The Case Officer (11 page)

“Absolutely. The point is you’re
using the methods I taught you, and your security is much better. Now, what are
you giving me here?” He folded the papers carefully and placed them in the
package with the purchases he had made earlier.

“You got two new
chung-fas
.
Number 19 and 23.”

MacMurphy knew that a
chung-fa
was a directive issued by the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party.
Some were closely guarded secrets, which received very limited distribution
among the Party elite, and some received much broader distribution among Party
members. Chou had provided the gist of several
chung-fas
in the past. Providing
them was a standing requirement.

“Are they sexy?” MacMurphy asked,
watching the Chinese man’s face.

“One sexy, one not so sexy.
Number 19 talk about agriculture production. You know, privatization,
decentralization, incentive, and all that new crap everybody talk about. No so
sexy. Everybody get copy. Maybe NCNA print whole damn thing in couple weeks. I
got plenty detail on that one for you, ayah? I know you like plenty detail,
ayah? You got five pages that one. Number 23 only one page, but very, very
sexy, I think. Only really big shots get that one, know what I mean? It very
limit. I not get much on number 23. They tell me nothing on that one.”

MacMurphy tensed and leaned
forward attentively. This was one of those moments all case officers cherished
– being the first to hear some highly classified information from a clandestine
source. “What’s it about? This sounds really promising.”

“Well, it call something like,”
he struggled with the translation, “Secret Help Iran Position.” He repeated it
in Mandarin Chinese and tried to convey the meaning in English. MacMurphy
nodded in understanding.

Chou continued to try to explain.
“That mean we gonna help Iran, but secret. You know, we gonna stick up for
those guys, but keep quiet about, ayah? Understand? Like secret help. I don’t
know. When you read you see. Your guys translate very good. They gonna get it,
no sweat.”

MacMurphy smiled. “Thanks, Chou.
They always appreciate the clarity of your reports. They’ll get it…”

“Anyway, like I say, very close
hold. I can’t get too much. I not on distribution list. Only big shots. And
nobody outside MSS. Only MSS big shots can read. Maybe ambassador, I don’t
know. I got to see title of Chung-fa on envelope on chief’s desk. Then I hear
him and Ma, you know, deputy Ma, talk about in Ma’s office. Ma allas talk too
loud. He is loudmouth sonofabitch. He shout alla time. Asshole....” The agent’s
voice rose as his personal feelings came to the fore, but he censored himself
abruptly, sighed, and shook his shoulders. He lapsed into silence, seeming to
reflect a bit, and then continued.

“Where I was? Oh yeah. So he
shouting something about we help Iran, then we get cheap oil. Ma say something
like: ‘What about embargo?’ Then chief say something, then Ma shout: ‘But what
we gonna do if UN find out?’ I don’t know what chief was saying.

“Oh yeah, almost forgot…Ma also
say something about 50 million Euros and Paris. That is lotta money, but maybe
that not related to rest of talk. I dunno. But I think so…”

“What do you think it means?”
MacMurphy leaned forward intently. He wanted to see if there was more
information to be had. This business about 50 million Euros certainly was
intriguing.

“You want me guess?”

“Of course I do. You know I value
your opinions. Just as long as you remember to differentiate between what you
see or hear or read, in other words, sourced information, and what you think
about it—your opinion. You know, we’ve talked about this many times before…”

“Yes, teacher,” Chou nodded, a
small smile playing across his lips. But it disappeared quickly as he
considered his answer to the question at hand. “I think it mean China and Iran
have some kind deal. Oil for some kind secret help. Iran in deep shit now. I
don’t think China can afford give open support Iran, but China need oil and
technology bad, and Iran already saying it willing to give oil, free, to third
world countries who willing break U.N. embargo to get it. And don’t forget Iran
buys lots and lots Chinese weapons, and lots of talk about nuclear
cooperations. Lots meetings on that. China need hard currency, and Iran always
pay in gold or green, ayah?”

“Makes sense.”

“You bet it make sense. Don’t
forget Chinese leadership just like whores, ayah? Just like French—they always
act in own damn self interest. Whores, all them...”

MacMurphy, the supposed French
journalist, nodded his agreement with Chou’s assessment of Mac’s alleged
homeland. “Anything else?” he prompted.    

“Only one thing. I don’t write it
because I don’t know if it relate.”

“What’s that?”

“I told you Ma say something
about Paris. Well, Huang Tsung-yao’s name is on summer transfer list. You know,
he been head of MSS covert action section, secret propaganda section, something
like that. He in Beijing long time, maybe ten years. Now he going to be station
chief Paris. He’s good guy. Very smart, straight-shooter type. He very
well-connected. But he had big trouble during Cultural Revolution and then
again someplace in Africa about ten years ago, and he not trusted by MSS ever
since. They give him real shit jobs in covert action section and can’t leave
country. But he real smart guy and still rise to top of covert action. Now I
guess everything okay again. Maybe his connections help him get rehabilitated
because Paris MSS chief of station is big job. Very important job. Everybody
happy for him. He really good guy, that Tsung-yao.”           

