Third World War

by Unknown

  Song moved ahead slowly, trying to imagine what it would have been like to be here during those moments of madness.

  'He was in a cafe with friends,' Yan had told him. 'It was very sudden. They recognized him. I am very sorry.'

  The shape lit up by the crane's searchlight had been a reflection in glass. Song turned the corner, and looking down the street he saw the chaos left by the riot. Beyond that was a stillness. Nothing there had been touched, as if a line of demarcation had been drawn, or they had been stopped in time. Street lamps showed up steady drops of rain so light that he could barely feel them.

  Between the stillness and the mess was the lamp post, still working and illuminating the corpse of his son as if the body were a marionette. Yun had been hung by the neck, his head wrenched horribly back and his arms hanging limply by his sides. His feet were bare. Someone had torn his shoes off. Scorch marks showed on the left side of his body, reaching his waist. Then they must have stopped it. But by then Yun would have been dead.

  There were other lamp posts, with empty cords hanging where Yun's friends must have been murdered, then cut down. A stepladder was by the lamp post, just as Song had asked, with a knife resting on its top rung. As he approached, two soldiers noiselessly stepped out from somewhere. Song climbed the ladder. His face was now next to Yun's face, which smelt of ash. He touched the face. It didn't move, of course. But what was wrong with hoping that your son had just overslept at the end of a hangman's rope, and that his eyes might open and he might speak? But the dry and protruding tongue was wedged between the teeth, and he knew it was true.

  The death had been simple and brutal in line with Chinese culture. After you have done it once, it is not difficult to get used to killing.

  Song cut the rope and the soldiers took the weight. They carried Yun back on a stretcher, and Song walked beside him. Tomorrow would be his wedding anniversary, and Xiaomei would be safe in Vancouver, albeit dying from grief. Perhaps he would tell her that Yun was still alive and recovering. Perhaps that would save her.

  As Song approached with the body, Yan got out of the car and walked to a Jeep Cherokee behind. A captain opened up the back of the jeep, where the back seats had been pulled down and a board fitted to take the body.

  On the way to the China World Trade complex, Yan briefed Song on who would be at the meeting. Song listened, pushing out the images of Yun's death to make way for what he needed to do to win.

  The car drew up at the base of the high-rise building and stopped. 'You know what will happen if there is no agreement?' said Yan, as he opened the door to get out.

  'Do you think I care?' retorted Song, not bothering to mask the anger in his eyes.

  The owner of the building was not a politician, nor was he a member of the Communist Party. He was a Hong Kong entrepreneur who knew Jamie Song well, and was indebted to him for the help that Song had given him in expanding into Europe and the United States. He was a man respected by all the participants, which was why Song had chosen the venue and the others had agreed. He understood the forces lined up against Song.

  A lean man, with a long, thin head, the building's owner was at the bottom of the lift to meet Song and Yan. The three of them rode up together, but with no conversation apart from an initial greeting. On the twenty-fifth floor, the owner stepped out first and punched a code into a lock on the door in front of them. It clicked open. He turned on the lights and opened up the conference room, which had views over Beijing, where fires still burnt in side streets.

  'The others are next door,' the owner said softly. 'They will be with you in a few minutes.'

  Bottled water was beside each place on the table, with a notepad and a sharpened pencil. Biscuits were on plates in the middle and at the side was coffee ready to pour, and hot water for tea. No servants were on duty. That was how this gathering of three of the most powerful men in the world had wanted it. The owner withdrew.

  The first to come in was Chen Jianxiong, a corpulent, short man with a large, angry face. He was dressed in ill-fitting military fatigues. As Chairman of the Military Commission, Chen controlled the armed forces. He had demonstrated his brutish power by ordering armoured vehicles to attack the American embassy. He had revealed his genius for subtlety and mixed messages by allowing the Osprey in and out of Beijing under an air force escort. Chen was a mechanic by trade, beginning his working life in an army factory building jeeps. As a commander, he had served in the north-east, handling the North Korean border, and on the eastern seaboard, playing war games with Taiwan. He was a no-nonsense officer, exuding power and courage. He acknowledged Song with a nod, took off his military greatcoat, flung it over the back of a chair, ignored Yan, and went straight to get himself a cup of tea.

  A couple of minutes later, the General Secretary of the Communist Party, Fan Yucheng, appeared, punching the code of the combination lock himself. He stepped inside, saying nothing, taking off his overcoat and scarf. He pulled up a chair, sat down and lit a cigarette. Fan was tall with a bookish demeanor, a shock of grey hair and thick spectacles, which he removed and replaced with reading glasses. He was a structural engineer, a creator of buildings, and his credentials were in provincial administration. During his long career, he had handled Tibet, Xinjiang and Hong Kong, and had served as the Mayor of Shanghai. He was also the man who had written the political doctrine under which Jamie Song worked - Shiji Wenhua, which clumsily translated into 'pragmatic civilization'.

  It was this doctrine that was now being tested.

  Song and Chen took their seats. Yan remained standing. Although middle-aged, he was the youngest there and he knew his place. He did not speak, nor did he show any expression as the three others spoke. He waited on them, with ashtrays, water, coffee and tea, treating them each equally, efficiently, but without servility.

