Kelly Cameron assembled her team in a conference room in Walter Reed Hospital for a final prep session. It was fifteen minutes before ten o’clock on a blustery, rainy evening. The twenty were all, with the exception of Kelly, battle-hardened from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The twenty members of her team, sixteen men and four women, were in military dress so they wouldn’t stand out in the military hospital—all except Kelly, who was wearing a black wool pantsuit. They were all members of an elite new FBI counterterrorism unit, AT-1.
Kelly was worried their operation would fail. And she had a lot riding on this operation. Even before she had planned it, her position had been precarious. Many in the FBI had criticized Director Forester for naming Kelly—a woman, and only thirty-five—as the chief of AT-1. Senator Dorsey’s subcommittee on terrorism in the United States, she learned later, had put the FBI director through a grueling interrogation in a closed-door session over the appointment. Other top FBI officials had criticized it in the press while withholding their names. Several articles appeared in the Washington Post beginning with the words: “Unnamed sources in the FBI have stated that . . .” But Forester hung tough.
Now it was showtime. Racing through Kelly’s mind were the things that could go wrong. Ten days ago, a CIA mole planted in Iraq had forwarded information to his handler in Baghdad: ISIS is planning an attack on Walter Reed at 2 a.m. in ten days. That was a little over four hours from now. The informant didn’t know how many terrorists would be taking part, or whether they would be hitting the hospital by air or land. What he did report was that the terrorists wanted maximum publicity with the attack. They intended to show that the United States couldn’t even protect its own wounded military personnel. The CIA was convinced the intel was reliable.
Forester had put Kelly in charge of the FBI’s effort to stop the attack. For the last ten days, working almost around the clock, she had directed an intense search of the Washington area to locate the attackers. But that had turned up nothing.
She had then coordinated with the Department of Defense to have the Air Force position planes above Washington. They had been in place since eight that evening. Others were on the ground at Andrews Air Force Base. Also at Andrews, DOD had established a control center for a Patriot system to thwart a missile attack.
That left only defense from a land attack, the hardest to cover. Walter Reed was on a 110-acre campus that had previously been the Bethesda Naval Hospital before the US government had shuttered and relocated the original Walter Reed on 16th Street in Washington. The hospital was a nightmare to defend. It was in a residential area in close proximity to shops and restaurants in the booming upscale Washington suburb of Bethesda, Maryland. The hospital complex had five different gates. Two of them were along Rockville Pike, one of the major north-south corridors outside the city of Washington.
As soon as she had gotten the assignment, Kelly had decided not to publicize the tip the CIA had received about the attack. It wasn’t simply to prevent panic and hysteria in the area. Rather, Kelly had concluded if the terrorists knew the FBI was aware of their target and time of attack, they might shift and hit another government installation in the Washington area at a different time. “As long as we know, and they don’t know that we know, we’ll have the element of surprise.” Forester had agreed. However, that also meant Kelly had to keep the size of her force small. Otherwise, it would look as though something big were going down, and the media would pick up on it.
If the attack were coming on the ground, Kelly reasoned, it would most likely be with a powerful car bomb in a vehicle driven by a suicide bomber. The driver’s objective would be to get close enough to one of the buildings with patients.
Following that judgment, she stationed four of her troops at each of the five Walter Reed gates. Two were in each of the gatehouses, one was on the road leading into the gatehouse, and the fourth was on the hospital grounds ten yards inside the gate. Kelly would be in the command center on the third floor of the tower, the largest patient building, located between gates one and two. She would be at a window with a view of both gates. All of her troops were armed and wearing Kevlar vests.
By eleven o’clock in the evening, Kelly’s forces were in place. Director Forester called for a status report.
“We’re all set,” Kelly told him in a voice projecting confidence she didn’t feel.
What made this operation especially risky was that Walter Reed was a functioning hospital. That meant patients and staff were arriving at all hours. They were used to seeing some security. Kelly didn’t think what she had in place was enough to alarm anyone.
As the clock ticked down to 2 a.m., Kelly was standing at the third floor window, binoculars up to her eyes, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She felt nervous. What if she had made a tactical error by not having more troops? What if the terrorists sent enough people to overwhelm her meager forces?
Two o’clock came and went. No attack.
At 2:20 a.m., Kelly worried that they had been acting on misinformation, or that the perpetrators had gotten wind of the FBI’s preparations. She decided all units would remain in place until 6 a.m. Then she would reassess.
Suddenly her phone rang. It was Captain Nelson in the gatehouse at gate one, the northernmost gate on Rockville Pike. She laid her phone down on the table and placed it in speaker mode. Through her binoculars, she looked at the gate. The rain was coming down in sheets. A black Range Rover was stopped at the gate, waiting to enter.
“Yes, Captain,” she said.
“A staff physician, Colonel Ahmed Massoudi, is here,” Nelson replied in his Alabama accent. “His ID seems in order. Photo matches. Should I pass him through?”
“Hold him until you hear back from me,” she snapped. Gabriella, one of the Walter Reed administrative staff was in the room with Kelly. She asked Gabriella about Dr. Massoudi.
“He’s in orthopedics. Been on the staff for at least five years.”
“Dial his home phone and ask for him.”
While Gabriella complied, Kelly, pressing the binoculars close against her face, kept her eyes riveted on gate one.
Thirty seconds later, Gabriella said, “He answered.” Her voice quavered. “I just woke him.”
Kelly’s whole body tensed. She shouted to Nelson on the phone, “He’s our man. Arrest him and—”
Kelly didn’t have a chance to finish her sentence. Shots were being fired from the Range Rover at the two men in the gatehouse. The man pretending to be Dr. Massoudi smashed through the wooden gate and drove inside the hospital complex.
Kelly bolted toward an inside staircase. Glock pistol in hand, she tore down the stairs. When she reached the ground, she stepped outside into the hard, cold rain. All of her senses were operating at maximum capacity. She was taut, but totally in control. She saw the Range Rover stopped ten yards from the tower. Standing between the vehicle and the building was Lieutenant Dietz, his automatic weapon raised, shouting, “Out of the vehicle now.”
The driver got out with the engine still running and fired two shots, taking down Dietz. Seemingly unaware of Kelly’s presence, he placed his pistol on the roof of the Range Rover. Moving rapidly, he grabbed a brick from the back seat of the car. Then he stood up and yanked a phone from his pocket. He was holding it in his left hand.
My God, he’s planning to put the brick on the gas pedal and ram the vehicle into the tower to detonate a car bomb, Kelly realized.
Drenched, with water running down her face, she raised her gun and shouted, “Drop the phone.”
With his right hand, the man grabbed the gun from the roof of the vehicle and aimed at Kelly while making a sudden move to the right. Before he had a chance to pull the trigger, she fired. As her shot struck him, he fired back. She hit the ground and the bullet flew over her head. From the wet pavement, she watched him crumple to the concrete.
Kelly sprang to her feet and called for emergency medical personnel as bomb experts descended on the Range Rover.
An hour later, she had the verdict. Three of her men, Lieutenant Dietz and the two in gatehouse one, had been wounded. Two were in surgery, but all would live. The driver of the Range Rover was dead. The vehicle had been loaded with a massive bomb that would have done tremendous damage to the hospital.
For Kelly, the operation had been a success. Yet she was kicking herself. The terrorist might have moved suddenly, but she still should have aimed better. She shouldn’t have killed him. Alive, he might have yielded valuable information. Dead, he was worthless.
Kelly called Director Forester to report what happened.
“Great job,” he told her. “Now I want you to go home. I have a clean-up crew coming on the scene.”
“But . . .”
“But, nothing. Go now. That’s an order.”
Kelly’s house was a mile and a half from Walter Reed in a subdivision off Old Georgetown Road. She quietly opened the door to the dark and silent house. That was good. It meant her daughter, Julie, and Luisa, the housekeeper who doubled as a nanny, were sleeping.
She showered, put on a white terrycloth robe, and went into Julie’s room. Sitting in a rocker, she watched her eight-year-old daughter sleeping, her beautiful face partially covered by long blond hair, the same color as Kelly’s own. Next to her head on the pillow was the American Girl doll that Kelly’s father had given Julie for her eighth birthday a month previously.
Kelly began shaking, her teeth chattering. She pulled the robe tightly around herself. The adrenalin she had been running on was gone, leaving her to confront the stark realization that she had been seconds from death. And then what for Julie? The girl’s father, Jason Ryan, her husband until their divorce last September, would take care of Julie, but Kelly would never see her grow up, never be a part of her life. And Jason would constantly remind Julie: Your mother always put her career first.
Their breakup had been amicable. Jason had been a Washington lawyer, a workaholic on a high-pressure treadmill in the Washington office of a New York-based international law firm, who suddenly concluded he didn’t want the rat race any longer. He decided to move to rural Maine to become a farmer. Kelly refused to go. She argued that Julie should have the opportunities an education in Montgomery County, Maryland, provided. But deep down, while her protests were focused on Julie, she realized the truth, which Jason put into words: “Your work comes first. You won’t leave your job at the FBI.”
They didn’t have a custody battle. Self-centered Jason, who never had much interest in being a father or in Julie, was happy to leave her with Kelly. They agreed Julie would spend August each summer in Maine “if it was convenient” for Julie and for Jason. Kelly was convinced that when August came, Jason would decline to take Julie for the month. This suited Kelly just fine. She loved having her daughter around.
Kelly was happy to be rid of Jason. She was a rising star in the bureau, and she loved her work. More than that, she wanted to help her country. Kelly had been a college freshman at Carnegie Mellon at the time of 9/11. As she had watched mobs in Arab capitals cheering on television, she vowed to go into law enforcement to stop similar attacks from happening again. When she had graduated from Carnegie Mellon in computers and management, she had turned down high-paying offers from industry to join the FBI. She wanted to help make the country a safer place. Kelly was also determined to make her mark. She wanted her stay on this earth to mean something, to make a difference in the world.
Thinking about her time at Carnegie Mellon drove home for Kelly that she had never loved Jason. Love was what she had felt for Xiang when they had both been juniors, and she had fallen wildly in love with him. Originally from Shanghai, Xiang had moved to the States for college, where he had majored in econ and management. Even after fifteen years, it was still painful for Kelly to recall Xiang. She had never been in love before, and she had been crazy about him. She knew he had felt the same way about her.
Xiang told her he intended to stay in the United States following graduation. When they finished college, they had planned to get married. Her parents liked Xiang and gave their approval. For the summer before their senior year, Kelly and Xiang had lined up jobs in New York and an apartment in Chelsea. They were planning to live together until they got married. Kelly signed leases for an apartment in New York for the summer, and one in Pittsburgh for their senior year. She started her summer job with a financial security firm while Xiang went to China to visit his parents for a week before heading to New York.
But Xiang did not return to New York. He called and told her his plans had changed. “It would be best if we ended our relationship,” he had said. That was it. No explanation. Nothing. Just like that.
Kelly couldn’t believe it. “Is it something I did?” she had asked.
“No, it’s what I have to do,” he had told her.
It was a peculiar comment. She had decided his parents must not want their son to marry an American. She didn’t know much about Chinese culture or Xiang’s relationship with his parents. She guessed that’s the way it was, and there was nothing she could do about it. Her father had taken care of the leases, no doubt paying off the landlords. It was rough for her for a while, but she made up her mind to get over it. Back at CMU in the fall, when she passed Xiang on campus, neither spoke to the other. Fortunately, they didn’t have any classes together. As far as she was concerned, Xiang didn’t exist.
Since graduation, she had seen Xiang only once. The previous November, they had met each other by chance one evening at a Washington restaurant. She was finishing dinner with an FBI colleague when she spotted Xiang, dining alone, across the room. She decided to show him how well she was doing. With that in mind, she went over to say hello, mentioning her wonderful career. He explained he was now assistant economic attaché at the Chinese embassy, and not married. She had hoped he would call so she could enjoy turning him down; he never did.
She didn’t want to think about Xiang anymore. It was time to get a couple hours of sleep. Before climbing into bed, she checked her iPad. She saw a new email from Charles Cameron, her father. “From the bits of news I’m getting, looks as if you scored a big success tonight. We can talk later, but if you see this message, please let me know you’re okay.”
