by Tom Clancy
“Popular literature is more about superficial external desires, to be strong or beautiful, than about internal growth,” she replied. “There was a time in the nineteenth and early twentieth century when American authors like Herman Melville and John Steinbeck and Upton Sinclair addressed social and psychological issues instead of fantasies.”
“Fantasies have truth in them,” Hood said. “Moby-Dick is a fantasy.”
“Only as far as the whale is concerned,” the woman replied, “and it is not to be taken literally. The white whale is a personification of Captain Ahab’s destructive desires.”
“I’m sure many of the enemies in contemporary American literature can be seen that way.”
“No,” the woman replied with a firm shake of her head. “The Chinese are inevitably portrayed as enemies, as are the Russians. These are very specific references in all your spy novels, your James Bond adventures, and they distort reality in a quest for propaganda.”
“James Bond is British,” Hood pointed out.
“An irrelevant detail. The mentality is still Western.”
“To some degree,” Hood admitted the truth of that. “You have read James Bond novels?”
“Only Dr. No,” she said. “I saw several of the films. Comedies, really. Dr. No was a villain born in Beijing, a member of several tong gangs, a man with a translucent yellow skin with a Chinese Negro bodyguard. Destroying American missiles with a laser beam while posing as an exporter of guano. Mr. Hood, have you ever met a Chinese like that?”
“No,” he had to admit.
“Or a dazzlingly brilliant spy like Mr. Bond, who announces his identity to everyone he meets while moving through the world in a tailored tuxedo?” Anita said. She gestured vaguely at Hood’s attire. “A spy would be discreet.”
“One would think,” Hood said uncomfortably. He saw Hasen returning with the prime minister. Hood’s own powers of subtle intelligence gathering were about to be tested.
Hood did not know if they would ever find common ground where literature or literary protagonists was concerned. But the woman spoke English magnificently, and while she had the aggressive confidence of an academic, she listened when he was speaking. There was curiosity at work.
Anita’s manner changed instantly when the men returned. She moved between but slightly behind her father and Hood. Her chin was no longer high and proud but lowered, like her eyes. It was not subservience but respect. Hood wondered if the writers Anita disliked so much would have bothered to note the dynamics between a father and daughter, a prime minister and translator.
Not the ones who had made Le Kwan Po a Fu Manchu — style tyrant, he reflected.
Hood and the prime minister shook hands.
“Mr. Hood. Mr. Hasen says you wished to meet me,” the prime minister said through Anita.
“Yes, sir,” Hood replied. “Is there someplace we can talk for a moment, privately?”
“Right here,” the prime minister said. “No one can hear us, and most do not understand English. If you speak and I listen, we will be secure.”
“All right,” Hood said.
“But, Mr. Hood — I know your name. Why is that?” the prime minister asked.
“I’ve been in government for quite some time,” Hood replied.
“In what capacity?”
“Most recently as the director of the National Crisis Management Center,” Hood replied.
“Yes, of course. The renowned Op-Center. Your spies uncovered plots around the world, prevented wars.”
Anita looked at Hood as she finished translating. Her expression darkened, and Hood felt a flush.
“Then you know, of course, General Michael Rodgers,” Le Kwan Po said.
There was an edge to Anita’s voice that had not been there before. Anita had to feel as though Hood had been leading her, patronizing her.
“Yes, sir. I worked very closely with General Rodgers for years.”
“Are you here at his request?”
“Only partly, sir,” Hood admitted. “The president also had reasons for sending me.”
“I would like to hear those reasons,” Le Kwan Po said. “President Debenport seems to take a harder view of our government than his predecessor.”
“Harder in what sense, Mr. Prime Minister?”
“Black and white,” Le Kwan Po replied.
“I cannot answer for the president, sir,” Hood said. “I can tell you that his regard for you personally is very high. As is mine.”
“Thank you,” the prime minister replied. He looked at his watch. “The toasts do not begin for another forty minutes. Perhaps we had better go elsewhere.”
“All right.”
Le Kwan Po led the way through the crowd toward the back of the ballroom. Well-wishers bowed or clasped his hand. Le smiled politely and patiently as he continued moving forward. It was a tremendous political asset, being attentive without stopping, giving a moment of your time without breaking stride. Le did that and one thing more: he did not show any favoritism. Everyone got the same smile, the same moment of contact. Debenport — and James Bond — might see the Chinese as black, but Le Kwan Po was definitely gray.
And his daughter was definitely annoyed. She was still walking behind her father, which meant she was walking behind Hood. He caught her sharp stare whenever he maneuvered around someone in the packed hall.
The group reached the back of the hall. A soldier wearing a formal black uniform opened a door for the prime minister. Le extended an arm, urging the ambassador and Hood to enter. They did, followed by the prime minister and his daughter.
Hood would talk to Anita later. He would try to explain that she was not wrong about so much spy fiction — though what is often distilled for narrative convenience is not necessarily false.
Maybe you can invite her to go whale-watching, Hood thought. That would keep his record of wrongheaded approaches to women intact.
