The Altman Code

Chapter One

There was a saying in Washington that lawyers ran the government, but spies ran the lawyers. The city was cobwebbed with intelligence agencies, everything from the legendary CIA and FBI and the little-known NRO to alphabet groups in all branches of the military and government, even in the illustrious Departments of State and Justice. Too many, in the opinion of President Samuel Adams Castilla. And too public. Rivalries were notoriously a problem. Sharing information that inadvertently included misinformation was a bigger problem. Then there was the dangerous sluggishness of so many bureaucracies.

The president was worrying about this and a brewing international crisis as his black Lincoln Town Car cruised along a narrow back road on the northern bank of the Anacostia River. Its motor was a quiet hum, and its tinted windows opaque. The car rolled past tangled woods and the usual lighted marinas until it finally rattled over the rusted tracks of a rail spur, where it turned right into a busy marina that was completely fenced. The sign read: anacostia seagoing yacht club private. members only.

The yacht club appeared identical to all the others that lined the river east of the Washington Navy Yard. It was an hour before midnight.

Only a few miles above the Anacostia’s confluence with the broad Potomac, the marina moored big, open-water power cruisers and longdistance sailing boats, as well as the usual weekend pleasure craft.

President Castilla gazed out his window at the piers, which jutted out into the dusky water. At several, a number of salt-encrusted oceangoing yachts were just docking. Their crews still wore foul-weather gear. He saw that there were also five frame buildings of varying sizes on the grounds. The layout was exactly what had been described to him.

The Lincoln glided to a halt behind the largest of the lighted buildings, out of sight of the piers and hidden from the road by the thick woods. Four of the men riding in the Lincoln with him, all wearing business suits and carrying mini-submachine-guns, swiftly stepped out and formed a perimeter around the car. They adjusted their night-vision goggles as they scanned the darkness. Finally, one of the four turned back toward the Lincoln and gave a sharp nod.

The fifth man, who had been sitting beside the president, also wore a dark business suit, but he carried a 9mm Sig Sauer. In response to the signal, the president handed him a key, and he hurried from the car to a barely visible side door in the building. He inserted the key into a hidden lock and swung open the door. He turned and spread his feet, weapon poised.

At that point, the car door that was closest to the building opened. The night air was cool and crisp, tainted with the stench of diesel. The president emerged into it — a tall, heavyset man wearing chino slacks and a casual sport jacket. For such a big man, he moved swiftly as he entered the building.

The fifth guard gave a final glance around and followed with two of the four others. The remaining pair took stations, protecting the Lincoln and the side door.

Nathaniel Frederick (”Fred”) Klein, the rumpled chief of Covert-One, sat behind a cluttered metal desk in his compact office inside the marina building.

This was the new Covert-One nerve center. In the beginning, just a few years ago, Covert-One had no formal organization or bureaucracy, no real headquarters, and no official operatives. It had been loosely composed professional experts in many fields, all with clandestine experience, most with military backgrounds, and all essentially unencumbered — without family, home ties, or obligations, either temporary or permanent.

But now that three major international crises had stretched the resources of the elite cadre to the limits, the president had decided his ultrasecret agency needed more personnel and a permanent base far from the radar screens of Pennsylvania Avenue, the Hill, or the Pentagon. The result was this “private yacht club.”

It had the right elements for clandestine work: It was open and active twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, with intermittent but steady traffic from both land and water that followed no pattern. Near the road and the rail spur but still on the grounds was a helipad that looked more like a weed-infested field. The latest electronic communications had been installed throughout the base, and the security was nearly invisible but of cutting-edge quality. Not even a dragonfly could cross the periphery without one of the sensors picking it up.

Alone in his office, the sounds of his small nighttime staff muted beyond his door, Klein closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his longish nose. His wire-rimmed glasses rested on the desk. Tonight he looked every one of his sixty years. Since he had accepted the job of heading Covert-One, he had aged. His enigmatic face was riven with new creases, and his hairline had receded an inch. Another problem was on the verge of erupting.

As his headache lessened, he sat back, opened his eyes, put his glasses back on, and resumed puffing on his ever-present pipe. The room filled with billows of smoke that disappeared almost as soon as he produced them, sucked out by a powerful ventilating system installed specifically for the purpose.

A file folder lay open on his desk, but he did not look at it. Instead, he smoked, tapped his foot, and glanced at the ship’s clock on his wall every few seconds. At last, a door to his left, beneath the clock, opened, and a man with a Sig Sauer strode across the office to the outer door, locked it, and turned to stand with his back against it.

Seconds later, the president entered. He sat in a high-backed leather chair across the desk from Klein.

“Thanks, Barney,” he told the guard. “I’ll let you know if I need you.”

“But Mr. President―”

“You can go,” he ordered firmly. “Wait outside. This is a private conversation between two old friends.” That was partly true. He and Fred Klein had known each other since college.

The guard slowly recrossed the office and left, each step radiating reluctance.

As the door closed, Klein blew a stream of smoke. “I would’ve come to you as usual, Mr. President.”

“No.” Sam Castilla shook his head. His titanium glasses reflected the overhead light with a sharp flash. “Until you tell me exactly what we’re facing with this Chinese freighter — The Dowager Empress, right? — this one stays between us and those of your agents you need to work on it.”

“The leaks are that bad?”

“Worse,” the president said. “The White House has turned into a sieve.

I’ve never seen anything like it. Until my people can find the source, I’ll meet you here.” His rangy face was deeply worried. “You think we have another Yinhe?”

Klein’s mind was instantly transported back: It was 1993, and a nasty international incident was about to erupt, with America the big loser. A Chinese cargo ship, the Yinhe, had sailed from China for Iran. U.S. intelligence received reports the ship was carrying chemicals that could be used to make weapons. After trying the usual diplomatic channels and failing, President Bill Clinton ordered the U.S. Navy to chase the ship, refusing to let it land anywhere, until some sort of resolution could be found.

An outraged China denied the accusations. Prominent world leaders jawboned. Allies made charges and countercharges. And media around the globe covered the standoff with banner headlines. The stalemate went on for an interminable twenty days. Finally, when China began to noisily rattle its sabers, the U.S. Navy forced the ship to stop on the high seas, and inspectors boarded the Yinhe. To America’s great embarrassment, they uncovered only agricultural equipment — plows, shovels, and small tractors. The intelligence had been faulty.

With a grimace, Klein recalled it all too well. The episode made America look like a thug. Its relations with China, and even its allies, were strained for years.

He puffed gloomily, fanning the smoke away from the president. “Do we have another Yinhe?” he repeated. “Maybe.”

“There’s ” remotely, and ” probably. You better tell me all of it. Chapter and verse.”

Klein tamped down the ash in his pipe. “One of our operatives is a professional Sinologist who’s been working in Shanghai the past ten years for a consortium of American firms that are trying to get a foothold there. His name’s Avery Mondragon. He’s alerted us to information he’s uncovered that The Dowager Empress is carrying tens of tons of thiodiglycol, used in blister weapons, and thionyl chloride, used in both blister and nerve weapons. The freighter was loaded in Shanghai, is already at sea, and is destined for Iraq. Both chemicals have legitimate agricultural uses, of course, but not in such large quantities for a nation the size of Iraq.”

“How good is the information this time, Fred? One hundred percent? Ninety?”

“I haven’t seen it,” Klein said evenly, puffing a cloud of smoke and forgetting to wave it away this time. “But Mondragon says it’s documentary. He has the ship’s true invoice manifest.”

“Great God.” Castilla’s thick shoulders and heavy torso seemed to go rigid against his chair. “I don’t know whether you realize it, but China is one of the signatories of the international agreement that prohibits development, production, stockpiling, or use of chemical weapons. They won’t let themselves be revealed as breaking that treaty, because it could slow their march to acquiring a bigger and bigger slice of the global economy.”

“It’s a damned delicate situation.”

“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 longstanding 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.

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 Lin-yuan 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

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 ”—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 ‘ 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, ‘ 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,”

“Could it be one of Beijing’s tricks? Maybe a way to make the president back off about the human-rights accord?”

“The old prisoner insists Beijing doesn’t even know he’s got a son, much less that the son’s now the U.S. president.”

Smith’s mind raced as he calculated ages and years. It was numerically possible. “Exactly where is this old man being―”

“Down!” Mondragon dropped flat to the sand. Heart racing, Smith dove behind a coral outcrop as shouts in angry Chinese and a fusillade of automatic fire hammered from their right, close to the sea. Mondragon rolled behind the outcropping and came up in a crouch beside Smith, his 9mm Glock joining Smith’s Beretta, aiming into the dark of the cove, searching for the enemy. “Well,” Mondragon said gloomily, “I guess I didn’t shake them.”

Smith wasted no time on recriminations. “Where are they? You see anything?”

“Not a damn thing.” Smith pulled night-vision goggles from inside his windbreaker. Through them, the night turned pale green, and the murky coral formations out in the sea grew clear. So did a short, skinny man naked to the waist, hovering near one of the statuelike pillars. He was knee-deep in water, holding an old AK-74 and staring toward where Smith and Mondragon hunched. “I’ve got one,” he said softly to Mondragon. “Move. Show a shoulder. Look like you’re coming out.”

Mondragon rose, bent. He thrust his left shoulder out as if about to make a run for it. The skinny man behind the pillar opened fire. Smith squeezed off two careful rounds. In the green light, the man jerked upright and pitched onto his face. A dark stain spread around him as he floated facedown in the sea. Mondragon was already back down. He fired.

Someone, somewhere in the night, screamed. “Over there!” Mondragon barked. “To the right! There’s more!” Smith swung the Beretta right.

Four green men had broken cover and dashed away from the sea toward the inland road. A fifth lay sprawled on the beach behind them. Smith fired at the lead man of this outflanking group. He saw him clutch his leg and go down, but the two behind him grabbed him by each arm and dragged him onward into cover. “They’re flanking us!” Sweat broke on Smith’s forehead. “Move back!” He and Mondragon leaped up and pounded across the coral sand toward the ridge that sealed the cove in the south. Another fusillade behind them said a lot more than three of their attackers were still standing. With a jolt of adrenaline, Smith felt a bullet sear through his windbreaker. He scrambled up the ridge into thick bushes and fell behind a tree. Mondragon followed, but he was dragging his right leg. He flopped behind another tree. A fresh fusillade ripped through leaves and small branches, spraying the air and making Smith and Mondragon choke with the dust. They kept their heads down. Mondragon pulled a knife from a holster on his back, slit his trousers, and examined his leg wound. “How bad is it?” Smith whispered. “Don’t think the bullet hit anything serious, but it’s going to be hard to explain back on the mainland. I’ll have to hide out ‘ vacation,’ or fake an accident.” His smile was pained. “Right now, we’ve got more to worry about. That small group’s on our flank by now, probably up on the road, and the gang in the cove is going to drive us to them. We’ve got to keep moving south.” Agreeing, Smith crawled ahead through the brush, forged hard and tough under the sea-bent trees by the constant wind and spray of the South China Sea. They made slow progress, Smith clearing a path for Mondragon. They used only their feet, knees, and elbows, as they cradled their pistols. The bushes gave reluctantly, the branches tearing at their clothes and hair. Smaller twigs broke and scratched their faces, drawing blood from forearms and ears. At last they reached the high bank above another less-sheltered angle in the island’s coastline. It was far too open to the sea to be called a cove.

As they crawled eagerly on toward the road, voices carried in the windless night from there. Behind them, four silent shadows materialized ashore, while two remained ankle deep in the sea. One of the shadows, larger than the rest, motioned the others to spread out. Bathed in gentle moonlight, they broke apart and emerged as four men dressed completely in black, their heads covered by hoods. The man who had ordered them to fan out bent over. Smith heard a whispery version of a deep, harsh voice give instructions over what was probably a handheld radio. “Chinese,” Mondragon analyzed quietly, listening. His tones were tight. He was in pain. “Can’t make out all of the words, but it sounds like the Shanghai dialect of Mandarin. Which means they probably did follow me from Shanghai. He’s their leader.”

“You think someone tipped them?”

“Possibly. Or I could’ve made a mistake. Or I could’ve been under surveillance for days. Weeks. No way to know. Whatever, they’re here, and they’re closing in.” Smith studied Mondragon, who seemed to be as tough as the ocean-forged brush. He was in pain, but he would not let it stop him.

“We could play the odds,” Smith told him. “Head on for the road. Are you up for that? Otherwise, we’ll make a stand here.”

“Are you crazy?

They’ll massacre us here.” They crawled deeper into the brush and trees, away from the sea. They had gone a slow twenty more feet, when footsteps approached from the rear, grinding through the undergrowth.

Simultaneously, they saw the shadows of the inland group pushing toward them and the sea. Their pursuers had guessed what they would do and were closing in from front and back. Smith swore. “They’ve heard us, or found our trail. Keep moving. When the ones from the road get close, I’ll rush them.”

“Maybe not,” Mondragon whispered back, hope in his voice.

“There’s a rock formation over there to the left that looks like good cover. We can hide in there until they pass. If not, we might be able to hold out until someone hears the shooting and shows up.”

“It’s worth a try,” Smith agreed. The rock formation rose out of the brush in the moonlight like an ancient ruin in the jungles of Cambodia or the Yucatan. Composed of odd-shaped coral groupings, it made a crude kind of fort, with cover on all sides and openings to fire through, if that was what they had to do in the end. It also contained a depression in the center, where they could sink low, nearly out of sight. With relief, they hunkered in the basin, their weapons ready, as they listened to the sounds of the island in the silvery moonlight. Smith’s scratches and small puncture wounds stung with sweat. Mondragon eased his leg around, trying to find a position that was less painful. Their tension was electric as they waited, watching, listening … Kaohsiung’s lights glowed against the sky. Somewhere a dog barked, and another took it up.

A car passed on the distant road. Out on the sea, the noise of the motor of a late-returning boat growled. Then they heard voices, again murmuring in the Shanghai dialect. The voices came closer. Closer. Feet crackled against the tough brush. Shadows passed, broken up by the brush. Someone stopped. Mondragon raised his Glock. Smith grabbed his wrist to stop him. Me shook his head — don’t. The shadow was a large man.

He had removed his hood, and his face was colorless, almost bleached looking, under a shock of oddly pale red hair. His eyes reflected like mirrors as they searched the coral formation for any shape or movement. Smith and Mondragon held their breaths in the depression inside the rocks.

For a long moment, the man continued his slow surveillance.

Smith felt the sweat trickling down his back and chest.

The man turned and moved away toward the road.

“Whewwww,” Mondragon let out a soft breath. “That was―”

The night exploded around them. Bullets slammed into coral and whined away into the trees. Rock chips showered down in a violent hail. The entire dark seemed to be firing at them, muzzle flashes coming from all sides. The large, redheaded man had seen them but had made no move until he had alerted the others.

Smith and Mondragon returned fire, searching frantically among the moonlit shadows of the brush and trees for a visible enemy. Their cover had now become a disadvantage. There were only two of them. Not enough in the darkness to beat off at least seven, possibly more. Their ammunition would soon run low.

Smith leaned close to Mondragon’s ear. “We’ll have to make a break for it. Head for the road. My motorcycle’s not far away. It can carry both of us.”

“There’s less fire coming from the front. Let’s pin them down and break that way. Don’t worry about me. I can do it!”

Smith nodded. He would have said the same thing. Right now, with adrenaline pumping through them like lava, either of them could run from here to the moon, if they had to.

On a count of three, they opened fire and rushed out of the rocks toward the road, running low while still moving fast, dodging brush and trees.

Moments later, they were through the circle of attackers. At last the gunfire was from behind, and the road was close ahead.

Mondragon gave a grunt, stumbled, and went down, ripping through the tangled vegetation as he fell. Smith instantly grabbed his arm to help him up, but the agent did not respond. The arm was without energy, lifeless.

“Avery?”

There was no answer.

Smith fell to his haunches beside the downed agent and found hot blood on the back of his head. Instantly, he felt for a pulse in his neck.

None. He inhaled, swore, and searched Mondragon’s pockets for the envelope. At the same time, he heard the killers approach, trying to be quiet in the heavy undergrowth.

The envelope was missing. Frantically he checked every pocket again, taking whatever he found. He felt around Mondragon’s body, but the envelope was gone. Definitely gone. And there was no more time.

Cursing inwardly, he sprinted away.

Clouds had built over the South China Sea and drifted across the moon, turning the night pitch-black as he reached the road. The deep cover of darkness was a rare stroke of good luck. Relieved, but furious about Mondragon’s death, he ran across and dropped into the cover of the low ditch that bordered the two-lane road.

Panting, he aimed both Mondragon’s Glock and his Beretta back at the trees. And waited, thinking … The envelope had been in an inside pocket. Mondragon had gone down at least twice that Smith had seen. The envelope could have fallen out then, or perhaps when they were crawling through the brush, or even when they were running, their jackets flapping.

Frustrated and deeply worried, his grip tightened on the two weapons.

After a few minutes, a single figure emerged warily at the road’s edge, looked right and left, and started across, his old AK-74 ready. Smith raised the Beretta. The motion attracted the killer’s attention. He opened fire blindly. Smith dropped the Glock, aimed the Beretta, and shot twice in rapid succession.

The man slammed forward onto his face and lay still. Smith grabbed the Glock again and opened a withering, sweeping fire with both weapons.

Shouts and screams sounded from the far side of the road.

As they echoed in his mind, he leaped out of the ditch and tore away through the trees toward the center of the island. His feet pounded and his lungs ached. Sweat poured off him. He did not know how far he ran, or for how long, but he became aware that there were no sounds of pursuit. No trampling of brush. No running feet. No gunshots.

He crouched in the cover of a tree for a full five minutes. It seemed like five hours. His pulse pounded in his ears. Had they given up? He and poor Mondragon had killed at least three, wounded two more, and perhaps had shot others.

But little of that was important right now. If the killers had quit their pursuit, it meant only one thing — they had what they had come for.

They had found the secret invoice manifest of The Dowager Empress.

Chapter Three

Golden sunlight drenched the Rose Garden and made warm rectangles on the floor of the Oval Office, but somehow it seemed menacing this morning, President Castilla thought as Charles Ouray, White House chief of staff, stepped inside the door.

Ouray looked as unhappy as he felt, the president decided. “Sit down, Charlie. What’s up?”

“I’m not so sure you want to hear, Mr. President.” He sat on the sofa.

“No luck with the leaks?”

“Zero,” Ouray said, shaking his head. “Leaks of such extent and accuracy over an entire year should be traceable, but the secret service, FBI, CIA, and NSA can’t find a thing. They’ve investigated everyone in the West Wing from the mail room to the whole senior staff, including me.

The good news is they guarantee the leaks aren’t coming from any of us.

In fact, the entire White House roster down to cleaning crews and gardeners is clear.”

The president tented his hands and scowled at his fingers. “Very well, what does that leave?”

Ouray looked wary. “Leave, sir?”

“Who’s left, Charlie? Who haven’t they investigated who could’ve had access to the information that’s been leaked? The plans … the policy decisions. They were high-level.”

“Yes, sir. But I’m not sure what you mean by who’s left? No one, I can―”

“Have they investigated me, Charlie?”

Ouray laughed uneasily. “Of course not, Mr. President.”

“Why not? I certainly had entree, unless there were leaks I didn’t hear about.”

“There weren’t, sir. But suspecting you is ridiculous on the face of it.” “That’s what they said about Nixon before they found the tapes.”

“Sir―”

“I know, you think I’m the one harmed most. That’s not true. It’s the American people, but I think you get my point now.” Ouray said nothing.

“Look higher, Charlie, and look around. The cabinet. The vice president, who doesn’t always agree with me. The joint chiefs, the Pentagon, influential lobbyists we sometimes talk to. No one is above suspicion.”

Ouray leaned forward. “You really think it could be someone that high, Sam?”

“Absolutely. Whoever it is, he — or she — is killing us. Not so much the information … the press, and even our enemies, knowing our plans before we revealed them … that’s been simply embarrassing so far.

No, the worst damage is to our confidence in each other and to the potential threat to national security. Right now, I can’t rely on any of our people with something really sensitive, not even you.”

Ouray nodded. “I know, Sam. But you can trust me now.” He smiled, but it was not a humorous smile. “I’ve been cleared. Unless you can’t trust the FBI, CIA, NSA, or secret service.”

“See? In the back of our minds we’re beginning to doubt even them.”

“I guess we are. What about the Pentagon? A lot of the leaks involve military decisions.”

“Policy decisions, not military. Long-range strategy.”

Ouray shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ve got a foreign mole somewhere, so deep the security people can’t find him. Maybe we tell them to dig deeper? Look for a professional spy hidden behind one of us?”

“All right, tell them to pursue that angle. But I don’t think it’s a spy, foreign or domestic. This deep throat isn’t interested in stealing secrets–

he’s interested in changing the public debate. Influencing our decisions. Someone who secures an advantage, if our policy changes.”

“Yeah,” Ouray agreed uneasily.

The president returned to the papers on his desk. “Find the leaker, Charlie. I need answers before this situation paralyzes me.”

Thursday, September 14.

Kaohsiung, Taiwan.

The windows of Jon Smith’s room on the twentieth floor of the Grand Hi-Lai Hotel displayed a breathtaking panorama of Kaohsiung’s sparkling night, from the horizon-to-horizon lights up to the black, star-studded sky. Tonight, Smith had no interest in it.

Safely back in his room, for the third time he read through everything in Mondragon’s wallet and notebook. He had hoped there would be some clue to how the murdered Covert-One agent had secured the manifest. The only unexplained item was a crumpled cocktail-sized napkin from a Starbucks coffee shop with a name scrawled on it in ink — Zhao Yanji.

His cell phone buzzed. It was Fred Klein returning his call.

Klein’s greeting was a question: “You delivered the article to the airport?” “No,” Smith told him. “I have bad news. Mondragon was killed.” The silence at the other end was like a sigh.

“I’m sorry. I worked with him a long time. He was a fine agent, and I’ll miss him. I’ll contact his parents. They’ll be shocked. Distraught.”

Smith breathed deeply. Once. Twice. “Sorry, Fred. This must be hard on you.”

“Tell me what happened, Jon.” Smith told him about the envelope, the attack, and Mondragon’s death.

“The killers were Chinese, from Shanghai. The invoice manifest must’ve been the real thing. I have a lead, but it’s remote.” He told Klein about the Starbucks napkin.

“You’re sure the napkin’s from Shanghai?”

“Was Mondragon anywhere but Shanghai in the last few months?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it’s a possibility, and it’s all I have anyway.”

“Can you get to Shanghai?”

“I think so. There’s a scientist at the conference here, Dr. Liang, whom I think I can convince to take me to his facility there for a tour.” He explained about the Chinese microbiologist buttonholing him. “There are three problems. I don’t know a damn word of Chinese, and I don’t have a clue where the Starbucks coffee shops are there. Then there’s my Beretta. I have no way to slip it into China.”

“I’ll have the Starbucks information faxed to Taipei. I’ll have an interpreter waiting for you in Shanghai, and he’ll bring you a weapon.

Recognition words: ‘ latte.’ ”

“One more thing.” Smith told him about the old man in the Chinese prison farm who claimed his name was David Thayer. He repeated the details Mondragon had passed on.

“Thayer? I’ve never heard of a connection by someone named Thayer to the president. Sounds like a dodge of some kind.” “Mondragon’s asset said the old man is definitely American.”

“Is the asset reliable?”

“As much as any,” Smith said. “At least, according to Mondragon.”

“I’ll tell the president. If the man’s an American, no matter who he really is, Castilla will want to know.”

“Then I’ll start working on finding the invoice manifest in Shanghai.

What about the other copies?”

“I’ll take care of the one that should be in Baghdad. With luck, we won’t care where the third is.” He paused. “You should know, Colonel, that the time frame’s tight. According to the navy, we’ve got only five days, maybe less, until the Empress reaches the Persian Gulf.”

In the Oval Office, President Castilla ate lunch at the heavy pine table he had brought with him from the governor’s residence in Santa Fe. It had served as his desk there as it did here. With a sense of nostalgia, he put down his chile-and-cheese sandwich and swiveled in his new chair to stare out his window at the lush green grounds and distant monuments he had grown to love. Still, another view blotted it from his mind — the wide red sunsets and vast, empty, yet perpetually alive desert of his ranch far down on the borderlands of his native New Mexico, where even a wild jaguar might still be found roaming. He was feeling suddenly old and tired. He wanted to go home.

His reverie was interrupted by the entry of his personal assistant, Jeremy. “Mr. Klein is here. He’d like to speak with you, sir.”

The president glanced at his desk clock. What time would it be in China?

“No calls or visitors until I tell you otherwise.”

“Yes, sir.” The assistant held open the door.

Fred Klein hurried in, his pipe stem sticking up from the handkerchief pocket of his Harris tweed jacket.

As Jeremy closed the door, Castilla waved Klein to the London club chair that had been a gift from the queen. “I’d have come to the yacht club tonight.”

“This can’t wait. With the leaks, I didn’t want to trust even the red phone.”

The president nodded. “Do we have the manifest?”

Klein heaved a sigh. “No, sir, we do not.” He repeated Smith’s report.

The president grimaced and shook his head. “Terrible. Has your agent’s family been notified?”

“Of course, sir.”

“They’ll be taken care of?”

“They will.”

The president glanced out his high window again. “Do you think they’d like to visit the Oval Office, Fred?”

“You can’t do that, Mr. President. Covert-One doesn’t exist. Mondragon was in private business, nothing more.”

“Sometimes this job is particularly hard.” He paused. “All right, we don’t have what I have to have. When will we have it?”

“Smith has a lead in Shanghai. He’s working on a way there now, as a guest of the Chinese government. He’ll be talking to microbiologists from China’s research establishments. Meanwhile, I have people in Beijing, Hong Kong, Guangzhou, and some of the new manufacturing cities that have sprung up there over the last few years. They’re looking for any sign Beijing orchestrated this, as well as information about The Dowager Empress, even rumors. And there’s a possibility we can find a second copy in Baghdad. I’m assigning an agent to it.”

“Good. I have the navy sending a frigate. Brose says at the most we’ll have ten hours before the Empress tumbles to what we’re doing. After that, China knows, and probably the world.”

“If the Chinese want them to.” Klein hesitated.

Klein was not a man who hesitated.

