Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (10 page)

It must be with him at home. He has a safe there, too.”

“Where does he live?”

“Far beyond Hongqiao Airport. An obscene mansion that would have shamed
an official of the Yuan Dynasty.” He related an address that meant
nothing to Smith, but Andy would be able to find it.

“Mondragon said there were three copies?”

“Yes,” Zhao said dully. “Three.”

“Where are the other two?”

“One must be in Basra or Baghdad, with the recipient company. That would
be normal procedure. I don’t know where the other is.” Smith gazed at
the woeful Zhao. “I can arrange to get you safely out of China.” The
heavy little man sighed. “Where would I go? China is my home.” He pulled
himself to his feet, walked across the room, and collapsed in one of Yu
Yongfu’s suede armchairs. “Perhaps they do not find out.”

“Maybe not.”

“May I have my pistol?” Smith hesitated. Then he took the Sig Sauer from
his belt, checked the chamber, unloaded the clip, and handed him the
weapon.

“I’ll put the clip beside the door.” He left him there, seated in the
stately armchair, staring out into the new Shanghai night.

Inside Yu Yongfu’s walled compound, Feng Dun sat patiently in his Ford
Escort, hidden in the black umbra beneath a branching plane tree. As a
breeze carried the sweet scent of blooming jasmine in through his
rolled-down window, he studied the shadows that moved behind the
curtains of the mansion’s windows. They were Western curtains at the
windows of Yu’s big Western house, which the entrepreneur had built as a
modern replica of the baronial manses of the tea and silk taipans of the
British and French hongs in the Concession era.

The shadows gestured–the taller one pacing, arms waving, while the
smaller one remained still, with sharp gestures. That would be Li
Kuonyi, Yu’s wife. She was more sure, more emphatic, and Feng had always
treated her with caution. Her husband could not be relied upon to keep
his head if the situation deteriorated more. It was unfortunate for all
of them that she was not in charge. Feng had seen enough. As he fingered
his old Soviet Tokarev with one hand, he punched numbers into his cell
phone with the other. He waited for the series of rings and silences
that formed the intricate relays that protected the man he was calling,
Wei Gaofan. “Yes?” a voice answered. “I must speak with him.”

The voice instantly recognized him. “Of course.”

From the Ford, Feng saw the silhouette of Yu Yongfu, slumped now, and
the slimmer shape of Li Kuonyi standing over him. Her hand was on his
shoulder, no doubt comforting him. “What has happened about the
American?” the gruff voice of Wei Gao-fan asked from distant Beijing.

Feng reported, “Jon Smith is apparently still in his hotel. The security
police are watching it. My people are staked out to intercept him should
he try to retrieve the manifest as we suspect he will.”

“Which hotel is he in?”

“The old Peace.”

“So? A curious choice for a modern American microbiologist whose
interest is, presumably, in our research institute in Zhangjiang. I
believe it tells us all we need to know, you agree?”

“His interest is in more than microbiology.”

“Then continue your efforts.” “Of course.” Feng paused. “There’s another
problem. Yu Yongfu will not hold up.”

“You’re sure?”

“Already he’s cracking. Should the slightest detail be uncovered, he’ll
break. Reveal everything. Perhaps he’ll do that even before.” With
finality, he pronounced, “We can no longer trust him.”

“All right. I’ll take care of it. You liquidate the American.” There was
a silence, then, “How did all this happen, Feng? We wanted the
information to reach the Americans, nothing more. Never the proof.”

“I don’t know, master. I made sure word of the cargo leaked to Mondran,
as you instructed, but I don’t know who then found and stole the invoice
manifest, but I will.”

“I am sure you will.” The line went dead.

Feng sat for a time in the car. All of the mansion’s windows were dark
now, except those of the upstairs master bedroom. No shadows moved
behind the curtains. Feng smiled his unreadable smile and envisioned
Yu’s wife, Kuonyi. She had always appealed to him. He gave a short
laugh, a shrug, and redialed his cell phone.

Hong Kong.

Once the last British-occupied corner of China, Hong Kong had lost some
of its brash luster since the mainland resumed ownership in 1997. While
Beijing envisioned itself as the future capital of Asia, and Shanghai
thought of itself as an eastern version of New York City, Hong Kong only
wanted to remain itself–freewheeling, money-making, and joyfully
exciting, hardly the reputation of any other modern metropolis in China.

