War of Eagles

FORTY-ONE

In Chou Shin’s business, two days was a long time.

The head of the Guoanbu lay on the thin cot in the situation room. He was dressed in a silk robe, a fan blowing on his desk. For the second night in a row he did not go home to his wife, their daughter and son-in-law, and their grandchild. Chou Shin missed the little one. He missed the boy’s innocent eyes and gracious smile. He even missed the sincerity of his tears.

His world had been flat and silent since the explosion at the Taipei nightclub. There had been no response to the blast from General Tam Li. The absolute silence alarmed Chou Shin even more than the odd intelligence reports he was receiving about unusual troop allocations along the eastern coast. Surely Tam Li had more than the Durban counterattack prepared. The general had allies in the military, men who would do anything for a price and do it quickly. And he was not the sort of man to back down or allow an insult to go unanswered.

Perhaps Tam Li was waiting for a shot at the enemy himself. That was why Chou Shin did not want to go home. If he were to be the next target, Chou Shin did not want his family to be hurt. He did not think Tam Li would attack his family directly. That would be dishonorable.

The intelligence officer looked at his watch. In less than twelve hours he would be in Xichang alongside General Tam Li and the prime minister. Maybe the general was waiting until after the launch. A successful mission would elevate Tam Li in the eyes of the military. Perhaps he was holding out for retaliation that was less dramatic but far more effective: a high political post.

No doubt it would be the position Chou Shin wanted for himself, the prime ministership. An effective prime minister ran the country. While the president and vice president were concerned with foreign affairs, the prime minister could make deals with ministers and representatives. He could control banking, communications, utilities, even the military. With his access to information, Chou Shin could woo or blackmail anyone he wanted — provided he had a clear path to a new job. Otherwise, he was just a wooing, blackmailing intelligence chief. That was something that would appeal to Tam Li but not to Chou Shin. The director of the Guoanbu wanted power for Communist China, not for himself.

Chou Shin was outraged that he should have to fight for that. The battle was fought decades before, and won. Tam Li was a traitor.

There were two things Chou Shin did not do well. One of them was to operate in an intelligence vacuum. Information about everyone and everything was out there. If the data were not in his possession, there was something he or his people were doing wrong. The other thing Chou Shin did not do well was wait. The two attacks he had organized were designed to spur an instant overreaction from Tam Li. He did not understand why that had not happened. For Chou Shin that was a double failure: an intelligence vacuum and having to wait.

The intelligence officer rose from the cot. He lit a cigarette and paced the bare tile floor of the basement office. An aide had once warned Chou Shin that this was a dangerous place, a room with just one way out. That was all right with the director. It also had just one way in. He had several handguns and automatic weapons in a locker at the head of the bed, along with a gas mask and rations for five days. It would be difficult for anyone to get to him through the iron door.

It was a spartan room, with bare walls painted green and just a few hanging lightbulbs. There were no electronics down here, and the furniture was sparse. It was a place where strategy and intelligence could be discussed in absolute secrecy. Hiding a bug or Web camera in here would be virtually impossible. Only Chou Shin and two trusted aides had access to the room. During the heyday of Mao Tse-tung, the basement was an interrogation room used to “reorient” dissidents. Their broken spirits gave the place a spiritual character the director could feel. Now and then Chou Shin would take a sketch pad and charcoal from the desk and draw. He sketched images in his mind, odd shapes or scratched shadows that were the outlines of shapes. Sometimes he would look at them and try to figure out what they were, as though they were windows to his subconscious. They were like inkblots to him. And it was only fitting. Others had been interrogated here. Why not himself?

Mao himself had come down here often in the early days of the regime. He did not question prisoners himself. Most of his enemies wanted to stand proud in his eyes, to show him that the opposition had heroes as well. Mao would come down, speak to one of the interrogators without looking at the prisoner, then leave. His disinterest suggested to the captive that he was not important, that his information was unnecessary. Few men were willing to die for a trivial contribution to a cause.

Chou Shin did not know if the spirit of Mao were here, but that thought always energized him. It gave him direction and purpose. And as Chou Shin paced the room he wondered if it might have given him something else.

An idea.

Chou Shin had walked out on Tam Li the last time they were together. That had not produced information or further communication. How would the general react if Chou Shin reversed himself now? Would he welcome a chance to talk, or would he be guarded? There was one way to find out.

