fine efforts. You are on your way to Dazu?”
“My flight leaves in twenty minutes.”
“Then understand this: Continue to observe and do not interfere unless there’s more trouble.” He hesitated a fraction of a second, weighing the enormity of the step he was about to take. “If trouble erupts, I authorize you to help Li Kuonyi and Colonel Smith. Either you or Colonel Smith must retrieve the manifest safely. It’s imperative.”
The silence was like a held breath. “Is that an order, master?”
“Consider it so. If it becomes necessary, show my written instructions.
You’re working only for me, and you have my full protection.”
There. It was done. Now there could be no turning back. It was he or Wei Gaofan — forward into the unknown future, or back to an unworkable past.
And it rested in the hands of others. He fought off a shudder. But there it was. A wise man knew whom to trust.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jon awakened to a sense of claustrophobia, of bodies packed around like com in a can. He grabbed his Beretta, sat bolt upright, and swept the big semiautomatic through the dim illumination. And remembered where he was. The Uighers’ cellar. The air was pungent with body odors and warm exhalations, although only a half dozen fighters remained. All were sleeping. Everyone else had gone, including Asgar.
Heart still pounding, he lowered the weapon and checked his watch. The green glow of the dial showed 2:06 p.m. He had been asleep more than nine hours, which was astounding. He seldom slept more than seven.
He stood carefully and stretched. His muscles complained but not too loudly. His ribs ached. No sharp pains. His face felt fine. It would itch later, particularly when he sweated. Nothing fatal.
He padded to the steps. At the top, he raised the trap and climbed out into the satellite house. A new sentry stood guard at the window, while across the courtyard was movement in the main house’s kitchen. Fighting off a sense of urgency, of a need to get on with it, he strolled outdoors. Strolling was something he did infrequently, too.
The sun was warm, the sky porcelain blue, and a gentle breeze stirred the willows and cottonwoods. The chilies that had been laid out to dry on mats around the dirt courtyard were an encircling carpet of scarlet.
Their peppery scent filled the air, reminding him he was in Sichuan Province, famous for its spicy cuisine.
Asgar was in the kitchen, sipping a mug of hot tea with milk, English style. He looked up, surprised. “Are you mad? Why aren’t you still asleep?”
“Nine hours is enough, for God’s sakes,” Jon told him.
“Not if nine hours is spread over five days.”
“I’ve caught a few naps here and there.”
“Yeah, you look really rested. Solid as a sand devil. Check yourself in the mirror. With that face, you can go to All Hallow’s Eve without a mask.”
Jon gave a thin smile. “Is there a phone I can use? I don’t want to tempt fate in case someone around here is triangulating cell calls.”
“Next room.”
Jon found the telephone. Using the phone card Fred Klein had given him, he dialed Klein. It was yet another gamble. Public Security could be monitoring land lines, too.
“Klein.” Jon went into character: “Uncle Fred?” he said in halting English. “It’s been so long, and you haven’t called. Tell me about America. Does Aunt Lili like it?” Aunt Lili was code for possible monitoring.
“Everything’s fine, nephew Mao. How’s your assignment?”
“The first phase had to be postponed, but I can do it at the same time as the second phase.”
There was hesitation and a note of disapproval: “I’m sorry to hear that.
The second phase could be harmed.” Concerned, Fred was reminding him that at the first sign of serious trouble at the prison farm, they would have to scrub the rescue. The meeting at the Sleeping Buddha remained their first priority.
“Well, that’s worried me, too. I’ll just have to see how it goes.”
Another pause, this time as Klein shifted gears: “You must phone instantly when you have news. We can hardly wait. Did you find your cousin Xing Bao?”
“I’m in his house now.”
“That’s a relief. You must be enjoying each other, but this is costing you too much, Mao. I promise I’ll write a very long letter first thing tomorrow.”
“I look forward to it with pleasure, now that I’ve heard your honored voice again.” Jon hung up. Asgar called from the other room, “And?” Jon rejoined him. “The priority remains the same. As soon as we have the manifest, I need to call Klein to let him know.”
“Poor David Thayer.”
“Not if we can help it. We’ll do everything we can to get him out, too.
Did you go to the Sleeping Buddha?”
“Yes, we did a thorough recon.” He laid a deck of English playing cards on the table. “I left ten of my best people behind to keep watch. They have walkie-talkies. Get some food, and I’ll fill you in. Then we’ll play some two-handed poker. If you don’t know how, I’ll teach you.”
“Are you hustling me?” Asgar smiled innocently. “I picked it up at school. Strictly amateur.
Nice hobby, when one has time to kill.” For a moment, anxiousness and nerves showed in his expression. And then they were gone. “Okay,” Jon said. There was no way he was going to sleep more now anyway.
“Two-dollar limit, or whatever that is in your money. Straight poker. No wild cards. After I wash my face, I’m in.” Jon knew he was being hustled, but they had to do something to make the time pass. They had at least six hours to keep each other sane, before darkness arrived and they could begin their night’s work.
Fred Klein was puffing on his pipe angrily, and the special ventilation system was straining to clear the air, when President Castilla walked into his Covert-One office. The president sat. His large body was rigid, his shoulders stiffly square. His jowls looked like concrete. “You have news?” No greeting, no preamble. Klein was in the same bleak frame of mind. He put down the pipe, crossed his arms, and announced, “It took five of my best corporate and financial experts to ferret this out: The Altman Group owns an arms manufacturing firm called Consolidated Defense, Inc. As with many of Altman’s holdings, this one’s hidden behind a paper trail that boggles the mind — subsidiaries, associated companies, holding companies, satellite companies … you name it, the ownership winds through a quicksand intended to deceive. Still, the ultimate ownership is clear.”
“What’s the bottom line?” “As I said, Altman and Ralph Mcdermid own the majority shares in Consolidated Defense and reap its rewards.”
“This isn’t particularly new. Altman’s heavily invested in defense. Why do we care about Consolidated?”
“You’re going to think this is a digression, but it’s not: Let’s discuss the Protector mobile artillery system. It was a millimeter from final approval. Then you decided that in our new world of terrorists and brushfire wars, heavy artillery systems like it were outdated. Often totally useless.”
“The Protector crushes most bridges because it’s too heavy. It can’t be pulled out of the bog of a country road without major support. It certainly can’t be easily airlifted. It’s irrelevant or worse.”
“It’s still irrelevant,” Klein assured him. “But that was an $11 billion contract that just evaporated. Consider this, the Altman Group at last count had some $12.5 billion in investments. That’s serious money for a private equity firm. But Altman’s accustomed to making big money — more than thirty-four percent returns annually over the past decade, particularly through timely defense and aerospace investments.
On a single day last year, Altman earned $237 million. Impressive, right? Also dirty. Consolidated Defense is
