“Your generosity is well known.” Feng’s soft voice was almost ghostly. “I’ll prepare my team and arrange for your passage, Taipan.”
McDermid watched him leave the office. He had again heard the contempt in the use of the old honorific taipan.
Dazu
Dennis Chiavelli sweated in the unseasonal heat of the early September afternoon as he chopped green heads of bok choy from their roots and tossed them into wheelbarrows that were being pushed up and down the long rows of vegetable fields by older inmates. The work was exhausting but mindless, and it gave him time to reflect on how fortunate he was to be a soldier behind enemy lines instead of a field hand breaking his back.
The light whisper seemed to carry on the breeze. Except there was no breeze. “They’re transferring the old man.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow,” the guard said as he passed along the rows. “Early.”
“Where to?”
“Didn’t hear,” the guard said and was out of earshot, walking ahead, his old Type 56 assault rifle slung muzzle down from his shoulder.
What had happened? Had he made a mistake? Chiavelli chopped angrily at a bok choy. Had one of the guards betrayed Thayer? No, if that were the case, the old man would be gone already, and he, Chiavelli, would have been interrogated or killed. He remembered what Thayer had said: They’ve held me too long to admit they ever held me at all. With the human-rights accord actually possible, someone might have realized they still had at least one American prisoner. They were probably moving to isolate Thayer once more, storing him where he would never be found.
He must alert Klein. When the lunch signal sounded, the prisoners fell into line, and the guards marched the ranks to the dirt road where a pickup truck waited to feed them. Chiavelli stalled and fussed until he was able to drop in beside one of the Uigher political prisoners.
“I need to get word out,” he whispered.
The Uigher nodded without looking at him.
“Tell your contact they’re moving Thayer tomorrow morning. Ask for instructions.”
Without acknowledging the request, the Uigher got his food and joined the other Uighers at the side of the road. Chiavelli took his meal to the shade of a stubby oak tree. As one of only two Westerners in the prison complex, no one wanted to eat with him. The risk of suspected contamination by outside political ideas was too great.
His mind in a turmoil of rotten possibilities, he forced himself to eat. He doubted Klein would have time to set a rescue operation in motion, which left him with no choice but to bust Thayer out before morning himself. At which point, he and Thayer would have to take their chances in the open country with the Chinese army after them and everyone else too frightened to help. He did not like those odds.
Hong Kong
Alone in a back room of the CIA safe house, Jon called Fred Klein on a borrowed cell phone.
“Jesus, Jon! Is that you?” The relief in the Covert-One chief’s voice was palpable.
“Yes, alive, with quite a bit to report.”
“I’ll bet.” There was something different about Klein’s breathing. It was slightly uneven, ragged, as if emotion were interfering with the spymaster’s ability to talk. And then the moment was gone. He demanded with his usual brusqueness, “Tell me everything, from the beginning.”
Jon reported finding the arrogant note from “RM” at Donk & LaPierre, Feng’s capture of him, and Randi’s arrival in Feng’s interrogation chamber. “Ralph McDermid was there with Feng. Our escape was more flamboyant than I liked.” He described Randi’s investigation of the White House leaks, which was why she had been following McDermid, and the conversation between McDermid and Li Kuonyi and Yu Yongfu that all of them had heard over the CIA phone bug.
Klein bellowed, “They’re alive?”
“And with Flying Dragon’s original invoice manifest.”
Excitement pulsed in the Covert-One chief’s voice. “Dawn two days from now in Dazu?”
“Yes. McDermid pushed the meet back a day. I think he hopes Feng Dun can locate Li and Yu before then and grab the manifest.”
“Remind me to thank McDermid when we lock him up in Leavenworth. His time’s coming, believe me,” Klein vowed in his lowest growl.
“Can you get me to Dazu by then?”
“I’ll get you there. As for Ralph McDermid and the leaks, I was just recently informed about his role. Disgusting and apparently true.”
“How do you figure to get me back into China?”
