Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (26 page)

Hiding a smile, the president leaned back and said pleasantly, “As for
why you’re here, Ambassador Wu, I haven’t a clue. Why don’t you fill me
in?”

Wu’s eyes and smile narrowed. “One of our cargo ships on the high seas
reports that your frigate, the USS John Crowe, has been keeping it under
surveillance.” Charles Ouray said, “Are they sure the frigate isn’t
simply on the same course, Mr. Ambassador?”

Wu’s gaze grew icy. He turned it onto Ouray. “Since your warship is far
faster than a simple cargo ship but has maintained its current position
behind it many hours, the conclusion can be only that the Crowe is
shadowing the Empress.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s the only conclusion,” the president said evenly.

“May I ask exactly where this ship of yours is?”

“The Indian Ocean.” He glanced at the clock. “Or possibly the Arabian
Sea by now.”

“Ah. And its destination is–?”

“With all due respect, Mr. President … that’s hardly relevant. The
ship is on the high seas where the right of passage to any port belongs
to every sovereign nation in the world.”

“Now, Mr. Ambassador, we both know that’s hogwash. Nations protect their
interests. Yours does. Mine does.”

“And what interest is the United States protecting by harassing an
unarmed commercial vessel in international waters, sir?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Ambassador Wu. Since I
haven’t been informed about the Crowe, I have no details, not even that
your freighter is anywhere near our frigate. But I assume that if you’re
correct, the situation’s the result of some well-known, routine
operation by our navy.”

“America routinely shadows Chinese ships?”

The president exploded, “That’s horseshit, and you damn well know it!

Whatever the reason for this alleged shadowing is, I’ll find out. Is
that all, Mr. Ambassador?”

Wu Bangtiao did not blink. He stood. “Yes, Mr. President. Except that my
government has instructed me to inform you that we will protect our
right of free passage anywhere and everywhere on the high seas.

Including against interference or attack by the United States.”

The president stood even more quickly. “Tell your government that if
your freighter is violating international laws, regulations, or accepted
limitations, we reserve the right to intervene to stop such a
violation.”

“I will present your view to my government.” Wu inclined his head to
Castilla, nodded to Ouray, turned gracefully, and stalked out of the
Oval Office.

The president studied the door that had closed behind Wu Bangtiao
without really seeing it. Charlie Ouray was doing the same thing.

Finally, the president decided, “They don’t know what the Empress is
carrying.”

“No. But does that change anything?”

“Normally, I’d say no.” Castilla rubbed his jaw. “Only there was more
restraint there than I would’ve expected. You agree?”

Ouray clasped his hands between his legs and leaned forward, frowning.

“I’m not sure. That last sounded a lot like the standard warning, the
same posturing as usual.”

“Pro forma. To be expected. But Wu’s a consummate master of the nuance,
and I had the impression his delivery this time suggested that the
warning was, indeed, pro forma. In fact, he intended it as a hint that
he was posturing.”

“Maybe so. But he knows we were lying about the Crowe.”

“Of course he does, but there again he let me get away with it. Didn’t
challenge me, and didn’t deliver the formal warning until I’d dismissed
him, which forced him to make it or get the hell out with empty hands.”

“He didn’t come in firing all guns either, that’s for sure. But he was
definitely wearing the Mao armor.”

“His presentation was ambiguous,” the president decided. “Yes, that was
the message. Beijing, or at least a majority of the Standing Committee,
is in the dark. Still, they can’t let China be pushed around with the
world watching, no matter what the circumstances. On the other hand, I
read it that they’re not looking for a confrontation. They won’t make
the situation public, at least not yet. They’re giving us a little
leeway and some time.”

“Yeah, but how much?”

“With luck, at least until the Empress gets so close to Basra that we
have to make a move.” The president shook his head unhappily. “Or until
the whole thing is leaked, blows up, or falls apart.”

“Then we’d damn well better keep it under wraps.”

“And get our proof.” “Yeah,” Ouray said. “But I have a suggestion.”

“What?”

