When Wei became general secretary, Feng’s future would be secure, too.
They were locked together, two ambitious talents who each had need of the other. “Do you want help in Dazu?” Wei asked. “Now isn’t the time to go off like a solitary desert wolf.” Feng hesitated. “If you have a trusted army commander in the area, his presence with a unit of troops could prove useful, if by some accident we’re detained by the local authorities.”
“I’ll arrange it. And Feng? Remember, Li Kuonyi is cunning. A dangerous adversary.”
“There’s no need to insult me, master.”
Those were apparently harsh words from an underling, but Wei accepted them with a smile of understanding as he hung up. Feng had definitely returned to normal. Like the wolf, hunger drove him, and he was ravenous for the two people who had made him look like an amateur. Now he was even more determined to bring home the wayward manifest. Wei gazed out his window at his garden again. The premonition of bad news persisted.
He had begun to suspect that Major Pan’s investigation into Colonel Smith and the family of Li Aorong had turned up more about the Empress than the major had written in his report to General Chu or that Niu Jianxing had communicated to the general secretary or the Standing Committee. At the same time, Wei was quietly lining up support on the Politburo and the Central Committee. It was an unfortunate possibility that he would have to eliminate Feng Dun and Ralph Mcdermid, as well as Li Aorong and his daughter and son-in-law to cover all trace of hard-line involvement in the Empress scheme. When Feng initially alerted him to Mcdermid’s plan, it had seemed a stroke of good fortune. But now he sensed danger. For a lifetime, he had survived and prospered by acting quickly and ruthlessly on what he sensed.
At the top of a ladder set against a courtyard wall inside Zhongnanhai, a maintenance mechanic completed his repair of one of the floodlights that illuminated Wei Gaofan’s garden. As he worked, he muttered under his breath at Wei Gaofan’s paranoia. Wei’s fear of assassination meant he would allow no shadows in his garden.
His impatience with the eminent member of the Standing Committee was at a higher level than usual, because he was not only a maintenance worker, he was a spy. He had used the directional microphone hidden in his toolbox to record the recent phone conversation inside Wei’s office and was now anxious to deliver the tape to his superior in the counterintelligence section of the Public Security Bureau. Besides, his replacement had arrived and was already raking dirt near Wei’s office.
His listening device was in his toolbox, too, which was sitting on a granite boulder, aimed at the office window.
The spy climbed down and carried his ladder and toolbox to a shed hidden by dense shrubbery so as not to detract from the manicured park. Once inside, he opened a compartment in the bottom of the toolbox and removed the miniature audiotape.
He put everything away and dialed his cell phone. “I have a recording.”
He listened. “Ten minutes, yes. I’ll be there.”
He switched off the cell, locked the shed, and hurried through the lush lakeside grounds to a guarded side door in the outer wall. It was used only by service workers.
The guard, who passed him out every night at the end of his shift, still insisted on seeing his ID. “You’re leaving late.”
“Command-performance repair for Master Wei. One of his damned lights went out, and he nearly had a stroke. Couldn’t possibly wait for morning.” It was only a partial lie. He himself had knocked out the floodlight so he would have a reason to sit up there for a couple of hours, recording conversations. There was a lot of political turmoil right now, according to his handler, and every phone call to and from Wei must be recorded. His job was to find excuses to be in a position to make the recordings.
The guard rolled his eyes. Wei Gaofan’s demands were well known. The guard stepped aside, and the worker walked into the street, turning away from Tiananmen Square. He pushed through tourists still strolling around the Forbidden City. Finally, he entered an old-fashioned tea shop, where he paused in the doorway. There was his handler. He was reading a newspaper at a table in the middle of the shop.
The maintenance man ordered a pot of low-grade Wu Yi and a packet of English biscuits. With them in hand, he walked to a table toward the rear. As he passed the man, he dropped his biscuits, bent, and picked them up. He continued on and sat.
