“A panic?” Chervenko frowned.
“Yessir. That’s the funny thing. They know who we are. I mean, they know we’re a U.S. Navy frigate.”
“They must have a military radar expert on board,” Bienas decided, astounded.
Commander Chervenko nodded unhappily. “Tell the chief to give me all he has. No point hiding now. Let’s see what they’re doing on board.” He focused his binoculars on the horizon. It was a clear, sunny day, a calm sea, and visibility was nearly unlimited. Surging forward at twenty-eight knots, the Crowe soon raised the Empress dead ahead and closed to viewing distance.
Lt. Commander Bienas joined the captain with his binoculars.
“You see what I see, Frank?”
Bienas nodded. The decks of the cargo ship were packed with crew members, everyone pointing astern and waving their arms. An officer stood on the cabin housing, yelling down to them, but the crew members continued to mill around.
“They’re worried as hell, Jim,” Bienas said.
“I’d say so,” Chervenko agreed. “No one told them we were back here, and they were taken by surprise. But someone expected either us or someone like us.”
“Or they wouldn’t have had that radar expert on board.”
“Yeah,” Chervenko said. “The bridge is yours, Frank. Keep a close eye on them. The fat’s sizzling in the frying pan.”
“What do you think the Chinese’ll do?”
Chervenko turned away to go below and make his report to Admiral Brose. “I don’t know,” he said over his shoulder. “I expect a whole lot of people in D.C. are going to be worried about that question real soon, too.”
Chapter
Fifteen
Thursday, September 14
Washington, D.C.
President Castilla sat in his Zero-Gravity recliner upstairs in his bedroom in the White House residence, trying to read while worrying about China and the human-rights treaty . . . thinking of the father he had never known and the suffering he must have endured . . . and longing for the first lady.
His mind wandered, and the sentences ran together. He lay the book on his lap and rubbed his eyes. He missed the cutthroat two-handed poker games with Cassie they always played on nights one or the other could not sleep, even if she did win eight of ten. But she was off in Central America, doing good works, surrounded by a gaggle of press, and making friends along the way. He wished she were home, with him. Making friends with him.
His thoughts had begun to drift toward what their lives would be like after he left office, when Jeremy knocked lightly.
“What is it now?” he snapped, hearing his irritation too late.
“Mr. Klein, sir.”
Castilla came alert. “Send him in, Jeremy. And sorry, I guess I miss my wife.”
“We all do, Mr. President.”
Was there a faint smile on Jeremy’s face as he avoided any hint of a particular interpretation of why Castilla was missing her? The president hid his own smile with a frown.
Jeremy waited as Fred Klein padded into the bedroom. He closed the door.
Castilla had a sudden image of Klein flowing through the world like fog, silent and impenetrable. What was it Carl Sandburg wrote . . . Yes: The fog came in on little cat feet. . . . Klein’s feet were far too big for that.
“Have a seat, Fred.”
Klein lowered a hip on the edge of an armchair. The Covert-One chief’s hands fluttered as if searching for a lost jewel.
“Chew on the damn thing,” Castilla growled, “before you drive me to drink.”
Klein looked sheepish, took out his battered pipe, and gratefully stuck the stem between his teeth. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
“I just hope it doesn’t kill you until after I’m out of office,” he grumbled. “Okay, what’s the bad news this time?”
“I’m not sure if my bulletins are good or bad, sir. You might say it depends on how this Empress affair unfolds.”
“That’s hardly reassuring.”
“No, sir.” Klein explained the essence of Jon’s experiences of the last hours, but not the details. “We’re fairly certain that the original invoice manifest must have been destroyed. My people in Iraq have found nothing so far. Colonel Smith is on his way to Hong Kong where we hope the third copy is with Donk & LaPierre.”
The president shook his head. “Sometimes I wish all these multinational corporations and holding companies had never been allowed to come into existence.”
“So do most governments,” Klein agreed.
“What about our other agents in China?”
