Blowback, p.2
Blowback, page 2
He gets up, puts a hand against the wall near the door, fumbles for a second, turns on the light.
A slim and attractive Chinese woman gets off the floor, wearing black shoes, gray slacks, a light-yellow blouse, and black leather jacket. Her hair is long and ink black.
She stands staring at him, and he stares right back.
“You nearly broke my leg,” she says, her English perfect.
Ben says, “Had to do it. You came after me in the dark.”
Another stare, and then she shakes her head.
“Damn, Ben,” she whispers. “It’s good to see you!”
“You too, Lin,” he says, stepping forward, giving her a good hard hug and kiss on the cheek. She is Chin Lin, a fellow student back at Stanford, onetime girlfriend of his and now an operative of the Chinese Ministry of State Security.
He looks around the cluttered and dirty apartment, checks his watch, sees he has five minutes before he signals for the exfiltration.
Good.
In exactly three hundred seconds after his signal, a black delivery van is going to pull up in front of this apartment building and spirit him and Chin Lin away. By this time tomorrow she should be in a safe house somewhere in Europe.
“How was your morning?” he asks.
She smiles. Damn, that smile…
How long before she gets back to the States? How long from then can he have the opportunity to be with her, one on one, with no Agency handlers or interrogators nearby?
“Fine,” she says. “Managed to slip away from my minders back in Pretoria and got here about ten minutes ago.”
Lin reaches over, gently fluffs the edge of his newly grayed-out hair. “Damn, Ben, you’re letting yourself go.”
He smiles. “You…you look great.”
Again, that sweet look and dark eyes that gripped him, the moment she sat down next to him at a Writing and World Literature English class at Stanford, and the class after that, and the one after that, when he had finally worked up the nerve to ask her out for coffee.
Those were definitely the days.
Stop it, he thinks. Stop thinking of those wonderful, sweet days at Stanford, studying and traveling and learning together, him telling her his story of being a lonely adoptee, her telling her story of being part of a large Beijing family, involved in both business and government in China.
After graduation she had returned to China, and he had stayed home in California, still alone. In a series of weird twists that could probably end up as an internet meme, they had both found employment with their own nations’ intelligence agencies.
“Long way from Tresidder,” she says, mentioning a student hangout back at Stanford.
“Six years’ worth of a long way,” he says, which is true—that’s how long it’s been since he last saw her.
He spares a thought: she wanted to defect, and she chose him.
Checks his watch.
Time for the signal, and after that, five minutes to the exfil.
He goes to the near window, overlooking the main avenue. He lowers and raises a window shade halfway.
Signal sent.
He and the defector are ready for pickup.
Just five minutes and this op would be on its way to conclusion, months in planning, from when word came to him at Langley, Chin Lin wants to come back to the States and have a tequila with you.
What a stunner that had been, her making a private joke about the first time she drank tequila and threw up on his shoes back at school. His and everyone else’s first response was that this was a trap somehow, something to embarrass the Agency and the country, but after slow negotiations and an agreement to make it happen in a neutral country like South Africa, the slow wheels of planning commenced, the communications going through a complicated email cutout process using systems in the internet cloud.
He looks at Chin Lin and thinks, she’s the one who got away, and the Stanford student in him thinks—Do we have a chance to make it work this time?—but no, back to the job at hand. Stop thinking about the past, stop wondering what she’s been doing these last six years, get your focus back, buddy.
“You have luggage?” he asks. “A carry-on?”
With disappointment in her voice, she says, “Benjamin…what kind of tradecraft did they teach you in Virginia? You think I could leave my apartment in Pretoria with a bit of luggage in hand? My minders would have picked me up in seconds.”
She pats the hem of her jacket.
“Thumb drives sewn in,” she says. “With enough photos and documents to keep your analysts busy for months.”
In the old building, a floorboard creaks.
