by David Poyer
“In fact, it is well known that the actions of the Greater People’s Republic were undertaken in self-defense after a long and increasingly dangerous series of adventurist provocations by the criminal and reckless leadership of the United States.
“Miss Ambassador alleges China began this war. In fact America did, with a policy of interfering with universally accepted claims in waters, reefs, and islands our ancient imperial dynasties discovered, explored, and populated over a period of more than four thousand years. Indeed, they themselves refer to the area in question as the ‘China’ Sea. After many years of threats and provocations, they began overt hostilities with the violent conquest and occupation of our islands in the Mischief Reef area. The U.S. and Indian navies then imposed an illegal blockade, cutting China’s billions off from badly needed food, medicines, and oil.
“Next, a U.S. missile cruiser shot down a peaceful communications satellite. Not content with this, American SEAL thugs carried out an armed raid on a peaceful fishing village on Yongxing, or Woody Island, spreading terror among the innocent coastal populace.
“Finally, the United States, along with renegade elements of the disgraced and corrupt former regime of South Korea, inserted itself into China’s internal affairs. They attacked civilian passenger ships and hospital ships during the peaceful and mutually agreed upon reunification of Taiwan with the mother country, killing thousands.
“This unprovoked attack, as is well known, forced Premier Zhang to reluctantly order the strike on the American carrier group, which was slinking toward our coast to carry out terror raids on defenseless cities. He regretted this necessity. But after all, can the United States, after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, protest with a straight face if Asians use nuclear weapons against her, far at sea, when no civilian populations are put at risk?”
Chen stared around belligerently. From the nods around the table, he’d scored a point. He resumed. “Not content with that, they continue to wage aggressive war, threatening China’s coasts and interfering with internal production and communications. They damage our nuclear generating stations, endangering large areas with the release of radioactive materials. They derail our high-speed trains. They bomb and strafe our coastal cities, inflicting thousands more civilian casualties. Finally, they foment rebellion by violent extremists within our borders, necessitating stern measures to restore order.”
Chen spread his hands, eyes wide, astonished and ingenuous. “All this, despite our respected premier’s repeated offers of peace and reconciliation on the basis of mutual respect and resumption of free trade.”
One of the younger men passed him a paper. He scanned it, then lifted his head. Slammed his fist on the table.
“I have a further charge to make, and a most grievous one! Not content with causing famine through blockade, the so-called Allies have also released biological agents to decimate crops and livestock. Also, most heinously, this winter they spread infectious viruses among the population, resulting in hundreds of thousands of deaths among the aged, infirm, and those with weak systems.
“This is not merely war! It is conscious genocide against the entire people of China and her gallant Persian and Pakistani allies in this struggle against Western oppression.”
The deputy minister looked up at the ceiling, then at his colleagues. He glared at Salyers and Blair. Took a slow, elaborate sip of water, and cleared his throat.
“China respects this distinguished commission and will cooperate fully. At the same time, we will not insult it by introducing spurious resolutions we are not empowered to table.
“Nevertheless, we cannot help rejecting in the strongest terms the lying propaganda of villains such as the woman sitting next to the senior U.S. representative, who no doubt wrote those inflammatory and false words she uttered.
“The ‘Honorable’ Blair Titus is well known among the peaceful masses as a corrupt tool of the profit-hungry warmongers in the American defense industry. She is a pliable puppet, wife of the notorious war criminal Admiral Daniel V. Lenson, and most likely also the mistress of the insane and irresponsible national security adviser, Dr. Edward Szerenci.
“Truly, this is a woman wise friends of China will avoid. Depraved and malignant, she will be among those standing in the dock when this commission completes its work of documenting America’s genocide, war crimes, and other violations of international norms and treaties.
“Thank you.” Chen beamed around, scowled at her one last time, and slowly seated himself.
“Ooff,” Shira whispered. “Corrupt, pliable, depraved, and malignant. I like the mistress part best, though. Guess I didn’t catch that chemistry, when you and Ed were facing off in the Tank.”
