Wall of Night (9 page)

Langley

“We've had our first meeting with Soong's contact,
”
Mason said, then recapped Brown's report. “So far, Bian seems on the level. He's frazzled, though, and that's a worry. We don't think he's bait, but Brown said he stood out like a wooden leg at a beauty contest.”

“A white crow,” said Dutcher. “White Crow” was an old KGB term for an agent whose behavior tends to single him out in crowds.

Tanner asked, “Can Brown limit his contact with him?”

“Hopefully. If not, his risk goes up every time they meet.”

“Do we know anything about his motivation?” asked Oaken.

George Coates answered. “Ideology. Admiration, from the sound of it.”

Of the many reasons that spur agents to work for enemy services, personal motivation, or “feel goods,” is the rarest. Admiration—unless it stems from a deeply personal relationship—will carry an agent only so far. Once things get dicey, admiration is almost always overpowered by fear.

“He's a Soong groupie, for lack of a better term. In the seventies and eighties Soong was a genuine hero. The people's nickname for him was
lie,
which means both ‘grandfather' and ‘hero,' depending on the inflection. After Tiananmen, when Soong began speaking out, he made a lot of enemies in the government, but gained a real grassroots following.”

And that was his downfall,
thought Tanner. Knowing this, and being torn between loyalty for his country and fear for his family, Soong contacted the CIA. In the end, Soong's worst fears were realized.

“The good news is, we may have gotten a break. Soong is scheduled to leave the country.”

“What?” said Tanner. “Where?”

“Jakarta, as a member of the PRC's delegation at the annual Asian Economic and Foreign Affairs Conference. If so, it'll be the first time Soong has been seen in twelve years. Best guess is they plan to have him speak about human rights.”

“The poster child for a kinder, gentler PRC,” said Dutcher.

Coates said, “It's unprecedented, really, for Beijing to let someone of his notoriety out of the country—especially after being so vocal against the government.”

“If they've still got his family, it's no risk at all,” Tanner said. “As long as they've got that leverage, they know he'll behave himself.”

“That's the catch,” said Mason. “If we manage to get him in Jakarta, will he go? And if he does, what happens to his family?”

“Maybe nothing,” said Dutcher. “If we got him, Beijing would know they can't stop him from talking to us. What they can do is keep him from speaking out against their government.”

“Blackmail,” said Coates.

“But it works both ways: As long as Soong stays silent, his family is unharmed; as long as his family is unharmed, he stays silent.”

Tanner said, “Either way, his family loses.”

Mason turned to him. “That might be the price, Briggs.”

“But will he pay it?”
And should we even be asking him to consider it
?

“We won't know that unless we ask.”

They talked for a few more minutes before the meeting broke up. As everyone was filing out, Mason said, “Briggs, stay for few minutes, will you?”

They'd been in this position before. Mason realized Tanner, being the right—hell, maybe the
only
—person for a tough job, while at the same time being the exactly
wrong
person for the job.

Nine months ago it had been the Beirut affair. Tanner had gone there to hunt down a friend-turned-terrorist. That relationship had been both Tanner's edge and his weakness. In the end, he'd managed to get the job done, saving thousands of lives in the process, but it had been a near thing.

Too near by far,
Mason thought.

Tanner's recounting of the events in Beirut had been thorough, but reports don't let you look into a man's mind, especially a man like Tanner. Like any operator worth a damn, Tanner never gave much away. Good operators listened more than they talked, absorbed more than they observed, intuited more than they analyzed.

It was ironic, Mason thought. In this age of high technology, where satellites could tell him what some third-world despot had for breakfast and computers could predict down to a few bullets an enemy's war-making power, all he could do here was go with his instincts.

So, the question was, Despite his baggage, could Tanner get out of his own head, go in, grab Soong, and come back out? And, if necessary, could he leave Soong's family behind?

“Pain in the butt, isn't it?” Tanner said.

“What's that?”

“Nine months ago you didn't have much of a choice. I might have been the right guy for the job, but given the stakes, it would have been nice to have more options.”

Mason chuckled. “You been reading my diary? Listen, if I had to choose somebody to put on the can't-be-done stuff, you'd be on every one of my short lists.”

“Thanks. Do I hear a ‘but' in there?”

“But … the day they were passing out consciences, you got a double dose. You get involved, and that's a liability in this business.”

“So I've heard.”

“Do I hear a ‘but' in there?”

Tanner smiled, shrugged. “But I'm still around.”

“Good point.” After a moment, Mason said, “I won't be able to give you much support.”

“I know.”

“If you get caught—”

“If I get caught I better hope
laogis
aren't as bad as they say.” Tanner turned to face him. “Go ahead and ask the question, Dick.”

“Okay. Can you do it?”

“I can do it,” Tanner said. “You send me in, I'll bring him out.”

