Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (30 page)

The Owl’s expression was somber behind his large glasses. “An American
in Shanghai disappears. Colonel Smith arrives the next day. The
treasurer of a shipping company is murdered. The president of that
company and his wife vanish. And an American-educated Shanghainese
interpreter is killed that night. Is that your report?”

“With the addition that when we finally located Colonel Smith again, he
evaded us, fled, and has apparently gotten out of China altogether.”

“We can speak of that later. When does my request for information about
the cargo ship, The Dowager Empress, appear in your report?”

Pan sat back, chastised. “Flying Dragon Enterprises is the owner of the
Empress.” He should have said that earlier.

“Ah.” Niu’s chest tightened. So that was the connection. “You have
formed an opinion of these events?”

“I think that after Yu Yongfu acquired Flying Dragon, his treasurer
discovered something he didn’t like, something that concerned the United
States. He leaked it to Mondragon, who took the information to the
Americans. Or tried to. Something went wrong. Mondragon was most
probably killed and the information lost. Smith was sent in to retrieve
it. Also, it seems to us that Andy Jingshe was an American asset
assigned to guide and interpret for Smith.”

The minister pursed his lips, thinking. “Therefore … people in our
country –not our security forces–are willing to go to extremes to stop
the Americans in their quest, whatever that quest is. The information
the treasurer discovered, and Smith’s attempts to find it again, led to
the death of the treasurer, the disappearances of Yu Yongfu and his
wife, and the murder of the interpreter.”

“Something along those lines, sir. Yes.”

Niu’s sense of foreboding increased. “What do you think the treasurer
found at Flying Dragon that has ignited this dangerous uproar?” He
reached for a cigarette.

“I had no thoughts about that until you asked for information about the
Empress. That was when I learned she was part of Flying Dragon’s fleet.

I don’t know what prompted your inquiry, but the connection to the case
of Colonel Smith can’t be a coincidence.” “I asked for information about
the freighter, its destination, and its cargo. Which is everything there
is to know of such a ship.”

“Yes, sir.”

He lit his cigarette and inhaled uneasily. “What have you found?”

“The destination is Basra. It’s scheduled to arrive in the gulf in
approximately three days.”

“Iraq.” Niu shook his head. He did not like that news. “What’s the
cargo?”

“According to the manifest on file, it’s carrying DVDs, clothing,
industrial products of various types, farm implements, agricultural
supplies–the usual load one would expect to be going to Iraq. Nothing
special. Certainly nothing that should interest the Americans.” As the
counterintelligence agent concluded, he watched the Owl with a question
in his eyes.

“Yet the Americans are interested. Very interested,” Niu said, turning
the question back on Pan. He was not about to inform the major of the
emergency that was brewing about the freighter. Thus far, only the
Standing Committee and Ambassador Wu in Washington knew. He hoped to
resolve it before it exploded into a crisis. “You have a thought about
all of this, Major Pan?”

“If, as I now suspect, the Empress is involved, it can be only because
of the cargo.”

“Therefore, you think the official manifest filed by Flying Dragon is
false, and the Americans know this.”

“What other conclusion could there be?”

The Owl inhaled. He blew out smoke. “Did Colonel Smith get what he came
for?”

“That we don’t know.”

“That is what I must know, Major. Immediately.”

“We will find Yu Yongfu, question his father-in-law, and investigate
Flying Dragon.”

Niu nodded. “Now tell me how Colonel Smith evaded you a second time,
without speaking our language or having been in China before, and then
escaped the country … after his interpreter was killed?”

“We think he had help from a cell of the Uigher resistance. My people
are searching for them now, but they hide among the old longtangs, as
hard to catch as rats in a sewer. The police don’t take them seriously
enough, largely because they’re so few. Consequently, they’ve gone
unregulated. Like the rat, they’re smart, adaptable, and determined.”

“Obviously there aren’t as few as we’d like,” Niu said. “How did they
help Smith?”

