The Altman Code

  As he studied the drainpipe, two figures ran around the front corner of the mansion close to the house. They tested each window for entry.

  If no trap had been intended when he arrived, it was a trap now. They would soon find the front door unlocked, if they had not already. He had seconds to get out of the house before they were inside, up the stairs, and on him.

  He waited until the figures vanished toward the rear. He opened the window, climbed out, sat on the sill with his legs dangling, and leaned to the drainpipe, which was sheet metal and looked well attached to the house. Holding it, he swung himself out. It groaned but held. Using the toes of his shoes, he literally walked down the side of the mansion. As soon as he touched grass, he bolted out across the moonlit lawn toward the stand of trees that had sheltered him when he first arrived.

  Angry shouts in Chinese carried across the night from the windows of the master bedroom. They had found the open safe and spotted his escape.

  As soon as he reached the trees, he began weaving, dodging the dark vegetation. Shouts followed across the distance, and then it was a single hushed version of a deep, harsh voice giving whispery orders like a drill sergeant instilling steadiness in his men. Smith had heard the voice before—from the leader of the attackers on Liuchiu Island. The big Chinese with the red-and-white hair that the treasurer of Flying Dragon had called Feng Dun.

  Suddenly an ominous silence filled the night. Smith guessed they had been ordered to spread out, to methodically force him toward the wall where it bordered the street and the gate. Feng Dun would have more of his people waiting there. It was the same pincer movement he had used in the attack on Liuchiu Island. Military minds tended to favor the same tactics—like Stonewall Jackson’s outflanking night marches.

  Smith turned and trotted softly toward the back wall. As he slipped through the shadows, he pulled his walkie-talkie from his pocket. “Andy? Come in, Andy.”

  “Shit, Colonel. Are you okay?”

  “You saw them?”

  “Sure did. Three cars. I got out of there fastest.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Out front, like you said. I stashed the car and walked back. The three cars are right here on the street, too close for comfort.”

  “Did they leave men there, too?”

  “You bet.”

  “How many?”

  “Too many, as far as I’m concerned. Three drivers. And another five just came out through the gate to join them.”

  “Let’s skip their greeting party. Go back to the car fast and drive around to meet me at the back corner of the wall on the side street. Got that?”

  “Side street, rear corner.”

  “Get going.”

  Smith ended the transmission and resumed his race toward the rear. He was just beginning to think he had outwitted his pursuers when he heard a noise that meant danger. He spun and dropped flat, Beretta in hand. There it was again—the hard sound of metal striking wood. There was a low, muttered oath.

  From the ground, he strained to see anything that stirred. The little forest had turned quiet, and the only movement seemed to be caused by the wind rustling through branches and leaves.

  There was a thicket of bushes to his right, near the wall. He inched toward it, all his senses on high alert. He slid in between two bushes that hid him from above, and he forced his breath to slow, grow shallow. He waited.

  The only reason he saw the big shape pass was that the wind blew an opening in the leaf cover high above. Moonlight shone through and illuminated a half-crouched man and his raised AK-74 passing by.

  Disgusted with himself, Smith knew he had guessed wrong. Feng Dun had reasoned Smith would expect another pincer movement, so he had sent most of his people to the street, while doubling back the opposite way alone, in hopes of taking Smith by surprise. But he would not be alone ahead; he would have men in position, waiting.

  Smith slithered out from under the thicket, the spiny branches scratching his head and hands. He hardly felt the discomfort. As soon as he was out, he trotted left to where the wall bordered the side street. There was no tree close enough to be useful, but fallen branches and other debris had collected in a pile high enough to help. Fortunately, Yu Yongfu preferred appearance over substance—taking care of one’s wooded grounds where they were out of sight was not something that interested him. Or if anything his wife had said were true, had interested him.

  Smith ran, jumped up onto the pile, and leaped. He grabbed the wall, pulled himself to the top, and straddled it as he surveyed the street. On the other side near the far corner, Andy An’s Jetta was parked.

