THE CHINA GAMBIT (Craig Page series), page 1
PRAISE FOR ALLAN TOPOL
“John Grisham and Richard North Patterson may have a new successor. As entertaining as it is complex, this energetic narrative is loaded with close calls and compelling relationships. Topol weaves a convincing conspiracy theory.”
–PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Haunting… (Topol) displays a knack for this sort of story.”
–SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE
“A truly thoughtful and relevant spy novel.”
–THE MONTGOMERY GAZETTE (MD)
“Takes off at warp speed…Topol has done his homework.”
–WASHINGTONIAN ONLINE
“Entertaining and suspenseful…well-crafted.”
–STEPHEN FREY, NEW YORK TIMES
BEST-SELLING AUTHOR
“As entertaining as it is complex, this energetic narrative is loaded with close calls and compelling relationships.
Topol weaves a convincing conspiracy theory.”
–PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Topol’s fiction is woven from the threads of real events and real-life concerns.”
–THE LEGAL TIMES
The China Gambit
Allan Topol
Copyright © 2013, Allan Topol
For Barbara, as always,
my partner in this literary venture.
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
PART ONE: FRANCESCA
1 Piazza Navona, Rome
2 Trastevere, Rome
3 Manassas, Virginia
4 Beijing
5 Mclean, Virginia
6 Mclean, Virginia
7 New York
8 Langley, Virginia
9 Culpepper, Virginia
10 Calgary
11 Calgary
12 Calgary
13 Calgary
14 Beijing
15 Calgary
16 Calgary
17 Calgary
18 Beijing
19 Calgary
20 Calgary
21 Middleburg, Virginia
22 Banff, Canada
PART TWO: MULLAH’S RULES
23 Tehran
24 Tehran
25 Tehran
26 Beijing
27 Tehran
28 Tehran
29 Washington
30 Tehran
31 Tehran
32 Washington
33 Tehran
34 Washington
35 Tehran
36 Tehran
37 Beijing
38 Lahijan, Iran
39 The Caspian Sea
PART THREE: THE OVAL OFFICE
40 Mclean, Virginia
41 Culpeper, Virginia
42 Mclean, Virginia
43 Mclean, Virginia
44 Paris
45 Washington
46 Washington
47 Paris
48 San Francisco
49 Washington
50 Washington
51 San Francisco
PART FOUR: THE CHINESE CHALLENGE
52 Beijing
53 Beijing
54 Beijing
55 Beijing
56 Washington
57 Beijing
58 Beijing
59 Narita Airport, Japan
60 Beijing
61 Beijing
62 Beijing
63 Beijing
64 Beijing
65 Beijing
66 Beijing
67 Beijing
68 Beijing
69 Beijing
70 Beijing
71 Beijing
72 Beijing
73 The Summer Palace, Beijing
74 Beijing
75 U.S. Embassy, Beijing
76 Washington
77 Beijing
78 Beijing
79 Beijing
80 Beijing
PART FIVE: EVENING THE SCORE
81 Northern Virginia
82 Washington
83 Washington
84 Washington
85 Beijing
86 Washington
87 St. Petersburg, Florida
88 St. Petersburg, Florida
89 Aspen, Colorado
90 Aspen, Colorado
91 Paris, April 14
92 Washington, April 15
Acknowledgements
PROLOGUE
CALGARY, CANADA
Leaving suite 2100 in the Hyatt Regency and clutching her reporter’s steno pad, Francesca Page was excited, more excited than she’d ever been.
Only ten months ago she graduated from Northwestern Journalism School. Now she had the most incredible story. Disclosing what she learned could avoid disaster for the United States.
She practically flew down the corridor to the elevator, her long strides propelling her five eight frame. Impatiently, she pressed the down button, then brushed back a few strands of long brown hair.
Nothing he said in the interview confirmed what she’d learned in Iran. But her father had taught her how to interrogate people. “Watch their facial expressions, particularly the eyes. Voice inflection is critical. What they don’t tell you is more important than what they do.” All those screamed at her: You’re right. That is what they’re planning.
The empty elevator arrived. Gripping the brown leather case that held her laptop and cell phone, she charged in. After pressing the lobby button, she was planning her next moves: drive back to the Fairmont; write up the story on the laptop; email it to Elizabeth; then call. Elizabeth will be in her office at the Trib. Still plenty of time to make tomorrow morning’s paper. In her mind Francesca was composing the front page headline: “Chinese General Develops Plot Against The United States.”
She barreled through the lobby, narrowly missing a heavyset man swaying from too much to drink. Once she exited the revolving door, the biting cold of the mid-March evening smacked her in the face. Snow was beginning to fall. “Cab Miss?” the portly doorman asked.
“No thanks. I have a car in the garage across the street.” She zipped up the brown leather jacket and put on her gloves.
She waited for the light to turn green, all the while drafting in her mind. Suddenly, two men were closing in on her, bookends. One short with a pockmarked red face. The other tall and swarthy with a thin mustache.