The intelligence director went to the telephone on the desk. There was just one line. The only other items on the desk were a notepad and several pencils, a pitcher of water, and a glass.

Chou Shin called his nighttime assistant and asked him to locate Tam Li. Since the general was going to the launch, he was probably in Beijing or already at the site. The director was surprised to find that he was at neither place.

“According to the command roster he is in Zhuhai,” his aide reported.

“What is the explanation?”

“The log line says that he is monitoring the current movement of Taiwanese forces, sir.”

“Why? Taipei always fields assets prior to our launches,” Chou Shin said. “He never watches those.”

“The roster entry does not say, sir.”

“Call over. Find out his schedule for the rest of the week.”

“Yes, sir,” the aide replied.

Chou Shin placed the phone in its cradle. Over the past year there had been eleven Chinese missile launches. Each of them had triggered a response from Taiwan. The intelligence community had individuals inside the Taiwanese military who monitored these movements. They were officers whom Mao had sent to the island as young men, soldiers who masqueraded as firebrand separatists. Now they, or their sons, were deeply entrenched in key areas of the enemy military. If Taiwan were going to move against China, Chou Shin would know about it.

These troop movements were deemed presentational, designed to show the world that Taiwan knew what was happening across the strait. Chou Shin had seen nothing unusual in the daily intelligence briefings.

The aide rang back.

“Sir, the general’s office says he will be flying directly to the launch from the base,” the aide reported.

“Why is he there now?” Chou Shin asked.

“They do not say, sir.”

“Put me through to his office,” the intelligence director demanded.

“At once, sir.”

Chou Shin stood beside the desk. He tapped his right foot impatiently. Ordinarily, Tam Li’s whereabouts would not be on anyone’s radar. Even if they were, most members of the government would accept the explanation that the general was visiting the base to check on possible outside military action against the rocket carrying his payload. But Tam Li did not need to be present to do that. And there were the reports of scattered troop and asset relocations to China’s eastern coast. Perhaps the rotation was routine. But what if it was not?

“General’s office, Captain Feng Lin—”

“This is Director Chou Shin of the Ministry of State Security. Please put the general on the line.”

“I will let him know you are calling,” the captain said.

There was a considerable loss of face for Chou Shin to go to the general, and also to be kept waiting. But all information cost something. Especially if that intelligence was worth having.

The captain got back on the phone. “Sir, the general would like to return your call at a more convenient time.”

“When would that be?” Chou Shin asked.

“The general did not share that information with me, sir.”

“Do you know if Tam Li is still going to the launch tomorrow?”

“It is still on his calendar, sir,” the captain replied.

“What arrangements have been made for his transportation?”

“I do not have that information, sir,” the captain said. “Shall I connect you with the transportation office?”

“No, thank you, Captain,” Chou Shin said. “And it will not be necessary for the general to phone.”

“I will tell him, sir.”

Chou Shin pressed a finger on the bar to disconnect the call. Sometimes the absence of information was enlightening, like the negative space that defined one of his silhouettes.

Tam Li had to be curious why his rival was calling. Yet the general did not want to speak with him. That suggested he was more afraid of answering questions than of learning the reason for the call. The only question he would be afraid to answer would be why he was at the base.

Chou Shin raised his finger. He called his aide.

“I want immediate air transportation to Zhuhai,” the intelligence director said.

“I will arrange it, sir.”

“This is a Code Six internal investigation,” Chou Shin added. “I want two armed officers to accompany me. Have the aircraft wait for a return trip to Xichang. Also, call the transportation office at the base. I want to know what arrangements have been made for General Tam Li’s trip to Xichang.”

“At once.”

“I want hourly updates on the status of that aircraft, even if it is just sitting on the field.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chou Shin hung up. He had a feeling that something was happening at the base, something more than just watching the Taiwanese go through the motions of selfdefense. He wanted to know what Tam Li was doing.

If the general were overseeing standard operations, they would both go to the launch, and nothing would be said. But if the general were planning something — perhaps a retaliation for the Taipei attack — Chou Shin intended to stop him.

The Guoanbu had the power and authority to investigate the use of military resources for any and all actions. That fell under the jurisdiction of what the intelligence community called “exposure”: whenever troops or hardware were moved, the enemy was presumed to be watching. It was the job of the Guoanbu to minimize their acquisition of useful information. Chou Shin would not hesitate to invoke those powers.

Indeed, it would be his pleasure.