The Altman Code

by Robert Ludlum

  Jon’s heart hammered with leftover adrenaline. He listened to the quiet wash of waves against the raft, felt the gentle rise and fall of it. The Zodiac kept moving farther and farther from the shoreline. The SEALs said nothing. He knew they were thinking about the quartet left behind. Worrying. He was, too.

  Finally, at least four hundred yards out, four black shapes suddenly burst out of the water. Hands reached over the side of the raft. The men grabbed the hands and scrambled aboard, one by one.

  Lieutenant Whelan was last. He counted heads and nodded. “All accounted for. Nice work, people.”

  Nothing more was said until they were a half mile at sea. The searing glare of a searchlight suddenly whipped across the dark water to the north. It was sweeping the sea more than two miles away but approaching rapidly.

  “They’ll spot us soon,” the lieutenant said. “Better start the motor, Chief.”

  One of the SEALs cranked the sealed outboard motor, and the raft shot ahead, bouncing like a toy across the tops of the swell. Jon held on, enjoying the cold spray on his sweaty face. At the same time, he watched the Chinese patrol boat uneasily. It was approaching through the night, closer and closer, gunfire singing from it, looking for a target. Its searchlight had yet to hone in on them, but when it did—

  Then he saw a dark shape, towering ahead like a giant sea monster. It was a submarine. American, thank God. At the same moment that the SEALs raft reached the hulking steel sub, the searchlight on the patrol boat finally found them. Bullets ripped through the rubber as they swarmed up aboard, hauling Jon and the tattered Zodiac after them.

  A voice on the bridge bawled, “Get below! Clear the decks!”

  The patrol boat caught the submarine in the beam of its searchlight, and its siren shrieked at them. The sub was already submerging as Jon, the SEALs, and the deck crew hurtled down through the open hatches and slammed them closed against the rushing sea. The patrol boat opened fire with a heavy machine gun, but its bullets bounced harmlessly off the steel. As the conning tower sank beneath the surface, the patrol boat moved in aimless, frustrated circles.

  Below, as Jon was escorted to a tiny cabin to clean up and rest, he decided whoever had attacked them on the beach had not been national security forces. If they had been, they would have sent more than a lone patrol boat. No, whoever they were, their employer was private.

  Beijing

  As befitted one of the older members of the Standing Committee, Wei Gaofan’s walled compound inside Zhongnanhai had a choice location, near the lotus-carpeted Nanhai—South Lake. In his courtyard stood a manicured willow tree that swayed in the morning breeze, trailing its jade-green branches over thick grass. Small flowering trees and groomed flowers decorated the tiled paths that led to the four small buildings that rimmed the courtyard. Crowned with graceful pagoda roofs, the structures were decorated with columns carved with dragons, clouds, and cranes symbolizing good fortune and longevity. He shared the largest house with his wife, while their daughter, her child, and a babysitter lived across from them. The third building was his office, while the fourth was where the family entertained guests.

  The sun had been up more than an hour when Feng Dun was admitted to Wei’s office, which was appointed with small treasures from all of China’s dynasties since the great Han. Wei, a connoisseur of tea, was sitting at a table, drinking Longjing. Its subtle floral scent perfumed the air. Unlike wine, which was best when aged, tea was most flavorful—as well as most costly—when drunk the year it was picked. This tea was hardly six months old. Grown in Hangzhou, Longjing was the finest, most delicate tea in China.

  Wei did not bother to offer any to Feng Dun, nor did he bother to hide his anger. “So the American colonel escaped you.”

  “He escaped the Public Security Bureau also.” Without an invitation to sit, Feng Dun remained standing, staring down at Wei, who was bald and narrow-eyed, with a bulky torso and spindly legs.

  Wei looked at him sharply. “Fortunate for you.”

  “Fortunate for both of us,” Feng said, his gaze unflinching as he matched the hard stare of the immensely powerful member of the Standing Committee.

