by Tom Clancy
The Vatican, located in central Rome, is technically an independent country, hence Cardinal DiMilo’s diplomatic status even in a country where religious convictions were frowned upon at best, and stamped into the earth at worst. Renato Cardinal DiMilo had been a priest for just over forty years, most of which time had been spent in the Vatican’s foreign service. His language skills were not unknown within the confines of his own service, but rare even there, and damned rare in the outside world, where men and women took a great deal of time to learn languages. But DiMilo picked them up easily-so much so that it surprised him that others were unable to do so as well. In addition to being a priest, in addition to being a diplomat, DiMilo was also an intelligence officer-all ambassadors are supposed to be, but he was much more so than most. One of his jobs was to keep the Vatican-therefore the Pope-informed of what was happening in the world, so that the Vatican-therefore the Pope-could take action, or at least use influence in the proper direction.
DiMilo knew the current Pope quite well. They’d been friends for years before his election to the chair of the Pontifex Maximus (“maximus” in this context meaning “chief,” and “pontifex” meaning “bridge-builder,” as a cleric was supposed to be the bridge between men and their God). DiMilo had served the Vatican in this capacity in seven countries. Before the fall of the Soviet Union, he’d specialized in Eastern European countries, where he’d learned to debate the merits of communism with its strongest adherents, mostly to their discomfort and his own amusement. Here would be different, the cardinal thought. It wasn’t just the Marxist beliefs. This was a very different culture. Confucius had defined the place of a Chinese citizen two millennia before, and that place was different from what Western culture taught. There was a place for the teachings of Christ here, of course, as there was everywhere. But the local soil was not as fertile for Christianity as it was elsewhere. Local citizens who sought out Christian missionaries would do so out of curiosity, and once exposed to the gospel would find Christian beliefs more curious still, since they were so different from the nation’s more ancient teachings. Even the more “normal” beliefs that were in keeping, more or less, with Chinese traditions, like the Eastern Spiritualist movement known as Falun Gong, had been ruthlessly, if not viciously, repressed. Cardinal DiMilo told himself that he’d come to one of the few remaining pagan nations, and one in which martyrdom was still a possibility for the lucky or luckless, depending on one’s point of view. He sipped his wine, trying to decide what time his body thought it was, as opposed to what time it was by his watch. In either case, the wine tasted good, reminding him as it did of his home, a place which he’d never truly left, even in Moscow or Prague. Beijing, though-Beijing might be a challenge.
CHAPTER 8 Underlings and Underthings
It wasn’t the first time he’d done this. It was exciting in its way, and arousing, and marginally dangerous because of the time and place. Mainly it was an exercise in effective memory and the discerning eye. The hardest part was converting the English units to metric. The perfect female form was supposed to be 36-24-36, not 91.44–60.96-91.44.
The last time he’d been in a place like this had been in the Beverly Center Mall in Los Angeles, buying for Maria Castillo, a voluptuous Latina who’d been delighted at his error, taking her waist for twenty-four rather than its true twenty-seven. You wanted to err on the low side in numbers, but probably the big side in letters. If you took a 36B chest to be a 34C, she wouldn’t be mad, but if you took a twenty-four-inch waist for a twenty-eight-inch, she’d probably be pissed. Stress, Nomuri told himself with a shake of the head, came in many shapes and sizes. He wanted to get this right because he wanted Ming as a source, but he wanted her as a mistress, too, and that was one more reason not to make a mistake.
The color was the easy part. Red. Of course, red. This was still a country in which red was the “good” color, which was convenient because red had always been the lively choice in women’s underthings, the color of adventure and giggles and … looseness. And looseness served both his biological and professional purposes. He had other things to figure out, too. Ming was not tall, scarcely five feet-151 centimeters or so, Nomuri thought, doing the conversion in his head. She was short but not really petite. There was no real obesity in China. People didn’t overeat here, probably because of the lingering memory of times when food had not been in abundance and overeating was simply not possible. Ming would have been considered overweight in California, Chester thought, but that was just her body type. She was squat because she was short, and no amount of dieting or working out or makeup could change it. Her waist wouldn’t be much less than twenty-seven inches. For her chest, 34B was about the best he could hope for … well, maybe 34C-no, he decided, B+ at most. So, a 34B bra, and medium shorts-panties-red silk, something feminine … something on the wild, whorish side of feminine, something that she could look into the mirror alone with and giggle … and maybe sigh at how different she looked wearing such things, and maybe smile, that special inward smile women had for such moments. The moment when you knew you had them-and the rest was just dessert.
The best part of Victoria’s Secret was the catalog, designed for men who really, and sensibly, wanted to buy the models themselves, despite the facial attitudes that sometimes made them look like lesbians on quaaludes-but with such bodies, a man couldn’t have everything, could he? Fantasies, things of the mind. Nomuri wondered if the models really existed or were the products of computers. They could do anything with computers these days-make Rosie O’Donnell into Twiggy, or Cindy Crawford obsolete.
