Booth was swirling and thrashing, snarled in his sheets, when Amy awoke. Wordlessly, she reached out to him, caressing him, once again the healer. Her fingers soothed his temples. She whispered to him, indistinct words that had little meaning save for the human contact.
Gently, in an old ritual, she began to rake her nails across his chest. Then she rose up and kissed him, sloppy and soft, on the lips. He was alert now, responsive to her touch. He was released from his black vision, no longer burdened by his worldly concerns. That was his blessing, finally, at the end of a tumultuous day—to find a simple kindness in the dark, to receive the unexpected pleasure of making love at home, in his own bed, with his wife, wide awake once more.
MICKEY’S DILEMMA
Mickey Dooley awoke at peace with God. It was a peculiar sensation, one he had not known for years. A childhood of smacking gum and telling dirty jokes with his fellow altar boys had been followed by an adulthood passed as a recovering Catholic. Today, however, he felt refreshed, the beneficiary of a visitation. He was born again to some new purpose: all was before him now.
It is Tuesday, Mickey recalled after some effort. Tuesday in America.
He lay quite still, admiring the finish on the crown molding, following the carpenter’s lines to the smooth intersection in the corners of the ceiling. He sat up, took several slow, deep breaths in an unfamiliar hotel room painted powder blue and gray, then tried to remember where he was.
As he stretched his calves gingerly and reached to touch his toes, he recovered a piece of his calming dreams. Something about a long lunch with his kid brother and a hot fudge sundae. The morning fears of previous days had lifted, as if lifted by an unseen hand. Today, he was on a mission. It was about the boys, about escaping, about starting over. Now, with that special clarity of dawn, he had a plan.
Mickey stood and walked to the corner window. The oddball protesters who made their home in Washington’s Lafayette Square amidst cardboard signage had yet to stir. The White House and its north gates were still, two uniformed guards standing in front of the high fence. The Sixteenth Street traffic was light, a Saturday-like calm that confused him until he remembered it was still before seven a.m. Across the way, he saw the warm yellow paint of Saint John’s, the church of presidents.
On a whim, he considered joining the few souls who would gather there for morning services, Episcopalians all. He was feeling nondenominational today, prepared to cover his bets. He had prayed there before, one day at noon. He had spontaneously taken a pew in back and beseeched the Lord to intervene after his mom’s heart attack. Mom recovered, and Mickey, not yet fully prepared to repent and reform, was glad he hadn’t made any deals with God.
Mickey drank from a bottle of Perrier as he stood gazing at the church, the cool drink refreshing him. He turned about in his undershirt, half expecting to find a witness. He had pondered the problem for weeks before approaching Branko. He had wrestled with thoughts about his boys’ future, the fate of his marriage, and his China business. He had scrolled through the names in his palm pilot, searching for an idea, weighing various plans for extricating himself from his dilemma.
Mickey’s quandary was simple. He could no longer tolerate his bleak existence in Beijing, staggering on in a life of infinite compromise. He could neither stay in Beijing with the frosty Mei Mei, nor leave freely without the boys. His spouse had evolved into a caricature of a daddy’s girl, a woman who so loved gambling she was out to all hours playing mahjong, and who, it seemed, lived also to shop. As the boys matured and came each day to more resemble Mickey, admiring his Western ways, she came to vent her fury on them as well. The children, he readily convinced himself, were better off with him in the States, where they used to live every summer. Already, she was using them as pawns in her marital war, taking them away to her father’s country place, barring them from trips overseas with Mickey.
Mickey’s path to hope and revival seemed open and his vision clear: Branko would save them. Mickey was sure of it.
Upon later reflection, it seemed inevitable that his search for a savior would lead to his longtime critic. For too long, he had feared the disdain of his old friend. Branko had been the most selfless of the Mandarins, the one who had fully led the life he had planned. Branko was the straight man. From the day of their first seminar together, Mickey had been the risk taker. Branko had every right to judge him harshly, a fact that for some time had scared Dooley off his proposition.
