Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (11 page)

“As has long been written.”

Li fell silent again.

Yu waited. The old man had something on his mind, perhaps an important
position for Yu that might be seen as favoring his own family too much.

He needed to be sure Yu was equal to the task. Yu wanted good news
tonight. His problems with the Empress were draining him.

At last, Yu echoed, “A man must never bring disrepute to his family.”

“Disrepute?” The older man lifted his head and repeated the word in a
tone almost of wonder. “You have a wife and two children.”

“I’ve been blessed, and they are my soul.” Yu smiled.

“I have a daughter and two grandchildren.”

Yu blinked. What had happened? What was he supposed to say to that? His
mouth turned dry as the deserts of Xinjiang, because something had
changed in the room. Fear riveted him. He was no longer looking into the
eyes of the indulgent grandfather of his son and daughter. Instead, this
was the flinty, unrelenting gaze of an official of the Shanghai Special
Administrative Zone, a politician who was owned by the immensely
powerful Wei Gaofan.

“You’ve made an irredeemable mistake,” Li told him in an emotionless
voice. His large, fat-encrusted face was as still as a waiting snake’s.

“The theft of the true manifest to The Dowager Empress puts us in grave
jeopardy. All of us.”

Yu felt himself dissolve in fear. “A mistake that’s been corrected. No
harm has resulted. The manifest is locked in my safe upstairs. There is
no–”

“The Americans know what the Empress carries. An American spy is
sniffing around Shanghai because of it. He cannot be disposed of without
many questions being asked. You have imperiled me, and–worse–you have
imperiled Wei Gaofan. What was secret is no longer secret, and what is
no longer secret can come to the ears of Wei Gaofan’s enemies on the
Central Committee, the Politburo, even on the Standing Committee
itself.”

“Feng will dispose of this American!”

“What comes to the ears of the Politburo will be investigated. You’ll be
investigated.”

Yu Yongfu was desperate. “They’ll learn nothing–”

“They’ll learn everything. It isn’t in you to resist, son-in-law.” Li’s
tone softened. “It’s sad, but it’s true. You’ll reveal everything, and
if you live, you’ll be ruined. Which means the ruin of all of us. All of
the Yu’s. All of the Li’s.”

“No!” Yu Yongfu shuddered. His stomach was a fist. He could hardly
breathe. “I’ll go away. Yes, I’ll leave … ”

Li dismissed him with a wave. “The matter is decided.”

“But–”

“The only question now is how it is to be done. That is your choice.

Will it be prison, disgrace, and ruin for our family? Many questions
asked and answered, and the loss of the favor of Wei Gaofan for all of
us? Without the great Wei, I will go down. Your wife–my daughter–will
fall with me, and there will be no future for my other children and
their families either. Most crucial to you, there will be no future for
your children.”

Yu trembled. “But–”

“But you are right, none of that need happen. The honorable way will
save all of us. The responsibility will end with you. Without you to
speak, and no question as to the manner of your death, nothing can lead
to Wei Gaofan or myself. My position remains secure, because we will
retain Wei’s favor. Your wife and children will still have an unlimited
future.”

Yu Yongfu opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. Fear
paralyzed him as he saw his suicide.

Far to the west of downtown Shanghai, beyond the ring road expressway,
Andy cut his engine and allowed his Jetta to glide to a stop on a
tree-lined suburban street. There were no streetlights. The houses were
mostly dark this late hour. Nothing moved in the blue-steel moonlight.

In the passenger seat, Smith checked his watch. It was after nine
o’clock. Before he had rendezvoused with Andy, he left a message on Dr.
Liang’s answering machine that he was indisposed and unable to join him
and his colleagues for dinner. He hoped that would cover his activities
tonight.

Now he had something far more crucial to worry about. He listened
intently. He heard nothing except the faint noise of traffic back on the
ring. Something was wrong about this street of affluent homes. He gazed
around, trying to understand … then he saw what it was, and inwardly
laughed at himself. He had lived in the Eastern Seaboard corridor so
long he had become culture bound. The answer was, no cars were parked at
the curbs.

“That’s the address over there.” Andy pointed across the street. “Yu
Yongfu’s mansion.”

Smith saw no numbers. “How the hell do you know?”

