Razing Beijing: A Thriller (50 page)

“I actually didn’t, but authorities believe it was a week
or so ago.”

“My records show it was leased just about two months
ago. I hope your information is mistaken. I hate to lose a tenant that way.”

*     *     *

PAUL DEVINN COLLAPSED
blissfully
onto the comfortable king-size bed, his muscles aching, as well they should
following his punishing work-out. Devinn gazed contentedly out over the
Manhattan cityscape, the evening light draining away from an overcast sky. He
was undecided whether to invite to dinner the woman with whom he’d shared the
gymnasium, and who had indicated the number of her suite with appropriate
subtlety. She had looked to be about his age, perhaps not in the very best of
shape but pretty and interesting enough.

He had greeted the news of OPEC’s decision to tighten their
noose with a certain sense of grandeur; history was in the making; the Titanic
was preparing to sink and he was the guy who’d spiked all the lifeboats. It was
a tribute to the tenacity and vision of those who sponsored his work that the
fruits of his efforts had begun to coalesce with current events. In retrospect,
the trend was easy to spot. That his handler would staunchly deny any such
connection—should Devinn be reckless enough to assert one—didn’t alter the fact
that such a connection existed. This great festering wound between a greedy
America and her Middle East antagonists had been carefully nurtured—a thing to
be lanced, perhaps, at just the right moment? Too bad his sponsors had panicked
over the unexpected loss of life associated with Thanatech’s doomed test flight—too
bad they had ordered him to abandon the idea,
his
idea, of planting the
engine blueprints inside Ahmadi’s apartment. The subsequent indictment of
Iranian oil barons, as originally planned, had been denied its chance to further
increase the hysteria.

Devinn retrieved the remote from the bed stand and began
perusing channels on the wide-screen television, when he thought he heard
something—he muted the voice of the CNN anchor. He rose from the bed and walked
to the armoire where he’d left his satellite pager. He glanced at the
originating telephone.

“What is it?” Devinn said into the phone a few moments
later.

“You may have a problem,” was the woman’s response. Devinn
listened for several minutes with rising agitation as Christina Bloch relayed
events of the previous hours. “For the record,” she finished by saying, “I
advised you to store your belongings further away.”

“Did you get their description?”

“I did, but bear in mind this is all second hand.” Her
disclaimer thus attached, the lawyer went on to describe to a tee both the man
and the woman. “Apparently the manager was sufficiently concerned about his next
check being sent that he called to confirm I wasn’t dead.”

Devinn remained silent.

“Any idea who it was?”

“Probably just who they claimed to be,” Devinn lied. “You’re
paid a small fortune. You should have prepared a story to ward off this sort of
scrutiny.”

“That’s bullshit. You know as well as I do how slowly those
wheels turn. I don’t think Columbus had anything to do with it, not this
quickly. These two were acting for somebody else. Is there anything you’d like
me to do?”

“Just tell me if you hear anything else.” Devinn swore as
he hung up the phone.

WHAT JACOB BEN YEZZI
might
lack in tact he more than made up for in graciousness. The Israeli embassy in
London had set aside a secure office for him and the CIA officer, but some last
minute schedule change had McBurney’s embarrassed host scurrying to find them
another room. For five minutes Ben Yezzi raced around dishing out orders,
finally dragging two large cushioned chairs into an empty office himself. Then
he disappeared and returned with a steward in tow carrying a tray of tea and
Kippered herring.

Ben Yezzi sat opposite McBurney and got directly to
business. “What more can you tell me of the circumstances surrounding this
murder of Mohammad Ahmadi?”

His question reminded McBurney how both men shared disdain
for anyone remotely related to Hezbollah; Ahmadi was suspected to have been
among the original Pasdaran advisors, sent by Tehran to organize the early
guerilla resistance against the Israeli incursion into southern Lebanon. McBurney
was then a young case officer trying to recruit his first agents. By virtue of
an administrative quirk, he’d been spared having his life snuffed out like so
many of his colleagues by the truck bomb that rocked the United States embassy
in Beirut. For Ben Yezzi it was more personal yet. In the spring of 1999, he
had lost a brother in the Army during Israel’s hastily conducted withdrawal. Facts
surrounding both incidents implicated the Party of God. Word of Ahmadi’s murder
inside his Rivergate apartment had created something of a stir in Tel Aviv for
the loss of a rare opportunity.

