by Allan Topol
personal connection, albeit tenuous, with Zhou, and perhaps a source for information if Orlov ever wanted to use Androshka to spy on Zhou.
Choosing his words carefully, Orlov responded, “Androshka told me she was very happy in Beijing. That you’ve made her feel like a Chinese Empress.”
“That’s good. I care a great deal for Androshka.”
Orlov felt as if he’d dodged a bullet, not just for himself, but for Androshka.
With relief he watched the door open and a short, slight man, barely five feet tall, with a shaved head and dressed in civilian clothes enter. He was carrying a thin laptop.
“Jiang Hua,” Zhou said. “Meet my friend Orlov. He’s a Russian who failed math in school and now wants to learn about the most sophisticated military technology in the world, dealing with long-range missiles. Can you provide him with what he needs to know?”
“I can do that, Mr. President,” Jiang said deferentially.
Zhou pointed to the table in the back of the room and the three of them sat down with Zhou at the head of the table.
Jiang locked his fingers together and began speaking. “This new American weapons system is called Prompt Global Strike, sometimes referred to as PGS. It is capable of reaching any corner of the earth from the United States in under an hour and with such incredible precision and force that they could destroy an Iranian nuclear site, attack a North Korean missile on a launch pad, or kill a terrorist in a cave in Afghanistan. And all from the United States.
Orlov gave a long, low whistle. “Exactly,” Jiang said. “It clearly changes the balance of power in the world. The technology has just been completed. Implementation will begin if and when the construction budget is approved by Congress. PGS was developed by Rogers Laughton, a huge U.S. defense contractor located in Gaithersburg, Maryland, outside of Washington. Rogers Laughton has a special unit, called the Epsilon Unit, of five brilliant engineers devoted to the PGS project. We’ve compiled detailed bios on the five.”
“How do you know all this?” Orlov asked.
“We had our military intelligence people sift through information on various websites. Of course, we don’t have the PGS technology,
but we’ve zeroed in on the five engineers who developed and have access to it. Four men and one woman.”
Jiang opened his computer, punched several buttons and turned the screen toward Orlov.
Displayed was a picture of four men and one woman.
“The members of the Epsilon Unit,” Jiang said. “I can pull up bios for each of them.”
“Can you print the photos and bios for me?” Orlov asked.
“Yes. Give me a couple of minutes.”
Before Jiang had a chance to print them, Zhou slammed shut his computer, narrowly missing Jiang’s fingers. “You don’t get the bios until I know Kuznov is in.”
That evening, Orlov arranged to have Androshka come to his suite at the St. Regis for dinner.
An hour before her eight thirty arrival time, he checked the suite for bugs. He found one attached to the bottom of the frame of a landscape picture hanging on a wall in the dining room.
Orlov was convinced that Zhou, knowing Androshka was coming for dinner, had planted it. At eight twenty, Orlov disabled the listening device. He’d reconnect it when she left. He didn’t tell her about it. His objective was to persuade her to stay in Beijing. If she learned Zhou was spying on her, she’d go home, pack, and head to the airport.
Orlov, who was three years older than Androshka, knew very well how impulsive she could be. Growing up, she was always flying off the handle.
After their father’s death, their house became a virtual war zone. Their mother, a nervous chain-smoker with aspirations of grandeur, became embittered once her husband died and the Party perks ended. So she declared war on her daughter, jealous of her younger age; and Androshka responded by rarely doing what her mother asked.
Orlov, as the man of the house, took responsibility for Androshka. That meant taking her side in battles with their mother, the despised enemy, which led the two of them to develop a closeness.
In the end, Androshka always listened to Orlov. If he told her to follow mother’s command on some issue, she would do it.
He hoped that he still had that kind of influence over his sister. He knew that he’d need it this evening. As soon as the waiters deposited champagne, vodka, and caviar and departed, Androshka said to Orlov, “Can I leave Beijing now and move back to Moscow?”
Oh oh, he thought. “Not quite yet.”
“The last time we had dinner, you told me I’d only have to stay a month. No longer. That’s my limit.”
He gulped down some vodka. “I was unduly optimistic. It’ll take a little longer. I’m sorry. Factors beyond my control.”
“Screw that!” she said in an emotionally charged voice. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” She stood up and bolted toward the door.
He cut her off before she reached it. “Don’t go. Please. Let’s at least talk.”
She relented and slumped down onto a sofa. “Zhou’s a changed man since he returned to Beijing to take over the Presidency,” she said. “He has no time or interest in me. In Paris, he had an amazing sexual appetite. Here, many times he can’t even perform.”
“He’s under a lot of pressure in his job. You have to appreciate that.”
“You don’t understand. It’s more than that. He had an Intelligence Minister, Bao Yin, whom President Li had appointed. Zhou got rid of him.”
“He’s entitled to select the members of his own government.”
“He didn’t simply remove Bao from his job. He had Bao arrested in the middle of a meeting. The next morning at sunrise, after being tortured all night, he was executed by a firing squad without a trial.”
“What was Bao’s crime?”
“Zhou said that he was not only incompetent, but he was a spy for the Americans. He made Zhou angry.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Zhou told me. He’s proud of it. Sometimes, when he gets angry, he frightens me.”
