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.
