Black Ice Page 6

  Opening the app on his phone, he texted his contact to let her know he had arrived and asked if she wanted to meet in the bar. Seconds later, she texted back a room number.

  He had reached out to some SoCal political operatives he knew to get a little background on the woman. Lindsey Chang had worked on a couple of local and state-level campaigns but was best known for being able to coordinate donations from the Chinese-American communities in LA and San Diego. One contact said he thought she had been a political science student at UCLA, while another said she had studied public policy at USC. Her background was somewhat difficult to pin down.

  For his part, all Dennis Wo had said was that the meeting was about an important piece of business, to keep it on the down low, and that the woman would explain everything.

  It was a little cloak-and-dagger, but Baldwin had always fancied himself the James Bond type. In fact, had his life been different, maybe he would have pursued a career with the CIA. The idea of glamorous international locales, beautiful cars, and even more beautiful women had always held a certain appeal to him.

  He took the elevator to the top floor and padded down the carpeted hallway to her room, where he knocked on the door.

  It took her a moment to answer, but when she did, she took Baldwin’s breath away. She had long, dark hair, high cheekbones, and the fullest lips he’d ever seen. She was impossibly thin and beautifully bronzed and looked like she could have been an actress or a model. He was instantly smitten by her.

  Standing back so he could enter, she offered her hand, which he took. As he did, he couldn’t help but stare at her white blouse, its first four buttons open, and how it clung to her body.

  Her stylish black trousers looked like they were part of a suit ensemble, the jacket undoubtedly hung somewhere in her dimly lit suite. She wore heels that made her almost as tall as he was. They looked expensive. Everything about her looked expensive.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” she said, flashing him a smile of perfectly white teeth.

  He felt flushed. It had been a long time since a woman had made him feel this way. “It is absolutely my pleasure,” he replied, almost too enthusiastically.

  Chang smiled again and led him into the living room, where she gestured for him to take a seat. There was a fire in the fireplace and the sliding glass doors to the veranda were open. From outside, he could smell the salty sea breeze and hear the crash of the ocean.

  “Something to drink?” she asked as she walked over to the bar. “Don’t tell me: You’re a bourbon man, correct?”

  He was ready to be whatever she wanted him to be, but it just so happened that he loved bourbon. Next to a great bottle of wine, or two, there was nothing like an exceptional bottle of bourbon. And from where he was sitting, he could make out one of the rarest and most sought-after in the world: Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve 23 Year.

  The legend was that it was so exclusive and so cherished that a priest from Kentucky had given a bottle of it to the Pope and wound up shortlisted for cardinal.

  Baldwin didn’t know if that part was true or not, but he did know that if James Bond was going to sip bourbon with a gorgeous woman, this was what he’d be drinking.

  “I’ll have a Pappy’s, please. Neat.”

  Chang poured one for him, one for herself, and then joined him on the couch in front of the fire.

  “Cheers,” she said as they clinked glasses.

  “Cheers,” Baldwin replied.

  Closing his eyes, he swirled the bourbon, put his nose into the glass, and inhaled. It was one of the most exquisite things he had ever smelled. Though he couldn’t help but wonder if the nape of Lindsey Chang’s neck would give it a run for its money.

  Opening his eyes, he looked at her and took a sip, letting the delicious brown liquid roll around in his mouth before swallowing. If at this moment God decided to take him, he was quite certain he could die a happy man.

  “Good stuff?” she asked.

  “Exceptional.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “So, Ms. Chang, what can I do for you?”

  “First, it’s Lindsey. And second, how are things looking for Dennis?”

  Baldwin was usually circumspect when it came to his clients, but in this case he was willing to make an exception. “It’s always hard to tell with the DOJ. I just had lunch with someone from the Office of Legal Policy. I think we’re making headway.”

  “By all accounts you are a smart, very well-connected man who figures out how to make things happen.”

  She was flattering him. He liked it and he smiled. “It’s all about who you know and what they need.”

  “I’m hoping you can help me with something I need.”

  “I would love to. Just tell me what it is.”

  Chang flashed her smile at him again. “China is the world’s second largest liquified natural gas importer—second only to Japan. Alaska, while known for its oil and gas reserves, never sufficiently developed its LNG export capabilities.

  “Despite an explosion in worldwide demand, Alaska is missing the boat. Its annual GDP is fifty billion dollars and has been dropping every year for the last nine years. Depending on its oil wealth to keep itself afloat is a losing proposition. If it’s going to survive, it must quickly begin exploiting its LNG potential.”

  “And China wants to be part of that exploitation,” Baldwin noted.

  “Don’t think of it as China. Think of it as a consortium of investors, along with an experienced Chinese oil and gas corporation.”

  “To do what, exactly?”

  “A third of the world’s undiscovered natural gas reserves are estimated to be up in the Arctic, at least half of them in Alaska. A plan known as the Alaskan Liquified Natural Gas Project recently received Department of Energy and EPA approval. It envisions mining along the North Slope and building a pipeline and liquefaction plant. The price tag is projected to be around forty billion dollars. Though it will create anywhere from twelve thousand to nineteen thousand jobs, Alaska doesn’t have the money. My consortium does.

