willing to go to extremes to stop the Americans in their quest, whatever that quest is. The information the treasurer discovered, and Smith’s attempts to find it again, led to the death of the treasurer, the disappearances of Yu Yongfu and his wife, and the murder of the interpreter.”
“Something along those lines, sir. Yes.”
Niu’s sense of foreboding increased. “What do you think the treasurer found at Flying Dragon that has ignited this dangerous uproar?” He reached for a cigarette.
“I had no thoughts about that until you asked for information about the Empress. That was when I learned she was part of Flying Dragon’s fleet.
I don’t know what prompted your inquiry, but the connection to the case of Colonel Smith can’t be a coincidence.” “I asked for information about the freighter, its destination, and its cargo. Which is everything there is to know of such a ship.”
“Yes, sir.”
He lit his cigarette and inhaled uneasily. “What have you found?”
“The destination is Basra. It’s scheduled to arrive in the gulf in approximately three days.”
“Iraq.” Niu shook his head. He did not like that news. “What’s the cargo?”
“According to the manifest on file, it’s carrying DVDs, clothing, industrial products of various types, farm implements, agricultural supplies — the usual load one would expect to be going to Iraq. Nothing special. Certainly nothing that should interest the Americans.” As the counterintelligence agent concluded, he watched the Owl with a question in his eyes.
“Yet the Americans are interested. Very interested,” Niu said, turning the question back on Pan. He was not about to inform the major of the emergency that was brewing about the freighter. Thus far, only the Standing Committee and Ambassador Wu in Washington knew. He hoped to resolve it before it exploded into a crisis. “You have a thought about all of this, Major Pan?”
“If, as I now suspect, the Empress is involved, it can be only because of the cargo.”
“Therefore, you think the official manifest filed by Flying Dragon is false, and the Americans know this.”
“What other conclusion could there be?”
The Owl inhaled. He blew out smoke. “Did Colonel Smith get what he came for?”
“That we don’t know.”
“That is what I must know, Major. Immediately.”
“We will find Yu Yongfu, question his father-in-law, and investigate Flying Dragon.”
Niu nodded. “Now tell me how Colonel Smith evaded you a second time, without speaking our language or having been in China before, and then escaped the country … after his interpreter was killed?”
“We think he had help from a cell of the Uigher resistance. My people are searching for them now, but they hide among the old longtangs, as hard to catch as rats in a sewer. The police don’t take them seriously enough, largely because they’re so few. Consequently, they’ve gone unregulated. Like the rat, they’re smart, adaptable, and determined.”
“Obviously there aren’t as few as we’d like,” Niu said. “How did they help Smith?”
“They took him into the longtangs and hid him, and then they managed somehow to get him out again. After that, we have only hints. A police roadblock recalls letting a party of Uighers in a Land Rover pass through. Two of the Uighers had long-standing residence papers for Shanghai, and anyone with official passes like that, of course, can move about freely. Later, many shots were heard on a Huangzhou Bay beach between Jinshan and Zhapu. And this morning, one of our patrol boats reported a submarine identified as American surfaced offshore soon after the gunfire ceased.”
Niu was silent. He smoked. At last, he nodded. “Thank you, Major Pan.
Continue the investigation as a top priority.”
Major Pan looked reluctant to leave, as if he wanted to resolve all of these questions here and now, but he was also a well-trained government man. He stood up, his stubby body erect.
He straightened his European suit jacket. “Yes, sir.”
Niu put out his cigarette as the agent closed the door behind him. He leaned back and rocked on the back legs of his chair. He contemplated the question of what was so important that the Americans would risk not only sending a submarine within a few thousand yards of China’s coast, but dispatching a guided-missile frigate to shadow the Empress. The situation had a sour taste.
Shaking his head with worry, he thought about the gunfire on the beach and about the ambitious Li Aorong, who apparently had helped his son-in-law to great business success. Then Niu contemplated what he could not tell Major Pan, or General Chu Kuairong, or anyone else in the government or the Party: He was secretly making every effort to open up China to all of the opportunities the world offered.
Melancholy swept over him. He remembered how, when he was a young man, Chairman Mao had spoken eloquently of his yearning for the open, simple days before 1949, when all he had to do was write poetry and fight the enemies of China. After that, he was trapped in the hidden, dirty, and convoluted machinations of governmental interests and power.
What Niu wanted at the moment — the signed human-rights agreement— could lead to a better life for everyone. Still, he suspected the treaty had far more opponents in the public sector than it did supporters. But then, that was because so many high officials were opposed … on both sides of the ocean.
Hong Kong.
A polite smile on his face, Jon Smith settled into one of the high-backed chairs in the penthouse lobby outside the Altman office suite. He had heard Ralph Mcdermid tell the receptionist he would see him. As he waited, he clicked open his attache case as if to check his notes.
Abruptly, he slammed the lid closed and jumped up. “Damnation! I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to swear, miss. I must’ve left my notebook down at Donk & Lapierre.” He glanced at his watch and then at the polished grandfather clock that stood in a corner. “Mcdermid’s coming to meet me in fifteen minutes. I’ll be back in ten.”
Before she could protest, he ran, carrying his attache case to the elevators. He punched the button and stepped into the car, which was empty. As the doors closed, he smiled and waved back at the startled woman. He had little time and silently urged the elevator to hurry. He got off two floors below and rushed along the corridor until he found a public restroom. Once inside a stall, he peeled off his outer suit and put on the light-blue seersucker sport jacket, the blue canvas running shoes, and the collapsible Panama hat from his attache case. With his gray slacks and Hawaiian shirt, he had the gaudy appearance of an American tourist with more money than taste. He packed the suit into the attache case, and the attache case into his backpack. He put on the backpack and slipped out the door.
Thinking about what he suspected he would find, he stepped onto a different elevator and faded into the rear as businesspeople entered and left at several of the floors, heading down. When the car at last reached the mezzanine, he pushed his way through the packed passengers, who were continuing down to the lobby.
He got off the elevator. The inner wall of the mezzanine was lined with glass doors into expensive boutiques, travel agencies, and office shops.
The outer wall was no wall. It was a marble parapet that rose to waist height, interspersed with thick pillars supporting the floor above. The parapet overlooked the vast lobby. Jon stood in the cover of a pillar, where he could see the marble stairs that swept up to the mezzanine, the bank of elevators, and the building’s entrance.
Jon waited impatiently. Suddenly the man he had hoped to see was there — the big Chinese who had led the attack in Shanghai. Feng Dun. He was pushing in through the lobby’s glass doors, followed by three men Jon also recognized. For the first time, he got a good look at Feng: He was so pale his skin seemed to be bloodless. His close-cropped hair was a light red with patches of stark white. He was shorter than Jon had thought when he saw him in the dark. Still, he was tall for a Han, maybe six-foot-three, and muscular — not an ounce more than two hundred pounds.
He paused just inside the doors and surveyed the lobby as if searching for something — or someone.
Ralph Mcdermid put his patented genial smile on his face and walked out of the private penthouse elevator. He paused to gaze around the reception area for Dr. Kenneth St. Germain.
Except for the receptionist, the luxurious room was empty. She stared in awe.
He frowned at her. “Where is he?”
“Er, Mr. Mcdermid. I’m very sorry, sir, but Dr. St. Germain rushed downstairs to pick up his notebook at Donk
