Red Chaos, page 28
298 MILES EAST OF RHODE ISLAND
“Nothing, Captain.”
It was the same report hour after hour for the past three days. Sonar aboard the USS Hartford had not reacquired the Admiral Kashira. None of the other ships of the 2nd Fleet above and below the surface had succeeded either.
COMUSFLTCOM’s crisscrossing grid, spanning roughly 900 miles from Portland, Maine to Charleston, North Carolina and 30-to-300 miles off the U.S. coast should have produced some contact. But it hadn’t.
“She’s got to be lying low, sir,” James proposed. “May I speak freely, sir?”
“Go, Mr. James.”
“My two cents—we made a mistake. We should have stayed on point. I believe Admiral Kashira never moved from where we first lost her.”
Commander Andrew Policano chewed on the notion. He had an experienced team on headphones, but no one better than James. If he was right, they had to backtrack. They could do it slowly with less noise or quickly but risk giving away their location to any other Russian subs lurking in the grid. The difference in time? Maybe the delta between locating the Admiral Kashira before it struck and missing the opportunity to prevent an attack. Given Policano’s read of the current geopolitical situation, he feared the Russian was on mission and had gone silent in preparation for firing and running.
Policano crossed to the nautical chart. He reviewed the present position of the other ships in the 2nd Fleet and made a fast calculation. The computer would provide a more accurate one. But on first glance, from where they were to where they needed go would take just under twelve hours. A half day. An eternity. But the Hartford had the best chance of getting back to the where they had lost contact than anyone. He placed an X at the spot, quickly plotted the route, and called out orders.
“Steer course two four five. Bearing zero-zero five.”
The helmsman repeated the order.
“Speed three-zero knots.”
“Speed three-zero knots. Aye.”
“Planesman, six-five feet.
The order was confirmed. The USS Hartford was on a fast rendezvous course.
Policano crossed to Marcel James. He put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“I hope I’m right, sir,” James admitted.
“Just keep best ears on it, son.”
James had two hours left on his shift, then eight hours rest. That meant he’d be back on post two hours before reaching their destination.
When it was his shift change, he closed his eyes and cleared his mind. He had to sleep, and he had to be ready. James had family in East Boston. East Boston was home to the city’s major oil ports. However, the more vulnerable and strategic target was thirteen miles from the shore in Massachusetts Bay—the new Northeast Gateway deepwater port. The port contains a submerged dual turret-loading buoy system and a sixteen-mile pipeline that connects to an existing subsea pipeline. Through it flows natural gas that’s distributed throughout the Northeast.
The men under Boris Sidorov’s command had remained quiet for fifteen hours. They had practiced for up to seventy-two hours but were prepared to continue for as long as it took. The standing order—no shoes, no talking, no hard objects in their hands, no flushing. No active sonar. Only hand signals and written communications. The ocean was an echo chamber, and there was no sound coming from Admiral Kashira lying on a flat ridge tucked into the New England Seamounts 250 meters below the surface, 180 miles due east of Cape Cod, with a straight shot into the heart of America’s economy.
Sidorov had an eight-hour window of time in which to operate. According to Kremlin plans, it included the scheduled mission with Karim Khan, a submarine from another country; an example of hands across the waters, or in this case under.
The Karim Khan headed due west. Its crew of forty-two souls were excited. They had been told all their training would come to bear. Perhaps they’d even get to test the sub’s complement of ballistic missiles and torpedoes.
The sub was built by North Korea and sold to the navy of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Though not a nuclear-powered sub, the Gorae-class sub remained a threat wherever it sailed.
Soon, though neither the captain nor his loyal men onboard knew, the Karim Khan was on its way to becoming a sacrificial lamb. Captain Sidorov of the Admiral Kashira considered it almost biblical.
54
BEIJING
Ey Wing Li, Sammy to his American associates, was led into the president’s office in the traditional red-tiered Chinese building within the Zhongnanhai complex west of the Forbidden City. This is the central headquarters of the Chinese Communist Party and the State Council. It is protected in ways that the public, foreign dignitaries, and even members of the Chinese hierarchy don’t know. The beneficiary of this protection was Yichén Yáo, president of China.
Yáo ruled the world’s largest population, commanded the globe’s biggest navy, and presided over the earth’s major manufacturing nation. With an economy about to overtake the United States as number one, modern China is considered the world’s factory. Its output also makes it earth’s worst polluter.
