Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (41 page)

“I’m ahead of you. You were doing fine, so I had plenty of time to
think. What do you know about the big guy with the crazy hair?”

“Feng Dun?”

“Yes, that’s the name I have for him, too.”

“He’s from Shanghai. A former soldier, guerrilla, and adventurer. Very
undercover. Now he’s an enforcer for high-level businessmen.”

“Where’d he get that hair?”

“There are plenty of redheaded Han, probably from some long-ago minority
they assimilated. I’d guess the white’s just an odd sign of his aging.

Now it’s your turn. While I was crawling around on the dirty floor,
saving your bacon, what did you come up with to get us loose?”

“We jump ‘ and split.”

She was speechless at the inadequacy of that. “You’re kidding.”

“Think about it,” he said, the pain in the voice intensifying the more
he spoke through his sore lips. “What else do we have? Are there more of
them out there on the other side of that door?”

“They blindfolded me. Probably, but we don’t even know where we are.”

“Yes, we do. Or at least, I do. I’ve been listening, and even though I
was blindfolded, too, I was able to figure out a few things. It’s
morning now, probably late morning. I heard vendors’ voices, awnings
being opened, and boat horns and whistles from the harbor. Plus, I think
there was a rumble from underneath us, as if the subway runs somewhere
near. I figure we’re in Wanchai again, in some back street not so far
from the harbor.”

“From the look of this room, we’re in an old building,” Randi decided.

“And that means probably only one staircase–only one way out.”

Jon nodded. “Right, so our best shot really is to jump them. You can
handle Mcdermid, right?”

“With one hand.”

“Use two. Just to be sure, not to mention fast.”

“Consider it done. We’ll need to be out of here in a hurry, before the
others know what’s happening. But can you do it? You look seriously
banged up.”

“I’ve felt better. The good thing is nothing’s broken, and I’ll rise to
the occasion. The threat of death is a fine motivator to get a fellow
off his duff.” She studied him and nodded. He had that determined look
she had seen in him before. “You’re the doctor.”

“Get me loose, but leave the ropes on so it looks as if I’m still tied.”
She undid the knots, her fingers fumbling as she hurried.

As she worked, he said, “They’ll ask you a lot more questions about your
Russian contacts. What you’re after. What your arms dealer has to sell
and wants to buy … all that. You’ve got to keep their attention,
especially Feng’s.” She left the ropes entwined, so they would look
tight. “Thanks for the advice. I never would’ve figured it out by
myself.”

Jon ignored her sarcasm. “He’ll have his gun, of course. I intend to
blind him.”

“Then you make damn sure you get him the first time.”

“I know. I–” They heard the key turn in the lock. Jon instantly slumped
in the chair, careful not to move the nylon ropes. Randi resumed her
nonchalant posture in the other chair, ready to do business with
Mcdermid, if the price was right. Mcdermid appeared first. Feng Dun
walked behind, not hurrying, his expression a mixture of suspicion and
disapproval. He did not like the way Mcdermid was handling the Russian
woman. He cared nothing about Mcdermid’s business, and, besides, he did
not trust her. She was too glib. No one had yet asked her to prove that
she was who she claimed to be. It was an oversight he intended to
correct now. From under his nearly closed eyelids, Jon saw the questions
on Feng’s face. And although the killer was distracted, he was watching
Jon. Mcdermid walked directly to Randi. “All right, let’s talk about
your people. We’re going to–”

“Hold it,” Feng announced. “First I’ll check the American.” He pulled
Jon’s head up by his hair. Jon groaned, and he drooled saliva from his
slack mouth. Without warning, Feng slapped him across the face. Jon gave
a feeble flinch and collapsed so heavily Feng had to support his head
with one hand while he used the other to tug on the nylon cords across
Jon’s chest.

Randi felt her muscles tense with fear as she tried to maintain her
casual slouch on the chair. Jon’s cords held. She had looped them
several places, and Jon had expanded his chest to make them tight. When
he relaxed, the loops would slip. Then he could work free unseen.

“Finished?” Mcdermid said impatiently. The Altman CEO did not wait for
an answer. He returned his attention to Randi. “We … What’s your name,
I can’t just call you the Russian.”

