They Eat Puppies, Don't They?

by Christopher Buckley

  “Facebook being Facebook, they’ll get a ton of replies—from their friends—saying, ‘It’s that Chang lady, the trade representative who’s always on TV.’ And when the lovebirds see that, they’ll say, ‘Heavens to Betsy, we’ve got to send this to the newspaper back home!’ So they will, and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette will go, ‘Hey, neat little scoop,’ and post it on their website. So let’s say it’s now ten a.m. here, eleven p.m. in Beijing. Now, a photo of Rogers P. Fancock and Winnie Chang having themselves a cozy dinner—I imagine that would go viral pretty fast, wouldn’t you? So say another hour . . . and it’ll be brought to the attention of Ambassador Ding. You know how ambassadors hate it when they think they’re being left out of the loop? So let’s say it’s going on midnight in Beijing and Ding is on the blower to the Foreign Ministry screaming, ‘What the hell is going on here? Why is the NSC director meeting with Chang?’

  “With any luck, Comrade Lo will still be sitting on the so-called evidence. Which means he will have kept the information to himself now for about twelve hours without alerting party higher-ups. And now his phone will be ringing, telling him to hustle his fat butt over to Zhongnanhai and explain what the hell’s going on.”

  Barney paused. “At least that’s the desired scenario. You never know how these things are going to pan out. But I got a good feeling about this. Course, that could be from this fine whiskey of yours. Did that come over on the Mayflower, too? Or did you send it on ahead with the servants?”

  AMBASSADOR DING TELEPHONED Foreign Minister Wu Fen at 1:00 p.m. Washington time, 2:00 a.m. in Beijing. Foreign Minister Wu deemed the matter serious enough for him to put a call through to the president at Zhongnanhai.

  President Fa pretended to have been asleep. He listened to what the foreign minister said, hung up, and instructed Gang to summon an emergency meeting of the Standing Committee for seven o’clock in the morning. The precise reason for the meeting was not given. By 7:00 a.m., Comrade Lo would have been in sole possession for almost twenty hours now of the information that Fancock had passed along to Chang.

  CHAPTER 43

  AN OBVIOUS FAKE

  Minister Lo sat more upright in his chair than usual. Fa and the other members of the Standing Committee listened in silence to his version of events. When Lo had finished, Fa said nothing for almost a minute, as if trying to process the gravity of the situation.

  “You say, Comrade, that you received this report from Comrade Chang at noon?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you did not notify me or the committee?”

  “As I explained, Comrade, I thought it was imperative first to analyze the material before bringing it to you and the Standing Committee.”

  Fa stared. “But as of last night, when I received the call from Foreign Minister Wu, you still had not reported the matter.”

  “As I keep saying, Comrade,” Lo said with a trace of impatience, “I was still making my investigation. It would not have—”

  “Indeed, so you do keep saying. But not reporting something of this gravity, for almost . . . twenty hours? This seems to me an inexplicable delay.”

  Lo affected nonchalance. “Comrade, the only ‘gravity’ here is the effrontery of the Americans, trying to lay this on our doorstep.”

  Fa stared at the file before him. He said, “I should like to view the hospital footage again, please.”

  A large monitor on the wall displayed the seven-minute, forty-six-second footage. Secret Service and Tibetan security agents stood outside the hospital room’s door. A man wearing a white doctor’s gown and ID badge approached. The agents inspected his ID badge. He nodded at them and entered the room. Six minutes later he emerged from the room. Though it was not visible to the naked eye, closer examination of the footage would reveal that the man’s right earlobe was misshapen and that he was missing the fourth finger on his right hand.

  “Now, this autopsy report—” Fa began to say.

  Lo interrupted. “An obvious fake. Why would it take twelve days to determine whether he had been poisoned? Someone of his importance.”

  Fa read the paper in front of him. “According to this, the initial toxicology screen came back with possible false positives indicative of drugs. Specifically, cocaine. So they . . .” Fa read aloud, “ ‘reran the tox screen, on a different medium’—the fluid in his eye. Which would account for the delay. It doesn’t matter that he was famous. Science can only move at its own pace, peasant or prince.”

