Code of Honor

34

Michelle Chadwick found an open parking spot along 15th Street, across from Washington-Liberty High School — a lucky break for this time of morning, when joggers and cyclists flocked to the Custis Trail before they went to work. The school wasn’t far from her condo. She swam at the aquatics center there three days a week to burn off the stress of her job, not to mention the butter-pecan ice cream she scarfed down at least five nights a week. She skipped the pool this morning, in favor of a run. It was as good a place as any for a private conversation with that bastard David Huang.

The meeting was set for six a.m. Unable to find anything close to sleep, she’d arrived at five-thirty. His Range Rover was already there, three cars back from her. That made sense. He’d want to get there early, check out the location for surveillance and whatnot. He, or more likely someone who worked with him, was probably watching her now. Chadwick was not a spy, but she was sneaky, and that was the same thing, wasn’t it?

She sat for several minutes after she parked, finally banging on the steering wheel with both hands in an effort to settle herself before she opened the door. She and Huang had run together before, on this same trail. He’d complimented her tights then, saying he liked how they showed off her legs. She’d worn them again today, hoping they might throw him off balance. She felt exposed and stupid for it now.

The sun wasn’t quite up yet, but it promised to bring its sticky heat in just a few more hours. Having grown up in the deserts of Arizona, she found it impossible to understand how D.C. could be so muggy and chilly at the same time. She debated throwing on a light jacket from her trunk, but decided she’d let her hatred of Huang warm her until the run heated her up.

The Custis Trail generally followed Interstate 66 east and west. Chadwick dispensed with her usual stretching and headed east, toward the Potomac and Downtown Washington, D.C. Much of the trail ran between the highway and residential areas, but the half-mile or so that lay ahead of her cut through a semi-secluded greenbelt. They’d share the trail with other runners and cyclists, but, for the most part, she and Huang would be able to speak freely.

Chadwick hated running for the first couple of minutes of every workout. It took a while for her joints to warm up. Slowly, with each gliding step, her lungs and legs began to call an uneasy truce and started working together. After that she fell into an enjoyable pace. Still twilight, the trail through the greenbelt was shadowed and foreboding, made even more so because of this shitstorm she’d brought down on herself. She padded along glumly, dreading the thought of seeing David Huang’s face. Even the earthy root-beer smell of sassafras that grew alongside the trail failed to cheer her up.

He was bent over, tying his shoe, when she saw him, wearing unremarkable gray sweats, nothing like the running shorts he’d worn when he was trying to impress her. He wore a fanny pack, too, like a retired tourist or federal agent might wear. He’d never worn one before, probably started so he could carry a gun. Smart, because since that day at the restaurant, she’d felt herself constantly overwhelmed with the desire to claw his eyes out every time she had to look at his face. He glanced up when he heard her shoes on the pavement, his brow knit into a stern line — like a father waiting up for a daughter who had come home from a date smelling like rum and Coke.

She kept running and he fell in beside her.

“You would be advised,” he said, “to let me know more quickly when you come into possession of this type of information in the future.”

She looked sideways, playing dumb. “I did let you know. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“These things must be timely,” Huang said, almost whining. “You and I. We must be timely. You do not understand what sort of people my superiors are.”

She glanced sideways as she ran, wondering if he was getting his ass chewed because of her. She sure hoped so.

“Look,” Chadwick said. “I called you. Doing what you’ve asked me to do… It’s hard, you know? I’m not a traitor.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Huang said. “We both agree that this President and his administration are bad for the country… bad for the world. His hawkish policies are causing conflict, not calming it. He is a habitual bully, and not just in the South China Sea but in the Baltics, Iran, Cameroon, North Korea… I could go on and on.”

Chadwick thought about the list of professional bullies he’d just ticked through, but didn’t say anything.

“We are not asking you to betray your country,” Huang continued. “If anything, we are asking you to save your country.”

“A coup?”

“If you like,” Huang said.

“Are you going to…?”

Huang laughed. “Assassinate Jack Ryan? No, nothing like that. He will shoot himself in the proverbial foot. Our aim is to let the world see him for who he is. How is that wrong?”

Chadwick glared at him. “You’re using a sex tape to leverage me. That sounds pretty wrong in anybody’s book.”

Huang stopped. “Michelle…” He touched her elbow so she would stop, and then stepped back to give her space. “I am truly sorry about that part. Hurting you was… regrettable.”

She sneered. “Let’s just not… Okay.” She threw her hands up. “Fine. Here you go, then. I don’t know the details, but he has decided to go to Indonesia.”

