Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (22 page)

Was there a faint smile on Jeremy’s face as he avoided any hint of a
particular interpretation of why Castilla was missing her? The president
hid his own smile with a frown.

Jeremy waited as Fred Klein padded into the bedroom. He closed the door.

Castilla had a sudden image of Klein flowing through the world like fog,
silent and impenetrable. What was it Carl Sandburg wrote … Yes: The
fog came in on little cat feet … Klein’s feet were far too big for
that.

“Have a seat, Fred.”

Klein lowered a hip on the edge of an armchair. The Covert-One chief’s
hands fluttered as if searching for a lost jewel.

“Chew on the damn thing,” Castilla growled, “before you drive me to
drink.”

Klein looked sheepish, took out his battered pipe, and gratefully stuck
the stem between his teeth. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

“I just hope it doesn’t kill you until after I’m out of office,” he
grumbled. “Okay, what’s the bad news this time?”

“I’m not sure if my bulletins are good or bad, sir. You might say it
depends on how this Empress affair unfolds.”

“That’s hardly reassuring.”

“No, sir.” Klein explained the essence of Jon’s experiences of the last
hours, but not the details. “We’re fairly certain that the original
invoice manifest must have been destroyed. My people in Iraq have found
nothing so far. Colonel Smith is on his way to Hong Kong where we hope
the third copy is with Donk & Lapierre.”

The president shook his head. “Sometimes I wish all these multinational
corporations and holding companies had never been allowed to come into
existence.”

“So do most governments,” Klein agreed.

“What about our other agents in China?”

“Nothing. They haven’t caught a hint of the Empress and its actual cargo
from any of their contacts within the Chinese government or the
Communist Party.”

Castilla pinched the bridge of his nose, narrowing his eyes. “That’s
odd, isn’t it? Beijing is usually rife with rumor and speculation.”

“Colonel Smith and I’ve come to the conclusion that, in fact, Beijing
may not know about the contraband.”

The president’s eyebrows rose. “You mean … it’s a private venture?

A lucrative business deal?”

“With a complication. We think a high Beijing official may be involved,
perhaps someone on the Politburo itself.”

The president thought rapidly. “Corruption? Another Chen Xitong
situation?”

“Possibly, yes. But there also could be a power struggle within the
Politburo. Which …”

“Isn’t necessarily good for us.”

“No, sir, it isn’t.”

The president was quiet, lost in thought. So was Klein as he fiddled
with his pipe, absently took out his tobacco pouch, then realized what
his hands were doing. He hastily returned the fragrant tobacco to his
pocket.

Finally, the president hauled himself out of his comfortable recliner
and began to pace, his slippers slapping the carpet. “I doubt it makes a
damn bit of difference whether Beijing knows. They’ll react the same.

They’ll defend the rights of their ships to go anywhere on the high seas
with any cargo, whether or not they approve of this one. We still have
only one way to prevent the chemicals from reaching Iraq without a
confrontation and the resulting consequences.”

“I know, sir. We have to have that manifest to prove to the world–and
to China–that we’re not pulling a fast one. But if Beijing isn’t
involved and doesn’t know what the Empress is carrying, when we do prove
what the cargo is, we should get swift cooperation. They’ll have no
reason to cover up. In fact, they’ll want to look as responsible and
committed to international peace as everyone else. Or at least we can
hope they will.” He studied the president, who still paced the bedroom
as if he were entangled in an unseen web. “Is this a good time to update
you about David Thayer?”

The president stopped and stared at Klein. “Yes, of course it’s a good
time. What more have you learned?”

“One of Covert-One’s assets in China has reported that the prison farm
isn’t as tightly guarded as it might be. It’s possible we’ll be able to
insert one of my people to make contact and find out what Thayer’s
condition is and what he wants.” “All right,” the president said
cautiously. He did not resume pacing.

Klein sensed hesitancy. “Are you reconsidering a rescue incursion, sir?”
“As you said, if Beijing really isn’t involved in sending the Empress to
Iraq, they should be more inclined to cooperate, once they have
incontrovertible proof. But a clandestine incursion by us, with a goal
that can’t help but condemn them before the world, successful or
unsuccessful, is going to enrage them.”

