Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (25 page)

Jon grumbled, irritated, “Dammit. Sorry. Must’ve dropped my knife,” he
repeated. “Let’s see, I was standing here, and … ” He paused before
the desk, facing Cruyff, while looking around the airy office as if
trying to remember exactly what he had done when he entered. Cruyff
scowled. “I have an important call, Dr. St. Germain. Please be fast.” He
paused, listening to the voice on the phone. The cutting-edge
directional microphone in Jon’s ear picked up Cruyff’s end of the
conversation loud and clear. Cruyff cupped his hand around the
mouthpiece and whispered, “… I don’t think so. No, sir, he was simply
fishing for information about our han-virus research, mostly to know if
we were working on any vaccines. He wanted an invitation to visit the
lab inside China. What? Yes, absolutely legitimate. Works at USAMRIID,
sir, yes. It has to be a simple coincidence. What? Well, yes, as a
matter of fact, he did ask an odd question about our working mostly with
Chinese firms. He saw my ship models, and … ” Jon let his glance fall
on the couch. “Ah, that must be it!” He sat down and rummaged between
the cushions. “I’m sure you’re mistaken, sir.” Frowning, Cruyff
continued to watch Jon as he searched. “Well, perhaps a shade over six
feet, yes, and … ” Jon had heard enough. He needed to get out before
Cruyff grew too suspicious. Grinning with relief, he retrieved his knife
from where he had hidden it and held it up. “Here it is. Must’ve fallen
out of my pocket. Sorry for the intrusion, and thanks again, Monsieur
Cruyff.” He sped out the door, knocking aside the outraged Valkyrie, who
had arrived to make certain all was well. Seconds later, Jon trotted
along the corridor to the elevators. The door of the only open one was
closing. He sprinted, slid through just in time, and punched the button.

As the car started down, he smiled grimly to himself: There was someone
who was obviously higher and more important in the company than even the
managing director of the Asian branch, so much higher he couldn’t be
made to wait while Jon searched, and who had wanted to know whether
Major Kenneth St. Germain really was from USAMRIID … whether he had
asked any unusual or unexpected questions … and exactly what he had
looked like. And what was the meaning of Cruyff’s startled glance at his
safe when Jon had asked about Donk & Lapierre’s working with Chinese
companies?

Manila.

Lying under silk sheets on the four-poster bed in the high-ceilinged
room that had once entertained Spanish grandees, Ralph Mcdermid growled
into the phone, his languor and good humor long gone. “What else?”

Charles-Marie Cruyff was filling out his description of the man who had
come to ask questions that could easily have been asked over the
telephone or by e-mail before flying all the way to Hong Kong, and who
had also asked about Donk & Lapierre’s work with Chinese companies.

“He’s in his early forties, I’d guess,” Cruyff said. “Trim. Looked as if
he worked out a lot or played some vigorous sport.”

“Dark hair brushed back?”

“No, sir. What I’d call dark blond, and it was parted on the side. I’m
sure–”

“All right. The Shangri-la Hotel, you say? In Kowloon?”

“That’s where I’m supposed to send my letter of introduction.”

“Wait a few hours first. I want to be back in Hong Kong before then.”

“Very well, Mr. Mcdermid. But I’m sure he was exactly who he said he
was. Remember, the appointment was arranged by USAMRIID through our head
office in Antwerp.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Charles-Marie. Perhaps he merely wants to visit
your research people. We’ll talk -further when I get there. Meanwhile,
make sure you take care of that urgent matter.”

“Of course, Mr. Mcdermid.”

Mcdermid hung up and lay back, his eyes closed. His joviality did not
return, nor did his languor. When the girl emerged from the bathroom,
perfumed and glossily nude, he opened his eyes and dismissed her with a
curt wave. As she left, he grabbed the phone and dialed. The polished
voice on the other end of the line answered immediately. “Yes?”

“It’s me. That problem in Shanghai may not be over after all.” Mcdermid
described the USAMRIID scientist and his intrusion at Donk & Lapierre as
the other man listened and asked quiet, intelligent questions.

The more Mcdermid laid out the situation, the more he felt himself calm.

This man with the polished voice was the key to his future. The Altman
Group had soared high, but it could go even higher, now that he was in
his pocket. The future was limitless. As they concluded their
conversation, Mcdermid was smiling again.

