The Ghost War
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CIA operative John Wells is in a running battle with an enemy that may have already won the war.
Without Roger Moore to guide him, Wells wouldn’t have known what he was seeing. Besides the audio tour, he’d brought his own pocket-sized guide to the Forbidden City. He thumbed through it as Sun trailed behind, the world’s slowest chase. Wells shooed him off a couple times, to no effect. The complex got slightly busier as the morning went on. At 11:00, a dozen nervous-looking American tourists walked past, watched by two bored police officers. Wells guessed they’d come through the palace’s
even hinted that Li might have acted on behalf of Russia to weaken China. Of course, they were lying. They’d approved the Decatur attack, and they knew he wasn’t working for Russia or anyone else. But no matter. Zhang had won. Li would never forget the moment when Zhang showed the Standing Committee the papers that proved Li had used army money to help the Taliban. Zhang’s triumphant look. The anger of the committee members, the shock on the faces of men who hated being surprised more than
without having to pay for it. He had been cursed with a fine mind and a fiercely ugly body. He wished every day for the reverse, but the choice wasn’t his to make. Fate made fools of men. He’d been born alone, and he’d surely die alone. Beep. Beep. Dinner was ready. Gregor lumbered up and extracted a pepperoni pizza from the microwave. He cut the slices into small bites, savoring each forkful. His movements were oddly dainty, in sharp contrast to his size—and his surroundings. Leaky pipes had
use,” Exley said. Shafer’s comment stung. She didn’t usually think of herself as the type to trample the Fourth Amendment. “We’re fishing, Jennifer. We have zero evidence on any of these people. No judge on earth would give us a warrant.” Shafer pointed at the list. “Even if it turns out that Jerry Bright, whoever he is, loses ten grand a week in Vegas, it proves nothing.” “So you don’t think we should send the letters?” “I didn’t say that. If Jerry Bright is losing ten grand a week, I want to
whispered confidences, manufactured emotion, the tiniest of struggles. As he watched, the mole wondered what he would do if George warned him that the agency was on him. The sad truth was that he didn’t even like China all that much. He certainly didn’t want to spend the rest of his life there. And what about Janice? Would George let her come? Would she want to go? He could tell her this was the big foreign adventure she’d always wanted. Maybe he should just disappear, head for Mexico and