  Jamie Song had called the meeting, and was the first to speak. He began without reference to Yun or to the violence that they had all witnessed outside.

  'Thank you for coming,' he said softly. 'It has been a difficult time. Tokyo, Delhi, Mumbai, Islamabad, Karachi - whole societies have been destroyed. How did it ever come to this? So far China is intact. It is up to us to keep it that way. That is the service we can do tonight for the motherland.'

  Song paused, but neither of the two other men spoke. They had risen to high office by being good listeners and keeping their own counsel.

  Song continued. 'I do not want China to think of itself again as a victim - as it has done for the past one hundred years. And I do not want our future to be determined by guns, threats and massacres again. All of us here have worked hard to ensure that does not happen. Our achievements have been good. Our government, our stability, our growth are the envy of the world. In the past weeks, forces have been working against each other. Pakistan is destroyed. North Korea is destroyed. India is critically wounded. Japan is wounded. Pakistan and North Korea - these have been friendly nations for many years. India and Japan? Yes, one day we might have had to challenge them for supremacy, but did any of us wish this upon them? Tonight, I hear that Pyongyang has been destroyed by a nuclear bomb from Japan, and we have not heard from Park Ho for several hours. He may be dead. Perhaps that is good for all of us. But did any of us actively hope that this would happen?'

  Song's question was not rhetorical. He let it hang, his gaze down on the table, alert for a reaction. Fan stubbed out his cigarette, tipped another from the packet for himself and offered one to Chen. He knew that Chen had his own cigarettes. He also knew that Song did not smoke. Yan, noticing the gesture, stepped back to distance himself from the shift of alliances.

  'I haven't come here to argue my own case,' continued Song. 'I have my views and you know them and that is why you appointed me to be president. Nor do I want to fight with you. Let us tell each other where we disagree. Let us close the gap in this room tonight. Let us send the soldiers back to their barracks and move forward. For what is happening outside is bad for China. Money will stop coming in, and we migh
t not become as wealthy as we should. We are pragmatic men. We have enabled great change to happen in our country without forfeiting our culture and our system of government. We must be proud of that.'

  Fan lit his cigarette, passed his lighter to Chen, pushed the ashtray into the middle of the table and glanced up at Yan. Yan stepped forward, removed the ashtray, emptied, wiped it and returned it to the middle of the table. He walked around, filling each glass with water. Jamie Song sipped his water, edged the notepad in front of him and rolled the pencil on the table under his fingers. 'Events have moved so quickly that historians will take generations to unravel them. But let me tell you frankly, I do not want to fight America, although if we don't stop now, that will be the next stage. I believe America has been good for China. It has invested money here. It has educated me and our younger generation.'

  Abruptly, Song took his hand off the pencil. Inadvertently, he had reminded himself of his son, Yun, and the image of his body hanging in the darkened street flashed across his mind. He clasped his hands in front of his chin, looked down and recovered himself. 'It has allowed us to develop without intervention. One day, we may have to fight the US. But why not wait until we are stronger? Why not wait until our knowledge of technology is greater than theirs, our roads wider, our schools and hospitals better? I can see no reason to wage a war which may drag this country back into the dark ages. To stop war, there will have to be compromises, of course, just as there will be tonight between the three of us. But we can make that happen.'

  Song stopped, glanced up towards Yan and pointed towards the pot of coffee. Yan poured a cup and kept it black, but stirred in a lump of brown sugar, which was how Song liked it at this time of night. He brought over the cup and topped up Song's water glass again as well.

  Neither the ideologue, Fan, nor the military commander, Chen, wanted to show weakness by speaking first.

  After a decent interval, Song helped. 'Comrade Yucheng, you are the architect of Shiji Wenhua. Tell me, please, how my own plans can fit into your vision. For indisputably it is this which has guided China so successfully through the past years.'

  Fan cleared his throat, and looked at no one as he spoke. 'The party must ensure peaceful development within China. If the motherland is threatened by external forces, that is a different matter. The party must represent the fundamental interests of the overwhelming majority of the Chinese people. We do not need elections to tell us what these interests are. Our track record is proven. The party must continue on its path of economic growth and modernization. In our foreign alliances, frankly, I do not trust the United States. I applaud, Comrade President, the allegiance you have forged with Andrei Kozlov. I believe we should forge a new alliance now with India and help her recover.'

  He shrugged, dropped his cigarette, still alight, into the ashtray. 'You haven't told us which compromises would be acceptable to us and which would not. Do we sacrifice North Korea, and allow US troops on our border? Do we give up Cuba, when the Americans can send an aircraft carrier with missiles to threaten our cities at any time? Do we give way to the constant pressure to change our political system? Do we yield when they want us to hold elections, borrow their money, watch their films, read their magazines and believe in their gods? And why do they put all these pressures on us, when we have done more for our poor people than any other developing nation? With Russia and perhaps India, and under the doctrine of Shiji Wenhua, can China now become a beacon for all the poor people of the world, ruined by debt, tribalism and corruption? Has our system not been proved right? Has their system not failed time and time again? Why do we speak of compromise? These are big questions, and on them I only know one thing. When this problem began, we put down just one condition, one small condition, so that we could remain neutral and uninvolved. We asked them not to strike above the fortieth parallel, and they ignored our wishes. A British submarine fired a missile. Why? Because they wanted to draw us towards war. Why? Because they want to defeat us before we become too strong.'

