As he spoke, he heard Klein’s opening words in his mind: I have two possible candidates for your mystery man — the one who appears to be more important to Donk & Lapierre than Charles-Marie Cruyff. One is a routine guess, the other quite a different pot of fish.
Somewhere deep inside, he felt himself rally. A wave of rage swept through him, and then dull acceptance. For the first time, he saw how crucial it was to him that he believed he was working for something good. How could anyone do this job otherwise?
He asked briskly, “Tell me about the ” candidate for Cruyff’s big boss.” “That’d be Louis Lapierre,” Fred Klein said. “He’s the chairman and managing director of Donk & Lapierre worldwide. He’s in Antwerp, speaks English, but at the same time is a thoroughgoing Belgian Walloon. His first language would certainly be French, and his second Flemish. It’s highly unlikely he and Cruyff would converse in English.”
“Of course, in Hong Kong almost everyone speaks English. It might’ve been because Cruyff and Lapierre didn’t want lesser mortals in Antwerp to overhear.”
“The possibility occurred to me, too.”
“Who’s the second candidate?” Jon asked.
“That’s where it gets interesting. As it turns out, my financial and corporate experts found a maze of fronts, subsidiaries, and offshore companies masking who ultimately owned Donk & Lapierre itself. Finally, they were able to discover that — big as it is — Donk & Lapierre is a wholly owned subsidiary of a far larger entity, which turns out to be the source of my second candidate: the Altman Group.”
“Never heard of it.”
“You probably have,” Klein assured him, “but you had no reason to pay attention. Most people don’t. Altman employs expensive publicity people to keep it off the front pages. However, Altman’s famous … almost mythical … in global business circles.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s a multiproduct, multinational conglomerate … but it’s also the planet’s largest private equity firm. We’re talking about making and breaking enormous fortunes daily. Now figure in Altman’s executives — insiders from the past four presidential administrations, including a former president, a former secretary of defense, and a former CIA chief. That’s not all. Altman Europe is run by a former British prime minister, with a former German finance minister as second in command. Altman Asia is led by a former Philippine president.”
Jon whistled. “Talk about a golden Rolodex.”
“I’ve never heard of another company with so many political stars on the payroll. Altman’s global headquarters is in Washington, which isn’t particularly unusual. However, its address is more gold — on Pennsylvania Avenue, midway between the White House and the Capitol. Only a fifteen-minute walk either direction.”
“And a stone’s throw from the Hoover building,” Jon decided, seeing the geography in his mind. “Hell, it’s at the very center of the Washington establishment in all ways.”
“Exactly.”
“How could I not know about Altman?” “As I said, an iron hand when it comes to general publicity.”
“Impressive. Where did it come from?”
“What I’m about to tell you is public information. Anyone could find it, but since Altman keeps such a low profile, few people care. The company started in 1987, when an ambitious federal employee quit his job, borrowed a hundred thousand dollars, and brought in his first political celebrity — a retired senator. With that marquee name, Altman started growing. It bought up companies, held some, and sold others, always for decent profits, sometimes for obscene ones. At the same time, it attracted bigger and bigger names for its letterhead. Today, its political clout and door-opening ability is impressive, to say the least. It’s a thirteen-billion-dollar empire, with investments of all sorts around the world. Hell, they’ve probably got something going in Antarctica, too.”
“So what you’re saying is Altman’s basically a giant financial holding company.” Jon considered where it fit into his assignment. “Are the Asian headquarters here in Hong Kong?”
“They are.”
“Does the Philippine ex-president speak nothing but Tagalog and English?”
“No, he’s fluent in at least six languages, including French and Dutch. But he’s not in residence there now. Hasn’t been for months. He’s at a health spa in Sweden. We checked, and he hasn’t had any calls from Hong Kong in weeks.”
“Then who is the second candidate for Cruyff’s boss?”
“Ralph Mcdermid, the investment guru who founded the company.”
“Mcdermid? Then where did ” come from?”
“It was his father’s first name,” Klein explained. “Altman Mcdermid. He was a failed businessman — lost his drugstore in the Depression when he was just starting out, rebuilt it, but lost it again in the 1960s when a big Walgreen store came into the little town in Tennessee where they lived. He never worked again. His wife supported the family by cleaning houses.” Jon nodded. “Could be Ralph Mcdermid’s trying to make up for what happened to his father. Or he’s scared to death it’ll happen to him, so he’s building a stockpile against disaster.”
“Or he’s such a financial genius he can’t help himself.” Klein paused. “Ralph Mcdermid is in Hong Kong right now. He’s an American, speaks nothing but English.” Jon let that sink in. “All right, I get the picture, but what the hell would Ralph Mcdermid care about the Empress? It’s just one ship. It seems damn small potatoes for that kind of powerhouse megalith he’s running.”
“True. But our information is solid: The Altman Group owns Donk & Lapierre, and Donk & Lapierre are equal owners with Flying Dragon of the Empress and its cargo. What I need from you — instantly, if not sooner — is that third copy of the manifest. Check into Ralph Mcdermid. See if you can tie him to the Empress, and see if he has the third copy.”
President Castilla paused to find the exact words to convey both the gravity of what he was about to reveal and the justification for holding back as long as he had. He gazed around the highly secure situation room in the basement of the White House, at the five men who sat on either side of him at the conference table. Three looked mildly puzzled. “Obviously, since we’re meeting here,” he told them, “you know there must be some kind of serious situation. Before I describe it, I’m going to apologize to three of you for not bringing you into the loop sooner, and then I’m going to explain why I don’t have to apologize.”
“We’re at your disposal, Mr. President,” Vice President Brandon Erikson said. He added sincerely, “As always.” Wiry and muscular, Erikson had sable-black hair, regular features, and a casual, Kennedyesque air that voters found disarming. A youthful forty years old, he was renowned for his dynamic personality and energy, but his true strength was his brisk intelligence, which hid political acumen far beyond his years of experience. “What situation?”
Secretary of Defense Stanton wanted to know, suspicion in his voice. He turned to stare around the table, the overhead light making his bald head gleam. Secretary of State Abner Padgett asked, “Do I gather Admiral Brose and Mr. Ouray already know what you intend to tell us?” His voice was deceptively quiet, but his eyes flashed at the insult. His meaty frame lounged in his armchair, unconsciously displaying his natural self-confidence, the same self- confidence that Castilla relied on over and over again to send into hot spots around the world to cut hard deals and soften hard hearts. Padgett was the best man to dispatch on a touchy diplomatic mission. Contrarily, he had a short fuse at home. “Admiral Brose had to know,” the president snapped and glared at them. “I told Charlie only this morning, so he could call this meeting. Your reactions are precisely why I don’t have to apologize. There are entirely too many overblown egos and personal agendas in this cabinet and administration.
Worse — and all of you know this is the unvarnished truth — some folks are talking to people they shouldn’t, about subjects they shouldn’t. Do I make myself clear?” Henry Stanton flushed. “You’re referring to the leaks? I hope that isn’t intended to apply to me, sir.”
“I am referring to the leaks, and what I said applies to everyone.” He fixed his glare on Stanton. “I decided that in this situation no one would be told, except on a need-to-know basis. My need for them to know. Not yours. Not anyone else’s either. I stand by that.” His jaw was rock hard. His mouth was grim. His gaze was so flinty as it swept over them that, at that moment, his face could have been carved out of Monument Valley stone.
The vice president was conciliatory. “I’m sure we understand, Mr. President. Decisions like that are difficult, but that’s why we elected you. We knew we could trust you.” He turned to Stanton and Padgett.
