“It’s easy to fly into remote areas only if it remains at the forty-two tons you stripped it down to. You discarded a lot of the armor you really want. Everyone knows you’ll put it back on as soon as you can.
Then the damn thing’ll be too heavy to fly anywhere.”
“It will remain airlift capable,” General Guerrero retorted.
“I doubt that, General. The army loves heavy armor. You’ll find a way to regain that weight once you’ve got the government’s commitment to build it. Just remember what the Germans learned in Russia and the Ardennes in World War Two: Poor roads, old bridges, narrow tunnels, and bad terrain can torpedo any advantage heavy tanks and artillery have. Throw in bad weather, and you might as well dig your grave on the spot.”
“On the other hand, light forces fail every time against heavy weapons and large manpower,” Secretary Kott pointed out. “That’s impossible to deny. What you want, Stanton, is a recipe for disaster.”
As the men around the table bristled, ready to resume arguing, Admiral Brose raised his voice, “I believe we have defined our positions sufficiently. Funds for weaponry are not unlimited, right, Emily?”
The National Security Adviser nodded soberly. “Unfortunately.”
“So I tend to side with the defense secretary on this,” Brose told them.
“Our first priority is to develop the fleeter forces our experiences from Somalia to the present tell us we need. We also need to hold the line on what we have and keep a wary eye on the military developments of potential enemies.” He gazed across the table to the president. “What do you say, sir?”
Although President Castilla had remained oddly silent through the lengthy discussion, he was known to favor a sparer military. He nodded almost to himself. “Each of you has made cogent arguments that must be considered. The need for a quick-response force large enough and powerful enough to handle any brushfire war or Third World threat, or to protect our citizens and interests in developing nations, is clear. We can’t have a repeat of Somalia. At the same time, we can’t rely on nations doing nothing while America builds up massive forces on their borders, as Saddam Hussein allowed us during the Gulf War.”
The president nodded to Admiral Brose and Secretary Stanton. “On the other hand, the generals and Secretary Kott are reminding us we may face conflicts on a monumental scale as well, against major-league opponents with nuclear weapons. We may have to fight on vast landmasses where light forces are inadequate.” He seemed to brood again. Finally he announced, “We may have to consider a larger military allocation than we anticipated.”
Puzzled, everyone in the room looked at one another and back at the president. He was vacillating, a rare occurrence for such a firm decision maker. Only Admiral Brose had an inkling of what could be causing the uncharacteristic hesitancy — The Dowager Empress and China’s strategic interests in her.
The president stood. “We’ll meet again soon to discuss this further.
Emily, I need to speak with you and Charlie on another matter.”
The assorted generals, cabinet members, and assistants filed out, frowning and exchanging cryptic comments about what they obviously considered an unsatisfying meeting. President Castilla watched them go, his expression grave.
Shanghai.
In the taxi, Smith changed into the suit and tie he had retrieved from poor Andy earlier. Every few minutes, he looked over his shoulder at the jockeying headlights on the street behind. He could not shake the sense of being followed. At the same time, the faces of Andy An and Avery Mondragon haunted him. Was there something he could have — should have — done that would have saved their lives?
In his mind, he went back over the last two days, searching for what he might have missed. For a decision that would have altered everything.
Anger surged through him again. His muscles tensed. His chest ached with rage. Who were these people who killed so easily?
At last, he shook off the worst of it. Too much fury clouded the mind.
He needed all of his intelligence, because finding the manifest was critical.
He finished dressing and shoved his black work clothes into his backpack. He had a job to do. A job made more vital by Mondragon’s and Andy’s deaths.
The taxi dropped him two blocks up the Bund, and he blended into the throngs out for an evening walk by the river. When he reached the corner across from the Peace Hotel, he turned into Nanjing Dong Lu. Here the famed shopping paradise reverted to the narrow, stinking, teeming street it had been before the mall was built. The sidewalks were so constricted that most of the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd walked in the street.
Across from the hotel’s revolving door, Smith shrank back into an alley.
He focused on the hotel entrance, hoping to spot the red-and-white hair of Feng Dun. One vendor of fake Rolex watches who buttonholed everyone going in or out of the hotel could have been someone he had spotted at Yongfu’s mansion. A dumpling seller on the sidewalk beside his steaming pot definitely was — one of the two who had passed under the windows of the master bedroom.
They looked their parts, but they also showed the telltale signs of men on stakeout: They were uninterested in what they were selling, never really looked at anyone who stopped to inspect their wares, and never bothered with the customary loud pitches. Instead, they strained to scrutinize everyone who moved through the hotel’s doors. There was no point in checking the other entrances; they would be similarly covered.
These people were organized and adept.
He needed to draw them away or somehow remove them. Showing himself as bait was risky. This was their city, not his, and he spoke no Chinese.
At last, he joined the crowds walking back to the Bund, located a public telephone, and used the 1C card Dr. Liang had given him. He dialed the hotel.
The desk clerk answered in Chinese but switched quickly to English the moment Smith gave his name.
“Yes, sir. How may we help you?”
