Shadow of the Dragon

by Marc Cameron

  “Or break them,” Foley said. “That’s one of the main reasons we tapped you. Think about it, Monica. Untold amounts of information come across your desk every day—information that the Chinese would love to get their hands on. You know as well as I do that if you were indeed one of their assets, Beijing would throw a royal fit if you decided to walk away now. And you’d be stupid for abandoning a seat at the table that assures you a golden parachute when you do leave.”

  “Or a bullet behind the ear,” Hendricks said.

  Foley shrugged. “There is that.”

  “I’ll buy your logic,” Hendricks said. “But what if I suddenly grew a conscience and couldn’t live with myself anymore. Or maybe I’m just afraid the CI weenies are onto me, so I’ve decided to cut and run. Have you considered that?”

  “Cut and run to teach high school?”

  “Penance?”

  Foley slumped. “No sin is that grievous, my dear.”

  “I am not this SURVEYOR character.”

  “I know that,” Foley said.

  “Only eight people,” Hendricks said.

  “Plenty more will know as soon as you start to rattle cages.”

  “Who’s my boss?” Hendricks asked. “Who’s running the show?”

  “Your boss is me,” Foley said. “But you are running ELISE. David Wallace from the Bureau will be working with you, but POTUS wants CIA taking the lead in the investigation. FBI will handle prosecution when we get to that point.”

  “Jack Ryan doesn’t know me from Adam,” Hendricks said.

  “He trusts me.” Foley slid the folder across the table. “Here’s a brief on all we know so far. As you can see from the list on the cover page, of the ten who know about this, almost all are in the President’s inner circle or agency heads—the directors of both the FBI and the CIA, the White House chief of staff. There is a field officer who runs the asset who gave us the information.”

  “Adam Yao?” Hendricks said, without opening the folder.

  Foley grinned. “See there. If you were SURVEYOR, Yao would have already been compromised.”

  “Are we sure this isn’t disinformation?” Hendricks asked again.

  “We’ve certainly thought about that,” Foley said. “The President is clear, and I agree, we don’t want another Angleton witch hunt.”

  Both women were all too familiar with the hunt for the infamous Soviet mole “Sasha” by the enigmatic CIA counterintelligence head James Jesus Angleton. Virtually anyone whose name started with the letter K and ended with -ski or -sky became a suspect—a hard blow to any CIA officers with Polish or Eastern European heritage. Careers were derailed, lives were ruined.

  Mary Pat bounced a fist on the table. “That’s not happening again. Not on my watch. It would be all too easy to brand every Asian CIA employee a suspect and then bully our way down the list, letting the chips fall where they may—but you know me better than that.”

  “I wouldn’t be sitting here if I thought otherwise, ma’am.”

  Foley raised her index finger. “That said, this mole is still a problem, our sensibilities toward prejudice notwithstanding. There are too many instances where the Chinese have gotten a leg up on something of ours that they could not have known without inside help. People’s lives are at stake. A lot of people.”

  “Understood,” Hendricks said. “But I had to ask. Anyway, Adam Yao’s a solid guy. I’m glad to have him on the team.”

  “He’s not exactly on the team,” Foley said. “His mission at the moment is tangentially related, but it’s out in the field. He does, however, have contact with his asset, VICAR, who has access to the Russian asset.”

  “Like that kids’ game, telephone.”

  “Not optimum, I know,” Foley said. “But Yao’s bullshit detector has proven to be solid. He’ll work to get you answers for any questions you have as they arise.”

  “Great,” Hendricks said, sounding anything but. She thumbed through the folder. There wasn’t much there. Yao’s report. Recent cases of two blown CIA operations, one in Australia, the other in Indonesia, where the Chinese did end runs as if they had the local operational playbook. The worst incident was a Chinese Christian asset in Indonesia who’d been compromised by leaked intelligence. He’d last been seen being dragged into a dark van, a white hood over his head. Boots on the ground said he’d been tied to a rubber tree outside of Jakarta and shot—after a lengthy and painful interrogation. The MSS officers who’d done it had left plenty of marks on the body—a warning to anyone else who might decide to cooperate with the West. It was enough to convince Hendricks to stay as long as it took to catch SURVEYOR.

