The Altman Code

by Robert Ludlum

  “I wouldn’t count Fred’s goodwill short. He won’t forget you, and geopolitics change.”

  Asgar nodded without much conviction. “After the prison, where’s the second operation?”

  “The Sleeping Buddha.”

  Asgar was dubious. “That’ll be crowded damn soon after dawn any day. Tourists and vendors, you know.”

  “With luck, we’ll be in and out long before they arrive.”

  “You care to give me a hint what we should prepare for?”

  “An ambush and a different sort of rescue mission.”

  “What are we rescuing?”

  “The same document I failed to get in Shanghai.”

  “Which is important to the human-rights treaty?”

  “Yes,” Jon said. “Now I have a question. . . . Do you have an escape route set up out of China that I can use to get the document out, too?”

  “More than one. You never know what the contingencies are going to be. Dissidents and revolutionaries without exit plans are fools. Fortunately for us, resistance is very un-Chinese, so the Han aren’t good at handling it. Are we going to need a fast bunk?”

  “Probably, yes.”

  “I’ll alert my contacts.” He looked around at his men. Some were already snoring. Smart guerrillas, they slept when they could. “Let’s move.”

  He circulated, waking them, speaking softly. They checked their weapons, took bandoliers of extra ammunition from boxes hidden among the rocks, and waited, prepared. A low whistle from Asgar brought the six pickets in with reports of everything quiet.

  A gibbous moon hung just above the treetops. Asgar sent out his point men, nodded to Jon, and the remainder broke into two columns and moved deeper into the timber. Ten minutes later, the forest thinned, and they emerged onto a dirt road where a Land Rover, an ancient Lincoln Continental limousine, and a battered U.S. Army Humvee waited.

  Jon raised his eyebrows in question. “That’s a lot of foreign horsepower for rural China.”

  Asgar smiled. “One’s a reluctant gift from a Tajik journalist, and the other two were midnight ‘requisitions’ in Afghanistan. Amazing what you Yanks give to various warlords in and out of the Northern Alliance, and how careless they can be with their ill-gotten swag. Shall we saddle up?”

  They climbed into the three vehicles, which cruised out in a caravan on the rough road, one after the other, beneath the broad, starlit sky. Although the Uighers did not look like it, they behaved like a trained and highly disciplined unit, which encouraged Jon. They drove along a series of dirt roads past farmers, fields, and animals. In this part of China, Asgar explained, even a bicycle was a luxury. Most people walked long distances to see family and barter for goods. Consequently, there were few vehicles on the road or parked beside buildings. Still, there was evidence of people everywhere. The farmhouses came in clusters, in small villages, and in larger villages. Shacks offering barbering, food, and tea appeared periodically beside the road. Still, no one came out to see who was passing by so late. Whether in rural or urban China, it did not pay to be too curious.

  “They probably wouldn’t report us if they did look,” Asgar told him. “It’s not wise to attract attention from officials, even out here.”

  Less than a half hour later, Jon saw the outlines of a chain-link fence and two guard towers in the distance. The drivers turned off their headlights. Asgar gave an order, and the vehicles rolled off into a stand of timber.

  “The government won’t allow houses to be built any closer than a mile to the prison. We don’t want to be seen or heard by the guards, so we’ll park here.”

  “And then?”

  “It’s just like any military anywhere. We wait.”

  Sunday, September 17

  Washington, D.C.

  The Chinese ambassador had demanded to speak with the president immediately. The matter was urgent, or so he said. Chief-of-staff Charlie Ouray took the request upstairs to the president, who was working on a bill in his overstuffed recliner, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  Charlie noted that the president had moved a framed family portrait to the lamp table beside him. It was lying faceup. He must have been looking at it. Charlie had never seen the photo before. It showed the president as a gangly teenager in a football uniform, standing between his proud parents, Serge and Marian Castilla. All three were smiling, arms wrapped around one another. They had been a close family, and now Serge and Marian were both dead.