  He turned on his walkie-talkie. “Andy?” he said in hushed tones. “We’ve got company all over the compound. I can’t get to the corner. Drive away, circle, and come back to the center of the block. Slow down, and I’ll meet you. Then we’ll burn rubber.”

  He waited. There was no answer. Was Andy’s radio out?

  “Andy? Are you there?”

  Silence.

  “Andy?”

  His stomach went loose with fear. A chill swept through him. He dug his night-vision binoculars from his backpack and focused on the Jetta. Andy sat behind the wheel, motionless as he kept watch on the street ahead. There was no one else in the small car.

  Smith frowned, studying the car and the green night all around. Andy still did not move. Smith watched him for two more long minutes, an interminable length of time. But nothing changed. Andy moved not an inch. Not a muscle. Not the blink of an eye.

  Smith heaved a sad sigh. Andy was dead. They had taken him out.

  He put away his binoculars and dropped down to the street, sprinted across into the cluster of smaller neighborhood estates, and tore off through their grounds. He heard no shouts behind him this time. They would be too focused on the Jetta, expecting him to connect with Andy.

  Furious and weary, he slowed to a lope. He wove along streets and past gardens, fences, and the walls of gated communities built for the expatriate businessmen who would flock more and more into the People’s Republic to live off its billions. Finally he reached a major street. Dripping with sweat, he hailed a taxi.

  Beijing

  The telephone rang in the family room of the main house of Niu Jianxing’s old-fashioned courtyard complex on the outskirts of the Xicheng district, one of the older sections of the city. The Owl liked to think of himself as a man of the people. He had refused to join the many members of the Central Committee who had built expensive mansions far out in the Chaoyang district. Instead, although his complex was large and comfortable, it was far from flashy.

  Niu had been watching the tape of an American legal drama with his wife and son and, consequently, was annoyed by the interruption. Partly because it was an intrusion on his family time, something he cherished but could indulge in less and less since his elevation to the Standing Committee. But perhaps even more because it broke into his fascinated study of American concepts of crime, law, society, and the individual.

  Still, no one would dare call him at this late hour unless the matter were urgent. He excused himself, went into his private study, and closed the door, drowning out the television and the happy sounds of his wife and son.

  Niu picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

  General Chu Kuairong’s rasping voice wasted no time on preambles. “Our scientist friend, Dr. Liang, reports that Jon Smith failed to keep the dinner engagement he arranged. The doctor found a message on his answering machine from Smith. He went to Smith’s hotel room, hoping to change his mind. When there was no response, he had the manager open the door to be sure Smith was well. The room was empty. Smith had not checked out and not taken his belongings, but he was gone.”

  Niu did not like that. “What does Major Pan say about Smith?”

  “His surveillance did not see Colonel Smith leave the hotel. Ever.”

  Niu knew the chief of state security was enjoying Pan’s embarrassing failure. Still, that was hardly the point. “Smith must
have suspected Dr. Liang had become suspicious, knew he would be watched, and found a way to slip out.”

  “Clearly.” On the edge of sarcasm.

  Niu repressed his irritation. “Has Smith been to Shanghai before?”

  “Not that we know.”

  “Does he speak Chinese? Have friends or associates here?”

  “His military and personnel records give no indication of that.”

  “Then how is he functioning?” Niu wondered and answered his own question: “Someone must be helping him.”

  The general had had his fun; now he became serious. “Someone Chinese. An insider who speaks English or another language Smith knows. He would have a vehicle and know his way around better than most. We are particularly puzzled because Smith is totally unknown to us, and yet he clearly has help in our midst, perhaps from someone recruited years ago to spy among us.”

  Niu contemplated his own private spies. Without them, he would be nearly blind and deaf in the byzantine world of Chinese national politics. “Whatever the case, we must now detain this colonel and interrogate him. Tell Major Pan to do so immediately.”

