Wall of Night

7

“So it’s official,” said Owens. “We can start worrying.”

“Yep,” replied Latham. “We’ve got at least two, maybe more, Guoanbu operatives out there. We’re gonna have to be careful with the media.”

“They’re treating it like a murder-suicide. Until you’re done that’s going to be our party line.”

“Good. Maybe these sons-of-bitches will let down their guard.”

“Maybe. You doing okay with this?”

“Yeah. It’s just … Christ, what they did to that family.”

“I know. You said two operatives. Why two?”

“Part deduction, part instinct. We know they gained entry at the kitchen door because one of the glass panes had been tapped out. I’m guessing they’d probably been watching the house, waiting for the lights to go out before moving.

“Once they were inside, they went to the master bedroom, woke Baker and his wife, then took him into another room and held him there. The second intruder rounded up the family and gathered them in the master bedroom, where they were tied up. Once done, Baker was taken in to see them.”

“Why?”

“To show him his family’s in jeopardy. To show him there’s nothing he can do about it. Here’s where it gets sketchy, but I think it fits: Baker is taken away again. They question him for a while, get nowhere, then start describing what they’re going to do to his family. He still balks. One of them takes him away again, this time in his car. They drive to Rock Creek Park.”

“Before his family is killed?”

“Right. It’s unlikely he would’ve been able to drive after seeing that. Once parked at Rock Creek, the intruder places a call to the Baker home.”

“We’ve checked—”

“One incoming call at eleven-forty. It was from a cell phone; lasted seven minutes. We tracked the phone; it was stolen from a woman’s car at a Bethesda shopping mall the day before the murder. We narrowed down the location to a cell that encompasses all of Rock Creek and about a mile beyond.”

“Why make the call?”

“So Baker can listen to his family being tortured.”

Owens’s face went pale. “Jesus.”

“At this point, Baker’s already been told what will happen to his family. His imagination is working overtime. He’s cut off from them, helpless, forced to listen as the other intruder works on them … It would be devastating. A couple minutes of that and even the toughest SOB would talk.”

“About what, though? What did he have they wanted? That’s the big question.”

“Exactly. So, hearing his wife and children screaming, Baker breaks. He tells the intruder everything he knows, or at least enough that the intruder is convinced they’ve wrung him out.

“Now, this is another guess, but at this point the intruder probably tells Baker it’s all over, that his family will be released. Baker relaxes, lets down his guard. The intruder reaches over, puts the gun under Baker’s chin, and pulls the trigger.”

Owens picked it up: “Then, as arranged, the second intruder kills the wife and kids, then leaves the house and picks up his partner.”

Latham nodded. The scenario contained a fair number of leaps, but it felt right.

“Where now?” Owens asked. As if on cue, his phone rang. He punched the speaker button. It was Randall: “Quantico’s working with Baker’s computer. They want us over there right away.”

“Something good?” Latham asked.

“Depends on how you define ‘good.’”

Vladimir Bulganin was in one of his moods, Nochenko realized.

Bulganin stood up from his desk, clasped his hands behind his back, and strode to the window. He parted the curtains and peered out. A shaft of sunlight fell on Bulganin’s face, and he lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes as though seeing something on the horizon.

Where are the cameras when you need them? Nochenko thought.

Bulganin looked like something out of a Cold War propaganda poster. All that was missing was a giant red sickle and hammer looming over his head. The stalwart Russian proletariat, a peasant thrust into service by the needs of the Motherland …

Nochenko couldn’t decide if these dramatic posturings of Bulganin’s were genuine or an affectation. It didn’t matter, really. Whatever the truth, Bulganin knew how to work a crowd — and that was why he was going to be the next president of the Federation.

“What’s wrong, Vladimir?” asked Nochenko. “You seem troubled.”

“You saw what happened last night. It was a debacle!”

