Razing Beijing: A Thriller (37 page)

Valeriy Alexei Korzhakov had smuggled much more into China
than his Ukrainian thirst. As a gifted young scientist conducting pioneering
research in high-energy physics, he had been snapped up by Yuri Andropov’s KGB,
his technical memoranda swept from university bookshelves and classified. While
the Kremlin publicly raged against the lunatic’s errand of escalating the Cold
War to the commanding heights of space, Korzhakov and his colleagues labored
feverishly to close the ‘Star Wars’ gap with the Americans. In the end, Mikhail
Gorbachev lacked both the stomach for the emerging battlefield and the faith
that his countrymen could prevail there. He had abandoned his vast army of
loyalists without even a fight. For Korzhakov and many of his peers, leaving
the fissuring states of the Soviet Empire was a matter of hard cash for an Aeroflot
ticket, no questions asked.

Valeriy Korzhakov eyed the clear fluid as Deng poured them
each three fingers. “Hardly cause for celebration,” he said of his message
today for the technology commissioner.

Deng disagreed. “Victories in this business come along too
infrequently. It is no small feat to successfully co-opt the services of a
premier engineering organization without their being aware.”

“On condition we truly did succeed.”

Deng raised his glass. “To Yankee ingenuity?”

Korzhakov smiled. “Da—to our fruitful harvest of American
labor!”

Deng endured the Russian alcohol’s harsh plume spreading
through his chest. He saw the engineer eyeing the family photograph on his
desk. Korzhakov had probably noticed in his numerous visits that it was not
something always on display; Deng’s tolerance for painful reminders had its limits.
“The picture was taken on one warm spring afternoon in April of 1965,” he
confided. A familiar sadness asserted itself. “My lovely young sister would be
56 years old today.”

Korzhakov seemed to appreciate this rare glimpse. “
Would
be...?”

“They are no longer alive. So. What is the problem
crippling us now? Could it be something within this new software?” The
engineers so far had been unable to get the satellite’s rebooted master control
to fully respond to commands. They were still unable to accurately target the
orbiting laser beam.

“I rather suspect our problem lies with
adapting
the
pilfered American targeting code within our existing system.”

Their latest espionage bonanza, of monumental risk in and
of itself, was but one element of what may yet prove to be the weapon program’s
riskiest gambit of all: having lofted the device into orbit without first proving
the stabilized accuracy of the visual light photon counter array, which engineers
typically referred to as the VLPC. In addressing this challenge, Deng knew his
demands for technical product had pushed the State Security ministry’s spycraft
to the proverbial edge. There were covert operatives in America, and elsewhere,
busy at work in order to serve his technical appetite. But the Americans simply
had
to be getting suspicious, especially given the ministry’s repeated
harvests from one East coast laser company in particular. “We anticipated
complications,” Deng gently set down his glass, “did we not?”

“I need not remind you it took two years to adapt the original,
imported code to our satellite hardware. We’re now several software generations
since then. Meanwhile, how many more generations of code have the Americans proceeded
with?” Korzhakov leaned back in his chair. “We have in effect two twins
separated at birth, each over time developing certain traits and skills, each
encountering different illnesses. Then adolescence arrives and we decide to
transplant an organ, something critical—say, a portion of one’s brain? That is
essentially what we are trying to do.” He downed the last of his vodka. “One
also cannot deny the impact of Zhao’s disappearance. It is his software.”

However legitimate Korzhakov’s point, it simply smacked of
another excuse. Excuses would not lead to the successful demonstration of their
satellite weapon. In fact, recruiting the Soviet scientists to the project had
in many ways contributed to Deng’s problems. His heavy reliance upon their
expertise had built intractable delay into the process; they worked at their
own pace, trusted only their own sources, while always groveling not for yuan
nor dollars but Krugerrands.

The question of whether changing the software would be
sufficient to correct the laser stability problem weighed heavily on both men. Until
the upgraded software package becomes fully operational, there could be no
certainty that a software fix alone would remedy the problem.

