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.
