Razing Beijing: A Thriller (29 page)

“You’re still leading up to how it is you decided to
subpoena the Asian woman?”

Hildebrandt studied McBurney uncertainly for a moment. “Ohio
State police had classified the Thompson incident a probable drug-related
homicide. Dipping my toe in that water I found what I thought were some
inconsistencies. Like, the victim’s cell phone was recovered by a highway
maintenance crew several miles from the scene in a ditch. When narco-scumbags
steal cell phones they typically use them to contact their cutouts in South
America, or whoever. This perpetrator left the murder victim’s expensive car at
the scene. That’s a little out of the ordinary.

“My supervisor and I decided to follow up. He assigned a couple
of us to interview the whole lot at Thanatech, which was tough. Some of these
engineers work a lot of overtime and are constantly running all over that plant
out there.”

McBurney stared unblinkingly at Hildebrandt.

“We surveyed the residence of the murder victim’s immediate
supervisor—yep, you guessed it, Emily Chang.”

“I didn’t see that nugget in the report.”

Hildebrandt spun his chair to remove a file folder from the
cabinet beside his desk. He produced a set of photographs similar to those
included within the file forwarded by Kosmalski.

“I expect that the credit card records, once we see them,
will agree with the itinerary entered in TECS. We typically ignore cut-and-dry
homicide matters unless we’re drawn in by other non-mitigating factors. It
probably would’ve been only a matter of time before we matched up the TECS
notification with the suspected narcotics homicide—”

“Who matched up the Tortola photos to Emily Chang?”

“Treasury, once we asked them to confirm her identity. They
were pretty tight-lipped as to how, by the way. Must be they pay the locals to
spook...to
recon
the banks. The banks can hide behind their privacy laws
all they want, but I’ll bet Treasury has a photograph on record of every
foreign depositor going in and out of ‘em.”

“So we don’t really know—”

“That she illegally transacted funds? Only what the
photographs and her itinerary imply. What I’d really like to know is what she
did in Vancouver. Her trail disappears after stepping off the plane, so she
must’ve arranged to have somebody there pick her up. Where was I... Oh, after
first sitting with her at Thanatech, we wanted a follow-up and rang the bell at
her residence. Nobody came to the door. Car registered under her name was in
the lot and we heard music playing softly inside. It seemed Miss Chang was
ignoring us.”

McBurney narrowed his gaze. “Sounds like maybe she’s afraid
of something.”

“Sounds like she’s hiding something.”

McBurney thumbed through Hildebrandt’s report. “What does
she have to say about all this?”

“She hasn’t said much of anything.”

McBurney looked up from the file.

“When I interviewed her at work, I couldn’t say that I would
characterize her as a murder suspect, or for that matter a narcotics user. But
she was evasive about something, and that prompted me to make the TECS inquiry,
and then we filed to subpoena her financial and telephone records. We have her
under surveillance. There’s your answer.”

“Has surveillance uncovered unusual behavior?”

“Hey, we’re barely done with the administrative inquiry.”

McBurney pondered what Hildebrandt meant by that and
glanced at his watch, mindful that he still had a flight to catch. “Has there
been anything to suggest that she’s involved in clandestine exchanges of
information? Maybe while walking her dog, or playing handball? Your profile on
her says ‘limited traveler,’ but does she come into contact with traveling
businessmen? She’s a naturalized U.S. citizen. What about records of visits by
family members from China? Who is her family in China? Does she correspond with
Chinese students or other alumni from college?”

“Some of that we can start to learn from financial and
telephone records. I was thinking maybe you could have somebody dredge up her
background overseas. Our Legat tried, but—”

“Have you requested technical surveillance?”

Hildebrandt leaned forward. “This is America. We have to
abide by the law, and here in Cleveland we have one limp little prick of a U.S.
attorney who’s going to see that we’ve got a by-the-book, bona fide, reasonable
suspicion—”

“You’ve got this Treasury SAR, don’t you? I’d like to know
whether or not she communicates with the Chinese embassy or any of the other
diplomatic representatives of the PRC. Does she log onto the Internet?”

