The Altman Code

by Robert Ludlum

  Five minutes later, they were in a taxi heading back toward Central.

  “Where do I drop you?” Randi asked. She pulled off the hat, shook out her black wig, and sat back.

  “The Conrad International,” Jon said. “Listen, everything I told you was true, but there’s a little more—”

  “What a surprise, dearie.”

  He shot her a look. “USAMRIID thinks there’s something fishy going on at Donk & LaPierre’s Chinese lab. Maybe they’re conducting research, doing experiments that’d be illegal in the States, and putting government grant money intended for basic research into applied research to develop commercial pharmaceutical products.”

  “I expected something like that. So you’re here investigating?”

  Jon nodded. “I won’t ask exactly what the CIA’s interest in McDermid is, but maybe we could share anything we find not directly related to our own assignments.”

  Randi turned away, looking out the window. She was smiling. Despite all the baggage between them since her sister’s death, she liked Jon. She enjoyed working with him. She turned back, still smiling. “Sounds like a good thing. Okay, soldier. Whatever I turn up that I can’t use, I’ll tell you. And vice versa.”

  “Deal.”

  The taxi stopped at his hotel on Queensway. As he got out, he turned back to ask, “Where do I contact you?”

  “You don’t. I know where you are. If anything changes, leave a message at your hotel’s front desk addressed to Joyce Ray.”

  Despite the proposition he had offered her, he wanted very much to know what the CIA’s connection to McDermid and the Altman Group was. He would ask Klein to check into what Langley was up to, which meant he would have to let Randi go her own way for now.

  “Fine,” he said. “Keep in touch.”

  She was still smiling as the taxi pulled away into traffic.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Four

  Washington, D.C.

  In his bedroom, the president was still buttoning his shirt when Jeremy knocked and spoke through the door, “Director Debo, sir. She says it’s urgent. Would you like to take the call?”

  One more emergency was not what he needed. “Of course. Put her through.” The Director of Central Intelligence, Arlene Debo, had been appointed to the position by the previous administration, and he had kept her on, despite her affiliation with the opposition party, because he trusted her. She was very good at the job.

  Her voice was just below strident, her natural tone. “Mr. President, my people ran the statistics on the leaks. The vast majority of them are related one way or another to defense and military matters. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Because I instructed our agents to concentrate most heavily on the area on and around the joint chiefs, and it’s paid off with our first hit.”

  The president sat down on the edge of his bed. “Who?”

  “Secretary of the Army Jasper Kott.”

  “Kott? Kott himself? Are you sure?” He was shocked.

  “He went to Manila on somewhat questionable army business, so we put an agent with him. Sure enough, he slipped away in civvies and went into the city to what appeared to be a pleasure trip to a brothel where our agent was unable to follow. However, she’d had the foresight to contact our station chief, and he had a man there quickly, who went in as a customer. He learned Kott had insulted the house by not being there for ‘fun.’ He was meeting a man and reporting on your recent military budget session.”

  The president frowned. “What man?”

  “Ralph McDermid, CEO of the Altman Group.”

  “McDermid? My God. He was telling him about our budget discussion?”

  “Indeed, Mr. President.”

  “Insider trading?”

  “We don’t know yet, but we’ll find out. Our agent and her team are shadowing McDermid now, too, as we speak.”

  “Keep briefing me, Arlene. Thanks.”

  “My job, sir.”

  After hanging up, he finished dressing, his forthcoming breakfast with the vice president far from his mind as he pondered the possible motives for Secretary Kott’s deceit and McDermid’s involvement. Was it simply extremely bold economic espionage to gain a business advantage . . . or something else?

  Few people knew the White House had two family dining rooms—one in the northwest corner of the main floor and the other upstairs in the private quarters, remodeled with a small kitchen originally for Jack and Jackie Kennedy in 1961. Like Jack Kennedy, Sam Castilla preferred to keep the upstairs one private for his family, too. He and Cassie could sit around with uncombed hair, still in their bathrobes, drink coffee, and read the Sunday papers without worrying about being disturbed except under the most unusual emergencies.

