Razing Beijing: A Thriller (60 page)

Ralph Perry eyed the rock as if it were pestilence. “What
are you hoping to prove?”

Stuart was silent for some time. “I’m guessing that when a
teleportation process sections through an object, the remaining surface will
display a unique signature. Thack, what would you say?”

“Well, I’d expect to see granular boundaries somewhat
pristine, not traumatized compared to, say, cutting with a razor blade, or even
a typical laser beam, which generates heat.”

“I’ll speculate that if we zap away half of these same
specimens,” Stuart said, “and then compare the new sections to the Baltimore
specimens under high-magnification, we might find them to be similar. It’s a
long shot, Ralph, I know that. But what the hell? I don’t see what we’ve got to
lose.”

Perry asked, “You’ve suspected something about this e-mail
message for some time?”

“I tried to call you. They said you were out playing golf.”

“I was out with a customer, and I carry this thing called a
cell phone. Sol Bernstein agreed to meet you on the presumption of a hunch. That’s
what you told him?”

“Ralph, I do not understand your focus here. Think about
this. The volume of material removed from that field was impressive—according
to Bernstein, in the blink of an eye. He had someone map out the dimensions
using a laser transit and compare them to that company logo. Guess what? The
proportions are identical within tenths of an inch—we’re talking about a
gigantic
hole
in the ground.”

Emily could see as well as Stuart that nobody was moved. She
reached to examine the piece of rock on the table. “May I?”

“Sure,” Stuart said. “It’s not just the similarity of the
pattern to the e-mail image. You should’ve seen what the gravel at the bottom
of the hole looked like. Whatever method was used to remove the material left
the exposed surfaces of residual pieces smoothly cut and even to one another. I
mean, when I first walked up to the edge of this thing, I thought the base of
the hole looked like a huge slab of polished marble. Then I realized that the
dark veins were gaps between individual pieces of rock.” He shook his head.

Thackeray asked, “How much material did you say was
missing?”

Stuart slid his notepad across the table.

Thackeray glanced at Stuart’s calculations. “No way,”
Thackeray chortled. “Get real, Stu. No way.”

“You told me yourself that scaling this process is limited
only by available power.”

Thackeray shook his head, dismissing the possibility.

It was clear to Emily that Stuart was battling a state of
denial. The tension in the room seemed only to increase whenever he spoke.

Stuart said to Perry, “I understand you found evidence that
somebody was pilfering software. Maybe we’ve stumbled upon what they—”

“We think we
might
have found evidence,” Perry
corrected him.

Reedy added, “The FBI agrees that what we found never
really amounted to evidence.”

Stuart said to Perry, “Yet you saw fit to call this
meeting.”

Perry turned toward Lewis. “What’s our liability regarding
theft of intellectual property?”

“CLI is contractually obligated to have reasonable
safeguards in place to prevent it, of course,” Lewis replied. “What’s our
liability? I think all we did was strip a boilerplate defense contractor
clause. I’d have to go back and check.”

Emily studied the rock in her hand. One side was flat and
very smooth as if polished. The force to exhume such a large amount of material
from the earth had been tremendous—yet precise enough to smoothly sever pebbles
without moving them.

Stuart was looking at her with a quizzical smile. “You get
it, don’t you?”

“I’m getting it, too,” Perry said. “It’s utter bullshit. You’re
seriously building the case that somebody constructed a device like ours and
used it to transport that material away?”

“How would you explain it?”

“I wouldn’t attempt to. First of all, you’d have to believe
somebody out there is years ahead of our effort. That’s preposterous for a lot
of reasons, not least of which is that same somebody has deep enough pockets
and
is able to dedicate the resources while keeping it all secret.”

Thackeray looked crestfallen. “It would have to be one of
our partners.”

Perry looked ready to rip Thackeray’s head off. “We just
agreed we haven’t got a case of stolen intellectual property. Let’s not start
blaming the partners.”

Thackeray asked Stuart, “Who do you think sent you the
e-mail?”

