Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (7 page)

A light knock yanked him from his reverie. His eyes snapped open. His
windows were shuttered against the bright Beijing day and the
magnificent gardens of Zhongnanhai. The years had taught him the
importance of his secluded office. The single knock came again–one he
recognized only too well. It always signaled trouble.

“Come in, General.”

General Chu Kuairong, PLA (Ret.), marched into the cloistered room, took
off his hat, and sat. Hunched forward in the hard wood chair that faced
the desk, he had a scarred face, thick shoulders, and barrel chest. His
tiny eyes were sunk in deep, wind-and-sun creases. They squinted at Niu
as if looking through the raw desert sunlight. His shaved head reflected
like polished steel in the circle of light from the desk lamp. In his
medal-bedecked uniform, he resembled some old Soviet marshal,
contemplating the destruction of Berlin in World War II.

Only the thin cigar clamped between his teeth spoiled the image. “It’s
the spycatcher.”

“Major Pan?” The Owl hid his impatience.

“Yes. Major Pan thinks Dr. Liang could be jumping at shadows, but he’s
not sure.” General Chu was the chief of the Public Security Bureau, one
of the organs under the Owl’s control. Major Pan was one of the
general’s top counterintelligence operatives. “It’s possible Colonel
Smith is a spy who’s maneuvered an invitation for a specific purpose.

Perhaps scientific espionage.”

“Why does Major Pan think that?”

“Two things. First, there are some oddities in Smith’s paper record.

Brief, more-or-less unexplained periods away from his lab at USAMRIID.

It turns out that Smith is more than a medical doctor or scientist. He
has far more combat and command training than most pure scientists even
in their military.”

“What’s the second thing?”

“Major Pan has a ” about him.”

“A feeling?”

General Chu blew a neat circle of rich cigar smoke. “Over the years that
I’ve been running the security forces, I’ve found Pan’s ” are based on
his experience and are therefore often accurate.”

Of the many agencies under his charge, Niu liked the Public Security
Bureau least. It was an octopus with fangs and claws–an enormous,
covert bureau with far-ranging police and intelligence power. The Owl
was a builder, not a destroyer. In his position as bureau minister, the
decisions he sometimes had to approve, or even make, were distasteful.

“What does Major Pan propose?” he asked.

“He wants to keep a close eye on this Colonel Smith. He wants
authorization to surveil him and to hold him for interrogation if he
does anything remotely suspicious.”

The Owl closed his eyes again, mulling. “Surveillance is probably wise,
but I want concrete evidence before authorizing interrogation. These are
sensitive times, and at the moment we’re fortunate to have an American
government peculiarly disposed toward peace and cooperation. We’d be
fools not to take advantage of this rare occasion.”

General Chu blew another cloud of smoke. “Pan suggests there may be a
connection between Smith’s sudden interest in visiting Shanghai and the
disappearance of our agent in the same city.”

“You still have no knowledge of exactly what your man was working on?”

“He was on vacation. We think he must have stumbled onto something that
made him suspicious and was checking it out before reporting in.”

The last situation the Owl wanted was a confrontation with the United
States. It would cause a public furor in both countries, posturing by
both governments, tie the U.S. president’s hands when it came to the
human-rights agreement, and cause the Standing Committee to listen to
the hardliners on the Politburo and Central Committee.

But the prestige and security of China were more important than any
treaty, and a possible spy in Shanghai and a missing internal security
agent were matters of sober concern. “When you know the answer, come to
me,” Niu ordered. “Until then, Major Pan has the authorization to watch
Smith closely. Should he feel it is time to detain him, he will need to
convince me.”

The general’s small eyes gleamed. He blew another perfect smoke circle
and smiled. “I’ll tell him.”

Niu did not care for the look in the old soldier’s eyes. “Make sure that
you do. I’ll report Pan’s suspicions and actions to the Standing
Committee. Pan and you, General, will answer not only to me, but to
them.”

Shanghai.

Smith’s spacious room in the Peace Hotel was suddenly claustrophobic.

Pressed flat against the wall next to the door, he listened for the
footsteps to move. Instead, there was a knock. It was as faint as the
footsteps had been. Smith did not move. There it was again–a light
tapping, now insistent, nervous. Not a bellman or a maid.

