“Our prisoners are sent to clean and repair the Buddha art. I was interested, so sometimes I was allowed to go, too. In Chinese culture, the old are respected simply because they’ve managed to live a long time, even if they are prisoners.”
At last, the trio of vehicles parked off in the trees. The Uighers jumped out and piled brush on the cars to camouflage them. Thayer walked around, stretching his legs, while Chiavelli accompanied him, keeping close watch.
“Time to go,” Jon told the two at last. He gave Chiavelli the limo’s keys. “Asgar’s written out directions to the hideout. If we’re not back by dawn, you’ll have to take him there yourself.”
“No problem. Then what?”
“Asgar’s sister, Alani, will smuggle you both to the best border.”
“Got it. Good luck.” Chiavelli looked at him a moment, understanding passing between them, and he ushered Thayer toward the limo.
As they climbed into the front seat, Thayer’s voice became shy. “Did you ever meet my son, Dennis? What can you tell me about him?” The captain’s answer was lost with the closing of the doors.
The Uighers finished camouflaging the limo. With weapons, flashlights, and maps, Asgar led them off onto a path filled with shadows and dark trees and plants that brushed against them. The fecund scent of growing things was all around them. One of the Uighers had been to the grotto, and he gave his opinions, which Asgar translated for Jon. Avoiding the usual routes, they climbed uphill single file, trying not to stumble on loose stones or fall against rocks into the brush.
As the trail flattened, Jon said, “Asgar, when we get near the Sleeping Buddha, we’ll stop just above and to the side. We’ll use the vegetation for cover.”
“You give the orders this time, my friend.”
“We’ll take positions where we can see anyone who comes down from the entrance steps as well as whoever stops in front of the Buddha. My intelligence agrees with what Dr. Thayer said—there are a lot of places to hide among the statues and carvings. That’s going to make our job even harder. Spread your men out so we can watch as much of the grotto as possible.”
“Sounds like a bit of a challenge,” Asgar said dryly. “How long do we have?”
“No way to know. The ‘meet’ may end up being at dawn after all.”
“Daylight won’t be kind to us. If you’re planning to get the manifest out of China, we’d jolly well better be halfway to the border by sunrise.”
“I expect everything to blow up long before then. Daylight won’t be kind to them either.”
They lapsed into silence. The group kept their voices low and their footsteps careful as their path headed downhill. As Thayer promised, a riot of vegetation surrounded them. Above, the moon illuminated the tops of trees and bushes and created black, impenetrable shadows beneath. Ahead waited the Sleeping Buddha, where Jon would face Feng Dun and Li Kuonyi once more, and where, one way or the other, the mission would end.
Chapter
Forty-One
The Arabian Sea
The communications technician turned from his radio controls. “It’s the Shiloh, sir. They want our exact position now and our estimated position in ten hours.”
Lt. Commander Frank Bienas leaned over the radioman. “Send our present fix. I’ll work out the estimated. But tell them ten hours won’t cut it.”
Bienas sat down and went to work on the chart. The radioman sent the exec’s message to the approaching cruiser and leaned back to wait for the response. He stretched in his seat, nearing the end of his watch and aching from the long hours they had been putting in. Bienas continued to plot the Crowe’s projected course and finally sat back, too, shaking his head.
The radioman was listening on his earphones. He called over his shoulder, “Shiloh says ten hours is the best they can do to get here. They’re pouring on all they’ve got already.”
“You tell ’em by then we’ll be in the Gulf, and that’s way too chancy. They need to be here in under six, or they might as well go home and bake cookies.” Worried, he announced, “Anyone wants me, I’m on the bridge.” He made his way up and out to the dark deck and on up to the bridge, where Commander Chervenko had taken charge an hour ago.
When Bienas entered, Chervenko’s night binoculars were directed toward the distant running lights of The Dowager Empress. “She’s picked up a knot in the last hour. Like a dog smelling home.”
“The Shiloh says ten hours,” Bienas reported.
