Razing Beijing

by Sidney Elston

  Emily pushed the door open into the studio and, expecting the familiar brush of her cat warmly wrapping around her ankle, she instead felt nothing. “Hello, King-Pu!” The darkened apartment yielded not even the soothing rumble of his purr. “King-Pu?”

  She silenced her breathing and listened for her companion’s familiar meow.

  Something was wrong. She groped along the wall for the switch and flipped on the light. The Himalayan was nowhere in sight. On the floor was a large manila envelope, scrawled on it the letters, ‘OPEN THIS.’

  Emily’s heart raced; nothing could possibly fit between the weather strip and the floor. Someone would have to have been inside her apartment—were they perhaps still there? The studio suddenly no longer felt lifeless. At length she heard only the steady drip, drip of the faucet.

  Perhaps, she thought, the envelope was there as some sort of a joke by her colleagues. She didn’t find it amusing, especially if King-Pu had slipped through the door past them and raced off, terrified, into the night. But how could anyone have gotten inside? She glanced through the doorway into the darkness and found that she felt better leaving it open for now.

  As if it were poisonous, Emily gingerly grasped a corner of the envelope between two fingertips and walked over to study it beneath the lamp by the sofa. There she picked up the telephone and placed it to her ear and confirmed the presence of a dial tone.

  The envelope revealed no external markings other than the peculiar command on its cover. She tore open the seal. Inside she found a thin stack of photographs topped by a single brief note consisting entirely of newspaper clippings crudely grouped into words. The name of the person to whom the letter was addressed stirred her unease—Zhao Lu-Chang, her given Chinese appellation.

  You must destroy the computer control recovered from Mojave crash, in a way that further efforts for its reconstruction are rendered impossible. Your action must not draw any attention. Study the photographs well, Lu-Chang. You have two days to comply.

  Emily looked at the first photograph. “Father!” The sight of the gun which threatened him served to clarify the intent of tonight’s intruders. Tears flooded her eyes. She flipped back and forth through the entire stack, as if the strength of her refusal would alter the facts. Finally the contents of the envelope slipped from her hands. She sat down heavily on the sofa.

  The implications of the note were staggering. Apparently, their successful resurrection of the engine control threatened to expose the true cause of the Mojave crash: sabotage. There could be no other explanation. She and her colleagues had ventured too close to uncovering this fact, and whoever the murderers responsible, their reach somehow extended into China. It would be in such people’s character to threaten her with the most heinous of Stalinist tactics—through threats to her loved ones. Why on earth would they have done something like this?

  It was then that she noticed the bathroom door was ajar. She always made certain to leave it wide open in order for King-Pu to reach his litter tray.

  “Who’s there?” Emily willed herself from the sofa. She made her way slowly across the studio to the bathroom. “King-Pu,” she whispered hoarsely, “are you there?”

  Emily turned on the light. She eased open the door...blood!

  Smears of viscous red blood covered the washbasin and down the front of the vanity. The shower curtain had been ripped from the rod and thrown hastily into the bathtub. Breathlessly, she clutched her hands to her chest and crept inside. There was more blood in the bathtub—

  —she fell to her knees and vomited into the toilet.

  26

  Wednesday, May 6

  PAUL DEVINN PLACED on the check-out counter a hiker’s backpack rated for 55 pounds, a carbon-fiber fly rod and left-handed reel with two spools of float-casting line, a dozen assorted dry and wet flies, a small bottle of red salmon eggs, fishing hooks, a two-man nylon pack tent, two weeks worth of freeze-dried food packets, a Swiss Army knife, first aid kit, mosquito repellent and head net, green-and-black camouflage thermal-weight coveralls and an inexpensive hiking compass.

  The sporting goods store clerk surveyed the purchase. “Stockin’ our bomb shelter, are we?”

  Devinn grinned. “A lake in Manitoba’s got my name on it.”

