Kerr acted startled as she lied smoothly, “No, I didn’t. You mean . . . they’re still active? All of them, back to the sixteenth century?”
LaPierre nodded. “Of course, early records were few, and trade was far simpler then. Those from the twentieth century prior to the last five years are on microfilm.”
Kerr frowned. “That creates a bit of a problem. I mean, you can’t very well have me bumbling around in your files during business hours, can you?”
“Actually, the archives are set off by themselves, so that is not the problem. No, the trouble comes from another direction. We no longer let independent researchers in. In fact, the last time we did officially was a decade ago, and of course, he had lied to us. He was actually searching for the company’s collusion with the Nazis—”
“And, of course, there was none,” Kerr echoed. “Not a shred of evidence.”
“Exactly. But as soon as the world learned he suspected that there was . . .” He did not finish the sentence.
“It must have been very bad for business. So the problem is that you’re willing to let me do my research, but you’d rather not let anyone know of it until I can credit the company generously in the novel?”
“Yes, yes. I am pleased you understand. We have had success in the past with allowing a few select researchers in at night to work after hours. Would you be willing to do that?”
“Well . . .” Kerr considered. “I suppose I can change my schedule. I am excited about the early history of Donk & LaPierre.”
“Very well. Then it is done. Our security will be alerted. I, myself, often work late. You must take no documents from the building though. Our archivist will show you around so you can orient yourself and learn how to properly handle the oldest papers.”
Kerr smiled. “Very gracious of you. How can I do anything but accept gladly?”
“When would you care to start?”
“Would tonight be too soon?”
“Tonight?” For a moment, there was a flicker of doubt in LaPierre’s face. “Of course. I will instruct my assistant to give you a letter and a badge. He will introduce you to the archivist, too.”
Dianne Kerr stood. “You’re most kind. I promise to not get in your way.”
“I trust you completely.”
Chapter
Twenty-Five
Dianne Kerr presented herself at the locked front doors of Donk & LaPierre precisely at eight P.M., casually dressed in black jeans, a black turtleneck, black cotton socks, navy-blue running shoes, and a tan leather jacket. She carried a briefcase.
The guard at the door nodded. “Good evening. Mevrouw Kerr, is it?” His English had a heavy Dutch accent.
“That I am.” She showed the letter and her badge.
“You will hang the badge around your neck, please, and open your briefcase.”
She opened it, revealing yellow writing pads, Post-it notes, a French dictionary, a Dutch-Flemish dictionary, current world almanac, and ballpoint pens.
The guard nodded. “A writer’s tools, ja?”
“Nothing changes.” Kerr smiled.
Once inside, she climbed to the top floor, where the archives were housed. Besides the chairman’s office, the archives were the only other occupant. Cavernous, filled with filing cabinets, the room smelled faintly antiseptic. The ventilation and temperature-control system burred softly in the background. According to the archivist, the system was oversized and had special filters to keep the air clean, which helped to preserve the documents.
Kerr took out a yellow writing pad and carried the very first handwritten file of Jan Donk Imports to a narrow table lined with rows of tall wood chairs. The documents were grayed and fragile. Handling them carefully, she read and made notes.
Four hours later, Monsieur LaPierre himself was finally gone, security had finished its midnight rounds, and the building was as silent as a vault. Kerr opened her briefcase once more and pressed a brass fitting. A hidden compartment opened, and she extracted a miniature camera and a pair of thin, latex gloves. As she pulled on the gloves, she strode to the other end of the archives, to the last file cabinet, which housed current correspondence and reports.
It was fastened with a combination lock.
Kerr pressed her ear to the lock and turned the dial. She could feel its guts through her fingers . . . the faint click as a tumbler fell, then another, and another. Her heart rate accelerated, and the lock opened. She thumbed through the folders until she found her target: Flying Dragon Enterprises, Shanghai. Looking quickly around, she removed the file. As she examined each paper inside, every tiny sound in the old building made her pause.
