Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (50 page)

The ambassador acknowledged the admonition with a flicker of his eyes.

“I slipped into the country quietly, leader, because of the
difficulties. I needed to consult with you privately about your wishes.

Naturally, I came directly from the airport, and I’ll return directly to
the airport.” Niu’s shoulders tightened at the enormity of what would
bring the ambassador here so covertly over such a long distance, but
again he offered a rare smile. “Of course. Sit. Relax.” Wu sat, his back
barely touching the chair. He made no effort to relax, and Niu had not
expected him to. “Thank you,” Wu said. “May I speak frankly, leader?”

“I insist. Whatever we say will remain here.” Niu picked up his ashtray
and walked around to sit in the chair beside the ambassador, again in an
act of friendship. Still, he did not offer Wu a cigarette. That would be
going too far. “Tell me.” He smoked. “I believe I’ve been delivering the
messages to the American president exactly as you wanted … which was,
and I’m sure still is … that China must stand firm against any
invasion of our sovereign rights. At the same time, China doesn’t seek
an incident or confrontation that might escalate beyond anyone’s
control.” Niu simply nodded. With even the closest ally, verbal
commitment was not the way until absolutely necessary. Wu gave his tiny
smile in return. “The American president indicates he understands that.

As I’ve said before, he’s unusually subtle for a Westerner. He reads
nuances. I detect sincere concern that the standoff could escalate into
war. Unlike others, when he says he doesn’t want war, I believe he means
it. He confirms that with word choice, emphasis, and etiquette.”

“Impressive.” Niu controlled his impatience.

“As unusual as that is for a Western head of government, he’s done
something even more unusual: He’s revealed what he’s doing and why.”

The Owl’s eyebrows rose. “Explain.”

As the ambassador recounted the most recent conversation in the Oval
Office about The Dowager Empress, Niu listened in silence, mulling
uneasily. Suddenly he realized-what was disturbing him: The U.S.
president had unwittingly given him the correct question to ask. If the
United States did not want the confrontation, and China did not want it,
who did? Why did it continue? At the moment, the crisis seemed
completely unnecessary, almost as if it had not only been staged, but
its escalation orchestrated.

He considered what he had learned from Major Pan, and he recalled the
discussions of the Standing Committee. Among the hawks, Wei Gaofan again
stood out. It was true that through the alliance with Li Aorong and Li’s
son-in-law, Wei could expect to make a profit from the shipment. Perhaps
he had been making profits from such shipments for quite a while. But
was that Wei’s ultimate goal now that news of it had reached the upper
levels of government in both China and the United States?

No. The Owl was certain Wei would sacrifice profit instantly if he could
take China back into the past. At heart, Wei was an ideologue, a true
hardline Communist who had never gotten over Mao, Chu Teh, or Tiananmen
Square. To go back to those days was his dream. His sending the Zhao
Enlai submarine to threaten the Crowe proved that. He would encourage
the confrontation to escalate into violence to force his point. To win,
he might even go to war.

The Owl remembered Confucius’s two definitions of disaster: One was
“catastrophe,” the other “opportunity.” Wei had seen the discovery of
the Empress’s true cargo not as a catastrophe but as an opportunity to
achieve something far more important to him than money.

“The president asks,” Ambassador Wu continued, breaking into the Owl’s
thoughts, “whether concrete proof, in the form of the actual invoice
manifest, would be enough for you to defuse the situation with the
Standing Committee. Would the committee allow Americans to board,
perhaps in conjunction with our submarine crew, or, alternately, would
the committee end the situation by ordering the cargo destroyed in such
a way that the Americans could confirm it? In short, would you be
willing to work with our people as President Castilla works with his, to
end this dangerous problem?” Niu inhaled his cigarette thoughtfully.
While Wei saw the past as the future, Niu was comfortable with the
unknown, with a future based on ideals like democracy and openness. The
choice was stark: If he did not risk all, Wei would win. On the other
hand, if he risked all and won, Wei–the preeminent hawk on the Standing
Committee–would be brought down by his own deeds.

“Leader?” the ambassador asked, his face concerned at the long silence.

“Would you like a cigarette, Ambassador?”

“Thank you. Yes, I’d like one very much.” A moment of gratitude softened
the ambassador’s worried face.

