by Clancy, Tom
“I should point out that the Chinese are usually pretty forthright about their involvements abroad,” Plummer added. “When they feel possessive about something, such as the oil deposits in the Spratly Islands, they go after them openly.”
“Which doesn’t mean much in this case,” Coffey said. “The letter from the DISC didn’t preclude the involvement of private individuals inside and outside the government.”
“You’re talking about a black economy,” the general said.
“Not just that,” Plummer replied. “Many wealthy Chinese invest overseas because constraints on ownership of businesses and property are much less restrictive than in the PRC.”
“But the illegal workers would have been what you suggest, General, a black market,” Darrell McCaskey said. “They get smuggled in for an average price of two hundred grand each. They stay indentured, working as prostitutes or cheap labor, until that sum is repaid. Since half the money they earn is sent to relatives in China, they are effectively enslaved for life. The FBI has been playing catch-up with these undocumented Chinese workers for decades. The Bureau has actually been losing ground since resources have been shifted to Homeland Security and the tracking of illegals from Malaysia, the Philippines, and the Middle East.”
“Maybe we need to change the way the search is carried out,” the general said.
“What are your thoughts?” Herbert asked.
The intelligence chief sounded challenging rather than beaten. Carrie wondered if Bob Herbert knew the meaning of the word defeat. Or humility.
“HoBOs says that Chinese-Americans represent four percent of the national population,” Carrie said. “Most of those people are concentrated in cities like New York, San Francisco, and Philadelphia. Those are not areas in which we want to see a potential conflict spread. I suggest we have a look to see if there’s a war brewing. Who takes point on that?”
“That depends where we want to run the operations,” Herbert said. “Two of our stringers, Dave Battat and Aideen Marley, are familiar with Africa. One of our local people can shoot down to Charleston.”
“That’s catch-up,” she said. “I want to get ahead of this. What kind of resources do we have in Beijing?”
“A few stringers,” Herbert told her. “Our contact with the Chinese has been in proxy settings.”
“Korea and Vietnam redux,” Plummer said.
“Well, we know how those turned out,” Carrie said wistfully. “Maybe it’s time to change the dynamics.”
“Excuse me, General, but did you see action in Vietnam?” Liz inquired.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“It’s the first time you looked away from the table,” she said. “Like you were looking back.”
Carrie felt exposed but decided that was not necessarily a bad thing. It told the group a little about her past, something that might start to earn her the respect Herbert had spoken about. Liz Gordon was wearing a slightly satisfied look, one that suggested it was exactly why the psychologist had asked the question.
The general leaned forward again. “Bob, maybe you can canvass the team and your resources, and we can have our sit-down over lunch in my office. We can go through whatever thoughts you have then and pin down a course of action.”
Herbert nodded, this time more affirmatively.
The general closed the folder, then took a sip of water. “If there’s nothing else, I want to thank you all for sharing your time and thoughts. I also want to assure you that we will never forget or slight the contributions of those who came before us—Paul Hood, Mike Rodgers, and especially the men and women who gave more than just their time and industry—Martha Mackall, Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Squires, and the heroes of Striker.”
Darrell McCaskey pounded the table lightly with the side of his left fist, a gesture of tribute echoed by everyone else in the room.
Including Bob Herbert.
And for a moment, the Tank seemed almost like home to General Carrie.
NINE
Beijing, China Monday, 10:46 P.M.
The twentieth-century Chinese Communist leader Liu Shao-ch’i once said that there could be no such thing as a perfect leader in China. The nation was too large, its population too diverse.
“If there is such a leader,” the philosopher-politician posited in a collection of his writings, “he is only pretending, like a pig inserting scallions into its nose to look like an elephant.”
Balding, stocky Prime Minister Le Kwan Po was not sure he agreed that China was ungovernable. But it was true that leading this nation of provinces with vastly different histories and needs required an individual of uncommon wisdom and resourcefulness. There is a tale told about the last dowager empress of China, Tz’u-hsi, whose reign was marked by the rise and fall of the turbulent Boxer Rebellion. The insurrection was named for the men at the center of the revolt, the secret society of the Righteous Harmonious Fists, which was founded in 1898 and fought to keep China from falling under the undue influence of foreigners. The empress approved of the modern conveniences brought by British, Russians, Japanese, and Americans, devices such as telegraphs and trains. But she disapproved of missionaries and foreign influence over Chinese affairs. It was a difficult balance to support them both.
One morning, a Boxer was captured after murdering a British businessman on his way to the embassy. The Boxer beat him to death in his carriage, the businessman’s Chinese driver having run off at the sight of the attacker. One of Tz’u-hsi’s advisers wanted the Boxer beheaded. Another counselor warned that to do so would only encourage the Boxers to hit harder. The empress allowed the execution to take place, though not for the attack on the foreigner. In her decree she stated that the man’s actions had set one of her ministers against the other and disturbed the tranquillity of the morning. For that crime, and that only, he was to die.
