Wall of Night (6 page)

Rappahannock River,
Virginia

Thirteen months after the Tiananmen Square Massacre in Beijing, General Han Soong, chief of staff of the People's Liberation Army, slipped his fateful note to a U.S. defense attaché. The general's defection request sent shock waves through the CIA.

Already sickened by his government's ever-worsening treatment of its citizens, Tiananmen Square had pushed Soong over the edge. He had only one condition: His handler must be a military man; with a CIA case officer, he explained, he had no bond. A military man was a comrade in arms. Regardless of flag or anthem, a soldier could be trusted.

Realizing the golden opportunity they'd been handed, the CIA didn't argue and began looking for a controller. They found their man in the then-newly formed Intelligence Support Activity Group.

Tanner, a twenty-eight-year-old navy lieutenant commander not only had the skills and experience, but also the temperament to handle the environment. Tanner accepted the job and the preparations began. The operation was code-named Ledger, Soong was Treble.

Two months later he was in China. Two months after that, on the day Tanner was to evacuate them, Soong and his family were arrested. Just minutes ahead of PSB and
Guoanbu
pursuers, Tanner went to ground. Eighteen days later he appeared in Taipei and was evacuated.

Later, Harve Brandt, one of the old-timers in ISAG and a former CIA handler, tried to give Tanner a short course on why the incident had so shaken him. “You liked the guy; you liked his family. That's natural, but it's a mistake. Better to see 'em for what they are: Product. Sometimes you deliver the product, sometimes you don't.”

Tanner told Harve to stick his product up his ass.

So soon after China, it was still heavy in Tanner's heart: He'd screwed up. He didn't know how or where, but there was no other explanation. Eventually he managed to trade that conviction for the realization that no matter the cause—whether it was his fault or nobody's fault—Soong, his wife, and his daughter were either dead or rotting inside a
laogi.

Lion Soong
…
She'd been twenty then, which made her thirty-two now—if she was even still alive, that is.
Laogis
were especially hard on women, it was said. Maybe it would be better if she were—

No no no
…

God, how he'd loved her. During the early days of the affair, that rational voice in the back of Tanner's mind had tried to warn him off, but it was too late. They were already caught up in each other.

Later, it was the not knowing that haunted him most. Had the affair distracted him from the job? If he'd stuck to business, would Soong and his wife be running a deli in Tallahassee or a nursery in Seattle? Would he and Lian have—

The telephone broke Tanner's reverie. He stared at it, then reached out and picked it up.

“Briggs, it's Leland. I'm back.”

“And?”

“You may want to dust off your passport.”

Dutcher arrived an hour later. Tanner made coffee and they sat on the deck overlooking the cove; beyond it, a rain squall was closing over the bay.

Dutcher recounted to Tanner his meeting at Langley. “Whether he's really still alive or not …”

“What do we know about the embassy's contact?”

“Chang-Moh Bian. Not much. Mason's going to ask his station chief to arrange a face-to-face. If Soong is still alive and Bian is in contact with him, he'll have some details.”

My God,
Tanner thought,
could he really be alive
?
After all this time,
was it possible
?

“Here's the interesting part,” Dutcher said. “Soong won't accept anyone else. Just you.”

“Just like last time.”

“Yep. It's got Mason nervous.”

Tanner understood. However remote, all this could be a setup designed to lure him back into China. Though Kyung Xiang had managed to rise to the top of the
Guoanbu,
his career—and life, possibly—had hung in the balance for several years after the Soong affair. Could Xiang have been waiting all this time for a chance to get his hands on Tanner?

Briggs didn't think so. Xiang was a professional. It was unlikely he would hold a grudge this long—even more unlikely that he'd create this scenario to satisfy that grudge. Still, as the head of
Guoanbu,
Xiang had enormous power. If he wanted a little revenge, who would deny him?

The more likely scenario was that Soong himself was a plant. After this long they could have turned him into a marionette. The professional side of Tanner's brain couldn't discount the idea, but the emotional side—the side that still considered Soong a friend—refused to believe it

“The truth is,” Dutcher said, “whether this is genuine or fake isn't the issue.”

