The Art of War

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jake Grafton had been calling Schulz’s office to report progress or the lack thereof in investigating the crash of Air Force One, as ordered. He never got through to the man and ended up talking to an EA. So after a day or so he just had one of his EAs call Schulz’s EA. Sunday morning he was summoned to the White House for lunch with Jurgen Schulz and the other heads of intelligence and law enforcement agencies.

He was getting dressed to take Callie to church — she wanted to go a couple of times a month — so she sent him to the bedroom to change from the slacks and sport coat he ordinarily wore to work and had donned this morning.

“Your new gray suit,” she said. “With a white shirt and your new purple tie.”

“Hey, this is a working lunch,” he protested.

“It’s after church.”

She had picked out the suit, which had been tailored to fit. He went and changed. After church the sedan with two bodyguards dropped Callie back at the condo and took Jake off to the White House.

He felt like the best-dressed man in the room when he greeted his colleagues and the secretary of Homeland Security, Lewis Warren. Sal Molina, wearing his usual sport coat from Sears, inspected Grafton’s suit closely. “Wish I could afford a rig like that,” he said.

“Eat your heart out.” Jake plopped down beside Molina and started looking at the paper piled in front of him.

The menu was soup and salad. The soup was pretty good, tomato with peppers, so Grafton caged another bowl from Molina, who didn’t want his. While he ate he looked the group over. All the usual suspects were there, Homeland Security, FBI, and a gaggle of staffers.

Plus Jurgen Schulz, of course. Schulz was a Harvard professor on sabbatical, loaning his brain and whatever it contained to the government to benefit his fellow Americans. Someday when the exigencies of politics pressed hard enough, presumably Schulz would go back to Harvard to teach a few classes a week to grad students and write a profitable big book about his adventures in Washington.

It was a working lunch, when meant they talked and ate at the same time. The big news came from the FBI man, Harry Estep, over the soup. A van had exploded in the Sea-Tac Airport long-term parking lot Saturday morning. One man dead. His teeth said he was a Russian. Some fingers were found with intact fingertips. More fingerprints came off his luggage, which was in the car. The prints had been sent to Interpol and Russian police authorities to see if someone could put a name, face and history to him.

“Who blew up the van?” someone who was not impressed asked.

“We don’t know,” Harry Estep said with his chin jutting a little. “We’re investigating.”

“What did they use?” the questioner persisted. It was a honcho from the NSA.

“Forensics says dynamite. American manufacture. Five or six sticks, at least.”

“I think the Post this morning had a story on the van.”

“I think so, too,” Estep shot back.

The pieces of the drone recovered in the field near the remains of Air Force One proved it to be a military drone, a Raven. None had been reported stolen, so the army was conducting an inventory. That would take several more days. Meanwhile, of course, the trail of whoever stole it and the controller was growing colder. Still, Estep said, when they knew where the drone came from, the people who had access to them would be given intense scrutiny. Vehicles were being traced, and people remembered people, but without hard descriptions or driver’s licenses with names, the going was slow. Denver-area motel and hotel records had been exhaustively checked, and possibilities were being eliminated one by one. The airport security guard who survived had been working with police artists to try to reconstruct the face of the man who shot him. Estep passed around the picture. It was so generic that it could have been anybody, Jake Grafton decided. About the only thing the witness was sure of was that the face he saw was clean-shaven and white. And the guy had a big gun.

This was all good solid police work, and in time a picture of what happened and a chronology might emerge. How much light it would shed on who and why remained to be seen.

Tommy Carmellini’s adventure the previous evening at Dulles Airport was not mentioned by Harry Estep. Jake Grafton knew the FBI knew about it, so he didn’t mention it either.

Vice Admiral Arlen Curry spoke for the intelligence community. NSA was mining telephone and Internet intercepts for clues. Another week would be needed, at least. Army and naval intelligence had no clues. Satellite surveillance had come up with a few photos of DIA at the time of the shootdown, but all they proved was that there was a van off the end of the duty runway that the president’s plane had passed over.

Schulz broke in. “Admiral Grafton, what about foreign plots?”

“We have found no connection yet to any nation or group, sir. Or course, we are still reviewing information from our sources. Two al Qaeda clerics, one in Iraq and one in Pakistan, have claimed responsibility, but they lack credibility. Their claims made them popular in their mosques for a few days, though.”

By the time they had finished their salads, the agenda of the meeting had been covered. Schulz kept them there for another twenty minutes firing questions. It was a waste of time, Grafton thought.

