The Ghost War

JANICE FOLLOWED THEM DOWNSTAIRS, CHATTERING. She’d turned from self-pitying to wheedling, actively seeking their approval, an alcohol-fueled mood swing. Exley was not surprised to see that she was devoting her attention to Wells. For his part, Wells was hardly listening as he looked around the basement. The place was littered with bottles of bourbon and empty cigarette packs and stank like the morning after a week-long party. Wells popped open the DVD player and extracted a disk titled Girl-n-Girl 3: The Experiment.

Janice wiggled her eyebrows at Wells when she saw the disk. “He never tried that with me.”

Exley wanted to slap this drunk woman and tell her to stop embarrassing herself. Instead, she smiled. “Before he left, did Keith say where the two of you might end up?”

Janice plumped down on the couch and put a finger in her mouth like a misbehaving four-year-old. “Not that I recall. No.”

“Anything about Asia? China?”

“He didn’t like the Chinese much. Called them slant-eyes and Chinky-dinks and said they couldn’t be trusted.”

“Did he ever bring anyone over to the house? I mean, anyone unusual, somebody he didn’t identify?”

Janice reached for an open bottle of wine on the table. She poured the contents into a dirty glass and took a long swallow. “No. We don’t have too many friends, not since we moved here, not since our son died.”

“Your son—”

But then Wells called out from the bathroom. “Jenny. You need to see this.”

Janice followed, and they crowded into the bathroom, staring at the black safe.

“Any idea of the combination?” Wells said to Janice.

“I didn’t even know it was there,” Janice said. “I swear.”

“We can call Tyson, get someone over here to get it open,” Wells said. “Not that it matters, because it’s gonna be empty.”

Janice pursed her lips, a look Exley recognized. She’d be crying again soon. All this was too much for her.

“Come on, let’s go in the other room.” Exley led Janice back to the couch. “Did Keith keep money around? Did it seem like you were spending more than his salary?”

“He never said much about our finances. Gave me a couple thousand a month for expenses. If I ever wanted a dress or something, he was generous. We had an old-fashioned marriage, I guess you’d say. He made the money, I kept the house.”

“Did you ever see any mail from banks you didn’t recognize? Anything from outside the United States?”

“Once or twice. A few years ago. Then it stopped. I think he had a post office box. He was so secretive.” Janice tipped the wine bottle to her mouth. “I just attributed it to his having a girlfriend. He liked strippers. I pretended I didn’t know, but of course I did.”

“Men are pigs.” Exley patted her hand. A mistake. Janice flinched.

“What would you know about it? You lied to me yesterday. You’re not even married.” She began to cry, her tears cutting through the mascara she’d just applied, sending black streaks down her cheeks. She grabbed a dirty paper towel and dabbed at her face.

“I was. Married.” Exley didn’t know why she felt the need to defend herself.

“Divorced, huh? Just like I’m gonna be.” Janice stood. “God. Look at this place. Look at my life.” She stumbled toward the stairs. “You do what you have to do. You’re going to anyway. But leave me alone.”

As Janice pulled herself up the stairs, Exley put her head in her hands. They had to get moving, get the word out to the FBI and Homeland Security, add Robinson’s Acura to police watch lists, check his name against passenger manifests, review airport security cameras to see if they could match his face with whatever name he was using these days, maybe even get the media involved. But it wouldn’t matter. With an eighteen-hour head start and a few thousand bucks, Keith Robinson could be anywhere. He could have driven to Atlanta and then flown to Panama City, New York, and then Istanbul, Chicago, and then Bangkok. They’d find him eventually, but eventually would be too late.

She felt Wells’s hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong, Jenny?”

“It’s my fault. I flushed him.”

Wells pulled her up. “That’s crap and you know it. He was all set to run. You’re the reason we might find him. Let’s get Janice to give us something in writing—”

“She doesn’t want to talk anymore.”

“A couple sentences, so no one can say later we didn’t have permission to be here. And then let’s start making calls.”

* * *

SEVEN HOURS LATER, Exley, Shafer, Tyson, and Wells sat in the library of Tyson’s house in Falls Church, a windowless square room that Tyson had assured them was as secure as any at Langley. Books about spying, fiction and non-, filled the shelves, from classics like The Secret Agent and The Thirty- NineSteps to Tom Clancy’s massive hardcovers. Wells and Exley shared a love seat, and Exley allowed her hand to rest compan ionably on Wells’s leg. Two silky Persian cats slept in the corner. Tyson just needed a cigar and a glass of whiskey to complete the picture of the gentleman at ease, Wells thought. But the calm in the room was deceptive.

A few miles east, in Langley, an FBI/CIA task force was tearing up Keith Robinson’s office, trying to figure out exactly what he’d stolen over the years, what databases he’d accessed, what files he’d copied, what operations and spies he’d destroyed. Of course, if Robinson showed up the next morning, the agents in his office would have some explaining to do. But everyone agreed the chances of that happening were approximately zero.

“Guess we found our mole,” Tyson said. “Or rather, he found us.” He didn’t smile. “This is as bad as it gets. He had almost total access to our East Asian ops. Everyone in China is blown. North Korea too, and maybe even Japan and India. The only place that’s really insulated is the GWOT”—the global War on Terror, the U.S. fight against al Qaeda. “China’s peripheral to that, so people might have wondered if he asked too many questions.”

“Anyway, I don’t think that his friends in Beijing care much about Osama bin Laden,” Shafer said.

“We don’t know what they care about,” Tyson said. We’ve got no sources left. Aside from our friend Wen Shubai, whose advice has been less than perfect. Anyway what happened yesterday“—the collision between the Decatur and the fishing trawler—”has changed things so much that I’m not sure anyone on the other side of the river“—in the White House—”cares anymore what Wen thinks. Confrontation hasn’t worked so far.“

“So what now?” Wells said.

Tyson tapped on his desk, disturbing the cats. They blinked sleepily, rearranged themselves, and then lay back down. “What do the Chinese want? Why did they sign that deal with Iran? Why provoke us? It’s never made sense from the beginning. That’s what we have to know.”

Wells slumped in a love seat. He was sick of Tyson’s grandstanding. “And how do you propose that we four get the answer, George? Last I checked, our collective experience in China added up to a big fat zero.”

“And now I need to come clean with you. I believe, I hope, we have one live source left in the People’s Republic.”

In the silence that followed, Wells glanced at Exley and Shafer. They looked as surprised as he felt.

“A couple years after Tiananmen, a PLA colonel reached out to us. He was an evangelical Christian, a silent convert. They’re some of our best sources. He gave us good stuff during the nineties. But he went dark when Robinson approached the Chinese. Completely dark. At the time, we couldn’t understand why. Now it seems obvious. He was keeping his head down so Robinson couldn’t out him.”

“Any idea why he didn’t just tell us about Robinson?”

“Maybe he didn’t know enough about Robinson’s identity to give him up. Or maybe it was the other way. Maybe so few people knew about Robinson that our guy figured he’d compromise himself if he gave Robinson up. Anyway, one day he missed a meeting. After that, we never saw him again. Didn’t respond to any of our signals.”

“But he wasn’t arrested,” Exley said.