Kosmalski looked away and said nothing.
McBurney cracked a smile. “I’m sending someone over for a transcript of Senator Milner’s meeting with Ahmadi.”
“Go ahead and send him. In case you haven’t figured out, I’ve got several crimes to solve. With allegations of high-level influence peddling I cannot have relevant evidence floating around Washington. We are talking about homicide.”
“And protecting the poll numbers of a senator?”
Kosmalski’s facial muscles appeared to tighten around his skull. “Credible threats to policy makers are difficult to ignore. In this town such things demand a certain level of confidentiality. I may have a mandate to coordinate with you, but don’t push your luck.”
“I intend to speak with Senator Milner about the exchange between him and Ahmadi.”
Kosmalski laughed. “I guess you’re welcome to try.”
“And I intend to have a copy of Ahmadi’s surveillance report.”
“Mr. McBurney, you are the only one who said anything about a surveillance report.” Kosmalski made a show of looking at his watch. “I’m sure you’re aware how tight Milner is with the president. Good luck with that.”
6
MARBLE-SIZED RAINDROPS HAMMERED soundlessly against thick, bullet-resistant windowpanes as the President sat engrossed at his desk inside the Oval Office, his back to the world. On his desk nearby lay the biographical profiles of that evening’s dinner guests, half of which he had browsed.
Howard Denis, President of the United States of America, glanced up from page one of the lengthy intelligence briefing with a pained expression. “Whoever killed Kate Prouty has made certain these terrorists remain at large,” he reminded the three advisors seated before him. “I trust this doorstop here will somehow inform me who you think is responsible.”
Sam McBurney had prepared the President’s briefing, which did no such thing. At a loss for words, he examined the red folder in his hands, the words ‘Eyes Only’ emblazoned on the middle of the cover. He and his staff had worked it non-stop for the last thirty hours analyzing, condensing, revising, and condensing yet again.
Thomas Herman, advisor to the president for national security, was shaking his head. “I know what this document does attempt, and I’d like to say from the outset that I disagree with it. I’m disappointed with the logic that McBurney and the Director are going to use because I think it is weak. It also risks undermining our focus to apprehend those truly responsible for the recent attack on our national heritage.”
Lester Burns, the country’s first black Director of the CIA, turned to Herman and smiled. “Fair enough, Tom. I hope we can change your mind. Sam? The president has a schedule to keep.”
McBurney offered his condolences for the loss of Katherine Prouty before proceeding. “I also had the opportunity to observe first-hand the particularly striking, well, brazenness, of Miss Prouty’s murderer or murderers. Which makes our discovery of the satellite information inside that apartment especially disturbing. We were able to place its source to a classified database maintained by the National Reconnaissance Office. The FBI have taken the lead in helping us isolate who might’ve leaked it.”
“Why’s this so important?” asked the president.
“The stolen information might well have been destined for a third party. But consider the entirety of what the FBI have provided to us on Ahmadi since the day of his and Miss Prouty’s murders.” McBurney briefly described the case of industrial espionage several years ago, involving a Midwest defense contractor and the alleged theft of stealth aircraft technology. The FBI arrested two engineers employed by the company, one of whom was an Iranian national. The only indictment achieved was of the American citizen, who cut a deal with the federal prosecutor and confessed to what appears to have been a highly compartmentalized operation—the two worked inside the same complex and the evidence suggested they were operationally unaware of each other.
“Turns out that the American’s plea bargain never produced an actionable lead to the principal running the agent, or agents,” McBurney continued. “What we do have are hotel receipts that show Mohammad Ahmadi’s travels took him to the same cities, on three different occasions, that overlapped with business trips taken by these two employees.”
Herman frowned. “Remember, I’m the one who had the FBI dredge up Ahmadi’s bona fides in the first place. And I was present when Kate Prouty covered this topic with him. He denied being involved; he didn’t even blink. Is the CIA prepared to claim that Ahmadi was the principal guy in this industrial spy ring?”
“No.” McBurney turned toward his old nemesis. “Unfortunately it’s a little late to subject him to a polygraph, so I am relieved to hear you already asked him about it.”
The Director of Central Intelligence shot McBurney a glare. “The main point is that our stealth technology analysts tell us the development and manufacturing processes used in stealthifying aircraft are also applicable to making satellites stealthy.” Burns paused to see that the president had made the connection.
President Denis narrowed his eyes. “What would Iran want with stealth spysat technology?”
“We can’t be certain Tehran was ever the intended recipient of the product, or at least not the exclusive recipient.”
“You keep saying that.”
“That’s because we have one intelligence anomaly that might explain what the Iranians have been up to. We regularly monitor contact between the Iranian intelligence community and, say for instance, China’s. That goes doubly for their diplomatic missions.”
The president exchanged a disturbed look with his security advisor.
McBurney explained that along with the SBIRS, Space-Based Infrared Satellite missile defense information, the data in Ahmadi’s apartment included similar details pertaining to one of China’s most recent satellites.
“And French satellites and Japanese satellites,” Herman pointed out.