“They took him into the longtangs and hid him, and then they managed
somehow to get him out again. After that, we have only hints. A police
roadblock recalls letting a party of Uighers in a Land Rover pass
through. Two of the Uighers had long-standing residence papers for
Shanghai, and anyone with official passes like that, of course, can move
about freely. Later, many shots were heard on a Huangzhou Bay beach
between Jinshan and Zhapu. And this morning, one of our patrol boats
reported a submarine identified as American surfaced offshore soon after
the gunfire ceased.”

Niu was silent. He smoked. At last, he nodded. “Thank you, Major Pan.

Continue the investigation as a top priority.”

Major Pan looked reluctant to leave, as if he wanted to resolve all of
these questions here and now, but he was also a well-trained government
man. He stood up, his stubby body erect.

He straightened his European suit jacket. “Yes, sir.”

Niu put out his cigarette as the agent closed the door behind him. He
leaned back and rocked on the back legs of his chair. He contemplated
the question of what was so important that the Americans would risk not
only sending a submarine within a few thousand yards of China’s coast,
but dispatching a guided-missile frigate to shadow the Empress. The
situation had a sour taste.

Shaking his head with worry, he thought about the gunfire on the beach
and about the ambitious Li Aorong, who apparently had helped his
son-in-law to great business success. Then Niu contemplated what he
could not tell Major Pan, or General Chu Kuairong, or anyone else in the
government or the Party: He was secretly making every effort to open up
China to all of the opportunities the world offered.

Melancholy swept over him. He remembered how, when he was a young man,
Chairman Mao had spoken eloquently of his yearning for the open, simple
days before 1949, when all he had to do was write poetry and fight the
enemies of China. After that, he was trapped in the hidden, dirty, and
convoluted machinations of governmental interests and power.

What Niu wanted at the moment–the signed human-rights agreement– could
lead to a better life for everyone. Still, he suspected the treaty had
far more opponents in the public sector than it did supporters. But
then, that was because so many high officials were opposed … on both
sides of the ocean.

Hong Kong.

A polite smile on his face, Jon Smith settled into one of the
high-backed chairs in the penthouse lobby outside the Altman office
suite. He had heard Ralph Mcdermid tell the receptionist he would see
him. As he waited, he clicked open his attache case as if to check his
notes.

Abruptly, he slammed the lid closed and jumped up. “Damnation! I’m
sorry. Didn’t mean to swear, miss. I must’ve left my notebook down at
Donk & Lapierre.” He glanced at his watch and then at the polished
grandfather clock that stood in a corner. “Mcdermid’s coming to meet me
in fifteen minutes. I’ll be back in ten.”

Before she could protest, he ran, carrying his attache case to the
elevators. He punched the button and stepped into the car, which was
empty. As the doors closed, he smiled and waved back at the startled
woman. He had little time and silently urged the elevator to hurry. He
got off two floors below and rushed along the corridor until he found a
public restroom. Once inside a stall, he peeled off his outer suit and
put on the light-blue seersucker sport jacket, the blue canvas running
shoes, and the collapsible Panama hat from his attache case. With his
gray slacks and Hawaiian shirt, he had the gaudy appearance of an
American tourist with more money than taste. He packed the suit into the
attache case, and the attache case into his backpack. He put on the
backpack and slipped out the door.

Thinking about what he suspected he would find, he stepped onto a
different elevator and faded into the rear as businesspeople entered and
left at several of the floors, heading down. When the car at last
reached the mezzanine, he pushed his way through the packed passengers,
who were continuing down to the lobby.

He got off the elevator. The inner wall of the mezzanine was lined with
glass doors into expensive boutiques, travel agencies, and office shops.

The outer wall was no wall. It was a marble parapet that rose to waist
height, interspersed with thick pillars supporting the floor above. The
parapet overlooked the vast lobby. Jon stood in the cover of a pillar,
where he could see the marble stairs that swept up to the mezzanine, the
bank of elevators, and the building’s entrance.

Jon waited impatiently. Suddenly the man he had hoped to see was
there–the big Chinese who had led the attack in Shanghai. Feng Dun. He
was pushing in through the lobby’s glass doors, followed by three men
Jon also recognized. For the first time, he got a good look at Feng: He
was so pale his skin seemed to be bloodless. His close-cropped hair was
a light red with patches of stark white. He was shorter than Jon had
thought when he saw him in the dark. Still, he was tall for a Han, maybe
six-foot-three, and muscular–not an ounce more than two hundred pounds.

