McDermid nodded. Besides being a shade afraid of Feng’s unpredictability, he was concerned about Feng in other ways. He had a feeling the big ex-soldier was sneering at him the same way he had sneered at his other employer—Yu Yongfu. At the time, Feng’s insults had not been noteworthy, since he was reporting on Yu to McDermid. But later, when Feng demonstrated the clout necessary to have a submarine sent to shadow the USS John Crowe, McDermid started to worry.
At that point, what had been murky became clear: Feng had serious military or national government connections far above what appeared to be his station in life. As long as those resources were doing McDermid’s bidding, McDermid was more than happy to pay Feng a fortune and overlook his rudeness. Still, McDermid had not risen to be one of the most powerful money men in the world by missing the obvious. Feng was connected. Feng was dangerous. McDermid still had him under control, but for how long, and what would be the price to keep him there?
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Saturday, September 16
Washington, D.C.
The cabinet meeting was behind him, and Congress had been alerted to the brewing crisis with China. Carrying a mug of coffee, the president again sat at the head of the long table in the windowless situation room. The joint chiefs and his top civilian advisers had found their chairs, shuffling papers and conversing in hushed voices with their aides.
The president barely registered their presence. Instead, he was thinking about the millions across the country innocently going about their business who, if the new situation leaked, would hear about a possible war with China. Not a sportsmanlike excursion watched on TV, like Monday Night Football. Not an undercover battle against terrorists or a small conflict in a small country where fewer Americans would die fighting than died in traffic accidents on a holiday weekend. Not just any war. A real war . . . a big war . . . one that would detonate like a volcano and continue night and day, day in and day out. The dead would be their sons and daughters, or their neighbors or themselves, all returning home in body bags. China.
“Sir?” It was Charlie Ouray.
The president blinked and noted all the solemn and stern, or angry and anxious faces on both sides of the long table. They were watching him.
“Sorry,” he told the room. “I was seeing the ghosts of war past and war future. I didn’t see war present. Can any of you?”
The river of faces reacted each according to who and what he and she was. Shock that he, their commander in chief, would be defeatist. Fear of what could be coming. Resolve . . . neither afraid nor fierce but quietly determined. Solemnity at the magnitude of the unknown, near and far. A few with the gleam of “great” things in their eyes, of honor and awards and a place in history.
“No, sir, not really,” Admiral Brose said quietly. “No one can, and I hope no one ever has to.”
“Amen,” Secretary of Defense Stanton intoned. Then his eyes glittered. “That said, now we prepare. War with China, people. Are we ready?”
The deafening silence was an answer no one in the hushed room could mistake. The president looked at his coffee and had no taste for it.
“If I may speak for my colleagues with the navy and air force,” Army Chief-of-Staff Lieutenant General Tomás Guerrero declared, “the answer is, not really. We’ve been planning, training, and preparing for the exact opposite. We need—”
Air Force General Bruce Kelly broke in, “With all respect, I disagree. With some exceptions, the bomber force is prepared for any war. We do need to rethink our advanced fighter force, but for the immediate future, I see little problem.”
“Well, dammit, we’re not ready,” Guerrero countered. “I’ve said it before, and I say it now, the army’s been stripped of the bone and muscle it needs for a long, tough, nose-to-nose war over a vast area against a giant population, a mammoth army, and a national will to fight.”
“The navy—” Admiral Brose began.
“Gentlemen!” National Security Adviser Powell-Hill protested from her seat at the opposite end of the table, facing the president. “This isn’t the time to bicker about details. The first action we have to take is to prepare the complete readiness of what we do have. The second is to get cracking on what we need.”
“The first action,” the grave voice of the president brought instant silence, “is to prevent this confrontation from happening at all.” He moved his adamant glare from face to face, one by one, until he had circled the table. “There will be no war. Period. None. That’s the bottom line. We do not fight China. I’m convinced that cooler heads over there don’t want war. I know we don’t, and we have to give those cooler heads a chance.”
His gaze arced around the table in the opposite direction, as if telling them, one by one again, that he knew damn well some of them—and a lot of their high-paying constituents—would like nothing more than an expensive, thrilling hostility, and telling them, and their special constituents, to forget it.
“This confrontation has a solution.” His tone left no room for argument. “Now, what are your ideas about what that solution is?”
Their blank faces reminded him of a roomful of New Mexican ranch barons who had just been told to find ways to double the water allotments for the Navajo and Hopi reservations.
“I suppose,” Secretary of State Padgett offered, “we could ask for a secret, top-level summit to discuss the matter face to face.”
The president shook his head. “A meeting with whom, Abner? The Zhongnanhai leadership will likely not want it to seem as if there’s anything to talk about—not without calling the whole Central Committee into session and then getting at least an eight-to-one majority on the Standing Committee to approve it.”
“Then send them a message they can’t miss,” Guerrero suggested. “Approve the appropriations for the air force’s new fighter, a bigger and longer-range bomber, and the army’s Protector artillery system. That will get their attention. Probably scare the shit out of them and get them to a summit, too. Yes, with that threat hanging over them, I’d think they’d jump for a summit in a nanosecond.”