  The clerk began ringing up the items. Halfway through, Devinn saw him squint through his eyeglasses at him. “No target practice tonight?” the man asked while continuing his tally, referring to the store’s onsite shooting range.

  Devinn realized with satisfaction that the man must have recognized him. “This is going to be an extended trip, with a lot of preparation yet, but thanks.”

  “That’s seven hundred twenty-seven dollars and forty-two cents. Will that be cash?” A smile escaped the corner of his mouth.

  Devinn handed him a credit card.

  “Nasty looking hand there,” the clerk observed.

  Devinn glanced at the back of his left hand. A few inflamed scratches had slipped into view from beneath the edge of bandage.

  “Looks infected. An animal do that?”

  Devinn said nothing as he waited to sign the receipt. He placed the three shopping bags of merchandise into a cart and wheeled the goods out of the store to his car.

  Devinn then drove south through Cuyahoga Falls to the outskirts of Akron. The day had become increasingly overcast, and by the time he rolled past the self-storage office, the final phase of gray had faded to darkness.

  Devinn’s lawyer handled all the paperwork. At $156 per month, the eight-by-twelve-by-ten cubicle was the smallest available and greatly exceeded his capacity needs. The property manager had readily obliged a request to advance the first three months rent, which Devinn’s lawyer also forwarded. He drove to his assigned locker and backed the car to the padlocked door.

  Devinn transferred the contents of his trunk to the storage locker and took stock of his cache. In addition to the bags of gear purchased that evening, the rented cubicle now contained a pine footlocker, a folding aluminum table, two army-surplus 50-millimeter metal ammunition containers and a five-suiter suitcase crammed full of clothes. He closed and pad-locked the door.

  Devinn pondered his upcoming departure from Thanatech. Lately it seemed that his handler was prone to overreacting to some or other misperceived vulnerability. With the plane crash spectacularly beyond expectations and the damage, so to speak, already done, Devinn had argued that he stay put and maintain a low profile in order to ascertain the direction of the investigation. Now that the investigation had veered dangerously close, that argument no longer held, however effective the plot to threaten Emily Chang.

  Devinn had never liked the idea of what he saw as ‘fleeing the scene.’ His preferred style was to maintain control—to deal with problems directly. More than once the thought occurred to him that his remote destination might provide the ideal opportunity for his handler—apparently dissatisfied with the ‘untidiness’ of his two recent operations—to have him eliminated. On the other hand, the Iranian connection to all of this had been in the works for some time. The rub was that Devinn really had no choice but defer to his handler’s judgment.

  27

  Sunday, May 10

  STUART EXPERIENCED a moment of unease at the doorway to his daughter’s bedroom. Their English Setter yawned then stretched his legs on the floor beside the bed, which prompted Ashley to reach down and comfort the dog before retreating beneath the snuggled warmth of her covers, the awkward tangle of fingers with hair somehow achieving its goal. Stuart realized his unease, in fact, was a sense of loss. Not loss of the typical sort, like the dull ache from his failed marriage that he had finally shaken free, or the helplessness of watching the woman he once loved slip away from this world. Whatever the effects of these tragedies, Ashley had kept right on growing as any child should, yet Stuart had witnessed her growth not from the perspective of parent but of one who periodically visits the home and family of friends over time. This was no way to feel when seeing his own child.

&nbs
p; Stuart reached inside and flipped off the light but his mind’s eye retained the image; Ashley’s wave of bronze-colored hair splayed out over her pillow; the surrender in her face to the promise of sleep while clutching the stuffed unicorn he had brought her from Singapore when she was only a toddler. Tomorrow was Monday, and in the morning he would drop Ashley off with his sister Elizabeth, board the 8:10 flight for Cleveland and endure another five days until he could stand here again, having kissed his daughter good-night and dabbed toothpaste from the corner of her mouth. Through the skylight over her bed, branches dancing in the wind cast shadows in the moonlight over the vulnerable form huddled beneath her comforter. He began to close the door.

