Soar (28 page)

“Mr. Secretary, please… “ Wirth stood aside. Rockman
twisted the knob, pushed the door open, and entered the president’s hideaway.

Pete Forrest looked up from his desk as Rockman entered the room. The president’s collar was open. Rockman saw the First Tie and Jacket tossed haphazardly across the back of the sofa. The secretary stopped three feet inside the windowless room. “Mr. President …”

“Rocky.” Forrest cracked the pinkie knuckle on his left hand. “Pull up a chair.”

Rockman waited until Monica Wirth leaned against the heavy door, shutting it. When he heard the bolt click, he crossed the antique Sarouk and settled into a straight-back chair facing the president’s desk.

The president put his elbows on the desk and pressed his fingertips together. “I had a telephone call from the president of the People’s Republic of China just forty-five minutes ago.”

“Oh?” Rockman’s eyebrows went up.

“That’s why I hustled you over here. President Wu advised me that elements of his armed forces will be taking what he referred to as, quote—firm steps—unquote, to deal with the Islamic separatists in Xinjiang Autonomous Region within twenty-four hours.”

“He’s going after the terrorists—the bomb,” Rockman said.

“Yes,” the president said. “And I think he’s going to try to deal with the Uighur separatists—decisively—before the summit.”

“They’ve been a thorn in his side for years,” Wirth said. Rockman stroked his chin. “It would be logical for Wu to act now.”

The president nodded. “I agree. He knows we’re in our own war against terrorism. The summit’s coming up. He’d like to be able to demonstrate that he’s doing his part.”

Rockman fingered his tie. “Do you think Wu’s using the terrorists as a pretext for anything else, sir?”

“You mean our people?” The president turned to face the NSC adviser. “I don’t think so. But what’s the latest, Monica?”

Wirth said, “I’ve been checking NSA’s intake carefully. There’s not a whiff of anything untoward. I don’t think Wu suspects. And as you say, Mr. President, Beijing has been looking for an excuse to bring the Xinjiang region firmly under control for years.”

“Good.” Pete Forrest paused. “Now I’ve saved the best for last Wu gave me an opening that may actually help us extract our people.”

Rockman’s eyebrows went up. “Sir?”

“He requested a favor. He asked me to backchannel a message to Delhi. He wants to assure the Indians that although his troops will be moving into the northwestern portion of the autonomous region, they will not approach within two hundred kilometers of the disputed area on the Indian border. He asked me to persuade the Indians not to react negatively.”

“Did you agree?”

“Not immediately,” Pete Forrest said. “Never give without getting; right, Monica?” “Amen, Mr. President.”

“So I asked him precisely where his troops would be deployed, Rocky. I told him I couldn’t go to my good friend the Indian prime minister unless I knew the request could be absolutely explicit, detailed, and precise.”

An approving smile spread slowly across Rockman’s face. “And what did Wu say?”

“He hemmed and hawed, I guess is the best way to put it. He tried to keep to generalities. But the bottom line, Rocky, is that he’s going to concentrate his forces on the northern side
of the Taklimakan Desert—between Kashgar and Ürümqi. His worst seepage—” Forrest read the bemused expression on Rockman’s face. ‘That’s how the translator interpreted, Rocky—’seepage.’ Anyway, it’s from Kyrgyzstan.”

“Interesting,” Rockman said. He turned to the national security adviser. “Has the Agency weighed in on this?”

Wirth grimaced. “Langley—that Margaret Nylos woman—faxed me a one-page boilerplate analysis, without any conclusions. I swear, Mr. Secretary, those people over there have no clue what’s going on. They might as well work for the State Department. I’d like to fire the lot of them.”

Rockman’s eyes flicked in the president’s direction. “He’s the commander in chief,” he said. “According to what I read in the
Washington Compost
this morning, Monica, you have an all-powerful, Svengali-like influence over the man. You have brainwashed him. Turned him into a hard-liner.”

“Rocky, don’t instigate.” The president frowned. “Believe me, after that screwup with the satellite imagery it wouldn’t take much right now to can everyone from the DCI on down … “ He paused.

Rockman coaxed, “And so, Mr. President?”

“I said, don’t instigate. Believe me, Rocky, when we’re out of the woods on this, I’m going to make changes. But for now, I don’t want to hear another word about what Nick Pappas is or isn’t doing.” Pete Forrest’s expression told both Rockman and Wirth the subject was closed.

Rockman pursed his lips. “Back to business,” he said. “What did you tell President Wu, sir?”

