by Tom Clancy
“I asked Bob and Darrell to join us,” Carrie said. “I thought it might be useful if we were all on the same page.”
The general looked at the men. At her men, Hood thought. At the men she had made a point of calling at her discretion. Either General Carrie had wanted to show Hood that he could be isolated or made part of a team. In any case, her point was clear: the call was hers to make.
“Paul is going to Beijing at the request of the president,” Carrie told Herbert and McCaskey. “President Debenport asked him to stop here first. Paul was about to tell me what information he needed.”
That, too, was very smooth. She was a natural at the wielding of authority. McCaskey and Herbert looked at Hood. Now he had to tell them something.
“Actually, I’m here to find out why a contingent of marines is being dispatched to the embassy under the auspices of Op-Center,” Hood said.
Carrie seemed surprised by the question. “They are going to gather intel,” she replied.
“In Beijing?” Hood asked.
“In Beijing and elsewhere,” the general told him. “They’re all of Chinese-American heritage. G2 has been training them for years to infiltrate Chinese society, get jobs in and around the seats of government.”
“That’s a good idea,” Herbert said. “We need HUMINT resources who can blend in.”
“Individuals who are not local with variable allegiance that could compromise missions, the integrity of intelligence, and the safety of other operatives,” Carrie replied. “We have been training groups like that for service in dozens of ethnic regions.” She regarded Hood suspiciously. “The Joint Chiefs were aware of that. The president could have asked them.”
“I suppose he could have, but he asked me,” Hood replied innocently.
“It would be unfortunate if the president did not trust his own advisers,” she said incredulously.
“I’ve been a White House crisis manager for less than twelve hours. I cannot say who President Debenport does or does not trust.” Hood replied. He tried to lighten the mood, which had suddenly turned heavy and suspicious. “Maybe my visit here is the equivalent of a West Wing hazing. Toss the new guy into a maelstrom and see what he can do.”
“That’s possible,” Carrie agreed. “Though to me it’s more of a street gang mentality, where you have to pull off a crime before they accept you. Usually it’s against a friend or high-visibility target to prove your loyalty.”
“Did I just miss something?” McCaskey asked uncomfortably. “Are we no longer playing nice?”
“We’re not playing anything, Darrell,” Herbert replied. “I think a second front just got opened.”
Herbert may be tired, but he was not oblivious. Nor anyone’s fool. It was an unsettling thought but, like China, these men were in fact a battleground. Hood had assumed he had been sent here to get inside information about the marines and also to show G2 that there were outside eyes on Op-Center. But what if he was sent not to anchor the White House in the marine operation but to provide a wedge? Perhaps Debenport saw Hood as someone who could divide the loyalties of those who worked at Op-Center, forcing Carrie to keep a balance between the White House and the military — or risk alienating Hood and his people, and having to replace the rest of the battle-seasoned team that was loyal to them. It was a new level of intrigue, one that gave a fresh definition to domestic intelligence.
He was spying on the home team.
“Surely we have larger issues to deal with,” McCaskey said.
The FBI liaison was correct. Unfortunately, the situations were not mutually exclusive. Hood and Carrie locked eyes. He was not sure how he got into yet another conflict with a woman he did not know, but here he was. And here she was. Now they had to see it through.
“Getting back on topic so I don’t miss my flight, will the marines be reporting to G2 or to Op-Center?” Hood asked. That was something the Joint Chiefs would not necessarily have shared with the president.
“Op-Center is chartered to run military and paramilitary operations,” Carrie replied carefully. “G2 is not. As you know, the funding for Striker was rolled back but not the commission itself.”
“They’ll have to report directly to you,” Hood said.
“Of course,” she replied. “I’m the only military officer on staff.”
What the president obviously feared became clearer: that G2 would strip-mine Op-Center for use in its own operations. That would shift the control of intelligence from the federal sector to the military.
Unfortunately, Hood was forced to put all of that aside for the moment. There was still a crisis bubbling abroad. And whether it served the needs of G2 or not, Hood had to admit that the infiltration was a good idea and, just as important, a timely one. Everyone on the inside would be on guard, and people on the outside — from news vendors to bicycle salesmen — would be more inclined to comment on that unrest. In such an environment, the alternately inquisitive or inherently tentative actions of spies would not stand out.
“Will I have access to your team when I’m in Beijing?” Hood asked.
“They have several targets,” Carrie said. “What are yours?”
“I won’t know until I get there,” Hood said.
“That would be the time to discuss it, then,” General Carrie said. “You will, of course, have whatever support and cooperation I can provide, as I’m sure our team can count on yours.”
“Naturally.”
“Bob tells me that General Rodgers hoped you could tap into resources the prime minister may have,” Carrie said. “He assumed, correctly, the president would have better access.”
“That is true,” Hood replied. This had to be awful for Herbert. The intelligence chief was looking down. He was playing with a loose thread on the armrest of his wheelchair.
“You’ll make a connection through our ambassador?” Carrie asked.