“Nothing. They haven’t caught a hint of the Empress and its actual cargo from any of their contacts within the Chinese government or the Communist Party.”
Castilla pinched the bridge of his nose, narrowing his eyes. “That’s odd, isn’t it? Beijing is usually rife with rumor and speculation.”
“Colonel Smith and I’ve come to the conclusion that, in fact, Beijing may not know about the contraband.”
The president’s eyebrows rose. “You mean . . . it’s a private venture? A lucrative business deal?”
“With a complication. We think a high Beijing official may be involved, perhaps someone on the Politburo itself.”
The president thought rapidly. “Corruption? Another Chen Xitong situation?”
“Possibly, yes. But there also could be a power struggle within the Politburo. Which . . .”
“Isn’t necessarily good for us.”
“No, sir, it isn’t.”
The president was quiet, lost in thought. So was Klein as he fiddled with his pipe, absently took out his tobacco pouch, then realized what his hands were doing. He hastily returned the fragrant tobacco to his pocket.
Finally, the president hauled himself out of his comfortable recliner and began to pace, his slippers slapping the carpet. “I doubt it makes a damn bit of difference whether Beijing knows. They’ll react the same. They’ll defend the rights of their ships to go anywhere on the high seas with any cargo, whether or not they approve of this one. We still have only one way to prevent the chemicals from reaching Iraq without a confrontation and the resulting consequences.”
“I know, sir. We have to have that manifest to prove to the world—and to China—that we’re not pulling a fast one. But if Beijing isn’t involved and doesn’t know what the Empress is carrying, when we do prove what the cargo is, we should get swift cooperation. They’ll have no reason to cover up. In fact, they’ll want to look as responsible and committed to international peace as everyone else. Or at least we can hope they will.” He studied the president, who still paced the bedroom as if he were entangled in an unseen web. “Is this a good time to update you about David Thayer?”
The president stopped and stared at Klein. “Yes, of course it’s a good time. What more have you learned?”
“One of Covert-One’s assets in China has reported that the prison farm isn’t as tightly guarded as it might be. It’s possible we’ll be able to insert one of my people to make contact and find out what Thayer’s condition is and what he wants.”
“All right,” the president said cautiously. He did not resume pacing.
Klein sensed hesitancy. “Are you reconsidering a rescue incursion, sir?”
“As you said, if Beijing really isn’t involved in sending the Empress to Iraq, they should be more inclined to cooperate, once they have incontrovertible proof. But a clandestine incursion by us, with a goal that can’t help but condemn them before the world, successful or unsuccessful, is going to enrage them.”
Klein had to agree. “True.”
“I can’t risk our nation’s safety or the treaty.”
“Maybe you won’t have to,” Klein said. “We can send in nongovernmental, nonmilitary forces. Strictly volunteers. They’d abort at the first sign of discovery. That way, you preserve full deniability.”
“You could get that many volunteers with training?”
“As many as I want.”
Castilla fell heavily into his armchair. He crossed his legs and rubbed his big chin. “I don’t know. History isn’t kind to private raids into enemy territory.”
“There’s risk, sir. I admit it. But far less than with an official operation.”
The president seemed to accept that. He mused, “Your first step would be to send someone into China to contact Thayer? Find out if he even wants to be rescued rather than wait for the treaty to free him?”
“That and to report on the military conditions, terrain, locations . . . all the details we’ll need if you give the go-ahead.”
“All right. Do it. But make no further move until you clear it with me.”
“That goes without saying.”
“Yes.” The president considered Klein, his expression somber. “He probably gave up on coming home years ago. Ever seeing this country again. It’d mean a lot to me to get him out of there. Imagine being able to give him a final few years of peace and comfort here at home.” He stared past Klein at the White House wall. “It’d be nice to finally meet my father.”
“I know, Sam.”
They exchanged a look across the years.
The president sighed and rubbed his eyes again.
Klein stood and quietly left the bedroom.