Mason stared at him for a long five seconds, studying his eyes; they never wavered.

The DCI nodded. “You leave in ten days.”

Beijing

Xiang could hear nothing of the conversation through the oak doors of the Politburo room. It didn't matter; he knew the topic: Rubicon.

He could easily imagine the discussion:
This is simply Xiang‘s attempt to regain his lost glory
…
The scope of the plan is too vast
…
What if the Americans do not respond as he's planned
?

The nearer Rubicon's launch date came, the more heated the debate became. None of the members would openly disagree with the premier's decision to adopt the plan, but Xiang knew they were split on the subject. Thankfully, the premier had more vision than his colleagues. Like Xiang, he knew China's greatness had to be seized, not debated and pondered. The time for that was over.

Ten long years,
thought Xiang.
And it was almost time.

The doors swung open and the members began filing out. Befitting his status, Xiang stood up and nodded respectfully as each member passed. Their responses ranged from curiosity to open disdain.
Curious to see if I succeed and wondering what it will mean for them if I do
;
disdain because I have the premier's ear.

Xiang straightened his tunic and strode through the doors. The room, cast in stripes of sunlight and shadow, was rilled with gray cigarette smoke. The premier sat at the far end of the conference table. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair nearest him.

Xiang walked over, sat down.

“I'll tell you this, Kyung, this plan of yours certainly makes for interesting Politburo discussion.”

“I can imagine, sir. Do they—”

“They'll do as I say. They may claim to represent the people, but
I
represent China. They will grumble, because that is what they do, and I will indulge them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Besides, the time for debate is over. Truth be told, it was over many years ago; those who don't realize that soon will. I understand you visited one of the facilities. Are we ready?”

“Fully.”

“An amazing feat I wouldn't have thought it possible.” The premier smiled and shook his head. “All of it happening right under their noses. Tell me about this business in America This murder, it was necessary?”

“The man had outlived his usefulness; also, he was leaning toward extortion.”

“How so?”

“He told Qing he'd withheld key components to the process. He wanted more money, or he would go to their federal police.”

“And his family?”

“Also necessary. Their newspapers are treating it as a murder-suicide. If they had suspicions beyond that, we would have heard about it Their media virtually runs the country. Don't worry, sir. Qing is one of my best Their police will look, but they won't find anything. Even if they do, it will not lead them to us—not in time, at least. And even then, it will not matter.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, sir, victors write the history.”

Blanton Crossing,
Virginia

Latham's research into Hong Cho's pen pal, Mary Tsang, had so far turned up little.

Tsang was thirty-two, single, and worked as a legal secretary; as far as they could tell, she had few extracurricular interests except television. She drove a modest compact car, had a stellar credit history, no traffic tickets, and received few visitors.

In the spycraft jargon, Tsang was “gray.” Whether this trait was contrived or natural, Latham didn't know, but he wanted to find out. Most important, she didn't strike him as the type to initiate a relationship with a multiple murderer. If Tsang turned out to be something other than she seemed, he was guessing it would be a conduit for Cho. But to whom, and for what purpose?

While Randall and a team of agents started digging deeper into Tsang, Latham drove south to Blanton Crossing, a small railroad town about seventy-five miles south of D.C., where he hoped to find the headquarters of WalPol Expeditions, the recipient of nearly a quarter-million dollars from Larry Baker.

WalPol was a sole proprietorship created six years ago by a man named Mike Soderberg. According to the IRS, WalPol—which billed itself as an “exotic vacation provider”—filed its taxes on time and had never shown more than sixty thousand dollars of revenue.

Fifteen minutes after turning onto Route 54, Latham entered Blanton Crossing's city limits. The address led him to a trailer park nestled between a set of railroad tracks and a sewage canal. Charlie stopped before a rundown mobile home painted the color of lemon sherbet. The driveway was empty.

He got out, walked up the steps, and knocked. Thirty seconds passed. No one appeared. He opened the screen and tried the knob. Locked.

“Can I help ya, mister?” a voice said.

Latham turned. Standing in the yard, his hands resting atop a rake handle, was a man in a John Deere baseball cap and a tank top that read, “If you can read this, you're standing too close.”

“I'm looking for WalPol Expeditions.”

“That's it, there.”

Latham detected a Georgian accent. Redneck fanner, he guessed. The man had heavily corded forearms and hands that looked tough as leather. “Are you—”

“Nope.”

“Have you seen—”

“Nope.”

“Who are you?” Latham asked. “The local rake salesman?”

The man chuckled. “Nope, just the handyman. Name's Joe-Bob.”

“You have any idea where I can find the owner?”

“Been gone a few days. Don't know where. You lookin' to go expeditionin' or somethin'?”

Latham nodded. “A buddy of mine recommended WalPol; said they do good canoe trips.”

“Huh.” Joe-Bob nodded to Latham's car. “Maryland. Long way to come.”

