Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (38 page)

The other members of the Standing Committee could be brought back to
their senses once the Owl was silenced.

Abruptly he straightened. There were footsteps in the night, approaching
the limousine. The front door of the Mercedes opened, and his chauffeur
and chief bodyguard slid in behind the wheel next to the other
bodyguard. Wei watched his chauffeur pick up the intercom.

His voice sounded clearly from the rear speaker as he reported: “Master
Li is in his house, as he said, but I saw no evidence of the daughter
having been there recently, master. Her children were asleep with their
nanny in a separate cottage.”

“You searched everywhere?”

“The potion knocked the old man into deep sleep. The children and the
woman were already asleep. The grounds and buildings were otherwise
deserted. I was able to investigate thoroughly, as you instructed.” The
chauffeur turned his head to look back through the one-way glass as if
he could see Wei. He was frowning. “There was something else.”

“What?” Wei tensed.

“Public Security Bureau people. Major Pan Aitu himself and a team.”

“Where?”

“Lurking outside. Some in cars. Very discreet.”

“Watching the house?”

“Or Li Aorong.”

Probably both, Wei Gaofan thought to himself. He shifted uneasily in his
seat. Pan would never dare act against his interests … unless someone
else were backing him. Niu? It was possible Niu had discovered that Wei
had used pressure to have Li Aorong released from Public Security
custody. He shook his head angrily, thinking. Yes, this smacked of
further interference from the dangerously liberal Niu.

His cell phone buzzed so loudly he ducked below the windows as if he had
been fired upon, forgetting his bulletproof safety. He recovered at once
and straightened, annoyed at how tense he was.

He jammed his cell phone button and barked, “Wei here.” “We have Jon
Smith,” Feng Dun said.

Wei’s anger evaporated. “Where?”

“In Hong Kong.”

“Who does he work for?” “He hasn’t told us–yet.”

“Did he get proof of the cargo and send it to Washington?”

“There’s no more proof, so nothing could be sent.” Feng described the
American’s capture and the note Mcdermid had left in the envelope in the
safe after he had shredded the manifest.

Wei’s mood improved dramatically. He did not approve of Mcdermid’s
theatrical insult, but it did no harm to Wei. “Be quick with your
questioning. Find out from Smith what the Americans know and eliminate
him.”

“Of course.”

Wei could see Feng’s smile that was like no human smile, but one pasted
on a wooden dummy. Feng was his man. Still, he repressed a shiver,
clicked off, and sat back to consider this new information: Now Niu
Jianxing would have no proof of the Empress’s cargo. Niu’s cooperation
with the Americans would be impossible, and he had nothing at all to
take to the Standing Committee.

Yes, the Empress would sail on to Wei’s profit, as other ships with
other illicit cargo had before … or the situation might still explode
to his even greater profit. He laced his fingers across his stomach,
pleased, as if he had just feasted on pheasant and honey.

Saturday, September 16.

Washington, D.C.

In the upstairs Treaty Room, the door was locked, and President Castilla
and Fred Klein were standing shoulder to shoulder at one of the windows,
gazing down at the White House grounds. The president described the
day’s meeting with his military and civilian advisers.

Klein said, “You may have to use Admiral Brose’s suggestion for a SEAL
recon mission.”

The president glanced at the Covert-One chief. A great black cloud
seemed to hover over him like a thunderstorm gathering over White Sands.

“What’s happened?” There was a heaviness to the words, a weariness that
carried the entire weight of the last four days. Resigned. Expecting the
worst.

“We may have lost Colonel Smith.”

“No.” The president inhaled sharply. “How?”

“Have no idea yet. The last time we talked, he was heading off to break
into Donk & Lapierre in Hong Kong.” Klein related Jon’s earlier
activities– surveilling Ralph Mcdermid as he took the subway to the
Wanchai district, the trap inside the office building, and Jon’s escape
with Randi Russell.

“Agent Russell?”

“Yes. Remember, she’s the one Arlene assigned to follow Kott to Manila,
where he had that clandestine meeting with Ralph Mcdermid.”

“Of course. Then what happened?” “Jon asked for additional supplies and
equipment to help him search Donk & Lapierre’s offices. The entire
operation there should’ve taken less than an hour. Ninety minutes, tops.
And now he’s missing.”

