Razing Beijing: A Thriller (49 page)

He regretted his inability to draw Korzhakov deeper into
his circle of trust. “The Americans strive to capture fluorescence at the
individual photon level.”

“They will never achieve that,” Korzhakov sputtered. “Certainly
not from orbit.”

“As usual, they have set for themselves an ambitious goal, so
they’ll need another invention or two before they arrive. We, on the other
hand, do not seek replication. Our computation and energy needs are simplified
by half.” In fact, whereas the American spectroscopy sought to capture
individual photons, only a fraction of fluorescing material—just a few thousand
molecules, no more really than those liberated during normal sublimation—should
be adequate for quantum entanglement to initiate the Chinese process.

The onus of achieving that now rested firmly on the
shoulders of the software developers, the very engineers who seemed to Deng increasingly
lost at sea with neither a compass nor a rudder. In his mind he began composing
the report to his superiors. He imagined their panic upon hearing it.

Deng turned to Korzhakov, “Tell me what more it is that you
need.”

“I’ve told you what we need. Our inability to write proper
code is the problem. And at the heart of
that
problem lies a skill
vacuum—a very unique skill, unique to only one of our physicists.”

Deng was tired of excuses. “Unfortunately, this is one
error we have to correct with whatever skill is already at your disposal.”

“DEVINN WAS JUST ANAL
enough
to have settled two months advance on his rent, utilities, and everything else,
whether or not it was part of a ruse,” Stuart told Emily, somewhat dejectedly. He
stopped short of suggesting that they were wasting their time.

“That’s such a negative way of looking at it,” Emily teased
him, smiling. “If he was so efficient, why did he choose to cancel the Maserati
lease instead of simply parking it in a garage for two months?”

Emily’s point notwithstanding, Stuart found it hard to hold
out hope for a mission increasingly likely to fail. Arriving in Cleveland early
that Tuesday morning armed with little more than Paul Devinn’s address,
Stuart’s visit to the post office branch was met with a polite rebuke that
policy prohibited even acknowledging a change in delivery status. Emily
encountered similar obstacles during her own excursion that morning. Unconvinced
that a scrutinizing customer was merely trying to acquire service similar to
that of her neighbor and friend, Paul Devinn, the local cable and Internet
service providers had each refused to discuss it. With Marlene Schwegman’s
help, an Internet search and credit report had also proven to be disappointing
sources for uncovering leads.

They had learned by morning’s end that Devinn put a
two-month hold on both his racquet club membership and local newspaper
subscription. Their only real success, such as it was, consisted of Emily’s
discovery during her visit to the city’s one Maserati leasing company. There
she learned that unless Devinn’s lease expiration happened to coincide with his
departure, surrendering the car would trigger a cancellation clause costing
thousands of dollars.

Stuart concealed his annoyance at the raucous jumping and
shouting of two undisciplined children several booths away, their parents
obliviously relaxed and sipping beverages. “I had the impression he’d been
planning this trip for some time. Could be he’d gotten a special clause written
in to coincide with his plans.”

“Without knowing for sure, I find it suspicious.” Emily leaned
forward and touched her hand to Stuart’s arm. “Don’t give up. We still have our
acting audition, don’t we?”

Stuart raised his glance from her hand, and their eyes
met—he smiled. Suddenly aware, Emily withdrew her hand.

Stuart had hoped to avoid having to rely on their little
impostor stunt. It wasn’t clear that wielding a few legal terms and a couple of
phony business cards would lend credibility to any of their lies. It was not as
if he and Emily were professional sleuths—an avenue he might’ve pursued, were
it not for the convenience of pulling together personal loose ends that the
trip to Cleveland had also allowed.

“How did your deposition this morning go?” Emily asked, still
blushing.

“Wonderful! Nothing like a lawsuit to breathe new life into
a man. You know, I’ve been thinking how easily somebody in Devinn’s position
might recruit an accomplice. For instance, how much did you know about Sean
Thompson?”

Emily took a sip of beer from her mug. “You mean, personal
things?”

