“There’s risk, sir. I admit it. But far less than with an official operation.”
The president seemed to accept that. He mused, “Your first step would be to send someone into China to contact Thayer? Find out if he even wants to be rescued rather than wait for the treaty to free him?”
“That and to report on the military conditions, terrain, locations … all the details we’ll need if you give the go-ahead.”
“All right. Do it. But make no further move until you clear it with me.”
“That goes without saying.”
“Yes.” The president considered Klein, his expression somber. “He probably gave up on coming home years ago. Ever seeing this country again. It’d mean a lot to me to get him out of there. Imagine being able to give him a final few years of peace and comfort here at home.” He stared past Klein at the White House wall. “It’d be nice to finally meet my father.”
“I know, Sam.”
They exchanged a look across the years.
The president sighed and rubbed his eyes again.
Klein stood and quietly left the bedroom.
The Asian headquarters of Donk & Lapierre, S. A., occupied three floors of a new forty-two-story building in the heart of Central, the main business district of Hong Kong Island. Downtown’s two other districts were Admiralty and Wanchai, the former red-light quarter but now Hong Kong’s third financial district, east of Central. Most skyscrapers in recent years had been built in Central and Admiralty, while new commercial redevelopment projects were under way west of Central. Across the narrowest neck of Victoria Harbor was a fourth section, teeming with activity and humanity — Kowloon, on the mainland.
At exactly noon on Friday, a telephone call came into Donk & Lapierre that bypassed the corporate switchboard and rang in the office of a Mr. Claude Marichal. It did not ring on Marichal’s desk phone, nor on a second phone set on a side table next to an armchair for important visitors. Instead, it rang on what appeared to be an interoffice phone — no dial or button pad. It was stored on the top of a three-shelf bookcase under the windows behind his desk.
Startled, Marichal dropped his pen, swore as the ink splashed on his papers, and swiveled to pick up the receiver. “Yes? May I help you?”
“You may, if you’re Mr. Jan Donk.”
The receiver nearly slipped from Marichal’s grasp. He said quickly, “What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” Keeping his shock under control, he took a deep breath. “Hold on, please. I’ll get him.” He laid the receiver down on top of the bookcase … and picked it up again. “It may take a few minutes, so please remain on the line.”
“I’ll stay as long as I can.”
He put the caller on hold, swiveled frantically back to his desk phone, and dialed an extension. “Sir? There’s a call that just came in on the private Donk line, asking for him.”
“Asking for him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s not Yu Yongfu or Mr. Mcdermid?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Don’t let him hang up.”
“I’ll try.” Marichal ended the connection and swung back to the special phone. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re having some trouble locating Mr. Donk.” He tried to make his voice bright, eager, and helpful. “Perhaps I can help you. If you’ll tell me your business with Jan—?”
“That’s all right, but no thanks.”
A man came into Marichal’s office, tiptoeing, his finger to his lips, and his eyebrows raised in question. Marichal nodded vigorously while racking his brain for a tactic to stall the caller longer. “It’s possible he’s already gone to lunch. Mr. Donk, I mean. Left the building. If you’ll give me your name and number, or perhaps a message, I’m sure he’ll get back to you the moment he comes in. I know he’d hate to miss … hello? Hello? Sir? Hello?”
“What happened?”
Marichal peered up as he returned the receiver to its cradle. “He’s gone. I think he figured it out, Mr. Cruyff.”
The man, Charles-Marie Cruyff, nodded. He picked up the receiver of Marichal’s desk phone and asked, “Did you get the trace?”
“He called from a public phone booth in Kowloon.”
“Give me the number and the location.” He wrote it down.
Kowloon He’d made a mistake. As Jon slammed the phone into the cradle, he knew that. Either the number had been special and unlisted, or Jan Donk did not exist. Or both. Now whoever had answered was alerted that some unauthorized person, speaking American English, knew the number. The only question was whether they had been able to trace his call. That was a question that had only one answer: He must assume they did.
As Major Kenneth St. Germain, Ph. D., wearing a dark-blond wig to match the long hair of the aging hippie and eminent microbiologist, he had landed at Hong Kong International on Lantau Island two hours ago, gone through customs, and taken the Airport Express to the Kowloon Shangri-la Hotel. He wasted no time in his room. After checking the location of Donk & Lapierre, he slid the blond wig into his pocket, donned a new tropical- weight suit, and left the hotel.
The city lay under an oppressive blanket of heat and high humidity that day, unusual for mid-September. Walking out into it was like hitting a wall of diesel fumes and saltwater air, spiced up with the stink of fried meats and fish. He was engulfed by the surging masses of people, cars, and buses that were, if anything, more numerous than in Shanghai.
He pushed, dodged, and bumped his way to the Star Ferry terminal, where he had found this public phone.
Now he hurried away, blending into the throngs on the harbor promenade.
He looked around for a convenient fast-food kiosk where he could observe the public phone. One thing was to his advantage here — a tall man in Western clothes was only one of thousands walking the Hong Kong streets every day, all of whom must look pretty much alike to the Chinese.
He had eaten only three shrimp by the time the two unmarked black sedans arrived. They were Mercedeses, by the look of them over the distance.
Six Chinese men in suits emerged and fanned out. All casually approached the public phone from different directions, scrutinizing everyone. They carried no obvious weapons, but Jon noted telltale buttoned suit jackets and suspicious bulges. There was an anxiety that hovered about them, a touch of angry nervousness.
Not national security or even local police. They were something else.
None had looked at the food kiosk yet. That was too good a piece of luck to test. Besides, he had learned all he was going to. He dropped the remainder of the greasy fried shrimp into a trash can and circled away to the ferry terminal. The next departure for Hong Kong Island was in three minutes. He bought a ticket.
Once aboard, he made his way forward to the bow, thinking about the six men, replaying their faces in his mind so he would remember them. Were they from Feng Dun again?
As he considered that possibility, he raised his gaze, remembering his role as a tourist, and looked out across the channel. No one was prepared for the breathtaking view, no matter how many times they had heard about it or studied photos. Ahead, the scene spread so wide it was impossible to take it all in at once. First were the ships, barges, seagoing yachts, green sampans, and ferries, churning across the aqua waters. Then came the piers, docked ships, and waterfront buildings that skirted the island of Hong Kong. Behind them rose skyscrapers of every height, massed like titans readying an attack, with neon advertising signs as their mammoth insignias. Finally, towering over them were cloud-ringed mountains, serene and timeless. Out in the water to the east, islands rose like pyramids. Altogether, the panorama was as large and stunning as New York’s.
As the ferry left the terminal, the impact of it all moving toward him was palpable. He caught his breath and turned away — and saw two of the six, their hands sliding up under their suit jackets, as if checking to make certain their weapons were convenient. They were weaving through the throng. Closing in on him.