“I know: Dick's a little worried about my head.”

“He knows you've got the skills, but the environment … Hell, this is China. The
Guoanbu,
PSB, and PAP are forces unto themselves. Given what you went through last time….”

The odds are against me,
Tanner thought. Too much emotional investment; too much “preexposure” to the target country; too many triggers that might derail him. In the eyes of the CIA, he was a bad gamble. Problem was, if they wanted Soong, they had no choice but to use him.

“Leland, there's something else you should know. While I was there, Soong's daughter and I … There was something between us.”

Dutcher stared at him. “Pardon me?”

“It was my first time on this kind of op; I was young … stupid. It shouldn't have happened—”

“Damn right it shouldn't—”

“—but it did.”

Dutcher exhaled. “Christ, Briggs.”

“I know.” Like her father, Lian had probably broken and told the MSS everything; if Tanner went back into China, she could be used as leverage against him.

Dutcher asked, “Did this thing with her affect the outcome?”

“I don't think so,” replied Tanner.
God,
I hope not.

Dutcher studied his face, then nodded. “We've still got a problem. I have to tell Mason.”

“No, you don't.”

“Briggs—”

“Leland, I can do this.” Tanner suddenly felt slimy. Leland was more than a boss; he was like a second father. Was he trading on their relationship for a chance to ease his own conscience?
I
can do this
…. Was he certain? “I can do the job.”

Dutcher sighed and shook his head. “God almighty … I must be getting soft in my old age. Okay: What Dick doesn't know can't hurt him. But I'll tell you this: If it goes wrong, they're gonna hang us both from the nearest lamppost.”

Tanner smiled. “Then I'll just make sure it doesn't go wrong.”

Washington,
D.C.

Latham and Randall got back into town in the early evening and parted ways. When Charlie got home he found Bonnie standing at the kitchen counter. He kissed her, then looked down at the bowl she was stirring. “Is that that cold salsa soup stuff?”

“It's called ‘gazpacho,' Charlie. You like it”

“I do?”

“You said you did last time I made it”

Uh-oh.
“Oh, yeah … gazpacho. I was thinking of that other stuff.”

Bonnie smiled. “Liar. Go shower. We'll eat when you get done.”

An hour later, Latham decided he did in fact like gazpacho. How was it that Bonnie knew what he liked when he couldn't even remember if he'd had it before?
Ah,
the joys of marriage
… Bonnie was a wonderful wife and mother, and he made it a point to remind himself daily how lucky he was.

“Sammie called today,” Bonnie said. Their oldest daughter, Samantha, was a sophomore majoring in economics at William and Mary College. “She said to say hi.”

“Everything okay?”

“She's just a little homesick, I think. Finals are next month; she'll be home after that.”

“Good. I kinda miss the patter of … young adult feet around here.”

Bonnie gave him a sideways smile. “We could always—”

“Please tell me you're kidding.”

“I'm kidding.”

The phone rang and Bonnie picked it up, listened, then handed it to Latham. “Hello?”

“Charlie, it's Paul. The coroner's done with the Bakers. She may have something for us.”

“I'll meet you there.” He hung up and turned to Bonnie. “The Baker thing. Sorry.”

“It's okay, go ahead. I've got paint swatches to look at.”

“Paint swatches?”

“We're painting the kitchen, remember?” She shook her head and smiled. “Go, Charlie.”

The medical examiner, a gangly woman in her early fifties, was sitting in her office finishing the report. “Hello, Charlie. Been a while.”

“Not long enough, Margaret,” Latham replied. “No offense.”

“None taken.” She looked at Randall, and mock-whispered, “Charlie doesn't much like morgues. I think he's got a phobia about stainless steel.”

“Just one of his many quirks.”

“Come on, I'll show what we found.”

