They Eat Puppies, Don't They?

by Christopher Buckley

  “Rog,” the president said in dolorous tones, “we need to get this goddamn thing behind us.”

  Which left the unhappy Fancock to relate, in sepulchral tones, that he had just that moment gotten off the phone with the Dalai Lama’s people, who were declining the kind offer of burial in Arlington National Cemetery. With all due respect, His Holiness preferred not to rest in a necropolis of soldiers. They were still, against all logic, holding out hope of burial in Lhasa.

  And now no country wanted the Dalai Lama’s body, for fear of triggering China’s wrath. India, where His Holiness had resided all these years, had formally demurred, citing some obscure provision in its health code about repatriation of non-Hindu remains. Outrageous! But not everyone was refusing. No—Taiwan was eager to have the honor! They were offering to build him a funeral monument “that would be visible from the mainland.” Wonderful. And won’t that just solve everything?

  “What, Bletchin?”

  “Mr. Strecker, sir, on the secure line.”

  “Very well.”

  “Sir, are you feeling . . . all right?”

  “Why, Bletchin?”

  “You look a bit tired.”

  “I am, Bletchin. And years from now, when you’re sitting in this chair, you, too, will know the meaning of true weariness. But thank you for asking. Hello, Barney.”

  “You sound kind of beat. You all right?”

  “I’m taking it one day at a time. What fresh hell do you have for me today? Dorothy Parker said that. I’m going to have it put on a sign over my door.”

  “I got something’ll put a big smile on that Brahmin face of yours. You remember me telling you about my new best friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “She and I have had the most beautiful meeting of minds. I just love working with this lady. Wish we’d gotten together before. The music we could have made. But never mind all that. Rog, the three of us—you, me, and Ms. Chang—are going to put on a performance. And you, my friend, you got the lead part! I’m going to make you a star. How about that? You didn’t even have to sleep with the producer. Rehearsals start tomorrow morning. Tell your dogsbody Bletchin to carve out some quality time on your schedule for me. I’m catching an Uncle Sam red-eye. Be there first thing in the morning.”

  “Should I bother to ask where you are at the moment?”

  “San Diego. With my other new best friend. You remember him?”

  “Yes. That’s nice. It’s hard to make new friends—at my age anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Fancock was wondering what this was about, but he was too tired to worry about it.

  “Yes, Bletchin?”

  “Sir, it’s a Mr. Charles Devlin calling for you? He says he’s the CEO of Groepping-Sprunt, the aerospace giant.”

  “I know who he is, Bletchin. Why is he calling?”

  “He declined to tell me, but he insisted that you would want to take the call.”

  “They all say that. Oh, very well. But in five minutes come back in and announce in a loud voice that the president wants to see me right away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Devlin. Rogers Fancock. How can I help you?”

  Bletchin entered five minutes later and said in a loud voice, “Sir, the president is asking for you.”

  Fancock made a cross face and waved him off.

  Bletchin retreated, feeling somewhat brusquely used. But whatever it was had put some color back in the chief’s face. He’d been looking so gray lately.

  Twenty minutes later Fancock buzzed Bletchin back in. The chief looked pink and animated.

  “Bletchin, get me that damn monk, Jigpong. And don’t let them tell you he can’t come to the phone because he’s praying, the way they did the last time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bletchin.”

  “Sir?”

  Fancock sighed. “What is his name? I wrote it down somewhere, but I can’t find it.”

  “Jangpom, sir. Jangpom Gad—”

  “Got it. Quickly, man. Quickly.”

  “Sir, I have His Reverence on line one for you.”