“Interesting.” MacMurphy’s mind
raced to put the facts together into some kind of order. “But... why do you
think there’s a connection?”

“Maybe no connection at all,
ayah? Maybe just coincidence. But Chung-fa say ‘secret action’ and our
number-one secret action guy going Paris make me think. I dunno, then 50
million Euros and Paris...I don’t know...maybe nothing....” His voice trailed
off and he shrugged, out of knowledge and out of further ideas.

“Hmmm…It’s definitely worth
looking into, anyway.” MacMurphy jotted notes furiously on his yellow pad. He
glanced at his watch. “Now I think we’d better break and let you get back to
your office.” He rose to signal that the meeting was over.

MacMurphy led Chou to the door.
The two men shook hands warmly. “Take care, little brother,” said Mac in
Mandarin Chinese.

“You too, older brother. See you
next time.” They embraced and Mac checked the hallway through the cracked door
and, seeing it clear, allowed Chou to slip out of the safehouse and down the
hall.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

M
acMurphy retraced his steps from
the safehouse back to Lindy’s restaurant in Kowloon. He hurried. As far as his
surveillants knew, he had been at lunch all this time. But he didn’t want to
push his luck. Also, in reality he had not eaten a thing, and his stomach was
beginning to protest that omission.

Cautiously he peered around for
any sign of Dopey, Grumpy, or Gimpy. After verifying that surveillance was not
at the rear entrance of the arcade, he slipped up the back way to the
restaurant.

As he approached the entrance to
Lindy’s he checked his watch and noted that exactly one hour and twenty-two
minutes had passed since he had left the arcade to see Chou. He decided ample
time had passed to persuade Dopey and the boys that he had had lunch, though
any more time would surely arouse suspicions. Opting to forgo what would have
had to be a
very
hasty sandwich, Mac instead beat it directly back to
the station.

He had exciting
information—intelligence and operational information—and he was anxious to get
it on the wire to Langley. And right now, that need overrode the needs of his
growling, empty stomach.

Thinking longingly of a stuffed
Reuben sandwich or perhaps a thick slice of meatloaf with a piled-high portion
of mashed potatoes and gravy, MacMurphy exited the building sucking on a
toothpick he had carried with him. As he turned toward Nathan Road, he spotted
Gimpy and Dopey—Grumpy would be up the road behind him—and, despite the fact
that his stomach was once again rumbling, belched visibly for added effect.

The Chinese are certainly ones to
appreciate orifice clearing—of all sorts
. The team trailed him all the way back to the
Consulate; Mac could have written their surveillance report for them.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

8
July 2004

Langley

T
he DDO’s office is located on the
seventh floor of the original CIA Headquarters building in Langley, Virginia. The
man sitting in the office at the moment was Edwin Rothmann.

Rothmann was a legend in the
Agency. A battered and scarred behemoth of a man, he looked like an overweight
linebacker or an out-of-shape body builder but possessed one of the finest
minds in the outfit.

The Agency was his life, and he
had held the DDO job, the head of the clandestine service, for almost as long
as MacMurphy had been a member of the Agency; nine action-packed years through
a series of revolving door DCIs. He was a CIA institution.

He sat behind a large table—he
hated desks, not enough room to spread out—reading his morning cable traffic
when MacMurphy was ushered into the office by Rothmann’s widely grinning
secretary. She had her arm around Mac’s waist as they stood together in the
doorway. “Look what I’ve got here, boss. Don’t know how he got here or where he
came from, but he says he’s got an appointment. Should I let him in?” She
turned and put her free arm across Mac’s body as if to bar his entry.

“Where did you find this clown?”
he bellowed at her. Then he hauled his great bulk around the table and
enveloped Mac in a smothering Russian bear hug. Mac, although a solid 175 pound
six-footer, looked like a child in Rothmann’s massive arms.

“How are you, boss? It’s good to
see you again,” said MacMurphy with genuine affection as he extricated himself
from Rothmann’s enthusiastic hug.

“Not too bad for a gray-haired
old man. And look at you, you’re getting up there yourself!” He tousled Mac’s
head of prematurely salt and pepper hair like a father to a son.

“Yeah, an old girlfriend used to
say it made me look very ‘extinguished,’ Mac replied ruefully, smoothing his
hair back into place.

Rothmann fondly knuckled Mac’s
scalp, clearly happy to see his protégé. “Come, sit down over here. We’ve got a
lot to talk about.”

They sat in comfortable leather
chairs around a coffee table in a corner of the spacious, seventh floor office.
The morning sun poured into the floor to ceiling windows of the room. Rothmann
adjusted the blinds to shade the sitting area. MacMurphy surveyed the walls and
was comforted being among the old warrior’s familiar mementos.

 He recognized the tattered Nazi
flag Rothmann had displayed in every office he had occupied since he was a
young case officer. And the French Communist Party poster that had once belonged
to “Danny the Red,” who led the student riots in Paris during the summer of
1968. The riots ended when French President DeGaulle threatened to shut down
all the gas stations in the country so the French couldn’t escape on their
annual summer vacations to the “midi,” the south of France.