From the penthouse balcony of the Altman Group, Hong Kong’s sea of
twinkling lights seemed to spread forever, a testament to the vigorous
city. In the teak-paneled dining room, a dinner party was winding down.

The aromas of expensive meats and French sauces filled the room. The
genial host, Ralph Mcdermid–founder, CEO, and chairman of Altman–held
forth for the benefit of his last two guests.

A man of medium height, with a bland face that would never be noticed in
a crowd, Mcdermid was in his mid-sixties, slightly overweight, and
jovial. “The future of world commerce lies around the Pacific Rim, with
the United States and China its twin financial pillars and major
markets. I’m sure China recognizes that as much as the United States.

Whether they like your semi-independence or not, they’ll have to live
with it for a long time to come.”

Both Hong Kong natives, the Chinese couple were power players in the
financial community. They nodded in sober agreement, but they had little
influence, because Beijing’s heavy political fist constantly threatened
all businesspeople in the Special Administrative Zone.

But being wined, dined, and reassured by a man of Ralph Mcdermid’s
importance in such a luxurious Western setting fed their pride and
hopes. The penthouse crowned the most expensive high-rise on Repulse Bay
Road. While they continued their discussion, the husband and wife paused
occasionally to enjoy the multimillion-dollar view.

As a phone rang somewhere, the Chinese businessman told Mcdermid, “We
are pleased to hear your views and hope you’ll make them clear to our
mayor. America’s support is critical to our relations with Beijing.”
Mcdermid smiled graciously. “I think Beijing is well aware–”

Making an almost soundless entry, Mcdermid’s private assistant spoke
quietly into his ear. Mcdermid gave no acknowledgment, but he apologized
to his guests. “I regret I must take this call. It’s been a grand
evening, educational for me as well as particularly enjoyable. Thank you
for your company. I hope you’ll be available to join me again so we can
continue sharing views.” The businesswoman said, “It will be our
pleasure. You must visit us next time. I think we can promise you an
interesting evening, but not such sumptuous food. The wine was
exquisite.”

“Simple American fare, nothing more, and a small country vintage hardly
worthy of such distinguished guests. Lawrence will give you your coats
and show you out. Thank you again for honoring me with your presence.”

“Many thanks from two humble shopkeepers.”

The compliments properly offered and rejected, Mcdermid hurried through
the penthouse to the master suite.

His jovial smile vanished. He snarled into the phone: “Report.” “All
went well,” Feng Dun told him. “As you expected, there was another
American agent on the island. We killed Mondragon, retrieved the
manifest, but let the American escape. They will now be fully alarmed.”

“Excellent.”

“There’s better,” Feng continued. “That same American agent, a
Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, is a microbiologist from USAMRIID.”

“Why is that better? Who is he?”

“He isn’t with any of the U.S. intelligence organizations.”

Mcdermid nodded, wondering. “Curious.”

“Whoever sent him, Smith is in Shanghai now, which will work to our
favor. I’ll handle him. But that leaves us with another large problem.

One we had not expected.”

“Who? What?” he demanded.

“Yu Yongfu. He pretends to be a fox, but he’s a frightened rabbit. A
rabbit will gnaw himself to death when he feels cornered. Yu is
terrified. He will destroy himself and us.” There was a thoughtful
pause. “You’re right. We can’t take the risk. Get rid of him.”

When Mcdermid rang off, the information about Smith continued to resound
in his mind. A knock at his door roused him from his reverie. “Yes?”

“Ms. Sun is in the living room, sir.”

“Thank you, Lawrence. Give her a drink. Tell her I’ll be along.”

He remained mulling for another few minutes and then roused himself. Sun
Liuxia was the daughter of an important official he could not afford to
offend. She was also stunning and young.

Smiling, he freshened up, changed his dinner jacket, and left the
bedroom. It was still early. Through the penthouse windows, the lights
of Hong Kong spread before him as if all the world were his. By the time
he entered the living room, his good humor had fully returned.

Shanghai Still seated in Yu Yongfu’s exotic armchair in the Flying
Dragon offices, Zhao Yanji sighed. Miserable and discouraged, he stared
down at the empty pistol in his lap. Perhaps the American actually could
help.