  “I’m going to need a much larger team than the President and a bunch of agency heads,” Hendricks said, still reading.

  “Of course.”

  “I can pick whomever I want?”

  “As long as they pass the vetting process.”

  “And I run the vetting process?”

  Foley seemed to consider this for a moment, then nodded. “It’s your show. Why do you ask? Who are you thinking?”

  “I understand David Wallace is over from the Bureau, but he will always tend to think in terms of making a criminal case for eventual prosecution. I’d much rather run it like a CIA operation. Prosecution if we can, but discovering the threat so we can stanch the flow of leaked intel has to be our first priority.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Foley said.

  “There’s a guy I’d like to be my deputy,” Hendricks said. “Retired from the Navy. He helped me get out of Somalia years ago on his destroyer. You and I crossed paths with many good folks over the course of our careers. Most, you simply thank them and move on. But this guy and I clicked. Became good friends.” She looked at Foley. “I’m sure there’s someone like that in your past.”

  “Yeah,” Foley said. “My guy’s the President.”

  “Then you know what I’m talking about. Honestly, my husband was always a little jealous of my ‘Navy friend.’”

  “That’s not going to be a problem? Nothing that will—”

  “Hey, I passed my polygraph,” Hendricks said. “Seriously, it wasn’t like that. And anyway, look at me. I’m pretty certain the days of my husband thinking some dude’s gonna ravish me while I’m out on assignment are long gone.”

  “Those days never end, my friend,” Foley said. “Believe me.”

  Hendricks laughed and waved away the thought. “Anyway, he’s just a really good person. Someone we can trust—and he’s of Chinese descent.”

  “A retired admiral?”

  Hendricks nodded.

  Foley tapped a finger against her temple and gave Hendricks a conspiratorial wink. “We’re probably thinking about the same guy . . .”

  * * *

  —

  Back in her car in the Liberty Crossing visitor parking lot, Monica Hendricks sent a text via Signal. The messaging app was end-to-end encrypted, but habit made her careful with her words unless she was talking on an STU or some other dedicated secure device.

  Her friend was cordial, if a little terse, but that could have been the fact that they were thumb-typing. He gave her a quick rundown on his life like he was giving a bottom-line-up-front briefing to the Joint Chiefs. She did the same. Three sentences to encapsulate the status of her life.

  He cut to the chase. What’s up?

  Something I need to run by you.

  Shoot.

  Hendricks thought for a moment, then typed. It needs to be in person. She was of the generation that texted in complete sentences and checked her spelling and grammar before hitting send.

  Okay. It must be important, then.

  Something important enough to keep me from walking out the door. She sent that, then added, I’d come to you, but things are crazy busy. Can you come to D.C.?

  Pulsing dots .
. . but only for a moment.

  I’ll break the news to Sophie.

  I’m sorry it’s last-minute. Today would be best, if at all possible.

  Admiral Peter Li’s answer came back almost immediately, as she knew it would.

  I’ll be there.

  18

  This is exactly the kind of problem you’re good at,” Cathy Ryan said, slouching across the study in an overstuffed leather chair.

  Jack Ryan found himself mesmerized by this gorgeous, rock-solid oasis of sanity in an insane world. Blond hair askew over her forehead, eyes half closed, she balanced an astonishingly bright cobalt-blue Paul Green pump on the toe of her astonishingly beautiful foot.

  A world-renowned ophthalmic surgeon, Dr. Cathy Ryan had performed three retinal surgeries that morning. Dealing with vessels and nerves smaller than a human hair, there was zero room for error. Not particularly physical, but heavy lifting nonetheless.