  “Not only can they help finance the project; they can help with all of the construction and secure Chinese contracts for as much of the LNG as the project is willing to sell.”

  “Sounds like a slam dunk,” he replied. “How can I help?”

  “Some roadblocks have popped up in D.C. We need you to clear them and to make sure that both of Alaska’s senators are on board.”

  “And if I do?”

  “If you do,” said Chang, leaning forward so he could look down her blouse and see the tops of her breasts, “you’ll be able to name your price.”

  CHAPTER 11

  OSLO

  The man Harvath had killed, the man he thought he had seen getting out of a cab the day before, was Colonel Jiang Shi of the People’s Liberation Army.

  Jiang had worked in the PLA’s intelligence division known as “Second Department” and had been in charge of China’s unrestricted warfare program.

  It was Jiang who had set into motion a crippling attack meant to plunge the United States into the dark ages. The attack had failed, though, because of one reason: Harvath.

  To make sure Jiang would never threaten America again, Harvath had been tasked with traveling to China and ending the colonel’s life, which he did in quite a graphic manner.

  The killing was meant to serve as a warning to anyone and everyone intent on harming America, her people, or her allies: There is no place you will ever be safe from her reach.

  Seeing Jiang getting out of the cab and then seeing his visage on the dash cam video had been startling, to say the least. The report he had sent back to D.C. had set off alarm bells throughout his organization, which was why his boss had reached out to the Director of Central Intelligence.

  The only thing that made any sense was that Jiang had to have had a body double. After the whole plot had unraveled, the Chinese claimed that he had been operating alone and that they had no knowledge of his attac
k until after the fact. No one in Washington believed them.

  In hopes of distancing themselves from culpability, the Chinese had willingly given him up. They had Jiang moved to a retreat for influential CCP members, had allowed Harvath into the country to carry out the deed, and had even driven him to and from the airport in a limousine. A double cross would have brought down on them the ultimate consequence. There had to be another answer, and it hadn’t taken the CIA long to find it.

  Jiang had a cousin who bore a remarkable resemblance to him. It was a misidentification anyone could have made—even Harvath at seventy-five feet away on the street. Just looking at the dash cam footage, it was near-impossible to say it wasn’t Shi—except for one thing: his age.

  Shi’s face had been frozen in Harvath’s mind years ago. The cousin was now the age Jiang had been when Harvath had killed him. Had the CIA not had a source inside the Second Department, they might never have solved the mystery.

  But as it was, the mystery wasn’t completely solved—not yet. In fact, identifying the cousin only raised more questions, particularly in light of what Han Guang did for a living. It seemed that espionage ran in the family.

  Han was currently billeted to the Ministry of State Security, or MSS, in Beijing. It was considered one of the most secretive intelligence organizations in the world. His posting there was less than a year old.

  He had spent two decades as a Special Forces operative, rising to the rank of captain in the PLA’s naval Sea Dragon unit responsible for anti-piracy and hostage rescue near water. He cross-trained with the Snow Leopard and Mountain Eagle commando units, honing skills in anti-hijacking, bomb disposal, riot control, and counterterrorism.

  For the next ten years, he had been attached to something called the People’s Liberation Army Strategic Support Force. Its mission was to provide Chinese forces with the edge in space, cyber, and electronic warfare. It wasn’t clear to the CIA’s source what he did there, nor why he had recently made the move to MSS. All he knew was that both postings were heavily focused on “disruptive” espionage.

  According to the CIA’s source, Han was half spy, half highly skilled saboteur. His arrival in Oslo had put a lot of folks in D.C. on edge. One plot to destroy the caves containing America’s military hardware had already been foiled. If Han had come to do something similar, or for some other nefarious purpose against the United States or Norway, they wanted to know about it. They also wanted it stopped—no matter what.

  After fully briefing him and laying everything out, Holidae Hayes opened a secure video call back to D.C. On it were their bosses: Gary Lawlor, Director of The Carlton Group, and Bob McGee, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Harvath was told that he would have support from Hayes, but only to the extent that she was able to give it. McGee didn’t want her getting sideways with the Ambassador if it could be avoided.

  Lawlor announced that he had placed Harvath’s team on standby. If they were needed, they could be wheels-up immediately.

  “Any questions?” McGee asked when they were done.

  Harvath had one. “Can CIA officers from the Oslo station do surveillance on the Chinese Embassy?”

  The DCI didn’t hesitate. “No. None of them can be seen taking an active role. That includes Hayes.”

  “Then I’m going to need my team.”

  “Roger that,” Lawlor replied. “We’ll get them in the air.”

  “Anything else?” asked McGee.

  Harvath wanted to know how far he could fill Sølvi in. He knew better, however, than to ask that question.

  This entire thing had diplomatic time bomb written all over it. They hadn’t inquired as to how he had secured the dash cam footage, but both McGee and Lawlor knew he was dating a Deputy Director from the Norwegian Intelligence Service. They had to suspect that she might have been his source and was therefore somewhat read in on the situation. He’d have to play things by ear.