Then he knew. “Damn.” It had to be the interpreter Fred Klein had
arranged. He opened the door, grabbed a tall, thin, Chinese man by the
front of his oversized leather jacket, and jerked him into the room.

The fellow’s blue Mao cap flew off. “Hey!”

Smith seized the cap in midair, heeled the door closed, and glared at
the skinny man who struggled while at the same time looking aggrieved.

“What’s the word?”

“Double latte.”

“You’re undercover, for God’s sake,” Smith told him. “Undercover agents
don’t skulk!”

“Okay, Colonel. Okay!” he protested in a completely American accent.

“Get your paws off me.”

“You’re lucky I don’t strangle you. Are you trying to draw attention to
me?” He let go, still scowling.

“You don’t need me for that, Colonel. You’ve done a hot job all by your
lonesome.” Indignant, the interpreter straightened the collar of his
voluminous jacket, brushed his unpressed blue work shirt, and snatched
his peaked Mao cap from Smith.

Smith swore, at last understanding. “I’ll bet your car’s a dark-blue
Volkswagen Jetta.”

“Yeah, okay, you spotted me at the airport. And damn lucky I was back
there, or I’d never have caught on to the surveillance.”

Smith’s shoulders tightened. “What surveillance?”

“I don’t know who it is. You never do in Shanghai these days. Cops?

Secret police? Military? Some tycoon’s goons? Gangsters? Could be
anyone. We’ve got capitalism now, and more-or-less free enterprise. It’s
a lot harder to tell who’s out to get anyone.” “Swell.” Smith sighed. He
had been concerned, and now he knew he had been right. Small
compensation. “What’s your cover?”

“Interpreter and chauffeur. What else? Definitely not gunrunner, so
here, take it quick.” As if it were scorching his fingers, he handed
Smith a canvas holster encasing a duplicate of his 9mm Beretta.

“You have a name?” Smith stuck the semiautomatic into his belt at the
small of his back and tossed the shoulder harness into his suitcase.

“An Jingshe, but you can call me Andy. That’s what I was at NYU. The
Village, not uptown. I liked it down there. Plenty of chicks and good
space you could share sometimes.” Adding proudly, if a little wistfully,
“I’m a painter.” “Congratulations,” Smith said drily. “It’s an even more
unstable living than a spy’s. Okay, Andy, let’s go get coffee at a
Starbucks and see whether we can figure out who’s on my tail.”

He restored the invisible filaments inside all his suitcases, shut them,
and walked to the door, where he smoothed a thin sheet of see-through
plastic on the carpet so that anyone entering would step on it before
they saw it. He hung the do not disturb sign on the doorknob.

They took the elevator down. On the lobby floor, Smith asked An Jingshe,
“Is there a way out through the kitchens?”

“There’s gotta be.”

The uniformed maintenance man polished the brass fittings and shined the
marble walls in the corridor from the lobby to the bank of elevators. A
wiry man, his long face, sharp black eyes, pale brown skin, and drooping
mustache were unlike any other Chinese or Westerner in the lobby. He
worked in silence, head down, apparently concentrating on what he was
doing, but his gaze missed nothing.

When the tall, skinny Chinese and the tall, muscular Westerner left the
elevator, they stopped for a moment to converse. Too far away to hear
the low conversation, the maintenance worker polished another brass
sconce and assessed the big man with practiced eyes. No more than an
inch over six feet, he was broad through the chest and shoulders, trim
and athletic. His hair was smoothed back from a high-planed face, and
his blue eyes were clear and intelligent. All in all, the maintenance
man saw nothing unusual about him in his dark-gray, American-cut
business suit. Still, there was an unmistakable military bearing about
him, and he had arrived at Pudong International from Taiwan with Dr.
Liang Tianning and his biomolecular team.

The maintenance man was still studying him when the pair turned and
headed toward the doors into the kitchen. As they pushed through, he
packed his cleaning materials and hurried across the lobby and out to
busy Nanjing Dong Lu, one of the world’s greatest shopping streets. He
ran west through the throngs and honking vehicles toward the pedestrian
mall. But before he reached the first cross street, he stopped at the
alley that edged the hotel.