“I'm retired. Got plenty of time on my hands.”

Joe-Bob lifted his cap and scratched his head. “Gimme your name. I'll pass it on.”

“That's okay. Maybe I'll drive down next week.”

“Suit yourself.”

On the way out, Latham found the trailer park's office. Inside, an old man stood at the counter watching a
Gunsmoke
rerun. “How's Sheriff Dillon doing?” Latham asked.

“
Marshall
Dillon,” the old man grumbled. “Okay, I guess, but I'll tell you what: If I were him, I would've put a bullet in Festus by now. Annoying son-of-a-bitch. What can I do for you?”

“I'm looking for Mike Soderberg.”

“Good luck. He keeps weird hours, that one. Haven't seen him for a couple days, but then again, I don't watch for him. You a friend of his?”

“Since we were kids.” Latham leaned a little closer and said conspiratorially, “Here's the thing: His mom called me yesterday. She hasn't heard from him for about a month and she's worried. Problem is, Mike and his dad don't get along—”

“Sounds like my kid. Never calls, never writes—”

“Yeah, and if Mike's dad knew she was in touch with him, there'd be hell to pay, so she asked me to check up on him—quietly, if you know what I mean. If he's okay and he finds out his mom was trying to nursemaid him … well, you know.”

“Gotcha. What d'ya want from me?”

“I got a buddy that's a state trooper. If I had a license plate number I could ask him to keep a look out, see if Mike's run into any trouble.” The lie was thin, and Latham held his breath.

The old man frowned. “Sorry, my records ain't that good.”

“Thanks anyway. It was worth a shot.” Latham turned to leave.

“Twit!” the old man blurted.

“Pardon?”

“The plate number on his pickup—the first three digits: T-W-T. Reminds me of the word
twit.
Always worth a good chuckle.”

Latham smiled back. “Yeah, that's a good one.”

Latham was an hour north of Blanton crossing when Qing received the phone call.

“You recognize my voice?” the caller asked.

“Yes. What is it?”

“There was somebody snooping around down here. He left about an hour ago.”

“Describe him.”

The caller did so, then added. “Got his plate number, if that helps.”

Qing copied down the number. “Is there somewhere you can go for the next few days?”

“Yeah. I got some friends down south I can stay with before I leave.”

“Go there,” Qing said. “I'll take care of this.”

Fort Greely,
Alaska

Beyond the navalese language, Jurens's orders had been short and simple:
You and three men.
Don't pack,
don't talk to anyone.
Just get on the plane and go.
No mention of gear, or of weapons, or even of what they were to do when they reached their destination.

He chose Schmidt, Gurtz, and Mendrick, who'd been dubbed “Dickie” by an inebriated team member who'd thought “Mendrick” had an anatomical ring to it. For similar reasons, Gurtz's handle had been truncated to “Zee.” Schmidt was simply known as “Smitty.” They were good men, and if Sconi's instincts about this mission proved right, he could think of no one else he'd rather have along.

He knew of Fort Greely, but having been a warm-water frog all his career, he'd never been there. Specializing in cold weather riverine and mountain operations, Greely was home to the Army's Northern Warfare School.

The C-141 touched down amid flurries on Greely's airstrip and taxied to a nearby Quonset hut. A Humvee was waiting at the bottom of the plane's steps. A corporal called, “Master Chief Jurens?”

“Yes.”

“If you'd follow me, please.”

The corporal drove them to the northern edge of the base past obstacle courses, firing ranges, and jump towers, until they reached a lone Quonset hut near a lake. Scrub pine dotted the ice-rimmed shoreline. “This is it, gentlemen,” said the corporal.

They piled out, then watched the Humvee turn around and disappear down the road. Aside from the wind whistling through the trees and an occasional
pop
as the lake's ice shifted, it was silent.

“Wonder how cold that water is,” Dickie said.

“I have a feeling we're gonna find out,” replied Zee.

“Come on,” Jurens said.

They opened the door and walked inside.

“Welcome to Alaska, gentlemen,” said General Cathermeier.

The rear third of the hut was stacked with crates and boxes. Jurens recognized the stencil on some of them: rebreather rigs; Heckler & Koch MP-10SD assault rifles; 9mm ammunition; wet suits …

“Nice of them to pack for us,” Smitty muttered.

Cathermeier sat at a card table atop which sat a slide projector. Four chairs were arranged in a semicircle before the table. Hanging from the wall was a white screen.

“Have a seat,” said Cathermeier. “Master Chief, we've met, but why don't you introduce me.”

Jurens did so, then said, “General, no disrespect intended, but what the hell is going on?”

Cathermeier's presence not only suggested they were about to drop into what operators called a “rabbit hole,” but it also told Sconi their normal chain of command had been bypassed.

“You and your men are on temporarily assigned duty to my J-3 staff.”

