Overthrow: The War with China and North Korea

by David Poyer

  Blair had nodded. “Okay.”

  “Remember this. A private feeler serves three functions. One: as a signal. Two: it can permit concessions on the other side. And three: it serves what we call a ‘screening function.’ The way you respond to the contact gives both parties the opportunity to earn trust. How do you earn it? Mainly, by not leaking.

  “You can’t negotiate if you don’t trust your adversary. At least, to some extent. Since they contacted you again, that demonstrates some confidence. Possibly,” Salyers hesitated, “and I may be wrong about this, but perhaps because they think you’re linked to what could be seen these days as the peace party.”

  “Linked to … Shira, I’ve never advocated peace without some kind of permanent settlement. We don’t have to have a victory parade. But we need to fight long enough to make it clear to the Opposed Powers they’re beaten. And there has to be regime change. Progress toward democracy. Otherwise”—she thought of Szerenci—“We’ll be doing this all over again twenty years down the road.”

  So now she nodded, and drifted toward the old man as Salyers headed in another direction. He smiled and bowed again, a twinkle in his eye.

  Of course, she’d looked him up. “Minister Madubuike. How nice to see you again.”

  He looked over her shoulder, still smiling vaguely. Barely flicked his gaze across her face; then turned away.

  She halted, unsure what was going on. Then noticed more and more of the delegates drifting away from her. And from Shira, who stood still in the middle of the floor, puzzled creases faintly engraved between her eyes.

  To test it, she went to the refreshments table. Here, not really to her surprise, cheese ruled. It poured from heated pots, down gleaming stainless spouts, to uncoil over breads and meats, noodles and vegetables. Fondue reigned supreme, apparently. And the smells were terrific. She hesitated in front of a simmering pot.

  “It’s a moitié moitié, I think.” A familiar voice.

  She glanced up from the bubbling pot to find McManus studying her across the table. “Liz. Hi. What’s going on? It’s like we have on some kind of diplomat repellent.”

  McManus was in a severe violet sheath, with modest heels, perhaps to deemphasize her height. Picking up a spoon, she helped herself to the slow waterfall. “Gruyère, along with a nice creamy Vacherin Fribourgeois. Should go great with a dry white.” She nodded toward a side table where several men were laughing, nursing tiny glasses. “And the Swiss like to follow it with a shot of kirschwasser. Want to make friends? Stand by the drinks table.”

  “I’m not really here for that, Liz. About the Chi—”

  McManus too turned away, all too abruptly. Blair frowned. She looked down the front of her dress, but there didn’t seem to be any wardrobe malfunctions. Glanced sideways at her face in a pier glass. Nothing in her teeth.

  Then why was everyone avoiding her?

  The realization came accompanied by a chill.

  The outcome of the International Commission Against War Crimes and Genocide in Asia had already been decided. Like the prepackaged statements at the end of the heads of state meeting in Jakarta, which had been written and agreed on by all parties weeks before the principals flew in.

  Suddenly Ammermann was standing beside her. A late arrival, and given his contemptuous references to the UN during the flight, she was surprised to see him here at all. Maybe the two glasses of clear liquor he carried were the answer. “For you,” he said, extending one.

  She pretended to sip while casing the rest of the reception. A few faces she half recognized. Others, she knew from the briefing book Shira had sent. “What have you heard about Korea?” she asked him. “About Kim?”

  “CNN says his bodyguards shot him. Like with Indira Gandhi. But I don’t trust anything they say. We’ll wait until it’s confirmed.”

  Salyers joined them. “Wait for what?”

  “Confirmation. The president will want to anounce it himself.” Ammermann looked Blair up and down. “Anyone asked you to come over to our side? Join the Patriot Party? Oh, wait—shouldn’t have let that cat out. But now you know … we’re changing the name. To be more inclusive of those who want to join us. Forming the first truly united party. So we can march forward together.”

