The Altman Code

by Robert Ludlum

  He turned the handle on the miniature detonator. The explosion was muffled but loud enough to be heard as far away as the reception area.

  His Beretta ready, he listened. When five minutes passed, he holstered the Beretta and returned to the safe. The door had swung open an inch. He pulled it farther open, removed all the documents, and carried them to Cruyff’s desk, where he quickly examined them.

  And stopped at the fifth. It was the letter that must be the one that had prompted the reply he had found in Yu Yongfu’s safe in his Shanghai mansion. A letter addressed not to Jan Donk, but to Managing Director Charles-Marie Cruyff of Hong Kong. It was signed by Yu Yongfu, president and chairman of Flying Dragon Enterprises. More important . . . it was cc’d to Ralph McDermid, president and CEO of the Altman Group.

  Riveted, he continued to read to the bottom of the page. Nothing interesting . . . although an envelope had been stapled to the corner. He checked it—a Donk & LaPierre business envelope with a handwritten notation:

  Basra invoice

  The Dowager Empress

  After all this time . . . all the deaths. . . . This was it! Fingers trembling with eagerness, he pulled open the envelope, yanked out a single sheet of stationery, and unfolded it.

  On it was writing that matched the writing on the envelope, but there was no manifest. As a hot bolt of rage shot through him, he stared at the note:

  You’ve wasted your time, Smith. You didn’t really believe I’d leave anything so important somewhere you could find it so easily? I’ve destroyed the manifest. You’re next.

  It was signed with the initials RM. Ralph McDermid. Arrogant bastard. He had known! How—?

  As he thought that, Jon froze and looked up. You’re next.

  “Good evening, Colonel Smith.” The whispering voice came from the open office door.

  The office’s overhead light flashed on. Feng Dun stood just inside the doorway, his mottled red hair shining in the light. His expression was grim, but a small smile of genuine satisfaction played at the corners of his mouth. He held a mini Uzi aimed at Jon. As they stared at each other, Feng gestured behind him. Four armed men ran past and spread out across the office.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Six

  Sunday, September 17

  Beijing

  The faint click of the Westminster wall clock sounded in Niu Jianxing’s ears before it struck the half hour. His alert gaze darted around his study in the courtyard house at the edge of the old Xicheng district, mirroring the churning of his mind. Dispatching the submarine Zhou Enlai to menace the American frigate was a move of such colossal stupidity, so criminally dangerous, so completely counterproductive to China’s interests and the very existence of the People’s Republic that he was beside himself with disgust and fury.

  The fire in his eyes would have shocked his colleagues, whom he had taught to expect the sleepy Owl of Party and government meetings. This alert, energetic man was the unleashed Niu. Like a tiger, he prowled his study, grappling with what he was beginning to understand. Although Wei Gaofan had covered himself well, now there was little doubt in Niu’s mind that it was Wei who was behind the decision to send the sub.

  This stupid move not only revealed to the Americans that the Chinese navy had been shadowing their Fifth Fleet, it astronomically increased the danger of a disastrous confrontation over the Empress.

  When Major Pan had first reported his suspicions about Jon Smith, Li Aorong’s connection to the Empress had made the Owl suspect Wei Gaofan might be guilty of corruption, since Li was Wei’s protégé, and Li did not go to bed without Wei’s blessings. It seemed both men planned to make a small fortune on the cargo. Wei would not be the first Zhongnanhai official to succumb to private greed.

  But the Zhou Enlai’s new assignment had turned that assumption inside out. It was too easy an answer, too obvious.

  Hands clasped behind his back, the Owl turned on his heel and marched across his study again, each foot hammering home his revulsion and rage. Now he knew it must be that snake Wei who had turned against the human-rights accord. Wei was sabotaging it, and—worse—it was only part of his infidelity. In fact, Wei intended to cause an incident with the United States of such magnitude that it would turn the clock back to the Cold War . . . to the building of new weapons of mass destruction . . . to societal controls that would lead to catastrophes like the Cultural Revolution . . . to an isolated China putrefying in its own recycled bitterness.