“What is it, Fred? If it involves those chemicals, I’d better know it.”

“It doesn’t, Mr. President.” Klein paused again, choosing his words.

This time the president didn’t prompt him, but he frowned, puzzled by what could be unsettling the iron chief of Covert-One.

At last Klein continued: “There’s an old man being held in a prison farm in China who claims to be an American. He says he’s been a prisoner since Chiang’s defeat in 1949.”

President Castilla nodded, his face sober. “Things like that did happen to our people after World War Two. Probably to many more than we actually knew about or suspected. Nevertheless, it’s outrageous and totally unacceptable, as well as unconscionable, that he’s still being held today. It’s one of the reasons I insisted the human-rights treaty include outside inspectors to investigate foreign prisoners of war. In any case, if it’s true and we have firm intel, we’ll have to do something about him immediately. Does this American have a name?”

Klein watched the president’s face. “David Thayer.”

The president showed no reaction. No reaction at all. As if he had not heard. As if he still waited for Klein to say a name. Then he blinked.

He swiveled in his chair. Abruptly he stood up, strode to the window behind his desk, and stared out, hands clasped in a white knot behind his back.

“Sir?”

Samuel Castilla’s back was rigid, as if he had just received a beating.

“After all these years? How is it possible? There was no way he was still alive―”

“What happened—?” Klein began but did not finish. With a sinking stomach, he knew the answer to the question.

The president turned, sat down again, leaned back, his eyes seeing somewhere faraway in both space and time. “He disappeared in China when I was in diapers. The State Department, the military, and Truman’s own staff people tried to find him, but we were heavily opposed to Mao’s Communists, as you know, and they had no love for us. But we did manage to get some clandestine information from the Soviets and some American and British sources in China, and all of it indicated Thayer was dead.

Either he’d died fighting, had been captured and executed by the Communists, or killed by Chiang’s own people for trying to talk to the Reds. He’d told my mother he was going to try to do that before he left.”

He inhaled deeply and gave Klein a small smile. “Serge Castilla was another State Department man, a close friend of Thayer’s. He led State’s efforts to locate him, which threw him into almost weekly contact with my mother. Because I was so small, there was no way she could explain what was happening. By the time I was four, everyone finally accepted Thayer was dead. With Serge and my mother, one thing led to another, and they married that year, and he adopted me. By then, as far as I was concerned, Serge was my father, and David Thayer was just a name. When I was in my late teens, she filled me in on everything they’d learned about his time in China, which was damn little. I didn’t see any purpose in telling the world, because Serge was my dad. He’d raised me, had been there for me through chicken pox and spelling tests, and I loved him.

Since we had the same last name, people never bothered to ask whether he was my biological father.”

The president shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. He met Klein’s worried gaze steadily. “David Thayer is part of my history, but at the same time, I have no memory of him.”

“It’s a thousand to one this man is simply an opportunist, possibly a common criminal, probably not even American. He could’ve met Thayer back before he vanished. So now he’s on a low-security farm, has heard about you and your efforts to make China give more respect to human rights, and he sees an opportunity to get out of there.”

“If that were true, how could he have guessed Thayer had a son who’d grow up to be an American president, especially one with the last name of Castilla?”

Klein frowned. “For that matter, sir, how would the real David Thayer know about you? He knew he had a son, but he couldn’t know his widow would marry Serge Castilla.”

“That’s simple enough. If this man really is David Thayer, he could’ve simply put two and two together. He knew he had a son named Samuel Adams, and a close friend named Castilla. Spelled the way our family does, Castilla is hardly common. My age would fit exactly.”

“Of course, you’re right,” Klein admitted. “But what about the leaks?

Maybe we have a spy in the White House who told Beijing and this is one of their convoluted setups.”

The president shook his head. “I never tried to hide that Serge adopted me, but it wasn’t something that tended to come up in conversation. No one beyond my immediate family, not even Charlie Ouray, knows exactly who and what my birth father was and what happened to him. Not even you knew that. I didn’t want to trade on sympathy or embarrass my mother.”

“Someone always knows, and remembers, and has a price.”

“And you’re always the cynic.”

“It’s part of the territory.” Klein smiled thinly.

“I suppose it is.”

Klein hesitated again. “All right. Say we can’t be sure he’s not real.

He could be your father. If he is, what do you want to do?”

The president leaned back in his chair again, took off his glasses, and ran his big hands over his face. He sighed heavily. “I want to meet him, of course. I can’t think of anything right now that would make my jaded old heart sing the way that would. Imagine, my real father is alive.

Imagine that. Incredible. When I was a little boy, despite all my love for Serge, I used to dream about David Thayer.” He paused, his face filled with melancholy and long-ago loss.

He shrugged and waved a hand in dismissal. “All right. So that’s the dream. Realistically, what does the president of the United States want?

I want him out of China, of course. He’s an American. Therefore, he deserves the complete support of his country. As I would with any American who has been through the ordeal that he has, I want to meet him, thank him for his courage, and shake his hand. But that said, there are international consequences to consider. There’s The Dowager Empress, and there’s the potential of deadly cargo that it’s ferrying to a country that would like to destroy us.”

“Yessir, there is.”

“If we find the ship is carrying the chemicals and we have to board it, I can’t imagine the treaty will be signed. Certainly not this year, probably not until a new administration takes over. There’ll be more delays as the Chinese feel out the new Oval Office China policy. Thayer, given his age, will probably never get out.”

“Probably not, Sam.”

The president grimaced, but his voice was hard, unyielding as he continued, “And that can’t matter. Not for a second. If she’s carrying chemicals for weapons, the Empress must be stopped, or sunk if necessary. For the moment, we do nothing about this old man in China. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, Mr. President.”

Chapter Four

The Air China jet from Tokyo flew in over the East China Sea and arced across the vast delta of the Yangtze River. Through his window, Jon Smith studied the green land, the dense buildings, and the haze that had settled like wisps of cotton in the low areas of what was one of Asia’s most powerful cities.

His gaze swept from the congested Yangtze River north to Chongming Island, as he silently grappled with the problem of the missing manifest and the alarming cost of its loss. When the jet landed at Pudong International Airport at exactly 1322 hours, he had come to no conclusion except that if the human-rights treaty were imperative, keeping more chemical weapons out of Saddam Hussein’s hands was probably even more so.

With their colleagues smiling around them, Dr. Liang Tianning escorted Dr. Jon Smith from the jet. Not large by Western standards, the terminal was ultramodern, with potted plants and a high blue ceiling. The ticket counters were packed with men in business suits, both European and Chinese, a symptom of Shanghai’s drive to become the New York City of Asia.

A few glanced at Smith and his companions, but the looks showed idle curiosity, nothing more.

Outdoors, a black limousine was waiting among the eager taxis. The instant they were seated in the rear, the driver pulled into traffic. He managed to dodge three taxis and two pedestrians, who leaped for their lives. Smith turned to see whether they were safe, while no one else paid the slightest attention, which said a lot about local driving customs. Also it gave him a clear view of a small, dark-blue car that appeared to be a Volkswagen Jetta. It had been parked among the taxis but was now directly behind the limo.

Was someone else expecting him — someone who had nothing to do with biomolecular science and was unsure whether he was who and what Dr. Liang said? The Jetta driver might simply be an ordinary Shanghainese, who had mistakenly parked among the taxis instead of inside the garage while waiting to pick up a returning friend or relative. Still, it was remarkable that the driver had chosen the identical moment to leave the terminal.

Smith said nothing about it to Dr. Liang. As the men discussed viral agents, the limo glided onto an express highway, heading west through the soggy delta, which was barely above sea level for the entire nineteen miles. Shanghai’s toothy skyline came into view — a new city, almost entirely the work of the last decade. First came the sprawling Pudong New District, with the needle-sharp point of the Oriental Pearl Tower and the squarer but also soaring eighty-eight-story Jin Mao Building. Expensive architecture with all the accouterments of luxury and high technology. Only a dozen years ago, this land had been a flat marsh that supplied the city with vegetables.

The conversation turned to plans for Smith’s visit as the limo continued through Pudong, under the Huangpu River, and into Puxi and the Bund, which until 1990 had been the heart of old Shanghai. Now a phalanx of glistening skyscrapers towered above the neoclassical business offices of the city’s colonial period.

At People’s Park, Smith had a close view of the cars, bicycles, and individuals who mobbed the streets, a sea of life on the move. For a few seconds, he paused to contemplate it all: The massive new construction.

The evidence of outrageous wealth. The tooth-to-jowl humanity. Shanghai was China’s most populous city, larger even than Hong Kong or Beijing.

But Shanghai wanted more. It wanted a prominent place on the world’s economic stage. It gave nodding obeisance to the past, but its interest was focused on the future.

As the limo made a right turn toward the river, Dr. Liang came close to wringing his hands. “You are sure, Dr. Smith, that you do not wish a room at the Grand Hyatt in Jin Mao Tower? It is a modern hotel, magnificent. The restaurants and amenities are beyond compare. You would be most comfortable there, I assure you. In addition, it is far more convenient to our Biomedical Research Institute in Zhangjiang, where we will go when you are settled. The Peace Hotel is historic, yes — but it is scarcely four star.”

Covert-One’s research people had informed him that there were only three Starbucks coffee shops in Shanghai at the moment, and all were on the Puxi side of the river, two not far from the Bund.

He smiled and said, “I’ve always wanted to stay at the old Peace Hotel, Dr. Liang. Call it the whim of a history buff.” The scientist sighed. “Then of course. Naturally.”

The limousine turned south onto the scenic street that skirted the river, with the Bund’s colonial buildings on one side and the Huangpu broad and flowing on the other. Smith gazed out at the row of stately businesses and houses that overlooked the river. Here was the heart of the old British Concession, which had established itself in 1842 and held convulsively to power for nearly a century, until the Japanese finally captured the city during World War II.

Dr. Liang leaned forward and pointed. “There is your Peace Hotel.”

“I see it. Thanks.”

Crowned by a green pyramid, it was twelve stories of Gothic architecture by way of the Chicago School. A notorious Shanghai millionaire, Victor Sas-soon, had built it in 1929, after making a fortune trading in opium and weapons.

As the limousine pulled to a stop before the arched entrance, Dr. Liang informed Smith, “I will register you in the name of the Biomedical Institute.” He climbed out.

Smith followed, casually making a 360-degree survey. He saw no sign of the dark-blue car that had left Pudong International with them. But as he stepped into the revolving doors, he noted their driver had also left the limo, raised the hood, and seemed to be examining the engine, which had been operating with the perfection of a Swiss timepiece, at least to Smith’s ear.

The lobby was Art Deco, little changed since the Roaring Twenties, which had roared especially loudly in Shanghai. Dr. Liang steered Smith left, across the white Italian-marble floor, to the registration desk. The haughty desk clerk looked down his nose at Dr. Liang as he registered and then over at Smith. He made little effort to conceal his arrogance. Dr. Liang spoke to him in low, harsh Chinese, and Smith heard what sounded like the name of the research institute. Fear flashed in the clerk’s eyes.

Instantly he became almost obsequious toward the Western guest. Despite the aura of freewheeling capitalism that had enlarged the city, Shanghai was in China, China was still a Communist country, and Dr. Liang appeared to be a great deal more influential than he had let anyone at the Taiwan conference see. As the clerk summoned a bellman, Dr. Liang presented Smith with his room key. “I regret a suite could not be authorized, but your room will be most spacious and comfortable. Do you wish to freshen up before we continue to the institute?”

“Today?” Smith acted surprised. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be at my best, Dr. Liang. I was in meetings and consultations until the small hours last night. A day of rest, and I’ll be able to do justice to our colleagues in the morning.”

Dr. Liang was startled. “Well, of course, that will be fine. I will alert my staff to rearrange our schedule. But surely you will join us for dinner. It would give all of us a great pleasure to reveal to you the beauty of Shanghai after dark.” Smith resisted an urge to bow; it was not a Chinese custom. “I’d be delighted, thank you. But perhaps we can have a late start? Would nine o’clock do?” “That is agreeable. We will be here.” Liang smiled and nodded understandingly. But there was an edge to his voice as he added, “We will not keep you up too late, Dr. Smith. That is a promise.” Was there suspicion behind the words and the smile? Or was Dr. Liang simply losing patience? For a simple scientist, he seemed to inspire a little too much fear in the desk clerk. Smith was acutely aware he might have raised his colleague’s doubts by putting him off in Taiwan, then seeking him out a few hours later, and, finally — no matter how subtly he had tried to make the invitation seem to come from Liang — hinting he would not turn down an immediate invitation. But with the time pressure, he’d had to take the risk. Suspicious or not, the scientist was at least smiling when he left. Smith watched through the glass doors as he stopped at the limo. The driver appeared from somewhere and spoke swiftly and urgently. Both got in, and the limo sped away.

The bellman had taken his suitcase. Smith rode the elevator up to his floor and found his room, still contemplating Dr. Liang, the limousine driver who had inspected an engine that had given no indication it needed inspecting, and the dark-blue Jetta. His bag was waiting, and the bellman was gone — tipping was frowned upon in the People’s Republic, although, as Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet, it was a custom more honored in the breach than in the observance.

The room was everything Dr. Liang had promised. As large as a small suite in most modern American or European luxury hotels, it was atmospheric, with a king-sized bed and side tables recessed in a wood-paneled alcove lighted softly by antique table lamps. There was also a cozy sitting area with armchairs and coffee table, a leather-inlaid desk, green ivy plants, and a full bathroom behind a paneled wood door. With the chintz prints and piecrust tables, it looked very British. The windows were expansive, but the view was far from spectacular — neither the river, Pudong, the two suspension bridges, nor the Bund. Instead, Smith looked out on the older, lower office buildings and residences of the millions who staffed, fed, and operated the great city.

Smith checked inside his suitcase. The all-but-invisible filament he’d had installed in the interior was unbroken, which meant no one had searched it. He decided he must be too jumpy, probably overreacting …. Still, somewhere out there was the true manifest of the Empress as well as the people who had created it and the people who had stolen it from Mondragon. They might or might not be the same group. In any case, he was reasonably certain some had seen him close enough that they would recognize him again. By now, they might already know his name.

At the same time, all he had was a short glimpse of the big, tall leader of the attackers — a Han Chinese with unusual red hair — and a meaningless name scribbled on a coffeehouse napkin.

He was just starting to unpack when he heard footsteps in the corridor.

He slowed, listening. The sounds stopped outside his door. His pulse accelerating, he padded across the room and flattened against the wall, waiting.

As Dr. Liang Tianning entered the biomedical center, the staff secretary nodded toward his private office. “There’s a man waiting, Dr. Liang. He said he came to talk to you about your phone call. I … I couldn’t keep him out.” She looked down at her hands in her lap and shivered. She was young and shy, the way he preferred his secretaries. “I don’t like him.”

Dr. Liang admonished her. “He is an important man. Certainly not one you should dislike so openly. No phone calls, please, while he is here. You understand?”

She nodded, still looking down.

When Dr. Liang entered his office, the man was leaning against his filing cabinet, across from the desk. He was smiling and idly whistling, like a mischievous little boy.

Dr. Liang’s voice was uneasy. “I don’t know what I can add to what I reported over the telephone, Major Pan.”

“Possibly nothing. But let’s find out.”

Major Pan Aitu was small and pudgy, with soft hands, a gentle voice, and a benign smile. He wore a conservative gray European suit, clip-on floral bow tie, and horn-rimmed glasses. There was nothing about him to frighten anyone, until you looked behind the glasses. The eyes were completely unresponsive. When he smiled, the eyes did not. When he conversed in his quiet voice, the eyes did not animate or listen. They watched. They looked at you, but they did not see you. It was impossible to say at any given moment what they did see.

“Explain what has alarmed you about this Dr. Jon Smith,” Major Pan said.

“Has he been asking questions?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” Liang fell into his desk chair. “It is only that in Taiwan he was so eager, and then when we have arranged an immediate visit to the research center here, he is quite suddenly too tired. He says that tomorrow would be better.”

“You don’t think he’s tired?”

“In Taiwan, at the conference, he did not seem tired. At the airport in Taipei, he was quite eager.”

“Explain to me exactly what happened in Taiwan.”

Liang described his approach to Smith, his invitation to dinner with himself and his colleagues from the institute, and Smith’s excuse and suggestion another time would be good.

“You thought he had no other engagement that night?”

Dr. Liang clicked his teeth, considering. “He was … well … evasive. You know how you can sense when someone has been taken by surprise and is quickly thinking of a polite way to refuse?”

Major Pan nodded, as much to himself as to Liang. “That’s when you left it that you’d contact him for a more convenient occasion to confer about your biomedical matters?”

“Yes.” There was something about Major Pan — perhaps the way he always seemed to be waiting — that compelled people to say more. “It seemed the right thing to do. His work at USAMRHD is important. We are anxious to understand what they are doing. Perhaps there is something there to aid our own research.”

“He is, then, a legitimate scientist?”

“A fine one.”

“But also an officer in the U.S. Army?”

“I suppose so. A colonel, I believe.”

“A lieutenant colonel,” Major Pan corrected absently, his expressionless eyes turned inward, as he thought. “I have studied his record since your call. There are, shall we say, odd occurrences in his past.”

“Odd? How?”

“Gaps. They are usually explained in his record as ‘ time,’ which is military vocabulary for a holiday. A vacation. One occurred after the death of his fiancee from a virus she was working with.”

“Yes, I know that virus. Frightening. Surely an absence is understandable after such a cruel misfortune?”

“Possibly.” Major Pan nodded as if he had really heard, but his eyes said his mind was somewhere else. “You did not see Smith again last night?”

“No.”

“But you attended various talks and meetings?”

“Of course. It was why we were there.”

“Would you have expected that he’d be around, too?”

“Yes.” Liang frowned. “There were two in particular. One by an American colleague, and another by a personal friend of his from the Pasteur. But remember, he did tell me he was in meetings late into the night. There were many to choose from.”

Major Pan considered. “It was the next morning that he suddenly approached you to come to Shanghai to visit your institute?”

“Well, not in so many words. But I would say … he made it quite clear he would be interested in an immediate invitation.”.

“How so? How did he happen to be with you this morning?” Dr. Liang thought. “He joined us for breakfast. Usually he ate with his friend from the Pasteur. During the meal, he casually mentioned he would like to see our facility and speak to us about USAMRIID’s work.

When I said I could certainly arrange it in the near future, he became regretful, suggesting it was difficult for him to travel so far, which meant he was rarely in Asia. At that point I, of course, suggested that since he was so close, why not now?”

“And he liked the idea?”

“He hemmed and hawed, but I could see it appealed to him.”

The major nodded to himself again. He abruptly slid off the filing cabinet and was gone.

Dr. Liang stared at the closed door of his office, wondering what had happened. He was certain he had reported everything by phone to the Security Bureau, as he was required to do after every trip outside China. Why had Major Pan come here, and what could he have learned just now that made him leave so suddenly? The major had a reputation as a man who succeeded in his work where everyone else failed. Liang shook his head, feeling a disorienting chill of fear.

The highly secure conclave of Zhongnanhai stood in the shadow of the legendary Forbidden City in central Beijing, where China’s emperors and empresses once played and governed. For centuries, Zhongnanhai was the imperial court’s pleasure garden, where horse races, hunts, and festivals were held for nobility and their retainers on the green banks of two lakes. In fact, Zhongnanhai meant “Central and Southern Lake.”

After the Communists captured the country in 1949, they moved into the vast complex and refurbished and remodeled the pagoda-roofed buildings.

Today, Zhongnanhai was alternately revered and reviled as the all-powerful national seat of Chinese government — the new Forbidden City. Here the Politburo, which numbered twenty-five, held forth in regal splendor.

Although ultimate authority rested with them, the truth was that it was the Politburo’s Standing Committee that really ruled. They were the elite of the elite. Recently, the Standing Committee had been increased from seven members to nine. Their decisions were rubber-stamped by the Politburo and implemented by ministries and lower-level departments.

Many lived on the highly secure grounds with their families, in traditional courtyard-style estates of several buildings, surrounded by walls. Top staff members did, too, in apartments far more comfortable than most of those available outside, in the metropolis.

Still, this was not the White House or 10 Downing Street or even the Kremlin. Secretive, media-averse, Zhongnanhai showed on few tourist maps, even though its general office address at 2 Fuyoujie was printed clearly on Communist Party stationery. Surrounded by a vermillion-colored wall like the one that had once shut the old Forbidden City off from the world, the compound was so well designed that seeing in or over the high walls from anywhere in Beijing was impossible. Ordinary Chinese were not welcome. Foreigners even less so, unless they were ruling heads of state.

Some of this pleased Niu Jianxing, but not all. Although he was one of the elite Standing Committee and worked in Zhongnanhai, he chose to live outside it, in the city itself. Instead of being decorated with ornamental scrolls, dragons, and photographs, his office was spartan. He believed in the basic socialist principle of from each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs. His physical needs were simple and unpretentious. His intellectual needs were something else again.

Niu Jianxing leaned back behind his cluttered desk, entwined his fingers, and closed his eyes. He was still within the circular pool of light cast by his old desk lamp. It glared on his sunken cheeks and delicate features, which were partially hidden behind tortoiseshell glasses. The harsh light did not appear to bother him, as if he were so deep in concentration he did not know there was any light at all, as if nothing disturbing could exist in the tranquil world inside his mind.

Niu Jianxing had become a very important man by acquiring power step by clandestine step. Ever since entering the party and the government, he had found repose to be a great aid to concentration and correct decisions. He would often sit silently like this at Politburo and Standing Committee meetings. At first, the others had thought he was asleep and had dismissed him as a lightweight from the countryside of Tianjin. They talked as if he were not there — in fact, as if he did not exist at all — until it became clear, to the permanent regret of a few who had spoken too freely, that he heard every word and usually had their problems solved or dismissed before they could even articulate them.

After that, his admirers nicknamed him the Owl, a catchy name that spread through the ranks and made him someone to be remembered. A savvy politician as well as tactician, he had made it his personal chop.

At the moment, the Owl was pondering the disquieting rumor that some of his colleagues on the Standing Committee had second thoughts about signing the human-rights agreement with the United States he had worked so hard to negotiate. He had spent the morning putting out feelers to identify who those backsliders might be.

Strange that he’d had no warning of such serious dissension. This concerned him, too, hinting as it did of an organized opposition waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves and kill the treaty. Now that China was entering the capitalist world, it was inevitable that some in government would be determined to destroy it to preserve their own dominance.

A light knock yanked him from his reverie. His eyes snapped open. His windows were shuttered against the bright Beijing day and the magnificent gardens of Zhongnanhai. The years had taught him the importance of his secluded office. The single knock came again — one he recognized only too well. It always signaled trouble.

“Come in, General.”

General Chu Kuairong, PLA (Ret.), marched into the cloistered room, took off his hat, and sat. Hunched forward in the hard wood chair that faced the desk, he had a scarred face, thick shoulders, and barrel chest. His tiny eyes were sunk in deep, wind-and-sun creases. They squinted at Niu as if looking through the raw desert sunlight. His shaved head reflected like polished steel in the circle of light from the desk lamp. In his medal-bedecked uniform, he resembled some old Soviet marshal, contemplating the destruction of Berlin in World War II.

Only the thin cigar clamped between his teeth spoiled the image. “It’s the spycatcher.”

“Major Pan?” The Owl hid his impatience.

“Yes. Major Pan thinks Dr. Liang could be jumping at shadows, but he’s not sure.” General Chu was the chief of the Public Security Bureau, one of the organs under the Owl’s control. Major Pan was one of the general’s top counterintelligence operatives. “It’s possible Colonel Smith is a spy who’s maneuvered an invitation for a specific purpose.

Perhaps scientific espionage.”

“Why does Major Pan think that?”

“Two things. First, there are some oddities in Smith’s paper record.

Brief, more-or-less unexplained periods away from his lab at USAMRIID.

It turns out that Smith is more than a medical doctor or scientist. He has far more combat and command training than most pure scientists even in their military.”

“What’s the second thing?”

“Major Pan has a ” about him.”

“A feeling?”

General Chu blew a neat circle of rich cigar smoke. “Over the years that I’ve been running the security forces, I’ve found Pan’s ” are based on his experience and are therefore often accurate.”

Of the many agencies under his charge, Niu liked the Public Security Bureau least. It was an octopus with fangs and claws — an enormous, covert bureau with far-ranging police and intelligence power. The Owl was a builder, not a destroyer. In his position as bureau minister, the decisions he sometimes had to approve, or even make, were distasteful.

“What does Major Pan propose?” he asked.

“He wants to keep a close eye on this Colonel Smith. He wants authorization to surveil him and to hold him for interrogation if he does anything remotely suspicious.”

The Owl closed his eyes again, mulling. “Surveillance is probably wise, but I want concrete evidence before authorizing interrogation. These are sensitive times, and at the moment we’re fortunate to have an American government peculiarly disposed toward peace and cooperation. We’d be fools not to take advantage of this rare occasion.”

General Chu blew another cloud of smoke. “Pan suggests there may be a connection between Smith’s sudden interest in visiting Shanghai and the disappearance of our agent in the same city.”

“You still have no knowledge of exactly what your man was working on?”

“He was on vacation. We think he must have stumbled onto something that made him suspicious and was checking it out before reporting in.”

The last situation the Owl wanted was a confrontation with the United States. It would cause a public furor in both countries, posturing by both governments, tie the U.S. president’s hands when it came to the human-rights agreement, and cause the Standing Committee to listen to the hardliners on the Politburo and Central Committee.

But the prestige and security of China were more important than any treaty, and a possible spy in Shanghai and a missing internal security agent were matters of sober concern. “When you know the answer, come to me,” Niu ordered. “Until then, Major Pan has the authorization to watch Smith closely. Should he feel it is time to detain him, he will need to convince me.”

The general’s small eyes gleamed. He blew another perfect smoke circle and smiled. “I’ll tell him.”

Niu did not care for the look in the old soldier’s eyes. “Make sure that you do. I’ll report Pan’s suspicions and actions to the Standing Committee. Pan and you, General, will answer not only to me, but to them.”

Chapter Five

Smith’s spacious room in the Peace Hotel was suddenly claustrophobic.

Pressed flat against the wall next to the door, he listened for the footsteps to move. Instead, there was a knock. It was as faint as the footsteps had been. Smith did not move. There it was again — a light tapping, now insistent, nervous. Not a bellman or a maid.

