Blowback, p.9
Blowback, page 9
“Yes, poor Speaker Washington,” he says. “It may be bullshit but right now it looks like convincing bullshit. You’ll see, in the weeks and months ahead, she’ll be trying to explain what’s going on, while also beating back a leadership fight with her majority leader, who wants her job. Not much will get done on her watch, but truth be told, no matter how clean they are, our congressional representatives are their own worst enemies.”
Noa says, “Sounds cynical, sir.”
“You know the average yearly salary for a congressman?” Barrett says. “About $174,000 a year. And the average net worth of an American congressman? Nearly eight million dollars. That’s some fine financial planning, don’t you think? Or lots of luck?”
Liam seems to want to change the subject and says, “Any news about the vice president’s condition?”
“Stable and doing fine, except that she’s still in a coma.” Barrett sighs. “Not to leave this room but the feeling is that some trace poison, perhaps from the Russians, may have gotten onto her silverware or drinking glass. Two physicians from Germany are en route from the Charité University Hospital in Berlin. They have experience in dealing with such toxins.”
Liam’s face seems to pale. “Russia, sir? I mean…”
“Retaliation?” Barrett says. “Don’t worry about it. They’re still blaming that action on their Belarus friends, and we expect some border incidents between the two of them in the days ahead. In the meantime…”
Liam and Noa stay quiet as the president goes on. “I want to start off by saying how pleased I am with your initial work. You both have completed four operations with excellent results and no collateral damage, and no extensive interest from our alleged friends in the Fourth Estate.”
Barrett smiles. “But as has been said before, ‘what have you done for me lately?’ Noa, this is yours, and Liam, this is yours.” He hands the sealed envelopes to the two of them. “Questions?”
Noa says, “It’s been nearly a month, sir. Again, with all due respect, have you made the necessary notifications to the congressional committees? Under the Intelligence Authorization Act?”
“Soon,” he says. “I want a few more checkmarks in the win column before I give them a briefing. You know what they say, it’s better to ask for forgiveness than seek permission.”
He taps his thick fingers on the envelopes. “Liam, you’re off to France. Noa, I’m afraid you’re off to Virginia again. But at least you’ll have no jet leg.”
Noa takes her envelope and so does Liam, and the president says, “I need to ask you both something.”
Noa takes a view of Liam, who nods, as does she.
He says, “You two ever hear of Stewart Brand?” he asks.
Liam says, “No, sir,” and Noa echoes him.
Barrett says, “Stewart Brand was a futurist and environmentalist. He produced books back in the 1960s and the 1970s that he called Whole Earth Catalogues, which were a book form of the internet. Lots of information and technology available between the covers. He once said, ‘We are as gods, we might as well get good at it.’ Don’t you see what he means?”
Noa doesn’t know what to say, and it pleases her that Liam is speechless as well.
“Don’t you see?” Barrett asks. “What you’re doing for me and the nation is vital. We’re not engaged in a large-scale war, or fighting to secure trade agreements in our favor, or crushing smaller nations. We are an empire unlike any other that has existed in this world, and I mean to preserve it. We are locating our enemies, foreign or domestic, ones fighting against me and our nation, and removing them, making our nation and our people so much safer.”
He stops for a moment. “To misquote Mr. Brand, ‘We are an empire, we might as well be good at it.’ And I’m counting on the two of you to preserve our empire.”
Noa sits still.
As does Liam.
“Any more questions?” he asks.
Quiet.
The president stands up, and so do they.
“Good,” he says. “Now get the hell back to work.”
CHAPTER 32
ABOUT TEN MINUTES after their meeting, Liam is sitting on a park bench in Farragut Square, one block away from the Hay-Adams Hotel. Next to him, Noa says sharply, “Did you hear him back there? Did you?”
“I was in the room, right? Of course I heard him.”
