The Good Traitor (22 page)

F
ORT
M
EADE
, M
ARYLAND

“Ben!” She ran to embrace him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She said it over and over, her head buried in his shoulder.

The reunion occurred in a small, windowless room at a federal detention center in Fort Meade where she was being held for violating the terms of her previous release, which had stipulated that she not leave Washington, DC. Now that she had proved to be a flight risk, she would be held at least until the government either dropped its espionage charges or lost their case against her in court. She had not seriously contemplated the prospect of a conviction.

“It’s OK,” Ben said. “You’re safe now.”

She wasn’t convinced of that, but her main concern now was Ben. She pulled away from him, just for a moment, to look him in the eyes. Throughout the ordeal, sh
e’d
been plenty aware of what he must have been going through. But seeing it now on his face was heartbreaking.

“I didn’t have a choice,” she said. “I wanted to call, but I was afraid the
y’d
come after you too.”

“Who?” he said.

She wiped tears from her cheeks. “I don’t know. They killed Greg, Ben. I don’t know how, but that plane crash wasn’t an accident. And Conrad. I’m sure of it. Has there—” She stopped herself. There was a guard in the room, but the lawyers had left them alone. No one had told her whether she was being recorded. She leaned in and whispered in his ear. “Has there been anything in the news about Kera Mersal? Her whereabouts?”

Cupping her shoulders in his hands, Welk held her at arm’s length with an expression that was unrecognizable—part confusion, part concern. She realized that he was looking at her as if she were mad.

“What is it? Did they get to her too?”

“No,” he said. “No—or, I don’t know. I don’t think that’s been reported. But . . . when was the last time you saw the news?”

“Two days ago. Briefly, after I was attacked. What is it?” She noticed the guard look down at his shoes. “You’re not telling me something.”

“Your phone was—well, it’s more than just your phone. There was a leak of private records.
Your
private records.”

“What are you talking about? Jesus, stop beating around the bush. Just tell me.”

Welk turned to the guard. “Can we get a TV in here?”

It took a few minutes for someone to rule that the detainee was permitted to see the latest news about herself on TV. Rather than set up a television in the interrogation room, they simply escorted Vasser down the hall to the visitors’ waiting room, which the
y’d
cleared to give her privacy. She was about to discover the irony in that.

Vasser watched the coverage in clench-jawed silence for fifteen minutes, until her lawyer rejoined them. When he entered and saw Vasser and Welk, and the TV tuned to CNN, he froze, looking for a moment like an innocent passerby wh
o’d
stumbled into a domestic dispute. He tried to back out of the room, but Welk waved him in.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the lawyer said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this thing with Reese Frampton—”

“This has nothing to do with Reese Frampton, whoever the fuck he is,” Vasser said. “We all know that a washed-up blogger doesn’t have access to my phone, my medical records—” Her voice broke.

The lawyer appeared flustered, no doubt hung up on what everyone else seemed to be hung up on—the photos and hotel rooms that Vasser had shared with men who were not Ben Welk—which was not remotely the most objectionable issue.

Recovering, the lawyer said, “This will strengthen our case in the end. If the government had evidence of you doing anything illegal, the
y’d
release
that
, not . . . this.”

“He’s right, babe,” Welk said, embracing her. “This might play in the media for a day or two, but legally it’s practically an admission that they’ve got nothing. It’s all over now.”

“They’ve offered a plea deal,” the lawyer announced self-consciously, as if he was trying to justify his presence. “It’s very generous. But”—there was the slightest pause—“it involves giving up Kera Mersal.”

Vasser stiffened in Welk’s arms. Over his shoulder she could see a photo of herself, blurred in places, being broadcast on live cable news. “No,” she said then, and the tone of her voice startled both Welk and the lawyer. “They’ve taken any hope of a plea off the table.” And then, in a whisper to Welk, “I’m sorry, babe, it’s not over.”

H
ONG
K
ONG
I
NTERNATIONAL
A
IRPORT

This is the most dangerous part,
Kera thought.

