As she stepped into the foyer, Stuart’s awkward smile was enough to lift her spirits. Once inside, Emily noticed his smile turn a little bit sad. There were light circles of shadow under his eyes. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
“We need to talk.”
Seated on the sofa of a room overlooking the lawn to the boathouse and river, Emily’s reaction to the black-and-white photographs was that they were wholesome and creative, suggesting a keen professional photographer’s eye: Ashley in the instant of kicking a ball; laughing as she tugged the arm of another little girl; grinning a child’s conspiratorial grin with her friends, hands cupped over her mouth.
“They’re lovely,” Emily commented as her eyes played over the glossy photos spread out on the coffee table.
“I found them yesterday in a blank envelope inside my mailbox.”
Emily immediately understood. “Do you have any idea who took them?”
Stuart shook his head as he reached for the photo of Ashley kicking the ball. He seemed either not to notice or care that his hands were shaking. “Ashley wears the same uniform pretty much every day to school. She thinks this might’ve been taken Tuesday afternoon.”
“Tuesday...oh. Because of our trip to Cleveland?”
“Fits the pattern, doesn’t it? I suppose it could be about money—mine, or even Ashley’s trust that she inherited from her mother.” Stuart looked at her with bloodshot eyes. “Ashley isn’t to know about that until she’s twenty-five.”
Emily nodded.
“I’m not taking any chances. I sent Ashley somewhere I know she’ll be safe. No close family, none of her little friends—but safe.”
Emily was sickened by the cowardly tactic of threatening harm to a child. “For how long?”
“Until I get some answers.”
“Not to look for something else to worry about, but exactly how did you have Ashley disappear? If this person—”
“Saw her leave? I don’t think so. I asked Joanne Lewis to pick her up at my sister’s house late last night and take her to the airport. She said afterward Ash seemed a little scared, but that she was good about lying down on the floor of the car.”
Emily thought for a moment. “Joanne is such a good person—Ashley is a lucky little girl. I never told you, it’s a little embarrassing. Joanne and I ran into each other at work the day after you took us sailing. She asked if, well, if we were dating.”
Stuart turned toward her. She could tell that he saw she was blushing.
She avoided his gaze. “Of course I told her no, we weren’t. She said she had only thought so because we made a good couple, and that she wanted to make sure I knew that she was okay with that. Joanne thinks you are a good friend and an even better father. I thought that was very sweet of her, don’t you? Any way...” Emily took a deep breath. “I’m happy to know that somebody like Joanne is there for Ashley.”
Stuart nodded slowly. “Me too. I just wonder how an innocent little kid can understand something like this.”
“You’ve done the right thing.”
“You think so?”
“With everything that’s happened, absolutely. Stu, you must understand how sorry I am.”
Stuart dropped the photograph onto the table. “You’re not responsible for any of this. But I do think it’s time we break the story directly to the FBI.” He studied her for a reaction.
“I’m listening.”
“The problem is, I don’t exactly get a warm feeling from the FBI folks. I’m not confident they’d take anything I tell them seriously enough to act on.”
In the time it took the thought to form in her mind, Emily made her decision. “Since they already know the story, why not try talking to the CIA people? Perhaps they can help.”
MCBURNEY’S FLIGHT FROM LONDON touched down at Dulles International at 5:42 on Friday afternoon, nearly two hours behind schedule. Tired and hungry, his stomach grumbled as he waited in line for immigration and customs with the other arriving passengers—these days, the tedious security precautions were about as bad as the prospect of a terrorist bomb. That the plane was two-thirds empty didn’t seem to shorten the wait.
His meetings at British intelligence, and later at the Israeli embassy, had finished on less than a positive note.
