The Altman Code

by Robert Ludlum

  He smiled, holding out a small hand. “Ah, Dr. St. Germain, a pleasure, sir,” he said. “You’re from USAMRIID, I hear. My people think highly of your work.” Which meant he had checked on Ken St. Germain’s credentials, no surprise.

  They shook hands.

  “I’m flattered, Monsieur Cruyff,” Jon told him.

  “Please sit. Relax a moment.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jon chose an ultracontemporary sofa with chrome legs and removable cushions. As he turned toward it, he slipped his pocketknife out of his trousers and concealed it in his right hand. He settled onto the cushions, his right hip next to where two met. He looked up. Cruyff had returned to his desk. He had the sense Cruyff had never taken his gaze from him. His hand tightened around his hidden pocketknife.

  “I’m not a scientist, as you may know.” Cruyff lowered himself into his chair. “I hope you won’t be offended if I tell you honestly I have little free time today.” He gestured around his office, which was full of the superficialities of business—photos with important people, plaques from charities, awards from his company—and then at his desk, where file folders were stacked high. “I’m behind in my work, but perhaps there’s something I can do for you quickly.” He folded his hands over his chest, leaned back, and waited, studying Jon.

  Jon needed to plant the knife between the cushions, but until he could get Cruyff to look away, it would be impossible. “Of course, monsieur. I understand. I appreciate any time you can give me.” He described Major St. Germain’s current research into the new virus. “But my progress at USAMRIID has been slow,” he explained. “Far too slow. People are dying in Zimbabwe. With the constant movement between countries and continents these days, who knows where the virus will strike next? Perhaps even here in Hong Kong.”

  “Hmm. Yes. That could be catastrophic. We are a very dense city. But I don’t see what I can do to help.” The gaze continued its relentless focus.

  Jon hunched forward, his expression deeply concerned. “Your pharmaceutical subsidiary has been working with hantaviruses, and I—”

  Cruyff interrupted, losing patience: “BioMed et Cie is located in Belgium, Major. Thousands of miles away. Here in Hong Kong, at least in this office, our dominant assignment is marketing. I’m afraid I have little to offer you—”

  It was Jon’s turn to interrupt: “I’m aware of that subsidiary. But Donk & LaPierre also has a microbiological research team at a facility on mainland China. Those are the scientists I’m referring to. As I understand it, they’re making progress on hantaviruses that have appeared near there. My studies of our new virus lead me to believe it may be carried through mice droppings that dry into dust, become airborne, and infect people, exactly as Machupo does in Bolivia and elsewhere in South America. Of course, hantaviruses like the ones your people are examining are transmitted in the same manner Machupo is. I’m sure you’re familiar with those studies.” He smiled ingenuously at Cruyff.

  “Of course,” Cruyff agreed. By doing so, he appeared neither ignorant nor as if he were hiding something. “What exactly do you wish to know? Providing it isn’t confidential, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” Jon echoed. “Since Donk & LaPierre is a business, your scientists may have been working on vaccines against the hantaviruses. If they have, I may be able to figure out a new research path based on what they’ve learned.”

  “No vaccine, Dr. St. Germain. At least, not that I’ve heard. On the other hand, they wouldn’t report the early stages of something like that to corporate, or even the later stages, until they were sure there was high potential for commercialization. Although it’s possible they’re pursuing it on an entirely experimental basis, I doubt they’d be working on vaccines for your particular class of viruses.”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  Cruyff smiled indulgently. “Significant outbreaks of hemorrhagic viruses occur only in poor countries. Research and development are astronomically pricey, particularly these days. The Third World simply doesn’t have the money to pay for the R and D, much less the vaccines, now do they?”

  “Perhaps not. Still—”

  “So where would the return on investment be? What would happen to our stock if we pursued such quixotic research and development? We have a fiduciary responsibility to our shareholders.”

