by Tom Clancy
“Anything good?” Ed Foley asked, again, just to bedevil his wife.
“Not unless you’re into child abuse. Some of the subjects for this site are too young to vote. If you downloaded it over here, the FBI might come knocking on your door.”
“Capitalism really has broken out over there, eh?”
“Some of the senior Party officials seem to like this sort of thing. I guess when you’re pushing eighty, you need something special to help jump-start the motor.” Mary Pat had seen some of the photographs, and once had been plenty. She was a mother, and all of those photographic subjects had been infants once, strange though that might seem to a subscriber to that Web site. The abusers of girls must have thought that they all sprang into life with their legs spread and a welcoming look in their doll-child faces. Not quite, the DDO thought, but her job wasn’t to be a clergyman. Sometimes you had to do business with such perverts, because they had information which her country needed. If you were lucky, and the information was really useful, then you often arranged for them to defect, to live in the United States, where they could live and enjoy their perversions to some greater or lesser degree, after being briefed on the law, and the consequences of breaking it. Afterward there was always a bathroom and soap to wash your hands. It was a need of which she’d availed herself more than once. One of the problems with espionage was that you didn’t always do business with the sort of people whom you’d willingly invite into your home. But it wasn’t about Miss Manners. It was about getting information that your country needed to guard its strategic interests, and even to prevail in war, if it came to that. Lives were often at stake, either directly or indirectly. And so, you did business with anyone who had such information, even if he or she wasn’t exactly a member of the clergy.
“Okay, babe. Keep me posted,” Foley told his wife.
“Will do, honey-bunny.” The DDO headed back to her own office. There she drew up her reply to Nomuri: MESSAGE RECEIVED. KEEP US POSTED ON YOUR PROGRESS. MP. ENDS.
The reply came as a relief to Nomuri when he woke and checked his e-mail. It was a disappointment that he didn’t wake up with company, but to expect that would have been unrealistic. Ming would have been ill-advised to spend the night anywhere but in her own bed. Nomuri couldn’t even drive her back. She’d just left, carrying her presents-well, wearing some of them-for the walk back to her own shared flat where, Nomuri fervently hoped, she wouldn’t discuss her evening’s adventures with her room-mates. You never knew about women and how they talked. It wasn’t all that dissimilar with some men, Nomuri remembered from college, where some of his chums had talked at length about their conquests, as though they’d slain a dragon with a Popsicle stick. Nomuri had never indulged in this aural spectator sport. Either he’d had a spy’s mentality even then, or he’d been somehow imbued with the dictum that a gentleman didn’t kiss and tell. But did women? That was a mystery to him, like why it was that women seemed to go to the bathroom in pairs-he’d occasionally joked that that was when they’d held their “union meetings.” Anyway, women talked more than men did. He was sure of that. And while they kept many secrets from men, how many did they keep from other women? Jesus, all that had to happen was for her to tell a roomie that she’d had her brains fucked out by a Japanese salaryman, and if that roomie was an informant to the MSS, Ming would get a visit from a security officer, who at the very least would counsel her never to see Nomuri again. More likely, the counseling would involve a demand to send that degenerate American bourgeois trash (the Victoria’s Secret underthings) back to him, plus a threat to lose her ministry job if she ever appeared on the same street with him again. And that also meant that he’d be tailed and observed and investigated by the MSS, and that was something he had to take seriously. They didn’t have to catch him committing espionage. This was a communist country, where due process of law was a bourgeois concept unworthy of serious consideration, and civil rights were limited to doing what one was told. As a foreigner doing business in the PRC, he might get some easiness of treatment, but not all that much.
So, he hadn’t just gotten his rocks off, Nomuri told himself, past the delightful memories of a passionate evening. He’d crossed a wide red line in the street, and his safety depended entirely upon on how discreet Ming was. He hadn’t-could not have-warned her to keep her mouth shut about their time together. Such things weren’t said, because they added a level of gravity to what was supposed to have been a time of joy and friendship … or even something potentially bigger than friendship. Women thought in such terms, Chester reminded himself, and for that reason he might see a pointed nose and whiskers the next time he looked in the mirror, but this was business, not personal, he told himself as he shut down his computer.
Except for one small thing. He’d had sexual relations with an intelligent and not entirely unattractive young female human being, and the problem was that when you gave a little bit of your heart away, you never really got it back. And his heart, Nomuri belatedly realized, was distantly connected to his dick. He wasn’t James Bond. He could not embrace a woman as a paid whore embraced a man. It just wasn’t in him to be that sort of heartless swine. The good news was that for this reason he could stand to look in a mirror for the time being. The bad news was that this ability might be short-lived, if he treated Ming as a thing and not a person.
