The Altman Code c-4

by Robert Ludlum

  She packed it quickly and studied the archive room one last time to be sure she had left not the slightest trace. At last, she turned off the lights and headed for the door.

  On the first floor, she made enough noise to alert the dozing security guard.

  “You are finished, Mevrouw Kerr?”

  “For tonight. There’s only so much reading and scribbling one can do.”

  The guard chuckled and crooked his finger. Kerr opened her briefcase, and he leafed through her voluminous notes, made sure there were no original documents, nodded, and shut the lid. “You go home now?”

  “I think an ale or two and then to bed.”

  “Ja, goede nacht.”

  Outside, Dianne Kerr smiled to herself. She would, of course, return at least twice more, to make certain her legend was believed. She did not stop for the two ales. Instead, she went straight home to her darkroom, where she developed the microfilm, made an eight-by-ten print, and faxed it to Washington. A fine night’s work for a desk-bound novelist, extremely well paid, and without a trace. With the possibility of further adventure tomorrow night, to steal the actual document and leave behind a meticulous copy so difficult to discern from the original it could pass for years undiscovered.

  Washington, D.C.

  As usual, Fred Klein slipped into the West Wing through the kitchen staff entrance, from where the secret service whisked him straight up to the residence.

  In the Treaty Room, President Castilla sat on a sofa, morosely contemplating his coffee. He looked up as soon as Klein entered. “You look as bad as I feel. Didn’t the fax come?”

  Klein closed and locked the door. “Worse. It came. It’s not what we need. Antwerp has the fake manifest on file, too.”

  Castilla swore. “I’d really hoped … ” He shook his head. “So we have nothing from Baghdad, Basra, or Antwerp.” He paused, thinking. “Maybe there’s been a mistake. Why would your operative bother to send the fake? Didn’t he know it was fake?”

  “She. No, sir, she didn’t. I couldn’t tell her exactly what was in it, or why we wanted it, because she’s European operating in a European city. If something went wrong, if she were caught or said something… there was too much risk someone would find out about the Empress crisis. In Iraq, it didn’t matter. They already know why we want the manifest, and they’re not going to leak what we’re up to, because they want the chemicals.”

  The president sighed. “Some days staying in bed sounds like an attractive idea. The news seems to be getting worse and worse. Sit and have some coffee with me, Fred.”

  As Klein settled in next to him, the president poured and handed him a steaming cup. “Over at Bethesda, they tell me I have to cut down on my coffee. Even Cassie’s getting on me about it. But to hell with all of them. They don’t have this job.” “No,” Klein said, chewing on the mouthpiece of his empty pipe. “They don’t. You said something’s happened.” He removed the pipe long enough to drink.

  Castilla took a defiant gulp. “The Chinese have upped the ante. This time they’ve sent force, not words — one of their submarines to chase the Crowe.”

  Klein’s eyebrows rose above his wire-rimmed glasses. “But they haven’t attacked?”

  “No, and neither have we.”

  Klein took out his pipe and turned it in his hands, ignoring the coffee.

  “Where did they get the sub, Mr. President? Where did it come from so quickly? Not the Taiwan Strait, or Hong Kong, or even Hainan Island.

  That’s too much distance from the Crowe. The sub had to have been on station in the Indian Ocean, more likely the Arabian Sea itself.”

  The president straightened. He swore. “You’re right. They must have subs watching the Fifth Fleet.”

  Klein nodded. “And now, one’s been sent to let us know someone in Beijing wants to crank up the confrontation, escalate the threat.”

  “Agreed. My take is that it’s a power struggle inside the walls of Zhongnhai.”

  “Makes sense. But is it the whole Standing Committee? Maybe even the Politburo itself?”

  “It’d help to know.”

  “Nothing any Covert-One associate or asset has turned up indicates it,” Klein said. “Of course, the Chinese are keeping the situation under wraps, just as we are. There hasn’t been a mention of the Empress by their press.”

  “So is your advice to prod, watch, and wait? Continue our threat and pretend theirs isn’t there?”

  “For now, yes. Later, you’ll have the proof, or you’ll have my resignation.”

