Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  The children, both blond-haired girls under ten years of age, were sitting against the wall with their arms taped behind their backs. Their feet, similarly taped together around the calves, were secured to the bed’s footing by nylon clothesline.

  Both girls had been shot once in the crown of the skull. The shock wave from the bullets’ passages had left each child’s face rippled with bruises. The effect was known as “beehiving,” named after the ringed appearance of beehives in cartoons.

  Latham felt the room spinning; he felt hot. He took a deep breath. “What the hell happened here, Harry? Where’s the—”

  “He’s in Rock Creek Park, shot once under the chin.”

  Latham felt a flash of anger. “Son-of-a-bitch …”

  “Maybe. Look at their ankles, Charlie.”

  Latham stepped over the children’s legs and squatted down beside one of them. He pulled back a pajama cuff. There, beside the knob of the ankle bone, a tiny red pinprick on the vein.

  Oh, no … Latham grabbed the bed’s footboard to steady himself.

  Owens held up a clear, plastic, evidence bag. Inside was a hypodermic syringe. “We found it on the stairway. There’s a little bit of blood on the tip.”

  Latham opened his mouth to ask the question, but Owens beat him to it. “We’ll have to get the lab to confirm it, but the syringe looks empty. No residue, no liquid—nothing.”

  Nothing but air, thought Latham. They’d seen this before.

  2

  White House

  “What’s next?” said President Martin, flipping to the next page of the brief. “The Angola thing?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Director of Central Intelligence Dick Mason. The Angola thing …

  Martin spoke as if the plight of thousands of refugees carried no more import than a photo op with the Boy Scouts. Since the start of the war in Angola, thousands had been driven from their homes in the capital and Luanda and into squalid tent camps.

  “If we don’t find a way to get the Red Cross in, disease is going to start hitting the camps.”

  “I see.”

  Do you? For the first time in his life, Mason found himself in the unenviable position of disliking his boss. It didn’t help that his boss also happened to be the president of the United States. Not that it mattered, of course. He wasn’t required to like the man—he just had to follow his orders.

  Martin was what Mason called a “too much man.” Too handsome; too polished; too poised—too everything but genuine. Not that he was a simpleton; in fact, he was well-educated and quick on his feet. The problem was, Martin cared for little else than Martin. He was a dangerous narcissist.

  His smartest move had been hiring his chief of staff, Howard Bousikaris, his right hand since the early days of the Haverland administration. The third-generation Greek was loyal and adept at playing Martin’s political hatchet man. Inside the Beltway, Bousikaris had been nicknamed “The Ninja”: It was only after you were dead that you realized he was after you.

  “What does State have to say about this?” Martin asked.

  Bousikaris said, “Not much at this point, sir. We don’t even know for sure who’s running the government. The central news agency in Luanda has changed hands four times in the last week.”

  “Lord, what a mess. Okay, Dick, what’s next?”

  Moving on again, Mason thought Martin was loath to make executive decisions. Fence riding, when skillfully done, was safer. From here, Angola would be dumped on Bousikaris, who would in turn dump it on either the National Security Council or the President’s Foreign Advisory Council. Meanwhile, the situation in Angola would deteriorate and the death count would mount until Martin had to move lest he lose face. You don’t have to like the man, Mason reminded himself.

  “The elections in the Russian Federation. The issues are no different: the economy, agriculture, oblast autonomy—but it looks like the current president might have a real race on his hands.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Martin. “From this Bulganin fellow?”

  “He’s gaining ground fast.”

  “What do we know about him?” asked Bousikaris.

  “Not as much as we would like,” said Mason. Not nearly enough, in fact.

  Vladimir Bulganin, a former factory foreman and local politician from Omsk, had founded the Russian Pride Party six years before and had been gnawing at the flanks of the major parties ever since.

  On the surface, the RPP’s platform seemed based on moderate nationalism, infrastructure improvement, a more centralized government, and, paradoxically, an emphasis on the democratic power of the people. That Bulganin had been able to dodge this apparent inconsistency was largely due, Mason felt, to his chief advisor, Ivan Nochenko.

  A former colonel in the KGB, Nochenko was an expert at propaganda and disinformation. Before the fall of the Soviet Union, the First Directorate had toppled governments, swayed world opinion, and covered up disasters that would have been front-page news in the West.

  Since his retirement in 1993, Nochenko had worked as a freelance PR consultant in Russia’s always uncertain and often dangerous free market. Though no one on Madison Avenue would dare admit it, there was little appreciable difference between public relations and propaganda.

  Lack of solid evidence notwithstanding, Mason suspected Nochenko was not only the driving force behind Bulganin’s success, but also the reason why no one seemed to know much about this dark horse of the Russian political scene.

  Mason said, “We don’t think he’s got enough backing to take the election, but a solid showing will give him clout in Moscow.”

  Martin nodded. “Leverage for the next go-around.”

  “Yes, sir. Maybe even some policy influence. Problem is, nobody’s been able to nail down Bulganin’s agenda. So far he’s done little but echo the frustrations of the average Russian citizen.”

