The Altman Code

by Robert Ludlum

  “What’s the word?”

  “Double latte.”

  “You’re undercover, for God’s sake,” Smith told him. “Undercover agents don’t skulk!”

  “Okay, Colonel. Okay!” he protested in a completely American accent. “Get your paws off me.”

  “You’re lucky I don’t strangle you. Are you trying to draw attention to me?” He let go, still scowling.

  “You don’t need me for that, Colonel. You’ve done a hot job all by your lonesome.” Indignant, the interpreter straightened the collar of his voluminous jacket, brushed his unpressed blue work shirt, and snatched his peaked Mao cap from Smith.

  Smith swore, at last understanding. “I’ll bet your car’s a dark-blue Volkswagen Jetta.”

  “Yeah, okay, you spotted me at the airport. And damn lucky I was back there, or I’d never have caught on to the surveillance.”

  Smith’s shoulders tightened. “What surveillance?”

  “I don’t know who it is. You never do in Shanghai these days. Cops? Secret police? Military? Some tycoon’s goons? Gangsters? Could be anyone. We’ve got capitalism now, and more-or-less free enterprise. It’s a lot harder to tell who’s out to get anyone.”

  “Swell.” Smith sighed. He had been concerned, and now he knew he had been right. Small compensation. “What’s your cover?”

  “Interpreter and chauffeur. What else? Definitely not gunrunner, so here, take it quick.” As if it were scorching his fingers, he handed Smith a canvas holster encasing a duplicate of his 9mm Beretta.

  “You have a name?” Smith stuck the semiautomatic into his belt at the small of his back and tossed the shoulder harness into his suitcase.

  “An Jingshe, but you can call me Andy. That’s what I was at NYU. The Village, not uptown. I liked it down there. Plenty of chicks and good space you could share sometimes.” Adding proudly, if a little wistfully, “I’m a painter.”

  “Congratulations,” Smith said drily. “It’s an even more unstable living than a spy’s. Okay, Andy, let’s go get coffee at a Starbucks and see whether we can figure out who’s on my tail.”

  He restored the invisible filaments inside all his suitcases, shut them, and walked to the door, where he smoothed a thin sheet of see-through plastic on the carpet so that anyone entering would step on it before they saw it. He hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob.

  They took the elevator down. On the lobby floor, Smith asked An Jingshe, “Is there a way out through the kitchens?”

  “There’s gotta be.”

  The uniformed maintenance man polished the brass fittings and shined the marble walls in the corridor from the lobby to the bank of elevators. A wiry man, his long face, sharp black eyes, pale brown skin, and drooping mustache were unlike any other Chinese or Westerner in the lobby. He worked in silence, head down, apparently concentrating on what he was doing, but his gaze missed nothing.

  When the tall, skinny Chinese and the tall, muscular Westerner left the elevator, they stopped for a moment to converse. Too far away to hear the low conversation, the maintenance worker polished another brass sconce and assessed the big man with practiced eyes. No more than an inch over six feet, he was broad through the chest and shoulders, trim and athletic. His hair was smoothed back from a high-planed face, and his blue eyes were clear and intelligent. All in all, the maintenance man saw nothing unusual about him in his dark-gray, American-cut business suit. Still, there was an unmistakable military bearing about him, and he had arrived at Pudong International from Taiwan with Dr. Liang Tianning and his biomolecular team.

  The maintenance man was still studying him when the pair turned and headed toward the doors into the kitchen. As they pushed through, he packed his cleaning materials and hurried across the lobby and out to busy Nanjing Dong Lu, one of the world’s greatest shopping streets. He ran west through the throngs and honking vehicles toward the pedestrian mall. But before he reached the first cross street, he stopped at the alley that edged the hotel.

  He waited where he could watch the employees’ entrance as well as the lobby entrance through which he had just left. It was always possible he had been seen, and the men’s entry into the kitchen a calculated ruse.

  Neither the tall American nor the Chinese exited, but the maintenance man saw something else: He was not the only one observing the hotel. Two cigarettes glowed and faded inside a black car, parked so it blocked the narrow sidewalk across from the hotel’s revolving doors. The Public Security Bureau—China’s dreaded police and intelligence agency. No one else would be that arrogant.