  The president’s eyes grew icy. “That’s not good enough, Fred. What progress have your people made?”

  “Sorry, Mr. President. Must be getting old. This one’s wearing me down.

  Too many intangibles.” Klein crossed his arms, the stem of his pipe sticking out from his fist. “First, we’re certain the Belgian co-owner of the Empress knows there’s contraband in the cargo. Second and probably even more important” —he paused to make certain the president saw that he saw how important this was—“the Belgian company is wholly owned by the Altman Group. It looks as if their chair and CEO, Ralph Mcdermid, might have his fingers stuck deep into the affair.”

  “Ralph Mcdermid again?” The president’s voice rose. “Mcdermid isn’t just chair and CEO, he is the Altman Group. He founded it, built it into one of the largest financial empires the earth’s seen, and he did it in less than two decades. My God, he’s got one of my predecessors working for him plus cabinet secretaries from the last four administrations, former FBI and CIA directors, congressmen, senators, and a few ex-governors.”

  Klein knew all of this. He controlled his patience until the president finished. “Yes, sir. You said ‘.’ Is Mcdermid involved in something else?”

  The president took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as if fighting off a headache. “The White House leaks.” He repeated Arlene Debo’s report about the secret meeting in Manila between Mcdermid and Secretary of the Army Jasper Kott. “You think there may be a connection between the leaks and the Empress situation?”

  “We’d better find out. What I don’t understand is why Mcdermid would involve himself in something like the Empress’s cargo. He’s making a fortune already. His company’s filthy rich. So why risk so much for one shipment of chemicals? He’ll make an obscene profit, but that’s nothing new. It makes damn little sense to me.”

  “One load of contraband hardly seems worth it,” the president agreed.

  “Maybe Mcdermid’s been conducting various illegal operations for a while. He could be one of those types who’s always looking for the next thrill, and the more outside the law he goes, the higher the emotional payoff.”

  “Or maybe some of his companies are in trouble, and he’s figured out a way to ease debt by backing illegal ventures like the Empress. He sure won’t have to pay taxes on it.”

  They sat in worried silence, trying to see an answer. Finally, the president decided, “I don’t recall any company that approaches Altman’s success in the wholesale conversion of former high government rank to gigantic profits. But then, business and politics have always gone hand in hand. Throw in the military, and doesn’t that remind you of Dwight Eisenhower’s warning about allowing the military-industrial complex to grow too influential, that there was a danger it’d run amok?”

  “It reminds me, yes, and not happily,” Klein agreed. “A former Altman employee told my researcher that the company’s code is: Mix business and politics correctly, and they pay exceptionally well”

  “Sounds like an understatement. But maybe that’s the answer. That could be what Mcdermid’s up to. For him, there’s no ceiling to wealth. He can never have enough. He’ll make a quick financial killing on the Empress and go looking for his next conquest.”

  Hong Kong.

  Randi Russell told the taxi driver to circle the block, and when they again drew abreast of the entrance to the Conrad International, she told the driver in fluent Mandarin, “Stop here.”
Jon had been looking all around casually, as if checking for a tail or stakeout. As she watched, he turned on his heel, apparently satisfied he was clean, and walked into the hotel’s glittering lobby. She continued to survey the area until she spotted the Chinese street vendor standing behind his cart in a shadow, a cell phone in his hands, speaking urgently as he, too, observed Jon disappear. Just what she had suspected. Mcdermid’s troops were continuing to surveille Jon. She did not believe Jon’s story for a second, but at least he was out of her way for the night. As she told the driver to take her back to the building that housed the Altman offices, she dialed her cell. “Savage,” the voice answered. “Did you pick up Mcdermid?” she asked, her hand cupped around the cell’s mouthpiece. “Sure did. Tailed him around the daisy chain and right back to his office building. He’s gone up to the penthouse.”

  “Is our team in place?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “I’m on my way.” When they reached it, she paid the driver and walked up to a black Buick sedan, carrying her conical hat. She opened the door and dropped into the front passenger seat. “I’ll take it from here, Allan. You get indoors and watch for Mcdermid’s chief shark. When you see him, tail him.” Short and heavyset, Allan Savage was no one’s image of a CIA agent, but that was to his advantage. He nodded, climbed out of the car, and crossed the traffic to the high-rise. Randi slid over and settled behind the wheel to wait. Her phone beeped. It was Allan.