“That’s the plan,” Hood said. “I won’t know for certain until I get there.”
“We still don’t know why the prime minister is suddenly worried about the launch,” McCaskey said.
“Or even if he is,” Herbert added. “In a politically tense situation, keeping the Guoanbu out of the loop on a major project may be the prime minister’s way of putting them in their place.”
Like the Joint Chiefs or G2 not giving the president the full story about a marine group seconded to Op-Center, Hood thought. He knew Bob Herbert well enough to detect a subtext in anything the intelligence chief said. From her expression, Carrie did as well. It struck Hood — after just half a day — that this was no different than being a wife or adviser to Henry VIII. Inevitably, your head was vulnerable to wide swings of the ax, whatever you did. The positions to which men and women naturally aspired required an exhausting combination of brawn and diplomacy. If American children knew the truth about being president or anything close to the Oval Office, they would cling to their sane, youthful dreams of being a firefighter or an astronaut.
“Well, I suggest we talk again when you get to Beijing,” Carrie said. “We’ll have a better idea then about how the various scenarios might play out. Bob, do you want to be point man on that?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Very good.” Carrie looked at Hood. “Was there anything else?”
“At some point I’d like to get my photographs and mementos back,” he replied, gesturing toward the desk and wall.
“I’ve asked Bugs to see to that,” she said. “Would you like the items sent to your apartment or office?”
“Office, please,” Hood replied. It was another small thing, but he wanted her to know he intended to be there for a while.
Carrie rose. McCaskey did as well. The general shook Hood’s hand across the desk. “Have a safe and productive trip,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Ditto,” McCaskey said, offering his hand.
“Yeah, good luck,” Herbert added. “I’ll see you out.”
The men left together, followed by Mc
Caskey, who shut the door behind him. The three moved along the narrow corridor toward the elevator.
“What the hell was all that about?” Herbert asked.
“Which part?” Hood replied.
“For starters, the stuff about the Joint Chiefs. Are we worried about a military coup?”
“Not per se,” Hood replied.
“What does that mean?” Herbert asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“For ‘not sure’ there was a lot of thrust and parry going on back there,” Herbert said, cocking his head toward Carrie’s office.
“I think the general is more ‘sure’ than I am,” Hood said.
“Paul, she was appointed by the president,” McCaskey noted.
“Who was yielding to pressure from the Joint Chiefs,” Hood said, his voice low. “I get the sense there is a realignment taking place,” Hood went on. “Administration changes affect the top levels of the executive branch, but the military is unchanged.”
“Except for the figurehead positions like the secretaries of the different forces,” Herbert said.
“Right. This is a realignment that may have been going on for a while. Debenport probably saw it coming as senator. Now he’s making his own moves to ensure the White House isn’t entirely dependent on the military for intelligence.”
“Which could be self-serving,” Herbert said. “Report instability somewhere, predict a war, get a budget increase.”
“Right again.”
“But the president still has the CIA, the FBI, and the NSA,” Herbert said.
“For now,” McCaskey said. “I didn’t think anything of it before, but over the past two or three years, the Bureau has been recruiting heavily from the ranks of the mustered-out. The HR people say they value the fitness and discipline of the modern American soldier.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Herbert asked. “I think you’re both being a little paranoid. When I was in Beirut for the Company, I had military advisers and contacts.”
“You were reporting to a civilian then,” Hood said. “You’re reporting to a three-star general now.”
“Mike was a general.”
“And President Lawrence made a point of not putting him in charge,” Hood said. “The president kept the Op-Center command with a civilian.”
“Well, maybe the balance was off in favor of civilians,” Herbert said. “Maybe this is a necessary correction.”
“If this is as far as it goes, I might agree with you,” Hood said. “Obviously, the president has concerns.”
“Well, I think we all need to take a few steps back,” McCaskey said.
“My grandad used to say if you step away from the bear, you may step in the bear trap,” Herbert said.
“We haven’t defined anyone as a bear yet,” McCaskey pointed out. “All I’m saying is, let’s see how it plays out over the next few days.”
“I agree,” Hood said. The men had reached the elevator. Hood swiped his temporary card to open the doors. He entered.
“Paul? You know I’ll do what I can to get those marines if you need them,” Herbert said.
“I know you will,” Hood replied. “That’s why I want you to watch your ass.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think the general knows it, too,” Hood said as the doors slid shut.
TWENTY-ONE
Beijing, China Tuesday, 8:11 A.M.
When he was a boy, Tam Li was self-conscious about the ruddy mole on his left temple. His mother told him it meant he was special, that he had been kissed by the sun. She said this little gift from the sky would watch over him, help him to find his way. She added that she was counting on her “little flame” to lead the way for all of them. His mother meant the family, of course. Tam Li took it to mean something bigger than that. After all, where the sun moved the earth followed.
General Tam Li was gratified when he left the prime minister’s office. Le Kwan Po was not a hard-liner. He was a pragmatist. He was effective at keeping a balance between the old guard and the new without disturbing or affecting either.
