Its back sunk into the cliff, the Buddha was more than a hundred feet long and almost twenty feet high, a rendition of Prince Sakyamuni sleeping the sleep of the Enlightened as he entered Nirvana. Puny next to him, life-sized statues of Bodhisattvas and period officials wearing hats stood in a stone stream so close they could touch him. Protected from the weather only by the rock overhang that David Thayer had described, the timeless Sleeping Buddha was in full, spectral view.
Where they had stopped was a good place to set up watch. Jon and Asgar dispersed the Uighers into the undergrowth and found positions for themselves near each other, to make issuing orders easier. Under a tree, they began the wait, which could be long or short. In either case, Jon kept his excitement under control. He had been close to taking the manifest before, and each time he had failed. He would get no other chance. He dismissed a shiver of anxiety and studied the display of carvings, memorizing it, so if either group arrived and hid, he would have the panorama firmly in mind. He could afford no more mistakes.
Other carved figures in various niches stretched around the stone crescent. Stone statues guarded the dark openings of caves. Low, painted steel fences separated most of the carvings from the public, which would arrive tomorrow morning. No one was around, not tourists, not vendors, not spiritual seekers, not police. The darkness stirred only with a light wind, small animals rustling away, and night birds flapping into hiding.
“When do you think someone’s going to appear?” Asgar kept his voice hushed. “Morning’s not so far away.” “No idea. As I said, the meeting was to happen by daylight, but my instincts tell me they’ll show up long before then.”
“Better be before the tourists.”
“I hope so. But Li Kuonyi and Yu Yongfu might want the cover of crowds.
Still, they must realize by now that Feng Dun will kill anyone in his way to get the manifest, so crowds won’t be much help. No, they’ll expect something underhanded from Feng, which tells me they’ll arrive early. Early enough to be here before Feng, so they can set a countertrap.”
But despite Jon’s carefully thought-out assessment, he was wrong. Less than a half hour later, there was movement at the top of the stone stairs on the other side of the Sleeping Buddha. Jon focused his night-vision binoculars. There were five men, three of whom Jon recognized from Hong Kong and Shanghai — part of Feng Dun’s gang. All were armed with what looked like British assault rifles. But Feng was not among them.
“Damn,” Jon breathed.
“What is it? Trouble?” Asgar stared through the night to where Jon was watching the men make their way down the stairs into the valley and the crescent of carvings.
“Feng Dun’s not with them,” Jon said. He stopped and stared. He swore.
“That’s one hell of a surprise.” As the five men continued downward, another man had appeared in the moonlight and started down, too, carrying a medium-sized suitcase. Ralph Mcdermid himself. “It’s Mcdermid. The big honcho we think masterminded the whole deal.”
“The muckity-muck himself? Isn’t that odd?”
“Maybe not. Feng’s gotten the manifest only once. He’s botched it every other time. Mcdermid might’ve decided to take no chances. He’s probably decided that Li Kuonyi and her husband would tend to trust him more. If the two million isn’t legitimate, they know he can’t stall and blame someone else to gain time. On the other hand, maybe he’s here because he no longer trusts Feng.”
“He might’ve bribed his people away from him,” Asgar said.
“Right. Still, I don’t like unexpected developments from the enemy. It usually means I’ve missed something.” The armed band continued to descend warily and in open order, looking as if they were guarding against an ambush. Mcdermid halted the group at least twenty feet above the grotto floor and motioned them to hide facing the Sleeping Buddha.
The Altman CEO used a bush for cover. Asgar said, “Looks as if Mcdermid expects Yu and Li to come down the stairs, too. He’d be able to confront them there.” If that was what Mcdermid had in mind, this time he was the one who was wrong. A burly man appeared first, walking alertly alongside the Sleeping Buddha in the moonlight. He came not down the stairs but emerged from somewhere to the Buddha’s right, from among the statuary, just as David Thayer had suggested was possible. Through Jon’s binoculars, he saw what appeared to be a 9mm Glock tucked inside the man’s waistband in front. Li Kuonyi followed onto the grotto walkway.
