The Altman Code

by Robert Ludlum

  “Mr. McDermid,” she said in English with more than a hint of L.A.’s South Central barrio. It was an accent he would have taken as a sign of lack of education and ambition in a man, but in a woman, it was charming. “I’m Dolores Estevez, your translator and interpreter. I apologize for being late, but they gave me terribly short notice. Of course, the traffic was impossible.”

  McDermid detected a slight lisp. Better and better. Her body was magnificent in any ethnic or national category. Her name was delightful. Dolores. He rolled it through his mind. When this was over, and they were back in Hong Kong, she would probably jump at the chance to please the über boss.

  “Completely understandable, my dear. Please sit down. There would be fine.” He nodded at the plush seat facing him. She smiled, all of a sudden shy. At first he smiled back, then he frowned. There was something . . . familiar. Yes, he had seen her before. Recently. “Have we met? In the office, perhaps.”

  She beamed while shrinking back in the seat. Her shyness was refreshing. “Yes, sir. A few times. Once yesterday.” A slight boldness. “I thought you didn’t notice.”

  “Of course, I did.” Still, as he smiled, he felt an uncomfortable twinge. Was every woman beginning to look familiar?

  At that moment, the pilot poked his head into the private compartment. “Is everyone aboard, sir?”

  “Everyone, Carson. You’ve filed our papers and the flight plan?”

  “Yes, sir. You’ll have about two hours aloft, all in all. Customs will hold you up some when we land, but your papers should get you VIP treatment. Weather looks smooth all the way.”

  “Excellent. Take her up.”

  As the steward arrived with his next whiskey, he offered a drink to his new translator. She crossed her legs with a flash of thigh. At that point, he decided he could do worse for companionship, and the prospect of having the manifest by morning made him feel like his old genial self. He rested his head back and gazed out the window. As the big jet rolled down the runway, he tried not to worry about what would happen. Hell, he was willing to pay two million dollars for the manifest. Of course he would get it.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Nine

  Dazu

  Jon and Asgar spent the daylight hours analyzing reports from the Uigher scouts and working through endless scenarios they might face tonight, interspersed with poker. Asgar ended up winning a few dollars, which Jon considered a donation to international goodwill. His thoughts never left the coming missions. He was determined to succeed at both, while Asgar, whose Uigher pride was involved, was equally eager to strike a blow for democracy and freedom in China.

  Both worried about encountering what they had not envisioned. The thought of failure was impossible.

  According to Asgar’s people, the usual rafts of visitors had come and gone around the Sleeping Buddha, enjoying the beauty and spiritual quality of the centuries-old art, while local vendors aggressively hawked postcards and plastic statues. A normal day. Thus far, there had been no sign of McDermid’s people, nor of Li Kuonyi and Yu Yongfu, but the hills and mesas around the Buddha Grottos were largely open, so it was possible they could arrive unnoticed at any time, particularly after dark, hiking or riding in overland in vehicles or on horses, or disguised as tourists or vendors.

  At the same time, the news from the prison was encouraging: The lock-down was over. No pallet check tonight, and tomorrow morning the prisoners would return to the fields. The harvest season had begun—cabbage, beets, bok choy, tomatoes, as well as the usual rice and chili peppers. Asgar figured that had played a large role in the decision.

  Once darkness had cloaked Dazu’s rolling hills and valleys, Jon, Asgar, and a dozen guerrillas drove to the prison and hid their vehicles as before. Now they and two of the Uigher fighters lay flat in cover across from the no-man’s land and chain-link fence. The prison yard appeared quiet. The mess hall was shadowy and still. The double doors in the rear wall were closed, the rutted dirt drive deserted. From the barracks, an occasional voice rose in mournful song or macabre laughter, but the governor and the guards made no showing.

  All of this information was vital, since the prison was still on medium alert. Jon and Asgar had decided they would improve the odds of a clean, quiet escape for Thayer and Chiavelli if they sneaked inside. They planned to take the same hidden route in which they hoped to bring them out.

