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The civilian Huang Zemin—whom Delun is convinced belongs to one of the security forces—walks away with the general, talking between themselves, and the general raises his voice once more, saying, “An act of war, and I will report it as such!”
His worker Jing, still grasping the graphite filaments, says, “What just happened?”
Delun says, “I’ve just made the best friend in the world, or the worst enemy.”
“How will you know?” comes the puzzled question.
Delun says, “If the lights come back on Wednesday, and not Thursday.”
CHAPTER 56
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
CIA DIRECTOR HANNAH Abrams touches her desk once again, like a holy talisman passing on power and knowledge, here, on the nearly sacred seventh floor of CIA headquarters. She is here, she has made it, despite the long hours, the trips away from home, her two divorces and the knife scar along her left ribs from one busy night in Belgrade years back, and the many sleepless nights and nearly inedible meals.
She has made it.
Although a cautionary voice inside her whispers,Have we gotten here in time?
The door to her office opens and Jean Swantish, her deputy director, steps in, shaking her head.
“Still getting nothing from Beijing or their embassy about their capture of Benjamin Lucas. They’re polite but they have no interest in talking to you.”
Hannah taps her fingers on her desk. “What do you think their game plan is? Why the delay?”
Jean sits down across from her, notebook in hand. They first met years back during training here and at Camp Perry and other secret training sites on the East Coast, and their respective careers havesteamed along in parallel, like two old cruise ships pacing each other out in the seas.
In those years they’ve watched out for each other, have passed along tips and information on job openings and shitty supervisors, and Jean has done the same “night soil circuit” Hannah has done, taken every crap Third World assignment offered.
According to her personnel file, Jean is fifty-one, single, with thick brown hair, but Hannah also knows that hidden behind her dark-gray slacks, white blouse, and dark-blue jacket is a long, furrowed scar across her belly, courtesy of a Boko Haram gunman in Nigeria.
Deputy directors usually don’t serve as the director’s immediate right-hand person, but Hannah has ideas on how she’s going to run things, and Jean is a vital part of it.
Jean smiles brightly, says, “I could make a joke about the inscrutable Chinese, but besides being racist, it’s a lousy joke. They’re up to something. We just don’t know … for now.”
Hannah says, “But it was a straight exfil mission. Benjamin Lucas was captured by the Chinese, his old college friend was shot at the scene, and … nothing. There wasn’t anything particularly cutting-edge about the operation, was there?”
“No,” Jean says.
“But they won’t even admit they have him. And they’re not letting me talk to my counterpart in Beijing or their resident in DC. Which means they’re either extremely pissed at us, or something larger is going on.”
“Agreed, Director.”
Hannah smiles and says, “Don’t get into the habit of saying ‘agreed’ that much, Jean. When I screw up or you think I need advice, don’t keep your mouth shut.”
“I won’t.”
“Good,” Hannah says. “What did you think of my speech to the troops in the Bubble?”
“Straight and to the point,” Jean says, going back to her notebook. “You said, ‘I’m honored to be here, you’re the most talented group of patriots and workers in the world, and if you follow the law and rules, I’ll have your back, forever.’” Jean looks up. “Not up to Henry V’s speech before the Battle of Agincourt, but I think most of them were pleased.”
“You took good notes.”
“You didn’t talk for long.”
Hannah says, “That’s because there’s too much to do. All right, next up, I want the personnel files on Noa Himel and Liam Grey.”
“Who are they?”