Wall of Night (10 page)

“Yep. Since he worked in the archives, though, none of it was current. It gave us a lot of general info on how the MSS and PSB run their in-country stuff, but since most of it was still coded, we didn't get any nuts-and-bolts details. Plus, there was a lot of random stuff—bits that fit other puzzles, but not enough to build a picture—unless you know what some of the puzzle pieces look like, that is.”

“Which you do?” Dutcher asked.

“Yep. I accessed the database where Langley keeps Trahn's dump, then ran a search using some of the dates and keywords from Ledger. They way I figured it, if Ledger
hadn't
been burned by someone inside the network, you wouldn't expect to see any of that info in the
Guoanbu
archives until
after
the network was rolled up. The only way they could have gotten the information was from the interrogation of agents, right?”

Tanner nodded. He had an idea where this was going, and he could feel his heart pumping a little harder. “Right.”

“Well, surprise: I turned up over four hundred references that match Ledger criteria.”

Cahil said; “So in plain English, the MSS was talking about Ledger
before
they rolled it up.”

“Long before. The first reference was just ten days after you got in-country, Briggs.”

My God,
Tanner thought. Less than two weeks in, and they'd been onto him. He'd been certain he'd covered all the bases, but in truth the
Guoanbu
had been ahead of him every step of the way.

Dutcher said. “You know how lucky you are? By all rights, you shouldn't have gotten out.”

Tanner managed a half-smile. “Glad I didn't know that then. What about Genoa, Oaks?”

“That's the kicker. You said everyone was arrested, right? No one got away?”

“No.”

“In all of the
Guoanbu
's references to Ledger, the name Genoa doesn't show up once. You met with him dozens of times, either in person or by brush pass, and he's not mentioned
once.
”

“They didn't have to; they already knew who he was.”

Oaken nodded. “You were right. Genoa was the double.”

“Too bad I didn't figure it out twelve years ago.”

“There was no way you could have,” Dutcher said.

“I suppose. Okay, now that we know who we're looking for, the question is, can you find him?”

“I'll give it my best shot,” Oaken said.

Washington,
D.C.

Randall was waiting when Latham returned to the office.
“How was it?”

“I can't say much about Blanton Crossing proper,” Latham replied, “but the local trailer park is a site to behold.” He recounted his visit to WalPol's headquarters.

“We got a hit on that plate you called in. It's registered to a David Wallace Poison.”

Latham thought for a moment. “WalPol … His middle and last names. Have you got—”

Randall handed him a fax of Poison's DMV registration. “Photo's on page two.”

Latham read the info, then flipped to the photo “You gotta be kidding me …”

“What?”

“The bastard was standing right in front of me. Poison is Joe-Bob!”

“The handyman?”

“Yeah. He's a cool customer.”

“Here's surprise number two: Just for kicks I fed the names Soderberg and Poison into the alias database. We got a hit—somebody named Michael Warren Skeldon.”

“Skeldon…. Whatever he's got going on, he's layered himself pretty well,” Latham said.

“It gets better. He's ex-military—army Rangers.”

“Straight leg?”

“No, airborne. He's also got a rap sheet. One arrest for interstate arms, another for criminal facilitation of forgery. Both charges were dropped.”

“What was the forgery about?”

“Passports down in Asheville. The indictment stated he was in possession of bogus entry stamps. It was thrown out on a bad warrant. I've got a call in to the Asheville PD and the North Carolina BCA.”

What was going on
?
Latham wondered. What would a Commerce analyst be doing in cahoots with an army Ranger turned gunrunner and forger? Moreover, what did the
Guoanbu
want with either of them? The fact that Baker was dead and Skeldon was still alive suggested two possibilities: Either the
Guoanbu
didn't know about Skeldon, or they knew about him and were still using him.

“What do you want to do?” Randall asked.

“I hate to say it, but my visit probably sent Skeldon running. Let's see if we can get ahold of his service record. I want to see what he did for the Rangers.”