Why, is what he wants to ask, for he knows from his briefings back at Langley that Chin Lin’s father is a senior official at the Chinese Ministry of State Security. What is driving her to make this ultimate betrayal, not only against her country, but her father?
With her defection, her father will bear the brunt of Beijing’s anger, and will probably end his days in a miserable prison cell after months of severe torture and interrogation.
Benjamin looks one last time at his watch and there’s a sudden loud crash as a large Chinese man leads with his shoulder to break through the thin wooden door. Another Chinese man rushes in through the broken door, carrying a pistol, aiming it straight at Benjamin.
CHAPTER 6
BENJAMIN’S TRAINING KICKS in and he lifts his arms up in surrender, saying, “Hey, hey, hey, what the hell is going on?,” desperately trying to exit his CIA persona and get back to Benjamin the innocent travel writer.
One armed Chinese man pushes Chin Lin against a cracked plaster wall, and the closer man says, “You! Don’t move!”
Benjamin puts a tremble in his legs and fear in his voice. “I mean it, what is this?”
The man who told him to stop puts a pistol to Benjamin’s forehead—a 9mm QSZ-92, he coolly observes—and roughly searches him, pulling his fanny pack off and tossing it to the floor. When he is done, he speaks rapidly in Chinese to a third man who has come in.
The third man is older, better dressed, and he gingerly closes the broken door into place. He turns to look at Benjamin, but ignores Chin Lin, who is standing quiet and still against the wall.
“Who are you?” he asks, in precise, barely accented English.
His training kicks in again, as hard and logical as it must be. In situations like this one, you have one responsibility: you.
Your asset, agent, defector…they are to be cut loose. Get yourself away, best you can.
But thinking about Chin Lin…he’s both angry and sad.
It’s clear now.
She’s betrayed him.
But why? For what purpose? To capture a regular field operative in a neutral nation? Doesn’t make sense.
He says, “Benjamin Litchfield. I’m from San Francisco, in California. I’m a travel writer…who the hell are you?”
The older man stares at Benjamin. “And this…woman?”
Benjamin tries an embarrassed laugh. “Jeez, I don’t know. I was here, walking around, checking out these hot Chinese babes…and I was getting…Well, you know. A hankering for one of those famous Chinese massages you hear about. I never dared to get one back home. Always was concerned I might see someone I know, either going in or coming out. Know what I mean?”
Another embarrassed laugh, though part of his soul is dying at seeing the look on Chin Lin’s face. Even in this moment of great betrayal, there is still an old love there that won’t be extinguished.
But he remembers his training at the Farm: get off the X, meaning, if you’re trapped or in an ambush, don’t freeze, don’t hesitate, make a move to get off the X.
Right now he’s in the middle of the X, and save for trying to dive through that window—only doable in TV shows and movies with their special effects—the only way out is through that door. Benjamin isn’t armed, because he’s not in downtown Lahore but Johannesburg—not particularly dangerous—and because these men are pros. A three-to-one gunfight tends to end quickly with victory for those with the best odds.
“I do know what you mean,” the older Chinese man says.
“Here, I’ll show you,” Benjamin says. “Just…hey, relax, okay?”
From his left pants pocket he removes a folded-over newspaper clipping from a local weekly alternative newspaper, passes it over the near gunman, who gives it a glance. Benjamin says, “See? Lotus Blossom Massage Parlour. I made a call and I was told to come here and—”
The older Chinese man drops the clipping to the floor. “Your name is Benjamin Lucas. You were adopted by the Lucas family of San Francisco when you were eleven months old. You went to Stanford and Boston University, and for the past six years, you have been an operative for the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States.”
Benjamin refuses to let his emotions come to the surface. He is no longer in control, no longer in charge. He is in survival mode.
That is all.
The older man turns and speaks rapidly in Chinese to Chin Lin, who is standing quietly and bravely against the far wall. He goes back to Benjamin and says, “In order to be polite among professionals, I will tell you what I’ve just told Chin Lin.”
