BEIJING, CHINA
Li Zian had more than one hundred rocks in his collection, each of them signed and dated to mark its significance. The oldest was a flat, reddish stone from the village in Hubei where his father was sent down by the Red Guards as a “capitalist roader,” inscribed by his father when Li was just twelve years old. Next to it was a black fragment of shale that Li had signed in Shanghai on the day his father died in 1979, too young. And another for his late mother, a willowy woman who had never lost her beauty through all the years of travail.
Li’s life as an intelligence officer had a foundation stone, too. It was a small chunk of granite that he had taken from the garden behind the Ministry of State Security in 1983, the year the Ministry was created. Before that, China’s intelligence service had been the Investigations Department of the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party. Li had been twenty-three years old, just out of university and on his way to graduate school in America. He had already been recruited in secret. Li had been present at the creation. Now, under his stewardship, the Ministry of State Security was wobbling. The comrades around him had gotten greedy for their share of the new wealth. That vexed him.
Li summoned Wang Ji on the day that the chief of the American Operations Division returned from Mexico City. He had read Wang’s operational cable, but it was elusive, like everything about the man. Li wanted a personal report. He needed to understand where the pieces stood on the game board.
Li had the recent message from Rukou, relayed and decrypted, in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He took it and reread it. It was characteristic of a well-motivated agent to deliver intelligence and warn of danger. Rukou should not have taken the risk, but once it had been done, it was essential to put the information to good use.
Carlos Wang arrived five minutes late for the meeting. His collar button was undone, and his tie was loose. His hair looked shaggier than usual.
“I think you need a haircut,” said Li. “You look like a musician.”
“Yes, minister,” said Wang. He took out a cigarette and put it to his lips but didn’t light it.
“I want to hear about more about your meeting with the American. He sounds promising. The beginnings of a conscience.”
“I planted a seed,” answered Wang. “I told him about his Chinese life. I explained the story of his ‘Red’ grandfather, our comrade. I helped him to understand who he is. He had thought of himself only as an American, but he sees now that it is more complicated: People can be two things at once. This is not a man who can be squeezed. If we try that, we will fail. In sum, minister, he has been destabilized. He doubts his world, perhaps for the first time. We will see if this seed grows.”
“I want to water it and fertilize it. We are running out of time.”
“I await instructions, minister. But you cannot hurry something that is organic. I believe it was Leo Tolstoy who said that the strongest warriors are time and patience.”
“Tolstoy wasn’t a communist.”
Li looked at his watch. He picked up his phone and told his secretary to have his car and driver out front, immediately.
“Let’s get out of the office for a bit. Somewhere private. We need to talk. Or should I say: I need to talk, and you need to listen, and then you need to implement.”
“Of course, minister. I will get my coat.” He headed off down the hall, the slouch gone from his posture, and met the minister downstairs several minutes later.
“Take us to Yuquan Mountain,” Minister Li told the driver when they were in the car.
“To the Xianghongqi?” asked the driver, puzzled. Yuquan Mountain was in the “sensitive area,” a few miles west. It was one of the most carefully guarded places in China. It held a resort for the Politburo and, nearby, the bunkers where the Chinese leadership would seek safety in the event of a nuclear war.
“Yes, precisely,” said Li. “I have all the necessary papers.”
Li turned to the head of the American Operations Division, who was also curious about the destination Li had chosen.
“I want the PLA to know we’re there,” he explained. “But not what we say.”
The car headed west toward the Summer Palace and the mountain just beyond. From Kunming Lake on the palace grounds, you could see a graceful six-story pagoda atop a green hill. They drove to a concealed entrance, double-fenced. Burly PLA soldiers blocked the way. They wore special insignia that designated them as members of the Central Guard Bureau, a special unit responsible for protecting the president and members of the Politburo.
Even after Li showed his special MSS documents, the captain in charge of the unit said he would have to contact headquarters for permission to open the gate. Li held up his arm and walked slowly toward the office until he could speak without being overheard by other members of the detail.
“Comrade Captain,” said Li, “I see that you are a member of the unit that is code named ‘8341.’ That is a great honor.”
“Thank you, minister. But how did you know our code name? It is a secret.”
“Well, now, Comrade Captain, I will tell you the story of your code name. But it is a secret, too, so you mustn’t repeat it.”
