“Not this alone, but in combination with what we’ve announced with Iran—”
Li turned to Xu, the committee’s nominal leader, subtly cutting Zhang out of the discussion. “General Secretary, what do you think?”
Li knew that in asking Xu, he was taking a chance. Xu might cut him down, say that he too was worried by the American response. But Xu had smiled and nodded throughout his presentation. Li thought the old man wanted a little excitement. And maybe Xu was tired of having Zhang order him around.
Now Xu nodded. “I think . . . Comrade Li is correct. So far the American hegemonists have done nothing but talk. And I think it’s time we taught the Americans a lesson. It’s no longer up to them to control who has the special weapons.”
“Are you certain, General Secretary?” Zhang said. “At our breakfast this morning, you expressed concerns about whether a fight with the Americans might hurt our economy.”
Zhang had just blundered, Li thought. Like all old lions, Xu hated to be embarrassed publicly. Sure enough, Xu swiped Zhang down.
“I’ve expressed my opinion. Comrade Li has done a fine job. And trade isn’t the only measure of national pride, Comrade Zhang.”
“Thank you, General Secretary,” Li said. “Now, there’s something else. Besides help with the special weapons, the Iranians have asked us to provide delivery systems.”
“Missiles? No.” Zhang sat up in his chair. “This is madness. We have too many problems at home to invite more anger from America. Our economy is too uncertain.”
“How strange, Minister Zhang,” Li said. “All these months you’ve told us our economy is a glorious and strong wall. Did the wall fall down while none of us were looking?”
“Of course not. But—” Zhang stopped, trying to figure out how to explain the contradiction in a way that wouldn’t sound foolish.
“We don’t have to do anything. It’s enough that the Americans know that we’re considering the request, that they haven’t frightened us.”
Xu stepped in. “Minister Li, please continue your discussions with the Iranians. Let’s make sure the American hegemonists know that their ships won’t stop us from acting in the interest of the Chinese people.”
“Thank you, General Secretary.” Li smiled. Across the table, Zhang’s black eyes flashed with anger, and something else. He knew he was losing control, Li thought. Of course, desperation could make Zhang more dangerous. But it might also lead him to make mistakes, like his effort to browbeat Xu. Either way, the fear in Zhang’s eyes told Li that he was on the verge of success.
25
THE MOLE SET HIS ALARM FOR 5:15,
wanting to be sure he’d make his meeting with George in plenty of time. But when he opened his eyes in the blackness, Janice snoring lightly beside him, the radio’s display told him it was 3:47 A.M. Insomnia had its advantages. Tonight he’d woken like a spring uncoiling, immediately clear-headed, though he’d been asleep three hours at most.
He ran his hand down Janice’s back, resting his fingers on her soft, fleshy ass. She turned sideways, shifted one leg forward and the other back, an unconscious invitation. Before he could wake her, he pulled his hand away. His marital duties would have to wait. She grumbled softly but didn’t wake.
In the basement he collected his Smith & Wesson, slipping the revolver into a little shoulder holster. Fortunately the morning was cool, so he could wear a windbreaker without attracting attention. He’d never fully trusted the Chinese, and part of him worried that they would shuck him now that the heat was on.
He shaved in the basement bathroom, nicking himself under his chin. The cut didn’t hurt, but blood covered his neck, matching his bloodshot eyes. He dabbed at the cut with toilet paper until finally the blood stopped flowing. Then he lifted the bathroom mirror off the wall and spun the dials on the black safe behind it until the heavy steel door clicked open.
For the last couple of weeks, he’d pulled cash out of his bank accounts, $2,000 or so a day. Now he had $45,000 in the safe, neatly organized into blocks of hundreds and twenties, along with two Rolex watches and loose diamonds in a little Tupperware box. He riffed through the cash, then stacked it in two plastic Priority Mail envelopes.
In another envelope were two passports, one American, one Canadian, both very good quality. He’d picked them up in Panama a couple of years ago. Ten thousand dollars went a long way down there. Now he flipped through them carefully, checking the laminated photographs, examining the tiny hexagonal holographs on the American passport. For the Canadian, he’d dyed his hair black and worn glasses. The dye and glasses were in the safe too.
Real as they looked, the passports wouldn’t get him into the United States, not anymore, not with the new scanners that the Department of Homeland Security was using. But they’d be good enough to get him out, to Mexico or Jamaica or some other third-world hothouse with soft borders and no visa rules. And getting out was what counted. If he left, he wouldn’t be back anytime soon.
THE MOON WAS STILL GLOWING
in the sky when the mole reached Wakefield Park. As far as he could tell, he was the only creature moving. Even the deer and the raccoons were asleep. It was 4:45 A.M. The sun wouldn’t rise for another hour. Under his windbreaker, his .357 itched in its holster and he had a mad urge to pop off a couple of rounds in the dark.
He sat on a stump by the granite outcropping where he would meet George. Then he reconsidered and walked up the hill behind the rock to a stand of beech trees. He pushed between the trees and settled himself behind a low hummock of dirt. From here he could glimpse the outcropping without being seen by anyone below. If everything looked fine when George showed up, he would brush himself off, stroll down the hill, and say hi. If not . . . well, they’d have to find him.
As he waited, his consciousness drifted. Suddenly he was in the Washington Hilton with Evie, the stripper. She smirked at him as she propped herself upside down against the hotel room’s door, naked, spreading her legs—
He bit his lip to stay awake. 5:25. Dammit. He’d been snoozing for half an hour. Ironic that after these months of insomnia he was overwhelmingly tired, just when he most needed to be awake. He heard birds waking, the first faint chirps of the morning.
