Arctic menace, p.5
Arctic Menace, page 5
“The American is here.”
“Very well.” He took another sip of tea and studied the reflection of his bodyguard in the window. Tao Yixing was a compact, dangerous man, with a large gold tooth he would flash with a peculiar crooked grimace. A master of the Chinese martial art, Wuslu, he would follow any order, seemingly without conscious thought.
He also understood Yixing’s other job was to ensure he didn’t defect. While no risk existed, despite the fact that he suspected his mother and sister had been silenced, he found the lack of trust disturbing. But then he knew it best to take a pragmatic view of his superiors’ motives. Their constant vigilance was necessary to ensure his operations were not compromised and cause unnecessary embarrassment to General Zi and by extension to the Premier himself. He pushed the thought aside. His missions were progressing as planned despite the inquiries from that intrusive reporter who threatened to expose their clandestine roots. His lips tightened. Yes, I must do something about Mr. Lange.
He set his cup on the end table, removed his glasses, and strode through the kitchen toward the back door leading to the carriage house. Despite his reticence to expose his identity, the second member of his team, Lam Huifeng, had persuaded him that it was time to meet this American.
Behind him, almost unseen, he caught the shadow of his amah padding softly across the tiled kitchen floor on her way to remove the cup. He smiled at the sight of her hip-length hair braded in a traditional long queue swinging from side to side.
Esteemed Mother, as he called her, jealously guarded her position within the household as the overseer of its proper function and spirit. And despite his efforts to conceal them, she could read into his petulant moods, absorbing and cataloging them in her mind with measured serenity. She would have also assumed he’d removed his glasses and placed them in his shirt pocket, smiling at this small show of vanity on his part.
Lam Huifeng met him at the door of the carriage house. A specialist in the intricacies of covert international financial transactions and espionage, Huifeng belonged to the PLA General Staff’s 3rd Branch, 61195 Division. He also reported to the Ministry of State Security’s Enterprise Division. This Bureau held responsibility for the operation and management of the various front companies that were part of Lin-Wu’s intricate plan. Those responsibilities were all well-in-good, but Huifeng’s connection to the Enterprise Division required frequent trips to the embassy, a potential risk that could lead to unmasking his own identity. He addressed Huifeng.
“The American?”
“He is crude,” Huifeng answered. “Arrogant with a misplaced sense of importance.”
“Like many of his kind. We will soon know if he is to be of further use or must be eliminated. Do we have another asset to exploit?”
“Perhaps. We need to complete our validation.”
“While it is best to be prepared, there is yet no imperative to have the second.” He turned toward the door. “Shall we?”
He followed Huifeng into the carriage house, noting the lingering scent of cinnamon and sandalwood. Esteemed Mother had left a joss stick smoldering in her small apartment above the carriage house’s main room. He motioned for Huifeng to stand to one side.
The American set down the book he’d been leafing through and slowly turned with feigned insouciance to face Lin-Wu. The man’s eyes betrayed a hint of anxiety as did his clenched hands and the rigid lines around his mouth. Perhaps he’d been unnerved by the necessity of the blindfold and the use of the side entrance off the alley. Lin-Wu completed his assessment noting the man’s hair and dress. Vain, yet no sense of style. Character flaws he could exploit. He motioned for the American to sit, not offering his hand. “We have much to discuss, Mr.?”
“Ellen.”
“Presumably you have a first name.”
“Glen.”
“Of course.” He struggled to suppress a laugh. Glen Ellen? He’d lifted the name from the small wine country town in Sonoma County. What a fool. He knew the American’s real name, Jason Moore, as well as many details of his personal life. Moore was also a registered agent for the Federation of Mineral Development. All useful, but––
The American interrupted his thoughts. “And you, sir. What is your name?”
“‘Nobody’ is my name.” His American friends knew him, though as James Wai, a first-generation Chinese-American from San Francisco. The cover and his degree in engineering from Georgetown University, had served him well.
“I see.”
“You don’t, but it is of no matter.”
