Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (57 page)

Mcdermid’s two million in exchange for the manifest.”

“Of course.”

“Then we have a deal. Does the woman do all your talking now, boss? Ah,
well, we can’t all be men.”

There was a scramble of movement in the smaller rock formation. Yu
Yongfu stood up, red-faced, pushing away Li’s restraining hands. “I am
as much–”

The savage explosion of bullets ripped down from Yu’s throat to his
crotch. Blood sprayed black into the night. A furious return fusillade
from the nearby grove nearly drowned out Li Kuonyi’s agonized scream.

In the silence, came a single word: “So.” Apparently untouched by the
shooting from the grove, Feng paused, all banter gone from his voice as
he continued, “Now you know my deal. Think hard, Li. Your friend’s
pistol will run out of ammunition long before I do. There’s no two
million dollars for you. I offer you your life. Throw out the case with
the manifest, and you live.” Jon whispered fiercely, “Keep me covered.
Don’t open up until you hear my voice or hear me shooting, unless you
absolutely must.”

“What are you planning, Jon?” Asgar demanded.

“I’ll circle behind those rocks, climb over, and take Feng from the
rear.”

“We could attack. There’s nearly twenty of us left.”

“It’d still be hard to dig a man with an assault rifle and plenty of
ammo out of those rocks. We don’t know what other weapons he might have
there, too. Maybe he’s got men as well. We could send Li into a panic if
she thinks she’s got even more enemies, and the manifest could be
destroyed. It’s too big a gamble.”

Before Asgar could protest again, Jon had slung his MP5K over his
shoulder and disappeared back through the trees. As he circled, he had
more than one reason for making the attempt to stop Feng Dun. To fire
the angry fusillade at Feng, the shooter in the grove had come out from
behind a tree, and he had seen her face. Randi Russell.

He had no idea how she had gotten here, but Feng was right. She would
run out of ammunition before he did. And if the Uighers attacked, she
could be caught in the crossfire.

The Arabian Sea.

Admiral Brose’s voice was steady over the bridge loudspeaker: “Give me
the Empress’s position as of this minute, Commander.”

From where he stood on the dark bridge, Jim Chervenko could see the
lighted bulk of the Empress sailing two miles off the Crowe’s port bow.

Appearing to move at her full speed, she was continuing on her steady
course across the moonlit sea for the Strait of Hormuz, the Persian Gulf
beyond, and Basra, Iraq. He nodded to Frank Bienas, who took the fix
from the navigator and relayed it to the admiral.

“By our calculation, you have less than ninety minutes before she enters
the strait,” the admiral said after a moment.

“That’s how we calculate it, too, sir,” Chervenko said.

“You’ve moved into position?”

“She’s two miles off our port bow.”

“The submarine?”

“Run her torpedoes in, and moved up with us. They have the Empress off
their starboard, but they’re submerged half a mile closer, cruising
behind her where they have a clear fix on us, too.”

“Your Seahawks are armed for antisubmarine and ready to launch?”

“Yessir.”

The admiral maintained his calm voice, but the series of questions he
would never have normally asked a raw lieutenant in his first command,
much less a decorated commander with years at sea, betrayed his nerves.

Brose seemed to read his thoughts. “Forgive me, Commander, it’s a nasty
situation.”

“None nastier, sir.”

“The battle plan?”

“Move to stop the Empress. Send off the boarding detail. Keep the
freighter between us and the sub, which will force her to come to our
side where the choppers can get a clear shot. Otherwise, we play it as
it lays.”

“All right, Commander.” A slight hesitation. “You’ll have the order to
board within the hour. The Shilo should be there in three hours, give or
take. I’ll try to give you air cover at the last minute, but the timing
is difficult. Hold out as long as you can.” A hesitation again, as if
reluctant to end the connection. Finally, a hearty, “Good luck.” The
admiral was gone.

Commander Chervenko looked once at the clock above his command post,
then again focused his night glasses on The Dowager Empress, plowing
ahead through the bright moonlight and across the calm sea. Inside his
grim mind, he was counting down.

Dazu.

The night felt heavy around Jon, oppressive. He crept among the shadowy
boulders of the giant rock formation, inching higher and higher. His
special canvas shoes gripped the stony surfaces, while his night-vision
goggles enabled him to follow crevices, rain channels, and ledges.

