The Altman Code c-4

by Robert Ludlum

  Mcdermid led him through Wanchai, Hong Kong’s former red-light district.

  Once notorious for sex and drugs, the area had fallen on hard times. The result was that the city’s booming financial district had invaded. New high-rises clustered together, and the newest and best hotels asked and received more than three thousand dollars a night for rooms.

  Hands in his pockets, Mcdermid strolled down neon-lighted Lockhart Road, where most of the remaining sex trade was. Here, Wanchai still lived down to its tawdry reputation. Wanchai girls loitered at bar doors and gave a well-rehearsed pssst to any man who looked as if he could pay.

  There were gaudy hostess clubs, topless bars, discos, and raucous English and Irish pubs. The signs and the spielers, the neon and the come-ons were still loud and bright here, broadcasting the delights inside for the hungry and the lonely.

  But the beat was gone. Neither he nor Mcdermid gave more than a glance at the tarnished pleasure shacks, while Jon again wondered where Mcdermid was headed — and why.

  At last, the CEO turned into a side street and then into a brick office building in the shadow of a spanking new higher-and-shinier, glass-and-steel monolith of offices. The street was narrow. Vendors assembled their gear. A few stores offered peep shows and porn, tattoos and adult toys. At the same time, a steady stream of middle-class office workers and executive types left the brick building on their way home to the darkening hills and suburbs, a reflection of the cultural schizophrenia that Wanchai had become.

  His curiosity growing, Jon used the exiting stream as cover and slipped inside. In the marble-lined lobby, Ralph Mcdermid stood facing a row of filigreed elevators. When a car emptied a small river of people, he walked inside, the only passenger, since everyone else was leaving.

  Again Jon watched the numbers of the floors light up on the indicator above the door. Me-Dermid’s car stopped on the tenth then returned down.

  Jon stepped into another car and pressed the button. At the eleventh floor, he rushed off and ran down the fire stairs two at a time. Finally on the tenth, he peered out into a twin of the empty, marble-lined corridor above. Where had Mcdermid gone?

  Jon jerked back when three women left one of the offices and headed toward the elevators, chattering in Chinese. Flattened against the stairwell, he listened, mystified, wishing he had learned the language.

  Before he could look out again, other footsteps clattered along the marble floor and stopped at the elevator, where the three women were still talking. More doors opened and closed, and the unseen corridor was silent again … except for a rustling that passed directly outside his door.

  Jon cracked it open and peered out. Dressed in the black pajamas and conical strawhat of a rural peasant, a Chinese woman disappeared through the door at the very end of the hall. But where was Mcdermid? As he was about to go looking, he heard what he thought was the CEO’s voice from somewhere to the right, beyond the elevators. He gave a grim smile, pulled out his Beretta, and padded into the corridor.

  He listened at each door. All were identical — cheap and hollow-core, with steel mail slots and name plaques that announced the businesses housed inside, everything from accountants to start-up Web site companies, dentists to secretarial services. Muted voices sounded from behind several, and a radio station from one. He was beginning to worry that he had somehow lost Mcdermid when he heard him again.

  He slowed. The muffled tones were coming from the other side of a door that proclaimed in Chinese and English: dr. James chou, acupuncture & shiatsu. It appeared that Ralph Mcdermid indulged in acupuncture or shisu massage or both. But why did he go to the trouble of taking the subway here and then the long walk? Mcdermid was a physically soft man.

  Or was he here for a different purpose? Perhaps this was a front for an old-fashioned “massage parlor.”

  As Jon thought that, he dropped low and peered in through the mail slot.

  The reception area was sparsely furnished, with cheap molded-plastic chairs and tables. The couch was overstuffed and had bamboo arms and braces.

  Magazines in both Chinese and English lay on the tables and couch. The waiting room was deserted. So where was the voice coming from? Had he been wrong?

  Weapon in hand, he turned the knob and crept inside. That was when he saw the second door. Mcdermid said something from the room on the other side of it.