  Blair forced a half smile. “Yes, I’ve been approached. But I haven’t made that decision yet, Adam. When I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “You can still be a rising star.” With a catlike smile he snagged a canapé from a passing tray. “Man, look at all this fucking cheese. Enough to clog you up for a month.”

  “Excuse me,” she said, suddenly feeling the jet lag hit. Her head swam, and after only two sips of schnapps. She dragged herself across the parquet, heading at an angle toward a tightly cliqued group clustered near the exit to the terrace. Four Asians, all in dark blue suits, three wearing the heavy black plastic-rimmed spectacles affected by their leader. The premier, president, generalissimo, and chairman, the ex–Second Department spy who’d set half the world on fire: Zhang Zurong.

  Her gaze crossed that of the youngest-looking of the delegation, and certainly the slimmest. Also, this time, the only one not wearing the heavy glasses. Their eyes met for the merest fraction of a second before they both dropped them.

  Xie Yunlong … Yun. Who’d met with her one-on-one in Dublin, pursuant, obviously, to his orders, since he’d related what he had to say as if memorized word for word.

  But she didn’t stop. Simply kept her face front and her stride unbroken. Even as she replayed that shutter-flick of mutual recognition, musing over it as she crossed the terrace to stand overlooking the sloping stretch of green that fell toward the golf course and woods. Twenty yards below, Swiss police in dress gray stood ten meters apart, facing the jadeite glitter of the lake. Each with a submachine gun slung under one arm. Farther down the driveway, at a road block, some kind of armored vehicle was parked across the access.

  Yun had looked ill at ease. Slumped, as if disappointed. Or as if he’d just gotten bad news. Standing to his right was the deputy minister, Chen Jialuo. The elder statesman had been holding forth, gesturing with a kirschwasser glass.

  To his left, bending to the shorter Chinese, deep in the conversation and obviously listening carefully, had been another white-haired, older man she didn’t recognize. But he wasn’t Asian. And now, revisiting the glimpse, she realized that he’d worn the blue-white-red flag of the Russian Federation on his lapel. What had Shira said, on the plane … about how at an event like this, everything had meaning. Everything was a message.

  Was that a message, then, that the Russians and Chinese stood together?

  She glanced back to see Salyers still alone, cupping one elbow with a hand and looking both proud and lonely. No one was stopping for a chat with her. And again, that premonitory chill caressed her spine.

  “Could we all gather here … those on the terrace, could you come in please … Thank you.” McManus, alone at a small podium. She didn’t seem to need a sound system. “There on the terrace, please come in. Thank you.

  “Good evening, and welcome.” She smiled at the audience. “This meeting will continue the work of the United Nations conference on possible human rights violations and war crimes in south Asia and the Pacific. That conference, which set up monitoring teams to report and substantiate or dismiss charges of war crimes by the warring parties, was judged a resounding success. It has been extended, to now become the International Commission Against War Crimes and Genocide in Asia. Unfortunately, no continuing resolutions have been adopted in the Security Council, since two permanent members vetoed them. That is, the United States, and the People’s Republic of China.”

  She went on for a few more minutes, about how if the international community looked away, no one could expect the combatants to respect human rights under the pressure of war. At one time Blair would have snorted, confident that only the other side would have a problem with that. Lately, though, a lot of her complacency about American virtue had �
�� eroded. And not just because of one administration, or one party.

  But enough of that, Blair … she tuned back in to hear McManus wishing the attendees a pleasant evening. “Tomorrow we’ll gather in the Grand Ballroom at nine sharp for our introductory report from Dr. Abir al-Mughrabi. As many of you know, he is a former Appeals Division judge, International Criminal Court at The Hague, and has acted for the prosecution for crimes of civil war and genocide in Lebanon, Rwanda, Afghanistan, and Syria. He’ll be accompanied by others from our monitoring teams, returned from the front lines. Join me up here, please, the team members! Let’s give them all a hand for their dedication to the cause of international peace.”

  Blair was applauding too, when her iPhone chimed. She hastily set her glass on a side table, and checked the phone, surprised. It hadn’t worked earlier, how could it accept calls? But then she saw it wasn’t a call, but a text. The little cartouche pulsed on her screen, then dimmed. Brightened again once, then faded for good.