Chervenko did not turn or lower his binoculars. “Brose did the best he could. Trouble was, the Fifth Fleet’s too far south, and we’re moving away from them. They’ll never reach us in time.”
“Not much they could do we can’t anyway,” Bienas decided, sounding tough and optimistic.
“Except be twice as formidable.” The skipper was realistic. “What’s the sub doing?”
“Holding steady. Hastings says he’s picking up what sounds like prepping for attack. There’s activity in the forward torpedo room.”
“They know we’re close to showdown time, Frank. We can’t let the Empress get into the Persian Gulf. We’d be vulnerable to land-based air attack, torpedo boats, you name it, and no telling who’d get enthusiastic and want to join the act. Tehran might decide their interests were involved, too, and then we’d have one hell of a swell party.”
Bienas nodded grimly. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the commander, staring out through the night at the running lights ahead as both ships sailed steadily closer to confrontation.
Dazu
“There it is.” Asgar’s voice was low but full of uncharacteristic awe.
He and Jon stopped among the thick canopy of trees and heavy underbrush. They had come to an opening slightly above and to the side, on the same flank of the mountainside as the carvings. Although they could not see the full scope of the thousands of pieces of rock art that extended hundreds of meters, the painted Sleeping Buddha itself and the statues around it spread before them in a breathtaking panorama, glowing in the candle-wax moonlight.
The other Uighers stopped to stare, too. The giant Sleeping Buddha reclined on his right side in the center of the horseshoe-shaped cliff. Its back sunk into the cliff, the Buddha was more than a hundred feet long and almost twenty feet high, a rendition of Prince Sakyamuni sleeping the sleep of the Enlightened as he entered Nirvana. Puny next to him, life-sized statues of Bodhisattvas and period officials wearing hats stood in a stone stream so close they could touch him. Protected from the weather only by the rock overhang that David Thayer had described, the timeless Sleeping Buddha was in full, spectral view.
Where they had stopped was a good place to set up watch. Jon and Asgar dispersed the Uighers into the undergrowth and found positions for themselves near each other, to make issuing orders easier. Under a tree, they began the wait, which could be long or short. In either case, Jon kept his excitement under control. He had been close to taking the manifest before, and each time he had failed. He would get no other chance. He dismissed a shiver of anxiety and studied the display of carvings, memorizing it, so if either group arrived and hid, he would have the panorama firmly in mind. He could afford no more mistakes.
Other carved figures in various niches stretched around the stone crescent. Stone statues guarded the dark openings of caves. Low, painted steel fences separated most of the carvings from the public, which would arrive tomorrow morning. No one was around, not tourists, not vendors, not spiritual seekers, not police. The darkness stirred only with a light wind, small animals rustling away, and night birds flapping into hiding.
“When do you think someone’s going to appear?” Asgar kept his voice hushed. “Morning’s not so far away.”
“No idea. As I said, the meeting was to happen by daylight, but my instincts tell me they’ll show up long before then.”
“Better be before the tourists.”
“I hope so. But Li Kuonyi and Yu Yongfu might want the cover of crowds. Still, they must realize by now that Feng Dun will
kill anyone in his way to get the manifest, so crowds won’t be much help. No, they’ll expect something underhanded from Feng, which tells me they’ll arrive early. Early enough to be here before Feng, so they can set a countertrap.”
But despite Jon’s carefully thought-out assessment, he was wrong. Less than a half hour later, there was movement at the top of the stone stairs on the other side of the Sleeping Buddha. Jon focused his night-vision binoculars. There were five men, three of whom Jon recognized from Hong Kong and Shanghai—part of Feng Dun’s gang. All were armed with what looked like British assault rifles. But Feng was not among them.
“Damn,” Jon breathed.
“What is it? Trouble?” Asgar stared through the night to where Jon was watching the men make their way down the stairs into the valley and the crescent of carvings.
“Feng Dun’s not with them,” Jon said. He stopped and stared. He swore. “That’s one hell of a surprise.”
As the five men continued downward, another man had appeared in the moonlight and started down, too, carrying a medium-sized suitcase. Ralph McDermid himself.
