The Altman Code - Covert One 04

by Robert Ludlum

  In the silence, came a single word: “So.” Apparently untouched by the shooting from the grove, Feng paused, all banter gone from his voice as he continued, “Now you know my deal. Think hard, Li. Your friend’s pistol will run out of ammunition long before I do. There’s no two million dollars for you. I offer you your life. Throw out the case with the manifest, and you live.” Jon whispered fiercely, “Keep me covered. Don’t open up until you hear my voice or hear me shooting, unless you absolutely must.”

  “What are you planning, Jon?” Asgar demanded.

  “I’ll circle behind those rocks, climb over, and take Feng from the rear.”

  “We could attack. There’s nearly twenty of us left.”

  “It’d still be hard to dig a man with an assault rifle and plenty of ammo out of those rocks. We don’t know what other weapons he might have there, too. Maybe he’s got men as well. We could send Li into a panic if she thinks she’s got even more enemies, and the manifest could be destroyed. It’s too big a gamble.”

  Before Asgar could protest again, Jon had slung his MP5K over his shoulder and disappeared back through the trees. As he circled, he had more than one reason for making the attempt to stop Feng Dun. To fire the angry fusillade at Feng, the shooter in the grove had come out from behind a tree, and he had seen her face. Randi Russell.

  He had no idea how she had gotten here, but Feng was right. She would run out of ammunition before he did. And if the Uighers attacked, she could be caught in the crossfire.

  The Arabian Sea.

  Admiral Brose’s voice was steady over the bridge loudspeaker: “Give me the Empress’s position as of this minute, Commander.”

  From where he stood on the dark bridge, Jim Chervenko could see the lighted bulk of the Empress sailing two miles off the Crowe’s port bow.

  Appearing to move at her full speed, she was continuing on her steady course across the moonlit sea for the Strait of Hormuz, the Persian Gulf beyond, and Basra, Iraq. He nodded to Frank Bienas, who took the fix from the navigator and relayed it to the admiral.

  “By our calculation, you have less than ninety minutes before she enters the strait,” the admiral said after a moment.

  “That’s how we calculate it, too, sir,” Chervenko said.

  “You’ve moved into position?”

  “She’s two miles off our port bow.”

  “The submarine?”

  “Run her torpedoes in, and moved up with us. They have the Empress off their starboard, but they’re submerged half a mile closer, cruising behind her where they have a clear fix on us, too.”

  “Your Seahawks are armed for antisubmarine and ready to launch?”

  “Yessir.”

  The admiral maintained his calm voice, but the series of questions he would never have normally asked a raw lieutenant in his first command, much less a decorated commander with years at sea, betrayed his nerves.

  Brose seemed to read his thoughts. “Forgive me, Commander, it’s a nasty situation.”

  “None nastier, sir.”

  “The battle plan?”

  “Move to stop the Empress. Send off the boarding detail. Keep the freighter between us and the sub, which will force her to come to our side where the choppers can get a clear shot. Otherwise, we play it as it lays.”

  “All right, Commander.” A slight hesitation. “You’ll have the order to board within the hour. The Shilo should be there in three hours, give or take. I’ll try to give you air cover at the last minute, but the timing is difficult. Hold out as long as you can.” A hesitation again, as if reluctant to end the connection. Finally, a hearty, “Good luck.” The admiral was gone.

  Commander Chervenko looked once at the clock above his command post, then again focused his night glasses on The Dowager Empress, plowing ahead through the bright moonlight and across the calm sea. Inside his grim mind, he was counting down.

  Chapter Forty-Three.

  Dazu.

  The night felt heavy around Jon, oppressive. He crept among the shadowy boulders of the giant rock formation, inching higher and higher. His special canvas shoes gripped the stony surfaces, while his night-vision goggles enabled him to follow crevices, rain channels, and ledges.

  Sometimes he had no choice but to jump and scramble up the face of a boulder. Other times, a scrub tree allowed him to pull himself straight up.

  “Time is wasting, Li,” Feng Dun said, his cool voice so close Jon expected to see him any second. “Your husband’s dead. Your bodyguards are dead. You’ve obviously run out of ammo. Your friend out there somewhere among the trees is alone and will run out of ammo soon, too, and then there’ll be no one to stop me. This is your chance. Toss out the attache case, and I’ll walk away.”

