Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (9 page)

The general secretary supported the Owl: “I know Dr. Liang well from my
time in Shanghai. We can trust his judgment concerning whom his
researchers need to hear.”

“Actually,” Niu continued, “Dr. Liang has some doubts about the
American.” He went on to repeat what General Chu Kuairong had told him.

“I tend to agree with Major Pan’s first assessment of the matter. Dr.
Liang is something of an old rag man, always jumping at shadows.”

“You take a possible American spy very lightly, Niu,” Shi Jingnu
criticized, his gaze flicking from one colleague to the other to gauge
their reactions.

“The key word here is ‘,’ ” Niu answered, ignoring Shi and addressing
the room in general. “We shouldn’t have quite as much faith in Major
Pan’s ” as our Public Security Bureau chief does. It’s his–and
Pan’s–job to jump at shadows. It’s not our job.”

“So what did you decide?” the secretary’s disciple wanted to know.

“I have instructed General Chu to have Major Pan keep a close eye on
Colonel Smith. I’ve not authorized them to arrest and interrogate him.

First they must present me with concrete evidence of sufficient gravity.

These are sensitive times, and at the moment we have an American
government disposed toward peace and cooperation.”

He did not mention the Public Security agent who had gone missing in
Shanghai. So far, there was nothing to tell, and he wanted to add no
support to whoever was vacillating over the human-rights accord.

There were nods of general agreement, even from Shi Jingnu and Wei
Gaofan, which told him whoever was considering opposing the treaty at
this late date was not yet ready to commit himself openly.

Wei, however, could not resist a final word of caution. His narrow eyes
were slits as he said, “We must not appear too eager to cooperate with
the Americans. Remember, shadows can be dangerous.”

Shanghai.

Twilight had deepened into night. In an expensive Shanghai suburb, Yu
Yongfu paced across his study, gazing out through his French doors at
the garden. The scent of freshly cut grass floated in. Floodlights
illuminated the specimen plants and trees, sometimes from above,
sometimes from beneath, seeking perfect harmony. This English garden was
a replica of one created for a British tea tycoon in the early twentieth
century, whose mansion was demolished long ago. Yu had bought the plans
and enjoyed showing the renowned landscape to his Western guests.

But tonight, it gave him little solace. He checked his Rolex every few
minutes.

A tycoon at just thirty-four years, Yu looked even younger. Trim and
athletic, he worked out daily in an exclusive health club near his trade
and shipping company–Flying Dragon Enterprises. He watched his weight
as closely as he watched the international stock, currency, and
commodity markets, and he dressed in slim Italian suits custom-made in
Rome. His regimental ties and ankle-high dress boots were handmade in
England, his shirts in Paris, and his underwear and pajamas in Dublin.

He had risen to this rarified affluence in the last seven years. But
then, this was a new China … a brash, self-indulgent China … a very
American-century China … and Yu considered his attitudes, business
methods, and ambitions all American.

This had given him little comfort when his man, Feng Dun, called
yesterday to tell him about agent Mondragon and the missing invoice
manifest. The Dowager Empress venture had been risky, he had known that,
but the profit involved was stratospheric, plus there would be enormous
guanxi, because the cargo was connected to the illustrious Wei Gaofan
himself, a longtime powerful member of the Standing Committee.

But now, something was very wrong. Where was that blasted Feng? Where
was the manifest? The death of ten thousand cuts to the one who had
given it to the American!

“Are you all right, husband?”

Yu whirled to snap at his interfering wife and stopped. That was not the
kind of wife Kuonyi was or ever would be. Theirs was a modern marriage,
a Western marriage.

He managed to control his voice. “It’s that damnable Feng. He should’ve
been back from Taiwan by now.”

“The invoice manifest?”

Yu nodded.

“He’ll get it, Yongfu.”

Yu resumed pacing, shaking his head. “How can you be so sure?”

“That one could bring the devil back from hell. He’s invaluable, but
he’s also dangerous. You must never trust him.”

“I can handle Feng.”

His wife stopped her response, and Yu froze in his pacing. A large
vehicle had driven into their walled courtyard.

“It’s him,” he told her.

“I’ll wait upstairs.”

“Yes.”

