The Altman Code

by Robert Ludlum

  The color suddenly returned to Wei’s face. “Niu Jianxing and the general secretary are destroying China,” he announced to his colleagues. “What Yu Yongfu did is an example of the disease they’d bring home to the People’s Republic. What I did was to awake you and the Party to what’s happening to the great Revolution of our fathers. Of Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai, Chu Teh, Deng Xiaoping. I will not resign. I will leave this room with all those who agree with me, and we shall see who the Party supports!”

  He raised his massive body onto his spindly legs and stalked to the door. For a moment, he stood there, the door half open, his back to his colleagues, waiting. No one followed.

  The secretary sighed. “Tomorrow I’ll call for a vote of the Central Committee and the Politburo. You’ll be stripped of all posts, all prerogatives, and all honors. You’ll be expelled from the Party, Wei Gaofan.”

  “Unless,” Niu Jianxing suggested, “you choose to do as Li Aorong told his son-in-law. But you must act quickly.”

  “You could think of your family,” the secretary suggested, although his voice did not sound hopeful.

  Wei continued to stand there silently. Finished, he nodded and walked out.

  Monday, September 18

  Washington, D.C.

  Four hours after the cargo of banned chemicals was discovered aboard the Empress and destroyed, Charlie Ouray invited Vice President Brandon Erikson over to meet with the president. Then he ordered Air Force One readied for a flight out to the West Coast, took a call from Ambassador Wu, who had just returned to the embassy on Connecticut Avenue, and headed downstairs to the situation room, where President Castilla was on the phone with his wife.

  “It’s a pretty darn good ending, Cassie,” the president was saying. As soon as he saw Ouray poke his head into the room, he beckoned him inside. “You’ll be able to make it, darling? I’m sorry about your having to cancel the dinner in Oaxaca, but . . . yes, I know you’re as excited as I am. And the children? Wonderful! Wonderful! I’ll see y’all then.” He hung up, beaming.

  Ouray waited for the president to look at him again. When he did, he reported, “The ambassador called, Mr. President. He wanted officially to thank you, and he gave me a message for you from Niu Jianxing—the Owl.”

  “That’s nice. What’s the message?”

  “Niu sends his greetings and expresses hope that your health continues to be robust.”

  The president burst out laughing.

  “What?” Ouray asked. Puzzled, he watched the president laugh harder. He began to smile, then to chuckle as he replayed the message in his mind. At last he held his sides, laughing, too. The merry sound filled the big, soundproof room, banishing the shadows of the last week.

  “Oh, God.” The president wiped his eyes.

  “Priceless,” Ouray agreed.

  “We needed that. Robust. But from them, it’s a vote of confidence.”

  “An expression of hope for the future.”

  “Hell, Charlie. He figures he’s got me broke in, and he doesn’t want to have to go through it again anytime soon with someone new!”

  Chuckling, the two men leaned back in their chairs.

  Ouray observed, “Well, sir, I guess we can say the same about him.”

  “True, true.” At last, Sam Castilla’s expression grew serious as his mind returned to the next task. “Just wanted you to know that Justice is getting ready to bring charges against Jasper Kott. It’s going to be a mighty big scandal.”

  “Can’t brush it under the rug.”

  “No, Charlie. Wouldn’t be right.” There was one more piece of business that had to be taken care of. He sighed, preparing himself. “Is the vice president on his way?”

  “Better than that, he’s here.” Brandon Erikson entered the situation room with a broad smile on his handsome face. Behind him, the military aide closed the door. As always, his sable-black hair was brushed back impeccably, and his wiry body was encased in a tailored three-piece suit. He exuded his usual charm and energy. “My congratulations, Mr. President. A magnificent display of statesmanship.”

  “Thank you, Brandon. It was a close thing.”

  The vice president took his usual seat in the middle of the long table to the president’s right, directly across from Ouray. He nodded pleasantly to Ouray and focused on the president. “I won’t ask for the details of how you pulled it off, sir, but I suspect we have an unsung hero or two in our intelligence agencies.”

  “There’s that,” the president agreed. “We also had a lot of help from inside China, particularly from a high-level politician. Our work with him gives me a lot of hope for our relations with China.”

  Erikson grinned. “I suspect you’re being modest, Mr. President.”

  Sam Castilla said nothing.

  The vice president blinked and glanced around the silent room that was essentially sealed from the rest of the White House. Not only windowless and soundproof, it was constantly swept for bugs and illicit cameras. “Is everyone else late? I assumed we were having a post-crisis assessment session.”

  The president studied Erikson’s face, looking for what he had missed. “There won’t be anyone else, Brandon. Tell me, would your friend Ralph McDermid be as enthusiastic about our success as you are?”

  Erikson looked from the president to the grim-faced Ouray and back again to the president. “I have no idea how Mr. McDermid would feel. I barely know the man.”

