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
