Blowback, page 19
What’s it going to be, then, if the Chinese refuse to deal with Langley?
Does the Agency even know where he is?
As grim as it sounds, it seems like Benjamin is on his own.
In the years he’s served in the Agency, there’ve been tales told around drinks about contract agents and other operators “left behind,” in places ranging from Tibet to Vietnam to countries in Africa, when the higher-ups decided it would take too much political capital and trouble to get them free.
Is he now on that list?
He moves slightly, winces at the pain radiating among his left ribs.
Some resistance back there, sport, he thinks. He should have been more aggressive. When that clown started talking about cricket and playing with his bat, Benjamin should have taken the initiative and blasted at him, taking him out at the knees.
Oh, the outcome would have been about the same, but at least the son of a bitch would have left with more bruises.
He rolls onto his right side, where his ribs don’t hurt as much.
Tries to focus on his surroundings, what possible weaknesses there might be in this concrete cell, and what he can do to escape.
He smiles at that. The brave, captured CIA officer, limping off to freedom.
The sound of the door unlocking.
Doesn’t feel like mealtime.
Maybe it’s Chang Wanquan, coming in for a second round.
If so, Benjamin is going to do his best to get within biting range, either a finger or ankle or cheek. This time he’s going to draw blood.
He hears the door opening.
Still on his side, Benjamin says, “Is this the brave Wanquan, coming in to beat up an injured man?”
A woman’s voice says, “No, it’s not.”
He blinks hard, slowly rolls over onto the other side, ignoring the shooting pains and burning in his ribs, bones, muscles, and tendons.
Standing in front of him …
It can’t be.
“Hello, Ben,” says Chin Lin.
CHAPTER 63
DALE LOOMIS OF Loomis Worldwide is sitting nervously in a comfortable chair just outside of the Oval Office.
What an afternoon he’s had.
A scheduled meeting with engineers who had the latest schematics for a wind farm off Catalina Island was about to begin over at a conference room in Crystal City, when he had gotten a phone call from an old friend of his who is the deputy minister of the Ministry of Commerce in Beijing. It must have been very late at night or very early in the morning when the urgent call came through. His friend was direct and to the point:
“You need to see your president as soon as you can, and tell him that talks need to take place.”
“Talks?” Dale asked. “What kind of talks?”
“He’ll know. Just do it. As soon as you can.”
Dale protested, “Wait, this is way out of line. How do you expect me to see President Barrett on such short notice? His day is scheduled down to the minute!”
“Find a way,” came the sharp voice from the man. “Or you and your various companies will never do business, ever again, in China or elsewhere in the Pacific, and certain documents will be released to the news media that will ruin you. Your choice.”
And after the call was disconnected, Dale realized that his old friend was anything but.
Yet a miracle of some sort had occurred, because he had called the deputy chief of staff—everyone in DC knew Quinn Lawrence, the supposed chief of staff, was a weakling—and here he is, just outside the Oval Office.
“Five minutes,” the deputy warned him. “That’s it.”
Dale rubs his moist hands across his pants.
Five minutes will be plenty.
But what the hell is going on now between the United States and China? Oh, the relationship is strained over human rights issues, trade, foreign policy, and China’s aggressive moves in the Pacific, but all of those issues are decades old.
From what he’s observed in the news over the past weeks, nothing untoward is going on with China that’s not expected, and that frightens him.
A man in his position and with his responsibilities needs to be ahead of the news, and he doesn’t like knowing that something huge is going on that he knows nothing about.
Something triggering a phone call from Beijing and an urgent visit to the president.
A check of his watch.
He’s been waiting for nearly an hour.
And he has to find a bathroom, and quick. His bladder is screaming for relief. He’s due in two weeks for a prostate procedure that will ease the eight to ten times a day he needs to visit the toilet, and now he wishes he had scheduled the surgery last month.
Another rub of his hands against his pants leg.
A young and confident-looking Hispanic male White House aide comes around the corner and says, “Mr. Loomis? The president apologizes for the delay, and he’ll see you now.”
He feels the warmth of embarrassment.
He really needs to urinate but he can’t afford to wait, and doesn’t want to anger the president.
“Thanks so much,” he says.
He gets up slowly—afraid that if he moves too quickly his bladder will let loose—and the two of them walk to a door guarded by a female Secret Service agent, who whispers something into her sleeve. The aide opens the door, and he walks in.
CHAPTER 64
THIS IS THE third time Dale has been in the Oval Office, but the previous two times he was part of a delegation. Here he’s all alone with President Barrett, who’s sitting behind his desk.
He says, “Hey, Dale. Take a seat. Sorry for the delay but I was caught up in the nation’s business.”
“Thank you for seeing me, sir, on such short notice,” he says, slowly taking a chair, not wanting to put any quick pressure on his bladder, looking over at the president—dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and striped red-and-yellow necktie—and Dale takes a glance at his desk.
There are the phone banks and a paper desk calendar, and the president is moving his hands and Dale leans over and sees—
Solitaire.