When she found the right document, a ship’s manifest, she allowed herself a quick smile of relief. She had no idea why it was wanted, but she was often able to uncover the reasons for her assignments eventually. Perhaps this one would give her the basis for another thriller. She photographed it, put it back into the file exactly where it had been, returned the file to the cabinet, and relocked it. Removing her gloves, she hurried back to her briefcase.
She packed it quickly and studied the archive room one last time to be sure she had left not the slightest trace. At last, she turned off the lights and headed for the door.
On the first floor, she made enough noise to alert the dozing security guard.
“You are finished, Mevrouw Kerr?”
“For tonight. There’s only so much reading and scribbling one can do.”
The guard chuckled and crooked his finger. Kerr opened her briefcase, and he leafed through her voluminous notes, made sure there were no original documents, nodded, and shut the lid. “You go home now?”
“I think an ale or two and then to bed.”
“Ja, goede nacht.”
Outside, Dianne Kerr smiled to herself. She would, of course, return at least twice more, to make certain her legend was believed. She did not stop for the two ales. Instead, she went straight home to her darkroom, where she developed the microfilm, made an eight-by-ten print, and faxed it to Washington. A fine night’s work for a desk-bound novelist, extremely well paid, and without a trace. With the possibility of further adventure tomorrow night, to steal the actual document and leave behind a meticulous copy so difficult to discern from the original it could pass for years undiscovered.
Washington, D.C.
As usual, Fred Klein slipped into the West Wing through the kitchen staff entrance, from where the secret service whisked him straight up to the residence.
In the Treaty Room, President Castilla sat on a sofa, morosely contemplating his coffee. He looked up as soon as Klein entered. “You look as bad as I feel. Didn’t the fax come?”
Klein closed and locked the door. “Worse. It came. It’s not what we need. Antwerp has the fake manifest on file, too.”
Castilla swore. “I’d really hoped . . .” He shook his head. “So we have nothing from Baghdad, Basra, or Antwerp.” He paused, thinking. “Maybe there’s been a mistake. Why would your operative bother to send the fake? Didn’t he know it was fake?”
“She. No, sir, she didn’t. I couldn’t tell her exactly what was in it, or why we wanted it, because she’s European operating in a European city. If something went wrong, if she were caught or said something . . . there was too much risk someone would find out about the Empress crisis. In Iraq, it didn’t matter. They already know why we want the manifest, and they’re not going to leak what we’re up to, because they want the chemicals.”
The president sighed. “Some days staying in bed sounds like an attractive idea. The news seems to be getting worse and worse. Sit and have some coffee with me, Fred.”
As Klein settled in next to him, the president poured and handed him a steaming cup. “Over at Bethesda, they tell me I have to cut down on my coffee. Even Cassie’s getting on me about it. But to hell with all of them. They don’t have this job.”
“No,” Klein said, chewing on the mouthpiece of his empty pipe. “They don’t. You said something’s happe
ned.” He removed the pipe long enough to drink.
Castilla took a defiant gulp. “The Chinese have upped the ante. This time they’ve sent force, not words—one of their submarines to chase the Crowe.”
Klein’s eyebrows rose above his wire-rimmed glasses. “But they haven’t attacked?”
“No, and neither have we.”
Klein took out his pipe and turned it in his hands, ignoring the coffee. “Where did they get the sub, Mr. President? Where did it come from so quickly? Not the Taiwan Strait, or Hong Kong, or even Hainan Island. That’s too much distance from the Crowe. The sub had to have been on station in the Indian Ocean, more likely the Arabian Sea itself.”
The president straightened. He swore. “You’re right. They must have subs watching the Fifth Fleet.”
Klein nodded. “And now, one’s been sent to let us know someone in Beijing wants to crank up the confrontation, escalate the threat.”
“Agreed. My take is that it’s a power struggle inside the walls of Zhongnanhai.”
“Makes sense. But is it the whole Standing Committee? Maybe even the Politburo itself?”
“It’d help to know.”
