Separately, sources inside the company claim that development difficulties plaguing their next-generation commercial product offering (WSJ, January 12) are nearing resolution. Neither Messrs. Stuart nor Cole, the president and chief executive officer of the Cleveland-based concern, could be reached for comment.
Deng squinted to read the English words beneath the dusk sky descending over the park. His recollection of Robert Stuart occurred to him immediately upon reading his name. He was reminded again how readily Americans bounced from danwei to danwei with perplexing flexibility. Indeed, he hadn’t known that Stuart ever left this CLI for another company, let alone that he had apparently returned.
Peifu said to his father, “Some articles quote the company in the context of corporate financial information. I assumed you had no interest in those. Would you like me to retrieve all of them?”
Deng paged back through the dozen or so articles, the product of an Internet search, clipped together in reverse chronological order. Several discussed the company’s latest medical products, a plan to expand revenue growth with a push into the telecommunications services industry—all of it information freely accessible from most any computer terminal on the planet, with the exception of China. He asked his son whether or not there had been any mention of fraudulent or criminal activity. Not that he had reason to believe there would be any, a fact Peifu confirmed in the negative.
From there in Beijing, the Ministry of Information Industry regulated every aspect of Internet access. Inside government offices, only select Party elites using special codes gained access to proxy servers in order to read foreign news media, until frequent attacks by anonymous hackers brought restrictions to bear on even that limited practice. It had been common knowledge for years that students and academicians, while civil in chat rooms that the information ministry propagandized, regularly disregarded controls in order to engineer breaches of government firewalls. Deng had heard recently that new decryption technologies allowed the ministry to weed out unregistered Internet servers and those who frequented them.
“Tell me, how is it that you were able to search these without attracting scrutiny?”
Looking perturbed, Peifu removed his hand from his coat pocket and gestured at the pages in his father’s hands. “I haven’t asked you what you plan to do with those, have I?”
Deng folded the pages and stuffed them inside his coat. “I already suspected your capabilities, or I would not have asked you to help me. Do not fault me for being concerned about whatever it is that draws you away from your family at night.”
His son stared out over the pond.
Deng said, “The other night, I had the opportunity to observe the police break up a mob of dissident hooligans not far from Beijing University. Actually, not very far from your office.” And you were there among them, were you not? “They appeared as if they were trying to post some sort of logo or cult symbol.”
“They are not hooligans. They are not members of a cult.”
“Defacing government buildings is criminal activity. I can tell you something else. State Security officials are as nervous as dogs in a hailstorm with all that’s going on, and illicit Internet access is not the only thing they are clamping down on. Those students they arrested will talk. Listen to me. It is not just you that they will be coming after.” Deng studied his son while yearning to see some sign of dawning uneasiness.
Instead, Peifu removed a sheet of paper from inside of his coat and handed it to his father. “This is what I found on the doctor.”
Deng eagerly accepted the sheet and unfolded it. While following up on Dr. Wu’s offer to determine the whereabouts of his missing physicist, Deng had visited Capital Hospital only to discover Dr. Wu now missing. ‘Transferred,’ was the explanation offered by virtually all, yet no one on even Wu’s own staff could say to which hospital or province the man had been reassigned. Deng’s hammering fist on the party official’s door had yielded nothing. Dr. Wu was on the surgical staff at Capital for as long as Deng had known him. Talented doctors were revered like pearls, they did not simply vanish.
Deng looked up from the sheet of paper. “His phone number at Capital Hospital? That’s it?”
“If they mean to hide somebody, the Internet is probably the last place you will find him.”
Deng sighed. He supposed he should not be surprised. “I hope nobody has been put at unacceptable risk as a result of your researching this.”
Peifu shook his head.
Deng reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. “Curfew,” he reminded his son, and they began the walk home.
62
Xichang, China
DENG WAS DISAPPOINTED to note only a few paltry signs of progress as he entered the Long March assembly bay, where most of the thirty-nine ton spacecraft’s subassemblies appeared to be undergoing their final preparation. High atop the beam steering mechanism, the aperture doors had been installed and the entire module wrapped in sheets of cellophane, as were the guidance, laser and capacitor modules. The thirteen-meter folding solar panel arrays, ungainly as they were, had been retracted to their payload launch configuration like the promising petals of a rose, Deng rather whimsically imagined.
His eye was drawn to one rather irritating laggard, the computer support system. Floodlights illuminated the module’s interior where the access ports had all been removed. Umbilical cables snaked out and down several meters to the floor, where racks of portable computer and diagnostic equipment attested to both the challenge and source of persistent doubt. He would expect to find the various sophisticated implements for resolving their software difficulties. What perplexed him was the conspicuous absence of even one soul actively working the problem. Deng swiveled his head all around. In a room large enough to accommodate two satellite vehicles, he counted three technicians. Rather than working, these individuals stood near the top level of the gantry and gazed down at him and Korzhakov. Was this any way to adhere to a schedule?