Le Kwan Po contemplated the complexities of gestures and appearances as his state car pulled away from the government building at No. 2, Chaoyangmen Nandajie, Chaoyang District, in Beijing. His own life was full of such careful maneuvers. For example, the prime minister had two cars. One was a Chinese-made Lingyang, the Antelope, and the other a more comfortable Volkswagen Polo manufactured at the German-run plant in Shanghai. He rode the Antelope in Beijing, the Polo in the less populated countryside.
Always a balance for appearances, he thought. Please the nationalists while holding something out for potential foreign investors.
Except for the driver, the prime minister was the only passenger in the chauffer-driven car. Typically, an aide and a secretary rode home with the sixty-six-year-old native of the remote Xizang Zizhiqu province near Nepal. But the prime minister felt like being alone tonight. He wanted to reflect on the disturbing events of the day.
He looked out the window as the car drove past the lighted monuments and palaces surrounding Tian’anmen Square. It was a hot and rainy night. Large drops ran down the window. They smeared the lights of the city—fittingly, on a day when nothing was clear. The driver guided the small sedan through narrow side streets. At this hour, in this weather, the lanes were sparsely populated with the carts and bicycles that filled them during the day. The vehicle moved quickly toward Le Kwan Po’s nearby Beijing residence on the top floor of the exclusive Cheng Yuan Towers apartment complex. The prime minister had another official home, a weekend retreat in the Beijing suburbs at the foot of Shou’an Mountain near Xiangshan Park. During the week the prime minister preferred to remain in the city. That allowed him to work as late as possible. It also permitted him to stay synchronized with the pulse of Beijing.
It enabled him to watch those who wanted his job or sought to remove him as a thoughtful, mediating influence.
The prime minister enjoyed the tranquillity of the countryside, yet that scenic, agrarian world was China’s past. The future was in the increasingly cosmopolitan capital and cities like Shanghai, with their proliferation of students and businessmen—many of them from rich Taiwan, the supposed enemy. That
was another act for an acrobat greater than any the Beijing Opera had yet produced: solving the Taiwan question. Chinese businesses were growing enormously due to investments coming across the strait. The Chinese military was being held to the budgetary levels of previous years as the threat from both Taipei and Russia was diminished. That did not make high-ranking career officers happy. Fewer commands meant fewer promotions. It caused grumbling up and down the ranks.
Though Le Kwan Po knew what the empress experienced a century ago, he did not have her wisdom. He had not fought wars and rivals, dealt with prejudice against his gender and heritage, nor had to guard against or formulate regicidal plots. He was simply a conservative career politician, the son of a schoolteacher mother. His father had been a village magistrate at twenty-one and had risen regularly to positions in town, county, municipality, province, and finally the central government. He was not the prime minister solely because of his experience in government. He was here because, unlike his colleagues, he had not made any serious missteps. His background was spotted and propped with careful alliances and cautious agendas.
Even more important than the ruthless will of the dowager empress, however, the prime minister did not have her unilateral authority to act. In addition to the president and vice president above him, there was a cabinet with very powerful and ambitious ministers and the National People’s Congress with its proliferation of special interests, both local and personal.
The current struggle between Chou Shin, head of the secretive 8341 Unit of the Central Security Regiment, and People’s Liberation Army hero General Tam Li was outside the prime minister’s experience. According to reports Le Kwan Po had received from the Ministry of State Security—the Guojia Anquan Bu, or Guoanbu—the two rivals had begun a long-simmering face down today in two foreign ports. And that was just part of the problem. Tam Li was one of those officers who was unhappy with the lack of growth in the military. If his two displeasures converged, and he wished to express them at home, he could be a formidable threat to the stability of the nation.
It was just like it was in feudal times, when every man of importance had centuries of hate behind him. Then, even if a man was willing to look past personal differences with another, the shadow of their ancestors would not allow it.
It was quite a burden, the prime minister reflected.
It was also easier to defend clan honor centuries ago, when a man was surrounded by like-minded individuals, and vast distances made confrontation an occasional matter. Today, the few men who harbored different loyalties, who had different goals, were in very close proximity. For the most part they managed to work together in the name of nationalism.
But not always.
The rain tapped on the roof. The prime minister reached into the vest pocket of his white trench coat. He withdrew a case of cigarettes and lit one. He sat back. Whenever China finally managed to reverse the trend and spread its influence around the world, there were two things he hoped. First, that his people would learn to make a car as good as a BMW or a Mercedes. And second, that they could produce a cigarette as soul-satisfying as a Camel.
The prime minister did not know how he wanted to pursue this conflict between proud, stubborn, influential members of the government. It was not a matter he wished to present to the president or vice president. Disputes between officials, even those with international ramifications, were the responsibility of the prime minister. He was supposed to be able to settle them.
Le Kwan Po wished that securing peace was as easy as sacrificing a minor third party, the way the dowager empress did with the Boxers. Of course, that only delayed the inevitable, having to deal with the rebellion itself. The foreign powers sent their own armies to China to crush the nationalists. Not only did the empress decline to stop them, she embraced their Western ways.
China did not.
