by Clancy, Tom
A number of old-school members of the government did not like the idea of commissioning work from other nations. Stealing blueprints and technology was acceptable, a legitimate function of the state. Paying for it was to admit a need, to show weakness. A technologically advanced satellite could not compensate for a bowed head. Men like Chou Shin were unyielding in matters like that. What Le did not know was whether they were willing to promote internecine warfare.
The security arrangements were no different than they were for other launches. Unless he could forge some kind of peace very soon, that would have to change. Chou and Tam Li both had access to the old codes. They knew the standard distribution of manpower throughout the site and what areas engineers would be watching as the countdown progressed.
They knew that this was the centerpiece of the National Day celebration honoring the founding of the People’s Republic of China.
Something would have to be done about this. Le would try reasoning with the men, though that had never worked in the past. Perhaps now, with their feud becoming public, their attitude would be different. A news report from Taiwan had just arrived. It underscored the need for someone to take control of this situation. Bulletins from the breakaway republic were automatically sent to all Chinese government officials. Le read about the attempted arrest at the Taipei hotel. The Cho-Chiun was a safe house for Chinese spies. There was no doubt in his mind who the police had been pursuing. He would be interested to find out how they tracked the men there. He called the vice chairman of the Standing Committee on Regional Security to see if he knew anything more. The vice chairman had been up since hearing of the nightclub bombing. He had confirmed through intercepted radio transmissions what Le had suspected, that the Taipei Municipal Police had been given assistance by Interpol. The SCRS did not know who had provided the international police with their information.
To clear his mind, the prime minister also reviewed an updated guest list for the reception he would be hosting the following evening. A few ambassadors had been added, and several journalists had been removed. Leading academics in the sciences and arts would also be attending. Le’s daughter Anita was among them. The forty-year-old woman was a professor of literature and head of the doctoral arts program at Beijing University. Poised, articulate, and lovely, she was a favorite of the premier. Le often said, only partly in jest, that it was her status that had given him job security rather than vice versa. The cocktail party was in honor of the fifty-eighth National Day. The reception was an opportunity for people to mingle and exchange ideas.
At least, on the surface.
When he was ready, Le Kwan Po lit a cigarette and went to the sitting room adjoining his office. The foreign minister was pacing, Chou Shin was sitting in a red leather armchair with his chin on his chest and his eyes shut, and General Tam Li was tucked against one side of a white sofa, his right arm poised on the armrest as he stared straight ahead. He was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette stuffed with strong Hongtashen tobacco. He was catching the ashes on a copy of the newspaper resting under his elbow. Only the foreign minister reacted to the prime minister’s arrival.
“Is everything all right?” De Ming asked solicitously.
“We would not be here if it were,” Le said as he shut the office door. He walked toward the men. The prime minister did not apologize for making them wait. General Tam Li continued to stare ahead. Chou woke and sat up straight. “Did any of you see the latest report from Taipei?” Le knew they had not, since the time stamp was 4:29 A.M. They all looked over.
“What has happened now?” De Ming asked. The man’s hovering attentiveness was replaced by real concern. Not just about the event but for knowledge the prime minister possessed that he did not.
Le sat in a rocking chair. He leaned forward and took an ashtray from the coffee table by the sofa. He told the three men about the explosion at the Taipei hotel and the subsequent escape of the bombers.
The men seemed surprised by the news—for different reasons, the prime minister suspected.
“Do the Taiwanese police know who the hotel guests were?” Chou asked.
“Which information is the director of the Guoanbu concerned about?” General Tam Li asked as he blew smoke from the side of his mouth. “The names of the men or the fact that Taipei might have identified them?”
Chou did not reply.
The prime minister regarded the spy chief. “I would like to know the answer to that, Director Chou.”
The seventy-one-year-old hard-liner snickered. “Is that why we were called from our beds? To be interrogated by an amateur?”
“The technique is not important. The information is,” the prime minister replied. “It is no secret that the distinguished director of the Guoanbu and one of our most honored soldiers are not getting along. The foreign minister has kept me informed about attacks against Chinese interests abroad. These incidents do not seem to have been random. I hope both of you can tell me more about them.”
The foreign minister did not look happy. The prime minister did not care. Le wanted these men to know that De Ming Wang was a self-serving opportunist and not a potential ally.
“My interest in Taipei is professional,” Chou replied. He regarded Tam Li for the first time. “As for this honored soldier, the general and I have a very different vision of China and its place in the world. My views are in accord with the values and policies of the Zhōngúo Gòngchandang . His are not.”
Chou was near reverent when he mentioned the Communist Party of China. The spy master obviously did so to suggest that an attack on him was an attack against the nation itself.
“General?” Le asked.
“I do not intend to sit here as my devotion to our nation and its party are questioned,” Tam Li replied. His mild surprise at the news from Taipei had diminished. He continued to look ahead and not at anyone in the room. “Director Chou has failed to answer the prime minister’s question. I would like to know the answer as well. I would also like to know whether the resources of the Guoanbu are being used in ways other than their regulations permit.”
