Shadow Catcher (14 page)

“This is it,” said Drake.

“Good,” replied Tarpin. He checked his watch. “Listen, I have to get to a meeting. Can I trust you two to log me out and close the vault door?”

Nick nodded. “We can do that. I'll put a good word in for you with Walker. You really came through for us.”

As Tarpin slipped out, Nick opened the file. Handwritten lines filled the page from the book:

David Novak died on New Year's Day 1988 while flying a low-level reconnaissance mission over southern China. Progressive Blackbird imagery taken in concert with Novak's mission showed a surface-to-air missile launch followed by burning wreckage, presumed to be Novak's F-16. Flying as Jade 01, Novak broke from his planned mission for unknown reasons. Communications intercepts from a P-3 Orion also indicate that he broke radio silence. This combination may have allowed Chinese air defenses to gain a fix on his position and confirm their radar track, leading to the shoot-down. Novak served with distinction as part of Operation Distant Sage, flying photoreconnaissance missions over China, as well as Operation Remote Icon, flying over Russia. He made the ultimate sacrifice in service to his country. He will not be forgotten.

“Well, now we have a name and an operation,” said Drake, “but we still don't know what Red Dragon is.”

Nick scrolled down until he found a document labeled
DISTANT SAGE POSTACTION REPORT
. He opened the file and ran a search for “Red Dragon.” The cursor immediately jumped to the middle of the document. He waved at Drake and pointed at the screen. “Bingo.”

The report listed Red Dragon as an authentication code, a phrase used by covert operatives when forced to use an open frequency. “So Novak survived the crash,” said Drake.

“It sure looks that way. Even if the Chinese recovered his body from the wreckage, they wouldn't have gotten that code. According to this, McBride's Jade Zero One is the real deal.” Nick continued to search through the documents as Drake wandered over to look at the book beneath the glass.

“Uh-oh. There's more,” said Nick presently, looking over at Drake with a furrowed brow.

“That look always means trouble,” said Drake. “What did you find?”

“Both Remote Icon and Distant Sage were shut down because of possible leaks. The subsequent investigations were inconclusive.”

“Two moles?”

Nick shook his head. “My guess is one, working both ops.” He turned back to the report and quickly scanned to the bottom of the page. “And, according to this, he was never found.”

CHAPTER 27

N
ovak sat huddled on a cot, leaning against the rough stone at the back of a small cave. A short line of supply crates lay along the eastern wall, one of them broken open, its contents strewn about the rocky floor. He wondered if the thirty-year-old MRE that he'd devoured might kill him. It didn't matter. The ancient chicken à la king tasted divine.

He glanced at the radio set on the cave's rusty table. Nothing. He made his radio call at the bottom of every hour, based on the radio's clock, hoping that the Agency was somehow still listening.

That the radio and its digital clock still functioned was no surprise. Long ago, the CIA had placed a small collection of nuclear-powered equipment—telescopes, radios, cameras, and so forth—in remote locations around the world. This one found its way into southern China in the late sixties. As long as the lead case remained intact, the radio operator suffered no threat of radiation. At least, that's what the Agency claimed. The fifty years that the radio sat in this natural safe house put hardly a dent in the half-life of its plutonium battery.

A group of agents working a long-term ground mission discovered the cave in 1967. Less than ten meters deep, with a low, narrow crawl space for an entrance, it seemed the perfect location for a weapons cache and safe house. Later missions restocked it with supplies and the atomic radio. They called it the Palace.

Distant Sage reopened the Palace for business in 1987. Downed pilots from Distant Sage were supposed to make their way to the cave, radio for help, and expect a high-risk Fulton Skyhook pickup. To Novak's knowledge, the Chinese had never discovered the cache.

He kept his eyes on the entrance, methodically cleaning a Colt .45 pistol that he had found in the supplies. He shivered. Despite the warm temperature of the summer rain forest outside, his body felt cold. He finished cleaning the weapon, loaded a clip, and set it down on the cot. Then he grabbed a musty blanket from the open crate and wrapped himself. He found the rough feel of the old sheep's wool comforting. His eyes began to close.

Something rustled through the undergrowth outside. Novak picked up the Colt and forced his eyes open. He pointed the pistol at the low entrance, but the sound did not return. Still, he kept the weapon up and leveled, trying to fight his exhaustion; to sleep now could mean missing a signal from the rescue crew or getting caught by the Chinese.

