Wall of Night

10

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.”

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.

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.

“Yep. Since he worked in the archives, though, none of it was current. It gave us a lot of general info on how the MSS and PSB run their in-country stuff, but since most of it was still coded, we didn’t get any nuts-and-bolts details. Plus, there was a lot of random stuff — bits that fit other puzzles, but not enough to build a picture — unless you know what some of the puzzle pieces look like, that is.”

“Which you do?” Dutcher asked.

“Yep. I accessed the database where Langley keeps Trahn’s dump, then ran a search using some of the dates and keywords from Ledger. They way I figured it, if Ledger hadn’t been burned by someone inside the network, you wouldn’t expect to see any of that info in the Guoanbu archives until after the network was rolled up. The only way they could have gotten the information was from the interrogation of agents, right?”

Tanner nodded. He had an idea where this was going, and he could feel his heart pumping a little harder. “Right.”

“Well, surprise: I turned up over four hundred references that match Ledger criteria.”

Cahil said; “So in plain English, the MSS was talking about Ledger before they rolled it up.”

“Long before. The first reference was just ten days after you got in-country, Briggs.”

My God, Tanner thought. Less than two weeks in, and they’d been onto him. He’d been certain he’d covered all the bases, but in truth the Guoanbu had been ahead of him every step of the way.

Dutcher said. “You know how lucky you are? By all rights, you shouldn’t have gotten out.”

Tanner managed a half-smile. “Glad I didn’t know that then. What about Genoa, Oaks?”

“That’s the kicker. You said everyone was arrested, right? No one got away?”

“No.”

“In all of the Guoanbu’s references to Ledger, the name Genoa doesn’t show up once. You met with him dozens of times, either in person or by brush pass, and he’s not mentioned once.”

“They didn’t have to; they already knew who he was.”

Oaken nodded. “You were right. Genoa was the double.”

“Too bad I didn’t figure it out twelve years ago.”

“There was no way you could have,” Dutcher said.

“I suppose. Okay, now that we know who we’re looking for, the question is, can you find him?”

“I’ll give it my best shot,” Oaken said.