“The price of another mistake on our part could be particularly high for us, too, now that they’re close to signing our human-rights treaty.”
In exchange for financial and trade concessions from the U.S., for which the president had cajoled and arm-twisted a reluctant Congress, China had all but committed to signing a bilateral human-rights agreement that would open its prisons and criminal courts to U.N. and U.S. inspectors, bring its criminal and civil courts closer to Western and international principles, and release longtime political prisoners. Such a treaty had been a high-priority goal for American presidents since Dick Nixon.
Sam Castilla wanted nothing to stop it. In fact, it was a long-standing dream of his, too, for personal as well as human-rights reasons. “It’s also a damned dangerous situation. We can’t allow this ship . . . what was it, The Dowager Empress?”
Klein nodded.
“We can’t allow The Dowager Empress to sail into Basra with weapons-making chemicals. That’s the bottom line. Period.” Castilla stood and paced. “If your intelligence turns out to be good, and we go after this Dowager Empress, how are the Chinese going to react?” He shook his head and waved away his own words. “No, that’s not the question, is it? We know how they’ll react. They’ll shake their swords, denounce, and posture. The question is what will they actually do?” He looked at Klein. “Especially if we’re wrong again?”
“No one can know or predict that, Mr. President. On the other hand, no nation can maintain massive armies and nuclear weapons without using them somewhere, sometime, if for no other reason than to justify the costs.”
“I disagree. If a country’s economy is good, and its people are happy, a leader can maintain an army without using it.”
“Of course, if China wants to use the incident as an excuse that they’re being threatened, they might invade Taiwan,” Fred Klein continued. “They’ve wanted to do that for decades.”
“If they feel we won’t retaliate, yes. There’s Central Asia, too, now that Russia is less of a regional threat.”
The Covert-One chief said the words neither wanted to think: “With their long-range nuclear weapons, we’re as much a target as any country.”
Castilla shook off a shudder. Klein removed his glasses and massaged his temples. They were silent.
At last, the president sighed. He had made a decision. “All right, I’ll have Admiral Brose order the navy to follow and monitor The Dowager Empress. We’ll label it routine at-sea surveillance with no revelation of the actual situation to anyone but Brose.”
“The Chinese will find out we’re shadowing their ship.”
“We’ll stall. The problem is, I don’t know how long we’ll be able to get away with it.” The president went to the door and stopped. When he turned, his face was long and somber, his jowls pronounced. “I need proof, Fred. I need it now. Get me that manifest.”
“You’ll have it, Sam.”
His big shoulders hunched with worry, President Castilla nodded, opened the door, and walked away. One of the secret service agents closed it.
Alone again, Klein frowned, contemplating his next step. As he heard the engine of the president’s car hum to life, he made a decision. He swiveled to the small table behind his chair, on which two phones sat. One was red—a single, direct, scrambled line to the president. The other was blue. It was also scrambled. He picked up the blue phone and dialed.
Wednesday, September 13
Kaohsiung, Taiwan
After a medium-rare hamburger and a bottle of Taiwanese lager at Smokey Joe’s on Chunghsiao-1 Road, Jon Smith decided to take a taxi to Kaohsiung Harbor. He still had an hour before his afternoon meetings resumed at the Grand Hi-Lai Hotel, when his old friend, Mike Kerns from the Pasteur Institute in Paris, would meet him there.
Smith had been in Kaohsiung—Taiwan’s second-largest city—nearly a week, but today was the first chance he’d had to explore. That kind of intensity was what usually happened at scientific conferences, at least in his experience. Assigned to the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases—USAMRIID—he was a medical doctor and biomolecular scientist as well as an army lieutenant colonel. He had left his work on defenses against anthrax to attend this one—the Pacific Rim International Assembly on Developments in Molecular and Cell Biology.
