That was it. He had the kind of eyes that Maureen would have passed right over in a crowd when she worked protection. Nonthreatening eyes. This guy didn’t want to be remembered.
He had to be CIA.
Ryan nodded at the DNI, giving her the go-ahead once everyone was seated.
“I’ll get right to it, then,” Foley said. “By virtue of your positions, the two of you are, as you Secret Service guys like to say, worthy of trust and confidence. Both of you have Top Secret SCI security clearances.”
Foley glanced at Ryan, then back at the two agents, as if she were uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was heading. “It goes without saying that the things we are about to discuss have to stay within the room.”
“Of course,” Richardson said.
Ryan gestured to the Asian man seated next to him.
“Mo, I’d like you to meet Adam Yao, with CIA. He’s done some incredible work. Saved a hell of a lot of lives.”
Yao gave a half-smile, squirming slightly, as the compliment put him in the limelight. Richardson couldn’t tell if he was just being modest or if he wasn’t comfortable being introduced by his real name — if Adam Yao truly was his name.
Richardson found herself wondering what was coming next. She assumed this had something to do with the First Lady’s trip. Still, she was a protector, not a spook.
“Adam,” the President said. “Would you be so kind as to bring Special Agent Richardson up to speed?”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Yao said. He leaned forward and picked up a dark blue folder from the coffee table between the couches, taking out a stack of eight-by-ten photographs and passing them to everyone present. “We believe General Song is traveling to the United States with this man, Tsai Zhan, as his minder. Tsai’s job is to make sure Song stays on the straight and narrow. Sources say he reports unofficially to Song’s immediate superior, General Bai.”
Richardson studied the photograph. “What’s Mr. Tsai’s story?”
“He’s former Oriental Sword,” Yao said. “PLA Special Operations forces — their version of Spetsnaz. He has a considerable amount of training. He did something to his knee fast-roping out of a chopper, so he’s been with Department Two for eleven years now. He specializes in internal security. Spying on the spies, as it were. Nothing confirmed, but we believe he’s done quite a bit of off-the-books work for General Bai.”
“What sort of off-the-books work?” Montgomery asked.
“He’s not in Bai’s official chain of command,” Yao said. “But he keeps everyone in line.”
“Like the whip on a protection detail,” Montgomery noted.
“Basically,” Yao said. “But more nefarious — threats, blackmail, things such as that. Think of him as Bai’s personal provocateur.”
Richardson held up the photo for a closer look. “Do you believe he’s a threat to Mrs. Ryan?”
“Not directly,” Yao said. “All the intel we have suggests he’s just coming along as a minder — like the old KGB political officers that used to keep their military brass in line.”
“I have two Mandarin speakers coming with me on the detail. Can I give them the photo so they’ll know who to look for?”
DNI Foley nodded. “Of course. We’ll provide you photos of everyone in General Song’s entourage. But you shouldn’t divulge specifics about Tsai, or CIA’s interest in him. Just say he’s someone who needs to be watched.”
“That works,” Mo said.
“Though he’s not likely a danger to the First Lady,” Yao said. “He could well pose a serious threat to her mission. Tsai is slimy. And since he’s working directly for General Bai, who apparently hates everything about General Song, he will, as they say, be all up in the man’s business.”
“Okay…” Richardson said, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Yao glanced at the President, then sat back in his chair. “That’s why I need to be placed on the First Lady’s detail.”
“Excuse me?” Richardson said.
Secret Service Director Howe spoke up. “We will provide Officer Yao with a lapel pin designating him as cleared by the Secret Service. The rest of your detail will believe he’s part of the necessary hospital staff, and the staff will believe he’s an agent with your detail.”
“That’s awfully dangerous, sir,” Richardson said. “If he does anything hinky, it won’t matter if my team thinks he’s staff or not…” She looked directly at Yao. “If they see what they deem to be a threat—”
Yao shook his head. “I won’t be armed.”
“Well,” Richardson scoffed. “We will be.”
“Mo,” Director Howe said, “you and your team focus on Dr. Ryan. Officer Yao will see to Mr. Tsai.”
Richardson took a deep breath, letting the idea settle in. “What exactly does that mean? ‘See to Mr. Tsai’?”
Foley leaned forward, elbows on her knees. She homed in on Richardson. “So now we come to the sensitive part of the meeting. Officer Yao will explain what he plans to do, but you must agree not to inform the First Lady beforehand. She shouldn’t be given any details other than what she already knows.”
Richardson looked to the President for guidance. It didn’t seem like his style to leave his wife in the dark. It was common knowledge among the detail that he treated her like an unofficial member of his cabinet.
“You want to ask me why,” Ryan said.
“I have to admit that I do, Mr. President,” Richardson said.
She could tell the situation was uncomfortable for him, but he looked her directly in the eye. That’s the way Jack Ryan did things, uncomfortable or not.
“Because of her oath as a physician,” he said. “First, do no harm.”
I don’t like it,” Jack Ryan said after everyone had gone but Foley and van Damm. He’d moved to the small study off the Oval, so he could sit back on the couch and pout. Cathy said the furniture made him slouch, which was decidedly unpresidential. He was too preoccupied to care.
Van Damm sat in the swivel chair by the small desk across from Mary Pat, who sat in the recliner that matched the couch.
“Which part don’t you like?” the chief of staff asked.
“Any of it,” Ryan said. “Not one damned bit. This Chinese minder… What’s his name? Tsai? His file makes him look like a Bond villain. I’m rethinking the wisdom of Cathy stepping into this.”
Neither van Damm nor Foley spoke. This was not their decision to make. Truthfully, if Jack wanted happiness at home, it wasn’t his decision, either. Cathy Ryan was a big girl, extremely competent and intelligent. She didn’t have the training for this sort of thing, but, Ryan recalled, he hadn’t, either, when he started. If she’d known half the things he’d gotten himself into as an analyst, she would have killed him herself. And she’d sure as hell call him out for hypocrisy now. She had an inkling about what Jack Junior did for a living — the kid could come back from only so many overseas trips with horrific injuries and blame them on sports. He’d most recently had his ear torn half off in western Afghanistan. She was a mother, possessed of all the intuition that went along with it. Oh, she knew, all right, though the truth of it remained unspoken, as if not saying the words out loud somehow made their son just a little safer.
Ryan groaned within himself, the kind of deep, resigned death-rattle groan when you come to grips with something you’ve known all along. The Ryans had never been a play-it-safe kind of family — and they never would be.
“Adam Yao will do his job,” Ryan said. “Mo will do hers. If there’s any intelligence to be gleaned from General Song, Cathy will get it. When she’s determined, she gets it done — whatever it is, God love her.”