Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (54 page)

Asgar spun the wheel to miss a wild dog that had darted across the road.

“You’re absolutely right in every detail, Dr. Thayer. Couldn’t have
given a better report myself. But how do you know all this?” he asked
suspiciously.

“Our prisoners are sent to clean and repair the Buddha art. I was
interested, so sometimes I was allowed to go, too. In Chinese culture,
the old are respected simply because they’ve managed to live a long
time, even if they are prisoners.”

At last, the trio of vehicles parked off in the trees. The Uighers
jumped out and piled brush on the cars to camouflage them. Thayer walked
around, stretching his legs, while Chiavelli accompanied him, keeping
close watch.

“Time to go,” Jon told the two at last. He gave Chiavelli the limo’s
keys. “Asgar’s written out directions to the hideout. If we’re not back
by dawn, you’ll have to take him there yourself.”

“No problem. Then what?”

“Asgar’s sister, Alani, will smuggle you both to the best border.”

“Got it. Good luck.” Chiavelli looked at him a moment, understanding
passing between them, and he ushered Thayer toward the limo.

As they climbed into the front seat, Thayer’s voice became shy. “Did you
ever meet my son, Dennis? What can you tell me about him?” The captain’s
answer was lost with the closing of the doors.

The Uighers finished camouflaging the limo. With weapons, flashlights,
and maps, Asgar led them off onto a path filled with shadows and dark
trees and plants that brushed against them. The fecund scent of growing
things was all around them. One of the Uighers had been to the grotto,
and he gave his opinions, which Asgar translated for Jon. Avoiding the
usual routes, they climbed uphill single file, trying not to stumble on
loose stones or fall against rocks into the brush.

As the trail flattened, Jon said, “Asgar, when we get near the Sleeping
Buddha, we’ll stop just above and to the side. We’ll use the vegetation
for cover.”

“You give the orders this time, my friend.”

“We’ll take positions where we can see anyone who comes down from the
entrance steps as well as whoever stops in front of the Buddha. My
intelligence agrees with what Dr. Thayer said–there are a lot of places
to hide among the statues and carvings. That’s going to make our job
even harder. Spread your men out so we can watch as much of the grotto
as possible.”

“Sounds like a bit of a challenge,” Asgar said dryly. “How long do we
have?”

“No way to know. The ” may end up being at dawn after all.”

“Daylight won’t be kind to us. If you’re planning to get the manifest
out of China, we’d jolly well better be halfway to the border by
sunrise.”

“I expect everything to blow up long before then. Daylight won’t be kind
to them either.”

They lapsed into silence. The group kept their voices low and their
footsteps careful as their path headed downhill. As Thayer promised, a
riot of vegetation surrounded them. Above, the moon illuminated the tops
of trees and bushes and created black, impenetrable shadows beneath.

Ahead waited the Sleeping Buddha, where Jon would face Feng Dun and Li
Kuonyi once more, and where, one way or the other, the mission would
end.

The Arabian Sea.

The communications technician turned from his radio controls. “It’s the
Shilo, sir. They want our exact position now and our estimated position
in ten hours.”

It. Commander Frank Bienas leaned over the radioman. “Send our present
fix. I’ll work out the estimated. But tell them ten hours won’t cut it.”

Bienas sat down and went to work on the chart. The radioman sent the
exec’s message to the approaching cruiser and leaned back to wait for
the response. He stretched in his seat, nearing the end of his watch and
aching from the long hours they had been putting in. Bienas continued to
plot the Crowe’s projected course and finally sat back, too, shaking his
head.

The radioman was listening on his earphones. He called over his
shoulder, “Shilo says ten hours is the best they can do to get here.

They’re pouring on all they’ve got already.”

“You tell ‘ by then we’ll be in the Gulf, and that’s way too chancy.

They need to be here in under six, or they might as well go home and
bake cookies.” Worried, he announced, “Anyone wants me, I’m on the
bridge.” He made his way up and out to the dark deck and on up to the
bridge, where Commander Chervenko had taken charge an hour ago.

When Bienas entered, Chervenko’s night binoculars were directed toward
the distant running lights of The Dowager Empress. “She’s picked up a
knot in the last hour. Like a dog smelling home.” “The Shilo says ten
hours,” Bienas reported.

