Razing Beijing

by Sidney Elston

  “To Stuart. The agent described a scene about as productive as the one we had with Emily Chang. Stuart did admit to taking the calls. He apparently thought Thompson was interested in talking about a job.”

  McBurney sensed that the case for foreign espionage was slipping away. “How did the guy respond to learning that the victim phoned him minutes before having his head blown off?”

  McBurney heard papers shuffling in the background. “He claims Thompson phoned him to express interest in a job at this company called Coherent Light where Stuart’s a part-owner, that he was familiar with Thompson’s performance and agreed to personally endorse the guy at the recruitment office. Let’s see... Responding to the assertion that it was odd for Thompson to have called him around the coroner’s estimated time of death, Stuart admitted surprise and that he too found it odd. He explained that by the time he’d been notified of the homicide, it was already being reported by police as drug-related and so he hadn’t bothered to notify the authorities.”

  “Yeah. Stuart was actually at home when taking the Thompson call?”

  “That alibi looks pretty tight. He was hosting a dinner party with family. Richmond Bureau followed up on the names he gave for corroboration. His story seems to check out.”

  “Are you buying it?”

  “I don’t know. Richmond recommended they field a small surveillance team to keep an eye on Stuart. I accepted the offer.”

  McBurney realized there was much investigative spadework to be done. “This is all very interesting and I hope that in some small way I’ve helped. Unless you come up with a different angle, maybe on the money laundering, I don’t see a role for the Agency. But there is one thing you might try. I’d ask Thanatech to compile a list of everyone who was present for that flight test—the employees I spoke to in Mojave indicated it was quite the dog-and-pony show. I’d cross-check those names against a list of employees who have since terminated employment. Sounds like this guy Stuart might be on both lists. I don’t know what it says about Chang, but if your saboteur was an employee, odds are he won’t hang around to collect his pension.”

  Hildebrandt suggested they expand that to include employees of all the other companies involved in the test flight. “Thanatech is touchy about the crash. I’ll have to couch the request in terms of investigating the Thompson murder.”

  “Good luck. If anything breaks on the money laundering angle, give me a call.”

  HAVING ALREADY PAID a visit, Hildebrandt found the Human Resources suite easily enough. This time Thanatech was undergoing a lay-off; the FBI agent could say with authority that the mood in a morgue was jovial by comparison. Seated behind the secretary’s desk was the distinguished-looking older woman whom he had met during his last visit to the plant. She set down her novel when Hildebrandt approached. Reading a book during office hours and in the midst of a lay-off struck the agent as odd.

  “Hello, again,” the secretary said.

  Hildebrandt explained that he was still investigating the Thompson murder.

  The woman wriggled her nose. She looked at him with a placid expression and said nothing.

  Hildebrandt glanced at the name on the desktop. “Ms. Schwegaman, I—”

  “That’s Marlene Schwegman.”

  “Sorry. I spoke to your public relations representative. Didn’t she call—”

  “To say you were coming? I’m afraid not. In any case, Mr. Devinn is out on extended leave.”

  “I remembered that he wouldn’t be in. I was hoping you might be able to help me.” He asked if someone might compile a list of employees who had attended the Mojave flight test—he noticed her flinch at the mention of the catastrophe—and of those who had subsequently left the company. “If you could also direct me to someone who might know how to contact the other companies with employees who’d attended the flight test, that would be helpful as well.”

  Marlene was frowning. She puckered her lips, her eyes searching Hildebrandt’s.

  “I know this is going to take some time,” Hildebrandt threw in, noting her hesitation. “Perhaps simply a list of names with dates of departed employees would be easier to start with.”

  The secretary pushed herself back from her desk and slid open a drawer. In an instant she miraculously presented Hildebrandt with a single sheet of paper—twenty-three names numbered in a column labeled simply across the top, Post-test Attendee Departures.

  “Do you mind telling me how you already happened to have this?”

  “Well,” Marlene Schwegman’s face broke into a smile, “maybe you’re not the first person to ask for it.”

