Razing Beijing: A Thriller (62 page)

DEVINN TUCKED HIS HOTEL
receipt
inside his wallet and stepped through the revolving doors, pressed a
five-dollar tip into the bellhop’s palm and climbed behind the wheel of his
car. Cruising the congested streets of Manhattan, it seemed to Devinn that
people everywhere, either from within their cars or in the crosswalk whenever
he stopped for a traffic light, had taken to studying him. The sight of others
in line at an ATM machine reminded him that his remaining cash amounted to some
$7,200 in his domestic account, and the $4,300 and change in his wallet. The
bank account like the credit cards was listed under his alias. Though he
thought it unlikely, either account could be seized at any time for whatever
reason, and were hardly enough to disappear with, in any case. The considerable
wealth he had amassed as a result of his clandestine services—cash and
securities worth over $7 million, representing everything he had ever worked
for—should one day serve that need admirably.

He parked the late model metallic-brown Ford Taurus on a
side street and walked three blocks to the Caffeinet Café; the prominent chain
of coffee shops provided the necessary alternative to merely using his smart
phone. Once inside he ordered tea while waiting for an available terminal. Devinn
soon found himself sitting in front of a computer and staring anxiously at the
screen. After another few minutes the familiar series of prompts were leading
him through the security protocol.

Actually, it seemed to be taking longer than usual. Steam
swirled up from his cup of tea and disappeared into the air. While he waited he
reminded himself to delete the computer’s browsing history when he was done; the
sites of banks with obscure-sounding names were bound to stand out. He stared
at the screen and saw precisely what he had feared:
access denied.

Devinn felt a surge of panic. He made sure he hadn’t
typed an inadvertent error and repeated the protocol.
access approved
. His
breathing resumed. He wondered where his mistake might have been. Devinn
proceeded to access his accounts in Zurich; Gibraltar; Hong Kong. At each site
he was greeted with a similarly gratifying confirmation of his balance. The
relatively few minutes had been worth the confidence check.

UNKNOWN TO DEVINN,
access to his offshore accounts had been detected automatically by the Treasury
Department’s Bureau of Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, FinCEN. Through
its worldwide web of participating financial institutions, this network was
authorized to monitor any and all foreign account transactions of its choosing.
Had Devinn’s assets been part of an official investigation, notice would have
immediately been sent via the Internet to a computer terminal at either the
local, federal law-enforcement, or intelligence gathering agency handling the
case. Depending on the nature and priority of the investigation, a suspect
posting such an inquiry might easily have been apprehended before leaving the
building.

Despite all such elements being in place, the fact was
that Devinn’s accounts were not part of any investigation. His inquiry instead
triggered transmission of an e-mail alert that went largely unnoticed. The man
to whose computer the FinCEN flag had been sent eventually looked up from his
desk, and then only long enough to understand which overseas accounts had been
queried and from where. The event warranted little more than casual interest—a
mental note was made of the fact. The man refocused his efforts upon his
primary responsibility, that of clearing the enormous mountain of work from his
desk, one dismal report at a time.

“MR. SMITH WAS A GUEST
for six nights,” acknowledged the reservationist behind the computer monitor. The
woman raised her eyes to Agent Hildebrandt and handed him back the photograph. “That’s
him, although I don’t think his hair color’s the same. He checked out this
morning.”

Hildebrandt shot a look at Nick Brophy. “Could you run us a
copy of his customer account?” He presented the woman’s supervisor with a copy
of the trap & trace warrant. “Will that include automobile information?”

“Make, year, and license,” the supervisor confirmed. “You
might get an even better description from the bellhop.” He glanced at the time
stamp on the credit card receipt. “As a matter of fact, it looks like the
gentleman checked out less than an hour ago.”

THE PRESIDENT OF THE
UNITED STATES
eyed his intelligence advisors. “Sounds a little
far-fetched.”