The previous night’s speech in Gorky Park had drawn nearly twenty thousand people. The cheers and applause had been thunderous. With each passing day more voters swung their way. Soon their momentum would be unstoppable.

“I don’t understand,” Nochenko said. “The speech was a rousing success.”

“Yes, the speech was fine. I’m talking about the press conference. You were there, you saw!”

“What—”

“The questions! Those reporters … like dogs nipping at my heels. Always with details: gross domestic product, agricultural output, manufacturing infrastructure … Where’s their vision?”

“Vlad, that’s their job.”

“A country’s greatness is built on vision, not details,” Bulganin continued as though Nochenko hadn’t spoken. “When the Motherland called, I did not ask questions, I obeyed.”

Straight from Joseph Stalin’s handbook, Nochenko thought. Bulganin was not only an admirer of the old ways, but of the old leaders as well, especially Koba Stalin. It was an idiosyncrasy Nochenko preferred the public did not see; luckily, his pupil had thus far cooperated.

“Vladimir, we’ve discussed this,” Nochenko said. “As bothersome as it is, the media is powerful. It can shape the opinions of voters we can’t reach—”

“Ah! But don’t you see? The people who cast the votes decide nothing. The people who count the votes decide everything.”

Another damned Stalinism. “Perhaps long ago, but not anymore. The Federation is—”

“Russia, Ivan. They can dress up the name as they wish, but to true patriots it will always be Russia. The Motherland.”

“Yes, of course.”

Bulganin’s eyes narrowed. “You say the words, friend, but sometimes I wonder if you believe them. Do you, Ivan? Do you believe?”

Nochenko stared into Bulganin’s inscrutable eyes and again marveled at the man’s charisma; he could almost feel the power radiating from Bulganin like a wave. Another page from Koba’s playbook: An implacable gaze always enfeebles the blustering coward … There was only one response that would satisfy Bulganin when he got like this.

“You dare ask me that?” Nochenko snapped. “I served the Motherland! I toiled in her factories before you were born. Be very careful when you question my patriotism, Vladimir!”

There was a long silence as the two men stared at one another. Finally Bulganin’s face cracked into a beaming smile. He clapped Nochenko on the arms. “There! That’s what I like! Some fire from my compatriot! Well spoken, Ivan!”

Bulganin spun on his heel and strode back to his desk. “Back to work. We have much to do!”

Mason’s summons to the Oval Office had come directly from Bousikaris. When Mason arrived, the chairman of the joint chiefs, General Chuck Cathermeier, was already there. “You, too?”

“Yeah. Any clue?”

“None.”

The secretary’s phone buzzed. “General Cathermeier, Director Mason, you can go in.”

They found President Martin seated behind his desk, Bousikaris at his shoulder. Sitting in one of the chairs before Martin’s desk was Tom Redmond, the director of the Defense Intelligence Agency.

Interesting, thought Mason. Redmond was a recent political appointee, one of many Martin had brought aboard after his inauguration. As far as Mason was concerned, Redmond had about as much business running the DIA as a chimp had flying the space shuttle.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” Martin said. “We have a situation. Go ahead, Howard.”

“Director Redmond has uncovered some information regarding the sale of chemical weapons.”

“Uncovered how?” Mason asked.

“HUMINT,” answered Redmond, referring to human intelligence — eyeballs on the ground.

“Whose?”

“Ours.”

Crap, Mason thought. The DIA’s mandate did not include developing human assets. Redmond was either lying or he was spreading his wings. Either way, Mason was wary. It was no secret that Martin didn’t much care for him, and the DCI recognized a knee shot when he saw it.

“What kind of agent?”

Bousikaris answered: “A stringer. One of yours from long ago, in fact: a Kashmiri named Sunil Dhar. He was approached about seven months ago by a broker for the Japanese Red Army. They were looking for some sarin nerve gas and knew Dhar had contacts in the Russian black arms market.”

“By contacts, I assume you mean former military,” said Cathermeier.