  “Ah, I see. So vaccines are out.” He allowed real disappointment to enter his voice. Then he brightened. “Still, you have very good scientists there. They might be doing something fresh and interesting with hantaviruses. I seldom have time to fly to Asia, so I’m going to gamble that you won’t be irritated if I ask to visit the facilities anyway. If you would be kind enough to give me permission . . . after all, we scientists learn from each other, you know. I might be able to contribute something to help them.”

  Cruyff’s brows raised. “I suppose there’s no reason not to. You’ll have to secure the proper entry and travel papers on your own, of course, but I’ll have my assistant type up a letter of introduction and send it over to your hotel. Just give her the details when you leave. Perhaps with that, China will cooperate and approve your trip.”

  “Thank you. Your letter will make all the difference.”

  The pocketknife felt heavy in his hand. The visit was coming to a close, and he still had not had an opportunity to plant it. He fought tension and beamed and nodded toward the two ship models on Cruyff’s desk. There were four more in glass cases on the walls.

  He said, “I’ve been admiring your ships, monsieur. Beautiful. Did you make them yourself? A hobby?”

  Cruyff laughed and waved his hand. “Hardly. They’re the work of professionals, recreations of some of our more successful ships. Donk & LaPierre is primarily a shipping company, you see.” He continued to watch Jon. He had not even glanced at the ships.

  “Do you work mostly with Chinese companies?” Jon asked innocently.

  Cruyff was startled. “Chinese companies? No, of course not.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It just seemed logical, and I noticed how many of your ship models have their names in Chinese lettering as well as roman.”

  Cruyff gave a sudden, involuntary glance, not at his models, but toward a safe in plain sight on the wall to the left of his desk.

  That distraction was all Jon needed. With a frisson of relief, he flipped open his fingers and used his thumb to jam the knife down between the cushions.

  Cruyff quickly refocused on Jon. “No, not especially. All ships registered in Hong Kong display their names in Chinese as well as in our alphabet.”

  “Of course,” Jon jumped to his feet. “Stupid of me. Well, I won’t waste any more of your time. It was gracious of you to see me, and even more to allow me to visit your biomed installation.”

  “Think nothing of it, Doctor.”

  Smiling and nodding, Jon backed out and closed the door.

  In the outer office, Jon stopped to give the unsmiling Valkyrie the name of the Shangri-la Hotel and his room number. He headed off, smiled at the gorgeous receptionist, and pushed out through the glass doors.

  His pulse ratcheted up as a messenger approached. But the messenger did not go into Donk & LaPierre. He passed on down the hall, and as soon as the man was out of sight, Jon made a quick detour into the men’s restroom. Locked in a stall, he pulled a tiny listening device from an inner pocket and fitted it into his left ear. It was about the size of a jelly bean, another remarkable invention from intelligence R&D. He paused long enough to change his demeanor.

  Radiating agitation, he hurried from the bathroom back into the offices of Donk & LaPierre, rushed past the exotic receptionist as if his return had not only been planned, but demanded, and—with a distracted wave—burst past the startled Brunhilde.

  “Must have dropped my pocketknife,” he announced as he slammed into Charles-Marie Cruyff’s office without breaking step.

  Cruyff was leaning back in his desk chair and talking confidentially into the phone. He gazed up, surprised, in midword.


  “What!” he demanded of Jon.

  Jon grumbled, irritated, “Dammit. Sorry. Must’ve dropped my knife,” he repeated. “Let’s see, I was standing here, and . . .” He paused before the desk, facing Cruyff, while looking around the airy office as if trying to remember exactly what he had done when he entered.

  Cruyff scowled. “I have an important call, Dr. St. Germain. Please be fast.” He paused, listening to the voice on the phone.

  The cutting-edge directional microphone in Jon’s ear picked up Cruyff’s end of the conversation loud and clear.

  Cruyff cupped his hand around the mouthpiece and whispered, “. . . I don’t think so. No, sir, he was simply fishing for information about our hantavirus research, mostly to know if we were working on any vaccines. He wanted an invitation to visit the lab inside China. What? Yes, absolutely legitimate. Works at USAMRIID, sir, yes. It has to be a simple coincidence. What? Well, yes, as a matter of fact, he did ask an odd question about our working mostly with Chinese firms. He saw my ship models, and . . .”

