Stuart silently reflected for a minute, his distant stare wandering over the rows of alcohol bottles behind the bar. “Taoist, huh? What do you make of the first riddle?”
“Lions and siring...? I’m sorry. It means nothing to me.”
“Alluding to some sort of Taoist musings?”
“What it alludes to is Oedipus and Antigone.” Emily took a long sip from her pilsner, eyeing Stuart over the rim.
Stuart held her gaze for a moment and said, “I don’t think I know anyone from Beijing University.”
Emily placed her glass on the bar. She rarely drank alcohol and was feeling a bit light-headed. “What about me?”
“You spent most your time at Qinghua. You know what I mean.”
“I don’t see a connection between the riddles and the Nike logo, except that they are probably a hoax.” Emily nibbled her lower lip, pondering the Chinese origin. “Apparently whoever sent them to you had access to the newswire publishers. That’s unusual, even illegal, but many of my friends did it all the time, mostly to rage against the machine.”
“Emily, did you notice the dates of when they were sent?”
She picked up the papers from the surface of the bar. “This first email was sent to you four days ago.”
“That’s the problem I’m having.”
“Why?”
Stuart leaned close to her. “The Baltimore stadium story didn’t appear in the papers until yesterday.”
70
“YOUR SITE SELECTION OF THE TARGET in North America strikes some of us as ill-advised,” the junior Standing Committee member announced. “One might even say it was reckless and arrogant.”
The Commissioner of Science, Technology and Industry for National Defense stepped back from the glare of the projector light which boiled the cigarette smoke over the heads of his audience. From eight individual seats within three curved rows elevated several meters above the podium, the most autonomously powerful political body in the world had convened to ‘herald in the new era’—an occasion that Vice Chairman Rong Peng of the Military Affairs Commission had begun by graciously crediting Deng’s stewardship. As usual for such gatherings, Deng knew that little or nothing would be as it appeared.
“On the question of accuracy, one must first understand we are talking about a weapon system,” Deng replied. “This system relies not only on the primary low-earth orbit satellite, but depending upon the location of target, or targets, it also relies on three geo-stationary communication satellites. That being so, only a test in the western hemisphere would properly evaluate the transmittal of data. Another objective stipulated to me was to ensure that the target be made to appear strictly nonmilitary.”
“But why involve a manufacturer who ships half their product from Asian factories?”
“I doubt any such association has been made,” dismissed Vice Chairman Rong, defending his own association to the project.
Deng faced his accusers with no sign of apology. “With due respect, it was reckless only to the extent one lacked faith in the technology.” Would you prefer that we had waited until such time that a genuine conflict erupts? “I am told subsequent media coverage confirms they are at a total loss to explain it. Some have even attempted to associate the footprint with paranormal activity. Arrogant? I accept that particular criticism,” Deng allowed with a shrug. “American journalists have been so considerate as to publicize precise dimensions of the extraction. These compare favorably with our intent.”
The chuckling members of the Politburo Standing Committee of the Chinese Communist Party studied Deng with everything from measured enthusiasm to bored acknowledgement, to simple contempt. He had always understood that many in the Politburo resented him, as they did anyone whose position had not been derived through cronyism. Gripping the sides of the lectern, Deng wondered who if any among his audience secretly harbored another, more heinous reason to distrust him. Since Liu Qun’s death, he often was drawn to search for a lingering stare, or an evasive shift of the eyes, perhaps an awkward inflection in tone...
“I take it you’re satisfied with the demonstrated accuracy?” asked Finance Minister Huang Yi.
“A few problems were revealed by the test. That’s why we run such tests. Our engineers deem these to be minor.”
At fifty-three years old, Finance Minister Huang Yi was the youngest man on the Standing Committee to which he had been appointed six years earlier. Deng knew of his reputation as relentlessly uncompromising—an attribute rare for a Politburo bureaucrat. He also knew that Huang and Rong were pitched in their battle to succeed the core leader. As finance minister, Huang knew well the weapon’s staggering cost, but it was clear by their incessant inquiry that he and others found mesmerizing the satellite weapon’s operational details. How long for the satellite power system to recharge between attacks? Will adverse weather limit its use? When will the second and third devices be ready for launch? How massive an extraction can be achieved with a single attack? Can it extract objects from beneath the ocean’s surface? Could the weapon extract components from within warheads in advance of their launch? Where, ultimately, does the extracted target go?
“Can the weapon be used against an individual?” asked the public security minister.
Deng blinked his eyes. Around the chamber he noted titillating interest. The question brought to mind Dr. Zhao’s poignant observation that they could bring to bear the resources of physics and engineering, but in the end a political finger would be poised on the trigger. “I am sorry, comrade. An individual what?”
While Rong Peng calmly appraised Deng’s remark, the others appeared thrown off by his unexpected reply; Was it insolence, or merely a joke?
“I meant an individual person, of course. And, maybe parts of an individual.”
Deng folded his arms. “Mobile objects such as missiles and people pose their own unique programming challenges.”
