The robust voice that finally came on asked, “Well?”
“I think it’s working. The president’s vacillating.”
“That doesn’t sound like our leader. What exactly is he doing?”
“You know what a bulldog he is. Well, he hardly took any part in the discussion. Stanton rode his horse hard, but he rode alone. Except for Brose and Oda, of course. But we expected that.”
“Give me the details.”
Kott described the high points of the appropriations meeting. “No one knew why the president seemed so moody, preoccupied, and waffling. Only maybe Brose. I caught a look between them.”
There was a bitter laugh. “I’ll bet you did. We need to talk more about this.”
“Anytime. We’ll make another phone appointment.”
“No. In person. Just the two of us. There’s too much to discuss, and it’s too important.”
Kott considered. “I need to visit our bases in Asia anyway.”
“Good. I’ll be waiting.” The line went dead.
Kott returned the phone to his pocket, flushed the toilet, and left.
President Castilla often had the feeling Fred Klein lived in perpetual midnight. In the Covert-One office hidden in the ANACOSTIA SEAGOING YACHT CLUB, heavy curtains covered the windows against the late-morning sunlight, the noise of the bustling marina, and the sounds of boats and wildlife from the river. The president sat facing Klein, who leaned back behind his desk, his hands in the light of the lamp, and his head in the gloom of the office’s shadows.
Klein repeated what Jon Smith had just reported. “And we may have to get him out of China quickly.” Klein described the abruptly ended phone call from Shanghai that included the code words “Potus”—president—and “dental appointment”—extraction.
“Let’s not lose Smith, too.” The president shook his head worriedly. “We still don’t have the manifest, and we don’t know who has it or where it is.”
“Smith thinks the Belgian company may have a copy.”
“May have?”
“I have people in China trying to track down who attacked Smith, and in Iraq looking for the second copy of the invoice manifest. I’ll get the ball rolling in Antwerp to find out whether the third copy is there. But if we don’t find one in Shanghai, Basra, or in Antwerp, then only Hong Kong is left.”
The president nodded. “All right. I trust your judgment. We have a few days of grace before the freighter arrives.” He hesitated then grimaced. “I have to consider what we do if no copies of the manifest are ever found. I can’t let that ship unload its cargo in Iraq. In the final analysis, we’ll have no choice but to board it, and that means I have to anticipate the consequences and prepare.”
“A military confrontation with China?”
“A confrontation is a very real—and frightening—possibility.”
“Would we go it alone, without our allies?”
“If necessary. They’ll demand documentation if we ask them to back us. And if we have no documentation—”
“I see your point. We’d better get the manifest.”
“I don’t like to think about what we’ll have to do if China is foolish enough to actually challenge us.” Castilla shook his head, his broad face cloudy with unspoken worries. “Imagine, I wanted this job. I worked my ass off to get it.” He hunched forward and said softly, “Tell me what’s happening about David Thayer?”
“As soon as I can pinpoint the prison farm’s exact location, I’m going to send in an agent to make contact and assess the accuracy of his story.”
The president nodded again. “I’ve been thinking about the possibility the human-rights accord may never be signed. I don’t like that at all.”
“If that’s what happens, a rescue mission for Thayer would come on the table.”
“What kind of rescue mission?”
“A small unit. Exactly how large, with what personnel and equipment, will depend on the prison farm’s security and location.”
“You’ll have whatever you need.”
From the shadows, Klein studied his longtime friend. “Do I understand, sir, that you’re ready to give the go-ahead for such a mission?”
“Let’s say I’m keeping my options open.” The president closed his eyes a moment, and melancholy seemed to fill his face. It was gone quickly. He stood up. “Keep in touch. Day or night.”
“As soon as I hear anything.”
“Good.” He opened the door and walked out, heavy shoulders square and dignified. He was immediately surrounded by three secret service agents, who escorted him toward the outer door.
