Storm Front

For purposes of this occasion, the entrance to the hotel was blanketed with security, both a Chinese Ministry of State Security detail and local French authorities. None of it was a problem for Cleveland Detroit, whose fake paperwork was scrupulously authentic. He breezed through a document check, a metal detector, and then a pat-down from a Frenchman who was so concerned about finding larger weapons that he did not notice the hidden microphone and button-mounted wireless camera that were feeding sound and footage to Room 419. There, an agent who was part of the CIA’s China contingent — and had been put on loan to Jedediah Jones’s unit for the evening — had set up shop. If anyone could help Storm sniff out his target, it would be the agent in Room 419.

“I’m in,” Storm said when he passed through the last layer of scrutiny.

“Excellent work.” A voice in Storm’s microscopic earpiece crackled.

“You’ve got eyes and ears?”

“Affirmative,” the agent in Room 419 said.

“I’m going to have a look around. Maintain radio silence unless there’s someone I need to know about.”

He entered the lobby, which was swarming with people of all nationalities, some important, some merely self-important. As Storm ranged through the crowd, the agent occasionally interrupted with something like “That’s He Ranqing, the deputy director of the Bud get Department. We think he’s legit.” Another time it was “You just bumped into Wang Hongwei. Allegedly he does tax policy. He’s really counterintelligence. Stay away.”

Storm tried to focus on the small number of Chinese women in the crowd, but it wasn’t fruitful. The agent in Room 419 identified all of them as being low-level administrative and clerical help. None of them were new to the ministry.

Finally the agent told him, “The speech starts in five minutes. Better get inside.”

Heeding his instructions, Storm went into the ballroom, where the entire Parisian foreign press corps had already assembled for the speech. It included the Associated Press, the Agence France-Presse, a half-dozen-or-so American newspapers and magazines, another dozen-or-so publications from around the world, and a smattering of bloggers, Tweeters, and hangers-on, all of whom were shunted into a small roped-in area off to the side of the speaker’s podium.

There was no room for Cleveland Detroit in the front row of the press section, so that was exactly where he went. He wedged himself between correspondents from the Asahi Shimbun and the New York Times, both of whom shot him annoyed glances. Unconcerned about playing nice, Detroit accidentally elbowed the Times guy in the ribs often enough that he finally retreated farther back.

Throughout the speech, Storm tried to peer into the clump of Finance Ministry officials to the side of the podium, to see if there were any women lingering among them, but his line of sight wasn’t the best. He saw none.

Then the speech concluded, and a press secretary burst out of the pack of Finance Ministry bureaucrats.

A female press secretary.

She glided up to the podium, her willowy body moving in long, effortless strides. She offered the finance minister a shy smile as she adjusted the microphone to her mouth.

“The finance minister will now take some questions,” she said in smooth French, then pointed to one of the journalists. “Yes, Mr. Eli Saslow of the Washington Post, go ahead.”

Storm watched, captivated, as the woman facilitated the press conference. Her flowing black hair cascaded with casual radiance down the back of her white blouse. Her dark eyes were set off by sculpted, high cheekbones. She switched easily between French, Mandarin, and American-accented English. She moved like raw silk floating on a gentle breeze.

“Who is she?” Storm whispered.

“I don’t know,” the agent upstairs answered. “I’ve never seen her before, and I’ve been working the Finance Ministry for months now. She’s a new actor. I do believe you may have found your mark.”

“Well, then,” he said. “It seems like Cleveland Detroit needs to do a little investigative reporting.”

As the press conference ended and the Finance Minister made his hasty exit, Storm stayed near the scrum of journalists still forming a semicircle around the podium, comparing notes and thoughts on what they had just heard. They mostly ignored Cleveland Detroit, who wasn’t part of their usual gang.

Storm didn’t care. His attention was centered on the woman in the white blouse. She was engaged in a series of one-on-one conversations with members of the Fourth Estate, perhaps taking interview requests. Storm waited until she dispatched their queries and appeared to be alone before he moved in.

She had an alluring smile, and Storm allowed his eyes a brief up-and-down of her outfit. The blouse flattered her slender torso. Her skirt was just long enough not to create an international incident if she decided to bend over.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m with Soy Trader Weekly. My name is Cleveland Detroit.”