She led them into the examining room. The air was thick with the tang of disinfectant. The tile floor reflected the grayish glare of the overhead fluorescent lights. Each of the room's four stainless-steel tables were occupied: four sets of sheets—two adult-size, two child-size.

What used to be the Baker family,
Charlie thought. He didn't know how coroners did it. Two weeks in this place and he'd be drinking his lunch every day.

“First, the routine stuff,” said Margaret. “All were negative for narcotics or toxins. No signs of disease or degeneration in any of the major systems. Aside from bullet wounds in each of the victims and ligature marks on the extremities of the woman and the children, there were no gross injuries.”

“Did you check the syringe?”

“Yep. No toxins, no narcotics. It was brand-new—fresh out of its blister pack, in fact. There were minute traces of adhesive residue on it: the manufacturer uses it to keep the syringe seated in the pack while it's going down the assembly line. If it had been handled any significant amount after opening, the residue would have been wiped off.”

“The needle?”

“Blood only. Type A positive; we matched it to the youngest child.”

Son of a bitch,
Charlie thought. Part of him had been hoping against hope that he and Owens were wrong. Somewhere out there was at least one Second Bureau
Guoanbu
operative, perhaps more. But the question remained: Why kill Baker and his family?

“Did you recover the slugs?” Randall asked her.

“Yeah, but they're in bad shape; you might get some metallurgy and rifling info, but it's a toss-up. I sent them over to Quantico. My guess is nine millimeter. The mother's wound is starfished, but there're no powder burns or stippling.”

In cases of contact or near-contact gunshot wounds, the entry point is almost always bordered by radial tears, hence the “starfish” appearance. The lack of gunpowder burns or graphite “tattooing” on the skin could only mean one thing: The weapon had been equipped with a noise suppressor that had absorbed both the gas and the powder. That would explain why none of the neighbors had reported hearing anything unusual during the night.

“In the case of each child,” Margaret went on, “the bullets bisected the vertical axis of the skull, traveled down the neck, and lodged in the chest cavity.”

“Any idea about time of death?” asked Latham.

“Between nine and midnight.”

“What about the father?”

“He died after them, about an hour or so. Here's where it gets interesting. Take a look.”

She drew down the sheet to reveal Larry Baker's head. Except for the bruised swelling from the gunshot under his chin, his face was snow white. Margaret had partially reconstructed the exit wound on top of the skull, but still it looked like a jigsaw puzzle of blood, matted hair, and jagged bone.

Margaret pointed. “See the spot just above the entry wound … that indentation?”

“Looks like a sight stamp?” Latham said.

“Right. It's from pressing the barrel hard against the skin. In suicides a stamp usually means the person wants to make sure they don't miss, or they're holding on tight so they don't lose their nerve.”

“Okay …”

“Look to the right of the stamp. See the gouge in the skin? It's the same pattern as the indentation.” She let it hang, looking from Randall to Latham.

“I don't get it,” said Randall. “He moved the gun; he had second thoughts. So what?”

“No,” Latham said. “If you have second thoughts you lower the gun, then put it back. You don't drag it around your skin. Think about it: You're parked in your car, sitting in the driver's seat. Someone's next to you, in the passenger seat. Suddenly they pull out a gun, reach over”—Latham mimicked his words—“and put it under your chin. You react by jerking away, to the side.”

Now Randall caught on. “And if the gun's pressed tightly enough, the site drags across the skin.”

Latham nodded. “Baker saw it coming. He tried to move, but wasn't quick enough.”

It took some delicacy to make the inquiries without raising suspicion, but three days after the Chinese ambassador's visit to the Oval Office, Chief of Staff Howard Bousikaris had confirmed the source of Martin's eleventh-hour campaign contributions.

Though still unsure how China had done it, Bousikaris knew it didn't matter. If made public, the evidence would be irrefutable. More importantly, no one would believe Martin was an unwitting dupe. The American public had no more stomach for corruption.

Having satisfied himself they'd been checkmated, he focused on the next step: How to turn defeat into a victory. First, however, they had to find out exactly what the Chinese wanted.