Rong opened his eyes and looked at him. “And your explanation for this alleged conversation, comrade?”
In preparing his answer, Chen reflected on the inexplicable gyrations that Rong had put his organization through in order to segregate Deng Zhen from his doctor friend. He still had no idea why Doctor Wu had been banished to Xinjiang Province. It was difficult even to know if Rong held the aging technocrat in esteem, or disdain. Chen had been instructed to operate under a hands-off policy with respect to Deng’s hooligan son. Had these things been done to protect the old man, and if so, what would Rong’s instinct be now?
During the flicker of time it took Chen to seek his own counsel, Rong turned and approached the cabinet beside his leather-bound chair. “I see,” Rong said, extracting a cigarette from a pack inside the top drawer. “I’ll leave for you how best to deal with those responsible for Deng’s security lapse.” Rong lit the cigarette. “See to it that Comrade Deng returns safely to Beijing.”
“He is booked on a China Southern flight later this morning.”
Rong thought for a moment, drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs, whereupon he proceeded to dispel any lingering doubt of his esteem for Commissioner Deng. “Treason must inflict a deeply disturbing, conflicting range of emotions. I’ve always thought traitorous men with even the slightest notion of country must contemplate suicide. I imagine Deng must suffer such torment. In fact, I am sure of it.”
Chen met Rong’s piercing gaze with a nod of resignation.
“Be certain the appropriate self-recriminations are found.”
“Very well. Only...might that raise other questions?”
“Such as?”
“Such as the material consequences of his treason.”
Rong considered his subordinate’s point. “You were to secure the research facility in the United States. What is the status?”
Finally some positive news to report, Chen thought. “I am pleased to inform you that a Congressional fiat has terminated the research project. The CLI facility has been shut down pending further deliberation, which I am assured will take months, if not longer.”
“I see. In light of this development, should we reconsider having it destroyed?”
“Comrade?”
“We may not be too late to preempt their military options. As I recall, you had already drawn up such a plan.”
Chen furrowed his brow. This approach still seemed to him an invitation to disastrous scrutiny. Upon whose head would that responsibility fall? “I can give you my assurance that the matter is closed.”
“Very well. Then, if that will be all...?”
“Yes, Comrade. Actually...if you permit me? Perhaps the commissioner has presented you with an opportunity, one in which we might also learn what he exchanged with the American.”
Rong eyed him uncertainly.
“Suppose we were to confront Deng, accuse him of treason, in the presence of General Secretary Zhou? You will have boldly excised a traitor. The reverence our technology czar enjoys in the core leader’s eyes is no secret. Deng’s humiliation and ruin, then, would proportionally bolster your political capital.” Chen paused to see how his words were being received. “Our leader is old and senile, but he still wields influence among the Politburo. He is popular among the Hundred Names. His favor can only help consolidate your own leadership. Deng might even be driven to commit suicide by his own hand.”
“The idea has merit,” Rong allowed. “And Deng’s importance for the upcoming show had slipped my mind.”
“I’m certain it would have occurred to you.” Chen held his breath.
“What evidence would I present? You indicated we haven’t anything to prove the two men exchanged even a word.”
“So, I have a little work to do. There is also this matter of his dissident son to attend to.”
“Tighten surveillance on Deng—tight as a drum. I’ll consider your proposal and advise you of my decision.”
“Yes, Comrade.”
“Tell me, Chen. How do you enjoy your security ministry post?”
“Why, with great honor.”
Rong nodded. “You are certain this facility is being dismantled?”
“Our source is unequivocal.”
Rong’s expression hardened. “What a disaster it would be to learn that the Americans were revising their strategic threat assessment, after all, based on what Deng had told them. This raises another question. Do you suppose that Deng is your high-level mole? I am referring, of course, to your own explanation as to how our traitorous physicist nearly slipped through our net.”
Chen did not know how to respond. Deng had been under his nose for months now.
“If I were you, I would work diligently to resolve these many unanswered questions. Dismissed, Comrade Chen.”
92
PAUL DEVINN IGNORED the chime from his cell phone while completing the final few passes with the airless paint gun. He stepped back to critically examine his work. Satisfied, he set the sprayer down on the concrete floor and retrieved the phone number from the display. He had been expecting the call.
Devinn slipped the breathing mask down from over his mouth. “It’s me,” he announced into his cellular phone.
“Status?”
“It’s clear now I missed my calling as an auto body specialist. Everything’s in order on my end, and I’m getting a green light.” The wave-off signal from their Iranian operatives, had there been one, would have been relayed to him in the form of an alphanumeric message from his lawyer. Clutching the phone to his ear, he walked around to the other side of the Econoline van. The freshly painted surface was barely tacky to the touch of his fingertip.
“Well, we’ve got a problem” he heard Lance Lee say. “It’s not related to the current job, but I’m afraid it needs your immediate attention.”
Devinn took note of the hitch in Lee’s voice. “What sort of a problem?” He peeled back a piece of masking tape securing the template to the exterior of the driver-side door.
“It involves a surveillance problem for you to resolve.” The more thorough explanation that followed—and the irony of it, Devinn realized—brought an appreciative smile.
