by Unknown
The door to the office was kept open so that Jenny Rinaldi could be seen and could shout through instead of relying on the clogged-up intercom line. 'The Secretary of State is on the line from Beijing, sir,' she said.
'Mary, have you seen Jamie yet?'
'No, sir. I'm not pushing it, and he's promised me a meeting within three hours. The embassy report a heap of telephone traffic between Beijing and Moscow. Chris might be aware of that--'
'Chris,' shouted West across the room. 'Has the NSA got any increased traffic between Beijing and Moscow?'
'Not that's come to me. But I'll check.'
'Which indicates that Song and Kozlov have been talking, sorting things before Song wants to talk to us--'
'Jenny,' said West. 'Get me Kozlov in Moscow. Urgent.'
'Mr President,' said Kozerski. 'The first polls are saying that any strike against North Korea after what happened in Delhi would be deeply unpopular.'
'Yeah, well, we're not striking North Korea - at least not for an hour or so,' retorted West. He walked to the window and spotted for the first time daffodils in the garden outside, getting beaten down by the rain which hadn't let up for the past two days. His voice softened. 'Mary, what I want you to do more than anything is rest up and think. Stay fresh. I'm going to need a good brain in the next few hours.'
'Mr President,' said Patton, turning in his chair, his finger jabbing at the laptop screen. 'We picked up four suspects from Korean associations which we tracked back to Mason's original calls from Canberra. They were given blood tests. Two of the four showed antibodies to the smallpox vaccine. They were civilians. Not from the US or South Korean military.'
'So the only reason they would have been vaccinated is--' began West before trailing off.
'Because they were going to handle it,' finished Patton.
'Christ,' muttered West.
'We need to conduct further tests to see if there is an IL-4 component involved,' said Caroline Brock. 'If there isn't, find out from the suspects if they knew for sure that they'd be handling the IL-4 component of the variola major virus and that the standard vaccine would work.'
'They're not talking,' said Patton.
'Make them talk,' snapped West, slamming his hand down on the desk, then bringing it up to his forehead. He sat down and leant back in his chair.
'President Kozlov is not available, sir,' said Rinaldi.
'Good,' said West, getting sharply to his feet. 'I'm going for a jog. And every six hours, I want every one of you out of the office, for half an hour, to clear your heads. Do whatever exercise you have to, but do it.'*
*****
West stepped outside and two secret service officers fell in with him. Rain, caught in a gust of wind, hit him in the face. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. 'Stay well away,' he told the officers. 'I don't want to hear you. I don't want to see you.'
Water drained across the surface of the jogging track. The weather had been so hard that puddles were scattered across the manicured lawns, throwing them into a late winter disrepair.
West began jogging, but then stopped, because his mind was wandering. Valerie was the one who had kept telling him there was nothing like a brisk walk in cold weather for sharp, deep thinking. So he slowed to walking pace, not caring where he went or how he got there. He walked off the path, across the South Lawn, through the Children's Garden, avoiding the Rose Garden, where the press were huddled in a corner, working on shifts.
And it took him a full fifteen minutes, soaked through and with water dripping down his face, his hair matted on his forehead, before he had convinced himself that the destruction of Delhi was not just a nightmare; that the smallpox release over the Pacific had actually happened; and that if he was a general wishing to bring down an empire, he could not have planned it better.
West punched his fist through the air, anger welling up inside him, forcing it out of him, before he could settle down to think more clearly. He licked rainwater off his lips, spotted a bench at one end of the east side of the garden and sat on it, barely feeling the dampness seep through his tracksuit.
Could they have factored it in all those years ago when the Soviets went into Afghanistan, and the US bankrolled Islamic forces to throw them out? If Jimmy Carter had just handed Afghanistan to Moscow, what difference would that have made now? The Soviet Union would have collapsed anyway. It was economically unsustainable and Afghanistan would never have spawned Bin Laden and his clones. Should they have spotted it in the winter of 2002 when Islamic parties had done so well in the elections in Pakistan? And then what should they have done? Rigged the elections? What about when North Korea had fired its first long-range missile over Japan in 1998? Why didn't Clinton strike then? What about when it declared its nuclear weapons in 2002, threw out inspectors and reactivated its nuclear reactor? Why didn't Bush go in then? Because he was fighting another war in another arena; and had President James H. West been in the White House in 2002, he would have done exactly the same.
And where does the hatred come from? Under the American umbrella, Japan and the whole of the western Pacific Rim had been able to pull themselves from poverty to prosperity. Taiwan, South Korea, Singapore were all shining examples of how to transfer from third world to first world society. Even Vietnam, which had given America a bloody nose, was now an ally. China, the long-term strategic rival, sent tens of thousands of students to American universities every year.