  He studied the vehicle longer. By the time he looked back into the alley, the American and the Chinese were running toward a Volkswagen Jetta parked so that it faced the street. The maintenance man shrank back into the crowd that surged along the sidewalk.

  The Jetta’s right wheels were flat against a wall. The Chinese unlocked the car door, while the American surveyed all around as if expecting an attack. They jumped inside, the Jetta pulled into the traffic, and it turned west toward the pedestrian mall, which reached all the way to the French Concession. No vehicles were allowed there.

  The maintenance man wasted no time. He gave a piercing whistle. Seconds later, a battered Land Rover pulled up. He dropped his toolbox in back and vaulted into the front beside the driver, who wore a round white cap and had leathery brown skin and round eyes like his.

  When the driver spoke in a language that was neither Chinese nor European, the maintenance man responded in the same language and jabbed a thumb at the Jetta, less than a half block ahead in the jammed traffic.

  The driver nodded and forced the Land Rover through the congestion. Abruptly, the Jetta turned left.

  Bellowing curses, the driver snaked, bumped, and banged the Land Rover to the left and followed the Jetta, which turned west again on Jiujiang Lu. And quickly north once more, back toward Nanjing Dong Lu.

  Swearing again, the Land Rover driver tried to follow but was momentarily blocked. He burst his vehicle out to turn into the same street. The maintenance man caught another glimpse of their quarry far ahead—and then the car vanished.

  The driver pushed the Land Rover on, stopping just before Nanjing Dong Lu, where an all-but-hidden alley ran off to the south. The maintenance man cursed. The Chinese driver and the American with the military posture must have spotted him. The Jetta had pulled into this alley and by now could be anywhere in the teeming area.

  Two hours later, Andy dropped Smith at the second Starbucks and drove off to park. This one was on Fixing Dong Lu, another bustling street, not far from the river in the Nanshi district—Shanghai’s Old Town.

  The first Starbucks had been in Lippo Plaza on Huaihai Zhong Lu. That coffee shop had been filled with locals and Westerners alike, and Smith and Andy had seen no connection to the Empress there or when they had walked the streets, reading nameplates on doors and studying the low buildings filled with shops and small stores.

  This second Starbucks was less crowded. Only Chinese sat at the tables and ordered coffees to go. Most were well dressed in suits, both Western and Chinese, and appeared to be rushing back to desk jobs.

  Smith carried his second double latte of the day to a table at the front window. This was a business district, which accounted for the lack of Westerners. The buildings were a mixture of four-, five-, and six-story structures dating back to the late colonial era as well as taller modern buildings and a few shiny glass-and-steel high-rises. One of the newest was directly across the street. Smith focused on a vertical row of brass plaques beside the entrance doors.

  Andy joined him. “I’ll get me a mocha, and we can start walking. Are you buying?”

  Smith handed him money. When the interpreter-chauffeur returned, Smith stood up. “We’ll try that new building across the street first.”

  Carrying their Styrofoam cups, they dodged among the bicycles, cars, and buses to cross with the skill that came from maneuvering through Manhattan’s traffic. Smith headed to the brass nameplates
at the entry. Most were in Chinese characters, some transliterated into Pinyin.

  Andy translated for Smith.

  “Hold it!” Smith said at the tenth plaque. “Read that again.”

  “Flying Dragon Enterprises, International Trade and Shipping.” Andy pontificated: “A dragon’s the symbol of heaven in China.”

  “Okay.”

  “And, therefore, of the emperor.”

  “The emperor’s been dead a long time, but thanks. Finish the list.”

  As it turned out, Flying Dragon was the only shipping company. As they drank their coffee, they hurried through the directories of the other office buildings on the block. They found four more companies that could have ties to global transportation. Then they found a street vendor who sold jian-bing, an egg and green-onion omelette folded over chili sauce. This time, Andy bought.

  As soon as they had finished their omelettes, Smith was on the move again. “Time to check the last Starbucks.”

