by Allan Topol
That was the opening Ben had been looking for. He was getting an idea. "He wanted to impress you with an early arrest." In a low voice he said, "Do you think Ed could have planted the phony evidence in the gardener's truck?"
Slater's eyes lit up with alarm. "Jesus, I hadn't thought of that." He stopped to consider what Ben said. "I guess the money's easy. But where would Ed get the gun to plant in the truck?"
Ben shrugged. "One of the FBI people could have found it at Winthrop's house. Ed tells him not to say anything. Presto, he's got a way to look like a hero in the eyes of his boss."
Slater looked appalled by this idea. "What are you going to do? Follow up by talking to Ed? Or do you want me to?"
Ben shook his head. "Leave it alone for now. Ed's not going anywhere. Liu has to be our focus. We have to find out who was responsible for the murder. There'll be time enough later to deal with an overzealous government lawyer."
Slater nodded his acquiescence. "On that subject, if you want my opinion, I think you're right on target going after Liu." The chief of staff looked around nervously to make sure no one could overhear them. Cunningham was at the far end of the room talking to Brewster. "I'll give you some advice, though. Liu's going to be tough to nail. He has a powerful friend"—Slater paused to cock his head at Cunningham—"right here in this room, who's not going to let that happen."
While pretending to gather up her papers and tapes, Jennifer had been watching Ben and Slater engaged in conversation. They were quite a contrast, those two. Even late in the evening Slater was perfectly dressed and clean shaven, with his hair slicked down. Ben's hair was uncombed, his suit and shirt were rumpled, and the dark shadow on his face indicated that morning had been a long time ago. Ben was emotional, moving his hands and questioning with his face. Slater looked smooth, calm, and cool. So what does all of this tell you? Jennifer asked herself.
* * *
"I'm not afraid of being interviewed," Liu said to Cunningham. They were in Cunningham's house sipping armagnac. The tall antique grandfather clock in the corner of the wood-paneled den had just struck midnight.
"Ben Hartwell's smart," Cunningham said. "Don't underestimate him."
"I don't have anything to hide."
"He knows about the two videotapes taken from Ann. He has photographs to establish that someone at your embassy was responsible. Those aren't matters to be proud of."
Liu shrugged his shoulders. "It's all part of the normal conduct of foreign affairs."
"Assassinations don't fit into that category."
"I quite agree." He leveled his gaze at Cunningham. "We didn't assassinate anyone."
Before Cunningham had a chance to respond, the ambassador yawned. He'd had enough of Cunningham for one night. He had a wonderful young staffer waiting in his bed. He wanted to go home to her. He drained the rest of the armagnae and rose to leave.
Cunningham said to him, "There is one other thing."
"What's that?"
"I think it would be best if you clarified to Hartwell that I had no idea about your effort to blackmail Winthrop until the meeting at the White House this evening."
Liu smiled weakly. "You said it would be best. Best for whom?"
Cunningham bit his lip, suppressing his anger. "Think long and hard tonight about what you just said."
"Meaning what?"
"If you plan to shoot at a king, then you'd better kill him."
"But I don't see a crown on your head, Marshall Cunningham."
* * *
"It's time to move, Comrade Li," the captain from the front of the truck said as he poked Chen, who was dozing in his cot.
Chen bolted upright and rubbed his eyes. It took him a few moments to orient himself. "I'm ready."
The captain took Chen's suitcase and duffel bag and exited the barracks with Chen two steps behind. Outside, Chen, dressed in an army uniform, climbed into the back of the truck, which seemed to be the same one in which he had arrived. There were only five other soldiers in the back. This time, a second truck with six soldiers followed behind. The two trucks headed out on a deserted road under a cloudy sky.
Chen was surprised that no one wanted to review the plan with him. These men were either too nervous, or knew what they had to do. No one said a word. Chen reassured himself that the beauty of Donovan's plan was its simplicity. There was no need to discuss it. When they reached the missile battery site, both trucks would enter the site, being passed through by a guard at the gate who had been well paid. No record would be made of their entrance. The two trucks would pull up close to the missile battery and then stop. While the soldiers scrambled out of Chen's truck into the other one, he would set the bomb, then join them in the second truck. He would wait until they left the site to detonate it.
