President Denis looked to Herman. “These things break apart
and re-enter the atmosphere fairly often, don’t they?”
“Correct,” Herman agreed.
“Actually, they typically don’t tumble from a stabilized
low-earth orbit,” McBurney said. “And in this case, ninety minutes after being
launched. That’s one full orbit.”
Herman scowled. “So just all of a sudden, poof—it was gone?
Here’s the problem with the direction you’ve taken this, Sam. You delve into
matters of urgency to the president, and emerge claiming an Iranian-backed
attack in the nation’s capital sheds light on some unrelated China matter.”
“They’re not unrelated.”
“Not only are they completely unrelated, it looks like
you’re fishing for theories to explain away an intelligence deficiency.”
McBurney closed the briefing on the coffee table. “NORAD
reported detecting this event, along with independent verification by Fort
Mead.”
“Maybe some sort of self-destruct?” the President
conjectured. His eyes focused beyond McBurney for the clock on the fireplace
mantle.
“That’s possible,” McBurney allowed. “We don’t think so. In
fact we don’t believe the satellite broke up at all.” From the corner of his
eye McBurney saw Tom Herman’s head swivel his way. “Closer examination suggests
that the Chinese may have employed sophisticated stealth technology, probably
to conceal from us its tasking to a different orbit.”
The President studied McBurney. “You’re saying it
intentionally disappeared?”
“We think we’ve detected a stealth capability which could
only be intended—”
“This defies every estimate drafted by us or our allies
regarding Chinese state-of-the-art,” Herman said while cutting off McBurney. “They
have not developed the ability to mask their satellites from detection—I mean,
we’re talking infra-red as well as microwave spectrums. That’s difficult even
for our own spysats, isn’t that right? Assuming the PRC could even muster the
tech, why put stealth on a communications satellite? No, it’s got to be some
sort of reconnaissance error.”
Howard Denis stood from his chair. He glanced briefly
through the windows overlooking the South Lawn before turning to cut a stare at
the dinner guest profiles open on his desk. He jabbed his finger on the
briefing folder. “Can you corroborate any of this? You must have additional
clues—technology shipments, signals intelligence, that sort of thing.”
Director Burns nodded. “Take for instance the alleged
break-up. There should have been a burst of signals traffic between Xichang
Launch Complex and their tracking ships, if in fact something had gone wrong. Instead—”
“There was nothing,” the President said, nodding his
understanding. “Have we heard anything out of London or Paris?”
“
TASS
published a blurb reporting that a field of
debris had been briefly detected where the satellite should be.”
“And?”
“It’s noteworthy that the Soviets published a similar
statement way back before the first Gulf War. We had cloaked one of our spysats
to conceal the fact we were re-tasking it to different latitudes. Anyway, for now
we’ve decided against approaching anyone with our suspicion.”
“I’m sorry, Lester.” Herman shook his head. “How do we know
there’s not a glitch with our own equipment?”
“Three different surveillance platforms detected this,”
McBurney reminded him.
“Then your imagery analysis could be flawed.”
Burns had warned McBurney before the briefing to expect
resistance on the China factor. McBurney said to Herman, “Half the engineering
doctorates awarded in America go to Chinese. These people aren’t stupid.”
“So maybe you need to hire a few. Imagery analysis? That’s
asking for quite the leap of faith, especially as we’re hearing it from an
operations guy. The event you refer to could just be some electronic anomaly or
something.”
Director Burns lifted his eyebrows. “So, you’d feel better
with something to support the imagery analysis?”
“I insist on it.”
“Maybe, some sort of field intelligence?”
“The more, the better!”
McBurney managed not to smile. He removed a single document
from inside his briefcase, his knee popping audibly to all as he rose stiffly
from the sofa and presented it to President Denis, who averted his eyes from
the dinner guest profiles.
“What’s this?”