  It proved to be in a shopping center in the new business development zone around Hongqiao Airport on Hongqiao Lu. There were no companies connected to shipping nearby, and Smith told Andy to drive back to the hotel.

  “Okay, we’ve got five possibilities,” Smith said, “all close enough to the second Starbucks for an informant to use it as a place to pass his information on to Mondragon. How good are you on a computer?”

  “How good was Grant at winning battles?”

  “Access the five companies on the Internet, and look for the name Zhao Yanji among their staff.”

  “Consider it done.”

  They drove on. As they neared the Bund, Jon said, “Is there another way into the Peace Hotel besides the front and employees’ entrances?”

  “Yeah. Around the corner on an intersecting street.”

  “Good. Take me there.”

  As Andy drove through a dizzying tangle of thoroughfares and alleys, Smith looked him up and down. “You’re almost my height. Your pants should be long enough, and that leather jacket of yours is big enough for a buffalo. With your Mao cap, I’ll pass for Shanghainese, unless someone gets too close to my face. You’ll be a scarecrow in my suit, but you don’t have to wear the jacket.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  As they approached the hotel, Smith told Andy where to park. He struggled out of his clothes in the small car. Andy turned off the motor and did the same. The leather jacket was fine on Smith. The trousers were an inch short, but they would do. He pulled the Mao cap down almost to his eyes and stepped out of the Jetta.

  He leaned down to the open window. “Do that research, have an early dinner, and pick me up here in two hours.”

  Andy brightened. “That’s too soon for shows or club hopping. What’s our gig?”

  “You don’t have a gig. You’re waiting in the car. I’m going to do a bit of breaking and entering. How much’ll depend on what you find out.”

  “I can help on the b and e, too. I’m a cat.”

  “Next time.”

  Andy frowned, disappointed. “I’m not the patient sort.”

  “Work on it.” Smith liked the interpreter. He grinned and walked off.

  The noise was clamorous, the streets as always mobbed. He saw no one tailing, but he took no chances. Blending into the surge of Shanghainese, he let the throngs carry him toward the Bund. Only when he reached the doors to the hotel did he push his way free and stride inside.

  At dusk two hours later, purple light enveloped Shanghai, and a sense of Asia’s lush beauty softened the hard-edged skyline. Andy An paused his car to let Smith off a block from the building that housed Flying Dragon Enterprises, International Trade & Shipping. Since most of the night’s action had already headed off to Old Town, the French Concession, and Huangpu, the street was very different now, half deserted.

  Andy’s research had made the target definite: Zhao Yanji was the treasurer of Flying Dragon, which was housed in the high-rise directly across the street from the second Starbucks they had visited that day. It made sense to Smith. A clandestine seller of highly sensitive material who conducted sales during working hours would want to be away from his or her job as short a time as possible and on a believable errand, such as getting coffee at a nearby Starbucks. If Zhao Yanji was that person, he had a perfect outlet at the obviously popular Starbucks.

  If all went well, Smith would be back in plenty of time for dinner at nine o’clock with Dr. Liang and his fellow scientists. If events went against him . . . well, he would deal with that, too.

  As the Jetta plowed off into the twilight, Smith walked toward the high-rise office building, covertly watching everyone and everything. He was dressed in a black sweater, black jeans, and soft-soled, flexible shoes. On his back was a light pack, also black. He looked up. The building that housed Flying Dragon blazed with light, a contributor to the city’s dazzling night skyline. Across the street, the Starbucks was still open, a scattering of coffee drinkers sitting at the small round tables in a hyperrealistic display reminiscent of an Edward Hopper painting. The air had that faint diesel odor of all cities, with touches of Asian spices and garlic.

  Through the high-rise’s plate-glass windows, Smith saw a single uniformed guard, dozing behind a security desk in the lobby. Smith might be able to slip past, but the risk was unnecessary. The modern building should have all the customary features.

  He continued past to the driveway that led down into a lighted, but closed garage. About ten feet beyond the ramp was an exit door to the fire stairs. Just what he needed. He tried it. It was locked from inside. He used the picklocks disguised as surgical instruments he carried in his medical kit. The door opened on the fourth try.

