“Walter. Oh, Wal-ter.”
Familiar, that voice. Was it coming from TV? Really familiar. Was it that woman on the morning show?
“Walter. Wakey.”
He felt a patting on his hand. He opened his eyes again. He peered. Blinked. Focused.
Myndi? What was she doing at the Military-Industrial Duplex? She never came there. Uh-oh. Angel. He looked around the room. No, not Military-Industrial Duplex. Where, then?
“Dar-ling?”
“Myn?”
“How are you feeling?”
“Unh.”
“You’re in the hospital.”
Hospital? Why hospital? Don’t remember being sick.
Yes, definitely Myn. She was standing by his bed, patting his hand. There was a tube going into his wrist. Tube? Not good.
“You had an accident, darling. You hit a deer. With your car.”
Deer. Um. Yes. Talking on phone, then . . . this bang.
“You’ve been talking,” Myndi said. “Going on for hours. Who’s Turk?”
He heard a faint click, and suddenly the most delicious surge of warmth and happiness went through him, like liquid sunshine. Goodness it was wonderful. It should always be this wonderful. Um. Oh, yes—morphine. Please, sir, may I have more? Yes, Oliver Copperfield.
Bird’s eyes suddenly blinked open. He looked at Myndi with alarm. “Turk! Did he get out? Did he make it?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Myndi said. “I don’t know any Turk. Is he Turkish? You’ve been going on about Turk and someone named Bouncing Betty. Who’s she?”
“Betty.” Bird smiled dreamily. “Amazing . . . ta-tas.”
“What?”
“When she’s on parade and she sticks her chest out, it sort of bursts out her uniform. The guys love it. Not Turk, though. Oh, no. Turk is by the book.”
“Walter,” Myndi said, “I won’t be angry, I promise. But were you at a topless bar or someplace like that?”
“No, no.” Bird laughed. “No, Betty’s not topless. Top soldier. Oh, tough, but heart of gold. Betty’s the only one for Turk.”
“I can’t listen to any more of this. Walter, listen to me—the police are here.”
“Police? That’s nice.”
“They want to speak to you. Why don’t I tell them you’re in no condition?”
“Why police?”
“Walter, you were in an accident. A serious accident. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”
Lucky? Three hundred pounds of meat, fur, and hoof coming through the windshield at sixty miles an hour? This a definition of lucky?
“They say you hadn’t been drinking.”
“Oh, a drink. Yes. Old-fashioned. Make it a double.”
“And some reporter from the Post has been trying to reach you. He keeps leaving messages. He won’t say what it’s about.”
“Nooooo comment,” Bird chortled.
“Why is a reporter from the Post calling you? I thought your work was secret?”
“Nooooo comment. My zips are lipped.”
“Well, you might tell me. I’m your wife. Supposedly.”
Myn. Please stop talking. Just want to feel this wonderful, excellent feeling. I’ve got a won-der-ful feeeeel-inggggg . . .
“Walter, do you work for the government? Are you some kind of agent or something? Do you work for the CIA?”
“If I tell you,” Bird burbled, “both our lives would be in danger.”
He began to hum the opening theme music to the James Bond movies.
“Turk, is he some kind of . . .? You were talking about some mission. A bomb with a timer or something. Oh, never mind. I’ll be outside. Fending off the police.”
Bird smiled as the next warm wave bore him higher and higher. He could see fishes in the waves, beautiful, many-colored fishes, backlit by the sun. Like an aquarium and stained glass, all in one.
CHAPTER 35
HAVE A VALIUM
What kind of message is China trying to send, sinking Taiwanese shrimp boats?” Chris Matthews said. “What’s that about?”
“Message?” Angel said. “Two words, first starts with f and the second with y. I could say them out loud, but we’d get fined by the FCC. It’s perfectly clear—”
“As Nixon used to say.”
“As Nixon used to say. China is sending a four-part message. One: You think we care what the world thinks? Guess again. Imagine one point three billion hands, each with the third finger raised.”
“Flipping us off? A sea of birds. What else?”