Blair coolly rearranged her papers, though rage burned like sulfuric acid on her cheeks. Obfuscation, bluster, and lies, but repeat a falsehood often enough, loudly enough, and someone would believe it. Back it up with threats, like the one Chen had just made, and many of the smaller states would fall obediently into line, or at least hesitate to support any Allied charges.
The gavel rapped. The chairwoman admonished both parties, and moved on to the next business.
* * *
THE rest of the morning was devoted to procedural discussion, mainly of how delegates to the observation teams would be apportioned among various neutral countries. Blair had her doubts as to how disinterested they would actually be but, after McManus’s scolding, kept them to herself. Both the U.S. and China were here only as observers, after all, though as the main combatants, their cooperation would be essential.
This became evident as Dr. al-Mughrabi presented a plan for four teams, three geographic and one for cyberspace issues, to operate across the war zones. Each oversight team would have three members. One would be a physician, one a diplomat or jurist, and one an army officer. A delegate from Chile proposed that the term “army officers” be changed to “military officers,” as many of the hostilities so far had been naval. Al-Mughrabi countered politely that as few outrages against civilian populations occurred at sea, it was proper that monitors be army officers, particularly senior ones who’d seen action in such campaigns as that against FARC, in Colombia. After nearly an hour’s wrangling, the language stayed as it was.
The next issue was access. Al-Mughrabi asked both combatant representatives if it would be granted. Chen, speaking first this time, said China would grant full and free access, including transport and hosteling, to all oversight teams, guaranteeing them entrée to any portion of any battlefield at any time. He nodded benignantly. “We offer this in the certainty that impartial observers will attest to the scrupulous care the people’s armed forces have always taken to avoid collateral damage and civilian casualties.”
Shira whispered, “They’ll never implement that promise. They’d let them into Taipei? Hong Kong? Miandan, where they’re massacring Rohingyas in Rakhine? Near anything that even smells like an atrocity?”
McManus turned to them. “And the representative from the United States.”
Blair had discussed this with General Vincenzo during their call the night before. Unfortunately, JCS opposed unhindered access on security grounds. They’d drawn up a précis of his misgivings. Salyers rose, holding a copy. She said carefully, “The United States is prepared to cooperate, but with certain caveats.
“We can provide transport and housing, but subject to the agreement of our theater commanders. Also, we have to keep the personal safety of the monitors in mind. Subject to those limitations, we will host the observer teams.”
The old African next to Blair raised a finger. He mumbled, in English, “Why is it that the Chinese have nothing to hide? While you are afraid to offer full access?”
Salyers smiled down at him. “I believe you’ll find that American ‘limited access’ gives them more real opportunity for on-the-ground observation than Chinese ‘full access.’ Sir.”
“We object again to these barefaced lies,” Chen snapped from across the table.
At which
point it seemed to be time to break for lunch.
* * *
MOST of the attendees left, with two hours off before the afternoon session. She and Shira stayed, and hit the remains of the breakfast table. They were standing isolated, as before, nibbling on slightly stale currant-studded scones, when the elderly African ambled up. Blair nodded politely. He inclined his head, smiling, and set a cup and saucer down in front of her. Flicked the saucer with a finger, and wandered away.
“What the hey,” Salyers muttered. “He just—”
“Shh,” Blair said. When the old diplomat rounded a corner and was out of sight, she set her own cup down. Pushed his aside surreptitiously, and replaced it on the saucer with her own.
Just as she’d suspected, when she picked it up a slip of paper lay under the saucer. She excused herself, went to the restroom again, and locked herself into a stall.
The note read
QUEEN OF TARTS 7 PM
She tore it across. A moment later the toilet flushed, whirling the bits away and out of sight.
* * *
THAT night, after a room-service dinner at the hotel, she told Shira, “I’m turning in early. Jet lag, ugh.”
