Chapter 8
It was getting late by the time Alice got off the subway and stopped in front of an old building.
It had obviously been rejuvenated. A bit. It wasn’t the tenement it had once been, a holding pen for poor students. They used to call themselves “battery students,” like the chickens. All crammed in together.
She had wanted to come on her own, rather than relying on phone and video calls. It was a good excuse to get away from Washington, but as a journalist, she always preferred to talk to people in person. And she wanted to spend some time with her memories of Liam here.
Looking at the tenement building, she wondered if a whole new flock of young, idealistic kids lived there now.
Her mind went back to her roommates, to her tiny room, to the shared bathroom for six women, to the cockroaches in the kitchen, the parties, and, inevitably, to the first time she met Liam.
Gangly, rubber-faced Liam. “Geeky” was the word, with his taped-up glasses and thick brown hair. Toilet paper was often stuck to his face to stop the bleeding from razor nicks. He was a mess.
But he was funny, and gentle, and kind. He was happy. And he was brilliant.
And now he was …
She stopped herself. Keep looking forward, she told herself as she turned from the building and headed north up Broadway. To 116th Street. And those grand gates.
The portal, she’d believed, to her grand new life.
Columbia. How excited she’d been when she’d learned she’d been accepted into the journalism school here. J-school.
She’d taken investigative reporting as one of her electives. She loved the idea of exposing wrongdoing, holding people to account, and speaking truth to power. The job of the fourth estate. Or at least it should be.
But the fifth estate was throwing shadow on traditional media, on traditional trained reporters.
Social media was now the loudest voice in the room.
Untrained, undisciplined, filled with agendas and anger and misinformation.
They were seeing it run wild already, spreading rumors and conspiracy theories about the attacks.
The fifth estate was capable of great good. And even greater damage. Just ask anyone who was Asian today. Even as she walked down the street, Alice could feel people’s eyes on her. As though she were responsible for what had happened that morning.
Alice felt a sharp shove as students pushed past her, sticking out their shoulders to shove her out of their way.
“Alice!”
A petite blonde with a streak of pink in her hair and baggy pants came toward her.
“Jen!” Just the person she’d planned to meet. Alice embraced her old classmate.
“I was shocked when you told me about Liam,” Jen said, hooking her arm through Alice’s as they walked. “I googled, but there isn’t anything out yet.”
“No. I guess they want to contact the family first.”
“But Liam. Our Liam. Drowned. I’m sorry.
I know you were close. What a fucking awful day.
Between that and those alarms. The commentators are saying it’s some sort of Chinese mind-fuck.
” Jen looked like a ten-year-old and swore like a pirate.
She dropped her voice. “Does your mother know anything about it?”
Of course Jen would know her mother’s background as a so-called expert on China. In the hours since they’d left the White House, Vivien had been approached by all the major news outlets for interviews. And refused them all.
“Not that I know of.” This was not going according to plan. In fact, Alice had to strain to even remember the plan. It was so vague.
Again, Jen lowered her voice. “What’ve you heard?”
“Nothing. I’m as stumped as you are. And you know my mother wouldn’t tell me anything even if, especially if, she knew.
Like I told you on the phone, I’m really here about Liam.
I’m thinking of writing a piece about him, for the alumni magazine, but I need information.
I also want to contact his family, but I don’t have an address. ”
“Neither do I. We didn’t keep in touch.”
Students continued to walk quickly by. A few gave Alice a sideways glance.
It brought back memories of the beginning of the pandemic, when people would move away from her on the subway. In restaurants. They’d cross the street. And give her that look. As though she herself were responsible. If she coughed, it was like she’d thrown a grenade.
And now she was apparently also responsible for the alarms that morning. And whatever might happen next. Jen’s next question brought her up short.
“Are you really here just to get an address for Liam’s family?”
“Why else?”
“Well, doesn’t his death seem strange? Falling off the ferry in Hong Kong? Even for Liam, that would be klutzy.”
Alice smiled. “No. I just need an address for his family.”
Jen thought for a moment, then said, “All I know is that he lives in Akron. I think that’s where he’s from. I’d heard that he was working for some food distribution company.”
“Yes,” said Alice. “You think his family is there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you get me an address for them?”
