Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (24 page)

Mcdermid nodded. “The frigate Crowe is already shadowing the Empress in
the Indian Ocean.”

“Excellent.”

“Any more news about military appropriations?”

Kott related the military appropriations meeting in the cabinet room in
greater detail. “As I said, Brose and Oda were the only ones willing to
give Secretary Stanton full support, and Oda’s unimportant. Everyone
else has a weapon in development they don’t want to lose. It was an edgy
meeting.”

“And the president?”

“He’s worried, and we know why, don’t we? It’s the Empress and a
potential blowup with China. If that happens, he’s got to have
everything activated, whether it’s in our arsenal or on the drawing
board. If we’ve got the weapons for a big war in a big area, that’ll
scare the crap out of the Chinese.” Kott sat back, smiling. “I’d say our
plan’s going smoothly, wouldn’t you?”

“But we still have to be careful. If the doves in Zhongnanhai have
gotten

wind something’s up, and if they compare notes with President Castilla,
we’re as good as dead. That real manifest can’t fall into anyone’s
hands.”

Kott was growing impatient. “So eliminate all the copies.”

“It’s not that easy. We’ve gotten rid of the one in Shanghai that Flying
Dragon had. But there’s still one in Basra. The Iraqis think no one can
penetrate their security, so they refuse to destroy it, because they
don’t trust us to deliver if they do. Anyway, they claim to be fully
confident the Empress will make it through. There was a third copy in
Hong Kong, but I’ve ordered it destroyed.”

“The Empress will never pass the Strait of Hormuz. So what’s really
worrying you?”

“Yu Yongfu–the Flying Dragon president. He was vain, ambitious,
unpredictable, nervous, and would never hold up under pressure. You know
the type. He had delusions of empire, but a backbone of jelly.”

“Had?” Kott asked.

“He’s dead. When he learned of this Jon Smith’s being in Shanghai, he
fell apart. We applied pressure. He committed suicide.”

“God dammit, Ralph!” Kott exploded. “That’s two more corpses! You can’t
keep a secret this way. Murder complicates everything!”

Mcdermid shrugged. “We had no choice. Now we’ve got no choice with Smith
either.” He grinned and held up his glass in a toast. “Let’s enjoy the
pleasures of the house. There’s time.”

“Damnation, Ralph, they could all be my daughter! Don’t you have any
civility in you at all?” Kott shuddered.

Mcdermid laughed loudly. “None the way you define it. I have a couple of
daughters around her age, too. I can only hope they’re enjoying
themselves as much as I plan to.”

Kott stood. “You haven’t seen your daughters in at least ten years. I
have an hour before I can call my driver. Put me in an office somewhere
with a phone. I’ll get some work done.”

Mcdermid touched the button on the side of the table, signaling the
waiter to return. He looked up at Kott, who had stood, eager to leave.

There was a wide smile of amusement on the Altman founder’s mouth, but
his eyes were cold. “Whatever your pleasure.”

Hong Kong.

Constructed of steel, glass, and slate, the building where Donk &
Lapierre had its offices was a towering showplace of modernity. Judging
by the exacting architectural details and the international renown of
its designer, whose name was engraved on black glass beside the front
doors, offices here were shockingly expensive and the address coveted.

Wearing his dark-blond wig again, Jon paused outside to check the
bustling street. He was back in his cover as Major Kenneth St. Germain.

Satisfied he had not been followed, he stepped inside the revolving
doors and was deposited into the foyer. He headed across the slate floor
toward the stainless-steel elevators. The building’s air had been
filtered so many times it smelled like a virus-free clean room. But
then, the whole place was antiseptic looking.

The thought of viruses brought him back to his cover’s latest project,
and he began to submerge his own personality into Ken’s. As a top
USAMRIID researcher, Ken St. Germain, Ph. D., had been galvanized by a
virus discovered recently in northern Zimbabwe. The still-unnamed virus
resembled the Machupo strain, which came from a distant continent–South
America. Ken was using field mice to study his theory that the new virus
was a form of Machupo, despite thousands of miles and an ocean
separating the occurrences.

