Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (27 page)

Jon barely heard. “I just killed a man. He was so small, he looked like
an undernourished thirteen-year-old. If I hadn’t turned on the light, I
never would’ve guessed he was an adult. He … ”

The shock was a split second. Then: “Why? Where?”

“He was sent to murder me. Chinese. Here in the hotel.”

Klein’s shock became alarm. “The body’s still there?”

“In the bathtub. No blood on the carpet. We got lucky, didn’t we? I got
lucky. He nearly had me. Some hungry guy needed their money, whoever the
bastards behind all this are, and I got lucky, and he didn’t.”

“Calm down, Colonel,” Klein snapped. Then, almost gently, “I’m sorry,
Jon.”

Jon took a deep breath and steadied himself. For a moment, he felt
disgust for being so eager for an “adventure” to break up the monotony
of the biomed conference in Taiwan. “Okay, I’ll move the body somewhere.

They won’t find a trace here.”

As he spoke, he heard Klein’s opening words in his mind: I have two
possible candidates for your mystery man–the one who appears to be more
important to Donk & Lapierre than Charles-Marie Cruyff. One is a routine
guess, the other quite a different pot of fish.

Somewhere deep inside, he felt himself rally. A wave of rage swept
through him, and then dull acceptance. For the first time, he saw how
crucial it was to him that he believed he was working for something
good. How could anyone do this job otherwise?

He asked briskly, “Tell me about the ” candidate for Cruyff’s big
boss.” “That’d be Louis Lapierre,” Fred Klein said. “He’s the chairman
and managing director of Donk & Lapierre worldwide. He’s in Antwerp,
speaks English, but at the same time is a thoroughgoing Belgian Walloon.
His first language would certainly be French, and his second Flemish.
It’s highly unlikely he and Cruyff would converse in English.”

“Of course, in Hong Kong almost everyone speaks English. It might’ve
been because Cruyff and Lapierre didn’t want lesser mortals in Antwerp
to overhear.”

“The possibility occurred to me, too.”

“Who’s the second candidate?” Jon asked.

“That’s where it gets interesting. As it turns out, my financial and
corporate experts found a maze of fronts, subsidiaries, and offshore
companies masking who ultimately owned Donk & Lapierre itself. Finally,
they were able to discover that–big as it is–Donk & Lapierre is a
wholly owned subsidiary of a far larger entity, which turns out to be
the source of my second candidate: the Altman Group.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You probably have,” Klein assured him, “but you had no reason to pay
attention. Most people don’t. Altman employs expensive publicity people
to keep it off the front pages. However, Altman’s famous … almost
mythical … in global business circles.”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s a multiproduct, multinational conglomerate … but it’s also the
planet’s largest private equity firm. We’re talking about making and
breaking enormous fortunes daily. Now figure in Altman’s
executives–insiders from the past four presidential administrations,
including a former president, a former secretary of defense, and a
former CIA chief. That’s not all. Altman Europe is run by a former
British prime minister, with a former German finance minister as second
in command. Altman Asia is led by a former Philippine president.”

Jon whistled. “Talk about a golden Rolodex.”

“I’ve never heard of another company with so many political stars on the
payroll. Altman’s global headquarters is in Washington, which isn’t
particularly unusual. However, its address is more gold–on Pennsylvania
Avenue, midway between the White House and the Capitol. Only a
fifteen-minute walk either direction.”

“And a stone’s throw from the Hoover building,” Jon decided, seeing the
geography in his mind. “Hell, it’s at the very center of the Washington
establishment in all ways.”

“Exactly.”

“How could I not know about Altman?” “As I said, an iron hand when it
comes to general publicity.”

“Impressive. Where did it come from?”

“What I’m about to tell you is public information. Anyone could find it,
but since Altman keeps such a low profile, few people care. The company
started in 1987, when an ambitious federal employee quit his job,
borrowed a hundred thousand dollars, and brought in his first political
celebrity–a retired senator. With that marquee name, Altman started
growing. It bought up companies, held some, and sold others, always for
decent profits, sometimes for obscene ones. At the same time, it
attracted bigger and bigger names for its letterhead. Today, its
political clout and door-opening ability is impressive, to say the
least. It’s a thirteen-billion-dollar empire, with investments of all
sorts around the world. Hell, they’ve probably got something going in
Antarctica, too.”