“It’s McDermid. The big honcho we think masterminded the whole deal.”
“The muckity-muck himself? Isn’t that odd?”
“Maybe not. Feng’s gotten the manifest only once. He’s botched it every other time. McDermid might’ve decided to take no chances. He’s probably decided that Li Kuonyi and her husband would tend to trust him more. If the two million isn’t legitimate, they know he can’t stall and blame someone else to gain time. On the other hand, maybe he’s here because he no longer trusts Feng.”
“He might’ve bribed his people away from him,” Asgar said.
“Right. Still, I don’t like unexpected developments from the enemy. It usually means I’ve missed something.”
The armed band continued to descend warily and in open order, looking as if they were guarding against an ambush.
McDermid halted the group at least twenty feet above the grotto floor and motioned them to hide facing the Sleeping Buddha. The Altman CEO used a bush for cover.
Asgar said, “Looks as if McDermid expects Yu and Li to come down the stairs, too. He’d be able to confront them there.”
If that was what McDermid had in mind, this time he was the one who was wrong. A burly man appeared first, walking alertly alongside the Sleeping Buddha in the moonlight. He came not down the stairs but emerged from somewhere to the Buddha’s right, from among the statuary, just as David Thayer had suggested was possible. Through Jon’s binoculars, he saw what appeared to be a 9mm Glock tucked inside the man’s waistband in front.
Li Kuonyi followed onto the grotto walkway. She stopped beside the burly man and gazed all around. She wore a sleek, black pantsuit and a high-collared hooded jacket against the chill of the mountain mists and carried an attaché case, where the manifest likely was. Jon strained to see her face, but her high collar covered much of it, and her hair was hidden beneath the hood. Still, he had no doubt who she was. He would not soon forget the image of her drinking alone in the silent mansion in Shanghai.
The man who walked close behind as if afraid to be alone was somewhere in his early thirties, with a boyish face and a slim, wiry body. A man who watched his weight and took very good care of himself. But not now. Strain showed in his glazed eyes and furrowed brow. He looked dissipated and frightened. Days with little sleep had taken their toll on the man Jon suspected was Li Kuonyi’s husband, Yu Yongfu. He wore a crumpled Italian suit that was probably custom made, a wilted regimental tie loose at the throat, scuffed dress boots, and a wrinkled white-and-blue-striped shirt. He stayed close behind his wife, his gaze darting nervously into every shadow.
A fourth person—another man—glided out of the dark to join them. Jon did not recognize him. Slimmer, his eyes had an unnatural gleam, like a bipolar patient in a manic state. Clearly another enforcer and far more dangerous.
With Li Kuonyi in the lead, the four walked past the Sleeping Buddha and peered up the stone steps.
She set the attaché case on the ground and called out in English, “Feng? I know you’re there. We heard you. Do you have our money?”
Monday, September 18
Washington, D.C.
Admiral Stevens Brose announced, “Three hours, sir.”
“Don’t you think I can count, Admiral!” the president snapped. He blinked and took a long breath. “Sorry, Stevens. It’s this waiting and not knowing what, if anything, is happening. We’ve been down to counting minutes before, but those were attacks initiated by an enemy, and all we could do was use everything we had to stop the attack. This is different. This is a confrontation we initiated, where we can’t use anything we have, and soon I’m going to have to give an order that could send us, China, and the rest of the world into a war none of us will be able to control. There’s someone in China who wants that, and he’ll be there to act—retaliate—as soon as we move on the Empress.”
They were alone in the situation room. The admiral had requested the meeting, and the president had thought it best to talk where no one else could hear them. All the high-ranking military and civilian defense personnel were already walking on nails, and the talkative West Wing staff was oddly silent, as if holding their collective breath.
“I don’t envy you, sir.”
President Castilla gave a humorless laugh. “Everyone envies me, Stevens. Haven’t you heard? I’m the most powerful person on earth, and everyone wants to be me.”
“Yessir,” the admiral said. “The Shiloh isn’t going to get there in time.”