President Yáo oversaw every aspect of China’s huge economic success and its immense problems. He inherited both and was determined to keep one going and solve the others. Solving included quashing dissent and exerting complete control over his people and returning China to its long and historic prominence. And there was another issue on his agenda. Now that Hong Kong was falling into line, Yáo was strategizing on when global politics and America’s weakness would intersect and provide China with the window to move on Taiwan.
All in good time, he thought. And that good time would be coming soon.
As he ascended the government ranks Yáo met and befriended Ey Wing Li, Sammy to those who knew him the best. He had risen from being a local Macau fixer to a businessman who knew how to twist arms and break legs, to an enforcer with a long memory for anyone who got in his way … or worse, hurt him. Sammy kept detailed lists of the favors and aid he’d granted over the years. He converted many of those favors into the support Yáo needed to consolidate power. Sammy was offered a high-ranking position in the government, which he turned down.
“Too many ways to disappoint. And we both know how that ends,” he only half-joked at the time. He proposed that he remain on the outside. “But keep me on speed dial. I can do for you what I’ve always done. Fix things.”
55
DAN REILLY ANSWERED his room phone on the third ring.
“Hello,” Reilly whispered hoping not to disturb Yibing lying beside him.
“Nǐ hǎo. Hello.”
The woman’s voice on the line was warm and friendly. Young, but authoritative. Unmistakably Chinese.
“Is this Mr. Reilly?”
“Yes, it is.”
Reilly waited. This was an unsolicited call.
“One moment, Mr. Reilly.”
Chinese music on hold filled the next two minutes, during which time Reilly put on a robe and went to the other living room. Then a deep booming voice came on the line.
“Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. You can’t tell an old friend when you’re back in town?”
Reilly instantly recognized the caller. “What an unpleasant time to call.”
The voice laughed. “Yes, this hour can be. A surprise to hear you were in Beijing.”
Reilly figured it was no surprise. Little occurred in Beijing these days without Sammy, Ey Wing Li, knowing.
“How long has it been, Dan?”
“Five since we acquired the diplomat from you here. Twelve since Macau.”
“Far too long for people who share history.” Sammy’s tone suddenly changed. Darkened. “Daniel, some of that history has become more relevant than ever.”
Sammy’s comment suggested that this was going to be a business call more than anything else.
“Let me take you out for an early breakfast.”
“I’d be honored. I’m actually busy for a few more days—”
“I understand, but we have things we must talk about.”
Must. It was unspecific yet suggesting urgency. Maybe Sammy had information. Maybe Sammy needed his help.
“Okay. Same type of pickup?”
“Why would I change after all these years?”
56
REILLY SLEPT SOUNDLY for three hours after Sammy’s call. As the early morning light sneaked around the edges of his curtains, he rolled over to spoon with Yi. Early in the night, they had played every game she’d come up with and some of his. Now, before he left for his breakfast he craved more.
“Good morning,” he said as he softly kissed the back of her neck.
Yi stirred in the best of all ways. “Mmmmm.”
She rolled over. Her toes touched his. She welcomed his caress and answered it in kind. Soon they were intertwined again.
An hour and a shower later they dressed and talked playfully like the lovers they were.
“Too fast?” he asked.
“Mr. Reilly, I believe I was the instigator.”
“As a matter of fact—”
She smiled, then closed her eyes and turned her head to the side. “Don’t feel as if you have to carry this on.”
Reilly squeezed her hand. “What if I want to?”
She still looked away.
“Yi, this doesn’t have to be one night.” He smiled and squeezed again. “One wonderful night.”
Yibing Cheng opened her eyes and gave Reilly a warm smile.
“Very wonderful.” She laughed. “Most memorable, too.”
“Enough to last, or can we schedule time to see one another in Washington? If you’d prefer, we can take it slow once we’re back in the real world.”
“Ask me out to dinner when we get there. But I do believe we have another night before you leave,” Yi offered seductively.
Reilly nodded.
Reilly had explained that he was being picked up to meet a friend. Yibing said that she’d take the time to get caught up on her email and report in.
“Do you report everything to Secretary Matthews?” he asked with some embarrassment.