She replied, “Couldn’t be better. Will call you in a few hours.”
Kelly was up at seven. She wanted to have breakfast with Julie and walk her to the neighborhood public school. Rain was smacking against the bedroom windows as she grabbed a terrycloth bathrobe, tucked her cell phone in the pocket, and went downstairs.
When she reached the kitchen, Luisa was pouring milk into a glass. Julie, who was sitting at the table, was angry. “I don’t like cornflakes,” she sulked. “I want Honey Nut Cheerios.”
“But we don’t have any, Julie,” Luisa said. “You finished them yesterday.”
“But I want Honey Nut Cheerios.”
“Okay, Julie,” Kelly said, taking charge. “That’s enough. I’ll get some today. This morning, we’re eating cornflakes.”
“They’re disgusting,” Julie retorted.
“One day won’t kill you,” said Kelly. “No more arguing.”
“Okay, Mom,” Julie said reluctantly.
Kelly poured herself a cup of coffee. It tasted wonderful. She recalled one of her mentors in training at Quantico telling her, “When you escape a near miss with death, everything in life seems better.”
The cell phone in the pocket of her robe rang. It was Forester.
“How soon can you get down to my office?” he asked.
“I’ll leave the house now. What’s up?”
“Better if we talk in person.” His voice was grim. She wondered what had happened.
After putting the phone back in her pocket, she turned to Julie. “I have to go to the office. Luisa will walk you to school.”
“Okay.” Her daughter sounded resigned. This happened more days than Kelly liked to admit.
“Make sure you wear your Barbie boots and matching raincoat,” Kelly instructed.
“They make me look like a baby,” Julie groaned.
“We’ll get you new ones, but today you have to wear them.”
Kelly had meant to take Julie shopping for a new rain outfit weeks ago; somehow that had slipped through the cracks.
Forester was alone in his office. Kelly walked in and took the single chair in front of his desk. The director had thick, wavy, gray hair and a patrician look befitting the scion of one of Indiana’s wealthiest families. He had been a federal district judge in Indiana before becoming the director of the FBI.
“Sorry to drag you in here so early after last night,” the director said.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I received a call from Senator Dorsey from Texas who heads up the intelligence subcommittee on terrorism. The senator is either angry or he’s posturing about what happened last night. I never know with him.”
“What’s his beef?” Kelly asked.
“He says we had plenty of notice about the attack,” Forester replied. “We should have caught this terrorist before he ever got to Walter Reed.”
“We used all of our resources in the search.”
“I told him that, which didn’t satisfy him, of course. And that’s not all.”
“What else?” Kelly asked.
“He says you should never have killed the terrorist. That was a huge mistake. If we had been able to interrogate him, we could have learned enough to stop future attacks.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill him,” Kelly explained. “I was aiming for his shoulder. As I fired, he darted to the right.”
“That’s good to hear,” Forester remarked. “I didn’t realize that, but I reminded Dorsey you were operating in a blinding rainstorm with the lives of hundreds of wounded soldiers, as well as your own, on the line. The key fact is that you stopped the attack. And let’s be realistic. I told Dorsey that with the new rules prohibiting enhanced interrogating techniques, none of these terrorists talk any longer anyway.”
“How did Dorsey react?”
“He dismissed what I said.”
Kelly had a sickening feeling in her stomach. The senator had been opposed to Forester giving her the job from the get-go. She wondered what action Dorsey would take.
As if reading her mind, Forester added, “Dorsey is planning to convene a closed-door hearing of his subcommittee tomorrow. He wants you to testify. I insisted on being in the room. Dorsey agreed, but you will have to be alone at the witness table.”
Kelly’s anxiety level was rising. “I guess Dorsey can do whatever he wants.”
“Unfortunately, that’s how our system works,” Forester replied. “Have you ever appeared before a congressional committee?”
She shook her head. “Nope.”
“I’ll get the lawyers in the general counsel’s office here to prep you. No need to worry. You’ll do fine.”
Leaving Forester’s office, Kelly was wobbling on her feet. The only job she had ever wanted was with the FBI. Until this, she had a meteoric rise; now she saw it all unraveling. It was so unfair.
Andrew Martin sipped champagne in the first-class cabin of an Air China plane en route from Washington to Hong Kong. He thought about the phone call he had received earlier that day from the Chinese ambassador to Washington. It was morning and Martin had been in his office.
“There is an emerging crisis in Hong Kong,” the ambassador had said. “Justice Minister Jiang is there now, and he wants to talk with you. Your flight leaves at five o’clock this afternoon.”
Martin had gulped hard. He not only had a full day of meetings and calls scheduled for that day and the next couple of days following, but as one of Washington’s most powerful lawyers, he wasn’t used to being yanked around on short notice.
To be sure, the Chinese government was a client of Martin’s, and for the last five years had paid Martin’s firm a one-million-dollar retainer. But at the top level of Washington law practice where Martin operated, one million dollars in fees meant very little. Martin went out of his way to provide the highest level of service for clients who paid at least ten million a year. Had this been any other client calling, Martin would have told him, “Sorry, I can’t come today. Let’s set a video conference call.” However, he couldn’t do that with the Chinese government. In advancing his own interests while serving them in the Jasper affair, Martin had barely escaped with his career intact. He had to find out what they wanted. This might be a follow-up to those unfortunate events.
Martin scooped up a few nuts from the bowl on his tray. He was pleased at how well he had survived professionally after the fallout from the Jasper affair. Sure, it would have been a great honor to be named as chief justice of the Supreme Court, but Martin told himself that he would have been bored after a couple of years stuck in that ivory tower anyway. After all, wasn’t that why Arthur Goldberg resigned, to get back into the Washington action?
There were a couple of clients who had left Martin because they found his conduct in the Jasper affair reprehensible, all based upon that scurrilous article Allison Boyd had concocted, but they were a distinct minority. He hung tough, telling everyone in an indignant voice, “I didn’t do anything wrong, I tried to help a friend and I got screwed. When I lent my house in Anguilla to Senator Jasper, I had no idea he was taking his mistress. And I certainly can’t be blamed for her death.”
In a matter of days the Jasper affair, as it had been dubbed, was old news. New scandals hit the press daily, confirming how quickly current events become ancient history in Washington. What did endure, however, was Martin’s reputation. He was still “the lawyer to hire” for clients with difficult Washington legal problems. Martin always got results, whether in the courtroom, the board room, before an administrative agency, or behind the closed door of a congressional office. The fees were still steadily rolling in for Martin.
What had changed, however, was his personal life. One evening, he and Francis had been having dinner alone at their home on Foxhall Road, eating a fabulous grilled steak and reaching the end of a 1990 Haut-Brion after finishing most of a bottle of Taittinger. Martin had become loquacious, figuring he could confide in his wife of thirty-five years everything he had done in the Jasper affair that had not come out in the media. Martin was actually proud that he had emerged unscathed, and he was boasting as he told Francis about it.
Big mistake. Francis was appalled and outraged. That evening she had slept in the guest room. The next day she took a leave of absence from her music teaching job and went to live with one of their daughters in San Diego. Martin missed her, but he’d be damned if he’d go out to California, or even make a call to get her back. So for the last six weeks he and Francis hadn’t spoken, and he lived alone in their large house. Nothing he could do about it now, he thought. He had to put Francis out of his mind and concentrate on what could be a difficult meeting tomorrow.
The flight attendant came by and offered to refill Martin’s champagne glass but he declined, trying to minimize his alcohol intake. He wanted his mind to be sharp. Jiang and his colleagues were tough negotiators.
When Martin arrived at the airport in Hong Kong, a young woman dressed smartly in a black suit with a short skirt and holding a Peninsula Hotel sign that conspicuously omitted his name approached him at the passenger exit.
“Andrew Martin,” she said softly.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“You look like your picture.”
She escorted him to a Rolls-Royce waiting at the curb. It was a cloudy day, the air heavy and the humidity stifling. Martin hadn’t been in Hong Kong since the Chinese took over control from the British. As the driver navigated the heavy traffic with honking horns, pedestrians in the streets, and vendors along the sides of the road, Martin looked for changes in the city. His recollection from his last visit was fuzzy. Superficially, he couldn’t see much difference, but he suspected the real changes were deeper, in the political order. Those would be harder to discern.
In front of the hotel, a white-gloved doorman led him inside the lobby with its high, gilded ceiling.
“We have a suite reserved for you on the thirtieth floor of our tower. Room 3000,” the front office manager told Martin in a British accent. “You’ll have an excellent view of the harbor. Is that acceptable?”
Martin felt like an honored guest. “I’m sure it will be fine.”
“Outstanding. Now can I help you with restaurant reservations this evening?”
“I’m by myself. I haven’t made any plans.”
“May I suggest our Felix Restaurant on the top floor of the tower? The food has won awards and the view is outstanding. It’s progressive European cuisine.”
Martin had no idea what in the hell progressive European cuisine was, but he guessed the food would be quite good. He generally preferred going out, rather than room service, even when traveling alone on business.
“Please reserve a table,” Martin requested. “I should be there in about half an hour.”
As soon as he stepped off the elevator, a bellman following close behind him, he was greeted by a butler who accompanied him to the suite. He offered to unpack for Martin, but Martin declined, thanking him and waving him away.
After a long, rejuvenating shower, Martin dressed for dinner. When he reached Felix, the maître d’ led him to a table by the window with an incredible view of the harbor and thousands of little lights. The streets were still swarming with people. The dining room was about half full, the patrons equally divided between Chinese and Westerners. A combo was playing “New York, New York,” the female vocalist singing, “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere . . .”
Mindful of his resolution to cut down on alcohol, Martin resisted the temptation to order a scotch. A waiter left the menu and wine list, but Martin didn’t open either. He was feeling anxiety about his meeting with Jiang tomorrow. What would the minister of justice ask him to do?
He had already taken some terrible actions to conceal Chinese involvement in Senator Jasper’s death. Having considered himself a patriotic American, Martin now regretted those earlier steps. Notwithstanding his effort at rationalization, he realized there was a fine line between legal representation of a foreign nation and espionage against the United States. Unfortunately, he had crossed that line. Martin couldn’t undo what he had already done, but he could resolve to change his behavior. He would refuse to take any additional actions that were disloyal to the United States. And he would be firm with Jiang, regardless of the personal consequences.
Deep in thought, Martin felt a tapping on his shoulder. He looked up to see the waiter holding a glass of champagne.
“One of our guests,” said the waiter, “asked me to deliver this to you.” He pointed to a woman sitting alone three tables away near the window. She was a strikingly beautiful Chinese woman, about thirty, Martin guessed, close to the age of his daughters. She was wearing a tight-fitting, simple black dress and sipping champagne. When Martin looked her way, she smiled at him. For an instant, he thought about his alcohol resolution, then he decided every rule permitted exceptions. So he thanked the waiter and asked him to leave the champagne.
Martin stood up, glass in hand, and walked over to her table.
“That was very nice of you,” he said.
“Well, you looked so serious and deep in thought, I figured you could use some cheering up.”
“I did a lot of flying today,” he replied. “That’s never much fun.”
She raised her glass. “To good times.”
They both sipped.
“I feel better already,” he said. “My name’s Andrew Martin.”
“Huan Ji,” she replied, smiling and showing perfect white teeth.
“Would you like to join me for dinner?” Martin asked.
“I would love that. Your table or mine?” She laughed.
“Well I’m already here, so . . .”
Martin sat down across from her.
“Are you in Hong Kong on business?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m a lawyer from Washington. And you?”
“I’m a writer from Shanghai en route to the United States to do some research for a novel. I wanted to stop here for a few days to observe the protests. I may write about them at some point.”
“Protests?” Martin asked.
“The pro-democracy movement in Hong Kong wants to have open and free elections to pick their own leaders,” Huan Ji replied. “The monsters in Beijing are determined to block them. Today, it was peaceful. Tomorrow is unclear, but I can’t afford to change my plane ticket so I’m flying out of here in the morning.”
“Where are you going in the US?”
“New York, San Francisco, and probably Washington.”
He noticed her English was spoken with a British accent. “Were you educated in England?” he asked.
“Oxford, with a degree in world literature.”
“Really? I went to Oxford myself. Queen’s College.”
“I was at Magdalene,” she said.
