Razing Beijing: A Thriller (30 page)

“How many in this small group?”

“Oh. There are twelve.” Waiting for him to scribble notes,
she realized they were the only three patrons in the diner. “We’re responsible
for the digital computer that controls all of the performance parameters of a
jet engine. Within my group there are hardware designers and software
designers. Sean was a software designer—his expertise was ensuring the control
logic interfaced properly with the other airplane systems. It’s a little more
complicated than that, I suppose, but that’s essentially what we worked on together.”

“Uh-huh. And was this control he worked on for any engine
in particular?” Hildebrandt looked up from his note pad.

Emily hesitated.

“These engines aren’t all the same, are they?”

“It was for the company’s new propfan. That’s a very fuel
efficient type of jet engine.” She braced herself for their inquiry into the
crash that was certain to follow.

Instead, they proceeded to ask many of the same questions
she remembered Hildebrandt and the police had already asked. How long had Sean
Thompson worked in your unit? How well did you know the murder victim? And
outside of work? Had he ever confided that he was having financial troubles?

A waitress came by to take their orders for iced tea, to
which McBurney added a double bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwich with French
fries, and a three-way chili.
What is it that’s so disturbing about this
man?
Emily wondered.

Hildebrandt continued to probe. Did the victim ever give
reason to suspect he was a user of illegal narcotics, perhaps harsh and
inexplicable mood swings? Did you notice unusual behavior in any of the other
employees, especially right before or after Sean’s murder? She found it odd
that Hildebrandt did virtually all of the questioning, which required that he
scribble wildly into his pad as she answered while McBurney sat with his hands
comfortably folded and did nothing but watch her.

Hildebrandt looked up from his pad, gazed at her
questioningly, and asked, “Is there anything further about Sean Thompson’s
behavior leading up to his murder, anything at all, that you would care to tell
us about?”

Emily tried to recall her discussions with Thompson about
his deteriorating performance. Would he have mentioned it to any of the other staff,
allowing them to then relay it to the authorities? What exactly was it she had
told the police? McBurney studied her and Emily wondered what had ever made her
think she could deceive these men. And yet, were they not the enemy of her
enemy?

Perhaps Stuart was right. Perhaps she should simply appeal
to their sense of justice and embrace the risk of telling them everything. “There
was a time, maybe three weeks before his murder, that something seemed to be
troubling Sean. I approached him about it because we were all under a lot of
pressure. Whatever the problem, I saw that it was affecting his performance. At
the time I did not equate it to drug abuse.”

“So he didn’t mention the nature of his problems?”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Thompson and I were at odds over the
solution of a particular problem we’d been trying to solve.”

“Is that a regular occurrence?”

“It’s not exactly unusual, but since it impressed me enough
to recall it for you, I would have to say that within my own group it is not a
recurring issue. I think Sean might have even accused me of unfairly singling
him out. He didn’t make much sense. I had no choice but to mention the problem
to my management.” She caught a quick glance between the two men.

“And who was that?” Hildebrandt asked.

No!
She could
not
mention Stuart—panic
flashed through her. She reminded herself to breathe...
not too deeply
.

A reprieve arrived as the waitress delivered three frosted
tumblers of iced tea and a tray of food.

“I don’t exactly recall,” Emily lied. “It was some time ago
and...we customarily refer personnel problems to human resources—no, I’m sure I
mentioned the problem to Mr. Devinn. You may recall he’s—”

“Your assistant director of human resources.”

“Correct.”

Hildebrandt frantically scribbled. McBurney watched her
closely—she fought the urge to get up and walk out, to end the interrogation.
That’s
what this is—they’re interrogating me.

Emily avoided his stare. “May I ask you something?”

Hildebrandt said, “Fire away.”

“Earlier today you mentioned something about having new
evidence. Everything you’ve asked me is so like what the police have already
asked. What new evidence?”

Hildebrandt looked at her strangely, tapping his pen
absentmindedly on the table. McBurney for his part stopped chewing.