“Ludmilla Sakkov.” She nodded toward Feng Dun. “What’s his name?”

“You don’t need to know my name, Russian. If you are Russian,” Feng
said, observing her closely from head to toe. “I once fought for the
Russians –”

At that moment, Jon leaped from his chair far more quickly than he had
thought possible. Relaxing, feeling the cords slip, then lunging. The
loops fell away, the chair clattered backward, and his right fist caught
Feng Dun on the point of his jaw. The blow snapped Feng’s neck back and
sideways, pinched his spinal column, and knocked him sideways where he
would have pitched into Mcdermid, if Mcdermid had still been standing
there.

He was not. Two powerful karate chops to the throat and the side of the
head from the suddenly standing “Russian” had knocked Mcdermid to the
floor, unconscious. Feng’s legs tripped on Mcdermid’s legs, and Feng
slammed down onto his shoulder.

“Jon!” Randi shouted.

As Feng landed, he shook his head to clear it and reached under his
jacket. They could see his pistol, but he had sprawled too far away for
them to reach it with a kick. He rolled over onto his back, the gun in
both hands, preparing for a target. At the same time, shouts erupted
outside the room. Feet pounded to the door. Feng’s men.

They were trapped again, and they had fewer options.

“The window!” Jon said.

He spun, nearly fell over from a wave of pain, and ran straight at the
drapes that covered the big window. He slammed through in a loud
shattering of glass and splintering of old wood, and was gone, carrying
the protective drapes with him. Without letting herself think, Randi
followed.

The room had been on the third floor of a building from the thirties. A
scream escaped Randi’s throat as she and Jon plunged down.

Jon and Randi flailed through the air, desperately grabbing at anything
they could see as they plummeted. They smashed onto a heavy canvas
awning.

Safe, they gazed with relief at each other, collecting their wits. The
awning groaned. They scrambled toward the frame, trying to grab it. The

steel supports resisted and bent.

As shouts sounded from the window above, the canvas ripped, dumping them
toward the street again. But there was a second, shorter awning,
shielding a window. They landed, slid off, and landed again–this time
on the umbrella of an omelette vendor. Instantly, it collapsed, too.

They fell hard to the street, barely missing the omelette cart. As the
vendor yelled, they lay stunned, reeling. Around them, businesspeople
were preparing for the new day. Delivery trucks rumbled along the narrow
street, parking on the curb, blocking the traffic so that only one lane
could pass. Pedestrians stopped to stare at the European couple who had
crashed into their midst, especially since the blond woman wore rustic
country clothes. A babel of languages filled the air as they gathered,
some pointing upward as they explained the unusual event.

Jon’s mouth and face were bleeding again, and there was a ragged tear in
his trousers where fresh blood oozed up. He moved his arms and legs. He
hurt everywhere, but nothing seemed broken.

Randi had landed on her back. Gasping, trying to breathe normally, she
checked herself for injuries, for broken bones, for blood. Remarkably,
she appeared to be unhurt.

They sat up, almost at the same moment. As the circle of the curious
closed in, they exchanged another look of relief, this time mixed with
exhaustion. Still, it was not over. Feng Dun and his men were probably
already chasing down the stairs after them.

As they struggled to their feet, she told him, “There’s an alley.”

Jon nodded, unable to talk. They limped toward it, pushing people out of
their way.

“Randi! Here!” CIA operative Allan Savage waved his arms from where he
stood on the fender of a black Buick. His nondescript face was worried.

Two more members of Randi’s team were shoving their way toward them.

“Who’s this guy?” Agent Baxter wanted to know as he slung Jon’s arm over
his shoulder and supported him toward the car.

“Don’t ask. Get him inside. Fast!”

With his peripheral vision, Jon saw Feng Dun burst through to the street
next to an adult shop, his head swiveling as he looked everywhere. Three
other men crowded out behind. All aimed weapons. When the crowd saw
them, they screamed and ran.

Jon’s legs moved weakly, unable to hold him up. Randi tumbled into the
back of the Buick. Agent Baxter threw Jon in after her.

Shots ripped the street. People continued to scatter, finding cover
where they could. From the car, Allan Savage in the driver’s seat and a
female agent in the back returned a withering fire from minisubmachine
guns.