Rong motioned to adjourn. “For those of you who desire more information on Fourth Line, Commissioner Deng is planning another demonstration. This time we will convene inside our new satellite control facility, later—”
“If I may,” the finance minister inquired, addressing himself to Deng. “I have not been privy to the details of the U.S. missile defense system. And I admit to not having closely followed the evolution of your Fourth Line. Worse, my engineering talents have long ago abandoned me. In any case, how on earth did you manage such a feat, whereas the Americans have not, despite their obvious advantage in payload launch capabilities?”
Deng nodded thoughtfully—he suspected that the nuance revealed by the question was beyond the grasp of others in the room. Much as Deng would have liked to, this was not the forum to delve into the difficulties they had overcome involving things like turbomachinery dynamics, energy consumption, and primary mirror limitations that the roominess of a space shuttle payload bay would have simplified.
“Actually, it was the quantum teleportation breakthroughs at CERN and elsewhere that came to our rescue. These at the time were part of ongoing efforts to advance beyond the silicon-based limits of highly parallel-processing computing.” Deng allowed himself a smile. He had been among the first to see the military potential, well before intelligence reports that the Americans were doubling-down their environmental initiatives, which had finally made it all possible. “As the vice chairman so eloquently put it, we now have at our disposal the ability to wage asymmetrical warfare—something totally distinct and apart from any threat our enemies are able to wield.”
“I see, Commissioner.” Minister Huang nodded. “There is one glaring problem, however.”
Deng braced himself. “What problem is that?”
“What am I to do with my tickets to the Baltimore Ravens game?”
STANDING COMMITTEE MEMBERS had each taken a moment to file past and congratulate Deng Zhen. Afterward, Rong wordlessly ushered him to his Zhongnanhai Central Committee office where Deputy State Security Minister Chen Ruihan was already waiting. Cer
tain that his son had been caught violating government Internet restrictions on his behalf, Deng focused his eyes out the window in order to alleviate his rising panic.
Rong angrily addressed Chen Ruihan. “I would like your assessment of the prospect that the Americans have deduced our achievement.”
Deng slowly turned toward the rising state security star, who for his part seemed confused by the question.
“It is difficult to be certain,” Chen responded.
“If it were easy I would have appointed an idiot to your post. Commissioner Deng, I invited you here because we have arrived at a decision tollgate. The question is what possible further use have we for your ‘market basket of technology’ outside Richmond, Virginia. As a matter of strategy, we should also consider what measures we might take to preserve our technological lead. You of all people know how hard we have worked for that lead.”
It fit the pattern of the way this man seemed to operate, Deng thought, that already Rong would think in such terms. “I wish I could guarantee that some future technical setback will not again make it convenient to dip into that well. On the other hand, we have come a long way in establishing our own technology base. It is not clear that the CLI corporation’s development template will have anything more to offer.”
“Is there any indication that the Americans are considering plans to militarize the technology? It is a very important question. Please consider carefully your answer.”
Chen thought a moment. “Nothing that our network has revealed, no.”
“Perhaps now is the time, then, we should move to eliminate that risk.” Rong turned to Deng. “That will be all, Commissioner. Unless you have something to add...?”
“Actually, perhaps I misunderstood. When you say ‘eliminate that risk,’ do you mean we should accelerate our own strategic development plans?”
Rong seemed to examine his guest. “We operate by three moves of the chess board. Thanks to you, we have achieved our first move. The next requires an understanding of what our adversary is likely to do. What I intend to have Comrade Chen do is fully eliminate their pieces from the board.”
RONG STARED WORRIEDLY at the door through which Deng Zhen had just departed. “For the record, I did not approve the target selected for that demonstration. It was foolish. But the old man has standing among some of the committee members, and the thing was already done. How is the situation with the traitor’s return working out?”
“Nothing significant to say. The woman’s condition has stabilized, but she will probably die. I predict Dr. Zhao will then become a serious impediment.”
Rong nodded. “You were to prepare options.”
Chen frowned deeply at the change of subject. “I have examined several. One would be to simply turn the satellite device against the American corporation, say, by extracting core memory elements of their supercomputer.”
“Clever. I like the ironic purity in that.”
“This also has the advantage of providing yet another test point, if you will. Properly executed, it might even be made to appear the result of an accident, an experiment gone awry. But there are risks to this approach.”
“Such as?”
“Well, there is no guarantee that, say, a technician would not witness the event and survive. Any mystery surrounding such a calamity would spawn an in-depth investigation, thereby contradicting our objectives.” He bolstered the point by reminding Rong that their ongoing subterfuge had already invited FBI scrutiny.
Rong eyed his young protégé. “You intentionally drew attention to errors occurring on your watch. That was a dangerous tactic.”
“Actually, they were errors prior to my watch,” Chen corrected him. “On the other hand, if I withhold such information I could be accused of making recommendations on the basis of attempting to conceal them.
“As I was saying...the Americans have invested millions of dollars in this facility—”
“Borrowed from us.”
Chen smiled. “And in the underlying technology, as have the other countries involved in their research. So they may attempt to repair it.
