Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (55 page)

Haven’t you heard? I’m the most powerful person on earth, and everyone
wants to be me.”

“Yessir,” the admiral said. “The Shilo isn’t going to get there in
time.”

“Then may God, and our man in China, help us.”

Tuesday, September 17.

Dazu.

There was an electric pause as Li Kuonyi and her terrified husband
waited for Feng Dun to appear.

Through his binoculars, Jon watched Ralph Mcdermid’s emphatic but
whispered orders to his men. From the distance and in the green glow of
night vision, Jon thought the Altman CEO was telling them to stand by,
on no account to do anything without his signal.

Then Mcdermid stood up from beneath his bush and descended the stairs,
smiling and carrying the suitcase.

He had nearly reached the bottom, when Li Kuonyi announced, “That’s far
enough.”

“She’s speaking English,” Asgar noted.

“If her gunmen don’t know English, then it’s a good way to make certain
they don’t really understand what’s going on,” Jon said.

“Who are you?” she asked Mcdermid suspiciously. “Where’s Feng Dun?”

“I’m Ralph Mcdermid, Mrs. Yu. I’m the one who’s going to pay you two
million dollars.” He patted his suitcase.

Jon saw Yu Yongfu whisper in his wife’s ear. Her eyes widened, as if Yu
had confirmed Mcdermid’s identity. “Is that the cash?” “Indeed, it is,”
Mcdermid said. “Is the document in your attache case?”

With the toe of her shoe, Li touched the case. “Yes. But before you have
any ideas about taking it from us by force with the men you’ve hidden up
there, you should know the case is booby-trapped. I’ll trigger it the
moment you make one wrong move. Is that clear?”

Mcdermid smiled at Li Kuonyi as if she were the most delectable woman he
had ever seen. As if he enjoyed every moment of doing business with her,
and Jon understood for the first time the false face Mcdermid showed the
world was, to him, simply business. Even in pleasure, it was no doubt
business. And, of course, all business was pleasure, a game to be won,
the higher the stakes, the better. Life as transaction. It was an
automatic reaction, like breathing.

“Perfectly,” he told her in his genial voice. “You’ll want to count the
money, of course.”

“Of course. Bring it down here and return to where you are now.”

Mcdermid descended the final few feet, laid his suitcase flat on the
ground, and climbed backward, never taking his gaze from Li and the
three men, while above him his hidden gunmen waited with their assault
weapons aimed.

A sense of excited expectancy radiated from the couple even from where
Jon, Asgar, and the Uigher fighters watched from the hillside. The
husband and wife glanced at each other, their eyes alight.

Li Kuonyi told Yu, “Examine it, my husband.”

His face eager, Yu squatted and unhooked the clasps on the suitcase. For
a moment, Li Kuonyi and the two bodyguards took their eyes off the hill
to watch the suitcase’s lid being raised. That was their mistake.

As if on signal, Feng Dun arose from the thick shrubs on the slope above
where Mcdermid’s five men lay, an assault rifle in his large hands. He
fired, and the long bank facing the Sleeping Buddha erupted in a barrage
of automatic fire. The noise was volcanic, shattering the stillness of
the night, as the bullets whined and screamed, hailing down on Li
Kuonyi, her husband, and their two bodyguards. None had a chance.

Li Kuonyi’s throat was nearly severed, blood spouting as she fell. As
bullets riddled his chest, Yu Yongfu surged up then collapsed over the
suitcase. The beefy bodyguard was still trying to understand what was
happening when he was cut down. Only the second gunman managed to get
his pistol halfway out before he slammed back against the low steel
fence in front of the Sleeping Buddha and catapulted over in slow
motion, blood spraying out from bullet holes throughout his body.

On the hill between Feng’s men and the floor of the valley, the five who
had arrived with Mcdermid lay dead in the undergrowth, too.

As the valley turned sepulchral with shocked silence, Mcdermid froze
where he stood, his mouth open in shock. Feng and a dozen men burst from
the bushes and spilled down the steps.

Ralph Mcdermid screamed, his face a deep, choleric red: “I told you to
stay away! I told you I would handle it! What have you done, you idiot!”
“What have I done, Taipan?” Feng said as he reached the corpses. “I’ve
made certain the manifest will not fall into American or Chinese hands.

I’ve earned two million dollars. Perhaps most personally important, I’ve
eliminated an insolent, worthless, rich American.”