  Still, he liked this family dining room on the first floor, too. Although it had a vaulted ceiling and was furnished with solemn Hepplewhite and Sheraton pieces, it was small relative to other White House rooms, and the fireplace and yellow walls gave it warmth and intimacy. This morning, it smelled pungently of chiles and cheese. He had invited Vice President Brandon Erikson for breakfast to discuss his coming trip to Asia.

  The vice president forked a mouthful of scrambled eggs, New Mexico style, and nodded with appreciation. “What do you call them, sir?”

  “Huevos jalapeños, one of Celedoño’s best recipes,” President Castilla said. “And you don’t have to be so damned formal here, Brandon. This is us having breakfast so we can talk about your trip east, not some official briefing.”

  “Being in the White House tends to make things formal.” The vice president had an easy smile and a smooth voice.

  “Some think that and worse. I remember Harry Truman called it the big white jail, and William Howard Taft said it was the loneliest place in the world. But I tend to agree with Jerry Ford. He claimed it was the best public housing he’d ever seen. I like that.”

  “The place does inspire awe.”

  The president examined the vice president’s handsome face, the perfectly barbered cheeks, the thick black hair that made him look a good ten years younger than his forty. He had the kind of manly Hollywood good looks that attracted women and encouraged trust in men. A valuable political combination.

  Since this was their last term, and the party was increasingly focused on Erikson as its next presidential candidate, Castilla decided to have a moment of fun. “You planning to live here, too, Brandon?”

  Erikson chewed, his eyes closed. When he opened them, he sighed with appreciation. “These are some fine eggs. Please give my compliments to Celedoño. Of course, Sam, I’d be a fool to be working my tail off if I didn’t have a few ideas. Might be pleasant to have a shot at seeing what I can accomplish.”

  “You did plenty in the congressional elections. You were everywhere at once. We appreciated that. You’ll have a lot of IOUs to call in.”

  Erikson smiled wider. “Especially since so many of our candidates won. I’m proud of that.”

  Brandon Erikson knew the political score. It was one of the prime reasons Castilla had wanted him on his ticket. Now it was Erikson’s chance, and Castilla figured he had earned it. “You have enough money? You know the opposition’s been filling their war chest for eight years, just waiting to make a roaring comeback. They’ll throw everything at you, including the sidewalks of New York. And if I’m right about who your opponent’s going to be, you’re facing one of the nation’s largest family fortunes.”

  For the first time, the vice president showed uncertainty. The cost of not just running but winning a national campaign had become obscene. Candidates spent more than half their time on the telephone or at fund-raisers, convincing donors to empty their pockets, instead of working on issues.

  “I’ll be ready,” the vice president vowed. Ravenous ambition was naked on his face, then vanished.

  For a moment, Sam Castilla was sent back into the past, to his beginnings as a young congressman in New Mexico, with no money, no name, and no conne
ctions. Serge Castilla had said, “Be careful what you dream, son. No one’s going to give it to you. If your dream’s expensive, plan on paying for it yourself.”

  He saw Serge—the man he had always called Dad—smile knowingly, his desert-bleached eyes amused, his dark skin a cobweb of wrinkles. Serge had understood him well. He wondered what kind of advice David Thayer would have given. Whether he was as wise and kind. What kind of man he had aged into. For an instant, he was furious at being cheated of his biological father, and then he felt the deep sadness that must be David Thayer’s. To have been in captivity for a half century, kept from everyone and everything he loved, from his own dreams and ambitions. . . . What kind of personal hell had Thayer been through?

  He pulled himself back to the present. “You know you have my complete backing, Brandon. Now I’d like your input. As I recall, you’re visiting Afghanistan, Pakistan, and India.”

  “We’re trying to keep it flexible, of course. The political situation is so dicey in those areas that I might stop in Hong Kong and Saudi Arabia, too. With all the terrorist threats, the State Department has some arm-twisting in mind for me.”

  “Sounds good. We have to keep working on this on all fronts.”