“Help him and the empire? Empire? Do you remember taking an oath to defend an empire, Liam? I sure as hell don’t. And then he said something about the ‘ones fighting against me and our nation.’ You don’t think that’s odd, him identifying himself as being the nation? Like Louis XIV from France who said, L’état, c’est moi. Is that what we’re putting our asses on the line for?”
Around them pedestrians, tourists, and district government workers are strolling along, enjoying the sunny day and relatively dry air, and Liam feels the unseemliness of it all, that just a few minutes ago, they were in a nearby hotel suite, talking about destroying the nation’s enemies.
Liam says, “The boss was just exaggerating, that’s all. Lots of pundits and scholars say we’re an empire. Most are too polite to say it out loud.”
“The president of the United States shouldn’t be saying that, in private or out loud. And shouldn’t personally link external enemies to his own safety.”
Liam says, “At least he’s not using Twitter. Come on, you expect the president to be a constitutional scholar?”
“I expect him to do right, that’s what I expect. And not sound like he’s losing his grip on things.”
“And you’re the judge of that?” Liam asks.
“Somebody has to be,” she says. “You’ll keep on saluting and saying ‘yes, sir’ all the way to the congressional hearings, with your ass on the line, and me right next to you.”
Liam shifts so he gets a better look at her angry face. “All right, Noa, what’s your deal? What’s driving you? If you’re so straight, why in hell did you join the Agency?”
Noa says, “You’re ex-military. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” Liam says.
Noa says, “In this fight…I’ve always felt like we were the civilized ones, fighting against the ones enjoying blowing up kindergartens, taking down civilian airliners, shooting up shopping malls.”
“The CIA psychologists would probably think that’s a simple and crude assumption,” Liam says. “Even though I tend to agree with you.”
“Do you think those psychologists know what ZAKA is?”
Liam thinks he’s familiar with the term but plays along for Noa’s sake. “Probably not. Tell me about ZAKA.”
Noa stares out over at the calm and peaceful park, and in a voice that’s now slight, tentative, she says, “I’ve gone back to Israel a few times to visit family. Twice I’ve seen ZAKA in action. They’re a volunteer group that responds with emergency personnel if there’s a terrorist bombing somewhere. But they don’t work to help the survivors or work on the injured. No, they volunteer to recover the smallest piece of flesh, bone, or brain, so that in the traditional Jewish way, it can be properly buried.”
Liam keeps his mouth shut. “So you have our enemies using our technology, from cell phones to bomb-making, and we—the civilized ones—respond by forming squads of volunteers to fulfill a burial obligation. More than two decades ago, the barbarians used the latest in aviation technology to attack this very city. But people forget. They’re still out there, waiting to strike again. They’ve killed your brother, and they killed my cousin Becky in Beirut, years back. And if, by joining the Agency, if I can help knock back the barbarians, I’ll work night and day to do so.”
“Nice point of view,” he says. “I grew up here in DC, long ways away from embassy row and fancy parties, with equally lousy schools. But my parents did the best they could, my dad working as a sergeant in the Capitol Police and my mom as an editor at the Government Printing Office. I saw from them what it was like to work with higher-ups who think they know it all, and I didn’t like it. Still don’t like it. Especially those bureaucrats who’ve never been in the field, have never seen what the bad guys can do.”
“Glad to hear that,” Noa says. “But what was that bit back there, about the vice president and the Russians and you?”
Liam says, “Need to know.”
Noa swears and says, “In case you haven’t figured it, chief, I’m handcuffed to you on this op. You and I are either going to get promoted, go to prison, or have a memorial star carved in a marble wall at Langley when this is over. I think I have a goddamn right to know.”
Liam looks around the crowded Farragut Square, wondering just how many of the people out there knew of Civil War Admiral David Farragut, who led an attacking Union force through Mobile Bay—the Confederacy’s last open port—and when he learned that the harbor was mined with objects called torpedoes at the time, issued that famous order.
“Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!”
Damn the torpedoes, indeed.