Suddenly fit to be tied, Deng rounded on Korzhakov. Korzhakov in turn beamed him an odd smile. To Deng’s further astonishment, the scientist actually dared to chuckle.
“What is going on here?” he demanded.
An eruption of applause and laughter drew Deng’s attention to dozens of bunny-suited engineers spilling in from the adjoining utility room.
Korzhakov was clearly amused by Deng’s slow uptake. “We have good news to report. At 4:12 this morning, a simulation routine successfully converged on a solution—the first time since incorporating the new targeting algorithms.”
Deng was numbed by the news. “What were the boundary conditions?” Was their hubris perhaps premature?
“You can relax, Commissioner. We have repeated it numerous times with permutations of extreme atmospheric distortion. We even superimposed several worst case predictions for photonic emission.”
Deng nodded in vague recognition. The simulation did not actually involve firing the laser, and for that reason the adaptive optics were unable to sample and correct the flight of the beam through the atmosphere. Duplicating the event from orbit, incorporating the upgraded software while pointing through hundreds of kilometers of atmosphere, would be the only conclusive test.
None knew this better than the many skilled men and women who approached him, heads held high despite their fatigue. Deng smiled broadly. “Congratulations, all of you. Tell me, how did you finally succeed?”
Gripping the offered hands of exuberant engineers, Korzhakov turned toward Deng wearing a confused frown. “Why, we knew all along what it would take. It was Zhao and his software egg-heads.”
“Zhao? Zhao is here?”
“You did not know this?”
DR. ZHAO’S SALLOW COLOR, hollow cheeks and sunken eyes suggested a recent state of acute illness. Deng was relieved if not a little confused by the esteemed physicist’s return, but found his explanation of a prolonged hospital stay somehow incomplete. Was he on medication? Were there limitations for him to observe
on the job? Even a mild stroke victim suffered some permanent loss of mental acuity. And notwithstanding the excuses offered by State Security, it remained unclear why no one had been permitted to contact members of Zhao’s family.
Deng’s concern for Dr. Zhao’s well being shifted to the subject of his colleagues’ current discussion, the risks of the next phase. For the software installation completed in the early hours of the morning, Zhao and his engineers had adhered to strict production procedures. To duplicate this process in orbit meant a total computer software uninstall, prior to up-linking the improved master code in its entirety—the risk being that Vehicle One’s orbiting computers could be rendered permanently inoperable. Nobody agreed upon how to proceed.
Deng finally tired of the angry back-and-forth debate over the contemplated series of uninstalls, reinstalls, and partial installs. “We go with Zhao’s approach. Dr. Zhao, you will see that your engineers work very hard not to scramble Vehicle Two’s brains. Be sure to keep Korzhakov’s geniuses in the loop, if you please.” Like herding cats, he thought, shaking his head.
Following further argument, Zhao and Korzhakov grudgingly agreed that the revised satellite uplink procedure could be ready to go in three or four days. Deng thought to mention that he would need to be on hand for the encryption protocol. So far as he knew, the one other person with access to the satellite’s security codes was an intelligence officer in the Military Commission, whose identity was not known to him.
Finally, they agreed that if the new uplink procedure proved successful, Vehicle One could actually be ready for a full demonstration in a week—the pinnacle of decades of work was fast approaching. The discussion adjourned. Grumbling his dissent, Korzhakov left his two Chinese partners in order to delve into his work.
While patiently waiting for Zhao to finish penciling an entry into his notebook, Deng wondered what medical procedure might be responsible for the tiny scars healing over his friend’s cheekbones. “I’m happy to see you up on your feet. And I’ll share a little secret with you: so is Korzhakov.”
Zhao smiled weakly. “Your man Korzhakov is rightfully proud of their work. We would be lost without them.”
Deng flipped through the paper corners of the massive simulation printout. He felt his giddiness return over the morning’s success. “Do you think it’s actually going to work?”
Zhao considered Deng’s question with his characteristic gravity. “Yes, I actually do. The question for me has always been whether the net quantum efficiency of the photon counters will be adequate. Most of the empirical data has been derived for space telescopes by pointing these devices into space—not down at the earth. But I’ve tended to be optimistic, if for no other reason than those at CERN, and in America, who apparently share my optimism. Except...” Zhao looked away.
“Except?”
“Except the composition of the target will always play a role. On that, we have no control. Do we?”
Deng was unsure what the scientist was driving at.
“What I mean to say, you and I have no control over what the devils ultimately do with the power we are preparing to deliver them.”
Deng was more than a little taken back by Zhao’s candor. The kindly physicist’s hands were shaking in anger.
Dr. Zhao flinched under Deng’s stare and looked away. “I suppose it’s a little late to be pondering that.”
Deng remained silent for several moments. “We were worried about you. To whom do I convey my thanks?”
“I will be happy to pass on your appreciation.”
“At least allow me to know where to refer people in need of similar care. You will not be the last man too young to suffer a stroke. For that matter, I am not getting any younger myself.”
Zhao held his eyes downcast.
“We failed in our efforts to reach you even through your wife. Is everything okay with Meiling?”
