Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (59 page)

Niu did not look at Wei. He addressed the room in general. “Our
colleague Wei appears to want to pass the culpability down to those
least able to defend themselves.”

“I resent–!” Wei snapped.

The secretary cut him off: “If there’s an explanation, Jianxing, tell
us.”

“There is,” Niu said quietly. “A simple explanation of various forces–a
weak businessman, the greed inevitably fostered by free-market
economics, the conspiracy of certain Western corporations, and the
corrupt arrogance of a member of this very committee.”

As the Owl enunciated the last words, there was a shocked pause. Then
the room erupted in outrage, protest, and shouted questions directed
back at Niu.

Wei Gaofan, his temple-dog face choleric with rage, shouted, “Such a
statement is tantamount to treason, Niu! I call for a vote of censure!”

“Which one of us are you slandering, sir!” Shi Jingnu demanded.

“It’s unconscionable!” called one of the youngest members.

“Unless,” the secretary said quietly, “Niu can prove his accusation.”

The room instantly was silent, questioning.

Someone muttered, “I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” General Chu growled, his unlit cigar rolling around his
thin-lipped mouth.

Niu pushed himself away from the table and walked to the door. He opened
it and beckoned.

Still in his PLA uniform, Major Pan Aitu marched inside. Niu escorted
the pudgy spycatcher to the table and stood beside him. “Major, detail
your investigation, if you please.”

In his gentle, completely expressionless voice, Pan laid out the
conspiracy from Donk & Lapierre’s approach to Yu Yongfu with the
contraband deal, to Li Aorong’s and Wei Gaofan’s involvement, until Jon
Smith had at last handed the only existing manifest to Pan, who had
faxed it from Dazu to the Standing Committee.

Wei Gaofan’s hard face paled. Still, he grumbled, “It seems, with the
tragic death of Li Aorong only an hour ago, all those named by Major Pan
are dead. Except for me, of course. I categorically deny–”

Pan gazed steadily at Wei. “Not all of them are dead, sir. Li Kuonyi–
without father or husband–is alive. Many of Feng Dun’s men survived.

The captain of infantry is, of course, alive, as is your friend, the
general, who sent the captain to help Feng Dun retrieve the manifest.

All have given me official statements.”

For a moment, Wei Gaofan did not move. His features seemed to melt, but
his jaw clamped tight. “Niu Jianxing has forced them to lie!”

“No,” the secretary said thoughtfully, studying Wei as if seeing him for
the first time. “There is only one liar here.”

The color suddenly returned to Wei’s face. “Niu Jianxing and the general
secretary are destroying China,” he announced to his colleagues. “What
Yu Yongfu did is an example of the disease they’d bring home to the
People’s Republic. What I did was to awake you and the Party to what’s
happening to the great Revolution of our fathers. Of Mao Zedong, Zhou
Enlai, Chu Teh, Deng Xiaoping. I will not resign. I will leave this room
with all those who agree with me, and we shall see who the Party
supports!”

He raised his massive body onto his spindly legs and stalked to the
door. For a moment, he stood there, the door half open, his back to his
colleagues, waiting. No one followed.

The secretary sighed. “Tomorrow I’ll call for a vote of the Central
Committee and the Politburo. You’ll be stripped of all posts, all
prerogatives, and all honors. You’ll be expelled from the Party, Wei
Gaofan.”

“Unless,” Niu Jianxing suggested, “you choose to do as Li Aorong told
his son-in-law. But you must act quickly.”

“You could think of your family,” the secretary suggested, although his
voice did not sound hopeful.

Wei continued to stand there silently. Finished, he nodded and walked
out.

Monday, September 18.

Washington, D.C.

Four hours after the cargo of banned chemicals was discovered aboard the
Empress and destroyed, Charlie Ouray invited Vice President Brandon
Erson over to meet with the president. Then he ordered Air Force One
led for a flight out to the West Coast, took a call from Ambassador Wu,
who had just returned to the embassy on Connecticut Avenue, and headed
downstairs to the situation room, where President Castilla was on the
phone with his wife.

“It’s a pretty darn good ending, Cassie,” the president was saying. As
soon as he saw Ouray poke his head into the room, he beckoned him
inside. “You’ll be able to make it, darling? I’m sorry about your having
to cancel the dinner in Oaxaca, but … yes, I know you’re as excited as
I am. And the children? Wonderful! Wonderful! I’ll see y’all then.”