  Wei sipped his tea. “But General Chu and Major Pan suspect something.”

  “Suspect perhaps, but don’t know and never will.”

  Wei scowled again. “There’s Yu Yongfu’s wife, who is, I hear, missing.”

  Feng shrugged. “There’s nothing she can do. Her father would be ruined, and she’s too intelligent to want that. Your favor can make life very good for him, her, and her children.”

  “True.” But there was still doubt in Wei’s eyes. “So, was this American agent really so skilled? How did he get away?”

  “He’s good, but not good enough to get the manifest. As for his other escapades, he was lucky, and he had help.”

  “Whose help?”

  “First, an interpreter and asset of the CIA, who is now dead. And later, an underground cell of Uighers. They took him to his point of extraction. The stupid police never suspected. They smiled and laughed at the Uighers, and then they let them pass. Imbeciles.”

  “Can you identify the Uighers?”

  “We were never close enough, but they knew the city and countryside well. Then American SEALs appeared and enabled their escape.”

  Wei Gaofan nodded, pleased. “A submarine. That means the Americans are very concerned about risking an incident. We are succeeding. You have done well.”

  Feng Dun inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment, but smarting because he had not been offered the polite gesture of sharing tea. Still, the time to bring up his rewards would come later, when Wei Gaofan assumed his greater role in the destiny of China.

  “The manifest is destroyed?” Wei continued.

  “Burned.”

  “You are sure?”

  “I was there with Yu Yongfu when he burned it before taking his gun and driving away,” Feng said. “Of course I followed.”

  “The police have found no corpse.”

  “They may never find it.”

  “You saw him kill himself? With your own eyes?”

  “Which is why I followed. And then he fell into the Yangtze. He wanted it that way.”

  Wei Gaofan smiled again. “We have nothing left to worry us, while the Americans have much to worry them. Would you care for a cup of tea, Feng?”

  PART TWO

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  The Indian Ocean

  On the gray ocean, the guided missile frigate USS John Crowe slipped into its assigned station. The water was placid, with a gentle southwest swell and a following sea. Dawn glowed low across the sky behind them, while to the west, night still reigned, dark and unfathomable. Radar had raised the Crowe’s quarry, The Dowager Empress, an hour ago, but the suspect ship was still invisible in the night ahead.

  On the Crowe’s bridge, Commander James S. Chervenko focused his binoculars on the black horizon and saw nothing. Square and muscular, he had a rugged face with eyes permanently narrowed from years of sea duty.

  He spoke to his exec, Lt. Commander Frank Bienas. “Any indication she’s not alone, Frank?”

  “Nothing on radar or sonar,” Bienas reported. Bienas had the fluid grace of a boxer. Young, smart, and handsome, he was something of a ladies’ man.

  “Okay. When it’s light enough to see the freighter, drop back and track by radar alone. I’ll be in my quarters.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The commander left the bridge, working his way below. Admiral Brose had impressed on him the importance of this mission, but he needed no one, admiral or anyone else, to do that. He was well aware of the Yinhe incident. Today, with China stronger, more stable, and more important to the state of the world, the situation was all the more treacherous. At the same time, allowing Iraq to create a new batch of biological and chemical weapons was no option either.

  Once in his quarters, Commander Chervenko opened direct communication with Admiral Brose, as ordered,
bypassing task force and fleet HQs.

  “Commander Chervenko reporting the USS Crowe on station, sir.”

  “Good, Commander.” The admiral sounded as if he had been pulled from his dinner table in Washington, where it was still Thursday night. “How’s it look?”

  “Routine so far. Radar shows no other vessels, surface or submerged, in the area, and not a peep out of their radio. As soon as it’s light, we’ll drop back and rely on radar contact.”

  “Keep monitoring their transmissions and receptions. You have a Chinese interpreter aboard?”

  “Yessir.”

  “All right, Commander. Jim, is it?”

  “Jim, yessir.”

