Power and Empire

General Ma Xiannian took a series of puffs from his Cuban cigar and held it to one side, studying the glowing coal. “Killing the young woman seems harsh, even for you. It seems a terrible waste of a good cook. To forget to include your wife’s bracelet is…”

The foreign minister waved away the notion. “That was my fault,” he said. “But it was not the primary concern. She was not at all surprised that Ip and his bitch wife were not asked to stay after dinner. It would not have been long before she said something to someone about the meetings of our new Gang of Four.”

They never uttered the phrase outside the security of their little group. The men had come to think of themselves as a faction that wanted only the best for China but who would surely be misunderstood if they were to be discovered. The original Gang of Four had been led by Chairman Mao’s wife, Jiang Qing. After Mao’s death, and absent his protection, the former actress was accused with three others as counterrevolutionary and blamed by the government for virtually every evil of the Cultural Revolution.

The foreign minister loosened his red silk tie. There was no reason to stand on ceremony now. He was among friends — friends who would stand beside him in front of a firing squad if they were ever discovered — even by members of the party who essentially agreed with them.

Secretary Deng spoke next. “Public approval for Zhao is waning, as you predicted,” he said. “But his supporters in the politburo appear steadfast. I have even heard it said that he has the brains to hold the same progressive economic policies as disgraced President Wei, but the balls to implement them.”

“That may be true,” General Ma said. “But I know more than a few in the party who find themselves gravely concerned with Zhao’s misguided corruption probes. It is as if he is completely blind to the origin of his support.”

“Blindness is among the least of his disturbing qualities,” Deng said.

“He is quite intelligent,” Li said. “We should not underestimate him. General Xu, I believe—”

A metallic chime sounded at the study door, cutting him off. The foreign minister raised his hand to quiet everyone. A moment later, Madame Li appeared with her arm around the shoulders of a handsome boy in his early teens.

“Qin’ai,” she said. The term was akin to “dear” or “darling.” “Our son has had a long day and would like to say good night to his father.”

Li put the cigar in the ashtray beside his chair and took the boy’s hand, holding it in his. “Good night, my son. Rest well.”

The other men in the room looked away, embarrassed by this uncustomary outpouring of emotion from the leader they’d respected for his cruelty and cunning.

“I will leave you men to talk your treason,” Madame Li said, smiling as she escorted the boy out.

Secretary Deng winced before the door was shut and they were alone. “Does she know?”

Li took up his cigar again, then picked a fleck of tobacco off his lip. “Of course not. It is merely something she says. Women chatter about the household and men talk treason.”

“Well,” Deng said, “it is a dangerous term.”

Li’s eyes narrowed. “Any disrespectful talk of my wife would be dangerous. Of that you may be quite sure.”

General Ma held up his hand. Had it really fallen to the military man to try and make peace? He decided to change the subject rather than appeal to either man’s decency. “It is such a shame that Chinese interests must be harmed in order to attain our goals.”

Li snatched up his cigar, took a few puffs, then snubbed it out in the ashtray. The veins in the side of his neck bulged with tension.

“Make no mistake,” he said. “Chinese interests are not our only targets. Before we are finished, President Ryan will be ready to fly Air Force One to Beijing and shoot the fool Zhao himself.”

The foreign minister sat for a moment, composing himself before turning to General Xu. “Your man Huang, Zhao’s chief bodyguard. Will he bend?”

“The colonel?” Xu shook his head. “From what I have seen, he is endowed with a set of iron principles that will prove quite troublesome.”

“I assume you have considered a remedy,” the foreign minister said. “Principles are to be lauded, so long as they align with ours. One man with the wrong ideals… Do I need to spell it out?”

Xu puffed on his cigar until the coal glowed red, illuminating his face.

“I can assure you, Mr. Foreign Minister,” the general said. “Colonel Huang will not be a problem.”

23

Four hours after the call from Gavin Biery, Ding Chavez slouched in an uncomfortable fake-leather chair in the lounge of an FBO off Lemmon Avenue. He munched stale popcorn for breakfast and thumbed absentmindedly through an aviation magazine while he tried to stay awake enough to remain aware of his surroundings. He never understood why every fixed-base operator he’d ever seen had a popcorn machine, but they did, and he’d learned to take advantage of the fact when there was nothing else salty to eat.