“Wonderful world,” Wells said. “Could you see him selling weapons to the Taliban?”
“That’d be pushing it, even for him. He’d know we wouldn’t be happy if we found out. To put it mildly.”
“But if the money was right, and he thought he could get away with it?”
“Under those circumstances? I’d say there’s nothing he wouldn’t do.”
WELLS’S LAST CONVERSATION with Ed Graften, the East Hampton police chief, had been more gratifying. After the East Hampton police freed Kowalski, he refused to answer any questions. He had no idea who had attacked him and his guards, he said.
“Boys will be boys. Why don’t you ask them? I was in my bedroom.”
“What about the tape, the handcuffs?” the lead cop on the scene said.
“A new weight-loss method recommended by my physician. With my mouth taped shut, I cannot eat.”
“Sounds like you need a new doctor.”
“I have already lost five pounds,” Kowalski said, sucking in his gut in a show of dignity. “Now, I appreciate your leaving my property so I can return to bed.”
The unconscious guards were taken to Southampton Hospital. By morning, they were stirring. All four claimed they had no memory of what had happened. They refused to answer questions and demanded to speak to Kowalski’s lawyers. Since they appeared to be victims, not perpetrators, the cops had no choice but to let them go. They were asked to return for interviews later.
But they never showed up. And when the police went to Two Mile Hollow Road to find them, they discovered the mansion was empty. Flight records showed that Kowalski’s Gulfstream had flown out of the East Hampton airport less than eight hours after Wells’s courtesy call. According to the flight plan they’d filed before takeoff, the jet was bound for Miami — which probably meant it had wound up in the Dominican Republic or Barbados or Venezuela. In any case, Kowalski and his men were gone.
“Just thought you might like to know he’d flown the coop. My guys said he was a very cool customer,” the chief said. “Hardly complained when that tape came off him.”
“He is smooth.”
“A weight-loss program. Have to give him credit for coming up with that.” Graften chuckled. “Did you get what you needed?”
“Thanks for the help, chief. If you hear anything more, let me know.”
“Will do.” Click.
* * *
WELLS HOPED HE WAS ONLY temporarily stalled on Kowalski, although in truth he wasn’t sure where to look next. The trail seemed to have dead-ended. So he’d decided to catch up on the mole investigation. But as he read over the personnel reports that Exley and Shafer had put together, Wells wasn’t convinced that Exley’s hunch about Keith Robinson made sense. Then again, he hadn’t seen the guy’s house or his wife.
A rap on his door startled him. Exley. “Want to go for a drive?”
WHEN THEY GOT TO the Robinson house, Exley was glad she’d asked Wells to come. The lights in the house were off, but through the windows Exley saw the television in the den flashing.
“Sure she’s home?” Wells said. He was standing beside the door, hidden against the wall of the house.
“She’s home.” Exley knocked again. Finally she heard footsteps. Janice pulled open the door, glassy-eyed, a steak knife wavering in her hand.
“You,” she said. She jabbed the knife in Exley’s direction. She seemed more likely to drop it on her foot than do any serious damage, Exley thought. Janice took a tiny step forward, and Wells reached out his big right arm and twisted her wrist until the knife clattered down. Janice’s mouth opened and closed in wordless drunken confusion as Wells tossed the knife aside.
Exley knew Wells was just making sure they wouldn’t get hurt, but somehow she was angry at the almost robotic ease with which he’d disarmed this pathetic woman. Forget breaking a sweat. Wells hadn’t even blinked. She realized something about him then, something she should have known all along. For all the emotional weight Wells carried, the thought of death hardly scared him. On some unconscious level he must feel immortal, Exley thought. He probably couldn’t imagine losing a fight, couldn’t imagine anyone was stronger or faster than he was. Exley had seen firsthand what he could do in close combat. She wondered what it would be like to have such physical confidence. She’d never know. Women never got to feel that way. No wonder Wells was addicted to action.
Janice staggered forward, tripping over her feet. Wells put a hand on her arm and held her up. Her eyes flicked helplessly between Wells and Exley.
