Cameron, Marc - Tom Clancy's Shadow of the Dragon

“What we do know,” Foley said, “is that Beijing is pulling out all the stops to find Medina Tohti. Facial recognition, surveillance, interrogations of anyone who might be connected with her or the Wuming.”

Bob Burgess spoke next. “What about other family?”

“VICAR mentions a ten-year-old daughter,” Canfield said. “Hala. She’s supposed to be staying with Tohti’s sister in Kashgar—the girl’s aunt. I’m sure they’re up on the sister’s cell phone and any social media. They’re watching her, but so far, no sign of Medina.”

Ryan finished his second cup of coffee and gave a slow shake of his head, thinking this all through. “The MSS has a long reach.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President,” Canfield said. “I didn’t make myself clear. The MSS isn’t looking for Medina. The people hunting her appear to be military intelligence, specifically PLAN operatives. They’ve shut the MSS out of their investigation completely, apparently blaming them for the brouhaha with the Russians—and losing Professor Liu Wangshu in the first place.”

“Navy intelligence,” Ryan mused.

“That would be Vice Admiral Zheng’s shop,” Burgess said. “He’s a piece of work, that one. If half the stories about him are to be believed …”

“I believe more than half,” Ryan said, changing the subject. “I’d like you all to hold off on anything to do with Professor Liu or this Uyghur woman, Medina Tohti. Focus all your efforts instead on finding the mole. The last thing we need is another PARLOR MAID,” he said.

The FBI director blanched at the words. It hadn’t been many years since MSS agent Katrina Leung had agreed to be an asset for the FBI and then doubled back to spy for China. She also happened to be romantically involved with two of her FBI handlers while working for China. The incident still gave Bureau bosses indigestion. It didn’t go well with the coffee roiling in Ryan’s gut, either.

He patted the side table with the flat of his hand, mulling over the details of what he knew.

“SURVEYOR, eh? That’s an apt name for a spy in this Great Game we’re playing with China. I’m sure you’re all up on your Kipling.”

Mary Pat smiled. Most everyone in the room, except for Commander Forestall, squirmed in their seats.

“The boy, Kim,” Ryan said. “What was his job in the novel?”

The CIA director sighed with relief. He knew this. “A spy.”

“Right,” Ryan said, nodding slowly, like a teacher who was almost, but not quite, satisfied with the answer. “But his job had another name. A legend, if you will.” The leader of the free world showed mercy and answered his riddle almost as soon as he’d asked it. “He was trained as a ‘pundit’—a surveyor in the area north of British India to see what the Russians were up to. I wonder if the spymasters in Beijing see the connection to their code name?”

Foley scoffed. “We’re talking about the Chinese, Mr. President. They are masters at little details like that. They just believe we’re too ignorant to pick up on them.”

The FBI director stared down at his coffee. “Some of us are …”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Foley said, giving Ryan the side-eye. “The president reads Kim the way a preacher studies the Good Book. His version is probably cross-referenced and annotated.”

“I’m a good Catholic boy,” Ryan said, getting to his feet, prompting everyone else in the room to follow suit. “Don’t test me on my Bible, either. I do admit to having several copies of Kim . They make good gifts.” He nodded to van Damm. “I’d like frequent briefings on this, Arnie. Mary Pat, hang back a minute, please.”

The chief of staff ushered the group out through the secretaries’ suite. He’d rearrange Ryan’s schedule, delegating the meetings and appointments he could. Presidential schedules were fluid at the best of times, lifting and shifting to meet the needs of the day. Van Damm ran Ryan’s like a combination boxing coach, concerned physician, and overprotective father. Arnie van Damm was a pro, and Ryan yielded to his expertise almost as much as he pushed back—which was saying a great deal.

“I’m assuming you have the same gut feeling that I do, Jack,” Mary Pat said once they were alone. They’d been friends long enough that she felt comfortable calling him by his first name in the Oval if there was no one else around.

“If your gut is telling you that you’d like to know more about what connection the Uyghur woman has to the missing professor, then you’re absolutely right.” He motioned to the couch again. This was not a spur-of-the-moment discussion one had on the way out the door.

“Exactly,” Mary Pat said, returning to her customary seat. “And since the mole has some connection to the CIA’s China desk, the issues overlap. Giving the Agency point on this could put Adam Yao, VICAR’s handler, in danger, not to mention rendering any mission a failure before it even gets off the ground. Mr. President, I believe this would be a good time to utilize the services of our friends at The Campus.”

It wasn’t lost on Ryan that his friend had suddenly grown more formal. The Campus was an off-the-books quasi-government entity that performed contracted work under the guise of former Senator Gerry Hendley’s financial arbitrage firm across the river in Virginia. Ryan and Hendley had formed it, years before, for missions such as this, that required a deft touch, without the layers of bureaucracy attendant to even the best government agency. Ryan’s old friend John Clark ran the show under Hendley, serving as director of operations. An extremely capable man leading a talented team. Still, for the most part, they acted independently … a separation of powers, so to speak. Activating them personally was something Ryan never took lightly. Beyond that, sending in The Campus meant sending in his own son.

“It looks like we are indeed thinking the same thing,” Ryan said. “Chinese intelligence is hunting for this Uyghur woman. Perhaps we should look in that same direction. Do we have a starting point to give Clark?”

Foley leaned back, folded her arms, and crossed her ankles, staring up at the ceiling. “Didn’t this place feel larger when we used to have to venture over here from our little cubicles at Langley?”

Ryan waited. Mary Pat often took a beat or two to answer, while she thought things through.

“We know her ten-year-old daughter, Hala, is staying with Medina’s sister in Kashgar. We have a tentative address, a newly renovated area not far from the Jiefang street market.”

“Stands to reason that Medina Tohti will want to make contact with her daughter at some point,” Ryan said. “Clark’s started with less and gotten what he was after.”

“Adam Yao’s worked with The Campus before,” Foley said. “I trust him completely. He can help them with logistics getting into China.” She chuckled. “I’ve gotta say, this is the perfect job for Clark and his team—finding a woman who has likely aligned herself with a separatist group that is on our terrorist watch list and is actively being hunted by law enforcement. Then snatching this woman out from under the noses of not only the militant separatist, but Vice Admiral Zheng, the butcher’s intelligence operatives in the midst of one of the most heavily surveilled locations on the planet.”

“You’re right,” Ryan said. “Tailor-made for John Clark. Mind if I ask where they are?”

Mary Pat looked at her watch. “About now,” she said, “I’d imagine they’re in the air.”

8

Domingo “Ding” Chavez tapped his cell phone to answer the call. The interior of the thirty-year-old Russian Mi-17 helicopter squealed and chattered as if voicing strong objections to being in the air. The oil company had purchased this one from the Cambodians in the late nineties, after the Dry Season Offensive when they’d used it to go after the Khmer Rouge. Chavez consoled himself with the fact that while most Russian aircraft were lacking in finesse, they were generally cloddishly overbuilt—and could be fixed with a hammer and a screwdriver. A puddle of oil along the bulkhead said this bird was likely overdue for such an appointment. Chavez was partial to the Bell UH-1H. Though not exactly cheap, surplus birds could be had for a quarter of a million. Still, he understood that folks around the former Saigon might still have a little aversion to Hueys thumping the air over their heads.