“Yes,” Zhao said dully. “Three.”
“Where are the other two?”
“One must be in Basra or Baghdad, with the recipient company. That would be normal procedure. I don’t know where the other is.”
Smith gazed at the woeful Zhao. “I can arrange to get you safely out of China.”
The heavy little man sighed. “Where would I go? China is my home.” He pulled himself to his feet, walked across the room, and collapsed in one of Yu Yongfu’s suede armchairs. “Perhaps they do not find out.”
“Maybe not.”
“May I have my pistol?”
Smith hesitated. Then he took the Sig Sauer from his belt, checked the chamber, unloaded the clip, and handed him the weapon. “I’ll put the clip beside the door.”
He left him there, seated in the stately armchair, staring out into the new Shanghai night.
Inside Yu Yongfu’s walled compound, Feng Dun sat patiently in his Ford Escort, hidden in the black umbra beneath a branching plane tree. As a breeze carried the sweet scent of blooming jasmine in through his rolled-down window, he studied the shadows that moved behind the curtains of the mansion’s windows. They were Western curtains at the windows of Yu’s big Western house, which the entrepreneur had built as a modern replica of the baronial manses of the tea and silk taipans of the British and French hongs in the Concession era.
The shadows gestured—the taller one pacing, arms waving, while the smaller one remained still, with sharp gestures. That would be Li Kuonyi, Yu’s wife. She was more sure, more emphatic, and Feng had always treated her with caution. Her husband could not be relied upon to keep his head if the situation deteriorated more. It was unfortunate for all of them that she was not in charge.
Feng had seen enough. As he fingered his old Soviet Tokarev with one hand, he punched numbers into his cell phone with the other. He waited for the series of rings and silences that formed the intricate relays that protected the man he was calling, Wei Gaofan.
“Yes?” a voice answered.
“I must speak with him.”
The voice instantly recognized him. “Of course.”
From the Ford, Feng saw the silhouette of Yu Yongfu, slumped now, and the slimmer shape of Li Kuonyi standing over him. Her hand was on his shoulder, no doubt comforting him.
“What has happened about the American?” the gruff voice of Wei Gaofan asked from distant Beijing.
Feng reported, “Jon Smith is apparently still in his hotel. The security police are watching it. My people are staked out to intercept him should he try to retrieve the manifest as we suspect he will.”
“Which hotel is he in?”
“The old Peace.”
“So? A curious choice for a modern American microbiologist whose interest is, presumably, in our research institute in Zhangjiang. I believe it tells us all we need to know, you agree?”
“His interest is in more than microbiology.”
“Then continue your efforts.”
“Of course.” Feng paused. “There’s another problem. Yu Yongfu will not hold up.”
“You’re sure?”
“Already he’s cracking. Should the slightest detail be uncovered, he’ll break. Reveal everything. Perhaps he’ll do that even before.” With finality, he pronounced, “We can no longer trust him.”
“All right. I’ll take care of it. You liquidate the American.” There was a silence, then, “How did all this happen, Feng? We wanted the information to reach the Americans, nothing more. Never the proof.”
“I don’t know, master. I made sure word of the cargo leaked to Mondragon, as you instructed, but I don’t know who then found and stole the invoice manifest, but I will.”
“I am sure you will.” The line went dead.
Feng sat for a time in the car. All of the mansion’s windows were dark now, except those of the upstairs master bedroom. No shadows moved behind the curtains. Feng smiled his unreadable smile and envisioned Yu’s wife, Kuonyi. She had always appealed to him. He gave a short laugh, a shrug, and redialed his cell phone.
Hong Kong
Once the last British-occupied corner of China, Hong Kong had lost some of its brash luster since the mainland resumed ownership in 1997. While Beijing envisioned itself as the future capital of Asia, and Shanghai thought of itself as an eastern version of New York City, Hong Kong only wanted to remain itself—freewheeling, money-making, and joyfully exciting, hardly the reputation of any other modern metropolis in China.
