Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (4 page)

Smith and Mondragon returned fire, searching frantically among the
moonlit shadows of the brush and trees for a visible enemy. Their cover
had now become a disadvantage. There were only two of them. Not enough
in the darkness to beat off at least seven, possibly more. Their
ammunition would soon run low.

Smith leaned close to Mondragon’s ear. “We’ll have to make a break for
it. Head for the road. My motorcycle’s not far away. It can carry both
of us.”

“There’s less fire coming from the front. Let’s pin them down and break
that way. Don’t worry about me. I can do it!”

Smith nodded. He would have said the same thing. Right now, with
adrenaline pumping through them like lava, either of them could run from
here to the moon, if they had to.

On a count of three, they opened fire and rushed out of the rocks toward
the road, running low while still moving fast, dodging brush and trees.

Moments later, they were through the circle of attackers. At last the
gunfire was from behind, and the road was close ahead.

Mondragon gave a grunt, stumbled, and went down, ripping through the
tangled vegetation as he fell. Smith instantly grabbed his arm to help
him up, but the agent did not respond. The arm was without energy,
lifeless.

“Avery?”

There was no answer.

Smith fell to his haunches beside the downed agent and found hot blood
on the back of his head. Instantly, he felt for a pulse in his neck.

None. He inhaled, swore, and searched Mondragon’s pockets for the
envelope. At the same time, he heard the killers approach, trying to be
quiet in the heavy undergrowth.

The envelope was missing. Frantically he checked every pocket again,
taking whatever he found. He felt around Mondragon’s body, but the
envelope was gone. Definitely gone. And there was no more time.

Cursing inwardly, he sprinted away.

Clouds had built over the South China Sea and drifted across the moon,
turning the night pitch-black as he reached the road. The deep cover of
darkness was a rare stroke of good luck. Relieved, but furious about
Mondragon’s death, he ran across and dropped into the cover of the low
ditch that bordered the two-lane road.

Panting, he aimed both Mondragon’s Glock and his Beretta back at the
trees. And waited, thinking … The envelope had been in an inside
pocket. Mondragon had gone down at least twice that Smith had seen. The
envelope could have fallen out then, or perhaps when they were crawling
through the brush, or even when they were running, their jackets
flapping.

Frustrated and deeply worried, his grip tightened on the two weapons.

After a few minutes, a single figure emerged warily at the road’s edge,
looked right and left, and started across, his old AK-74 ready. Smith
raised the Beretta. The motion attracted the killer’s attention. He
opened fire blindly. Smith dropped the Glock , aimed the Beretta, and
shot twice in rapid succession.

The man slammed forward onto his face and lay still. Smith grabbed the
Glock again and opened a withering, sweeping fire with both weapons.

Shouts and screams sounded from the far side of the road.

As they echoed in his mind, he leaped out of the ditch and tore away
through the trees toward the center of the island. His feet pounded and
his lungs ached. Sweat poured off him. He did not know how far he ran,
or for how long, but he became aware that there were no sounds of
pursuit. No trampling of brush. No running feet. No gunshots.

He crouched in the cover of a tree for a full five minutes. It seemed
like five hours. His pulse pounded in his ears. Had they given up? He
and poor Mondragon had killed at least three, wounded two more, and
perhaps had shot others.

But little of that was important right now. If the killers had quit
their pursuit, it meant only one thing–they had what they had come for.

They had found the secret invoice manifest of The Dowager Empress.

Washington, D.C.

Golden sunlight drenched the Rose Garden and made warm rectangles on the
floor of the Oval Office, but somehow it seemed menacing this morning,
President Castilla thought as Charles Ouray, White House chief of staff,
stepped inside the door.

Ouray looked as unhappy as he felt, the president decided. “Sit down,
Charlie. What’s up?”

“I’m not so sure you want to hear, Mr. President.” He sat on the sofa.

“No luck with the leaks?”

“Zero,” Ouray said, shaking his head. “Leaks of such extent and accuracy
over an entire year should be traceable, but the secret service, FBI,
CIA, and NSA can’t find a thing. They’ve investigated everyone in the
West Wing from the mail room to the whole senior staff, including me.

