"When will we know?" Packer asked.
"We've already established contact with the woman. From here on out it's anyone's guess."
"Best-guess scenario?" Bogner pushed.
"We're convinced that whole scene at Saint Martin's yesterday was designed for one purpose only: to abduct Schubatis. Those poor slobs coming out of that church just happened to get in the way."
"What the hell do they need Schubatis for," Driver wondered, "if they've already got the Su-39?"
"Look at it this way, Colonel. If they've got Schubatis and the aircraft, Aprihinen's cupboard is bare. That makes him very, very vulnerable. And that's what Isotov wants."
"Suppose Schubatis doesn't cooperate?"
"Han still has the Su-39 and Aprihinen has egg on his face. It's a good bet that if the Russian people know that plane exists, they sure as hell don't have any idea of its capabilities. If Aprihinen thinks he's got troubles now, wait until his constituents find out he's authorized all that money for the development of the Covert."
"But he didn't," Packer reminded them.
"They don't know that."
The Qingyuan Binguan did not compare with the upscale Haikou Tower, but the rates were much lower and Shu Li supposed that was why Zhun Be stayed there. It was generally believed that despite his posturing, Zhun Be had not been all that successful selling to the procurement and supply officers at Danjia.
As the taxi came to a stop at the Haifu Road address, Shu Li realized that the temperature had dropped several degrees in the last hour. She stepped from the rickety old Simca taxi, handed the driver the fare, and, as was her practice, entered through the service entrance. She took the elevator to the third floor. In their phone conversation, Zhun had confirmed that he was in his usual room.
She knocked, and when he opened the door there was the predictable scent of his Western cologne. Shu Li remembered that Zhun had admitted buying it on the black market from a vendor who could be found on Thursdays walking along Datong Road near the Jinrong Dasha.
Zhun Be was no taller than Shu Li, but he wore Italian shoes with lifts so that he would appear taller than he actually was. It was equally obvious to Shu Li that he had showered, shaved, and donned his finest attire for their meeting. Zhun Be had long entertained the fantasy that someday Shu Li would be his lover.
The room, like most rooms at the Qingyuan Binguan, was a clash of cultures: Western furniture intermingled with traditional Chinese, and a window with the panoramic view of a now-abandoned farming commune. In the daylight, it provided a view of rambling, makeshift housing and rutted, unpaved streetsa view that the Kong Ho government had attempted to conceal with a twelve-foot-high fence. At night the area became a haven for those who populated the seamy side of Haikou, called Ghengdi.
Zhun, smiling, ushered her into the room, offered her a drink and a seat, in that order, and complimented her.
Shu Li was a striking woman. An attractive five feet, six inches in height, she was tall by her native country's standards. She was educated in America, and her dress and demeanor were decidedly Western. For her meeting with Zhun Be, she was wearing a dark linen suit and high heels that offset the small advantage he had gained with his lifts. As usual, her communication skills were impeccable regardless of whether she was speaking in English or any of the local Yazhen dialects.
Zhun glanced at his watch. ''I suppose I should assume that because of the hour. this is not a social call," he said. He smiled anyway.
"You have checked the room?" she asked.
"I have checked," he acknowledged. There was a trace of disappointment in his voice.
"There is a rumor that the fishermen on the Songtao reservoir are annoyed by the sound of arriving and departing aircraft at the Danjia base," she said. Then she paused while Zhun's smile erupted into something akin to a fullthroated laugh.
"And you are… shall I use the word curious, about all of these noisy aircraft. Correct?"
"I am curious about one particular aircraft," she admitted.
"You are even less subtle than I am," he teased.
"We are two of a kind," Shu Li assured him.
He leaned back in his chair, reached into his suit-coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes, and offered her one. They were a Canadian brand, filtered. He lit one, exhaled, and took a sip of his drink. There was no need to hurry. In all probability, when she had the information she was seeking, she would be gone. He was not eager for her to leave.
Shu Li took out a small piece of paper and a pencil. She sketched a long cylinder with its nose tilted down. Then she drew two rectangular boxes, one on either side of what was becoming an illustration of an aircraft. The boxes were parallel with the cylinder. After she added the wings, she worked right-angle configurations into the sketch. Finally she made a loop at the rear of the cylinder that was intended to represent the vertical stabilizers.
Shu Li leaned back and studied her effort. Satisfied, she drew a five-pointed star on the stabilizer and pushed the drawing across the table to Zhun.
"Does this look familiar?" she asked.
"I have seen it," he acknowledged.
"It has arrived just recently?"
Zhun nodded. "It is unlike the others. It is painted a curious color: a dull, flat, almost ominous gray. I have an associate. We have discussed it. He has seen it up close. The plane itself generates much conversation among personnel at Danjia."
It was Shu Li's turn to smile. She had what she had come for. "Now I'll have that cigarette," she said, "and maybe even a drink."
Zhun Be was pleased.
Henry Davidson stumbled across the floor of his third-floor apartment and opened the door. He had slipped into a pair of trousers and put on his robe. The floor of the apartment was cold, and his toes curled in protest.
The two men who confronted him, one more heavyset than the other, were wearing dark raincoats. One wore a hat; the other's hair was wet, betraying the kind of weather that had beset Washington for the past several days.
"Mr. Davidson?" the heavyset one inquired.
Davidson blinked.
"My name is Agent Drucker and this is Agent Seboneller," the man continued. He opened a worn leather wallet and displayed a badge. "Federal Bureau of Investigation. May we come in? We'd like to talk to you."
Davidson nodded, stepped aside, and allowed the two men to enter. "What's this all about?" he muttered.
Drucker opened his briefcase, extracted a manila folder, and opened it. Then he handed the customs agent a series of eight-by-ten photographs. "Can you identify any of these people?" Drucker asked.
Davidson sorted through the stack until he came to the photograph of a young man in what appeared to be a visa photo. The picture had been taken at an awkward angle and he couldn't be certain… but there was something about the man.
Then he recognized the image of Deng Zhenor, as Davidson knew him, the agent appointed by the Chinese Embassy to handle the matter of Madam Yan. He handed the photograph back to the agent. "Him I think I recognize. He came through early this morning. They were shipping the body of some Chinese official back to Hong Kong… had some kind of disease or something. All the paperwork checked out."
"What airline?"
"Northwest, through Minneapolis." Davidson glanced at his watch. "Hell, by now that flight is probably long gone."
"Gone where?"
Davidson thought for a minute. "Singapore, through Hong Kong."
Drucker looked at his partner, then around the room. "May we use your phone, Mr. Davidson?"
Davidson nodded. "Sure, it's over there." Then, as an afterthought, he asked, "Am I in some kind of trouble?"