With horror growing now, Benjamin says, “No, please, it was my fault. I—”
The man says, “I told her, Chin Lin, you are a traitor to your Party and your country, and you must pay the price.”
He quickly removes a pistol from a waist holster and fires off three shots into Chin Lin’s chest. The sounds of the gunfire are ear-splittingly loud in the small apartment. Chin Lin cries out, the front of her blouse torn and bloody, and she collapses and slides down the wall.
So many memories of their time together—their first lovemaking, the strolls along El Palo Alto Park and her gentle and laughing critiques of Chinese food at Stanford flash through him as he sees a woman he’s loved for years slowly die before his eyes.
The near man slugs him, he staggers back, and the third man comes to him. A hood is placed over Benjamin’s head, as the punches and kicks continue.
Before he slides into unconsciousness, he thinks, Chin Lin…
CHAPTER 7
The White House
Two Months Earlier
ON THE SECOND floor of the White House, where the private family quarters are located, thirty-three-year-old Liam Grey of the Central Intelligence Agency is sitting on an antique couch waiting to see the president. It’s nearly seven a.m. as he looks around at the priceless furniture and framed paintings and feels the quiet of the place. These walls have seen the romping and playing of presidential children from Theodore Roosevelt’s to JFK’s, Jimmy Carter’s, and Bill Clinton’s, as well as the attentions of numerous first ladies, but not now. This president is the first bachelor chief executive to assume office since James Buchanan—more than a century and a half ago.
As he waits, Liam spends a few moments reflecting on the odd circumstances of his life that led him here. He knows DC well, having grown up in the Southwest & The Wharf neighborhood of the district, and definitely not in the tony Georgetown part. He barely made it through the lousy local schools and luckily caught a track scholarship to BU, where he thrived and joined the Army ROTC, following in the sad footsteps of his older brother, Brian, a captain in the famed 10th Mountain Division who had been killed during his second tour of Afghanistan.
The Army had triggered something in Liam, leading him to military intelligence and a master’s degree in foreign service at Georgetown, where he easily slipped into being recruited into the CIA and, from there, its Directorate of Operations. He’s bounced back and forth from overseas assignments to Langley, and now he—a kid who used to fish off the wharves in his old DC neighborhood, getting into lots of fights and committing petty thefts after school—is moments away from giving the commander in chief the President’s Daily Brief.
The thin black leather binder in his lap contains the morning report—known as the PDB—and he’s still surprised that he’s the only one here to pass it along to the president. The PDB can run anywhere from ten to fifteen pages and is one of the most closely guarded secrets in Washington, containing a morning overview of the world that is assembled through reports from the CIA, the NSA, the Department of Defense, and lots of other three-letter agencies.
Traditionally it’s presented to the president by a high-level administrator in the Agency, accompanied by two or three aides. Three months ago, Liam had been called away from his office to join the director of national intelligence and the acting director of the CIA to accompany them when they presented the PDB. Several weeks later, it had been Liam and his boss, the acting director, and now, he’s here alone.
Very strange, off the books, and not the typical way it is done, but President Keegan Barrett is known to like being atypical and off the books. As a former director of the CIA, the president still has friends and allies at the Agency and is known to keep a close eye on the operators that catch his notice.
Like one Liam Grey, apparently.
A door opens to a small office next to this empty living room, and one of President Barrett’s aides, a young Black male wearing a lanyard displaying the required White House ID, says, “Mr. Grey? The president will see you now.”
“Thank you,” he says, and he gets up and takes the half dozen steps that will change everything.
CHAPTER 8
LIKE SOME OTHER presidents before him—Nixon and Trump, for example—President Barrett doesn’t like to work from the downstairs Oval Office. The day after his inauguration last year, in a sit-down with editors and reporters from the Washington bureau of the New York Times, he had said, “Too much history in that place. It feels like you’re in the middle of a museum exhibit. I want to be able to kick back, put my feet on the furniture, and get work done without being interrupted all the goddamn time.”
