Denis narrowed his eyes menacingly.
“We should not dismiss the possibility that oil is being swapped in a sort of barter agreement.”
“Barter? Some sort of cashless transaction?”
“It would reconcile much of the discrepancy in the standard analysis.”
“I see. And they would enter into this barter agreement in exchange for...?”
“Well, an anti-satellite weapon would be a very expensive undertaking, so that’s one possibility. Such a capability also would be viewed by Iran, and probably others, as in their strategic interest as much as it is China’s...sir.”
The President said nothing for several heartbeats. Herman averted his eyes to the surface of the table.
President Denis shifted his gaze to the CIA director. He cracked a smile. “Lester, I think it’s fair that I expect you and your staff to come prepared to answer more questions than you raise. This meeting is adjourned.”
51
Wednesday, June 10
FEAR AND EXHAUSTION were taking their toll on Emily Chang’s nerves. She had spent half the night exploiting the time difference between the eastern U.S. and China—Beijing was thirteen hours ahead of Washington—urgently placing calls to relatives and their connections in Shanghai, to the American consulate in Hong Kong, and to the embassy in Beijing.
Emily’s drive north from Richmond, Virginia had gone well until several miles from Lorton, where the morning’s commuter traffic in all five northbound lanes slowed to a crawl. It soon became apparent that another truckers strike was underway. Justifiably angered over the rising fuel taxes gouging their incomes, the rank-and-file had gotten good at inflicting the maximum inconvenience. Staring out at the endlessly glistening river of motionless vehicles, she listened aghast to her radio how the blocked traffic stretched all the way from Washington at 14th & Constitution, beyond the Pentagon, past Alexandria and further south for another thirty-three miles.
Emily watched two men in hooded sweatshirts standing a short distance ahead of her in the breakdown lane. They exchanged belligerent insults with slowly passing motorists as they waved a lone semi-tractor trailer forward along the shoulder beside the highway, blocking the last trickle of traffic. Cursing her broken GPS, she impatiently unfolded her AAA map for the state of Virginia—she had not taken precious time from work to participate in such nonsense. Even in China, the Communist Party heavily regulated collective bargaining organizations. Wondering why such things were permitted in of all places America, with trembling hands she traced an alternate root—beginning from the exit just ahead, and about to be blocked. She could see in her rearview mirror the big tractor-trailer truck crawling along the breakdown lane, closing the gap with these insolent men. A hissing sound announced the driver applying his brakes.
I’ve got to get to Langley today! Emily thought. She carved the wheels of her Toyota to the right—the action caught the attention of one of the men standing several yards away. He shook his head, smiling. Don’t even think about it, the striker seemed to be warning her.
Emily ignored him as she eased her foot from the brake pedal and allowed the Toyota to creep toward the shoulder. For this she was rewarded the extended middle finger of the angry man’s hand. Emily floored the accelerator and her car leapt forward, clearing the pick-up in front of her by inches, wheels spinning and gathering speed. Both men held up their hands demanding she stop, their faces twisted angrily and mouthing obscenities before finally jumping aside. Emily heard something strike the roof of her car as she raced toward the off-ramp.
MCBURNEY WAS HIMSELF SPITTING bullets about the very same traffic as he stood waiting, late for his first meeting. An obese woman in her fifties was slowly providing a young Air Force lieutenant with a non-escort visitor’s badge and directions from Langley’s interior security entrance.
McBurney passed his badge through the reader. While glancing at the clock overhead, already concocting his apologies, the guard blurted his name.
“You the same McBurney that Caroline Ross works for?” the woman asked.
McBurney stepped up to her kiosk and presented his badge. With no apparent explanation forthcoming, he said, “I’m already late.”
“I guess so. Ms. Ross has been waiting with your visitor in the reception lounge.”
“My visitor?”
“A civilian woman and not pre-approved. Next time, make sure you schedule your visitor in advance.”
“Where are they?”
The woman gave McBurney a quick up-and-down glance. She pointed a two-inch lacquered fingernail to direct him toward the bay of visitor lounges, where personnel conducted business with individuals otherwise restricted from the interior compound. “They put her in three.”
“Does the visitor have a name?” Certainly they had run the cursory check on the visitor’s social security number.
“I would think so.”
Shaking his head, McBurney walked the short corridor off the main lobby toward Lounge No. 3. Through the small glass window in the door, seated on the sofa beside Caroline Ross, the profile of a young woman with long dark hair touched off a vague recognition. Unaware of the pent-up emotions awaiting him, McBurney pushed open the door and entered the room.
Eyes red and welling with tears, Emily Chang glared at him.
McBurney’s eyes landed on Ross, who said, “Sam, I tried to get hold of you.”
McBurney took a hesitant step forward. “Miss Chang?”
“Because of the CIA, my father is now in prison. My mother...my mother is either barely clinging to life or already dead.”
“What are we talking about here?”
“I think you know. Just please tell me that you didn’t already know you had failed my parents while you were in Cleveland, grilling me with your FBI friend.” Emily closed her eyes momentarily and took a deep breath. “My given Chinese name is Zhao Lu-Chang. Does the name Zhao mean anything to you?”
