Jon still saw nothing move inside the prison, not even a shadow. Then he felt a sharp sting on his cheek. He had been hit by a return pebble. He picked it up.
Asgar nodded. “That’s the signal. They’re locked down. We’ll have to wait. With luck, twenty-four hours from now, everything will be normal again. The only good thing is they won’t transfer Thayer in the morning.
Of course, it’s possible the lock-down will last longer, maybe even a week.”
“I hope not, for all our sakes. Especially for Thayer’s.”
Sunday, September 17.
Washington, D.C.
Charles Ouray entered the Oval Office quietly. “Mr. President? Sorry to disturb you.”
Late afternoon sunlight warmed the room and the back of the president’s neck. Castilla glanced up from the President’s Daily Brief. “Yes?”
“The DCI would like a word.”
The president took off his reading glasses. “By all means, bring her in, Charlie.”
Ouray returned with a woman in her early sixties. Not tall, she was on the heavy side, with short, efficient gray hair. Compact, she had a formidable chest and walked with a purposeful stride. Some who had faced her questions compared her to a light tank—quick, fast, and powerful.
“Have a chair, Arlene,” the president told her. “It’s always good to see you. What’s up?”
She glanced toward Ouray, who had taken his usual spot, leaning against the wall to the president’s right.
“It’s all right, Arlene. Charlie knows everything now.”
“Very well then.” She sat, crossed her ankles under her chair, and paused to compose what she was going to say. “Would you first bring me up to date about Jasper Kott and Ralph Mcdermid? Where do we stand with them? When do you want to reveal what we know?”
“Besides your people, the FBI’s watching, collecting information. Part of the problem is, what have they done that’s really illegal? Leaks of unclassified information aren’t. But once we can document their roles in the Empress mess, we may be able to get them on aiding illegal contraband. Or maybe Kott has leaked classified information to Mcdermid.
An investigation takes time, as you know. In any case, we’ll need strong evidence to convict them, so we don’t want to alert either yet. Now I’ve told you what I know. What about you? Have you learned something new?”
She nodded somberly. “A big clue to the new leaker’s identity. Mcdermid has been consulting someone else here in Washington. Another associate, we’ll say. Perhaps a partner. A man. Probably highly placed. Anonymous, so far.”
The president absorbed that. He repressed an outraged curse. “How do you know this?”
“We have a tap in Mcdermid’s Hong Kong office.”
For the first time in days, the president smiled. “There are times when I thoroughly enjoy the deviousness of the CIA. Thank you, Arlene. A sincere thanks. Your problem, I take it, is you haven’t been able to identify him yet?”
“Right. One of our agents in Hong Kong believes she recognizes the voice, but she hasn’t been able to place him.”
“Have you heard it?”
“The tape’s not good enough over the phone, but it’s on its way to Langly via courier.”
“When you place him, let me know. If none of your people can put a name to him, bring the tape here. Maybe someone in the White House will recognize him.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” She started to stand.
The president stopped her. “How are you doing otherwise with your investigation of Mcdermid?”
“We’ve found nothing yet for why he or Altman is involved in the Empress affair, except of course the obvious reason—financial profit from the sale of the chemicals.”
“All right, Arlene, thank you. I appreciate your work.”
“It’s my job, sir. Let’s hope this is over soon. It’s like a firecracker that’s on the verge of turning into a nuclear missile.” “Amen to that,” Ouray said from his wall.
“Good hunting,” the president said. “Keep me up to date.”
“Certainly, Mr. President.”
“See the DCI out, Charlie,” Castilla said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
When both had left, the president reached for the blue telephone to ask Fred Klein to drive over. He needed to let him know what the CIA had discovered—and what it had not. And he, too, wanted to take no chances with another leak.
Monday, September 18.
Dazu.
A lemon-colored haze rested on the eastern horizon, signaling dawn. The aged limousine, Humvee, and Land Rover drove in a caravan five miles past rolling farmlands and wooded hills. The thin morning light grew warmer, sunnier. At last they pulled into a dark courtyard, draped in moist shadows. In the distance, the violet hills of Baoding Shan were beginning to transform into pale green. That was where the Sleeping Buddha was carved, where the all-important meeting with Li Kuonyi and her husband was scheduled. Jon studied the hills, wondering what the night would bring.