“When was the last time you made a parachute jump?”
Jon was not sure he liked that question. “Four or five years.”
“What about a high-altitude jump?”
“Depends on how high.”
“As high as I can get you.”
“You’re going to whistle up a nice big plane for me?”
“If I can land it somewhere and not draw attention. Meanwhile, since McDermid’s there in Hong Kong, see whether you can turn up anything about him and the leaks and why he’s involved in a smuggling deal like the Empress. On your own and from the CIA. Might as well use them if we can.”
“You’re all cooperation.”
That earned a hoarse chuckle. “Glad to have you back, Jon. I missed our amusing repartee.” Klein broke the connection.
Jon went looking for Randi. Now that McDermid and Feng Dun were focused on retrieving the last invoice manifest, their interest in Randi and him would plummet. After all, what could he do without it? If he were careful, that meant he could return to his hotel, change his appearance, and pick up McDermid’s trail again until he had to head off to a refresher course in jumping.
He found Randi sitting in an office with Tommie Parker. “I have to leave now,” he told them.
“What about Feng Dun and his crew?”
“My bet is they’re gone.”
“Gone?” Tommie frowned.
Randi said, “He means to Dazu. They won’t care about us all that much now. Whatever the leaks were all about, whatever Jon is really working on, is in Dazu. Right, soldier?”
Jon refused to dance. “Close enough. I owe all of you, and Randi three times over. It isn’t the first time, probably won’t be the last, and I wish I could reveal more. But orders is orders.”
Randi smiled reluctantly. “If there’s anything we can do to help, give us a jingle, and to hell with the DCI.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “Take care of yourself. I know you think you feel fine, but you look like you connected with a Mack truck.”
“Nice image.” Jon made his thick lips smile. “You, on the other hand, are untouched.”
She sat there in an office chair, lounging back, long legs crossed, blond hair a wild wreath around her sculpted face. He saw questions in her eyes, but worry for him, too.
“My job,” she said dryly. “Gotta keep the face malleable and primed to be disguised.”
“That’s the CIA for you. Ready to rock. Where’s this side exit?”
Tommie, who had been watching the exchange with amusement, said, “You won’t need it. You were right. They’re gone.”
“I’ll use it anyway. No sense pushing my luck.”
Washington, D.C.
Fred Klein’s eyes snapped open. Instantly awake, he lay on the hidden Murphy bed in his dark office. The night in the marina outside was deathly still, the last boat, a battered seagoing trawler that had arrived at eleven P.M. from Bermuda, was snugged down, and its crew gone home.
The jangle of the phone sounded again. That was what had awakened him. He had talked to Jon and fallen instantly asleep. He sat bolt upright, swung his legs over the edge, and lurched to his desk chair, still drugged with his first nap in thirty hours.
It was his blue phone. He grabbed the receiver. “Klein.”
“Your new office must be sumptuous for you to be so soundly asleep,” Viktor Agajemian said. The former Soviet engineer chuckled. “I’ve been ringing for two minutes, but I knew you’d be somewhere there, yes?”
>
“What does Chiavelli want, Viktor?”
“Ah, yes. We don’t exchange social calls anymore, do we?”
“Not at three A.M.”
“Good point. Very well, Captain Chiavelli tells me the merchandise is to be moved tomorrow morning. He doesn’t know where or why, but all indications are it’s not related to his mission.”
“Damn!” Klein exploded, fully awake now. “That’s the message?”
“Word for word.”
“Thank you, Viktor. The money will be in your account.”
“I never doubted it.”
Klein ended the connection, but he continued to hold the receiver, considering. So Chiavelli thought the order to move Thayer was either routine or connected to the human-rights treaty. Possibly, it was related to the Empress. In any case, it was a disaster. He could never have a civilian team, or even a military team, in place quickly enough. He looked up at his ship’s clock. Yes, there still might be time for an alternate plan. He depressed the cradle of the blue phone and dialed again.
