Mary Pat Foley answered this one: “Our best guess is eighty to one hundred.”
“Mobile launchers?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Land-based wheeled mobile launchers, as well as submarines.”
“Okay, what about our subs? We are operating undersea in the strait, yes?”
Jorgensen said, “Yes, sir.”
“Can we help with the Taiwanese destroyer?”
Bob Burgess said, “You mean with the rescue?”
“Yes.”
Burgess looked to Jorgensen. The admiral said, “We can launch cruise missiles against the PLAN if they attack the wounded ship.”
Ryan looked around the room. “That’s open naval warfare.” He drummed his fingers on the table.
“All right. Scott, get Ambassador Li on the line right now. I want him to go to the Chinese foreign ministry this second and tell them that any further attack on the Tso Ying will be resisted by U.S. force.”
Scott Adler stood and headed out of the conference room.
Jack Ryan addressed the others: “We are on the verge of open war in the strait now. I want every U.S. asset in the East China Sea, the Yellow Sea, anywhere in the Western Pacific, on the absolute highest state of readiness. If one of our subs attacks a Chinese vessel, then we can expect all hell to break loose.”
Valentin Kovalenko climbed into the passenger seat of Darren Lipton’s Toyota Sienna at six in the morning. The Russian had instructions from Center. As always, he did not know the reason behind the message he was about to deliver, but he was placated in the fact that his Russian colleagues at the embassy had given him the go-ahead to do what he was told, so he did not question his directive.
He said, “You are to make an appointment with your agent immediately.”
Lipton responded with his usual anger. “She’s not a trained pet. She doesn’t come the moment I call. She will be at work, she won’t meet with me until after she gets off.”
“Do it now. Have her come before work. Be persuasive. Tell her to take a taxi to this address, and you will meet her there. You’ll have to convince her it is crucial.”
Lipton took the printed address and looked at it while he drove. “What’s there?”
“I don’t know.”
Lipton looked at Kovalenko for a moment, then put his eyes back on the road.
“What do I tell her when she gets there?”
“Nothing. You will not be waiting for her. Someone else will.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Packard?”
Kovalenko did not respond. He had no idea who Packard was, but Lipton did not need to know this. “I don’t know if it will be Packard or someone else.”
“What’s this all about, Ivan?”
“Just get the woman to the location.”
Lipton eyed Kovalenko for a moment while he drove. “You don’t know what’s going on, do you?”
Kovalenko saw that Lipton could see right through him. He said, “I do not. I have my orders. You have yours.”
Lipton smiled. “I get it, Ivan. I see it now. Center has something on you, same as me. You aren’t his man. You are his agent.”
Kovalenko spoke in a tired voice: “We are all cogs in a system. A system we do not fully understand. But we understand our own mission, and that is what I need you to focus on.”
Lipton pulled over to the side of the road. “Tell Center I want more money.”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”
“You’re Russian. He is obviously Russian. Even though you are his errand boy, just like me, he’s more likely to listen to you.”
Kovalenko smiled wearily. “You know how it is. If an intelligence organization pays its agent a lot of money, then the agent won’t need money anymore, and he will be less incentivized to help.”
Lipton shook his head. “You and I both know what my incentive is to work for Center. It’s not money. It’s blackmail. But I am damn well worth more money.”
Kovalenko knew this was not true. He had read the man’s file. Yes, blackmail had been the short-term impetus to get him to begin spying. He had images on his computer that Center had found that could get him thrown in prison.
But he now was very much in it for the money.
The quantity and quality of his whores had gone through the roof in the year that he had been working for the mysterious employer who gave him simple instructions every week or two.
His wife and kids had not seen a dime of the money he’d made; he’d opened a private account, and almost every penny of it had gone to Carmen and Barbie and Britney and the other girls who worked the hotels in Crystal City and Rosslyn.
Kovalenko had no respect for the man, but he did not need to respect an agent to run him.
He opened the door and got out. “Have your agent arrive at that location at nine a.m. I will talk to Center about your compensation in the meantime.”
The Chinese government’s State Security Law compels China’s citizens to comply and cooperate with all government security employees, mandating that hotels and other businesses give unrestricted access to all operations.
This meant, in short, that most business-class hotels in China were bugged with audiovisual equipment that was piped to Ministry of State Security employees who monitored it for intelligence value.
There were many commercial secrets the Chinese could learn just by flipping a switch and posting a translator with a notepad at a radio receiver.
Chavez, Caruso, and Driscoll knew their Beijing hotel would be bugged, and they agreed on their game plan while still in the States. During their time in their suites they would stay in character, their cover-for-status would remain in place.
As soon as they checked in after their interminably long commercial flight from the U.S., Ding turned the shower on its hottest setting and then stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He flipped on the TV and then began undressing, just a tired businessman, worn-out from a brutal flight, looking to grab a quick shower before crawling into bed. He walked around while he took off his shirt, stood in front of the TV, doing his best to act naturally, although in truth he was scanning carefully for cameras around the room. He checked the television set itself, and then the wall opposite his bed. He laid his shirt and undershirt on the desk next to his carry-on bag, and while doing this he peered carefully at the lampshade.
Ding was familiar with at least two dozen of the most common miniature cameras and audio receivers; he knew what to look for, but so far he had found nothing.
He noticed the overhead lights were recessed in the ceiling. To him this looked like a great place to secrete a camera. He stood directly under the lights, but he did not climb onto a bed or a chair to check for them.
They were here, he was sure enough. If he went out of his way to look for them, the MSS goons watching him would notice, and this would ensure even more attention on his room.
When he was undressed he stepped back into the bathroom. By now it was completely fogged, and it took a minute for the fog to clear enough for him to get a good look around. The first place he checked was the large bathroom mirror, and he found what he was looking for immediately: a foot-square portion where the glass had not fogged up.
That, Ding knew, was because there was a recess on the other side of the glass where a camera was positioned. There was probably a Wi-Fi radio there, too, which sent the camera’s signal and the signal for the audio equipment hidden somewhere in the suite back to wherever it was the MSS guys were.
Ding smiled inwardly. Standing there naked, he wanted to wave at the camera. He suspected ninety-nine percent of the businessmen and — women who stayed in this hotel and dozens more like it in Beijing had absolutely no idea they were on candid camera every time they took a shower.