Razing Beijing: A Thriller (67 page)

It wasn’t jet lag alone that kept him awake. Notwithstanding
the potential intelligence bonanza, a difficult rendezvous wasn’t the sort of
clandestine operation that he could easily warm up to. Preparations had been
rushed. That it was taking place in a friendly country only marginally improved
the odds for success. The usual measures would be taken by the Chinese to
ensure that a man as important as Deng didn’t defect, get kidnapped, or simply
become injured. What were the odds of seating such a man down in strict
isolation, with not only a foreigner, but an American? Not just any American—for
all he knew, Chinese State Security already suspected this particular American
of engaging Deng in his traitorous liaisons. Stuart seemed to be carrying with
him his own baggage of uncertainties. McBurney’s proposal to use Stuart
withstood the logic test—but was it too risky? Burns’s parting advice to not
‘fuck it up this time’ was somehow less than encouraging.

Ninety minutes later, McBurney awoke as if from the dead. Following
a sufficiently convoluted series of subways and taxicabs, he sat cross-legged
on the floor over dinner at an Akasaka restaurant called the Seven Lilies while
sipping a cup of mercifully strong coffee. Seated beside him in the private
dining room were Carolyn Ross and four other intelligence officers assigned to
the task. George Mekler and Ian Sorensen had between them several decades of
covert operations experience, unfortunately none of it in Asia. But McBurney
had worked with each of them and insisted that the DCI free them up for the
job. Price O’Connell and Gary Nomura were the embassy staff officers
responsible for advance preparations, both of whom were American-born ethnic
Japanese. At 10:35 Tuesday evening Tokyo time, jet lag and fatigue weighed
heavily on the shoulders of the recent arrivals.

Price O’Connell, Deputy Station Chief – Tokyo, relayed the
bellhop’s confirmation that at 6:43 that evening, Mr. Pedersen was delivered
with his bag to his room on the fourteenth floor of the Capitol Tokyu.

McBurney read the younger man’s expression. Heated debate
of where to house Stuart had raged via encrypted satellite up until their
flights had nearly arrived.

“For the record,” O’Connell was compelled to add, “it
would’ve been easier to control if we’d sequestered your man at the Okura with
you. Anyway, the bellhop claims he was whisked to his room while the Chinese
delegation was out to dinner.”

McBurney was in no mood to reopen the debate. “I assume
you’re going to recommend that the rendezvous occur at Deng’s hotel.”

“Looks that way.”

“Then pulling this off is going to be hard enough without
hustling Pedersen across town and slipping him in unseen when the time comes. It’s
a difficult call. But the Tokyu’s a big enough place, so Pedersen won’t be
recognized if he stays put in his room as instructed.” Even as he said it he
understood the risk and difficulty he was imposing on the participants. “What
else have we got?”

O’Connell looked grimly at the veteran officer. “The
objective’s being shadowed pretty closely.”

McBurney considered the point with a grimace as he
straightened his leg beneath the shallow table. Contact would be limited
between Deng and people to whom he might intentionally or even unwittingly pass
state secrets, a broad category that tended to include everything. “I was
afraid of that,” he said.

The thirty-four year old Oregonian went on to describe how
they had organized their surveillance of the Chinese delegation. McBurney’s
three advance officers were posing as visiting diplomats and had positioned
themselves in the vicinity of the Diet, the Japanese government’s sprawling
parliamentary complex in the center of Tokyo. During the evening, and with the
aid of several Japanese agents, two of O’Connell’s resident officers tracked
the Chinese delegation’s movements.

Gary Nomura opened a map of downtown Tokyo and folded it
flat on the table.

“The first two days of trade talks took place in several
locations, primarily inside a large auditorium at the ANA Hotel,” O’Connell
continued, making reference to the map. “They’re holding a conference on
technology export concessions inside the Diet. That’s being hosted by the
Japanese Interior Ministry, so we have to tread lightly.”

“What can you tell us about Deng Zhen’s APEC role?” asked
George Mekler.