“If there was a last copy of the manifest at Donk & Lapierre, Fred–it’s
gone?”

“If Jon’s gone or caught, the manifest is, too.”

The president looked at his watch. “How much longer do you give him?”

“I’ve got local Covert-One people out looking. Two … three hours, then
I send out a dragnet. It’s always possible he was captured and is being
interrogated. That he’ll be able to hold out. That the locals will find
and free him. But … ”

“But the manifest might still be gone.”

“Yes, Sam. Probably is gone.”

“And Colonel Smith might be dead.”

Klein gazed down at his shoes. His voice was tight. “Yes. God, I hope
not. But yes.”

The president nodded. He heaved a sigh. “All right, we’ll find another
way. There’s always a way, Fred.”

“Yes, of course.” Neither said more, their silence acknowledging the lie
in their optimism.

At last Klein said, “I’d like to know everything the CIA has learned
from Agent Russell and her people.”

“I’ll call Arlene.”

Klein nodded, almost to himself. “Perhaps it is time to attempt that
SEAL mission. If it’s successful … if they find the chemicals, take
over the ship, and dump it all overboard without the submarine’s knowing
… that solves the whole problem, and it wouldn’t matter–”

“That the manifest was gone and Smith was dead? Is that what happens to
all men who have to do your job?”

Klein seemed to deflate. Then his head raised, and his gaze was steady.

“I had in mind the total loss of the manifest, Mr. President, not Jon’s
death. But, yes, I expect that, sooner or later, it does happen to all
of us.” “Spymasters,” the president said quietly. “It must be horrible.”

“I’ve brought you very bad news. I’m sorry, Sam.”

“So am I. So am I. Thank you, old friend. Goodbye.”

After Klein left, the president continued to stand in silence. He knew
what he had to do, but he neither wanted to nor was comfortable with it.

He had never been at ease ordering people to risk their lives for their
country, as much as he knew that was what they expected to do, what they
had signed up to do, what he had done when it was his turn long ago. He
had fought in his own war, and he knew no one signed up to die.

His sigh was more like a deep breath. He picked up the phone again.

“Mrs. Pike? Get me Admiral Brose.”

Moments later, his phone rang.

The admiral’s deep voice appeared in his ear. “Yessir, Mr. President.”

“How soon can you put that SEAL team on the Crowe?”

“They’re on the Crowe now, sir. I took the liberty.”

“Did you? Well, I expect you’re not the first field commander who’s done
that to a president who hasn’t made up his mind.”

“No, sir, I wouldn’t think so. May I ask if you have made up your mind?”

“That’s why I called.”

“Are we go, sir?”

“Yes. We’re go.”

“I’ll transmit the order.”

“Don’t you want to know why, Stevens?”

“That’s not my job, Mr. President.”

The president hesitated. “Right again, Admiral. Keep me posted.”

“What I know, you’ll know.”

As the president hung up, a quote he had read once years ago in a
biography of Otto von Bismarck came to mind. Something like … a
person’s moral worth begins only at the point he is willing to die for
his principles. He was not risking his life for his principles, but he
was risking his future, which was not all that important, and the future
of his country, which was. That might not be a full commitment for those
stern and demanding old Prussian squires, but it weighed heavily enough
for him.

Sunday, September 17.

The Arabian Sea.

Tension was wearing on the small cadre of officers of the USS John
Crowe. This was far from an ordinary military emergency, which often
turned out to be a false bogey, a lost craft, or a mechanical failure.

One mistake, and they could cause not only their own deaths but war.

In the communications-and-control center, the calm commander, James
Chervenko, broke the radio connection with Admiral Brose back in
Washington. His eyes, narrowed by decades at sea, had become laserlike
slits of intensity as he had listened to Brose’s orders.

He removed his headset and turned to It. Commander Gary Kozloff. “You’re
go.”

“Right,” Kozloff acknowledged. No surprise. He had guessed. “Chopper
prepared?” Kozloff was one of those extraordinary SEALs who was all
muscle and brains. Long, lean, and fiercely proud of his work, he
crackled with purpose. His presence seemed to fill
communications-and-control, giving momentary reassurance to everyone
around.

“Ten minutes.”

“We’ll be ready.”

Chervenko nodded as if to say that was to be expected. “Remember,
Commander, the overriding mission protocol is total secrecy–you were
never there. The first hint you might be discovered, you’re gone.”