Ouray remained hunched forward as if he had a sharp pain somewhere in
his gut. His aging face seemed brittle. “After listening to you and Wu,
I understand even more why this demands tight secrecy. Nevertheless,
it’s time to bring in Defense Secretary Stanton, Secretary of State
Padgett, and Vice President Erikson, because the Chinese government’s on
to us. That means Stanton and Padgett need to be prepared. And if–God
forbid–anything were to happen to you, the vice president will have to
deal with this situation. We’d have to bring him up to speed instantly.

There might not be time.”

Castilla considered. “What about the joint chiefs?”

“For now, it’s probably enough that Brose knows. The others could get
trigger-happy and complicate things.”

“Okay, Charlie. I agree. Set up a meeting. Include Brose.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Alone, the president swiveled to the high windows behind his desk. For a
few seconds, he saw a little boy in his mind, and he smiled. The boy was
like he had been, oversized for his age and with messy straw-blond hair.

He was raising his arms up eagerly to a man. The man bent low to pick
him up, but the man’s face was hazy, out of focus. The child could not
see the face, could not see his father.

Hong Kong.

Outside Donk & Lapierre’s building, Jon dodged through the
crowds and traffic and crossed Stanley Street to a Dairy Farm ice cream
parlor.

Blaring horns and Chinese curses punctuated the air. He ordered a cup of
coffee and watched the entrance to the showcase building. When no
uniformed guards or civilians came rushing out as if looking for
someone, he finished his coffee and hailed a taxi to take him to his
hotel.

Still vigilant, he watched all around as the cab wove through the
congestion, turned into the tunnel that dove under the harbor to
Kowloon, and at last pulled up to the Shangri-la. Once in his room, he
dropped onto his bed and used his scrambled cell phone to report to Fred
Klein. As usual, Klein was at his desk in the Anacostia marina.

“Do you ever go home, Fred?” Jon pictured the dim office, the shutters
and drapes closed, turning day into perpetual night.

Klein ignored the question. “You got there safely, I take it.”

“So far, yes.” He hesitated, a sour taste in his mouth. “But I’ve made a
mistake.”

“How bad?” “Hard to say.” He explained the phone call to Donk &
Lapierre.

“Obviously, Jan Donk doesn’t exist, or the phone number was unlisted, or
both. Maybe it was a special number for Yu Yongfu that only he’d know,
and it didn’t sound like a Chinese entrepreneur.”

“It could be a number specifically for the Empress deal.”

“Whatever, Donk & Lapierre knows someone unauthorized has the number
now, is in Hong Kong, and could be interested in the Empress. They were
worried enough to send armed thugs to the phone booth. Which brings me
to the next problem.”

“I can’t wait.” Klein’s voice was tired, irritable. “You’re sure you’re
up to this assignment, Colonel?”

“Anytime you want to bring me home, be my guest,” Jon growled.

There was a surprised silence. “All right, Jon. Sorry. Merely trying to
lighten the situation, which is grim enough back here.”

“Trouble on your end?”

“The Chinese have spotted our surveilling frigate. Their ambassador is
making waves, if you’ll pardon the nautical metaphor.”

“Is it out of control?”

“The president thinks not yet. They appear interested only in dancing so
far. We both know that won’t last. Give me some good news before you
depress me even more with the next problem. Did you get anything from
your appointment with Donk & Lapierre?”

“Three things. Managing director Cruyff has something in his safe he’s
worried about, and he’s antsy about being questioned over connections to
Chinese companies.”

“That’s two.”

“Three is the big one. Someone a lot higher is involved–someone Cruyff
reports to, who knows I was in Shanghai and what I look like.” He
described the meeting and his trip back into the office to eavesdrop.

“It should be simple enough to identify Cruyff’s boss in Antwerp.”

“Since Cruyff spoke English to him–not French or Flemish–I don’t think
he was reporting to Antwerp. No, whoever the boss is, he’s here in Hong
Kong. My blond wig left Cruyff and him with just enough doubt to move
slowly, but sooner or later, they’ll send people here to the hotel. I
need information about the man on top, so I can gauge what to do.”

“In these days of international corporate conglomerates and holding
companies, we can’t rule out that his Belgium bosses aren’t English or
American. But all right, I’ll get right on it. What will you do now?”

