The China Connection

By Brian Cochran

A misplaced dvd reveals the existence of a sophisticated nuclear espionage ring operating on the UCLA Campus and at the federal Los Alamos Laboratories. As the Head of FBI Counter Intelligence comes under suspicion, a penetrated FBI races against time to recover nuclear initiator documentation before it reaches foreign hands.
First a student, then the UCLA security head person and finally an FBI Special Agent are dead or missing.
In the desperate world of international intrigue and sub rosa struggle for survival, two super powers engage in blackmail, bribery, coercion, and cold blooded murder.
A frustrated FBI recruits a young University Professor and a female Beverly Hills private investigator who are sent on the twisted trail of torture, murder and double dealing. They pose as lovers and are surprised when they find passionate love, among the romances exposed along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463425203

Brian Cochran

He is a civil trial attorney admitted to practice in three states and volunteers his time as a temporary judge. His other interests have included having been a Federally licensed explosives dealer traveling extensively in Central, Southeast and Eastern Asia. His current passion is dance, with an interest in Argentine Tango. He is widowed and lives in Los Angeles.

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Contents

Main Characters

Dedication

Foreword

Prologue

PART ONE

THE UCLA CONNECTION

PART TWO

THE LOS ALAMOS CONNECTION

About the Author

Front final (February 1, 2011).pdfFront final (February 1, 2011).pdfFront final (February 1, 2011).pdf

Main Characters

Rick Bow.

An alcoholic drunk abuser in his ’20’s turned stalker. His fascination with socialite Patricia Moran and desire for revenge endangers an FBI investigation.

John Childress.

Chairman Ermitus, UCLA. A patriot who puts pressure on UCLA to hire Dr. Lane Hollister who is searching for a spy among the academics.

Officer Chominsky.

LAPD street cop whose arrest of FBI agent Sheila Wong plunges him into an intelligence conspiracy.

Dusty.

An old Marine and retired FBI special agent operates a rundown, closed motor hotel in New Mexico. Residents check in and never check out.

Michael Fowler.

Straight arrow FBI Supervisor who plays by the book and who grows suspicious of Andrew Proctor when the Head of FBI Counter Intelligence doesn’t follow established investigative procedures.

Mr. Ho.

Known as the Butcher of Xian. A murderous thug who longs for retirement and the comfort of his wife.

Lane Hollister.

A young Cal Tech nuclear physics professor searches for a nuclear spy in UCLA academia.

Tsing Hsu.

An unlucky spy whose inadvertent loss of a DVD bearing secrets leads to his death and an FBI Counter Intelligence investigation.

Wayne Johnston.

A UCLA Maintenance worker. Finding a DVD on campus puts him squarely in the middle of the action.

Silas Jones.

A churlish UCLA Dean who is a pompus ass and suspected of being a foreign agent.

Patricia Moran.

Beverly Hills socialite and the private detective detailed by the FBI to search the top drawer UCLA administrators and faculty for any spies. She masquerades as Professor Hollister’s fiancé.

Andrew Proctor.

Head of FBI Counter Intelligence. Outwardly, a retiring public servant. Engaged in a ruthless war against enemies of America. Suspected of being a spy as well!

Dr. Richmond.

Nickname/code name of a retired FBI agent. A no nonsense patriot who is called upon for black bag operations.

Tom Smathers.

Navy enlisted man who sold his country for a bowl of porridge.

Dave Storm.

Mverick FBI agent who left the Bureau under a cloud and who became a very successful Hollywood private detective.

David Bang Yeo.

Young FBI agent whose zeal leads to his disappearance.

Marie Wilson.

A divorced socialite and Beverly Hills cougar that ends up in the middle of the action because of her sexual appetite.

Henry Wing.

Sophisticated businessman and UCLA booster. Cousin of SueLin Winthrop as well as her lover. He has business ties all over the world; yet he has only one client. A risk taker, he kills repeatedly to keep his secret from the world.