Mickey had floated a trial balloon with Branko before, with no success. He had been saving tidbits of information in his files, gleaned from years of double-dealing, with which to trade. Between courses at Mr. K’s, he had dropped hints—even followed Branko to the men’s room, muttering a few choice asides and looking for a private meeting, before Branko cut him off. Yet, there at the end of the supper was a passed note, with blunt instructions to call this morning. A name, a number, a beachhead that Mickey wanted desperately to believe could be widened.
When he called just after nine, a young woman’s voice proposed a Friday evening meeting. Branko was prepared to talk. Directions for the rendezvous were simple, and encouraging. They were to meet in the minor league baseball park in Frederick, Maryland, a concession to Mickey’s old sporting tastes.
Thus, at week’s end, Mickey found himself sitting in the bleachers at Harry Grove Stadium, home of the Class A Frederick Keys. They were hosting the Wilmington Blue Rocks, rookies from the New York Mets’ farm team in Delaware. Mickey and Branko were both in polo shirts and chinos, studiously dressed down amidst the suburban crowd.
“I’m trapped, old buddy,” Mickey said when the right moment arrived. “I need an escape hatch.”
“I see,” Branko replied, though he didn’t—yet.
“I mean it. I’ve worked it every way I can. I’ve pleaded with Mei Mei to try the U.S. I even promised a house on the hill in Sausalito. She won’t budge. Now that we may be heading for divorce court, she won’t even let me bring the boys to New Mexico for summer vacation.”
“Have you proposed shared custody?” said Branko, sipping a soda.
“She rejects the idea out of hand. And she’s got all the cards. With her father working the judge, I’m going to get slammed in court.”
“I can see where that might be a very brief hearing.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but when I’m in Beijing, I’m their primary caregiver, not the nanny she leaves them with. I drive them to the American School, take them to music lessons. I play ball with them—I help them do their homework. I mean, I’ll get affidavits from schoolteachers, even a psychologist in Albuquerque. They all support my position that the boys need to be multicultural, to live with their dad. But the whole court process is stacked against a foreigner.”
“The Chinese have not developed an appreciation for the rule of law yet,” Branko observed. “But Mickey, what if you just took the boys and left?”
“God, Branko, I thought hard about it last winter in Hong Kong, even before things got so bad. We were there with her parents. I had my ticket for LAX, and I went ahead and bought two more for the kids—just in case I could see my way clear. Then she found their passports in my stuff and went ballistic on me. Now she’s brainwashing them that I’m some heathen from the West.”
“Sounds ugly.”
“The worst thing is, it’s like she’s blackmailing me. The shit I’m into with Telstar, the satellite telemetry stuff, is getting hairier and hairier. I don’t produce for Pops and she’s all over me. She ditches the boys out at his country place, and then she flies off to some fucking fashion show.”
The crowd cheered as the third baseman speared a one-hop liner headed down the line and turned a neat 5-4-3 double play from his knees, a big league ease to his side-arm toss.
As the crowd settled, Mickey pressed the issue. “Branko,” he pleaded, “I need your help, man.” He barreled ahead shamelessly, reaching into his wallet and passing photos of the two boys—half cowboy, half Confucius—smiling in b
aseball uniforms. Pre-game eye black accentuated their almond-shaped eyes, but the smiles and the teeth were unmistakably Mickey’s.
For several moments, Branko was silent. The sun was falling behind the grandstand, the last rays reaching toward the ballplayers on the field, their white uniforms set off by red piping. Splotches of pure sunlight were scattered randomly about the diamond.
Branko held the photos at length before passing them back. They were alone, in their own row near the top of the bleachers, both thinking intently.
“Mickey,” Branko said at last, “what exactly do you expect from me?”
“I, uh, I want to make a deal.”
“A deal?”
“Yeah,” Mickey answered, “like a trade. I’ve been saving some stuff for you. Tips that might help your work. Little insights into what they’re up to. Hardware shopping lists. Some good stuff.”
“You want to make a trade to get your boys out?”