“Is there evidence of this?” the prime minister asked. He looked from the general to the spy chief. Until Le had more information—any information—he did not wish to take sides. Ultimately, there might not be a need to. Not if he could get the men to do that work for him.
Neither man spoke. Le did not bother asking the foreign minister. De Ming would not say anything, even if he knew.
The prime minister drew on his cigarette. He exhaled slowly. He had the authority to empanel a Special Bureau of Investigation to examine these matters. The ten-member group would be hand-picked by the minister of justice from among the representatives of twenty-three administrative divisions of China. Because the members came from outside the executive branch, the legislative branch, and the military, an SBI was generally unbiased and untouchable. The representatives were prohibited, by law, from seeking higher office. They had nothing to gain by coloring their findings.
But an SBI would not act quickly. And the prime minister needed immediate results, especially if the launch might be at risk. He also needed to keep the foreign minister from moving against him.
“Does the foreign minister have any comments?” Le asked.
“Chinese citizens were killed in the United States and Taipei,” De Ming said. “I would suggest at the very least an oversight committee be formed to collect information from foreign sources.”
“To place blame or redirect it?” General Tam Li asked.
Le regarded the officer. “I ask again, General. Do you have information you wish to share?”
“None,” Tam Li told him. “Only an observation. Absent détente, this situation will escalate.”
The prime minister did not bother to ask him how or when. No one seemed to want to say anything incriminating, something that might help an opponent. “What would it take to establish peace?” Le asked.
“There can be no peace without a singular vision,”
Chou said. “We have a system of beliefs in China, one established by great men. One put in place through the sacrifice of millions of lives. There can be no deviation from that.”
Tam Li rolled what was left of his cigarette between his fingers. His pale eyes were fixed on the glowing tip. “The number of smokers in China surpasses the population of the United States. Should all of us smoke the same brand? Should those who do not smoke be forced to do so? I am told by my physician that millions of souls have died for that right as well.”
“Your comments are sickening,” Chou snapped. “They diminish the sacrifice others have made.”
“I had hoped to provide perspective,” Tam Li replied quietly.
“You failed,” Chou said. “Mr. Prime Minister, this meeting is pointless, and I am tired.”
“You should consider retiring,” the general said and then looked at the spy chief. “To bed, I mean.”
Chou Shin regarded the prime minister. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
“Not at the moment, thank you,” Le replied. The spy chief had just given him what he needed.
The head of the Guoanbu bowed slightly toward the foreign minister, then to the prime minister, then left.
“Ideologues are easy to bait,” the general said.
“Why did you want to?” Le asked. “You do not advocate our political philosophy?”
“I support the land,” Tam Li replied. “I support China, whatever form that takes. One day it is a dynasty, an empress, one day it is a party called Communism. The next day we are all looking the other way as Hong Kong and Taiwan force us to tolerate new ideas.”
“Not everyone tolerates them,” the foreign minister pointed out.
“No. Director Chou does not. Others do not. As a general, I have been trained to watch and evaluate the currents of battle. This one, the one Director Chou is fighting, is a losing one.”
“Do you think the director loves China any less than you, less than any of us?” Le asked.
“No. But he is a jealous lover.”
“A violent one?”
General Tam Li smiled self-consciously. He put the stub of the cigarette between his lips, then carefully folded the paper full of ashes. He stood and dropped the paper in a wastebasket. Then he walked over to the prime minister and put his cigarette in the ashtray.
“No, Mr. Prime Minister,” the general said.
“He is not a violent man?” Le asked.
“No—I will say nothing more,” Tam Li continued. “Director Chou and I share this much: the belief that a man fights his own battles.”
“Such battles could hurt China,” the prime minister pointed out.
“Internal struggle, however painful at the time, invariably strengthens the host. It builds new defenses, discards aspects of a system that do not work. If the system fails, it was not healthy to begin with.”
“We are talking about escalating attacks on Chinese holdings, not debates in the People’s Congress,” the prime minister complained.
“You are just giving us idealistic words and sweeping ideas,” the foreign minister added impatiently.
“What is Communism if not that?” Tam Li asked.
The foreign minister threw up his hand in disgust. Then he excused himself and left the room. The prime minister set the ashtray aside and rose. “General, I don’t care whether you and Director Chou claw each other to pieces,” he said. “I am not worried about the survival of China. I am, however, very concerned about the launch of the Red Eagle on Thursday. Your command will use it to link communications that are currently using landlines.”
“That is a piggyback function,” Tam Li replied.
“One of many, yes,” Le said. “That is why the Ministry of Science turned to a foreign firm to build the mainframe. Their design allowed us to plug in multiple utilities, to consolidate what would have been several launches into one. I am concerned that your conflict with Director Chou may affect that launch.”