Langley

Unsurprised, Mason found that the DIA's brief on Sunil Dhar and the sarin purchase seemed to hold water, but the story came from assets he couldn't probe without jeopardizing both the transaction and the players involved—or so said Tom Redmond. Mason didn't buy it; the whole affair was fishy.

The big question was, if the DIA didn't develop this, who did?

His intercom buzzed: “Sir, General Cathermeier is here.”

“Send him in.” Mason met him at the door. “Chuck, thanks for coming. Coffee?”

“No, thanks. I think I know why I'm here, Dick.”

“I'd be surprised if you didn't. What're we going to do about this, Chuck?”

“I've already got the assets moving.”

“That's not what I'm asking.”

“I know what you're asking. I'm going to do what I've been ordered to do.”

“Chuck, when was the last time a president got this hands-on with an operation?”

“This isn't the president's plan. The DIA is—”

“Tom Redmond doesn't know an M-16 from his asshole. This is Martin and Bousikaris.”

“You don't know that.”

“I'd put good money on it,” said Mason. “Answer my first question.”

Cathermeier shrugged. “Vietnam. LBJ.”

“Right. And even then did Johnson decide unit composition and penetration plans?”

“No.”

“And now, out of the blue, Martin wants to sink a goddamned ship in the middle of Nakhodka-Vostochny Harbor, and that doesn't worry you? And that nonsense about ‘sending a message'… The only people who're going to get the message are the poor bastards who die on that ship—unless of course the Russian government is involved in the sale.”

“According to the DIA, Dhar's Russian contact is freelance.”

“Exactly. So the only way Moscow's going to get any message is if we tell them we sank the ship and why. What's the likelihood of that?”

“Low.”

“Chuck, listen: I'm not asking you to
do
anything right now. Just think about what I'm saying. If this were your operation, how would you do it?”

“An at-sea boarding. SEAL team. Secure the cargo and the crew, turn the whole thing over to the Russians and stay on them through diplomatic channels.”

“Right. And if you
had
to sink her. How would you do it?”

“Open sea. Surface-to-surface missile—Harpoon, probably.”

“That's what I'm getting at. This business of putting men on the ground is bad business.”

“Dammit, Dick, you're still treating this like it's some pet project of Martin's. The intell came from the DIA, the plan came from the DIA, and unless you've got proof to the contrary, I'm not gonna assume otherwise.”

“Why put men on the ground? Who in their right mind would advise Martin to do it?”

“I have no idea.”

“But you agree it's a bad idea.”

Cathermeier shrugged. “The plan is workable.”

“That's not an answer.”

“Dick, I'm a soldier. My job description is simple: I follow the orders of the commander-in-chief and defend my country. That's what I'm doing. Love him or hate him, Martin is the president of the United States and—”

“I know that, Chuck.”

“—and if you've got an agenda with him or Bousikaris or Redmond, that's fine: Just don't try to enlist me. I haven't got the stomach or the patience for it.”

Mason was silent for a few seconds. “Chuck, do you really think that's what this is about?”

Cathermeier met his gaze, then shook his head. “No. Sorry. Either way, though, we're back where we started: I've got my orders and I'm going to carry them out.” Cathermeier stood, walked to the door, then turned. “You're not going to let this go, are you?”

“No. This thing stinks, and I'm telling you right now, we're not getting the whole story.”

“You know where to find me.”

Yuyuan Lake,
Beijing

Langley's interest in Bian's latest news came as no surprise to Roger Brown.

If they could avoid sending someone into China—especially a “face” like Tanner—they had to take the chance. Brown was under no illusion, however: Even Jakarta wouldn't be a Cakewalk. Soong would be surrounded by
Guoanbu
security guards day and night. Whatever Tanner planned, he'd have to be in and out before Soong's watchers realized he was gone. If not, Tanner would find himself on a very small island with nowhere to hide.

Not my problem,
Brown reminded himself. He had his hands full with Bian. Whenever they met, the man's body language shouted, “Arrest me and this Anglo-Saxon fella sitting next to me.” The sooner they could sever contact, the sooner Brown could get a good night's sleep.