“Not everything,” she slyly replied. “Unless you want me to tell her how good you are in—”
“Ah, that’s not necessary,” Reilly interrupted. “She—”
“Oh?” Yi said picking up on how quickly he stopped.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Sammy’s driver was waiting for Reilly in front of the hotel. Like years ago, he didn’t learn a thing from the driver, not even where they were going. But arriving at a classic, centuries-old Ming Dynasty building overlooking Beijing did not disappoint.
“Mr. Wing Li will meet you inside. His aides will direct you.”
The associates looked a weight class above an NFL linebacker. They pointed with hefty arms that wouldn’t easily fold across their chests.
Reilly entered an open, airy restaurant called TRB Forbidden City. Inside, a hostess led Reilly to a private room where two more hefty guards barred the door.
“Dan Reilly. I’m expected.”
They knocked on the door, announced Reilly in Mandarin, got approval to open, and allowed him in. Sammy was seated at a large table for two in a private room that provided for his ample girth. He was likely to remain seated until the last of the food was digested. Reilly approached. The big man straightened. Reilly bowed.
“Time has treated you well,” Sammy said warmly. “What is your expression? Fit as a fiddle?”
Reilly replied in kind. “As are you.” It was an obvious lie. Sammy had gone bald and gained at least a good thirty or more pounds. As if that’s ever good.
“I read about you all the time, Dan. Newspapers, business journals. Often I wonder if there’s more left between the lines.”
“I watch what I say.”
“And then there was a particularly interesting faceoff you had during one of those television congressional hearings with an old friend. A friend who seems to be moving up in life thanks to some twists and turns in your country’s politics.”
“Every day has its surprises,” Reilly said.
“And you have had your own—most recently in Europe. You see, I do keep track of you.”
Reilly smiled.
“Ah, but I embarrass you. We all have our secrets. But I think we can agree, we’ve both done well.”
“We have,” Reilly said without real comment.
A thin waiter came to the table and bowed. Sammy ordered the eggs Benedict for both of them.
“You will love the food as much as the view of the Forbidden City. It’s sinful. The asparagus is especially crunchy, and the hollandaise sauce is perfect”
Undoubtedly, Sammy had enjoyed more than his share in prior visits.
Over mimosas they talked about family—mostly Sammy’s. He boasted about his daughter who had earned her undergraduate degree at Harvard and a PhD in economics at Stanford—both Reilly’s recommendation from years ago. “She’s back here now and works for China Construction Bank, though she performs little errands for me. All respectable. And you, my friend, any children?”
“No. Divorced and most recently I fell into a relationship that went bad.”
He explained that behind bad was the fact that the woman he had fallen in love with lived a double life. One for England, where she lived and worked, and another for the actual country she was from and died in its service.
“My, my, Dan. You of all people fell into an executive honey trap.”
“Head over heels with blinders on.”
“Did you leave all your training at the foot of the bed?”
Reilly drew in a breath. “At first. Then when I thought there was time to turn things around, there wasn’t.”
“Nasty business. I’m sorry,” Sammy said quite sincerely. He used that turn in the conversation to segue into his reason for calling Reilly. “Daniel, I believe it’s time to bring up the past.”
“Oh?” Reilly tentatively asked.
“Present events necessitate it for certain people I’m associated with and ultimately a relationship you have as well.”
The swift change in Sammy’s tone blindsided Reilly. He pushed his plate to the side leaving room for him to fold his arms on the table.
The past instantly took him back to what brought them together in the first place. Two American congressmen: one, now United States President, the other about to become Vice President. And with that, his mind raced to the call from Elizabeth Matthews and back to the extremely unusual phone call from Davidson’s aide.
Now, he thought the day would come with its own surprises. Sammy didn’t disappoint.
Elizabeth Matthews answered her phone. Reilly explained that he needed to talk to her discreetly—immediately. That meant he didn’t even trust the satellite phone.
“Give me an hour,” Elizabeth Matthews said. “I’ll clear you at the Embassy. We’ll move this over to the SCIF.”
SCIF was the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, a secure room used by intelligence services to prevent eavesdropping.
“Thank you.” He hung up without a hint of the subject, but Reilly was certain that Matthews understood the seriousness. He only requested use of a SCIF when it was absolutely necessary.
Exactly one hour later, a U.S. Marine manning one of numerous desks within the modern building, scanned Reilly’s ID into a reader. “One moment, sir.” A prompt immediately appeared on his computer: approval to proceed.
