originating from a low-level ministry informer: A black woman talking foreign-accented Mandarin to a long-haired man clutching tea, a man the source later ID’d from ministry mugshots.
Although Leticia Jones had evaded surveillance after the meeting in Georgetown, since Friday Zhu’s agents had been tracking the movements of Alan Drummond. There was little to report. On Friday, Drummond had lunch a block away from his Manhattan condo at the Parlor Steakhouse with a man named Hector Garza (that was the name he’d given the restaurant’s maitre d’). A single clear photograph had been taken of the man as he exited the restaurant, but no positive match had been made yet.
“On that same evening,” Shen An-ling said, “he and his wife, Penelope, went to 203 Garfield Place.”
Zhu chewed his lower lip unconsciously. The last time he’d heard that address, he’d been in Berlin, saying it aloud to a Moldovan man whose daughter had been killed by the Central Intelligence Agency. “You mean he met with Milo Weaver.”
“It was a couples’ dinner, but the two men went to the roof for a private talk. We have no way of knowing what they discussed.”
“And Weaver?” Zhu asked. “How is he?”
“Remarkably well. Andrei Stanescu is a terrible shot. He damaged Weaver’s small intestine, but not critically. A week in the hospital. He’ll be fine.”
Zhu thought about that a moment before voicing his thoughts aloud. “We can be sure that Alan Drummond is sharing his plans with Milo Weaver, but I don’t think we have to worry about Weaver, at least not yet. If I read him right, he won’t be interested in anything but convalescing in peace. I don’t think he really likes his old employers.”
“Still, we should keep an eye on him.”
“Oh, of course! Not at the expense of Drummond or his coconspirators, though. What occupies him these days?”
Shen An-ling scanned the sheet in front of him. “Looking for a job, apparently.”
“Good man,” said Zhu. “Something quiet.”
A little after ten that morning, Xin Zhu left the office in one of his employee’s cars and took the Fourth Ring Road south to the G106, straight into Daxing District. He followed some basic evasive maneuvers along the way, changing direction by bumping over cracked medians and shuttling over to alternate routes before returning to the main streets, so that what should have been a half-hour journey ran more than an hour. Finally, he reached a street with rows of middle-class apartment blocks six stories high. He Qiang’s apartment was on the top floor of one of the central buildings, and in the elevator, Zhu tried to decipher two thick-marker scribbles on the wall, graffiti tags. It was a relatively new phenomenon in Beijing, something he’d heard complained about at too many parties, but inside this rusting elevator he had the feeling that they brightened up the drab, functional machine.
When He Qiang let him into the apartment, he found the television playing another Bollywood tearjerker, and Liu Xiuxiu at a typewriter, practicing some code He Qiang had been teaching her. All the lighting here was artificial, for He Qiang had closed the blinds.
Liu Xiuxiu ceased her typing and came over with her head bowed, wearing jeans and a thin white blouse. She looked surprised when Zhu reached out to shake her hand. Then she relaxed, going to make tea as He Qiang shut off the television. Zhu, looking at his agent, pointed at the ceiling.
“Our first lesson,” He Qiang said as he handed over four passport photos of Liu Xiuxiu. “We cleaned the whole place.”
“Anything?”
A shake of the head.
“Good.” Zhu settled on the sofa and waited until the tea had arrived, then watched Liu Xiuxiu serve it with the grace of a courtesan. “Please,” he said when he realized she wasn’t going to sit with them, and patted the sofa. She settled down beside him, and he spoke slowly. “Liu Xiuxiu, the first thing you should understand is that you are here because you are, I believe, of equal value to any of my agents. Or as soon as you’ve gained some experience you will be. So, thank you for the tea, but do not feel it’s your role here to serve us. That is not how I run my section.”
Submissively, she nodded.
Zhu turned to He Qiang. “You will follow her to Washington and act as her support. She will have to make decisions on the ground, and unless you know for certain that she’s making a decision based on false information, you will back her up completely. Understood?”
He Qiang did understand.
“I’m going to America?” Liu Xiuxiu asked, then, embarrassed, bit her lips.
“You and He Qiang will be leaving tonight on separate flights. To Washington, D.C. A contact will set you up with a place to stay.”
“Sam Kuo?” asked He Qiang.
Zhu nodded. “He’s not ideal, but we’re pressed for time.” He turned back to Liu Xiuxiu and was pleased to find the doubt gone from her face. His instinct about this girl was not unfounded. “Once you’re settled, He Qiang will go to New York to begin a second part of the operation, but you will always be able to call him for advice, and after a few days he’ll return to Washington. By then, though, you should have made progress on your operation, which will be to seduce one of two men-both, if it’s possible-and gain information from them.”
She nodded but asked nothing. He wished that she would, because he preferred his agents to be curious, to demand to be completely informed, even when he was unable to tell them everything. He turned back to He Qiang. “You remember the Therapist?”
“Of course.”
“You’ll employ him full-time on this. Tell him it’ll be at least two weeks’ work, his regular payment plus a bonus if it goes well.”
“He’ll like that. The Therapist only speaks money.”
“You’ll get more details before your flight.”
He Qiang nodded, satisfied.
“Comrade Colonel,” said Liu Xiuxiu.
“Yes?”
“May I ask the purpose of this operation?”
“The purpose?”
She paused, her lips tightening. “I know the outline of my particular job, but may I know how it fits into your larger aims-and what those larger aims are?”
“No,” he said, but was pleased that she had asked. “You’ll focus solely on your operation. When He Qiang returns from New York, you will not question him about what he’s done. Is that understood?”
There was no sign of insult when she said, “Of course, Comrade Colonel.”
Zhu opened his briefcase, took out a folder with photographs, and spread them out on the table. Each was labeled with a name, some with more than one. “These are the players we know about. You’ll remember their faces and names, memorize the biographical details typed on the reverse side, and before you leave here at seven o’clock you’ll burn them.”
Liu Xiuxiu pushed the photographs around, pausing on Leticia Jones/Rosa Mumu. Zhu said, “That woman is extremely dangerous. If you do see her, do not engage. You report her presence to He Qiang.”
The other woman, Dorothy Collingwood, was lightly airbrushed in her official portrait, wiping away the soft wrinkles collected during her years in government service. The other two, Stuart Jackson and Nathan Irwin, sported large, false smiles. “I want you to focus on the men, of course. A week ago these three met with Jones and this man,” he said, pulling over another photo, “Alan Drummond. He’s the former head of a secret CIA office that we had a hand in destroying. What I want to know is the subject of their conversation. I know it concerned China, because Jones had just returned from a trip here, but I don’t know the details. It’s imperative to all of us that we find out.”
Though she seemed to comprehend the difficulty of the assignment, Liu Xiuxiu showed no hesitation. “Are the two men married?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” she said. “Married men are generally easier to seduce than single ones.”
He Qiang smiled at Zhu, as if to say, See what I told you?