He says, “My crew and I raided a Russian bot farm and took it out.”
“Where was it?” she asks. “Africa? Baltic States? One of the ’stans in Central Asia?”
“Just outside of Saint Petersburg,” he says.
“Saint Petersburg?” she asks with awe. “The one here or the one over there?”
“Don’t be silly,” he says. “The one over there.”
Noa lets out a low whistle. “That’s some damn impressive shootin’ there, cowboy. How did it go?”
“Went off fine, without a hitch,” he says, and then, correcting himself, adds, “One small hitch. Ops like that one tend to lend themselves to last-minute complications.”
“When you say ‘raid’ and ‘took it out,’ mind clearing away the sterile language and telling me exactly what happened?”
Liam says, “We got there, pretending to be a domestic package delivery outfit. About a minute before knocking on the door, one of my guys disabled their electronics, surveillance gear, and communications. We then went in and killed everybody in the building, and then set off thermite charges to burn everything, including concrete and steel.”
Another low whistle from Noa. “You overseas boys sure don’t mess around.”
Liam says, “This bot farm was run by the Russian GRU and was responsible for that civil war in Myanmar last year, the one that killed thousands, and also responsible for fouling up that special Senate race in Montana. We also left a calling card. A pistol and charred notebook indicating the raid had come from the KDB in Belarus. Shed no tears for them, Noa.”
“I won’t,” she says. “What was the hitch?”
“The GRU tends to be a chauvinistic unit,” he says. “Every GRU officer in there was male and got two taps to the head and one to the chest…except for a young woman, hiding out in a bathroom. Maybe nineteen years old. Twenty.”
Noa says, “Shit.”
“Yeah. We had strict orders. No prisoners, no wounded GRU officers, no witnesses. But the orders didn’t say anything about a scared teenager hiding in a WC.”
Noa says, “Must have been hard, doing what you did.”
Liam is surprised. “How do you know what I did?”
“You outlined your rules of engagement. You don’t get to where you are by ignoring them.”
Liam says, “You’re a cold one.”
“If so, we’re both hanging out in the same freezer. So answer the question.”
Liam says, “She was in a military uniform, in a military facility, and she pulled a pistol on me and a fellow operator.”
“Then you did your job,” she says.
“I did.”
Noa says, “Well, we’ve got a new job now, friend.”
“What’s that?”
“Keeping an eye on POTUS, along with me,” she says. “He says he chose us for particular reasons, to do what’s right. Okay, so far, we’ve signed off on his targeting plans. They may be a stretch, but they’re legitimate. But you know what they say about absolute power and how it corrupts. At some point, we may get a target from Barrett that’s not legitimate. What are we going to do then?”
“Respond appropriately.”
“That’s mush.”
“No, that’s what we’ll do,” Liam says. “Like LBJ said last century, better to be on the inside of the tent pissing out, than outside and pissing in. He’s trusting us, he’s liking what we’re doing, and we can be in a position to gently steer him away if he gets too enthusiastic.”
“Too enthusiastic? Or too much of something else?”
“Like what?”
“Like it scares me to say it out loud,” Noa says. “You have to admit that what he’s doing isn’t normal.”
“Jesus, Noa, what’s considered normal when it comes to a president. Do I have to remind you of—”
“No, you don’t,” she says. “At least this boss stays off Twitter and doesn’t claim to be a stable genius. But you and I, we’re in a privileged spot.”
“No argument there,” he says. “And I’ll talk to you if I’m concerned about an op or issue, if you promise to do the same.”
“Deal,” Noa says. “But we’ve got to prepare for something that’s coming our way, Liam. We and our teams are disappearing a number of opposing units. One of these days, our enemies are going to take notice, and they’ll respond.”
Liam thinks for a moment and says, “Like what we did after we armed the jihadists in Afghanistan when they were fighting the Russians. We walked away from the wreckage we helped cause, and that helped breed the Taliban and al-Qaeda.”