Major Pan Aitu was in a hurry. Still, he finished his tea first and folded his newspaper before he left. The spycatcher walked two blocks to his car.
Once in the car, he picked the tiny cassette from inside his shoe and inserted it into a mini tape player. He listened to the entire conversation, stopping at points to rewind and listen again.
Then he leaned back against the headrest, frowning. The meaning was clear: Li Kuonyi and Yu Yongfu were not only alive, they had the invoice manifest of the Empress’s cargo that Colonel Jon Smith had come to China to find. The Shanghai couple were probably already on their way to Dazu, preparing to sell the document to Feng Dun on behalf of Ralph Mcdermid.
But in truth, Feng would take back the document and kill the couple for Wei Gaofan.
The implications of Feng’s report to Wei Gaofan were also clear.
Implications the Owl would be most interested to know. Wei Gaofan was personally involved in the Empress and its cargo.
Events had progressed to the point that he must come to a decision as to where his best interests lay. On one hand, Wei Gaofan already employed Feng Dun, had clearly been involved in the Empress and its cargo from the start, and would not likely welcome a counterintelligence agent such as himself, who knew too much.
On the other hand, the Owl — Niu Jianxing — who was obviously opposed to Wei Gaofan and his hard-line stance, knew nothing of these developments.
He would be most grateful.
Now Pan must go to Dazu, which was a considerable distance. When he got there, he would have to make the decision. He had done well in the new China, had no desire to return to the old, and all in all his best interests might indeed lie with the Owl.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Aloft over Sichuan Province.
Jon sat against the bulkhead of a high-flying Navy E-2C Hawkeye AWACS jet, his head resting back. It was nearly eleven p.m. The vibration of the aircraft’s engines hummed into his ears. The plane was totally blacked out, as it always was on a reconnaissance mission. But this was no ordinary recon.
Edgy with nerves, he wore his usual black working clothes, with his Beretta bolstered at the small of his back. A black insulated jumpsuit lay ready beside him. Since he would leave the plane at thirty thousand feet, he would need it. He had made hundreds of jumps, but never from such a height, and the truth was … it had been a long time since his last one. The navy personnel on the carrier had gone over the basics with him and thrown in a couple of tips.
He had oxygen equipment because he would free-fall to ten thousand feet before opening the chute. There was no war down there, at least not a shooting one, and no one would be watching and waiting … theoretically. The drop zone had been calculated carefully — created from satellite photos that were less than twenty-four hours old. Cloud cover was expected to be adequate. Winds were relatively mild.
Every technical precaution and preparation had been made. Now it was up to him to ready himself psychologically. He went over each step in his mind, looking for human error and unforeseen problems. He shook out his arms and legs periodically to keep his muscles loose.
A crewman came back. “Time, Colonel. Suit up.”
“How long?” “Ten minutes. Skipper said to tell you everything looks on the button.
Moon won’t be up for a couple of hours, weather’s holding, and no one’s locked onto us. All’s quiet, as they say. I’ll be back to test your equipment and give you the heads up. Remember, when you jump, make sure you don’t fall upward. That wild-and-crazy tail assembly of ours can chop you like salad greens.”
The crewman went away, chuckling at
his own bad joke. Jon did not laugh.
He hooked his Heckler & Koch MP5K to three rings on the special harness that crossed his chest to hold it in place. He dabbed blacking onto his face, avoiding his wounds. He struggled into the insulated oversuit and gloves and zipped the suit closed. After buckling on the outer harness, he hooked on his two parachutes and attached his oxygen, altimeter, GPS unit, and other equipment.
Getting hot, he felt as if he weighed a half ton. He wondered briefly how troops dressed for full combat could even move and answered his own unspoken question: Because they had to. He remembered. He had been there himself.
Ready, he waited, overloaded and overheated, hoping it would not be long. He was sufficiently uncomfortable that all he wanted was to get it over with. Jump, fall, and land. Almost anything was better than this… even facing the black void outside the AWACS.
