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“Shit,” Liam says. “That’s when you wanted to dig deeper.”
“Yeah, and this is what I found out. I had one of my team members call in some favors … look at these photos.”
Noa flips through the phone and there’s the same photo as the first one, except that the Chinese woman with the baby carriage has been replaced—
Oh, shit.
“Noa! I told you to ghost your way here … is that a burner?”
“No, I—Oh, shit. I was in a goddamn hurry.”
She switches off her phone, starts tugging at the rear plastic plate to remove the SIM card, just as Liam starts up the Jeep’s engine.
The engine justclicks.
Disabled.
Too late.
All four windows and the windshield to the Jeep Wrangler implode, showering Liam and Noa with shattered glass, smoke, and a shock wave that pushes both of them back into their seats.
CHAPTER 70
IN THE SCIF in the subbasement of the Chinese Embassy to the United States, Xi Dejiang of the Ministry of State Security crisply says,“Xiansheng zàijiàn,”and then hangs up the phone, connecting him to a secure line to Ministry headquarters in Beijing.
He sits still for a moment, as his assistant, Sun Zheng, looks at him questioningly.
It’s so quiet in the SCIF that Dejiang imagines he can hear his heartbeat, as well as Zheng’s.
“Sir?” Zheng asks.
“Wait,” Dejiang says in disgust. “I am to wait for further instructions from Beijing. Bah.”
His hand reaches for the familiar Marlboro cigarette box and then he pulls it back. Too much lately, smoking the American tobacco, wondering and thinking of what’s going on in the American White House, barely a fifteen-minute drive away.
He says, “You know what will happen. It’s very late in Beijing. That means phone calls must be made, superiors must be woken up, and they will have to be briefed. In turn, they will call their respectivebosses, there will be committee meetings until someone decides that the president himself must be informed … all while hours pass and who knows what President Barrett might do next.”
Sun stays silent. Dejiang knows that Zheng one day wants this job, but he’s fairly certain Zheng doesn’t feel that way at this moment.
Dejiang says, “The president has asked for my presence, specifically. With every minute that passes, each hour that goes by without a response, what do you believe he is thinking?”
“One would hope he would realize scheduling such a meeting takes time.”
With irritation in his voice, Dejiang says, “In normal times, yes. But these are not normal times. President Barrett is what the locals here like to call a lone wolf. Check the past briefings on the White House inner workings. He has no close circle of advisers, of men to advise him and control his impulses. A bad way of doing business.”
He shakes his head, succumbs to temptation, takes the Marlboro package and removes a cigarette.
“No, I think the president is there, mostly alone, wondering why his request for our nation’srezidentto visit him is being ignored. He’s not seeing it as a delay for typical reasons, no, he is a man of action, a former general, used to having his orders and requests instantly obeyed. Trust me on this, Barrett is sitting over in that White House, feeling humiliated and ignored. A dangerous combination.”
Zheng says, “What do you propose, sir? A phone call to the White House, perhaps?”
Dejiang shakes his head. “No. A phone call will not do.”
He reaches for his lighter, given to him last year from his son. It is maroon in color and has the symbol of Harvard on its side, and was made by his son and the fellow members of his social club—whatever that means—as some sort of joke.
From his small, framed portrait, Admiral Zheng He stares out with cool composure and courage.
Dejiang says, “I will go to see him myself at the White House, as soon as it can be arranged.”