Razing Beijing: A Thriller (85 page)

“I will speak with Mr. Schumpeter.”

“Bravo. Now President Denis, I make a gesture for
you
.
Pay strict attention to Iran troop movement toward the Caspian, especially the
Azerbaijani border. It seems you smashed their oil wells effectively. I fear
now they envy their neighbors to north—in fact, I admit knowing this also. You
must work very, very hard to make
your
problem not become
my
problem.”

Some minutes later, the Moscow connection terminated and
their translator dismissed, Denis sat alone with his security advisor to
contemplate the dismal ramifications of the Russian’s statements.

“I’ve stepped into the boxing ring with a nuclear power,”
said the President.

Thomas Herman masked his concern. For all of his
president’s talent, Howard Denis was like many gifted politicians in that he
lacked the cognitive skill to project the practical consequences of action
outside the political sphere. Such talent was not generally rewarded, and thus
not reinforced, by the political process.

“I suggest we not over-react,” Herman said. “Besides, why
should you be accountable for Iran’s violation of international law? And since
when is the commander-in-chief expected to lead on faulty intelligence?” As
national security advisor, Herman was walking a fine line. He paused to gage
the President’s instincts here.

“You think we ought to hang Burns out to dry.”

“With this bunch, it would be like shooting fish in a
barrel. Whose fault is it anyway? We can see to it that the appropriate facts
are leaked. I think you should quietly make it known you’ve assigned the
Attorney General the task of going over every applicable treaty. Off-hand, I’d
say the list includes Non-Proliferation, Missile Technology Control Regime, and
that international terrorism accord the UN drew up a few years back.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“We can announce that we’re going to have to understand
these treaties and work to have them amended. The important thing is, should
the unthinkable happen, the Senate will already understand the implication.”

“Which is...?”

“That we’ve no intention of taking the fall for inheriting
the consequences of
their
sloppy legislative disciplines. If Tehran
nukes a carrier group, or God forbid Tel Aviv, no one is going to care that
Congress approved our action. So I think our first priority should be getting
the Senate on our side. The House...well, the House won’t really matter once
we’ve done that.”

Denis eyed his security advisor. “Is that the sound of a
guillotine I hear?”

Herman shook his head. “Not on
your
neck.”

A distraction arrived in the form of a knock on the door. “In,”
welcomed the President.

The White House Chief of Staff barged wide-eyed into the
Oval Office. “Mr. President!”

“What is it, Aaron?” Denis noted Davi’s pallid complexion.

“Now the West Coast is under attack!”

FOURTEEN-HUNDRED MILES
south
of the Aleutian Islands and racing toward sunrise, the CIA pilots noted that
their Bombardier Global jet had crossed the International Date Line, the odd
consequence being their scheduled arrival in San Francisco Saturday morning on
the same day of their Saturday evening departure from Tokyo.

More troubling to McBurney than the natural cycle of rest
denied by the arrival of dawn was his encrypted telephone conversation with the
CIA Director.

Burns reminded McBurney, “You were at the crime scene where
they discovered Ahmadi’s stiff.”

“It’s not just that I didn’t know the names,” McBurney
replied. “This is the first I’ve heard that terrorist names were passed to the
senator. Remember, my FBI counterpart on the frigging, on the Task Force refused
to produce their surveillance records of this rendezvous inside Milner’s
office. They say Ahmadi handed Senator Milner these names as part of the
bribe?”

“We didn’t go too much into the why.”

“All these months...” McBurney shook his head. “We could’ve
been scouring our Middle East sources.”

“Sam—we do not need to advertise that.”

“You can bet somebody will. Maybe we’d have traced the lead
to their domestic aliases and located them before they carried out the
attacks.”

A sigh, a frustrated chuckle. “The Bureau did say the legal
attaché in Cairo had investigated and came up with dead ends.”

“Well wasn’t that brilliant. Why should that outcome surprise
anyone?” No FBI legat was going to dig too far beyond what the local
authorities allowed. “Who did you say presented this story?”

“Dave Dolan.”

“The Director pitched the forensic data himself?”

“No, he had some assistant deputy type with him. Lee, I
think his name was. What difference does it make?”