Steadily his grip on the gun loosened, his eyelids began to droop. Finally, the Colt fell from his hand.

Novak woke with a start, wildly looking left and right, but his vision was still blurry. Something burned dull yellow to his left. He rubbed his eyes. A fire materialized. Not an uncontrolled fire, but a low, soft fire, glowing in a stone hearth. A gentle hand caressed his chin.

“It's all right, darling. You were dreaming.”

Novak allowed the soft touch and sweet voice to soothe him.

Anja.

“You drifted off again,” she said, reaching across him to pull the wool blanket tightly around them both. “I know it's not safe to wake someone who is sleeping so deeply, but it's late. If you don't get back to the barracks, Mr. Wright will send you back to America.”

They huddled together on a cushioned love seat in Anja's small apartment. Novak studied her beautiful face in the dim firelight, the pout of her lips, the subtle flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. Now that she held his gaze, he did not need to look away to know where he was.

Except for the toilet, Anja's entire apartment was just one room. It was dark. She always kept it that way when he visited. She said it made the fire more romantic, but Novak knew that she wanted to mask the small, dilapidated room, as if he might judge her for her poverty.

“I can't leave yet,” said Novak, taking her hand in both of his. “I came tonight to tell you something, something important.”

A tiny tremor passed through Anja's body. Novak felt it in her slender fingers. “I'm listening,” she said nervously.

“Including my crash,” Novak began, “we've lost four aircraft in three months to Russian missiles. Two of the flight crews did not return. That's four men presumed dead.”

Anja withdrew her hand. Her expectant expression changed to cautious curiosity, and not a little disappointment. “I know that,” she said flatly. “You did not need to come to my apartment to remind me of our losses.”

Novak sensed her frustration. He nodded. “Yes, I know, but there's more. The Company believes that these shoot-downs are not just bad luck or bad intelligence. They suspect that one of the Polish nationals is a Russian agent, but they don't know who.”

“A mole?” Anja pushed herself out of the chair, straightened her jeans, and walked over to the hearth. Her waist-length silk blouse stretched up to reveal the alabaster skin at the small of her back as she leaned forward, resting a hand on the mantel. She tapped an index finger irritably on a brightly colored box that she kept there. “One of the Polish Pawns has turned on the Agency,” she said, still facing the wall. “And the supervisor in charge sent you here to find out if I'm protecting them?” She looked back at him. A glint of red firelight betrayed a tear on her cheek. “You came here tonight to ask me if I'm a traitor?”

Novak leapt up, letting the wool blanket fall into the chair. “No!” he exclaimed. He reached for her, but she recoiled and turned away again. His arms dropped to his sides. “Wright doesn't know that I'm here. He doesn't believe in any of this, but the Agency can't afford a mole hunt to prove him wrong. Our situation is tenuous at best.

“If we spook the double agent, they might bring a brigade of SB down on the base,” he explained, referring to the Słuzba Bezpieczenstwa, the Polish secret police, the same group that had taken Anja's parents away when she was just a child. “A mole hunt is out. The Agency is throwing in the towel. We're pulling out in less than a week.”

“We're shutting down?” Anja stared down into the dying fire.

Novak sighed. “Only the Americans are supposed to know. The Company doesn't want to tip off the mole. Since we don't know who to trust, all of the Polish nationals will be left behind, abandoned.”

Anja buried her head in her arms, leaning them on the mantel. Her delicate shoulders trembled. “You're leaving me,” she sobbed.

Novak risked a touch, placing his hands on her silky arms. “I don't want to leave you, but the Agency will only evacuate American
citizens.
” When he emphasized the word, he felt Anja's body tense. Finally, she was beginning to understand. “If you became a citizen, you could come with me.” She turned, falling into his arms. Her sobs became gentle shudders as she pressed her cheek against his chest.

Novak slowly dropped to one knee, letting his fingers slide from her shoulders to her hands before bringing them together for a gentle kiss. He looked up and found her angelic eyes once more filled with hope. “Anja Zajac, will you marry me?”

Anja beamed. She grasped his hands tightly and pulled Novak to his feet. Before he fully had his balance, she jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around him. Novak stumbled backward and fell into the love seat, but Anja took no notice. She kissed him passionately. He released her long enough to wrap the wool blanket around them both, and then he leaned back in the chair, savoring the excitement of her kiss, the warmth of her embrace. As he shifted his weight, his shoulder knocked a picture off the end table. He let it fall.