McBurney was speechless. How could they have overlooked the existence of a defection candidate’s daughter, especially one living in the States? He remembered reading the physicist Zhao’s file; there was no mention of any children. Something didn’t connect.
He sat down on the sofa opposite the women and clasped his hands. “Maybe you should begin by explaining what it is you believe happened.”
Emily shot McBurney a disdainful look. During the ensuing silence, her lower lip quivering, her eyes flickered over the manila envelope there on the coffee table...
“WELL?” McBurney asked Caroline Ross in a hushed tone.
Ross cast a concerned look through the window. Inside, Emily Chang sat staring at the floor and fingering the lobby badge clipped to her blouse. “I get the impression she hasn’t slept for awhile. We need to understand why she thinks that, by coming here, she risked signing her father’s death warrant.”
“Sounds like a big price to pay just to come in here and dump on us.” McBurney felt a sinking sensation; Chang’s father aside, how did one apologize for failing somebody’s innocent old mother?
“Standard practice requires that a prospective defector understand the importance of not mentioning their preparations to loved ones,” Ross reminded him. “If he hasn’t acknowledged having a daughter, I would doubt she has much if any idea what her father was working on.”
McBurney rubbed his chin. “Bits that reveal more of her father’s activities will dribble out during a formal debriefing. But maybe not. The FBI claim she’s persona non grata back home in China.”
McBurney accompanied Ross through the door into the small lounge. They seated themselves across from Emily.
“Miss Chang, why did you feel that you had to illegally smuggle your parents into the country?” McBurney asked. “Did you consider approaching our government for—”
“Humanitarian assistance? Political asylum? As soon as they found out that my father was a prominent physicist employed by the Chinese government, they’d have led me to the door. How could I know they wou
ldn’t then alert someone at the Chinese embassy, who’ve repeatedly denied my requests? If I did get them here through such channels, your government would only have caved under diplomatic pressure and deported them back.”
“But if it was your mother who was sick, your father need not have traveled abroad.”
“They were always very in love, Mr. McBurney. Neither would ever consider leaving the other. My mother’s treatment in Pittsburgh was to have taken months, if not longer.”
“Maybe you can understand that we have to be very cautious,” Ross explained softly. “Before we acknowledge that certain activities did or did not occur, there’s a minimum amount of verification to be made. Is there anything you can offer as proof of your account—anything to help us protect the identities of people such as your parents?”
Emily reached with shaking hands to unclasp the envelope in her possession. She slid the contents out onto the table. Clipped to the top of the thin stack was a note with a few short, hand-written columns of Chinese characters.
McBurney immediately recognized the precise date and time of the defection attempt at Chek Lap Kok. Chang placed the note aside and began unclipping other pages in the stack.
“May I?” he asked, reaching for the note.
Emily at first seemed surprised, then nodded. “When we met in Cleveland I sensed that you’d been to China before.”
McBurney exchanged a look with Ross.
Emily said to him, “Much of this information I obtained from the snakeheads.”
McBurney proceeded to read that Emily’s mother was believed to have died of liver failure and complications arising from and shortly after her arrest. Her physical whereabouts remained unknown; her father was believed to have undergone psychological torture before finally divulging how and why he had attempted escape through Hong Kong; and Chinese authorities believed ‘a source within Beijing coordinated with CIA.’
Beijing knew the existence of agent SIREN? The note revealed information that neither stations Hong Kong nor Beijing had been able to provide him, not the least being the current state of Zhao and his wife. McBurney realized that the smugglers Chang had hired must have had access to a mole inside the gulag, perhaps a prison guard or a doctor.
“You were threatened with blackmail?” Caroline Ross asked with genuine surprise, looking up from one of the documents.
“Yes, but how could I have known that my mother might be already dead, my father in prison?”
Ross looked at McBurney. “This clearly suggests somebody sabotaged Thanatechnology’s flight test.”
McBurney saw nothing to gain by acknowledging to Emily that they and the FBI had already suspected sabotage. “Do you have any idea why?” he asked Emily.
Chang shook her head.
“Is Thanatechnology aware of this?”
Tears streaming down her cheeks, Emily Chang explained that rather than actually destroy the incriminating evidence, as the anonymous letter instructed, she had managed to hide it. Caroline Ross rounded the table, sat beside the distraught woman, and tried to console her.
McBurney rose from the sofa and stood by the door as the women quietly talked. The implication that SIREN may have been compromised had very broad implications, not least among them the nature of the agent’s own death. After several minutes, McBurney returned to sit beside Caroline Ross as she suggested Emily spend the night at a nearby hotel.
This Emily refused. “I have just begun a new job. I do not want to miss any more work than I already have.”
“Then, would you mind if we had some experts analyze the contents of this envelope?” Ross asked. “They might be able to tell us certain things. For instance, where and when these photos were taken. And maybe who it was that put together this note.”
Emily looked at her uncertainly.
“I assure you we’ll give them back when we’re through.”
“You may borrow them, yes,” Emily said weakly.
Caroline Ross said softly, “You need to believe that no one here who may have been involved in this affair would mean your parents harm. I say that knowing full well the many contradictory things you’ve probably heard about the Central Intelligence Agency.”