  That was what Wei was after, Niu decided, disgusted and afraid. Not greed for money; greed for power.

  When a tap sounded at the private rear door of his study, the Owl hurried to it with an alacrity that was in sharp contrast to his sixty years. He unlocked the door to admit Major Pan.

  “Come in. Come in.” He impatiently motioned the agent to sit facing his desk.

  Nervous, the major lowered his pudgy body onto the wood chair and perched like a wary bird, ready to fly. Summonses to drive to Beijing from Shanghai in the middle of the night always made Pan nervous. Especially a summons from a member of the Standing Committee.

  Niu resumed pacing. “What progress have you made in the matter of the American agent and The Dowager Empress?”

  “Not much, master.” Pan craned his neck, watching Niu’s progress around the room. “The storm has passed, leaving little sign behind. We’ve had to release Li Aorong. He continues to insist he knows nothing about his son-in-law’s business activities, or where he and his daughter have disappeared.”

  Niu stopped and stared. “You had to release him? Why? If it were some legal technicality, I can—”

  “No legal technicality.”

  “Then what?”

  Pan chose his words carefully. “I believe the question was raised to General Chu as to the propriety of holding Li without arresting him.”

  “A routine policy in a national security matter was questioned? Of General Chu? Absurd. Who asked such a question?”

  “I believe the Central Committee.”

  Niu frowned. General Chu had run up against the Central Committee, a bad position. Still, the general should have informed him of the order. Now Niu would have to watch the general carefully, too, to make certain where his loyalties lay.

  Niu returned his thoughts to the major, repressing his anger and frustration. He had momentarily forgotten Pan’s reluctance to reveal anything that could indicate a definite view of a subject not directly connected to his official duties. Pan protected himself, which was one reason he had held his position in Public Security so long.

  But Niu no longer had time for such niceties. The Empress would arrive in Iraqi waters Wednesday morning. It was already after midnight Sunday. “Meaning Wei Gaofan?” he asked bluntly. “I know my colleagues, Pan. Tell me. It will go no farther than this room.”

  Pan hesitated. At last he said cautiously, “I believe that could be the name General Chu indicated.” A hint of hope crept into his voice as he continued, “Should I rearrest Li Aorong, sir? I could put him under house arrest. At least we would know where he was.”

  “No!” Niu said instantly. Then he tempered his tones. “That would not be productive.”

  The last thing Niu wanted was to alert Wei to his suspicions, or to suggest to Pan that there was more here than a simple counterintelligence investigation. “For now, Major Pan, continue to keep him under surveillance. You are still watching him, are you not?”

  Pan gave a slow nod, his gaze warily on Niu.

  The nod was so small that Niu had the impression the major hoped it might be overlooked. Niu interpreted it to mean that Wei Gaofan had leaned harder on General Chu than Pan had suggested, which meant Pan was continuing to watch Li Aorong on his own initiative. General Chu did not want to know what Pan was doing, but at the same time, he wanted Pan to make progress.

  Niu had believed for many years that this was the way Pan operated and why he was unusually successful—careful not to actually break orders, but bending them to get results. It was what
Niu needed now, and one of the reasons Pan was valuable.

  “Good,” he told him, resuming his pacing. “Continue exactly as you’re doing.”

  “Yes, sir.” Major Pan nodded sagely, well aware that Niu was telling him to keep his name out of it also.

  “What else do you have for me?” Niu asked.

  “We’ve been examining Yu Yongfu’s business operations, but there seems to be nothing revealing there about Colonel Smith.”

  “What about Yu and his actress wife? Do you have any leads?”

  “Not as yet.”

  Niu returned to his desk chair and sat. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Li Kuonyi several times. She’s a clever woman and a good mother. If she can’t be found, I’d suggest that perhaps she doesn’t want to be. Which would mean she and her husband might be, how do you say it, ‘on the run’?”

