Razing Beijing: A Thriller (91 page)

HILDEBRANDT BEGAN A BRISK
WALK
while speaking into his collar mike, “Looks like a struggle
underway. All points converge, say again, all points converge. Approach with
caution—suspect armed and dangerous. Move it!” Hildebrandt withdrew his
revolver. Beside him, Agent Miller held one steadying hand to the NVGs over his
face while they headed toward the rear of the house. They heard the
thwack
of what sounded like shattering plaster.

“Was that a shot fired?” somebody asked from the darkness
to Hildebrandt’s right.

“Not at us!” Miller confirmed for Hildebrandt. They broke
into a full jog.

“We got one female fleeing inside toward the front,”
Miller’s jumbled voice reported. “White male hostage engaging hand-to-hand with
suspect—
gun, gun, gun!”

What followed was difficult to discern. Shattering
glass—that was to be expected as an agent or agents cleared the way to brandish
their weapons. Shouting erupted from three directions—from inside, to
Hildebrandt’s left, and to his right as agents emerged from the gloom. He was
close enough to the house to see the blur inside of shadowed movement—

The million-candlepower flash accompanied by a two
hundred-decibel bang was unmistakable.

“FUCK!”
Hildebrandt cringed, eyes shut, gun at ready
but forced to turn away in a defensive crouch. Other agents reacted
predictably, shouting obscenities, most notably Agent Miller, who received the
full amplified effect of the flash through the NVGs before collapsing to his
knees. Tossing a flash-bang had not been part of the plan.

“Who the
fuck
let that go?” Hildebrandt demanded.
“Who
let that go!”
He opened his eyes to find that he was nearly blind. Through
the image of the door and window frames burned into his retina he saw three
kneeling FBI agents, shaking their heads clear and struggling to regain their
senses.

“Miller!”

“I’ll survive!”

“Agent Carter, cover me!”

“Go!” she shouted, still shaking her head clear while
raising her sidearm.

Hildebrandt stood from his crouch and kicked open the back
door. Barging in, gun level, he approached the victim sprawled on the floor. He
kicked the knife away from the outstretched hand.

The subject was bearded, Hildebrandt saw as the man started
to groan. He didn’t seem to look like Devinn. There was no one else in the
room. “Cover the front of the house!” Hildebrandt shouted.
NOT again!
“We
need a report from the front of the house!”

Two dazed agents entered the residence with their firearms
defensively raised. They quickly assessed the situation and, pairing-up, made
their way down the hallway.

The ‘All clear!’ shouts rolled in.

Special Agent Carter stepped inside from the yard and made
her way to Hildebrandt. She caught his eye and shook her head.

“Shit.”

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Peaches.”

Carter lowered her voice. “I think it’s okay to safe the
weapon now, Ed.” She gently patted his outstretched arm. “We put out an APB for
Devinn’s car to the local police.”

Hildebrandt nodded. He needed something to focus on...the
guy on the floor was trying to sit up. Out of routine, Hildebrandt patted down
the subject for signs of a concealed weapon. “Your name, please, sir?” he
asked, confident of the answer.

“Milton Thackeray. I live here.”

“My name’s Hildebrandt. We spoke on the phone.”

“What happened to Emily?”

“She’s fine,” Agent Carter replied. “An agent’s with her
now. They’re making their way around back.”

Agent Miller stooped to retrieve the spent flash-bang
canister from behind a stack of lumber. He stepped forward and presented it for
Hildebrandt to inspect.

“Who tossed it?” Hildebrandt asked, anger returning to his
voice.

“I was over there by the window,” another agent replied. “I
think it was the suspect.”

Hildebrandt studied the standard, FBI-issue canister. “The
suspect?
”
He returned his attention to the owner of the house. “Did you get the identity
of our friend?”

“I think his name is Devinn. You let him get away?”

Hildebrandt squinted to better see the man’s face. “You
look like you’re injured.”

Thackeray chuckled. “Nahh.”

