Razing Beijing: A Thriller

by Elston III, Sidney

  Devinn frowned. He suffered through several more incoming solicitations. The final call was outgoing, and again Thompson had dialed the wrong number and simply hung up. He ejected the card and slid it back into his pocket.

  Later that day, during a review of the impending reduction-in-force, Devinn’s mind kept wandering back to the question of where Sean Thompson was planning to go. And why conceal his plans from his brother? Perhaps Sean was bugging out on a road trip in his Porsche—the foolish and ostentatious frivolity infuriated him. But if making such a trip, would Thompson simply not drive to Cincinnati as he originally planned? The young man had money in his pocket for the first time in his life, the investigation was over, there was reason to rejoice, but his voice sounded neither exuberant nor relieved in any of the recorded telephone calls. If anything, Thompson sounded tense, much the way he had during their rendezvous at Stouffer’s. Tense—but with no longer a reason to be, which by now Thompson was certainly aware. To reveal to his accomplice the scheme he had hatched to threaten Emily Chang would be to compromise his tradecraft, and would make no sense, as he had chosen to threaten Chang into action only out of his growing distrust of Thompson.

  By the end of the afternoon, Devinn decided that he was probably blowing things out of proportion, placing too much emphasis on a series of inconsequential telephone calls.

  Before heading home for the day, he dropped by briefly to shoot the breeze with members of his staff and his in-absentia acting manager. He made certain to wax eloquent and bore them all with the intricacies of fly tying. Bathing in bonhomie, he bid them goodnight.

  Devinn was oblivious to speed limits as he raced home to his townhouse. It wasn’t Thompson’s preparations for a trip that troubled him. Playing the card again in the car, he was finally able to put his finger on it.

  Devinn knelt in front of a speaker of his living room sound system and listened for a third time to the card. This time the quality was excellent, and he could also vary the speed. He confirmed what he had heard in the car, that the pulse tones preceding the outgoing calls were eleven digits in length. Thompson had heard in two of his calls a child’s voice and immediately hung up. It was the young voices that had thrown Devinn, each sufficiently distinct to indicate different children. It hadn’t occurred to Devinn until later that the pulses preceding the voices might be the same.

  It might not have been the presumption of a wrong number that prompted Thompson to hang up. It might simply have been the wrong voice.

  There was an easier way to identify individual digits than attempting to decipher each individual pulse. Devinn positioned the recording before one of the two calls. He went to the kitchen, retrieved the handset of his cordless from its cradle and returned to the living room. Double-checking that his caller-ID block was activated, he acquired a dial tone, held the handset toward the speaker, and played the tone pulse from Thompson’s wiretap into the mouthpiece.

  Devinn held the telephone to his ear. After the third ring it picked up—he held his breath. The adult voice of the other party greeted his call. Like Thompson, Devinn quickly broke the connection.

  29

  Friday, May 15

  SEAN THOMPSON HOPED he could postpone his next refueling stop until reaching Fredericksburg, Virginia; mulling over the math in his head, the time gained driving faster traded unfavorably against the poorer mileage and a consequential refueling stop. This Porsche sure knows how to burn it.

  Wondering if perhaps there might be cellular coverage in the remote West Virginia countryside, Thompson averted his eyes from the road to punch in Stuart’s home number only to learn that his cell phone’s battery was low. He swore loudly and tossed it onto the passenger floor. Stopping the car for any reason was something he desperately wanted to avoid.

  He had no idea if Stuart would even agree to meet with him, especially given his estimated arrival time. Word of the executive’s dismissal had instantly made Stuart one person Thompson perceived as both approachable and technically capable of understanding that he had not meant to kill anyone. Yet, Stuart had left over a rift involving the failed investigation, a factor which could just as easily hinder his sympathy. Either way, Thompson figured he needed a technical witness. If only to keep me out of the electric chair. That realization caused him again to pound the steering wheel—Devinn’s smooth assurances had wrung hollow the moment he’d heard them. Then came word of the man’s leave of absence, abandoning him to the NTSB scrutiny that his own boss had announced. Just how stupid does Devinn think I am?

