Razing Beijing: A Thriller (20 page)

As if it were poisonous, Emily gingerly grasped a corner of
the envelope between two fingertips and walked over to study it beneath the
lamp by the sofa. There she picked up the telephone and placed it to her ear
and confirmed the presence of a dial tone.

The envelope revealed no external markings other than
the peculiar command on its cover. She tore open the seal. Inside she found a
thin stack of photographs topped by a single brief note consisting entirely of
newspaper clippings crudely grouped into words. The name of the person to whom
the letter was addressed stirred her unease—Zhao Lu-Chang, her given Chinese
appellation.

You must destroy the computer
control recovered from Mojave crash, in a way that further efforts for its
reconstruction are rendered impossible. Your action must not draw any
attention. Study the photographs well, Lu-Chang. You have two days to comply.

Emily looked at the first photograph. “
Father!”
The sight
of the gun which threatened him served to clarify the intent of tonight’s
intruders. Tears flooded her eyes. She flipped back and forth through the
entire stack, as if the strength of her refusal would alter the facts. Finally
the contents of the envelope slipped from her hands. She sat down heavily on
the sofa.

The implications of the note were staggering. Apparently,
their successful resurrection of the engine control threatened to expose the
true cause of the Mojave crash:
sabotage
. There could be no other
explanation. She and her colleagues had ventured too close to uncovering this
fact, and whoever the murderers responsible, their reach somehow extended into
China
.
It would be in such people’s character to threaten her with the most heinous of
Stalinist tactics—through threats to her loved ones.
Why on earth would they
have done something like this?

It was then that she noticed the bathroom door was ajar. She
always made certain to leave it wide open in order for King-Pu to reach his
litter tray.

“Who’s there?” Emily willed herself from the sofa. She made
her way slowly across the studio to the bathroom. “King-Pu,” she whispered
hoarsely, “are you there?”

Emily turned on the light. She eased open the door...
blood!

Smears of viscous red blood covered the washbasin and down
the front of the vanity. The shower curtain had been ripped from the rod and
thrown hastily into the bathtub. Breathlessly, she clutched her hands to her
chest and crept inside. There was more blood in the bathtub—

—she fell to her knees and vomited into the toilet.

Wednesday, May 6

PAUL DEVINN PLACED
on
the check-out counter a hiker’s backpack rated for 55 pounds, a carbon-fiber
fly rod and left-handed reel with two spools of float-casting line, a dozen
assorted dry and wet flies, a small bottle of red salmon eggs, fishing hooks, a
two-man nylon pack tent, two weeks worth of freeze-dried food packets, a Swiss
Army knife, first aid kit, mosquito repellent and head net, green-and-black
camouflage thermal-weight coveralls and an inexpensive hiking compass.

The sporting goods store clerk surveyed the purchase. “Stockin’
our bomb shelter, are we?”

Devinn grinned. “A lake in Manitoba’s got my name on it.”

The clerk began ringing up the items. Halfway through,
Devinn saw him squint through his eyeglasses at him. “No target practice
tonight?” the man asked while continuing his tally, referring to the store’s
onsite shooting range.

Devinn realized with satisfaction that the man must have
recognized him. “This is going to be an extended trip, with a lot of
preparation yet, but thanks.”

“That’s seven hundred twenty-seven dollars and forty-two
cents. Will that be cash?” A smile escaped the corner of his mouth.

Devinn handed him a credit card.

“Nasty looking hand there,” the clerk observed.

Devinn glanced at the back of his left hand. A few inflamed
scratches had slipped into view from beneath the edge of bandage.

“Looks infected. An animal do that?”

Devinn said nothing as he waited to sign the receipt. He
placed the three shopping bags of merchandise into a cart and wheeled the goods
out of the store to his car.

Devinn then drove south through Cuyahoga Falls to the
outskirts of Akron. The day had become increasingly overcast, and by the time
he rolled past the self-storage office, the final phase of gray had faded to
darkness.

