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  Driscoll thought it over and then said, “Under normal conditions, this would be way too thin to chance it. But I think we have to give it a shot.” He sighed. “What the hell, I’m in.”

  Hendley nodded appreciatively, then said, “Damn lot of unknowns on this, guys. I am not prepared to green-light you for any action, but I will let you three go over there and sniff around. You meet with the rebels, send me your best impressions of what is going on, and together we’ll decide if this is something that we can pursue.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Chavez, and he looked at the other two men on his side of the desk.

  “Works for me,” said Driscoll.

  Granger stood up, signifying the end of the meeting. “Okay. Head down to operations and order a full identification portfolio for all three of you. Tell ops to double-time the credentials but do their best work. No one down there goes home until you have what you need. I don’t care if they are here all night, you will get your credos. Catch any flak and have them give me a call.”

  Ding stood and shook Sam’s hand. “Thanks.”

  Hendley shook the men’s hands and said, “You guys just be careful. Pakistan in January was no cakewalk, I know, but the Chinese are several orders of magnitude more competent and dangerous.”

  “Roger that,” said Ding.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Mr. President?”

  Jack Ryan woke to see the night watch officer standing over his bed. He sat up quickly; he was, after all, getting used to this. He followed the Air Force officer out into the hall before Cathy woke.

  He joked softly as they walked: “I get more news overnight than during the day.”

  The NWO said, “The secretary of state wanted me to wake you. It’s all over television, sir. The Chinese are saying American pilots are flying covert missions in Taiwanese aircraft.”

  “Shit,” said Ryan. It was his idea, it was secret, and now it was on the news. “Okay, get the gang together. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  —

  How did they find out?” Ryan asked the table full of his best military and intelligence advisers.

  Mary Pat Foley said, “Taiwan is full of Chinese spies. Word leaked somehow. A Marine pilot was shot down and then rescued by a fishing trawler. That one event probably doubled the number of people who knew about the covert operation.”

  Jack knew the real world had a habit of intruding on his best schemes.

  He thought it over for a moment. “I’m reading the daily reports on our pilots’ activities. They are providing a real benefit to the ROC. Taiwan would have suffered tremendous losses to the Chinese if not for our operation.”

  Burgess agreed. “Taiwan is there for the taking. A couple dozen American pilots can’t change that. But if the PLAAF had racked up another twenty-five air-to-air kills, the morale in the ROC would have already hit rock bottom, and there would be a groundswell of Taiwanese ready to throw in the towel. I’m very glad we’ve got our well-trained jet jocks over there giving it back to the Chinese.”

  Bob continued, “We neither confirm nor deny the story. We just refuse to comment on China’s allegations. And we keep our guys over there.”

  Everyone agreed, though Adler looked worried.

  The Commander of the Pacific Fleet, Mark Jorgensen, had excused himself from the videoconference just as Ryan entered the room. Ryan had been around long enough to know that admirals did not usually tell the President they had something more important to deal with unless it was indeed more important.

  Now he was back on-screen. His voice was loud, almost angry, as he interrupted the secretary of defense, who had been speaking about the situation in Taiwan. “Mr. President, my apologies. The Chinese have fired more anti-ship cruise missiles against another Taiwanese ship. They struck the Tso Ying, a destroyer that was on patrol in the Taiwan Strait, with two Silkworm missiles. This boat was the USS Kidd before we sold it to the ROC some years back. The Tso Ying is currently disabled, burning and adrift. It has crossed the centerline of the strait and is heading toward Chinese territorial waters.”

  Burgess muttered, “God damn it.”

  Jorgensen continued, “Chairman Su has ordered the United States to stay out of the area. He just publicly threatened to launch an anti-ship ballistic missile, apparently the Dong Feng 21, against the USS Ronald Reagan or Nimitz carrier groups, if they move within the three-hundred-mile exclusion zone Su imposed last week.”

  There were gasps around the room.

  Ryan asked, “What is the range of the DF 21?”

  “Nine hundred miles.”

  “Jesus Christ! We could move the Reagan back to Tokyo Bay and they could still hit it.”

  “That is correct, sir. And it is a true carrier killer, sir. One DF 21 would sink a Nimitz-class carrier, and likely kill most everyone on board.”

  “How many of these weapons do the Chinese have?”

  Mary Pat Foley answered this one: “Our best guess is eighty to one hundred.”

  “Mobile launchers?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. Land-based wheeled mobile launchers, as well as submarines.”

  “Okay, what about our subs? We are operating undersea in the strait, yes?”

  Jorgensen said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Can we help with the Taiwanese destroyer?”

  Bob Burgess said, “You mean with the rescue?”

  “Yes.”

  Burgess looked to Jorgensen. The admiral said, “We can launch cruise missiles against the PLAN if they attack the wounded ship.”

  Ryan looked around the room. “That’s open naval warfare.” He drummed his fingers on the table.

