Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (35 page)

She packed it quickly and studied the archive room one last time to be
sure she had left not the slightest trace. At last, she turned off the
lights and headed for the door.

On the first floor, she made enough noise to alert the dozing security
guard.

“You are finished, Mevrouw Kerr?”

“For tonight. There’s only so much reading and scribbling one can do.”

The guard chuckled and crooked his finger. Kerr opened her briefcase,
and he leafed through her voluminous notes, made sure there were no
original documents, nodded, and shut the lid. “You go home now?”

“I think an ale or two and then to bed.”

“Ja, goede nacht.”

Outside, Dianne Kerr smiled to herself. She would, of course, return at
least twice more, to make certain her legend was believed. She did not
stop for the two ales. Instead, she went straight home to her darkroom,
where she developed the microfilm, made an eight-by-ten print, and faxed
it to Washington. A fine night’s work for a desk-bound novelist,
extremely well paid, and without a trace. With the possibility of
further adventure tomorrow night, to steal the actual document and leave
behind a meticulous copy so difficult to discern from the original it
could pass for years undiscovered.

Washington, D.C.

As usual, Fred Klein slipped into the West Wing through the kitchen
staff entrance, from where the secret service whisked him straight up to
the residence.

In the Treaty Room, President Castilla sat on a sofa, morosely
contemplating his coffee. He looked up as soon as Klein entered. “You
look as bad as I feel. Didn’t the fax come?”

Klein closed and locked the door. “Worse. It came. It’s not what we
need. Antwerp has the fake manifest on file, too.”

Castilla swore. “I’d really hoped … ” He shook his head. “So we have
nothing from Baghdad, Basra, or Antwerp.” He paused, thinking. “Maybe
there’s been a mistake. Why would your operative bother to send the
fake? Didn’t he know it was fake?”

“She. No, sir, she didn’t. I couldn’t tell her exactly what was in it,
or why we wanted it, because she’s European operating in a European
city. If something went wrong, if she were caught or said something ..

. there was too much risk someone would find out about the Empress
crisis. In Iraq, it didn’t matter. They already know why we want the
manifest, and they’re not going to leak what we’re up to, because they
want the chemicals.”

The president sighed. “Some days staying in bed sounds like an
attractive idea. The news seems to be getting worse and worse. Sit and
have some coffee with me, Fred.”

As Klein settled in next to him, the president poured and handed him a
steaming cup. “Over at Bethesda, they tell me I have to cut down on my
coffee. Even Cassie’s getting on me about it. But to hell with all of
them. They don’t have this job.” “No,” Klein said, chewing on the
mouthpiece of his empty pipe. “They don’t. You said something’s
happened.” He removed the pipe long enough to drink.

Castilla took a defiant gulp. “The Chinese have upped the ante. This
time they’ve sent force, not words–one of their submarines to chase the
Crowe.”

Klein’s eyebrows rose above his wire-rimmed glasses. “But they haven’t
attacked?”

“No, and neither have we.”

Klein took out his pipe and turned it in his hands, ignoring the coffee.

“Where did they get the sub, Mr. President? Where did it come from so
quickly? Not the Taiwan Strait, or Hong Kong, or even Hainan Island.

That’s too much distance from the Crowe. The sub had to have been on
station in the Indian Ocean, more likely the Arabian Sea itself.”

The president straightened. He swore. “You’re right. They must have subs
watching the Fifth Fleet.”

Klein nodded. “And now, one’s been sent to let us know someone in
Beijing wants to crank up the confrontation, escalate the threat.”

“Agreed. My take is that it’s a power struggle inside the walls of
Zhongnhai.”

“Makes sense. But is it the whole Standing Committee? Maybe even the
Politburo itself?”

“It’d help to know.”

“Nothing any Covert-One associate or asset has turned up indicates it,”
Klein said. “Of course, the Chinese are keeping the situation under
wraps, just as we are. There hasn’t been a mention of the Empress by
their press.”

“So is your advice to prod, watch, and wait? Continue our threat and
pretend theirs isn’t there?”

“For now, yes. Later, you’ll have the proof, or you’ll have my
resignation.”

The president’s eyes grew icy. “That’s not good enough, Fred. What
progress have your people made?”

“Sorry, Mr. President. Must be getting old. This one’s wearing me down.

