“Iraq?” questioned Pao Peng, the secretary’s old Shanghai partner, suddenly becoming alert.
“What is its cargo?” Han Mengsu, another of the younger men, demanded.
“The actual cargo seems to be in dispute,” Niu said. He explained the possible connection of Lieutenant Colonel Smith to the Empress. “Smith came to Shanghai looking for something.”
“What does the manifest say the cargo is?” Wei Gaofan questioned.
Niu recounted the innocent cargo listed on the official manifest.
“Well, there you are,” Wei Gaofan said angrily. “As usual, the American bullies are throwing their weight around to impress their own people, as well as Europe and the weaker nations. It damn well is another Yinhe, and this time we absolutely can’t permit them to board. We’re a strong, independent nation, far larger than the United States, and we must put a stop to their warmonger politics.”
“This time,” Niu insisted, “there really could be contraband material aboard the Empress. Do we want such material to reach Iraq, especially without our knowledge or permission?” From the corners of his eyes, he continued to carefully observe Wei, not wanting him to become suspicious that he knew about Wei’s connection to Flying Dragon. The information would prove useful at some point. But not yet. As far as the Owl was concerned, patience and knowing when to act were the keys to success in all things.
“On what is that conjecture based?” Shi Jingnu demanded, his unctuous tone uncharacteristically absent.
“Colonel Dr. Smith is an unusual man to send as an agent. The only reason I can think is that he was in Taiwan and was that rare American who could get into China immediately by invitation. Whatever he actually came for had to be vital and time urgent.”
The general secretary pondered. “And you suggest that his mission could be to discover the truth about the Empress’s cargo?”
“That would qualify.”
“Which,” Wei Gaofan declared, “makes it all the more imperative the Americans are not allowed to interfere with it. If the charges are true, we would be exposed to the world.”
“Even if we had no knowledge and were innocent?” Niu asked.
Shi Jingnu said, “Who would believe that of China? And if they did, would we not appear weak and vulnerable? Not able to control our own people and in need of American oversight?”
Song Riuyu looked grave. “We may have to show our power this time, Secretary.”
Pao Peng nodded, one eye directed at the general secretary. “At least, we should plan to match them threat for threat.”
“A standoff?” the secretary mused. “You may be right. Who agrees?”
From behind his half-closed eyes, Niu Jianxing counted the hands. Seven. Two were raised a little lower and less certain than those of Wei Gaofan, Shi Jingnu, and Pao Peng. The secretary did not raise his hand, but that was irrelevant. He would not have called for a vote had he been opposed.
Niu had a formidable task ahead if he were to save the human-rights accord. He did not like to think what else might need to be saved, if, during the standoff, someone pulled a trigger.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
The Arabian Sea
In the clear air of late morning in the southern Arabian Sea, the day’s heat was beginning to build as Lieutenant (jg) Moses Canfield leaned on the aft rail enjoying the fresh air before he went below for his watch in the communications-and-control nerve center of the John Crowe. The Empress, which they had been shadowing for close to twenty-four hours, was hull up on the horizon, still making a steady course for Basra. Only the officers knew where the Empress was heading and what she was supposed to be carrying, and they had been ordered to tell no one. The secrecy somehow made Canfield’s nerves worse. He had found it difficult to sleep last night.
Now he was reluctant to go below. He had always been a little claustrophobic, which had prevented him from considering the submarine service, and his imagination was working overtime. He imagined himself trapped belowdecks as the Crowe absorbed a direct missile hit and plunged to the bottom within seconds, taking everyone with it. He shivered in the day’s growing heat and told himself to get a grip.
His nervousness had not been helped by the firm lecture from Commander Chervenko about waiting patiently and alertly when shadowing a ship until one was sure it was really changing course and not simply going on a brief side venture.
“Never jump to conclusions about the actions of the enemy, Lieutenant,” Chervenko had told him. “Get information before committing your ship. Put yourself in the other man’s position and consider what he would do. Finally, always be sure of your identifications.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Canfield had answered. He was mortified and a shade angry at the commander.
The touch of anger, as it so often did, refocused Canfield’s mind and, at least temporarily, chased away his claustrophobia as he looked at his watch, turned from the rail, and hurried below to his post in the cramped communications-and-control center.
Radar man OS2 Fred Baum was leaning back in his chair, drinking a Diet Coke. There had been nothing on the screen except the Empress since late yesterday. The Crowe was in action, and the excitement of pursuit, which had sustained Canfield’s people for most of the last twenty-four hours, was exhausted. Now they faced another day with only a blip on the radar or, when on deck, a distant silhouette. Boredom was becoming a danger.
Canfield decided to give them a version of the captain’s lecture. “All right, people, let’s shape it up. The Empress skipper could make a move any damn time. Don’t jump to conclusions about the actions of another ship. It all may look routine, but she can turn on you in a second. We can’t be sure what the Chinese have aboard or what they have in mind. They might have a big gun or missiles, too. Always think every second about what could be in the mind of the enemy skipper.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant. You’re right.”
“Wish they’d do some damn thing.”
“You can say that again.”
