Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (14 page)

“That leaves the army and the Protector artillery system,” secretary of
the army, Jasper Kott, announced. He was an elegant man with fastidious
manners. Smooth-cheeked, with a quiet face and expressive eyes, he was
also unflappable under the most trying circumstances. “I’ll anticipate
Secretary Stanton by agreeing we need the quickly committed army he
envisions. If a ground war had erupted in Kosovo, our tanks would’ve
needed months to arrive, and when they did, the massive weight of the
seventy-ton Abrams would’ve crushed ten of the twelve bridges between
the port and the battlefield. That’s why we’re training ” brigades now.
They’ll ultimately have a new armored vehicle far smaller than the
Abrams, and we can ship it by air.”

“Then we don’t need the Protector system at all, do we, Secretary Kott?”

Stanton challenged.

Kott’s voice remained polite, almost neutral. “As a matter of fact, we
do need it. We need it very much. As General Guerrero said, we’ve got
serious potential adversaries out there–China, Russia, Serbia, India,
Pakistan, India, and–don’t forget–Iran and Iraq. Our long-range
bombers are powerful but not always accurate. Artillery’s still the key
to winning a major battle. We like the Protector because it’s far
superior to our current Paladin system. It gives us the superiority to
deter big military adversaries. By the way, the Protector is easily
airlifted.”

“It’s easy to fly into remote areas only if it remains at the forty-two
tons you stripped it down to. You discarded a lot of the armor you
really want. Everyone knows you’ll put it back on as soon as you can.

Then the damn thing’ll be too heavy to fly anywhere.”

“It will remain airlift capable,” General Guerrero retorted.

“I doubt that, General. The army loves heavy armor. You’ll find a way to
regain that weight once you’ve got the government’s commitment to build
it. Just remember what the Germans learned in Russia and the Ardennes in
World War Two: Poor roads, old bridges, narrow tunnels, and bad terrain
can torpedo any advantage heavy tanks and artillery have. Throw in bad
weather, and you might as well dig your grave on the spot.”

“On the other hand, light forces fail every time against heavy weapons
and large manpower,” Secretary Kott pointed out. “That’s impossible to
deny. What you want, Stanton, is a recipe for disaster.”

As the men around the table bristled, ready to resume arguing, Admiral
Brose raised his voice, “I believe we have defined our positions
sufficiently. Funds for weaponry are not unlimited, right, Emily?”

The National Security Adviser nodded soberly. “Unfortunately.”

“So I tend to side with the defense secretary on this,” Brose told them.

“Our first priority is to develop the fleeter forces our experiences
from Somalia to the present tell us we need. We also need to hold the
line on what we have and keep a wary eye on the military developments of
potential enemies.” He gazed across the table to the president. “What do
you say, sir?”

Although President Castilla had remained oddly silent through the
lengthy discussion, he was known to favor a sparer military. He nodded
almost to himself. “Each of you has made cogent arguments that must be
considered. The need for a quick-response force large enough and
powerful enough to handle any brushfire war or Third World threat, or to
protect our citizens and interests in developing nations, is clear. We
can’t have a repeat of Somalia. At the same time, we can’t rely on
nations doing nothing while America builds up massive forces on their
borders, as Saddam Hussein allowed us during the Gulf War.”

The president nodded to Admiral Brose and Secretary Stanton. “On the
other hand, the generals and Secretary Kott are reminding us we may face
conflicts on a monumental scale as well, against major-league opponents
with nuclear weapons. We may have to fight on vast landmasses where
light forces are inadequate.” He seemed to brood again. Finally he
announced, “We may have to consider a larger military allocation than we
anticipated.”

Puzzled, everyone in the room looked at one another and back at the
president. He was vacillating, a rare occurrence for such a firm
decision maker. Only Admiral Brose had an inkling of what could be
causing the uncharacteristic hesitancy–The Dowager Empress and China’s
strategic interests in her.

The president stood. “We’ll meet again soon to discuss this further.

Emily, I need to speak with you and Charlie on another matter.”

