The Altman Code Page 7

  Beijing

  Night was one of Beijing’s best times, when the slow transformation from terrible pollution and gray socialist lifestyles to unleaded fuels and cutting-edge fun was apparent in pockets of vibrant nightlife under a starry sky that was once impenetrable through city smog. Karaoke and solemn band music were out. Discos, pubs, clubs, and restaurants with live music and fine food were in. Beijing was still firmly Communist, but seductive capitalism was having its way. The city was shrugging off its dreariness and growing affluent.

  Still, Beijing was not yet the economic paradise the Politburo advertised. In fact, ordinary citizens were losing their fight against gentrification and being forced out of the city, because they could no longer afford the cost of living. It was the dark side of the new day. This mattered to the Owl, if not to some of the others on the Standing Committee. He had studied Yeltsin’s failure to stop Russia’s greedy oligarchs and the near-destruction of the Russian economy that resulted. China needed a more measured approach to its restructuring.

  But first, the Owl had the human-rights treaty with the United States to protect. It was critical to his plans for a democratic, socially conscious China.

  Tonight was a special meeting of the nine-member Standing Committee. From under his half-closed eyes, he studied the faces of his eight colleagues at the ancient imperial table in the Zhongnanhai meeting room. Which man should concern him? In the party and, therefore, in the government, a rumor was not merely a rumor—it was a call for support. Which meant one of the solemn older men or the smiling younger ones was reassessing his position on the human-rights agreement, even as Niu waited to make his report.

  Half blind behind his thick glasses, their leader—the august general secretary—was unlikely to resort to spreading a rumor, Niu decided. No one would oppose him openly. Not this year. And where he went, his acolyte from their days in Shanghai would always follow. That one had the face of an executioner and was too old and too committed to his boss to ever be secretary himself. He had no reason to bother with fighting the treaty.

  The four beaming younger men were possibilities. Each was assembling backers to strengthen his power base, but at the same time all were modern men and, as such, strong proponents of good relations with the West. Since the treaty was important to the current U.S. president, persuading them to reverse their support would be difficult.

  That left two potentials, one of which was Shi Jingnu, with the fat, grinning face of the silk merchant’s clerk he once was. To paraphrase Shakespeare, he smiled and smiled but was a villain. The second possibility was bald, narrow-eyed, never-smiling Wei Gaofan, who as a young soldier had once met the incomparable Chu Teh and never moved beyond that moment.

  The Owl nodded to himself inside his own sleepy smile. One of those two. They were old guard, fighting to maintain power as the specter of irrelevance breathed chills down the backs of their ancient, wrinkled necks.

  “Jianxing, you have not commented on Shi Jingnu’s report?” The general secretary smiled to show he knew the Owl was not sleeping.

  “I have no comment,” the Owl—Niu Jianxing—said.

  “Then do you have a security report to make?”

  “One matter came up today, Chairman,” Niu said. “Dr. Liang Tianning, the director of the Shanghai Biomedical Research Institute, invited an eminent American microbiologist, Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, M.D., to visit his institute and speak to his researchers. He—”

  Wei Gaofan interrupted, “When did the Americans begin to give military rank to scientists? Is this another example of the warmongering of—”

  “The Colonel,” Niu snapped back, “is a medical doctor and works at the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, a world-renowned Level Four installation similar to our biomedical establishments in Beijing and Shanghai.”

  The general secretary supported the Owl: “I know Dr. Liang well from my time in Shanghai. We can trust his judgment concerning whom his researchers need to hear.”

  “Actually,” Niu continued, “Dr. Liang has some doubts about the American.” He went on to repeat what General Chu Kuairong had told him. “I tend to agree with Major Pan’s first assessment of the matter. Dr. Liang is something of an old rag man, always jumping at shadows.”

  “You take a possible American spy very lightly, Niu,” Shi Jingnu criticized, his gaze flicking from one colleague to the other to gauge their reactions.