Basra, Iraq.

Often when he accepted an assignment from the American, Ghassan thought
back to that day in Baghdad when, resigned to his death, he had been
spared not by Allah but by the vanity of the Republican Guard. Trapped
in his shop, defending Dr. Mahuk, he’d had no chance to survive.

Suddenly, more Guards burst past, hot on the heels of the unarmed
doctor. They had not noticed him, and the others forgot him, as they
rushed after, eager to share the credit.

Ghassan had dragged himself outside, leaving a trail of blood. Many
hands helped him into hiding. From then on, he had not only walked with
a limp, he had abandoned all fear and dedicated his life to freeing his
country. Through Dr. Mahuk, he made contact with Colonel Smith again,
and he began helping an American voice on the telephone.

Tonight, Ghassan was on such a mission for the Americans. Dressed in
black, he crouched on the roof of the building next door to his
target–five stories of brick and mortar, pockmarked by the bullets and
shells of the Americans and the Republican Guard. Now it housed the
local offices of Tigris Export-Import, Ltd., Agricultural Chemicals, one
of the few companies allowed to trade in the outside world. In the
distance stood the towering bronze statues of the 101 martyrs of the
holy war against Iran. They were only a few blocks away, silhouettes
lining the boardwalk along the canal. After years of inactivity, the
canal was bustling again with ships and fishing boats sailing up and
down the Shatt al Arab. Their lights blinked reassuringly in the night.

At last, he heard activity at the street entrance. He peered over the
parapet. The cleaning crew was strolling off while the foreman locked
the door and followed. It was time. Ghassan hooked a thin cable to his
harness, took a deep breath, and lowered himself over the edge. At the
first row of windows, he used his suction cup and glass cutter to remove
a section of glass. He reached in, unlocked the old-fashioned window,
and crawled inside. Concealment of his entry was not important; that he
finish his assignment undiscovered was.

Moving with speed and silence, he glided past offices and into the next
building. Finally he found the office of the Tigris branch manager.

Inside, he switched on his tiny flashlight and searched the rows of
filing cabinets until he found the right drawer and the right
file–Flying Dragon Enterprises, Shanghai. He searched through the
documents more slowly than he liked, as all the letters to and from
China were in English.

There it was. The fifth document from the front–an invoice manifest.

Laboriously, he compared the English list on the document to the list
dictated by the quiet American. When he finally determined they were
identical, his spirits soared. The manifest was correct. After a moment
of exultation, he slid the document into the plastic envelope strapped
under his shirt, returned the file to the cabinet, and hurried through
the offices to the window. He rehooked the cable, slipped out, and
seconds later stood on the roof. As he stuffed his equipment into his
small waist pack, he ran down the staircase. At the street, he fell back
into the shadows, scanning all around.

A patrol vehicle packed with Republican Guardsmen drove slowly past.

The moment it was out of sight, Ghassan sprinted away. Twice more on his
way home he hid as Guards out on patrol rolled by. Finally he reached
his tiny room. His adrenaline still pumping, he removed his special cell
phone, which was hidden beneath the planks of his floor, and dialed the
American’s number. He did not know where the American’s office was. He
had never asked, and the American had never offered.

“So this is how you get your orders, Ghassan? How efficient of the
Americans. But then, they have many advantages we do not.”

Ghassan jerked around. The speaker’s face was hidden in shadow, while
the pistol in his hand showed in the room’s gloom. “Hand me the phone
and the document.”

Discovery was something Ghassan feared every day, and he had practiced
well to be prepared. Without allowing himself thought or regret, he bit
down on the cyanide pill in his tooth and dropped the cell phone to the
floor where his foot crushed it into useless pieces. Pain tore through
his body. He felt himself falling into a great darkness. As he
collapsed, twisting in pain, rage burned through his mind: Death was
nothing. Failure was everything, and he had failed.

Washington, D.C.

The president’s chief of staff, Charles Ouray, wandered around the
deserted sitting room in the White House residence. Dawn was breaking,
and pale light flowed in through the windows. From time to time, he
reached into his shirt pocket for the pack of cigarettes he had given up
carrying nineteen years ago when he signed the pledge. In his early
sixties, his triangular face was grim, and his movements erratic with
tension.

