“Barn.”
“Hello, Rog. Jim. Bud. Fred. Fellas.”
Barney Strecker was a jovial sort, despite all he’d been through in life. Fifteen years in the Marine Corps, twenty at CIA. He was hefty in frame. When he plunked down in the chair, there was a whoosh of escaping air. As was his custom when the president was not present, he put his feet up on the Situation Room table, revealing black python-skin cowboy boots. Fancock shook his head. Really, Barn.
“Well, gents,” Strecker said merrily, “bit of a pig’s breakfast, isn’t it?”
“Rather,” Fancock said.
“Ding-Dong on his way over?”
The assistant secretary of state’s eyes widened at Strecker’s rendition of the name of the Chinese ambassador.
Fancock and Strecker had known each other for more than two decades. After leaving the Corps, Strecker had decided to get a master’s degree in international relations. Dr. Fancock was his adviser. He liked to teach between government jobs. He enjoyed the company of bright young minds before whom he could hold forth uninterrupted for hours as they hung on every word. His seminar was “Exit Strategies in a Post-Hegemonic World.” As the title implied, its emphasis was on how to extricate from foreign-policy disasters rather than create them in the first place. Most of his students were Bletchin types: twitchy Ivy Leaguers eager to rise to the top while steering clear of the grittier trenches in which people like Barney Strecker did their apprenticeships. Fancock and Strecker were from opposite worlds, but Fancock had taken a liking to the brash Mississippian, and over the years they’d maintained their improbable, asymmetrical friendship. It consisted of a kind of role-play in which each exaggerated his own traits: Fancock, patrician, urbane, aloof, censorious; Strecker, uncouth, incorrigible, out-rageous. The template suited them. They knew each other’s buttons and liked to press them.
“Ding-Dong?” said Fancock. “Yes, His Excellency the ambassador of the People’s Republic has requested a meeting. Which is why I asked you here, along with Assistant Secretary Nadler and Admiral Goliatis and General Simms and the others. I thought it might be useful to have the benefit of your thinking. That is, before the ambassador arrives and administers me the Death by a Hundred Cuts.”
Strecker grinned. “Want to have some fun with him?”
“Not today, Barney, no.”
“Ask him about that sweet little bit of lychee he’s got stashed up in New York.”
Strecker winked at the assistant secretary of state. The military men were at pains to suppress their amusement.
“She’s in their consular department,” Strecker said, “but from what I hear, her real talent is—”
“Barn,” Fancock interjected. “Ça suffit.”
Strecker shrugged. “Only trying to help.”
“As you’re undoubtedly aware, the press secretary, in his wisdom, went ahead and scheduled a press conference for the president—tomorrow.”
“Nice timing.”
“Ours not to question why.” Fancock sighed. He turned to the others and said, “Gentlemen, I hardly need to stress the confidentiality of this discussion. Are we recording?” he said to a Sit Room aide. “If so, shut the damned thing off.” Fancock turned to Strecker. “Barn, who do we have in His Holiness’s immediate circle? Close to the body.”
“No one.”
“No one?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I must say that’s disappointing.”
“Oh, we tried. He’s one Teflon cat. Nothing stuck.”
“Are you referring to His Holiness?” said Fancock.
“Jetsun Jamphel Ngawang Lobsang Yeshe Tenzin Gyatso. Impressive fellow. Straight shooter. Not like some of your other religious types. He’s got this aura.”
“Yes,” Fancock said. “I’ve been in his company on multiple occasions.”
“The real deal. I know you Bostonians get all weak-kneed around Kennedys. Well, this guy’s got more charisma than that whole Hyannis Port clan put together.”
“Thank you for that cultural insight,” Fancock said dryly. “Why don’t we stipulate that His Holiness is a person of considerable magnetism. So why don’t we have a man on the inside?”
“Every time we turned one of his people, he knew. Right away. He’s got better antennae than a Martian. Well, he is the living Buddha, right? He finally sent us a message basically saying, ‘Cut it out, fellas. I got enough trouble as it is without them thinking I’m working with you guys.’ So we backed off.”
Fancock shook his head. “These billions we spend on the intelligence budget.”
