Razing Beijing: A Thriller (26 page)

McBurney referred Rotger to the other five photographs. Produced
by the National Reconnaissance Office, the images showed aerial views of a
building magnified such that the rectangular roof filled most of the frame. Focus
and overall quality were excellent. Each had also been cropped, labeled, and
arranged chronologically, in precisely the same orientation, so as to contrast
the rooftop’s accumulation of antennae, tracking radar, satellite dishes,
eventually a profusion of telecommunications gear which had appeared over time.

McBurney explained. “This first one was taken a year and a
half ago. I had it pulled from the archive after an analyst drew our attention
to the orientation of the satellite dishes in these recent views. These two
large dishes here, and here, were both erected sometime within the past year.”

Rotger picked up the photo and compared it to the more
recent shots.

“The main thing here is that virtually all of these other
dishes are fixed at azimuths corresponding to known satellites in geostationary
orbits.”

“We know that for certain?”

“Yes. I didn’t have all the photos pulled. A close
examination over time reveals that the appearance of several of these older
dishes corresponds with established communications, even all the way back to
when the PRC didn’t give a damn about coordinating their satellite orbits with
other countries. Our methodology can’t be too far off.”

“These two more recent dishes move, but judging by their
compass direction...don’t they point toward something in equatorial orbit?”

McBurney slapped his hand on the desk. “By God, you’ll make
it as an analyst after all!”

Rotger apparently failed to find any humor in that.

McBurney said, “They appeared on the rooftop a few weeks
before the launch of what the Chinese claim was a military communications
satellite. They were aimed at a new azimuth on the day that the Chinese
reported they’d lost their satellite.”

“So maybe these dishes were tracking the satellite, and
they moved them to try and recover it after it was lost.”

McBurney shook his head. “They continue to move, and with
too much periodicity for some type of search. We know what they claim. I don’t
think it was lost.”

Rotger seemed intrigued in spite of himself. “As for this weapons
lab, there’s no record of scientific or engineering personnel frequenting the
premises.”

“You said they won’t let you near it.”

“Granted. But we need some other source. Just because they
erect satellite dishes—”

“We never got to debrief the defecting physicist. I’ll
admit that no one in D.C. seems to give a shit about what I have to say about
it, either.”

Rotger lowered his gaze to the photographs.

“What it calls for is more aggressive intelligence
gathering,” McBurney asserted. “It’s critical that we uncover their espionage
ring in the States. Unfortunately, the FBI is preoccupied with Islamic
terrorism. I think to understand what’s going on inside that building, and inside
Xichang where they launch, we need to know what technology they’re after. It
may all be related.”

Rotger did not appear eager.

McBurney let out a deep breath. “What about using SIREN? Have
we reestablished—”

“SIREN was pronounced dead.”

“Dead? What are you talking about?”

Rotger frowned. “Someone should’ve sent you a cable. Yes, she
died in her hospital bed. Some sort of brain tumor.”

PAUL DEVINN STOOD
at
the end of the dock and waved off the pilot of the amphibious Cessna. The plane
taxied for several minutes toward the other side of the lake, and then steadily
gained speed as it skimmed across the surface rippled by its own wake. The
small charter leaped into the crisp afternoon sky and banked onto a reciprocal
heading for Riverton, ninety-four miles away on the western bank of Lake
Winnipeg. Devinn watched the plane disappear. The nearest outpost was a rugged
twenty-three and three-tenths miles northeast. With luck, and if the weather
continued its pattern of predictability, the pilot was the last person he would
see for a number of weeks. Whatever distractions he might choose to occupy
himself until then, his plans did not include much in the way of fishing.

He hoisted his backpack and duffel bag to his shoulders for
his first of several trips lugging supplies to the cabin. The dock had
deteriorated in recent years, laced with rotting timbers, the whole thing
creaking and swaying precariously as he walked toward the rocky out-crop of
shore.

