The Altman Code c-4

by Robert Ludlum

  “I don’t know why you want it, but―”

  Jon stopped her. “Turn it off, for now. There’s not enough time to get it to Washington anyway so the president can send it on to Zhongnanhai.

  Let’s hear what our fellow agent has to say for himself.”

  The diminutive major’s eyes flickered. He pointed to where the eight soldiers were disappearing into the trees. “They’re now under my orders.

  Did you know that Captain Chang took two prisoners? One is an American captain, the other an old man. I can guarantee you, them, the two ladies here, and Madame Li’s two children quick passage to the United States.

  We’re on the same side in this, Colonel.” “Why help Li Kuonyi?” Randi asked. “Let’s just say I admire the lady’s intelligence, resourcefulness, and artistry. I also admit that she’s a complication we don’t want. None of what’s happened can or will become public. In your country or in mine. But success is slipping away, even for me.” Jon considered. The major did not want the manifest destroyed. There was nothing more China could gain unless they did want the Dowager boarded.

  A decision had to be made, and only he could make it. America had nothing more to lose and everything to gain. He asked the critical question: “Do you have a way to stop the cargo ship before it’s too late, Major Pan?”

  “Yes.” He handed Pan the invoice manifest. The major turned on his heel, motioned them to follow, and ran across the clearing and through the trees to another open space where a helicopter waited, its motors silent. Pan spoke into a walkie-talkie. As they closed in, the rotors roared to life.

  The Arabian Sea.

  The moon was at its brightest as the John Crowe moved across the long, slow swells to close in on the Empress, still steaming ahead at full speed toward the Strait of Hormuz, which was faintly visible in the distance. The boarding party stood in the lee of the Crowe’s aft superstructure, armed, ready to lower the boats, ready to motor to the Chinese freighter. In the communications-and-control center, It.

  Commander Frank Bienas paced, stopping every few minutes to lean over the shoulders of the radio, radar, and sonar specialists. He was peering at Operations Specialist Second-Class Baum’s radar screen, when Hastings on sonar boomed, “Sub’s moving!”

  Bienas barked, “How fast?”

  “Looks like full speed, sir.”

  “Heading toward the Empress?”

  “Sort of, sir, yes.”

  “What the hell does ‘ of mean, technician?”

  “It means she’s angling in toward the Empress, but her course’ll take her around the stern.”

  “So they’re heading for our side, armed and ready?”

  “Maybe, sir. I guess so.”

  “Then say that, damn you!”

  The shocked silence was broken by Hastings’s stiff words, “I can’t tell you where the sub’s headed, Commander. Only her speed and course.”

  Bienas flushed. “Sorry, Hastings. I guess I’m kind of strung out.” “I guess we all are, sir,” Hastings said.

  The executive officer activated the intercom to the bridge. “Jim? Looks like she’s coming to our side, full speed.”

  On the bridge, Jim Chervenko acknowledged the message, his gut tight: “Okay, Frank. The moment she comes ‘, let me know.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  Chervenko switched off the intercom and stared astern. Then he bent to the intercom again. “Sparks? Open a channel. Hail the freighter.” He straightened, watching the hard-driving freighter no more than a half mile away now.

  The intercom squawked. “They’re not responding, sir.”

  “Keep trying. Let me know when they do.” He pressed another switch.

  “Ready, Canfield?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chervenko nodded to himself, recognizing the young lieutenant’s eagerness to go into battle. He remembered when he had been like that in what seemed now another world. “Put one across her bow. And Canfield?”

  “Yessir?”

  “Don’t hit her.”

  A pause. “No, sir.”

  Chervenko raised his night binoculars to focus on the fast-moving bow of the Empress. He listened to the five-inch fire and watched the geyser erupt no more than a hundred yards ahead of the bow. A rewardingly large splash. That should shake their shorts.

  He counted: One, two, three, four … The intercom squawked again. “He’s responding,” the radioman said. “He’s demanding to know the meaning of our aggression.”

  “Tell him to cut the crap, stop dead in the water, and prepare to receive a boarding party. Tell him I better not see even a tin can go overboard, or I’ll put the next round from the five-inch down his gullet.” Chervenko suddenly felt nervous. He studied the Empress again.