Friday, September 15
Hong Kong
The Asian headquarters of Donk & LaPierre, S.A., occupied three floors of a new forty-two-story building in the heart of Central, the main business district of Hong Kong Island. Downtown’s two other districts were Admiralty and Wanchai, the former red-light quarter but now Hong Kong’s third financial district, east of Central. Most skyscrapers in recent years had been built in Central and Admiralty, while new commercial redevelopment projects were under way west of Central. Across the narrowest neck of Victoria Harbor was a fourth section, teeming with activity and humanity—Kowloon, on the mainland.
At exactly noon on Friday, a telephone call came into Donk & LaPierre that bypassed the corporate switchboard and rang in the office of a Mr. Claude Marichal. It did not ring on Marichal’s desk phone, nor on a second phone set on a side table next to an armchair for important visitors. Instead, it rang on what appeared to be an interoffice phone—no dial or button pad. It was stored on the top of a three-shelf bookcase under the windows behind his desk.
Startled, Marichal dropped his pen, swore as the ink splashed on his papers, and swiveled to pick up the receiver. “Yes? May I help you?”
“You may, if you’re Mr. Jan Donk.”
The receiver nearly slipped from Marichal’s grasp. He said quickly, “What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” Keeping his shock under control, he took a deep breath. “Hold on, please. I’ll get him.” He laid the receiver down on top of the bookcase . . . and picked it up again. “It may take a few minutes, so please remain on the line.”
“I’ll stay as long as I can.”
He put the caller on hold, swiveled frantically back to his desk phone, and dialed an extension. “Sir? There’s a call that just came in on the private Donk line, asking for him.”
“Asking for him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s not Yu Yongfu or Mr. McDermid?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Don’t let him hang up.”
“I’ll try.” Marichal ended the connection and swung back to the special phone. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re having some trouble locating Mr. Donk.” He tried to make his voice bright, eager, and helpful. “Perhaps I can help you. If you’ll tell me your business with Jan—?”
“That’s all right, but no thanks.”
A man came into Marichal’s office, tiptoeing, his finger to his lips, and his eyebrows raised in question. Marichal nodded vigorously while racking his brain for a tactic to stall the caller longer. “It’s possible he’s already gone to lunch. Mr. Donk, I mean. Left the building. If you’ll give me your name and number, or perhaps a message, I’m sure he’ll get back to you the moment he comes in. I know he’d hate to miss . . . hello? Hello? Sir? Hello?”
“What happened?”
Marichal peered up as he returned the receiver to its cradle. “He’s gone. I think he figured it out, Mr. Cruyff.”
The man, Charles-Marie Cruyff, nodded. He picked up the receiver of Marichal’s desk phone and asked, “Did you get the trace?”
“He called from a public phone booth in Kowloon.”
“Give me the number and the location.” He wrote it down.
Kowloon
He’d made a mistake. As Jon slammed the phone into the cradle, he knew that. Either the number had been special and unlisted, or Jan Donk did not exist. Or both. Now whoever had answered was alerted that some unauthorized person, speaking American English, knew the number. The only question was whether they had been able to trace his call. That was a question that had only one answer: He must assume they did.
As Major Kenneth St. Germain, Ph.D., wearing a dark-blond wig to match the long hair of the aging hippie and eminent microbiologist, he had landed at Hong Kong International on Lantau Island two hours ago, gone through customs, and taken the Airport Express to the Kowloon Shangri-la Hotel. He wasted no time in his room. After checking the location of Donk & LaPierre, he slid the blond wig into his pocket, donned a new tropical-weight suit, and left the hotel.
The city lay under an oppressive blanket of heat and high humidity that day, unusual for mid-September. Walking out into it was like hitting a wall of diesel fumes and saltwater air, spiced up with the stink of fried meats and fish. He was engulfed by the surging masses of people, cars, and buses that were, if anything, more numerous than in Shanghai. He pushed, dodged, and bumped his way to the Star Ferry terminal, where he had found this public phone.