Devinn’s lawyer handled all the paperwork. At $156 per
month, the eight-by-twelve-by-ten cubicle was the smallest available and
greatly exceeded his capacity needs. The property manager had readily obliged a
request to advance the first three months rent, which Devinn’s lawyer also
forwarded. He drove to his assigned locker and backed the car to the padlocked
door.

Devinn transferred the contents of his trunk to the storage
locker and took stock of his cache. In addition to the bags of gear purchased
that evening, the rented cubicle now contained a pine footlocker, a folding
aluminum table, two army-surplus 50-millimeter metal ammunition containers and
a five-suiter suitcase crammed full of clothes. He closed and pad-locked the
door.

Devinn pondered his upcoming departure from Thanatech. Lately
it seemed that his handler was prone to overreacting to some or other
misperceived vulnerability. With the plane crash spectacularly beyond
expectations and the damage, so to speak, already done, Devinn had argued that
he stay put and maintain a low profile in order to ascertain the direction of
the investigation. Now that the investigation had veered dangerously close,
that argument no longer held, however effective the plot to threaten Emily
Chang.

Devinn had never liked the idea of what he saw as ‘fleeing
the scene.’ His preferred style was to maintain control—to deal with problems
directly. More than once the thought occurred to him that his remote destination
might provide the ideal opportunity for his handler—apparently dissatisfied
with the ‘untidiness’ of his two recent operations—to have him eliminated. On
the other hand, the Iranian connection to all of this had been in the works for
some time. The rub was that Devinn really had no choice but defer to his
handler’s judgment.

Sunday, May 10

STUART EXPERIENCED
a
moment of unease at the doorway to his daughter’s bedroom. Their English Setter
yawned then stretched his legs on the floor beside the bed, which prompted Ashley
to reach down and comfort the dog before retreating beneath the snuggled warmth
of her covers, the awkward tangle of fingers with hair somehow achieving its
goal. Stuart realized his unease, in fact, was a sense of loss. Not loss of the
typical sort, like the dull ache from his failed marriage that he had finally
shaken free, or the helplessness of watching the woman he once loved slip away
from this world. Whatever the effects of these tragedies, Ashley had kept right
on growing as any child should, yet Stuart had witnessed her growth not from
the perspective of parent but of one who periodically visits the home and
family of friends over time. This was no way to feel when seeing his own child.

Stuart reached inside and flipped off the light but his
mind’s eye retained the image; Ashley’s wave of bronze-colored hair splayed out
over her pillow; the surrender in her face to the promise of sleep while
clutching the stuffed unicorn he had brought her from Singapore when she was
only a toddler. Tomorrow was Monday, and in the morning he would drop Ashley
off with his sister Elizabeth, board the 8:10 flight for Cleveland and endure
another five days until he could stand here again, having kissed his daughter
good-night and dabbed toothpaste from the corner of her mouth. Through the
skylight over her bed, branches dancing in the wind cast shadows in the
moonlight over the vulnerable form huddled beneath her comforter. He began to
close the door.

“Daddy?”

“Who, me?”

Silence. “Will you please come to my recital on Thursday?”

Stuart stepped inside the room and flipped on the light. Ashley
was sitting up and blinking her eyes. He sat down beside her and she latched
onto his arm, resting her head.

“Thursday... I would sure really like to.” Piano was
something Ashley’s mother had always insisted upon. He shifted in order to hug
her against his chest. “I’m afraid though that I can’t come this week. I’m
sorry, sweetie.”

His daughter did not move.

“Do you want to know why I can’t come to your recital?”

A long pause. “I want you to be there.”

“I know.” Stuart let out a sigh. “When you’re standing up
there on the stage... Look, you’re going to be great, you always are, even Aunt
Liz says so. While you’re up there wowing your friends in the audience, I want
you to remember that your dad will be working hard. I’ll be working so that
soon I can come to all of your recitals, all
of your games, drive you to
school every day and tuck you into bed every night. That’s what I’ll be doing.”