Fred Klein listened to the Lincoln’s engine come to life and the tires crunch gravel as the vehicle rolled off. He stood up and crossed to a large screen on his right wall. His mind tumultuous with ideas and concern, he touched a button. The screen lit up. A detailed map of China came into view. He clasped his hands behind his back, studying it intently.
Shanghai
In his hotel room, Smith continued to point his Beretta at the man disguised as a waiter. “Who’s ‘Mondragon,’ and what does he care about some old man?”
“This is hardly the time to be coy, Colonel.” He stripped off his white jacket and loose trousers to reveal the typical young Shanghainese man’s ubiquitous white shirt, cheap navy wash-and-wear slacks, and navy coat. “We sent a man to track Mondragon to make certain he gave the information to you Yanks. Remember Liuchiu Island? The ambush? That’s where Mondragon took the long trip. Then you returned to Kaohsiung. We’ve never stopped keeping a bead on you. Satisfied?”
Still, Smith’s weapon remained trained on him. “Why would Public Security care about me?”
“Oh, bloody hell! Back off. David Thayer could just be our ticket to worldwide recognition of what’s actually going on here in China. Public Security’s after you for their reasons, not ours.”
“You were in the Land Rover?”
Asgar Mahmout gave an exaggerated sigh. “It wasn’t Queen Elizabeth. Put on those clothes before they hoist both of us up by our gonads.”
Asgar Mahmout was no Chinese name, and with his round eyes and dark complexion, he did not look Chinese. He spoke of “we.” We sent a man to track Mondragon. And our. Our ticket. Some kind of underground dissident group? Exactly who or what would have to wait, because what he said was logical: They could have found him if they had been tracking him since the time he met Avery on Liuchiu. Which meant Public Security was likely downstairs, lying in wait.
Smith laid his Beretta on the coffee table, peeled off his suit, and dressed quickly in the clothes—an old man’s deep-blue Mao suit, a People’s Liberation Army cap, a pastel-blue shirt with a grimy collar, and Chinese sandals.
“Grab only what you must.” Mahmout had wheeled the serving cart around to face the door. He opened it.
Smith snatched up his backpack, shoved the Beretta into his pocket, and sprinted after him into the hotel corridor. It was deserted. Mahmout ran the cart to the right, away from the bank of regular elevators, and around the corner to a service elevator.
It was open. “Bit of luck that,” he said approvingly.
He pushed the cart into it, Smith on his heels. As the doors closed, they heard a guest elevator stop on their floor. The doors whooshed open, and footsteps rushed down the corridor. Their elevator descended, with the noises of harsh, impatient knocking and sharp orders in Chinese so loud they penetrated the walls.
“Sounds as if they’re at your room,” Asgar said.
Smith nodded, wondering how long it would be before the security police figured out what had happened and where they had gone.
At the first floor, Mahmout pushed the cart into the lobby.
“There’s a way out through the kitchen,” Smith said.
“I know. You used it earlier today with that young Han. Who is he? Where is he?”
“An interpreter.” Smith’s voice dropped. “He’s dead, too.”
Mahmout shook his head, his expressio
n hard. “You’re a good-luck charm, Colonel. I’ll be sure to watch not only your back, but mine. Who killed him?”
“I suspect a man named Feng Dun and his people.”
“Never heard of him.” Mahmout hurried off through the aromatic corridors behind the kitchen to the employees’ exit, Smith by his side. They abandoned the cart and crept outdoors, where they were instantly assaulted by city noises. The dark alley stretched left to Nanjing Dong Lu and its crowds, and to the right toward the street behind the hotel.
“You have the Land Rover?” Smith asked.
“Are you mad? Not with me.”
The shouts came from neither left nor right, but from behind, inside the hotel. The security police had figured out where they had gone sooner than Smith expected.
“Run!” Like a greyhound, Mahmout tore off to the right.
