The Good Traitor Page 21

  “FBI! FBI!” the intruders were shouting. “Put your hands behind your head.”

  Vasser obeyed, and through her exhaustion the only feeling she could summon was relief.

  HONG KONG INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  Signs in Chinese and English directed all international travelers through baggage claim and into the expansive, high-ceilinged atrium that housed the airport’s busy immigration and customs checkpoint. Passengers burdened with luggage flowed around Kera, who had almost none and who had slowed to study each of the eight customs officials ensconced in their glass boxes, working passport stamps with grave, unchanging expressions.

  Instead of falling into one of the lines, Kera stepped aside and entered the ladies’ restroom. She found an empty stall and removed the Sabina Francis passport. She pried at the top of the toilet paper dispenser until the thin metal bent up, exposing a sharp corner. Scraping gently against the surface of the passport’s main page, Kera removed the control digit for the date of birth within the passport’s Machine Readable Zone, or MRZ, the two rows of information along the bottom. Satisfied with the obscured digit, she slipped the book back into her pocket. From her wallet she removed Sabina Francis’s driver’s license, credit card, and business cards. She considered trying to flush them down the toilet but then thought better of it; there was probably a reason signs in public restrooms pleaded with people not to flush trash. She didn’t want to risk a scenario that ended with her rolling up a sleeve. Instead, she bent the license and credit card until they were severely damaged and marked with hard, permanent creases. Then she wrapped each of them in a paper towel and buried them deep in the trash can by the sinks.

  That was expensive, she thought, exiting the restroom.

  She walked directly to lane 6. It was slightly longer than the others because, as Kera had observed earlier, the buzz-cut officer in booth 6 took his job very seriously, scrutinizing not just the passports but also the faces of each traveler, as if he actually suspected every man, woman, and child might be an imminent threat to the security of the People’s Republic.

  The line inched forward. Kera had easily picked out all of the surveillance cameras, and, forcing herself to buck habit, she refrained from tilting her head or turning away her face. Instead, she kept her eyes up, looking forward.

  Several people abandoned the line ahead of her in search of swifter passage elsewhere, leaving her waiting on deck. An elderly couple was now before the officer. Kera watched the interaction, rehearsing in her head the answers to the questions they were asked.

  “Hi,” she said when they’d shuffled off, passports stamped, and she found herself face-to-face with the customs official. She slid her passport across the counter.

  “Where are you traveling from?”

  “New York.”

  “Where is your final destination?”

  “Kuala Lumpur.”

  “So you will not be staying over in China?”

  “No.”

  “What is the purpose of your travel?”

  “Business, mostly. I’m a travel writer.”

  During this exchange, Kera had been aware that the officer had attempted to scan her passport twice. Though his expression had not changed, he eventually paused his questioning to give the passport page a cursory once-over. Observing nothing wrong at first glance, he tried the scan again. Again it failed to read. This time he examined the page more closely, paying special attention to the MRZ lines. Kera performed an exaggerated yawn. She watched him out of the corner of her eye so that she saw the exact moment he did a subtle double take and then ran his thumb slowly over the scarred digit. When he looked up at her, she averted her eyes and scratched her head nervously, tilting her wig ever so slightly.

  “Is there a problem?” she said.

  The man picked up his phone and said something into it that she could not hear. When he looked back at her, all he said was, “One minute, ma’am.”

  It took much less than a minute for the officer’s supervisor to arrive. He inspected the document, squinting at the unreadable digit and then looking up at Kera. His tone was friendlier than his colleague’s.

  “Did you alter this on purpose?”

  “I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”

  “See this scratch? It looks very deliberate.”

  “No, I didn’t do that,” she said, looking at the passport page as if she’d never even noticed the digits before.

  “The scanner cannot authenticate the passport without that number. Has this been in your possession throughout your flight?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you have another form of identification?”

  “Other than my passport? No. What more could you need?”

  “Not a driver’s license? Nothing?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I see.” The two men exchanged a few words in Cantonese. And then, “You’ll come with me.”

  “Oh. Will this take long? My connecting flight leaves in less than an hour.”

  But the man did not answer her. He didn’t give the passport back either.

  Here we go, she thought.

  FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

  “Ben!” She ran to embrace him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She said it over and over, her head buried in his shoulder.

  The reunion occurred in a small, windowless room at a federal detention center in Fort Meade where she was being held for violating the terms of her previous release, which had stipulated that she not leave Washington, DC. Now that she had proved to be a flight risk, she would be held at least until the government either dropped its espionage charges or lost their case against her in court. She had not seriously contemplated the prospect of a conviction.

  “It’s OK,” Ben said. “You’re safe now.”

  She wasn’t convinced of that, but her main concern now was Ben. She pulled away from him, just for a moment, to look him in the eyes. Throughout the ordeal, she’d been plenty aware of what he must have been going through. But seeing it now on his face was heartbreaking.

  “I didn’t have a choice,” she said. “I wanted to call, but I was afraid they’d come after you too.”

