The Altman Code Read online

  “Could it be one of Beijing’s tricks? Maybe a way to make the president back off about the human-rights accord?”

  “The old prisoner insists Beijing doesn’t even know he’s got a son, much less that the son’s now the U.S. president.”

  Smith’s mind raced as he calculated ages and years. It was numerically possible. “Exactly where is this old man being—”

  “Down!” Mondragon dropped flat to the sand.

  Heart racing, Smith dove behind a coral outcrop as shouts in angry Chinese and a fusillade of automatic fire hammered from their right, close to the sea. Mondragon rolled behind the outcropping and came up in a crouch beside Smith, his 9mm Glock joining Smith’s Beretta, aiming into the dark of the cove, searching for the enemy.

  “Well,” Mondragon said gloomily, “I guess I didn’t shake them.”

  Smith wasted no time on recriminations. “Where are they? You see anything?”

  “Not a damn thing.”

  Smith pulled night-vision goggles from inside his windbreaker. Through them, the night turned pale green, and the murky coral formations out in the sea grew clear. So did a short, skinny man naked to the waist, hovering near one of the statuelike pillars. He was knee-deep in water, holding an old AK-74 and staring toward where Smith and Mondragon hunched.

  “I’ve got one,” he said softly to Mondragon. “Move. Show a shoulder. Look like you’re coming out.”

  Mondragon rose, bent. He thrust his left shoulder out as if about to make a run for it. The skinny man behind the pillar opened fire.

  Smith squeezed off two careful rounds. In the green light, the man jerked upright and pitched onto his face. A dark stain spread around him as he floated facedown in the sea.

  Mondragon was already back down. He fired. Someone, somewhere in the night, screamed.

  “Over there!” Mondragon barked. “To the right! There’s more!”

  Smith swung the Beretta right. Four green men had broken cover and dashed away from the sea toward the inland road. A fifth lay sprawled on the beach behind them. Smith fired at the lead man of this outflanking group. He saw him clutch his leg and go down, but the two behind him grabbed him by each arm and dragged him onward into cover.

  “They’re flanking us!” Sweat broke on Smith’s forehead. “Move back!”

  He and Mondragon leaped up and pounded across the coral sand toward the ridge that sealed the cove in the south. Another fusillade behind them said a lot more than three of their attackers were still standing. With a jolt of adrenaline, Smith felt a bullet sear through his windbreaker. He scrambled up the ridge into thick bushes and fell behind a tree.

  Mondragon followed, but he was dragging his right leg. He flopped behind another tree.

  A fresh fusillade ripped through leaves and small branches, spraying the air and making Smith and Mondragon choke with the dust. They kept their heads down. Mondragon pulled a knife from a holster on his back, slit his trousers, and examined his leg wound.

  “How bad is it?” Smith whispered.

  “Don’t think the bullet hit anything serious, but it’s going to be hard to explain back on the mainland. I’ll have to hide out ‘on vacation,’ or fake an accident.” His smile was pained. “Right now, we’ve got more to worry about. That small group’s on our flank by now, probably up on the road, and the gang in the cove is going to drive us to them. We’ve got to keep moving south.”

  Agreeing, Smith crawled ahead through the brush, forged hard and tough under the sea-bent trees by the constant wind and spray of the South China Sea. They made slow progress, Smith clearing a path for Mondragon. They used only their feet, knees, and elbows, as they cradled their pistols. The bushes gave reluctantly, the branches tearing at their clothes and hair. Smaller twigs broke and scratched their faces, drawing blood from forearms and ears.

  At last they reached the high bank above another less-sheltered angle in the island’s coastline. It was far too open to the sea to be called a cove. As they crawled eagerly on toward the road, voices carried in the windless night from there. Behind them, four silent shadows materialized ashore, while two remained ankle deep in the sea. One of the shadows, larger than the rest, motioned the others to spread out. Bathed in gentle moonlight, they broke apart and emerged as four men dressed completely in black, their heads covered by hoods.

  The man who had ordered them to fan out bent over. Smith heard a whispery version of a deep, harsh voice give instructions over what was probably a handheld radio.

