Chapter 9

Washington, D.C.
Saturday, November 15, 1997
8:00 P.M. EST

Harvey Randall peered into the telescopic lens to stare at a lump of rock next to a park bench. Staring at rocks on a Saturday night is not the stuff of recruiting posters. It is the fundamental action of a cop chasing bad guys. This particular rock was a dead letter drop.

A dead letter drop is like a night deposit box at a bank. Only in this case, the bad guys used it to pass secrets from inside the government to a not-so-friendly foreign power. This particular dead letter had been dormant for six months. Tonight someone had used it.

Two hours ago the motion sensor, managed by non-visible laser light, detected someone moving the rock. This caused the PC connected to the laser via serial cable to activate a dialer program. The dialer flipped on the computer modem and dialed a series of special phone numbers. The software then waited for an answer and the triple chirp of the pager PBX to respond to the call. The computer responded with a preset number and disconnected.

A little less than two hours before, Harvey’s pager went off. He read the number off his pager display and realized something big was happening. The robotic sentinels were calling. Someone had just put something under the rock.

Simultaneous with the motion detector alarm, three low-light-sensitive video cameras activated. They were positioned to triangulate on the same spot. The high-speed film recorded a man bending down behind the park bench, lifting the rock up, and depositing a plastic wrapped bundle into the hole beneath the rock. The hole was lined with a PVC pipe four inches across and a foot deep. If needed, one could hide a full size automatic pistol and still have space left over.

Ever since the eruption of Chinese campaign irregularities, the Federal Bureau of Investigation had been tasked with surveillance of all Red Chinese intelligence operations. Perhaps the public had forgotten, but bagmen for the Red Chinese government influencing federal elections is a national security threat. The implicit payment for the contribution was to place several people into sensitive positions inside the administration.

The FBI is a member of the intelligence community like the Central Intelligence Agency. The FBI is the primary federal agency tasked with security issues related to domestic terrorism such as Oklahoma City and countering foreign intelligence services like the former Soviet KGB. When the Berlin Wall came tumbling down, America’s enemies became a far more diverse lot. The number of hostile foreign services attempting to penetrate and steal secrets from the American Government and industry had multiplied like a terrible cancer.

Larry Wheeler, Harvey’s partner, ran the videotapes again. “Any idea who he is?”

Even with three cameras triangulated to capture the drop from multiple positions, the only tangible evidence was the back of a head and gray raincoat. The face and hands were obscured. For all the modern technology, a cop on the spot would have been a much better witness. Due to budgets being what they were in a cost conscious Washington, and the unpopular nature of chasing Chinese moles, a cop on the spot was a fantasy that Harvey knew would never be realized.

Harvey shrugged and looked away from the telescope. “No, but something must be up. They haven’t used this drop in six months. I thought they knew it was being watched.”

Larry nodded. It bothered him. He suspected the Chinese knew they were under intense surveillance. He speculated that there was someone in the White House passing information over to the Chinese Embassy. They were not very far from 2300 Connecticut Avenue Northwest—the home of the Chinese Embassy. It was just a brisk evening’s walk. The question before them was, who would be servicing the drop? Was it a junior level flunky or someone higher up the food chain? The answer to that question would indicate the quality and urgency attached to the drop.

“I wonder how they make contact,” mused Larry. This was a point that bothered both men. The sophistication of their quarry suggested they were past the days of using chalk marks on sidewalks or changing the position of bricks in a walk. Maybe it was as simple as the position of the drapes on somebody’s windows, but the problem was that most everyone who might be the security leak lived outside the District’s boundaries. The Chinese had been strictly confined to a very narrow and manageable boundary.

Harvey shrugged as he poured some tepid coffee from his thermos. “Do we have authority to grab anyone?”

“Only Goldenrod,” replied Larry. Goldenrod was the suspected chief of station for the Guoanbu, China’s State Security Ministry. Of course Goldenrod was rarely seen doing anything but promoting Chinese culture. The only victory the FBI had been able to manage with the State Department was to restrict Goldenrod’s activities to the Washington—New York corridor.

“I say we start with the White House on this one. I think the leak is there,” explained Harvey.

Larry nodded. He popped the top on a Diet Coke. He never got used to the taste of coffee, especially coffee on a stakeout. “I know what you’re driving at, but I don’t think we’ll get to start there. They’re still upset over congressional testimony on campaign finance irregularities, at least, I think they’re supposed to be upset.”

Harvey flipped the video monitors back to real time. The gray-green shadows of the night-vision scopes reflected the nether world in the park. A shadow flicked in the background across the screen. Harvey took a sip of his coffee. A second and third shadow emerged flanking the first shadow. They moved like bodyguards. Their heads kept moving back and forth searching for any anomaly.

Harvey tapped Larry’s shoulder. “I think we’ve got company.”
Larry looked at the monitor over Harvey’s shoulder. He turned to a manila file folder and flipped it open. Goldenrod’s fish dead eyes stared back at him—a face without a trace of humor.