  “Who?” he said.

  She wiped tears from her cheeks. “I don’t know. They killed Greg, Ben. I don’t know how, but that plane crash wasn’t an accident. And Conrad. I’m sure of it. Has there—” She stopped herself. There was a guard in the room, but the lawyers had left them alone. No one had told her whether she was being recorded. She leaned in and whispered in his ear. “Has there been anything in the news about Kera Mersal? Her whereabouts?”

  Cupping her shoulders in his hands, Welk held her at arm’s length with an expression that was unrecognizable—part confusion, part concern. She realized that he was looking at her as if she were mad.

  “What is it? Did they get to her too?”

  “No,” he said. “No—or, I don’t know. I don’t think that’s been reported. But . . . when was the last time you saw the news?”

  “Two days ago. Briefly, after I was attacked. What is it?” She noticed the guard look down at his shoes. “You’re not telling me something.”

  “Your phone was—well, it’s more than just your phone. There was a leak of private records. Your private records.”

  “What are you talking about? Jesus, stop beating around the bush. Just tell me.”

  Welk turned to the guard. “Can we get a TV in here?”

  It took a few minutes for someone to rule that the detainee was permitted to see the latest news about herself on TV. Rather than set up a television in the interrogation room, they simply escorted Vasser down the hall to the visitors’ waiting room, which they’d cleared to give her privacy. She was about to discover the irony in that.

  Vasser watched the coverage in clench-jawed silence for fifteen minutes, until her lawyer rejoined them. When he entered and saw Vasser and Welk, and the TV tuned to CNN, he froze, looking for a moment like an innocent passerby who’d stumbled in
to a domestic dispute. He tried to back out of the room, but Welk waved him in.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” the lawyer said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this thing with Reese Frampton—”

  “This has nothing to do with Reese Frampton, whoever the fuck he is,” Vasser said. “We all know that a washed-up blogger doesn’t have access to my phone, my medical records—” Her voice broke.

  The lawyer appeared flustered, no doubt hung up on what everyone else seemed to be hung up on—the photos and hotel rooms that Vasser had shared with men who were not Ben Welk—which was not remotely the most objectionable issue.

  Recovering, the lawyer said, “This will strengthen our case in the end. If the government had evidence of you doing anything illegal, they’d release that, not . . . this.”

  “He’s right, babe,” Welk said, embracing her. “This might play in the media for a day or two, but legally it’s practically an admission that they’ve got nothing. It’s all over now.”

  “They’ve offered a plea deal,” the lawyer announced self-consciously, as if he was trying to justify his presence. “It’s very generous. But”—there was the slightest pause—“it involves giving up Kera Mersal.”

  Vasser stiffened in Welk’s arms. Over his shoulder she could see a photo of herself, blurred in places, being broadcast on live cable news. “No,” she said then, and the tone of her voice startled both Welk and the lawyer. “They’ve taken any hope of a plea off the table.” And then, in a whisper to Welk, “I’m sorry, babe, it’s not over.”

  HONG KONG INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  This is the most dangerous part, Kera thought.

  She was in a spotless, white-walled room in a sector of the airport most travelers never see. The tile floor was shiny and smelled of bleach. There was a camera in the corner opposite the door, which she’d turned and gazed into for a few seconds after she was left alone.

  When the customs supervisor returned, he sat down across the table from Kera in the center of the room. Two guards hovered placidly by the door. The supervisor had in front of him the passport, as well as a printout he’d acquired in the ten minutes he’d been gone. Eyeing the page from where she sat, Kera saw Sabina Francis’s name typed into a field near the top, but her passable proficiency in Cantonese did not allow her to quickly read the full document upside down. She guessed it was some sort of background check.

  When the supervisor finished scanning the information, he looked up at her and smiled. “I hope I’m not being indelicate if I say that I noticed you’re wearing a wig. Why are you traveling under disguise?”

  Kera looked him in the eye. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

  “With all due respect, ma’am, you are no longer in New York City. You have a faulty passport, and I’m told you have a plane to catch. You will please be cooperative and remove the wig. Routine procedure, I assure you.”

  “Look, I’m tired. I’ve had a long flight,” she said, which did not inspire any sympathy. Finally, she sighed and peeled the wig from her head. After wearing it for twenty hours, the cool air up top felt good. She undid the tight bun and shook out her wavy Earl Grey hair. For a moment, the man’s face expressed generic satisfaction—here was another American, a woman, obeying his orders—but that was followed quickly by an involuntary slackness that resolved itself into recognition. He straightened, barked something to the guards, and then left the room in a hurry.

  Kera glanced again at the surveillance camera in the corner.

  She was made to wait in the room with the guards for another ninety minutes. They escorted her to the bathroom twice when she asked, but they were unmoved by her concern for the connecting flight that boarded and left without her. Then, without warning, the door to the interrogation room opened and a slender Chinese man in a gray suit entered. He appraised her tentatively from just inside the doorway as if perhaps he’d half expected to have been on the bad side of a prank. But then he approached and sat down across from her at the table.