  Jon let his glance fall on the couch. “Ah, that must be it!” He sat down and rummaged between the cushions.

  “I’m sure you’re mistaken, sir.” Frowning, Cruyff continued to watch Jon as he searched. “Well, perhaps a shade over six feet, yes, and . . .”

  Jon had heard enough. He needed to get out before Cruyff grew too suspicious. Grinning with relief, he retrieved his knife from where he had hidden it and held it up. “Here it is. Must’ve fallen out of my pocket. Sorry for the intrusion, and thanks again, Monsieur Cruyff.”

  He sped out the door, knocking aside the outraged Valkyrie, who had arrived to make certain all was well.

  Seconds later, Jon trotted along the corridor to the elevators. The door of the only open one was closing. He sprinted, slid through just in time, and punched the button.

  As the car started down, he smiled grimly to himself: There was someone who was obviously higher and more important in the company than even the managing director of the Asian branch, so much higher he couldn’t be made to wait while Jon searched, and who had wanted to know whether Major Kenneth St. Germain really was from USAMRIID . . . whether he had asked any unusual or unexpected questions . . . and exactly what he had looked like.

  And what was the meaning of Cruyff’s startled glance at his safe when Jon had asked about Donk & LaPierre’s working with Chinese companies?

  Manila

  Lying under silk sheets on the four-poster bed in the high-ceilinged room that had once entertained Spanish grandees, Ralph McDermid growled into the phone, his languor and good humor long gone. “What else?”

  Charles-Marie Cruyff was filling out his description of the man who had come to ask questions that could easily have been asked over the telephone or by e-mail before flying all the way to Hong Kong, and who had also asked about Donk & LaPierre’s work with Chinese companies.

  “He’s in his early forties, I’d guess,” Cruyff said. “Trim. Looked as if he worked out a lot or played some vigorous sport.”

  “Dark hair brushed back?”

  “No, sir. What I’d call dark blond, and it was parted on the side. I’m sure—”

  “All right. The Shangri-la Hotel, you say? In Kowloon?”

  “That’s where I’m supposed to send my letter of introduction.”

  “Wait a few hours first. I want to be back in Hong Kong before then.”

  “Very well, Mr. McDermid. But I’m sure he was exactly who he said he was. Remember, the appointment was arranged by USAMRIID through our head office in Antwerp.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Charles-Marie. Perhaps he merely wants to visit your research people. We’ll talk further when I get there. Meanwhile, make sure you take care of that urgent matter.”

  “Of course, Mr. McDermid.”

  McDermid hung up and lay back, his eyes closed. His joviality did not return, nor did his languor. When the girl emerged from the bathroom, perfumed and glossily nude, he opened his eyes and dismissed her with a curt wave. As she left, he grabbed the phone and dialed.

  The polished voice on the other end of the line answered immediately. “Yes?”

  “It’s me. That problem in Shanghai may not be over after all.” McDermid described the USAMRIID scientist and his intrusion at Donk & LaPierre as the other man listened and asked quiet, intelligent questions.

  The more McDermid laid out the situation, the more he felt himself calm. This man with the polished voice was the key to his future. The Altman Group had soared high, but it could go even higher, now that he was in his pocket. The future was limitless. As they concluded their conversation, McDermid was smiling again.

  Basra, Iraq

  Often when he accepted an assignment from the American, Ghassan thought back to that day in Baghdad when, resigned to his death, he had been spared not by Allah but by the vanity of the Republican Guard. Trapped in his shop, defending Dr. Mahuk, he’d had no chance to survive. Suddenly, more Guards burst past, hot on the heels of the unarmed doctor. They had not noticed him, and the others forgot him, as they rushed after, eager to share the credit.

