by Tom Clancy
“I believe it.” Then O’Day walked up behind Dr. Ryan. She’d already scooped Kyle up, and his arms were around her neck. The little boy was babbling, still months away from talking, but he knew how to smile when he saw his mommy.
“Want to hold him?” Cathy asked.
O’Day cradled the infant somewhat like a football. The youngest Ryan examined his face dubiously, especially the Zapata mustache, but Mommy’s face was also in sight, and so he didn’t scream.
“Hey, buddy,” O’Day said gently. Some things came automatically. When holding a baby, you don’t stand still. You move a little bit, rhythmically, which the little ones seemed to like.
“It’ll ruin Andrea’s career,” Cathy said.
“Make for a lot better hours for her, and be nice to see her every night, but, yeah, Cathy, be kinda hard for her to run alongside the car with her belly sticking out two feet.” The image was good enough for a laugh. “I suppose they’ll put her on restricted duty.”
“Maybe. Makes for a great disguise, though, doesn’t it?”
O’Day nodded. This wasn’t so bad, holding a kid. He remembered the old Irish adage: True strength lies in gentleness. But what the hell, taking care of kids was also a man’s duty. There was a lot more to being a man than just having a dick.
Cathy saw the display and had to smile. Pat O’Day had saved Katie’s life, and done it like something out of a John Woo movie, except that Pat was a real tough guy, not the movie kind. His scenes weren’t scripted; he’d had to do it for real, making it up as he’d gone along. He was a lot like her husband, a servant of the law, a man who’d sworn an oath to Do the Right Thing every time, and like her husband, clearly a man who took his oaths seriously. One of those oaths concerned Pat’s relationship with Andrea, and they all came down to the same thing: preserve, protect, defend. And now, this tiger with a tie was holding a baby and smiling and swaying back and forth, because that’s what you did with a baby in your arms.
“How’s your daughter?” Cathy asked.
“She and your Katie are good friends. And she’s got a thing going with one of the boys at Giant Steps.”
“Oh?”
“Jason Hunt. I think it’s serious. He gave Megan one of his Hot Wheels cars.” O’Day laughed. That’s when his cell phone went off. “Right side coat pocket,” he told the First Lady.
Cathy fished in his pocket and pulled it out. She flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Who’s this?” a familiar voice asked.
“Andrea? It’s Cathy. Pat’s right here.” Cathy took Kyle and handed off the phone, watching the FBI agent’s face.
“Yeah, honey?” Pat said. Then he listened, and his eyes closed for two or three seconds, and that told the tale. His tense face relaxed. A long breath came out slowly, and the shoulders no longer looked like a man anticipating a heavy blow. “Yeah, baby, I came over to see Dr. Ryan, and we’re in the nursery. Oh, okay.” Pat looked over and handed over the phone. Cathy cradled it between her shoulder and ear.
“So, what did Madge say?” Cathy asked, already knowing most of it.
“Normal—and it’s going to be a boy.”
“So, Madge was right, the odds were in your favor.” And they still were. Andrea was very fit. She wouldn’t have any problems, Cathy was sure.
“Seven months from next Tuesday,” Andrea said, her voice already bubbling.
“Well, listen to what Madge says. I do,” Cathy assured her. She knew all the stuff Dr. North believed in. Don’t smoke. Don’t drink. Do your exercises. Take the classes on prepared delivery along with your husband. Come see me in five weeks for your next checkup. Read What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Cathy handed the phone back. Inspector O’Day had taken a few steps and turned away. When he turned back to take the phone, his eyes were unusually moist.
“Yeah, honey, okay. I’ll be right over.” He killed the phone and dumped it back in his pocket.
“Feel better?” she asked with a smile. One of the lionesses came over to take Kyle back. The little guy loved them all, and smiled up at her.
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry to bother you. I feel like a wuss.”
