Deng’s two sons and daughters-in-law waited for his reaction. Ping resumed his calligraphy. Rong, it seemed, had outmaneuvered him. “Very well,” Deng said.
Minutes later, the dark green Shanghai sedan sped south through empty streets, leaving behind the park district and high-ranking cadre residences that ringed Qingnian Lake. The car crested Bahe River Bridge and its tires re-established ground with a chirp. Beneath the bridge, ripples of light reflected off the fetid flow drawing merchant junks east toward coastal Tianjin, where Deng had grown up. He watched the driver scan both directions of an approaching intersection before racing through the light. I have lost my zeal for this nonsense, he thought, no longer feeling the need to dig and claw. Whoever prevailed after succession was irrelevant. Politics in the meantime had reduced even the intuitively obvious to a battle of wits—decisions, when and if they were made, were distorted by hedging on the outcome of a clamor for power, which his country sadly had not figured out how to control. It was irritating to Deng that the powers would jeopardize so much of what had been built in exchange for their own personal gain.
Why Rong had summoned him to the presidential residence was difficult to guess. For the better part of two weeks, Deng had indicated that his desire to see the vice-chairman involved a serious setback to the Project. Perhaps tonight the matter of the missing physicist would be dramatized in order to bash the incompetence of the security apparatus or, more ominously, to suggest that Rong’s own deputies be charged with overseeing the Project.
The driver turned right onto East Chang’an Street, past the Ministry of Public Security and the National People’s Congress. They bypassed Zhongnanhai’s pailou in the southern perimeter wall as his escort muttered a few words into a cellular phone. The car finally stopped at the Nanhai Street entrance reserved primarily for State Council business. Deng glanced up at the closed-circuit camera atop the squat granite guardhouse. A moment later the compound’s door swung open—a massive concrete and steel structure supported on iron wheels guided by a rail recessed beneath the tarmac, fortified by order of Mao Zedong to withstand the assault of a Russian T-72 battle tank.
The driver guided the sedan over the winding cobblestone drive, past hibiscus and towering cedars with wisteria vines twisted about their trunks, and the president’s pagoda-style palace came into view. It had been built in the early Qang, and perched at each corner of the roof was the gargantuan head of a dragon arched toward heaven, carved ivory fangs distended, black onyx eyes raging beneath furrowed brows. The ancient residence basked in ground-level floodlights and it occurred to Deng that he had never been inside Zhongnanhai after sundown. The Shanghai stopped before a low rise of marble steps leading up to the entrance of the general secretary’s residence.
The palace usher was a decorated colonel of the People’s Liberation Army, silver braids across his chest and the discretion to deny access on a whim to any person desiring to enter. Deng received a familiar greeting as the usher admitted him and his military escort to the palace foyer.
The naked extravagance of the palace never failed to astonish Deng. Many of the valuables dated back before Chiang Kaishek’s hasty retreat from the communists. An enormous crystal chandelier was the gift of Tsar Nicholas II; an ornate gilded litter, which had been borne on the shoulders of Mongolian eunuchs for the Qianlong emperor and his wives at the zenith of the Qing dynasty. Arranged on a low, knotty walnut table between two sofas, a solid gold tea service reflected light from the chandelier onto the wall like points of yellow flame. Deng recalled the General Secretary’s boast that most things of value in the palace were spoils of the Cultural Revolution.
As he was led from the foyer, it seemed that a high-level security kou or perhaps a session of the Standing Committee was adjourning—Deng noted with remorse that he recognized few of the faces passing the opposite way. His stewardship of the Commission of Science, Technology and Industry for National Defense meant Deng received a cordial greeting from several of the high-ranking cadres. By their expressions, the session had not gone well.
Deng entered without fanfare General Secretary Zhou De’s briefing chamber. The air was stale with smoke, ashtray stands overflowed with cigarette butts and large silver platters featured only crumbs. The door closed gently behind him on the otherwise empty room. He noticed that the French paneled doors were open onto the lush walking garden where, unknown to outsiders, the socialist leader regularly indulged a penchant for ancient Daoist readings. A handful of attendees had apparently stepped out to talk and smoke cigarettes. The sound of a single cricket mocked Deng’s annoyance at being rushed from his home.