To Deng, there was one immutable certainty: with satellite
Number One ineffectually orbiting the Earth in a sort of stealth mockery of his
country’s proudest accomplishment, and the second vehicle nearing launch, the
decision to replace existing
hardware
would by definition be instituted
by whoever replaced him.

Korzhakov cleared his throat. “I gather the state committee
is nipping away at your heels?” he asked with characteristic bluntness.

Deng liked that Korzhakov rarely left one wondering whether
something had been lost in the transliteration to English. “In the People’s
Republic of China, the venerable body to which you refer is a
ministry
. Yes,
they are nipping at my heels.” All of his staff believed that diverting the
second satellite from final assembly was their most expedient course of action.
This would provide the engineers hands-on access to the identical satellite, embodied
within which was all of Dr. Zhao’s latest object-oriented programming.

“Pulling Number Two from assembly would ruffle some
feathers,” Korzhakov suggested in supreme understatement.

Exhuming Dr. Zhao, their star physicist, from the dead
bowels of State Security would be even more of a chore, Deng wanted to say. “I
suppose we have no choice.”

DENG TRIED TO DISREGARD
the
indignity of the vacant chair on the other side of the desk. He began to
contemplate the man to whom it belonged. State Security Deputy Minister Chen
Ruihuan, a man some twenty years his junior, showed other signs of operating
under duress. Deng had witnessed it often enough; a young star exhibits
proficiency and captures somebody’s eye, is dredged from obscurity and cast
into a position of power—the new replacing the old. There he learns he is less
a favored son than a powerless puppet. Veterans of the process know him for
what he is. If he survives the turbulent political campaigns, he proceeds to
build his own base of sycophantic lapdogs.

What misdeed of corruption have they managed to pin upon
you?
Deng wondered of Deputy Minister Chen Ruihan, who seemed to him unsuited
to his new role.
By what means have they threatened to spill your children’s
blood?

The young State Security cadre strode into his office and
offered Deng his apology.

They got right down to business. The agreement for which Deng
had been summoned was one he had made with Chen’s predecessor—a man now missing
and presumably banished. “The satellite device’s targeting algorithms have proven
to be fundamentally inadequate for the demands of orbit. The engineering
package obtained by your ministry should have corrected this problem. However...”
Deng explained the basis of his decision to pull the second satellite weapon
from final assembly.

Chen surprised Deng with a shrug. “We are all eager for a
successful demonstration as soon as possible. What matters most to state
security is that we rid ourselves of this particular intelligence resource we
keep at your disposal. In a very real way, you and I share in that risk. Of
course, I don’t profess to understand the physics involved.”

Deng studied his colleague. “Unfortunately, my job is not
so straightforward as you seem to view your own. Mere physics … this is the
domain of college professors.”

“Forgive me, Commissioner. I did not intend to generalize
or in any way deny your heroic accomplishment.”

“Well, as you might have already noticed in your brief
tenure, with this project we are tilling unbroken ground. I have responded to
Vice Chairman Rong’s prodding and scheduled a seven-day workweek. The result so
far seems to be only a decrease in efficiency. As the program continues to slip,
there will be yet more masters to whom I must answer. Everyone seems to have
jumped to lean on me, as if I am some sort of a ditch-digger.”

Chen held up his hands. “Rong has made clear to me that I
am personally responsible for ensuring the Second Directorate complies with
your technology needs. If it’s true that we have, then as the Americans say, is
the ball not in your court?”

“I’ve lost a key scientist,” Deng reminded him pointedly.

Chen leaned forward. “It has come to my attention that some
of the foreign scientists overindulge in alcohol. Such a problem could easily
overshadow one man’s absence, no?”

“Even had I noticed anyone drinking, Korzhakov and his men
would be better drunk than most men are sober. If you wish to help solve my
problems, answer me this. Why do I encounter such stonewalling on the subject
of Dr. Zhao’s availability?”

