Blackmail

47 BEIJING, CHINA

It was almost dark by the time the C-32 descended toward Beijing Nanyuan Airport. Like Secretary Cabral, Christine carried a thin leather briefcase containing the details of America’s proposal. As the C-32 banked to the left, providing a view of Beijing stretching into the distance, she wondered how Dawn had fared in India. Dawn’s task was somewhat easier, though, as there was no threat to her life.

Before Christine departed Washington, D.C., the president had pulled her into the Oval Office for a private conversation, questioning her reasoning for agreeing to China’s request. It had taken her a moment to open up, but she had explained how she’d been running away from what she’d done in Beijing and Ice Station Nautilus. Sooner or later, she would have to face her demons, and now was as good a time as any. Her answer seemed to satisfy the president, and she would soon face President Xiang.

The C-32 touched down and after coasting to a halt, Christine and the four Secret Service agents detailed to her exited the aircraft. On the tarmac, members of the Secret Service advance party were waiting, along with Katrina Wetzel, America’s ambassador to China.

As Christine descended the staircase, she spotted Ambassador Wetzel standing near a black sedan. Two additional black sedans served as bookends to the three-car motorcade that would take her to the Great Hall of the People. There, her security would become seriously diminished; her Secret Service escort would have to leave their weapons behind at the security checkpoint before entering the Politburo section of the Great Hall.

Ambassador Wetzel greeted Christine as she stepped onto the tarmac. “Welcome to China, Miss O’Connor.” Before Christine could reply, Wetzel added, “There’s been a change of plans. You’re not going to the Great Hall of the People.” She nodded toward a helicopter not far away, in front of which stood three men in black suits, who Christine figured were Cadre Department bodyguards — the Chinese equivalent of the Secret Service.

“Where is the meeting?”

“They won’t say.”

Ambassador Wetzel led Christine and the four Secret Service agents toward the helicopter. When they reached the Cadre Department bodyguards, one stepped forward.

“Only Miss O’Connor,” he said.

“I’m supposed to accompany her,” Wetzel said, “and serve as her interpreter.”

“That won’t be necessary,” the bodyguard replied. “President Xiang’s English will be sufficient.”

Wetzel glanced at Christine, who nodded. Xiang’s accent had been thick during their previous meetings, but his English was understandable.

Christine was wanded with a handheld metal detector and her leather briefcase searched. Satisfied that she carried no weapons, the lead bodyguard gestured toward the helicopter. Christine slid into the back of the four-passenger aircraft, where she was joined by the three Cadre Department bodyguards.

After a command from the lead bodyguard to the pilot, the helicopter lifted from the tarmac, tilting forward as it accelerated upward. As they headed north, the multicolor illumination from the city below faded to a few sporadic yellow lights, then disappeared altogether, leaving only a full moon in a cloudless sky and the pinpricks of distant stars. Christine tightened her grip on her leather briefcase as the helicopter continued on in the darkness.

A change in the beat of the helicopter’s rotors announced the end of their journey was approaching. The helicopter descended, coming to rest in the countryside with a soft landing. As Christine stepped onto damp grass, the sound of waves crashing ashore greeted her ears. The three bodyguards exited the helicopter with Christine, and the lead man pointed toward a narrow trail, faintly illuminated by the full moon, winding up a steep mountain slope.

After determining the three men had nothing to say, she began the trek up the winding trail. At the end of a six-hundred-foot climb, Christine emerged onto a grassy plateau containing another helicopter and a circular stone building flanked by a curving thicket of magnolia trees. In front of the building, a Cadre Department bodyguard stood on each side of a dark entrance. Upon reaching the building, she climbed a half-dozen cracked stone steps, stopping in front of the two men. Neither man spoke, but one pointed to the opening. After taking a deep breath, she passed between the two men.

Christine entered a temple illuminated by flickering torches, bathing a stone goddess in dancing hues of amber and burnt orange. Sitting upon a throne with a tablet in one hand and a staff in the other, the goddess was accompanied by two dragon guardians coiled at her feet, one on each side. Kneeling on the granite floor in front of the statues was President Xiang, his back to Christine and his hands clasped in front of him.

Xiang made no indication he heard Christine enter, and she hovered near the entrance before spotting a stone bench along one side of the temple. She sat quietly on the cold granite, waiting while Xiang finished his prayer.

