Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

His companies could go where the US military and the CIA could not due to the hypersensitivity of the political disease the Americans now referred to as “boots on the ground.” For this reason, Ying was privy to information his own government could not get. Cheng wondered how long it might be before Ying ended up the wealthiest man in the world. If and when it happened, and it may already have, Cheng knew that Ying’s name would never appear in Forbes .

By profession he was not a soldier, but a geological engineer trained in locating oil domes and substrata petroleum resources. It was this fact that made Cheng particularly nervous when, during their last meeting, Ying’s conversation drifted into the subject of the Spratly Islands. For Cheng this was like an iron ship striking a magnetic mine.

The Spratlys were a chain of largely uninhabited atolls in the South China Sea. They were known to be rich in oil, natural gas, and valuable fishing rights. Half the nations of Asia were now claiming them. But China, being the biggest bully on the block, was at the head of the line. Beijing was busy drumming up international support for the geologic fable of an ancient subsea land bridge connecting the islands with the Chinese mainland a thousand miles away.

This was the diplomatic Chinese fan spread open to cover the cudgel in its other hand, the largest standing army in the world and a growing navy. Beijing wanted the islands. Nothing was going to stand in their way. Cheng’s job was to do everything in his power to get them. Failure was not an option.

“The matter we talked about the last time we met,” said Cheng. “Do you remember?”

“You mean the question of territorial rights?”

Cheng nodded.

Ying’s eyes gleamed. Plant the seed, tend it, and it sprouts, he thought. “I remember.” China was desperate for allies, anyone who might bless their claim that the South China Sea was a Beijing swimming pool. What Ying wanted were oil and gas concessions, investments in exploration rights. He didn’t care who got the islands, as long as his company was hip-deep in concessions when the fight was over.

“Then you know what I’m talking about,” said Cheng. “Are you familiar with the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea?”

“I think I’ve heard of it,” said Ying.

“There is a vote being scheduled on a resolution in the Security Council.”

“Yes, as I recall, it’s about four weeks out. Doesn’t give you much time. I take it you want to influence the outcome?”

“Of course. China would like to convince the US administration not to exercise its veto. If certain domestic political pressure could be brought to bear on the president. What we would like. . what Beijing wants. .”

“You want the United States to disengage on the question of the islands. To put a leash on its navy in the South China Sea so that China might be the only big player,” said Ying.

“I could not have said it better myself,” said Cheng. “It is, after all, a matter outside their sphere. It does not concern them. What we seek is simple and fair.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” said Ying. “There may be a few US admirals and a general or two.”

“All we want are quiet bilateral negotiations with our Asian neighbors. We want to avoid a multilateral circus in the UN with bright lights and Western news agencies hanging from the chandeliers.”

“I understand. You want to go one-on-one. Get your neighbors behind closed doors where you can cow them into a corner and fence off the Spratlys behind a Chinese wall. You don’t have to dress it up for me.”

“No, that’s not. .”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ying. “Imperialism pays. It’s a proven fact. Whether the boot doing the kicking is on a British, American, or Chinese foot, it makes no difference to me.”

Cheng started to get up. To an avowed Communist schooled in the system, these were fighting words.

As the general rose to the bait, eyes blazing from across the table, Ying smiled at him and winked. “I’m sorry. It was a bad joke. In extremely poor taste,” he said. “I apologize. I hope you will forgive me. My sense of humor sometimes gets the better of me. ”

Cheng caught himself. He smiled nervously as he glanced over at his security man, who had come off the stool and was moving toward them. Cheng raised his hand and motioned the man away. He was still angry, uncertain as to whether the American wasn’t still playing with his head. He settled slowly back down into his seat. “Are you willing to help us or not?”

“That would depend on how much you are willing to pay, and in what form?”

Their drinks arrived just in time to chill Cheng’s anger. Ying hung his silver-handled walking stick, the sharp metal beak of the bird’s head catching on the wood at the edge of the table. The imagery was not lost on Cheng: the fact that the alias Ying in Mandarin, translated into English, matched the code name often used to identify the American by Western intelligence agencies-the code name “Eagle.”

Harry and I checked into the Hotel des Alpes in Lucerne. It is situated on the old quay near the north end of the medieval wooden-covered walking bridge, the Kapellbrücke, Chapel Bridge. Here Lake Lucerne closes to a narrow waterway and empties into the Reuss River.

We waste no time unpacking our bags. Instead we head out while it is still light, trying to track down Simon Korff, the banker questioned by Tory Graves and whose business card Graves dropped on me before he was killed.

Harry located four addresses online for the name Korff in and around Lucerne. Three are in town. The fourth appears to be some distance outside the city on the other side of the lake. None of them show the first name of Simon or the letter S. Harry is worried that his search may have been incomplete because of the limitations on the computer search engine he used.

This proves to be the case when we check the local phone book in the room. We find two more listings for Korff but again no match on the first name.

I start dialing using a Swiss SIM card in my unlocked cell phone. Harry and I purchased four of these at a shop at the airport in Zurich when we landed. We’ll use them and toss them as we move.

The first two calls are dead ends. Both are answered in German, which quickly changes to English the minute they realize I don’t speak German. No one at either address has heard of or knows a Simon Korff.

The third call, I hit pay dirt. A woman answers. When I mention the name she says, “Ya. Simon Korff is my father-in-law.”

“Is he there by any chance?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“My name is Madriani. I’m an American lawyer. I represent some banking interests in the United States. We have been informed that Mr. Korff is knowledgeable and experienced in Swiss banking. We are looking to hire.”

Harry gives me a pained expression.

I shrug. It’s the best I can do on short notice.

“Just a moment.” I can hear her talking in German to someone at the other end.

A few seconds later a man comes on the line. “Hello!”

“Hello, sir. Are you Simon Korff?”

“I am.”

“The Simon Korff who worked for Gruber Bank here in Lucerne?”

“Ya. That is correct.”

“We would very much like to talk to you,” I tell him.

“What does this regard?”

“I would much prefer to discuss that in person if you have the time to meet with us.”

“Of course. When would you like to do this?”

“Tonight, if that’s possible.”

“I could do that. Where are you?”

I give him the name of our hotel.

“I know the place. I could meet you there,” he says.