Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (51 page)

“What’s the bottom line?” “As I said, Altman and Ralph Mcdermid own the
majority shares in Consolidated Defense and reap its rewards.”

“This isn’t particularly new. Altman’s heavily invested in defense. Why
do we care about Consolidated?”

“You’re going to think this is a digression, but it’s not: Let’s discuss
the Protector mobile artillery system. It was a millimeter from final
approval. Then you decided that in our new world of terrorists and
brushfire wars, heavy artillery systems like it were outdated. Often
totally useless.”

“The Protector crushes most bridges because it’s too heavy. It can’t be
pulled out of the bog of a country road without major support. It
certainly can’t be easily airlifted. It’s irrelevant or worse.”

“It’s still irrelevant,” Klein assured him. “But that was an $11 billion
contract that just evaporated. Consider this, the Altman Group at last
count had some $12.5 billion in investments. That’s serious money for a
private equity firm. But Altman’s accustomed to making big money–more
than thirty-four percent returns annually over the past decade,
particularly through timely defense and aerospace investments.

On a single day last year, Altman earned $237 million. Impressive,
right? Also dirty. Consolidated Defense is the army’s fifth-largest
contractor, but they took Consolidated public only after the September
11 attacks, when Congress skyrocketed its support for hefty defense
spending, and only after a massive lobbying effort by that golden
Rolodex of theirs paid off in Congress’s initial approval of
Consolited’s cornerstone weapon’s program … ” The president stared,
his expression grim. “Let me guess–the Protector.”

“Bingo. The result was the $237 million bonanza.”

“And–”

“And now Altman’s assets will skyrocket billions and billions of
dollars, if you and Congress approve the Protector and put it into
production.” The president sat back, his mouth a thin line of disgust.
“That bastard.”

“Yes, sir. That’s what Ralph Mcdermid’s been up to. It’s got nothing to
do with the Empress directly. The whole thing was a setup to lead to
nose-to-nose hostility between two continental giants with nuclear
capabilities. If necessary, he’ll wheel and deal us into war to prove
the United States needs the Protector. Either way, once we board the
Empress and all hell breaks out, he’ll have proved his point. Congress
will beg for the Protector, and he’ll get his $11 billion.”

The president swore loudly. “The only thing they didn’t walk away with,
because I clamped a lid on it, was publicity that would’ve scared the
bejesus out of the public and made it easier to win approval
immediately.”

“The way I look at it, it’s damn immediate enough. All Mcdermid needs is
for us to board the Empress because it’s about to go into Iraqi waters.”

“Oh, God.” The president heaved a sigh. “Everything’s on Smith’s
shoulders. What have you heard from him?”

“He called, but he had to use code.” He paused. “I’ve got bad news, Sam.

They weren’t able to liberate your father last night. That’s China time.

Smith implied they’d try again tonight.”

The president grimaced. He closed his eyes and opened them. “Tomorrow
morning, our time–that’s when they’ll do it?”

“Yes, sir. They’ll try.”

“He didn’t say anything more about breaking him out? Whether he has
enough help? Whether he thinks he can do it?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Why couldn’t he talk more?”

“I assume he was afraid to use his secure cell phone. Which meant he was
on a public line that could’ve been monitored. It leads me to guess that
the parachute sighting was hardly solid. The local authorities must not
have located the parachute or any other evidence of insertion. With
luck, they’re skeptical.”

“I hope you’re right, Fred. Smith is going to need all the good luck he
can get, and so are we.” The president peered at the clock. “He’s got
four hours left, the way I count it, before dusk.” He shook his head.

“Four very long hours for all of us.”

Monday, September 18.

Hong Kong.

Dolores Estevez hurried across the Altman Building lobby and
out the glass entrance into the city’s humid air and rushing people.
Usually Hong Kong’s carnival atmosphere energized her. Not now. She
joined a queue of pedestrians frantically waving for taxis. But as soon
as she raised her hand, one pulled up as if by magic. She decided God
must have a soft spot for well-intentioned but late travelers. She
jumped in quickly. “The airport. Hurry.” The driver started his meter,
and the taxi inched into traffic. They crawled for a few blocks, until
the driver muttered in guttural Cantonese and swerved the vehicle into a
narrow alley. “Shortcut,” he explained.

