Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (15 page)

“They did. I’m arranging for a more reliable agent in Basra to
investigate further.”

“Good. I’ll make some excuse to Dr. Liang and fly to Hong Kong on the
first China Southwest plane I can get.”

“Now … ”

He barely heard the knock on the room door over the TV and the tub
faucets. “Hold on.” Smith drew his Beretta and walked out to the door.

“Who is it?”

“Room service, sir.”

“I didn’t order room service.”

“Dr. Jon Smith? Hairy crab dinner? A Bass ale? From the Dragon-Phoenix
restaurant.”

Hairy crab was a prized Shanghai dish, and the Dragon-Phoenix restaurant
was in the hotel, but that did not change the fact that Smith had
ordered no food. He told Fred Klein he would be in touch.

“What’s going on there?” Klein demanded. “Is something wrong?”

“Tell Potus what I said. I may need that dental appointment after all.”

He severed the connection, pocketed the cell phone, and gripped his
Beretta. He cracked open the door.

A lone man in a waiter’s jacket stood beside a serving cart draped in
white linen. The hot smell of seafood drifted from covered dishes. Smith
did not recognize him. He was short and very lean, but there were
muscles under his uniform, and the sinews of his neck were thick ropes.

There was a tension and purpose to him like a coiled spring. Darker than
any Han Chinese Smith had ever seen, he could have been carved from
sun-browned rawhide. His long, high-boned face was lined and deeply
seamed, although he was no more than forty, probably younger. The
mustache was an elegant touch. Whatever and whoever he was, Smith
decided, he was not the usual Chinese.

Before the door was fully open, the waiter shoved the cart into the
room. “Good evening, sir,” he said loudly in English thick with a
Cantonese accent.

A couple was swinging along the hall, holding hands. They passed Smith’s
room.

“Who are you?” Smith demanded.

The waiter glanced at Smith’s Beretta, gave no sign he was perturbed,
and used a heel to push the door closed behind him.

“Don’t give a fuss, Colonel,” the man said, with a flash of his black
eyes. Gone was the Cantonese accent, replaced by an upper-class British
one. “If you would be so kind.” He reached under his serving cart and
tossed a bundle of clothes to Smith. “Put these on. Quickly. There are
some blokes downstairs looking for you. No time for full disclosure.”

Smith caught the bundle with his left hand, while his right continued to
point his Beretta at the man. “Who the hell are you, and who are they?”

“They are the Public Security Bureau, and I’m Asgar Mahmout, alias Xing
Bao in the People’s Republic.” He still did not acknowledge Smith’s
Beretta. “I’m the ” who got the word to Mondragon about the old man in
the Chinese prison.”

Washington, D.C.

Near their offices in the Pentagon, Secretary of the Army Jasper Kott
parted with General Tomas Guerrero in the corridor. They had been
discussing various strategies for gaining more support from both the
government and the military, including publicity to educate the general
public. Kott continued on toward his office until General Guerrero
disappeared.

The secretary changed directions and ducked into the men’s restroom. It
was deserted, so he went into a stall, locked the door, and sat on the
toilet top. He dialed his cell phone and waited while the call was
relayed through a maze of electronics.

The robust voice that finally came on asked, “Well?”

“I think it’s working. The president’s vacillating.”

“That doesn’t sound like our leader. What exactly is he doing?”

“You know what a bulldog he is. Well, he hardly took any part in the
discussion. Stanton rode his horse hard, but he rode alone. Except for
Brose and Oda, of course. But we expected that.”

“Give me the details.”

Kott described the high points of the appropriations meeting. “No one
knew why the president seemed so moody, preoccupied, and waffling. Only
maybe Brose. I caught a look between them.”

There was a bitter laugh. “I’ll bet you did. We need to talk more about
this.”

“Anytime. We’ll make another phone appointment.”

“No. In person. Just the two of us. There’s too much to discuss, and
it’s too important.”

Kott considered. “I need to visit our bases in Asia anyway.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting.” The line went dead.

Kott returned the phone to his pocket, flushed the toilet, and left.

