Razing Beijing

by Sidney Elston

  “I have no idea.” Stuart briefly caught Emily’s eye.

  Perry let out a deep breath. “We’re supposed to be the ones out front with this technology. Frankly, I’m concerned it’ll appear that we’re not reliable custodians of their technology—the taxpayers’ stolen technology. Who knows how DOE or Congress are likely to respond.”

  Joanne Lewis agreed. “If I were controlling the money, I would demand to know who was out front. You should hold off doing anything until after the review. If Stu’s right, there may be opportunity for patent infringement litigation.” Lewis shrugged. “Something to think about.”

  “I don’t care about any of that,” Perry dismissed.

  Joanne glanced at Stuart. Several moments passed. She said to Perry, “If we find ourselves venturing down that path, the more proof we have of an infringement, the better. Maybe you should consider running the test.”

  Perry grimaced. He looked hard first at Joanne, then Stuart, then back at Joanne.

  “Does it concern anyone that whoever sent that message wanted me, or us, to suspect what might really have happened up in Baltimore?” Stuart asked. “Would they send that message to me without knowing what it is we work on here?”

  “Why?” Reedy asked.

  “I don’t know why!”

  Stuart’s observation had a numbing affect around the table, as if they suddenly grasped his reasoning but stubbornly refused to admit it.

  “Maybe we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Stuart observed. “Ralph, I think we ought to just run the test.”

  “How did they do it, from an airplane?” Thackeray’s jaw dropped. “Not a satellite.”

  Perry stood up from his chair in a huff and started pacing around. When finally he spoke, it was with his calm projection of control. “It’s not only absurd, but premature to think we might’ve been outgunned. We need to remain quiet about this. That goes for all of us.” Perry cast Emily an uncomfortable glance.

  “What about the test?” Stuart pressed.

  Perry snapped to the verge of losing it. “How does a test advance our cause? As far as I can tell it can only muck things up more than they are.” He leveled his finger at Stuart’s chest. “You’ve got enough to worry about. No test.”

  Stuart’s face reddened. “Could you and I have a minute alone?”

  “THIS ISN’T LIKE YOU,” Perry said evenly as they entered his office. “If I didn’t know better, I’d accuse you of trying to sabotage the whole effort.”

  “All I suggested we do is quietly piggy-back this on the next scheduled test. You’re the one who called the meeting and made a federal case out of it. And if you think this program needs me to sabotage it, your head’s cranked further up your ass than I thought.”

  “You lack vision, Stu. You always did.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I can’t envision hanging people’s livelihoods on the whims of politicians, especially clowns like Norman Milner.”

  “Well, you’ve got the luxury of your uncharitable opinions. At least one of us has to keep a grip on reality. This weekend I have the pleasure of the senator being my host. Our livelihoods depend on such people, whether you like it or not.”

  74

  THE MYSTERIOUS ENVELOPE appeared inside his office, as had the one before it, with no postmark or return address—despite a door lock change, the senator noted. On front was only the senator’s name, the back flap embossed with a wax seal. That morning he had noticed the envelope’s corner extending from beneath the blotter on his desktop, the unnerving fact being that at the time his chief of staff and senior aid were in his office to discuss the daily agenda. Luckily, he had been able to reach for the pad by his phone and discreetly brush the corner with his fingertips to completely conceal it.

  His staff all gone for the day, and the cleaning crew yet to arrive, Senator Norman Milner locked the door to his office. He sat down at his desk and rested his face in his hands for several moments. Finally mustering the will, he slid the heavyweight cream-colored envelope out from beneath the blotter. He broke open the seal and slid out the photographs.

  Although the faces had been airbrushed away, the threat was no less apparent. Like the photographs before them, these revealed a different instant of the same event but always the unmistakable birthmark on the side of his hip. There was the implicit reminder that, even if it may in fact be legal between consenting adults, Maryland law prohibited sodomy between an adult and a twelve year-old boy. The political destruction alone was a certainty, which the photographer who had forever captured the acts certainly knew.