“Correct; Dhar hasn’t given up a name, but it’s probably someone in the rocket forces.”

It took all of Mason’s discipline to hold his tongue. A DIA controller handling a former CIA agent, who’s brokering a deal for a terrorist group … None of it fit.

“We’re aware of Dhar,” Mason said. “We’ve never taken any of his product at face value; he likes playing both ends against the middle. Without corroboration, I’d be skeptical of his information.”

Martin smiled. “Dick, I know it stings a little that you missed this, but nobody’s blaming—”

“Mr. President, with all due respect—”

“This is a team effort, Dick. Don’t forget that.”

“Sir, I’m not concerned about saving face. Sunil Dhar is—”

Bousikaris said, “We feel Dhar’s information is solid. Now that we’re aware of the problem, we need solutions. To that end, Director Redmond came up with a plan. Tom, if you would.”

“According to Dhar, his contact will have the sarin at the delivery point within the next seventeen to twenty days,” said Redmond. “He’ll have a more exact time as it nears.”

“That’s where we’ll need your help, Dick,” Bousikaris said. “We want you to coordinate with the DIA and make sure this is the real deal.”

“Where’s the delivery point?” asked Cathermeier.

“Russia. The Bay of Vrangel, the port of Nakhodka-Vostochny. The cargo is to be transferred to a ship called the Nahrut. Once the cargo’s aboard, the ship will be heading for Rumoi, Japan.”

Martin said, “That ship cannot be allowed to leave port.”

Suddenly Mason realized where this was going. “Why not take it while it’s at sea? Board the ship, secure the cargo, detain Dhar and his crew.”

“Too risky,” said Bousikaris. “More to the point, the Russian’s have been playing fast and loose too long with their weapons of mass destruction. It’s time to send them a message.”

“By sinking a ship in the middle of the Bay of Vrangel? It’s an act of war, Howard.”

“The target ship will be of Liberian registry. The Russian government won’t—”

“They won’t Care if it’s a rubber dinghy. If we attack it in Russian waters, they’ll retaliate.”

President Martin broke in. “They can’t retaliate if they have no proof. The plan Tom has developed will get the job done without leaving any footprints.”

Tom Redmond couldn’t plan a sandwich, Mason wanted to say, but the spook inside him told him to shut up and listen. “Okay,” he said, “Let’s hear it.”

Redmond spoke for ten minutes, outlining the plan from start to finish.

Cathermeier asked, “Who do you plan to put on the ground?”

Redmond told him. “It would be a small team. Four to six men.”

“Insertion method?”

“Submarine.”

There were a few seconds of silence as Cathermeier considered the plan. Finally he said, “Good plan, wrong scenario.”

“That’s a political issue,” Bousikaris said. “Let us worry about that.”

“You’re talking about putting armed men onto the soil of another country,” said Cathermeier. “Doing that under any circumstances is dicey, but doing it with shaky intel is—”

“General, what we need to know from you is, can you put it together? Is it feasible?”

“I need to run it by my J-3—”

“No. We’re keeping the loop tight on the operation. What’s your answer, General?”

“It’s feasible, but I have to tell you, I have serious misgivings about this.”

Mason said, “As do I.”

“Goddamnit!” Martin roared. “What—”

Bousikaris stepped forward, placed a restraining hand on Martin’s shoulder, and said, “Gentlemen, you’re cautiousness is appreciated, but the time for debate is over. Your commander-in-chief has given an order. If you can’t carry it out, say so now.”

The gauntlet was down, Mason realized. Whatever was happening here, it was serious enough that Martin was willing to end careers to get it done. Cathermeier would obey because he was duty bound to do so. As for himself, if he refused to go along, he’d be out, and while that in itself didn’t bother Mason, he wanted to know what Martin was up to. To do that, he had to stay.

“Mr. President, I’ve voiced my objections. That said, you give the order, I’ll do my part.”