“It’s a bit embarrassing, but I have a small problem. Earlier today, I had an unpleasant altercation with a pair of street vendors.
Unfortunately, they’re back, watching the hotel entrance. That makes me uneasy about my safety. I mean, why are they out there?”
“I will take care of it. Can you describe them? There are so many on this part of Nanjing Dong Lu.”
“One is selling fake Rolexes, and the other Shanghai dumplings.”
“That should suffice, Dr. Smith.”
“Thank you. I feel safer already.” He hung up and wove back through the swarming pedestrians to stand by a planter where he could watch.
Less than two minutes later, a municipal police car honked and bulled its way through to stop in front of the hotel. Two officers in dark-blue pants and light-blue shirts jumped out, and the fake street vendors made a mistake: They showed no interest, which made the police immediately suspicious. Street vendors everywhere started looking over their shoulders when the police appeared. Seconds later, the phony vendors were in a shouting match with the officers.
Smith waited. Soon, the door of a large black sedan that had been parked across the street opened, and two men in street clothes got out. They pushed through the crowds, everyone cringing back, quickly giving them space.
Public Security Bureau. They joined the municipal policemen. One spoke sharply. Instantly, the police officers and the vendors turned their shouts onto the Public Security agents, each side screaming its case.
The vendors waved permits. The police pointed to the hotel. The Public Security people shouted back.
When a large black Lincoln stopped at the entrance and disgorged three European businessmen and three young Chinese women in slit dresses, Smith attached himself to their happy party, laughing with them as they sauntered into the lobby while a larger and larger crowd encircled the arguing police and vendors.
Pulling out his cell phone as he entered his room, Smith stopped in his tracks. The thin sheet of see-through plastic on the carpe
t was gone. He returned his cell phone to his pocket, drew his Beretta, and surveyed the floor. He did not have to look far. The plastic sheet was wadded up against the floorboard only feet from the door. Someone had entered, stepped on the plastic, and kicked it away without thinking what it meant.
He returned to the hallway, removed the do not disturb sign, and examined the door lock. It looked untouched. Back in the room, he locked the door again and checked his suitcases. The filaments were intact.
Someone with a key had entered, was unconcerned about stepping on an invisible sheet of plastic, and had no interest in his suitcases. That did not sound like Public Security, local cops, or tonight’s thugs. It sounded more like hotel personnel.
He frowned. Still, the do not disturb sign had clearly been hanging on the knob. Had someone — not necessarily from the hotel — been simply checking to see whether he was there?
Frowning, he could take no chances. He turned on the TV set, raised the volume, went into the bathroom, and turned the faucets in the tub on full. With the jarring noise for background, he sat on the toilet seat, pulled out his cell phone again, and dialed Fred Klein’s scrambled Covert-One line.
“Where in hell are you?” Klein demanded. “What’s all that noise?”
“Just making sure I’m not overheard. There’s a possibility my hotel room’s been bugged.”
“Swell. You have good news for me, Colonel?”
He angled back his head, stretching his neck. “I wish. My only break was I found who owns the Empress — a Chinese company called Flying Dragon Enterprises. A Shanghai businessman, Yu Yongfu, is — or was — president and chairman, but the true manifest wasn’t in any of Yu’s safes.” He filled in the Covert-One chief about the company’s treasurer, Zhao Yanji, and the information the distraught fellow had relayed. “Of course, I went to Yu’s mansion.” He described his conversation with Yu’s wife. “She might have been playing me, or she might not. She’s an actress, and a damn good one from what I remember. Still, I had the feeling her story and her bitterness were real. Someone forced Yu Yongfu to kill himself, and whoever that was has the manifest.”
He could hear Klein puffing hard on his pipe. “They’ve been one step ahead of us from the start.”
“There’s worse. Andy — An Jingshe — has been killed, too.”
“I assume you’re speaking of the interpreter I sent. I didn’t know him, but that doesn’t make me less sorry. You never get used to the deaths, Colonel.” “No,” Smith said.
There was a moment of silence. Then, “Tell me more about the attack on the Yu mansion. What exactly makes you think it wasn’t a trap?”
“It didn’t have the feel of one. I think they’d been watching me and finally decided to make a move when the wife drove off. From how they acted, they obviously didn’t expect to find the front door open.”
“Public Security Bureau?”
“They were too open and clumsy. My guess is they were private killers.”
“Killers who forced Yu to commit suicide and took the manifest?”
“If so, why did they go back to the mansion? Does the name Feng Dun sound familiar?” When Klein said no, Smith described his run-ins with him.
“I’ll have my people identify him.”
Klein paused, and in his mind, Smith could see him scowling and pondering in the distant office at the yacht club on the Anacostia River.
At last, Klein rumbled, “So our main lead is dead, and the manifest we need is gone. Where does that leave us, Colonel? I could pull you and regroup for a try from another angle.”
“Try any angle you can think of, but I’m not ready to give up yet. Maybe I can pick up the trail of the attackers. There’s the man who says he’s the president’s father, too. I’ll look for a lead on him.”
“What else have you found?”
