Wall of Night (24 page)

Langley

CIA Headquarters was quiet, only a few early risers in the hallways. Sitting with Mason at the conference table were George Coates and Sylvia Albrecht. As Tanner took a seat, he realized all three were staring at him.
Whatever it is,
he thought,
it's bad.

“Something tells me I'm off your Christmas card list,” he said.

Mason smiled, but there was none of it in his eyes. “We need you to go through your conversation with Soong again, from start to finish.”

Tanner did so, retelling it exactly as he had the previous times.

“No way you misunderstood?” Mason said. “Added anything, left anything out?”

“No.”

“Soong's exact words were, ‘Ming-Yau Ang and Night Wall.' You have to be sure.”

“If I weren't sure, I would have said so. What's going on?”

Mason hesitated, then nodded at Sylvia Albrecht, who began.

“Nineteen years ago, Ming-Yau Ang was an operations analyst in China's Ministry of Defense,” Albrecht began. “He was accused of spying for the Soviets, then summarily tried and executed. They never found out how long he'd been working for Russia, or what he'd passed. They swept it under the rug and it eventually faded.

“The truth is,” Albrecht continued. “Ang was working for both the Russians and us.”

“A double,” Dutcher said.

“Yes. And with doubles you can never be sure of who's working who. We took his product, but we were always skeptical. We were feeding Ang material to pass to the Russians as Chinese product.”

“And for safety's sake you had to assume the Russians were returning the favor,” Tanner said.

“Or the Chinese,” Oaken added.

“Right on both counts. Since all the product Ang dealt with was long-term strategic stuff, there was no way we couldn't be sure he was tampering with the product before it reached its destination.”

Tanner understood the quandary. If Ang's job had dealt with tactical plans—an upcoming PLA divisional exercise, for example—the CIA could have fed him a “tweaked” plan and waited to see if the Russians reacted appropriately.

Albrecht said, “Ang was a good asset, but because we couldn't entirely trust any of his product, he was never stellar. I doubt there were any tears shed when he went down.”

Mason took over the story. “Here's where it gets interesting. ‘Night Wall' is the name of a PLA operation Ang worked on, but it was tightly compartmentalized, so he could only give us bits and pieces. The overall plan was restricted to ministerial level. What he did give us seemed genuine enough, but as Sylvia said, there was no way we could take it on face value.”

“What did he claim Night Wall was?” Dutcher asked.

“Night Wall—the literal translation is ‘Wall of Night'—was a war game for the theoretical invasion of eastern Siberia.”

Uh-oh,
Tanner thought. “What kind of invasion?”

“No idea. You have to understand: Back in the eighties, these kinds of plans were common. We did it, the Russians did it—everybody. It was just part of playing the game.”

“Letting the other guy know you could do it if you had to,” Oaken said.

“Exactly. You drew up a plan, war-gamed it, then shelved it. Ang's handlers probably thought Night Wall as just another notional scenario—important, but not earth shattering.”

“But not anymore,” Dutcher said.

“Not anymore,” Mason agreed. “I'll give you one guess who Ang claims authored Night Wall.”

Tanner didn't have to guess. “General Han Soong.”

“The one and only. Two things: Soong designed it, and he probably knows Ang fed it to us. So, unless we're wrong—and I pray to God we are—Soong's message is pretty clear: Night Wall is real and the Chinese have taken it off the shelf.”

“The question is, Why? Why now?”

“I think we might be able to answer that,” Dutcher said. “Dick, you may want to excuse George and Sylvia for this.”

Coates said, “Now, hold on—”

Mason raised a hand, silencing him. “Why, Leland?”

“What I have to say … It might be better for them if they don't hear it. If you choose to tell them afterward, that's your business.”

“That bad?”

“That bad,” Dutcher replied.

The DCI turned to his deputies. “George, Sylvia, give us a few minutes. Stay close.”

Once they were gone, Dutcher said to Oaken, “Walt, give Dick the condensed version.”

Oaken spent the next twenty minutes taking Mason through the convoluted path they'd been following: the Baker murders and Latham's suspicion of the
Guoanbu's
involvement; Cahil's hunt for Skeldon and subsequent discovery of Sampson and Kycek; Oaken finding a link between Skeldon's Siberia survey and the process called TASSOL that Baker had been working on; and finally, Latham's identification of the Zis as the
Guoanbu
agents who'd murdered Baker. “Then, of course,” Oaken concluded, “there's what we found in the Zis' home.”