  Jon had begun to smile to himself when suddenly there was complete silence. The talk had stopped in the inner office. Two people — Mcdermid and the doctor or the masseur — should make some sound … Jon’s chest tightened as a new answer occurred to him. There was another reason Mcdermid might take the subway and walk. Mcdermid could have expected to be followed. He could have expected Jon. The unpleasant truth was … Mcdermid could have lured him into an ambush.

  Jon spun, dove to the floor, and skidded behind the couch, his Beretta ready.

  The hall door flew open, latch and hinges ripping, and crashed to the floor in a shower of splinters. Two of his earlier tails slammed through the opening, pistols preceding them.

  Jon squeezed off two rounds. One of the men fell onto his face and slid across the linoleum floor, leaving a slash of red blood. The other flung himself backward out of harm’s way, into the hall again. Jon’s bullet had missed him.

  Jon snaked forward on his elbows. The second man darted into view again, gun aimed at the couch. Jon was halfway toward the door, where the gunman had not expected him to be. Jon fired once. This time there was a grunt of pain, a curse, and the man fell back.

  Warily, Jon reached the shattered doorway and positioned himself low but where he could rise to see along the hall toward the elevators and where anyone trying to enter the reception room through the second door would have to be fully inside before they could focus on him and shoot. Ahead in the hall, two men bent over a third, who sat against the wall. Blood pooled at his side, where Jon’s shot had connected. They glanced angrily back at the office where Jon hid and watched.

  Jon scrambled up, ran to the couch, laid it on its cloth side, and pushed it to the doorway. He positioned it to cover his flank and dropped to the floor again.

  He could hear the sounds of feet outside in the corridor, trying to be quiet. His hunters were moving in. He made himself stay down. He counted off ten seconds, raised up, and dropped one with a single shot as he burst in, low to the floor.

  As the cry of pain echoed against the marble walls, the office’s other door blasted open and shots slammed into the couch’s bamboo and stuffing. Jon fell flat, waiting. His heart ticked into his ears.

  Finally, a man jumped through the door and into the room, a tiny submachine gun in his hands. Jon fired off a bullet. The man catapulted back against a large window and crashed through, his scream receding as he dropped from sight.

  Jon raised above the couch again to check the hall. They were closing in — three this time. He fired twice, and they scurried back, but for how long? They would try again from the inner room, too. He had another clip, but eventually they would coordinate better, attack simultaneously from both doors, and that would end it. He would be killed or captured.

  He was unsure which they wanted.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. On one knee, he waited for the next assault from the inner office. Without warning, they barreled through.

  There were two now. They moved faster and were cleverer, diving to either side, while he had to remain alert in case those in the hall attacked simultaneously. He emptied his gun, spraying the chairs, tables, walls. He slammed in his last clip — and they were gone.

  Or were they? Abruptly, more shots exploded, shook the walls. But from where? The hall or the inner office? And where were the bullets? Nothing hit the couch where he crouched, and nothing slammed into the waiting room. Should he drop or remain kneeling? As another fusillade erupted, he realized the noise came from out in the hall. Oddly, they were not shooting at him.

  He raised up and looked. There were four of them, including the two from th
e inner office. The fifth and sixth — both injured — lay in one of the elevators, the doors jammed open. The remaining four hunters were firing away from him, toward the opposite end of the corridor. Abruptly, one turned and shot back, trying to keep him pinned down.

  He returned fire, rising and dropping. Suddenly there was swearing, scrambling, and the slam of a door as heavy feet raced away. He listened. An elevator door closed. There was silence from both the corridor and the inner room. Were they really gone? Or was this another damn trick?

  Cautiously, he leaned out to look. The hall was empty in both directions.

  The old building creaked. Somewhere on another floor, a toilet flushed.

  Jon inhaled. He wiped his sleeve across his forehead as he studied the motionless man he had shot, who still lay sprawled on the floor of the waiting room. He crab-walked to him. The man was dead, and his pockets carried nothing that would identify him.