Mossad’s Ben-Yezzi revelation that Tehran had probably not ordered Ahmadi’s murder was profoundly disturbing. If true, struck from the list was not only the primary suspect but also the most plausible motive. Ben Yezzi need not have been so blunt; implicit in that shared piece of intelligence was Mossad’s assessment that CIA’s Near East Division was not helping matters. Despite the most sophisticated eavesdropping gadgetry known to mankind, what were probably straightforward answers continued to elude the Near East operation. And the reason for that was simple enough. The same reason prevented Beijing station from being able to tell him why the Chinese might have wanted to block a civilian crash investigation: not enough operations people on the ground. He wasn’t eager for Director Burns’s reaction to any of this news.
By the time the Agency limousine delivered him to Langley where his own car was parked, it was 7:10 in the evening and his colleagues had left for the day. Riding the elevator to his seventh floor office, all he wanted was to go home, eat dinner, and crawl into bed. McBurney cranked his neck and gazed up at the reflection of a tired, graying, sad-looking man staring back from the mirror over his head.
McBurney pawed through the overflowing in-basket on his desk for any important cables. Finding none, he walked to the wall safe. After two attempts (a third would have triggered the silent alarm and summoned security) McBurney input the correct combination and transferred the folder of classified materials from his briefcase. Closing the safe and turning to leave, he snapped off the lights and pulled shut the door to his office—it was then that he heard the telephone. He knew by the ring that it was the outside line.
Damn—his cell phone in need of a charge, he’d forgotten to phone Kate from the limousine. Now he could look forward to arguing right off the bat about something over which he had no control, his flight’s late arrival. Shaking his jet-lagged head, McBurney walked back to his desk and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Mr. McBurney,” the male voice said. “My name’s Robert Stuart.”
Alarm bells went off—in an instant he recognized the name. How the hell...? Of course. Emily Chang must have given Stuart his number. A more disturbing realization struck as he glanced at the caller ID. For all he knew, Stuart was still under surveillance, his telephone tapped, and the FBI even now listening in on the call.
“Stuart? I don’t know any Stuart. What number did you dial?”
There was a pause; he heard Stuart mutter something beneath his breath. “You know, right now I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you know me or not. If you want to know who it is you should be looking for, tonight at 8 o’clock I’ll be in Alexandria at the Squire.”
The line went dead. McBurney slammed down the phone.
MCBURNEY HAD TRIED to explain to Kate how his not being home for dinner, one more night, was no reason to be upset and to start without him. His other problem was that early tomorrow morning, the DCI would be informed how one of his spy chiefs had just trashed a priority FBI investigation by fraternizing with its primary suspect. As if this wasn’t enough aggravation for one highly questionable piece of intelligence, the 495 beltway south of Tyson’s Corner was undergoing major construction. When he wasn’t inching along or stopped dead in traffic, he raced to make sure he didn’t miss Stuart altogether and have nothing to show for his troubles, which now included a speeding ticket—double the normal one-hundred thirty-eight dollar rate for violating the law in a construction zone.
He located the 1950’s-era diner easily enough and pulled into the parking lot about twenty minutes after eight o’clock. Inside, the place looked and smelled like the kind of busy establishment that thrived counter-cyclically with the health of the economy. McBurney slid into the booth op
posite the only other lone patron there. Stuart, if that’s who it was, erased any doubt when he looked up at him from a folded newspaper and an empty cup of coffee.
A waitress descended upon him. “Take yer order, hon?”
“Why not.” McBurney ordered a cup of decaffeinated coffee and two onion bagels with cream cheese. He waited until the waitress was gone and said, “I could probably go to jail for doing this. What is it you want?”
“You really don’t know?” Stuart eyed him suspiciously.
McBurney let his head fall forward until his chin rested on his chest. He took a deep breath, looked at Stuart and said, “I’ve been out of the country until just a few hours ago. My trip did not go all that well, Mr. Stuart. When you called I was just leaving to go home to my significant other, who may be—may be—the only person in Washington who doesn’t consider me an incompetent Neanderthal. As it turns out, your calling my office will only enhance that image.” I could have refrained from telling him that, he decided too late. “Now I guess whatever’s on your mind wasn’t carried by CNN or BBC or Voice of America, so why not cut the shit and get to the point so we can both go home.”