  Milner imagined that he was not unlike most public servants in that he had begun his career with the best of intentions. He had seen what lesser though comparable transgressions had done to his colleagues. This particular indiscretion had occurred eighteen years ago, in the exuberant aftermath of his re-election—Representative Milner’s very first. He might have been only a congressman, but oh how he had throbbed with the resounding affirmation, the victory better than even the first. Representative Milner was another man, young and not yet seasoned by the gristmill of public service, vulnerable to the indulgences of youth and private sector greed. That’s all it was—a youthful indulgence. And was it really fair to be held to account for the private, personal acts of an early career?

  Milner knew that the note of instructions would follow in a day or two.

  75

  Wednesday, July 1

  MCBURNEY LED STUART AND EMILY down several long corridors and across a vacant office expanse, where proof of a once large employment now existed only in worn carpeting that defined the location of absent cubicles. They climbed a short rise of steps to the conference room where the murmur of conversation ceased. Perfunctory introductions were shared and Stuart learned that Emily was already acquainted with one young woman. They followed McBurney’s lead and sat down in the remaining empty chairs.

  “Before we get into our theories about your e-mails,” McBurney began, “we’d like to know your initial reactions to them.” His statement was met with a few disconcerted frowns, giving rise to the impression not all in the room were inclined to believe whatever was about to be said.

  “I thought they were the work of a crackpot,” Stuart admitted.

  McBurney pondered Stuart’s reply. “Would you explain what you mean?”

  “Because the context of the attached figure made no sense at all. My first reaction was to delete it, so that’s what I did. The next day, I discovered the same two messages on my computer at work. That I ever opened them was purely serendipitous.”

  The CIA officer cast his eyes over the dozen analysts in the room. “So you thought it was some sort of a prank,” McBurney rephrased Stuart’s assessment. The attention turned to one of three women in the room. “Miss Chang?”

  “I thought the Chinese origin was clear,” Emily replied. “What caught my attention were some of the lines in the header. They appeared to indicate black-market Internet access that we as students frequently used.”

  “You went to Qinghua, isn’t that right?”

  “And I took classes at Beijing University.”

  McBurney exchanged knowing looks with one or two of the analysts. “Would you say this black-market Internet resource is common knowledge?”

  Emily puckered her lips and thought for a moment. “It was not something that was openly discussed. You never knew for certain which students were State Security informants, but everyone knew getting around ministry Internet restrictions was a fertile field of endeavor. And quite fun, to be honest. Except for those who were caught.”

  Stuart, along with everyone, knew of the well publicized Chinese restrictions on Internet use. “I’ve been to Beijing numerous times but never Beijing University,” he said. “If I met with anyone representing these schools I wasn’t aware of it, if that’s who you think sent these.”

  “Did your colleagues at CLI express an opinion?” McBurney asked him.

  “They think I’m a crackpot.
”

  “Well, we do think we know who sent you the message. Juarez?” He motioned to someone by the door, the lights were dimmed, and an overhead projector came to life.

  Juarez adjusted his wire-rim glasses and slid the first of his ‘overhead images’ into place, showing an urban building complex with dots of pedestrians and streets variously populated with automobiles. The intervening areas between buildings were dull brown, some showing patches of water and sidewalks. Detail was fine enough that Stuart could discern a woman riding a bicycle, the glistening of tiny handlebars protruding in front of her arms.

  “Miss Chang turns out to be correct,” Juarez said. “These buildings comprise the eastern quad of Beijing University.”

  Emily gazed at the screen. “I recognize this place.”

  “This row of rooftops over here is the old Walking Tractor factory”—Juarez pointed with a pencil to a building on the slide, then he laid the pencil down over what appeared to be a paved road—“which separates the campus along North Xinjuiekou Street. This building, or possibly this one, is the likely origin of the e-mail Mr. Stuart received.”

