The bartender appeared with two tumblers of ice water and
returned to the bar without requesting their orders.
“You work, then, for the CIA?”
“No. You might say I’m doing them a favor.”
Deng nodded slowly. “What have you to discuss with me?”
“First, a small group of technicians has observed a rather
novel phenomenon.” Stuart was careful to fix his eyes on Deng’s and to keep his
voice low. “A stream of lazed photons and an encrypted transmission burst were
detected originating in the upper ionosphere.” This evidence he overstated a
bit, intending to sidestep debate similar to the ongoing one with McBurney. “This
occurred at the time of the destruction of the New York City bridge.”
Deng appeared to be shocked, but the moment passed. “What you
allege is preposterous.” He turned to gaze out through the smoke-colored glass
at the lights of Tokyo. Stuart saw a sober recognition gradually take hold. “Of
course, your government will respond,” Deng said.
Wow...
Stuart grasped the magnitude of what these
words revealed. “I don’t think my government fully accepts that your weapon
even exists.”
“Then...there is uncertainty in the reconnaissance
measurements?”
“Depends on who you talk to.”
Deng appeared to be confused.
“Actually, it wasn’t my government who conducted the
measurements.”
Deng looked at him with dawning appreciation. “Your own
engineering staff.”
“Ironically enough, one of them is a gifted young Chinese
woman. More on her later. But we do have access to commercial satellite
communication gear. I believe they’re still in the process of trying to decrypt
and verify the data.”
“That they will find difficult,” Deng pointed out with a
chuckle. “But if your people are correct, this is all the more reason you must
convince your government our weapon exists. After more destruction occurs, your
leaders are likely to be only that much more inflamed once they learn of the
truth.”
More
destruction? Stuart found the admonition
disturbing. Deng seemed surprised on one hand that their weapon might be
responsible, yet he spoke of more attacks. “We believe your government stole
our technology to make your weapon, and that they had help from inside our company
in carrying out this espionage. Might I ask who in my organization is
responsible for stealing our technology?”
“I do not know specific identities. Presumably someone
of”—Deng shrugged—“influence, I suppose.”
“But you don’t know who? Frankly, I find that difficult to
believe.”
Deng narrowed his eyes. “I see where this might represent
to a capitalist something of an enigma. Why exactly are you here? Is it to vent
your indignation that I do not share your esoteric views on property rights? To
seek my apology for setting out to provide my country with superiority over the
United States? A man such as you understands. Your organization merely provided
the means.”
“You make our possession of that means sound like some sort
of an accident.”
“No, a coincidence, for which your institutions are
responsible. The Anglo-Soviet Cold War reinforced the notion that the superior
technological adversary always prevails, as surely as body armor relegated
obsolescence to the long bow. In fact, this is what motivates us.”
“Technology?”
“History.”
Stuart studied the confident eyes of the man staring back
at him. “Apparently, that is not all that motivates you, is it?”
How does a
man become a traitor?
Deng raised the dark eyebrows that dominated his forehead. He
seemed frustrated for lack of the desired words, or perhaps, Stuart thought, he
was simply trying to gage the sensibilities of the foreigner seated before him.
“You might be aware that certain men are poised to succeed China’s current
leadership. I have come to the conclusion that these cadres are not true
leaders. In recent months, I have come to believe that should these...these
rogue
elements, that should these
rogues
succeed they will put our technology
to work in the interest of preserving their various monopolies—six decades
after Liberation, our crony system is still without your Madisonian checks and
balances. Their techniques are a throwback to Stalinism, an illegitimate and
discredited ideology, so they whip up nationalist fervor in order to deify
themselves. This is not what so many of us labored all of our lives for.” Deng
leaned forward against the edge of the table and lowered his voice. “You must
develop a comparable weapon to balance the military equation. You, Stuart, were
meant to understand this from my message.”
Stuart recalled the obtuse reference to cubs and lions.
“I must also warn you that you are going to be thwarted in
that effort.”