Back in her room, instead of going to bed she pulled on a dark gray cable-knit sweater, black pants, and a brown hooded raincoat. She tied a dark green kerchief from the hotel gift shop over her hair, then glanced out into the shared living area. Empty.
She eased the door shut behind her, and took the private elevator down.
The alley was deserted. A wall sconce threw out a greenish glow. It was still raining, with gusts of chilly wind. Pressing the button to unfurl a compact umbrella, she stepped out and quickly left the Radisson behind, walking downhill toward the river, then veering right onto Dame Street, a wide avenue lined with pubs, jewelry stores, and touristy craft shops.
The squared-off steeple of Christ Church Cathedral loomed behind her. Couples she assumed were tourists chatted in German and Dutch and French, strolling past, heads bent under the steady drizzle. The streets glistened like patent leather. A raucous thumping of fiddle and drum accompanied a lively folk tune. Through a pub window she glimpsed people three deep at a long mahogany bar, holding pint glasses and laughing or singing along. Maybe after whatever she was headed for, she’d treat herself to a Guinness, anonymous at last in a happy, rowdy crowd.
The Queen of Tarts, a smartphone search had revealed, was a bakery café opposite the old city hall. It wasn’t far from the castle. Tilting the umbrella low over her face, she walked briskly past without looking into the wide front window.
Trying to remember tradecraft from the Graham Greene and Alan Furst novels she’d read, she checked out a window of shoes, then crossed to stroll west on the other side of the street, past the tart shop again. Its facade was painted an eye-catching bright red, punctuated with decorative prize medallions. On neither pass did she spot anyone suspicious, but these days street surveillance cameras could be recording her every step. An indignity James Bond had never had to consider.… Finally she took a deep breath, furled her dripping umbrella, and went in.
Four tables were occupied by sodden tourists in jeans and windbreakers in various stages of drying out. The shop smelled of cinnamon and butter and vanilla, with a sharp hint of berries. Across the back, a long glass bakery counter displayed lush-looking pastries, cheesecakes, lattice-topped tarts. She stood gazing down at an enormous raspberry-striped meringue, wondering exactly what she was doing here.
“Help ye, madam?” a red-aproned young woman asked. A smudge of flour dusted one cheek.
“I’m not sure. I was supposed to meet someone here.”
“And are ye sure it wasn’t at our other location?”
“Your … other location?”
“This is our wee bakery shop. The big café is around the corner.” She began to give directions with the air of someone who had to do this fifty times a day. Then paused, eyeing Blair sympathetically. “Bleeding awful out, isn’t it? We have a way there without going outside.” She opened a gate and motioned for her to step behind the counter. “This way. Mind the step down.”
Blair hesitated at the worn oak threshold that separated the cheerful bakery from a dim brick passageway. “Go on then,” said the girl. “It’s a shortcut.”
At last she stepped through. It felt ludicrous to suspect this kind, auburn-haired Irish shopgirl of being part of some deep-laid international plot.
The brick-lined, poorly lit corridor, obviously an alleyway in some previous incarnation of this Victorian-era block, zagged and backtracked. At one corner a stir and crackle from a stack of boxes made her flinch. When she peered in, a huge black cat stared up, amber eyes lambent. “Hello. I have a kitty kind of like you,” she told him. “His name is Jimbo. What’s yours?”
The cat hissed and leapt from the box. He turned disdainfully away and began vigorously washing, as if she’d somehow contaminated his fur.
A few more steps, and a crackle-painted door opened onto a busy, clattering kitchen. Servers pushed past, hefting trays of soups and salads and plates of the same heavenly-smelling pastries and lavishly iced cakes the bakeshop had displayed. She eyed a tray of cherry tarts with fork marks around the edges, the ripe red filling oozing along the darker seams. Yes, one of those, please?.… But pulled herself back to the task, whatever that was, and looked around.