The assorted generals, cabinet members, and assistants filed out,
frowning and exchanging cryptic comments about what they obviously
considered an unsatisfying meeting. President Castilla watched them go,
his expression grave.

Shanghai.

In the taxi, Smith changed into the suit and tie he had
retrieved from poor Andy earlier. Every few minutes, he looked over his
shoulder at the jockeying headlights on the street behind. He could not
shake the sense of being followed. At the same time, the faces of Andy
An and Avery Mondragon haunted him. Was there something he could
have–should have–done that would have saved their lives?

In his mind, he went back over the last two days, searching for what he
might have missed. For a decision that would have altered everything.

Anger surged through him again. His muscles tensed. His chest ached with
rage. Who were these people who killed so easily?

At last, he shook off the worst of it. Too much fury clouded the mind.

He needed all of his intelligence, because finding the manifest was
critical.

He finished dressing and shoved his black work clothes into his
backpack. He had a job to do. A job made more vital by Mondragon’s and
Andy’s deaths.

The taxi dropped him two blocks up the Bund, and he blended into the
throngs out for an evening walk by the river. When he reached the corner
across from the Peace Hotel, he turned into Nanjing Dong Lu. Here the
famed shopping paradise reverted to the narrow, stinking, teeming street
it had been before the mall was built. The sidewalks were so constricted
that most of the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd walked in the street.

Across from the hotel’s revolving door, Smith shrank back into an alley.

He focused on the hotel entrance, hoping to spot the red-and-white hair
of Feng Dun. One vendor of fake Rolex watches who buttonholed everyone
going in or out of the hotel could have been someone he had spotted at
Yongfu’s mansion. A dumpling seller on the sidewalk beside his steaming
pot definitely was–one of the two who had passed under the windows of
the master bedroom.

They looked their parts, but they also showed the telltale signs of men
on stakeout: They were uninterested in what they were selling, never
really looked at anyone who stopped to inspect their wares, and never
bothered with the customary loud pitches. Instead, they strained to
scrutinize everyone who moved through the hotel’s doors. There was no
point in checking the other entrances; they would be similarly covered.

These people were organized and adept.

He needed to draw them away or somehow remove them. Showing himself as
bait was risky. This was their city, not his, and he spoke no Chinese.

At last, he joined the crowds walking back to the Bund, located a public
telephone, and used the 1C card Dr. Liang had given him. He dialed the
hotel.

The desk clerk answered in Chinese but switched quickly to English the
moment Smith gave his name.

“Yes, sir. How may we help you?”

“It’s a bit embarrassing, but I have a small problem. Earlier today, I
had an unpleasant altercation with a pair of street vendors.

Unfortunately, they’re back, watching the hotel entrance. That makes me
uneasy about my safety. I mean, why are they out there?”

“I will take care of it. Can you describe them? There are so many on
this part of Nanjing Dong Lu.”

“One is selling fake Rolexes, and the other Shanghai dumplings.”

“That should suffice, Dr. Smith.”

“Thank you. I feel safer already.” He hung up and wove back through the
swarming pedestrians to stand by a planter where he could watch.

Less than two minutes later, a municipal police car honked and bulled
its way through to stop in front of the hotel. Two officers in dark-blue
pants and light-blue shirts jumped out, and the fake street vendors made
a mistake: They showed no interest, which made the police immediately
suspicious. Street vendors everywhere started looking over their
shoulders when the police appeared. Seconds later, the phony vendors
were in a shouting match with the officers.

Smith waited. Soon, the door of a large black sedan that had been parked
across the street opened, and two men in street clothes got out. They
pushed through the crowds, everyone cringing back, quickly giving them
space.

Public Security Bureau. They joined the municipal policemen. One spoke
sharply. Instantly, the police officers and the vendors turned their
shouts onto the Public Security agents, each side screaming its case.

The vendors waved permits. The police pointed to the hotel. The Public
Security people shouted back.

When a large black Lincoln stopped at the entrance and disgorged three
European businessmen and three young Chinese women in slit dresses,
Smith attached himself to their happy party, laughing with them as they
sauntered into the lobby while a larger and larger crowd encircled the
arguing police and vendors.