The dynasty fell shortly after Tz’u-hsi’s death. Nationalist forces were so upset with her legacy that they blasted open the royal tomb, stole the riches, and mutilated her remains. The anti-imperial backlash allowed Dr. Sun Yat-sen and Chiang Kai-shek to come to power, each espousing a form of Western-style republic that opened wounds and created political and ideological chaos. It was not until Mao Tse-tung and the Communists came to power in 1949 that order was truly restored.
That had been a proud time, centuries in the making. Le Kwan Po remembered hearing his father read of the events from newspapers that were published in a tiny print shop in their small village of Gamba. The prime minister’s uncle set type there in the evening. During the day, he worked in a quarry that was literally in the shadow of Mount Everest. The young Le could still vividly remember the joy in his father’s voice as he read about the end to the civil war that had tortured a nation already bleeding from the long war with Japan. He was almost giddy about the victory of the Communists over the republicans—who had the temerity to call themselves nationalists—certain it would help those who had to work all day, every day, just to support a small family in an extremely modest lifestyle.
When the newspaper was closed by the new regime, Le Kwan Po’s uncle was asked to stay on to typeset a new weekly publication, Principles from the People’s Administrative Council. The young boy was as proud as he could be when he attended the new school that the Communists opened in Gamba, and he was selected to read the first issue to the class.
The senior members of the current government—this prime minister included—remembered the taste and feel of disorder. They did not want to see it return, not as a result of student demonstrations in Tian’anmen Square or from disagreements among powerful members of the government.
The prime minister exhaled smoke through his nose. He thought about the fake elephant of Liu Shao-ch’i. Somehow, he would have to convince the warring forces that he was a dragon. That the only way to defeat him was to put their differences aside and join forces.
Le Kwan Po did not know how he was going to do that. All he knew was one thing.
That it had to be done, and done quickly.
TEN
Beijing, China Monday, 11:18 P.M.
Chou Shin, Director of the ultrasecret 8341 Unit of the Central Security Regiment, sat in his fifth-floor office of the old Communist Party Building. It was located in the shadow of the Forbidden City, site of the palaces of the deposed despots who had run China for centuries. The six-story-tall brick structure had been built in the 1930s on the site of the Yuan Chung Silver Shop, one of the oldest banks in the city. The Communists had torn down the pavilionstyle institution to prove that the old ways were gone and a new era had begun. It was in Chou’s very office that the war against Chiang Kai-shek was planned and executed.
The structure itself had brick walls, copper ceilings, and pipes that groaned with their inadequacy to cope with the demands placed on them. There were several small windows along one wall, but the shades were drawn, as always. The director had the heat turned on, not only to chase out the chill of the stormy night but to generate white noise. It helped to befuddle any listening devices that might be present.
The seventy-one-year-old Chou was waiting for an intelligence update from an operative in Taipei. What they were planning was dangerous. But as the day had proved, so was inactivity.
While he waited, Chou reviewed what he called his cobblestone data, intelligence that was pulled from the street. This collection was done by a combination of paid informants, operatives who habituated bars and restaurants, hotel lobbies, and train depots just watching and listening, and electronic eavesdropping. Vans from the CSR drove through the streets of Beijing listening to cell phone conversations and intercepting the increasing number of wireless computer communiqués. Although the CSR had sifters on the staff who went through the raw data, what ended up crossing his desk had still managed to double in the course of a year. He could not imagine what it would be like two or three years hence. Perhaps, like the American CIA, they would be forced to listen for just key phrases like terror plot or bomb threat and let t
he rest go by.
Years ago, the CSR list would have been a short one. During the late 1950s when Chou was recruited for the organization, the primary task of the 8341 Unit was to see to the personal security of Mao Tse-tung and other Communist party leaders. But the elite division of the People’s Liberation Army was more than a bodyguard unit. It also ran a nationwide intelligence network to uncover plots against the chairman or senior leadership. Chou himself, a former telephone lineman in the PLA, was part of the team that had discovered electronic listening devices in Mao’s office, hidden in the doorknob. The young man’s first promotion was to the counterinsurgent unit, assigned with executing surveillance of Mao’s rivals. The 8341 Unit was a key participant in the 1976 arrest of the Gang of Four, the group that attempted to seize power after the death of Mao. After that, the unit was officially disbanded. Mao’s successor, Teng Hsiao-P’ing, wanted to make a point of “decommunizing” the nation and its institutions. However, hard-line Communists like Chou resisted the change. Unlike many leaders before him, Teng decided it was prudent to acknowledge the wishes of the Chinese people and not just the Chinese elite. The deputy premier quietly but quickly reinstated personnel and organizations he had removed. Most immediately, the one that was responsible for his personal protection.
Today, the 8341 Unit was responsible for uncovering plots against the regime. Their sphere of activity centered upon China and the breakaway republic. Since the Tian’ anmen Square uprising in 1989, few dissidents had undertaken public displays against the government. Private activity was still relatively abundant but unthreatening, limited to pockets of philosophers, failed entrepreneurs, foreign-born firebrands, and disenfranchised youths who wanted fashionable Western clothes. At present, none of them represented a serious threat against the government. The only potential source of danger was the PLA, where one reckless, ambitious man might control the loyalty of tens of thousands of troops.
