Free Covert One 4 - The Altman Code by Robert Ludlum Page B

grandiose

affectations.
    When he located the file for The Dowager Empress, he exhaled. He had

been holding his breath without realizing it. He opened the file right

there, on top of the cabinet, but all he could find were useless

internal memos and the manifests of old voyages. His worry growing, he

kept at it. Finally, with the last document, there it was–the manifest.
    His excitement dimmed as he studied it. The dates were right, as were

the ports on both ends of the journey, Shanghai and Basra. But the cargo

was wrong. It was a list of what the freighter allegedly

carried–radios, CD players, black tea, raw silk, and other innocent

freight. It was a copy of the official manifest, filed with the export

board. A smoke screen. Angrily he returned to the cabinet, searching

through the other file drawers, but found nothing more that related to

the Empress. As he closed and relocked the cabinet, he grimaced. He

would not give up. There must be a safe somewhere. He scanned the huge

office and considered what sort of person would create it–vain,

self-congratulatory, and obvious. Of course. Obvious. He turned back to

the filing cabinet. Above it hung the panoramic picture of old British

Shanghai. He lifted the framed photo from the wall, and there it

was–the safe. A simple wall safe, with no time lock or any other

advanced electronics he could see. His picklocks would … “Who are

you?” demanded a voice in heavily accented English. He turned slowly,

quietly, making no provocative move. Standing in the gray light of the

doorway was a short, heavy Chinese man who wore rimless glasses. He was

aiming a Sig Sauer at Smith’s belly.
    Beijing Night was one of Beijing’s best times, when the slow

transformation from terrible pollution and gray socialist lifestyles to

unleaded fuels and cutting-edge fun was apparent in pockets of vibrant

nightlife under a starry sky that was once impenetrable through city

smog. Karaoke and solemn band music were out. Discos, pubs, clubs, and

restaurants with live music and fine food were in. Beijing was still

firmly Communist, but seductive capitalism was having its way. The city

was shrugging off its dreariness and growing affluent.
    Still, Beijing was not yet the economic paradise the Politburo

advertised. In fact, ordinary citizens were losing their fight against

gentrification and being forced out of the city, because they could no

longer afford the cost of living. It was the dark side of the new day.
    This mattered to the Owl, if not to some of the others on the Standing

Committee. He had studied Yeltsin’s failure to stop Russia’s greedy

oligarchs and the near-destruction of the Russian economy that resulted.
    China needed a more measured approach to its restructuring.
    But first, the Owl had the human-rights treaty with the United States to

protect. It was critical to his plans for a democratic, socially

conscious China.
    Tonight was a special meeting of the nine-member Standing Committee.
    From under his half-closed eyes, he studied the faces of his eight

colleagues at the ancient imperial table in the Zhongnanhai meeting

room. Which man should concern him? In the party and, therefore, in the

government, a rumor was not merely a rumor–it was a call for support.
    Which meant one of the solemn older men or the smiling younger ones was

reassessing his position on the human-rights agreement, even as Niu

waited to make his report.
    Half blind behind his thick glasses, their leader–the august general

secretary –was unlikely to resort to spreading a rumor, Niu decided. No

one would oppose him openly. Not this year. And where he went, his

acolyte from their days in Shanghai would always follow. That one had

the face of an executioner and was too old and too committed to his boss

to ever be secretary himself. He had no reason to bother with fighting

the treaty.
    The four beaming younger men were possibilities. Each was assembling

backers