The Ghost War (30 page)
“What’s the rush? I mean, I’m very busy—”
“You’ll have to take that up with the examiner. I’m just a scheduler.”
Click.
Click.
The mole stared blankly at the receiver in his hand, wondering what he’d done to deserve this treatment. He wanted badly to know if they actively suspected him. But asking too many questions about a leak investigation was a very good way to attract the attention of the people running it.
MEANWHILE, THE TEMPO
in the East Asia unit was picking up. Since September 11, Langley and the White House had paid relatively little attention to China. The agency had focused first on Afghanistan, then Iraq, and now Iran. Along the way, China and the United States had reached a quiet understanding. As long as Beijing helped the United States on terrorism, the White House would stay quiet on economic issues, such as China’s trade surplus.
in the East Asia unit was picking up. Since September 11, Langley and the White House had paid relatively little attention to China. The agency had focused first on Afghanistan, then Iraq, and now Iran. Along the way, China and the United States had reached a quiet understanding. As long as Beijing helped the United States on terrorism, the White House would stay quiet on economic issues, such as China’s trade surplus.
Even China’s rapid military buildup, its new submarines and fighter jets and satellites, had gone unchallenged. Some analysts within the agency thought that the United States should confront China aggressively now, while America still had a clear upper hand. But those discussions were largely theoretical. Langley knew that the White House had no appetite for a fight with Beijing at the moment, not with Iraq collapsing.
But in the last few weeks, the unspoken bargain had broken down, and not because of anything Washington had done. Both publicly and privately, the Chinese seemed to want to force America’s hand. The Chinese had moved submarines into the Taiwan Strait, the narrow sea that separated Taiwan from mainland China, and declared that U.S. carriers there would not be welcome without Chinese approval. Washington had simply ignored this provocation, saying that American carriers would travel in any international waters they wanted.
Beijing had also announced the successful test of a missile capable of destroying satellites and said that it didn’t intend to allow any nation to have “hegemony over space.” The words were clearly intended for the United States. Then, a week before, the French intelligence agency had passed along a rumor that China and Iran had struck some kind of grand bargain. No details. Langley had told the White House and State Department, and now the U.S. ambassador to China was trying to get an answer from the Chinese foreign ministry. But the ministry so far had stayed quiet.
An alliance between China and Iran would present the United States with a huge problem. Even if America wanted to avoid quarreling with China, it would have to respond to a deal between Beijing and its sworn enemies in Tehran. What no one understood was why the Chinese had picked this moment to take on Washington.
The mole could see now how effectively he’d betrayed the agency. Over the last five years, his spying had cost the CIA all its top Chinese operatives. As a result, the agency had no access to what was happening at the top levels of the Chinese government. The mole had left the agency blind and deaf. Still, the mole didn’t think that either side would push this confrontation too far. Both the United States and China had too much to lose.
IT WAS 3:06 A.M.
As Janice sighed softly beside him, the mole felt his mind speeding like a truck whose brakes had failed. He remembered
Insomnia,
an old Stephen King novel. Halfway through, the hero was greeted by demons and devils crawling out of the wall. The mole was expecting to see something similar soon enough. The worst part was that he would actually be relieved to know the monsters were real.
As Janice sighed softly beside him, the mole felt his mind speeding like a truck whose brakes had failed. He remembered
Insomnia,
an old Stephen King novel. Halfway through, the hero was greeted by demons and devils crawling out of the wall. The mole was expecting to see something similar soon enough. The worst part was that he would actually be relieved to know the monsters were real.
At least now the mole had a good excuse for his inability to sleep. Two mornings before, he’d gotten yet another dose of bad news. He was sitting in his office, wondering if he could find an excuse to push off the poly, when Gleeson called.
“Come by,” Gleeson said. “Big news.”
When he arrived, Gleeson told him that a Chinese agent had defected in Britain. Wen Shubai. The mole had never met him, but he knew the name. He would bet that Wen knew him too, or at least of him. The mole couldn’t imagine what had happened. No senior officer had ever defected from the Second Directorate. The Chinese weren’t like Russians or Americans. They stuck together. They always had before, anyway.
“That’s fantastic,” he said. “When did it happen?”
How much time do I have?
How much time do I have?
“Don’t know,” Joe said. “I think a couple days ago. But they’re keeping it close to the vest.”
“We’re sure it’s real, it’s not bait?”
“He’s given up some very solid leads.”
“On what?”