By the time he left the elevator, reached the glass doors of Donk &
Lapierre, and pushed through, he was eager to ask for help with his
research from Charles-Marie Cruyff, managing director of Donk &
Lapierre’s Asian branch. Then, of course, there was his real motive …
.

“Major Kenneth St. Germain to see Mr. Cruyff,” he announced to the woman
behind the desk, who looked more like a cover model than a receptionist.

“We called ahead.”

“Of course, Major. Monsieur Cruyff is expecting you.” She had a megawatt
smile, perfect golden skin, and just a touch of makeup to enhance her
considerable natural assets.

The secretary, or assistant, who came to usher him into the inner
sanctum was an entirely different matter. Unsmiling, white-blond hair
coiled severely, clothes loose and frumpy … she was all Donk and no
Lapierre.

“You will please follow me, Major.” Her voice was a baritone, and her
English was Wagnerian. She led him over a Delft-blue carpet to an ebony
door. She knocked and opened it. “Major St. Germain from America,
Monsieur Cruyff,” she announced.

The man inspiring this deference proved to be short, broad, and
muscular, with the massive thighs of a professional bicyclist. He glided
forward from around his desk in his costly beige suit as if he could
bend his knees only marginally.

He smiled, holding out a small hand. “Ah, Dr. St. Germain, a pleasure,
sir,” he said. “You’re from USAMRIID, I hear. My people think highly of
your work.” Which meant he had checked on Ken St. Germain’s credentials,
no surprise.

They shook hands.

“I’m flattered, Monsieur Cruyff,” Jon told him.

“Please sit. Relax a moment.”

“Thank you.”

Jon chose an ultracontemporary sofa with chrome legs and removable
cushions. As he turned toward it, he slipped his pocketknife out of his
trousers and concealed it in his right hand. He settled onto the
cushions, his right hip next to where two met. He looked up. Cruyff had
returned to his desk. He had the sense Cruyff had never taken his gaze
from him. His hand tightened around his hidden pocketknife.

“I’m not a scientist, as you may know.” Cruyff lowered himself into his
chair. “I hope you won’t be offended if I tell you honestly I have
little free time today.” He gestured around his office, which was full
of the superficialities of business–photos with important people,
plaques from charities, awards from his company–and then at his desk,
where file folders were stacked high. “I’m behind in my work, but
perhaps there’s something I can do for you quickly.” He folded his hands
over his chest, leaned back, and waited, studying Jon.

Jon needed to plant the knife between the cushions, but until he could
get Cruyff to look away, it would be impossible. “Of course, monsieur. I
understand. I appreciate any time you can give me.” He described Major
St. Germain’s current research into the new virus. “But my progress at
USAMID has been slow,” he explained. “Far too slow. People are dying in
Zimbabwe. With the constant movement between countries and continents
these days, who knows where the virus will strike next? Perhaps even
here in Hong Kong.”

“Hmm. Yes. That could be catastrophic. We are a very dense city. But I
don’t see what I can do to help.” The gaze continued its relentless
focus.

Jon hunched forward, his expression deeply concerned. “Your
pharmaceutical subsidiary has been working with hantaviruses, and I–”

Cruyff interrupted, losing patience: “Biomed et Cie is located in
Belgium, Major. Thousands of miles away. Here in Hong Kong, at least in
this office, our dominant assignment is marketing. I’m afraid I have
little to offer you–”

It was Jon’s turn to interrupt: “I’m aware of that subsidiary. But Donk
& Lapierre also has a microbiological research team at a facility on
mainland China. Those are the scientists I’m referring to. As I
understand it, they’re making progress on hantaviruses that have
appeared near there. My studies of our new virus lead me to believe it
may be carried through mice droppings that dry into dust, become
airborne, and infect people, exactly as Machupo does in Bolivia and
elsewhere in South America. Of course, hantaviruses like the ones your
people are examining are transmitted in the same manner Machupo is. I’m
sure you’re familiar with those studies.” He smiled ingenuously at
Cruyff.

“Of course,” Cruyff agreed. By doing so, he appeared neither ignorant
nor as if he were hiding something. “What exactly do you wish to know?

Providing it isn’t confidential, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Jon echoed.

“Since Donk & Lapierre is a business, your scientists may have been
working on vaccines against the hantaviruses.