Huang started jogging again, a little slower now. “How did he respond when you told him about your constituent with information on the priest?”

Chadwick shrugged. “He was interested.” She felt dizzy, like she was about to throw up. But she kept running. She wasn’t about to let this bastard see her weak — not again, anyway. “Of course he wants more information, but I told him it was an anonymous call.”

“What are his plans when he’s in Indonesia?”

“He didn’t share that with me,” Chadwick said. “He’s got the Department of State involved. I’d guess they’re working on inducements for the Indonesian government. Economic leverage, arms sales, low-interest loans. You know, the kind of inducements that don’t involve incriminating video.”

Huang ignored the gibe.

“Anyway,” Chadwick said. “It sounds like Ryan and the padre go all the way back to their time in high school. I’m sure he’d like to carpet-bomb the hell out of the country until they hand over his friend, or at least threaten sanctions, but strong-arming the president of Indonesia would only make him look like a bully. I saw Scott Adler in his office, but that’s not exactly earth-shattering intel that the secretary of state is visiting the Oval.”

“True enough,” Huang said. “What else?”

“To be honest,” Chadwick said, “Ryan doesn’t share shit with me. He wants to believe I’m ready to play nice — just like you predicted — but his chief of staff doesn’t trust me to take out the trash, let alone get close to the President. I get the distinct impression the big goon who runs his Secret Service detail would like to shoot me between the eyes. I can’t keep bringing them these reports from anonymous constituents to get me into the West Wing. This relationship you want me to build will take time.”

“Unfortunately,” Huang said, “there are matters at play that necessitate quicker action. We know Jack Ryan has a temper. What we need is for him to be angry so he makes a mistake. Something that would make him very angry…” He glanced at his watch, then dug a cell phone from his fanny pack. She was right about the pistol. Bastard.

Huang turned away to keep his conversation private, but she was able to catch the number over his shoulder as he punched it in with his thumb. She’d always had a better-than-average memory, and she tucked the number away in the back of her mind for later use. It would likely be a prepaid burner — the one Huang used now was a cheap flip phone that looked like it belonged to a gangbanger — but even that number might come in handy in the future.

Huang spoke in rapid Mandarin. Hushed at first, the conversation rose in volume as it continued, as though he was excited about the prospects of what Chadwick had told him.

He finished the call and then turned to her again, returning the phone into his fanny pack with the handgun.

“I need you to contact Ryan first thing this morning — as soon as you get to your office. Tell him you have received another call from your constituent. Tell him that Indonesian courts have convened a secret tribunal to convict Patrick West of blasphemy.”

“Have they?”

“They will,” Huang said. “And then add that you understand they found a considerable amount of heroin at the time of his arrest.”

Chadwick just stared at him, dumbstruck.

He shrugged. “I suppose religion is not the only opiate of the people.”

“Heroin?” Chadwick said, finding her voice. “You do realize Indonesia has the death penalty for drug smugglers.”

“I am afraid they do,” Huang said, his mind obviously thinking through the logistics of the plan to incite Jack Ryan to action rather than the consequences of that plan to West. “I’ll have someone playing the part of your constituent leave a message on your office voicemail. That way the FBI will have something to find. The number will be untraceable.”

“This is worse than blackmail,” Chadwick said. “You would murder an innocent priest to further China’s agenda?”

“I would not,” Huang said. “But the men I work for would do so without hesitation.”

Huang stared at her with hard, gimlet eyes, leaving no doubt in Chadwick’s mind that he would be the one to murder her if she crossed him — or even if she didn’t.

His gaze softened, as if he knew he’d let his true intentions slip. “You have done well.” He turned west toward the vehicles and began to jog again. “I need to get back so I can make some more calls.”

Chadwick fell in beside him, wrestling over what to say next.

“Was there something else?” he asked, as if reading her mind.

“A couple of things,” she said.

“See”—Huang gave her a smiling nod, slowing just enough to hold a conversation in relative ease—“this is how it should work. You pass along bits of intelligence as you get them, and I interpret them. The information you glean in the White House is of vital importance, Michelle. You know as well as I do that the world will be a much safer place without Jack Ryan.”

“I can’t say that I disagree,” Chadwick said, mulling over the Espionage Act, the statute the Department of Justice used to indict spies. An unseen fist grabbed her gut and twisted. She stared down at her feet as they hit the paved path. “I understand,” she said. “And I’ll do what I need to do — but I’m doing it for me, not for China.”

“Laudable,” Huang said. “Now, let’s have that other information…”