“Don’t start, Rog. Don’t you start on that. I got assets in presidential offices, palaces, and desert tents. I got people so high up you’d need a proctoscope to find them. I’m saying it’d be easier to flip one of the twelve apostles than get inside this cat’s posse.”
“Calm yourself, Barney. I wasn’t slighting your professionalism. I was only pointing out that I wish we had some sandals on the ground in this case.”
“MSS has people in his circle,” Strecker said. “But that’s because His Holiness wants them there.”
“Why?”
“Can keep an eye on them. Feed them a little something every now and then to keep Beijing calm.” He paused. “That so-called poisoning incident last month in Rome?”
“Was that . . .”
“Hell, no. Why would they bother, now? He’s in his mid-seventies. How much longer does he have? But the whole thing has kicked up some dirt, all right. Oh, yes. There are troubled skies over Zhongnanhai. If those walls could talk.” He chuckled. “Actually, they do.”
“What’s going on?”
“Well,” Strecker said, “they had themselves a very lively discussion at the last meeting of the Standing Committee over whether to let His Holiness back in. Looks like Lo and Han are gearing up to make a move against Fa. I hope he’s got it in him to push back. A lot’s at stake here.”
“You don’t think there’s a coup coming, do you?”
“Far be it from me to instruct you on Chinese history,” Strecker said, “but if I’m not mistaken, didn’t the first peaceful transfer of power in China in four thousand years take place in—2002? We’re not predicting a coup. Yet. But Lo and Han have gotten real buddy-buddy. Brokeback Mountain.”
Fancock looked aghast. “You don’t mean . . .”
“Just a metaphor, Rog. Just a metaphor.” Strecker looked over at the assistant secretary of state. “I’m sure our good State Department is developing its own narrative about what’s going on. But if Lo and Han are fixing to make a move, oh dear, oh dear. The thought of that country being run by those two makes me want to reach for the bottle. But you’re the Harvard-educated geopolitical strategic thinker. I’m just an ex-jarhead trying to get through another day.”
Fancock asked for comments around the table. He bided his time while the assistant secretary of state dismissed everything Strecker had said as baseless nonsense.
“Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll present your views to the president.” As they were leaving, he said casually, within earshot of the others, “Barn, walk me back to my office. I need to ask you about that business in Oman last last week.”
He told Bletchin that they weren’t to be disturbed and closed the door.
“Barn, why do you do that to State every time?”
“Everyone needs a hobby.”
“What do we do? What the hell do we do?”
Strecker shifted in his seat. “Well, I know what I’d do.”
“Well?”
“You won’t like it.”
“Just tell me.”
“Ten cc’s of potassium chloride.”
Barney watched the expression on Fancock’s face. It reminded him of the bronze bust in Fancock’s home, of his ancestor, the one who’d hanged that poor Quaker woman in Boston back in 16-whenever, probably for suggesting it was all okay to put sugar on your porridge on the Sabbath.
“Barn,” Fancock said, “for God’s sake. What a
re you saying?”
“You asked.”
“Are you suggesting that I go in there and tell the president, ‘Let’s just finish him off’?”
“I’m not suggesting that he announce it during his press conference.”
Fancock was waving his hands as if trying to ward off a swarm of bees. “It’s . . . You can’t . . . It’s not . . . We don’t . . .”
“Rog. It would solve the problem.”
Fancock collapsed back into his leather chair. “I’m glad I didn’t ask you in front of the others. Judas Priest, Barney.”
Strecker grinned. “Kinda wish you had. Just to see the look on Nadler.”
“Assassinating a revered world spiritual leader . . . the Dalai Lama . . . in one of our own hospitals. In Cleveland.”
“Now, don’t go wetting your Brooks Brothers boxers. It’s not what they teach at SAIS, and it may not be the most palatable course of action. But neither is having Tibet go up in flames. And having U.S.-China relations go gurgling down the toilet bowl. Look, Rog, he’s already dying. You heard what the doctors said. Why not just . . . nudge the thing along a bit? Spare everyone a lot of Sturm und Drang. When King George the Fifth was dying, his doctor gave him a shot of cocaine and morphine so his death’d make the morning edition of the newspapers. Not a bad way to go, really, when you think about it. We can make it painless if that’s what’s—”
“It’s not the same thing, Barney! For God’s sake!”