“Yes, sir.” The captain leaned toward the tall, austere figure in civilian dress, so that he could listen.
“They say that our great helmsman, Chairman Mao, stayed in these woods, on this mountain, when he first came to Beijing in 1949. There were Buddhist temples then, like the one you see atop Yuquan.”
Li pointed to the finely wrought towers of the temple, five hundred yards distant. He continued, now in an even quieter voice.
“It is said that Chairman Mao encountered a monk, who came down from the temple; perhaps it was in this very place. Mao said he was going into Beijing and asked the monk if he needed to know anything to safeguard his trip. The monk answered: ‘8-3-4-1.’ Mao asked him what significance that number had, and the monk said he didn’t know. It was a message from heaven.
“So Mao proceeded, and you know the rest. He triumphed in our glorious revolution, and he passed away in 1976, the eternal hero of the people. But here is the thing, Comrade Captain. Listen carefully: When Mao died, he was eighty-three years old. He had been serving as leader of the Party for forty-one years. So yes, I think it was a message from heaven. 8-3-4-1.”
There were tears in the eyes of the young man who commandeered the Central Guard Bureau. He motioned to a sergeant to raise the gate, so that Li and Wang could pass.
“You honor us with your visit, minister,” he said. “I will never forget this story.”
The limousine rolled forward, accompanied by a military escort vehicle. After a hundred yards’ ascent, Li told the driver to stop and motioned for Wang to join him outside. The trees were densely clustered, but there was a path that meandered uphill toward the pagoda.
“We want to take a walk,” Li told the captain. “We’ll be a few minutes.”
“Would you like accompaniment?” asked the officer.
“No,” said Li, striding off toward the path.
The captain stood at attention and saluted. There was nothing in his regulation book that required an escort for visitors admitted to these grounds.
Li walked fifty yards uphill before he slowed his pace and turned to Wang Ji.
“Have you ever been here before?” asked the minister.
“No, sir. This is forbidden ground. I did not hear what you told the guard, but it must have been very persuasive.”
“It was a revolutionary fairy tale, that’s all. People need myths. Even PLA officers. This is sacred ground for our military and party. Do you know what is underneath our feet? There is a secret railway. It is called the ‘Underground Great Wall System.’ There are hundreds of miles of track, buried underground, so that our brave leaders can flee in secret if there is trouble. There is a terminal underneath the Great Hall of the People that connects with the bunker here in Xianghongqi. Never forget: Beneath even the greatest secrets, there are other secrets.”
“Thank you, minister,” said Carlos Wang. “But I hope to die above ground.”
They walked another fifty yards before Li Zian spoke again.
“We must discuss matters in confidence,” he said. “The walls at our ministry have ears, I am sorry to say. The PLA Third Department has paid us a visit. That would not have been possible without permission from somewhere high up. The wolves are gathering.”
“Good intelligence officers are mistrusted most by their own countrymen, minister,” said Wang. “This has been our lot since the days of Pan Hannian.”
Li smiled. He patted Wang on the shoulder.
“You are a clever one, to mention his name.”
Pan was Li’s role model. He had overseen Chinese counter-intelligence and deception operations against the Koumintang immediately after the revolution and used defectors, double agents, and captured radios to confound the enemy. But his rivals inside the Party framed him, and he was falsely convicted on espionage charges. Pan was rehabilitated in 1982, just as young Li was making his decision to become an intelligence officer.
“Here is what Comrade Pan would advise us,” said Li. “You must expand the operation you have begun with the American who calls himself Peter Tong. What is his real name? Harris Chang. He is our beachhead. We must broaden it. I believe that he is already under suspicion, thanks to your skill in Mexico. We must further confuse and frighten our adversary. This is the only way to protect our deep agent, Rukou.”
“You are the only person who has met Rukou. You alone would know.”
“Yes, Rukou is my burden. But Mr. Harris Chang is yours. I would like to scratch this wound that you have opened in his heart.”
“How would you suggest that we do this, Li Buzhang?”
“Here is my idea, which might surprise even Comrade Pan: We should behave as if we have already succeeded.”
“I do not understand, minister.”
“We pretend that ‘Comrade Chang’ is our asset. We send him a tasking message that will make the CIA suspect him, if they do not already. If we pretend to control him, the Americans will wonder if it isn’t true. They will doubt him and themselves. They will be distracted. You understand: Misdirection. False signals. Spreading confusion. This is the Tao of deception.”