  From her hiding spot, Li Kuonyi laughed bitterly. “And where would I go?

  Without a great deal of money, how would I get myself and my children out of China? I might as well burn the manifest myself. I will, if you don’t leave.”

  As her bitter voice talked, drawing Feng’s attention, Jon crawled faster up the rocks until he was sure he was higher than Feng.

  Feng’s laugh was nasty. “Sorry, Madame Li. Only the Americans want the manifest untouched. Please feel free to burn it. If you don’t, I will.

  But that won’t save you or help you escape China.” She suddenly understood. “Wei Gaofan, That’s who’s behind this! My father’s benefactor. My husband’s benefactor. He’s the one who must have the document destroyed. He’s the one you really work for!”

  “Trusting us is your only chance. Otherwise, you know your fate.” Jon reached the highest rock. He unslung his MP5K, climbed silently over, and found a good position with his back against the top boulder. As a dark wind whistled around his ears, beneath him spread the mesa and Buddha gorge, a panoramic vista of shadows, vegetation, and monumental statues shining in the unearthly glow of moon and stars. Feng Dun was kneeling behind a boulder not twenty feet below. His assault rifle rested on a lip of rock, aimed toward where Li Kuonyi hid. Jon took off his goggles and stared down at the top of Feng’s head. His red-and-white hair seemed especially brilliant in the delicate light, the only spot of color in the black-and-gray rockscape. At the same time, Feng’s head was also a perfect target. With one satisfying bullet, Jon could shatter it like a melon. His trigger finger flexed. Simmering fury at the people Feng had killed himself or ordered killed knotted his chest ... Avery Mondragon. Andy An. So many Uigher fighters. The pig Ralph Mcdermid.

  Even poor Yu Yongfu. Then there was the violent conflict that was waiting to erupt out on the Arabian Sea. Jon fought to control his rage.

  He said loudly enough for all to hear, “You’re not Madame Li’s only chance, Feng. Give it up. Surrender now, and you’ll live.” The advantage had flipped. For an endless second, Feng Dun did not turn. He did not move. Faster than the strike of a cobra, he whirled and dove to his right, heedless of sharp-edged rocks. His strange hair disappeared into shadow, while his face radiated outrage and disgust. At the same time, he fired his assault rifle, releasing a sweep of bullets that rushed toward Jon. Jon grunted with satisfaction. He squeezed off a single burst from the MP5K. The bullets slammed into the mercenary’s trunk, stopping his turn as if he had collided with a tank. The impact slammed Feng back against the boulders like a sack of rice. He recoiled forward, pitched over a smaller boulder, and rolled downward, starting a small avalanche. There was a moment of shocked silence. Across the clearing, Asgar and his Uighers burst into the open and surrounded the fallen tree and rocks where Li Kuonyi had taken refuge. Their weapons were aimed, but Asgar stopped their advance.

  Excitement surged through Jon. The manifest was in reach again. They would have the proof, and he could phone Fred. The Empress could be stopped, its deadly cargo offloaded, and the crisis ended ... if there was time. He sprinted down among the rocks, dodging and leaping obstacles, until he reached the clearing. He dashed to the Uighers at the fallen tree.

  Behind the log, Li Kuonyi sat with her back aga
inst a rock. She wore a sleek, black pantsuit and high-collared hooded jacket identical to that worn by her double, dead in the valley. Hers was torn, disheveled, and stained with blood, apparently from her husband’s injuries. Her left hand gently cupped his dead face. Her right hand held a cigarette lighter, already in flame. She had no weapon, but the original invoice manifest lay open on top of her closed case, next to her right hand.

  When she saw Jon, she smiled. “So? The American who wanted the manifest so many days ago. I should’ve realized.” “It’s over, Madame Li,” Jon told her. “Your husband’s dead. You have no one left to deal with but me.”

  Her hand stroked Yu’s immobile face. It was a mask of marble, of death.

  “He was a fool and a coward, but I loved him, and the deal remains the same. The two million American dollars and your Uigher friends to help me and my children leave China. In exchange, you get the undamaged manifest you have worked so hard for.” She paused, her gaze stony.

