Storm Front

CHAPTER 9

PARIS, France

The reporter could only be described as ruggedly handsome, with dark hair and eyes, a square jaw, and muscles toned in a way that no working journalist’s ever had been. He was just hoping no one would notice that part.

In keeping with his cover, his outfit consisted of a well-worn tweed blazer, khaki pants that just barely missed matching, a white shirt with faint stains from a lost battle with a long-ago chili dog, and scuffed oxfords. He kept a spiral-bound reporter’s pad in his left pocket and two pens in his right: a primary pen and a backup in case the first one failed. A reporter could never be too careful.

If he bore a striking resemblance to a man who had once been a Venetian gondolier — to say nothing of scores of identities that might or might not have come before it — it was surely a coincidence. From the moment Derrick Storm landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport, his passport and press credentials identified him as Cleveland Detroit of Soy Trader Weekly.

He was a serious reporter for a serious soy-related trade publication, one that could not dare blink in its protracted circulation battle with the much-hated Soybean America. If any curious party decided to Google him, they would find an elaborate website with a host of articles on the subject of soy, carefully constructed to appear to be the work of a small cadre of fair, balanced soy-knowledgeable journalists — really the handiwork of some of the CIA’s more agriculturally savvy interns. The website contained links one could click to contact Soy Trader Weekly’s editors, to read about Soy Trader Weekly’s history, to advertise in Soy Trader Weekly, even to subscribe. The CIA interns were still figuring out what to do about the fourteen people who had already taken them up on their 52-weeks-for-the-price-of-50 offer.

That was not Cleveland Detroit’s problem. His sole focus was finding the spy hidden amid all the subministers, undersecretaries, assistant minions, and vice bootlickers who would be traveling with the Chinese Ministry of Finance in support of their boss’s big speech. The Chinese finance minister had come to Paris to publicly address the Economic and Financial Affairs Council of the European Union, better known as the Ecofin Council, or just Ecofin. It was considered a highly anticipated appearance from a Chinese agency not noted for its transparency.

The speech was being given at the Hotel de la Dame, a swank Left Bank auberge that found subtle ways to remind its visitors that Churchill considered it his favorite Parisian destination and Mitterrand had chosen it as the place where he cheated on his wife for the very first time.

For purposes of this occasion, the entrance to the hotel was blanketed with security, both a Chinese Ministry of State Security detail and local French authorities. None of it was a problem for Cleveland Detroit, whose fake paperwork was scrupulously authentic. He breezed through a document check, a metal detector, and then a pat-down from a Frenchman who was so concerned about finding larger weapons that he did not notice the hidden microphone and button-mounted wireless camera that were feeding sound and footage to Room 419. There, an agent who was part of the CIA’s China contingent — and had been put on loan to Jedediah Jones’s unit for the evening — had set up shop. If anyone could help Storm sniff out his target, it would be the agent in Room 419.

“I’m in,” Storm said when he passed through the last layer of scrutiny.

“Excellent work.” A voice in Storm’s microscopic earpiece crackled.

“You’ve got eyes and ears?”

“Affirmative,” the agent in Room 419 said.

“I’m going to have a look around. Maintain radio silence unless there’s someone I need to know about.”

He entered the lobby, which was swarming with people of all nationalities, some important, some merely self-important. As Storm ranged through the crowd, the agent occasionally interrupted with something like “That’s He Ranqing, the deputy director of the Bud get Department. We think he’s legit.” Another time it was “You just bumped into Wang Hongwei. Allegedly he does tax policy. He’s really counterintelligence. Stay away.”

Storm tried to focus on the small number of Chinese women in the crowd, but it wasn’t fruitful. The agent in Room 419 identified all of them as being low-level administrative and clerical help. None of them were new to the ministry.

Finally the agent told him, “The speech starts in five minutes. Better get inside.”