  Motionless, growing tense, at last they spotted movement. One of the double doors had opened and closed. Or had it? Jon stared, trying to pick out a shape, a form, anything. Then he saw it—a wraith low to the ground, a cross between a snake and a cat, scrambling through the ten-yard-wide blind spot to the fence. It was a small man in the usual drab prison uniform. He looked up at them once, spotted Asgar, and nodded.

  Asgar nodded back and whispered to Jon, “It’s Ibrahim. Let’s cover him.”

  Noise was an enemy tonight. The last weapon they would use was their guns, even though they had screwed on noise suppressors. It was a myth that “silenced” gunfire was silent. Although it was quieter than regular fire, each bullet still gave off a loud pop, like a low-grade firecracker. With luck, their hands, feet, knives, and garottes would be enough. Still, they raised their pistols, sweeping over the grounds, in case of the worst. Beside them, the two Uigher fighters did the same. They must protect this man who was risking so much.

  Jon’s heart held a slow, steady beat, while tension fought to accelerate it. Ibrahim continued to scrape away the loamy soil until he had gone down what looked like a foot. Moments later, he raised a square of wood about three-by-three. He dove into the hole and vanished. Almost immediately, the dirt moved on the other side of the fence. It shifted, shook, and another wood panel arose. Ibrahim’s head popped out, disappeared again, and reappeared on the far side of the fence. The channel was clear.

  Asgar whispered, “Our turn.”

  He rose to a crouch and scuttled to the fence, with Jon and the two Uigher guerrillas close behind. Jon peered down into the hole. It was a deep depression that had been scooped under the fence and covered with the two wood squares that met just beneath the chain links.

  “Go,” Asgar said in a low voice. “I’ve got your back.”

  Headfirst, Jon scrambled down, emerged on the prison side, and ran after Ibrahim to the mess hall, dirt flying from his clothes. He slid inside and turned to aim out his Beretta. The Uighers had replaced the wood on both sides of the fence and were pushing dirt back over. As Asgar ran to join Jon and Ibrahim, the remaining pair outside produced brushes and meticulously smoothed the dirt, making the night’s disturbance unnoticeable.

  When the last Uigher bolted into the mess hall, Ibrahim led them at a trot through the shadowy kitchen and deserted mess hall. They peered out the windows. Moonlight illuminated wood walkways that united three large barracks, joined them with the mess hall, and branched out to other buildings, guaranteeing dry feet for the governor during rainy seasons. All the buildings were raised on three-foot posts, indicating the seriousness of the seasonal storms. There were no trees and no grass, just soil that had been packed hard by many feet.

  Two armed guards patrolled this area, rifles over their shoulders, yawning sleepily, perhaps because they’d had to patrol last night during the lock-down, too.

  Ibrahim consulted in a low voice with Asgar, who nodded and told Jon, “Be ready. When I say go, we run out to the right and slide under the barrack there.”

  Ibrahim waited until the guards were at the ends of their routes and their backs were turned. He and Asgar clapped each other on both shoulders in farewell, and Ibrahim raced out of the mess hall, but to the left. He made no attempt to be silent. In fact, his footfalls were thumps on the hardpan. Both guards revived from their walking doze and spun, rifles aimed.

  Each barked the same Chinese word, which Jon figured must mean “halt.”

  Ibrahim froze. His head dropped in fake guilt.

  The men approached warily. They relaxed when they saw his face. Their lips cur
led as they spoke mockingly in Chinese.

  Asgar translated everything in a whisper:

  “You stealing food again, Ibrahim?”

  “Don’t you know you always get caught? What is it this time?”

  The first guard searched the trembling Uigher and pulled a jar from inside his shirt. “Honey again. You know damn well that’s not for prisoners. We would’ve discovered it was gone, and then we’d have tracked it to you. You’re the dumbest inmate here. Now we’ve got to take you to lockup, and you’ll be talking to the governor in the morning. You know what that means!”

  His head hanging lower, Ibrahim was marched to a small building at the far edge of the yard.

  “What does it mean?” Jon asked, concerned.

  “Detention for a week. Ibrahim’s an operator. It’s his contribution to the cause.” Asgar looked both ways. “Now!”

  As Ibrahim disappeared inside, Jon and Asgar slipped out the front door, ran full speed to the right, and dove under the barrack. They clambered underneath to the other side, jumped out, ran again, and dove again, repeating until they were three barracks distant, in another part of the camp. They lay panting beneath the last one, peering out at another group of barracks. The most distant one from the fence where they entered was straight ahead.

