“Not this time, Fang,” Luo assured them all. “Not this time. We will do to the Russians the same thing we did to the Americans at the Yalu River. We will strike with power and surprise. Where they are weak, we will rush through. Where they are strong, we will encircle and surround. In 1950, we were a peasant army with only light weapons. Today,” Luo went on, “we are a fully modern army. We can do things today such as even the Americas could not dream of back then. We will prevail,” the Defense Minister concluded with firm conviction.
“Comrades, do we wish to stop now?” Zhang asked, to focus the debate. “Do we wish to doom our country’s economic and political future? For that is the issue at hand. If we stand still, we risk national death. Who among us wishes to stand still then?”
Predictably no one, not even Qian, moved to pick up that gauntlet. The vote was entirely pro forma, and unanimous. As always, the Politburo achieved collegiality for its own sake. The ministers returned to their various offices. Zhang buttonholed Tan Deshi for several minutes before heading back to his. An hour after that, he dropped in on his friend, Fang Gan.
“You are not cross with me?” Fang asked.
“The voice of caution is something that does not offend me, my old friend,” Zhang said, graciously taking his seat opposite the other’s desk. He could afford to be gracious. He had won.
“I am afraid of this move, Zhang. We did underestimate the Americans in 1950, and it cost us many men.”
“We have the men to spare,” the senior Minister Without Portfolio pointed out. “And it will make Luo feel valuable.”
“As if he needs that.” Fang gestured his displeasure with that strutting martinet.
“Even a dog has his uses,” his visitor pointed out.
“Zhang, what if the Russians are more formidable than you think?”
“I’ve taken care of that. We will create instability in their country in two days, the very day our attack begins.”
“How?”
“You’ll recall we had that failed attempt against Grushavoy’s senior advisor, that Golovko fellow.”
“Yes, and I counseled against that, too,” Fang reminded his visitor.
“And there, perhaps, you were right,” Zhang acknowledged, to smooth his host’s feathers. “But Tan has developed the capability, and what better way to destabilize Russia than to eliminate their president? This we can do, and Tan has his orders.”
“You assassinate a government chief in a foreign land?” Fang asked, surprised at this level of boldness. “What if you fail?”
“We commit an act of war against Russia anyway. What have we to lose by this? Nothing—but there is much to gain.”
“But the political implications …” Fang breathed.
“What of them?”
“What if they turn the tables on us?”
“You mean attempt to attack Xu personally?” The look on his face provided the real answer to the question: China would be better off without the nonentity. But even Zhang would not say that aloud, even in the privacy of this room. “Tan assures me that our physical security is perfect. Perfect, Fang. There are no foreign intelligence operations of consequence in our country.”
“I suppose every nation says such a thing—right before the roof caves in on them. We’ve done well with our spying in America, for example, and for that our good Comrade Tan is to be congratulated, but arrogance falls before the blow, and such blows are never anticipated. We would do well to remember that.”
Zhang dismissed the thought: “One cannot fear everything.”
“That is true, but to fear nothing is also imprudent.” Fang paused to mend fences. “Zhang, you must think me an old woman.”
That made the other minister smile. “Old woman? No, Fang, you are a comrade of many years’ standing, and one of our most thoughtful thinkers. Why, do you suppose, I brought you onto the Politburo?”
To get my votes, of course, Fang didn’t answer. He had the utmost respect for his senior colleague, but he wasn’t blind to his faults. “For that I am grateful.”
“For that the people ought to be grateful, you are so solicitous to their needs.”
“Well, one must remember the peasants and workers out there. We serve them, after all.” The ideological cant was just perfect for the moment. “This is not an easy job we share.”
“You need to relax a little. Get that girl Ming out there, take her to your bed. You’ve done it before.” It was a weakness both men shared. The tension of the moment abated, as Zhang wished it to.
“Chai sucks better,” Fang replied, with a sly look.
“Then take her to your Hat. Buy her some silk drawers. Get her drunk. They all like that.”
“Not a bad idea,” Fang agreed. “It certainly helps me sleep.”
“Then do it by all means! We’ll need our sleep. The next few weeks will be strenuous for us—but more so for our enemies.”
“One thing, Zhang. As you said, we must treat the captives well. One thing the Americans do not forgive rapidly is cruelty to the helpless, as we have seen here in Beijing.”
“Now, they are old women. They do not understand the proper use of strength.”
“Perhaps so, but if we wish to do business with them, as you say, why offend them unnecessarily?”
Zhang sighed and conceded the point, because he knew it to be the smart play. “Very well. I will tell Luo.” He checked his watch. “I must be off. I’ve having dinner with Xu tonight.”
“Give him my best wishes.”
“Of course.” Zhang rose, bowed to his friend, and took his leave. Fang took a minute or so before rising and walking to the door. “Ming,” he called, on opening it. “Come here.” He lingered at the door as the secretary came in, allowing his eyes to linger on Chai. Their eyes met and she winked, adding a tiny feminine smile. Yes, he needed his sleep tonight, and she would help.
“The Politburo meeting ran late this day,” Fang said, settling into his chair and doing his dictation. It took twenty-five minutes, and he dismissed Ming to do her daily transcription. Then he had Chai come in, gave her an order, and dismissed her. In another hour, the working day ended. Fang walked down to his official car, with Chai in trail. Together they rode to his comfortable apartment, and there they got down to business.
Ming met her lover at a new restaurant called the Jade Horse, where the food was better than average. “You look troubled,” Nomuri observed.
“Busy time at the office,” she explained. “There is big trouble to come.”
“Oh? What sort of trouble?”
“I cannot say,” she demurred. “It will probably not affect your company.”
And Nomuri saw that he’d taken his agent to the next—actually the last—step. She no longer thought about the software on her office computer. He never brought the subject up. Better that it should happen below the visible horizon. Better that she should forget what she was doing. Your conscience doesn’t worry about things you’ve forgotten. After dinner, they walked back to Nomuri’s place, and the CIA officer tried his best to relax her. He was only partially successful, but she was properly appreciative and left him at quarter to eleven. Nomuri had himself a nightcap, a double, and checked to make sure his computer had relayed her almost-daily report. Next week he hoped to have software he could cross-load to hers over the ‘Net, so that she’d be transmitting the reports directly out to the recipe network. If Bad Things were happening in Beijing, NEC might call him back to Japan, and he didn’t want songbird’s reports to stop going to Langley.
As it happened, this one was already there, and it had generated all manner of excitement.
It was enough to make Ed Foley wish he’d lent a STU to Sergey Golovko, but America didn’t give away its communications secrets that readily, and so the report had been redrafted and sent by secure fax to the U.S. Embassy in Moscow, then hand-carried to SVR headquarters by a consular officer not associated with the CIA. Of course, now they’d assume that he was a spook, which would cause the Russians to shadow him everywhere he went, and use up trained personnel of the FSS. Business was still business, even in this New World Order.
Golovko, predictably, bounced hard off his high office ceiling.
John Clark got the news over his secure satellite phone. “What the hell?” RAINBOW SIX asked, sitting still in his personal car not far from Red Square.
“You heard me,” Ed Foley explained.
“Okay, now what?”
“You’re tight with their special-operations people, right?”
“Somewhat,” Clark allowed. “We’re training them.”
“Well, they might come to you for advice of some sort. You have to know what’s happening.”
“Can I tell Ding?”
“Yes,” the DCI agreed.
“Good. You know, this proves the Chavez Premise.”