  Charlie focused on the president. “Shall I tell the ambassador that he doesn’t get to make demands? I can soften it by saying you might be able to squeeze him in for a few minutes tomorrow. Maybe in the late afternoon.”

  President Castilla considered the pros and cons. “No. Tell him, as it happens, I want to see him, too. Let him worry about what that could mean.”

  “You’re sure, sir?”

  “It won’t set a precedent, Charlie. We can let him cool his heels some other time to make the point. Right now, I want to hammer at the Empress and at the same time give a strong hint of willingness to work with the doves in Zhongnanhai to defuse the confrontation. We want that human-rights accord for a lot of good reasons.”

  “Still, Mr. President, we can’t let him think—”

  “That we don’t want an incident? Why not? If my theory’s correct, there are at least some on the Standing Committee who feel the same as we do. Maybe we can pry confirmation out of our eminent ambassador.”

  “Well—”

  “Make the phone call, Charlie. He won’t browbeat me, you know that. Besides, I’ve got some brickbats of my own. If what we believe is true—that there’s a power struggle going on over there—he’ll be just as uneasy and cautious about the whole situation as we are.”

  Chapter

  Thirty-Six

  Half an hour later, Ambassador Wu Bangtiao walked into the Oval Office. This time he wore a simple Western business suit, but his face was neutral, as if he were delivering a recorded message. The same mixed signals, but with more weight on the outrage this time.

  “These intrusions into Chinese sovereignty are becoming intolerable!” the tiny ambassador snapped, speaking this time in his perfect Oxbridge English. His tones held barely suppressed fury.

  The president remained seated behind his desk. “You might care to go back out of the Oval Office, Ambassador Wu, and make a fresh entrance.”

  Castilla caught a faint hint of a smile as Wu said, “My apologies, sir. I fear I am so upset I forgot myself.”

  The president refrained from saying Wu Bangtiao never forgot himself. Bluntness had to be used judiciously. “I’m sorry to hear that, Ambassador. What is it that’s so upset you?”

  “An hour ago, I received a communication from my government that our military in Sichuan Province reported a high-flying aircraft, identified by our experts as an E-2C Hawkeye AWACS of the type flown by your navy, had violated Chinese airspace two hours before. In light of your navy’s continued harassment of our cargo ship on the high seas, my government sees a pattern and strongly protests these incursions on our sovereign rights.”

  The president fixed his hard stare on Wu. “First, Mr. Ambassador, the matter of the Empress violates no Chinese sovereign rights.”

  “And the flyover? Would you know anything about that?”

  “No, because I’m sure it never happened.”

  “Sure, sir? But no categorical denial?”

  “I’d be stupid to categorically deny what I know nothing about and which could have a perfectly reasonable explanation should it actually have happened. You say your military identified the aircraft as an AWACS? The area you speak of is quite close to northern Burma, where we have drug interdiction operations with, I believe, China’s full support.”

  Wu inclined his head in acknowledgment. “A reasonable theory, Mr. President. However, we’ve also had a report there was a possible parachutist into Sichuan at nearly the same time. Near Dazu. Local authorities are investigating as we speak.�
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  “Interesting. I wish them success.”

  “Thank you, sir. Then I’ll bother you no more.” Wu, who had not been invited to sit, started to turn toward the door.

  “Not so fast, Ambassador. Please have a chair.” The president made his expression as stern as possible. But underneath the severity he felt a surge of optimism for the risk he was about to take. Wu Bangtiao had said not a word about the abortive SEAL raid on the Empress. That could mean only one thing—the Standing Committee knew nothing about the SEALs’ attempt. The warning to the Chinese sub had been delivered by one member or faction on the Standing Committee, while the rest were ignorant.

  Wu hesitated, unsure of what the unexpected request signified, then smiled and sat. “You have another matter to discuss, Mr. President?”

  “The matter of a Chinese submarine taking up a position perilously close to the frigate Crowe. A warship threatening the warship of another nation on the high seas? I believe that’d be considered an ‘incident’ by any standards of international law.”

