Razing Beijing: A Thriller (13 page)

Some years ago, Rong had skyrocketed from within the elite Beijing
zhiwu mincheng biao
a virtual stranger, the apparent beneficiary of very
high-level
quanxi
, perhaps a relative pulling strings to land his
position. Barely into his fifties and despite what Deng knew to be the man’s
influence within the Central Committee, Rong now appeared to be deadlocked in a
contentious battle for the successionary prize with another
nomenklatura
star, the finance minister. In a classic move to pit the wherewithal of one
against the other, the aging General Secretary had awarded both men with
positions of equally preferred status. As Vice Chairman of the Communist
Party’s Military Affairs Commission, and de facto chairman in the shadow of the
General Secretary’s illness, Rong Peng would appear to be a shoe-in to assume
total control and yet, the core leader had issued ambiguous statements that
could easily be interpreted otherwise. Until the day and hour that the National
People’s Congress officially rubber-stamped his protégé, few individuals other
than the General Secretary knew his identity.

Deng’s expression hardened; he was not without high-level
access of his own. “I am certain the priorities of Comrade Rong can wait until
morning.”

“Yes, however, the vice-chairman has arranged the audience
of the General Secretary. In fact, I am here to escort you directly to the
official residence.”

Deng’s two sons and daughters-in-law waited for his
reaction. Ping resumed his calligraphy. Rong, it seemed, had outmaneuvered him.
“Very well,” Deng said.

Minutes later, the dark green Shanghai sedan sped south
through empty streets, leaving behind the park district and high-ranking cadre
residences that ringed Qingnian Lake. The car crested Bahe River Bridge and its
tires re-established ground with a chirp. Beneath the bridge, ripples of light
reflected off the fetid flow drawing merchant junks east toward coastal Tianjin,
where Deng had grown up. He watched the driver scan both directions of an
approaching intersection before racing through the light.
I have lost my
zeal for this nonsense
, he thought, no longer feeling the need to dig and
claw. Whoever prevailed after succession was irrelevant. Politics in the
meantime had reduced even the intuitively obvious to a battle of
wits—decisions, when and if they were made, were distorted by hedging on the
outcome of a clamor for power, which his country sadly had not figured out how
to control. It was irritating to Deng that the powers would jeopardize so much
of what had been built in exchange for their own personal gain.

Why Rong had summoned him to the presidential residence was
difficult to guess. For the better part of two weeks, Deng had indicated that
his desire to see the vice-chairman involved a serious setback to the Project. Perhaps
tonight the matter of the missing physicist would be dramatized in order to
bash the incompetence of the security apparatus or, more ominously, to suggest
that Rong’s own deputies be charged with overseeing the Project.

The driver turned right onto East Chang’an Street, past the
Ministry of Public Security and the National People’s Congress. They bypassed
Zhongnanhai’s
pailou
in the southern perimeter wall as his escort muttered
a few words into a cellular phone. The car finally stopped at the Nanhai Street
entrance reserved primarily for State Council business. Deng glanced up at the
closed-circuit camera atop the squat granite guardhouse. A moment later the
compound’s door swung open—a massive concrete and steel structure supported on
iron wheels guided by a rail recessed beneath the tarmac, fortified by order of
Mao Zedong to withstand the assault of a Russian T-72 battle tank.

The driver guided the sedan over the winding cobblestone
drive, past hibiscus and towering cedars with wisteria vines twisted about
their trunks, and the president’s pagoda-style palace came into view. It had
been built in the early Qang, and perched at each corner of the roof was the
gargantuan head of a dragon arched toward heaven, carved ivory fangs distended,
black onyx eyes raging beneath furrowed brows. The ancient residence basked in
ground-level floodlights and it occurred to Deng that he had never been inside
Zhongnanhai after sundown. The Shanghai stopped before a low rise of marble
steps leading up to the entrance of the general secretary’s residence.

The palace usher was a decorated colonel of the People’s
Liberation Army, silver braids across his chest and the discretion to deny
access on a whim to any person desiring to enter. Deng received a familiar
greeting as the usher admitted him and his military escort to the palace foyer.