Chervenko did not turn or lower his binoculars. “Brose did the best he
could. Trouble was, the Fifth Fleet’s too far south, and we’re moving
away from them. They’ll never reach us in time.”

“Not much they could do we can’t anyway,” Bienas decided, sounding tough
and optimistic.

“Except be twice as formidable.” The skipper was realistic. “What’s the
sub doing?” “Holding steady. Hastings says he’s picking up what sounds
like prepping for attack. There’s activity in the forward torpedo room.”

“They know we’re close to showdown time, Frank. We can’t let the Empress
get into the Persian Gulf. We’d be vulnerable to land-based air attack,
torpedo boats, you name it, and no telling who’d get enthusiastic and
want to join the act. Tehran might decide their interests were involved,
too, and then we’d have one hell of a swell party.”

Bienas nodded grimly. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the commander,
staring out through the night at the running lights ahead as both ships
sailed steadily closer to confrontation.

Dazu.

“There it is.” Asgar’s voice was low but full of uncharacteristic
awe.

He and Jon stopped among the thick canopy of trees and heavy underbrush.

They had come to an opening slightly above and to the side, on the same
flank of the mountainside as the carvings. Although they could not see
the full scope of the thousands of pieces of rock art that extended
hundreds of meters, the painted Sleeping Buddha itself and the statues
around it spread before them in a breathtaking panorama, glowing in the
candle-wax moonlight.

The other Uighers stopped to stare, too. The giant Sleeping Buddha
reclined on his right side in the center of the horseshoe-shaped cliff.

Its back sunk into the cliff, the Buddha was more than a hundred feet
long and almost twenty feet high, a rendition of Prince Sakyamuni
sleeping the sleep of the Enlightened as he entered Nirvana. Puny next
to him, life-sized statues of Bodhisattvas and period officials wearing
hats stood in a stone stream so close they could touch him. Protected
from the weather only by the rock overhang that David Thayer had
described, the timeless Sleeping Buddha was in full, spectral view.

Where they had stopped was a good place to set up watch. Jon and Asgar
dispersed the Uighers into the undergrowth and found positions for
themselves near each other, to make issuing orders easier. Under a tree,
they began the wait, which could be long or short. In either case, Jon
kept his excitement under control. He had been close to taking the
manifest before, and each time he had failed. He would get no other
chance. He dismissed a shiver of anxiety and studied the display of
carvings, memorizing it, so if either group arrived and hid, he would
have the panorama firmly in mind. He could afford no more mistakes.

Other carved figures in various niches stretched around the stone
crescent. Stone statues guarded the dark openings of caves. Low, painted
steel fences separated most of the carvings from the public, which would
arrive tomorrow morning. No one was around, not tourists, not vendors,
not spiritual seekers, not police. The darkness stirred only with a
light wind, small animals rustling away, and night birds flapping into
hiding.

“When do you think someone’s going to appear?” Asgar kept his voice
hushed. “Morning’s not so far away.” “No idea. As I said, the meeting
was to happen by daylight, but my instincts tell me they’ll show up long
before then.”

“Better be before the tourists.”

“I hope so. But Li Kuonyi and Yu Yongfu might want the cover of crowds.

Still, they must realize by now that Feng Dun will kill anyone in his
way to get the manifest, so crowds won’t be much help. No, they’ll
expect something underhanded from Feng, which tells me they’ll arrive
early. Early enough to be here before Feng, so they can set a
countertrap.”

But despite Jon’s carefully thought-out assessment, he was wrong. Less
than a half hour later, there was movement at the top of the stone
stairs on the other side of the Sleeping Buddha. Jon focused his
night-vision binoculars. There were five men, three of whom Jon
recognized from Hong Kong and Shanghai–part of Feng Dun’s gang. All
were armed with what looked like British assault rifles. But Feng was
not among them.

“Damn,” Jon breathed.

“What is it? Trouble?” Asgar stared through the night to where Jon was
watching the men make their way down the stairs into the valley and the
crescent of carvings.

“Feng Dun’s not with them,” Jon said. He stopped and stared. He swore.