“We must have just missed each other,” he joked. “I’m kidding, please don’t ask when I was there.”
“Before or after the Great War?” she quipped.
“Very funny.”
The waiter handed Martin a menu and a wine list. He noticed Huan already had a menu open on the table in front of her.
“Have you decided what you want?” Martin asked.
“That’s a fairly nebulous question,” she replied.
“I meant to eat.”
“Oh, actually, yes. Mixed seafood salad, and they have the most incredible duck, carved tableside.”
“I’ll have the same,” Martin said.
“Wine?” the waiter asked.
Martin looked at Huan.
“I’m partial to French and Italian reds,” she said.
“Then that’ll be easy.” He took a quick look at the wine list and selected a 2005 Domaine Leroy Chambolle-Musigny.
“You obviously know something about wine.”
He laughed. “Just a little bit. I think you’ll like this one. Madame Leroy is an incredible winemaker.”
“Wasn’t she the winemaker at DRC?”
Martin was surprised Huan knew that. “I’m not the only one who knows more than a little about wine,” he remarked. “Have you written other novels?”
“This will be my first,” she replied. “My protagonist is a young Chinese man named Wu. He grew up in Shanghai, was a brilliant student in math and computers. After graduation from college he works with a high-tech outfit in Shanghai. But he finds life in China too limiting—there are too many people and not enough freedom under the repressive government. So he decides to move to the United States.”
Huan paused as the waiter brought the wine. Martin asked her to taste it. As she took a sip she smiled with pleasure. “Oh my. This is good.”
The seafood salads soon followed, and as they ate, she resumed talking about her novel.
“Well, anyhow, Wu goes to Silicon Valley to work for a high-tech outfit, but he finds the people narrow-minded. A bunch of technocentric geeks. Then a Wall Street firm offers him a large bonus to work for an investment banking firm where computer trading is driving profits. So he moves to New York.”
“What about his love life?” Martin asked.
“In California he only has awkward one-night stands. In New York he meets a colleague at his firm who’s a rising star. She’s a farm girl from Iowa. They have incredible sex, eat at the best restaurants, front row seats for Broadway shows and sports events, and . . .” Huan trailed off. “Hey, enough about my novel. I want to know about you.”
“First, tell me where you’re going with this,” Martin said, intrigued by her story.
“Well, despite the money, the sex, his freedom and lavish lifestyle,” Huan continued, “Wu isn’t happy in the US. He feels that America, like England a hundred and fifty years ago, is an empire in decline. He also feels like a fish out of water. So eventually he goes back to Shanghai.”
As the duck arrived, she repeated her question. “Now tell me about yourself, Andrew.”
She seemed genuinely interested, he thought. “I’m the managing partner of a large Washington-based international law firm, Martin and Glass,” he replied.
“You started it?” she asked.
“I did.”
“Are you married?”
When Francis had left, he had taken off his wedding ring and tossed it into a drawer.
“Divorced,” he said. Though that wasn’t accurate, it was how he felt. “Things just didn’t work out.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she said sympathetically.
“What about you?” Martin asked.
“I never met the right man,” she replied with a smile.
After they had finished their duck, the vocalist was singing “That’s Amore.”
“Would you like to dance?” she asked.
“I’m afraid I’ve never done much dancing,” Martin answered.
“I’m sure you’ll be just fine,” she replied, standing up and moving toward the small wooden floor in front of the combo. For a moment, Martin hesitated. She obviously expected him to follow. Oh, what the hell, he thought. He stood up and fell in behind her.
As Martin held Huan and they moved around the floor, an expression used by one of his tennis buddies at Kenwood Country Club came into his mind. “Age inappropriate.” This described Martin with Huan, he thought, but so what? He was enjoying himself. Huan was intelligent and fun to talk with. And that wasn’t all. Huan was incredibly sexy. As he held her close, he felt himself becoming aroused.
When they returned to the table, the duck was cleared. The waiter had left dessert menus. They both glanced at them.
“See something you like?” Martin asked.
“I have a better idea,” said Huan.
“What’s that?”
“Your room or mine?” she asked, laughing.
For an instant, Martin didn’t know what to say. Through thirty-five years of marriage, he had never been with another woman. Also, from the time the Jasper affair began until Francis had left, they hadn’t had sex. The couple of times they had tried, he couldn’t perform. Going off with Huan now seemed like a disastrous and humiliating way to end what had been an enjoyable evening.
Without waiting for him to respond, she signaled the waiter. “We’ll have the check, please.”
When it arrived, she suggested they split it. Martin shook his head, snatched it from the table, and signed it to his room. When he had finished, she stood up and took his hand. In the elevator he pressed 30, then led the way down the hall to his room.
Once they were inside the living room of the suite, Martin asked, “Would you like a drink? I’m sure they have cognac, armagnac, and anything else you might like in the minibar.”
She walked over, loosened Martin’s tie, and leaned up to kiss him, leaving no question of what she had in mind.
He pulled away. “Listen, Huan, you’re a wonderful person and I really like you, but I have to tell you something.”
She looked alarmed. “What’s that?”
“This may not be a good idea,” he said.
“Why not?”
He was embarrassed. “Well, sometimes I’ve had trouble becoming aroused.”
“I don’t mind,” she reassured him. “I give an incredible massage. I’d like to do that for you. Just relax and enjoy the massage. Don’t think about anything else, turn your mind off. After I’m finished, I’ll leave. So you don’t have to worry or stress about anything else. How’s that?”
“Sounds good,” Martin said, sounding relieved.
“Let’s go into the bedroom,” she suggested.
While Martin undressed, he watched her take off her dress and hang it up. He stared at her in her white silk bra and panties, at her shapely legs. She was gorgeous, and even more beautiful when she took off her underwear. Her breasts were full and round and she had a thick brown bush between her legs. She went into the bathroom and emerged with a jar of body lotion and a hand towel, which she tossed on an end table.
“Okay, mister important Washington lawyer, are you willing to put me in charge?” she said.
“Sure. Anything you want.”
“Good. Then lie down on the bed on your front. Just relax and enjoy yourself.”
Martin complied, stretching out on his stomach. She crouched alongside him, rubbing lotion into his neck, shoulders, and back. Her hands felt incredibly good, and all of the tension drained from his body.
“That feels great,” he said.
“You haven’t felt anything yet.”
She massaged the backs of his legs, starting from below the knee. Gradually, she worked her way up to his thighs and then his buttocks. His legs were spread, and she reached between them, stroking and caressing his balls. As she did, he felt his cock stiffening. She reached underneath and played with that as well.
“Time to flip over,” she said.
As Martin did, he was astounded to see the size of his erection. He couldn’t remember it ever being that hard. “Come on top,” he said, desperately wanting to slip it inside of her.
“Nope. Remember, you said I could be in charge.”
Martin had no idea what she would do next, but he didn’t have to wait long to find out. She slid down and began licking the sides of his shaft. He couldn’t believe how good that felt. Francis had never wanted to perform oral sex on him. Then she took his hard cock in her mouth. As she sucked, he felt an orgasm approaching, but she clutched his shaft at the bottom to keep him from coming. Finally, she climbed on top and slid him inside her. In a matter of seconds he closed his eyes, feeling the ecstasy of release. When he opened them, she was smiling at him.
“Did you like that?” she asked.
“It was amazing. But I don’t think it was much pleasure for you.”
“Wait,” she smiled. “The night is still young. Let’s take a shower.”
The huge marble bathroom had a large shower with a beige marble bench in one corner. The shower could easily have held six people. Huan went in first and adjusted the water temperature, then Martin followed. He stood under the water, letting it run down his head and face. He felt marvelous.
She turned to Martin and began soaping him, running her fingers over his body. As she reached his genitalia, his penis was stiffening again. Martin couldn’t believe it. Not since he was thirty had he been able to have an erection so soon after sex. She really was something.
She put down the soap, faced him, and put her arms around him. He held her tight, the water running over both of them.
“Kiss me,” she said.
He gave her a long kiss, his tongue insinuating itself into her mouth. She reached down and took his hard cock in her hand, then led him to the bench. Sitting down, she spread her legs, opening her gorgeous bush to him.
“Make love to me,” she said. “Now. Hard.”
Martin had a bad knee from sports, and for an instant he felt a jolt of pain, but he shrugged it off. Crouching in front of her, he penetrated her, thrusting back and forth.
“Yes . . .” she cried out. “Yes! That feels so good . . . harder . . . harder!”
He complied and a few moments later they came together. Breathing heavily, he collapsed next to her on the bench.
Half an hour later, she was dressed and ready to leave.
“When’s your plane?” Martin asked.
“Ten in the morning,” she replied. “I’ll sleep all the way to New York.”
“Did you tell me at dinner you might be coming to Washington on your visit to the US?” he asked.
“That’s my plan.”
“Well, you better let me know when. I’d like to see you there.”
She smiled, and they exchanged contact info.
At the door, he kissed her. “Thank you,” he said.
“No, thank you. I’m so happy I was in that dining room when you arrived. You don’t look much like the sad and worried man I sent the champagne to.”
“I don’t feel like him either,” said Martin.
With her hand on the doorknob, she said, “Listen Andrew, I don’t know where in Hong Kong you’re going tomorrow, but be careful. Some of the protest leaders I spoke to today are planning to confront the regime more aggressively. If it turns violent, the police and army will do whatever it takes to crush them. Some of the top leaders have come here from Beijing. So watch your step.”
At breakfast, Martin turned on CNN to check on the protests, but there was no news. Not surprising. The regime must have blacked it out.
On the half-hour car ride to his meeting with Jiang, Martin constantly looked out of the tinted windows, searching for some sign of the protests. He didn’t see a thing. Hong Kong, or at least this part of it, seemed to be business as usual. It was just another frenetic day in one of the world’s most bustling cities.
The car pulled up in front of a nondescript, ten-story, gray stone structure. There were no signs on the building, and six armed soldiers brandishing automatic weapons were standing at the top of four concrete stairs. Inside, a receptionist with heavy, brown-framed glasses wearing a short tan skirt and matching tight sweater, led Martin into a conference room on the top floor with a view of the harbor. In halting English, she offered Martin coffee, which he accepted.
In their three previous meetings, Jiang had always kept Martin waiting—at least for half an hour. Over the years, Martin had been subjected to similar treatment by various corporate executives and government officials around the world. It was their way of showing they were in charge. To Martin, it made them seem petty and insecure.
Today, there was no waiting. As soon as Martin moved away from the window and took a sip of his coffee, Jiang entered the room carrying a coffee mug of his own. In a country where height mattered, Jiang was fortunate. He was six foot two and had a large frame.
Jiang was smiling, which worried Martin. He’d never seen the somber looking Jiang smile before.
“I appreciate your coming on short notice,” Jiang said, gesturing to the table. They both sat down.
“The Chinese government has been a valuable client for five years,” said Martin. “I’m grateful for that.”
“Your work for the People’s Republic of China is something I want to talk to you about,” said Jiang. He paused for a moment.
Waiting for him to continue, Martin tried not to appear apprehensive. He wondered how much, if anything, Jiang knew about the Chinese involvement in Jasper’s death and what Martin had done.
As if reading his mind, Jiang said, “I have been informed by our ambassador in Washington that you were very helpful in connection with that unfortunate business involving Senator Jasper. I’m well aware your actions have had adverse consequences for you.”
“It was a complicated matter,” Martin replied. “The senator was my good friend, or at least I thought so when the incident began. His behavior created a regrettable situation for all of us, and I made certain decisions that in retrospect I should not have made. However, that is all water over the dam now, as we say in the United States.”
Jiang laughed. “In Boston, when I was at Harvard Law School, they referred to it as water under the bridge.”
Martin tried to force a laugh. “Well, they have lots of bridges in Boston.”
“Did you ever row on the Charles?” Jiang asked.
“Can’t say I did.”
“Oh, that’s right, you went to that other law school in New Haven. Well regardless, the US government is not pursuing the Jasper murder. You used your relationships with Jane Prosser and George Wilkins to convince them to halt their investigation. You made it go away. You fixed it. Is that an appropriate word for describing what a powerful Washington lawyer does?”
Martin frowned. “Some people use that word,” he said. “I’ve never liked it.”