President Barrett is sitting behind an old wooden desk that was supposedly used by President Harding. He gets up from the neatly piled folders and telephone bank and briskly walks over to Liam.
That’s when the CIA officer notes he and the president aren’t alone in the small, wood-paneled room.
On one of two small blue couches arranged around a wooden coffee table is a woman about Liam’s age, sitting still and looking smart. She’s wearing a two-piece black suit—slacks and jacket—with an ivory blouse. Her light-olive complexion is framed by black hair that is cut and styled close.
She stares at him with dark-brown eyes, and President Barrett says, “I believe you know each other.”
Liam nods, smiles. “Noa Himel. We were in the same training class.”
She gets up, offers a hand, and says, “Glad you remembered me. My hair was longer back then.”
He takes her grip, firm and warm, and says, “I remembered you outrunning my ass on the obstacle course.”
She smiles, sits down. “It’s not called that anymore. It’s the confidence enhancement course.”
With his trademark perfect smile, President Barrett says, “I hate to interrupt this company reunion, but we’ve got work to do. Liam, take a seat next to Noa.”
Liam goes over and does so, catching a slight whiff of her perfume. It’s nice. The office is small, with bookcases, a couple of framed Frederic Remington western prints, and not much else. The PDB feels heavy in his lap, and the president says, “Liam, you can put that aside for now. We’ve got more important things to discuss.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, now confused, as he puts the leather-bound volume down on the coffee table. The PDB has been nearly sacred since the era of President John F. Kennedy, when it was known as the President’s Intelligence Checklist. Since then it has expanded and grown in importance, and it’s now considered the most highly classified and important piece of intelligence the president receives on a regular basis. Some presidents wanted the briefings daily, others weekly, and during the last several administrations, it was prepared on a secure computer tablet, but this president—sitting across from him and Noa, wearing dark-gray slacks and a blue Oxford shirt with the collar undone and sleeves rolled up, his skin tanned and thick brown hair carefully trimmed—demanded it go back to paper.
And now he’s ignoring it.
Liam thinks maybe he should say something, but…
Liam is CIA but also former Army, and he’s in the presence of the commander in chief, so he keeps his mouth shut.
The president says, “Quick question for you both, and one answer apiece. Who are the most dangerous non-state actors we face as a nation? Noa, you’re up.”
Noa crisply says, “Cyber.”
“Go on.”
She says, “We’ve gone beyond the point where hackers and bots can go out and influence an election or steal bank accounts or hold a city’s software ransom. They can turn off the power, switch off the internet, and incite people in a country to rise up against a supposed enemy. You can be a First World nation in the morning, but after the cyberattack you can be a Third World nation come sundown.”
The president nods. “Exactly. Liam?”
With Noa going before him, he has a few seconds to think it through and says, “Freelance terrorist cells and organizations. They’ll preach their ideology or twisted view of their religion while they’re killing people and blowing up things, but secretly they’re for sale to the highest bidder. They preach a good sermon, but in reality they’re nihilists. They’ll strike anywhere and anybody for the right price.”
“Good answers,” the president says. “Which is why I’ve called you both in here today.”
“Sir?” Liam asks. He’s not sure where the hell this is going, but his initial impression of his good-looking couch mate, Noa, is positive. She gave a neat, thorough answer to the president’s threat question. He has the odd hope that Noa has a similar feeling about his own reply.
The president clasps his hands together and leans over the coffee table.
“After decades of our being the world’s punching bag, I’ve decided this administration isn’t going to be reactive anymore,” he says. “We’re going to be proactive, go after our enemies before they strike. We’re no longer going to be the victim. I’m going to set up two CIA teams, one domestic, the other foreign, and you two are going to run them. I’m going to give you the authorization to break things, kill bad guys, and bring back our enemies’ heads in a cooler.”
