The Altman Code

by Robert Ludlum

  “Did he now?”

  Ouray was not going to be put off. “Do you, Mr. President?”

  “Do I what, Charlie?”

  “Know what’s got his tail thumping?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  “But I don’t?”

  The president looked uncomfortable but said nothing.

  Ouray kept his gaze steady. Sometimes prying information from the president seemed tougher than breaking into Fort Knox. Ouray said thoughtfully, “The leaks are making all of us paranoid. I found myself not telling my assistant about the defense appropriations meeting. Clarence has been with me twenty years. I know I can trust him with my life.”

  The president sighed heavily. “You’re right. I should’ve told you.” He hesitated as if still unsure. Then he grimaced and nodded, his mind made up. “It’s all about a Chinese cargo ship by the name of The Dowager Empress. It sailed from Shanghai early this month, bound for Basra. We have an unconfirmed report from a highly reliable source that it’s carrying tens of tons of thiodiglycol and thionyl chloride.”

  Ouray stared. His voice rose. “Blister and nerve weapons? The Yinhe.”

  “In a more ambiguous, more complicated, and more dangerous world than the Cold War. Makes one nostalgic for those awful days when it was just two hairy giants with clubs, circling in a primitive face-off. Not a pretty world, Charlie, but it was simple. Now we’ve got one really big giant, one sick giant, one sleeping giant, and a thousand wolves biting at our heels and ready at any time to go for our throats.”

  Ouray nodded. “So what’s activated the ambassador?”

  “They’ve probably discovered we’ve got a navy frigate shadowing their freighter.” The president was solemn. “I’d hoped we’d have more time.” He paused. “I have reason to think Beijing doesn’t, or didn’t, know about the cargo. A private deal. But that doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “Unless we can prove it.”

  “True.”

  “Can we prove it?” Ouray asked hopefully.

  “Not yet. We’re working on it.”

  The two men stood for a time in silence, staring down at their polished shoes, as the president prepared himself. He was about to start dancing the dance he hated. Posturing, threatening, conciliating, verbally fencing, and flat-out lying. Stalling for time. The dangerous diplomacy ballet that could so easily turn deadly.

  Finally the president sighed, opened his suit jacket, and hitched up his trousers. “Well, let’s go talk to his excellency.” He rubbed his hands together. “Battle.”

  In the Oval Office, the president and his chief of staff stood politely before the president’s desk as Ambassador Wu Bangtiao entered. The ambassador of the People’s Republic of China was a tiny man with the swift, agile stride of the international soccer forward he had once been. He was dressed in a confrontational dark-blue Mao suit, but the smile on his face, while small, was amiable and possibly friendly.

  The president caught the mixed message and looked at Ouray through his peripheral vision. Ouray had a small smile himself, and the president knew his longtime confederate had also understood.

  “So good of you to see me on such short notice, Mr. President,” Wu Bangtiao said with a moderate Cantonese accent, although the president knew he could speak perfect Oxbridge English. He had studied for years at Christ Church and the University of London. “You are aware, I’m sure, Mr. President, of the reason for my sudden alarm.” Despite the positive signs, the ambassador did not extend his hand.

  The president gestured. “You know Charles Ouray, my chief of staff, don’t you, Mr. Ambassador?”

  “We have had the pleasure many times,” Wu Bangtiao said, an edge to his voice to show he had noticed the change in subject.

  “Then why don’t we sit down?” Castilla said cordially.

  He gestured to one of the comfortable leather armchairs that faced his desk. As the ambassador settled in, the president returned to his large desk chair. Ouray took a straight chair against the wall some distance to the side. Ambassador Wu’s feet barely touched the floor; the chair was designed for far taller New Mexican ranchers, which, of course, was why the president had sat him there.

  Hiding a smile, the president leaned back and said pleasantly, “As for why you’re here, Ambassador Wu, I haven’t a clue. Why don’t you fill me in?”

