Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (29 page)

David Thayer shook his head. “No, Captain Chiavelli. When that treaty is
signed by the general secretary and my son, I will have been
conveniently ” again. If my son pushes too hard and makes an issue at
this late date, no one will ever find me. Instead, a hundred old men
will appear and claim to have witnessed my death a half century ago.

There’ll be assorted proofs. Probably pictures of my grave that is now,
alas, deep underwater behind some new dam.” He shrugged, resigned.

Chiavelli studied him. The Covert-One agent was a former special forces
captain who had operated in Somalia and the Sudan. Recently, he was
called back into action in the valleys, caves, and mountains of eastern
and northern Afghanistan. Now his new assignment was David Thayer. His
first question was whether Thayer could be extracted.

He had surveyed the immediate area and found it encouraging. It was
sufficiently rural and remote, if not sparsely populated–nowhere in
China, except for Xinjiang, Gansu, and the Mongolias, was sparsely
populated. Outside Chongqing, the roads were bad, military installations
scattered, and airfields primitive. Fortunately for his assignment,
outside Dazu, they were largely nonexistent.

The camp guards were well armed, but they lacked sharp discipline. Their
resistance to a swift, heavily armed, and well-planned raid would likely
be minimal. With some help from inside, which he planned to provide, and
a certain amount of good luck … experienced raiders could be in and
out within ten minutes, back in the air within twenty, and more than
halfway to the border and safety before significant military force could
be assembled.

The big question now was Thayer’s stamina. So far, Chiavelli liked what
he saw. Despite his age, he seemed in decent condition.

“How’s your general health, Dr. Thayer?”

“As good as could be expected. The usual aches, pains, discomforts, and
annoyances. I’m not going to leap tall buildings or climb Mount Everest,
but they keep us in shape here. After all, there are fields to be
plowed.”

“Calisthenics, jogging, walking, working out?”

“Morning and evening calisthenics and jogging, when the weather’s good.

Minimal calisthenics in the barracks, when it isn’t. The governor likes
to keep everyone busy when we’re not working. I do clerical work, of
course. He doesn’t want us to sit around and plot or get into arguments.

Inactivity leads to thinking and restlessness–a dangerous combination
in a prisoner.” Thayer hesitated. He sat up straighter. His faded eyes
narrowed as he turned to stare at Chiavelli. “You’re thinking about
getting me out of here somehow?”

“There are considerations. Constraints. Not just your health, but what
my boss thinks and what the president can and can’t do. You understand?”

“Yes. That was my life. Politics. Interests. Diplomacy. Those forces are
always at work, aren’t they? The same ” that made State keep me
ignorant about what we were really doing back in ‘-eight.

That and my naivete got me into this mess.”

“The Chinese won’t keep you here much longer, if I have my way. And I
think I will.”

David Thayer nodded and stood. “I have to go to work. They’ll leave you
alone for now. Tomorrow, you’ll go to the fields.”

“So my friendly guards tell me.”

“What’s your next move?”

“I make my report.”

Hong Kong.

In a pricey boutique in the Conrad International Hotel, Jon
bought a white Stetson hat, using the credit card for one of his
covers–Mr. Ross Sidor from Tucson, Arizona. He put on the hat, checked
into the hotel, and overtipped the bellman so he would remember Mr. Ross
Sidor. As soon as Jon was alone in his room, he went to work: He changed
into the gray slacks and neon-bright Hawaiian shirt from his backpack.
Over the shirt and slacks, he put on the suit he had worn yesterday to
Donk & Lapierre.

It was tight but manageable. Finally, he added the blond wig again and
shoved his Beretta into his belt at the small of his back. Ready to go,
he packed the blue seersucker sport jacket, canvas running shoes, folded
Panama hat, and backpack into his black attache case. He picked it up
and left the room. He saw no one suspicious in the lobby. Outside on
Queensway, he walked deeper into Central, carried along by the mob of
pedestrians that seemed to live their entire lives on the streets of the
city. He had gone a block when he spotted three of the armed men who had
searched for him around the public phone in Kowloon yesterday. As soon
as they saw him, they spread out through the traffic and pedestrians.

They made no attempt to close in; he made no effort to lose them. He
also did not try to disguise his destination. If they recognized him as
Major Kenneth St. Germain, they might be surprised and, he hoped,
confused to see him return to the high-rise that housed Donk & Lapierre.

