“My job is to preserve, protect, and defend the country—”
“No, your job is to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution, which is a whole lot more complicated. Remember, to the average citizen ‘preserve, protect, and defend’ means that they get paid every week, and they feed their families, get a week at the beach every year, or maybe Disney World, and football every Sunday afternoon in the fall. Your job is to keep them content and secure, not just from foreign armies, but from the general vicissitudes of life. The good news is that if you do that, you can be in this job another seven-plus years and retire with their love.”
“You left out the legacy part.”
That made Arnie’s eyes flare a bit. “Legacy? Any president who worries too much about that is offending God, and that’s almost as dumb as offending the Supreme Court.”
“Yeah, and when the Pennsylvania case gets there—”
Arnie held up his hands as though protecting against a punch. “Jack, I’ll worry about that when the time comes. You didn’t take my advice on the Supreme Court, and so far you’ve been lucky, but if— no, when that blows up in your face, it won’t be pretty.” Van Damm was already planning the defense strategy for that.
“Maybe, but I won’t worry about it. Sometimes you just let the chips fall where they may.”
“And sometimes you look out to make sure the goddamned tree doesn’t land on you.”
Jack’s intercom buzzed just as he put out the cigarette. It was Mrs. Sumter’s voice. “The senators just came through the West Entrance.”
“I’m out of here,” Arnie said. “Just remember, you will support the dam and canal on that damned river, and you value their support. They’ll be there when you need them, Jack. Remember that. And you do need them. Remember that, too.”
“Yes, Dad,” Ryan said.
You walked here?” Nomuri asked, with some surprise.
“It is only two kilometers,” Ming replied airily. Then she giggled. “It was good for my appetite.”
Well, you went through that fettuccine like a shark through a surfer, Nomuri thought. I suppose your appetite wasn’t hurt very much. But that was unfair. He’d thought this evening through very carefully, and if she’d fallen into his trap, it was his fault more than hers, wasn’t it? And she did have a certain charm, he decided as she got into his company car. They’d already agreed that they’d come to his apartment so that he could give her the present he’d already advertised. Now Nomuri was getting a little excited. He’d planned this for more than a week, and the thrill of the chase was the thrill of the chase, and that hadn’t changed in tens of thousands of years of male humanity… and now he wondered what was going on in her head. She’d had two stiff glasses of wine with the meal— and she’d passed on dessert. She’d jumped right to her feet when he’d suggested going to his place. Either his trap had been superbly laid, or she was more than ready herself…. The drive was short, and it passed without words. He pulled into his numbered parking place, wondering if anyone would take note of the fact that he had company today. He had to assume that he was watched here. The Chinese Ministry of State Security probably had an interest in all foreigners who lived in Beijing, since all were potential spies. Strangely, his apartment was not in the same part of the building as the Americans and other Westerners. It wasn’t overt segregation or categorization, but it had worked out that way, the Americans largely in one section, along with most of the Europeans… and the Taiwanese, too, Nomuri realized. And so, whatever surveillance existed was probably over on that end of the complex. A good thing now for Ming, and later, perhaps, a good thing for himself.
His place was a corner second-story walk-up in a Chinese interpretation of an American garden-apartment complex. The apartment was spacious enough, about a hundred square meters, and was probably not bugged. At least he’d found no microphones when he’d moved in and hung his pictures, and his sweep gear had discovered no anomalous signals— his phone had to be bugged, of course, but just because it was bugged didn’t mean that there was somebody going over the tapes every day or even every week. MSS was just one more government agency, and in China they were probably little different from those in America, or France for that matter, lazy, underpaid people who worked as little as possible and served a bureaucracy that didn’t encourage singular effort. They probably spent most of their time smoking the wretched local cigarettes and jerking off.
He had an American Yale lock on the door, with a pick-resistant tumbler and a sturdy locking mechanism. If asked about this, he’d explain that when living in California for NEC, he’d been burglarized— the Americans were such lawless and uncivilized people— and he didn’t want that to happen again.