She was in a spotless, white-walled room in a sector of the airport most travelers never see. The tile floor was shiny and smelled of bleach. There was a camera in the corner opposite the door, which sh
e’d
turned and gazed into for a few seconds after she was left alone.

When the customs supervisor returned, he sat down across the table from Kera in the center of the room. Two guards hovered placidly by the door. The supervisor had in front of him the passport, as well as a printout h
e’d
acquired in the ten minutes h
e’d
been gone. Eyeing the page from where she sat, Kera saw Sabina Francis’s name typed into a field near the top, but her passable proficiency in Cantonese did not allow her to quickly read the full document upside down. She guessed it was some sort of background check.

When the supervisor finished scanning the information, he looked up at her and smiled. “I hope I’m not being indelicate if I say that I noticed you’re wearing a wig. Why are you traveling under disguise?”

Kera looked him in the eye. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, you are no longer in New York City. You have a faulty passport, and I’m told you have a plane to catch. You will please be cooperative and remove the wig. Routine procedure, I assure you.”

“Look, I’m tired. I’ve had a long flight,” she said, which did not inspire any sympathy. Finally, she sighed and peeled the wig from her head. After wearing it for twenty hours, the cool air up top felt good. She undid the tight bun and shook out her wavy Earl Grey hair. For a moment, the man’s face expressed generic satisfaction—here was another American, a woman, obeying his orders—but that was followed quickly by an involuntary slackness that resolved itself into recognition. He straightened, barked something to the guards, and then left the room in a hurry.

Kera glanced again at the surveillance camera in the corner.

She was made to wait in the room with the guards for another ninety minutes. They escorted her to the bathroom twice when she asked, but they were unmoved by her concern for the connecting flight that boarded and left without her. Then, without warning, the door to the interrogation room opened and a slender Chinese man in a gray suit entered. He appraised her tentatively from just inside the doorway as if perhaps h
e’d
half expected to have been on the bad side of a prank. But then he approached and sat down across from her at the table.

“Hello,” he said. “Kera Mersal.” He pronounced each syllable slowly.

“Who are you?”

“I am Gao Dalei. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. May I ask, what brings you to China?”

“I’m only passing through. I had a connection to Malaysia.”

“It is an interesting choice, though, to connect through Hong Kong. Perhaps you intended to meet with someone here? Surely you’ve read in the press about what your own government thinks you are up to.”

They were both dancing around the issue. Kera smiled. “Mr. Gao, we both know I’m not a spy for China, as some news organizations have been encouraged to suggest. I’m not working for you, nor am I running from you. It is true, I am wanted by the US government. That is the purpose of my travel. I just want to survive and live freely.” She yawned again. The scarred passport—now confiscated—the disheveled wig, the lack of backup cover identification—she hoped all of this appeared to be the careless mistakes of an exhausted and desperate fugitive.

“I see. And where were you planning to go . . . to live freely?”

“My flight is to Kuala Lumpur. You understand it is not safe for someone like me to divulge anything more specific than that.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. He excused himself then, without explanation. She was left to wait for another hour.

When he returned, he assumed his place across from her at the table, as if h
e’d
never left.

“Ms. Mersal, we can help you live freely. If you are interested.”

She studied his eyes, saw in them discipline and patience—but also a shade of anticipation that he could not mask. Softly, she said, “How would I know I have friends in China?”

“It is our custom to be friendly to those who are friendly to us.”

“I would like to speak with Ren Hanchao,” she said suddenly.

The man swiveled to exchange a glance with the supervisor who had first interviewed her. Neither of them were disciplined enough to contain their surprise at this request.

“Do you know Mr. Ren?”

“No. Please tell him that we have a mutual friend: Angela Vasser.”

Gao’s eyes expanded and then he smiled. He slapped the table with a hand as if this was just the damnedest thing. And then he left the room for a period that was shorter than the other stretches, but long enough that by the time he returned, sh
e’d
leaned back, slumping in her chair.

This time Gao did not sit down.

“We will take you to Mr. Ren.”