In China, despite the law of the Party that proclaimed women fully equal
to men, to treat one’s wife like a partner was considered weak. Yu
forced himself to sit behind his desk. He assumed a composed mask as he
heard the maid open the front door.

Measured steps crossed the hardwood floor, coming toward his study, and
a large man appeared in the open doorway as suddenly as if he had
materialized there. Unusually light skinned, he had close-cropped hair
that was ashy red mixed with stark white. He was tall–perhaps three
inches over six feet–and powerfully built, but he was hardly heavy–a
muscled two hundred pounds or so. He dwarfed Yu Yongfu, who scowled up
at him.

Yu made his voice harsh, as befitted an important employer. “You have
it?” Feng Dun smiled. A small smile, nothing more, as if pasted on the
face of a wood marionette. He padded across the study to a leather
armchair and sat with hardly a sound.

His voice was low and whispery. “I have it … boss.”

Yu could not suppress a sigh of relief. Then he held out his hand and
made his voice stern. “Give it to me.”

Feng leaned forward and handed him the envelope. Yu ripped it open and
scanned the contents.

Feng noted the hands trembled. “It’s the real manifest,” Feng assured
him. His light brown eyes were almost colorless, giving them the
appearance of emptiness. They darkened and focused on Yu’s face. It was
a stare few had been able to meet.

Yu was not among them. He quickly looked away. “I’ll lock it in my safe
upstairs. Fine work, Feng. There’ll be a bonus in it for you.” He stood.

Feng stood, too. He was in his late forties, once a soldier and career
officer who had started as an “observer” in the American war against
North Vietnam and the late Soviet Union. He gave it up when he realized
there was far greater profit in the profession of mercenary in the
would-be armies of the restless Central Asian republics, particularly as
the Soviets collapsed. He considered himself a good judge of men and
situations, and he was underwhelmed by what he saw in Yu Yongfu.

As they walked through the study’s doorway, Feng said, “I suggest you
burn the manifest. That way, no one else can steal it. It’s not over,
boss.”

Yu jerked back as if pulled on a leash. “What do you mean?”

“Perhaps you should hear what happened on Taiwan.”

Where he stood, one foot out of the room like a confidence man poised to
make a clean getaway, Yu hesitated. “Tell me.”

“We killed the American agent, and we retrieved the manifest … ”

Yu wanted to scream with frustration. Why was this not finished? What
the hell did Feng mean? “I know that! If that’s all–”

“–but Mondragon wasn’t alone. There was another man on the beach.

A well-trained man, clever and skilled. Almost certainly another
American spy sent to ferry the information to Washington while Mondragon
returned to his cover in Shanghai. The beach was merely a transfer
point. There is no other logical explanation for the presence of the
second man, since he had the training and skill to escape us.”

Yu fought panic. What was so bad about that? The Americans had failed;
the manifest was now safely in his pocket. “But he failed, we have the
manifest. What–”

“The man’s in Shanghai now.” Feng watched every move the entrepreneur
made, every twitch of a muscle. “I doubt he’s here for a holiday.”

A sour taste rose into Yu’s throat. “Here? How could such a thing
happen? You let him follow you back? How could you be so stupid?” He
heard his voice rise like that of a hysteric. Instantly, he stopped his
tirade.

“He couldn’t have followed us. Mondragon must have given him some other
information, or he found some on Mondragon’s corpse. One of those two
brought him here.”

Yu struggled to regain control. “But how did he get into the country?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? It appears he’s actually a well-known
microbiologist and medical doctor, who also happens to be a soldier.

Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, M. D., a biomedical researcher. What he
does not appear to be is an operative with any known U.S. agency. Yet he
was the one who met Mondragon on the beach. And then he invited himself
into our country.”

“Invited himself?”

“On Taiwan, our eminent Dr. Liang Tianning expressed interest in meeting
with him. Smith put him off. Then this morning, Smith changed his mind.

He hinted strongly to Dr. Liang that he would honor us by addressing our
microbiological research institute here in Shanghai immediately. But
once here, he pleaded fatigue. He wanted to remain alone in his hotel.

Dr. Liang was surprised and a little suspicious. Of course, he informed
Zhongnhai. Zhongnanhai now has him under surveillance.”