  “Hello,” he said. “Kera Mersal.” He pronounced each syllable slowly.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Gao Dalei. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. May I ask, what brings you to China?”

  “I’m only passing through. I had a connection to Malaysia.”

  “It is an interesting choice, though, to connect through Hong Kong. Perhaps you intended to meet with someone here? Surely you’ve read in the press about what your own government thinks you are up to.”

  They were both dancing around the issue. Kera smiled. “Mr. Gao, we both know I’m not a spy for China, as some news organizations have been encouraged to suggest. I’m not working for you, nor am I running from you. It is true, I am wanted by the US government. That is the purpose of my travel. I just want to survive and live freely.” She yawned again. The scarred passport—now confiscated—the disheveled wig, the lack of backup cover identification—she hoped all of this appeared to be the careless mistakes of an exhausted and desperate fugitive.

  “I see. And where were you planning to go . . . to live freely?”

  “My flight is to Kuala Lumpur. You understand it is not safe for someone like me to divulge anything more specific than that.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. He excused himself then, without explanation. She was left to wait for another hour.

  When he returned, he assumed his place across from her at the table, as if he’d never left.

  “Ms. Mersal, we can help you live freely. If you are interested.”

  She studied his eyes, saw in them discipline and patience—but also a shade of anticipation that he could not mask. Softly, she said, “How would I know I have friends in China?”

  “It is our custom to be friendly to those who are friendly to us.”

  “I would like to speak with Ren Hanchao,” she said suddenly.

  The man swiveled to exchange a glance with the supervisor who had first interviewed her. Neither of them were disciplined enough to contain their surprise at this request.

  “Do you know Mr. Ren?”

  “No. Please tell him that we have a mutual friend: Angela Vasser.”

  Gao’s eyes expanded and then he smiled. He slapped the table with a hand as if this was just the damnedest thing. And then he left the room for a period that was shorter than the other stretches, but long enough that by the time he returned, she’d leaned back, slumping in her chair.

  This time Gao did not sit down.

  “We will take you to Mr. Ren.”

  HONG KONG

  A young man appeared. He was around Kera’s age, handsome with short, neat hair and earnest eyes. He might have been her onetime counterpart in the Ministry of State Security, she thought, before her career track at the CIA was shattered. He instructed her to put her wig back on and contributed sunglasses and a hat stitched with the airport’s logo to strengthen her disguise. Then he led her down a series of hallways and through a door that opened to a busy baggage claim area. On the curb out front they got into a waiting town car. The driver did not ask their destination. Without a word he pulled away from the curb and into a river of red cabs flowing toward the city.

  “First time in Hong Kong?” Kera’s escort asked. His gaze was polite and not intrusive.

  Kera shook her head. She’d been to the city on two occasions while employed by the CIA. He either knew that already or he didn’t. It mattered little either way.

  “Did you grow up in Hong Kong?” she asked, retaliating with a question of her own.

  “Shenzhen,” he said.

  “How long have you been in the MSS?”

  “Perhaps you misunderstand,” he said, though they both knew she hadn’t. After that, he stopped asking questions.

  They rode in silence, edging into the heart of the city and then finally sweeping up beneath the entrance of the Island Shangri-La Hotel. In the two-story marble lobby, her escort approached the registration desk and returned with a small envelope containing her ro
om’s key card. He suggested that she could make herself comfortable while she waited for Gao Dalei, the MSS officer who’d last questioned her at the airport, and Ren Hanchao, the senior officer whose name Angela Vasser had given her. The room number was written on the outside of the envelope: 3915. Kera took a few steps in the direction of the elevator bank before she stopped. She could see from the indicator panel over the elevator doors that there were fifty-six floors.

  “Everything OK, ma’am?” her escort said. He’d hovered back, watching her. Was he waiting because he’d been given orders to see her safely to her room? Or was he waiting to send word to someone sitting at a computer with access to the elevator’s software?

  “Yes, I’m fine. When should I expect Mr. Ren?”

  “Twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”

  “Thank you. I slept through the last meal on my flight and I’m hungry. I think I’ll sit in the lobby café and have lunch.”

  This appeared to cause the young man some stress. But she was not a prisoner. What could he say?

  “As you wish. I will stay out of your way. Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything you need.” He followed her into the café and chose a seat several tables away.

  Kera sat with her back to the wall so that she had a full view of the lobby, including the hotel’s main entrance. She ordered a coffee and a sandwich—she was, in fact, hungry—and charged it to the room. She hadn’t finished eating when she spotted Gao Dalei enter the hotel with another gray-suited man whom Kera took to be Ren Hanchao. Tailing them were four men wearing sunglasses and radio earpieces. Kera’s escort glanced up at her from the nearby table, but when he saw that she still had food in front of her, he followed her lead and stayed put.

  She waited for Gao and Ren and their bodyguards to cross the lobby to the elevator bank. Just as Gao reached out and pushed the call button, Kera rose suddenly and hurried toward them.