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

Foley ended the call.

Hendricks got a bottle of ibuprofen from the lap drawer of her desk and took four—grunt candy, the Marines called it.

She washed them down with a swig of stale coffee and leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling tiles.

“Could it really be this easy?”

“I’m not sure I’d call what we’ve been doing easy,” Li said.

“I expected it to take months.”

Li nodded. “We still have to catch him in the act of espionage. That could take months. Rask suddenly going incommunicado might spook him.”

“Yeah,” Hendricks said. In truth, she’d regretted going down that line of questioning as soon as she’d uttered the words. “I should have subpoenaed his phone records, checked his e-mails, found out who he spoke to around that time. We’re going to have to come up with some kind of plausible story. Even so, SURVEYOR is already paranoid. He’ll smell a—”

Hendricks’s phone rang. It was Mateo, the analyst assigned to ELISE. His voice quavered with excitement, like a kid who just made the varsity team.

“Where are you right now?”

“ELISE HQ.”

“Stay there,” Mateo said. “I’m ten minutes out and there is something you have to see.” Hendricks expected him to end the call, but he couldn’t contain himself. “It’s bank records, a shitload of bank records for an account opened under the name of a dead aunt. Twenty-seven deposits over the last two years, each for just under the ten-thousand-dollar reporting threshold. Only a quarter million, but it’s more than a GS-9 makes. The money hasn’t been touched, so we’re not going to see any lifestyle change.”

“Wait,” Hendricks said. “A GS-9?” FBI special agents and CIA case officers hit journeyman around GS-13.

“Yeah,” Mateo said, crestfallen. “That’s what she is, a GS-9. I thought you’d be more excited. We found her. Gretchen Pack has to be SURVEYOR.”

“Gretchen Pack? Isn’t she an analyst and briefer for the director’s office?”

Mateo, at the ELISE bullpen now, gave a you-bet-your-ass nod.

“Didn’t she just have a baby?”

“She did,” Mateo said. “And get this. I did a cross-check of the deposits with the time she was off on maternity leave. Nada. They stopped. Then, two weeks ago, after she came back to work, the payments started up again, like clockwork.”

Peter Li, who was working on the other lead, looked up from his desk. “What else? Just being devil’s advocate here. What do we have besides bank deposits?”

“Glad you asked,” Mateo said. “As you know, the PRC likes to use people with ties to the Motherland.”

“My grandparents were from China,” Li said. “I’ve been pitched a couple of times.”

“Right,” Mateo said. “Gretchen Pack’s husband is from China. His father came over from Fuzhou with a snakehead when he was a child. His name was Pak then. He changed his name to Pack because he thought it looked more American.”

Hendricks pulled up Pack’s personnel file on her computer. “I can’t believe we didn’t catch that.”

“The Agency?” Mateo said. “Oh, she disclosed it during the hiring process. It’s all on the SF-86 she filled out. We, meaning those of us working ELISE, didn’t snap to it. She was on Coleen Ragsdale’s creep list, though.”

Peter Li leaned back in his chair. “You know,” he said. “This is tragic if it pans out, but it also provides us with a sudden opportunity to make Tim Meyer feel like the pressure is off. If we identify Gretchen Pack as the mole, maybe he’ll relax.”

Mateo’s head snapped up. “Wait. What do you mean Tim Meyer?”

Hendricks ran down their theory.

“Holy shit,” Mateo said. “That means SURVEYOR isn’t a spy …”

Hendricks groaned, doing the math on when she could take more ibuprofen. “I know,” she said. “It’s a spy ring .”

53

Timur Samedi took his eyes off the road just long enough to watch the military helicopter thunder and thump overhead—and almost ran his truck into a herd of double-humped camels. He cursed, swerving wildly to miss the lumbering beasts, certainly dislodging his load in the back of the truck. The camels did not move—all large eyes and jutting teeth, they also stared skyward at the helicopter that followed the path of the highway, almost low enough to touch.

Helicopters were not uncommon up and down the Karakoram Highway where China touched not only Kyrgyzstan but Afghanistan, Tajikistan, and Pakistan in the space of a few hundred kilometers. There were many borders to patrol. Samedi knew nothing about helicopters. He’d never flown in any kind of aircraft, preferring to keep his feet on the ground. This one was dark green and large enough to carry perhaps a dozen troops.

Samedi heaved a sigh of relief when it flew down the highway toward Khunjerab Pass and Pakistan.

He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, flexing his hands to rid the joints of stress. The next checkpoint would not be until Tashkurgan, ninety kilometers ahead. He could relax until then.

The cold waters of Karakul Lake were on his right. Usually deep green or sparkling azure, the frigid waters had taken on the slate gray of the evening sky. Already at an elevation of over thirty-five hundred meters, the lake was dominated by three great mountain ranges, and several seven-thousand-meter peaks. Kongur Tagh and Muztagh Ata loomed across the water, their peaks vanishing into the clouds.

Some of the Kyrgyz women who lived in the nearby yurts sold hot tea and kebabs of grilled goat. Samedi often stopped. Not tonight. He had to reach Tashkurgan.

A colorful jingle truck—so called that because of all the bells and decorations Pakistani drivers liked to hang on them—rattled past going north while Samedi was still catching his breath from the near-miss with the camels.

A kilometer ahead, the helicopter banked sharply to the right, arcing over the lake to turn back to the north. It came in low, throwing spray off the water’s surface and scattering a flock of sheep that were grazing up from the shoreline between two white canvas yurts. Samedi slowed, stomach in his throat as the aircraft hovered directly in front of him, blocking the entire highway before settling onto pavement.

Samedi was not certain, but he believed the pods on the sides of the helicopter contained rockets—all pointed directly at his windshield.

Six men in black SWAT uniforms and helmets poured out of the side doors the instant the skids touched the ground. Each carried a rifle, ducking as they ran up the highway directly toward Samedi’s truck. Behind them, the rotor blades came to a halt and another man climbed out. Instead of a uniform, this one wore a business suit. A politician. The one in charge.

Samedi slowed his truck, unsure of what to do. Were they here for him? He groaned. Of course they were here for him. He was the only truck on the road—and they had not come for the camels.

Five of the men aimed their rifles at Samedi’s windshield while the fifth directed him to halt at the side of the road. He raised his hands above the steering wheel.

“Reach out the window!” the SWAT leader barked. “Open your door from the outside! Keep your hands visible at all times or we will open fire!”

Two of the riflemen kept their guns pointed at him, while the three others ran to the rear of the truck, boots thumping on the pavement. Samedi watched them in the mirrors as they took aim at the doors.

The SWAT leader barked again. “Get out now! Slowly!”

Samedi complied, hands raised.

The man in the suit stepped forward. The riflemen fanned out so they still had clear shots.

“I am Major Ren of the Corps,” he said, looking down his nose over dark-rimmed glasses. “And you are?”