  42

  DEVINN DROVE THROUGH the towns and hamlets west of Richmond, Virginia—places with peculiar names like Goochland, Tobaccoville, Chula, Skin Quarter, Jennings Ordinary. Besides wondering idly what in their past had spawned towns with such names, he spent his hours behind the wheel deeply withdrawn inside his own thoughts.

  Try as he might to ignore it, there had been every indication that Stuart and Chang were up to something. He had personally witnessed their intelligence and resourcefulness. Rather than find comfort of refuge in his new identity, the fact of the matter was he was teetering between determination and the fringes of panic. His dilemma was that only by first obtaining the proof could he then convince his handler of the risk they faced.

  He was fording unfamiliar waters; risking his cover in pursuit of scrutinizing Stuart was not, strictly speaking, adhering to his handler’s instructions. While it was dangerous to toe the line with the organization that kept him challenged and very well compensated, stepping over it would signal that he could no longer be trusted—with predictable results. And while his neutralization was underway they would freeze all of his assets, an instrument of control that he had found no practical means of countering. His benefactors had knowledge of at least the Hong Kong bank where Devinn instructed them to wire his payments; his maze of worldwide accounts were no match for a determined trace. They also might suspect, albeit wrongly, that Devinn could finger their principal for helping him conduct espionage. They would certainly never allow anything like his arrest by the authorities; indeed, the elegance of their arrangement was that his benefactors claimed to be ever vigilant in preventing it. In the final analysis, it would always be they who had him over the proverbial barrel. Their implementation of a decision to do away with him would be certain and swift.

  THE WOODED KNOLL provided an expansive view of the modest yet secluded estate. Beyond the main wing of the antebellum fieldstone house, several acres of velvet lawn with forsythia, lilac, roses, and dogwood were tiered down to the waters of Nomini Bay. A modern dock extending out into the water was concealed by the boathouse, where high above its cedar-shingled roof were visible the large white mast and spreaders of a sailboat moored to its berth. Stowed inside a large wire cage beside the tennis court was a vast collection of colorful plastic children’s toys.

  From his position just below the crest of the knoll, Paul Devinn looked between branches of mature ash and pine trees to see most of the five acres of grounds. Headlights occasionally passed on the winding two-lane road some hundred yards to his left and from the other road further behind him. Past the intersection of these two roads that bordered the thickly wooded property was the entrance to a bridle path where Devinn had parked his rental car.

  He enjoyed a relatively unobstructed right-quartering view of the front of Stuart’s residence. He could also see much of the crushed gravel drive which paralleled the edge of the woods before looping beneath the Gothic-column portico and around to a four-bay garage. Nearly an hour had passed since the driver of the cream-colored Lexus, an attractive woman with auburn hair in her early-to-middle thirties, had stopped beneath the portico and entered the house with a young girl. He had no idea of the woman’s identity—unfortunately, she wasn’t Emily Chang—but noted her ability to enter the security code into the keypad beside the front door. The little girl he recognized from the obligatory photographs on the
desk in her father’s office.

  The girl shortly re-appeared behind the house laughing and running around the yard with a dog. This concerned Devinn but Stuart’s daughter and her pet eventually re-entered the house without incident. Soon the sun sank farther below the hills to the west. Interior lights around the first floor of the house began to appear.

  Devinn removed the night-vision rifle scope from inside his jacket—his objective tonight was surveillance. The Lexus was parked beneath the portico and between two columns, the nearest pillar partly obscuring the rear license plate. Moving a few yards to his right, he was able to jot down the D.C. registration on a small notepad. Again he heard the sound of tires on gravel. Headlights appeared and an older model pick-up truck roared up the drive. The truck swung beneath the portico, past the parked Lexus, before coming to a halt in front of the garage. The headlights were extinguished, the driver’s door opened, and Stuart emerged. Devinn watched his old friend walk casually toward the front entrance of his home, glancing at the Lexus before going inside.

