“My flight leaves in twenty minutes.”
“Then understand this: Continue to observe and do not interfere unless there’s more trouble.” He hesitated a fraction of a second, weighing the enormity of the step he was about to take. “If trouble erupts, I authorize you to help Li Kuonyi and Colonel Smith. Either you or Colonel Smith must retrieve the manifest safely. It’s imperative.”
The silence was like a held breath. “Is that an order, master?”
“Consider it so. If it becomes necessary, show my written instructions.
You’re working only for me, and you have my full protection.”
There. It was done. Now there could be no turning back. It was he or Wei Gaofan—forward into the unknown future, or back to an unworkable past.
And it rested in the hands of others. He fought off a shudder. But there it was. A wise man knew whom to trust.
Chapter Thirty-Eight.
Dazu.
Jon awakened to a sense of claustrophobia, of bodies packed around like com in a can. He grabbed his Beretta, sat bolt upright, and swept the big semiautomatic through the dim illumination. And remembered where he was. The Uighers’ cellar. The air was pungent with body odors and warm exhalations, although only a half dozen fighters remained. All were sleeping. Everyone else had gone, including Asgar.
Heart still pounding, he lowered the weapon and checked his watch. The green glow of the dial showed 2:06 p.m. He had been asleep more than nine hours, which was astounding. He seldom slept more than seven.
He stood carefully and stretched. His muscles complained but not too loudly. His ribs ached. No sharp pains. His face felt fine. It would itch later, particularly when he sweated. Nothing fatal.
He padded to the steps. At the top, he raised the trap and climbed out into the satellite house. A new sentry stood guard at the window, while across the courtyard was movement in the main house’s kitchen. Fighting off a sense of urgency, of a need to get on with it, he strolled outdoors. Strolling was something he did infrequently, too.
The sun was warm, the sky porcelain blue, and a gentle breeze stirred the willows and cottonwoods. The chilies that had been laid out to dry on mats around the dirt courtyard were an encircling carpet of scarlet.
Their peppery scent filled the air, reminding him he was in Sichuan Province, famous for its spicy cuisine.
Asgar was in the kitchen, sipping a mug of hot tea with milk, English style. He looked up, surprised. “Are you mad? Why aren’t you still asleep?”
“Nine hours is enough, for God’s sakes,” Jon told him.
“Not if nine hours is spread over five days.”
“I’ve caught a few naps here and there.”
“Yeah, you look really rested. Solid as a sand devil. Check yourself in the mirror. With that face, you can go to All Hallow’s Eve without a mask.”
Jon gave a thin smile. “Is there a phone I can use? I don’t want to tempt fate in case someone around here is triangulating cell calls.”
“Next room.”
Jon found the telephone. Using the phone card Fred Klein had given him, he dialed Klein. It was yet another gamble. Public Security could be monitoring land lines, too.
“Klein.” Jon went into character: “Uncle Fred?” he said in halting English. “It’s been so long, and you haven’t called. Tell me about America. Does Aunt Lili like it?” Aunt Lili was code for possible monitoring.
“Everything’s fine, nephew Mao. How’s your assignment?”
“The first phase had to be postponed, but I can do it at the same time as the second phase.”
There was hesitation and a note of disapproval: “I’m sorry to hear that.
The second phase could be harmed.” Concerned, Fred was reminding him that at the first sign of serious trouble at the prison farm, they would have to scrub the rescue. The meeting at the Sleeping Buddha remained their first priority.
“Well, that’s worried me, too. I’ll just have to see how it goes.”
Another pause, this time as Klein shifted gears: “You must phone instantly when you have news. We can hardly wait. Did you find your cousin Xing Bao?”
“I’m in his house now.”
“That’s a relief. You must be enjoying each other, but this is costing you too much, Mao. I promise I’ll write a very long letter first thing tomorrow.”
“I look forward to it with pleasure, now that I’ve heard your honored voice again.” Jon hung up. Asgar called from the other room, “And?” Jon rejoined him. “The priority remains the same. As soon as we have the manifest, I need to call Klein to let him know.”