  Stuart blinked. “You used the files I forwarded to pinpoint one building?”

  “Two buildings,” Juarez corrected him.

  “How?”

  Juarez looked at McBurney.

  “You don’t need to know that,” said McBurney. “The important thing is, who in either of those buildings might possibly have reason to construct such a message? Viewed that way, arriving at the answer is not so technical as it might appear.” McBurney gave Juarez the nod to proceed.

  Juarez moved another slide into place. This showed photographs of a crowd of young street protesters, fists raised and waving signs, their faces contorted and angry as they shouted at helmeted riot police armed with Plexiglas shields. The monochromatic pictures, four adjacent frames on the single slide, each featured a red circle around the face of one of the protesters.

  “This man is an assistant music professor at Beijing University,” Juarez explained. “His office and classrooms are in one of the buildings I showed you. He’s been arrested and jailed as part of the ongoing crackdown on the democracy movement, which was pretty much driven underground after Tiananmen Square in June of ‘89. As the son of a prominent official, he receives favorable consideration and has always been released. He’s narrowly evaded prison sentences on at least two occasions that we know of.”

  “Beijing University...?” Stuart shook his head and shared a look with Emily. “Are we supposed to see a connection?”

  “Not yet,” McBurney said.

  One by one, photographs of Chinese men appeared on the screen, some of which were obviously acquired through covert methods. Stuart and Emily were asked if they recognized any of the men; with each, the two visitors shook their heads.

  Juarez presented another slide, the single photograph of an older man copied from a magazine or newspaper. Contemplative, intelligent brown eyes stared out from the man’s oriental face, his jaw square and strong.

  Stuart leaned forward and squinted at the screen.

  “This man’s a high government official,” McBurney said, “or cadre, as the communists say. Look familiar?”

  Stuart pondered the photograph. Again, he shook his head.

  Juarez went to remove the slide.

  “Hold on.” Stuart rose from his chair and approached the screen. “I think I might have met him once.”

  McBurney jutted his chin toward the projector and Juarez slapped down another slide, a grainy black-and-white photograph. The image around the boundary was distorted, as if shot using a poor quality lens.

  Stuart’s jaw dropped. This photo showed him standing with a drink in his hand and talking to the man pictured on the previous slide. Stuart turned toward the roomful of faces quietly appraising him. He cast a glare at McBurney. “What the hell is this?”

  “Maybe you should tell us.”

  “If I had the answer—” He cut himself off and turned toward the screen. “That must have been taken at a medical technology forum. There were usually government types milling around, at least I was told there were. Back in the nineties, I was traveling to Asia to peddle our medical products, and I think this man...Deng, that was his name. I remember that was the name because I asked him if he was a relative of their deceased leader, Deng Xioaping. He looked at me strangely, like I’d just insulted him, and replied only when checking himself into hotels—odd sense of humor. He was one of few actually trying to help cut through the red tape and graft I was encountering.” Stuart returned to his seat. “He was interested in CLI’s optical surgery lasers.”

  “Wait, I know who he is,” Emily Chang volunteered. “His name is Deng Zhen. Everyone in China knows him as our ‘technology czar.’ ”

  McBurney said, “His official title is Commissioner of National Defense Science, Technology, and Industry. So, you remember where you met him?”

  “The Palace Hotel,” replied Stuart.

  “You’re certain?”

  Stuart studied the face on the screen. “We’ve both aged a bit. I’m certain it’s the guy in your photo.”

  “Qinghua used to host his speaking engagements,” Emily added. “Deng Zhen is much revered among the engineering students. As a prominent figure, he’s unusually outspoken on the Cultural Revolution, and he openly condemns that element of the proletariat class who still denounce intellectualism. Many in China look up to him. My father works...my father worked for him for many years.”