Hong Kong
Jon had been right. He had observed the hotel long enough to know no one was watching him from outside—except, of course, the CIA agent Randi thought he had not seen at the safe house. You had to hand it to her. She was a bulldog when she was on assignment.
Smiling conspiratorially about his all-night absence and battered appearance, the hotel staff welcomed him back. He left them to speculate and rode up to his room. Once alone, he went to the bathroom mirror, where he pulled off the Band-Aids from his face and studied his wounds. He winced when he touched them, but they were all relatively superficial. He yearned for a shower, but settled for using the Jacuzzi in the bathtub.
He was soaking peacefully when his cell phone buzzed. It was in the pocket of the hotel robe, hanging within arm’s reach. He had left it behind when he had broken into Donk & LaPierre.
“Yes?”
“You leave tonight,” Fred Klein told him.
“What do I do in Dazu for a day and a half? Pretend I’m a tourist? I thought we decided I’d be better off here, digging into what McDermid’s up to.”
“That was three hours ago. There’s been a serious development.” He told Jon about Viktor Agajemian’s call.
“Can you get the extraction team ready that soon?”
“That’s where you come in, Colonel. You’re going to have to help Chiavelli get David Thayer out of prison.”
“Only two of us? How do we do that? Have you forgotten I don’t even speak Chinese?”
“Chiavelli does. There’s not time for me to explain it all. You’ll find out the details when you land. Can you leave now?”
“I’m in the bathtub. Give me twenty minutes.”
“Don’t bother to pack. I’ll send someone in to do that and check you out after you’re gone. A car will be waiting downstairs to take you to the airport. There’ll be gear and clothes inside. A navy jet will fly you to the carrier. Good luck.”
“What about . . . ?”
But Klein had already broken the connection. With a groan, Jon rinsed off, climbed out, and dried himself carefully, avoiding the injuries on his face and the ugly contusions and welts on his body. The hot water and Jacuzzi jets had soothed the bruises, and he felt better. He dressed and left the room. All the way down on the elevator, his uneasiness grew. What was Klein sending him into now?
Chapter
Thirty-Three
In her shortest, tightest, lowest-cut black sheath, Randi Russell turned every male eye at the British Consul’s party, and most of the female eyes, too, as she entered the glitzy throng. For a change, she wore no facial disguise, only a light touch of glamor-queen makeup. Still, her pale blond hair was swept elegantly upward, and her physical attributes tended to focus an audience’s attention, so she hoped her target—Ralph McDermid—would be sufficiently distracted to not recognize her.
She picked a glass of champagne from a passing tray and joined the only person she knew—an executive from a British firm that was an MI6 front.
He smiled at her. “Working or playing?”
“Is there a difference, Mal?”
“Worlds. If you’re playing, I can make a pass.”
“How sweet,” she smiled back. “Another time.”
He gave a sad sigh. “So I’m only your pimp tonight. Pity. All right, whom would you like to meet? And what’s your cover, by the way?”
She told him, and he took her around the room, the eyes following. Soon, McDermid spotted her. He stared. She gave him a bold smile and continued her conversation with an older Chinese woman high in the local government.
“Would you kindly introduce me to your charming friend, Madame Sun?”
McDermid had come up silently behind Randi and touched her on the arm as he passed to address Madame Sun.
The older woman favored him with an indulgent smile while she advised Randi, “Be careful of this one, child. He’s a renowned charmer.”
“Mr. McDermid’s reputation precedes him,” Randi said.
“Then I’ll leave you to become acquainted.”
McDermid inclined his head to Madame Sun in a polite good-bye. When he focused again on Randi, she saw a momentary cloud pass before his eyes, as if he sensed something was not quite right.
She pouted, altering the structure of her face. “Your reputation does precede you, Ralph McDermid. May I call you Ralph?”
The cloud passed, and the lecher returned. Possibly a combination of her clear American English, the revealing dress, and the thoroughly Caucasian face.
He smiled. “What reputation would that be, my dear?”