For now, though, Hood had more important matters to deal with. Which was one way life and fiction differed very dramatically. Despite the tuxedo and impressive résumé, he doubted that any spy could attend to a crisis and a woman at the same time.
THIRTY-THREE
Beijing, China Wednesday, 8:22 P.M.
Le Kwan Po found it strange that so many Americans knew about his investigation. There was a cultural difference between the nations, one encapsulated in the saying, “Tell one American and you have told them all.” Chinese were not talkers. To the contrary, they were hoarders. They kept information as though it were fresh water on the high seas. They would share it only if it would bring an exponentially high return or was necessary to save face.
But Americans talked to a stranger as if he were their best friend. Diplomats were a little better, depending upon their experience. Most of the men sent to China, including Mr. Hasen, had a good deal of experience in government. But Le had met ambassadors who had been newspaper publishers, actors, and even a professional bullfighter before being sent to represent their nations. These men loved to talk. Only occasionally did they listen.
Paul Hood seemed different. The three men settled into the century-old easy chairs in the antechamber. Anita sat between her father and Hood. The American’s beverage arrived, and he accepted it graciously. By his expression, his easy carriage, the few words he had spoken, even the way he paid attention to Anita, Le could see that Hood was neither obsequious nor pretentious.
If there were such a thing as the typical movie-hero American, General Rodgers embodied those aggressive, masculine characteristics. If there were such a thing as an average American, Paul Hood seemed to possess those more modest traits. There was something fair but resolute in his eyes. Hood certainly seemed far more open and approachable than General Rodgers had been.
“Paul, why don’t you tell the prime minister why you’re here?” Ambassador Hasen urged.
Anita translated for her father. Hood leaned forward in his chair, his hands folded in front of his chin. It looked as though he were
praying.
“Mr. Prime Minister, I am here at the request of the president,” Hood said. “He has asked me to offer whatever help we can to assure a successful launch of your new communications satellite.”
“Does he have reason to believe the launch is in jeopardy?” Le asked.
“There is intelligence to suggest you think there is a danger, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“General Rodgers expressed that concern, but he had no information,” Le said. “What can you tell me?”
“We believe the explosions in the United States, South Africa, and Taiwan may be related,” Hood said. “With respect, sir, we believe that the perpetrators may be elements within China.”
“Is your information vague, or are you simply being reticent?” the prime minister asked.
“I am a guest in your country, sir. I did not come to make charges against individuals, merely to offer help.”
“What form would that help take?” the prime minister asked.
“I would like to come to the launch,” Hood said. “Represent the president at a historic moment for China.”
Le laughed. “We have launched many communications satellites before this.”
“Not one built with the help of American industry,” Hood said.
The American ambassador leaned forward. He looked very sincere. “As I have said before, Mr. Prime Minister, President Debenport wishes for a closer détente with Beijing.”
“You have said that before, Mr. Ambassador. Yet only recently your government has made arms sales to the rebels across the strait.”
“The Taiwan Relations Act is for purely defensive use—” Hasen said.
“Gentlemen, I doubt we will solve the issues of this region right now,” Hood interrupted. “But I hope we can establish some degree of trust regarding this launch. Mr. Prime Minister, you know my background. I would like the honor of standing at your side.”
The prime minister sat silently while he considered Hood’s offer. He was studying the American.
“General Rodgers made the same offer,” Le said after a moment. “He said he wanted to ‘watch my back.’ ”
“It’s a popular expression.”
“I understand,” Le assured him. “It would also suggest personal weakness and mistrust of our own security forces if I had a small force of Americans looking out for me and for the launch. I told General Rodgers I would consider his offer. In the name of this new détente, I will allow one of you to attend. You understand the situation. Please work it out between you who that will be.”
“Mr. Prime Minister, it would not be unprecedented to have a representative of the manufacturer and a foreign government present for a launch,” the ambassador pointed out. “And it would show the world that we are approaching a new age in the Sino-American relationship.”
“Many members of my government would find that an unacceptably generous leap,” Le said, “especially when both representatives spent years working together at an American intelligence agency.” The prime minister rose and regarded Hood. “I must return to my guests. I will expect your answer in the morning.”
Hood stood. “You will have it. Thank you, sir.”
Le left the antechamber, followed by his daughter and the two Americans. They walked slowly toward the ballroom. “What is your impression of this man?” he asked Anita.
“Unexceptional,” she replied.
“Yes. The best spies are, you know,” Le told her. “They should never stand out.”
“Do you think he is spying on us?”
“Almost certainly,” the prime minister answered. “The American president already has an ambassador. Why send another? Besides, a man with his credentials is always watching for new faces, new dynamics, new technology. Yet he may be sincere in his desire to want to help protect the launch.”
“Why?”
“If something happens, it may have repercussions throughout the region,” the prime minister said. “His government might not wish to be forced to participate. Hopefully, we will know more in a minute.”
“How?”
“You will ask him a question.” Le smiled.
“I will?” she said.
The prime minister nodded once. “Mr. Hood virtually ignored his own ambassador during our chat,” Le told her. “Yet Mr. Hood was watching your reaction very closely.”
“I was translating—”
“Interpreters are usually invisible, you know that,” Le said.