  “All right. Scott, get Ambassador Li on the line right now. I want him to go to the Chinese foreign ministry this second and tell them that any further attack on the Tso Ying will be resisted by U.S. force.”

  Scott Adler stood and headed out of the conference room.

  Jack Ryan addressed the others: “We are on the verge of open war in the strait now. I want every U.S. asset in the East China Sea, the Yellow Sea, anywhere in the Western Pacific, on the absolute highest state of readiness. If one of our subs attacks a Chinese vessel, then we can expect all hell to break loose.”

  —

  Valentin Kovalenko climbed into the passenger seat of Darren Lipton’s Toyota Sienna at six in the morning. The Russian had instructions from Center. As always, he did not know the reason behind the message he was about to deliver, but he was placated in the fact that his Russian colleagues at the embassy had given him the go-ahead to do what he was told, so he did not question his directive.

  He said, “You are to make an appointment with your agent immediately.”

  Lipton responded with his usual anger. “She’s not a trained pet. She doesn’t come the moment I call. She will be at work, she won’t meet with me until after she gets off.”

  “Do it now. Have her come before work. Be persuasive. Tell her to take a taxi to this address, and you will meet her there. You’ll have to convince her it is crucial.”

  Lipton took the printed address and looked at it while he drove. “What’s there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lipton looked at Kovalenko for a moment, then put his eyes back on the road.

  “What do I tell her when she gets there?”

  “Nothing. You will not be waiting for her. Someone else will.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Packard?”

  Kovalenko did not respond. He had no idea who Packard was, but Lipton did not need to know this. “I don’t know if it will be Packard or someone else.”

  “What’s this all about, Ivan?”

  “Just get the woman to the location.”

  Lipton eyed Kovalenko f
or a moment while he drove. “You don’t know what’s going on, do you?”

  Kovalenko saw that Lipton could see right through him. He said, “I do not. I have my orders. You have yours.”

  Lipton smiled. “I get it, Ivan. I see it now. Center has something on you, same as me. You aren’t his man. You are his agent.”

  Kovalenko spoke in a tired voice: “We are all cogs in a system. A system we do not fully understand. But we understand our own mission, and that is what I need you to focus on.”

  Lipton pulled over to the side of the road. “Tell Center I want more money.”

  “Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

  “You’re Russian. He is obviously Russian. Even though you are his errand boy, just like me, he’s more likely to listen to you.”

  Kovalenko smiled wearily. “You know how it is. If an intelligence organization pays its agent a lot of money, then the agent won’t need money anymore, and he will be less incentivized to help.”

  Lipton shook his head. “You and I both know what my incentive is to work for Center. It’s not money. It’s blackmail. But I am damn well worth more money.”

  Kovalenko knew this was not true. He had read the man’s file. Yes, blackmail had been the short-term impetus to get him to begin spying. He had images on his computer that Center had found that could get him thrown in prison.

  But he now was very much in it for the money.

  The quantity and quality of his whores had gone through the roof in the year that he had been working for the mysterious employer who gave him simple instructions every week or two.

  His wife and kids had not seen a dime of the money he’d made; he’d opened a private account, and almost every penny of it had gone to Carmen and Barbie and Britney and the other girls who worked the hotels in Crystal City and Rosslyn.

  Kovalenko had no respect for the man, but he did not need to respect an agent to run him.

  He opened the door and got out. “Have your agent arrive at that location at nine a.m. I will talk to Center about your compensation in the meantime.”

  —

  The Chinese government’s State Security Law compels China’s citizens to comply and cooperate with all government security employees, mandating that hotels and other businesses give unrestricted access to all operations.

  This meant, in short, that most business-class hotels in China were bugged with audiovisual equipment that was piped to Ministry of State Security employees who monitored it for intelligence value.

  There were many commercial secrets the Chinese could learn just by flipping a switch and posting a translator with a notepad at a radio receiver.

  Chavez, Caruso, and Driscoll knew their Beijing hotel would be bugged, and they agreed on their game plan while still in the States. During their time in their suites they would stay in character, their cover-for-status would remain in place.

  As soon as they checked in after their interminably long commercial flight from the U.S., Ding turned the shower on its hottest setting and then stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He flipped on the TV and then began undressing, just a tired businessman, worn-out from a brutal flight, looking to grab a quick shower before crawling into bed. He walked around while he took off his shirt, stood in front of the TV, doing his best to act naturally, although in truth he was scanning carefully for cameras around the room. He checked the television set itself, and then the wall opposite his bed. He laid his shirt and undershirt on the desk next to his carry-on bag, and while doing this he peered carefully at the lampshade.

  Ding was familiar with at least two dozen of the most common miniature cameras and audio receivers; he knew what to look for, but so far he had found nothing.

  He noticed the overhead lights were recessed in the ceiling. To him this looked like a great place to secrete a camera. He stood directly under the lights, but he did not climb onto a bed or a chair to check for them.