“You can‘t—” she said softly.
“Ma‘am,” Wells said. “We’re sorry, but can we talk to you inside? Please.”
Janice’s face crumpled on itself like a leaky balloon. She didn’t answer, just stepped into the yard and stared at the sky. The golden retriever stood behind her in the doorway, tail down.
Finally she waved them inside. “What difference does it make anyway?” she said. “Wait in the kitchen.” She wandered upstairs as Wells watched, a hand near the Makarov he had tucked into his shoulder holster before they left the office. But they had nothing to worry about, Exley thought. Janice was harmless now. Sure enough, her hands were empty when she reappeared. She seemed to have gone upstairs mainly to fix herself up. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail and fixed her makeup.
“I thought maybe when you showed up again that you were his girlfriend. But you’re not.”
“Your husband’s girlfriend? No, I’m not.”
“Because I know he’s got a girlfriend, and he got all nervous when I told him you came by. He wanted to know what you wanted. Then when I woke up this morning, he was gone.”
“You know where?”
“Haven’t seen him or that Acura of his since last night. He hasn’t called neither, and his phone’s turned off.” Janice focused her wobbly attention on Exley. “But anyway I see you’re not his girlfriend. He likes ‘em younger than you. And prettier. You from the agency?”
“Yes, ma‘am,” Wells said. “We are.” He passed her his identification card, the one with his real name. Janice held it close to her face, her eyes flicking between the identification and Wells.
“I don’t believe it, but I guess I do,” she said. “Is Keith in trouble?”
“We’re trying to find out,” Exley said. “He tell you where he was going?”
“As I just recounted”—Janice sat up straight as she used the half-dollar word—“he didn’t even say he was leaving, much less where. He was just gone when I woke up, and his favorite clothes too.”
“Did he take anything else?”
“I don’t rightly know. Maybe some stuff from the basement. He spends a lot of time down there. Last night he was saying strange stuff, like what would I think if we left the country and started over somewhere else.”
“Do you mind if we take a look?” Wells said. “In the basement?”
“I guess not. It’s locked, though. And I can’t find the key. I don’t know if he took it or what.”
“I can take care of that.” Wells reached into his jacket for his pistol.
JANICE FOLLOWED THEM DOWNSTAIRS, CHATTERING. She’d turned from self-pitying to wheedling, actively seeking their approval, an alcohol-fueled mood swing. Exley was not surprised to see that she was devoting her attention to Wells. For his part, Wells was hardly listening as he looked around the basement. The place was littered with bottles of bourbon and empty cigarette packs and stank like the morning after a week-long party. Wells popped open the DVD player and extracted a disk titled Girl-n-Girl 3: The Experiment.
Janice wiggled her eyebrows at Wells when she saw the disk. “He never tried that with me.”
Exley wanted to slap this drunk woman and tell her to stop embarrassing herself. Instead, she smiled. “Before he left, did Keith say where the two of you might end up?”
Janice plumped down on the couch and put a finger in her mouth like a misbehaving four-year-old. “Not that I recall. No.”
&nbs
p; “Anything about Asia? China?”
“He didn’t like the Chinese much. Called them slant-eyes and Chinky-dinks and said they couldn’t be trusted.”
“Did he ever bring anyone over to the house? I mean, anyone unusual, somebody he didn’t identify?”
Janice reached for an open bottle of wine on the table. She poured the contents into a dirty glass and took a long swallow. “No. We don’t have too many friends, not since we moved here, not since our son died.”
“Your son—”
But then Wells called out from the bathroom. “Jenny. You need to see this.”
Janice followed, and they crowded into the bathroom, staring at the black safe.
“Any idea of the combination?” Wells said to Janice.
“I didn’t even know it was there,” Janice said. “I swear.”
“We can call Tyson, get someone over here to get it open,” Wells said. “Not that it matters, because it’s gonna be empty.”
Janice pursed her lips, a look Exley recognized. She’d be crying again soon. All this was too much for her.
