Authors: Gerald Felix Warburg
Branko held the photos at length before passing them back. They were alone, in their own row near the top of the bleachers, both thinking intently.
“Mickey,” Branko said at last, “what exactly do you expect from me?”
“I, uh, I want to make a deal.”
“A deal?”
“Yeah,” Mickey answered, “like a trade. I’ve been saving some stuff for you. Tips that might help your work. Little insights into what they’re up to. Hardware shopping lists. Some good stuff.”
“You want to make a trade to get your boys out?”
“I want you to recruit me. Put me to work. Let me do something for Uncle Sam. I mean, I got some ideas about some of the games they’re playing. High tech stuff. Dirty tricks against Taiwan. You name it.”
Mickey waited anxiously, popcorn in hand, beer at his feet. Branko was gazing across the field toward the sinking sun. He would not look at Mickey for the longest time, peering at some distant marker.
“Fuck you, Mickey Dooley,” Branko finally said.
“What do you expect me to—”
“No, Mickey.
Don’t
. Don’t even try to defend yourself.”
“It’s just
fuck you
?”
“Yeah. Fuck you.”
“For what? For asking an old friend—”
“No, Mickey! Fuck you for screwing up your life.”
“Gimme a break!”
“Fuck you for making such a mess and for expecting people who live cleaner to bail your ass out.”
“So what was my sin? Marrying a Chinese woman? Trying to help China join the twenty-first century? What do you expect a businessman to—”
“You’re a businessman with the morals of a sewer rat. Do you have any idea what the file on your Beijing operations looks like?”
“I’m as patriotic as the next guy. I mean—” Mickey caught himself, curious. “So, what exactly do they think they have on me?”
“Let’s just say your patriotism is highly suspect. Your damn Agency file is so thick I had to get two waivers just to have a meal with you. The fact is, you’ve screwed up, Mickey. You could have put your brilliance to a higher purpose. Now you’re paying the price.”
“For God’s sake man, don’t sit in judgment of me. It’s just business. We don’t sell it, the French or the Germans will.”
“So you go through your life doing whatever your sleaziest neighbor will do? How exactly does your version of least common denominator ethics elevate the species? Whoring for the People’s Liberation Army? Skimming off all those dual use licenses for the Chinese Defense Ministry? Your little games on the side for Telstar? Sprinkling cash around both capitals like some bagman?”
“Branko, I just am—”
“You were the cleverest of us all. What did you do with your God-given talent? Do you have any idea how the Chinese use the stuff you help them get? How it will be used against the West in a war?” Branko turned and faced him squarely now. “You’ve got blood on your hands, man.”
“And the CIA’s full of nuns? We’ve
all
got blood on our hands. That doesn’t mean a guy can’t have a second chance to do the right thing.”
Branko stopped to listen.
“I figure it’s like my mom used to say. . . ‘it’s what you’re aspiring to that matters,’” Mickey said, suddenly preaching. “That is what we answer to God for, she said—our dreams, not our failings.”
Branko held his silence as Mickey continued to squirm.
“Listen, Branko, I know you’re pissed that I haven’t done many noble things with my life. I went off to China to make some money and open doors. I thought marrying Chinese was part of the future, that my family might be some kind of bridge between the two worlds. So why is it my fault when it turns out we have nothing in common but our kids?”
“This is not about your kids.”
“It is for me! Jesus, think ill of me—tell me I’ll fry in Hell. But why should they suffer just because I screwed up? Look at them!” He thrust the photos at him, as if they were defense evidence at trial. “They’re American kids, American citizens. They’re hostages in the Commies’ corrupt legal system.”
Branko kicked at bits of popcorn with his toe, working them methodically down to the sticky ledge below.
The sun was gone now, settled off behind the ridge to the west. The sky above them was laced with elongated Z’s of orange and purple, punctuated by the harsh light of the electric towers. The bulbs burned in a ring about the stadium.
“Will you help me?” Mickey pressed. “If not for old time’s sake, then for the kids’?”
Branko was more than willing to let Mickey prostrate himself. But Branko was a professional, resigned to his purpose. He knew what he needed to do here, even as Mickey continued to pursue him.