“I have no idea.” Stuart briefly caught Emily’s eye.

Perry let out a deep breath. “We’re supposed to be the ones
out front with this technology. Frankly, I’m concerned it’ll appear that we’re
not reliable custodians of
their
technology—the taxpayers’ stolen
technology. Who knows how DOE or Congress are likely to respond.”

Joanne Lewis agreed. “If I were controlling the money, I
would demand to know who was out front. You should hold off doing anything
until after the review. If Stu’s right, there may be opportunity for patent
infringement litigation.” Lewis shrugged. “Something to think about.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” Perry dismissed.

Joanne glanced at Stuart. Several moments passed. She said
to Perry, “If we find ourselves venturing down that path, the more proof we
have of an infringement, the better. Maybe you should consider running the
test.”

Perry grimaced. He looked hard first at Joanne, then
Stuart, then back at Joanne.

“Does it concern anyone that whoever sent that message
wanted me, or us, to suspect what might really have happened up in Baltimore?”
Stuart asked. “Would they send that message to me without knowing what it is we
work on here?”

“Why?” Reedy asked.

“I don’t know why!”

Stuart’s observation had a numbing affect around the table,
as if they suddenly grasped his reasoning but stubbornly refused to admit it.

“Maybe we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Stuart observed. “Ralph,
I think we ought to just run the test.”

“How did they do it, from an airplane?” Thackeray’s jaw
dropped. “Not a satellite.”

Perry stood up from his chair in a huff and started pacing
around. When finally he spoke, it was with his calm projection of control. “It’s
not only absurd, but premature to think we might’ve been outgunned. We need to
remain quiet about this. That goes for all of us.” Perry cast Emily an
uncomfortable glance.

“What about the test?” Stuart pressed.

Perry snapped to the verge of losing it. “How does a
test
advance our cause? As far as I can tell it can only muck things up more than
they are.” He leveled his finger at Stuart’s chest. “You’ve got enough to worry
about.
No test.
”

Stuart’s face reddened. “Could you and I have a minute
alone?”

“THIS ISN’T LIKE YOU,”
Perry
said evenly as they entered his office. “If I didn’t know better, I’d accuse
you of trying to sabotage the whole effort.”

“All I suggested we do is quietly piggy-back this on the
next scheduled test. You’re the one who called the meeting and made a federal
case out of it. And if you think this program needs me to sabotage it, your
head’s cranked further up your ass than I thought.”

“You lack vision, Stu. You always did.”

“Maybe you’re right. I can’t envision hanging people’s
livelihoods on the whims of politicians, especially clowns like Norman Milner.”

“Well, you’ve got the luxury of your uncharitable opinions.
At least one of us has to keep a grip on reality. This weekend I have the
pleasure of the senator being my host. Our livelihoods depend on such people,
whether you like it or not.”

THE MYSTERIOUS ENVELOPE
appeared
inside his office, as had the one before it, with no postmark or return
address—despite a door lock change, the senator noted. On front was only the
senator’s name, the back flap embossed with a wax seal. That morning he had
noticed the envelope’s corner extending from beneath the blotter on his
desktop, the unnerving fact being that at the time his chief of staff and
senior aid were in his office to discuss the daily agenda. Luckily, he had been
able to reach for the pad by his phone and discreetly brush the corner with his
fingertips to completely conceal it.

His staff all gone for the day, and the cleaning crew yet
to arrive, Senator Norman Milner locked the door to his office. He sat down at
his desk and rested his face in his hands for several moments. Finally
mustering the will, he slid the heavyweight cream-colored envelope out from
beneath the blotter. He broke open the seal and slid out the photographs.

Although the faces had been airbrushed away, the threat was
no less apparent. Like the photographs before them, these revealed a different
instant of the same event but always the unmistakable birthmark on the side of
his hip. There was the implicit reminder that, even if it may in fact be legal
between consenting adults, Maryland law prohibited sodomy between an adult and
a twelve year-old boy. The political destruction alone was a certainty, which
the photographer who had forever captured the acts certainly knew.