Hildebrandt sat back in his chair. “Mr. McBurney, we do not
have the resources just right now—”

“Of course you do. What sort of surveillance is this?” McBurney
looked at him in disbelief. “How about romantic liaisons?”

“Doesn’t appear so, but shit, what do you want for a week’s
worth of work?”

McBurney glanced at his watch again; it was 2:23
P.M.
His flight was at 3:15. He was simply
going to have to miss it. He rose from his chair. “I think it makes sense that
we approach the woman again.”

“We?”

“Why not?”

Hildebrandt looked at him. “She’s under surveillance. Look,
Kosmalski didn’t say anything—”

“Come on, you can accompany me to the interview. Assuming
of course you haven’t already rattled her into running the opposite way.”

SPECIAL AGENT HILDEBRANDT
confirmed
with his field agent that the Chang woman had in fact gone into work that
morning. The two men left in Hildebrandt’s car for the Thanatechnology plant
located twelve miles south of the city.

During the ride, McBurney pressed the agent to share some
of his insights about the Thompson homicide. The victim’s brother, a doctor
living in Cincinnati, indicated Thompson seemed anxious the last time they
spoke; nobody interviewed by authorities could envision the software engineer as
either a narcotics user or trafficker. Conversely, nobody knew how he afforded
to lease a ninety thousand-dollar Porsche, which nine hundred dollars in a
savings account also failed to explain. Colleagues claimed he was a capable engineer
if a little high-strung, with no professional enemies, socially reclusive. No
rap sheet, not even a speeding ticket, Porsche or no. Other than the murder
victim reporting directly to the woman at Thanatech, Hildebrandt admitted there
was no hard evidence linking Chang to the Thompson murder at a highway rest
stop.

McBurney in fact had no interest in helping the FBI pin a
murder rap, so long as it had nothing to do with his evolving view of a Chinese
spy committing espionage and then traveling offshore to launder her
remuneration. Like anything else in this business, the lack of an apparent link
to his broader military espionage concerns did not mean one did not exist.

“What is it again they do at Thanatech?” McBurney asked,
changing the subject.

“They make jet engines.”

McBurney tried to remember what making jet engines
entailed. He vaguely recalled that some of the military engine electronics,
exotic materials and so forth were under Defense Department restricted export
control, so-called ‘listed technologies.’ “A lot of technology involved?”

“I guess so.” Hildebrandt abruptly swerved the car onto an
exit. He explained that Thanatechnology ran a DoD facility because a portion of
their work was for the military and that much of the technology used in commercial
engines was derived from military programs. In fact, the Cleveland office
handled the occasional request for an employee background check in order to
grant the security clearance needed to work there. Because of this, the
inevitable sale of commercial jet engines to an overseas customer fell under
export control. Hildebrandt said that the company’s commercial airline
customers included some within a prickly horde of countries including China,
Vietnam, the Middle East and so on. “They also conduct business partnerships
with characters like Russia, China, and France. It’s all supposed to adhere to
technology export restrictions.”

Traffic was light. McBurney realized they were not entering
the industrial underbelly but a residential part of the city. “Where are we
going?”

Hildebrandt seemed to consider the question. “I’d like for
you to take a look at something.”

A mile or so from the highway, Hildebrandt pulled the car
to a stop in front of an aging apartment complex. “This is where Sean Thompson
lived. There’s something inside I thought you should see.” Sensing McBurney’s
impatience, Hildebrandt added: “This hasn’t taken us out of our way.”

They entered the three-story building and walked down a
short flight of stairs to the basement. Hildebrandt mentioned that the victim
lived on the second floor and led McBurney through a door marked ‘Boiler Room.’
Once inside they stood before a concrete wall covered with the typical maze of
electric utility meters and telephone service for the various apartment units. Hildebrandt
directed McBurney’s attention to a gray metal box with the word Telephone
stamped into the hinged front cover, the designation ‘UNIT 4C - 2 FLR’
hand-scrawled with a black felt pen. Beside this box was a similar but newer
one. McBurney noticed that unlike the other gray boxes neatly organized on the
utility board, this one had no designation.

