Mondragon’s death, he ran across and dropped into the cover of the low ditch that bordered the two-lane road.
Panting, he aimed both Mondragon’s Glock and his Beretta back at the trees. And waited, thinking … The envelope had been in an inside pocket. Mondragon had gone down at least twice that Smith had seen. The envelope could have fallen out then, or perhaps when they were crawling through the brush, or even when they were running, their jackets flapping.
Frustrated and deeply worried, his grip tightened on the two weapons.
After a few minutes, a single figure emerged warily at the road’s edge, looked right and left, and started across, his old AK-74 ready. Smith raised the Beretta. The motion attracted the killer’s attention. He opened fire blindly. Smith dropped the Glock, aimed the Beretta, and shot twice in rapid succession.
The man slammed forward onto his face and lay still. Smith grabbed the Glock again and opened a withering, sweeping fire with both weapons.
Shouts and screams sounded from the far side of the road.
As they echoed in his mind, he leaped out of the ditch and tore away through the trees toward the center of the island. His feet pounded and his lungs ached. Sweat poured off him. He did not know how far he ran, or for how long, but he became aware that there were no sounds of pursuit. No trampling of brush. No running feet. No gunshots.
He crouched in the cover of a tree for a full five minutes. It seemed like five hours. His pulse pounded in his ears. Had they given up? He and poor Mondragon had killed at least three, wounded two more, and perhaps had shot others.
But little of that was important right now. If the killers had quit their pursuit, it meant only one thing — they had what they had come for.
They had found the secret invoice manifest of The Dowager Empress.
Chapter Three
Golden sunlight drenched the Rose Garden and made warm rectangles on the floor of the Oval Office, but somehow it seemed menacing this morning, President Castilla thought as Charles Ouray, White House chief of staff, stepped inside the door.
Ouray looked as unhappy as he felt, the president decided. “Sit down, Charlie. What’s up?”
“I’m not so sure you want to hear, Mr. President.” He sat on the sofa.
“No luck with the leaks?”
“Zero,” Ouray said, shaking his head. “Leaks of such extent and accuracy over an entire year should be traceable, but the secret service, FBI, CIA, and NSA can’t find a thing. They’ve investigated everyone in the West Wing from the mail room to the whole senior staff, including me.
The good news is they guarantee the leaks aren’t coming from any of us.
In fact, the entire White House roster down to cleaning crews and gardeners is clear.”
The president tented his hands and scowled at his fingers. “Very well, what does that leave?”
Ouray looked wary. “Leave, sir?”
“Who’s left, Charlie? Who haven’t they investigated who could’ve had access to the information that’s been leaked? The plans … the policy decisions. They were high-level.”
“Yes, sir. But I’m not sure what you mean by who’s left? No one, I can?”
“Have they investigated me, Charlie?”
Ouray laughed uneasily. “Of course not, Mr. President.”
“Why not? I certainly had entree, unless there were leaks I didn’t hear about.”
“There weren’t, sir. But suspecting you is ridiculous on the face of it.” “That’s what they said about Nixon before they found the tapes.”
“Sir?”
“I know, you think I’m the one harmed most. That’s not true. It’s the American people, but I think you get my point now.” Ouray said nothing.
“Look higher, Charlie, and look around. The cabinet. The vice president, who doesn’t always agree with me. The joint chiefs, the Pentagon, influential lobbyists we sometimes talk to. No one is above suspicion.”
Ouray leaned forward. “You really think it could be someone that high, Sam?”
“Absolutely. Whoever it is, he — or she — is killing us. Not so much the information … the press, and even our enemies, knowing our plans before we revealed them … that’s been simply embarrassing so far.
No, the worst damage is to our confidence in each other and to the potential threat to national security. Right now, I can’t rely on any of our people with something really sensitive, not even you.”
Ouray nodded. “I know, Sam. But you can trust me now.” He smiled, but it was not a humorous smile. “I’ve been cleared. Unless you can’t trust the FBI, CIA, NSA, or secret service.”
“See? In the back of our minds we’re beginning to doubt even them.”
“I guess we are. What about the Pentagon? A lot of the leaks involve military decisions.”
“Policy decisions, not military. Long-range strategy.”
Ouray shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ve got a foreign mole somewhere, so deep the security people can’t find him. Maybe we tell them to dig deeper? Look for a professional spy hidden behind one of us?”
“All right, tell them to pursue that angle. But I don’t think it’s a spy, foreign or domestic. This deep throat isn’t interested in stealing secrets–
he’s interested in changing the public debate. Influencing our decisions. Someone who secures an advantage, if our policy changes.”
“Yeah,” Ouray agreed uneasily.
The president returned to the papers on his desk. “Find the leaker, Charlie. I need answers before this situation paralyzes me.”
Thursday, September 14.
Kaohsiung, Taiwan.
The windows of Jon Smith’s room on the twentieth floor of the Grand Hi-Lai Hotel displayed a breathtaking panorama of Kaohsiung’s sparkling night, from the horizon-to-horizon lights up to the black, star-studded sky. Tonight, Smith had no interest in it.
Safely back in his room, for the third time he read through everything in Mondragon’s wallet and notebook. He had hoped there would be some clue to how the murdered Covert-One agent had secured the manifest. The only unexplained item was a crumpled cocktail-sized napkin from a Starbucks coffee shop with a name scrawled on it in ink — Zhao Yanji.
His cell phone buzzed. It was Fred Klein returning his call.
Klein’s greeting was a question: “You delivered the article to the airport?” “No,” Smith told him. “I have bad news. Mondragon was killed.” The silence at the other end was like a sigh.
“I’m sorry. I worked with him a long time. He was a fine agent, and I’ll miss him. I’ll contact his parents. They’ll be shocked. Distraught.”
Smith breathed deeply. Once. Twice. “Sorry, Fred. This must be hard on you.”
“Tell me what happened, Jon.” Smith told him about the envelope, the attack, and Mondragon’s death.
“The killers were Chinese, from Shanghai. The invoice manifest must’ve been the real thing. I have a lead, but it’s remote.” He told Klein about the Starbucks napkin.
“You’re sure the napkin’s from Shanghai?”
“Was Mondragon anywhere but Shanghai in the last few months?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then it’s a possibility, and it’s all I have anyway.”
“Can you get to Shanghai?”
“I think so. There’s a scientist at the conference here, Dr. Liang, whom I think I can convince to take me to his facility there for a tour.” He explained about the Chinese microbiologist buttonholing him. “There are three
