Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (34 page)

Castilla shot a rueful smile at the vice president. “Okay, Jeremy, send
him in.”

The vice president took a final mouthful of eggs. “If you don’t mind,
Sam, I’d like to stay. Keep myself informed, although I’m sure I’m not
going to be needed.”

Castilla hesitated. There was still part of him that wanted to hold the
situation under wraps. He nodded. “Tactful and accurate. Stay put and
pour yourself some coffee.”

The door opened all the way, this time to admit the imposing bulk of
Admiral Stevens Brose in full uniform. He saw the vice president and
stopped.

“It’s all right, Stevens. The vice president’s feet are already wet. I’m
guessing the situation with the Empress must be what’s brought you here
so early.”

“It is, Mr. President. I’m afraid–”

Castilla waved to a chair at the table. “Sit. Have some coffee before we
plunge into the quagmire.”

“Thank you, sir.” The chair creaked as the outsized chairman of the
joint chiefs sat, poured, and drank. Then: “The Crowe’s got a Chinese
sub on its tail.”

“Hell and damnation!” the vice president breathed.

The president simply nodded. “We expected something, Stevens.”

“Yessir, we did. But this is bolder than I figured from what I heard of
your meeting with the ambassador.” “I agree,” Castilla said. “A
submarine threatening a frigate that’s threatening a cargo ship doesn’t
leave a great deal of wiggle room for anyone.” Erikson asked, “How
powerful is a Chinese submarine, Admiral?”

Brose’s brow furrowed. “That’d depend on its class. Commander Chernko on
the Crowe has some experience with Chinese subs from when he served in
Seventh Fleet’s Task Force 75 around the Taiwan Strait. He and his sonar
technician think the sub’s an old Han class. That’d be logical, since
the majority of their operational subs are Hans. But it could be the
more powerful Xia back at sea once again. It’d almost certainly be
modified and updated … or even a new class, launched in secret. We
know they’ve been working on a better boat for years.” Erikson pressed,
“But what’s their power like?”

“The Crowe should be able to handle a Han on its own, although you never
know for sure what upgrades there could be. With the Xia, it’s hard to
say. We know little about it except that the design’s had problems and
that it’s definitely stronger than the Han class. If it’s a new class,
then the Crowe’s in a bad way, playing Russian roulette.”

Erikson looked worried as the president asked the admiral, “You have
some ideas about why the Chinese’s reaction is so big?”

“Beyond muscle flexing for internal consumption, no, sir. They could be
trying to show us they’re stronger now than at the time of the Yinhe and
eager to challenge us in the international arena.”

The president frowned. “Demanding respect, you might say.”

“That’s it, sir,” Brose said. “Maybe it’s a hint to our allies to
beware, too.”

“Probably an effective hint,” the president added grimly. He drank
coffee. “Of course, it could be that someone there overreacted.”

“A mistake?” Erikson considered. “That’s really frightening, Sam.”

“What if it’s deliberate? What if it’s some Standing Committee hardliner
who wants to scare his own people by escalating the confrontation?”

Brose exhaled. “That’d mean there’s a power struggle inside the walls of
Zhongnanhai.”

The president nodded. “If that’s so, the Empress could become the line
in the sand between the factions. With us in the middle, too, the
situation could turn catastrophic.”

“With fingers on the buttons, the world would end up in the middle.”

Brandon Erikson shook his head worriedly. “In the Cuban missile crisis,
you remember, the Soviets sent subs to shadow our blockade ships. One of
their skippers was so furious he gave the order to prepare to fire a
torpedo into us. The other Soviet commanders had to talk him out of it.

That was far too close for anyone’s comfort, on either side of the Cold
War.”

“It can happen,” Brose admitted. “Chervenko’s a steady man, but you
never know what strain will do. Truthfully, I’m more worried about the
Chinese sub commander. God knows what in hell’s going on in his mind.”

The trio lapsed into anxious silence.

At last, Brose grunted and heaved a sigh. “What do you want to do, Mr.
President?”

“Is the Chinese sub making any aggressive moves?”

“Chervenko says not.”

“Then we continue exactly what we’re doing.”

