Hong Kong

CHAPTER SEVEN

Governor Sun Siu Ki didn’t have newspapers to worry about this morning; he had shut down the politically incorrect rags and jailed the editors. No, the rag du jour was a flyer that had been distributed by the tens of thousands throughout the Special Administrative Region, the old colony, of Hong Kong.

The flyer, titled The Truth, was a single sheet of paper printed on both sides with Chinese characters. It contained a highly critical account of the Bank of the Orient debacle and shooting, blaming the entire incident on the Chinese government’s attempted looting of the bank and on the over-aggressiveness of the People’s Liberation Army. The sheet called for mass demonstrations to demand that the authorities cease requiring bribes from banks, release the jailed newspaper editors, and allow the publication of uncensored news. The sheet was signed by a group calling itself the Scarlet Team.

“This is outrageous, inflammatory, antirevolutionary criminal propaganda,” the governor told his assistant, who agreed completely with that assessment. “Have the police find the people who did this and arrest them.” Sun hammered on the deck with his fist as he added, “I will not tolerate these criminal provocations! Find these people!”

“Yes, sir,” said the aide.

The governor wadded up the offending flyer and threw it into the wastebasket beside his desk.

He took a deep breath, then tackled the next item on the morning’s agenda. “Has electrical power been restored throughout the city?”

“Yes, sir. Apparently so. The engineers are still trying to determine why the load was lost in the first place. Unfortunately power fluctuations apparently caused extensive damage to the computer systems at Lantau Airport and Harbor Control.”

“When will the systems be operational again?”

The aide didn’t know the answer to that one. He would find out and report back, he said, which didn’t please the governor.

Everything seemed to be going wrong all at once. As if to emphasize that fact, the secretary came in to announce that the ministry in Beijing was on the telephone.

The minister was worried. Questions were being asked at the highest levels. Did Sun need more help handling the situation in Hong Kong?

“No, certainly not,” Sun replied. “Criminal elements are taking advantage of events that are out of anyone’s control, but the government is firmly in charge.”

Because Albert Cheung was somebody important, the warden of the prison had Rip Buckingham brought to his office. There was a room in the prison for lawyers and clients to meet, but it consisted of a long table with chicken wire down the middle and a guard at each end. There was no privacy.

Albert had known the Chinese warden a long time — he slipped him a handful of currency when they shook hands. After the guards brought Rip, the warden and guards left together, leaving Rip and Albert alone.

“I thought Lin Pe might call you,” Rip said, sinking into a stuffed chair. “You’ll have to excuse my odor. They’re having trouble with the showers and soap.”

“Lin Pe called me yesterday. Yesterday I went to see Governor Sun. We negotiated. I went back this morning and we negotiated some more. To make a long story short, he wants a hundred thousand Hong Kong.” Actually Sun Siu Ki had wanted two hundred thousand, but Albert had beaten him down. This he didn’t mention. He didn’t like to discuss money with his clients, except when absolutely necessary. Discussing money offended his sense of dignity.

Rip grunted noncommittally. He was thinking how clean and comfortable Albert Cheung looked. Wearing an impeccable gray suit and conservative silk tie, he looked as if he had just stepped out of the Pall Mall Club in London. Rip was wearing filthy khaki chinos, a nondescript blue shirt, and penny loafers without socks. His clothes looked like he had worn them day and night for a month, although it had been only two days.

“Your wife wants you home,” Albert said tentatively.

Rip Buckingham didn’t want to talk about his wife. She had come to visit him yesterday and the prison staff had refused to let her in unless she paid a bribe. That, Rip knew, was pretty much standard procedure these days. Sue Lin refused to pay. Or so one of the guards told him last night. That certainly sounded like her, Rip reflected. She was tough, and Rip liked that a lot.

He picked up a pencil from the warden’s desk and stroked it with his fingers as he asked, “What do I have to do to reopen the paper?”

“Sun and I did discuss that matter,” Albert acknowledged.

“How much?”

“Well, it’s not that simple. Apparently people in Beijing have been talking to the governor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’ll need to sign a contract with Xinhua for editorial services. That will cost you so much a month.” Xinhua, the New China News Agency, was the Communist government’s propaganda organ.

“How much?” Rip asked idly.

“I don’t know. It probably won’t be nominal.”

“We sometimes run Communist government press releases as news,” Rip told the lawyer, “but only if they’re newsworthy. My staff decides. You’d be amazed at the reams of trash bureaucrats generate. My readers aren’t interested.”

