Alexander affected a casual air, but Branko remained silent.
Alexander tried another tack. “A buddy of mine out at RAND has been doing research on Chinese decision-making. He’s got this theory—”
“Everybody’s got their favorite theory on Chinese decision-making, Alexander. Probably a thousand Ph. D. theses on the topic. Most of them are clueless. We still don’t know how it all works.”
“Anyway, he’s got this theory about factions in their Politburo. Remember during the Cuban Missile Crisis, when Washington figured out there were a bunch of Soviet military hard-liners getting the upper hand on Khruschev?”
“Sure.”
“They were a bunch of provocateurs. They kept escalating even while Nikita was trying to back away from the brink of nuclear war. They were shooting at our U-2’s, running Soviet ships right up to the U.S. blockade, deliberately making it harder for the civilians in the Politburo to secure an endgame deal with Kennedy.”
“If I recall, the Director of Central Intelligence even told President Kennedy at one point that he thought there had been a coup in Moscow.”
“Exactly.”
“So?”
“What if there was a similar rogue group in the Chinese military now? Some cell trying to force the new leadership’s hand? Ramming our spy planes? Arresting priests and dual nationals? Proliferating nuclear hardware to a bunch of trouble spots? Lining the Taiwan Strait with missiles?”
“You’re suggesting there’s been some kind of coup in Beijing?” said Branko, sounding skeptical.
“No. The technocrats think they’re still calling the shots. But they feel compelled to appease the hard-liners more and more often in recent months.”
“That’s certainly true. The technocrats are trying to act like populists—make sure they take care of those left behind by all the economic growth. But they’re not opening up the economy in order to liberalize their politics. In fact, they are rebuilding central control, restricting information access, and rounding up intellectuals, just like the old days.”
“Exactly. Well, what if some of the old guard—say a bunch of defense ministry folks—were systematically trying to screw up U.S.-China relations?”
“For what purpose?”
“To keep us from getting along too well? To foment a crisis so they’d have an excuse to impose their agenda? You know, it’s the conventional wisdom in Washington these days that the Chinese are such rational actors in these matters. But look how far into the deep end they went in ’96 when they bracketed Taiwan with missile tests. Or how nutso they went when the U.S. accidentally hit their embassy in Belgrade. Or the whole Hainan episode, when their field commanders lied to Beijing and then chopped up our plane and sent it home in boxes. I mean, going back to the Cultural Revolution, they’ve done some pretty bizarre things.”
“Hell, we’ve got our own right-wingers here in Washington—the China haters. Some of them are Booth’s buddies. What do they call themselves?”
“The ‘Blue Team.’”
“Right. I even got asked to one of their brown bag lunches. Anything to make holy war on what they call the ‘panda huggers,’ the get-along-with-China-at-any-cost folks at the State Department. The Blue Team guys see foreign policy as another ideological crusade. They are just looking for any excuse to thwart China’s modernization.”
“My source thinks the guys in their Defense Ministry are pushing hard for the Nanping missile deployments. He says our intelligence community even has a name for this little cell in Beijing, somewhere in one of the People’s Liberation Army’s intelligence departments. . .”
Alexander paused to sample another french fry, dangling it casually between them.
“Calls them ‘The Red Dragons.’”
Branko, green eyes still intent upon him, gave him nothing.
Alexander waited. It was an extended silence, too long to bear much promise of insight. He chewed slowly, holding Branko with his gaze. Then, after considerable deliberation, Branko finally responded with a sigh.
“You’re asking about a riddle we’ve been trying to solve for more than sixty years.” He sounded like an academic again. “It’s very much in the nature of Leninist systems to have little cells operating secretly—sometimes even at cross purposes. But this business of thinking there are Good Chinese and Bad Chinese is bullshit. They’re a great and ancient civilization with thousands more years of experience than we have. They can play good cop-bad cop with the best of them. The fact is, the Chinese like to play chess. Seems almost like they invented the game.”