H
ONG
K
ONG

A young man appeared. He was around Kera’s age, handsome with short, neat hair and earnest eyes. He might have been her onetime counterpart in the Ministry of State Security, she thought, before her career track at the CIA was shattered. He instructed her to put her wig back on and contributed sunglasses and a hat stitched with the airport’s logo to strengthen her disguise. Then he led her down a series of hallways and through a door that opened to a busy baggage claim area. On the curb out front they got into a waiting town car. The driver did not ask their destination. Without a word he pulled away from the curb and into a river of red cabs flowing toward the city.

“First time in Hong Kong?” Kera’s escort asked. His gaze was polite and not intrusive.

Kera shook her head. Sh
e’d
been to the city on two occasions while employed by the CIA. He either knew that already or he didn’t. It mattered little either way.

“Did you grow up in Hong Kong?” she asked, retaliating with a question of her own.

“Shenzhen,” he said.

“How long have you been in the MSS?”

“Perhaps you misunderstand,” he said, though they both knew she hadn’t. After that, he stopped asking questions.

They rode in silence, edging into the heart of the city and then finally sweeping up beneath the entrance of the Island Shangri-La Hotel. In the two-story marble lobby, her escort approached the registration desk and returned with a small envelope containing her room’s key card. He suggested that she could make herself comfortable while she waited for Gao Dalei, the MSS officer wh
o’d
last questioned her at the airport, and Ren Hanchao, the senior officer whose name Angela Vasser had given her. The room number was written on the outside of the envelope: 3915. Kera took a few steps in the direction of the elevator bank before she stopped. She could see from the indicator panel over the elevator doors that there were fifty-six floors.

“Everything OK, ma’am?” her escort said. H
e’d
hovered back, watching her. Was he waiting because h
e’d
been given orders to see her safely to her room? Or was he waiting to send word to someone sitting at a computer with access to the elevator’s software?

“Yes, I’m fine. When should I expect Mr. Ren?”

“Twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”

“Thank you. I slept through the last meal on my flight and I’m hungry. I think I’ll sit in the lobby café and have lunch.”

This appeared to cause the young man some stress. But she was not a prisoner. What could he say?

“As you wish. I will stay out of your way. Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything you need.” He followed her into the café and chose a seat several tables away.

Kera sat with her back to the wall so that she had a full view of the lobby, including the hotel’s main entrance. She ordered a coffee and a sandwich—she was, in fact, hungry—and charged it to the room. She hadn’t finished eating when she spotted Gao Dalei enter the hotel with another gray-suited man whom Kera took to be Ren Hanchao. Tailing them were four men wearing sunglasses and radio earpieces. Kera’s escort glanced up at her from the nearby table, but when he saw that she still had food in front of her, he followed her lead and stayed put.

She waited for Gao and Ren and their bodyguards to cross the lobby to the elevator bank. Just as Gao reached out and pushed the call button, Kera rose suddenly and hurried toward them.

“Mr. Gao!” she called. All six men spun around. One of the guards took a step toward her, putting himself in front of the two spies. “I was just heading up to the room myself. I’ll ride with you.” She smiled pleasantly.

The escort caught up to them then, red in the face from embarrassment and apologizing to his superiors.

“It’s OK,” Gao said in Cantonese, indicating to the guards that he didn’t consider her a threat. He flashed Kera a wry, sporting smile that made her wonder if he was conceding that sh
e’d
played this well.

The elevator chimed, and a few seconds later the doors parted. Gao took a half step in and held the door with his arm.

“Please,” he said in English, beckoning them aboard. “We’re all going to the same place.”

In the elevator, Kera caught Ren studying her. He was middle-aged with serious black eyes and thinning black hair. She took the fact that h
e’d
actually shown in person as a promising sign that they hadn’t planned to kill her. When they reached the room, Kera swiped her key card and invited everyone in. On Gao’s orders the guards and the escort were made to wait outside in the hall. That left Kera alone with the two men inside the room, which turned out to be a spacious luxury suite. Gao extended the proper introductions. Ren was still eyeing Kera strangely. Then she remembered her wig. Removing it, she shook out her darker natural hair and sat on the couch.