Milner imagined that he was not unlike most public servants
in that he had begun his career with the best of intentions. He had seen what
lesser though comparable transgressions had done to his colleagues. This
particular indiscretion had occurred eighteen years ago, in the exuberant aftermath
of his re-election—Representative Milner’s very first. He might have been only
a congressman, but oh how he had
throbbed
with the resounding
affirmation, the victory better than even the first.
Representative
Milner was another man, young and not yet seasoned by the gristmill of public
service, vulnerable to the indulgences of youth and private sector greed.
That’s
all it was—a youthful indulgence
. And was it really fair to be held to
account for the private, personal acts of an early career?

Milner knew that the note of instructions would follow in a
day or two.

Wednesday, July 1

MCBURNEY LED STUART AND
EMILY
down several long corridors and across a vacant office expanse,
where proof of a once large employment now existed only in worn carpeting that
defined the location of absent cubicles. They climbed a short rise of steps to
the conference room where the murmur of conversation ceased. Perfunctory
introductions were shared and Stuart learned that Emily was already acquainted
with one young woman. They followed McBurney’s lead and sat down in the
remaining empty chairs.

“Before we get into our theories about your e-mails,”
McBurney began, “we’d like to know your initial reactions to them.” His
statement was met with a few disconcerted frowns, giving rise to the impression
not all in the room were inclined to believe whatever was about to be said.

“I thought they were the work of a crackpot,” Stuart
admitted.

McBurney pondered Stuart’s reply. “Would you explain what
you mean?”

“Because the context of the attached figure made no sense
at all. My first reaction was to delete it, so that’s what I did. The next day,
I discovered the same two messages on my computer at work. That I ever opened
them was purely serendipitous.”

The CIA officer cast his eyes over the dozen analysts in
the room. “So you thought it was some sort of a prank,” McBurney rephrased
Stuart’s assessment. The attention turned to one of three women in the room. “Miss
Chang?”

“I thought the Chinese origin was clear,” Emily replied. “What
caught my attention were some of the lines in the header. They appeared to
indicate black-market Internet access that we as students frequently used.”

“You went to Qinghua, isn’t that right?”

“And I took classes at Beijing University.”

McBurney exchanged knowing looks with one or two of the
analysts. “Would you say this black-market Internet resource is common
knowledge?”

Emily puckered her lips and thought for a moment. “It was
not something that was openly discussed. You never knew for certain which students
were State Security informants, but everyone knew getting around ministry
Internet restrictions was a fertile field of endeavor. And quite fun, to be
honest. Except for those who were caught.”

Stuart, along with everyone, knew of the well publicized Chinese
restrictions on Internet use. “I’ve been to Beijing numerous times but never
Beijing University,” he said. “If I met with anyone representing these schools
I wasn’t aware of it, if that’s who you think sent these.”

“Did your colleagues at CLI express an opinion?” McBurney
asked him.

“They think I’m a crackpot.”

“Well, we do think we know who sent you the message. Juarez?”
He motioned to someone by the door, the lights were dimmed, and an overhead
projector came to life.

Juarez adjusted his wire-rim glasses and slid the first of
his ‘overhead images’ into place, showing an urban building complex with dots
of pedestrians and streets variously populated with automobiles. The
intervening areas between buildings were dull brown, some showing patches of water
and sidewalks. Detail was fine enough that Stuart could discern a woman riding
a bicycle, the glistening of tiny handlebars protruding in front of her arms.

“Miss Chang turns out to be correct,” Juarez said. “These
buildings comprise the eastern quad of Beijing University.”

Emily gazed at the screen. “I recognize this place.”

“This row of rooftops over here is the old Walking Tractor
factory”—Juarez pointed with a pencil to a building on the slide, then he laid
the pencil down over what appeared to be a paved road—“which separates the
campus along North Xinjuiekou Street. This building, or possibly this one, is
the likely origin of the e-mail Mr. Stuart received.”