Razing Beijing

by Sidney Elston

  Price O’Connell, Deputy Station Chief – Tokyo, relayed the bellhop’s confirmation that at 6:43 that evening, Mr. Pedersen was delivered with his bag to his room on the fourteenth floor of the Capitol Tokyu.

  McBurney read the younger man’s expression. Heated debate of where to house Stuart had raged via encrypted satellite up until their flights had nearly arrived.

  “For the record,” O’Connell was compelled to add, “it would’ve been easier to control if we’d sequestered your man at the Okura with you. Anyway, the bellhop claims he was whisked to his room while the Chinese delegation was out to dinner.”

  McBurney was in no mood to reopen the debate. “I assume you’re going to recommend that the rendezvous occur at Deng’s hotel.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Then pulling this off is going to be hard enough without hustling Pedersen across town and slipping him in unseen when the time comes. It’s a difficult call. But the Tokyu’s a big enough place, so Pedersen won’t be recognized if he stays put in his room as instructed.” Even as he said it he understood the risk and difficulty he was imposing on the participants. “What else have we got?”

  O’Connell looked grimly at the veteran officer. “The objective’s being shadowed pretty closely.”

  McBurney considered the point with a grimace as he straightened his leg beneath the shallow table. Contact would be limited between Deng and people to whom he might intentionally or even unwittingly pass state secrets, a broad category that tended to include everything. “I was afraid of that,” he said.

  The thirty-four year old Oregonian went on to describe how they had organized their surveillance of the Chinese delegation. McBurney’s three advance officers were posing as visiting diplomats and had positioned themselves in the vicinity of the Diet, the Japanese government’s sprawling parliamentary complex in the center of Tokyo. During the evening, and with the aid of several Japanese agents, two of O’Connell’s resident officers tracked the Chinese delegation’s movements.

  Gary Nomura opened a map of downtown Tokyo and folded it flat on the table.

  “The first two days of trade talks took place in several locations, primarily inside a large auditorium at the ANA Hotel,” O’Connell continued, making reference to the map. “They’re holding a conference on technology export concessions inside the Diet. That’s being hosted by the Japanese Interior Ministry, so we have to tread lightly.”

  “What can you tell us about Deng Zhen’s APEC role?” asked George Mekler.

  “Deng appears to be sort of an advisor-at-large, which we’re told is consistent with his previous involvement in these trade boondoggles.” O’Connell explained that Deng would typically attend a given topic of discussion, whisper comments into the ear of the designated Chinese negotiator, then walk to check on status of another of the talks. “We can tell fairly easily who’s assigned to accompany him, always one of two men. Beijing station’s working with us to establish identities and backgrounds of all these players.”

  “Probably State Security,” McBurney guessed.

  O’Connell nodded. “At least one of them, Cheung, also appears to be a member of their Information Industry Ministry. We’re still waiting on the other Deng shadow, a big guy who checked in as Pan. Of course, we don’t know if Deng’s aware these men are more than mere bodyguards. We’ve asked Beijing to help us with that angle as well.”

  “Deng’s been around the block a time or two,” McBurney pointed out. “What about Deng’s trips to the head, stepping outside for a smoke, that sort of thing?”

  O’Connell cleared his throat. “Your overnight said we were trying to carve out an hour. So we more or less eliminated toilet visits and stepping out for a smoke or breath of fresh air. He’s always accompanied while doing these things. Deng doesn’t appear to smoke.”

  “Right,” said McBurney while rubbing his eyes. “I’ll shut up and listen.”

  “During the day we haven’t seen him alone too often, certainly not adequately alone. Except later in his hotel room, which I’ll get to. He’s had breakfast both mornings inside the hotel restaurant at 8:00. Both times Cheung, Pan, and the same six members of the negotiating team accompanied him. Today the Chinese broke off for lunch by themselves at their embassy. Afterward they boarded three taxis and we followed them to an office building, here”—O’Connell pointed on the map—“next to Haneida. They spent a little under two hours inside. We’re not certain, but we think it was probably a strategy session with a couple of PLA corporations trying to expand their business interests here. But at dinner and all these meals so far, even the big inaugural hosted last night by MITI, some member of the Chinese delegation was always within sight of our man.

