“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