“None, I suppose. Those Rivergate murders never did pass
the smell test. It was the Bureau’s job to tie all the loose ends together,
including an explanation for Ahmadi’s erratic behavior.”

“A man turning traitor is under duress.”

“Sure. And when you apply that standard, then we need to be
skeptical of his product. That includes these names, doesn’t it? Especially
since we haven’t heard any logical explanation as to who killed him and why.”

“Did your Israeli contact follow through his allegation
that the murdered Iranian diplomat had not been burned?” asked Burns.

“With what, corroborating intelligence? Don’t I wish.”

“All right—we don’t have the luxury of second-guessing every
suspect the Bureau decides to roll-up when we can’t handle what’s on our
own
Goddamn plate!”

McBurney glanced up to find Carolyn Ross looking at him.

“Listen, Sam. I’ve got this outfit strung tight as a banjo.
As far as I’m concerned, our job is...I’ll take that”—the sound of rustling
paper indicated Burns was handling a note. “Here, listen to this... ‘As of 9:00
A.M.
eastern standard time, NORAD reports no
unidentified satellite activity.’ Can we drop the phantom satellite for
awhile?”

“I’ll do that.”

“Good. I need you here to make sense of this PLA
mobilization, or whatever’s going on over there. Holy Jesus, if Denis thought
our
satellite
story was crazy... When do you get in?”

“We arrive at Dulles around five tonight.”

“We’ll probably still be here.” Burns broke the connection.

“Thanks,” said McBurney with a smile, “and you too, sir.” He
placed the phone gently on the corporate jet’s miniature coffee table. “Well,
wasn’t that nice.”

Ross was anxious to hear the latest from the seventh floor.
“I take it NORAD found nothing?”

McBurney nodded. He summarized the FBI’s rationale for
assigning blame to Iran for the terrorist attacks. “Burns’s in no mood for any
new theories. Can’t say I blame him. Sounds like this situation in the Gulf is
really heating up.”

Some minutes passed before Doug Evans, the Agency’s
resident Tokyo pilot, emerged from the cockpit. “Be another hour,” Evans
reported as he rested his arms against Carolyn Ross’s seatback. “Looks like a
nice clear day on the west coast. Should take ninety minutes or so to refuel
and to receive our clearance into Dulles.”

McBurney nodded morosely, barely hearing as he mulled over
the FBI’s capture of the alleged terrorists. Not just any terrorists. The two
had been linked to the dead Iranian deputy charge d’affaires which, by
McBurney’s reasoning, inherently altered the equation. It was entirely possible
that Ahmadi’s safe house booby trap was known only by the diplomat himself. That
possibility would reduce the strategic implications that might otherwise be
drawn from the
same
C-4 lot being used on the GW Bridge. Had Ahmadi
taken his plastique explosive from a larger cache, he probably would have
provided his colleagues—his handler?—some explanation as to what he intended to
do with it. The organization staging these attacks would therefore suspect the
FBI of recovering Ahmadi’s plastique, and the FBI was telling the President
that
that
organization was none other than Iranian Intelligence &
Security. Were the Iranians really so recklessly bellicose? Whatever the
President thought it meant, McBurney was willing to bet the joint chiefs were
updating their scenario models in case of an Iranian nuclear-tipped missile
response. He also saw no way to reconcile these findings with Stuart’s.

Carolyn Ross followed McBurney’s gaze. Stuart was staring
down at the Pacific Ocean. “I still don’t think he’s told us everything,” she
said.

“I’m as troubled by the things he has told us,” McBurney
replied.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t quite put my finger on it.” McBurney brought a mug
of coffee up to his lips. “I definitely don’t like that he’s got private sector
engineers studying this satellite.”

“Thanks again for calling in the cavalry,” Stuart said as
McBurney sat down heavily in the opposite passenger seat.

It took McBurney a moment to realize Stuart was referring
to his telephone call to Special Agent Kosmalski. “I didn’t get any promises. Listen,
the case against these Iranians they picked up after the refinery explosion
gets stronger by the hour. Suffice it to say that the evidence against them is
about as incriminating as I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not some sort of mistake? Or maybe just politically
expedient?”