“What?”

Oaken opened his laptop, powered it up, then slid it across to Mason. “Hit Enter to start it; Spacebar to pause.”

Mason tapped the keyboard and leaned back to watch. When the laptop beeped, indicating the video was finished, Mason glanced up at Dutcher.

“The woman's name is Siok Hui Zi, one of the agents linked to Baker. The man with her … well, you know who he is.”

Mason nodded. “Yeah, I know him. That slimy son-of-a-bitch …”

“The questions we have to answer are, what is Bousikaris doing for the Zis, and what is their leverage on him?” Dutcher said.

“Or on Martin,” Mason added. “If somebody was squeezing Martin, Bousikaris wouldn't hesitate to jump into the fray. I may have a guess about what Bousikaris was doing for them.”

“Jerking the rug out from under Latham's investigation,” Oaken predicted.

“Besides that.”

“What?” Dutcher said.

Mason waved his hand. “Later. How's Charlie?”

“He's fine; his family's fine,” Dutcher replied. “We're still waiting for word on Grandma Zi, but it doesn't look good.”

“Too bad Randall's such a good shot.”

“Charlie would argue that.”

“I guess he would. Walt, how solid is the connection between Baker and Skeldon?”

“The payoffs are fully documented and traceable. If this went into court—”

“It won't.”

“Hypothetically, then. If it went to court, it would play out like this: Sampson and Kycek were hired by Skeldon, who was hired by Baker, who was in turn spying for the Chinese government. For whatever reason, the
Guoanbu
decides Baker needs to be eliminated, and the Zis are given the job. They kill Baker and his family, hoping it'll be written off to random violence.”

“When was Bousikaris's first meeting with them?”

“Three weeks ago.”

Dutcher said, “That mean something to you, Dick?”

“Maybe. Keep going. What do we know about this shale oil process.”

“TASSOL. I'm still working on it, but we can logically assume it's revolutionary. If not, why would the Chinese go to all this trouble?”

“Makes sense. Okay, following your logic, whoever owns and controls this process can count on trillions of dollars in oil revenue and political clout that would rival that of the Mideast.”

Tanner said, “Wars have started for less. A lot less.”

“That they have,” Mason replied. “So, the Chinese know Siberia's shale oil reserves are untapped—trillions of barrels of oil locked in the ground beneath the tundra with no way to get it out.”

“Until now,” Oaken said.

“Until now. What we don't know is when and how the Chinese are going to move.”

“Judging by Soong's urgency,” Tanner said, “I'd sooner rather than later. As for the how, only he knows the answer to that.”

“Which means he probably knows how to stop it.” Mason sighed, then looked at Tanner. “You still think you can get him out?”

“Yes.”

“How soon can you pack your bags?”

Bay Ridge,
Maryland

Walking up the cobblestone path up to his parents' house, Tanner realized this had become something of a ritual for him. Invariably, whether returning from a mission or preparing to go on one, he found himself drawn home—to that part of his life that had nothing to do with “spies and bad guys.” If the worst ever came to pass, he didn't want his last contact with them to be a phone call or a “sorry we missed each other” voice mail.

Before retiring from his post at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, his father, Henry Tanner, had taught history for Olive Branch Outreach, moving his family to a new country—a new adventure—as the whim struck them: Kenya in the spring; Switzerland in the fall; Australia the next summer; Beirut when it was still known as the “Paris of the Mideast,” before being ravaged by decades of civil war.

Where such upheaval would have left some children confused and standoffish, under Henry and Irene's loving guidance Tanner had thrived. By the time they had returned to Maine for Briggs's entry into high school, he was a well-rounded and even-keeled teenager.

The front door swung open and Irene Tanner, wearing an apron and a single oven mitt, rushed out. After a long embrace, she studied him at arm's length. “You're not getting enough sleep.”

“I know,” Tanner said, then smiled. “I've taken up drinking; I think that'll help.”

“Oh, stop it. Your hair looks lighter.”

“I've been getting some sun.”

“And the stubble? Are you growing a beard?”

“I'm thinking about it.”

“I won't even recognize you,” Irene said, clicking her tongue.

Let's hope it has the same effect with the
Guoanbu
and the PSB,
Tanner thought. The beard was starting to itch and the blond highlights made him look like a California surf bum.

