"Nothing," Nijinsky confirmed.
"Excellent."
Next Nijinsky called his superior and informed him he would require assistance.
Tang Ro Ji stepped out of the terminal barbershop and paused just long enough in front of a mirror to straighten his tie. Now he looked every bit the part of a member of the Chinese trade delegation that had been prominent on Washington television for the past seven days. He had even purchased a number of gifts, brazenly carrying them through customs to complete the picture. The transformation was complete. He was now a businessman/tourist.
By taking a later flight than the one carrying both Madam Yan and Schubatis, and arranging an itinerary that routed him through Los Angeles on American Airlines instead of Northwest, he had done everything he could to ensure that none of the customs officials he had encountered earlier that morning would recognize him.
At a newsstand, he purchased a copy of the Washington Post and scanned the front page. The Saint Martin's massacre, as it was being called, had been given precedence over the bombing of the oil rig in Tuxpano. The death toll at the oil rig now stood at 287, with nearly as many still missing. At Saint Martin's, the toll stood at twenty-seven. He read the article carefully, but there was no mention made of Schubatis. Either the Americans had not yet discovered the switch, or, as he suspected, the discovery had been made and now they were trying to figure out what to do about it.
Tang Ro Ji folded the paper, put it under his arm, and made his way from the newsstand to a bank of telephones near the concourse where his flight waited. It was his first attempt to make contact with his superiors since the attack on Schubatis's motorcade. He was aware that there was a three-hour time difference between Washington and Los Angeles, but Quan had insisted.
He was also aware, of course, that Quan would not be there. The phone, located in a warehouse in Brentwood, rang three times before the familiar signal indicated he was to proceed. Tang Ro Ji carefully recited the message as he had been instructed. "Accomplished, 07450940." The first number confirmed that Madam Yan and Schubatis were safely aboard the Northwest flight to Minneapolis, while the second number confirmed the time of his call. As an extra precaution, Tang had altered his voice. He waited to see if anyone came on the line. When no one did, he hung up. All Tang Ro Ji had to do now was get something to eat and wait for his flight.
While two children played outside of the parked Winnebago and a woman busied herself fixing breakfast at a nearby picnic table to give the illusion of tourists taking a respite from their travels, Lattimere Spitz continued his briefing.
"At 0500 hours this morning, Ambassador Wilson confirmed what has been a suspicion for some time now. Aprihinen has been a little testy lately, and now we know why. Some three weeks ago, a Russian pilot by the name of Arege Borisov took off from one of the Russian test facilities in Volgograd. Supposedly, he was flying a top-secret Russian aircraft, Su-39, NATO designation Covert, on the second in a series of long-range test flights. Four hours into the flight it became apparent that Borisov had deviated from his flight plan."
Driver leaned forward, fished out a cigarette, lit it, and slouched back in his chair. There had been rumors of such an aircraft. Now it was confirmed. He looked at Bogner. "And the clouds parted." Spitz continued. "For some time now, we've been aware of the political infighting between Aprihinen and a hot dog by the name of Colonel General Viktor Isotov. Isotov is a no-holdsbarred hard-liner, and as far as he's concerned, Moshe Aprihinen is selling the old Russia down the river."
"So where's our boy Borisov?" Packer asked.
"Last spotted crossing the Tashkent range and headed into Mongolia."
"Let me guess," Bogner interrupted. "The boys in Beijing are now the proud possessors of an Su-39. Correct?"
"Not exactly," Spitz countered, "It's a little more complicated than that. The Kong Ho regime has their own problems. Aprihinen is fighting a rearguard action with Isotov. Kong Ho has someone called Han Ki Po and his so-called Fifth Academy to deal with. CI is guessing Borisov probably delivered the Covert to Han's troops."
"Somewhere in China, huh?" Driver mused. "Shit, that's like lookin' for a virgin at a whores' convention. That goddamn plane could be anywhere."
Spitz held up his hand. "No, Colonel, we don't think so. In fact, after an all-night session with Sabrini of the CIA and Goetchel of the Far Eastern Affairs Bureau, we think we have a pretty good idea where Borisov ended up."
Driver leaned forward with his hands on the table. "So? Where?"
"South of Guangxi and Guangdong province there is a small island called Hainan. Gateway to Hainan is the northern port city of Haikou. West of Haikou is the Songtao reservoir, one of Zhou Enlai's more significant achievements. The old boy built a water catchment that stretches out over five hundred and fifty square miles. Zhou had one thing in mind, but a guy by the name of Han Ki Po had another."
Packer repeated the name: "Han Ki Po." Then he looked at Miller. "Have we got a book on him?"
Robert Miller never ceased to amaze Bogner. The man was a walking encyclopedia when it came to the ISA files. This time, however, Packer's chief administrative assistant was hesitant. He shook his head. "Outside of the fact that we have him listed as a former general in Zhou's military command, we don't have much. I can tell you one thing: He's an old man. Our sources tell us he's actually holed up in some compound in the south of Hainan."
Spitz began to recite the man's dossier. "Han Ki Po is the reputed head of an organization known as the Fifth Academy. He hails from Yazhen, a fishing center on Hainan. When he fell out of favor with Zhou, he went home. We believe Zhou thought that was the end of things, but Han Ki Po has since emerged as a power figure. If the Kong Ho regime has a laundry list of internal concerns, we figure there's a damn good chance Han heads that list."
"So where do we fit in?" Driver pushed.
"Let me give you a list of ifs," Spitz began. "Let's start with the fact that we have two contacts in Haikou. One of them, a woman by the name of Shu Li, is the concierge at the Haikou Tower. She was educated at Columbia, speaks English and several different regional dialects, and is on our payroll. Oscar Jaffe will vouch for her. She isn't mainstream, but she's a good in. The other is a fellow by the name of Father Hua, a Roman Catholic priest. He runs a mission in the low hill country not far from the Songtao reservoir. The bad news is, Hua isn't in our pocket. He won't compromise. If we're wrong, he tells us. On the other hand, if Han Ki Po is leaning the wrong way, he tells us."
"You said 'if,'" Bogner reminded him.
"If Borisov and the Su-39 are in the hands of the Chinese, we think there's a damn good chance Han Ki Po has them. That's the first if. The second if is contingent on the first. If Han does have the Covert, we think it's likely it's at the Fifth Academy installation on Hainan known as Danjia. Why? Because our sometime friend, Father Hua, as recently at two weeks ago confirmed that Han's pilots were scooting in and out of the base at Danjia in some state-of-the-art Russian Fencer upgrades. Not only that, they were armed with AA-6 Acrid missiles. If that's the case, it stands to reason that's where they would attempt to hide the Covert."
Bogner took a deep breath. "Isn't the Fencer supposed to be Mikoyan's antiradar creation?"
"If and when they get one off the ground. That's why we think Han is so interested in the Su-39. Schubatis's design gives him what he's been looking for… and it, unfortunately, already exists."
"In that case, the ifs make sense," Driver decided. "So how do we put all this to the test?"
"As we speak, we're establishing contact with both Shu Li and Father Hua," Spitz went on. "Jaffe has had his people working on it since we received Wilson's confirmation."