Moore stiffened. “I know more than you think, Mr. Tai.”
He didn’t respond to the taunt, keeping his face expressionless. “Perhaps you do, but if that is indeed the case, please enlighten me.”
“I’ve heard that certain documents submitted by Consolidated Seabed Resources to the Interior Department were flawed.”
“And where does the blame lay for such misfortune?”
“Wouldn’t that be for you to figure out?” Moore settled into a large red-leather upholstered chair, leaned back, and crossed his legs.
“I would think you would have reviewed them.”
“Not my job. Why would I? I don’t know anything about this Seabed company. I’ve been working the Olympic bid for you.”
“Don’t you? Then perhaps we need to consider what, exactly, are your responsibilities.”
Moore gave an indifferent shrug, adding a smug smile for effect. “The Federal Acquisition Regulations for such submissions are quite complex, but I am open to negotiations. Perhaps an offer of another one-hundred-thousand dollars would suffice to persuade me to assist with this Seabed company and another fifty-thousand for value added if I were to assist with both submissions. I believe you have the number of my Swiss account.”
He suppressed his growing irritation at Moore’s impudence. “Money, as men, Mr. Ellen, are always a problem.” He extracted a photo from his coat pocket and thrust it toward the American. “What do you know of this man?”
Moore’s mouth gaped open and closed several times mimicking a carp who’d just been yanked from the water by its lips. “How did––?”
“His name is Nick Parkos, his given name unlike yours, Mr. Ellen, or should I say, Mr. Moore?” He watched the Amercian’s eyes widen, then dart toward Yixing who’d entered the room. Yixing stopped, planting himself menacingly between Moore and any chance of escape.
“Do you think us fools? Perhaps so, but I assure you that would be a grave mistake. It would be a shame to see any harm come to you or to your father’s reputation at Amherst. I’m told that he is a tenured professor of history, a distinguished scholar with an impeccable reputation. But he too has his secrets, doesn’t he? As all men do.”
He paused. “Does your mother or the administration know of his ... shall we say, dalliance with several of his students ... or the parties? I understand there are shocking videos of young boys that––”
Moore lurched to his feet, his face contorted with rage. “You bast––”
Yixing’s right arm shot out, palm forward, elbow bent, his left leg positioned in a reversed stance prepared to deliver a lethal blow to the American’s neck.
“Tìhng dài!” Lin-Wu held up his hand to stop his bodyguard. “I believe violence at this point would not serve any useful purpose.”
Moore stared at Yixing’s empty, coal-black eyes. “Ah ... I ...”
“Certainly” His lips tightened in a thin smile. “Now that we understand each other, perhaps we may continue. Yes?”
Moore nodded dumbly, fidgeting with his cheap cufflinks.
“What if I were to say that Mr. Parkos is an analyst at the National Intelligence Center specializing in Transnational Organized Crime?”
Moore straightened and responded with a degree of renewed confidence. “He could cause complications.”
“Indeed.” His eyes narrowed. “There are always complications to consider, Mr. Moore, such as Parkos’ meeting with a certain Geoffrey Lange two weeks ago. A meeting I believe you were privy to.”
He studied Moore’s face. “Ah, yes. I see you do remember. So, what do you know of these two men and their investigation of the Novorossiysk Business Group and their dealings with Newtech Resource Development and Trident Metallurgics?”
Moore shook his head, his face a blank.
“And what of their inquiries about our Alaskan enterprise, Consolidated Seabed Resources?”
Moore’s jaw dropped. Ah, perhaps Moore is ignorant of these events. Or could he really be that clever and playing us both? That seemed improbable based on his assessment of the American. He proceeded on that assumption. “As I suspected. To spare you any further embarrassment, I will outline for you exactly what those complications are and what you will do.”
Chapter 5
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
FRIDAY 6 DECEMBER
President Randal Stuart dropped the red-jacketed intelligence report he’d just read onto the leather desk blotter. “What do I need to do?”
