by Tom Clancy
“In other dossiers you remark on the impact of marriages and divorces — extensively in the case of Paul Hood. But there is nothing about yourself.”
“There was nothing to say.”
“Nothing that would affect your work, the way you wrote about Paul’s divorce or Darrell’s marriage?”
“No.”
Carrie regarded her. She chewed slowly, her mouth closed, her jaw making strong, purposeful motions. It seemed connected to the general’s thought process, as if she were mulling something over.
“All right,” Carrie said. She clicked the file shut.
That’s it? Compared to the scrutiny the others had received, Liz felt she was getting off easy.
“Are you sure you’re all right with this?” Liz asked as her heart slowed.
“I wouldn’t have said so if I weren’t,” Carrie assured her. “Are you?”
“Sure,” Liz said.
“If you’re concerned, I do not think there was anything wrong with what you did. In fact, I am a bit resentful that it is in your file at all. If you had put your arm around Lowell or Matt, no one would have mentioned it.”
Liz appreciated the support, though it missed the point. She would not have put her arm around any man by accident.
It also did not change the fact that there was something about General Carrie that Liz found very appealing. The confidence was a large part of that. Monica Sheard had been an extremely insecure, anxious woman. Liz had been drawn to her talent and her sensitivity, but the artist’s low self-esteem and jealousy drove them apart. Since the breakup, Liz had not dated and, like Hood and Herbert, had spent most of her time at Op-Center. She had once remarked, not in jest, that the intelligence community would benefit if it were comprised entirely of people who had lost their significant others.
Carrie shifted the subject to the second tier of workers, men like Bugs Benet and Kevin Custer in Elec-Comm. Part of Carrie’s goal was to find individuals who could multitask in a crisis, such as the EMP bomb attack on Op-Center. Liz’s profiles of the team during that crisis were a valuable guide for Carrie. Former serviceman and MIT graduate Custer — a distant relative of General George Armstrong Custer, through the general’s brother Nevin — seemed in particular to catch and hold Carrie’s eye.
The palpitations and self-imposed pressure waned as the day grew older. Carrie and Liz hit a comfortable groove that gave her a good feeling about her future here, and also the future of the NCMC.
It also allowed Liz to focus on professional matters instead of personal issues.
For now, anyway.
FORTY-ONE
Beijing, China Wednesday, 12:33 A.M.
In Chou Shin’s business, two days was a long time.
The head of the Guoanbu lay on the thin cot in the situation room. He was dressed in a silk robe, a fan blowing on his desk. For the second night in a row he did not go home to his wife, their daughter and son-in-law, and their grandchild. Chou Shin missed the little one. He missed the boy’s innocent eyes and gracious smile. He even missed the sincerity of his tears.
His world had been flat and silent since the explosion at the Taipei nightclub. There had been no response to the blast from General Tam Li. The absolute silence alarmed Chou Shin even more than the odd intelligence reports he was receiving about unusual troop allocations along the eastern coast. Surely Tam Li had more than the Durban counterattack prepared. The general had allies in the military, men who would do anything for a price and do it quickly. And he was not the sort of man to back down or allow an insult to go unanswered.
Perhaps Tam Li was waiting for a shot at the enemy himself. That was why Chou Shin did not want to go home. If he were to be the next target, Chou Shin did not want his family to be hurt. He did not think Tam Li would attack his family directly. That would be dishonorable.
The intelligence officer looked at his watch. In less than twelve hours he would be in Xichang alongside General Tam Li and the prime minister. Maybe the general was waiting until after the launch. A successful mission would elevate Tam Li in the eyes of the military. Perhaps he was holding out for retaliation that was less dramatic but far more effective: a high political post.
No doubt it would be the position Chou Shin wanted for himself, the prime ministership. An effective prime minister ran the country. While the president and vice president were concerned with foreign affairs, the prime minister could make deals with ministers and representatives. He could control banking, communications, utilities, even the military. With his access to information, Chou Shin could woo or blackmail anyone he wanted — provided he had a clear path to a new job. Otherwise, he was just a wooing, blackmailing intelligence chief. That was something that would appeal to Tam Li but not to Chou Shin. The director of the Guoanbu wanted power for Communist China, not for himself.
Chou Shin was outraged that he should have to fight for that. The battle was fought decades before, and won. Tam Li was a traitor.
There were two things Chou Shin did not do well. One of them was to operate in an intelligence vacuum. Information about everyone and everything was out there. If the data were not in his possession, there was something he or his people were doing wrong. The other thing Chou Shin did not do well was wait. The two attacks he had organized were designed to spur an instant overreaction from Tam Li. He did not understand why that had not happened. For Chou Shin that was a double failure: an intelligence vacuum and having to wait.
The intelligence officer rose from the cot. He lit a cigarette and paced the bare tile floor of the basement office. An aide had once warned Chou Shin that this was a dangerous place, a room with just one way out. That was all right with the director. It also had just one way in. He had several handguns and automatic weapons in a locker at the head of the bed, along with a gas mask and rations for five days. It would be difficult for anyone to get to him through the iron door.