The president is playing solitaire.
What the hell?
Dale slowly sits back. Okay, he thinks, give the man a break, he’s juggling a lot of responsibilities, and if playing solitaire helps him unwind and relax at the end of the day, well, so what?
Eisenhower and others would putter around on a small golf green on the White House grounds, Nixon had a bowling alley, but so what if the man wants to play cards?
But Dale feels just a bit of annoyance that he was made to wait, over a card game.
Especially since he so desperately has to visit a bathroom.
Barrett says, “Ever play solitaire?”
“Sometimes, sir.”
“No, I mean, really play it. With actual physical cards you can hold in your hand.”
What the hell is going on here?
“Ah, no, sir. Usually, it’s on my laptop or phone.”
The president shakes his head in apparent disgust. “Not the same. You need to actually hold the cards in your hand. Have the physical touch. Like other games on the internet, from chess to go to so many others. When things exist on the internet, they fail to exist in the real world.”
He puts down a card and looks up from the game. “Years ago, my parents were schoolteachers, even though my dad was a disabled Marine. Sunk all their savings into the teachers’ union pension fund. Everything, because they trusted the fund managers and they trusted the people who worked for them. One day, there was a burp, a blip, something electronic went south on the Chinese international markets, and they lost nearly everything. Instead of living out their years comfortably in a condo in Hawaii, they lived in a rental apartment in a tough neighborhood in Oakland. Because their money turned from something real into something electronic, something that could disappear in seconds.”
Dale crosses his leg, tries to ignore his full bladder. “Mr. President, if I can—”
“Same thing happened when I was in the Army,” he says, looking back down at the cards. “We have the best soldiers in the world, Dale, everyone knows that. But what happens if all of their communications systems, firing software, and logistics programs disappear? You think they can fight and win like they’ve gone back in time to being an army from 1945?”
Dale doesn’t know what to say.
The president says quietly, like he’s talking to himself, “Like the poet once said, ‘the center cannot hold.’ You see what I mean, about my parents and the Army? The center isn’t holding, and sometimes I think I’m the only one who can see that.”
A heavy pause, and the president says, “Ah, got you,” and then scoops up the cards, carefully puts them back in a little cardboard box, and focuses on Dale.
That look … he feels like squirming under this man’s attention.
“Here you are,” Barrett says. “For two reasons. One, you did a hell of a job raising funds and asking your fellow technocrats to join you, giving me a good push to win the White House. That was always my future, to be sitting in this office, making the tough decisions that need to be made. Decisions never even considered by any prior president. I’m in your debt for that, which is why I allowed you to come by today.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And the second thing … I understand you come bearing a message from the government of China?”
“Yes, sir, I was asked, as a favor—”
Barrett shakes his head, opens the top drawer of his desk, drops in the deck of cards and pushes the drawer back.
“Dale, shut your trap,” he says, voice still sounding calm and reasonable. “I know why you’re here, and the message you’re bringing. You’ve been doing business for decades with the Chinese, and now a crisis is emerging because of the foolishness they’ve done for years in cyberspace and beyond. They’ve dispatched you here as a messenger. Correct?”
“Well, yes sir,” Dale says, desperately trying to salvage the situation. “I’ve worked alongside the Chinese for many years, and above all, they desire stability and—”
“And that’s your message, isn’t it, Dale? Please beg President Barrett to be a good boy, stand down, and let’s work things out.”
Dale squeezes his legs tighter. God, please don’t let me piss myself in the Oval Office.
The president smiles. “Screw that, and screw you, Dale. You can leave. If there’s anything to be discussed, I want to talk to the puppet master, not the puppet. So tell whoever’s waiting for your call that President Keegan Barrett will only talk to the rezident here at the Chinese Embassy.”
“The who? Aren’t they all residents?”
“The rezident, spelled with a z, not an s,” Barrett says. “They’ll know what that means, you can be sure of it. Now leave, before I ask the IRS and the SEC to investigate your ass. And ruin you. That would make me smile, and trust me, smiles are currently rare around here.”
Dale nearly stumbles out of his chair, goes nearly blindly to the door, opens it, and there’s the same aide.
“Help you, Mr. Loomis?”
A bathroom is what he needs, but instead he says, “Please, show me the quickest way out of here, please?”
“This way,” the aide says. When he’s out on the driveway near the West Wing, he starts walking faster, fearing both the pressure in his lower gut and what kind of response he’s going to get when he calls the Chinese Ministry of Commerce.
Nothing good, he’s sure, and whatever the secret crisis is out there, it’s going to get worse.
He urgently texts his Uber driver to pick him up at the near White House gate. As he passes through the Secret Service checkpoint, something warm and wet suddenly spreads through his pants.
Dale looks down in horror, realizing that with all these people around, some staring at him, he’s just wet himself in public.
CHAPTER 65
SOMEWHERE IN SOUTH AFRICA
BENJAMIN LUCAS WHISPERS, “You … why … I saw you get shot, Lin. In the apartment.”
