The Mandarin Club
Page 33
“What?”
“They would kill me. If I ever surfaced, the Chinese security guys would hunt me down like an animal and kill me.”
“No.”
“Of course they would,” Lee insisted. “Just to make an example of me.”
“Not on American soil.”
“Sure, if only to save face. Heck, even Taiwan killed a critic on U.S. soil. That’s why we were so careful about getting together today. The Chinese will watch you—for years—to see if you come to me.”
“I figured that—”
“Besides, I wouldn’t do that to Stanford. Stanford was always good to me. China would never let their students come again; they would cut off all contact with Serra House. And my sponsors in Washington—even Branko—would not welcome the attention.”
“Branko probably has wanted to do it himself for years.”
“Too provocative.” Lee was still enjoying the idea even as he dismissed it. “Such work is best done in the shadows.”
“Too provocative? After the Chinese ram our planes out of the sky, hold our airmen for ransom, and send the plane home in pieces? After they push hundreds of missiles against Taiwan and violate their pledges of restraint? After their renegade outfit pulls shit like the F Street number? After the whole E-War disaster? That’s provocation.”
“It is simply not how Washington will want to use me.”
They were sitting now, sharing the bottled water. As they pondered their next move, Mickey peeled the last sections of orange. The juice ran down his fingers as he handed pieces to Lee, who took them appreciatively and tucked them in his mouth. It was several minutes before Lee spoke. “Some things in life you must accept, Mickey.”
“But it’s like you have a second chance. It’s like you came back from the dead.”
“Li Jianjun is dead—gone to dust.” He was stoic once more. “Let him rest.”
“We will make a new life for you.”
“It is resurrection I will hope for, yes. They say they will find me some new identity, like in your FBI’s Witness Protection Program.”
“But China needs you to—”
“China is a great country. We have survived and flourished over the many centuries. But I am done with all this rancor. I prefer to just write a bit, to live quietly with the knowledge and company of a few friends.”
“Maybe we can go back someday,” Mickey said. “You and I, together.”
“No, Mickey,” said Lee. “I will never go back.”
“You need to have some hope for the future.”
“I have hope. I have hope for many things. For knowledge. For understanding. For human love.”
“Let us help. Let Branko help—with Xu An, I mean. Can they get her out?”
“We don’t know if that will be possible. You know, I don’t even have a picture of her—just in my head. But maybe you will be able to meet her someday.”
Mickey was silent, watching Lee work through these things. Then Mickey reached for his coat pocket. “I almost forgot. I was in a similar situation that day I left. Couldn’t bring anything of my past with me. So. . . I brought you some pictures.” Mickey opened the small envelope and pulled out three small color prints, handing the stack to his friend.
The first two were of the boys, Michael and Henry. They were copies Mickey had gone back into the master bedroom for on his last night in Beijing. The children were grinning conspiratorially in Yankee pinstripes, their first Litttle League uniforms.
The last was a photograph from long ago. It was a snapshot from that New Year’s Eve party, the night they called the Last Dance. The camera had framed their tableau as they solemnly toasted from the couch, packing boxes on the margins—Booth and Barry, Rachel and Alexander, Branko, Mickey, and Lee, each peering anxiously into their future.
“It started then, you know,” Lee said as he examined the old photo.
“What?”
“It began that night.”
“What began?”
Lee was focused on something far distant now, examining the past, reconsidering his life as he watched the wind sweep through the towering trees far down the meadow.
“He asked me that night. Branko did.”
“He asked you what?”
“He recruited me. . . on the night of that last party.”
“No!”
“That is the remarkable thing about Branko. He knew. He knew even before I did. He could see it all then. To him, it was like a chess board; he was preparing for the end-game decades in advance. He knew the contradictions we would encounter, the choices we would have to make. He foresaw the paths we would take. He somehow saw it would come to this.” Lee was chuckling in admiration. “Mickey, he recruited me from the very beginning.”
“He recruited you to do what?”
“He was a talent scout from the very first day. He anticipated future needs. He enlisted me to share information, to provide extra eyes and ears, to help in any way I chose. He recruited me to be his spy.”
“Jesus.”
Finished the thought, Lee sat in silence, resolving an old memory. Then he turned back to Mickey, tapping the photos. “And you must know, friend, these photos do help me have hope. For me, yes, but mostly for another generation.”
“For the boys. . .”
“Of course. I hope they can move freely back and forth across the bridges we tried to build. It is not about us any more. It is about Michael and Henry. About the world they can make.”
“Like I said, Lee, you’re a goddamn hero.”
“Enough with this hero talk.”
“It’s true. You’ve done a great service. To me, to my boys, to Branko, to us all. You’ve upheld everything we ever pledged to believe in, every toast we ever made.”
“We toasted to many things,” Lee said, gazing again at the photos. Then he cleared his throat, before adding quietly: “We were so very young.”
“To ‘wearing our hearts at the fire’s center.’ To never forgetting. You’ve taken risks, made a difference. What could possibly have more enduring a meaning?”
“Mickey, you credit me too much.”
“Because of you, I have my boys.”
