“The possibility occurred to me, too.”
“Who’s the second candidate?” Jon asked.
“That’s where it gets interesting. As it turns out, my financial and corporate experts found a maze of fronts, subsidiaries, and offshore companies masking who ultimately owned Donk & Lapierre itself. Finally, they were able to discover that — big as it is — Donk & Lapierre is a wholly owned subsidiary of a far larger entity, which turns out to be the source of my second candidate: the Altman Group.”
“Never heard of it.”
“You probably have,” Klein assured him, “but you had no reason to pay attention. Most people don’t. Altman employs expensive publicity people to keep it off the front pages. However, Altman’s famous … almost mythical … in global business circles.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s a multiproduct, multinational conglomerate … but it’s also the planet’s largest private equity firm. We’re talking about making and breaking enormous fortunes daily. Now figure in Altman’s executives — insiders from the past four presidential administrations, including a former president, a former secretary of defense, and a former CIA chief. That’s not all. Altman Europe is run by a former British prime minister, with a former German finance minister as second in command. Altman Asia is led by a former Philippine president.”
Jon whistled. “Talk about a golden Rolodex.”
“I’ve never heard of another company with so many political stars on the payroll. Altman’s global headquarters is in Washington, which isn’t particularly unusual. However, its address is more gold — on Pennsylvania Avenue, midway between the White House and the Capitol. Only a fifteen-minute walk either direction.”
“And a stone’s throw from the Hoover building,” Jon decided, seeing the geography in his mind. “Hell, it’s at the very center of the Washington establishment in all ways.”
“Exactly.”
“How could I not know about Altman?” “As I said, an iron hand when it comes to general publicity.”
“Impressive. Where did it come from?”
“What I’m about to tell you is public information. Anyone could find it, but since Altman keeps such a low profile, few people care. The company started in 1987, when an ambitious federal employee quit his job, borrowed a hundred thousand dollars, and brought in his first political celebrity — a retired senator. With that marquee name, Altman started growing. It bought up companies, held some, and sold others, always for decent profits, sometimes for obscene ones. At the same time, it attracted bigger and bigger names for its letterhead. Today, its political clout and door-opening ability is impressive, to say the least. It’s a thirteen-billion-dollar empire, with investments of all sorts around the world. Hell, they’ve probably got something going in Antarctica, too.”
“So what you’re saying is Altman’s basically a giant financial holding company.” Jon considered where it fit into his assignment. “Are the Asian headquarters here in Hong Kong?”
“They are.”
“Does the Philippine ex-president speak nothing but Tagalog and English?”
“No, he’s fluent in at least six languages, including French and Dutch. But he’s not in residence there now. Hasn’t been for months. He’s at a health spa in Sweden. We checked, and he hasn’t had any calls from Hong Kong in weeks.”
“Then who is the second candidate for Cruyff’s boss?”
“Ralph Mcdermid, the investment guru who founded the company.”
“Mcdermid? Then where did ” come from?”
“It was his father’s first name,” Klein explained. “Altman Mcdermid. He was a failed businessman — lost his drugstore in the Depression when he was just starting out, rebuilt it, but lost it again in the 1960s when a big Walgreen store came into the little town in Tennessee where they lived. He never worked again. His wife supported the family by cleaning houses.” Jon nodded. “Could be Ralph Mcdermid’s trying to make up for what happened to his father. Or he’s scared to death it’ll happen to him, so he’s building a stockpile against disaster.”
“Or he’s such a financial genius he can’t help himself.” Klein paused. “Ralph Mcdermid is in Hong Kong right now. He’s an American, speaks nothing but English.” Jon let that sink in. “All right, I get the picture, but what the hell would Ralph Mcdermid care about the Empress? It’s just one ship. It seems damn small potatoes for that kind of powerhouse megalith he’s running.”
“True. But our information is solid: The Altman Group owns Donk & Lapierre, and Donk & Lapierre are equal owners with Flying Dragon of the Empress and its cargo. What I need from you — instantly, if not sooner — is that third copy of the manifest. Check into Ralph Mcdermid. See if you can tie him to the Empress, and see if he has the third copy.”
Friday, September 15.
Washington, D.C.
President Castilla paused to find the exact words to convey both the gravity of what he was about to reveal and the justification for holding back as long as he had. He gazed around the highly secure situation room in the basement of the White House, at the five men who sat on either side of him at the conference table. Three looked mildly puzzled. “Obviously, since we’re meeting here,” he told them, “you know there must be some kind of serious situation. Before I describe it, I’m going to apologize to three of you for not bringing you into the loop sooner, and then I’m going to explain why I don’t have to apologize.”
“We’re at your disposal, Mr. President,” Vice President Brandon Erikson said. He added sincerely, “As always.” Wiry and muscular, Erikson had sable-black hair, regular features, and a casual, Kennedyesque air that voters found disarming. A youthful forty years old, he was renowned for his dynamic personality and energy, but his true strength was his brisk intelligence, which hid political acumen far beyond his years of experience. “What situation?”