A murmur of approval flowed around the room. Even Secretary Stanton failed to object. He looked concerned, his face ashen, as if his resolve for the smaller, quicker military had been shaken badly.
Vice President Erikson demurred, “I’m not sure that’s the right message to be sending, General. It could escalate matters rather than pacifying them.”
Stanton regained some of his confidence. “Whatever we do will in all probability heighten the problem, Brandon, even if we do nothing. Too little could be construed as weakness; too much as threatening. I think some show of force, resolve, and readiness could make them hesitate to push us too hard.”
Erikson nodded reluctantly. “You could be right, Harry. Perhaps a simple approval of already existing weapons systems wouldn’t be too strong.”
“Do we really want to return to a policy of mutual deterrence? Something that could drag on for years and drain both national economies?” the president asked. “Make China hunker down behind its Great Wall again with its missiles bristling just when we’re making progress?”
Admiral Brose’s voice boomed out over the geopolitical debate. “I think what the president might find most effective is a smaller solution to the immediate tactical problem. How do we prove what the Empress is carrying?”
The blank looks reappeared on the faces of the gathered military and civilian brains.
“That’d be nice,” President Castilla agreed mildly. “You have an idea how to accomplish that, Stevens?”
“Send a crack team of SEALs from the Crowe to perform a clandestine recon of the Empress’s cargo.”
“Can that be done?” Vice President Erikson wanted to know. “On the high seas? From and to moving ships?”
“It can,” Brose assured him. “We have special equipment and trained teams.”
“Safely?” Secretary Stanton worried.
“There’d be risk, naturally.
”
“Of failure? With casualties?” Abner Padgett of State asked.
“Yes.”
“Of discovery?” Erikson pressed.
“Yes.”
Secretary of State Padgett shook his head violently. “An overt act of invasion, even aggression, against Chinese territory on the high seas? At that point, we’re inviting war.”
Everybody nodded, solemnly or vigorously, in agreement, while the president took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How much risk of discovery are you talking about, Admiral?”
“Minimal, I’d say. With the right team, under the right leader who’d understand that his people could not—under any circumstances—be discovered. To abort first no matter what the danger to the team.”
The president sat silently, his eyes distant, thinking again about the millions of people across the country who might soon be nervously watching TV or listening to the radio with one eye and one ear on the alert as they went about their daily lives, which most were rightly loathe to sacrifice for an unnecessary war.
His military and civilian advisers turned their collective gaze on Chief of Staff Charlie Ouray as if he could read what was happening inside President Castilla’s mind.
“Sir?” Ouray said.
Castilla gave a small nod, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ll take that under consideration, Stevens. It offers a possible solution. Meanwhile, I need to inform all of you that for some days we’ve been pursuing an intelligence operation that could solve the entire situation.” He stood. “Thank you all. We’ll meet again soon. Until then, I want everyone to get your sectors ready. Send me a report about how you envision handling China and how and when you’ll be completely ready for a full-scale conflict.”
Sunday, September 17
Shanghai
In the passenger compartment of his private Mercedes limousine, Wei Gaofan savored both his Cuban Cohiba and his recent success over Niu Jianxing. With the Zhou Enlai flexing its torpedoes, and the American frigate Crowe polishing its missiles, Niu, the reformer—in Wei’s mind, “reformer” meant appeaser, revisionist, and capitalist—was going to find few on the Central Committee receptive to his demeaning “human-rights” treaty, or, in the end, the disastrous direction Niu intended to take China.
The Mercedes was parked on a side street in the Changning district. Separated from his bodyguard in the front seat by a panel of bulletproof glass, Wei studied the area, where lights showed from windows, the street’s only illumination. He was waiting for his chauffeur and second bodyguard to return from their assignment.
Wei did not like loose threads or unresolved issues. Li Aorong and his daughter were both, and they needed to be swept up and disposed of. Until they were, he would not feel secure. His plan had risks, and while Niu Jianxing was many things Wei disliked, a fool was not among them.
The other members of the Standing Committee could be brought back to their senses once the Owl was silenced.
Abruptly he straightened. There were footsteps in the night, approaching the limousine. The front door of the Mercedes opened, and his chauffeur and chief bodyguard slid in behind the wheel next to the other bodyguard. Wei watched his chauffeur pick up the intercom.
His voice sounded clearly from the rear speaker as he reported: “Master Li is in his house, as he said, but I saw no evidence of the daughter having been there recently, master. Her children were asleep with their nanny in a separate cottage.”
“You searched everywhere?”
“The potion knocked the old man into deep sleep. The children and the woman were already asleep. The grounds and buildings were otherwise deserted. I was able to investigate thoroughly, as you instructed.” The chauffeur turned his head to look back through the one-way glass as if he could see Wei. He was frowning. “There was something else.”
“What?” Wei tensed.
“Public Security Bureau people. Major Pan Aitu himself and a team.”
“Where?”
“Lurking outside. Some in cars. Very discreet.”
“Watching the house?”
“Or Li Aorong.”