From the penthouse balcony of the Altman Group, Hong Kong’s sea of twinkling lights seemed to spread forever, a testament to the vigorous city. In the teak-paneled dining room, a dinner party was winding down. The aromas of expensive meats and French sauces filled the room. The genial host, Ralph McDermid—founder, CEO, and chairman of Altman—held forth for the benefit of his last two guests.
A man of medium height, with a bland face that would never be noticed in a crowd, McDermid was in his mid-sixties, slightly overweight, and jovial. “The future of world commerce lies around the Pacific Rim, with the United States and China its twin financial pillars and major markets. I’m sure China recognizes that as much as the United States. Whether they like your semi-independence or not, they’ll have to live with it for a long time to come.”
Both Hong Kong natives, the Chinese couple were power players in the financial community. They nodded in sober agreement, but they had little influence, because Beijing’s heavy political fist constantly threatened all businesspeople in the Special Administrative Zone.
But being wined, dined, and reassured by a man of Ralph McDermid’s importance in such a luxurious Western setting fed their pride and hopes. The penthouse crowned the most expensive high-rise on Repulse Bay Road. While they continued their discussion, the husband and wife paused occasionally to enjoy the multimillion-dollar view.
As a phone rang somewhere, the Chinese businessman told McDermid, “We are pleased to hear your views and hope you’ll make them clear to our mayor. America’s support is critical to our relations with Beijing.”
McDermid smiled graciously. “I think Beijing is well aware—”
Making an almost soundless entry, McDermid’s private assistant spoke quietly into his ear. McDermid gave no acknowledgment, but he apologized to his guests. “I regret I must take this call. It’s been a grand evening, educational for me as well as particularly enjoyable. Thank you for your company. I hope you’ll be available to join me again so we can continue sharing views.”
The businesswoman said, “It will be our pleasure. You must visit us next time. I think we can promise you an interesting evening, but not such sumptuous food. The wine was exquisite.”
“Simple American fare, nothing more, and a small country vintage hardly worthy of such distinguished guests. Lawrence will give you your coats and show you out. Thank you again for honoring me with your presence.”
“Many thanks from two humble shopkeepers.”
The compliments properly offered and rejected, McDermid hurried through the penthouse to the master suite.
His jovial smile vanished. He snarled into the phone: “Report.”
“All went well,” Feng Dun told him. “As you expected, there was another American agent on the island. We killed Mondragon, retrieved the manifest, but let the American escape. They will now be fully alarmed.”
“Excellent.”
“There’s better,” Feng continued. “That same American agent, a Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, is a microbiologist from USAMRIID.”
“Why is that better? Who is he?”
“He isn’t with any of the U.S. intelligence organizations.”
McDermid nodded, wondering. “Curious.”
“Whoever sent him, Smith is in Shanghai now, which will work to our favor. I’ll handle him. But that leaves us with another large problem. One we had not expected.”
“Who? What?” he demanded.
“Yu Yongfu. He pretends to be a fox, but he’s a frightened rabbi
t. A rabbit will gnaw himself to death when he feels cornered. Yu is terrified. He will destroy himself and us.”
There was a thoughtful pause. “You’re right. We can’t take the risk. Get rid of him.”
When McDermid rang off, the information about Smith continued to resound in his mind. A knock at his door roused him from his reverie. “Yes?”
“Ms. Sun is in the living room, sir.”
“Thank you, Lawrence. Give her a drink. Tell her I’ll be along.”
He remained mulling for another few minutes and then roused himself. Sun Liuxia was the daughter of an important official he could not afford to offend. She was also stunning and young.
Smiling, he freshened up, changed his dinner jacket, and left the bedroom. It was still early. Through the penthouse windows, the lights of Hong Kong spread before him as if all the world were his. By the time he entered the living room, his good humor had fully returned.
Shanghai
Still seated in Yu Yongfu’s exotic armchair in the Flying Dragon offices, Zhao Yanji sighed. Miserable and discouraged, he stared down at the empty pistol in his lap. Perhaps the American actually could help. Maybe the answer was to leave Shanghai at last. Or he could always retrieve the clip, put the pistol to his head, and pull the trigger.