Heeding his instructions, Storm went into the ballroom, where the entire Parisian foreign press corps had already assembled for the speech. It included the Associated Press, the Agence France-Presse, a half-dozen-or-so American newspapers and magazines, another dozen-or-so publications from around the world, and a smattering of bloggers, Tweeters, and hangers-on, all of whom were shunted into a small roped-in area off to the side of the speaker’s podium.

There was no room for Cleveland Detroit in the front row of the press section, so that was exactly where he went. He wedged himself between correspondents from the Asahi Shimbun and the New York Times, both of whom shot him annoyed glances. Unconcerned about playing nice, Detroit accidentally elbowed the Times guy in the ribs often enough that he finally retreated farther back.

Throughout the speech, Storm tried to peer into the clump of Finance Ministry officials to the side of the podium, to see if there were any women lingering among them, but his line of sight wasn’t the best. He saw none.

Then the speech concluded, and a press secretary burst out of the pack of Finance Ministry bureaucrats.

A female press secretary.

She glided up to the podium, her willowy body moving in long, effortless strides. She offered the finance minister a shy smile as she adjusted the microphone to her mouth.

“The finance minister will now take some questions,” she said in smooth French, then pointed to one of the journalists. “Yes, Mr. Eli Saslow of the Washington Post, go ahead.”

Storm watched, captivated, as the woman facilitated the press conference. Her flowing black hair cascaded with casual radiance down the back of her white blouse. Her dark eyes were set off by sculpted, high cheekbones. She switched easily between French, Mandarin, and American-accented English. She moved like raw silk floating on a gentle breeze.

“Who is she?” Storm whispered.

“I don’t know,” the agent upstairs answered. “I’ve never seen her before, and I’ve been working the Finance Ministry for months now. She’s a new actor. I do believe you may have found your mark.”

“Well, then,” he said. “It seems like Cleveland Detroit needs to do a little investigative reporting.”

As the press conference ended and the Finance Minister made his hasty exit, Storm stayed near the scrum of journalists still forming a semicircle around the podium, comparing notes and thoughts on what they had just heard. They mostly ignored Cleveland Detroit, who wasn’t part of their usual gang.

Storm didn’t care. His attention was centered on the woman in the white blouse. She was engaged in a series of one-on-one conversations with members of the Fourth Estate, perhaps taking interview requests. Storm waited until she dispatched their queries and appeared to be alone before he moved in.

She had an alluring smile, and Storm allowed his eyes a brief up-and-down of her outfit. The blouse flattered her slender torso. Her skirt was just long enough not to create an international incident if she decided to bend over.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m with Soy Trader Weekly. My name is Cleveland Detroit.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Detroit. I saw your name on the press pass list,” she said, then added: “It’s very unusual.”

“Mom was an Indians fan, Dad was a Tigers fan. Those are American baseball teams.”

“Of course,” she said. “Anyhow, how can I help you?”

Storm was prepared: “We’ve heard reports that due to above average rainfall in the Yangtze region, Chinese soybean exports are expected to rise one point seven four percent in the coming quarter. Do you have someone who might be able to comment on that and also talk about the potential impact on the soy futures market?”

“I might be able to connect you with our vice minister of agriculture. He will be able to give you the kind of” — she paused to come up with a polite phrase — “highly detailed information you seem to be seeking.”

“That would be most kind of you. And forgive me for getting so excited by the soybean. Economically, it is the world’s most important bean, you know.”

“I… I was unaware of that,” she said. Their bodies had drifted closer. In her heels, she was just a few inches shorter than he. Storm couldn’t help but notice their heights were well matched for dancing. Perhaps they could do a nice tango…

Focus, Storm. Or, rather: Focus, Detroit.

“I’d be happy to tell you more about the soybean,” he said. “Someone in your position ought to be aware about it, since it was your ancestors who first cultivated it some five thousand years ago.”

“Really?” she said, like he was telling her someone had discovered a new continent or was revealing the true nature of the atom.

They drifted even closer. He could feel the heat of her body. He had become acutely aware of her eyes and, more specifically, his desire to spend an entire evening swimming in them.

