Nate couldn’t leave Hong Kong or Macao by air, for both airports were being watched closely. There were no cruise ships in harbor. Bunty floated the idea that Nate could, just possibly, take a train from Hong Kong Hung Hom Station to Guangzhou’s East Station, and catch a flight to Seoul or Tokyo from there. He thought the MSS would never expect such a bold maneuver. That option would require Nate to wait for an unspecified amount of time for an alias passport from Langley, which was problematic. He couldn’t hide indefinitely in the consulate—too many locals.
Finally, the risk of Nate actually traveling into China to get out of China convinced COS Burns that the option was not viable. CIA Headquarters, meanwhile, was flooding Hong Kong Station with interrogatory cables about the developmental case against Grace, her murder, the continued security of the new asset SONGBIRD, and proposals for smuggling Nate out of Hong Kong. Benford personally spoke to Nate on the secure phone and seemed calm and mild.
“Your performance with SONGBIRD and with this woman was exemplary,” said Benford. “Keep me apprised of your exfil plans, and get back here as quickly as possible.” He hung up before Nate could reply, but from Benford this was a love letter. That was something, at least.
A day later, COS had a plan. They borrowed a uniform from the curious but cooperative assistant military attaché, a commander in the US Navy. The tech officer in the Station matched the color of Nate’s hair in a modified “lip brow” mustache, and gave him slightly longer sideburns and heavy tortoiseshell eyeglasses to round out his face. The next evening, humid and overcast, Commander Nash boarded a bus from the motor pool with twenty consulate employees, the majority of whom were from the Station. The bus drove down Connaught Road, through the tunnel under the harbor, and pulled up to the municipal pier on Canton Road in Kowloon for a public ship visit on the USS Blue Ridge, a six-hundred-foot amphibious command ship and the flagship of the US Navy’s 7th Fleet, making her biannual amicable port call.
As they arrived, Bunty Boothby and Marigold Dougherty were hectoring Hong Kong Police on duty at the foot of the gangplank to be let aboard without invitations. Marigold was in a long dress and heels, yelling at Bunty for forgetting the invitations at home, calling him a nong and breaking into tears. The busload of consulate employees arrived, and the overwhelmed police privates hurriedly did a head count and let everyone on board. They didn’t blink at Nate in all the confusion. Bunty toasted Nate in the wardroom, thanked him for being a mate, and noted that Beijing would be “mad as a cut snake” when they eventually realized that Nathaniel Nash was out of China. At the end of the evening, a young petty officer switched places with Nate and got off the ship while Nate stayed aboard, out of sight.
The Blue Ridge departed Hong Kong the next morning and returned to fleet headquarters in Yokosuka, Japan, in three days, a transit of fifteen hundred nautical miles, during which time Nate stayed in his cabin, ate alone in the officers’ mess, and watched half a dozen movies. He brooded about Grace; he wondered about Dominika and the mole hunt, the briefing for the DCIA candidates, and his standing with Benford and Forsyth, and waited in uneasy anticipation of what they had in mind for him next. Overseas assignment? Secondment to FBI? A tiny cubicle in the basement of Headquarters?
He didn’t know why, but he had a feeling—he just knew—that he would see Dominika very soon.
ZHèNNIǎO’S SHēNGCàI—LETTUCE SOUP
Sauté diced white onions and minced garlic in butter in a soup pot, stirring until softened. Add chopped coriander, salt, and pepper. Add peeled, cubed potatoes, whole lettuce leaves (do not trim the ribs), and water to cover. Bring to a boil, then cover and simmer until potatoes are soft. Purée liquid to a velvety texture, whisk in butter, and season to taste. Serve hot or at room temperature.
31
League of Nations
“You’re as bad as Angleton,” said Acting Director Farrell to Benford, who was standing in front of the spotless desk in the DCIA’s office on the seventh floor of Headquarters. Unsullied by cables, memos, or ops plans, the Director’s workspace contrasted wildly with Benford’s desk three floors down in CID, which more closely resembled downtown Tokyo after Godzilla walked through. “You counterintelligence fanatics waste time chasing shadows that don’t exist.” Angleton had been the zealous messianic CI chief in the seventies who saw Soviet disinformation and provocation under every rock. Benford shifted his feet slightly.
Farrell was a lank-haired economics analyst from the Directorate of Intelligence who was, in the eyes of the jaundiced workforce in Langley, an unlikely pick to run the Agency, even temporarily. He had dishwater eyes, a waxen complexion, a reedy cartoon voice, and an abiding, singular interest in promoting himself. Farrell had first been noticed by POTUS as a fellow internationalist with a healthy dislike of CIA cowboys. Farrell had further endeared himself to the White House after publicly declaring he would credit the assessments of Headquarters-based analysts regarding the political situation in any given country, rather than rely on the estimations of the Chief of Station on the ground, an apostasy increasingly in vogue after the drowning of DCIA Alex Larson. As Farrell’s comment became common knowledge, operations officers in the foreign field continued their work, silently toasting the Acting Director at recruitment dinners worldwide.
“This mole is hardly a shadow,” said Benford, controlling the impulse to tell this ponderous bureaucrat he was a preening cockatoo. “His existence has been corroborated by a sensitive asset in Moscow.” The Director snorted.
“It’s always the same,” Farrell said. “Sensitive asset says something, and we go off on a wild-goose chase. It’s absurd. What asset reported this?” The Director had the right to ask about any source, including true name, but Benford protected his restricted-handling cases jealously, usually referring to them only by cryptonyms.
“DIVA, our top source in Russia, her intelligence has been impeccable, she’s stolen secrets from inside the Kremlin itself.”
Farrell made a face. “I prefer to avoid that hackneyed phrase, ‘steal secrets.’ Stealing implies extralegal and morally reprehensible methods.”
“It’s the definition of espionage, since Judas kissed Jesus,” said Benford. “What do you call it?”
Farrell looked up, nettled at his tone. The two men glared at each other. “We don’t steal secrets,” he said.
Benford kept a straight face. “I’ve heard that homily before, somewhere. It’s as imbecilic now as it was then.”
Farrell swiveled in his chair, turning his back on Benford. “I didn’t call you up here to listen to your old-line retrogressive cant. I called you because I understand you are not fully briefing the three nominees for the Directorship. You are to brief them all unreservedly, with no evasion, including the reporting from this star asset of yours. Do you understand? Full briefings.”
“The asset is in a precarious position. The intelligence can be sourced directly to her,” said Benford, already knowing what he was going to do.
“Stop this pedantry,” snapped Farrell. “The nominees all have top-secret clearances. Brief them. Everything. Am I clear?”
* * *
* * *
“You’re going to get your ass fired, Simon,” said Forsyth. They were sitting in Benford’s office. Lucius Westfall was squeezed on the couch, trying to keep a teetering stack of files from falling on him and onto the floor.