Her words shook Orlov to the core. If he weren’t careful, both he and Androshka would end up like Bao. But for now, he still had to talk her into remaining in Beijing. Just as she had told him about Bao, she might learn other valuable information being with Zhou. Having her on the inside was important to his mission.
“No more than two months,” he said.
She sighed deeply. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Please, Androshka. I’m asking you to do it for me.” Those were the words he used when they were growing up and he was trying to persuade her to accede to one of their mother’s arbitrary commands.
She ran her hand through her hair, then finally said, “Only for you, Dimitri, but in my mind, I’m planting a calendar and I’ll tick off the days one by one. If it hits sixty, I’m gone.”
“That’s all I ask. Now, let’s get the waiters back. Time to eat.”
“I have no appetite.”
“You’ll see the food. You’ll be hungry.”
Androshka called the waiters. As Orlov looked at her sad face, he realized he was playing a dangerous game, not letting Androshka leave. At some point, she might lose her temper, fly off the handle and tell Zhou what she really thought about him. Just as she had told their mother. That would be in character for Androshka. And having heard about Bao, Orlov was afraid to imagine how Zhou would react.
Washington
Sitting in the reception area outside the Oval Office, Craig thought about the three prior times he had been here. All when Brewster was President. The first, two years ago after he had thwarted a suicide bombing in Madison Square Garden planned by Al Qaeda terrorists. That day, Brewster had awarded him the Medal of Freedom. Then a year later, he was in the Oval Office on a conference call with Brewster, and they were talking to Chinese President Li, to ascertain whether Li was supporting General Zhou’s effort to cut off the flow of imported oil to the United States and leapfrog China
ahead of the United States in world domination. Fortunately, Li repudiated General Zhou’s plot and exiled Zhou.
The third time was two weeks after that conference call. Craig and Elizabeth had exposed CIA Director Kirby and William March, the U.S. Ambassador to China, as being involved with General Zhou. Brewster had invited Craig and Elizabeth back to the Oval Office where he presented them with the Medal of Freedom, as well as Craig’s daughter Francesca posthumously. He then offered Craig the CIA Director’s job, which Craig subsequently declined, preferring the EU counterterrorism position.
But alas, Brewster had a fatal heart attack two months later, and there arose a new pharaoh who knew not Joseph.
Dalton, who had been Brewster’s VP, had no familiarity with or fondness toward Craig. And his CIA Director, Norris, resented Craig, knowing Norris had been Brewster’s second choice. Norris, the company man, was perfect to carry out Dalton’s neo-isolationist policy.
Now Dalton was dead. Craig wasn’t sure what to expect with Treadwell.
His thoughts were interrupted by the shrill voice of Joyce, Treadwell’s secretary, whom Craig remembered from Treadwell’s office on the Hill when Treadwell was Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. “President Treadwell can see you now.”
“Thanks for coming over,” Treadwell said, as he pointed to the living area in the center of the office. Craig settled into a leather backed chair, Treadwell on the sofa across from him.
In appearance, Treadwell was California personified. Perhaps not the reality, but the stereotype. Sandy brown hair, still thick at fifty-eight, blue eyes, a good suntan, tall and lanky, with a fit look that came from being a runner. In his youth he had competed in marathons and still ran five miles three or four mornings a week.
“It’s a sad time for the country,” Craig said. “I’m sorry.”
“Dalton wasn’t President Kennedy, but it’s still a huge blow. Like 9/11, it exposes our vulnerability as a free society. Somehow, we have to do a better job stopping our enemies. That’s why I called you. I want you to take over the CIA Director’s job.”
Well, there it was, Craig thought. No beating around the bush for Treadwell.
On the long flight from Paris, Craig had a chance to formulate his response. “I’m deeply honored, Mr. President. I would be willing to take the job, but I do have three conditions.”
“Only three?” Treadwell laughed. “Okay, fire away.”
“First, I’d like Betty Richards, the Chief Analyst, to be my Deputy Director.”
“Easy. That’s your choice all the way. What’s next?”
“I want to report directly to you. Not to McCormick, the Director of National Intelligence. Creating that job made no sense. I won’t be saddled with a layer of bureaucracy between you and me.”
“I’m okay with that,” Treadwell replied without hesitation. “I plan to downgrade McCormick’s job to glorified record keeping.”
“Good. Speaking of personnel, you should be aware that Leeds, the FBI Director, and I clashed at the time of the Madison Square Garden incident. He called me a cowboy, and I told him he was an asshole.”
“Will you be able to work with him?”
“I’ll sure try.”
“You should know that I don’t like Leeds either, but he has powerful friends on the Hill. I’ll have to wait a while to replace him. What’s your third condition?”
“I want to be able to leave Langley and go into the field on an operation if I think it’s justified.”
Before responding, Treadwell removed a small orange rubber ball from his desk and squeezed it. “That’s a biggie. You’d be a helluva a target for kidnappers or assassins.”
“I would only do it in an extreme situation if I thought it was warranted by what’s at stake.”
Treadwell nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll trust your judgment on that. But I want to be informed about what you’re doing ahead of time. Not read about it in the newspapers.”