Martin nodded, then looked to Cathermeier. “General?”

Cathermeier shrugged. “I’ll start the ball rolling.”

Tanner found Oaken in his office. Lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filing cabinets, a map wall, and three computer workstations, this was Oaken’s second home, a fact to which his wife, Beverly, would readily attest.

Oblivious to Tanner’s entrance, Oaken reclined in his chair doodling on a yellow legal pad.

“Let me guess,” Tanner said, leaning on the doorjamb, “You’re planning an expedition to K2.”

Oaken looked up. “Huh?”

“Everest?”

“Very funny.”

Of the thousands of interests that occupied Oaken’s mind, outdoor adventure was not one of them. The closest he’d come to the wilderness in the past six months was watching Wild Kingdom reruns. “That Marlon Perkins guy has the right idea,” he’d told Tanner. “Letting that Jim guy do all the work. He doesn’t even wear shoes, did you know that? Talk about unsanitary …” From there the discussion had deteriorated into his musings about tetanus boosters and parasitic infections.

For all Oaken’s quirks and for their dissimilarities, Tanner considered himself lucky to not only have Walt on his side, but to also count him as a friend.

“Algebra,” Oaken replied. “Polynomials, sequences … It helps me clear my head.”

“Algebra helps you clear your head.”

“It’s concrete. The answer’s either right or wrong. It’s … refreshing. So, what’s up?”

“I’m wondering if you’re up to a little research project.”

Oaken’s eyes twinkled. “Have you ever known me not to be? What’s the topic?”

“Double agents.”

Since hearing about Soong’s contact, Tanner had been looking at Ledger with fresh eyes. Of the dozens of things that might have caused its failure, he kept returning to the same theory: Someone in his network had been either a double or an informant.

He’d spent much of his time in Beijing running counter-surveillance — following Soong before and after meetings, watching dead drops, staking out meeting places, setting up wave-off locations — Anything and everything that might force the hands of Guoanbu watchers. Nothing ever came of it.

That led him to two conclusions: One, Soong had in fact been under surveillance and he’d missed it; or two, someone was feeding the opposition, making surveillance unnecessary. Tanner realized there’d been only one agent in his network who could have given the Guoanbu that kind of information. Known only by his code name, Genoa had been what’s called a “block cutout.”

Unlike a “chain cutout”—a go-between who knows only the agent who recruited him — a block cutout knows not only the names of all the agents, but their meeting spots and dead drops as well. Moreover, Genoa had been a colleague of Soong’s. In his excitement, had Soong told Genoa the time and place of his final meeting with Tanner?

It would explain much. How else was the Guoanbu able to roll up the entire network so efficiently? How else could they have covered the meeting place and escape routes so well?

Design meant planning, Briggs knew, and planning meant foreknowledge.

“What happened to Genoa?” Oaken asked after Tanner finished explaining his theory.

“He disappeared like the others. Problem is, that’s an easy ruse. Plus, by that time, my picture was plastered all over the city; I was on the run.”

“Is it possible you missed something in your countersurveillance?”

“It’s possible, I knew it was going to be a weak spot. Beijing was — still is — crawling with PSB and PAP officers. All it would have taken was one slipup on an agent’s part and the whole thing would have unraveled.”

Oaken nodded. “I think your theory is solid. Didn’t the CIA already check it out, though?”

“Not until a year after it happened. It might be worth another look.”

“True … What’s all this about, Briggs? Curiosity or something more?”

“If I’m right about Genoa, and he’s still alive, and he’s still active—”

“That’s a lot of ‘ifs.’”

“If all those things are true, maybe we can use him.”

Oaken smiled. “Assuming Mason is going to send you back in.”

“Right.” Send me or not, I’m going back. “What do you say? Want to give it try?”

Oaken chuckled. “Find one man amid a billion Chinese, who may or may not have been a double agent, who we only know by a code name? Damn right I want to give it try.”