Razing Beijing: A Thriller

by Elston III, Sidney

  Hildebrandt sat back in his chair. “Mr. McBurney, we do not have the resources just right now—”

  “Of course you do. What sort of surveillance is this?” McBurney looked at him in disbelief. “How about romantic liaisons?”

  “Doesn’t appear so, but shit, what do you want for a week’s worth of work?”

  McBurney glanced at his watch again; it was 2:23 P.M. His flight was at 3:15. He was simply going to have to miss it. He rose from his chair. “I think it makes sense that we approach the woman again.”

  “We?”

  “Why not?”

  Hildebrandt looked at him. “She’s under surveillance. Look, Kosmalski didn’t say anything—”

  “Come on, you can accompany me to the interview. Assuming of course you haven’t already rattled her into running the opposite way.”

  SPECIAL AGENT HILDEBRANDT confirmed with his field agent that the Chang woman had in fact gone into work that morning. The two men left in Hildebrandt’s car for the Thanatechnology plant located twelve miles south of the city.

  During the ride, McBurney pressed the agent to share some of his insights about the Thompson homicide. The victim’s brother, a doctor living in Cincinnati, indicated Thompson seemed anxious the last time they spoke; nobody interviewed by authorities could envision the software engineer as either a narcotics user or trafficker. Conversely, nobody knew how he afforded to lease a ninety thousand-dollar Porsche, which nine hundred dollars in a savings account also failed to explain. Colleagues claimed he was a capable engineer if a little high-strung, with no professional enemies, socially reclusive. No rap sheet, not even a speeding ticket, Porsche or no. Other than the murder victim reporting directly to the woman at Thanatech, Hildebrandt admitted there was no hard evidence linking Chang to the Thompson murder at a highway rest stop.

  McBurney in fact had no interest in helping the FBI pin a murder rap, so long as it had nothing to do with his evolving view of a Chinese spy committing espionage and then traveling offshore to launder her remuneration. Like anything else in this business, the lack of an apparent link to his broader military espionage concerns did not mean one did not exist.

  “What is it again they do at Thanatech?” McBurney asked, changing the subject.

  “They make jet engines.”

  McBurney tried to remember what making jet engines entailed. He vaguely recalled that some of the military engine electronics, exotic materials and so forth were under Defense Department restricted export control, so-called ‘listed technologies.’ “A lot of technology involved?”

  “I guess so.” Hildebrandt abruptly swerved the car onto an exit. He explained that Thanatechnology ran a DoD facility because a portion of their work was for the military and that much of the technology used in commercial engines was derived from military programs. In fact, the Cleveland office handled the occasional request for an employee background check in order to grant the security clearance needed to work there. Because of this, the inevitable sale of commercial jet engines to an overseas customer fell under export control. Hildebrandt said that the company’s commercial airline customers included some within a prickly horde of countries including China, Vietnam, the Middle East and so on. “They also conduct business partnerships with characters like Russia, China, and France. It’s all supposed to adhere to technology export restrictions.”

  Traffic was light. McBurney realized they were not entering the industrial underbelly but a residential part of the city. “Where are we going?”

  Hildebrandt seemed to consider the question. “I’d like for you to take a look at something.”

  A mile or so from the highway, Hildebrandt pulled the car to a stop in front of an aging apartment complex. “This is where Sean Thompson lived. There’s something inside I thought you should see.” Sensing McBurney’s impatience, Hildebrandt added: “This hasn’t taken us out of our way.”

  They entered the three-story building and walked down a short flight of stairs to the basement. Hildebrandt mentioned that the victim lived on the second floor and led McBurney through a door marked ‘Boiler Room.’ Once inside they stood before a concrete wall covered with the typical maze of electric utility meters and telephone service for the various apartment units. Hildebrandt directed McBurney’s attention to a gray metal box with the word Telephone stamped into the hinged front cover, the designation ‘UNIT 4C - 2 FLR’ hand-scrawled with a black felt pen. Beside this box was a similar but newer one. McBurney noticed that unlike the other gray boxes neatly organized on the utility board, this one had no designation.