It was a spartan room, with bare walls painted green and just a few hanging lightbulbs. There were no electronics down here, and the furniture was sparse. It was a place where strategy and intelligence could be discussed in absolute secrecy. Hiding a bug or Web camera in here would be virtually impossible. Only Chou Shin and two trusted aides had access to the room. During the heyday of Mao Tse-tung, the basement was an interrogation room used to “reorient” dissidents. Their broken spirits gave the place a spiritual character the director could feel. Now and then Chou Shin would take a sketch pad and charcoal from the desk and draw. He sketched images in his mind, odd shapes or scratched shadows that were the outlines of shapes. Sometimes he would look at them and try to figure out what they were, as though they were windows to his subconscious. They were like inkblots to him. And it was only fitting. Others had been interrogated here. Why not himself?
Mao himself had come down here often in the early days of the regime. He did not question prisoners himself. Most of his enemies wanted to stand proud in his eyes, to show him that the opposition had heroes as well. Mao would come down, speak to one of the interrogators without looking at the prisoner, then leave. His disinterest suggested to the captive that he was not important, that his information was unnecessary. Few men were willing to die for a trivial contribution to a cause.
Chou Shin did not know if the spirit of Mao were here, but that thought always energized him. It gave him direction and purpose. And as Chou Shin paced the room he wondered if it might have given him something else.
An idea.
Chou Shin had walked out on Tam Li the last time they were together. That had not produced information or further communication. How would the general react if Chou Shin reversed himself now? Would he welcome a chance to talk, or would he be guarded? There was one way to find out.
The intelligence director went to the telephone on the desk. There was just one line. The only other items on the desk were a notepad and several pencils, a pitcher of water, and a glass.
Chou Shin called his nighttime assistant and asked him to locate Tam Li. Since t
he general was going to the launch, he was probably in Beijing or already at the site. The director was surprised to find that he was at neither place.
“According to the command roster he is in Zhuhai,” his aide reported.
“What is the explanation?”
“The log line says that he is monitoring the current movement of Taiwanese forces, sir.”
“Why? Taipei always fields assets prior to our launches,” Chou Shin said. “He never watches those.”
“The roster entry does not say, sir.”
“Call over. Find out his schedule for the rest of the week.”
“Yes, sir,” the aide replied.
Chou Shin placed the phone in its cradle. Over the past year there had been eleven Chinese missile launches. Each of them had triggered a response from Taiwan. The intelligence community had individuals inside the Taiwanese military who monitored these movements. They were officers whom Mao had sent to the island as young men, soldiers who masqueraded as firebrand separatists. Now they, or their sons, were deeply entrenched in key areas of the enemy military. If Taiwan were going to move against China, Chou Shin would know about it.
These troop movements were deemed presentational, designed to show the world that Taiwan knew what was happening across the strait. Chou Shin had seen nothing unusual in the daily intelligence briefings.
The aide rang back.
“Sir, the general’s office says he will be flying directly to the launch from the base,” the aide reported.
“Why is he there now?” Chou Shin asked.
“They do not say, sir.”
“Put me through to his office,” the intelligence director demanded.
“At once, sir.”
Chou Shin stood beside the desk. He tapped his right foot impatiently. Ordinarily, Tam Li’s whereabouts would not be on anyone’s radar. Even if they were, most members of the government would accept the explanation that the general was visiting the base to check on possible outside military action against the rocket carrying his payload. But Tam Li did not need to be present to do that. And there were the reports of scattered troop and asset relocations to China’s eastern coast. Perhaps the rotation was routine. But what if it was not?
“General’s office, Captain Feng Lin—”
“This is Director Chou Shin of the Ministry of State Security. Please put the general on the line.”
“I will let him know you are calling,” the captain said.
There was a considerable loss of face for Chou Shin to go to the general, and also to be kept waiting. But all information cost something. Especially if that intelligence was worth having.
The captain got back on the phone. “Sir, the general would like to return your call at a more convenient time.”
“When would that be?” Chou Shin asked.
“The general did not share that information with me, sir.”
“Do you know if Tam Li is still going to the launch tomorrow?”
“It is still on his calendar, sir,” the captain replied.
“What arrangements have been made for his transportation?”
“I do not have that information, sir,” the captain said. “Shall I connect you with the transportation office?”
“No, thank you, Captain,” Chou Shin said. “And it will not be necessary for the general to phone.”
“I will tell him, sir.”
Chou Shin pressed a finger on the bar to disconnect the call. Sometimes the absence of information was enlightening, like the negative space that defined one of his silhouettes.
Tam Li had to be curious why his rival was calling. Yet the general did not want to speak with him. That suggested he was more afraid of answering questions than of learning the reason for the call. The only question he would be afraid to answer would be why he was at the base.
Chou Shin raised his finger. He called his aide.
“I want immediate air transportation to Zhuhai,” the intelligence director said.
“I will arrange it, sir.”