  “Already?” she asked. “Mcdermid must’ve forgotten something. He’s on his way back out.” Randi clicked off and watched as the CEO hurried from the building. As he arrived at the curb, so did his black limousine. The chauffeur ran around to open the rear door. As the limo drove away, Randi made sure she and the Buick were close behind.

  The limo wound up into the dark hills toward Victoria Peak. Here the houses were large and impressive, and the city’s lights spread out below in a shimmering minuet across the great harbor, the outlying islands, and the dazzling Kowloon peninsula. The glitter dimmed farther north in the New Territories but continued even into mainland China, where Guangzhou glowed on the horizon.

  The limo pulled into the driveway of an older, Chinese-style mansion that overlooked Repulse Bay. As Randi watched, Ralph Mcdermid dismissed the limo, and a slim young woman ran out of the mansion to greet him.

  Arm in arm, they strolled into the house.

  Randi clicked on her cell phone. “Looks as if he’s gone to roost. If we’re lucky, we’ve got a couple of hours. Put Berger on. Ham, you have the equipment?”

  “In our hot little black bags,” electronics expert Hamilton Berger said cheerfully. “As soon as the honcho assistant trots away, we’re in the phone-bug-planting business.”

  “Be careful. We’re not dealing with some dumb embassy this time.”

  “He’ll never find a thing.”

  “Good. I’ll hang on to Mcdermid. He’s a busy boy.”

  “Call you when the bug’s in, and we’re out.”

  “Can’t wait.” Randi ended the call and took a thoroughly American turkey-and-cheese sandwich from inside her clothes. As shadows did a ballet of lust on the other side of Mcdermid’s drawn drapes, she ate and wondered what Jon really wanted from Mcdermid.

  From the corridor outside Donk & Lapierre, bright light fell across the dark, empty desk in the company’s lobby, where the exotic Chinese receptionist had sat. Jon relocked the door behind him and stepped lightly past the shadowy desk to the inner doors. After he had slipped out of his hotel through the back way, he had hailed another taxi that had brought him back here.

  Dressed again in his dark work clothes, he listened. There were no sounds inside, and he saw no light. The offices appeared as deserted as he had hoped.

  The door was unlocked. He stepped inside and padded along the Delft blue carpeting, pausing to listen at each office, until he reached the ebony door of managing director Charles-Marie Cruyff. This sanctum was defended by a pair of heavyweight locks. After five attempts with different picklocks, Jon finally opened both and pushed the black door into the office. Enveloped in murky silence, he switched on his pocket flashlight. His gaze swept over the ultramodern sofa, Cruyff’s mahogany desk and ship models, the ship models on the walls, to the wall safe to the left of the desk. He crossed quickly to it. Cruyff had glanced involuntarily at the safe when Jon had mentioned working with Chinese companies. He hoped that meant there was something important in there about the Empress. Particularly, he hoped it was the real manifest. The safe was compact, with a simple combination lock — just what he remembered. Klein had supplied him with a small electric drill. It made a low, steady whirr as the state-of-the-art bit bored into the steel.

  When he had drilled four holes, he packed tiny amounts of plastic explosive into each and connected them across the knob of the lock to a miniature blasting cap. Working quickly but carefully, he covered the safe with a sound-deadening pad, moved back behind the desk, and paused, listening to the pounding of his heart. He turned the handle on the miniature detonator. The explosion was muffled but loud enough to be heard as far away as the reception area. His Beretta ready, he listened.

  When five minutes passed, he holstered the Beretta and returned to the safe. The door had swung open an inch. He pulled it farther open, removed all the documents, and carried them to Cruyff’s desk, where he quickly examined them. And stopped at the fifth. It was the letter that must be the one that had prompted the reply he had found in Yu Yongfu’s safe in his Shanghai mansion. A letter addressed not to Jan Donk, but to Managing Director Charles-Marie Cruyff of Hong Kong. It was signed by Yu Yongfu, president and chairman of Flying Dragon Enterprises. More important … it was cc’d to Ralph Mcdermid, president and CEO of the Altman Group. Riveted, he continued to read to the bottom of the page.