“Chess is your game.”
“Once upon a time. The Chinese always like to push a pawn. Shove it in your face.”
“To what end?”
“To provoke, to test. To sit back and watch, and learn from your reaction. Generations of careful observation have convinced them that Americans are so fucking impatient that they can wait us out on almost anything.”
“They’re right, of course.”
“Sure they are. Combine that with our reverence for the almighty dollar, and they believe we’re truly easy pickings.”
“So, how far do you think they’re going in Fujian?”
“Hard to say.”
“Is this definitely new construction?”
“Alexander, I can’t be your source on that.”
“Is it solid?”
“Is what solid?”
“The stuff I’m getting on new construction at Nanping,” said Alexander, pressing. “More CSS-6 missiles deployed opposite Taiwan.”
“Alexander, I. . .” Branko began to retreat, “This is sort of ‘high policy’ these days. We’ve got a White House intent on a hunky-dory summit this summer. A number of photo opportunities with smiling presidents commanding the world stage. Nice bounce in the polls. The stuff you’re digging up runs counter to message. Nobody wants to get into a public pissing match with China right now. We’re way too distracted fighting terrorism and mopping up in Iraq and Kabul.”
“Screw the message. Isn’t the intelligence community supposed to just go with the facts?”
“We serve at the pleasure of the president. Hell, the CIA Director doesn’t even get face time any more. We pass along what we see to the new DNI czar. And then the White House is free to set policy.”
“And spin the facts.”
“Yes, and spin the facts,” Branko conceded. “Every president does that to a certain degree to make his case.”
“And if the facts are that China’s shoving missiles in an ally’s face? That we are headed for a showdown in the Taiwan Strait? Another U.S. military deployment that the American people are completely unprepared to support?”
“Don’t be so certain.”
“All our war games, all our Taiwan Strait simulations, show that escalation happens real fast. Standing orders drive it. The military guys will mix it up damn quick. Before the civilians can get a handle on things, we could be in a shooting war with a nuclear power.”
“Read Lao-Tzu, Alexander. The Chinese are pretty cautious.”
“Yeah. And read Clausewitz. ‘War is the natural extension of politics.’ The Chinese are damn good at politics, too. They think we’re tired, overextended. They’re looking for an opening, probing for our vulnerabilities. They’re ready to force some hard choices on the U.S. government.”
“Yes,” said Branko, folding his hands as he sighed again. “You’re probably right on that.”
Their meal was finished. Alexander remained dissatisfied. Around them, the clamor continued unabated. A kid wearing a Cubs uniform had knocked a strawberry milkshake into the aisle. The mess was oozing between the cracked floor tiles even as a busboy chased it with a rag, foaming pink as he swabbed.
“Damn it, Branko! You’re playing the Sphinx today.”
“I will take that as a compliment.”
“Shit,” said Alexander as he flopped back on his seat. “Thanks a lot.”
“What exactly do you expect from me?”
Branko darkened. “I know where you are going with this rogue cell stuff.”
“But you won’t help.”
“It goes into the deep end.”
“It’s about facts, about whether—”
“It’s about policy. It’s about decisions that elected officials will have to make. Not intelligence analysts. And not speculating reporters.”
“It should be about informed judgments, about getting the facts out there, so citizens and their elected representatives can have an informed say.”
“It’s about your story, too. Admit it, Alexander. Your headline. Your ego gratification. You’re too close to it.”
“It would be nice if you were there with me. I mean, am I off base here? How ’bout a little guidance for an old member of the Club?”
Branko sat back, measuring him. Alexander could see him reading the situation, weighing the options—ever the chess master, playing the board ahead.
“Want to know what I think?” Branko smirked.
“Yeah.”
“I think you’ve carried a torch for Rachel for twenty-five years, and I think—”
“The missiles, Branko! Nanping! Don’t change the subject.”
“And I think you should rescue her from that schmuck.”