At the entrance to the missile base, the two trucks came to a halt. Looking out, Chen saw thirty tall cylindrical C55-6 missiles on fixed launch pads pointed at Taipei across the narrow strait. Thirty matchsticks with a range well beyond Taiwan, each with a potent warhead that could kill Mary Ann and his children.
Chen heard the guard and driver laugh; then they were moving again. Security was light inside the deserted base. Chen guessed that was because it was almost three in the morning. Also, the regime couldn't conceive of anyone attacking the site.
Chen took another look at the missiles. The explosive he would be leaving behind in this truck was powerful enough to destroy the missiles and the launching pads. It would blow the whole site sky-high.
The trucks went slowly along a narrow, winding road that led down toward the water. After ten minutes, both trucks stopped. Without saying a word to Chen, the five soldiers scrambled out of the truck, leaving him alone in the back.
He opened the brown suitcase and looked inside. Everything was in place.
It was dark inside the back of the truck, and Chen needed light to assemble the bomb. Donovan had prepared for this contingency, though. Inside the suitcase was a flashlight, which Chen turned on. He propped it against the duffel bag so it would shine on the suitcase.
His fingers were cold and stiff. Before pulling the pieces of the bomb out of the suitcase, he rubbed his hands together. With great care, he removed each piece and laid it on the floor of the truck. Then he began the methodical assembly, without needing to consult the instructions. He had committed them to memory.
Four connections down and four more to go, Chen thought. He felt as if he were back at MIT doing an experiment in electrical engineering.
Everything was going like clockwork. Three more minutes at most, he told himself. Then it's done. It's over. I'll never do anything like this again.
His concentration was so great that he didn't notice through cracks in the tarp the bright helium lamps that came on suddenly, lighting the whole area as if it were noon. But he heard the blasting sirens, and a sickening feeling grew in the pit of his stomach.
From the outside, someone ripped the tarp off the truck. Soldiers climbed inside. Rough hands grabbed Chen and tossed him out, where other muscular arms caught him and tied his wrists and ankles with rope. They packed him in the back of a dark green van, where four soldiers sat with their rifles aimed at him.
Shoot me, Chen pleaded with his eyes. Shoot me.
He knew that would be far too kind a fate. Something much worse awaited him. As he thought about it, he felt a trickle of warm fluid go down his leg inside his pants.
Chapter 29
Michelle Weinberg was the lawyer from the legal adviser's office at State who was picked to accompany Ben. When the black State Department limo pulled up in front of his house, she climbed out and introduced herself to him at the curb. She was tall, with lots of leg. For a woman to get a job in that office, she must have lots of smarts as well, he guessed. She wore brown-framed glasses and a very proper charcoal-gray suit.
As they climbed into the car, Ben eyed her suspiciously, wondering if the State Department had its own agenda in this morass. The limo started moving.
"How long have you been with State?" he asked, probing.
"Oh, about eight years. Ever since a D.C. circuit clerkship."
"And did someone tell you what your role is today?"
"Not exactly."
"Well, it's to be a potted plant. Can you handle that?"
Without responding, Michelle reached into the briefcase resting on her lap. While she searched for something, Ben looked at her legs, which were mostly exposed, as her skirt had ridden up high on her thighs. Finally, she found a piece of paper and handed it to him. Then she promptly pulled down her skirt. He was embarrassed that he had been so obvious.
The paper contained a bio of the Chinese ambassador she had prepared.
Ben started to read it. "Hey, this is great," he said.
"And here I thought you only wanted a potted plant."
"Touché."
"You'll note that he spent four years in England at Cambridge."
"Studying physics, no less. He must be one smart dude."