The place was packed. Two full floors, every seat occupied. Half a dozen servers in bright red aprons and black pants wove dexterously among tables to deliver orders. Through large plate-glass windows, wire tables and chairs were visible on a patio outside, but they stood empty beneath dripping green awnings. A score of conversations babbled in a dozen languages. She unzipped her overcoat, looking about. Then caught a lifted hand from above.
A stairway led up to three tables set in front of doors that opened, apparently, to the restrooms. They overlooked the organized chaos below. Europeans of various sizes and nationalities occupied two of them.
She almost missed him, he was so unobtrusive. But at the farthest table, against the wall, alone, perched one of the Chinese she’d faced earlier that day. The youngest, perhaps, though she couldn’t be sure. Absent, now, the heavy black plastic-rimmed glasses.
“Good evening,” he said, half rising. “Ms. Titus. Will you have a seat?”
“I’m not sure. Who are you?”
“My name is Xie Yunlong.” He pronounced his family name with a sibilant syllable she knew she wouldn’t even try to reproduce. “Please call me Yun.”
“All right. Blair.”
One of the red-aproned servers appeared, brisk and blond, pencil poised. “Evenin’, luvs. Are we startin’ with tea today, then?”
Blair ordered Earl Grey and two small tarts, one with cherry, the other with apple filling. Xie quietly asked for cinnamon scones and coffee. When they came, he glanced at the Germans, who were busy with their Guinnesses. Then leaned to her. “I am here without knowledge of deputy minister. Without knowledge of head of mission.”
“All on your own?”
“No, not quite. I represent what you might call another faction within the administration.”
“I see,” she murmured. “A peace faction? One inclined to compromise?”
He pursed his lips. “That would be very premature to discuss.”
He spoke with great precision, one sentence at a time, as if reading from some internal script, committee-generated and carefully memorized. “First, I must emphasize that we all, every Chinese, fully agree with everything respected Minister Chen said today. The United States has behaved abominably. Threats and attacks can only be met with resolute defense. Premier Zhang’s peace offers are realistic and generous.”
“I see. But surely you haven’t been sent to meet me—whatever faction, whoever sent you—just to repeat what Chen already said.”
“The leadership is united. There is no ‘faction.’”
She frowned. Hadn’t he used the word first? “All right. I un
derstand that,” she said. Thinking: I must tell you again, I am not mad.
Their drinks arrived. Xie sipped coffee. Blair stirred sugar into her tea. At last he murmured, “Still, there are matters best discussed in a way that is not fully public.”
“We call those ‘back channels.’”
“Back channels; yes. Ever during war, there must be communications between leaders.”
She narrowed her gaze, startled. “You’re representing Zhang?”
“As I said, there are no factions.”
She understood less with every exchange. Through the unreality of the setting, the yeasty, fruity kitchen smells, the relaxed gemütlich chatter, a queer unease was bleeding. No factions? Yet he’d started by mentioning one. And if there weren’t any, then why an off-line meeting? Even with the Chinese and U.S. embassies withdrawn at the outbreak of war, the UN was still in session in New York.
Still, now that they were here, she should in good conscience try to sound out what he wanted. “The premier is always right. Got it. So what are we here for, Yun?”
He met her gaze for perhaps a tenth of a second before dropping his again. “Today we were arguing over how this war started. It is perhaps more worth inquiring, how it could be ended.”
Now they were getting somewhere. She said over the raised teacup, “The first step would be to establish communication.”
“That is what we are attempting.”
“I see that. And it’s encouraging. The second thing, then, the great thing, would be to begin to limit the severity of this very unfortunate war. Your premier has to show good faith. Establish trust. Which, so far, he hasn’t shown much interest in, frankly.”
The young man whispered, while dissecting his scone with knife and fork, meticulously placing each raisin to one side of the plate, “How could he do that? If he were willing.”
Blair thought back to the briefings at JCS. “One way might be … let’s see … for example, let’s say he ordered his armies in Vietnam to halt in place. Allow humanitarian corridors to Hanoi, to assist and supply the population. And, perhaps, elsewhere, refrain from further counterforce attacks.”