by Fritz Galt
“Our undercover hero steps into the 18th Century palace,” Earl said.
The American ambassador was hosting the reception for participants in the Paris Air Show.
Brad shook his hand. “Good evening, your Highness. Can I use your secure phone?” He didn’t have a black tie and didn’t need a lavish banquet, although the canapés looked delicious. All he wanted was a secure way to reach his dad.
“Come. I’d like you to meet our Special Ambassador to the air show.” The emissary handed him off to a white-haired eminence that Brad had once seen on CSPAN.
“Thank you, Ambassador. Hello, Mr. Ambassador.”
“He rubs shoulders with the rich and powerful,” Earl narrated in Brad’s ear.
The well-known politician shook their hands, sized them up, and then turned back to a pair of Arabs and continued to push American products with unflagging enthusiasm.
“Was it the tan trousers?” Earl asked. “The wrinkled shirt?”
Brad didn’t want to talk weapons systems anyway. “I just want to get as far away from this as I can.” High-tech anything was not his strength, and warfare was not his style. There were more pressing matters in his life.
“You talk nuclear warheads with these gentlemen,” he told Earl, and veered away.
“Ah, he leaves the dirty work to his attaché.”
Earl could hold his own when it came to military and global affairs. In fact, he might actually distinguish himself in a tête-à-tête with prominent power players.
Brad took the host ambassador aside and tried harder to assert himself. “My father is with the CIA, and I need to make a secure phone call to Washington.”
The ambassador raised his bushy eyebrows. “Is that so?” Clearly he wasn’t briefed on day-to-day operations. “Let me leave you in Robert’s good hands.”
Brad was introduced to a dapper man in his mid fifties.
“I’m Robert Steele,” the man said. “I took your phone call earlier, and Langley cleared you for entry to the consulate. How may I help you?”
Brad drew him to the side under a large oil painting of Thomas Jefferson. “I’m Brad West, and I need to reach my father, Igor Sullivan, at Langley.”
“Sullivan, huh?” Robert said. “So you’re his kid.” It was not a question. Robert needed a moment to put the pieces together. Although most people in the Agency could safely assume that “Igor Sullivan” was an alias, few knew that his real name was Bradley West, Sr.
Brad felt self-conscious. He was unsure what his or his father’s corridor reputation was at Langley. He preferred to avoid office politics altogether.
“May I shake your hand?” Robert took his paw again and pumped it enthusiastically. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Of course you’re welcome to use our secure phone.”
A few turns through the fully restored rooms, and they entered a different era with the grand décor of the 19th Century. He passed through the personal dining room of the Rothschild family and into their boudoir.
Robert pointed to a telephone beside several painted arabesques. The panels were old even at the time the Rothschilds were busy making babies, establishing the Paris branch of their banking empire, and financing the French Industrial Revolution.
Unfortunately, Brad felt more at ease in the mid-1800s than with the complicated office phone.
“Allow me to place the call for you.” Robert dialed Langley and asked for Igor Sullivan. Then he saluted Brad and backed out of the room.
A moment later Brad had the phone to his ear and his father on the line. “Hi, Dad. I’m in Paris now.”
“What’s up in Paris?” came the reedy voice of a man who didn’t fit the stereotype of an undercover agent. Rather, Igor Sullivan was so awkward, it almost seemed that he was putting on an act. Nevertheless, he was a man of enormous experience in Eastern Europe during the Cold War, and more recently in Asia.
“What’s up in Paris?” Brad repeated the question. “You mean what’s down. Several jets got shot out of the sky during the air show. One was May and another was Liang Jiaxi.”
“Liang?” Sullivan sounded incredulous. “I thought we closed the book on him.”
“Well, reopen it. He’s back. He was shooting live fire at May during the Chinese air demonstration, clipped the Eiffel Tower, and brought her plane down. Jade Wang managed to blow him out of the sky, and news reports claim that he ejected successfully. So he’s at large in the city and nowhere to be found.”