Smith raced along the dim alley beside him, following his lead as the babel of Nanjing Dong Lu faded in the distance. At the corner, more shouts exploded and feet hammered, chasing them. They turned left, away from the Bund and the river, plunged across the narrower side street and into the mouth of another alley, and twisted through into a third alley. Checking over their shoulders, they shot out across another street.
As they entered a new alley, Mahmout settled into a punishing, distance-devouring trot. Sweating, confused, Smith had no idea where they were or where they were going. Mahmout took him through a bewildering maze of back streets and anonymous alleys, where they dodged, eluded, jumped over, and bounced off swearing pedestrians, bicycle parking lots, construction sites, strewn debris, street vendors, cars parked up on the sidewalks, and cars that ran red lights—right and left—without even a token pause.
As they panted on, they were assailed by a hundred raw, stinking odors and earsplitting dins. They ducked under hanging laundry, leaped over cooking fires, skidded around garbage, and dodged both bicycles and motorcycles that made no distinction among streets, alleys, and sidewalks. All this while shouts and the racket of running feet continued to dog them, sometimes closer, sometimes farther back, but always there, like a bad dream.
Twice, Mahmout darted sharply right or left, as new pursuers suddenly appeared ahead, trying to block their path. Once an unmarked car skidded to a screeching stop just meters before them. They swerved into a dwelling and blasted through and out into yet another alley.
Their pursuers were relentless. There was no time for talk or questions. No time for rest. No respite of any kind.
Smith lost his sense of direction, although he was certain he had run miles. His muscles ached, and his lungs felt raw. By now, they must be in old Shanghai or the French Concession. But then they emerged into the packed masses of Nanjing Dong Lu again, where the world swarmed with shoppers, bar hoppers, sightseers, thieves, pickpockets, and men on the prowl for the women who had reappeared in the city as if by magic when the economic “free” market became the new goal of socialism.
“The metro! There, old boy. Come along!” Mahmout skidded downstairs, used his Y90 prepaid ticket to enter, and handed it back to Smith.
Smith pounded after, to a well-lighted platform marked HE NAN LU. At this late hour, few people waited for trains. On edge, drenched in sweat, Smith and Mahmout paced the loading area and studied the various entrances. When a train finally came, they leaped aboard.
Smith took a deep breath as the cars rolled from the station, leaving the platform behind. “Nice job,” he said in the mostly empty car. “But you’ll never make a tourist guide. You don’t schedule in enough time to enjoy the sights.”
Mahmout’s face was shiny with sweat, and his expression as always ranged between grim and neutral. Suddenly he gave a sardonic grin. The skin around his black eyes crinkled with humor. “Obviously, Colonel, you don’t understand.” Smith was adjusting to the strong Brit accent from the fellow who looked as if he might be Chinese but probably was not. “I require very special tourists, those more interested in endurance than a photo op. In any case, one must have a permit. That simply won’t happen here, for me.”
“You can’t get one?”
“Not if the police are involved. They have a habit of chasing me.”
“This sort of thing happens to you often?”
“Why do you think I’m such a fine physical specimen? I may live in China, but I still talk openly about the Party, the government, and the minorities. I’m far from popular with those hired by the crooks at the top.”
The subway car was clean, fast, and comfortable. When they reached the next station, Mahmout stepped off and looked up and down the platform. After one survey, he returned to the car, shaking his head.
“Trouble?”
“The city police are watching the exits, which tells me the Public Security people know we took the metro.”
“But how would they know which direction?”
“They don’t. If they knew, we’d be seeing Public Security agents on the platform, not city police. The security guys are waiting for us to be spotted.”
“I don’t like that.”
“I do,” Mahmout said. “It gives us a small advantage. The city cops won’t arrest us—they’ll wait for Security to arrive.”
The train pulled out again. Mahmout let two more stations pass before telling Smith, “The next stop is Jing An Temple. We’ll get off there. They never did get a sharp look at me, and in these clothes, I could be anyone. As for you, I doubt they’ll stop you in the station, but I can’t be certain. I’ll tell you which exit to take, and you swarm out with the crowd. I’ll be right behind, in case you’re spotted. We’ll jump them together.”