  Ryan stretched out on the well-worn cushions of the leather sofa of his private study off the Oval Office, tie loose, shoes off. Hands folded across his chest, his head turned sideways so he could lie down and still look at his wife.

  “Not sure if I’m good at it,” he said. “But a Chinese mole inside CIA is definitely a problem.”

  “But that’s not the problem you were talking about.”

  Ryan rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “We have some incredibly brave and devoted patriots of Asian heritage in our intelligence organizations, and we’re about to put the screws to the vast majority of them, basically tell them we’ve stopped trusting them because of who their grandparents are. But the fact remains, the PRC likes to utilize people who have ties to China, to appeal to their sense of what it means to be Chinese. It’s a hard reality.”

  “Are you sure this mole is of Chinese descent?”

  “Not at all,” Ryan said. “But we have to consider the possibility. It troubles me that we actively recruit intelligence officers who speak native Mandarin, and then turn on them like this for the same reason we hired them. If we move too far in one direction, I ruin dozens of careers. Don’t move far enough, and a mole continues to bleed us dry of critical intelligence, endangering lives. It would be all too easy to have a purge.”

  “My dear,” Cathy said, sounding almost asleep. “The fact that you struggle with this at all puts you a hundred and eighty degrees off a purge.”

  “Mary Pat and I have hashed this out ad nauseam,” Ryan said. “She and her team will do a thoughtful job, but the buck stops with me. Every piece of guidance and advice I give is scrutinized—and heeded.”

  “I get it,” Cathy said. “You can’t unlaunch a missile once you say ‘fire.’”

  “You can,” Ryan said, “but the analogy makes the point. The direction I give affects people’s lives.”

  The corner of Cathy’s lip perked in a half-smile. “It might be good for the guy on the street to hear Jack Ryan struggle with all sides of an issue once in a great while.”

  “That’s sausage nobody wants to see made,” Ryan said. “Sometimes I worry that my team is banking everything on me making the exact right move at exactly the right time.”

  Cathy’s eye flicked open. “You mean like when I alone am utilizing a powerful laser to work around microscopic vessels and blast someone’s tissue to reattach the retina to the back of their eye? Yeah, I think I get what you’re talking about.”

  “Sorry for whining.” Ryan groaned. “Of course you get it.”

  “Maybe we should just sneak away,” she said. “Because I have to tell you, sometimes, I feel like sneaking away.”

  Ryan gave a little shrug, chin to chest. The couch in his private study was his second-favorite thinking spot. “I thought this was sneaking away.”

  Cathy looked up at him with a mock pout. “I guess so. At least we’re away from that little peephole in the Oval Office door. I trust Betty, but . . . it still weirds me out sometimes to think about you living under a glass bubble.”

  “Weirds you out?” Ryan swung his legs to the floor, patting the cushion beside him.

  “I’m too tired to move, Jack.”

  “Presidential order?”

  “Nice try.”

  She hauled herself out of the chair anyway and plopped down beside Ryan. “Just so you know, I’m moving because I want to, not because you made me.”

  “Of that, my dear,” Ryan said, “I have no doubt.”

  They leaned back together, staring at the ceiling.

  Cathy yawned. “This is a comfortable couch.” She closed her eyes. “You have good hands,” she said, out of the blue.

  Ryan gave her a quizzical look. “I appreciate that . . .”

  “Good hands are a gift, Jack.”

  “Thanks?”

  “By the time a would-be surgeon gets to me, they’ve been through four years of medical school, rotations, practical testing, and an internship . . . at least. Most of the residents who come my way are pretty good at what they do. They’ll make good surgeons who can do ninety-five percent of the procedures out there. Every couple of years, though, I get a would-be surgeon who can rattle off the textbook answer to any question I throw out or look at a patient and diagnose the problem with ease. But when it comes to surgery, they are clumsy and inept. We say they have wooden hands.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “I’m telling you, you don’t have wooden hands, Jack. You’re not one of the other ninety-five percent, either.” She rested her palms flat on her knees and heaved a long sigh. “I’m not sure what it’s like to be President, but I know what it’s like to be a surgeon. It takes a monumental amount of swagger. You have to know you’re good enough to step up when everyone is looking over your shoulder with a literal microscope. You are skilled and sure and self-aware enough that you will make the right decision about this. You have good hands . . .” She glanced up at him. “Very. Good. Hands.”