“How about May?”
“She bailed out just in time. I imagine she and her father are on the lam in order to evade Liang and the police.”
Sullivan apparently needed a moment to absorb all the news. “Any idea what Liang is up to?”
“Eliminating May, for one.” But beyond that, was Liang merely seeking revenge? Revenge for May having twice destroyed his plans to take over China? “Knowing Liang, he must have more than vengeance in mind. He always has some grand plan.”
“I’ll look into possibilities on my end,” Sullivan suggested.
Brad could rely on his father to dig up the key to Liang’s intentions. After all, Igor Sullivan was a genius at unearthing clues around the world. Furthermore, though he was just a case officer, Sullivan had the vast resources of the CIA, from computers to human intelligence, at his disposal.
“I’ll check back when I find out more,” Brad said. “In the meantime, leave messages with Robert Steele here at the embassy.”
“Keep a low profile, son,” were the final words of wisdom from a man who had vast experience with cloak and dagger work.
Brad leaned on the handle of the security door and returned to the reception. It took a moment to adjust to the dazzling light.
“Ah, here is Mr. Buford,” the ambassador was calling out with glee. He clearly enjoyed the role of introducing luminaries.
Brad heard the squeak of rubber on marble, and several British admirals parted way for a wheelchair. The newcomer, attired in a pinstripe suit, tan Spanish fedora, black gloves, shaded glasses and a silk scarf, wheeled himself into the center of the room.
“The Air Show ended today,” the ambassador went on. “And the Lost Horizon symposium starts tomorrow. Mr. Beau Buford is sponsoring that forum.”
Brad eased up to Earl, never taking his eyes off the stranger stuffed into the wheelchair. “Do you know him?”
“He’s a recluse,” Earl said. “I’m surprised he’s here. Nobody knew anything about him until he sponsored the symposium.”
Brad studied the man’s bearing, which was intimidating, but oddly familiar. He looked like a real-life Dr. Strangelove. As an anthropologist, though, Brad was accustomed to accepting grants from strange people with esoteric interests. This particular millionaire was interested in the religious and historical roots of James Hilton’s book Lost Horizon.
Mr. Buford was bankrolling the very group that had invited May’s father, Dr. Yu, to speak. Buford had even asked Yu to give the keynote address.
But rather than stepping forward and introducing himself to Buford, who seemed similarly out-of-place among the top brass of friendly nations, Brad felt compelled to shrink into the corner and observe from a distance.
“Let’s give him our cards,” Earl said, clearly hoping to ingratiate himself with the rich man.
“We’ll hit him up at the conference,” Brad said evasively. “Besides, the guy gives me the creeps.”
“Any philanthropist of yours is a philanthropist of mine.”
“You’re pathetic,” Brad said. “What’s that on the end of your nose? Chocolate mousse?”
“Certainly not your chocolate mousse.”
Earl followed him to a deserted room. There, a portrait of Benjamin Franklin hung over Louis XVI chairs that were set along the walls.
Earl glanced over his shoulder cautiously and said in a low voice, “Our hero contemplates his next move.”
Brad contemplated dribbling a martini over Earl’s head. But what was his next move? He began to outline f
or Earl a preliminary plan of action. First he would ensure that May and her father were safe. Then he’d examine news reports to try to locate Liang. Failing that, he would comb newspapers for tidbits from Asia that might point to Liang’s intentions. In the meantime, it probably wasn’t safe to return to China.
“I mean May. Are you going to propose to her or not?”
“Huh? Oh her.”
“What do you mean, ‘Oh her’?”
What lousy timing. How could he squeeze a proposal in while May was on the run?
“First, there’s the matter of a ring,” Brad said. “You can’t exactly propose without an engagement ring. Where do you get such a thing on such short notice?”
“What better place than Paris, France?”
Earl was right. Brad was only making excuses. If he didn’t seize the moment and propose to her, such an opportunity might never come again.