  Disappointed, Jon jumped up and sped into the inner office. There was a massage table, a cabinet, a chair, and a portable radio-and-CD player.

  Everything had been riddled with gunfire. Wind whistled through the broken window through which one of the men he had shot had crashed.

  Below, sirens screamed. The Hong Kong police were on their way.

  There was a second door in here, too. It stood open into the hall. He sprinted toward it and gazed carefully out. The corridor was still deserted, blood and bullet casings making a trail to the elevator.

  Beretta in both hands, he moved toward the elevators, too, swinging the pistol front and back, covering the passageway, as he continued past and reached the last door in the hall, the only other one that was open. It faced the length of the corridor.

  Beretta up, he rolled around the doorjamb and pointed. In his sights was the Chinese peasant woman he had seen earlier from his hiding place in the stairwell. Still dressed in her black pajamas and conical straw hat, she sat cross-legged on the floor, her back against a rolltop desk.

  There was a cell phone at her side. Both hands aimed a thoroughly non-peasant 9mm Glock at him.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Still keeping her Glock aimed at him, her voice was irritated as she said in perfect American English, “So this is the answer. Your goal in life is to screw up my operations. Your timing stinks.” But she smiled.

  “Randi?”

  “Hi, soldier.” She lowered her weapon.

  He stared as he put his away. “Unbelievable. The CIA just keeps getting better at their disguises.” So this was where the other gunfire had originated. Randi had created the diversion that had saved him.

  She uncoiled from the floor and rose to her feet in a single motion. “Do I hear sirens?”

  “You do. We’d better get the hell out of here.”

  Beijing.

  The scent of camellias floated in from the lush garden at Zhongnanhai as Niu Jianxing — the Owl — leaned back, listening angrily to the discussion at tonight’s special Standing Committee meeting. All of his intellect was being required to keep his program on track in the face of the Empress crisis. He could not allow his bad temper to show.

  “First the American spy, who has, it seems, been allowed to escape,” Wei Gaofan complained. His fierce, temple-dog scowl made his usually unsmiling face seem almost kindly. “Now this American warship — what is it? the John Crowe? — invading our rights on the high seas! It’s an outrage!” It was the hawk party line.

  “Exactly how did Colonel Smith escape?” Song Riuyu, one of the younger members of the Standing Committee, asked.

  Niu said calmly, “That is being investigated as we speak.”

  “How is it being investigated?” Wei Gaofan demanded. “Are you forming one of those endless, pointless committees like the Europeans do?”

  Niu’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Are you volunteering for that committee? If so, I can certainly form one and would be honored to add your name … ”

  “You have the confidence of us all, Jianxing,” corpulent Shi Jingnu purred in his smooth, silk-merchant’s voice.

  The general secretary intervened: “These matters concern all of us. I, for one, need answers to both questions. Are the Americans just waving the Roosevelt big stick, or are they actually sharpening their Kennedy swords?”

  “A full report on the escape of Colonel Smith will be in your hands tomorrow,” Niu promised.

  “And their frigate shadowing our cargo ship?” The secretary glanced down at the papers before him on the long table. “The Dowager Empress, is it?”

  Niu nodded. “That’s her name. She’s owned by Flying Dragon Enterprises.”

  He cast a swift glance toward Wei Gaofan, because the son-in-law of one of his closest proteges was the president of Flying Dragon. Still, Wei showed no particular interest — or even a reaction — to Niu’s statement.

  Niu continued, “She’s registered in Hong Kong. I have completed an investigation of Flying Dragon and learned it’s operated by one Yu Yongfu in Shanghai, and that the Empress is en route to Basra, Iraq.”

  There was still no reaction from Wei. At the least, he should be offering his observations if not the information that he knew Yu Yongfu.

  “Iraq?” questioned Pao Peng, the secretary’s old Shanghai partner, suddenly becoming alert.

  “What is its cargo?” Han Mengsu, another of the younger men, demanded.

  “The actual cargo seems to be in dispute,” Niu said. He explained the possible connection of Lieutenant Colonel Smith to the Empress. “Smith came to Shanghai looking for something.”

