Send an Encrypted Message to the Men
Wujing was a ghost — the kind you don’t find unless you’re invited, and by then, you’re probably already dead. An assassin who communicated exclusively through encrypted channels, employed by nations and criminals alike when subtlety and precision were more valuable than spectacle. Chinese intelligence pretended he didn’t exist, which, in some circles, is the greatest compliment a man can receive. Naturally, I offered the FBI a seat at his table — a dangerous little charade in which Agent Keen and I played spies for a day, complete with fake IDs and the kind of poorly lit corridors that always seem to end in gunfire.
Elizabeth, to her credit, is adapting. She’s starting to understand that trust is a currency, and I’m the only one in this absurd little task force with any credit left. She’s still naive, of course — poking around the mystery of the box hidden by her husband, Tom. That man couldn’t lie straight in bed, and yet she clings to him like a drowning woman to driftwood. Heartbreaking, really. But not unexpected.
In the end, Wujing met his demise, the FBI added another name to their list, and I had a rather lovely walk with Elizabeth through the moral gray. All in all, a productive day. Though between us, I miss the elegance of simpler arrangements. A glass of wine, a whispered name, and a man disappearing forever. These days it’s all codebreakers and body armor. Very tedious.