Razing Beijing: A Thriller (83 page)

Devinn lowered the field glasses.
Emily Chang and her
work ethic
. Whether she was screwing Stuart or not, why would anyone
willingly submit to being so ruthlessly exploited? At least the leaders of her
native country knew how to keep a leash on corporate greed.

Devinn tucked the binoculars inside his jacket in
preparation to leave.

FBI SPECIAL AGENT PETER
KOSMALSKI
returned the handset slowly to its cradle and studied it with
a considered scowl.

“That sounded like trouble,” observed the Deputy Assistant
Director of the Counter-terrorism Division, who voiced his observation in
passing, not looking up from the report on Kosmalski’s desk. On all matters of
the Joint Counter Terrorism Task Force, the program for which Kosmalski was acting
special agent-in-charge, Lance Lee was Kosmalski’s boss. Given also that Lance
Lee’s star was apparently on the rise, he had lately become Peter Kosmalski’s
special pain-in-the-ass.

“It could be,” Kosmalski replied. “Or it could be the
beginning of closure on a complicated case.” And personal Kudos from the
Director, the agent hoped. He watched his unwelcome visitor, edit pen at the
ready, peruse the JCTF Executive Summary. His great preference would have been
to simply fax it across town to headquarters and that way be done with it. “The
call was actually from an Agency guy on the task force.”

“Early in the day for Agency boys.”

“Not for all of ’em, I guess.”

Lance Lee flipped to the next page, glanced at Kosmalski,
and returned his eyes to the summary. “I don’t see anything here that I can say
about the suspect Mousavi’s documents, the pedigree of his counterfeit
passports, who might’ve prepared them, who else might be using them...”

No shit you can’t
say
anything, because I don’t
have
anything.
“The story on the student visa is a common one. Neither legat’s
come through yet on the passports or H1-B. They’re working it.”

Lee nodded profoundly while perusing, jotting, deleting. “So
how are you going to handle it?”

“Pester and threaten. And they’ll pester and threaten the
State Department. What else can I do?”

Lee formed a slow smile. “I meant the Baltimore assault
case. You know, that Agency call…?”

“Oh, sorry. Pester and threaten. Do our part to prevent
somebody else getting hurt.”

Lee looked down at the summary. “Where is it listed?”

“No, sir, that’s not a Task Force item. It’s part of my day
job. There’s this nasty corporate espionage affair that keeps spreading roots.”

“I see.”

SPECIAL AGENT EDWARD
HILDEBRANDT
stood beside the track of a 50-ton Caterpillar, its engine
idling at slow gallop, and surveyed some five city blocks of decimation. Debris-pattern
digital imagery analysis acquired by helicopter had allowed investigators to
establish the epicenter of the principal blast zone as the 127-foot olefin
refinery cracking tower. The engineering-laden masterpiece of piping and
pressure vessels had been leveled to scrap.

Hildebrandt found that it was becoming difficult for him to
distinguish his personal failure to apprehend Paul Devinn from the human
consequences of that failure. He could imagine how frustrating it must be
trying to cuff a serial killer—a forensic scour of the latest crime scene each
time halving the distance to the assailant, but never quite closing the gap.

Fortunately, the FBI CIRG team had been able to use plant
security records to place the security contractor’s van near the epicenter in
the minutes leading up to the blast. That there was anything left of the
vehicle was part of the mystery. Buried beneath twisted office chairs and a
one-ton snowplow blade was what he believed were the flattened remains of a
Ford Econoline van, vehicle identification number WFMHC4313NE227421.

Hildebrandt heard his cellular telephone ring. “Hello?”

“Is this agent Hilderman?”

“This is Ed Hildebrandt. Can I help you?”

“My name’s Eric Walker, I’m a corporate ombudsman with
Hertz Leasing. I’m calling about an agreement we had to monitor two open credit
card accounts in our system.”

One of which was probably a flyer, Hildebrandt recalled. He
placed his hand over his exposed ear in order to hear the telephone. “Has
something turned up?”

“The Maryland State Police have issued an all-points
bulletin for a rental car flagged to one of the credit cards.”

“Good. When was this?”