“Yessir.”

“We’ll keep close tabs on the sub and the Empress. If anything looks
hinky, I’ll radio to abort. Keep your communications on at all times.”

“Will do, sir.”

“Good luck, Gary.”

“Thanks, Jim.” Gary Kozloff gave a short smile. “Nice night for a swim.”

On the shadowy deck, Kozloff’s team of four SEALs were suited and ready,
waiting for the order. When Kozloff reappeared, they jumped expectantly
to their feet. He nodded, and they did a final check of their equipment.

“You have your magnetic climbing gear?” It would be critical tonight.

When the air resonated with “aye, sir,” he said, “Let’s hit the
chopper.” They made their way aft to the SH-60 Seahawk. Silhouetted
against the starry horizon, it looked like a giant, menacing bird. The
wind was light, carrying the scents of diesel and salt water. Inside the
Seahawk, attached to its lowering rig, was a special Combat Rubber
Raiding Craft (CRRC) Zodiac, already loaded for the operation. The five
SEALs climbed aboard the chopper, the rotors erupted into full power,
and the great craft rose into the night and banked left. No lights
showing, it quickly melded with the darkness as it circled out of sight
toward the Empress, ten miles ahead. The air around them thundered with
the chopping blades. As his ears grew accustomed to the noise, It.

Commander Kozloff watched the reflections of the moon and stars off the
rippled sea below. He was worried, and that was unlike him. If you
prepared properly, you knew you and your team would execute well. That
was the only guarantee anyone got. But this time, they were using the
new, small Zodiac and the new climbing equipment designed specifically
for a helicopter-delivered, clandestine boarding operation on a fully
moving ship at sea. They knew their equipment, but there had been no
time to practice the usual varied and complicated scenarios. He had the
highest confidence in himself and his people. You could not be a SEAL
otherwise. Still–

Abruptly, Kozloff brought his concentration back to the scene below.

They had reached the Empress and were hovering over it, as planned. The
freighter was going about ten knots. Kozloff could see cargo, a
partially lighted deck, and the usual ropes, gear, and hold covers.

There were three Chinese sailors–impossible to tell on this commercial
freighter which one or ones were officers, if any–on the open bridge.

The trio were gazing up at the helicopter, expressions angry, and he
worried again. Would they dive for cover while their ship fired? The
plan was for the chopper to appear to be doing recon and then close-up
surveillance. Innocent, not deadly. He waited, aware his men were also
studying the bridge below, concerned about how the Chinese would react.

As two continued to glare up, the other got on the horn. In response,
the helicopter swung left and right, as if waving … or doing a
nautical nose-thumbing. The Chinese sailor broke his communications
link, threw back his head, bellowed what was probably a string of
obscenities, and shook his fist at the chopper. Kozloff liked that–the
sailors had bought the surveillance ruse and expected nothing more
dangerous from the Seahawk. As his SEALs chuckled, his spirits lifted.

The Seahawk resumed full speed and banked in such a wide arc away that
they lost sight of the freighter. “Ready?” the pilot called into
Kozloff’s ear receiver. Kozloff looked at his men. They gave him a
thumbs-up. He barked into his pinpoint mike, “Ready. Take us down.” The
Seahawk swept low to the swell of the open sea and hung there,
vibrating. The SEALs pushed the Zodiac out the side hatch, and the lift
operator lowered it to the surface. The SEALs hooked to the lift and
went over the edge, one by one, and dropped into the water. For an
instant, Kozloff had the usual double reaction–shock at the feeling of
suspension that the water gave, and relief to be where he felt so at
home. As the Zodiac bounced on the undulating sea two dozen feet away,
Kozloff struck out in a crawl, pulling the water. It was black,
impenetrable, but he did not notice. Focused on the operation, he
clambered aboard, the others following. He started the electric
outboard, and soon they were speeding toward the oncoming Empress. This
was the safest direction to approach, where they ran less risk of being
sucked into the ship. It was also faster, since the Empress was headed
directly toward them. When the Empress came into view, the chopper was
sweeping over it again, a noisy diversion. Kozloff studied the cargo
ship, calculating and adjusting the Zodiac’s direction so that it would
run parallel, not dead on. At just the right moment, he would turn hard
to the right.