The office where I was supposed to be sitting. . . right about now. Lee’s mind was careening. Whose bomb? What was the target?
He started for the door. He needed to get a call through to his own guys in intelligence back at the Foreign Ministry, and his eyes darted about frantically as he considered his next move.
Then the television microphones picked up the curses of a man on his knees, leaning over a body. It looked like that old footage he’d seen at Stanford from the Kent State riot, or some of the pirated police film he’d viewed from that horrible 1989 night in Tiananmen Square, when the PLA had been sent to crush the democracy activists under their tank treads.
The camera zoomed in for a tighter shot and Lee was immobilized. He was sickened by a sense of the familiar as some long-imagined scene played out before him. He could see it coming now, that final moment of discovery, when disparate events would inevitably collide and burst upon him.
It was Alexander—Alexander Bonner—slowly turning as he bled, muttering oaths as the howl of approaching sirens grew louder.
Lee drew back, afraid for himself, afraid for his past and for his barren future. His colleagues were indifferent to his private terrors, busy wise-cracking as they began to speculate about motive. Just then, the Minister of Defense strode in. He stopped to watch a few moments before he let out a low whistle.
“Who the fuck’s guys pulled this one off?” the Minister chortled.
His was the line most fascinating to Branko’s team when they began to pore over the Bravo Compartment transcripts in Langley the next afternoon.
CORRALLING JAKE
Martin Booth was an amiable soul. Life had granted him more than his share of blessings, he believed—a loving wife and kids, a happy home, and good health. He approached each day fulfilled, driven still to do his good works. The onset of middle age helped him accept his failings and those of his fellow humans. Time had taken an edge off his righteousness, soothing the occasional disappointment. But as Booth sat that April Fool’s Monday in room number 419 of the Dirksen Senate Office Building, his irritation with the boss was growing.
Jake Smithson was behind schedule again, and nowhere to be found. Three senators were milling about the dais and General Arno Hollandsworth, the Assistant Secretary of State for East Asia and Pacific Affairs, was sitting ramrod straight at the felt-covered witness table, his hands folded neatly on his papers. The klieg lights were on, warming a cavernous room that already felt stuffy. Senator Landle of Iowa, the committee’s ranking minority member and a man of impeccable manners, was stalling.
“The committee will come to order,” Landle said, gently rapping the base of the wooden gavel. “Good morning, Mr. Secretary. We are pleased to have you with us. I just wanted you to know we will have a brief recess as we await the Chairman, who seems, uh, to have been caught in traffic.”
Landle smiled vacantly, then turned back to Booth in the small staff chair behind him, offering his arched eyebrows in a theatrical scowl.
Booth had spent longer than usual preparing for this Monday morning session, held unusually early to accommodate the administration witness’ flight schedule. Booth was rather proud of Smithson’s opening statement, the intricate traps it laid, the irresistible bait it offered to the press. It was to be a key salvo for the California senator’s new campaign refrain, assailing “an administration adrift.” He’d designed it to underscore a theme Smithson was to use later in the week at the Los Angeles World Affairs Council, and then with the New York Times editorial board.
The goal was to land a punch on the White House during the appearance of the circumspect Hollandsworth. Smithson would have edited the line of questioning by now, absorbed it, made it his own. Barreling in late and rushing through the questioning would take the edge off the ambush.
Typical Smithson. Booth’s loyalty to the man extended beyond the issues, a filial faith from one ever hoping for the best from his adopted hero. Booth had long been the indispensable aide, a surrogate political son to the California senator. Booth had been there for Smithson—from the days of the Iran-contra arms scandals to his recent pointed questioning of the intelligence community about WMD-tracking failures before the invasion of Iraq.
The senator had blistered the White House for “kissing up to China” after Tiananmen; Booth had been the architect of the whole media campaign. The rhetoric was striking in its virulent anti-communist strain, coming as it did from the left. But then China and Taiwan Strait issues always made for strange political bedfellows. The media had loved the counterpoint: a liberal legislator moving to the right of a conservative White House—a senior politician with a high tech constituency who had the balls to put principles ahead of politics. Reporters wrote fawning stories about him with the same cynical subtext: “Honest Man Found in Washington.”