“Well, regardless of how we describe it,” said Jiang, “my government is extremely pleased by what you did. I’ve arranged for your firm to receive a one-million-dollar success fee. It will be sent by wire transfer today.”
Martin was floored. Clients rarely offered voluntary additional payments as success fees. “Thank you very much.”
“I presume you’re planning to stay at the law firm?”
“For sure,” said Martin. “I’m quite happy at Martin and Glass.”
“I’m glad to hear you are pleased with your current situation,” Jiang remarked, “because I would like to change our relationship.”
Well here it was. The reason for the meeting. “Change it how?” Martin asked.
“For the last five years, we have had a one million dollar per year retainer with your firm.”
“That’s right,” Martin agreed.
“The work has been excellent. However, it has been confined to the United States.”
“Correct.”
“Your firm has offices elsewhere in the world,” Jiang noted.
“In Europe and Asia,” Martin confirmed.
“We want to expand your firm’s representation to include work throughout the world. Martin and Glass would become the primary law firm worldwide for the People’s Republic of China. And we would increase the annual retainer to ten million dollars. Is this something you would be willing to do?”
“Of course. We will do all of your work at a high level of quality.”
“There is one condition,” said Jiang.
Martin was concerned. Conditions on representation were generally troublesome.
“You must remain at the firm and in charge of this representation,” Jiang continued. “That means no retirement or pursuit of other opportunities for at least three years.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Martin replied. “The law firm is my life, I have no plans to leave.”
“Excellent.”
While Jiang paused to sip his coffee, Martin thought about what he had heard. Jiang’s words didn’t make sense. There couldn’t be nine million dollars’ worth of work that Martin’s firm could do outside of the United States. This new arrangement involved something more that Jiang was not telling him. Martin remained still, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Jiang cleared his throat, then continued, “Legal assignments will be given to you from time to time by various people in the Chinese government, including our ambassador in Washington.”
“That’s fine with me,” said Martin. “You may distribute my contact info to your officials as you see fit.”
“One other matter. Before you return to the US, I would like you to meet Liu Guan, our minister of state security, who is here in Hong Kong with me. He has an assignment for you.”
Martin gulped hard. His euphoria was fading fast. He had never met Liu, but he knew of Liu’s reputation. The man was hard and cruel, someone who took no prisoners. Also, Liu was known to be a hardliner in terms of Chinese relations with the United States. Aware that Liu’s agency, MSS, the Ministry of State Security, was China’s premier intelligence agency, Martin was concerned about the assignment Liu would be giving him. He was worried that what the Chinese were looking for was Martin’s involvement in espionage directed against the United States. If that was the case, he would turn down the ten-million-dollar retainer. He had no intention of making this Faustian bargain. And Liu couldn’t compel him to do it. But did he need to clarify that with Jiang?
Martin decided not to say anything to Jiang. Perhaps he was being too pessimistic in his assessment. He would hear what Liu wanted first. Over his long legal career, Martin had held many difficult discussions with presidents and prime ministers, kings, and corporate leaders. He would know how to push back with Liu if he had to.
“When would you like me to meet with Liu?” he asked.
“I’m leaving now,” said Jiang. “He’ll be here shortly.”
Ten minutes later, Liu entered the room. The spymaster had a jowly face, pencil-thin mustache, and his lips were pressed tightly together. He was wearing narrow, wire-framed glasses below thinning black hair that was parted in the center. Behind those glasses were hard, cruel eyes.
Liu sat across the table from Martin and lit a foul-smelling cigarette. He held out the pack to Martin, who shook his head.
“I appreciate your coming to Hong Kong,” Liu said. “I am involved here in dealing with protests against the government. The protesters are unfortunately being supported by the Japanese government. This is a complex situation. If Tokyo does not stop meddling in our internal affairs, they will have a heavy price to pay. And I hope your President Braddock will not support the protesters.”
Martin was glad Huan had briefed him about the protests. “I have no idea what Braddock will do,” he replied. “I have had my own issues with the American president.”
“I understand that from our ambassador in Washington. This is part of my reason for wanting to see you.”
“I don’t understand.”
Liu paused to blow circles of smoke into the air. Then he said, “You should know that I supported Jiang, our justice minister, in his proposal to expand your retention agreement. Our ambassador in Washington informed me of everything you did for us in connection with the Jasper affair. You are well-versed in the ways of your government.”
“I have been in Washington a long time,” Martin said guardedly.
“Senator Jasper was a good friend of yours,” Liu remarked.
“Since college. We were roommates at Yale. I advised him in his campaigns.”
“He was a fool, letting that woman Vanessa Boyd bring him down.”
Martin had no intention of defending Jasper, who had turned on him despite his efforts to help. On the other hand, Liu was far from blameless. Martin didn’t dare say that directly, but he did hint at it.
“Mistakes were made by many in that matter.” Then, frightened by the menacing scowl that appeared on Liu’s face, Martin added, “I meant by me as well as Jasper. I should not have made that call.”
Liu snarled, but didn’t pursue it. “As a part of your work under the expanded retainer,” he said, “I have a Washington project for you.”
“What’s that?”
“From time to time, an official in the American government will be delivering materials in a sealed envelope to you in your office. Each time you receive an envelope, I would like you to call a man named Xiang. He’s the assistant economic attaché at our embassy in Washington. Ask him to come to your office for a meeting. You will then hand over the sealed envelope to him. That’s all.”
“Who’s the American official?”
“In good time, I will tell you.”
This was precisely what Martin feared. “You want me to commit espionage? To be a traitor to my country?”
Liu shrugged. He put out his cigarette and lit another, a tiny smile appearing beneath his mustache. “I merely want you to be a conduit passing information among friends. You will have no idea what’s in the sealed envelopes. There will be no risk to you. As an influential Washington lawyer, it will be natural for you to meet with the American official. As the lawyer for the People’s Republic of China with a ten-million-dollar retainer, it will be natural for you to meet with the assistant economic attaché from our embassy. None of this will seem out of the ordinary for a powerful Washington lawyer. No one could possibly become suspicious—or even raise a question.”
“It will still be espionage. We have an American expression: A rose by any other name is still a rose.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Liu. “You won’t be planting documents under a park bench, in the hollow of a tree, or anything like that.”
Liu said it smoothly, but it didn’t alleviate Martin’s concerns. “I didn’t realize that espionage was part of my arrangement.”
The phone on Liu’s desk rang. He picked it up. Martin couldn’t understand what Liu was saying in Chinese, but the spymaster looked increasingly angry and agitated. Finally, he pounded his fist on the desk and shouted out what sounded like orders. Then he put down the phone and looked at Martin.
“For days I’ve tried to be reasonable with those protesters,” Liu said. “I will not turn over Hong Kong to them. The time has come to show them we’re serious. I’ve told my people to crush the protestors, to do whatever it takes, using the army and starting with tear gas and water hoses. After that, rubber bullets and even live ammunition if necessary.”
Listening to Liu, Martin became more apprehensive.
“Let’s return to your situation,” Liu said. “If you want to cancel the ten-million-dollar retainer I’m sure the justice minister will understand.”
Martin was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the ten-million-dollar retainer wasn’t worth what he was being asked to do. And Liu was terrifying. He would do better to walk away and sever his relationship with the government of China entirely.
“I’m no spy,” Martin said boldly as he stood up, signaling that the meeting was over.
Liu remained seated. “Before you get too carried away with self-righteousness, Mr. Martin, let me remind you that you presented a patently false story to Secretary of State Prosser to persuade her to have the Washington police close out a murder investigation. Also, as a result of your concealment of a certain CD, Senator Jasper was killed. I am no American legal expert, however our justice minister, who was educated at Harvard Law School, has informed me that you could be charged as an accessory to murder if these facts become known to Arthur Larkin, your attorney general.”
Martin collapsed back into his chair. What Liu said was accurate, but Martin’s objective hadn’t been to aid the Chinese government. Still, he realized his actions could be misunderstood, viewed as improper, even as espionage and accessory to murder.
“Yes, I did those things,” Martin replied firmly. “And your government benefitted enormously.”
“I’m not sure we did. In any event, that’s not the point.”
“What is the point?” Martin asked.
For a full minute, Liu, his eyes boring in on Martin, didn’t respond. Then in a sharp voice, he said, “I’m prepared to have our ambassador in Washington disclose all of these facts to your secretary of state and attorney general. Prior to that disclosure, the people involved from our embassy who have diplomatic immunity will fly back to China. You alone will be in Washington to face the criminal charges. And I am certain they will reach out to Allison Boyd. No doubt Allison will be happy to confirm your improper and illegal acts.”
Liu’s words cut through Martin like a machete. The spymaster gave Martin a sinister smile before continuing. “Since you’re fond of American expressions, here’s another one I’ve learned: I have you over a barrel. That’s appropriate for this situation, isn’t it?”
When Martin didn’t respond, Liu leaned across the table and said, “Either you do what I ask, or I will break you, Andrew Martin.”
Martin did not want to do Liu’s bidding. Desperately, he tried to find a way out of this dilemma. But he couldn’t. His prior behavior left him no choice.
One thought kept him going: I’ll never get caught.
On the long plane ride from Hong Kong to Washington with a stopover in Tokyo, Martin hashed and rehashed in his mind his disconcerting conversation with Liu. The Chinese spymaster was shrewd. Thanks to Martin’s error of judgment, or stupidity, in trying to help cover up what happened to Jasper in Anguilla, he had made himself vulnerable to Liu’s blackmail. Now Martin had no choice—he had to do what Liu wanted. If he didn’t, he would face more disgrace and possible disbarment.
Once more, Martin considered his other options. He could talk to Arthur and try to cut a deal for immunity with the attorney general. The problem with that was Arthur was already angry with Martin for not leveling with him earlier. Arthur was fiercely competitive, hated losing or looking bad, and was vindictive. Arthur would spurn Martin’s offer. Martin had no doubt the AG would then charge him with being an accessory to Jasper’s murder. Allison would make the government’s case. That was the result Martin reached each time he analyzed the issue.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have anyone with whom he could discuss it. Until Francis had left, through their thirty-five years of marriage, he had always discussed hard issues with her. Of course, he could call Francis and ask her to come back, or even go to California to see her, but his pride precluded that. She had left and he’d be damned if he’d beg her to return.
Thinking about Francis, Martin focused on Huan and their night together. That had been great fun and reinforcement for his virility. No use kidding himself, however, it was still a one-night stand. Sure, they had exchanged contact information, but that was something he had done with hundreds of business people over the years and nothing ever came of it. He tossed their cards into a desk drawer at the office or at home. That’s what Huan would do with his contact info. Their parting words had been the equivalent of, “Let’s do lunch.”
Martin chided himself for continuing to rehash his decision to do Liu’s bidding. That wasn’t how he had ever operated. He was always a compartmentalize and move on type of person. This time, the enormity of what he was doing and the risks he was facing made that difficult. Still, he had to stop second-guessing. Fortunately, Liu had structured the operation in a way to minimize the chances of Martin getting caught. Now he had to play the hand he had been dealt with strength and self-confidence.
By the time the plane touched down at Dulles Airport, Martin was ready to do that.
I’ll never get caught, he told himself again.
Kelly’s head was spinning. Starting at two that afternoon and continuing until five, she had been stuck in a windowless conference room at FBI headquarters with three of the bureau’s lawyers. Their mission was to prepare her for tomorrow morning’s testimony before Senator Dorsey’s subcommittee.
Until that afternoon, she had thought it would be a relatively simple matter to tell Dorsey and the subcommittee about the FBI’s effort to locate the terrorists and what happened at Walter Reed. Not so, they explained. “Each answer you give must be carefully thought out, both because of its implications for you and also how it will reflect on the bureau. You don’t want to end up with personal liability, and you don’t want the bureau to appear incompetent. You must be polite and contrite—always respectful.”
They took turns firing questions at her. Then they analyzed each answer, telling her how it could be improved. By the end of the session, she decided that she hated all nitpicking lawyers; she wanted to scream.
As they were breaking up, perhaps guessing what Kelly was thinking, one of the lawyers said, “You’ll be grateful to us tomorrow at this time.”
She wanted to say, “I doubt that.” Instead, she forced a smile and politely replied, “Thank you for your time.”