  “A simple precaution. Balancing the power, you might say. All vessels have a right to be where they are. Under the circumstances, my government considered it had no choice. After all”—the faint smile appeared again—“we’re merely shadowing the shadower. A routine matter.”

  “Now, of course, because of all this, you’ve revealed one of your secrets—China has subs monitoring our Fifth Fleet. The Indian Ocean is the only place it could have come from so quickly.” A flat statement.

  Wu’s careful eyes flickered. Perhaps it was annoyance that his overall negotiating position had been undercut by someone in Beijing. Still, he said nothing.

  “We, of course, had always considered such surveillance a possibility, but now we have concrete confirmation. But be that as it may”—the president waved his hand—“I’m going to do something unusual. Something, I might say, not all my advisers agree with. I’m going to tell you why the Crowe is there. A few days ago, we received incontrovertible information that the Empress is carrying substantial quantities of thiodiglycol and thionyl chloride. I doubt I need to tell you what those chemicals can be used for.”

  The president waited.

  When the ambassador’s expression did not change and he made no comment, the president continued, “The quantities are substantial. In fact, so substantial that they could have no other purpose but weapons manufacture.”

  Wu stiffened. “Another Yinhe? Really, sir, wasn’t once—”

  The president shook his head. “That time, you knew for certain we were wrong. That allowed you to stonewall to the end and make us look like louts. It was a win-win situation for you. If we didn’t board, you appeared to have made us back down, scoring major points. If we did board, we’d be seen as reckless and arrogant. Since we boarded, you scored a coup on the international stage.”

  Wu appeared stunned. “I’m shocked, Mr. President. We were simply supporting international law, then and now.”

  “Bullshit,” the president said pleasantly. “However, I’ve told you this for a reason—this time we believe Zhongnanhai doesn’t know what the Empress is really carrying and never has known. We think Zhongnanhai is totally uninvolved in the venture and was surprised by the appearance of the Crowe. Which means that when we do board, whatever else happens, your nation is going to look very bad at a time when trade with the rest of the world is one of your long-term, paramount goals.”

  For a time, Wu Bangtiao sat silently, his steady gaze fixed on the president, obviously assembling his thoughts. When the words came, once more what they did not say carried the real meaning: “We could not permit such a gross violation as boarding a Chinese flag vessel in the open sea.”

  No protest, no denial, no hedging, no bluster.

  The president heard the unsaid. “Neither the United States, nor the world—including China—can risk chemical weapons of mass destruction in the hands of irresponsible regimes.”

  Wu nodded. “Then, sir, we have an impasse. What do you suggest?”

  “Perhaps concrete proof could break the impasse. The actual manifest.”

  “Proof would be impossible, since no such cargo could come from China. However, could such proof exist, my government would, in the interest of international law, have to consider it.”

  “If it exists.”

  “Which it cannot.”

  The president smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. That, I think, concludes our meeting.”

  Ambassador Wu stood, inclined his head again, and walked from the Oval Office.

  The president watched him go. Then he pressed his intercom button. “Mrs. Pike? Ask the chief of my secret service detail to come to the Oval Office.”

  President Castilla sat in the shaded Covert-One office of Fred Klein. “Your AWACS and Jon Smith were spotted outside Dazu. The local authorities are looking for him. At least that was what Ambassador Wu said.”

  “Damn,” Klein swore. “I’d hoped that wouldn’t happen. Colonel Smith’s got a tough enough job as it is.”

  “Why didn’t you use a B-2? The stealth properties would’ve been useful.”

  “No time to get one from Whiteman. We had to go with what the navy had available. I’d have used a higher flying fighter, but we didn’t want to risk an ejection seat being found. How much did they spot?”

  “All the ambassador said was the plane had been detected and a parachutist might have been seen coming down.”