“Sir, we’ve prepared a finding,” McBurney replied while
returning to the sofa, “that will allow us to extract a respected physicist in
China’s aerospace industry, a man with decades of access to classified
information.” McBurney went on to explain the nature of the defection,
embellishing as little as possible so as not to reveal either the defector’s
identity or that of their principal Beijing source—a female agent working
inside the Ministry of Public Security. The CIA had approached the man on two
prior occasions to become an agent-in-place, offering him significant money to
do so. His bona fides were internally confirmed. This time the physicist
approached another agent of the CIA on his own, and expressed his desire to
defect—with the stipulation that a family member accompany him to receive
Western medical treatment for a rare and terminal disease.
“A defection?” The President looked up from the single
sheet of paper in his hands, his glance severe as it danced across the three
other faces in the room. “Nobody’s really explained what you think this
satellite is, and yet here you are waving this...this illegal act in front of
my nose. I also think I’m entitled to more than some bland assurance of an
‘internal confirmation.’ ”
McBurney leaned forward and clasped his hands, elbows
resting on his knees. “We have a very reliable source. I’d rather not say, sir,
unless you insist.”
Denis returned his eyes to the document, which spelled out
the basis for covert action on foreign soil and required his prior approval.
“We really don’t need to know that,” Herman said in rare
agreement with McBurney.
“Okay, but I need to understand what we think they might be
up to.”
“Difficult to say until we know more about the satellite,”
Burns replied matter-of-factly. “We certainly have some idea what motivates
them. We know for instance that Beijing is feeling pinched; there are all these
signs that their economic growth has at long last stagnated amid fiscal debt
much higher than they admit. Civil strife over the premier’s privatization
drive is not letting up. As always with their regime it’s difficult to know
whether their nationalistic bellowing about foreign hegemony is just that, or a
ruse to keep Taiwan off-balance. And the wild card in all this is the internal
politics governing succession, which must be as intense as they are impossible
for outsiders to read. If that weren’t enough, they’re still wrapped in debate
over how to posture themselves for our impending deployment of missile
defense.”
“Lester…?” President Denis held his palms flat on the desk,
his face giving the impression that just below the tan layer of skin lurked the
urge to smile. “I’d sure like to know what relevance you’re trying to attach to
this phantom satellite of yours.”
The Director of Central Intelligence hesitated, as if
unsure himself—McBurney had the impression now of an exchange going on at some
level that he was destined not to be privy to. “Given the evidence, it’s
conceivable this satellite is a weapon intended to defeat our national missile
defenses. But that’s pure conjecture until we know more.”
“I suppose you’ve got a clever codename for this file?”
Herman asked.
McBurney said, “Orion.”
“Oh, please. Hunter in the sky?” Herman snickered and shook
his head. “What do the Chinese call it?”
“Well, have you ever heard of something the Chinese used to
call the Third Line?” Director Burns replied.
President Denis smiled. “Sounds like it could be any number
of things.”
“Actually, Mr. President, this is a very specific thing,”
McBurney said. “They assigned the name to an ambitious military industrial
initiative spearheaded by Mao in the 1950’s. This scientist we’re talking about
claims to have special knowledge of a current program they refer to as the
Fourth
Line
.”
“At the heart of your suspicion is some Chinese penchant
for numerology?” Herman looked from McBurney to the DCI and then back to
McBurney. “We have God knows how many Iranian terrorists at large, to which you
say, ‘Our second largest trading partner might have somehow violated every
major arms treaty on the books!’ ”
The President leveled his gaze on Herman. “But Tom—we need
to be careful here. We can’t allow them to pull the wool over our eyes. Can
we?”
Herman seemed to consider that but didn’t reply.
President Denis said to McBurney, “You say this physicist
needs access to medical help for a member of his family. Do you know the nature
of the illness?”
Herman was still having no part of it. “Mr. President,
Congress will have a field day with this. You provoke Beijing on the one hand
and try to cut a deal on the other. I can think of a dozen senators who will
eat you alive.”
