War had been reborn, and with it, a new modern soldier. One that did not require physical training or battlefield fortitude. The new soldiers were young men and women, barely out of their teens, having lived and breathed computers almost since birth. Instead of rifles, they used keyboards.
M0ngol was one of China’s new soldiers. One of the best, and just like the NSA, China’s spying took place both internationally and domestically.
“What do you see?” Qin asked.
His dark eyes flickered back and forth between two of the screens before him. The algorithms used by China’s banking systems were still too crude to notice the patterns that M0ngol now saw. “It’s been going on for a long time. Withdrawals and transfers over the last year. Different amounts and different times to appear random. All withdrawn into cash.”
“No deposits?”
“Nothing outside of his salary.”
Qin crossed the carpet and approached the apartment’s kitchen. It was well-kept with nothing left out on the counters. He continued to the bedroom where things were just as neat.
M0ngol switched his focus to a different screen where one of his programs was plotting locations against Wei’s banking activities. Those dots suggested yet another pattern.
“Credit usage shows much heavier activity accompanying southern destinations, toward Baoding and Shijiazhuang. Several repeated trips.”
Qin nodded on the other end and sat down on the edge of the large bed, scanning the room. “What kind of purchases?”
“Flights, hotels, and meals. Little else. A mistress?”
“Perhaps.” It was possible, Qin thought. Most men that age had mistresses. But Wei was different. He was not a man of excess, and his career history showed a genuine distaste for politics and extravagance. Quite rare for a man of his rank.
Qin glanced at two large pictures positioned atop the dark sandalwood dresser. One of Wei’s wife and the other of his daughter.
“There’s something else,” M0ngol said. “There was a maintenance service on his car a few months ago. The miles for this vehicle number significantly increased over the last year.” He paused and checked another screen. “But his phone records show something entirely different.”
“Explain.”
“They show his phone was offline repeatedly, frequently on a weekend. But never during his trips to Baoding and Shijiazhuang.”
“A problem with his phone?”
There was a long pause while more data was checked. “I don’t think so. The pattern is too predictable.”
Predictable, Qin thought to himself, staring at the two pictures. Predictable wasn’t the word he had in mind. Everything about Wei’s last months were beginning to feel like something else. His records, his communications, and now his apartment…and the two distinct photos on a dresser. No, the word that kept coming to Qin’s mind was intentional.
He knew that Xinzhen and the rest of the Politburo had tasked Wei with a secret mission. Something highly classified and outside of official communication channels. It was also clear that it had gone very wrong.
32
The lonely, well-maintained road between Ji’an and Wuhan, China, was surrounded by sprawling farmland in every direction. Dotted by thousands of clusters of dark green metasequoia trees, the landscape passed by silently, silhouetted in a thick gray haze beneath a bright full moon.
Traffic was sporadic at best, which caused Jin Tang to nearly veer off the road when John Clay suddenly burst upright in the passenger seat next to him.
Clay looked through the front window before searching the interior of the car.
“Jesus!” Tang said. “That must have been one horrible dream.”
Clay ignored the remark and finally found his satellite phone still in his left pocket. He pulled it out and quickly turned it on.
He hadn’t been sleeping.
Several minutes later and seven thousand miles away, Wil Borger stopped on the white granite steps of a wide stairway and pulled out his ringing phone. His chest heaving, he answered it, grateful for the interruption.
“Clay?”
“Wil, where are you?”
“In a stairwell. On my way to Langford’s office.”
Clay raised a curious eyebrow. “You’re taking the stairs?”
“I think Caesare’s been feeding me subliminal messages about my lack of exercise.”
“I believe it,” Clay joked. His expression quickly became serious again. “Wil, I need you to listen very carefully.”
“Clay?” Barked Langford.
“I’m here, Admiral.”
“Good. I’ve got a very excited and nearly hyperventilating Wil Borger in front of me, insisting I get you on the phone. What’s up?”