Sometimes he had no choice but to jump and scramble up the face of a
boulder. Other times, a scrub tree allowed him to pull himself straight
up.

“Time is wasting, Li,” Feng Dun said, his cool voice so close Jon
expected to see him any second. “Your husband’s dead. Your bodyguards
are dead. You’ve obviously run out of ammo. Your friend out there
somewhere among the trees is alone and will run out of ammo soon, too,
and then there’ll be no one to stop me. This is your chance. Toss out
the attache case, and I’ll walk away.”

From her hiding spot, Li Kuonyi laughed bitterly. “And where would I go?

Without a great deal of money, how would I get myself and my children
out of China? I might as well burn the manifest myself. I will, if you
don’t leave.”

As her bitter voice talked, drawing Feng’s attention, Jon crawled faster
up the rocks until he was sure he was higher than Feng.

Feng’s laugh was nasty. “Sorry, Madame Li. Only the Americans want the
manifest untouched. Please feel free to burn it. If you don’t, I will.

But that won’t save you or help you escape China.” She suddenly
understood. “Wei Gaofan, That’s who’s behind this! My father’s
benefactor. My husband’s benefactor. He’s the one who must have the
document destroyed. He’s the one you really work for!”

“Trusting us is your only chance. Otherwise, you know your fate.” Jon
reached the highest rock. He unslung his MP5K, climbed silently over,
and found a good position with his back against the top boulder. As a
dark wind whistled around his ears, beneath him spread the mesa and
Buddha gorge, a panoramic vista of shadows, vegetation, and monumental
statues shining in the unearthly glow of moon and stars. Feng Dun was
kneeling behind a boulder not twenty feet below. His assault rifle
rested on a lip of rock, aimed toward where Li Kuonyi hid. Jon took off
his goggles and stared down at the top of Feng’s head. His red-and-white
hair seemed especially brilliant in the delicate light, the only spot of
color in the black-and-gray rockscape. At the same time, Feng’s head was
also a perfect target. With one satisfying bullet, Jon could shatter it
like a melon. His trigger finger flexed. Simmering fury at the people
Feng had killed himself or ordered killed knotted his chest … Avery
Mondragon. Andy An. So many Uigher fighters. The pig Ralph Mcdermid.

Even poor Yu Yongfu. Then there was the violent conflict that was
waiting to erupt out on the Arabian Sea. Jon fought to control his rage.

He said loudly enough for all to hear, “You’re not Madame Li’s only
chance, Feng. Give it up. Surrender now, and you’ll live.” The advantage
had flipped. For an endless second, Feng Dun did not turn. He did not
move. Faster than the strike of a cobra, he whirled and dove to his
right, heedless of sharp-edged rocks. His strange hair disappeared into
shadow, while his face radiated outrage and disgust. At the same time,
he fired his assault rifle, releasing a sweep of bullets that rushed
toward Jon. Jon grunted with satisfaction. He squeezed off a single
burst from the MP5K. The bullets slammed into the mercenary’s trunk,
stopping his turn as if he had collided with a tank. The impact slammed
Feng back against the boulders like a sack of rice. He recoiled forward,
pitched over a smaller boulder, and rolled downward, starting a small
avalanche. There was a moment of shocked silence. Across the clearing,
Asgar and his Uighers burst into the open and surrounded the fallen tree
and rocks where Li Kuonyi had taken refuge. Their weapons were aimed,
but Asgar stopped their advance.

Excitement surged through Jon. The manifest was in reach again. They
would have the proof, and he could phone Fred. The Empress could be
stopped, its deadly cargo offloaded, and the crisis ended … if there
was time. He sprinted down among the rocks, dodging and leaping
obstacles, until he reached the clearing. He dashed to the Uighers at
the fallen tree.

Behind the log, Li Kuonyi sat with her back against a rock. She wore a
sleek, black pantsuit and high-collared hooded jacket identical to that
worn by her double, dead in the valley. Hers was torn, disheveled, and
stained with blood, apparently from her husband’s injuries. Her left
hand gently cupped his dead face. Her right hand held a cigarette
lighter, already in flame. She had no weapon, but the original invoice
manifest lay open on top of her closed case, next to her right hand.