“Straight through security, sir. You’ll be met by an officer and taken to Mr. Ellsworth’s office. He’s the—”
Reilly completed the sentence. “Chargé d’affaires.”
Not everyone off the street met with Ellsworth. The Marine lieutenant wondered why this man could. He wouldn’t find out.
“Mr. Reilly, good to see you again,” Whit Ellsworth said as he thrust out his hand. The six-foot-six retired Army major was enjoying what he considered his back nine, still in the service of his country. “I suppose this is about the oil conference. Any way I can help?” It was a sincere offer, but one that begged for more.”
“Just here to drop a dime. Long distance, Whit.”
Reilly had last seen Ellsworth at a Chinese government function booked at the Kensington. He only knew Dan Reilly as a hotel executive. The personal call from the Secretary of State surprised him. The fact that she had cleared him to use a SCIF was unusual. But he wasn’t going to learn why from Reilly.
“I’ll get you right in. If you have time, stop by before you leave. I’ll fill you in on business here.”
Reilly thanked Ellsworth, but he asked for a raincheck. The last thing he wanted to do was get pumped by a diplomat.
Ellsworth led Reilly to a well-guarded room. He signed a register before opening the door, sat Reilly down, and was surprised a second time. The hotel executive showed complete familiarity with the equipment.
“You’ve done this before,” he said.
“I have.”
“Okay. And make sure you block out some time for us next trip.”
“Will do.”
Ellsworth left Reilly to his work—whatever that was. He’d make his own calls back to Langley. Maybe someone there would know.
Elizabeth Matthews, 6,942 miles away in her SCIF, was ready for the call. She picked up the secure phone on the second ring. “Hello.”
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello. Suffice it to say, you have my interest. News on the killer?”
“No,” he replied.
“Well then, what? The meter’s running.”
Reilly cleared his throat. He held the phone tightly and leaned in further from the door even though no one outside could hear him.
“I’ll need to see you as soon as I get back.”
“Sounds urgent.”
“It is.”
Elizabeth Matthews listened intently. She took no notes but remembered everything. At first the story seemed impossible. But the more she considered it, the impossible became all the more plausible.
She’d pressed Reilly on the reliability of his source.
“Completely.”
“Nothing, Captain.”
It was the same report hour after hour for the past three days. Sonar aboard the USS Hartford had not reacquired the Admiral Kashira. None of the other ships of the 2nd Fleet above and below the surface had succeeded either.
COMUSFLTCOM’s crisscrossing grid, spanning roughly 900 miles from Portland, Maine to Charleston, North Carolina and 30-to-300 miles off the U.S. coast should have produced some contact. But it hadn’t.
“She’s got to be lying low, sir,” James proposed. “May I speak freely, sir?”
“Go, Mr. James.”
“My two cents—we made a mistake. We should have stayed on point. I believe Admiral Kashira never moved from where we first lost her.”
Commander Andrew Policano chewed on the notion. He had an experienced team on headphones, but no one better than James. If he was right, they had to backtrack. They could do it slowly with less noise or quickly but risk giving away their location to any other Russian subs lurking in the grid. The difference in time? Maybe the delta between locating the Admiral Kashira before it struck and missing the opportunity to prevent an attack. Given Policano’s read of the current geopolitical situation, he feared the Russian was on mission and had gone silent in preparation for firing and running.
Policano crossed to the nautical chart. He reviewed the present position of the other ships in the 2nd Fleet and made a fast calculation. The computer would provide a more accurate one. But on first glance, from where they were to where they needed go would take just under twelve hours. A half day. An eternity. But the Hartford had the best chance of getting back to the where they had lost contact than anyone. He placed an X at the spot, quickly plotted the route, and called out orders.
“Steer course two four five. Bearing zero-zero five.”
The helmsman repeated the order.
“Speed three-zero knots.”
“Speed three-zero knots. Aye.”
“Planesman, six-five feet.
The order was confirmed. The USS Hartford was on a fast rendezvous course.
Policano crossed to Marcel James. He put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“I hope I’m right, sir,” James admitted.
“Just keep best ears on it, son.”
James had two hours left on his shift, then eight hours rest. That meant he’d be back on post two hours before reaching their destination.
