“I am afraid they do,” Huang said, his mind obviously thinking through the logistics of the plan to incite Jack Ryan to action rather than the consequences of that plan to West. “I’ll have someone playing the part of your constituent leave a message on your office voicemail. That way the FBI will have something to find. The number will be untraceable.”
“This is worse than blackmail,” Chadwick said. “You would murder an innocent priest to further China’s agenda?”
“I would not,” Huang said. “But the men I work for would do so without hesitation.”
Huang stared at her with hard, gimlet eyes, leaving no doubt in Chadwick’s mind that he would be the one to murder her if she crossed him — or even if she didn’t.
His gaze softened, as if he knew he’d let his true intentions slip. “You have done well.” He turned west toward the vehicles and began to jog again. “I need to get back so I can make some more calls.”
Chadwick fell in beside him, wrestling over what to say next.
“Was there something else?” he asked, as if reading her mind.
“A couple of things,” she said.
“See”—Huang gave her a smiling nod, slowing just enough to hold a conversation in relative ease—“this is how it should work. You pass along bits of intelligence as you get them, and I interpret them. The information you glean in the White House is of vital importance, Michelle. You know as well as I do that the world will be a much safer place without Jack Ryan.”
“I can’t say that I disagree,” Chadwick said, mulling over the Espionage Act, the statute the Department of Justice used to indict spies. An unseen fist grabbed her gut and twisted. She stared down at her feet as they hit the paved path. “I understand,” she said. “And I’ll do what I need to do — but I’m doing it for me, not for China.”
“Laudable,” Huang said. “Now, let’s have that other information…”
35
Lucky Optical occupied the western half of a low whitewashed block building that contained only two businesses. Tucked back from the street less than half a mile from the airport, it was relatively modern, with a tile roof instead of tin like many of the other businesses in the area. The sign for a specialty meat shop that had once occupied the space next door said it sold everything from fruit bat to “fine-hair” meat — meaning dog. Dusty windows and an empty showroom said it had been vacant for a while.
Lucky Optical closed at five-thirty, according to its website, giving Clark and the team very little time to get in place beforehand.
Jack Junior and Midas jimmied a window in the vacant meat shop and sat down to wait for everyone from Lucky Optical to go home. Clark went inside for a little recon. He asked for a tiny screw for his reading glasses. A nice lady at the reception desk put the screw in for him while he scanned the interior for motion sensors, contact strips, and control panels — and anything else that might indicate an alarm system or booby trap. The single CCTV camera was tilted toward the ceiling and would get a shot of nothing but light fixtures, if it worked at all. It had likely been installed by the previous tenants and never removed.
Caruso parked at the end of the street, behind the thick sawblade leaves of some pandanus trees that ran beside the scooter dealership. Clark drove a block away in the other direction.
The team had their earpieces in again, relying on radios now instead of cell phones so they could all be on the same page.
The chubby eye doctor left first, followed by two female assistants who looked half his age. The woman who’d helped Clark with his glasses — probably the office manager — was the last to leave. She locked the door and then rode away on a scooter, paying no attention at all to the strange bunch of Toyotas lurking in her neighborhood.
“You are clear to go,” Clark said. “I’ll get Gavin on the line so he can talk you through what you need to do.”
36
You have any idea what’s going on?” Special Agent Mo Richardson said when she met Gary Montgomery at the Secret Service post inside the north door to the West Wing, between the front portico and the press briefing room. She gave a polite nod to the Uniformed Division officer, a slender African American woman she sometimes worked out with in the dojo.
“I’m not sure,” Montgomery said. His brow creased in a grim line, like he was fighting a headache — a frequent occurrence in this job. “We were running AOP scenarios when I got the call.” AOP meant Attack on the Principal. PPD conducted frequent drills at their training facility in Beltsville, imagining assaults from every conceivable venue — water, motorcycle, rope line, even explosive drones. There was a full-scale mockup of the Ryan house in Maryland that saw frequent use by the Secret Service Counter Assault Team and Anne Arundel County Special Operations Response Team. Mo had been conducting a walk-through and AOP drill of her own with the agents she’d handpicked for the Ann Arbor trip, using a mat room in the Secret Service gym to tape off the floor plan of the Kellogg Eye Center.
“It’s not like we don’t have anything to do,” Mo groused.
“I know what you mean,” Montgomery said. “Van Damm wasn’t exactly forthcoming with specifics. All I know is that POTUS wants to see us both.”
“Does he call you in like this very often?”
Montgomery gave a halfhearted shrug. “More than I thought he would, yes,” he said. “I’ve never had a protectee ask my opinion as much as this one. How about the Mrs.?”
“The same,” Mo said. “To be honest, it’s hard not to get too close.”
Montgomery chuckled. “Yeah, the boss and I had to have ‘the talk’ not long after I came aboard. He’s a good guy.”
Richardson paused outside the door to the secretaries’ suite adjacent to the Oval and turned to face Montgomery. “You ever wish you’d worn a different shirt when you get called over last-minute like this?”
“You look fine, Mo.”
“I was talking about you,” she said. “You have a little bit of mustard right…”
He glanced down and caught her grinning. “You little turd.” He motioned her in, but checked his shirt again just in case. “After you.”
“Thanks,” Mo whispered. “I hear the second guy through the door is the most likely to get shot.”
Betty Martin waved the two agents into the Oval Office immediately. Again, Montgomery let Richardson lead the way. Both stopped just inside the door, getting the lay of the land and waiting to be told if they were supposed to sit down or just offer a quick update and leave.
President Ryan, who was seated in his favorite chair by the fireplace, stood when they came in, prompting the others in the room to do the same.
“Mo, Gary,” Ryan said, gesturing toward the sofa to his left. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Richardson scanned the faces in the room. None of them provided an answer to what the meeting was about. Arnie van Damm and Mary Pat Foley sat on the couch to Ryan’s right, along with the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. On the couch across from them sat Director Howe of the Secret Service. The President directed them to sit next to their boss. In the chair beside Ryan sat an Asian man Mo had never seen before. Her focus rested immediately on him, since he was the only unknown in the room.
Clean shaven, he was in his mid-thirties. His hair was medium length, just over his ears, long enough that he would look well groomed if he combed it or rakish if he mussed it a bit. He sat up straight, but not on the edge of his seat, a relaxed pose for someone visiting the Oval Office. His suit was modest, not too expensive, not new, but nice enough if he wasn’t trying to impress anyone or get himself noticed — a rarity in the White House, where everyone was trying to make their mark.