Before Dolores could protest, he accelerated, and they were halfway
along it. She sat back nervously. Maybe he knew what he was doing. One
way or another, she needed to reach the airport where the big boss was
waiting, probably annoyed already. She was both terrified and excited by
her new assignment–his official translator at someplace called Dazu in
Sichuan. They wanted her because she could speak several dialects. She
felt comfortable in Cantonese and Mandarin, although she had found the
real thing in the field was not exactly the same as speaking in her
graduate classes or in L. A.’s Chinese restaurants. She was also nervous
about her English. No matter how hard she tried, she had not completely
lost her barrio accent. She was still worrying when the taxi screeched
to a halt near the end of the alley, the door opened, and strong hands
pulled her out. Too frightened to struggle, she had a vague impression
of seeing a fellow Latina who looked amazingly like her. She felt a
sharp pain in her arm, and blackness enveloped her.

Ralph Mcdermid reclined in his seat aboard the opulent corporate jet
reserved for his personal use, sipped his favorite single-malt Scots
whiskey– over ice, no water–and glanced at his watch for the tenth
time. Where was the damn translator? He fumed and was waving the steward
for another single-malt when a breathless woman stumbled up into the
cabin. Mcdermid eyed her with outrage that quickly became appreciation.
She was clearly Latina, one of those with high cheekbones, long, lean
faces, and touch of fiery Aztec in her eyes. Exotic.

“Mr. Mcdermid,” she said in English with more than a hint of L. A.’s
South Central barrio. It was an accent he would have taken as a sign of
lack of education and ambition in a man, but in a woman, it was
charming. “I’m Dolores Estevez, your translator and interpreter. I
apologize for being late, but they gave me terribly short notice. Of
course, the traffic was impossible.”

Mcdermid detected a slight lisp. Better and better. Her body was
magnificent in any ethnic or national category. Her name was delightful.

Dolores. He rolled it through his mind. When this was over, and they
were back in Hong Kong, she would probably jump at the chance to please
the uber boss.

“Completely understandable, my dear. Please sit down. There would be
fine.” He nodded at the plush seat facing him. She smiled, all of a
sudden shy. At first he smiled back, then he frowned. There was
something … familiar. Yes, he had seen her before. Recently. “Have we
met? In the office, perhaps.”

She beamed while shrinking back in the seat. Her shyness was refreshing.

“Yes, sir. A few times. Once yesterday.” A slight boldness. “I thought
you didn’t notice.” “Of course, I did.” Still, as he smiled, he felt an
uncomfortable twinge. Was every woman beginning to look familiar?

At that moment, the pilot poked his head into the private compartment.

“Is everyone aboard, sir?”

“Everyone, Carson. You’ve filed our papers and the flight plan?”

“Yes, sir. You’ll have about two hours aloft, all in all. Customs will
hold you up some when we land, but your papers should get you VIP
treatment. Weather looks smooth all the way.”

“Excellent. Take her up.”

As the steward arrived with his next whiskey, he offered a drink to his
new translator. She crossed her legs with a flash of thigh. At that
point, he decided he could do worse for companionship, and the prospect
of having the manifest by morning made him feel like his old genial
self. He rested his head back and gazed out the window. As the big jet
rolled down the runway, he tried not to worry about what would happen.

Hell, he was willing to pay two million dollars for the manifest. Of
course he would get it.

Dazu.

Jon and Asgar spent the daylight hours analyzing reports from the Uigher
scouts and working through endless scenarios they might face tonight,
interspersed with poker. Asgar ended up winning a few dollars, which Jon
considered a donation to international goodwill. His thoughts never left
the coming missions. He was determined to succeed at both, while Asgar,
whose Uigher pride was involved, was equally eager to strike a blow for
democracy and freedom in China.

Both worried about encountering what they had not envisioned. The
thought of failure was impossible.

According to Asgar’s people, the usual rafts of visitors had come and
gone around the Sleeping Buddha, enjoying the beauty and spiritual
quality of the centuries-old art, while local vendors aggressively
hawked postcards and plastic statues. A normal day. Thus far, there had
been no sign of Me-Dermid’s people, nor of Li Kuonyi and Yu Yongfu, but
the hills and mesas around the Buddha Grottos were largely open, so it
was possible they could arrive unnoticed at any time, particularly after
dark, hiking or riding in overland in vehicles or on horses, or
disguised as tourists or vendors.