Luisa wanted to meet friends that evening, so Kelly had arranged for Luisa to drop Julie at her father’s house in Chevy Chase. The three of them would have dinner there. Driving to her father’s house, Kelly thought about how lucky she was to have him as a sounding board and to help her with Julie.
He still lived in the red brick Georgian on Leland Street—the house in which Kelly had grown up. Before she was born, her father had selected the location because it was between CIA headquarters in Langley and his parents’ home in an upscale Baltimore suburb. His wife, Kelly’s mother, who was from a small town in Ohio, had no real say in that decision or in any of the other decisions in her forty years of marriage to Charles Cameron. Kelly was convinced her dad never fully appreciated her mother and all she did for him until she died of ovarian cancer two years ago.
That had been an enormous loss for Kelly, an only child. She and her mother had enjoyed a close relationship, forged during her early years when her dad had been away, out of the country for weeks or months at a time. Her mother simply told her he was away on “business,” but he was unable even to communicate by phone with them during these absences.
Suddenly, he stopped doing that “business.” Her father then began to work for his father’s candy company, headquartered in Baltimore. No explanations were given to Kelly by her mother or father. At the time, she didn’t understand what had happened. He had made a 180-degree turn and never seemed to look back.
It wasn’t until Kelly was a senior in high school that her father told her about “the business” he had been doing before he switched to the candy company. He explained that he had been with the CIA. It was the last years of the Cold War, and his job had been running operations to smuggle scientists and others of “high value” to the United States out of East Germany and other countries behind the Iron Curtain.
An operation, his final one, had been compromised, and he took a bullet in the leg while covering the successful escape of a high-level nuclear scientist. Surgeons saved the leg and ultimately he made a complete recovery, but they told him that would take time and for a while he would have a limp, confining him to a desk job at Langley. He told Kelly that he couldn’t endure that, so he had quit the agency and joined his father in operating the candy manufacturing business that had been in the family for three generations. Kelly viewed what he had done with pride. It became a major factor in her decision to join the FBI.
Shortly after Kelly’s mother died, Hershey bought the candy company. Kelly thought her dad would go nuts with nothing to do, but he proved her wrong. He traveled, read incessantly about geopolitical affairs, and advised Kelly on her career. He told her he’d be happy to discuss work issues with her. With his experience, she appreciated it. Though it violated FBI rules, she never hesitated to talk to him, both about her cases and about the Washington bureaucracy. After all, he had once had clearance for top secret matters when he had been with the CIA.
When Kelly’s marriage broke up, her father stepped in and helped fill the void for Julie. This surprised Kelly, who had always resented that he wasn’t there for her when she had been growing up. When she saw the close bond that Julie and “Grandpa” formed, and how much it meant to Julie, Kelly was willing to put aside her own grievances.
As Kelly let herself in to her father’s house, she found him and Julie playing a computer game, competing with each other to see who could blast the most fast-moving enemy aircraft out of the sky. It wasn’t Kelly’s favorite game for her eight-year-old daughter, but her dad always brushed aside her concerns and told her, “It’ll improve her hand-eye coordination.”
As soon as he saw Kelly, he said, “Okay, kiddo, game’s over. Time to do your homework.”
“One more game,” Julie pleaded.
“No more. Your mom and I have to make dinner.”
“She can do it herself.”
“No fresh talk,” he reprimanded as he turned off the computer.
Julie went upstairs to her room, the room she used when staying at her grandpa’s house—the room that had once been Kelly’s.
Once they were in the kitchen, her dad said, “I’m grilling salmon. You want a beer first?”
“Sure,” Kelly replied.
He opened two bottles of his favorite craft beer, handed her one, and led the way to the den.
“Don’t you have to get dinner ready?” she asked.
“It can wait. I want to hear how it went this afternoon.”
“They grilled me. I hate lawyers.”
He laughed. “I’m right with you there. Especially ones who work for the FBI or CIA.”
She raised the bottle and took a sip. “I’m scared about tomorrow,” she admitted.
“You’re right to be worried, but you shouldn’t be scared. That’s what you feel when somebody’s pointing a gun at you.”
“I’ll be a fish out of water in that damn Senate hearing room.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “You did an outstanding and heroic job. You saved hundreds of lives. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. Blowhards like Dorsey get their rocks off going after courageous public servants.”
“It just seems so unfair.”
“Of course it is. Dorsey is being ludicrous. You risked your life for this country.”
“I’d like to tell him that,” said Kelly.
“You can’t in so many words, but you can be bold and aggressive with the senators. Not defensive; but proud of what you did. If they push, you push back—hard.”
Her dad’s advice was diametrically opposed to the bureau’s lawyers, who told her to be “polite and contrite—always respectful.”
She didn’t know what to do.
At ten minutes to ten the next morning, Kelly took a seat at the table in front of a raised stand with six empty chairs and name tags—one for each member of the subcommittee. The only other people in the room were Forester, sitting behind Kelly in the first row of the gallery, and a court reporter transcribing the proceedings at a desk off to one side.
The room was warm. Kelly poured a glass of water from the pitcher on her table, but cautioned herself against drinking too much. She wanted to get this over with as soon as possible, and not have to ask for a bathroom break, which would extend the hearing.
All six members of the subcommittee filed in. Dorsey led the way with his protruding stomach and a surly look while the others followed joking and laughing. The clerk administered the oath to Kelly. Then Dorsey, a former Houston prosecutor, began the questioning. He took her through her investigation to locate the terrorist, each lead she had, and how it had been pursued. At every stage, he asked: Couldn’t you have also done this, or couldn’t you have also done that? Most were absurd suggestions, but she remained polite and contrite.
Dorsey said, “The terrorist could have given us valuable information. Why did you kill him?”
“I only intended to wound him by shooting him in the shoulder,” she said, attempting to sound respectful.
“Do you consider yourself a good marksman, Ms. Cameron?”
“I have scored very well in all FBI tests.”
“Answer my question,” he snapped.
“Yes, I do.”
“What was your distance from the terrorist?”
“Approximately twenty yards,” she replied.
“And at that distance you didn’t just wound him, you killed him. I’d say you need more time at the shooting range. Or maybe you were so angry at what this man was trying to do that you wanted to kill him? You can admit that to us.”
“That was not my intention, Senator Dorsey.”
“You are under oath. Is that still your answer?”
“Yes it is.”
“Then are you just a bad shot, Ms. Cameron?” he pressed.
This was too much for Kelly. She was tired of polite and contrite. She decided to follow her father’s advice.
“Listen, Senator Dorsey, it was raining hard and it was dark,” she said, raising her voice with emotion. “I had a good aim at the terrorist’s shoulder, but at the last second he moved. Had he not moved, the bullet would have hit its mark. He was aiming at me and I fired only an instant before he did. Had I not hit him, his car bomb would have exploded and hundreds of our wounded and recovering soldiers would have been killed.”
From her research, she knew that Dorsey had never been in the military or law enforcement, so she added, “Have you ever been face-to-face with an armed enemy combatant? Do you have any idea what it’s like? My first objective was to save the lives of those wounded veterans in the hospital. I did that, and I’m damn proud of it, Senator.”
Dorsey didn’t respond. After that the others tossed her a few softball questions, and the hearing ended.
Kelly and Forester climbed into the car waiting for them in front of the Hart Senate Office Building.
“You did an outstanding job,” Forester said. “I was very proud of how you handled yourself.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kelly replied.
“Can you join me for lunch?”
“I’d be happy to.”
Back at the bureau, they went to the director’s private dining room and Forester ordered a shrimp salad and iced tea. Kelly did the same.
“Dorsey is a despicable individual,” Forester said.
“You won’t get an argument from me on that,” Kelly replied.
“Unfortunately, I have to work with him.” Forester paused, then said, “I’m giving you a new assignment.”
Kelly was flabbergasted. “But I like this counterterrorism job. I haven’t been in it that long. And I believe I’m making a contribution.”
“You’re doing a first-rate job,” Forester agreed. “However, I have something more important for you.”
“What could be more important that stopping terrorists?” she asked.
Forester paused to take a bite of his salad. Then he said, “This country is locked in an existential battle with China. They pose as great a threat to the United States as Russia did during the Cold War. Moreover, they have adapted the KGB playbook. Chinese intelligence under MSS head Liu Guan is planning elaborate spy operations inside the US. I want you to be in charge of a new unit I’m creating in the bureau to counter Chinese espionage. This will be a promotion for you, accompanied by a pay increase. And you will report directly to me.”
Forester’s words hit Kelly hard. She didn’t believe for a second that this was really a promotion. She was sure she was being tossed under the bus to placate Senator Dorsey. His subcommittee only dealt with terrorists, not Chinese espionage. He wouldn’t have oversight in her new assignment.
“But I now have so much knowledge about terrorism,” she protested.
“You’re a quick study, you’ll get up to speed fast on the Chinese issues.”
“I don’t know anything about China or its spying.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Forester pointed out.
“What’s that?” Kelly asked.
“You were the one who established that the Chinese were responsible for Senator Jasper’s murder last November before I gave you the terrorism job.”
“That didn’t do any good.” She sounded bitter. “The White House shut down my investigation before I even had a chance to identify the individuals involved.”
Forester took a sip of his iced tea. “It’s unfortunate that President Braddock listened to Wilkins, his national security advisor, and that Wilkins was able to convince him that national security issues with China overrode your murder investigation.”
Kelly was feeling frustrated. That morning it had been politics with that blowhard senator, now it was the president’s national security advisor. Was there any way that people in law enforcement in Washington could do their jobs?
“In your new job,” Forester continued, “you’ll need some legal support from the Department of Justice. Arthur Larkin, the attorney general, has designated Paul Maltoni, one of his lawyers, to provide it. Maltoni will call you in the next day or so.”
Great, just what I want, Kelly thought to herself, time with a Washington lawyer. But there was no use arguing any further with Forester over the job shift. It was a done deal.
“I understand,” she said as she rose from the table.
“One other thing,” Forester added. “I don’t intend to make any announcements about your new position or put it on the bureau’s website. I will only tell top officials in the bureau and defense agencies, so please keep this confidential.”
Running after eating was a dumb thing to do, but Kelly didn’t care. Needing some release from everything that had happened that day, though it was twenty-eight degrees and windy, Kelly changed into running clothes. She left the FBI building and ran along the mall, heading in the direction of the Lincoln Memorial. She was angry about being sacked from her counterterrorism job. It was all so unfair. Besides, what was the new China espionage job? It sounded like a dead end.
Face it, she told herself, her FBI career was over. She should quit and do something else. If her dad hadn’t sold the candy company, she could go to work with him. Maybe she’d go to business school and join the private sector. That sounded like a good idea. She’d tell her dad tonight.
As she reached the Lincoln Memorial and turned around, she changed her mind. She was no quitter. The reality was that Forester had to move her from the counterterrorism job to placate Dorsey. This was Washington 101. Besides, it would have been a problem for her to remain in counterterrorism. Dorsey would have made her life miserable.
She was convinced that Forester still had confidence in her. He was giving her a chance to redeem herself and to get her career back on track. But she could only accomplish that if she did an outstanding job in her new position.
She had an opportunity to save her career and her pride. And she would do everything within her power to do so.
General Darrell Cartwright was on the edge of his seat, leaning forward close to the railing in the box as he watched the Washington Capitals and the Los Angeles Kings on the ice in the Verizon Center.
“Go Caps, go!” he yelled.
Cartwright loved hockey. Growing up in Oconto Falls, Wisconsin, he learned to skate before he could walk. Even in grade school, his body, which ultimately grew to six foot six and two hundred and ten pounds, had begun to fill out. He was willing, even eager, to use that powerful body to blast an opponent on the ice.
Cartwright starred on the hockey team at the Air Force Academy, though that never interfered with his academic performance. He graduated first in his class, which led to a two-year graduate degree at the Woodrow Wilson School at Princeton, before heading off to the Middle East to fly bombers.
Cartwright had been transferred to Air Force headquarters at the Pentagon three years previously, a year before being named chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the country’s highest ranking military official, by President Braddock. He immediately bought a box for Caps season tickets. Often, he used it to entertain other officers and civilian friends. And his wife, Sally, had been an avid fan as well up until her sudden death from a brain aneurysm a year ago.