Schulz soldiered on. “People,” he said, “the lack of progress in this investigation is totally unacceptable. Answers are out there buried under some rock or other. Your job is to turn over rocks and find those answers. Use some brains and common sense to figure out which rocks to look under. Keep me informed three times a day.”

Then he got up from the table, and so did everyone else.

I have mixed emotions about Zurich. It’s a modern European city, very civilized, with substantial buildings and views of the Alps and a gorgeous lake. They have nice hotels with running water, ceramic conveniences, plentiful toilet paper and decent restaurants. Every year when I filled out a Company dream sheet of foreign places where I would like to be stationed, Switzerland was always number two, right under Paris. I don’t know why I bothered: I had never been sent anywhere I wanted to go, except Paris once, as an illegal.

If all there was to eternally neutral Switzerland was Swiss Army knives, expensive watches, ski towns and yodelers in the high meadows, no one would give the place much thought. But the Swiss long ago figured out how to profit from the troubles of others. They armor-plated banking secrecy, so Swiss banks were the place where Europe’s Jews deposited their wealth in the face of the Nazi holocaust, drug cartels and terrorists transferred money to and fro, and people from all over the globe hid their wealth to escape the local taxmen or unhappy soon-to-be ex-spouses or ex-partners.

Someone once observed that the Swiss banking industry was a state-sanctioned criminal conspiracy. In any event, the Swiss bankers’ passion for secrecy and flexible ethics had drawn the attention of most of the world’s intelligence services for many years and would probably continue to do so.

In light of all that, I was reasonably certain that Anna Modin was Janos Ilin’s spy in one of these Zurich strongholds. When I had known her several years back, she had just finished spying on a bank in Cairo that was used to finance Muslim terrorism. She convinced me she wasn’t SVR but was a volunteer agent for Janos Ilin, whom she thought one of the few true Russian patriots. Be that as it may, Ilin himself was in the beating heart of the beast. Currently he was the number two dude at the SVR, and I had no doubt that if tobacco or cutthroat politics didn’t kill him, one of these days he’d be the top dog.

I sat on a park bench in Zurich that early winter day watching the gray bank building where Anna Modin worked and thought about these things. And thought about Anna. Wondered how she thought about me. Did she miss me, regret that she walked away? I sure did. But like jilted lovers since the dawn of time who rejected suicide, I kept on living, and time scarred over the wound. Whole days went by, nights even, when I didn’t think of her.

Snow started falling, pushed by a chilly breeze. I snuggled deeper into my midcalf-length coat and arranged the wool scarf around my neck. The coat and scarf were new, as were the hat and gloves. This exterior outfit was purchased this morning so I would blend into the Swiss professional crowd. I kept my eyes moving. If anyone was watching me, I wanted to know it. My urban anonymity seemed to be intact. Even the pigeons ignored me.

Maybe Anna’s status as an unofficial spy was a distinction without a difference, considering the turmoil that has racked Russia repeatedly since Communism collapsed and the new ex-Communists swallowed capitalism whole. Spies are spies. I ought to know: I work for a spy agency. Believe me, in the spy business the right hand rarely knows what the left hand is doing. It’s also kinda tough at times figuring out who the good guys are.

Me, I was lucky. I had faith in Jake Grafton, who was as close to an American warrior-saint as I was ever likely to meet. I think Anna felt the same way about Ilin. Maybe what Anna and I had in common was the need to believe in something. Or someone.

That thought made me slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps I should take religious vows and join a monastery, if I could find one that didn’t do vows of chastity. Money I might possibly be able to live without, but not sex. Better yet, maybe I ought to be seeing a shrink on a regular basis. It might be informative to know what was actually happening inside my head, but I doubted if the shrink would tell me. They had their little secrets, just as I had mine. Not that I would ever tell them mine.

When the wage slaves began to dribble out of the money temple, I watched for Anna. Saw her, and my hard little heart gave an extra thump. I rose and followed.

Following someone through a city you don’t know well is iffy at best. If they jump a bus or taxi, you gotta be quick, and even then, if you don’t want your rabbit to burn you, it takes luck.

She queued up at a local bus stop, so I hoofed it back down the street and found a taxi. Got it, tried English on the driver, and he answered with a heavy German accent. The bus passed us, so I said, “Follow that bus.”

He was dubious. I got out a wad of Swiss francs and waved them, so he pulled up behind it. I saw Anna get on.

Away we went, slowly, stopping here and there on the way to a suburb. People got off, people got on. Anna stayed on the bus, so we stayed behind it.