“Now, I present this approach in the interest of thoroughness, as I view it as being unnecessarily risky. I recommend we use more conventional means at our disposal. We can institute a plan to have support for the technology terminated by their Congress. Our primary source has informed me that in this regard CLI is already vulnerable. This approach reduces the likelihood of the Americans repairing the facility, at least in the near term, as they might otherwise do should they perceive its destruction an accident. Finally, this approach preserves the option later of having one of our holding companies offer a restorative injection of cash in exchange for equity, as is our usual method.”
“The timing?”
“It could be done relatively quickly.”
“Hmm. That standard you will be held to. How long do we...wait, let’s examine this picture for a moment. The Americans would first need to make their discovery of our achievement, which is only a matter of time. In that respect most any action we take will serve to delay them. How long would they need to construct a comparable weapon?”
“I am told that creating something from scratch is not the same as knowing that the objective has already been reached, and working toward it. Our ministry experts estimate the Americans would need half the time it took us to complete the final design—a crash program. To then construct the payload and package it inside a launch vehicle, thirty-six to forty months.”
“That long? This would seem to justify your lower-risk approach, should we choose to put our faith in your numbers, that is. Very well. Have Congress pull the plug. Only, have them do it before the next millennium.”
71
Monday, June 29
CHRISTINA LOREN BLOCH, ESQ., of Squillaro, Hutchins and Bloch, sensed the deliveryman’s lingering stare down her cleavage as she signed the electronic invoice.
“I guess people just like making our jobs tough,” the young man said in an attempt at light conversation.
Ms. Bloch finished scribbling the wand and handed him back the pad. “What did you say?” she asked, an edge to her voice.
The man gestured to the FedEx shipping envelope and politely smiled. “Looks like they misspelled your name.”
“Oh.” Bloch feigned an inquisitive glance past her nose; she had already noted the misspelling, of course. The standard shipping label properly displayed the firm’s name in bold letters above the office address. Three inches below, across the bottom in large case, the sender seemingly had made an innocuous error by directing the letter to the attention of C. L. Blok.
Back inside her office, Bloch contemplated the envelope lying unopened on the desk. She had many clients; some occasionally required service beyond mere legal acumen. She selected a black felt-tip pen and placed a large ‘X’ across the entire envelope. She slid the packet aside and reached for her electronic organizer. Under ‘Evinn, Pauline,’ she selected the appropriate telephone number. As it was evening and her partners now gone for the day, she had available any one of several outside telephone lines. She chose one at random and dialed the number.
Again she found the man’s voice in the recorded message deep and alluring, a foreign accent...a smile came to her lips, imagining him tall and exotic with a dark complexion, piercing eyes. This time the masculine voice specifically requested the caller leave only a name and number—omitting both his request for the time of the call and his offer to return the call as soon as he could. She jotted his instructions down on a pad.
Chris Bloch waited for the beep. “Hello, Mr. Cullinane. I’m calling to see if you could reschedule our next appointment? I’m afraid the conflict is on my end. Thanks. Bye.” She hung up the phone.
As a further precaution, the misdirected number in fact appeared in her Rolodex beside the name of a legitimate client, the single misdialed digit an error easily explained. The content of her impromptu message had no meaning other than to alert the m
an to tomorrow morning’s drop. As the appointed method of any drop was this agent’s ongoing responsibility—one of a possible three that were in use—his outgoing message had indicated by code the next cutout in the sequence.
Chris Bloch verified from her organizer where that happened to be; she sighed, realizing the inconvenience. She had hoped to drop her dry cleaning off on the way into work. Silly, she thought, lightly rebuking herself. There ought to be more than one cleaners in all of Brooklyn whom she could trust with her wardrobe.
MOHAMMAD MOUSAVI looked up from his work as the sound of his own voice announced the incoming call—this particular line he used only to record and retrieve telephone messages. Again he heard the distinctly American voice of the unidentified woman. Again his first impulse was to be distrusting, an impulse that had gradually become so ingrained as to not receive his slightest notice.
The pipeline instructions had flowed from these same lips. When Mousavi had challenged the new cutout with an unplanned confidence check using a one-time pad, she returned the protocol. The operation had subsequently gone smoothly enough—letter perfect in fact, right down to the passport drop in Frankfurt on their return to the United States. Mousavi dismissed any further concern. The female contact was probably the result of his handling officer in the Washington, D.C. consulate making routine security adjustments. Certainly he could trust them not to arbitrarily assign so important a task to just any infidel whore.
With that introspection, Mousavi returned his attention to his preparation of four special detonators. The process was infuriatingly delicate. It appeared as though he had finally mastered it.
Using a high-speed Dremel tool, he fashioned four cuts into a window, about one-centimeter square, positioned at roughly the major diameter of the otherwise plain incandescent light bulbs. The point of the exercise was that the filament remained fully intact.
He screwed one into a socket and connected it to a dc power source. Not certain what to expect, he stood back and toggled the switch to introduce a two-hundred eighty-eight volt potential across the circuit. The filament flared brightly, fueled by the oxygen not normally inside the bulb. Several seconds later the tungsten filament fully oxidized and broke, extinguishing its piercing light. Mousavi smiled at the thin stream of smoke.
Razing Beijing: A Thriller Page 43