Zheng says, “I have an asset at the State Department. The asset has made inquiries. It was not local police, or province or state police, or FBI action. It has something to do with President Barrett.”

  Surprised, Dejiang says, “It was done under his orders?”

  “With his knowledge, that’s all I can say. But my State Department asset did pass along a message, from someone he’s friends with at the White House.”

  Zheng takes a slip of paper from his side coat pocket. It’s white notepaper with the words THE WHITE HOUSE centered at the top. Before reading the typed note, Dejiang says, “Is this legitimate? Not a fake? Or a provocation?”

  His assistant looks troubled. “I don’t know for sure. But based on what we’ve seen from this president during the past months…”

  Dejiang knows exactly what Zheng is thinking. The president is what his friends and supporters call a lone wolf, operating the government like it was his personal fiefdom yet maintaining a positive popularity rating among the populace and actually getting some legislation passed among the nation’s squabbling factions. But he is maddeningly inconsistent, loudly making threats and making confidential messages of goodwill at the same time, rocketing from one position or crisis to another.

  For millennia the emperors and rulers of the Middle Kingdom have sought stability above everything else, through wars or trade deals or espionage, and this American president refuses to cooperate, or at least maintain a consistent and predictable position to Beijing’s advantage.

  He reads the note:

  Best regards from John T. Downey and Richard G. Fecteau.

  The typed note is unsigned.

  He drops it on his desk.

  “Who are these two men?” Dejiang asks.

  “They are CIA operatives.”

  “Where are they?”

  “One is retired, the other is deceased, of natural causes,” Zheng says.

  Dejiang asks, “What’s the significance of these men?”

  “They were prisoners of ours, from many years ago.”

  “How many years?”

  “They were both captured in 1952 when their aircraft was shot down in Manchuria, as part of a CIA mission.”

  “How long were they kept prisoner?”

  “For more than twenty years, and for the first few years of their captivity…our government didn’t acknowledge their existence,” Zheng answers.

  Dejiang pokes at the notepaper. “Highly irregular, don’t you think? Not a diplomatic note or demand. An…insult of sorts. Sending a message. But what kind of message?”

  “Perhaps the president is gaining revenge for onetime members of the CIA, which he used to head. We know he values loyalty above all.”

  Dejiang gazes again at the simple paper and simple typeface. Once again, this lone warrior, this solitary tribesman of a president, has done something entirely unexpected, something that will make Dejiang’s life more difficult in the days ahead.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Dejiang says. “Are we still seeking revenge for our half-million soldiers the Americans killed in Korea? No. We have moved on. But Barrett…”

  He thinks again, then looks to his assistant.

  “We need to come up with some sort of response, but a measured one. Something to gain the president’s attention so we can open some sort of dialogue to determine what he wants.”

  Zheng says, “I’ve been working on that, sir. We have an opportunity to get the president’s attention with an action in South Africa.”

  “Good,” Dejiang says. “A neutral location. Get to work on it immediately.”

  Zheng stands up. “At once, sir.”

  “But…”

  “Yes?”

  “Your American State Department asset. Quietly and discreetly ask him something from his White House friend, who’s been so helpful to us.”

  “Sir?”

  The worrying words seem strange coming from his mouth. “How does he gauge the status of Barrett’s mental health?”

  CHAPTER 34

  THERE’S A LIGHT rain falling this morning as Noa Himel sits in a black Toyota Camry, a cup of McDonald’s coffee in her hands, her back molar feeling better. Not a coffee snob—especially after tasting the swill pretending to be coffee from Afghanistan to Turkey—she likes the golden arches coffee for its consistency. A cup in Seattle tastes just like one in Falls Church, Virginia, where she and her crew are currently stationed.

  Wendy Liu is again in the driver’s seat and they are in the parking lot of a Wawa convenience store on Hillwood Avenue, just across the street from a set of two-story brick condominiums. It’s just past six a.m. and already, the road is filled with commuters on their way to and around DC.