“You follow someone, yes?”

“Yeah. I’m a spy.”

“Funny man.”

“A bag of laughs.”

“Why?”

“My wife is on the bus. I think she’s meeting another man.”

He nodded sagely. “Wives very…” After a bit he added, “How you say? Difficult?”

“Yeah.”

I figured we had gone about three miles when Anna got off in an area of high-rise apartment buildings. I paid off the cabbie, gave him a nice tip and got out when she was a block ahead of me.

She never looked behind her. Either she didn’t think anyone was following her or she didn’t care. The entrance was a glass door with rows of names and buttons on the right side. There she was. Anna Modin, 6E. I was tempted to push the button, but stood there thinking about it. If she lived with someone, he or she might be there, and Grafton had been emphatic that no one was to see us together. At some point paranoia becomes a way of life if you are a spy. I suppose that’s good life insurance, even if it doesn’t do much for your personal or love life. On the other hand, hers was the only name on the flat.

It was a chance I refused to take. I wasn’t going to be the one who blew her cover or put her life in jeopardy. I strolled away.

The next morning I was out front when Anna exited the building. I watched her walk to the bus stop. Even though I was about fifty yards away I had no doubt it was her. I knew her figure and walk. A knot of people gathered there, four from her building. Others exited and headed for cars, or stood on the sidewalk until people picked them up.

The bus came along, and Anna and her building mates climbed aboard.

I went to the entrance of Anna’s building and waited. In a moment a woman came out. I caught the door and entered. Let the door close behind me.

There was no desk, so no receptionist or doorman. All self-service. Other people came down in the elevator.

I entered the stairwell and climbed up to the sixth floor, being careful to remember than in Europe, the first floor is the one above the main floor. Seated myself in the stairwell and waited. Thought about Anna. Tried to figure out how I felt about her. Gave up, finally, and felt sorry for both of us.

At ten o’clock I figured that anyone who lived with Anna was out if they were going out, so I went out onto the floor and found 6E.

Knocked. Loudly. No answer.

Got out my picks and went to work on the lock. It took about a minute for me to open it. No one came into the hallway while I was working. Nothing could be simpler. Actually, I felt like an idiot. I would have had the lock in twenty seconds if I hadn’t been so clumsy. My mind wasn’t on the job, which is a big no-no in this business. People who don’t pay attention get arrested a lot or wake up dead.

I opened the door, completing the crime. I made sure it shut behind me. Once inside, I scanned the place, saw that I was in a small living room with a television, sound system and closet. I walked on, checking every room. One bedroom with a closet, a bathroom with a tub, a small kitchen with dining nook. That was it. From the evidence, only one person lived there.

I shed the coat and gloves and got busy searching. I was only interested in whatever she might have hidden that she didn’t want found, so merely scanned the cupboards, small refrigerator and closets. Everything else I gave my full attention.

I know how to search a place, and I did it right. Putting everything back as it was made the job last longer, but I had all day. She had no photos of anyone, which I thought was kinda sad. Not a parent, child or man. No one. No letters from anyone. A few books were among her few personal possessions. A Bible in Russian and one in German. I carefully went through her clothes closet and dresser. Even went through the trash.

Two hours later I was convinced there was nothing hidden in the apartment. I scanned the fridge, decided that nothing there looked appetizing and settled on a package of freeze-dried soup in the cupboard. Just add water and bring to a boil, then serve.

There was a half-full bottle of Italian red wine with a cork stuck in it that I appropriated. I poured myself a full glass and sipped it while I waited for the soup to warm.

Wondered how Anna spent her evenings and weekends. I hadn’t even seen a crossword puzzle or library book. She had some CDs to listen to, and maybe she watched television some.

After I had the soup, I sat in her most comfortable chair and worked on the wine. Felt as if I were invading her privacy, looking at a corner of an empty life that she wouldn’t want me to see, if she had a choice. I felt sad. Wanted to leave, but didn’t. I had a job to do, too.

Was I still in love with Anna? I thought not. Time doesn’t just heal wounds; it kills passion.

When Sarah Houston showed up for her first day of work at the CIA, before she did the usual checking-in things, including forms and photos and fingerprints, she was escorted straight to Jake Grafton’s office.

“Hey, Sarah. Sit down, please.”

She looked around distractedly, taking in the wall-to-wall carpet, the flags, the paintings on the wall, then settled into a chair.

“Admiral,” she said.

“Thanks for coming to work here. We really need your help.”