“Nothing any Covert-One associate or asset has turned up indicates it,” Klein said. “Of course, the Chinese are keeping the situation under wraps, just as we are. There hasn’t been a mention of the Empress by their press.”
“So is your advice to prod, watch, and wait? Continue our threat and pretend theirs isn’t there?”
“For now, yes. Later, you’ll have the proof, or you’ll have my resignation.”
The president’s eyes grew icy. “That’s not good enough, Fred. What progress have your people made?”
“Sorry, Mr. President. Must be getting old. This one’s wearing me down. Too many intangibles.” Klein crossed his arms, the stem of his pipe sticking out from his fist. “First, we’re certain the Belgian co-owner of the Empress knows there’s contraband in the cargo. Second and probably even more important”—he paused to make certain the president saw that he saw how important this was—“the Belgian company is wholly owned by the Altman Group. It looks as if their chair and CEO, Ralph McDermid, might have his fingers stuck deep into the affair.”
“Ralph McDermid again?” The president’s voice rose. “McDermid isn’t just chair and CEO, he is the Altman Group. He founded it, built it into one of the largest financial empires the earth’s seen, and he did it in less than two decades. My God, he’s got one of my predecessors working for him plus cabinet secretaries from the last four administrations, former FBI and CIA directors, congressmen, senators, and a few ex-governors.”
Klein knew all of this. He controlled his patience until the president finished. “Yes, sir. You said ‘again.’ Is McDermid involved in something else?”
The president took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as if fighting off a headache. “The White House leaks.” He repeated Arlene Debo’s report about the secret meeting in Manila between McDermid and Secretary of the Army Jasper Kott. “You think there may be a connection between the leaks and the Empress situation?”
“We’d better find out. What I don’t understand is why McDermid would involve himself in something like the Empress’s cargo. He’s making a fortune already. His company’s filthy rich. So why risk so much for one shipment of chemicals? He’ll make an obscene profit, but that’s nothing new. It makes damn little sense to me.”
“One load of contraband hardly seems worth it,” the president agreed. “Maybe McDermid’s been conducting various illegal operations for a while. He could be one of those types who’s always looking for the next thrill, and the more outside the law he goes, the higher the emotional payoff.”
“Or maybe some of his companies are in trouble, and he’s figured out a way to ease debt by backing illegal ventures like the Empress. He sure won’t have to pay taxes on it.”
They sat in worried silence, trying to see an answer. Finally, the president decided, “I don’t recall any company that approaches Altman’s success in the wholesale conversion of former high government rank to gigantic profits. But then, business and politics have always gone hand in hand. Throw in the military, and doesn’t that remind you of Dwight Eisenhower’s warning about allowing the military-industrial complex to grow too influential, that there was a danger it’d run amok?”
“It reminds me, yes, and not happily,” Klein agreed. “A former Altman employee told my researcher that the company’s code is: Mix business and politics correctly, and they pay exceptionally well.”
“Sounds like an understatement. But maybe that’s the answer. That could be what McDermid’s up to. For him, there’s no ceiling to wealth. He can never have enough. He’ll make a quick financial killing on the Empress and go looking for his next conquest.”
Hong Kong
Randi Russell told the taxi driver to circle the block, and when they again drew abreast of the entrance to the Conrad International, she told the driver in fluent Mandarin, “Stop here.”
Jon had been looking all around casually, as if checking for a tail or stakeout. As she watched, he turned on his heel, apparently satisfied he was clean, and walked into the hotel’s glittering lobby. She continued to survey the area until she spotted the Chinese street vendor standing behind his cart in a shadow, a cell phone in his hands, speaking urgently as he, too, observed Jon disappear.
Just what she had suspected. McDermid’s troops were continuing to surveil Jon. She did not believe Jon’s story for a second, but at least he was out of her way for the night. As she told the driver to take her back to the building that housed the Altman offices, she dialed her cell.
“Savage,” the voice answered.
“Did you pick up McDermid?” she asked, her hand cupped around the cell’s mouthpiece.