“Two: Burial in Tibet? Not gonna happen. Three: They’re totally pissed off—oops!” Angel slapped her hand. “Well, maybe the FCC isn’t watching.”
“Yeah they are. The FCC watches Hardball. They love us!”
“Beijing’s totally furious about all these demonstrations going on around the world. Demonstrations, I would add, of heartfelt, genuine, and justified indignation—”
“Hold on. Are you calling what they did to the Chinese ambassador in Denmark ‘heartfelt’? They spray-painted him orange. Saffron!”
“I know. Who knew the Danes cared? I say good for them. But I don’t think China’s going to be buying a lot of aquavit or Lego in the near future. Look, Chris, whatever else this Operation Dragon Greatness—don’t you love the name?—is, it’s a wake-up call. We simply can’t go on gutting our defense budgets this way. Not with dragons stomping about like enormous, malignant centipedes. Millipedes. Gigapedes.”
“What about this so-called muon device we’re supposedly working on, according to the Times? Muons? Sounds scary. By the way, there’s Luke Tierney’s next Pulitzer. Fabulous reporter. We had him on the show. So Project Taurus, what’s with that?”
“Well, Chris, I’m not in government at the moment, so all I know about it is what I read in the Times. But I’ll say this: I sure as heck hope we are working on something like that. Obviously this is no time to be letting down our guard. Look at England during the thirties. You end up with Hitler.”
Matthews turned to his other guest. “Winnie Chang. Thanks for coming on.”
“Thank you for having me on, Chris.”
Myndi said to Bird, “Notice how she’s toned down the China-doll thing? No silk or pearls. Looks like she just walked out of Ann Taylor. Even the hair. Subtle.”
She and Bird were in the den at Upkeep, watching with dinner on trays. It was three days since the accident. Now, his brain clear of the wonderful but fuzzy-making morphine, Bird realized that yes, he had been “lucky.” The car was a total insurance loss. But God bless German engineering. And thank you, inventor of air bags, whoever you are.
His neck was in a brace, and his left elbow felt as though lava were being injected into it. The Percocets helped some. Nurse Myndi insisted on custody of the bottle and would dole them out only one every four hours. And no, Walter, you may not wash them down with an old-fashioned.
“Observant of you,” he said. “She does look somewhat . . . Westernized tonight. The chicken is good, babe.”
“It’s the club recipe. You add canned mushroom soup. I use the low-sodium. The high-sodium tastes better, but I don’t like that sting-y feeling it leaves in your mouth.”
“So give us the view from Beijing,” Matthews was saying. “Why is China sinking Taiwanese shrimp boats?”
“Well, Chris,” Winnie Chang said, “first let us put this episode in context, shall we? It is a well-known fact that the regime in Taiwan uses vessels disguised as shrimp boats to spy on China’s coastal defenses.”
“Aw, come on.” Matthews grinned. “This wasn’t a spy boat. You saw the footage.”
“Let’s wait to see what the investigation will reveal, Chris. There may be more to this than meets the eye. But look at the incredible abuse that China has been getting around the world. Acts of terrorism against its diplomats.”
“Okay, so they painted one of your ambassadors. Terrorism? Really?”
“Chris, he was physically attacked.”
“Okay. Fair enough. I’m sure he thought it was terrorism.”
“And let us not forget that this outrage took place in the same country where they produce disrespectful, blasphemous cartoons about the prophet Muhammad.”
“Whoa! Hold on. Are you saying China, one of the most atheist countries on earth, is offended by cartoons of the prophet Muhammad? Nah. You don’t really want to go there, do you?”
Winnie smiled. “We can debate that some other time, Chris. But you know as well as I do that many of these so-called spontaneous demonstrations are being orchestrated, and even funded, by agents of provocation. I would not be surprised if Ms. Templeton’s Institute for Never-Ending War was behind some of this. She must be so pleased by this heightened tension between our two countries.
“Honey,” Angel said in her best Bette Davis tone, “it’s your people who are beating the drums and doing the war dance. Not the USA. Chill. Have a Valium. In fact, take the whole bottle.”