“Yes, it’s true. We in the United States are relative newcomers to the plant. We’ve only been at it for three hundred years or so. And even though we’re now the world’s largest producer of soy products, we owe a great debt to your country for introducing it to us. Would you like to hear about a Chinese-American I consider the Johnny Appleseed of the soybean? I’d be happy to tell you about it, Miss…”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself,” she said, making a business card materialize from he knew not where. She handed it to him. It was done in the Western style, with the first name first. It identified her as “Ling Xi Bang, Press Secretary, Ministry of Finance.”

“What an unusual last name,” he said. “Is it pronounced ‘Zi Bang’?”

“Actually, when Mandarin is Westernized, the ‘x’ is pronounced like ‘sh,’ ” she said. “So it’s ‘She Bang.’ ”

Storm only hoped she did not notice his Adam’s apple bob up and down from his gulping. “How… how interesting,” he said.

“Almost as interesting as the soybean,” she answered in a low purr. Their faces were nearly touching.

There was, of course, absolutely nothing interesting about it. And Storm knew that. He had to tread carefully. If she was a spy — as both the agent in Room 419 and Storm’s own intuition seemed to indicate — she would be feeling out him just as surely as he was feeling out her. If she knew he was also a spy…

But no. She couldn’t. Everything about Soy Trader Weekly’s Cleveland Detroit — from his press credentials to his website — had been meticulously constructed. There was no way she was onto him. He made his move.

“Ms. Xi Bang, forgive me for being forward, but as a journalist, I always try to tell the truth. And the truth is, I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“Can we have something made from soy?” she asked.

“Tofu?”

“Perfect.”

“I find it’s excellent when drizzled in soy sauce,” he said.

“Do you think we can find a bistro nearby that would serve it to us that way?”

“I happen to know of one. I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes.”

“Make it ten,” she said.

She smiled. He winked. She turned. Storm gave the button camera the sight of her shapely legs as she departed.

As soon as she was a safe distance away, Storm’s earpiece came to life. “Storm, did you really just seduce a beautiful woman by talking about soybeans?” the agent asked.

“Happens all the time,” he replied. “Just your typical story of soy meets girl.”

As Storm performed one last sweep of the Lobby, the agent in Room 419 told him that Jones’s people had confirmed what he already suspected: The name Ling Xi Bang did not appear in any of the Chinese Finance Ministry’s materials. She was, apparently, a press secretary who had never written any press releases.

“Is it possible she’s just a new employee?” Storm asked.

“Yes,” the agent said. “But it’s more possible her handlers didn’t do a very good job establishing her cover.”

“Sounds like she needs a job at Soy Trader Weekly.”

“Just be careful, Storm.”

“Right.”

“She can’t get the slightest clue of who you are. We lost an operative in Shanghai just last month to this sort of thing. The Chinese don’t play nice. The Geneva Convention is a running joke to them.”

“Right.”

“And, remember, because it’s so small, the effective range of the equipment you’re wearing is only two thousand feet,” the agent said.

“If you get in trouble, we’ll have people on the ground who can give you backup. But you have to stay in range.”

“Right.”

“There’s a French-Asian fusion place along the Champs Élysées that’s close enough,” the agent said. “They even have a grilled tofu dish on the menu.”

“Sounds perfect,” Storm said.

Then he ripped out the earpiece, microphone, and camera and deposited them in the nearest poubelle.

For the next minute or two, a passerby would have heard something that sounded like a trash can saying, “Storm… Storm, do you copy?… Storm, are you there?”

She had changed into a red dress with even less leg coverage than her skirt had offered. The neckline was a style the name of which Storm couldn’t quite remember. Did they call that a princess cut? A cupid cut? Whatever. Storm just called it delicious.

As she walked toward him past the concierge desk, every male eye in the room followed her. The Englishmen in the lobby had to do it surreptitiously, so their wives wouldn’t notice them gawking. The Americans were slightly more obvious. The Frenchmen didn’t bother hiding it at all.

