“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.
76
“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.”
DEVINN TUCKED HIS HOTEL receipt inside his wallet and stepped through the revolving doors, pressed a five-dollar tip into the bellhop’s palm and climbed behind the wheel of his car. Cruising the congested streets of Manhattan, it seemed to Devinn that people everywhere, either from within their cars or in the crosswalk whenever he stopped for a traffic light, had taken to studying him. The sight of others in line at an ATM machine reminded him that his remaining cash amounted to some $7,200 in his domestic account, and the $4,300 and change in his wallet. The bank account like the credit cards was listed under his alias. Though he thought it unlikely, either account could be seized at any time for whatever reason, and were hardly enough to disappear with, in any case. The considerable wealth he had amassed as a result of his clandestine services—cash and securities worth over $7 million, representing everything he had ever worked for—should one day serve that need admirably.
He parked the late model metallic-brown Ford Taurus on a side street and walked three blocks to the Caffeinet Café; the prominent chain of coffee shops provided the necessary alternative to merely using his smart phone. Once inside he ordered tea while waiting for an available terminal. Devinn soon found himself sitting in front of a computer and staring anxiously at the screen. After another few minutes the familiar series of prompts were leading him through the security protocol.
Actually, it seemed to be taking longer than usual. Steam swirled up from his cup of tea and disappeared into the air. While he waited he reminded himself to delete the computer’s browsing history when he was done; the sites of banks with obscure-sounding names were bound to stand out. He stared at the screen and saw precisely what he had feared: access denied.
Devinn felt a surge of panic. He made sure he hadn’t typed an inadvertent error and repeated the protocol. access approved. His breathing resumed. He wondered where his mistake might have been. Devinn proceeded to access his accounts in Zurich; Gibraltar; Hong Kong. At each site he was greeted with a similarly gratifying confirmation of his balance. The relatively few minutes had been worth the confidence check.
UNKNOWN TO DEVINN, access to his offshore accounts had been detected automatically by the Treasury Department’s Bureau of Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, FinCEN. Through its worldwide web of participating financial institutions, this network was authorized to monitor any and all foreign account transactions of its choosing. Had Devinn’s assets been part of an official investigation, notice would have immediately been sent via the Internet to a computer terminal at either the local, federal law-enforcement, or intelligence gathering agency handling the case. Depending on the nature and priority of the investigation, a suspect posting such an inquiry might easily have been apprehended before leaving the building.
Despite all such elements being in place, the fact was that Devinn’s accounts were not part of any investigation. His inquiry instead triggered transmission of an e-mail alert that went largely unnoticed. The man to whose computer the FinCEN flag had been sent eventually looked up from his desk, and then only long enough to understand which overseas accounts had been queried and from where. The event warranted little more than casual interest—a mental note was made of the fact. The man refocused his efforts upon his primary responsibility, that of clearing the enormous mountain of work from his desk, one dismal report at a time.
Hildebrandt shot a look at Nick Brophy. “Could you run us a copy of his customer account?” He presented the woman’s supervisor with a copy of the trap & trace warrant. “Will that include automobile information?”
“Make, year, and license,” the supervisor confirmed. “You might get an even better description from the bellhop.” He glanced at the time stamp on the credit card receipt. “As a matter of fact, it looks like the gentleman checked out less than an hour ago.”
77
THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES eyed his intelligence advisors. “Sounds a little far-fetched.”
“It does,” Samuel McBurney agreed, “and there’s no hard evidence that the technology was actually stolen, as the premise of Mr. Stuart’s theory requires one to assume. We’ve had discussions with FBI and DOE people familiar with the program. Our initial take is that it is possible, but somewhat unlikely.”
“Uncorroborated speculation,” judged Thomas Herman, who wore a pronounced smirk. “I still cast my vote firmly in the no-satellite-megaweapon camp. This stadium thing had to be some sort of corporate publicity stunt.”
“Hah! Very good, Thomas!” The president laughed, shaking his head. “That’s got to be right. Imagine all the sneakers they must have sold with that one!”
Herman did not appear to share the president’s sense of humor. McBurney exchanged a look with his boss, by which Director Burns seemed to say ‘Take a deep breath, Sam.’
“I’d rather we not get sidetracked in the technical minutiae,” said the Director of Central Intelligence. “The point is, if there was an intellectual property theft, this is the man who’d be privy to how it was subsequently used. Deng Zhen has been a principal administrator behind virtually all of their military modernization developments. He would theoretically have access to answers that the defection would have provided. We know for a fact that Mr. Stuart has met Deng Zhen on at least two occasions. If we learn that Deng is the guy who initiated these Internet contacts, we may have an opportunity to exploit him.”
“What would you hope to learn?” asked Herman.
“For starters, what was the nature of his overture to Stuart? If our businessman’s suspicion is borne out, we proceed to the subject of their satellite program. And if we allow ourselves to speculate a moment, think about what it would mean to have the commissioner of Science, Technology, and Industry for National Defense as our agent-in-place.”
“He’s old and nearing retirement,” Herman pointed out.
“True. But we can be sure he’s laid the groundwork for the next decade of technology programs. He’ll be involved.”
“Why would he talk to us?” Denis asked.
“Sir?”
“What makes you think he’s going to turn traitor and commit high treason?”
“You mean, more than he may already have? No guarantee that he will.”