He hung up, beaming.

Ouray waited for the president to look at him again. When he did, he
reported, “The ambassador called, Mr. President. He wanted officially to
thank you, and he gave me a message for you from Niu Jianxing–the Owl.”

“That’s nice. What’s the message?”

“Niu sends his greetings and expresses hope that your health continues
to be robust.”

The president burst out laughing.

“What?” Ouray asked. Puzzled, he watched the president laugh harder. He
began to smile, then to chuckle as he replayed the message in his mind.

At last he held his sides, laughing, too. The merry sound filled the
big, soundproof room, banishing the shadows of the last week.

“Oh, God.” The president wiped his eyes.

“Priceless,” Ouray agreed.

“We needed that. Robust. But from them, it’s a vote of confidence.”

“An expression of hope for the future.”

“Hell, Charlie. He figures he’s got me broke in, and he doesn’t want to
have to go through it again anytime soon with someone new!”

Chuckling, the two men leaned back in their chairs.

Ouray observed, “Well, sir, I guess we can say the same about him.”

“True, true.” At last, Sam Castilla’s expression grew serious as his
mind returned to the next task. “Just wanted you to know that Justice is
getting ready to bring charges against Jasper Kott. It’s going to be a
mighty big scandal.”

“Can’t brush it under the rug.”

“No, Charlie. Wouldn’t be right.” There was one more piece of business
that had to be taken care of. He sighed, preparing himself. “Is the vice
president on his way?”

“Better than that, he’s here.” Brandon Erikson entered the situation
room with a broad smile on his handsome face. Behind him, the military
aide closed the door. As always, his sable-black hair was brushed back
impeccably, and his wiry body was encased in a tailored three-piece
suit. He exuded his usual charm and energy. “My congratulations, Mr.
President. A magnificent display of statesmanship.”

“Thank you, Brandon. It was a close thing.”

The vice president took his usual seat in the middle of the long table
to the president’s right, directly across from Ouray. He nodded
pleasantly to Ouray and focused on the president. “I won’t ask for the
details of how you pulled it off, sir, but I suspect we have an unsung
hero or two in our intelligence agencies.”

“There’s that,” the president agreed. “We also had a lot of help from
inside China, particularly from a high-level politician. Our work with
him gives me a lot of hope for our relations with China.”

Erikson grinned. “I suspect you’re being modest, Mr. President.” Sam
Castilla said nothing.

The vice president blinked and glanced around the silent room that was
essentially sealed from the rest of the White House. Not only windowless
and soundproof, it was constantly swept for bugs and illicit cameras.

“Is everyone else late? I assumed we were having a post-crisis
assessment session.”

The president studied Erikson’s face, looking for what he had missed.

“There won’t be anyone else, Brandon. Tell me, would your friend Ralph
Mcdermid be as enthusiastic about our success as you are?”

Erikson looked from the president to the grim-faced Ouray and back again
to the president. “I have no idea how Mr. Mcdermid would feel. I barely
know the man.” “Really?” Charlie Ouray said.

Erikson did not miss the absence of his title or any of the other usual
courteous forms of address for someone of his lofty position. His left
eyebrow cocked. “Is something wrong, Mr. President?”

The president’s hand slammed down on the table. Ouray jumped. Erikson
looked startled and a little afraid.

Castilla growled, “You know damn well what Mcdermid would’ve thought.

You know exactly which intelligence agents are unsung heroes.”

“That, sir, is preposterous!” Erikson retorted, as angry as the
president. “I know–” He seemed to suddenly hear the president’s exact
words. “He … would’ve thought?”

The president said curtly, “Ralph Mcdermid’s dead. Altman’s board of
directors is right now running around like vultures with their heads cut
off to come up with a plausible story to explain it. And it won’t help.
Me-Dermid’s dirty deal is going to come out–I’ll see to it. They’ll be
jumping ship faster than you can say Arthur Andersen.”

“Dead?” Erikson repeated, his expression shocked. “It’s going to …
come out?”

“Your secret pal Ralph Mcdermid was shot to death in China,” Charlie
Ouray told him. “Murdered, I’m told, by one of his own hired thugs.” The
vice president blinked, recovered, and said cagily, “Horrible. How
tragic. What was he doing in China? Some business deal, I expect.”