  “Exactly—”

  The door of the dining room opened, and Jeremy’s head appeared around it. The president’s personal assistant would never have interrupted a breakfast with the vice president unless the matter was urgent. “Admiral Brose, sir. He needs to see you immediately.”

  Castilla shot a rueful smile at the vice president. “Okay, Jeremy, send him in.”

  The vice president took a final mouthful of eggs. “If you don’t mind, Sam, I’d like to stay. Keep myself informed, although I’m sure I’m not going to be needed.”

  Castilla hesitated. There was still part of him that wanted to hold the situation under wraps. He nodded. “Tactful and accurate. Stay put and pour yourself some coffee.”

  The door opened all the way, this time to admit the imposing bulk of Admiral Stevens Brose in full uniform. He saw the vice president and stopped.

  “It’s all right, Stevens. The vice president’s feet are already wet. I’m guessing the situation with the Empress must be what’s brought you here so early.”

  “It is, Mr. President. I’m afraid—”

  Castilla waved to a chair at the table. “Sit. Have some coffee before we plunge into the quagmire.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The chair creaked as the outsized chairman of the joint chiefs sat, poured, and drank. Then: “The Crowe’s got a Chinese sub on its tail.”

  “Hell and damnation!” the vice president breathed.

  The president simply nodded. “We expected something, Stevens.”

  “Yessir, we did. But this is bolder than I figured from what I heard of your meeting with the ambassador.”

  “I agree,” Castilla said. “A submarine threatening a frigate that’s threatening a cargo ship doesn’t leave a great deal of wiggle room for anyone.”

  Erikson asked, “How powerful is a Chinese submarine, Admiral?”

  Brose’s brow furrowed. “That’d depend on its class. Commander Chervenko on the Crowe has some experience with Chinese subs from when he served in Seventh Fleet’s Task Force 75 around the Taiwan Strait. He and his sonar technician think the sub’s an old Han class. That’d be logical, since the majority of their operational subs are Hans. But it could be the more powerful Xia back at sea once again. It’d almost certainly be modified and updated . . . or even a new class, launched in secret. We know they’ve been working on a better boat for years.”

  Erikson pressed, “But what’s their power like?”

  “The Crowe should be able to handle a Han on its own, although you never know for sure what upgrades there could be. With the Xia, it’s hard to say. We know little about it except that the design’s had problems and that it’s definitely stronger than the Han class. If it’s a new class, then the Crowe’s in a bad way, playing Russian roulette.”

  Erikson looked worried as the president asked the admiral, “You have some ideas about why the Chinese’s reaction is so big?”

  “Beyond muscle flexing for internal consumption, no, sir. They could be trying to show us they’re stronger now than at the time of the Yinhe and eager to challenge us in the international arena.”

  The president frowned. “Demanding respect, you might say.”

  “That’s it, sir,” Brose said. “Maybe it’s a hint to our allies to beware, too.”

  “Probably an effective hint,” the president added grimly. He drank coffee. “Of course, it could be that someone there overreacted.”

  “A mistake?” Erikson considered. “That’s really frightening, Sam.”

  “What if it’s deliberate? What if it’s some Standing Committee hard-liner who wants to scare his own people by escalating the confrontation?”

  Brose exhaled. “That’d mean there’s a power struggle inside the walls of Zhongnanhai.”

  The president nodded. “If that’s so, the Empress could become the line in the sand between the factions. With us in the middle, too, the situation could turn catastrophic.”

  “With fingers on the buttons, the world would end up in the middle.” Brandon Erikson shook his head worriedly. “In the Cuban missile crisis, you remember, the Soviets sent subs to shadow our blockade ships. One of their skippers was so furious he gave the order to prepare to fire a torpedo into us. The other Soviet commanders had to talk him out of it. That was far too close for anyone’s comfort, on either side of the Cold War.”

  “It can happen,” Brose admitted. “Chervenko’s a steady man, but you never know what strain will do. Truthfully, I’m more worried about the Chinese sub commander. God knows what in hell’s going on in his mind.”

