Razing Beijing: A Thriller (88 page)

McBurney wasn’t accustomed to having his agents take
matters into their own hands, especially if they happened to be right when they
did. “Did
nothing
you two say adhere to our brief?”

“You can relax, I followed your precious brief. I just went
a little bit further.”

DENG ZHEN RECALLED
it was at the impressionable age of five—the year was 1949—that he was led by
his mother and sister into the cool darkness of their vegetable cellar to
escape a brutal sweep through their village by Kuomintang troops. His plea to
be free from the coddling of women, so as to join his heroic father’s fight for
the Communist Revolution, had earned an adoring pat on the head. Well into adulthood,
it would be easy for Deng to conjure up his boyhood bitterness at being told
that he would first have to grow up in order to fight.

Seven years later, having liberated China, Chairman Mao
proclaimed that a ‘Hundred Flowers bloom.’ Deng’s father had believed the
campaign was merely a sop to the intellectual elite to indulge their
reactionary bombast. Their subsequent abuse of Mao Zedong’s charity left the
Great Helmsman no choice but to launch his Anti-Rightist campaign.

Then China’s Great Leap Forward was to have bred industrial
prosperity and an end to starvation—it wrought financial ruin, famine, and
death, as even his Maoist father had broken rank with the Party to proclaim.

Finally, the Cultural Revolution would once and for all
bring an end to bourgeois tradition and capitalist greed, which hung like a
yoke on the necks of the working class—the death and destruction it wrought had
eternally silenced his father, mother, and sister.

Deng Zhen had never, not even once, questioned his own
patriotism. Yet like most of his generation, he could be forgiven his
fundamental tendency to confront any
lack
of contradiction with uneasy
suspicion.

Such was the apprehension working on Deng Zhen while he sat
alone in his study, pondering an irony so cruel as to condemn a man to the
wrongful fate of his father—more ironically yet, by the very same hand. Could
it truly be possible? It had taken an American entrepreneur, of all people, to
finally name Liu’s
gaogan
who had led the slaughter of his loved ones
four
decades
ago—an association only determinable, realistically, by an invasive
organization such as the CIA. The evidence of this he accepted in the words
written on two sheets of paper, slipped into his hands by two independent
sources. Stuart had also proposed that by helping to hijack control of their
satellite, Deng could defy the illegitimate strength which the weapon conferred
upon such men. In fact, Deng had to admit that he admired the scheme, with its
engineer’s penchant for eloquence. The idea also confirmed his earliest
impressions of this American’s independent character. Why would such a proposal
not follow naturally from the revelation of Rong’s murderous guilt?
Where
was the contradiction?

Were it not for the fact that he, and not the American, had
initiated their contact, it would be easy to paralyze himself by suspicion that
within Stuart’s scheme lay the deceptive seeds of coercion. That the CIA might
attempt to exploit the opportunity was incontrovertible. To suspect that
Rong
Peng
was somehow involved, presumably to ensnare him in a political trap,
was simple paranoia. His decision whether or not to complete this walk along
the path he had chosen boiled down to
whom
, and to
what
, were his
loyalties.

The Xinhua News Agency reporting on events in the South
China Sea was quick to trumpet ‘recapturing what rightfully belonged to the
Chinese people.’ Had the American naval presence not been drawn away from the
region, Deng doubted that any such opportunity would have presented itself. Could
he doubt who had engineered the opportunity—or even the tool he had used?

Deng rested his head in his hands, studying Liu Qun’s
forever silenced words,
our old acquaintance, Kang Long—find him, pass on my
final farewell.
He had considered investigating birth and residence records
in and about Beijing, but surely Rong had long ago purged the records; this
particular Kang clan had high access within Zhongnanhai. What more evidence did
he really need?

His remaining decision involved the paradox of whether to
risk the life of his son in order that he preserve it. Seeing no alternative,
he stuffed the envelope containing the computer disks into his raincoat.