As they sat, a line drive was hit into the gap in left-center field. The crowd responded with noise. The ball seemed headed directly at their row, until it began to fade. An arm reached up at the warning track, snatching it with leather. The two outfielders dodged a collision and circled, their legs a perfect parabola as they concluded the play with a slap of their gloves. They loped back toward the infield, matching stride for stride.
“Yes,” Branko finally replied, “yes, Mickey, we will help them.”
“God, thank you, Branko.” Mickey grabbed his left arm with both his hands, clinging. “Thank you.”
“You need to understand a few things, though.” Branko was gathering himself. Mickey had seen it in the old days as his colleague prepared to skewer an undergraduate in some tutorial.
“Sure.”
“Past friendship does not oblige me to take foolish risks on you. The CIA doesn’t do custody disputes. This is business.”
“Sure, Branko.”
“You need to listen for once—really fucking listen.”
“I promise.”
“You must pledge not to repeat what I say. To any one. Ever.”
“Right.”
“We never talked. And you will never talk about it. To anyone.”
“I won’t.”
Branko inhaled, gaining strength, reflecting on the events of an alarming week that had brought him to this crossroads. The truth was, he had wanted to say “yes” for days. But he could not justify it. Before his discussions late Wednesday with one of the CIA’s key Beijing assets, he could not support the notion. After the chilling new analysis of recent Chinese actions, after confirmation that Lee was once again rebuffing any contacts from his local controller, Branko saw no better option.
“If you get sloppy with this, they will kill you. Others will suffer, too. You have to justify my blind faith in you, in your essential decency.”
“You have my word. As a father, as an American. Now what the hell is it?”
Branko lit a cigarette, pulling hard for sustenance.
“Mickey, we’ve concluded it’s not safe for you to return to Beijing.”
“Not safe? What the hell do you mean?”
“Not safe now, not safe ever.”
“But I’ve got to go back. How could I ever get the boys if. . . Wait. What is it?”
“Something new has turned up.”
“Something new?”
“It changes everything. You see, there are indications that you have been targeted.”
“What? But I’ve worked with the—”
“Can you just
listen
a moment?” Branko’s voice rose, and he shot a glance about them. But the nearest fans were a good twenty yards away.
“Goddamn it, Mickey. Wake up! This is real. This isn’t some grad school maneuver to bed some blonde.”
“Hey, man! It’s
my
sons we’re talking about. I know this is real.”
Branko struggled for composure. “You know the explosion on F Street? The bomb outside Talbott’s firm?”
“Of course.”
“Well, the forensics experts have belatedly identified fragments of a timing device. The D.C. Police contaminated some of the evidence. Mishandled it, logged it in wrong—plain incompetence. But it seems pretty clear now to the FBI and to our people.”
“What seems clear?” Branko had lost him.
“A timer, Mickey.”
“A timer?”
“Yes. A timer,” Branko repeated. “There were fragments of a timer in the rubble.”
“So?”
“It suggests that the gentleman transporting the explosive device had no intention of being a suicide bomber. It was intended as a drop off. It was not intended to blow up in his lap at 9:07 a.m. He intended to leave the bomb for subsequent detonation.”
“For when?”
“For
whom
is the more appropriate question. They had a busy day planned at the Talbott firm. A lot of visitors. Senators. Ambassadors. . .”
“And me.”
“Exactly. And you.”
“The ten o’clock appointment! Rachel and Talbott and the guys from the Chinese Embassy. And Lee too. He was supposed to be coming—”
“This is
raw
, Mickey. Raw, unverified, inconclusive analysis.”
“But who? Who would pull such a crazy-ass stunt? Two blocks from the White House! And why me? I mean, Senator Smithson was supposed to be there at noon. How do you know that—”
“No hour hand. The hour hand, it seems, had been pulled off the watch face before it was wired to the detonator. It had only the minute hand sweep, as far as forensics can tell. It would seem they intended it to go off at seven minutes past the next hour. Ten not nine.”
“But who would target any of us?”
“Who indeed? That is
our
question.”
“Not Taiwan—I mean, that’s crazy. The U.S. would abandon them in a heartbeat if their people pulled that kind of crap.”
