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The older man stares at Benjamin. “And this … woman?”
Benjamin tries an embarrassed laugh. “Jeez, I don’t know. I was here, walking around, checking out these hot Chinese babes … and I was getting … Well, you know. A hankering for one of those famous Chinese massages you hear about. I never dared to get one back home. Always was concerned I might see someone I know, either going in or coming out. Know what I mean?”
Another embarrassed laugh, though part of his soul is dying at seeing the look on Chin Lin’s face. Even in this moment of great betrayal, there is still an old love there that won’t be extinguished.
But he remembers his training at the Farm: get off the X, meaning, if you’re trapped or in an ambush, don’t freeze, don’t hesitate, make a move to get off the X.
Right now he’s in the middle of the X, and save for trying to dive through that window—only doable in TV shows and movies with their special effects—the only way out is through that door. Benjamin isn’t armed, because he’s not in downtown Lahore but Johannesburg—not particularly dangerous—and because these men are pros. A three-to-one gunfight tends to end quickly with victory for those with the best odds.
“I do know what you mean,” the older Chinese man says.
“Here, I’ll show you,” Benjamin says. “Just … hey, relax, okay?”
From his left pants pocket he removes a folded-over newspaper clipping from a local weekly alternative newspaper, passes it over the near gunman, who gives it a glance. Benjamin says, “See?Lotus Blossom Massage Parlour. I made a call and I was told to come here and—”
The older Chinese man drops the clipping to the floor. “Your name is Benjamin Lucas. You were adopted by the Lucas family of San Francisco when you were eleven months old. You went to Stanford and Boston University, and for the past six years, you have been an operative for the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States.”
Benjamin refuses to let his emotions come to the surface. He is no longer in control, no longer in charge. He is in survival mode.
That is all.
The older man turns and speaks rapidly in Chinese to Chin Lin, who is standing quietly and bravely against the far wall. He goes back to Benjamin and says, “In order to be polite among professionals, I will tell you what I’ve just told Chin Lin.”
With horror growing now, Benjamin says, “No, please, it was my fault. I—”
The man says, “I told her, Chin Lin, you are a traitor to your Party and your country, and you must pay the price.”
He quickly removes a pistol from a waist holster and fires off three shots into Chin Lin’s chest. The sounds of the gunfire are ear-splittingly loud in the small apartment. Chin Lin cries out, the front of her blouse torn and bloody, and she collapses and slides down the wall.
So many memories of their time together—their first lovemaking, the strolls along El Palo Alto Park and her gentle and laughing critiques of Chinese food at Stanford flash through him as he sees a woman he’s loved for years slowly die before his eyes.
The near man slugs him, he staggers back, and the third man comes to him. A hood is placed over Benjamin’s head, as the punches and kicks continue.
Before he slides into unconsciousness, he thinks,Chin Lin …
CHAPTER 7
THE WHITE HOUSE
Two Months Earlier
ON THE SECOND floor of the White House, where the private family quarters are located, thirty-three-year-old Liam Grey of the Central Intelligence Agency is sitting on an antique couch waiting to see the president. It’s nearly seven a.m. as he looks around at the priceless furniture and framed paintings and feels the quiet of the place. These walls have seen the romping and playing of presidential children from Theodore Roosevelt’s to JFK’s, Jimmy Carter’s, and Bill Clinton’s, as well as the attentions of numerous first ladies, but not now. This president is the first bachelor chief executive to assume office since James Buchanan—more than a century and a half ago.
As he waits, Liam spends a few moments reflecting on the odd circumstances of his life that led him here. He knows DC well, having grown up in the Southwest & The Wharf neighborhood of the district, and definitely not in the tony Georgetown part. He barely made it through the lousy local schools and luckily caught a track scholarship to BU, where he thrived and joined the Army ROTC, following in the sad footsteps of his older brother, Brian, a captain in the famed 10th Mountain Division who had been killed during his second tour of Afghanistan.
The Army had triggered something in Liam, leading him tomilitary intelligence and a master’s degree in foreign service at Georgetown, where he easily slipped into being recruited into the CIA and, from there, its Directorate of Operations. He’s bounced back and forth from overseas assignments to Langley, and now he—a kid who used to fish off the wharves in his old DC neighborhood, getting into lots of fights and committing petty thefts after school—is moments away from giving the commander in chief the President’s Daily Brief.
The thin black leather binder in his lap contains the morning report—known as the PDB—and he’s still surprised that he’s the only one here to pass it along to the president. The PDB can run anywhere from ten to fifteen pages and is one of the most closely guarded secrets in Washington, containing a morning overview of the world that is assembled through reports from the CIA, the NSA, the Department of Defense, and lots of other three-letter agencies.
Traditionally it’s presented to the president by a high-level administrator in the Agency, accompanied by two or three aides. Three months ago, Liam had been called away from his office to join the director of national intelligence and the acting director of the CIA to accompany them when they presented the PDB. Several weeks later, it had been Liam and his boss, the acting director, and now, he’s here alone.
Very strange, off the books, and not the typical way it is done, but President Keegan Barrett is known to like being atypical and off the books. As a former director of the CIA, the president still has friends and allies at the Agency and is known to keep a close eye on the operators that catch his notice.
Like one Liam Grey, apparently.
A door opens to a small office next to this empty living room, and one of President Barrett’s aides, a young Black male wearing a lanyard displaying the required White House ID, says, “Mr. Grey? The president will see you now.”
“Thank you,” he says, and he gets up and takes the half dozen steps that will change everything.