Buzz Winthrop.

UCLA Executive Vice Chancellor. Code Name "Yellow Hair: Participant in a major spy ring.

SueLin Winthrop.

Wife of Buzz Winthrop. A deep sleeper agent who was recruited in elementary school. In a loveless marriage and filled with contempt for her husband.

Sheila Wong.

Young female FBI agent who inadvertently stumbles onto a very important clue.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to U.S. Medal of Honor recipient Lt. Colonel Michael Novosel, to a French physician, Dr. Charles Schepens, M.D., and to a humble Spanish shepherd, Jean Sarochar. May we always remember that bravery, decency and honor express themselves in different forms and are present in all walks of life.

Foreword

Life can be a jigsaw puzzle. In affairs of the heart, there are areas of black, white and sometimes gray. Espionage is infinitely more complex and perplexing. Fact becomes fiction and fiction becomes fact. The intriguing question: where does fact leave off and fictions begin?

Prologue

The two guards at the entrance of the snowbound New Hampshire estate peered through the sleet-glazed windshield of the limousine and then waved the occupant and his driver onward toward the solitary house with the one-man guard shack in front. In the distance, another Secret Service agent could be seen walking a fence line, bundled against the chilling cold, an earpiece in his right ear.

An old servant greeted the guest and took his heavy overcoat.

He’s in the library, Mr. Proctor.

The aging FBI agent walked into the library and looked at the long retired President Maddox, whose snow white hair topped the body of a man in obvious physical decline.

Maddox smiled a greeting and said, Tell me again about the Chinese spy ring. I never get tired of hearing the story.

Proctor smiled briefly. It started like this….

* * *

PART ONE

THE UCLA CONNECTION

Wednesday, 6:30 a.m.

March 2, 2003

A Warehouse—Azusa, California

Tsing Hsu’s eyes had lost focus. His listless body slowly twirled, hands tied together above his head, the rope looped over a meat hook, feet dangling uselessly a few inches above the concrete warehouse floor. While conscious, Comrade Hsu had been cognizant of the pain caused by dozens of slashes on his back and the soles of his feet. A squat Han man, Mr. Ho, known as the Butcher of Xian, standing ready with his blade, had expertly inflicted these wounds. Also present was an older, taller Han wearing a smartly tailored, black pinstripe suit.

The taller man spoke authoritatively in Mandarin Chinese, Wake him up! I need to try one more time before we are through.

The shorter man dutifully threw a bucket of ice water on the unconscious figure. Hsu abruptly awakened. As the water ran down in rivulets on his already wet, clinging clothes, Hsu Tsing focused on the tall man he knew as Comrade Wing.

Comrade Wing came closer, but not enough to encounter the bloodstained wetness on the floor. Fishing in his breast pocket, he brought out a pack of Chesterfields, withdrew one and lit it. The tall figure continued.

Only the truth is important to the Party. So tell me again what you did with the material entrusted to you.

Hsu spoke haltingly and wearily. I always follow instructions. Usually, material received through UPS from a contact in New Mexico is stored until I make two copies on a DVD at the data conversion services where I work. One copy would be given to give to the UCLA contact person. A backup copy is saved with the original material until you tell me to destroy them.

This time was different. Hsu gasped. You instructed me to copy boxes of material that you obtained from UCLA as well. It was to be returned to you for replacement in storage.

The words now gushed. That material was put on cds with material received from New Mexico. I was to deliver one to Yellow Hair’s wife on the UCLA campus. I have faithfully carried out assignments five times in the last two years. This was the sixth assignment. Yesterday, I took the DVD to give it to Yellow Hair’s wife.

Hsu’s voice dropped. However, I lost it. I don’t know how or where. I have apologized for that error and taken full responsibility. I looked everywhere and couldn’t find it. When I missed my scheduled meeting with Yellow Hair’s wife, she contacted you. The rest you already know.

Hsu was now beyond the point of caring. His words came slowly, from his core, as he bled out his life.

