“Oh, they’re doing their own review, but ever since Columbia, the President hasn’t exactly been in a mood to put all his eggs in one basket. Especially when the basket tends to turn out to be a whorehouse.”
Dawson grinned from half his mouth.
“You can count on us, sir.”
“I can count on you not to get caught,” said Clancy, returning the grin. He waved at the door. “Now get out of here.”
Dawson stood up and paid his respects with a brief moment at attention, then strode out of the Colonel’s office.
China! He had always wanted to go there, to see the incredible history, but as long as he was active, it was an impossibility. But on an op? He had never thought that would happen. But here he was, on his way to arguably America’s biggest military threat that everyone loved to buy from, essentially as a spy.
And he knew what could happen if they were identified.
Shaoshan, Hunan Province, China
November 16, 1908
Li Mei sat on the porch of her son’s estate, waiting as she had done for over a month. There had been no word from him since the day he had stormed away and sliced the flag from its poll, an act that had not gone unnoticed. She had been questioned. They all had. And the story she gave them was that she had had a fight with him over him having more children, and he had left, angry, and had lashed out at the flag in anger at her, not the Emperor.
The story had been believed, but they still wanted to question him when he returned.
And they wanted an apology.
And it wasn’t something she was certain he would give.
His return terrified her, as she knew what was expected of him. She found herself torn between desperately wanting her son to return, regardless of whether or not he was her son by blood, or love, and between wanting him to stay away, safe from the authorities who demanded answers.
But the mother in her wanted him back.
And so her vigil. Every day she sat on the porch, waiting for his return, and every day she went inside disappointed. And as the temperature got colder, she found she could stand fewer and fewer hours outside, and would instead warm up inside, in front of the fire, with a view out the window, at the path that led to their door.
And so it had been for six weeks. Six long weeks of waiting, six long weeks of worrying. And as she warmed her hands over the fire, she thought of whether or not she should have told him the truth, but she knew she was right. It was a promise made to her Emperor, a man she barely knew, but all these years later, was still intensely loyal to. A man who in the end had treated her with honor by bestowing his greatest treasure to her care, and had saved her life, by standing his ground and refusing to tell where they had gone.
A man who would have been a wonderful leader, had he ever been given the chance.
She realized she had romanticized the idea of him. For all she knew he might have been the same tyrant his mother was, but in her heart she felt that he was different. And when he had stood up to his mother, yelled at her, demanding the respect of his position, Mei had felt both a surge of fear and pride.
And as she sat back in her chair and looked out the window once again, she saw him walking up the walkway, haggard and old, and for a moment thought she was dreaming, until she realized it wasn’t her Emperor at all, but his son, her son, returning.
Her eyes immediately burned with tears as she leapt from her chair and rushed to the doorway. She threw it open and ran down the steps and through the light dusting of snow, closing the final few feet between her and her boy with her arms outstretched.
She buried her head in his chest and hugged him hard, and she felt his arms envelope her, and she knew everything was going to be alright. She looked up at him, and frowned.
“You look so old, my son.”
He sighed, then looked at the house.
“I feel old, mother.”
“Where have you been?”
She drew him toward the house and up the steps. The rest of the family stood respectfully on the porch, and when he had stepped onto it, he stopped and looked at them.
“I’ve been gone too long.”
He was immediately smothered in hugs and pats from the huge family. Tears and laughter spilled off the porch and down the path, so loud she was certain it could be heard in the nearby village. She looked up and saw the gold and blue flag rustle in the wind, flying high above the town entrance, as if snubbing its nose at her son in defiance.
She looked away from the flag she once adored, and now feared.
She looked up at her son, and she saw that he too was looking at the flag. When he looked away, his eyes came to rest on her face, and her expression of concern. He shook his head at her questioning look, then urged the family and servants inside the house, soon leaving the two of them alone together.
“The town magistrate wants to meet with you.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“What will you tell him?”
“That the flag of Qing reigns over us no more.”
She shuddered. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“I mean the Empress Dowager Cixi will never haunt this family again.”
He patted her on the back, then stepped into the house.
Mei looked over her shoulder, and saw the flag suddenly jerk, then drop several feet, then stop. Another few feet, and another stop. She squinted, trying to make out what was happening, when she noticed several people gathered at the base of the pole, lowering the flag. More began to gather, and stand, staring up, agape.
And Mei’s heart sank. She turned back toward her son, who stood in the doorway, looking at the flag, then at her, a curious smile on his face. Not one of happiness, but of satisfaction.
And he looked even older than when he had walked up the steps only minutes before.
She felt her chest tighten, and she grabbed the railing to steady herself.
“What have you done?”
He looked back at the flag, then her, and turned away, entering the house. Mei looked back, and saw dozens were gathered around the pole now, the flag having halted its descent halfway.
And she had to know.
She found her feet carrying her down the steps, along the path to the road, then rushing as fast as she could in her slippered feet toward the growing crowd.
