Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (53 page)

They stopped in a grove so Thayer could catch his breath. Sweat streamed
down his face, but he was smiling broadly. He pressed a hand to his
chest and inhaled raggedly. “I never managed an escape before. I tried.”

They stood in a knot, sheltered all around by trees, waiting for him to
recover, as they watched uneasily everywhere. An animal scurried away
through the underbrush, heading north. Thayer never stopped smiling,
even as he panted. His brown teeth were dark in his face. Some were
chipped and broken. Two of his fingers were crooked, as if they had been
broken but never splinted, so had healed wrong, perhaps after torture.

The heaving in Thayer’s chest slowed at last, and they ran on.

Monday, September 18.

Washington, D.C.

The mood in the tomblike situation room was tense. An electric tension
that sapped at nerves already frayed. Throughout the morning, the
assembled joint chiefs, service secretaries, National Security Adviser,
secretaries of state and defense, the vice president, Charles Ouray, and
the president himself had been discussing, sometimes heatedly, the
rapidly approaching moment when a decision would have to be made whether
to board the Empress and risk a military confrontation with China. After
each had summarized his readiness, Secretary of Defense Stanton brought
up the larger matter of long-range strategies and appropriations. It was
then that General Guerrero had reiterated what he called the army’s
obvious need to enlarge their quicker, lighter concept to include heavy
weapons for sustained campaigns against strong forces over large areas.
He cited several examples of weapons, including the Protector mobile
artillery unit, as vital to be approved and put into production. “You’re
alone on this today,” the president told him. “At the moment we have a
crisis to face that none of that can help us with.”

The general nodded agreement. “Yessir, you’re right.”

The president turned to Admiral Brose. “What can you give us, Stevens,
that’ll make the Chinese and their submarine back off before all hell
breaks loose?”

“Not very much, sir,” the admiral admitted, his tone
uncharacteristically gloomy.

Air Force General Kelly said, “For God’s sake, Brose, you’ve got the
whole damned Fifth Fleet out there. One carrier-based Viking, or even a
Hornet, should scare the crap out of them.”

Secretary Stanton chimed in, “Doesn’t the Crowe have antisub choppers,
Admiral?”

“Yes, to both comments,” Brose said. “Or was it three? In any event,
what you gentlemen seem to forget is that this isn’t a military
question, it’s a political nightmare. We have far more weapons than we’d
need if we could attack. Hell, barring advanced capabilities we’re not
aware of on that sub, the Crowe can juggle the situation on its own on
at least an equal basis. But attacking first is precisely what we can’t
do. Isn’t that so, Mr. President?”

“In a nutshell,” the president agreed.

“So what I have to offer is a cruiser. I’ve got the Shilo steaming full
tilt. If it can get there in time, that might scare them off.”

The president nodded calmly. This was to be expected and did not
especially disturb him. His manner exuded quiet confidence, except for
his right hand. The fingers drummed reflexively on the table in front of
him. “Thank you, Stevens. All right, where do we stand? Our attempt to
secure proof of the Empress’s potentially lethal cargo by using the
SEALs failed. We can’t attack first, or we’ll lose what credibility we
have left that we’re a nation that wants only peace and respects the
rule of international law. I am, of course, still pursuing diplomatic
avenues. But that pretty much exhausts our options, with one exception.”
He paused to choose his words carefully, while his fingers continued
their reflexive drumming. “Earlier, I mentioned an ongoing intelligence
operation designed to secure proof of the cargo. I can report that I
have high hopes of a successful conclusion to that effort, within
hours.”

The buzz in the room was excited. Emily Powell-Hill asked, “How many
hours, sir?”

“Can’t say for certain. You should know that the effort is inside China,
and of course it’s risky. Plus, there are enormous difficulties in
running a
mission on the other side of the world as well as having to contend with
the vast distances of China.”

“May I ask who’s making this effort, Mr. President?” the vice president
asked. “I’m sure all of us would like to pray for their safety and
success.”

“Sorry, Brandon, I’m not going to reveal that. I can tell you our man’s
close to success, but how close I can’t be certain. Which leaves us
faced with a simple, if potentially devastating decision. If I fail to
hear from inside China in time, the Crowe will stop and board the
Empress before it can reach Iraqi waters, which, in practicality, means
before it enters the Persian Gulf. Exactly how many hours is that,
Admiral Brose?”