  Asgar breathed in deep gulps. Jon’s heart pounded, and his face itched. But all he could think about was . . . in that barrack was David Thayer.

  They studied the new area. Again, there were wood walkways uniting the buildings. Two more guards patrolled 180 degrees apart. As soon as the guards’ backs were turned, Asgar nodded, and they ran once more, this time lightly.

  The barrack door cracked open without a sound, and a figure motioned them into the dark interior. He was in his early thirties, with a scar down his right cheek that looked as if it had come from a blade. The man put a finger to his lips, closed the door, and padded quietly off between pallets of snoring male prisoners. Shafts of moonlight from high windows illuminated the bleak, regimented scene, which looked as if it had sprung from some monochromatic moment in a Solzhenitsyn novel.

  Jon and Asgar followed the prisoner to a door at the rear. He pointed at it and returned to his pallet. Jon and Asgar exchanged a look in the gloom, and Asgar gestured as if to say, “Your turn, if you want it.”

  This was David Thayer’s cell. This last door in the last barrack in the compound. A man who had been declared officially dead for decades. Whose wife had remarried and died. Whose best friend had married her and died, too. Whose son had grown up without him. He had missed several lifetimes.

  Jon opened the door eagerly. This man deserved more than pity. He deserved freedom and every happiness the world could offer.

  Inside was a tiny room. Two men looked up from where they sat side by side on wood chairs. Each held a small, lighted flashlight, a hand cupping the beam. Jon could see little more. He and Asgar quickly closed the door behind them.

  “Chiavelli?” Jon whispered into the dark.

  “Smith?” asked a voice.

  “Yes.”

  The hands released the beams. The cell erupted in shadows and light. Both men were fully dressed. The one who wore the usual prison shirt and trousers was younger—muscular, with a gray buzz cut and gray stubble on his chin. He immediately crossed the room and pushed aside the pallet in the corner.

  The older one stood up, tall and rangy, with sunken cheeks and bony shoulders. He was dressed in a rumpled Mao jacket over loose peasant trousers, a Mao cap on his head. Under it was thick white hair and an aristocratic face that was riven with lines, not from the sun but from more than eighty years of life. Around his waist was a belt with a small pack. He was ready to travel. David Thayer.

  Chiavelli said from the corner, “Asgar?” He was on his knees, where the pallet had been. “I could use some help.”

  “Certainly, old man.”

  Asgar crouched beside Chiavelli, as Chiavelli explained what needed to be done. With their fingers, they worked loose and removed four-penny nails from the floor where Thayer’s pallet had been.

  Meanwhile, a warm smile wreathed David Thayer’s wrinkled face. He extended his hand. “Colonel Smith, I’ve waited a long time for this. Wish I could think of something profound to say, but my heart and mind are too full.”

  “Actually, I was thinking the same thing, Dr. Thayer.” He shook the hand. It was dry, warm, with only a slight tremble. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I mean that. We’re going to get you out of here. From this moment on, consider yourself a free man.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to meet my son.”

  “Of course. The president sends his greetings. He wants very much to see you as soon as possible.”

  Thayer’s smile widened, and his eyes shone. “I’ve hoped that for more than fifty years. Is he well?”

  “From everything I know, he is. You have two grandchildren. Both in college. A boy and a girl. Patrick and Amy. You’ll be going home to a beautiful family.” Jon thought he heard a sob catch in Thayer’s throat.

  “Let’s go!” Dennis Chiavelli called softly from the corner.

  A panel of the wood floor was gone. It had been dropped down into the opening. David Thayer explained the Uighers had dug tunnels years ago, so they could move freely among the barracks.

  Jon and Thayer hunched next to Asgar and Chiavelli, as Chiavelli explained urgently, “We go out as quickly and quietly as possible. Looks like the governor’s laid down the law about the guards getting too lax, so we have to be damned careful. If a guard hasn’t been bribed and tries to stop us, we jump him silently, without lethal force if we can, and we stash him, dead or alive, in the mess hall where he won’t be found until after roll call tomorrow morning. If our luck holds, they won’t figure out before then we’re gone.”