He studied the weapon thoughtfully, stroking it with a finger. He imagined the bullet shooting from the chamber, exploding like lightning from the barrel, and blasting through his skull and the soft tissue of his brain. He did not shudder as he contemplated this. In fact, he had a moment of peace. At last, his battle would be over, and he would no longer feel the terrible burden of the company’s dishonor.
He looked around Yu Yongfu’s office, so familiar. As treasurer, he had spent a lifetime here, it seemed, trying to educate the selfish entrepreneur and rescue the company from him. He took a deep breath and found himself shaking his head. A surge of resentment, almost of determination, rushed through him. No, he was not ready to die. He still wanted to fight. The company could still be saved.
He should get out of here before he was discovered. He pushed himself up to his feet, feeling relieved. To make a decision was to reaffirm the future.
There was a small sound. No more than a sharp click.
Puzzled, he turned. The office door was open. A figure stood silhouetted against the outer office’s light. Before Zhao could speak, there was a loud pop. As his sight went blank, he realized what it was—a silenced gunshot. Abruptly, pain burst from his heart. It was so overwhelming he did not feel himself topple face first to the carpet.
Chapter
Seven
In their mansion on the outskirts of Shanghai, Yu Yongfu and his family had an important guest. His arrival had surprised them. He was a fat old man with many chins, who sat behind Yu’s massive desk as if he owned it. Yu said nothing, trying to forget the aggravations of having such a meddling father-in-law. At least the Empress’s manifest was safely locked away now, and all that remained to be handled was the American spy. He must have faith that Feng would eliminate him.
With pride, he watched the old man beam at the small boy who stood shyly to his side. He turned to study the boy, who wore Western-style pajamas with the face of Batman emblazoned on his thin chest. He was small for his age and smelled of Western peanut butter.
The old man—Li Aorong—patted him indulgently on the head. “You are how old now, Peiheng?”
“Seven, honored Grandfather.” With a glance at his mother, he continued, “I will be in a month anyway.” He added proudly, “I’m in the American school.”
Li laughed. “You like being in school with the children of Westerners?”
“Father says it’ll make me important in the world.”
Li glanced at his son-in-law, Yu Yongfu, who sat rigid in one of his suede armchairs. Still, despite his obvious tension, Yu was smiling at his son.
Li said, “Your father is an intelligent man, Peiheng.”
From where she stood near the door of the study, Li Kuonyi interrupted, “You have a granddaughter, too, Father.”
“So I do, daughter. So I do. And a most beautiful little one.” Li smiled again. “Come, child. Stand with your brother. Tell me, are you, too, in American school?”
“Yes, Grandfather. I’m two grades higher than Peiheng.”
Li feigned astonishment. “Only one year older, and two grades ahead? You take after your mother. She was always smarter than my sons.”
Yu Yongfu spoke sharply, “Peiheng learns his numbers quickly.”
“Another businessman.” Li chuckled with pleasure. He stroked the faces of both children as if touching rare and delicate vases. “They will go far in the new world. But it’s past their bedtime, eh?” He nodded gravely to Yu and his daughter. “It was kind of you to allow them to remain awake.”
“You don’t visit us often enough, Father,” Kuonyi told him, an edge to her voice.
“The affairs of Shanghai keep an old man busy.”
“But you are here tonight,” Kuonyi challenged. “At such a late hour.”
The father and daughter stared. Kuonyi’s gaze was as hard and bold as that of her powerful father, demanding an explanation.
He said, “The children must be in bed, Daughter.”
Kuonyi took their hands and turned toward the door. “My husband and I will return.”
“Yongfu will stay. He and I will speak together,” he said. Now the edge was in his voice. “Alone.”
Kuonyi hesitated. She straightened her back and took the children away.
Above the mantle in Yu’s Western-style office, the Victorian clock ticked quietly. The two men sat for some minutes in silence. The older man stared at his son-in-law until Yu Yongfu said politely, “It’s been too long since your last visit, honored father-in-law. All of us have missed your wise counsel.”