“I want you to recruit me. Put me to work. Let me do something for Uncle Sam. I mean, I got some ideas about some of the games they’re playing. High tech stuff. Dirty tricks against Taiwan. You name it.”
Mickey waited anxiously, popcorn in hand, beer at his feet. Branko was gazing across the field toward the sinking sun. He would not look at Mickey for the longest time, peering at some distant marker.
“Fuck you, Mickey Dooley,” Branko finally said.
“What do you expect me to—”
“No, Mickey. Don’t. Don’t even try to defend yourself.”
“It’s just fuck you?”
“Yeah. Fuck you.”
“For what? For asking an old friend—”
“No, Mickey! Fuck you for screwing up your life.”
“Gimme a break!”
“Fuck you for making such a mess and for expecting people who live cleaner to bail your ass out.”
“So what was my sin? Marrying a Chinese woman? Trying to help China join the twenty-first century? What do you expect a businessman to—”
“You’re a businessman with the morals of a sewer rat. Do you have any idea what the file on your Beijing operations looks like?”
“I’m as patriotic as the next guy. I mean—” Mickey caught himself, curious. “So, what exactly do they think they have on me?”
“Let’s just say your patriotism is highly suspect. Your damn Agency file is so thick I had to get two waivers just to have a meal with you. The fact is, you’ve screwed up, Mickey. You could have put your brilliance to a higher purpose. Now you’re paying the price.”
“For God’s sake man, don’t sit in judgment of me. It’s just business. We don’t sell it, the French or the Germans will.”
“So you go through your life doing whatever your sleaziest neighbor will do? How exactly does your version of least common denominator ethics elevate the species? Whoring for the People’s Liberation Army? Skimming off all those dual use licenses for the Chinese Defense Ministry? Your little games on the side for Telstar? Sprinkling cash around both capitals like some bagman?”
“Branko, I just am—”
“You were the cleverest of us all. What did you do with your God-given talent? Do you have any idea how the Chinese use the stuff you help them get? How it will be used against the West in a war?” Branko turned and faced him squarely now. “You’ve got blood on your hands, man.”
“And the CIA’s full of nuns? We’ve all got blood on our hands. That doesn’t mean a guy can’t have a second chance to do the right thing.”
Branko stopped to listen.
“I figure it’s like my mom used to say. . . ‘it’s what you’re aspiring to that matters,’” Mickey said, suddenly preaching. “That is what we answer to God for, she said—our dreams, not our failings.”
Branko held his silence as Mickey continued to squirm.
“Listen, Branko, I know you’re pissed that I haven’t done many noble things with my life. I went off to China to make some money and open doors. I thought marrying Chinese was part of the future, that my family might be some kind of bridge between the two worlds. So why is it my fault when it turns out we have nothing in common but our kids?”
“This is not about your kids.”
“It is for me! Jesus, think ill of me—tell me I’ll fry in Hell. But why should they suffer just because I screwed up? Look at them!” He thrust the photos at him, as if they were defense evidence at trial. “They’re American kids, American citizens. They’re hostages in the Commies’ corrupt legal system.”
Branko kicked at bits of popcorn with his toe, working them methodically down to the sticky ledge below.
The sun was gone now, settled off behind the ridge to the west. The sky above them was laced with elongated Z’s of orange and purple, punctuated by the harsh light of the electric towers. The bulbs burned in a ring about the stadium.
“Will you help me?” Mickey pressed. “If not for old time’s sake, then for the kids’?”
Branko was more than willing to let Mickey prostrate himself. But Branko was a professional, resigned to his purpose. He knew what he needed to do here, even as Mickey continued to pursue him.
As they sat, a line drive was hit into the gap in left-center field. The crowd responded with noise. The ball seemed headed directly at their row, until it began to fade. An arm reached up at the warning track, snatching it with leather. The two outfielders dodged a collision and circled, their legs a perfect parabola as they concluded the play with a slap of their gloves. They loped back toward the infield, matching stride for stride.
“Yes,” Branko finally replied, “yes, Mickey, we will help them.”
“God, thank you, Branko.” Mickey grabbed his left arm with both his hands, clinging. “Thank you.”