  McBurney snapped his fingers. “Juarez, put up the slide of the Old Defense Building...yeah, that one.” There were actually two photos, one taken street level, and the other from a distance by telephoto lens that captured the rooftop’s assorted satellite dish paraphernalia. “Miss Chang, do you recognize this building?”

  Emily thought for a moment. “On Iron Lion Lane, correct?”

  “Yes, in fact.”

  “We occasionally walked past on the way to class. It’s just a few blocks from the Forbidden City.”

  McBurney asked, “Did your father happen to work there?”

  “I always thought his office was in the Kaili Building. At least, that is where it was before I left to attend university in the United States. They had since moved him and my mother to Xichang.”

  McBurney exchanged a disappointed look with Carolyn Ross. “Let’s return to Deng Zhen. He’s above all a survivor, part of the vanishing post-Mao gerontocracy. Carolyn?”

  Emily’s acquaintance spoke without any notes. “Deng Zhen is considered a conservative member of the Communist Party. He’s known to have an icy relationship with his son Peifu, the dissident from the previous slide. They eschew each other’s company, and the cadre never even showed up for any of his son’s graduations. Their last prominent public showing together was six years ago at his wife’s funeral.”

  Stuart was intrigued. “You think the son sent the message to settle a score with his conservative father?”

  “What’s going on between the father and son isn’t exactly clear,” Ross replied.

  McBurney said, “It’s possible the elder Deng may have accessed the Internet through a terminal where his son works—in order to contact you.”

  There was an analyst leaning with his back against the wall, a gaunt middle-aged man with a goatee, whom Stuart had noticed staring at the floor with a perpetual frown. “The problem with that, Sam, is why haven’t the authorities nabbed Deng?” the analyst said in a raspy voice. “I can accept they haven’t intercepted the Internet message. But we know they tail him all over the place. State Security probably had someone follow him into the building, and they’d inquire what he was doing there. Especially since it’s known he and his son are at odds.”

  “Don’t forget who we’re talking about here,” McBurney cautioned. “Deng’s on personal terms with the Party Secretary.”

  “Who is essentially bedridden,” the analyst countered.

  “The succession politics are an
intractable element of any explanation we form.” McBurney stood up heavily from his chair and walked to the front of the room. “Maybe the police were simply looking the other way after Deng spread a little quanxi around. It also may not matter. You shouldn’t necessarily assume that Deng would be dead if they discovered him passing off Internet messages, or that he’d be tossed into the gulag like Zhao—” McBurney cut himself short. Everyone followed his gaze toward Emily. “Forgive me, Miss Chang. That was very insensitive of me. I’m sorry.”

  Emily nodded morosely.

  McBurney rubbed his face with his hands, then walked back to his chair and sat down. While staring down at the table he said, “Frankly, after reviewing a hundred possibilities in the last twenty-four hours, that Deng originated the messages is our only good guess. We have a theory or two as to why he might do this, which we are not at liberty to discuss at the moment. We don’t really know what he was trying to say.” McBurney fixed his gaze on Stuart. “You may have been singled out by Deng as the recipient of some sort of a warning.”

  “Why me?”

  “Perhaps simply because he remembered you.”

  “I believe someone possessed advance knowledge of what was about to appear in the Baltimore stadium. Knowledge, and perhaps even control of it. I don’t know that I’d characterize it as a warning.”

  “I have to be frank,” McBurney shifted in his chair. “We’re not on the same page, Mr. Stuart, regarding the source of the Baltimore thing. For the sake of discussion, let’s assume you’re right. It’s disconcerting to know Deng’s responsibilities include advance weapons development for the PLA, which makes it an intriguing theory because of the valuable knowledge at his disposal. Question is, would you assess your acquaintance as an adequate basis for him to include you in such an act?”

  Stuart endured the uncomfortable silence for several moments. “No, but...you’re suggesting this guy is some sort of a traitor?”

  McBurney closed his eyes. “Sorry, that’s background you—”