“I told him it would be at least eight hours before I could get to Prime Minister Chowdhery. The man’s seventy-six years old and he goes to bed early—but he gets up about four and is in the office by six. Wu agreed not to initiate any major action until he’s heard back from me.” Pete Forrest
checked his watch. “Now, I’m not sure I believe Wu—or his motives—either. But let’s take him at his word for the moment.”

Wirth pulled a map of Western China from a credenza and spread it on the president’s desk. “Wu spoke about a Kashgar-Ürümqi axis.” She drew her finger over the map. “He’s worried about the Kyrgyz border.”

“That makes sense,” Rockman said. “Our intelligence shows much the same thing. So it would clear the way for Ritzik to move his people into Tajikistan.”

Monica Wirth said, “Why there as opposed to anywhere else?”

“There’s a twenty-man Special Forces training group in Dushanbe,” Rockman said. “They have choppers with them. They can be moved up to the Chinese border area under the guise of a joint exercise.”

“But not into China,” Wirth broke in.

“No,” Rockman said. “No border crossings. That would be provocative.” He paused, frowning.

The president read his SECDEF’s face. “What’s up, Rocky?”

“I just thought of something, sir. Wu said he wouldn’t initiate any major action, right?” Pete Forrest checked his notes. “That’s what he said.”

“ ‘Major action.’ His precise words.”

“That’s right, Rocky.”

“But Wu didn’t say he wouldn’t initiate small-unit activity, did he?”

Forrest wrinkled his brow. “No, he didn’t. He didn’t say anything at all about small-unit activity.”

“I see where you’re going,” Wirth said. “He can move against the terrorists who have the bomb, using the Special Operations force in Kashgar.”

Rockman said, “Precisely.”

“Mr. Secretary, if the Delta people head south, and cross into Tajikistan, they’re less likely to run into large numbers of PLA troops.”

“That’s true, I guess,” Rockman said.

“Any developments?”

“Good and bad, Mr. President.”

“Give me the good news first.”

“The ruse seems to have worked. The plane Ritzik used for his infiltration returned to Almaty safely. I had DIA monitor Chinese air control. No ripples there.”

“Good. Now, what’s the downside?”

Rockman bit his lip. “Ritzik’s communications aren’t working properly. I’m in touch with Almaty, but Delta’s Tactical Operations Center there hasn’t been able to reach Ritzik’s element in four, almost five hours. Not since they left the aircraft.”

Pete Forrest’s eyes went hard. “Fix it, Rocky,” he said. “Those people have to know what they’re up against. We have to get them out safely.”

“I’ll do everything I can, Mr. President. I’ll—” Rockman jumped, startled, as the cell phone in his pocket chirped loudly. He saw the look of shock on Forrest’s face. “It’s Katherine, Mr. President,” Rockman said, his face flushing in embarrassment. “She’s in Bloomfield Hills with our youngest daughter—it’s Samantha’s first child, and Katherine …”

“Been there, done that, Rocky,” Pete Forrest said, breaking into a gentle smile. “Take the call.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Rockman flipped the phone open and pressed it to his ear. “Katherine—I’m in the middle of something, so please, dear, make this quick.”

A
ITZIK WAS NERVOUS
.
He hated being out in the open. He felt vulnerable. Naked. Unprotected. He wanted high ground. They’d driven along the smugglers’ track for five or six kliks, heading almost due west. But then Ritzik had the two vehicles abruptly turn south, onto a washed-out streambed. Straight ahead lay Kashgar, the dusty Silk Road trading town. Which was probably crawling with PLA troops. Ritzik’s instincts told him to steer clear.

His GPS unit indicated foothills perhaps forty kilometers to the southwest. The topography would afford them some protection and cover. Once they’d gotten off the desert floor, he’d figure out what the hell he’d do next. He scanned the horizon through his night-vision goggles. His cheek throbbed. There were three of them crammed into the two bucket seats of the 4x4: Gene Shepard, who was driving, Sam the Spook in the middle, and Ritzik. Two other spooks—a kid named Kaz and another, who called himself X-Man—rode in the back with Doc Masland. The rest of the crew, and Wei-Liu, were in the truck with the MADM. Ritzik hoped they weren’t glowing yet.

Sam Phillips tapped Ritzik’s shoulder. “Can I have a look?”

“Sure.” Ritzik pulled the device off his forehead and handed it over.

The spook fitted the NV, focused, and peered through the dirty windshield. He whistled, impressed. “Great resolution.”

