Razing Beijing: A Thriller (61 page)

Stuart blinked. “You used the files I forwarded to pinpoint
one
building?”

“Two buildings,” Juarez corrected him.

“How?”

Juarez looked at McBurney.

“You don’t need to know that,” said McBurney. “The
important thing is, who in either of those buildings might possibly have reason
to construct such a message? Viewed that way, arriving at the answer is not so
technical as it might appear.” McBurney gave Juarez the nod to proceed.

Juarez moved another slide into place. This showed
photographs of a crowd of young street protesters, fists raised and waving
signs, their faces contorted and angry as they shouted at helmeted riot police
armed with Plexiglas shields. The monochromatic pictures, four adjacent frames
on the single slide, each featured a red circle around the face of one of the
protesters.

“This man is an assistant music professor at Beijing University,”
Juarez explained. “His office and classrooms are in one of the buildings I
showed you. He’s been arrested and jailed as part of the ongoing crackdown on
the democracy movement, which was pretty much driven underground after
Tiananmen Square in June of ‘89. As the son of a prominent official, he
receives favorable consideration and has always been released. He’s narrowly
evaded prison sentences on at least two occasions that we know of.”

“Beijing University...?” Stuart shook his head and shared a
look with Emily. “Are we supposed to see a connection?”

“Not yet,” McBurney said.

One by one, photographs of Chinese men appeared on the
screen, some of which were obviously acquired through covert methods. Stuart
and Emily were asked if they recognized any of the men; with each, the two
visitors shook their heads.

Juarez presented another slide, the single photograph of an
older man copied from a magazine or newspaper. Contemplative, intelligent brown
eyes stared out from the man’s oriental face, his jaw square and strong.

Stuart leaned forward and squinted at the screen.

“This man’s a high government official,” McBurney said, “or
cadre, as the communists say. Look familiar?”

Stuart pondered the photograph. Again, he shook his head.

Juarez went to remove the slide.

“Hold on.” Stuart rose from his chair and approached the
screen. “I think I might have met him once.”

McBurney jutted his chin toward the projector and Juarez
slapped down another slide, a grainy black-and-white photograph. The image
around the boundary was distorted, as if shot using a poor quality lens.

Stuart’s jaw dropped. This photo showed him standing with a
drink in his hand and talking to the man pictured on the previous slide. Stuart
turned toward the roomful of faces quietly appraising him. He cast a glare at
McBurney. “What the hell is this?”

“Maybe you should tell us.”

“If I had the answer—” He cut himself off and turned toward
the screen. “That must have been taken at a medical technology forum. There
were usually government types milling around, at least I was told there were. Back
in the nineties, I was traveling to Asia to peddle our medical products, and I
think this man...Deng, that was his name. I remember that was the name because
I asked him if he was a relative of their deceased leader, Deng Xioaping. He looked
at me strangely, like I’d just insulted him, and replied only when checking
himself into hotels—odd sense of humor. He was one of few actually trying to
help cut through the red tape and graft I was encountering.” Stuart returned to
his seat. “He was interested in CLI’s optical surgery lasers.”

“Wait, I know who he is,” Emily Chang volunteered. “His
name is Deng Zhen. Everyone in China knows him as our ‘technology czar.’ ”

McBurney said, “His official title is Commissioner of
National Defense Science, Technology, and Industry. So, you remember where you
met him?”

“The Palace Hotel,” replied Stuart.

“You’re certain?”

Stuart studied the face on the screen. “We’ve both aged a
bit. I’m certain it’s the guy in your photo.”

“Qinghua used to host his speaking engagements,” Emily
added. “Deng Zhen is much revered among the engineering students. As a
prominent figure, he’s unusually outspoken on the Cultural Revolution, and he
openly condemns that element of the proletariat class who still denounce
intellectualism. Many in China look up to him. My father works...my father
worked for him for many years.”