Stuart looked faintly surprised; a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Two days ago, somebody threatened my daughter, here in Virginia. She’s barely ten years old. Meanwhile, the FBI seems to think I’m some sort of a criminal.”
McBurney was suddenly sobered. “I take it you know who’s responsible.”
“It’s clear the FBI doesn’t have a clue. I think it was Paul Devinn. That name ring a bell?”
McBurney didn’t know what to make of it. Wasn’t Devinn supposed to be dead? There was the issue of how much information he could divulge without compromising the FBI’s investigation. Apparently Stuart had spoken to the FBI; it sounded as though they must have really bored into him. What had they learned? McBurney realized he should have tried to contact either Kosmalski or Hildebrandt beforehand.
Stuart sensed his reluctance. “Look, Mr. McBurney. Counting only the ones that I know about, nine people have already died. I’m just trying to find someone who can maybe, you know, kick a little ass and generate some answers.”
“So why are you coming to me?”
At that, Stuart’s face became inflamed. McBurney could see this was a man with limited patience.
“Emily Chang suggested I call you,” Stuart replied evenly. “She said you were familiar with the background of Thanatech’s sabotage, that you knew of her being blackmailed while her parents were being held, and so forth. Are you saying she’s wrong?”
“Why don’t we let the fact that I’m sitting here attest to what I may or may not know. Now, doesn’t the FBI believe that Paul Devinn is dead?”
“I’m guessing that might be what Devinn wants us to believe.” Stuart briefly described what the FBI had revealed regarding the status of Paul Devinn’s presumed death. “But I’ve known Devinn for some time. This scenario didn’t sound right to me.”
“How so?” McBurney sipped his coffee black.
“First of all, I remember him as somewhat of an outdoorsman, not exactly the type you’d figure to take on bad weather alone on a lake, especially not while he was drunk.” Stuart leaned forward. “I can’t remember seeing him drink anything more potent than orange juice. I checked with a couple guys from school who use to pal around with him. Devinn never drank, even at fraternity parties flowing with booze. They said somebody in Devinn’s family was a drunk and that he really resented it.”
“People change their habits. Alcoholism runs in families.”
Stuart went on to explain how he and Emily Chang had taken it upon themselves to dig into Paul Devinn’s personal affairs.
Based on his impressions of Emily Chang, McBurney was not altogether surprised to hear they had resorted to amateur sleuthing. He also bet the FBI not only knew, but Hildebrandt probably had somebody tailing them throughout Cleveland as they did it.
“The thing that stood out is this storage locker,” Stuart said. “I saw the actual mover’s receipt where Devinn’s belongings were sent. Turns out it was rented by a law firm two months beforehand. We thought that was a little strange. A few days later I received the threatening photographs.”
McBurney struggled to fit Stuart’s personal travails into the broader context of national security; it still boiled down to investigating United States citizens. “That’s all the evidence you’ve got?”
Stuart said nothing as the waitress topped off their coffees and hustled back to the kitchen.
“Miss?” McBurney waved his hand to no avail. “Okay. I’d say you’ve presented at most a not-so-compelling reason to reopen the investigation into Devinn’s disappearance. The Canadian Mounties will probably see it as chasing a lark.”
“I’m an American—I don’t care about the Mounties. I believe Paul Devinn might’ve been involved in sabotaging our test flight, and then staged his death to escape culpability. I believe the same people who threatened Emily Chang have now threatened my daughter.”
“The methods sound similar,” McBurney allowed.
“I drew up a list of people both on hand for the test and who’ve since quit the company. That’s not a very long list. Devinn’s name is on it.”
So is yours, McBurney refrained from pointing out. “Why would Devinn want to sabotage your test flight? Simply to murder innocent people?” The photo of Emily Chang’s father with a gun in his mouth came to mind. Why would the Chinese government try to cover it up?