  “Well done, Bletchin. Your Reverence? Rogers Fancock here, at the White House . . . Yes, and good afternoon to you, sir. I trust you and the other reverences are holding up? . . . Excellent. I’m calling with what I think is very positive news . . . Yes. I think we have a solution to our situation. In fact, I dare to think you’ll find it not only dignified but also rather exciting . . . Well, the idea is for you to proceed with your rituals. Stupa, I believe it’s called, if I’m not mistaken? . . . Yes. The wrapping and anointing and all the rest . . . Oh, I’m a big believer myself in tradition. Where I come from we . . . well, never mind that. But now once all that’s taken care of, His Holiness would be placed inside a . . . satellite . . . Satellite . . . Yes . . . Sputnik? Well, yes, but that was a very long time ago. The ones now are ever so much more advanced . . . Why a satellite? Well, I’ll tell you why. And this is the part that I think makes this such an elegant solution. You see, the satellite would be launched and go up there into the, you know, upper atmosphere and then take up geosynchronous orbit over—. . . Geosynchronous? Ah, how to explain . . . Essentially, the satellite would—I don’t know if hover is quite the right word, but it would be positioned directly above Lhasa . . . Um-hm. Exactly. Directly above. Smack dab above the Potala Palace. I hope I’m pronouncing that correctly . . . Good . . . Yes, I understand that’s where many of the previous dalai lamas are resting. So His Holiness would be up there looking down on them, and they’d be down there looking up at him. I find that . . . a lovely thought . . . How do they do it? Golly, Your Reverence, don’t ask me to explain. I’m no physicist. But I assure you they can. Oh, yes. Our scientists are . . . well, of course I’m biased, aren’t I, but I’ll put our scientists up against anyone’s. Mm . . . Mm . . . Um-hm . . . Really? That’s just wonderful, sir. I couldn’t be more pleased. So you’ll put it to the other reverences? . . . Marvelous. Marvelous. And you’ll let me know straightaway? I can’t thank you enough . . . Sorry? . . . Well, they’re not cheap, but—. . . Oh, no. No, no, no, sir, we wouldn’t dream of billing you for it. It would be an honor. A great honor. A gesture of our country’s respect and esteem for His Holiness . . . Oh, you’re very welcome. Very welcome indeed . . . Yes, and a very good day to you, sir.”

  CHAPTER 41

  BEWARE OF AMERICANS BEARING LOTUS

  Fa had readily agreed with his new best friend, the American president, that it was indeed an “elegant solution.” General Han viewed things otherwise, with characteristic asperity.

  The minister of defense had been rattling on for ten minutes, fulminating about the “Trojan horse” the treacherous Americans had devised. Fa wondered if Han had ever read The Iliad. He rather suspected not.

  “And, Comrades, is it necessary to point out who is the manufacturer of this thing? This so-called satellite? Groepping-Sprunt! The same company that is at work on their muon weapon!”

  Fa conceded that this was an inconvenient detail. But the American president had explained, with convincing sincerity, that Groepping was in fact a maker of satellites and, moreover, had one “on the shelf, ready to go.”

  “Comrade General, I have been in regular contact with the American president—”

  “Oh, yes.” Han smiled. “We know—don’t we, Comrades?—how much you enjoy talking to him. Did he send warm greetings to the rest of us? We’re starting to get jealous!”

  Laughter.

  No, Fa told himself, don’t.

  “As I was saying,” he pressed on, “I have been in close communication. And I am persuaded that he wants to resolve this situation as much as we do. Meanwhile our goods are piling up on the docks in Shanghai. Stacks of containers, getting higher and higher. Do we want them to become as high as our skyscrapers? Surely not.”

  “You worry about exports,” Han said. “Let me worry about the security of China.”

  Murmurs.

  “I assure you,
Comrade General,” Fa replied, “China’s security is my utmost concern.”

  “Is it? Well, if you say so, then I am glad to hear it.” Han looked about the room. “Comrades, I am not a man of words. I am not the clever speaker that Comrade President Fa is. I’m a simple man.”

  Fa suppressed a groan. Here it comes: the peasant-warrior speech. The moving anecdote about how Hua Guofeng personally pinned on him the Red Star Meritorious Honor Medal for killing all those North Vietnamese “dogs.”

  “But there is nothing simple about my love of our country.”

  Murmurs.

  Fa thought, Wait. I have heard that before. From an American politician . . . who stole it from a British politician! Wasn’t there some big fuss over it? No, don’t say anything. You can have a laugh about it later, with Gang, in the bathroom. Where you spend most of your time these days. Meanwhile General Han’s verbal tank clanked on.