“It does,” Samuel McBurney agreed, “and there’s no hard
evidence that the technology was actually stolen, as the premise of Mr.
Stuart’s theory requires one to assume. We’ve had discussions with FBI and DOE
people familiar with the program. Our initial take is that it is possible, but somewhat
unlikely.”

“Uncorroborated speculation,” judged Thomas Herman, who
wore a pronounced smirk. “I still cast my vote firmly in the
no-satellite-megaweapon camp. This stadium thing had to be some sort of
corporate publicity stunt.”

“Hah! Very good, Thomas!” The president laughed, shaking
his head. “That’s
got
to be right. Imagine all the sneakers they must
have sold with that one!”

Herman did not appear to share the president’s sense of
humor. McBurney exchanged a look with his boss, by which Director Burns seemed
to say ‘Take a deep breath, Sam.’

“I’d rather we not get sidetracked in the technical
minutiae,” said the Director of Central Intelligence. “The point is,
if
there was an intellectual property theft,
this
is the man who’d be privy
to how it was subsequently used. Deng Zhen has been a principal administrator behind
virtually all of their military modernization developments. He would
theoretically have access to answers that the defection would have provided. We
know for a fact that Mr. Stuart has met Deng Zhen on at least two occasions. If
we learn that Deng is the guy who initiated these Internet contacts, we may
have an opportunity to exploit him.”

“What would you hope to learn?” asked Herman.

“For starters, what
was
the nature of his overture
to Stuart? If our businessman’s suspicion is borne out, we proceed to the
subject of their satellite program. And if we allow ourselves to speculate a
moment, think about what it would mean to have the commissioner of Science,
Technology, and Industry for National Defense as our agent-in-place.”

“He’s old and nearing retirement,” Herman pointed out.

“True. But we can be sure he’s laid the groundwork for the
next decade of technology programs. He’ll be involved.”

“Why would he talk to us?” Denis asked.

“Sir?”

“What makes you think he’s going to turn traitor and commit
high treason?”

“You mean, more than he may already have? No guarantee that
he will.”

“I would like to expound on an important point the director
made, if I may,” McBurney said. “Deng Zhen’s weapons aegis includes everything
they’ve garnished of our DF-41 warhead technology, to the anti-sub warfare
gadgetry we believe they have retrofitted to their fleet of Houdong attack
frigates. The profile on Deng is well understood. We cannot point to anything
specific that suggests he’s willing to commit treason. On the other hand, the
situation would indicate that he’s politically vulnerable to the upcoming
succession. His allegiance has been with the gerontocracy to which the current
general secretary belongs. He travels abroad as the general secretary’s
personal emissary whenever technology and trade issues dominate the agenda. Vice-premiers
and other cadres demonstrate Deng’s popular appeal by regularly quoting him. The
man is as entrenched a member of the old guard as you find these days. Finally,
there’s the troublesome matter of his dissident son, who is clearly out of
favor and will be perceived as a nuisance by whoever takes power.

“So it’s easy to see Deng feeling trepidation about the
political faults shifting beneath his feet. From my perspective, these Internet
messages are about as good as it gets for securing a lead in recruiting a spy.”

“I see where you’re coming from,” said the President with a
reluctant nod. “Approaching the man and soliciting him to turn traitor might
put his life on the line.”

“We undoubtedly would be,” Burns agreed.

“It seems we have to offer him something in return.”

Lester Burns held the President’s stare. “We intend to
sweeten the pot. Sam?”

McBurney slowly cranked his head toward the director, his
expression one of restrained alarm.

Director Burns picked up McBurney’s prompt. “Oh. I need to
put our proposal in its proper context. Mr. President, you’re aware of my
reservations about our effort to draft a new anti-ballistic missile treaty with
the presumptive Chinese leadership. While our adulation with binding legal
documents is consistent with our governing culture, there’s a large body of
evidence that the Chinese leadership eschews the rule of law. Your typical
counterpart in Zhongnanhai and the Politburo isn’t a lawyer, he’s an engineer. Different
philosophical emphasis altogether.”