Then he knew. “Damn.” It had to be the interpreter Fred Klein had arranged. He opened the door, grabbed a tall, thin, Chinese man by the front of his oversized leather jacket, and jerked him into the room.

The fellow’s blue Mao cap flew off. “Hey!”

Smith seized the cap in midair, heeled the door closed, and glared at the skinny man who struggled while at the same time looking aggrieved.

“What’s the word?”

“Double latte.”

“You’re undercover, for God’s sake,” Smith told him. “Undercover agents don’t skulk!”

“Okay, Colonel. Okay!” he protested in a completely American accent.

“Get your paws off me.”

“You’re lucky I don’t strangle you. Are you trying to draw attention to me?” He let go, still scowling.

“You don’t need me for that, Colonel. You’ve done a hot job all by your lonesome.” Indignant, the interpreter straightened the collar of his voluminous jacket, brushed his unpressed blue work shirt, and snatched his peaked Mao cap from Smith.

Smith swore, at last understanding. “I’ll bet your car’s a dark-blue Volkswagen Jetta.”

“Yeah, okay, you spotted me at the airport. And damn lucky I was back there, or I’d never have caught on to the surveillance.”

Smith’s shoulders tightened. “What surveillance?”

“I don’t know who it is. You never do in Shanghai these days. Cops?

Secret police? Military? Some tycoon’s goons? Gangsters? Could be anyone. We’ve got capitalism now, and more-or-less free enterprise. It’s a lot harder to tell who’s out to get anyone.” “Swell.” Smith sighed. He had been concerned, and now he knew he had been right. Small compensation. “What’s your cover?”

“Interpreter and chauffeur. What else? Definitely not gunrunner, so here, take it quick.” As if it were scorching his fingers, he handed Smith a canvas holster encasing a duplicate of his 9mm Beretta.

“You have a name?” Smith stuck the semiautomatic into his belt at the small of his back and tossed the shoulder harness into his suitcase.

“An Jingshe, but you can call me Andy. That’s what I was at NYU. The Village, not uptown. I liked it down there. Plenty of chicks and good space you could share sometimes.” Adding proudly, if a little wistfully, “I’m a painter.” “Congratulations,” Smith said drily. “It’s an even more unstable living than a spy’s. Okay, Andy, let’s go get coffee at a Starbucks and see whether we can figure out who’s on my tail.”

He restored the invisible filaments inside all his suitcases, shut them, and walked to the door, where he smoothed a thin sheet of see-through plastic on the carpet so that anyone entering would step on it before they saw it. He hung the do not disturb sign on the doorknob.

They took the elevator down. On the lobby floor, Smith asked An Jingshe, “Is there a way out through the kitchens?”

“There’s gotta be.”

The uniformed maintenance man polished the brass fittings and shined the marble walls in the corridor from the lobby to the bank of elevators. A wiry man, his long face, sharp black eyes, pale brown skin, and drooping mustache were unlike any other Chinese or Westerner in the lobby. He worked in silence, head down, apparently concentrating on what he was doing, but his gaze missed nothing.

When the tall, skinny Chinese and the tall, muscular Westerner left the elevator, they stopped for a moment to converse. Too far away to hear the low conversation, the maintenance worker polished another brass sconce and assessed the big man with practiced eyes. No more than an inch over six feet, he was broad through the chest and shoulders, trim and athletic. His hair was smoothed back from a high-planed face, and his blue eyes were clear and intelligent. All in all, the maintenance man saw nothing unusual about him in his dark-gray, American-cut business suit. Still, there was an unmistakable military bearing about him, and he had arrived at Pudong International from Taiwan with Dr. Liang Tianning and his biomolecular team.

The maintenance man was still studying him when the pair turned and headed toward the doors into the kitchen. As they pushed through, he packed his cleaning materials and hurried across the lobby and out to busy Nanjing Dong Lu, one of the world’s greatest shopping streets. He ran west through the throngs and honking vehicles toward the pedestrian mall. But before he reached the first cross street, he stopped at the alley that edged the hotel.

He waited where he could watch the employees’ entrance as well as the lobby entrance through which he had just left. It was always possible he had been seen, and the men’s entry into the kitchen a calculated ruse.

Neither the tall American nor the Chinese exited, but the maintenance man saw something else: He was not the only one observing the hotel. Two cigarettes glowed and faded inside a black car, parked so it blocked the narrow sidewalk across from the hotel’s revolving doors. The Public Security Bureau — China’s dreaded police and intelligence agency. No one else would be that arrogant.

He studied the vehicle longer. By the time he looked back into the alley, the American and the Chinese were running toward a Volkswagen Jetta parked so that it faced the street. The maintenance man shrank back into the crowd that surged along the sidewalk.

The Jetta’s right wheels were flat against a wall. The Chinese unlocked the car door, while the American surveyed all around as if expecting an attack. They jumped inside, the Jetta pulled into the traffic, and it turned west toward the pedestrian mall, which reached all the way to the French Concession. No vehicles were allowed there.

The maintenance man wasted no time. He gave a piercing whistle. Seconds later, a battered Land Rover pulled up. He dropped his toolbox in back and vaulted into the front beside the driver, who wore a round white cap and had leathery brown skin and round eyes like his.

When the driver spoke in a language that was neither Chinese nor European, the maintenance man responded in the same language and jabbed a thumb at the Jetta, less than a half block ahead in the jammed traffic.

The driver nodded and forced the Land Rover through the congestion.

Abruptly, the Jetta turned left.

Bellowing curses, the driver snaked, bumped, and banged the Land Rover to the left and followed the Jetta, which turned west again on Jiujiang Lu. And quickly north once more, back toward Nanjing Dong Lu.

Swearing again, the Land Rover driver tried to follow but was momentarily blocked. He burst his vehicle out to turn into the same street. The maintenance man caught another glimpse of their quarry far ahead — and then the car vanished.

The driver pushed the Land Rover on, stopping just before Nanjing Dong Lu, where an all-but-hidden alley ran off to the south. The maintenance man cursed. The Chinese driver and the American with the military posture must have spotted him. The Jetta had pulled into this alley and by now could be anywhere in the teeming area.

Two hours later, Andy dropped Smith at the second Starbucks and drove off to park. This one was on Fixing Dong Lu, another bustling street, not far from the river in the Nanshi district — Shanghai’s Old Town.

The first Starbucks had been in Lippo Plaza on Huaihai Zhong Lu. That coffee shop had been filled with locals and Westerners alike, and Smith and Andy had seen no connection to the Empress there or when they had walked the streets, reading nameplates on doors and studying the low buildings filled with shops and small stores.

This second Starbucks was less crowded. Only Chinese sat at the tables and ordered coffees to go. Most were well dressed in suits, both Western and Chinese, and appeared to be rushing back to desk jobs.

Smith carried his second double latte of the day to a table at the front window. This was a business district, which accounted for the lack of Westerners. The buildings were a mixture of four-, five-, and six-story structures dating back to the late colonial era as well as taller modern buildings and a few shiny glass-and-steel high-rises. One of the newest was directly across the street. Smith focused on a vertical row of brass plaques beside the entrance doors.

Andy joined him. “I’ll get me a mocha, and we can start walking. Are you buying?”

Smith handed him money. When the interpreter-chauffeur returned, Smith stood up. “We’ll try that new building across the street first.”

Carrying their Styrofoam cups, they dodged among the bicycles, cars, and buses to cross with the skill that came from maneuvering through Manhattan’s traffic. Smith headed to the brass nameplates at the entry.

Most were in Chinese characters, some transliterated into Pinyin.

Andy translated for Smith.

“Hold it!” Smith said at the tenth plaque. “Read that again.”

“Flying Dragon Enterprises, International Trade and Shipping.” Andy pontificated: “A dragon’s the symbol of heaven in China.”

“Okay.”

“And, therefore, of the emperor.”

“The emperor’s been dead a long time, but thanks. Finish the list.”

As it turned out, Flying Dragon was the only shipping company. As they drank their coffee, they hurried through the directories of the other office buildings on the block. They found four more companies that could have ties to global transportation. Then they found a street vendor who sold jianing, an egg and green-onion omelette folded over chili sauce.

This time, Andy bought.

As soon as they had finished their omelettes, Smith was on the move again. “Time to check the last Starbucks.”

It proved to be in a shopping center in the new business development zone around Hongqiao Airport on Hongqiao Lu. There were no companies connected to shipping nearby, and Smith told Andy to drive back to the hotel.

“Okay, we’ve got five possibilities,” Smith said, all close enough to the second Starbucks for an informant to use it as a place to pass his information on to Mondragon. How good are you on a computer?”

“How good was Grant at winning battles?”

“Access the five companies on the Internet, and look for the name Zhao Yanji among their staff.”

“Consider it done.” They drove on. As they neared the Bund, Jon said, “Is there another way into the Peace Hotel besides the front and employees’ entrances?”

“Yeah. Around the corner on an intersecting street.”

“Good.

Take me there.” As Andy drove through a dizzying tangle of thoroughfares and alleys, Smith looked him up and down. “You’re almost my height. Your pants should be long enough, and that leather jacket of yours is big enough for a buffalo. With your Mao cap, I’ll pass for Shanghainese, unless someone gets too close to my face. You’ll be a scarecrow in my suit, but you don’t have to wear the jacket.”

“Thanks. I think.” As they approached the hotel, Smith told Andy where to park. He struggled out of his clothes in the small car. Andy turned off the motor and did the same. The leather jacket was fine on Smith. The trousers were an inch short, but they would do. He pulled the Mao cap down almost to his eyes and stepped out of the Jetta. He leaned down to the open window. “Do that research, have an early dinner, and pick me up here in two hours.”

Andy brightened. “That’s too soon for shows or club hopping. What’s our gig?”

“You don’t have a gig. You’re waiting in the car. I’m going to do a bit of breaking and entering. How much’ll depend on what you find out.”

“I can help on the b and e, too. I’m a cat.”

“Next time.” Andy frowned, disappointed. “I’m not the patient sort.”

“Work on it.” Smith liked the interpreter. He grinned and walked off. The noise was clamorous, the streets as always mobbed. He saw no one tailing, but he took no chances. Blending into the surge of Shanghainese, he let the throngs carry him toward the Bund. Only when he reached the doors to the hotel did he push his way free and stride inside. At dusk two hours later, purple light enveloped Shanghai, and a sense of Asia’s lush beauty softened the hard-edged skyline. Andy An paused his car to let Smith off a block from the building that housed Flying Dragon Enterprises, International Trade & Shipping. Since most of the night’s action had already headed off to Old Town, the French Concession, and Huangpu, the street was very different now, half deserted.

Andy’s research had made the target definite: Zhao Yanji was the treasurer of Flying Dragon, which was housed in the high-rise directly across the street from the second Starbucks they had visited that day.

It made sense to Smith. A clandestine seller of highly sensitive material who conducted sales during working hours would want to be away from his or her job as short a time as possible and on a believable errand, such as getting coffee at a nearby Starbucks. If Zhao Yanji was that person, he had a perfect outlet at the obviously popular Starbucks.

If all went well, Smith would be back in plenty of time for dinner at nine o’clock with Dr. Liang and his fellow scientists. If events went against him … well, he would deal with that, too.

As the Jetta plowed off into the twilight, Smith walked toward the highest office building, covertly watching everyone and everything. He was dressed in a black sweater, black jeans, and soft-soled, flexible shoes. On his back was a light pack, also black. He looked up. The building that housed Flying Dragon blazed with light, a contributor to the city’s dazzling night skyline. Across the street, the Starbucks was still open, a scattering of coffee drinkers sitting at the small round tables in a hyperrealistic display reminiscent of an Edward Hopper painting. The air had that faint diesel odor of all cities, with touches of Asian spices and garlic.

Through the high-rise’s plate-glass windows, Smith saw a single uniformed guard, dozing behind a security desk in the lobby. Smith might be able to slip past, but the risk was unnecessary. The modern building should have all the customary features.

He continued past to the driveway that led down into a lighted, but closed garage. About ten feet beyond the ramp was an exit door to the fire stairs. Just what he needed. He tried it. It was locked from inside. He used the picklocks disguised as surgical instruments he carried in his medical kit. The door opened on the fourth try.

He slid inside, closed it quietly behind, returned the picklocks to his backpack, and listened in the empty stairwell. It stretched upward out of sight. He waited two minutes and began climbing. His soft-soled shoes made little sound. Flying Dragon Enterprises was on the eighth story.

Twice he froze, remaining motionless as a door opened somewhere above and footsteps reverberated.

At the eighth floor, he took a stethoscope from his backpack and used it to listen through the door. Satisfied there was neither sound nor movement on the other side, he pulled open the door and stepped into a green-carpeted, white-walled waiting area decorated in ultramodern chrome, glass, and suede.

A wide corridor, with the same white walls and emerald carpet, led to a cross corridor of double doors — some of glass and others of polished wood. The corridor stretched in both directions. Flying Dragon Enterprises turned out to be the third set of double-glass doors. Smith glanced in casually as he passed. There was a lightless reception area.

Behind it was a large, lighted office of long rows of empty desks, with a wall of windows behind the desks. Solid doors lined the inner walls right and left.

On his third pass, he tried the entrance doors. They were unlocked.

Eager but wary, he slipped inside and wove soundlessly among the furniture to the solid door in the far corner. The door was marked in both Chinese and English gold lettering: yu yongfu, president and chairman. No light showed beneath the door.

He slid inside and, using the illumination from the open doorway, crossed to a large desk. He switched the lamp there onto low beam. The small column of yellow light gave the office a dim, ghostly affect that would not be evident down on the street.

He closed the outer door and surveyed the room, impressed. It was not a prized corner office, but it was so mammoth that its size more than compensated. The view was pure prestige, too — sweeping from the river and the towers of Pudong to the historic Bund, northeast Shanghai across Suzhou Creek, and finally back to the river as it curved east and headed downstream to the Yangtze.

The most important piece of furniture to Smith was a three-drawer filing cabinet, which stood against the left wall. There was also a white suede sofa with matching armchairs, a glass Noguchi coffee table, a wall of leather-bound books to the right, original Jasper Johns and Andy Warhol paintings here and there, and a panoramic photo of turn-of-the-nineteenth-century British Shanghai. The desk itself was mahogany, and enormous, but in this office seemed small. The office told a story: Yu Yongfu, president and chairman, had made it big and gaudy in New China, and he wanted everyone to know it. Smith hurried to the cabinet. It was locked, but his picks made short work of it. He pulled out the top drawer. The folders were filed alphabetically — in English, with the words duplicated in Chinese. Another of Yu Yongfu’s grandiose affectations.

When he located the file for The Dowager Empress, he exhaled. He had been holding his breath without realizing it. He opened the file right there, on top of the cabinet, but all he could find were useless internal memos and the manifests of old voyages. His worry growing, he kept at it. Finally, with the last document, there it was — the manifest.

His excitement dimmed as he studied it. The dates were right, as were the ports on both ends of the journey, Shanghai and Basra. But the cargo was wrong. It was a list of what the freighter allegedly carried — radios, CD players, black tea, raw silk, and other innocent freight. It was a copy of the official manifest, filed with the export board. A smoke screen. Angrily he returned to the cabinet, searching through the other file drawers, but found nothing more that related to the Empress. As he closed and relocked the cabinet, he grimaced. He would not give up. There must be a safe somewhere. He scanned the huge office and considered what sort of person would create it — vain, self-congratulatory, and obvious. Of course. Obvious. He turned back to the filing cabinet. Above it hung the panoramic picture of old British Shanghai. He lifted the framed photo from the wall, and there it was — the safe. A simple wall safe, with no time lock or any other advanced electronics he could see. His picklocks would … “Who are you?” demanded a voice in heavily accented English. He turned slowly, quietly, making no provocative move. Standing in the gray light of the doorway was a short, heavy Chinese man who wore rimless glasses. He was aiming a Sig Sauer at Smith’s belly.

Beijing Night was one of Beijing’s best times, when the slow transformation from terrible pollution and gray socialist lifestyles to unleaded fuels and cutting-edge fun was apparent in pockets of vibrant nightlife under a starry sky that was once impenetrable through city smog. Karaoke and solemn band music were out. Discos, pubs, clubs, and restaurants with live music and fine food were in. Beijing was still firmly Communist, but seductive capitalism was having its way. The city was shrugging off its dreariness and growing affluent.

Still, Beijing was not yet the economic paradise the Politburo advertised. In fact, ordinary citizens were losing their fight against gentrification and being forced out of the city, because they could no longer afford the cost of living. It was the dark side of the new day.

This mattered to the Owl, if not to some of the others on the Standing Committee. He had studied Yeltsin’s failure to stop Russia’s greedy oligarchs and the near-destruction of the Russian economy that resulted.

China needed a more measured approach to its restructuring.

But first, the Owl had the human-rights treaty with the United States to protect. It was critical to his plans for a democratic, socially conscious China.

Tonight was a special meeting of the nine-member Standing Committee.

From under his half-closed eyes, he studied the faces of his eight colleagues at the ancient imperial table in the Zhongnanhai meeting room. Which man should concern him? In the party and, therefore, in the government, a rumor was not merely a rumor — it was a call for support.

Which meant one of the solemn older men or the smiling younger ones was reassessing his position on the human-rights agreement, even as Niu waited to make his report.

Half blind behind his thick glasses, their leader — the august general secretary — was unlikely to resort to spreading a rumor, Niu decided. No one would oppose him openly. Not this year. And where he went, his acolyte from their days in Shanghai would always follow. That one had the face of an executioner and was too old and too committed to his boss to ever be secretary himself. He had no reason to bother with fighting the treaty.

The four beaming younger men were possibilities. Each was assembling backers to strengthen his power base, but at the same time all were modern men and, as such, strong proponents of good relations with the West. Since the treaty was important to the current U.S. president, persuading them to reverse their support would be difficult.

That left two potentials, one of which was Shi Jingnu, with the fat, grinning face of the silk merchant’s clerk he once was. To paraphrase Shakespeare, he smiled and smiled but was a villain. The second possibility was bald, narrow-eyed, never-smiling Wei Gaofan, who as a young soldier had once met the incomparable Chu Teh and never moved beyond that moment.

The Owl nodded to himself inside his own sleepy smile. One of those two. They were old guard, fighting to maintain power as the specter of irrelevance breathed chills down the backs of their ancient, wrinkled necks.

“Jianxing, you have not commented on Shi Jingnu’s report?” The general secretary smiled to show he knew the Owl was not sleeping.

“I have no comment,” the Owl — Niu Jianxing — said.

“Then do you have a security report to make?”

“One matter came up today, Chairman,” Niu said. “Dr. Liang Tianning, the director of the Shanghai Biomedical Research Institute, invited an eminent American microbiologist, Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, M. D., to visit his institute and speak to his researchers. He―”

Wei Gaofan interrupted, “When did the Americans begin to give military rank to scientists? Is this another example of the warmongering of―”

“The Colonel,” Niu snapped back, “is a medical doctor and works at the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, a world-renowned Level Four installation similar to our biomedical establishments in Beijing and Shanghai.”

The general secretary supported the Owl: “I know Dr. Liang well from my time in Shanghai. We can trust his judgment concerning whom his researchers need to hear.”

“Actually,” Niu continued, “Dr. Liang has some doubts about the American.” He went on to repeat what General Chu Kuairong had told him.

“I tend to agree with Major Pan’s first assessment of the matter. Dr. Liang is something of an old rag man, always jumping at shadows.”

“You take a possible American spy very lightly, Niu,” Shi Jingnu criticized, his gaze flicking from one colleague to the other to gauge their reactions.

“The key word here is ‘,’ ” Niu answered, ignoring Shi and addressing the room in general. “We shouldn’t have quite as much faith in Major Pan’s ” as our Public Security Bureau chief does. It’s his — and Pan’s — job to jump at shadows. It’s not our job.”

“So what did you decide?” the secretary’s disciple wanted to know.

“I have instructed General Chu to have Major Pan keep a close eye on Colonel Smith. I’ve not authorized them to arrest and interrogate him.

First they must present me with concrete evidence of sufficient gravity.

These are sensitive times, and at the moment we have an American government disposed toward peace and cooperation.”

He did not mention the Public Security agent who had gone missing in Shanghai. So far, there was nothing to tell, and he wanted to add no support to whoever was vacillating over the human-rights accord.

There were nods of general agreement, even from Shi Jingnu and Wei Gaofan, which told him whoever was considering opposing the treaty at this late date was not yet ready to commit himself openly.

Wei, however, could not resist a final word of caution. His narrow eyes were slits as he said, “We must not appear too eager to cooperate with the Americans. Remember, shadows can be dangerous.”

Chapter Six

Twilight had deepened into night. In an expensive Shanghai suburb, Yu Yongfu paced across his study, gazing out through his French doors at the garden. The scent of freshly cut grass floated in. Floodlights illuminated the specimen plants and trees, sometimes from above, sometimes from beneath, seeking perfect harmony. This English garden was a replica of one created for a British tea tycoon in the early twentieth century, whose mansion was demolished long ago. Yu had bought the plans and enjoyed showing the renowned landscape to his Western guests.

But tonight, it gave him little solace. He checked his Rolex every few minutes.

A tycoon at just thirty-four years, Yu looked even younger. Trim and athletic, he worked out daily in an exclusive health club near his trade and shipping company — Flying Dragon Enterprises. He watched his weight as closely as he watched the international stock, currency, and commodity markets, and he dressed in slim Italian suits custom-made in Rome. His regimental ties and ankle-high dress boots were handmade in England, his shirts in Paris, and his underwear and pajamas in Dublin.

He had risen to this rarified affluence in the last seven years. But then, this was a new China … a brash, self-indulgent China … a very American-century China … and Yu considered his attitudes, business methods, and ambitions all American.

This had given him little comfort when his man, Feng Dun, called yesterday to tell him about agent Mondragon and the missing invoice manifest. The Dowager Empress venture had been risky, he had known that, but the profit involved was stratospheric, plus there would be enormous guanxi, because the cargo was connected to the illustrious Wei Gaofan himself, a longtime powerful member of the Standing Committee.

But now, something was very wrong. Where was that blasted Feng? Where was the manifest? The death of ten thousand cuts to the one who had given it to the American!

“Are you all right, husband?”

Yu whirled to snap at his interfering wife and stopped. That was not the kind of wife Kuonyi was or ever would be. Theirs was a modern marriage, a Western marriage.

He managed to control his voice. “It’s that damnable Feng. He should’ve been back from Taiwan by now.”

“The invoice manifest?”

Yu nodded.

“He’ll get it, Yongfu.”

Yu resumed pacing, shaking his head. “How can you be so sure?”

“That one could bring the devil back from hell. He’s invaluable, but he’s also dangerous. You must never trust him.”

“I can handle Feng.”

His wife stopped her response, and Yu froze in his pacing. A large vehicle had driven into their walled courtyard.

“It’s him,” he told her.

“I’ll wait upstairs.”

“Yes.”

In China, despite the law of the Party that proclaimed women fully equal to men, to treat one’s wife like a partner was considered weak. Yu forced himself to sit behind his desk. He assumed a composed mask as he heard the maid open the front door.

Measured steps crossed the hardwood floor, coming toward his study, and a large man appeared in the open doorway as suddenly as if he had materialized there. Unusually light skinned, he had close-cropped hair that was ashy red mixed with stark white. He was tall — perhaps three inches over six feet — and powerfully built, but he was hardly heavy — a muscled two hundred pounds or so. He dwarfed Yu Yongfu, who scowled up at him.

Yu made his voice harsh, as befitted an important employer. “You have it?” Feng Dun smiled. A small smile, nothing more, as if pasted on the face of a wood marionette. He padded across the study to a leather armchair and sat with hardly a sound.

His voice was low and whispery. “I have it … boss.”

Yu could not suppress a sigh of relief. Then he held out his hand and made his voice stern. “Give it to me.”

Feng leaned forward and handed him the envelope. Yu ripped it open and scanned the contents.

Feng noted the hands trembled. “It’s the real manifest,” Feng assured him. His light brown eyes were almost colorless, giving them the appearance of emptiness. They darkened and focused on Yu’s face. It was a stare few had been able to meet.

Yu was not among them. He quickly looked away. “I’ll lock it in my safe upstairs. Fine work, Feng. There’ll be a bonus in it for you.” He stood.

Feng stood, too. He was in his late forties, once a soldier and career officer who had started as an “observer” in the American war against North Vietnam and the late Soviet Union. He gave it up when he realized there was far greater profit in the profession of mercenary in the would-be armies of the restless Central Asian republics, particularly as the Soviets collapsed. He considered himself a good judge of men and situations, and he was underwhelmed by what he saw in Yu Yongfu.

As they walked through the study’s doorway, Feng said, “I suggest you burn the manifest. That way, no one else can steal it. It’s not over, boss.”

Yu jerked back as if pulled on a leash. “What do you mean?”

“Perhaps you should hear what happened on Taiwan.”

Where he stood, one foot out of the room like a confidence man poised to make a clean getaway, Yu hesitated. “Tell me.”

“We killed the American agent, and we retrieved the manifest … ”

Yu wanted to scream with frustration. Why was this not finished? What the hell did Feng mean? “I know that! If that’s all―”

“―but Mondragon wasn’t alone. There was another man on the beach.

A well-trained man, clever and skilled. Almost certainly another American spy sent to ferry the information to Washington while Mondragon returned to his cover in Shanghai. The beach was merely a transfer point. There is no other logical explanation for the presence of the second man, since he had the training and skill to escape us.”

Yu fought panic. What was so bad about that? The Americans had failed; the manifest was now safely in his pocket. “But he failed, we have the manifest. What―”

“The man’s in Shanghai now.” Feng watched every move the entrepreneur made, every twitch of a muscle. “I doubt he’s here for a holiday.”

A sour taste rose into Yu’s throat. “Here? How could such a thing happen? You let him follow you back? How could you be so stupid?” He heard his voice rise like that of a hysteric. Instantly, he stopped his tirade.

“He couldn’t have followed us. Mondragon must have given him some other information, or he found some on Mondragon’s corpse. One of those two brought him here.”

Yu struggled to regain control. “But how did he get into the country?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? It appears he’s actually a well-known microbiologist and medical doctor, who also happens to be a soldier.

Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, M. D., a biomedical researcher. What he does not appear to be is an operative with any known U.S. agency. Yet he was the one who met Mondragon on the beach. And then he invited himself into our country.”

“Invited himself?”

“On Taiwan, our eminent Dr. Liang Tianning expressed interest in meeting with him. Smith put him off. Then this morning, Smith changed his mind.

He hinted strongly to Dr. Liang that he would honor us by addressing our microbiological research institute here in Shanghai immediately. But once here, he pleaded fatigue. He wanted to remain alone in his hotel.

Dr. Liang was surprised and a little suspicious. Of course, he informed Zhongnhai. Zhongnanhai now has him under surveillance.”

“How do you know this?”

“Knowing such things is why you pay me so well.”

It was true. Feng’s guanxi sometimes appeared to be greater than Yu’s own, and it could make him impudent. He constantly needed to be reminded who was boss. “I pay you to do your job, nothing more. Why is this American still alive?”

“He’s not easy to approach, and we must be careful. As I said, Zhongnhai is watching.”

Yu tasted bile in his throat. “Yes, yes, of course. But he must be killed. Killed quickly. Have you discovered who gave Mondragon the invoice manifest?”

“Not yet.”

“Find him. And when you do, kill him, too.”

Feng smiled. “Of course, boss.”

In the dim light of the Flying Dragon office, Smith saw the short, heavy man stare at the file folder still open on the filing cabinet. The man’s gun wavered as his gaze swept to the exposed safe on the wall above the cabinet.

He had not asked, What are you doing? or What’s going on here? He had demanded only, Who are you? He knew why Smith was in the office headquarters of Yu Yongfu, president and chairman.

Smith said, “You must be Zhao Yanji. It was you who gave Avery Mondragon the Empress’s real manifest.”

The muzzle of the Sig Sauer began to shake. “How—?” “Mondragon told me. They killed him before he could pass it to me.”

“Who has it now?”

“They do.”

Zhao Yanji grabbed the shaking pistol with both fleshy hands to try to steady it. “How … how do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Because I know about Mondragon, I know your name, and I’m here looking for the manifest myself.”

Zhao blinked, the Sig Sauer dropped to his side, and he sank crosslegged to the floor, head in his hands. “I am a dead man.”

Smith picked the Sig Sauer from his fingers. He transferred his Beretta to his jacket pocket, shoved the Sig Sauer into his belt, and looked down at Zhao. Zhao sat with the back of his neck exposed, as if waiting for the slice of an executioner’s axe.

Smith asked, “They can trace the manifest back to you?”

The head nodded. “Not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But eventually. Feng is a sorcerer. He can see behind any screen.”

“Who’s Feng?”

“Feng Dun. Yu Yongfu’s security chief.”

Smith frowned, wondering … “What does he look like?”

Zhao described his height and strength, the red-and-white hair, and the viciousness that was hidden behind the calm exterior. “You’ve seen him?”

“I have.” Smith nodded, not surprised. At last, he had a name for him.

“Start at the beginning. Why did you do it?”

Zhao looked up, suddenly angry, his terror forgotten. “Yu Yongfu is greedy, a pig! He is why I gave the manifest to Mondragon! The honored grandfather of my friend Bei Ruitiao founded Flying Dragon Enterprises while the English and Americans were still among us. We were an honorable company … We … ”

As Smith listened to the harangue, he pieced together a story that was all too common in the new People’s Republic: Flying Dragon had been a relatively small, conservative company, primarily ferrying cargo up and down the Yangtze and along the coast as far as Hainan Island. Bei Ruitiao was president until Yu Yongfu, using muscle, connections in the Party, and Belgian financing, grabbed the company in a Mafia-like takeover. Yu made himself president and chairman and, with the help of the Belgian shipping firm, expanded into international transport. The entire time, he skated on the edge of both Chinese and international law.

Zhao’s voice shook with emotion. “My friend Ruitiao is ruined because of Yu. I gave the manifest to Mondragon to expose Yu and ruin him in return!” All his bravado vanished as quickly as it erupted. “But I have failed. I am a dead man.”

“How did you manage to steal it?”

He nodded to the exposed safe above the file cabinet. “It was in a secret file in Yu’s safe. I am the treasurer of Flying Dragon. I pretended to welcome Yu, and he made the mistake of retaining me. One day he forgot he had taken the file from the safe, and I found it. I returned it to the safe after I took the manifest. At the time, he did not remember he had left it out. But he will remember now. The manifest had to come from somewhere.” His body slumped more, beaten.

“Where do you the think the manifest is? In the safe here again?”

Zhao shook his head. “No. Yu would be too afraid to leave it here now.

It must be with him at home. He has a safe there, too.”

“Where does he live?”

“Far beyond Hongqiao Airport. An obscene mansion that would have shamed an official of the Yuan Dynasty.” He related an address that meant nothing to Smith, but Andy would be able to find it.

“Mondragon said there were three copies?”

“Yes,” Zhao said dully. “Three.”

“Where are the other two?”

“One must be in Basra or Baghdad, with the recipient company. That would be normal procedure. I don’t know where the other is.” Smith gazed at the woeful Zhao. “I can arrange to get you safely out of China.” The heavy little man sighed. “Where would I go? China is my home.” He pulled himself to his feet, walked across the room, and collapsed in one of Yu Yongfu’s suede armchairs. “Perhaps they do not find out.”

“Maybe not.”

“May I have my pistol?” Smith hesitated. Then he took the Sig Sauer from his belt, checked the chamber, unloaded the clip, and handed him the weapon.

“I’ll put the clip beside the door.” He left him there, seated in the stately armchair, staring out into the new Shanghai night.

Inside Yu Yongfu’s walled compound, Feng Dun sat patiently in his Ford Escort, hidden in the black umbra beneath a branching plane tree. As a breeze carried the sweet scent of blooming jasmine in through his rolled-down window, he studied the shadows that moved behind the curtains of the mansion’s windows. They were Western curtains at the windows of Yu’s big Western house, which the entrepreneur had built as a modern replica of the baronial manses of the tea and silk taipans of the British and French hongs in the Concession era.

The shadows gestured — the taller one pacing, arms waving, while the smaller one remained still, with sharp gestures. That would be Li Kuonyi, Yu’s wife. She was more sure, more emphatic, and Feng had always treated her with caution. Her husband could not be relied upon to keep his head if the situation deteriorated more. It was unfortunate for all of them that she was not in charge. Feng had seen enough. As he fingered his old Soviet Tokarev with one hand, he punched numbers into his cell phone with the other. He waited for the series of rings and silences that formed the intricate relays that protected the man he was calling, Wei Gaofan. “Yes?” a voice answered. “I must speak with him.”

The voice instantly recognized him. “Of course.”

From the Ford, Feng saw the silhouette of Yu Yongfu, slumped now, and the slimmer shape of Li Kuonyi standing over him. Her hand was on his shoulder, no doubt comforting him. “What has happened about the American?” the gruff voice of Wei Gao-fan asked from distant Beijing.

Feng reported, “Jon Smith is apparently still in his hotel. The security police are watching it. My people are staked out to intercept him should he try to retrieve the manifest as we suspect he will.”

“Which hotel is he in?”

“The old Peace.”

“So? A curious choice for a modern American microbiologist whose interest is, presumably, in our research institute in Zhangjiang. I believe it tells us all we need to know, you agree?”

“His interest is in more than microbiology.”

“Then continue your efforts.” “Of course.” Feng paused. “There’s another problem. Yu Yongfu will not hold up.”

“You’re sure?”

“Already he’s cracking. Should the slightest detail be uncovered, he’ll break. Reveal everything. Perhaps he’ll do that even before.” With finality, he pronounced, “We can no longer trust him.”

“All right. I’ll take care of it. You liquidate the American.” There was a silence, then, “How did all this happen, Feng? We wanted the information to reach the Americans, nothing more. Never the proof.”

“I don’t know, master. I made sure word of the cargo leaked to Mondran, as you instructed, but I don’t know who then found and stole the invoice manifest, but I will.”

“I am sure you will.” The line went dead.

Feng sat for a time in the car. All of the mansion’s windows were dark now, except those of the upstairs master bedroom. No shadows moved behind the curtains. Feng smiled his unreadable smile and envisioned Yu’s wife, Kuonyi. She had always appealed to him. He gave a short laugh, a shrug, and redialed his cell phone.

Once the last British-occupied corner of China, Hong Kong had lost some of its brash luster since the mainland resumed ownership in 1997. While Beijing envisioned itself as the future capital of Asia, and Shanghai thought of itself as an eastern version of New York City, Hong Kong only wanted to remain itself — freewheeling, money-making, and joyfully exciting, hardly the reputation of any other modern metropolis in China.

From the penthouse balcony of the Altman Group, Hong Kong’s sea of twinkling lights seemed to spread forever, a testament to the vigorous city. In the teak-paneled dining room, a dinner party was winding down.

The aromas of expensive meats and French sauces filled the room. The genial host, Ralph Mcdermid — founder, CEO, and chairman of Altman — held forth for the benefit of his last two guests.

A man of medium height, with a bland face that would never be noticed in a crowd, Mcdermid was in his mid-sixties, slightly overweight, and jovial. “The future of world commerce lies around the Pacific Rim, with the United States and China its twin financial pillars and major markets. I’m sure China recognizes that as much as the United States.

Whether they like your semi-independence or not, they’ll have to live with it for a long time to come.”

Both Hong Kong natives, the Chinese couple were power players in the financial community. They nodded in sober agreement, but they had little influence, because Beijing’s heavy political fist constantly threatened all businesspeople in the Special Administrative Zone.

But being wined, dined, and reassured by a man of Ralph Mcdermid’s importance in such a luxurious Western setting fed their pride and hopes. The penthouse crowned the most expensive high-rise on Repulse Bay Road. While they continued their discussion, the husband and wife paused occasionally to enjoy the multimillion-dollar view.

As a phone rang somewhere, the Chinese businessman told Mcdermid, “We are pleased to hear your views and hope you’ll make them clear to our mayor. America’s support is critical to our relations with Beijing.” Mcdermid smiled graciously. “I think Beijing is well aware―”

Making an almost soundless entry, Mcdermid’s private assistant spoke quietly into his ear. Mcdermid gave no acknowledgment, but he apologized to his guests. “I regret I must take this call. It’s been a grand evening, educational for me as well as particularly enjoyable. Thank you for your company. I hope you’ll be available to join me again so we can continue sharing views.” The businesswoman said, “It will be our pleasure. You must visit us next time. I think we can promise you an interesting evening, but not such sumptuous food. The wine was exquisite.”

“Simple American fare, nothing more, and a small country vintage hardly worthy of such distinguished guests. Lawrence will give you your coats and show you out. Thank you again for honoring me with your presence.”

“Many thanks from two humble shopkeepers.”

The compliments properly offered and rejected, Mcdermid hurried through the penthouse to the master suite.

His jovial smile vanished. He snarled into the phone: “Report.” “All went well,” Feng Dun told him. “As you expected, there was another American agent on the island. We killed Mondragon, retrieved the manifest, but let the American escape. They will now be fully alarmed.”

“Excellent.”

“There’s better,” Feng continued. “That same American agent, a Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, is a microbiologist from USAMRIID.”

“Why is that better? Who is he?”

“He isn’t with any of the U.S. intelligence organizations.”

Mcdermid nodded, wondering. “Curious.”

“Whoever sent him, Smith is in Shanghai now, which will work to our favor. I’ll handle him. But that leaves us with another large problem.

One we had not expected.”

“Who? What?” he demanded.

“Yu Yongfu. He pretends to be a fox, but he’s a frightened rabbit. A rabbit will gnaw himself to death when he feels cornered. Yu is terrified. He will destroy himself and us.” There was a thoughtful pause. “You’re right. We can’t take the risk. Get rid of him.”

When Mcdermid rang off, the information about Smith continued to resound in his mind. A knock at his door roused him from his reverie. “Yes?”

“Ms. Sun is in the living room, sir.”

“Thank you, Lawrence. Give her a drink. Tell her I’ll be along.”

He remained mulling for another few minutes and then roused himself. Sun Liuxia was the daughter of an important official he could not afford to offend. She was also stunning and young.

Smiling, he freshened up, changed his dinner jacket, and left the bedroom. It was still early. Through the penthouse windows, the lights of Hong Kong spread before him as if all the world were his. By the time he entered the living room, his good humor had fully returned.

Shanghai Still seated in Yu Yongfu’s exotic armchair in the Flying Dragon offices, Zhao Yanji sighed. Miserable and discouraged, he stared down at the empty pistol in his lap. Perhaps the American actually could help.

Maybe the answer was to leave Shanghai at last. Or he could always retrieve the clip, put the pistol to his head, and pull the trigger.

He studied the weapon thoughtfully, stroking it with a finger. He imagined the bullet shooting from the chamber, exploding like lightning from the barrel, and blasting through his skull and the soft tissue of his brain. He did not shudder as he contemplated this. In fact, he had a moment of peace. At last, his battle would be over, and he would no longer feel the terrible burden of the company’s dishonor.

He looked around Yu Yongfu’s office, so familiar. As treasurer, he had spent a lifetime here, it seemed, trying to educate the selfish entrepreneur and rescue the company from him. He took a deep breath and found himself shaking his head. A surge of resentment, almost of determination, rushed through him. No, he was not ready to die. He still wanted to fight. The company could still be saved.

He should get out of here before he was discovered. He pushed himself up to his feet, feeling relieved. To make a decision was to reaffirm the future.

There was a small sound. No more than a sharp click.

Puzzled, he turned. The office door was open. A figure stood silhouetted against the outer office’s light. Before Zhao could speak, there was a loud pop. As his sight went blank, he realized what it was — a silenced gunshot. Abruptly, pain burst from his heart. It was so overwhelming he did not feel himself topple face first to the carpet.

Chapter Seven

In their mansion on the outskirts of Shanghai, Yu Yongfu and his family had an important guest. His arrival had surprised them. He was a fat old man with many chins, who sat behind Yu’s massive desk as if he owned it.

Yu said nothing, trying to forget the aggravations of having such a meddling father-in-law. At least the Empress’s manifest was safely locked away now, and all that remained to be handled was the American spy. He must have faith that Feng would eliminate him.

With pride, he watched the old man beam at the small boy who stood shyly to his side. He turned to study the boy, who wore Western-style pajamas with the face of Batman emblazoned on his thin chest. He was small for his age and smelled of Western peanut butter.

The old man — Li Aorong — patted him indulgently on the head. “You are how old now, Peiheng?”

“Seven, honored Grandfather.” With a glance at his mother, he continued, “I will be in a month anyway.” He added proudly, “I’m in the American school.”

Li laughed. “You like being in school with the children of Westerners?” “Father says it’ll make me important in the world.”

Li glanced at his son-in-law, Yu Yongfu, who sat rigid in one of his suede armchairs. Still, despite his obvious tension, Yu was smiling at his son.

Li said, “Your father is an intelligent man, Peiheng.”

From where she stood near the door of the study, Li Kuonyi interrupted, “You have a granddaughter, too, Father.”

“So I do, daughter. So I do. And a most beautiful little one.” Li smiled again. “Come, child. Stand with your brother. Tell me, are you, too, in American school?”

“Yes, Grandfather. I’m two grades higher than Peiheng.”

Li feigned astonishment. “Only one year older, and two grades ahead? You take after your mother. She was always smarter than my sons.”

Yu Yongfu spoke sharply, “Peiheng learns his numbers quickly.”

“Another businessman.” Li chuckled with pleasure. He stroked the faces of both children as if touching rare and delicate vases. “They will go far in the new world. But it’s past their bedtime, eh?” He nodded gravely to Yu and his daughter. “It was kind of you to allow them to remain awake.”

“You don’t visit us often enough, Father,” Kuonyi told him, an edge to her voice.

“The affairs of Shanghai keep an old man busy.”

“But you are here tonight,” Kuonyi challenged. “At such a late hour.”

The father and daughter stared. Kuonyi’s gaze was as hard and bold as that of her powerful father, demanding an explanation.

He said, “The children must be in bed, Daughter.”

Kuonyi took their hands and turned toward the door. “My husband and I will return.”

“Yongfu will stay. He and I will speak together,” he said. Now the edge was in his voice. “Alone.”

Kuonyi hesitated. She straightened her back and took the children away.

Above the mantle in Yu’s Western-style office, the Victorian clock ticked quietly. The two men sat for some minutes in silence. The older man stared at his son-in-law until Yu Yongfu said politely, “It’s been too long since your last visit, honored father-in-law. All of us have missed your wise counsel.” Li said, “A man’s first responsibility must be to his family. Is that not so, son-in-law?”

“As has long been written.”

Li fell silent again.

Yu waited. The old man had something on his mind, perhaps an important position for Yu that might be seen as favoring his own family too much.

He needed to be sure Yu was equal to the task. Yu wanted good news tonight. His problems with the Empress were draining him.

At last, Yu echoed, “A man must never bring disrepute to his family.”

“Disrepute?” The older man lifted his head and repeated the word in a tone almost of wonder. “You have a wife and two children.”

“I’ve been blessed, and they are my soul.” Yu smiled.

“I have a daughter and two grandchildren.”

Yu blinked. What had happened? What was he supposed to say to that? His mouth turned dry as the deserts of Xinjiang, because something had changed in the room. Fear riveted him. He was no longer looking into the eyes of the indulgent grandfather of his son and daughter. Instead, this was the flinty, unrelenting gaze of an official of the Shanghai Special Administrative Zone, a politician who was owned by the immensely powerful Wei Gaofan.

“You’ve made an irredeemable mistake,” Li told him in an emotionless voice. His large, fat-encrusted face was as still as a waiting snake’s.

“The theft of the true manifest to The Dowager Empress puts us in grave jeopardy. All of us.”

Yu felt himself dissolve in fear. “A mistake that’s been corrected. No harm has resulted. The manifest is locked in my safe upstairs. There is no―”

“The Americans know what the Empress carries. An American spy is sniffing around Shanghai because of it. He cannot be disposed of without many questions being asked. You have imperiled me, and — worse — you have imperiled Wei Gaofan. What was secret is no longer secret, and what is no longer secret can come to the ears of Wei Gaofan’s enemies on the Central Committee, the Politburo, even on the Standing Committee itself.”

“Feng will dispose of this American!”

“What comes to the ears of the Politburo will be investigated. You’ll be investigated.”

Yu Yongfu was desperate. “They’ll learn nothing―”

“They’ll learn everything. It isn’t in you to resist, son-in-law.” Li’s tone softened. “It’s sad, but it’s true. You’ll reveal everything, and if you live, you’ll be ruined. Which means the ruin of all of us. All of the Yu’s. All of the Li’s.”

“No!” Yu Yongfu shuddered. His stomach was a fist. He could hardly breathe. “I’ll go away. Yes, I’ll leave … ”

Li dismissed him with a wave. “The matter is decided.”

“But―”

“The only question now is how it is to be done. That is your choice.

Will it be prison, disgrace, and ruin for our family? Many questions asked and answered, and the loss of the favor of Wei Gaofan for all of us? Without the great Wei, I will go down. Your wife — my daughter — will fall with me, and there will be no future for my other children and their families either. Most crucial to you, there will be no future for your children.”

Yu trembled. “But―”

“But you are right, none of that need happen. The honorable way will save all of us. The responsibility will end with you. Without you to speak, and no question as to the manner of your death, nothing can lead to Wei Gaofan or myself. My position remains secure, because we will retain Wei’s favor. Your wife and children will still have an unlimited future.”

Yu Yongfu opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. Fear paralyzed him as he saw his suicide.

Far to the west of downtown Shanghai, beyond the ring road expressway, Andy cut his engine and allowed his Jetta to glide to a stop on a tree-lined suburban street. There were no streetlights. The houses were mostly dark this late hour. Nothing moved in the blue-steel moonlight.

In the passenger seat, Smith checked his watch. It was after nine o’clock. Before he had rendezvoused with Andy, he left a message on Dr. Liang’s answering machine that he was indisposed and unable to join him and his colleagues for dinner. He hoped that would cover his activities tonight.

Now he had something far more crucial to worry about. He listened intently. He heard nothing except the faint noise of traffic back on the ring. Something was wrong about this street of affluent homes. He gazed around, trying to understand … then he saw what it was, and inwardly laughed at himself. He had lived in the Eastern Seaboard corridor so long he had become culture bound. The answer was, no cars were parked at the curbs.

“That’s the address over there.” Andy pointed across the street. “Yu Yongfu’s mansion.”

Smith saw no numbers. “How the hell do you know?”

Andy grinned. “In Shanghai, you just know.”

Smith grunted. There was a high, solid wall right on the edge of the dark street, occupying the entire block. Through the barred metal gate, he could make out an impressive compound in the courtyard style of the long-ago estates of rich landowners. Deep inside, the mansion was barely visible. Unlike anything he had seen in this Asian metropolis, Yu’s estate seemed to come straight from the last imperial dynasty.

Smith grabbed his night-vision binoculars and focused on the distant manse and had a shock. It looked American, as if it had been built around 1900. It was big, rambling, and airy. So far, the perimeter wall was the only trace of old China.

He handed the binoculars to Andy, who was as surprised as Smith. “It’s like one of those big houses the opium taipans had back in the eighteen hundreds. You know, in the British, American, and French Concessions?

Those were the dudes who ran the trading companies, built the Bund, and made millions swapping Indian opium for Chinese tea and silk.”

“That’s the impression Yu probably intended,” Smith guessed. “Judging from what I saw at his office, and what you’ve told me, the man thinks of himself as a modern taipan.” Smith continued to study the silent estate. There was no light in the house, no movement, and no sign of security guards on the grounds. That also surprised him. While the Communist government would certainly not permit elaborate private electronic security that could keep their police out, manpower here was both cheap and plentiful.

“Okay, Andy, I’m going in. Give me two hours. If I’m not back, get out of here. Better give me my suit in case we get separated.”

Andy handed him the suit in a tightly rolled bundle tied by his belt.

“What if someone comes before two hours?”

“Leave fast. Try not to let them see you. Hide the car then slip back on foot and hunker down out of sight. But don’t wait longer than the two hours. If I’m not back by then, I’m probably not coming back. Notify your contact and tell him about Flying Dragon and Yu Yongfu.”

“Jesus, don’t scare me any more than I am. Anyway, my contact’s not a him. She’s a her.”

“Then tell her.”

Andy An swallowed and nodded. Smith climbed out of the car and pulled on his backpack. Inside were his tools. In his black work clothes, he trotted through the darkness toward the compound as traffic hummed far away, reminding him again how quiet this neighborhood was.

At a corner of the wall far from the Yu mansion, a tree with thick branches hung over the side. The municipal government would not trim or cut down trees for the safety of a private tycoon, anymore than they would permit electronic security. Smith grabbed the branch and pulled himself up the wall. At the top, he paused. Blooming jasmine perfumed the air. He had a sense he was on the edge of a forest, so dense were the trees and underbrush. He dropped over into dry leaves. They crunched under his feet. Crouching, he waited motionless, hoping no one had heard him.

There was still no sign of security. It made him uneasy. A man of the ambition and ostentation of Yu would have some sort of protection. Most likely, a phalanx of personal guards.

He trotted toward the house and soon came out of the trees into a garden that brought him up as short as the house and the forest had. It was an elaborate, nineteenth-century English garden with narrow paths winding among rosebushes and immaculate flower beds, elaborate topiary, quaint benches, a gazebo, and even a lawn for croquet and bowling. There was the scent of freshly cut grass. He could imagine a homesick British tea tycoon finding solace here.

The garden gave less cover in the ghostly moonlight, but the grotesque shadows cast by the topiary would serve well enough. Moving swiftly, he was soon inside a stand of trees near the house. He circled, discovered a six-car garage at the side that contained only two cars — a large, black Mercedes sedan and a silver Jaguar XJR. He could see no light in the house or an open window.

He worked his way around to the front again. The ornately carved entrance door was mostly in shadow. The brass knocker was oversized and silvered by the moonlight. He studied the door. It was not set back inside a recess, so the moonlight shined directly on it. Moonlight distorted perspective, and depth perception became difficult. The door should not be shadowed at all. Where did the shadow that seemed to cover a quarter of the door come from?

The answer was, there was no shadow. The door was a quarter open, and what appeared to be a shadow was the house’s dark interior.

A trap? People had been watching and following him, but he had taken a multitude of precautions driving here. To all appearances, the estate was deserted. Still, there was the possibility he had missed something or someone.

He drew his Beretta, circled left, and worked his way back to the front door. He listened once more.

Everything was still, silent. Beretta in both hands, he inched the door farther open with the toe of his athletic shoe. The door was well oiled and swung soundlessly. Where were the servants who should be tending this post? He let the door open fully. A broad foyer of polished wood, floor to ceiling, came into view, illuminated by a wash of pewter-colored moonlight through the door and windows. An elegant, winding staircase led up at the rear.

He stepped inside, his soft-soled shoes making little sound. He paused to peer into the room to his left. It was a Victorian-style dining room, but everything in it was Chinese, from the carved-wood dinner table to the screens that hid various corners.

He padded to the right. Another open archway showed a living room twice the size of the dining room. It was dark and nearly silent. He listened, frowning. Inside he could hear the soft sound of someone’s weeping.

Baghdad, Iraq The one commodity in Baghdad that was not in short supply or impossible to afford was petrol. As usual, traffic at five p.m. was congested on every major street of the ancient metropolis. Behind the wheel of his shiny Mercedes, Dr. Hussein Kamil was thinking bitterly of the shortages of anything that had to be imported or manufactured as he fought the sluggish river of cars and trucks toward the commercial center of the city. He was on a terrifying errand. His patients depended on the life-saving medicines that came from outside Iraq. So did his wealth, privileges, and the future of his family. His patients were among the country’s elite, and if he failed to find the antibiotics, tranquilizers, antidepressants, and all the other sophisticated Western pharmaceuticals they demanded, they would go somewhere else … or worse.

He did not know how the elegant Frenchwoman had discovered how he obtained his contraband pharmaceuticals. But she knew every name and place, every contact, every devious arrangement, every secret drop. If a syllable of it were ever to come to the ears of the government or the Republican Guard, they would kill him.