Silicon Valley and the aerospace interests had frowned on Smithson’s human rights crusade, and subsequently played hard-to-get with campaign funds. Then Booth organized the home state trade delegation to the Asian economic summit. That had worked, too. After the release of seven survivors of Tiananmen, Smithson brought all the California high tech execs back to his side through a dramatic switch to support the trade agreement with China. Booth had brokered the prisoner release, a master stroke that enjoyed the quiet cooperation of both Li Jianjun and Mickey Dooley. They had all played their hands brilliantly, as in the Club days of old.
Through it all, Booth had fiercely defended his boss. Booth was the consummate insider who drew great pleasure from his vocation, relishing the exercise of reflected power. But Booth remained troubled by Smithson’s recklessness; the senator’s relentless philandering offended him. Booth’s moralist upbringing, his absolutist sense of right and wrong, made him view Smithson’s flexible version of marital obligation as shallow and distasteful.
Booth’s own very harmonious marriage was a genuine union of spirit. His partnership with Amy stood in such a stark contrast to the private mess of Smithson’s life that the senator’s escapades became an issue for the staffer. Amy was a full-time homemaker, a magna cum laude Penn graduate who had given up her curator’s work with the Smithsonian because she had chosen to be there each day when the school buses rolled up. Late at night, as Booth and Amy talked, both began to dread the coming presidential campaign. Booth confessed to growing doubts he could endure the endless compromises required by the circus ahead.
Booth was a loyalist. But he had such an intimate view of the moral fissure in his boss that, at times, he often wanted to avert his gaze. How could a leader so brilliant, so gifted at rallying the political center to the justness of a cause, risk so much? Every time the media sex police exposed and brought down another of the high and mighty, Smithson’s aide cringed, fearing his boss was living on borrowed time.
Then, there he was—the effervescent legislator himself—striding through the public entrance, a retinue of press and public swirling about him like moths drawn to light. Only the anxious Booth was troubled by the senator’s wet hair, and the amorous morning detour it suggested to him.
“Good morning. Good morning.” The senator patted each of his colleagues on the shoulder as he slid by their chairs at the dais. “Martin, may I see you a moment?”
He beckoned for his legislative director to follow him through the brass-plated door into the anteroom tucked just behind the senators’ chairs. Here was their inner sanctum, where several committee staffers were discussing in hushed tones the business of their day.
“Senator,” Booth whispered firmly. “You need to get the show on the road.”
“Just one sec here.” Smithson was calmly steering them into a corner now, fellow staffers amused as they shuffled out through the impossibly heavy door, leaving the two of them alone. “Just want to make sure we’re all on the same page with this proliferation hit.”
“Senator,” said Booth, “it’s a two-fer. You get news—above the fold, maybe—about the Iranian nuclear program. And you stick it to the Administration
for being blind to promiscuous Chinese exports.”
“Now Martin, I’m with you.” (Except for Booth’s spouse, only the senator used his given name.) “I’m just wondering about the time and place you’ve chosen for the hit. You certain this is the best forum?”
“Sure,” Booth replied. “It tees up your Los Angeles speech. We may get a two-day bounce on the West Coast. And it sets the agenda for when you do the New York Times editorial board.”
“You’re comfortable with sourcing?”
“None of it is U.S. government origin,” Booth said. “So you’re not divulging any classified matter.”
“But if you did get it from Langley, it would be?” Smithson asked.
Booth tried not to be defensive as he struggled with the senator’s point. “They can’t just classify any fact that’s in the public domain, and then say nobody can discuss it.”
Smithson paused to reflect as a head peered back in at the two of them from the doorway. It was Senator Landle’s aide, hesitant to interrupt, but clearly sent to prod.
