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  And hung up.

  Herbert tried to call Hood, but he did not answer his cell phone. Ticked off quickly became pissed off as frustration and consternation grew. Darrell McCaskey called, and Herbert told him what he knew. Liz Gordon suggested that they track him down using the GPS and intercept him somewhere.

  “If he’s been dismissed, we don’t know what he might do,” the staff psychologist said.

  “I don’t think Paul is the kind of guy who would off himself,” Herbert said.

  “Actually, those are exactly the people you have to worry about, the über-steady souls who guide you through a crisis, then don’t have a place to put their key,” Gordon countered. “Like soldiers who come back from war. The job is finished, the purpose is removed from life, it’s time to check out. Though that’s not what concerns me about Paul.”

  “What does?” Herbert asked. The intelligence chief was half-convinced that this was displacement, that Liz Gordon was upset and disoriented and looking for a place to put her key.

  “He might turn his anger outward, at the thing he perceived has hurt him,” Gordon said.

  “The president?”

  “Op-Center,” she replied. “He could go to the press and complain, visit an old friend and divulge secrets without thinking, just get himself into a lot of trouble.”

  “I think Paul is a little steadier than that,” Herbert replied.

  “Do you.” It was a statement, not a question. “Remember what a chance meeting with an old girlfriend did to him?”

  “Liz, that was the love of his life.”

  “And what is Op-Center? This place is his life.”

  Liz had a point there. Herbert still thought the soul of her concern was psychobabble, and he was not ready to hunt Paul Hood down and put a tail on him. Still, Herbert agreed that they should revisit this question after the staff meeting. Hopefully, by that time, General Carrie would have more information about her predecessor or Hood himself would have gotten in touch by then.

  Hood had to know they would be concerned.

  The emotionally impervious Matt Stoll called to ask if the rumors of a new director were true and how Herbert thought this would impact his own staff and operations. Herbert said he did not know, but he was perversely relieved that someone, at least, was concerned about Op-Center and not about its people. It reminded him that, like it or not, they had a job to perform, a nation to serve.

  And then it was two minutes to ten o’clock. Time to get intelligence.

  Assuming, of course, that any of them still had jobs.

  EIGHT

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 10:40 A.M.

  At first blush the Tank struck General Carrie as a relatively spartan and unwelcoming chamber. The wood paneling was dark, the drop-down fluorescent lights were cold, and the rectangular table that dominated the room was heavy and plain.

  The Tank got its name from the protection it afforded all electronic activity that was conducted within its walls. The room was completely surrounded by a barrier of electromagnetic waves that generated static to anyone trying to listen in with bugs or external dishes. The phone and computer lines were similarly protected. It was the only section of Op-Center that had survived the EMP blast, and it served as the field headquarters for its reconstruction.

  General Carrie had selected this room for the meeting because it was impersonal. Though the director’s office was large enough to accommodate everyone, there were photographs of Paul Hood’s children on his desk and pictures of Hood and various individuals on the wall. That would have been a distraction. She was having Benet box those and messenger them to Hood.

  Anyway, she told herself, people make a room. If these people were as sharp and stimulating as their dossiers suggested, the austerity of the place would not matter. She set her folder and notepad on the table. Although there were computers in the highly secure conference room, she would not be needing one.

  The general had arrived precisely on time and nodded once at the guarded, unfamiliar faces. She had chaired hearings and run briefings countless times. Frequently, there was a percentage of officers or politicians in attendance who felt uneasy or amused to have a woman in charge, the sense that what she had to do or say was somehow less important than if she had been a man. And a white man at that. Carrie had no doubt that African-American and Latino officers experienced unspoken reserve similar to what she had always felt.

  All General Carrie saw right now was concern in the faces of the five men and one other woman sitting around the oblong table. Some of that was probably about their own futures, and some of it was certainly worry about Paul Hood.

  The general recognized the key tactical department heads from their photographs. Technical Director Matt Stoll was to her left, Op-Center attorney Lowell Coffey III was beside him, and Darrell McCaskey was next to him. Bob Herbert sat at the foot of the table with Deputy Director Ron Plummer to his left and Liz Gordon beside him.

  There was a pitcher of water beside her computer. The general poured some into a glass. She asked anyone else if they wanted any. Only a few people answered to say no thank you. As usual, Carrie did not sit. She preferred to stand, not because it made her taller than everyone else but because it allowed her voice to carry. She did not have a classic baritone bark, as they called it at the Army General Staff. She put her hands together in the small of her back and looked out at the room.

  “I am General Morgan Carrie,” she said to the group. “At the request of the president I assumed the directorship of Op-Center commencing at eight-thirty this morning. Unfortunately, I have no information regarding the disposition of former-director Hood. Perhaps one of you has spoken with him?”

  Most eyes looked down. A few heads shook slowly.

  “I will be pleased to share whatever information I am provided about Mr. Hood,” Carrie said.

  “We had our differences, General, but he is our friend,” Bob Herbert said.

  Carrie looked at him. “I am happy to hear that, Mr. Herbert. It gives me something to shoot for.”