  “Look at all those good little worker bees, heading off to their jobs,” Wendy says. “Inspiring, isn’t it?”

  Noa says, “Years ago I read one of those apocalyptic novels about a group trying to overthrow the government.”

  “Who was behind it? The military? The NRA? National Education Association?”

  Noa says, “FEMA. Among other discontents. Part of the plan was to hit the District of Columbia with stolen nukes from Russia, and one character, a radio talk-show host, said he would be happy never to hear the phrase ‘inside the Beltway,’ ever again.”

  “Some commuting days, I can agree with him. Time?”

  Noa checks her watch. “Six-oh-five. Per her schedule, Donna Otterson will be out of the shower and preparing her breakfast. Let’s go see what’s on the menu.”

  “Besides betraying one’s country?”

  “That comes after lunch.”

  There’s an empty parking spot for condo visitors that Wendy pulls into, and Noa joins her outside in the light rain. A Chevrolet Suburban with its engine idling is by a dark-green dumpster, holding the other three members of her crew. Their action this morning is going to be a soft one, since they’re going up against a thirty-year-old single woman, Donna Otterson, who is a finance resource officer within the CIA’s Directorate of Support, about as far away from fieldwork as one could get and still work for the CIA.

  Walking up the brick walkway Wendy says, “Think she’s going to put up a fuss?”

  “Doubtful,” Noa says. “But I’ve got our three amigos showing up about five minutes after entry, just to be sure.”

  Wendy says, “What possible kind of secrets can an FRO be passing on to Chinese intelligence?”

  Noa says, “Maybe the amount of our mileage reimbursement.”

  Wendy laughs.

  Noa gets to the front door, rings the bell several times, and then pounds on the door.

  It opens, revealing a slim blond woman with large, thick eyeglasses, frizzy hair damp from the shower, wearing gray sweats and a Washington Nationals T-shirt. She says, “I’m sorry, what’s this?”

  “Donna Otterson, my name is Noa Himel,” Noa says, displaying her identification. “This is my work partner, Wendy Liu. We’re from the Directorate of Operations. We’d like to come in, please.”

  Noa is expecting an argument, more questions, or some sort of protest, but Donna shrugs and opens the door wider. “I guess so. Just watch out for Bailey, he’s an escape artist.”

  Noa enters in the small entryway. A large black-and-white cat makes for the open door, but Wendy works quickly and the door is shut.

  “Cup of coffee?” Donna asks as they go into a small and orderly kitchen. “I can boil up some water, make a cup of tea if you’d like.”

  “No, thanks,” Noa replies, thinking how odd Donna is acting, how she seems resigned to her visit, like she had been expecting someone to come to her front door for some time now.

  Another shrug, and Donna says, “Well, I guess we can sit down in here. Bailey, behave!”

  Noa nearly stumbles as the cat nips her ankle, and they all go into a living room. It’s crowded but neat. Donna sits in a chair with a knit afghan covering it, and Noa and Wendy take the couch. The black-and-white cat jumps up between them, starts licking his paws. On the low table in front of them are neatly stacked copies of the Economist, the Wall Street Journal, and Washington Post. Bookshelves contain equal amounts of paperback and hardcover books, along with a handful of DVDs.

  Noa has a feeling that this young single woman sits alone on this couch with her cat, either reading or watching a foreign language film with subtitles, but she instantly tamps down her sympathy for her.

  “Donna, you’ve been a financial resource officer for the Directorate of Support for seven years,” Noa says. “Do you have anything to say for yourself before we proceed?”

  Another slight shrug. “You two are from the Directorate of Operations, right?” She smiles slightly. “That’s where my dad served. God, he loved the Agency so, and once I got hired and he could tell me some of his old operations…I really wanted to follow his trail—Operations was starting to open to women recruits back then—but this,” and she taps her eyeglasses for emphasis, “kept me out. Still, like my dad, I love the Agency.”

  She waits for a moment. “But why aren’t you from the Counterintelligence Mission Center? That’s their job for situations like this, not the Directorate of Operations.”