  Ghassan had dragged himself outside, leaving a trail of blood. Many hands helped him into hiding. From then on, he had not only walked with a limp, he had abandoned all fear and dedicated his life to freeing his country. Through Dr. Mahuk, he made contact with Colonel Smith again, and he began helping an American voice on the telephone.

  Tonight, Ghassan was on such a mission for the Americans. Dressed in black, he crouched on the roof of the building next door to his target—five stories of brick and mortar, pockmarked by the bullets and shells of the Americans and the Republican Guard. Now it housed the local offices of Tigris Export-Import, Ltd., Agricultural Chemicals, one of the few companies allowed to trade in the outside world. In the distance stood the towering bronze statues of the 101 martyrs of the holy war against Iran. They were only a few blocks away, silhouettes lining the boardwalk along the canal. After years of inactivity, the canal was bustling again with ships and fishing boats sailing up and down the Shatt al Arab. Their lights blinked reassuringly in the night.

  At last, he heard activity at the street entrance. He peered over the parapet. The cleaning crew was strolling off while the foreman locked the door and followed. It was time. Ghassan hooked a thin cable to his harness, took a deep breath, and lowered himself over the edge. At the first row of windows, he used his suction cup and glass cutter to remove a section of glass. He reached in, unlocked the old-fashioned window, and crawled inside. Concealment of his entry was not important; that he finish his assignment undiscovered was.

  Moving with speed and silence, he glided past offices and into the next building. Finally he found the office of the Tigris branch manager. Inside, he switched on his tiny flashlight and searched the rows of filing cabinets until he found the right drawer and the right file—Flying Dragon Enterprises, Shanghai. He searched through the documents more slowly than he liked, as all the letters to and from China were in English.

  There it was. The fifth document from the front—an invoice manifest. Laboriously, he compared the English list on the document to the list dictated by the quiet American. When he finally determined they were identical, his spirits soared. The manifest was correct. After a moment of exultation, he slid the document into the plastic envelope strapped under his shirt, returned the file to the cabinet, and hurried through the offices to the window. He rehooked the cable, slipped out, and seconds later stood on the roof. As he stuffed his equipment into his small waist pack, he ran down the staircase. At the street, he fell back into the shadows, scanning all around.

  A patrol vehicle packed with Republican Guardsmen drove slowly past.

  The moment it was out of sight, Ghassan sprinted away. Twice more on his way home he hid as Guards out on patrol rolled by. Finally he reached his tiny room. His adrenaline still pumping, he removed his special cell phone, which was hidden beneath the planks of his floor, and dialed the American’s num
ber. He did not know where the American’s office was. He had never asked, and the American had never offered.

  “So this is how you get your orders, Ghassan? How efficient of the Americans. But then, they have many advantages we do not.”

  Ghassan jerked around. The speaker’s face was hidden in shadow, while the pistol in his hand showed in the room’s gloom. “Hand me the phone and the document.”

  Discovery was something Ghassan feared every day, and he had practiced well to be prepared. Without allowing himself thought or regret, he bit down on the cyanide pill in his tooth and dropped the cell phone to the floor where his foot crushed it into useless pieces. Pain tore through his body. He felt himself falling into a great darkness. As he collapsed, twisting in pain, rage burned through his mind: Death was nothing. Failure was everything, and he had failed.

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  Washington, D.C.

  The president’s chief of staff, Charles Ouray, wandered around the deserted sitting room in the White House residence. Dawn was breaking, and pale light flowed in through the windows. From time to time, he reached into his shirt pocket for the pack of cigarettes he had given up carrying nineteen years ago when he signed the pledge. In his early sixties, his triangular face was grim, and his movements erratic with tension.

  Every five minutes, he checked his watch. As soon as he heard the door to the president’s bedroom open, he turned.

  Sam Castilla emerged fully dressed and brisk, his large body svelte in a meticulously tailored suit. “When does the ambassador arrive, Charlie?”

  “Twenty minutes, sir. He sounded upset. Very upset. He emphasized the matter was extremely serious and said you’d know what he was talking about. He wanted an immediate meeting. In fact, he came close to demanding one.”