President Denis eyed the CIA men suspiciously.
Director Burns said to the President, “I’m afraid the connection that Sam makes here is fairly well established.”
“How so?”
“Well, if you’ll excuse my prerogative to be less than specific, I’ll suffice it to say that we regularly release certain select disinformation. But this disinformation can only be deciphered through the use of phony encryption keys passed to foreign spies, who believe them authentic. At first this is innocuous stuff, like planned personnel changes and such. Then we pull the noose tight—we announce to several of our overseas missions an impending event of sufficient gravity to induce a response, say, a throng of police converge on a junket in the Taiwan Straits at four in the morning. The proof came not when our delegations in Riyadh and Qatar appeared to be affected—but our embassy in Beijing.”
“This is what I mean,” Herman insisted. “Mr. Ahmadi approached us with an offer to provide the identities of two Holocaust terrorists, for Christ’s sake!”
McBurney considered reminding Herman that, according to the FBI, Mohammad Ahmadi also propositioned a U.S. senator for classified missile defense information. Frankly, he could see why they might be having difficulty with a single covert operator adept at both terrorist and industrial espionage operations. The knowledge and tactics, even the mindset, traditionally occupy opposite ends of the spectrum. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “You and the FBI bought into his story. Had we come together sooner, perhaps your deal with Ahmadi would’ve included a more thorough explanation.”
Herman said to McBurney, “Perhaps if you’d succeeded in eliminating Nijad Jabara thirty years ago the Holocaust Memorial would never have been attacked.”
President Denis breathed a heavy sigh. “Any more back-biting out of either of you two and I’ll have you escorted out of here.”
McBurney finished his silent count to ten while thumbing to the final page of his briefing. “So, the information in Ahmadi’s possession made reference to this recent Chinese satell
ite, apparently a large communications satellite. Beijing also claims that it abruptly malfunctioned before disintegrating in orbit.”
President Denis looked to Herman. “These things break apart and re-enter the atmosphere fairly often, don’t they?”
“Correct,” Herman agreed.
“Actually, they typically don’t tumble from a stabilized low-earth orbit,” McBurney said. “And in this case, ninety minutes after being launched. That’s one full orbit.”
Herman scowled. “So just all of a sudden, poof—it was gone? Here’s the problem with the direction you’ve taken this, Sam. You delve into matters of urgency to the president, and emerge claiming an Iranian-backed attack in the nation’s capital sheds light on some unrelated China matter.”
“They’re not unrelated.”
“Not only are they completely unrelated, it looks like you’re fishing for theories to explain away an intelligence deficiency.”
McBurney closed the briefing on the coffee table. “NORAD reported detecting this event, along with independent verification by Fort Mead.”
“Maybe some sort of self-destruct?” the President conjectured. His eyes focused beyond McBurney for the clock on the fireplace mantle.
“That’s possible,” McBurney allowed. “We don’t think so. In fact we don’t believe the satellite broke up at all.” From the corner of his eye McBurney saw Tom Herman’s head swivel his way. “Closer examination suggests that the Chinese may have employed sophisticated stealth technology, probably to conceal from us its tasking to a different orbit.”
The President studied McBurney. “You’re saying it intentionally disappeared?”
“We think we’ve detected a stealth capability which could only be intended—”
“This defies every estimate drafted by us or our allies regarding Chinese state-of-the-art,” Herman said while cutting off McBurney. “They have not developed the ability to mask their satellites from detection—I mean, we’re talking infra-red as well as microwave spectrums. That’s difficult even for our own spysats, isn’t that right? Assuming the PRC could even muster the tech, why put stealth on a communications satellite? No, it’s got to be some sort of reconnaissance error.”
Howard Denis stood from his chair. He glanced briefly through the windows overlooking the South Lawn before turning to cut a stare at the dinner guest profiles open on his desk. He jabbed his finger on the briefing folder. “Can you corroborate any of this? You must have additional clues—technology shipments, signals intelligence, that sort of thing.”
Director Burns nodded. “Take for instance the alleged break-up. There should have been a burst of signals traffic between Xichang Launch Complex and their tracking ships, if in fact something had gone wrong. Instead—”
“There was nothing,” the President said, nodding his understanding. “Have we heard anything out of London or Paris?”
“TASS published a blurb reporting that a field of debris had been briefly detected where the satellite should be.”
“And?”
“It’s noteworthy that the Soviets published a similar statement way back before the first Gulf War. We had cloaked one of our spysats to conceal the fact we were re-tasking it to different latitudes. Anyway, for now we’ve decided against approaching anyone with our suspicion.”
“I’m sorry, Lester.” Herman shook his head. “How do we know there’s not a glitch with our own equipment?”
“Three different surveillance platforms detected this,” McBurney reminded him.
“Then your imagery analysis could be flawed.”
Burns had warned McBurney before the briefing to expect resistance on the China factor. McBurney said to Herman, “Half the engineering doctorates awarded in America go to Chinese. These people aren’t stupid.”