“Personal things.”

Emily frowned. “Sean had a doctor-brother living in
Cincinnati he’d occasionally driven down to see. I knew that he was moody. He
didn’t seem to be dating anyone. Sometimes he did not seem decisive about
things. I certainly never thought he used drugs.”

“And you worked closely with him for years. You didn’t
mention anything that might indicate a criminal side, certainly nothing to
suggest that he might be corruptible. A human resources director, on the other
hand, has access to information that could be used to construct a profile. First
step would be deciding which technical skills to recruit. From that list of
employees, it would be a matter of a little systematic digging into things like
prior employment records, extracurricular activities, personal finances. The arrest
record of any Thanatech employee is bound to be nil, but even minor offenses
like cheating on a college exam, I don’t know, maybe racking up speeding
tickets, might offer clues for who to approach.”

Emily folded her arms at the prospect of somebody peering
into the personal lives of her and her staff.

“Did Thompson ever mention having any debt?”

“Not that I recall. He certainly seemed to have enough
money, drove a nice car.” Emily bit her lower lip and looked at him. “I know
how he might’ve sabotaged the flight.”

“Something in the software, right?”

“I mean specifically. Sean had access to software that
interfaced the engine control with the aircraft’s flight management computers. Have
you ever heard of a ‘Trojan Horse?’ ”

A horse that practices safe sex?
Stuart was tempted
to say. “I can imagine what it is.”

Emily looked at him strangely. “I’d like to ask Ian Vickers
to check out the memory module.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you. Where is it?”

“I hid it in the electronics lab, behind an old storage locker
that we hardly ever use.”

Stuart considered her suggestion. “I think we need to
be in a position to share our story with some credibility attached to it. That
probably means having Jim Cole and Thanatech counsel involved.” Stuart looked
at his watch. “I guess we might as well go.”

“NOT THE MOVING OUTFIT,
but I do think I remember
him
.” The elderly property manager responded
to Stuart with a grimace. “Devinn...Devinn—sure. He broke his lease.”

Stuart’s first reaction was that this was too easy. Devinn
would have covered his tracks better than simply pulling up stakes and breaking
his lease. Emily’s expression conveyed a similar assessment.

“No—that’s wrong,” the manager corrected himself. “He’s
dead.” The man studied his visitors’ faces.

Stuart said, “Mr. Devinn wasn’t scheduled to return just
yet. I don’t believe his obituary has been published, so I’m curious as to how
it is that you know.”

“A lawyer contacted me with the bad news. Like I said, I
never knew who the movers were. I just swung by his unit in the morning and
unlocked the door like they’d asked me to do. Why don’t you ask them?”

“Who?”

“The law firm.”

Stuart recalled Joanne Lewis had mentioned that estate
lawyers, presuming any were actually representing Devinn, hold inherent
conflicts of interest with the estate liquidators hired by credit and
government agencies. “They probably won’t want to tell me a lot,” he said,
adhering to his script. “You remember the name of the firm?”

The man looked as though this was something that Stuart
should know. “Give me a minute.” The man disappeared to the back of the office.
Stuart hated doing this sort of thing; he had no confidence as a liar. The man
strolled back after a few minutes and, to Stuart’s surprise, handed over a slip
of paper with the firm’s name and address scribbled on it. Stuart thanked him
for his time.

Outside the property management office, perturbed with his
performance, Stuart said to Emily, “These lawyers aren’t going to tell us jack.
I guess that’s that. I’ll check into hiring a detective.”

On their way to Stuart’s rental car, Emily tugged him
gently by the arm. “I have another idea.”

Their drive from the rental office to the upscale urban
neighborhood took fifteen minutes. Approaching the neighbor’s door adjacent to Paul
Devinn’s empty townhouse, Stuart remained unenthusiastic. “Do you want to do
the talking?” he asked Emily.

“That’s okay.”

“I did the last one.”

On their third round of knocking, a middle-aged woman
answered the door. Her jaw dropped upon being greeted by whom she was told was
an old college friend looking to surprise Paul Devinn.

