The Altman Code

by Robert Ludlum

  Thayer looked up. His faded eyes danced. “Are you insane? I’ve been waiting a lifetime. Literally. I’m going to see America again. I’m going to see my son again. Impossible! I feel like an old fool, but I can hardly believe this is happening.” Unembarrassed joy radiated from his wrinkled face.

  Chiavelli jerked around toward the window. “What’s that?”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  But the old man’s hearing was bad. Chiavelli crossed to the window. “Damn!” He peered out and cursed softly again.

  “What is it?”

  “The governor. He’s got a squad with him. They’re doing a barrack check. Now they’re heading for the Uighers. My guess is our barrack is next.”

  Thayer’s parchment skin paled. “What do we do?”

  “Return everything to where it was.” Chiavelli sprinted back from the window. “Undress again and pretend to sleep. Hurry.”

  Moving with amazing speed for a man of his years, David Thayer put the few keepsakes and papers back where they belonged, stripped off his outer clothes, and pulled his nightshirt down over his head. At the same time, Chiavelli yanked off his clothes and, wearing his underwear, slid into his pallet.

  The noise of a door banging open into the barrack silenced them. Moments later, two guards entered the room, ordering, “On your feet.”

  Both feigned sleepiness, and the guards pulled them roughly up from their pallets.

  As the governor entered, he glared at Chiavelli and chided the guards, “Don’t be so rough on the old one.” He studied Thayer for a sign he had not been in his pallet. “You were asleep, prisoner Thayer?”

  “I was having good dreams,” he said irritably, his eyes half-closed.

  “We need to search.”

  “Of course.”

  The guards investigated the cupboard, moved the pallets, and looked out the windows to see whether anyone was hiding. There was nowhere else to look in the bare room. The governor walked slowly around.

  At last, he told Thayer, “You may return to sleep.”

  As he left, the guards close behind, they heard him order, “Post a guard at each barrack. Conduct a pallet check every hour. The prison is locked down. There’ll be no work tomorrow, and no one enters or leaves. No one, until further notice.”

  The governor marched out of sight. As the guards followed, someone closed the door.

  Chiavelli hurried to the window. He stood there for some time. “He’s going back to his office, but he’s short a guard. He must’ve left one at the barrack door.”

  “That won’t matter.”

  “The bed check and lock-down will. We can’t leave tonight. Even if we managed to escape the farm, they’d be on us before we got five miles.”

  David Thayer collapsed on a chair. “No.” His bony shoulders slumped. His face was a mask of despair. “Of course, you’re right.”

  “The only good thing is they don’t seem to have connected it to us, and you won’t be transferred tomorrow. The lock-down’s saved you from that.”

  Thayer looked up. “Now we wait. And hope. I’m used to that. Still . . . this time, it all seems much harder.”

  Chapter

  Thirty-Seven

  Between occasional, seemingly random sweeps by the searchlight beam, Jon and Asgar worked their way around the fence, sometimes crawling, sometimes trotting, always hunched over. Asgar knew where they were going, when to crawl, and when to chance moving faster. Suddenly, he dropped to his heels.

  Jon pulled in beside him, squatting, too, and followed his line of sight through the fence to a low, square building set ten yards inside the chain-link enclosure. There was a double door in its rear wall, but no windows. From the big door, an unpaved drive ran to the fence and out to a road.

  Asgar said, “This is where they’ll come out.”

  “What’s the building?”

  “The kitchen and mess. We’ll stay here and hope like bloody hell we don’t have to cut our way inside. Those rear doors are for loading and unloading supplies. The important aspect of this piece of real estate is that there’s a blind spot between the doors and the fence—about ten feet wide—out of sight of the guard towers.”

  “That’s a damn useful discovery.”

  They settled in to wait, again lying close to the fence. Jon focused on the double doors. Time seemed to stand still, and the night closed in. The noise of booted feet marching across wood walkways broke the silence. It was a heavy sound, threatening.

  Jon frowned at Asgar. “What does that mean?”