“We are keeping our national treasure from his grandchildren!” the General Secretary bellowed in order that the meeting begin.
The other officials returned to their seats as an assistant helped General Secretary Zhou return to his chair atop its dais at the front of the room. China’s president gripped the arms of his chair and shifted his great bulk to acknowledge Deng Zhen with a wave of his hand. Deng noted sadly the core leader’s deteriorating health; the world had learned only recently that he suffered from tuberculosis.
Wooden chairs lining the wall of the chamber were angled toward the general secretary. As always at such gatherings, Deng wondered why certain individuals had been invited to accompany the likes of Rong Peng, vice chairman of the Military Affairs Commission, and Huang Yi, the State Council vice premier and finance minister, who along with Rong made up the general secretary’s short list to succeed him on the emperor’s throne. Seated beside Rong was the chief of the Second Department of the People’s Liberation Army. The chief of military intelligence oversaw implementation of policies set forth by Rong Peng in daily operations of the PLA. This man, too, was young for his post, perhaps in his late forties. To Rong’s right was Chen Ruihan, their newly minted state security deputy minister. Seated beside Huang was the woman Deng knew to be the deputy minister of energy. So, for Rong it was his intelligence goons, while apparently Huang had decided to arm himself with the final word on the country’s expanding energy sectors. What relevance these incongruous factions would have on the matter at hand, Deng was curious to know.
Rong Peng addressed Deng Zhen directly. “Our subject for concern this evening is the Fourth Line satellite project. We continue to pour vast resources into it without having verified that the orbiting device even works. We are falling further and further behind schedule.”
Deng had bent over backwards to keep officials informed that recent problems represented a significant setback. He waited for the question certain to follow.
“This disturbs me very greatly,” Rong said. “Why is this so?”
Deng frowned. “Why are we late? Or, why does that bother you?”
Nobody made a sound. Rong cocked an eyebrow and threatened a smile. “We are presently in high level talks with the Americans regarding their missile defenses. This information by the way has not been made public. What bothers me, Comrade Deng, is our inability to position ourselves in the negotiation. Do we, or do we not, have a means of neutralizing their missile shield?” Rong crossed his legs. “The Americans have no idea that we stand ready to wield our own, uniquely Chinese capability. You can see the tremendous asset your device represents. Confidence in its effectiveness eludes us at the worst possible time. Meanwhile, the American deployment schedule proceeds.”
Other than the bit about negotiations, Deng had heard the words before. That they were being repeated in this particular forum probably meant Rong intended to outmaneuver someone. “We are experiencing temporary difficulties, most are being corrected as we speak,” Deng replied. “However, the device will not necessarily be as effective a deterrent against their missile shield as one might prefer. Allow me to illustrate. I trust you’ve confirmed that the stealth features of our satellite have achieved their objective?”
“There are the skeptical American analyst or two,” said Chen Ruihan. “They otherwise accept that one of our communications sate
llites disintegrated in orbit. Moscow has issued a similar accounting. This is an impressive accomplishment and no longer a matter for debate.”
Deng leaned forward and clasped his hands. “The fact that they cannot see our satellite shift between orbits should serve to remind us that we, too, cannot destroy what we cannot first find. Their ground-based radar and intercept elements will be much more vulnerable. Still, I would proceed in your negotiations with caution.”
“We understand that you’ve recently lost a valuable resource,” Rong pointed out. The gaunt-faced cadre contemplated Deng with eyes that seemed to burn with inexhaustible stamina. “What effect has this had on your progress?”
