Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (5 page)

This time the president didn’t prompt him, but he frowned, puzzled by
what could be unsettling the iron chief of Covert-One.

At last Klein continued: “There’s an old man being held in a prison farm
in China who claims to be an American. He says he’s been a prisoner
since Chiang’s defeat in 1949.”

President Castilla nodded, his face sober. “Things like that did happen
to our people after World War Two. Probably to many more than we
actually knew about or suspected. Nevertheless, it’s outrageous and
totally unacceptable, as well as unconscionable, that he’s still being
held today. It’s one of the reasons I insisted the human-rights treaty
include outside inspectors to investigate foreign prisoners of war. In
any case, if it’s true and we have firm intel, we’ll have to do
something about him immediately. Does this American have a name?”

Klein watched the president’s face. “David Thayer.”

The president showed no reaction. No reaction at all. As if he had not
heard. As if he still waited for Klein to say a name. Then he blinked.

He swiveled in his chair. Abruptly he stood up, strode to the window
behind his desk, and stared out, hands clasped in a white knot behind
his back.

“Sir?”

Samuel Castilla’s back was rigid, as if he had just received a beating.

“After all these years? How is it possible? There was no way he was
still alive–”

“What happened–?” Klein began but did not finish. With a sinking
stomach, he knew the answer to the question.

The president turned, sat down again, leaned back, his eyes seeing
somewhere faraway in both space and time. “He disappeared in China when
I was in diapers. The State Department, the military, and Truman’s own
staff people tried to find him, but we were heavily opposed to Mao’s
Communists, as you know, and they had no love for us. But we did manage
to get some clandestine information from the Soviets and some American
and British sources in China, and all of it indicated Thayer was dead.

Either he’d died fighting, had been captured and executed by the
Communists, or killed by Chiang’s own people for trying to talk to the
Reds. He’d told my mother he was going to try to do that before he
left.”

He inhaled deeply and gave Klein a small smile. “Serge Castilla was
another State Department man, a close friend of Thayer’s. He led State’s
efforts to locate him, which threw him into almost weekly contact with
my mother. Because I was so small, there was no way she could explain
what was happening. By the time I was four, everyone finally accepted
Thayer was dead. With Serge and my mother, one thing led to another, and
they married that year, and he adopted me. By then, as far as I was
concerned, Serge was my father, and David Thayer was just a name. When I
was in my late teens, she filled me in on everything they’d learned
about his time in China, which was damn little. I didn’t see any purpose
in telling the world, because Serge was my dad. He’d raised me, had been
there for me through chicken pox and spelling tests, and I loved him.

Since we had the same last name, people never bothered to ask whether he
was my biological father.”

The president shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. He
met Klein’s worried gaze steadily. “David Thayer is part of my history,
but at the same time, I have no memory of him.”

“It’s a thousand to one this man is simply an opportunist, possibly a
common criminal, probably not even American. He could’ve met Thayer back
before he vanished. So now he’s on a low-security farm, has heard about
you and your efforts to make China give more respect to human rights,
and he sees an opportunity to get out of there.”

“If that were true, how could he have guessed Thayer had a son who’d
grow up to be an American president, especially one with the last name
of Castilla?”

Klein frowned. “For that matter, sir, how would the real David Thayer
know about you? He knew he had a son, but he couldn’t know his widow
would marry Serge Castilla.”

“That’s simple enough. If this man really is David Thayer, he could’ve
simply put two and two together. He knew he had a son named Samuel
Adams, and a close friend named Castilla. Spelled the way our family
does, Castilla is hardly common. My age would fit exactly.”

“Of course, you’re right,” Klein admitted. “But what about the leaks?

Maybe we have a spy in the White House who told Beijing and this is one
of their convoluted setups.”

The president shook his head. “I never tried to hide that Serge adopted
me, but it wasn’t something that tended to come up in conversation. No
one beyond my immediate family, not even Charlie Ouray, knows exactly
who and what my birth father was and what happened to him. Not even you
knew that. I didn’t want to trade on sympathy or embarrass my mother.”