For today's meeting he'd chosen what was known as a “pointer pass,” a cross between a “brush pass”—where a controller' and agent bump into one another for a hand-to-hand exchange—and a “drop flag,” a physical signal indicating a package was waiting at a drop.

Brown paused by the railing to photograph the lake. A few feet away, ducks quacked and pecked the water for insects. Across the lake he could see a line of people waiting to enter the Zhongguo Military Museum. He checked his watch:
Time.

He took one more picture then walked on. A hundred yards down the path he spotted Bian walking toward him. Brown angled himself so Bian would pass on his right, then slung his camera over his left shoulder and shoved his hands in his pockets, leaving his right pinky finger outside the pocket.
Just a glance,
buddy
…
A casual glance and walk on
…

To Brown's surprise, Bian did just that.

Resisting the impulse to glance back at the CIA man, Bian kept walking.
That went well,
he thought, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.
Friendly but perfunctory,
just like Roger explained
…

What did the signal mean
?
One finger outside the pocket was the pointer for the northeast—no, southeast—drop—the hollow railing along Xisanhuanzhong Lane. Yes, that was it. The hard part was over. Now he just had to wait a few minutes to let Roger get away, then retrieve the message.

Walking twenty yards behind Bian, Officer Myung Niu of the People's Security Bureau saw the pass, but failed to recognize it for what it was. Though Chang Moh-Bian and Roger Brown would never know it, Niu's presence was one of those rare coincidences that ends up snowballing into catastrophe.

It was Niu's day off—one of the few that PSB officers get—and he was doing what many single men do during their spare time: trying to meet a woman. A few months ago a fellow officer had met his fiancée at this very lake. Hoping it held some special charm, Niu had been walking around the lake every chance he got.

He passed several attractive women and even exchanged a few promising smiles. But as his grandfather was fond of saying, “A smile is not a woman, boy. Gotta talk to them.”

The path began to curve around the shoreline toward Xisanhuanzhong Lane. Niu stopped at the rail and gazed across the water. He suddenly felt silly: Strolling around this lake, hoping the perfect woman would jump into his arms, or fall into the water and need saving—

What is this
?

Farther down the path, the man ahead of him had also stopped. Hands raised to block the sun's glare, the man looked left, then right, then walked to the railing. He then removed the top from the post, dipped his hand inside, replaced the top, and walked on.

Niu wasn't sure what he'd just seen, but his curiosity was piqued. He let the man get a hundred yards ahead, then followed.

Ninety minutes and three bus changes later, Niu's quarry disembarked near the Agricultural Exhibition Center in the Chaoyang District. Niu followed him three blocks to an apartment building.

Niu crossed the street to a bench and sat down. After an hour, the man had not reappeared. Satisfied he'd located the man's home, Niu got up and started searching for the nearest phone booth.

Washington,
D.C.

Nothing's ever as simple as you want it to be.
Bousikaris had no idea who'd coined the aphorism, but the older he got the truer it seemed to become—which was why he wasn't surprised when he picked up Sunday's
Post
and saw the ad:
Adrian,
I love you.
Come back.
Always,
Harmon.

Qing wanted another meeting. Bousikaris considered ignoring the summons, but decided against it. Qing didn't strike him as someone to be antagonized, and until he and Martin could find a way out of this mess, it was better to not poke the dragon.

As before, the Addison Road metrorail stop was nearly deserted. Bousikaris stepped off the train, paused at a pay phone, and pretended to make a call until the last passengers had disappeared, then walked to the railing. He heard footsteps behind him. Qing walked up. “Who were you calling?”

“No one. I was waiting for the platform to clear.”

“Very well.”

“What do you want?” Bousikaris said.

“Tell me about the plans. Are there any problems?”

“The whole damned thing is a problem. You don't just order the chairman of the JCS and the director of the CIA to put on this kind of operation and expect them to not ask questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Nuts and bolts stuff.” Bousikaris noted Feng's confused expression: “Tactical details. It's highly unusual for a president to dictate those. The background we put together is solid enough, but the rest of it … They're both nervous.”