His throat dry with fear, he arrived at a soaring high-rise that had been constructed in happier times. He parked in the garage beneath and rode the elevator up to the headquarters of Tigris Export-Import, Ltd., Agricultural Chemicals. It was rumored to be one of the thousands of companies owned through fronts by the president and his family.

Nadia, the anxious secretary, was waiting to meet him, wringing her hands. “He just collapsed, Dr. Kamil. Without warning. One moment he was―”

“He’s still unconscious?”

“Yes. We’re so frightened.”

She led him at a trot past the cubicles of dozens of employees preparing in grim silence to go home for the day and into the large, quiet office of his patient, Nasser Faidhi, CEO and chairman. The view over the city and far out into the desert beyond the Tigris and Euphrates rivers was imposing. He took it in with a brief glance and rushed to Faidhi, who was lying on a leather couch, unconscious. He checked his vital signs.

Nadia whispered, “Is he going to die?”

Dr. Kamil had no idea how the Frenchwoman had created this medical crisis, but he knew she had, since she had told him he would get the call at precisely 4:45 p. m., and she had been right. He doubted Faidhi’s death was in her plan, because it would provoke an official investigation. The good news was that Faidhi’s heart beat strongly, his pulse was steady, and his color good. He was simply unconscious. Some kind of quick-acting but essentially harmless drug, Dr. Kamil guessed.

He told the secretary, “Not at all, but I’ll need to make some tests.”

He glanced at her. “I must undress him. You understand?”

Nadia flushed. “Of course, Doctor.”

“Thank you. And see that we’re not disturbed.”

“No one would dare.” She left the office. She would guard the door like a fire-eating beast.

The moment he was alone with the unconscious businessman, Dr. Kamil hurried to the wall of filing cabinets where he found the file the Frenchwoman had described: Flying Dragon Enterprises of Shanghai. Inside were four sheets of paper. Two were letters from the company’s Basra office, describing negotiations with a Yu Yongfu, president of Flying Dragon, con earning a cargo of agricultural implements, chemicals, electronics, and other goods to be delivered to the company on a ship named The Dowager Empress. The other two were Faidhi’s responses, containing instructions on the handling of the arrangements by the Basra office. There was nothing else.

Dr. Kamil’s heart pounded with joy. The invoice the Frenchwoman wanted either did not exist or was in the Basra office. He jammed the file back inside the drawer, closed it, and strode back to his patient.

Twenty minutes later, there was a low cough followed by a sigh from Faidhi. His eyelids fluttered. Dr. Kamil marched to the office door, opened it, and smiled to the distraught secretary, pacing outside.

“You may come in now, Nadia. He’s reviving and should be fine.”

“Allah be praised!” “Of course,” Kamil said solemnly, “I’ll need to examine him further, a complete checkup. Call my office and make an appointment for him.” He smiled again. There would be a fat fee and much gratitude. He would tell the Frenchwoman that if she wanted that invoice, she would have to go to Basra, where, of course, he could not go without arousing suspicion.

Everything had turned out well, just as he had expected.

Chapter Eight

A beautiful woman sat alone in the darkened living room, in the midst of heavy, museum-quality antique side pieces. She was curled up on a brown-leather Eames chair. Small and slender, she wore her shiny black hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. In one hand, she held a half-full brandy snifter. An uncorked bottle of Remy Martin cognac stood on the chrome-and-ebony table next to her. A large cat watched from a luxurious couch nearly half as long as the mammoth living room.

The woman gave no sign she saw Smith, the cat, or anything else. She was staring into space, a fragile presence dwarfed by her surroundings.

Smith scanned the room for a sign the woman was not alone. He saw and heard nothing. The house was eerily silent. He stepped carefully into the room, his Beretta still in both hands. The woman raised the snifter and drank it dry in a single gulp. She reached for the open bottle, poured it half full again, set the bottle down, and continued to stare ahead, her movements automatic, like a robot.

Smith walked closer, making no sound, the Beretta still up and ready.

Suddenly she was looking straight at him, and he realized he knew her from somewhere, had seen her before. At least her face, the high-necked Chinese dress she wore, the imperious expression … Of course, it was in the movies. Some Chinese movie. She was a film star. Yu Yongfu’s trophy wife? Whoever she was, she was staring straight into his face, seemingly oblivious to his pistol.

“You’re the American spy.” Her English was flawless, and it was a statement, not a question.

“Really?” “My husband told me.”

“Is Yu Yongfu here?”

She looked away, staring again into the distance. “My husband is dead.”

“Dead? How did he die? When?”

The woman turned to face him again and then did something odd. She looked at her watch. “Ten or perhaps fifteen minutes ago. How? He didn’t tell me. Possibly a pistol like the one you’re holding. Do all men love guns?”

Her matter-of-fact, emotionless voice, her morbid calm, chilled Smith.

Like a sharp wind blowing across a glacier.

“It was you,” she continued. “They feared you. Your presence. It would cause questions they didn’t want asked.”

“Who are ”?”

She drained her cognac again. “Those who required my husband to kill himself. For me and the children, they said. For the family.” She laughed. It was abrupt, like an explosion. A macabre sound more like a bark than a real laugh. There was no humor in it, only bitterness. “They took his life to save themselves. Not from danger, mind you. From possible danger.” Her smile at Smith was mocking. “And here you are, aren’t you? Looking for my husband, just as they said you would. They always know when there’s a threat to their interests.”

Smith seized on the acerbic mockery. “If you want to avenge him, help me bring them down. I need a document he had. It’ll expose them for the international criminals they are.”

She considered. There was speculation in her gaze. She searched his face as if to find some trick. Then she shrugged, picked up the bottle of Remy Martin, poured her snifter almost full, and gazed away.

“Upstairs,” she said woodenly. “In the safe in our bedroom.”

She did not look at him again. Instead, she sipped the brandy and studied the empty air above her head as if it were full of answers she could not quite read.

Smith stared. Was this an act? Perhaps to lull him into going upstairs where he would be trapped?

In the end, it did not matter. He needed the document in the safe. Too much was at stake. He half backed out of the baronial room, rotating his Beretta to cover both it and the dark entry hall. But the house remained as silent as a tomb.

He slipped upstairs to the second-floor landing, where the shadows were denser, since there were no windows to let in the moonlight. Nothing moved up here either. There was no odor of gun smoke and no corpses. The only sound came from down below — the clink of the bottle of cognac against the snifter in the echoing living room, where the grieving woman poured her next brandy.

The master bedroom was at the far end of the hall. The size of two normal bedrooms, it was completely Chinese. There was a six-post, curtained canopy bed from the late Ming Dynasty, two Ming couch beds, Qing wardrobes and lady’s dressing table, and chairs and low tables from various other dynasties. Everything was heavily carved and decorated in the most elaborate Chinese style. Silks and brocades curtained the bed and hung from the walls. Screens decorated every corner.

The wall safe was behind a hanging depicting some ancient battle from what looked like the Yuan Dynasty of Kublai Khan. Smith took out his picklocks, laid them on the cabinet closest to the safe, and inspected the combination lock.

He took hold of the dial knob — and the safe door moved. Full of misgivings, he pulled on the knob. Just as the door swung toward him, a powerful car engine roared to life outside the house.

Smith sprinted to the window, which overlooked the garage and driveway, in time to see the taillights of the Jaguar disappear down the long driveway toward the street. Damn.

He tore out of the bedroom and down the stairs two at a time to the living room. The snifter and bottle were on the table beside the Eames chair, and the woman was gone. Had it all been a setup? A trap? The woman’s purpose to distract him with her bitter tale of forced suicide?

He listened, but there were no sounds of any vehicles coming up the driveway.

He rushed back upstairs to a bedroom at the front of the house to get a different view. It was a boy’s room. From the window, he looked past the garden and trees toward the distant wall. He heard nothing now out on the street. Saw nothing moving anywhere in the gardens below.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she really was distraught and half drunk, running away because of her horror to some private sanctuary. Or to join her husband in death.

He could not take the chance. He raced back upstairs, emptied the safe, and dumped the contents on one of the couch beds. There were jewels, letters, documents. There was no money and no manifest. He shook his head angrily, his disappointment raw. He searched through the letters and documents twice more, swearing to himself. The invoice manifest was definitely missing.

There was one item that was interesting — a typed note on the letterhead of a Belgian company: Donk & Lapierre, S. A., Antwerp and Hong Kong.

Written in French, it was addressed to Yu Yongfu at Flying Dragon Enterprises. It assured Yu the shipment would arrive in Shanghai on August 24 in plenty of time for The Dowager Empress to sail, and it expressed great optimism for “our joint venture.” It was signed by Jan Donk and listed a phone number in Hong Kong under the sender’s name.

Relieved he might have found something solid at last, Smith jammed the letter into his backpack and hurried out of the bedroom. He was at the head of the stairs when he saw shadows flit across the moonlit windows on either side of the front door. His pulse accelerated as he forced himself to stay motionless, listening. Out in the night, quick footsteps ran close to the house.

With a jolt of adrenaline, he sprinted back to the master bedroom and peered out the rear windows at the formal English garden. No one was in sight, but there were no trees and no other way down except to jump.

He dashed to the windows on the other side of the room, which faced away from the driveway and garage. The manicured lawn was the color of tarnished copper in the moonlight. There were trees, but none close enough to reach. There was, however, a drainpipe that ran from the gutters at the edge of the roof above him down to the grass.

As he studied the drainpipe, two figures ran around the front corner of the mansion close to the house. They tested each window for entry.

If no trap had been intended when he arrived, it was a trap now. They would soon find the front door unlocked, if they had not already. He had seconds to get out of the house before they were inside, up the stairs, and on him.

He waited until the figures vanished toward the rear. He opened the window, climbed out, sat on the sill with his legs dangling, and leaned to the drainpipe, which was sheet metal and looked well attached to the house. Holding it, he swung himself out. It groaned but held. Using the toes of his shoes, he literally walked down the side of the mansion. As soon as he touched grass, he bolted out across the moonlit lawn toward the stand of trees that had sheltered him when he first arrived.

Angry shouts in Chinese carried across the night from the windows of the master bedroom. They had found the open safe and spotted his escape.

As soon as he reached the trees, he began weaving, dodging the dark vegetation. Shouts followed across the distance, and then it was a single hushed version of a deep, harsh voice giving whispery orders like a drill sergeant instilling steadiness in his men. Smith had heard the voice before— from the leader of the attackers on Liuchiu Island. The big Chinese with the red-and-white hair that the treasurer of Flying Dragon had called Feng Dun.

Suddenly an ominous silence filled the night. Smith guessed they had been ordered to spread out, to methodically force him toward the wall where it bordered the street and the gate. Feng Dun would have more of his people waiting there. It was the same pincer movement he had used in the attack on Liuchiu Island. Military minds tended to favor the same tactics — like Stonewall Jackson’s outflanking night marches.

Smith turned and trotted softly toward the back wall. As he slipped through the shadows, he pulled his walkie-talkie from his pocket. “Andy?

Come in, Andy.”

“Shit, Colonel. Are you okay?”

“You saw them?”

“Sure did. Three cars. I got out of there fastest.”

“Where are you now?”

“Out front, like you said. I stashed the car and walked back. The three cars are right here on the street, too close for comfort.”

“Did they leave men there, too?”

“You bet.”

“How many?”

“Too many, as far as I’m concerned. Three drivers. And another five just came out through the gate to join them.”

“Let’s skip their greeting party. Go back to the car fast and drive around to meet me at the back corner of the wall on the side street. Got that?”

“Side street, rear corner.”

“Get going.”

Smith ended the transmission and resumed his race toward the rear. He was just beginning to think he had outwitted his pursuers when he heard a noise that meant danger. He spun and dropped flat, Beretta in hand.

There it was again — the hard sound of metal striking wood. There was a low, muttered oath.

From the ground, he strained to see anything that stirred. The little forest had turned quiet, and the only movement seemed to be caused by the wind rustling through branches and leaves.

There was a thicket of bushes to his right, near the wall. He inched toward it, all his senses on high alert. He slid in between two bushes that hid him from above, and he forced his breath to slow, grow shallow.

He waited.

The only reason he saw the big shape pass was that the wind blew an opening in the leaf cover high above. Moonlight shone through and illuminated a half-crouched man and his raised AK-74 passing by.

Disgusted with himself, Smith knew he had guessed wrong. Feng Dun had reasoned Smith would expect another pincer movement, so he had sent most of his people to the street, while doubling back the opposite way alone, in hopes of taking Smith by surprise. But he would not be alone ahead; he would have men in position, waiting.

Smith slithered out from under the thicket, the spiny branches scratching his head and hands. He hardly felt the discomfort. As soon as he was out, he trotted left to where the wall bordered the side street.

There was no tree close enough to be useful, but fallen branches and other debris had collected in a pile high enough to help. Fortunately, Yu Yongfu preferred appearance over substance — taking care of one’s wooded grounds where they were out of sight was not something that interested him. Or if anything his wife had said were true, had interested him.

Smith ran, jumped up onto the pile, and leaped. He grabbed the wall, pulled himself to the top, and straddled it as he surveyed the street.

On the other side near the far corner, Andy An’s Jetta was parked.

He turned on his walkie-talkie. “Andy?” he said in hushed tones. “We’ve got company all over the compound. I can’t get to the corner. Drive away, circle, and come back to the center of the block. Slow down, and I’ll meet you. Then we’ll burn rubber.”

He waited. There was no answer. Was Andy’s radio out?

“Andy? Are you there?”

Silence.

“Andy?”

His stomach went loose with fear. A chill swept through him. He dug his night-vision binoculars from his backpack and focused on the Jetta. Andy sat behind the wheel, motionless as he kept watch on the street ahead.

There was no one else in the small car.

Smith frowned, studying the car and the green night all around. Andy still did not move. Smith watched him for two more long minutes, an interminable length of time. But nothing changed. Andy moved not an inch. Not a muscle. Not the blink of an eye.

Smith heaved a sad sigh. Andy was dead. They had taken him out.

He put away his binoculars and dropped down to the street, sprinted across into the cluster of smaller neighborhood estates, and tore off through their grounds. He heard no shouts behind him this time. They would be too focused on the Jetta, expecting him to connect with Andy.

Furious and weary, he slowed to a lope. He wove along streets and past gardens, fences, and the walls of gated communities built for the expatriate businessmen who would flock more and more into the People’s Republic to live off its billions. Finally he reached a major street.

Dripping with sweat, he hailed a taxi.

The telephone rang in the family room of the main house of Niu Jianxing’s old-fashioned courtyard complex on the outskirts of the Xicheng district, one of the older sections of the city. The Owl liked to think of himself as a man of the people. He had refused to join the many members of the Central Committee who had built expensive mansions far out in the Chaoyang district. Instead, although his complex was large and comfortable, it was far from flashy.

Niu had been watching the tape of an American legal drama with his wife and son and, consequently, was annoyed by the interruption. Partly because it was an intrusion on his family time, something he cherished but could indulge in less and less since his elevation to the Standing Committee. But perhaps even more because it broke into his fascinated study of American concepts of crime, law, society, and the individual.

Still, no one would dare call him at this late hour unless the matter were urgent. He excused himself, went into his private study, and closed the door, drowning out the television and the happy sounds of his wife and son.

Niu picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

General Chu Kuairong’s rasping voice wasted no time on preambles. “Our scientist friend, Dr. Liang, reports that Jon Smith failed to keep the dinner engagement he arranged. The doctor found a message on his answering machine from Smith. He went to Smith’s hotel room, hoping to change his mind. When there was no response, he had the manager open the door to be sure Smith was well. The room was empty. Smith had not checked out and not taken his belongings, but he was gone.”

Niu did not like that. “What does Major Pan say about Smith?”

“His surveillance did not see Colonel Smith leave the hotel. Ever.”

Niu knew the chief of state security was enjoying Pan’s embarrassing failure. Still, that was hardly the point. “Smith must have suspected Dr. Liang had become suspicious, knew he would be watched, and found a way to slip out.”

“Clearly.” On the edge of sarcasm.

Niu repressed his irritation. “Has Smith been to Shanghai before?”

“Not that we know.”

“Does he speak Chinese? Have friends or associates here?”

“His military and personnel records give no indication of that.”

“Then how is he functioning?” Niu wondered and answered his own question: “Someone must be helping him.”

The general had had his fun; now he became serious. “Someone Chinese. An insider who speaks English or another language Smith knows. He would have a vehicle and know his way around better than most. We are particularly puzzled because Smith is totally unknown to us, and yet he clearly has help in our midst, perhaps from someone recruited years ago to spy among us.”

Niu contemplated his own private spies. Without them, he would be nearly blind and deaf in the byzantine world of Chinese national politics.

“Whatever the case, we must now detain this colonel and interrogate him.

Tell Major Pan to do so immediately.”

“Pan has his people searching Shanghai.”

“When they find Smith, notify me. I will speak to him myself.” Niu scowled as he hung up. He had lost all pleasure in his family time and the American television program.

Why would the Americans send this sort of agent now, at such a politically sensitive time, and allow him to operate when he surely knew he had been discovered? Why would they risk their own treaty?

He fell into his office chair, leaned back, and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to sink into that quiet place where it seemed as if he were floating. There was no weight on his body, or on his mind … Minutes passed. An hour. Patience was necessary. Finally, with a soaring burst of clarity, he knew the answer: It would happen if a faction in the American government opposed the treaty, too.

Chapter Nine

In the big conference room next door to the Oval Office, the air was heavy with anticipation. The chairs encircling the long table were filled, as were the chairs lining the walls, where assistants, advisers, and researchers sat and stood, waiting to hear what decisions would be made so they were prepared to find answers to their bosses’ questions.

This packed meeting was just a preliminary discussion, but it was for the all-important, annual multibillion-dollar appropriations package for military weapons. The new secretary of defense, Henry Stanton, who sat to the right of the president, had called it.

Stanton was a man of medium height and hot disposition. From his balding head to his restless hands, he exuded energy and charm. His sharp features had softened with age, making him look almost avuncular. In his mid-fifties, he used that reassuring affect to great advantage in press conferences. But now, out of sight of the media, he was all business.

He continued in his blunt style, “Mr. President, gentlemen, and lady.”

He inclined his head to the only woman at the long table, former Brig. Gen. Emily Powell-Hill, the president’s National Security Adviser.

“Think of our military as if it were an alcoholic. Like any alcoholic, if it — and our nation— is to survive, it must make a clean break from the past.”

The irritation on the other side of the table was visible in the grimly set jaws and audible in the low rumbles of the military commanders.

Alcoholic? Alcoholic! How dare he! Even President Castilla raised an eyebrow.

Emily Powell-Hill jumped in to soothe the offended egos. “The secretary is, of course, asking for input from all of you, as well as from many experts in the field and our allies.”

“The secretary,” Secretary Stanton snapped, “is asking nothing. He’s telling you the way it is. It’s a brand-new day and a brand-new world.

As the man said, we’ve got to stop preparing for last year’s war!”

“The secretary’s pronouncements and analogies might make him a great man in the headlines he appears to crave,” Admiral Stevens Brose, chairman of the joint chiefs, growled from his seat directly facing the president and Stanton, “but his armchair views won’t matter a plugged nickel on a battlefield.” His gray buzz cut seemed to bristle with disgust. He sat awkwardly, his ankles crossed, his big chin jutting forward.

Secretary Stanton instantly retorted, “I resent the implication, Admiral, and―”

“That was no implication, Mr. Secretary,” Brose said flatly. “That was a fact.”

The two matched glares.

Stanton, the new man, gazed down at his notes. Few people had ever out-stared the implacable chairman of the joint chiefs, and Stanton was not going to be one of them today.

Still, Stanton did not give an inch. He looked up. “Very well. If you wish to make this adversarial … ”

The admiral smiled.

Stanton reddened. As a former empire-building CEO of General Electric, Stanton was a long way from doubting his convictions. “Let’s just say I got your attention, Admiral. That’s what counts.”

“You’re too late. The world situation already did that,” Brose rumbled.

“Like an anchor between the eyeballs.”

The president raised a hand. “All right, gentlemen. Let’s call a truce.

Harry, enlighten us poor laymen. Tell us specifically what you’re suggesting.”

Stanton, accustomed to cowing corporate boards that rubber-stamped his every whim, paused for effect. His analytical gaze perused the assembled generals and secretaries. “For more than a half century, America’s been arming to fight a short, highly intense war in Europe or the old Soviet Union from large, permanent bases that were relatively convenient distances away. Targets were within striking range of carrier-based fighters and bombers, plus there were the giant bombers that could fly out of America. To prevent war, we relied on containment and massive deterrence. All that must change radically. It must change now.”

Admiral Brose nodded. “I’m in full agreement, if you’re suggesting a leaner military. It has to be quick to respond, fast to deploy anywhere at any time, and equipped with lighter, smaller, stealthier, more expendable weapons. The navy’s already implemented its ‘ fighter’ concept of small carriers, missile ships, and submarines to fight in the narrow coastal waters we expect we’ll be operating in more and more.”

Air Force General Bruce Kelly was next to Brose. He sat erect, his patrician face florid, his uniform immaculate, and his eyes clear and calculating. His enemies complained he was an emotionless machine, while his supporters bragged he had one of the shrewdest intellects the military had ever produced. “I assume the secretary isn’t suggesting we abandon our deterrent capability,” he said in a mild voice. “Our nuclear weapons — long-range or short-range — are critical.”

“True.” Stanton offered his charming smile, since he and Kelly were in fundamental agreement. “But we should consider reducing stockpiles and trimming research for bigger and ” bombs and the giant missiles capable of carrying them. It’s also probably unwise to build more carriers and subs beyond what we need to replace what we have.”

Emily Powell-Hill said, “Cut to the bottom line, Henry. This is a meeting about appropriations. Exactly what are you suggesting we build and don’t build?” “As I said, Emily, I’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you what we must do to keep our military superiority. We must shift funding from giant carriers, huge tanks, and fighter jets with overwhelming power to light, small, almost invisible weapons.”

The army chief of staff, It. General Tomas Guerrero, was seated to the far right of Admiral Brose. His big, square-fingered hands knotted on the table. “No one’s going to tell me we won’t need tanks, heavy artillery, and large forces trained to fight big wars. Russia and China are still out there, Secretary Stanton. You’re forgetting them. They’ve got massive armies, enormous territories, and nuclear weapons. Then there’s India, Pakistan, and a united Europe, too. Europe’s already our economic adversary.”

Stanton was not about to back down. “That’s exactly what I am telling you, General.”

NSA Powell-Hill chimed in, “I doubt anyone believes — or wants — our current military power scrapped, Mr. Stanton. As I understand it, your opinion is that we need to intensify our direction in developing smaller weapons and capabilities.”

“I―” Stanton began.

Before the defense secretary could continue, Admiral Brose used his commanding presence and voice to bull his way in. “No one in this room disagrees with the concept of a leaner, meaner military. Hell, that’s what we’ve been working on since the Gulf War. We just haven’t made the complete commitment you’re asking for.”

From the far end of the table, It. General Oda, the marine commandant, boomed, “I sure don’t disagree. Light and fast, that’s what the marines want.”

Nods of consensus filled the room. Only President Castilla, who was usually a full participant in any serious discussion of the military, remained silent. He appeared to be brooding, waiting for something else to be said.

Secretary Stanton glanced at him, sensing uncertainty. He moved ahead boldly. “As far as it goes, I’m glad you agree with my analysis. But I get the impression you’re talking about beginning tomorrow. That’s not good enough. We have to start today. Now. At this moment, we have weapons in various stages of development — the air force’s F-22 short-range fighter jet, the navy’s next generation DD-21 battleship and aircraft carriers, and the army’s Protector long-range armored artillery system. They’re too big. Every one of them. They’re elephants when we need jaguars. They’re going to be completely useless in the kinds of future engagements we’re most likely to face.”

Before the chorus of outrage could gain steam, Admiral Brose abruptly raised a hand. As the voices subsided to aggrieved rumbling, he said, “All right. Let’s deal with them one at a time. Bruce, lay out the case for the F-22.”

“That won’t take long,” General Kelly said. “The F-16 is getting old.

The F-22 will establish absolute control of the skies over any battlefield. The new generation provides first-look, first-shot, and first-kill. They’re faster, more maneuverable, and more powerful, and their stealth is increased to where the jets are essentially undetectable.” “Succinctly put, General,” Stanton said approvingly. “I’ll try to match. No country’s building air capability equal to our air force. What they are building are relatively cheap, powerful, and accurate missile systems. The problem is, many of the missile systems will end up in the hands of terrorists. At the same time, despite its supercruise capability, the F-22 remains a short-range fighter. That means it’s got to have bases close to battle. But what happens when the enemy takes out those bases with missiles? Our new and expensive fighters will be useless.” “I’ll speak for the navy,” Brose said. “We’re already rethinking our carriers and other surface vessels. In confined waters or waters close to a coast, they’ll be sitting ducks for missiles. If it’s a war deep inside a continent, no ships or short-range aircraft will be able to get to the battlefield anyway.”

“That leaves the army and the Protector artillery system,” secretary of the army, Jasper Kott, announced. He was an elegant man with fastidious manners. Smooth-cheeked, with a quiet face and expressive eyes, he was also unflappable under the most trying circumstances. “I’ll anticipate Secretary Stanton by agreeing we need the quickly committed army he envisions. If a ground war had erupted in Kosovo, our tanks would’ve needed months to arrive, and when they did, the massive weight of the seventy-ton Abrams would’ve crushed ten of the twelve bridges between the port and the battlefield. That’s why we’re training ” brigades now. They’ll ultimately have a new armored vehicle far smaller than the Abrams, and we can ship it by air.”

“Then we don’t need the Protector system at all, do we, Secretary Kott?”

Stanton challenged.

Kott’s voice remained polite, almost neutral. “As a matter of fact, we do need it. We need it very much. As General Guerrero said, we’ve got serious potential adversaries out there — China, Russia, Serbia, India, Pakistan, India, and — don’t forget — Iran and Iraq. Our long-range bombers are powerful but not always accurate. Artillery’s still the key to winning a major battle. We like the Protector because it’s far superior to our current Paladin system. It gives us the superiority to deter big military adversaries. By the way, the Protector is easily airlifted.”

“It’s easy to fly into remote areas only if it remains at the forty-two tons you stripped it down to. You discarded a lot of the armor you really want. Everyone knows you’ll put it back on as soon as you can.