  “Dick, it’s called politics. The man’s building a constituency.”

  “In a country as volatile as Russia, sir, political ambiguity is dangerous.”

  “For who?”

  “The world. The fact that Bulganin has gained so much support without tipping his hand is worrisome. There can be only two explanations: Either he’s avoiding substance because he doesn’t have any, or he’s got an agenda he doesn’t want to lay out until he’s got the influence to make it stick.”

  Martin leaned toward Bousikaris and mock-whispered, “Dick sees a conspiracy in every bush.”

  Mason spread his hands. “It’s what I’m paid to do, Mr. President.”

  As astute a politician as Martin was, he was naive when it came to the world scene. Though the concept of the “global village” was finally taking hold in the public consciousness, it was nothing new to the intelligence community. Nothing happens in a vacuum, Mason knew. With six billion people and hundreds of individual governments on the planet, there existed lines of interconnectedness that only God could fathom.

  Some events—say, a farm county in Minnesota hit by flooding—take longer to exert influence. Others—such as a neophyte candidate in Russia gaining leverage in a national election—have an immediate and powerful effect on everything from world markets to foreign relations. The fact that Martin, arguably the most powerful man in the world, didn’t understand this frustrated Mason.

  “My point is,” the DCI continued, “is that unless something changes in the next few weeks, Vladimir Bulganin is going to become a player in Russian politics. I’d feel better if we knew more about him.”

  “Understood,” Martin said. “What do you propose?”

  “I want to do some back-channel nudging of the net works—CNN, MSNBC, ABC…. We plant the seed and hopefully their Russian correspondents will start asking some tough questions of Bulganin. If we can get a snowball rolling, it may put some pressure on him.”

  Martin looked to Bousikaris. “Thoughts, Howard?”

  “As long as it can’t come back to bite us.
”

  Mason shook his head. “It’s a routine play. Once Bulganin starts talking more, we can start dissecting him, see where it takes us.”

  “Okay, get on it. Anything else?”

  “Toothpick,” said Mason. “Live-fire testing is scheduled for next month; I think it’s time we consider briefing members of the Armed Forces Committee, but we need to choose carefully.”

  “Toothpick—the Star Wars thing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Martin turned to Bousikaris. “Let’s put some feelers out. Make sure whoever we brief is fully on board; I don’t want any wafflers when it comes to funding.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “Anything else, Dick?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’ll be all, then.”

  Once Mason was gone, Martin sighed. “Howard, that man is a naysayer.”

  “As he said, Mr. President, that’s what he’s paid to do.”

  “I suppose.”

  “We could replace him.”

  “Better we wait until this Redmond thing dies down.”

  While the appointment of former-senator Tom Redmond to the directorship of the Defense Intelligence Agency had been politically necessary, Bousikaris had argued against making the change so soon after Martin took office. But Redmond had delivered California during the campaign, and that was the kind of favor you didn’t want hanging over your head.

  “How’s the schedule today?” Martin asked.

  “One addition: The ambassador to the People’s Republic of China. He wants a few minutes. In person, in fact.” Almost exclusively, the PRC communicated by formal letter. Bousikaris often joked that the dictionary entry for the word taciturn should simply contain a photo of a Chinese diplomat.

  “Any idea what’s on his mind?” Martin asked.

  “His secretary declined to answer.”

  “Okay, give him ten minutes before lunch.”

  U.S. Embassy, Beijing, China

  Though he had considered them worthless back then, Roger Brown found himself glad he’d paid attention during those mind-numbing economics courses he’d taken at Notre Dame; they’d given him the ability to look attentive while being bored out of his mind. However gifted they may be at diplomacy, government functionaries rarely made good conversationalists.

  Ah, well, Brown thought. Such is the price of success at the CIA.

  Working under the title of advisor to the secretary for economic affairs, Brown was in fact the embassy’s new CIA station chief. Of course, the title was not designed to fool anyone (the Guoanbu was very good at keeping tabs on embassy personnel), but rather to give him diplomatic immunity should he get caught playing spy. Then again, he thought, the Chinese secret police wasn’t known for its strict adherence to diplomatic rules.

  Tonight was his first official embassy dinner, a meet-and-greet affair for members of China’s Ministry of Agriculture. So far he’d had no trouble playing his part, discussing the impact of corn nematodes on world grain markets, but as the evening had worn on, the novelty had worn off.

  His job was to listen for bits and pieces of information that he and his staff could hopefully fit into the great jigsaw puzzle called “intelligence gathering.” Few civilians realized how tedious spying could be. Earth-shattering revelations were rare; most often, insights came from the patient collection and collation of random bits of information. That was especially true in the PRC, the most politically and culturally oppressive nation on earth. It was a shame. Brown found the Chinese people fascinating, their history and traditions stirring.

  He looked up to see one of the Chinese agricultural attachés headed his way. During dinner the man had spent thirty minutes detailing why America was so decadent. Not much of a recruiting prospect there, Brown thought. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a waiter, made his way to the tall French doors, and stepped through onto the empty balcony.

