“Yes, sir.”
C H A P T E R – 9
Initial Results
Chester Nomuri had learned many things in his life, from his parents and his teachers and his instructors at The Farm, but one lesson he’d yet to learn was the value of patience, at least as it applied to his personal life. That didn’t keep him from being cautious, however. That was why he’d sent his plans to Langley. It was embarrassing to have to inform a woman of his proposed sex life— MP was a brilliant field spook, but she still took her leaks sitting down, Nomuri reminded himself— but he didn’t want the Agency to think that he was an alley cat on the government payroll, because the truth was, he liked his job. The excitement was at least as addictive as the cocaine that some of his college chums had played with.
Maybe that’s why Mrs. Foley liked him, Nomuri speculated. They were of a kind. Mary Pat, they said in the Directorate of Operations, was The Cowgirl. She’d swaggered through the streets of Moscow during the last days of the Cold War like Annie Fucking Oakley packing heat, and though she’d been burned by KGB’s Second Chief Directorate, she hadn’t given the fuckers anything, and whatever operation she’d run— this was still very, very secret— it must have been a son of a bitch, because she’d never gone back in the field but had scampered up the CIA career ladder like a hungry squirrel up an oak tree. The President thought she was smart, and if you wanted a friend in this business, the President of the United States was right up there, because he knew the spook business. Then came the stories about what President Ryan had once done. Bringing out the chairman of the fucking KGB? MP must have been part of that, the boys and girls of the DO all thought. All they knew even within the confines of CIA— except, of course, for those who needed to know (both of them, the saying went)— was what had been published in the press, and while the media generally knew jack shit about black operations, a CNN TV crew had put a camera in the face of a former KGB chairman now living in Winchester, Virginia. While he hadn’t spilled many beans, the face of a man the Soviet government had declared dead in a plane crash was bean enough to make a very rich soup indeed. Nomuri figured he was working for a couple of real pros, and so he let them know what he was up to, even if that meant causing a possible blush for Mary Patricia Foley, Deputy Director (Operations) of the Central Intelligence Agency.
He’d picked a Western-style restaurant. There were more than a few of them in Beijing now, catering both to the locals and to tourists who felt nostalgic for the taste of home (or who worried about their GI systems over here— not unreasonably, Nomuri thought). The quality wasn’t anything close to a real American restaurant, but it was considerably more appealing than the deep-fried rat he suspected was on the menu of many Beijing eateries.
He’d arrived first, and was relaxing with a cheap American bourbon when Ming came through the door. Nomuri waved in what he hoped was not an overly boyish way. She saw him do so, and her resulting smile was just about right, he thought. Ming was glad to see him, and that was step one in the plan for the evening. She made her way to his corner table in the back. He stood, showing a degree of gentlemanliness unusual in China, where women were nowhere near as valued as they were back home. Nomuri wondered if that would change, if all the killing of female babies could suddenly make Ming a valuable commodity, despite her plainness. He still couldn’t get over the casual killing of children; he kept it in the front of his mind, just to keep clear who the good guys were in the world, and who the bad guys were.
“It’s so good to see you,” he said with an engaging smile. “I was worried you might not meet me here.”
“Oh, really? Why?”
“Well, your superior at work… I’m sure that he… well… needs you, I suppose is the polite way to put it,” Nomuri said with a hesitant voice, delivering his rehearsed line pretty well, he thought. He had. The girl giggled a little.
“Comrade Fang is over sixty-five,” she said. “He is a good man, a good superior, and a fine minister, but he works long hours, and he is no longer a young man.”
Okay, so he fucks you, but not all that much, Nomuri interpreted that to mean. And maybe you’d like a little more, from somebody closer to your age, eh? Of course, if Fang was over sixty-five and still getting it on, then maybe he is worthy of some respect, Nomuri added to himself, then tossed the thought aside.
“Have you eaten here before?” The place was called Vincenzo’s, and pretended to be Italian. In fact the owner/operator was a half-breed Italian-Chinese from Vancouver, whose spoken Italian would have gotten him hit by the Mafia had he tried it in Palermo, or even Mulberry Street in Manhattan, but here in Beijing it seemed genuinely ethnic enough.
“No,” Ming replied, looking around at, to her, this most exotic of locations. Every table had an old wine bottle, its bottom wrapped in twine, and an old drippy red candle at the top. The tablecloth was checked white and red. Whoever had decorated this place had evidently seen too many old movies. That said, it didn’t look anything like a local restaurant, even with the Chinese servers. Dark wood paneling, hooks near the door for hanging coats. It could have been in any East Coast city in America, where it would have been recognized as one of those old family Italian places, a mom-and-pop joint with good food and little flash. “What is Italian food like?”
“At its best, Italian cooking is among the very finest in the world,” Nomuri answered. “You’ve never had Italian food? Never at all? Then may I select for you?”
Her response was girlish in its charm. Women were all the same. Treat them in the right way, and they turn into wax in your hand, to be kneaded and shaped to your will. Nomuri was starting to like this part of the job, and someday it might be useful in his personal personal life, too. He waved to the waiter, who came over with a subservient smile. Nomuri first of all ordered a genuine Italian white wine— strangely, the wine list here was actually first rate, and quite pricey to boot, of course— and, with a deep breath, fettuccine Alfredo, quintessential Italian heart-attack food. From looking at Ming, he figured that she’d not refuse rich food.
“So, the new computer and printer systems continue to work out?”
“Yes, and Minister Fang has praised me before the rest of the staff for choosing it. You have made me something of a hero, Comrade Nomuri.”
“I am pleased to hear that,” the CIA officer replied, wondering if being called “comrade” was a good thing for the current mission or a bad one. “We are bringing out a new portable computer now, one you could take home with you, but which has the same power as your office mainframe, with all the same features and software, of course, even a modem for accessing the Internet.”
“Really? I get to do that so seldom. At work, you see, it is not encouraged for us to surf the ‘Net, except when the Minister wants something specific.”
“Is that so? What ‘Net interests does Minister Fang have?”
“Mainly political commentary, and mainly in America and Europe. Every morning I print up various pieces from the newspapers, the Times of London, New York Times, Washington Post, and so on. The Minister especially likes to see what the Americans are thinking.”
“Not very much,” Nomuri observed, as the wine arrived.
“Excuse me?” Ming asked, getting him to turn back.
“Hmph, oh, the Americans, they don’t think very much. The shallowest people I have ever encountered. Loud, poorly educated, and their women…” Chet let his voice trail off.
“What of their women, Comrade Nomuri?” Ming asked, virtually on command.
“Ahh.” He took a sip of the wine and nodded for the waiter to serve it properly. It was a pretty good one from Tuscany. “Have you ever seen the American toy, the Barbie doll?”
“Yes, they are made here in China, aren’t they?”
“That is what every American woman wishes to be, hugely tall, with massive bosoms, a waist you can put your hands around. That is not a woman. It’s a toy, a mannequin for children to play with. And about as intelligent as your average American woman. Do you think they have language skills, as you do? Consider: We now converse in English, a language native to neither of us, but we converse well, do we not?”