  “That isn’t why I mentioned it,” Herbert replied. “When General Mike Rodgers was dismissed six months ago, Paul Hood was up front about it. He was unhappy. He was apologetic. And he was sensitive to the fact that none of us was going to like it. This team has never relied on information that was ‘provided’ to us. We dig it up. I want to make sure we know what happened to Paul, why, and how.”

  “Or else?” General Carrie asked. There seemed to be a threat in Herbert’s tone. She did not like being challenged any more than she liked being patronized.

  “Think of it as the intelligence equivalent of leaving one of your troops behind in battle,” Herbert told her. “Leave unanswered questions lying around, and you will have a command, but you won’t have trust or respect.”

  “That would be my problem,” she replied sharply. “Your responsibility will be to do your job, not mine.”

  “My job description includes advising the director,” Herbert said, unfazed. “I believe I have just done that, General Carrie.”

  Carrie unfolded her hands and leaned on the table. The annual evaluation Hood had written of Bob Herbert included a notation that the intelligence chief tended to challenge everyone. Hood saw it as an “often productive if frequently exasperating exercise.” Hood had not understated the case.

  “Do you have any other advice for me, Mr. Herbert?” she asked.

  “None at present, General.”

  “Good. Then I have some for you. There is a line between advice and criticism, and you just crossed it. Sometimes it’s a word or a phrase; sometimes it’s a tone. But cross it again in my presence, Mr. Herbert, and I will be able to tell this team exactly what happened to the former intelligence director of Op-Center.”

  The general took a moment to study their reactions. She felt like the new Medusa: they were six faces cut in stone. Even Herbert. The irony was that she did not disagree with what Herbert had said. In the military, information was passed do
wn through channels, not dug up. Op-Center was a civilian agency, more aggressive, more contraceptive than reactionary. She would have to get used to their way of doing things. But on her timetable, not his.

  “I will be meeting with you all individually as time and responsibilities permit, starting with Bob.” She looked at him. “Perhaps we can scroll things back and start fresh.”

  Herbert’s cheek twitched, and he dipped his forehead quickly as though he were a base coach giving signals. She took that for a “Go.” Lowell Coffey and Liz Gordon both smiled slightly. The general’s attempt to reach out to Herbert apparently had scored points with them. Either that or they knew she was wasting her time.

  She would find out soon enough.

  “In the meantime, I need your help,” General Carrie went on. She made that sound as conciliatory as possible without sounding weak. She opened her folder and looked at a printout. “There was an alert on my computer from Hot Button Operations upstairs. They looked into a pair of explosions that occurred this morning, one in Charleston, South Carolina, at five A.M. and the other in Durban, South Africa, at around five P.M. local time. The HoBOs suggest the attacks may have something in common. According to the Charleston Police Department, the ship that was blown up in their harbor was carrying illegal Chinese workers. The attack overseas three hours later destroyed sugarcane silos owned by a Chinese firm. The HoBOs suggest the second explosion was too swift to be retaliation, but both may be first shots in a broad war of some kind.” She looked across the table. “Suggestions?”

  “We had evidence that the Chinese were becoming increasingly involved in African affairs nearly a year ago,” Ron Plummer said. “They were involved in diamond operations in Botswana.”

  “That was part of the attack on the Catholic church there?” Carrie asked.

  “Yes. We believed at the time that some faction of the Chinese government would have benefited from destabilization in the region,” Plummer said.

  “We filed a formal white paper through our embassy in Beijing,” Coffey told her. “Our ambassador received a response from the director of the International Security Committee of the National People’s Congress. She strongly denied that Beijing was engaged in official activities on the African continent outside their embassies, and also disavowed any private misdeeds that might be going on.”

  “I should point out that the Chinese are usually pretty forthright about their involvements abroad,” Plummer added. “When they feel possessive about something, such as the oil deposits in the Spratly Islands, they go after them openly.”

  “Which doesn’t mean much in this case,” Coffey said. “The letter from the DISC didn’t preclude the involvement of private individuals inside and outside the government.”

  “You’re talking about a black economy,” the general said.

  “Not just that,” Plummer replied. “Many wealthy Chinese invest overseas because constraints on ownership of businesses and property are much less restrictive than in the PRC.”

  “But the illegal workers would have been what you suggest, General, a black market,” Darrell McCaskey said. “They get smuggled in for an average price of two hundred grand each. They stay indentured, working as prostitutes or cheap labor, until that sum is repaid. Since half the money they earn is sent to relatives in China, they are effectively enslaved for life. The FBI has been playing catch-up with these undocumented Chinese workers for decades. The Bureau has actually been losing ground since resources have been shifted to Homeland Security and the tracking of illegals from Malaysia, the Philippines, and the Middle East.”

  “Maybe we need to change the way the search is carried out,” the general said.

  “What are your thoughts?” Herbert asked.

  The intelligence chief sounded challenging rather than beaten. Carrie wondered if Bob Herbert knew the meaning of the word defeat. Or humility.

  “HoBOs says that Chinese-Americans represent four percent of the national population,” Carrie said. “Most of those people are concentrated in cities like New York, San Francisco, and Philadelphia. Those are not areas in which we want to see a potential conflict spread. I suggest we have a look to see if there’s a war brewing. Who takes point on that?”