“Deng appears to be sort of an advisor-at-large, which
we’re told is consistent with his previous involvement in these trade
boondoggles.” O’Connell explained that Deng would typically attend a given
topic of discussion, whisper comments into the ear of the designated Chinese
negotiator, then walk to check on status of another of the talks. “We can tell
fairly easily who’s assigned to accompany him, always one of two men. Beijing
station’s working with us to establish identities and backgrounds of all these
players.”

“Probably State Security,” McBurney guessed.

O’Connell nodded. “At least one of them, Cheung, also
appears to be a member of their Information Industry Ministry. We’re still
waiting on the other Deng shadow, a big guy who checked in as Pan. Of course,
we don’t know if Deng’s aware these men are more than mere bodyguards. We’ve
asked Beijing to help us with that angle as well.”

“Deng’s been around the block a time or two,” McBurney
pointed out. “What about Deng’s trips to the head, stepping outside for a
smoke, that sort of thing?”

O’Connell cleared his throat. “Your overnight said we were
trying to carve out an hour. So we more or less eliminated toilet visits and
stepping out for a smoke or breath of fresh air. He’s always accompanied while
doing these things. Deng doesn’t appear to smoke.”

“Right,” said McBurney while rubbing his eyes. “I’ll shut
up and listen.”

“During the day we haven’t seen him alone too often,
certainly not
adequately
alone. Except later in his hotel room, which
I’ll get to. He’s had breakfast both mornings inside the hotel restaurant at
8:00. Both times Cheung, Pan, and the same six members of the negotiating team
accompanied him. Today the Chinese broke off for lunch by themselves at their
embassy. Afterward they boarded three taxis and we followed them to an office
building, here”—O’Connell pointed on the map—“next to Haneida. They spent a
little under two hours inside. We’re not certain, but we think it was probably
a strategy session with a couple of PLA corporations trying to expand their
business interests here. But at dinner and all these meals so far, even the big
inaugural hosted last night by MITI, some member of the Chinese delegation was
always within sight of our man.

“Oh. He did take a walk around the imperial grounds late on
the afternoon they arrived. Whether he knew it or not, we observed him being
tailed by Chinese intelligence. So Deng’s daytime hours appear to be spoken
for. Which brings us back to his hotel. Gary?”

“Our break, if there is one, will come in the
commissioner’s reclusive bent,” Nomura began. “By nine or so the rest of his gang
hit the bar for a nightcap, at which time Deng can’t seem to part company soon
enough. He limps into the elevator and retires for the night.”

“We can safely assume his room is bugged,” George Mekler
said. “Does he phone anyone before showing up for breakfast?”

“Deng leaves his room in the morning when he hears a rap on
his door.”

O’Connell informed McBurney that their local Japanese
counterparts had been falling all over themselves in order to help with the
operation.

“Pays to have connections.” McBurney beamed a smile, aware
that the call from the Director had to have helped.

“Japanese public security has someone walk the guest
corridors over there, you know, pushing a laundry cart around, emptying ash
trays by the elevators, that sort of thing. So they tell us Deng gets his knock
on the door—typically it’s the bodyguard Cheung—before heading down to the
breakfast lounge overlooking the pond. They seem to have stringent rules for
their wayward dignitaries.”

“That’s because of guys like you,” McBurney observed.

Nomura unfolded a large sheet of paper on top of the Tokyo
street map. McBurney joined the others in leaning over the table to study the
architectural layout of the Capitol Tokyu.

“This beside the lobby is our women’s apparel and gift
shop,” Nomura said, eyes twinkling good-naturedly as he looked for McBurney’s
reaction.

“Hmm, well, I trust we’ll not have a need for the emergency
fallback.”

Nomura grinned. “Famous last words. Our local buds helped
me put together a good one, and they’ve agreed to be on call with a moment’s
notice. As you suggest, it’s usually a thankless task. But an atta-boy from you
would probably be appreciated.”

McBurney nodded. “We’ll need to go over the details later.”

Nomura directed their attention to the drawing and the hotel
fitness center, consisting of a main room with exercise machines surrounded by
men’s and women’s changing areas and several smaller rooms. “We’ve prepared
several options. These two smaller rooms here are a steam room and a massage
parlor. Option ‘A’ calls for summoning Deng from his room—an invitation,
say—for a session with a masseuse. We expect he’ll be accompanied by one of his
thugs.”