  “Really?” Charlie Ouray said.

  Erikson did not miss the absence of his title or any of the other usual courteous forms of address for someone of his lofty position. His left eyebrow cocked. “Is something wrong, Mr. President?”

  The president’s hand slammed down on the table. Ouray jumped. Erikson looked startled and a little afraid.

  Castilla growled, “You know damn well what McDermid would’ve thought. You know exactly which intelligence agents are unsung heroes.”

  “That, sir, is preposterous!” Erikson retorted, as angry as the president. “I know—” He seemed to suddenly hear the president’s exact words. “He . . . would’ve thought?”

  The president said curtly, “Ralph McDermid’s dead. Altman’s board of directors is right now running around like vultures with their heads cut off to come up with a plausible story to explain it. And it won’t help. McDermid’s dirty deal is going to come out—I’ll see to it. They’ll be jumping ship faster than you can say Arthur Andersen.”

  “Dead?” Erikson repeated, his expression shocked. “It’s going to . . . come out?”

  “Your secret pal Ralph McDermid was shot to death in China,” Charlie Ouray told him. “Murdered, I’m told, by one of his own hired thugs.”

  The vice president blinked, recovered, and said cagily, “Horrible. How tragic. What was he doing in China? Some business deal, I expect.”

  “Shit, Brandon,” the president exploded. “It’s over. You’ve been caught with your hands deep in other people’s pockets. I expect your resignation on my desk by morning!” He nodded to Ouray, who pressed a button under the table.

  Erikson sputtered, “My . . . my resignation—”

  Two disembodied voices filled the room, one of them the vice president’s:

  “Don’t get sarcastic. We need each other. You’re a valuable member of the team.”

  “I’ll stay that way only as long as I’m behind the scenes.”

  “It’s not as bad as you think. In the end, neither Smith nor the CIA woman damaged us or our project.”

  “That the CIA may have you under surveillance doesn’t concern you? Even if it’s not related to our deal, they’ve traced at least some of the White House leaks to you. That should bother you one hell of a lot.”

  “I think that’s enough.” Ouray stopped the tape. “I’m sure Mr. Erikson recalls the rest.”

  Erikson’s hands were folded in his lap under the table. He blinked as if he did not know where he was. Then he drew a long breath. “I suppose I could claim that wasn’t me . . .”


  The president hooted. Ouray rolled his eyes.

  Erikson nodded slowly. “All right, but doing favors for an important backer in a future presidential campaign, while possibly reprehensible, is hardly a crime, or all of us would be in prison. You may not like me now, Sam, and it’s certain you can shut me out of everything until your term ends, but I doubt you can force me to resign.”

  “It’s a lot more damning than that,” the president said. “If you recall the entire tape—made by the CIA, incidentally—you’ll realize you implicated yourself in an attempt to cause an armed conflict with China, in which American military personnel would no doubt have been killed. You also helped to ship illegal contraband. I believe some if not all of that skirts treason. It may be treason. Of course, Justice will have to make the ultimate decision about whether it’s actionable. Preliminary reports tell me you’re heading for criminal trial.”

  Ouray pursed his lips. “I’d say it’s treason.”

  Erikson looked from one to the other. “What do you want, Sam?”

  “Don’t call me Sam. Not anymore. I told you what I wanted. You can claim ill health. Family responsibilities. You want to devote your time to exploring a campaign for president. That’d be partially true, anyway.”

  “Is that all, Mr. President?” Erikson asked bitterly.

  “Not quite. You can make a good show of exploring the possibility, but in the end, you won’t run for president, for senator, for dog catcher. No public office ever again. Not ever, even if you’re not charged.”

  “And if I choose to run anyway?”

  “I’ll see to it you get no help from the party. Believe me, no one’s going to want to be even seen in the same room with you.”

  Erikson’s expression hardened into stone. He stood. “You’ll have my resignation tomorrow.” He turned to leave, then turned back. “You know, I’m not quite as bad as you think. I never really agreed with your policy of weakening the military. I did only what I thought best for the country.”

  “Bullshit,” Ouray said. “You did what was best for Brandon Erikson.”

  The president nodded. “And along the way, you lost your benefactor, too. If the Altman Group survives, no one there will ever put you in their Rolodex again. You don’t fit the profile. In your case, mixing business and politics almost caused a war. That can really hurt a bottom line.”

  Tuesday, September 19

  Vandenberg Air Force Base, California

  The morning was warm and hazy with sunshine as the air force jet swept in over the Pacific. From a window, Jon studied the Channel Islands, ringed with tendrils of fog, and the rugged coast with its white sands and dramatic cliffs. The highly secure base extended over nearly one hundred thousand acres of manzanita and rocket launchpads, pampas grass and missile silos, on a wide shelf that jutted into the glistening ocean.

  “We used to drive up here occasionally with Mom and Dad, to study the wildflowers,” Randi told him.