  McBurney pointed to the unlabeled box. “The victim’s telephone line?”

  Hildebrandt nodded. The newer metal box had a standard insulated telephone wire running between it and the box properly labeled for the victim’s apartment. Hildebrandt swung open the cover to reveal that the insulated wire leading inside connected to nothing; the box was empty. McBurney turned the cut ends of the wire toward him to find glistening copper, untarnished by time. Whatever once inhabited the box had been recently removed.

  “I gather you think somebody rigged a recording device here.”

  “Although no one else seems to agree with me.”

  McBurney studied his young escort. “You’ve checked with the telephone company?”

  “We’re not completely incompetent. Phone company offered no explanation.”

  “Alright, so it does smell a little sophisticated for a case of coke peddling. You mentioned retrieving his telephone—”

  “Home and cell phone billing records are due any time now.”

  McBurney nodded. “Carry on, inspector.”

  EMILY CHANG STRUGGLED to maintain her professional tone. “I’ve got an office full of people,” she lied again. “I’ve already spoken to you and the police.”

  “Yes, Miss Chang,” she heard the FBI man politely reply. “But there’s new evidence which we hope you might help us with by commenting on. That’s all. I’m at”—she heard voices in the background—“gate fifty-two. I’d like to meet you for just a few minutes, if you don’t mind. I know how busy you are.”

  Emily noticed that the American authorities were not proving to be as intrusive as State Security hooligans, who by now would simply have had somebody storm her office while she was distracted on the phone. They were boxing her in, nonetheless; the laws of her adopted homeland confused and overwhelmed her.

  “What kind of new evidence?” She was desperate to put the man off while trying to think. There was silence on the telephone and again Emily sensed he was consulting with somebody else.

  “I’d prefer to discuss that with you directly.”

  Just this week, she had heard rumblings among her colleagues that the FBI actually were looking into the possibility of sabotage, which she dismissed as her own falsified polygraph story coming full circle. She was terrified that FBI questions regarding Sean Thompson would drift in a direction that she had no choice but to avoid. With luck, any day now the smugglers would provide her the whereabouts of her parents. Will my enemies harm my parents if they learn that I have spoken to the FBI?

  Emily took a deep breath. “Okay. But not now, I’ve got work to do.”

  More dead silence. “I’m afraid that won’t be acceptable, Miss Chang. Like you I also have an important schedule to—”

  “I can meet you at Rinaldo’s Diner at 4:30 this afternoon, take it or leave it.” Emily hung up, having said the first place to pop into her mind. She sat alone in her office and stared at the phone, expecting it to ring again.

  ALL I NEED is to put them off for a few more days, thought Emily. She focused on appearing calm as she entered the glistening chrome establishment.

  Two men seated in a booth took notice of her entrance. She recognized the black man who had interviewed her in Paul Devinn’s office—it seemed he had a partner, after all. The older and big, broad-shouldered man eyed her with professional indifference.

  “Hello again, Mr. Hildebrandt.”

&n
bsp; “Thank you for meeting with us, Miss Chang.” The FBI agent rose to reposition himself beside the other man. “My associate here is Sam McBurney.”

  McBurney greeted her with a gracious nod. She decided that he wasn’t indifferent but skillfully scrutinizing her. Emily felt uncomfortable as she smoothed her skirt behind her thighs and sat facing both of them. McBurney folded enormous hands on the table.

  Hildebrandt began by assuring her that she was not a suspect in Sean Thompson’s murder investigation.

  “That’s what you keep telling me.” Emily smiled.

  Hildebrandt removed a pen and spiral-bound pad from inside his coat. “For the record, why don’t you start by explaining what it is that you and Sean Thompson worked on together. At Thanatech, isn’t that correct?”

  Emily frowned. “You were just there on the phone with me. Anyway, I’m the leader of a small group of engineers—”

  “How many in this small group?”

  “Oh. There are twelve.” Waiting for him to scribble notes, she realized they were the only three patrons in the diner. “We’re responsible for the digital computer that controls all of the performance parameters of a jet engine. Within my group there are hardware designers and software designers. Sean was a software designer—his expertise was ensuring the control logic interfaced properly with the other airplane systems. It’s a little more complicated than that, I suppose, but that’s essentially what we worked on together.”

