The Mandarin Club

by Gerald Felix Warburg

  As they moved along, he found it oddly liberating, this business of telling only the truth. The farther they went, and the more tired he grew, the easier it became to unburden himself, to let go and watch all those balls he had juggled for so long come crashing down.

  Some of the questions were uncomplicated. Drug habits? No, actually. Like most of the guys from college days, he had given up pot for whiskey shortly after leaving campus—the quest for respectability in vices outweighed possible liver damage.

  Tax fraud? Clean there, too. He’d always been careful with his bookkeeping, not wanting to jeopardize his perks and his company-subsidized travel. Besides, he always told himself, his taxes paid veterans benefits, and his dad had earned every nickel of his pension the hard way.

  Marital infidelity? That one required substantial detail, taxing his memory. His story was straightforward; there had been no blackmail attempts or foreign agents involved, at least any he was aware of, though he sometimes wondered about his dear Jin in Hong Kong, and was relieved to have finally had the guts to end it with her.

  Mickey’s relations with foreign intelligence services were also of interest. Yes, he ran errands for the Defense Ministry guys in Beijing, Telstar’s best customers. Yes, he knew some of his contacts were in the espionage business. In fact, he assumed most everybody he dealt with was, in one fashion or another—it made things easier for him. To Mickey, it had all just been business—favor-banking to bring in more Telstar sales.

  No, he had not trafficked in classified documents with intelligence sources. Yes, he had helped run some disinformation games on Taiwan, though often unwittingly. He told how he had greased some side sales for his Beijing pals on stuff like krytron buys and electronic countermeasures sales, the significance of which he never fully understood. He had learned not to ask too many questions.

  They spent almost an hour on his relations with his now retired father-in-law, and then, on Lee. He tried to help them as much as he could, willingly speculating on connections and subplots. He stumbled to explain who had orchestrated the planting of the krytron deal story with its Taipei nuclear angle—a story it took him some time to figure out himself. He gave up everything he had on his smuggler buddy Rashid with an ease he thought would make him uncomfortable. It didn’t.

  In the end, he found a way to get back to basics, even when the confessional was not called for by the question at hand.

  Yes, he freely entered into his new commitment with the Agency. He loved his boys. He loved his country. He repeated the pledges he had made to Branko at the ballpark. By now, he sensed his friend was certainly behind the one-way mirror. No more drinking. No more foreign sales. Success or failure, no mention ever to anyone about the mission. I can do this, he thought.

  When they finally unstrapped him, it felt like being unwrapped from a dive suit. He could breathe freely once more. He flexed his arm and smiled up weakly at Branko, who joined him, appearing very much the parent come to collect his charge from Day Care.

  They walked in silence down the hallway, then up an elevator to the top floor. Mickey followed Branko down a short corridor until they entered another stuffy room, this one lit by a skylight and recessed track lighting. At its center, a small table was set for lunch.

  “So. . . ?” Mickey asked.

  “So?”

  “So, how’d I do? Like, did I pass?”

  “Did you pass? Sure,” Branko said, “you did fine. Answered all their questions, for today. No lies. Even gave us some stuff on the krytron business that confirmed some of our suspicions.”

  “So, we’re on? The mission, I mean?”

  “Yes, we’ve been granted authority to proceed. For now.”

  “I thought you had the last word on that.”

  “I’m in charge of Asia analysis for the intelligence community. I don’t run agents. That’s Operations.”

  “Does that mean we need some kind of congressional finding? Those damn Hill committees leak like a sieve.”

  “Relax, Mickey. We’ve made this a special case, and there’s ample precedent. I got a waiver to be directly involved in this one since it is not exactly standard operating procedure.”

  “It’s not going to get out that, that—”

  “You’ve had a long morning. Eat some lunch.”

  Mickey found he was famished—and the food surprisingly good. As they ate, Branko began a methodical exposition, walking him through the mission, the contact methods, and the fallbacks. He was clear on the decision points, both for the boys and for Lee. Branko was brutally direct on the consequences of failure. The more explicit he was on the assignment—to get to Lee and convince him to defect—the more anxious Mickey became about the details.