Now he hurried away, blending into the throngs on the harbor promenade. He looked around for a convenient fast-food kiosk where he could observe the public phone. One thing was to his advantage here—a tall man in Western clothes was only one of thousands walking the Hong Kong streets every day, all of whom must look pretty much alike to the Chinese.
He had eaten only three shrimp by the time the two unmarked black sedans arrived. They were Mercedeses, by the look of them over the distance. Six Chinese men in suits emerged and fanned out. All casually approached the public phone from different directions, scrutinizing everyone. They carried no obvious weapons, but Jon noted telltale buttoned suit jackets and suspicious bulges. There was an anxiety that hovered about them, a touch of angry nervousness.
Not national security or even local police. They were something else.
None had looked at the food kiosk yet. That was too good a piece of luck to test. Besides, he had learned all he was going to. He dropped the remainder of the greasy fried shrimp into a trash can and circled away to the ferry terminal. The next departure for Hong Kong Island was in three minutes. He bought a ticket.
Once aboard, he made his way forward to the bow, thinking about the six men, replaying their faces in his mind so he would remember them. Were they from Feng Dun again?
As he considered that possibility, he raised his gaze, remembering his role as a tourist, and looked out across the channel. No one was prepared for the breathtaking view, no matter how many times they had heard about it or studied photos. Ahead, the scene spread so wide it was impossible to take it all in at once. First were the ships, barges, seagoing yachts, green sampans, and ferries, churning across the aqua waters. Then came the piers, docked ships, and waterfront buildings that skirted the island of Hong Kong. Behind them rose skyscrapers of every height, massed like titans readying an attack, with neon advertising signs as their mammoth insignias. Finally, towering over them were cloud-ringed mountains, serene and timeless. Out in the water to the east, islands rose like pyramids. Altogether, the panorama was as large and stunning as New York’s.
As the ferry left the terminal, the impact of it all moving toward him was palpable. He caught his breath and turned away—and saw two of the six, their hands sliding up under their suit jac
kets, as if checking to make certain their weapons were convenient. They were weaving through the throng. Closing in on him.
Chapter
Sixteen
Manila, The Philippines
Beneath a glassy blue sky and a blistering sun, the modified C-130 landed at Ninoy Aquino International Airport at 1400 hours. It taxied to a remote hangar far from Manila’s commercial terminals, where a camouflaged army command car and armed Humvee were parked inside.
As the hangar door rolled closed, the cargo jet’s door opened, and its stairway unfolded. The uniformed driver of the car jumped out, ran around to the side of the car that faced the jet, and opened the rear door.
Concealed inside the hangar, Secretary of the Army Jasper Kott descended the stairway, four aides following. His smooth features were hidden behind black aviator glasses. As he approached the command car, the driver stood at attention. Elegant as usual in a perfectly tailored, three-piece suit, Kott nodded acknowledgment and stepped into the backseat. His aides climbed into the Humvee.
There was already a passenger inside the command car—a uniformed man who wore on his shoulders the single silver star of a brigadier general. Sitting beside the far window, he drew on a thick cigar and exhaled aromatic smoke. “The cigar bother you, Mr. Secretary?” Brigadier General Emmanuel (“Manny”) Rose asked.
“Not if you need it to think, General.” Kott opened the window as the car pulled away, the Humvee following.
A door the size of an outsized garage door rolled up in the shadowy hangar, and the two vehicles drove through into the sweltering Philippine day.
“On this assignment, I need it for patience.” Rose blew another cloud as the tires droned over the tarmac. “You won’t believe these people.”
“Of course I will. I work in D.C.” Secretary Kott glanced out at the palms and tropical vegetation. The hot air did not bother him. Mango trees crowded together in the distance. Birds in violent colors flew from the branches of hibiscus and bottlebrush trees. Ahead, a mirage shimmered on the pavement. It was at least ten degrees hotter here than in Washington—hot, humid, and fecund.