She rushed into the midst, trying to calm the thundering that filled her ears as she listened for some explanation.
“What’s wrong, what’s happened?” she demanded of her neighbor when she saw him.
“The Emperor and the Empress Dowager are dead!” he cried, tears flowing freely down his cheeks.
Her own tears burst forth, burning paths of fear, relief and pride down her own.
She had no proof of it, but she knew it to be true.
Her son had taken his first step to regaining the throne.
Delta 173, JFK Airport, New York City
Two Days Ago
Burt Dawson took point as he led his team onto the airplane, pocketing his passport showing that one Mr. Virgil White, State Department, was heading on official business to China. It was a well-worn, well-travelled document. That had been generated yesterday. He mentally began to tally how many countries’ stamps he would have in his passport if he actually had one, losing count after thirty.
He exited the jetway and stepped onto the plane, showing the smiling stewardess—flight attendant!—his boarding pass. He looked for the hooks in her cheeks and the string drawing them back toward her ears, the smile so painfully artificial it had to have assistance from something. He stepped by and eyed the first class passengers and stopped in his tracks.
Niner bumped into him from behind.
“What’s up, boss?”
He nodded toward two first class passengers, already enjoying a glass of champagne.
“Jesus,” whispered Niner, “what are the chances of that?”
Dawson didn’t know, but couldn’t afford to find out wha
t would happen if these two passengers saw him first.
“You guys go on ahead.”
Niner, Jimmy and Spock moved past him, careful to turn their heads in the opposite direction, away from the two passengers. Dawson stepped over to them and extended his hand.
“Excuse me, Professors. I’m not sure if you remember me, I’m Virgil White from the State Department. I helped you with some permits for a dig of yours a few months ago.
Professor James Acton’s jaw began to drop, then it tightened up as their eyes met. His fiancée however, Professor Laura Palmer, had less control over her jaw, it dropping completely open, but when their eyes met, she quickly snapped it shut with an audible click of her teeth, and extended her hand.
“Mr. White, of course, so good to see you again!”
They shook hands, then Acton offered his own. As Dawson shook Acton’s hand, he smiled.
“You folks going to Beijing?”
They both nodded.
“And where will you be staying?”
“The Hilton.”
“Nice?” asked Dawson, not having any doubts, Laura Palmer rich nearly to the point of obscenity.
She gave a modest smile.
“Then that’s not where I’ll be staying,” said Dawson with a grin.
“You should come by and see us if you have a chance.”
It was Laura who made the suggestion, and Dawson nodded.
“I think that would be a very good idea. I’ll contact you as soon as I can, but it might be a couple of days.” He leaned forward and put a hand on Acton’s shoulder. “You two be very careful.”
He slapped Acton on the shoulder, beaming a smile at both of them. “Have a great flight, Professors.”
And walked away before they could say anything else, taking his seat beside Spock in the much tighter confines of coach.
I need to warn those two. They’re magnets for trouble.
Shaoshan, Hunan Province, China
January 23, 1920
Li Mei cursed the heavens and earth, and all realms in between. For weeks she had tried to strike bargains with the deities she believed in, those she didn’t, and some she even created herself. To no avail. Her offer of her own soul hadn’t been accepted, and now it was over.
He’s too young!
She sat at the bedside of her ailing son, a son, fifteen years her junior, who should outlive her. Shun-Sheng was dying. Some sort of ailment of the lungs, according to the local doctors.
“Nothing to be done,” they had said.
Nothing?
Shun-Sheng’s children surrounded him. All but one. Zedong. He had left home at sixteen, and had been driven to fighting the government, mostly through his writings, but Mei feared he would soon be taking up arms.
She feared for his life, felt pride he had spoken out against the sham of an emperor that had replaced the Empress Dowager upon her death, and felt a mix of pride and shame that he wanted China to stand on its own, but not with an Emperor at its head.
They had barely heard from him in over ten years, the odd letter, the occasional word from a friend, or a mention in a newspaper, but word had been sent as soon as it was clear his father, her adopted son, her little emperor, would be dying.
And they had heard nothing since.
“Father?”
The call came from the front of the house. It was a little deeper than she remembered, a little hoarser, but she recognized it instantly.
My Grandson.
Zedong appeared in the doorway to the bedroom where they had gathered, his face that of the concerned son, his face that of one who had never lost his love for his father, despite his years away. It was that of a son who had expected decades more to enjoy with his father, once he had found his own way in life.
But it wasn’t to be, and the anguish on his face at the first site of his impossibly frail father revealed the heartache that filled him. He rushed to his father’s side and dropped to his knees, grabbing his father’s hand in his.
“Oh father, I’m so sorry it took me so long,” he cried.
Shun-sheng, so weakened by his condition, barely opened his eyes, but the smile that spread across his cheeks, told Mei all she needed to know.
He had been waiting for Zedong.
