Preston Allender sat in an armchair watching two screens. One gave a wide-angle view of Melanie’s room, where special operative Torrance LaPlante, Melanie Sloan’s double, lounged languidly in an armchair, his lithe body stretched in such a way as to disguise his big surprise. He’d gone into the bathroom and wet the front top half of the slip, which accentuated his perfect, if plastic, breasts. There was only one bedside table light on in the room and the covers had been turned down on the bed. He’d put on enough perfume to infuse the room and tousled his hair to make it look like the lady was already agitated. The door was unlocked and actually just barely ajar.
“The general’s going to react badly,” Allender observed, recognizing the face in the picture he’d had in his desk drawer when he’d first interviewed Sloan. Damn, he thought.
“Four guys, two in each of the adjacent rooms,” Smith said. “See those shiny strips on the doors?”
“Yes?”
“Chiang’s security people put them on the doors to alarm should either one open. Our guys have paralleled them to get Sloan out, but they’ll break them both at the right time.”
“Which will bring his minders in on the run at a really inopportune time?”
“Exactly. They’re waiting down the hall in the vending alcove, and there are two more in the nearest linen closet. If anybody makes a move on Torrance, an entire bank of white lights is going to flash on in Chiang’s face. They’re mounted in the valence above the window’s privacy curtain. Our guys will get Torrance out of there, and, well, the cameras should do the rest.”
“There’s the ambassador,” Allender said, looking at the other screen, which was covering the lounge with a wide-angle lens. “Are those different minders?”
“Yes, they are. Some are probably embassy aides, but, yes; they’ve probably got twenty people here tonight.”
“Crowds are not a problem for China, are they,” Allender observed.
“The unit of issue is a horde,” Smith said.
“Where’s Melanie now?”
“In the video control room, two over from her starting point. She’s safe now.”
“I wasn’t sure that one guy doing the sweep was going to leave,” Allender said.
“Can you blame him?” Smith said.
No I can’t, Allender thought, but he was glad she was clear now. There was nothing to say Chiang wouldn’t pull a weapon when he realized what had been done to him.
“Target’s in the elevator with a team of three,” one of the cameramen announced.
“Showtime,” Smith muttered into a tiny microphone.
Allender saw Torrance become more alert and then rearrange his face. It was hard not to stare at him. From the waist up he was a female. Melanie Sloan, in the flesh. Soft features, sophisticated makeup, full lips, parted now in naked anticipation. Even the way he looked at the door was female: longing, desire, impatience, one slim hand running through his hair. Her hair. A woman’s forearms, delicate hands, nails painted in something not too over the top, but definitely painted. Even from the waist down, there was no sign of what was about to be revealed. His shapely legs were shaved and polished.
“Approaching the room.”
The light in the room changed as the door swung open and hallway light spilled in. Chiang stopped and stared. Then he stepped through, pushed the door shut, and took two steps into the room.
“Did it lock?” Allender asked.
“Supposed to, but, no, it did not.”
“I want to see you,” Torrance said, in a voice that was a dead match for Melanie’s. Then he put his hands behind his head, thrust his fake breasts up in a deliberate challenge, and wet his lips—her lips—in an equally challenging manner. Allender thought he heard Chiang swear softly, but with admiration, and then the general began taking his clothes off.
“Prep the feed,” one of the technicians said. They had their own bank of screens, and there was some quick switch-work going on.
Then Chiang was naked, his muscular body gathering in anticipation of his go-fast encounter. Torrance smiled seductively, rubbed his hands over his breasts, and then beckoned him. Chiang was entirely ready.
“Open the feed,” one of the technicians ordered.
Allender turned to the lounge screen and watched that big-screen television picture suddenly flutter with a few white frames, and then there was Chiang, in all his rampant glory, advancing on Torrance. One of the techs opened the sound channel from the lounge, and Allender heard the sudden gasps and “whoa”s from the people in the lounge. Then Torrance stood up, reached down to rearrange himself, and revealed an equally impressive erection underneath all that nylon. Allender concentrated on watching the ambassador, whose expression changed from consternation to red-faced fury as he saw what was unfolding on that big screen. It was almost as dramatic as Chiang’s expression when he saw that his supposed temptress was a man, and not just a man, but a really interested man. Chiang’s roar of angry surprise was audible over all the “oh my God”s erupting in the lounge. Torrance lifted the nylon and then pursed his lips in an obscene kissing gesture and began moving toward Chiang. The room’s door burst open just as a bright white light infused the screen and then the picture faded to black.
“Torrance is clear,” Smith announced, a moment later. “Barriers in place. Okay, guys, electronics down. Take it all apart and let’s blow this pop stand.” He turned to Allender, unable to tamp down a triumphant grin. “Well, Doctor,” he said. “This being all your idea, what do you think?”
Even with the old hotel’s thick floors and walls, Allender imagined he could hear Chiang howling in fury two floors below, while his minders were probably staring at him in stunned surprise.
“I think,” Allender said, nodding in satisfaction, “that General Chiang is in for some interesting times, in the traditional Chinese sense of that expression.”
* * *
Allender met with McGill the following morning in his office at Langley. The DDO was almost beside himself, having seen the videos. He was pacing again, but this time with his hands wringing in undisguised delight.