  When it slowed, he let out a breath. So far so good. He was about to give the order to lower the boats, when there was another signal.

  Frank Bienas’s agitated voice burst out: “The sub’s come around, Jim!

  Submerged. Torpedoes in the tubes.”

  There it was. Sweat broke out on Chervenko’s forehead. He bellowed, “Prepare for evasive maneuvers. Send off the Seahawks!”

  Out of the corner of his eyes, he noted that the Empress was hardly moving. She was almost dead in the water, barely gliding ahead as she rose and fell on the swell. But the main target of his gaze was astern, where the telltale trail of a torpedo could appear any second.

  He saw no torpedo. What he did see was a giant shape rising ghostly in the moonlight, a monster emerging from the depths.

  It was the Chinese submarine. As Chervenko watched, incredulous, it moved slowly toward the Crowe five hundred yards astern and a few hundred yards closer to the stationary Dowager Empress.

  The intercom announced, “He’s hailing us, sir!”

  Chervenko’s eyebrows shot up to his officer’s cap. Now what? “Pipe him onto the bridge.” The stiff, vaguely angry voice said in stilted English, “Commander Chervenko, I believe. This is Captain Zhang Qian of the People’s Liberation Army submarine Zhou Enlai. I have received orders from Beijing to join you in boarding the outlaw vessel Dowager Empress to search for and destroy any and all contraband cargo. I am further instructed to place a crew aboard the vessel to sail it and its personnel back to China.”

  Chervenko did not move. He stood there gazing out over the dark Arabian Sea, the intercom in his hand, and told his heart to stop thundering. It was over. Thank God, it was over. Someone had done their job. Someone… probably many … whose risks and sacrifices he could only imagine and whose names and faces he would probably never know.

  “I’m at your service, Captain,” Chervenko said politely. “And, of course, once the contraband is destroyed, we will be pleased to escort the ship back to Shanghai. Wouldn’t want an outlaw vessel like this one to slip away or fall into someone else’s hands, now would we?”

  Epilogue

  Beijing.

  The heads of the ten men seated around the ornate imperial table in the Zhongnanhai meeting room turned in unison to the door to the left of the general secretary. They watched as a slender man in the uniform of a lieutenant commander of the PLA navy entered. He whispered in the ear of the general secretary, and the secretary nodded. When the young officer left, the secretary explained, “We have good news. It’s over. The captain of the Zziou Enlai reports the boarding of the Empress by parties from the Zhou Enlai and the American frigate John Crowe. Many tons of contraband chemicals were found. The contraband is destroyed.

  The officers of the cargo vessel are in our custody, and the ship is returning to Shanghai, escorted by the American frigate.” A murmur of both approval and relief traveled around the table. Wei Gaofan said, “A close thing, but must we allow an American frigate to escort our ship?”

  “I expect,” the secretary said mildly, “the frigate captain insisted.

  Under the circumstances, we can hardly protest.” His eyes were tiny points of black stone behind his thick glasses as he fixed his gaze o
n General Chu Kuairong at the far end of the table. “How could this have happened, General Chu? An illegal enterprise of such unimaginable danger conducted by our citizens under our very noses?” “I believe,” Niu Jianxing said, “I must be the one to answer that, Secretary.” Wei Gaofan interrupted angrily, “None of us can be expected to answer for all the failures of those who conduct actual operations.”

  Niu did not look at Wei. He addressed the room in general. “Our colleague Wei appears to want to pass the culpability down to those least able to defend themselves.”

  “I resent—!” Wei snapped.

  The secretary cut him off: “If there’s an explanation, Jianxing, tell us.”

  “There is,” Niu said quietly. “A simple explanation of various forces — a weak businessman, the greed inevitably fostered by free-market economics, the conspiracy of certain Western corporations, and the corrupt arrogance of a member of this very committee.”

  As the Owl enunciated the last words, there was a shocked pause. Then the room erupted in outrage, protest, and shouted questions directed back at Niu.

  Wei Gaofan, his temple-dog face choleric with rage, shouted, “Such a statement is tantamount to treason, Niu! I call for a vote of censure!”