  “Oh. He did take a walk around the imperial grounds late on the afternoon they arrived. Whether he knew it or not, we observed him being tailed by Chinese intelligence. So Deng’s daytime hours appear to be spoken for. Which brings us back to his hotel. Gary?”

  “Our break, if there is one, will come in the commissioner’s reclusive bent,” Nomura began. “By nine or so the rest of his gang hit the bar for a nightcap, at which time Deng can’t seem to part company soon enough. He limps into the elevator and retires for the night.”

  “We can safely assume his room is bugged,” George Mekler said. “Does he phone anyone before showing up for breakfast?”

  “Deng leaves his room in the morning when he hears a rap on his door.”

  O’Connell informed McBurney that their local Japanese counterparts had been falling all over themselves in order to help with the operation.

  “Pays to have connections.” McBurney beamed a smile, aware that the call from the Director had to have helped.

  “Japanese public security has someone walk the guest corridors over there, you know, pushing a laundry cart around, emptying ash trays by the elevators, that sort of thing. So they tell us Deng gets his knock on the door—typically it’s the bodyguard Cheung—before heading down to the breakfast lounge overlooking the pond. They seem to have stringent rules for their wayward dignitaries.”

  “That’s because of guys like you,” McBurney observed.

  Nomura unfolded a large sheet of paper on top of the Tokyo street map. McBurney joined the others in leaning over the table to study the architectural layout of the Capitol Tokyu.

  “This beside the lobby is our women’s apparel and gift shop,” Nomura said, eyes twinkling good-naturedly as he looked for McBurney’s reaction.

  “Hmm, well, I trust we’ll not have a need for the emergency fallback.”

  Nomura grinned. “Famous last words. Our local buds helped me put together a good one, and they’ve agreed to be on call with a moment’s notice. As you suggest, it’s usually a thankless task. But an atta-boy from you would probably be appreciated.”

  McBurney nodded. “We’ll need to go over the details later.”

  Nomura directed their attention to the drawing and the hotel fitness center, consisting of a main room with exercise machines surrounded by men’s and women’s changing areas and several smaller rooms. “We’ve prepared several options. These two smaller rooms here are a steam room and a massage parlor. Option ‘A’ calls for summoning Deng from his room—an invitation, say—for a session with a masseuse. We expect he’ll be accompanied by one of his thugs.”

  “Won’t the hotel send a masseuse up to your room?” asked Carolyn Ross.

  “Yes. But they’ve begun having legal problems over here. Now they politely encourage you to use the parlor. The parlors as we see are tiny, barely big enough to walk around the massage table. So, Deng shows up trailing his thug. The masseuse is one of ours, she admits Deng, holds up her hand to the other guy and says, Sorry, massage private. Too small. You wait outside.”

  Mekler appeared to be unenthusiastic. “And our Mr. Pedersen is waiting under the table?”

  Nomura pointed to a spot on the drawing. “Or we admit him through this other door here.”

  “I don’t like it
,” McBurney immediately said.

  Nomura and O’Connell exchanged disappointed looks.

  “A massage won’t work. They won’t buy it.”

  “Deng hobbles around everywhere he goes. A complimentary massage is standard fare for all the Tokyu’s guests.” Nomura’s straining jaw muscles didn’t escape McBurney’s notice. “It will not seem inappropriate.”

  “I think his ‘thug’ will try to convince Deng to take a massage in his room. And what’s he to say?” McBurney decided on a more conciliatory tone. “Let’s suppose Deng does make it downstairs to the parlor. Remember, our success is predicated on State Security not finding us out. I’d say chances are zip that the intelligence guy will sit on his hands outside the door while Deng is getting a rub-down, whether or not he can hear any whispering or discussion inside—come to think of it, especially if he doesn’t. What would you do if you were the thug? No,” McBurney shook his head, “setting up the opposition right outside the door leaves too little margin should something unpredictable happen.”