  “What does the manifest say the cargo is?” Wei Gaofan questioned.

  Niu recounted the innocent cargo listed on the official manifest.

  “Well, there you are,” Wei Gaofan said angrily. “As usual, the American bullies are throwing their weight around to impress their own people, as well as Europe and the weaker nations. It damn well is another Yinhe, and this time we absolutely can’t permit them to board. We’re a strong, independent nation, far larger than the United States, and we must put a stop to their warmonger politics.”

  “This time,” Niu insisted, “there really could be contraband material aboard the Empress. Do we want such material to reach Iraq, especially without our knowledge or permission?” From the corners of his eyes, he continued to carefully observe Wei, not wanting him to become suspicious that he knew about Wei’s connection to Flying Dragon. The information would prove useful at some point. But not yet. As far as the Owl was concerned, patience and knowing when to act were the keys to success in all things.

  “On what is that conjecture based?” Shi Jingnu demanded, his unctuous tone uncharacteristically absent.

  “Colonel Dr. Smith is an unusual man to send as an agent. The only reason I can think is that he was in Taiwan and was that rare American who could get into China immediately by invitation. Whatever he actually came for had to be vital and time urgent.”

  The general secretary pondered. “And you suggest that his mission could be to discover the truth about the Empress’s cargo?”

  “That would qualify.”

  “Which,” Wei Gaofan declared, “makes it all the more imperative the Americans are not allowed to interfere with it. If the charges are true, we would be exposed to the world.”

  “Even if we had no knowledge and were innocent?” Niu asked.

  Shi Jingnu said, “Who would believe that of China? And if they did, would we not appear weak and vulnerable? Not able to control our own people and in need of American oversight?”

  Song Riuyu looked grave. “We may have to show our power this time, Secretary.”

  Pao Peng nodded, one eye directed at the general secretary. “At least, we should plan to match them threat for threat.”

  “A standoff?” the secretary mused. “You may be right. Who agrees?”

  From behind his half-closed eyes, Niu Jianxing counted the hands. Seven.

  Two were raised a little lower and less certain than those of Wei
Gaofan, Shi Jingnu, and Pao Peng. The secretary did not raise his hand, but that was irrelevant. He would not have called for a vote had he been opposed.

  Niu had a formidable task ahead if he were to save the human-rights accord. He did not like to think what else might need to be saved, if, during the standoff, someone pulled a trigger.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Arabian Sea.

  In the clear air of late morning in the southern Arabian Sea, the day’s heat was beginning to build as Lieutenant (jg) Moses Canfield leaned on the aft rail enjoying the fresh air before he went below for his watch in the communications-and-control nerve center of the John Crowe. The Empress, which they had been shadowing for close to twenty-four hours, was hull up on the horizon, still making a steady course for Basra. Only the officers knew where the Empress was heading and what she was supposed to be carrying, and they had been ordered to tell no one. The secrecy somehow made Can-field’s nerves worse. He had found it difficult to sleep last night.

  Now he was reluctant to go below. He had always been a little claustrophobic, which had prevented him from considering the submarine service, and his imagination was working overtime. He imagined himself trapped belowdecks as the Crowe absorbed a direct missile hit and plunged to the bottom within seconds, taking everyone with it. He shivered in the day’s growing heat and told himself to get a grip.

  His nervousness had not been helped by the firm lecture from Commander Chervenko about waiting patiently and alertly when shadowing a ship until one was sure it was really changing course and not simply going on a brief side venture.

  “Never jump to conclusions about the actions of the enemy, Lieutenant,” Chervenko had told him. “Get information before committing your ship.

  Put yourself in the other man’s position and consider what he would do.

  Finally, always be sure of your identifications.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Canfield had answered. He was mortified and a shade angry at the commander.

  The touch of anger, as it so often did, refocused Canfield’s mind and, at least temporarily, chased away his claustrophobia as he looked at his watch, turned from the rail, and hurried below to his post in the cramped communications-and-control center.