  “Keep me posted on anything that happens out there, the instant it happens, short of endangering the operation or your ship. Anything, you understand?”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  “Good to have you aboard on this, Jim.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The transmission over, Commander Chervenko leaned back in his desk chair, his gaze focused on the ceiling of his quarters. This was not the kind of bombshell mission that usually fell to the lot of a frigate commander. He could see a hell of a lot of risk involved, right down to a live engagement that could cost him his ship. He could also see opportunity. In the navy, there were no higher stakes than those that threatened an officer’s vessel in combat. And success in the face of high risk was what could make a career. Or break one.

  The East China Sea

  The pulsing power of the carrier’s giant engines reverberated through the hull and into Jon’s bones. The sounds and sensations were soothing as he waited in his temporary quarters for the call to Fred Klein to go through to the yacht club back in Washington. He knew Klein’s habits. Dinner—if Klein remembered to eat that night—was usually in his cluttered office there, despite the late hour.

  The submarine had ferried him to the carrier, which had been running dark north of Taiwan, surrounded by escort vessels. Jon had the distinct impression the captain and the fleet admiral considered being ordered to extract an undercover agent a waste of time for their mighty ship. After a cup of coffee with the lieutenant commander, who had been sent to escort him, he was shown straight to his makeshift quarters. He showered, shaved, and asked to make a call.

  As he waited, he thought about the Uighers, especially Alani. He hoped they had escaped safely.

  When the phone rang, he snatched it up.

  “You got out in one piece, Colonel?” Fred Klein’s unemotional voice was somehow reassuring.

  “Thanks to you, the U.S. Navy, and some local help.” He related his escape, from the moment he had ended his call to Klein at the Peace Hotel. “The Uighers want independence from China, but they seem to have no illusions that it’s going to happen anytime soon. They’d settle for being able to keep their identity and culture. President Castilla’s human-rights treaty might help them do that. Or at least lead to it eventually.”

  “One more reason to concentrate on getting that agreement signed,” Klein said. “So Asgar Mahmout was Mondragon’s asset?”

  “Thought you’d like to know.”

  “You’re right. Any change with regard to the manifest?”

  “It’s probably destroyed by now, if they’re smart. That copy, at least.”

  “I agree.” Jon could hear Klein puffing on his pipe in the distant office. “Yet you think they tracked you to that beach with the Uighers. If they destroyed the manifest, why would they also want to eliminate you? That seems like overkill. Certainly an unnecessary risk. Are you sure your attackers weren’t police or state security?”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  Excited puffing. “Then something else is going on. They don’t want the manifest to fall into our hands, that’s obvious. But they had plenty of time to make certain no one would ever get it. Yet they still tried to kill you, and they did it on their own. Without the police.”

  Jon’s pulse accelerated. He saw what Klein was getting at. “They don’t want Chinese government security to know there was a manifest, and that an American agent was looking for it. Public Security already knew I was there and was more than I appeared to be, but they couldn’t figure out what I was doing. Whoever forced Yu Yongfu to commit suicide doesn’t want them to know.” He thought rapidly. “Do you think it’s some kind of internal power struggle in Beijing?”

  “Or maybe the shady deal of some big Shanghai tycoon.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing in New China?”

  On the other end of the line, the pipe puffing stopped. The dead air was like a vacuum. Klein said in an awed voice: “The Chinese government doesn’t know what The Dowager Empress is carrying. That’s got to be it!”

  “How is that possible? In China? Everything’s done by committee, by arrangement. Hell, they probably don’t even take a leak alone.”

  “It’s the only logical answer, Colonel. Someone, almost certainly very high up, is trying to cause trouble between our nations. It is a power struggle, but on an international scale.”

  Jon swore. “China’s got heavy-duty nuclear armaments. A lot heavier than the world knows.”

  The silence at the far end of the connection was ominous. “Jon, this makes the situation far more dangerous than we’d thought. If we’re right, the president must have the proof of the Dowager’s cargo before he orders any kind of move. I’ll have the navy fly you to Taipei right away. You can catch the first flight out to Hong Kong from there.”

