“They’re worried as hell, Jim,” Bienas said.
“I’d say so,” Chervenko agreed. “No one told them we were back here, and they were taken by surprise. But someone expected either us or someone like us.”
“Or they wouldn’t have had that radar expert on board.”
“Yeah,” Chervenko said. “The bridge is yours, Frank. Keep a close eye on them. The fat’s sizzling in the frying pan.”
“What do you think the Chinese’ll do?”
Chervenko turned away to go below and make his report to Admiral Brose.
“I don’t know,” he said over his shoulder. “I expect a whole lot of people in D.C. are going to be worried about that question real soon, too.”
Chapter Fifteen
President Castilla sat in his Zero-Gravity recliner upstairs in his bedroom in the White House residence, trying to read while worrying about China and the human-rights treaty … thinking of the father he had never known and the suffering he must have endured … and longing for the first lady.
His mind wandered, and the sentences ran together. He lay the book on his lap and rubbed his eyes. He missed the cutthroat two-handed poker games with Cassie they always played on nights one or the other could not sleep, even if she did win eight of ten. But she was off in Central America, doing good works, surrounded by a gaggle of press, and making friends along the way. He wished she were home, with him. Making friends with him.
His thoughts had begun to drift toward what their lives would be like after he left office, when Jeremy knocked lightly.
“What is it now?” he snapped, hearing his irritation too late.
“Mr. Klein, sir.”
Castilla came alert. “Send him in, Jeremy. And sorry, I guess I miss my wife.”
“We all do, Mr. President.”
Was there a faint smile on Jeremy’s face as he avoided any hint of a particular interpretation of why Castilla was missing her? The president hid his own smile with a frown.
Jeremy waited as Fred Klein padded into the bedroom. He closed the door.
Castilla had a sudden image of Klein flowing through the world like fog, silent and impenetrable. What was it Carl Sandburg wrote … Yes: The fog came in on little cat feet … Klein’s feet were far too big for that.
“Have a seat, Fred.”
Klein lowered a hip on the edge of an armchair. The Covert-One chief’s hands fluttered as if searching for a lost jewel.
“Chew on the damn thing,” Castilla growled, “before you drive me to drink.”
Klein looked sheepish, took out his battered pipe, and gratefully stuck the stem between his teeth. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
“I just hope it doesn’t kill you until after I’m out of office,” he grumbled. “Okay, what’s the bad news this time?”
“I’m not sure if my bulletins are good or bad, sir. You might say it depends on how this Empress affair unfolds.”
“That’s hardly reassuring.”
“No, sir.” Klein explained the essence of Jon’s experiences of the last hours, but not the details. “We’re fairly certain that the original invoice manifest must have been destroyed. My people in Iraq have found nothing so far. Colonel Smith is on his way to Hong Kong where we hope the third copy is with Donk & Lapierre.”
The president shook his head. “Sometimes I wish all these multinational corporations and holding companies had never been allowed to come into existence.”
“So do most governments,” Klein agreed.
“What about our other agents in China?”
“Nothing. They haven’t caught a hint of the Empress and its actual cargo from any of their contacts within the Chinese government or the Communist Party.”
Castilla pinched the bridge of his nose, narrowing his eyes. “That’s odd, isn’t it? Beijing is usually rife with rumor and speculation.”
“Colonel Smith and I’ve come to the conclusion that, in fact, Beijing may not know about the contraband.”
The president’s eyebrows rose. “You mean … it’s a private venture?
A lucrative business deal?”
“With a complication. We think a high Beijing official may be involved, perhaps someone on the Politburo itself.”
The president thought rapidly. “Corruption? Another Chen Xitong situation?”
“Possibly, yes. But there also could be a power struggle within the Politburo. Which …”
“Isn’t necessarily good for us.”
“No, sir, it isn’t.”
The president was quiet, lost in thought. So was Klein as he fiddled with his pipe, absently took out his tobacco pouch, then realized what his hands were doing. He hastily returned the fragrant tobacco to his pocket.
Finally, the president hauled himself out of his comfortable recliner and began to pace, his slippers slapping the carpet. “I doubt it makes a damn bit of difference whether Beijing knows. They’ll react the same.
They’ll defend the rights of their ships to go anywhere on the high seas with any cargo, whether or not they approve of this one. We still have only one way to prevent the chemicals from reaching Iraq without a confrontation and the resulting consequences.”
“I know, sir. We have to have that manifest to prove to the world — and to China — that we’re not pulling a fast one. But if Beijing isn’t involved and doesn’t know what the Empress is carrying, when we do prove what the cargo is, we should get swift cooperation. They’ll have no reason to cover up. In fact, they’ll want to look as responsible and committed to international peace as everyone else. Or at least we can hope they will.” He studied the president, who still paced the bedroom as if he were entangled in an unseen web. “Is this a good time to update you about David Thayer?”
The president stopped and stared at Klein. “Yes, of course it’s a good time. What more have you learned?”
“One of Covert-One’s assets in China has reported that the prison farm isn’t as tightly guarded as it might be. It’s possible we’ll be able to insert one of my people to make contact and find out what Thayer’s condition is and what he wants.” “All right,” the president said cautiously. He did not resume pacing.
Klein sensed hesitancy. “Are you reconsidering a rescue incursion, sir?” “As you said, if Beijing really isn’t involved in sending the Empress to Iraq, they should be more inclined to cooperate, once they have incontrovertible proof. But a clandestine incursion by us, with a goal that can’t help but condemn them before the world, successful or unsuccessful, is going to enrage them.”
Klein had to agree. “True.”
“I can’t risk our nation’s safety or the treaty.” “Maybe you won’t have to,” Klein said. “We can send in nongovernmental, nonmilitary forces. Strictly volunteers. They’d abort at the first sign of discovery. That way, you preserve full deniability.”
“You could get that many volunteers with training?”
“As many as I want.”
Castilla fell heavily into his armchair. He crossed his legs and rubbed his big chin. “I don’t know. History isn’t kind to private raids into enemy territory.”
