Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

He walked into the lobby of the Intercontinental. Under his arm he carried a small leather folio.

One of the security men stepped out of the car and followed behind at a discreet distance.

The Intercontinental was one of the more expensive hotels in town. The Presidential Suite would run you almost fourteen thousand dollars a night. Ying, the man he was coming to meet, liked to live well. Cheng knew he was also careful. He wasn’t staying in the hotel. He was merely taking a room as cover for the meeting. He did this each time they met in Hong Kong.

Ying owned a luxury condominium high up on the island on the other side of the harbor. It was a very expensive address. Ying thought he had covered this well, but Cheng knew about it. Title to the estate was held in the name of a corporation registered in Andorra, a tiny principality and banking haven tucked in the Pyrenees Mountains between Spain and France. Hong Kong might be a Special Administrative Region, but it was not exempt from Chinese Intelligence.

Ying had a lot of houses. He could afford them. When you did business with other people in Cheng’s line of work you always wanted to know what they did with their money, how they spent it, what they bought, and if they made investments, how they hedged their funds. It told you a lot about their goals and ambitions, their tolerance for risk, character, and sometimes their weaknesses.

He checked his watch, ten thirty-five. He was five minutes late. Cheng went to the house phone, picked up the receiver, and when the operator answered, he gave the name Joseph Ying and asked her to ring his room. Cheng knew this was not the man’s real name. He used a number of aliases. Given his government connections he possessed bona fide passports in all of them. Ying was the name he used when doing business in Asia.

Three minutes later Cheng walked into the blue-tinted lounge with its angled walls of floor-to-ceiling glass looking out over the harbor. He walked over to one of the low cocktail tables, laid the leather folio down, and waited. A few seconds later one of his security men walked in and took a seat at the bar. The place was nearly empty. By noon it would be getting busy. Cheng hoped to be out of there by then.

He sat down at the table. Ying kept him waiting. Five minutes, then ten. Cheng looked at his watch. He wondered if Ying was sending him a message. Perhaps he had appeared too anxious. Finally, after fifteen minutes the American sporting a Chinese name came through the door. Cheng stood up, reached down, and furtively wiped the perspiration from his right palm onto the back of his slacks so that by the time Ying reached him he was ready to shake hands.

“Sorry I’m late. Right after we hung up I got an urgent call. I had to take it. I couldn’t get them off the phone.”

“Of course. No problem,” said Cheng. “I was just sitting here enjoying the view.”

Ying turned and looked out through the wall of glass at the sparkling waters of the harbor. “It is gorgeous, isn’t it? Every time I come I am amazed. It becomes more beautiful with each passing year.”

“Unlike us,” said Cheng. They both laughed.

Ying was taller, older that Cheng, and he wasn’t Asian. Round-eyed, gray hair, he was always well dressed, three-piece pinstriped power suit set off by a conservative club tie. He would have fit in well at the British colonial clubs of an earlier era.

“How was your flight?” asked Cheng.

“Fine.”

“Did you come in this morning?” Cheng tested him.

“Ah, no. I got in last night, about eleven,” Ying lied.

He had been in Hong Kong for three days, closed-door meetings at his house on the island. Cheng’s men had him under surveillance. They were also monitoring his calls. They were unable to get content because Ying’s cell phone used high-end encryption and the man was careful to keep conversations brief. But they could track the location of incoming calls.

“Perhaps we should get down to business,” said Cheng.

“Let’s do it.”

They sat and ordered drinks, Scotch and soda for Ying, a Virgin Mary for the general.

“One might think you were Catholic,” said Ying.

“Not unless the pope is Communist,” said Cheng. They laughed. Drinking on company time, especially when the business being transacted was critical, was not conducive to advancement in Chinese leadership circles.

“Saw your man at the bar.” Ying glanced at the security man sitting there by himself drinking a club soda. “I suppose you don’t go anywhere without them.”

“No,” said Cheng. Even if he wanted to. It was unwise for government officials to meet with Westerners unless they had at least one credible witness present. Cheng’s masters in Beijing, while increasingly modern, could still be gripped by pangs of paranoia. The security man might not be able to hear their conversation, but he could at least attest to the fact that the meeting took place in open view, plain sight, and was businesslike in its conduct.

“I have a number of questions,” said Cheng. “I trust we can have a frank discussion.”

“Of course.”

“I am interested in information as to your firm’s Western political assets?”

“By Western you mean. .”

“The United States,” said Cheng.

“What do you mean by assets? Do you mean consultation on political matters?”

“I thought we agreed to be frank?” said Cheng. “What I mean is, how many of these people do you actually possess? And at what level?”

The older man looked at him from across the table. “May I ask where you get your information?”

“You can ask,” said Cheng.

“If by ‘possess’ you mean own in a way that I can order their actions,” said Ying, “none. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Of course not.” Cheng smiled. “I understand it is much more complicated and subtle. I didn’t mean to imply anything improper.”

Saving face was just as important in America as it was in China.

“I can reason with a significant number of them,” said Ying. “Some of them in key positions. Others may follow their lead. Depending on the level of controversy. On a good day I can persuade a dozen, perhaps more, as to the wisdom of my suggestions on any given issue.”

Cheng looked at him and read the gleam in his eye for what it was, Irish bullshit. “Your calendar must be filled with good days. I say this because your persuasiveness is legendary. Surpassed perhaps only by your modesty?”

“What can I say?”

“Let me put it another way,” said Cheng. “Have you ever been refused?”

Ying smiled. “The secret, General, is never to allow yourself to be put in that situation.”

“I see. Your logic is too compelling, is that it?”

“What is it exactly that you have in mind?”

At one time Ying was reputed to have worked for US intelligence, though information was sketchy as to which agency. Nor was it clear whether he was directly employed or hired under contract. Either way, his work was not as a field agent. It was technical.

According to his Chinese dossier, Ying’s holdings were extensive. His businesses, and there were several of them, specialized in resource consultation, commercial intelligence, and international security. Over the years he had branched into other sidelines, some of which were obviously unmentionable. Ying appeared to have no loyalties except to his own pocketbook. He played both sides of the street, and every corner at the intersections. Along the way he sold intelligence services to clients and often used the information to buy up valuable resources, oil contracts as well as other commodities. Oil was his specialty. In the process he had acquired immense wealth, though no available published source seemed to know exactly how much. He was sufficiently shrewd to stay in the shadows, well below the political and media radar.