“Appears so, sir,” the FBI director continued. “No one seems to know where the Wuming operatives are based, but judging from the attacks they’re believed to be responsible for, we think they have to be somewhere in western China between Urumqi and Afghanistan.”
“What we do know,” Foley said, “is that Beijing is pulling out all the stops to find Medina Tohti. Facial recognition, surveillance, interrogations of anyone who might be connected with her or the Wuming.”
Bob Burgess spoke next. “What about other family?”
“VICAR mentions a ten-year-old daughter,” Canfield said. “Hala. She’s supposed to be staying with Tohti’s sister in Kashgar — the girl’s aunt. I’m sure they’re up on the sister’s cell phone and any social media. They’re watching her, but so far, no sign of Medina.”
Ryan finished his second cup of coffee and gave a slow shake of his head, thinking this all through. “The MSS has a long reach.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President,” Canfield said. “I didn’t make myself clear. The MSS isn’t looking for Medina. The people hunting her appear to be military intelligence, specifically PLAN operatives. They’ve shut the MSS out of their investigation completely, apparently blaming them for the brouhaha with the Russians — and losing Professor Liu Wangshu in the first place.”
“Navy intelligence,” Ryan mused.
“That would be Vice Admiral Zheng’s shop,” Burgess said. “He’s a piece of work, that one. If half the stories about him are to be believed…”
“I believe more than half,” Ryan said, changing the subject. “I’d like you all to hold off on anything to do with Professor Liu or this Uyghur woman, Medina Tohti. Focus all your efforts instead on finding the mole. The last thing we need is another PARLOR MAID,” he said.
The FBI director blanched at the words. It hadn’t been many years since MSS agent Katrina Leung had agreed to be an asset for the FBI and then doubled back to spy for China. She also happened to be romantically involved with two of her FBI handlers while working for China. The incident still gave Bureau bosses indigestion. It didn’t go well with the coffee roiling in Ryan’s gut, either.
He patted the side table with the flat of his hand, mulling over the details of what he knew.
“SURVEYOR, eh? That’s an apt name for a spy in this Great Game we’re playing with China. I’m sure you’re all up on your Kipling.”
Mary Pat smiled. Most everyone in the room, except for Commander Forestall, squirmed in their seats.
“The boy, Kim,” Ryan said. “What was his job in the novel?”
The CIA director sighed with relief. He knew this. “A spy.”
“Right,” Ryan said, nodding slowly, like a teacher who was almost, but not quite, satisfied with the answer. “But his job had another name. A legend, if you will.” The leader of the free world showed mercy and answered his riddle almost as soon as he’d asked it. “He was trained as a ‘pundit’—a surveyor in the area north of British India to see what the Russians were up to. I wonder if the spymasters in Beijing see the connection to their code name?”
Foley scoffed. “We’re talking about the Chinese, Mr. President. They are masters at little details like that. They just believe we’re too ignorant to pick up on them.”
The FBI director stared down at his coffee. “Some of us are…”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Foley said, giving Ryan the side-eye. “The president reads
“I’m a good Catholic boy,” Ryan said, getting to his feet, prompting everyone else in the room to follow suit. “Don’t test me on my Bible, either. I do admit to having several copies of
The chief of staff ushered the group out through the secretaries’ suite. He’d rearrange Ryan’s schedule, delegating the meetings and appointments he could. Presidential schedules were fluid at the best of times, lifting and shifting to meet the needs of the day. Van Damm ran Ryan’s like a combination boxing coach, concerned physician, and overprotective father. Arnie van Damm was a pro, and Ryan yielded to his expertise almost as much as he pushed back — which was saying a great deal.
“I’m assuming you have the same gut feeling that I do, Jack,” Mary Pat said once they were alone. They’d been friends long enough that she felt comfortable calling him by his first name in the Oval if there was no one else around.
“If your gut is telling you that you’d like to know more about what connection the Uyghur woman has to the missing professor, then you’re absolutely right.” He motioned to the couch again. This was not a spur-of-the-moment discussion one had on the way out the door.