An old Soviet-made bus was parked in the courtyard, its motor running.
“What’s that for?” Jon asked as Asgar parked. The other vehicles pulled in alongside, and the drivers turned off their motors.
“Alani and her group expected to use it to transport David Thayer and Captain Chiavelli to the border. Their cover was as a group of Uighers heading home to Kashgar.”
“Sounds risky. Even with your makeup team, they’d never pass in daylight.”
“Wait here. I’ll show you.”
He crossed the dusty yard and spoke to the old Uigher behind the wheel of the bus, who immediately turned off the engine. He got out stiffly and followed Asgar’s men into the house.
Asgar beckoned Jon. “Come along.”
Inside, Asgar pointed to a pair of voluminous women’s garments like Afghan burkas, lying on a rustic wood table, one black and one brown.
“In Xinjiang, many of our women wear veils, but some go even more extreme and wear these monstrosities. We’ll dress Thayer and Chiavelli in them and sit them next to Alani because she’s tall. If they keep their knees bent, they should pass.”
“At least weapons can be hidden underneath.” The farmhouse looked old, with a worn wood floor and exposed timbers as beams. It was furnished with homespun tables, chairs, sideboards, and bureaus for hanging clothes. Through an archway stood a bedstead and a wood washstand, on which were a clay bowl and jug. He saw no sign of the Uighers, but the old bus driver sat at a bare table in a kitchen through another narrow arch. “Where do I sleep?” Now that he knew he had to wait until tonight, he was abruptly exhausted. Every muscle ached. The wounds on his face itched. He wanted to wash off the blackout cream, eat, and fall into any kind of bed he could find.
“There’s a hidden cellar. Plus, the barn has secret rooms behind the stalls. You want to sleep now or eat?”
“Eat. Then sleep.” Jon followed him into the kitchen where fourteen of his guerrillas were seated at another table, wolfing food, and women were cooking and putting full platters on both tables. Among the women was the pair of giggling makeup artists from the Shanghai longtang, who started giggling the instant they saw his face. They pointed him to the sink, where he used cool water and homemade soap that smelled of tallow to get the blackout goop off his skin. Feeling better, he sat at the table with the old man, who stared up from his food as if to ask, “What are you?” Then he shrugged and resumed eating. Asgar joined him, carrying a bowl of the same rice laced with mutton scraps, carrots, onions, and some kind of shelled bean, all held together by melted sheep-tail fat, which they had eaten in the longtang. He put it on the table with the other dishes. Famished from the long night and unrelenting tension, Jon took generous portions of everything. The thin-skinned dumplings and thick filling were delicious. The mutton kebabs were crisp on the outside, tender on the inside, and without any of the odor many Americans found unpleasant. As Jon ate, Asgar watched and shoveled food into his mouth, too. The moment seemed to bring out nos
talgia in Asgar. He said ruminatively, “Uighers were nomadic sheepherders long before we settled into farming. Mutton is to us what seafood is to Japan, beef to the Argentine and States, and beef and mutton to the Brits. That was one thing I liked about England.
I could get good mutton, and if I were lucky enough to find the rare English-raised Southdown, ahhh ... that was the best mutton I’d had since leaving home.” Jon used the bread to wipe his plate. “Not many people like English food as much as you do.”
“I loved it, old boy. Real English food. Lots of suet in the puddings and dumplings plus all the roasts, thick gravies, organ meats, and mutton. Maybe that’s why when so many Brits came here in the old days they seemed to understand us far better than the Chinese and Russians ever did or ever have.” When they finished, Asgar led him back out across the courtyard’s hardpacked dirt to a small house against the left wall. Inside, a solitary Uigher stood at a window overlooking the courtyard, his assault rifle resting on the sill. “We have sentries on all the walls, too,” Asgar explained as they passed. “What happens if you get a visit from Chinese authorities?”