"He's a champion bridge player, too. A very pragmatic man. And he's an expert judge of people. So don't sell him short. Also, be careful when you try to guess what he's thinking from his facial expressions. He's enigmatic and difficult to read."
"Gotcha."
"One other thing. Don't interrupt him when he's speaking. In China, it's polite to let each person complete his thoughts. You think about what he said. Then you respond. Here, we're continually interrupting everybody."
"You know these people?"
"I'm not sure what you mean by 'know these people,' " she said sharply. "I studied Chinese at Yale. I spent two years in China. My language skills are adequate. But none of that is enough for me to believe that I truly understand one of the most complex societies in the world."
The limo reached Connecticut Avenue and turned right, heading south.
Chastened by her advice, Ben said more humbly, "What else should I do to make a good impression?"
"Accept his offer of coffee or tea even if you don't want it. And generally try to be a mensch, if you know what that means, instead of a mad dog prosecutor, which I suspect you are."
There was that term again that Senator Young had used. It rankled Ben, but he decided to grin and bear it. "I get the picture."
Ben was gaining respect for the woman, and he added, "Do you know what this interview is all about?" he asked her.
"The attorney general briefed me himself."
"What do you think?"
"What do I think about what?"
"Am I wasting my time?"
"You mean, did Ambassador Liu arrange for the murder of the secretary of state?"
Ben nodded.
"On his own, he would never have done that. It's not his style. But it's reasonable to assume that Ambassador Liu wasn't on a frolic of his own. Some other Chinese officials had to be involved."
"Why can we assume that?"
"He needed help from the Chinese embassy in London to arrange the video at Claridge's."
That was a reasonable assumption. "So where's that leave us?" he asked.
"Some of the leadership in Beijing play a rough game. Still, I would be very surprised if they gave an order to assassinate our secretary of state. They might have thought about it. My guess is that they decided the risks outweighed the benefits. So they tried this elaborate blackmail scheme. But that's just a guess on my part. You can form your own conclusion from the interview."
"If he's so hard to read, how am I going to reach any conclusion?"
She smiled. "Attorney General Hawthorne said you were a crack trial lawyer. You must have cross-examined difficult witnesses in your brilliant career at the U.S. Attorney's office. Now that it's showtime, don't get stage fright on me, Clarence Darrow."
She was reminding him of someone else he knew—before she decided she liked him again. "Do you always put people down like this?"
"Only when they tell me to sit in the corner and keep my mouth shut."
"I never..."
She glared at him. "Save that potted-plant line for some of your dull-witted male colleagues. Maybe they'll take it better."
"Hey, you don't have to get so upset."
She responded by crossing her arms in front of her chest and staring out of the side window.
Feeling like a jerk, Ben looked down at the floor of the car. He couldn't remember anyone ever putting him down as fast and effectively. But he could hardly blame her.
* * *
The Chinese embassy occupies what was formerly the Windsor Hotel on Connecticut Avenue just above downtown Washington. When the great breakthrough in diplomatic relations came during Nixon's presidency, there was a lot of speculation about how large a presence Beijing would have in Washington. That ended with the announcement that they had bought an eight-story building that could comfortably house a staff in the hundreds. In that era of the Sino Soviet rivalry, two facts were readily observed: The Chinese embassy not only dwarfed its Sixteenth Street Soviet counterpart in size, but it occupied much higher ground.
Ben remembered that bit of Washington trivia as the limo pulled up in front of the embassy. Two members of the American Executive Protective Service eyed Ben and Michelle carefully and asked for IDs. The next security check was just inside, where two plainclothes members of the embassy staff checked IDs again and passed them through a metal detector. When the elevator doors opened on the eighth floor, a secretary met them and led the way down a long corridor to the ambassador's spacious corner office.
Ambassador Liu was sitting behind a heavily polished teak desk entirely devoid of papers. He stood up, came forward, and greeted Michelle warmly in Chinese. She introduced Ben to the Chinese ambassador and to the only other occupant of the room, whom she identified to Ben as the chief legal officer of the embassy. Ben didn't catch the man's name, but Michelle was obviously on good terms with him.