  “Pan has his people searching Shanghai.”

  “When they find Smith, notify me. I will speak to him myself.” Niu scowled as he hung up. He had lost all pleasure in his family time and the American television program.

  Why would the Americans send this sort of agent now, at such a politically sensitive time, and allow him to operate when he surely knew he had been discovered? Why would they risk their own treaty?

  He fell into his office chair, leaned back, and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to sink into that quiet place where it seemed as if he were floating. There was no weight on his body, or on his mind. . . . Minutes passed. An hour. Patience was necessary. Finally, with a soaring burst of clarity, he knew the answer: It would happen if a faction in the American government opposed the treaty, too.

  Chapter

  Nine

  Washington, D.C.

  In the big conference room next door to the Oval Office, the air was heavy with anticipation. The chairs encircling the long table were filled, as were the chairs lining the walls, where assistants, advisers, and researchers sat and stood, waiting to hear what decisions would be made so they were prepared to find answers to their bosses’ questions. This packed meeting was just a preliminary discussion, but it was for the all-important, annual multibillion-dollar appropriations package for military weapons. The new secretary of defense, Henry Stanton, who sat to the right of the president, had called it.

  Stanton was a man of medium height and hot disposition. From his balding head to his restless hands, he exuded energy and charm. His sharp features had softened with age, making him look almost avuncular. In his midfifties, he used that reassuring affect to great advantage in press conferences. But now, out of sight of the media, he was all business.

  He continued in his blunt style, “Mr. President, gentlemen, and lady.” He inclined his head to the only woman at the long table, former Brig. Gen. Emily Powell-Hill, the president’s National Security Adviser. “Think of our military as if it were an alcoholic. Like any alcoholic, if it—and our nation—is to survive, it must make a clean break from the past.”

  The irritation on the other side of the table was visible in the grimly set jaws and audible in the low rumbles of the military commanders. Alcoholic? Alcoholic! How dare he! Even President Castilla raised an eyebrow.

  Emily Powell-Hill jumped in to soothe the offended egos. “The secretary is, of course, asking for input from all of you, as well as from many experts in the field and our allies.”

  “The secretary,” Secretary Stanton snapped, “is asking nothing. He’s telling you the way it is. It’s a brand-new day and a brand-new world. As the man said, we’ve got to stop preparing for last year’s war!”

  “The secretary’s pronouncements and analogies might make him a great man in the headlines he appears to crave,” Admiral Stevens Brose, chairman of the joint chiefs, growled from his seat directly facing the president and Stanton, “but his armchair views won’t matter a plugged nickel on a battlefield.” His gray buzz cut seemed to bristle with disgust. He sat awkwardly, his ankles crossed, his big chin jutting forward.

  Secretary Stanton instantly retorted, “I resent the implication, Admiral, and—”

  “That was no implication, Mr. Secretary,” Brose said flatly. “That was a fact.”

  The two matched glares.

  Stanton, the new man, gazed down at his notes. Few people had ever out-stared the implacable chairman of the joint chiefs, and Stanton was not going to be one of them today.

  Still, Stanton did not give an inch. He looked up. “Very well. If you wish to make this adversarial . . .”

  The admiral smiled.

  Stanton reddened. As a former empire-building CEO of General Electric, Stanton was a long way from doubting his convictions. “Let’s just say I got your attention, Admiral. That’s what counts.”

  “You’re too late. The world situation already did that,” Brose rumbled. “Like an anchor between the eyeballs.”

  The president raised a hand. “All right, gentlemen. Let’s call a truce. Harry, enlighten us poor laymen. Tell us specifically what you’re suggesting.”