  “They’re marching away from the barracks toward the governor’s building and the guardhouse.” Asgar’s voice was barely audible. “There must’ve been an alarm, or perhaps the governor made a snap inspection. It doesn’t look good, Jon.”

  “A lock-down?”

  “We’ll know soon,” Asgar said grimly. He found a loose pebble and lobbed it over the fence. It struck the ground with a tiny, nearly inaudible thikkk.

  Jon still saw nothing move inside the prison, not even a shadow. Then he felt a sharp sting on his cheek. He had been hit by a return pebble. He picked it up.

  Asgar nodded. “That’s the signal. They’re locked down. We’ll have to wait. With luck, twenty-four hours from now, everything will be normal again. The only good thing is they won’t transfer Thayer in the morning. Of course, it’s possible the lock-down will last longer, maybe even a week.”

  “I hope not, for all our sakes. Especially for Thayer’s.”

  Sunday, September 17

  Washington, D.C.

  Charles Ouray entered the Oval Office quietly. “Mr. President? Sorry to disturb you.”

  Late afternoon sunlight warmed the room and the back of the president’s neck. Castilla glanced up from the President’s Daily Brief. “Yes?”

  “The DCI would like a word.”

  The president took off his reading glasses. “By all means, bring her in, Charlie.”

  Ouray returned with a woman in her early sixties. Not tall, she was on the heavy side, with short, efficient gray hair. Compact, she had a formidable chest and walked with a purposeful stride. Some who had faced her questions compared her to a light tank—quick, fast, and powerful.

  “Have a chair, Arlene,” the president told her. “It’s always good to see you. What’s up?”

  She glanced toward Ouray, who had taken his usual spot, leaning against the wall to the president’s right.

  “It’s all right, Arlene. Charlie knows everything now.”

  “Very well then.” She sat, crossed her ankles under her chair, and paused to compose what she was going to say. “Would you first bring me up to date about Jasper Kott and Ralph McDermid? Where do we stand with them? When do you want to reveal what we know?”

  “Besides your people, the FBI’s watching, collecting information. Part of the problem is, what have they done that’s really illegal? Leaks of unclassified information aren’t. But once we can document their roles in the Empress mess, we may be able to get them on aiding illegal contraband. Or maybe Kott has leaked classified information to McDermid. An investigation takes time, as you know. In any case, we’ll need strong evidence to convict them, so we don’t want to alert either yet. Now I’ve told you what I know. What about you? Have you learned something new?”

  She nodded somberly. “A big clue to the new leaker’s identity. McDermid has been consulting someone else here in Washington. Another associate, we’ll say. Perhaps a partner. A man. Probably highly placed. Anonymous, so far.”

  The president absorbed that. He repressed an outraged curse. “How do you know this?”

  “We have a tap in McDermid’s Hong Kong office.”

  For the first time in days, the president smiled. “There are times when I thoroughly enjoy the deviousness of the CIA. Thank you, Arlene. A sincere thanks. Your problem, I take it, is you haven’t been able to identify him yet?”

  “Right. One of our agents in Hong Kong believes she recognizes the voice, but sh
e hasn’t been able to place him.”

  “Have you heard it?”

  “The tape’s not good enough over the phone, but it’s on its way to Langley via courier.”

  “When you place him, let me know. If none of your people can put a name to him, bring the tape here. Maybe someone in the White House will recognize him.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” She started to stand.

  The president stopped her. “How are you doing otherwise with your investigation of McDermid?”

  “We’ve found nothing yet for why he or Altman is involved in the Empress affair, except of course the obvious reason—financial profit from the sale of the chemicals.”

  “All right, Arlene, thank you. I appreciate your work.”

  “It’s my job, sir. Let’s hope this is over soon. It’s like a firecracker that’s on the verge of turning into a nuclear missile.”

  “Amen to that,” Ouray said from his wall.

  “Good hunting,” the president said. “Keep me up to date.”

  “Certainly, Mr. President.”

  “See the DCI out, Charlie,” Castilla said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  When both had left, the president reached for the blue telephone to ask Fred Klein to drive over. He needed to let him know what the CIA had discovered—and what it had not. And he, too, wanted to take no chances with another leak.

