Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (42 page)

Ever since he returned to his penthouse office, Ralph Mcdermid had been
alternately worried and angry. As he worked on a new agreement to
acquire a troubled Asian investment firm in Hong Kong, his mind returned
to the

morning’s debacle with Jon Smith and the woman. He was angry with
himself for allowing the woman, who might not have been Russian after
all, certainly not someone looking for a business deal, to play him so
easily, and at Feng Dun, for underestimating Smith.

Still, the situation was hardly lost. It was true the pair was on the
loose, and Jon Smith was dangerous, but little harm had actually been
done. Smith still had no way to prove the Empress carried illicit
chemicals. Feng would eventually find and kill him–he had the
resources, even here in Hong Kong.

These thoughts reassured him. When his phone rang, he answered with his
usual well-honed civility. “Yes, Lawrence?”

“A lady, sir. On line two. She sounds rather young, and … ah …
attractive.”

“A lady? And possibly attractive? Well, well.” He was expecting no calls
from any “lady,” and this made him feel even more optimistic. “Put her
on, Lawrence. Put her on.”

He was straightening his tie as if she could see him when her voice
appeared in his ear in slightly stilted English. “You’re Ralph
Mcdermid?”

“Guilty as charged, my dear. Do we know each other?”

“Perhaps. You’re chairman and CEO of the Altman Group?”

“Yes, yes. That I am.”

“Your corporation is the owner of Donk & Lapierre?”

“We’re a financial group, and we hold many companies. But what–?”

“We’ve never met, Mr. Mcdermid, but I believe we’ll soon have occasion
for that. At least figuratively.”

Mcdermid felt his bad temper returning. This sounded like no woman
suggesting a tryst. “If this is business, madame, you’ll need to call my
office, state what that business is, and make an appointment. If your
concern is with Donk & Lapierre, I suggest you call them directly. Good
day to you–”

“Our business is with The Dowager Empress, Mr. Mcdermid.

Believe me, you are wise to deal with us directly.” Mcdermid’s eyebrows
rose. “What?”

“The Empress is a ship, in case you’ve forgotten. A Chinese cargo vessel
en route to Basra. Its cargo is, we believe, of great interest to the
Americans. Possibly to the Chinese also.”

“Tell me what you want, and we might be able to benefit both of us.”

“We’re delighted you’re ready to talk of mutual benefit.” He lost his
temper. “Stop speaking in riddles! You’ll have to tell me far more to
convince me I need to listen. Otherwise, stop wasting my time!” Attack,
as he had learned personally over the years, was often the best defense.

“The Empress sailed from Shanghai in early September for Basra. In its
holds are many tons of thiodiglycol for Iraq to produce blister weapons
as well as thionyl chloride to produce both blister and nerve weapons.”

The woman’s quiet voice took on a sinister edge. “Is that sufficient,
Mr. Ralph Mcdermid, CEO, founder of the Altman Group?”

Mcdermid found it difficult to speak. He pressed the recording button on
the phone, signaled for Lawrence, and said carefully, “Precisely whom do
you represent, and what do you want?”

“We represent only ourselves. Are you ready to hear our price and
terms?” Lawrence entered the office. Mcdermid gestured for him to have
the call traced. At the end of his patience, he snapped, “Who the hell
are you, and why shouldn’t I hang up immediately?”

“My name is Li Kuonyi, Mr. Mcdermid. My husband is Yu Yongfu. As you no
doubt recall, he’s the president and chairman of Flying Dragon
Enterprises. He’s an intelligent man. So intelligent and farseeing, in
fact, that he saved his company’s copy of the Empress’s invoice
manifest. We have it with us.”

In the CIA safe house, the exclamation burst from Jon before he could
stop himself, “Holy hell!”

All eyes turned to look.

Randi said, “Jon? You know what this is about?”

“Later,” he said, waving his hand. “Quiet. Listen.”

Mcdermid’s shocked silence had ended. He’d had enough. “Your husband
burned the manifest and committed suicide. A tragedy, as we say. I

don’t know what your game is, but–” “You were told my husband had
killed himself to save his family on the orders of my father and those
far higher politically. You were also told he burned the manifest and
shot himself in the head and fell into the river. All of that’s a lie.
He burned a useless paper and fired his pistol, yes. He fell into the
river, yes. But the bullets in the weapon weren’t real. What Feng saw
was a charade. I know, because I staged it.”