The naked extravagance of the palace never failed to
astonish Deng. Many of the valuables dated back before Chiang Kaishek’s hasty
retreat from the communists. An enormous crystal chandelier was the gift of
Tsar Nicholas II; an ornate gilded litter, which had been borne on the
shoulders of Mongolian eunuchs for the Qianlong emperor and his wives at the
zenith of the Qing dynasty. Arranged on a low, knotty walnut table between two
sofas, a solid gold tea service reflected light from the chandelier onto the
wall like points of yellow flame. Deng recalled the General Secretary’s boast
that most things of value in the palace were spoils of the Cultural Revolution.

As he was led from the foyer, it seemed that a high-level
security
kou
or perhaps a session of the Standing Committee was
adjourning—Deng noted with remorse that he recognized few of the faces passing
the opposite way. His stewardship of the Commission of Science, Technology and
Industry for National Defense meant Deng received a cordial greeting from
several of the high-ranking cadres. By their expressions, the session had not
gone well.

Deng entered without fanfare General Secretary Zhou De’s
briefing chamber. The air was stale with smoke, ashtray stands overflowed with
cigarette butts and large silver platters featured only crumbs. The door closed
gently behind him on the otherwise empty room. He noticed that the French paneled
doors were open onto the lush walking garden where, unknown to outsiders, the
socialist leader regularly indulged a penchant for ancient Daoist readings. A
handful of attendees had apparently stepped out to talk and smoke cigarettes. The
sound of a single cricket mocked Deng’s annoyance at being rushed from his home.

“We are keeping our national treasure from his
grandchildren!” the General Secretary bellowed in order that the meeting begin.

The other officials returned to their seats as an assistant
helped General Secretary Zhou return to his chair atop its dais at the front of
the room. China’s president gripped the arms of his chair and shifted his great
bulk to acknowledge Deng Zhen with a wave of his hand. Deng noted sadly the
core leader’s deteriorating health; the world had learned only recently that he
suffered from tuberculosis.

Wooden chairs lining the wall of the chamber were angled
toward the general secretary. As always at such gatherings, Deng wondered why
certain individuals had been invited to accompany the likes of Rong Peng, vice
chairman of the Military Affairs Commission, and Huang Yi, the State Council
vice premier and finance minister, who along with Rong made up the general
secretary’s short list to succeed him on the emperor’s throne. Seated beside Rong
was the chief of the Second Department of the People’s Liberation Army. The
chief of military intelligence oversaw implementation of policies set forth by
Rong Peng in daily operations of the PLA. This man, too, was young for his
post, perhaps in his late forties. To Rong’s right was Chen Ruihan, their newly
minted state security deputy minister. Seated beside Huang was the woman Deng
knew to be the deputy minister of energy. So, for Rong it was his intelligence
goons, while apparently Huang had decided to arm himself with the final word on
the country’s expanding energy sectors. What relevance these incongruous
factions would have on the matter at hand, Deng was curious to know.

Rong Peng addressed Deng Zhen directly. “Our subject for concern
this evening is the Fourth Line satellite project. We continue to pour vast
resources into it without having verified that the orbiting device even works. We
are falling further and further behind schedule.”

Deng had bent over backwards to keep officials informed that
recent problems represented a significant setback. He waited for the question
certain to follow.

“This disturbs me very greatly,” Rong said. “Why is this
so?”

Deng frowned. “Why are we late? Or, why does that bother
you?”

Nobody made a sound. Rong cocked an eyebrow and threatened
a smile. “We are presently in high level talks with the Americans regarding
their missile defenses. This information by the way has not been made public. What
bothers
me, Comrade Deng, is our inability to position ourselves in the
negotiation. Do we, or do we not, have a means of neutralizing their missile
shield?” Rong crossed his legs. “The Americans have no idea that we stand ready
to wield our own, uniquely Chinese capability. You can see the tremendous asset
your device represents. Confidence in its effectiveness eludes us at the worst
possible time. Meanwhile, the American deployment schedule proceeds.”