“They answer to the president, do they not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then they'll do as they're ordered. Is the operation moving forward?”

Bousikaris nodded. “If anything goes wrong, though, there
will
be investigations. Mason is a cold warrior at heart. He sees conspiracy behind every bush.”

“That's his job. Nothing will go wrong and Mason will find other things to worry about. There's another matter that requires your attention. The FBI is investigating an … associate of ours. If it goes any further, it could endanger our arrangement.”

“How so?”

“That's not your concern. We want the investigation stopped.”

“Christ, we don't have that kind of power. You don't just call the FBI and—”

“Then don't use power,” Qing replied. “Reach out, plant the seed. Let others do the work.”

“What's the case?”

Qing told him.

“That was you? You did that?”

“Of course not. We're not stupid. Our connection to the man is accidental. According to our associate, the man had a gambling problem. He owed many thousands of dollars to … what's the word?”

“Loan sharks? Are you saying he and his family were—”

“I'm not saying anything. I'm merely stating facts. Somehow he got the name of our associate and contacted him hoping to buy several kilos of cocaine, which he hoped to turn into a profit. The FBI must have come across our associate's name in their investigation, and now they're interested in him.”

“How does this person relate to our arrangement?”

“That's not your worry. We want the investigation stopped. How you choose to do it is up to you, but you
will
do it.”

Though Qing didn't bother saying “or else,” Bousikaris knew it was there.
What
would
happen
?
he wondered. The country had had a bellyful of scandal. How would the public react if it realized China had funded the lion's share of Martin's campaign? They'd be lucky to escape prison.

They'd worked too hard and too long to get here. Whatever China's game, that was their business. He and Martin would play their part, then move on. If they had to get their hands a little dirty for the greater good, so be it. A little dirt never hurt anyone. “I'll handle it,” he told Qing.

Moscow

Vladimir Bulganin stared out the car window. “Two weeks until the election, Ivan,” he said. “We have them. We're so close.”

Nochenko felt the same, but wasn't ready to celebrate yet. “The polls may be in our favor, but now is the time we must push even harder.”

“Yes, yes, whatever you decide.” Something outside the window caught Bulganin's attention. “Driver, pull over!”

“Vlad, what are you doing? We're expected at the Duma. We cannot keep them—”

“The Duma can wait,” Bulganin replied, then grinned. “After all, in a few weeks, they'll have no choice but to wait on me—hand and foot!” Bulganin laughed uproariously and opened the car door. Nochenko followed.

They'd stopped on Kuybyshev Street. To their right stood St. Basil's Cathedral—or, as Bulganin demanded it be called—the Cathedral of the Intercession; to their left lay Red Square.

As Bulganin stepped out, his security detail formed a ring around them. “Pyotr,” Bulganin called to his security chief, ‘“I feel like a stroll. I'll sign a few autographs, but no more.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nochenko said, “Vladimir, we don't have time—”

Bulganin clapped his shoulder, “Perhaps in public, Ivan, it might be best we avoid familiarities.”

He must be joking,
Nochenko thought. “Pardon me?”

“Mr. Bulganin will do, I think. Of course, in private, we're just two comrades having a chat. All right, Pyotr! Lead on.”

Bulganin was immediately recognized. Within minutes he and Nochenko were surrounded by well-wishers and autograph seekers. Pyotr and the other bodyguards cut a path through the crowd, occasionally letting an admirer through for Bulganin to greet and dismiss. Nochenko felt himself jostled from all sides; the cacophony of voices was almost deafening.

After a few minutes, Bulganin nodded to Pyotr and the bodyguards spread out, pushing the crowd away until Bulganin and Nochenko had a circle in which they could stroll.

“How well do you know your Red Square history, Ivan?” Bulganin asked.

“Fairly well, I suppose.”

“What about the very name—
Krasnaya Ploshchadl
In Old Slavonic,
Krasnaya
also means “beautiful.” Too bad the West didn't pick up on that, eh? Instead of ‘Reds,' perhaps they would have called us ‘the beautiful ones.' Do you know where all that St. Basil's nonsense began?”