  Fa continued reading: “ ‘Large hemorrhage transformation of left hemisphere in distribution of anterior cerebral artery’—stroke—‘aqueous humor positive for barbiturates, cocaine, and benzodiazepine.’ ”

  He looked up from the paper. “This is too technical for my understanding. But the conclusion clearly is that he was poisoned.”

  “Why would we poison him?”

  Fa looked at Lo. “Comrade, as the entire committee is well aware, you yourself proposed this course of action to me one month ago.”

  “But the situation was different then!” Lo said, his voice rising. “Does it not strike anyone here as convenient that this so-called assassination is known only to us and to Director of National Security Fancock? And of course your good friend the American president. Eh?”

  “Take care, Comrade. You’re in no position to hurl insults.”

  “Don’t you see that it is we who are being insulted?” Lo was shouting now.

  Fa returned to the paper before him. “As to how it has remained secret. According to this, when the final autopsy report was made, the hospital alerted the FBI. The FBI impounded it and the security-camera footage and sent their report to their attorney general. He took it directly to the president. The president and Director Fancock decided upon the present course of action. But rather than go to Ambassador Ding, Fancock gave it to your Comrade Chang, thinking she would be able to get it to us, thereby circumventing MSS. But being a good MSS agent, she delivered it immediately—to you. Where it remained. Until Ambassador Ding was alerted to Fancock and Chang’s clandestine meeting because some tourist happened to snap their picture.”

  “Comrade, I will tell you one final time: I felt it my duty to study the matter before presenting it here. It’s a trick, don’t you see? It’s obvious. Only a fool would fall for this! A fool like you!”

  Fa stared at Lo and said in a calm voice, “You seem upset, Comrade. Well, I hope I am not a fool. But I freely concede that I am not capable of deciding whether this evidence is real or trumped up. It seems to me that the only course is to have a full investigation.” He looked around the table. “Do you agree with my assessment, Comrades?”

  “Investigation?” Lo said. “Only MSS has the competence to investigate such a matter as this!”

  “No. We must follow correct party discipline and procedure. Such a matter must be referred to the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection. They are, after all, the ‘Custodian of the Integrity of the Party.’ ”

  Fa turned to the committee members. “Comrades, what do you say?”

  Everyone except Lo and Han nodded.

  “Very well, then. I suggest this be done with all urgency.”

  Foreign Minister Wu said, “What should I tell Ambassador Ding?”

  “Nothing. No one outside this room should hear anything of this.” Fa sighed pensively. “I will have to make some acknowledgment, at least, to the Americans that we are in receipt of what they have presented. But I shall state most clearly that we are in no way accepting it at face value. I shall say we are conducting our own investigation. Does this meet with your approval, Comrades?”

  AN HOUR LATER Fa and Gang sat with their whiskeys, listening to the Symphony of the Faucets.

  “Comrade Deputy Inspector Zen will take personal charge of the CCDI investigation?” Fa said.

  Gang nodded. “This was the arrangement made by Admiral Zhang.”

  “But is it not known? About Lo and Zen’s granddaughter?”

  “Grandniece. N
o, it was all ‘taken care of.’ At the time, Zen was only a junior functionary. Lo was chief of Four Bureau. Zen feared that Lo would retaliate and only make matters worse. So he did nothing. After the girl was released from hospital, she was sent abroad. She’s in Germany. Married. It’s all ancient history, swept under the carpet. But not to Comrade Zen. I imagine he will conduct the investigation with zeal. As for Lo, per standard CCDI procedure, he will not be privy to the identity of the official conducting the investigation. Any interrogations will be performed by Zen’s deputy. Rigorously, I should imagine.”

  “Yes,” Fa said. “Well, after all, this is not how great nations conduct themselves, is it?”

  “No, certainly.”

  Fa unscrewed the cap on the bottle. “Another?”

  “Why not?”

  CHAPTER 44

  BLING-BLING, BOOM-BOOM

  The explosion rattled the bedroom windows. Angel jerked upright in bed. “What the hell was that?”

  Bird looked up dreamily from the picture book on his lap. “Hmm?”