When he spotted the building, he shoved through the crowds to the
entrance. As he went inside, his three tails took up posts across the
street, one talking urgently into a cell phone. Jon smiled to himself.

Altman Asia occupied the top ten floors of the building. The head of
Altman Asia was Ferdinand Aguinaldo, the former president of the
Philippines. His office was even higher–the penthouse. Jon took the
elevator up. The waiting area was decorated with green bamboo, tall
carved tables, and high-backed chairs and sofas. The Filipina
receptionist smiled politely. “May I help you?”

“Dr. Kenneth St. Germain. I’d like to see Mr. Aguinaldo.”

“His excellency is not in Hong Kong at this time, sir. May I inquire why
you want to see him?”

“I’m here on behalf of the surgeon general of the United States to
consult with Donk & Lapierre’s biomedical subsidiary on mainland China
and its research into hantaviruses.” He showed his USAMRIID credentials
and flashed a fake letter from the surgeon general’s office. “Mr. Cruyff
downstairs sent me up to talk to Mr. Aguinaldo.”

The receptionist’s eyebrows raised, impressed. She studied the surgeon
general’s signature and looked up. “I’m sorry that Mr. Aguinaldo isn’t
here to receive you, sir. Perhaps Mr. Mcdermid can help. He’s chairman
and CEO of the Altman Group worldwide. He’s a very important man.

Perhaps you could speak with him?” “Mcdermid is here?” Jon said, as if
he knew the CEO and chairman personally.

“On his annual visit,” she said proudly.

“Mcdermid will do. Yes, I’ll see him.” The woman smiled again and opened
her interoffice line.

Lawrence Wood stepped inside the elegant penthouse office of Ferdinand
Aguinaldo, head of Altman Asia.

“What is it, Lawrence?” Behind the big desk, Ralph Mcdermid stretched
and yawned.

“The receptionist says a Dr. Kenneth St. Germain has arrived with a
letter from the U.S. Surgeon General. He wants to see Aguinaldo. He says
Cruyff down at Donk & Lapierre sent him up, and she wonders if you’d
care to meet the man, since he has such good credentials.” Mcdermid
said, “Tell her I’ll be free in fifteen minutes.”

Wood hesitated. “Cruyff couldn’t have sent him.”

“I know. Just give her the message. On the other hand, I’ll do it
myself.”

“As you wish.” Wood frowned and returned to his outer office.

Mcdermid touched his intercom button. He was feeling more cheerful. With
the strange arrival of Jon Smith, things were looking up. “I’d be
delighted to see Dr. St. Germain,” he told the receptionist. “Ask him to
give me fifteen minutes, and then I’ll be down.” As she gave her usual
pert reply, he severed the connection and dialed his man, Feng Dun.

“Where are you, Feng?”

“Outside.” Again Feng cursed Cho, the assassin chosen for the night. He
had failed to eliminate Smith, and his corpse had not been discovered in
time to send a replacement. “My men saw him go in. Did he return to Donk
& Lapierre?”

“No. He’s up here in the penthouse lobby. He wants to see me.”

“You?” A moment of shock. “How does he know you’re even in Hong Kong?”

“One wonders. I’m fascinated. I think we’re lucky he survived your
killers. I want to learn more about this unusual doctor’s sources.”

Beijing.

To Major Pan Aitu, the small office of Niu Jianxing–the legendary Owl–
was intriguing. As ascetic as a monk’s cell, it had unadorned walls,
shuttered windows, a worn wood floor with no rug, a simple student desk
and chair for the master himself, and two wood chairs for visitors. At
the same time, the desk and the floor were clogged with haphazard piles
of files and documents, ashtrays stinking with masses of half-inch butts
of the English cigarettes that were Niu’s one indulgence, stained tea
mugs, food-encrusted paper plates, and other detritus that indicated his
days were long and intense. It was a contradiction that mirrored the man
himself.

As a longtime intelligence agent, Major Pan was an astute reader of the
intricate maze of individual psychologies, and so he enjoyed himself
while Master Niu continued to read the report he had been bent over when
Pan arrived. The only sound was of Niu’s turning over sheets of paper.