  He took a long sip from a bottle of Pepsi. Blood money, that’s what it is. The money had totally lost its appeal. All he’d really wanted was a chance to finally measure up against his successful brother, who in the final analysis was no smarter or harder working than he was. But Scott worked to save people, not to scatter their body parts all over the ground.

  Uncertain whether this was in fact the exit for ‘Rest Stop - Limited Services,’ he cursed the tiny blue-on-white sign and removed his foot from the accelerator; the turbo-boost gage fell into vacuum as he downshifted and exited onto the ramp. There was only one car parked in the lot, another in the process of leaving. Good. The rest stop building was one of the state highway commission’s self-service glass-and-timber structures with a rustic appearance designed to appeal to motorists. The phone booth inside the lobby, Thompson saw, was unattended. He would make this quick and be on his way.

  Thompson entered the lobby to discover a man wearing a rumpled suit speaking softly into the pay phone. Disappointed, he took the opportunity to study the West Virginia highway map on the wall. He traced his finger along Highway 50 and found ‘You are Here’ beside the red arrow. Yep, it’s going to be late—I’ve got to call Stuart.

  Minutes passed. The man on the phone was casually shooting the breeze, the subject progressing from business to sports. Thompson removed from his pocket his prepaid calling card and the note with Stuart’s phone number. The man appeared to be eyeing their two reflections in the window. Eventually, he hung up and turned to leave.

  Thompson ignored the departing scowl as he grabbed the handset and tapped in the numbers. Suspicious of his shaking hands, he hung-up and dialed again. He reviewed in his mind what he wanted to say.

  About the time Thompson heard the other end ring, the talkative salesman was accelerating his car back onto the interstate. Thompson did not see yet another car, headlights extinguished, as it drifted into the parking lot.

  STUART EXCUSED HIMSELF from the table and hurried from the dining room for the telephone. Snatching it up before Ashley for once evoked a mock-pout that he cheerily ignored.

  “Stuart,” he answered habitually and with a smile for his daughter.

  There was a moment’s silence on the line. “Mr. Stuart?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  A sigh on the other end. “My name’s Sean Thompson, from Thanatech. You may not remember me.”

  “Sean, sure I do. You work for Emily Chang.” He pictured the thick eyeglasses and adolescent moustache. “What can I do for you?” Stuart expected the answer would be to help find him a job.

  “I have something extremely important to discuss. I’d like to come by to see you.”

  Stuart could tell the young man was nervous about something. “You mean here, tonight?”

  “If that’s okay.”

  “Look, I don’t mean to sound reluctant, it’s just that I’ve got dinner guests and—”

  “Mr. Stuart—I’m in serious trouble and I really need your help. I’m three hours or so from Fredericksburg. Your guests will be gone by the time I arrive, won’t they?”

  Stuart thought it a strange way to appeal to someone for help. Why come all this way—what, an eight or nine hour drive? Hell, he was planning to be in Cleveland late next week. All Thompson would had to have done was call and arrange to meet over lunch.

  Stuart’s curiosity was aroused. He looked at his watch. “That’ll make it eleven o’clock. What is this abo
ut?”

  Thompson promised to explain and apologized for the imposition. Stuart reluctantly agreed to wait up until eleven but not a minute longer.

  THOMPSON STOOD AT THE URINAL, eyes closed with relief. One step closer to having this monkey off my back. He heard what sounded like grit between the sole of a shoe and the tile floor.

  Zipping his fly, he swiveled his head toward the vacant row of gleaming white porcelain urinals beside him, but nobody had entered the room. At the instant the word ‘janitor...?’ occurred to him, the lights went out.

  DEVINN’S STOMACH CONVULSED as Thompson’s brain exploded onto the bathroom wall—the thwwaack of the silenced pistol reverberated off the tiled enclosure like the sound of splitting firewood. Thompson’s legs collapsed and his body fell to the floor; Devinn backed away as the torso toppled toward his feet. The engineer came to rest with eyes staring at the ceiling, narrow streams of blood trickling from the crescent where he’d bitten through his lower lip. A much larger pool spreading over the floor, along with all the gore on the wall, made moot Devinn’s plan to hide the body in a stall.

