Olen Steinhauer - An American spy

Yang Qing-Nian said, “I second that motion. Vote?”

All hands, of course, went up.

Ten seconds later, Wu Liang cleared his throat. “Thank you, Feng Yi.” He lifted his notes, finally coming to the point. “We’re here to discuss recent actions made by Comrade Colonel Xin Zhu of the Sixth Bureau of the Guojia Anquan Bu. Two actions, in particular: First, there was the April 15 memo from Xin Zhu to this committee stating that intelligence from his office would no longer be shared with the Ministry of Public Security. His reasoning, as outlined in the memo, was that the ministry is no longer secure enough to contain such highly sensitive intelligence.”

Yang Qing-Nian shook his head in disgust.

“The second item,” Wu Liang went on, “which is perhaps more problematic, concerns the repercussions of Xin Zhu’s ill-advised action, in March, against a small department of the American Central Intelligence Agency. Xin Zhu has already been reprimanded for his disastrous mistake, and the fact that he still holds his position in the Sixth Bureau is, I believe, a testament to his political prowess.”

“May I speak?” Zhu asked.

“Of course, we’re avoiding formality here.”

Zhu looked at his hands resting in his lap, then at Wu Liang. “My ill-advised actions in March have been well documented by this committee. You now speak of repercussions. I wasn’t aware that any of significance had occurred.”

“Yes,” said Wu Liang. “Yang Qing-Nian, I believe you have that information?”

Yang Qing-Nian straightened in his chair, glowing with pride; he certainly did have something. “Comrades,” he licked his lips, “the Ministry of Public Security has received intelligence that a former member of the Department of Tourism-the department Xin Zhu effectively destroyed-was on Chinese soil two weeks ago. She made contact with an American consular officer, now returned to the United States, who used an intermediary to find out about Xin Zhu’s home life. Information about his wife, Sung Hui.”

The bomb had been dropped, and Xin Zhu read destruction in their faces. Sun Bingjun rubbed his weary eyes. Feng Yi turned his entire body to face Yang Qing-Nian. Zhang Guo, looking more exhausted than ever, stared hard at Zhu. That look seemed to say, You’re on your own now.

Wu Liang, of course, kept his composure. He and Yang Qing-Nian had been fleshing out that narrative all weekend. Had they questioned Dongfan Beisan? Did they know that Zhu had already visited him at the Blim-Blam?

Yang Qing-Nian reached into his own leather briefcase and took out a file. “The documentation is here. Though her birth name is unknown, we have two different names for this American agent. Leticia Jones is an old work name we learned from the files Xin Zhu released before he decided to close his doors to us. The passport she traveled on was Sudanese, name of Rosa Mumu. In addition to looking into Xin Zhu’s life, she met once with Abdul Khalik-someone we all know as a leader of the East Turkestan Islamic Movement that wishes to turn Xinjiang Province into an Islamic cesspool, beheading all Chinese citizens who reject their God.”

This new information hit Zhu in the stomach, threatening to turn to lead the breakfast of wheat noodles and pork fat that Sung Hui had lovingly cooked for him. Behind him, there was a heavy silence from Shen An-ling. He worried the young man might have fainted, but it wouldn’t do to start looking around at this moment.

Old Sun Bingjun spoke first, and slowly. “Are you telling us, Yang Qing-Nian, that, because Xin Zhu killed some of their people, the United States is now going to support the Islamization of western China?” He pressed his palms together. “There’s something highly insane about that.”

Feng Yi, the perpetual moderator, said, “I see your point, Sun Bingjun, and it makes sense. However, this is not the United States government we’re talking about. It’s the Central Intelligence Agency, which has a history of mad behavior. Further, we’re probably not even talking about the entire agency, but a single small department that could conceivably be attempting to save face.”

“A department that was disbanded after Xin Zhu’s actions,” Sun Bingjun reminded him. “It doesn’t exist anymore. It receives no funding.”

Wu Liang spoke up: “The Department of Tourism, as documented by Xin Zhu, has a tradition of finding funds through any and all means when its Langley paymasters have withheld money. Only a couple of months ago, it robbed an art gallery in Zurich to fund its nefarious actions.” He paused. “A department exists when those inside of it agree that it exists. A department that knows how to fund itself can, arguably, live forever.”

Heads turned-not to Zhu, but to Zhang Guo, who was staring at his knees. It was generally agreed that, on issues of financing, Zhang Guo was the most qualified in the room. Though he didn’t look at them, he knew what the silence meant. He lifted his shaky teacup, saying, “Wu Liang is correct. One example is a man we all know, Yevgeny Primakov of the United Nations. He has not only been able to maintain a secret intelligence section within the UN without an official budget, but he was able to create and develop it outside the knowledge of the UN Secretariat and the general public. If a man can single-handedly do that, then a handful of people can certainly maintain a department that already existed.”

Zhu stared at Zhang Guo, but his friend kept his eyes averted from everyone.

Sun Bingjun cleared his throat. “So. This Department of Tourism has resurrected itself. As an opening salvo, it is exacting revenge on Xin Zhu and, by extension, the People’s Republic. That is the present theory?”

“You tell me, Comrade Lieutenant General,” said Yang Qing-Nian. “The facts are here. One of their agents pries into Xin Zhu’s personal life, then meets with one of the Republic’s great enemies. Then leaves.”

“To where?” asked Sun Bingjun.

“To Cairo. From there we lost her.”

Zhu watched Yang Qing-Nian’s features, trying to judge if this was truth. If it was, then he was ahead of them on at least one point. Sharing the information that Leticia Jones had gone to meet with the former head of Tourism, though, would do nothing to help his case.

Sun Bingjun drank his tea, musing over the facts in front of him. He was senior only in terms of age, and despite the glories of the past much of his actual power had been washed away, not only by his drinking but also by his early opposition to Hu Jintao’s presidency, which had led him to speak too publicly during the SARS crisis of 2003. Since then, all the old veteran’s public statements had been masterful balancing acts between saying much and saying nothing. Now, though, they were behind closed doors and, remarkably, he looked sober. Sun Bingjun exhaled. “In my experience of examining the actions and motives of the Central Intelligence Agency, its reasoning is never so simple. Revenge as an end in itself is simply not part of the Americans’ thinking process. They’re not Mossad, nor are they adolescents.”

Yang Qing-Nian, the closest to an adolescent in that room, said, “Revenge is not for the sake of revenge, Sun Bingjun, but for the sake of sending a message that they will not be treated as Xin Zhu has treated them. That is one motivation. The second is timing. With the Games nearly upon us, any disruption they can provoke-be it here in Beijing or in Xinjiang-will embarrass us on the world stage. Even if they fall short, the possibilities for success are too great for them to ignore.”

“Of course you see it that way, Yang Qing-Nian,” Sun Bingjun said in his bored voice, “because you still think in terms of revenge. But if a plan like this fails, it does not simply mean that the Americans won’t disrupt our Games. It means the exposure of their plans to the world, which would damage them more deeply than anything they could do to us. Remember what happened last year? The CIA was caught funding those feral agitators in the mountains who call themselves the Youth League-a touch of irony, using our youth organization’s name. The scandal and humiliation led to the fall of one CIA director and enormous cuts in its funding. They are unlikely to start supporting Islamic terrorism now-certainly not for revenge. The risks are too great. So, if the Americans really are taking such an incredible risk, then their reasoning goes much deeper than revenge, or sending a message. Not even a small, self-funded department would be so short-sighted.”