Then he saw the hand. It was the right one, and it dangled out of the sheets and blanket, over the edge of the bed. It was as slack as the corpse of the housekeeper. As he stared, it twitched. He followed the movement up the arm, under the covers, down the shoulders and chest. Smiling to himself, he withdrew a dagger from inside the waistband of his American jeans, held it point down in his fist, and raised it.
Jon had been watching Charles-Marie Cruyff glide closer to him through a viscous mist, a wicked smile on his face, and a sharp dagger between his teeth. An American frigate sailed after Cruyff, but Jon saw it would arrive too late to help. Besides the pirate dagger, the grinning Cruyff had a red bandanna covering his head and forehead and tied at the nape of his neck. He reached the bed, and . . .
. . . Jon opened his eyes a fraction of an inch. He moved nothing else, only his eyelids. He had been dreaming of Cruyff, but the shadow hovering over his bed was not Cruyff. This was no dream. The faint glow of light that seeped under the corridor door showed the shadow as a lean shape, now not two feet away. A hand rose. Jon saw a glimmer of reflected light. A dagger. Saw it suddenly flash down.
His right hand shot up and caught the wrist. The wrist was so thin he thought it might snap in his grip. Then he felt the strength in it. The shadow reared back like a wild animal in terror. In a convulsion of retreat, the whole body attached to the wrist pulled madly back from Jon’s grip.
Jon tightened his hand and jerked the wrist toward him to shake the dagger free.
But the dagger did not drop. The hand would not release it. Jon hurled himself up, and the rearing shadow fell to the rear, dragging Jon with him, twisting to be free. His momentum fully backward, the man toppled to the floor.
Jon landed on top with his full weight. Abruptly, the man stopped moving. Panting, naked except for his shorts, Jon suddenly felt the chill of the dark room. He heard the muted noises of distant traffic. His attacker did not move.
Jon kept his grip on the killer’s wrist but reached over with his other hand to take the knife. There was no knife. Quickly he felt the carpet around the wrist. No knife there either. But he felt something hot and liquid on his bare chest. There was a faint, metallic stench of fresh blood. Instantly he felt for a pulse in the wrist. There was none.
He jumped up, switched on the light, and drew a sharp breath. The hilt of the dagger protruded from the side of the man’s chest, where it must have been jammed as the man twisted when they fell. A small amount of blood seeped into his black shirt.
Jon took a deep breath. And walked toward the phone on the bed table . . . and stopped. There was no way he could call the Hong Kong police. Questions would be asked.
He returned to the corpse and saw that the blood had not yet oozed to the carpet. He lifted the thin body in his arms. It was light as a baby’s. He carried it to the bathroom, laid it in the tub, and stood back, considering.
The harsh buzz of his cell phone made him whirl. He hurried from the bathroom and pulled the phone out from his bedcovers.
“Fred? I—” he began.
Fred Klein interrupted, his voice bristling with news: “I have two possible candidates for your mystery man—the one who appears to be more important to Donk & LaPierre than Charles-Marie Cruyff. One is a routine guess, the other quite a different pot of fish.”
Jon barely heard. “I just killed a man. He was so small, he looked like an undernourished thirteen-year-old. If I hadn’t turned on the light, I never would’ve guessed he was an adult. He . . .”
The shock was a split second. Then: “Why? Where?”
“He was sent to murder me. Chinese. Here in the hotel.”
Klein’s shock became alarm. “The body’s still there?”
“In the bathtub. No blood on the carpet. We got lucky, didn’t we? I got lucky. He nearly had me. Some hungry guy needed their money, whoever the bastards behind all this are, and I got lucky, and he didn’t.”
“Calm down, Colonel,” Klein snapped. Then, almost gently, “I’m sorry, Jon.”
Jon took a deep breath and steadied himself. For a moment, he felt disgust for being so eager for an “adventure” to break up the monotony of the biomed conference in Taiwan. “Okay, I’ll move the body somewhere. They won’t find a trace here.”