Nomuri needed advice on how to feel about this operation, and he didn’t have a place to get it. It wasn’t the sort of thing to e-mail to Mary Pat or to one of the pshrinks the Agency employed for counseling DO people who needed a little guidance with their work. This sort of thing had to be handled face-to-face with a real person, whose body language you could read and whose tone of voice would deliver its own content. No, e-mail wasn’t the medium he needed right now. He needed to fly to Tokyo and meet a senior officer of the Directorate of Operations who could counsel him on how to handle things. But if the guy told him to cut himself off from intimate contact with Ming, then what would he do? Nomuri asked himself. It wasn’t as though he had a girlfriend of any kind, and he had his needs for intimacy, too-and besides, if he cut her off, what effect would that have on his potential, prospective agent? You didn’t check your humanity by the door when you joined up with the Agency, despite what all the books said and the public expectations were. All the chuckles over beer during the nights after training sessions seemed a distant thing now, and all the expectations he and his colleagues had had back then. They’d been so far off the mark, in spite of what their training officers had told them. He’d been a child then, and to some extent even in Japan, but suddenly he was a man, alone in a country that was at best suspicious, and at worst hostile to him and his country. Well, it was in her hands now, and that was something he couldn’t change.
Her co-workers noted a slight difference in their colleague. She smiled a little more, and in a somewhat different way. Something good must have happened to her, some of them thought, and for this they rejoiced, albeit in a reserved and private way. If Ming wished to share the experience with them, all well and good, and if not, that, too, was okay with them, because some things were private, even among a group of women who shared virtually everything, including stories of their minister and his fumbling, lengthy, and occasionally futile efforts at lovemaking. He was a wise man, and usually a gentle one, though as a boss he had his bad points. But Ming would notice none of those today. Her smile was sweeter than ever, and her eyes twinkled like little diamonds, the rest of the admin/secretarial staff all thought. They’d all seen it before, though not with Ming, whose love life had been an abbreviated one, and whom the minister liked a little too much, but whom he serviced imperfectly and too seldom. She sat at her computer to do her correspondence and translations of Western news articles that might be of interest to the Minister. Ming had the best English skills of anyone in this corner of the building, and the new computer system worked superbly. The next step, so the story went, was a computer into which you’d just speak, making the characters ap
pear by voice command, sure to become the curse of every executive secretary in the world, because it would largely make them obsolete. Or maybe not. The boss couldn’t fuck a computer, could he? Not that Minister Fang was all that intrusive in his demands. And the perks he delivered in return weren’t bad at all.
Her first morning assignment took the customary ninety minutes, after which she printed up the resulting copy and stapled the pages together by article. This morning she’d translated pieces by the Times of London, and the New York Times, plus The Washington Post, so that her Minister would know what the barbarians around the world thought of the enlightened policy of the People’s Republic.
In his private office, Minister Fang was going over other things. The MSS had a double report on the Russians: both oil and gold, the reports said. So, he thought, Zhang had been right all along, even more right than he knew. Eastern Siberia was indeed a treasure-house, full of things everyone needed. Oil, because petroleum was the very blood of modern society, and gold, because in addition to its negotiable value as an old but still very real medium of exchange, it still had industrial and scientific uses as well. And each had a cache of its own. What a pity that such riches should fall to a people without the wit to make proper use of them. It was so strange, the Russians who had given the world the gift of Marxism but then failed to exploit it properly, and then abandoned it, only to fail also in their transition to a bourgeois capitalist society. Fang lit a cigarette, his fifth of the day (he was trying to cut back as his seventieth birthday approached), and set the MSS report down on his desk before leaning back in his chair to puff on his unfiltered smoke and consider the information this morning had brought. Siberia, as Zhang had been saying for some years now, had so much that the PRC needed, timber, minerals in abundance-even greater abundance, so these intelligence documents said-and space, which China needed above all things.
There were simply too many people in China, and that despite population-control measures that could only be called draconian both in their content, and in their ruthless application. Those measures were an affront to Chinese culture, which had always viewed children as a blessing, and now the social engineering was having an unexpected result. Allowed only one child per married couple, the people often chose to have boys instead of girls. It was not unknown for a peasant to take a female toddler of two years and drop her down a well-the merciful ones broke their necks first-to dispose of the embarrassing encumbrance. Fang understood the reasons for this. A girl child grew up to marry, to join her life to a man, while a boy child could always be depended upon to support and honor his parents, and provide security. But a girl child would merely spread her legs for some other couple’s boy child, and where was the security for her parents in that?
It had been true in Fang’s case. As he’d grown to a senior party official, he’d made sure that his own mother and father had found a comfortable place to live out their lives, for such were the duties of a child for those who had given him life. Along the way, he’d married, of course-his wife was long dead of cardiovascular disease-and he’d given some lip service to his wife’s parents … but not as much as he’d done for his own. Even his wife had understood that, and used her shadow-influence as the wife of a party official to make her own special but lesser arrangements. Her brother had died young, at the hands of the American army in Korea, and was therefore just a memory without practical value.
