Covert Action (Command and Control Book 5), page 20
Back outside, Harrison walked through the afternoon sunshine to his meeting with the local CIA station chief. He tried to fit the pieces together in his mind.
Kulov goes to meet Orazov at the restaurant. His wife argues with him about the meeting. Orazov wanted money. Kulov is gunned down.
A set-up? It would have been easy enough for an assassin to park down the street from the restaurant and wait for Kulov to leave. It all tied back to Orazov. He had the means and opportunity, but what was the motive?
Harrison shook his head. He was still missing something.
The Bishkek station chief had set their meeting in a coffee shop down a narrow side street. Harrison paused inside, letting his eyes adjust. The place was mostly empty at this time of the afternoon. From a booth at the rear of the restaurant, a young Black woman raised her hand in greeting.
He didn’t know Amelia McClintock personally, but she had a good reputation with people that Harrison trusted. Ambitious in the best meaning of the word, competent, and not a gossip. Committed to the mission first, not her career advancement.
She was trim and dressed down in jeans and a leather jacket over a forest green blouse. Her handshake was firm and she seemed like the kind of person who enjoyed a good laugh. Harrison liked her right away.
He slid into the booth and they exchanged small talk while they ordered coffee.
“I would have sent a car for you, Harrison,” she said.
He shrugged. “I wanted to spend some time in the city.”
“Did you find anything interesting?” She had a great smile and he responded in kind.
Why not tell her? he thought. Two heads were better than one. She listened without interruption as he filled her in on his day.
She raised one eyebrow at the connection to Orazov. “That’s new, and I appreciate you sharing.” She sipped her coffee. “I’ll return the favor.”
“Okay.” Harrison put down his cup.
“Do you know who Jay Patel is?” she asked, leaning in.
“Indian RAW, Spec Ops. Don Riley paid him a visit. The guy swore up and down that they’re not involved with the SIF.” Harrison paused, studying her face. “But you think otherwise.”
“The night Kulov was killed, Patel was here, in Bishkek.”
Click. Harrison felt the pieces fall into place.
27
PLA Forward Operating Base
50 kilometers west of Dushanbe, Tajikistan
Gao desperately wanted an antacid. He’d never had trouble with his stomach before, but these days it seemed as if he was eating the chalky pills like candy. Even so, his stomach never seemed to settle down.
Maybe it’s stomach cancer? He turned the thought over in his mind. That might not be the worst outcome. A medical discharge would be better than being dismissed for incompetence.
“Would you like me to run the simulation again, General?” asked the briefer.
He looked up toward the large monitor mounted on the wall at the other end of the table. It showed a map of Central Asia, with cities as black dots and the Belt and Road projects as blue lines that snaked between them. Except it was hard to see either the black dots or the blue lines because they were obscured by a rash of red.
Two rows of faces watched him from the long sides of the table. He was their leader. They looked to their general—lieutenant general, he corrected himself—for answers.
Except, at this moment, he had no answers.
“Yes,” he said, playing for time. “I’d like to see it again.”
The briefer looked pleased that her brand-new algorithm had been met with his favor. She touched her laptop to reset the program and stepped back.
The screen cleared of red blotches. As the time counter ran in the lower right corner of the screen, a few red dots appeared. Then more, and larger ones. The size of the dots was the new twist the briefer was so pleased about.
Every red dot on the map represented the location of a terrorist attack by the Seljuk Islamic Front. Now, this over-educated, self-satisfied laptop jockey had figured out how to equate the “political and social impact” of an attack with the size of the dot. Bigger dots meant a larger impact. As Gao watched the time-lapse program populate the screen with more and larger dots, he thought about his career trajectory. The red seemed to devour the screen like a deadly rash. It made Gao’s skin crawl.
The program ended with a bloodred blotch over the city of Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan.
“Again, sir?” the briefer asked hopefully.
Gao ignored her. “What is the construction status in Bishkek?”
She avoided his gaze. “One rail line is open, but all work on the adjoining lines has ceased.”
“For how long?”
She shot a glance at the regional construction manager as if hoping for him to jump in, but he stared resolutely at the opposite wall as if his life depended on it.
“Unknown, sir,” she said.
Gao’s eyes swept down the table until he found the MSS representative. He was on the young side, which to Gao meant he was politically connected, and therefore even more dangerous. His unannounced arrival and self-invitation to the general’s staff meeting did not bode well for Gao’s future.
It was out in the open now. Beijing was watching him, and they wanted everyone to know it.
So far, the man had behaved himself. He had the typical MSS arrogance, and for some reason he insisted on being called “Jimmy.” Western-style names were often adopted by Chinese working abroad, but it was arrogant to use that name among your own people.
Yet for all his bravado, Jimmy hadn’t said a word since the meeting started. And that irritated Gao more than anything else.
First, he invites himself to my meeting, then he ignores me. It was time to go on offense. “Would you care to comment, Mr. Li?” Gao asked.
Jimmy turned his styled haircut toward the head of the table. “About what?” He paused, then added “sir” as an afterthought.
“This might be a good time for the Ministry of State Security to share intelligence about our terrorist problem,” Gao said.