“Look, Jacob. The whole investigation is tied up in a
political knot because of the latest senate scandal.”

“We know.”

“Then you know the FBI is refusing to release their full record
of Ahmadi’s surveillance.”

“So I have been told.”

McBurney set down his mug of tea. They had previously gone
over most everything he knew leading up to the Rivergate murders. “Most people
I talk to construe the discovery of certain articles in the apartment as their
preparation for escalating the wave of terrorist attacks. Perhaps you ought to
be talking to Bob Fitz.”

“Fitz cannot find his ass with both hands.” As Near East
chief, Fitz was for Mossad the Agency point man. “Our concern is based on our
belief that Ahmadi may have had inside knowledge of an agreement between Tehran
and Islamabad on a light-weight nuclear device.”

McBurney probed his memory. “I can’t say that we found a
reason to link him to their nuclear program. On the other hand, to the extent
he was conducting espionage in the States, you could probably make the case.”

“We have confirmed he was acting on behalf of the
Intelligence Ministry while deputy charge d’affaires in Washington,” Ben Yezzi
revealed to no surprise. “Now the interesting part. There is
no
evidence
to suggest that his superiors had, or have, any knowledge of his negotiating
asylum with the United States before his death. None.” The Israeli paused to
allow McBurney time to absorb the revelation. “In light of the circumstances
surrounding his murder, we found this difficult to accept, but it appears to be
so. These protests they have lodged with your State Department appear to
reflect genuine outrage with the FBI for failing to provide a satisfactory
accounting of his death. For once, we find ourselves in agreement with the
Iranians.”

McBurney and others assumed that Tehran had made the
discovery and ordered the diplomat killed—a risk that faced any man turning
traitor. “That could mean almost anything. He might have been a provocateur, or
maybe they got rid of him for something totally unrelated. It does raise the
question of—”

“His network of agents? Assuming he recruited any.”

“Safe bet.” McBurney had also shared that particular
evidence with Mossad.

“There would have been some sort of transfer of control,
otherwise the network would simply fall apart. It is true that their spy craft
has improved dramatically in recent years, not quite SAVAK grade but good, presumably
under the tutelage of our ex-Soviet friends. Consider our own difficulty
achieving a foothold inside their nuclear program.”

Ben Yezzi arched his eyebrows. “I’m not involved in the
operational side. One picks up bits and pieces, you know. But it is apparent
that Tehran can now compartmentalize their covert activities with great
discipline.” Jacob Ben Yezzi closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “If they’ve
not yet done so, Tehran will attempt to reinstate Ahmadi’s network with a new
handler, no doubt another Washington diplomat. Your State Department should
never have agreed to their opening shop there. Be that as it may, we don’t yet
know their D.C. mission’s specific agenda. Maybe your terrorist theorists are
correct. Or maybe it is to steal more of your nuclear secrets with which to
threaten Israel. Which is why I have been authorized to bring it to your
attention.”

It had occurred to McBurney as something out of the
ordinary for Mossad to volunteer information gathered covertly, by an Iranian
agent with what sounded like deep penetration. Somebody somewhere had to be
under tremendous pressure for them to risk blowing that sort of an asset. “To
say nothing of a nuke going off in the States,” McBurney added.

“Of such ugly matters, we believe Tehran possessed advance
knowledge of the Holocaust Memorial bombing. We are trying to learn what active
role they might have had.”

“Tehran denies any role in the Trans-Alaska Pipeline
attack.”

“That little job is more difficult to assess. Perhaps this
will help.” He removed a folder from inside his briefcase and handed it to
McBurney. “Those dossiers identify two Iranian nationals who boarded flights
leaving Anchorage on the eve of your pipeline incident. The surveillance we
obtained in Seoul. We have been looking for these terrorists for several
years.”

McBurney flipped through the pages.