  “That had occurred to me,” Pan acknowledged.

  “If not, could her father have spirited her away so she’d be unavailable to discuss her husband’s affairs?”

  “That, too, master.”

  “Or maybe she’s being hidden by powerful forces?”

  Pan did not want to discuss that possibility, but at the same time he did not deny it was an option.

  “Have you found evidence of anyone else being part of the Empress venture?” the Owl continued.

  “Only the Belgian company I spoke of—Donk & LaPierre.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No.”

  “But you wouldn’t rule it out, Major?”

  “I rule nothing out in an investigation.”

  “An admirable trait in a counterintelligence officer,” Niu said.

  From the moment Pan had entered his office, Niu had been assessing the spycatcher’s position on everything they discussed, but had found it, as always, nearly impossible to be certain. His gaze remained impassive, and his soft face neutral and unsmiling. Still, Niu had no choice but to use Pan, if he wanted to uncover what he needed.

  “Continue your investigation as you see fit, but from now on report to me first. I must know all there is concerning the voyage of the Empress, particularly its cargo, and about everyone involved in the transaction. Within the country or abroad.”

  “First? In case General Chu should ask questions at some point, may I have that in writing, sir?”

  There it was. The agent was covering his back again. Niu almost smiled. On the other hand, such caution had enabled Pan to survive in a job that was perilous for many reasons and from many directions. The difference between an excellent technician like Pan and a leader was exactly the willingness to take large risks. Pan was no gambler.

  At the same time, the Owl was beginning to believe that his lifetime of work for China . . . his stubborn commitment to his country’s growing into an important and friendly world power . . . was in jeopardy. To save both his vision and his nation, he would chance anything he must.

  “Of course, Major,” Niu said smoothly, “but you must not reveal it unless absolutely necessary. Is that understood?”

  “Completely, sir.”

  Without another word, Niu wrote a letter authorizing Major Pan Aitu to be his official agent, who must report first to him and to no other.

  With a quiet thrill and a moment of nervousness, the spycatcher watched. As soon as the paper was in his hand and then into his pocket, he slipped out the way he had arrived—through the back door.

  It was after one o’clock. He paused in the dark and shivered. Winter’s early chill was beginning to touch Beijing. He was puzzled. For some reason, Niu Jianxing suspected Wei Gaofan of at least corruption . . . possibly more. He himself suspected Wei of some connection to the Empress and was relieved to be under orders from Niu Jianxing at last. But not too far under.

  He hurried to his car. He must return quickly to Shanghai. There was much to be done.

  Hong Kong

  His eyes snapped open to a pitch-black room. The air stank of droppings and dirt. Somewhere, a rat scurried away. Jon involuntarily shuddered as he listened for the high-pitched chatter and the sharp-clawed click of the horde of rats he imagined circling in the dark. But there was no noise. No rats, voices, traffic, cries of night birds . . .

  A pinpoint of light appeared ahead. He had to look up to see the tiny beam. It felt warm, even hot, on his face, but he knew that was an illusion built on hope. An illusion and a spatial delusion caused by the absolute darkness, with no point of reference, no sense of dimension, everything flat black. Except the tiny beam that was real, and by concentrating on it hard enough, moving his head, and opening and closing his eyes, he finally brought it and the room into focus.

  He was in a chair, his legs bound at the ankles. Someone was tying his hands behind him, roughly. Nylon rope burned through his skin. The point of light was not a crack in the walls or ceiling, but a reflection from a corner off a small metallic silver box attached high on the wall. A reflection of light from around the corner, in front of Jon and to his left. This room was L-shaped, and Jon was tied to the chair at the rear of the L’s long arm.

  Oriented now, he felt better. A wave of something close to euphoria washed over him as if he were on solid ground again, a part of the world—and then it all came back . . . his excitement that he had finally found the invoice manifest, the note from “RM” that not only showed that the manifest was gone but revealed the dangerous depths of the Altman founder’s arrogance . . . the lights flashing on, Feng Dun and his killers. . . .