“Someone always knows, and remembers, and has a price.”

“And you’re always the cynic.”

“It’s part of the territory.” Klein smiled thinly.

“I suppose it is.”

Klein hesitated again. “All right. Say we can’t be sure he’s not real.

He could be your father. If he is, what do you want to do?”

The president leaned back in his chair again, took off his glasses, and
ran his big hands over his face. He sighed heavily. “I want to meet him,
of course. I can’t think of anything right now that would make my jaded
old heart sing the way that would. Imagine, my real father is alive.

Imagine that. Incredible. When I was a little boy, despite all my love
for Serge, I used to dream about David Thayer.” He paused, his face
filled with melancholy and long-ago loss.

He shrugged and waved a hand in dismissal. “All right. So that’s the
dream. Realistically, what does the president of the United States want?

I want him out of China, of course. He’s an American. Therefore, he
deserves the complete support of his country. As I would with any
American who has been through the ordeal that he has, I want to meet
him, thank him for his courage, and shake his hand. But that said, there
are international consequences to consider. There’s The Dowager Empress,
and there’s the potential of deadly cargo that it’s ferrying to a
country that would like to destroy us.”

“Yessir, there is.”

“If we find the ship is carrying the chemicals and we have to board it,
I can’t imagine the treaty will be signed. Certainly not this year,
probably not until a new administration takes over. There’ll be more
delays as the Chinese feel out the new Oval Office China policy. Thayer,
given his age, will probably never get out.”

“Probably not, Sam.”

The president grimaced, but his voice was hard, unyielding as he
continued, “And that can’t matter. Not for a second. If she’s carrying
chemicals for weapons, the Empress must be stopped, or sunk if
necessary. For the moment, we do nothing about this old man in China. Is
that clear?”

“Absolutely, Mr. President.”

Thursday, September 14.

Shanghai, China.

The Air China jet from Tokyo flew in over the East China Sea and arced
across the vast delta of the Yangtze River. Through his window, Jon
Smith studied the green land, the dense buildings, and the haze that had
settled like wisps of cotton in the low areas of what was one of Asia’s
most powerful cities.

His gaze swept from the congested Yangtze River north to Chongming
Island, as he silently grappled with the problem of the missing manifest
and the alarming cost of its loss. When the jet landed at Pudong
International Airport at exactly 1322 hours, he had come to no
conclusion except that if the human-rights treaty were imperative,
keeping more chemical weapons out of Saddam Hussein’s hands was probably
even more so.

With their colleagues smiling around them, Dr. Liang Tianning escorted
Dr. Jon Smith from the jet. Not large by Western standards, the terminal
was ultramodern, with potted plants and a high blue ceiling. The ticket
counters were packed with men in business suits, both European and
Chinese, a symptom of Shanghai’s drive to become the New York City of
Asia.

A few glanced at Smith and his companions, but the looks showed idle
curiosity, nothing more.

Outdoors, a black limousine was waiting among the eager taxis. The
instant they were seated in the rear, the driver pulled into traffic. He
managed to dodge three taxis and two pedestrians, who leaped for their
lives. Smith turned to see whether they were safe, while no one else
paid the slightest attention, which said a lot about local driving
customs. Also it gave him a clear view of a small, dark-blue car that
appeared to be a Volkswagen Jetta. It had been parked among the taxis
but was now directly behind the limo.

Was someone else expecting him–someone who had nothing to do with
biomolecular science and was unsure whether he was who and what Dr.
Liang said? The Jetta driver might simply be an ordinary Shanghainese,
who had mistakenly parked among the taxis instead of inside the garage
while waiting to pick up a returning friend or relative. Still, it was
remarkable that the driver had chosen the identical moment to leave the
terminal.

Smith said nothing about it to Dr. Liang. As the men discussed viral
agents, the limo glided onto an express highway, heading west through
the soggy delta, which was barely above sea level for the entire
nineteen miles. Shanghai’s toothy skyline came into view–a new city,
almost entirely the work of the last decade. First came the sprawling
Pudong New District, with the needle-sharp point of the Oriental Pearl
Tower and the squarer but also soaring eighty-eight-story Jin Mao
Building. Expensive architecture with all the accouterments of luxury
and high technology. Only a dozen years ago, this land had been a flat
marsh that supplied the city with vegetables.