His eyes moved over other
familiar souvenirs of silent cold war espionage engagements, and of more earthy
brawls and firefights fought in the jungles of Southeast Asia, and in the
terror capitals of the Middle East.

Rothmann watched MacMurphy scan
his treasures. He sat back, his mind bouncing from history to history, back
story to back story. Every one of these souvenirs represented something to
Rothmann, and he knew Mac was well familiar with many of the stories, too. Like
historians and scholars since time immemorial, he used these personal “war
stories” to instruct and inform younger officers of the pitfalls of being a
case officer for the CIA, and how to avoid falling into them. His deep, raspy
baritone voice added flavor to the stories, told with the style of a scout
master speaking at a campfire.

“Remember that one over there?”
he growled, indicating a poster depicting Chinese Peoples’ Liberation Army
troops inciting the masses to rise up against the capitalist running dog
imperialist Americans. It was framed in bamboo and rusty barbed wire and
displayed prominently at the far end of the room.

“Sure I do. You got that in
Udorn. My old stompin’ grounds…”

“Those were the good old days,”
rumbled Rothmann. He enjoyed his current position, but he missed the action of
times past.

“Yeah, and I’ll bet the nights
weren’t bad, either,” replied Mac with eyebrows raised.

The pair chatted animatedly a
while longer, and then Rothmann got quietly serious. He leaned over and laid a
heavy hand on Mac’s knee, “My boy, that report of yours caused quite a stir up
here. What do you make of these China/Iran shenanigans?”

“Well, I think the Chinese and
the Iranians have struck some sort of a clandestine deal—sounds like Iranian
oil in return for some sort of technical and covert support. They’ve been
dancing around for quite some time regarding nuclear cooperation as well, so
that may be part of it too. And my old friend Huang Tsung-yao is being sent to
Paris to help implement the thing in Europe, whatever it is. He’s their covert
action guru. Has been for many years. Makes sense, anyway.”

Rothmann settled back heavily
into his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “That’s what we think.
And we think Huang may be able to give us some of the answers we’re looking
for. We don’t know just how deeply China is involved, but we do know that Iran
is becoming more and more of a thorn in our side.

“They’ve resumed clandestine work
designed to enrich uranium, and they’re testing equipment and producing
hexafluoride gas.” Rothmann didn’t have to tell Mac that hexafluoride gas, when
injected into centrifuges and spun, can be enriched to make weapons. “They’ve
been getting hexafluoride gas from North Korea and maybe also from China. North
Korea had already supplied Libya with nearly two tons of uranium before they
gave up their nuclear program, and now that its market with Libya has dried
up—ever since Kadafi saw the light—we think they’re entering into clandestine
agreements with Iran for the same purpose.

“We know for a fact that Iran is
working to acquire nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons of mass
destruction, as well as to build an ever-larger arsenal of ballistic missiles.
And China, Russia, and North Korea are Iran’s leading suppliers. This
intelligence you’ve uncovered is a strong indication of China’s continuing hand
in all of this.

“But that’s not all.” Rothmann
shifted his heavy bulk and leaned closer to MacMurphy, who was absorbing every
word intently. “As you know, Iran has sent thousands of military, political,
and intelligence personnel into Iraq to stir up the Shi’ites there, and more
are arriving across the border every day. The Shi’ites make up more than sixty
percent of the population there, you know, and Iran has a billion-dollar covert
action program in place that is hugely successful in gaining their support, to
the detriment of our goals there.

“The Iranian covert action
strategy in Iraq since the overthrow of Saddam is to use coercion, ideology,
and buckets of money to take over the institutions of Shi’ite Islam in the
country. All of this runs directly counter to American objectives there. They’re
outspending us on covert action programs in Iraq, something I’m trying to turn
around, but not having much success at thus far. The sheer mention of “covert
action” these days makes those twinkies in congress cringe.” 

Rothmann stretched out a leg and
massaged a bum knee. “Furthermore, because China has had close relations with
the Iranian clerical regime for many years, Iran may have assistance from
China’s extensive covert intelligence resources as well. You can see where this
is all leading. The combination of Iranian and Chinese political, propaganda,
paramilitary, and covert action organizations working together could well
overwhelm the good intentions of those many Iraqis who, with our assistance,
hope to establish a stable constitutional government. We need to prevent the
possibility of post-Saddam Iraq coming under the control of Iranian-backed
Shi’ite extremists. That would be tragic. That would be a damn shame!

“You know this Huang fella pretty
well, don’t you?” Rothmann asked.

MacMurphy reflected before he
answered cautiously. “Well, in a way I did…ten years ago. We were in Addis
together. During my first overseas tour. We’re about the same age. Serving in
Ethiopia was no picnic in those days, so those of us on the dip circuit hung
out together. An all-in-the-same-boat kind of camaraderie developed among us.
The Tigreans were busy consolidating their power. We were afraid they would
repeat Mengistu’s terror campaigns to cleanse the country of the Amharas and
former Derg members. The country was a mess, but at least the terror campaigns
never occurred. The prisons were full, and a few of Mengistu’s closest allies
were tried and executed, but that was the extent of it.”