  “Good. That probably means they’re not even sure about the chute, and they haven’t come close to pinpointing his landing or found his equipment. With any luck, he’s on schedule.”

  “With the help you had waiting that I don’t want to know about?”

  “That’s the plan, and let’s say the Chinese wouldn’t like our ‘help’ any more than they would an all-American operation.”

  The president related the rest of his meeting with Ambassador Wu. “We were right. Beijing knew nothing about the Empress until the Crowe showed up, which clued them in that something was wrong. I think when I named the chemicals, Wu was shocked. He’ll report to Zhongnanhai. How close are we to having that manifest?”

  “I haven’t heard from Smith, but I didn’t expect to yet. Any word about the new leaker?”

  “No, dammit. We’re looking. I’ve cut back every piece of information to only those who must know.”

  Monday, September 18

  Dazu

  From where they waited deep inside the small grove of trees, Jon could hear an occasional car or truck roar past on the distant toll expressway. A mile or more away in three directions, a few farmhouses still showed light. The tense breathing of the Uighers was a nervous rhythm in his ears, along with the slow beat of his own heart. A Uigher grunted as he shifted position. Jon moved, too, loosening his joints. But from the prison camp itself, there was nothing. No sound, no movement.

  Asgar peered at his watch. “Our two chaps should’ve been here by now. Something’s not right.”

  “You’re sure they were ready to leave?”

  “Should’ve been. We’d better go in and take a check.”

  “That sounds like trouble.”

  “Should we abort?”

  Jon mulled. He wanted to get David Thayer out of prison, but he was concerned about bringing hordes of police and military down on the area and frightening Li Kuonyi away from the meeting. Still, Asgar, Chiavelli, and he—working together—increased the chances of success. Three armed professionals. Otherwise, it was just Chiavelli and Thayer, and Thayer had probably not fired a gun in a half century, if even then. One way or another, the pair would attempt to escape tonight. If they got out but alerted prison authorities in the process, they would bring armed troops to the area.

  The safest outcome was to help Thayer escape undetected.

  Jon said, “Let’s find them.”

  Asgar circulated among his people, telling them in a quiet voice what was happening and what he planned. He tapped three to accompany him a
nd Jon, and the five slipped out of the woods. Bent and silent, they trotted across a newly planted field, where Jon’s bruised body ached from running on such soft soil, then through a shadowy orchard of ripening apple trees, where the firmer soil helped him recover.

  With a signal from Asgar, they came to an abrupt halt and went to ground. Before them, to the left and right, extended an open space that had been cleared around the perimeter of the prison’s chain-link fence. Rolled razor wire topped the fence. About ten yards deep, the open area was littered with dry clods of dirt. It was unplanted, unwatered, untrampled—a sterile no-man’s-land.

  “I’m going to the fence,” Asgar whispered. “I’ll take—”

  “You’ll take me,” Jon said. “I want to let Chiavelli and Thayer know I’m here, and I can’t communicate with your men anyway. They can stay back and cover us.”

  “All right then. Come along.”

  Crouched, they tore toward the fence. Jon sweated from the strain on his sore muscles. Just as they reached it, a searchlight blazed on from the guard tower to their left. They dove to the dirt, their bodies pressed tight against the fence. Dust from the dry earth filled Jon’s nostrils. He fought a sneeze, at last swallowing it.

  Asgar’s whisper was little more than a vibration as the searchlight beam probed, passed over, and passed over again. “What the devil’s going on? I’ve never seen them this alert.”

  “Something’s spooked them.”

  “Right. When that light gives up, we crawl west.”

  In the darkened barrack room, David Thayer was seated at his plank table, packing a few keepsakes and papers into a waistpack.

  Dennis Chiavelli held a small flashlight so Thayer could see what he was doing. The light illuminated Thayer’s thatch of white hair from beneath, making it glow like fresh snow.

  “You okay to do this?” Chiavelli asked. “This could turn out to be a lot harder than we expect. You could be hurt or die. It’s not too late to change your mind.”