“Oh, bullcrap.” Rather a strong imprecation for Mrs. Dr. Ryan. “Like I said, life isn’t a movie, and this isn’t the Alamo. I know you’re a tough guy, Pat, and so does Jack. What about you, Roy?”
“Pat can work with me any day. Congratulations, buddy,” Altman added, turning back from the lead.
“Thanks, pal,” O’Day told his colleague.
“Can I tell Jack, or does Andrea want to?” SURGEON asked.
“I guess you’ll have to ask her about that one, ma’am.”
Pat O’Day was transformed, enough spring in his step now to make him collide with the ceiling. He was surprised to see that Cathy was heading off to the OB-GYN building, but five minutes later it was obvious why. This was to be girl-girl bonding time. Even before he could embrace his wife, Cathy was there.
“Wonderful news, I’m so happy for you!”
“Yeah, well, I suppose the Bureau is good for something after all,” Andrea joked.
Then the bear with the Zapata mustache lifted her off the floor with a hug and a kiss. “This calls for a small celebration,” the inspector observed.
“Join us for dinner tonight at The House?” SURGEON asked.
“We can’t,” Andrea replied.
“Says who?” Cathy demanded. And Andrea had to bow to the situation.
“Well, maybe, if the President says it’s okay.”
“I say it’s okay, girl, and there are times when Jack doesn’t count,” Dr. Ryan told them.
“Well, yes, then, I guess.”
“Seven-thirty,” SURGEON told them. “Dress is casual.” It was a shame they were no longer regular people. This would have been a good chance for Jack to do steaks on the grill, something he remained very good at, and she hadn’t made her spinach salad in months. Damn the Presidency anyway! “And, Andrea, you are allowed two drinks tonight to celebrate. After that, one or two a week.”
Mrs. O’Day nodded. “Dr. North told me.”
“Madge is a real stickler on the alcohol issue.” Cathy wasn’t sure about the data on that, but then, she wasn’t an OB-GYN, and she’d followed Dr. North’s rules with Kyle and Katie. You just didn’t fool around when you were pregnant. Life was too precious to risk.
CHAPTER 38
Developments
It’s all handled electronically. Once a country’s treasury was in its collection of gold bricks, which were kept in a secure, well-guarded place, or else traveled in a crate with the chief of state wherever he went. In the nineteenth century, paper currency had gained wide acceptance. At first, it had to be redeemable for gold or silver—something whose weight told you its worth—but gradually this, too, was discarded, because precious metals were just too damned heavy to lug around. But soon enough even paper currency became too bulky to drag about, as well. For ordinary citizens, the next step was plastic cards with magnetic strips on the back, which moved your theoretical currency from your account to someone else’s when you made a purchase. For major corporations and nations, it meant something even more theoretical. It became an electronic expression. A nation determined the value of its currency by estimating what quantity of goods and services its citizens generated with their daily toil, and that became the volume of its monetary wealth, which was generally agreed upon by the other nations and citizens of the world. Thus it could be traded across national boundaries by fiber-optic or copper cables, or even by satellite transmissions, and so billions of dollars, pounds, yen, or the new euros moved from place to place via simple keystrokes. It was a lot easier and faster than shipping gold bricks, but, for all the convenience, the system that determined a person’s or a nation’s wealth was no less rigid, and at certain central banks of the world, a country’s net collection of those monetary units was calculated down to a fraction of a percentage point. There was some leeway built into the system, to account for t
rades in process and so forth, but that leeway was also closely calculated electronically. What resulted was no different in its effect from the numbering of the bricks of King Croesus of Lydia. In fact, if anything, the new system that depended on the movement of electrons or photons from one computer to another was even more exact, and even less forgiving. Once upon a time, one could paint lead bricks yellow and so fool a casual inspector, but lying to a computerized accounting system required a lot more than that.