“As if I had a choice.”

She didn’t, of course. Her real name was Zelda Hudson. She had once been involved in the theft of a nuclear-powered attack submarine. Grafton had laid hands on her, actually saved her from her co-conspirators, and she had been convicted of numerous felonies. Later, Grafton had sprung her from the clutches of the federal prison system with a presidential order and could get her sent back with a telephone call. None of that would appear in the agency’s personnel records.

“After a bit,” he said, “I’ll have one of the EAs take you down to personnel for all the usual forms, photos, fingerprints and so forth. They’ll give you an ID and access to some of our computer systems. We’ll skip the polygraph exam. I would appreciate it if you stayed in character, from this moment on, as Sarah Houston, federal wage slave.”

She grunted, which was about what Grafton expected. Houston was one heck of a hacker and data miner. If you wanted a computer genius of the first order of magnitude, you wanted Sarah Houston. If you wanted nice, you needed to keep on looking.

The admiral handed her the file that contained the memo on Chinese hacking of the U.S. Navy’s operational schedules. He waited until she read it, including Mario Tomazic’s handwritten margin comments.

“That is your first assignment,” he said. “I want to know everything you can discover about what the Chinese have seen, what they know, what they don’t know. Anything. Everything.”

“You’re going to give me access to the navy’s computers?”

“Heck no. Hack your way in.”

“What if I get caught?”

“Don’t get caught.”

“Okay.”

“Then I want you to hack into the Chinese navy’s computers. I want to read their stuff.”

“The Chinese have an entire organization engaged in computer espionage and counterespionage,” Sarah Houston objected. “Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, thousands of really smart people. There’s just one of me.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one I’ve got.”

She stared into those cold gray eyes, which stared right back, unblinking, pinning her. Finally she lowered her eyes and said, “Terrific.”

“As of today you are on my staff. We’ll get you an office and all the rest of it, and you settle in and get after it. I would like a report as soon as you get your bearings.”

She took a deep breath and nodded. Put the file back on the desk.

Grafton buzzed the receptionist. “Send Anastasia Roberts in, please.”

He introduced the two women, told Roberts to take Houston to personnel. Then he stood and stuck his hand out at Houston. “Welcome aboard.”

She took it, and her lips twisted as she tried to smile. “Thank you, Admiral.”

Out in the hallway Roberts asked, “Is this the first time you’ve met Admiral Grafton?”

“No,” Sarah Houston said without emotion. “We go back a ways.”

“He’s very nice to work for,” Roberts opined.

Houston snorted silently. Anastasia Roberts obviously had never seen Jake Grafton in action. She didn’t bother to reply.

Roberts dropped the subject, and started into the trivia of how one worked for an agency where everything everyone did was a deep secret. Apparently Roberts didn’t know Houston had just come from the NSA, an equally mysterious bureaucracy, and Sarah didn’t make an effort to enlighten her. Roberts had no need to know.

The sun had set and the twilight was about gone when I heard the key in the door. I was sitting in darkness in a chair with my back to a window.

The door swung open and Anna Modin stepped in. She closed the door, locked it, then turned around and saw me. In the dim light coming through the windows, she apparently couldn’t recognize me.

She didn’t panic. Didn’t say a word. Merely reached for the wall switch and turned on the light.

“Hello, Anna.”

She put a hand on the wall to steady herself. “Tommy?”

“Yep.” I stood and stepped toward her.

“My God,” she whispered, and wrapped her arms around me. Put her head on my shoulder.

I hugged her fiercely. That’s when I knew: I still loved her.

We were sitting in the darkness of Anna’s apartment, with only the lights from the street coming in, as we sipped the last of the red wine. Rain began streaking the window. There was so much to ask, and yet, no real place to start. We did long silences.

“How did you find me?” she finally asked.

“The CIA found you. Somehow. Jake Grafton sent me here with a message for you to pass to Ilin. Are you still in communication with him?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I need to talk to him.”

“He’s not yet in Switzerland.”

“When?”

“The day after tomorrow, I think.”

I smiled.

“Oh, Tommy. I—” She stopped abruptly, rose from her chair and went to the bathroom. After a while she came back. In the subdued light it was hard to tell, but I thought she might have been crying.

She started back for the chair, but I reached for her and pulled her down to the couch beside me. Her presence was a tangible thing. I held her hand. It was warm and firm. And it clung tightly to mine.

After a while she said, “Are you hungry?”

“We can eat something here,” I said. “Grafton didn’t want us to be seen together.”