“I mean—”
“Hold it!”
The shout came from OS2 Baum at his radar monitor. For a long moment, no one reacted. At first, the warning seemed nothing more than another comment in the stream of weary complaints about inaction.
Almost in unison, they turned to look.
“Report, Petty Officer!” Canfield snapped.
“I’ve got something!” Too excited to remember to say sir when talking to Canfield. “I think it’s a new bogey!”
“Take it easy, Baum.” Canfield leaned over his shoulder. “You think?”
Baum pointed to a tiny dot that appeared and then disappeared at the edge of the screen, astern of the Crowe. “It’s damn low in the water, Lieutenant. A real small profile.”
“Where?”
“Dead astern.”
“How far?”
“Maybe fifteen miles.”
Canfield turned his head. “Radio?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Canfield bent again. The blip had vanished. “Where’s it gone?”
“It’s still there, Lieutenant. Like I said, it’s low, so it gets obscured by the running sea. Trust me, it’s there and coming closer.”
Canfield was having difficulty spotting it as the radar arm swept around. “You sure it’s not some weather anomaly? Maybe a surface disturbance?”
“Yessir, I’m sure.” Still, Baum craned, not quite as certain as he claimed. “It’s just damn small.”
“But coming closer?”
“Yessir. I mean, we’re hanging back, matching that tub up ahead.”
Canfield knew the Empress could do only fifteen knots at top speed, and that was pushing it.
“Damn!” Baum peered at the sweeping screen. “Now it’s out of sight again.” He looked up at Lieutenant Canfield. “But I know I saw it, sir. It was there, and moving—”
“Lieutenant!” Sonar Technician First Class Matthew Hastings bellowed.
>
“What, Hastings?”
“I’ve got it, too. Dead astern!” Hastings held up earphones.
Canfield clapped one phone to his ear. “How far astern?”
“Right where Freddy’s bogey was.”
Canfield turned his head. “Baum?”
“Still nothing on radar yet, sir.”
Canfield glared at Hastings. “How fast?”
“Twenty knots, maybe twenty-two.”
“Whale?” It was a possibility. A big whale, logging on the surface.
Hastings shrugged. “Could be, but they don’t usually swim so fast unless they’re scared. Wait!” The sonar technician cocked his head as if the motion could make him hear more clearly. “Propellers, sir. It’s got an engine.”
Canfield’s voice rose. “You’re sure?”
“Shit, Lieutenant. It’s a sub. Closing in on us!”
All talk was cut off as if someone had pressed the mute on a TV remote. Silence enveloped communications-and-control like a cocoon. Canfield hesitated. It had to be the same bogey as the one Baum had spotted on the radar—a sub running with only its conning tower above the surface. Now it had dropped off the radar screen because it had submerged. Would it have dived if it did not intend to attack? Commander Chervenko’s words reverberated inside his head—be sure before you act, be very sure.
“Can you identify the sub, Petty Officer?”
“No, sir.” ST1 Hastings sounded uneasy. “Single screw, I’m sure of that. The engine’s quiet, but kind of ragged. I’m getting a resistance signature I never heard before.” He listened for a time. “It’s not ours. I can guarantee that.”
“Conventional or nuclear?”
“Nuclear for sure, but not Soviet. I mean, not Russian. I know what those suckers sound like. A small sub, attack type, nuclear.”
“British, maybe?”
Hastings shook his head. “Too small. Doesn’t sound right for that.” He glanced up at the lieutenant again. “If I had to guess, from what I learned in training, I’d say it’s an old Chinese Han class. They got new ones in the works, but I ain’t heard they launched any. Besides, it’s got the burred sound of an old design.”
The silence hung heavier as Hastings continued to listen. “It’s closing in, Lieutenant.”
“How far.”
“Ten miles.”
Canfield nodded. His lungs felt squeezed. Still, he shouted, “Sparks? Call the bridge! Pronto!”
On the bridge, Commander Chervenko said quietly to Lt. Commander Bienas, “You have the bridge, Frank. Better clear for action. Everyone to their posts. I’m going below.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Chervenko slid down the gangway, entered communications-and-control, and nodded to Lieutenant Canfield. “Tell me, Mose.”
Canfield filled him in on everything that had happened from the moment OS2 Baum had spotted the small blip on his radar.
“All right. Are we sure it’s Chinese?”
“Hastings can’t identify it as anything else so far.”
“I’ve had some experience with a Han class, maybe—”
ST1 Hastings looked up. “Captain! She’s slowing down!”
Commander Chervenko moved in to stand behind the sonar technician. “How far back, Hastings?”
“Five, six miles, sir.” The first-class petty officer’s eyes stared into some empty, distant place as he concentrated all his senses on his hearing. “Yeah, definitely slowing, sir.”
“You hear any activity?”
Hastings concentrated. “No, sir. Just the screw. It’s at a way lower speed.”
“Matching us?”
He looked up, impressed by the commander’s accurate prediction. “Yessir, I’d say that’s exactly what she’s doing.”
Chervenko nodded. “Shadowing the shadower.”
The technicians glanced uneasily at one another.