  “Otherwise, I burn it.”

  Jon believed her. He glanced at his watch. One hour and ten minutes. By now, the Crowe would have cleared for action, waiting only for the final order to board the Empress. There was little hope he could get the manifest to the president in time to send to Beijing—unless something had changed or would change. A storm. Other navy ships arriving. Another nation interfering. Anything to slow the ship’s arrival at the strait.

  Too much had already been sacrificed for him to give up now, and too much was at risk not to make the final effort. “Did your men find the money?” he asked Asgar.

  “They did. In a crevice near where Feng was shooting. Still in its suitcase. And it’s all there. Real money.”

  “Give it to her.”

  Asgar’s voice was suddenly tense, “I don’t think so, old boy.”

  Jon glanced at the Uigher leader, and then turned again to see what Asgar’s gaze was focused on at the far edge of the clearing. His throat tightened. They did not need this. A line of eight men in the uniform of the People’s Liberation Army stood just inside the trees, their weapons aimed into the clearing. At them. The soldiers were too late to help Feng, but not too late to kill Asgar, Randi, and everyone else.

  Monday, September 18.

  Washington, D.C.

  Every eye in the White House’s subterranean situation room was angled toward the head of the polished table, where President Castilla stared up at the wall clock.

  “One hour, sir,” Stevens Brose said.

  “Less,” corrected Secretary of Defense Stanton.

  Vice President Brandon Erikson said, “We can’t wait, Mr. President.”

  The president turned his gaze to Erikson. “They’re ready? The Crowe?”

  “They’ve been ready for a full half hour,” Admiral Brose said.

  The president nodded. Continued to nod. His gaze returned to the clock.

  His face hardened. “Give the order.”

  Instantly, the secure room galvanized into action. Brose snapped up the receiver of the telephone and issued orders.

  Tuesday, September 19.

  Dazu.

  Asgar made a quick motion, and the twenty Uighers spread out to face the eight soldiers across the clearing. They stared at one another, hands on weapons, pointing.

  “We outnumber them better than two to one,” Asgar said in a rush, “but I don’t dare take them on. We don’t know how many more are nearby, and a firefight in which we kill a squad of PLA troops will guarantee Draconian reprisals against my guerrillas and all of Xinjiang. The payoff’s not worth the sacrifice. Sorry, Jon.”

  Jon answered quickly if unhappily, “I understand.”

  “If there are no more than we’re looking at, we can at least protect you as far as our hideout. My people there will help you get David Thayer out of the country.”

  “Appreciate it. Thanks. Why aren’t they moving?” They were statues, armed and ready. An impenetrable line perhaps, but they could still be gotten around. They could still be shot. Why did they not fire first?

  Were they afraid, because they were outnumbered?

  “They’re not worried,” Asgar decided. “As I said, they may have more troops coming up.”

  At that moment, Jon sensed motion on his other side. He spun on his heel. “Randi.”

  Randi Russell appeared, her face grim. “What can I do?” Her blond hair was dyed black, and she wore a crumpled business suit. She, too, stared across the clearing at the silent Chinese soldiers.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” Jon asked, but his heart was not in their usual banter. The troops would not wait much longer.

  “I flew in with the late Ralph Mcdermid, may the bastard rest in hell.

  He needed an interpreter.”

  “Lucky for us and Li Kuonyi he did. You’ve been with us from the start?”

  She nodded. “Lurking up here. After the bloodbath below, I spotted Feng moving in on the other two. So I opened fire to drive him into the rocks.”

  “I owe you again.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Trying to be light, but not succeeding. “This cargo manifest the woman has ... that’s what you need?”

  “Yes.” Jon gave her the highlights, concluding with the standoff in the Arabian Sea. “Mcdermid set the whole thing up with Li Kuonyi’s husband.

  Somehow, a Chinese politico got into the act, too. God knows what’s going to happen, but it’s not good. Not for peace ... not for the future ... not for the world. Sorry you got caught in this, Randi.