Emily’s eyes wandered between the veteran spy and his apprentice. McBurney was reminded how difficult to read he had found her demeanor. “I know that,” Emily admitted with a nod.
“The situation must have put you under tremendous pressure,” Caroline continued. “Under such circumstances, I think most individuals would want to reach out for help. Is there anyone else you’ve discussed these events with?”
“Not...entirely.”
“Would you please explain what you mean?”
“The plan to smuggle my parents into the country I discussed with only my cousin.” Emily averted her eyes toward the floor. “I discussed the sabotage, and its many implications, with Mr. Stuart where I work.”
McBurney and Ross exchanged glances—Stuart again. They also noted that Emily was blushing.
“I seem to recall that Mr. Stuart worked with you at Thanatech,” McBurney said. “May I ask when, roughly, you first discussed these developments with him?”
Chang tilted her head, thinking. “It was shortly after Sean Thompson was murdered.”
McBurney remembered FBI Special Agent Hildebrandt saying that Stuart had been questioned regarding the Thanatech murder and placed under surveillance. Yet, if Chang was telling the truth, then Stuart had withheld information from Agent Hildebrandt.
“I would like to ask you a question,” Emily informed them.
McBurney saw evidence of the steely resolve return to her eyes, something he had witnessed during their chat near the Thanatechnology plant.
Emily eyed him with an intensity bordering on hatred. “How do you plan to rescue my father?”
52
LIKE THE RECURRING HIP PAIN that warned him on a sunny day of the approach of a storm, Deng Zhen felt a vague unhappiness. Why he should feel this way, while surrounded by family in the warmth of their kitchen, was difficult to know.
Deng Zhen’s earliest childhood memories were of sitting upon his own grandfather’s knee, watching his family play mahjong. Many years before the Great Famine had rendered his grandfather a wheezing skeleton, the old man used to bounce his knee up and down and hug him so hard as to nearly crush him, grabbing him by the nose between two knuckles, causing his mother to laugh and his sister to cry for attention. Such long-forgotten images were lately intruding on his thoughts...and that, Deng understood, was the source of his discontent. Burned into memory was the kitchen table of his own childhood, its surface worn smooth by decades of scuffing elbows and hands—a symbol of life and laughter, sustenance and love, an image now and forever charred and broken among the scattered ruins with the rest of his childhood home. The last he had seen of his sister she was barely alive, suffering bravely, fighting a battle she would eventually lose—the victim of beasts, mere children by any traditional measure, but children enlisted en masse to a campaign of hatred and butchery. Where are you now—you who live every day knowing you clubbed into pulp the feet of your neighbor, or cheered while your teacher’s internal organs splashed over the ground?
Deng watched his grandson trace his fingers over the twisting grain in the heavy oak tabletop. He turned toward his daughter-in-law. “Guangmei, would you be so kind as to take Ping to the study for his calligraphy lesson tonight?”
Peifu glanced at his wife. “I can take him, Father.”
“That’s not what I asked.” His tone even caused Ping to stop fiddling and stare up at him. “That is, if Guangmei doesn’t mind.”
His daughter-in-law dried her hands on the sides of her corduroy jeans. “Of course not, Papa.”
The two men sat alone at the old oak table, son warily regarding father, who realized Peifu was probably expecting some sort of rebuke. “Tell me, do you ever see yourself becoming a contented man?” Deng gently asked.
Peifu looked at his fath
er. “If this is about Yiren living in his own flat—”
Deng held up his hand. “I’m perfectly satisfied with the living arrangements of both my sons. What I’d like to know is, over the years you’ve expressed dissatisfaction with my, well, professional endeavors.” Deng wasn’t sure if he sufficiently understated the subject of such endless acrimony. “You seem content with your academia, and content you should be, despite my criticisms, if indeed you are confident with your choice. However, have you ever seriously debated...in your mind, that is...have you asked yourself, Will I, Peifu, make a difference that will improve the lives of my children?”
“What father has not? Which is why sometimes I wonder what you see each morning when you look in the mirror.”
Deng allowed his first impulse to pass. Peifu was ever slow to lower his guard. And who could blame him? It was not he who had chosen to discuss the one subject sure to provoke strong sentiments.
As was always the case, one other problem lurked beneath the surface. Deng held his finger to his mouth. He smiled and said, “On second thought, let’s not spoil the evening with such contentious talk. How about a refreshing walk?”
“I don’t know. I have exams to go over.”
Deng stood up from the bench, blanching at the sting in his hip. “Come,” he placed his hand on Peifu’s shoulder. “It will do us both good.” He grabbed his cane on the way to the door.
They were a good distance from the apartment before either one spoke, uncertain even then that State Security was not hiding behind park shrubbery with their directional listening devices, a tactic they were known to employ.
Peifu spoke in a low voice. “Father, I am sorry I addressed you so. It is just that you are a national figure—people look up to you.”
Rather than be drawn in by his son’s obtuse judgmentalism, Deng concentrated on placing his cane on the ground next to his foot with each step. “How tragic to disdain one’s own father. What is it you would rather I do?”
Razing Beijing: A Thriller Page 32