As he spoke, he heard Klein’s opening words in his mind: I have two possible candidates for your mystery man—the one who appears to be more important to Donk & LaPierre than Charles-Marie Cruyff. One is a routine guess, the other quite a different pot of fish.
Somewhere deep inside, he felt himself rally. A wave of rage swept through him, and then dull acceptance. For the first time, he saw how crucial it was to him that he believed he was working for something good. How could anyone do this job otherwise?
He asked briskly, “Tell me about the ‘routine’ candidate for Cruyff’s big boss.”
“That’d be Louis LaPierre,” Fred Klein said. “He’s the chairman and managing director of Donk & LaPierre worldwide. He’s in Antwerp, speaks English, but at the same time is a thoroughgoing Belgian Walloon. His first language would certainly be French, and his second Flemish. It’s highly unlikely he and Cruyff would converse in English.”
“Of course, in Hong Kong almost everyone speaks English. It might’ve been because Cruyff and LaPierre didn’t want lesser mortals in Antwerp to overhear.”
“The possibility occurred to me, too.”
“Who’s the second candidate?” Jon asked.
“That’s where it gets interesting. As it turns out, my financial and corporate experts found a maze of fronts, subsidiaries, and offshore companies masking who ultimately owned Donk & LaPierre itself. Finally, they were able to discover that—big as it is—Donk & LaPierre is a wholly owned subsidiary of a far larger entity, which turns out to be the source of my second candidate: the Altman Group.”
“Never heard of it.”
“You probably have,” Klein assured him, “but you had no reason to pay attention. Most people don’t. Altman employs expensive publicity people to keep it off the front pages. However, Altman’s famous . . . almost mythical . . . in global business circles.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s a multiproduct, multinational conglomerate . . . but it’s also the planet’s largest private equity firm. We’re talking about making and breaking enormous fortunes daily. Now figure in Altman’s executives—insiders from the past four presidential administrations, including a former president, a former secretary of defense, and a former CIA chief. That’s not all. Altman Europe is run by a former British prime minister, with a former German finance minister as second in command. Altman Asia is led by a former Philippine president.”
Jon whistled. “Talk about a golden Rolodex.”
“I’ve never heard of another company with so many political stars on the payroll. Altman’s global headquarters is in Washington, which isn’t particularly unusual. However, its address is more gold—on Pennsylvania Avenue, midway between the White House and the Capitol. Only a fifteen-minute walk either direction.”
“And a stone’s throw from the Hoover building,” Jon decided, seeing the geography in his mind. “Hell, it’s at the very center of the Washington establishment in all ways.”
“Exactly.”
“How could I not know about Altman?”
“As I said, an iron hand when it comes to general publicity.”
“Impressive. Where did it come from?”
“What I’m about to tell you is public information. Anyone could find it, but since Altman keeps such a low profile, few people care. The company started in 1987, when an ambitious federal employee quit his job, borrowed a hundred thousand dollars, and brought in his first political celebrity—a retired senator. With that marquee name, Altman started growing. It bought up companies, held some, and sold others, always for decent profits, sometimes for obscene ones. At the same time, it attracted bigger and bigger names for its letterhead. Today, its political clout and door-opening ability i
s impressive, to say the least. It’s a thirteen-billion-dollar empire, with investments of all sorts around the world. Hell, they’ve probably got something going in Antarctica, too.”
“So what you’re saying is Altman’s basically a giant financial holding company.” Jon considered where it fit into his assignment. “Are the Asian headquarters here in Hong Kong?”
“They are.”
“Does the Philippine ex-president speak nothing but Tagalog and English?”
“No, he’s fluent in at least six languages, including French and Dutch. But he’s not in residence there now. Hasn’t been for months. He’s at a health spa in Sweden. We checked, and he hasn’t had any calls from Hong Kong in weeks.”
“Then who is the second candidate for Cruyff’s boss?”
“Ralph McDermid, the investment guru who founded the company.”
“McDermid? Then where did ‘Altman’ come from?”