He waited where he could watch the employees’ entrance as well as the
lobby entrance through which he had just left. It was always possible he
had been seen, and the men’s entry into the kitchen a calculated ruse.

Neither the tall American nor the Chinese exited, but the maintenance
man saw something else: He was not the only one observing the hotel. Two
cigarettes glowed and faded inside a black car, parked so it blocked the
narrow sidewalk across from the hotel’s revolving doors. The Public
Security Bureau–China’s dreaded police and intelligence agency. No one
else would be that arrogant.

He studied the vehicle longer. By the time he looked back into the
alley, the American and the Chinese were running toward a Volkswagen
Jetta parked so that it faced the street. The maintenance man shrank
back into the crowd that surged along the sidewalk.

The Jetta’s right wheels were flat against a wall. The Chinese unlocked
the car door, while the American surveyed all around as if expecting an
attack. They jumped inside, the Jetta pulled into the traffic, and it
turned west toward the pedestrian mall, which reached all the way to the
French Concession. No vehicles were allowed there.

The maintenance man wasted no time. He gave a piercing whistle. Seconds
later, a battered Land Rover pulled up. He dropped his toolbox in back
and vaulted into the front beside the driver, who wore a round white cap
and had leathery brown skin and round eyes like his.

When the driver spoke in a language that was neither Chinese nor
European, the maintenance man responded in the same language and jabbed
a thumb at the Jetta, less than a half block ahead in the jammed
traffic.

The driver nodded and forced the Land Rover through the congestion.

Abruptly, the Jetta turned left.

Bellowing curses, the driver snaked, bumped, and banged the Land Rover
to the left and followed the Jetta, which turned west again on Jiujiang
Lu. And quickly north once more, back toward Nanjing Dong Lu.

Swearing again, the Land Rover driver tried to follow but was
momentarily blocked. He burst his vehicle out to turn into the same
street. The maintenance man caught another glimpse of their quarry far
ahead–and then the car vanished.

The driver pushed the Land Rover on, stopping just before Nanjing Dong
Lu, where an all-but-hidden alley ran off to the south. The maintenance
man cursed. The Chinese driver and the American with the military
posture must have spotted him. The Jetta had pulled into this alley and
by now could be anywhere in the teeming area.

Two hours later, Andy dropped Smith at the second Starbucks and drove
off to park. This one was on Fixing Dong Lu, another bustling street,
not far from the river in the Nanshi district–Shanghai’s Old Town.

The first Starbucks had been in Lippo Plaza on Huaihai Zhong Lu. That
coffee shop had been filled with locals and Westerners alike, and Smith
and Andy had seen no connection to the Empress there or when they had
walked the streets, reading nameplates on doors and studying the low
buildings filled with shops and small stores.

This second Starbucks was less crowded. Only Chinese sat at the tables
and ordered coffees to go. Most were well dressed in suits, both Western
and Chinese, and appeared to be rushing back to desk jobs.

Smith carried his second double latte of the day to a table at the front
window. This was a business district, which accounted for the lack of
Westerners. The buildings were a mixture of four-, five-, and six-story
structures dating back to the late colonial era as well as taller modern
buildings and a few shiny glass-and-steel high-rises. One of the newest
was directly across the street. Smith focused on a vertical row of brass
plaques beside the entrance doors.

Andy joined him. “I’ll get me a mocha, and we can start walking. Are you
buying?”

Smith handed him money. When the interpreter-chauffeur returned, Smith
stood up. “We’ll try that new building across the street first.”

Carrying their Styrofoam cups, they dodged among the bicycles, cars, and
buses to cross with the skill that came from maneuvering through
Manhattan’s traffic. Smith headed to the brass nameplates at the entry.

Most were in Chinese characters, some transliterated into Pinyin.

Andy translated for Smith.

“Hold it!” Smith said at the tenth plaque. “Read that again.”

“Flying Dragon Enterprises, International Trade and Shipping.” Andy
pontificated: “A dragon’s the symbol of heaven in China.”

“Okay.”

“And, therefore, of the emperor.”

“The emperor’s been dead a long time, but thanks. Finish the list.”