“So maybe you need to hire a few. Imagery analysis? That’s asking for quite the leap of faith, especially as we’re hearing it from an operations guy. The event you refer to could just be some electronic anomaly or something.”
Director Burns lifted his eyebrows. “So, you’d feel better with something to support the imagery analysis?”
“I insist on it.”
“Maybe, some sort of field intelligence?”
“The more, the better!”
McBurney managed not to smile. He removed a single document from inside his briefcase, his knee popping audibly to all as he rose stiffly from the sofa and presented it to President Denis, who averted his eyes from the dinner guest profiles.
“What’s this?”
“Sir, we’ve prepared a finding,” McBurney replied while returning to the sofa, “that will allow us to extract a respected physicist in China’s aerospace industry, a man with decades of access to classified information.” McBurney went on to explain the nature of the defection, embellishing as little as possible so as not to reveal either the defector’s identity or that of their principal Beijing source—a female agent working inside the Ministry of Public Security. The CIA had approached the man on two prior occasions to become an agent-in-place, offering him significant money to do so. His bona fides were internally confirmed. This time the physicist approached another agent of the CIA on his own, and expressed his desire to defect—with the stipulation that a family member accompany him to receive Western medical treatment for a rare and terminal disease.
“A defection?” The President looked up from the single sheet of paper in his hands, his glance severe as it danced across the three other faces in the room. “Nobody’s really explained what you think this satellite is, and yet here you are waving this...this illegal act in front of my nose. I also think I’m entitled to more than some bland assurance of an ‘internal confirmation.’ ”
McBurney leaned forward and clasped his hands, elbows resting on his knees. “We have a very reliable source. I’d rather not say, sir, unless you insist.”
Denis returned his eyes to the document, which spelled out the basis for covert action on foreign soil and required his prior approval.
“We really don’t need to know that,” Herman said in rare agreement with McBurney.
“Okay, but I need to understand what we think they might be up to.”
“Difficult to say until we know more about the satellite,” Burns replied matter-of-factly. “We certainly have some idea what motivates them. We know for instance that Beijing is feeling pinched; there are all these signs that their economic growth has at long last stagnated amid fiscal debt much higher than they admit. Civil strife over the premier’s privatization drive is not letting up. As always with their regime it’s difficult to know whether their nationalistic bellowing about foreign hegemony is just that, or a ruse to keep Taiwan off-balance. And the wild card in all this is the internal politics governing succession, which must be as intense as they are impossible for outsiders to read. If that weren’t enough, they’re still wrapped in debate over how to posture themselves for our impending deployment of missile defense.”
“Lester…?” President Denis held his palms flat on the desk, his face giving the impression that just below the tan layer of skin lurked the urge to smile. “I’d sure like to know what relevance you’re trying to attach to this phantom satellite of yours.”
The Director of Central Intelligence hesitated, as if unsure himself—McBurney had the impression now of an exchange going on at some level that he was destined not to be privy to. “Given the evidence, it’s conceivable this satellite is a weapon intended to defeat our national missile defenses. But that’s pure conjecture until we know more.”
“I suppose you’ve got a clever codename for this file?” Herman asked.
McBurney said, “Orion.”
“Oh, please. Hunter in the sky?” Herman snickered and shook his head. “What do the Chinese call it?”
“Well, have you ever heard of something the Chinese used to call the Third Line?” Director Burns replied.
President Denis smiled. “Sounds like it could be any number of things.”
&n
bsp; “Actually, Mr. President, this is a very specific thing,” McBurney said. “They assigned the name to an ambitious military industrial initiative spearheaded by Mao in the 1950’s. This scientist we’re talking about claims to have special knowledge of a current program they refer to as the Fourth Line.”
“At the heart of your suspicion is some Chinese penchant for numerology?” Herman looked from McBurney to the DCI and then back to McBurney. “We have God knows how many Iranian terrorists at large, to which you say, ‘Our second largest trading partner might have somehow violated every major arms treaty on the books!’ ”
The President leveled his gaze on Herman. “But Tom—we need to be careful here. We can’t allow them to pull the wool over our eyes. Can we?”
Herman seemed to consider that but didn’t reply.
President Denis said to McBurney, “You say this physicist needs access to medical help for a member of his family. Do you know the nature of the illness?”
Herman was still having no part of it. “Mr. President, Congress will have a field day with this. You provoke Beijing on the one hand and try to cut a deal on the other. I can think of a dozen senators who will eat you alive.”
McBurney wondered what deal Herman referred to when he recalled that the President was once a licensed physician. “We understand the family member is terminally ill with a rare form of liver cancer. This individual could live for months or just as easily die tomorrow.” The latter actually might have created the opportunity to generate more ongoing intelligence product, an option which the veteran case officer had given serious thought.
There was a knock on the door and the President’s chief of staff entered the Oval Office. “Mr. President, the Chinese embassy motorcade.”
Denis nodded and his aide disappeared back through the doorway. The room fell prey to a minute or so of anxious paper shuffling. McBurney caught the President glancing his way.
Razing Beijing: A Thriller Page 5