“All warfare is based on deception,” answered Wang Ji, quoting a famous passage from Sun Tzu that was imprinted in the consciousness of every Chinese intelligence officer.
Li Zian, who also knew the passage by heart, simply nodded.
“How do you want to proceed with Mr. Harris Chang, then?”
“I have prepared a message. Have your subagent in Vancouver send it to the Tong phone.”
Li pulled a paper from his pocket and read it.
“ ‘Mr. Tong. We need to meet again, at the place that was agreed at our last meeting in Mexico. Please follow the protocol.’ ”
“There is no protocol, minister.”
“Of course not. Send this message. Also, I want you to find Mr. Harris Chang’s home address. I don’t care how you get it. Have a station agent in Washington deliver a satellite communication device to his home. Leave it where he puts his garbage or on the doorstep, I don’t care.”
“How should the device be programmed?”
“To contact the center. As for a normal agent.”
“But it will be discovered. The FBI follows all embassy intelligence officers, ours and the PLA’s, both. They will obtain the transmitter.”
“Precisely.”
Wang Ji bowed slightly, in deference to Li’s cunning.
“How should these operational messages be transmitted, minister?”
“Normal cipher protocol. Including to the embassy in Washington.”
“The PLA will read them.” Wang smiled, seeing another layer.
“Indeed. They will be impressed, confused, and uncertain. They would like to destroy us. The talk is everywhere. The matter was referred to the Standing Committee of the Politburo after the death of Dr. Ma. They took no action, but the issue will come back. Our survival is at stake. Can I trust your loyalty, Wang Ji?”
“Yes, minister. Eternally.”
“You have a brother in the PLA, don’t you? He is a senior general now in the Third Department. They tell me you have dinner with him often.”
“Yes, of course, sir. My brother’s position is well known.”
“Does he tell you what role you will play if the PLA is successful in abolishing the Ministry of State Security? A senior one, I am sure.”
“We do not talk about our work, minister. We are both very respectful of the division between his service and mine.”
“I wonder if your brother knows anything about the listening devices that have been installed at the Ministry. You should ask him sometime.”
Wang, embarrassed, said nothing. He reached for a cigarette, then put it back in the pack.
Li Zian, tall and composed, studied his scruffy deputy.
“I wonder, Comrade Wang: Does your PLA brother know that you are a left-wing deviationist? Does he realize that you are a follower of Leon Trotsky and maybe the Gang of Four, too? He cannot know this. He would be shocked, certainly. But I do know. I have indulged you. I have protected your secret, because you are valuable to me.”
Wang Ji took a step back. He shook his head.
“This is unworthy of you, minister.”
“Just advice from a friend. These are very difficult times. We must stay in our own boats and carry out our duties. Otherwise, accidents will happen, and we may find ourselves in great difficulty.”
When Li Zian returned to his office, he found waiting an encrypted personal message from General Fang, the head of the liaison department of the General Political Department of the Central Military Commission. It was a summary of a meeting that had been held the day before with members of the PLA Second and Third Departments.
The Central Military Commission was concerned that American “special activities” had led to the death of Academician Ma Yubo. Such behavior required a response from China. There must be retaliation; power only understood power. The identities of the members of the American team responsible for the death of Academician Ma Yubo were known to the Central Military Commission. Therefore, working with the PLA Second and Third Departments, the liaison department would consider how best to take a proportionate response to the death of Academician Ma.
The message requested concurrence by the Ministry of State Security.
Li considered the equities of the case: Rukou was still operating, but vulnerable and under surveillance. He resented any interference from the PLA, but perhaps there was an opportunity in what General Fang proposed. Li sent a written response on the most secure internal channel. He affirmed the Central Military Commission’s judgment that the death of a Chinese scientist was a serious matter and must be avenged. Li offered a few suggestions about proper targeting.
Li sat for a long time in his office with the door locked and the lights out. He thought of Rukou, so brave and isolated. An intelligence chief lives for such an opportunity and prays to be worthy of such an agent. Would it be possible to protect the peerless Rukou by entangling his true agent with a false one? That would require great skill and courage on the part of the agent, heroic daring, but perhaps this was the challenge that Rukou craved. The very best intelligence officers understood that the truth was so important that it must be enclosed in a carapace of deceit.