“It was his father’s first name,” Klein explained. “Altman McDermid. He was a failed businessman—lost his drugstore in the Depression when he was just starting out, rebuilt it, but lost it again in the 1960s when a big Walgreen store came into the little town in Tennessee where they lived. He never worked again. His wife supported the family by cleaning houses.”
Jon nodded. “Could be Ralph McDermid’s trying to make up for what happened to his father. Or he’s scared to death it’ll happen to him, so he’s building a stockpile against disaster.”
“Or he’s such a financial genius he can’t help himself.” Klein paused. “Ralph McDermid is in Hong Kong right now. He’s an American, speaks nothing but English.”
Jon let that sink in. “All right, I get the picture, but what the hell would Ralph McDermid care about the Empress? It’s just one ship. It seems damn small potatoes for that kind of powerhouse megalith he’s running.”
“True. But our information is solid: The Altman Group owns Donk & LaPierre, and Donk & LaPierre are equal owners with Flying Dragon of the Empress and its cargo. What I need from you—instantly, if not sooner—is that third copy of the manifest. Check into Ralph McDermid. See if you can tie him to the Empress, and see if he has the third copy.”
Friday, September 15
Washington, D.C.
President Castilla paused to find the exact words to convey both the gravity of what he was about to reveal and the justification for holding back as long as he had. He gazed around the highly secure situation room in the basement of the White House, at the five men who sat on either side of him at the conference table. Three looked mildly puzzled.
“Obviously, since we’re meeting here,” he told them, “you know there must be some kind of serious situation. Before I describe it, I’m going to apologize to three of you for not bringing you into the loop sooner, and then I’m going to explain why I don’t have to apologize.”
“We’re at your disposal, Mr. President,” Vice President Brandon Erikson said. He added sincerely, “As always.” Wiry and muscular, Erikson had sable-black hair, regular features, and a casual, Kennedyesque air that voters found disarming. A youthful forty years old, he was renowned for his dynamic personality and energy, but his true strength was his brisk intelligence, which hid political acumen far beyond his years of experience.
“What situation?” Secretary of Defense Stanton wanted to know, suspicion in his voice. He turned to stare around the table, the overhead light making his bald head gleam.
Secretary of State Abner Padgett asked, “Do I gather Admiral Brose and Mr. Ouray already know what you intend to tell us?” His voice was deceptively quiet, but his eyes flashed at the insult. His meaty frame lounged in his armchair, unconsciously displaying his natural self-confidence, the same self-confidence that Castilla relied on over and over again to send into hot spots around the world to cut hard deals and soften hard hearts. Padgett was the best man to dispatch on a touchy diplomatic mission. Contrarily, he had a short fuse at home.
“Admiral Brose had to know,” the president snapped and glared at them. “I told Charlie only this morning, so he could call this meeting. Your reactions are precisely why I don’t have to apologize. There are entirely too many overblown egos and personal agendas in this cabinet and administration. Worse—and all of you know this is the unvarnished truth—some folks are talking to people they shouldn’t, about subjects they shouldn’t. Do I make myself clear?”
Henry Stanton flushed. “You’re referring to the leaks? I hope that isn’t intended to apply to me, sir.”
“I am referring to the leaks, and what I said applies to everyone.” He fixed his glare on Stanton. “I decided that in this situation no one would be told, except on a need-to-know basis. My need for them to know. Not yours. Not anyone else’s either. I stand by that.” His jaw was rock hard. His mouth was grim. His gaze was so flinty as it swept over them that, at that moment, his face could have been carved out of Monument Valley stone.
The vice president was conciliatory. “I’m sure we understand, Mr. President. Decisions like that are difficult, but that’s why we elected you. We knew we could trust you.” He turned to Stanton and Padgett. “Don’t you agree, gentlemen?”
The secretary of defense cleared his throat, chastened. “Of course, Mr. President.”
“Absolutely,” the secretary of state said quickly. “He has the facts.”
“Yes, Abner, I do, such as they are. And now I’ve made the decision that it’s time to bring you in.” He leaned across the table, his hands clasped. “We have a possible repeat of the Yinhe debacle with China.”