When it was his shift change, he closed his eyes and cleared his mind. He had to sleep, and he had to be ready. James had family in East Boston. East Boston was home to the city’s major oil ports. However, the more vulnerable and strategic target was thirteen miles from the shore in Massachusetts Bay—the new Northeast Gateway deepwater port. The port contains a submerged dual turret-loading buoy system and a sixteen-mile pipeline that connects to an existing subsea pipeline. Through it flows natural gas that’s distributed throughout the Northeast.
The men under Boris Sidorov’s command had remained quiet for fifteen hours. They had practiced for up to seventy-two hours but were prepared to continue for as long as it took. The standing order—no shoes, no talking, no hard objects in their hands, no flushing. No active sonar. Only hand signals and written communications. The ocean was an echo chamber, and there was no sound coming from Admiral Kashira lying on a flat ridge tucked into the New England Seamounts 250 meters below the surface, 180 miles due east of Cape Cod, with a straight shot into the heart of America’s economy.
Sidorov had an eight-hour window of time in which to operate. According to Kremlin plans, it included the scheduled mission with Karim Khan, a submarine from another country; an example of hands across the waters, or in this case under.
The Karim Khan headed due west. Its crew of forty-two souls were excited. They had been told all their training would come to bear. Perhaps they’d even get to test the sub’s complement of ballistic missiles and torpedoes.
The sub was built by North Korea and sold to the navy of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Though not a nuclear-powered sub, the Gorae-class sub remained a threat wherever it sailed.
Soon, though neither the captain nor his loyal men onboard knew, the Karim Khan was on its way to becoming a sacrificial lamb. Captain Sidorov of the Admiral Kashira considered it almost biblical.
54
BEIJING
Ey Wing Li, Sammy to his American associates, was led into the president’s office in the traditional red-tiered Chinese building within the Zhongnanhai complex west of the Forbidden City. This is the central headquarters of the Chinese Communist Party and the State Council. It is protected in ways that the public, foreign dignitaries, and even members of the Chinese hierarchy don’t know. The beneficiary of this protection was Yichén Yáo, president of China.
Yáo ruled the world’s largest population, commanded the globe’s biggest navy, and presided over the earth’s major manufacturing nation. With an economy about to overtake the United States as number one, modern China is considered the world’s factory. Its output also makes it earth’s worst polluter.
President Yáo oversaw every aspect of China’s huge economic success and its immense problems. He inherited both and was determined to keep one going and solve the others. Solving included quashing dissent and exerting complete control over his people and returning China to its long and historic prominence. And there was another issue on his agenda. Now that Hong Kong was falling into line, Yáo was strategizing on when global politics and America’s weakness would intersect and provide China with the window to move on Taiwan.
All in good time, he thought. And that good time would be coming soon.
As he ascended the government ranks Yáo met and befriended Ey Wing Li, Sammy to those who knew him the best. He had risen from being a local Macau fixer to a businessman who knew how to twist arms and break legs, to an enforcer with a long memory for anyone who got in his way … or worse, hurt him. Sammy kept detailed lists of the favors and aid he’d granted over the years. He converted many of those favors into the support Yáo needed to consolidate power. Sammy was offered a high-ranking position in the government, which he turned down.
“Too many ways to disappoint. And we both know how that ends,” he only half-joked at the time. He proposed that he remain on the outside. “But keep me on speed dial. I can do for you what I’ve always done. Fix things.”
55
DAN REILLY ANSWERED his room phone on the third ring.
“Hello,” Reilly whispered hoping not to disturb Yibing lying beside him.
“Nǐ hǎo. Hello.”
The woman’s voice on the line was warm and friendly. Young, but authoritative. Unmistakably Chinese.
“Is this Mr. Reilly?”
“Yes, it is.”
Reilly waited. This was an unsolicited call.
“One moment, Mr. Reilly.”
Chinese music on hold filled the next two minutes, during which time Reilly put on a robe and went to the other living room. Then a deep booming voice came on the line.
“Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. You can’t tell an old friend when you’re back in town?”
Reilly instantly recognized the caller. “What an unpleasant time to call.”
The voice laughed. “Yes, this hour can be. A surprise to hear you were in Beijing.”
Reilly figured it was no surprise. Little occurred in Beijing these days without Sammy, Ey Wing Li, knowing.
“How long has it been, Dan?”
“Five since we acquired the diplomat from you here. Twelve since Macau.”