“Miss Chang,” said McBurney, swallowing a mouthful of
sandwich, “this is a bit awkward so I’ll get right to the point. The evidence
we have is that you recently visited a bank in the British Virgin Islands.”

Emily was terror-stricken. Worse yet, she was sure they
could tell. “What’s that got to do with Sean’s murder?” She failed to control
the shakiness of her voice.

“Then you don’t deny it,” McBurney added.

“That has nothing to do with Sean Thompson’s murder.”

Hildebrandt eyed her and said, “You’ll have to allow us to
be the judge of that.”

“Is going to a bank illegal?”

McBurney shrugged. “Not necessarily. Unless of course you
were involved in the laundering of money, or if you re-entered the United
States with a large amount of currency and failed to declare it to Customs. It’s
an established fact that the banks of Tortola are a destination for many
business proprietors of the People’s Liberation...Army.”

Emily’s temper flared. “You seem to forget I am an American
citizen, Mr. McBurney. How dare you suggest that I...what evidence could you
possibly
have that I am involved with the Chinese military?”

“I’m not necessarily suggesting that you are.”

Emily was becoming confused. It occurred to her that maybe
none of this had anything to do with Sean’s murder. Had they discovered
something more specific about her efforts to smuggle her parents into the
country? She was gripped by a terrifying thought: these men were impostors who
in reality represented those holding her parents—and this was a test. “What
exactly is it you were hoping to learn from me?”

“Please?” said Hildebrandt.

“What do you think I am guilty of? And should I have a
lawyer?”

The two men looked at her.

“We’re not saying that you’re a suspect,” Hildebrandt said.
“We’re trying to pull together information to support or disprove certain other
aspects of our investigation.”

Emily shook her head—McBurney raised his eyebrows, and at
that moment she realized what it was she found both troubling and familiar in
the man. It was the way he had nodded upon greeting her, in a typical Chinese
fashion, the profundity of his stare.
Has this man traveled China
?

Emily looked squarely at McBurney. “Who are you?”

The man only blinked his eyes.

“You never showed me your identification like Mr.
Hildebrandt has. Aren’t you supposed to show me yours?”

By contrast to Agent Hildebrandt, the older man’s
expression was a study of control. McBurney reached slowly into his coat and
withdrew a thin brown wallet. He unfolded it and laid it on the table in front
of her. Samuel K. McBurney, Chief of East Asian Operations - Central
Intelligence Agency.

All throughout her life, Emily had heard the stories of CIA
atrocity. Although she was not so foolish as to believe everything she heard,
she was certain the CIA had little to do with murder investigations. “You
tricked me, both of you. I think I’ve told you everything I care to, even should
you arrest and torture me.” She kept her eyes on them as she slid to the edge
of the booth.
The younger man will be ready with the handcuffs...

Yet both men merely watched her without uttering a word. Hildebrandt
opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

Emily turned and walked toward the exit. Approaching the
door she was certain she overheard Hildebrandt say, “Why the hell would you go
and do that?”

RAIN POUNDING THE HOOD
of
Paul Devinn’s foul weather parka sounded like the clamor of an approaching
waterfall. Pulling hard on the oars caused cold waves cresting the bow of the
aluminum rowboat to slap him in the back. The GPS tucked inside his parka was
of no use at the moment; he roughly oriented himself by fixing his eyes on
three flickering lights on the opposite side of the lake.

Nobody in their right mind does this sort of nonsense,
Devinn thought, raindrops pelting his face as he glanced to the side. Roughly gaging
his progress, Devinn stowed the oars, ready to snatch them the instant he
sensed the boat wandering broadside to the wind. He picked up the gasoline can
and pitched it over the side. Thoroughly punctured and weighted with rocks, it
sank beneath the froth. He grabbed the oars and, preparing to row...