  He had been guilty of one of the oldest mistakes in the world—so involved he had dropped his guard. Now it was not the knowledge that he would likely die that bothered him, because that was always there in black work. You knew it could happen. It would not, of course, you told yourself. But it could. What shook him was the failure. The president was left to face a deadly confrontation with no acceptable options.

  Jon hardly heard the door open around the corner of the L. A light flared on overhead, momentarily blinding him. Someone left, and someone else arrived. When his eyes adjusted, Feng Dun stood alone in front of him, scowling.

  “You’ve caused us a lot of trouble, Colonel Smith. I don’t like people who cause me trouble.” His whispery voice was measured, his manner unhurried. As he stepped closer, his movement was fluid.

  “That’s strange hair,” Jon said. “Especially for a Han. The white makes it even odder.”

  The blow smashed into his face, spinning him and the chair over backward. His head slammed against the floor. In the split second between the impact and the pain, he realized Feng had been so fast he had not seen his hand move. Then violent pain overtook him, and he felt blood run hot and sticky down the side of his face. For a few disorienting seconds, it seemed as if he had floated out of the room.

  When his vision cleared, and the pain receded, two men he had not seen were lifting his chair back onto its legs. Feng Dun’s face was inches away, staring at him. His eyes were such a pale brown they appeared to be empty sockets.

  Feng said, “That gentle tap was to focus your attention, Colonel. You’ve been skilled and intelligent. Don’t be stupid now. We won’t waste time discussing who and what you are. The question that interests me now is who do you work for?”

  Jon swallowed. “Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, M.D., United States Army Medical Research Institute . . .”

  The blow was little more than a slap this time, snapping his head sideways, but drawing blood again, and leaving his ears ringing.

  “You appear on no American intelligence roster we’ve found. Why is that? Some secret section of the CIA? NSA? Maybe the NRO?”

  His lips were swelling, making his speech thick. “Take your pick.”

  The hand crushed the other side of his face, the room disappeared again, but the chair did not move. Dimly he realized the job of the two other men was to keep him upright as Feng beat him.

  “You’re not a conventional agent,” Feng told him. “Who do you report to?”

  He could not f
eel his lips move and did not recognize his voice. “Who are you? You’re not Public Security Bureau. Who thinks I’m not CIA, NSA? McDermid? Someone inside . . . ?”

  The two fists struck seconds apart, a perfect combination, and as searing, crushing, swelling pain overwhelmed him and merciful blackness washed toward him, his brain told him the man had been a prizefighter, a professional, and he hit much too hard . . . hit too hard . . . hit too . . . hard . . .

  Ralph McDermid stood behind Feng Dun. “Damnation, Feng. He’s not going to tell us anything if he’s unconscious, now is he?”

  “He’s strong. A big man. If we don’t hurt him, make him afraid not only of pain and death, but of me, he’ll tell us nothing.”

  “He’ll tell us nothing if he’s dead.”

  Feng smiled his wooden smile. “That’s the fine print, Taipan. If he doesn’t believe we’ll kill him, he’ll say nothing. But if he’s dead, he can’t say anything. One must find the balance. My job is to convince him I’m so savage and reckless that I’ll kill him by accident, not realize my own brutality, and get carried away on a euphoria of inflicting pain. Yes?”

  McDermid flinched, as if suddenly afraid of Feng himself. “You’re the expert.”

  Feng noted the fear and smiled again. “You see? That’s the reaction I need from him. We’ll find out nothing until he can hardly move his mouth to talk. Just enough pain so he can barely think, but not so much that he can’t think.”

  “Possibly less physical methods?” McDermid said uneasily.

  “Oh, there’ll be those, too. Don’t worry. I won’t kill him yet, and he’ll tell us whatever you want to know.”