As Feng Dun and his killers dove back into the doorway, Savage ground
the Buick’s gears and drove away, screeched around the first corner, and
was gone.

The CIA safe house occupied a four-story building on Lower Albert Road
in Central. The Buick drove into an alley behind the building, a cement
wall slid open, and the car disappeared inside. The first floor had been
gutted, the hidden garage installed, and the front area turned into an
insurance office where people came and went all day, doing legitimate
business.

The insurance agency made a small profit, which pleased the DCI in
Langley well as the congressmen and senators on the oversight
committees. On the second floor was the safe house’s first-aid room. An
American-born Hong Kong doctor on Langley’s payroll examined their
wounds and bruises and took X rays with a portable unit.

He declared Randi “one lucky little girl.”

Allan Savage and the others on the rescue team winced as they saw the
scowl that appeared on Randi’s face, expecting the worst for the doctor.

But to their astonishment, she merely glared. The doctor, who had
expected at least a smile of appreciation, was confused.

He turned hastily to Jon, who was a different matter. “That’s a nasty
battering your face took, and you’re bruised around the ribs.” He
muttered to himself as he took X rays of Jon’s injuries and was amazed
to find nothing more than the severe bruising. “Still, you’re well beat
up. I’d say you were out of action for a week … at least three or four
days. You could get an infection from those facial wounds and the
lacerations in your mouth.” “Sorry, Doc,” Jon told him. “Work to do.
Clean me up and shoot me full of antibiotics. Painkillers sound like an
attractive idea, too.”

After the doctor left, the crew provided lunch. Soup only for Jon.

Allan Savage apologized to Randi. “Sorry we were late, but Tommie tailed
you fine until they got you to the street. That’s where she lost you.

She never saw exactly where they took you. We were combing the area
building by building when you came flying out those windows. That was a
damned risky way to escape. How’d you know how high you were and what
was under the windows?”

“Don’t ask me.” Randi gave a toss of her head toward Jon. “It was his
idea. I just followed.” She wolfed down eggs and bacon.

Jon shrugged. “I figured it was an older, lower building. Anyway,
without weapons, and Feng Dun’s going for his gun and the rest of the
gang damn near into the room, we didn’t have time to even grab our
chairs and swing them. It was out the window or dead.”

There were awed looks all around.

The other female agent, Tommie Parker, said to Randi, “Who is this guy?”

“Meet Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, M.D. That’s Jon without an h. He’s a
researcher for USAMRIID. What else he is remains open for speculation,
right, Jon?”

“Randi sees conspiracies everywhere.” Jon grinned innocently. The
painkillers were taking effect. Between them and the soup, he was
beginning to feel much better. There were flesh-covered Band-Aids on his
face, and his fat lip was hardly a pretty sight. Still, he figured he
could look a lot worse. Now what he wanted was a few uninterrupted hours
of sleep.

“So do we,” Allan Savage said, studying Jon.

Jon sighed. “I’m a doctor, a microbiological scientist, and I work at
Fort Detrick for USAMRIID. Sometimes they send me on special
assignments. Especially in cases of emerging viruses. Why don’t we leave
it at that?”

Tommie frowned, her dark eyes suspicious. She had shoulder-length brown
hair and a sweet, gamin’s face that Jon had decided hid shrewd intellect
and a daring spirit. “What virus is emerging in Hong Kong, Colonel?”

“None. But there’s one inside China,” he lied, “and Donk & Lapierre’s
medical division is investigating it. The government wants to know
more.”

“Which government?” Tommie probed suspiciously.

Randi interrupted, “That’s the only thing about Jon I’m sure of–he
works for our side.”

Jon had a retort ready to fling when the last agent from the Buick,
Baxter, leaned into the first-aid room through an open door. “We’re
picking up something on the phone bug we installed in Mcdermid’s office
last night. A call just came in.”

They jumped up and ran out along the hallway and into a rear room
crammed with electronic gear, machines, and instruments. Randi and Jon
pushed through to stand close to a notebook computer from which a
woman’s voice spoke with a slight accent. “You’re Ralph Mcdermid?”