Razing Beijing: A Thriller (51 page)

Stuart turned toward her. She could tell that he saw she
was blushing.

She avoided his gaze. “Of course I told her no, we weren’t.
She said she had only thought so because we made a good couple, and that she
wanted to make sure I knew that she was okay with that. Joanne thinks you are a
good friend and an even better father. I thought that was very sweet of her,
don’t you? Any way...” Emily took a deep breath. “I’m happy to know that
somebody like Joanne is there for Ashley.”

Stuart nodded slowly. “Me too. I just wonder how an
innocent little kid can understand something like this.”

“You’ve done the right thing.”

“You think so?”

“With everything that’s happened, absolutely. Stu, you must
understand how sorry I am.”

Stuart dropped the photograph onto the table. “You’re not responsible
for any of this. But I do think it’s time we break the story directly to the
FBI.” He studied her for a reaction.

“I’m listening.”

“The problem is, I don’t exactly get a warm feeling from
the FBI folks. I’m not confident they’d take anything I tell them seriously
enough to act on.”

In the time it took the thought to form in her mind, Emily
made her decision. “Since they already know the story, why not try talking to
the CIA people? Perhaps they can help.”

MCBURNEY’S FLIGHT FROM
LONDON
touched down at Dulles International at 5:42 on Friday afternoon,
nearly two hours behind schedule. Tired and hungry, his stomach grumbled as he
waited in line for immigration and customs with the other arriving
passengers—these days, the tedious security precautions were about as bad as
the prospect of a terrorist bomb. That the plane was two-thirds empty didn’t
seem to shorten the wait.

His meetings at British intelligence, and later at the
Israeli embassy, had finished on less than a positive note.

Mossad’s Ben-Yezzi revelation that Tehran had probably
not
ordered Ahmadi’s murder was profoundly disturbing. If true, struck from the
list was not only the primary suspect but also the most plausible motive. Ben
Yezzi need not have been so blunt; implicit in that shared piece of
intelligence was Mossad’s assessment that CIA’s Near East Division was not
helping matters. Despite the most sophisticated eavesdropping gadgetry known to
mankind, what were probably straightforward answers continued to elude the Near
East operation. And the reason for
that
was simple enough. The same
reason prevented Beijing station from being able to tell him why the Chinese
might have wanted to block a civilian crash investigation:
not enough operations
people on the ground.
He wasn’t eager for Director Burns’s reaction to any
of this news.

By the time the Agency limousine delivered him to Langley
where his own car was parked, it was 7:10 in the evening and his colleagues had
left for the day. Riding the elevator to his seventh floor office, all he
wanted was to go home, eat dinner, and crawl into bed. McBurney cranked his
neck and gazed up at the reflection of a tired, graying, sad-looking man
staring back from the mirror over his head.

McBurney pawed through the overflowing in-basket on his desk
for any important cables. Finding none, he walked to the wall safe. After two
attempts (a third would have triggered the silent alarm and summoned security)
McBurney input the correct combination and transferred the folder of classified
materials from his briefcase. Closing the safe and turning to leave, he snapped
off the lights and pulled shut the door to his office—it was then that he heard
the telephone. He knew by the ring that it was the outside line.

Damn
—his cell phone in need of a charge, he’d forgotten
to phone Kate from the limousine. Now he could look forward to arguing right
off the bat about something over which he had no control, his flight’s late
arrival. Shaking his jet-lagged head, McBurney walked back to his desk and
picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Mr. McBurney,” the male voice said. “My name’s Robert
Stuart.”

Alarm bells went off—in an instant he recognized the name.
How
the hell...?
Of course. Emily Chang must have given Stuart his number. A
more disturbing realization struck as he glanced at the caller ID. For all he
knew, Stuart was still under surveillance, his telephone tapped, and the FBI
even now listening in on the call.

“Stuart? I don’t know any Stuart. What number did you
dial?”

There was a pause; he heard Stuart mutter something beneath
his breath. “You know, right now I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you know me
or not. If you want to know who it is you
should
be looking for, tonight
at 8 o’clock I’ll be in Alexandria at the Squire.”