Cleveland Detroit was silently cursing that he had to be Cleveland Detroit. Derrick Storm would have had his Hermès tuxedo newly pressed, his Gucci shoes polished to a high shine, his black Brooks Brothers bow tie crisply knotted.

Then he reminded himself that, no matter what anyone says to the contrary, it’s the man that makes the clothes. He rose from the chair he had been holding down and greeted her with a light peck on the cheek. The electricity he felt when his lips brushed her skin was enough to weaken his knees.

“You look incredible,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Shall we?” he said, offering her his arm.

She locked arms with him in a way that allowed him to briefly feel her body pressed against his. It left him with a powerful urge to make sure that wasn’t the last time he felt that particular sensation. “We shall,” she said.

As they strolled arm in arm out of the hotel, down toward the Seine, Storm allowed himself one more admiring glance, then started his subtle interrogation with seemingly harmless questions about her childhood.

It turned out that, unlike most of the employees in the Finance Ministry, she did not have an important father or other family connections. She was from a poor peasant family in rural Qinghai Province. The One-Child Policy was firmly in place at the time of her birth, and many families in her village drowned their infant daughters and waited on sons to arrive. Despite cultural biases against educating girls, she had managed to excel in school. When she recorded the best score in the entire province on the Chinese version of the SAT, she was invited to attend Peking University in Beijing. There, she finished at the top of her class. Her credentials had been so impressive that the Finance Ministry had been willing to overlook her gender.

“Your English is so flawless,” he said at one point — and could have added you must be a spy. Instead, he gave her an easy out: “You must have studied abroad.”

“I spent a semester at USC,” she said.

“Ah, the University of Spoiled Children,” Storm said. “I went to journalism school there. Which was your favorite pizza: Roma’s or Geno’s?”

“Roma’s,” she said quickly. “They had the best crust.”

And that’s when Derrick Storm knew that everything Ling Xi Bang had said to him was likely a lie. He had fabricated the names of the pizzerias. He was almost surprised she fell for such an easy ruse. She obviously hadn’t been well briefed.

No matter. He had found what he came to Paris to look for. That was the first objective. The second was to woo her into trusting acceptance. It was not necessarily that she was going to tell him anything. But if he got close to her, he might overhear a conversation, or sneak a glimpse into her briefcase, or arrange for her to “lose” her phone and secret it off to a CIA tech. There was always a way.

This, he knew, would involve some romance. Perhaps even physical contact. It was hard work, sure, but for the good of national security, Derrick Storm would make the sacrifice.

They found a small café a block in from the Seine. The evening was warm enough that they dined al fresco, allowing them to see the spires of the nearby Notre Dame illuminated against the night sky. He ordered a bottle of Domaine Viret and offered a toast to “our two great cultures.”

They touched glasses and began a free-ranging discussion. He talked about the chemistry that made glycine, found in abundance in soybeans, the best-tasting of the nonessential amino acids. She told stories from the finance minister’s trip to Indonesia, where she attended the ritual sacrifice of a water buffalo. They laughed. They lied. They drank wine in great volumes.

As they spoke, their legs kept brushing. She touched his arm and laughed when he told jokes. Through it all, there was a small part of Storm’s brain that remained wary. He knew he was not being as faithful to his cover story as he needed to be. Yes, he kept inserting details about soybean cultivation that he had gleaned from his crash course during the plane ride across the Atlantic. But she was getting too much Derrick Storm, not enough Cleveland Detroit.

He even told her the cupcake story. It was his sixth birthday, toward the end of the school year. He was just finishing up an otherwise wonderful time in full-day kindergarten. Except he had this lingering sense of dread. His teacher, Mrs. Taylor, kept a poster with everyone’s birthday on it. All school year long, he had watched as class mothers showed up after lunch on their child’s birthday with gorgeous platters of fresh-baked cupcakes. But he didn’t have a mom anymore. He had a dad who didn’t even know how to turn on an oven. He was sure his birthday was going to pass with no cupcakes. There was a hope, but… Mostly, he already could just taste the shame of being the only kid who didn’t have cupcakes on his birthday.