President Castilla often had the feeling Fred Klein lived in perpetual
midnight. In the Covert-One office hidden in the anacostia seagoing
yacht club, heavy curtains covered the windows against the late-morning
sunlight, the noise of the bustling marina, and the sounds of boats and
wildlife from the river. The president sat facing Klein, who leaned back
behind his desk, his hands in the light of the lamp, and his head in the
gloom of the office’s shadows.

Klein repeated what Jon Smith had just reported. “And we may have to get
him out of China quickly.” Klein described the abruptly ended phone call
from Shanghai that included the code words “Potus”–president–and
“dental appointment”–extraction.

“Let’s not lose Smith, too.” The president shook his head worriedly. “We
still don’t have the manifest, and we don’t know who has it or where it
is.”

“Smith thinks the Belgian company may have a copy.”

“May have?”

“I have people in China trying to track down who attacked Smith, and in
Iraq looking for the second copy of the invoice manifest. I’ll get the
ball rolling in Antwerp to find out whether the third copy is there. But
if we don’t find one in Shanghai, Basra, or in Antwerp, then only Hong
Kong is left.”

The president nodded. “All right. I trust your judgment. We have a few
days of grace before the freighter arrives.” He hesitated then grimaced.

“I have to consider what we do if no copies of the manifest are ever
found. I can’t let that ship unload its cargo in Iraq. In the final
analysis, we’ll have no choice but to board it, and that means I have to
anticipate the consequences and prepare.”

“A military confrontation with China?”

“A confrontation is a very real–and frightening–possibility.”

“Would we go it alone, without our allies?”

“If necessary. They’ll demand documentation if we ask them to back us.

And if we have no documentation–”

“I see your point. We’d better get the manifest.”

“I don’t like to think about what we’ll have to do if China is foolish
enough to actually challenge us.” Castilla shook his head, his broad
face cloudy with unspoken worries. “Imagine, I wanted this job. I worked
my ass off to get it.” He hunched forward and said softly, “Tell me
what’s happening about David Thayer?”

“As soon as I can pinpoint the prison farm’s exact location, I’m going
to send in an agent to make contact and assess the accuracy of his
story.”

The president nodded again. “I’ve been thinking about the possibility
the human-rights accord may never be signed. I don’t like that at all.”

“If that’s what happens, a rescue mission for Thayer would come on the
table.”

“What kind of rescue mission?”

“A small unit. Exactly how large, with what personnel and equipment,
will depend on the prison farm’s security and location.”

“You’ll have whatever you need.”

From the shadows, Klein studied his longtime friend. “Do I understand,
sir, that you’re ready to give the go-ahead for such a mission?”

“Let’s say I’m keeping my options open.” The president closed his eyes a
moment, and melancholy seemed to fill his face. It was gone quickly. He
stood up. “Keep in touch. Day or night.”

“As soon as I hear anything.”

“Good.” He opened the door and walked out, heavy shoulders square and
dignified. He was immediately surrounded by three secret service agents,
who escorted him toward the outer door.

Fred Klein listened to the Lincoln’s engine come to life and the tires
crunch gravel as the vehicle rolled off. He stood up and crossed to a
large screen on his right wall. His mind tumultuous with ideas and
concern, he touched a button. The screen lit up. A detailed map of China
came into view. He clasped his hands behind his back, studying it
intently.

Shanghai.

In his hotel room, Smith continued to point his Beretta at the man
disguised as a waiter. “Who’s ‘,’ and what does he care about some old
man?”

“This is hardly the time to be coy, Colonel.” He stripped off his white
jacket and loose trousers to reveal the typical young Shanghainese man’s
ubiquitous white shirt, cheap navy wash-and-wear slacks, and navy coat.

“We sent a man to track Mondragon to make certain he gave the
information to you Yanks. Remember Liuchiu Island? The ambush? That’s
where Mondragon took the long trip. Then you returned to Kaohsiung.

We’ve never stopped keeping a bead on you. Satisfied?”

Still, Smith’s weapon remained trained on him. “Why would Public
Security care about me?”

“Oh, bloody hell! Back off. David Thayer could just be our ticket to
worldwide recognition of what’s actually going on here in China. Public
Security’s after you for their reasons, not ours.”