The line went dead. McBurney slammed down the phone.

MCBURNEY HAD TRIED
to
explain to Kate how his not being home for dinner, one more night, was no
reason to be upset and to start without him. His other problem was that early
tomorrow morning, the DCI would be informed how one of his spy chiefs had just
trashed a priority FBI investigation by fraternizing with its primary suspect. As
if this wasn’t enough aggravation for one highly questionable piece of
intelligence, the 495 beltway south of Tyson’s Corner was undergoing major
construction. When he wasn’t inching along or stopped dead in traffic, he raced
to make sure he didn’t miss Stuart altogether and have nothing to show for his
troubles, which now included a speeding ticket—double the normal one-hundred
thirty-eight dollar rate for violating the law in a construction zone.

He located the 1950’s-era diner easily enough and pulled
into the parking lot about twenty minutes after eight o’clock. Inside, the
place looked and smelled like the kind of busy establishment that thrived
counter-cyclically with the health of the economy. McBurney slid into the booth
opposite the only other lone patron there. Stuart, if that’s who it was, erased
any doubt when he looked up at him from a folded newspaper and an empty cup of
coffee.

A waitress descended upon him. “Take yer order, hon?”

“Why not.” McBurney ordered a cup of decaffeinated coffee
and two onion bagels with cream cheese. He waited until the waitress was gone
and said, “I could probably go to jail for doing this. What is it you want?”

“You really don’t know?” Stuart eyed him suspiciously.

McBurney let his head fall forward until his chin rested on
his chest. He took a deep breath, looked at Stuart and said, “I’ve been out of
the country until just a few hours ago. My trip did not go all that well, Mr.
Stuart. When you called I was just leaving to go home to my significant other,
who may be—
may
be—the only person in Washington who doesn’t consider me
an incompetent Neanderthal. As it turns out, your calling my office will only
enhance that image.”
I could have refrained from telling him that
, he
decided too late. “Now I guess whatever’s on your mind wasn’t carried by CNN or
BBC or Voice of America, so why not cut the shit and get to the point so we can
both go home.”

Stuart looked faintly surprised; a smile tugged at the
corner of his mouth. “Two days ago, somebody threatened my daughter, here in
Virginia. She’s barely ten years old. Meanwhile, the FBI seems to think I’m
some sort of a criminal.”

McBurney was suddenly sobered. “I take it you know who’s
responsible.”

“It’s clear the FBI doesn’t have a clue. I think it was
Paul Devinn. That name ring a bell?”

McBurney didn’t know what to make of it. Wasn’t Devinn
supposed to be dead? There was the issue of how much information he could
divulge without compromising the FBI’s investigation. Apparently Stuart had
spoken to the FBI; it sounded as though they must have really bored into him. What
had they learned? McBurney realized he should have tried to contact either Kosmalski
or Hildebrandt beforehand.

Stuart sensed his reluctance. “Look, Mr. McBurney. Counting
only the ones that I know about, nine people have already died. I’m just trying
to find someone who can maybe, you know, kick a little ass and generate some
answers.”

“So why are you coming to me?”

At that, Stuart’s face became inflamed. McBurney could see
this was a man with limited patience.

“Emily Chang suggested I call you,” Stuart replied evenly. “She
said you were familiar with the background of Thanatech’s sabotage, that you
knew of her being blackmailed while her parents were being held, and so forth. Are
you saying she’s wrong?”

“Why don’t we let the fact that I’m sitting here attest to
what I may or may not know. Now, doesn’t the FBI believe that Paul Devinn is
dead?”

“I’m guessing that might be what Devinn wants us to
believe.” Stuart briefly described what the FBI had revealed regarding the
status of Paul Devinn’s presumed death. “But I’ve known Devinn for some time. This
scenario didn’t sound right to me.”

“How so?” McBurney sipped his coffee black.