The original material and the backup DVD are in the storage locker. I gave you my key, whispered the dying man.

Yes, Comrade Hsu, you did, said Wing. However, you have failed the Middle Kingdom, pronounced Wing, using the old name for the People’s Republic of China.

Hsu expired with a gurgle. Wing glanced at his Rolex watch and noted the time of death for his report. His own signs of regret were a slight frown and exhaling of a small sigh.

Mr. Ho, concerned that he had applied too much pressure in the interrogation, deferentially addressed his superior. I am sorry. What do we do now?

Wing calmly smoked his cigarette, inhaling and blowing out a cloud of smoke. He looked at the stilling body. His death is unfortunate. However, we had to be absolutely sure, even to the point of losing our comrade.

Wing reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic container of a prescription drug. He opened it and put the contents into a pants pocket of Tsing Hsu, whose corpse was changing color as it cooled and the blood pooled.

Valium that I take for dizziness, Wing grunted. Our fallen comrade, if discovered, was a victim of a drug deal gone badly. He will just be another student caught up in the drug trade. We will dispose of him before the stores open.

Nodding his understanding, Comrade Ho impassively pulled out a Players cigarette, his favorite, lit up and sat down in a chair to wait for further instructions.

* * *

Tuesday, 2:45 p.m.

March 1st

UCLA campus—Los Angeles, California

Wayne Johnson opened the door to a third floor men’s room in the UCLA Engineering Building and pushed his janitorial cart inside. Sniffing the air, he mumbled: Dang, man. It don’ smell so bad. I does my job and be gone in a few years and can be wid my daughter. Hardly no mess in here at all.

He examined his reflection in the full-length mirror—a 60-something black man in a blue-gray uniform with a UCLA logo on each shoulder and the words Facilities Engineer emblazoned on the breast patch. His priority was to work on the bad bathrooms and leave the relatively unused ones to the end of the day.

Shuffling over, he knocked on the stall door and then gently pushed it inwards. He picked up the shiny object. It was an unmarked DVD in a clear plastic sleeve.

Wayne carefully put the sleeve and disk in the pocket of his cart where he kept the clean rags. He would look at it later.

After work, in his cramped apartment on Slauson Boulevard, Wayne sat down on his daybed, ripped open a bag of pork rinds and popped the tab on a tall Colt .45. He swallowed a mouthful of brew, shoved the DVD into his player and leaned back to watch.

A succession of documents, each stamped top secret, flashed on the screen. Wayne furrowed his brow—an idea suggested itself. Now maybe I can gets my DUI taken care of, Picking up his cell phone, he punched in 911 and told the operator to get him the FBI. He took a noisy drag on his beer as he waited to be connected.

At first, the fatigued FBI duty officer thought it was a crank call and challenged Wayne.

No man. I’s telling you. I was workin’ at UCLA in the Engineering Building and I found a disk. I looked. It has pictures, diagrams and papers marked ‘top secret’ with stamps. Maybe a spy dropped it.

Wearily, the duty officer pushed a button that sent a message elsewhere in the Westwood Office to start a trace on the call. A computer console lit up with the originating telephone number, Wayne’s name and address, confirming at least the identity of the caller.

Ok. Thank you, sir. An FBI Supervisor will be returning your call in a few minutes. Please stand by.

Mike Fowler, backup Duty Supervisor in the FBI Westwood Office, received the nod from the intake operator. Supervisor Fowler had the look of an aging detective. Five foot nine and still able to wear a size 40 regular gray suit, his close-cropped hair was showing streaks of gray. Mike was on his second rotation to the Los Angeles office. His brief conversation with the civilian janitor warranted a nighttime emergency visit.

Wayne Johnson, relishing his part in this mystery, welcomed Mike Fowler into his cramped apartment.

Fowler’s speech was clipped. Years of interviewing people had honed his words to a laconic edge. He took out a small notebook and pencil.