  Stanton, accustomed to cowing corporate boards that rubber-stamped his every whim, paused for effect. His analytical gaze perused the assembled generals and secretaries. “For more than a half century, America’s been arming to fight a short, highly intense war in Europe or the old Soviet Union from large, permanent bases that were relatively convenient distances away. Targets were within striking range of carrier-based fighters and bombers, plus there were the giant bombers that could fly out of America. To prevent war, we relied on containment and massive deterrence. All that must change radically. It must change now.”

  Admiral Brose nodded. “I’m in full agreement, if you’re suggesting a leaner military. It has to be quick to respond, fast to deploy anywhere at any time, and equipped with lighter, smaller, stealthier, more expendable weapons. The navy’s already implemented its ‘street fighter’ concept of small carriers, missile ships, and submarines to fight in the narrow coastal waters we expect we’ll be operating in more and more.”

  Air Force General Bruce Kelly was next to Brose. He sat erect, his patrician face florid, his uniform immaculate, and his eyes clear and calculating. His enemies complained he was an emotionless machine, while his supporters bragged he had one of the shrewdest intellects the military had ever produced. “I assume the secretary isn’t suggesting we abandon our deterrent capability,” he said in a mild voice. “Our nuclear weapons—long-range or short-range—are critical.”

  “True.” Stanton offered his charming smile, since he and Kelly were in fundamental agreement. “But we should consider reducing stockpiles and trimming research for bigger and ‘better’ bombs and the giant missiles capable of carrying them. It’s also probably unwise to build more carriers and subs beyond what we need to replace what we have.”

  Emily Powell-Hill said, “Cut to the bottom line, Henry. This is a meeting about appropriations. Exactly what are you suggesting we build and don’t build?”

  “As I said, Emily, I’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you what we must do to keep our military superiority. We must shift funding from giant carriers, huge tanks, and fighter jets with overwhelming power to light, small, almost invisible weapons.”

  The army chief of staff, Lt. General Tomás Guerrero, was seated to the far right of Admiral Brose. His big, square-fingered hands knotted on the table. “No one’s going to tell me we won’t need tanks, heavy artillery, and large forces trained to fight big wars. Russia and China are still out there, Secretary Stanton. You’re forgetting them. They’ve got massive armies, enormous territories, and nuclear weapons. Then there’s India, Pakistan, and a united Europe, too. Europe’s already our economic adversary.”

  Stanton was not about to back down. “That’s exactly
what I am telling you, General.”

  NSA Powell-Hill chimed in, “I doubt anyone believes—or wants—our current military power scrapped, Mr. Stanton. As I understand it, your opinion is that we need to intensify our direction in developing smaller weapons and capabilities.”

  “I—” Stanton began.

  Before the defense secretary could continue, Admiral Brose used his commanding presence and voice to bull his way in. “No one in this room disagrees with the concept of a leaner, meaner military. Hell, that’s what we’ve been working on since the Gulf War. We just haven’t made the complete commitment you’re asking for.”

  From the far end of the table, Lt. General Oda, the marine commandant, boomed, “I sure don’t disagree. Light and fast, that’s what the marines want.”

  Nods of consensus filled the room. Only President Castilla, who was usually a full participant in any serious discussion of the military, remained silent. He appeared to be brooding, waiting for something else to be said.

  Secretary Stanton glanced at him, sensing uncertainty. He moved ahead boldly. “As far as it goes, I’m glad you agree with my analysis. But I get the impression you’re talking about beginning tomorrow. That’s not good enough. We have to start today. Now. At this moment, we have weapons in various stages of development—the air force’s F-22 short-range fighter jet, the navy’s next generation DD-21 battleship and aircraft carriers, and the army’s Protector long-range armored artillery system. They’re too big. Every one of them. They’re elephants when we need jaguars. They’re going to be completely useless in the kinds of future engagements we’re most likely to face.”

  Before the chorus of outrage could gain steam, Admiral Brose abruptly raised a hand. As the voices subsided to aggrieved rumbling, he said, “All right. Let’s deal with them one at a time. Bruce, lay out the case for the F-22.”