“You need to understand a few things, though.” Branko was gathering himself. Mickey had seen it in the old days as his colleague prepared to skewer an undergraduate in some tutorial.
“Sure.”
“Past friendship does not oblige me to take foolish risks on you. The CIA doesn’t do custody disputes. This is business.”
“Sure, Branko.”
“You need to listen for once—really fucking listen.”
“I promise.”
“You must pledge not to repeat what I say. To any one. Ever.”
“Right.”
“We never talked. And you will never talk about it. To anyone.”
“I won’t.”
Branko inhaled, gaining strength, reflecting on the events of an alarming week that had brought him to this crossroads. The truth was, he had wanted to say “yes” for days. But he could not justify it. Before his discussions late Wednesday with one of the CIA’s key Beijing assets, he could not support the notion. After the chilling new analysis of recent Chinese actions, after confirmation that Lee was once again rebuffing any contacts from his local controller, Branko saw no better option.
“If you get sloppy with this, they will kill you. Others will suffer, too. You have to justify my blind faith in you, in your essential decency.”
“You have my word. As a father, as an American. Now what the hell is it?”
Branko lit a cigarette, pulling hard for sustenance.
“Mickey, we’ve concluded it’s not safe for you to return to Beijing.”
“Not safe? What the hell do you mean?”
“Not safe now, not safe ever.”
“But I’ve got to go back. How could I ever get the boys if. . . Wait. What is it?”
“Something new has turned up.”
“Something new?”
“It changes everything. You see, there are indications that you have been targeted.”
“What? But I’ve worked with the—”
“Can you just listen a moment?” Branko’s voice rose, and he shot a glance about them. But the nearest fans were a good twenty yards away.
“Goddamn it, Mickey. Wake up! This is real. This isn’t some grad school maneuver to bed some blonde.”
“Hey, man! It’s
my sons we’re talking about. I know this is real.”
Branko struggled for composure. “You know the explosion on F Street? The bomb outside Talbott’s firm?”
“Of course.”
“Well, the forensics experts have belatedly identified fragments of a timing device. The D.C. Police contaminated some of the evidence. Mishandled it, logged it in wrong—plain incompetence. But it seems pretty clear now to the FBI and to our people.”
“What seems clear?” Branko had lost him.
“A timer, Mickey.”
“A timer?”
“Yes. A timer,” Branko repeated. “There were fragments of a timer in the rubble.”
“So?”
“It suggests that the gentleman transporting the explosive device had no intention of being a suicide bomber. It was intended as a drop off. It was not intended to blow up in his lap at 9:07 a.m. He intended to leave the bomb for subsequent detonation.”
“For when?”
“For whom is the more appropriate question. They had a busy day planned at the Talbott firm. A lot of visitors. Senators. Ambassadors. . .”
“And me.”
“Exactly. And you.”
“The ten o’clock appointment! Rachel and Talbott and the guys from the Chinese Embassy. And Lee too. He was supposed to be coming—”
“This is raw, Mickey. Raw, unverified, inconclusive analysis.”
“But who? Who would pull such a crazy-ass stunt? Two blocks from the White House! And why me? I mean, Senator Smithson was supposed to be there at noon. How do you know that—”
“No hour hand. The hour hand, it seems, had been pulled off the watch face before it was wired to the detonator. It had only the minute hand sweep, as far as forensics can tell. It would seem they intended it to go off at seven minutes past the next hour. Ten not nine.”
“But who would target any of us?”
“Who indeed? That is our question.”
“Not Taiwan—I mean, that’s crazy. The U.S. would abandon them in a heartbeat if their people pulled that kind of crap.”
“We don’t know the answer to that. Could be the Chinese were after just one of you. Could be you. Could be part of some in-fighting in one of their intelligence branches. Could be a ruse, a set-up, misdirection. Some guys making a hit, and trying to make others take the heat for it. They’ve been known to pull some bizarre numbers. Do some nasty job and try to pin it on their neighbors. A two-for-one shot.”
The Mandarin Club Page 16