  Devinn thought the attractive woman who had arrived with the daughter was likely a child-sitter of some sort, in which case she would soon leave. She appeared a little old to be some sort of au pair; a Lexus with D.C. plates didn’t fit that particular profile. Stuart’s new flame? All the above? After all, whoever heard of a rich putz averse to dipping his wick into the family help, as his own father had repeatedly done.

  STUART POKED HIS HEAD into the family room to find Ashley sprawled on her back on the floor, the back of her head resting against Gordon’s stomach, quietly reading a book. She heard him there and rolled to her side.

  “Daddy, where’s Aunt Joanne?”

  “She asked me to tell you that she had to leave.”

  “But I wanted to say goodbye!”

  “You blew it, kid.” Stuart knelt down and pecked his daughter on the forehead. “You thanked her for driving you home, I hope?”

  “Always.” Ashley resumed her reading without further comment.

  Unconvinced, Stuart slipped away to his office, eager to hear what Emily had found.

  “I didn’t get to speak directly to all of them,” Emily informed him, disappointment in her voice. “For a few, the best I could do was ask people here at the plant that might be able to comment. Five employees left because their spouse was being relocated.”

  Stuart struck a line through each name as she proceeded down the list; he was surprised how quickly it went. There was nothing particularly suspect or unusual in her findings—as best that either amateur sleuth could discern—which included promotions for higher salary, or internal Thanatech relocation, with one case of dismissal on a sexual harassment offense.

  Stuart looked over their results. There were two remaining unaccounted for but Stuart knew enough about them to suspect they had left for legitimate reasons. Lay-off rumors had been circulating for some time and salary increases were going to be zip. “It’s understandable that some people are leaving voluntarily.”

  “Now what do we do?” Emily asked. “Does this mean the saboteur is still lurking around Thanatech?”

  “I don’t know.” Stuart cleared his throat. “Listen, I heard through the grapevine, Miss Chang, that you were considering leaving Thanatech in order to come work for my outfit here.”

  “Really? And what grapevine would that be?”

  “Well, half the people on my list said so.” She had to know he was joking with that, Stuart thought. “Is it true?”

  Silence. “That depends. I actually might consider it.”

  Stuart could tell she’d replied with a smile. “I have a good idea what you already make. We’ll boost your salary by 25%.”

  To his surprise, Emily’s reply sounded hesitant. “That seems generous. Isn’t it more expensive to live in northern Virginia?”

  Don’t you blow this. “Almost forgot. The moving allowance and sign-on bonus come to seventy-five thousand dollars.”

  “What’s a sign-on bogus?”

  “Bonus! Bonus!”

  “Oh. And before I decide, is there anything else you ‘almost forgot’?”

  “Uh, I should inform you that it’s mostly government contract stuff. But this is a right-to-work state and they can’t force you to sleep on the job. Jeez, Emily, I guess you begin with a few weeks vacation...?”

  “I see. And how long would I have to think about it?”

  “Well, when can you start?”

  43

  MCBURNEY LOOKED AT his reflection in the bathroom mirror and gripped the extra twenty or so pounds of rich restaurant food that had coagulated around his stomach. He puffed out his barreled chest, squared his shoulders, and—there we are! Merely bad posture at fault, allowing the flab to roll over the waist of his shorts. Gone were the days when all he could eat went only to fueling his great bulk. Inherent to his size was the superior physical strength he’d always enjoyed over most men, and probably always would, but then...McBurney relaxed, and the flaccidity reappeared. It was disgusting and cruel, he thought, what age and gravity and constant travel had wrought. Right now he was simply tired and he just knew that Kate wouldn’t be. He wished there were some way to turn out the bedroom lights before parading himself in front of her. McBurney finished brushing his teeth and snapped off the bathroom light.

  Kate sat cross-legged on the bed with a book on her lap, her dark-brown hair pulled back prettily and laying in curls in front of her shoulder the way that he liked. She looked up from her novel as he shuffled toward the bed. He noticed with sudden guilt the only thing she wore was the sheer silk nightshirt he’d given her on that first weekend, the one during which Kate had suggested they move in together.