  “We’d better be far the hell away by then anyway,” Jon said. He looked at Asgar. “All of that sound right?”

  “With an emphasis on nonlethal. My people have to stay behind.”

  Chiavelli frowned. “Why are they still here anyway?”

  Impatience was written on Asgar’s face. He dropped feet first into the hole and took out a small flashlight. “If we pulled off a mass escape, the Han would come down on us and all of Xinjiang like the Great Wall. It’s better we remain a bloody nuisance, and we pick our times and places to strike. Besides, we slip people in and out of the prison when we need to. The network here is useful. Come on. We need to move as if the devil were nipping our heels.”

  Jon helped Thayer down into the opening. The moist, earthen hole had been scooped out into a tunnel about four feet high. They had to stoop, but it was a luxurious exit compared to Asgar’s tunnel back in the Shanghai longtangs. Chiavelli, the last down, reached up and pulled the sleeping pallet across the hole. He angled the wood panel back up into place and tweaked it to the side so it would hold.

  “One of our people will fix it so it’s unnoticeable again,” Asgar explained.

  They headed off, almost doubled over, Asgar in the lead. Following were David Thayer, Jon, and Chiavelli. Jon watched Thayer for signs of pain or exhaustion from the strain of the bent-over position, but if he felt either, he gave no indication. The dirt walls closed in around Jon, and a sense of suffocation threatened to overtake him. He kept his gaze on Thayer’s back. The tunnel writhed like a dragon’s tail, interrupted by rough-hewn wood supports and occasional openings in the top where more wood panels indicated another entrance into another building. No one spoke, although Chiavelli sneezed twice, muffling the noise in his hand.

  At last, there was a cool stream of fresh air.

  Asgar breathed, “We’re here.” As they stopped, he continued, “We’ll be coming up under the last barrack. After that is the mess.” He looked at his watch face. “Right now, there should be no more than one guard patrolling between us and the final barrack. I’ll handle him. If by any chance we’re surprised by a second, which is possible tonight, Jon takes him.”

 
“What do I do?” Chiavelli asked, frowning, eager to help.

  Jon said, “Your job’s to make sure Dr. Thayer stays safe.”

  Thayer protested, “Don’t do anything special for me. I make it, or I don’t. I’m too old for anyone to risk his life.”

  “You are old,” Jon said bluntly. “But that means you’ll make it harder on us if you try to do what you can’t.”

  David Thayer said, amused, “So Captain Chiavelli becomes my bodyguard and my wet nurse. Poor Captain Chiavelli. It is a sad fate for such a brave man of action.”

  “No worries,” Chiavelli assured him. “My pleasure.”

  “Here we go,” Asgar whispered.

  The panel above their heads had been unsealed and left ajar, the source of the fresh air. Asgar pushed it out of the way, and they climbed up, one after the other, into the crawl space beneath the barrack. Thayer was awkward but made it. Chiavelli replaced the panel and brushed dirt back over it.

  Jon and Asgar took positions under the edge of the building, where the dimly lighted yard stretched between it and the mess hall. As Asgar had predicted, a single guard patrolled in a sloppy circle, his assault rifle slung over his shoulder and his head down as if half asleep.

  They scuttled backward to where Thayer and Chiavelli lay. Thayer gave Jon a questioning look, but Jon shook his head, his fingers at his lips. They waited. The night air was chilly against their skin. The moon had retreated behind a gray cloud, and the shadowy prison took on an eerie, dangerous air. They waited tensely.

  At last, the guard headed back in their direction. Again Jon and Asgar moved to the edge of the barrack. And waited. As the man’s feet moved past, Asgar sprang out like a mountain cat and smashed the butt of his pistol down onto the guard’s head. And it was over. Asgar started to drag the man under the barrack, where they would tie and gag him and smuggle him into the mess hall to hide.

  Then it happened. A second guard marched out from around the next building. He saw Asgar bent over his collapsed comrade. For a long beat, the new guard stared, puzzled, his routine-dulled brain unable to comprehend and react. Abruptly, it penetrated. He grabbed his assault rifle, which was slung over his shoulder.