Maybe the answer was to leave Shanghai at last. Or he could always
retrieve the clip, put the pistol to his head, and pull the trigger.

He studied the weapon thoughtfully, stroking it with a finger. He
imagined the bullet shooting from the chamber, exploding like lightning
from the barrel, and blasting through his skull and the soft tissue of
his brain. He did not shudder as he contemplated this. In fact, he had a
moment of peace. At last, his battle would be over, and he would no
longer feel the terrible burden of the company’s dishonor.

He looked around Yu Yongfu’s office, so familiar. As treasurer, he had
spent a lifetime here, it seemed, trying to educate the selfish
entrepreneur and rescue the company from him. He took a deep breath and
found himself shaking his head. A surge of resentment, almost of
determination, rushed through him. No, he was not ready to die. He still
wanted to fight. The company could still be saved.

He should get out of here before he was discovered. He pushed himself up
to his feet, feeling relieved. To make a decision was to reaffirm the
future.

There was a small sound. No more than a sharp click.

Puzzled, he turned. The office door was open. A figure stood silhouetted
against the outer office’s light. Before Zhao could speak, there was a
loud pop. As his sight went blank, he realized what it was–a silenced
gunshot. Abruptly, pain burst from his heart. It was so overwhelming he
did not feel himself topple face first to the carpet.

In their mansion on the outskirts of Shanghai, Yu Yongfu and his family
had an important guest. His arrival had surprised them. He was a fat old
man with many chins, who sat behind Yu’s massive desk as if he owned it.

Yu said nothing, trying to forget the aggravations of having such a
meddling father-in-law. At least the Empress’s manifest was safely
locked away now, and all that remained to be handled was the American
spy. He must have faith that Feng would eliminate him.

With pride, he watched the old man beam at the small boy who stood shyly
to his side. He turned to study the boy, who wore Western-style pajamas
with the face of Batman emblazoned on his thin chest. He was small for
his age and smelled of Western peanut butter.

The old man–Li Aorong–patted him indulgently on the head. “You are how
old now, Peiheng?”

“Seven, honored Grandfather.” With a glance at his mother, he continued,
“I will be in a month anyway.” He added proudly, “I’m in the American
school.”

Li laughed. “You like being in school with the children of Westerners?”
“Father says it’ll make me important in the world.”

Li glanced at his son-in-law, Yu Yongfu, who sat rigid in one of his
suede armchairs. Still, despite his obvious tension, Yu was smiling at
his son.

Li said, “Your father is an intelligent man, Peiheng.”

From where she stood near the door of the study, Li Kuonyi interrupted,
“You have a granddaughter, too, Father.”

“So I do, daughter. So I do. And a most beautiful little one.” Li smiled
again. “Come, child. Stand with your brother. Tell me, are you, too, in
American school?”

“Yes, Grandfather. I’m two grades higher than Peiheng.”

Li feigned astonishment. “Only one year older, and two grades ahead? You
take after your mother. She was always smarter than my sons.”

Yu Yongfu spoke sharply, “Peiheng learns his numbers quickly.”

“Another businessman.” Li chuckled with pleasure. He stroked the faces
of both children as if touching rare and delicate vases. “They will go
far in the new world. But it’s past their bedtime, eh?” He nodded
gravely to Yu and his daughter. “It was kind of you to allow them to
remain awake.”

“You don’t visit us often enough, Father,” Kuonyi told him, an edge to
her voice.

“The affairs of Shanghai keep an old man busy.”

“But you are here tonight,” Kuonyi challenged. “At such a late hour.”

The father and daughter stared. Kuonyi’s gaze was as hard and bold as
that of her powerful father, demanding an explanation.

He said, “The children must be in bed, Daughter.”

Kuonyi took their hands and turned toward the door. “My husband and I
will return.”

“Yongfu will stay. He and I will speak together,” he said. Now the edge
was in his voice. “Alone.”

Kuonyi hesitated. She straightened her back and took the children away.

Above the mantle in Yu’s Western-style office, the Victorian clock
ticked quietly. The two men sat for some minutes in silence. The older
man stared at his son-in-law until Yu Yongfu said politely, “It’s been
too long since your
last visit, honored father-in-law. All of us have missed your wise
counsel.” Li said, “A man’s first responsibility must be to his family.
Is that not so, son-in-law?”