“Poor David Thayer.”
“Not if we can help it. We’ll do everything we can to get him out, too.
Did you go to the Sleeping Buddha?”
“Yes, we did a thorough recon.” He laid a deck of English playing cards on the table. “I left ten of my best people behind to keep watch. They have walkie-talkies. Get some food, and I’ll fill you in. Then we’ll play some two-handed poker. If you don’t know how, I’ll teach you.”
“Are you hustling me?” Asgar smiled innocently. “I picked it up at school. Strictly amateur.
Nice hobby, when one has time to kill.” For a moment, anxiousness and nerves showed in his expression. And then they were gone. “Okay,” Jon said. There was no way he was going to sleep more now anyway.
“Two-dollar limit, or whatever that is in your money. Straight poker. No wild cards. After I wash my face, I’m in.” Jon knew he was being hustled, but they had to do something to make the time pass. They had at least six hours to keep each other sane, before darkness arrived and they could begin their night’s work.
Monday, September 18.
Washington, D.C.
Fred Klein was puffing on his pipe angrily, and the special ventilation system was straining to clear the air, when President Castilla walked into his Covert-One office. The president sat. His large body was rigid, his shoulders stiffly square. His jowls looked like concrete. “You have news?” No greeting, no preamble. Klein was in the same bleak frame of mind. He put down the pipe, crossed his arms, and announced, “It took five of my best corporate and financial experts to ferret this out: The Altman Group owns an arms manufacturing firm called Consolidated Defense, Inc. As with many of Altman’s holdings, this one’s hidden behind a paper trail that boggles the mind—subsidiaries, associated companies, holding companies, satellite companies ... you name it, the ownership winds through a quicksand intended to deceive. Still, the ultimate ownership is clear.”
“What’s the bottom line?” “As I said, Altman and Ralph Mcdermid own the majority shares in Consolidated Defense and reap its rewards.”
“This isn’t particularly new. Altman’s heavily invested in defense. Why do we care about Consolidated?”
“You’re going to think this is a digression, but it’s not: Let’s discuss the Protector mobile artillery system. It was a millimeter from final approval. Then you decided that in our new world of terrorists and brushfire wars, heavy artillery systems like it were outdated. Often totally useless.”
“The Protector crushes most bridges because it’s too heavy. It can’t be pulled out of the bog of a country road without major support. It certainly can’t be easily airlifted. It’s irrelevant or worse.”
“It’s still irrelevant,” Klein assured him. “But that was an $11 billion contract that just evaporated. Consider this, the Altman Group at last count had some $12.5 billion in investments. That’s serious money for a private equity firm. But Altman’s accustomed to making big money—more than thirty-four percent returns annually over the past decade, particularly through timely defense and aerospace investments.
On a single day last year, Altman earned $237 million. Impressive, right? Also dirty. Consolidated Defense is the army’s fifth-largest contractor, but they took Consolidated public only after the September 11 attacks, when Congress skyrocketed its support for hefty defense spending, and only after a massive lobbying effor
t by that golden Rolodex of theirs paid off in Congress’s initial approval of Consolited’s cornerstone weapon’s program ... “ The president stared, his expression grim. “Let me guess—the Protector.”
“Bingo. The result was the $237 million bonanza.”
“And—“
“And now Altman’s assets will skyrocket billions and billions of dollars, if you and Congress approve the Protector and put it into production.” The president sat back, his mouth a thin line of disgust. “That bastard.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what Ralph Mcdermid’s been up to. It’s got nothing to do with the Empress directly. The whole thing was a setup to lead to nose-to-nose hostility between two continental giants with nuclear capabilities. If necessary, he’ll wheel and deal us into war to prove the United States needs the Protector. Either way, once we board the Empress and all hell breaks out, he’ll have proved his point. Congress will beg for the Protector, and he’ll get his $11 billion.”
The president swore loudly. “The only thing they didn’t walk away with, because I clamped a lid on it, was publicity that would’ve scared the bejesus out of the public and made it easier to win approval immediately.”