That was why the struggle between himself and Chou would continue a little longer. Just long enough to give the general what he really wanted. It had nothing to do with the small profit he made from the slave trade. That was a laboratory. That was how he learned who he could trust and who he could not. The real profit was in doing what men like Tam Li did best: fighting.
The general went from the prime minister’s office to his car, which was parked in the underground garage. He was on the topmost of three levels. During the day, Tam Li had an aide drive him to meetings or airfields. There had not been time to arrange for that now.
The garage was empty at this hour, and the general could see out into the street and watched as a farmer stopped his truck on a street corner and delivered produce to restaurants. His son, who could not have been more than seven or eight, was there to help him. When they were done, they would drive home, and the boy would go to school while the father went into the fields.
Tam Li came from a world like that. His family grew corn on a small farm thirty-five miles from Beijing. They made long drives every day during the seven-month growing season. Their clients were military installations, which was where the young Tam Li became fascinated by the crisp uniforms, the smart salutes, and the imposing weapons. He also learned how officers demanded kickback for allowing vendors onto government property. It was an accepted way of doing business.
Tam Li drove to the small apartment he kept in the city. The apartment was at the top of a four-story structure built in the early 1960s, part of the vast modernization program instituted by Mao. Former military personnel got first pick of the new apartments, an incentive for young men to join. It was a comfortable and spacious residence that he shared with his elderly mother. She had sold the farm three years ago when his father died, and she spent most of her day chatting with women in the courtyard or sitting on the rooftop embroidering. She was a very heavy sleeper, which made it easy for Tam Li to return at any hour.
Attached to the Beijing Military Base Joint Command, and serving a second four-year term as a vice chairman of the powerful Central Military Committee, the general spent half his time in the city and half his time in the field. He got back as the sun was coming up. Tam Li was more alert now than when he had been awakened by the prime minister’s call. He did not want to go back to sleep, even though he had to be well rested for what was to come.
He went into his small office and turned on the radio. He removed his army jacket and hung it carefully in a small freestanding bureau. The office was a windowless alcove off his bedroom. The walls were painted white, and there were no pictures. The desk was bare save for the radio, telephone, and the computer. Tam Li was not a hoarder. He was not sentimental. His vision was external, about the future. He lit a cigarette, sat back in the desk chair, and contemplated the future as he listened to Beijing People’s News, a round-the-clock station of international events. They were still talking about the attack on the police in Taiwan.
Tam Li could not prove that Chou Shin was behind the assaults. Not that proof was required. The men had been adversaries for over twenty years, ever since they met at the Tianjin military base. Over two hundred cadets had come down with a severe case of food poisoning. Tam Li was the officer in charge of the mess, and Chou Shin was an investigator with the PLA internal police detachment. Chou discovered that Tam Li had bought tainted pork in exchange for a sizable payoff from the farmer who had produced it. The inspector was never able to prove that Tam Li knew the meat was bad. In fact, he did not. But another kind of poison had been generated between the two men, a toxic suspicion that was fueled by their very different political beliefs. As the men rose through their respective services, their mistrust and finally hatred also grew. Chou watched Tam Li, and Tam Li did everything he could to put false leads under the intelligence officer’s nose.
This time, however, Chou Shin had tried a different approach. In
stead of trying to attach evidence of wrongdoing on Tam Li, he destroyed the offending target altogether. He had struck back with his own reserve plan, the blast in Durban. Chou Shin had retaliated in Taipei. He was trying to show the general that he would not only match his actions but surpass them. Unfortunately, while the Guoanbu director had demonstrated determination, he had not shown sufficient insight.
What Tam Li had told the prime minister was true. Soldiers were not paid enough for the work they did. But for Tam Li, the transportation of indentured women was only a profitable hobby. The real work was being done in a way that Chou and the prime minister would not see.
Until it was too late. While Chou Shin chased prostitutes, slave traders, the general had the real prize tucked somewhere else. Somewhere Chou Shin and Le Kwan Po would never think to look.
The general listened to the weather. It was not true that he only looked ahead. Sometimes he experienced flashes from the past, like now. His father used to stop by the house of old Chan Juan on their way back to the farm. She had a tube filled with mercury, which told them whether the next day would be cloudy or clear. They paid her an ear of corn for her report. It was not just the primitive barometer she used to make her predictions. She also observed the birds and insects and kept careful records from year to year. She was rarely wrong.
Today meteorologists used computers and satellites to generate forecasts. Their predictions were no better than those of Chan Juan. New ways were not always superior; they were simply more complex. In the old days, the general would have challenged a rival like Chou Shin to combat with sword, spear, or staff. Their conflict would be resolved in just a few minutes.
He shook his head as he lit a new cigarette with the old.
Such a tiny red ember, the general thought as he passed the fire from one tip to the other. Yet unchecked, this spark had the power to level a city and, in so doing, bring down a nation. In effect, the only difference between a little flame and a big flame was the amount of time it had to do its work unchecked.