McBurney snapped his fingers. “Juarez, put up the slide of
the Old Defense Building...yeah, that one.” There were actually two photos, one
taken street level, and the other from a distance by telephoto lens that
captured the rooftop’s assorted satellite dish paraphernalia. “Miss Chang, do
you recognize this building?”

Emily thought for a moment. “On Iron Lion Lane, correct?”

“Yes, in fact.”

“We occasionally walked past on the way to class. It’s just
a few blocks from the Forbidden City.”

McBurney asked, “Did your father happen to work there?”

“I always thought his office was in the Kaili Building. At
least, that is where it was before I left to attend university in the United
States. They had since moved him and my mother to Xichang.”

McBurney exchanged a disappointed look with Carolyn Ross. “Let’s
return to Deng Zhen. He’s above all a survivor, part of the vanishing post-Mao
gerontocracy. Carolyn?”

Emily’s acquaintance spoke without any notes. “Deng Zhen is
considered a conservative member of the Communist Party. He’s known to have an
icy relationship with his son Peifu, the dissident from the previous slide. They
eschew each other’s company, and the cadre never even showed up for any of his
son’s graduations. Their last prominent public showing together was six years
ago at his wife’s funeral.”

Stuart was intrigued. “You think the son sent the message
to settle a score with his conservative father?”

“What’s going on between the father and son isn’t exactly
clear,” Ross replied.

McBurney said, “It’s possible the elder Deng may have
accessed the Internet through a terminal where his son works—in order to
contact you.”

There was an analyst leaning with his back against the
wall, a gaunt middle-aged man with a goatee, whom Stuart had noticed staring at
the floor with a perpetual frown. “The problem with that, Sam, is why haven’t
the authorities nabbed Deng?” the analyst said in a raspy voice. “I can accept
they haven’t intercepted the Internet message. But we know they tail him all
over the place. State Security probably had someone follow him into the
building, and they’d inquire what he was doing there. Especially since it’s
known he and his son are at odds.”

“Don’t forget who we’re talking about here,” McBurney
cautioned. “Deng’s on personal terms with the Party Secretary.”

“Who is essentially bedridden,” the analyst countered.

“The succession politics are an intractable element of any
explanation we form.” McBurney stood up heavily from his chair and walked to
the front of the room. “Maybe the police were simply looking the other way
after Deng spread a little
quanxi
around. It also may not matter. You
shouldn’t necessarily assume that Deng would be dead if they discovered him
passing off Internet messages, or that he’d be tossed into the gulag like
Zhao—” McBurney cut himself short. Everyone followed his gaze toward Emily. “Forgive
me, Miss Chang. That was very insensitive of me. I’m sorry.”

Emily nodded morosely.

McBurney rubbed his face with his hands, then walked back
to his chair and sat down. While staring down at the table he said, “Frankly,
after reviewing a hundred possibilities in the last twenty-four hours, that
Deng originated the messages is our only good guess. We have a theory or two as
to
why
he might do this, which we are not at liberty to discuss at the
moment. We don’t really know
what
he was trying to say.” McBurney fixed
his gaze on Stuart. “You may have been singled out by Deng as the recipient of
some sort of a warning.”

“Why me?”

“Perhaps simply because he remembered you.”

“I believe someone possessed advance knowledge of what was
about to appear in the Baltimore stadium. Knowledge, and perhaps even control
of it. I don’t know that I’d characterize it as a warning.”

“I have to be frank,” McBurney shifted in his chair. “We’re
not on the same page, Mr. Stuart, regarding the source of the Baltimore thing. For
the sake of discussion, let’s assume you’re right. It’s disconcerting to know
Deng’s responsibilities include advance weapons development for the PLA, which
makes it an intriguing theory because of the valuable knowledge at his
disposal. Question is, would you assess your acquaintance as an adequate basis
for him to include you in such an act?”

Stuart endured the uncomfortable silence for several
moments. “No, but...you’re suggesting this guy is some sort of a traitor?”

McBurney closed his eyes. “Sorry, that’s background you—”

“Don’t need to know.” Stuart thought for a moment. “You’re
making more of the acquaintance angle than I would. I think I was contacted
because of where I work. Remember what the poem said about the ‘...lion
recognizing her cub’?”

