no pieces, only the squares, and each opponent’s home areas — called the Red Palace and the Black Palace — and a strip of dark blue representing the center division, or River.
Zhao imagined the pieces moving, dancing around one another, his opponent unaware until—
“Sir…” a voice intruded. “Sir, I’m sorry to bother you… ”
Zhao snapped out of his reverie and slowly turned around to face Xun. “Yes, what is it?”
“They’ve been apprehended — in Texas.”
Zhao gave a half smile. “Good.”
“Why is that good?” Xun asked. “The authorities have them. If they talk—”
“They will.”
Xun frowned. “But if—”
Zhao waved his hands to encompass the room. “Xun, what do you see here?”
“A Xiangqi board.”
“Let me ask you: Suppose a pair of enemy
“Move my king.”
“Or?”
“Attack the attacking pieces.”
“Or.”
“Move other pieces in defense.”
“How do you know that’s not what your enemy wanted?”
“I don’t.”
“What if your every move is not your own, but only a response to arranged circumstances?”
“Then I lose the game.”
“Correct. Now: Send a message to Sarani. Tell him they should start preparing. Events will begin to speed up now.”
Xun nodded and hurried out.
Zhao turned back to the board and moved another piece in his mind.
23
When he touched down, Fisher’s plans to quickly exit the area were foiled, not by the authorities, but rather by Lambert in a curtly worded OPSAT message—PROCEED GRID REF 102.398, AWAIT PICKUP FOR TRANSPORT TO CHARLIE-ALPHA ONE (1)—followed by the details his contact would use to identify himself or herself.
Fisher was concerned. The grid reference Lambert had given was virtually on top of his pathfinder beacon, overlooking Jumeirah Road north of the Burj al Arab. Rendevous Point Charlie-Alpha One was a CIA safe house on Al Garhoud Road near the Dubai Creek Golf & Yacht Club.
Lambert’s order was unprecedented, not only because it required Fisher to remain in an OPAR (Operational Area) that had gone hot, but also because it went against everything Third Echelon stood for: invisibility. Presenting himself to what would likely turn out to be a CIA case officer at a CIA safe house left a big footprint indeed. Though his contact was unlikely to know anything about him and would be ordered to forget his face, that did little to comfort him.
Twenty minutes after he touched down on the beach and stuffed his parafoil in a crevice in the rocks, a red two-door Peugeot pulled off the road and coasted to a stop on the dirt shoulder. The driver got out and knelt beside his front tire. Fisher saw a flashlight wink against the hub-cap: one short, two long, three short.
He rose from the underbrush and walked over. Though he’d stripped off his exterior gear and stuffed it into his pack, he was still wearing his tac-suit. Even so, the man gave him the barest of glances, then said, “Are you Willard?”
Fisher shook his head. “My name is Bartle,” he replied, completing the recognition code.
The man opened the back door and said, “Best if you lay down on the floor.”
Fisher got in and did as instructed.
“It’s okay to get up,” the driver said. “We’re clear.”
Fisher sat up and climbed out of the car to find himself, predictably, in a nondescript two-car garage. He followed the man into the house, which was lit by several floor lamps and decorated in Spanish-villa style. They were standing in the kitchen.
“I’m going to make some coffee,” the man said. “Conference room’s down the hall, first door on the right. Your call’s cued up; just press the green button. The room’s a tank.”
All U.S. embassies and consulates and some CIA safe houses were equipped with a “tank”—a windowless, sound-tight room impervious to listening devices.
Fisher followed the man’s directions to the room. It was small, ten feet by ten feet, and empty save for a desk table arrayed before a thirty-two-inch flat-screen television monitor. Recessed ceiling lights cast pools on the carpet. He sat down and pressed the green button. The monitor went first to static, then black again as a series of word scrolled across the screen:
SEEKING SIGNAL… SIGNAL ENGAGED… ENCRYPTION ENGAGED… SYSTEM CHECK… READY…
Lambert appeared on the screen. He was standing in what Fisher immediately recognized as the White House Situation Room. In the background he could see a few people milling around the gleaming oak conference table, including the Secretary of Defense, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the head of Homeland Security, the director of the FBI, and the NID or National Intelligence Director.
“Morning, Sam,” Lambert said.
“I’ve had better, Colonel. Tell me why I’m still in Dubai.”
“Apologies. A lot has happened since you left.”
“So it seems.”
“You’re the tip of the spear, Sam. I asked that you be allowed to listen in; you need to know what’s happening, and what’s coming. You’ll be able to see them, but they won’t be able to see you. Listen, but don’t speak.”
“I’m a ghost.”
“Tell me about the Burj al Arab.”
“Things got dicey. We’re not compromised, but Greenhorn’s dead — by his own bodyguards.”
“Accident?”
“No chance. They were too good for that. They knew what they were doing.”
“The question is, what did he know that was so important and who gave the order?”
“There’s got to more here than what we’re seeing. Maybe this’ll give us a clue.” Fisher held up the USB drive Greenhorn had given him. “His insurance policy.”
“Good. Get that to Grim.”
On the monitor, Fisher saw the President’s Chief of Staff walk into the room and take a seat at the head of the conference table. Lambert said, “Stick around afterward. Grim has a new mission briefing for you.” Lambert disappeared from view, then came back into frame as he took his seat.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” said the Chief of Staff, “let’s take our seats. I’ll be updating the President following this, so let’s get started. “First, General, I understand you have updated figures from Slipstone.”
The Chairman of the JCS nodded. “Yes, sir. As of three hours ago, the total confirmed dead roughly three