As they stared, riveted, their alarm growing, he described what had happened so far, leaving out any specific reference to Covert-One and to the man who claimed to be his father. As he talked, he could see they were already considering how the situation might impact their departments and responsibilities.
When he finished, he nodded to the vice president. “I do apologize to you, Brandon. I should’ve brought you in sooner, in case anything happened to me.”
“It would’ve been better, sir. But I understand. These leaks have made us all leery. Under the circumstances, with secrecy so vital, I probably would’ve acted similarly.”
The president nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Now, let’s discuss what each of us must do to prepare in case this does escalate and we’re forced to go public without proof and stop the Empress on the high seas.”
Admiral Brose spoke up. “We need to assess what China will do next, now that they’ve spotted our frigate. We should also figure the size of a conflict like this into our military plans and appropriations.”
Secretary of State Padgett agreed. “We must think about not only conflict with China, but what we can do to take a strong posture of deterrence.”
“The Cold War all over again?” the vice president wondered. “That’d be a tragedy.” He shrugged unhappily. “But at the moment, I see no alternatives.”
Charles Ouray said, “We’ve got to keep this information confined to those of us here. Is that understood? If the Empress problem leaks, we’ll know it’s one of us.”
Around the table, heads nodded solemnly, and the discussion resumed. As the president listened, a part of his mind began counting—two, four, one, two, two, and one. Among the six men there, they had twelve children. He was surprised that he was aware how many children each had. Surprised, too, that, when he thought about it, he remembered their names. Abner’s youngest had him stumped.
But then, he could recall the children of most of the other people he had worked with over the years. Knew their names a lot of the time, too. For only an instant he wondered what that meant. Then he knew. . . . In his mind, he could see that little boy again, reaching up to the faceless stranger.
There was a pause in the conversation, and he realized they were waiting for him to say something. “State needs to get ready to go into high diplomatic gear. Defense needs to figure out what we’ve got that we can use to scare the shit out of China. The navy needs to come up wit
h alternate plans to board and inspect the Empress.” He slammed his hands on the table and stood up. “End of discussion. That’s all, gentlemen. Thanks for coming.”
Chapter
Twenty
Saturday, September 16
Kowloon
In his hotel room, Jon put on gloves, searched the young man’s pockets, and found a master key, a few coins, and a pack of gum. He put everything back, including the key, and checked the corridor. Deserted. He carried the corpse to the fire stairs landing. The steps reached far up and far down in silence. He climbed two flights and propped the body against the wall of the stairwell.
The dagger still protruded from the emaciated chest. He pulled it out. With the wound open, blood flowed like the Yangtze. Sighing, he left the knife beside the killer and returned downstairs.
Once more in his room, he propped a chair against the door, in case someone else with a master key and a way to flip the chain lock had ideas. Last, he scrubbed the tub and scrutinized the floors and furniture, including the bed. There was no trace of blood, and nothing had been dropped.
With relief, he took a shower. In the steaming water, he scrubbed until his skin glowed, forcing his mind away from the dead man and into the future. As he toweled off, he made plans.
At last, he returned to bed. He lay awake for some time, trying to calm his disquiet as he listened to the occasional night sounds of the hotel, the scattered noise of traffic, and the mournful horns of ships and boats in the harbor. All the sounds of life in a busy city on a busy planet in a busy galaxy in a busy universe. An indifferent universe, and galaxy, and planet, and city.
He listened to the beating of his own heart. To the imagined sound of blood flowing through his veins and arteries. To sounds heard nowhere but in his own mind. Sometime before daybreak, he fell asleep again.
And jerked awake once more. He sat bolt upright. Out in the corridor, the wheels of a room-service cart ferried an early breakfast to someone. The first rays of morning showed around the drapes, while city noises rose and crescendoed. He jumped out of bed and dressed. When the assassin did not report in, and he did not reappear—whether or not the body had been found and the police called—another assassin would eventually be sent.