“Something very important … Flying Dragon isn’t alone in the Empress venture. A Belgian company named Donk & Lapierre, S. A., supplied some of the cargo, if not all. Donk & Lapierre has an office in Hong Kong. It’d be logical for them to have a copy of the real invoice manifest, too.”
“Good idea. Get to Hong Kong fast. I’ll send someone to see what they have in Belgium, too. Where’s the headquarters again?”
“Antwerp. I take it our people came up empty in Baghdad.”
“They did. I’m arranging for a more reliable agent in Basra to investigate further.”
“Good. I’ll make some excuse to Dr. Liang and fly to Hong Kong on the first China Southwest plane I can get.”
“Now … ”
He barely heard the knock on the room door over the TV and the tub faucets. “Hold on.” Smith drew his Beretta and walked out to the door.
“Who is it?”
“Room service, sir.”
“I didn’t order room service.”
“Dr. Jon Smith? Hairy crab dinner? A Bass ale? From the Dragon-Phoenix restaurant.”
Hairy crab was a prized Shanghai dish, and the Dragon-Phoenix restaurant was in the hotel, but that did not change the fact that Smith had ordered no food. He told Fred Klein he would be in touch.
“What’s going on there?” Klein demanded. “Is something wrong?”
“Tell Potus what I said. I may need that dental appointment after all.”
He severed the connection, pocketed the cell phone, and gripped his Beretta. He cracked open the door.
A lone man in a waiter’s jacket stood beside a serving cart draped in white linen. The hot smell of seafood drifted from covered dishes. Smith did not recognize him. He was short and very lean, but there were muscles under his uniform, and the sinews of his neck were thick ropes.
There was a tension and purpose to him like a coiled spring. Darker than any Han Chinese Smith had ever seen, he could have been carved from sun-browned rawhide. His long, high-boned face was lined and deeply seamed, although he was no more than forty, probably younger. The mustache was an elegant touch. Whatever and whoever he was, Smith decided, he was not the usual Chinese.
Before the door was fully open, the waiter shoved the cart into the room. “Good evening, sir,” he said loudly in English thick with a Cantonese accent.
A couple was swinging along the hall, holding hands. They passed Smith’s room.
“Who are you?” Smith demanded.
The waiter glanced at Smith’s Beretta, gave no sign he was perturbed, and used a heel to push the door closed behind him.
“Don’t give a fuss, Colonel,” the man said, with a flash of his black eyes. Gone was the Cantonese accent, replaced by an upper-class British one. “If you would be so kind.” He reached under his serving cart and tossed a bundle of clothes to Smith. “Put these on. Quickly. There are some blokes downstairs looking for you. No time for full disclosure.”
Smith caught the bundle with his left hand, while his right continued to point his Beretta at the man. “Who the hell are you, and who are they?”
“They are the Public Security Bureau, and I’m Asgar Mahmout, alias Xing Bao in the People’s Republic.” He still did not acknowledge Smith’s Beretta. “I’m the ” who got the word to Mondragon about the old man in the Chinese prison.”
Chapter Ten
Washington, D.C.
Near their offices in the Pentagon, Secretary of the Army Jasper Kott parted with General Tomas Guerrero in the corridor. They had been discussing various strategies for gaining more support from both the government and the military, including publicity to educate the general public. Kott continued on toward his office until General Guerrero disappeared.
The secretary changed directions and ducked into the men’s restroom. It was deserted, so he went into a stall, locked the door, and sat on the toilet top. He dialed his cell phone and waited while the call was relayed through a maze of electronics.
The robust voice that finally came on asked, “Well?”
“I think it’s working. The president’s vacillating.”
“That doesn’t sound like our leader. What e
xactly is he doing?”
“You know what a bulldog he is. Well, he hardly took any part in the discussion. Stanton rode his horse hard, but he rode alone. Except for Brose and Oda, of course. But we expected that.”
“Give me the details.”
Kott described the high points of the appropriations meeting. “No one knew why the president seemed so moody, preoccupied, and waffling. Only maybe Brose. I caught a look between them.”
There was a bitter laugh. “I’ll bet you did. We need to talk more about this.”
“Anytime. We’ll make another phone appointment.”
“No. In person. Just the two of us. There’s too much to discuss, and it’s too important.”
Kott considered. “I need to visit our bases in Asia anyway.”
“Good. I’ll be waiting.” The line went dead.
Kott returned the phone to his pocket, flushed the toilet, and left.
President Castilla often had the feeling Fred Klein lived in perpetual midnight. In the Covert-One office hidden in the anacostia seagoing yacht club, heavy curtains covered the windows against the late-morning sunlight, the noise of the bustling marina, and the sounds of boats and wildlife from the river. The president sat facing Klein, who leaned back behind his desk, his hands in the light of the lamp, and his head in the gloom of the office’s shadows.
Klein repeated what Jon Smith had just reported. “And we may have to get him out of China quickly.” Klein described the abruptly ended phone call from Shanghai that included the code words “Potus”—president — and “dental appointment”—extraction.
“Let’s not lose Smith, too.” The president shook his head worriedly. “We still don’t have the manifest, and we don’t know who has it or where it is.”
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