  Wasting no time, he stooped to search Thompson’s pockets. He removed his key ring and then his wallet; loose change he let scatter over the floor. He found a note with writing scribbled on it. Satisfied there was nothing else, he took one look around the room and walked swiftly for the door, the grip of his pistol warm and hard through the surgical glove on his hand.

  Devinn jogged across the lobby and out through the door. There were no other cars in sight as he quickly made his way to the Porsche. Opting not to use the keys, Devinn smashed in the passenger window with two kicks from the heel of his shoe. He reached inside and plucked both the cellular telephone and briefcase off the passenger floor. Next he removed a small cellophane bag from inside his coat and sprinkled the trace powdery contents onto the carpet and seat.

  Devinn tossed Thompson’s belongings onto his Maserati’s passenger seat; he would empty the wallet and briefcase of their contents before tossing everything out along the side of the highway. He climbed behind the wheel and gunned the Maserati’s engine to life. The car was barreling down the on-ramp to the interstate and the speedometer passing sixty before he eased the gas pedal from the floor. The rest stop was barely a mile behind when he reached for Thompson’s cellular phone. Scrolling the memory log he confirmed the presence of Stuart’s home telephone number. He swore quietly.

  30

  Monday, May 18

  “ALL THE WAY from Washington?” asked Emily Chang as she released the man’s large hand.

  “Fortunately not.” Special Agent Edward Hildebrandt removed a billfold from inside his coat and presented his identification. “We have a field office here in Cleveland.”

  The introductions complete, Paul Devinn then rose from the chair behind his desk wearing one of his trademark European suits. He asked his secretary to hold all of his calls, closed the door, and the three took seats around the coffee table inside his office. Emily clasped her hands together tightly in her lap while the FBI agent proceeded to flip through the pages of a notepad. Paul Devinn seemed to be scrutinizing her.

  After what seemed like minutes, Devinn leaned toward her. “Mr. Hildebrandt delivered some distressing news this morning. Sean Thompson works for you, isn’t that right?”

  The mention of Sean Thompson jolted her the instant Devinn’s lips began forming the name. “Yes,” she answered.

  “Was Sean away on a business trip?”

  Emily frowned. “No.”

  Agent Hildebrandt glanced up from his notepad. “Did he happen to indicate he would be traveling out of town?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “You don’t believe so? Does that mean maybe he—”

  “Sean would normally tell me if he didn’t plan to show up for work. In fact he hasn’t shown up yet, but lately with the hours we’ve kept, people arrive all hours of the morning. As their manager I only care that they get their work done.”

  “Has Sean Thompson been getting his work done?” asked Hildebrandt.

  Emily didn’t know what to say. Why should the FBI care about that?

  Devinn cleared his throat. “Earlier I was explaining to Agent Hildebrandt that the heavy work load in your group recently ended on a disappointing note. Do you think Sean may have taken this a bit worse than the others? Has he said anything that might lead you to believe he was feeling, oh, under duress?”

  “No more than anyone else.”

  Devinn nodded slowly—her answer seemed important to both men, who pondered it for several moments.

  Emily glanced back and forth between them. “May I ask what this is about?”

  Agent Hildebrandt asked, “Did Mr. Thompson ever give you reason to suspect he was involved with narcotics?”

  “Sean and drugs? I really don’t think so.”

  “Police found his employee badge in the glove compartment of his car,” Hildebrandt explained, “in the state of West Virginia...so he wasn’t traveling on business?”

  “I already said that he wasn’t.”

  Hildebrandt nodded, studying her. “I’m afraid Sean Thompson is dead, Miss Chang.”

  A buzzing in Emily’s ears gradually intensified. “Was he involved in an accident?” She instinctively knew there had been no accident.

  “It appears he was murdered.”

  Besides shock, her first reaction was to wonder with dread what this meant with respect to the sabotage cover-up. Maybe some sort of a warning that she would be next? Were her parents in more danger now—or with Sean no longer alive, had the danger suddenly diminished?