But the problem for China that no one really talked about, even at Politburo level, was that their population policy was affecting the demographics of their country. In elevating the value of boy children over girls, the PRC was causing an imbalance that was becoming statistically significant. In fifteen years or so, there would be a shortage of women-some said that this was a good thing, because they would achieve the overarching national objective of population stability faster but it also meant that for a generation, millions of Chinese men would have no women to marry and mate with. Would this turn into a flood of homosexuality? PRC policy still frowned upon that as a bourgeois degeneracy, though sodomy had been decriminalized in 1998. But if there were no women to be had, what was a man to do? And in addition to killing off surplus girl babies, those abandoned by their parents were often given away, to American and European couples unable to have children of their own. This happened by the hundreds of thousands, with the children disposed of as readily and casually as Americans sold puppies in shopping malls. Something in Fang’s soul bridled at that, but his feelings were mere bourgeois sentimentality, weren’t they? National policy dictated what must be, and policy was the means to achieving the necessary goal.
His was a life as comfortable as privilege could make it. In addition to a plush office as pleasant as any capitalist’s, he had an official car and driver to take him to his residence, an ornate apartment with servants to look after his needs, the best food that his country could provide, good beverages, a television connected to a satellite service so that he could receive all manner of entertainment, even including Japanese pornographic channels, for his manly drives had not yet deserted him. (He didn’t speak Japanese, but you didn’t need to understand the dialogue in such movies, did you?)
Fang still worked long hours, rising at six-thirty, and was at his desk before eight every morning. His staff of secretaries and assistants took proper care of him, and some of the female ones were agreeably compliant, once, occasionally twice per week. Few men of his years had his vigor, Fang was sure, and unlike Chairman Mao, he didn’t abuse children, which he’d known of at the time and found somewhat distasteful. But great men had their flaws, and you overlooked them because of the greatness that made them who they were. As for himself and people like him, they were entitled to the proper environments in which to rest, good nourishment to sustain their bodies through their long and grueling workdays, and the opportunities for relaxation and recreation that men of vigor and intelligence needed. It was necessary that they live better than most other citizens of their country, and it was also earned. Giving direction to the world’s most populous country was no easy task. It demanded their every intellectual energy, and such energy needed to be conserved and restored. Fang looked up as Ming entered with her folder of news articles.
“Good morning, Minister,” she said with proper deference.
“Good morning, child.” Fang nodded with affection. This one shared his bed fairly well, and for that reason merited more than a grunt. Well, he’d gotten her a very comfortable office chair, hadn’t he? She withdrew, bowing proper respect for her father figure, as she always did. Fang noticed nothing particularly different about her demeanor, as he lifted the folder and took out the news articles, along with a pencil for making notations. He’d compare these with MSS estimates of the mood of other countries and their governments. It was Fang’s way of letting the Ministry of State Security know that the Politburo members still had minds of their own with which to think. The MSS had signally failed to predict America’s diplomatic recognition of Taiwan, though in fairness, the American news media didn’t seem to predict the actions of this President Ryan all that well, either. What an odd man he was, and certainly no friend of the People’s Republic. A peasant, the MSS analysts called him, and in many ways that seemed both accurate and appropriate. He was strangely unsophisticated in his outlook, something the New York Times commented upon rather frequently. Why did they dislike him? Was he not capitalist enough, or was he too capitalist? Understanding the American news media was beyond Fang’s powers of analysis, but he could at least digest the things they said, and that was something the intelligence “experts” at the MSS Institute for American Studies were not always able to do. With that thought, Fang lit another cigarette and settled back in his chair.
It was a miracle, Provalov thought. Central Army Records had gotten the files, fingerprints, and photographs of the two bodies recovered in St. Petersburg-but perversely sent the records to him rather than to Abramov and Ustinov, doubtless because he was the one who had invoked the name o
f Sergey Golovko. Dzerzhinskiy Square still inspired people to do their jobs in a timely fashion. The names and vital statistics would be faxed at once to St. Petersburg so that his northern colleagues might see what information could be developed. The names and photographs were only a start-documents nearly twenty years old showing youthful, emotionless faces. The service records were fairly impressive, though. Once upon a time, Pyotr Alekseyevich Amalrik and Pavel Borissovich Zimyanin had been considered superior soldiers, smart, fit … and highly reliable, politically speaking, which was why they’d gone to Spetsnaz school and sergeant school. Both had fought in Afghanistan, and done fairly well-they’d survived Afghanistan, which was not the usual thing for Spetsnaz troops, who’d drawn all of the dirtiest duty in an especially dirty war. They’d not reenlisted, which was not unusual. Hardly anyone in the Soviet Army had ever reenlisted voluntarily. They’d returned to civilian life, both working in the same factory outside Leningrad, as it had been called then. But Amalrik and Zimyanin had both found ordinary civilian life boring, and both, he gathered, had drifted into something else. He’d have to let the investigators in St. Petersburg find out more. He pulled a routing slip from his drawer and rubber-banded it to the records package. It would be couriered to St. Petersburg, where Abramov and Ustinov would play with the contents.
A Mr. Sherman, Mr. Secretary,” Winston’s secretary told him over the intercom. ”Line three.”
“Hey, Sam,” SecTreas said, as he picked up the phone. “What’s new?”
“Our oil field up north,” the president of Atlantic Richfield replied.
“Good news?”
“You might say that. Our field people say the find is about fifty percent bigger than our initial estimates.”