  “And I believe with this red peasant heart”—he patted his chest—“that beats in my breast for China that this is a trick by the Americans. A trick we must not allow, Comrades!”

  Murmurs.

  Fa said, as gently as he could manage, “Comrade General, even if we all agreed that this was the case—which I with my red peasant brain remain convinced that it is not—even if we all agreed, what can we do about it? Are you suggesting that I phone the American president and say, ‘No, sorry, we can’t allow this.’ They do not need our permission. He is only extending us the courtesy of informing us of their plan.”

  “I’ll tell you, Comrade,” Han shot back, “what you can tell him. Tell him if they proceed with this plan to position this insulting object above Chinese soil—and surely we do not need to discuss whether the Tibetan Autonomous Region is Chinese soil—”

  Murmurs. Oh, yes, General, we’re with you there.

  “—that China will consider this a violation of its airspace!”

  “Airspace?” Fa said. “Two hundred and forty-five miles above Chinese soil? That’s very thin airspace. There are already numerous satellites in our ‘airspace,’ if you’re going to call it that.”

  “Then perhaps, Comrade, it is time that China asserted its legitimate rights.” General Han turned to the others. “The heavens above, Comrades, are they not ours, as much as the earth below?”

  “WELL,” GANG SAID TO the accompaniment of what he and Fa now called the Symphony of the Faucets, “you did what you could. Perhaps if the satellite were made by some other company . . .”

  “Certainly that did not help. But really, Gang, I nearly gagged when he launched into that peasant-warrior bit. Still it was smart of the old boy to drag the Trojan horse into the room. It was stupid of me not to have anticipated that.” Fa laughed. “Beware of Americans bearing Lotus! What a durable metaphor, that Greek horse. Nearly three thousand years now. Not as old as China, but . . . Well, no sense in shedding tears. There’s enough water in here as it is. If I were chairman of the Central Military Commission, I could overrule him. But if I tried to now, who can say how that would go.”

  Fa held out his glass to Gang, who held up his. “Now it is up to the vine. Either it must flourish”—clink—“or we must perish.”

  Gang mused. “If you said that in English, it would rhyme.”

  CHAPTER 42

  MARVELOUS SKIN

  Do you know, Barn, I feel a bit nervous,” Fancock said, “as if I were going out on a date.”

  “You are,” Barney said, “and with a dazzling lady. I feel like I’m sending my teenage boy off to the prom again. You got your lines in your head?”

  “Yes. I’ve been rehearsing. I was in the bathroom this morning going over them, and Dorothy came in and heard me. Didn’t know what to make of it.”

  “The maître d’s palm has been greased. He’ll put you in the corner table, nice and cozy. The reservation’s under the name ‘Plymouth.’ I thought you’d like that.”

  “Very thoughtful.”

  “There’ll be a young couple at a table at two o’clock to yours. Newlywed types, smooching, taking pictures of each other on their big night out in Washington, D.C. They’re mine.”

  “Will the Chinese have people there?”

  “Oh, yes,” Barney said. “That’s why we had you call your date at her office to invite her out. MSS listens in on all her calls. But just to make sure everything would look on the up-and-up, she made sure to call MSS after you called. To report the contact. So they’ll have the restaurant wired seven ways from Sunday. As, indeed, will we.” Barney laughed. “There are going to be more microphones at the Old Angler’s Inn than in a recording studio. And you’ll be going out live.”

  Fancock considered. “Well, now I am nervous.”

  “You’ll be fine. But don’t overdo it. This isn’t Hamlet. Just be your pompous old Boston self and you’ll kill. And remember—don’t go into any detail about what’s in the envelope that you’re slipping her.”

  “You told me that already. Twice.”

  “Just slide it on over to her. You might do a little arching of the eyebrow. That ought to be easy enough for you. Say something brief, like, ‘I must tell you, Ms. Chang, we are sorely disappointed. This is not the way great nations behave.’ All huffy like.”