Secretary of Defense Stanton wanted to know, suspicion in his voice. He turned to stare around the table, the overhead light making his bald head gleam. Secretary of State Abner Padgett asked, “Do I gather Admiral Brose and Mr. Ouray already know what you intend to tell us?” His voice was deceptively quiet, but his eyes flashed at the insult. His meaty frame lounged in his armchair, unconsciously displaying his natural self-confidence, the same self-confidence that Castilla relied on over and over again to send into hot spots around the world to cut hard deals and soften hard hearts. Padgett was the best man to dispatch on a touchy diplomatic mission. Contrarily, he had a short fuse at home. “Admiral Brose had to know,” the president snapped and glared at them. “I told Charlie only this morning, so he could call this meeting. Your reactions are precisely why I don’t have to apologize. There are entirely too many overblown egos and personal agendas in this cabinet and administration.
Worse — and all of you know this is the unvarnished truth — some folks are talking to people they shouldn’t, about subjects they shouldn’t. Do I make myself clear?” Henry Stanton flushed. “You’re referring to the leaks? I hope that isn’t intended to apply to me, sir.”
“I am referring to the leaks, and what I said applies to everyone.” He fixed his glare on Stanton. “I decided that in this situation no one would be told, except on a need-to-know basis. My need for them to know. Not yours. Not anyone else’s either. I stand by that.” His jaw was rock hard. His mouth was grim. His gaze was so flinty as it swept over them that, at that moment, his face could have been carved out of Monument Valley stone.
The vice president was conciliatory. “I’m sure we understand, Mr. President. Decisions like that are difficult, but that’s why we elected you. We knew we could trust you.” He turned to Stanton and Padgett.
“Don’t you agree, gentlemen?”
The secretary of defense cleared his throat, chastened. “Of course, Mr. President.”
“Absolutely,” the secretary of state said quickly. “He has the facts.”
“Yes, Abner, I do, such as they are. And now I’ve made the decision that i
t’s time to bring you in.” He leaned across the table, his hands clasped. “We have a possible repeat of the Yinhe debacle with China.”
As they stared, riveted, their alarm growing, he described what had happened so far, leaving out any specific reference to Covert-One and to the man who claimed to be his father. As he talked, he could see they were already considering how the situation might impact their departments and responsibilities.
When he finished, he nodded to the vice president. “I do apologize to you, Brandon. I should’ve brought you in sooner, in case anything happened to me.”
“It would’ve been better, sir. But I understand. These leaks have made us all leery. Under the circumstances, with secrecy so vital, I probably would’ve acted similarly.”
The president nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Now, let’s discuss what each of us must do to prepare in case this does escalate and we’re forced to go public without proof and stop the Empress on the high seas.”
Admiral Brose spoke up. “We need to assess what China will do next, now that they’ve spotted our frigate. We should also figure the size of a conflict like this into our military plans and appropriations.”
Secretary of State Padgett agreed. “We must think about not only conflict with China, but what we can do to take a strong posture of deterrence.”
“The Cold War all over again?” the vice president wondered. “That’d be a tragedy.” He shrugged unhappily. “But at the moment, I see no alternatives.”
Charles Ouray said, “We’ve got to keep this information confined to those of us here. Is that understood? If the Empress problem leaks, we’ll know it’s one of us.”
Around the table, heads nodded solemnly, and the discussion resumed. As the president listened, a part of his mind began counting — two, four, one, two, two, and one. Among the six men there, they had twelve children. He was surprised that he was aware how many children each had. Surprised, too, that, when he thought about it, he remembered their names. Abner’s youngest had him stumped.
But then, he could recall the children of most of the other people he had worked with over the years. Knew their names a lot of the time, too.
For only an instant he wondered what that meant. Then he knew … In his mind, he could see that little boy again, reaching up to the faceless stranger.
There was a pause in the conversation, and he realized they were waiting for him to say something. “State needs to get ready to go into high diplomatic gear. Defense needs to figure out what we’ve got that we can use to scare the shit out of China. The navy needs to come up with alternate plans to board and inspect the Empress.” He slammed his hands on the table and stood up. “End of discussion. That’s all, gentlemen.
Thanks for coming.”
Chapter Twenty
Saturday, September 16.
Kowloon.
In his hotel room, Jon put on gloves, searched the young man’s pockets, and found a master key, a few coins, and a pack of gum. He put everything back, including the key, and checked the corridor. Deserted. He carried the corpse to the fire stairs landing. The steps reached far up and far down in silence. He climbed two flights and propped the body against the wall of the stairwell.
The dagger still protruded from the emaciated chest. He pulled it out.
With the wound open, blood flowed like the Yangtze. Sighing, he left the knife beside the killer and returned downstairs.
Once more in his room, he propped a chair against the door, in case someone else with a master key and a way to flip the chain lock had ideas. Last, he scrubbed the tub and scrutinized the floors and furniture, including the bed. There was no trace of blood, and nothing had been dropped.
With relief, he took a shower. In the steaming water, he scrubbed until his skin glowed, forcing his mind away from the dead man and into the future. As he toweled off, he made plans.
