He considered what he had learned from Major Pan, and he recalled the discussions of the Standing Committee. Among the hawks, Wei Gaofan again stood out. It was true that through the alliance with Li Aorong and Li’s son-in-law, Wei could expect to make a profit from the shipment. Perhaps he had been making profits from such shipments for quite a while. But was that Wei’s ultimate goal now that news of it had reached the upper levels of government in both China and the United States?
No. The Owl was certain Wei would sacrifice profit instantly if he could take China back into the past. At heart, Wei was an ideologue, a true hard-line Communist who had never gotten over Mao, Chu Teh, or Tiananmen Square. To go back to those days was his dream. His sending the Zhao Enlai submarine to threaten the Crowe proved that. He would encourage the confrontation to escalate into violence to force his point. To win, he might even go to war.
The Owl remembered Confucius’s two definitions of disaster: One was “catastrophe,” the other “opportunity.” Wei had seen the discovery of the Empress’s true cargo not as a catastrophe but as an opportunity to achieve something far more important to him than money.
“The president asks,” Ambassador Wu continued, breaking into the Owl’s thoughts, “whether concrete proof, in the form of the actual invoice manifest, would be enough for you to defuse the situation with the Standing Committee. Would the committee allow Americans to board, perhaps in conjunction with our submarine crew, or, alternately, would the committee end the situation by ordering the cargo destroyed in such a way that the Americans could confirm it? In short, would you be willing to work with our people as President Castilla works with his, to end this dangerous problem?”
Niu inhaled his cigarette thoughtfully. While Wei saw the past as the future, Niu was comfortable with the unknown, with a future based on ideals like democracy and openness. The choice was stark: If he did not risk all, Wei would win. On the other hand, if he risked all and won, Wei—the preeminent hawk on the Standing Committee—would be brought down by his own deeds.
“Leader?” the ambassador asked, his face concerned at the long silence.
“Would you like a cigarette, Ambassador?”
“Thank you. Yes, I’d like one very much.” A moment of gratitude softened the ambassador’s worried face.
The two men smoked companionably. Crucial decisions must not be rushed.
“Thank you for bringing me this news,” Niu said at last. “I haven’t been wrong in my choice of ambassador. Return immediately to Washington and tell President Castilla I consider myself a reasonable man, while, of course, continuing to warn of the dire consequences should any Americans attempt to board.”
Wu put out his cigarette and stood. “He’ll understand. I’ll convey your exact words.” They exchanged a determined look. With a rustle of his long coat, Wu left.
Smoking furiously, Niu jumped to his feet and resumed pacing. The Americans clearly did not have proof of the cargo yet. That was most disquieting. Proof was essential. He stopped in the middle of the floor, wheeled on his heel, and marched back to his phone.
Standing over his desk, he dialed.
As soon as Major Pan answered, the Owl demanded, “Tell me what you’ve learned.”
Without prompting, Pan revealed the taped telephone conversation between Feng Dun and Wei Gaofan. “Only one of the original invoice manifests of the Empress’s true cargo still exists—in the hands of Yu Yongfu and Li Kuonyi.”
Niu caught his breath and stubbed out his cigarette. “Yes. What else?”
“Ralph McDermid is going to pay two million dollars to buy it from them.” He described the arrangements at the Sleeping Buddha.
The Owl listened carefully, his mind accelerating as the fog that had obscured the situation evaporated: This was what the president wanted, and what he wanted . . . the objective proof. Wei Gaofan knew this and wanted the manifest destroyed. At the same time, the Shanghai couple—Yu and Li—were pawns, trying desperately to survive. Then there was the rich American businessman Ralph McDermid, who must also want a confrontation, although Niu was not sure yet exactly why or how far he would allow it to escalate. McDermid was willing to pay a small fortune to keep the manifest out of anyone else’s hands. The rat who ran among all three was Feng Dun . . . pretending to work for McDermid and Yu Yongfu while his ultimate allegiance belonged to Wei Gaofan.