“You don’t have to print anything you don’t wish to print. However, the agency will assign an editor, who must approve anything that you do want to print.”

“Censorship.”

“Call it that if you like.”

“For Christ’s sake, Albert!”

“Rip, be reasonable. This isn’t a comfortable little chunk of England anymore, with British judges and British law. This is China! You have to go along to get along.”

Buckingham said a dirty word.

“Give me the authorization to pay Sun and I’ll get you out of here. You think about the paper. We’ll talk later.”

Rip broke the pencil in half and tossed the pieces on the warden’s desk. “I won’t publish the paper under those conditions,” he said. “I can tell you that right now. But it isn’t my paper. It belongs to Buckingham News, Limited, which may soon be looking for a new managing editor.”

“Buckingham News, that’s your father, right?”

“Rich owns about sixty percent of it, I think. My sisters and I own small pieces, some of the stock is in executive compensation plans, and the rest is owned by some hot dollies Dad took a fancy to. He gave them stock certificates instead of diamonds.”

“Does that work?” Albert asked curiously.

“Dad says it depends on how many shares you give them,” Rip said, his face deadpan. He shrugged. “Buckingham News pays no dividends, there’s no market for the stock, and Dad has absolute control. About all a shareholder can hope for is that the certificates will be worth real money someday. One might think of it as a sort of pension plan for the women.”

“What does Mr. Buckingham do with the profits if he doesn’t pay dividends?” asked the Hong Kong attorney. “I assume there are profits.”

“He buys more newspapers, cable television networks. He got into satellite distribution of television signals years ago. He said that technology would ultimately have a greater impact on the human race than the invention of movable type. Certainly it’s going to have a greater impact on the third world.”

Rich may be a noxious old fossil, his son reflected, but he had vision. Rip told the lawyer, “As a matter of fact, I think Buckingham News owns the company with about fifty percent of the satellite dish business in Hong Kong.”

“Very progressive,” said Albert Cheung.

“In any event, the women seem happy and Dad appears to be doing all right.”

“Wonderful, wonderful.”

“Quite. But I don’t know what Dad will do about the Post. The only principle to which he is irrevocably and totally committed is making money.”

“Yes.”

“A lot of money.”

Albert Cheung looked interested. “I like money myself,” he remarked blandly.

“Go pay the man and get me the hell out of here,” Rip Buckingham told the lawyer. “The company in this place is fascinating but the food isn’t anything to brag about.”

“Mr. Cole, there’s a Rear Admiral Grafton on line one.”

“Thank you,” Cole said to his secretary and picked up the phone.

“Hello, Jake.”

“I just called to thank you for last night. It was good seeing you again.”

“And you.”

“I was wondering if I could drop by today and have a chat about government business? Could you give me an hour or so?”

“Come at lunch and I’ll buy.”

“About twelve?”

“See you then.”

When Sue Lin heard her brother, Wu, come in, she went downstairs to his room and knocked. He immediately opened the door. He was here to change clothes, which was about all he ever did at this house.

“We need to talk,” she said softly in English, worried as always that the domestics would overhear.

Only two years older than Sue Lin, Wu had always awed her, ever since she could remember. Never had she met a man with his inner calm, a man whose strength radiated like heat from a fire. He was, she thought, the most masculine of men, a man so strong emotionally and spiritually that nothing on this earth could shake him.

Of course he attracted people, men and women, like a magnet attracts iron filings. In a reflective moment Rip had compared Wu to Christ. “If he was preaching a new religion he could convert the world,” Rip said, and Sue Lin thought Rip was probably right.

As Wu looked at her his face softened. “Of course,” he said, nodding gently. “May I continue to change, or would you like to go upstairs?”

“Go on,” she said, motioning toward the closet, and told him about Rip being arrested and the newspaper closed.

“I have heard,” Wu said. “I am sorry for Rip.”

“Albert Cheung will get him out, but the paper… the governor will probably keep it closed.”

She sat in the only chair in the small room. “The day has almost arrived, hasn’t it?”

“Its coming was inevitable,” Wu replied calmly. Sue Lin had never seen him excited — she didn’t think anything could disturb his inner peace.

“Rip is worried. If the authorities finally learn that you are my brother, Lin Pe’s son, Rip thinks they will take their frustrations out on us.”