  McBurney pressed his thumb to the architect’s drawing. “What does this bar overlook?”

  “Kokkaigijidomae. Over there’s a Buddhist temple, and that’s the deputy Prime Minister’s residence.”

  McBurney folded his arms. “What time does it close?”

  “Late,” O’Connell replied. “The restaurant’s open ’til midnight.”

  Somebody’s ringing wireless telephone prompted the intelligence officers to all glance around to see whose it was. McBurney padded his coat pocket and removed the small rectangular telephone. “Shit.” He pushed the receive button on the Ericsson encrypted satellite phone and raised it to his ear. “Yes?”

  There was a momentary delay. The satellite reception was so clear nowadays that McBurney sometimes thought the connection had failed.

  “Is that you, Sam?” It was the unmistakable voice of his secretary.

  “What is it, Philip?”

  “We’ve got an unusual situation. Emily Chang is holding on the other line.”

  Emily Chang...? “What the hell does she want?”

  8:25 A.M., New York City Rush Hour

  SINCE BEING COMPLETED in 1931, the George Washington Bridge had been heralded as the most heavily traveled suspension bridge in the world. To solidify this title meant keeping up with the 1950’s automobile boom, and so in 1962 an entire lower deck was added, increasing the number of lanes from eight to fourteen.

  Each day nearly one hundred thousand vehicles crisscrossed the twin decks spanning high over the Hudson River between Manhattan and Fort Lee. At any instant during rush hour some 1,000 vehicles—roughly fifteen hundred tons—hurtled along the fourteen lane span, which itself comprised another million tons of asphalt and structural steel. To support this tremendous load, two mammoth steel towers soared some 600 feet over the Hudson. Skyscrapers in their own right, these towers bore the bridge’s weight through four massive, thirty-six inch diameter catenary ‘cables’—hollow steel cylinders, encasing a dense mass of small diameter galvanized wire totaling 102,000 miles in length. The ultimate strength of each catenary cable was 350,000 tons. Anchored deep in the granite banks of the Hudson, one pair of these suspension cables looped majestically along each side of the bridge and between the tops of the towers. That one of these catenaries might actually break—intentionally or otherwise—was not deemed possible. Even so, the bridge was structurally designed to withstand the destruction of one of the four cables. A twin cable failure would be catastrophic, particularly so if they happened to comprise an individual pair.

  Over the course of eight decades, the GW unfortunately had claimed its share of suicide jumpers and maintenance crew. With respect to the regulation of safety, it nonetheless held a respectable record. Today, that record would be broken.

  THE BRIGHT, FLUORESCENT FLASH was accompanied by a thunderous crack that hundreds of commuters would later insist to be proof of an explosive charge. In reality, the center two meters of one pair of the bridge’s suspension cables simply vanished. A half-million tons of load suddenly had nowhere to go. Like great collapsing springs, the ends of the severed cables rocketed toward the tower structures at over five hundred feet per second. Two-ton vertical suspenders, previously attaching cable to roadbed, cratered into asphalt and cars below; five motorists were instantly crushed. The George Washington’s twin decks responded to the sudden release of strain energy, twisting like a giant lumbering serpent as the northernmost edge of both decks collapsed in a great downward surge. A raucous choir of screeching tires and shattering glass, protesting steel and metallic popping filled the air.

  Every driver confronted his own individual hell. Most felt more than heard the initial sounds through the seats and steering wheels of their cars. Confused, many reacted by simply stomping their brake pedals. Engulfed in fear of the unthinkable, others stopped only by crashing into a car in front of them.

