Dark Ambition by Allan Topol

Donovan stopped at the bar, picked up a scotch straight up, and took the chair next to Peng.
    "Thanks for coming here to meet me," Donovan said.
    "I was due home for other matters. The timing was good."
    Donovan smiled faintly. Peng was letting him know that he wasn't at Donovan's beck and call. "Operation Matchstick is on again," Donovan said.
    A smile formed at the edges of Peng's mouth. "When?"
    "Subject leaves Monday for Shanghai. I'm worried about leaks."
    "No one knows you're here except for me and the director. You don't have to worry about us. I'll let the director know."
    "I appreciate that."
    "Your timing couldn't be better."
    Donovan was nonplussed. "What do you mean?"
    "The Chinese have begun significant troop movements toward the Strait of Taiwan in the last couple of days."
    Surprise registered on Donovan's face. "To my knowledge, we haven't picked up anything on our satellites yet. How do you know that?"
    By way of answer, Peng calmly blew smoke rings into the air.
    Donovan pressed. "I've been open with you about Operation Matchstick."
    "You're right," Peng said finally. "Our source is one of our moles in the Chinese intelligence service."
    "Are these troop movements the usual saber rattling from Beijing?"
    Peng paused to sip his beer. "We don't think so. It's more heavy equipment, including landing craft, trucks, and heavy weapons, as well as infantry. Precisely what's needed to launch an attack on Taiwan."
    "Jesus, why do you think they're doing it now?"
    Peng shrugged. "It could be Beijing's response to the Winthrop arms package for Taiwan."
    "But Winthrop's dead."
    "That fact is being celebrated in Beijing. Meantime, Brewster hasn't said he'll modify the Taiwan arms package. My guess is," Peng said sourly, "they're thinking about a preemptive strike."

 
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    Chapter 5

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    "Damage control," Jim Slater, the President's chief of staff, said aloud as he paced in his White House office early that afternoon. Winthrop's murder could easily derail Brewster's reelection next year, and Slater was determined to stop that from happening.
    Aside from the three hours he had tossed in bed last night, hoping to sleep, he had spent every minute since he and Brewster had returned from Camp David, once they heard the news of Winthrop's death, engaged in damage control. He had met with newspaper reporters and given television interviews. He had assigned Ed Fulton on his staff to the investigation, and Fulton had kept him informed of every development. In the cold light of the morning, Slater knew very well that only one thing would solve the problem—a fast arrest and conviction. But that required a suspect.
    For the first time he was beginning to breathe a sigh of relief. The law enforcement net had snared the gardener. It might be possible to close out the case in record time.
    Slater heard a phone ringing on his desk. He expected it to be the President's secretary telling him that Brewster had returned to the White House after a condolence call on Ann Winthrop. Instead, it was his private phone, which he snatched on the first ring.
    Slater heard a melodious woman's voice. "Jim, I've been out. I just listened to the message on the special cell phone you left me."
    "I'm real sorry I can't make it tonight."
    "I could meet you earlier or later. Whatever works for you."
    Slater hesitated. God, with all of the tension, what he most needed was an hour in bed with her tonight. Slater glanced at the grandfather clock standing against the wall across the room, next to a picture of Slater on a horse with the Oxford University polo team taken thirty-five years ago.
    As hard as he tried, Slater couldn't rationalize leaving this building until well after midnight again. Nothing was more important right now than steering a path through this morass so that Brewster was still standing politically when it was all over—which meant that Slater would be alive as well. "Just can't do it tonight. I'm so sorry."
    "Is your