The Mandarin Club (5 page)

He ran this particular Monday morning 0900 exercise—still held in Langley pending a move to new facilities at Bolling AFB—like a refined tutorial. All opinions were welcome. Debate and dissent were expected. Sucking up to the professor—beyond the formalism of addressing him as “Doctor” Rosza (a vain indulgence he had subtly encouraged over the years)—would be punished. Blinding glimpses of the obvious were ruthlessly skewered. They earned taxpayer dollars for providing fresh thinking. He demanded no less from each of the staffers reporting to him, pressing them relentlessly for new insight.

“What do we make of the Nanping expansion?” Branko skipped the pleasantries, calling the meeting to order on the central issue of the day. “And what are the implications of this Chinese military move for U.S. and Taiwan response? James, let’s begin with NGA.”

James, a tall African-American official from the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, responded, his hands gripping a thick red file of photographs. “The Nanping missile base in China’s Fujian Province has shown a significant increase in activity over the last three days. We believe this is beyond routine maintenance and suggests a further expansion of capabilities.”

“
Significant increase
defined by what standard?” Branko inquired.

“An additional deployment of phased array radar and site preparations for another two batteries of the CSS-6 missiles.”

“Which would bring total deployment to. . .”

“Nearly five hundred CSS-6’s and 7’s at the Nanping base. That would be a virtual doubling in size there.” James paused before anticipating. “You will recall, Dr. Rosza, that the first PRC medium range missile deployment during the 1996 Taiwan Strait crisis was accompanied by Chinese live-fire military drills.”

“Yes, I recall that the deployment attracted some interest here.” Branko allowed just a hint of a smirk. They all knew he had been the head of the Taiwan listening post at that time, closely following developments at the U.S. intelligence community’s signals intercept facility, Yangminshan, burrowed deep into the suburban hills outside Taipei. It had appeared then that China’s provocative move—deploying missiles for the first time along the Fujian Province coastline opposite Taiwan—might lead to a shooting war.

“My point being, sir, that we have been focusing our satellite photo work the last forty-eight hours on depots and roads which might confirm a third and fourth battery, another two hundred and fifty missiles.”

“Is the work at the Chinese base transparent?”

“Yes and no. It’s exclusively night-time activity. But they know when our birds fly over, and they know our satellites can pick up certain nighttime activities. So they must assume we’re getting some good pictures.” The folks at NGA were quite proud of their high-resolution photographs. “Telstar’s satellites even give us the Caterpillar logo on top of the backhoe.”

“NSA, what’s SIGINT allowing us to pick up from communications?” “Our listening stations in the region do not report anything unusual, sir.” A demure blond woman with oversized horn rim glasses responded without missing a beat. “The usual Chinese phone and fax traffic back to headquarters. Their e-mail volume is routine, though we did pick up some complaining about quality control.”

“Can we get more specific on that?” Branko pressed.

“Dr. Rosza, the transcripts suggest something beyond the usual complaints about the quality of the hardware. Apparently, the Fujian base is pushing for delivery of systems at a pace the production folks—this is all indigenous now, no longer Russian import—consider a little surprising. They seem to be shipping stuff to Nanping without requisite spare parts.”

“What is military intelligence saying about the haste?” It pained Branko to lean on the armed services. But the recent shake-ups in the U.S. intelligence community placed a premium on sharing nicely. Besides, Branko believed, it was better to find out what the competition had than learn it later, at some White House showdown with the Pentagon boys.

“Their conclusion parallels ours, sir.” It was Arthur Moffitt, his deputy. “It clearly suggests a hurry-up under orders from Beijing.”

“Arthur, what do we make of their failure to obscure these developments? They trying to send us a message?”

“Unclear, sir. Beijing has made some diplomatic commitments the deployments would appear to contradict.”

“Any evidence this might be a Second Directorate gambit? You know, provoke the Americans again and let the diplomats and the Politburo deal with the consequences?

“No, sir. Human Intelligence captures suggest that the military-civilian tensions continue to run high in Beijing. But HUMINT hasn’t turned up anything on the Nanping developments that suggest these don’t have top-down Party support.”

Branko pondered the implications a moment. “But they’ve still got deniability?”

“Right. And it is consistent with recent doctrine to challenge Taipei and Washington by presenting some new reality on the ground.”

“Indeed. Military threats don’t work unless people know they are being threatened,” Branko said, lapsing into pedantry—it was the instructor within who never passed up a teaching moment. Then he continued with his inquiry. “Anything we see in their haste to suggest it is all a mirage, a Potemkin Village made for satellite detection?”

“No sir. This looks like the real deal. With a two hundred kilometer range on the missiles, the latest move could push Taipei right over the edge.”

Branko started to ask a question, but paused to think. It was a measure of the group’s regard for their leader and his vaunted analytical skills that no one stirred while Branko fiddled with his pen. Another series of questions ensued to each intelligence division represented—fully twenty minutes of asked-and-answered—before he began to make valedictory remarks on the morning’s gathering, artfully employing the royal “we.”

“So the Nanping base is hot again—in contravention of explicit diplomatic pledges. The deployment of still more CSS-6’s means that Taipei’s margin of safety in the Taiwan Strait will soon disappear completely.” He had his colleagues’ undivided attention.

“We have good news for Beijing. Once again, they’ve rattled Taipei’s cage. The Taiwans will be under intense pressure to talk peace, love, and reunification with the Communists, starting tomorrow.