The good news is they guarantee the leaks aren’t coming from any of us.

In fact, the entire White House roster down to cleaning crews and
gardeners is clear.”

The president tented his hands and scowled at his fingers. “Very well,
what does that leave?”

Ouray looked wary. “Leave, sir?”

“Who’s left, Charlie? Who haven’t they investigated who could’ve had
access to the information that’s been leaked? The plans … the policy
decisions. They were high-level.”

“Yes, sir. But I’m not sure what you mean by who’s left? No one, I
can–”

“Have they investigated me, Charlie?”

Ouray laughed uneasily. “Of course not, Mr. President.”

“Why not? I certainly had entree, unless there were leaks I didn’t hear
about.”

“There weren’t, sir. But suspecting you is ridiculous on the face of
it.” “That’s what they said about Nixon before they found the tapes.”

“Sir–”

“I know, you think I’m the one harmed most. That’s not true. It’s the
American people, but I think you get my point now.” Ouray said nothing.

“Look higher, Charlie, and look around. The cabinet. The vice president,
who doesn’t always agree with me. The joint chiefs, the Pentagon,
influential lobbyists we sometimes talk to. No one is above suspicion.”

Ouray leaned forward. “You really think it could be someone that high,
Sam?”

“Absolutely. Whoever it is, he–or she–is killing us. Not so much the
information … the press, and even our enemies, knowing our plans
before we revealed them … that’s been simply embarrassing so far.

No, the worst damage is to our confidence in each other and to the
potential threat to national security. Right now, I can’t rely on any of
our people with something really sensitive, not even you.”

Ouray nodded. “I know, Sam. But you can trust me now.” He smiled, but it
was not a humorous smile. “I’ve been cleared. Unless you can’t trust the
FBI, CIA, NSA, or secret service.”

“See? In the back of our minds we’re beginning to doubt even them.”

“I guess we are. What about the Pentagon? A lot of the leaks involve
military decisions.”

“Policy decisions, not military. Long-range strategy.”

Ouray shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ve got a foreign mole
somewhere, so deep the security people can’t find him. Maybe we tell
them to dig deeper? Look for a professional spy hidden behind one of
us?”

“All right, tell them to pursue that angle. But I don’t think it’s a
spy, foreign or domestic. This deep throat isn’t interested in stealing
secrets–

he’s interested in changing the public debate. Influencing our
decisions. Someone who secures an advantage, if our policy changes.”

“Yeah,” Ouray agreed uneasily.

The president returned to the papers on his desk. “Find the leaker,
Charlie. I need answers before this situation paralyzes me.”

Thursday, September 14.

Kaohsiung, Taiwan.

The windows of Jon Smith’s room on the twentieth floor of the Grand
Hi-Lai Hotel displayed a breathtaking panorama of Kaohsiung’s sparkling
night, from the horizon-to-horizon lights up to the black, star-studded
sky. Tonight, Smith had no interest in it.

Safely back in his room, for the third time he read through everything
in Mondragon’s wallet and notebook. He had hoped there would be some
clue to how the murdered Covert-One agent had secured the manifest. The
only unexplained item was a crumpled cocktail-sized napkin from a
Starbucks coffee shop with a name scrawled on it in ink–Zhao Yanji.

His cell phone buzzed. It was Fred Klein returning his call.

Klein’s greeting was a question: “You delivered the article to the
airport?” “No,” Smith told him. “I have bad news. Mondragon was killed.”
The silence at the other end was like a sigh.

“I’m sorry. I worked with him a long time. He was a fine agent, and I’ll
miss him. I’ll contact his parents. They’ll be shocked. Distraught.”

Smith breathed deeply. Once. Twice. “Sorry, Fred. This must be hard on
you.”

“Tell me what happened, Jon.” Smith told him about the envelope, the
attack, and Mondragon’s death.

“The killers were Chinese, from Shanghai. The invoice manifest must’ve
been the real thing. I have a lead, but it’s remote.” He told Klein
about the Starbucks napkin.

“You’re sure the napkin’s from Shanghai?”

“Was Mondragon anywhere but Shanghai in the last few months?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it’s a possibility, and it’s all I have anyway.”

“Can you get to Shanghai?”