And did the Islamic world have any legitimate grievances? In the last half-century, had the US ever taken offensive action against a Muslim community? West stopped, letting this thought seep through. He pulled up the sodden sleeve of his tracksuit top and began counting on his fingers: 1956, the US went against Britain, France and Israel in the Suez War, and kept Gamal Abdel Nasser in power - even though he was becoming an ally of Moscow; 1971, the USS Enterprise was in the Bay of Bengal supporting Muslim Pakistan against India; 1973, the US forced a ceasefire on Israel and rescued Egypt from humiliation and defeat; 1979, Jimmy Carter persuaded the Shah of Iran to go into exile, rather than face down Tehran's demonstrators with tanks and bullets; 1980, Washington poured millions into Afghanistan to undermine the Soviet invasion; 1982, it arranged safe passage for the Palestinian leader, Yasser Arafat, from Beirut to Tunisia. US troops protected Bosnian Muslims against Christian Serbia; they died in Muslim Somalia trying to defend ordinary people against bloodthirsty warlords; they acted as an honest broker between Muslim Turkey and Christian Greece.
'What a load of bullshit,' muttered West to himself, getting up from the bench with more certainty in his step. Pakistan and North Korea were both failed states, run by failed and embittered leaders. America was an enemy of convenience, because both countries had been unable to provide for their people. And he was damned if he was going to compromise. He walked back towards the White House, a solitary but determined figure. He saw Kozerski by the window in the Oval Office and waved, because he knew what he would get his Chief of Staff to do next. He crouched down and picked a dozen daffodils from a bed, and held them up to Kozerski, who waved back, a mobile phone in his hand. Valerie had always said the daffodil was her favourite flower, because it showed that the darkness of winter was about to end.
****
49*
****
Beijing, China*
From the windows of the American embassy's armour-plated Lincoln Town Car, Newman looked out at the lights on the edges of Tiananmen Square shining through the smog from cheap coal that engulfed the city. Soldiers, bored and stamping their feet against the cold, stood at intervals guarding this haunting symbol of Chinese communist power.
At this time of night, no one was around, and a furtive, eerie silence hung across Tiananmen's hundred acres and its buildings. Through the mist, Newman could make out the dark shape of the Great Hall of the People, further away the Mausoleum of Mao Tse-tung and lines of red flags flying in the strong wind.
There was no place so blatantly nationalistic anywhere else i
n the world. Tiananmen made Moscow's Red Square look like a suburban theme park. London's historic symbols were confined to chaotic traffic congestion on Hyde Park Corner and in Trafalgar Square. Washington had its monuments and icons, but none as arrogant as this. And India - she wished she hadn't followed this train of thought - India used to have the landscaped vistas of Rajpath and Raisana Hill. But like everyone else, Newman had seen the pictures. She shook her head at the thought, too grotesque and ghastly to contemplate.
Up ahead and just to the right was Tiananmen Gate, where in 1949 Mao Tse-tung had proclaimed his victory and had begun the upheavals and violence that created the robust one-party state China was now. His enduring portrait, its spotlight shrouded in smog, hung above it, looking down on Newman as her limousine slowed and turned right at the entrance of Zhongnanhai, just past the Forbidden City.
Slogans painted on the high red walls flanked the gate. On the west side, the Chinese characters translated as Long live the great Communist Party. On the east side, they paid a tribute - Long live the unbeatable thoughts of Chairman Mao.
The guards checked the Lincoln's number plate. A set of red metal double doors opened. The driver was waved inside and an anti-terror ramp slid down into the ground to let the vehicle pass.
Within the compound was a quietness which even at this early-morning hour did not seem possible in Tiananmen Square itself. The flapping of flags in the wind and the rumbling trucks from the provinces kept the square alive and in the real world. Zhongnanhai was a different place altogether, a tranquil place, where the snow was melting and the moonlight showed cracks in the ice on the lake.
As the car slowed, Newman saw Jamie Song, wearing no coat, just a scarf wrapped round his neck, walk out on to the steps. He was lit up by powerful lamps on the side of the building, both hands outstretched, although he would not have been able to see through Newman's tinted windows. In his expression, he managed to blend a smile of greeting with a deeper grief for what had happened in India. His was the face of a powerful man at a loss how to control events.
The driver pulled up and Song himself opened the door. His hand offered to take Newman's elbow to steady her in case of hidden ice. She let him take it, then turned and shook his hand. 'Jamie, these are terrible times and it's good to be here,' she began.
'I'm sorry for not being able to see you earlier,' he replied, guiding her up the steps and through a blast of heat being thrust down from the ceiling.
The meeting was a culmination of hours of frustration: Jamie Song's refusal to see her, and John Kozerski calling every half-hour from the White House, telling her that an impatient Jim West wanted to make an address to the nation - but Newman needed to see Song first. Finally, two hours earlier, West himself had called.
'I've done the sums, Mary,' he had told her. 'There's no turning back. There's no surrender. We're right and they're wrong. Their grievances are illegitimate, their methods abhorrent. If Song stands in our way either with Pakistan or North Korea, he is against us. I need you to make that clear. Once you have his response, I need to tell the American people what is happening. Cuba, Pakistan and North Korea - China is the key to them all. I can't let this situation hang, Mary. You've got to see the man. Give him three more hours, and if he doesn't show go back to Japan.'
Song took Newman's coat, hung it on a rack by the door and showed her into a small but comfortably decorated room.