“With the Russians or Sylvester?” his Chief of Staff, Dan Lantis asked.
“Sylvester.”
“He’s become a liability.”
Stuart spun his high-backed chair around and gazed through the Oval Office’s nine-pane casement windows. A mixed swirl of snowflakes and mottled-brown leaves spun across the frozen lawn as he recalled a conversation two years earlier with Lantis.
Nothing really had changed, except now it was the Russians instead of the Chinese who were testing him. His lack of confidence in the Secretary of the Interior, Sylvester Poad, remained.
He spoke to the window. “I’ll need options.”
“Yes, sir.”
A soft knock prompted Stuart to turn to the door leading from the executive secretary’s office. “Yes, MaryAllus?”
“Excuse me, Mr. President. Deputy Secretary Oakes would like a moment before the meeting.”
Lantis looked at his watch and offered an indifferent shrug.
He sighed. “Of course, please show her in.”
Oakes stepped through the door and made for the paired couches in the center of the room, her face set.
He recognized the expression, another harbinger, and placed his hands flat on the blotter. “Good to see you again, Katherine.”
“Thank you, sir. Richard sends his regrets. He’s under the weather.”
“What’s on your mind, Kathrine?”
“Sylvester.”
“Oh?” He glanced at Lantis, noting his Chief of Staff’s lips tighten.
“May I speak freely, sir?”
He withdrew his hands from the blotter and grasped the edge of the desk no longer happy to see her, regretting his decision. The last thing he needed right now were more complications. “Of course.”
Oakes paused, appearing to collect her thoughts. “We’ve known each other for a long time. I’m concerned.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Sylvester’s not handling the stress very well.”
He remained silent, waiting for her to elaborate.
Oakes glanced at her feet. “I’m just not sure how much longer he can hold out. I’ll try to support him today.”
She didn’t elaborate. He studied her face, not sure what to make of her statement, stood, and made his way around the massive oak desk ending the impromptu meeting. “Thank you, Katherine. I’ll see what I can do.”
He slowed his pace, allowing Oakes to leave the office first, then followed Lantis across the corridor to the Roosevelt Room.
An off-key chorus led by Sheldon Payne, the Secretary of Defense, greeted him as he passed through the door of the conference room. “Good afternoon, Mr. President.”
He glanced over Payne’s shoulder at the iconic portrait of Colonel Teddy Roosevelt. Clad in his Rough Riders uniform, T.R. stood vigil over the fireplace at the far end of the room. The iconic portrait depicted the former President mounted on a wild-eyed horse, upright in the saddle leading the charge up San Juan Hill. A man in control when the wild beast of war needed reigning in. A good man to have.
He took his seat and picked up a thick briefing book. “Formulating A New Arctic Strategy; Key Geostrategic Issues.” Five tabbed documents accounted for the weight of the packet. He picked one at random: “Implementation Plan for the National Strategy for the Arctic Region.”
He closed the cover and poured himself a glass of water, thankful nobody expected him to actually read the references. Truth be told, though, he’d read several of them the day before. He’d found the contents sobering.
“We’ve got our work cut out for us,” Payne said casting an eye at the briefing book. “Our current approach won’t work.”
Stuart nodded an acknowledgement. Leave it to Sheldon to cut through the BS. He had chosen him to lead the Department of Defense because of his reputation of designing and implementing major corporate mergers. Easing his way through the confirmation process and into the Pentagon bureaucracy was his six years of military service including a tour in Vietnam as an Army infantry platoon commander. Wounded in action, he’d been awarded the Silver Star. He was a proven entity, cool and tough under pressure. Like T.R.
He spotted an empty chair that should have been occupied by the Director of Homeland Security. “Where’s Chuck?”
“His office called, sir,’ Lantis answered. “He went home ill.”
“Homeland needs to be at the table.”
A voice cut in from behind his right shoulder. “You look like you just swallowed a raw oyster.”
All three men turned toward the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Robert Mahan Lawson. Stuart grimaced. Lawson knew he hated raw oysters.