“Wish I could say,” Gleeson said breezily. The mole wondered if Gleeson actually knew what Wen had said. Could Wen have given them enough to find him? Could the agency be tracking his offshore accounts right now? The mole felt his whole body dissolve, as if Gleeson could see through him. He looked down at his hands to be sure he was still real.
“I need you to pull together a report, everything we know about Mr. Wen,” Gleeson said. “End of day at the latest.”
“Sure. I was thinking the same thing.” The mole wondered if George Tyson and his counterintel boys were trying to set a trap. This assignment might be intended to provoke him into running, betraying himself.
Well, if that was their goal, they’d failed. The mole went back to his office and called up the thin dossier the agency had on Shubai, putting together the report for Gleeson. On his way home that night, he searched out a pay phone and punched in a Virginia cell-phone number. The call went straight to voicemail.
“You’ve reached George,” the message said. “The car is still for sale. If you’d like to buy, please leave your number and the best time to reach you.” All the English lessons that the colonel had taken over the years had paid off, the mole thought. He hardly even sounded Chinese.
“George,” he said, “that yellow Pinto of yours is just what I’ve been looking for. I’d like to pick it up as soon as possible. Call me before six A.M.”
The code was simple. Yellow meant he needed an urgent meeting. Pinto meant Wakefield Park, at 6:00 A.M.
While he waited for George to respond, the mole found a TGI Friday’s where he could have a beer and watch the idiots on ESPN jaw at each other. He didn’t even feel like drinking, but he ordered a beer anyway. When he looked down at his mug, it was empty. He signaled the bartender for another.
“No problem, buddy.”
“What kind of word is ‘sportscaster,’ anyway?” the mole said, eyeing the screen. “I mean, ‘newscaster’ is bad enough, but ’sportscaster’ makes no sense at all.”
“Got me. That was a Bud Light, right?”
An hour crawled by before the mole slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and walked out. A half-mile down, he found another pay phone. Again the call went to voicemail. “You’ve reached George,” the message said. “Thanks for your inquiry. The yellow Pinto will be ready for pickup on Thursday.”
The mole had to restrain himself from tearing the receiver off the pay phone.
Thursday?
This was Monday. Why were they making him wait two and a half days? He should have demanded a meeting immediately. But now it was too late. Asking for something sooner would make George wonder if he was panicking, and he didn’t want to seem panicked. He’d just have to wait.
Thursday?
This was Monday. Why were they making him wait two and a half days? He should have demanded a meeting immediately. But now it was too late. Asking for something sooner would make George wonder if he was panicking, and he didn’t want to seem panicked. He’d just have to wait.
SO HE WAITED,
as hatefully as a prisoner counting the days to his execution. But the meeting was still more than a day away. Now, as his clock turned to 3:07 A.M., the mole shuffled out of bed and made his way to the spare bedroom, the room that he had once hoped would become a nursery. He settled in before an episode of
The Hills,
watching the bubbleheads on screen struggle to make it in the high-pressure world of
Teen Vogue.
He’d seen this episode before, but even if he hadn’t, nothing in it would have surprised him. These shows were all exactly the same, whispered confidences, manufactured emotion, the tiniest of struggles.
as hatefully as a prisoner counting the days to his execution. But the meeting was still more than a day away. Now, as his clock turned to 3:07 A.M., the mole shuffled out of bed and made his way to the spare bedroom, the room that he had once hoped would become a nursery. He settled in before an episode of
The Hills,
watching the bubbleheads on screen struggle to make it in the high-pressure world of
Teen Vogue.
He’d seen this episode before, but even if he hadn’t, nothing in it would have surprised him. These shows were all exactly the same, whispered confidences, manufactured emotion, the tiniest of struggles.
As he watched, the mole wondered what he would do if George warned him that the agency was on him. The sad truth was that he didn’t even like China all that much. He certainly didn’t want to spend the rest of his life there. And what about Janice? Would George let her come? Would she want to go? He could tell her this was the big foreign adventure she’d always wanted.
Maybe he should just disappear, head for Mexico and points south, with or without Janice. He had enough money hidden away to make a go of it, especially if he wound up someplace like Thailand, where twenty bucks got you a blow job instead of a three-minute dance. But he didn’t speak Thai. And wherever he went, he’d spend the rest of his life waiting for the knock on his door that meant the agency—or maybe the Chinese—had found him. He wasn’t sure which side scared him more.
Anyway, aside from the polygraph he had no reason to worry. He needed to relax. He’d never even met Wen Shubai. The mole reached into his briefs and massaged himself, watching the lithe California goddesses on MTV, knowing that the whiskey and the wine would keep him from what the Thai bar girls called full release, but feeling halfway decent for the first time in a month. Soon enough, he’d know where he stood. And finally he felt his eyes droop closed.