  “No,” he replied. “Nothing else.”

  With an admonition to maintain a low profile and stay off the Norwegians’ radar, his boss ended the call.

  He went over a few details with Hayes, and once he had left the secure area and had retrieved his phone, he texted Sølvi again.

  They had already traded texts while he was en route to the embassy. She had been relieved to know that Martin had cut him loose and he was no longer at Kripos.

  Now that his business with Hayes was wrapped up, Sølvi suggested they meet for an early lunch. She wanted to debrief with him. She also mentioned that she had something to give him. They agreed to meet in an hour.

  That gave Harvath just enough time to head back to the apartment, shower, shave, and change clothes.

  He hadn’t noticed it last night—probably because he had been so obsessed with thinking he’d seen Colonel Shi—but as he stepped inside the apartment, it felt different.

  Everything up to last night had been part vacation, part fantasy. He and Sølvi had been playing house, both of them knowing it couldn’t last. Now his work life had intruded and had pierced the bubble.

  He always knew he’d be leaving Oslo and returning home. It didn’t matter how much he cared for Sølvi. In the back of his mind, his job had been beckoning him—quietly at first, but slowly getting louder.

  It was more than a paycheck to him; it was a calling. He didn’t need the money. He had more money secreted away than he could ever spend in retirement.

  To her credit, Sølvi had known as well. While she didn’t come right out and say it, she had understood that he was restless, that he felt he needed to get back. That it was important to him.

  Just as he had appreciated her coming home for dinner last night, he appreciated her breaking away for lunch today. She was making the most of the little time they had left. As was typical of both their personalities, they would squeeze as much out of the remaining days as possible.

  Sølvi had made a reservation at one of their favorite spots, hos Thea. It was a tiny, intimate restaurant in what used to be a butcher shop in the upscale Frogner area.

  The chairs and tables were covered in white linen. The gray walls were adorned with oil paintings. The open kitchen functioned as a stage where the chef, who was also the restaurant’s colorful owner, performed.

  The menu featured extraordinary Mediterranean cuisine and was complemented by a wine list that was pitch-perfect.

  As he entered, he saw Sølvi at their favorite table near the back. Even in her business attire, she looked stunning. Looking up from her phone, she smiled and gave him a wave. He smiled in return and walked back to join her.

  When he arrived at their table, he bent down to give her a kiss. She placed her hand gently on the back of his neck and held him, making sure she got a nice long one.

  Once she finally broke off their kiss and released him, he gave her one more quick peck before sitting down.

  “You look pretty good for someone who began the morning in police custody,” she said.

  “I’m eating lunch with the most beautiful woman in Norway,” he replied. “How could I be anything but good?”

  “I bet you say that to all the Norwegian girls you have lunch with.”

  “But with you I mean it.”

  Sølvi laughed and reaching into her briefcase, removed one of her personal stationery envelopes, and handed it to him. “Happy Halloween.”

  “It’s a little early for Halloween, isn’t it?”

  “Open it.”

  He did and saw it contained a high-capacity SD card.

  “CCTV footage of your ghost.”

  “I love you,” he said. “You know that, right?”

  “I bet you say that to all the Norwegian girls who bend data privacy laws for you.”

  “Only the hot ones.”

  She pressed her hand to her chest, feigning pride, before saying, “There’s a couple of things on the footage we need to talk about.”

  “Such as?”

  “You need to work a bit harder n
ot getting caught on camera.”

  He laughed. “The only way not to get caught on camera in Oslo is to live in Bergen.”

  “We never did make it to Bergen,” she lamented with a smile. “Such a beautiful city.”

  “I’ll bet you our lunch bill that my face doesn’t show up anywhere on this footage.”

  “Neither does your ghost’s. You both did an admirable job of not looking at any of the cameras. If I hadn’t seen what you were wearing yesterday, I wouldn’t have been able to tell it was you. Same with him. If a camera hadn’t picked him up getting out of the taxi, it would have been impossible to track him.”

  “How about facial recognition?” he asked. “You’ve got his face from the dash cam video. Any chance you could run it against Norwegian customs and immigration?”

  “Already done. It’s on the disc. Along with a scan of the passport he used. He’s traveling under the name Zhang Wei.”

  “Well done. Thank you. Lunch is on me.”

  “You’re damn right it is. Plus, I’m going to pick the best bottle of wine they have, we’re each going to enjoy one glass, and then you’re going to take the remainder of the bottle home to my place and put it in the fridge for later.”

  “Done.”

  A waitress came over to take their order, but they hadn’t even looked at the menu yet. Sølvi asked her to give them a few more minutes.

  Once the woman had left the table, Sølvi turned back to Harvath and said, “There’s something else that came up on the footage.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Not a what but a who.”

  “Okay, who?”

  “Yevgeny Sarov.”

  “Never heard of him,” said Harvath.

  “He’s a Russian Consul General to Norway. His consulate is in a tiny Norwegian town, which I am positive you also haven’t heard of. In fact, if you have, then I’ll buy you lunch.”