  “The key word here is ‘possible,’ ” Niu answered, ignoring Shi and addressing the room in general. “We shouldn’t have quite as much faith in Major Pan’s ‘feeling’ as our Public Security Bureau chief does. It’s his—and Pan’s—job to jump at shadows. It’s not our job.”

  “So what did you decide?” the secretary’s disciple wanted to know.

  “I have instructed General Chu to have Major Pan keep a close eye on Colonel Smith. I’ve not authorized them to arrest and interrogate him. First they must present me with concrete evidence of sufficient gravity. These are sensitive times, and at the moment we have an American government disposed toward peace and cooperation.”

  He did not mention the Public Security agent who had gone missing in Shanghai. So far, there was nothing to tell, and he wanted to add no support to whoever was vacillating over the human-rights accord.

  There were nods of general agreement, even from Shi Jingnu and Wei Gaofan, which told him whoever was considering opposing the treaty at this late date was not yet ready to commit himself openly.

  Wei, however, could not resist a final word of caution. His narrow eyes were slits as he said, “We must not appear too eager to cooperate with the Americans. Remember, shadows can be dangerous.”

  Chapter

  Six

  Shanghai

  Twilight had deepened into night. In an expensive Shanghai suburb, Yu Yongfu paced across his study, gazing out through his French doors at the garden. The scent of freshly cut grass floated in. Floodlights illuminated the specimen plants and trees, sometimes from above, sometimes from beneath, seeking perfect harmony. This English garden was a replica of one created for a British tea tycoon in the early twentieth century, whose mansion was demolished long ago. Yu had bought the plans and enjoyed showing the renowned landscape to his Western guests.

  But tonight, it gave him little solace. He checked his Rolex every few minutes.

  A tycoon at just thirty-four years, Yu looked even younger. Trim and athletic, he worked out daily in an exclusive health club near his trade and shipping company—Flying Dragon Enterprises. He watched his weight as closely as he watched the international stock, currency, and commodity markets, and he dressed in slim Italian suits custom-made in Rome. His regimental ties and ankle-high dress boots were handmade in England, his shirts in Paris, and his underwear and pajamas in Dublin. He had risen to this rarified affluence in the last seven years. But then, this was a new China . . . a brash, self-indulgent China . . . a very American-century China . . . and Yu considered his attitudes, business methods, and ambitions all American.

  This had given him little comfort when his man, Feng Dun, called yesterday to tell him about agent Mondragon and the missing invoice manifest. The Dowager Empress venture had been risky, he had known that, but the profit involved was stratospheric, plus there would be enormous guanxi, because the cargo was connected to the illustrious Wei Gaofan himself, a longtime powerful member of the Standing Committee.

  But now, something was very wrong. Where was that blasted Feng? Where was the manifest? The death of ten thousand cuts to the one who had given it to the American!

  “Are you all right, husband?”

  Yu whirled to snap at his interfering wife and stopped. That was not the kind of wife Kuonyi was or ever would be. Theirs was a modern marriage, a Western marriage.

  He managed to control his voice. “It’s that damnable Feng. He should’ve been back from Taiwan by now.”

  “The invoice manifest?”

  Yu nodded.

  �
�He’ll get it, Yongfu.”

  Yu resumed pacing, shaking his head. “How can you be so sure?”

  “That one could bring the devil back from hell. He’s invaluable, but he’s also dangerous. You must never trust him.”

  “I can handle Feng.”

  His wife stopped her response, and Yu froze in his pacing. A large vehicle had driven into their walled courtyard.

  “It’s him,” he told her.

  “I’ll wait upstairs.”

  “Yes.”

  In China, despite the law of the Party that proclaimed women fully equal to men, to treat one’s wife like a partner was considered weak. Yu forced himself to sit behind his desk. He assumed a composed mask as he heard the maid open the front door.

  Measured steps crossed the hardwood floor, coming toward his study, and a large man appeared in the open doorway as suddenly as if he had materialized there. Unusually light skinned, he had close-cropped hair that was ashy red mixed with stark white. He was tall—perhaps three inches over six feet—and powerfully built, but he was hardly heavy—a muscled two hundred pounds or so. He dwarfed Yu Yongfu, who scowled up at him.