Drunk and barely able to manage the fly fishing line, the
elder Devinn actually stood to his feet, surprising his 12-year old son by
breaking his own rule. The rowboat wobbled, his father swore, accusing his son
of something he himself was the cause. Well if that’s how you feel, young Paul
thought in a flash of angry inspiration—he gripped the gunwales and rocked for
all he was worth, pitching his father overboard. Barely able to swim, his
father struggled, screaming, coughing water as he clawed toward the boat. Paul
jumped deftly from the bow to the bench between the oar locks and snatched up
the oars. Their eyes met—his decision made, Paul dipped both oars in the water
and pulled. Again his father screamed, eyes wild, and that’s when Paul saw him
clutch at his chest. Paul drew again on the oars, his father drifting further
away, terror overwhelming him now as realization dawned. Cold and fear were rapidly
taking their toll. The autopsy would determine the cause of death as massive
coronary failure...

Devinn could see as well as feel through his back and his
arms that the boat was gradually filling with water. For a fleeting moment of
terror, he imagined that he, too, might actually drown. The Coleman cooler
secured loosely inside the boat with a bungee cord bobbed in the water sloshing
around his feet. It would probably contribute flotation, not that it really
mattered. The bow and seats consisted of watertight enclosures for that very
purpose.

Beneath the moonlit overcast he saw the distinguishing
formation of rocks. He had chosen his landing site well, several hundred yards
ahead of the bow pointing into the nor’easter’s teeth.

Minutes later the pounding waves diminished as he entered
the lee of the eastern shore. Devinn paused in order to toss his fly casting
outfit overboard. Only a dozen more yards or so...

Devinn drove the rowboat up onto the rocks as far as he
could. He removed the oars from their locks where they might otherwise snag on
the bottom, stepped into the shin-deep water, reached down and overturned the
boat. A shove with one of the oars drove it away from the shoreline where the
wind would finish his work. Probably a lakeside resident would find it adrift. They
would certainly consider it crazy, perhaps suicidal, that anyone dare confront
a storm in such a craft. The empty bottle of Smirnoff and two ripening walleye
inside the cooler would shed some light on the tragedy.

Devinn slid back the sleeve of his parka; his wristwatch
read 12:05 in the morning. Higher than predicted winds had slowed his progress,
but he now had a solid five hours of darkness.

Fifty yards into the forest, concealed within a grove of
spruce trees, Devinn used a flashlight to find the object shrouded beneath the
plastic tarpaulin. He knelt to roll the stone from each corner and pulled back
the tarp to expose his remaining link to civilization, a Suzuki Enduro. The
motorcycle was one of his father’s many insulting appeasements, an old birthday
gift, pawned off in an embarrassing effort to bridge the crevasse with his son.

Devinn smiled faintly as he rolled up the tarp into a neat
bundle and, using a bungee, lashed it to the seat. He spent a moment
double-checking that his hiker’s pack was snugly attached; nothing appeared
loose enough to become caught in the spokes. He straddled the bike and removed
the hand-held Garmin from inside his parka. With satellites fully acquired, the
GPS directed him on the northeast heading that would lead him toward the
nearest outpost, a logging village twenty-three-point-three miles away, two
miles or so from which he would find a suitable spot to hide the Suzuki. Shortly
after sunrise, a tired and wet American hiker would stagger into the outpost
and ask for his Sierra Club contact, the pilot whom he had already hired to fly
his alias back to the States.

First, he had to weather a night in the wild. Devinn stood
on the starter pedal and lunged downward. The engine purred to life on the very
first kick.

Wednesday, June 3

MCBURNEY RESTED HIS CHIN
in
his hand as he stared bleary-eyed at the columns of numbers on the projection
screen. His sleep-deprived mind drifted off, the budget accountant’s monologue
a continuous murmur of babble. He still thought that a teleconference was the
more logical alternative to the largely irrelevant and wasteful administrative
exercise underway. But Director Burns had been adamant.

FBI Agent Hildebrandt had been a good enough sport to rush
him last evening to the Cleveland airport—McBurney booked himself on the last
flight of the day to LAX—only for the airline to post an hour and forty-minute
delay. He missed his connection in Salt Lake. He was ultimately forced to jog
through the Los Angeles airport in order to join his Asia-based staff for the
detestable meeting. A direct flight might have gotten him there on time, but he
had no choice other than to book the cheapest fare as stipulated by their
travel and living budget.