“First of all, I remember him as somewhat of an
outdoorsman, not exactly the type you’d figure to take on bad weather alone on
a lake, especially not while he was drunk.” Stuart leaned forward. “I can’t
remember seeing him drink anything more potent than orange juice. I checked
with a couple guys from school who use to pal around with him. Devinn never drank,
even at fraternity parties flowing with booze. They said somebody in Devinn’s
family was a drunk and that he really resented it.”

“People change their habits. Alcoholism runs in families.”

Stuart went on to explain how he and Emily Chang had taken
it upon themselves to dig into Paul Devinn’s personal affairs.

Based on his impressions of Emily Chang, McBurney was not
altogether surprised to hear they had resorted to amateur sleuthing. He also
bet the FBI not only knew, but Hildebrandt probably had somebody tailing them
throughout Cleveland as they did it.

“The thing that stood out is this storage locker,” Stuart
said. “I saw the actual mover’s receipt where Devinn’s belongings were sent. Turns
out it was rented by a law firm two months beforehand. We thought that was a
little strange. A few days later I received the threatening photographs.”

McBurney struggled to fit Stuart’s personal travails into
the broader context of national security; it still boiled down to investigating
United States citizens. “That’s all the evidence you’ve got?”

Stuart said nothing as the waitress topped off their
coffees and hustled back to the kitchen.

“Miss?” McBurney waved his hand to no avail. “Okay. I’d say
you’ve presented at most a not-so-compelling reason to reopen the investigation
into Devinn’s disappearance. The Canadian Mounties will probably see it as
chasing a lark.”

“I’m an American—I don’t care about the Mounties. I believe
Paul Devinn might’ve been involved in sabotaging our test flight, and then
staged his death to escape culpability. I believe the same people who
threatened Emily Chang have now threatened my daughter.”

“The methods sound similar,” McBurney allowed.

“I drew up a list of people both on hand for the test and
who’ve since quit the company. That’s not a very long list. Devinn’s name is on
it.”

So is yours
, McBurney refrained from pointing out. “Why
would Devinn want to sabotage your test flight? Simply to murder innocent
people?” The photo of Emily Chang’s father with a gun in his mouth came to
mind.
Why would the Chinese government try to cover it up?

“I’ve been struggling with that.” Stuart rubbed his face
with his hand. “I don’t accept that one of our competitors did it, though I
suppose that’s possible. I’ve always thought of ‘Big Oil’ as some sort of
anti-corporate blather. But what is this horrible nonsense involving Emily’s
parents? It’s absurd to suspect that a competitor’s reach extends into China. It
seems to me this is where the CIA might be effective. You’ve heard Emily’s
story. What’s your opinion?”

McBurney studied Stuart. Was it convenient that Stuart’s
choice of a culprit was purportedly dead? If Stuart was lying, he was doing a
fairly poor job of it. He would call Hildebrandt in the morning and discuss it
with him. “The obvious agency to handle this is the FBI. They and the NTSB must
have been involved in your crash investigation. Why haven’t you taken this
story to them? I really don’t understand why you didn’t take it to them some
time ago. Or have you?”

“I haven’t because I agreed not to jeopardize the life of Emily’s
parents...oh wait, I was wrong. Emily’s mother might be dead, raising the toll
to
ten
. You see, I think these people figured they could bury any
lingering suspicions by threatening me. I have no intention of adding my
daughter to the tally. Whoever’s responsible might also have plans for Emily
Chang.”

“You could have passed an anonymous tip, you know, without
risking Chang’s parents.”

“I actually considered that. It seemed an innocuous way to
alert the Feds of wrongdoing without causing the saboteur to suspect Chang
called them in. I even went so far as to pick up the phone, when I realized I
could be either anonymous or sound credible, but not both. Then the FBI managed
to track
me
down.” Stuart shook his head. “It’s legitimate to ask why
anybody would want to take down that airplane. So who does the FBI come up
with? Me. I get the feeling they suspect that I’m behind all of this but are
frustrated they can’t quite prove it.”

“What makes you think I have any of the answers?”

Stuart’s expression hardened. “The same reason that tonight
on the phone you denied knowing me. You’re either one of these elitists who
thinks everyone outside the beltway is intellectually challenged, or you just
think I look exceptionally stupid.”