“No.”

“St. Basil was nothing more than a delusional hobo. The truth is, the cathedral was built to commemorate Ivan the Terrible's capture of Kazan. Oh, what I would give to have been there—to see the expressions on their dirty Tartar faces when Ivan fired the city.”

Ivan the Terrible had earned his moniker for good reason, Nochenko wanted to say. The man had been a butcher. How Bulganin could—

“And there!” Bulganin called, pointing to the GUM department store. “Moscow's first concession to capitalism right across from Lenin's Mausoleum. It's an insult! No, that's not the right word … betrayal is more like it.”

Bulganin stopped before the Mausoleum. On either side of its heavy wooden doors stood a pair of stoic sentries. “Six times in the last year,” Bulganin muttered.

“What's that?” Nochenko asked. “Six times for what?”

“To repaint the tomb's facade, Ivan. Just last week a pair of thugs pelted it with paint-filled balloons. Can you believe it? What's happening to our country?”

Knowing Bulganin didn't want an answer, Nochenko remained silent.

“And this,” Bulganin murmured, “this is where it happened. The worst crime of all.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The removal of Koba's body. Until that backstabbing dog Khrushchev removed it, he was resting in his rightful place: next to Lenin, next to his friend and mentor, the founder of the Soviet.”

Nochenko suddenly realized that Bulganin was weeping.

“Wrested from eternal peace, shoved into a pine box, and buried under the mausoleum wall like some commoner. It makes my blood boil, Ivan, it truly does.”

Nochenko didn't know what to say. In all the years he'd known Bulganin, this was the first moment of unguarded sentiment he'd seen from the man; that he was crying over the corpse of Russia's greatest mass murderer chilled Nochenko. Was all Bulganin's talk of the great Koba Stalin more than just historical musings? Was there something more to it?

“Did I ever tell you where I was born?” Bulganin asked.

“No, you didn't.”

Bulganin turned to him. “They call it the Valley of the Blossoming Orchards.”

The nickname sounded vaguely familiar. “Gori,” Nochenko said. “Kartli, Georgia, correct?”

“That's right. And why else is it remarkable? Do you know, Ivan?”

“No.”

“Gori, my friend, was also the birthplace of the great Koba.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Bulganin virtually marching, his hands clasped behind his back. “So, Ivan, you were saying …”

“Pardon me?”

“In the car—about the polls.”

“Oh, yes. The election is nearing. Now, more than ever, we must stay focused. The greater the pressure on the current administration, the greater the likelihood they will make a mistake. When that time comes, we must be ready to exploit it.”

“A chink in the armor, is that what you mean?”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“Yes, yes. An Achilles' Heel. We must expose the opponents' true colors. Of course!”

If nothing else,
Nochenko thought,
Bulganin certainly knew how to string together cliches.
“Yes, Vladimir, I see that, but we must be careful not to …”

Bulganin didn't seem to hear the question. He continued pacing, muttering to himself.

Holystone Office

​Still working under the assumption that Genoa had not only been a colleague of Soong's, but also a career spook, Oaken returned to the Wan Trahn database, this time looking for a face.

Using both open and classified sources, he and Tanner constructed a “yearbook” of every officer that had served with Soong in the years prior to Ledger. It took Tanner an hour before he was able to narrow the field to half a dozen candidates. “It's tough,” he said. “It's been twelve years.”

“Don't think too hard,” Oaken replied. “Go with your gut.”

Tanner leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to recall his meetings with the man known as Genoa. He let the images flow.
Don't think,
just look
…

He leaned over the photos again, scanning faces—

“That's him,” Briggs whispered, tapping a photo. “Jesus, that's him.”

“You're sure?”

Tanner nodded. “I'm sure.”

Oaken turned over the photo and read: “Commander Moh Yen Fong, People's Liberation Army Navy. He was Soong's personal aide.”

Tanner nodded. “Let's find him.”