“I don’t see how I can help you,” Tam Li said. “We have a strong philosophical difference.”
“Yes, and it has taken physical form, like the spirit in the old story of Zong Dingbo and the Ghost,” the prime minister said. “In that form the ghost was able to destroy and to be destroyed.”
“As I recall from my childhood, it was a careless ghost,” the general said. “But a ghost must be a ghost, whatever the consequences.”
“The satellite is bigger than your dispute,” Le said angrily. The prime minister was too practical for this. Like Director Chou, Tam Li was a man who would follow principle through the gateway to hell.
“Do you know what our argument is about?”
“You sell people,” Le said. “At least, that is what I am told.”
“It is not true, Mr. Prime Minister. I collect an honorarium for advice, for helping other men conduct trade.”
“Slave trade—”
“Not to me and not to them,” Tam Li said. “These are people who want to leave China, people who do not want to be a part of Director Chou’s world. Like me, they want to make more money. Unlike me, they leave. I collect my legal fee for the same reason that my soldiers gamble or occasionally traffic black market goods. Because we do not make enough money to raise and educate our families. In Russia, men in my position are selling outdated weapons. In the United States, some men sell military secrets. China benefits from both because our government is willing to pay them. We, who offer our lives in the defense of our nation, must make do with what the government has left. Which is not very much.”
“Soldiers are always underpaid,” Le said. “But they do not have to depend on crops or tourists or the whims of commerce to earn a living. Their salary may not be substantial, but it is regular. They are never hungry, and they always receive medical attention.”
“Until new technologies reduce our numbers,” the general said. “You know as well as I that even exotic hardware like the Red Eagle is going to reduce the need for communications units. The new Song-class submarines require half the crew of the older models. In my lifetime I may become redundant. I do not farm. I do not weave. I will not beg to give Japanese and American visitors a tour of the Great Wall. You may not like it, and Director Chou absolutely does not like it, but I stand for many, and I will not back down. Tell me, Mr. Prime Minister. Are you asking me to do so because I happen to be the last one here, or do you agree with Director Chou?”
“I cannot sanction what you do, but I do not support Chou’s actions.”
“You won’t tell him that, though, because he represents the party, and the party is the embodiment of Mao,” the general said. “To challenge him is to challenge the great revolutionary.”
Le said nothing.
“Then I suppose I stand for you as well,” Tam Li said. “I will resist the assault of Director Chou Shin because his China belongs to another century. We evolve, Mr. Prime Minister. We always have. With our diversity of people and cultures and even climates, we have no choice. If we don’t, we will fracture.” He smiled. “What kind of love can exist without a big and enlightened embrace?”
Tam Li left, his shoes squeaking as he crossed the blue carpet. New shoes. The prime minister looked down. His own shoes were not new.
And his ideas? the prime minister wondered.
Le went back to his office. He looked out the window at the soft arrival of dawn. He did not know what he had accomplished by bringing everyone together, other than to confirm what the two men were thinking, feeling, and in some cases doing. His desire to separate them and then reason with the one he hoped was the more tractable had not worked. He had not even neutralized a potential threat from the foreign minister. De Ming had been driven, slightly, toward the side of Director Chou. The general was a closet capitalist, someone who still performed his job and was a danger to no one who did not get in his way. Chou was an idealist, someone with the means and allies to attack anyone who did not share his vision.
That could include
the prime minister. It could include a scientific project that enriched foreign corporations.
But the night was not a complete loss. Le had realized something. His problem might be bigger than he imagined. General Tam Li stood to lose something, too, with the successful launch of the Red Eagle. What the PLA gained in efficiency it surrendered in manpower. And as Tam Li had suggested, a general without troops is not a general. He is a retiree.
Tam Li and Chou Shin both had something to gain by the destruction of the satellite. Unfortunately, this was also true:
If either of them won, Le Kwan Po lost.
TWENTY
Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:00 P.M.
Paul Hood was baffled by the president’s comments about marines being seconded to Op-Center. For one thing, the ambassador would have told the president if he had requested additional security for the embassy. For another, that was an expansion of the NCMC, not a scaling down. Perhaps it represented a honeymoon period for General Carrie, a chance to let her reorganize according to her own vision. But Maryland Senator Luke Murray, the new head of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee, was even more frugal than his predecessor Debenport. Hood did not see anyone convincing the senator to spend money, let alone to revive a military contingent that had recently been abandoned.
Unless there was something going on that Hood knew nothing about. That was certainly a possibility. It was also possible that the president had not been informed. Not every intelligence operation was written up and placed on his desk. Hood hoped to find out more by seeing General Carrie. He called before leaving the White House. Bugs Benet had been happy to schedule the appointment, but there was a new formality in his voice. That was understandable. Bugs had a different boss now. Each man asked how the other was doing. There was something guarded and unnatural about their responses. Perhaps Carrie discouraged familiarity in her team.