  “What’s the evidence there’s an imminent threat to the summit?” Mickey pressed.

  “Some conversations we’ve been picking up. People over there talking as if they assume it will be cancelled. Or end in some fiasco.”

  “Like what?”

  “Unclear.”

  “Wouldn’t an incident make it harder to get Lee out later?”

  “Of course it would.” Branko was reluctant to indulge him, pausing to choose his words carefully. “But that is a choice we cannot make for him.”

  “But where is the threat coming from?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t say? Or don’t know?”

  “Mickey. . .” Branko was shaking his head now, “we really don’t know.”

  “What? You’re the fucking CIA, Branko. I thought you guys had a solid read on this kind of stuff.”

  “The truth is, there are lots of things we don’t know. Sometimes, the best we can do—all we can do, in fact—is ask the right questions, then make some calculated speculations. Get used to it.”

  Their table had been cleared, and it was nearly two o’clock when Branko began to wrap up. “I am having an escort come up to take you back through the gate in a van.”

  “You don’t want to be seen with me?”

  “Standard op. You were never here. No need to take a chance you’re recognized by somebody waiting in Reception.”

  “So, this is goodbye?”

  “Goodbye? Yes, I suppose. But only for awhile, hopefully.”

  But now, fatigued as he was, Mickey needed to say more. He felt an urgent desire to defend himself, to justify his choices—to sum up.

  “Branko,” he began haltingly, “I haven’t really thanked you properly.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet—except get you strapped to a polygraph.”

  “No. I mean, thanks for taking a chance on me. Thanks for sticking your neck out here.”

  Branko fiddled with the buttons on his coat. Then he mumbled something Mickey thought he might have misheard. “It’s just business.”

  Branko looked up again, lecturing him now. “This summit is going to play a critical role in the ongoing Chinese succession struggle. They have a new guy in charge, but he still has significant internal challenges. They’ve got a big Party Congress soon and they’re facing a lot of popular discontent. They’re at a fork in the road. If guys like the Red Dragons prevail, things could get real ugly. So, we’re willing to take some chances.”

  “Just business, huh?”

  “It has to be.”

  “Jesus, Branko. It’s me! Mickey. Remember? The Oasis? The road trips? Shots at the beach? ‘All for one and one for all’?”

  Branko grimaced, his stern gaze eroding as he considered. Then he spoke softly again. “Of course, I remember the promises we made. We were young—very young and very naïve.”

  “We promised. You can’t deny the prom—”

  “I’ve denied nothing! But don’t labor under a false impression. I can’t do this as a favor to an old friend. I’m a professional intelligence officer pursuing the national interest. I’m taking a chance, a very big chance. If you screw up, it’s on me, on my watch.”

  “I know that.”

  “Have you any idea what the hel
l ‘professional intelligence’ means?” Branko said, letting out a pained sigh. “Because if you don’t, I cannot in good conscience permit you to go forward.”

  “I can do this.”

  “Mickey, your whole life has been some frat boy game, racing your car at night without the headlights on. This game is real. If you fuck up, I will still get to go home and hug my kids and sleep in my wife’s arms. You’re the one who is gonna rot behind enemy lines.”

  “I know.”

  “They could be very rough on you in Beijing. Just for sport. You’ll be powerless, and we will not be able to help when they throw you in some shit-hole prison. There will be no Rambo flying in to get you, no Black-hawk helicopters coming to the rescue.”

  “Branko, I know.”

  “I think you do know, and really do understand, the fundamental choice you have made. I respect you for that.”

  “Despite all my fuck-ups?”

  “Despite all your fuck-ups.”

  Branko averted his gaze for a moment as the light in the room was altered, as if by an invisible hand. Through the skylight overhead, puffy June clouds floated by, cotton white and disembodied.