“Well, how do you know a girl’s finger size if she isn’t there? Do you bring a measuring tape to bed?”
“We won’t go there,” Earl said. “The big question is, can you afford a diamond ring?”
“Why a diamond? Can’t we start small, say with turquoise?”
“A turquoise ring? Are you going camping, or offering a life of eternal bliss?”
It was clear that Earl knew more about such things than he did.
“Okay,” Brad finally relented. “If May and her father show up at the symposium tomorrow, I’ll take you shopping for a ring.”
“Oh, darling. I thought you’d never ask.”
Benjamin Franklin’s bifocals might have slid off his nose at the sight of Brad putting his friend in a headlock.
Chapter 13
Instead of heading back to his humble pension, Brad took an important precaution. “Earl, you and I are going to spend the night at the embassy.”
“Sure, we’ll be safe,” Earl said. “But what about May and her dad?”
“You can try locating them, but I’m sure they’ve checked out of the hotel.”
Earl picked up a phone in the embassy’s reception room and tried to reach Jade. “Her cell is off,” he reported. “Probably facing tough questioning by her people.”
“Check the hotel anyway.”
Earl placed a call to the George V. A moment later, he hung up. “They’ve skedaddled.”
“Wanna try the Chinese Embassy?”
Earl dialed the American Embassy operator and asked to be put through to the Chinese Embassy. A moment later, he was conversing in fluent Mandarin with a Chinese official. Brad would have felt jealous of his friend’s linguistic abilities, if he wasn’t so grateful.
“It’s May,” Earl finally said, and handed him the phone.
Brad sat down on the nearest parlor chair and took the call. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Yes, he was all over me.”
What was she talking about? “Ah, yes. I saw him take off after you.”
“He took off his pants.”
He paused. “Wait. Who are we talking about?”
“I am talking about the Frenchman.”
They had some catching up to do. “Ah, how are your relations with the French police?”
“My embassy has cleared that away. I am on diplomatic status, so no charges, see?”
“Great! Now all we have to do is get rid of Liang. I don’t want you to set foot out of that embassy.”
“I’m keeping my foot.”
“Good. Stay put.”
“But my father is not staying put. He has a meeting tomorrow, and I will go with him.”
Brad winced. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“What are you talking? My father is very wise.”
“He is. But getting shot by Liang is not.”
There was a long pause, and Brad could feel he was getting through to her.
“We will use bodyguards from the embassy,” May said at last.
“Then I will come, too.”
“Nothing doing, mister. By invitation only.”
“Then invite me.” How exasperating. After all, Brad had done half of Dr. Yu’s work on the Buddhist origins of the Shangri-la legend. He should get partial credit for the speech.
“You are funny. I am joking. You are a special guest. No invitation required.”
“Oh. Ha ha.” He waved off Earl’s dubious look. Then he remembered his commitment to buy a ring. The next day was his last free day in Paris. “However, something urgent has come up, and I won’t be able to attend the opening session. Maybe I’ll get there for the second day.”
“Okey-dokey,” she replied. She probably wouldn’t mind skipping the symposium herself. “Sleep tight ma bête.”
“Huh?”
“Embrasse-moi.”
“What’s that?”
“It is French.”
He hung up. What had gotten into her?
Earl was standing over him, hands on hips. “So it’s just you and me shacking up in this 18th Century pile.”
“We’ll have to make do,” Brad said. Robert Steele was in the next room. “I’ll make arrangements.”
“Dibs on the chamber pot.”
Chapter 14
From his tiny office buried in the operations wing of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, Igor Sullivan needed to find out why Liang was in Paris. He began by throwing a dart at the dartboard next to his desk. A mere 10 points.
Brad and May were in Paris for two different reasons when Liang Jiaxi made his unwanted appearance. May and Jade Wang, a sometime CIA agent, were there to demonstrate Chinese military aircraft at the Paris Air Show. Brad was in Paris, along with his anthropologist buddy Earl Skitowsky and May’s father, to attend a scientific conference, something about Shangri-la.