'I've asked General Yan Xiaodong to join us,' said Song. Uncharacteristically for a Chinese official, Yan's jacket was off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and he was bending down to stub out a cigarette as Newman came in. He jerked upright and met her with outstretched hand, his breath reeking of smoke. 'Secretary of State,' he said in heavily accented English. 'Welcome. Welcome.'
'Yan is my personal military adviser,' said Song. 'He lets me know what the generals are thinking, and we find ourselves in a situation where I'm sure many different generals are thinking many different things all over the world.'
He indicated that Newman should take a seat. She chose an armchair away from the heating, which was drying up her throat. Song took a seat next to Newman's, and continued: 'Yan can explain some of the discrepancies that have become apparent in Chinese policy.'
'It is terrible, terrible what has happened,' said Yan. 'It must stop. Stop straight away.' He punched his fist into his hand to make his point.
Newman sat back and crossed her legs. Deliberately, she had brought no files, no notes, no photographic evidence of China's rogue alliances. The only administrative aid she had was a mobile phone in her skirt pocket next to her thigh, with a pre-programmed scrambler and a line directly to Kozerski at the White House.
'But we're meeting on your initiative, Mary,' said Song. 'So you go first.'
'I'll be blunt, Jamie,' said Newman, glancing at Yan and pausing for him to sit down. But he remained on his feet, in a corner of the room away from her and Song. The conversation was being recorded, of course, but with only three of them in the room, and knowing Jamie Song well, she spoke more frankly than she would have done otherwise.
'Almost simultaneously, North Korea released the smallpox virus against a target area in the Pacific and Pakistan destroyed Delhi,' she began. 'To both those governments, China is at best neutral, at worst an ally. On top of that, we have the issue of your missiles being secretly flown to Cuba.' She checked her watch. 'Very soon, the President will be addressing the nation. The focus, of course, will be the nuclear attack. But Jim wants to be able to say that China is with him.'
'What's he going to say?' said Song, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees. Suddenly, he seemed boyish, innocent, over-curious at what Newman had to tell him.
'Much of it depends on you,' answered Newman and stopped there, revealing nothing more.
Momentarily, Song glanced over at Yan, then sat upright in the chair, drummed one finger on the arm and, finally, clasped his hands together. For the first time, Newman sensed real unease in the usually urbane Chinese President. 'I am the President of China, Mary. But I am not the General Secretary of the Communist Party. Nor am I Chairman of the Military Commission. Most times, there is no problem with this arrangement. Right now, however, there is.'
He paused and fixed Newman with a stare. 'There is a debate going on now within the Chinese government, as you might have guessed. But this is an internal matter. Whatever arguments we have between ourselves, I remain the President of China. I will lead this country along the next path we choose to take. In your country, such debate takes place in the press and Congress, and you call it democracy. In China, we are more discreet, and you call it dictatorship. The depth of argument, however, is the same.'
Newman swallowed hard because of the dryness of the air, and she realized it might have made her look apprehensive. She looked quickly around the room for some bottled water. But there was none, and she didn't want to ask. 'Perhaps you could explain your options, Jamie,' she said flatly, but knowing that the options had already been discussed and a decision had been made.
'The missile shipments to Cuba - indeed the agreement signed in 2001 to move our signals intelligence to Havana - was carried out by the Military Commission. I knew nothing about it.' He shrugged. 'But the missiles are now there. So what do we do? The military relationship with Pakistan which began almost fifty years ago was handled by the Military Commission. The details, such as the transfer of the centrifuges to Pakistan to separate off weapons-grade uranium, were carried out without the Chinese President being made aware. The overarching strategic policy to prop up Pakistan in order to weaken India was reached many years ago, but the Military Commission handled the details.'
'And with North Korea?' asked Newman.
'We have discovered,' said Song, looking again at Yan, 'that some missile technology was illegally sold to North Korea. It was not government policy, but it has happened.'
'Unfortunate,' remarked Newman, her tone thick with irony. Briefly she closed her eyes and saw the Osprey's pic
tures of Delhi, the bodies in the river like an image from eternal hell, and she had to contain her anger as Jamie Song explained it away as administrative rivalry. She opened her eyes and found herself looking straight at Yan, who, remarkably, reacted by smiling at her and shaking his head. 'Terrible,' he said. 'Just terrible.' And he maintained the same expression throughout.
'The question is this, Mary,' said Song. 'What do we do now? What should I do, and what should Jim do?'
'This isn't the boardroom meeting of a multinational, Jamie,' whispered Newman. 'We're both looking into a goddamn abyss, if you don't sort your own house out.'
Song's eyes flared. She knew that she shouldn't have said it and admitted it. 'I'm sorry, Jamie,' she sighed. 'It's been a tough couple of days.'
'It's not a matter of sorting houses out, Mary,' said Song softly, his expression changing from irritation to sympathy. 'It's a matter of where we all go from here, and how much leeway we can give each other.'
'Leeway?' questioned Newman. But Song held up his hand. 'Please, let me finish.'