Li said, “A man’s first responsibility must be to his family. Is that not so, son-in-law?”
“As has long been written.”
Li fell silent again.
Yu waited. The old man had something on his mind, perhaps an important position for Yu that might be seen as favoring his own family too much. He needed to be sure Yu was equal to the task. Yu wanted good news tonight. His problems with the Empress were draining him.
At last, Yu echoed, “A man must never bring disrepute to his family.”
“Disrepute?” The older man lifted his head and repeated the word in a tone almost of wonder. “You have a wife and two children.”
“I’ve been blessed, and they are my soul.” Yu smiled.
“I have a daughter and two grandchildren.”
Yu blinked. What had happened? What was he supposed to say to that? His mouth turned dry as the deserts of Xinjiang, because something had changed in the room. Fear riveted him. He was no longer looking into the eyes of the indulgent grandfather of his son and daughter. Instead, this was the flinty, unrelenting gaze of an official of the Shanghai Special Administrative Zone, a politician who was owned by the immensely powerful Wei Gaofan.
“You’ve made an irredeemable mistake,” Li told him in an emotionless voice. His large, fat-encrusted face was as still as a waiting snake’s. “The theft of the true manifest to The Dowager Empress puts us in grave jeopardy. All of us.”
Yu felt himself dissolve in fear. “A mistake that’s been corrected. No harm has resulted. The manifest is locked in my safe upstairs. There is no—”
“The Americans know what the Empress carries. An American spy is sniffing around Shanghai because of it. He cannot be disposed of without many questions being asked. You have imperiled me, and—worse—you have imperiled Wei Gaofan. What was secret is no longer secret, and what is no longer secret can come to the ears of Wei Gaofan’s enemies on the Central Committee, the Politburo, even on the Standing Committee itself.”
“Feng will dispose of this American!”
“What comes to the ears of the Politburo will be investigated. You’ll be investigated.”
&nb
sp; Yu Yongfu was desperate. “They’ll learn nothing—”
“They’ll learn everything. It isn’t in you to resist, son-in-law.” Li’s tone softened. “It’s sad, but it’s true. You’ll reveal everything, and if you live, you’ll be ruined. Which means the ruin of all of us. All of the Yu’s. All of the Li’s.”
“No!” Yu Yongfu shuddered. His stomach was a fist. He could hardly breathe. “I’ll go away. Yes, I’ll leave . . .”
Li dismissed him with a wave. “The matter is decided.”
“But—”
“The only question now is how it is to be done. That is your choice. Will it be prison, disgrace, and ruin for our family? Many questions asked and answered, and the loss of the favor of Wei Gaofan for all of us? Without the great Wei, I will go down. Your wife—my daughter—will fall with me, and there will be no future for my other children and their families either. Most crucial to you, there will be no future for your children.”
Yu trembled. “But—”
“But you are right, none of that need happen. The honorable way will save all of us. The responsibility will end with you. Without you to speak, and no question as to the manner of your death, nothing can lead to Wei Gaofan or myself. My position remains secure, because we will retain Wei’s favor. Your wife and children will still have an unlimited future.”
Yu Yongfu opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. Fear paralyzed him as he saw his suicide.
Far to the west of downtown Shanghai, beyond the ring road expressway, Andy cut his engine and allowed his Jetta to glide to a stop on a tree-lined suburban street. There were no streetlights. The houses were mostly dark at this late hour. Nothing moved in the blue-steel moonlight.
In the passenger seat, Smith checked his watch. It was after nine o’clock. Before he had rendezvoused with Andy, he left a message on Dr. Liang’s answering machine that he was indisposed and unable to join him and his colleagues for dinner. He hoped that would cover his activities tonight.
Now he had something far more crucial to worry about. He listened intently. He heard nothing except the faint noise of traffic back on the ring. Something was wrong about this street of affluent homes. He gazed around, trying to understand . . . then he saw what it was, and inwardly laughed at himself. He had lived in the Eastern Seaboard corridor so long he had become culture bound. The answer was, no cars were parked at the curbs.
The Altman Code Page 8