Feng was filth. Ralph McDermid and Wei Gaofan were worse. All must be stopped before they reignited the Cold War or started a hot one.
Thinking rapidly, he listened as Major Pan finished his report. Pan’s willingness at last to hold nothing back told Niu that the spycatcher had finally committed his loyalty to Niu. In their culture, it was the ultimate compliment, and also the ultimate vulnerability.
Could he do less? “I understand, Major,” Niu told him. “Perhaps more than you realize. Thank you for your fine efforts. You are on your way to Dazu?”
“My flight leaves in twenty minutes.”
“Then understand this: Continue to observe and do not interfere unless there’s more trouble.” He hesitated a fraction of a second, weighing the enormity of the step he was about to take. “If trouble erupts, I authorize you to help Li Kuonyi and Colonel Smith. Either you or Colonel Smith must retrieve the manifest safely. It’s imperative.”
The silence was like a held breath. “Is that an order, master?”
“Consider it so. If it becomes necessary, show my written instructions. You’re working only for me, and you have my full protection.”
There. It was done. Now there could be no turning back. It was he or Wei Gaofan—forward into the unknown future, or back to an unworkable past. And it rested in the hands of others. He fought off a shudder. But there it was. A wise man knew whom to trust.
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
Dazu
Jon awakened to a sense of claustrophobia, of bodies packed around like corn in a can. He grabbed his Beretta, sat bolt upright, and swept the big semiautomatic through the dim illumination. And remembered where he was. The Uighers’ cellar. The air was pungent with body odors and warm exhalations, although only a half dozen fighters remained. All were sleeping. Everyone else had gone, including Asgar.
Heart still pounding, he lowered the weapon and checked his watch. The green glow of the dial showed 2:06 P.M. He had been asleep more than nine hours, which was astounding. He seldom slept more than seven.
He stood carefully and stretched. His muscles complained but not too loudly. His ribs ached. No sharp pains. His face felt fine. It would itch later, particularly when he sweated. Nothing fatal.
He padded to the steps. At the top, he raised the trap and climbed out into the satellite house. A new sentry stood guard at the window, while across the courtyard was movement in the main house’s kitchen. Fighting off a sense of urgency, of a need to get on with it, he strolled outdoors. Strolling was something he did infrequently, too.
The sun was warm, the sky porcelain blue, and a gentle breeze stirred the willows and cottonwoods. The chilies that had been laid out to dry on mats around the dirt courtyard were an encircling carpet of scarlet. Their peppery scent filled the air, reminding him he was in Sichuan Province, famous for its spicy cuisine.
Asgar was in the kitchen, sipping a mug of hot tea with milk, English style. He looked up, surprised. “Are you mad? Why aren’t you still asleep?”
“Nine hours is enough, for God’s sakes,” Jon told him.
“Not if nine hours is spread over five days.”
“I’ve caught a few naps here and there.”
“Yeah, you look really rested. Solid as a sand devil. Check yourself in the mirror. With that face, you can go to All Hallow’s Eve without a mask.”
Jon gave a thin smile. “Is there a phone I can use? I don’t want to tempt fate in case someone around here is triangulating cell calls.”
“Next room.”
Jon found the telephone. Using the phone card Fred Klein had given him, he dialed Klein
. It was yet another gamble. Public Security could be monitoring land lines, too.
“Klein.”
Jon went into character: “Uncle Fred?” he said in halting English. “It’s been so long, and you haven’t called. Tell me about America. Does Aunt Lili like it?” Aunt Lili was code for possible monitoring.
“Everything’s fine, nephew Mao. How’s your assignment?”
“The first phase had to be postponed, but I can do it at the same time as the second phase.”
There was hesitation and a note of disapproval: “I’m sorry to hear that. The second phase could be harmed.” Concerned, Fred was reminding him that at the first sign of serious trouble at the prison farm, they would have to scrub the rescue. The meeting at the Sleeping Buddha remained their first priority.