“Then may God, and our man in China, help us.”
Tuesday, September 17
Dazu
There was an electric pause as Li Kuonyi and her terrified husband waited for Feng Dun to appear.
Through his binoculars, Jon watched Ralph McDermid’s emphatic but whispered orders to his men. From the distance and in the green glow of night vision, Jon thought the Altman CEO was telling them to stand by, on no account to do anything without his signal.
Then McDermid stood up from beneath his bush and descended the stairs, smiling and carrying the suitcase.
He had nearly reached the bottom, when Li Kuonyi announced, “That’s far enough.”
“She’s speaking English,” Asgar noted.
“If her gunmen don’t know English, then it’s a good way to make certain they don’t really understand what’s going on,” Jon said.
“Who are you?” she asked McDermid suspiciously. “Where’s Feng Dun?”
“I’m Ralph McDermid, Mrs. Yu. I’m the one who’s going to pay you two million dollars.” He patted his suitcase.
Jon saw Yu Yongfu whisper in his wife’s ear. Her eyes widened, as if Yu had confirmed McDermid’s identity. “Is that the cash?”
“Indeed, it is,” McDermid said. “Is the document in your attaché case?” With the toe of her shoe, Li touched the case. “Yes. But before you have any ideas about taking it from us by force with the men you’ve hidden up there, you should know the case is booby-trapped. I’ll trigger it the moment you make one wrong move. Is that clear?”
McDermid smiled at Li Kuonyi as if she were the most delectable woman he had ever seen. As if he enjoyed every moment of doing business with her, and Jon understood for the first time the false face McDermid showed the world was, to him, simply business. Even in pleasure, it was no doubt business. And, of course, all business was pleasure, a game to be won, the higher the stakes, the better. Life as transaction. It was an automatic reaction, like breathing.
“Perfectly,” he told her in his genial voice. “You’ll want to count the money, of course.”
“Of course. Bring it down here and return to where you are now.”
McDermid descended the final few feet, laid his suitcase flat on the ground, and climbed backward, never taking his gaze from Li and the three men, while above him his hidden gunmen waited with their assault weapons aimed.
A sense of excited expectanc
y radiated from the couple even from where Jon, Asgar, and the Uigher fighters watched from the hillside. The husband and wife glanced at each other, their eyes alight.
Li Kuonyi told Yu, “Examine it, my husband.”
His face eager, Yu squatted and unhooked the clasps on the suitcase. For a moment, Li Kuonyi and the two bodyguards took their eyes off the hill to watch the suitcase’s lid being raised. That was their mistake.
As if on signal, Feng Dun arose from the thick shrubs on the slope above where McDermid’s five men lay, an assault rifle in his large hands. He fired, and the long bank facing the Sleeping Buddha erupted in a barrage of automatic fire. The noise was volcanic, shattering the stillness of the night, as the bullets whined and screamed, hailing down on Li Kuonyi, her husband, and their two bodyguards. None had a chance.
Li Kuonyi’s throat was nearly severed, blood spouting as she fell. As bullets riddled his chest, Yu Yongfu surged up then collapsed over the suitcase. The beefy bodyguard was still trying to understand what was happening when he was cut down. Only the second gunman managed to get his pistol halfway out before he slammed back against the low steel fence in front of the Sleeping Buddha and catapulted over in slow motion, blood spraying out from bullet holes throughout his body.
On the hill between Feng’s men and the floor of the valley, the five who had arrived with McDermid lay dead in the undergrowth, too.
As the valley turned sepulchral with shocked silence, McDermid froze where he stood, his mouth open in shock. Feng and a dozen men burst from the bushes and spilled down the steps.
Ralph McDermid screamed, his face a deep, choleric red: “I told you to stay away! I told you I would handle it! What have you done, you idiot!”
“What have I done, Taipan?” Feng said as he reached the corpses. “I’ve made certain the manifest will not fall into American or Chinese hands. I’ve earned two million dollars. Perhaps most personally important, I’ve eliminated an insolent, worthless, rich American.”