  The trio lapsed into anxious silence.

  At last, Brose grunted and heaved a sigh. “What do you want to do, Mr. President?”

  “Is the Chinese sub making any aggressive moves?”

  “Chervenko says not.”

  “Then we continue exactly what we’re doing.”

  “There’s not a lot of time left, sir.”

  “I know.”

  Vice President Erikson said, “It’s getting to the brink, Sam. Isn’t it time to inform the country? The cabinet. Congress. The people? They should know what we’re facing and against whom. We have to be prepared for the worst. We have to prepare them.”

  The vice president and admiral studied the president where he sat at the table, his eyes staring at something only he could see.

  At last, he nodded unhappily. “I suppose you’re right. But we’ll bring in only the cabinet and Congress for now. Brandon, talk to our key people on the Hill. I’ll convene the cabinet. When it’s time to alert the public, I’ll let you know. But not right now. Not yet.”

  The vice president said, “Are you sure it’s wise to leave them uninformed? If this thing blows up in our faces, it won’t look good for you.”

  “There’ll be a war of words before anyone shoots.”

  “And if there isn’t?” Erikson pressed.

  “That’s why I get paid to stay up all night with a bellyache, Brandon. To take the risk. I won’t cry wolf until I see an actual one. That’s a dangerous game that wears people down so that after a while they no longer listen to warnings. When I cry wolf, it’s because there’s a real damn wolf, dripping fangs and all. That way I know people will listen.”

  Admiral Brose agreed. “That’s how I’d play it, Mr. President. Better we concentrate on facts and evidence.”

  Antwerp, Belgium

  The worldwide headquarters of Donk & LaPierre was a four-story brick building built in 1610 in the usual Flemish step style. Because it was convenient to her apartment—just north of the Meir and not far from the Grote Markt, the Kathedrale, and the Schelde River—Dianne Kerr decided to walk to her appointment with Louis LaPierre, chairman and managing director. The receptionist immediately sent her up to the top floor.

&n
bsp; There an excited young man hurried to greet her. “Mademoiselle Kerr, what an honor. I read your novel Marionette with great interest. I’m Monsieur LaPierre’s private secretary, and he is eager to speak with you. Please come this way.”

  The corridors of the old building were narrow, but the ceilings were high, graced by tall windows. The same was true of Louis LaPierre’s private office. It was relatively small—heating was a problem in the seventeenth century—but high-ceilinged, with tall windows, a handsome fireplace, and a view across Antwerp’s vast docks.

  The managing director himself was small and slender, with an Old World elegance in dress and manner. “Ah, Mademoiselle Kerr,” he said in meticulous English with only the slightest French accent. “I have, of course, read your books. They are, shall we say, most exciting. Such adventures, such intrigue, such deviousness, and so vivid. I particularly enjoyed The Monday Men. How could you know so much about assassins? Surely you were a covert operator yourself?”

  “No, Monsieur Director,” Kerr said modestly and completely inaccurately. One did not talk about being MI6. That credo had been broken in recent years, even by some of those whom she had thought trustworthy. Fortunately, most still adhered to the code. Besides, for an adventure novelist, it was probably wise not to invite speculation as to the possible truth of her plots.

  LaPierre laughed. “I doubt that, Mademoiselle Kerr, but please sit and tell me the purpose of this visit.”

  Kerr chose a wood-and-brocade Flemish chair. It was thoroughly uncomfortable. “In a single word, research.”

  “Research?” LaPierre arched an eyebrow. “You are planning a thriller about Donk & LaPierre?”

  “An adventure novel concerning the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century China trade. I thought it would be interesting to do something historical for a change. Your company’s renowned, of course. I believe the original Jan Donk Importers had their start even before then. Correct?”

  “Quite true. You wish, then, to examine our archives?”

  “With your permission.”

  “Of course, of course. Our directors enjoy the right kind of publicity. They will be delighted.” LaPierre smiled and then appeared to have a sudden thought that concerned him. “But are you aware that our archives—in fact, all of our records up to today—are here in this building?”