Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (3 page)

That’s our time frame to figure out this mess.”

“Thanks, Stevens. I’ll pass it on.” The admiral stood. “One of our
frigates would be best for what you want. Enough muscle, but not
overkill. Small enough that there’s a chance she’ll be overlooked for a
time, if the radar man’s asleep or lazy.”

“How soon can you get one there?” Brose picked up the phone once more.
This time, his conversation was even briefer. He hung up. “Ten hours,
sir.”

“Do it.”

Liuchiu Island, Taiwan By the green glow of his combat watch, agent Jon
Smith read the dial once more–2203–and silently swore. Mondragon was
late. Crouched low in front of the razor-sharp coral formation that
edged the secluded cove, he listened, but the only sound was the soft
surge of the South China Sea as it washed up onto the dark sand and slid
back with an audible hiss. The wind was a bare whisper. The air smelled
of salt water and fish. Down the coast, boats were harbored, motionless,
glowing in the moonlight. The day tourists had left on the last ferry
from Penfu. In other small coves up and down the western coast of the
tiny island, a few people camped, but in this cove there was only the
wash of the sea and the distant glow of Kaohsiung’s lights, some twenty
kilometers to the northeast. Smith checked his watch again–2206. Where
was Mondragon? The fishing boat from Linyuan had landed him in Penfu
harbor two hours ago. There he had hired a motorcycle and driven off on
the road that encircled the island. When he found the landmark described
in his directions, he hid the cycle in bushes and made his way here on
foot. Now it was already 2210, and he waited restlessly, uneasily.

Something had gone wrong. He was about to leave his cover to make a
cautious search when he felt the coarse sand move. He heard nothing, but
the skin on his neck crawled. He gripped his 9mm Beretta, tensed to turn
and dive sideways to the sand and rocks, when a sharp, urgent whisper of
hot breath seared his ear: “Don’t move!” Smith froze. “Not a finger.”

The low voice was inches from his ear. “Orchid.”

“Mondragon?”

“It’s not the ghost of Chairman Mao,” the voice responded wryly.
“Although he may be lurking here somewhere.”

“You were followed?”

“Think so. Not sure. If I was, I shook them.” The sand moved again, and
Avery Mondragon materialized, crouching beside Smith. He was short,
dark-haired, and lean, like an oversized jockey. Hard-faced and hungry
looking, too, with a predator’s eyes. His gaze flitted
everywhere–around the shadows of the cove, at the phosphorescent surge
of the sea on the beach, and out toward the grotesque shapes of coral
jutting like statues from the dusky sea beyond the surf. Mondragon said,
“Let’s get this over. If I’m not in Penfu by 2330, I don’t make it back
to the mainland by morning. If I don’t make it back, my cover’s blown.”

He turned his gaze onto Smith. “So you’re Lieutenant Colonel Smith, are
you? I’ve heard rumors. You’re supposed to be good. I hope half the
rumors are true. What I’ve got for you is damn near radioactive.” He
produced a plain, business-size envelope and held it up. “That’s the
goods?” Smith asked. Mondragon nodded and tucked it back inside his
jacket. “There’s some background you need to tell Klein.”

“Let’s get on with it then.”

“Inside the envelope’s what The Dowager Empress is really carrying. On
the other hand, the so-called official manifest–the one filed with the
export board–is smoke and mirrors.”

“How do you know?”

“Because this one’s got an invoice stamped with the ”–the personal
Chinese character seal–of the CEO, as well as the official company
seal, and it’s addressed to a company in Baghdad for payment. This
manifest also indicates three copies were made. The second copy is
certainly in Baghdad or Basra since it’s an invoice for the goods to be
paid for. I don’t know where the third copy is.”

“How can you be sure you don’t have the copy filed with the export
board?”

“Because I’ve seen it, as I said. The contraband isn’t listed on it. The
CEO’s seal is missing.” Smith frowned. “Still, that doesn’t sound as if
what you’ve got there is guaranteed.”

“Nothing’s guaranteed. Anything can be faked–character seals can be
counterfeited, and companies in Baghdad can be dummies. But this is an
invoice manifest and has all the correct signs of an interoffice and
intercompany document sent to the receiving company for payment. It’s
enough to justify President Castilla’s ordering the Empress stopped on
the high seas and our boys taking an intimate look, if we have to.