  “Because they seem to be dragging their feet. Putting your matter at the bottom of their list of priorities. We have other priorities.”

  Donna says, “That sounds odd. Don’t you agree?”

  Noa agrees but doesn’t want to say it aloud. It is strange, that she and her team would be here, chasing down a leaker who works for the Directorate of Support. But the president had personally given Noa the orders and background to snap Donna out of her job and take her away to be interrogated.

  Noa says, “Earlier you said you were proud of the Agency, and the work your dad did. Then why did you do what you did?”

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “Pass on classified material to unauthorized personnel on at least six occasions,” Noa says, feeling like this slight woman is playing a game with her. “I have the photographic evidence to show you if you care to deny it. You chalking a trail sign at Cherry Hill Park, and then placing an envelope underneath a nearby park bench. Ten minutes later, the package is retrieved by an individual we know is stationed at the Chinese embassy.”

  “You know that for sure, the person is from the Chinese embassy?”

  “We do.”

  Donna looks sad. “Guess I was going to get caught, the longer I did it.”

  Wendy says, “Why did you do it, Donna?”

  “I did it for the greater good,” Donna says. “And for the Agency, of course.”

  Noa doesn’t know what to say.

  Donna says, “Am I under arrest?”

  “No,” Noa says. “You’re just being detained.”

  “But you want me to come with you, right?”

  “That’s correct,” Noa says.

  “Can I bring Bailey with me?” she asks hopefully.

  “I’m afraid not,” Noa says.

  Tears come to the woman’s eyes. “Then what’s going to happen to him? I don’t want him to be put in a shelter. He’ll think he’s being punished or did something wrong.”

  Noa has faced some challenges in her career, but this is a new one, and Wendy comes to her rescue. “I’ll take care of Bailey.”

  Donna’s face lights up. “Really? You’d do that?”

  Wendy says, “I promise.”

  The door opens and the three male members of her squad come in, standing still and sheepish, like high school boys on the other side of the gym, working up the nerve to ask a girl for a dance.

  Noa stands up. “Donna, we need to get going.”

  Donna slowly gets up, goes over and scratches her cat’s head. “You be a good boy, Bailey. Okay?” To Noa she says, “Can I pack a bag? And brush my teeth?”

  “Sure,” Noa says, “but Ms. Liu needs to be with you.”

  A nod. “I understand.”

  The two go down a hallway and then Phil Cannon steps out in front of Aldo Sloan and Juan Rodriguez. Noa holds up a hand.

  “Wait up,” she says.

  “Don’t you want us to start processing the place?” Phil asks.

  That is procedure but Noa isn’t going to follow procedure. “No, wait until we’re gone. I don’t want her to see you three lugs going through her belongings.”

  A loud thud cuts through the silence and Wendy shouts, “Noa! Back here! Quick!”

  Noa runs down the small hallway, sees an open door to the right, Wendy over the outstretched form of Donna Otterson. One of her slippers has fallen off. Her feet are trembling, and then they stop.

  It’s crowded in the bathroom and Noa says, “Wendy, what the hell happened?”

  Wendy’s face is as stern as stone as she feels for a pulse on Donna’s neck. Donna’s eyes are wide open. There’s faint white foam on her lips.

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” she says, voice sharp. “She came here to brush her teeth. I stood here and watched. She opened a new tube of toothpaste, smiled at me and said, ‘You’ll really like Bailey,’ and then started brushing her teeth. About five seconds later she collapsed. She’s dead, Noa. Killed herself. Not sure what the poison was but it was certainly contained in that toothpaste tube.”

  Behind her Phil Cannon says, “Shit. What now, Noa?”

  Noa stands up. “Follow procedure. You three do a sweep of the place, and then I’ll get a contract clean-up squad to come in.”

  “Going to be a hell of a thing, securing this one, especially if her dad is retired Agency,” Phil says.

  Noa says, “Former Director William Colby was murdered more than thirty years ago and whoever did it made it look like a canoeing accident. That’s still the official word. I’m not worried about a low-level financial officer. Wendy.”