  “Daddy?”

  “Who, me?”

  Silence. “Will you please come to my recital on Thursday?”

  Stuart stepped inside the room and flipped on the light. Ashley was sitting up and blinking her eyes. He sat down beside her and she latched onto his arm, resting her head.

  “Thursday... I would sure really like to.” Piano was something Ashley’s mother had always insisted upon. He shifted in order to hug her against his chest. “I’m afraid though that I can’t come this week. I’m sorry, sweetie.”

  His daughter did not move.

  “Do you want to know why I can’t come to your recital?”

  A long pause. “I want you to be there.”

  “I know.” Stuart let out a sigh. “When you’re standing up there on the stage... Look, you’re going to be great, you always are, even Aunt Liz says so. While you’re up there wowing your friends in the audience, I want you to remember that your dad will be working hard. I’ll be working so that soon I can come to all of your recitals, all of your games, drive you to school every day and tuck you into bed every night. That’s what I’ll be doing.”

  “Really?”

  “Promise.”

  She began fiddling with the button at the middle of his shirt. “But why can’t you work here? My friends’ fathers work, and they come.”

  “As I will soon.” The fiddling with her fingers continued. Stuart knew that the problem would likely worsen for a time, regardless of when he moved home. Ashley was a bright student but her grades continued to slip. He feared his daughter’s growing boredom with school was a sign of trouble ahead. How can she be enthusiastic when I won’t even show up? Stuart took her gently by the shoulders.

  “You remember the plane crash, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “People went to heaven, just like Mom.”

  Stuart had not meant to venture into that. Good job, idiot. Now she’ll never get to sleep. “And those people also left other people behind, who love and miss them, just like we miss Mom. But the good thing is your dad thinks he can figure out what happened to the plane so we can fix it. Planes crash and people get hurt, but at least I can make sure that it doesn’t happen again for the same reason. That’s why I have to stay in my job far away, for a little while longer than I told you before. I’m trying to do my part to see that people are safe when they travel around. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Now, by thinking of it that way, you’ll be helping them, too. Afterward I’ll move back home and be here all the time.”

  Ashley looked up at him for a moment. She leaned forward, wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face under his chin. “I love you, Daddy.”

  Stuart patted her lightly on the back. “I love you too.” He dropped his hands to her stomach and began tickling—“especially when you’re asleep!”

  STUART FISHED the croissant from inside his coat pocket and stuffed it into his mouth—the greasy bread was the only thing other than grapes they had served on the flight. His hands shook from Monday’s usual caffeine overdose. At least there was light at the end of the tunnel, he reminded himself for the second time that morning, the first while watching his daughter walk slowly away from the car.

  Stuart arrived at his office believing this to be true. He grumbled hello to his secretary, who beamed him her bewilderingly radiant smile.

  “Have we heard from Emily Chang?” he asked. It had been the day after their successful demo of the resurrected engine control that Stuart received her unexpected email. A family emergency of some unspecified sort required her to make a sudden trip to Vancouver. Now that five days had since passed with no word from her, he was beginning to worry.

  “I called a little after eight and only got her voice mail.”

  Stuart tossed his briefcase into a chair. He settled behind his desk to begin the miserable task of sorting through as many voice and e-mail messages as possible before staff began pouring into his office.

  Forty minutes later, bored while flipping through a proposal for the development of a high-temperature titanium alloy, he glanced up at Emily Chang standing in the doorway to his office. From her expression he saw that something was wrong.

  Stuart set down the report. “Welcome back.” He stood and gestured toward a seat. “Is your family situation okay?”

  Emily responded with a curt nod, avoiding his eyes—Stuart still had the feeling she was holding a grudge. She sat down, pulled her skirt straight and crossed her legs.

  Facing him finally, Emily’s eyes glistened with tears. “I am afraid I have very bad news,” she said in a slow, trembling voice. “When I returned to work this morning, Rick Abrams brought a serious problem to my attention.”