  “What do I use as a legend?”

  “We’ve researched this Donk & LaPierre company. They’re a conglomerate with interests in international shipping and electronics. What’s perfect for you is they also work in biotechnology.”

  “I can’t go as myself anymore.”

  “No, you can’t. But I’ve arranged for you to impersonate one of your colleagues at USAMRIID: Major Kenneth St. Germain.”

  “We look something alike, but what if they check and find he’s still there, working?”

  “They won’t. He’s taken an offer to go mountaineering in Chile.”

  Jon nodded. “An offer Ken would never refuse. Nice work. Now ask your new permanent staff to arrange a meeting between me—or Ken St. Germain—and the head of Donk & LaPierre’s Hong Kong office to discuss their work with viruses.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Have you learned anything about the killer I told you about—Feng Dun?”

  “Not yet. We’re still checking. You get to Taipei, and I’ll bring the president up-to-date here. He’s not going to be happy.”

  “You should let him know the latest about the old prisoner who says he’s David Thayer, too.”

  “You have new information?”

  Jon repeated what Asgar Mahmout had told him. “The prison farm’s outside the city of Dazu, about seventy miles northeast of Chongqing. It’s apparently low security, at least by Chinese standards.”

  “Good. That gives me something to work with, in case we do have to go in for him. A simple fence won’t stop us, and neither will ordinary prison guards. It’s helpful that he’s got privileges and only one cell mate. If we bring some of the political prisoners out, too, that’ll give cover to both Thayer and the mission. I don’t like the farm’s location—it’s a heavily populated area. And I don’t like that they move him around. It’s possible he could be gone before we get there.”

  “From what Asgar said, he’s been at Dazu awhile. It didn’t sound as if there was any hint he was going to be relocated.”

  Jon heard the slow puffs that indicated Klein was thinking. “Okay, and where the farm is could be worse. At least it’s close to the borders of Burma and India.”

  “Not that close.”

  “So we’ll have to work a little harder. We all have to do that anyway. I want that manifest, Colonel.”

  The Indian Ocean

  In the communications-and-control center of the USS John Crowe, Lt. Commander Bienas leaned over the shoulder of
the radar man, his gaze fixed on the screen. “How many times has her captain changed course?”

  “Counting this time, three, sir.” The radar man looked up.

  “Describe the changes.”

  “First he turned forty-five degrees south, then he—”

  “For how long? How far did he go?”

  “About an hour, maybe twenty miles.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “He went back to his original heading for close to another hour, then went north for maybe another hour, and back to his original course again.”

  “So he’s back where he started?”

  “Yessir. Just about.”

  “And we changed course every time?”

  “Sure. I reported the new headings.”

  “Okay, Billy, good work.”

  The radar man grinned. “Anytime, sir.”

  The lieutenant commander did not return the grin. He left the control center and slid down the gangways until he reached the captain’s quarters. He knocked.

  “Come.”

  Commander Chervenko looked up from where he sat at his desk doing his paperwork. He immediately saw the concern on Bienas’s face. “What’s happened, Frank?”

  “I think they’ve spotted us, sir.” Bienas reported everything the radar man had told him.

  “We changed helm each time?”

  “ ’Fraid so. Canfield had the bridge. He’s too damned new.”

  Chervenko nodded. “Later would’ve been better, but we knew they’d spot us eventually. Any increase in radio—?”

  His ship intercom squawked: “Communications, sir. I’m picking up a big increase of radio activity in Chinese.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Commander Chervenko muttered. Then into the intercom: “Get Ensign Wao up there now.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  Chervenko remained bent to his communications console. “Chief, crank her up. I need top speed.” Then he stood up. “Let’s hit the bridge.”

  By the time the commander and Bienas reached it, Ensign Wao was already there. “They’ve figured out we’re back here, sir, and they’re on the horn in a panic to Beijing and Hong Kong.”