She stopped beside the burly man and gazed all around. She wore a sleek, black pantsuit and a high-collared hooded jacket against the chill of the mountain mists and carried an attache case, where the manifest likely was. Jon strained to see her face, but her high collar covered much of it, and her hair was hidden beneath the hood. Still, he had no doubt who she was. He would not soon forget the image of her drinking alone in the silent mansion in Shanghai. The man who walked close behind as if afraid to be alone was somewhere in his early thirties, with a boyish face and a slim, wiry body. A man who watched his weight and took very good care of himself. But not now.
Strain showed in his glazed eyes and furrowed brow. He looked dissipated and frightened. Days with little sleep had taken their toll on the man Jon suspected was Li Kuonyi’s husband, Yu Yongfu. He wore a crumpled Italian suit that was probably custom made, a wilted regimental tie loose at the throat, scuffed dress boots, and a wrinkled white-and-blue-striped shirt. He stayed close behind his wife, his gaze darting nervously into every shadow.
A fourth person — another man — glided out of the dark to join them. Jon did not recognize him. Slimmer, his eyes had an unnatural gleam, like a bipolar patient in a manic state. Clearly another enforcer and far more dangerous.
With Li Kuonyi in the lead, the four walked past the Sleeping Buddha and peered up the stone steps.
She set the attache case on the ground and called out in English, “Feng?
I know you’re there. We heard you. Do you have our money?”
Monday, September 18.
Washington, D.C.
Admiral Stevens Brose announced, “Three hours, sir.”
“Don’t you think I can count, Admiral!” the president snapped. He blinked and took a long breath. “Sorry, Stevens. It’s this waiting and not knowing what, if anything, is happening. We’ve been down to counting minutes before, but those were attacks initiated by an enemy, and all we could do was use everything we had to stop the attack. This is different. This is a confrontation we initiated, where we can’t use anything we have, and soon I’m going to have to give an order that could send us, China, and the rest of the world into a war none of us will be able to control. There’s someone in China who wants that, and he’ll be there to act — retaliate — as soon as we move on the Empress.”
They were alone in the situation room. The admiral had requested the meeting, and the president had thought it best to talk where no one else could hear them. All the high-ranking military and civilian defense personnel were already walking on nails, and the talkative West Wing staff was oddly silent, as if holding their collective breath.
“I don’t envy you, sir.”
President Castilla gave a humorless laugh. “Everyone envies me, Stevens.
Haven’t you heard? I’m the most powerful person on earth, and everyone wants to be me.”
“Yessir,” the admiral said. “The Shilo isn’t going to get there in time.”
“Then may God, and our man in China, help us.”
Tuesday, September 17.
Dazu.
There was an electric pause as Li Kuonyi and her terrified husband waited for Feng Dun to appear.
Through his binoculars, Jon watched Ralph Mcdermid’s emphatic but whispered orders to his men. From the distance and in the green glow of night vision, Jon thought the Altman CEO was telling them to stand by, on no account to do anything without his signal.
Then Mcdermid stood up from beneath his bush and descended the stairs, smiling and carrying the suitcase.
He had
nearly reached the bottom, when Li Kuonyi announced, “That’s far enough.”
“She’s speaking English,” Asgar noted.
“If her gunmen don’t know English, then it’s a good way to make certain they don’t really understand what’s going on,” Jon said.
“Who are you?” she asked Mcdermid suspiciously. “Where’s Feng Dun?”
“I’m Ralph Mcdermid, Mrs. Yu. I’m the one who’s going to pay you two million dollars.” He patted his suitcase.
Jon saw Yu Yongfu whisper in his wife’s ear. Her eyes widened, as if Yu had confirmed Mcdermid’s identity. “Is that the cash?” “Indeed, it is,” Mcdermid said. “Is the document in your attache case?”
With the toe of her shoe, Li touched the case. “Yes. But before you have any ideas about taking it from us by force with the men you’ve hidden up there, you should know the case is booby-trapped. I’ll trigger it the moment you make one wrong move. Is that clear?”
Mcdermid smiled at Li Kuonyi as if she were the most delectable woman he had ever seen. As if he enjoyed every moment of doing business with her, and Jon understood for the first time the false face Mcdermid showed the world was, to him, simply business. Even in pleasure, it was no doubt business. And, of course, all business was pleasure, a game to be won, the higher the stakes, the better. Life as transaction. It was an automatic reaction, like breathing.