Back to work, he told himself. This might be a place for fantasies, but not that one, not yet. Okay, it had to be sexy. It had to be something that would both amuse and excite Ming, and himself, too: That was all part of it. Nomuri took the catalog off the pile because it was a lot easier for him to see what he wanted in a filled rather than an unfilled condition. He turned pages and stopped dead on page 26. There was a black girl modeling it, and whatever genetic stew she’d come from must have had some fine ingredients, as her face would have appealed to a member of Hitler’s SS just as much as Idi Amin. It was that sort of face. Better yet, she wore something called a Racerback bra with matching string bikini panties, and the color was just perfect, a red-purple that the Romans had once called Tyrrian Scarlet, the color on the toga stripe of members of the senatorial order, reserved by price and custom to the richest of the Roman nobility, not quite red, not quite purple. The bra material was satin and Lycra, and it closed in front, the easier for a girl to put it on, and the more interesting for a guy to take it off, his mind thought, as he headed over to the proper rack of clothing. Thirty-four-B, he thought. If too small, it would be all the more flattering … small or medium on the string bikini? Shit, he decided, get one of each. Just to be sure, he also got a no-wire triangle-pattern bra and thong panties in an orange-red color that the Catholic Church would call a mortal sin just for looking at. On impulse he got several additional panties on the assumption that they soiled more quickly than bras did, something he wasn’t sure of despite being a field intelligence officer of the Central Intelligence Agency. They didn’t tell you about such things at The Farm. He’d have to do a memo on that. It might give MP a chuckle in her seventh-floor office at Langley.
One other thing, he thought. Perfume. Women liked perfume. You’d expect them to like it, especially here. The entire city of Beijing smelled like a steel mill, lots of coal dust and other pollutants in the air-as Pittsburgh had probably been at the turn of the last century-and the sad truth was that the Chinese didn’t bathe as diligently as Californians did, and nowhere nearly as regularly as the Japanese. So, something that smelled nice …
“Dream Angels,” the brand was called. It came in a perfume spray, lotion, and other applications that he didn’t understand, but he was sure Ming would, since she was a girl, and this was a quintessential girl thing. So, he bought some of that, too, using his NEC credit card to pay for it-his Japanese bosses
would understand. There were skillfully arranged and choreographed sex tours that took Japanese salarymen to various places in Asia that catered to the sex trade. That was probably how AIDS had gotten to Japan, and why Nomuri used a condom for everything there except urinating. The total came to about 300 euros. The salesclerk wrapped everything and commented that the lady in his life was very lucky.
She will be, Nomuri promised himself. The underthings he’d just bought her, well, the fabrics felt as smooth as flexible glass, and the colors would arouse a blind man. The only question was how they would affect a dumpy Chinese female secretary to a government minister. It wasn’t as though he was trying to seduce Suzie Wong. Lian Ming was pretty ordinary rather than ordinarily pretty, but you never knew. Amy Irvin, his first conquest at the ripe old age of seventeen years and three months, had been pretty enough to inspire him-which meant, for a boy of that age, she had the requisite body parts, no beard like a Civil War general, and had showered in the previous month. At least Ming wouldn’t be like so many American women now who’d visited the plastic surgeon to have their tummies tucked, tits augmented to look like cereal bowls, and lips pumped full of chemicals until they looked like some strange kind of two-part fruit. What women did to attract men … and what men did in the hope of seducing them. What a potential energy source, Nomuri thought, as he turned the key in his company Nissan.
What is it today, Ben?” Ryan asked his National Security Adviser.
“CIA is trying to get a new operation under way in Beijing. For the moment it’s called SORGE.”
“As in Richard Sorge?”
“Correct.”
“Somebody must be ambitious. Okay, tell me about it.”
“There’s an officer named Chester Nomuri, an illegal, he’s in Beijing covered as a computer salesman for NEC. He’s trying to make a move on a secretary, female, for a senior PRC minister, a guy named Fang Gan-”
“Who is?” Ryan asked over his coffee mug.
“Sort of a minister without portfolio, works with the Premier and the Foreign Minister.”
“Like that Zhang Han San guy?”
“Not as senior, but yes. Looks like a very high-level gofer type. Has contacts in their military and foreign ministries, good ideological credentials, sounding board for others in their Politburo. Anyway, Nomuri is trying to make a move on the girl.”
“Bond,” Ryan observed in a studiously neutral voice, “James Bond. I know Nomuri’s name. He did some good work for us in Japan when I had your job. This is for information only, not my approval?”
“Correct, Mr. President. Mrs. Foley is running this one, and wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“Okay, tell MP that I’m interested in whatever take comes out of this.” Ryan fought off the grimace that came from learning of another person’s private-well, if not private, then his sex-life.
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER 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 famil
y 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?”