Jen considered. “I have an idea. Why don’t we call some of our old group? Hold a sort of wake for him. You might get some stories you can use in your piece, and one of them might have an address. Besides, I could use a drink.” She studied Alice. “Looks like you can too.”
That was true.
Grant McAllister’s hand rested on the handle of the drawer where he kept the whiskey bottle.
It was a sad cliché, one he’d promised himself never to fall into, and yet here he was. Longing for a drink. And it wouldn’t be the first of the day. Or the last.
But he had a meeting to get to, and he probably shouldn’t have booze on his breath, even if most of those present would be remote. Some very remote.
Though he doubted, as he grabbed his beaten-up satchel, he’d be the only one there who’d needed to “take the edge off.”
The others from his department were already assembled in the secure room, including Alan Zhou. They stood as he entered, and he waved them down.
“Okay.” He nodded to the technician. “Let’s get this underway.”
At the touch of a single key, the large screens came alive, and suddenly the room was crowded. Each square held a face. Each face held a worried expression. The Europeans also looked exhausted. For them, it was nearly midnight, or later.
For McAllister, it was just going on five p.m.
This was an extraordinary meeting. Normally he’d turn first to the Five Eyes, the watchful allies who kept a weather eye on what was happening in their hemisphere.
But today the invitation was much broader. No one got their face on this wall without earning it. These were not political appointees. These were hardened intelligence chiefs, with the battle scars to prove it.
Grant McAllister, as head of US Intelligence, chaired the meeting.
“We’ll go around clockwise, starting with the UK. What do we know, Fillmore?”
He’d started with MI6 and saw Galloway, of MI5, bristle.
No wonder the Chinese were able to get under their defenses; they were all too busy with internecine fighting to notice an intrusion. It was worse than the Vatican.
“It was definitely from China,” said Janet Fillmore. “We have corroborative evidence. The signal came from somewhere in Fujian province. We haven’t been able to pin down exactly where. It was a momentary blip. We’re lucky to have this much.”
“Fujian,” said the Australian Intelligence chief, one of the Five Eyes. The head of his China desk had whispered to him, “Across from Taiwan.”
“Yes,” said Fillmore.
“Is it possible the signal came from Taiwan?” asked the head of the BND, the German Intelligence service.
“We have the signal coming from Jiangxi province,” said Italy.
And with that, the fragile meeting, of surprisingly fragile egos, descended into acrimony, as the various intelligence chiefs argued. Took umbrage. Were variously offensive and defensive.
“Enough!” This from McAllister. “What we do know is that it came from China. Are we agreed?”
There were reluctant nods.
“Good. Did anyone hear anything about this? Any warning at all, no matter how unlikely it seemed?”
Heads reluctantly shook. No.
McAllister glared at them. “The truth. No matter how embarrassing. Nothing goes beyond this room.” Silence. “Are you telling me an event of this magnitude, years in the making, got by all of us?”
“Even you,” Galloway, the head of MI5, pointed out.
“Yes,” snapped McAllister, then reined it in. “Yes. We missed it too. We have heard that there’s going to be a new head of the Ministry of State Security. Someone possibly connected to Double Dragon.”
An aide was speaking urgently, and quietly, to the head of the French DGSE, who then broke in. “Double Dragon is a deepfake created by the MSS. It exists in name only. If there’s a new head, it must be empty.”
Alan Zhou, behind McAllister, smiled.
“Right. And the attack today was also a deepfake,” said Germany.
“Listen, it’s becoming fairly clear that everything we thought we knew about China and the intentions of Chen and the Politburo might be wrong.
” He seemed to stare into each of their eyes.
“We have to accept that we’ve been had. And we have to start looking at the unlikely.
To reconsider the things we’d dismissed.
So let’s just assume Double Dragon exists.
” He turned back to McAllister. “Go on.”
“What I was about to say is that it seems the new head of the MSS is a woman.”
If raised eyebrows made a noise, it would have been deafening.
“Eeyore has chosen a woman to head his secret police?” said Italy. “That seems unlikely. Who is she?”
“No idea. I’ve seen a photo of her, but the informant wouldn’t give it to us. Too dangerous.”
“You’re being lied to,” said Australia.
“Possibly,” admitted McAllister. “I think for now we need to assume it’s not a lie. That Wang Lai is out and the woman from Double Dragon is in. But if you’re convinced Double Dragon doesn’t exist, then pursue something else.”