  “Chinese,” Mondragon analyzed quietly, listening. His tones were tight. He was in pain. “Can’t make out all of the words, but it sounds like the Shanghai dialect of Mandarin. Which means they probably did follow me from Shanghai. He’s their leader.”

  “You think someone tipped them?”

  “Possibly. Or I could’ve made a mistake. Or I could’ve been under surveillance for days. Weeks. No way to know. Whatever, they’re here, and they’re closing in.”

  Smith studied Mondragon, who seemed to be as tough as the ocean-forged brush. He was in pain, but he would not let it stop him.

  “We could play the odds,” Smith told him. “Head on for the road. Are you up for that? Otherwise, we’ll make a stand here.”

  “Are you crazy? They’ll massacre us here.”

  They crawled deeper into the brush and trees, away from the sea. They had gone a slow twenty more feet, when footsteps approached from the rear, grinding through the undergrowth. Simultaneously, they saw the shadows of the inland group pushing toward them and the sea. Their pursuers had guessed what they would do and were closing in from front and back.

  Smith swore. “They’ve heard us, or found our trail. Keep moving. When the ones from the road get close, I’ll rush them.”

  “Maybe not,” Mondragon whispered back, hope in his voice. “There’s a rock formation over there to the left that looks like good cover. We can hide in there until they pass. If not, we might be able to hold out until someone hears the shooting and shows up.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Smith agreed.

  The rock formation rose out of the brush in the moonlight like an ancient ruin in the jungles of Cambodia or the Yucatan. Composed of odd-shaped coral groupings, it made a crude kind of fort, with cover on all sides and openings to fire through, if that was what they had to do in the end. It also contained a depression in the center, where they could sink low, nearly out of sight.

  With relief, they hunkered in the basin, their weapons ready, as they listened to the sounds of the island in the silvery moonlight. Smith’s scratches and small puncture wounds stung with sweat. Mondragon eased his leg around, trying to find a position that was less painful. Their tension was electric as they waited, watching, listening . . . Kaohsiung’s lights glowed against the sky. Somewhere a dog barked, and another took it up. A car passed on the distant road. Out on the sea, the noise of the motor of a late-returning boat growled.

  Then they heard voices, again murmuring in the Shanghai dialect. The voices came closer. Closer. Feet crackled against the tough brush. Shadows passed, broken up by the brush. Someone stopped.

  Mondragon raised his Glock.

  Smith grabbed his wrist to stop him. He shook his head—don’t.

  The shadow was a large man. He had removed his hood, and his face was colorless, almost bleached looking, under a shock of oddly pale red hair. His eyes reflected like mirrors as they searched the coral formation for any shape or movement. Smith and Mondragon held their breaths in the depression inside the rocks.

  For a long moment, the man continued his slow surveillance.

  Smith felt the sweat trickling down his back and chest.

  The man turned and moved away toward the road.

  “Whewwww.” Mondragon let out a soft breath. “That was—”

  The night exploded around them. Bullets slammed into coral and whined away into the trees. Rock chips showered down in a violent hail. The entire dark seemed to be firing at them, muzzle flashes coming from all sid
es. The large, redheaded man had seen them but had made no move until he had alerted the others.

  Smith and Mondragon returned fire, searching frantically among the moonlit shadows of the brush and trees for a visible enemy. Their cover had now become a disadvantage. There were only two of them. Not enough in the darkness to beat off at least seven, possibly more. Their ammunition would soon run low.

  Smith leaned close to Mondragon’s ear. “We’ll have to make a break for it. Head for the road. My motorcycle’s not far away. It can carry both of us.”

  “There’s less fire coming from the front. Let’s pin them down and break that way. Don’t worry about me. I can do it!”

  Smith nodded. He would have said the same thing. Right now, with adrenaline pumping through them like lava, either of them could run from here to the moon, if they had to.

  On a count of three, they opened fire and rushed out of the rocks toward the road, running low while still moving fast, dodging brush and trees. Moments later, they were through the circle of attackers. At last the gunfire was from behind, and the road was close ahead.