“I’ve acknowledged your concern, Lester. Nothing worthwhile
is without risk.”

“True. That being said, we’ve become more and more wary
that Rong Peng and his aides might be negotiating in bad faith. We don’t—”

“That’s overstating our view,” Tom Herman objected.

“Go on, Lester,” urged the President.

“We don’t need to rehash the petroleum estimate. But we’ve
recently learned something similarly disturbing.” The DCI carefully explained
the evidence suggesting that the Chinese government may have had a hand in
quashing the crash investigation of Thanatechnology’s fuel-efficient aircraft.

“That’s a fairly outrageous allegation,” the President
calmly observed.

“And before Tom says so, uncorroborated. The current evidence
is compelling and yet we can’t claim to understand what’s going on here. The
FBI is conducting an investigation.”

“You’re essentially saying that they’re pressuring me to
the bargaining table—abandon our missile shield in exchange for relief from
OPEC—while behind my back they’re busy deploying their own superweapon?”

Herman said, “Mr. President—it’s paranoid bullshit.”

“I tend to agree with you,” President Denis nodded
thoughtfully. “Lester, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d morphed into one
of these cowboys. But go ahead, we’ll indulge you. Prove us wrong.”

“Thank you, sir. Okay, Sam.”

“So,” McBurney cleared his throat. “So the thrust is to
learn as much as we can from Deng Zhen. The Director mentioned we intend to
‘sweeten the pot.’ To understand how, we need to acquaint ourselves with
details of Rong Peng’s background.”

“I’m somewhat well acquainted with Mr. Rong.” The President
indicated that he had met the vice-premier on three separate occasions. “We
still think he’s the guy in line for succession, don’t we?”

“Yes, although there are informed opinions that differ. Rong
faces serious opposition.”

President Denis glanced uncomfortably at his national
security advisor.

“There is information regarding this particular leader of
which your administration has had no previous knowledge,” McBurney continued. “A
ruthless reputation earned early as a Red Guard probably placed him highly
among the Party
zhiwu mincheng biao
—Rong’s father was a powerful Mao
Zedong confidant, whose influence undoubtedly ensured that his son would not be
shipped off to the countryside after the Cultural Revolution. More recently,
Rong’s endorsement of their crackdown on the Hong Kong separatist movement
undoubtedly enhanced his image among militarist conservatives in the Army and
Politburo. The Agency is putting together a picture of his internal political
style. Evidence suggests he ordered the murder of the previous deputy state
security minister, succeeded in having it ruled a suicide, then plugged his own
loyal designate.”

Herman narrowed his gaze. “I seem to recall a briefing
where we thought the deputy state security minister was another casualty of your
failed defection attempt,” he accurately reminded them.

“That’s right,
Thomas,
” McBurney snapped, “just another
one of those things we observe through the lens of a
fucking satellite!”

The Oval Office fell silent. McBurney realized he was
clenching his teeth and didn’t bother looking up to meet the eyes boring into
him. He let the moment pass. “In any event, Rong Peng’s profile would not be
complete without understanding the extent of his influence within the Beijing
elite. We’ve watched him assemble a strategic pyramid of appointments. These
extend as far and wide as Qiao Shushi, who heads the state planning commission
within their finance and economics
xitong,
to a number of other powerful
PLA officers and state security up-and-comers, and right on down into the
provincial level throughout the People’s Republic. The Qiao appointment is
intriguing because the position lies several levels below the finance
minister—Huang cannot afford to be sitting around idle. On balance, we think
Rong is slightly better positioned with a power base. Neither man is a
shoe-in.”

“You make Rong out to be some sort of a thug,” President
Denis observed. “Isn’t his entrenched power that you make sound so ominous par
for the course? I mean, a whole generation of ex-Red Guards must be milling
around over there. Everyone agrees that was nasty business, but is there really
anything significant about Rong in this regard?”

McBurney looked squarely at the President. “With the
exception of the general secretary, Rong exercises near total control of any
strategic weapon system of his choosing in the Chinese arsenal.”