Zedong had always been his favorite, and had always been his greatest annoyance. Zedong’s insistence on schooling, of reading until all hours of the night, wasting the oil for his reading lamp, and his dismissal of the family farm as a bother, the success of it through Shun-sheng’s hard work apparently unimportant to the ambitious, curious young man.
When he had left at sixteen to go to school, never to return, Shun-sheng had been crushed. But he had never let Zedong know how much he hurt inside when he had hugged him goodbye, wishing him well. He knew he had driven him away. He had arranged a marriage, and Zedong had been furious, refusing to acknowledge the woman as his wife. She stood in this very room now, and Mei looked at her, the poor woman’s eyes on the floor in shame at the sight of the husband that had refused her.
“Father, are you okay?” His father didn’t answer, merely continuing to smile. Zedong looked at Mei, and her heart broke at the sight of his tear filled, desperate eyes, eyes she recognized as those of the little child that she had helped raise.
“I’m afraid not, little one,” she said. “He’s been waiting for you to return, to say goodbye.” Her voice cracked, and she bit her cheek, squeezing her son’s hand she had clasped for what seemed like days. “He doesn’t have much time.”
Shun-sheng’s head turned toward her, and he whispered something that she couldn’t hear. She leaned forward, putting her ear over his mouth.
“Tell him.”
Her heart slammed against her chest as she darted away from the words. Shun-sheng’s eyes opened slightly wider, and he stared at her, then nodded. She sighed, and nodded in return, then looked about the room.
“Everybody out. These words are for Zedong only.”
She was met with curious stares, but her stern look soon forced them into movement, and they shuffled out reluctantly. Mei and Shun-sheng had never discussed what had happened, had never said a word about who he truly was after he had returned, and she never knew for certain if he had been responsible for the deaths of the Emperor and the Empress Dowager, the official stories never to be trusted when it came to these things.
But now he wanted his son to know.
Zedong looked at her, his red eyes filled with curiosity.
“What is it, Grandmother?”
Mei smiled and reached across his father with her spare hand, and took his. She looked at her grandson, then her son, as she held both their hands, and they held each other’s. It was a moment of truth. A moment that could change things forever.
It was a moment she feared Zedong may never be able to reconcile, what with his political beliefs. She had heard rumors he was pushing for democracy, for those in power to be elected by the common man, and for the adoption of Western ways, but not Western leadership.
Mei smiled at the young man in front of her, then squeezed both hands she held. “You know that this is my home.”
“Of course, you grew up just down the road.”
“But it wasn’t always my home.”
Zedong’s eyes narrowed. “No?”
Mei shook her head. “When I was ten I was taken to the Forbidden City, to serve the Emperor. When I was fifteen, I was given charge of his newborn son.”
Zedong smiled. “Grandmother, for this to have happened when you say it happened, you must be speaking of the Tongzhi Emperor, and I know for a fact he had no sons.”
Mei looked at the boy with pride. “You know your history well, little one, but history is written by those who control the pen, and when my emperor, whose name I am forbidden to say, yet you say so boldly, died, I was there. And I was in charge of his son.”
Zedong sunk to the floor slightly, still holding his father’s hand, and hers. Mei gripped him a little tighter.
> “My emperor’s mother, the Empress Dowager Cixi, had him murdered, because an heir had been born, and my emperor dared to challenge her power. He was dead within a day, and horrible rumors spread to discredit his memory.”
Zedong looked at his father.
“Is he—” He didn’t finish the sentence.
Mei nodded. “Your father is that baby. Your grandfather, who was in the Emperor’s Guard, and I, were the only ones to survive the betrayal that took place that day. In fear for your father’s safety, we married, and told everyone, including my parents, that he was our son. Your father did not know the truth until he was much older—after you were born in fact—and now you know the truth. No one else alive today knows what I have just told you.”
Zedong suddenly stood, letting go both their hands.
“You mean to tell me that I am imperial blood?”
She nodded.
“That if my grandfather hadn’t been murdered, I would be Emperor after my father died?”
Again, Mei nodded.
Zedong paced the room, his chin in his hand, and a bearing that she recognized from her Emperor. His shoulders were more squared than usual, his posture, near perfect, his stride, long and confident, though confined to three steps before he would be forced to spin on his heel and again cover the territory crossed moments before.
And there was a look in his eye that she recognized as well.
It was a lust for power, for control. It was an overwhelming will to seize what was rightfully his, and to command his people, and rule his country, like he deserved to, like he was always meant to.
But she feared it was the ambition of a young man told the girl he had lusted over, but was now married, had secretly lusted over him as well. She was no longer available; she was now out of reach.
Her son gasped, and she turned her attention back to him as Zedong rushed to his side once again.
“Does he know?” asked Shun-sheng.
Mei put her lips to his ear.
“He knows, my son.”
Shun-sheng nodded, then looked at his son.
“Now you know who you are. Never let anyone hold you back due to your perceived station.”
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