  Mondragon gave a grunt, stumbled, and went down, ripping through the tangled vegetation as he fell. Smith instantly grabbed his arm to help him up, but the agent did not respond. The arm was without energy, lifeless.

  “Avery?”

  There was no answer.

  Smith fell to his haunches beside the downed agent and found hot blood on the back of his head. Instantly, he felt for a pulse in his neck. None. He inhaled, swore, and searched Mondragon’s pockets for the envelope. At the same time, he heard the killers approach, trying to be quiet in the heavy undergrowth.

  The envelope was missing. Frantically he checked every pocket again, taking whatever he found. He felt around Mondragon’s body, but the envelope was gone. Definitely gone. And there was no more time.

  Cursing inwardly, he sprinted away.

  Clouds had built over the South China Sea and drifted across the moon, turning the night pitch-black as he reached the road. The deep cover of darkness was a rare stroke of good luck. Relieved, but furious about Mondragon’s death, he ran across and dropped into the cover of the low ditch that bordered the two-lane road.

  Panting, he aimed both Mondragon’s Glock and his Beretta back at the trees. And waited, thinking . . . The envelope had been in an inside pocket. Mondragon had gone down at least twice that Smith had seen. The envelope could have fallen out then, or perhaps when they were crawling through the brush, or even when they were running, their jackets flapping.

  Frustrated and deeply worried, his grip tightened on the two weapons.

  After a few minutes, a single figure emerged warily at the road’s edge, looked right and left, and started across, his old AK-74 ready. Smith raised the Beretta. The motion attracted the killer’s attention. He opened fire blindly. Smith dropped the Glock, aimed the Beretta, and shot twice in rapid succession.

  The man slammed forward onto his face and lay still. Smith grabbed the Glock again and opened a withering, sweeping fire with both weapons. Shouts and screams sounded from the far side of the road.

  As they echoed in his mind, he leaped out of the ditch and tore away through the trees toward the center of the island. His feet pounded and his lungs ached. Sweat poured off him. He did not know how far he ran, or for how long, but he became aware that there were no sounds of pursuit. No trampling of brush. No running feet. No gunshots.

  He crouched in the cover of a tree for a full five minutes. It seemed like five hours. His pulse pounded in his ears. Had they given up? He and poor Mondragon had killed at least three, wounded two more, and perhaps had shot others.

  But little of that was important right now. If the killers had quit their pursuit, it meant only one thing—they had what they had come for. They had found the secret invoice manifest of The Dowager Empress.

  Chapter

  Three

  Washington, D.C.

  Golden sunlight drenched the Rose Garden and made warm rectangles on the floor of the Oval Office, but somehow it seemed menacing this morning, President Castilla thought as Charles Ouray, White House chief of staff, stepped inside the door.

  Ouray looked as unhappy as he felt, the president decided. “Sit down, Charlie. What’s up?”

  “I’m not so sure you want to hear, Mr. President.” He sat on the sofa.

  “No luck with the leaks?”

  “Zero,” Ouray said, shaking his head. “Leaks of such extent and accuracy over an entire year should be traceable, but the secret service, FBI, CIA, and NSA can’t find a thing. They’ve investigated everyone in the West Wing from the mail room to the whole senior staff, including me. The good news is they guarantee the leaks aren’t coming from any of us. In fact, the entire White House roster down to cleaning crews and gardeners is clear.”

  The president tented his hands and scowled at his fingers. “Very well, what does that leave?”

  Ouray looked wary. “Leave, sir?”

  “Who’s left, Charlie? Who haven’t they investigated who could’ve had access to the information that’s been leaked? The plans . . . the policy decisions. They were high-level.”

  “Yes, sir. But I’m not sure what you mean by who’s left? No one, I can—”

  “Have they investigated me, Charlie?”

  Ouray laughed uneasily. “Of course not, Mr. President.”

  “Why not? I certainly had entree, unless there were leaks I didn’t hear about.”

  “There weren’t, sir. But suspecting you is ridiculous on the face of it.”

  “That’s what they said about Nixon before they found the tapes.”