That evening it was only Captain Mallory, Cartwright’s personal aide and pilot, in the box with the general. They were both in their Air Force uniforms.
The Caps were on a power play. Ovechkin was racing down the side of the rink, the puck held to his stick as if by some magic force. When he was close enough, he pulled his stick back, lashed it forward, and propelled the puck at the upper right hand corner of the net. The Kings’ goalie couldn’t react in time. The red light went on and the announcer screamed, “Goal.” The crowd was on its feet yelling.
Cartwright jumped up, with Mallory next to him. They were watching the replay on the video screen above center ice when an usher walked into the box and said, “General Cartwright?”
Cartwright wheeled around. “Yes, I’m General Cartwright.”
The usher reached out and handed him a sealed envelope. Cartwright opened it, pulled out a handwritten note, and read: “Box 120.” That was all that was on the note. Cartwright had no idea what it meant, but it was so mysterious that he was curious to find out. He told Mallory that he had to go to the men’s room and exited the box. In the corridor, he looked at a sign on the wall. Box 120 was to the left. Cartwright followed the signs until he came to the box.
At Box 120, he opened the door and glanced inside. A single figure, Carl Dickerson, was alone in the box, standing at the bar in the back. Cartwright marveled at how good the tall, thin billionaire businessman looked for seventy-five years. He had a ruddy complexion, no doubt from spending time on his yacht in Saint-Tropez in the summer and the British Virgin Islands in the winter. Cartwright knew from press profiles that Dickerson ran five mornings a week and could press two hundred pounds. He either had a full head of hair or the best damn toupee Cartwright had ever seen.
Based in Los Angeles, Dickerson operated hotels and casinos throughout the world and was one of the largest importers of European luxury goods into Asia and Latin America. Cartwright had met Dickerson two months earlier at a gathering of West Coast top industrialists at Rancho Valencia Resort north of La Jolla. Cartwright had been the main speaker at their banquet, discussing American foreign policy. The conference organizers had promised Cartwright his speech would be off the record, so he had spoken frankly.
Cartwright’s thesis was that American foreign policy was a disaster. Since the end of the Cold War and the fall of the Berlin Wall, the United States had never had a coherent foreign policy. Both Republican and Democratic administrations had lurched from crisis to crisis, being buffeted by changes in the world. The United States was still the most powerful nation, but had stopped being a master of its own destiny. Following his speech, he and Dickerson had spoken for a few minutes. He remembered Dickerson being very complimentary at the time.
Now Dickerson came forward and shook Cartwright’s hand. “We met at Rancho Valencia in November at the West Coast industrialist conference.”
“I recall very well,” Cartwright nodded.
“I read you were a hockey fan and had a box,” said Dickerson. “I happened to be in town and came to see the Kings.”
“You’re a part owner of the team, as I recall,” Cartwright remarked.
“That’s right. I was hoping you’d be here; I wanted to talk to you. Would you like a drink?”
“Thanks, I can fix one.”
Cartwright poured some 12 year old Macallan over ice and grabbed a handful of cashews from a silver bowl. Never one for small talk, he said, “What’s on your mind?”
Dickerson pointed to a round table and they sat down across from each other.
“I was impressed with what you said at Rancho Valencia,” Dickerson began, “that it’s impossible for the US to be the world’s policeman.”
“That’s part of it,” agreed Cartwright. “Even more than that, we simply don’t have any meaningful foreign policy.”
“Agreed. I was also impressed by the talk you gave at West Point in November.”
In surprise, Cartwright pulled back. “You were there?”
“I read a transcript of the talk.”
“It was never published.”
“I have friends who know people at West Point.”
Cartwright sipped his drink, anxious to hear what Dickerson had to say.
“Braddock is a disgrace,” Dickerson said. “He’s weak and gutless. As you said at Rancho Valencia, the US has no foreign policy. Even on domestic issues, Braddock is in over his head. I realize he’s your commander in chief, but still . . .”
Cartwright smiled.
“You can speak frankly,” Dickerson added. “Nothing said here leaves this room.”
Cartwright believed him, so he responded, “Thoughts like yours about Braddock have crossed my mind.”
“We can’t let Braddock be reelected in November,” said Dickerson.
“But if the Republicans don’t get together behind an electable candidate, that’s exactly what will happen,” noted Cartwright.
“I’ll do what it takes to prevent that from happening.”
“You no doubt have a candidate in mind?”
“We have some mutual friends,” Dickerson began. “They asked me to make a proposition to you. If you declare as a Republican candidate, I promise you will have an unlimited war chest. My money and what I can raise via super PACs. All perfectly legal. With enough money, you’ll get the Republican nomination and you’ll defeat Braddock in November.”
Cartwright swished the scotch around in his glass. “You’re serious.”
“I don’t joke about something this critical.”
“It’s too late for me to enter the race. Twelve candidates have been at this for months.”
“And none of the twelve enjoys broad public support.”
“The people would never vote for a general,” said Cartwright, shaking his head.
“They voted for Washington and Eisenhower,” Dickerson pointed out.
“You omitted Grant.”
Dickerson laughed. “For good reason. Nobody would ever think you had anything in common with that horror. So far, you haven’t given me a convincing reason for not running.”
“Politics is a dirty business,” Cartwright observed.
Dickerson laughed. “Unlike warfare.”
“Fair point.”
“You know damn well the two essential ingredients a presidential candidate needs are charisma and money,” Dickerson continued. “You have the first. I’m prepared to give you the second. You happen to have good ideas, which means a lot to me, though most people won’t care about that. If you appear on a debate stage with Braddock, you’ll crush him.”
For a full minute, Cartwright thought about what Dickerson had told him, then he said, “I’m flattered, but I’m a military man, not a politician.”
Dickerson didn’t flinch; he didn’t argue. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “This has all of my contact info,” he said. “My offer will remain open until the Republican convention in August. On the other hand, the longer you wait, the harder it will be to pry the nomination away from one of those twelve lightweights.”
Cartwright slipped the card into his pocket. “I’m a military man, not a politician,” he repeated politely but firmly. Then he put down his glass and left the box.
Walking along the corridor, Cartwright replayed in his mind the conversation with Dickerson. With the money he had been promised, he believed he could get the Republican nomination, and he could defeat Braddock in November. Nevertheless, jumping in now would be a mistake. He needed the right opportunity. Cartwright was a patient man, a quality that had served him well as a fighter pilot. Always pick the right moment to act.
Good for you, Kelly Cameron, Paul Maltoni thought as he read her statements to the blustering Senator Dorsey who loved exerting his power. She had definitely put him in his place.
The transcript from yesterday’s hearing had arrived in Paul’s office at the Department of Justice a short while ago, and he had dropped what he was doing to read it.
As he perused the file, the telephone rang. It was Helen, Attorney General Arthur Larkin’s secretary. “Paul, he wants to talk to you now,” she said.
“I’m on my way.”
Paul climbed the stairs from the third floor to the fifth where the AG’s corner office was located.
When Paul arrived, Helen said, “He’s on the phone. I think you should hold here. You want coffee or water?”
“Thanks, I’m fine,” he replied. Hurry up and wait, Paul thought. It was always like that with the AG.
As he sat down, Paul thought about how much his life had changed in the last two months. At the beginning of November, he had been an eighth year associate at the prestigious Washington law firm Martin and Glass. He had been working for the two most powerful partners, Martin and Jenson, and had been on track to become a partner with a million-dollar-plus income per year for decades. At the time, he had held incredible admiration for Martin.
All that had changed once he saw how despicably his demigod had behaved in the Jasper matter. Paul had quit the firm and taken a job as a trial lawyer in the civil division of the Justice Department. He was convinced he would love the job because he would be trying cases. But he wasn’t there long enough to confirm that conviction. After Paul had negotiated a huge settlement for the United States, Arthur, who knew Paul from his days as Martin’s assistant, tapped Paul to be the head of the US government’s national security legal support group.
“You’re wasting your time trying cases,” Arthur had said. “Anybody can try cases. I want you to do something important for your country.”
Paul had misgivings, fearing he would end up spending his time in endless, boring meetings rather than in court, which was what he wanted to do. However, he couldn’t say no to the attorney general of the United States, and Arthur would never have accepted no for an answer anyway. Fortunately, Paul’s concerns proved to be unfounded. To be sure, there were lots of meetings, and not all of them were exciting. On the other hand, he loved being at the center of the US government’s effort to deal with security issues for the country.
In the past few weeks, Paul had been called upon to draw the line between Americans’ personal freedoms and the efforts of the FBI, Homeland Security, and the Pentagon to keep the country safe. How to avoid another 9/11 without trampling on individual liberties was a constant challenge, and Paul often had a critical say on these issues. His job also brought him into close contact with the gruff Arthur. He had grown fond of Arthur, who was always available when Paul needed him, even if that meant lots of waiting on Paul’s end.
For Paul, this was a new field. Though Arthur told him, “You’re smart. You’ll figure it out,” in fact he spent long hours every night reading endless books and articles on the subject. He didn’t have to worry about it interfering with his social life because Paul, who had never been married, didn’t have one. His sister, studying for a PhD in psychology at Columbia, was constantly inviting him to New York to fix him up with friends. Paul regularly told her, “Maybe next month. Right now I’m too busy.”
The buzzer rang on Helen’s desk. She pointed to the closed door and Paul entered the inner sanctum. Sitting behind his desk, the AG was looking like his usual disheveled self. He was five foot six and pear-shaped, with thin, gray hair ruffled and out of place. He was wearing a white shirt, tie loosened at the neck, and red suspenders, but no jacket.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Larkin,” said Paul.
“Don’t call me that. It’s Arthur,” he said in his usual gruff way. “And not Art.”
“Yes, sir.”
While snapping his suspenders, Arthur moved across the room to the conference table, then they both sat down.
“I’m adding a new assignment to your workload, Maltoni,” he said.
“What’s that?” Paul asked.
“The Chinese have revved up their spying in the US. In response, the FBI has set up a unit to deal with it, and I want you to provide them with legal support.”
“Sure, I’d be happy to.”
“Forester put one of his people, Kelly Cameron, in charge. Jim’s high on her. I want you to call her and get started. Helen will forward her contact info to you.”
“She’s the one who killed the terrorist at Walter Reed,” Paul remarked. “I was just reading her testimony before Dorsey’s subcommittee.”
Arthur smiled. “I had lunch yesterday up on the Hill. I don’t know what that girl did, but people were talking about her. They said she stood up to that bully Dorsey and kicked his butt. Would you agree?”
“That’s a fair description.”
“Good, Dorsey deserved it. So call her and help her out.”
As Paul walked back to his office, reverberating in his brain were Arthur’s words, “The Chinese have revved up their spying in the US.”
As soon as he heard that, he immediately thought of his one-time lover, Vanessa Boyd, and her sister, Allison. When Paul had helped Allison nail Senator Jasper for her sister’s death, Allison had been attacked and chased by Chinese men. Paul didn’t know if they had any connection with the Chinese government, and she had refused to give Paul any details. Still, it seemed to him there had to be a relationship. Vanessa had been a staff member on the Senate Armed Services Committee and her lover, Senator Jasper, had been the chairman.
Now that his work included Chinese espionage issues, Paul decided he should press Allison to tell him what had happened. His motives weren’t purely work related—he really liked Allison and he wanted to develop a romantic relationship with her.
Paul thought about the last time he had seen Allison. It had been in early December after he had quit his job at Andrew Martin’s law firm and before he had started at the Department of Justice. He had flown to Israel to visit her on the archeology dig she was directing. At the time he had tried to start a romance with her, but hadn’t been successful.
Now that he would be working with Kelly on China matters, it would make sense for him to see Allison again. She might be able to tell him about any Chinese government involvement in the case with Vanessa. Besides, he wanted to make another stab at a romantic relationship. He wasn’t willing to go to Israel again, but he knew that as a professor at Brown, she returned to the States from time to time.
Back at his office, he emailed Allison to ask if she had any plans to come to the US. She replied immediately. The email read: “I am presenting a paper at the American Archeology Association in Washington in April. I should have time on Monday the 22nd. Can we have lunch?”
