Ouray returned with a woman in her early sixties. Not tall, she was on the heavy side, with short, efficient gray hair. Compact, she had a formidable chest and walked with a purposeful stride. Some who had faced her questions compared her to a light tank — quick, fast, and powerful.
“Have a chair, Arlene,” the president told her. “It’s always good to see you. What’s up?”
She glanced toward Ouray, who had taken his usual spot, leaning against the wall to the president’s right.
“It’s all right, Arlene. Charlie knows everything now.”
“Very well then.” She sat, crossed her ankles under her chair, and paused to compose what she was going to say. “Would you first bring me up to date about Jasper Kott and Ralph Mcdermid? Where do we stand with them? When do you want to reveal what we know?”
“Besides your people, the FBI’s watching, collecting information. Part of the problem is, what have they done that’s really illegal? Leaks of unclassified information aren’t. But once we can document their roles in the Empress mess, we may be able to get them on aiding illegal contraband. Or maybe Kott has leaked classified information to Mcdermid.
An investigation takes time, as you know. In any case, we’ll need strong evidence to convict them, so we don’t want to alert either yet. Now I’ve told you what I know. What about you? Have you learned something new?”
She nodded somberly. “A big clue to the new leaker’s identity. Mcdermid has been consulting someone else here in Washington. Another associate, we’ll say. Perhaps a partner. A man. Probably highly placed. Anonymous, so far.”
The president absorbed that. He repressed an outraged curse. “How do you know this?”
“We have a tap in Mcdermid’s Hong Kong office.”
For the first time in days, the president smiled. “There are times when I thoroughly enjoy the deviousness of the CIA. Thank you, Arlene. A sincere thanks. Your problem, I take it, is you haven’t been able to identify him yet?”
“Right. One of our agents in Hong Kong believes she recognizes the voice, but she hasn’t been able to place him.”
“Have you heard it?”
“The tape’s not good enough over the phone, but it’s on its way to Langly via courier.”
“When you place him, let me know. If none of your people can put a name to him, bring the tape here. Maybe someone in the White House will recognize him.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” She started to stand.
The president stopped her. “How are you doing otherwise with your investigation of Mcdermid?”
“We’ve found nothing yet for why he or Altman is involved in the Empress affair, except of course the obvious reason — financial profit from the sale of the chemicals.”
“All right, Arlene, thank you. I appreciate your work.”
“It’s my job, sir. Let’s hope this is over soon. It’s like a firecracker that’s on the verge of turning into a nuclear missile.” “Amen to that,” Ouray said from his wall.
“Good hunting,” the president said. “Keep me up to date.”
“Certainly, Mr. President.”
“See the DCI out, Charlie,” Castilla said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
When both had left, the president reached for the blue telephone to ask Fred Klein to drive over. He needed to let him know what the CIA had discovered — and what it had not. And he, too, wanted to take no chances with another leak.
A lemon-colored haze rested on the eastern horizon, signaling dawn. The aged limousine, Humvee, and Land Rover drove in a caravan five miles past rolling farmlands and wooded hills. The thin morning light grew warmer, sunnier. At last they pulled into a dark courtyard, draped in moist shadows. In the distance, the violet hills of Baoding Shan were beginning to transform into pale green. That was where the Sleeping Buddha was carved, where the all-important meeting with Li Kuonyi and her husband was scheduled. Jon studied the hills, wondering what the night would bring.
An old Soviet-made bus was parked in the courtyard, its motor running.
“What’s that for?” Jon asked as Asgar parked. The other vehicles pulled in alongside, and the drivers turned off their motors.
“Alani and her group expected to use it to transport David Thayer and Captain Chiavelli to the border. Their cover was as a group of Uighers heading home to Kashgar.”
“Sounds risky. Even with your makeup team, they’d never pass in daylight.”
“Wait here. I’ll show you.”
He crossed the dusty yard and spoke to the old Uigher behind the wheel of the bus, who immediately turned off the engine. He got out stiffly and followed Asgar’s men into the house.
Asgar beckoned Jon. “Come along.”
Inside, Asgar pointed to a pair of voluminous women’s garments like Afghan burkas, lying on a rustic wood table, one black and one brown.
“In Xinjiang, many of our women wear veils, but some go even more extreme and wear these monstrosities. We’ll dress Thayer and Chiavelli in them and sit them next to Alani because she’s tall. If they keep their knees bent, they should pass.”
“At least weapons can be hidden underneath.” The farmhouse looked old, with a worn wood floor and exposed timbers as beams. It was furnished with homespun tables, chairs, sideboards, and bureaus for hanging clothes. Through an archway stood a bedstead and a wood washstand, on which were a clay bowl and jug. He saw no sign of the Uighers, but the old bus driver sat at a bare table in a kitchen through another narrow arch. “Where do I sleep?” Now that he knew he had to wait until tonight, he was abruptly exhausted. Every muscle ached. The wounds on his face itched. He wanted to wash off the blackout cream, eat, and fall into any kind of bed he could find.
“There’s a hidden cellar. Plus, the barn has secret rooms behind the stalls. You want to sleep now or eat?”
“Eat. Then sleep.” Jon followed him into the kitchen where fourteen of his guerrillas were seated at another table, wolfing food, and women were cooking and putting full platters on both tables. Among the women was the pair of giggling makeup artists from the Shanghai longtang, who started giggling the instant they saw his face. They pointed him to the sink, where he used cool water and homemade soap that smelled of tallow to get the blackout goop off his skin. Feeling better, he sat at the table with the old man, who stared up from his food as if to ask, “What are you?” Then he shrugged and resumed eating. Asgar joined him, carrying a bowl of the same rice laced with mutton scraps, carrots, onions, and some kind of shelled bean, all held together by melted sheep-tail fat, which they had eaten in the longtang. He put it on the table with the other dishes. Famished from the long night and unrelenting tension, Jon took generous portions of everything. The thin-skinned dumplings and thick filling were delicious. The mutton kebabs were crisp on the outside, tender on the inside, and without any of the odor many Americans found unpleasant. As Jon ate, Asgar watched and shoveled food into his mouth, too. The moment seemed to bring out nostalgia in Asgar. He said ruminatively, “Uighers were nomadic sheepherders long before we settled into farming. Mutton is to us what seafood is to Japan, beef to the Argentine and States, and beef and mutton to the Brits. That was one thing I liked about England.
I could get good mutton, and if I were lucky enough to find the rare English-raised Southdown, ahhh … that was the best mutton I’d had since leaving home.” Jon used the bread to wipe his plate. “Not many people like English food as much as you do.”
“I loved it, old boy. Real English food. Lots of suet in the puddings and dumplings plus all the roasts, thick gravies, organ meats, and mutton. Maybe that’s why when so many Brits came here in the old days they seemed to understand us far better than the Chinese and Russians ever did or ever have.” When they finished, Asgar led him back out across the courtyard’s hardpacked dirt to a small house against the left wall. Inside, a solitary Uigher stood at a window overlooking the courtyard, his assault rifle resting on the sill. “We have sentries on all the walls, too,” Asgar explained as they passed. “What happens if you get a visit from Chinese authorities?”