  Monday, September 18

  Dazu

  A lemon-colored haze rested on the eastern horizon, signaling dawn. The aged limousine, Humvee, and Land Rover drove in a caravan five miles past rolling farmlands and wooded hills. The thin morning light grew warmer, sunnier. At last they pulled into a dark courtyard, draped in moist shadows. In the distance, the violet hills of Baoding Shan were beginning to transform into pale green. That was where the Sleeping Buddha was carved, where the all-important meeting with Li Kuonyi and her husband was scheduled. Jon studied the hills, wondering what the night would bring.

  An old Soviet-made bus was parked in the courtyard, its motor running.

  “What’s that for?” Jon asked as Asgar parked. The other vehicles pulled in alongside, and the drivers turned off their motors.

  “Alani and her group expected to use it to transport David Thayer and Captain Chiavelli to the border. Their cover was as a group of Uighers heading home to Kashgar.”

  “Sounds risky. Even with your makeup team, they’d never pass in daylight.”

  “Wait here. I’ll show you.”

  He crossed the dusty yard and spoke to the old Uigher behind the wheel of the bus, who immediately turned off the engine. He got out stiffly and followed Asgar’s men into the house.

  Asgar beckoned Jon. “Come along.”

  Inside, Asgar pointed to a pair of voluminous women’s garments like Afghan burkas, lying on a rustic wood table, one black and one brown. “In Xinjiang, many of our women wear veils, but some go even more extreme and wear these monstrosities. We’ll dress Thayer and Chiavelli in them and sit them next to Alani because she’s tall. If they keep their knees bent, they should pass.”

  “At least weapons can be hidden underneath.”

  The farmhouse looked old, with a worn wood floor and exposed timbers as beams. It was furnished with homespun tables, chairs, sideboards, and bureaus for hanging clothes. Through an archway stood a bedstead and a wood washstand, on which were a clay bowl and jug. He saw no sign of the Uighers, but the old bus driver sat at a bare table in a kitchen through another narrow arch.

  “Where do I sleep?” Now that he knew he had to wait until tonight, he was abruptly exhausted. Every muscle ached. The wounds on his face itched. He wanted to wash off the blackout cream, eat, and fall into any kind of bed he could find.

  “There’s a hidden cellar. Plus, the barn has secret rooms behind the stalls. You want to sleep now or eat?”

  “Eat. Then sleep.”

  Jon followed him into the kitchen where fourteen of his guerrillas were seated at another table, wolfing food, and women were cooking and putting full platters on both tables. Among the women was the pair of giggling makeup artists from the Shanghai longtang, who started giggling the instant they saw his face. They pointed him to the sink, where he used cool water and homemade soap that smelled of tallow to get the blackout goop off his skin.

  Feeling better, he sat at the table with the old man, who stared up from his food as if to ask, “What are you?” Then he shrugged and resumed eating.

  Asgar joined him, carrying a bowl of the same rice laced with mutton scraps, carrots, onions, and some kind of shelled bean, all held together by melted sheep-tail fat, which they had eaten in the longtang. He put it on the table with the other dishes. Famished from the long night and unrelenting tension, Jon took generous portions of everything. The thin-skinned dumplings and thick filling were delicious. The mutton kebabs were crisp on the outside, tender on the inside, and without any of the odor many Americans found unpleasant.

  As Jon ate, Asgar watched and shoveled food into his mouth, too. The moment seemed to bring out nostalgia in Asgar. He said ruminatively, “Uighers were nomadic sheepherders long before we settled into farming. Mutton is to us what seafood is to Japan, beef to the Argentine and States, and beef and mutton to the Brits. That was one thing I liked about England. I could get good mutton, and if I were lucky enough to find the rare English-raised Southdown, ahhh . . . that was the best mutton I’d had since leaving home.”

  Jon used the bread to wipe his plate. “Not many people like English food as much as you do.”

  “I loved it, old boy. Real English food. Lots of suet in the puddings and dumplings plus all the roasts, thick gravies, organ meats, and mutton. Maybe that’s why when so many Brits came here in the old days they seemed to understand us far better than the Chinese and Russians ever did or ever have.”