“So what you’re saying is Altman’s basically a giant financial holding
company.” Jon considered where it fit into his assignment. “Are the
Asian headquarters here in Hong Kong?”

“They are.”

“Does the Philippine ex-president speak nothing but Tagalog and
English?”

“No, he’s fluent in at least six languages, including French and Dutch.
But he’s not in residence there now. Hasn’t been for months. He’s at a
health spa in Sweden. We checked, and he hasn’t had any calls from Hong
Kong in weeks.”

“Then who is the second candidate for Cruyff’s boss?”

“Ralph Mcdermid, the investment guru who founded the company.”

“Mcdermid? Then where did ” come from?”

“It was his father’s first name,” Klein explained. “Altman Mcdermid. He
was a failed businessman–lost his drugstore in the Depression when he
was just starting out, rebuilt it, but lost it again in the 1960s when a
big Walgreen store came into the little town in Tennessee where they
lived. He never worked again. His wife supported the family by cleaning
houses.” Jon nodded. “Could be Ralph Mcdermid’s trying to make up for
what happened to his father. Or he’s scared to death it’ll happen to
him, so he’s building a stockpile against disaster.”

“Or he’s such a financial genius he can’t help himself.” Klein paused.
“Ralph Mcdermid is in Hong Kong right now. He’s an American, speaks
nothing but English.” Jon let that sink in. “All right, I get the
picture, but what the hell would Ralph Mcdermid care about the Empress?
It’s just one ship. It seems damn small potatoes for that kind of
powerhouse megalith he’s running.”

“True. But our information is solid: The Altman Group owns Donk &
Lapierre, and Donk & Lapierre are equal owners with Flying Dragon of the
Empress and its cargo. What I need from you–instantly, if not
sooner–is that third copy of the manifest. Check into Ralph Mcdermid.
See if you can tie him to the Empress, and see if he has the third
copy.”

Friday, September 15.

Washington, D.C.

President Castilla paused to find the exact words to convey both the
gravity of what he was about to reveal and the justification for holding
back as long as he had. He gazed around the highly secure situation room
in the basement of the White House, at the five men who sat on either
side of him at the conference table. Three looked mildly puzzled.
“Obviously, since we’re meeting here,” he told them, “you know there
must be some kind of serious situation. Before I describe it, I’m going
to apologize to three of you for not bringing you into the loop sooner,
and then I’m going to explain why I don’t have to apologize.”

“We’re at your disposal, Mr. President,” Vice President Brandon Erikson
said. He added sincerely, “As always.” Wiry and muscular, Erikson had
sable-black hair, regular features, and a casual, Kennedyesque air that
voters found disarming. A youthful forty years old, he was renowned for
his dynamic personality and energy, but his true strength was his brisk
intelligence, which hid political acumen far beyond his years of
experience. “What situation?”

Secretary of Defense Stanton wanted to know, suspicion in his voice. He
turned to stare around the table, the overhead light making his bald
head gleam. Secretary of State Abner Padgett asked, “Do I gather Admiral
Brose and Mr. Ouray already know what you intend to tell us?” His voice
was deceptively quiet, but his eyes flashed at the insult. His meaty
frame lounged in his armchair, unconsciously displaying his natural
self-confidence, the same self-confidence that Castilla relied on over
and over again to send into hot spots around the world to cut hard deals
and soften hard hearts. Padgett was the best man to dispatch on a touchy
diplomatic mission. Contrarily, he had a short fuse at home. “Admiral
Brose had to know,” the president snapped and glared at them. “I told
Charlie only this morning, so he could call this meeting. Your reactions
are precisely why I don’t have to apologize. There are entirely too many
overblown egos and personal agendas in this cabinet and administration.

Worse–and all of you know this is the unvarnished truth–some folks are
talking to people they shouldn’t, about subjects they shouldn’t. Do I
make myself clear?” Henry Stanton flushed. “You’re referring to the
leaks? I hope that isn’t intended to apply to me, sir.”