Gail Carter offered to call an ambulance.

Hildebrandt helped the man to his feet and began untying
his hands. He was unable to imagine how Devinn might have taken possession of a
controlled FBI device. “I’d thank whoever it was that dropped us a line to keep
an eye on you two,” he said. “We cut this one a little close.”

Thackeray surveyed the various computer components
scattered on the floor, remnants of his struggle with Devinn. He reached down
for the remains of a smashed monitor. “Actually, I’m afraid you showed up a
little too late.”

DEVINN WOULD HAVE
PREFERRED
that all of them suffered the effects of the concussion
grenade; he settled for the FBI agent preoccupied with Emily Chang as his only
immediate threat. He ducked into a crouched run from the front door of
Thackeray’s house and dodged, bush to tree, across the front yard. Chang and
the man disappeared around the garage.

It took him less than ten minutes, cutting through
neighboring properties, to circle back to the bicycle stowed behind a pile of
firewood a half-mile away. Twice he had to ditch behind trees alongside the
road, first to avoid a man on foot, the second a suddenly approaching car with
its headlights extinguished.

Five minutes of feverish pedaling were surprisingly free of
incident. He paused to dial his cellular phone only when behind the wheel of
his car, which he had parked on the opposite side of town in a used car lot.

The voice at the other end of the connection did not convey
joy at being woken. Devinn briefly explained the situation.

Lee swore under his breath.

“The connection is cut, and I know we busted up at least
one of the terminals.”

“This was a precise schedule they seemed to be working to?”
Lee asked.

“No doubt about it. They kept looking at this computer timer.”

“Timer? What time did it run out to?”

Devinn tried to recall. “15:31 Zulu...? I know it was today,
because the date—”

“That’s 10:31 eastern standard time. Are you sure it didn’t
say
16:31
Zulu?”

“I’m sure.”

“No chance maybe some glare on the screen, or you mixed
up—”

“Did I stutter? 15:31 Zulu!”

“All right...your latest fuck-up is a real problem. Here’s
the deal. They have to be stopped—you have to stop them. You’ve got to get inside
CLI in order to stop them.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Look. Just take care of the situation at CLI, and then you
can lay low for awhile, even out of the country.”

“I’m not big on laying low. That was the whole idea of my
death up in Canada.”

Silence on the phone. “Zurich, Gibraltar, Hong Kong.”

“What?”

“I’ll seize your accounts before you’ve even had a chance
to contact your lawyer—I mean that literally.”

“If anything happens to me, letters go out.”

“Fair enough. Now, I can tell you the security system at
CLI is sophisticated...”

THE CABINET STRATEGY
SESSION
was adjourned and, just after seven
A.M.
Washington and two P.M. Tehran local times, the various
telecommunications arrangements were completed. It was agreed the U.S. side
would lead the opening statements.

The Secretary of State began from his notes. “I would first
like to assure the Supreme Spiritual Leader, and those of you assembled, that
the United States does not actively harbor ill-will toward either your
government or the people of Iran. As President Denis stated three days ago, our
military action, though regrettable, was intended to achieve reciprocity for
the acts of terrorism on America. Despite the repeated unprovoked slaughter of
Americans, and as demonstration of our ongoing reverence for human rights, this
we sought to achieve with minimal loss of Iranian civilian or military lives. Now,
we’ve appealed for Iran’s leaders to condemn terrorist violence, to provide
information that would assist in delivering justice to its perpetrators, and to
pursue policies for further disbanding terrorist organizations. It is our
intention to pursue these just goals.

“However, we are gravely concerned. We are concerned that
our plea falls on deaf ears and that there will continue to be loss of life on
both sides. Iran’s mobilization of forces along its northern border threatens
not just the escalation of conflict with the United States, but also
instability in a region of vital interest to all nations. We urge that the
Iranian leadership reconsider its current positions on these issues so that the
United States can peaceably withdraw its forces.”

