Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

In America, after more than a decade of desert warfare in Afghanistan and Iraq, the party out of power won election and took control. America reversed course and withdraw its forces. Chaos ensued.

The American faction now out of power claimed that the winner so hastily abandoned the field and withdrew that they were now the authors of anarchy in a growing number of places in the Middle East. America’s partisan divide went global. Its allies began to question US resolve. From everything Cheng could see, all of this played into China’s hands. American allies who already had doubts concerning US military and political resolve began to double up on them, including many of the Asian nations that were China’s neighbors, its competitors in the race for the Spratly Islands.

One of these was the Philippine Islands. It was to this that Cheng now turned his attention. He was troubled by a report he had just received, the cable still in his hand.

Cheng knew that Joe Ying possessed his own private jet. It was a modern Gulfstream G650, a plane costing almost sixty million US dollars. It had a range exceeding eight thousand miles. More than enough to fly nonstop from Hong Kong to the American West Coast.

And yet upon leaving Hong Kong, Ying’s Gulfstream didn’t fly to California. Chinese radar and overhead surveillance showed the plane diverting to the Philippines. Cheng wondered why.

He alerted the Chinese embassy in Manila, and two agents were dispatched to see what was happening. As it turned out, Ying wasn’t topping off the Gulfstream with fuel. Instead, a limousine picked him up at the airport and transported him to one of the five-star hotels in downtown Manila.

Ordinarily this might have been a matter of little or no consequence, except for the fact that two hours later another dark Town Car was seen chauffeuring Ying to Malacañang, the white gingerbread building on the Pasig River that served as the Presidential Palace.

This was no coincidence. The Philippines had become China’s most serious rival in the increasingly contentious and sometimes heated conflict to win the Spratly Islands.

There was never any doubt among Chinese leaders that the government in Washington coveted the Spratlys because of their rich treasures. US oil and gas interests salivated at the thought. America no doubt regretted the fact that it had not claimed the islands as part of its vast Pacific “protectorate” in the days immediately after the Second World War, when American power went unchallenged. But at that time no one knew their value.

Now the United States was hobbled by new realities: the government in Beijing was a rising power, the waters around the islands were becoming a Chinese lake, and Washington could make no colorable claim to the islands due to their location remote from any US territory or possession.

For this reason they needed a game piece. Chinese intelligence, Cheng’s bureau, now believed that the Philippine government in Manila had become just that-America’s pawn in the battle for the Spratlys. If the United States could muscle the islands into Philippine hands, they would no doubt receive their share of the treasures.

Ying knew that his own intended prize, a generous slice of the rich oil and gas concessions, required that he be on the winning side. If he backed the loser, he stood to gain nothing.

The stakes in this contest were sufficiently high that Cheng couldn’t afford to take a chance. What was Ying doing at Malacañang Palace? If the United States prevailed, and it was later determined that Ying played a hand, Cheng’s association with him would be more than enough to take the dragon down. He would end his days chopping wood in some mountainous frozen gulag, or worse, tied to a concrete post already pockmarked by bullets.

It was near midnight. Proffit was back in L.A., lying in bed wide awake, listening to his wife snore through the wall in the adjoining bedroom. Home two days and he was already missing his liaisons with Vicki Preebles. The supple secretary may have been manipulative, but she didn’t snore.

Yet that wasn’t the reason Proffit couldn’t sleep. He was wondering whether to tell his wife about the phone call he received earlier in the day. He was afraid if he did, she would rip his head off. More than that, he was petrified that whatever he was now caught up in might take the firm down, or himself. He knew it had to do with Serna, but how? Until he had the answer to that, he had no choice but to keep it to himself.

Proffit was in his L.A. office and had been on the phone with Cyril Fischer, his number two in D.C., when the call was interrupted by a breaking tone from the intercom.

“Just a sec.” Proffit pushed the button on the phone. “I left instructions not to be disturbed!”

“Sorry, but I thought you might want to take this one,” said his secretary.

“Who is it?”

“An assistant to Senator Maya Grimes, says his boss would like to talk to you.”

“She’s on the line?”

“Extension six.”

“Tell him I’ll be right with her.” Proffit punched the button to Fischer. “Gotta take another call. I’ll get back to you in a few minutes.” He hit extension six. “This is Cletus Proffit.”

“Just a moment for Senator Grimes.”

A few seconds later the familiar voice came on the line. “Mr. Proffit?”

“Hello, Senator. How are you?”

“I’m good. I hope I didn’t catch you at a busy time.”

“Not at all.”

He wondered what she wanted. If it was a campaign fund-raiser, his firm’s dance card was already punched full. Since Serna’s death he had a drawer full of these, all of them bundled and mailed from the Washington office to his personal attention in case there was something Serna had been up to that he should know about.

“To what do I owe the honor?” said Proffit.

“It’s not about money, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

She must have had a crystal ball. But then, these days why else would any politician be on the phone?

Proffit knew her, of course. Who in the state didn’t? They had met a few times, just in passing at crowded political and social events. But they were not intimates.

Proffit was a Democrat, a dyed-in-the-wool liberal who, when necessary, wore it on his sleeve. His specialty was entertainment law. He did enough work in and around Hollywood that his liberal credentials were as necessary to survival as breathing air.

Grimes had once been a Republican, a former state legislator, and was elected secretary of state for California. She had parlayed this into a successful bid for the US Senate almost twenty years ago. As the state turned increasingly blue, Grimes saw the fiery finger etch its warnings on the wall. She switched parties, but only halfway. She went Independent. That was twelve years ago.

This was about the same time that she and Serna had become tight, doing the women’s thing up on the Hill. At least according to the information that Proffit was able to dredge up. Grimes now caucused with the Democrats. Serna had taken bows for this. She claimed to be the instigator of Grimes’s conversion. Now there were growing rumors that the senator might actually become a Democrat before the next election. The world was full of opportunity for those who were sufficiently flexible.

Proffit wondered if that’s what the call was about. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually it involves an important matter of Senate business. I need help from someone who is knowledgeable and somewhat connected with the organized bar in our state. You come highly recommended.”

For a moment Proffit was flattered. “Of course, assuming it’s something I can do, I would be happy to help.”

“It is,” said Grimes. “You’re aware there are some vacancies on the federal courts in the state, for both the Southern District as well as the Ninth Circuit?”