In this case, the referent was an officer named Odette Miller. At thirty-two, she’d started with the Agency right out of college and moved up fast — a real blue-flamer. She wasn’t really Meyer’s supervisor, and, when he was honest with himself, she didn’t try to be, but it chapped him that she could waltz in and have the run of the place. He got over it, though, and asked her out for a drink. She’d pretty much told him that he was too old for her. Oh, she was nice about it, on the surface. But he could tell she was laughing at him on the inside. They were what, fourteen years apart? That was nothing. But she laughed like he couldn’t possibly be serious and said he reminded her of her uncle.
He’d just said okay and walked away smiling, to figure out how to sink her. It wouldn’t be hard. Blue-flamers were easy to shoot down.
The best way was probably to find something good himself that she’d missed.
When he’d been approached by the Chinese woman, it had been a no-brainer. China butted up to most of the countries in his division, so there was always crossover. The woman, she said her name was Dot, short for Dorothy, was pretty, she smiled a lot and touched his arm when she talked, like they were old friends, and she was happy to be around an American man instead of the Chinese guys she worked with who didn’t treat her so good. He’d answered a few questions at first, always telling himself that he would reel her in just a little further and then turn her with his enigmatic personality.
There had been no big reveal, no traumatic moment when she’d said, “Sorry, Tim, you’ve gone too far with us. We have you now.” He’d just known it. In truth, he’d enjoyed the work, the feeling of superiority he got from sitting at his desk and knowing when everyone else did not. Clandestine CIA officers felt that a little bit when they just went to the store, or to a family reunion, but pulling the wool over everyone at Langley — and getting paid for it — that had to be the most satisfying feeling in the world. And if he got to topple the imperious Odette Miller off her lofty career ladder when he popped smoke and left right under her nose, that was just gravy.
Rask had unwittingly passed on intel the Chinese had been salivating to get for years. Oh, the stuff about the Albanian op was interesting, and Meyer’s handler had paid him a bonus for it. Meyer had done a little digging, tangentially, so he didn’t get his hands dirty, and it turned out that the same officer who Leigh Murphy mentioned in her report was planning something big. Meyer could only glean bits and pieces. Requests for some unspecified activity in Novosibirsk, Russia, and a safe house in Almaty, Kazakhstan.
All of it was good stuff — get-imprisoned-for-espionage stuff — but Dot pressed him hard for one thing above all else. She wanted to know the identity of the case officer who had called Leigh Murphy in the first place, the person who had asked her to interview the Uyghur. According to Rask, she must have known him well. They’d probably worked together on a past op. Murphy had been stationed in Africa before, Meyer had that much. Maybe they’d been stationed there together. He’d do some checking, ginning up some connection to a CI case he was helping with. Hell, maybe he’d just call Murphy, tell her he was running something down and needed her help. Rask said she seemed like a ladder-climber. She’d probably be happy to help out someone from HQ. He’d play her a little and get some leads. The thought occurred to him that the Chinese might talk to her first, but he put that out of his mind.
With the mole hunters poking under every stone, Meyer needed to work quickly so he could get out of here before they started casting wider nets. So far, nobody expected he would know anything about the China desk. In fact, no one expected him to know much about anything at all.
He’d find out what Dot wanted. Rask had told him about Murphy’s after-action report, how she was vague to the point of insubordination. She’d identified her friend only by a cryptonym, an NOC, or officer with no official diplomatic cover. This guy wouldn’t get booted out of the country and declared persona non grata if he was caught. He’d be imprisoned or killed. If the Chinese were smart, they would watch him for a while, learn who his assets were, and then scoop everyone up at the same time.
Meyer had heard the cryptonym before, and it gave him a place to start.
CROSSTIE.
Fu Bohai woke to the hum of his mobile phone on the nightstand next to his hotel bed. He peeled back the Egyptian cotton sheet, sodden with sweat, and rolled away from the naked Russian woman who lay draped across his chest and thigh.
She stirred, smacking her lips in sleep. “Tell them to crawl away and die,” she said, her Russian thick with the aftereffects of too much blini and Ossetra caviar, and precisely the right amount of vodka and sex.