Then the damn thing’ll be too heavy to fly anywhere.”

“It will remain airlift capable,” General Guerrero retorted.

“I doubt that, General. The army loves heavy armor. You’ll find a way to regain that weight once you’ve got the government’s commitment to build it. Just remember what the Germans learned in Russia and the Ardennes in World War Two: Poor roads, old bridges, narrow tunnels, and bad terrain can torpedo any advantage heavy tanks and artillery have. Throw in bad weather, and you might as well dig your grave on the spot.”

“On the other hand, light forces fail every time against heavy weapons and large manpower,” Secretary Kott pointed out. “That’s impossible to deny. What you want, Stanton, is a recipe for disaster.”

As the men around the table bristled, ready to resume arguing, Admiral Brose raised his voice, “I believe we have defined our positions sufficiently. Funds for weaponry are not unlimited, right, Emily?”

The National Security Adviser nodded soberly. “Unfortunately.”

“So I tend to side with the defense secretary on this,” Brose told them.

“Our first priority is to develop the fleeter forces our experiences from Somalia to the present tell us we need. We also need to hold the line on what we have and keep a wary eye on the military developments of potential enemies.” He gazed across the table to the president. “What do you say, sir?”

Although President Castilla had remained oddly silent through the lengthy discussion, he was known to favor a sparer military. He nodded almost to himself. “Each of you has made cogent arguments that must be considered. The need for a quick-response force large enough and powerful enough to handle any brushfire war or Third World threat, or to protect our citizens and interests in developing nations, is clear. We can’t have a repeat of Somalia. At the same time, we can’t rely on nations doing nothing while America builds up massive forces on their borders, as Saddam Hussein allowed us during the Gulf War.”

The president nodded to Admiral Brose and Secretary Stanton. “On the other hand, the generals and Secretary Kott are reminding us we may face conflicts on a monumental scale as well, against major-league opponents with nuclear weapons. We may have to fight on vast landmasses where light forces are inadequate.” He seemed to brood again. Finally he announced, “We may have to consider a larger military allocation than we anticipated.”

Puzzled, everyone in the room looked at one another and back at the president. He was vacillating, a rare occurrence for such a firm decision maker. Only Admiral Brose had an inkling of what could be causing the uncharacteristic hesitancy — The Dowager Empress and China’s strategic interests in her.

The president stood. “We’ll meet again soon to discuss this further.

Emily, I need to speak with you and Charlie on another matter.”

The assorted generals, cabinet members, and assistants filed out, frowning and exchanging cryptic comments about what they obviously considered an unsatisfying meeting. President Castilla watched them go, his expression grave.

In the taxi, Smith changed into the suit and tie he had retrieved from poor Andy earlier. Every few minutes, he looked over his shoulder at the jockeying headlights on the street behind. He could not shake the sense of being followed. At the same time, the faces of Andy An and Avery Mondragon haunted him. Was there something he could have — should have — done that would have saved their lives?

In his mind, he went back over the last two days, searching for what he might have missed. For a decision that would have altered everything.

Anger surged through him again. His muscles tensed. His chest ached with rage. Who were these people who killed so easily?

At last, he shook off the worst of it. Too much fury clouded the mind.

He needed all of his intelligence, because finding the manifest was critical.

He finished dressing and shoved his black work clothes into his backpack. He had a job to do. A job made more vital by Mondragon’s and Andy’s deaths.

The taxi dropped him two blocks up the Bund, and he blended into the throngs out for an evening walk by the river. When he reached the corner across from the Peace Hotel, he turned into Nanjing Dong Lu. Here the famed shopping paradise reverted to the narrow, stinking, teeming street it had been before the mall was built. The sidewalks were so constricted that most of the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd walked in the street.

Across from the hotel’s revolving door, Smith shrank back into an alley.

He focused on the hotel entrance, hoping to spot the red-and-white hair of Feng Dun. One vendor of fake Rolex watches who buttonholed everyone going in or out of the hotel could have been someone he had spotted at Yongfu’s mansion. A dumpling seller on the sidewalk beside his steaming pot definitely was — one of the two who had passed under the windows of the master bedroom.

They looked their parts, but they also showed the telltale signs of men on stakeout: They were uninterested in what they were selling, never really looked at anyone who stopped to inspect their wares, and never bothered with the customary loud pitches. Instead, they strained to scrutinize everyone who moved through the hotel’s doors. There was no point in checking the other entrances; they would be similarly covered.

These people were organized and adept.

He needed to draw them away or somehow remove them. Showing himself as bait was risky. This was their city, not his, and he spoke no Chinese.

At last, he joined the crowds walking back to the Bund, located a public telephone, and used the 1C card Dr. Liang had given him. He dialed the hotel.

The desk clerk answered in Chinese but switched quickly to English the moment Smith gave his name.

“Yes, sir. How may we help you?”

“It’s a bit embarrassing, but I have a small problem. Earlier today, I had an unpleasant altercation with a pair of street vendors.

Unfortunately, they’re back, watching the hotel entrance. That makes me uneasy about my safety. I mean, why are they out there?”

“I will take care of it. Can you describe them? There are so many on this part of Nanjing Dong Lu.”

“One is selling fake Rolexes, and the other Shanghai dumplings.”

“That should suffice, Dr. Smith.”

“Thank you. I feel safer already.” He hung up and wove back through the swarming pedestrians to stand by a planter where he could watch.

Less than two minutes later, a municipal police car honked and bulled its way through to stop in front of the hotel. Two officers in dark-blue pants and light-blue shirts jumped out, and the fake street vendors made a mistake: They showed no interest, which made the police immediately suspicious. Street vendors everywhere started looking over their shoulders when the police appeared. Seconds later, the phony vendors were in a shouting match with the officers.

Smith waited. Soon, the door of a large black sedan that had been parked across the street opened, and two men in street clothes got out. They pushed through the crowds, everyone cringing back, quickly giving them space.

Public Security Bureau. They joined the municipal policemen. One spoke sharply. Instantly, the police officers and the vendors turned their shouts onto the Public Security agents, each side screaming its case.

The vendors waved permits. The police pointed to the hotel. The Public Security people shouted back.

When a large black Lincoln stopped at the entrance and disgorged three European businessmen and three young Chinese women in slit dresses, Smith attached himself to their happy party, laughing with them as they sauntered into the lobby while a larger and larger crowd encircled the arguing police and vendors.

Pulling out his cell phone as he entered his room, Smith stopped in his tracks. The thin sheet of see-through plastic on the carpet was gone. He returned his cell phone to his pocket, drew his Beretta, and surveyed the floor. He did not have to look far. The plastic sheet was wadded up against the floorboard only feet from the door. Someone had entered, stepped on the plastic, and kicked it away without thinking what it meant.

He returned to the hallway, removed the do not disturb sign, and examined the door lock. It looked untouched. Back in the room, he locked the door again and checked his suitcases. The filaments were intact.

Someone with a key had entered, was unconcerned about stepping on an invisible sheet of plastic, and had no interest in his suitcases. That did not sound like Public Security, local cops, or tonight’s thugs. It sounded more like hotel personnel.

He frowned. Still, the do not disturb sign had clearly been hanging on the knob. Had someone — not necessarily from the hotel — been simply checking to see whether he was there?

Frowning, he could take no chances. He turned on the TV set, raised the volume, went into the bathroom, and turned the faucets in the tub on full. With the jarring noise for background, he sat on the toilet seat, pulled out his cell phone again, and dialed Fred Klein’s scrambled Covert-One line.

“Where in hell are you?” Klein demanded. “What’s all that noise?”

“Just making sure I’m not overheard. There’s a possibility my hotel room’s been bugged.”

“Swell. You have good news for me, Colonel?”

He angled back his head, stretching his neck. “I wish. My only break was I found who owns the Empress — a Chinese company called Flying Dragon Enterprises. A Shanghai businessman, Yu Yongfu, is — or was — president and chairman, but the true manifest wasn’t in any of Yu’s safes.” He filled in the Covert-One chief about the company’s treasurer, Zhao Yanji, and the information the distraught fellow had relayed. “Of course, I went to Yu’s mansion.” He described his conversation with Yu’s wife. “She might have been playing me, or she might not. She’s an actress, and a damn good one from what I remember. Still, I had the feeling her story and her bitterness were real. Someone forced Yu Yongfu to kill himself, and whoever that was has the manifest.”

He could hear Klein puffing hard on his pipe. “They’ve been one step ahead of us from the start.”

“There’s worse. Andy — An Jingshe — has been killed, too.”

“I assume you’re speaking of the interpreter I sent. I didn’t know him, but that doesn’t make me less sorry. You never get used to the deaths, Colonel.” “No,” Smith said.

There was a moment of silence. Then, “Tell me more about the attack on the Yu mansion. What exactly makes you think it wasn’t a trap?”

“It didn’t have the feel of one. I think they’d been watching me and finally decided to make a move when the wife drove off. From how they acted, they obviously didn’t expect to find the front door open.”

“Public Security Bureau?”

“They were too open and clumsy. My guess is they were private killers.”

“Killers who forced Yu to commit suicide and took the manifest?”

“If so, why did they go back to the mansion? Does the name Feng Dun sound familiar?” When Klein said no, Smith described his run-ins with him.

“I’ll have my people identify him.”

Klein paused, and in his mind, Smith could see him scowling and pondering in the distant office at the yacht club on the Anacostia River.

At last, Klein rumbled, “So our main lead is dead, and the manifest we need is gone. Where does that leave us, Colonel? I could pull you and regroup for a try from another angle.”

“Try any angle you can think of, but I’m not ready to give up yet. Maybe I can pick up the trail of the attackers. There’s the man who says he’s the president’s father, too. I’ll look for a lead on him.”

“What else have you found?”

“Something very important … Flying Dragon isn’t alone in the Empress venture. A Belgian company named Donk & Lapierre, S. A., supplied some of the cargo, if not all. Donk & Lapierre has an office in Hong Kong. It’d be logical for them to have a copy of the real invoice manifest, too.”

“Good idea. Get to Hong Kong fast. I’ll send someone to see what they have in Belgium, too. Where’s the headquarters again?”

“Antwerp. I take it our people came up empty in Baghdad.”

“They did. I’m arranging for a more reliable agent in Basra to investigate further.”

“Good. I’ll make some excuse to Dr. Liang and fly to Hong Kong on the first China Southwest plane I can get.”

“Now … ”

He barely heard the knock on the room door over the TV and the tub faucets. “Hold on.” Smith drew his Beretta and walked out to the door.

“Who is it?”

“Room service, sir.”

“I didn’t order room service.”

“Dr. Jon Smith? Hairy crab dinner? A Bass ale? From the Dragon-Phoenix restaurant.”

Hairy crab was a prized Shanghai dish, and the Dragon-Phoenix restaurant was in the hotel, but that did not change the fact that Smith had ordered no food. He told Fred Klein he would be in touch.

“What’s going on there?” Klein demanded. “Is something wrong?”

“Tell Potus what I said. I may need that dental appointment after all.”

He severed the connection, pocketed the cell phone, and gripped his Beretta. He cracked open the door.

A lone man in a waiter’s jacket stood beside a serving cart draped in white linen. The hot smell of seafood drifted from covered dishes. Smith did not recognize him. He was short and very lean, but there were muscles under his uniform, and the sinews of his neck were thick ropes.

There was a tension and purpose to him like a coiled spring. Darker than any Han Chinese Smith had ever seen, he could have been carved from sun-browned rawhide. His long, high-boned face was lined and deeply seamed, although he was no more than forty, probably younger. The mustache was an elegant touch. Whatever and whoever he was, Smith decided, he was not the usual Chinese.

Before the door was fully open, the waiter shoved the cart into the room. “Good evening, sir,” he said loudly in English thick with a Cantonese accent.

A couple was swinging along the hall, holding hands. They passed Smith’s room.

“Who are you?” Smith demanded.

The waiter glanced at Smith’s Beretta, gave no sign he was perturbed, and used a heel to push the door closed behind him.

“Don’t give a fuss, Colonel,” the man said, with a flash of his black eyes. Gone was the Cantonese accent, replaced by an upper-class British one. “If you would be so kind.” He reached under his serving cart and tossed a bundle of clothes to Smith. “Put these on. Quickly. There are some blokes downstairs looking for you. No time for full disclosure.”

Smith caught the bundle with his left hand, while his right continued to point his Beretta at the man. “Who the hell are you, and who are they?”

“They are the Public Security Bureau, and I’m Asgar Mahmout, alias Xing Bao in the People’s Republic.” He still did not acknowledge Smith’s Beretta. “I’m the ” who got the word to Mondragon about the old man in the Chinese prison.”

Chapter Ten

Near their offices in the Pentagon, Secretary of the Army Jasper Kott parted with General Tomas Guerrero in the corridor. They had been discussing various strategies for gaining more support from both the government and the military, including publicity to educate the general public. Kott continued on toward his office until General Guerrero disappeared.

The secretary changed directions and ducked into the men’s restroom. It was deserted, so he went into a stall, locked the door, and sat on the toilet top. He dialed his cell phone and waited while the call was relayed through a maze of electronics.

The robust voice that finally came on asked, “Well?”

“I think it’s working. The president’s vacillating.”

“That doesn’t sound like our leader. What exactly is he doing?”

“You know what a bulldog he is. Well, he hardly took any part in the discussion. Stanton rode his horse hard, but he rode alone. Except for Brose and Oda, of course. But we expected that.”

“Give me the details.”

Kott described the high points of the appropriations meeting. “No one knew why the president seemed so moody, preoccupied, and waffling. Only maybe Brose. I caught a look between them.”

There was a bitter laugh. “I’ll bet you did. We need to talk more about this.”

“Anytime. We’ll make another phone appointment.”

“No. In person. Just the two of us. There’s too much to discuss, and it’s too important.”

Kott considered. “I need to visit our bases in Asia anyway.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting.” The line went dead.

Kott returned the phone to his pocket, flushed the toilet, and left.

President Castilla often had the feeling Fred Klein lived in perpetual midnight. In the Covert-One office hidden in the anacostia seagoing yacht club, heavy curtains covered the windows against the late-morning sunlight, the noise of the bustling marina, and the sounds of boats and wildlife from the river. The president sat facing Klein, who leaned back behind his desk, his hands in the light of the lamp, and his head in the gloom of the office’s shadows.

Klein repeated what Jon Smith had just reported. “And we may have to get him out of China quickly.” Klein described the abruptly ended phone call from Shanghai that included the code words “Potus”—president — and “dental appointment”—extraction.

“Let’s not lose Smith, too.” The president shook his head worriedly. “We still don’t have the manifest, and we don’t know who has it or where it is.”

“Smith thinks the Belgian company may have a copy.”

“May have?”

“I have people in China trying to track down who attacked Smith, and in Iraq looking for the second copy of the invoice manifest. I’ll get the ball rolling in Antwerp to find out whether the third copy is there. But if we don’t find one in Shanghai, Basra, or in Antwerp, then only Hong Kong is left.”

The president nodded. “All right. I trust your judgment. We have a few days of grace before the freighter arrives.” He hesitated then grimaced.

“I have to consider what we do if no copies of the manifest are ever found. I can’t let that ship unload its cargo in Iraq. In the final analysis, we’ll have no choice but to board it, and that means I have to anticipate the consequences and prepare.”

“A military confrontation with China?”

“A confrontation is a very real — and frightening — possibility.”

“Would we go it alone, without our allies?”

“If necessary. They’ll demand documentation if we ask them to back us.

And if we have no documentation―”

“I see your point. We’d better get the manifest.”

“I don’t like to think about what we’ll have to do if China is foolish enough to actually challenge us.” Castilla shook his head, his broad face cloudy with unspoken worries. “Imagine, I wanted this job. I worked my ass off to get it.” He hunched forward and said softly, “Tell me what’s happening about David Thayer?”

“As soon as I can pinpoint the prison farm’s exact location, I’m going to send in an agent to make contact and assess the accuracy of his story.”

The president nodded again. “I’ve been thinking about the possibility the human-rights accord may never be signed. I don’t like that at all.”

“If that’s what happens, a rescue mission for Thayer would come on the table.”

“What kind of rescue mission?”

“A small unit. Exactly how large, with what personnel and equipment, will depend on the prison farm’s security and location.”

“You’ll have whatever you need.”

From the shadows, Klein studied his longtime friend. “Do I understand, sir, that you’re ready to give the go-ahead for such a mission?”

“Let’s say I’m keeping my options open.” The president closed his eyes a moment, and melancholy seemed to fill his face. It was gone quickly. He stood up. “Keep in touch. Day or night.”

“As soon as I hear anything.”

“Good.” He opened the door and walked out, heavy shoulders square and dignified. He was immediately surrounded by three secret service agents, who escorted him toward the outer door.

Fred Klein listened to the Lincoln’s engine come to life and the tires crunch gravel as the vehicle rolled off. He stood up and crossed to a large screen on his right wall. His mind tumultuous with ideas and concern, he touched a button. The screen lit up. A detailed map of China came into view. He clasped his hands behind his back, studying it intently.

In his hotel room, Smith continued to point his Beretta at the man disguised as a waiter. “Who’s ‘,’ and what does he care about some old man?”

“This is hardly the time to be coy, Colonel.” He stripped off his white jacket and loose trousers to reveal the typical young Shanghainese man’s ubiquitous white shirt, cheap navy wash-and-wear slacks, and navy coat.

“We sent a man to track Mondragon to make certain he gave the information to you Yanks. Remember Liuchiu Island? The ambush? That’s where Mondragon took the long trip. Then you returned to Kaohsiung.

We’ve never stopped keeping a bead on you. Satisfied?”

Still, Smith’s weapon remained trained on him. “Why would Public Security care about me?”

“Oh, bloody hell! Back off. David Thayer could just be our ticket to worldwide recognition of what’s actually going on here in China. Public Security’s after you for their reasons, not ours.”

“You were in the Land Rover?”

Asgar Mahmout gave an exaggerated sigh. “It wasn’t Queen Elizabeth. Put on those clothes before they hoist both of us up by our gonads.”

Asgar Mahmout was no Chinese name, and with his round eyes and dark complexion, he did not look Chinese. He spoke of “we.” We sent a man to track Mondragon. And our. Our ticket. Some kind of underground dissident group? Exactly who or what would have to wait, because what he said was logical: They could have found him if they had been tracking him since the time he met Avery on Liuchiu. Which meant Public Security was likely downstairs, lying in wait.

Smith laid his Beretta on the coffee table, peeled off his suit, and dressed quickly in the clothes — an old man’s deep-blue Mao suit, a People’s Liberation Army cap, a pastel-blue shirt with a grimy collar, and Chinese sandals.

“Grab only what you must.” Mahmout had wheeled the serving cart around to face the door. He opened it.

Smith snatched up his backpack, shoved the Beretta into his pocket, and sprinted after him into the hotel corridor. It was deserted. Mahmout ran the cart to the right, away from the bank of regular elevators, and around the corner to a service elevator.

It was open. “Bit of luck that,” he said approvingly.

He pushed the cart into it, Smith on his heels. As the doors closed, they heard a guest elevator stop on their floor. The doors whooshed open, and footsteps rushed down the corridor. Their elevator descended, with the noises of harsh, impatient knocking and sharp orders in Chinese so loud they penetrated the walls.

“Sounds as if they’re at your room,” Asgar said.

Smith nodded, wondering how long it would be before the security police figured out what had happened and where they had gone.

At the first floor, Mahmout pushed the cart into the lobby.

“There’s a way out through the kitchen,” Smith said.

“I know. You used it earlier today with that young Han. Who is he? Where is he?”

“An interpreter.” Smith’s voice dropped. “He’s dead, too.”

Mahmout shook his head, his expression hard. “You’re a good-luck charm, Colonel. I’ll be sure to watch not only your back, but mine. Who killed him?”

“I suspect a man named Feng Dun and his people.”

“Never heard of him.” Mahmout hurried off through the aromatic corridors behind the kitchen to the employees’ exit, Smith by his side. They abandoned the cart and crept outdoors, where they were instantly assaulted by city noises. The dark alley stretched left to Nanjing Dong Lu and its crowds, and to the right toward the street behind the hotel.

“You have the Land Rover?” Smith asked.

“Are you mad? Not with me.”

The shouts came from neither left nor right, but from behind, inside the hotel. The security police had figured out where they had gone sooner than Smith expected.

“Run!” Like a greyhound, Mahmout tore off to the right.

Smith raced along the dim alley beside him, following his lead as the babel of Nanjing Dong Lu faded in the distance. At the corner, more shouts exploded and feet hammered, chasing them. They turned left, away from the Bund and the river, plunged across the narrower side street and into the mouth of another alley, and twisted through into a third alley.

Checking over their shoulders, they shot out across another street. As they entered a new alley, Mahmout settled into a punishing, distance-devouring trot. Sweating, confused, Smith had no idea where they were or where they were going. Mahmout took him through a bewildering maze of back streets and anonymous alleys, where they dodged, eluded, jumped over, and bounced off swearing pedestrians, bicycle parking lots, construction sites, strewn debris, street vendors, cars parked up on the sidewalks, and cars that ran red lights — right and left — without even a token pause.

As they panted on, they were assailed by a hundred raw, stinking odors and earsplitting dins. They ducked under hanging laundry, leaped over cooking fires, skidded around garbage, and dodged both bicycles and motorcycles that made no distinction among streets, alleys, and sidewalks. All this while shouts and the racket of running feet continued to dog them, sometimes closer, sometimes farther back, but always there, like a bad dream.

Twice, Mahmout darted sharply right or left, as new pursuers suddenly appeared ahead, trying to block their path. Once an unmarked car skidded to a screeching stop just meters before them. They swerved into a dwelling and blasted through and out into yet another alley.

Their pursuers were relentless. There was no time for talk or questions.

No time for rest. No respite of any kind.

Smith lost his sense of direction, although he was certain he had run miles. His muscles ached, and his lungs felt raw. By now, they must be in old Shanghai or the French Concession. But then they emerged into the packed masses of Nanjing Dong Lu again, where the world swarmed with shoppers, bar hoppers, sightseers, thieves, pickpockets, and men on the prowl for the women who had reappeared in the city as if by magic when the economic “free” market became the new goal of socialism.

“The metro! There, old boy. Come along!” Mahmout skidded downstairs, used his Y90 prepaid ticket to enter, and handed it back to Smith.

Smith pounded after, to a well-lighted platform marked he nan lu. At this late hour, few people waited for trains. On edge, drenched in sweat, Smith and Mahmout paced the loading area and studied the various entrances. When a train finally came, they leaped aboard.

Smith took a deep breath as the cars rolled from the station, leaving the platform behind. “Nice job,” he said in the mostly empty car. “But you’ll never make a tourist guide. You don’t schedule in enough time to enjoy the sights.”

Mahmout’s face was shiny with sweat, and his expression as always ranged between grim and neutral. Suddenly he gave a sardonic grin. The skin around his black eyes crinkled with humor. “Obviously, Colonel, you don’t understand.” Smith was adjusting to the strong Brit accent from the fellow who looked as if he might be Chinese but probably was not. “I require very special tourists, those more interested in endurance than a photo op. In any case, one must have a permit. That simply won’t happen here, for me.”

“You can’t get one?”

“Not if the police are involved. They have a habit of chasing me.”

“This sort of thing happens to you often?”

“Why do you think I’m such a fine physical specimen? I may live in China, but I still talk openly about the Party, the government, and the minorities. I’m far from popular with those hired by the crooks at the top.”

The subway car was clean, fast, and comfortable. When they reached the next station, Mahmout stepped off and looked up and down the platform.

After one survey, he returned to the car, shaking his head.

“Trouble?”

“The city police are watching the exits, which tells me the Public Security people know we took the metro.”

“But how would they know which direction?”

“They don’t. If they knew, we’d be seeing Public Security agents on the platform, not city police. The security guys are waiting for us to be spotted.”

“I don’t like that.” “I do,” Mahmout said. “It gives us a small advantage. The city cops won’t arrest us — they’ll wait for Security to arrive.”

The train pulled out again. Mahmout let two more stations pass before telling Smith, “The next stop is Jing An Temple. We’ll get off there.

They never did get a sharp look at me, and in these clothes, I could be anyone. As for you, I doubt they’ll stop you in the station, but I can’t be certain. I’ll tell you which exit to take, and you swarm out with the crowd. I’ll be right behind, in case you’re spotted. We’ll jump them together.”

“Then what?”

“Then we run again.”

“Good. Can’t wait.”

Mahmout grinned widely, showing white, even teeth beneath his black mustache. As the train burst into the lighted station and rolled to a stop, he looked out the windows. “Go out with everyone else. Turn left toward the far end of the platform. There’ll be three exits along the way. Take the next to last.”

As they watched, the doors rattled open.

“Got it.” Smith stepped off the car with the surge of passengers. He followed those who turned left. Fewer than a quarter chose the next-to-last exit. He stayed among them, not daring to look back to be sure Mahmout was near.

At the exit, two Shanghai policemen were scrutinizing each passenger.

The attention of the first officer passed right over Smith, but the second, after an initial cursory inspection, jerked back and fixed on his face.

Smith walked faster, with a glance back. The policeman was bent to his communications unit, talking.

Smith had made it to the stairs, when a shout behind erupted first in Chinese, then English: “Stop! Tall European, you will stop!”

A hand pushed him in the back. “Go, old man. Like the wind!”

Smith leaped up the stairs, raced forward, and burst out into a dark street.

Mahmout passed him. “Follow me!”

More shouts reverberated through the night, above the sounds of traffic.

“Halt! You, Colonel Smith. Stop, or we shoot!”

Public Security had arrived. Vehicle headlights blazed on, and motors roared.

“Stop them, you idiots!” This was in the best English.

Smith thundered after Mahmout, both trapped in the glare of headlights, like antelope fleeing across the African veldt. There was no shelter to hide behind. The street was open and straight.

“We can’t outrun them!” Smith snapped to his side.

“We don’t have to.” Mahmout turned ninety degrees and darted down an inky side street.

They passed a stately European house from the early 1800s, and Smith realized they must be in the old French Concession at last.

The headlights closed in. Mahmout turned again onto an even narrower and darker side street. They sprinted past rows of what looked like attached terrace villas enclosed by walls that were of an architectural style that did not match the villas. Before the headlights of the security police could round the corner, too, Mahmout flung open a gate in a wall.

