Wei’s anger evaporated. “Where?”
“In Hong Kong.”
“Who does he work for?” “He hasn’t told us — yet.”
“Did he get proof of the cargo and send it to Washington?”
“There’s no more proof, so nothing could be sent.” Feng described the American’s capture and the note Mcdermid had left in the envelope in the safe after he had shredded the manifest.
Wei’s mood improved dramatically. He did not approve of Mcdermid’s theatrical insult, but it did no harm to Wei. “Be quick with your questioning. Find out from Smith what the Americans know and eliminate him.”
“Of course.”
Wei could see Feng’s smile that was like no human smile, but one pasted on a wooden dummy. Feng was his man. Still, he repressed a shiver, clicked off, and sat back to consider this new information: Now Niu Jianxing would have no proof of the Empress’s cargo. Niu’s cooperation with the Americans would be impossible, and he had nothing at all to take to the Standing Committee.
Yes, the Empress would sail on to Wei’s profit, as other ships with other illicit cargo had before … or the situation might still explode to his even greater profit. He laced his fingers across his stomach, pleased, as if he had just feasted on pheasant and honey.
In the upstairs Treaty Room, the door was locked, and President Castilla and Fred Klein were standing shoulder to shoulder at one of the windows, gazing down at the White House grounds. The president described the day’s meeting with his military and civilian advisers.
Klein said, “You may have to use Admiral Brose’s suggestion for a SEAL recon mission.”
The president glanced at the Covert-One chief. A great black cloud seemed to hover over him like a thunderstorm gathering over White Sands.
“What’s happened?” There was a heaviness to the words, a weariness that carried the entire weight of the last four days. Resigned. Expecting the worst.
“We may have lost Colonel Smith.”
“No.” The president inhaled sharply. “How?”
“Have no idea yet. The last time we talked, he was heading off to break into Donk & Lapierre in Hong Kong.” Klein related Jon’s earlier activities— surveilling Ralph Mcdermid as he took the subway to the Wanchai district, the trap inside the office building, and Jon’s escape with Randi Russell.
“Agent Russell?”
“Yes. Remember, she’s the one Arlene assigned to follow Kott to Manila, where he had that clandestine meeting with Ralph Mcdermid.”
“Of course. Then what happened?” “Jon asked for additional supplies and equipment to help him search Donk & Lapierre’s offices. The entire operation there should’ve taken less than an hour. Ninety minutes, tops. And now he’s missing.”
“If there was a last copy of the manifest at Donk & Lapierre, Fred — it’s gone?”
“If Jon’s gone or caught, the manifest is, too.”
The president looked at his watch. “How much longer do you give him?”
“I’ve got local Covert-One people out looking. Two … three hours, then I send out a dragnet. It’s always possible he was captured and is being interrogated. That he’ll be able to hold out. That the locals will find and free him. But … ”
“But the manifest might still be gone.”
“Yes, Sam. Probably is gone.”
“And Colonel Smith might be dead.”
Klein gazed down at his shoes. His voice was tight. “Yes. God, I hope not. But yes.”
The president nodded. He heaved a sigh. “All right, we’ll find another way. There’s always a way, Fred.”
“Yes, of course.” Neither said more, their silence acknowledging the lie in their optimism.
At last Klein said, “I’d like to know everything the CIA has learned from Agent Russell and her people.”
“I’ll call Arlene.”
Klein nodded, almost to himself. “Perhaps it is time to attempt that SEAL mission. If it’s successful … if they find the chemicals, take over the ship, and dump it all overboard without the submarine’s knowing … that solves the whole problem, and it wouldn’t matter?”
“That the manifest was gone and Smith was dead? Is that what happens to all men who have to do your job?”
Klein seemed to deflate. Then his head raised, and his gaze was steady.
“I had in mind the total loss of the manifest, Mr. President, not Jon’s death. But, yes, I expect that, sooner or later, it does happen to all of us.” “Spymasters,” the president said quietly. “It must be horrible.”
“I’ve brought you very bad news. I’m sorry, Sam.”
“So am I. So am I. Thank you, old friend. Goodbye.”
After Klein left, the president continued to stand in silence. He knew what he had to do, but he neither wanted to nor was comfortable with it.
He had never been at ease ordering people to risk their lives for their country, as much as he knew that was what they expected to do, what they had signed up to do, what he had done when it was his turn long ago. He had fought in his own war, and he knew no one signed up to die.
His sigh was more like a deep breath. He picked up the phone again.
“Mrs. Pike? Get me Admiral Brose.”
Moments later, his phone rang.
The admiral’s deep voice appeared in his ear. “Yessir, Mr. President.”
“How soon can you put that SEAL team on the Crowe?”
“They’re on the Crowe now, sir. I took the liberty.”
“Did you? Well, I expect you’re not the first field commander who’s done that to a president who hasn’t made up his mind.”
“No, sir, I wouldn’t think so. May I ask if you have made up your mind?”
“That’s why I called.”
“Are we go, sir?”
“Yes. We’re go.”
“I’ll transmit the order.”
“Don’t you want to know why, Stevens?”
“That’s not my job, Mr. President.”
The president hesitated. “Right again, Admiral. Keep me posted.”
“What I know, you’ll know.”
As the president hung up, a quote he had read once years ago in a biography of Otto von Bismarck came to mind. Something like … a person’s moral worth begins only at the point he is willing to die for his principles. He was not risking his life for his principles, but he was risking his future, which was not all that important, and the future of his country, which was. That might not be a full commitment for those stern and demanding old Prussian squires, but it weighed heavily enough for him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tension was wearing on the small cadre of officers of the USS John Crowe. This was far from an ordinary military emergency, which often turned out to be a false bogey, a lost craft, or a mechanical failure.
One mistake, and they could cause not only their own deaths but war.
