“Don’t you agree, gentlemen?”
The secretary of defense cleared his throat, chastened. “Of course, Mr. President.”
“Absolutely,” the secretary of state said quickly. “He has the facts.”
“Yes, Abner, I do, such as they are. And now I’ve made the decision that it’s time to bring you in.” He leaned across the table, his hands clasped. “We have a possible repeat of the Yinhe debacle with China.”
As they stared, riveted, their alarm growing, he described what had happened so far, leaving out any specific reference to Covert-One and to the man who claimed to be his father. As he talked, he could see they were already considering how the situation might impact their departments and responsibilities.
When he finished, he nodded to the vice president. “I do apologize to you, Brandon. I should’ve brought you in sooner, in case anything happened to me.”
“It would’ve been better, sir. But I understand. These leaks have made us all leery. Under the circumstances, with secrecy so vital, I probably would’ve acted similarly.”
The president nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Now, let’s discuss what each of us must do to prepare in case this does escalate and we’re forced to go public without proof and stop the Empress on the high seas.”
Admiral Brose spoke up. “We need to assess what China will do next, now that they’ve spotted our frigate. We should also figure the size of a conflict like this into our military plans and appropriations.”
Secretary of State Padgett agreed. “We must think about not only conflict with China, but what we can do to take a strong posture of deterrence.”
“The Cold War all over again?” the vice president wondered. “That’d be a tragedy.” He shrugged unhappily. “But at the moment, I see no alternatives.”
Charles Ouray said, “We’ve got to keep this information confined to those of us here. Is that understood? If the Empress problem leaks, we’ll know it’s one of us.”
Around the table, heads nodded solemnly, and the discussion resumed. As the president listened, a part of his mind began counting — two, four, one, two, two, and one. Among the six men there, they had twelve children. He was surprised that he was aware how many children each had. Surprised, too, that, when he thought about it, he remembered their names. Abner’s youngest had him stumped.
But then, he could recall the children of most of the other people he had worked with over the years. Knew their names a lot of the time, too.
For only an instant he wondered what that meant. Then he knew … In his mind, he could see that little boy again, reaching up to the faceless stranger.
There was a pause in the conversation, and he realized they were waiting for him to say something. “State needs to get ready to go into high diplomatic gear. Defense needs to figure out what we’ve got that we can use to scare the shit out of China. The navy needs to come up with alternate plans to board and inspect the Empress.” He slammed his hands on the table and stood up. “End of discussion. That’s all, gentlemen.
Thanks for coming.”
Chapter Twenty
In his hotel room, Jon put on gloves, searched the young man’s pockets, and found a master key, a few coins, and a pack of gum. He put everything back, including the key, and checked the corridor. Deserted. He carried the corpse to the fire stairs landing. The steps reached far up and far down in silence. He climbed two flights and propped the body against the wall of the stairwell.
The dagger still protruded from the emaciated chest. He pulled it out.
With the wound open, blood flowed like the Yangtze. Sighing, he left the knife beside the killer and returned downstairs.
Once more in his room, he propped a chair against the door, in case someone else with a master key and a way to flip the chain lock had ideas. Last, he scrubbed the tub and scrutinized the floors and furniture, including the bed. There was no trace of blood, and nothing had been dropped.
With relief, he took a shower. In the steaming water, he scrubbed until his skin glowed, forcing his mind away from the dead man and into the future. As he toweled off, he made plans.
At last, he returned to bed. He lay awake for some time, trying to calm his disquiet as he listened to the occasional night sounds of the hotel, the scattered noise of traffic, and the mournful horns of ships and boats in the harbor. All the sounds of life in a busy city on a busy planet in a busy galaxy in a busy universe. An indifferent universe, and galaxy, and planet, and city.
He listened to the beating of his own heart. To the imagined sound of blood flowing through his veins and arteries. To sounds heard nowhere but in his own mind. Sometime before daybreak, he fell asleep again.
And jerked awake once more. He sat bolt upright. Out in the corridor, the wheels of a room-service cart ferried an early breakfast to someone.
The first rays of morning showed around the drapes, while city noises rose and crescendoed. He jumped out of bed and dressed. When the assassin did not report in, and he did not reappear — whether or not the body had been found and the police called — another assassin would eventually be sent.
Fully dressed in the same suit, fresh shirt, and new tie, he selected items from his suitcase — his backpack, a pair of gray slacks, a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, a seersucker sport jacket, canvas running shoes, and a collapsible Panama hat. His black working clothes were already in the backpack. He packed everything else in, too, including his folding attache case.
Finally, he put on his dirty-blond wig and adjusted it in the mirror. He was Major Kenneth St. Germain again.
After a final survey of the room, he left, carrying the suitcase and wearing the backpack. The carpeted corridor was still empty, but behind the doors, televisions had been turned on, and people were moving.
Jon rode the elevator down to the floor above the lobby and took the stairs the rest of the way. From the doorway, he scanned the lobby east to west, north to south. He saw no police, no one who acted like police, and none of the killers from yesterday. There was no one he recognized from Shanghai. Still, none of his precautions guaranteed no one was waiting.
He stood out of sight another ten minutes. At last, he crossed to the registration desk. If he left without checking out, the hotel might notify the police, especially since it was only a matter of time until the corpse upstairs was discovered. While he waited for the bill, he asked the bell captain to call a taxi with an English-speaking driver, to take him to the airport.
The cab was barely out of sight of the hotel when Jon leaned forward from the backseat: “Change of plan. Take me to Eighty-eight Queensway in Central. The Conrad International Hotel.”
A thousand years ago, religious artists carved and painted stone sculptures into the mountains, caves, and grottos that surrounded the rural village of Dazu. Now a metropolis of more than eight hundred thousand, Dazu had terraces of well-maintained rice paddies as well as high-rise buildings, small farmhouses nestled among trees, and mansions surrounded by formal landscapes. The soil and climate of the green, rolling land were favorable for city gardeners and suburban farmers, who grew as many as three crops a year, most still using the methods of their ancestors.
The prison farm was less than five miles from the giant Sleeping Buddha, carved at Baodingshan. Secluded and isolated, the prison was a sprawl of frame buildings and walkways, locked behind a tall, chain-link fence that had raised platforms at each corner for the armed sentries. The dirt road that led to it was never traveled by tourists or city people.
Inmates, who worked in fields and paddies operated by the distant Beijing government, were marched to and from work by armed guards. They had little contact with locals. Light as the confinement and security appeared, China did not coddle those it branded criminals.
The old man was one of the few inmates excused from the fields and morning march. He was even allowed some privileges, such as the cell— almost a normal room — he shared in the barrack with only one other prisoner.
