Wall of Night

8

Latham and Randall were met in the computer lab by one of the department’s experts, a young African American named James Washington. “You guys got here in a hurry,” he said.

“We’re hoping you’ve got something good for us,” Latham said.

“Yeah, I think so.”

James gestured to a pair of stools before a Formica counter on which sat Baker’s computer, a top-of-the-line Hewlett Packard tower attached to a twenty-one-inch Sony monitor.

“This case, it’s the Baker thing?” James asked. “The murdered guy from Commerce?”

“Right.”

“Well, either he’s a real computer geek, or he had some help. This system’s got some gnarly security programs attached.”

Latham chuckled. “By ‘gnarly,’ I assume you mean ‘superior’?”

“Right. Anyway, his system’s got all kinds of blocks on it — routines designed to keep the information from being backed up or routed to an exterior drive. Hell, if you even try to print the stuff without a password, the hard drive erases itself.”

“This isn’t stuff you can buy on the open market?” asked Randal.

“Like at Best Buy? No way. I’ll know more once I tear it apart, but none of it looks familiar to me. I think I found a way through it, but there’re no guarantees. If I’m wrong, the hard drive goes poof. Since it’s your case, I wanted you to make the call.”

“Gimme odds,” Latham said.

“Fifty-fifty.”

“Do it.”

The process was simple, James told them. The one contingency the security program could not guard against was regular system maintenance. Using a “slightly recoded” CD version of the computer’s native antivirus software — in this case, Norton — James initiated a scan of the hard drive. Recognizing this as a routine event, the security program didn’t interfere. However, instead of scanning files, proclaiming them clean, then passing them back to the drive, James’s version of Norton copied each scanned file and transferred it to the CD before returning it to the hard drive. Since the security program cared only whether files were sent to an output device, it did not intervene.

There was an electronic bong. James removed the CD and rebooted the system. “Now we see if we raised any alarms,” he said.

The desktop reappeared on the screen. James used the mouse to check the drive’s directory. He smiled. “We’re okay. Not even a hiccup.”

“Good job, James,” said Latham. “Let’s take a look at the CD.”

​Most of the data was useless — games, letters, recipes — but when they got to Baker’s money-management program, they struck pay dirt. “Holy cow,” said Randall. “Charlie, the balance in this checking account is almost three hundred grand. The account’s routing number looks odd, though.”

“Offshore probably,” Latham said. “Let’s see who he was paying.”

Randall clicked the mouse a few times to filter the account by payee. There were dozens of transactions, but one stood out. “WalPol Expeditions,” Randall murmured. “Here’s a check for eighty thousand … another for a hundred twenty.”

“How far back does it go?” asked Latham.

“Almost two years.”

Bingo, Charlie thought. Whoever or whatever WalPol was, the late Larry Baker had paid them almost 250,000 dollars in the last eighteen months.

Roger Brown had been expecting the order from Langley to arrange a face-to-face with Chang-Moh Bian. In the week it took them to make the decision, he’d made a decision of his own.

Brown believed in leading from the front, and he wasn’t about to ask one of his people to do something he wasn’t willing to do himself. Not to say he wasn’t apprehensive. Playing controller to an agent who is in turn playing intermediary for an already famous defector was a daunting task at best.

Bian’s “ballpoint message” had designated a marker drop that Brown could use to establish contact, which he did the following Sunday by strolling around the Forbidden City’s 250 acres while performing a string of identifiers: his coat held a certain way, a newspaper folded and left on a bench, tying his shoe near a fountain. He passed several uniformed and plainclothes PSB and PAP officers, but none paid him any attention.

After two hours of this pageantry, Brown returned to the bench beside the Golden Water Stream and sat down. Two minutes later he saw Bian enter the courtyard.

The man’s a wreck, Brown thought. Bian’s hands were visibly shaking. Trying to cover the movement with a camera, he stopped and looked behind him every few seconds. This is bad. Best case, Bian was simply scared; worst case, he was bait. The sooner Brown could distance himself from Bian the better. He was about to give the wave-off signal when Bian turned, walked directly to the bench, and sat down. “You came.”

Ah, shit. “You don’t look well.”

“I feel awful. My stomach—”

“Nerves.”

“I suppose.”

“You’ve got to relax. If you’re being watched, they’ve already got us. If you’re not being watched, then your jumpiness is going to get you caught. Me, too, for that matter.” Brown forced some humor into his voice: “I’ll tell ya, if I get thrown in prison, I’ll have hell to pay with my wife.”

“I’m sorry. I just … I’m …”

“I know. Just breathe. Enjoy the sun.”

After a few seconds, Bian’s posture eased. “Your people are interested in helping the general?”

“We are.”

“What about his conditions? He was adamant about the man he mentioned.”

“We’re working on it. First off, though, I have to ask you some questions.”

