As he walked through the mall he listened to the message.
It was Melanie. “Hey, Jack. Just wondering if you are around tonight. It’s Saturday, and I’ll probably only work till four or so. Anyway . . . give me a call. I hope I get to see you. I love you.”
Jack disconnected the call, and then sat down on a bench in the mall.
His head was spinning.
—
Valentin Kovalenko had been hitting the bottle more and more in the days since the Georgetown murders; later and later into the night he was up with his Ketel One and his American television. He did not dare surf the Internet, as he knew with certainty that Center was watching his every online move, and there were no sites he wanted to troll bad enough to do so with some Chinese über-geek spook looking over his shoulder.
Late nights of pizza, booze, and channel surfing had caused him to slack off on his morning runs in the last week or so. This morning he did not roll out of bed until nine-thirty, a near-cardinal sin for a health nut and gym rat like Kovalenko.
With bleary eyes and bed head he made coffee and toast in his kitchen, and then sat down at his desk, opening his laptop—he’d been careful to shut it when he wasn’t using it, because he suspected Center would sit around looking at his living room throughout the night if he did not.
He was paranoid, he knew this, but he also knew what had brought him to this state of being.
He checked Cryptogram for this morning’s instructions and found that Center had sent him a message at five-twelve a.m., ordering him to wait outside the Brookings Institution this afternoon and to take covert pictures of the attendees of a symposium on cybersecurity.
Easy, he said to himself before shutting down his laptop and changing into his running clothes.
He decided that since he had his morning free, he might as well go for a run. He finished his coffee and breakfast, changed into his running attire, and then finally stepped outside his rented apartment at five minutes until ten and turned to lock his door only to find a small envelope taped on the knob. He looked up past the staircase at the residential street, and then around the side of his building toward the back parking lot.
There was no one in sight.
He pulled the envelope off the knob and stepped back inside his apartment to open it.
The first thing he noticed as he opened it was the Cyrillic script. It was a handwritten note, just a line of scribbled text, and he did not recognize the handwriting.
“Dupont Circle fountain. Ten a.m.”
It was signed “An old friend from Beirut.”
Kovalenko read it again, then put it on his desk.
Instead of leaving for his run, the Russian sat down slowly on his couch to think over this strange change of events.
Kovalenko’s first posting as an SVR illegal had been in Beirut. He’d spent a year there around the turn of the century, and though he did not work in the Russian embassy there, he remembered many Russian contacts from his time in Lebanon.
Could this be someone from the embassy who saw him the other day and was reaching out to help, or could it possibly be some sort of a trick by Center?
Kovalenko decided he could not ignore the message. He checked his watch and realized he’d have to hurry if he was going to make the meet on time.
—
At ten o’clock on the nose, Kovalenko crossed the street into Dupont Circle and walked slowly toward the fountain.
The walkway around the fountain was ringed with benches, which were full of people either alone or in small groups, and the park around the benches had many people sitting around even on this chilly morning. Valentin did not know whom he was looking for, so he just wandered in a large circle, tried to recognize any faces from his past.
It took a few minutes, but he saw a man in a beige trench coat standing under a tree on the southern side of the circular park. The man was alone, removed from the other people enjoying themselves, and he faced Valentin.
Kovalenko walked toward him warily. As he got closer he recognized the face. He could not believe it. “Dema?”
Dema Apilikov was SVR; he’d worked with Valentin in Beirut many years ago, and then he’d been posted under Valentin in London more recently.
Kovalenko had always thought Dema to be a bit of an idiot; he’d been a substandard illegal for a couple of years before becoming a paper pusher for the Russian spy service in the embassy, but he’d been honest enough and never so awful in his job as to get the ax.
Right now, however, Dema Apilikov looked pretty good to Valentin Kovalenko, because he was a lifeline to the SVR.
“How are you, sir?” asked Dema. He was older than Valentin, but he called everyone sir, as if he was nothing more than a paid servant.
Kovalenko glanced around again, searching for watchers, for cameras, for little birds Center might have sent to follow his every move. The area looked clean.
“I’m okay. How did you know I was here?”
“People know. Influential people. I’ve been sent with a message.”
“From who?”
“Can’t say. Sorry. But friends. Men at the top, in Moscow, who want you to know that they are working to extricate you from your situation.”
“My situation? Meaning?”
“I mean your legal troubles at home. What you are doing here in Washington, it is supported, it is considered an SVR op.”
Kovalenko did not understand.
Dema Apilikov clearly saw this and said, “Center. We know about Center. We know how he’s using you. I’m told to tell you that you have SVR sanction to continue, to see it to the end. This could be very helpful for Russia.”
Kovalenko cleared his throat and looked around. “Center is Chinese intelligence.”
Dema Apilikov nodded at this. “He’s MSS, yes. He’s also working for their military cyberwarfare directorate. Third Branch.”