“Rip is probably correct,” Wu said softly. He rarely raised his voice. “His understanding of the scope of the official mind seems quite complete.”

“He wants us to leave Hong Kong now.”

“Sister of mine, I advise you to obey your husband.”

“Mother will not leave.”

“Her destiny is not yours.”

“Wu, for God’s sake, you must tell Mother to leave! She will listen to you! She ignores my pleas.”

Wu sat on the bed and took his sister’s hand. “Leaving China would cost Lin Pe her life. This is who she is. On the other hand, you have your husband, your life together, which you can live anyplace on the planet. Lin Pe does not have that.”

“Are you saying that Rip and I should leave you two here?”

“This country, these people, they are my life also.”

Sue Lin Buckingham jerked her hand from his grasp. “I think the new maid is suspicious of you. She watches you from the window, pretends she knows no English when it is obvious she understands some of it. She may be a police spy.”

“What would you have me do?”

At that Sue Lin threw up her hands and left the room.

Albert Cheung drove Rip to the building that housed the newspaper. It was raining again, a steady drizzle. Albert wanted to take him home but Rip insisted on going to the office.

There were two policemen with shotguns standing under an overhang outside the building.

Albert pulled his Mercedes into the alley that led to the parking area in back. “Thanks, Albert,” Rip said and released his seat belt.

As Rip reached for the door handle, Albert put a hand on his arm and said, “Wait a minute, Rip. I want to give you some advice, if you’ll listen.”

“I’ll listen. I won’t pay for your advice, but I’ll listen.”

“It’s time for you to go. Take your wife, go back to Australia. That is your place. That is where you belong.”

Rip growled and reached for the door handle.

“Listen to me,” Albert said sharply. “The British are gone. For one hundred and fifty years this city was a part of Britain. It was as English as tea and toast. No more. Those days are over. And everyone has to adjust to the new reality.”

“I’ve adjusted. I just don’t like it.”

“Like it or not, Hong Kong is now part of China, and China is an absolute dictatorship. The British ways — free speech, democracy, open, honest government, a tolerant, pluralist society, the rule of law, open debate about the public’s business, fair play — all that is dying or dead. People here must jettison the old ways and adopt the new. They have no choice—they have to do it! I’ve been reading your paper: You rail against the incoming tide.”

Rip tried to rebut Albert Cheung. “I have tried to fairly—”

“ ‘Fairly’? Don’t be ridiculous. Fair is a British concept, not Chinese. There is nothing you can do.”

“This is my home, too,” Rip said savagely.

“Stop playing the fool. Get on a plane.”

Rip sat for a moment listening to the slap of the windshield wipers. “Why don’t you leave?” he asked the lawyer.

“I happen to be Chinese, you may have noticed. And there is money to be made here.”

“There are six million people in Hong Kong without anyplace else to go.”

“You’re wasting your breath trying to save the world, Rip. You won’t get a halo. You won’t even get a thank-you.”

“Don’t charge me for this advice, Albert.” Rip got out of the car, shut the door firmly behind him.

Albert Cheung sped away without another look at Rip.

Maybe the cops would have let him in the building, maybe not; Rip didn’t try. He went around back and unlocked his motorcycle, an old Harley-Davidson he had imported from Australia.

Motorcycles were popular in Hong Kong — mainly Japanese bikes, fast and fuel-efficient — but not as ubiquitous as they were in Singapore or Bangkok. The British always discouraged motor vehicles for private use by making it expensive to register one or get a driver’s license. The Communists continued that policy. Still, a lot of people today had the money or political connections, so there were more and more motorcycles. Those who couldn’t afford to go first-class rode Chinese iron. With no demand for forty-year-old Harleys, thieves weren’t interested, or so the theory went. Rip always locked his anyway.

He turned on the fuel cock, adjusted the choke, and started kicking. The engine caught on the third kick.

He was warming the engine when the woman who ran a small newsstand across the street came looking for him.

“Rip, why have the police closed the building?” Originally from Hunan Province, she had lived in Hong Kong at least twenty years. Rip had deduced that one time by questioning her closely about Hong Kong news stories she could remember.

“The governor has ordered the paper closed, Mrs. Guo,” Rip told her. “He didn’t like what he read.”

“You did not go to jail? I heard they arrested you.”

“I went to jail.” He gave her a brief summary, then said good-bye. “My wife is waiting for me. She worries.”