“You were in the Land Rover?”

Asgar Mahmout gave an exaggerated sigh. “It wasn’t Queen Elizabeth. Put
on those clothes before they hoist both of us up by our gonads.”

Asgar Mahmout was no Chinese name, and with his round eyes and dark
complexion, he did not look Chinese. He spoke of “we.” We sent a man to
track Mondragon. And our. Our ticket. Some kind of underground dissident
group? Exactly who or what would have to wait, because what he said was
logical: They could have found him if they had been tracking him since
the time he met Avery on Liuchiu. Which meant Public Security was likely
downstairs, lying in wait.

Smith laid his Beretta on the coffee table, peeled off his suit, and
dressed quickly in the clothes–an old man’s deep-blue Mao suit, a
People’s Liberation Army cap, a pastel-blue shirt with a grimy collar,
and Chinese sandals.

“Grab only what you must.” Mahmout had wheeled the serving cart around
to face the door. He opened it.

Smith snatched up his backpack, shoved the Beretta into his pocket, and
sprinted after him into the hotel corridor. It was deserted. Mahmout ran
the cart to the right, away from the bank of regular elevators, and
around the corner to a service elevator.

It was open. “Bit of luck that,” he said approvingly.

He pushed the cart into it, Smith on his heels. As the doors closed,
they heard a guest elevator stop on their floor. The doors whooshed
open, and footsteps rushed down the corridor. Their elevator descended,
with the noises of harsh, impatient knocking and sharp orders in Chinese
so loud they penetrated the walls.

“Sounds as if they’re at your room,” Asgar said.

Smith nodded, wondering how long it would be before the security police
figured out what had happened and where they had gone.

At the first floor, Mahmout pushed the cart into the lobby.

“There’s a way out through the kitchen,” Smith said.

“I know. You used it earlier today with that young Han. Who is he? Where
is he?”

“An interpreter.” Smith’s voice dropped. “He’s dead, too.”

Mahmout shook his head, his expression hard. “You’re a good-luck charm,
Colonel. I’ll be sure to watch not only your back, but mine. Who killed
him?”

“I suspect a man named Feng Dun and his people.”

“Never heard of him.” Mahmout hurried off through the aromatic corridors
behind the kitchen to the employees’ exit, Smith by his side. They
abandoned the cart and crept outdoors, where they were instantly
assaulted by city noises. The dark alley stretched left to Nanjing Dong
Lu and its crowds, and to the right toward the street behind the hotel.

“You have the Land Rover?” Smith asked.

“Are you mad? Not with me.”

The shouts came from neither left nor right, but from behind, inside the
hotel. The security police had figured out where they had gone sooner
than Smith expected.

“Run!” Like a greyhound, Mahmout tore off to the right.

Smith raced along the dim alley beside him, following his lead as the
babel of Nanjing Dong Lu faded in the distance. At the corner, more
shouts exploded and feet hammered, chasing them. They turned left, away
from the Bund and the river, plunged across the narrower side street and
into the mouth of another alley, and twisted through into a third alley.

Checking over their shoulders, they shot out across another street. As
they entered a new alley, Mahmout settled into a punishing,
distance-devouring trot. Sweating, confused, Smith had no idea where
they were or where they were going. Mahmout took him through a
bewildering maze of back streets and anonymous alleys, where they
dodged, eluded, jumped over, and bounced off swearing pedestrians,
bicycle parking lots, construction sites, strewn debris, street vendors,
cars parked up on the sidewalks, and cars that ran red lights–right and
left–without even a token pause.

As they panted on, they were assailed by a hundred raw, stinking odors
and earsplitting dins. They ducked under hanging laundry, leaped over
cooking fires, skidded around garbage, and dodged both bicycles and
motorcycles that made no distinction among streets, alleys, and
sidewalks. All this while shouts and the racket of running feet
continued to dog them, sometimes closer, sometimes farther back, but
always there, like a bad dream.

Twice, Mahmout darted sharply right or left, as new pursuers suddenly
appeared ahead, trying to block their path. Once an unmarked car skidded
to a screeching stop just meters before them. They swerved into a
dwelling and blasted through and out into yet another alley.