“It came across my screen this morning. I’m told the police
contacted us late in the day Friday.” The Hertz representative explained what
the company knew about the use of the vehicle during the alleged abduction. Apparently,
the rape victim had pocketed a business card she found in the trunk of the
vehicle used during her abduction. Along with forensic analysis of automotive
carpet fibers, they were able to link the name of a Chicago pharmaceutical rep
to a specific series of rental agreements. “I thought you guys ought to know,
in case you didn’t already.”

Hildebrandt watched as the Caterpillar’s turbocharged
diesel engine belched a dark plume into the gray dawn sky. The chain attached
to its bucket on one end and buried wreckage on the other became taut. Above
the diesel roar came snapping and shrieking, as the wreckage slipped
forward—and stubbornly hung up. The big tractor’s forged iron tracks bit into
the ground...a loud
pop
announced the crushed vehicle ripping clear of
the other debris.

“Did the state police provide you a number for contacting
them?” Hildebrandt wrote it down on the palm of his hand. He really had no
desire to play footsie with state cops over details of their investigation.

Thanking the man for the call, Hildebrandt blinked his eyes
and squinted to see through the cloud of ash. Yards of rubble had not insulated
the vehicle’s carcass from the inferno; wheel rims and a chromium door handle
were about all to suggest it had ever been a vehicle. Everything glass and
aluminum had been shattered or melted away, including, in all likelihood, the
vehicle’s identification placards. He waited for clues in the expressions of workmen
armed with powerful grinding wheels that at least one VIN had survived.

Minutes later the sparks stopped spraying. One of the men
pulled something from the driver’s doorframe, slid his Plexiglas shield back
over his forehead and studied the object in his hand. The recovery laborer
turned and headed toward Hildebrandt.

“Melted?” Hildebrandt asked, reading the man’s face.

“No.” He held up the distorted remains of the aluminum
placard, about the size of an index card, for Hildebrandt to inspect. “It’s
ground off.”

“Ouch. They shouldn’t ought’a done that. It’s illegal.”

“I bet all of ’em are ground off.”

Hildebrandt looked at the wreck. “Do you think you can find
the engine serial number?”

“No problem.”

The seasoned New Jersey recovery workers took the setback
in stride. Armed with six-foot pry bars, a sledgehammer, and an oxy-acetylene
torch, they attacked the flattened remains of the engine compartment. Meanwhile,
somber-faced men and women from the Critical Incident Response Group—the second
to be dispatched from Quantico in less than a week—huddled nearby, to partake
in debate as to why the terrorists’ explosive device had not shredded the van’s
sheet metal body. Could it be this was not really
the
vehicle? Word of
the mutilated VIN placard brought minutes of quiet reflection. The alleged
terrorists were being detained by the Bureau for questioning, but were refusing
to talk. Instead of detonating a high-order explosive device, had they launched
a grenade? It was suggested that this could explain the wholesale failure of
emergency shut-off valves prior to the blast—but then, how had the terrorists
concealed from security whatever it was they had used?

Forty minutes later, the difficult tasks of cutting and
prying and hammering had come to a halt. The sweat-streaked, soiled face of a
man twisted as he struggled to pry the fender apart from the engine block while
his partner wedged himself in between. Residue vulcanized onto the crankcase
had to be wire brushed away. The critical region of the serialized engine block
was finally exposed.

Hildebrandt accepted the grimy slip of paper from a
callused and bloodied hand.

The laborer assured the FBI investigator the serial number
was accurate. “I checked it three times.” Steady pools of white and hazel
examined him from beneath the rim of a hard-hat. “When you find the other
mother-fuckers who did this, save us the time and expense of a trial.”

Hildebrandt smiled and thanked the man. He began the
half-mile trek back through the debris field to where he had parked his car. While
pausing near the refinery complex perimeter, he speed-dialed Agent Brophy’s
telephone number.