“State-of-the-art.”

Sam fiddled with the NV set. He said, “So, what’s the plan, Major?”

“I want to get clear of the desert floor. Once we’re in the foothills and the bomb is disabled, we’ll see which way is best.”

Sam said, “For what it’s worth, you might consider heading for Tajikistan.”

“I was told you’re familiar with the region.”

“I did two Central Asia tours. Almaty and Dushanbe.”

“How’d you like them?”

“Living conditions were kind of primitive, but business was great. I was one of the pioneers—arrived in Almaty about six months after they’d declared independence. It was like living in a frontier town.”

“Dodge City before Wyatt Earp.”

“A lot closer to Hole-in-the-Wall than Dodge.” Sam cracked a smile. “They called it
dikiy-dikiy vostok
in Russian. The Wild, Wild East.”

“I didn’t go until ninety-eight,” Ritzik said. “It was pretty tame by then. There was even a knockoff Mickey D’s about three blocks from Panfilov Park.”

“No kidding.”

“Burger
Khut,
they called it. The French fries tasted like they cooked them in motor oil.”

“They probably did,” Sam said. “In ninety-eight the
army was selling its supplies to make money. Motor oil was probably a lot cheaper than cooking fat. So, what were you doing?”

“JCET program.” Ritzik saw Sam’s blank expression. “Joint Combined Exchange Training.”

Sam said, “You guys are big on acronyms, aren’t you? What does it mean in English?”

“Cross-training. Working with their Special Forces.”

“The Kazakhs needed training when I was in Almaty,” Sam said. “Big time. I saw them in action once—Chechen terrorists took half a dozen hostages in the lobby of the old Lenin Hotel. The Kazakhs tossed twenty or so grenades through the windows—started a hell of a fire. Burned the place down. All that was left was body parts.”

“That’s known as the ‘Egyptian Technique,’ “ Ritzik said. In November 1985, an EgyptAir flight from Athens to Cairo was hijacked by three Arabic-speaking gunmen and diverted to Malta. Two Israeli women hostages and three Americans were shot by the hijackers. Egyptian Special Forces then assaulted the plane by breaching the cargo hold with explosive charges. But the Egyptians botched the entry: in the ensuing explosion, fire, and gun battle the rescuers managed to kill all the terrorists, as well as fifty-nine of the seventy-two passengers.

“I’ll remember that,” Sam said. He handed the NV back to Ritzik. “You guys like Kazakhstan?”

“We love it,” Ritzik said. “Hell, they’ve been good to us. They’re a lot more pro-American than I expected.”

“Some are,” Sam said. “You ever run into a young officer named Umarov?”

“Talgat Umarov?”

“Yup.”

“He’s a colonel these days. Plugged in with the chief of
staff. He’s my main contact,” Ritzik said. “We brought him to the U.S. for training—twice.” He looked at Sam. “Where on earth did you meet him?”

“Almaty. He was a lieutenant in ninety-three,” Sam said. “One of the new generation of officers—the ones interested in all things Western. I got to know him pretty well. Did he ever marry his girlfriend?” Sam fought for the name. “Kadisha.”

“They finally married—last year. Just had their first child.” Ritzik shook his head. “Small world.”

“She’s the president’s second cousin, y’know.”

“No shit.” Ritzik hadn’t known. Talgat had never told him.

“The connection should do wonders for his career.”

“He’s already doing pretty well on his own.”

“Maybe.” Sam grinned. “But I see a general’s stars in his future—and a Swiss bank account.”

Ritzik frowned. “Talgat’s not that kind.”

“No disrespect intended,” Sam said. “But believe me, friend, in this part of the world, they’re all that kind. Even the good guys.”

That sort of cold, jaded cynicism was typical for case officers. It was evidence of a degree of existential callousness that had always put Ritzik off. You never really knew where you stood with spooks. They were manipulative; role-players; control freaks.

In some ways, those traits were understandable. Their job, after all, was to play on vulnerabilities. To identify and recruit foreign national spies—traitors—to work on behalf of the United States. And so, a case officer’s life—his entire existence—was compartmentalized. Had to be. And out of self-preservation, they “cleared” very few outsiders for entry. So Ritzik chose not to gnaw that particular bone. He let things go silent for about a minute. Then he said, “Tajikistan, huh?”

“There are a series of old smugglers’ routes through the
mountain passes,” Sam said. “Generally unpatrolled. I always had the impression the Chinese tacitly encouraged the smuggling because it brought certain consumer goods across the border.”