As Feng fired a short burst from his assault rifle, Mcdermid’s eyes
opened wide, as if in understanding. The bullets riddled his heart and
flung him backward, arms outstretched. He fell, sprawled, on the stone
walkway. Feng laughed, kicked away Li Kuonyi’s corpse, and grabbed the
attache case.

On the hill above and to the side, Jon and the Uighers had had no time
to stop the bloodbath. Asgar swore and waved to his men, who were
already aiming their AK-47s at Feng and his killers.

“No!” Jon said instantly. “Tell them to hold their fire. Tell them to
stay hidden!”

“He’ll get away with your manifest, Jon!”

“No!” Jon snapped. “Wait!”

The Arabian Sea.

Commander James Chervenko lay on his bunk in his quarters, but he was
wide awake. He had left the bridge to Frank Bienas two hours before,
with what he knew was the unneeded order to call him the moment there
was a new development. In any event, to check in no later than 0400
hours. He had gone below ostensibly to sleep, although he had known from
experience that was hopeless. Still, the semblance of normalcy helped
calm the crew, and the time alone gave him an opportunity to think
carefully about how best to handle the Chinese submarine.

When a call from the Shilo was put through, he took it instantly. The
news was terrible: The Shilo was definitely not going to reach them in
time.

“How long do you have, Jim?” Captain Michael Scotto asked.

“Less than three hours.”

“You at stations?”

“Not until I absolutely have to.”

A brief silence. “You’re cutting it fine.”

“It’s dark, and radar tells me they’re running on the surface. They can
pick up our activity. I won’t be the one to pull the trigger until I’m
ordered to.”

“It’s a risk. If they decide to start it … ” Scotto on the Shilo let
the sentence trail off.

“I know, Mike. I’ll take that risk, but I won’t start it.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. Get here as fast as you can.” They broke the connection.

Neither commander needed to say more. Each knew what was involved. In a
naval engagement, anything could happen, and the Shilo might still be
able to help. If not, it could pick up survivors, if there were any
survivors.

Chervenko had barely closed his eyes to try to catch at least an hour of
sleep, when his intercom came alive: “Sir, the sub’s diving. Sonar says
they sound like they’re running fish in.”

Chervenko’s lungs tightened, and his stomach knotted. “On my way.”

He jumped up, splashed cold water on his face, combed his hair,
straightened his clothes, put on his cap, and left the quarters. On
deck, he stared aft but saw nothing.

On the bridge, Bienas nodded ahead toward the running lights of The
Dowager Empress. “She’s picked up more speed. Close to her top fifteen.”

“The sub?”

“Sonar confirms she’s arming.”

“Moving in?”

“Not yet.”

“She will. Let’s go to stations, Frank.”

Bienas nodded to the specialist on the ship’s intercom.

He leaned to his microphone. His young voice quavered with nerves as he
bellowed: “Battle stations! Battle stations!”

Dazu.

Asgar waved his hand frantically to stop his Uighers from firing down
the slope at Feng Dun and his men. Some wore Chinese army uniforms.

Jon stared, shocked, at the soldiers, while Asgar stared at him. “Are
you mad, Jon? Feng’s going to get the money and your manifest!”

But Jon had been watching the events carefully. He shook his head,
disgusted he had not seen the truth earlier. But then, neither Ralph
Mcdermid nor Feng Dun had either.

“Doubt it,” Jon said. “It’s a trick. Has to be.”

Asgar was more confused. “A trick? What trick? Feng and his people
murdered everyone, and now he’s getting away with your bloody manifest
and two million dollars!”

Jon shook his head stubbornly. “No. Keep your men alert. Watch.”

Down in front of the great Buddha, Feng crouched before the attache case
while his men stood at equal paces around, guarding, nervous excitement
on their faces. Gingerly, Feng picked up the case. He weighed it in his
hands. He tilted and rotated it carefully. Then he laughed and said
something in Chinese. His people laughed, too.

Asgar explained, “He says there’s no bomb in it. It’s too light, and
nothing heavy moves inside. He never believed there was a bomb. Li
Kuonyi would never destroy her only real weapon.”