“That is because Comrade Zhao’s convalescence is taking
longer than his doctors predicted.”

“I see. It would be helpful for Zhao to at least review
some reports from his hospital bed. Nothing too taxing...?”

“I am afraid not.”

“Now you are speaking as his doctor. Zhao is that
debilitated, is he? Perhaps better medical attention would yield a faster
recovery. Perhaps you are unaware that included in my role is the need to be kept
abreast of our latest advances in medicine. In a very real way,
you
bear
the risk of keeping Zhao from his Fourth Line responsibilities—especially if
unnecessarily so.”

Chen’s expression hardened.

“All I would need to know are the specifics of his
ailment.”

“I will pass along your suggestion, Commissioner. You
can be assured that for the time being at least, Zhao is receiving adequate medical
care.”

SOME NINETY MINUTES LATER,
seated inside the lobby of Capital Hospital, Deng waited impatiently as the
battle-weary surgeon delivered apparently devastating news to a young couple
seated on the opposite side of the lounge. At some point Dr. Wu glanced over
and made eye contact with Deng. Several minutes passed before Wu left the
couple to grieve on their own.

Doctor Wu apologized for the delay. “No doubt you are here
to inquire about the post mortem on your lady friend.”

Wu sat down opposite Deng and clasped his slender hands
together. “I am afraid I have bad news. I should have left word at your office.
There will be no autopsy performed.”

Deng frowned. “Did my secretary not forward the
authorization?”

“The problem was indeed a bureaucratic lapse, only here, at
the hospital. It seems the body was cremated before the authorization came
through. I am deeply sorry.”

Once again Deng found it difficult to read how much of the
doctor’s chagrin stemmed from his daily travails.

“You never explicitly said so,” Doctor Wu continued, “but I
think I understand your concern that foul play might have played a role in her death.
I can assure you that she died of the trauma sustained in her youth.”

“But you cannot be absolutely certain.”

“True, not without an autopsy.”

Deng absorbed the finality of the words. A wrongful death
in this case would have been grounds for him to request an official
investigation. “I see.”

“Forgive me if I am intruding, but do I take it that her
letter yielded no further insight? I recall she claimed to know—”

“Who butchered my family? I am operating under that
assumption, Doctor, based only on what you quoted her as saying. It seems
whatever secrets Liu kept have died along with her.” With the help of his
Internet-savvy son, an exhaustive search of the unfamiliar name mentioned in
Liu’s deathbed note yielded nothing conclusive.

Another matter came to mind. “Are you familiar with a
program we approved some years ago to computerize hospital admissions records?”

Wu’s expression brightened. “We are now able to closely monitor
blood type and supply—I am intimately familiar with it. The system has been
expanded to provide other benefits, such as prison donor organ availability.”

Deng removed a folded slip of paper from inside his coat
pocket. “Another acquaintance of mine checked into a hospital, I believe
somewhere in the central provinces. Undoubtedly he is accompanied by his wife,
but I have no idea who his other relatives are and no easy way to determine his
whereabouts.”

“That’s actually not uncommon.”

Deng chuckled. “The grand bargain of age and wisdom
includes infirmity and forgetfulness.”

“Would you like me to locate him for you?”

“If you please.” Deng handed him the slip of paper with the
physicist Zhao’s name.

“I will personally search hospital admissions and get back
to you within the next day or so.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Deng rose. “But do not burden yourself
contacting my office. I’ll call on you, here, in a couple of days.”

INSIDE THEIR SEVENTH-FLOOR
suite of Baltimore’s Annapolis Inn, the only sound was the crackle of
ice melting in alcohol. The ethnic Chinese man, whom Paul Devinn had known over
the years simply as ‘Lee,’ reached to place the tumbler of scotch on the low
polished table.

“You will stay away from Stuart,” Lee said, staring at
Devinn with unblinking eyes. “Including his home, his family, his workplace.”