Razing Beijing

by Sidney Elston

  “This allegation is without substantiation.”

  “Our CIA Director will forward to you the intercepted data.”

  The prolonged silence that followed indicated that the Russian and his advisors were conferring with the microphone muted.

  Pierce translated their reply a few minutes later. “Weapons theft and proliferation profoundly concern us. We reserve further comment until our experts examine this information.”

  Herman rolled his eyes.

  “But your demand to reschedule our debt and to...to level unfounded accusations in response to your unfortunate defeat...are evidence of a pathology disturbing to us. Remember this is that same Russia to whom you have pleaded to expand oil production...that same Russia who struggles to make up for production which...more and more is unavailable to the West.”

  Denis said, “You merely exploit an opportunity for market share. Anyway, it is within my power to cap the market price for fuel in our country.”

  On the other side, the Russian translation preceded an assortment of background utterances and the unmistakable sound of muffled laughter.

  “What are they saying?” President Denis’s face quickly turned red. The translator’s mouth hung open, looking from the President to the telephone and back again. She shook her head. “I don’t—”

  Herman lashed his hand out and slammed down the mute button. “The President asked you a question.”

  Pierce swallowed. “Sir, I think they were joking. Something about ‘Vladimir Ilych would be proud,’ perhaps in reference to Lenin but I cannot interpret what the meaning—”

  “There—I heard my name again!” At that, all sound from Moscow cut out. “Did you hear that?”

  Pierce looked with pained embarrassment into the eyes of her president. “That sounded like ‘Bolshevik Bill.’ I’m sorry, Mr. President, I...” She searched the stunned faces of both men before her. “You’re name isn’t Bill, of course, I might have misinterpreted that. There was a lot of noise.”

  Inevitably, President Denis had only this young woman upon whom to level his indignant glare. President Smirnoff shattered the uncomfortable interlude with a hearty laugh and animated monologue.

  Herman nodded permission for Pierce to deactivate the mute button. “Excuse me please, Mr. President, but I am surrounded by irreverent imbeciles,” she began her translation. “Even so, do you not see the historic irony? For decades, you lectured us on the evils of commanding the economy from on high. Is this threat not like...the nineteen seventies when your Nixon tried a price freeze and...the artificial suppression of price exacerbated supply shortages and brought long lines at gas pumps but really, sir...what is it that you want of me this night?” Pierce stared with uneasiness as she waited for Denis to reply.

  Dr. Denis knew enough of diplomacy not to be drawn into foolhardy diversions. He ran his hands back over his head, collecting his calm. “My reason for contacting you involves yet another source of revenue for Russia, the nuclear plant you built for Iran in Bushehr. I’m sure you can appreciate our concern that fissionable uranium processed from this facility might already have been used to detonate a nuclear bomb.”

  Pierce translated Smirnoff’s response. “You refer of course to the Pakistani test.”

  The President exchanged a cautionary glance with his National Security Advisor. “Some suspect Tehran secretly arranged this test in concert with Islamabad.”

  “Yes. This is just theory.”

  “My advisors tell me that we cannot confirm or deny this theory, because we haven’t the Russian or Iranian isotopes to match the fallout collected after that test. Therefore, we have no choice but to confront the possibility as we work toward a resolution of current hostilities.”

  A murmur of Russian dialog was immediately muted. Several minutes of telling silence followed.

  President Denis impatiently eyed the eighteenth century pendulum clock on the fireplace mantle. “President Smirnoff?”

  “Yes—one moment please.” Again the telephone in Moscow was muted.

  Pierce finally delivered Smirnoff’s reply: “This is a delicate matter of confidence between two...strategic trading partners, and so I am unable to confirm or deny such a theory at this time.”

  “What, aren’t we strategic enough?” asked Herman.

  Denis held up his hand. “Respectfully, Mr. President, in this instance I must question your discretion. I am sure you agree with the importance of being able to measure one’s enemy. It is this concept which during the Cold War enabled our two sides to endure their uneasy co-existence. Lack of such knowledge can be dangerous.”