“The bad news,” he continued, “is that, with the Politburo politicians agreeing to more missiles, the generals will agitate even more to finally use a few of them. Furthermore, Taiwan’s friends in Congress will be apoplectic over the White House reluctance to sell Taipei more sophisticated weapons for deterrence.”

“If Senator Smithson gets this. . .” Here, Branko paused to correct himself. His respect for the Senate Foreign Relations Committee’s chairman was well known to the group. “
When
he gets this, corralling Jake Smithson is going to keep the folks in Congressional Relations rather busy.”

“Of course, the Agency has no obligation to inform Congress,” said his deputy, Moffitt, who was quick to reassure him. “That threshold hasn’t been crossed.”

“Yes, Arthur, this is still preliminary,” Branko agreed. “And CSS-6 missiles aren’t new. The Chinese have had some for several years. But they deploy the missiles for effect. They push them to the seacoast just like pushing a pawn. Well, now there will be an effect in this town as well. We need to anticipate what the policymakers will be demanding from us.

“I want NGA to double our satellite surveillance of Taiwan’s air fields. See how the Taiwans will respond,” Branko continued. “Let our station chief in Taipei know we need capture on what kind of response they are planning in Taiwan—both political and military. And we may need to alert the Pacific Command team in Honolulu, in case the White House calls for them to crank up the engines for another U.S. carrier cruise through the Taiwan Strait. Anything else?”

Branko had wrapped things up thoroughly; there were no questions.

As the staff stood to file out, Branko pointed casually towards James. “Leave me those satellite photos, would you please? I’d like to have my own look. And Brownell, may I see you for a moment?”

James silently handed his two thick files to Branko. James was the last to slip by Gabriel Brownell, the representative from the CIA’s operations directorate, an assistant to the man who ran the Agency’s agents on the ground in China.

“Sit down for a minute, Gabe.” Branko seemed distracted as he hunched over to peer at the photos. “You know, I used to do some of this photo analysis.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In fact, I held most of the posts represented in the room this morning. I have carried many of your portfolios.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Used to find these photos pretty interesting. Missiles. Troop deployments. We’d sit in a dark room looking at enlargements of a bunch of party hacks playing at the beach. Once had a satellite shot of one of the Politburo members humping a lady at the Party retreats they used to have at Beidaihe. My assistant used to call them a sort of ‘poor man’s porno.’ Made you feel like a bunch of high tech peeping Toms. Rather creepy.”

“These
can
be disturbing photos.”

“I’ve seen it all, buddy. Raw data. Pre-analysis. Stuff fresh out of the darkroom.”

“I’m sure you have. Your coverage is legend—”

“Brownell,” Branko cut him off sharply, “one question. Exactly
when
did you intend to get around to sharing the take we’ve gotten from the Bravo Compartment?”

Brownell blanched. He pushed heavy glasses back up his nose. “The, uh—Bravo.”

“The Bravo Compartment—the electronic collection operation your directorate has been running at Zhongnanhai. You know the place—cozy little compound inside the Forbidden City in Beijing, where all the ruling bureaucrats live.” Rosza’s eyes had a way of shrinking, his visage pinched and narrow, when he was angry.

“The Bravo take? Right. Well, we haven’t. . . they haven’t prepared edited transcripts that are ready.”

“Ready? Ready for
whom
?”

“With all due respect, sir, the Deputy Director of Operations said that, that until we had some confirm on the, uh, the reliability of the speakers. . . they had a ‘No-Dis’ slapped on them.”

“
No
-
Dis
?”

“Not For Dissemination, sir. The Deputy Director said th—”

“I know what No-Dis means.” Branko tapped his pen methodically, prolonging the moment, underscoring his disgust. “Listen, we may be working together for some time. I want you to remember one thing. Don’t you
ever
hold out on me.”

“Sir, the DDO said that—”

“
I
am the National Intelligence Officer for East Asia. I require information from the Bravo Compartment to help discern Beijing’s intentions. I don’t give a crap whether anyone tells you otherwise, unless it is the Director of National Intelligence or the President of the United States. Don’t you ever hold out on me again, or I’ll have your butt shipped to Lagos.”

“Sir, I never—”

“We are finished.” Branko pushed his chair back and swept up the photo files.

He was at the door and Brownell was just beginning to find his footing, when Branko turned in a final fury.

“Do you even
know
who launched the Bravo Compartment? Who recruited the source who facilitates this operation in the first place? Who planted the seed once upon a time? Who courted him? Who pleaded with him—at the greatest possible risk—to work with us during the darkest hours after Tiananmen? Do you?”

Branko’s disgust was on full display as he answered his own question: “He was
my
fucking agent.”

W
hile Rachel and Alexander were embracing outside the Willard, Mickey Dooley was chewing breakfast in his suite at the St. Francis Hotel, twenty-five hundred miles to the west in San Francisco. He savored the bacon grease as he licked his thick fingers.

On the brink of his fifties, Mickey was proud of his ability to keep secrets. The fact was, he had become an exceptionally good liar.

As he perused the sports pages in his morning paper, Mickey once again compartmentalized his life with great facility. There was China business, there was American stuff. There was his wife, Mei Mei, of whom he was ever wary. There was his Hong Kong mistress and her growing demands for attention. There were the Mandarins, his old Stanford Club brethren, who had known him in more innocent times. And there were the spooks hanging at the bar of his favorite Beijing watering hole, looking to see if he might run them another shady errand. Each had their distinct places, years of private confidences tucked safely in their respective drawers.