He reached solid ground and set down his backpack and bag. The
ancient log cabin was already fifty years old when his uncle had bought it in
the 1980’s for fishing, although years had passed since either his uncle or
mother last visited the place. Roots from a large spruce over the years had shifted
the left front corner of the porch upward several feet, tearing the screen and
rendering inhabitants vulnerable to gargantuan flies that invaded the lake in
the fall.

Devinn made a quick walk-around. No broken windows; the
place looked undisturbed. He removed a set of keys from inside his blue jeans
and unlocked the padlock on the thick, rough-hewn door. It swung open easily
with a metallic squeal.

Swatting back cobwebs with an old walking stick, he entered
the kitchen. He wasted no time in opening the blinds to the sunlight; the cabin
was without electricity. At least the water hand-pumped at the sink would be
cool and clean. On his last trip he had made certain to stock plenty of
stabilized gasoline, kerosene and various other nonperishable goods. The wood
stove would quickly warm the damp, morning chill that crept in overnight from
the perpetual cold of the lake.

Three more trips completed the task of lugging supplies off
the dock and into the cabin. The first thing he removed from his pack was a
portable short-wave receiver. He tuned in the transcribed weather briefing for
that region of Manitoba and began stocking the cupboards and pantry with vacuum
packed goods and perishables. He had more than enough supplies to subsist
comfortably for the duration of his leave from Thanatechnology. There would be
no need to supplement his meals with fish from the lake.

He rubbed away the grime from the window over the sink with
the palm of his hand, and gazed out over the water. It’s true, he realized,
that the more things change the more they stay the same—thirty years on, his
early disdain for fishing had seeded his enlightened hatred for the rapacious
gluttony of fishermen and all who take from the wild.

His solitary visits here invariably touched off memories,
good and bad, of times with family and friends. During visits in his youth, his
father, and later his uncle, would drag him onto the lake fishing until Mother
slept off her hangover. As he got older his parents allowed him to explore far
reaches of the lake, thus freeing themselves to indulge their uninterrupted
bouts of drinking and fighting. September always arrived with the dreaded ride
home in time for boarding school, where his developer father’s notorious
wealth, his greasing of political palms and mechanized rape of the earth was a favorite
topic of bullying and derision. Young Devinn later filled the vacuum of his
absent father with the company of his friend Franklin Sweeney. Several years
his senior and then a Wisconsin doctoral candidate, Frank would frequently join
him here for lively debate and to smoke a little weed. Together they laid the
intellectual foundation for the career that he was now playing out.

He decided the time had come to step outside and head for
the small fishing dock, located on the other shore of the property. He flinched
at the sound of the door slamming shut behind him. Walking this path as a kid,
he had the habit of counting the one-hundred and eighty-seven paces to the
lake. Grasping for focus, he thought back to his brief flirtation with alerting
either his mother or Frank of his impending disappearance. He’d made the right
decision, of course. His Uncle Ted had informed him that his mother was suffering
an acute alcohol-related psychosis. Frank, meanwhile, was imprisoned, his
mentor and confidante largely cut off from current events, and with whom Devinn
saw no reason to rush into contact.

Rounding the stand of pine trees, the fishing dock on the
edge of the lake came into view. The water appeared eerily calm, its
mirror-like surface reflecting the sun—Devinn felt his feet become heavy and slow.
Lashed upside down on the dock, its old aluminum hull battered by rocks, the
Grumman rowboat was just as he’d left it. The breath he let out was ragged and
long. It occurred to him now that maybe he had chosen the wrong plan to stage
his disappearance. Inching forward, his legs unsteady, he was surprised and
disgusted by the bile rising in his throat.

Monday, May 25

Richmond, Virginia

AT 6:53 IN THE MORNING,
Robert Stuart eased his pick-up truck into an unmarked parking space near the
main entrance to Coherent Light Incorporated. He allowed himself a moment of gratification.
Expansion of CLI’s medical and digital communications groups during Stuart’s
forty-one month hiatus had required two new buildings in order to house the
additional engineers, systems analysts, and software consultants.