  Yu made his voice harsh, as befitted an important employer. “You have it?”

  Feng Dun smiled. A small smile, nothing more, as if pasted on the face of a wood marionette. He padded across the study to a leather armchair and sat with hardly a sound.

  His voice was low and whispery. “I have it . . . boss.”

  Yu could not suppress a sigh of relief. Then he held out his hand and made his voice stern. “Give it to me.”

  Feng leaned forward and handed him the envelope. Yu ripped it open and scanned the contents.

  Feng noted the hands trembled. “It’s the real manifest,” Feng assured him. His light brown eyes were almost colorless, giving them the appearance of emptiness. They darkened and focused on Yu’s face. It was a stare few had been able to meet.

  Yu was not among them. He quickly looked away. “I’ll lock it in my safe upstairs. Fine work, Feng. There’ll be a bonus in it for you.” He stood.

  Feng stood, too. He was in his late forties, once a soldier and career officer who had started as an “observer” in the American war against North Vietnam and the late Soviet Union. He gave it up when he realized there was far greater profit in the profession of mercenary in the would-be armies of the restless Central Asian republics, particularly as the Soviets collapsed. He considered himself a good judge of men and situations, and he was under-whelmed by what he saw in Yu Yongfu.

  As they walked through the study’s doorway, Feng said, “I suggest you burn the manifest. That way, no one else can steal it. It’s not over, boss.”

  Yu jerked back as if pulled on a leash. “What do you mean?”

  “Perhaps you should hear what happened on Taiwan.”

  Where he stood, one foot out of the room like a confidence man poised to make a clean getaway, Yu hesitated. “Tell me.”

  “We killed the American agent, and we retrieved the manifest . . .”

  Yu wanted to scream with frustration. Why was this not finished? What the hell did Feng mean? “I know that! If that’s all—”

  “—but Mondragon wasn’t alone. There was another man on the beach. A well-trained man, clever and skilled. Almost certainly another American spy sent to ferry the information to Washington while Mondragon returned to his cover in Shanghai. The beach was merely a transfer point. There is no other logical explanation for the presence of the second man, since he had the training and skill to escape us.”

  Yu fought panic. What was so bad about that? The Americans had failed; the manifest was now safely in his pocket. “But he failed, we have the manifest. What—”

  “The man’s in Shanghai now.” Feng watched every move the entrepreneur made, every twitch of a muscle. “I doubt he’s here for a holiday.”

  A sour taste rose into Yu’s throat. “Here? How could such a thing happen? You let him follow you back? How could you be so stupid?” He heard his voice rise like that of a hysteric. Instantly, he stopped his tirade.

  “He couldn’t have followed us. Mondragon must have given him some other information, or he found some on Mondragon’s corpse. One of those two brought him here.”

  Yu struggled to regain control. “But how did he get into the country?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? It appears he’s actually a well-known microbiologist and medical doctor, who also happens to be a soldier. Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, M.D., a biomedical researcher. What he does not appear to be is an operative with any known U.S. agency. Yet he was the one who met Mondragon on the beach. And then he invited himself into our country.”

  “Invited himself?”

  “On Taiwan, our eminent Dr. Liang Tianning expressed interest in meeting with him. Smith put him off. Then this morning, Smith changed his mind. He hinted strongly to Dr. Liang that he would honor us by addressing our microbiological research institute here in Shanghai immediately. But once here, he pleaded fatigue. He wanted to remain alone in his hotel. Dr. Liang was surprised and a little suspicious. Of course, he informed Zhongnanhai. Zhongnanhai now has him under surveillance.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Knowing such things is why you pay me so well.”

  It was true. Feng’s guanxi sometimes appeared to be greater than Yu’s own, and it could make him impudent. He constantly needed to be reminded who was boss. “I pay you to do your job, nothing more. Why is this American still alive?”

  “He’s not easy to approach, and we must be careful. As I said, Zhongnanhai is watching.”