“Gawd,” he exclaimed. “They’re gonna crucify him. He’ll be wrangling night soil in outer fucking Mongolia by tomorrow night. Fucking beautiful, sir, fucking beautiful!”
“I’m told that the ambassador had been waiting a long time to get something on his bad-boy general,” Allender said, getting himself a cup of coffee from the sideboard. “And the ambassador is the younger brother of a Central Committee member.”
McGill went back to his desk. “Will some of this incident blow back on him, do you think?” he asked.
“Possibly,” Allender replied. “Loss of face, as in: ‘He worked for you so why didn’t you do something a long time ago’ kind of thing. On the other hand, Chiang had his own power base in Beijing. Not quite a private intel network, but close to it. You have to understand—all Chinese bureaucracies are made up of factions, most based on clan or family. The MSS will recover, but there will be turmoil.”
“Will it really disrupt things that badly?”
“Absolutely,” Allender said. “Within Chinese top-level bureaucracies, the factions are always infighting. Chiang’s clan stood astride a real plum here in Washington. When he goes down, his people go down with him. Then there’ll be a fight to see who replaces him—and maybe all his people, too. Chaos, for a while, anyway.”
“How long before they realize we did this?”
“Chiang’s certainly figured it out,” Allender said. “He’s been close enough to Sloan’s sexuality to know that she was no she-male. On the other hand, what’s he going to say? I didn’t know she was an ‘it’? Or, I did know, and that’s my scene?”
“Beautiful,” McGill crowed again. “Where is the magnificent Sloan, by the way?”
“Took a red-eye out to the West Coast last night to see some preeminent plastic surgeons in Hollywood.”
“I’m not sure I’d change a thing with that package.”
“We have to, I think,” Allender said. “David Smith agrees. In fact, I’d told her that she might have to exit the intel world entirely, depending on how the MSS reacts. Hate to lose her, though. She was brilliant.”
“A swan indeed,” McGill said, reaching for his obnoxious pipe. Like reaching for his worry beads, Allender thought. “We need to do this again.”
Allender raised a hand. “No, we do not,” he said. “Word of this will eventually get out—too many people in that lounge saw what happened. There’s something else.”
“Yes? What?”
“The Chinese will not forget this. They won’t write this embarrassment off as just a learning experience. I grew up in Taiwan, and I know something about Chinese culture. The Mandarins at the imperial court did this kind of thing to one another for fun, but if they got caught short in a power play, they died in truly interesting ways.”
“But won’t the ambassador feel we’ve solved a problem for them? The influential general with the dangerously loose zipper?”
“Perhaps,” Allender said. “But I believe they’ll analyze it, stew about it, punish someone, and then set about planning appropriate revenge.”
“Revenge?” McGill squeaked. “Really? How unprofessional. It’s the intelligence racket. You win some, you lose some. That’s why it’s called the Great Game. Even Kipling knew that.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying, which is a good reason not to try this gambit again. What we do now is keep a straight face, admit nothing, especially within the Company. That was why you had me conjure this thing up, remember? Nobody associates me with operations, and you can maintain your deniability.”
McGill considered that last point. “Yes, you’re right. But you might want to think about dabbling in operations, Preston. This was brilliant.”
Allender dismissed that notion with a wave of his hand. “Bury this episode, Carson. No gloating or wink-wink asides and grins over Scotch at your club. It’s important.”
“Yes, yes, keep it all exquisitely professional, I know, I know,” McGill said dismissively. “I totally agree. But what if we did it to someone who’s theoretically on our side?”
“Meaning?”
“A certain congressperson comes to mind.”
Allender groaned. “No, no, and hell no. Much as you despise that woman, taking down a House committee chairman would produce some serious blowback.”
“In your humble opinion?”
“In anyone’s opinion, Carson. Give it the Washington Post test, for God’s sake.”
McGill appeared to visualize the headlines and then waved the whole idea away. “By the way,” he said. “The director wanted to know what that commotion in the lounge was all about. Some eager beaver put a clip of it in his morning brief.”
“What’d you tell him?” Allender asked, sharply.
“That we’re looking into it, of course, but that it appears to be a Chinese embassy personnel problem. Some general indulging odd tastes. Reminded him that the Chinese embassy is a tough nut—you know, all those inscrutable Orientals. Pivoted to a more urgent problem in Africa that we simply had to deal with, and off we went on that little firefly. I even avoided The Lecture.”
“Lucky you,” Allender said. “So: David Smith assures me that Sloan’s being taken care of. The team’s been dispersed and reassigned to other duties. The hotel’s been cleared and paid. General Chiang’s undoubtedly on his way back to China, possibly in a shipping container, and the MSS operation here in Washington has been neutralized—for the moment, anyway. I guess I’ll go back to my day job.”
“Capital idea, my dear fellow.” McGill beamed. “Commendations to follow, of course. A nice year-end executive bonus, too, if I’m not mistaken. Very, very well done. Tell me: Do you still do that dragon-eyes routine when you’re doing one of your notorious—‘interviews’?”
Allender finished his coffee and stood up. He walked over to McGill’s desk and leaned down to look at him. Then he took off his glasses and gave McGill a good look at those golden eyes and their shape-shifting black irises. McGill, despite himself, recoiled.
“Yes, I do,” Allender said softly. “And you need to forget all about running a swan on Congresswoman Greer, Carson. I guarantee you: That would end badly.”