Dragon Fire

Zhongnanhai, Beijing, China

The car number plates of the Pakistani Ambassador to Beijing, 188 001, were immediately recognized by the guards on the gate of Zhongnanhai, just a few hundred metres west of the monuments of Tiananmen Square. The car’s journey past the entrance to the Forbidden City had been tracked by the camera on the corner of the south-west wall of the compound. As it slowed two cameras over the Zhongnanhai gate itself picked it up. Its invitation into the compound was highly unusual. Hardly ever were diplomats allowed into the compound unless accompanying a visiting dignitary.

Despite China’s thrust towards modernization, it remained uncompromisingly entrenched in its revolutionary past, reminding its citizens that without the Communist Party they wouldn’t enjoy the home ownership, the well-paid jobs, the US dollar bank accounts and the other trappings of wealth. For twenty years since the collapse of European Communism and the Balkan wars, the Communist Party had reaffirmed its view that democracy would only hamper development and heighten the risk of civil war.

Statues of Mao Zedong remained in city squares, and his portrait hung over Tiananmen Gate outside the Forbidden City. There was no debunking of the Monument to the Martyrs of the People, the Great Hall of the People, the museums of Chinese Revolution and History. These were the symbolic institutions which had given China the strength to face down the great twentieth-century powers such as Russia, Europe and the United States.

Javed Jabbar, urbane and cosmopolitan, was Pakistan’s Ambassador to Beijing and a graduate of Balliol College, Oxford. His colleague General Sadek Hussein was a veteran of two wars against India, and his government’s special military attaché in China. He was a former Chief of Army Staff responsible for building up the close military relationship with China. Jabbar’s call directly from Hamid Khan had been unusual, and for a moment he had considered disobeying the instruction. Then Hussein informed him that they had both been invited personally to Zhongnanhai. Jabbar had no choice but to accept.

Jabbar read the Chinese characters painted on the maroon wall as they turned into the gate. Long live the Great Communist Party, said one slogan. Long live the unbeatable thoughts of Chairman Mao, said the other. Once they were inside, they were joined by two motorcycle escorts, the riders bearing the mark of the personal guard unit of Tang Siju, the powerful Chinese security chief. They were escorted along the broad, uncluttered roads, past the drooping willows and lakes, to a villa at the northern end nestling in its own grounds.

Jabbar was relieved to see the relaxed Chinese Foreign Minister, Jamie Song, on the steps to meet them. By his side was Tang. Jabbar knew the two men did not get along.

Jabbar got out of the car. ‘So I finally get an invitation to your inner sanctum,’ he said, shaking Song’s hand.

‘A prime minister or a president would suffice,’ said Song. ‘Although I gather they spend much of their time hunkered down in Islamabad nowadays, waiting for orders from a general.’

Jabbar cast him a sideways glance, showing an understanding between diplomats, both of them fiercely patriotic and both uneasy about serving autocratic masters.

Song’s Harvard education and understanding of the Western media had made him the most famous Chinese politician abroad. At fifty-eight, he was frequently tipped by international analysts as China’s next president, but they were predictions which only underscored their ignorance. It had taken Song years to gain the trust of the Chinese Communist Party’s inner circle, which was deeply suspicious of his friendship with Western leaders and his flitting back and forth between the government and the private sector. His company Oriental Software had recently been listed in New York and was already a blue chip in Tokyo, Shanghai, Hong Kong and Singapore.

This was Song’s second stint as Foreign Minister, a job he had left after his convincing performance during the brief Dragon Strike war. His resignation had been a tactic in order to be asked back and gain political acceptance at the highest level. The Communist Party realized it needed at its centre a man who could count international businessmen and political leaders among his friends. Song was called upon to give advice not only on foreign policy, but also on how to coax in more Western investors. His refrain was that China’s economy was on track and its lack of democratic reform was one of the great stabilizing factors in global development. Since the Balkan wars and the collapse of the Russian economy, the Chinese Foreign Minister’s views had prevailed.

Song ushered the two Pakistani diplomats into a reception room, dully decorated with calligraphic scrolls hanging from the wall and armchairs positioned next to spittoons, ashtrays and writing tables with pencils and notepaper.

‘Let’s pull a couple of these round so we can talk properly,’ said Song, trying to instil informality into the austere room. He shifted a chair himself while Tang’s interpreter ran over to help him.

‘Did you guys down the Indian helicopter?’ Song went on, dropping the question in casually. The interpreter translated for Tang.

‘Out of my theatre,’ said Hussein.

‘Hamid Khan is both brave and dangerous, if he did,’ said Song.

‘General Hamid Khan is a very great friend of China,’ said Tang, speaking in Chinese with simultaneous translation from the interpreter. He took a seat on the left-hand side of the two main chairs at the end of the room. The others arranged themselves around him while Hussein took out two sheets of paper, one in English and one in Chinese. He gave them to Song and Tang.

‘These are the details of the death of a man called Yahya,’ explained Jabbar. ‘He was a Saudi Arabian, living in Egypt, responsible for some of the worst attacks against Western and Asian tourists there. For the past six months he has been training fedayeen — that’s Arabic for commandos — to intensify the insurgency in Xinjiang. He was due in Central Asia himself next month. Four days ago, Yahya was killed by a single gunshot wound to the head at the entrance to his apartment block in the city of Asyut on the upper Nile.’ Jabbar paused, allowing his Chinese hosts to read the document. ‘As you know, the slums of Asyut are a breeding ground for this type of terrorist. Pakistani intelligence agents can infiltrate them.’

Hussein took up the explanation. ‘Our Inter-Services Intelligence Directorate has an influence far beyond our borders. Our reputation in some areas is comparable to that of Mossad — even more when it comes to the infiltration of extremist Islamic groups operating from Afghanistan and the Middle East. General Khan asked us to tell you personally and in the greatest confidence how Yahya was killed.’

The double doors at the end of the room opened and a woman appeared with a tray of tea. Hussein stopped talking and the room was silent apart from the rattling of the cups, until Tang barked an order that she should leave.

‘Hamid Khan ordered it himself,’ said Jabbar as the doors closed. He repeated it in Chinese for Tang and the security chief nodded.

‘He is a great friend of China,’ Tang repeated.

‘You are offering to help us with Xinjiang and Tibet?’ said Jamie Song. ‘And we’ll help you with India.’