The chairman of the joint chiefs glanced at his watch. “Seven, Mr.
President. Give or take an hour.”

Tuesday, September 19.

Dazu.

After a harrowing run through the forest, constantly looking over
their shoulders, Jon, Asgar, the two Uigher fighters, and the two former
prisoners reached the Uigher unit. A few minutes later, the entire group
slipped out across the fields toward their hidden vehicles. They climbed
aboard. With Asgar driving, Jon, Chiavelli, and Thayer took the limo, so
Thayer would be more comfortable. Three other Uighers piled in back,
their assault rifles bristling like porcupine quills. The rest of the
Uighers divided themselves between, the Humvee and Land Rover.

With the limo in the lead, the team drove off at a sedate rate in an
effort to attract as little attention as possible. At the same time,
they watched all around for pursuit, aware of every light, every
boulder, every possible threat.

Jon studied the luminous green dial of his watch. “Where’s Alani and her
group? Aren’t they still supposed to escort Chiavelli and Dr. Thayer to
the border?” “They’re at the hideout,” Asgar told him, his voice
clipped, as if waiting for more trouble.

“Meaning, you want to give Chiavelli and Dr. Thayer a vehicle and some
of your men to get them out of China?”

“That’s the plan.”

“No way. We don’t know how many men Feng or Li Kuonyi will bring. We
need everyone. Besides, your people won’t get back in time. We’ll have
to keep Chiavelli and Dr. Thayer with us until we actually walk into the
mountains. Then we’ll stash them somewhere safe and pick them up again
when we leave.” Asgar thought a moment. “Okay, makes sense. Besides,
we’ll be able to use Chiavelli and perhaps Dr. Thayer. Can you shoot,
sir?”

“A long time ago,” Thayer admitted from the backseat. “Exactly what’s
this new mission?”

“We can’t risk you, sir,” Jon stated flatly.

“Absolutely not,” Dennis Chiavelli agreed.

“All right.” Thayer sighed. “But at least tell me what it is.”

Jon related the highlights of the meeting at the Sleeping Buddha, the
goal, the stakes, and the danger.

“This is for the human-rights agreement?” Thayer asked, his wrinkles
rearranged in a frown. “Then it’s vital. It’s one of the most important
pieces of legislation of my son’s administration.” “Agreed,” Jon said.
“These are global stakes.”

David Thayer took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose in
a gesture Jon had seen the president make. Then he slumped back as if
exhausted. He stared out the window, a half smile on his old face.

Jon turned around in the front seat so that he was facing forward again.

He glanced over at Asgar, and Asgar shot him a look of relief. Then both
men resumed their careful watch for trouble. They drove past farmyards
covered with rice grains spread out to be dried in tomorrow’s sun, just
as the red peppers had been. Unhulled rice was everywhere, even piled
against walls and fences, like brown snowdrifts. Handmade wood tools
leaned against the walls, too. There were penned chickens and pigs and
vegetable gardens. Heavy wood vegetable buckets often sat neatly at the
end of a row. And, of course, there were water buffalo, heads dangling,
muzzles almost touching the ground as they drowsed.

Time ticked slowly. Too slowly, increasing the tension. They drove into
a village, and Thayer roused himself. The houses were more prosperous
looking, roofed with blue-black curved tiles and boasting two or more
chimneys. At the same time, the road became a pavement of large stone
slabs that appeared to be hundreds of years old. Thayer told them he had
been brought occasionally out to do work around here, because of his
clerking skills.

“See the chairs at the edge of the pavement? This road is like an
extended living room,” he said. “Villagers sit out here at tables to
play cards, drink tea, and gossip. They lay their rice right on the
pavement to dry, too, and bicyclists roll over it as if it’s not there.
No one cares. To the Chinese, rice is ancient. It’s like the moon and
stars. Nothing can destroy it.”

Jon turned back to check on the president’s father. His worn face still
appeared tired, but even in the shadowy backseat, his expression clearly
was happy. And he obviously felt like talking. A good sign.

“How are you feeling?” Jon asked.

“Odd. Strange. My emotions are jumpy. They’re like gremlins, impossible
to control. One moment, I feel like laughing, the other like crying.