“I’ve been struggling with that.” Stuart rubbed his face with his hand. “I don’t accept that one of our competitors did it, though I suppose that’s possible. I’ve always thought of ‘Big Oil’ as some sort of anti-corporate blather. But what is this horrible nonsense involving Emily’s parents? It’s absurd to suspect that a competitor’s reach extends into China. It seems to me this is where the CIA might be effective. You’ve heard Emily’s story. What’s your opinion?”
McBurney studied Stuart. Was it convenient that Stuart’s choice of a culprit was purportedly dead? If Stuart was lying, he was doing a fairly poor job of it. He would call Hildebrandt in the morning and discuss it with him. “The obvious agency to handle this is the FBI. They and the NTSB must have been involved in your crash investigation. Why haven’t you taken this story to them? I really don’t understand why you didn’t take it to them some time ago. Or have you?”
“I haven’t because I agreed not to jeopardize the life of Emily’s parents...oh wait, I was wrong. Emily’s mother might be dead, raising the toll to ten. You see, I think these people figured they could bury any lingering suspicions by threatening me. I have no intention of adding my daughter to the tally. Whoever’s responsible might also have plans for Emily Chang.”
“You could have passed an anonymous tip, you know, without risking Chang’s parents.”
“I actually considered that. It seemed an innocuous way to alert the Feds of wrongdoing without causing the saboteur to suspect Chang called them in. I even went so far as to pick up the phone, when I realized I could be either anonymous or sound credible, but not both. Then the FBI managed to track me down.” Stuart shook his head. “It’s legitimate to ask why anybody would want to take down that airplane. So who does the FBI come up with? Me. I get the feeling they suspect that I’m behind all of this but are frustrated they can’t quite prove it.”
“What makes you think I have any of the answers?”
Stuart’s expression hardened. “The same reason that tonight on the phone you denied knowing me. You’re either one of these elitists who thinks everyone outside the beltway is intellectually challenged, or you just think I look exceptionally stupid.”
The two men stared at each other. Stuart’s face burned with anger.
McBurney said, “I assure you the FBI’s capable of handling this matter. I do know a little about what’s going on. I can tell you that it’s not directly a CIA matter, and that the FBI takes these unresolved issues seriously. I
t might make sense not to approach anyone other than the authorities with your story, at least for now. What measures have you taken to protect your daughter?”
“I’ve sent her where I’m sure she’ll be safe. But I can’t keep her there forever. And I won’t live my life surrounded by bodyguards.”
McBurney shook his head. “I really am sorry about your situation. You’ve got to understand, though. Domestic investigations are outside my legal bounds. Your recourse is with the FBI. I don’t know what I can possibly do to help you.”
“You truly don’t collaborate on something like this? Maybe we’re in worse shape than I thought.”
“Collaborate on something like what?” What does this guy know about Emily Chang and Beijing?
Stuart clenched his fists—for a moment McBurney thought the guy might actually reach over the table and slug him. “It’s very possible the lives of my daughter and Emily Chang are both on the line.” Stuart leveled a finger at McBurney’s chest. “You say the FBI handles this sort of thing—fine. Do me a favor. Tell them to get off my back and go find who really murdered these people.” Stuart tossed a five-dollar bill onto the table, and stormed out of the diner.
61
Monday, June 22
Beijing, China
WHO’S NEWS
Thanatechnology Corporation Says Stuart Resigns Executive Post
—————————
By a WSJ Staff Reporter
CLEVELAND, Ohio—Thanatechnology Corp. said Robert Stuart, the aircraft engine manufacturer’s vice president for development operations, resigned ‘to pursue other interests.’
A spokesman for Coherent Light Incorporated, a Richmond, Va. firm co-founded by Mr. Stuart in 2002, confirms that talks are underway for negotiating Stuart’s return.
Mr. Stuart, 41 years old, had been with Thanatech for just under 4 years and served as vice president for the entirety. His resignation was effective immediately. No successor has been chosen. Thanatechnology was the second-largest U.S. manufacturer of military and commercial aircraft engines at the end of last year.
Razing Beijing: A Thriller Page 38