  “Are we still talking about my dilemma?”

  “That depends on—”

  Ryan groaned inside when a knock at the door cut her off.

  * * *

  —

  Ryan took a seat behind the Resolute desk, his back to the windows overlooking the Rose Garden. The lingering smell of Cathy’s shampoo filled him with suffused giddiness—even after all these decades—and it took every ounce of his energy to give his full attention to Dustin Fullmer, from Defense Mapping.

  Arnie van Damm pulled one of the Chippendale side chairs around to the end of the desk.

  Fullmer, a twentysomething analyst, stood rooted in place, as if there were yellow footprints painted on the carpet in front of the Resolute. Like virtually everyone who briefed at the White House, he had a fresh haircut and a new suit.

  He’d been involved in a handful of briefings, but never as lead. Folio clutched at his waist with both hands, he stood and nodded, meeting Ryan’s eye but not saying a word.

  “Let’s have it, Dustin,” Ryan said.

  “Have what, Mr. President?”

  Van Damm closed his eyes and shook his head. “You told me you needed to brief the President.”

  “No, sir, Mr. van Damm,” Fullmer said. “I said the President needed to be briefed. Commander Forestall is on his way over. Perhaps we should wait for—”

  Ryan raised an open hand. “Your bosses trust you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It wasn’t a question, Dustin,” Ryan said. “I know they trust you, or they wouldn’t have sent you over to brief me. I’ve been in your shoes, shoved out in front, so to speak. Believe me, I understand what it’s like to stand where you’re standing. So take a deep breath and give me what you’ve got. We can go over it again when Commander Forestall arrives.”

  “Of course, Mr. President,” Fullmer said. “I was . . .” He caught van Damm’s gaze and opened the leather folio. “As you’re aware, Chi
na and Russia recently engaged in a military exercise they called Snow Dragon. Satellite imagery shows three Chinese submarines departed pens in Wuhan and Hainan approximately five months ago. Two Shang Type 093 nuclear fast-attacks, then later a Kilo diesel-electric. The Kilo surfaced to top off batteries every twenty-four hours. They made no attempt to hide. A week later, a Jin-class nuclear ballistic missile sub departed Huludao. We picked it up again when it transited the Bering Strait and monitored it during the war game. The Kilo peeled off from the pack near Anadyr, Russia, at which point a fifth Chinese submarine, a Yuan, we believe, hull number 771, appeared. Both these subs stayed in the littoral waters around Anadyr, participating with Chinese and Russian surface ships in what we assume was a different round of the same exercise.”

  Ryan nodded, showing that he was listening. None of this was exactly new information.

  Van Damm made an ever so slight get-on-with-it motion with his hand.

  Fullmer swallowed, taking the hint. “Satellite imaging, undersea hydrophonic arrays, and P-3cs stationed at Eielson Air Force Base near Fairbanks, Alaska, show the Shang fast-attacks transited the Bering Strait nine days ago, moving southward. The Kilo departed Anadyr at around the same time, but the Yuan remained for an extra week before departing to the south.”

  “Okay . . .” Ryan said.

  “Right,” Fullmer said. “The point is, the Yuan-class sub has turned around and has transited the Bering Strait heading north. We’ve picked up a coded signal we believe is coming from an area known as the Mendeleev Ridge in the Arctic Ocean.”

  “A submarine in distress?” Ryan asked.

  “A DISSUB would make sense, sir,” Fullmer said. “Both Shang fast-attacks have apparently turned around and passed through the Bering two hours ago. The Chinese Kilo appears to be following.”