Deng placed the note given him by Stuart with Liu’s, and
tore them into strips. He then placed them in his ashtray, struck a match, and
lit them on fire. The time for questioning his loyalties had actually expired
decades ago. He simply hadn’t known it.

EDWARD HILDEBRANDT
ACCEPTED
the key card and thanked the Hilton receptionist, herself an FBI
agent from the Richmond field office. He crossed the lobby to the elevator,
stepped inside, and pressed the brass button for the sixth floor as the doors
slid shut. The Smith & Wesson K-frame revolver bore under his armpit,
prompting him to play over in his mind the proper hookup and defensive tactics
so as to avoid the need for brandishing it.

Until now the perpetrator had shown—no, Paul Devinn had
flaunted
,
Hildebrandt rather thought—a gift for staying two steps ahead, almost as if he
knew each of their moves in advance. Though Hildebrandt knew that was unlikely,
he did have a lingering suspicion that some element of the investigation had somehow
spooked the suspect.

There was little chance that their suspect would be able to
slip past an entire SWAT team. Devinn’s capture appeared imminent due in no
small part to the responsiveness of the Richmond division. Early that morning, he
was in the Richmond office filling out paperwork when the bank issuing C.
Smith’s credit card called to alert him that the VISA account had been used to
check into a Reston, Virginia hotel. Other investigations were put on hold. Hildebrandt
received the go-ahead to assemble his surveillance team.

The hotel parent corporation’s policy for assisting
law-enforcement was a good one, requiring in return that precautions be taken
to secure the safety of their guests. A twenty-minute call between the Richmond
SAC and the Reston hotel manager produced a fax describing the building’s floor
and security plans. The manager confirmed their ‘guest’ had indeed deposited
belongings and used the shower upon checking into his room.

Hildebrandt’s optimism was tempered by that nagging
Quantico voice inside his head, reminding him that the allure of finally having
his cuff posed the greatest distraction to actually pulling off the arrest.

The team had selected as their tactical operations center
the room across and just down the hall from the suspect’s. Hildebrandt entered
to find Gail Carter attacking a submarine sandwich at her post in front of a communications
set. Nick Brophy fairly kept one eye positioned behind a tripod-mounted Burris
spotting scope angled down at the street.

Hildebrandt walked over to the white marker board pilfered
from one of the conference rooms. “How are we with the preparations?” he asked.
One of the agents had constructed a working layout of the hotel with
surrounding streets and office buildings, restaurants, retailers, and homes. A
code designated each location where an agent was currently posted; TOC for
Tactical Operations Center there inside room 607; Hotel One and Two for the
agent at the receptionist desk and the other seated inside the lounge,
respectively; Charlie One, Two and Three for squad cars parked unobtrusively
overlooking both approaches to the Hilton, and so on.

“I think everything’s set,” Special Agent Gail Carter
replied. Closed-circuit video feeds were providing her with coverage of the
lobby and parking garage.

Their plan was intended to be simple. Devinn’s every
movement would be monitored upon first sighting him within the surveillance
zone, through his entry to either the hotel garage or parking lot, into the
main lobby and finally to his room’s door on the sixth floor. Hotel Four would
round the corridor pushing a room service cart. From the other direction,
Hildebrandt would join in converging on the suspect attempting to unlock his
door, which would prove unsuccessful due to a change in the entry code.

“I double-checked with the manager on that particular
detail,” Carter assured him. What they wanted to avoid was a potentially armed
suspect barricading himself inside his room. “Agent Brophy will accompany
Ceruzzi from the bar in providing your back-up.” She pointed toward the
sawed-off Remington 870 leaning in the corner by the door. “The manager
confirmed that all the other sixth floor guests were asked to move to a
different floor. He thought to leave a few of the lights on. I guess there
weren’t that many to begin with.”

“Stairwells?”

Carter nodded. “Locked the minute we give the word.”

Agent Carter turned toward her equipment table and
proceeded to conduct a routine fifteen-minute interval radio check. Hildebrandt
established that his ear piece and collar mike set was in working order, then
sat down by the window opposite Brophy. Too wired to contemplate food, he
refused the offer of an Italian hoagie and simply tried to relax.