  “That depends where we want to run the operations,” Herbert said. “Two of our stringers, Dave Battat and Aideen Marley, are familiar with Africa. One of our local people can shoot down to Charleston.”

  “That’s catch-up,” she said. “I want to get ahead of this. What kind of resources do we have in Beijing?”

  “A few stringers,” Herbert told her. “Our contact with the Chinese has been in proxy settings.”

  “Korea and Vietnam redux,” Plummer said.

  “Well, we know how those turned out,” Carrie said wistfully. “Maybe it’s time to change the dynamics.”

  “Excuse me, General, but did you see action in Vietnam?” Liz inquired.

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s the first time you looked away from the table,” she said. “Like you were looking back.”

  Carrie felt exposed but decided that was not necessarily a bad thing. It told the group a little about her past, something that might start to earn her the respect Herbert had spoken about. Liz Gordon was wearing a slightly satisfied look, one that suggested it was exactly why the psychologist had asked the question.

  The general leaned forward again. “Bob, maybe you can canvass the team and your resources, and we can have our sit-down over lunch in my office. We can go through whatever thoughts you have then and pin down a course of action.”

  Herbert nodded, this time more affirmatively.

  The general closed the folder, then took a sip of water. “If there’s nothing else, I want to thank you all for sharing your time and thoughts. I also want to assure you that we will never forget or slight the contributions of those who came before us — Paul Hood, Mike Rodgers, and especially the men and women who gave more than just their time and industry — Martha Mackall, Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Squires, and the heroes of Striker.”

  Darrell McCaskey pounded the table lightly with the side of his left fist, a gesture of tribute echoed by everyone else in the room.

  Including Bob Herbert.

  And for a moment, the Tank seemed almost like home to General Carrie.

  NINE

  Beijing, China Monday, 10:46 P.M.

  The twentieth-century Chinese Communist leader Liu Shao-ch’i once said that there could be no such thing as a perfect leader in China. The nation was too large, its population too diverse.

  “If there is such a leader,” the philosopher-politician posited in a collection of his writings, “he is only pretending, like a pig inserting scallions into its nose to look like an elephant.”

  Balding, stocky Prime Minister Le Kwan Po was not sure he agreed that China was ungovernable. But it was true that leading this nation of provinces with vastly different histories and needs required an individual of uncommon wisdom and resourcefulness. There is a tale told about the last dowager empress of China, Tz’u-hsi, whose reign was marked by the rise and fall of the turbulent Boxer Rebellion. The insurrection was named for the men at the center of the revolt, the secret society of the Righteous Harmonious Fists, which was founded in 1898 and fought to keep China from falling under the undue influence of foreigners. The empress approved of the modern conveniences brought by British, Russians, Japanese, and Americans, devices such as telegraphs and trains. But she disapproved of missionaries and foreign influence over Chinese affairs. It was a difficult balance to support them both.

  One morning, a Boxer was captured after murdering a British businessman on his way to the embassy. The Boxer beat him to death in his carriage, the businessman’s Chinese driver having run off at the sight of the attacker. One of Tz’u-hsi’s advisers wanted the Boxer beheaded. Another counselor warned that to do so would only encourage the Boxers to hit harder. The empress allowed the execution to take place, though not for the attack on th
e foreigner. In her decree she stated that the man’s actions had set one of her ministers against the other and disturbed the tranquillity of the morning. For that crime, and that only, he was to die.

  Le Kwan Po contemplated the complexities of gestures and appearances as his state car pulled away from the government building at No. 2, Chaoyangmen Nandajie, Chaoyang District, in Beijing. His own life was full of such careful maneuvers. For example, the prime minister had two cars. One was a Chinese-made Lingyang, the Antelope, and the other a more comfortable Volkswagen Polo manufactured at the German-run plant in Shanghai. He rode the Antelope in Beijing, the Polo in the less populated countryside.

  Always a balance for appearances, he thought. Please the nationalists while holding something out for potential foreign investors.

  Except for the driver, the prime minister was the only passenger in the chauffer-driven car. Typically, an aide and a secretary rode home with the sixty-six-year-old native of the remote Xizang Zizhiqu province near Nepal. But the prime minister felt like being alone tonight. He wanted to reflect on the disturbing events of the day.

  He looked out the window as the car drove past the lighted monuments and palaces surrounding Tian’anmen Square. It was a hot and rainy night. Large drops ran down the window. They smeared the lights of the city — fittingly, on a day when nothing was clear. The driver guided the small sedan through narrow side streets. At this hour, in this weather, the lanes were sparsely populated with the carts and bicycles that filled them during the day. The vehicle moved quickly toward Le Kwan Po’s nearby Beijing residence on the top floor of the exclusive Cheng Yuan Towers apartment complex. The prime minister had another official home, a weekend retreat in the Beijing suburbs at the foot of Shou’an Mountain near Xiangshan Park. During the week the prime minister preferred to remain in the city. That allowed him to work as late as possible. It also permitted him to stay synchronized with the pulse of Beijing.