In addition to the ever-expanding garden of satellite gear
on its rooftop, Building ‘A’ had undergone dramatic changes to its interior. The
first floor served as a reception area and provided administrative offices for
marketing and finance. The second floor loading dock in the rear of the
building was where the company’s previous owners had once dreamed they would
ship their groundbreaking products. Today, laser devices marketed to serve a
diverse array of cosmetic, optical, and neurological surgical uses were crated
and shipped alongside fiber optic communications switches. Engineering,
customer service, vendor project, and technical representatives occupied the
third and fourth floors. Just under four hundred people occupied Building A. The
number working within the three subterranean-levels was classified and, as of
this morning, unknown even to Stuart.

And people say America can’t make things any more
,
Stuart thought proudly as he passed his badge through the security cipher; the
computer accepted the scan, he was happy to see. He walked through the marbled
foyer to a set of glass doors and down the hallway toward Ralph Perry’s office.
Ten feet from the cherry-paneled door to the executive suite, Stuart heard the
muffled pounding of fist striking desktop and Perry’s angry growl—Stuart
smiled. His partner was already in.

Ralph Perry sat stiffly upright as Stuart pushed open the
door, his face flush red, neck bulging over his collar. “And Stuart’s back,”
Perry announced into the phone. “That’s good? I guess if you like having your
throat ripped out. You guys just get back to work, I’m sure Stuart’s going to
want to hear what the hell happened last night.” Perry slammed down the phone
and smiled. “Boy, am I glad to see you!”

Stuart was fairly certain that he knew who Perry had burned
on the other end of the line.

Perry rose and shut the door to his office.

Stuart sat and clasped his hands across his knee. The
peculiar, pyramid-shaped paperweight on Perry’s desk caught his eye. The clear
solid appeared to contain a miniature
bonsai
tree. He waited for Perry
to return to his chair. “All right, let’s have it,” Stuart said.

Perry sat back with his hands behind his head and stared contemplatively
out the window. The morning had turned solidly overcast and in the pastel gray
light, Stuart thought his friend already looked tired enough to head home for
the day. Perry asked, “You remember Senator Wendell, from Vermont? Played a big
role getting the climate bill passed.”

“How could I forget. The Independent Party guy.” Stuart
frowned. “Isn’t he—”

“Heart attack last spring. Crotchety old bastard, but you
know, I miss him.” A fleeting smile passed over Perry’s face. “Or, I should say
I miss knowing he’s looking out for us. Senator Milner from Maryland took over
his chair on the finance committee.” Perry pronounced the name as if he had
taken a sip of sour beer. He cast Stuart a sideways glance. “Wendell actually
stopped in last year to pay us a visit.”

Stuart recalled Cole’s tendency to keep political
machinations to himself. “I think some special committee of his had a hand in coaxing
Thanatech to resurrect their fuel-efficient propfan.”

“Coaxing? You mean with the green initiative funding.”

“That, and certain other agreements that Cole was vague
about.”

“Like maybe what?”

“I have no idea. I do know the first go-round with the
propfan was during the energy crisis in the early ‘80’s. Remember the oil
prices plummeted? Well, I guess the engine guys got clobbered when their
development costs had to be written off.” For months now, Perry had teased him
with only dribs and drabs to describe their own company’s secret government
program. “So, what’s fuel efficiency got in common with this mystery contraption
downstairs?”

“Hah! Everything in the world! I suppose it all began with
a couple of tree-hugging physicists from Stanford. They planted a bug in
Wendell’s ear, oh, six years ago when his climate committee was formed. They
proposed very rationally that in addition to the dozens of initiatives like
your propfan and renewable energy sources and so forth, the committee should
define a longer term strategy. They argued that there were green-enabling
technologies which in the not-too-distant future could revolutionize the way
our economy worked. Ultra-high speed computer processing in the tens of
trillions of bits per second range, that sort of thing.”