the army’s fifth-largest contractor, but they took Consolidated public only after the September 11 attacks, when Congress skyrocketed its support for hefty defense spending, and only after a massive lobbying effort by that golden Rolodex of theirs paid off in Congress’s initial approval of Consolited’s cornerstone weapon’s program … ” The president stared, his expression grim. “Let me guess — the Protector.”
“Bingo. The result was the $237 million bonanza.”
“And?”
“And now Altman’s assets will skyrocket billions and billions of dollars, if you and Congress approve the Protector and put it into production.” The president sat back, his mouth a thin line of disgust. “That bastard.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what Ralph Mcdermid’s been up to. It’s got nothing to do with the Empress directly. The whole thing was a setup to lead to nose-to-nose hostility between two continental giants with nuclear capabilities. If necessary, he’ll wheel and deal us into war to prove the United States needs the Protector. Either way, once we board the Empress and all hell breaks out, he’ll have proved his point. Congress will beg for the Protector, and he’ll get his $11 billion.”
The president swore loudly. “The only thing they didn’t walk away with, because I clamped a lid on it, was publicity that would’ve scared the bejesus out of the public and made it easier to win approval immediately.”
“The way I look at it, it’s damn immediate enough. All Mcdermid needs is for us to board the Empress because it’s about to go into Iraqi waters.”
“Oh, God.” The president heaved a sigh. “Everything’s on Smith’s shoulders. What have you heard from him?”
“He called, but he had to use code.” He paused. “I’ve got bad news, Sam.
They weren’t able to liberate your father last night. That’s China time.
Smith implied they’d try again tonight.”
The president grimaced. He closed his eyes and opened them. “Tomorrow morning, our time — that’s when they’ll do it?”
“Yes, sir. They’ll try.”
“He didn’t say anything more about breaking him out? Whether he has enough help? Whether he thinks he can do it?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Why couldn’t he talk more?”
“I assume he was afraid to use his secure cell phone. Which meant he was on a public line that could’ve been monitored. It leads me to guess that the parachute sighting was hardly solid. The local authorities must not have located the parachute or any other evidence of insertion. With luck, they’re skeptical.”
“I hope you’re right, Fred. Smith is going to need all the good luck he can get, and so are we.” The president peered at the clock. “He’s got four hours left, the way I count it, before dusk.” He shook his head.
“Four very long hours for all of us.”
Dolores Estevez hurried across the Altman Building lobby and out the glass entrance into the city’s humid air and rushing people. Usually Hong Kong’s carnival atmosphere energized her. Not now. She joined a queue of pedestrians frantically waving for taxis. But as soon as she raised her hand, one pulled up as if by magic. She decided God must have a soft spot for well-intentioned but late travelers. She jumped in quickly. “The airport. Hurry.” The driver started his meter, and the taxi inched into traffic. They crawled for a few blocks, until the driver muttered in guttural Cantonese and swerved the vehicle into a narrow alley. “Shortcut,” he explained.
Before Dolores could protest, he accelerated, and they were halfway along it. She sat back nervously. Maybe he knew what he was doing. One way or another, she needed to reach the airport where the big boss was waiting, probably annoyed already. She was both terrified and excited by her new assignment — his official translator at someplace called Dazu in Sichuan. They wanted her because she could speak several dialects. She felt comfortable in Cantonese and Mandarin, although she had found the real thing in the field was not exactly the same as speaking in her graduate classes or in L. A.’s Chinese restaurants. She was also nervous about her English. No matter how hard she tried, she had not completely lost her barrio accent. She was still worrying when the taxi screeched to a halt near the end of the alley, the door opened, and strong hands pulled her out. Too frightened to struggle, she had a vague impression of seeing a fellow Latina who looked amazingly like her. She felt a sharp pain in her arm, and blackness enveloped her.
Ralph Mcdermid reclined in his seat aboard the opulent corporate jet reserved for his personal use, sipped his favorite single-malt Scots whiskey— over ice, no water — and glanced at his watch for the tenth time. Where was the damn translator? He fumed and was waving the steward for another single-malt when a breathless woman stumbled up into the cabin. Mcdermid eyed her with outrage that quickly became appreciation. She was clearly Latina, one of those with high cheekbones, long, lean faces, and touch of fiery Aztec in her eyes. Exotic.
“Mr. Mcdermid,” she said in English with more than a hint of L. A.’s South Central barrio. It was an accent he would have taken as a sign of lack of education and ambition in a man, but in a woman, it was charming. “I’m Dolores Estevez, your translator and interpreter. I apologize for being late, but they gave me terribly short notice. Of course, the traffic was impossible.”
Mcdermid detected a slight lisp. Better and better. Her body was magnificent in any ethnic or national category. Her name was delightful.
Dolores. He rolled it through his mind. When this was over, and they were back in Hong Kong, she would probably jump at the chance to please the uber boss.
“Completely understandable, my dear. Please sit down. There would be fine.” He nodded at the plush seat facing him. She smiled, all of a sudden shy. At first he smiled back, then he frowned. There was something … familiar. Yes, he had seen her before. Recently. “Have we met? In the office, perhaps.”
She beamed while shrinking back in the seat. Her shyness was refreshing.
“Yes, sir. A few times. Once yesterday.” A slight boldness. “I thought you didn’t notice.” “Of course, I did.” Still, as he smiled, he felt an uncomfortable twinge. Was every woman beginning to look familiar?
At that moment, the pilot poked his head into the private compartment.
“Is everyone aboard, sir?”
“Everyone, Carson. You’ve filed our papers and the flight plan?”
“Yes, sir. You’ll have about two hours aloft, all in all. Customs will hold you up some when we land, but your papers should get you VIP treatment. Weather looks smooth all the way.”
“Excellent. Take her up.”
As the steward arrived with his next whiskey, he offered a drink to his new translator. She crossed her legs with a flash of thigh. At that point, he decided he could do worse for companionship, and the prospect of having the manifest by morning made him feel like his old genial self. He rested his head back and gazed out the window. As the big jet rolled down the runway, he tried not to worry about what would happen.
Hell, he was willing to pay two million dollars for the manifest. Of course he would get it.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Jon and Asgar spent the daylight hours analyzing reports from the Uigher scouts and working through endless scenarios they might face tonight, interspersed with poker. Asgar ended up winning a few dollars, which Jon considered a donation to international goodwill. His thoughts never left the coming missions. He was determined to succeed at both, while Asgar, whose Uigher pride was involved, was equally eager to strike a blow for democracy and freedom in China.
Both worried about encountering what they had not envisioned. The thought of failure was impossible.
According to Asgar’s people, the usual rafts of visitors had come and gone around the Sleeping Buddha, enjoying the beauty and spiritual quality of the centuries-old art, while local vendors aggressively hawked postcards and plastic statues. A normal day. Thus far, there had been no sign of Me-Dermid’s people, nor of Li Kuonyi and Yu Yongfu, but the hills and mesas around the Buddha Grottos were largely open, so it was possible they could arrive