“We don’t know the answer to that. Could be the Chinese were after just one of you. Could be you. Could be part of some in-fighting in one of their intelligence branches. Could be a ruse, a set-up, misdirection. Some guys making a hit, and trying to make others take the heat for it. They’ve been known to pull some bizarre numbers. Do some nasty job and try to pin it on their neighbors. A two-for-one shot.”
Mickey flashed on the krytrons business for a moment, but then focused closer to home. “What about Lee? Lee was—”
“Lee apparently didn’t cancel his seat on that plane. Had a ticket, left for the airport. Somebody may have tipped him off, called him back. We don’t know. And your message canceling with Rachel didn’t get played at TPB until just before the gentleman was juggling a briefcase on his lap in that cab on F Street.”
“So. . .”
“The point is, Mickey, somebody thought they stood to gain by eliminating you. You and your boys had better come on home and keep your heads down. And Lee. . .”
“Lee’s in danger, too, isn’t he?”
Branko nodded somberly.
“What is it you want me to do?”
“We want to ask you to take some risks. We will take some unusual risks, too, believe me. But before we commit, I need to make clear there are a few conditions.”
“Whatever.”
“At least three—for now.”
“Anything. Just tell me what to do.”
“First, when you come home to the U.S., you are home for good. You are out of the China game. Retired. No more Customs runs in Shanghai. No more Telstar sales through Hong Kong. No more dual-use license technology deals.”
“OK.”
“You are done with the satellite business. We will help you. I will personally stand by you. But do
not
become a problem to the Agency, or to me. Ever.”
“Sure. I don’t even want to see—”
“Second, when you’re back, it all never happened.”
“OK.”
“We never talked. You will be in great danger—and others will be, too—if you can’t keep your goddamn mouth shut. About our theory on the timing device. About the bomb. About possible motivations. About the Agency’s intentions. All of it. I suggest you quit drinking, for starters.”
“Actually, I’ve already been backing off the hard stuff.”
Loud organ music interrupted them, the between-innings carnival rising to a crescendo. The crowd clapped in rhythm as Mickey peered disconsolately at the beer he had been nursing.
“What’s third?”
Branko was all business once more. The corner of his mouth crinkled in sympathy, the recruiter’s touch as he pulled Mickey in with a final condition.
“Third is. . . third is Lee.”
“Lee?” Mickey asked. “You want me to bring him a message?’
“We want you to bring him to us.”
“Bring Lee to the U.S.?”
“Yes. Help him escape to the U.S.”
Mickey paused before he began to ramble. “You know, Lee is the twins’ godfather. He asked me to keep it a secret. He and Rachel drew the godparent duty. He adores them. Taught them Tai Chi.”
“We know. Actually, we hope he might, at a minimum, provide a bit of an insurance policy for our rather unusual exit plan for the boys. It’s risky and will have serious consequences.”
“You’re asking me to
recruit
him?”
“No. We want you to convince him to leave—to come to the United States. Convince him any way you can to get out of China.
Now.
If he feels he cannot leave immediately, try to prevail on him to help us on a couple of critical issues for however long he remains in place.”
“You expect him to be a mole? Branko, isn’t that, like, suicide?”
“Mickey, he is already at risk. He’s been at risk for years. The risk has just gotten greater. We are certain he must see that now. He is so stubborn. But he’s smarter than any of us in how he plays the game.”
“He’s an idealist, Lee is. I said it before. He’s a fucking radical.”
“He’s a survivor, Mickey. Now he can be a hero, if you can convince him.”
“Why now?”
“We need him. There’s a threat to the summit.”
“You talking about the safety of the president?”
“Mickey, you really don’t want to—don’t need to—get into this.”
“Of course I do! How am I going to convince Lee? You must have done stuff with him before. I mean, once upon a time, after Tiananmen, when those Chinese government memos were leaked to the West, all the Politburo internal debates about how to clear the students out of Tiananmen Square? I figured you already had an inside track. I kinda hoped Lee was involved.”
Branko was fixated on something in the opposite grandstand now. Then he spoke. “Mickey, you really don’t want to go there. Speculation is hazardous in these matters.”
“But I need to understand what is past if I’m going to convince him his future interests—”
“If you are going to work with us, you have to accept some things on faith. Sometimes you know only what you need to know. We are asking you to take a message to Lee. A very specific offer.”