“No need to shout. There’s no need to shout, Rog. We’ve just been served a big bowl of chickenshit. Agreed?”
Fancock nodded faintly, like a man with a pounding headache waiting for the aspirin to kick in.
“I’m saying we have the opportunity of turning chickenshit into chicken salad. And,” he added with a gleam in his eye, “make it look like Chinese cooking.”
Fancock stared. “What are you saying?”
“Make it look like they did it.”
“Accuse the Chinese of . . . killing him?”
“Walk with me, Rog. Suppose the hospital security cameras showed someone with one or two, say, distinct physical characteristics, wearing a white gown, slipping into his room. Right before His Holiness takes his last breath on this godforsaken planet. And say the autopsy report shows that he didn’t die of this cancer thing? Now, none of this would come out in public. The hospital would notify the FBI. The FBI would report it to the attorney general. And the AG would report it to the Big Guy. And the Big Guy would tell his director of national security, the great Rogers P. Fancock, to get Ambassador Ding-Dong in here, chop-chop on the double, and explain what in the hell his country is thinking, assassinating the Dalai Lama in his Cleveland, Ohio, hospital bed.
“Now, Ding-Dong—once he’s picked himself off the floor—will deny everything and denounce it as the pack of lies it in fact is. Vehemently. I would, too. But that doesn’t matter. You reach across the table, slap him upside the head a couple of times, and say, ‘You get out of my office, you lama-murdering scoundrel. You ought to be ashamed!’
“He’ll scurry on back to his embassy and call Beijing in a sweat and say, ‘What the hell’s going on? They got evidence we killed him!’ Beijing’ll say, ‘Hold on. We didn’t kill him.’ Let ’em deny it. Meanwhile, we put out word that MSS has gone rogue and is knocking off Dalai Lamas.
“The Big Guy calls Fa and says, ‘This is a damn disgrace. You people ought to be ashamed of yourselves. We’re not going public with it, but we’re going to FedEx the remains to you and we want to be seeing a nice funeral for him in Lhasa.’ Then hang up the phone.
“Now Fa, maybe he buys it, maybe he doesn’t. But now he’s got the excuse to call Lo in on the carpet—in front of the whole Standing Committee—and tear him a new one and say, ‘Look what you’ve done. We’re just lucky the White House isn’t going public with it. You’re fired. Gimme your ID badge and your BlackBerry.’ Lo can deny it all he wants, but now the momentum’s with Fa. It’s his excuse to clean house. Fa stays in power. His Holiness gets a proper funeral on home soil, China looks magnanimous, everyone calms down. What do you say? Rog? Rog old buddy, you okay?”
CHAPTER 18
ISN’T MOMMA CLEVER?
You look cheerful,” Bird said as Angel clickety-clicked in high heels toward his war room cubicle. Cheerful and quite fetching, Bird thought—all leg and cleavage today.
“Check out these nums,” she said, whapping a newspaper onto Bird’s desk. It was folded open to the headline:
U.S. PUBLIC APPROVAL OF CHINA PLUMMETS
FOLLOWING CHINA RULING ON DALAI LAMA
“ ‘Plummets,’ ” Angel cooed. “Not ‘dips,’ not ‘declines,’ not ‘falls.’ ‘Plummets.’ ”
Bird scanned the story. “Thirty points. That is a plummet.”
“Did you hear Penelope Kent this morning?” Angel said.
“She’s called for a boycott of all Chinese goods. I love that woman. Well, let me rephrase. She’s an idiot, but as Lenin would say, a useful idiot.”
“Boycott?” Bird scoffed. “Good luck with that. Look around this room. These computers. Your BlackBerry. Your three BlackBerrys. The iPhone. That—if I may—rather revealing skirt. The shoes—”
“Italian,” Angel said. “I have the sales slip. You think quality like this is made in China?”