“I am referring to the leaks, and what I said applies to everyone.” He
fixed his glare on Stanton. “I decided that in this situation no one
would be told, except on a need-to-know basis. My need for them to know.
Not yours. Not anyone else’s either. I stand by that.” His jaw was rock
hard. His mouth was grim. His gaze was so flinty as it swept over them
that, at that moment, his face could have been carved out of Monument
Valley stone.

The vice president was conciliatory. “I’m sure we understand, Mr.
President. Decisions like that are difficult, but that’s why we elected
you. We knew we could trust you.” He turned to Stanton and Padgett.

“Don’t you agree, gentlemen?”

The secretary of defense cleared his throat, chastened. “Of course, Mr.
President.”

“Absolutely,” the secretary of state said quickly. “He has the facts.”

“Yes, Abner, I do, such as they are. And now I’ve made the decision that
it’s time to bring you in.” He leaned across the table, his hands
clasped. “We have a possible repeat of the Yinhe debacle with China.”

As they stared, riveted, their alarm growing, he described what had
happened so far, leaving out any specific reference to Covert-One and to
the man who claimed to be his father. As he talked, he could see they
were already considering how the situation might impact their
departments and responsibilities.

When he finished, he nodded to the vice president. “I do apologize to
you, Brandon. I should’ve brought you in sooner, in case anything
happened to me.”

“It would’ve been better, sir. But I understand. These leaks have made
us all leery. Under the circumstances, with secrecy so vital, I probably
would’ve acted similarly.”

The president nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Now, let’s discuss
what each of us must do to prepare in case this does escalate and we’re
forced to go public without proof and stop the Empress on the high
seas.”

Admiral Brose spoke up. “We need to assess what China will do next, now
that they’ve spotted our frigate. We should also figure the size of a
conflict like this into our military plans and appropriations.”

Secretary of State Padgett agreed. “We must think about not only
conflict with China, but what we can do to take a strong posture of
deterrence.”

“The Cold War all over again?” the vice president wondered. “That’d be a
tragedy.” He shrugged unhappily. “But at the moment, I see no
alternatives.”

Charles Ouray said, “We’ve got to keep this information confined to
those of us here. Is that understood? If the Empress problem leaks,
we’ll know it’s one of us.”

Around the table, heads nodded solemnly, and the discussion resumed. As
the president listened, a part of his mind began counting–two, four,
one, two, two, and one. Among the six men there, they had twelve
children. He was surprised that he was aware how many children each had.
Surprised, too, that, when he thought about it, he remembered their
names. Abner’s youngest had him stumped.

But then, he could recall the children of most of the other people he
had worked with over the years. Knew their names a lot of the time, too.

For only an instant he wondered what that meant. Then he knew … In his
mind, he could see that little boy again, reaching up to the faceless
stranger.

There was a pause in the conversation, and he realized they were waiting
for him to say something. “State needs to get ready to go into high
diplomatic gear. Defense needs to figure out what we’ve got that we can
use to scare the shit out of China. The navy needs to come up with
alternate plans to board and inspect the Empress.” He slammed his hands
on the table and stood up. “End of discussion. That’s all, gentlemen.

Thanks for coming.”

Saturday, September 16.

Kowloon.

In his hotel room, Jon put on gloves, searched the young man’s pockets,
and found a master key, a few coins, and a pack of gum. He put
everything back, including the key, and checked the corridor. Deserted.
He carried the corpse to the fire stairs landing. The steps reached far
up and far down in silence. He climbed two flights and propped the body
against the wall of the stairwell.

The dagger still protruded from the emaciated chest. He pulled it out.

With the wound open, blood flowed like the Yangtze. Sighing, he left the
knife beside the killer and returned downstairs.

Once more in his room, he propped a chair against the door, in case
someone else with a master key and a way to flip the chain lock had
ideas. Last, he scrubbed the tub and scrutinized the floors and
furniture, including the bed. There was no trace of blood, and nothing
had been dropped.