Klein had to agree. “True.”

“I can’t risk our nation’s safety or the treaty.” “Maybe you won’t have
to,” Klein said. “We can send in nongovernmental, nonmilitary forces.
Strictly volunteers. They’d abort at the first sign of discovery. That
way, you preserve full deniability.”

“You could get that many volunteers with training?”

“As many as I want.”

Castilla fell heavily into his armchair. He crossed his legs and rubbed
his big chin. “I don’t know. History isn’t kind to private raids into
enemy territory.”

“There’s risk, sir. I admit it. But far less than with an official
operation.”

The president seemed to accept that. He mused, “Your first step would be
to send someone into China to contact Thayer? Find out if he even wants
to be rescued rather than wait for the treaty to free him?”

“That and to report on the military conditions, terrain, locations …
all the details we’ll need if you give the go-ahead.”

“All right. Do it. But make no further move until you clear it with me.”

“That goes without saying.”

“Yes.” The president considered Klein, his expression somber. “He
probably gave up on coming home years ago. Ever seeing this country
again. It’d mean a lot to me to get him out of there. Imagine being able
to give him a final few years of peace and comfort here at home.” He
stared past Klein at the White House wall. “It’d be nice to finally meet
my father.”

“I know, Sam.”

They exchanged a look across the years.

The president sighed and rubbed his eyes again.

Klein stood and quietly left the bedroom.

Friday, September 15.

Hong Kong.

The Asian headquarters of Donk & Lapierre, S. A., occupied three floors
of a new forty-two-story building in the heart of Central, the main
business district of Hong Kong Island. Downtown’s two other districts
were Admiralty and Wanchai, the former red-light quarter but now Hong
Kong’s third financial district, east of Central. Most skyscrapers in
recent years had been built in Central and Admiralty, while new
commercial redevelopment projects were under way west of Central. Across
the narrowest neck of Victoria Harbor was a fourth section, teeming with
activity and humanity–Kowloon, on the mainland.

At exactly noon on Friday, a telephone call came into Donk & Lapierre
that bypassed the corporate switchboard and rang in the office of a Mr.
Claude Marichal. It did not ring on Marichal’s desk phone, nor on a
second phone set on a side table next to an armchair for important
visitors. Instead, it rang on what appeared to be an interoffice
phone–no dial or button pad. It was stored on the top of a three-shelf
bookcase under the windows behind his desk.

Startled, Marichal dropped his pen, swore as the ink splashed on his
papers, and swiveled to pick up the receiver. “Yes? May I help you?”

“You may, if you’re Mr. Jan Donk.”

The receiver nearly slipped from Marichal’s grasp. He said quickly,
“What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” Keeping his shock under control, he
took a deep breath. “Hold on, please. I’ll get him.” He laid the
receiver down on top of the bookcase … and picked it up again. “It may
take a few minutes, so please remain on the line.”

“I’ll stay as long as I can.”

He put the caller on hold, swiveled frantically back to his desk phone,
and dialed an extension. “Sir? There’s a call that just came in on the
private Donk line, asking for him.”

“Asking for him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s not Yu Yongfu or Mr. Mcdermid?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Don’t let him hang up.”

“I’ll try.” Marichal ended the connection and swung back to the special
phone. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re having some trouble locating Mr. Donk.” He
tried to make his voice bright, eager, and helpful. “Perhaps I can help
you. If you’ll tell me your business with Jan–?”

“That’s all right, but no thanks.”

A man came into Marichal’s office, tiptoeing, his finger to his lips,
and his eyebrows raised in question. Marichal nodded vigorously while
racking his brain for a tactic to stall the caller longer. “It’s
possible he’s already gone to lunch. Mr. Donk, I mean. Left the
building. If you’ll give me your name and number, or perhaps a message,
I’m sure he’ll get back to you the moment he comes in. I know he’d hate
to miss … hello? Hello? Sir? Hello?”

“What happened?”

Marichal peered up as he returned the receiver to its cradle. “He’s
gone. I think he figured it out, Mr. Cruyff.”