“Yes, yes. Go home to her.” Mrs. Guo went back along the alley with her head down, as if she were walking against a storm. Hard times…

The Chinese are used to hard times, Rip reflected. They’ve never known anything else.

He put the motorcycle in motion.

The streets were still crowded. Traffic sprayed water on Rip, who had to concentrate to keep his motorcycle under control.

Rip had first seen Hong Kong as a teenager in the mid-eighties, when there were still vestigial traces of the nineteenth-century city, and large swatches remained unchanged from the days of World War II. Back then many people could talk for hours about the Japanese occupation from their personal experience. Not many of those old people were left, of course, and few people now asked about the old days. Nobody cared anymore.

That was the way of the world, Rip knew. Certainly the way of China. The past — good or bad — was soon forgotten. There was always today to be lived through and tomorrow to prepare for. Venerable ancestors were, of course, worthy and honorable and all that, but, alas, they were quite dead.

It was that Chinese focus on the now that intrigued Rip Buckingham. For the Chinese, he thought, all things were possible. Coolies and peasants from the rice paddies had built this modern city, were constantly transforming it, and in turn were transformed by it. It was an extraordinary metamorphosis.

Today not a single building remained from the nineteenth century. The commercial buildings were fifty-story-plus avant-garde statements in steel and glass. Mile after mile of high-rise apartment buildings housed more than six million people. The thought of living in one was a daunting prospect for Westerners, but the fact remains, six million people were decently housed.

As he rode the Harley through traffic and tried to ignore the drizzle and road spray, Rip Buckingham marveled again at the raw power of this great city. Chinese signs were freely intermingled with the logos of international corporations and brand names. Rip thought this mixture symbolic of Hong Kong, where East and West met, transforming both.

Hong Kong was a vast human stew, and by choice Rip was right in the middle of it.

He inched his way up the narrow, twisty roads that grooved the northern face of Victoria Peak, then guided the motorcycle into a driveway and triggered a radio-controlled garage-door opener in a house glued to the side of the peak. Buckingham News actually owned the place, which was a good thing since Rip could never have paid for it on his salary.

As he was getting off the machine inside the garage his wife came through the door.

“You’re soaked,” she said.

“Doesn’t matter. I stunk from jail.”

She kissed him.

He hit the button to close the outside door, then led her up the stairs to the living room. A large window looked out on the Central District and Kowloon across the strait. As Rip told his wife about jail and the governor, he automatically glanced outside. Kowloon was almost hidden in the rain and mist.

“I called your father.”

“What did he say?”

“Just that you should call when you could. I asked him if I should hire Albert Cheung, and he said yes.”

Rip stretched and nodded. “I need to take a shower, put on some dry clothes. I’ll call him later.”

“What are we going to do, Rip?”

“I don’t know,” he said, meaning it. “This place is our life. Sun Siu Ki just took it from us.”

“They won’t let you keep publishing the Post.”

“I know.”

“Things are changing.”

“I know. I know! You told me. The police told me. Albert Cheung told me. I know, I know, and goddamn, I resent it.”

“Mother won’t leave without my brother.”

Rip took his wife’s hand. “I know that, too,” he said gently and kissed her.

An hour later, after he had a long, hot shower and put on fresh clothes, Rip called his father’s office in Sydney. Soon Rich’s voice boomed through the instrument.

Rip told him about the cease publication order and the demands of Sun Siu Ki.

“Dad, I don’t think we should run the paper under these conditions. It’s censorship. Knuckling under to the Communists will cost Buckingham News its standing in the international community, and that ultimately will mean loss of ad revenue all over the globe.”

“That paper is worth a hundred million,” Richard Buckingham thundered into the telephone.

Rip had to hold the instrument away from his ear. The old man sounded like he was in the next room.

“Bloody Chinks! A hundred million!” Rich ripped off a couple oaths, but the volume was going down. “All the bloody lies they’ve told the last fifteen or twenty years, about how great it was going to be in Hong Kong when they took over… Makes me want to puke!”

“Yessir,” Rip agreed.

“And the bloody Brits.” Richard added them to his list. “Believing those lies…”

“Maybe it’s time to pack it in,” Rip said reluctantly, trying to get back to the business at hand. “Maybe in a few years the government here will see the benefits of a free press.”