The two men smoked companionably. Crucial decisions must not be rushed.

“Thank you for bringing me this news,” Niu said at last. “I haven’t been
wrong in my choice of ambassador. Return immediately to Washington and
tell President Castilla I consider myself a reasonable man, while, of
course, continuing to warn of the dire consequences should any Americans
attempt to board.”

Wu put out his cigarette and stood. “He’ll understand. I’ll convey your
exact words.” They exchanged a determined look. With a rustle of his
long coat, Wu left.

Smoking furiously, Niu jumped to his feet and resumed pacing. The
Americans clearly did not have proof of the cargo yet. That was most
disquieting. Proof was essential. He stopped in the middle of the floor,
wheeled on his heel, and marched back to his phone.

Standing over his desk, he dialed.

As soon as Major Pan answered, the Owl demanded, “Tell me what you’ve
learned.”

Without prompting, Pan revealed the taped telephone conversation between
Feng Dun and Wei Gaofan. “Only one of the original invoice manifests of
the Empress’s true cargo still exists–in the hands of Yu Yongfu and Li
Kuonyi.”

Niu caught his breath and stubbed out his cigarette. “Yes. What else?”

“Ralph Mcdermid is going to pay two million dollars to buy it from
them.” He described the arrangements at the Sleeping Buddha.

The Owl listened carefully, his mind accelerating as the fog that had
obscured the situation evaporated: This was what the president wanted,
and what he wanted … the objective proof. Wei Gaofan knew this and
wanted the manifest destroyed. At the same time, the Shanghai couple–Yu
and Li–were pawns, trying desperately to survive. Then there was the
rich American businessman Ralph Mcdermid, who must also want a
confrontation, although Niu was not sure yet exactly why or how far he
would allow it to escalate. Mcdermid was willing to pay a small fortune
to keep the manifest out of anyone else’s hands. The rat who ran among
all three was Feng Dun … pretending to work for Mcdermid and Yu Yongfu
while his ultimate allegiance belonged to Wei Gaofan.

Feng was filth. Ralph Mcdermid and Wei Gaofan were worse. All must be
stopped before they reignited the Cold War or started a hot one.

Thinking rapidly, he listened as Major Pan finished his report. Pan’s
willingness at last to hold nothing back told Niu that the spycatcher
had finally committed his loyalty to Niu. In their culture, it was the
ultimate compliment, and also the ultimate vulnerability.

Could he do less? “I understand, Major,” Niu told him. “Perhaps more
than you realize. Thank you for your fine efforts. You are on your way
to Dazu?”

“My flight leaves in twenty minutes.”

“Then understand this: Continue to observe and do not interfere unless
there’s more trouble.” He hesitated a fraction of a second, weighing the
enormity of the step he was about to take. “If trouble erupts, I
authorize you to help Li Kuonyi and Colonel Smith. Either you or Colonel
Smith must retrieve the manifest safely. It’s imperative.”

The silence was like a held breath. “Is that an order, master?”

“Consider it so. If it becomes necessary, show my written instructions.

You’re working only for me, and you have my full protection.”

There. It was done. Now there could be no turning back. It was he or Wei
Gaofan–forward into the unknown future, or back to an unworkable past.

And it rested in the hands of others. He fought off a shudder. But there
it was. A wise man knew whom to trust.

Dazu.

Jon awakened to a sense of claustrophobia, of bodies packed around like
com in a can. He grabbed his Beretta, sat bolt upright, and swept the
big semiautomatic through the dim illumination. And remembered where he
was. The Uighers’ cellar. The air was pungent with body odors and warm
exhalations, although only a half dozen fighters remained. All were
sleeping. Everyone else had gone, including Asgar.

Heart still pounding, he lowered the weapon and checked his watch. The
green glow of the dial showed 2:06 p.m. He had been asleep more than
nine hours, which was astounding. He seldom slept more than seven.

He stood carefully and stretched. His muscles complained but not too
loudly. His ribs ached. No sharp pains. His face felt fine. It would
itch later, particularly when he sweated. Nothing fatal.

He padded to the steps. At the top, he raised the trap and climbed out
into the satellite house. A new sentry stood guard at the window, while
across the courtyard was movement in the main house’s kitchen. Fighting
off a sense of urgency, of a need to get on with it, he strolled
outdoors. Strolling was something he did infrequently, too.