“So, this is the home of a capitalist,” Ming observed, looking around. The walls were covered with prints, mainly movie posters.
“Yes, well, it’s the home of a salaryman. I don’t really know if I’m a capitalist or not, Comrade Ming,” he added, with a smile and arched eyebrow. He pointed to his couch. “Please have a seat. Can I get you anything?”
“Another glass of wine, perhaps?” she suggested, spotting and then looking at the wrapped box on the chair opposite the couch.
Nomuri smiled. “That I can do.” He headed off into the kitchen, where he had a bottle of California Chardonnay chilling in the fridge. Popping the cork was easy enough, and he headed back to the living room with two glasses, one of which he handed to his guest. “Oh,” he said then. “Yes, this is for you, Ming.” With that he handed over the box, wrapped fairly neatly in red— of course— gift paper.
“May I open it now?”
“Certainly.” Nomuri smiled, in as gentlemanly a lustful way as he could manage. “Perhaps you would want to unwrap it, well…”
“Are you saying in your bedroom?”
“Excuse me. just that you might wish some privacy when you open it. Please pardon me if I am too forward.”
The mirth in her eyes said it all. Ming took a deep sip of her white wine and walked off into that room and closed the door. Nomuri took a small sip of his own and sat down on the couch to await developments. If he’d chosen unwisely, she might throw the box at him and storm out… not much chance of that, he thought. More likely, even if she found him too forward, she’d keep the present and the box, finish her wine, make small talk, and then take her leave in thirty minutes or so, just to show good manners— effectively the same result without the overt insult— and Nomuri would have to search for another recruitment prospect. No, the best outcome would be…
…the door opened, and there she stood with a small, impish smile. The boiler suit was gone. Instead she wore the red-orange bra and panties set, the one with the front closure. She stood there holding her wine glass in salute, and it looked as if she’d taken another sip of her drink, maybe to work up her courage… or to loosen her inhibitions.
Nomuri found himself suddenly apprehensive. He took another drink himself before standing, and he walked slowly, and a little uneasily, to the bedroom doorway.
Her eyes, he saw, were a little uneasy themselves, a little frightened, and with luck maybe his were, too, because women everywhere liked their men to be just a little vulnerable. Maybe John Wayne hadn’t gotten all the action he wanted, Nomuri thought quickly. Then he smiled.
“I guessed right on the size.”
“Yes, and it feels wonderful, like a second skin, smooth and silky.” Every woman has it, Nomuri realized: the ability to smile and, regardless of the exterior, show the woman within, often a perfect woman, full of tenderness and desire, demureness and coquetry, and all you had to do…
…his hand came out and touched her face as gently as his slight shaking allowed. What the hell was this? he demanded of himself. Shaking? James Bond’s hands never shook. This was the time when he was supposed to scoop her up in his arms and stride in a masterful way off to the bed, there to possess her like Vince Lombardi taking over a football team, like George Patton leading an attack. But for all his triumphal anticipation of this moment, things were different from what he’d expected. Whoever or whatever Ming was, she was giving herself to him. There was no more in her than that— that was all she had. And she was giving it to him.
He bent his head down to kiss her, and there he caught the scent of the Dream Angel perfume, and somehow it suited the moment perfectly. Her arms came around him sooner than he’d expected. His hands replicated her gesture, and he found that her skin was smooth, like oiled silk, and his hands rubbed up and down of their own accord. He felt something strange on his chest and looked down to see her small hands undoing his buttons, and then her eyes looked into his, and her face was no longer plain. He unbuttoned his own cuffs, and she forced his shirt off, down his back, then lifted his T-shirt over his head or tried to, for her arms were too short to make it quite all the way— and then he hugged her tighter, feeling the silklike artificial fibers of her new bra rub on his hairless chest. It was then that his hug became harder, more insistent, and his kiss harder on her mouth, and he took her face in his hands and looked hard into her dark, suddenly deep eyes, and what he saw was woman.