He paused just inside the doors and surveyed the lobby as if searching
for something–or someone.

Ralph Mcdermid put his patented genial smile on his face and walked out
of the private penthouse elevator. He paused to gaze around the
reception area for Dr. Kenneth St. Germain.

Except for the receptionist, the luxurious room was empty. She stared in
awe.

He frowned at her. “Where is he?”

“Er, Mr. Mcdermid. I’m very sorry, sir, but Dr. St. Germain rushed
downstairs to pick up his notebook at Donk & Lapierre. He’ll be right
back.” She glanced at the clock. “Oh, my. He said he’d be gone just ten
minutes, but it’s fifteen already. Should I call to see what happened?”

“Yes. But ask only whether he’s there now or was there. That’s all.

Don’t speak to him or have him sent up.” It was possible the man could
have gone to Donk & Lapierre for some reason.

She called, asked her questions, and ended the connection. She looked at
Mcdermid in confusion. “They say he’s not there and never was. Not even
earlier.”

Behind Mcdermid, the elevator doors opened. As Mcdermid turned, Feng Dun
stepped out. Feng held a 9mm Glock that looked small in his big hand.

The receptionist’s eyes grew large and frightened as she took in his
appearance. Her gaze froze on the Glock .

Feng’s whispery voice asked, “Where is he?”

“Gone,” Mcdermid said, disgusted. “He left fifteen minutes ago.” “He’s
still in the building,” Feng said flatly. “We’ve been watching. He can’t
leave. He’s trapped.”

Jon was on edge, his shoulders tight, his muscles aching to fight.

Still, he remained hidden behind the mezzanine pillar, studying the
lobby below.

After Feng Dun had instructed his three gunmen, he entered an elevator.

The numbers above the door indicated it had shot straight up to the
penthouse. Even though Jon had already guessed, he was still shaken: It
looked increasingly probable that Ralph Mcdermid had stalled Jon
upstairs so he could summon these killers. Which meant the chairman and
CEO of the mighty Altman Group was likely not only a player in the
Empress crisis but was intimately involved in the bloody aspects of it.

Beneath Jon, the three hunters took up unobtrusive positions, where they
could cover all exits. When Feng Dun returned, he did not so much stride
from the elevator as appear as if by magic, suddenly there on the lobby
floor. He made a subtle gesture close to his hip, and the four converged
on a corner behind potted palms. As they conferred, they observed
everyone who passed through. Feng glanced up at the mezzanine once and
seemed to fix his gaze on where Jon stood in the shadow of the column.

Jon stepped slowly back. He checked his disguise, from the Hawaiian
shirt to his blue tennis shoes. He tugged the Panama hat lower over his
forehead and slipped his Beretta into the small of his back under the
seersucker jacket. As he headed for the staircase, he bent his knees a
fraction of an inch and aimed his toes inward, giving him a faintly
prissy walk.

He did not look at the killers, although each glanced at him. He found
himself stiffen with tension, waiting for one to decide he was worth
stopping. As he passed them and closed in on the glass doors that opened
onto the street and safety, he could feel someone’s gaze hot on his
back. He pushed through the glass doors, waiting to be stopped.

When he was not, he felt a moment of surprise, then relief. As he walked
out of the building and crossed the street, the daylight seemed
particularly bright and welcoming. He took up a position in the shadows
and waited.

It was nearly dark when Ralph Mcdermid finally left the building through
a side door, although Feng Dun and his hunters had emerged hours before,
one at a time, and scattered as if on assignments. Because the Hong Kong
crowds had swollen with the evening rush to go home, Jon did not hang
back. During the afternoon, the humidity had broken, and the struggle
through the mass of pedestrians was easier.

Frustrated and worried, he hurried to keep the CEO in sight. Mcdermid
walked only as far as the Central station of the M. T.R., the subway.
Jon waited twenty seconds, bought a ticket, and followed. There were
fewer people on the platform, and Jon paused, making certain no one else
surveilled the CEO–either surreptitiously or as a hidden bodyguard.