Bistro Bis was an upscale French restaurant attached to the Hotel George near Union Station. Its proximity to the Capitol had long made it convenient and popular for discreet meetings. Now in its second decade, however, it was no longer considered a hot spot. Exactly how Ambrose preferred it—busy but not too busy and with a staff that understood how to make themselves scarce while business was conducted. It was remarkable how much got decided over a meal in this town. One of the waiters, whom Ambrose remembered from the opulent Le Lion d’Or back in the eighties, knew more political lore than three-quarters of the members of the House. There was DC, and then there was old DC. It amused Ambrose when colleagues who had lived in Washington for a mere ten years talked about how much the city had changed—they had no idea what they were talking about. If you couldn’t remember when Tysons Corner was largely farmland, then as far as Ambrose was concerned, you were still a tourist.
The ma?tre d’ led Ambrose past the bar and down the stairs to the main dining area. Even though the restaurant was in the lull between the lunch rush and the start of dinner, there was only a handful of empty tables. At the far end, through an opaque glass wall, he could see the kitchen staff hard at work. He’d requested one of the top corner booths that offered a view of the restaurant, and it irritated him to see Damon Ogden had had the presumption to take the banquette that afforded the best vantage. On the plus side, Ogden looked nervous. The young African American case officer had gotten too big for his britches the last few years, and it pleased Ambrose to see him teetering on his perch. Not that Ambrose had a problem with black people. Far from it. But there was the old CIA and the new, and Damon Ogden was the face of the new century. Many in the next generation didn’t respect that the Agency had a way of doing things. That advancement took time. That there was a pecking order. Few were willing to pay their dues anymore—that was the truth of the new CIA. Ambrose knew Ogden had an eye on his job even though he was ten years from reasonably being considered a candidate. Hell, if Ogden had his way, he would appoint himself director tomorrow.
“Have you read it?” Ambrose asked, slapping the magazine down on the table and squeezing into the booth opposite Ogden, adjusting his belt until it sat comfortably beneath his paunch.
“Yes, sir. On the way here.”
“On the way . . . ? Let me ask you a question. When exactly did Merrick talk to Finance?”
Damon Ogden cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Before Christmas.”
“That was almost four months ago. How the hell am I just reading about this now? In a magazine no less? We’re the CIA, Damon, not Reader’s Digest.”
“Sir, Merrick’s been a model prisoner. We had no reason to suspect he’d do something like this.”
“Well, as long as you had no reason to suspect.”
“Sir, I am not tasked with tabbing Charles Merrick. I—”
“Don’t. Just don’t.” Ambrose held up a warning finger. He couldn’t believe the arrogant prick was taking a tone with him. Ogden had been the golden boy so long that he’d forgotten what it was like to be downhill from a squirrel fuck. Well, he was about to find out. “Just tell me how this happened.”
“The impression my contact gave me was that the story wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just a one-column ‘where are they now?’ piece buried in the middle of the issue.”
Ambrose tapped his finger on Charles Merrick’s face. “Does this look like one column to you?”
Ogden shook his head, composure slipping. Ambrose could see the younger man was just now recognizing the avalanche of shit that was headed his way. This was the CIA—even when it was no one’s fault, it was always someone’s fault. The only thing that rolled uphill in Washington was the credit. And if the wrong person read that article, there would be hell to pay. It was a career ender. Hell, it might end all their careers.
“So what happened?”
“Merrick happened,” Ogden said, then added “sir” as a grudging afterthought. “Once Finance realized what they had, they bumped him to the cover and did a good job keeping a lid on it. They timed the release to coincide with his impending release.”
“Maybe I should hire them,” Ambrose said. “So . . . you know him best. What’s Merrick playing at? He’s so close to getting out. Why give the interview? What’s his game?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s reassuring. Myself, I find the timing of this extremely disturbing. When does he get out? Exactly?” Ambrose took up a menu.
“Twenty-nine days.”
“And then he leaves the country?”
“That is the deal.”
“He needs reminding of that fact.”
“He’s on the FBI’s turf. Who do you want me to send?”
Normally, that would have been protocol, but Echo was too critical an asset to entrust to the Bureau, and Merrick had been on the Chinese’s radar once before. Fortunately, the Ministry of State Security had never connected Merrick to Echo. Primarily because, at the time, the MSS hadn’t yet suspected that they had a problem. Well, the Chinese damn well knew they had a security leak now, and a growing faction within the MSS believed it all traced back to a mole within the Politburo working with the Americans. Ambrose feared that Merrick’s interview would hand them the missing piece of the puzzle.
“No, I don’t want to bring the Bureau in on this,” Ambrose said. “Merrick’s name has already bounced around the MSS enough.”
“That was before Merrick’s arrest. Their analyst was totally discredited. Merrick isn’t on the MSS’s radar.”
“So we’ve been led to believe, but what if we’re wrong? And what are the chances that someone inside the MSS has read this interview?”
“Better than average,” Ogden admitted.
“So if he’s back on their radar, or worse, never left, then how will it look if the FBI descends on Merrick for a sit-down?”
“Like confirmation.”
“Precisely. So, no, there can’t be any unusual activity around Merrick. We can’t be seen to react to this. It has to appear business as usual.”
“So what do you want done, sir?”
“I want you to talk to him.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Go in quietly, unannounced and undercover, and sort him out. You brokered his deal. He knows you moved mountains for him before; best if it’s you who reminds him that those mountains can be moved back. There’s too much at stake here to allow Merrick to jeopardize Echo. Make him understand the consequences of opening his mouth again.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then he goes where no one can hear him open it,” Ambrose said. “We’re at a critical juncture, Damon. The Chinese already have their suspicions that they have a leak. Losing Echo would be a catastrophic intelligence loss. What’s the MSS calling their mole hunt? What’s their name for Echo?”
“Zhenniao.”
“English, Ogden.”