The suite was easily a thousand square feet, with full-length windows and a hand-painted mural in the master bedroom. The living area where they sat provided dramatic views of Victoria Peak soaring over the city’s narrow band of skyscrapers.

“You are a difficult woman to pin down, Ms. Mersal,” Ren said, leading the conversation. “An international enigma.” He spoke easily in English, using a soft, even voice and a showy vocabulary. “We’re honored to have you pay us a visit.”

“I did not intend to visit Hong Kong. I was detained at customs.”

“No one has been detained.” He opened the file on his lap and read the name on the top page. “Sabina Francis was
questioned
at customs. Because she was suspected of not actually existing. A small technicality.”

“What do you want?”

“What do
we
want? Didn’t you ask to meet with me?” He leaned forward, smiling at her warmly. “I saw the security tapes from the airport, Ms. Mersal. Your performance was masterful. And it’s gotten you what you wanted, hasn’t it?”

Kera knew Ren was not naïve and that he would not have interpreted her customs foibles as mere coincidence, but they were playing a game. She did not break character. “I was interrogated for hours. When I realized
I’d
missed my flight and that my delay was going to drag on, I remembered that Angela Vasser had spoken kindly of you. No offense to Mr. Gao here, but I thought it might be in my interests to make contact with a friend of a friend.”

“I’m glad that Ms. Vasser considers me a friend.” Ren smiled briefly, but an unhappy expression followed. “You are aware that Ms. Vasser has been detained by your government?”

In her shock, Kera allowed a telling beat to pass.

“I see. Then you didn’t know,” Ren said. “She was detained on charges not dissimilar to those you have endured, if I remember.”

Kera shook her head. “How typical of the American government. They have grown too fearful. Their solution to every threat is to lock someone up, to erode more freedoms and privacy. I’m sure you are aware that the charges against Vasser are false, as are the charges against me—though for now she is safer in custody. Her life is in danger.”

“You don’t have a similar fear for your own life? Or are you just braver?”

“Neither fear nor bravery has anything to do with me being here. I’ve already told you, I didn’t plan to stay in China. I’m not here on a professional basis.”

“Where were you headed?”

“You know the destination of my next flight. I’m not going to tell you any more than that. I would not be alive if I was in the habit of keeping intelligence agencies apprised of my location.”

Ren chuckled at this. He seemed to appreciate her sparring attitude. “You’ve survived this long. You must be doing something right. Have you considered the possibility of remaining in China? Perhaps it would be safer than wherever you were headed?”

Kera stared at him, signaling that she knew what he was getting at. “The United States mishandled my case, and that has left me disillusioned. But if
I’d
wanted to betray my country for the benefit of yours, you and I would have spoken much sooner and under much different circumstances.”

“What do you want?” he asked her directly.

“I’ve been traveling for almost twenty-four hours, and now you’ve made me miss my flight. I want to get a good night’s sleep.”

“Very well,” Ren said, rising. Gao looked up in protest, but Ren beckoned him to stand as well. “We’ll go.” He took a few steps toward the door and then turned back to face her. “If yo
u’d
like, we can talk again in the morning. Sleep on it. Is that the expression?”

Kera studied him. “And if I decide tomorrow to continue on to Malaysia?”

Ren shrugged. “Then we’ll give you a ride to the airport.”

He’s bluffing,
she thought.
He’s testing me.
Would they really let an American intelligence agent just walk? Not a chance. They knew what kind of opportunity they had on their hands. And sh
e’d
just bought them another twelve hours to figure out how to take advantage of it.

When the
y’d
left her, she looked around the luxury suite, wondering whether the Ministry of State Security made use of this room regularly, or if the
y’d
managed—in the time it had taken to get her here from the airport—to install hidden cameras and mics in the walls, lamps, and furniture. If it was the latter, they were good. The
y’d
left no trace.

To keep the pressure on them, she picked up the desk phone, which was almost certainly bugged, and called the airline. She apologized for missing her flight on account of a customs mix-up and asked them to rebook her to Kuala Lumpur the following day.