  They were here, he was sure enough. If he went out of his way to look for them, the MSS goons watching him would notice, and this would ensure even more attention on his room.

  When he was undressed he stepped back into the bathroom. By now it was completely fogged, and it took a minute for the fog to clear enough for him to get a good look around. The first place he checked was the large bathroom mirror, and he found what he was looking for immediately: a foot-square portion where the glass had not fogged up.

  That, Ding knew, was because there was a recess on the other side of the glass where a camera was positioned. There was probably a Wi-Fi radio there, too, which sent the camera’s signal and the signal for the audio equipment hidden somewhere in the suite back to wherever it was the MSS guys were.

  Ding smiled inwardly. Standing there naked, he wanted to wave at the camera. He suspected ninety-nine percent of the businessmen and -women who stayed in this hotel and dozens more like it in Beijing had absolutely no idea they were on candid camera every time they took a shower.

  In two other suites on the same floor, Dominic Caruso and Sam Driscoll were doing their own hidden countersurveillance of their rooms. All three Americans came to the same easy conclusion: they would all have to be careful to do nothing, to say nothing, and to act in no way different from the average hotel guest, lest they compromise their operation.

  All three men had been in the field in hostile environments many times before. The Chinese were hard-core in their spying tactics, but all three men knew they could play their roles and do nothing to alert the bored men and women monitoring them that they were up to something here in Beijing.

  Ding had just settled in to bed to catch a few hours’ sleep when his satellite phone rang. It was encrypted, so he wasn’t worried about anyone listening in electronically, although there were no doubt microphones in the room.

  He turned on the TV, walked out to the balcony, and then closed the glass door behind him.

  “Bueno?”

  “Uh . . . Ding?”

  “Adam?” Chavez said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m glad you called. People are wondering what happened to you.”

  “Yeah. Just went off-grid for a while.”

  “I get it.”

  Yao said, “I’ve found where Center is operating from.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s in Guangzhou, about two hours north of Hong Kong. I don’t have an address, but I’ve narrowed it down. It’s near the TRB, the Technical Recon Bureau. He’s in mainland China, Ding. He was working for the Chicoms the entire time.”

  Chavez looked around nervously. It occurred to him that Beijing was a really bad place to take this phone call.

  “Yes. We put that together ourselves. You have to find a way to let your employer know.”

  “Look, Ding. I’m done sending cables back to Langley. They’ve got a leak, and that leak is getting back to the PRC. I tell Langley and it’s a good bet Center just moves again.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to work without a net.”

  Chavez said, “I like your style, Adam, but that’s not going to be good for your career.”

  “Getting killed isn’t good for my career, either.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  “I could use some help.”

  Chavez thought it over. There was no way he could spare either Driscoll or Caruso right now, and no way they could just take off without having the Chinese minders become very suspicious.

  “I’m in the middle of something I can’t leave right now, but I can get Ryan on the way to help you.” Chavez knew sending Jack into mainland China was questionable, at best. But he knew Tong was at the center of the entire conflict with China, an
d Guangzhou was close to the Hong Kong border, anyway, unlike Beijing.

  At least, Ding told himself, he wasn’t sending Jack to Beijing.

  “Ryan?” Yao said, no attempt to hide his disappointment.

  “What’s wrong with Jack?”

  “I’ve got too much to do to have to watch out for the Junior Pres.”

  “Jack’s an asset, Yao. Take my word for it.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  Yao sighed. “I’ll take him. At least he knows people who can make things happen. Have him go to HK, and I can meet him at the airport and get him over the border.”

  “Okay. Call me back in ninety minutes and I’ll put the two of you together.”

  SIXTY-THREE

  Jack Ryan, Jr., drove across the Francis Scott Key Bridge, his eyes fixed on a taxi in the traffic one hundred yards ahead.

  It was just after seven in the morning, and Jack had tailed the cab since it left Melanie’s Alexandria carriage-house apartment twenty minutes earlier.

  Today was the third day in a row he had shown up at her place before dawn, parking his car several blocks over from Princess Street and then finding a secluded spot in a tiny garden across the street. Each day he watched her windows with his binoculars as soon as there was enough light in the sky to do so, and he stayed there until she left for work, walking up the street to catch the Metro.

  Then, for the past two days anyhow, he’d checked her mailbox and her trash, but he’d not found anything of value. He’d left within minutes of her departure for work, and he’d spent the rest of the day trying to figure out how he was going to confront her about Center.

  Today his plan had been to break into her flat once she left; he knew he could pick her door lock with ease, but his plan had been derailed when a cab pulled up to her door at six-forty and she’d rushed out, already dressed for work.

  Jack hurried back to his car, and then caught up to the taxi on the Jefferson Davis Memorial Highway. He’d recognized early on that she wasn’t going to her job in McLean, but instead was heading into D.C.

  Now, as he followed her off the bridge and into Georgetown, he thought about the murder of all the CIA officers two weeks earlier, and it sickened him to think she might have somehow been involved.