“This is a Code Six internal investigation,” Chou Shin added. “I want two armed officers to accompany me. Have the aircraft wait for a return trip to Xichang. Also, call the transportation office at the base. I want to know what arrangements have been made for General Tam Li’s trip to Xichang.”
“At once.”
“I want hourly updates on the status of that aircraft, even if it is just sitting on the field.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chou Shin hung up. He had a feeling that something was happening at the base, something more than just watching the Taiwanese go through the motions of selfdefense. He wanted to know what Tam Li was doing.
If the general were overseeing standard operations, they would both go to the launch, and nothing would be said. But if the general were planning something — perhaps a retaliation for the Taipei attack — Chou Shin intended to stop him.
The Guoanbu had the power and authority to investigate the use of military resources for any and all actions. That fell under the jurisdiction of what the intelligence community called “exposure”: whenever troops or hardware were moved, the enemy was presumed to be watching. It was the job of the Guoanbu to minimize their acquisition of useful information. Chou Shin would not hesitate to invoke those powers.
Indeed, it would be his pleasure.
FORTY-TWO
Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 2:55 P.M.
Stephen Viens, Op-Center’s liaison with the National Reconnaissance Office, knocked on Bob Herbert’s door. Viens had been an NRO director until he took the fall for a black ops budget of which he had been unaware. Hood immediately hired the surveillance expert. Hood took heat for the appointment, but he did not care. Viens had been a good and loyal friend to the NCMC. He continued to be one of Op-Center’s most valuable assets.
“We’ve got some very strange blips on the Pacific Rim,” Viens said as Herbert ushered him in.
Herbert had been checking the database of everyone who had access to the Chinese rocket during its construction. He was comparing those names to individuals with a history of dissidence or contacts with foreigners. Even scientists with a foreign education were suspect. It was strange to be looking for someone who might actually be an American ally working against Beijing’s interests.
“What kind of activity are you seeing?” Herbert asked.
“It’s too early to say, but it looks a little more aggressive than the mainland military usually gets in situations like this,” Viens said.
He handed Herbert a small stack of satellite photographs. The black-and-white images were labeled and covered the coasts of both Chinas as well as the Strait of Taiwan.
“Routine chin-first strut from Taipei,” Herbert said.
“Right.”
Herbert continued to go through the pictures. He came to a group that had been marked with orange grease pencil. Objects had been circled in all of them.
“PLA assets,” he said. Fighter jets were being moved into launch formation at both the Shanghai Dachang Airbase and Jiangwan Airfield. They were the backbone of the eastern air defense. Jiangwan was home of the most advanced fighters in China. A third air base, Weifang, was also represented. That was the home of the powerful shortrange 5th Attack Division. Photographs also showed PLAN activity. Men were loading additional ordnance onto destroyers and frigates that were part of the East Sea Fleet based in Ningbo. Ships were also being readied in Wusong and Daishan. “It looks like the Chinese are getting ready for a fight,” Herbert said. “These sites are early response positions for an attack on Taiwan.”
“An attack on Taiwan, yes,” Viens agreed. “But they are also ERPs for an attack from Taiwan.”
“The PLA can’t believe that Taipei’s maneuvers are the beginning of an offensive,” Herbert remarked. “Beijing may just be getting ready to drill in response, or immediately after.”
“They rarely do that,” Viens pointed out. “The chance for a mishap with two opposing forces in the field is t
oo great. All you need is someone on either side looking to provoke a fight.”
“Maybe it’s rare, but that is obviously what is happening,” Herbert said. He looked at a few of the Taiwan images. “Taipei has nothing unusual in the pipeline. No extra planes or ships being readied. Obviously they do not expect a Chinese attack.”
“You’re right. So why would Beijing move forces into position?” Viens asked. “Why now?”
“Maybe they assume the nightclub explosion may have made everyone in Taipei a little edgy,” Herbert suggested.
“Edgy as in looking to retaliate?”
“It is possible,” Herbert said. “Maybe they think the Taiwanese could ‘accidentally’ fire a shell toward Shanghai during a drill or lose a mine in Chinese shipping lanes or fishing waters.”
“Something that is not aggressive enough to start a war but would allow Taipei to win face.”
“Exactly,” Herbert said. “Or the PLA preparations could have nothing at all to do with the Taiwanese deployment. Beijing may be looking to scramble assets in case the rocket goes haywire. They may need to recover the payload and seal off a section of the sea.”
“Because the satellite has a plutonium power source,” Viens said.
“Yeah.”
“The Taiwanese always go through maneuvers when there’s a Chinese rocket launch or missile test,” Viens said. “The Chinese military action could have nothing to do with the rocket per se.”
“That’s possible,” Herbert agreed.
Both men were silent as Herbert looked through the pictures a second time. He did not see a national effort throughout the mainland. At other naval bases and airstrips visible along the fringes of the photographs it was business as usual. Of course, that could change quickly if hostilities erupted.
“What would happen if the rocket blew up on the launch pad?” Viens asked.
“There would be a bunch of job openings in Beijing,” Herbert replied dryly.
“With the military, I mean,” Viens asked. “Would they be needed to keep order in a power vacuum?”