  “Uh-huh. And was this control he worked on for any engine in particular?” Hildebrandt looked up from his note pad.

  Emily hesitated.

  “These engines aren’t all the same, are they?”

  “It was for the company’s new propfan. That’s a very fuel efficient type of jet engine.” She braced herself for their inquiry into the crash that was certain to follow.

  Instead, they proceeded to ask many of the same questions she remembered Hildebrandt and the police had already asked. How long had Sean Thompson worked in your unit? How well did you know the murder victim? And outside of work? Had he ever confided that he was having financial troubles?

  A waitress came by to take their orders for iced tea, to which McBurney added a double bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwich with French fries, and a three-way chili. What is it that’s so disturbing about this man? Emily wondered.

  Hildebrandt continued to probe. Did the victim ever give reason to suspect he was a user of illegal narcotics, perhaps harsh and inexplicable mood swings? Did you notice unusual behavior in any of the other employees, especially right before or after Sean’s murder? She found it odd that Hildebrandt did virtually all of the questioning, which required that he scribble wildly into his pad as she answered while McBurney sat with his hands comfortably folded and did nothing but watch her.

  Hildebrandt looked up from his pad, gazed at her questioningly, and asked, “Is there anything further about Sean Thompson’s behavior leading up to his murder, anything at all, that you would care to tell us about?”

  Emily tried to recall her discussions with Thompson about his deteriorating performance. Would he have mentioned it to any of the other staff, allowing them to then relay it to the authorities? What exactly was it she had told the police? McBurney studied her and Emily wondered what had ever made her think she could deceive these men. And yet, were they not the enemy of her enemy?

  Perhaps Stuart was right. Perhaps she should simply appeal to their sense of justice and embrace the risk of telling them everything. “There was a time, maybe three weeks before his murder, that something seemed to be troubling Sean. I approached him about it because we were all under a lot of pressure. Whatever the problem, I saw that it was affecting his performance. At the time I did not equate it to drug abuse.”

  “So he didn’t mention the nature of his problems?”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Thompson and I were at odds over the solution of a particular problem we’d been trying to solve.”

  “Is that a regular occurrence?”

  “It’s not exactly unusual, but since it impressed me enough to recall it for you, I would have to say that within my own group it is not a recurring issue. I think Sean might have even accused me of unfairly singling him out. He didn’t make much sense. I had no choice but to mention the problem to my management.” She caught a quick glance between the two men.

  “And who was that?” Hildebrandt asked.

  No! She could not mention Stuart—panic flashed through her. She reminded herself to breathe...not too deeply.

  A reprieve arrived as the waitress delivered three frosted tumblers of iced tea and a tray of food.

  “I don’t exactly recall,” Emily lied. “It was some time ago and...we customarily refer personnel problems to human resources—no, I’m sure I mentioned the problem to Mr. Devinn. You may recall he’s—”

  “Your assistant director of human resources.”

  “Correct.”

  Hildebrandt frantically scribbled. McBurney watched her closely—she fought the urge to get up and walk out, to end the interrogation. That’s what this is—they’re interrogating me.

  Emily avoided his stare. “May I ask you something?”

  Hildebrandt said, “Fire away.”

  “Earlier today you mentioned something about having new evidence. Everything you’ve asked me is so like what the police have already asked. What new evidence?”

  Hildebrandt looked at her strangely, tapping his pen absentmindedly on the table. McBurney for his part stopped chewing.

  “Miss Chang,” said McBurney, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich, “this is a bit awkward so I’ll get right to the point. The evidence we have is that you recently visited a bank in the British Virgin Islands.”

  Emily was terror-stricken. Worse yet, she was sure they could tell. “What’s that got to do with Sean’s murder?” She failed to control the shakiness of her voice.

  “Then you don’t deny it,” McBurney added.

  “That has nothing to do with Sean Thompson’s murder.”

  Hildebrandt eyed her and said, “You’ll have to allow us to be the judge of that.”