The big day came. Lunch came. Lunch went. Sure enough, no cupcakes. He was crushed. Then, just before recess, there was a knock on Mrs. Taylor’s door. And there was his old man, with a lopsided grin and the ugliest, sloppiest, most wonderful pile of cupcakes anyone had ever seen. He had not only overfilled the cups, he had put on twice as much frosting as the recipe called for. It made for a delicious mess. Everyone in Mrs. Taylor’s kindergarten agreed they were the best cupcakes of the year.

“I can tell you love your father very much,” Xi Bang said, patting his hand.

“In his own way, he was the best dad a kid could have,” Storm confirmed.

Storm was saved from further sentimentality when a wandering street musician with a violin set up shop nearby. His first song was “The Vienna Waltz,” one of Storm’s favorites. He couldn’t help himself. He swept Xi Bang up in his arms and satisfied his previous suspicion that they were more than suitable as dance partners — to say nothing of their potential ability to partner in other, more aerobic activities.

“This song,” he said as he twirled her across the sidewalk. “We’ll dance to it at our wedding.”

“Will we now?” she said. “Who says I don’t get to pick the song?”

“Because this one doesn’t need a full symphony. It sounds beautiful when played by a small string quartet. That way, we can keep the ceremony small and intimate. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” she said, burying her face in his chest. “Intimate is good.”

They danced some more, drank some more. When the check came, he told himself it was time to recover his wits. The walk home, he knew, would be the dangerous part. If she had sniffed out his lies the way he had hers, it would be easy to lead him into a trap. If Storm wasn’t careful, Chinese agents could easily kill him, dump his body, and turn Cleveland Detroit into a conundrum for French authorities.

And, sure enough, as they staggered drunkenly home, leaning on each other the whole way, he felt his internal alarm bells ringing as she dragged him into an alley. His body tensed. His eyes cast furiously about. He readied himself to fight. Or flee. Whichever seemed most appropriate.

Then she planted her lips on his and pressed her body tight against him, fairly slamming him into the wall of a brick building. It was around that time that Storm realized that the only people in the alley were two lovers, one American, one Chinese, bathed in Parisian moonlight.

“I’ve got a suite at the hotel all to myself,” she said when they surfaced for air. “Come back with me.”

He answered with another long kiss. And so it was that a suite at the Hotel de la Dame became witness to the collision of two great cultures.

The next thing Storm knew, his phone was ringing. It was morning. The other side of the bed was empty. It took him a moment to remember where he was and, more importantly, who he was.

Then it finally clicked in. He answered the phone with: “Cleveland Detroit.”

“Storm, it’s me,” said the rough-hewn voice of Jedediah Jones.

“Go ahead,” Storm said. Wherever Xi Bang was — the bathroom, perhaps? — she was likely out of earshot. But caution was still called for.

“We’ve got another dead banker missing a whole lot of fingernails,” Jones said. “Volkov has struck again.”

“Where?”

“London.”

“And?”

“You’re my nearest boots on the ground. Get over there. Check out the scene. Learn what you can learn about the victim. I’m arranging an escort for you to London.”

“E-mail details,” he said. “I’m on my way.”

“Just make sure you’re free of tails when you leave the city.”

“Got it,” he said, then turned off the phone.

Storm began collecting his clothes, which were strewn in various rooms of the suite. He already had a lie prepared for Xi Bang: He was being called to London for breaking soy-related news and would have to rejoin the Finance Ministry at some later time to finish his story.

He kept expecting he would find Xi Bang somewhere, perhaps reading the paper or sipping coffee. Perhaps there would even be time for a brief but rewarding reconnoitering of any territories that had been left unexplored the previous evening.

But she wasn’t in the sitting room. She wasn’t on the balcony. She wasn’t in the bathroom, either.

As Storm found the last of his clothing, he acknowledged what he should have known the moment he saw the empty bed:

Ling Xi Bang was gone.