Dickie said, deadpan, “Excuse me, General, but when is your staff expected? If it's soon, we're gonna have to rustle up some more cots—”

“Dickie …” Jurens muttered.

“It's okay, Master Chief. For the next hour, we're just five soldiers in a room.” Zee opened his mouth to speak, but Cathermeier beat him to it. “No, Mr. Gurtz, you may
not
call me Chuck.”

There was laughter all around.

“Let's get to it.” Cathermeier shut off the lights and turned on the slide projector. A black-and-white satellite image of a commercial harbor appeared on the screen. “We'll start from the top,” Cathermeier began. “Penetration …”

He spoke for twenty minutes, clicking through the slides as he covered every aspect of the area: terrain, weather, military, and civilian presence … Everything save the location or why they were going.

Smitty broke in: “General, what's the job? Are we supposed to just render this mystery location safe for world democracy, or is there something specific you want us to do?”

Cathermeier laughed. “You'll get the specifics once you're en route, but in short, your mission is straightforward: Infiltrate a heavily guarded coastline via submarine lock-out, penetrate inland, lay up, reconnoiter the harbor, and finally, provide strike support as directed.”

Provide strike support as directed,
Jurens thought.

Translation: Something was gonna get bombed, and it would be their job to make it happen.

Holystone Office

Faced with steep odds against finding Genoa, Oaken had to make some assumptions.

The first was that Tanner's theory held water, which seemed the case. The timing and efficiency with which the
Guoanbu
had rolled up the Ledger network was telling. They'd known details that surveillance alone couldn't have provided.

What about Genoa himself? According to Tanner, the man had been a colleague of Soong's, which meant he worked in either the military or intelligence communities—or both. Therefore he was not an agent, but rather a professional spook. That certainly narrowed the field of candidates, but even so, Oaken knew it would be like looking for a piece of lint in a snowstorm.

With no where else to start, he went back to the beginning.

Eight hours later he knew the details of the ledger from start to finish, top to bottom. He'd read every intelligence report and every analysis he could get his hands on. He was looking for a nick in the onion's skin that would allow him to start peeling layers. It wasn't there. Ledger should have worked, but it didn't. No one knew why.

He stood up, stretched, then walked into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. He was dumping water into the pot when an angle bubbled up from his subconscious. “Wang Trahn,” he murmured.

In 1997, wan Trahn was a thirty-nine-year-old clerk in the archives of the Ministry of State Security. Unmarried, lonely, and enticed by the sexy images flooding his country from the West, Trahn began to imagine America as the paradise so many immigrants believe it to be. The Coca-Cola was refreshingly sexy; the hamburgers were made “your way” by smiling beach bunnies; the automobiles were plentiful and luxurious. If you wanted it, you could have it and/or be it. You could work on Wall Street, or be a cigar chomping police detective, or even an actor in Hollywood.

Having heard rumors of how hard it was to get to America, and how so many of his countrymen arrived only to find themselves enslaved by the same people who transported them, Trahn started looking for a better way. It didn't take him long to realize his job was the key.

Every day he handled documents for which the Americans would pay handsomely. Not only would they get him out of China, but they would make him rich in the process.

Trahn spent the next year gathering thousands of documents, reducing them on the photocopier, then smuggling them out of the archive building. If it looked even remotely important, he took it. The crawl space in his basement soon overflowed with files, reports, and photos.

Once certain he'd collected enough, Trahn bought a back pack, stuffed it to the brim with his plunder, took a taxi to the U.S. embassy, then begged his way into the courtyard. He was met by the CIA's deputy station chief, who looked at Trahn's identification, then inside the backpack, and then promptly took him inside.

It was just past dawn when Tanner, Cahil, and Dutcher arrived at the office. They found Oaken asleep on his couch. “I'll go make coffee,” Cahil said. “You see if you can rouse him.”

Ten minutes later they were sitting in the conference room. Red-eyed and hair askew, Oaken was sipping a cup and arranging notes. Despite his obvious exhaustion, the glint of excitement in his eyes was unmistakable.

He's in his element,
Briggs thought.
Adventure,
Oaken style.
“How long have you been here?”

Oaken glanced at his watch. “Thirteen—no, fourteen hours.”

“Nothing spells fun like an all-night research session,” Cahil said. “That's my motto.”

“You have a motto?” asked Tanner.

“Several. Depending on the situation.”

“So,” Dutcher said, “Briggs told me about your project. I assume you found something?”

“I did,” Oaken replied. “First, though, the story.” Oaken took them through the Wan Trahn saga, ending with his evacuation to the United States and subsequent debriefing with the CIA. “Trahn was what they call a ‘Hoover': he sucked up every bit of information in sight then dumped it on us. When Langley finished counting, he'd delivered four thousand pages of documents.”

“Four
thousand
?'
said Cahil.