At the same time, the news from the prison was encouraging: The
lockdown was over. No pallet check tonight, and tomorrow morning the
prisoners would return to the fields. The harvest season had
begun–cabbage, beets, bok choy, tomatoes, as well as the usual rice and
chili peppers. Asgar figured that had played a large role in the
decision. Once darkness had cloaked Dazu’s rolling hills and valleys,
Jon, Asgar, and a dozen guerrillas drove to the prison and hid their
vehicles as before. Now they and two of the Uigher fighters lay flat in
cover across from the no-man’s land and chain-link fence. The prison
yard appeared quiet. The mess hall was shadowy and still. The double
doors in the rear wall were closed, the rutted dirt drive deserted. From
the barracks, an occasional voice rose in mournful song or macabre
laughter, but the governor and the guards made no showing. All of this
information was vital, since the prison was still on medium alert. Jon
and Asgar had decided they would improve the odds of a clean, quiet
escape for Thayer and Chiavelli if they sneaked inside. They planned to
take the same hidden route in which they hoped to bring them out.

Motionless, growing tense, at last they spotted movement. One of the
double doors had opened and closed. Or had it? Jon stared, trying to
pick out a shape, a form, anything. Then he saw it–a wraith low to the
ground, a cross between a snake and a cat, scrambling through the
ten-yard-wide blind spot to the fence. It was a small man in the usual
drab prison uniform. He looked up at them once, spotted Asgar, and
nodded.

Asgar nodded back and whispered to Jon, “It’s Ibrahim. Let’s cover him.”

Noise was an enemy tonight. The last weapon they would use was their
guns, even though they had screwed on noise suppressors. It was a myth
that “silenced” gunfire was silent. Although it was quieter than regular
fire, each bullet still gave off a loud pop, like a low-grade
firecracker. With luck, their hands, feet, knives, and garottes would be
enough. Still, they raised their pistols, sweeping over the grounds, in
case of the worst. Beside them, the two Uigher fighters did the same.

They must protect this man who was risking so much. Jon’s heart held a
slow, steady beat, while tension fought to accelerate it. Ibrahim
continued to scrape away the loamy soil until he had gone down what
looked like a foot. Moments later, he raised a square of wood about
three-by-three. He dove into the hole and vanished. Almost immediately,
the dirt moved on the other side of the fence. It shifted, shook, and
another wood panel arose. Ibrahim’s head popped out, disappeared again,
and reappeared on the far side of the fence. The channel was clear.
Asgar whispered, “Our turn.” He rose to a crouch and scuttled to the
fence, with Jon and the two Uigher guerrillas close behind. Jon peered
down into the hole. It was a deep depression that had been scooped under
the fence and covered with the two wood squares that met just beneath
the chain links. “Go,” Asgar said in a low voice. “I’ve got your back.”

Headfirst, Jon scrambled down, emerged on the prison side, and ran after
Ibrahim to the mess hall, dirt flying from his clothes. He slid inside
and turned to aim out his Beretta. The Uighers had replaced the wood on
both sides of the fence and were pushing dirt back over. As Asgar ran to
join Jon and Ibrahim, the remaining pair outside produced brushes and
meticulously smoothed the dirt, making the night’s disturbance
unnoticeable. When the last Uigher bolted into the mess hall, Ibrahim
led them at a trot through the shadowy kitchen and deserted mess hall.

They peered out the windows. Moonlight illuminated wood walkways that
united three large barracks, joined them with the mess hall, and
branched out to other buildings, guaranteeing dry feet for the governor
during rainy seasons. All the buildings were raised on three-foot posts,
indicating the seriousness of the seasonal storms. There were no trees
and no grass, just soil that had been packed hard by many feet. Two
armed guards patrolled this area, rifles over their shoulders, yawning
sleepily, perhaps because they’d had to patrol last night during the
lockdown, too. Ibrahim consulted in a low voice with Asgar, who nodded
and told Jon, “Be ready. When I say go, we run out to the right and
slide under the barrack there.” Ibrahim waited until the guards were at
the ends of their routes and their backs were turned. He and Asgar
clapped each other on both shoulders in farewell, and Ibrahim raced out
of the mess hall, but to the left. He made no attempt to be silent. In
fact, his footfalls were thumps on the hardpan. Both guards revived from
their walking doze and spun, rifles aimed. Each barked the same Chinese
word, which Jon figured must mean “halt.” Ibrahim froze. His head
dropped in fake guilt. The men approached warily. They relaxed when they
saw his face. Their lips curled as they spoke mockingly in Chinese.