad of handlers over his long career of spying for the Americans. But Tetsuo’s reputation for street smarts and operational discipline had made him a top choice for the assignment. GIANT frequently made work trips outside China. From his station in Tokyo, Tetsuo was able to quickly and discreetly meet with him when he was in town. Every six months or so, they would spend long evenings in quiet hotel rooms, GIANT filling him in on insider information about the Chinese political scene and military advancements.
It was Tetsuo’s job to protect his agents. And not just for their safety—if they were found out, that mine of information would be sealed off, and the CIA’s collection capability would diminish. Not to mention, Tetsuo’s career would take a tumble. It wasn’t like Tetsuo’s goal was to get promoted to GS-15 or anything. He had joined the CIA to serve his country, not end up a bureaucrat. But if his agent got made, and his career suffered, Tetsuo wouldn’t get any more plum assignments—the ones that really made a difference. And he did care about that.
So when Susan Collinsworth had sent him a message two days ago, asking him to allow his most valuable agent to meet with Chase Manning—some new guy who was working out of Langley—he had rightly told her to go to hell.
It wasn’t often that the director of the CIA got involved in Tetsuo’s business—never, actually. But shortly after Tetsuo had told Susan Collinsworth to go to hell, Tetsuo’s boss, the CIA’s Tokyo station chief, had gotten a call from Director Buckingham himself. The director had ordered them to assist Susan with whatever she needed. SILVERSMITH was point on all things China. The message was clear: Get on board.
Tetsuo had done his homework on Manning. Oh, he realized. That guy. The Dubai guy. Rumor had it that Chase had been sleeping with one Lisa Parker—the Chinese mole who had sent earthquakes through the Counter Intelligence Center—before she had gone AWOL. Poor Chase had had no idea that she was a Chinese double agent. No one had. Another interesting item in Chase Manning’s file was his location over the past few weeks. On temporary assignment in Latin America. Right when all that shit in Ecuador was going down.
Tetsuo had seen the reports. A SOCOM team had been inserted into the Chinese camp in Manta, Ecuador. SILVERSMITH, the CIA’s code name for the operation attempting to counter recent Chinese aggression, was assisting the SOCOM team. Susan was in charge of SILVERSMITH.
If Tetsuo was a gambling man, which he was, he would bet money that Chase Manning had been a part of that SOCOM group. Especially since Manning had been a Special Operations Group guy in the Agency. All of those fellas were taken from the SEALs and Army Delta. Tetsuo decided to give Chase the benefit of the doubt.
Chase eyed Tetsuo as the car swerved along the narrow Japanese roads. They raced past rows and rows of small attached homes, single-car garages on each one. A bike lane took up a lot of the pavement.
Chase said, “How long have you been running your source?”
Tetsuo glanced at him. “He’s been with several handlers over the years. Let’s leave it at that.”
A few moments of silence went by before Tetsuo said, “When we go in there and speak with him, I want you to remember something. He trusts me, not you. I’ll ask that you keep remain quiet while I’m talking to him. Don’t interrupt us. He is risking his life by working with us. Chinese counterintelligence is quite active in Japan, and they usually try to monitor their own dignitaries when they visit. In other words, there may be Chinese operatives trying to look for him. If anything goes wrong, the minute I say the word, we leave. Just stick with me, don’t talk, and leave. Understood?”
“Got it.”
“If the Ministry of State Security finds out that we’re using him…”
Chase simply said, “I understand.” He knew how delicate the relationship was between
handler and agent. It was the first time he had worked with Tetsuo. He still had to earn his trust. And this guy GIANT was a big-time agent.
The car slowed in front of one of the identical attached homes and pulled under the small car overhang. Chase was pretty sure that they had driven in at least two complete circles before parking.
Chase and Tetsuo got out, but the driver stayed in the vehicle. Tetsuo began walking along the sidewalk around the building. Chase followed him. “We aren’t going into the house?”
“Not that one.”
Surveillance detection, Chase realized, watching Tetsuo’s eyes scan the streets. These guys weren’t screwing around.
Chase continued to follow Tetsuo along a path that ran parallel to a thirty-foot-wide canal. An identical pathway lay on the opposite side of the water. Cherry blossom tree branches covered them overhead, reflecting in the still water. They were still another month from blooming, but the scenery was impressive. The walking path was made of square stone tiles and gravel. Wooden walking bridges arched over the canal every fifty yards or so. There were plenty of tourists posing for pictures.
“Nice area.”
“This is called the Philosopher’s Path. Very well known here. You should come back in the spring or fall. It is truly beautiful.”
As Tetsuo talked, he continued to work. Scanning each passerby, each person on a bench, each tourist with a phone—looking for anyone who might be watching them.
“Are we black?” Chase was asking if they were clear of any foreign surveillance.
“I think so. We’ll do this for another twenty minutes. I have a local team helping out with countersurveillance as well.”
Eventually Chase followed Tetsuo as he veered off into a nearby neighborhood. Homes and shops were pressed up next to each other, just like everywhere in Japan’s urban districts. Busy streets filled with tiny cars and pedestrians. Many were riding bikes. The two men walked up to an unremarkable two-story townhouse. Power lines buzzed lightly overhead.
They walked into the house through a back door, not visible from the street. A man stood waiting for them. Tetsuo introduced Chase and the man—another member of his team. One of the only ones with access to this safe house and knowledge of his asset’s identity. The team member didn’t smile; he just gestured toward a pile of shoes near the door. Chase frowned and wriggled out of his shoes. The man, Japanese or Japanese American by the look of it, rolled his eyes and picked up Chase’s shoes, rearranging them neatly next to the others. More Japanese culture stuff. It was a country of obsessive-compulsive disorder patients.