Brown spent fifteen minutes questioning Bian about himself: school, family, work, hobbies, and finally, his motivation for helping Soong. All the answers would later be dissected by the Intelligence Directorate, then compared to what they already knew about the man. If any inconsistencies appeared, the DO would have the option to either abort the operation, or order it forward with the knowledge that Bian may be damaged goods.

“Where is Soong right now?” Brown asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Pardon me?”

“He’s in a laogi somewhere to the north, but I don’t know its location.”

“Then how are you in contact with him?”

“I’m sorry, the general was very specific. I can only give those details to the man he asked for … this Tanner person.”

Alarms went off in Brown’s head. “That’s unacceptable.”

“I know.” Bian hesitated, started to speak, then stopped. “I …”

“What?”

“He’ll be angry I gave you this information.”

“Why? What information?”

“He desperately wants to get his family out of China with him.”

“We assumed that,” Brown said. “I don’t understand—”

“That’s why he wants Tanner to come here. Soong trusts him.”

“So?”

“So, I may know a simpler way. You may be able to get him out without setting foot in China.”

If not for the added conditions, tonight’s exercise would have been a simple one, something Master Chief Robert Jurens and his team of three SEALs had done dozens of times. In this case, the “added conditions” involved a guided missile frigate lobbing three-inch shells onto the beach they were trying to reconnoiter.

Known to fellow operators as “Sconi” because of his proud Wisconsin upbringing (one of the only black dairy farming families in the state, he was fond of telling people), Jurens was a rail-thin black man with a goatee and an easy smile. Jurens had been on the teams for fourteen years, having gone from a lowly seaman during BUD/s training to one of the youngest master chiefs in the navy. Since navy SpecWar ran on the merit system, he was frequently put in command of platoons, often over the heads of commissioned officers. No one complained. Jurens knew his business and he knew how to lead.

Tonight’s swim-in had been taxing, largely because the currents surrounding San Clemente Island were ferocious. In wartime they would have come here to map the shoals for obstacles, dangerous gradients, bed consistency — anything that might impede an amphibious force.

Through the murky water Jurens could hear the muffled whoosh-crump of the three-inch shells pounding the beach ahead of them. Very close, he thought. He could feel the impacts rumbling through the sand beneath him. Hope the fire-control boys are on their game tonight.

He reached out and gave the buddy-line a double tug, signaling the team to advance. His belly scraped the sand. As each wave crashed over his head and then receded he caught glimpses of sloped beach and—

Crump! A geyser of sand and flame erupted on the beach, then another.

Suddenly he saw a flicker of blue light in the corner of his eye. He rolled onto his back and poked his mask out of the water. High above, a flare arced into the sky, followed a moment later by a yellow. It was the “abort exercise” signal.

The other team members had also seen it, and one by one they waded ashore. Before anyone could ask questions, they heard the thump of helicopter rotors. A few seconds later a pair of strobe lights materialized out of the darkness. The helicopter — a Seahawk from the frigate, Jurens guessed — stopped in a hover over the beach, then landed in a storm of sand. The cabin door opened. The crewman inside pointed to Jurens and waved him over.

Jurens jogged over. “What’s up?” he shouted.

“Orders for you, Master Chief!”

“Now? We’re kinda in the middle of something, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’m just the messenger. They said now, so here we are.”

Jurens took the message and trotted away as the Seahawk lifted off behind him and disappeared into the night. He opened the message and started reading.

“Bad news, Skip?” asked Smitty.

“I guess that depends on how you feel about Alaska,” Sconi replied.

Three thousand miles to the east, a man to whom Sconi Bob Jurens would soon owe his life was also receiving a message. Commander Archie Kinsock, skipper of the USS Columbia, was standing in the sub’s Control Room when the radio-shack operator called on the intercom.

“Traffic for you, Skipper. Eyes only.”

“On my way.”

As Columbia was in port, only a skeleton crew remained aboard to perform housekeeping functions. Most of the crew was either on liberty or in one of Pearl’s BEQs, or Base Enlisted Quarters, whose rooms, though far from luxurious, certainly seemed so to submariners.

Kinsock walked forward, punched the cipher keypad on Radio’s door, and pushed through. “It’s on the printer, Skipper,” said the RM3.

“Thanks, Finn.” Kinsock tore off the sheet and read.

“Bad news, sir?”

“Huh?”

“You’re frowning.”

“First thing they taught us in CO school, Finn. Go grab yourself a cup of coffee, will ya?”

“Yes, sir.” Finn left.

Kinsock reached above his head, switched the intercom to the IMC, or the boat-wide public address, and keyed the handset. “XO to Radio.”

Jim McGregor, the boat’s executive officer, appeared a minute later. “What’s up, Skipper?”

“How many have we got ashore, Jim?”

“Eighty-two. Four on leave.”

“Get ’em all back here,” Kinsock said. “We’ve got a job.”