She grimaced. “No. No! No! I refuse! We will go out. To a restaurant with light and music and laughter. We will eat a fine dinner and drink champagne. I am tired of wasting my life sitting in this…” She gestured. “This prison.”

I wasn’t going to argue. She rose from the couch, picked up her purse and said, “Come.”

The rain had changed to snow when we exited her building. We walked the streets holding hands as the flakes came fast and thick. Her shoulder kept bumping into mine. She smiled. Her eyes were bright and glistening, and snowflakes melted on her eyelashes. She held my right hand for a while, then switched sides and held my left.

The restaurant was gay. Bright lights and a four-piece jazz band. We got a table in a corner away from the band where we could talk without shouting. I ordered a bottle of French champagne, and we sipped it, talking about little things. I let my eyes roam around occasionally, scrutinizing the patrons at the other tables. After a while we ordered.

Before our food came she went to the ladies’. Took her purse. While she was gone, I checked out the other patrons of the restaurant again. Looked over the waitstaff. Anna was known here, apparently a regular patron. If someone was keeping tabs on her, this was the place.

So I looked. Got out of sorts a little. In our line of work, it was impossible to ever take a day off. Caution became ingrained. And I was disobeying Grafton, which wasn’t a thing to be taken lightly.

When she returned, as she walked between the tables she glanced around, taking people in, looking for familiar faces. It was a habit. Finally she sat and said, with her hand in front of her mouth, “I left a message in a drop.”

“Okay.”

“It may be more than a few days.”

I shrugged. Grafton said to see Ilin, and I fully intended to obey that order. “If I don’t get home before Christmas,” I told her, “I’ll send Grafton a postcard. ‘Having a wonderful time. Glad you aren’t here.’”

She laughed. I had always liked her laugh. “Maybe he’ll fire you,” she murmured.

“Then I won’t ever have to go home.”

We lingered over dinner, listened to jazz and sipped champagne and drank calvados afterward. I charged the meal to American taxpayers.

We walked back to her place through the snow, which was at least an inch deep. I glanced behind us occasionally for tails. We didn’t have anyone following us on foot that I could see.

I said, “I have a hotel room. I don’t want to compromise your cover.”

She didn’t say a word. Just gripped my hand tighter.

When I got her home she pulled me into her apartment and locked the door. She brushed the snow from my hair and eyebrows, ran her fingers along my cheeks. I helped her out of her coat and scarf. Her cheeks were warm and her eyes shining. Her lips were cool.

We began shedding clothes on the way to the bedroom.

She went to sleep in my arms. I held her, listening to her breathe, and thought about things. About Anna Modin and Tommy Carmellini and spies and nations and all kinds of stuff. I was thinking about the two of us when I drifted off.

On Willoughby Spit rain beat on the window and wind howled through the half-inch gap between the sill and the sash. Lieutenant Commander Zhang sat in a chair near the window in his room looking out into the darkness of Hampton Roads, watching the lights of a ship move slowly from left to right. She was apparently heading for the mouth of Chesapeake Bay and the open sea beyond. On this stormy night.

He knew that this curved arm of sand sticking out into the bay, Willoughby Spit, had been formed over the centuries, millennia probably, by the action of the surf and the wind. Grains of sand were moved and dropped, one by one.

Zhang pulled the blanket around his shoulders and opened his laptop. Automatically he checked the battery. Fully charged. He had downloaded the algorithm, and now he opened the program and looked at it. He would need a few pieces of computer hardware, which he had been told were available in any computer store. Now all he needed was a boat. One with a typical civilian radar.

He closed the laptop and automatically caressed it. He felt the chill of that early winter wind. The thought that this was probably his last winter occurred to him. Less than four weeks now. Twenty-seven or — eight days, then nothing.

Zhang didn’t believe in an afterlife. No man knows anything from the time before his birth. We come from nothing and go back to the same state when life is over. Death is not a tragedy, not a disaster, but the natural order of things. After life, rest.

Unlike all these people in the Norfolk — Hampton Roads area, about a million and a half of them, Zhang was the only one who knew death was coming … twenty-seven or — eight days from now. Oh, we all know we are mortal, but even if we are fatally ill the death moment is unknown. The evil day is somewhere out there in the unpredictable, unknowable, amorphous future, someplace else, when we are older, when life is at low ebb, when our children’s children are adults. Someday … when we are more ready.

He again felt the chill. Finally he turned out the light beside him and sat in the darkness listening to the rain’s steady beat on the window glass … and the wind.