“Here we go.” The same crewman was back, tugging and checking his equipment for proper attachment and functioning. At last, he slapped Jon on the back. “Start breathing your oxygen. Watch that light up ahead.
When it flashes, slide open the door. Good luck.”
Jon nodded and did what he was told. As he fixed his gaze on the light, he felt the compartment depressurize. When the light flashed, he slid back the door. As the inky air sucked at him, he had one moment of indecision. Then he remembered something his father had told him a long time ago: Everyone dies, so you’re one hell of a lot better off to live your life now than to look back and wonder what you missed.
He jumped.
Washington, D. C..
It was nearly noon in the nation’s capital, and the president was working at his table desk in the Oval Office. He had received and discussed the contingency war plans of the joint chiefs, from a mere show of force against Taiwan by the Chinese to full-scale invasion of the island nation and the unthinkable — a nuclear strike aimed by mainland China at the United States.
President Castilla leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Under his glasses, he rubbed the eyelids, then he clasped his hands behind his head. He thought about war, about trying to fight a nation of 1.3 billion, give or take a few million the Chinese had probably lost or never counted. He thought about nuclear weapons and felt as if he were losing control. It was one thing to face off against small, poorly armed nations and terrorists, homegrown or foreign, whose limit was to kill thousands, and quite another against China, which had unlimited capacity for mass devastation. He doubted China wanted war any more than he did, but what was the difference between a submarine commander so angry he was ready to fire a torpedo and an outraged hard-liner in a high place with his finger on the nuclear trigger?
A light knock on his door preceded the head of Jeremy. “Fred Klein, sir.”
“Send him in, Jeremy.”
Klein came in like a nervous suitor, eager but apprehensive. Both men waited for Jeremy to leave.
“Why do I think you’ve brought me good news and bad news,” the president said.
“Probably because I have.”
“All right, start with the good. It’s been a long day.”
Klein hunched in his chair, sorting everything in his mind. “Colonel Smith is alive and well, and the original copy of the invoice manifest Monagon tried to deliver to us has reappeared.”
The president sat up like a shot. “You have the manifest? How soon can you get it here?”
“That’s the bad part. It’s still in China.” He detailed Jon’s report from the time he was captured, his escape, and the phone call from Li Kuonyi. “He had to tell the CIA team he was working for the White House, but that’s all. Covert-One was never mentioned. A special, one-time assignment again.”
“All right,” Castilla said grudgingly and scowled. “Now we know Ralph Mcdermid is definitely in the middle of the whole thing. But it changes nothing about the danger presented by the Empress.”
“No, sir.”
“Without the Flying Dragon manifest, we’re facing war. Li Kuonyi and Mcdermid’s people are meeting in Dazu tomorrow morning?”
“No, sir. Tuesday morning. Before dawn probably.”
“That’s cutting it even closer, Fred.” The president looked at his clock. “Brose says we’re down to hours. Our military’s standing poised for trouble. What are you doing now to get the manifest?”
“At this moment, Colonel Smith is on his way back into China. He knows Li Kuonyi by sight, and she knows who and what he is. She might deal with him for asylum in the States.”
“He’s gone? I thought you said two mornings from now in China.”
“Something else came up. I sent him a day early.”
The president nearly exploded. “Something else What in hell could’ve happened that’s so critical that it’s taken your focus from the manifest!”
Fred remained calm. “It’s your father, Sam. And I haven’t shifted my focus. A problem has appeared, and I think Colonel Smith can handle both it and the manifest.”
“My father.” The president felt his stomach plummet. “What problem?”
“I’ve had a report from the prison that they’re moving him tomorrow morning, their time. Our man inside doesn’t know why, but once Thayer’s moved, our chances of freeing him anytime soon get very slim. My team can’t possibly arrive early enough, so I came up with another plan. The trouble is, it’s riskier. The only good thing in this mess is that Li Kuonyi’s choice of location has handed us an opportunity to make rescuing Dr. Thayer less risky. By sending Colonel Smith in early, I increase our chances of success.”