  Stuart noted her uncharacteristic display of emotion. “Problems are bound to happen.”

  “This is a serious problem. It seems the Mojave ECU is no longer operational.”

  Stuart was dumbfounded. Hardly the heart-wrenching tragedy involving a relative he had been led to expect.

  “We’re baffled as to what could have gone wrong. The team tells me that as recently as yesterday things were progressing well. They even managed to proof a difficult section of code, and now this. We don’t understand. The lab is locked each night when the engineers leave...” Emily shook her head.

  Her last comment struck Stuart as odd. And as bad as the news sounded, her reaction to it was somehow inconsistent with her usual cool under fire persona. On a personal level, he had found her thoroughly guarded with her emotions, perhaps even cold. He had not thought her the type to unravel under pressure. “First things first. Do I understand correctly that your family’s emergency is under control?”

  “They are fine.”

  “Good. That’s got to be the most important news of the day. And look, we’ve suffered setbacks before. I’m confident you and your team of wizards will work your way through this latest.”

  Emily bit her lower lip. “We’re afraid the memory modules have been permanently damaged.” Her reply was almost too soft to be heard.

  “Did you say, permanently?”

  FEELING DEEPLY ASHAMED for her deception of Stuart, and mortified for having performed it so well, Emily strode toward the relative sanctity of her cubicle. Never before had she felt more alone or more vulnerable to things beyond her control. Sitting down behind her desk she realized that her lower lip was trembling. A wave of angry resentment passed over her like a flash of heat.

  In the last few days, Emily had made good use of the many hours to reflect during her transcontinental flights, an emotional journey from her initial shock to fear, fear to anger, and anger finally to hatred. But unfocused hatred was wasted energy until she knew upon whom to train it. One option had been to submit to these pseudo-anonymous saboteurs, and then cower in limbo while awaiting word that her parents were safe—this the thugs expected of her. You must think for yourself—only one flies at the front of the flock, she recalled her father as saying, uncertain then what practical bearing it had. Her father’s contorted face with the pistol crammed into his mouth haunted her every moment. Instead of submitting, she had embarked upon a somewhat riskier path, committing herself to her original goal of smuggling her parents to America. Now, the snakeheads she had hired were also paid for the add
itional burden of finding them.

  Emily closed her eyes, collecting her thoughts. It was the means by which she had paid them that had her at the brink of exhaustion. Tortola, Vancouver, Cleveland...her nerves increasingly frazzled every mile of each flight in between. Simply wiring the sum had been out of the question. Responding to her anxious plea late Tuesday night, the snakeheads had demanded she front the deal with half of her payment, to be paid in person, cash in-hand, apparently as a means of satisfying their own security concerns. At first she found the demand unreasonably expensive, burdensome and not without risk of its own, as the bank in Tortola’s demand for fingerprints, and the intrusive questions by U.S. passport inspectors, eventually served to remind her. Since 9/11 the Federal Reserve had buttressed their role as clearinghouse for all electronic money transfers initiated within the United States—regardless of where the assets were held. It was her discovery of this fact that eventually sold her on the archaic method of shipping postal money orders to the bank in Tortola each month—she found it ironic that a software geek such as herself had not devised a more intelligent method. Presented by the bank with the stack of bills barely three inches high, she had ultimately found the task a little less formidable.

  There simply seemed no choice but to betray the trust of her employer. Playing such cards improperly could render her powerless to help either of her parents. In fact, she had just lied to Stuart, a good and honest man, forever dashing her hopes of winning his favor. She considered too risky the option of approaching him with her dilemma. Stuart would want to involve the authorities upon learning of the note demanding that she destroy the ECU—truly the smoking gun they all had been looking for. Would he be willing to countenance the smuggling of foreigners?

  Simply because my teammates were doing their job, my parents are pawns in some evil, despicable scheme. The more she thought about everything, the angrier she became.