Ultimatum

by Matthew Glass

Olsen shrugged. “Trade. Education. We can work something out.” “We have agreements,” said Alan Ball.

  “So do they. All kinds of agreements they’ve never kept. Al, you ever bought a Rolex on the street in downtown Beijing? If you paid more than five bucks you got ripped off. How hard do they act to crack down on that stuff? We’ve got to stop holding them to a different standard. It’s what I said before, we have to be prepared to demand that they should be delivering. Why can’t we say, you don’t keep your agreements, we don’t keep ours?”

  “What do they do in retaliation?” demanded Rubin, still shaking her head incredulously. “Crash the dollar? They hold three trillion in reserves. What do they do? Sell down our bonds?”

  “Who to? They sell that kind of volume, who’s buying? Hurts them as much as us.”

  “Exactly. You shut down their trade, you shut down ours.”

  ”True.”

  “You keep their students out, you hurt our universities.”

  “True again.”

  “Hold on,” said Ben Hoffman. “Is there any sanction that would hurt them more than us?”

  Jackie shook her head. “You know what, Ben? I don’t think there is.”

  Olsen looked around the room. “Let’s be clear about this. This whole thing is about pain. When we finally do get to an agreement with the Chinese government, it’s going to hurt. So let’s be absolutely clear here. This is about the historic moment of accepting that everything can’t keep going like it’s been going, that this is the moment when we have to stop and pay the cost.” Olsen looked at Benton. “Or have I got the wrong end of the stick here?”

  All eyes turned on the president. He thought about it. It was about pain. In one way or another, that was what he had said to the American people throughout his campaign, that the time had come to pay the cost of what had not been done over the past thirty years. And yet something in the way Olsen was talking about it seemed to be showing it in a different perspective. Joe Benton had the feeling that after all this discussion—some of it not particularly good-natured—they were finally getting to something important.

  “What do you mean, Larry?” he said. “Go ahead.”

  “Mr. President, we are going to have to demonstrate to the Chinese government that we—the United States—will absorb pain. There is going to be no deal with them, nothing even close to a deal, unless they believe that. Now, you know what? Right now, I don’t think they do believe it. And if I was in their shoes, I wouldn’t either. As a country, the United States has never done anything to convince anyone otherwise. But if we’re going to get this done, other people have to believe it. Not only the Chinese, but the rest of the world. We are going to have to be prepared to demonstrate that we will take our medicine, no matter how bitter it is.”

  “Mr. President,” said Jackie Rubin, “you put sanctions in place, and you’re going to come under so much pressure. Every special interest group in the country will start screaming. I’m thinking about your legislative program.”

  “Larry,” said Benton, “I hadn’t considered sanctions.”

  “We can’t do without them. At least not the threat of them. And if we make the threat, we have to expect they’re going to call our bluff.”

  Benton didn’t say anything to that. It was the language of threat and ultimatum. That was Larry Olsen’s style, but it had never been Joe Benton’s. He didn’t think it was about to become his style now, whatever his secretary of state said.

  “Mr. President,” said Alan Ball, “nothing Larry has said makes me think differently. Maybe we will end up talking about sanctions, but we’re a long way from there. It’s like you said before, Mr. President, it’s about timing. We’re going down this track way too fast. You should meet President Wen. Let’s start with that.”

  “Talk to Wen without the threat of sanctions and you may as well be talking to yourself,” said Olsen.

  John Eales held up his hands. “Let’s step back for a second. How did we get to sanctions? To demonstrate the willingness to inflict and absorb pain. Okay. But the Chinese government knows that if it doesn’t act, China’s going to hurt just as bad as we are. They’re not dumb. They’ve seen the numbers, they’ve seen what happens to their southern coastline. There’s your pain, Larry.”

  Olsen shook his head. “That’s their pain, not ours.”

  “Exactly, and they’re going to feel it!”

  “In about ten years. John, you’re talking about a corrupt and brittle system under enormous tension. Right now, the party obsesses about whether it’s still going to be in control in ten months, not ten years.”

  “Larry,” said Hoffman, “you said it yourself to Chen. They’re going to have to relocate millions of people, uproot whole areas of their manufacturing base. Factories, warehouses. Hong Kong itself may not even be viable.”

  “Sure I said it,” said Olsen. He smiled.

  “What’s funny?” asked Hoffman.

  “It’s beside the point. That’s why it didn’t make any impression on Chen. I didn’t expect it to.”

  “What is the point, Larry?” said the president.

  “Mr. President, these things aren’t a problem for the Chinese government. Not the same kind of problem they are for us, anyway.”

  “You’re saying relocating millions of people isn’t a problem?” demanded Jackie Rubin.