That smile that’s haunted him for years breaks out as she comes over and gently kisses him on the lips.
His mind is racing, but one thought above all comes to him.
What is going on here?
“My poor boy,” she says. “My chest and ribs still hurt from the three wound squibs I was wearing when I last saw you … but you’re hurting even more, I’m sure.”
She kneels on the concrete floor, takes his hand, kisses it. “I only have two minutes. A girlfriend of mine who went to Columbia is controlling the surveillance system. She promised me she’d screw up the system long enough for me to get in and out to see you.”
“But Lin … why? The fake shooting …”
She squeezes his hand. “They wanted to frighten you, scare you so much that your resistance would weaken, make you more malleable.”
“No, I mean—”
“Why did I betray you?” she asks, voice flat. “Because I was following orders. They found out I had reached out to you, and they made threats. They had a whole script for me to follow, and I had to do it. Or … Mother.”
Lin’s eyes water. “She has an aggressive form of leukemia. If I cooperated, then she gets the travel documents to fly to the States and go to Sloan Kettering. If I didn’t cooperate … she’d have to make do with a provincial hospital.”
He squeezes her hand back.
Is she telling him the truth? Or something else?
Despite the pains and aches, he still holds on to his training.
“That I can understand … but why me? I’m just a field operative. No special talents or knowledge. The equipment I had was standard trade items. Why did they use you to get me to South Africa?”
She gets up from the floor, releases his hand, gently kisses him. The kiss brings back so many wonderful memories and hopes and desires …
But what is really going on behind those sad brown eyes?
Is she still following orders, coming here to talk to him?
To lighten his mood, give him hope, give him …
What?
“I don’t know,” she says. “But they wanted you, wanted you in their custody.”
“The other man who talked to me …”
“Yes, the station chief. Han Yuanchao.”
“He told me that they weren’t contacting Langley for an exchange. Or anything.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t know that, but know this. I’m getting you out of here.”
“Lin …”
“Trust me on this. I love you, Ben.”
The slightest of hesitations.
Who is talking to him at this moment?
Chin Lin, Stanford student?
Or Chin Lin, operative for China’s Ministry of State Security?
He says, “I love you, too, Lin.”
She reaches into her slacks pocket, takes out something, presses it in his hand.
“Best I can do,” she says. “Two Extra Strength Tylenol. It’ll help take the edge off.”
He looks at the familiar pills, squeezes them.
“Thanks, Lin.”
She smiles, goes to the door.
“Hang in there, sweetie. I’ll get you out.”
Then she works the door and she’s gone.
He rests there, thinking of what just happened.
Lin is alive.
Alive!
He slowly rolls over, so he’s facing the concrete wall.
But what does that mean?
Is she still following orders? Was this still the process of softening him up, make him more hopeful that at some point he’ll be freed through her actions?
Was she the proverbial honey pot?
Fairly sure he’s out of view of the surveillance cameras inside his cell, he brings his clenched fist to his face, opens it.
The two caplets are white with red numbers.
They certainly do look like Extra Strength Tylenol.
But could they be something else?
Could she be trying to poison him, kill him so he doesn’t suffer anymore?
Benjamin closes his eyes.
I love you, Ben.
He opens his mouth and swallows the two pills dry.
She’s alive.
Chin Lin is alive.
CHAPTER 66
NOA HIMEL IS walking across the dirt and gravel parking lot of the Tuckerman Roadhouse outside of Langley when a black Jeep Wrangler with oversized tires roars up and suddenly brakes, tossing up bits of dirt.
The passenger door swings open, and Liam is leaning across.
“Hurry up, get in.”
She clambers up and Liam starts driving out of the parking lot. She tries to close the door and fasten her seat belt at the same time.
He barely brakes at the road, and takes a left, speeding up.
Noa says, “Nice to see you again, Liam.”
“Yeah, same here,” he says. “You ghosted your way here?”
“Yes, and did you?”
Liam says, “I did. I also took a gamble, picking you up here so close to headquarters, but they probably wouldn’t think I’d be that crazy.”
A traffic light is ahead and the light turns yellow. Liam speeds through it. She grabs a door handle, takes a calming breath, not wanting him to see that he’s shaking her up.
“Who’s ‘they,’ Liam?”
He makes another turn, gets on an exit to I-495. Joining the heavy flow of traffic seems to ease Liam, and he lets the Jeep’s speed match that of the surrounding traffic.
Liam says, “Think I’m getting a bit nutso? Losing it?”
“No,” she says.
“Wish your voice was more convincing.”
Noa says, “I’ll work on it. What’s going on?”
Liam says, “A few hours ago I was talking with an old Army friend, a doctor, now assigned to the White House Medical Unit. Yesterday he told me that he believes the president is mentally ill, a paranoid. About an hour after we got off the phone today, saying he would let the right people know about the president’s state, he was murdered. That’s what’s going on. Give me a few minutes. I’ll park my Jeep and we can talk things through.”