“Shit, Brandon,” the president exploded. “It’s over. You’ve been caught
with your hands deep in other people’s pockets. I expect your
resignation on my desk by morning!” He nodded to Ouray, who pressed a
button under the table. Erikson sputtered, “My … my resignation–” Two
disembodied voices filled the room, one of them the vice president’s:
“Don’t get sarcastic. We need each other. You’re a valuable member of
the team.”

“I’ll stay that way only as long as I’m behind the scenes.”

“It’s not as bad as you think.

In the end, neither Smith nor the CIA woman damaged us or our project.”

“That the CIA may have you under surveillance doesn’t concern you? Even
if it’s not related to our deal, they’ve traced at least some of the
White House leaks to you. That should bother you one hell of a lot.”

“I think that’s enough.” Ouray stopped the tape. “I’m sure Mr. Erikson
recalls the rest.” Erikson’s hands were folded in his lap under the
table. He blinked as if he did not know where he was. Then he drew a
long breath. “I suppose I could claim that wasn’t me … ” The president
hooted. Ouray rolled his eyes. Erikson nodded slowly. “All right, but
doing favors for an important backer in a future presidential campaign,
while possibly reprehensible, is hardly a crime, or all of us would be
in prison. You may not like me now, Sam, and it’s certain you can shut
me out of everything until your term ends, but I doubt you can force me
to resign.” “It’s a lot more damning than that,” the president said. “If
you recall the entire tape–made by the CIA, incidentally–you’ll
realize you implicated yourself in an attempt to cause an armed conflict
with China, in which American military personnel would no doubt have
been killed. You also helped to ship illegal contraband. I believe some
if not all of that skirts treason. It may be treason. Of course, Justice
will have to make the ultimate decision about whether it’s actionable.
Preliminary reports tell me you’re heading for criminal trial.”

Ouray pursed his lips. “I’d say it’s treason.”

Erikson looked from one to the other. “What do you want, Sam?”

“Don’t call me Sam. Not anymore. I told you what I wanted. You can claim
ill health. Family responsibilities. You want to devote your time to
exploring a campaign for president. That’d be partially true, anyway.”

“Is that all, Mr. President?” Erikson asked bitterly.

“Not quite. You can make a good show of exploring the possibility, but
in the end, you won’t run for president, for senator, for dog catcher.

No public office ever again. Not ever, even if you’re not charged.”

“And if I choose to run anyway?”

“I’ll see to it you get no help from the party. Believe me, no one’s
going to want to be even seen in the same room with you.”

Erikson’s expression hardened into stone. He stood. “You’ll have my
resignation tomorrow.” He turned to leave, then turned back. “You know,
I’m not quite as bad as you think. I never really agreed with your
policy of weakening the military. I did only what I thought best for the
country.” “Bullshit,” Ouray said. “You did what was best for Brandon
Erikson.”

The president nodded. “And along the way, you lost your benefactor, too.

If the Altman Group survives, no one there will ever put you in their
Rolodex again. You don’t fit the profile. In your case, mixing business
and politics almost caused a war. That can really hurt a bottom line.”

Tuesday, September 19.

Vandenberg Air Force Base, California.

The morning was warm and hazy with sunshine as the air force jet swept
in over the Pacific. From a window, Jon studied the Channel Islands,
ringed with tendrils of fog, and the rugged coast with its white sands
and dramatic cliffs. The highly secure base extended over nearly one
hundred thousand acres of manzanita and rocket launchpads, pampas grass
and missile silos, on a wide shelf that jutted into the glistening
ocean.

“We used to drive up here occasionally with Mom and Dad, to study the
wildflowers,” Randi told him.

She had a window seat, while he sat across from her, on the aisle, where
he could rotate and see out several windows. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

she continued. “There’s something about the sun and the ocean that I
find endlessly appealing. If … when … I ever settle down, I’ll come
back here. What will you do, Jon?”

About fifty miles southeast of Vandenberg was Santa Barbara, where Randi
and her sister, Sophia Russell, had grown up. Santa Barbara was also
where Jon had gone to lick his wounds and decide what to do with his
life after the Hades virus had killed Sophia.