Besides, it’s a lot more ‘ cause’ than the rumors we had with the Yinhe,
and if it is fake, it proves there’s a conspiracy inside China to stir
up trouble. No one can blame us, not even Beijing, for taking
precautions.” Smith nodded. “I’m convinced. Give it to–”

“There’s something else.” Mondragon glanced around at the shadows of the
tiny cove. “One of my assets in Shanghai told me a story you’d better
pass on to Klein. It’s not in the paperwork, for obvious reasons. He
says there’s an old man being held in a low-security prison farm near
Chongqing –that’s Chiang Kaishek’s old World War Two capital,
“Chungking’ to Americans. He claims he’s been jailed in one place or
another in China since 1949, when the Communists beat Chiang and took
over the country. My asset says the guy speaks Mandarin and other
dialects, but he sure as hell doesn’t look Chinese. The old man insists
he’s an American named David Thayer.” He paused and stared, his
expression unreadable. “And, hold on to your hat … he claims he’s
President Castilla’s real father.” Smith stared. “You can’t be serious.

Everyone knows the president’s father was Serge Castilla, and he’s dead.

The press covers that family like a blanket.”

“Exactly. That’s what caught my interest.” Mondragon related more
details. “My asset says he used the exact phrase, ‘ Castilla’s real
father.’ If the guy’s a fraud, why make up a yarn so easily disproved?”
It was a good question. “How reliable is your asset?”

“He’s never steered me wrong or fed me disinformation that I’ve caught,”

“Could it be one of Beijing’s tricks? Maybe a way to make the president
back off about the human-rights accord?”

“The old prisoner insists Beijing doesn’t even know he’s got a son, much
less that the son’s now the U.S. president.”

Smith’s mind raced as he calculated ages and years. It was numerically
possible. “Exactly where is this old man being–”

“Down!” Mondragon dropped flat to the sand. Heart racing, Smith dove
behind a coral outcrop as shouts in angry Chinese and a fusillade of
automatic fire hammered from their right, close to the sea. Mondragon
rolled behind the outcropping and came up in a crouch beside Smith, his
9mm Glock joining Smith’s Beretta, aiming into the dark of the cove,
searching for the enemy. “Well,” Mondragon said gloomily, “I guess I
didn’t shake them.”

Smith wasted no time on recriminations. “Where are they? You see
anything?”

“Not a damn thing.” Smith pulled night-vision goggles from inside his
windbreaker. Through them, the night turned pale green, and the murky
coral formations out in the sea grew clear. So did a short, skinny man
naked to the waist, hovering near one of the statuelike pillars. He was
knee-deep in water, holding an old AK-74 and staring toward where Smith
and Mondragon hunched. “I’ve got one,” he said softly to Mondragon.
“Move. Show a shoulder. Look like you’re coming out.”

Mondragon rose, bent. He thrust his left shoulder out as if about to
make a run for it. The skinny man behind the pillar opened fire. Smith
squeezed off two careful rounds. In the green light, the man jerked
upright and pitched onto his face. A dark stain spread around him as he
floated facedown in the sea. Mondragon was already back down. He fired.

Someone, somewhere in the night, screamed. “Over there!” Mondragon
barked. “To the right! There’s more!” Smith swung the Beretta right.

Four green men had broken cover and dashed away from the sea toward the
inland road. A fifth lay sprawled on the beach behind them. Smith fired
at the lead man of this outflanking group. He saw him clutch his leg and
go down, but the two behind him grabbed him by each arm and dragged him
onward into cover. “They’re flanking us!” Sweat broke on Smith’s
forehead. “Move back!” He and Mondragon leaped up and pounded across the
coral sand toward the ridge that sealed the cove in the south. Another
fusillade behind them said a lot more than three of their attackers were
still standing. With a jolt of adrenaline, Smith felt a bullet sear
through his windbreaker. He scrambled up the ridge into thick bushes and
fell behind a tree. Mondragon followed, but he was dragging his right
leg. He flopped behind another tree. A fresh fusillade ripped through
leaves and small branches, spraying the air and making Smith and
Mondragon choke with the dust. They kept their heads down. Mondragon
pulled a knife from a holster on his back, slit his trousers, and
examined his leg wound. “How bad is it?” Smith whispered. “Don’t think
the bullet hit anything serious, but it’s going to be hard to explain
back on the mainland. I’ll have to hide out ‘ vacation,’ or fake an
accident.” His smile was pained. “Right now, we’ve got more to worry
about. That small group’s on our flank by now, probably up on the road,
and the gang in the cove is going to drive us to them. We’ve got to keep
moving south.” Agreeing, Smith crawled ahead through the brush, forged
hard and tough under the sea-bent trees by the constant wind and spray
of the South China Sea. They made slow progress, Smith clearing a path
for Mondragon. They used only their feet, knees, and elbows, as they
cradled their pistols. The bushes gave reluctantly, the branches tearing
at their clothes and hair. Smaller twigs broke and scratched their
faces, drawing blood from forearms and ears. At last they reached the
high bank above another less-sheltered angle in the island’s coastline.
It was far too open to the sea to be called a cove.