Pulling out his cell phone as he entered his room, Smith stopped in his
tracks. The thin sheet of see-through plastic on the carpet was gone. He
returned his cell phone to his pocket, drew his Beretta, and surveyed
the floor. He did not have to look far. The plastic sheet was wadded up
against the floorboard only feet from the door. Someone had entered,
stepped on the plastic, and kicked it away without thinking what it
meant.

He returned to the hallway, removed the do not disturb sign, and
examined the door lock. It looked untouched. Back in the room, he locked
the door again and checked his suitcases. The filaments were intact.

Someone with a key had entered, was unconcerned about stepping on an
invisible sheet of plastic, and had no interest in his suitcases. That
did not sound like Public Security, local cops, or tonight’s thugs. It
sounded more like hotel personnel.

He frowned. Still, the do not disturb sign had clearly been hanging on
the knob. Had someone–not necessarily from the hotel–been simply
checking to see whether he was there?

Frowning, he could take no chances. He turned on the TV set, raised the
volume, went into the bathroom, and turned the faucets in the tub on
full. With the jarring noise for background, he sat on the toilet seat,
pulled out his cell phone again, and dialed Fred Klein’s scrambled
Covert-One line.

“Where in hell are you?” Klein demanded. “What’s all that noise?”

“Just making sure I’m not overheard. There’s a possibility my hotel
room’s been bugged.”

“Swell. You have good news for me, Colonel?”

He angled back his head, stretching his neck. “I wish. My only break was
I found who owns the Empress–a Chinese company called Flying Dragon
Enterprises. A Shanghai businessman, Yu Yongfu, is–or was–president
and chairman, but the true manifest wasn’t in any of Yu’s safes.” He
filled in the Covert-One chief about the company’s treasurer, Zhao
Yanji, and the information the distraught fellow had relayed. “Of
course, I went to Yu’s mansion.” He described his conversation with Yu’s
wife. “She might have been playing me, or she might not. She’s an
actress, and a damn good one from what I remember. Still, I had the
feeling her story and her bitterness were real. Someone forced Yu Yongfu
to kill himself, and whoever that was has the manifest.”

He could hear Klein puffing hard on his pipe. “They’ve been one step
ahead of us from the start.”

“There’s worse. Andy–An Jingshe–has been killed, too.”

“I assume you’re speaking of the interpreter I sent. I didn’t know him,
but that doesn’t make me less sorry. You never get used to the deaths,
Colonel.” “No,” Smith said.

There was a moment of silence. Then, “Tell me more about the attack on
the Yu mansion. What exactly makes you think it wasn’t a trap?”

“It didn’t have the feel of one. I think they’d been watching me and
finally decided to make a move when the wife drove off. From how they
acted, they obviously didn’t expect to find the front door open.”

“Public Security Bureau?”

“They were too open and clumsy. My guess is they were private killers.”

“Killers who forced Yu to commit suicide and took the manifest?”

“If so, why did they go back to the mansion? Does the name Feng Dun
sound familiar?” When Klein said no, Smith described his run-ins with
him.

“I’ll have my people identify him.”

Klein paused, and in his mind, Smith could see him scowling and
pondering in the distant office at the yacht club on the Anacostia
River.

At last, Klein rumbled, “So our main lead is dead, and the manifest we
need is gone. Where does that leave us, Colonel? I could pull you and
regroup for a try from another angle.”

“Try any angle you can think of, but I’m not ready to give up yet. Maybe
I can pick up the trail of the attackers. There’s the man who says he’s
the president’s father, too. I’ll look for a lead on him.”

“What else have you found?”

“Something very important … Flying Dragon isn’t alone in the Empress
venture. A Belgian company named Donk & Lapierre, S. A., supplied some
of the cargo, if not all. Donk & Lapierre has an office in Hong Kong.
It’d be logical for them to have a copy of the real invoice manifest,
too.”

“Good idea. Get to Hong Kong fast. I’ll send someone to see what they
have in Belgium, too. Where’s the headquarters again?”

“Antwerp. I take it our people came up empty in Baghdad.”