He replied, “Lunch would be great. Central at 12:30.” He was pleased she wanted to see him. Perhaps after being stuck in Israel for so long, she might be more interested.
After emailing Allison, he decided to call Kelly. When she answered, he began, “I’m Paul Maltoni and I have been assigned—”
“To be my lawyer and keep me out of trouble,” Kelly cut in.
“That’s right,” said Paul. “Can I come by to meet my client?”
“When would you like to do that? I’m flying to San Fran in the morning.”
“How about right now?”
“Great, I’m in main FBI. Check in at the desk and they’ll send you up.”
As Paul crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, he considered whether he should tell Kelly about Allison and the possible involvement of Chinese intelligence in the Jasper affair. He decided not to until he learned more from Allison. The information he now had was so sketchy and speculative that he’d seem like an idiot for not knowing more, and he wanted to get off on the right foot with Kelly.
Paul liked Kelly the minute he sat down across her desk and she said, “I have no idea what the hell I’m doing in this China espionage job, but I intend to get up to speed. So you’ll have to bear with me, Counselor.”
Paul laughed and said, “We’ll learn together. I’ve never even been to China. I can barely find it on a map.”
“Don’t bs me,” Kelly replied. “Every Yalie knows a lot about China.”
“Somebody did their homework. But I’ve heard you’ve been busy the last couple of days. Word around town is that you kicked some serious butt up on the Hill yesterday.”
Kelly seemed startled. “You heard that?”
“Arthur Larkin did when he was up there for lunch. Me, I just read the transcript.”
“Will you send me a copy?” she asked.
“Sure, you’re my client. Do you need anything else now?” Paul inquired.
“Not yet. I’m flying to San Francisco in the morning. A branch office of the bureau out there has been chasing Chinese spies for a number of years.”
“I imagine they’ll be happy to meet their new boss,” he commented.
“That’s what’s been worrying me,” Kelly scowled. “You didn’t have to say it.”
Paul glanced at his watch. It was close to five thirty. “You have time for a drink?” he asked.
“I’ll take a rain check. I’m coming back on the redeye tomorrow so I want to get home for dinner tonight with my daughter. Then I have to set her up for an overnight with her grandfather. It goes with being a single mom. Thanks for coming,” she added. “We’ll talk next week.”
“Minister Liu wants to talk to you,” Wu, the director of security at the Chinese embassy in Washington, said to Xiang. “Come with me.”
Xiang was led by one of the security men at the Chinese embassy to a windowless conference room in the basement. There, a red phone was waiting for him on an old wooden table, which the embassy’s high-tech people were convinced was a secure hookup with one of Liu’s phones.
It wasn’t the physical surroundings that frightened Xiang. It was Minister Liu. Xiang dreaded phone calls from Liu. He had been terrified of the spymaster from the time he had recruited Xiang back when he was beginning his last year of high school in Shanghai.
Recruited was the wrong word, Xiang realized as he rode in the elevator with the security guard. Drafted was much more accurate. Xiang had been an outstanding student—the top of his class, and planning to go to the University of Beijing the following year. That was eighteen years ago.
Without notice, he had been picked up on the street in Shanghai and driven in an unmarked car to Liu’s branch office in Shanghai. There Liu told him he would be going to college in the US, and that he would apply to Stanford, University of Illinois, and Carnegie Mellon. He would be allowed to select among the ones that admitted him and all expenses would be paid by the state.
“Can I ask the point of this?” Xiang had said.
“We want you to learn everything you can about the United States. After graduation, you will be of value to the People’s Republic of China.”
Xiang didn’t like the orders he was receiving. Four years at a top American University seemed exciting for the son of a peasant farmer from Western China, but mortgaging his life to the state was too high a price to pay.
“I have to think about it,” he had said.
“Your parents will be very pleased when you do this. It will provide them with an opportunity for a better life.”
Xiang was knowledgeable about how the government operated since Mao, and quickly understood what Liu was telling him. His parents were being held hostage to ensure his compliance with Liu’s wishes. Later, Xiang had been admitted to all three American universities. He had selected Carnegie Mellon.
After the security guard deposited Xiang in the basement conference room, he withdrew, locking the door from the outside. Though it was no more than sixty-five degrees, perspiration dotted Xiang’s forehead and his shirt was damp under the arms.
Waiting for the red phone on the table to ring, Xiang recalled his last conversation with Liu a week ago. The spymaster had told him that he would have a critical role to play in a new operation: New World Order.
From time to time he would be summoned to the office of Andrew Martin, a prominent Washington lawyer, on Pennsylvania Avenue. There, Martin would personally deliver a sealed envelope to him. His orders were to put the envelope into another envelope with Minister Liu’s name on the front. That would then go into the diplomatic pouch for shipment to Beijing. In no event should he open the envelope from Martin.
Xiang had been frightened by the whole process. He thought it likely that when he left Martin’s office, which was only two blocks from the FBI headquarters and across the street from the Department of Justice, with an envelope containing military secrets, FBI agents would swoop down and arrest him.
With his diplomatic immunity, they wouldn’t hold him or convict him of a crime. However, they could expel him from the United States. Liu would no doubt blame him for the destruction of his New World Order operation. That would mean punishment, not only for Xiang, but for his parents. Liu had set them up in a comfortable Beijing apartment and paid them a cash stipend for their son’s valuable work for the state. They were already in a vulnerable position.
The phone rang. Xiang picked it up, his hand moist. “Xiang here,” he said.
“You are a miserable failure,” came Liu’s voice over the receiver. “A worthless piece of shit.”
“Wha . . . what did I do?”
“The FBI has set up a new section to deal with Chinese espionage. I’m in Beijing, but I’ve managed to learn about it. You’re in Washington, and you didn’t even know about it, did you?”
“No, sir,” said Xiang, chagrined.
“That is your job,” Liu seethed. “To learn about matters like this and immediately inform me.”
“I’m sorry, I . . .” Xiang faltered.
“You realize of course this could disrupt our Operation New World Order. We can’t let that happen.”
“No, sir. We won’t.”
“The FBI has placed Kelly Cameron in charge of this new section. I’m sure you remember your old girlfriend from college.”
Xiang’s blood ran cold. “Yes, sir, I do.”
“That relationship could be an advantage for us,” said Liu. “I want you to rekindle your romantic relationship with Kelly Cameron and find out what she is doing in this new job. Are you man enough to do that?”
“I can try.”
“I don’t want you to try, I want you to do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And one other thing. If Kelly Cameron gets close enough to critical information relating to New World Order, I want you to kill her. Can you do that?”
Liu’s words hit Xiang hard. He opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out.
“Well?” Liu asked.
“Yes, sir,” said Xiang.
“And keep me informed with periodic reports,” Liu added.
Then the phone went dead.
Xiang realized he should walk over to the locked door and knock so he could be let out, but he couldn’t move.
He sat there, staring at the dead phone. He was in a terrible situation. He had never stopped loving Kelly Cameron. What in the world was he going to do?
San Francisco and Chevy Chase, Maryland
Kelly was expecting a difficult meeting with Timothy Brock, but it ended up being even worse than she had anticipated. Before boarding the plane that morning at Dulles Airport, she had read the email that Forester had sent to Brock:
“I’m aware that Kelly Cameron is coming out to meet with you today. I trust that you will have a full and open discussion with her about the fine work your office has been doing.”
On the airplane, Kelly tried to imagine how Brock felt when he received this email. He was fifty years old, having spent his entire career as an FBI agent, following four years at USC where he had been an all-American halfback, and three at UCLA Law. For the last ten years, Brock had headed up a special FBI unit devoted to Chinese spying. Their work had led to some high-profile arrests, most notably of two Chinese American scientists who worked at Lawrence Livermore Labs. When the director had established a section at headquarters devoted to Chinese espionage, Brock must have viewed himself as the logical choice to head up the section. But Brock was passed over in favor of a woman fifteen years his junior who knew absolutely nothing about China.
In a call the previous afternoon when Kelly had told Forester she was flying to San Francisco to meet with Brock, he had said, “I’ve never been impressed with Brock. I think he’s taking credit for the efforts of his subordinates. And there was evidence a couple years ago that he was having an affair with a Chinese American woman on Beijing’s payroll—the old honey trap. We didn’t have enough evidence to justify disciplinary action, but it raised red flags. So proceed accordingly.”
Now they were in a conference at the FBI’s San Francisco field office. Their meeting had been scheduled for 1:00 p.m., however Brock didn’t return from lunch until 1:45. His secretary, Carol, had left Kelly in the conference room alone. She spent the time returning emails and reading a book about Chinese intelligence activities in the United States.
On his arrival, Brock didn’t apologize. “I was meeting with a source,” he said. “She was loquacious. I didn’t want to stop her from talking.”
Brock’s hair was slicked down and he had a freshly clean look. She wondered if he was late because he’d been having sex and then showered.
“I would like to get information on your current active cases,” Kelly said.
Brock picked up the phone, “Carol, bring me the files on the table in my office.”
Moments later, Carol wheeled in a cart with about twenty red file folders.
“These are all the cases,” Brock said.
“Can you give me a summary of each and their current status?” Kelly requested.
He waved his hand toward the cart. “The best approach would be for you to review the files yourself.”
Kelly was struggling to keep her anger in check. “Listen, Timothy, we’re on the same team here.”
“Of course,” he said. “I just have too much to do to babysit you on this.” With that, he stood up and left the room.
Kelly was ready to scream. As she picked up a couple files and leafed through them, she realized that the other six agents in the office had the lead on each case. Fortunately, five were in the office that afternoon. She spoke with each of them and they were delighted to fill her in on the details of their cases.
She met with them one at a time, taking copious notes, until a little past eight in the evening. The last was Gerald Corbin, a thirtysomething with a blonde crew cut. He offered to take her to dinner before she left for the airport.
They went to a small trattoria nearby, where the host seated them at a quiet corner booth. When the pasta they ordered had arrived, Kelly asked Gerald, who had been working in the Chinese espionage unit for eight years, to sum up what he had learned there.
In a soft voice with a Georgia drawl, he told her, “Liu Guan, the MSS minster, is a formidable adversary. Liu will do anything to gain information about our military secrets and technology. He must have a former KGB mentor because he is following their playbook. And one other thing,” he paused to take a bite of his pasta.
“What’s that?” Kelly asked, on the edge of her chair.
“Liu is not only brilliant and cunning, but he’s totally immoral. A real mean son of a bitch. The man would kill his own mother if it helped him obtain information. If you ever go head to head with Liu, I’d advise you to sleep with a gun next to your bed at night.”
After dinner Gerald drove her to the airport. The FBI didn’t pay for business class, and Kelly had only bought her ticket a day ahead; that meant a middle seat in the back of economy. Sleeping on the plane was impossible. When they arrived at Dulles Airport at six in the morning, Kelly went home to shower and sleep for a couple of hours before picking up Julie at her dad’s house.
It was a little after ten o’clock when Kelly got there. Her father and Julie were in the kitchen eating breakfast. Kelly looked surprised.
“We had a late night, Mom,” Julie explained.
“Really, doing what?”
“Grandpa took me to the Caps game and it went into overtime. There was a shootout. Do you know what a shootout is?”
“Yes, I know what a shootout is,” said Kelly.
“Then we got ice cream. So we didn’t get home until . . .”
“A little past nine,” Kelly’s dad chimed in.
“No, Grandpa, it was eleven thirty,” corrected Julie. “But the Caps won.”
Kelly was glad that Julie sounded so excited. “Okay,” she smiled. “Put your dishes in the dishwasher and pack up your things.”
When Julie had gone upstairs, Kelly’s dad asked, “What happened in San Francisco?”
“The head of the office was a total asshole,” Kelly replied. “He’s pissed because I got the job instead of him.”
“Big surprise there.”
“The other agents were very helpful.”
“You want some coffee?” he asked.
“I can get it.” She yawned and poured herself a cup. “I promised to take Julie to the Spy Museum today. You want to come with us?”
He shook his head. “No way. I love that place, it’s a wonderful museum, but too authentic on Cold War stuff. It’s a part of my life I left behind and don’t want to relive it. Besides, you and Julie should have some time alone. She’s a great kid, and intelligent to boot. She told me the Caps coach should never have changed goalies in the third period, and she was right. The new one let the Penguins tie the match.”