Admiral Lawson was the latest in a long linage of Naval officers to serve his country and he enjoyed Stuart’s full confidence. They were both Naval aviators and Lawson had taught the newly commissioned Ensign Randall Stuart how to fly years before at Naval Air Station Pensacola. They also shared something else––the memory of a momentous night at the Flora-Bama Lounge in Perdido Key following the ceremony where he’d received his “’Wings of Gold.’”
He erased the sour look on his face. It had taken his stomach days to recover from the dozens of raw oysters and unknown quantities of Aviator Mad Beach craft beer he’d consumed. At the time, it seemed to have been a good idea.
“Sheldon served up a bit of unsavory news,” Stuart responded.
Lawson cast a skeptical eye at Payne. “Something happen I should know?”
“We need to rethink our strategy for the Arctic.” Payne said before addressing the man seated across the table. “Bryce, what do you think?”
Payne’s question seemed to startle the man which, in turn, earned a curious glance from Oakes.
Stuart gave an imperceptible shake of his head and studied his Director of National Intelligence searching for a hint of a response. No telling what he might say. Bryce Gilmore was the zealous guardian of the nation’s secrets and the grand inquisitor of its enemies. The job required constant vigilance, monitoring and analyzing other country’s motives and actions that impacted the United States.
Gilmore pushed his half-glasses down his prominent nose and peered over its tip at Payne as if sighting a rifle. He didn’t like surprises. “Think about whose strategy? State’s? DoD’s? Homeland’s?”
Stuart held up his hand before Payne could answer. There would be no sidebars that would further muddle the issue. His Arctic strategy was fragmented among multiple civilian agencies, let alone within the military. “Kathrine, why don’t you lead off.”
Oakes flipped open her briefing book. “Thank you, sir.”
He settled back in his chair, curious as to how the dynamics in the room would play out. There was no question the geopolitical landscape in the Arctic had changed dramatically over the first two years of his presidency. He also understood there were multiple reasons for this, not the least of which was global warming.
He tilted his head tuning out Oakes’ voice, more interested in what was not said, versus what was voiced by those sitting around him. Those voids would tell him more of what he needed to know, what he would need to address.
He shifted his attention to the end of the table to study the Secretary of the Interior, Sylvester Poad. Sloping shoulders, thinning hair, a small, petulant mouth, eyes undercut by dark circles framed within ‘seventies’ style wire-rim spectacles. Hardly vulpine. He focused on Poad’s eyes. Shiftless? No, the wrong word. They were alert, missing nothing.
But there was something else. Poad rarely smiled. Lantis had told him there may be good reason. There were rumors of marital difficulties, a domineering wife, financial problems. All red flags. He’d married into a wealthy family and hadn’t met their, or his wife’s, expectations despite being a cabinet officer. It seemed that whatever he did, it was never good enough.
He paused, cautioning himself about the gossip. He couldn’t allow himself to rely on hearsay or innuendo to justify the decision he would soon have to make. On another level, those same rumors also exposed his own ambivalence about his choice to lead the Department of the Interior.
“...global warming...”
Those two words, captured from the middle of a sentence, filtered through his morose thoughts, bringing him back to the brief. That, and a skeptical “Harrumph” coming from his left. Gilmore was shaking his head at the mention of the contentious issue. The DNI wasn’t a believer. At least not completely.
He flashed Gilmore a hard ‘cease and desist’ look.
Oakes continued, either unaware of the brief interplay or ignoring it. “Our collective strategies to address these geopolitical changes has not been adequate, particularly since they have been based on a stable, conflict-free Arctic. That said, we have made some inroads addressing the various threats to regional stability by leveraging what little advantage we have as chair of the seven-nation Arctic Council.”
He cocked his head at her statement and the change in her voice. Where was she going with this? The Council was Poad’s responsibility. Surely, she wasn’t going to undercut him after what she’d said in the Oval Office? He injected himself back into the conversation. “Sylvester, would you care to comment?”