“Well, that’s worried me, too. I’ll just have to see how it goes.”
Another pause, this time as Klein shifted gears: “You must phone instantly when you have news. We can hardly wait. Did you find your cousin Xing Bao?”
“I’m in his house now.”
“That’s a relief. You must be enjoying each other, but this is costing you too much, Mao. I promise I’ll write a very long letter first thing tomorrow.”
“I look forward to it with pleasure, now that I’ve heard your honored voice again.” Jon hung up.
Asgar called from the other room, “And?”
Jon rejoined him. “The priority remains the same. As soon as we have the manifest, I need to call Klein to let him know.”
“Poor David Thayer.”
“Not if we can help it. We’ll do everything we can to get him out, too. Did you go to the Sleeping Buddha?”
“Yes, we did a thorough recon.” He laid a deck of English playing cards on the table. “I left ten of my best people behind to keep watch. They have walkie-talkies. Get some food, and I’ll fill you in. Then we’ll play some two-handed poker. If you don’t know how, I’ll teach you.”
“Are you hustling me?”
Asgar smiled innocently. “I picked it up at school. Strictly amateur. Nice hobby, when one has time to kill.” For a moment, anxiousness and nerves showed in his expression. And then they were gone.
“Okay,” Jon said. There was no way he was going to sleep more now anyway. “Two-dollar limit, or whatever that is in your money. Straight poker. No wild cards. After I wash my face, I’m in.”
Jon knew he was being hustled, but they had to do something to make the time pass. They had at least six hours to keep each other sane, before darkness arrived and they could begin their night’s work.
Monday, September 18
Washington, D.C.
Fred Klein was puffing on his pipe angrily, and the special ventilation system was straining to clear the air, when President Castilla walked into his Covert-One office.
The president sat. His large body was rigid, his shoulders stiffly square. His jowls looked like concrete. “You have news?” No greeting, no preamble.
Klein was in the same bleak frame of mind. He put down the pipe, crossed his arms, and announced, “It took five of my best corporate and financial experts to ferret this out: The Altman Group owns an arms manufacturing firm called Consolidated Defense, Inc. As with many of Altman’s holdings, this one’s hidden behind a paper trail that boggles the mind—subsidiaries, associated companies, holding companies, satellite companies . . . you name it, the ownership winds through a quicksand intended to deceive. Still, the ultimate ownership is clear.”
“What’s the bottom line?”
“As I said, Altman and Ralph McDermid own the majority shares in Consolidated Defense and reap its rewards.”
“This isn’t particularly new. Altman’s heavily invested in defense. Why do we care about Consolidated?”
“You’re going to think this is a digression, but it’s not: Let’s discuss the Protector mobile artillery system. It was a millimeter from final approval. Then you decided that in our new world of terrorists and brushfire wars, heavy artillery systems like it were outdated. Often totally useless.”
“The Protector crushes most bridges because it’s too heavy. It can’t be pulled out of the bog of a country road without major support. It certainly can’t be easily airlifted. It’s irrelevant or worse.”
“It’s still irrelevant,” Klein assured him. “But that was an $11 billion contract that just evaporated. Consider this, the Altman Group at last count had some $12.5 billion in investments. That’s serious money for a private equity firm. But Altman’s accustomed to making big money—more than thirty-four percent returns annually over the past decade, particularly through timely defense and aerospace investments. On a single day last year, Altman earned $237 million. Impressive, right? Also dirty. Consolidated Defense is the army’s fifth-largest contractor, but they took Consolidated public only after the September 11 attacks, when Congress skyrocketed its support for hefty defense spending, and only after a massive lobbying effort by that golden Rolodex of theirs paid off in Congress’s initial approval of Consolidated’s cornerstone weapon’s program . . .”
The president stared, his expression grim. “Let me guess—the Protector.”
“Bingo. The result was the $237 million bonanza.”