  He slid inside, closed it quietly behind, returned the picklocks to his backpack, and listened in the empty stairwell. It stretched upward out of sight. He waited two minutes and began climbing. His soft-soled shoes made little sound. Flying Dragon Enterprises was on the eighth story. Twice he froze, remaining motionless as a door opened somewhere above and footsteps reverberated.

  At the eighth floor, he took a stethoscope from his backpack and used it to listen through the door. Satisfied there was neither sound nor movement on the other side, he pulled open the door and stepped into a green-carpeted, white-walled waiting area decorated in ultramodern chrome, glass, and suede.

  A wide corridor, with the same white walls and emerald carpet, led to a cross corridor of double doors—some of glass and others of polished wood. The corridor stretched in both directions. Flying Dragon Enterprises turned out to be the third set of double-glass doors. Smith glanced in casually as he passed. There was a lightless reception area. Behind it was a large, lighted office of long rows of empty desks, with a wall of windows behind the desks. Solid doors lined the inner walls right and left.

  On his third pass, he tried the entrance doors. They were unlocked. Eager but wary, he slipped inside and wove soundlessly among the furniture to the solid door in the far corner. The door was marked in both Chinese and English gold lettering: YU YONGFU, PRESIDENT AND CHAIRMAN. No light showed beneath the door.

  He slid inside and, using the illumination from the open doorway, crossed to a large desk. He switched the lamp there onto low beam. The small column of yellow light gave the office a dim, ghostly affect that would not be evident down on the street.

  He closed the outer door and surveyed the room, impressed. It was not a prized corner office, but it was so mammoth that its size more than compensated. The view was pure prestige, too—sweeping from the river and the towers of Pudong to the historic Bund, northeast Shanghai across Suzhou Creek, and finally back to the river as it curved east and headed downstream to the Yangtze.

  The most important piece of furniture to Smith was a three-drawer filing cabinet, which stood against the left wall. There was also a white suede sofa with matching armchairs, a glass Noguchi coffee table, a wall of leather-bound books to the right, original Jasper Johns and Andy Warhol paintings here and there, and a panoramic photo of t
urn-of-the-nineteenth-century British Shanghai. The desk itself was mahogany, and enormous, but in this office seemed small. The office told a story: Yu Yongfu, president and chairman, had made it big and gaudy in New China, and he wanted everyone to know it.

  Smith hurried to the cabinet. It was locked, but his picks made short work of it. He pulled out the top drawer. The folders were filed alphabetically—in English, with the words duplicated in Chinese. Another of Yu Yongfu’s grandiose affectations. When he located the file for The Dowager Empress, he exhaled. He had been holding his breath without realizing it.

  He opened the file right there, on top of the cabinet, but all he could find were useless internal memos and the manifests of old voyages. His worry growing, he kept at it. Finally, with the last document, there it was—the manifest. His excitement dimmed as he studied it. The dates were right, as were the ports on both ends of the journey, Shanghai and Basra. But the cargo was wrong. It was a list of what the freighter allegedly carried—radios, CD players, black tea, raw silk, and other innocent freight. It was a copy of the official manifest, filed with the export board. A smoke screen.

  Angrily he returned to the cabinet, searching through the other file drawers, but found nothing more that related to the Empress. As he closed and relocked the cabinet, he grimaced. He would not give up. There must be a safe somewhere. He scanned the huge office and considered what sort of person would create it—vain, self-congratulatory, and obvious.

  Of course. Obvious. He turned back to the filing cabinet. Above it hung the panoramic picture of old British Shanghai. He lifted the framed photo from the wall, and there it was—the safe. A simple wall safe, with no time lock or any other advanced electronics he could see. His picklocks would . . .

  “Who are you?” demanded a voice in heavily accented English.

  He turned slowly, quietly, making no provocative move.

  Standing in the gray light of the doorway was a short, heavy Chinese man who wore rimless glasses. He was aiming a Sig Sauer at Smith’s belly.