At last, he returned to bed. He lay awake for some time, trying to calm his disquiet as he listened to the occasional night sounds of the hotel, the scattered noise of traffic, and the mournful horns of ships and boats in the harbor. All the sounds of life in a busy city on a busy planet in a busy galaxy in a busy universe. An indifferent universe, and galaxy, and planet, and city.
He listened to the beating of his own heart. To the imagined sound of blood flowing through his veins and arteries. To sounds heard nowhere but in his own mind. Sometime before daybreak, he fell asleep again.
And jerked awake once more. He sat bolt upright. Out in the corridor, the wheels of a room-service cart ferried an early breakfast to someone.
The first rays of morning showed around the drapes, while city noises rose and crescendoed. He jumped out of bed and dressed. When the assassin did not report in, and he did not reappear — whether or not the body had been found and the police called — another assassin would eventually be sent.
Fully dressed in the same suit, fresh shirt, and new tie, he selected items from his suitcase — his backpack, a pair of gray slacks, a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, a seersucker sport jacket, canvas running shoes, and a collapsible Panama hat. His black working clothes were already in the backpack. He packed everything else in, too, including his folding attache case.
Finally, he put on his dirty-blond wig and adjusted it in the mirror. He was Major Kenneth St. Germain again.
After a final survey of the room, he left, carrying the suitcase and wearing the backpack. The carpeted corridor was still empty, but behind the doors, televisions had been turned on, and people were moving.
Jon rode the elevator down to the floor above the lobby and took the stairs the rest of the way. From the doorway, he scanned the lobby east to west, north to south. He saw no police, no one who acted like police, and none of the killers from yesterday. There was no one he recognized from Shanghai. Still, none of his precautions guaranteed no one was waiting.
He stood out of sight another ten minutes. At last, he crossed to the registration desk. If he left without checking out, the hotel might notify the police, especially since it was only a matter of time until the corpse upstairs was discovered. While he waited for the bill, he asked the bell captain to call a taxi with an English-speaking driver, to take him to the airport.
The cab was barely out of sight of the hotel when Jon leaned forward from the backseat: “Change of plan. Take me to Eighty-eight Queensway in Central. The Conrad International Hotel.”
Dazu, China.
A thousand years ago, religious artists carved and painted stone sculptures into the mountains, caves, and grottos that surrounded the rural village of Dazu. Now a metropolis of more than eight hundred thousand, Dazu had terraces of well-maintained rice paddies as well as high-rise buildings, small farmhouses nestled among trees, and mansions surrounded by formal landscapes. The soil and climate of the green, rolling land were favorable for city gardeners and suburban farmers, who grew as many as three crops a year, most still using the methods of their ancestors.
The prison farm was less than five miles from the giant Sleeping Buddha, carved at Baodingshan. Secluded and isolated, the prison was a sprawl of frame buildings and walkways, locked behind a tall, chain-link fence that had raised platforms at each corner for the armed sentries. The dirt road that led to it was never traveled by tourists or city people.
Inmates, who worked in fields and paddies operated by the distant Beijing government, were marched to and from work by armed guards. They had little contact with locals. Light as the confinement and security appeared, China did not coddle those it branded criminals.
The old man was one of the few inmates excused from the fields and morning march. He was even allowed some privileges, such as the cell— almost a normal room — he shared in the barrack with only one other prisoner. His offense was so long ago that neither the guards nor the farm’s governor remembered what it was. This ignorance left them nothing specific to condemn him for, nothing easy to cause hate or fear, nothing longstanding to punish and feel righteous about. Because of this and his adv
anced age, they often treated him like a grandfather. He was given treats and a hot plate, books and newspapers, pens and writing paper.
All illicit, but known to and ignored by the usually stern governor, a former PLA colonel.
This made it more disconcerting to the prisoner when very early in the morning, even before breakfast, his Chinese cell mate vanished to be replaced by a younger, non-Chinese man. He had been brought in at dawn, and since then he had been lying on his sleeping pallet. His eyes were usually closed. Occasionally, he stared up at the unpainted barrack ceiling. He said nothing.
Frowning, the old man went about his activities, refusing to let this abnormality interfere with his routine. He was tall and rangy, although on the thin side. He had a rugged face that was once handsome. Now it was heavily lined, the cheeks sunken, the eyes set in hollows. The eyes were intelligent, so he kept them downcast. It was safer that way.
That morning, he went to his clerical assignment in the governor’s office as usual, and, when lunchtime arrived, he returned to his cell and opened a can of Western lentil soup, heated it on the hot plate, and sat alone at his plank table to eat.
The new prisoner, who was perhaps fifty, had apparently not moved from his pallet. His eyes were closed. Still, there was nothing restful about him. He had a tough-looking, muscular body that never seemed completely at rest.
Suddenly he jumped lightly to his feet and seemed to flow to the door.
His face had a gray stubble that matched his iron-gray hair. He opened the door and scanned the barrack, which was empty because most of the inmates ate beside the fields. He closed the door, returned to his pallet, and lay down again as if he had never moved.
The old man had watched with a kind of envy mixed with admiration and regret, as if he had once been as athletic as that and knew he could never be again.
“Your son can’t believe you’re alive. He wants to see you.”
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