Why had Liang turned up then and there?
From his computer console, he pulled up the CIA’s record on Liang Jiaxi. As he waited for the document to appear, he reflected on how dangerous Liang had been in the past. He had nearly toppled the Chinese government on two occasions and almost succeeded in installing his own man as President of the United States. All dangerous stuff, mercifully thwarted by Sullivan’s son. And were it not for May, who was Liang’s former main squeeze, they would never have gotten under Liang’s skin and undermined his plots.
Perhaps May was getting under Liang’s skin again, otherwise he wouldn’t have risked shooting her down in the open and in a foreign land where he had no immunity from the law.
Was he in Paris for the air show or some other reason?
Liang’s file appeared on the screen. It was a constantly updated document. CIA analysts and case officers had added recent information to the top of the ever-expanding document. He took note that the latest entries weren’t his own. Some analyst in the Economics section had updated the record with Liang’s latest successes in the business world.
Igor was impressed by Liang’s latest accomplishments. From microchips in Malaysia to the chemical industry in China, from hotels in Hong Kong to construction in Shanghai, the guy was a player.
The analyst had drawn the conclusion that there was no pattern to his investments. All were legitimate enterprises, although the source of his funding was unclear. The mix of enterprises didn’t appear to pose any risk to the world or reveal any sort of diabolical plan. Liang was simply out to make money, and lots of it.
The record had him down as living in Shanghai, as if banished by the political and military elites of Beijing. But perhaps Liang chose to live in Shanghai, the business hub of the nation.
Sullivan retrieved the dart from the dartboard, sat down, took aim and threw it a second time. 20 points.
Liang might have been in Paris to purchase aircraft, either civilian or military, which was the whole point of the show.
Sullivan performed a check of Liang’s connection with the air show. It came up empty. He saw many deals that were struck, but Liang’s name never appeared, nor did the names of his companies.
He was stumped. Liang had to be in Paris for s
ome additional reason, just like May and her father were.
He unfolded his long legs, leaned forward, and yanked out the dart. Taking careful aim at the 100-point bull’s-eye, he let fly. 30 points.
He decided to search for Liang’s name among travel records. Maybe he could find a pattern. He checked flight manifests, private airplane flight plans, and hotel bookings. One by one they began to appear on the screen and sort themselves by date. Singapore. Macao…
He was just reaching for the dart when the telephone rang.
“Call for Igor Sullivan, long distance from a Professor Fried.”
“Thank you.” He sat back, dart in hand. He didn’t know any Professor Frieds. “Hello?”
“Guten Tag, Herr West,” the voice said with a tremor and a German accent. “It has been a long time.”
What? Nobody had called him by his real name, Bradley West, for over twenty years. After his divorce from Brad’s mother, he had changed his identity to Igor Sullivan.
“Help me remember how we met,” Sullivan said.
“Do you remember the Berlin Wall?” Fried asked.
Sullivan’s mouth formed into a circle. It was coming back to him.
“Khrushchev built the wall to stop me.”
Sullivan closed his eyes. It was true. Two days after Professor Fried had departed Berlin for Istanbul, Russian and East German military had moved to the fringes of the Soviet Sector and erected barbed wire fences. Sullivan had passed on word of Fried’s warning to his superiors on the Teufelsberg overlooking Berlin, but they hadn’t reacted. By the time the Russians began to lay bricks, making the wall permanent, it was too late for diplomacy or military action.
The only way to resolve the border dispute was to find and return the professor, which Sullivan had attempted to do. But it seemed that Fried was always one step ahead of the CIA, first in Turkey, then in Cairo, followed by Rangoon, and so forth until the young professor disappeared without a trace in the jungles of Southeast Asia.
Over the ensuing decades, Sullivan had put the professor out of his mind. But the nervous ring to the man’s voice seemed to echo down through the years and instantly brought back that sweltering day in 1961.