“Far too long for people who share history.” Sammy’s tone suddenly changed. Darkened. “Daniel, some of that history has become more relevant than ever.”
Sammy’s comment suggested that this was going to be a business call more than anything else.
“Let me take you out for an early breakfast.”
“I’d be honored. I’m actually busy for a few more days—”
“I understand, but we have things we must talk about.”
Must. It was unspecific yet suggesting urgency. Maybe Sammy had information. Maybe Sammy needed his help.
“Okay. Same type of pickup?”
“Why would I change after all these years?”
56
REILLY SLEPT SOUNDLY for three hours after Sammy’s call. As the early morning light sneaked around the edges of his curtains, he rolled over to spoon with Yi. Early in the night, they had played every game she’d come up with and some of his. Now, before he left for his breakfast he craved more.
“Good morning,” he said as he softly kissed the back of her neck.
Yi stirred in the best of all ways. “Mmmmm.”
She rolled over. Her toes touched his. She welcomed his caress and answered it in kind. Soon they were intertwined again.
An hour and a shower later they dressed and talked playfully like the lovers they were.
“Too fast?” he asked.
“Mr. Reilly, I believe I was the instigator.”
“As a matter of fact—”
She smiled, then closed her eyes and turned her head to the side. “Don’t feel as if you have to carry this on.”
Reilly squeezed her hand. “What if I want to?”
She still looked away.
“Yi, this doesn’t have to be one night.” He smiled and squeezed again. “One wonderful night.”
Yibing Cheng opened her eyes and gave Reilly a warm smile.
“Very wonderful.” She laughed. “Most memorable, too.”
“Enough to last, or can we schedule time to see one another in Washington? If you’d prefer, we can take it slow once we’re back in the real world.”
“Ask me out to dinner when we get there. But I do believe we have another night before you leave,” Yi offered seductively.
Reilly nodded.
Reilly had explained that he was being picked up to meet a friend. Yibing said that she’d take the time to get caught up on her email and report in.
“Do you report everything to Secretary Matthews?” he asked with some embarrassment.
“Not everything,” she slyly replied. “Unless you want me to tell her how good you are in—”
“Ah, that’s not necessary,” Reilly interrupted. “She—”
“Oh?” Yi said picking up on how quickly he stopped.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Sammy’s driver was waiting for Reilly in front of the hotel. Like years ago, he didn’t learn a thing from the driver, not even where they were going. But arriving at a classic, centuries-old Ming Dynasty building overlooking Beijing did not disappoint.
“Mr. Wing Li will meet you inside. His aides will direct you.”
The associates looked a weight class above an NFL linebacker. They pointed with hefty arms that wouldn’t easily fold across their chests.
Reilly entered an open, airy restaurant called TRB Forbidden City. Inside, a hostess led Reilly to a private room where two more hefty guards barred the door.
“Dan Reilly. I’m expected.”
They knocked on the door, announced Reilly in Mandarin, got approval to open, and allowed him in. Sammy was seated at a large table for two in a private room that provided for his ample girth. He was likely to remain seated until the last of the food was digested. Reilly approached. The big man straightened. Reilly bowed.
“Time has treated you well,” Sammy said warmly. “What is your expression? Fit as a fiddle?”
Reilly replied in kind. “As are you.” It was an obvious lie. Sammy had gone bald and gained at least a good thirty or more pounds. As if that’s ever good.
“I read about you all the time, Dan. Newspapers, business journals. Often I wonder if there’s more left between the lines.”
“I watch what I say.”
“And then there was a particularly interesting faceoff you had during one of those television congressional hearings with an old friend. A friend who seems to be moving up in life thanks to some twists and turns in your country’s politics.”
“Every day has its surprises,” Reilly said.
“And you have had your own—most recently in Europe. You see, I do keep track of you.”
Reilly smiled.
“Ah, but I embarrass you. We all have our secrets. But I think we can agree, we’ve both done well.”
“We have,” Reilly said without real comment.
A thin waiter came to the table and bowed. Sammy ordered the eggs Benedict for both of them.
“You will love the food as much as the view of the Forbidden City. It’s sinful. The asparagus is especially crunchy, and the hollandaise sauce is perfect”
Undoubtedly, Sammy had enjoyed more than his share in prior visits.