“He’s right about that.” As Feng prepared to open the lid, his men
stepped back, not yet ready to trust. Feng lifted it and stared eagerly
inside. Nothing happened. No bomb, no explosion. But Feng’s face twisted
in a scowl. He shouted an oath and hurled the case away. It landed
quietly in the brush. As Feng barked something in Chinese, Asgar looked
at Jon, surprised. “It’s empty!” Jon nodded. “Had to be. As I said, Li
Kuonyi produced another of her tricks.” There was no manifest at the
Sleeping Buddha tonight. Down in the crescent, Feng jumped to his feet
and strode to where Yu Yongfu still lay facedown over the suitcase of
money. He kicked the corpse over onto its back and crouched. He licked
his fingers and rubbed Yu’s face. Grimacing, he stared at his fingers.
He shouted another curse. “What the devil is he doing now?” Asgar
wondered. Cold eyes glittering with fury, Feng hurried to where Li
Kuonyi lay on her back, staring up at eternity. He bent over and
repeated the same ritual.

When he finished, he slumped on his heels, as if defeated. Then he
sprang to his feet and spoke with disgust to his men. “So that’s it!”

Asgar stared at Jon as if he were a magician. “It was a trick. Li and
Yu’s trick. It’s not them. Those poor people are impostors. Perhaps some
of her fellow actors, that she hired. They and the two guards were
sacrifices, scene decoration to make the real Li Kuonyi and Yu Yongfu’s
ruse believable. But–?” “Yes,” Jon said. “But.” As he spoke, down below
Feng hunched again and searched the dead woman. When he stood once more,
he held a small object. “What the deuce did he find?”

“I’d guess a miniature microphone, receiver, and speaker. That’s how Li
put on the charade, and why she was the only one who spoke.” In the
valley, Feng seemed to realize the same thing. He raised his head and
scanned the mountainside above the Sleeping Buddha. When he saw nothing,
he whirled and barked more orders in Chinese. “He’s telling them–”
Asgar began.

Jon jumped up, shouting, “Now we fire! Fire! Fire!” Asgar echoed the
order in Uigher, and their part of the hillside erupted. All twenty-two
assault rifles opened a blistering fire on Feng’s trapped men and
soldiers.

Monday, September 18.

Washington, D.C.

The low sun of late afternoon probed through small gaps in the heavy
drapes that shut off Fred Klein’s office in Covert-One’s new
headquarters from the outside world. Still, the outside world loomed
large in Klein’s office. His face, haggard from lack of sleep and missed
meals, bristled with a ragged six-day growth of gray beard too rapidly
turning white. His heavy, red-streaked eyes appeared permanently fixed
on the ship’s clock on his wall. His head was cocked sideways in the
direction of the blue telephone. Had there been anyone to see, they
would have thought him paralyzed, hypnotized, in a trance, unconscious,
or dead, because he had not moved in so long. Only his chest rose and
fell slightly as he breathed. When the blue phone rang, he jerked alert
and nearly fell from the chair as he grabbed the receiver. “Jon!”

“He’s not called?” the president asked.

Disappointment and tension radiated from his low voice. “No, sir.”

“We have two hours. Or less.”

“Or more. Ships can be unpredictable.”

“The weather in the Arabian Sea is calm and clear all the way to the
Persian Gulf and on to Basra.”

“Weather isn’t the only variable, Mr. President.”

“That’s what scares me, Fred.”

“It scares me, too, sir.” Klein could hear the president breathing.
There was a slight echo from the other end of the connection. Wherever
he was calling from, the president was alone. “What do you think is
happening? in … where is Colonel Smith?”

Klein reminded him, “Dazu, Sichuan. At the Sleeping Buddha.” The
president fell silent. “They took me there once. The Chinese. To all
those carvings.”

“I’ve never seen them.”

“They’re remarkable. Some are nearly two thousand years old, carved by
great artists. I wonder what we’ll leave of use for those alive a
thousand years from now?” The president was silent again. “What time is
it there? At the Sleeping Buddha?”

“The same as it is in Beijing, Sam. China gerrymandered their time zones
into a single one to make it convenient. It’s about four a.m. there.”

“Shouldn’t it be over? Shouldn’t we have heard? Not even a word about my
father?”

“I don’t know, Mr. President. Colonel Smith knows the time frame.”

Klein could sense the president’s nodding. “Yes, of course he does.”

“He’ll do his best. No one’s best is better.”

Again the affirmative nodding somewhere in the White House, as if the
president were sure it would all work out, although a large part of him
feared it would not. “I have to get the manifest, and then I have to get
a copy to Niu Jianxing in Beijing. But now it’s too late, isn’t it?