“That’s one hell of a surprise.” As the five men continued downward,
another man had appeared in the moonlight and started down, too,
carrying a medium-sized suitcase. Ralph Mcdermid himself. “It’s
Mcdermid. The big honcho we think masterminded the whole deal.”

“The muckity-muck himself? Isn’t that odd?”

“Maybe not. Feng’s gotten the manifest only once. He’s botched it every
other time. Mcdermid might’ve decided to take no chances. He’s probably
decided that Li Kuonyi and her husband would tend to trust him more. If
the two million isn’t legitimate, they know he can’t stall and blame
someone else to gain time. On the other hand, maybe he’s here because he
no longer trusts Feng.”

“He might’ve bribed his people away from him,” Asgar said.

“Right. Still, I don’t like unexpected developments from the enemy. It
usually means I’ve missed something.” The armed band continued to
descend warily and in open order, looking as if they were guarding
against an ambush. Mcdermid halted the group at least twenty feet above
the grotto floor and motioned them to hide facing the Sleeping Buddha.

The Altman CEO used a bush for cover. Asgar said, “Looks as if Mcdermid
expects Yu and Li to come down the stairs, too. He’d be able to confront
them there.” If that was what Mcdermid had in mind, this time he was the
one who was wrong. A burly man appeared first, walking alertly alongside
the Sleeping Buddha in the moonlight. He came not down the stairs but
emerged from somewhere to the Buddha’s right, from among the statuary,
just as David Thayer had suggested was possible. Through Jon’s
binoculars, he saw what appeared to be a 9mm Glock tucked inside the
man’s waistband in front. Li Kuonyi followed onto the grotto walkway.

She stopped beside the burly man and gazed all around. She wore a sleek,
black pantsuit and a high-collared hooded jacket against the chill of
the mountain mists and carried an attache case, where the manifest
likely was. Jon strained to see her face, but her high collar covered
much of it, and her hair was hidden beneath the hood. Still, he had no
doubt who she was. He would not soon forget the image of her drinking
alone in the silent mansion in Shanghai. The man who walked close behind
as if afraid to be alone was somewhere in his early thirties, with a
boyish face and a slim, wiry body. A man who watched his weight and took
very good care of himself. But not now.

Strain showed in his glazed eyes and furrowed brow. He looked dissipated
and frightened. Days with little sleep had taken their toll on the man
Jon suspected was Li Kuonyi’s husband, Yu Yongfu. He wore a crumpled
Italian suit that was probably custom made, a wilted regimental tie
loose at the throat, scuffed dress boots, and a wrinkled
white-and-blue-striped shirt. He stayed close behind his wife, his gaze
darting nervously into every shadow.

A fourth person–another man–glided out of the dark to join them. Jon
did not recognize him. Slimmer, his eyes had an unnatural gleam, like a
bipolar patient in a manic state. Clearly another enforcer and far more
dangerous.

With Li Kuonyi in the lead, the four walked past the Sleeping Buddha and
peered up the stone steps.

She set the attache case on the ground and called out in English, “Feng?

I know you’re there. We heard you. Do you have our money?”

Monday, September 18.

Washington, D.C.

Admiral Stevens Brose announced, “Three hours, sir.”

“Don’t you think I can count, Admiral!” the president snapped. He
blinked and took a long breath. “Sorry, Stevens. It’s this waiting and
not knowing what, if anything, is happening. We’ve been down to counting
minutes before, but those were attacks initiated by an enemy, and all we
could do was use everything we had to stop the attack. This is
different. This is a confrontation we initiated, where we can’t use
anything we have, and soon I’m going to have to give an order that could
send us, China, and the rest of the world into a war none of us will be
able to control. There’s someone in China who wants that, and he’ll be
there to act–retaliate–as soon as we move on the Empress.”

They were alone in the situation room. The admiral had requested the
meeting, and the president had thought it best to talk where no one else
could hear them. All the high-ranking military and civilian defense
personnel were already walking on nails, and the talkative West Wing
staff was oddly silent, as if holding their collective breath.

“I don’t envy you, sir.”

President Castilla gave a humorless laugh. “Everyone envies me, Stevens.