Probably both, Wei Gaofan thought to himself. He shifted uneasily in his seat. Pan would never dare act against his interests . . . unless someone else were backing him. Niu? It was possible Niu had discovered that Wei had used pressure to have Li Aorong released from Public Security custody. He shook his head angrily, thinking. Yes, this smacked of further interference from the dangerously liberal Niu.
His cell phone buzzed so loudly he ducked below the windows as if he had been fired upon, forgetting his bulletproof safety. He recovered at once and straightened, annoyed at how tense he was.
He jammed his cell phone button and barked, “Wei here.”
“We have Jon Smith,” Feng Dun said.
Wei’s anger evaporated. “Where?”
“In Hong Kong.”
“Who does he work for?”
“He hasn’t told us—yet.”
“Did he get proof of the cargo and send it to Washington?”
“There’s no more proof, so nothing could be sent.” Feng described the American’s capture and the note McDermid had left in the envelope in the safe after he had shredded the manifest.
Wei’s mood improved dramatically. He did not approve of McDermid’s theatrical insult, but it did no harm to Wei. “Be quick with your questioning. Find out from Smith what the Americans know and eliminate him.”
“Of course.”
Wei could see Feng’s smile that was like no human smile, but one pasted on a wooden dummy. Feng was his man. Still, he repressed a shiver, clicked off, and sat back to consider this new information: Now Niu Jianxing would have no proof of the Empress’s cargo. Niu’s cooperation with the Americans would be impossible, and he had nothing at all to take to the Standing Committee.
Yes, the Empress would sail on to Wei’s profit, as other ships with other illicit cargo had before . . . or the situation might still explode to his even greater profit. He laced his fingers across his stomach, pleased, as if he had just feasted on pheasant and honey.
Saturday, September 16
Washington, D.C.
In the upstairs Treaty Room, the door was locked, and President Castilla and Fred Klein were standing shoulder to shoulder at one of the windows, gazing down at the White House grounds. The president described the day’s meeting with his military and civilian advisers.
Klein said, “You may have to use Admiral Brose’s suggestion for a SEAL recon mission.”
The president glanced at the Covert-One chief. A great black cloud seemed to hover over him like a thunderstorm gathering over White Sands. “What’s happened?” There was a heaviness to the words, a weariness that carried the entire weight of the last four days. Resigned. Expecting the worst.
“We may have lost Colonel Smith.”
“No.” The president inhaled sharply. “How?”
“Have no idea yet. The last time we talked, he was heading off to break into Donk & LaPierre in Hong Kong.” Klein related Jon’s earlier activities—surveilling Ralph McDermid as he took the subway to the Wanchai district, the trap inside the office building, and Jon’s escape with Randi Russell.
“Agent Russell?”
“Yes. Remember, she’s the one Arlene assigned to follow Kott to Manila, where he had that clandestine meeting with Ralph McDermid.”
“Of course. Then what happened?”
“Jon asked for additional supplies and equipment to help him search Donk & LaPierre’s offices. The entire operation there should’ve taken less than an hour. Ninety minutes, tops. And now he’s missing.”
“If there was a last copy of the manifest at Donk & LaPierre, Fred—it’s gone?”
“If Jon’s gone or caught, the manifest is, too.”
The president looked at his watch. “How much longer do you give him?”
“I’ve got local Covert-One people out looking. Two . . . three hours, then I send out a dragnet. It
’s always possible he was captured and is being interrogated. That he’ll be able to hold out. That the locals will find and free him. But . . .”
“But the manifest might still be gone.”
“Yes, Sam. Probably is gone.”
“And Colonel Smith might be dead.”
Klein gazed down at his shoes. His voice was tight. “Yes. God, I hope not. But yes.”
The president nodded. He heaved a sigh. “All right, we’ll find another way. There’s always a way, Fred.”
“Yes, of course.”
Neither said more, their silence acknowledging the lie in their optimism.
At last Klein said, “I’d like to know everything the CIA has learned from Agent Russell and her people.”
“I’ll call Arlene.”
Klein nodded, almost to himself. “Perhaps it is time to attempt that SEAL mission. If it’s successful . . . if they find the chemicals, take over the ship, and dump it all overboard without the submarine’s knowing . . . that solves the whole problem, and it wouldn’t matter—”
“That the manifest was gone and Smith was dead? Is that what happens to all men who have to do your job?”
Klein seemed to deflate. Then his head raised, and his gaze was steady. “I had in mind the total loss of the manifest, Mr. President, not Jon’s death. But, yes, I expect that, sooner or later, it does happen to all of us.”
“Spymasters,” the president said quietly. “It must be horrible.”
“I’ve brought you very bad news. I’m sorry, Sam.”
“So am I. So am I. Thank you, old friend. Good-bye.”
After Klein left, the president continued to stand in silence. He knew what he had to do, but he neither wanted to nor was comfortable with it. He had never been at ease ordering people to risk their lives for their country, as much as he knew that was what they expected to do, what they had signed up to do, what he had done when it was his turn long ago. He had fought in his own war, and he knew no one signed up to die.
His sigh was more like a deep breath. He picked up the phone again. “Mrs. Pike? Get me Admiral Brose.”