  It was gone. But not before she’d read it. Four words only.

  Vladimir Lenin’s. 2100. Alone.

  * * *

  A quick check on her room computer confirmed what the taxi driver had said. Lenin and his wife, Nadezhda, had indeed lived in Zurich during his exile from Russia. The apartment was at Spiegelgasse 14. She started to enter it into her Maps program, but decided not to. The fewer records, the better. But it was too far to walk, and she didn’t want to take a taxi. They too kept records. She decided not to tell Shira about this second contact. If it went sideways, why tar both of them?

  She thought for a few minutes. Then took two hundred-dollar bills out of her stash, and headed for the elevator.

  * * *

  THE little engine buzzed in her ears. The machine wobbled more than she liked. She braked again and again, keeping the scooter to a speed she felt comfortable with. The fenders were battered, but it was high visibility yellow. The high beam was bright. That was good too, since dusk was falling as the Vespa descended the mountain, purring through residential streets with expensive homes set back on carefully groomed lawns.

  She was nearly alone on the road. That too was fine. She’d hadn’t been on a scooter in years. Since her dad had gotten her a Honda for her sixteenth, so she could putt-putt around the back roads of Maryland. But the skill came back fast. Like riding a bike. The groundskeeper she’d approached had been happy to “loan” it to her for a couple of hours. “A little sightseeing,” she’d explained, handing him the money folded small.

  Riskier than a taxi, sure. But it felt exhilarating, swooping down toward the darkening city over silken-smooth Swiss pavements. Amazing what one could do in terms of infrastructure when you didn’t have to spend 40 percent of GDP on a war. She kept her head down, hoping the too-large, slightly smelly helmet and face shield concealed her features.

  But the exhilaration ebbed. She felt more apprehensive as the scooter swooped downward, as the shadows deepened and the streets narrowed. It was getting cold too, as the wind whipped her coattails and felt inside her blouse. Should have worn a sweater … other mopeds buzzed past, whining as they powered into the climb. Choosing a side street, she pulled off, doused engine and lights, and waited, watching the road behind her. But no one was following. The street was empty.

  Shit. What the hell was she doing? She was no spook. No Jason Bourne. Clandestine meetings weren’t supposed to be how undersecretaries of defense spent their time.

  But once more, when she set her own anxiety against the possibility of forestalling the horror Szerenci seemed all too ready to risk, she had to push on. She kicked the engine back to life again and pulled out, giving the little putt-putt more throttle. The streets became cobbled, twisting alleys. She pulled over again, unfolded the map the front desk had given her, and pored over it in the light from a shop window.

  A sign: Spiegelgasse. A narrow chink of alley. Good idea, the Vespa; this wasn’t wide enough for a car. She blipped the gas and turned in. The too-small tires juddered and skidded over rounded cobblestones. Then it widened, to a little plaza. A minuscule square, with benches, trees, grass. Another sign: Plaza Casa Lenin. She steered to a bike stand, hit the cutoff, and killed the engine. Struggled with the center stand, and finally got the machine up on it.

  Lights flashed at the far end of the plaza, downhill. She lifted the helmet off, fighting the chinstrap. She debated leaving it with the scooter, but finally tucked it under her arm, like a severed head, and walked carefully, over the slippery cobbles, down toward the lights.

  Xie Yun stood beside a table on the terrace of a small café. She didn’t see a car. Maybe he’d walked, or taken the funicular. But she didn’t like the man beside him. At all. She halted dead. Almost turned on her heel and walked away, uphill, back to the Vespa.

  He was tall. White-haired. In a dark topcoat.

  The Russian she’d seen chatting all too intimately with the deputy minister.

  She took a deep breath and let it out. The café was filled with chatting couples. A public place. Nothing would happen to her, at least not here. She’d listen to what they had to say. That was all.