“I still wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for any boycott of Chinese goods. The U.S. economy would come to a screeching halt in ten minutes.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious. Come on, Bird, smell the roses. Take a bow. We did it. I’m not saying there isn’t work to be done, but”—Angel lovingly caressed the newspaper—“indulge. Have a moment of wallow. Do you not feel just the teensiest bit proud?”
She was looking at him in a certain way. He wondered, Is she flirting? What happened to I-don’t-do-lobbyists?
“I feel a warm tingling sensation all over,” Bird said. “Who knows. A few more gallons of fuel on the fire and we might just have ourselves a shooting war. And then our work will be done. I see a Nobel in our futures. Maybe not the Peace Prize . . .”
“I’m on with Dragon Lady again tonight,” Angel said. “Why don’t you come along and hold my towel? I think it’s going to be sweaty.”
“It would be an honor to hold your towel,” Bird said. “But I think I’ll keep a low profile. You’re kind of radioactive these days. I mean that as a compliment.”
Angel held out her forearm. “Feel. Hot. Careful, babe, don’t burn yourself.”
True enough. Angel had made the cover of one of the news-weeklies: DUCK, BEIJING! ANGEL TEMPLETON’S GOT YOUR NUMBER!
Meanwhile it had not escaped Bird’s attention that Angel had begun calling him “babe.” Was this mimickry? She’d heard him calling Myndi that over the phone, usually in a pleading context. Or was she sending a signal? Bird couldn’t tell. He was certainly attracted. But he told himself, There be dragons there.
“Much as I’d like to sit ringside and watch you beat up on Ms. Chang, I’d better pass. You’re the star. I’m content to be the genius behind the curtain. I think the board of Pan-Pacific would prefer it that way.”
Angel sat on Bird’s desk, swiveled toward him, and crossed her legs. Those endless, stockinged legs. Her knees were inches from his chest. Bird didn’t need braille to read this body language, though come to think of it, braille would be a nice way to read it. She was smiling at him.
Bird protectively crossed his legs. “Yes?” he said. “May I help you?”
“Pan-Pacific Solutions,” Angel said. “We never really talked much about your foundation, did we?”
“You never asked.”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell?”
“You didn’t ask any questions on your way to the bank to cash our checks.”
“No complaints there. I’ve enjoyed working with you, Bird. We’ve generated some amazing synergy.”
Bird crossed his legs more tightly. “Well, great minds . . . You know . . .” He could smell her perf
ume. Why was Angel sitting on his desk like this? Why were her knees almost touching his chest? The legs. That skirt. Stop staring at her thighs.
“Pan-Pacific Solutions,” Angel said in a melodic, querulous tone. “I finally decided I should do some due diligence. So I asked the boys to do a little checking. And it turns out there’s really not a lot out there about Pan-Pacific Solutions. In fact, there’s hardly anything. It was only incorporated a week or so before you and I met. One might almost suspect”—she smiled—“that it’s a front.”
“As I told you,” Bird said, “my board consists of people who prefer to be low-key. Our motto is ‘Under the Radar but on Top of the Situation.’ ” Bird hoped Angel wouldn’t remember that was the slogan for Groepping’s stealth helicopter.
“I think,” Angel said, sounding like Marlene Dietrich, “that I would like to meet some of your board.”
“Well.” Bird laughed. “I’m sure they’d like to meet you. Especially after all the glowing things I’ve told them about you. However—”
“Aw,” she said, switching from Dietrich to Barbara Stanwyck, “aren’t you the peach?”
“No, no. Just like to give credit where credit is due.”
“Did I mention that the Times is planning a story on us?”
“No, you didn’t. That’s . . . great.”
“They have three reporters on it.”
Bird thought, Not great.
“One of them is Luke Tierney.”
Really not great.
Bird said, “Isn’t he one of their top investigative reporters?” “Oh, yes,” Angel said. “Regular beaver. Chomp, chomp. He wanted to know all about Pan-Pacific Solutions. I was my usual shrinking-violet self. But he was persistent. I finally suggested he talk to you.”
“Oh, I don’t think that would be appropriate,” Bird said. “I’m pretty sure my board wouldn’t want to see my name in the Times. I’m not in this for the glory, you know.”
They Eat Puppies, Don't They? Page 15