A woman seated across the table corrected him. “ ‘Does the
lioness recognize the sire, returned, to dominate the pride?’ ”

“To me, that suggests I was chosen because I’d recognize
the footprint of our own technology.”

McBurney didn’t respond.

“Hate to sound like a broken record, but that gets back to
my principle gripe.”

“How so?”

“Let’s start with the missing computer files.”

“You mean the maybe-stolen files?” McBurney pointed out.

“Fine. The files
possibly
stolen from CLI would have
included software that governs the process we’re developing. Doesn’t it seem
that somebody stole this stuff to sell to the Chinese?”

McBurney gazed at the projector screen. “That may be a bit
of a leap.”

Stuart’s temper flared. “Look at me: I left my stupid mask
at home this time. Emily’s parents are nabbed in China, she’s blackmailed to
curtail my crash investigation. I get a message from China that suggests the
‘maybe’ stolen files are not ‘maybe’ stolen at all. Now we find out that Emily’s
father worked for the guy you say sent me the message. One common thread
running between all this appears to be China—and you’re telling me it’s a bit
of a leap?”

McBurney drum-rolled his fingers on the table.

“Now, Emily and I don’t mind helping you all do your job.” Stuart
tried to control his impatience. “What we’d appreciate is for somebody to
explain how this relates to what we’ve been through.”

Stuart’s request was met with blank stares.

“We understand your frustration,” McBurney said, “but we
honestly don’t know how any of this relates. This latest incident...it appears
to be an incredible coincidence.”

“I don’t accept that. And you don’t believe it.”

“You can choose not to believe me if you want.” McBurney
sighed. “All right. Why not share with my staff what you told me you’re
developing at CLI.”

Stuart glanced around the room; he was met by expressions
of fatigue and frustration. This didn’t seem the forum to delve into a treatise
on quantum mechanics. “Emily can probably explain better than I can. I think it
might be better just to show you. The problem is going to be getting you
through the door. Security is pretty elaborate. My partner will go ballistic if
you come in waving any of these theories around.”

McBurney responded with apparent boredom.

“Sam, the FBI investigated the alleged file storage
mishap,” Carolyn Ross softly reminded her boss. “That may provide an avenue.”

McBurney said to Stuart, “Frankly, our interest at this
point isn’t an avenue into CLI. We think there might be an opportunity in this
relationship that appears to exist between you, personally, and China’s number
one weapons developer.”

“What relationship?” Stuart snorted. “And opportunity for
whom? I don’t know what you’ve got in mind. What I want to know is that the
people around me and my business are safe from being harmed.”

“That’s what we work toward every day, Mr. Stuart,” Carolyn
Ross offered.

“THE GUY CLAIMED
he
was calling to confirm whether the company’s dividend had been distributed yet,”
Agent Nick Brophy explained.

Hildebrandt asked, “Did he name the company?”

“No. Bloch, the lawyer, told him wrong number, then asked
what number he’d intended to dial, but the guy just hung up on her. I’ll bet
even that you have dialed a wrong number or two, Ed.”

Hildebrandt was quickly learning that the yield from the
Title III wiretap had deluged the field agents assigned to the audio surveillance
team. Not only were there numerous calls on the woman’s dedicated line to
assess, but the firm’s five lawyers and assistants shared
six
outside
lines. Some of the calls were lengthy and involved, while still others were
proving easier to vet for suspicious content than he might have expected. “Four
Seasons, huh? Not exactly the No-Tell Motel. How far away is it?”

“Right in Midtown, twenty minutes. Do you want to hear the
recording?”

“What do you suppose Devinn would be doing in New York?” Hildebrandt
doubted that a direct meeting between Devinn and his lawyer was in the cards.

“Look, people do get wrong numbers. The hotel desk did confirm
that there is a shareholders convention today. The outgoing call to the law
firm was placed from their lobby pay phone. This is nothing, zip, zero.”