  Nothing interesting … although an envelope had been stapled to the corner. He checked it — a Donk & Lapierre business envelope with a handwritten notation:

  Bxtsrn invoice, The, Dortagcr Emprejs After all this time … all the deaths … This was it! Fingers trembling with eagerness, he pulled open the envelope, yanked out a single sheet of stationery, and unfolded it. On it was writing that matched the writing on the envelope, but there was no manifest. As a hot bolt of rage shot through him, he stared at the note:

  You’ve wasted your time, Smith. you. didn’t really believe, I’d leave, anything so important somewhere, you could find it so easily? I’ve destroyed the manifest. You’re, next.

  It was signed with the initials RM. Ralph Mcdermid. Arrogant bastard.

  He had known! How—?

  As he thought that, Jon froze and looked up. You’re next. “Good evening, Colonel Smith.” The whispering voice came from the open office door. The office’s overhead light flashed on. Feng Dun stood just inside the doorway, his mottled red hair shining in the light. His expression was grim, but a small smile of genuine satisfaction played at the corners of his mouth. He held a mini Uzi aimed at Jon. As they stared at each other, Feng gestured behind him. Four armed men ran past and spread out across the office.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sunday, September 17.

  Beijing.

  The faint click of the Westminster wall clock sounded in Niu Jianxing’s ears before it struck the half hour. His alert gaze darted around his study in the courtyard house at the edge of the old Xicheng district, mirroring the churning of his mind. Dispatching the submarine Zhou Enlai to menace the American frigate was a move of such colossal stupidity, so criminally dangerous, so completely counterproductive to China’s interests and the very existence of the People’s Republic that he was beside himself with disgust and fury.

  The fire in his eyes would have shocked his colleagues, whom he had taught to expect the sleepy Owl of Party and government meetings. This alert, energetic man was the unleashed Niu. Like a tiger, he prowled his study, grappling with what he was beginning to understand. Although Wei Gaofan had covered himself well, now there was little doubt in Niu’s min
d that it was Wei who was behind the decision to send the sub.

  This stupid move not only revealed to the Americans that the Chinese navy had been shadowing their Fifth Fleet, it astronomically increased the danger of a disastrous confrontation over the Empress.

  When Major Pan had first reported his suspicions about Jon Smith, Li Aorong’s connection to the Empress had made the Owl suspect Wei Gaofan might be guilty of corruption, since Li was Wei’s protege, and Li did not go to bed without Wei’s blessings. It seemed both men planned to make a small fortune on the cargo. Wei would not be the first Zhongnanhai official to succumb to private greed. But the Zhou Enlai’s new assignment had turned that assumption inside out. It was too easy an answer, too obvious. Hands clasped behind his back, the Owl turned on his heel and marched across his study again, each foot hammering home his revulsion and rage. Now he knew it must be that snake Wei who had turned against the human-rights accord. Wei was sabotaging it, and — worse — it was only part of his infidelity. In fact, Wei intended to cause an incident with the United States of such magnitude that it would turn the clock back to the Cold War … to the building of new weapons of mass destruction … to societal controls that would lead to catastrophes like the Cultural Revolution … to an isolated China putrefying in its own recycled bitterness. That was what Wei was after, Niu decided, disgusted and afraid. Not greed for money; greed for power.

  When a tap sounded at the private rear door of his study, the Owl hurried to it with an alacrity that was in sharp contrast to his sixty years. He unlocked the door to admit Major Pan. “Come in. Come in.” He impatiently motioned the agent to sit facing his desk. Nervous, the major lowered his pudgy body onto the wood chair and perched like a wary bird, ready to fly. Summonses to drive to Beijing from Shanghai in the middle of the night always made Pan nervous. Especially a summons from a member of the Standing Committee. Niu resumed pacing. “What progress have you made in the matter of the American agent and The Dowager Empress?”