“We’d heard he moved, but we’re not certain of Paul’s new
address,” Stuart explained somewhat truthfully. “Would you happen to know?”

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. The woman slapped a hand over her
mouth in pity. She then described how Paul had always been so kind, having even
offered her all of his perishable foodstuff before taking off on his abominable
trip—and drowning. “Movers took away the remainder of his belongings. That was
a few days ago.”

Apparently overcome by emotion, Stuart turned and stood
morosely overlooking the building’s manicured courtyard. Emily removed her
hands from her mouth and suggested to Paul Devinn’s neighbor that perhaps the
moving company could tell them how to contact his family.

“If the property manager doesn’t know,” the woman said,
tears welling, “I’d try Marks Brothers.”

In the litter-infested parking lot of Marks Brothers Moving
& Storage, Stuart pulled the rental car to a stop beside a semi-tractor
trailer with its hood propped open. An oil-stained and grimy pair of trousers
extended out from underneath the engine.

Stuart lowered his window and shouted, “Hey, is anybody in
the office today?”

“Yeah, just ask for the runt,” followed the muffled
response and sadistic laugh.

This time Emily waited in the car. Stuart emerged less than
two minutes later. He clambered behind the wheel wearing a grin. “I guess they
see repo and liquidator types all the time in there.” Stuart gunned the engine
to life.

Emily noted the spark of enthusiasm. “You’ve become a very
good liar.”

Stuart eyed the exit to the lot. “Your fraudulent business
card did the trick.”

“So, where are we headed?”

“Locker fifty-three, U-Store It. He said they made the
delivery there three days ago.”

Twenty minutes later—their return flight to Richmond now looming—they
stood waiting as a man, who Stuart thought appeared gaunt to the point of
emaciation, perused customer account records on a computer screen.

“No. Not here,” the immigrant said in some unfamiliar
accent.

Stuart narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“I am quite sure.” The man who’d introduced himself as
Bhushan shook his head. “D-I-V-I-N-E. Not in fifty-three.”

“I’m sorry, I must have mispronounced the name. That was De
vinn.
D-E-V-I-N-N.”

“Oh...” He tapped out the name on the keyboard. “But again
it is no.”

Stuart swore under his breath; he’d been sure they were
onto something. He turned toward Emily. She shrugged and shook her head.

Stuart asked, “What name
is
under fifty-three?”

Bhushan’s eyes flickered away from the computer screen. “Who
did you say you were with?”

Stuart removed the business card from the breast pocket of
his shirt and dropped it confidently onto the counter. “We’re estate
liquidators representing the State of Ohio. This man is deceased and left no
heirs.” Sober recognition steadied the man’s eyes upon hearing the word
‘state.’

“I show a C. Bloch in unit fifty-three.”

“
Bloch
. Huh. Must be some mistake. Would you happen
to know what this Bloch looks like?”

Bhushan leaned back in his chair. “Heavens, so many faces.”
He pointed at the screen. “But this account was handled by mail. Bloch might
never have set foot here in the office. Customers do not have to check in to go
to their locker.”

“Does Bloch have an address?”

“Yes.” The man cast a glance between he and Emily.

Stuart pulled from his shirt pocket the slip of paper given
him by Devinn’s property manager. “Is this by any chance the address?”

Bhushan leaned forward to read the note Stuart held out for
him, then looked at the screen. “Hanover Street, New York...yes, that is the
address.”

Stuart exchanged a look with Emily Chang.
What now?
He
slipped the paper back into his pocket. Bhushan reached for the business card
as Stuart plucked it up. “My last one,” Stuart smiled crookedly as it disappeared
into his pocket. “This is going to take some time to unravel. Thanks for your
trouble, Mr. Bhushan.”

Stuart reached to open the door for Emily, but stopped and
turned. “I don’t suppose you’d mind telling us when the lease was taken out on
that locker?” he asked the U-Store It proprietor.

Bhushan glanced at the screen and pursed his lips. “When
did you say this man died?”