“He was simply being polite.”
“The ambassador was watching me, and he was watching Mr. Hood,” Le told her. “You must have impressed him. I would like you to find out why this launch is so important to him. He may confide in you.”
“Father, I am not a diplomat,” she protested.
“Neither is your mother. But I trust you both, and you are intuitive in ways that I am not.”
The prime minister squeezed his daughter’s hand to signify that the conversation had ended. They had entered the ballroom. A number of people were now within earshot, and they spoke Mandarin. He did not want his thoughts or concerns to become part of a public debate.
Anita seemed a little confused by his observation. That was all right. It was good for her to step from the armor of academic absolutes now and again. He was not sure whether he trusted Paul Hood entirely. He seemed likable and sincere, but the interests of the United States in this matter were curious. Le had listened, but he had not learned much. The White House should not be so concerned about a multinational corporation like Unexus. Not to the extent that they would send a high-level troubleshooter to check on its interests. And this was not a diplomatic issue. Otherwise, the ambassador could have handled it.
Unless it is not the satellite that really concerns them, Le reflected. Paul Hood had come directly to see him. Le wondered what they might know or suspect beyond what he already feared. At the moment, the only casualty on Chinese soil had been his own credibility. If he could not make peace between Director Chou and General Tam Li, the president and influential members of the National People’s Congress would lose faith in him. That was not something that would matter to the United States. And the destruction of the rocket would not impact them directly unless it affected one of their allies in the region.
Hopefully, there would be a way to find out.
Le was approached by Australian ambassador Catherine Barnes and her husband. At the same time, from the corner of his eye, the prime minister saw Hood making his way toward the door. Excusing himself from Ms. Barnes, the prime minister turned to his daughter.
“Anita, go to Mr. Hood before he leaves,” the prime minister whispered.
“Will you be all right on your own?”
“Ambassador Barnes speaks passable Mandarin, and it is almost time for the toasts. Go.”
Le released Anita’s hand, and she made her way through the crowd. She followed Hood as he left the ballroom. Hood had his cell phone in his hand, possibly preparing to call General Rodgers.
There was something a little dirty about it, Le realized. Part of what may have appealed to Paul Hood was the fact that his daughter was an attractive woman. If so, he was using her in an unseemly manner. But while that could be part of it, that was not all of it. Le’s sense of the brief meeting was that Paul Hood might be a new kind of spy. He was somewhere between General Rodgers and Ambassador Hasen: a covert bureaucrat, an ambassador without borders.
Testing a new kind of spy required a new kind of counterspy. Anita, an educator-interrogator. In a world where there were rumors of an American physician-assassin, the rules were definitely changing. Perhaps for the best. Le believed that Hood may have come for the reasons stated: to collect intelligence without prejudice and to begin forming a strategic international alliance. Whether that union lasted for as long as it took to protect the launch, or whether it was the start of a new détente remained to be seen. Even if that was not why Hood was here, the prime minister might be able to use him in that way. That would make
this like any relationship in politics or in life. If it was successful, it did not matter who had contributed what and why.
It would be ironic, though, Le thought as he chatted superficially with Ambassador Barnes. A fight between two Chinese officials spills into the global arena. The one who stops it is a member of the audience. What was it Li-Li had said just two days ago?
“This situation is about the future.”
His wife may have been wiser and more prophetic than she knew.
THIRTY-FOUR
Alexandria, Virginia Wednesday, 8:41 A.M.
General Carrie did not get very much sleep.
She came home, sat on the sofa to go through the mail, and the next thing she knew, her husband was very gently nudging her awake.
“You must have been tired,” Dr. Carrie said.
The woman opened her eyes. The general was lying against the armrest, her feet on the floor. Her husband’s brown eyes were staring down at her.
“What?” she asked, still groggy.
“I said you must have been tired,” he repeated. He held up an envelope. “You actually opened a ‘You Won a Millions Bucks!’ come-on.”
General Carrie’s eyes shifted from her husband to the envelope. She did not remember opening it. She did not even remember sitting here. She looked at the clock on the digital video recorder. It was coming up on nine A.M. It was late.
“The housekeeper will be here in twenty minutes,” Dr. Carrie said.
“Yeah. Thanks,” his wife replied. She moved stubborn limbs in an attempt to get up. Her husband helped her. He was already dressed, which meant he had showered, and she did not hear him. She smelled coffee. General Carrie did not hear him make that, either.
“Can I get you anything before I leave?” he asked.
“Tea, thanks,” she said. “Also, a kiss.”
He bent over and planted one on her lips. It did not work as well as caffeine, but it was a start.
The neurosurgeon brought his wife her tea, then left. Carrie rose and took a long slug of the strong Earl Grey. She felt as tired as she did when she had come home. She heard the car pull from the driveway and savored her daily moment of solitude. She checked her cell phone. There was just one message. It was from the Andrews dispatch sergeant, probably wanting to know when he should come and get her. She was glad someone had been there for her the night before. That was the great thing about working on an air force base. There was always a driver in the staff pool. She called him and told him she’d be ready to leave at 9:30.