“There’s not a lot of time left, sir.”

“I know.”

Vice President Erikson said, “It’s getting to the brink, Sam. Isn’t it
time to inform the country? The cabinet. Congress. The people? They
should know what we’re facing and against whom. We have to be prepared
for the worst. We have to prepare them.”

The vice president and admiral studied the president where he sat at the
table, his eyes staring at something only he could see.

At last, he nodded unhappily. “I suppose you’re right. But we’ll bring
in only the cabinet and Congress for now. Brandon, talk to our key
people on the Hill. I’ll convene the cabinet. When it’s time to alert
the public, I’ll let you know. But not right now. Not yet.” The vice
president said, “Are you sure it’s wise to leave them uninformed? If
this thing blows up in our faces, it won’t look good for you.”

“There’ll be a war of words before anyone shoots.”

“And if there isn’t?” Erikson pressed.

“That’s why I get paid to stay up all night with a bellyache, Brandon.

To take the risk. I won’t cry wolf until I see an actual one. That’s a
dangerous game that wears people down so that after a while they no
longer listen to warnings. When I cry wolf, it’s because there’s a real
damn wolf, dripping fangs and all. That way I know people will listen.”

Admiral Brose agreed. “That’s how I’d play it, Mr. President. Better we
concentrate on facts and evidence.”

Antwerp, Belgium.

The worldwide headquarters of Donk & Lapierre was a
four-story brick building built in 1610 in the usual Flemish step style.
Because it was convenient to her apartment–just north of the Meir and
not far from the Grote Markt, the Kathedrale, and the Schelde
River–Dianne Kerr decided to walk to her appointment with Louis
Lapierre, chairman and managing director. The receptionist immediately
sent her up to the top floor.

There an excited young man hurried to greet her. “Mademoiselle Kerr,
what an honor. I read your novel Marionette with great interest. I’m
Monsieur Lapierre’s private secretary, and he is eager to speak with
you. Please come this way.”

The corridors of the old building were narrow, but the ceilings were
high, graced by tall windows. The same was true of Louis Lapierre’s
private office. It was relatively small–heating was a problem in the
seventeenth century– but high-ceilinged, with tall windows, a handsome
fireplace, and a view across Antwerp’s vast docks.

The managing director himself was small and slender, with an Old World
elegance in dress and manner. “Ah, Mademoiselle Kerr,” he said in
meticulous English with only the slightest French accent. “I have, of
course, read your books. They are, shall we say, most exciting. Such
adventures, such intrigue, such deviousness, and so vivid. I
particularly enjoyed The Monday Men. How could you know so much about
assassins? Surely you were a covert operator yourself?”

“No, Monsieur Director,” Kerr said modestly and completely inaccurately.

One did not talk about being MI6. That credo had been broken in recent
years, even by some of those whom she had thought trustworthy.

Fortunately, most still adhered to the code. Besides, for an adventure
novelist, it was probably wise not to invite speculation as to the
possible truth of her plots.

Lapierre laughed. “I doubt that, Mademoiselle Kerr, but please sit and
tell me the purpose of this visit.”

Kerr chose a wood-and-brocade Flemish chair. It was thoroughly
uncomfortable. “In a single word, research.”

“Research?” Lapierre arched an eyebrow. “You are planning a thriller
about Donk & Lapierre?”

“An adventure novel concerning the eighteenth-and nineteenth-century
China trade. I thought it would be interesting to do something
historical for a change. Your company’s renowned, of course. I believe
the original Jan Donk Importers had their start even before then.

Correct?”

“Quite true. You wish, then, to examine our archives?”

“With your permission.”

“Of course, of course. Our directors enjoy the right kind of publicity.

They will be delighted.” Lapierre smiled and then appeared to have a
sudden thought that concerned him. “But are you aware that our
archives–in fact, all of our records up to today–are here in this
building?”

Kerr acted startled as she lied smoothly, “No, I didn’t. You mean …
they’re still active? All of them, back to the sixteenth century?”

Lapierre nodded. “Of course, early records were few, and trade was far
simpler then. Those from the twentieth century prior to the last five
years are on microfilm.”