“There’s an extended Uigher family that lives here and farms. We take cover, and they do the meet and greet. Everyone knows the family.” Jon followed Asgar down a cleverly hidden narrow staircase into a cellar illuminated by bare lightbulbs. Rows of pallets held sleeping men and women. Asgar pointed to the empty one next to his, lay down, and was snoring instantly. Jon stretched out, tensing and relaxing his muscles.
He told himself he felt better. In any case, he was certain he would feel better when he awoke. As he tried to drift off, his mind kept returning to the problem of David Thayer. The potential for trouble and failure at the Sleeping Buddha less than twenty-four hours away was enormous enough. Any glitch in the attempt to free Thayer could ruin the entire mission. He rolled over, tried one side then the other. At last, he fell into a restless sleep.
Beijing It was late morning, and usually the Owl would have been in his office at Zhongnanhai for hours by now. Instead, he worked at his desk in his home study. He was smoking one of his favorite Players cigarettes and putting his chop to security documents when his wife ushered in Ambassador Wu Bang-tiao.
The Owl immediately put down his cigarette and stood to greet him. For once, there was a broad smile on his face. The ambassador was an ally and friend, who owed his post in Washington, D.C. to the Owl’s influence and discreet lobbying. As his wife disappeared out the door and closed it, Niu said, “Welcome, my good friend.” He grasped Ambassador Wu’s small hand. “This is a surprise, especially considering the difficulties between us and the United States.” A slight rebuke in his tones: “Until I received your message this morning, I’d no idea you were returning.”
The ambassador acknowledged the admonition with a flicker of his eyes.
“I slipped into the country quietly, leader, because of the difficulties. I needed to consult with you privately about your wishes.
Naturally, I came directly from the airport, and I’ll return directly to the airport.” Niu’s shoulders tightened at the enormity of what would bring the ambassador here so covertly over such a long distance, but again he offered a rare smile. “Of course. Sit. Relax.” Wu sat, his back barely touching the chair. He made no effort to relax, and Niu had not expected him to. “Thank you,” Wu said. “May I speak frankly, leader?”
“I insist. Whatever we say will remain here.” Niu picked up his ashtray and walked around to sit in the chair beside the ambassador, again in an act of friendship. Still, he did not offer Wu a cigarette. That would be going too far. “Tell me.” He smoked. “I believe I’ve been delivering the messages to the American president exactly as you wanted ... which was, and I’m sure still is ... that China must stand firm against any invasion of our sovereign rights. At the same time, China doesn’t seek an incident or confrontation that might escalate beyond anyone’s control.” Niu simply nodded. With even the closest ally, verbal commitment was not the way until absolutely necessary. Wu gave his tiny smile in return. “The American president indicates he understands that.
As I’ve said before, he’s unusually subtle for a Westerner. He reads nuances. I detect sincere concern that the standoff could escalate into war. Unlike others, when he says he doesn’t want war, I believe he means it. He confirms that with word choice, emphasis, and etiquette.”
“Impressive.” Niu controlled his impatience.
“As unusual as that is for a Western head of government, he’s done something even more unusual: He’s revealed what he’s doing and why.”
The Owl’s eyebrows rose. “Explain.”
As the ambassador recounted the most recent conversation in the Oval Office about The Dowager Empress, Niu listened in silence, mulling uneasily. Suddenly he realized-what was disturbing him: The U.S. president had unwittingly given him the correct question to ask. If the United States did not want the confrontation, and China did not want it, who did? Why did it continue? At the moment, the crisis seemed completely unnecessary, almost as if it had not only been staged, but its escalation orchestrated.
He considered what he had learned from Major Pan, and he recalled the discussions of the Standing Committee. Among the hawks, Wei Gaofan again stood out. It was true that through the alliance with Li Aorong and Li’s son-in-law, Wei could expect to make a profit from the shipment. Perhaps he had been making profits from such shipments for quite a while. But was that Wei’s ultimate goal now that news of it had reached the upper levels of government in both China and the United States?