McBurney pointed to the unlabeled box. “The victim’s
telephone line?”

Hildebrandt nodded. The newer metal box had a standard
insulated telephone wire running between it and the box properly labeled for
the victim’s apartment. Hildebrandt swung open the cover to reveal that the
insulated wire leading inside connected to nothing; the box was empty. McBurney
turned the cut ends of the wire toward him to find glistening copper,
untarnished by time. Whatever once inhabited the box had been recently removed.

“I gather you think somebody rigged a recording device
here.”

“Although no one else seems to agree with me.”

McBurney studied his young escort. “You’ve checked with the
telephone company?”

“We’re not completely incompetent. Phone company offered no
explanation.”

“Alright, so it does smell a little sophisticated for a
case of coke peddling. You mentioned retrieving his telephone—”

“Home and cell phone billing records are due any time now.”

McBurney nodded. “Carry on, inspector.”

EMILY CHANG STRUGGLED
to
maintain her professional tone. “I’ve got an office full of people,” she lied
again. “I’ve already spoken to you and the police.”

“Yes, Miss Chang,” she heard the FBI man politely reply. “But
there’s new evidence which we hope you might help us with by commenting on. That’s
all. I’m at”—she heard voices in the background—“gate fifty-two. I’d like to
meet you for just a few minutes, if you don’t mind. I know how busy you are.”

Emily noticed that the American authorities were not
proving to be as intrusive as State Security hooligans, who by now would simply
have had somebody storm her office while she was distracted on the phone. They
were boxing her in, nonetheless; the laws of her adopted homeland confused and
overwhelmed her.

“What kind of new evidence?” She was desperate to put the
man off while trying to think. There was silence on the telephone and again Emily
sensed he was consulting with somebody else.

“I’d prefer to discuss that with you directly.”

Just this week, she had heard rumblings among her
colleagues that the FBI actually were looking into the possibility of sabotage,
which she dismissed as her own falsified polygraph story coming full circle. She
was terrified that FBI questions regarding Sean Thompson would drift in a
direction that she had no choice but to avoid. With luck, any day now the smugglers
would provide her the whereabouts of her parents.
Will my enemies harm my
parents if they learn that I have spoken to the FBI?

Emily took a deep breath. “Okay. But not now, I’ve got work
to do.”

More dead silence. “I’m afraid that won’t be acceptable,
Miss Chang. Like you I also have an important schedule to—”

“I can meet you at Rinaldo’s Diner at 4:30 this
afternoon, take it or leave it.” Emily hung up, having said the first place to
pop into her mind. She sat alone in her office and stared at the phone,
expecting it to ring again.

ALL I NEED
is to put them off
for
a few more days
, thought Emily. She focused on appearing calm as she entered
the glistening chrome establishment.

Two men seated in a booth took notice of her entrance. She
recognized the black man who had interviewed her in Paul Devinn’s office—it
seemed he had a partner, after all. The older and big, broad-shouldered man
eyed her with professional indifference.

“Hello again, Mr. Hildebrandt.”

“Thank you for meeting with us, Miss Chang.” The FBI agent rose
to reposition himself beside the other man. “My associate here is Sam
McBurney.”

McBurney greeted her with a gracious nod. She decided that
he wasn’t indifferent but skillfully scrutinizing her. Emily felt uncomfortable
as she smoothed her skirt behind her thighs and sat facing both of them. McBurney
folded enormous hands on the table.

Hildebrandt began by assuring her that she was not a
suspect in Sean Thompson’s murder investigation.

“That’s what you keep telling me.” Emily smiled.

Hildebrandt removed a pen and spiral-bound pad from inside
his coat. “For the record, why don’t you start by explaining what it is that
you and Sean Thompson worked on together. At Thanatech, isn’t that correct?”

Emily frowned. “You were just there on the phone with me. Anyway,
I’m the leader of a small group of engineers—”