She was surprised to hear Jonathan’s voice on the phone. “We’ve been waiting on you for dinner. Your frittata is cold,” he said. No doubt Mitchell had coached him on what to say. The first sentence was the pass phrase. The second was a bit of a rebuke. You’re late.
He’s never made a call in Beijing, Kyra realized. The MSS won’t have his voiceprint. They would almost certainly have one of Mitchell, and having her talk to Jonathan would fit their cover story better if the cell phone was intercepted. They had come through customs together, so surveillance video and voiceprint matches would come together to support the cover story that they were traveling companions.
“Sorry, I was talking to some friends,” she replied. “I hope the food didn’t cost too much,” Kyra said. Pioneer is with me. Where are you?
“Not too bad. Given the exchange rate, ten dollars and twenty-two cents, not counting the service fee.” Room 1022. The Third Department could figure out eventually what Jonathan had really said. First, they would need to separate the conversation from every other call made in Beijing by a Westerner at the same moment, triangulate Kyra’s position, and translate the conversation into Chinese. They would have to be bright enough to look up the Marriott’s price for frittate and realize that Jonathan was quite mistaken about it, given the day’s yuan-to-US dollar exchange rate. Kyra had worked in bureaucracies long enough to know that they wouldn’t manage the feat and get an armed team to room 1022 in the next hour.
“Warm it up for me.” Coming up. She turned off the phone and led Pioneer to the elevator.
Jonathan closed the phone and returned it to Mitchell. “Thanks,” Mitchell said. “I don’t know if the Chinese have a voiceprint of me they can match up, but no sense taking the chance. Don’t want them tracing my voice to find us.” He didn’t know how many they’d been able to collect of him over the years. None would be preferable, and anything higher than zero was bad news as far as the chief of station was concerned. Mitchell checked the clock. “We’re doing okay. Might be able to make up a little time on the road to the airport if traffic isn’t bad. We don’t want to be sitting around at the airport for a long stretch anyway.”
“You’re coming too?” Jonathan asked.
Mitchell glared at the analyst for a moment, then suppressed his frustration. “I tried to retrieve a dead drop before we figured out that Pioneer was burned. The MSS was probably watching the drop site, so I’m burned too. Hard to be a chief of station when the enemy knows what you do for a living. I’m Pioneer’s escort back to the States and I’m not coming back. My wife’s packing up the house right now and she’s flying home tomorrow. Anna’s going to give me a makeover after she finishes up with Pioneer and Stryker.”
“Hard way to end a tour,” Jonathan said. It was as close to showing compassion as he could come with a stranger.
“I was almost done here anyway. Would’ve been home by Independence Day,” Mitchell said. He smiled. “Next time I’m back at Langley, you’re going to have to explain to me how you talked Cooke into approving a debrief with Pioneer.”
“A shame they don’t have a bar at headquarters. I don’t drink, but I’d buy you a beer for not throwing us out of your office when we showed up and told you what we wanted.”
Mitchell chuckled. “To be honest, I was more surprised than angry, at first anyway.” He checked the clock again, walked to the door, and pulled it open. He’d timed his own ascent from the lobby to the room to get a ballpark estimate of the travel time. Kyra and Pioneer were approaching the room. Mitchell closed the door behind them and led them out of the front room. “Any problems?” he asked.
“We confirmed surveillance at his apartment,” Kyra replied. “No one followed us after we left the building. I think our friends were able to draw everyone away. Good people. I hope they don’t get picked up.”
“They might,” Mitchell conceded. “But Becca’s been toting that red backpack for years. If the MSS has been watching the building for any time at all, they’ll have seen her wearing it. They might figure out what happened after a while, but they’ll never be able to prove it.”
Mitchell turned to Pioneer and spoke, this time in accented Mandarin. “Long Jian-Min, it is my honor to meet you in person. I regret that I cannot give you my name. Perhaps in the United States I will be able to do so. In a few minutes, we will dress you and take you to the airport. This gentleman needs to ask you some questions after we have delivered you safely out of the country, if that would be acceptable?” Mitchell was intentionally vague with the details, more out of habit than any particular concern that they had missed some listening device. Pioneer nodded politely.
Jonathan moved close to Kyra. “Good to see you without a pair of handcuffs.”
“You softie.”
“Hardly. The Chinese built a big airport,” Jonathan explained. “I need somebody to watch my carry-on while I’m buying dinner in the airport terminal.”
“So it’s still all about you?” Kyra asked.
“Of course,” he said.
“Ah.”
“All right, people,” Mitchell said. “Enough with the touchy-feely. We’re on the road in forty-five.” He pointed toward the back room. “Get our man back there. The clock’s ticking.”
Monaghan’s tools of the trade were on display. The Directorate of Science and Technology officer had left a lucrative future as a makeup artist at Fox Studios in Los Angeles to work for the Agency, and Kyra had no doubt that the woman had been very good at her job. The portable electronics she was carrying were fascinating. During the Cold War, producing fake travel documents required a skilled forger with a steady hand who could copy signatures and poor-quality typesetting, but it wasn’t done by hand anymore.
“You’re going out through the airport?” Monaghan asked.
“Not much choice,” Kyra said.
“Then I’ll have to set you up with something better than a gross profile change. If they’re looking for him”—Monaghan nodded toward Pioneer, who was sitting in the corner—“you can expect close inspection, maybe less than two feet.”
“How are you getting out?” Kyra asked.
“Oh, honey,” Monaghan said. “I’ve got my ways. Besides, I’ll be fine having a long cup of coffee with some handsome MSS officer if they really want me to stay. They won’t have anything on me. I’m leaving the gear with our people here.” She picked up a Ziploc bag full of bottles. “You go on into the bathroom and use this. You’ll make a real pretty brunette. And I hope you like short hair. Do you wear color contacts?”
“No,” Kyra said.
“You do now. A shame to cover up those pretty green eyes, but there’s no help for it. I’d bet that the MSS doesn’t know your eye color, but I’m not going to take the chance. Those boys have cameras everywhere. And you’re going to wear glasses too.” Monaghan picked up another Ziploc and pulled it open. “I’ll get started on our friend here. I’ll finish you up when I’m done with him.” Monaghan took Pioneer gently by the arm, led him to a chair, and picked up a bottle of spirit gum. Kyra squeezed his arm, then left him and stepped into the bathroom.
They took separate cars. The airport traffic was light, which Kyra might have considered a sign of divine intervention had she been a religious woman. The open road meant no delays en route to the airport and offered the added benefit of keeping the enemy from hiding in traffic. Identifying hostile surveillance on foot was relatively easy compared to performing vehicular detection on any freeway during peak hours, and Kyra was sure that Beijing’s freeways were worse than most. At the moment, she wanted every advantage she could claim.