“That Ralph McDermid is a powerful man in all ways.”
The flirtatiousness of that from a stunning woman made even McDermid raise an eyebrow, if not very far. “Exactly who are you, dear?”
“Joyce Ray. I work for Imperial Import-Export, San Francisco.”
“Or they work for you?”
“Not yet.”
McDermid laughed. “An ambitious woman. Well, Joyce Ray. I like you. Shall we pass along the food tables and find seats? Perhaps outside?”
“I am hungry.” Randi gave it the double meaning, and she could see a pink flush rise an inch above his collar. He had bitten.
“Then off we go.” He gave her his arm.
They walked to the buffet table and carried their plates to a secluded corner of the patio. He told her a few carefully selected anecdotes about the Altman Group and learned in return that Imperial was a wholesaler with clients in major cities across America and branches in most countries. Also, that she was a vice president.
They got along famously, and she was working her way toward prying information from him, when he stiffened. There was a faint vibration beneath his dinner jacket. His cell phone.
“Excuse me a moment.” No smile. No endearment.
She made no attempt to follow as he walked out past hibiscus and frangipani into the garden. Far too risky and obvious. In any case, it would not matter.
He was gone less than thirty seconds. “I have to leave. Rain check, okay? I’ll call your company.”
Before she could respond, he marched off. She waited until he was out the door.
She followed, first on foot and then by car, always at a discreet distance. She was still tailing him when he drove down into the parking garage of his office building.
She waited then parked six cars away and watched him stand in front of the elevator, foot tapping. As soon as a car arrived, he stalked inside, and the doors closed. She climbed out and rushed to the elevator. The indicator went all the way to the top. The penthouse. What had brought McDermid here at such a late hour? She did not like it. On the other hand, perhaps she would learn something useful.
She sprinted back to her car, skirt riding up on her thighs. Inside, she switched on the portable link to the wiretap bug. She heard McDermid’s voice: “Okay, I’m in my office.”
“What’s so important that we had to talk?�
� A man’s voice. She did not recognize it. “Please don’t tell me you allowed Smith to escape.”
“I allowed nothing,” McDermid snapped, “but, yes, they escaped.”
“What do you mean, ‘they’?” The voice was not young, not old. Calm, well modulated, and forceful. A certain projection to it.
“He was helped by another agent. We think she’s CIA.”
“Think? Charming.”
“Don’t get sarcastic. We need each other. You’re a valuable member of the team.”
“I’ll stay that way only as long as I’m behind the scenes.”
“It’s not as bad as you think. In the end, neither Smith nor the CIA woman damaged us or our project.”
“That the CIA may have you under surveillance doesn’t concern you?” the voice demanded uneasily. “Even if it’s not related to our deal, they’ve traced at least some of the White House leaks to you. That should bother you one hell of a lot.”
“Realistically, the leaks are of little consequence to either of us. Until someone figures out exactly which ones I’m interested in and why, I’m not going to worry. Besides, we have far larger problems.”
“Such as?”
McDermid hesitated. Then he delivered the bad news: “Yu Yongfu’s alive. So is his wife. Worse, they still have the Flying Dragon manifest.”
There was a bellow of outrage. “This is your fault, McDermid. Where are they? Where’s the damn manifest!”
“China.”
A lengthy pause, as if he were controlling his shock. “How? You assured me the manifest had been burned!”
McDermid sighed and explained the details. “The two million isn’t much, just coffee money, but I won’t pay it unless I have to.”
“It wouldn’t end there anyway, and there’s no guarantee we’d get the document.” The shock was gone, replaced by an even inflection that was almost soothing. Definitely the man was a polished speaker and on-his-feet thinker. Probably accustomed to public appearances. She was beginning to believe he was a politician, someone accustomed to the necessity of diplomatic discourse that said nothing and revealed less. But it was definitely not Secretary of the Army Jasper Kott, on whom she had eavesdropped in Manila. “How will you handle it?”
The Altman Code Page 34