“Won’t the hotel send a masseuse up to your room?” asked Carolyn
Ross.

“Yes. But they’ve begun having legal problems over here. Now
they politely encourage you to use the parlor. The parlors as we see are tiny,
barely big enough to walk around the massage table. So, Deng shows up trailing
his thug. The masseuse is one of ours, she admits Deng, holds up her hand to
the other guy and says, Sorry, massage private. Too small. You wait outside.”

Mekler appeared to be unenthusiastic. “And our Mr. Pedersen
is waiting under the table?”

Nomura pointed to a spot on the drawing. “Or we admit him
through this other door here.”

“I don’t like it,” McBurney immediately said.

Nomura and O’Connell exchanged disappointed looks.

“A massage won’t work. They won’t buy it.”

“Deng hobbles around everywhere he goes. A complimentary
massage is standard fare for all the Tokyu’s guests.” Nomura’s straining jaw
muscles didn’t escape McBurney’s notice. “It will not seem inappropriate.”

“I think his ‘thug’ will try to convince Deng to take a
massage in his room. And what’s he to say?” McBurney decided on a more
conciliatory tone. “Let’s suppose Deng does make it downstairs to the parlor. Remember,
our success is predicated on State Security not finding us out. I’d say chances
are zip that the intelligence guy will sit on his hands outside the door while
Deng is getting a rub-down, whether or not he can hear any whispering or
discussion inside—come to think of it,
especially
if he doesn’t. What
would you do if you were the thug? No,” McBurney shook his head, “setting up
the opposition right outside the door leaves too little margin should something
unpredictable happen.”

McBurney pressed his thumb to the architect’s drawing. “What
does this bar overlook?”

“Kokkaigijidomae. Over there’s a Buddhist temple, and
that’s the deputy Prime Minister’s residence.”

McBurney folded his arms. “What time does it close?”

“Late,” O’Connell replied. “The restaurant’s open ’til
midnight.”

Somebody’s ringing wireless telephone prompted the
intelligence officers to all glance around to see whose it was. McBurney padded
his coat pocket and removed the small rectangular telephone. “Shit.” He pushed
the receive button on the Ericsson encrypted satellite phone and raised it to
his ear. “Yes?”

There was a momentary delay. The satellite reception was so
clear nowadays that McBurney sometimes thought the connection had failed.

“Is that you, Sam?” It was the unmistakable voice of his
secretary.

“What is it, Philip?”

“We’ve got an unusual situation. Emily Chang is holding on
the other line.”

Emily Chang...?
“What the hell does she want?”

8:25 A.M., New York City Rush Hour

SINCE BEING COMPLETED
in
1931, the George Washington Bridge had been heralded as the most heavily
traveled suspension bridge in the world. To solidify this title meant keeping
up with the 1950’s automobile boom, and so in 1962 an entire lower deck was
added, increasing the number of lanes from eight to fourteen.

Each day nearly one hundred thousand vehicles crisscrossed
the twin decks spanning high over the Hudson River between Manhattan and Fort
Lee. At any instant during rush hour some 1,000 vehicles—roughly fifteen hundred
tons—hurtled along the fourteen lane span, which itself comprised another
million
tons of asphalt and structural steel. To support this tremendous load, two
mammoth steel towers soared some 600 feet over the Hudson. Skyscrapers in their
own right, these towers bore the bridge’s weight through four massive,
thirty-six inch diameter catenary ‘cables’—hollow steel cylinders, encasing a
dense mass of small diameter galvanized wire totaling 102,000 miles in length. The
ultimate strength of each catenary cable was 350,000
tons
. Anchored deep
in the granite banks of the Hudson, one pair of these suspension cables looped
majestically along each side of the bridge and between the tops of the towers. That
one of these catenaries might actually break—intentionally or otherwise—was not
deemed possible. Even so, the bridge was structurally designed to withstand the
destruction of one of the four cables. A twin cable failure would be
catastrophic, particularly so if they happened to comprise an individual pair.

Over the course of eight decades, the GW unfortunately
had claimed its share of suicide jumpers and maintenance crew. With respect to
the regulation of safety, it nonetheless held a respectable record. Today, that
record would be broken.