Initially, Deng and his colleagues were suspicious that the prominent physicist had breached some arbitrary security measure, a common occurrence given that the bureaucracy was laden with easily sprung traps. Public Security generally kept such incidents quiet; minor infractions were quickly resolved. When these were not so benign, the apparatus reacted predictably by hobbling his engineers with yet more bureaucratic delay. So the physicist’s prolonged disappearance was puzzling. “Zhao Bocheng is China’s premier quantum physicist,” he replied.
Rong took a drag from his cigarette and studied him patiently.
“At the time of his disappearance, Zhao was preparing our second vehicle for launch. I must advise you that his absence will have an ongoing impact.” In another forum he would be accused of wielding a convenient excuse. “I have heard several rumors. But I assume you can tell me the whereabouts of Comrade Zhao?”
“What sort of information did Zhao have access to?” Rong asked.
Deng glanced at the faces around the room.
“What you can assume, Comrade Deng, is that all of your superiors present this evening are cleared for the topic of this discussion. Please proceed.”
“Dr. Zhao was among the handful assembled some thirty years ago, I believe, to begin theoretical work in response to the American Strategic Defense Initiative. It was Zhao’s work, along with technical information acquired secretly and otherwise, that culminated in the construction of our first argon-gas laser, and later the closed-loop optical sensor array experiments in the 1990’s. His skills include system integration and so I assigned him oversight of linking communication between all of the satellite subsystems. In fact, complete success in this area has eluded us. Zhao had been hard at work inside our Xichang facility, directing the software specialists from, well, up north.”
“Our Russian devils,” Rong offered.
It still disturbed Deng that China frequently had little choice but to suborn themselves to foreigners, however highly skilled. He felt foolish and old-fashioned. “Actually, they are Ukrainian, and very gifted.” He continued by explaining that Zhao’s next mission was to have been testing the revamped software solutions on vehicle number two, prior to reprogramming the unit already in orbit.
“So, is it fair to say that Zhao Bocheng has as thorough a grounding in the weapon’s technology as anyone?”
Rong’s question seemed to hang in the air, and Deng finally said, “Is my need for having him back truly in question?”
The general secretary interrupted with a raspy cough. “Deng, my old friend—” He winced but warded off concern by raising his massive hand. “We did not haul you here to ambush you.”
It isn’t at all clear why you did haul me here, Deng thought. To Rong’s question he replied, “With the possible exception of me.”
After a brief silence, the finance minister joined the discussion. “With my deepest respect for General Secretary, the premise of our gathering tonight is flawed. We heard directly from Comrade Deng that our disabled satellite cannot be relied upon as an anti-satellite—”
“Temporary difficulty was what I think we all heard,” Rong corrected his nemesis.
“Remember what is at stake.”
This was not the first presidential conference where Deng found himself befuddled by some invisible controversy.
Rong turned toward Chen Ruihan. “You will see that Comrade Deng has access to every conceivable resource, domestic or otherwise, whether bought or borrowed, in a timely fashion, with no excuses and no polished evasion of responsibility. No further lapses will be tolerated.”
Beneath the expectant gaze of China’s leadership, the young deputy minister politely bowed his head. “You can expect nothing less.”
The brief discussion that followed focused on who was to blame for China having not internally generated more resources of physicist Zhao’s expertise. The meeting adjourned.
As far as Deng could determine, the entire discussion had entailed little of substance, with the exception that Rong started out bitching about how much was being poured into the Project, and finished by handing him and Chen a blank check.
Deng confronted Rong on their way from the room. “Comrade, may I have a word with you?”
Rong stopped to look at him.
“I hope my badgering your office these past days did not, in the end, cost you precious time away from your family tonight.” Deng smiled, knowing well the man’s reputed appetite for company other than family.
“How may I help you?”
“Very simply. I would like to know what has become of my physicist friend.”
Rong turned to Chen Ruihan, deflecting the question. Chen replied, “Zhao is recovering from an apparent stroke.”
“A stroke...? How tragic. Why, Zhao could not be sixty years old.”
Rong said, “The man is on your staff, and you did not know?”
Chen quickly volunteered that given the security needs of the project, Zhao’s whereabouts were being closely protected.