“Come on, let’s go in the other room.” Exley led Janice back to the couch. “Did Keith keep money around? Did it seem like you were spending more than his salary?”
“He never said much about our finances. Gave me a couple thousand a month for expenses. If I ever wanted a dress or something, he was generous. We had an old-fashioned marriage, I guess you’d say. He made the money, I kept the house.”
“Did you ever see any mail from banks you didn’t recognize? Anything from outside the United States?”
“Once or twice. A few years ago. Then it stopped. I think he had a post office box. He was so secretive.” Janice tipped the wine bottle to her mouth. “I just attributed it to his having a girlfriend. He liked strippers. I pretended I didn’t know, but of course I did.”
“Men are pigs.” Exley patted her hand. A mistake. Janice flinched.
“What would you know about it? You lied to me yesterday. You’re not even married.” She began to cry, her tears cutting through the mascara she’d just applied, sending black streaks down her cheeks. She grabbed a dirty paper towel and dabbed at her face.
“I was. Married.” Exley didn’t know why she felt the need to defend herself.
“Divorced, huh? Just like I’m gonna be.” Janice stood. “God. Look at this place. Look at my life.” She stumbled toward the stairs. “You do what you have to do. You’re going to anyway. But leave me alone.”
As Janice pulled herself up the stairs, Exley put her head in her hands. They had to get moving, get the word out to the FBI and Homeland Security, add Robinson’s Acura to police watch lists, check his name against passenger manifests, review airport security cameras to see if they could match his face with whatever name he was using these days, maybe even get the media involved. But it wouldn’t matter. With an eighteen-hour head start and a few thousand bucks, Keith Robinson could be anywhere. He could have driven to Atlanta and then flown to Panama City, New York, and then Istanbul, Chicago, and then Bangkok. They’d find him eventually, but eventually would be too late.
She felt Wells’s hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong, Jenny?”
“It’s my fault. I flushed him.”
Wells pulled her up. “That’s crap and you know it. He was all set to run. You’re the reason we might find him. Let’s get Janice to give us something in writing—”
“She doesn’t want to talk anymore.”
“A couple sentences, so no one can say later we didn’t have permission to be here. And then let’s start making calls.”
* * *
SEVEN HOURS LATER, Exley, Shafer, Tyson, and Wells sat in the library of Tyson’s house in Falls Church, a windowless square room that Tyson had assured them was as secure as any at Langley. Books about spying, fiction and non-, filled the shelves, from classics like The Secret Agent and The Thirty-NineSteps to Tom Clancy’s massive hardcovers. Wells and Exley shared a love seat, and Exley allowed her hand to rest compan ionably on Wells’s leg. Two silky Persian cats slept in the corner. Tyson just needed a cigar and a glass of whiskey to complete the picture of the gentleman at ease, Wells thought. But the calm in the room was deceptive.
A few miles east, in Langley, an FBI/CIA task force was tearing up Keith Robinson’s office, trying to figure out exactly what he’d stolen over the years, what databases he’d accessed, what files he’d copied, what operations and spies he’d destroyed. Of course, if Robinson showed up the next morning, the agents in his office would have some explaining to do. But everyone agreed the chances of that happening were approximately zero.
“Guess we found our mole,” Tyson said. “Or rather, he found us.” He didn’t smile. “This is as bad as it gets. He had almost total access to our East Asian ops. Everyone in China is blown. North Korea too, and maybe even Japan and India. The only place that’s really insulated is the GWOT”—the global War on Terror, the U.S. fight against al Qaeda. “China’s peripheral to that, so people might have wondered if he asked too many questions.”
“Anyway, I don’t think that his friends in Beijing care much about Osama bin Laden,” Shafer said.
“We don’t know what they care about,” Tyson said. We’ve got no sources left. Aside from our friend Wen Shubai, whose advice has been less than perfect. Anyway what happened yesterday“—the collision between the Decatur and the fishing trawler—”has changed things so much that I’m not sure anyone on the other side of the river“—in the White House—”cares anymore what Wen thinks. Confrontation hasn’t worked so far.“
“So what now?” Wells said.