“I would like to expound on an important point the director made, if I may,” McBurney said. “Deng Zhen’s weapons aegis includes everything they’ve garnished of our DF-41 warhead technology, to the anti-sub warfare gadgetry we believe they have retrofitted to their fleet of Houdong attack frigates. The profile on Deng is well understood. We cannot point to anything specific that suggests he’s willing to commit treason. On the other hand, the situation would indicate that he’s politically vulnerable to the upcoming succession. His allegiance has been with the gerontocracy to which the current general secretary belongs. He travels abroad as the general secretary’s personal emissary whenever technology and trade issues dominate the agenda. Vice-premiers and other cadres demonstrate Deng’s popular appeal by regularly quoting him. The man is as entrenched a member of the old guard as you find these days. Finally, there’s the troublesome matter of his dissident son, who is clearly out of favor and will be perceived as a nuisance by whoever takes power.
“So it’s easy to see Deng feeling trepidation about the political faults shifting beneath his feet. From my perspective, these Internet messages are about as good as it gets for securing a lead in recruiting a spy.”
“I see where you’re coming from,” said the President with a reluctant nod. “Approaching the man and soliciting him to turn traitor might put his life on the line.”
“We undoubtedly would be,” Burns agreed.
“It seems we have to offer him something in return.”
Lester Burns held the President’s stare. “We intend to sweeten the pot. Sam?”
McBurney slowly cranked his head toward the director, his expression one of restrained alarm.
Director Burns picked up McBurney’s prompt. “Oh. I need to put our proposal in its proper context. Mr. President, you’re aware of my reservations about our effort to draft a new anti-ballistic missile treaty with the presumptive Chinese leadership. While our adulation with binding legal documents is consistent with our governing culture, there’s a large body of evidence that the Chinese leadership eschews the rule of law. Your typical counterpart in Zhongnanhai and the Politburo isn’t a lawyer, he’s an engineer. Different philosophical emphasis altogether.”
“I’ve acknowledged your concern, Lester. Nothing worthwhile is without risk.”
“True. That being said, we’ve become more and more wary that Rong Peng and his aides might be negotiating in bad faith. We don’t—”
“That’s overstating our view,” Tom Herman objected.
“Go on, Lester,” urged the President.
“We don’t need to rehash the petroleum estimate. But we’ve recently learned something similarly disturbing.” The DCI carefully explained the evidence suggesting that the Chinese government may have had a hand in quashing the crash investigation of Thanatechnology’s fuel-efficient aircraft.
“That’s a fairly outrageous allegation,” the President calmly observed.
“And before Tom says so, uncorroborated. The current evidence is compelling and yet we can’t claim to understand what’s going on here. The FBI is conducting an investigation.”
“You’re essentially saying that they’re pressuring me to the bargaining table—abandon our missile shield in exchange for relief from OPEC—while behind my back they’re busy deploying their own superweapon?”
Herman said, “Mr. President—it’s paranoid bullshit.”
“I tend to agree with you,” President Denis nodded thoughtfully. “Lester, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d morphed into one of these cowboys. But go ahead, we’ll indulge you. Prove us wrong.”
“Thank you, sir. Okay, Sam.”
“So,” McBurney cleared his throat. “So the thrust is to learn as much as we can from Deng Zhen. The Director mentioned we intend to ‘sweeten the pot.’ To understand how, we need to acquaint ourselves with details of Rong Peng’s background.”
“I’m somewhat well acquainted with Mr. Rong.” The President indicated that he had met the vice-premier on three separate occasions. “We still think he’s the guy in line for succession, don’t we?”
“Yes, although there are informed opinions that differ. Rong faces serious opposition.”
President Denis glanced uncomfortably at his national security advisor.
“There is information regarding this particular leader of which your administration has had no previous knowledge,” McBurney continued. “A ruthless reputation earned early as a Red Guard probably placed him highly among the Party zhiwu mincheng biao—Rong’s father was a powerful Mao Zedong confidant, whose influence undoubtedly ensured that his son would not be shipped off to the countryside after the Cultural Revolution. More recently, Rong’s endorsement of their crackdown on the Hong Kong separatist movement undoubtedly enhanced his image among militarist conservatives in the Army and Politburo. The Agenc
y is putting together a picture of his internal political style. Evidence suggests he ordered the murder of the previous deputy state security minister, succeeded in having it ruled a suicide, then plugged his own loyal designate.”
Herman narrowed his gaze. “I seem to recall a briefing where we thought the deputy state security minister was another casualty of your failed defection attempt,” he accurately reminded them.
“That’s right, Thomas,” McBurney snapped, “just another one of those things we observe through the lens of a fucking satellite!”
The Oval Office fell silent. McBurney realized he was clenching his teeth and didn’t bother looking up to meet the eyes boring into him. He let the moment pass. “In any event, Rong Peng’s profile would not be complete without understanding the extent of his influence within the Beijing elite. We’ve watched him assemble a strategic pyramid of appointments. These extend as far and wide as Qiao Shushi, who heads the state planning commission within their finance and economics xitong, to a number of other powerful PLA officers and state security up-and-comers, and right on down into the provincial level throughout the People’s Republic. The Qiao appointment is intriguing because the position lies several levels below the finance minister—Huang cannot afford to be sitting around idle. On balance, we think Rong is slightly better positioned with a power base. Neither man is a shoe-in.”
“You make Rong out to be some sort of a thug,” President Denis observed. “Isn’t his entrenched power that you make sound so ominous par for the course? I mean, a whole generation of ex-Red Guards must be milling around over there. Everyone agrees that was nasty business, but is there really anything significant about Rong in this regard?”
McBurney looked squarely at the President. “With the exception of the general secretary, Rong exercises near total control of any strategic weapon system of his choosing in the Chinese arsenal.”
The President raised his eyebrows while mulling over the point. Herman shook his head.
Razing Beijing: A Thriller Page 46