  Yun bowed slightly as she approached. He looked more haggard than the first time they’d met. Less well fed. Shadows under the eyes. He offered the same limp handshake as before. “Mrs. Titus.”

  “Yun.” She nodded. “And who’s this?”

  “My name is not necessary, Ms. Titus. Call me Dick, if you like.”

  Seen up close, even by the dim light from the café, the Russian wasn’t as old as she’d assumed. His hair wasn’t white, but a very light blond. Once more she debated. Would it be wiser to walk away? And once more, she steeled herself. Dan was taking more risks than this daily, of a stray missile, a torpedo. The least she could do was hear them out.

  “What is it you wanted to tell me?” she muttered.

  “Let us sit down,” the Chinese suggested.

  He led them to a table inside, in the back. A waiter brought a menu in four languages. Yun asked for the brownie and tea. The Russian shook his head, stony-faced. “Nothing for me.” She refused too, arms crossed.

  When the waiter left she leaned in. “We aren’t here to nosh, Yun. Don’t you have pastries in Beijing? And why’s this guy here?”

  “Moscow wants to facilitate an armistice,” Yun said.

  Blair sat back, gobsmacked. So surprised that for a moment she could not respond. The Chinese went on. “Our friends have acted in support of the People’s Republic in many ways. The latest is the sale of three hundred Sukhoi Su-35 multi-role fighter planes, to replace the losses sustained in your strikes. They will strengthen our southern defenses. You can confirm this with your intelligence organs.

  “But as the war becomes more critical, the danger to all concerned increases. Thus, we would like to make an unofficial inquiry.”

  She shrugged. “We’ve set forth our proposals. At the Jakarta conference.”

  “Regime change? Unconditional surrender? Those terms are not acceptable. And will never be accepted, as long as China lives.”

  She shrugged and looked away. Let him dangle, and see what he said next.

  Yun glanced at the Russian. “Then we have both a warning and a question. The warning is, do not underestimate the sacrifices we are willing to make. Chairman Zhang will destroy the world before he accepts defeat.”

  She nodded. That had been conveyed over and over, by Shanghai Sue and Beijing’s official statements. “Message received. And the question?”

  Yun glanced at the Russian, and lowered his voice still further. “A hypothetical. What would be form of government if the regime were to change? Would current Party leaders and generals retain their positions? Or would this be like Iraq, the army and party dissolved? Would generals be tried as war criminals?”

  “And what would be the position of the Allies on war debts owed by China to other nations,” the Russian murmured.

  Blair tried not to show the thrill that shot though her. She dr
opped her twined fingers beneath the table, lest a tremor betray her. There was a clique opposed to Zhang. They wanted guarantees. And the Russians were getting involved simply and purely because they’d advanced billions in weapons and energy credits, and wanted to be sure they were paid. Follow the money!

  This was momentous. She had to convey some measure of accommodation. But how could she manage it, with a crippled and frightened State Department? She certainly couldn’t commit the US to anything on her own.

  Then she remembered what Shira had said. Back channels built trust. “I’ve held it very closely, that we’re in touch,” she told Yun. “I hope you have too.”

  His mouth set. “Indeed I have.”

  “Can I have some hint of who you represent? Who you’re speaking for?”

  He looked down at his half-eaten brownie. Picked it up, then put it down. Shook his head in silence.

  The Russian hitched his chair closer. “The US must realize it would be insane to invade China. So you can’t end hostilities that way. Your war aims included evicting the Chinese from the South China Sea. You’ve done that. Retaken Taiwan. And set the country’s development back twenty years. At enormous expense, crippling your own country. What more do you want? Honolulu is gone. Your urban areas are boiling with revolt. End it. Negotiate.”

  “I’m not saying we wouldn’t talk. But this isn’t the place to bargain,” Blair said. “And I’m not the one you should be discussing this with. Make a proposal. Openly. In the United Nations. Or tomorrow, at the conference. Would the deputy minister be open to doing that?”

  Yun froze in his chair. He worked a finger around inside his mouth. Blair stared at him. After a moment he muttered, “I think I had broken a tooth.”