Too many intangibles.” Klein crossed his arms, the stem of his pipe
sticking out from his fist. “First, we’re certain the Belgian co-owner
of the Empress knows there’s contraband in the cargo. Second and
probably even more important” –he paused to make certain the president
saw that he saw how important this was–“the Belgian company is wholly
owned by the Altman Group. It looks as if their chair and CEO, Ralph
Mcdermid, might have his fingers stuck deep into the affair.”

“Ralph Mcdermid again?” The president’s voice rose. “Mcdermid isn’t just
chair and CEO, he is the Altman Group. He founded it, built it into one
of the largest financial empires the earth’s seen, and he did it in less
than two decades. My God, he’s got one of my predecessors working for
him plus cabinet secretaries from the last four administrations, former
FBI and CIA directors, congressmen, senators, and a few ex-governors.”

Klein knew all of this. He controlled his patience until the president
finished. “Yes, sir. You said ‘.’ Is Mcdermid involved in something
else?”

The president took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as
if fighting off a headache. “The White House leaks.” He repeated Arlene
Debo’s report about the secret meeting in Manila between Mcdermid and
Secretary of the Army Jasper Kott. “You think there may be a connection
between the leaks and the Empress situation?”

“We’d better find out. What I don’t understand is why Mcdermid would
involve himself in something like the Empress’s cargo. He’s making a
fortune already. His company’s filthy rich. So why risk so much for one
shipment of chemicals? He’ll make an obscene profit, but that’s nothing
new. It makes damn little sense to me.”

“One load of contraband hardly seems worth it,” the president agreed.

“Maybe Mcdermid’s been conducting various illegal operations for a
while. He could be one of those types who’s always looking for the next
thrill, and the more outside the law he goes, the higher the emotional
payoff.”

“Or maybe some of his companies are in trouble, and he’s figured out a
way to ease debt by backing illegal ventures like the Empress. He sure
won’t have to pay taxes on it.”

They sat in worried silence, trying to see an answer. Finally, the
president decided, “I don’t recall any company that approaches Altman’s
success in the wholesale conversion of former high government rank to
gigantic profits. But then, business and politics have always gone hand
in hand. Throw in the military, and doesn’t that remind you of Dwight
Eisenhower’s warning about allowing the military-industrial complex to
grow too influential, that there was a danger it’d run amok?”

“It reminds me, yes, and not happily,” Klein agreed. “A former Altman
employee told my researcher that the company’s code is: Mix business and
politics correctly, and they pay exceptionally well”

“Sounds like an understatement. But maybe that’s the answer. That could
be what Mcdermid’s up to. For him, there’s no ceiling to wealth. He can

never have enough. He’ll make a quick financial killing on the Empress
and go looking for his next conquest.”

Hong Kong.

Randi Russell told the taxi driver to circle the block, and
when they again drew abreast of the entrance to the Conrad
International, she told the driver in fluent Mandarin, “Stop here.” Jon
had been looking all around casually, as if checking for a tail or
stakeout. As she watched, he turned on his heel, apparently satisfied he
was clean, and walked into the hotel’s glittering lobby. She continued
to survey the area until she spotted the Chinese street vendor standing
behind his cart in a shadow, a cell phone in his hands, speaking
urgently as he, too, observed Jon disappear. Just what she had
suspected. Mcdermid’s troops were continuing to surveille Jon. She did
not believe Jon’s story for a second, but at least he was out of her way
for the night. As she told the driver to take her back to the building
that housed the Altman offices, she dialed her cell. “Savage,” the voice
answered. “Did you pick up Mcdermid?” she asked, her hand cupped around
the cell’s mouthpiece. “Sure did. Tailed him around the daisy chain and
right back to his office building. He’s gone up to the penthouse.”

“Is our team in place?”

“Affirmative.”

“I’m on my way.” When they reached it, she paid the driver and walked up
to a black Buick sedan, carrying her conical hat. She opened the door
and dropped into the front passenger seat. “I’ll take it from here,
Allan. You get indoors and watch for Mcdermid’s chief shark. When you
see him, tail him.” Short and heavyset, Allan Savage was no one’s image
of a CIA agent, but that was to his advantage. He nodded, climbed out of
the car, and crossed the traffic to the high-rise. Randi slid over and
settled behind the wheel to wait. Her phone beeped. It was Allan.