Or the controlled release of suppressed information?
wondered McBurney. He put aside for the moment the DCI’s revelation. “The FBI
and CIA, along with foreign intelligence services, all concur with the
allegations.”

Stuart frowned. “Where does that leave Deng?”

“What about Deng?” McBurney tapped his fingers impatiently
on the armrest. “We’re not dismissing the existence of this thing. It’s just
that it’s damn near impossible to see how it can be responsible when so many
sources indicate that it’s not.”

“I guess it’s fair that my staff should fully explain what
it is they think they’ve been looking at.”

“Yeah, well, maybe...” McBurney rubbed his face and let his
hands fall to his lap. “You looked pretty edgy over here. I figured you might
appreciate not having to finish your countdown to the next attack.”

The plane banked in a turn toward the north in preparation
for their descent into the San Francisco terminal area. The wings leveled and
both men averted their eyes from the glare of the sunrise.

“Sam, the other day in the ambulance you seemed to think
that Deng’s life was in danger. Is there any way to contact him?”

“And...?”

“Maybe we should try to get hold of him, maybe deliver a
warning.”

“That would only risk making things worse for him.” McBurney
studied Stuart. “But it also doesn’t make any sense. How’s our getting hold of
him going to do any good, and why would you even waste your time thinking it
might?”

Before Stuart could reply, the cockpit door swung open.

“Problem?” McBurney asked, reading the pilot’s expression.

“We’re being diverted to Vancouver,” Evans replied.

McBurney and Stuart exchanged looks. “Vancouver? What the
hell for?”

“The FAA just issued a blanket emergency directive. All
aircraft inbound to the continental United States and with adequate reserves
will not be allowed to land.” A disconcerting edginess crept into the pilot’s
voice. “Domestic flights have all been ordered to land at the nearest airport. No
flights are being cleared for take-off.”

McBurney felt his face breaking out in a sweat. “Are we
under attack?”

“Nobody seems to know. What we do hear is, ten minutes ago
the Golden Gate Bridge suffered a major collapse.”

AT 1521 ZULU TIME,
a tracking station in Nurrangar, Australia monitored the nighttime launch of a
Long March-5 booster from Xichang Space Center Launch Complex 2. The vehicle’s
65 tonne payload—announced in advance to be a classified military
communications satellite—reached a stable orbit at an altitude of 240 miles.

The information was instantly flagged for the United
States Space Command communications officer inside Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado.
The Air Force major entered the notification in her logbook. There was no point
bringing it to the immediate attention of the watch officer. The entire staff
was still scrambling to identify every single aircraft, balloon, kite, and bird
within 100 miles of the drooping remains of the Golden Gate Bridge.

*     *     *

IN THE AFFLUENT TEL AVIV
suburb
of Afeka, a freshly showered and shaved
katsa
sat comfortably inside the
Mossad General Director’s personal study. Between hurrying home from King Saul
Boulevard to his family’s long-awaited welcome, and the inevitable invitation,
he had managed to squeeze in a few hours sleep.

Jacob Ben-Yezzi returned the cup of rich Turkish coffee to
the saucer on his knee. At this point the document was merely a formality, yet
Nahman Weir leafed through Ben-Yezzi’s report if for no other reason the man’s
old-school deference to the anguish such things took to prepare.

Ben-Yezzi watched as Weir paged to the addendum of his
submittal. Clipped to the back of a series of black-and-white photographs were
photocopies of two Chinese passports. Several photographs revealed two men in
business attire exiting a Mercedes limousine in bright afternoon sunlight; one
taken nearly head-on to the men’s approach; another showed the profile of one
of the men about to disappear through a revolving door. Weir spent particular
time studying copies of the accompanying passports—Ben-Yezzi knew the general
director’s personal exposure to the Middle Kingdom, some forty years earlier. At
the time a young
katsa
, Weir reportedly spent three bloody years in
Nairobi waging a merciless battle with the Chinese Secret Intelligence Service,
precursor to the Ministry of State Security, trying to thwart that service’s
expanding drug trade throughout the African continent. Mossad and the CSIS ultimately
called a truce and began to cooperate against the rise in Soviet activity,
though not before inflicting on each other the worst brutality Weir would face
throughout his career.