The conversation turned to plans for Smith’s visit as the limo continued
through Pudong, under the Huangpu River, and into Puxi and the Bund,
which until 1990 had been the heart of old Shanghai. Now a phalanx of
glistening skyscrapers towered above the neoclassical business offices
of the city’s colonial period.

At People’s Park, Smith had a close view of the cars, bicycles, and
individuals who mobbed the streets, a sea of life on the move. For a few
seconds, he paused to contemplate it all: The massive new construction.

The evidence of outrageous wealth. The tooth-to-jowl humanity. Shanghai
was China’s most populous city, larger even than Hong Kong or Beijing.

But Shanghai wanted more. It wanted a prominent place on the world’s
economic stage. It gave nodding obeisance to the past, but its interest
was focused on the future.

As the limo made a right turn toward the river, Dr. Liang came close to
wringing his hands. “You are sure, Dr. Smith, that you do not wish a
room at the Grand Hyatt in Jin Mao Tower? It is a modern hotel,
magnificent. The restaurants and amenities are beyond compare. You would
be most comfortable there, I assure you. In addition, it is far more
convenient to our Biomedical Research Institute in Zhangjiang, where we
will go when you are settled. The Peace Hotel is historic, yes–but it
is scarcely four star.”

Covert-One’s research people had informed him that there were only three
Starbucks coffee shops in Shanghai at the moment, and all were on the
Puxi side of the river, two not far from the Bund.

He smiled and said, “I’ve always wanted to stay at the old Peace Hotel,
Dr. Liang. Call it the whim of a history buff.” The scientist sighed.
“Then of course. Naturally.”

The limousine turned south onto the scenic street that skirted the
river, with the Bund’s colonial buildings on one side and the Huangpu
broad and flowing on the other. Smith gazed out at the row of stately
businesses and houses that overlooked the river. Here was the heart of
the old British Concession, which had established itself in 1842 and
held convulsively to power for nearly a century, until the Japanese
finally captured the city during World War II.

Dr. Liang leaned forward and pointed. “There is your Peace Hotel.”

“I see it. Thanks.”

Crowned by a green pyramid, it was twelve stories of Gothic architecture
by way of the Chicago School. A notorious Shanghai millionaire, Victor
Sas-soon, had built it in 1929, after making a fortune trading in opium
and weapons.

As the limousine pulled to a stop before the arched entrance, Dr. Liang
informed Smith, “I will register you in the name of the Biomedical
Institute.” He climbed out.

Smith followed, casually making a 360-degree survey. He saw no sign of
the dark-blue car that had left Pudong International with them. But as
he stepped into the revolving doors, he noted their driver had also left
the limo, raised the hood, and seemed to be examining the engine, which
had been operating with the perfection of a Swiss timepiece, at least to
Smith’s ear.

The lobby was Art Deco, little changed since the Roaring Twenties, which
had roared especially loudly in Shanghai. Dr. Liang steered Smith left,
across the white Italian-marble floor, to the registration desk. The
haughty desk clerk looked down his nose at Dr. Liang as he registered
and then over at Smith. He made little effort to conceal his arrogance.
Dr. Liang spoke to him in low, harsh Chinese, and Smith heard what
sounded like the name of the research institute. Fear flashed in the
clerk’s eyes.

Instantly he became almost obsequious toward the Western guest. Despite
the aura of freewheeling capitalism that had enlarged the city, Shanghai
was in China, China was still a Communist country, and Dr. Liang
appeared to be a great deal more influential than he had let anyone at
the Taiwan conference see. As the clerk summoned a bellman, Dr. Liang
presented Smith with his room key. “I regret a suite could not be
authorized, but your room will be most spacious and comfortable. Do you
wish to freshen up before we continue to the institute?”