“Already?” she asked. “Mcdermid must’ve forgotten something. He’s on his
way back out.” Randi clicked off and watched as the CEO hurried from the
building. As he arrived at the curb, so did his black limousine. The
chauffeur ran around to open the rear door. As the limo drove away,
Randi made sure she and the Buick were close behind.

The limo wound up into the dark hills toward Victoria Peak. Here the
houses were large and impressive, and the city’s lights spread out below
in a shimmering minuet across the great harbor, the outlying islands,
and the dazzling Kowloon peninsula. The glitter dimmed farther north in
the New Territories but continued even into mainland China, where
Guangzhou glowed on the horizon.

The limo pulled into the driveway of an older, Chinese-style mansion
that overlooked Repulse Bay. As Randi watched, Ralph Mcdermid dismissed
the limo, and a slim young woman ran out of the mansion to greet him.

Arm in arm, they strolled into the house.

Randi clicked on her cell phone. “Looks as if he’s gone to roost. If
we’re lucky, we’ve got a couple of hours. Put Berger on. Ham, you have
the equipment?”

“In our hot little black bags,” electronics expert Hamilton Berger said
cheerfully. “As soon as the honcho assistant trots away, we’re in the
phone-bug-planting business.”

“Be careful. We’re not dealing with some dumb embassy this time.”

“He’ll never find a thing.”

“Good. I’ll hang on to Mcdermid. He’s a busy boy.”

“Call you when the bug’s in, and we’re out.”

“Can’t wait.” Randi ended the call and took a thoroughly American
turkey-and-cheese sandwich from inside her clothes. As shadows did a
ballet of lust on the other side of Mcdermid’s drawn drapes, she ate and
wondered what Jon really wanted from Mcdermid.

From the corridor outside Donk & Lapierre, bright light fell across the
dark, empty desk in the company’s lobby, where the exotic Chinese
receptionist had sat. Jon relocked the door behind him and stepped
lightly past the shadowy desk to the inner doors. After he had slipped
out of his hotel through the back way, he had hailed another taxi that
had brought him back here.

Dressed again in his dark work clothes, he listened. There were no
sounds inside, and he saw no light. The offices appeared as deserted as
he had hoped.

The door was unlocked. He stepped inside and padded along the Delft
blue carpeting, pausing to listen at each office, until he reached the
ebony door of managing director Charles-Marie Cruyff. This sanctum was
defended by a pair of heavyweight locks. After five attempts with
different picklocks, Jon finally opened both and pushed the black door
into the office. Enveloped in murky silence, he switched on his pocket
flashlight. His gaze swept over the ultramodern sofa, Cruyff’s mahogany
desk and ship models, the ship models on the walls, to the wall safe to
the left of the desk. He crossed quickly to it. Cruyff had glanced
involuntarily at the safe when Jon had mentioned working with Chinese
companies. He hoped that meant there was something important in there
about the Empress. Particularly, he hoped it was the real manifest. The
safe was compact, with a simple combination lock–just what he
remembered. Klein had supplied him with a small electric drill. It made
a low, steady whirr as the state-of-the-art bit bored into the steel.

When he had drilled four holes, he packed tiny amounts of plastic
explosive into each and connected them across the knob of the lock to a
miniature blasting cap. Working quickly but carefully, he covered the
safe with a sound-deadening pad, moved back behind the desk, and paused,
listening to the pounding of his heart. He turned the handle on the
miniature detonator. The explosion was muffled but loud enough to be
heard as far away as the reception area. His Beretta ready, he listened.

When five minutes passed, he holstered the Beretta and returned to the
safe. The door had swung open an inch. He pulled it farther open,
removed all the documents, and carried them to Cruyff’s desk, where he
quickly examined them. And stopped at the fifth. It was the letter that
must be the one that had prompted the reply he had found in Yu Yongfu’s
safe in his Shanghai mansion. A letter addressed not to Jan Donk, but to
Managing Director Charles-Marie Cruyff of Hong Kong. It was signed by Yu
Yongfu, president and chairman of Flying Dragon Enterprises. More
important … it was cc’d to Ralph Mcdermid, president and CEO of the
Altman Group. Riveted, he continued to read to the bottom of the page.