“Sure did. Tailed him around the daisy chain and right back to his office building. He’s gone up to the penthouse.”
“Is our team in place?”
“Affirmative.”
“I’m on my way.”
When they reached it, she paid the driver and walked up to a black Buick sedan, carrying her conical hat. She opened the door and dropped into the front passenger seat. “I’ll take it from here, Allan. You get indoors and watch for McDermid’s chief shark. When you see him, tail him.”
Short and heavyset, Allan Savage was no one’s image of a CIA agent, but that was to his advantage. He nodded, climbed out of the car, and crossed the traffic to the high-rise. Randi slid over and settled behind the wheel to wait.
Her phone beeped. It was Allan. “Already?” she asked.
“McDermid must’ve forgotten something. He’s on his way back out.”
Randi clicked off and watched as the CEO hurried from the building. As he arrived at the curb, so did his black limousine. The chauffeur ran around to open the rear door. As the limo drove away, Randi made sure she and the Buick were close behind.
The limo wound up into the dark hills toward Victoria Peak. Here the houses were large and impressive, and the city’s lights spread out below in a shimmering minuet across the great harbor, the outlying islands, and the dazzling Kowloon peninsula. The glitter dimmed farther north in the New Territories but continued even into mainland China, where Guangzhou glowed on the horizon.
The limo pulled into the driveway of an older, Chinese-style mansion that overlooked Repulse Bay. As Randi watched, Ralph McDermid dismissed the limo, and a slim young woman ran out of the mansion to greet him. Arm in arm, they strolled into the house.
Randi clicked on her cell phone. “Looks as if he’s gone to roost. If we’re lucky, we’ve got a couple of hours. Put Berger on. Ham, you have the equipment?”
“In our hot little black bags,” electronics expert Hamilton Berger said cheerfully. “As soon as the honcho assistant trots away, we’re in the phone-bug-planting business.”
“Be careful. We’re not dealing with some dumb embassy this time.”
“He’ll never find a
thing.”
“Good. I’ll hang on to McDermid. He’s a busy boy.”
“Call you when the bug’s in, and we’re out.”
“Can’t wait.” Randi ended the call and took a thoroughly American turkey-and-cheese sandwich from inside her clothes. As shadows did a ballet of lust on the other side of McDermid’s drawn drapes, she ate and wondered what Jon really wanted from McDermid.
From the corridor outside Donk & LaPierre, bright light fell across the dark, empty desk in the company’s lobby, where the exotic Chinese receptionist had sat. Jon relocked the door behind him and stepped lightly past the shadowy desk to the inner doors. After he had slipped out of his hotel through the back way, he had hailed another taxi that had brought him back here. Dressed again in his dark work clothes, he listened. There were no sounds inside, and he saw no light. The offices appeared as deserted as he had hoped.
The door was unlocked. He stepped inside and padded along the Delftblue carpeting, pausing to listen at each office, until he reached the ebony door of managing director Charles-Marie Cruyff. This sanctum was defended by a pair of heavyweight locks. After five attempts with different picklocks, Jon finally opened both and pushed the black door into the office.
Enveloped in murky silence, he switched on his pocket flashlight. His gaze swept over the ultramodern sofa, Cruyff’s mahogany desk and ship models, the ship models on the walls, to the wall safe to the left of the desk. He crossed quickly to it. Cruyff had glanced involuntarily at the safe when Jon had mentioned working with Chinese companies. He hoped that meant there was something important in there about the Empress. Particularly, he hoped it was the real manifest.
The safe was compact, with a simple combination lock—just what he remembered. Klein had supplied him with a small electric drill. It made a low, steady whirr as the state-of-the-art bit bored into the steel. When he had drilled four holes, he packed tiny amounts of plastic explosive into each and connected them across the knob of the lock to a miniature blasting cap. Working quickly but carefully, he covered the safe with a sound-deadening pad, moved back behind the desk, and paused, listening to the pounding of his heart.