“I understand.”
“Now, when can you start?”
“I’d like thirty days to try and get my deputy Giuseppe appointed to my EU job. I like Giuseppe. He’s a good man, and I owe it to the EU.”
“I can live with that. Besides, they are our allies… or at least supposed to be.”
Craig laughed. “Disagreements even happen among the best of friends.”
“Now it’s my turn,” Treadwell said, “to give you my thoughts.”
Craig leaned forward in his chair, listening to the President, who continued, “When you take over in a month, your first priority should be finding out which of the Islamic groups was responsible for Dalton’s assassination. I not only want the perpetrators brought to justice, I want to destroy those organizations and the Jihadists who are plotting against us. Wherever they are.”
Craig took a deep breath. No point concealing his belief from Treadwell. “I don’t think Jihadists planned Dalton’s assassination.”
Treadwell’s head snapped back in surprise. “Run that by me again.”
“I don’t think Jihadists were responsible.”
“But the shooter was a Pakistani. A copy of the Koran was found in his cabin.”
“Anybody could have hired him. The Koran could have been a plant.”
“Then who?”
“I think President Zhou of China was somehow responsible.”
“Based on what?”
Craig explained what Mei Ling had told Elizabeth.
“I have a law degree,” Treadwell said. “You know how far a case based on that would go.”
“I also have my own instincts.”
Treadwell’s eyes bored in on Craig like lasers. “What you just said worries me.”
“Why’s that?”
“I know about your history with General Zhou, now President Zhou. And both of your run-ins with him. Also about what he did to Francesca and to Elizabeth.”
“Zhou’s a despicable human being. And he hates the United States.”
“All of that may be true. But he also happens to be the leader of the second most powerful nation in the world. We have to get along with him… I can’t have my CIA Director engaged in a personal vendetta, using the resources at his disposal to gain his personal revenge.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Mr. President. If you want to withdraw my appointment, then…”
Treadwell cut him off. “Dammit, Craig. You’re far and away the best man for the job.”
“But I have baggage… which you spelled out very well.”
Treadwell sighed deeply and shook his head. Craig wasn’t sure what the President would do.
“Let me ask you,” Treadwell said. “And think about it carefully before responding.”
“Sure.”
“Do you honestly believe you can compartmentalize your feelings toward Zhou and do the job as CIA Director in an objective manner?”
Treadwell certainly did have a law degree, Craig thought. That was a tough cross examination question. Craig took a full minute to weigh the issue. As he thought about it, Treadwell paced.
Finally, Craig stood up. “I do, Mr. President.”
“Good. Then the job is yours.”
As soon as Craig left the Oval Office, he called Elizabeth.
“Well, you didn’t win a hundred euros, but I’ll buy you dinner at Tosca. That’s worth even more.”
“He offered you the job?” She sounded excited.
“Yep.”
“And you took it?”
“I decided you were right. I could make a difference.”
“Alright!” She gave a victory cry.
“What are you doing now?”
“House hunting.”
“But I already own a house in McLean, not far from the CIA.”
“You can always sell it. We’ll have more fun living in the city. Besides, I’m not the type for the ’burbs. And neither are you.”
“So where are you looking?”
“Georgetown.”
&nbs
p; He laughed. “That’s for the rich and famous.”
“True. But you’re famous. And with the royalties from my book, I’ll be rich.”
“Okay. See what you find. We’ll talk about it when I meet you back at the Four Seasons. Meantime, I’ll make a nine o’clock dinner reservation.”
Craig’s next call was to Betty. “We have to talk.”
She met him at the greasy spoon diner they liked on Route 123, not far from the CIA headquarters.
He told her what had happened in his discussion with Treadwell. At the end, she lifted her glasses with thick lenses up on her head and said, “Damn right. Let’s shape this place up.”
He reached into his bag and removed the disc of the encrypted call Zhou had with his brother from Bali. He explained the background, then said, “My people in Europe haven’t been able to decipher this.”
“I’ll get our techies on it. High priority. The highest.”
“Good. Meantime, what have you learned about Dalton’s assassination?”
“Not a thing. Norris froze me out. But by the time you come back to Langley in thirty days I’ll have a complete handle on everything any U.S. or state agency has been able to learn. Don’t worry, we’ll find out who was involved.”
Craig decided not to tell Betty what Elizabeth had learned from Mei Ling. He preferred to let Betty dig on her own. See what she discovered.
Treadwell had been right. Craig had a theory about Zhou and Orlov, but he needed hard evidence to back it up.
Moscow
On the plane ride from Beijing to Moscow, Orlov thought about his upcoming meeting with Kuznov and how to handle what would be a very difficult encounter. Kuznov would be angry that Orlov wasn’t delivering a meeting with Zhou. Even worse, Zhou’s insistence on the PGS theft before he would schedule a meeting played into Kuznov’s suspicions that Zhou, with no intention of having a meeting, was merely getting Orlov to do his dirty work.
Kuznov had a furious temper and he hated being taken advantage of. All of that pointed toward a Kuznov blow-up. No way to avoid that. The question was how to diffuse it.