Thank you for calling us, Mr. Johnson. Please tell me just the facts.

I found this DVD in the Engineering Building and brought it home, Wayne said, handing over the DVD. There’s stuff on there that says ‘secret’

I’ll watch the DVD here. If I find it’s no big deal, you can take it to work tomorrow and turn it in, the FBI agent said. Can you please start the DVD and then leave the room?

As he watched, the FBI Supervisor shifted his seated weight forward, hands on knees, eyes glued to the screen. He tensed as document after document flashed by, very old and marked classified, concerning a UCLA nuclear reactor. The screen then filled with snap shot after snap shot of documents concerning a nuclear initiator for a weapon system being developed at the Los Alamos Laboratory. Every instinct within him screamed to grab the DVD and get out. He started to rise, paused and sat back down. His instinct was overcome by years of plodding police procedure.

There’ll be time in Westwood to sort things out. I can’t stop now. I have to know with what I’m dealing.

The DVD was barely over as he spoke into his cell phone.

Right. Send a two-man team to secure an apartment indefinitely. I’ll be transporting a person of interest to Westwood.

Grim-faced, he addressed the waiting janitor. Mr. Johnson, the Bureau extends its thanks to you for your cooperation.

I’se happy to help. Maybe you can return the favor.

How can we be of assistance to you?

Well, I has this DUI comin’ up an’ I would appreciate it goin’ a-way, Johnson responded.

I don’t think that the ticket will be a problem. Right now, you need to come with me to make a formal statement. This may take a while. You’ll need a change of clothes, so take five minutes to pack. And don’t worry; I’ll square it with UCLA. You will also be compensated for the time spent talking to us.

Wayne perked up: Hell man, I won’t complain about taking a few days off with pay.

* * *

Wednesday, 2:15 a.m.

March 2nd

FBI—Westwood, CA Office

Everything in due course, thought Mike Fowler after concluding his videotaped interview with janitor Wayne Johnson in the Westwood office. He sent the janitor to a nearby motel with an agent babysitter. Before I call the top brass in Washington, I need some more information. Mike consulted a confidential office telephone book and placed a call to a local Special Agent.

Jon. Sorry to wake you and Alice up at this hour. Something has come up and I desperately need some info. Just make note of our conversation and code it 9999—unassigned investigation.

Sure Mike, I know you wouldn’t call unless something big was up. What’s going on?

Supervisor Fowler avoided a direct answer. There isn’t any need for him to know. I don’t know yet. Do you remember the orientation you gave a few weeks ago on nuclear reactors in the Los Angeles District? What did you say about the UCLA installations?

Well, UCLA has had two reactors. The current one is outside of the main campus. It’s a couple of blocks from the Westwood Office up Veteran. Is there a problem?

Not yet. Tell me about the other reactor.

It was on the main campus under the old engineering building. Not big. It was used for research. Given the radicals of the 1960s and the fact that it had served its academic research purpose, it was removed years ago. That was the basic orientation. Anything else that I can tell you? Jon looked at his alarm clock. He was now wide awake, wondering what was going on.

If you know… were the old reactor documents declassified?

If anything were declassified, a notation would be stamped upon every page of the material.

Hypothetically, let’s say that I found a document that didn’t have a declassification stamp. It would mean that information was still classified, right?

Not necessarily, it could mean that someone was careless if the info was declassified. Protocol says not to release any previously classified material without a stamp of declassification. Hey, should I come down right now?

No. There’s nothing for you to do. Thanks for the info. Fowler terminated the call.

He went to the men’s room, splashed water on his face, and combed his hair. He had to be alert before calling Washington with bad news.

Fowler sighed. Only rookie agents prematurely push the panic button. Their tails get fried. But this is serious, and the word has to get out now.

Promptly at 4 a.m. Los Angeles time, he called FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C. and was re-routed on a secure line to the home of Andrew Proctor, the Executive Director of FBI Counter Intelligence.