The short man flashed an ID in a wallet. “Alberta Police. Come with us, Miss Page.” At the curb, she saw a black Mercedes sedan, no markings on the side, engine running, rear door open. The car had an Alberta license plate, AP221.
Growing up, she’d heard plenty of stories from her father about the operations of clandestine services.
I’m not being paranoid. Mutt and Jeff aren’t real police. I have to seize the initiative and surprise them.
“I can’t see your I.D. You’ll have to bring it closer.”
The short man brought his wallet a foot from her face. As he did, Francesca swung her arm containing the bag with her laptop, fast and hard, hitting him in the face, breaking his nose. Snow had made the sidewalk slick. Caught off guard, bleeding, he slipped and fell. The tall man yanked Francesca’s bag away, pulled a gun, and glared at her.
The snow was picking up. Her hair was wet, water dripping down her cheeks. Traffic was moving slowly. She burst into the street threading her way between cars, making a beeline for the garage. Glancing over her shoulder, she expected the tall man to chase her. But he wasn’t moving. He had whipped out his cell phone and was making a call.
I have to get to the airport. If I hurry, I’ll make the last plane out to Chicago. Then I’ll get a plane to New York in the morning. But what if they’re not flying? I can’t even think that. Besides, Calgary’s used to snow.
She roared around curves in the garage. At the exit, she paid the fee. Out on the street, she wanted to floor it, but the surface was slippery, cars skidding. She glanced in the rearview mirror.
The black Mercedes had pulled out and was following, two cars behind.
She turned onto Highway 2, heading north toward the airport. The Mercedes followed her. The snow was coming down harder. The Rocky Mountains on the left were buried in heavy cloud cover.
Through fast moving windshield wipers, she barely discerned a disabled car in the road. At the last possible instant, she swerved around it. She was terrified, clutching the wheel, her palms moist, the defroster and heater running full blast, her legs shaking. Perspiration dripped from her forehead into her eyes and soaked the underarms of her blouse.
The exit for McKnight Boulevard was coming up. She cut sharply on to the ramp, taking it too fast and sliding around, nearly hitting a wall. On the road, she hunched over the wheel, glancing back again. No one was in sight. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Straining to see, she was driving as fast as possible.
Up ahead, she saw a roadblock. She threw on the high beams. A wooden barricade was stretched across the road, blocking traffic in her direction. A man dressed in a police uniform was checking each car, then waving the cars through on the apron. Traffic was light.
She glanced to the side of the road. A car with flashing red and blue lights on the roof was parked on the grass. Next to it, she saw a black Mercedes. License AP221.
One car was between her and the roadblock. The policeman, or whatever the hell he was, let the car pass.
She kept her lights on high and pressed down on the accelerator, driving right at him. He narrowly jumped out of the way. She slammed through the b
On the right, she saw a sign: “Airport Five miles.” Under it was an arrow pointing left.
She made the turn on to the Barlow Trail, the last leg, two lanes to the airport.
She checked the rearview mirror. A car was right behind her and moving up fast, so close that she saw the Mercedes insignia on the hood. In the snow her Toyota was no match for the Mercedes, which was closing the gap. She felt a jolt as the Mercedes bumped her car. She kept going.
She heard a gunshot. It blew out the rear window. The bullet and glass narrowly missed her. She refused to stop.
While worrying about the Mercedes, she had to watch the road ahead.
Blinding lights were coming at her from the front. A huge truck. She moved to the shoulder of the road. The Mercedes shifted with her, then pulled off.
“Move over you jerk,” she shouted at the trucker.
But the truck didn’t move. It slammed into her car. And her whole world went black.
PART ONE
FRANCESCA
1
PIAZZA NAVONA, ROME
Craig Page ordered another double espresso in the private room in Tre Scalini and checked his watch. It was ten thirty.
Dammit. Hameed should be here.
He walked over to the window, his eyes scanning the beautiful, baroque, pedestrian-only Piazza Navona. He saw scores of tourists wandering past, stopping at a café or bargaining with vendors, but no sign of the Saudi.
He replayed in his mind the five o’clock call from this morning that woke him in his apartment in Milan, Giuseppe, sounding tense and frantic. “Craig, we need you to come to Rome immediately. A plane’s waiting at Linate.”
When he arrived at the headquarters of the Italian Intelligence Agency a little before seven, the building was lit up as if it were ten in the morning. “We intercepted a message between two Al Qaeda cells,” Giuseppe said. “They’re planning something big and soon. ‘Operation Water,’ they’re calling it. We’re sending troops to safeguard Rome’s water supply. Also the Tiber bridges.”
Craig was mulling over Giuseppe’s words. “What can I do to help?”
“Use your Al Qaeda contacts. Penetrate their organization. But move fast.”
Time to call in a very large IOU, Craig had decided.
Twelve months ago Craig, still with the CIA, followed Achmed, a high ranking Al Qaeda official, from Dubai to New York and thwarted a suicide bombing at Madison Square Garden during a Knicks game. Afterwards, Craig returned to the Middle East to arrest or to kill the other planners of the operation. He located Hameed, a mid-level operative, working at the Arab Euro bank in Dubai. Craig was preparing to arrest Hameed and ship him back to the U.S. for a long jail term. Then he got a better idea. “I’ll pretend you weren’t involved. In return, I’ll want your cooperation in the future.” Craig knew the deal was risky. Kirby would never have approved it, but Kirby didn’t have to know. Not surprisingly, Hameed jumped at the offer.