  “If you want to get personal,” Branko continued, “I should be honest with you. You do have a right to request a favor of an old friend. Just as I have a professional obligation to refuse if it is unwise, no matter what we promised in all those toasts we made. You know, Mickey, you gave me energy in the old days. I was envious of your ability to live life outside the lines.”

  Mickey stared glumly.

  “But I mistook your lack of restraint for creative genius. You got sloppy with your life, lived with no discipline,” Branko said with a scowl. “You want to. . . to redeem yourself now? I can’t help you with that.”

  “I don’t—”

  “The CIA does not offer absolution for sins. And I am not your parish priest.”

  “I know, Branko,” Mickey said, deflated now. He thought they were finished, but Branko did not relent.

  “I suppose, if you must know, that there is something personal coloring my judgment. I was a refugee from tyrants once. If I have any personal agenda here, it’s that I’ll always take chances for people who are powerless, but who have guts. It’s for your kids, so they have a chance to grow up without a dictator’s boot heel on their neck.”

  Mickey nodded.

  “So, my friend, I admire your courage. You and your boys will be at great risk. May God protect you.”

  Branko spread his arms wide and placed both hands on Mickey’s broad shoulders. Then, finally, he hugged Mickey powerfully, holding him a long time in a fraternal embrace.

  HONORING THE PROCESS

  It was stinking hot in Washington that first week in June. Waves of tropical moisture drifted up from the Gulf of Mexico, the sultry air camping over the city, limp and polluted. A tourist from Kentucky nearly drowned seeking relief in a waterfall at the FDR Memorial. School groups on government class pilgrimages lined up five-deep for iced sodas at the Constitution Avenue concessionaires alongside the Smithsonian Museums.

  Each broiling day of the late spring heat wave, Alexander worked his story, double-checking every fact. He was obsessed, determined to get it right this time. He dissected the pieces of the Chinese missiles puzzle, carefully reassembling them as he went. He even used an old Stanford Daily technique they’d taught in Journalism 101, laying out the subtopics on note cards spread across his dining room table like a movie storyboard. He was rarely in the Washington bureau office, instead working the phones from home or interviewing sources in person. He already knew the headline he’d request for the new exclusive: “New Chinese Missile Build-Up Threatens Taiwan; White House Misrepresents Implications.”

  The static between Beijing and Washington was just beginning to quiet down after a hastily arranged meeting of their respective foreign ministers at the UN. The Seattle Summit was still on. Alexander knew his second major Asia story of the season would again lead the news. If he didn’t get this one right, there might not be a third chance.

  Working the trail was a rush, his instincts for self-preservation kicking in. He developed a prodigious appetite for protein—steaks for dinner, burgers for lunch, bacon and eggs for breakfast. He began to carry a pocketful of M&M’s and peanut butter crackers—between-meals fuel to keep him surging ahead. He dreamt rich dreams, and awoke flush, thinking of Rachel. Great things seemed attainable.

  Rachel had also dug into work more deeply, again finding a rhythm of her own, pulling herself back into the center of the frenetic legislative dance. She was amused by the illusion of control she recovered as she worked with her clients, pressing their points with Congress, working the hallways of the executive branch, advancing their agendas. Her voice sounded authoritative as she set forth strategy and tactics. Her staff listened attentively. Her interns took copious notes. Her analysis seemed sound—she still knew how to get things done in a town that mystified those unfamiliar with its Byzantine pathways.

  She called Alexander several times the first week after Memorial Day. It was mostly to buck him up, to encourage him in his effort to nail down his story. She relished feeling needed. She liked knowing that her presence in his life gave him strength.

  Pieces of their conversations over so many years came floating back to Alexander as he worked. They reordered themselves in his reflections, providing insights, offering a suggested direction. He pondered observations she had made during their drive in the country, things she had remarked about during her call from the Delano, whispered words during their first night in bed together.