Monday, July 13

ONE HUNDRED MILES SOUTH
and seven hours later, Emily Chang was finally beginning to see the fruits of
their effort. Digits on her computer screen informed her it was 1:27
A.M.
; as best Thackeray could determine, they
had nine hours within which to complete their programming. Technically
speaking, the process of
writing
code was already complete, but without
running the software through a successful simulation it was too early to celebrate.
They were guardedly optimistic of their ability to thwart the next
attack—notwithstanding the troublesome fact that neither Stuart, nor the
parameters he had promised to deliver, were anywhere to be found.

Completing the task in front of them would otherwise be a
matter of staying alert and for this she relied on an abundance of strong green
tea. Text on the computer screen scrolled up and disappeared in a seemingly
endless procession, while the message in the upper corner indicated that simulation
number two-zero-seven had just passed EIGHTY-SEVEN PERCENT COMPLETE—so far,
without a hitch. ‘In the bag this time,’ was Thackeray’s opinion, who then
retreated outside to stand with his back to the sliding glass doors, gazing up
at the night, watching cigarette smoke drift up past the back yard floods. That’s
when the lights went out.

“Thack!”
Emily shouted. Her panic subsided upon
finding herself and the room bathed in the pixelized glow of computers. A few
seconds passed before the muffled purr of a small internal combustion engine
invaded the early morning peace.

Thackeray rushed inside and stared, frowning, into her
computer screen.

“Forget to pay your bills?” she asked. “Actually...I think
everything looks okay.”

“Should be, although I never really tested it.”

“So you’ve got a UPS.” Uninterruptible power supplies were
a luxury most normal people wouldn’t bother with. “How long is it good for? We’re
not nearly ready to shut down.”

“It’ll last as long as the fuel. Reminds me, I should go
check the level.” He looked at her. “Did you happen to hear anything strange
when the power failed? I mean, other than your shriek?”

“Like what?”

Thackeray shrugged and shook his head. She heard him mumble
something about a flashlight before disappearing into the house.

Emily breathed a sigh of relief, when her heart again
leaped into her throat. This time a rude message flashed in the middle of her
screen: LINE FAULT\ COMMUNICATION FAILURE\ END ROUTINE\.

“Oh, no...
THACK!
”

“What now?” Thackeray’s voice echoed.

“We just lost the mainframe!” She thought to pick up
the telephone. Disaster; the line was dead. “Now the phone line’s down!” The
slam of the front door ricocheted through the capacious but mostly empty house.

THACKERAY FINISHED
topping off the tank supplying the generator, thankful for having foresight
enough to keep a full five-gallon container of gasoline on hand. He replaced
the can inside the tool cabinet in back of the garage, and returned to the
Honda genset to retrieve his flashlight. What gives with the telephone line? he
wondered.

Shining his light at the electric and cable services
boxes on the side of the garage quickly revealed the problem.

EMILY CUPPED HER HANDS
against
the windowpane. No lights shone from other houses in the neighborhood. Given
their seclusion and the early hour, that alone probably meant nothing. She
heard scuffling feet and turned to find Thackeray, barely visible behind the
beam of his flashlight while making his way along the hallway toward her. “What
did you...Thack?” He was walking unsteadily.

Someone gave him a shove and Thackeray stumbled forward to
a halt.

“Hello Emily,” the familiar voice said. A face topped by a
thick dark cap emerged from the darkness. Paul Devinn smiled.

Emily saw that he was leveling a handgun from his waist.

“You’re supposed to be surprised to see me alive.”

She refused to reveal how terrified she was. “I’m not
surprised, just disappointed.”

Thackeray said, “So you know this fuckin’ dope?”

Devinn snatched Thackeray’s flashlight and shoved him roughly
by the collar toward a chair. “Sit down and shut up.”

Emily gasped at the smear of blood above Thackeray’s
eyebrow. She asked Devinn, “What is it you want?”