“Really?”

“Promise.”

She began fiddling with the button at the middle of his
shirt. “But why can’t you work here? My friends’ fathers work, and
they
come.”

“As I will soon.” The fiddling with her fingers continued. Stuart
knew that the problem would likely worsen for a time, regardless of when he
moved home. Ashley was a bright student but her grades continued to slip. He
feared his daughter’s growing boredom with school was a sign of trouble ahead.
How
can she be enthusiastic when I won’t even show up?
Stuart took her gently
by the shoulders.

“You remember the plane crash, don’t you?”

She nodded. “People went to heaven, just like Mom.”

Stuart had not meant to venture into that.
Good job,
idiot. Now she’ll never get to sleep
. “And those people also left other
people behind, who love and miss them, just like we miss Mom. But the good
thing is your dad thinks he can figure out what happened to the plane so we can
fix it. Planes crash and people get hurt, but at least I can make sure that it
doesn’t happen again for the same reason. That’s why I have to stay in my job
far away, for a little while longer than I told you before. I’m trying to do my
part to see that people are safe when they travel around. That’s a good thing,
isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“Now, by thinking of it that way, you’ll be helping them,
too. Afterward I’ll move back home and be here all the time.”

Ashley looked up at him for a moment. She leaned forward,
wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face under his chin. “I love
you, Daddy.”

Stuart patted her lightly on the back. “I love you too.”
He dropped his hands to her stomach and began tickling—“especially when you’re
asleep!”

STUART FISHED
the
croissant from inside his coat pocket and stuffed it into his mouth—the greasy
bread was the only thing other than grapes they had served on the flight. His
hands shook from Monday’s usual caffeine overdose. At least there was light at
the end of the tunnel, he reminded himself for the second time that morning,
the first while watching his daughter walk slowly away from the car.

Stuart arrived at his office believing this to be true. He
grumbled hello to his secretary, who beamed him her bewilderingly radiant
smile.

“Have we heard from Emily Chang?” he asked. It had been the
day after their successful demo of the resurrected engine control that Stuart
received her unexpected email. A family emergency of some unspecified sort
required her to make a sudden trip to Vancouver. Now that five days had since
passed with no word from her, he was beginning to worry.

“I called a little after eight and only got her voice
mail.”

Stuart tossed his briefcase into a chair. He settled behind
his desk to begin the miserable task of sorting through as many voice and
e-mail messages as possible before staff began pouring into his office.

Forty minutes later, bored while flipping through a proposal
for the development of a high-temperature titanium alloy, he glanced up at Emily
Chang standing in the doorway to his office. From her expression he saw that
something was wrong.

Stuart set down the report. “Welcome back.” He stood and
gestured toward a seat. “Is your family situation okay?”

Emily responded with a curt nod, avoiding his eyes—Stuart
still had the feeling she was holding a grudge. She sat down, pulled her skirt
straight and crossed her legs.

Facing him finally, Emily’s eyes glistened with tears. “I
am afraid I have very bad news,” she said in a slow, trembling voice. “When I
returned to work this morning, Rick Abrams brought a serious problem to my
attention.”

Stuart noted her uncharacteristic display of emotion. “Problems
are bound to happen.”

“This is a
serious
problem. It seems the Mojave ECU
is no longer operational.”

Stuart was dumbfounded. Hardly the heart-wrenching tragedy
involving a relative he had been led to expect.

“We’re baffled as to what could have gone wrong. The team
tells me that as recently as yesterday things were progressing well. They even
managed to proof a difficult section of code, and now this. We don’t
understand. The lab is locked each night when the engineers leave...” Emily
shook her head.

Her last comment struck Stuart as odd. And as bad as the
news sounded, her reaction to it was somehow inconsistent with her usual cool
under fire persona. On a personal level, he had found her thoroughly guarded
with her emotions, perhaps even cold. He had not thought her the type to
unravel under pressure. “First things first. Do I understand correctly that
your family’s emergency is under control?”