“It is so interesting, Chris, that Ms. Templeton is talking about pills, because from what I am hearing, there is now developing evidence that it was in fact she and another person at her war institute who first planted this outrageous lie about China trying to kill the Dalai Lama.”
“Are you all right?” Myndi said.
“Chicken,” Bird gasped. “Swallowed . . . wrong way.”
“Do you want me to hit you?”
“No!”
“Evidence?” Chris Matthews said. “You mean real evidence? We never saw Ms. Templeton’s.”
“Don’t take my word for it. After all, according to Ms. Templeton, I am an insidious Chinese secret agent or some kind of dragon woman. But there is a story in tomorrow’s Washington Post that will have much to say about all this. And I think everyone will be most interested to read it.”
Myndi said, “Did you ever call that Post reporter back? Walter? Are you all right? You’re pale.”
“Myn, can I have one of the pills?”
“No, Walter. I told you. Not until ten o’clock.”
“Babe, I need one now. Trust me. I’m in pain.”
As indeed he was.
Matthews turned to Angel. “Angel Templeton, what do you know about this Post story?”
For a moment Angel’s expression reminded Bird of the deer’s, right before impact.
“I . . . know they’re working on a story. About . . . the work we do at ICC on . . . you know, foreign issues . . . international . . . matters and such. Beyond that I . . . can’t really say.”
“Oooh,” Myndi said with glee, “she looks nervous.”
CHAPTER 36
OUGHT TO BE HANGED, THE PAIR OF THEM
Rogers P. Fancock was only halfway through the Post story but already so incensed that he had to continue reading while standing.
Phone records obtained by the Post show a series of calls to the Delhi Beast from Templeton’s private phone at the Institute for Continuing Conflict the day before the newspaper first reported that Chinese security agents had allegedly poisoned the Dalai Lama in Rome.
So after all it was these two scoundrels, Templeton and this McIntyre person? Outrageous!
Fancock scanned the remaining paragraphs in the hope of learning that the two had broken some federal law; better yet, that they had already been arrested by the FBI and frog-marched to the nearest federal detention center. Alas, there was nothing on that score. Well, rest assured Rogers P. Fancock would be taking it up personally with the attorney general.
He was still fuming when he looked up and saw he was not alone. Bletchin had crept in on little cat’s feet.
“What, Bletchin?”
“It’s Mr. Strecker, sir,” Bletchin whispered. “On the secure line. I wouldn’t have disturbed you, but I know you’ve been trying to reach him.”
“Oh, indeed I have. I most certainly have,” Fancock grumbled, reaching for the phone. Bletchin beat a hasty retreat.
“Well, if it isn’t the invisible man.”
“Rog. Did you forget to take your nerve tonic this morning?”
“Oh, no. No, no, none of that. None of that. Where in Hades have you been? I’ve been sending up flares. As long as you are on the government payroll, you may not go on disappearing at critical moments. Damn it, Barney, there’s a chain of command. You are down here, and I am—”
“Rog, you’re going to give yourself another hiatal hernia. Now, I got a pot full of honey for you. You want some, or do you want to go on ranting about the chain of command?”
“Honey?” Fancock snorted. “All right, start spooning. And it better be tasty. Did you see this story in the Post? About this Templeton creature and her accomplice, someone named McIntyre? Ought to be hanged, the pair of them. Together. From the same gallows.”
Was Barney laughing?
“Yeah,” Barney chortled. “I saw that.”
Damn it, the man was amused.
“All right, Barney. What the hell’s going on?”
“Explain later. Meantime—”
“No, no. Explain now.”
“Okay, but real quick—hell, we’ve known about those two rascals from the get-go. That Indian newspaper they used to shovel their hoo-ha? We’ve been using it for years for this kind of thing. I bet more’n half their newsroom is on our payroll.”
“You knew about this? Why in God’s name didn’t you do something about it?”
“Well, I was kind of enjoying the show. It crossed my mind they might be in the employ of one of our other sixteen intelligence agencies. But it turns out they’re just freelancing. McIntyre, as you know from the article, works for Groepping-Sprunt. So he was laboring on behalf of our wonderful military-industrial complex. The lady may actually have been operating from principle, if you’d call it that.”