“Do you recall the Norberg Cruiseliner incident?”

“St. Thomas.”

“The cruise company thought it might be expedient to
approach my government for help. At least one of the men was observed boarding
the ship shortly before the explosion. They may be associated with an Islamic
splinter group.”

“Free Palestine?” suggested McBurney.

“If only it was so tidy.” Ben Yezzi smiled. “The group who
claimed responsibility calls itself Black Jihad, the extremist faction of
Hezbollah. Unfortunately, nobody inside the Institute has confirmed even the
existence of this Free Palestine of yours, let alone who subsidizes their
activities.”

McBurney waved the files. “Mind if I pass these on to the
Task Force?”

“By all means. We have forwarded them already to the Hoover
Building.”

Which prompted McBurney to wonder why Ben Yezzi had wanted
to meet in the first place. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome, my friend.”

“I’m curious about something, Jacob. You seemed distinctly
uncomfortable with my suggestion to meet in the American embassy.”

“Did I?”

“I’d like you to level with me. Who do
you
think had
Ahmadi killed?”

Ben Yezzi was not a man to inadvertently reveal his
thoughts—he folded his arms. “It gravely concerns us that it was not,
apparently, who we would normally suspect.”

EMILY RESISTED
the
temptation of attaching significance to Stuart’s pick-up truck being the only
other vehicle in his driveway today. He had sounded tense on the phone, and
declined to explain why. She assumed the visit would be anything but social.

Still, as she rang the doorbell her pulse continued to
race. The light silence of leaves and branches hanging in breathless air was
broken by the barking of Ashley’s dog, and Stuart shouting as toenails clawed
on hardwood for traction toward the unknown visitor.

“She wouldn’t harm a flea,” Stuart assured Emily, clutching
the tail-wagging beast by the collar as it licked the palm of her hand. “English
Setters are wimps, plus this one’s pampered to ruin by Ashley.”

As she stepped into the foyer, Stuart’s awkward smile was
enough to lift her spirits. Once inside, Emily noticed his smile turn a little
bit sad. There were light circles of shadow under his eyes. “Is something
wrong?” she asked.

“We need to talk.”

Seated on the sofa of a room overlooking the lawn to the
boathouse and river, Emily’s reaction to the black-and-white photographs was
that they were wholesome and creative, suggesting a keen professional
photographer’s eye: Ashley in the instant of kicking a ball; laughing as she
tugged the arm of another little girl; grinning a child’s conspiratorial grin
with her friends, hands cupped over her mouth.

“They’re lovely,” Emily commented as her eyes played over
the glossy photos spread out on the coffee table.

“I found them yesterday in a blank envelope inside my
mailbox.”

Emily immediately understood. “Do you have any idea who
took them?”

Stuart shook his head as he reached for the photo of Ashley
kicking the ball. He seemed either not to notice or care that his hands were
shaking. “Ashley wears the same uniform pretty much every day to school. She
thinks this might’ve been taken Tuesday afternoon.”

“Tuesday...oh. Because of our trip to Cleveland?”

“Fits the pattern, doesn’t it? I suppose it could be about
money—mine, or even Ashley’s trust that she inherited from her mother.” Stuart
looked at her with bloodshot eyes. “Ashley isn’t to know about that until she’s
twenty-five.”

Emily nodded.

“I’m not taking any chances. I sent Ashley somewhere I know
she’ll be safe. No close family, none of her little friends—but safe.”

Emily was sickened by the cowardly tactic of threatening
harm to a child. “For how long?”

“Until I get some answers.”

“Not to look for something else to worry about, but exactly
how did you have Ashley disappear? If this person—”

“Saw her leave? I don’t think so. I asked Joanne Lewis to
pick her up at my sister’s house late last night and take her to the airport. She
said afterward Ash seemed a little scared, but that she was good about lying
down on the floor of the car.”

Emily thought for a moment. “Joanne is such a good
person—Ashley is a lucky little girl. I never told you, it’s a little
embarrassing. Joanne and I ran into each other at work the day after you took
us sailing. She asked if, well, if we were dating.”