The president was alarmed. “Not at the expense of our main goal, Fred.”
“No, Sam. Never. You know us better than that.”
“You, yes. Smith I’m not so sure about. He went in alone?”
“He won’t be alone, sir, but I don’t think you want to know more.
There’s likely to be a lot of deniability needed.”
“Tell me what you can.”
“We’ve got Chiavelli and a network of political prisoners inside the prison, Smith outside, and some imported private help I mentioned that you don’t want to know about, especially since they helped him earlier.
I’ve poured considerable U.S. greenbacks around, so — barring any more disasters — we’ve got a good chance to break out Thayer successfully.
Then Captain Chiavelli will spirit him to the nearest border. At the same time, Smith and the others will go to the Sleeping Buddha and lie in wait.”
The president still seemed dubious. “All right. Smith has a place to hide all day tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
The president sat for a moment nodding, his mind somewhere else. “What if the whole thing’s been a fraud? A trap? What if there are no illicit chemicals?”
“Given everything we’ve learned, that’s improbable.”
“But not impossible?”
“In intelligence and international politics, nothing’s impossible. Not as long as human beings are running things.”
The president was still focused somewhere far from the Oval Office. “Why does anyone take this job? There’s a certain blind hubris in wanting it.” Then his gaze returned to Klein. “I appreciate all you and Smith are doing. This hasn’t been easy, and I doubt it’s going to get easy.
Hours, at the outside, and China so far away.”
“I know. We’ll do it.”
Absentmindedly the president’s hand pressed against his suit jacket.
Through the expensive cloth, he could feel his wallet. The smiling man with the cocky fedora appeared in his mind. There seemed to be a question in his eyes. He longed to ask him what it was. Instead, he banished him.
Aloft over Sichuan Province.
The E-2C’s slipstream blasted Jon clear of the Hawkeye in seconds, and, except for the brush of air against his cheeks, he had the sensation that he was floating motionless in space. Not moving at all. Still, he was falling at an incredible rate — more than one hundred miles an hour.
In the nearly windless sky, he needed to know his altitude and what his course toward the drop zone was. Battling the forces of air and gravity, he raised his right wrist to look at the LED displays of his altimeter and GPS unit. He was still twenty thousand feet up, directly on course.
The lack of wind was his best ally.
Fortunately, this was no precision jump, although there were mountains no more than a few miles away. To know when to open the chute, he needed to keep his eyes on the altimeter. As long as the wind remained calm, he should be falling at the proper angle to hit the field dead center. Bad use of words, he told himself. Call it “on target.”
He was feeling almost euphoric as he planed on his air cushion.
Abruptly, the GPS unit began to blink. It was a warning that he was off course. Jaw tight, he maneuvered his falling body to alter the shape of the air cushion, and he made a slow turn. The GPS unit stopped blinking.
Relieved, he was about to check the altimeter again when his wrist began to vibrate. It was the alarm that warned he was nearing the vertical point of no return. Once he dropped to that height, it would be too late to open his canopy. His heart began to pound. He forced his body upright and pulled the ripcord handle.
There was a momentary whispering of air above as the tightly packed parachute unfolded. He looked up, hoping … and his body suddenly lurched against the harness straps. The canopy was open, the harness had held, and he was back on schedule.
All noise vanished. He threw the ripcord handle away. He swung gently and floated downward, the black canopy flaring above. The GPS unit reported he was slightly off course, and he corrected by pulling on the steering lines. The one thing he must not do was collapse the canopy by steering too wildly. Once steady on course again, he looked down and saw lights closer than he expected. That always happened. The ground seemed to rush up faster than you anticipated, because as you drifted, you had no idea of your descending speed.
He looked down again. The lights came from windows in scattered clusters of houses and villages. In the middle was darkness — a wide, black space.
The Altman Code c-4 Page 35