  “Yes,” said Smirnoff in accented English, which he followed with Russian. “Allow me to suggest that the question of Iranian nuclear weapons be broached with the highest level of caution. The highest level...”—Pierce’s eyes studied the President as she relayed the Russian’s ominous words—“I suggest this in the strongest terms in...in the very strongest of terms. Do I make myself clear, President Denis?”

  Herman fixed his stare on the President, who fixed his stare on the telephone as if it were something alive. Nearly a minute passed.

  “Sir?” Renee Pierce quietly asked. “They wonder if you understood.”

  “I believe we understand, Mr. President.”

  “That is good!” replied Smirnoff, again in English. “You are welcome. Then order please this German banker to pull his hooks out from my treasury?”

  “I will speak with Mr. Schumpeter.”

  “Bravo. Now President Denis, I make a gesture for you. Pay strict attention to Iran troop movement toward the Caspian, especially the Azerbaijani border. It seems you smashed their oil wells effectively. I fear now they envy their neighbors to north—in fact, I admit knowing this also. You must work very, very hard to make your problem not become my problem.”

  Some minutes later, the Moscow connection terminated and their translator dismissed, Denis sat alone with his security advisor to contemplate the dismal ramifications of the Russian’s statements.

  “I’ve stepped into the boxing ring with a nuclear power,” said the President.

  Thomas Herman masked his concern. For all of his president’s talent, Howard Denis was like many gifted politicians in that he lacked the cognitive skill to project the practical consequences of action outside the political sphere. Such talent was not generally rewarded, and thus not reinforced, by the political process.

  “I suggest we not over-react,” Herman said. “Besides, why should you be accountable for Iran’s violation of international law? And since when is the commander-in-chief expected to lead on faulty intelligence?” As national security advisor, Herman was walking a fine line. He paused to gage the President’s instincts here.

  “You think we ought to hang Burns out to dry.”

  “With this bunch, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. Whose fault is it anyway? We can see to it that the appropriate facts are leaked. I think you should quietly make it known you’ve assigned the Attorney General the task of going over every applicable treaty. Off-hand, I’d say the list includes Non-Proliferation, Missile Technology Control Regime, and that international terrorism accord the UN drew up a few years back.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “We can announce that we’re going to have to understand these treaties and work to have them amended. The important thing is, should the unthinkable happen, the Senate will already understand the implication.”

  “Which is...?”

  “That we’ve no intention of taking the fall for inheriting the consequences of their sloppy legislative disciplines. If Tehran nukes a carrier group, or God forbid Tel Aviv, no one is going to care that Congress approved our action. So I think our first priority should be getting the Senate on our side. The House...well, the House won’t really matter once we’ve done that.”

  Denis eyed his security advisor. “Is that the sound of a guillotine I hear?”

  Herman shook his head. “Not on your
neck.”

  A distraction arrived in the form of a knock on the door. “In,” welcomed the President.

  The White House Chief of Staff barged wide-eyed into the Oval Office. “Mr. President!”

  “What is it, Aaron?” Denis noted Davi’s pallid complexion.

  “Now the West Coast is under attack!”

  105

  FOURTEEN-HUNDRED MILES south of the Aleutian Islands and racing toward sunrise, the CIA pilots noted that their Bombardier Global jet had crossed the International Date Line, the odd consequence being their scheduled arrival in San Francisco Saturday morning on the same day of their Saturday evening departure from Tokyo.

  More troubling to McBurney than the natural cycle of rest denied by the arrival of dawn was his encrypted telephone conversation with the CIA Director.

  Burns reminded McBurney, “You were at the crime scene where they discovered Ahmadi’s stiff.”

  “It’s not just that I didn’t know the names,” McBurney replied. “This is the first I’ve heard that terrorist names were passed to the senator. Remember, my FBI counterpart on the frigging, on the Task Force refused to produce their surveillance records of this rendezvous inside Milner’s office. They say Ahmadi handed Senator Milner these names as part of the bribe?”