  Wu’s eyes and smile narrowed. “One of our cargo ships on the high seas reports that your frigate, the USS John Crowe, has been keeping it under surveillance.”

  Charles Ouray said, “Are they sure the frigate isn’t simply on the same course, Mr. Ambassador?”

  Wu’s gaze grew icy. He turned it onto Ouray. “Since your warship is far faster than a simple cargo ship but has maintained its current position behind it many hours, the conclusion can be only that the Crowe is shadowing the Empress.”

  “I wouldn’t say that’s the only conclusion,” the president said evenly. “May I ask exactly where this ship of yours is?”

  “The Indian Ocean.” He glanced at the clock. “Or possibly the Arabian Sea by now.”

  “Ah. And its destination is—?”

  “With all due respect, Mr. President . . . that’s hardly relevant. The ship is on the high seas where the right of passage to any port belongs to every sovereign nation in the world.”

  “Now, Mr. Ambassador, we both know that’s hogwash. Nations protect their interests. Yours does. Mine does.”

  “And what interest is the United States protecting by harassing an unarmed commercial vessel in international waters, sir?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Ambassador Wu. Since I haven’t been informed about the Crowe, I have no details, not even that your freighter is anywhere near our frigate. But I assume that if you’re correct, the situation’s the result of some well-known, routine operation by our navy.”

  “America routinely shadows Chinese ships?”

  The president exploded, “That’s horseshit, and you damn well know it! Whatever the reason for this alleged shadowing is, I’ll find out. Is that all, Mr. Ambassador?”

  Wu Bangtiao did not blink. He stood. “Yes, Mr. President. Except that my government has instructed me to inform you that we will protect our right of free passage anywhere and everywhere on the high seas. Including against interference or attack by the United States.”

  The president stood even more quickly. “Tell your government that if your freighter is violating international laws, regulations, or accepted limitations, we reserve the right to intervene to stop such a violation.”

  “I will present your view to my government.” Wu inclined his head to Castilla, nodded to Ouray, turned gracefully, and stalked out of the Oval Office.

  The president studied the door that had closed behind Wu Bangtiao without really seeing it. Charlie Ouray was doing the same thing.

  Finally, the president decided, “They don’t know what the Empress is carrying.”

  “No. But does that change anything?”

  “Normally, I’d say no.” Castilla rubbed his jaw. “Only there was more restraint there than I would’ve expected. You agree?”

  Ouray clasped his hands between his legs and leaned forward, frowning. “I’m not sure. That last sounded a lot like the standard warning, the same posturing as usual.”

  “Pro forma. To be expected. But Wu’s a consummate master of the nuance, and I had the impression his delivery this time suggested that the warning was, indeed, pro forma. In fact, he intended it as a hint that he was posturing.”

  “Maybe so. But he knows we were lying about the Crowe.”

  “Of course he does, but there again he let me get away with it. Didn’t challenge me, and didn’t deliver the formal warning until I’d dismissed him, which forced him to make it or get the hell out with empty hands.”

  “He didn’t come in firing all guns either, that’s for sure. But he was definitely wearing the Mao armor.”

  “His presentation was ambiguous,” the president
decided. “Yes, that was the message. Beijing, or at least a majority of the Standing Committee, is in the dark. Still, they can’t let China be pushed around with the world watching, no matter what the circumstances. On the other hand, I read it that they’re not looking for a confrontation. They won’t make the situation public, at least not yet. They’re giving us a little leeway and some time.”

  “Yeah, but how much?”

  “With luck, at least until the Empress gets so close to Basra that we have to make a move.” The president shook his head unhappily. “Or until the whole thing is leaked, blows up, or falls apart.”

  “Then we’d damn well better keep it under wraps.”

  “And get our proof.”

  “Yeah,” Ouray said. “But I have a suggestion.”

  “What?”