The man, Charles-Marie Cruyff, nodded. He picked up the receiver of
Marichal’s desk phone and asked, “Did you get the trace?”

“He called from a public phone booth in Kowloon.”

“Give me the number and the location.” He wrote it down.

Kowloon He’d made a mistake. As Jon slammed the phone into the cradle,
he knew that. Either the number had been special and unlisted, or Jan
Donk did not exist. Or both. Now whoever had answered was alerted that
some unauthorized person, speaking American English, knew the number.
The only question was whether they had been able to trace his call. That
was a question that had only one answer: He must assume they did.

As Major Kenneth St. Germain, Ph. D., wearing a dark-blond wig to match
the long hair of the aging hippie and eminent microbiologist, he had
landed at Hong Kong International on Lantau Island two hours ago, gone
through customs, and taken the Airport Express to the Kowloon Shangri-la
Hotel. He wasted no time in his room. After checking the location of
Donk & Lapierre, he slid the blond wig into his pocket, donned a new
tropical-weight suit, and left the hotel.

The city lay under an oppressive blanket of heat and high humidity that
day, unusual for mid-September. Walking out into it was like hitting a
wall of diesel fumes and saltwater air, spiced up with the stink of
fried meats and fish. He was engulfed by the surging masses of people,
cars, and buses that were, if anything, more numerous than in Shanghai.

He pushed, dodged, and bumped his way to the Star Ferry terminal, where
he had found this public phone.

Now he hurried away, blending into the throngs on the harbor promenade.

He looked around for a convenient fast-food kiosk where he could observe
the public phone. One thing was to his advantage here–a tall man in
Western clothes was only one of thousands walking the Hong Kong streets
every day, all of whom must look pretty much alike to the Chinese.

He had eaten only three shrimp by the time the two unmarked black sedans
arrived. They were Mercedeses, by the look of them over the distance.

Six Chinese men in suits emerged and fanned out. All casually approached
the public phone from different directions, scrutinizing everyone. They
carried no obvious weapons, but Jon noted telltale buttoned suit jackets
and suspicious bulges. There was an anxiety that hovered about them, a
touch of angry nervousness.

Not national security or even local police. They were something else.

None had looked at the food kiosk yet. That was too good a piece of luck
to test. Besides, he had learned all he was going to. He dropped the
remainder of the greasy fried shrimp into a trash can and circled away
to the ferry terminal. The next departure for Hong Kong Island was in
three minutes. He bought a ticket.

Once aboard, he made his way forward to the bow, thinking about the six
men, replaying their faces in his mind so he would remember them. Were
they from Feng Dun again?

As he considered that possibility, he raised his gaze, remembering his
role as a tourist, and looked out across the channel. No one was
prepared for the breathtaking view, no matter how many times they had
heard about it or studied photos. Ahead, the scene spread so wide it was
impossible to take it all in at once. First were the ships, barges,
seagoing yachts, green sampans, and ferries, churning across the aqua
waters. Then came the piers, docked ships, and waterfront buildings that
skirted the island of Hong Kong. Behind them rose skyscrapers of every
height, massed like titans readying an attack, with neon advertising
signs as their mammoth insignias. Finally, towering over them were
cloud-ringed mountains, serene and timeless. Out in the water to the
east, islands rose like pyramids. Altogether, the panorama was as large
and stunning as New York’s.

As the ferry left the terminal, the impact of it all moving toward him
was palpable. He caught his breath and turned away–and saw two of the
six, their hands sliding up under their suit jackets, as if checking to
make certain their weapons were convenient. They were weaving through
the throng. Closing in on him.

Manila, The Philippines.

Beneath a glassy blue sky and a blistering sun, the modified C-130
landed at Ninoy Aquino International Airport at 1400 hours. It taxied to
a remote hangar far from Manila’s commercial terminals, where a
camouflaged army command car and armed Humvee were parked inside.

As the hangar door rolled closed, the cargo jet’s door opened, and its
stairway unfolded. The uniformed driver of the car jumped out, ran
around to the side of the car that faced the jet, and opened the rear
door.