For twenty seconds or so it sounded as if the connection
was lost. “Yes, Mr. Secretary,” came the accented reply of the foreign minister.
“We in the Islamic Republic of Iran share your concern. Your first
objectionable act was to effectively blockade our vital shipping lanes,
conducted unlawfully and without consent of the United Nations Security
Council. By any legal standard this is an act of war.”

“We do not seek war,” President Denis firmly disagreed. “We
responded measuredly and only after obtaining evidence that Iran was acting
outside the missile technology protocol. Secretary Laynas presented that
evidence to the Security Council.”

“Please, may I complete our opening statement?”

Denis received an anxious stare from his secretary of state.

“Thank you. We would like later to address this apparent
distinction you make between how you
act
with what you
seek
. It
is a source of confusion to us. Now then, as we have repeatedly insisted, the
Islamic Republic has no knowledge whatsoever of who orchestrated these alleged
terrorist attacks against you. We have sought your permission to meet the
Iranian nationals, spies you say, who stand accused of these acts. Individuals
held without due process availed to American citizens, and in violation of international
standards. Our requests are denied out of hand. We can only presume these men
stand unjustly accused. Without provocation your response is then to attack and
destroy the very heart of our commerce.
We seek justice
, you say?
We
do not seek war
, you say? To all Believers it is clear that what you seek
is war against Islam. The justice you seek is not God’s Justice.”

Glances exchanged inside the Oval Office ranged from mild
concern to visibly rattled. Denis pointed his finger at himself; the Secretary
of State nodded concurrence.

“The United States no more seeks war against Islam than
Islam seeks war against Christians and Jews—or so I’d have thought before your
OPEC exploits of recent years,” Denis rebutted, confident his allusion to the
Tehran-brokered oil embargo had scored the appropriate tactical point. “The
facts are that both our countries value citizens of all religious
denominations. Our first move in a war of the sort you accuse us of waging
would be to expel all Muslims, would it not?”

“Mr. President, as you and I know there are Muslims, and
then there are Muslims. Superficial sleight of hand does not advance the spirit
of our dialogue. The United States has been fighting a proxy war through Israel
against Islam for generations. If moral justice is truly your objective, then
join the world in demanding Israel’s withdrawal from illegally occupied
territories.”

“Why don’t we—let’s shift our focus,” Laynas quickly
suggested. The risk was clear that the teleconference for which he had lobbied
both sides might nudge relations backward rather than forward. “What gesture by
the United States would Iran consider appropriate for reducing tensions?”

An extended silence. “ ‘Gesture?’ There is no ‘gesture’
worthy of serious consideration, but since you ask, I would start by suggesting
America stop the assault on our culture by your export of decadence and
immorality in your television and entertainment media. Of course, your attack
on our country and our economy brought the destruction of our navy frigates and
caused hundreds of our personnel to be martyred. And while you offer a gesture,
we demand reparations. Eighteen billion US dollars would only begin to address...”

The President folded his arms and drew back into his chair.
Walter Laynas held up his hand urging restraint.

“...and the cessation of your illegal blockade in the Strait
of Hormuz, by complete and permanent recall of all Western military from their
occupation of Persian Gulf territories in the Middle East. Finally, the United
States will endorse UN Resolution 242, consistent with pre-1967 boundaries and
the extraction of all Zionist settlements forthwith—this, you will note, is a
concession on our part.”

“It is Iranian mercenaries who have invaded the United
States,” Denis countered, openly angry if not quite on the verge of losing it
altogether. “Will Iran agree to compensate the hundreds of American families
whose innocent loved ones have been murdered?”

“Ah, mercenaries, yes. We are not blind, Mr. President. It
is with lying Zionist Jews that you plot to defraud and defeat the honor of
Islam!”

“Plot? You censor the newswires, so you would know that the
two Iranian intelligence operatives were captured red-handed.”

“We must not overlook that the murder of our Washington
diplomat was never satisfactorily resolved.”