  “We didn’t go too much into the why.”

  “All these months...” McBurney shook his head. “We could’ve been scouring our Middle East sources.”

  “Sam—we do not need to advertise that.”

  “You can bet somebody will. Maybe we’d have traced the lead to their domestic aliases and located them before they carried out the attacks.”

  A sigh, a frustrated chuckle. “The Bureau did say the legal attaché in Cairo had investigated and came up with dead ends.”

  “Well wasn’t that brilliant. Why should that outcome surprise anyone?” No FBI legat was going to dig too far beyond what the local authorities allowed. “Who did you say presented this story?”

  “Dave Dolan.”

  “The Director pitched the forensic data himself?”

  “No, he had some assistant deputy type with him. Lee, I think his name was. What difference does it make?”

  “None, I suppose. Those Rivergate murders never did pass the smell test. It was the Bureau’s job to tie all the loose ends together, including an explanation for Ahmadi’s erratic behavior.”

  “A man turning traitor is under duress.”

  “Sure. And when you apply that standard, then we need to be skeptical of his product. That includes these names, doesn’t it? Especially since we haven’t heard any logical explanation as to who killed him and why.”

  “Did your Israeli contact follow through his allegation that the murdered Iranian diplomat had not been burned?” asked Burns.

  “With what, corroborating intelligence? Don’t I wish.”

  “All right—we don’t have the luxury of second-guessing every suspect the Bureau decides to roll-up when we can’t handle what’s on our own Goddamn plate!”

  McBurney glanced up to find Carolyn Ross looking at him.

  “Listen, Sam. I’ve got this outfit strung tight as a banjo. As far as I’m concerned, our job is...I’ll take that”—the sound of rustling paper indicated Burns was handling a note. “Here, listen to this... ‘As of 9:00 A.M. eastern standard time, NORAD reports no unidentified satellite activity.’ Can we drop the phantom satellite for awhile?”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Good. I need you here to make sense of this PLA mobilization, or whatever’s going on over there. Holy Jesus, if Denis thought our satellite story was crazy... When do you get in?”

  “We arrive at Dulles around five tonight.”

  “We’ll probably still be here.” Burns broke the connection.

  “Thanks,” said McBurney with a smile, “and you too, sir.” He placed the phone gently on the corporate jet’s miniature coffee table. “Well, wasn’t that nice.”

  Ross was anxious to hear the latest from the seventh floor. “I take it NORAD found nothing?”

  McBurney nodded. He summarized the FBI’s rationale for assigning blame to Iran for the terrorist attacks. “Burns’s in no mood for any new theories. Can’t say I blame him. Sounds like this situation in the Gulf is really heating up.”

  Some minutes passed before Doug Evans, the Agency’s resident Tokyo pilot, emerged from the cockpit. “Be another hour,” Evans reported as he rested his arms against Carolyn Ross’s seatback. “Looks like a nice clear day on the west coast. Should take ninety minutes or so to refuel and to receive our clearance into Dulles.”

  McBurney nodded morosely, barely hearing as he mulled over the FBI’s capture of the alleged terrorists. Not just any terrorists. The two had been linked to the dead Iranian deputy charge d’affaires which, by McBurney’s reasoning, inherently altered the equation. It was entirely possible that Ahmadi’s safe house booby trap was known only by the diplomat himself. That possibility would reduce the strategic implications that might otherwise be drawn from the same C-4 lot being used on the GW Bridge. Had Ahmadi taken his plastique explosive from a larger cache, he probably would have provided his colleagues—his handler?—some explanation as to what he intended to do with it. The organization staging these attacks would therefore suspect the FBI of recovering Ahmadi’s plastique, and the FBI was telling the President that that organization was none other than Iranian Intelligence & Security. Were the Iranians really so recklessly bellicose? Whatever the President thought it meant, McBurney was willing to bet the joint chiefs were updating their scenario models in case of an Iranian nuclear-tipped missile response. He also saw no way to reconcile these findings with Stuart’s.

