Wall of Night

9

“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.”

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.”