Andy grinned. “In Shanghai, you just know.”

Smith grunted. There was a high, solid wall right on the edge of the
dark street, occupying the entire block. Through the barred metal gate,
he could make out an impressive compound in the courtyard style of the
long-ago estates of rich landowners. Deep inside, the mansion was barely
visible. Unlike anything he had seen in this Asian metropolis, Yu’s
estate seemed to come straight from the last imperial dynasty.

Smith grabbed his night-vision binoculars and focused on the distant
manse and had a shock. It looked American, as if it had been built
around 1900. It was big, rambling, and airy. So far, the perimeter wall
was the only trace of old China.

He handed the binoculars to Andy, who was as surprised as Smith. “It’s
like one of those big houses the opium taipans had back in the eighteen
hundreds. You know, in the British, American, and French Concessions?

Those were the dudes who ran the trading companies, built the Bund, and
made millions swapping Indian opium for Chinese tea and silk.”

“That’s the impression Yu probably intended,” Smith guessed. “Judging
from what I saw at his office, and what you’ve told me, the man thinks
of himself as a modern taipan.” Smith continued to study the silent
estate. There was no light in the house, no movement, and no sign of
security guards on the grounds. That also surprised him. While the
Communist government would certainly not permit elaborate private
electronic security that could keep their police out, manpower here was
both cheap and plentiful.

“Okay, Andy, I’m going in. Give me two hours. If I’m not back, get out
of here. Better give me my suit in case we get separated.”

Andy handed him the suit in a tightly rolled bundle tied by his belt.

“What if someone comes before two hours?”

“Leave fast. Try not to let them see you. Hide the car then slip back on
foot and hunker down out of sight. But don’t wait longer than the two
hours. If I’m not back by then, I’m probably not coming back. Notify
your contact and tell him about Flying Dragon and Yu Yongfu.”

“Jesus, don’t scare me any more than I am. Anyway, my contact’s not a
him. She’s a her.”

“Then tell her.”

Andy An swallowed and nodded. Smith climbed out of the car and pulled on
his backpack. Inside were his tools. In his black work clothes, he
trotted through the darkness toward the compound as traffic hummed far
away, reminding him again how quiet this neighborhood was.

At a corner of the wall far from the Yu mansion, a tree with thick
branches hung over the side. The municipal government would not trim or
cut down trees for the safety of a private tycoon, anymore than they
would permit electronic security. Smith grabbed the branch and pulled
himself up the wall. At the top, he paused. Blooming jasmine perfumed
the air. He had a sense he was on the edge of a forest, so dense were
the trees and underbrush. He dropped over into dry leaves. They crunched
under his feet. Crouching, he waited motionless, hoping no one had heard
him.

There was still no sign of security. It made him uneasy. A man of the
ambition and ostentation of Yu would have some sort of protection. Most
likely, a phalanx of personal guards.

He trotted toward the house and soon came out of the trees into a garden
that brought him up as short as the house and the forest had. It was an
elaborate, nineteenth-century English garden with narrow paths winding
among rosebushes and immaculate flower beds, elaborate topiary, quaint
benches, a gazebo, and even a lawn for croquet and bowling. There was
the scent of freshly cut grass. He could imagine a homesick British tea
tycoon finding solace here.

The garden gave less cover in the ghostly moonlight, but the grotesque
shadows cast by the topiary would serve well enough. Moving swiftly, he
was soon inside a stand of trees near the house. He circled, discovered
a six-car garage at the side that contained only two cars–a large,
black Mercedes sedan and a silver Jaguar XJR. He could see no light in
the house or an open window.

He worked his way around to the front again. The ornately carved
entrance door was mostly in shadow. The brass knocker was oversized and
silvered by the moonlight. He studied the door. It was not set back
inside a recess, so the moonlight shined directly on it. Moonlight
distorted perspective, and depth perception became difficult. The door
should not be shadowed at all. Where did the shadow that seemed to cover
a quarter of the door come from?

The answer was, there was no shadow. The door was a quarter open, and
what appeared to be a shadow was the house’s dark interior.

A trap? People had been watching and following him, but he had taken a
multitude of precautions driving here. To all appearances, the estate
was deserted. Still, there was the possibility he had missed something
or someone.