In China, the lying was handled by the Ministry of Finance, a bastard orphan child in a Marxist country peopled by bureaucrats who struggled on a daily basis to do all manner of impossible things. The first and easiest impossibility—because it had to be done—was for its senior members to cast aside everything they’d learned in their universities and Communist Party meetings. To operate in the world financial system, they had to understand and play by—and within—the world monetary rules, instead of the Holy Writ of Karl Marx.
The Ministry of Finance, therefore, was placed in the unenviable position of having to explain to the communist clergy that their god was a false one, that their perfect theoretical model just didn’t play in the real world, and that therefore they had to bend to a reality which they had rejected. The bureaucrats in the ministry were for the most part observers, rather like children playing a computer game that they didn’t believe in but enjoyed anyway. Some of the bureaucrats were actually quite clever, and played the game well, sometimes even making a profit on their trades and transactions. Those who did so won promotions and status within the ministry. Some even drove their own automobiles to work and were befriended by the new class of local industrialists who had shed their ideological straitjackets and operated as capitalists within a communist society. That brought wealth into their nation, and earned the tepid gratitude, if not the respect, of their political masters, rather as a good sheepdog might. This crop of industrialists worked closely with the Ministry of Finance, and along the way influenced the bureaucracy that managed the income that they brought into their country.
One result of all this activity was that the Ministry of Finance was surely and not so slowly drifting away from the True Faith of Marxism into the shadowy in-between world of socialist capitalism—a world with no real name or identity. In fact, every Minister of Finance had drifted away from Marxism to some greater or lesser extent, whatever his previous religious fervor, because one by one they had all seen that their country needed to play on this particular international playground, and to do that, had to play by the rules, and, oh, by the way, this game was bringing prosperity to the People’s Republic in a way that fifty years of Marx and Mao had singularly failed to do.
As a direct result of this inexorable process, the Minister of Finance was a candidate, not a full member of the Politburo. He had a voice at the table, but not a vote, and his words were judged by those who had never really troubled themselves to understand his words or the world in which he operated.
This minister was surnamed Qian, which, appropriately, meant coins or money, and he’d been in the job for six years. His background was in engineering. He’d built railroads in the northeastern part of his country for twenty years, and done so well enough to merit a change in posting. He’d actually handled his ministerial job quite well, the international community judged, but Qian Kun was often the one who had to explain to the Politburo that the Politburo couldn’t do everything it wanted to do, which meant he was often about as welcome in the room as a plague rat. This would be one more such day, he feared, sitting in the back of his ministerial car on the way to the morning meeting.
Eleven hours away, on Park Avenue in New York, another meeting was under way. Butterfly was the name of a burgeoning chain of clothing stores which marketed to prosperous American women. It had combined new microfiber textiles with a brilliant young designer from Florence, Italy, into fully a six percent share of its market, and in America that was big money indeed.
Except for one thing. Its textiles were all made in the People’s Republic, at a factory just outside the great port city of Shanghai, and then cut and sewn into clothing at yet another plant in the nearby city of Yancheng.
The chairman of Butterfly was just thirty-two, and after ten years of hustling, he figured he was about to cash in on a dream he’d had from all the way back in Erasmus Hall High School in Brooklyn. He’d spent nearly every day since graduating Pratt Institute conceiving and building up his business, and now it was his time. It was time to buy that G so that he could fly off to Paris on a whim, get that house in the hills of Tuscany, and another in Aspen, and really live in the manner he’d earned.
Except for that one little thing. His flagship store at Park and 50th today had experienced something as unthinkable as the arrival of men from Mars. People had demonstrated there. People wearing Versace clothing had shown up with cardboard placards stapled to wooden sticks proclaiming their opposition to trade with BARBARIANS! and condemning Butterfly for doing business with such a country. Someone had even shown up with an image of the Chinese flag with a swastika on it, and if there was anything you didn’t want associated with your business in New York, it was Hitler’s odious logo.
“We’ve got to move fast on this,” the corporate counsel said. He was Jewish and smart, and had steered Butterfly through more than one minefield to bring it to the brink of ultimate success. “This could kill us.”