  “That sound. Tell me you didn’t hear that.”

  “Oh, that? The boys, I imagine. Gettysburg is next week, and they’re determined to beat the North this time.” Bird went back to his book.

  “It sounds like a war zone,” Angel said.

  “Then you ought to feel right at home.”

  “Barry is out there with them.”

  “Yes, hanging out with soldiers and firing cannons. Sounds like kid heaven to me. This book is really . . . amazing.”

  “Did you take another of those pills? You seem out of it.”

  “No,” Bird said.

  “This isn’t what I had in mind by a quiet weekend in the country.”

  “You wanted to come. And here you are. Be in the now.”

  Bird couldn’t take his eyes off the photographs in the book. Potala Palace, perched magnificently atop a cliff pedestal, Himalayan peaks . . . it looked like a stepping-stone to the heavens. A stairway to heaven. That sounds familiar . . . oh, yes, Led Zeppelin. What a sensation it must be to stand there in that rarefied air, to walk in the footsteps of the monks and lamas. Bird chuckled to himself. Oh, no, my friend, there will be no tourist visa to Tibet for Bird McIntyre! He was suddenly filled with immense sadness at the thought.

  He sighed and turned the page. Yes, this was what he was looking for: stupas, the domed tombs of the lamas. Whoa, look at this one.

  “Angel.”

  “What?” Angel said sullenly, not looking up from her book, a biography of General Curtis LeMay.

  “Look at this one.” He pointed. “This is the stupa of the thirteenth Dalai Lama. It’s made from over half a ton of gold!”

  “Who knew lamas were so into bling?” Angel sniffed.

  “Oh, I doubt that the lamas themselves cared. It’s more a Tibetan way of honoring their holy men. Look. They also built him a devotional pagoda. Made from over two hundred thousand pearls.”

  “He must have been really holy.”

  Another explosion shook the bedroom windows.

  Angel threw down her book. “Bird—do something!”

  “I’m sure if you asked them to stop, they would.”

  “I’m not going out there. They hate me. It was so nice of your brother to tell them all that I called them morons. They look at me like I’ m—”

  “The devil? No.” Bird smiled. “How could you be the devil? Your name is Angel.”

  “Bird, you sound like a complete zombie. Are you sure you didn’t take any of those pills?”

  “Haven’t taken one in two days. But you know, it’s odd. I almost feel as though I had taken one. I feel this sort of . . . It’s hard to describe. Contentment.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “Look at this one.” Bird pointed to a page. “It’s made entirely from sandalwood and covered with eighty-two hundred pounds of gold. Whoa. That’s four tons of gold! But this one only has eighteen thousand six hundred and eighty pearls. Hardly enough for a decent necklace.” Bird giggled.

  “These lamas,” Angel said, “make the Renaissance popes look like Depression Okies. What a bunch of frauds.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t speak that way. Your name is Angel. Be angelic.”

  “Gold, pearls. Didn’t Buddha drink out of a wooden bowl? How do you get from a wooden bowl to tombs that look like they were decorated by Tiffany?”

  “Someone’s in a good mood this morning.”

  “I just have a low threshold of tolerance when it comes to religious hypocrisy. They’re all the same. They start with some lunatic raving in a desert—but at least they’re poor lunatics. And some of them even have one or two good ideas, like ‘an eye for an eye.’ ”

  “An eye for an eye?” Bird laughed. “That’s your idea of a sound religious precept? What about ‘Blessed are the poor’ or ‘Love thy neighbor’?”

  “OxyContin of the masses. They’re all the same. The lunatic gets things rolling, and within a hundred years you’ve got priests, mullahs, rabbis, whatevers, making rules about who gets into heaven, who gets burned at the stake, and who gets his hand chopped off. Meanwhile the priesthood is building itself gold tombs. With pearl inlay. And now you’re taking it to the next level—providing him with a two-hundred-million-dollar satellite stupa. They ought to call him Dalai the Fourteenth—the Sun Lama. And make you an honorary lama.”

  Bird thought, Satellite . . . stupa . . . stupa satellite . . .