  Carolyn Ross followed McBurney’s gaze. Stuart was staring down at the Pacific Ocean. “I still don’t think he’s told us everything,” she said.

  “I’m as troubled by the things he has told us,” McBurney replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t quite put my finger on it.” McBurney brought a mug of coffee up to his lips. “I definitely don’t like that he’s got private sector engineers studying this satellite.”

  “Thanks again for calling in the cavalry,” Stuart said as McBurney sat down heavily in the opposite passenger seat.

  It took McBurney a moment to realize Stuart was referring to his telephone call to Special Agent Kosmalski. “I didn’t get any promises. Listen, the case against these Iranians they picked up after the refinery explosion gets stronger by the hour. Suffice it to say that the evidence against them is about as incriminating as I’ve ever heard.”

  “It’s not some sort of mistake? Or maybe just politically expedient?”

  Or the controlled release of suppressed information? wondered McBurney. He put aside for the moment the DCI’s revelation. “The FBI and CIA, along with foreign intelligence services, all concur with the allegations.”

  Stuart frowned. “Where does that leave Deng?”

  “What about Deng?” McBurney tapped his fingers impatiently on the armrest. “We’re not dismissing the existence of this thing. It’s just that it’s damn near impossible to see how it can be responsible when so many sources indicate that it’s not.”

  “I guess it’s fair that my staff should fully explain what it is they think they’ve been looking at.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe...” McBurney rubbed his face and let his hands fall to his lap. “You looked pretty edgy over here. I figured you might appreciate not having to finish your countdown to the next attack.”

  The plane banked in a turn toward the north in preparation for their descent into the San Francisco terminal area. The wings leveled and both men averted their eyes from the glare of the sunrise.

  “Sam, the other day in the ambulance you seemed to think that Deng’s life was in danger. Is there any way to contact him?”

  “And...?”

  “Maybe we should try to get hold of him, maybe deliver a warning.”

  “That would only ri
sk making things worse for him.” McBurney studied Stuart. “But it also doesn’t make any sense. How’s our getting hold of him going to do any good, and why would you even waste your time thinking it might?”

  Before Stuart could reply, the cockpit door swung open.

  “Problem?” McBurney asked, reading the pilot’s expression.

  “We’re being diverted to Vancouver,” Evans replied.

  McBurney and Stuart exchanged looks. “Vancouver? What the hell for?”

  “The FAA just issued a blanket emergency directive. All aircraft inbound to the continental United States and with adequate reserves will not be allowed to land.” A disconcerting edginess crept into the pilot’s voice. “Domestic flights have all been ordered to land at the nearest airport. No flights are being cleared for take-off.”

  McBurney felt his face breaking out in a sweat. “Are we under attack?”

  “Nobody seems to know. What we do hear is, ten minutes ago the Golden Gate Bridge suffered a major collapse.”

  106

  AT 1521 ZULU TIME, a tracking station in Nurrangar, Australia monitored the nighttime launch of a Long March-5 booster from Xichang Space Center Launch Complex 2. The vehicle’s 65 tonne payload—announced in advance to be a classified military communications satellite—reached a stable orbit at an altitude of 240 miles.

  The information was instantly flagged for the United States Space Command communications officer inside Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. The Air Force major entered the notification in her logbook. There was no point bringing it to the immediate attention of the watch officer. The entire staff was still scrambling to identify every single aircraft, balloon, kite, and bird within 100 miles of the drooping remains of the Golden Gate Bridge.

  * * *

  IN THE AFFLUENT TEL AVIV suburb of Afeka, a freshly showered and shaved katsa sat comfortably inside the Mossad General Director’s personal study. Between hurrying home from King Saul Boulevard to his family’s long-awaited welcome, and the inevitable invitation, he had managed to squeeze in a few hours sleep.