“Perfectly,” he told her in his genial voice. “You’ll want to count the money, of course.”
“Of course. Bring it down here and return to where you are now.”
Mcdermid descended the final few feet, laid his suitcase flat on the ground, and climbed backward, never taking his gaze from Li and the three men, while above him his hidden gunmen waited with their assault weapons aimed.
A sense of excited expectancy radiated from the couple even from where Jon, Asgar, and the Uigher fighters watched from the hillside. The husband and wife glanced at each other, their eyes alight.
Li Kuonyi told Yu, “Examine it, my husband.”
His face eager, Yu squatted and unhooked the clasps on the suitcase. For a moment, Li Kuonyi and the two bodyguards took their eyes off the hill to watch the suitcase’s lid being raised. That was their mistake.
As if on signal, Feng Dun arose from the thick shrubs on the slope above where Mcdermid’s five men lay, an assault rifle in his large hands. He fired, and the long bank facing the Sleeping Buddha erupted in a barrage of automatic fire. The noise was volcanic, shattering the stillness of the night, as the bullets whined and screamed, hailing down on Li Kuonyi, her husband, and their two bodyguards. None had a chance.
Li Kuonyi’s throat was nearly severed, blood spouting as she fell. As bullets riddled his chest, Yu Yongfu surged up then collapsed over the suitcase. The beefy bodyguard was still trying to understand what was happening when he was cut down. Only the second gunman managed to get his pistol halfway out before he slammed back against the low steel fence in front of the Sleeping Buddha and catapulted over in slow motion, blood spraying out from bullet holes throughout his body.
On the hill between Feng’s men and the floor of the valley, the five who had arrived with Mcdermid lay dead in the undergrowth, too.
As the valley turned sepulchral with shocked silence, Mcdermid froze where he stood, his mouth open in shock. Feng and a dozen men burst from the bushes and spilled down the steps.
Ralph Mcdermid screamed, his face a deep, choleric red: “I told you to stay away! I told you I would handle it! What have you done, you idiot!” “What have I done, Taipan?” Feng said as he reached the corpses. “I’ve made certain the manifest will not fall into American or Chinese hands.
I’ve earned two million dollars. Perhaps most personally important, I’ve eliminated an insolent, worthless, rich American.”
As Feng fired a short burst from his assault rifle, Mcdermid’s eyes opened wide, as if in understanding. The bullets riddled his heart and flung him backward, arms outstretched. He fell, sprawled, on the stone walkway. Feng laughed, kicked away Li Kuonyi’s corpse, and grabbed the attache case.
On the hill above and to the side, Jon and the Uighers had had no time to stop the bloodbath. Asgar swore and waved to his men, who were already aiming their AK-47s at Feng and his killers.
“No!” Jon said instantly. “Tell them to hold their fire. Tell them to stay hidden!”
“He’ll get away with your manifest, Jon!”
“No!” Jon snapped. “Wait!”
The Arabian Sea.
Commander James Chervenko lay on his bunk in his quarters, but he was wide awake. He had left the bridge to Frank Bienas two hours before, with what he knew was the unneeded order to call him the moment there was a new development. In any event, to check in no later than 0400 hours. He had gone below ostensibly to sleep, although he had known from experience that was hopeless. Still, the semblance of normalcy helped calm the crew, and the time alone gave him an opportunity to think carefully about how best to handle the Chinese submarine.
When a call from the Shilo was put through, he took it instantly. The news was terrible: The Shilo was definitely not going to reach them in time.
“How long do you have, Jim?” Captain Michael Scotto asked.
“Less than three hours.”
“You at stations?”
“Not until I absolutely have to.”
A brief silence. “You’re cutting it fine.”
“It’s dark, and radar tells me they’re running on the surface. They can pick up our activity. I won’t be the one to pull the trigger until I’m ordered to.”
“It’s a risk. If they decide to start it … ” Scotto on the Shilo let the sentence trail off.
“I know, Mike. I’ll take that risk, but I won’t start it.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks. Get here as fast as you can.” They broke the connection.