After a few minutes, Xiang placed his hands on the floor, and Christine could see he was having difficulty standing. Xiang glanced at her and extended his hand, and Christine moved forward, offering hers in return. Xiang leaned heavily on Christine as the seventy-year-old president pulled himself to his feet, straightening to his full six-foot height, his gaze settling on her. She waited for him to speak first, but he remained silent as the flickering torches cast shifting shadows of stone dragons on the wall behind him.

Xiang finally spoke. “I am surprised you came.”

“Why did you request me?”

Xiang studied her a moment before replying. “I wanted to know how important this was to America. What they were willing to risk. What you were willing to risk.”

Christine refrained from asking the question that had hovered at the forefront of her mind since China’s request. Would she be allowed to leave after the meeting?

Xiang motioned to the stone bench. “Sit with me.”

Christine settled onto the bench again, her back against the cold stone wall, with the president of China beside her, his hands on his knees.

“What is this place?” Christine asked.

“It is the temple of my forefathers,” Xiang replied. “Mazu”—he gestured toward the stone goddess—“is the patron saint of fishermen and sailors. I was raised in the small fishing village at the base of this plateau, and I came here often with my mother when I was a child. I knelt beside her each time, praying for the safe return of my father. My mother, on the other hand, prayed for much more. She prayed for revenge.”

“Revenge for what?”

“My mother was a Japanese comfort woman during the Sino-Japanese War. I assume you are aware of the horror my mother endured?”

Christine nodded, recalling the Japanese Imperial Army had created comfort houses throughout its occupied territories during World War II, forcing young women to satiate the sexual desires of up to thirty men a day.

“Did your mother get her revenge?”

“She did not,” Xiang replied. “But my mother’s blood flows strongly in my veins.” He cast a stern glance at Christine.

Christine suppressed a rising wave of fear. “Is that why you chose to meet me here? To obtain revenge in the temple of your forefathers?”

“Yes and no,” Xiang answered. “This place brings clarity of thought. I come here whenever I face a difficult decision.”

Christine didn’t ask what that decision entailed and Xiang did not elaborate. Instead, he shifted the conversation to the reason for Christine’s trip. “What does the United States want?”

After Christine explained, Xiang said, “The shoe is on the other foot. Russia is doing to you what you did to my country — placing a stranglehold on vital natural resources. For that reason alone, I should side with Russia.”

“We can make amends,” Christine offered. Pulling the document from her briefcase, she said, “These are the concessions we’ll make if you join us in our battle against Russia.”

Xiang waved the document away. “Assisting the United States is out of the question. With the memory of our war so fresh, there would be stiff resistance within the Politburo. However, with the proper incentives, China could remain neutral.”

Xiang laid out his demands.

With the proper price and guaranteed supply of natural resources, along with the elimination of all economic sanctions against his country, China would remain neutral.

Christine replied, “The United States can drop only the sanctions we imposed unilaterally. However, we can intervene on your behalf concerning the international sanctions.”

“That will be sufficient,” Xiang said. “I will convey the desired concessions formally to the American embassy. There will be no need for you to relay my request.”

Xiang’s comment about her services no longer being needed did not go unnoticed.

After a long pause, Xiang said, “Which brings us to the second topic of our meeting tonight.” The flickering torches in the distance seemed to dim.

“You murdered the chairman of the Central Military Commission. You put a bullet into the head of a defenseless man who knelt at your feet.”

“He deserved it,” Christine said. “He was responsible for Prime Minister Bai’s death.”

“It was not your duty to dispense justice.”

Christine evaluated Xiang’s words. He was correct. Besides, that wasn’t the real reason she killed him. “I’m impulsive,” she said, making her best attempt at an apology. “I needed to convince you I was serious. That I would kill you if necessary.”

“You succeeded,” Xiang said.

He said nothing more, and there was a strained silence between them. Christine’s thoughts went to Xiang’s order to imprison her in the bowels of the Great Hall of the People during her last visit to China. Finally, she asked, “What are you going to do with me?”

“Until tonight,” Xiang replied, “I had not decided.”

There was another long silence, his dark eyes probing hers. Finally, he said, “The question I had to answer was—should I be as ruthless as you.”

Xiang pushed himself to his feet. Looking down at her, he said, “The helicopter at the base of the plateau will take you back to the airport.”