Now, if that bastard Hameed doesn’t show or cooperate, I’ve been had.
“Your friend’s here,” a waiter said.
Craig wheeled around to see the waiter, coming from the kitchen, an espresso on a tray and Hameed behind him, surly-looking with a neatly trimmed black beard sprinkled with gray and a long scar on his left cheek.
“You want something to drink or eat?” Craig asked the Saudi.
“I’m not here to socialize.”
Craig reached into his pocket and handed a twenty Euro note to the waiter, who quickly retreated, closing the door behind him.
“How’d you get into the restaurant?” Craig asked.
“A produce truck dropped me at the service entrance. Who told you I was in Rome?”
“After our deal last year, you became a valuable asset of mine. I like to keep track of my assets.”
“But I thought you were fired from the CIA because you refused to follow Kirby’s orders.”
“There was a reorganization. Now I’m a private consultant, working for the Italian government.”
Craig pointed to the table. Hameed sat down across from Craig, who sipped the espresso.
“I want to know about Operation Water,” Craig said.
“Sorry. Never heard of it.”
Craig narrowed his eyes and stared hard at Hameed. “I could still arrest you for Madison Square Garden. If I took you back to the U.S., even under the new rules, you wouldn’t enjoy being interrogated. Or I could turn you over to the Saudi government. They don’t follow any rules.”
Hameed stroked his beard, while weighing his options.
“But just suppose I do know, and I tell you…”
He knows.
“In return for a suitable cash payment, of course,” Craig said.
Hameed laughed. “I’d never live to spend it. They’d figure out where you got the information and kill me. But I’ll tell you something nobody else knows.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m sick of this life. I want out. I tried to quit, but the bosses in Al Qaeda told me, with my background in finance, I’m too valuable. If I walk, they’ll kill me. So I’m fucked, every which way.”
“What a sad story. You’re tearing me up.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Listen up, Hameed. There’s a clinic in Lugano in northern Italy. Just south of the Swiss border. They do great plastic surgery. If you tell me what I need to stop Operation Water, I’ll make sure you get a complete makeover at our expense. You’ll spend six months recuperating. Then you’ll look like an Italian. Even your mother won’t recognize you. After that, we’ll find you a job in a small town in the lake country.”
“Are you authorized by the Italian government to make this offer?”
“Of course not. But I can try and sell it.”
“How do I know you’ll carry out on your end of the bargain?”
“A year ago I promised you wouldn’t be arrested, and you weren’t.”
Hameed nodded. “Do it.”
Craig removed the cell phone from his pocket. “First, let’s get the ground rules straight. The Italian police will keep you in protective custody until this is over. And if you’re screwing me over, I’ll drop the word to one of my other Al Qaeda contacts that you were my informant for Madison Square Garden. It’ll be like throwing a bloody body to a bunch of sharks. Is that clear?”
Hameed’s whole body shook.
“You still want me to make the call?”
Hameed nodded again.
Craig took his cell into the next room and left the door ajar. He speed-dialed and spoke softly. “Giuseppe, I need your approval. I have an informant who has knowledge about Operation Water. He’s willing to talk, but it’ll cost you.”
“How much?”
“A couple hundred thousand euros. Tops.”
“Do it. You can’t believe how hard the Prime Minister is leaning on me.”
Craig returned to Hameed. “You’re on.”
“Do I get anything in writing?”
“This isn’t the United States. Now tell me about Operation Water.”
Hameed took a deep breath. “The target is the Trevi Fountain.”
“When?” Craig asked.
“Today at one o’clock. When it’s jammed with tourists.”
Craig glanced at his watch. Less than three hours.
Hameed continued, “A truck will drop off two boys and one girl a block from the Trevi Fountain. All three will be wearing vests, under their coats, loaded with explosives.”
“What’s your role in this?”
“Amir’s in charge. Hussein’s working with him.”
“And you?”
“I funneled cash to Amir to buy supplies and to pay the families of the three kids. Ten thousand euros each.”
“Where are they now?”
“Their base in Trastevere.”
“Address?”
Hameed didn’t respond.
“Think about those sharks.”
Hameed sucked in his breath. “Number 24 Via Garibaldi. The apartment on the third floor.”
“How many people in the apartment?”
“The three kids. Amir. Maybe Hussein. No more than five.”
2
TRASTEVERE, ROME
Giuseppe was alone, waiting for Craig in an unmarked blue Fiat on the edge of Piazza Santa Maria, three blocks from the Via Garibaldi address. Craig climbed into the front seat.
“We have the house surrounded,” Giuseppe said. “My forces are heavily armed. I told them to remain out of sight. If anyone leaves the building, we grab them. So far, nobody. I think we should wait for them to leave, then snatch them on the street.”