But scientific conferences, like fish and guests, got stale after three or four days. Hatless, in civilian clothes, he strode along the waterfront, marveling at the magnificent harbor, the third-largest container port in the world, after Hong Kong and Singapore. He had visited here years ago, before a tunnel was built to the mainland and the paradisaical island became just another congested part of the container port. The day was postcard clear, so he was able to easily spot Hsiao Liuchiu Island, low on the southern horizon.
He walked another fifteen minutes through the sun-hazed day as seagulls circled overhead and the clatter of a harbor at work filled his ears. There was no sign here of the strife over Taiwan’s future, whether it would remain independent or be conquered or somehow traded off to mainland China, which still claimed it as its own.
At last, he hailed a cab to take him back to the hotel. He had hardly settled into the backseat when his cell phone vibrated inside his sport jacket. It was not his regular phone, but the special one in the hidden pocket. The phone that was scrambled.
He answered quietly, “Smith.”
Fred Klein asked, “How’s the conference, Colonel?”
“Getting dull,” he admitted.
“Then a small diversion won’t be too amiss.”
Smith smiled inwardly. He was not only a scientist, but an undercover agent. Balancing the two parts of his life was seldom easy. He was ready for a “small diversion,” but nothing too big or too engrossing. He really did want to get back to the conference. “What do we have this time, Fred?”
From his distant office on the bank of the Anacostia River, Klein described the situation.
Smith felt a chill that was both apprehension and anticipation. “What do I do?”
“Go to Liuchiu Island tonight. You should have plenty of time. Rent or bribe a boat out of Linyuan, and be on the island by nine. At precisely ten, you’ll be at a small cove on the western shore. The exact location, landmarks, and local designation have been faxed to a Covert-One asset at the American Institute in Taiwan. They’ll be hand-delivered to you.”
“What happens at the cove?”
“You meet another Covert-One, Avery Mondragon. The recognition word is ‘orchid.’ He’ll deliver an envelope with The Dowager Empress’s actual manifest, the one that’s the basis for the bill to Iraq. After that, go directly to the airport in Kaohsiung. You’ll meet a chopper there from one of our cruisers lying offshore. Give the pilot the invoice manifest. Its final destination is the Oval Office. Understood?”
“Same recognition word?”
“Right.”
“Then what?”
Smith could hear the chief of Covert-One puffing on his pipe. “Then you can go back to your conference.”
The phone went dead. Smith grinned to himself. A straightforward, uncomplicated assignment.
Moments later, the taxi pulled up in front of the Hi-Lai Hotel. He paid the driver and walked into the lobby, heading for the car rental desk. Once the courier had arrived from Taipei, he would drive down the coast to Linyuan and find a fishing boat to take him quietly to Liuchiu. If he could not find one, he would rent one and pilot it himself.
As he crossed the lobby, a short, brisk Chinese man jumped up from an armchair to block his way. “Ah, Dr. Smith, I have been waiting for you. I am honored to meet you personally. Your paper on the late Dr. Chambord’s theoretical work with the molecular computer was excellent. Much food for thought.”
Smith smiled in acknowledgment of both greeting and compliment. “You flatter me, Dr. Liang.”
“Not at all. I wonder whether you could possibly join me and some of my colleagues from the Shanghai Biomedical Institute
for dinner tonight. We are keenly interested in the work of both USAMRIID and the CDC on emerging viral agents that threaten all of us.”
“I’d very much like that,” Smith said smoothly, giving his voice a tinge of regret, “but tonight I have another engagement. Perhaps you are free some other time?”
“With your permission, I will contact you.”
“Of course, Dr. Liang.” Jon Smith continued on to the desk, his mind already on Liuchiu Island and tonight.
Chapter
Two
Washington, D.C.
Wide and physically impressive, Admiral Stevens Brose filled his chair at the foot of the long conference table in the White House underground situation room. He took off his cap and ran his hand over his gray military buzz cut, amazed—and worried—by what he saw. President Castilla, as always, occupied the chair at the head. But they were the only two in the large room, drinking their morning cups of coffee. The rows of seats at the long table around them were ominous in their emptiness.
“What chemicals, Mr. President?” Admiral Brose asked. He was also the chairman of the joint chiefs.