If they have, I may be able to figure out a new research path based on
what they’ve learned.”

“No vaccine, Dr. St. Germain. At least, not that I’ve heard. On the
other hand, they wouldn’t report the early stages of something like that
to corporate, or even the later stages, until they were sure there was
high potential for commercialization. Although it’s possible they’re
pursuing it on an entirely experimental basis, I doubt they’d be working
on vaccines for your particular class of viruses.”

“Really? Why is that?” Cruyff smiled indulgently. “Significant outbreaks
of hemorrhagic viruses occur only in poor countries. Research and
development are astronomically pricey, particularly these days. The
Third World simply doesn’t have the money to pay for the R and D, much
less the vaccines, now do they?”

“Perhaps not. Still–”

“So where would the return on investment be? What would happen to our
stock if we pursued such quixotic research and development? We have a
fiduciary responsibility to our shareholders.”

“Ah, I see. So vaccines are out.”

He allowed real disappointment to enter his voice. Then he brightened.

“Still, you have very good scientists there. They might be doing
something fresh and interesting with hantaviruses. I seldom have time to
fly to Asia, so I’m going to gamble that you won’t be irritated if I ask
to visit the facilities anyway. If you would be kind enough to give me
permission … after all, we scientists learn from each other, you know.
I might be able to contribute something to help them.” Cruyff’s brows
raised. “I suppose there’s no reason not to. You’ll have to secure the
proper entry and travel papers on your own, of course, but I’ll have my
assistant type up a letter of introduction and send it over to your
hotel. Just give her the details when you leave. Perhaps with that,
China will cooperate and approve your trip.”

“Thank you. Your letter will make all the difference.” The pocketknife
felt heavy in his hand.

The visit was coming to a close, and he still had not had an opportunity
to plant it. He fought tension and beamed and nodded toward the two ship
models on Cruyff’s desk. There were four more in glass cases on the
walls. He said, “I’ve been admiring your ships, monsieur. Beautiful. Did
you make them yourself? A hobby?” Cruyff laughed and waved his hand.

“Hardly. They’re the work of professionals, recreations of some of our
more successful ships. Donk & Lapierre is primarily a shipping company,
you see.” He continued to watch Jon. He had not even glanced at the
ships. “Do you work mostly with Chinese companies?” Jon asked
innocently. Cruyff was startled. “Chinese companies? No, of course not.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It just seemed logical, and I noticed how many of your
ship models have their names in Chinese lettering as well as roman.”

Cruyff gave a sudden, involuntary glance, not at his models, but toward
a safe in plain sight on the wall to the left of his desk. That
distraction was all Jon needed. With a frisson of relief, he flipped
open his fingers and used his thumb to jam the knife down between the
cushions. Cruyff quickly refocused on Jon. “No, not especially. All
ships registered in Hong Kong display their names in Chinese as well as
in our alphabet.”

“Of course,” Jon jumped to his feet. “Stupid of me.

Well, I won’t waste any more of your time. It was gracious of you to see
me, and even more to allow me to visit your biomed installation.”

“Think nothing of it, Doctor.” Smiling and nodding, Jon backed out and
closed the door. In the outer office, Jon stopped to give the unsmiling
Valkyrie the name of the Shangri-la Hotel and his room number. He headed
off, smiled at the gorgeous receptionist, and pushed out through the
glass doors. His pulse ratcheted up as a messenger approached. But the
messenger did not go into Donk & Lapierre. He passed on down the hall,
and as soon as the man was out of sight, Jon made a quick detour into
the men’s restroom. Locked in a stall, he pulled a tiny listening device
from an inner pocket and fitted it into his left ear. It was about the
size of a jelly bean, another remarkable invention from intelligence
R&D. He paused long enough to change his demeanor. Radiating agitation,
he hurried from the bathroom back into the offices of Donk & Lapierre,
rushed past the exotic receptionist as if his return had not only been
planned, but demanded, and–with a distracted wave–burst past the
startled Brunhilde. “Must have dropped my pocketknife,” he announced as
he slammed into Charles-Marie Cruyff’s office without breaking step.

Cruyff was leaning back in his desk chair and talking confidentially
into the phone. He gazed up, surprised, in midword. “What!” he demanded
of Jon.