  “Yes, I am, Jackie. Alan knows what I’m talking about. Al, how many did they relocate when they built the Three Gorges Dam? Two million, right? And then another four million when they figured out what the true environmental implications were. Am I wrong, Alan? Tell me if I’m wrong.”

  Ball silently shook his head.

  “And after the Yangtze landslides? No one knows for sure, but it was probably close on another ten million. And all of this without a whimper, Mr. President, without a fight. Look at us. Gartner tries to move a hundred people out of some bayou in Louisiana in his first act of relocation, and the whole country goes crazy. Those factories in Guangdong, Jackie, who do you think owns them? Let’s look at the figures. Seventy-five percent of factories in Guangdong are foreign co-owned or sponsored. That’s an important fact. It means it’s not them who’s going to pay to move them. You know who it is? Us! One way or another, directly or indirectly. And while we’re at it, the factory workers are internal migrants. The average time they spend in these areas is less than three years. The government isn’t going to relocate them, they’re going to relocate themselves. And Hong Kong? It’s been a thorn in their flesh ever since the Brits handed it back. A lot of people in the party would be very happy if Hong Kong just quietly sank beneath the waves.” Olsen stopped. There was a hush. “Alan? Have I said anything you disagree with? Correct me if I’m wrong.”

  Ball maintained a stony silence.

  “So what are you saying, Larry?” said John Eales. “You’re saying they want this stuff to happen?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. What I’m saying is, it’s not going to hurt them like it’s going to hurt us. Even if the numbers are big on their side—and they are, really big, way bigger than ours—big numbers aren’t as scary for them. So let’s not kid ourselves. They can outstay us on this. We have to find something that will hurt them.”

  “Even if it hurts us?”

  “Especially if it hurts us. That’s the point I’m making. It has to hurt us and they have to see that. We have to be prepared to bleed. They don’t believe we ever will. That means we have to think about what’s going to make them think otherwise.”

  There was silence.

  “Alan?” said the president.

  “Like I said before,” said Ball quietly, “I’m not saying we won’t get there. I’m just saying we need to test it a little more. We need to give it more time.”

  “Al, forget the timing!” said Eales impatiently. “In principle, do you or do you not think at some point we are going to have to demonstrate that we will take pain in order to get China to the table?”

  Ball hesitate
d for a moment. Then he nodded, avoiding Larry Olsen’s glance.

  “Well, if that’s the case,” said Eales in exasperation, “we may as well do it now!”

  “Except for the legislative program,” objected Jackie Rubin quickly. “Except for what it does to that.”

  Ben Hoffman put his head in his hands and groaned.

  “All right,” said Benton. “I want to reflect on this. We obviously can’t get to a decision today.” He paused. “Jackie, we need a review of possible sanctions, as broad as you can take it. Costs, legal position, economic implications. Alan, we need an analysis of the likely Chinese retaliatory responses.”

  “How many do you want? I can give you a hundred right now.”

  Benton ignored that. “The other question in my mind is, if this is where we’re headed, should we be starting to work with anyone else on this? Should we be trying to build a coalition to support us or is it too early? If so, with who? India? Russia? The EuroCore? If we’re saying sanctions really are a possibility, even a remote one, we’re going to need support. Larry, that’s yours. I’m meeting Prime Minister Ogilvie...When is that, Ben?”

  “In a week’s time.”

  “I’ll sound him out privately. Let me see if I can get some idea about where the EuroCore will come down if we really need to go to them.” Benton paused. “Now, I have one more question. Is there anyone else we need in this room?”

  “The way Larry’s talking,” said Ball, “it won’t be long before we need the secretary of defense.”

  “Alan, is that a serious suggestion?”

  Ball didn’t reply.

  “All right,” said the president. “Larry, I’ll tell you who I want. You remember that guy I met when you got those China people together? That young man.”

  “Oliver Wu.”

  “I’d like a China expert in the room. No offense, Larry, but someone who’s completely up to date and studying their leadership team a hundred percent of the time with this in mind.”

  “I agree,” said Olsen.

  “Unless you can think of someone better, let’s bring him in.”

  Olsen nodded.

  “All right. I think we’re done. Ben, can you schedule another discussion for the group? Larry, can you stay for another minute?”

  The others got up. Alan Ball made a point of catching Benton’s eye before he went out. Benton watched him leave.

  When the door was closed again, the president turned back to Olsen.

  “Ben tells me you’ve been pushing Chen damn hard.”

  Olsen shrugged.

  “I didn’t tell you to push him hard.”

  “You told me to negotiate with him, sir. I know Chen. That’s how you do it.”

  “Maybe we better agree next time what kind of tack you take.”

  “You have to trust your negotiator, Mr. President. You can’t script him. If you feel you have to script him, you’d better get rid of him.”

  Benton gazed at Olsen.