Chervenko turned to Canfield. “Keep on top of it here, Mose. Report any change, no matter how small. I want to know if they hiccough back there.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“I’ll be in my quarters. Tell Frank on the bridge.”
Chervenko left the electronics-crammed center and hurried to his cabin. He dialed his secure phone again.
The big voice on the far end of the line boomed, “Brose.”
“This is Commander Chervenko on the Crowe, Admiral. We’ve got some company out here. You’re not going to like it.”
Hong Kong
When Jon thought back over the past few years to how much his life had changed since the Hades virus had killed his fiancée and had been on the verge of a world pandemic, one of his few pleasant constants had been her sister, Randi Russell. Although he seldom saw Randi, since she was usually in the field, they sometimes found themselves in the Washington area at the same time. They had a standing arrangement to leave a message on the other’s answering machine. When they connected, they would have drinks, dinner, and dancing—but their dancing was almost entirely verbal, because neither could divulge their espionage activities.
Covert-One was such a highly secret organization that he could not mention its name, much less that it existed. At the same time, she usually could say nothing about her Langley missions, which took her around the world. Occasionally, they found themselves involved in similar assignments, such as when Jon had convinced her, Peter Howell, and Marty Zellerbach to help him stop the terrifying geopolitical threat caused by Émil Chambord’s futuristic DNA computer.
Instead of returning to the corridor where so much shooting had happened only moments before, Randi opened a side door in the office. They ran across a storage area to another door that opened into another corridor. Their first priority was to get out before the police arrived. The sirens in the distance were growing louder, closer.
“Thanks for the diversion,” he told her. “They were closing in on me.”
“Always glad to help a pal.” Her American voice from the Chinese face was unnerving. The CIA had done a remarkable job of turning a citified blond Caucasian into a black-haired Chinese peasant.
“Where are we?”
“Same building,” she told him, “but a different wing. It’s the old English style of office construction. It kept the ‘lifts’ and corridors from being too crowded.”
This wing was quiet after quitting time, too. They rushed into an elevator and headed down to the ground floor—and then down one more level toward the basement.
As the elevator clattered, Jon said, “Impressive how well you know this building.”
She glanced at him. “Research.”
“So my problem upstairs was impacting your assignment.”
She said innocently, “Ralph McDermid not only likes acupuncture, he’s been panting after the girl who gives the shiatsu massage. This time, he seemed to have more than needles and flirtation in mind. You must’ve activated him somehow. Could there be something not on the up-and-up in the Altman Group’s China installation?”
“How do you know those gunmen were here for me? Maybe I bumbled into a trap set for you. The CIA doesn’t tail private American citizens for the fun of it. Langley must suspect McDermid’s up to something against our interests.”
The dance had begun. They looked away from each other as the elevator stopped and the door opened onto a storage basement, complete with the stink of dampness and the scurrying noises of rats.
“Why in the devil were you tailing McDermid?” Her voice was half aggravation, half resignation. The perfect Chinese mask of her face remained impassive.
To reveal his investigation into the Empress would encourage her suspicions about his Covert-One activities. He needed to tell her something plausible. She might not believe him, but she would be in no position to accuse him of lying. He decided the same story he had given Charles-Marie Cruyff would have to do.
As she led him through a dim maze of cellar rooms, he explained, “I was at a biomedical convention in Taiwan for Fort Detrick when I ran into a fellow fr
om Donk & LaPierre’s field lab in China. What he described was intriguing, so I caught a flight to Hong Kong, hoping to get permission to take a look at his work. The lab’s honcho, Cruyff, sent me to McDermid, who I guess is his boss. McDermid’s been impossible to pin down, so I tailed him and stumbled into this hornet’s nest.”
“Right.” Randi shook her head. “And I’m here for the noodles.”
He thought he heard her chuckle. He said, “Far be it for a humble scientist to inquire into a CIA field operation.”
“You always hang around office mezzanines in a Hawaiian shirt, straw hat, and running shoes, when you want a professional, scientific favor? Probably for the same reason you carry a Beretta and extra ammo. Oh, gosh, wait a minute. I’ll bet you planned to put a gun on him to convince him to be nice.”
So she had either been watching him deliberately, or they had crossed paths because of the similarity of their missions. “In case you haven’t noticed,” he said blithely, “Hong Kong’s miserably hot. Of course I wear Hawaiian shirts. As for the Beretta . . . remember, my final destination was mainland China. I arranged with the Pentagon for permission to carry, because the field lab’s in a remote area—bandits and all.”
He had managed to turn her suspicions into an innocent story. In fact, all of it could be true. But he knew her well; she would not drop this. She would find harder, more probing questions. It was time to distract her and to get out of the building.
He nodded at cement stairs ahead. “Those for us?”
“Clever of you.”
Again, she led the way, bending so her tall hat did not catch on the low ceiling as she climbed. At the top, she pushed open a slanting door and slid out. He followed, lowering it quietly behind. She was already moving away. He fell in beside her. They were in a narrow alley that smelled of urine and charcoal. Moonlight reflected off the grimy brick-and-stone walls.
The Altman Code Page 25