“They don’t really have a choice,” Richard rumbled. “The world has outgrown censorship. But you’re right — we can’t buck the bastards head-on. Pay off the Post employees. Send me the names and qualifications of everyone who wants to work for another Buckingham paper and is willing to move. We’ll see what we can do.” There was a second of dead sound, then he added, “Move at their own expense, of course.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d like to see you and Sue Lin. Come on home.”

“In a few weeks. We have to wrap up some things here.”

“Righto, mate.”

“And Dad? Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For seeing this my way.”

“See you in a few weeks.”

Richard Buckingham hung up the telephone and sat staring out the window at the artsy-fartsy roof of the Sydney Opera House. He called in Billy Kidd, who had been his number two since Richard was the publisher, editor, and sports writer of the Wangeroo Gazette.

“The Commies have shut down the Post in Hong Kong,” he began. After Richard told Billy what he knew, he added, “I want a story about the shutdown and I want it on the front page of every paper I own. Call Rip at home and have him write it. Use a file photo of him.”

“Righto.”

“Top of the front page, Billy.” Richard picked up a legal pad and pencil from his desk and handed it to Billy, who could take a hint. He began taking notes.

“Billy, someday those Commie bastards are going to regret screwing with me. Bad press is the only lever I have, and by God, I’m going to use it.”

Richard Buckingham got out of his chair and paced the office. “Put the one-baby story on the telly chat shows again. More Falun Gong persecution stories. Bang the drum every day. And I mean every day, Billy. A new, different, bad slant each and every day.”

“Whatever you want, Richard. But I don’t think that—”

“And I want something about those hundred million migrants roaming around China that the Commies are cracking down on. I’m tired of reading about these lawless vagrants threatening the economic prosperity of the new China. The corrupt, venal Communist regime is threatening the economic prosperity of the new China. They are prosecuting the harmless kooks in the Falun Gong movement, jailing people whose only crime is to want a little bit of life’s sweetness. Massive pollution, sweatshops, child labor — China’s the last big sewer left on earth, and that’s the way we’ll write it from now on. Fax it to the managing editor of every paper.”

Billy finished taking notes and asked sourly, “Anything else?” He had been with Richard Buckingham too long to cower.

“Communism is as dead as Lenin. The Buckingham newspapers and television networks are going to trumpet that news loud and clear. Find a politico to write it, somebody important or somebody who wants to be important.”

“You—”

“And why does the free world tolerate the crimes against humanity that the Chinese government perpetrates on those who can’t defend themselves? Maybe an article, ‘Tiananmen Square Revisited.’ ”

Billy scribbled furiously. “You’re the boss,” he said.

“You’re damn right I am,” Richard roared. “Those bloody Chinks didn’t like the coverage they got from the China Post—they’re going to shit when they see the press they’re getting from now on. When anybody anywhere says anything bad about Red China, I want to read it in the papers and hear about it on the telly news shows. From this day forward Buckingham News is the world’s foremost voice urging the overthrow of the Communists in Beijing.”

Rich punched the air and sat down. “You and I are going to do at least one good thing before we go, Billy-boy,” he said conversationally.

Billy Kidd launched himself from Richard’s office. Billy knew that when Richard was on a tear you didn’t get many openings, so he bolted at the first one he saw.

An hour later Richard called Billy on the intercom. “Don’t we own a big piece of a direct TV company in Hong Kong?”

“That’s right. China Television, Limited. Very profitable.”

“Sell it as fast as you can. Maybe a competitor will buy it. Get what you can and let’s move on.”

“Richard, I know you’re angry, but China Television is worth serious money. Satellite television is here now; China is on its way to becoming the largest market on earth. Those little dishes are selling like Viagra.”

Richard Buckingham’s answer was matter-of-fact. “I’m going to piss on a lot of Commies, Billy. I don’t want something of mine hanging out where they can cut it off, throw it in the dirt, and stomp on it. Get rid of China Television — we’ll take the loss out of their hides.”

Billy refused to quit. “No one will pay what it’s worth,” he insisted.

Richard was patient. “Billy, with the Communists in power, nothing in China is worth real money. That’s the lesson the Americans and British and Japanese are going to learn the hard way.”

A man was waiting on the street when Jake stepped out of the hotel. He was standing under an overhang to stay out of the rain. As Jake walked along the sidewalk with Callie’s umbrella, the man got into a car that had been parked in the taxi space in front of the building.

Jake ignored the tail. He was acutely aware of the Chan tape in his pocket. For some reason he was relieved that he had ditched the wallet and pistol he had taken from the man who had followed him yesterday.