Certainly not the sort you would pick for a cultural attaché. However, if the Chinese had multiple assets in the American administration, then they would need a pro to manage those types of resources.

Goldenrod was the prize—a man with no known identity. He appeared across the world at several postings: Moscow, Berlin, London, Bonn, Tel Aviv, and now, Washington. The name was inconsequential and the embassy position usually benign. Each time he appeared the face had changed. What had not changed were the eyes. The British had developed a long-range retinal scan. They managed to match Goldenrod to three other legends around the world, and the powerful computer databases at Langley made the other connections. Each time a different legend meticulously developed, and the common thread was always a highly placed mole inside the host government’s elite power structure. Goldenrod was given a free reign because he produced intelligence product unlike anyone else.

He had another trait of usually disappearing like the fog on a bright day just before the scam collapsed. Now, Goldenrod was operating inside the United States. Harvey and Larry knew the pattern. They had read extensively the information shared with them by the British and American intelligence communities. They were dealing with an artist.

The face on the screen slowly swam into focus as he approached the dead letter drop. The bodyguards fanned out to form a box around the central figure. Two more were visible in the background, and they were doing very little to disguise the weapons in their hands. “You taping this?” Larry asked excitedly.

“Every second,” said Harvey.

He picked up the phone and punched the speed dial. The phone connected to a tactical response team on duty at the Hoover Building.

Larry looked at the green face blurring in and out of focus and back to the photo he had in his hand. “Do you know what we got here?”

“Pay dirt?”

“We got the man!” The face in the photo matched the face on the screen.

Harvey looked over his shoulder at Larry. A big grin was emerging across his features. They had Goldenrod in the act. “This is Harvey Randall,” he spoke into the phone. “I need an intercept on the Chinese Embassy. That’s at 2300 Connecticut Avenue Northwest. We’ve got hostile action by Chinese nationals.” Well, it was not hostile quite yet, but four bodyguards visibly brandishing firearms did not make for a nighttime picnic.

He dropped the phone back into the cradle. The figures on the screen had formed a protective circle around Goldenrod. He was bending over the rock like an uncertain cat—curious yet cautious. One last time he looked up and scanned the surrounding area. He sensed the eyes watching, but could not see them. The hand hovered over the stone as he weighed the risk of discovery against the value inside. Risk lost out.

Several blocks to the southeast a squad of black-clad Marines clambered into a helicopter. Two squad cars from the DC Police Department diverted from their normal patrol routes and headed for the entrance to the Chinese Embassy. A phone call was made to the office of the FBI Director. Any action against the Red Chinese drew the interest of the highest levels of the American government. Sometimes the interest was not devoted to protecting and preserving the Constitution.

Harvey flipped the tape system to full automatic. He grabbed his coat and followed Larry down the hall and out the back door of the house. Both had pulled their badges and guns. Neither wanted a shootout, but sometimes you did what you had to do.

“You got your vest on?” Harvey asked.

Larry shrugged. “I didn’t think I needed it for tonight.” These things always went down when you thought it was over for the day.

They raced around the front of the house and darted across 15th Street Southwest into the park. Harvey held up his badge in one hand and flipped the safety down on the Smith & Wesson 1066. Harvey liked the 10mm round, and did not mind the wrist twisting recoil it delivered.

Larry, like many others in the Bureau, had opted for the tamer recoil of the .40 S&W round.
Both men spread at diagonals once they crossed the street. Harvey waved the badge once before pulling his hand down and yelling, “Stop, FBI!”

Having seen the guns on the night scopes, and recognizing they were attempting to catch a Chinese spymaster in the act, Larry found the nearest shrubbery with a diving roll. Harvey came to a rolling stop next to a tree bringing the hefty Smith & Wesson 1066 to bear. The Novak LoMount sites had been augmented with tritium inserts. A perfect three-dot site picture emerged on the chest of the nearest bodyguard.

Time seemed to slow down as the startled Chinese spun towards the voice and started to raise his gun hand. It was obvious these boys did not intend to come away peacefully.

Before the bodyguard had raised his gun hand half way, Harvey squeezed off the first shot. He felt the kick and barely noticed the solid crack of the gun. His ears were already ringing from the blast. He reacquired his target and fired a second round. He dropped the weapon to his hip and rolled his body around the other side of the tree.

The 10mm slugs punched two convincing smacks on the trauma plate of the Chinese bodyguard’s Kevlar vest. He flipped backwards, coming down hard on his seat, before rolling over on his hands and knees to crawl away from where he had been shot. Harvey reacquired his target and grunted, “Figures—body armor.”

Goldenrod snatched the packet from the drop box and scurried back into the gloom of the trees and playground. The other forward flanking guard sent two rounds of return fire. They thunked into the tree trunk inches from Harvey’s head. Wood splinters punched out from the tree and threw dust into Harvey’s eyes.