  “The launch,” he said. “Don’t forget—that’s an additional forty-five mil.”

  “I can’t believe Chick Devlin isn’t gagging on the cost.”

  “Oh, no,” Bird said. “Chick is a very happy man. Look at all the publicity Groepping is getting. It’s not every day we warmongering defense contractors get this kind of press. No, Chick’s over the moon. He’s asked me to come up with a name for it. That’s why I’m reading this book. For inspiration. And it is inspiring . . .” Bird’s voice trailed off dreamily. “I really wish I’d met him. He was such an amazing person. So gentle. And all the things he’d been through.”

  “Maybe you’ll hook up with him in the next life. As reincarnated pandas. Bling-Bling and Boom-Boom.”

  “You sound so cynical, Angel. Are you unhappy?”

  “If you’re starting to fall for this crap, I’d say you’re not cynical enough.”

  “Yes, I suppose it might seem that way to you. But since the accident I’ve had this strange urge to let things go. Live and let live. Forgive. For instance”—Bird smiled—“I know it was you who told the Post reporter that you spent that night with me at the Military-Industrial Duplex. But as you can see, I didn’t get mad. I didn’t even mention it until now. I’m not mad.”

  Angel looked at Bird uncomfortably. “What are you talking about? Why would I blow you to a reporter?”

  Bird smiled. “So that Myndi would walk out on me and leave you a clear field. But she almost certainly would have left me anyway, once she learned I had been working overtime with you to undermine international equestrian events. How ironic is that? I’m not being judgmental, but it wasn’t very nice of you to sabotage my marriage.” He laughed. “Listen to me! ‘Not being judgmental.’ Of course I am! And I went to bed with you in the first place, so I’m hardly in a position to point fingers at you. Karma. You just can’t outrun it, can you? What I can’t figure out is why I feel so . . . happy. Oh, well. Why question it?”

  “It wasn’t me,” Angel said huffily, avoiding eye contact.

  “Of course it was, darling. Remember I walked you to the basement garage, down the elevator right next to my door? And you got into your car—your car with the tinted windows. So no one could have seen you leave. I probably would have figured it out sooner, except for my little head-on with the deer. Poor deer. I hope it didn’t suffer.”

  Angel exploded. “The deer? One minute you’re accusing me of sabotaging your marriage, the next you’re whimpering about some deer? Screw the deer! For that matter, screw you!”


  “That’s a bit harsh, darling, but I forgive you unconditionally.” Bird giggled. “Sorry. I know that must sound awfully condescending.”

  “You know,” Angel said, “this is just not working for me. I don’t know if it was the accident with the deer or this screwball religion, but you’ve changed. You’re weird.”

  “I certainly hope so. I’m only just beginning to realize what an awful person I was.”

  “You were a lot more interesting.”

  Bird considered. “You may very well be right. That’s always the challenge, isn’t it? Not becoming a bore.” He laughed again. “One person’s inner peace is someone else’s deadly dinner partner.”

  There was another explosion, followed by a whistling sound and a jarring metal clang. From outside came a sound of distant cheering and yipping—the rebel yell.

  “All right. That does it. What the hell was that?”

  “Bewks found this industrial boiler at the scrap yard. That boy. He towed it into the field by the woods. He and the boys use it for target practice. They like the noise their minié balls make when they hit it. Sounds like they’re using it for artillery practice. Well, hurrah for the Fifty-sixth.”

  “That’s it. I’m getting Barry.” Angel jumped out of bed and angrily pulled on leggings and a shirt. She stormed from the room.

  “Tell the boys well done for me,” Bird said after her.

  He just couldn’t take his eyes off the lush, mesmerizing pages. It was then that the name came to him: StupaSat-14. A good and worthy name, a dignified blend of the theological and the technological. Yes. He must thank Angel for prompting him to it.

  Angel. He felt a rush of elation and serenity. And sympathy. Poor Angel, he thought. Such an unhappy vortex of anger and negative energy. Sitting next to her in the bed, Bird had sensed waves pulsing out of her, dark vibrations. It didn’t seem right, when he felt so at peace, even with cannonballs flying. He laughed. The boys. Rascals.