“Thiodiglycol—”
“Blister weapons.”
“—and thionyl chloride.”
“Blister and nerve gases. Damn painful and lethal, all of them. A wretched way to die.” The admiral’s thin mouth and big chin tightened. “How much is there?”
“Tens of tons.” President Castilla’s grim gaze was fixed on the admiral.
“Unacceptable. When—” Brose stopped abruptly, and his pale eyes narrowed. He took in all the empty chairs at the long table. “I see. We’re not going to stop The Dowager Empress en route and search her. You want to keep our intelligence about the situation secret.”
“For now, yes. We don’t have concrete proof, any more than we did with the Yinhe. We can’t afford another international incident like that, especially with our allies less ready to back us in military actions, and the Chinese close to signing our human-rights accord.”
Brose nodded. “Then what do you want me to do, sir? Besides keeping a lid on it?”
“Send one ship to keep tabs on the Empress. Close enough to move in, but out of sight.”
“Out of sight maybe, but they’ll know she’s there. Their radar will pick her up. If they’re carrying contraband, their captain at least should know. He’ll be keeping his crew hyperalert.”
“Can’t be helped. That’s the situation until I have absolute proof. If things turn rocky, I expect you and your people to not let them escalate into a confrontation.”
“We have someone getting confirmation?”
“I hope so.”
Brose pondered. “She loaded up the night of the first, late?”
“That’s my information.”
Brose was calculating in his mind. “If I know the Chinese and Shanghai, she didn’t sail until early on the second.” He reached for the phone at his elbow, glanced at the president. “May I, sir?”
Samuel Castilla nodded.
Brose dialed and spoke into the phone. “I don’t care how early it is, Captain. Get me what I need.” He waited, hand again running back over his short hair. “Right, Hong Kong registry. A bulk carrier. Fifteen knots. You’re certain? Very well.” He hung up. “At fifteen knots, that’s eighteen days, give or take, to Basra with a stop in Singapore, which is the usual course. If she left around midnight on the first, she should arrive early in the morning on the nineteenth, Chinese time, at the Strait of Hormuz. Three hours earlier Persian Gulf time, and evening of the eighteenth our time. It’s the thirteenth now, so in five-plus days she should reach the Hormuz Strait, which is the last place we can legally board her.” His voice rose with concern. “Just five days, sir. That’s our time frame to figure out this mess.”
“Thanks, Stevens. I’ll pass it on.”
The admiral stood. “One of our frigates would be best for what you want. Enough muscle, but not overkill. Small enough that there’s a chance she’ll be overlooked for a time, if the radar man’s asleep or lazy.”
“How soon can you get one there?”
Brose picked up the phone once more. This time, his conversation was even briefer. He hung up. “Ten hours, sir.”
“Do it.”
Liuchiu Island, Taiwan
By the green glow of his combat watch, agent Jon Smith read the dial once more—2203—and silently swore. Mondragon was late.
Crouched low in front of the razor-sharp coral formation that edged the secluded cove, he listened, but the only sound was the soft surge of the South China Sea as it washed up onto the dark sand and slid back with an audible hiss. The wind was a bare whisper. The air smelled of salt water and fish. Down the coast, boats were harbored, motionless, glowing in the moonlight. The day tourists had left on the last ferry from Penfu.
In other small coves up and down the western coast of the tiny island, a few people camped, but in this cove there was only the wash of the sea and the distant glow of Kaohsiung’s lights, some twenty kilometers to the northeast.
Smith checked his watch again—2206. Where was Mondragon?
The fishing boat from Linyuan had landed him in Penfu harbor two hours ago. There he had hired a motorcycle and driven off on the road that encircled the island. When he found the landmark described in his directions, he hid the cycle in bushes and made his way here on foot.
Now it was already 2210, and he waited restlessly, uneasily. Something had gone wrong.
He was about to leave his cover to make a cautious search when he felt the coarse sand move. He heard nothing, but the skin on his neck crawled. He gripped his 9mm Beretta, tensed to turn and dive sideways to the sand and rocks, when a sharp, urgent whisper of hot breath seared his ear:
“Don’t move!”