  “Emily...?” She became aware of Paul Devinn reaching toward her across the table. “Are you okay?”

  “May I please have a glass of water?”

  Devinn returned a minute later with a tumbler of ice water. For the moment she chose simply to hold on to it.

  “We have reason to believe that his murder might have involved drugs,” Agent Hildebrandt explained. “I hope you understand that we are interested in anything you, as his direct manager, might have to say about the matter.”

  Emily sipped some water and stared through the glass table top at the pattern in the carpeting. “Sean might have been acting a little bit strange. But everyone has been working under such pressure I just attributed it to that. I never had the impression he took drugs.” Something suddenly struck her, more a sense than a coherent thought and she heard herself ask: “Will the FBI be investigating this?”

  Both she and Devinn awaited Hildebrandt’s reply. Emily realized that Hildebrandt was more likely pondering the reason behind her question than how to respond.

  “The FBI will occasionally investigate things like this jointly with local officials, you know, murder across state lines, or when drugs are involved. We’ll have to see who takes the lead in this particular case.”

  Devinn removed his stare from Emily. “By the way, in very short order I will not be available at all. This is going to appear insensitive, but you see, I’ve planned for some time to take a leave of absence.”

  “You’ll be out of town?” Hildebrandt asked.

  “Out of the country actually, and in just a few days. I plan to be in touch with the office, but logistically speaking, it will probably be difficult for me to assist you in any way.”

  Now that he had given voice to what she had previously heard, Emily noticed the Field & Stream and AAA road map of Manitoba among the assortment of magazines on the table. First Sandy, along with all of those other poor people, and now Sean...

  “If there’s anything either one of you need assistance with in the next few days, don’t hesitate to call or stop in,” Devinn soothingly assured both of his guests. “Emily, I trust you can come up with the right words to inform Sean’s colleagues of the terrible news. If you prefer, I’d be available—”

  “We’ve yet to notify next of kin,” Hildebrandt interrupted. “You need to keep word of his death quiet for a day or so. S
omeone will call you.”

  Emily nodded. “Thanks, Mr. Devinn, but that won’t be necessary.” With a trembling hand she placed the tumbler on the table and stood to leave.

  Later that morning, Emily found herself unable to focus on the work pouring into her cubicle. Eventually, she simply gave up. She left the plant and drove until she found a quiet location to use her cell phone, hoping to find a positive aspect to the horrible incident. Reaching her cousin in his San Jose office produced yet more disappointment. Her parents’ whereabouts remained unknown. She did learn that her cousin thought he could land her a job; she could move to the west coast and put the entire unpleasant Mojave business behind her.

  Emily found herself both hounded by the question of what she should do and rueful that she really had nobody with whom to discuss it. If Sean was in fact complicit in the test flight sabotage, then maybe he was involved in spying on her subsequent to the demands of the blackmail. Now that Sean was dead, what should she do? But—she had acted on impulse before, and now Sean was dead. Even Stuart was no longer part of her life because of something she had done. With the world collapsing around her, she had to do something, didn’t she?

  * * *

  WITH HIS PRIMARY vulnerabilities suitably quashed, Devinn had just a few remaining preparations to make. Already that afternoon he had made two trips between his townhouse and locker to place into storage two large, trunk-style suitcases and three garment shipping boxes all fully crammed with clothing, and an assortment of other personal affects. Drawing down his checking account, he advance paid two months on his townhouse rent, furniture lease and utilities, except for the telephone which he temporarily canceled. All of his periodical subscriptions were notified along with the post office to withhold delivery. He thought a particularly good touch was having his secretary acquire, through the corporate travel office and his personal credit card, his round-trip airline ticketing to Winnipeg.

  Devinn capped the afternoon’s errands by driving to Queen’s Auto Mall and terminating the Maserati lease—for good measure, he argued testily that they retroactively nullify his two-thousand dollar cancellation penalty if, upon returning from his extended trip, he agreed to lease another car from the firm. Slipping behind the wheel of the rented Ford Taurus, Devinn realized how much he was going to miss the Jag.