  Despite it being April, the air was warm, with none of D.C.’s spring chill. Plumeria bushes hung from the eaves and partially draped the rail. A block away he could see the lights bordering Ritan Park.

  He let his gaze wander along the street, pausing at each parked car until he found the one he was looking for. Through the windshield he could see a pair of silhouetted figures. Guoanbu watchers, Brown thought. Ninth Bureau boys. They were good at their job, largely because they weren’t overly concerned with citizen’s rights. Guoanbu and PSB (People’s Security Bureau) officials could arrest anyone, for anything, at any time; they could invade homes without warrant, and they could ship you off to a laogi, or government prison camp, without trial.

  “Good evening,” Brown heard from behind him. He turned. It was the bombastic attaché from dinner. The man was in his early fifties, with sad eyes and a wide mouth.

  “Am I disturbing you?” the man said.

  “No, not at all. I was just enjoying the night.”

  The man strode to the railing. “I don’t believe we were properly introduced. My name is Chang-Moh Bian.” The man made no move to shake hands, keeping them firmly on the railing.

  Smart fella, Brown thought. Assuming they were being watched, Bian didn’t want to complicate matters with even a perfunctory show of familiarity. As it was, Bian would likely be questioned about this interaction. “Roger Brown. Nice to meet you.”

  “I apologize for my earlier comments, Mr. Brown. Certain things are expected of us at these functions. I hope you understand.”

  Interesting … “Of course.”

  “Well, I just wanted to say hello. I must be going.”

  “Good night.”

  As Bian turned, Brown heard something clatter on the balcony’s flagstones. He looked down. Laying near his foot was a ballpoint pen. “Excuse me, I think you dropped something.”

  Bian turned; he frowned. “No, I don’t think so. It belongs to you, I am sure.”

  Bian opened the doors and stepped back inside.

  Brown waited another ten minutes, thinking hard, wondering if he’d misread the incident. There was only one way to find out.

  He let the champagne glass slip from his hand. It shattered. He stepped back, angrily brushing at the front of his pants, then leaned down, grabbed the pen, and tucked it into his sleeve, then stood up with the broken glass in his hand.

  Excusing himself with the ambassador in the main room, he headed downstairs to his office. He laid the pen on his desk, then picked up the phone. “Carl, it’s Roger. Can you come down to my office?”

  Carl Jones, the embassy’s security manager, was there in five minutes. He listened carefully to Brown’s story, then said, “He didn’t say anything else? No pitch, not even a hint?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re sure the pen wasn’t already there?”

  “I’m sure. Carl, I looked him in the eye. He knew what he was doing.”

  Jones considered this, then grinned. “So, what, you’re afraid it’s some kind of exploding pen?”

  “Jesus, Carl.”

  “I say open it. Just hang on … let me get behind something solid.”

  “Oh, for the love of—”

  “Of course, your family will be well provided for if—”

  Brown unscrewed the pen and tipped the contents onto his blotter.

  Wrapped around the ink cartridge was a slip of onionskin paper.

  White House

  The Chinese ambassador arrived promptly at 11:45 and was shown into the Oval Office.

  Martin stood up and walked over. “Mr. Ambassador, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “And you, President Martin.” The ambassador was a portly man with bushy eyebrows and a surprisingly high-pitched voice. “Congratulations on your victory.”

  “Thank you. Please … sit. Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  They settled around the coffee table, Martin in a wingback chair, the ambassador on the couch. Bousikaris
took his place at Martin’s left shoulder.

  “I understand this is your first spring in Washington,” Martin said.

  “Yes. It’s lovely.”

  There were a few seconds of silence as each man regarded the other.

  “You’re surprised by my visit,” said the ambassador.

  “Surprised, but pleased nonetheless.”

  The ambassador nodded, as though weighing Martin’s words. “Well, to the point of my visit: It is a rather delicate matter. I hope you will accept what I am going to say in the spirit it is offered.”

  What’s this? Bousikaris thought.

  “Please go on,” said Martin.

  “It has come to the attention of my government, President Martin, that during the last election you received some generous campaign contributions from a certain political committee. Some eighty million dollars, I believe.”

  Martin’s smile never wavered. “All on public record.”

  “Of course. It has also come to our attention that your supporters may not have been completely candid. It seems the consortium in question was in fact backed by a group of industrialists from my country.”

  There was a long ten seconds of silence. Martin glanced up at Bousikaris, who kept his eyes on the ambassador. “That’s not possible,” said Bousikaris.

  The ambassador reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a sheaf of papers, which he placed on the table. “Details of each contribution, the domestic accounts from which they were drawn, and routing information for each transaction, including authorization codes you can use to trace their origin. Though the source accounts are now closed, I think you’ll find all the funds originated from banks in the People’s Republic.”

  Bousikaris picked up the document and began paging through it.

  “Howard?” said Martin.

  “The information is here, but we have no way of—”

  The ambassador said, “Of course. I would not ask you to take my word for this. By all means, look into it. In the meantime—”