He dashed in and darted to the side as Smith bolted through after him Immediately, Mahmout closed the gate. As headlights illuminated the street, the two men ran past a row of the brick villas. They left a broader alley for what became a labyrinth of passageways, each smaller than the last, with doors opening from all sides. Laundry hung between windows in rising rows, two and three stories up, still out in the warm night. Battered bicycles leaned against brick walls. Rusty air conditioners stuck out of windows like rectangular tumors. Greasy cooking odors permeated everything.

“Is that gate we came through the only way out?” Smith asked.

“Usually,” Mahmout said. “Come along now. In here.”

He ducked into one of the buildings along the most constricted alley Smith had seen so far. Smith followed through small rooms where men with long, dusky faces similar to Mahmout’s, all wearing white or mosaic skullcaps, sat in chairs or lounged on rugs and pillows. Most slept, but others studied him curiously, without fear.

Mahmout stepped lightly, making as little noise as possible, as he headed toward an irregular hole in the wall. He crawled through. “Come along, Colonel. Don’t dawdle.” “What’s this?” Smith asked dubiously, following.

“Safety.”

They were in another room, this one furnished with beds, chairs, small tables, and standing lamps. They were alone.

“We’re in the French Concession, but where?” Smith wondered. His heart still hammered from their long marathon, and he was drenched in sweat.

Mahmout’s face was not only sweaty but deep red from the exertion. “In the longtangs.” He wiped an arm across his forehead.

“What’s that?”

“Attached European-style brick houses built in the late eighteen hundreds. However, the houses are clustered, and the walls around the clusters are in the Chinese style. The longtangs were designed on the old Chinese courtyard pattern — many houses inside each set of walls, most connected by walkways.”

“You mean alleys.”

“You noticed. Yes, in this case. The Europeans realized they were losing money by keeping the Chinese out of the concessions. So they built the longtangs to rent mostly to the wealthiest Chinese. All native Shanghainese used to live in them. Maybe forty percent still do. These in the French Concession are the most habitable. Sometimes whole families, groups of friends, or people from a particular village share the same courtyard.”

Smith heard a noise. He glanced back in time to see an entire section of brick wall, the exact shape of the hole they had come through, being fitted back into the opening.

“From the other side, the hole’s essentially invisible now,” Mahmout explained.

Smith was impressed. “What the hell is this place?”

“A safe house. Hungry?”

“I could eat the imperial palace.”

“For myself, I’m regretting those crabs we left behind.” Mahmout opened a door, and they entered another room. This one contained a long table, a stove, and a refrigerator. Mahmout started to open the refrigerator, but his hand stopped in midair.

Smith heard it, too.

On the other side of the far wall, heavy feet walked, and male voices argued and discussed. They sounded like the security police, and only a room away.

Mahmout shrugged. “They won’t find our hole in the wall, Colonel. You’ll adjust to a feeling of safety. We’re not even in the same longtang they are. When we came through the wall, we entered the next one, and … ”

He stopped again, and his head whipped around. Smith was already staring. There were new commanding voices, but they were not on the other side of the bedroom wall. These were outside the building.

“What—!” Smith began.

A heavy knocking hammered a door not twenty feet away from where they stood.

Asgar Mahmout chuckled silently as he reached into the refrigerator.

“Take a seat at the table, Colonel. They won’t find us.”

Smith was doubtful as he listened to the voices and heavy feet walking on a wood floor. They sounded even closer.

But Mahmout showed no more interest. “Our hole is the only way any of them can find us. No one will notice it.” He had decided where their pursuers were, and he trusted his security. He pulled out more food, carried everything to two microwave ovens, and turned them on. As their dinner heated, he found two bottles of ale and sat at the table.

He pointed to the second chair. “Trust me, Colonel.” The voices and feet continued to sound, but no one had appeared, and Smith was hungry. He sat, facing Mahmout, who opened bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale and poured them into common English pub imperial pint glasses, etched crowns and all.

“Cheers and safe passage.” Mahmout raised his glass and cocked his head as if entertained by Smith’s nervousness.

At last Smith shrugged. His throat was tinder dry from all the running.

“What the hell. Bottoms up.” He drank deeply.

Chapter Eleven

Mahmout put down his glass and wiped foam from his mustache. “You should give us more credit, Colonel. This is as safe a house as any that your CIA maintains.”

“Who’s us, and why do you have two names? One Chinese and one something else?”

“Because the Chinese insist the land of my people is in China, so I must therefore be Chinese and have a Han name. Us are the Uighers.” He pronounced it weegahs. “I’m a Uigher from out in Xinjiang. Actually, a half Uigher, but that’s a technicality important only to my parents. My real name is Asgar Mahmout. At the metro, they called you Colonel Smith, and you obviously have military training. Do you have other names as well?”

“Jon. Jon Smith. I’m a medical doctor and scientist who happens to be a military officer. And what the hell is a Uigher?”

Mahmout took another gulp of ale and gave a wry smile. “Ah, Americans.

You know so little of the world, so little of history, even, sadly, sometimes your own. Charming, energetic, and ignorant — that’s you Yanks.

Allow me to enlighten you.”

It was Smith’s turn to smile. He drank. “I’m all ears, as we ” say.”

“Gentlemanly of you.” His voice rose with pride. “The Uighers are an ancient Turkic people. We’ve lived on the deserts, mountains, and steppes of eastern Central Asia since long, long before your Christ.

Long, too, before the Chinese worked up the nerve to escape their eastern river valleys. We’re distant cousins of the Mongols and closer cousins of the Turks, Uzbeks, Kirghiz, and Kazakhs. We had grand kingdoms once — empires like you Americans hunger for now.” He circled his hand dramatically above his head, an imaginary sword in it. “We rode with the great Khan and with the legendary Timur. We ruled in Kashgar and owned the fabulous Silk Road that Marco Polo raved about on his visit to the Khan’s grandson, who by then, of course, had beaten the pompous Hans and taken over China himself.”

He drained his ale. His voice was grim as he continued, “Now we’re the slaves, only worse. The Chinese force us to take Han names, speak Han, and behave like Han. They close our schools and refuse to teach us in anything but Han. They send millions of their own to populate our cities, destroy our way of life, and drive us from our farms into the desert or the high steppes with the Kazakhs, if we wish to survive as a people. They don’t let us pray to Allah, and they demolish our historic mosques. They’re stamping out our language, customs, and literature. My father was Han. He dazzled my mother with his money, status, and education. But when she refused to abandon Islam, to raise me and my sister as Han, to leave Kashgar for the pestilence of the Yangtze valley or the swamps of Guangzhou, he abandoned us.”

“That must’ve been rough.”

“Ghastly, actually.” He went to the refrigerator for another ale. He gestured, silently asking whether Smith wanted one, too.

Smith nodded. “And your Brit accent?”

“I was sent to England.” He brought the brown ales to the table and poured. “My mother’s father felt a Western-educated man would be useful.

My people despair when I’m arrested.” He shrugged.

“You studied in London?”

“Eventually, yes. Public schools, then the London School of Economics.

My education might seem rather useless here.” The microwaves sounded, announcing the food was ready. He brought the steaming platters and bowls and sat down again.

“They want you ready to lead, if they ever get free. I assume you’re not the only one sent away to be educated.”

“Of course not. There have been several dozen of us over the years, including my sister.”

“Does the world know about you Uighers? What about the United Nations?”

Asgar heaped stewed mutton cubes, onions, peppers, ginger slices, carrots, turnips, and tomatoes onto his plate, and Jon did, too. From the large bowl they took handfuls of a thick fried rice dish with more carrots and onions. As Asgar ate, he dipped the cubes of mutton into the dark liquid in the smaller bowl and accompanied it with one of the crisp pancakes, held like a slice of bread.

Jon imitated him and found the food spicy and delicious.

“The U. N.?” Asgar said between mouthfuls. “Of course, they know about us. But we have no standing, while China has an embarrassment of it. We want our land for growing crops and grazing our animals. China wants it because it’s rich. Oil. Gas. Minerals. You like the mutton?”

“It’s delicious. What do you call the crisp flat fried bread?”

“Nang.”

“And the rice?”

Asgar chuckled. He laughed a lot for someone who spoke so bitterly.

“It’s called ‘ eaten with the hands.’ ” He shrugged. “It’s always been the same for all the peoples of Central Asia. We rode west because we were poor and wanted better land and opportunities. We were fierce, and we had great leaders. Our time passed with the centuries — too much petty bickering, too many small leaders with small kingdoms led by smaller and smaller minds. Eventually the tide flowed back on us in the eighteen hundreds, as it always does with any people, sooner or later.”

He peered at Jon over his glass. “Remember that, American.”

Jon gave a noncommittal nod.

Asgar took a slow drink of the ale. “First there were the Russians with their eyes on India, but glad to pick us up along the way. Then the Chinese came, because they considered our lands their lands. Finally, it was the British, protecting ” India. They called it the Great Game, and you’re wagering on it again. The only difference for us and most of the world is that it’s the Yanks now, not the Brits.”

“And you Uighers? What are you doing?”

“Ah, now you’re asking the crucial question. We’re taking back our country, of course. Or, since we never had a ” in the European sense, only a people, we’re taking back our land.”

“This is your underground?”

“You might say. Not many of us at the moment, but more every day in I I

Xinjiang, across the border in Kazakhstan, and other places. We’re only a resistance, a nuisance, alas. Just ambushers, saboteurs, and bandits.

We harry the Han. The Han claim there’s only some seven or eight million of us. We say we’re thirty million. But even thirty million on horses and pickups can accomplish little against a billion with tanks.

Nevertheless, we must resist. It’s our nature, if nothing else. The result is, we’ve become an ‘ region.’ That’s meaningless in the larger picture, of course, especially with Urumqi already a Han Chinese city, but it shows we have them worried enough to try to bribe us.”

Jon helped himself to seconds. “That’s why you told Mondragon about the old man who says he’s our president’s father, right?”

Asgar nodded. “Who knows whether he is? In any case, he’s still an American that the Chinese have held secretly for almost six decades. We hope that will call fresh attention to China’s miserable human-rights record and its systematic destruction of its minorities, particularly those of us who are totally non-Chinese. We live a lot closer to Kabul and New Delhi than we do to Beijing.”

“Especially if he really is the president’s father.”

“Especially.” Asgar smiled, his white teeth flashing again.

Jon finally pushed his empty plate away and picked up his ale. “Tell me about this old man. Where is he?”

“In a prison near Dazu. That’s about seventy of your miles northeast of Chongqing.”

“What kind of prison?”

“It’s more like a protected farm. It houses mostly political prisoners being ‘,’ petty criminals, and old men considered minor escape risks.”

“Low security?”

“By Chinese standards, it’s low. It’s completely fenced and heavily guarded, but the prisoners are in barracks not in cells. There’s little interaction with the outside world and few visitors. The old gentleman who says he’s David Thayer has some privileges, like a room in the barracks with only one cell mate, some books, the newspapers, and a special diet. But that’s about all.”

“How did you manage to get his story?” “As I told you, a lot of the prisoners are political. Some are Uighers.

We have an activist network and information grapevine inside for outside news. Thayer heard about the human-rights treaty, knew our people are against the Chinese and could get word out, and so he told them who he was.”

Jon nodded. “What information do you have about his history?”

“Not much. Our people say he keeps to himself and talks little, especially about his past. There’d probably be big trouble if he did.

But from what he did say, he’s been in prisons from maximum to minimum over the years, depending on Beijing’s power fights and new theories. It sounds to me as if they moved him around a lot to keep him isolated and hidden.”

It sounded logical, and it gave Smith enough to report to Fred Klein as soon as he could get out of the country. But his inability to speak Chinese gave him few options. Without help, he was essentially limited to the usual avenues of foreign visitors entering and leaving the country — international airports, a few passenger ships, and fewer trains. With Public Security looking for him, as well as the mysterious group from the island, those exits would be shut down like vaults.

Asgar had been watching. “What do you think the American government will do about David Thayer?”

“Depends on the president. If I had to guess, I’d say that right now, with the treaty so close to being signed, nothing. He’ll tend to wait until the treaty’s a reality, then he’ll bring up the subject of David Thayer to China’s leaders.”

“Or maybe leak it to the newspapers to put pressure on Beijing?”

“Possibly,” Jon agreed. He considered Asgar. “That’s what you want, isn’t it — publicity?”

“Absolutely. We need to be on the world’s stage along with everyone else. What if the treaty isn’t signed?”

“What makes you think it won’t be?”

“Logic. Mondragon didn’t have to sneak off to Liuchiu Island to tell your people about David Thayer. No, he had something he had to deliver, right? You were there to take the delivery. But he was killed and you escaped— and came straight back to Shanghai. That tells me the attackers got what Mondragon had, and you’re trying to find it again.

The whole thing smells like trouble, and the stench soars when the treaty’s figured into it. After all, it’s the most important matter between the U.S. and China at the moment.”

“Let’s say you may be partly right. If so … if the president were absolutely sure the treaty was down the drain, he might send a crew to get Thayer out.”

“That’d be sure to make the headlines blister. Outraged Chinese and Americans.”

“But if I don’t get word to my people about where Thayer is, none of it’s going to happen. It won’t help you or your people at all. Can I use my cell phone safely?”

“Bad idea. By now, Public Security must’ve rigged a way to triangulate wireless in and out of here. There are so few cell phones in the longtangs that it’d be worth their while to track every call, especially since they seem hell-bent to find you.”

Smith considered. “A pay phone would do, if you can get me out to one.

I’ll say nothing revealing.”

“If I manage it, do you have a plan?”

“The Seventh Fleet’s always close to China. That means I’d need your help to get to the coast for a pickup, too.”

Asgar stared, pursed his lips, then stood without speaking. He gathered dirty dishes and carried them to the sink.

Jon picked up a load and joined him.

At last, Asgar asked, “Will your government guarantee David Thayer’s story is told, one way or another?”

“I doubt it. I expect they’ll do what they consider to be in U.S. national interest.”

“It’s in international interest to show what China is … for what that means for Hong Kong and Taiwan as well as for Urumqi and Kashgar.”

“If that’s the case, they’ll make sure the world hears, but they’ll give no guarantees first. On the other hand, if I can’t relay what I’ve learned to my boss, nothing at all gets out.”

Asgar continued to stare. His eyes were hard, black marbles. “I don’t think so. You’re not that important. No single agent can be, right? But maybe you’re important enough that if you don’t get back to your chief, they’ll be slowed down, looking for you. We wouldn’t like that.”

Jon met his gaze. “I can see how that would be bad for you.”

The Uigher held his stare another moment, as if boring deep into Smith to see what he was made of. Finally, he went to the sink and poured in dishwashing liquid — Palmolive — and turned on the hot water, watching the suds rise. “It won’t be easy, Colonel. China is a tight, homogenous country, especially here in the east. In the countryside, it’s worse.

They seldom see foreigners, Uighers, or even private autos. Just a Land Rover will draw plenty of attention.”

“You seem to get around all right.”

“That’s because we’re in Shanghai. Shanghai’s not like most of China.

It’s not even like Beijing. Shanghainese are more Westernized, always have been. Not much makes them stare. But a car full of Uighers out in the boondocks will get plenty of interest. Add Uighers and a Caucasian traveling together, and the police will hear of it. Their interest may be large enough to alert Public Security.”

“So what do we do?”

Asgar considered. “We make you a Uigher.”

“I’m too tall. My eyes are the wrong color and shape.”

“Most Uighers hardly have the Oriental fold at all when we get past our teens. We’re Turkic.” He studied Jon’s features and build critically.

“You’re definitely large. It’s all that healthy American food. But we can darken your skin and add wrinkles. You’ll have to squint. Then we’ll dress you in some of our traditional clothes, sit you in the middle of a few of us, and scrunch you down. You’ll pass, as long as no one examines you too closely.”

“Perhaps. Where do you plan to go on the coast?”

“Somewhere south, not too far.”

“I’ll need to have coordinates for the pickup.”

“Understood. But first I’ll talk to my people. We must decide how many of us we’ll need, what vehicles we’ll use, the safest place for you to make contact, and the best route to get there.”

“When do we go?”

“Tonight. The sooner the better, while their security people are consulting higher authority and milling around, talking to each other.”

“I’m ready.”

“Not yet. First, the women will make you a Uigher, while the rest of us make plans. Wait here, Jon. I’ll be back.”

Left alone, Jon walked around the small, four-room hideout. There were twelve packed-together sleeping pallets, one bathroom, two more refrigerators, and four microwaves. Large, well provisioned, and comfortable. As he inspected, he realized the voices and boots that had been so close less than an hour ago were gone. The security police had moved on, at least for the time being. There was nothing now but silence … silence everywhere, outside and inside the windowless rooms.

He did not like it. Public Security had given up a little too quickly, a little too easily. Why? Either they had been ordered to treat his presence in China as a delicate matter with potential international complications, which meant they were suspicious but not certain he was more than a simple visiting scientist. Or they were waiting outside the longtangs, hoping he would show himself. Or … they had been making a show with no intention of catching him because they already had him — because Asgar Mahmout and his supposed Uighers were actually working for or with the Public Security Bureau. Which would explain Asgar’s casual questions about the human-rights treaty.

If that were the case, was he already trapped in these sealed rooms, or would they continue to string him along in hopes of learning exactly what he was doing? He paused, mulling. He decided they would want to pretend to help him, because arresting him would be an international incident if they could not show what he was after. On the other hand, if the whole thing were a cat-and-mouse charade, it gave him a chance.

Chapter Twelve

In the cramped office he used in police headquarters at 210 Hankou Lu near the Bund, Major Pan Aitu scowled through his horn-rimmed glasses at a file on his desk. There was nothing especially wrong or unusual about the file of the common street criminal he would testify against later in the day; it was simply that a scowl was Pan’s habitual expression when alone. The gentle voice and benign smile were entirely for public use, as were the soothing conservative suits and happy bow ties, all designed to mesmerize the mouse in front of him. His round joviality was a sham, too. There was muscle beneath the fat — hard, trained muscle.

Dressed in a black leather car coat, military brown safari shirt, and black denim jeans, he had the glowering aspect of a menacing dwarf dredged from the depths of the earth. He was still bent over his files, working, when a single knock preceded the entry of his chief, General Chu Kuairong.

“You have located the American scientist?”

“And lost him,” the spy said, disgusted. “It is clear we botched the operation. We must have better people, General. The teams I sent covered only the main entrances of his hotel, assuming he was a stranger in our country, unfamiliar with the city, and therefore an idiot. He was obviously leaving and reentering the hotel other ways.”

“He’s been to Shanghai before?” Chu Kmu’rong was annoyed. “His records, and ours, did not indicate that.”

The major shook his head. “He must have had help.”

“Help? By one of our people? Impossible.”

“It’s the only answer,” Pan stated flatly. “Someone they’ve turned, most likely. But despite the help, after we received the authority to pick him up, my fools did finally use some common sense and surveil all entrances and exits. Still, they failed to see him reenter the hotel.

Fortunately, they had stationed a man inside in disguise. He’s the one who spotted Smith.” The general sighed with frustration, thinking, as he often did, that his budget for recruiting and training effective operatives was far too small. He sat forward on a straight chair, hovering like a giant bird of prey. His bald skull glared under the harsh fluorescent light, and his small, wind-sunk eyes bored into the major.

General Chu growled, “Then they lost Smith again?”

Major Pan related everything that had happened from the time his agents entered Smith’s hotel room tonight, discovered he had left everything behind including his clothes, and chased him through the subway and into the longtangs of the French Concession.

General Chu listened intently. When the major finished, he thought for a moment. “You still have no idea what this supposed scientist came to Shanghai to find or to do?”

“There’s no doubt of his scientific credentials. He is what he purports to be. The problem is what else he may be. While we don’t know yet why he’s here, some possible answers are starting to emerge.”

“What answers?”

“A series of events that — to my mind at least — suggests a pattern and direction.” Major Pan counted on his short, thick fingers: “One, a certain Avery Mondragon, a well-known American Sinologist who has been working in Shanghai for some years as a general representative of many American business endeavors, has disappeared. His associates report he’s been missing since early Wednesday.”

Chu hunched further toward Pan. “The day before Colonel Smith arrived in Shanghai?”

Pan inclined his head. “An interesting coincidence, wouldn’t you say?

Second, a cleaning woman in a downtown business building discovered a dead man in the office of Yu Yongfu, president and chairman of Flying Dragon Enterprises, an international shipping company with connections in Hong Kong and Antwerp. Third, the same Yu Yongfu and his wife also appear to be missing. At least, no one was in his mansion, and no cars were in his garage.”

“What do we know of him?”

The major indicated the dossier open on his desk. “This is his file. He is a young man who has come far fast and is now wealthy. That he’s the son-in-law of Li Aorong may help to explain that. Since Li is a prominent official in Shanghai, and―”

Chu was interested. “I know Li and his daughter personally. He is an old and honored Party member. Surely―”

“Nevertheless, the daughter and son-in-law seem to be missing, and the treasurer of her husband’s company is dead. In fact, shot to death. More coincidence?”

Chu sat up. “The dead man in the office was this treasurer? I see. That is interesting. Are we looking for Yu and his wife?”

“Of course.”

“And her father?”

“Li Aorong will be questioned in the morning.”

Chu nodded. “What else?”

“Another corpse has been found in a car at Hongqiao airport. A young man who was a tourist interpreter and chauffeur. Curiously, he studied for many years in the United States.”

“You’re suggesting he may have been someone who helped our Colonel Smith?”

“His photo has been identified by Peace Hotel employees. He was seen in the lobby earlier today after Colonel Smith checked in. To summarize: An American resident here disappears. The next day Colonel Smith arrives, the treasurer of a shipping company is murdered, the president of that company and his wife disappear, and an American-educated Shanghainese interpreter and chauffeur is killed the same night and found at an airport.”

“You have a theory?”

“Merely a possible scenario,” the major cautioned. “Mondragon discovered something about Yu Yongfu’s company he considered of importance to the Americans. Smith was sent to find out what Mondragon had discovered and retrieve it. Something went wrong. For whatever reason, the interpreter was assigned or employed to guide and interpret for Smith.”

“If you’re correct … there are those in this country who don’t want the Americans to have what Mondragon discovered.”

The spy inclined his head. “Indeed.”

The general reached into an inner pocket of the civilian Mao suit he wore tonight and removed a long, slender cigar. He bit off a piece of the tip, turned it as he lit it, and puffed one of his smoke rings.

“Did Colonel Smith get what he came for?” he asked.

“That we don’t know.”

“That is what we must know.”

“Agreed.”

Chu blew another ring. “If Smith did get it, he will attempt to leave the country.”

“I’ve covered all points of departure.”

“I doubt it. We have a long coastline, Major.”

“He isn’t on the coast.”

“Then you know what to do.” Another smoke ring, this one quicker. “And if he did not get what he wanted?”

“He’ll remain in Shanghai until he does.”

Chu Kuairong pondered. “No. In that case, he will also try to leave. His cover is blown; he will not be effective if he stays. He sounds too intelligent to try to use public transportation. Instead, he would be clever to arrange a private pickup on the coast. All we have to do is track him, roll up any American agents or assets who help him, stop him at his destination, and— with a measure of good luck — apprehend his rescuers as well as him.” The general puffed on his panatela, smiling at last. “Yes, that would be most agreeable. I leave it to you, Pan, to arrange it all.”

A piece of the wall moved. Dressed again in his black sweater, black jeans, and black soft-soled shoes, with his light backpack hanging from his shoulders, Jon waited where he could watch the section being pulled out open the entry into the hidden apartment. He held his Beretta behind him, waiting.

Asgar Mahmout stepped through and turned to help three solemn women who followed. Dressed in typical clothes — slacks and jeans, shirts and

blouses, sweaters and sweatshirts, one blazer — two carried makeup kits, the third a bundle of clothes. They were fairly tall and slender and had thick, shining black hair. The one holding the bundle of clothes was taller than the others, with a lean face. Her black hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck. There was a dimple on her chin, a half smile on her lips, and her cheekbones were prominent, sculpted. She was a beauty who knew it and seemed to find it amusing.

Two more men appeared, ducking in through the hole after the women.

Asgar glanced at them and nodded at Smith in greeting. “I see you put on your work clothes.”

“Thought it wise.”

The tall, beautiful woman was wearing the blazer over a sweatshirt and jeans. She looked Jon up and down. “Is that the latest fashion for men in Washington?” she asked in clear, American-accented English. The half smile grew broader.

“Only for secret agents on a mission.” He smiled back.

One of the men said something to Asgar in a language that sounded somewhat like what Jon had heard among Northern Alliance Uzbeks in Afghanistan.

Asgar answered and translated for Jon. “Toktufan wanted to know where you hid your weapons. I told him you probably had your pistol in your belt at your back under your sweater and your knife on your leg.”

“Close.” Asgar smiled. “The other guy back there is Mierkanmilia, and the tall lady who speaks like another Yank is my sister, Alani. She and her friends will turn your face into a Uigher’s, if they can. They have Uigher clothes for you to wear, too.”

“What will you be doing?”

“Figuring out the best destination, arranging transport, and becoming Uighers again ourselves.” He motioned to the two other men. “We’ll leave you in Alani’s capable hands.” The three ducked out through the hole and put the section of brick back into place.

The women held a conference in Uigher. More accurate, the two who had remained nameless asked Alani a torrent of questions.

Finally, she turned to Jon. “Sit there, Colonel Smith.” She pointed to a’ chair. “Take off your sweater.”

Jon took off the black sweater, revealing a black cotton turtleneck.

Alani snorted. “A little overdressed, aren’t you? Must I lead you by the hand?”

Jon laughed. To his surprise, so did she, and it struck him that she had been imitating some American schoolmaster. A private joke for herself.

Under the circumstances, it was remarkable, since she was risking her life for him. He took off the turtleneck and caught a flash of interest in the tall woman’s eyes as she contemplated his naked chest.

He offered a smile. “You and your brother are different from the others.”

Her full lips gave a quiet laugh as she beckoned the other two women.

They had been whispering and laughing behind their hands as they watched him strip. They hurried forward and went to work on his face, first with a pale brown base to darken his skin.

“Why? Are we different to you because we speak English?” Alani stepped back and watched with a critical eye.