When she saw Jon, she smiled. “So? The American who wanted the manifest
so many days ago. I should’ve realized.” “It’s over, Madame Li,” Jon
told her. “Your husband’s dead. You have no one left to deal with but
me.”

Her hand stroked Yu’s immobile face. It was a mask of marble, of death.

“He was a fool and a coward, but I loved him, and the deal remains the
same. The two million American dollars and your Uigher friends to help
me and my children leave China. In exchange, you get the undamaged
manifest you have worked so hard for.” She paused, her gaze stony.

“Otherwise, I burn it.”

Jon believed her. He glanced at his watch. One hour and ten minutes. By
now, the Crowe would have cleared for action, waiting only for the final
order to board the Empress. There was little hope he could get the
manifest to the president in time to send to Beijing–unless something
had changed or would change. A storm. Other navy ships arriving. Another
nation interfering. Anything to slow the ship’s arrival at the strait.

Too much had already been sacrificed for him to give up now, and too
much was at risk not to make the final effort. “Did your men find the
money?” he asked Asgar.

“They did. In a crevice near where Feng was shooting. Still in its
suitcase. And it’s all there. Real money.”

“Give it to her.”

Asgar’s voice was suddenly tense, “I don’t think so, old boy.”

Jon glanced at the Uigher leader, and then turned again to see what
Asgar’s gaze was focused on at the far edge of the clearing. His throat
tightened. They did not need this. A line of eight men in the uniform of
the People’s Liberation Army stood just inside the trees, their weapons
aimed into the clearing. At them. The soldiers were too late to help
Feng, but not too late to kill Asgar, Randi, and everyone else.

Monday, September 18.

Washington, D.C.

Every eye in the White House’s subterranean situation room was angled
toward the head of the polished table, where President Castilla stared
up at the wall clock.

“One hour, sir,” Stevens Brose said.

“Less,” corrected Secretary of Defense Stanton.

Vice President Brandon Erikson said, “We can’t wait, Mr. President.”

The president turned his gaze to Erikson. “They’re ready? The Crowe?”

“They’ve been ready for a full half hour,” Admiral Brose said.

The president nodded. Continued to nod. His gaze returned to the clock.

His face hardened. “Give the order.”

Instantly, the secure room galvanized into action. Brose snapped up the
receiver of the telephone and issued orders.

Tuesday, September 19.

Dazu.

Asgar made a quick motion, and the twenty Uighers spread out to
face the eight soldiers across the clearing. They stared at one another,
hands on weapons, pointing.

“We outnumber them better than two to one,” Asgar said in a rush, “but I
don’t dare take them on. We don’t know how many more are nearby, and a
firefight in which we kill a squad of PLA troops will guarantee
Draconian reprisals against my guerrillas and all of Xinjiang. The
payoff’s not worth the sacrifice. Sorry, Jon.”

Jon answered quickly if unhappily, “I understand.”

“If there are no more than we’re looking at, we can at least protect you
as far as our hideout. My people there will help you get David Thayer
out of the country.”

“Appreciate it. Thanks. Why aren’t they moving?” They were statues,
armed and ready. An impenetrable line perhaps, but they could still be
gotten around. They could still be shot. Why did they not fire first?

Were they afraid, because they were outnumbered?

“They’re not worried,” Asgar decided. “As I said, they may have more
troops coming up.”

At that moment, Jon sensed motion on his other side. He spun on his
heel. “Randi.”

Randi Russell appeared, her face grim. “What can I do?” Her blond hair
was dyed black, and she wore a crumpled business suit. She, too, stared
across the clearing at the silent Chinese soldiers.

“Where the hell did you come from?” Jon asked, but his heart was not in
their usual banter. The troops would not wait much longer.

“I flew in with the late Ralph Mcdermid, may the bastard rest in hell.

He needed an interpreter.”

“Lucky for us and Li Kuonyi he did. You’ve been with us from the start?”

She nodded. “Lurking up here. After the bloodbath below, I spotted Feng
moving in on the other two. So I opened fire to drive him into the
rocks.”

“I owe you again.”

“Don’t mention it.” Trying to be light, but not succeeding. “This cargo
manifest the woman has … that’s what you need?”

“Yes.” Jon gave her the highlights, concluding with the standoff in the
Arabian Sea. “Mcdermid set the whole thing up with Li Kuonyi’s husband.