“The way I look at it, it’s damn immediate enough. All Mcdermid needs is for us to board the Empress because it’s about to go into Iraqi waters.”
“Oh, God.” The president heaved a sigh. “Everything’s on Smith’s shoulders. What have you heard from him?”
“He called, but he had to use code.” He paused. “I’ve got bad news, Sam.
They weren’t able to liberate your father last night. That’s China time.
Smith implied they’d try again tonight.”
The president grimaced. He closed his eyes and opened them. “Tomorrow morning, our time—that’s when they’ll do it?”
“Yes, sir. They’ll try.”
“He didn’t say anything more about breaking him out? Whether he has enough help? Whether he thinks he can do it?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Why couldn’t he talk more?”
“I assume he was afraid to use his secure cell phone. Which meant he was on a public line that could’ve been monitored. It leads me to guess that the parachute sighting was hardly solid. The local authorities must not have located the parachute or any other evidence of insertion. With luck, they’re skeptical.”
“I hope you’re right, Fred. Smith is going to need all the good luck he can get, and so are we.” The president peered at the clock. “He’s got four hours left, the way I count it, before dusk.” He shook his head.
“Four very long hours for all of us.”
Monday, September 18.
Hong Kong.
Dolores Estevez hurried across the Altman Building lobby and out the glass entrance into the city’s humid air and rushing people. Usually Hong Kong’s carnival atmosphere energized her. Not now. She joined a queue of pedestrians frantically waving for taxis. But as soon as she raised her hand, one pulled up as if by magic. She decided God must have a soft spot for well-intentioned but late travelers. She jumped in quickly. “The airport. Hurry.” The driver started his meter, and the taxi inched into traffic. They crawled for a few blocks, until the driver muttered in guttural Cantonese and swerved the vehicle into a narrow alley. “Shortcut,” he explained.
Before Dolores could protest, he accelerated, and they were halfway along it. She sat back nervously. Maybe he knew what he was doing. One way or another, she needed to reach the airport where the big boss was waiting, probably annoyed already. She was both terrified and excited by her new assignment—his official translator at someplace called Dazu in Sichuan. They wanted her because she could speak several dialects. She felt comfortable in Cantonese and Mandarin, although she had found the real thing in the field was not exactly the same as speaking in her graduate classes or in L. A.’s Chinese restaurants. She was also nervous about her English. No matter how hard she tried, she had not completely lost her barrio accent. She was still worrying when the taxi screeched to a halt near the end of the alley, the door opened, and strong hands pulled her out. Too frightened to struggle, she had a vague impression of seeing a fellow Latina who looked amazingly like her. She felt a sharp pain in her arm, and blackness enveloped her.
Ralph Mcdermid reclined in his seat aboard the opulent corporate jet reserved for his personal use, sipped his favorite single-malt Scots whiskey—over ice, no water—and glanced at his watch for the tenth time. Where was the damn translator? He fumed and was waving the steward for another single-malt when a breathless woman stumbled up into the cabin. Mcdermid eyed her with outrage that quickly became appreciation. She was clearly Latina, one of those with high cheekbones, long, lean faces, and touch of fiery Aztec in her eyes. Exotic.
“Mr. Mcdermid,” she said in English with more than a hint of L. A.’s South Central barrio. It was an accent he would have taken as a sign of lack of education and ambition in a man, but in a woman, it was charming. “I’m Dolores Estevez, your translator and interpreter. I apologize for being late, but they gave me terribly short notice. Of course, the traffic was impossible.”
Mcdermid detected a slight lisp. Better and better. Her body was magnificent in any ethnic or national category. Her name was delightful.
Dolores. He rolled it through his mind. When this was over, and they were back in Hong Kong, she would probably jump at the chance to please the uber boss.
“Completely understandable, my dear. Please sit down. There would be fine.” He nodded at the plush seat facing him. She smiled, all of a sudden shy. At first he smiled back, then he frowned. There was something ... familiar. Yes, he had seen her before. Recently. “Have we met? In the office, perhaps.”