“Then what?”
“Then we run again.”
“Good. Can’t wait.”
Mahmout grinned widely, showing white, even teeth beneath his black mustache. As the train burst into the lighted station and rolled to a stop, he looked out the windows. “Go out with everyone else. Turn left toward the far end of the platform. There’ll be three exits along the way. Take the next to last.”
As they watched, the doors rattled open.
“Got it.” Smith stepped off the car with the surge of passengers. He followed those who turned left. Fewer than a quarter chose the next-to-last exit. He stayed among them, not daring to look back to be sure Mahmout was near.
At the exit, two Shanghai policemen were scrutinizing each passenger. The attention of the first officer passed right over Smith, but the second, after an initial cursory inspection, jerked back and fixed on his face.
Smith walked faster, with a glance back. The policeman was bent to his communications unit, talking.
Smith had made it to the stairs, when a shout behind erupted first in Chinese, then English: “Stop! Tall European, you will stop!”
A hand pushed him in the back. “Go, old man. Like the wind!”
Smith leaped up the stairs, raced forward, and burst out into a dark street.
Mahmout passed him. “Follow me!”
More shouts reverberated through the night, above the sounds of traffic. “Halt! You, Colonel Smith. Stop, or we shoot!”
Public Security had arrived. Vehicle headlights blazed on, and motors roared.
“Stop them, you idiots!” This was in the best English.
Smith thundered after Mahmout, both trapped in the glare of headlights, like antelope fleeing across the African veldt. There was no shelter to hide behind. The street was open and straight.
“We can’t outrun them!” Smith snapped to his side.
“We don’t have to.” Mahmout turned ninety degrees and darted down an inky side street.
They passed a stately European house from the early 1800s, and Smith realized they must be in the old French Concession at last.
The headlights closed in. Mahmout turned again onto an even narrower and darker side street. They sprinted past rows of what looked like attached terrace villas enclosed by walls that were of an architectural style that did not match the villas. Before the headlights of the security police co
uld round the corner, too, Mahmout flung open a gate in a wall.
He dashed in and darted to the side as Smith bolted through after him. Immediately, Mahmout closed the gate. As headlights illuminated the street, the two men ran past a row of the brick villas. They left a broader alley for what became a labyrinth of passageways, each smaller than the last, with doors opening from all sides. Laundry hung between windows in rising rows, two and three stories up, still out in the warm night. Battered bicycles leaned against brick walls. Rusty air conditioners stuck out of windows like rectangular tumors. Greasy cooking odors permeated everything.
“Is that gate we came through the only way out?” Smith asked.
“Usually,” Mahmout said. “Come along now. In here.”
He ducked into one of the buildings along the most constricted alley Smith had seen so far. Smith followed through small rooms where men with long, dusky faces similar to Mahmout’s, all wearing white or mosaic skullcaps, sat in chairs or lounged on rugs and pillows. Most slept, but others studied him curiously, without fear.
Mahmout stepped lightly, making as little noise as possible, as he headed toward an irregular hole in the wall. He crawled through. “Come along, Colonel. Don’t dawdle.”
“What’s this?” Smith asked dubiously, following.
“Safety.”
They were in another room, this one furnished with beds, chairs, small tables, and standing lamps. They were alone.
“We’re in the French Concession, but where?” Smith wondered. His heart still hammered from their long marathon, and he was drenched in sweat.
Mahmout’s face was not only sweaty but deep red from the exertion. “In the longtangs.” He wiped an arm across his forehead.
“What’s that?”
“Attached European-style brick houses built in the late eighteen hundreds. However, the houses are clustered, and the walls around the clusters are in the Chinese style. The longtangs were designed on the old Chinese courtyard pattern—many houses inside each set of walls, most connected by walkways.”
The Altman Code Page 12