“I think so. There’s a scientist at the conference here, Dr. Liang, whom
I think I can convince to take me to his facility there for a tour.” He
explained about the Chinese microbiologist buttonholing him. “There are
three problems. I don’t know a damn word of Chinese, and I don’t have a
clue where the Starbucks coffee shops are there. Then there’s my
Beretta. I have no way to slip it into China.”

“I’ll have the Starbucks information faxed to Taipei. I’ll have an
interpreter waiting for you in Shanghai, and he’ll bring you a weapon.

Recognition words: ‘ latte.’ ”

“One more thing.” Smith told him about the old man in the Chinese prison
farm who claimed his name was David Thayer. He repeated the details
Mondragon had passed on.

“Thayer? I’ve never heard of a connection by someone named Thayer to the
president. Sounds like a dodge of some kind.” “Mondragon’s asset said
the old man is definitely American.”

“Is the asset reliable?”

“As much as any,” Smith said. “At least, according to Mondragon.”

“I’ll tell the president. If the man’s an American, no matter who he
really is, Castilla will want to know.”

“Then I’ll start working on finding the invoice manifest in Shanghai.

What about the other copies?”

“I’ll take care of the one that should be in Baghdad. With luck, we
won’t care where the third is.” He paused. “You should know, Colonel,
that the time frame’s tight. According to the navy, we’ve got only five
days, maybe less, until the Empress reaches the Persian Gulf.”

Wednesday, September 13.

Washington, D.C.

In the Oval Office, President Castilla ate lunch at the heavy pine table
he had brought with him from the governor’s residence in Santa Fe. It
had served as his desk there as it did here. With a sense of nostalgia,
he put down his chile-and-cheese sandwich and swiveled in his new chair
to stare out his window at the lush green grounds and distant monuments
he had grown to love. Still, another view blotted it from his mind–the
wide red sunsets and vast, empty, yet perpetually alive desert of his
ranch far down on the borderlands of his native New Mexico, where even a
wild jaguar might still be found roaming. He was feeling suddenly old
and tired. He wanted to go home.

His reverie was interrupted by the entry of his personal assistant,
Jeremy. “Mr. Klein is here. He’d like to speak with you, sir.”

The president glanced at his desk clock. What time would it be in China?

“No calls or visitors until I tell you otherwise.”

“Yes, sir.” The assistant held open the door.

Fred Klein hurried in, his pipe stem sticking up from the handkerchief
pocket of his Harris tweed jacket.

As Jeremy closed the door, Castilla waved Klein to the London club chair
that had been a gift from the queen. “I’d have come to the yacht club
tonight.”

“This can’t wait. With the leaks, I didn’t want to trust even the red
phone.”

The president nodded. “Do we have the manifest?”

Klein heaved a sigh. “No, sir, we do not.” He repeated Smith’s report.

The president grimaced and shook his head. “Terrible. Has your agent’s
family been notified?”

“Of course, sir.”

“They’ll be taken care of?”

“They will.”

The president glanced out his high window again. “Do you think they’d
like to visit the Oval Office, Fred?”

“You can’t do that, Mr. President. Covert-One doesn’t exist. Mondragon
was in private business, nothing more.”

“Sometimes this job is particularly hard.” He paused. “All right, we
don’t have what I have to have. When will we have it?”

“Smith has a lead in Shanghai. He’s working on a way there now, as a
guest of the Chinese government. He’ll be talking to microbiologists
from China’s research establishments. Meanwhile, I have people in
Beijing, Hong Kong, Guangzhou, and some of the new manufacturing cities
that have sprung up there over the last few years. They’re looking for
any sign Beijing orchestrated this, as well as information about The
Dowager Empress, even rumors. And there’s a possibility we can find a
second copy in Baghdad. I’m assigning an agent to it.”

“Good. I have the navy sending a frigate. Brose says at the most we’ll
have ten hours before the Empress tumbles to what we’re doing. After
that, China knows, and probably the world.”

“If the Chinese want them to.” Klein hesitated.

Klein was not a man who hesitated.

“What is it, Fred? If it involves those chemicals, I’d better know it.”

“It doesn’t, Mr. President.” Klein paused again, choosing his words.