From the corridor outside Donk & Lapierre, bright light fell across the dark, empty desk in the company’s lobby, where the exotic Chinese receptionist had sat. Jon relocked the door behind him and stepped lightly past the shadowy desk to the inner doors. After he had slipped out of his hotel through the back way, he had hailed another taxi that had brought him back here.
Dressed again in his dark work clothes, he listened. There were no sounds inside, and he saw no light. The offices appeared as deserted as he had hoped.
The door was unlocked. He stepped inside and padded along the Delft blue carpeting, pausing to listen at each office, until he reached the ebony door of managing director Charles-Marie Cruyff. This sanctum was defended by a pair of heavyweight locks. After five attempts with different picklocks, Jon finally opened both and pushed the black door into the office. Enveloped in murky silence, he switched on his pocket flashlight. His gaze swept over the ultramodern sofa, Cruyff’s mahogany desk and ship models, the ship models on the walls, to the wall safe to the left of the desk. He crossed quickly to it. Cruyff had glanced involuntarily at the safe when Jon had mentioned working with Chinese companies. He hoped that meant there was something important in there about the Empress. Particularly, he hoped it was the real manifest. The safe was compact, with a simple combination lock — just what he remembered. Klein had supplied him with a small electric drill. It made a low, steady whirr as the state-of-the- art bit bored into the steel.
When he had drilled four holes, he packed tiny amounts of plastic explosive into each and connected them across the knob of the lock to a miniature blasting cap. Working quickly but carefully, he covered the safe with a sound-deadening pad, moved back behind the desk, and paused, listening to the pounding of his heart. He turned the handle on the miniature detonator. The explosion was muffled but loud enough to be heard as far away as the reception area. His Beretta ready, he listened.
When five minutes passed, he holstered the Beretta and returned to the safe. The door had swung open an inch. He pulled it farther open, removed all the documents, and carried them to Cruyff’s desk, where he quickly examined them. And stopped at the fifth. It was the letter that must be the one that had prompted the reply he had found in Yu Yongfu’s safe in his Shanghai mansion. A letter addressed not to Jan Donk, but to Managing Director Charles-Marie Cruyff of Hong Kong. It was signed by Yu Yongfu, president and chairman of Flying Dragon Enterprises. More important … it was cc’d to Ralph Mcdermid, president and CEO of the Altman Group. Riveted, he continued to read to the bottom of the page.
Nothing interesting … although an envelope had been stapled to the corner. He checked it — a Donk & Lapierre business envelope with a handwritten notation:
Bxtsrn invoice, The, Dortagcr Emprejs After all this time … all the deaths … This was it! Fingers trembling with eagerness, he pulled open the envelope, yanked out a single sheet of stationery, and unfolded it. On it was writing that matched the writing on the envelope, but there was no manifest. As a hot bolt of rage shot through him, he stared at the note:
You’ve wasted your time, Smith. you. didn’t really believe, I’d leave, anything so important somewhere, you could find it so easily? I’ve destroyed the manifest. You’re, next.
It was signed with the initials RM. Ralph Mcdermid. Arrogant bastard.
He had known! How—?
As he thought that, Jon froze and looked up. You’re next. “Good evening, Colonel Smith.” The whispering voice came from the open office door. The office’s overhead light flashed on. Feng Dun stood just inside the doorway, his mottled red hair shining in the light. His expression was grim, but a small smile of genuine satisfaction played at the corners of his mouth. He held a mini Uzi aimed at Jon. As they stared at each other, Feng gestured behind him. Four armed men ran past and spread out across the office.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The faint click of the Westminster wall clock sounded in Niu Jianxing’s ears before it struck the half hour. His alert gaze darted around his study in the courtyard house at the edge of the old Xicheng district, mirroring the churning of his mind. Dispatching the submarine Zhou Enlai to menace the American frigate was a move of such colossal stupidity, so criminally dangerous, so completely counterproductive to China’s interests and the very existence of the People’s Republic that he was beside himself with disgust and fury.
The fire in his eyes would have shocked his colleagues, whom he had taught to expect the sleepy Owl of Party and government meetings. This alert, energetic man was the unleashed Niu. Like a tiger, he prowled his study, grappling with what he was beginning to understand. Although Wei Gaofan had covered himself well, now there was little doubt in Niu’s mind that it was Wei who was behind the decision to send the sub.
This stupid move not only revealed to the Americans that the Chinese navy had been shadowing their Fifth Fleet, it astronomically increased the danger of a disastrous confrontation over the Empress.
When Major Pan had first reported his suspicions about Jon Smith, Li Aorong’s connection to the Empress had made the Owl suspect Wei Gaofan might be guilty of corruption, since Li was Wei’s protege, and Li did not go to bed without Wei’s blessings. It seemed both men planned to make a small fortune on the cargo. Wei would not be the first Zhongnanhai official to succumb to private greed. But the Zhou Enlai’s new assignment had turned that assumption inside out. It was too easy an answer, too obvious. Hands clasped behind his back, the Owl turned on his heel and marched across his study again, each foot hammering home his revulsion and rage. Now he knew it must be that snake Wei who had turned against the human-rights accord. Wei was sabotaging it, and — worse — it was only part of his infidelity. In fact, Wei intended to cause an incident with the United States of such magnitude that it would turn the clock back to the Cold War … to the building of new weapons of mass destruction … to societal controls that would lead to catastrophes like the Cultural Revolution … to an isolated China putrefying in its own recycled bitterness. That was what Wei was after, Niu decided, disgusted and afraid. Not greed for money; greed for power.
When a tap sounded at the private rear door of his study, the Owl hurried to it with an alacrity that was in sharp contrast to his sixty years. He unlocked the door to admit Major Pan. “Come in. Come in.” He impatiently motioned the agent to sit facing his desk. Nervous, the major lowered his pudgy body onto the wood chair and perched like a wary bird, ready to fly. Summonses to drive to Beijing from Shanghai in the middle of the night always made Pan nervous. Especially a summons from a member of the Standing Committee. Niu resumed pacing. “What progress have you made in the matter of the American agent and The Dowager Empress?”
“Not much, master.” Pan craned his neck, watching Niu’s progress around the room. “The storm has passed, leaving little sign behind. We’ve had to release Li Aorong. He continues to insist he knows nothing about his son-in- law’s business activities, or where he and his daughter have disappeared.” Niu stopped and stared. “You had to release him? Why? If it were some legal technicality, I can?”
“No legal technicality.”
“Then what?”
Pan chose his words carefully. “I believe the question was raised to General Chu as to the propriety of holding Li without arresting him.”
“A routine policy in a national security matter was questioned? Of General Chu? Absurd. Who asked such a question?”
“I believe the Central Committee.”
Niu frowned. General Chu had run up against the Central Committee, a bad position. Still, the general should have informed him of the order. Now Niu would have to watch the general carefully, too, to make certain where his loyalties lay.
Niu returned his thoughts to the major, repressing his anger and frustration. He had momentarily forgotten Pan’s reluctance to reveal anything that could indicate a definite view of a subject not directly connected to his official duties. Pan protected himself, which was one reason he had held his position in Public Security so long.
But Niu no longer had time for such niceties. The Empress would arrive in Iraqi waters Wednesday morning. It was already after midnight Sunday.
“Meaning Wei Gaofan?” he asked bluntly. “I know my colleagues, Pan. Tell me. It will go no farther than this