  She had a window seat, while he sat across from her, on the aisle, where he could rotate and see out several windows.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” she continued. “There’s something about the sun and the ocean that I find endlessly appealing. If . . . when . . . I ever settle down, I’ll come back here. What will you do, Jon?”

  About fifty miles southeast of Vandenberg was Santa Barbara, where Randi and her sister, Sophia Russell, had grown up. Santa Barbara was also where Jon had gone to lick his wounds and decide what to do with his life after the Hades virus had killed Sophia.

  “Settle down?” he repeated. “You’re making me shudder. Why would anyone want to settle down?”

  “Why, indeed?” asked David Thayer. “Take it from me, people put too much stock in it. Footloose and fancy free, that’s my idea of life now.” He grinned, his crevices rearranging themselves in a face that shone with curiosity and eagerness. His thick white hair was combed neatly back, and he had new tortoiseshell frames for his glasses. “Goodness, I’ve been settled down more than fifty years. I’ve decided to spend the rest of my life on the go.”

  The three smiled at one another as the jet touched down and sped along the runway. They were dressed in casual trousers and shirts supplied by the U.S. embassy in Beijing. David Thayer had been surprised by plastic zippers, which he had never seen. Velcro fascinated him. He had ripped open and closed the Velcro straps that fastened his new athletic shoes several times. He had never ridden in a jet. The air force pilot gave him a thorough tour of the cockpit, trying to explain how much of the craft was computerized these days until he finally realized Thayer had no real understanding of computers. Thayer assured him he would buy a book and figure it out himself.

  After Jon had reunited with Thayer at the embassy, Jon demanded he have a thorough physical exam. But Thayer did not want to take the time, explaining politely he would rather watch television, which was also new to him. Still, he was persuaded, and the doctor found healed bones indicating past traumas, what appeared to be an iron deficiency, an eye that should have cataract surgery soon, and obvious dental needs. Then Jon, Randi, and David Thayer had piled onto the jet, heading home to America.

  The events of the past week remained very fresh—raw—in Jon’s mind. That would not change for a long time. When he returned to Fort Detrick, he would write a full report for Fred. That often helped.

  Jon had noticed that Randi had been studying the president’s father from the time she first met him. At last, as the jet rolled to a stop, she asked, “Aren’t you bitter, Dr. Thayer? They stole your life. Doesn’t that make you even a little bitter?”

  He gazed back from the window, where he was leaning forward so he could see Air Force One clearly. “Of course I’m bitter, but I’ve got other things on my mind, too. There he is!” He pressed his face against the glass. “I see him! My son. My son. There’s my daughter-in-law! There are my grandchildren! I can’t believe it. They all came. They all came to see me!” His body trembled with excitement.

  The jet stopped, and David Thayer unsnapped his belt and headed for the door. Jon and Randi did not move. As he waited for the stairway to be rolled up and the copilot to unlock the door, he turned and came back. There were pink spots on his sunken cheeks. His eyes sparkled. He shook their hands, thanking them again.

  “I hope you can understand, Ms. Russell.” He patted the top of her hand as he continued to hold it. He glanced back occasionally, eager for the door to open. “I never would’ve survived if I’d allowed myself to be full of hate every second. There were a few good things among the bad. For instance, I learned the price for hubris was humility, and I learned I didn’t have all the answers. Still, if I could go back and change what I did that got me into that mess, I would. But since I can’t, I’m going to make the most of what time I’ve got left. The Chinese have a proverb that goes something like this: ‘What a caterpillar calls the end of life, wise men call a butterfly.’ ”

  “That’s beautiful,” Randi said.

  He nodded. “I know.” He squeezed her hand, punched Jon’s shoulder, and hurried back to the door. He glared at the copilot. “Are you ever going to open this damn thing?”

  “Right now, sir.” He spun the lock, and the pneumatic door lifted and swung out.

  The stairwell was there. The old man moved onto it without another look back. Jon and Randi watched him descend and brush away an aide who obviously had planned to escort him over to Air Force One. The president, his wife, son, and daughter were waiting in its shade. Thayer moved straight toward them about ten steps and suddenly stopped.

  “Look at his face,” Randi said.

  “He’s afraid,” Jon agreed.

  “It’s hit him all at once. He doesn’t know whether they’ll like him.”

  “Or whether he’ll like them. Whether he can live such a different life.”

  The president and his family gazed at one another, some sort of message passing among them. Without a word, they hurried across the tarmac to Thayer. He slowly opened his arms
. The president reached him first, stepped into his embrace, and wrapped his own arms around him in return. They held each other a long time. The president kissed his father’s cheek. Soon everyone was there, too, talking, laughing, introducing themselves, hugging.

  As their jet backed up, Jon and Randi turned away from the windows.

  “Back to Washington,” she said with a sigh.

  “Yes. It’ll be good to go home for a while.”