  “Which one of us are you slandering, sir!” Shi Jingnu demanded.

  “It’s unconscionable!” called one of the youngest members.

  “Unless,” the secretary said quietly, “Niu can prove his accusation.”

  The room instantly was silent, questioning.

  Someone muttered, “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it,” General Chu growled, his unlit cigar rolling around his thin-lipped mouth.

  Niu pushed himself away from the table and walked to the door. He opened it and beckoned.

  Still in his PLA uniform, Major Pan Aitu marched inside. Niu escorted the pudgy spycatcher to the table and stood beside him. “Major, detail your investigation, if you please.”

  In his gentle, completely expressionless voice, Pan laid out the conspiracy from Donk & Lapierre’s approach to Yu Yongfu with the contraband deal, to Li Aorong’s and Wei Gaofan’s involvement, until Jon Smith had at last handed the only existing manifest to Pan, who had faxed it from Dazu to the Standing Committee.

  Wei Gaofan’s hard face paled. Still, he grumbled, “It seems, with the tragic death of Li Aorong only an hour ago, all those named by Major Pan are dead. Except for me, of course. I categorically deny―”

  Pan gazed steadily at Wei. “Not all of them are dead, sir. Li Kuonyi— without father or husband — is alive. Many of Feng Dun’s men survived.

  The captain of infantry is, of course, alive, as is your friend, the general, who sent the captain to help Feng Dun retrieve the manifest.

  All have given me official statements.”

  For a moment, Wei Gaofan did not move. His features seemed to melt, but his jaw clamped tight. “Niu Jianxing has forced them to lie!”

  “No,” the secretary said thoughtfully, studying Wei as if seeing him for the first time. “There is only one liar here.”

  The color suddenly returned to Wei’s face. “Niu Jianxing and the general secretary are destroying China,” he announced to his colleagues. “What Yu Yongfu did is an example of the disease they’d bring home to the People’s Republic. What I did was to awake you and the Party to what’s happening to the great Revolution of our fathers. Of Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai, Chu Teh, Deng Xiaoping. I will not resign. I will leave this room with all those who agree with me, and we shall see who the Party supports!”

  He raised his massive body onto his spindly legs and stalked to the door. For a moment, he stood there, the door half open, his back to his colleagues, waiting. No one followed.

  The secretary sighed. “Tomorrow I’ll call for a vote of the Central Committee and the Politburo. You’ll be stripped of all posts, all prerogatives, and all honors. You’ll be expelled from the Party, Wei Gaofan.”

  “Unless,” Niu Jianxing suggested, “you choose to do as Li Aorong told his son-in-law. But you must act quickly.”

  “You could think of your family,” the secretary suggested, although his voice did not sound hopeful.

  Wei continued to stand there silently. Finished, he nodded and walked out.

  Monday, September 18.

  Washington, D.C.

  Four hours after the cargo of banned chemicals was discovered aboard the Empress and destroyed, Charlie Ouray invited Vice President Brandon Erson over to meet with the president. Then he ordered Air Force One led for a flight out to the West Coast, took a call from Ambassador Wu, who had just returned to the embassy on Connecticut Avenue, and headed downstairs to the situation room, where President Castilla was on the phone with his wife.

  “It’s a pretty darn good ending, Cassie,” the president was saying. As soon as he saw Ouray poke his head into the room, he beckoned him inside. “You’ll be able to make it, darling? I’m sorry about your having to cancel the dinner in Oaxaca, but … yes, I know you’re as excited as I am. And the children? Wonderful! Wonderful! I’ll see y’all then.”

  He hung up, beaming.

  Ouray waited for the president to look at him again. When he did, he reported, “The ambassador called, Mr. President. He wanted officially to thank you, and he gave me a message for you from Niu Jianxing — the Owl.”

  “That’s nice. What’s the message?”

  “Niu sends his greetings and expresses hope that your health continues to be robust.”

  The president burst out laughing.

  “What?” Ouray asked. Puzzled, he watched the president laugh harder. He began to smile, then to chuckle as he replayed the message in his mind.