23
“YOU ALL RIGHT?”
Wells said across the Escalade to Exley.
Wells said across the Escalade to Exley.
“Fine. Just do what you have to do.”
“Pull the van forward so it’s less visible. Then wipe it down. Anything you’ve touched. The wine cooler bottle too. No DNA.”
“I got it. Now go.”
Now the next step. Wells looked at his watch: 3:07 A.M. Twenty-three minutes left. He would need every one. He dumped Fred the guard onto the driveway and stepped into the Escalade. The German shepherd lay dead in the back, the dog’s skull torn in half by two rounds from Wells’s Glock, his blood pooling over the floor mats. Wells hadn’t wanted to kill the dog, but he had had no choice.
Wells tucked himself in the driver’s seat, slipped the Escalade into reverse, eased down on the gas. The big SUV tugged apart from the Sienna with the groan of metal scraping metal. A piece of the Toyota’s hood hung from the Cadillac’s grille like a battered Christmas ornament. Wells wheeled around, swung up the curving gravel driveway toward the mansion. The Escalade’s tinted glass would work in his favor now.
The mansion, a gargantuan version of a rustic Cape Cod beach house, complete with weathered shingles, stood two hundred feet from the gate. As Wells drove toward it, a man ran at the Escalade.
“Jimmy—what—”
Wells twisted the Escalade toward the guard and gunned the gas. The guard’s mouth dropped open. He reached into his waistband for his pistol, then gave up on the gun and dove awkwardly out of the way. He landed face-first on the lawn as Wells skidded the Escalade to a stop beside him and jumped out, pistol in hand.
“Down,” Wells said, not too loud. “Hands behind your back.”
The guard hesitated. Wells fired the silenced Glock, aiming a couple of feet left of the man’s head. The round dug into the turf and the guard clasped his hands behind his back. Wells cuffed the man and dragged him up, standing behind him. “What’s your name?”
“Ty.”
“Who else is awake?”
“Nobody.”
Wells jabbed the Glock in his back. “You already got your warning shot, Ty. Where’s Hank?”
Ty hesitated, then: “Second floor, watching the bedrooms.”
“Any others?”
“They’re out with Anna. Takes five guys to watch her.”
A Nextel push-to-talk phone on Ty’s waist buzzed. “Ty?” a man said.
Wells grabbed it. “Tell him a drunk driver hit the Escalade but nobody got hurt, cops are coming, you’ll be right in. Yes?”
Ty nodded. Wells held the Nextel to Ty’s mouth and pushed the talk button.
“Hank. Some drunk hit Jimmy, but everyone’s okay. Cops are on the way. I’ll be back in five.”
“Got it. Keep me posted.”
“Will do.”
Wells tossed the phone away. “Good boy. One more question. Where’s he sleep? Kowalski?”
Ty hesitated. “Anna’s got the master bedroom. He’s second floor, left side, in the front.”
Wells pulled a syringe from his pocket and jabbed it in the guard’s neck. His eyes widened and he pulled against his cuffs, twisting toward Wells. Then his breathing slackened and he fell like a penitent at Wells’s feet.
One to go, Wells thought. He looked at his watch: 3:11.
WELLS JOGGED TOWARD THE BACK
of the house, the direction Ty had come from, past an Olympic-sized slate-tiled pool with three diving boards—low, medium, and high. He took the granite back steps of the house two at a time. The patio doors were open. He stepped in and found himself in a gleaming kitchen. Burnished copper pots hung from the ceiling; a Viking stove stood beside a pizza oven. The house was silent. Wells stepped through a corridor lined with hundreds of bottles of wine and up the long back staircase.
of the house, the direction Ty had come from, past an Olympic-sized slate-tiled pool with three diving boards—low, medium, and high. He took the granite back steps of the house two at a time. The patio doors were open. He stepped in and found himself in a gleaming kitchen. Burnished copper pots hung from the ceiling; a Viking stove stood beside a pizza oven. The house was silent. Wells stepped through a corridor lined with hundreds of bottles of wine and up the long back staircase.
Halfway up Wells slowed, pulled the second air pistol from his backpack. He’d brought two, both loaded, so he wouldn’t waste precious time on reloading the syringes. He stopped just shy of the top step. The stairs formed the stem of a T with a long corridor that ran left and right along the spine of the mansion. Wells poked his head above the top step. Sure enough, twenty feet down the hall, a man stood before a closed door, a pistol in his waistband.
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