Other than the bit about negotiations, Deng had heard the
words before. That they were being repeated in this particular forum probably
meant Rong intended to outmaneuver someone. “We are experiencing temporary difficulties,
most are being corrected as we speak,” Deng replied. “However, the device will
not necessarily be as effective a deterrent against their missile shield as one
might prefer. Allow me to illustrate. I trust you’ve confirmed that the stealth
features of our satellite have achieved their objective?”

“There are the skeptical American analyst or two,” said Chen
Ruihan. “They otherwise accept that one of our communications satellites
disintegrated in orbit. Moscow has issued a similar accounting. This is an
impressive accomplishment and no longer a matter for debate.”

Deng leaned forward and clasped his hands. “The fact that
they cannot see our satellite shift between orbits should serve to remind us
that we, too, cannot destroy what we cannot first find. Their ground-based
radar and intercept elements will be much more vulnerable. Still, I would
proceed in your negotiations with caution.”

“We understand that you’ve recently lost a valuable
resource,” Rong pointed out. The gaunt-faced cadre contemplated Deng with eyes
that seemed to burn with inexhaustible stamina. “What effect has this had on
your progress?”

Initially, Deng and his colleagues were suspicious that the
prominent physicist had breached some arbitrary security measure, a common
occurrence given that the bureaucracy was laden with easily sprung traps. Public
Security generally kept such incidents quiet; minor infractions were quickly
resolved. When these were not so benign, the apparatus reacted predictably by
hobbling his engineers with yet more bureaucratic delay. So the physicist’s
prolonged disappearance was puzzling. “Zhao Bocheng is China’s premier quantum
physicist,” he replied.

Rong took a drag from his cigarette and studied him
patiently.

“At the time of his disappearance, Zhao was preparing our
second vehicle for launch. I must advise you that his absence will have an
ongoing impact.” In another forum he would be accused of wielding a convenient excuse.
“I have heard several rumors. But I assume you can tell me the whereabouts of
Comrade Zhao?”

“What sort of information did Zhao have access to?” Rong
asked.

Deng glanced at the faces around the room.

“What you can assume, Comrade Deng, is that all of your
superiors present this evening are cleared for the topic of this discussion. Please
proceed.”

“Dr. Zhao was among the handful assembled some thirty years
ago, I believe, to begin theoretical work in response to the American Strategic
Defense Initiative. It was Zhao’s work, along with technical information
acquired secretly and otherwise, that culminated in the construction of our
first argon-gas laser, and later the closed-loop optical sensor array
experiments in the 1990’s. His skills include system integration and so I
assigned him oversight of linking communication between all of the satellite
subsystems. In fact, complete success in this area has eluded us. Zhao had been
hard at work inside our Xichang facility, directing the software specialists
from, well, up north.”

“Our Russian devils,” Rong offered.

It still disturbed Deng that China frequently had little
choice but to suborn themselves to foreigners, however highly skilled. He felt
foolish and old-fashioned. “Actually, they are Ukrainian, and very gifted.” He
continued by explaining that Zhao’s next mission was to have been testing the
revamped software solutions on vehicle number two, prior to reprogramming the
unit already in orbit.

“So, is it fair to say that Zhao Bocheng has as thorough a
grounding in the weapon’s technology as anyone?”

Rong’s question seemed to hang in the air, and Deng finally
said, “Is my need for having him back truly in question?”

The general secretary interrupted with a raspy cough. “Deng,
my old friend—” He winced but warded off concern by raising his massive hand. “We
did not haul you here to ambush you.”

It isn’t at all clear why you did haul me here,
Deng
thought. To Rong’s question he replied, “With the possible exception of me.”

After a brief silence, the finance minister joined the
discussion. “With my deepest respect for General Secretary, the premise of our
gathering tonight is flawed. We heard directly from Comrade Deng that our
disabled satellite cannot be relied upon as an anti-satellite—”