Then something else. Footsteps moving north from the park’s main entrance. He waited. The footsteps crackled closer. Then he spotted the men. Two, both Chinese. He’d never seen either one. The first was small, wearing binoculars around his neck, like some kind of birdwatcher. The second man was tall and thick, a bodyguard type, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. The mole was suddenly conscious of his pulse thumping through his head,
whoosh-whoosh, whoosh-whoosh.
Who were these men? Where was George?
The men reached the big granite outcropping. The first man raised his hands to his eyes—the park was still too dark for the binoculars to be useful—and slowly scanned the hill where the mole was hidden. He seemed to be talking to the other man, though from this distance the mole couldn’t make out what he was saying. Then he pointed up the hill.
Step by step, the big Chinese closed in on the beech stand where the mole was hiding. The mole wished he could burrow into the dirt. Then the big man turned right, cutting over the hill, disappearing. The mole waited to be sure he was gone, then reached across his body to draw his S&W out of his shoulder holster. With the gun free, he lay down again and waited.
The man below leaned against a rock, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, and lit one up. He smoked quietly, the tip of his cigarette glowing in the darkness. When he was done, he stubbed the cigarette onto the sole of his shoe and dropped the burned-out butt back into the pack he carried. Trying not to leave evidence of his presence, the mole thought.
The minutes ticked by. As 6:00 A.M. approached, the man stood up. “Mr. T?” he said. He whistled into the darkness. “Mr. T?”
From his spot in the trees, the mole wondered if the Chinese planned to shoot him this morning. They had to know that if they killed him they would never be able to recruit anyone else. The CIA would broadcast this story to the world, so that any potential agent would know how the Chinese treated their spies. But then where was George this morning? And why bring two men? Nothing made sense.
At 6:10, the temperature was rising, the black sky turning blue. The mole covered the S&W with his hand so its metal glint wouldn’t give him away. In a few minutes more the sun would be fully up, exposing his position. Still he waited. At this point he had no choice. Under his windbreaker, sweat pricked down his back.
Crunch-crunch-crunch.
The mole held his head steady but twisted his eyes right. The big Chink was coming back over the hill, looking toward the beeches where the mole lay. The mole’s fingers tightened around his gun. Then the man’s narrow eyes slid past and he walked down the hill. When he reached the granite outcropping, he said something the mole couldn’t hear. The little guy shook his head. He tapped out two cigarettes. The men stood there silently until they were finished smoking. Then the little guy tapped his watch and they walked back to the main entrance. The mole waited ten minutes more, tucked his S&W away, and headed home on shaky legs.
THREE HOURS LATER HE SAT
in his Acura in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven, fumbling with the clamshell packaging that surrounded a disposable cell phone he’d bought at a Radio Shack. The thick plastic cut his fingers, and as his frustration grew he felt like throwing the phone into the traffic. Finally he managed to rip the phone from its packaging. He breathed deep, tried to relax, powered up the phone, and punched in a 718 number, to be used only in absolute emergencies. He let the phone ring three times and hung up. He stared at his watch, allowing three minutes to pass, then repeated the drill. Three minutes later, he called for a third time. This time the phone was answered on the first ring.
“Washington Zoo. George here.”
“Do you still have the giant pandas?” An idiotic but necessary code.
Pause. “Has something happened? Where were you today?”
“Where were you? Who were those guys?”
“It was for security. They would have brought you to me.” Pause. “Since what happened in England, we are concerned.”
“You’re
concerned? Worst case, they give you a one-way ticket home.”
“It isn’t smart to talk anymore on this phone.”
“Okay. Let’s meet in person. Somewhere nice and public, George.”
“Public?”
“Like Union Station. I’ll figure it out, let you know.”
“Please don’t panic. We’ve worked together a long time. I’m your partner.”
“Then you should have come this morning.”
Click.
TWIN FLOWER BEDS LINED
the driveway, an explosion of daffodils and tulips in red and yellow. The house itself was brick, big but nondescript. A two-car garage and white painted shutters. Exley walked up the driveway without much hope. It was the last of the five on her original list. Of the others she’d visited, one had been empty when she arrived, which proved only that both parents worked. The other three had been typical suburban homes, with typical suburban moms. Exley worried that she was wasting her time. What had she expected to find? A Post-it on the refrigerator that said, “Meeting w/Chinese handler Tuesday night—don’t be late!” On the other hand, Tyson’s team hadn’t nailed anything down either. Even with only a few suspects to check, this kind of work was seriously time-intensive.
This place looked like another bust. The driveway was empty and the curtains shut. Exley mounted the front steps, and to her surprise heard a soap opera blaring from a television inside. A dog barked madly as Exley pushed the bell. She’d heard a couch creak as she rang. Then nothing. Whoever it was seemed to be hoping she’d go away. She rang again, feeling vaguely nauseated and headachy. Too much coffee and too little sleep.
“Coming,” a woman said irritably. Janice Robinson, wife of Keith, according to the agency’s dossier. Janice pulled open the door and peered heavy-lidded into the afternoon Virginia sun. The house behind her was dark, though a television flickered in a room off the front hall. A fat golden retriever poked its snout at the door, barking angrily while wagging its tail to prove it wasn’t serious.
“Can I help you?” Janice said, in a solid southern drawl. She wore a faded red T-shirt with “Roll Tide” printed in white across the chest. Her face was pretty but chubby, her hair a dirty-blond mess, her eyeliner thick and sloppy. The scent of white wine radiated off her, decaying and sweet as a bouquet of week-old flowers.
“I’m looking at that ranch on the corner and I was hoping you maybe could tell me about the neighborhood,” Exley said. “My husband and I have an apartment in the District, but we’re looking to move. My name’s Joanne, by the way.”
Confusion flicked across Janice’s face, as if Exley had tried to explain the theory of relativity and not her house-buying plans. “You want to hear about the neighborhood?”
“Nobody knows it like the neighbors, right?” Exley smiled.