  At last he held his sides, laughing, too. The merry sound filled the big, soundproof room, banishing the shadows of the last week.

  “Oh, God.” The president wiped his eyes.

  “Priceless,” Ouray agreed.

  “We needed that. Robust. But from them, it’s a vote of confidence.”

  “An expression of hope for the future.”

  “Hell, Charlie. He figures he’s got me broke in, and he doesn’t want to have to go through it again anytime soon with someone new!”

  Chuckling, the two men leaned back in their chairs.

  Ouray observed, “Well, sir, I guess we can say the same about him.”

  “True, true.” At last, Sam Castilla’s expression grew serious as his mind returned to the next task. “Just wanted you to know that Justice is getting ready to bring charges against Jasper Kott. It’s going to be a mighty big scandal.”

  “Can’t brush it under the rug.”

  “No, Charlie. Wouldn’t be right.” There was one more piece of business that had to be taken care of. He sighed, preparing himself. “Is the vice president on his way?”

  “Better than that, he’s here.” Brandon Erikson entered the situation room with a broad smile on his handsome face. Behind him, the military aide closed the door. As always, his sable-black hair was brushed back impeccably, and his wiry body was encased in a tailored three-piece suit. He exuded his usual charm and energy. “My congratulations, Mr. President. A magnificent display of statesmanship.”

  “Thank you, Brandon. It was a close thing.”

  The vice president took his usual seat in the middle of the long table to the president’s right, directly across from Ouray. He nodded pleasantly to Ouray and focused on the president. “I won’t ask for the details of how you pulled it off, sir, but I suspect we have an unsung hero or two in our intelligence agencies.”

  “There’s that,” the president agreed. “We also had a lot of help from inside China, particularly from a high-level politician. Our work with him gives me a lot of hope for our relations with China.”

  Erikson grinned. “I suspect you’re being modest, Mr. President.” Sam Castilla said nothing.

  The vice president blinked and glanced around the silent room that was essentially sealed from the rest of the White House. Not only win
dowless and soundproof, it was constantly swept for bugs and illicit cameras.

  “Is everyone else late? I assumed we were having a post-crisis assessment session.”

  The president studied Erikson’s face, looking for what he had missed.

  “There won’t be anyone else, Brandon. Tell me, would your friend Ralph Mcdermid be as enthusiastic about our success as you are?”

  Erikson looked from the president to the grim-faced Ouray and back again to the president. “I have no idea how Mr. Mcdermid would feel. I barely know the man.” “Really?” Charlie Ouray said.

  Erikson did not miss the absence of his title or any of the other usual courteous forms of address for someone of his lofty position. His left eyebrow cocked. “Is something wrong, Mr. President?”

  The president’s hand slammed down on the table. Ouray jumped. Erikson looked startled and a little afraid.

  Castilla growled, “You know damn well what Mcdermid would’ve thought.

  You know exactly which intelligence agents are unsung heroes.”

  “That, sir, is preposterous!” Erikson retorted, as angry as the president. “I know―” He seemed to suddenly hear the president’s exact words. “He … would’ve thought?”

  The president said curtly, “Ralph Mcdermid’s dead. Altman’s board of directors is right now running around like vultures with their heads cut off to come up with a plausible story to explain it. And it won’t help. Me-Dermid’s dirty deal is going to come out — I’ll see to it. They’ll be jumping ship faster than you can say Arthur Andersen.”

  “Dead?” Erikson repeated, his expression shocked. “It’s going to … come out?”

  “Your secret pal Ralph Mcdermid was shot to death in China,” Charlie Ouray told him. “Murdered, I’m told, by one of his own hired thugs.” The vice president blinked, recovered, and said cagily, “Horrible. How tragic. What was he doing in China? Some business deal, I expect.”

  “Shit, Brandon,” the president exploded. “It’s over. You’ve been caught with your hands deep in other people’s pockets. I expect your resignation on my desk by morning!” He nodded to Ouray, who pressed a button under the table. Erikson sputtered, “My … my resignation―” Two disembodied voices filled the room, one of them the vice president’s: “Don’t get sarcastic. We need each other. You’re a valuable member of the team.”