  “Sir—”

  “I know, you think I’m the one harmed most. That’s not true. It’s the American people, but I think you get my point now.”

  Ouray said nothing.

  “Look higher, Charlie, and look around. The cabinet. The vice president, who doesn’t always agree with me. The joint chiefs, the Pentagon, influential lobbyists we sometimes talk to. No one is above suspicion.”

  Ouray leaned forward. “You really think it could be someone that high, Sam?”

  “Absolutely. Whoever it is, he—or she—is killing us. Not so much the information . . . the press, and even our enemies, knowing our plans before we revealed them . . . that’s been simply embarrassing so far. No, the worst damage is to our confidence in each other and to the potential threat to national security. Right now, I can’t rely on any of our people with something really sensitive, not even you.”

  Ouray nodded. “I know, Sam. But you can trust me now.” He smiled, but it was not a humorous smile. “I’ve been cleared. Unless you can’t trust the FBI, CIA, NSA, or secret service.”

  “See? In the back of our minds we’re beginning to doubt even them.”

  “I guess we are. What about the Pentagon? A lot of the leaks involve military decisions.”

  “Policy decisions, not military. Long-range strategy.”

  Ouray shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ve got a foreign mole somewhere, so deep the security people can’t find him. Maybe we tell them to dig deeper? Look for a professional spy hidden behind one of us?”

  “All right, tell them to pursue that angle. But I don’t think it’s a spy, foreign or domestic. This deep throat isn’t interested in stealing secrets—he’s interested in changing the public debate. Influencing our decisions. Someone who secures an advantage, if our policy changes.”

  “Yeah,” Ouray agreed uneasily.

  The president returned to the papers on his desk. “Find the leaker, Charlie. I need answers before this situation paralyzes me.”

  Thursday, September 14

  Kaohsiung, Taiwan

  The windows of Jon Smith’s room on the twentieth floor of the Grand Hi-Lai Hotel displayed a breathtaking panorama of Kaohsiung’s sparkling night, from the horizon-to-horizon lights up to the black, star-studded sky. Tonight, Smith had no interest in it.

  Safely back in his room, for
the third time he read through everything in Mondragon’s wallet and notebook. He had hoped there would be some clue to how the murdered Covert-One agent had secured the manifest. The only unexplained item was a crumpled cocktail-sized napkin from a Starbucks coffee shop with a name scrawled on it in ink—Zhao Yanji.

  His cell phone buzzed. It was Fred Klein returning his call.

  Klein’s greeting was a question: “You delivered the article to the airport?”

  “No,” Smith told him. “I have bad news. Mondragon was killed.” The silence at the other end was like a sigh.

  “I’m sorry. I worked with him a long time. He was a fine agent, and I’ll miss him. I’ll contact his parents. They’ll be shocked. Distraught.”

  Smith breathed deeply. Once. Twice. “Sorry, Fred. This must be hard on you.”

  “Tell me what happened, Jon.”

  Smith told him about the envelope, the attack, and Mondragon’s death. “The killers were Chinese, from Shanghai. The invoice manifest must’ve been the real thing. I have a lead, but it’s remote.” He told Klein about the Starbucks napkin.

  “You’re sure the napkin’s from Shanghai?”

  “Was Mondragon anywhere but Shanghai in the last few months?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Then it’s a possibility, and it’s all I have anyway.”

  “Can you get to Shanghai?”

  “I think so. There’s a scientist at the conference here, Dr. Liang, whom I think I can convince to take me to his facility there for a tour.” He explained about the Chinese microbiologist buttonholing him. “There are three problems. I don’t know a damn word of Chinese, and I don’t have a clue where the Starbucks coffee shops are there. Then there’s my Beretta. I have no way to slip it into China.”

  “I’ll have the Starbucks information faxed to Taipei. I’ll have an interpreter waiting for you in Shanghai, and he’ll bring you a weapon. Recognition words: ‘double latte.’ ”

  “One more thing.” Smith told him about the old man in the Chinese prison farm who claimed his name was David Thayer. He repeated the details Mondragon had passed on.