David nodded. “I read your report on that. It was vague. Something about Jinshan holding that location as important.”
“That’s right. My report was vague to protect the source, and because we don’t know what’s at that location. But the asset who gave us the information is very good. If that person is convinced that it’s an item of interest, then we need to be concerned. The cable we received said that Jinshan had considered the site to be vital to his plans. Based on everything we’ve seen, I can only assume that these plans were to wage war against the United States.”
She glanced up at the ceiling as she recalled the exact phrasing. “A covert camp with special operations units conducting unique training. If Jinshan is still wielding influence and power in China, and these military units are still preparing for something, it is crucially important that we find out what they are training for.”
Genera Schwartz said, “Susan and I have been working on ways to get a team in there. With satellite capabilities degraded, and it being in a location not suitable for drones or manned reconnaissance flights, we think a small, covert team might be best. Ideally, it would be an agent or agents already in country.”
“But as we discussed,” Susan said, “the CIA’s HUMINT resources in China are less than stellar.”
Schwartz said, “I have a small group of Delta operators that would be well suited for the job, but the problem is insertion. We think we have a way to get them out of the country. But we can’t insert them the same way.”
David said, “The camp is supposed to be about one hundred miles inland in China, right? And you need a covert method of insertion for a SOF team?”
“Correct.”
David smiled. “You know, when I was at In-Q-Tel, there was one interesting project that I took a look at. DARPA came up with the idea. I think they might even still be working on it.”
9
Chase walked out of the Kyoto train station to a blue sky, crisp air, and the sound of large tour buses. It was rush hour on a weekday. He wasn’t sure if that made Kyoto more or less crowded, since it was such a huge tourist destination. The beautiful city was known for its tranquil and historic temples. Some of them were in the city, while other temples were tucked away in the mountains, accessible only by hiking along winding paths through quiet pine forests.
Crowds lined up outside to get tickets for their tour buses. The buses arrived along the curb and departed, an endless ferry to the temples.
Chase walked up to a standing map — the kind you saw in most indoor malls. Thank God they wrote in English under the Japanese descriptions. His eyes searched the restaurant section.
There. That was the one he was looking for. Ogawa Coffee.
After a brief walk, he arrived at the tiny cafe. Chase took in the rich smell of coffee. The little shop had wooden boxes filled with beans. The boxes had tiny windows so that you could see what you were getting. Plastic scoops and bags. It reminded him of the gourmet coffee shop his mother had loved in Tysons Corner when he was growing up.
“Mr. Manning?”
Chase turned to see a Japanese man standing behind him. Medium build, jet-black hair. He looked like the picture he had been shown two days ago in Langley. Then again, half the people here looked like that picture. Was it racist to think that?
Chase stuck out his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m going to butcher your name if I try to pronounce it.”
“Hiramatsu. Hi-ra-ma-tsu. That’s my last name. Tetsuo is my first name. Just call me Tetsuo.”
His English was excellent. Zero accent. Which made sense, since he had been born in the US and had lived there most of his life. It was the CIA that had sent the second-generation American back to the home of his ancestors.
Tetsuo Hiramatsu worked in the US embassy in Tokyo. While he had an official title as an economic advisor, that was a cover. He had worked for the CIA in Tokyo Station for four years now. It was his third overseas assignment with the Agency.
A native of Seattle, Hiramatsu was an avid Seahawks fan, a third-degree black belt in the Japanese style of karate known as Shotokan, and a recent student of a type of car racing known as “drifting.” He had paid for several lessons, when he could get away from his actual work.
Tokyo Station was one of the most important CIA locations in the world. All sorts of politicians and businessmen traveled to Tokyo for legitimate reasons. It was a great place to run an agent. And Tetsuo was running several important assets for the Agency.
“You can call me Chase.”
“Pleased to meet you, Chase. I have to admit, I was a little worried. Kyoto has many tourists. And I’ve been here too long — all you white people are starting to look the same to me.”
Chase laughed. Perhaps he had found a kindred spirit.
“Would you like a coffee before we head out?”
“I would, actually.”
They ordered and took two coffees to go. Chase stirred in a sugar packet as he followed Tetsuo out of the cafe. A Toyota sedan drove up and stopped just in front of them. Tetsuo opened the door for Chase, and they both got in the back.
The driver worked for Tetsuo, Chase learned. He was one of their CIA technical experts. His job was to do things like place listening devices in hotels when they were surveilling persons of interest.
“Where are we headed?”
“To one of our safe houses. Susan wants you to sit in on this.” Tetsuo sipped his coffee, looking back at Chase from the passenger seat. “I’m told that you have made quite a name for yourself in a short period of time. You were a Special Operations Group member until recently, were you not?”
The Special Operations Group was an elite subset of the CIA’s clandestine services. They were the shooters. The guys who helped to provide a more robust level of security where needed, and got sent in for the more kinetic missions. They were seen as a supporting element to the Political Action Group operatives — the more traditional agents who operated around the globe on behalf of the CIA.
“That’s right,” said Chase.
“So what are you now? You still SOG, or what?”
“I don’t really think they’ve defined that. They just tell me where to go, and I go.”
“Interesting.”
Tetsuo seemed like a good guy. But a lot of operatives had massive egos. They had to, considering the balls it took to do what they did. Men like Tetsuo had been like gold miners in the 1800s. They would conduct painstaking searches for valuable locations of their precious commodity. They took many precautions not to be observed by the competition. And once they found a good mine, they would carefully extract every bit they could, until it was dry. But the competition was dangerous and ever-present.
Instead of gold, intelligence operatives like Tetsuo mined information, access, and influence. Tetsuo had an official cover. And by the code of intelligence agencies around the world, violent action against him was off-limits, as long as he was playing by the rules.
It was the lives of his agents — the ones that he was running — that were really at stake. If the Chinese, or the North Koreans, or the gangsters or crooked businessmen found out that Tetsuo’s informants were providing him with secrets, things wouldn’t end well for them.
Tetsuo was GIANT’s handler and had been for the past four years. GIANT had had a myriad of handlers over his long career of spying for the Americans. But Tetsuo’s reputation for street smarts and operational discipline had made him a top choice for the assignment. GIANT frequently made work trips outside China. From his station in Tokyo, Tetsuo was able to quickly and discreetly meet with him when he was in town. Every six months or so, they would spend long evenings in quiet hotel rooms, GIANT filling him in on insider information about the Chinese political scene and military advancements.