“We’re causing chaos now, Liam, we need to be eyes open for what happens next.”
Liam nods. “Blowback.”
Noa says, “Blowback like we can’t even imagine.”
CHAPTER 33
ON THE OFFICIAL employment list of the Embassy of the People’s Republic of China on 3505 International Place NW in Washington, DC, Xi Dejiang is listed as a deputy agricultural attaché, even though it has been years since he’s stepped onto a farm or into a slaughterhouse, and that suits him just fine.
He’s the senior representative for the Chinese Ministry of State Security for all of North America, and he is pondering a series of problems this morning while holding court in what’s known in the embassy as the Cube, or among his enemies in Britain and the United States, a SCIF, a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility.
It’s in a subbasement of a compound that was never officially designed or constructed with the knowledge of local and American federal officials, but Dejiang still takes the necessary precautions. It’s a room made of lead, cloth, Lucite, and radio-frequency-blocking foil and paint. There are no electronic connections that pass through the cube: no power cords, no communications lines, nothing, save for one dedicated and heavily secure phone line. The only furniture is a flimsy wooden table and four equally flimsy and thin wooden chairs, meaning it is nearly impossible to hide any type of listening or recording device in them.
Even then, this room is swept four to five times a day—and never on a regular schedule—and the furniture is also replaced on occasion.
The only bit of decoration in the small and nearly airless room is a framed print of the Grand Admiral Zheng He, who set sail from China in the early 1400s with ships of such size that they would not be matched again until the twentieth century. With his fleet and soldiers, Admiral Zheng had been poised to begin an undefeated march that would have conquered the world, until the idiot Hongxi Emperor and his finance ministers had called him back to shore and sunk his ships.
On days like this, he likes to think of the brave admiral’s ships going up the Thames or the Seine, burning London and Paris. He touches the frame and says, “Ah, ancestor, if they had listened to you, we would have taken our rightful place in the world nearly six centuries ahead of schedule.”
A tap outside on the cube and he calls out, “Enter!” The interior of the room is smelly, due to Dejiang’s habit of smoking American Marlboro cigarettes. He likes the taste and the nicotine rush and won’t toady up to the Ambassador by smoking Zhonghua cigarettes. He has also told the maintenance staff who asked him not to smoke in the Cube to Gǔn kāi themselves.
A sliding door opens and his deputy, Sun Zheng, makes a slight bow and sits across from him, the thin wooden chair creaking ominously. Zheng is at least a hundred kilograms overweight and the compound staff tease him that his trouser legs and jacket sleeves clamp him tight, like sausage skins. But behind the flabby jowls is a sharp-rate mind and all-seeing, cold, dark eyes.
His hands are empty, yet Dejiang knows he’s ready for the briefing Dejiang requested two days ago. Zheng doesn’t need a notepad or paper, and since no electronic devices of any kind are allowed into the Cube, he can still do his job.
“Well?” Dejiang asks.
“The situation has gotten worse,” Zheng says. “We’ve lost another station in Redmond, and two of our Fox teams have gone dark. One in New York and the other in Chicago.”
Operation Fox Hunt, Dejiang thinks. Highly classified, highly controversial, with teams of State Security agents being sent undercover to the United States to observe, harass, and—where possible—seize dissidents, defectors, and suspected state criminals and bring them back to China.
On occasion in years past, Fox Hunt teams had been discovered in the United States, but it has been years since the last one.
And now there’s two?
“Any warning?”
“None,” Zheng says.
“And no word from the Americans?”
“Officially…no.”
Dejiang thinks about that for a moment. He says, “In the usual manner, the Americans would make a large production of arresting our people in their country. Somber men in suits behind microphones. Press releases. Warnings from their elected officials about the new emerging ‘yellow peril.’ Making quiet inquiries through back channels to set up a prisoner exchange. But nothing this time, correct?”
“No, sir.”
Dejiang says, “Unofficially, what do you know?”