Mike was slightly acquainted with Proctor. In D.C. Headquarters, Proctor had pulled him aside when Mike’s assignment to the Los Angeles Westwood Office was announced. Proctor had him tag along for a day in Washington while he related that the FBI Westwood Office had been repeatedly penetrated by foreign powers. As the ranking counter intelligence official, Proctor impressed on Fowler that no one was to be trusted in Los Angeles. If anything came up, Proctor wanted to be discreetly contacted out of the chain of command.

Andrew Proctor had been around since the Hoover days, was a survivor of the Bureau purges that followed Hoover’s death, and had a Hoover-man persona. Mike witnessed Proctor in action during a congressional budget hearing. Physically, Andy made a good appearance with a freshly pressed suit, carefully cut fingernails, and a sharp haircut. He connected with the subcommittee as he addressed each member as Mr. or Ms. and responded directly to their questions. If he could not answer, Proctor diligently took notes on a legal pad with a blue pen and committed himself to researching an issue. Accordingly, Proctor had a cordial relationship with the subcommittee. They respectfully addressed him as Professor because he had a Ph.D. in International Relations and sometimes lectured at Georgetown University.

Conversely, there were rumors of a dark side to the man—whispers within the Bureau that spoke of black box operations and a man who was capable of being ruthless when it came to enemies of the United States.

Mike Fowler from the Westwood, California office calling. Sorry to disturb you, sir, but a national security issue came up overnight out here, and you’ll want to learn about it right away.

I remember you, Mr. Fowler; you came to some Congressional testimony a few months ago before moving on to Los Angeles. I’m sure it is important. What’s up? The tone was as pleasant as it could be for a business call at home near sunrise.

"A DVD was found on the UCLA campus yesterday. There are two things of interest on it. Some materials are documents and plans relating to a UCLA nuclear reactor removed from the campus years ago. They are not marked as declassified. It might be a minor oversight. However, the other material is devastating. It concerns a nuclear initiator project currently underway at the Los Alamos Laboratory, New Mexico called the X24 Small Nuclear Initiator. The current documentation indicates that a UCLA student has been involved in the project, writing a doctoral dissertation in connection with the X24."

Wait a minute, I am putting you on the speaker phone Proctor said, as he sat upright in his bed. He reached for a legal page and pen on his nightstand. Go on; tell me about the Los Alamos material. We’re on a secure line.

Do you remember the Doctor Lee case?

Of course, Mr. Fowler. Dr. Lee worked at the lab. He supposedly dealt improperly with classified materials. He was released and the FBI received a black eye for a botched investigation. How does it relate to what you found?

"During the Los Alamos investigation, the Bureau requested that every classified document be re-inventoried, and put into a database. Then if something were stolen, there would be a record. A unique Class Blue document number identification would be stamped on the first and every following page of a Class Blue document. On the DVD, there were no Class Blue stamps on any of the documents. I suspect someone removed these documents before they were numbered and inventoried. By doing so, no one would ever know they ever existed. Moreover, on the material purloined from the Laboratory, there is a connection to UCLA. There is a reference to a graduate student writing a doctoral dissertation."

Good God, this damned spy is still at work! What have you done to find him so far?

I interviewed the janitor who found the DVD in a toilet stall in the UCLA Engineering Building. He’s clean. I have him in protective custody, and his home is secured.

What resources do you have working on the problem now? Proctor asked.

None until you give direction. I have a couple of suggestions though.

Speak up, Proctor demanded in an encouraging tone.

Someone will need to check the DVD with the database at the Los Alamos Laboratory. Fowler thought quickly. At my end, the local office has a liaison with the UCLA people. You’ll want a list of all of the classes, professors, students, and employees who work in the area of the Engineering Building. A trace and background check will be done on the UCLA student who is writing the dissertation. I think that the list of potential suspects will run in the thousands.

Proctor put his left hand on his temple and sighed. After a couple of moments, he spoke. "As