  Ouray remained hunched forward as if he had a sharp pain somewhere in his gut. His aging face seemed brittle. “After listening to you and Wu, I understand even more why this demands tight secrecy. Nevertheless, it’s time to bring in Defense Secretary Stanton, Secretary of State Padgett, and Vice President Erikson, because the Chinese government’s on to us. That means Stanton and Padgett need to be prepared. And if—God forbid—anything were to happen to you, the vice president will have to deal with this situation. We’d have to bring him up to speed instantly. There might not be time.”

  Castilla considered. “What about the joint chiefs?”

  “For now, it’s probably enough that Brose knows. The others could get trigger-happy and complicate things.”

  “Okay, Charlie. I agree. Set up a meeting. Include Brose.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Alone, the president swiveled to the high windows behind his desk. For a few seconds, he saw a little boy in his mind, and he smiled. The boy was like he had been, oversized for his age and with messy straw-blond hair. He was raising his arms up eagerly to a man. The man bent low to pick him up, but the man’s face was hazy, out of focus. The child could not see the face, could not see his father.

  Hong Kong

  Outside Donk & LaPierre’s building, Jon dodged through the crowds and traffic and crossed Stanley Street to a Dairy Farm ice cream parlor. Blaring horns and Chinese curses punctuated the air. He ordered a cup of coffee and watched the entrance to the showcase building. When no uniformed guards or civilians came rushing out as if looking for someone, he finished his coffee and hailed a taxi to take him to his hotel.

  Still vigilant, he watched all around as the cab wove through the congestion, turned into the tunnel that dove under the harbor to Kowloon, and at last pulled up to the Shangri-la. Once in his room, he dropped onto his bed and used his scrambled cell phone to report to Fred Klein. As usual, Klein was at his desk in the Anacostia marina.

  “Do you ever go home, Fred?” Jon pictured the dim office, the shutters and drapes closed, turning day into perpetual night.

  Klein ignored the question. “You got there safely, I take it.”

  “So far, yes.” He hesitated, a sour taste in his mouth. “But I’ve made a mistake.”

  “How bad?”

  “Hard to say.” He explained the phone call to Donk & LaPierre. “Obviously, Jan Donk doesn’t exist, or the phone number was unlisted, or both. Maybe it was a special number for Yu Yongfu that only he’d know, and it didn’t sound like a Chinese entrepreneur.”

  “It could be a number specifically for the Empress deal.”

  “Whatever, Donk & LaPierre knows someone unauthorized has the number now, is in Hong Kong, and could be interested in the Empress. They were worried enough to send armed thugs to the phone booth. Which brings me to the next problem.”

  “I can’t wait.” Klein’s voice was tired, irritable. “You’re sure you’re up to this assignment, Colonel?”

  “Anytime you want to bring me home, be my guest,” Jon growled.

  There was a surprised silence. “All right, Jon. Sorry. Merely trying to lighten the situation, which is grim enough back here.”

  “Trouble on your end?”

  “The Chinese have spotted our surveilling frigate. Their ambassador is making waves, if you’ll pardon the nautical metaphor.”

  “Is it out of control?”

  “The president thinks not yet. They appear interested only in dancing so far. We both know that won’t last. Give me some good news before you depress me even more with the next problem. Did you get anything from your appointment with Donk & LaPierre?”

  “Three things. Managing director Cruyff has something in his safe he’s worried about, and he’s antsy about being questioned over connections to Chinese companies.”

  “That’s two.”

  “Three is the big one. Someone a lot higher is involved—someone Cruyff reports to, who knows I was in Shanghai and what I look like.” He described the meeting and his trip back into the office to eavesdrop.

  “It should be simple enough to identify Cruyff’s boss in Antwerp.”

  “Since Cruyff spoke English to him—not French or Flemish—I don’t think he was reporting to Antwerp. No, whoever the boss is, he’s here in Hong Kong. My blond wig left Cruyff and him with just enough doubt to move slowly, but sooner or later, they’ll send people here to the hotel. I need information about the man on top, so I can gauge what to do.”

  “In these days of international corporate conglomerates and holding companies, we can’t rule out that his Belgium bosses aren’t English or American. But all right, I’ll get right on it. What will you do now?”