“I am sorry, Commissioner. You had best direct all such questions to Deputy Security Minister Chen.”
63
Beijing, China
DENG ZHEN AWOKE WITH A START to find that he wasn’t alone. He sat up groggily and fumbled for the lamp on his bed stand. Peifu held a finger to his lips—Deng’s son looked as if he had lost a fight with a kick-boxer. His left eye was severely swollen. Blood from an open gash above his temple matted down spikes of sweaty hair.
Peifu pressed a scrap of paper into his father’s hand.
Relieved that the unexplained wounds appeared superficial, Deng glared disapprovingly before slipping on his reading glasses. The clock on the bed stand ticked to 4:37 A.M. as he glanced at the note which read, ‘Police may be coming. Need to talk.’
Deng swung his feet to the floor. He whispered, “Clean yourself up and meet me in the kitchen.”
Twenty minutes later, Deng sat on a bench in the park not far from their home, biting his tongue as he listened to his bruised young music professor recount feats of utterly brazen stupidity. Apparently Peifu and his cohorts had been chased on foot throughout half of the city, hiding in alleys and behind courtyard walls, before circling home.
“Police beat you up, and yet you were able to get away? I suppose that’s progress.” Deng almost chuckled, until the improbability of such a near brush had a moment to sink in.
“They were PLA troopers, not the Armed Police.”
More improbable yet, Deng thought with deepening confusion. “What about the others?”
Peifu breathed a heavy sigh. “I don’t know. One of the women was trying to keep up with me. I heard her scream when she was grabbed from behind and driven to the ground. Last I knew they were clubbing her on the back, in her stomach. They dragged her away by her hair like a rag doll—no, like a sack of garbage...fucking bastards.”
Deng was all too familiar with the technique, whereby those arrested would be beaten all the way to the detention center. Neither their families nor the sham lawyers brought in to represent them would be able to detect much in the way of physical abuse. But the internal injuries would be skillfully inflicted, ensuring permanent disability. You came very close this time, son. “You stubborn, arrogant fools. What did you expect by going back to the same meeting place? You knew of the arrests last week. The ministry would have cracked them by the following morning.”
“We are not so stupid. We have structured our organization according to strict secrecy policies.” Peifu inspected the wash rag that he had been using to staunch his bleeding. “None of the students captured last week have any idea who we are, and certainly no idea where the leadership council meets. We never directly met or spoke to any of them.”
“So the police are clairvoyant?”
“Our communications are conducted over the Net.”
“So what? The Internet is impervious?”
“The one we use is nearly so. We have these...secure servers.”
“Secure is a relative term. How do you mean?”
“I am not privy to the details, only that the servers are hidden and not registered with the Information Ministry. We acquired encryption software on the black-market, with which we encode all of the messages.”
“Uh-huh. And these postings all over the city, these logos you have fashioned indicate that you must have access to printing resources. Such contacts, and the money to pay them, represent opportunities for State Security. You can hide behind your computer screens all you wish, but if there is a weaker link elsewhere in your network it will do you no good. There is that clever Westernism, I forget who coined it, that three people can keep a secret so long as two of them die.”
Deng watched Peifu stare into the night. The first gray hint of sunrise revealed clouds rolling low over the city. “Interesting you should mention death.” Peifu’s voice was tired, the adrenaline rush giving way to a restorative fatigue of the body’s defenses. “America is a country which exists today only because there were people who weighed their lives against freedom, the same freedom we—”
“Damn your freedom! You hav
en’t the luxury of rebellion, not with a family to care for. What about your son?”
“What about my son’s future? Once succession gives way to stability, your grandson will be trapped in dictatorship for another generation, perhaps longer.”
“A handful of fringe zealots will only make things worse for everyone.”
Peifu turned toward his father. “So you think we are only a handful?”
“It does not matter. The Hundred Names have come to accept democracy as an over-rated, discredited style of governing. The pro-democracy movement died in 1989.”
“You are wrong. It is stronger than ever, more resilient.”
They watched a curfew patrol car drive slowly past a distant street bordering the park, the typical perfunctory show after spending the night with their mistresses. The car turned and disappeared between the old Buddhist temple and High School No. 7.
Deng pushed himself up from the bench. “You keep this up, we will find out just how resilient. Unless of course State Security manages to crush the will of your colleagues, in which case we find out very soon, indeed.”
“They may crush us, but never our will.”
Deng stood looking down at his son’s battered face, fearful of what Peifu had brought on himself. He feared most of all that Peifu meant what he said.
64
BOTH DENG AND SECURITY Deputy Minister Chen Ruihan were too embarrassed for eye contact as a rhythmic creaking noise carried over the moist air, pungent with the odor of chlorine and mildew. Something could be heard scraping its way across the tile floor, the sound punctuated by a soft feminine whimper...
Deng finally had heard enough. “Wo mingtian huilai,” he growled at Chen as he rose to leave the soggy antechamber. “When Rong finds he can pry himself away from his priorities, that is.”
Razing Beijing: A Thriller Page 39