Over mimosas they talked about family—mostly Sammy’s. He boasted about his daughter who had earned her undergraduate degree at Harvard and a PhD in economics at Stanford—both Reilly’s recommendation from years ago. “She’s back here now and works for China Construction Bank, though she performs little errands for me. All respectable. And you, my friend, any children?”
“No. Divorced and most recently I fell into a relationship that went bad.”
He explained that behind bad was the fact that the woman he had fallen in love with lived a double life. One for England, where she lived and worked, and another for the actual country she was from and died in its service.
“My, my, Dan. You of all people fell into an executive honey trap.”
“Head over heels with blinders on.”
“Did you leave all your training at the foot of the bed?”
Reilly drew in a breath. “At first. Then when I thought there was time to turn things around, there wasn’t.”
“Nasty business. I’m sorry,” Sammy said quite sincerely. He used that turn in the conversation to segue into his reason for calling Reilly. “Daniel, I believe it’s time to bring up the past.”
“Oh?” Reilly tentatively asked.
“Present events necessitate it for certain people I’m associated with and ultimately a relationship you have as well.”
The swift change in Sammy’s tone blindsided Reilly. He pushed his plate to the side leaving room for him to fold his arms on the table.
The past instantly took him back to what brought them together in the first place. Two American congressmen: one, now United States President, the other about to become Vice President. And with that, his mind raced to the call from Elizabeth Matthews and back to the extremely unusual phone call from Davidson’s aide.
Now, he thought the day would come with its own surprises. Sammy didn’t disappoint.
Elizabeth Matthews answered her phone. Reilly explained that he needed to talk to her discreetly—immediately. That meant he didn’t even trust the satellite phone.
“Give me an hour,” Elizabeth Matthews said. “I’ll clear you at the Embassy. We’ll move this over to the SCIF.”
SCIF was the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, a secure room used by intelligence services to prevent eavesdropping.
“Thank you.” He hung up without a hint of the subject, but Reilly was certain that Matthews understood the seriousness. He only requested use of a SCIF when it was absolutely necessary.
Exactly one hour later, a U.S. Marine manning one of numerous desks within the modern building, scanned Reilly’s ID into a reader. “One moment, sir.” A prompt immediately appeared on his computer: approval to proceed.
“Straight through security, sir. You’ll be met by an officer and taken to Mr. Ellsworth’s office. He’s the—”
Reilly completed the sentence. “Chargé d’affaires.”
Not everyone off the street met with Ellsworth. The Marine lieutenant wondered why this man could. He wouldn’t find out.
“Mr. Reilly, good to see you again,” Whit Ellsworth said as he thrust out his hand. The six-foot-six retired Army major was enjoying what he considered his back nine, still in the service of his country. “I suppose this is about the oil conference. Any way I can help?” It was a sincere offer, but one that begged for more.”
“Just here to drop a dime. Long distance, Whit.”
Reilly had last seen Ellsworth at a Chinese government function booked at the Kensington. He only knew Dan Reilly as a hotel executive. The personal call from the Secretary of State surprised him. The fact that she had cleared him to use a SCIF was unusual. But he wasn’t going to learn why from Reilly.
“I’ll get you right in. If you have time, stop by before you leave. I’ll fill you in on business here.”
Reilly thanked Ellsworth, but he asked for a raincheck. The last thing he wanted to do was get pumped by a diplomat.
Ellsworth led Reilly to a well-guarded room. He signed a register before opening the door, sat Reilly down, and was surprised a second time. The hotel executive showed complete familiarity with the equipment.
“You’ve done this before,” he said.
“I have.”
“Okay. And make sure you block out some time for us next trip.”
“Will do.”
Ellsworth left Reilly to his work—whatever that was. He’d make his own calls back to Langley. Maybe someone there would know.
Elizabeth Matthews, 6,942 miles away in her SCIF, was ready for the call. She picked up the secure phone on the second ring. “Hello.”
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello. Suffice it to say, you have my interest. News on the killer?”
“No,” he replied.
“Well then, what? The meter’s running.”
Reilly cleared his throat. He held the phone tightly and leaned in further from the door even though no one outside could hear him.
“I’ll need to see you as soon as I get back.”
“Sounds urgent.”
“It is.”
Elizabeth Matthews listened intently. She took no notes but remembered everything. At first the story seemed impossible. But the more she considered it, the impossible became all the more plausible.
She’d pressed Reilly on the reliability of his source.
“Completely.”