The sound of the Colt .45 clattering against the rock floor startled Novak to consciousness. His head jerked up from his chest. Sweat soaked his tattered prison uniform beneath the heavy wool blanket. After a few moments, he shook off the blanket and leaned down to pick up the .45. He held it flat in his hand for a long while, caressing the edge of the trigger guard with one finger. Then he slowly walked over to the radio table, set down the gun, and picked up the microphone.

“Red Dragon, this is Jade Zero One. I am alive. I repeat, this is Jade Zero One. I am alive and requesting immediate evac.”

CHAPTER 28

N
ick and Drake picked up their cell phones from security as they left the CIA headquarters building. A blue box on Nick's screen informed him that he'd missed a call from McBride. He pressed the box to dial him back.

“I'm secure. What've you got for me?” he said as soon as McBride picked up.

“I found your guy,” answered McBride. “His name is Feng Wei, but that's just an alias. You're right to be suspicious. He's not part of the regular staff at the Chinese Embassy in Kuwait.”

“That figures.” Nick stopped at the edge of the sidewalk out in front of the CIA building.

Drake mouthed, “What?” but Nick motioned for his friend to be patient.

“Where does he usually work?”

“Everywhere. He's a courier. I have pictures of him in the diplomatic districts of a half-dozen major cities,” said McBride. “He spends most of his time in London, but that's not where he went when he left Kuwait.”

The line went silent for a moment. Nick remembered that McBride liked to add a dramatic pause when he had a juicy bit of intelligence. “Come on, Will. Spill it.”

“You see, once I had a name and multiple pictures from our database, I was able to run a search for current intelligence from other agencies,” McBride explained with enthusiasm. “That got me a hit from the Brits that had him boarding a flight to Beijing.”

“So he's in Beijing.”

“No,” said McBride, a little annoyed at being interrupted. “You don't understand. The Brits
think
he's in Beijing, but he's not.” McBride paused again.

Nick pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off the impending headache. “Where did he go?”

“So then I played a hunch. I used this algorithm that Scott developed and ran it on the public cameras in . . .”

“Will!”

“He's here.”

“As in, he's here in Washington, DC?”

“Yeah. I've got a ninety-two percent match for Feng Wei on a guy getting into a black sedan at Dulles just a few hours ago. I tracked the car to the Chinese Embassy. As far as I can tell, he hasn't left since.”

“Good work,” said Nick. “Keep an eye on it. He's got to leave that embassy sometime. When he does, I want to know where he goes. And now that you have a face and a name, there's something else that I want you to do. I have a hunch of my own.”

A few moments later, Nick hung up the phone and started walking toward the car.

“What's up?” asked Drake, jogging to catch up.

“Our suspect from Kuwait just turned up in DC. Other than that, all Will got was a name: Feng Wei. I wish we knew more about this guy.”

Drake grabbed Nick's elbow and stopped him. “I think I can help with that.”

Back inside the CIA headquarters building, Nick and Drake stood waiting at the reception desk. “I thought you didn't like spooks,” whispered Nick.

“This one is different,” Drake replied mysteriously. “Terri is one of the CIA's top analysts for China.” He tilted his chin toward the security checkpoint. “Here she comes, now.”

Nick turned to see a stunning brunette gracefully descending the stairs beyond the metal detectors, one hand lightly caressing the rail. She paused at the bottom step and waved at Drake.

“I should have known,” said Nick.

“Shut up. Our relationship is entirely professional.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Terri,” said Drake, waving back as she walked over, “this is Nick, the guy I'm always telling you about.”

Terri smiled genuinely and squeezed Nick's hand. “Terri Belfacci,” she said in a melodious voice. “I'm so glad to finally meet Drake's sidekick. I hear you two have survived quite a few scrapes together.”

Nick elbowed Drake in the ribs as Terri led them back through security. “Sidekick?”

Drake coughed and lengthened his stride to catch up to Terri. “We need to find out about a Chinese courier named Feng Wei.”

Terri halted abruptly, her power heels clicking sharply together on the granite floor. “How have you two come across the Black Dragon?”

“The what?” asked Drake.

“Feng Wei is an alias,” said Terri, folding her arms. “He also goes by Wulóng, the Black Dragon. His real name is still unknown.”

“He's a suspect in a little investigation we're conducting,” explained Nick. “What else can you tell us about him?”

“I can tell you that we have good intel that he recently returned to Beijing. I can also tell you that you need to coordinate with us if you're crossing paths with this guy. He's dangerous.”