As he entered the ferry terminal, the car outside pulled to the curb, and two men got out of the rear seat.

Jake saw them board the Star of the West just before the gangplank came over. The second man aboard had a bandage on his head; this was the fellow whom Jake had relieved of wallet and pistol. He boarded on the lower deck. The other man came to the upper deck, where Jake was, but he stayed well away from the American.

Exiting the Central District ferry terminal, Jake hailed the only taxi he saw. He didn’t bother checking to see what the men following him did.

When Jake entered Cole’s office, Cole came around his desk and shook hands. “We have a choice,” he said. “We can have lunch served here, go to the cafeteria, or slip down the street to a restaurant with wine and all the trimmings. What will it be?”

“Here, if that’s okay with you?”

“Here it is. Have a seat and let me talk to the secretary.”

In a few minutes Cole was back. He sat in one of the black leather guest chairs beside Jake.

“I guess I should have leveled with you last night,” Jake said. “I’m here on official business. A lot of Washington bigwigs are getting nervous about the situation in Hong Kong. More to the point, they are getting nervous about China Bob Chan and your relationship to him. They managed to talk the White House into sending me over here to talk to you, see what I can find out, and report back.”

A look of puzzlement crossed Cole’s face. “Why you?”

“Someone found out that we flew together way back when, the politicians are embarrassed about China Bob, I was getting on a four-star’s nerves at the Pentagon, someone with some stroke at the National Security Council thinks I can work miracles. It all happened at once, so here I am.”

“Uh-huh.”

“When this trip got suggested, I initially said no. Then Callie was asked to do the culture conference, sort of as a cover …” He shrugged.

“Ask your questions.”

“Are you or your friends having me followed around town?”

“You’re being followed?”

“Two men followed me here this morning. Presumably they’re outside somewhere, waiting for me to come out.”

Cole looked genuinely surprised. “Jake, I have no idea.”

“I guess it all boils down to this: Are you or are you not a member of a conspiracy to overthrow the government of China?”

Cole whistled. “Jesus! You flew all the way over here from Washington to ask me that question?”

Jake Grafton scratched his head. “Well, I think the folks in Washington expected me to be a bit more circumspect, but, essentially, yeah. If the answer to that question is no, the next question is, Have you ever given advice or anything of value to anyone whose goal is the overthrow of the government of China?”

Cole pinched his nose, looked at Grafton, and grinned. The grin started slowly and spread. Jake knew he didn’t grin often.

Finally Cole broke into a laugh. He was still chuckling when the secretary came in with a tray. On the tray were two bowls of soup, several sandwiches, and a couple cans of Coke. Tiger Cole’s face returned to its normal detached expression. As the man left the room the consul general muttered, “I always serve American drinks to guests. Today is Coke day. Tomorrow is Pepsi.”

Cole tasted the soup. “You are a rare piece of work, Grafton. When they taught you to go straight for a target way back when, you learned the lesson well.”

Jake tried the soup himself. It was something Chinese, a watery vegetable, okay but nothing to write home about. No crackers in sight. He popped the can of Coke and took a sip. At least the drink was cold.

Cole pointed his spoon at Jake, then decided to use the spoon on the soup. Once a chuckle escaped him.

They ate in silence. Finally Cole finished soup and sandwich and leaned back in his chair to sip on the soft drink.

“Do you know how ironic this is, that of all the people on this planet, you, Jake Grafton, are the one who comes flying out of my past to ask about my future.”

“I haven’t asked about the future,” Jake shot back. “It’s the present the weenies in Washington are worried about.”

“Ah, yes. The present.”

Cole walked around the desk and stood at the window looking out. He couldn’t see much, merely a gloomy forest of skyscrapers with glass sides on a dreary, rainy day.

“This warm front is supposed to get out of here tonight,” he said. “The next three or four days will be bright and sunny.”

“Uh-huh.” Grafton finished his Coke and set the empty can on the tray along with the dirty dishes.

Cole returned to the desk, sat in his regular chair, folded his arms on the desk, and looked Jake Grafton in the eye. “Some ground rules. We’ll play this game my way or not at all.”

Grafton adjusted his position in his chair. “What are the rules?”

“I’ll answer your questions completely, frankly, truthfully, but you can’t tell a living soul for one week.”

Jake thought about that. “The problem,” he said after a bit, “is that you are in the diplomatic service of the United States. If a private citizen wants to saddle up and ride off to a revolution, that’s between him and whoever is running the universe this week. If a diplomat does it, that’s a different case altogether.”

