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

“I have some really smart people working on that as well.” Ryan sat forward in his chair, leaning on folded hands. “How does it feel to be part of our little conspiracy?”

THREE WEEKS LATER

Monica Hendricks gave her replacement on the China desk a file on a Uyghur woman named Medina Tohti, including a set of meticulously hand-drawn plans for “some kind of submarine system.” Hendricks was on her way out, but suggested her replacement pass the file along to Odette Miller, the referent from the Counterintelligence Mission Center to the Central Asia desk. The issue for Miller had little to do with the plans themselves, and everything to do with the young Uyghur woman who had brought them forward. She was under CIA protection with her daughter for the time being, but Hendricks had a hunch there was a good chance she was a dangle for the Chinese, or possibly just attempting to make herself more valuable than she really was in order to gain asylum. Tohti had come out of China, but Miller handled Central Asia. Medina Tohti supposedly had family in Kazakhstan. Perhaps Miller could open a CI case and do some digging into the woman’s background. See what she could find before the Navy invested any more time or money into something that was probably a scheme to get asylum. The Uyghur woman talked a good game, but one never knew. Anyway, it was worth a second look.

Monica’s replacement locked the plans in a cabinet with the counterintelligence case file and left them there for Odette Miller to access. It took three days for Tim Meyer to hear about the information from Miller naturally, but only two hours for him to find a reason to sneak a camera into the restricted file room.

Back at the ELISE station in Crystal City, Monica Hendricks thanked her team. Mary Pat Foley was present as well. Apart from a close circle around the President, the people in this room were the only ones who knew of the ruse.

“He was responsible for Leigh Murphy’s murder,” Mateo said, almost in tears. “I understand why we have to do this, but I don’t like it.”

“SURVEYOR was responsible for more than one death,” Hendricks said. She didn’t even like to say his name. “It absolutely kills me to let him go.”

Foley stepped up to the table. “It’s a gut punch, I know,” she said. “But I can promise you, we’re not done here. The Bureau has their best surveillance teams up on SURVEYOR’s handler now. She’s very good at her job. Gretchen Pack hadn’t given them anything too damning yet. In fact, much of what she handed over could have been found on the Internet if you knew where to look. But once she started giving them anything, she was trapped and she knew it. The President and I believe—and I imagine all of you do as well—that it would be worthwhile to keep ELISE up and running for at least another month. Sadly, Admiral Li has to leave us to return to his day job, but Chief Hendricks has agreed to deprive the private sector of her presence for a little while longer while we watch the illegal, see if anyone else contacts her. You found two. We have to work under the assumption that there are more.”

65

Fu Bohai heard the chirp of the keycard outside his hotel room door when Talia arrived. She tried to open it, but it caught on the metal privacy bar.

“Dorogoy!” she called, breathless. “Why do you make me wait?”

He rolled off the bed to let her in, more excited to see her than he thought he would be. His head still hurt from the boat wreck, but not as badly as the humiliation of letting Medina Tohti escape. Unfortunately, the idiot police officers who responded to Lake Kanas had killed the Han traitor, Ma, before Fu could speak to him.

Admiral Zheng had been furious at first, but for reasons unknown to Fu, he’d been mollified of late. Even allowing Fu to take some leave and visit Moscow.

He opened the door a hair, peering through the crack before shutting it again to unlock the privacy bar.

The barbed Taser darts struck Fu in the groin and chest as soon as he opened the door. Paralyzed from the electric current running between them, he stiffened and fell backward, striking his head on the nightstand and knocking his hat to the floor.

Talia rushed past, kneeling by his side.

“I am sorry, my love,” she said. “He has a gun. He is Chinese, too, perhaps you owe him money.”

Fu did not recognize the man. He was young, very fit, and he’d traded the Taser for a small black pistol with a suppressor on the end. There was something about him that was different. The way he stood was …

The man motioned to Talia with the pistol. “Move away,” he said in English.

That was it, Fu thought. “You are American?”

“I am,” the man spat. “The young woman you drugged, tortured, and murdered in Albania was my friend.”

Talia recoiled at that.

The pistol never wavered. Fu found himself wondering if he would have been so steady under such circumstances.

“I see,” he said. “You are CIA … I suppose you want to know wh—”

“No, I’ve got all I need,” the man said, and then shot Fu Bohai twice in the face.

The sun and sand and beach in Fiji were everything Tim Meyer thought they would be.

The tide was out, giving him enough beach for an evening run. He usually had it to himself this time of the evening, but there was an old dude behind him now, running, not jogging. Way to go, old dude. His wife was probably getting a pedicure or something. That’s what the old ladies did when they came here. Got their nails done.

For a time, Meyer thought the Chinese would have him killed, and in truth, they might have, had he not given them the plans to their submarine drive. Even so, he continued to look over his shoulder.

Man, that guy behind him could run. He’d peter out soon. He had to. Meyer was getting tired and he was in shape …

The Chinese had kept their part of the bargain and got him the hell out of the country and set him up with a bank account containing just shy of two million bucks—something to do with the exchange rate, but it was close enough—and a small villa outside Savusavu.

It was rockier than he thought it would be, but he had the beach to run on at low tide, and a surprising number of the middle-aged women who came here on holiday from Australia and New Zealand were in the market for a fling with the mysterious American tech mogul who lived here year-round. He’d been on the island only two months, but they didn’t need to know that.

He could hear the old dude now, chuffing up behind him like a freight train, like he was trying to win a race or something. The guy was barefoot and his feet made swooshing noises in the sand in time with his breathing. His stride was amazingly light.

“Hey,” the guy called out. “On your left!”

Meyer chuckled to himself. This guy was going to pass him. He considered racing, but then thought it would be more fun to watch the old man stroke out farther up the beach. He moved a half step right into the moist sand.

He felt the sting in his hip at the same moment the guy ran past.

A wasp, maybe.

He stopped to check, suddenly feeling light-headed. He looked out at the ocean, then at the old man who’d gone by, trying to get his bearings.

The man slowed and turned around to trot back, looking winded, but not nearly as winded as he’d sounded earlier.

“You okay?” he said. “You don’t look so good.”

Meyer found it difficult to open his mouth, like his jaw was locked. He fell sideways, smashing into the sand, paralyzed.

The old fellow squatted down beside him.

Meyer wanted to asked him if they’d met, but no words would come out.

The old man gave a slow shake of his head. “Relax, Tim,” he said. “That was a shot of succinylcholine I gave you. Quite a bit, actually, because there was no way I was going to hit a vein on the run like that. It works a little slower in the muscle. Metabolizes quickly. Won’t be any trace of it by the time they get you on a slab. I’d explain it all to you, but there’s no need. I’m sure you already know why I’m here.”