“I’ll digest that in the fullness of time,” Fancock said. “But why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“Because, Rog, I don’t have ten free hours in my day to talk you into leaving well enough alone. Much as I esteem you, you do take a bit of hand-holding, you know.” Barney chuckled. “But isn’t that always the way of it? The protégé becomes the mentor, and the mentor develops acid reflux.”
“Goddamn it, Barn. They tried to start a war.”
“Tried? You seen the TV lately? I’d say they got us off to a fine start. Course, this whole thing did take on a life of its own. Still, you got to give them credit.”
“Credit? They ought to be—”
“Rog, it’s not their fault the Dalai Lama got cancer, is it? They were only trying to gin up a little anti-China mojo. As if we don’t every so often? Let’s not get too self-righteous just because they didn’t have an executive order. They just happened to get lucky—real lucky—with their timing.”
Fancock sighed. “How did the Post get this story?”
Barney chuckled. “Well, let’s just say that reporter had a real good source.”
Fancock paused. “You? You burned them? I thought you admired them?”
“Oh, I do like them. But they’re not on my payroll. I don’t owe them a damn thing. And I had an opportunity I couldn’t pass up, to do a favor for my new best friend. About whom I am just crazy. In fact, I think I may just be in love, Rog. Imagine that, at my age. I’m speaking Platonically, of course. I’m too old for the other kind, plus Harriet would shoot me, and she is good with a gun. Never teach your wife about firearms, Rog. Big mistake, but it’s too late now.”
“Who’s your ‘new best friend’?”
“Her name is Winnie. Don’t you love the name? Winnie.”
“Winnie? Winnie Chang?”
“She an acquaintance of yours? I know she does get around.”
“Of course I know her!” Fancock said hotly. “Everyone knows her. She’s a major Washington hostess. Runs the Co-Dependency Council.”
“Oh, she’s a peach. Educated, bright, funny. And that skin. But then I’ve always been partial to Asian girls. Well, as you can see, I’m just plain nuts about her.”
&n
bsp; “Barn, she plays tennis with the president.”
“My. She does get around. Does she let him win? I’ll bet she does. Minx.”
“Barn, you’re not . . . romantically involved?”
“I do love you Boston WASPs. You just can’t bring yourself to say, ‘Barn, you banging this lady?’ No, Rog. We are going to make music together, Ms. Chang and I, but of the purest professional kind. And you’re a dirty old man for asking.”
“Hold on. Are you telling me that you gave Templeton and McIntyre to Chang and she gave it to the Post?”
“Did you get that smart at Harvard, or did you take continuing adult-ed classes? Yes, Rog, that is exactly what happened. So now everyone knows that it wasn’t a Chinese plot to poison the Dalai Lama. That’ll take the pressure off Beijing and give our friend President Fa a little breathing space. More importantly, Miss Winnie will look good in front of her boss, Minister Lo. And he’ll look good, for running such a smart agent. And that’s just how we want it. He’ll be patting her on the head. From what Winnie has told me, Lo would like to be patting other parts of her anatomy. Brace yourself, Rog. Minister Lo is apparently not a gentleman. If he applies to any of your clubs up in Boston—don’t let him in. People Like Us he is not.”
“I heard he had that reputation,” Fancock said.
“Yes. Comrade Minister. Lo Guowei seems to have a real snake in his trousers. This is a bad fellow. But you don’t get to be top cop in China handing out lollipops. Admiral Zhang was an exception, and he didn’t last long. Do you wonder why Ms. Chang is willing to do the fox-trot with me, after all my years of gallant courting?”
“Why?”
“Lo has decided to recall her to Beijing at the end of this year. So he can mentor her personally. Says he’s got big plans for her. She’s going places. And she’s got a good idea where the first stop on that itinerary is. So, much as I’d like to tell you that it was my dazzling good looks and irresistible charm, the fact of the matter is, Ms. Chang is willing to play with us for reasons of self-preservation. And as motives go, I have found self-preservation to be among the more dependable.”
They Eat Puppies, Don't They? Page 24