  She smiled as he approached the bed, whereupon McBurney collapsed, facedown.

  A moment later she let out a sigh. “Poor old Sam. What do we do with you?”

  McBurney groaned into the pillow; he could feel her eyes boring into his back.

  “What do I do with a man too old for his age?”

  Already his grogginess was surrendering to unconsciousness. “I’m not too old. Am I to blame for my flight getting in so damn late?” Certainly that had to be it, he thought, feeling a stab of anxiety along with his flagging libido. His flight from LA did touch down at Dulles some ninety minutes behind schedule.

  “All right.” She slapped him smartly on the butt. “Tomorrow morning we each have a date.”

  McBurney moaned into the pillow. “Sometimes I wonder how hard lawyers actually work during the day.”

  “Cute, Sam. And you are a miserable shit. Tomorrow morning—six o’clock at the gym.”

  “If I’m not awake, start without me. It’s midnight.”

  At that, the telephone rang. McBurney started to peel himself off from the bed.

  Kate slid to the floor and jogged, half-naked, around the foot of the bed toward the doorway. Her voice carried the short distance down the hallway; he could tell by the pause after her greeting that the call was intended for him. “...not at all...yes, maybe an hour ago. I can wake him...? I’d be happy to...I’ll tell him...oh yes, we’d love to. Any time at all...I’ll make sure that he is. Goodnight.” She hung up the phone.

  McBurney watched her walk back into the room. His eyes drifted down past her narrow hips to the dark vee between her legs. At age thirty-three, Kate’s exercise regimen had preserved her flat stomach and smooth, taut legs...McBurney felt himself becoming aroused. He watched her traipse around to her nightstand, her lips parted in a knowing smile as she climbed onto the bed.

  She sat back against the headboard and stretched her legs straight out in front of her, drumming her hands on the tops of her thighs. “That was your boss,” she explained cheerfully. “He’s very sweet.”

  “I’m not surprised you would think so. What did he want?”

  “He extended an invitation to have us over for dinner sometime. He must think for some reason that you’ll be in town. And he’d like to meet you in the morning—early in the m
orning.”

  “Really?” He thought Director Burns was supposed to give the morning brief to the president and then spend the rest of the morning at the Pentagon. “How early?”

  “Five-thirty, at the Langley gymnasium.”

  WHEN HE WAS ONLY forty-six years old, Lester Burns suffered a massive coronary attack. Nine years and one triple by-pass later, the top CIA chief restricted himself to a low-cholesterol diet and an exercise routine that McBurney suspected was at best a rationale for preserving an indulgence in brandy and cigars. He found the Director of Central Intelligence on his back benching a set of weights. The chest of his sweatshirt was wringing wet. Director Burns greeted McBurney and wiped the sweat from his face.

  The sparkling new gym wasn’t crowded at 5:35 in the morning. The two men set off at a slow jog around the indoor track.

  McBurney had two business trips under his belt since last speaking with the director. There were any number of issues his superior could and should be anxious to hear, and a request to meet with him now suggested the President was anxious as well. There was, for example, rising concern among the international intelligence community that instability within the Chinese Communist Party might wash over into neighboring Asian countries for a return to the bad-old days. Pyongyang, Moscow and Beijing had long thumbed their noses at the Missile Technology Control Regime, exchanging missile, nuclear, and chemical weapons technologies with aspiring regional powers like Pakistan and Iran. Most recently there was the inexplicable disappearance of China’s military communications satellite, which McBurney had raised as a dire omen of further Asian mischief—and as a pretense for his subsequently botched defection attempt, the result being a divestiture of the President’s political capital. He had learned on the sly that attendees to National Security Council gatherings had taken to cynically mocking him, referring to ‘MIST’ for ‘McBurney’s Imaginary Satellite Theory.’ He could also expect Director Burns to lecture him this morning on the importance of deferring travel in order to focus more attention on Joint Counter-terrorism Task Force proceedings.