Alexander grimaced, then put his hands to his head, defeated. “He is a schmuck, isn’t he?” he muttered. “Why?”
“Why what? Why won’t I help you? Or why is Barry a schmuck?”
“Both.”
“I won’t help you any further because you don’t have hard evidence for your assertions. And Barry is a schmuck because he is so fucking evasive, so ready to dodge with that calculating shine. He is married to a bright, energetic woman.” Branko stood now, picking up the check. “Yet I suspect that when all is said and done, the dark secret is Barry doesn’t really like women.”
Alexander was still sitting, carefully regarding a friend of three decades, the parade of riddles marching between them. China and the Agency. Rachel and Barry. Suddenly, it clicked. Elusive Barry, with his private den. Wistful Rachel trying to maintain appearances.
Alexander felt like an idiot. He was supposed to be the sage observer. But when it came to matters of the heart, he was always the last to know.
MASTERING THE MATRIX
It was a zoning quirk that drove the Secret Service crazy. This twelfth floor conference room, with the ultimate high-rise conceit, had windows that looked down on the White House and the South Lawn. The TPB atrium above Fifteenth Street, towering over the Treasury Building, was all glass and steel, undamaged by the recent troubles below. On the rooftops of nearby government building, agents perched anxiously with binoculars, searching the skies, Stinger missiles at the ready.
Power. That’s what the penthouse view said to Rachel, providing an uplifting charge on her first full day back. She took comfort in the strength as her heels clicked purposefully down the long marble corridor towards the beckoning conference room doors, the reassuring tapping sound of the secretaries’ keyboards flowing from tidy cubicles.
“Good morning, Ms. Paulson.” The trademark TPB formality from the staff. “Good morning, Ms. Paulson. So good to have you back.”
Her colleagues were gathering to check her out, to weigh her ability to absorb and rebound. Entering the room, she saw tight smiles and thin lips. Ladies in Nancy Reagan red and Bruno Maglis. Guys in white collared shirts and pin stripes, Blackberries strapped like armaments on their shiny leather belts. They all clapped carefully.
Rachel walked to the head of the oval table, which was designed to mimic the one used across the way in the Cabinet Room. She cast a quick glance over the Treasury Building at the limp flag hanging above the East Wing. She needed this meeting. She needed to play the role: the field general back in the saddle.
It was time for Rachel to run them through the client matrix, to roll down the monthly review of dozens of initiatives they were pursuing within the federal bureaucracy. The charts were at hand: reams of TPB computer printouts, each page stamped CONFIDENTIAL. Here, their trade secrets were reduced to code. A series of hieroglyphics adorned the documents—asterisks and parentheses containing dozens of symbols, all captured for partners to review. They stood for promises and pledges—commitments made that would be secured down the legislative road. This was her play-book, and it was ready for the returning coach.
Mastering the matrix offered Rachel the illusion of control. As she struggled to begin her transition back into the Washington work world, she required this grounding. She was desperate to get her arms around the challenges that floated about her in a life that suddenly lacked any apparent order.
“I’m dangerous,” she’d warned Alexander the night before in a phone call. “I feel like I’m pregnant or something. My skin is incredibly sensitive. I get these intense cravings for a particular food. I feel like running off to conquer Pike’s Peak, or going wind surfing in Tahiti.”
“Rather inconvenient,” Alexander said, laughing as she rambled.
“I have no time for a goddamn mid-life crisis,” she groaned.
She had become hopelessly overprotective of Jamie, she knew. She suspected danger lurked around each corner. She was reluctant to let him play at friends’ houses. She stood sentinel on the sidewalk, arms crossed, as he rode his scooter up and down the driveway, waving to the ever-present Arlington County police car.
Her mind exercised a will of its own, slithering past the topic at hand. She developed a voracious appetite for fiction, savoring the perorations of Ian McEwan, and losing herself in the moody World War II works of Alan Furst. Her thoughts dallied with the surreal and the religious. Her sleep was heavy and irresolute.