This made instant and perfect sense to Valentin, and he was elated that the SVR knew all about Center. Indeed, apparently Dema knew more about Center than Kovalenko himself did.
“Do you have a name for this guy? Any idea where he’s working out of?”
“Yeah, he’s got a name, but I can’t give it to you. Sorry, sir. You’re my old boss, but officially you are outside the system. You are an agent, more or less, and on this op, I’ve got a script to give you and that’s it.”
“I understand, Dema. Need to know.” He looked around at the sky and it seemed bluer, the air cleaner. The weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. “So . . . my orders are to keep working for Center until I get pulled out?”
“Yes. Keep your head down but carry out all orders to the best of your ability. I am allowed to tell you that while you may not go back to PR Directorate when you come back to work with us, due to the risk of exposure having you traveling abroad, you will have your pick of high-level postings in Directorate R.” PR Directorate was political intelligence, Kovalenko’s old posting and career track. Directorate R was operational planning and analysis. While he’d much prefer to return to his life as an assistant rezident in London, he knew that was out of the question. Working at the Kremlin for R, developing worldwide SVR ops, was a plum position for anyone in SVR. If he could get away from Chinese intelligence and back to SVR, he would not complain about Directorate R one damn bit.
Already he was thinking about going home to Moscow as a hero. What an incredible reversal of fortune.
But quickly he cleared his mind and got back to his situation. “Do you . . . do you know about Georgetown?”
Dema nodded. “Doesn’t concern you. The Americans will work out that the Chinese are doing this, and they will go after the Chinese. We are in the clear. You are in the clear. The Americans have enough on their plate at the moment.”
Kovalenko smiled
, but his smile faltered. There was something else.
“Listen, one more thing. Center had a Saint Petersburg mafia group break me out of Matrosskaya. I had nothing to do with the death of the—”
“Relax, sir. We know. Yes, it was Tambovskaya Bratva.”
Kovalenko knew a little about this particular bratva, or brotherhood. Tambovskaya were tough guys who operated all over Russia and in many other European countries. He was relieved to know that the SVR knew that he had not been involved in the escape.
“That is a great relief, Dema,” he said.
Apilikov patted Kovalenko on the shoulder. “Just stick with this for now, do what they tell you to do. We’ll pull you out before too long, and get you back home.”
The men shook hands. “Thank you, Dema.”
FIFTY-SIX
On the third morning of his weeklong suspension, Jack left Columbia and drove with rush-hour traffic toward Alexandria.
He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he wanted to spend some time outside Melanie’s apartment while she was at work. He wasn’t thinking about breaking in—at least he wasn’t seriously thinking about breaking in—but he was considering peeking through the windows and checking through her garbage can.
He wasn’t proud about any of this, but for the past three days he’d done little but sit at home and stew.
He knew Melanie had done something to his phone back at his apartment before he went to Miami, and when Gavin told him, in no uncertain terms, that a bug had been put on the device, he realized he would be nothing more than a lovesick fool to think she had nothing to do with it.
He needed answers, and to get them he decided to go to her house and dig in her trash.
“Nice one, Jack. Your dad the CIA legend would be really damn proud.”
As he passed through Arlington at nine-thirty a.m., however, his plans changed.
His phone rang. “This is Ryan.”
“Hi, Jack. Mary Pat.”
“Director Foley, how are you?”
“Jack, we’ve talked about this. It’s still Mary Pat to you.”
Jack smiled despite himself. “Okay, Mary Pat, but don’t think that means I’m going to let you call me Junior.”
She chuckled at the joke, but immediately Jack got the impression that things were about to get serious.
She said, “I was wondering if we could meet.”
“Of course. When?”
“How does right this minute suit you?”
“Oh . . . okay. Sure. I’m in Arlington. I can run right over to McLean.” Jack knew this was big. He could not imagine everything the director of the Office of National Intelligence had on her plate at the moment. This definitely would not be a social get-together.
Next she said, “Actually, I need to keep this low-key. How about we meet someplace quiet. Can you come over to the house? I can be there in a half-hour.”
Mary Pat and Ed Foley lived in the Adams Morgan neighborhood of D.C. Jack had been over many times; in the past nine months most of his visits had been with Melanie.
“I’ll head that way. Ed can keep me company until you get there.” Jack knew Ed was retired.
“Actually, Ed is out of town. I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
—
Jack and Mary Pat sat at a patio table on the deck out in back of her Adams Morgan colonial. The backyard was a garden of thick trees and other foliage, mostly brown with the autumn cold. She’d offered him coffee and he’d declined, simply because he could see the urgency on her face as soon as she pulled up in her car. She’d asked her security officer to remain in the house, which surprised Jack even more.
As soon as they sat down she pulled her chair close to him and spoke softly. “I called John Clark this morning. I was surprised to learn he wasn’t working at Hendley anymore.”
“His own choosing,” said Jack. “We hated to lose him, that’s for sure.”