“A point well taken,” Cole said. “I gave this some thought while we ate. Let’s do this: If you will agree to the conditions I stated, complete silence for a week, I’ll write out a letter of resignation, leave the date blank, and give it to you. You fill in the date anytime you wish and see that the people in Washington get it — no sooner than a week from today.”

Now it was Jake Grafton’s turn to go to the window and look out. “Why don’t you just tell me some lie to get me out of your hair?”

“Ooh boy, that’s rich! Coming from you. When they asked you way back when whether or not you had ever bombed an unauthorized target, what did you say?”

“I said yes.”

“Indeed you did. You were the rarest of rarities, a truly honest man. Sorry, but I don’t have it in me to lie to Jake Grafton.”

“Listen, Tiger. I can’t stay silent for a week. Not if you tell me you’re up to something you shouldn’t be up to.”

Cole cocked his head and looked at Jake with an odd expression. “What should I be up to?”

“Don’t give me that!”

“Do you know what these Communists are? Do you know what they represent?”

Jake Grafton leaned across the desk toward Tiger Cole. “If the government of the United States told me to pull the trigger,” he whispered hoarsely, “I’d be willing to personally send every Communist in the world straight to hell. But as long as I’m in the United States Navy I don’t have the luxury of choosing that course of action without orders. Neither do you when you’re representing the United States of America. Write out that resignation and date it today. I’ll send it in for you.”

Cole leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.

After a bit he asked, “When are you going to send it in?”

Grafton threw up his hands. “I don’t know!”

Cole spun around to the PC that sat on a stand near the desk, turned it on, put stationery in the printer tray, and started typing. Three minutes later a letter rolled off the printer. Cole read it through, signed it, then handed it to Grafton.

Jake took his time reading the letter, then folded it carefully. “Got an envelope?”

Cole got one from a drawer and handed it across the desk.

Jake put the letter in the envelope, then stowed it in an inside breast pocket of his sports coat.

“Any more questions?” Cole said.

“Want to tell me why?”

Cole leaned back in his chair and stretched. He looked out the window at the slabs of skyscraper glass while he collected his thoughts, then turned his attention back to Grafton.

“I should have died that December day in 1972 when I was lying in the jungle muck in Laos with a broken back. Would have died, too, if I had been flying with an average mortal man. But no! As fate would have it I was flying with Jake Grafton, the warrior incarnate. Jake Grafton wasn’t leaving that jungle without me — it was both of us or neither of us. So he fought and we both lived. I can close my eyes and remember it like it was yesterday. That moment was the most important of my life.”

Cole turned toward the window and the gloomy, rainy day. “And I remember the day I became a millionaire,” he continued, speaking softly. “We did an initial public offering. I went from owing thirty-three thousand dollars in student loans and two thousand on an old Chevy to a net worth of twenty-three million bucks just like that!” He snapped his fingers, turned back toward Jake, and snapped them again.

“One day in September three years ago I became a billionaire. The tech stocks were going up like a rocket, the valuations were… but you know all that. You see, we designed software for complex data networks and wireless telephone systems and burglar alarms and car security systems and toys that talk… magic technoshit. Stuff. In a world full of stuff, we were the kings of the new magic stuff. The world beat a path to our door.

“So there I was, filthy rich, able to buy anything on the planet… and none of it meant pee-squat. My boy died of dope, and I got the hell out. That was where I was when I was asked to help overthrow the Communists.”

Tiger Cole leaned forward in the chair. “I’ve been in Hong Kong two years and gave a hundred million or so to the revolution, and the value of my stock holdings has just kept climbing. I’m worth two billion dollars, Jake. Two billion! I’ve squandered my life on bad marriages to stupid women. Wasted it, and the system gave me two... billion… dollars.”

Cole spread his hands, as if that explained everything. Obviously he thought it did.

“Who asked you to help overthrow the Communists?” Jake Grafton said.

“Ahh…” A trace of a smile appeared on Cole’s face. “You already know or you wouldn’t have asked.”

Jake Grafton stood, went to the door of the office, and pulled it open several inches. He looked back at Cole, still sitting behind the desk. “Some dreams are bigger than others,” he said.

Cole nodded.

“The sandwich was okay. The soup’s terrible.”

Jake Grafton pulled the door completely open and walked out of the office.