The arrogant young prick actually smiled. “I don't know what you mean, General.”
The tone of voice, the way he slouched in his chair, it made Gao’s stomach spasm. To cover the pain, he leaped to his feet and rushed to the other end of the table. He slapped his hand against the red-speckled image so hard that the monitor rocked on its mount.
“I mean this!” Gao shouted. “This adversary is gaining in strength. There are resources behind these attacks. Where is the money coming from?”
The MSS officer sat up in his chair and it looked like he might actually contribute something useful. Then, he said, “We have no definitive answer to that question, General.”
Gao drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he fought for calm.
You are the leader here. These people look to you for guidance. If you panic, they will panic.
He stalked back to his place, carefully pulled his chair out from the table, and sat down. He burped quietly into his hand and felt the taste of acid at the back of his throat.
I would give my left testicle for an antacid right now, he thought.
Gao called out the construction manager’s name. The man looked away from his spot on the wall.
“Schedule update,” Gao ordered.
The man took his place at the briefing podium and started in on a series of Gantt charts. Gao watched the slides and tuned out the man’s droning voice. They were only a few months away from the General Secretary’s visit to Samarkand, when the great man was supposed to open the rail line between Western China and Tehran. Beijing called it the Jade Spike ceremony, a not-so-subtle reference to the famous Golden Spike ceremony from United States history where eastern and western rail lines were linked together in Utah in 1869.
The name was the Party’s way of poking at the decline of the United States. In the 1800s, the Chinese were immigrant labor working on the U.S. railroad. Today, they were masters of their destiny, driving the future, and they were not about to let the mighty United States forget about this moment. Even the tagline for the Jade Spike event was a subtle poke in the eye: Linking east and west for the 21st century.
Once the Belt and Road connected Europe and Asia, the Chinese juggernaut would be unstoppable.
But only if you succeed, Yichen. He thought about the red-splotched map and the presence of an MSS agent in his ranks. Success was far from certain.
“How are the security arrangements for the Jade Spike ceremony progressing?” Gao asked.
The security officer manned the podium and gave a textbook presentation on the layers of security they intended to place around a building that was not yet complete.
It was a little too textbook, Gao thought, which meant it was probably bullshit.
“Captain Fang,” he said, “make a note that I would like to visit Samarkand next week to inspect the progress.”
He waited for Fang’s crisp “Yes, sir,” but nothing happened. She normally sat behind him, against the wall, taking notes. He swung around to find her chair empty.
“She left a few minutes ago, General,” the security officer said in a deadpan voice.
The door opened and Fang entered. She crossed to Gao’s side and bent down to speak in his ear. Her warm breath whispered against his cheek. “You have an urgent call, General.”
Gao cocked his head. This close, her subtle perfume was noticeable. “Who is it?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a smirk flit across Jimmy’s face and he got a chill.
Please don’t let it be Beijing, he thought.
Fang’s voice dropped even lower. “It's your wife, sir. She said it's urgent. A matter of life and death, those were her exact words.”
Gao stood immediately. “Submit your written reports to Captain Fang and we’ll reconvene this council in one week.”
He strode across the hall to his office and crossed behind his desk to pick up the receiver. Fang started to back out, but he motioned for her to stay.
Heart pounding, he pressed the receiver to his ear. “Mei Lin, what's happened?”
He could tell by the throatiness of her voice that she'd been crying. “I can't do this anymore,” she said.
“What’s happened? My aide said it was a matter of life and death.”
“I told that bitch to say it to get your attention. When was the last time you called me, Yichen? When was the last time you saw your children?”
Gao turned to face the window. The view of the snowcapped mountains of Shirkent National Park was stunning. He lowered his voice and adopted a rational tone. “Mei Lin, this is not the time or the place for this conversation.”
“When is the time?” she screamed, and he had to hold the receiver away from his ear. He cut a look at Captain Fang. Her face was impassive, but Gao knew she could hear his raging wife.
“You haven't been home in months,” Mei Lin continued. “Then I found out this morning that you were back in Beijing two weeks ago and you didn’t even call me.” Her words were running together now and clouded with sobs.
“It's not like that, Mei Lin,” Gao replied.
“So, you weren’t back in Beijing?” Her sobs lessened.
“Well, yes, I was, but it was only—”
“I knew it! You bastard, it’s her, isn’t it? Your aide. Remember when I was your aide? Remember how we used to work late at night?”
“It’s not like that,” he said, but even he thought his words sounded flimsy. He’d been back to Beijing for a meeting, but his time on the ground was only going to be a few hours. He reasoned that it would be easier on his family if he never told them.
“I love you, Mei Lin. I’m doing this for us.”
“Us? Us?” Her voice cracked. “Are you fucking her?”
Gao flinched. There was no way Fang hadn’t heard that.
“No, darling,” he said. “I love you.”
Mei Lin hung up.
He should have called back, but instead Gao pretended for the benefit of Captain Fang that his marriage was not an evolving trainwreck.
“Good . . . I'll call you tonight, darling. Please don’t worry. I love you, too. Kiss the children for me.”
