The Ghost War

“I thought the working theory was that it had nothing to do with us.”

“Maybe,” Gleeson said. “Or maybe we have another Ames. Anyway, I need that report on my desk by two.”

“No problem,” the mole said as Gleeson walked off.

For a week, he heard nothing more. Then he got a call from the same secretary in the polygraph office who had been so blase earlier. “We need to move up your appointment. Are you free next Friday?”

The mole’s heart twisted. “Friday? I don’t know, lemme check—”

“Well, get back to me as soon as possible, please. If not Friday, it can’t be any later than the following week.”

“What’s the rush? I mean, I’m very busy—”

“You’ll have to take that up with the examiner. I’m just a scheduler.” Click.

The mole stared blankly at the receiver in his hand, wondering what he’d done to deserve this treatment. He wanted badly to know if they actively suspected him. But asking too many questions about a leak investigation was a very good way to attract the attention of the people running it.

MEANWHILE, THE TEMPO in the East Asia unit was picking up. Since September 11, Langley and the White House had paid relatively little attention to China. The agency had focused first on Afghanistan, then Iraq, and now Iran. Along the way, China and the United States had reached a quiet understanding. As long as Beijing helped the United States on terrorism, the White House would stay quiet on economic issues, such as China’s trade surplus.

Even China’s rapid military buildup, its new submarines and fighter jets and satellites, had gone un- challenged. Some analysts within the agency thought that the United States should confront China aggressively now, while America still had a clear upper hand. But those discussions were largely theoretical. Langley knew that the White House had no appetite for a fight with Beijing at the moment, not with Iraq collapsing.

But in the last few weeks, the unspoken bargain had broken down, and not because of anything Washington had done. Both publicly and privately, the Chinese seemed to want to force America’s hand. The Chinese had moved submarines into the Taiwan Strait, the narrow sea that separated Taiwan from mainland China, and declared that U.S. carriers there would not be welcome without Chinese approval. Washington had simply ignored this provocation, saying that American carriers would travel in any international waters they wanted.

Beijing had also announced the successful test of a missile capable of destroying satellites and said that it didn’t intend to allow any nation to have “hegemony over space.” The words were clearly intended for the United States. Then, a week before, the French intelligence agency had passed along a rumor that China and Iran had struck some kind of grand bargain. No details. Langley had told the White House and State Department, and now the U.S. ambassador to China was trying to get an answer from the Chinese foreign ministry. But the ministry so far had stayed quiet.

An alliance between China and Iran would present the United States with a huge problem. Even if America wanted to avoid quarreling with China, it would have to respond to a deal between Beijing and its sworn enemies in Tehran. What no one understood was why the Chinese had picked this moment to take on Washington.

The mole could see now how effectively he’d betrayed the agency. Over the last five years, his spying had cost the CIA all its top Chinese operatives. As a result, the agency had no access to what was happening at the top levels of the Chinese government. The mole had left the agency blind and deaf. Still, the mole didn’t think that either side would push this confrontation too far. Both the United States and China had too much to lose.

IT WAS 3:06 A.M. As Janice sighed softly beside him, the mole felt his mind speeding like a truck whose brakes had failed. He remembered Insomnia, an old Stephen King novel. Halfway through, the hero was greeted by demons and devils crawling out of the wall. The mole was expecting to see something similar soon enough. The worst part was that he would actually be relieved to know the monsters were real.

At least now the mole had a good excuse for his inability to sleep. Two mornings before, he’d gotten yet another dose of bad news. He was sitting in his office, wondering if he could find an excuse to push off the poly, when Gleeson called.

“Come by,” Gleeson said. “Big news.”

When he arrived, Gleeson told him that a Chinese agent had defected in Britain. Wen Shubai. The mole had never met him, but he knew the name. He would bet that Wen knew him too, or at least of him. The mole couldn’t imagine what had happened. No senior officer had ever defected from the Second Directorate. The Chinese weren’t like Russians or Americans. They stuck together. They always had before, anyway.

“That’s fantastic,” he said. “When did it happen?” How much time do I have?

“Don’t know,” Joe said. “I think a couple days ago. But they’re keeping it close to the vest.”

“We’re sure it’s real, it’s not bait?”

“He’s given up some very solid leads.”

“On what?”

“Wish I could say,” Gleeson said breezily. The mole wondered if Gleeson actually knew what Wen had said. Could Wen have given them enough to find him? Could the agency be tracking his offshore accounts right now? The mole felt his whole body dissolve, as if Gleeson could see through him. He looked down at his hands to be sure he was still real.

“I need you to pull together a report, everything we know about Mr. Wen,” Gleeson said. “End of day at the latest.”

“Sure. I was thinking the same thing.” The mole wondered if George Tyson and his counterintel boys were trying to set a trap. This assignment might be intended to provoke him into running, betraying himself.

Well, if that was their goal, they’d failed. The mole went back to his office and called up the thin dossier the agency had on Shubai, putting together the report for Gleeson. On his way home that night, he searched out a pay phone and punched in a Virginia cell-phone number. The call went straight to voicemail.

“You’ve reached George,” the message said. “The car is still for sale. If you’d like to buy, please leave your number and the best time to reach you.” All the English lessons that the colonel had taken over the years had paid off, the mole thought. He hardly even sounded Chinese.

“George,” he said, “that yellow Pinto of yours is just what I’ve been looking for. I’d like to pick it up as soon as possible. Call me before six A.M.”

The code was simple. Yellow meant he needed an urgent meeting. Pinto meant Wakefield Park, at 6:00 A.M.

While he waited for George to respond, the mole found a TGI Friday’s where he could have a beer and watch the idiots on ESPN jaw at each other. He didn’t even feel like drinking, but he ordered a beer anyway. When he looked down at his mug, it was empty. He signaled the bartender for another.

“No problem, buddy.”

“What kind of word is ‘sportscaster,’ anyway?” the mole said, eyeing the screen. “I mean, ‘newscaster’ is bad enough, but ’sportscaster’ makes no sense at all.”

“Got me. That was a Bud Light, right?”

An hour crawled by before the mole slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and walked out. A half-mile down, he found another pay phone. Again the call went to voicemail. “You’ve reached George,” the message said. “Thanks for your inquiry. The yellow Pinto will be ready for pickup on Thursday.”

The mole had to restrain himself from tearing the receiver off the pay phone. Thursday? This was Monday. Why were they making him wait two and a half days? He should have demanded a meeting immediately. But now it was too late. Asking for something sooner would make George wonder if he was panicking, and he didn’t want to seem panicked. He’d just have to wait.

SO HE WAITED, as hatefully as a prisoner counting the days to his execution. But the meeting was still more than a day away. Now, as his clock turned to 3:07 A.M., the mole shuffled out of bed and made his way to the spare bedroom, the room that he had once hoped would become a nursery. He settled in before an episode of The Hills, watching the bubbleheads on screen struggle to make it in the high-pressure world of Teen Vogue. He’d seen this episode before, but even if he hadn‘t, nothing in it