Mary Pat said, “I get it. The man has served his country, sacrificed a lot, for a long, long time. A few years of normal life can start to look mighty appealing, and he has most definitely earned them, especially after what he went through last year.”
Ryan said, “You called Clark, found out he was out of the business, so you called me. Am I to assume there is something you wanted to share with us?”
She nodded. “Everything I am about to say is classified.”
“Understood.”
“Jack, it is time the U.S. intelligence community faces up to the reality that we have a serious compromise with respect to assets in China.”
“You have a leak.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
Jack hesitated. Finally he said, “We’ve had our suspicions.”
Foley regarded his comment, and then continued: “We’ve had a number of opportunities to liaise with people in China—local dissidents, protest groups, disaffected government and military employees, and others well positioned in the CPC. Every last one of these opportunities has been discovered by Chinese intelligence. Men and women over there have been arrested, chased into hiding, or killed.”
“So your eyes and ears on the ground in China are lacking.”
“I wish they were just lacking. No, our HUMINT assets are virtually nonexistent in China right now.”
“Any idea where the leak is coming from?”
Mary Pat said, “It’s at CIA, we know that. We don’t know if they have some sort of visualization into our cable traffic or if it is someone on the inside. Beijing Station or Shanghai Station or maybe even someone at Asia desk at Langley.” She paused. “Or someone higher.”
Jack said, “I’d be looking hard at their cybercapabilities in light of everything else that’s going on.”
“Yes, we are. But if it is coming from our traffic, then they have been masterful at hiding it. They have been using the information very judiciously, confining it only to certain aspects of counterintelligence with respect to China. Obviously there is a lot of information traveling across our wires that could be beneficial for China, but we don’t see that level of exploitation.”
“How can we help you?” he asked.
“A new opportunity has popped up.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “Popped up from your leaky CIA?”
She smiled. “No. At this point I can’t trust any organization in the U.S. intelligence community, nor can I trust any service under the DoD, in light of what they are going through over there at the Pentagon.” She paused. “The only people I trust with this information are outsiders. Outsiders with an incentive to keep quiet about it.”
Jack said, “The Campus.”
“Exactly.”
“Go on.”
Mary Pat scooted her chair even closer. Jack leaned in to within inches of her face. “Several years ago, when Ed was in charge at CIA, back during your father’s last run-in with the Chinese, I ran a CIA officer over in Beijing who proved instrumental in resolving that conflict. But there were other options presented to us at that time. Options that we decided against pursuing because they were . . . what’s the word? I suppose the word is unseemly.”
“But now it’s all you’ve got.”
“Right. There is organized crime inside China. I’m not talking about Triads, which are active outside of mainland China, but organizations that exist in secret within the Communist state. Being arrested as a member of one of these gangs in China will earn you a perfunctory trial, and then a bullet in the back of the neck, so only the most desperate or most evil join these groups.”
Jack could not imagine being in an organized criminal gang in a police state, which essentially meant the government was a gang of organized criminals itself—in China’s case, a gang with an army of millions of soldiers and trillions in military equipment.
Mary Pat continued. “One of the most heinous organizations over there is called Red Hand. They make their money in kidnapping, extortion, robbery, human trafficking. These are some real sons of bitches, Jack.”
“Sounds like it.”
“When it became clear to me that our HUMINT in China was compromised, I talked to Ed about Red Hand, a group we considered using during the last war as additional intelligence assets in China. Ed remembered that Red Hand had a representative in New York City, living in Chinatown. This man wasn’t in the CIA database or in any way tied to U.S. intelligence; he’s just someone we learned about back then but never approached.”
Jack knew Ed Foley, former director of the CIA, was out of town. He said, “You sent Ed to see him.”
“No, Jack. Ed sent himself. He drove to New York yesterday and spent last evening with Mr. Liu, the Red Hand emissary. Liu made contact with his people on the mainland, and they have agreed to help us. They can put us in touch with a dissident organization in the city who claims to have contacts in the local police and government. This group is committing armed acts of rebellion in Beijing, and the only reason they haven’t been rolled up like so many others is the CIA hasn’t reached out to them.
“Ninety-nine percent of the dissident groups over in China these days exist only on the Internet. But this group, if Red Hand is to be believed, is the real McCoy.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “‘If Red Hand is to be believed’? No offense, Mary Pat, but that sounds like the flaw in your thinking.”
She nodded. “We are offering them a great deal of money, if and only if they deliver what they promise. An active insurgent group with some connections. We aren’t looking for George Washington’s Continental Army, but something legitimate. We don’t know what we are dealing with until someone goes and checks them out.
“We need someone on the ground there, in the city, to meet with these people, far from any American or Chicom eyes, and get a feel for who they are. If they are anything more than a group of well-intentioned but inept fools, we will support them to get intelligence about what’s going on over there in the city. We don’t expect large-scale insurrections, but we need to be ready to provide clandestine support if the opportunity presents itself.”