  Yu tasted bile in his throat. “Yes, yes, of course. But he must be killed. Killed quickly. Have you discovered who gave Mondragon the invoice manifest?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Find him. And when you do, kill him, too.”

  Feng smiled. “Of course, boss.”

  In the dim light of the Flying Dragon office, Smith saw the short, heavy man stare at the file folder still open on the filing cabinet. The man’s gun wavered as his gaze swept to the exposed safe on the wall above the cabinet. He had not asked, What are you doing? or What’s going on here? He had demanded only, Who are you? He knew why Smith was in the office headquarters of Yu Yongfu, president and chairman.

  Smith said, “You must be Zhao Yanji. It was you who gave Avery Mondragon the Empress’s real manifest.”

  The muzzle of the Sig Sauer began to shake. “How—?”

  “Mondragon told me. They killed him before he could pass it to me.”

  “Who has it now?”

  “They do.”

  Zhao Yanji grabbed the shaking pistol with both fleshy hands to try to steady it. “How . . . how do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “Because I know about Mondragon, I know your name, and I’m here looking for the manifest myself.”

  Zhao blinked, the Sig Sauer dropped to his side, and he sank cross-legged to the floor, head in his hands. “I am a dead man.”

  Smith picked the Sig Sauer from his fingers. He transferred his Beretta to his jacket pocket, shoved the Sig Sauer into his belt, and looked down at Zhao. Zhao sat with the back of his neck exposed, as if waiting for the slice of an executioner’s axe.

  Smith asked, “They can trace the manifest back to you?”

  The head nodded. “Not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But eventually. Feng is a sorcerer. He can see behind any screen.”

  “Who’s Feng?”

  “Feng Dun. Yu Yongfu’s security chief.”

  Smith frowned, wondering. . . . “What does he look like?”

  Zhao described his height and strength, the red-and-white hair, and the viciousness that was hidden behind the calm exterior. “You’ve seen him?”

  “I have.” Smith nodded, not surprised. At last, he had a name for him. “Start at the beginning. Why did you do it?”

  Zhao looked up, suddenly angry, his terror forgotten. “Yu Yongfu is greedy, a pig! He is why I gave the mani
fest to Mondragon! The honored grandfather of my friend Bei Ruitiao founded Flying Dragon Enterprises while the English and Americans were still among us. We were an honorable company. . . . We . . .”

  As Smith listened to the harangue, he pieced together a story that was all too common in the new People’s Republic: Flying Dragon had been a relatively small, conservative company, primarily ferrying cargo up and down the Yangtze and along the coast as far as Hainan Island. Bei Ruitiao was president until Yu Yongfu, using muscle, connections in the Party, and Belgian financing, grabbed the company in a Mafia-like takeover. Yu made himself president and chairman and, with the help of the Belgian shipping firm, expanded into international transport. The entire time, he skated on the edge of both Chinese and international law.

  Zhao’s voice shook with emotion. “My friend Ruitiao is ruined because of Yu. I gave the manifest to Mondragon to expose Yu and ruin him in return!” All his bravado vanished as quickly as it erupted. “But I have failed. I am a dead man.”

  “How did you manage to steal it?”

  He nodded to the exposed safe above the file cabinet. “It was in a secret file in Yu’s safe. I am the treasurer of Flying Dragon. I pretended to welcome Yu, and he made the mistake of retaining me. One day he forgot he had taken the file from the safe, and I found it. I returned it to the safe after I took the manifest. At the time, he did not remember he had left it out. But he will remember now. The manifest had to come from somewhere.” His body slumped more, beaten.

  “Where do you the think the manifest is? In the safe here again?”

  Zhao shook his head. “No. Yu would be too afraid to leave it here now. It must be with him at home. He has a safe there, too.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Far beyond Hongqiao Airport. An obscene mansion that would have shamed an official of the Yuan Dynasty.” He related an address that meant nothing to Smith, but Andy would be able to find it.

  “Mondragon said there were three copies?”