  “Food. Something decent for a change. And sleep. A whole night’s sleep would be a novelty.”

  “I’m not sleeping, and neither is the president.”

  “It’s morning there.”

  “A mere technicality. Take your cell with you, and sleep with it and your pistol under your pillow. I’ll get back to you, Colonel. Sweet dreams.”

  Aloft, En Route to Hong Kong

  Ralph McDermid considered the company’s top jet—a retrofitted 757 with a gourmet kitchen, cherry-paneled conference room, and sleeping suite—to be his personal transport. In fact, its free use was written into his forty-page employment contract, which, of course, included the usual stock options, monetary incentives, golden severance package, insurance, and use of company cars, cleaning services, club memberships, and houses and apartments around the globe.

  He was sitting back, his feet up, lulled toward sleep by the jet’s purring engines, when his phone rang. It was Feng Dun.

  McDermid was instantly awake. “Where the devil have you been?” he demanded. “I’ve tried three times to reach you!”

  Feng’s voice turned cold. “I’ve been looking and making calls, Taipan.”

  McDermid was never quite certain whether Feng’s use of the old honorific was insulting. He suspected so. In the 1800s, the Chinese had used taipan to describe European and American freebooters who took fortunes out of Hong Kong and China and gave little back.

  But McDermid needed Feng, so he said only, “What have you learned?”

  “Li Kuonyi has disappeared. She was at her father’s house, now she’s gone. No one knows where. Not her staff, and, of course, no one at Flying Dragon.”

  That worried McDermid. Now that Yu Yongfu had killed himself, his wife might turn into a loose cannon. It would depend on her level of grief and her concern about their children.

  McDermid asked, “Her father doesn’t know where she is?”

  “So he says. Her children are with him. I’ll watch them closely.”

  “No. Assign your best people instead. I’ve got something else I want you to handle personally.”

  “And that is . . . ?”

  “Jon Smith. He may be in Hong Kong.”

  In the distance, Feng clicked his teeth, interested. “This man is like the snake at midnight. He keeps appearing where least expected. You didn’t warn me he had such talent.”

  McDermid bit off a retort. “I suspect he’s looking for the third copy of the invoice manifest. I know the
cover he’s using and where he’s staying. How long will it take you to get to Hong Kong and kill him?”

  Chapter

  Nineteen

  Saturday, September 16

  Hong Kong

  It was an hour before sunrise when the slender Chinese man took the master key from the apron pocket of the night housekeeper and dragged her slack body into the hotel linen closet. The soft, limp flesh was sickening in its inertness, like a sack of rice that had leaked half its contents. He closed the door and locked it.

  His name was Cho. He was in his early twenties, looked far younger, and his heart was pounding. Although he was experienced, a professional, the fear never relented, but his adolescent appearance enabled him to go where older men could not. That secured him many well-rewarded assignments, and he always delivered.

  Cho ran along the hallway until he found the room number. He inserted the key into the lock and pressed open the door until it caught on the night chain. He listened.

  When he heard nothing and no light turned on, he closed the door an inch, inserted a slim homemade instrument, and deftly slipped the chain free. Returning the instrument to a special pocket in his black jeans, he crept inside the dark room, shut the door soundlessly, and slid to the left.

  Motionless, he stood with his back against the wall, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He could feel the warm moisture in the dark air—his prey was in the room somewhere, breathing deeply, asleep. The muffled sounds of night traffic far below penetrated the closed drapes. Otherwise, there was no sound, no movement.

  The young killer crept forward. Encased in flexible slippers, his feet made no noise on the plush carpet. He found the bed. The man lay on his back, breathing rhythmically, unaware that in seconds there would be no more rise and fall of his chest, no more breath.

  There was a problem: The man was covered by sheets and a blanket. Cho hesitated. Should he strike through the blankets even though he was unsure of the exact position of the man’s body, or should he try to pull the covers down as far as the naked and vulnerable chest?