His job was to listen for bits and pieces of information that he and his staff could hopefully fit into the great jigsaw puzzle called “intelligence gathering.” Few civilians realized how tedious spying could be. Earth-shattering revelations were rare; most often, insights came from the patient collection and collation of random bits of information. That was especially true in the PRC, the most politically and culturally oppressive nation on earth. It was a shame. Brown found the Chinese people fascinating, their history and traditions stirring.
He looked up to see one of the Chinese agricultural attachés headed his way. During dinner the man had spent thirty minutes detailing why America was so decadent. Not much of a recruiting prospect there, Brown thought. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a waiter, made his way to the tall French doors, and stepped through onto the empty balcony.
Despite it being April, the air was warm, with none of D.C.’s spring chill. Plumeria bushes hung from the eaves and partially draped the rail. A block away he could see the lights bordering Ritan Park.
He let his gaze wander along the street, pausing at each parked car until he found the one he was looking for. Through the windshield he could see a pair of silhouetted figures. Guoanbu watchers, Brown thought. Ninth Bureau boys. They were good at their job, largely because they weren’t overly concerned with citizen’s rights. Guoanbu and PSB (People’s Security Bureau) officials could arrest anyone, for anything, at any time; they could invade homes without warrant, and they could ship you off to a laogi, or government prison camp, without trial.
“Good evening,” Brown heard from behind him. He turned. It was the bombastic attaché from dinner. The man was in his early fifties, with sad eyes and a wide mouth.
“Am I disturbing you?” the man said.
“No, not at all. I was just enjoying the night.”
The man strode to the railing. “I don’t believe we were properly introduced. My name is Chang-Moh Bian.” The man made no move to shake hands, keeping them firmly on the railing.
Smart fella, Brown thought. Assuming they were being watched, Bian didn’t want to complicate matters with even a perfunctory show of familiarity. As it was, Bian would likely be questioned about this interaction. “Roger Brown. Nice to meet you.”
“I apologize for my earlier comments, Mr. Brown. Certain things are expected of us at these functions. I hope you understand.”
Interesting … “Of course.”
“Well, I just wanted to say hello. I must be going.”
“Good night.”
As Bian turned, Brown heard something clatter on the balcony’s flagstones. He looked down. Laying near his foot was a ballpoint pen. “Excuse me, I think you dropped something.”
Bian turned; he frowned. “No, I don’t think so. It belongs to you, I am sure.”
Bian opened the doors and stepped back inside.
Brown waited another ten minutes, thinking hard, wondering if he’d misread the incident. There was only one way to find out.
He let the champagne glass slip from his hand. It shattered. He stepped back, angrily brushing at the front of his pants, then leaned down, grabbed the pen, and tucked it into his sleeve, then stood up with the broken glass in his hand.
Excusing himself with the ambassador in the main room, he headed downstairs to his office. He laid the pen on his desk, then picked up the phone. “Carl, it’s Roger. Can you come down to my office?”
Carl Jones, the embassy’s security manager, was there in five minutes. He listened carefully to Brown’s story, then said, “He didn’t say anything else? No pitch, not even a hint?”
“Nope.”
“You’re sure the pen wasn’t already there?”
“I’m sure. Carl, I looked him in the eye. He knew what he was doing.”
Jones considered this, then grinned. “So, what, you’re afraid it’s some kind of exploding pen?”
“Jesus, Carl.”
“I say open it. Just hang on … let me get behind something solid.”
“Oh, for the love of—”
“Of course, your family will be well provided for if—”
Brown unscrewed the pen and tipped the contents onto his blotter.
Wrapped around the ink cartridge was a slip of onionskin paper.
The Chinese ambassador arrived promptly at 11:45 and was shown into the Oval Office.
Martin stood up and walked over. “Mr. Ambassador, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“And you, President Martin.” The ambassador was a portly man with bushy eyebrows and a surprisingly high-pitched voice. “Congratulations on your victory.”
“Thank you. Please … sit. Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
They settled around the coffee table, Martin in a wingback chair, the ambassador on the couch. Bousikaris took his place at Martin’s left shoulder.
“I understand this is your first spring in Washington,” Martin said.
“Yes. It’s lovely.”
There were a few seconds of silence as each man regarded the other.
“You’re surprised by my visit,” said the ambassador.
“Surprised, but pleased nonetheless.”
The ambassador nodded, as though weighing Martin’s words. “Well, to the point of my visit: It is a rather delicate matter. I hope you will accept what I am going to say in the spirit it is offered.”
What’s this? Bousikaris thought.
“Please go on,” said Martin.
“It has come to the attention of my government, President Martin, that during the last election you received some generous campaign contributions from a certain political committee. Some eighty million dollars, I believe.”
Martin’s smile never wavered. “All on public record.”
“Of course. It has also come to our attention that your supporters may not have been completely candid. It seems the consortium in question was in fact backed by a group of industrialists from my country.”
There was a long ten seconds of silence. Martin glanced up at Bousikaris, who kept his eyes on the ambassador. “That’s not possible,” said Bousikaris.
The ambassador reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a sheaf of papers, which he placed on the table. “Details of each contribution, the domestic accounts from which they were drawn, and routing information for each transaction, including authorization codes you can use to trace their origin. Though the source accounts are now closed, I think you’ll find all the funds originated from banks in the People’s Republic.”
Bousikaris picked up the document and began paging through it.
“Howard?” said Martin.
“The information is here, but we have no way of—”
The ambassador said, “Of course. I would not ask you to take my word for this. By all means, look into it. In the meantime—”
“What do you want?” Martin growled, his smile gone. “What’s your game?”
“No game, Mr. President. My government would be as embarrassed as you by this. We have no desire to see this information made public. The People’s Republic is eager to take steps to ensure this information never becomes—”
Martin bolted upright. “You sons-of-bitches. You’re … you’re trying to blackmail me. Me!”
Bousikaris said, “Mr. President—”
“You heard the bastard, Howard—”
“What I heard,” Bousikaris replied, “is the ambassador offering his country’s help. Am I reading the situation clearly, Mr. Ambassador?”