I’ve reached the age where I cry rather easily, I’m afraid.”

Jon nodded. “That’s normal. How are you physically?”

“Oh, that. I was a little tired for a while, but now I feel fine.”

“Were you ever tortured?”

Thayer frowned. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his
nose. Again, the same gesture Jon had seen the president make. But as
Thayer did it, Jon again noted the two broken fingers. He suspected
there were other broken bones, too, out of sight under the old
prisoner’s clothing. Ribs. An arm. Maybe a leg. No way to tell without a
thorough workup. If they survived, the first order of business would be
to make certain he had a physical.

Jon resumed his watch on the dark countryside.

Thayer gazed out the window, too. He was clearly enjoying himself,
despite the danger and the stress inside the car. “The Chinese are a
fascinating people. They’re constantly repeating myths and creating new
ones. Once, when one of the Communists’ aqueducts was leaking badly in
the mountains around here, they told the peasants living downhill that
it was a new, scenic waterfall. That way they convinced them to keep
working their farms, even when it wasn’t safe.”

“The Chinese culture entwines nature and myth,” Asgar agreed. “Did they
survive?”

“Yes. The aqueduct was fixed in time.” Thayer continued, “Almost all of
their natural phenomena have one or more legends. It’s a perfect tool to
keep people ignorant. Science as we know it simply doesn’t exist out
here. But it’s a beautiful way to live, too. They speak in a kind of
poetry. A great tree is a transformed god. A rainbow is a cause for
rejoicing. Heaven is alive on earth. But when that ignorance was
transferred to Beijing, it caused a lot of problems.”

“Wasn’t Mao a peasant with barely an elementary school education?” Jon
asked.

“Yes, and under him, other peasants ran the country. Some were actually
illiterate. Couldn’t read the reports they had to put their chops to.

They knew little about mass production, factories, science, or even
agriculture outside their own farming areas. Five years after Mao took
over, the nation nearly starved to death because of ridiculous Politburo
policies. In prison, we ate anything. Birds, insects, grass. After a
while, there wasn’t a weed left or bark on the trees. A lot of us died.”

Thayer shrugged. “But that’s enough about that. Now that the impossible
has become possible, I’ve got a reason to live long enough to meet
what’s left of my family. I suppose I’m growing greedy, but I don’t
care. Afterward, I can die in peace.”

While they had been talking, Asgar had been on his walkie-talkie,
checking with the drivers of the two other vehicles. None had seen any
tails or surveillance. There was urgency in their voices over the
crackling machines as they kept watch and stayed in touch.

“We’ve had word from inside the prison,” Asgar reported over his
shoulder. “They haven’t missed those two guards yet, and they don’t know
you chaps are gone. Luck is with us so far.” His gaze returned to the
road. The caravan was climbing into the hills.

The tension in the limo relaxed a shade with the news. Thayer described
the area of Baoding Shan, where they were headed, and the Sleeping
Buddha, where the exchange was to take place for the Empress’s manifest.

“Sometimes Baoding Shan is translated to mean Precious Summit Mountain,
other times it’s Treasure Peak Mountain. Near the foot of it is where
the Sleeping Buddha and other figures are carved into the rock, like at
Mt. Rushmore. They’re painted, too.”

“I heard they’re a thousand years old,” Chiavelli said.

“Nearly,” Thayer informed them. “The ones around the Sleeping Buddha
date back to the thirteenth century. Whoever planned the grotto had a
real understanding of beauty. It follows the natural line of the cliffs.

They’re crescent shaped and solid rock, but around them is thick
vegetation–trees, bushes, vines, flowers. Very green and lush. The
cliff itself is part of a gorge.”

“Tell me what you think of the Sleeping Buddha as a site for an
exchange,” Jon asked. Fred Klein had faxed him maps and descriptions.

Still, there was nothing like hearing it from someone who had been
there.

“For Li Kuonyi and Feng Dun, it will be full of possibilities. For you,
probably the possibilities will make it difficult, since you want to
take the manifest from whoever ends up with it. The Sleeping Buddha is
massive, but it’s in an overhang, and around it are a lot of different
carvings, some of epic Buddhist stones. Many are at eye level, which
means they’re good places to duck inside and hide. There are other
statues in dark caves and carved temples around there, too.”