93
“DO WE KNOW WHO DID THIS, or not?” asked the President. In the hallway outside could be heard muffled sounds of footsteps and low voices as yet another meeting was preempted, the would-be attendees escorted away.
“I think you’ll find the forensic evidence compelling,” replied FBI Director Dave Dolan. “If not down-right indisputable. Lance?”
The President seemed to chafe at that, but directed his gaze back to the projection screen. The next Powerpoint slide was advanced to reveal two nearly identical graphical overlays.
“What you see here are trace element profiles obtained using a scanning electron microscope,” Deputy Assistant Director Lance Lee explained. “Hours after the attack, our mobile lab made a cursory check using a technique called chromatometry. A swab of the residue discovered on the fracture surface of one of the bridge’s main support cables indicated a high concentration of carbon, probable origin RDX, a constituent of plastique explosive.” Lee faced toward the screen. “Those initial results are consistent with the SEM findings shown here, produced early this morning at Quantico. The red line represents residue of an explosive device we can say with some assurance was used to destroy the George Washington Bridge. Just for reference, we’ve superimposed this signature of a sample from the device retrieved and safely detonated after last year’s failed attempt on Yankee Nuclear. You can see that the trace constituents are not quite the same.”
“There’s a point somewhere in this?” asked Thomas Herman, the President’s national security advisor.
“I’m building the case for a modus operandi. This species of terrorists seems to like using plastique.”
“You’re calling these the work of one cell?”
“We’re not quite ready to say.”
“God damn it.” President Denis
was clenching his fists. “I am forever assured our borders are secure—we’ve spent billions to see to that. How are people able to smuggle this stuff in?”
“Standard military Composition - 4,” the national security advisor read aloud the designation on the screen. Herman turned toward the President. “That is to say, U.S. military issue. They wouldn’t have had to smuggle it in.”
The President’s glower wandered around the table before coming to rest on the FBI Director.
“Mr. Lee will address the pedigree of explosive,” Director Dolan said, “but I have to say that, so far, our accounting of thefts and military stockpiles hasn’t allowed us to locate the original source.” He paused, frowning. “What I also find troubling is that those suspension cables are massive. We’re talking one hell of a shape charge, probably two of them, assuming that’s what they used. Perhaps fifty or sixty pounds of the stuff.”
The President and his quorum of cabinet members pondered the significance of Dolan’s statement. “And why is that troubling?” the President finally asked.
“That’s a large piece of material. It’s a wonder nobody on the bridge noticed it beforehand.”
“Just what are you trying to tell us?” asked Herman. “Have you got a story or not?”
“We’ve prepared an early status of the investigation, Tom,” Dolan replied. “Not a story.”
Herman jutted his chin toward Lee. “Your point doesn’t seem to jibe with that made by your own staff. If their modus operandi includes molding this plastique into familiar-looking objects, maybe they wrapped something around this big cable that looked like part of the bridge.”
“NYPD speculates that the device or devices were put into place the previous night, under cover of darkness,” Lee informed them. “Detonation occurred before morning maintenance crews arrived. Nobody’s explained how they managed to circumvent the bridge’s surveillance.”
The FBI director added that Quantico analysts had been unable to divine the presence of tags among the constituents of residue. Chemical tags were inert agents added to materials deemed as having the potential for the illegal manufacture of explosives, such as nitrate fertilizers and trinitrotoluene. Finally written into law some years following the Oklahoma City attack, tags in explosive agent residue could be traced back to the specific manufacturer’s lot in which they were sold.
“There’s a cache somewhere they acquired some time ago,” Herman suggested.
“We can’t trace the manufacturer’s records?” asked Secretary of State Laynas. He turned toward Dolan. “This isn’t court admissible. At least not in a way adequate to incriminate someone.”
“Not by itself,” Lee agreed. Earnest stares awaited the next slide to come into focus, computer-generated renderings of two male portraits. “These represent the men observed on the bridge the night before the collapse.” Lee oriented a third, black-and-white portrait on the screen beneath the other two. “This rendering is of the Middle Eastern suspect previously seen exiting an unauthorized compartment aboard the Norberg Cruiseliner. That was last year in Charlotte Amalie, minutes before it exploded. You can see the similarity to this man here. His name is Mohammad Mousavi, an Iranian national.”
The President leaned forward and squinted his eyes.
“Maybe,” the Secretary of State allowed upon studying the faces.
“We’re actually pretty certain they’re one and the same.”
“You’ve got more faith in those police composites than I do,” said Herman. “With all the hysteria these days, every cat-burglar and bubble-gum thief is Middle Eastern.”
“True. However, the Bureau’s been looking for these men for several months.” From the corner of his eye, Lee saw the CIA director swivel his head to stare first at him, and then FBI Director Dolan.
“Who’s the second face belong to?” asked the President.
“His name’s Salman Ehteshari, an Iranian graduate engineering student and”—Lee advanced to the slide provided to him earlier by the State Department—“and like Mousavi, we believe he’s an agent for VEVAK, the Ministry of Security and Intelligence.”