  When they finished, Asgar led him back out across the courtyard’s hard-packed dirt to a small house against the left wall. Inside, a solitary Uigher stood at a window overlooking the courtyard, his assault rifle resting on the sill.

  “We have sentries on all the walls, too,” Asgar explained as they passed.

  “What happens if you get a visit from Chinese authorities?”

  “There’s an extended Uigher family that lives here and farms. We take cover, and they do the meet and greet. Everyone knows the family.”

  Jon followed Asgar down a cleverly hidden narrow staircase into a cellar illuminated by bare lightbulbs. Rows of pallets held sleeping men and women. Asgar pointed to the empty one next to his, lay down, and was snoring instantly.

  Jon stretched out, tensing and relaxing his muscles. He told himself he felt better. In any case, he was certain he would feel better when he awoke. As he tried to drift off, his mind kept returning to the problem of David Thayer. The potential for trouble and failure at the Sleeping Buddha less than twenty-four hours away was enormous enough. Any glitch in the attempt to free Thayer could ruin the entire mission. He rolled over, tried one side then the other. At last, he fell into a restless sleep.

  Beijing

  It was late morning, and usually the Owl would have been in his office at Zhongnanhai for hours by now. Instead, he worked at his desk in his home study. He was smoking one of his favorite Players cigarettes and putting his chop to security documents when his wife ushered in Ambassador Wu Bang-tiao. The Owl immediately put down his cigarette and stood to greet him. For once, there was a broad smile on his face. The ambassador was an ally and friend, who owed his post in Washington, D.C. to the Owl’s influence and discreet lobbying.

  As his wife disappeared out the door and closed it, Niu said, “Welcome, my good friend.” He grasped Ambassador Wu’s small hand. “This is a surprise, especially considering the difficulties between us and the United States.” A slight rebuke in his tones: “Until I received your message this morning, I’d no idea you were returning.”

  The ambassador acknowledged the admonition with a flicker of his eyes. “I slipped into the country quietly, leade
r, because of the difficulties. I needed to consult with you privately about your wishes. Naturally, I came directly from the airport, and I’ll return directly to the airport.”

  Niu’s shoulders tightened at the enormity of what would bring the ambassador here so covertly over such a long distance, but again he offered a rare smile. “Of course. Sit. Relax.”

  Wu sat, his back barely touching the chair. He made no effort to relax, and Niu had not expected him to.

  “Thank you,” Wu said. “May I speak frankly, leader?”

  “I insist. Whatever we say will remain here.” Niu picked up his ashtray and walked around to sit in the chair beside the ambassador, again in an act of friendship. Still, he did not offer Wu a cigarette. That would be going too far. “Tell me.” He smoked.

  “I believe I’ve been delivering the messages to the American president exactly as you wanted . . . which was, and I’m sure still is . . . that China must stand firm against any invasion of our sovereign rights. At the same time, China doesn’t seek an incident or confrontation that might escalate beyond anyone’s control.”

  Niu simply nodded. With even the closest ally, verbal commitment was not the way until absolutely necessary.

  Wu gave his tiny smile in return. “The American president indicates he understands that. As I’ve said before, he’s unusually subtle for a Westerner. He reads nuances. I detect sincere concern that the standoff could escalate into war. Unlike others, when he says he doesn’t want war, I believe he means it. He confirms that with word choice, emphasis, and etiquette.”

  “Impressive.” Niu controlled his impatience.

  “As unusual as that is for a Western head of government, he’s done something even more unusual: He’s revealed what he’s doing and why.”

  The Owl’s eyebrows rose. “Explain.”

  As the ambassador recounted the most recent conversation in the Oval Office about The Dowager Empress, Niu listened in silence, mulling uneasily. Suddenly he realized what was disturbing him: The U.S. president had unwittingly given him the correct question to ask. If the United States did not want the confrontation, and China did not want it, who did? Why did it continue? At the moment, the crisis seemed completely unnecessary, almost as if it had not only been staged, but its escalation orchestrated.