As they crawled eagerly on toward the road, voices carried in the
windless night from there. Behind them, four silent shadows materialized
ashore, while two remained ankle deep in the sea. One of the shadows,
larger than the rest, motioned the others to spread out. Bathed in
gentle moonlight, they broke apart and emerged as four men dressed
completely in black, their heads covered by hoods. The man who had
ordered them to fan out bent over. Smith heard a whispery version of a
deep, harsh voice give instructions over what was probably a handheld
radio. “Chinese,” Mondragon analyzed quietly, listening. His tones were
tight. He was in pain. “Can’t make out all of the words, but it sounds
like the Shanghai dialect of Mandarin. Which means they probably did
follow me from Shanghai. He’s their leader.”

“You think someone tipped them?”

“Possibly. Or I could’ve made a mistake. Or I could’ve been under
surveillance for days. Weeks. No way to know. Whatever, they’re here,
and they’re closing in.” Smith studied Mondragon, who seemed to be as
tough as the ocean-forged brush. He was in pain, but he would not let it
stop him.

“We could play the odds,” Smith told him. “Head on for the road. Are you
up for that? Otherwise, we’ll make a stand here.”

“Are you crazy?

They’ll massacre us here.” They crawled deeper into the brush and trees,
away from the sea. They had gone a slow twenty more feet, when footsteps
approached from the rear, grinding through the undergrowth.

Simultaneously, they saw the shadows of the inland group pushing toward
them and the sea. Their pursuers had guessed what they would do and were
closing in from front and back. Smith swore. “They’ve heard us, or found
our trail. Keep moving. When the ones from the road get close, I’ll rush
them.”

“Maybe not,” Mondragon whispered back, hope in his voice.

“There’s a rock formation over there to the left that looks like good
cover. We can hide in there until they pass. If not, we might be able to
hold out until someone hears the shooting and shows up.”

“It’s worth a try,” Smith agreed. The rock formation rose out of the
brush in the moonlight like an ancient ruin in the jungles of Cambodia
or the Yucatan. Composed of odd-shaped coral groupings, it made a crude
kind of fort, with cover on all sides and openings to fire through, if
that was what they had to do in the end. It also contained a depression
in the center, where they could sink low, nearly out of sight. With
relief, they hunkered in the basin, their weapons ready, as they
listened to the sounds of the island in the silvery moonlight. Smith’s
scratches and small puncture wounds stung with sweat. Mondragon eased
his leg around, trying to find a position that was less painful. Their
tension was electric as they waited, watching, listening … Kaohsiung’s
lights glowed against the sky. Somewhere a dog barked, and another took
it up.

A car passed on the distant road. Out on the sea, the noise of the motor
of a late-returning boat growled. Then they heard voices, again
murmuring in the Shanghai dialect. The voices came closer. Closer. Feet
crackled against the tough brush. Shadows passed, broken up by the
brush. Someone stopped. Mondragon raised his Glock . Smith grabbed his
wrist to stop him. Me shook his head–don’t. The shadow was a large man.

He had removed his hood, and his face was colorless, almost bleached
looking, under a shock of oddly pale red hair. His eyes reflected like
mirrors as they searched the coral formation for any shape or movement.
Smith and Mondragon held their breaths in the depression inside the
rocks.

For a long moment, the man continued his slow surveillance.

Smith felt the sweat trickling down his back and chest.

The man turned and moved away toward the road.

“Whewwww,” Mondragon let out a soft breath. “That was–”

The night exploded around them. Bullets slammed into coral and whined
away into the trees. Rock chips showered down in a violent hail. The
entire dark seemed to be firing at them, muzzle flashes coming from all
sides. The large, redheaded man had seen them but had made no move until
he had alerted the others.