“That, and that you’re educated abroad. It speaks of a history and a plan.”

“You know our father was Han?”

“Yes. It doesn’t appear to mean much to either of you.”

“It doesn’t, except to give us an advantage other Uighers don’t have.

Also a disadvantage, of course. There is always the chance we could turn. We never have, and they would never suggest it aloud, but it lurks in the backs of their minds.”

The two makeup women were in a heated discussion, wielding long narrow-tipped brushes and pointing at his eyes and eyebrows. The brush strokes on his skin were soft, almost tickling.

Alani spoke to them sharply. They retorted, ignored her, and returned to their aesthetic disagreement. Alani shook her head in exasperation and glanced at her wristwatch.

“What advantage does it give you?” Jon wanted to know.

She was still watching the two bickering makeup artists and seemed not to have heard him. “Our mother is the daughter of one of the leaders in our independent government in exile in Kazakhstan. It makes her, and therefore us, important among the Uighers. Our grandfather was the one who made certain we were sent abroad to study.”

She barked at the women who had finally begun to work on his eyes. She pointed to her watch. “Because of that, and because our father’s Han, Beijing thinks we’d be especially useful as leaders and apologists in convincing our people to accept being part of China. To convince them to give up our heritage and assimilate. This gives us privileges as long as we appear to go along with their plans. It makes good cover, including residence papers that enable us to move around much more freely and even reside for extensive periods in Han territory. They watch us, of course, but as long as they don’t catch us, we can go almost anywhere we want.”

“Asgar seems to go places he’s arrested.”

She nodded knowingly. “We despair about Asgar. He’s a good man, and he’s never been in serious trouble yet. We keep our fingers crossed.”

“I’m trying to place your accent. Where did you study in the United States?”

“I lived with a family in New Jersey and went to public schools there, then to the University of Nebraska in Omaha. I’m a mixture of East Coast and Midwest, the perfect blend to study political science and agronomy.”

And to be an effective leader of a primarily agricultural people. Her grandfather had been thinking far ahead. “With a minor in guerrilla warfare?” She smiled. “Asgar again. When the Soviets were in Afghanistan, your CIA was keen to train any Central Asian Muslim ready to fight the Soviets, and he joined the Northern Alliance. They couldn’t seem to tell one of us from another, even a Tajik.”

The two makeup authorities finally finished, stood back clucking in admiration of their work, and beamed at Alani. She nodded and said something that, since the other women’s smiles remained, must have been complimentary. The pair packed up their tubes, bottles, jars, and brushes. They kept turning back to look at his face as one banged on the bricks with the hilt of a dagger she had produced from somewhere under her clothes.

Alani held a hand mirror. “Have a look.”

Jon stared, impressed at the results of his new, sticky, and very uncomfortable mask. His eyes had acquired something of the fold, his skin was a light chestnut brown, creased with the wrinkles of sun and wind. If he narrowed his eyes in a squint, he would probably pass in the dark.

“If you’re among us, you ought to go unnoticed,” Alani decided.

“Let’s hope we’re not stopped.”

“We’ll be stopped, of that you can be certain. But with Asgar and my papers, and those we’ve forged for the rest of us, they should treat us lightly. We’ll have to hope they don’t make us get out of the Land Rover.” She glanced again at her watch. “The others will be back soon.

You’d better put on the clothes I brought.”

There was a touch of anxiety in her voice, as if time were passing too quickly, and the men were too late.

Her uneasiness infected Jon. As he dressed, he asked, “What are you doing in Shanghai? Officially, I mean.”

“We’re studying to be teachers of teachers. Well, actually, Asgar and I are. Some of the others are being trained as village leaders or agents for Beijing. The rest are part of our underground network.”

He pulled baggy corduroy trousers up over his black jeans. “That’s a damned dangerous game, Alani. For all of you.”

“We know the risks. They’ve arrested thousands of us already and executed a hundred or so.” She looked him steadily in the eye. “Perhaps it’s a game for you and the CIA, Colonel. It’s not for us.”

The worn, unpressed white dress shirt was tight over his sweater, but the flannel shirt slipped on easily. “I’m not CIA,” Jon told her. “And it’s never been a game for me.”

She considered him. “Yes, I can see that.” “No one’s asked me why I’m here, what I came for. Not that I intend to tell you.”

“What we don’t know, they can’t get out of us. You’re against the Chinese or working to ensure the human-rights accord. That’s good enough for us.”

The harsh scraping of brick on brick interrupted their conversation.

Before the hole was completely open, Asgar climbed through. He was dressed in the rough clothes of a farmer, with the riding boots of a sheepherder. He also wore a decorated white skullcap under a straw sun hat.

He studied Jon from a distance and then closer. “In lousy light, you’ll pass.” He nodded to Alani. “We’re ready.” “Where are we going?” Jon asked.

Asgar motioned to the kitchen table where they had eaten dinner. He spread out a map of the Shanghai Municipal Region and surrounding area and pointed to a spot south of the city. “There’s an abandoned pagoda on a hill near the sea in the wider part of Huangzhou Bay, between Jinshan and Zhapu. The shore’s a bit of a rock garden there, but there are also a few more inviting beaches. Pebbly, but not bad. One in particular, a little bigger, will suit fine.”

“How’s the water depth?”

“Not sure, Jon. But Toktufan says a small boat can get close. He’s worked the waters around there.”

“All right.” Jon picked up his backpack, pulled out a black plastic pouch, and extracted a detailed topographic map of the Shanghai area laid over a satellite photograph. He checked the water depths, had Asgar point out exactly where the pagoda and beach were, and wrote down the latitude and longitude coordinates in his small waterproof notebook.

When they were finished, he rolled up the maps.

Alani reminded him. “Don’t forget your hats.”

Jon put on the decorated Uigher skullcap and then a brimmed straw hat.

The women started for the hole in the wall. Jon followed.

Asgar stopped him. “We go a different way.”

When the others had left, and the brick section had been restored, Asgar led him through the rooms to the farthest bedroom. He pushed a box bed aside, lifted a section of the linoleum-covered floor, and pointed down in the narrow black hole it exposed.

“This way is for us.”

Jon was dubious. “Am I going to fit?”

“It widens below. Hope you don’t have severe claustrophobia.”

“I don’t,” Jon assured him.

“I’ll go first, old boy. Don’t worry. Piece of cake.” Asgar sat, dangling his legs in the narrow hole. He looked down once and dropped.

Jon followed, barely squeezing past the floor. The tomblike odors of dirt and rock filled his head. He scraped his shoulders all the way down to the bottom of a dark, dank, wood-braced tunnel. A flashlight was alight ahead, where the tunnel narrowed again. He saw Asgar’s feet and legs.

Asgar’s voice was muffled. “Bigger men than you have passed through fine. Just keep your eyes on my feet and the light. It’s about twenty-five of your American yards.”

Then the light moved, and the feet faded into the dusty shadows ahead.

Jon followed, feeling for the first time in his life what claustrophobia was— breathing when it felt as if there were nothing to breathe, certain that in the next second he would be buried alive. His lungs tightened, and blood throbbed at his temples.

Time seemed to stop as he told himself to inhale, to crawl. Inhale.

Crawl. Follow the feet, as the dark tunnel seemed to swallow him.

At last the air changed. It stank, fetid and thick. Jon gulped like a dying fish.

“Hurry,” Asgar urged and crawled up to his feet.

Quickly, Jon followed. They had emerged into a dark culvert at the end of a stench-filled alley. For Jon at the moment, he could not remember a more beautiful sight.

Asgar trotted ahead, and Jon, still breathing deeply, stumbled after until they passed through an open iron gate and entered a street where two Land Rovers waited at the curb. Hands pulled him into the second vehicle, and he found himself packed into the rear, where the seat had been removed. Three men and two women pressed against him. He recognized Toktufan, Mierkanmilia, and the two makeup artists. The fifth was a stranger, but all were dressed with bits and pieces of traditional Uigher clothing. Alani rode in the front passenger seat, and Asgar drove.

“Why two Land Rovers?” Jon whispered.

“Decoy. In case the police are watching.”

The first Land Rover, similarly loaded, headed off.

They waited. Then, five minutes later, they left, too, turning through dark streets in the early morning hours, until they reached a lighted main road where there was traffic, but not much.

Asgar glanced back. “We’re going to take the Huhang Expressway toward Hangzhou. We’ll stand out like a sore thumb: Eight country bumpkins from Xinjiang, heading south for Hangzhou, like your Okies in the nineteen-thirties. We’ll look like a joke, not a threat — we hope. If the Public Security people aren’t already following us, or fell for the decoy, we might just make it.”

Chapter Thirteen

Under the black night sky, the countryside took on a spectral air of shadows and wavering mists. Jon used a public phone in Gubei New Town in the Changning District to dial a number in Hong Kong. In French, he discussed a proposed business deal that was legitimate, if checked upon.

The conversation contained his innocent-seeming code for a rescue by sea, and it related the time and coordinates. As soon as he hung up, the contact would relay the information to Fred Klein.

“The line sounded clear, no sign of being tapped,” he told Asgar as the Land Rover resumed its tortuous passage over the bad road that sliced through the rocky, rolling land.

“They were listening,” Asgar assured him. “Any long-distance call will be checked, especially to Hong Kong. What’s good is that low-level employees do the monitoring, and for them it’s routine. They seldom catch anyone unless they’re terribly obvious. This time though, the service knows you’re here, so they’re certain to have ordered a special alert. But if your contact’s a solid, long-term cover, you may be all right.”

Jon grimaced. “Thanks.”

They had been stopped twice at routine checkpoints before they left the city, causing amusement among the police. They had been let through with little trouble. Jon began to relax. Thirty minutes later, they were on the expressway, lightly traveled at this late hour, and more than halfway to Hangzhou. A few kilometers later, they turned off onto a two-lane rural road near Jiaxing, heading southeast toward the coast and the East China Sea.

Even in the darkest hours before sunrise, there continued to be other vehicles — a few passenger cars and an intermittent stream of pickups driven by small farmers, their produce piled perilously high in their truck beds. Smaller entrepreneurs rode bicycles, pulling two-wheeled carts with specialty items to sell in Shanghai.

Asgar drove steadily but slowly, not wanting to attract attention. “If the security police are watching, they’ll wait until we hit the beach and the mission’s in progress. They’ll want to capture the rescue team, too. But we’ve got time, so there’s no sense in taking unnecessary chances by speeding. With luck, they’re not following us anyway.”

Jon agreed. He settled back and closed his eyes. Everyone but Asgar dozed, awaking occasionally to the clean salt tang of the open sea and the sour odor of mudflats.

At Zhapu, they turned northwest toward Jinshan. Here on the coastal road, the pickups and bicycles flowed in both directions — north to Shanghai and south to Hangzhou. An occasional police car passed, but the officers either paid no attention or grinned broadly at the sight of the unsophisticated rubes.

Finally, the Land Rover pulled off, so Asgar and Alani could check their position. They consulted and used a penlight to scan the map. Alani looked back and said something in Uigher. Toktufan squeezed into the front seat between them. A heated discussion in Uigher began, with Toktufan pointing at the map and then ahead, and Alani trying, apparently, to pin him down to an exact location.

She offered him a pen to mark the map. He shrugged, waved off the pen, and continued to gesture insistently.

Clearly Toktufan was the one who knew exactly where they were going but strictly by visual aids in the dead of night and from the seat of his pants. This did not make Jon feel secure, or apparently Alani or Asgar.

Swearing under his breath in Uigher, Asgar pulled back onto the road and drove on, while Toktufan surveyed the shadowy gloom.

“You sure he can find this beach?” Jon asked.

“He’ll find it,” Alani said. “The only question is when.”

“It’ll be dawn in a couple of hours.” She turned in her seat and smiled her small, mocking smile. “You wouldn’t want your life to be dull now, would you, Colonel? Excitement and adventure. That’s why you became an agent, isn’t it? Incidentally, if you aren’t CIA, what are you?”

Jon kicked himself for saying that earlier. Damn. “State Department.”

“Really?” She seemed to study him, as if she knew what a State agent looked like. Maybe she did.

Asgar’s voice was harsh. “Ahead!”

Jon saw the uniforms. A police car blocked half the road. It was a checkpoint.

“Toktufan, in back again!” Asgar ordered.

Toktufan slid out of the front of the slow-moving Land Rover and squeezed in among the others in the rear once more. The Land Rover inched ahead in a snakelike line of pickups, old cars, and bicycles. At the head of the line, drivers and cyclists held up papers. The officer in charge was leaning sleepily back against his car, yawning. Every now and then, he barked an order.

The policemen, however, were busy. They checked identifications and lifted canvases covering loads, whether small or large. When the Land Rover reached the front, the sleepy officer did a double take. He straightened alertly and snapped an order.

The two patrolmen gaped at the eight packed into the Rover. One scanned the papers held out by Alani and Asgar as the second grinned, entertained. The officer barked again, marched forward, and took the papers. He studied them and peered up at Asgar and Alani. Alani smiled.

A winning, almost flirtatious smile this time. The officer blinked and stared.

Jon scrunched low to hide his height and build, and the others pressed closer. One of the policemen trained his light across all their faces and said something in Han that included the word Uigher.

The officer, still gazing at Alani, nodded and snapped another order.

The policemen turned their attention to the next two cyclists in line.

The officer smiled, nodded to Alani, and waved them on.

As Asgar drove away, Jon resisted the urge to look back. Everyone breathed deeply, relieved. The night enclosed the Land Rover with anonymity, and they smiled and whispered among themselves.

But Jon did not smile or whisper. He asked Alani, “Are checkpoints like that common?”

“Sometimes in the city, not usually in rural areas.”

“They’ve been alerted by the Public Security Bureau to look for someone.”

Asgar nodded. “But not for Uighers.”

“An American like me,” Jon agreed.

“It means they don’t know where you are, who you’re with, or what you’re going to do next. If they did, they’d be swarming the coast right now.”

“They’re obviously thinking I could be trying to leave, or they wouldn’t have alerted the police so far from Shanghai.”

“That’d be true for any agent whose cover was shattered.”

Jon liked none of it. Someone in Public Security suspected he would call for help so had ordered the coastal area around Shanghai on alert.

Patrol boats and fighters might be prepared to scramble, too. The patrol boats did not worry him particularly. Jets were another matter.

But he soon had something else to think about. Toktufan leaned forward, spoke in Uigher, and gestured eagerly to the left, away from the sea.

Through the press of bodies and heads, Jon caught a glimpse of a narrow building high on the top of an inland hill. Its roof lines were up-curved, in the silhouette of a Chinese pagoda. Excitement rippled through the group.

With a spin of the wheel, Asgar drove the Land Rover abruptly off toward the ocean. The Rover rattled down into a gully hidden from the road.

Asgar pulled under the cover of a willow and parked. The sudden quiet of the vehicle made all of them sit still a moment, appreciating it. Shaken by the long, bone-jarring ride, everyone crawled stiffly out and crouched in a circle around Asgar and Toktufan. Trees and bushes surrounded them.

Asgar did the talking in Uigher, with Toktufan throwing in comments and pointing in various directions in the waning moonlight. When they finished, one of the women stood up and vanished among the growth, heading back toward the road above the gully.

Alani turned to Jon. “Asgar sent Fatima to the pagoda with an electric lantern and a shielding sleeve. She’ll put it in a window embrasure at the top, with the shield protecting it from being seen from land.” She nodded in the opposite direction, toward the water. “The beach is about five hundred meters in a straight line from the pagoda. It’s normally deserted, especially at this hour, but there are those who like to fish or crab at night. There’s also the chance the police could be watching through night-vision binoculars.”

“Then we should avoid the beach as long as possible.”

She nodded. “We’re armed. We’ll go with you as soon as we see the light in the pagoda.”

The group stayed together, hunched down in the thick growth, tall trees rising and arching toward an imaginary ceiling overhead. Every second seemed like a minute, every minute an hour. The low whispering from the Uighers was subdued, concerned, and deadly serious. Alani crouched beside him in silence, busy with her thoughts.

A sudden, distant point of light appeared high in the night sky. Asgar materialized among them. He spoke quickly in Uigher and turned to Jon.

“Time to move, Jon. I’m not completely certain, but I believe I heard someone near the road while I was crossing. I saw nothing, so I hope I’m wrong. No reason to take chances. We don’t know how far offshore your people are, or if they’re here at all. Still, we’d best hurry.”

“It’s time, so they’re here,” Jon assured him.

Toktufan trotted in the lead, snaking his way through the brush and trees like a phantom. The rest of the Uighers were right behind, weapons in hand. Jon followed with his Beretta ready, while Asgar and Alani brought up the rear. The hushed procession seemed to float among the grasses, wraiths no more substantial than the fog.

At last, Jon heard the splash of breaking waves. A salty breeze stung his face. The trees and brush reached to a low ridge of tufted grass that dropped off perhaps four feet to a narrow, rocky little beach. Jon and the Uighers squatted inside the edge of trees to wait. The moon was nearly down over the black sea, projecting a silvery path toward the horizon. Tall trees swayed, leaves rustling eerily.

There was a flash of light out at sea. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then darkness again — and an abrupt sound. A stumble. A grunt. An angry oath.

“Under the bank!” Jon whispered urgently and rolled.

At the same time, Alani shouted in Uigher.

They slid and dove into the cover of the bank at the edge of the beach nearly simultaneously with a fusillade that exploded in an arc from deep among the trees. The bullets burst into the sand and rained into the surf.

“Wait until you see them!” Jon yelled over the din.

Asgar repeated it for the Uighers. No one panicked. They waited with their backs to the sea, calm, with a sense of cold inevitability.

Another fusillade erupted, and Jon saw movement deep among the trees to his left. He fired. A distant cry. He had hit one, whoever they were.

Someone else fired, and then a third shot. There were no cries, no crashing through the undergrowth.

Asgar cursed in Uigher and yelled angrily.

A third volley thundered from ahead, but weaker this time, ragged, and Jon saw to his left that shadows were running from the trees and out into the open swath of tall grass before the beach.

“They’re outflanking us!”

Alani repeated his warning, and Jon wondered — were these the same people who had attacked him and Mondragon on Liuchiu Island and then at Yu Yongfu’s mansion? Feng Dun once more, using his favorite tactic?

He had no time to analyze further. No matter who they were, they outnumbered the Uighers, and they were closing in. Already Jon could see more movement, visible now, much nearer the front line of trees. So could the Uighers, who opened a careful, lethal fire, sending the approaching attackers to ground.

Asgar crouched beside him. His breath was hot and worried in Jon’s ear.

“We can hold them for a time, but when those others up the beach move in, they’ll trap us if we don’t clear out of here soon.”

“Right,” Jon agreed. “You’ve done a lot. I’m grateful — you know that.

When you have to go, go.”

“And you?”

“It’s only me they want, whoever they are.”

“You don’t think they’re security?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to us.”

Jon understood. “If it’s security, I’ll try to hold them until you get a good―”

A fresh barrage of automatic fire burst from the left. The Uighers hit the beach and returned fire, but now their front was exposed. Feet ran from among the trees before them, pounding the sand. They were cornered.

“Go!” he snarled to Asgar. “I’ll surrender.”

Asgar hesitated.

Alani was there. “We can’t leave him!”

“Come with us!” Asgar urged. Before Jon could decide, a withering eruption of automatic weapons frac-tured the night again, the bullets mowing the stretch of grass between the trees and the low bank. Chilling screams echoed across the dark sea.

Jon and Asgar spun on their heels in time to see eight black shapes rise at the surf line, deployed at equal intervals, still firing over the heads of Jon and the Uighers at the ambushers.

Jon grinned. “I’ll be damned. It’s our navy. The best of the best — SEALs.”

The word spread instantly. The Uighers opened up again on the flanking attackers, who fell back. With shouts and curses, the group above the bank retreated from the assault.

A SEAL loped up from the water and hunkered down. “Orchid.” He was broad-shouldered and muscular. His face was covered with black grease.

“Nice of you to drop by.”

“Lieutenant Gordon Whelan, sir. Glad we made it in time. We’d better book now. There’re patrol boats out there, more than one. They know something’s up. Can your people get away on their own?”

Asgar nodded. “If you keep them pinned down a few more minutes.”

“Roger. Go.”

Asgar called low to the rest of the Uighers. They did not wait for farewells. Crouched low, they crab-walked quickly along the beach to the right and vanished into the darkness. The SEALs provided a steady covering fire, keeping the attackers too busy to notice.

“Get to the raft, sir,” the lieutenant ordered. “We have to get out damn quick now.”

Jon ran the short distance to the big rubber Zodiac that had been pulled up onto the beach. White surf churned around it. He clambered aboard.

Four of the SEALs fired a final volley before pushing off, jumping in, and paddling swiftly out to sea.

Behind them, the remaining four, including Lieutenant Whelan, continued firing. Then silence. From the raft, Jon watched as the land receded.

Shadowy figures had gathered to stare helplessly out to sea, weapons hanging down from their hands.

Jon’s heart hammered with leftover adrenaline. He listened to the quiet wash of waves against the raft, felt the gentle rise and fall of it. The Zodiac kept moving farther and farther from the shoreline. The SEALs said nothing. He knew they were thinking about the quartet left behind.

Worrying. He was, too.

Finally, at least four hundred yards out, four black shapes suddenly burst out of the water. Hands reached over the side of the raft. The men grabbed the hands and scrambled aboard, one by one. Lieutenant Whelan was last. He counted heads and nodded. “All accounted for. Nice work, people.”

Nothing more was said until they were a half mile at sea. The searing glare of a searchlight suddenly whipped across the dark water to the north. It was sweeping the sea more than two miles away but approaching rapidly.

“They’ll spot us soon,” the lieutenant said. “Better start the motor, Chief.”

One of the SEALs cranked the sealed outboard motor, and the raft shot ahead, bouncing like a toy across the tops of the swell. Jon held on, enjoying the cold spray on his sweaty face. At the same time, he watched the Chinese patrol boat uneasily. It was approaching through the night, closer and closer, gunfire singing from it, looking for a target. Its searchlight had yet to hone in on them, but when it did–

Then he saw a dark shape, towering ahead like a giant sea monster. It was a submarine. American, thank God. At the same moment that the SEALs raft reached the hulking steel sub, the searchlight on the patrol boat finally found them. Bullets ripped through the rubber as they swarmed up aboard, hauling Jon and the tattered Zodiac after them.

A voice on the bridge bawled, “Get below! Clear the decks!”

The patrol boat caught the submarine in the beam of its searchlight, and its siren shrieked at them. The sub was already submerging as Jon, the SEALs, and the deck crew hurtled down through the open hatches and slammed them closed against the rushing sea. The patrol boat opened fire with a heavy machine gun, but its bullets bounced harmlessly off the steel. As the conning tower sank beneath the surface, the patrol boat moved in aimless, frustrated circles.

Below, as Jon was escorted to a tiny cabin to clean up and rest, he decided whoever had attacked them on the beach had not been national security forces. If they had been, they would have sent more than a lone patrol boat. No, whoever they were, their employer was private.

As befitted one of the older members of the Standing Committee, Wei Gaofan’s walled compound inside Zhongnanhai had a choice location, near the lotus-carpeted Nanhai — South Lake. In his courtyard stood a manicured willow tree that swayed in the morning breeze, trailing its jade-green branches over thick grass. Small flowering trees and groomed flowers decorated the tiled paths that led to the four small buildings that rimmed the courtyard. Crowned with graceful pagoda roofs, the structures were decorated with columns carved with dragons, clouds, and cranes symbolizing good fortune and longevity. He shared the largest house with his wife, while their daughter, her child, and a babysitter lived across from them. The third building was his office, while the fourth was where the family entertained guests.

The sun had been up more than an hour when Feng Dun was admitted to Wei’s office, which was appointed with small treasures from all of China’s dynasties since the great Han. Wei, a connoisseur of tea, was sitting at a table, drinking Longjing. Its subtle floral scent perfumed the air. Unlike wine, which was best when aged, tea was most flavorful — as well as most costly— when drunk the year it was picked.

This tea was hardly six months old. Grown in Hangzhou, Longjing was the finest, most delicate tea in China.

Wei did not bother to offer any to Feng Dun, nor did he bother to hide his anger. “So the American colonel escaped you.”

“He escaped the Public Security Bureau also.” Without an invitation to sit, Feng Dun remained standing, staring down at Wei, who was bald and narrow-eyed, with a bulky torso and spindly legs.

Wei looked at him sharply. “Fortunate for you.”

“Fortunate for both of us,” Feng said, his gaze unflinching as he matched the hard stare of the immensely powerful member of the Standing Committee.

Wei sipped his tea. “But General Chu and Major Pan suspect something.”

“Suspect perhaps, but don’t know and never will.”

Wei scowled again. “There’s Yu Yongfu’s wife, who is, I hear, missing.”

Feng shrugged. “There’s nothing she can do. Her father would be ruined, and she’s too intelligent to want that. Your favor can make life very good for him, her, and her children.”

“True.” But there was still doubt in Wei’s eyes. “So, was this American agent really so skilled? How did he get away?”

“He’s good, but not good enough to get the manifest. As for his other escapades, he was lucky, and he had help.”

“Whose help?”

“First, an interpreter and asset of the CIA, who is now dead. And later, an underground cell of Uighers. They took him to his point of extraction. The stupid police never suspected. They smiled and laughed at the Uighers, and then they let them pass. Imbeciles.”

“Can you identify the Uighers?”

“We were never close enough, but they knew the city and countryside well. Then American SEALs appeared and enabled their escape.”

Wei Gaofan nodded, pleased. “A submarine. That means the Americans are very concerned about risking an incident. We are succeeding. You have done well.”

Feng Dun inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment, but smarting because he had not been offered the polite gesture of sharing tea.

Still, the time to bring up his rewards would come later, when Wei Gaofan assumed his greater role in the destiny of China.

“The manifest is destroyed?” Wei continued.

“Burned.”

“You are sure?”

“I was there with Yu Yongfu when he burned it before taking his gun and driving away,” Feng said. “Of course I followed.”

“The police have found no corpse.”

“They may never find it.”

“You saw him kill himself? With your own eyes?”

“Which is why I followed. And then he fell into the Yangtze. He wanted it that way.”

Wei Gaofan smiled again. “We have nothing left to worry us, while the Americans have much to worry them. Would you care for a cup of tea, Feng?”