Dr. Zhao had never given him the impression of ill health. Deng shook his head, his worry for Zhao rekindling familiar pangs of vulnerability. “Well, with luck he will quickly recover.”
“Our future depends upon it,” the state security deputy minister agreed.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, many of the same individuals convened for a special follow-up inside Zhongnanhai. Known only to the attendees, following months of similarly sequestered gatherings, a line was about to be crossed beyond which there would be no turning back. This elite caucus represented no official organ of the Communist Party, a construct of irrefutably utopian lies to which they owed their allegiance, and within which they had bound layer upon layer their avarice, fraud and corruption. Socialism with Chinese Characteristics had proved no better than any other in the world, a fact the elites stubbornly denied, even with tens of millions of unemployed rioting in the cities or scheming to murder every tax collector they could grab. Rong’s guests this morning included men whose network of quanxi afforded their ‘state-owned’ factories large contracts for products ranging from National Defense bicycles, to inertial guidance for Silkworm missiles, to construction equipment. On hand was the reclusive yet powerful chief of the PLA Second Department (Er Bu, military intelligence). He was accompanied by the administrator of the Bureau of Science & Technology (the Seventh Bureau), which developed technology stolen abroad into useful espionage equipment and weapons. Its Seagull Electrical Equipment and Beijing Electronic factories profited from the sale of consumer products ranging from automotive fuel injection controls to digital video disks. There was the minister of Water Resources and Electric Power, whose pending decision to site new fossil fuel power plants relied upon their host’s assurance of an abundant supply of cheap petroleum. Armed with China’s pool of skilled labor, and electrical power less costly than even the Seven Gorges Dam could deliver, the fortunes of such debt-ridden state-owned enterprises could be on the verge of an impressive recovery.
Otherwise, the ruse of reform had run out of steam. Their government’s undisclosed liabilities amounted to a staggering 383% of the country’s gross domestic product, which made even America’s own government spending debacles seem an irrelevant blip. Entry to the World Trade Organization had introduced crushing competition to which state-owned enterprises had
never fully adapted. A program to securitize nonperforming loans held by China’s insolvent banks had dismally failed.
And yet, while the Party and PLA leaders remained privately terrified, an oligarchy of fascism was a thing not easily killed. So the elites allowed themselves to be lulled by the soothing words and promises of their host—the visionary who demanded their loyalty, in return for the largest industrial re-nationalization campaign in world history.
Rong Peng understood the lingering reservations. “We have had to begin moving forward for several reasons. The environmental movement was seen as losing credibility. The missile defense window is finite and closing. OPEC states, meanwhile, are unruly devils to keep under heel. They constantly threaten to break from the program.”
Rong rose from the table and stood facing the world map hanging on the wall. “So, you are conflicted. You are conflicted that North America has been your largest export market. You fantasize that the Americans will one day service our US Treasury holdings with something other than their ever declining, detestable dollar. Comrades,” he went on with a sigh, turning to face his small audience, “one does not bring a superpower to its knees without incurring certain costs. Granted, your precious market will suffer temporary disruption. Winds at the back of the central Asian economies should dampen the subsequent downturn. Our goal is to exploit the opportunity in the ensuing vacuum—in a world free, at last, of exploitation by the American corporation.”
“World opinion will limit our gains,” said General Gao, Chief of the Second Department.
“Really, Gao. Need I quote Sun-tzu to a man such as you?” Rong’s patience was growing thin; these men were his subordinates. “China will not be blamed for what befalls America. History has shown the way. The object is to avoid being drawn into the initial stages of conflict. Those late to engage in resolving world strife suffer the least costs. Because they suffer the least costs, they are able to set conditions for the outcome. We watched America achieve that twice in the last century. It is now our turn. Of course, nobody is twisting your arm. Perhaps your generosity compels you to allow others to reap the benefits.” Rong laughed. “You won’t be alone. The finance minister seems eager to join you.”
Razing Beijing: A Thriller Page 10