Larry, having witnessed the resistance of the first guard, aimed for the kneecap of the second shooter. He was not the marksman that Harvey had become, so he opted for a pray and spray strategy. He pumped out six rounds before scuttling across the ground to end up behind one of those garbage cans chained to a post. He went prone since the thin sheet metal of the garbage can would hardly stop anything above a .177 pellet gun.

The rear two bodyguards had physically grabbed Goldenrod and were actively hustling him through the park towards the Euclid Street Northwest park border. If they got to a car, it would be far more difficult to capture and convict the Chinese of any wrongdoing.

Harvey rolled out from cover and headed in a sprint after the three retreating Chinese. A flash and zing greeted him from the second shooter. Larry’s pray and spray had missed. Harvey bent double into a crouch and held out the Smith with his weaker left hand. He fired two more rounds in the general vicinity of the second shooter.

Boom! Flash! Boom! Flash!

Harvey never saw the first shooter rise out of the bushes and rush him like the Green Bay Packer’s Gilbert Brown. It must have taken whatever was left of the bodyguard to make the hit, but he expertly buried his right shoulder into Harvey’s middle. The collision sent Harvey sideways and down a short hill. His gun spun away into the dark, and he might have gotten up again had it not been for the steel handrail on the steps. He slammed headfirst into railing, and the lights went out.

The second shooter retreated towards the thickening gloom. He squared his shoulders and presented a larger target to Larry. Larry pulled himself up to a picnic table and settled himself into a crouch that extended his arms over the table. He locked both arms and steadied the butt of the gun on the table’s surface. The bouncing target was becoming increasingly difficult to see. Spots danced in Larry’s vision from the first volley of shots.

He figured he had half a magazine left, but at best, he would get off two shots before his target changed direction and disappeared forever. He let out his breath, steadied his body, and started shooting. He continued until the slide locked back on an empty magazine.

He left the picnic table in a loping run, hoping to miss whatever obstacles remained. Night had fallen completely, and the few lights in the park provided little help in tracking down the second shooter. He pressed the magazine release, catching the empty magazine in his hand and depositing it in his side jacket. Hollywood always let their heroes throw magazines away, but at thirty dollars each, Larry would just as soon hold on to his. He slammed a fresh magazine home and thumbed the slide release.

Larry never saw the second shooter laying face down in a blossoming puddle of blood. He was heading for Euclid Street, already knowing he was too late. The slam of car doors and the squeal of tires told him he had missed his chance to catch Goldenrod. He came to a stop in the brighter lights of the street lamps, his gun held at his side, his chest heaving from the run, and a foul taste in his mouth.

He pulled the portable Motorola radio from his inner coat pocket. “Harvey—you there, buddy?” He clicked the receive switch and listened—nothing but the radio hiss. “Harvey!” he repeated anxiously.

Larry turned back to the park and cursed. He started running back towards where he had last seen his partner. They were out of the fight for now. It was up to the District Police and the Marines. Larry doubted Goldenrod would head for the Embassy tonight. They probably had a safe house somewhere in the city. There would be no protest from the Chinese because this never happened. It was one of those silent battles sometimes fought in exotic places, but more often in the mundane and everyday locales of picnic tables and playgrounds.

Larry never saw the first shooter slither through the shadows to the body of the second shooter. He was intent on finding Harvey alive and in one piece. The last two Chinese agents disappeared into the night as well. The explosion of gunfire in the nation’s capitol did not even elicit a 911 call. Drug dealers and gang lords had long since made this a common occurrence.

Harvey blinked his eyes open, then closed them again. His forehead felt like it had been used for batting practice in the World Series. His radio squawked. He found he was lying on a slope with his head pointing down. It was awkward to reach his radio, but he managed it on the second try.

“Yeah, Larry,” he said.

“Hey, buddy—you’re still alive!” He laughed with relief and happiness that comes from finding out everyone was still breathing after a firefight. “Eh, Harvey, where are you?”

Harvey looked around and swung his feet down. “At the bottom of some steps,” he answered.

“Larry, did we get them?”

A longer pause—a less exuberant reply. “No, they got away.”

Harvey nodded to himself in the dark and spat some blood from a cut cheek. “Okay, we start on the White House in the morning. This guy had some important stuff. Otherwise Goldenrod wouldn’t have come out tonight.”

Larry came puffing over the slope and spotted Harvey on the ground. He dropped the radio back into his pocket and said, “I know, but let’s go get a beer first. It’s been a long night.” He helped Harvey to his feet and found his gun. They limped towards the house where the surveillance system was still running.

“I wonder what was in that packet,” muttered Harvey.

Larry chuckled. “When we find out who, then we’ll know what. You got his picture, all it’ll take is some time.”

Harvey nodded. Their investigation had entered a new phase. It came down to knocking on doors and showing photographs. Usually this was an easy thing to accomplish for the FBI. The intimidation factor alone caused most people to tell all. Not so when the address was 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.