“Impossible!”

“Has the body of my husband been found?”

“Many bodies are never found in the Yangtze delta.”

“Do you know my husband’s voice, Mr. Mcdermid?”

“No.”

“Feng Dun does.”

“He isn’t here.”

“You are, of course, recording this conversation?”

There was a pause. “Yes.”

“Then listen.”

A male voice came onto the line. “I’m Yu Yongfu, Mcdermid. Tell that
traitor Feng that the last time we spoke I offered him a bonus. He told
me of the death of the American spy, Mondragon, on Liuchiu Island and
about a second American who escaped and was seen in Shanghai. Tell him
that, unfortunately for him, my wife is my business partner, and I never
withhold information from her. Never. It was she who advised me to keep
the manifest safe, and she’s the one who orchestrated my ‘.”

Everyone believes she’s the smarter of us in all ways, but that’s not
true. I’m rather intelligent myself –after all, I convinced her to
marry me.”

Then the man was gone, and the woman returned. “Play that for Feng. Now
you and I need to talk business.”

“Why doesn’t your husband do the talking, madame?”

“Because he knows that in this area, I am smarter and stronger.”

Mcdermid appeared to think about that. “Or he’s dead, and you played a
recording.”

“You know better than that. Still, in the end, does it matter? I have
the manifest, and you want it.”

“And what do you want, Madame Li?”

“Money for a new life far from China for my children, my husband, and
myself, but not such an enormous amount that it would sting you more
than a mosquito bite. I’m reasonable. Two million American dollars
should be good for all of us.”

“That’s it?” He let sarcasm fill his voice.

She ignored it. “We’ll need travel and identity papers, as well as an
exit visa. The best papers.”

He paused, rethinking his objections. “For that I get the manifest?”
“That’s what I said.”

“And if you don’t get what you want?”

“The Americans and Chinese will receive the manifest instead. I’ll
arrange for it to be put into their hands myself, just as I arranged
Yongfu’s ‘.’ The original will go to Washington, and a copy will be sent
to Beijing.”

Mcdermid laughed. “If Yu Yongfu is truly alive, he will know that’s
impossible. It can’t happen. If by some chance it did happen, he’d be
dead, and so would you.”

There was no humor in the woman’s steady tones. “That’s a risk we’re
willing to take. Are you willing to risk the White House and Zhongnanhai
receiving the manifest and what we know of the entire Empress story?”

Again Mcdermid hesitated. Life was full of surprises, many of them
unpleasant. This was such a surprise and fraught with so many dangerous
repercussions that he could not afford to dismiss this woman, whoever
she might be. “And how do you propose we consummate this negotiation?”

“You or your representative will bring the money and the identity papers
to us. We’ll give the manifest to you in return, once we have our
payment.”

Mcdermid laughed again. “You think I’m a fool, Madame Li? What guarantee
do I have the manifest will actually be turned over to me, or even that
it still exists?”

“We’re not fools either. If we attempted such a deception, you’d indeed
hunt us down. But you’re not a criminal who succeeds by fear. Once you
have the manifest and we’re gone, your incentive to kill us will be far
less. In fact, probably not worth the money, time, and trouble. Bad
money after good, as they say.” “That’d require considerable thought.”

“Again, what does it matter? You have to do it.”

“Where would this exchange take place?”

“At the site of the Sleeping Buddha near Dazu. That’s in Sichuan
Province.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow at dawn.”

“You’re in Dazu now?”

“Did you think I’d tell you so easily? Where we are is unimportant.

You’re undoubtedly having this call traced and will soon know anyway.

Develop patience. It’s a characteristic of the East that the West should
adopt.”

Mcdermid needed to stall. First, to play Feng the tape and make sure
these people were whom they claimed. Second, if they were bona fide, to
give Feng a chance to find and eliminate them before any meeting. “Do
you know what time it is, madame? If you’re as smart as you say, and if
your husband truly is Yu Yongfu, then you’ll know I can’t possibly put
together two million American dollars in cash and get to Dazu from Hong
Kong so quickly. In addition, I’ll need to confirm your story with
Feng.” There was what sounded like whispered consultation. These people
were less assured than they sounded.