“That was you. I hardly did—”
“No!” Mickey was shouting now, hopping about as he circled in front of Lee, crumpling the bag of trash in his spreading palms. He was full of pulsing energy once again. “I don’t even know exactly what you did that day at the airport with the soldiers, the fire. I don’t need to know. All I know is that my boys are free. We are together. Without you, it never would have happened.” Lee stood now as Mickey halted his pacing. “And I. . . we. . . we will honor you for it always.” They were quite close, facing each other. The fruit was finished. The water was gone. The fog was lifting.
“So, what now?”
“Yes, Mickey. What now?”
“Where to?”
“To work,” Lee said. “I will see if I can help Branko and his people, help to buy some time until wiser voices can prevail.”
Mickey nodded before Lee continued. “Then I will go sit on the mountaintop. Somewhere near this place, I hope, where I can dream again. Perhaps I will not be alone for so long.”
“Someday, the realities may change,” Mickey offered. “Maybe then you could hope to go home.”
“No. Not in my lifetime. In the boys’, perhaps.” Lee was still grimacing. But this last thought pleased him and, as he placed the photos in his breast pocket, his visage began finally to brighten. “You must learn patience, my friend. These things take time.”
“I’m trying, Lee,” Mickey promised. “I’m really trying.”
Now, at last, they could smile together, their confessions honored, their memories complete. They were redeemed and at peace.
Mickey laid a heavy arm around Lee’s shoulders. Tentatively, at first, then purposefully, they began to retrace the path into the sunlight before them, two old school friends heading back up the trail together.
A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Mandarin Club, while a work of the imagination, is fiction that echoes many true events. Also genuine are several of the current challenges in U.S.-China relations it explores.
Any parallels between the novel’s characters and actual living persons are, however, coincidental. It is true that the author once drank with idealistic Stanford scholars at a sketchy bar on El Camino Real. But the characters introduced at The Oasis are made up. So, too, are the lobbyists, journalists, senators, and spies they come to meet.
Fables are enriched by fact. Similarly, the weaving of a story about modern China—and the Americans who have chosen to engage that great civilization—has benefited from the guidance of experienced hands. Some of the assistance extended to the author was witting and deliberate. For this, special thanks go to friends such as Richard Bush, a former U.S ambassador to Taiwan who’s currently at the Brookings Institute; Michele de Nevers of the World Bank; and Frank Hawke. Their knowledge of things Chinese is remarkable. A word of respect is also due democracy activists on both sides of the Taiwan Strait with whom the author has been privileged to work. Their often anonymous voices have shown great courage and patriotism; their labors helped inspire the story at hand.
To fellow polishers of prose, the author is deeply indebted as well. Joe Kanon, Joe Tanner, Florence Ladd, Leonard Wolf, Jason Warburg, Demaris Brinton, Liza von Rosenstiel, Colleen Sechrest, Kim Armstrong Strumwasser, Gordon Kerr, Ron Goldfarb, and the indefatigable Bruce Bortz deserve special thanks. Bruce leads by example while bringing wisdom and style to all he touches.
Power in Washington is exercised in the most peculiar ways. Learning to savor this combat while upholding essential values can prove to be a challenge, one that is aided considerably by the knowledge and candor of friends. Having a day-job populated by the likes of Carl Ford, Amos Hochstein, Jerry Schecter, Paul Behrends, Richard Dennington, Larry Barrett, Ken Wollack, Paul Leventhal, Jody Powell, P.X. Kelley, Kathy Gest, Cindy Brown, Lien Fu Huang, and Gerry Cassidy has been a source of countless insights. Each of their unique contributions is much appreciated. Many were unwitting accomplices in the work at hand. None bear any responsibility for indiscretions or literary excess.
Standing out in this crowd is my friend Kathleen Anne McCloskey, who has consistently encouraged the work as a member of our extended family.
At home, Jennifer, Joy, and Dylan enriched the story with humor, tolerance, and unconditional affection. Special appreciation goes to our in-house Chairman of I.T., Mr. Zachary Arthur Warburg, who stands as a heroic bridge across the chasm dividing parents who grew up without computers from kids who can save them—and their manuscripts—from getting lost in cyberspace.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gerald Felix Warburg has worked in Washington on trade, intelligence, and international security matters since the Ford Administration. He has served on the staff of leadership in both the United States Senate and House of Representatives, where he was a principal draftsman of the Nuclear Nonproliferation Act and other U.S. foreign policy initiatives. In addition, he has provided counsel to several American presidential campaigns and to the U.S. Nuclear Regulatory Commission.
As a visiting lecturer, he has taught history and government courses at Hampshire College in Amherst, Massachusetts, and for Stanford and Georgetown university programs. The author of Conflict and Consensus: The Struggle Between the President and Congress to Shape U.S. Foreign Policy (HarperCollins), he is currently Executive Vice President for a Washington government relations firm.
A native of Marin County, California, Mr. Warburg holds an undergraduate degree from Hampshire College, and an advanced degree from Stanford University. He and his family reside in Virginia.
The Mandarin Club is his first novel.