  Asgar’s right. He can’t risk the future of his people. There’s no time left to change anything anyway.” He turned to Asgar. “You and your fighters better get away while you can. If you can.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “That’d only put you in greater danger. Uighers don’t have the world’s only superpower to protect them. We do.” He clapped him on the shoulders as he had seen Uighers do. “Take the two million. You can make better use of it than Li Kuonyi, the Chinese government, or us.”

  “Sorry it worked out this way. Bad show all around, but perhaps we can do this again someday. Do it right.” Asgar gave a signal, and before Jon and Randi could blink, he and his men had stepped into the trees and vanished. Now there was no protection at all from the Chinese soldiers.

  “Jon,” Randi said quietly, nodding at them.

  They did not pursue the Uighers. Instead, they parted, and an officer stepped through the line, walking across the clearing toward them.

  “That’s what they were waiting for,” Jon said. “A captain. Infantry, from the insignia,” Randi agreed. Jon, Randi, and Li Kuonyi stepped away from the fallen trunk. Kuonyi clutched the manifest in one hand, the cigarette lighter in the other. It was no longer alight. The captain’s expression was stern, his step authoritative. He glanced to the right, toward where the dead Feng Dun lay in his own blood. He slowed and stopped, his expression uncertain. A pudgy little man, also in the full uniform of the PLA, appeared from the rocks behind Feng. As the new man walked steadily toward the infantry officer, Randi whispered, “He’s wearing the insignia of the Public Security Bureau—internal security and counterintelligence.”

  “Swell. The Chinese KGB.” Major Pan Aitu had watched the first act of the drama at the Sleeping Buddha from behind the statue of a ferocious dragon that guarded the entrance to the Cave of Full Enlightenment. As the action had progressed, he had circled around, following it. Night-vision binoculars had enabled him to study the band of Uighers who had attacked Feng Dun and his gangsters, including a few PLA soldiers, which had told him much. The clothes, faces, and weapons of the twenty-odd hillside guerrillas had made him smile his benign smile. Disciplined Uighers, with AK-47s. He had long since decided Colonel Smith had made his escape with the help of an unknown Shanghai cell of Uigher resistance fighters. Now they were here, too, where the elusive Feng Dun had murdered Yu Yongfu and the rich American, Mcdermid, to obtain the cargo manifest of The Dowager Empress. Could Colonel Smith be far aw
ay?

  Pan’s admiration for Li Kuonyi’s cunning had increased ten-thousandfold.

  But if Wei Gaofan were to be defeated, Pan would still need to intervene. The appearance of the depleted squad of infantry only confirmed his decision. Now as he stood before the captain, who was staring uncertainly at his PLA uniform, his rank, and his internal-security insignia, he said mildly, “I am Major Pan Aitu, Captain. Perhaps you know of me?” He looked the tall captain up and down. The captain regained some of his martinet air. He held his ground.

  “Captain Chang Doh, and yes, I have heard of you, Major.”

  “Then we can dispense with the preliminaries. You are, I believe, under the personal orders of a commander who’s a friend of Wei Gaofan. You’ve been unofficially detailed to aid Feng Dun, whom you can see is now quite dead. Under his completely illegal orders, you have lost PLA soldiers, both wounded and killed.”

  The captain’s face went ashen. “I cannot speak of my orders, Major.”

  “Oh? There are many more soldiers hidden among the trees under my command. At the same time, I myself have written orders to investigate and, if needed, prevent the activities of the late Feng Dun. To assuage any doubt, here are my papers.” He handed Niu Jianxing’s authorization to the captain.

  The captain read slowly, as if he hoped the documents would disappear from his fingers. Unfortunately for him, the orders confirmed that Major Pan was operating in his capacity as a counterintelligence and internal-security officer for the member of the Standing Committee who was in charge of such operations. The captain, on the other hand, was in the weak position of being merely an infantry officer working for a personal friend of a member of the Standing Committee, who was not in charge of the military.

  As Jon, Randi, and Li Kuonyi watched, the infantry captain returned Major Pan’s papers, took one step back, and saluted smartly.

  “Looks as if the major’s won the argument.”

  Li Kuonyi relit her lighter. “You can have the manifest before he gets here. I want passage to the United States for myself and my children and asylum. Otherwise, I burn it now.”