No. The Owl was certain Wei would sacrifice profit instantly if he could take China back into the past. At heart, Wei was an ideologue, a true hardline Communist who had never gotten over Mao, Chu Teh, or Tiananmen Square. To go back to those days was his dream. His sending the Zhao Enlai submarine to threaten the Crowe proved that. He would encourage the confrontation to escalate into violence to force his point. To win, he might even go to war.
The Owl remembered Confucius’s two definitions of disaster: One was “catastrophe,” the other “opportunity.” Wei had seen the discovery of the Empress’s true cargo not as a catastrophe but as an opportunity to achieve something far more important to him than money.
“The president asks,” Ambassador Wu continued, breaking into the Owl’s thoughts, “whether concrete proof, in the form of the actual invoice manifest, would be enough for you to defuse the situation with the Standing Committee. Would the committee allow Americans to board, perhaps in conjunction with our submarine crew, or, alternately, would the committee end the situation by ordering the cargo destroyed in such a way that the Americans could confirm it? In short, would you be willing to work with our people as President Castilla works with his, to end this dangerous problem?” Niu inhaled his cigarette thoughtfully. While Wei saw the past as the future, Niu was comfortable with the unknown, with a future based on ideals like democracy and openness. The choice was stark: If he did not risk all, Wei would win. On the other hand, if he risked all and won, Wei—the preeminent hawk on the Standing Committee—would be brought down by his own deeds.
“Leader?” the ambassador asked, his face concerned at the long silence.
“Would you like a cigarette, Ambassador?”
“Thank you. Yes, I’d like one very much.” A moment of gratitude softened the ambassador’s worried face.
The two men smoked companionably. Crucial decisions must not be rushed.
“Thank you for bringing me this news,” Niu said at last. “I haven’t been wrong in my choice of ambassador. Return immediately to Washington and tell President Castilla I consider myself a reasonable man, while, of course, continuing to warn of the dire consequences should any Americans attempt to board.”
Wu put out his cigarette and stood. “He’ll understand. I’ll convey your exact words.” They exchanged a determined look. With a rustle of his long coat, Wu left.
Smoking furiously, Niu jumped to his feet and resumed pacing. The Ame
ricans clearly did not have proof of the cargo yet. That was most disquieting. Proof was essential. He stopped in the middle of the floor, wheeled on his heel, and marched back to his phone.
Standing over his desk, he dialed.
As soon as Major Pan answered, the Owl demanded, “Tell me what you’ve learned.”
Without prompting, Pan revealed the taped telephone conversation between Feng Dun and Wei Gaofan. “Only one of the original invoice manifests of the Empress’s true cargo still exists—in the hands of Yu Yongfu and Li Kuonyi.”
Niu caught his breath and stubbed out his cigarette. “Yes. What else?”
“Ralph Mcdermid is going to pay two million dollars to buy it from them.” He described the arrangements at the Sleeping Buddha.
The Owl listened carefully, his mind accelerating as the fog that had obscured the situation evaporated: This was what the president wanted, and what he wanted ... the objective proof. Wei Gaofan knew this and wanted the manifest destroyed. At the same time, the Shanghai couple—Yu and Li—were pawns, trying desperately to survive. Then there was the rich American businessman Ralph Mcdermid, who must also want a confrontation, although Niu was not sure yet exactly why or how far he would allow it to escalate. Mcdermid was willing to pay a small fortune to keep the manifest out of anyone else’s hands. The rat who ran among all three was Feng Dun ... pretending to work for Mcdermid and Yu Yongfu while his ultimate allegiance belonged to Wei Gaofan.
Feng was filth. Ralph Mcdermid and Wei Gaofan were worse. All must be stopped before they reignited the Cold War or started a hot one.
Thinking rapidly, he listened as Major Pan finished his report. Pan’s willingness at last to hold nothing back told Niu that the spycatcher had finally committed his loyalty to Niu. In their culture, it was the ultimate compliment, and also the ultimate vulnerability.
Could he do less? “I understand, Major,” Niu told him. “Perhaps more than you realize. Thank you for your fine efforts. You are on your way to Dazu?”
The Altman Code - Covert One 04 Page 38