Unlike the composite renderings, the current slide was an actual photograph and betrayed the characteristically distorted product of a concealed camera. It revealed a dozen men dressed in flowing ankle-length attire, government officials and their bodyguards, walking toward a limousine and away from what several in the Roosevelt Room would recognize as the parliament building in Tehran. A time stamp in the corner of the photo indicated it was over three years old.
DCI Burns pointed toward the photo. “Note the younger looking man there beside the Iranian mullah. Customs records suggest Ehteshari may have entered through the Port of New York recently on a German passport. This morning, Nahman Weir called and confirmed that Mossad’s dossiers connect Mousavi to Ehteshari. Both spent time in southern Lebanon in the late nineties.”
“Gentlemen. Surely you have something more concrete than powder burns and sketches.” The President’s voice was taught with ebbing patience. “Nearly five-hundred Americans lost their lives yesterday to an allegedly foreign attack within our borders. Mr. Lee, you indicated you’d already been searching for these men. Lester points out the Customs records. Sounds to me like we had evidence to indicate they were in the United States.”
Lee said, “In fact, sir, do you happen to remember the incident involving an attempt to blackmail Senator Milner some months ago? Milner had agreed to meet at the request of an Iranian diplomat by the name of Ahmadi, a man from their consulate who was later found murdered with...sorry, sir.”
President Denis shook his head sadly. “We’ve been over this story a dozen times.” He further lamented how the press had latched onto certain related information leaked, that sensitive missile defense information was found in the dead Iranian diplomat’s possession.
Director of Central Intelligence Burns said, “They’re sniffing around the story.”
Denis arched his eyebrows. “Freedom of Information Act?”
“Not yet, any way.” DCI Burns shared a bemused look with the President—so far as Burns knew, among those present only Herman, Walter Laynas and himself were aware of the President’s secret negotiations with China. In the end, Denis’s cherished vision of heralding in his ABM II Treaty regime, abandoning missile defense in exchange for Beijing pressuring OPEC to abandon their embargo, had fallen prey to Congressional waffling.
“Let them sniff,” said the President.
Herman addressed Agent Lee. “Of course, we won’t really know for sure what Ahmadi had in mind, unless of course the FBI apprehends whoever killed him and Katherine. I believe you were about to tell us what that has to do with yesterday’s perpetrators.”
Lee cleared his throat. “We know that Ahmadi presented the senator with two names on a slip of paper and suggested these were the men who’d engineered the Holocaust Museum attack. Senator Milner was incredulous, and when he pressed Ahmadi for some sort of proof, that’s when the Iranian alluded to other terrorist strikes in the making and made his demand for classified information. In any case, we ran down the names for several weeks afterward and concluded that whatever the merits of Ahmadi’s claim, these men were in fact not here, in-country. We turned for help overseas, but the truth is we concluded Ahmadi simply must’ve been lying. Nobody seemed able to put together a trail, not until last night, that is. It looks as though we were wrong.”
“They clearly slipped through our dragnet.” The contrite FBI Director fixed sad eyes on the President. “We at the Bureau must take full responsibility for that.”
“Wait just a minute,” Director Burns said. “Were these men’s names by any chance among the information withheld from my staff on the pretense of protecting Senator Milner?”
The room fell silent. Finally, Lance Lee deferred that question to his superior. “It wouldn’t have made any difference,” Director Dolan said. “Our legat in Cairo said they had produced the men’s death certificates.”
Herman looked on impatiently. “Mr. Lee?”
“You might recall that we recovered another nasty surprise with the bodies inside Ahmadi’s apartment.” Lee removed the portrait renderings from the screen. “A bomb squad was called in to disarm a booby trap. In retrospect, the hardest evidence turns out to be the plastique used to construct that bomb. You’ll have to excuse me, this may look a little simplistic...” Lee clicked ahead to his next slide. Eyes in the room were drawn to the screen. What they saw were two scanning electron microscope chemical constituent traces, one labeled ‘GW Bridge,’ the other ‘Iranian diplomat.’
The plots were identical. The plastique used in both instances clearly had been drawn from the very same cache. The President’s recognition came in the form of a nod. The implication was that the bridge attack was no mere escalation of hostility stemming from the show of naval force by the President in the Strait of Hormuz. The GW Bridge terrorist strike must have been in the planning for months.
“So the Iranian deputy charge d’affaires had actually passed a plausible tip to the senator,” Lee soberly concluded.
The FBI Director added, “Our field offices are pulling out all the stops in order to locate these men.”
“Two Iranians cannot be acting alone to terrorize the country,” said the President.
“You are very likely correct,” Dolan agreed.
Denis sat back in his chair—the President appeared to be deeply affected by the revelation. “Somebody’s assisting them, directing their efforts. This isn’t the work of some rogue faction. VEVAK, you say? This was a state-sponsored attack?”
“It may be difficult to prove with one-hundred per cent certainty,” Director Dolan replied. “We’ve asked Fort Meade to dig through their signals archives. We’ll see what they find. But it looks that way to us, sir.”
Razing Beijing: A Thriller Page 56