McBurney wondered what deal Herman referred to when he
recalled that the President was once a licensed physician. “We understand the
family member is terminally ill with a rare form of liver cancer. This
individual could live for months or just as easily die tomorrow.” The latter
actually might have created the opportunity to generate more ongoing
intelligence product, an option which the veteran case officer had given
serious thought.
There was a knock on the door and the President’s chief of
staff entered the Oval Office. “Mr. President, the Chinese embassy motorcade.”
Denis nodded and his aide disappeared back through the
doorway. The room fell prey to a minute or so of anxious paper shuffling. McBurney
caught the President glancing his way.
“All right,” said President Denis as he rose and rounded
his desk. He held out the finding document for McBurney. “Re-write this. Make
it sound like a humanitarian mission to save the life of a Chinese dissident,
or something like that. Make no mention of our interest in the man’s scientific
knowledge. Then I’ll sign it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Director Burns quickly replied, unsure
exactly what it was they had just been given permission to do.
7
TWO DAYS LATER
,
Lester Burns closed McBurney’s top-secret folder before sliding it back across
his desk to its author. “I spoke to Herman later that evening. He accused us of
sham intelligence work. He’s convinced the lynchpin of your espionage scenario
is still only a garden-variety terrorist.”
“Well...he’s not entirely wrong.”
“He all but threatened to advise the President to revoke
approval of your finding.”
McBurney noted the Director’s use of the word ‘your.’ “With
Ahmadi dead, Herman’s safely positioned himself in case things go south.”
Director Burns smiled. “You won’t let that happen, of
course. And you have to stop goading poor Herman. He’s obviously in over his
head.”
“Poor Herman? Who can’t think of a time poor Herman played
loose with the facts?”
Burns lurched for a box of tissue and sneezed. “Aw, damn,
excuse me. Didn’t Mohammad Ahmadi have ties to that sheik fellow, the one who
helped put the Shiites in power in Lebanon?”
“Sheikh Ibrahim al-Amin led Hezbollah resistance in the
early eighties. Ahmadi was sent there to be his advisor.”
“So, it is plausible Herman’s right in that Ahmadi had a
handle on two Holocaust terrorists.”
“I never said he was wrong. In fact, it would be dishonest
not to acknowledge at least some discrepancy in all this.”
“In what way?”
“I was more than half serious with that swipe I took at
Herman for buying into Ahmadi’s conflicting mindsets of terrorism and
espionage. Even I could more readily see something like drug trafficking and
terrorism, where our profilers tell me there’s more synergy. But…” He hiked up
his shoulders. “I’m more interested in the flip side of Herman’s coin, Ahmadi’s
discussion with Senator Milner on missile defense. The FBI’s sitting on information
about their conversation, I’m sure of it, but they deny it exists. How’s that
for Homeland Security teamwork?”
“Let me guess.” A spark of recognition glistened in Burns’s
eyes. “The FBI told you their superiors won’t allow you access because of its
sensitivity to domestic issues—meaning politics.”
“I suppose there’s a perverse sort of logic in trying to
protect a U.S. senator. In any case, the finding will let us pick up where the
Ahmadi file ends.”
“When do you leave?”
“I fly to Bangkok on Monday.”
“The President just signed the finding. That gives us two months
before filling in Congress—he’s bound to be edgy about it.”
“Our plan calls for extracting Zhao and his wife next
Friday. I feel good about the advance work being done.”
“Good. Make sure it’s a story with a happy ending.”
They stood and Burns extended his massive hand over the
coffee table. “Sam, now hear me on this: No stunts. No heroics. No diplomatic
crises. No splashy headlines.”
“Stunts, me? No, sir.”
Burns released his grip. “Call me if you get into a jam—oh,
almost forgot to tell you. I did push Herman regarding our need to coordinate
with the FBI on their follow-up to this Ahmadi/Prouty investigation. I said
that we can’t allow the agency to get blindsided again on espionage matters.”
“What did he say?”
“He actually agreed. We then both agreed that a good place
to start is for you to participate in the President’s Joint-Counter Terror Task
Force.”