She beamed while shrinking back in the seat. Her shyness was refreshing.
“Yes, sir. A few times. Once yesterday.” A slight boldness. “I thought you didn’t notice.” “Of course, I did.” Still, as he smiled, he felt an uncomfortable twinge. Was every woman beginning to look familiar?
At that moment, the pilot poked his head into the private compartment.
“Is everyone aboard, sir?”
“Everyone, Carson. You’ve filed our papers and the flight plan?”
“Yes, sir. You’ll have about two hours aloft, all in all. Customs will hold you up some when we land, but your papers should get you VIP treatment. Weather looks smooth all the way.”
“Excellent. Take her up.”
As the steward arrived with his next whiskey, he offered a drink to his new translator. She crossed her legs with a flash of thigh. At that point, he decided he could do worse for companionship, and the prospect of having the manifest by morning made him feel like his old genial self. He rested his head back and gazed out the window. As the big jet rolled down the runway, he tried not to worry about what would happen.
Hell, he was willing to pay two million dollars for the manifest. Of course he would get it.
Chapter Thirty-Nine.
Dazu.
Jon and Asgar spent the daylight hours analyzing reports from the Uigher scouts and working through endless scenarios they might face tonight, interspersed with poker. Asgar ended up winning a few dollars, which Jon considered a donation to international goodwill. His thoughts never left the coming missions. He was determined to succeed at both, while Asgar, whose Uigher pride was involved, was equally eager to strike a blow for democracy and freedom in China.
Both worried about encountering what they had not envisioned. The thought of failure was impossible.
According to Asgar’s people, the usual rafts of visitors had come and gone around the Sleeping Buddha, enjoying the beauty and spiritual quality of the centuries-old art, while local vendors aggressively hawked postcards and plastic statues. A normal day. Thus far, there had been no sign of Me-Dermid’s people, nor of Li Kuonyi and Yu Yongfu, but the hills and mesas around the Buddha Grottos were largely open, so it was possible they could arrive unnoticed at any time, particularly after dark, hiki
ng or riding in overland in vehicles or on horses, or disguised as tourists or vendors.
At the same time, the news from the prison was encouraging: The lockdown was over. No pallet check tonight, and tomorrow morning the prisoners would return to the fields. The harvest season had begun—cabbage, beets, bok choy, tomatoes, as well as the usual rice and chili peppers. Asgar figured that had played a large role in the decision. Once darkness had cloaked Dazu’s rolling hills and valleys, Jon, Asgar, and a dozen guerrillas drove to the prison and hid their vehicles as before. Now they and two of the Uigher fighters lay flat in cover across from the no-man’s land and chain-link fence. The prison yard appeared quiet. The mess hall was shadowy and still. The double doors in the rear wall were closed, the rutted dirt drive deserted. From the barracks, an occasional voice rose in mournful song or macabre laughter, but the governor and the guards made no showing. All of this information was vital, since the prison was still on medium alert. Jon and Asgar had decided they would improve the odds of a clean, quiet escape for Thayer and Chiavelli if they sneaked inside. They planned to take the same hidden route in which they hoped to bring them out.
Motionless, growing tense, at last they spotted movement. One of the double doors had opened and closed. Or had it? Jon stared, trying to pick out a shape, a form, anything. Then he saw it—a wraith low to the ground, a cross between a snake and a cat, scrambling through the ten-yard-wide blind spot to the fence. It was a small man in the usual drab prison uniform. He looked up at them once, spotted Asgar, and nodded.
Asgar nodded back and whispered to Jon, “It’s Ibrahim. Let’s cover him.”
Noise was an enemy tonight. The last weapon they would use was their guns, even though they had screwed on noise suppressors. It was a myth that “silenced” gunfire was silent. Although it was quieter than regular fire, each bullet still gave off a loud pop, like a low-grade firecracker. With luck, their hands, feet, knives, and garottes would be enough. Still, they raised their pistols, sweeping over the grounds, in case of the worst. Beside them, the two Uigher fighters did the same.
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