  Wendy stands up. “Yes, Noa?”

  “You know what to do.”

  She looks slightly confused. “I do?”

  Noa says, “Damn it, you made a promise to that woman, to take care of her cat. Get his food, toys, bedding, whatever, and be ready to leave in five minutes.”

  Wendy says, “On it, Noa.”

  Noa takes one last look at the dead CIA financial resource officer on the bathroom floor.

  Earlier Noa saw the photographic and video evidence of materials being passed on to Chinese intelligence agents in and around Cherry Hill Park from Donna Otterson.

  She would have lost her job, her pension, and probably serve some prison time, but she couldn’t have been in possession of anything that dramatic.

  Just numbers and budgets and appropriations.

  Was that worth a suicide?

  Was it?

  Phil says, “We’re starting the sweep, Noa.”

  “Good,” Noa says. “And be thorough. Really thorough.”

  One last look at the body.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Noa says. “And I need to have it make sense. Sooner rather than later.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Paris, France

  LIAM GREY IS flat on his belly at about three a.m. in a hot and filthy attic of a tenement building in the Seine-Saint-Denis neighborhood of Paris, also known as “the 93” for it being the 93rd Département in the country. This cramped district is home to shuttered factories, crumbling tall concrete public housing buildings, and one of the most infamous banlieues in France, where certain blocks are “no go” zones for the police. The unemployment rate for the mostly Muslim youth in this area runs at about 21 percent, and, lacking jobs and opportunities, they go out in the streets at night, burning cars and breaking shop windows, and get involved in running battles with the Paris police.

  This mission has been planned for months. It’s taken just over a week for Liam and his crew to infiltrate this tightly knit neighborhood, where imams and fathers and jihadists fresh home from the various battlefields of the Middle East and Southeast Asia gather on dirty street corners to see who belongs and who doesn’t.

  Through quick nighttime walks, riding the Metro, melting into the crowds, and hiding in dirty white delivery vans, he and his crew are now in position.

  Save for one, Benjamin Lucas, who unexpectedly left France yesterday, saying, “Sorry, Liam, off to Africa for an emerging operation. Can’t be avoided.”

  Which sucks, meaning his team is down one key member, even though it should be a straight in-and-out mission.

  He focuses the binoculars, peering through a set of ventilation slats. Across the narrow alleyway is another two-story tenement building, and the windows there are darkened, hiding whatever might be in that small apartment.

  But Liam is fairly sure who’s in there: three ISIS members who have fled Syria and have found shelter here, near the middle of Paris, and have placed their particular bloody talents up for sale to the highest bidder. It should have been an easy pickup for the Paris Police Prefecture or even France’s own intelligence agency, the General Directorate for Internal Security (Direction générale de la sécurité intérieure), but as often happens in France, it’s become a sticky situation. A niece of the French president abandoned family and friends to travel to Syria, and she has fallen in love with one of the ISIS terrorist leaders inside that apartment.

  Negotiations for him and his two friends to surrender to the French under the protection of the president’s niece—always delicate, always lengthy, Liam thinks grumpily—have been going on for months, and now President Barrett’s patience has run out.

  Those three have raped countless women, have beheaded aid workers, and have burned American pilots alive in metal cages. Their tickets get punched, as soon as you can make it happen.

  In other words, this is not a raid to capture these three.

  It’s a straight kill mission.

  In his earpiece, an encrypted message comes in. “Liam, you clear?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “What’s our drone status, Boyd?”

  “Our bird is flying free and clear, getting a nice view of the streets and alleys,” Boyd Morris says. “No apparent overwatch going on from the target building. What’s going on inside?”

  “About to find out,” Liam says. “Hold on.”

  He puts the binoculars down, picks up a boxy viewing device that is quietly humming along. Highly classified, the system is called CLARK/K—SUPERMAN being too obvious for what it can do. He brings up the box to his eyes, blinks to get adjusted as to what he’s seeing.