Irene said, “Did you eat the pie I left you?”

“Yeah, thanks; it was delicious. I had to use a blowtorch to get the wrapper off, though.”

“Oh, shush. I get the same guff from your father.”

Behind her, wearing his ever-present cardigan and half-moon reading glasses, Henry Tanner stepped onto the porch. He smiled. “Coming or going this time?”

“A little bit of both.”

“How soon?” Irene asked.

While his parents knew his job entailed often dicey, and always secretive, work, neither of them pressed him for details. Nor did they smother him in worry, which had to be tough, especially for his mother. He did his best to downplay things, but he suspected they weren't fooled. Parent's intuition.

Briggs said, “Day after tomorrow.”

“For how long?” Irene asked, picking at her apron.

He felt an ache in his chest. “Two weeks at most. When I get back, we'll have a clambake.”

Irene smiled. “We'd like that. Well, come on in. We're having tater-tot casserole.”

After dinner, Tanner and his father sat in the sunroom drinking coffee while Irene dallied about, making an edible care package for Briggs. Every few minutes, she would come in to ostensibly look for something, touching Briggs's shoulder or head as she passed.

When he and his father were alone, Henry asked, “Where're you off to?”

“Asia.”

“Big place,” Henry said. “Take care of yourself.”

“I always do,” Tanner said. Then, in the back of his head:
You were careful last time and it almost wasn't enough.
Startled, he suddenly realized that a large part of him was dreading going back. He was afraid, plain and simple.

The Soong defection had been his first deep-cover job with ISAG, and it had nearly set the tone for the rest of his career. Not only had he left behind a man he'd come to call a friend, his wife, and a woman with whom he'd fallen in love, but he'd almost gotten himself killed in the process.

Stop it,
Tanner commanded himself.
Get it out of your head.
That was then
;
this is now.
The question was, What was he going to do with
this
chance?

With that realization, he felt his mind click over into that familiar mode he'd come to call “narrowing.” Thoughts of routine daily life would soon start to fade: Mowing the lawn, fixing that loose shingle, paying bills—all of it would be irrelevant once he landed in China.

When it was over and he was back home, the lawn would still need mowing and the shingle would still be loose—and his parents would still be waiting with an open door and hot food.

He stayed for another hour then said his good-byes, accepted a shrink-wrapped apple pie from Irene, and drove to Holystone. As he'd expected, everyone was there: Dutcher, Oaken, Cahil, and Charlie Latham; unexpectedly, however, Mason was seated at the conference table. As he walked in, all eyes turned to him. He stood awkwardly for a moment, then set the pie in the middle of the table.

“Don't tell me I'm the only one who remembered this was a potluck.”

Chuckles broke out around the table.

“Have a seat,” Dutcher said. “Dick's got something we need to know about.”

“You all know about Howard Bousikaris and his involvement with the Zis,” Mason said. “What we don't know is how it started or what's driving it. I believe—as does Leland—that Bousikaris is simply playing middleman for Martin. We're further convinced there's a strong possibility Martin is being manipulated by the Chinese government.”

“Into doing what?” Oaken asked

“As we speak, a battle group is en route to Russia's eastern coast, and a SEAL team is on the ground southwest of Nakhodka-Vostochny to provide targeting support for an attack sub. The goal of the mission is to sink a ship named the
Nahrut
when it pulls into port.” Mason briefly explained the events that led first to the SEALs's mission, and then the commitment of the
Stennis
group. “We're still in the dark about their precise role in China's scheme, but you can be sure it's a disaster in the making.”

There was silence in the room.

Mason continued: “I'm giving each of you a chance to bow out. If, on the other hand, you choose to stay, there'll be no turning back. What has to be done, can't be done in half measures. If it goes wrong and we fail, there's a good chance we'll all end up in prison. Briggs, in a way, you're lucky: You'll be out of the country.”

Tanner smiled. “Saved by a well-timed vacation.”

Cahil spoke up. “All these long faces and grim talk is depressing me. Let's get on with it.”

Oaken nodded. “I agree.”

“Charlie, how about you? You didn't sign on for this.”

“As far as I'm concerned, this is all part of the Baker case. Count me in.”

Mason nodded. “Then we're all agreed?”

He got four nods in return.

“Now that everybody's on board,” Tanner said, “what do you have in mind?”

“It's pretty simple, really,” Mason replied. “We're going to stage a coup.”