  “Mr. President, we’ll agree on it next time.” Olsen said it in as close to a conciliatory tone as he was capable of. “I’ll explain to you in advance.”

  Benton nodded. “Thank you. And as far as today goes, I want to be clear. When I asked you to come on board, I said I’d let you be heard.”

  Larry Olsen nodded.

  “I think I did let you be heard.”

  “Yes, sir. I think you did.”

  “But I haven’t decided. And on something of this magnitude, it’ll be my decision.”

  “That goes without saying, sir.”

  Benton watched him for a moment, trying to sense if there was anything behind that. “Okay.” Benton stood up.

  “Mr. President?”

  “Yes.”

  “About Oliver Wu.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s a good choice.”

  “Good.”

  “And when you meet Prime Minister Ogilvie, sir, in your private talks, don’t take this the wrong way, but... be careful what you say.”

  Benton looked at Olsen. He hardly thought he needed to be told something like that.

  “He’s an affable guy, Mr. President. He’s good at what he does. It’s easy to say too much.”

  ~ * ~

  Saturday, February 12

  Camp David, Maryland

  Joe Benton had met Hugh Ogilvie a number of times before. His conversations with the leader of Britain’s Labour-Liberal Democrat government had been brief, usually with a group of other senators. He wondered how the relationship would work with a man who had gotten on famously well with Mike Gartner.

  The first day of the visit was spent at the White House in discussions attended by cabinet secretaries, ambassadors and aides. Benton had a half hour alone with Ogilvie prior to the state dinner he hosted in the prime minister’s honor. Joe Benton also had a chance to meet Ogilvie’s wife, Anthea, whom he had never met, and the Ogilvies met Heather. On the morning of the second day the presidential and prime ministerial parties flew to Camp David. The idea was for the two couples to spend time getting to know each other, with only the minimum complement of aides to accompany them, before returning to Washington Sunday afternoon, when the Ogilvies would head back to London.

  After a day with Ogilvie, Benton was warming to his guest. He was starting to appreciate the other man’s moderate approach and understated sense of humor. He also realized that Ogilvie’s previous relationship with Gartner didn’t necessarily signify much. Getting on with U.S. presidents of whatever stripe was probably pretty high on the list in any British prime minister’s job description.

  The couples had lunch together in Laurel, the main gathering cabin at Camp David. Later, Joe Benton asked Connor Gale, the young aide who accompanied him pretty much everywhere and whose job was to see to it that he arrived where he was meant to be, to find out if Ogilvie wanted to take a walk with him. Gale spoke to Ogilvie’s chief political aide, Jonathan Coomb. He also spoke to Ben Hoffman, who turned up five minutes later at the president’s cabin.

  “It’s just a walk, Ben,” said the president. He knew nothing made a political advisor more nervous than the sight of two leaders heading off by themselves. “I’m not going to revoke the Declaration of Independence.”

  He picked Ogilvie up at Sequoia, the newly refurbished main visitors’ cabin. The president could see, from the look on Jonathan Coomb’s face as they left, that Coomb was just as unhappy as Ben Hoffman at seeing his man go out alone.

  Joe Benton chuckled as they set off. “They don’t trust us, Hugh.”

  “Can you blame them?” said Ogilvie. “We might actually decide something.”

  They walked, crunching over brittle filaments of ice. Off the path, there was a dusting of snow. Ogilvie was rugged up in an overcoat and scarf. Benton wore a skiing jacket. The cold pinched at his face.

  “Not too cold for you?” he said.

  “Bracing,” replied Ogilvie, and he clapped his gloved hands demonstratively.

  The path crossed another. Benton stopped, looking from side to side.

  “It’s rather a nice walk down there,” said Ogilvie.

  Benton laughed. “How many times you been here, Hugh?”

  “Five, I believe,” replied Ogilvie.

  “That’s five more than me,” said Benton.

  “I thought as much.”

  “So? Down there?”

  “Why not?” said Ogilvie. “It’s very nice, as I recall.”

  They walked. The crunch of their footsteps filled the air.

  “So what do you think of the state of the world, Hugh?” said Benton eventually. “Just between you and me?”

  “Oh, it’s chugging along, I suppose.”

  “Chugging along. I like that. How long have you been in office now?”

  “Seven years.”

  Benton shook his head admiringly. “Two elections and a third coming up, right?”

  “Luck rather than good management, I’m afraid.”

  “At
least we never have to go past two elections over here.”

  “Yes, there’s a point,” mused Ogilvie.

  “They give you a hard time when you started?” said Benton.

  “My own party, do you mean?”

  Benton laughed. “I’m taking a hell of a beating from the media. You wouldn’t believe this stuff about Heather. Like there’s nothing else for them to worry about. The woman’s got a job. Get over it!”