“I think we can handle a courier,” said Drake.

Terri shook her head. “The Black Dragon is a legendary Chinese symbol. Its meaning is hard to translate into English, but it combines the ideas of power and death. Wulóng is no ordinary embassy grunt. He's a former PLA Special Forces operative, and like the symbolic dragon, wherever he goes, death follows.”

Terri relaxed her stern expression and leaned closer to Drake, flirtatiously brushing a hand down his arm. “You know, you could have asked me about Wulóng over a secure line. You didn't have to come all the way over here. Unless, of course, you just wanted to see me.”

Drake blushed. “Well, we, uh . . .” he stuttered.

She put her fingers to her dark red lips in mock surprise. “Oops. I just embarrassed the great Drake Merigold, the most eligible bachelor in DC's covert society.” She squeezed his hand sweetly, but he did not reciprocate.

Terri caught her breath and dropped his hand. “You're off the market,” she said accusingly. “You're seeing that grease monkey again, aren't you?”

“Amanda is a propulsion engineer,” said Drake quietly.

“That's a politically correct term for someone who works on engines; ergo, grease monkey.” Her voice turned cold. “Hmph, that's weird. She didn't mention you at all when I saw her this morning.”

“Wait,” said Nick. “You saw Amanda Navistrova here? Today? What was she doing at the CIA?”

Terri's cheeks flushed. “I don't know. I just bumped into her in the cafeteria.” She frowned at Drake. “Amanda and I don't talk much.” After a moment of awkward silence, her smile returned, a little more forced this time. She put her hand on Drake's arm again. “You're not totally hooked. Otherwise you wouldn't have made an excuse to come over and see me.”

“Actually,” interjected Nick, “Wulóng is more of a side interest. We really came here to look into one of your lost agents. A Book of Honor inductee named David Novak. Joe Tarpin helped us out, but he had to leave us to get to a meeting.”

Terri wrinkled her nose. “Left you in the lurch, huh. That sounds like Joe. So what did you think of the physical archive?”

“You mean the book?” asked Nick.

“No, no, no,” she said, waving her hands. “I mean the personal-effects archive. You can't study an agent in the Book of Honor without getting into their archive box.” She looked from one to the other. “I gather from your blank expressions that you don't know what I'm talking about.”

“We didn't know to ask for it,” said Drake.

“Well, Joe should have told you.” Terri put her hands on her hips and huffed. “You men have no ability to communicate. If you want to dig up the dirt, you've got to call a woman. You two boys go back to your clubhouse,” she said, turning and walking back toward the stairs. “I'll resurrect your missing agent's effects and have them sent to you. And Drake”—she paused on the first step and turned, holding her hand up to her ear like a phone and shaking it—“call me.”

* * *

Wulóng spotted the midnight blue Mustang as it passed his position off Dolly Madison Boulevard. They were headed south, just as Hei Ying had predicted. “Tsk, tsk.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. How sad that these Americans cared so little for their craft.

He found it astoundingly easy to enter this country. And once inside, he could travel virtually anywhere unchallenged, acquire almost any equipment that he needed. The American spies had to know of their country's vulnerabilities, yet they drove straight from one intelligence site to the other, using none of the standard evasion techniques. Such carelessness showed a lack of discipline, a lack of respect.

Wulóng maintained his distance, even though his targets gave no indication of wariness. He could drive up beside the unprotected car and finish them right here if he chose. But then, as General Zheng had taught him, timing was everything.

As the Mustang joined the 395 to cross over the Potomac, Wulóng's cell phone rang.

“Do you have them?”

Wulóng gripped the steering wheel a little tighter at the sound of the caller's deep, unnatural voice. These Americans and their gadgets could be amusing, but at a certain point, it just became an annoyance. “You are still using a distortion device,” he said, keeping his own voice as smooth and even as always. “It seems that you still do not trust me, Hei Ying.”

“I mean no offense,” Hei Ying replied. “It is just that, in our business, to share information is to lose control of it. You and I know that very well.”

“Of course.” Several cars ahead, Wulóng watched the Mustang turn on to Suitland Parkway, headed for Andrews. “The targets are approaching their base. I will not be able to follow. At which gate should I position myself to pick them up again?”

“Do not trouble yourself,” Hei Ying replied. “I have the primary target's home address.”

“Tsk, tsk.” Wulóng clicked his tongue again as he hung up the phone. Such utter carelessness. Such disrespect.