“So we don’t have the VIN?” Brophy responded with deep
disappointment. He had spent all day Friday, and as soon as businesses
re-opened this morning, working the Internet, phone, and fax machine from
inside the Newark office. Compiling a database of vehicle identity numbers for
every registered late model van in the northeastern United States was no small
task, a list that had to include every privately owned van whether stolen or
not, and every leasing company van whether currently leased or not. By late
Friday evening, three turned up as registered to Carl Smith, and these were
subsequently confirmed as legitimate by local authorities. A fourth C. Smith
recently rented a late model Ford Econoline, the same type that the injured
security guard described as having been driven by the two apprehended suspects.
If Paul Devinn, a.k.a. C. Smith, fronted the vehicle for use by the Iranians,
he had done so very cleverly. Unlike the practice of the major nationals, the
Elizabeth, New Jersey rental outfit had accepted cash on the deposit instead of
a credit card.

“Just get Ford Motor to cross-reference the engine to the
VIN,” Hildebrandt suggested. “How long a drive is it to Baltimore?”

“Two hours or so. Why?”

Hildebrandt relayed his telephone call with the Hertz
representative.

“Bingo—that’s two independent leads!” Brophy whistled. “This
guy sure keeps himself busy. I say we shoot on down there.”

“No kidding. Get hold of Ford and try to make it snappy. I’m
coming by to pick you up.”

“Hold the phone. Do you happen to remember that truck we
saw leaving the GWB?”

“With the hydraulic crane attached to the bed?” Hildebrandt
tried to envision the truck that he and Brophy had witnessed supposedly driving
off with evidence. It had been too dark to see the faces of the figures seated
inside. “The transit authority guy said there was a deputy assistant director
at the wheel.”

“Yep. There aren’t many outfits rent them, but one responded
to our inquiry last night. Guy left me some nasty words about the Bureau making
him run all the way down to Newark Airport to retrieve his truck.”

“There’s a moral to this story?” Hildebrandt climbed behind
the wheel of his car.

“Good public servant that I am, I called the guy back to
find out if we owed him a drop-off charge. Guess whose name was on the invoice?
‘C. Smith.’ ”

“No way. The rental guy’s records are all fucked-up.”

“That was my reaction. But how many crane trucks do you
suppose were rented that night, and how many ended up at the only New York
metropolitan airport open for business? Both this crane truck Smith, and the
Econoline Smith, plopped down cash. There’s also no record that a Mr. Lee ever
rented one of his trucks.”

“Maybe the guy on the GW bridge was wrong when he told us
who was behind the wheel. Or another rental company, then.”

“There’s only two. The other outfit claims not to have
rented that model for over a month. Look, why not? The Bureau’s linked the
Iranians to both attacks, and we already think Devinn fronted the refinery
truck.”

“Uh-huh. Although, I once heard that Smith is a pretty popular
name.”

“Duh-huh. I went ahead and sent a rookie out to compile a
description of both Carl Smiths.”

“We have enough on our hands without trouble-shooting some
poor schmuck’s book-keeping, but I guess it’s worth a sniff. So here’s a
question for you. What’s it mean if we learn the FBI brass was driving off with
Devinn?”

“Right!”

“No, really.”

“Hell...I hate to even think of it... Internal Affairs?”

The hunt for Devinn was confusing enough on its own,
Hildebrandt thought. The potential for their investigation to take on new
dimensions daunted both men into a long silence.

“I think we can safely postpone that,” Hildebrandt finally
said. “At least until we have a chance to first go back and really quiz the
transit authority guy. So, where are we on Smith’s credit card number?”

“Right. The same credit card number has so far shown up on
C. Smith’s Four Seasons hotel invoice and the elusive rental car. By now the
Maryland cops have probably pieced together this much just by chasing down the
corporate lawyer abduction.”

Hildebrandt reluctantly agreed. Other than the outstanding
Hertz account, they didn’t seem to have much of anything. “It’s unfortunate
that the rental car hasn’t been flagged passing through any toll booths.”

“He might be sticking to secondary roads. There haven’t
been any sightings by local police.”

Hildebrandt maneuvered his car through the barricade
erected by the National Guard and headed for the Parkway. He figured that Devinn
simply swapped plates with somebody in a mall parking lot who hasn’t discovered
it yet. “Doesn’t the guy drink, eat, or sleep? Where does he get his cash?”