  Deputy Inspector Joseph Ciccone grit his teeth as he gripped the wheel of his skidding patrol car. With the first explosion still echoing, four westbound lanes of the upper deck suddenly fell away beneath him. He heard the high-pitched shriek of twisting and tearing steel girders—the handrails at the edge of the bridge buckled like foil and dipped below the horizon. The sky and hills visible in the distance became the wind-roiled whitecaps of the Hudson River.

  Ciccone’s car slid with increasing speed toward the edge of the precipice and was struck broadside by a Cadillac Seville. Another driver floored the accelerator to arrest her slide, tires spewing blue smoke, as the car slid sideways into a spreading pool of gasoline and burst into flame. Zigzag fissures ripped across the asphalt through which Ciccone glimpsed jagged metal and whitecaps. Police training had prepared him to dispel the chaos that accompanied unexpected and often violent events. He sat paralyzed, a hapless flea on the shoulder of a woken beast.

  Panic erupted in full when the first two cars—a midnight-blue Mercedes and a battered red Toyota pick-up, their male occupants’ eyes bulging as they clawed to escape—barrel-rolled over the guardrail and disappeared.

  The main support truss, a crisscrossing steel structure under-girding the roadbed, twisted grotesquely and held—the bridge completed its first ten seconds of collapse. Now the bridge heaved up.

  The rebound sent asphalt slabs and cars and trucks flipping skyward. Three loud thuds like cannon fire rocked the bridge as the main girder trusses of the northern structure failed in rapid succession.

  The GW Bridge’s entire three-quarter mile center span began its final downward lunge; this time, there was no structure to restrain it. The upper deck collapsed into the lower and crushed forty-three motorists as they gripped the wheels of their cars. All fourteen lanes swung, as on a hinge, around the remaining south-side cables and girders. Four hundred thirty-eight automobiles, delivery vans, trucks, taxi cabs and semi-trailers plummeted 260 feet into the churning waters of the Hudson.

  MILTON THACKERAY WEDGED the phone between his ear and shoulder, freeing one hand for the keyboard and balancing a can of Mountain Dew with the other.

  “Not bad for a Stanford putz,” he heard his friend Jeff Kirby, a career academic, say while looking over his email.

  Thackeray was probing for more than approval. The orbital relationships were readily accessible to anyone, and had been for centuries thanks to the German astronomer Johann Kepler. They were also available on the Internet and in CLI’s software archive, where Thackeray accessed them in his attempt to characterize an orbit for Stuart’s mysterious satellite. He had started with the precise site and time of the Chinese launch obtained from a website, based on information given him by Stuart, whose governmental source Stu refused to identify. Thackeray approximated the satellite’s second time and location from newspaper articles covering the so-called ‘stadium stunt.’ He plugged these two sets of values—‘Epoch’ time satellite data, they were called—into the orbital mechanics equations.

  His problem was that trying to divine the orbit from
two discreet snapshots amounted to working backward, assuming that the two coincided with the same satellite to begin with. Kepler’s Third Law specified a precise relationship between the speed of a satellite and its distance from the earth; the closer the orbit, the faster it needed to travel in order to counteract gravitational pull. He’d had to make a slew of assumptions, such as a range of low-earth altitudes—as opposed to, say, the 29,313 miles of geo-synchronous altitude—and a geographical ‘footprint’ over which the satellite might reasonably project its malevolent reach. Also assuming that the Chinese had not appreciably retasked the satellite’s orbit, the result was a solution describing a region of space that probabilistically defined its location at any given instant. With only two ill-defined points, and an infinite variety of orbital inclinations from equatorial to polar, the region of space potentially containing the satellite was still too large to be of any use. Or so Thackeray thought.

  Dr. Jeff Kirby had spent the better part of his career refining the known inventory of orbiting space junk—remnants tiny and large of man’s decades in space which nowadays threatened the lives of astronauts and valuable satellites.

  “I wasn’t sure the Keplerian elements would still be valid.” Thackeray tugged at his beard. “You know, if the thing’s busted up into—”

  “Hummingbird flotsam,” Kirby said.

  “What?” He noticed Emily peering at him over the top of her terminal.