The sun was warm, the sky porcelain blue, and a gentle breeze stirred
the willows and cottonwoods. The chilies that had been laid out to dry
on mats around the dirt courtyard were an encircling carpet of scarlet.

Their peppery scent filled the air, reminding him he was in Sichuan
Province, famous for its spicy cuisine.

Asgar was in the kitchen, sipping a mug of hot tea with milk, English
style. He looked up, surprised. “Are you mad? Why aren’t you still
asleep?”

“Nine hours is enough, for God’s sakes,” Jon told him.

“Not if nine hours is spread over five days.”

“I’ve caught a few naps here and there.”

“Yeah, you look really rested. Solid as a sand devil. Check yourself in
the mirror. With that face, you can go to All Hallow’s Eve without a
mask.”

Jon gave a thin smile. “Is there a phone I can use? I don’t want to
tempt fate in case someone around here is triangulating cell calls.”

“Next room.”

Jon found the telephone. Using the phone card Fred Klein had given him,
he dialed Klein. It was yet another gamble. Public Security could be
monitoring land lines, too.

“Klein.” Jon went into character: “Uncle Fred?” he said in halting
English. “It’s been so long, and you haven’t called. Tell me about
America. Does Aunt Lili like it?” Aunt Lili was code for possible
monitoring.

“Everything’s fine, nephew Mao. How’s your assignment?”

“The first phase had to be postponed, but I can do it at the same time
as the second phase.”

There was hesitation and a note of disapproval: “I’m sorry to hear that.

The second phase could be harmed.” Concerned, Fred was reminding him
that at the first sign of serious trouble at the prison farm, they would
have to scrub the rescue. The meeting at the Sleeping Buddha remained
their first priority.

“Well, that’s worried me, too. I’ll just have to see how it goes.”

Another pause, this time as Klein shifted gears: “You must phone
instantly when you have news. We can hardly wait. Did you find your
cousin Xing Bao?”

“I’m in his house now.”

“That’s a relief. You must be enjoying each other, but this is costing
you too much, Mao. I promise I’ll write a very long letter first thing
tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it with pleasure, now that I’ve heard your honored
voice again.” Jon hung up. Asgar called from the other room, “And?” Jon
rejoined him. “The priority remains the same. As soon as we have the
manifest, I need to call Klein to let him know.”

“Poor David Thayer.”

“Not if we can help it. We’ll do everything we can to get him out, too.

Did you go to the Sleeping Buddha?”

“Yes, we did a thorough recon.” He laid a deck of English playing cards
on the table. “I left ten of my best people behind to keep watch. They
have walkie-talkies. Get some food, and I’ll fill you in. Then we’ll
play some two-handed poker. If you don’t know how, I’ll teach you.”

“Are you hustling me?” Asgar smiled innocently. “I picked it up at
school. Strictly amateur.

Nice hobby, when one has time to kill.” For a moment, anxiousness and
nerves showed in his expression. And then they were gone. “Okay,” Jon
said. There was no way he was going to sleep more now anyway.

“Two-dollar limit, or whatever that is in your money. Straight poker. No
wild cards. After I wash my face, I’m in.” Jon knew he was being
hustled, but they had to do something to make the time pass. They had at
least six hours to keep each other sane, before darkness arrived and
they could begin their night’s work.

Monday, September 18.

Washington, D.C.

Fred Klein was puffing on his pipe angrily, and the special ventilation
system was straining to clear the air, when President Castilla walked
into his Covert-One office. The president sat. His large body was rigid,
his shoulders stiffly square. His jowls looked like concrete. “You have
news?” No greeting, no preamble. Klein was in the same bleak frame of
mind. He put down the pipe, crossed his arms, and announced, “It took
five of my best corporate and financial experts to ferret this out: The
Altman Group owns an arms manufacturing firm called Consolidated
Defense, Inc. As with many of Altman’s holdings, this one’s hidden
behind a paper trail that boggles the mind–subsidiaries, associated
companies, holding companies, satellite companies … you name it, the
ownership winds through a quicksand intended to deceive. Still, the
ultimate ownership is clear.”