In vain, she tried to ride the waves of emotion as they welled up from deep within. She wished to be done with artifice. She became a threat to all that was pretentious. She felt a new reverence for life, a respect anchored by the very fact of her narrow escape. She felt the rekindled appreciation of sense and sensibility, the eagerness to share any small kindness, the desire for fulfillment. She was alive and renewed. She was a survivor.
On that first morning back, she felt perilously flip, even as dozens of eyes watched her. The standing ovation was nice, but just that—nice. Polite smiles all around.
They might excuse her stumbles for a day or two. Then they would blow right by her—especially some of the more ambitious ladies in the firm, professional jealousy being what it was. Her competitive instincts kicked in. She had no choice. Clients were lining up for Capitol Hill visits. “So very sorry about your partner getting blown up,” she imagined them saying. “But where is my tax break?”
Congress was grinding away, marking up bills in committee, moving appropriations to the floor. She had no choice. Business marched on. It was time to dance.
“Let’s start with Energy and Water,” she began, breathing deeply. “Always the first appropriations subcommittee to report out a bill. Let’s see. . . Phil. The City of Tacoma has been in to see Congressman Myers. The chairman is on board to support the riverbed improvements, a $7.5 million earmark. The chart says your Senate-side strategy is in place with Mr. Kerr. Need any help?”
She looked up from her papers sprightly, smiling like a schoolmarm managing her brood, struggling mightily not to betray her difficulty in staying on the lesson plan. If they’re listening so intently, she worked to convince herself, I must have something important to say.
“Nope. May need to get some extra local juice with Bingham once we get to conference. I’ve got some VIP calls lined up, in case. But we look solid so far.”
“OK, then, to the University of Missouri. Liz, we look good for the earmark for their agricultural research building. Nice to have Senator Guerin chairing the subcommittee. Looks like a slam dunk. Will we get the full three million?”
“Can’t say for sure yet, but we’re pressing to get the whole amount when the subcommittee votes. Depends on the allocation they get from the full committee pot, but I think we’re g
ood for the three mil.”
“Sounds great. OK, next up is Telstar. Tom, would you like to walk us through our strategy for the R&D grant.”
Tom Bacigalupi, her deputy on this, her biggest account, updated their colleagues smoothly. They were on target for ten million dollars in funding for Telstar’s photovoltaic system for ships at sea—a barnacle they were trying to attach to the Department of Energy’s appropriations bill. She pressed to ensure that the vaunted TPB template was being followed. “Fallbacks? Media strategy? Client visit with stakeholders? Plans to circle back with champions and Congressional leadership? Follow-up letters from local VIPs?”
All seemed in order. With Rachel’s firm hand back at the helm, the good ship TPB was under sail once again. They’d disposed of the bodies, swabbed the decks, and sailed on with the wind. The carnage seemed hardly to slow them. The dead man who had perpetrated the April Fool’s Day crime had still not been identified. Yet, Jonathan Talbott had brought construction teams on site in revolving shifts, night and day, to make their physical plant whole again. Weeks after Porter’s funeral, TPB had gained more new business than they had lost.
Rachel was reassured by the morning’s exercise. She could still ride point in a storm. She could still get the job done. The more her colleagues spoke, however, the more she felt staggered under the weight of the mundane. What if I hadn’t been late coming over from the Willard that morning? You would all be here marching onward without me, talking business and making lunch reservations.
She moved on to the education bill, but her mind was drifting. She was thinking of other people and places. She was thinking of Jamie’s quizzical stare that first evening at the hospital. She was thinking of Iceman Barry, checking the home alarm system, briefing the cops. She was thinking of the ocean, yearning once more for the cleansing foam to wash over her. She was fighting an overwhelming desire to flee, to strip off her heels and stockings, to toss her scarf and run free—to be done with it all.
The Mandarin Club Page 10