“Food. Something decent for a change. And sleep. A whole night’s sleep
would be a novelty.”

“I’m not sleeping, and neither is the president.”

“It’s morning there.”

“A mere technicality. Take your cell with you, and sleep with it and
your pistol under your pillow. I’ll get back to you, Colonel. Sweet
dreams.”

Aloft, En Route to Hong Kong Ralph Mcdermid considered the company’s top
jet–a retrofitted 757 with a gourmet kitchen, cherry-paneled conference
room, and sleeping suite–to be his personal transport. In fact, its
free use was written into his forty-page employment contract, which, of
course, included the usual stock options, monetary incentives, golden
severance package, insurance, and use of company cars, cleaning
services, club memberships, and houses and apartments around the globe.

He was sitting back, his feet up, lulled toward sleep by the jet’s
purring engines, when his phone rang. It was Feng Dun.

Mcdermid was instantly awake. “Where the devil have you been?” he
demanded. “I’ve tried three times to reach you!”

Feng’s voice turned cold. “I’ve been looking and making calls, Taipan.”

Mcdermid was never quite certain whether Feng’s use of the old honorific
was insulting. He suspected so. In the 1800s, the Chinese had used
taipan to describe European and American freebooters who took fortunes
out of Hong Kong and China and gave little back.

But Mcdermid needed Feng, so he said only, “What have you learned?”

“Li Kuonyi has disappeared. She was at her father’s house, now she’s
gone. No one knows where. Not her staff, and, of course, no one at
Flying Dragon.”

That worried Mcdermid. Now that Yu Yongfu had killed himself, his wife
might turn into a loose cannon. It would depend on her level of grief
and her concern about their children.

Mcdermid asked, “Her father doesn’t know where she is?” “So he says. Her
children are with him. I’ll watch them closely.”

“No. Assign your best people instead. I’ve got something else I want you
to handle personally.”

“And that is … ?”

“Jon Smith. He may be in Hong Kong.”

In the distance, Feng clicked his teeth, interested. “This man is like
the snake at midnight. He keeps appearing where least expected. You
didn’t warn me he had such talent.”

Mcdermid bit off a retort. “I suspect he’s looking for the third copy of
the invoice manifest. I know the cover he’s using and where he’s
staying. How long will it take you to get to Hong Kong and kill him?”

reared back like a wild animal in terror. In a convulsion of retreat,
the whole body attached to the wrist pulled madly back from Jon’s grip.

Jon tightened his hand and jerked the wrist toward him to shake the
dagger free.

But the dagger did not drop. The hand would not release it. Jon hurled
himself up, and the rearing shadow fell to the rear, dragging Jon with
him, twisting to be free. His momentum fully backward, the man toppled
to the floor.

Jon landed on top with his full weight. Abruptly, the man stopped
moving. Panting, naked except for his shorts, Jon suddenly felt the
chill of the dark room. He heard the muted noises of distant traffic.

His attacker did not move.

Jon kept his grip on the killer’s wrist but reached over with his other
hand to take the knife. There was no knife. Quickly he felt the carpet
around the wrist. No knife there either. But he felt something hot and
liquid on his bare chest. There was a faint, metallic stench of fresh
blood. Instantly he felt for a pulse in the wrist. There was none.

He jumped up, switched on the light, and drew a sharp breath. The hilt
of the dagger protruded from the side of the man’s chest, where it must
have been jammed as the man twisted when they fell. A small amount of
blood seeped into his black shirt.

Jon took a deep breath. And walked toward the phone on the bed table ..

. and stopped. There was no way he could call the Hong Kong police.

Questions would be asked.

He returned to the corpse and saw that the blood had not yet oozed to
the carpet. He lifted the thin body in his arms. It was light as a
baby’s. He carried it to the bathroom, laid it in the tub, and stood
back, considering.

The harsh buzz of his cell phone made him whirl. He hurried from the
bathroom and pulled the phone out from his bedcovers.

“Fred? I–” he began.

Fred Klein interrupted, his voice bristling with news: “I have two
possible candidates for your mystery man–the one who appears to be more
important to Donk & Lapierre than Charles-Marie Cruyff. One is a routine
guess, the other quite a different pot of fish.”