Major Pan decided the office displayed the serenity of the solitary
thinker, as well as the cluttered turmoil of the man of action, fused
together in the same person. Yes, the Owl was a throwback to those
giants who had founded and led the revolution. Poets and teachers who
became generals. Thinkers who were forced by the necessity of history to
brawl and kill. Pan had known only one of those revered ones–Deng
Xiaoping himself, in his extreme old age. Deng had been but a young
general back in the idealistic years between the Shanghai Massacre and
the Long March. Major Pan did not like many people. He found it a waste
of time. But there was something about Niu Jianxing that appealed to
him. Niu, true to form, broke the silence without looking up, a hint of
rush in his voice.

“General Chu tells me you have a report he would have you give me
directly.”

“Yes, sir. We thought it best, considering your request for information
on the cargo ship.”

“The Dowager Empress, yes.” Niu nodded down toward his paperwork. “You
have what I want?”

“I may have some of it,” Pan said, cautiously. He had learned to use
extreme care when making claims or promises to leaders of the
government, especially to those on the Standing Committee. Niu Jianxing
looked up sharply. His decidedly unsleepy eyes were hard points of coal
behind his tortoiseshell glasses. His sunken cheeks and delicate
features showed displeasure. “You don’t know whether you have it,
Major?” The intelligence agent felt a moment of emptiness. Then-. “I
know, Master Niu.” The Owl sat back. He studied the small, pudgy Major
Pan, his little hands, his appeasing voice, his benevolent smile. As
usual, Pan was dressed in a conservative Western suit. He was the
perfect operative–slippery, anonymous, clever, and dedicated. Still,
for all that, Pan was also a product of the Cultural Revolution,
Tiananmen Square, and a too-rigid system that left little room for the
individual.

Plus, there was the five-thousand-year history of China that valued the
individual even less. If Niu continued to push for a yes-or-no answer,
the spycatcher would say no rather than give a positive statement that
could be construed as a declaration of success. If he were to know
everything Major Pan had learned about the Empress before the Standing
Committee met later today, he would have to let him tell it his own way.

Niu repressed a sigh of frustration. “Make your report, Major.”

“Thank you, master.” Pan explained who Avery Mondragon was and described
his disappearance the day before Jon Smith arrived in Shanghai. “You
believe this Mondragon is, or was, an American intelligence agent?”

Pan nodded. “I do, but not an ordinary one. There’s something unusual
about the Americans involved in this case. They act like undercover
spies, yet they’re not spies. Or at least not affiliated with any of the
intelligence agencies we know of in the United States.”

“That would apply to Colonel Smith–the doctor and scientist–also?”

“I believe so. His scientific work isn’t a cover. He really is a medical
doctor and scientist. At the same time, he appears to be using his
specialty as a cover.”

“Interesting. Are these American operatives private? Perhaps working for
a business or an individual?”

“It’s possible. I will continue to seek an answer.”

Niu nodded. “It may be of little practical significance. We shall see.

Go on, Major.”

Pan warmed to his report. “A cleaning woman discovered the body of a man
named Zhao Yanji in the office of the president of Flying Dragon
Enterprises in downtown Shanghai. Flying Dragon is an international
shipping company with connections in Hong Kong and Antwerp.”

“Who was Zhao?”

“Flying Dragon’s treasurer. Not only is he dead, the company president
is missing, as is his wife. The president’s name is Yu Yongfu. His wife
is Li Kuonyi.”

“The beautiful actress?”

“Yes, sir.” The major related the rapid rise of her husband into wealth
and power with the apparent help of her father, the influential Li
Aorong.

The Owl did not know Li Aorong personally but by reputation. “Yes, of
course. Li is high up in Shanghai’s municipal government.” What he did
not say was that Li was also the protege of Wei Gaofan, one of his
hardline colleagues on the Standing Committee. All things considered,
Wei was the most powerful of all the hard-liners, and Li Aorong’s
politics were identical to Wei’s.

“Yes,” Pan acknowledged. “We spoke with Li. He has no explanation for
the murder of Zhao or the disappearances of his daughter and her
husband. But–” Pan moved forward, perching on the edge of the straight
chair, as he explained about An (”Andy”) Jingshe, the young interpreter
who had studied in the United States and who was seen in Colonel Smith’s
company. Later, Andy was found shot to death in his car. “That is, so
far, what we know.”