“Thwarted?”
“I don’t know when, or in what form it will take, but since
China has a weapon of her own, efforts are underway to prevent the U.S. from
developing one.”
Stuart sensed by his uncertainty that the man might be
spinning conspiracy theories. On the other hand, could this somehow explain
Perry’s unexpected rumble with Congress now underway? How can anyone go about
scrutinizing the true motivations of politicians and their purse strings? “I
don’t know what I can do with that information. But since we’ve not built one
of our own, I do have a proposal that I’d like to discuss...”
“YOU CAN’T HEAR ANYTHING?”
McBurney asked. The van was parked only a block from the Capitol Tokyu.
Greg Nomura pressed his hands to the headphones and
narrowed his eyes. “The piano...I don’t hear any voices at all. Hey, we tested
the gear. I heard you guys fine up in the room.”
McBurney ran his hands through his hair. “Shit...
that
son-of-a-bitch!”
“Pedersen?”
“He’s a pain in the ass, just...all right, what about our
other assets?”
Nomura shrugged. “Everyone’s checked in. Sorensen in the
lobby says a couple of our friends there seem to be having a casual chat. Our
Japanese hosts have their two men in the bar, two others in position in the
guest areas. Ross is walking back from her visit to the shrine—I heard her
mumble us a prayer.”
“That’s real funny.”
“Relax, Sam. We’re cool.”
“Piss on cool.” McBurney looked at his watch—twelve
minutes since leaving Stuart at the bar. “Mr. Pedersen better prove to have a
very good fucking memory.”
CHEUNG XU OF STATE
SECURITY
for the People’s Republic of China stood alone in the hallway
and studied the small rectangle of brass on a copper chain dangling from the
commissioner’s doorknob. Conversing in fluent English was not among the
operative’s talents, yet like many educated Chinese, he could read it well
enough. He had tried to phone and alert the cadre to an urgent change of plans,
that he prepare himself to check out of the hotel first thing in the morning. Comrade
Deng had not answered and now the brass ‘do not disturb’ sign increased his
suspicion that something was wrong.
The intelligence officer rapped twice and placed his ear
close to the door. Had the elder cadre taken ill? Both the small microphone
hidden inside the handset of the telephone by the bed, and the other beneath
the sofa, suggested the man might have simply fallen asleep watching television.
Perhaps this was the intended illusion.
Cheung’s assistants rounded the corner of the hallway with
a nervous hotel clerk in tow. At Cheung’s urging, the Japanese removed from his
pocket a duplicate of the hotel master key—a plastic card with magnetic strip—and
inserted it into the electronic lock in the commissioner’s door.
“Of course, I don’t actually know the encryption codes,”
Deng replied, as if that should’ve been obvious.
Stuart stared blankly.
“In any case, the authentication key changes according to a
predetermined sequence.” Deng pulled his brow into a frown. “It is a sixty-four
bit key.”
“Then, is there any way you can think of to get this and
the other information to me?”
“Mr. Stuart, you are joking, yes?” Deng chuckled. Then
he saw that Stuart was serious.
ACROSS KOKKAIGIJIDOMAE,
Carolyn Ross turned her back on the hotel, pretending to wait for Price
O’Connell to finish tying his shoelace.
“They’re leaning closely across the table toward each
other, looks like whispering,” she said into the microphone inside the lapel of
her raincoat.
“Alone?” McBurney’s de-scrambled voice crackled into her
ear.
“Two other patrons left a minute ago. That leaves only
Piano and Bar.”
Back in the van, McBurney wondered aloud why the hell
Stuart was taking so long.
STUART STARED AT THE PROUD
man seated across the table. As he had known all along that he would, he
suddenly felt very awkward. “This is a bit difficult, permit me to be
straightforward. The CIA has convinced me that you may be vulnerable to a
powerful member of your government, a man who wields influence over you in a
way and for reasons which we suspect may be unknown to you.”
Deng’s expression revealed total confusion.