Smith froze.
“Not a finger.” The low voice was inches from his ear. “Orchid.”
“Mondragon?”
“It’s not the ghost of Chairman Mao,” the voice responded wryly. “Although he may be lurking here somewhere.”
“You were followed?”
“Think so. Not sure. If I was, I shook them.”
The sand moved again, and Avery Mondragon materialized, crouching beside Smith. He was short, dark-haired, and lean, like an oversized jockey. Hard-faced and hungry looking, too, with a predator’s eyes. His gaze flitted everywhere—around the shadows of the cove, at the phosphorescent surge of the sea on the beach, and out toward the grotesque shapes of coral jutting like statues from the dusky sea beyond the surf.
Mondragon said, “Let’s get this over. If I’m not in Penfu by 2330, I don’t make it back to the mainland by morning. If I don’t make it back, my cover’s blown.” He turned his gaze onto Smith. “So you’re Lieutenant Colonel Smith, are you? I’ve heard rumors. You’re supposed to be good. I hope half the rumors are true. What I’ve got for you is damn near radioactive.”
He produced a plain, business-size envelope and held it up.
“That’s the goods?” Smith asked.
Mondragon nodded and tucked it back inside his jacket. “There’s some background you need to tell Klein.”
“Let’s get on with it then.”
“Inside the envelope’s what The Dowager Empress is really carrying. On the other hand, the so-called official manifest—the one filed with the export board—is smoke and mirrors.”
“How do you know?”
“Because this one’s got an invoice stamped with the ‘chop’—the personal Chinese character seal—of the CEO, as well as the official company seal, and it’s addressed to a company in Baghdad for payment. This manifest also indicates three copies were made. The second copy is certainly in Baghdad or Basra since it’s an invoice for the goods to be paid for. I don’t know where the third copy is.”
“How can you be sure you don’t have the copy filed with the export board?”
“Because I’ve seen it, as I said. The contraband isn’t listed on it. The CEO’s seal is missing.”
Smith frowned. “Still, that doesn’t sound as if what you’ve got there is guaranteed.”
“Nothing’s guaranteed. Anything can be faked—character seals can be counterfeited, and companies in Baghdad can be dummies. But this is an invoice manifest and has all the correct signs of an interoffice and intercompany document sent to the receiving company for payment. It’s enough to justify President Castilla’s ordering the Empress stopped on the high seas and our boys taking an intimate look, if we have to. Besides, it’s a lot more ‘probable cause’ than the rumors we had with the Yinhe, and if it is fake, it proves there’s a conspiracy inside China to stir up trouble. No one can blame us, not even Beijing, for taking precautions.”
Smith nodded. “I’m convinced. Give it to—”
“There’s something else.” Mondragon glanced around at the shadows of the tiny cove. “One of my assets in Shanghai told me a story you’d better pass on to Klein. It’s not in the paperwork, for obvious reasons. He says there’s an old man being held in a low-security prison farm near Chongqing—that’s Chiang Kaishek’s old World War Two capital, ‘Chungking’ to Americans. He claims he’s been jailed in one place or another in China since 1949, when the Communists beat Chiang and took over the country. My asset says the guy speaks Mandarin and other dialects, but he sure as hell doesn’t look Chinese. The old man insists he’s an American named David Thayer.” He paused and stared, his expression unreadable. “And, hold on to your hat . . . he claims he’s President Castilla’s real father.”
Smith stared. “You can’t be serious. Everyone knows the president’s father was Serge Castilla, and he’s dead. The press covers that family like a blanket.”
“Exactly. That’s what caught my interest.” Mondragon related more details. “My asset says he used the exact phrase, ‘President Castilla’s real father.’ If the guy’s a fraud, why make up a yarn so easily disproved?”
It was a good question. “How reliable is your asset?”
“He’s never steered me wrong or fed me disinformation that I’ve caught.”