“How do you know this?”

“Knowing such things is why you pay me so well.”

It was true. Feng’s guanxi sometimes appeared to be greater than Yu’s
own, and it could make him impudent. He constantly needed to be reminded
who was boss. “I pay you to do your job, nothing more. Why is this
American still alive?”

“He’s not easy to approach, and we must be careful. As I said, Zhongnhai
is watching.”

Yu tasted bile in his throat. “Yes, yes, of course. But he must be
killed. Killed quickly. Have you discovered who gave Mondragon the
invoice manifest?”

“Not yet.”

“Find him. And when you do, kill him, too.”

Feng smiled. “Of course, boss.”

In the dim light of the Flying Dragon office, Smith saw the short, heavy
man stare at the file folder still open on the filing cabinet. The man’s
gun wavered as his gaze swept to the exposed safe on the wall above the
cabinet.

He had not asked, What are you doing? or What’s going on here? He had
demanded only, Who are you? He knew why Smith was in the office
headquarters of Yu Yongfu, president and chairman.

Smith said, “You must be Zhao Yanji. It was you who gave Avery Mondragon
the Empress’s real manifest.”

The muzzle of the Sig Sauer began to shake. “How–?” “Mondragon told me.
They killed him before he could pass it to me.”

“Who has it now?”

“They do.”

Zhao Yanji grabbed the shaking pistol with both fleshy hands to try to
steady it. “How … how do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Because I know about Mondragon, I know your name, and I’m here looking
for the manifest myself.”

Zhao blinked, the Sig Sauer dropped to his side, and he sank crosslegged
to the floor, head in his hands. “I am a dead man.”

Smith picked the Sig Sauer from his fingers. He transferred his Beretta
to his jacket pocket, shoved the Sig Sauer into his belt, and looked
down at Zhao. Zhao sat with the back of his neck exposed, as if waiting
for the slice of an executioner’s axe.

Smith asked, “They can trace the manifest back to you?”

The head nodded. “Not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But eventually. Feng
is a sorcerer. He can see behind any screen.”

“Who’s Feng?”

“Feng Dun. Yu Yongfu’s security chief.”

Smith frowned, wondering … “What does he look like?”

Zhao described his height and strength, the red-and-white hair, and the
viciousness that was hidden behind the calm exterior. “You’ve seen him?”

“I have.” Smith nodded, not surprised. At last, he had a name for him.

“Start at the beginning. Why did you do it?”

Zhao looked up, suddenly angry, his terror forgotten. “Yu Yongfu is
greedy, a pig! He is why I gave the manifest to Mondragon! The honored
grandfather of my friend Bei Ruitiao founded Flying Dragon Enterprises
while the English and Americans were still among us. We were an
honorable company … We … ”

As Smith listened to the harangue, he pieced together a story that was
all too common in the new People’s Republic: Flying Dragon had been a
relatively small, conservative company, primarily ferrying cargo up and
down the Yangtze and along the coast as far as Hainan Island. Bei
Ruitiao was president until Yu Yongfu, using muscle, connections in the
Party, and Belgian financing, grabbed the company in a Mafia-like
takeover. Yu made himself president and chairman and, with the help of
the Belgian shipping firm, expanded into international transport. The
entire time, he skated on the edge of both Chinese and international
law.

Zhao’s voice shook with emotion. “My friend Ruitiao is ruined because of
Yu. I gave the manifest to Mondragon to expose Yu and ruin him in
return!” All his bravado vanished as quickly as it erupted. “But I have
failed. I am a dead man.”

“How did you manage to steal it?”

He nodded to the exposed safe above the file cabinet. “It was in a
secret file in Yu’s safe. I am the treasurer of Flying Dragon. I
pretended to welcome Yu, and he made the mistake of retaining me. One
day he forgot he had taken the file from the safe, and I found it. I
returned it to the safe after I took the manifest. At the time, he did
not remember he had left it out. But he will remember now. The manifest
had to come from somewhere.” His body slumped more, beaten.

“Where do you the think the manifest is? In the safe here again?”

Zhao shook his head. “No. Yu would be too afraid to leave it here now.