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.