Every five minutes, he checked his watch. As soon as he heard the door
to the president’s bedroom open, he turned.

Sam Castilla emerged fully dressed and brisk, his large body svelte in a
meticulously tailored suit. “When does the ambassador arrive, Charlie?”

“Twenty minutes, sir. He sounded upset. Very upset. He emphasized the
matter was extremely serious and said you’d know what he was talking
about. He wanted an immediate meeting. In fact, he came close to
demanding one.”

“Did he now?”

Ouray was not going to be put off. “Do you, Mr. President?”

“Do I what, Charlie?”

“Know what’s got his tail thumping?” “Yes,” he said simply.

“But I don’t?” The president looked uncomfortable but said nothing.

Ouray kept his gaze steady. Sometimes prying information from the
president seemed tougher than breaking into Fort Knox. Ouray said
thoughtfully, “The leaks are making all of us paranoid. I found myself
not telling my assistant about the defense appropriations meeting.

Clarence has been with me twenty years. I know I can trust him with my
life.”

The president sighed heavily. “You’re right. I should’ve told you.” He
hesitated as if still unsure. Then he grimaced and nodded, his mind made
up. “It’s all about a Chinese cargo ship by the name of The Dowager
Empress. It sailed from Shanghai early this month, bound for Basra. We
have an unconfirmed report from a highly reliable source that it’s
carrying tens of tons of thiodiglycol and thionyl chloride.”

Ouray stared. His voice rose. “Blister and nerve weapons? The Yinhe.”

“In a more ambiguous, more complicated, and more dangerous world than
the Cold War. Makes one nostalgic for those awful days when it was just
two hairy giants with clubs, circling in a primitive face-off. Not a
pretty world, Charlie, but it was simple. Now we’ve got one really big
giant, one sick giant, one sleeping giant, and a thousand wolves biting
at our heels and ready at any time to go for our throats.”

Ouray nodded. “So what’s activated the ambassador?”

“They’ve probably discovered we’ve got a navy frigate shadowing their
freighter.” The president was solemn. “I’d hoped we’d have more time.”
He paused. “I have reason to think Beijing doesn’t, or didn’t, know
about the cargo. A private deal. But that doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Unless we can prove it.”

“True.”

“Can we prove it?” Ouray asked hopefully.

“Not yet. We’re working on it.”

The two men stood for a time in silence, staring down at their polished
shoes, as the president prepared himself. He was about to start dancing
the dance he hated. Posturing, threatening, conciliating, verbally
fencing, and flat-out lying. Stalling for time. The dangerous diplomacy
ballet that could so easily turn deadly.

Finally the president sighed, opened his suit jacket, and hitched up his
trousers. “Well, let’s go talk to his excellency.” He rubbed his hands
together. “Battle.”

In the Oval Office, the president and his chief of staff stood politely
before the president’s desk as Ambassador Wu Bangtiao entered. The
ambassador of the People’s Republic of China was a tiny man with the
swift, agile stride of the international soccer forward he had once
been. He was dressed in a confrontational dark-blue Mao suit, but the
smile on his face, while small, was amiable and possibly friendly.

The president caught the mixed message and looked at Ouray through his
peripheral vision. Ouray had a small smile himself, and the president
knew his longtime confederate had also understood.

“So good of you to see me on such short notice, Mr. President,” Wu
Bangtiao said with a moderate Cantonese accent, although the president
knew he could speak perfect Oxbridge English. He had studied for years
at Christ Church and the University of London. “You are aware, I’m sure,
Mr. President, of the reason for my sudden alarm.” Despite the positive
signs, the ambassador did not extend his hand.

The president gestured. “You know Charles Ouray, my chief of staff,
don’t you, Mr. Ambassador?”

“We have had the pleasure many times,” Wu Bangtiao said, an edge to his
voice to show he had noticed the change in subject.

“Then why don’t we sit down?” Castilla said cordially.

He gestured to one of the comfortable leather armchairs that faced his
desk. As the ambassador settled in, the president returned to his large
desk chair. Ouray took a straight chair against the wall some distance
to the side. Ambassador Wu’s feet barely touched the floor; the chair
was designed for far taller New Mexican ranchers, which, of course, was
why the president had sat him there.