  Song thought Fan had more to say, but he stopped unexpectedly, throwing the room into an unexpected silence with the shadow of an American broken promise as backdrop. Fan had drawn the lines, and there was no going back. Song wondered if he had walked into a trap of his own making; whether, after the death of his son, his judgement had gone and he had set himself up for a fall.

  'This is a good discussion,' said Chen, abruptly. He stubbed his cigarette out, stood up, leaned over the table and swept his large, stubby hand around it in a circle. 'I am not a draughtsman, so this picture is not good. But it will work. I fix cars. That is my trade. I know that the gas will not burn if sugar is in it. I know that the distributor will not fire if it is wet. I know the body will rust if it is not treated. I know these things and that is my job.' He drew the imaginary circle again. 'This is my engine. This is China. And I know she won't work if she's fucked with.'

  With Chen's bluntness came raw power. He slapped his hand down on the table. 'Here is our north-eastern border. Within a month, with North Korea defeated, South Korean troops will be here. Their factories are already in Yanji and Tumen waiting to move in. The whole of this area, which we used to call Manchuria, will be colonized. In the west, Xinjiang - Americans will destabilize it and begin an uprising. Tibet, too. In the south they'll use money and bribery, and in the east Taiwan will interfere. If we show ourselves to be weak, all these things will happen. China will break up. There will be one superpower in the world and it will not be for the world's good. And you talk about Cuba. It is I who made this agreement with Castro in 2001. I negotiated it for us. This will stay. They have missiles in Taiwan. We have missiles in Cuba. They are one hundred miles off our coast. We are one hundred miles off theirs. That is as it should be. They have sent an aircraft carrier to the Taiwan Straits to threaten us. I say, fuck them. They do that to us. We do that to them.'

  Chen sat down, withdrawing from the debate as rapidly as he had joined in. Yan hovered with tea, but Chen waved him away.

  'I am a businessman by trade,' said Song. 'My job is to negotiate and win.' He wrote the figure 1 on the pad and put a bracket around it. 'OK. So we stay in Cuba,' he announced, keeping his gaze away from Chen. He wrote the figure 2 with a bracket. 'The thirty-eighth parallel as the divide between North and South Korea remains.'

  'The regime stays in place,' said Chen, his contribution an indication that compromise was available.

  'The old regime. Park Ho will have to go.'

  'The old regime is acceptable,' said Fan. 'And its policies. No elections. No human rights lawyers.'

  'Pakistan?' said Song.

  'We keep it,' said Fan. Even in such closed company his acknowledgement of control there was surprising. 'What is left, we keep.'

  'Russia? They fought with us in Pakistan,' said Song.

  'Yes. Russia can work with us there, as it works with us in Central Asia,' said Chen.

  'Taiwan?'

  'Status quo. Nothing changes unless they change it,' said Fan. 'If they want us out of Cuba, we want them out of Taiwan.'

  'Park Ho? If he is alive, the Americans will want him. The Japanese will want him.'

  'He will not be alive,' said Chen.

  'Memed? I understand Ahmed Memed has sought sanctuary here?'

  'He stays here,' said Chen.

  'If they connect him with the suicide bomb in Times Square?'

  'He stays.'

  The Chinese were skilful at pretending they did not have issues, and until that moment the three men could have been talking as if there was no substantive conflict between them. But now Chen was staring straight at Song, arms folded, unrelenting.

  Fan waited for the new atmosphere to settle and then delivered the argument to support Chen's statement. 'If we give Memed sanctuary,' he said smoothly, 'he will deliver the loyalty of Iran and Saudi Arabia. He has influence in Central Asia and he can bring calm to Xinjiang.'

  Song wondered if there were more issues that would now arise. But the other two
fell into silence. They knew that only Song could deliver their message to Washington and argue on the television networks. And Song had now decided that however much ground he had lost, he would remain as president of China and lead the nation come what may. When his power was restored, he would move to eradicate those who disagreed with him.

  'All right,' he said slowly. 'I anticipate the outstanding issues with the US will be Cuba and Memed. I cannot see them compromising on Cuba. On Memed, perhaps.'

  'We stay in Cuba,' said Chen.

  'Do we complete the missile shipment?' said Song, using the same bluntness. Perhaps here there was room for negotiation. Missile shipments stopped. US inspection of facilities. Warheads separated.

  Chen closed his eyes and shifted in his seat. Song thought he had found a point of flexibility, but then Chen pushed back his chair and stood up. 'The Americans have smallpox. They have no strength left.'

  Yan deftly had his coat ready and held it for Chen as he put his arms through the sleeves. Yan opened the door and called the lift. The owner of the building appeared, holding the lift while Chen stepped inside, then joined him for the journey down. Yan returned to the room, resuming his position as the silent adviser.