Tyson tapped on his desk, disturbing the cats. They blinked sleepily, rearranged themselves, and then lay back down. “What do the Chinese want? Why did they sign that deal with Iran? Why provoke us? It’s never made sense from the beginning. That’s what we have to know.”
Wells slumped in a love seat. He was sick of Tyson’s grandstanding. “And how do you propose that we four get the answer, George? Last I checked, our collective experience in China added up to a big fat zero.”
“And now I need to come clean with you. I believe, I hope, we have one live source left in the People’s Republic.”
In the silence that followed, Wells glanced at Exley and Shafer. They looked as surprised as he felt.
“A couple years after Tiananmen, a PLA colonel reached out to us. He was an evangelical Christian, a silent convert. They’re some of our best sources. He gave us good stuff during the nineties. But he went dark when Robinson approached the Chinese. Completely dark. At the time, we couldn’t understand why. Now it seems obvious. He was keeping his head down so Robinson couldn’t out him.”
“Any idea why he didn’t just tell us about Robinson?”
“Maybe he didn’t know enough about Robinson’s identity to give him up. Or maybe it was the other way. Maybe so few people knew about Robinson that our guy figured he’d compromise himself if he gave Robinson up. Anyway, one day he missed a meeting. After that, we never saw him again. Didn’t respond to any of our signals.”
“But he wasn’t arrested,” Exley said.
“No. He’s still around. In fact, he’s senior enough that he gets into the papers over there every so often. His name’s Cao Se.”
“Still. He could be doubled. Robinson could have given him up along the way.”
“We ran him out of Australia rather than China. Not for any great reason. Just that he initially found us at a military conference in Sydney. Then later he wouldn’t do business with any other office.”
“You really think he’s protected himself?” Shafer said.
“It’s possible. By luck or design.” Tyson huffed and settled back down in his chair. “I think if they’d doubled him he would have reached out a few years back. He would have been another thread in the web they spun for us. Instead he just disappeared.”
“So he’s been gone ten years?”
“Until last week. A visa applica
nt in Beijing dropped off a letter with the right codes. Amazing but true, the consular officers recognized it and passed it to our head of station. Cao wants a meeting. He says that he would, quote, ‘prefer an officer who has never worked in East Asia.’ Hard to argue with that.”
SHAFER JUMPED TO HIS FEET. “I know where you’re going with this, George. And I want to say for the record it stinks.”
“Where’s he going?” Wells said.
“He wants you to go over there, make contact with this general.”
Tyson nodded.
“Why don’t you send somebody two years out of school, somebody who’s not in their files?” Wells said.
“At this point we have no idea who’s in their files,” Tyson said. “Like Ellis said, the Chinese don’t care about bin Laden. What you did in Times Square was a sideshow as far as they’re concerned. And Cao needs to know we care enough to send somebody important. Like it or not, you’re in that category.”
“Let me add another reason,” Shafer said. “Vinny Duto can’t stand you and wouldn’t mind you spending the rest of your life in a Chinese jail. This is his big chance to get rid of you. If it works, great. If not, bye-bye.” Shafer looked to Tyson. “Et tu, Georgie? Still embarrassed you were on the wrong side last year? Or just looking for new and exciting ways to kiss Vinny’s ass?”
“That’s nonsense, Ellis. This is up to John. If he doesn’t want to go, there’ll be no hard feelings—”
“I’m not finished, George.” Shafer turned toward Wells. “He knows you’re too hardheaded to turn this down, even though we can’t save you if this is a trap. You know that, John. They may not even lock you up. Considering the way things are right now, they may just shoot you.”
Tyson pushed himself to his feet. “Ellis, the PLA has no reason to set up such an elaborate sting at this moment. They’re more worried whether we’re going to bomb Shanghai. I think this approach is genuine, and I want John to go because he gives us the best chance of reaching Cao. No other reason.”
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