But now Liu had just found out that General Wu wasn’t even in Beijing.
Unable to sleep, Liu had been watching the late-night news on China Central Television and had been horrified to see the general making a speech from the steps of the Presidential Office Building in Taipei.
Liu’s contacts had never even told him that Wu was flying to Taiwan, and he in turn had never told his American handlers. His visit to Taipei had been completely unexpected, and Liu was now intensely fearful that the US operation would fail because of it. How would the American assassin kill Wu if he wasn’t even in the same country?
Another problem was now the respect and trust with which the Americans would treat the information he gave them — if he couldn’t even keep them informed of which country General Wu was in, why would they trust anything else he had to say?
Liu himself still trusted his Zhongnonhai contacts — he genuinely believed that they hadn’t known about Wu’s departure. But would the Americans believe him?
The special operations captain poured himself three fingers of the strong white spirit known as Baijiu, and downed the glass in one.
He was definitely going to need help sleeping tonight.
3
‘I hope I’ve been able to answer all of your questions satisfactorily,’ Dr. Bruce Vinson said with his cut-glass English accent and a winning smile.
They were sat in Vinson’s private office, a mahogany-paneled English Regency-style study complete with bookcases filled with custom-tooled leather-backed volumes, gilt-framed oil paintings of hunting scenes and landscapes, an imported desk with tortoiseshell inlay, a couple of leather wingback armchairs and a button-backed Chesterfield sofa. After so long living in America, it was like a home from home for Vinson.
The view from the window was equally charming, the leafy suburb of Forest Hills opening up across the rooftops. It wasn’t too dissimilar from the view afforded from the don’s office at Oxford University, and served to bring back pleasant memories.
But Vinson wasn’t a man to live unnecessarily in the past, and turned his attention fully to the man sat across from him.
‘You have indeed,’ Clark Mason replied, finishing off his coffee before looking directly into the director’s eyes. ‘But I have one more question, I’m afraid. Many of my colleagues have had great things to say about one of your key analysts here, a Doctor Sandbourne. Alan Sandbourne. He’s often at the White House it seems, although I only ran into him for the first time myself the other day. Anyway, I was wondering if you might know where he is? I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, I thought he might be useful on this China thing, you know? But nobody seems to know where he’s gone.’
Vinson nodded his head in understanding, his eyes not betraying his thoughts.
You clever bastard, the old intelligence chief thought as he looked at the Vice President. Got your suspicions about the place, don’t you? Angry you weren’t informed? Have a bee in your bonnet about it, have you?
But what, Vinson wondered, did Mason actually want?
Although he had acted as though the man’s visit had been a surprise, in reality it was nothing of the sort. You didn’t get to be the director of an organization like the Paradigm Group by being surprised. Vinson knew about the visit the moment Mason had left his home and told his driver where he wanted to go; and he also knew about the Vice President’s little investigative team and its interest in his business.
Despite his formidable academic reputation, Vinson wasn’t a mere ivory-tower theorist, and nor was he only the director of the Paradigm Group. He had a business interest in the think-tank certainly, but he also understood that — despite its success and influence — the group was only a front for something far more valuable.
Force One.
Although Mark Cole — who worked for Vinson as Alan Sandbourne — was the titular head of the covert action group known internally as Force One, the operation needed someone to run things from an organizational standpoint.
Cole was all about the action; he couldn’t help but get physically involved in the operations. While admirable from one point of view, it nevertheless detracted from his ability to monitor other ongoing missions. Cole saw Force One as a small unit, and himself as a small unit leader, a platoon commander leading his men into battle.
And so what was needed was someone to ‘stay home and mind the shop’; and that person was Bruce Vinson. Cole was the commander, out there in the thick of it, but Vinson was the chief of staff, the backbone of the operation who made sure that it all ran smoothly.
And Vinson didn’t mind in the least; it was the perfect job for the man, combining his love of academia with his arguably even greater love of espionage, covert ops and dirty wars. He helped to run the Paradigm Group purely in order to provide intelligence to Cole and his Force One members; the profit from everything else was just a bonus really.
Thinking again about what Mason wanted, Vinson was sure he knew; he’d had a psychological profile drawn up of the man from the first moment he’d started sniffing around the Paradigm Group, and knew him to be desperate for the top job. He wanted to be president, and everything else he did was purely to meet that objective.
So it was clear that he was trying to find out what he could about the group’s secrets, possibly with the intention of blackmailing Ellen Abrams in some way, or else going public with it in an effort to damage her reputation, possibly even force her to resign so that he could slip straight into the job without even going through the inconvenience of an election.
But despite Mason’s reputation, his wealth, his power, Vinson was not in the slightest bit fazed or intimidated by his presence. He had faced a lot worse over the years, and had always come out on top. An overgrown bully-boy politician who’d never served a day in his life was not a man who could worry a lifelong professional like Vinson.
And yet the man could be dangerous if his activities were not quickly curtailed. An official investigation of the Paradigm Group — and particularly of Dr. Alan Sandbourne — would be especially unwelcome at the moment, given that there was an ongoing operation which involved the safety of thousands — if not millions — of citizens.
‘Doctor Sandbourne is out of the country at the moment,’ Vinson said finally, taking a sip of his milky tea before reaching for a biscuit.
‘Official business?’ Mason asked.
Vinson chuckled. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Friend’s wedding.’ It was true as well, to a certain extent; tickets had been bought, photographs would be taken, receipts would be issued. To all intents and purposes, ‘Alan Sandbourne’ would be at a wedding this weekend. It was in Nice, France; but Mason could find that out for himself, if he wished to pursue it.
‘Unfortunate timing,’ Mason said.
‘Well, what can you do?’ Vinson replied. ‘We’re hardly the military, are we? I can’t order the man to stay. And let’s face it — if I made every analyst stay for every crisis that happens, nobody would have the time to eat, sleep or even use the lavatory, never mind go on holiday, would they now?’
Mason smiled. ‘I guess you’re right.’
‘I am right,’ Vinson confirmed. ‘And anyway, if it’s China you’re wanting then Sandbourne’s not the man for the job anyway. He’s more into the Middle East really. For China, you want Richard Stark or Norma Valente, they’re the best we have in that sector.’ He took another bite of his biscuit and met Mason’s eyes again. ‘Shall I make you an appointment with them? Although I believe they’re actually at the White House already, come to think of it. That’ll save you some time I suppose, won’t it?’