  By Wednesday morning, they were reaching again for each other’s embrace. Rachel had seen Jamie off at the bus stop, then raced across the Fourteenth Street Bridge, curled under the Capitol, past the congressional commuters, and bounded up the steps of Alexander’s townhouse, informing her office with a quick call that she had to drop by a Hill fundraising breakfast. Alexander set aside his note cards and they barely spoke before making love on the couch. Then she was off, in a hurry, to the office with an extra bit of blush.

  Alexander felt renewed by the simplicity of their lovemaking. It was the perfect complement to their years of rich conversation. He felt shy, yet he liked to watch, to see her face change under his ministrations. She made him feel puckish and nimble. He felt honored by her trust as she shared lascivious desires. Their sex became equal parts rehabilitation and religion, a transforming experience more satisfying than the richest of meals. They were enraptured.

  He was on the phone to her again Thursday morning, and they met for lunch at her place in Arlington. They had sex in the shower, quite clumsily. She was convulsed with laughter as she sat in the steam on the edge of the tub and finally confessed details of her gallant last stand against the Arlington Police. Then they were off again in a rush—both had much work to do.

  Mid-day Friday, it was her initiative. She Blackberried him in a meeting with a virtual summons. She awaited his return from a Pentagon appointment at one, standing in her front hallway in a blue ensemble—negligee, stockings, and a garter belt—with two glasses of chilled champagne in her hands, a wicked smile on her face. They made love urgently, then were back out the door again within the hour.

  They were clueless about where this all led. Yet, neither was anxious. By tacit consent, they ignored the question of where they were headed. Alexander wasn’t sure he was doing her any favors by pursuing her after all these years. But then, he conveniently concluded, she was a grown-up. She didn’t need him making decisions for her.

  Alexander felt rejuvenated as he pursued his professional inquiries. He began with the photos left at his doorstep. What about the commercial angle? If there were militarily significant activities underway in the PRC’s Fujian Province, could they be detected by some weather satellite or news organization? He satisfied himself with two calls to a source at NASA and an old Stanford buddy now with the Geological Service doing land mapping. The quality of the pixels on the p
hotos he had in his possession far exceeded commercial capabilities.

  Next up was the textual analysis. The narrative accompanying the satellite photos artfully mimicked the jargon of the intelligence analysts—with their dry references to “a concentration of launch assets.”

  Alexander decided he’d approach the CIA last this time, and then stay on Branko until he received a clear confirmation or denial. He held off on any direct questions to Langley. But he did have his research assistant pull off the Internet some declassified materials the CIA had released during the recent Iraq-WMD investigation. They bore a striking resemblance, both in narrative tone and the accompanying photo spread, to what he had in hand. It was inconclusive, but anecdotally corroborative.

  The Taiwan angle he worked next. If China was doubling its medium range missile launch capacity in Fujian, it would be a violation of private assurances made to the White House. But Alexander’s Taipei sources had gone cold after he ran with the bogus information about an alleged Taiwan nuclear program. Congressional contacts proved equally unproductive.

  Finally, Alexander scored with sourcing from a renegade Pentagon consultant. The former Assistant Secretary of Defense was a member of the anti-China Blue Team whose members often fed reporters sensitive material on the China threat. This source was able to confirm each of the key facts in the documents—even said he had read a highly classified version at the Pentagon. It took a full week before Alexander felt confident enough to lay his draft article before his editor. Once he did, he knew the lead three paragraphs would be explosive:

  The People’s Republic of China has systematically increased ballistic missile deployments opposite Taiwan, threatening to spark a confrontation along the Taiwan Strait, the Times has learned. The new deployments of CSS-6 short range ballistic missiles (SRBMs) include more than one hundred being added this spring at the Nanping base in Fujian Province, upsetting the tenuous balance of forces in the region, U.S. and foreign intelligence sources confirm. These new additions bring to more than 500 the total number of SRBM’s targeted at Taiwan, sufficient to overwhelm its limited defense capabilities, according to recent U.S. intelligence agency reports.