  “I do not sound like that.”

  “Funny, I thought it was pitch-perfect. All right, time you hit the road. You going to be okay driving?”

  “Barney. I can drive.”

  “Just figured you might be a little rusty, being chauffeur-driven everywhere these days.”

  “I’m perfectly capable, thank you.”

  “Okay, then. Now, remember, your country’s counting on you.”

  “That’s what they told us before lowering us over the side at Inchon. Well, let’s hope this is less messy.”

  “Rog?”

  “Yes?”

  “No footsie under the table, now.”

  “I’ll try to control myself.”

  THREE HOURS LATER Fancock was back in his office with Barney, drinking eighteen-year-old scotch.

  “She is lovely, I must say. Marvelous skin.”

  “Down, boy. Told you.”

  Barney took a digital recorder out of his pocket and put it on the coffee table in front of them. “Care to review your performance?”

  “Not the entire performance.”

  “Greatest hits, then.”

  I appreciate your willingness to meet with me.

  I am happy to help. This is a difficult time for both our countries.

  Normally I would have taken this to Ambassador Ding, for whom I have the greatest respect. But because of the extreme sensitivity of this material, to say nothing of its potential volatility, I thought this matter might be better handled outside normal channels.

  I understand. This was also done during the Cuban Missile Crisis.

  Yes. And with good result. Which I am very much hoping for here. Though I must say, Ms. Chang, my government is very disappointed. Gravely disappointed. I’m not here to lecture. But this is not how great nations conduct themselves.

  Barney clicked Off.

  “Nice, Rog. ‘Gravely disappointed.’ You sound like a boarding-school headmaster.”

  “I’ve had experience of that species.”

  Play:

  When you examine the contents of this envelope, you’ll appreciate why I did not take this to Ambassador Ding.

  Why?

  Ambassador Ding operates out of your embassy. It would be difficult if not impossible for him to keep this information from being seen by your security services, the MSS.

  I would not know about such matters. I am a trade representative, as you know, Mr. Plymouth.

  Stop.

  “She was flirting with you. Flirting! I think she likes you, Rog.”

  Play:

  Yes, whatever the case, I’m hoping that you will contrive a way to get this information into the right hands, Ms. Chang. Much depends on this. Our hope—our very earnest hope—is that this was not authorized
by your government. If it was . . . well, let’s just hope it wasn’t.

  “Were your people able to identify which ones were the Chinese agents?”

  “Oh, hell yeah. That table at eleven o’clock to yours? The two women, non-Asian, mid-thirties, business suits, bangs, ponytail. The one with bangs had on those eyeglasses supposed to make you look like a Dutch architect?”

  “I missed them.”

  “That was the point. You were supposed to.”

  “So what now?”

  “Well”—Strecker looked at his wristwatch—“right about now your very lovely date is at an MSS safe house in Bethesda transmitting the contents of that envelope you gave her via encrypted satellite transmission to MSS headquarters back in Beijing. Don’t you wish it was still called Peking? Had a nice ring to it, though it did always make me think of ducks. It’s eleven p.m. here, so noon tomorrow there. I’d give it no more than an hour to reach Comrade Minister Lo’s desk. At which point he is going to have a very large bowel movement in his britches.”

  Fancock winced. “Barn, really.”

  “Sorry,” Barney said. “At which point he is going to shit his britches.”

  Fancock winced anew. “Your hope is he’ll delay taking it to Zhongnanhai and the Standing Committee?”

  “The longer, the better. He’ll spot this right off for what it is, but he’ll want to get all his ducks lined up. I would if it was me.”

  “When do you post the photograph?”

  “Weren’t those lovebirds at the other table just darling? Imagine how excited they must have been to turn around and see Rogers P. Fancock, director of national security at the White House, in the flesh, along with that Chinese woman who’s always on TV. Let’s say they wake up around nine tomorrow morning. Post it on Facebook with a note saying, ‘Look who was sitting next to us at the Old Angler’s Inn last night! Anyone know who the Chinese lady is? She looks familiar.’