  “Is going to a bank illegal?”

  McBurney shrugged. “Not necessarily. Unless of course you were involved in the laundering of money, or if you re-entered the United States with a large amount of currency and failed to declare it to Customs. It’s an established fact that the banks of Tortola are a destination for many business proprietors of the People’s Liberation...Army.”

  Emily’s temper flared. “You seem to forget I am an American citizen, Mr. McBurney. How dare you suggest that I...what evidence could you possibly have that I am involved with the Chinese military?”

  “I’m not necessarily suggesting that you are.”

  Emily was becoming confused. It occurred to her that maybe none of this had anything to do with Sean’s murder. Had they discovered something more specific about her efforts to smuggle her parents into the country? She was gripped by a terrifying thought: these men were impostors who in reality represented those holding her parents—and this was a test. “What exactly is it you were hoping to learn from me?”

  “Please?” said Hildebrandt.

  “What do you think I am guilty of? And should I have a lawyer?”

  The two men looked at her.

  “We’re not saying that you’re a suspect,” Hildebrandt said. “We’re trying to pull together information to support or disprove certain other aspects of our investigation.”

  Emily shook her head—McBurney raised his eyebrows, and at that moment she realized what it was she found both troubling and familiar in the man. It was the way he had nodded upon greeting her, in a typical Chinese fashion, the profundity of his stare. Has this man traveled China?

  Emily looked squarely at McBurney. “Who are you?”

  The man only blinked his eyes.

  “You never showed me your identification like Mr. Hildebrandt has. Aren’t you supposed to show me yours?”

  By
contrast to Agent Hildebrandt, the older man’s expression was a study of control. McBurney reached slowly into his coat and withdrew a thin brown wallet. He unfolded it and laid it on the table in front of her. Samuel K. McBurney, Chief of East Asian Operations - Central Intelligence Agency.

  All throughout her life, Emily had heard the stories of CIA atrocity. Although she was not so foolish as to believe everything she heard, she was certain the CIA had little to do with murder investigations. “You tricked me, both of you. I think I’ve told you everything I care to, even should you arrest and torture me.” She kept her eyes on them as she slid to the edge of the booth. The younger man will be ready with the handcuffs...

  Yet both men merely watched her without uttering a word. Hildebrandt opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

  Emily turned and walked toward the exit. Approaching the door she was certain she overheard Hildebrandt say, “Why the hell would you go and do that?”

  37

  RAIN POUNDING THE HOOD of Paul Devinn’s foul weather parka sounded like the clamor of an approaching waterfall. Pulling hard on the oars caused cold waves cresting the bow of the aluminum rowboat to slap him in the back. The GPS tucked inside his parka was of no use at the moment; he roughly oriented himself by fixing his eyes on three flickering lights on the opposite side of the lake.

  Nobody in their right mind does this sort of nonsense, Devinn thought, raindrops pelting his face as he glanced to the side. Roughly gaging his progress, Devinn stowed the oars, ready to snatch them the instant he sensed the boat wandering broadside to the wind. He picked up the gasoline can and pitched it over the side. Thoroughly punctured and weighted with rocks, it sank beneath the froth. He grabbed the oars and, preparing to row...

  Drunk and barely able to manage the fly fishing line, the elder Devinn actually stood to his feet, surprising his 12-year old son by breaking his own rule. The rowboat wobbled, his father swore, accusing his son of something he himself was the cause. Well if that’s how you feel, young Paul thought in a flash of angry inspiration—he gripped the gunwales and rocked for all he was worth, pitching his father overboard. Barely able to swim, his father struggled, screaming, coughing water as he clawed toward the boat. Paul jumped deftly from the bow to the bench between the oar locks and snatched up the oars. Their eyes met—his decision made, Paul dipped both oars in the water and pulled. Again his father screamed, eyes wild, and that’s when Paul saw him clutch at his chest. Paul drew again on the oars, his father drifting further away, terror overwhelming him now as realization dawned. Cold and fear were rapidly taking their toll. The autopsy would determine the cause of death as massive coronary failure...