He hung up the phone and blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Gao closed his eyes. How had he gotten to this place? His career was on the verge of failure, and his marriage was a disaster. But he was stuck here. If he resigned now, they’d take away his second star. Any gains he’d made in the Party would be overwhelmed by the stink of failure. The Hero of Tashkent would become the Failure of Central Asia.
No, he was in too deep. The only way out was forward.
“General?” Fang’s soft voice was right next to him. “Yichen?”
Gao stiffened. His eyes snapped open.
Fang stepped back. Her eyes dropped to the floor. “I'm sorry, sir. I overstepped. I just . . .”
Gao’s frustrations bubbled to the surface. He lashed out, his tone sneering. “What is it, Captain? Do you find it ironic that your commanding officer has marital troubles?”
Fang seemed to shrink within herself. She blinked, and her chin trembled.
I’m an asshole, Gao thought. Now I’ve made two women cry in the space of five minutes.
Gao lowered his voice, reached for her arm. “I’m sorry, Captain. That was unprofessional of me.”
“No, sir, I was the one who acted unprofessionally. I never should have said that, it’s just . . .”
“Just what?” Gao urged. He squeezed her arm gently.
“I broke up with my boyfriend,” Fang said, her words tumbling out. “We were together for almost five years. He broke my heart.” She raised her eyes and Gao saw the anguish in them.
Without thinking, he hugged her. The combat uniform she wore did a fine job of hiding the contours of the lithe body beneath layers of heavy material. She pressed against him, and for a moment, Gao’s quivering stomach eased. Her hair rested against his cheek and he smelled her perfume again.
What am I doing? He broke the embrace and they stepped apart awkwardly.
“I need to get back to work, General,” Fang stepped around the desk and headed for the door.
“Captain Fang.”
She stopped, did an about-face. He could see her cheeks were flushed and her eyes gleamed with unshed tears.
“Sir?’”
Gao swallowed. “In private settings, I would like you to call me Yichen.”
A smile broke through Fang’s tears.
28
Vladivostok, Russia
Russian President Nikolay Sokolov jogged off stage, propelled by the roar of eleven thousand voices from the supporters packed into the Dynamo Stadium.
This is more like it, he thought. Everything had gone exactly as planned. His speech, the fireworks, even the call and response at the end—flawless. Finally, finally he was getting a boost in the polls over Zaitsev. It was only a few points, but it would be enough to put him over the top.
Backstage, he accepted a towel from a woman wearing a headset and he mopped his face. When he handed it back, the white cloth was streaked with tan-colored makeup.
“Sorry,” Nikolay said, but she just smiled at him.
He heard the pop of a champagne cork and someone passed him a glass of the bubbly. He downed it in one go. Behind him, the crowd was a torrent of excited voices.
He had to admit, the new campaign manager Federov had hired was right. Get out of Moscow, she’d said. Take your message to the people.
Vladivostok was about as far from Moscow as you could get, and she was right. They loved him here. So different from the poisonous backbiting and head games of Moscow. This city on the Pacific Ocean was connected to the rest of the world by maritime trade. People here were just as likely to travel east to Canada or the United States as they were to visit faraway Moscow. They understood what democracy meant. They believed in him and his message of reform.
Tonight, when he came to the line in his speech about his vision for a free Russia, he felt the connection with the people. They were with him.
A stunning young woman in a dark business suit with her blonde hair in a French braid approached. “Can I take you to your dressing room, Mr. President?”
The stage noises faded as they passed through the swinging door and into the warren of dressing rooms. The painted cinder block walls were covered with signatures of past performers. Nikolay had a sudden urge to add his name to the mix. It might be a historic monument one day, he thought. The day Nikolay Sokolov saved his presidency.
The woman opened a door at the end of the hallway and met his eye without hesitation. “If there’s anything else I can do . . .” She let her voice trail off suggestively.
“What is your name?” Nikolay leaned against the door jamb.
“Svetlana, my friends call me Lana.”
“Lana.” Nikolay extended his hand. Her grip was warm and firm. “What a beautiful name.”
“Thank you, Lana,” said a voice from behind Nikolay. “That will be all for now.”
Nikolay tried to watch her walk away, but Federov urged him through the doorway and closed the door.
The dressing room was large, with a well-lit mirror taking up one wall. A separate sitting area had two leather armchairs and a low table laid with tea service and a plate of chocolates.
“You never let me have any fun, Vladimir.” Nikolay pretended to pout as he dropped into a chair and popped a chocolate into his mouth. Nothing could ruin his mood tonight.
“If you want to see her later, I’ll have her checked out,” Federov replied in a curt voice.
Nikolay looked up at the severe tone. “What’s wrong?”
“We have a problem, Mr. President.”
Nikolay felt the euphoria of the moment evaporate. He crossed to the dressing table and used a wet towel to scrub the remaining makeup from his face.
“Just one?” he said. “I was on stage for an hour. Usually, that’s enough time for at least three or four crises to erupt.” He looked at Federov in the mirror. The big man’s expression was more grave than usual. “Is it the Ultras again? A new hit piece out on me?”