“And—”
“And now Altman’s assets will skyrocket billions and billions of dollars, if you and Congress approve the Protector and put it into production.”
The president sat back, his mouth a thin line of disgust. “That bastard.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what Ralph McDermid’s been up to. It’s got nothing to do with the Empress directly. The whole thing was a setup to lead to nose-to-nose hostility between two continental giants with nuclear capabilities. If necessary, he’ll wheel and deal us into war to prove the United States needs the Protector. Either way, once we board the Empress and all hell breaks out, he’ll have proved his point. Congress will beg for the Protector, and he’ll get his $11 billion.”
The president swore loudly. “The only thing they didn’t walk away with, because I clamped a lid on it, was publicity that would’ve scared the bejesus out of the public and made it easier to win approval immediately.”
“The way I look at it, it’s damn immediate enough. All McDermid needs is for us to board the Empress because it’s about to go into Iraqi waters.”
“Oh, God.” The president heaved a sigh. “Everything’s on Smith’s shoulders. What have you heard from him?”
“He called, but he had to use code.” He paused. “I’ve got bad news, Sam. They weren’t able to liberate your father last night. That’s China time. Smith implied they’d try again tonight.”
The president grimaced. He closed his eyes and opened them. “Tomorrow morning, our time—that’s when they’ll do it?”
“Yes, sir. They’ll try.”
“He didn’t say anything more about breaking him out? Whether he has enough help? Whether he thinks he can do it?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Why couldn’t he talk more?”
“I assume he was afraid to use his secure cell phone. Which meant he was on a public line that could’ve been monitored. It leads me to guess that the parachute sighting was hardly solid. The local authorities must not have located the parachute or any other evidence of insertion. With luck, they’re skeptical.”
“I hope you’re right, Fred. Smith is going to need all the good luck he can get, and so are we.” The president peered at the clock. “He’s got four hours left, the way I count it, before dusk.” He shook his head. “Four very long hours for all of us.”
Monday, September 18
Hong Kong
Dolores Estevez hurried across the Altman Building lobby and out the glass entrance into the city’s humid air and rushing people. Usually Hong Kong’s carnival atmosphere energized her. Not now. She joined a queue of pedestrians frantically waving for taxis. But as soon as she raised her hand, one pulled up as if by magic. She decided God must have a soft spot for well-intentioned but l
ate travelers.
She jumped in quickly. “The airport. Hurry.”
The driver started his meter, and the taxi inched into traffic. They crawled for a few blocks, until the driver muttered in guttural Cantonese and swerved the vehicle into a narrow alley.
“Shortcut,” he explained.
Before Dolores could protest, he accelerated, and they were halfway along it. She sat back nervously. Maybe he knew what he was doing. One way or another, she needed to reach the airport where the big boss was waiting, probably annoyed already. She was both terrified and excited by her new assignment—his official translator at someplace called Dazu in Sichuan. They wanted her because she could speak several dialects. She felt comfortable in Cantonese and Mandarin, although she had found the real thing in the field was not exactly the same as speaking in her graduate classes or in L.A.’s Chinese restaurants. She was also nervous about her English. No matter how hard she tried, she had not completely lost her barrio accent.
She was still worrying when the taxi screeched to a halt near the end of the alley, the door opened, and strong hands pulled her out. Too frightened to struggle, she had a vague impression of seeing a fellow Latina who looked amazingly like her. She felt a sharp pain in her arm, and blackness enveloped her.
Ralph McDermid reclined in his seat aboard the opulent corporate jet reserved for his personal use, sipped his favorite single-malt Scots whiskey—over ice, no water—and glanced at his watch for the tenth time. Where was the damn translator? He fumed and was waving the steward for another single-malt when a breathless woman stumbled up into the cabin. McDermid eyed her with outrage that quickly became appreciation. She was clearly Latina, one of those with high cheekbones, long, lean faces, and a touch of fiery Aztec in her eyes. Exotic.
The Altman Code Page 39