He wasn’t kidding, and the rest of the board knew it. Exactly four customers had gone past the protesters into the store today, and one of them had been returning something which, she said, she no longer wanted in her closet.
“What’s our exposure?” the founder and CEO asked.
“In real terms?” the head of accounting asked. “Oh, potentially four hundred.” By which he meant four hundred million dollars. “It could wipe us out in, oh, twelve weeks.”
Wipe us out was not what the CEO wanted to hear. To bring a line of clothing this far was about as easy as swimming the Atlantic Ocean during the annual shark convention. This was his moment, but he found himself standing in yet another minefield, one for which he’d had no warning at all.
“Okay,” he responded as coolly as the acid in his stomach allowed. “What can we do about it?”
“We can walk on our contracts,” the attorney advised.
“Is that legal?”
“Legal enough.” By which he meant that the downside exposure of shorting the Chinese manufacturers was less onerous than having a shop full of products that no person would buy.
“Alternatives?”
“The Thais,” Production said. “There’s a place outside Bangkok that would love to take up the slack. They called us today, in fact.”
“Cost?”
“Less than four percent difference. Three-point-six-three, to be exact, and they will be off schedule by, oh, maybe four weeks max. We have enough stock to keep the stores open through that, no problem,” Production told the rest of the board with confidence.
“How much of that stock is Chinese in origin?”
“A lot comes from Taiwan, remember? We can have our people start putting the Good Guys stickers on them ... and we can fudge that some, too.” Not all that many consumers knew the difference between one Chinese place name and another. A flag was much easier to differentiate.
“Also,” Marketing put in, “we can start an ad campaign tomorrow. ‘Butterfly doesn’t do business with dragons.’ ” He held up an illustration that showed the corporate logo escaping a dragon’s fiery breath. That it looked terminally tacky didn’t matter for the moment. They had to take action, and they had to do it fast.
“Oh, got a call an hour ago from Frank Meng at Meng, Harrington, and Cicero,” Production announced. “He says he can get some ROC textile houses on the team in a matter of days, and he says they have the flexibility to retool in less than a month—and if we green-light it, the ROC ambassador will officially put us on their good-guy list. In return, we just have to guarantee five yea
rs’ worth of business, with the usual escape clauses.”
“I like it,” Legal said. The ROC ambassador would play fair, and so would his country. They knew when they had the tiger by the balls.
“We have a motion on the table,” the chairman and CEO announced. “All in favor?”
With this vote, Butterfly was the first major American company to walk out on its contracts with the People’s Republic. Like the first goose to leave Northern Canada in the fall, it announced that a new and chilly season was coming. The only potential problem was legal action from the PRC businesses, but a federal judge would probably understand that a signed contract wasn’t quite the same thing as a suicide note, and perhaps even regard the overarching political question sufficient to make the contract itself void. After all, counsel would argue in chambers—and in front of a New York jury if necessary—when you find out you’re doing business with Adolf Hitler, you have to take a step back. Opposing counsel would argue back, but he’d know his position was a losing one, and he’d tell his clients so before going in.
“I’ll tell our bankers tomorrow. They’re not scheduled to cut the money loose for another thirty-six hours.” This meant that one hundred forty million dollars would not be transferred to a Beijing account as scheduled. And now the CEO could contemplate going ahead with his order for the G. The corporate logo of a monarch butterfly leaving its cocoon, he thought, would look just great on the rudder.
We don’t know for sure yet,” Qian told his colleagues, ”but I am seriously concerned.”
“What’s the particular problem today?” Xu Kun Piao asked.
“We have a number of commercial and other contracts coming due in the next three weeks. Ordinarily I would expect them to proceed normally, but our representatives in America have called to warn my office that there might be a problem.”
“Who are these representatives?” Shen Tang asked.
“Mainly lawyers whom we employ to manage our business dealings for us. Almost all are American citizens. They are not fools, and their advice is something a wise man attends carefully,” Qian said soberly.