He drew his Beretta, circled left, and worked his way back to the front
door. He listened once more.

Everything was still, silent. Beretta in both hands, he inched the door
farther open with the toe of his athletic shoe. The door was well oiled
and swung soundlessly. Where were the servants who should be tending
this post? He let the door open fully. A broad foyer of polished wood,
floor to ceiling, came into view, illuminated by a wash of
pewter-colored moonlight through the door and windows. An elegant,
winding staircase led up at the rear.

He stepped inside, his soft-soled shoes making little sound. He paused
to peer into the room to his left. It was a Victorian-style dining room,
but everything in it was Chinese, from the carved-wood dinner table to
the screens that hid various corners.

He padded to the right. Another open archway showed a living room twice
the size of the dining room. It was dark and nearly silent. He listened,
frowning. Inside he could hear the soft sound of someone’s weeping.

Baghdad, Iraq The one commodity in Baghdad that was not in short supply
or impossible to afford was petrol. As usual, traffic at five p.m. was
congested on every major street of the ancient metropolis. Behind the
wheel of his shiny Mercedes, Dr. Hussein Kamil was thinking bitterly of
the shortages of anything that had to be imported or manufactured as he
fought the sluggish river of cars and trucks toward the commercial
center of the city. He was on a terrifying errand. His patients depended
on the life-saving medicines that came from outside Iraq. So did his
wealth, privileges, and the future of his family. His patients were
among the country’s elite, and if he failed to find the antibiotics,
tranquilizers, antidepressants, and all the other sophisticated Western
pharmaceuticals they demanded, they would go somewhere else … or
worse.

He did not know how the elegant Frenchwoman had discovered how he
obtained his contraband pharmaceuticals. But she knew every name and
place, every contact, every devious arrangement, every secret drop. If a
syllable of it were ever to come to the ears of the government or the
Republican Guard, they would kill him.

His throat dry with fear, he arrived at a soaring high-rise that had
been constructed in happier times. He parked in the garage beneath and
rode the elevator up to the headquarters of Tigris Export-Import, Ltd.,
Agricultural Chemicals. It was rumored to be one of the thousands of
companies owned through fronts by the president and his family.

Nadia, the anxious secretary, was waiting to meet him, wringing her
hands. “He just collapsed, Dr. Kamil. Without warning. One moment he
was–”

“He’s still unconscious?”

“Yes. We’re so frightened.”

She led him at a trot past the cubicles of dozens of employees preparing
in grim silence to go home for the day and into the large, quiet office
of his patient, Nasser Faidhi, CEO and chairman. The view over the city
and far out into the desert beyond the Tigris and Euphrates rivers was
imposing. He took it in with a brief glance and rushed to Faidhi, who
was lying on a leather couch, unconscious. He checked his vital signs.

Nadia whispered, “Is he going to die?”

Dr. Kamil had no idea how the Frenchwoman had created this medical
crisis, but he knew she had, since she had told him he would get the
call at precisely 4:45 p. m., and she had been right. He doubted
Faidhi’s death was in her plan, because it would provoke an official
investigation. The good news was that Faidhi’s heart beat strongly, his
pulse was steady, and his color good. He was simply unconscious. Some
kind of quick-acting but essentially harmless drug, Dr. Kamil guessed.

He told the secretary, “Not at all, but I’ll need to make some tests.”

He glanced at her. “I must undress him. You understand?”

Nadia flushed. “Of course, Doctor.”

“Thank you. And see that we’re not disturbed.”

“No one would dare.” She left the office. She would guard the door like
a fire-eating beast.

The moment he was alone with the unconscious businessman, Dr. Kamil
hurried to the wall of filing cabinets where he found the file the
Frenchwoman had described: Flying Dragon Enterprises of Shanghai. Inside
were four sheets of paper. Two were letters from the company’s Basra
office, describing negotiations with a Yu Yongfu, president of Flying
Dragon, con earning a cargo of agricultural implements, chemicals,
electronics, and other goods to be delivered to the company on a ship
named The Dowager Empress. The other two were Faidhi’s responses,
containing instructions on the handling of the arrangements by the Basra
office. There was nothing else.