Neither commander needed to say more. Each knew what was involved. In a naval engagement, anything could happen, and the Shilo might still be able to help. If not, it could pick up survivors, if there were any survivors.
Chervenko had barely closed his eyes to try to catch at least an hour of sleep, when his intercom came alive: “Sir, the sub’s diving. Sonar says they sound like they’re running fish in.”
Chervenko’s lungs tightened, and his stomach knotted. “On my way.”
He jumped up, splashed cold water on his face, combed his hair, straightened his clothes, put on his cap, and left the quarters. On deck, he stared aft but saw nothing.
On the bridge, Bienas nodded ahead toward the running lights of The Dowager Empress. “She’s picked up more speed. Close to her top fifteen.”
“The sub?”
“Sonar confirms she’s arming.”
“Moving in?”
“Not yet.”
“She will. Let’s go to stations, Frank.”
Bienas nodded to the specialist on the ship’s intercom.
He leaned to his microphone. His young voice quavered with nerves as he bellowed: “Battle stations! Battle stations!”
Chapter Forty-Two
Dazu.
Asgar waved his hand frantically to stop his Uighers from firing down the slope at Feng Dun and his men. Some wore Chinese army uniforms.
Jon stared, shocked, at the soldiers, while Asgar stared at him. “Are you mad, Jon? Feng’s going to get the money and your manifest!”
But Jon had been watching the events carefully. He shook his head, disgusted he had not seen the truth earlier. But then, neither Ralph Mcdermid nor Feng Dun had either.
“Doubt it,” Jon said. “It’s a trick. Has to be.”
Asgar was more confused. “A trick? What trick? Feng and his people murdered everyone, and now he’s getting away with your bloody manifest and two million dollars!”
Jon shook his head stubbornly. “No. Keep your men alert. Watch.”
Down in front of the great Buddha, Feng crouched before the attache case while his men stood at eq
ual paces around, guarding, nervous excitement on their faces. Gingerly, Feng picked up the case. He weighed it in his hands. He tilted and rotated it carefully. Then he laughed and said something in Chinese. His people laughed, too.
Asgar explained, “He says there’s no bomb in it. It’s too light, and nothing heavy moves inside. He never believed there was a bomb. Li Kuonyi would never destroy her only real weapon.”
“He’s right about that.” As Feng prepared to open the lid, his men stepped back, not yet ready to trust. Feng lifted it and stared eagerly inside. Nothing happened. No bomb, no explosion. But Feng’s face twisted in a scowl. He shouted an oath and hurled the case away. It landed quietly in the brush. As Feng barked something in Chinese, Asgar looked at Jon, surprised. “It’s empty!” Jon nodded. “Had to be. As I said, Li Kuonyi produced another of her tricks.” There was no manifest at the Sleeping Buddha tonight. Down in the crescent, Feng jumped to his feet and strode to where Yu Yongfu still lay facedown over the suitcase of money. He kicked the corpse over onto its back and crouched. He licked his fingers and rubbed Yu’s face. Grimacing, he stared at his fingers. He shouted another curse. “What the devil is he doing now?” Asgar wondered. Cold eyes glittering with fury, Feng hurried to where Li Kuonyi lay on her back, staring up at eternity. He bent over and repeated the same ritual.
When he finished, he slumped on his heels, as if defeated. Then he sprang to his feet and spoke with disgust to his men. “So that’s it!”
Asgar stared at Jon as if he were a magician. “It was a trick. Li and Yu’s trick. It’s not them. Those poor people are impostors. Perhaps some of her fellow actors, that she hired. They and the two guards were sacrifices, scene decoration to make the real Li Kuonyi and Yu Yongfu’s ruse believable. But—?” “Yes,” Jon said. “But.” As he spoke, down below Feng hunched again and searched the dead woman. When he stood once more, he held a small object. “What the deuce did he find?”
“I’d guess a miniature microphone, receiver, and speaker. That’s how Li put on the charade, and why she was the only one who spoke.” In the valley, Feng seemed to realize the same thing. He raised his head and scanned the mountainside above the Sleeping Buddha. When he saw nothing, he whirled and barked more orders in Chinese. “He’s telling them―” Asgar began.
The Altman Code c-4 Page 42