“Coming right now,” Smithson said, then pressed his last questions to Booth. “Where does Hollandsworth go with this? What’s his comeback?”
“It doesn’t matter what he comes back with, Senator.”
“Doesn’t matter?”
“Once you’ve made the charge, you’ve made the news,” Booth insisted. “The facts will be out there. They’ll be tied up for days responding at the State Department. You can broaden the nuclear nonproliferation theme while they’re backing and filling.”
Smithson tapped the papers in his hand with his pencil. “OK, my friend. Let’s rock and roll.”
They strode out into the lights together, a bit of an odd couple. Smithson, the former astronaut, had the trustworthy face of a TV anchorman. Soft, ruddy features. Friendly, good neighbor eyes. He wore his warm chestnut hair long, seasoned with just enough gray to give balance to his sturdy frame kept trim through days of jogging and weekend 10k races.
By contrast, Booth was short and heavy. His frame bespoke too many expense account lunches, too many hours behind a desk. He often appeared out of breath, as if he was a quarterback calling plays in an anxious last-minute huddle. In his graying hair, he had retained an arresting shock of red running from cowlick to forehead—a dagger-like line that hinted at his boundless energy. Amy called it his Harry Potter streak, caressing it admiringly as part of their foreplay.
Smithson’s assault began with a disarming opening, a polished but predictable tour d’horizon. Using his best more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger tone, he surveyed the state of U.S.-Asian affairs, from Korea to Indonesia, lamenting the “lost opportunities” of unilateralist administration policies he alleged had “left the U.S. hated, and no longer respected.”
“One is left wondering precisely which American values we stand for other than opposing terrorism. We have a growing democracy, and long time ally, in Taiwan. Yet, this administration refuses to significantly assist their defense against a Communist neighbor bent on intimidation. What if Taiwan’s deterrent fails? Then we will be forced to place American military forces in harm’s way to defend freedom.”
In the armless chair behind Smithson, Booth was waiting to enjoy the senator’s hit.
“And what of China’s recent export practices, aiding in the development of sophisticated weapons delivery systems by rogue nations near and far. Will this administration continue to turn a blind eye to China as it arms our sworn enemies?”
Then, to Booth’s amazement, Smithson bailed. The senator cut Booth’s prepared text abruptly, wrapping up the statement without mentioning evidence of renewed Iranian missile imports from Beijing, then calling on Hollandsworth. The soldier-turned-diplomat began to serve up pablum, reciting what he maintained was a string of White House successes in Asia.
“Why did you kill it?” Booth whispered into Smithson’s ear. “The Iran stuff is solid.”
Smithson rocked back in his thick leather chair, whispering to Booth: “I decided to punt. It was just too hot, too soon. Better in the Q&A.”
Booth sat and stewed, watching the press corps as they followed the text of Hollandsworth’s prepared statement. It was milquetoast, deliberately long enough to limit time and energy that might remain for critical questioning. Of the twenty or so reporters at the rectangular press tables, at least two-thirds were Asian. The hearing was probably news back home for some, Booth reflected. But, without the Iran missile hit, it wouldn’t even make filler in the Post.
The room was still as Hollandsworth’s monologue rolled on. The ceilings were far too high for an office building. Harsh shafts of light leaked between forty-foot tall curtains. In the distance, Booth could hear a wailing siren. To his right, a couple of Republican staffers were sharing a private joke, oblivious to the set piece being performed before them. Another morning of fruitless toil in the United States Senate.
Smithson pulled his punch once again in his opening question round, using his five minutes on some queries about the Japanese economy before reserving the balance of his time. Then, finally, at the very conclusion of the hearing, he had his inning.
“Mr. Secretary, I have one last line of questioning before we adjourn,” Smithson said. There were only two senators left in the room now. The balance had been chased by a series of bells, beepers, and anxious aides summoning them to other business. “It relates to Chinese export practices.”