“They seem to believe your life, and the lives of your
immediate family, may be in danger.”
“But what could be more obvious? I weighed those risks
before contacting you, and knowingly accepted them.”
Over Deng’s shoulder, Stuart saw the couple seated by the
piano rise from their table. The older man placed his hand behind the woman’s
slender waist, guiding her toward the doorway and out of the lounge. The
bartender threw Stuart a glance.
Stuart removed the slip of paper from inside his coat
jacket. The information on the narrow slip of paper, he knew, had the potential
of interceding in the transition of power belonging to a foreign
government—would Deng see the manipulation, the indignity in that? Stuart had
no qualms about tampering with an unelected dictatorship. But did Deng view
this Cultural Revolution as just some old baggage, dismissed and forgotten?
“For credibility, as it were, they want you to know the
source of their information. This woman’s name was Liu Qun, apparently an
acquaintance of yours—I’m sorry, I understand that she passed away. She claimed
to know the identity of the Red Guard who had a direct hand in the wrongful
deaths of your family during the Cultural Revolution.”
Deng appeared stunned—it was as if Stuart caught a glimpse
into the man’s being. As quickly as it appeared, the pain vanished.
“Does this make any sense?” Stuart asked, seeing clearly it
had.
Deng made no reply.
Stuart kept the note folded in half and handed it over. “Inside,
you’ll find two names. They are the same man.”
Deng stared at the paper in his hand as if debating
whether he was even going to open it.
NAOSHI KIRAZAWA RAISED
the
evening’s first alarm. One of four Public Security Investigation Agency
officers who were part of McBurney’s team, Kirazawa was earning his military
salary that night by making the rounds to service ice machines when two Chinese
secret security rounded the corner for the elevator. They passed without paying
Kirazawa and his tool cart a moment’s notice. The hotel clerk following several
steps behind caught Kirazawa’s eye and gave his head a subtle, firm shake.
“Alert, alert, alert,” Kirazawa whispered moments later
into his microphone, in near perfect English. “The ice box is empty. The ice
box is empty.”
The message was heard inside the van located one block from
the hotel. McBurney and Nomura exchanged looks. McBurney held a microphone to
his lips. “That’s it—roll it up. Say again, roll it up.”
“Mr. Pedersen?” The Japanese bartender addressed him with a
heavy accent. If Deng was confused by the name he didn’t reveal it.
“Yes?”
“The bar is closing early this evening.”
Stuart blinked.
“You must leave”—the bartender raised his
eyebrows—“immediately
.
”
McBurney’s instructions on this had been very specific. For
whatever reason, Chinese security was now converging on their location. It was
imperative that he not be seen with Commissioner Deng.
Deng smiled knowingly. He handed his water tumbler to the
bartender. “In that case, I shall have a scotch on the rocks.”
Stuart left Deng behind and walked briskly out of the
lounge. From the foyer, he saw the Japanese bartender pouring his final
customer a drink. Stuart hurriedly slipped on his shoes and other effects. His
final glimpse of Deng was with hands folded on the table while gazing out at
the Tokyo skyline.
The plan called for walking down the corridor to the
service elevator and riding it up to the rear of the lobby. There, he was to
meet one of McBurney’s staff who would know the route for vacating the building
unseen.
Thinking only to leave quickly, in his nervousness Stuart
reached out and pushed the main elevator button. He realized his mistake
moments later when the doors slid open...
Stuart’s stomach turned. The Chinese man glanced at him
indifferently while brushing past. Stuart stepped onto the elevator and
instinctively directed his gaze down at the controls—he felt the exhilaration
that accompanied escape, certain the stranger hadn’t gotten a good look at him.
But the man stopped rigidly in his tracks. From the corner of his eye Stuart
realized the stranger was looking into the lounge. There was little doubt that
from where the stranger stood he could see the commissioner, engaged in
solitary reflection while nursing his drink. If this was the case, the ruse
hadn’t worked—the man spun on his heels. The doors started to close.