Kerr frowned. “That creates a bit of a problem. I mean, you can’t very
well have me bumbling around in your files during business hours, can
you?”

“Actually, the archives are set off by themselves, so that is not the
problem. No, the trouble comes from another direction. We no longer let
independent researchers in. In fact, the last time we did officially was
a decade ago, and of course, he had lied to us. He was actually
searching for the company’s collusion with the Nazis–”

“And, of course, there was none,” Kerr echoed. “Not a shred of
evidence.”

“Exactly. But as soon as the world learned he suspected that there was.

..” He did not finish the sentence.

“It must have been very bad for business. So the problem is that you’re
willing to let me do my research, but you’d rather not let anyone know
of it until I can credit the company generously in the novel?”

“Yes, yes. I am pleased you understand. We have had success in the past
with allowing a few select researchers in at night to work after hours.

Would you be willing to do that?”

“Well … ” Kerr considered. “I suppose I can change my schedule. I am
excited about the early history of Donk & Lapierre.”

“Very well. Then it is done. Our security will be alerted. I, myself,
often work late. You must take no documents from the building though.

Our archivist will show you around so you can orient yourself and learn
how to properly handle the oldest papers.” Kerr smiled. “Very gracious
of you. How can I do anything but accept gladly?”

“When would you care to start?”

“Would tonight be too soon?”

“Tonight?” For a moment, there was a flicker of doubt in Lapierre’s
face. “Of course. I will instruct my assistant to give you a letter and
a badge. He will introduce you to the archivist, too.”

Dianne Kerr stood. “You’re most kind. I promise to not get in your way.”

“I trust you completely.”

Dianne Kerr presented herself at the locked front doors of Donk &
Lapierre precisely at eight p. m., casually dressed in black jeans, a
black turtleneck, black cotton socks, navy-blue running shoes, and a tan
leather jacket.

She carried a briefcase.

The guard at the door nodded. “Good evening. Mevrouw Kerr, is it?” His
English had a heavy Dutch accent.

“That I am.” She showed the letter and her badge.

“You will hang the badge around your neck, please, and open your
briefcase.”

She opened it, revealing yellow writing pads, Post-it notes, a French
dictionary, a Dutch-Flemish dictionary, current world almanac, and
ballpoint pens.

The guard nodded. “A writer’s tools, /a?”

“Nothing changes.” Kerr smiled.

Once inside, she climbed to the top floor, where the archives were
housed. Besides the chairman’s office, the archives were the only other
occupant. Cavernous, filled with filing cabinets, the room smelled
faintly antiseptic. The ventilation and temperature-control system
burred softly in the background. According to the archivist, the system
was oversized and had special filters to keep the air clean, which
helped to preserve the documents.

Kerr took out a yellow writing pad and carried the very first
handwritten file of Jan Donk Imports to a narrow table lined with rows
of tall wood chairs. The documents were grayed and fragile. Handling
them carefully, she read and made notes.

Four hours later, Monsieur Lapierre himself was finally gone, security
had finished its midnight rounds, and the building was as silent as a
vault. Kerr opened her briefcase once more and pressed a brass fitting.

A hidden compartment opened, and she extracted a miniature camera and a
pair of thin, latex gloves. As she pulled on the gloves, she strode to
the other end of the archives, to the last file cabinet, which housed
current correspondence and reports.

It was fastened with a combination lock.

Kerr pressed her ear to the lock and turned the dial. She could feel its
guts through her fingers … the faint click as a tumbler fell, then
another, and another. Her heart rate accelerated, and the lock opened.

She thumbed through the folders until she found her target: Flying
Dragon Enterprises, Shanghai. Looking quickly around, she removed the
file. As she examined each paper inside, every tiny sound in the old
building made her pause.

When she found the right document, a ship’s manifest, she allowed
herself a quick smile of relief. She had no idea why it was wanted, but
she was often able to uncover the reasons for her assignments
eventually. Perhaps this one would give her the basis for another
thriller. She photographed it, put it back into the file exactly where
it had been, returned the file to the cabinet, and relocked it. Removing
her gloves, she hurried back to her briefcase.