“Yes, sir.” Hollandsworth’s voice betrayed no reaction, though he pulled forward just a bit in his chair.
“Am I correct in my understanding that, while the Chinese have not formally acceded to the minutes of the Missile Technology Control Regime, China has nevertheless committed to abide by these ‘MTCR’ standards in its export practices?”
“There have been certain diplomatic assurances in that regard.” Hollandsworth shifted in his chair, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“I can interpret that as a yes?”
“Affirmative.”
“These MTCR assurances coincided with American approval of the trade agreement with China?” Smithson pressed.
“Yes.”
“Actually, it was how the Senate came to approve their joining the World Trade Organization, was it not?” Smithson was looking up pointedly from his reading glasses. Booth was motionless behind him, waiting for the hook.
“Well, to be precise, Senator,” Hollandsworth began to reply, “there were a number of conditions both sides mutually agreed to.”
“But MTCR export standards were the central issue, Mr. Secretary—the quid pro quo, if you will. The point was that China would get the trade deal only if they stopped spreading missile technology around to the so-called ‘Axis of Evil.’” Smithson smirked ever so slightly in a gentle dig at the shopworn phrase.
“Well, Mr. Chairman, there was no explicit linkage. Thus, some could argue otherwise.”
“For this senator, that was the central reason.” Booth noticed Hollandsworth stealing a glance down at his watch as Smithson continued. “These Missile Control standards bar assistance in the development of delivery systems for weapons of mass destruction to nations outside the nuclear nonproliferation treaty—so-called ‘rogue nations’ like North Korea, Cuba, Iran. Is my understanding correct?”
“Well, Mr. Chairman, these are technical issues. I think you really would have to ask the Defense Department.”
“With all due respect, General, upholding these standards is a key goal of American foreign policy. Last time I checked, foreign policy was conducted by the Department of State. My last question, in fact, relates to diplomatic policy. What is our government’s response to the recent delivery to Iran of M-70 missiles by the Chinese?”
“M-70 missiles?” Hollandsworth said, unflinching as he held Smithson in a prolonged stare. His military training served him well.
“M-70’s, yes.” Smithson was intent upon his target now.
“M-70 missiles.”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary. M-70 missile
s. To Iran.”
An aide was whispering in Hollandsworth’s ear from the first row of chairs behind him. Smithson was infinitely patient. Senator Landle darted back in through the doorway to the anteroom. He stood just behind Smithson at the dais now, engaged in a hasty conference with his legislative assistant.
Hollandsworth spoke with deliberation: “Senator, some of these matters might best be briefed to the committee by others. These matters are quite sensitive.”
“My question relates to diplomatic response. China is helping an unstable nation, a nation still in a state of declared war with the United States, to acquire delivery systems for weapons of mass destruction. What is to be our response?”
“Mr. Chairman, if I may.” It was Landle, playing defense for the administration as he leaned down into his mike from a standing position. “Perhaps, if we’re going to deal with classified matters, this might be a subject for a closed session.”
“Tom, there’s a legitimate policy issue here,” Smithson insisted. He knew it was the question—and the evidence now out in the general pub-lic—that mattered far more than the response. “China is in bed with Iran’s weapons program. Again. There’s been no refutation of the evidence by the administration witness here. Let’s see. . .”
Smithson peered over his glasses at his notes before he continued. “Thirty missiles delivered in port last March the twenty-fourth, wasn’t it? My question is really quite simple. How is the administration going to respond to this latest Chinese outrage?”
Hollandsworth and Landle were unmoved. Once more now in the silence, Booth could detect the wail of distant sirens growing louder. Was the president’s motorcade due on Capitol Hill for some meeting?
“Mis-ter Chair-man,” the Assistant Secretary finally began, the twang of his Carolina accent prolonging the honorific. “The development of options in response to a hypothetical threat to U.S. national interests is a complicated matter. The allegation you are making in this public forum raises serious considerations. Let us examine them carefully one by one. . .”
The Mandarin Club Page 6