“You’ll come yourself? To China?” she asked.

He did not plan any such thing. “Madame, you can’t know Feng Dun very
well if you think I’d trust him with two million dollars in cash.”

A momentary silence. “Very well. Two million dollars in cash, new
identity papers, travel papers, and an exit visa. The Sleeping Buddha at
dawn the day after tomorrow.” She hung up.

Lawrence popped his head around the door. He was grinning. “Got them.

They’re in Urumqi.”

Saturday, September 16.

Washington, D.C.

It was deep into the night, and the marina on the Anacostia was mostly
deserted. In his cloistered office, Fred Klein looked up at his ship’s
clock for the tenth time in the last hour. He made a quick calculation:
Midnight here would be noon tomorrow in Hong Kong.

Where the devil was Jon? He rocked in his desk chair, restless despite
his exhaustion. From his years of experience, he knew there could be a
thousand possible explanations for Jon’s disappearance–anything from
clogged traffic to a subway breakdown or some bizarre natural
occurrence. There was also the possibility that Jon had been discovered
and shot to death. He did not want to think about it, but he could not
stop himself.

He looked at the clock again. Where … His phone rang. The blue phone
on the shelf behind his desk. Klein grabbed it. “Jon … ?”

“I’m not Jon. I hope he’s not missing, whoever he may be.”

“Sorry, Viktor.”

Klein tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. He refocused.

Viktor Agajemian was a former Soviet hydraulics engineer, now officially
Armenian but still living and working in Moscow. His firm was helping to
build the mammoth Yangtze Gorges Dam project, and he had papers to
travel anywhere in China. He was also one of Klein’s first recruits to
perform occasional tasks for Covert-One in Asia, particularly in China.

“You made contact?” Klein asked.

“I did. Chiavelli says, and I quote, ‘ prisoner appears authentic.

Physical condition is good. General area rural, infrastructure bad,
military installations few and scattered, and airfields primitive.

Potential resistance average-to-minimal. Estimated time: ten to twenty
minutes, total. Escape is promising.’ That’s it, Fred. You planning to
break the old boy out?”

“What do you think about an operation like that?”

“From what I saw, Captain Chiavelli may be right. On the other hand, I
didn’t actually see the prisoner.”

“Thanks, Viktor.”

“Anytime. The money will arrive in the usual manner?” “You’d be told of
any change.” Klein’s mind was already back on Jon Smith.

“Sorry to be crass, but times are not the best in Russia or Armenia.”

“I understand, Viktor, and thank you. You are, as always, the
professional in everything.” Klein hung up, thinking that they might
possibly have to use Captain Chiavelli’s report if … Where the devil
was Jon?

He studied the clock. At last, he took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes,
and sat staring at the blue telephone, willing it to ring.

Sunday, September 17.

Hong Kong.

In the CIA safe house, Jon turned on his heel. “I have to go.”

“Whoa, soldier,” Randi said. “You go nowhere until you tell us what this
is all about.” Jon hesitated. If he did not explain, they would report
to Langley and start digging. But how much could he reveal without
disclosing everything? Not much, and this time there was no clever story
to throw them off track. The resurrected wife of Yu Yongfu had supplied
too many details, including the freighter’s illegal haul. He could say
nothing more without hinting at what Li Kuonyi had not described–his
mission.

“All right, I’ll level with you,” he said, “but I can’t reveal exactly
what’s going on. The need-to-know is off the scale, and I have my
orders. But I can tell you this much: I’m working for the White House.

They sent me because I happened to be in Taiwan at a scientific meeting
and had the opportunity to get into China right away. It was a matter of
convenience for them. The woman you just heard is the wife of someone
who’s vital to the situation. Both she and her husband had disappeared.

We’d heard nothing about his being dead. I’ve got to get this new
information to my chief immediately.”

“What was all that about a ship and a manifest?” Randi wanted to know.

“That’s what I can’t tell you.”

Randi stared into his eyes, searching for deception, but this time she
could find none–just worry, which worried her. “Does what you’re
working on have any connection to leaks of information from the White
House?”