Kelly laughed. “She’ll have a great career in hockey one day.”
“You think that’s worse than what I did and you do?”
“At least nobody’s shooting at you,” Kelly agreed.
Julie came into the kitchen carrying her backpack. “Who’s shooting at you, Mom?” she asked.
“We’re talking about hockey players shooting pucks,” Kelly said.
“Yeah, right,” Julie rolled her eyes as her grandfather smiled.
“Now kiss Grandpa goodbye and say thank you,” Kelly said. “Then let’s go.”
Kelly knew one of the managers at the Spy Museum, and had used that relationship to arrange a VIP tour for her and Julie. Midway through the tour, Kelly and Julie saw a video clip from the Cold War. In West Berlin, American agents were opening the trunk of a Trabant, a small green East German car. Two men and two women climbed out of the trunk. Another American agent then came on the scene and greeted the fugitives.
“Hey, that’s Grandpa,” Julie cried out.
And she was right. Kelly realized that Charles Cameron, the cold warrior, had been captured by the camera. She wondered whether he knew about the video being shown here.
After they finished the tour, Kelly bought Julie some spy paraphernalia at the gift shop. Then she said, “Okay, time for lunch.”
“Can we have pizza?” Julie asked.
“Sure.”
They got back into the car. Kelly decided they would go to Alta Strada, so she drove north and east, crisscrossing streets until she reached K Street. Then she turned right. From time to time, she looked into the rearview mirror. A gray Lexus, with plates DPL 6279, seemed to be following her. You’re tired from the long flight, she told herself. Don’t get paranoid.
Feeling the effects of her late night, Julie had gone to sleep in the back. Kelly reached across the front, moving her bag close in case she had to go for her gun.
Once they reached the restaurant, Kelly asked the maître d’ to seat them in a booth along the side wall. From there, she would have a view of the front door and the entire restaurant—just in case.
As Kelly was glancing at the menu, Julie made her position known. “Pizza with tomato and cheese! No peppers or mushrooms or olives. Yuck. They’re disgusting!”
Through the corner of her eye, Kelly saw a Chinese man walk into the restaurant. She clutched her bag tightly. Then she froze. It was Xiang! This couldn’t be a chance meeting, Xiang must have been the one following her. Confirming her suspicions, he headed straight for her table.
“Kelly Cameron,” he said. “What a coincidence. I just came in to pick up a pizza to take out.”
No way, she thought. After all these years, why was he reaching out to her? She knew Xiang worked at the Chinese embassy. Could he be a spy? Were the Chinese aware that she had been appointed to head up a section investigating Chinese espionage? Perhaps his superiors were familiar with their prior relationship and were using that to gain information about her latest assignment.
Kelly wanted to know the answer to all of these questions, so she decided to act friendly and let Xiang talk. There was no risk doing that in the middle of a restaurant, she reasoned.
“This is my daughter, Julie,” said Kelly. “We’re just about to order a pizza. Would you like to join us?”
Xiang seemed nervous. “I don’t want to impose,” he said.
“Not at all,” Kelly insisted.
Xiang sat down and Kelly ordered a margherita pizza from the waiter.
Julie, who had been learning about China in school, had lots of questions for Xiang, all of which he deftly answered.
Then she looked him squarely in the eye and asked, “How’d you get that scar on your left cheek?”
“Julie,” Kelly said. “We don’t ask people personal questions.”
“It’s okay,” Xiang replied. “When I was a boy, I was doing very well in school. Because of that, some other boys didn’t like me. They burned me with a piece of hot coal.”
“Did it hurt?” Julie asked.
As the pizza arrived Kelly said, “Okay, Julie, that’s enough.”
When they had finished eating, Kelly pointed to the open kitchen and told Julie, “You see that tall man in the chef’s uniform?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s the chef. If you go over and ask him, I’ll bet he’ll let you watch them make the pizza.”
“Really?” asked Julie, scooting out of her chair and heading to the open kitchen with its large oven.
“She’s a smart kid,” Xiang said.
Kelly ignored his comment. “Are you driving a gray Lexus with plates DPL 6279?”
Xiang looked alarmed. “Yes. Why do you want to know?”
“You were following me to the restaurant.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s my job. Tell me why.”
Xiang took a deep breath and exhaled. “Listen, Kelly, I’ve never forgotten about you. The truth is, I’ve never loved anyone else. We really had something special.”
“Then why’d you destroy it?” Kelly asked.
“There were some things I couldn’t help.”
“What things?”
“I can’t tell you. They’re over now.”
“And you expect me to take your word for that with no explanation? That’s insulting.”
“After our chance meeting in November, I was sorry I didn’t call you,” Xiang explained. “I wanted to see you again and hopefully make a date with you for dinner.”
“Then why didn’t you call?” Kelly persisted.
“I was afraid you’d turn me down. But I thought if we spent a little time together like this, you might be willing to give me a chance. I’ve always regretted breaking up with you in college.”
Kelly doubted Xiang was telling the truth and that he was here due to his romantic feelings. Even if that were the case, she was determined to slap him down for what he had done to her fifteen years ago. Let him feel rejection this time.
“Stalking me is not a good way to rekindle a relationship,” she countered harshly.
“That’s true,” Xiang nodded. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.” He reached for her hand on the table. As soon as he made contact, she pulled away.
“Listen, Xiang, we did have something special when we were at CMU. As I said, you destroyed it. Besides, that was a long time ago and I have no interest in rekindling it. Zero. Do you understand?”
He nodded. “Now that I’ve messed this up today, I’d like to start over. Can we have dinner together sometime? Just the two of us.”
She glared at him. “You’re not listening to me. The answer is no. That’s N and O.” She felt better saying it. “Do you understand?”
He nodded again. Then he took a pen and piece of paper out of his pocket. He wrote down a number and handed the paper to her. “It’s my private cell phone,” he said. “Nobody at the embassy knows about it. If you change your mind, please call me.”
He reached into his pocket, took out some cash, and placed it on the table. “I want to pay for my share of lunch. I don’t want to create any problems for you.”
“Forget it,” said Kelly. “Keep your money. Just leave me alone.”
Watching Xiang walk away from the table, Kelly recalled why she had loved him so much her junior year at CMU. She had been a virgin when they began dating. He had professed to being one as well, though she was never sure whether she believed him or not. They had enjoyed the most incredible sex together. Thinking about it sent a chill up and down her spine. She had never felt the same pleasure with any other man. In bed, he always cared about her, not just himself, driving her to one climax after another.
But it was more than just sex. He was very bright, the only man she’d ever met who was smarter than she was. Yet, he didn’t resent her intelligence, unlike some of the boys she had dated in high school. He was hardworking and ambitious, with dreams of making a good life for himself and his family. Thoughtful and caring, he was interested in her and everything she did. And he loved his parents, becoming emotional whenever he spoke of them. He had planned to bring them to the United States where they could have a better life.
Most of all, they had always had fun together. They had run in Schenley Park. Xiang was passionate about American movies. Even with their studies, they had made time to see every interesting new release. Then afterwards, Xiang had always found new little ethnic restaurants to try.
All of that was so long ago—almost half of her life. Even if he was being sincere now, he didn’t seem like the same person she had known. That Xiang had been relaxed and easygoing. He had always looking for the humorous side of what was happening. This Xiang was tense and pressing. He acted as though he had been ordered to make a date with her. She had no interest in seeing Xiang again.
Kelly signaled the waiter, who brought her check. Once she handed him her credit card, Julie returned to the table.
“What happened to that Chinese man?” she asked.
“He had to leave.”
“He’s a spy,” Julie announced.
Kelly was dumbfounded. She knew her daughter was smart, but she never expected this. “Where did you get that?” she asked.
“He seemed like it,” said Julie simply.
“You spent too much time at the Spy Museum today. He’s a friend of mine from college.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
That was one of Julie’s sassy expressions that Kelly had asked her not to use. Today, she didn’t correct her.
While signing the credit card receipt, Kelly thought about Julie’s conclusion that Xiang was a spy. Her discussion with Xiang hadn’t told her a damn thing about his true motives, but she was convinced it wasn’t romantic, as he had claimed. Assistant economic attaché was a perfect cover for an intelligence agent. The Chinese government must have found out she was heading up a new section dealing with Chinese espionage. Then they must have sent Xiang to spy on her, taking advantage of their prior relationship.
That conclusion was very troubling. She had only been appointed to her new job a couple days ago, and it hadn’t been announced to the media or put on the bureau’s website. Forester told her that he was disclosing it only to top officials in the FBI and government defense agencies. Yet, the Chinese knew about it. That meant there was a mole near the top of the government.
Her first instinct was to report all of this to Forester, but then she reconsidered. Once the director knew about her former relationship with Xiang and his attempt to make use of it, she was afraid Forester would yank her from her new job to avoid what a congressional committee could later claim was a conflict of interest. If she lost her job that way, her FBI career really would be over. Her next assignment would be reading and filing documents in one of the bureau’s field offices—if she was lucky. She couldn’t let that happen.
Kelly decided she would tough it out. Remembering what Gerald Corbin had told her in San Francisco, she would sleep with her Glock pistol next to her at night.
She was also convinced of something else. She hadn’t seen the last of Xiang.
Leaving the restaurant and driving back to the Chinese embassy, Xiang felt miserable. Kelly was the only woman he had ever loved, and being with her today convinced him that he still loved her. He tried to imagine how different his life would be if he had not broken up with her.
They would have gotten married and lived in Washington or New York, where he would have a career in finance while she would have gone into law enforcement. They would have a house in the suburbs and a couple of children—a daughter like Julie, who was intelligent and articulate. But more than all that, he would be different. With Kelly, he always had fun. She was so smart. They discussed, and sometimes argued about, books and movies. And they had always tried new things together.
Thinking about it made him feel depressed. He had never wanted to break up with her. That June fifteen years ago, right before he was supposed to move in with Kelly, Xiang had flown home to China to visit his parents. Five minutes after he got to their apartment in Beijing, Liu had called his cell phone and said, “Two of my men are waiting out front. They will bring you to me.”
Xiang had quickly invented a story so he wouldn’t worry his parents when he left the apartment.
When Xiang had shown up at the meeting, Liu had looked angry, and there was a gun on the desk in front of him.
“You are on the verge of betraying me and your country,” Liu had told Xiang.
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t lie to me. I’ve been informed that you plan to marry a woman named Kelly Cameron and remain in the United States, wiping out my investment in you and betraying your country.”
Xiang had been stunned. How in the world did Liu know this? He must have had someone spying on Xiang. There was no point arguing with Liu.
“Do you deny it?” Liu asked.
“No, sir.”
“When you get back to the US, I want you to terminate your relationship with this blonde devil. Do not give her any explanation. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he had replied weakly.
“Louder.”
“Yes, sir,” said Xiang more firmly.
“And one other thing.” Liu picked up the gun and held it in the palm of his hand. “If you ever think about betraying me again by maintaining your relationship with this woman, never forget that I will know what you are doing. Your parents are still here in China under my control. Am I making myself clear?”
Xiang had no doubt that if he continued his relationship with Kelly, Liu would kill his parents. When he returned to the US, he broke up with Kelly. He had felt as if there were no other choice. And he didn’t dare tell her why. If Liu ever found out that Xiang had disobeyed his orders, it would mean death for Xiang’s parents. A part of Xiang had died that day.
Again, he tried to imagine what his life would have been like if he hadn’t done Liu’s bidding and broken up with Kelly. Stop it, he told himself. Forget about Kelly and move on with your life. But that wasn’t possible. Suddenly she was back in his life again.
But now that Kelly refused even to have dinner with him, Xiang had another problem. If he told Liu this was the situation, Liu would find a way to obtain information about what Kelly was doing. Knowing Liu, Xiang’s guess was that the spymaster would move against Kelly’s daughter, Julie. Liu was a monster, and Julie was the obvious pressure point to use against Kelly. Xiang couldn’t let that happen, he had to protect Kelly and Julie. He could do that by pretending to see Kelly from time to time and filing bogus reports with Liu, explaining that it would take time for him to develop their relationship sufficiently to obtain useful information about her work.
Xiang was confident he could pull that off for several months. Certainly until April. And after that? He didn’t know what he’d do.