Coffee and tea were graciously offered on a lacquered tray in the most beautiful floral cups Ben had ever seen. He was ready to decline; then he remembered what Michelle had said in the car. He took a cup of coffee, thanking the ambassador for his hospitality. He waited for Ambassador Liu to settle down behind his desk. Ben began speaking slowly. "Mr. Ambassador, I sincerely appreciate your willingness to meet with us voluntarily."
"Let's be clear," Liu replied in careful, precise English tinged with a British accent, "my government has instructed me to do everything possible to cooperate in the unfortunate death of Mr. Winthrop. I intend to do that."
To put the ambassador on the defensive right off the bat, Ben unsnapped his briefcase, pulled out the audio machine, and played Ann's tape from Liu's visit to Winthrop's house. As the sprockets turned and the recording filled the room, Ben picked up a yellow legal pad and pencil. He studied Liu's face carefully. There was no reaction. Absolutely none at all.
When the tape ended, Liu looked at Ben. "That's an accurate recording of my conversation with Mr. Winthrop. But now I have something for you."
He pointed to his legal aide, who handed Ben a manila envelope. "It's the video recording from Claridge's Hotel mentioned in your tape. Mr. Winthrop told me that he destroyed the one I gave him. In the spirit of cooperation, I wanted you to have it. Of course, we haven't given it to anyone else."
To Ben, the implication was clear. Winthrop might be dead, but he had still been the President's close friend. Liu no doubt had other copies of the video. Even now its release would be embarrassing to the occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
"How do you know Winthrop destroyed the other tape?" Ben asked.
"We spoke by telephone the day after we met at his house. I called him at his office."
"What did he say?"
"He told me that he had thrown the video into the Potomac River."
"But you didn't believe him."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you sent a thug around to Winthrop's house to steal back the tape." Ben locked him in a stare. "And you sent him back a second time to get any cop
ies Mrs. Winthrop had made."
"That's preposterous."
The blatant lie infuriated Ben. It took all of his self-control to keep himself in check. "Is it?" he replied coldly.
"It is."
Ben reached into his briefcase and pulled out Mark Bonner's photographs, showing the video being delivered to the Chinese embassy. Remembering what Michelle had said about Liu being a champion bridge player, Ben said, "You might call this the ace of trump."
Liu gave Ben a wry smile, then glanced at the photos quickly without comment and handed them to his legal aide. Ben had been hoping that the photographs would fluster Liu, but he wasn't the least bit surprised. Someone must have tipped him off.
Ben could feel himself tightening with anger. This was the last time anybody was getting confidential information from him. Every time he disclosed information, he got screwed.
"You may not know this, Mr. Liu," he said in a voice heavy with sarcasm, "but in this country we take human rights seriously. Breaking and entering is a crime."
"So is the hiring of prostitutes. I imagine Mr. Winthrop must not have been aware of that fact."
Ben ignored this. "How did you get to Peg Barton?"
"Through contacts we have in London. She services the diplomatic community. She is known to most embassies there. Her girls talk. Once we became aware of' Mr. Winthrop's outside interests, she was a likely candidate."
"How did you become aware of what you just called Mr. Winthrop's outside interests?"
Liu cracked a tiny smile. "Really, Mr. Hartwell, that fact was well known to every embassy in Washington. His sexual needs frequently overcame his discretion."
"How long have you known Alexandra Hart?"
Liu's forehead wrinkled. "I'm sorry. I don't recognize the name."
"Don't play games with me."
Michelle moved to the edge of her chair.
"It's not a game, Mr. Hartwell. I've never heard of that woman."
"Then why did you arrange to have me attacked in London?"
"I had no idea you were attacked."
Ben stood up suddenly, took off his jacket, and pulled up his shirt. His body was filled with black-and-blue marks. Michelle started to get up as well, then thought better of it, and stayed seated. She was clearly taken aback by the condition of Ben's chest and stomach.