Power and Empire

9

The large earth-tone painting of the Great Wall above the paramount leader’s head hid a single bullet hole in the wood paneling. The thick beige carpet, too, concealed evidence of violent death. Everyone in the room knew the story of the previous president, including Colonel Huang Ju of the Central Security Bureau, but they rarely spoke his name.

Standing against the wall, out of the way but close enough to act, the colonel sensed there was something very wrong in the room, something that went far beyond any violence from the past. No, this was a new threat, and like a good protective officer, Huang could smell danger in the air.

A Chinese container ship had sunk in U.S. waters — and it was the feeling of some in this room that America was somehow to blame. Tensions were high among the advisers — and when tensions ran high around the general secretary, the man he was charged with protecting, Colonel Huang Ju paid close attention.

The commander of the 1st Squadron of the 1st Group of the Central Safeguard Regiment — sometimes referred to as Regiment 61889—stood to the right of the polished mahogany doorway inside the paramount leader’s spacious office. His senses were raw, as if they’d been rubbed with coarse sandpaper. Huang was tall and trim, with thick black hair long enough to part yet short enough that the gray around his temples was difficult to notice. His face was serene as stone, a very sharp and dangerous stone, but a stone nonetheless.

Those charged with the protection of others were often described as willing to take a bullet for their principal. Like the American Secret Service, rather than seek cover during times of attack, they were trained to make themselves larger targets. That was indeed something Colonel Huang had vowed to do, but there was much more to protection than simply absorbing bullets intended for one’s protectee. His primary duty was one of vicarious concern; he worried over the many dangers that lurked both without and within, so the paramount leader did not have to think of such things.

Though officially a member of an army regiment, Huang wore a white shirt and dark suit nearly identical to the white shirts and dark suits worn by three of the other five men in the inner office. Everyone else in the room ranked exponentially higher than Colonel Huang, but under his dark suit jacket was a Taurus PT 709 nine-millimeter pistol. None of the other men were armed, and, as Chairman Mao had so rightly pointed out, political power “grows from the barrel of a gun.”

Some twenty feet from Colonel Huang, beyond the seated guests, the paramount leader sat behind his expansive desk. Zhao Chengzhi was at once the general secretary of the Communist Party, president of China, and chairman of the Central Military Commission. Thick black hair, normally combed up in the front, hung down over a pallid forehead. It was late evening, and his long workday was beginning to take its toll.

Zhao’s mahogany desk was cluttered with file folders. There was a white telephone for general calls and a monstrous red phone with twin handsets that he used to contact ranking ministers of government as well as any one of several dozen state-run businesses. A photo of the general secretary’s wife sat to his immediate right, though this and the unruly stack of files had been removed when Zhao had given his New Year’s address to the nation.

Huang could not help but notice that the general secretary, normally a quiet and serene man, shifted a great deal in his seat, as if he were uncomfortably warm.

General Ma, the vice chairman of the Central Military Commission, and Admiral Qian, commander of the PLA Navy, each wore the uniform of their respective office, festooned with enough medals as to form protective breast plates for the two men. The general and the admiral were both possessed of the heavy jowls and swollen bellies that seemed to go with high command, attributes Huang swore he would never possess.

At forty-two, Huang Ju was a working colonel, still striving to be out in front of his team instead of slumped behind a desk preparing schedules and checking pay books. It was his responsibility to guard the life of the most powerful man in China. That meant he could not afford the frequent banquets and trappings of office life that other men of his station might enjoy. The general secretary kept long hours, and so did those who protected him. Huang led by example, and he made certain every close-protection officer under his command was given the opportunity to exercise and practice weekly to stay proficient in both firearms and defensive tactics.

This meeting had been going on for an hour. President Zhao shifted often in his seat but listened intently while his advisers offered up their counsel.

In addition to the two military men, State Premier Cao and Foreign Minister Li were also present. Huang did not trust any of the men, but he trusted no one beyond himself when it came to the safety and security of his charge. His job was to suspect — and he came by it naturally.

The general secretary leaned forward, elbows on the table. There was a trace of sweat on the man’s brow, though the air-conditioning kept the office relatively cool compared to the humid outside temperatures. For the past hour, the topic of discussion had been about nothing but the sinking of Orion. Colonel Huang, of course, was not consulted, but present only to make certain none of the other men did anything to harm Zhao — and to put a bullet in their head if they tried.

“The idea makes no sense,” the general secretary said. “Does anyone truly believe the Americans are stupid enough to sink a Chinese ship off their own coast — and then prove themselves magnanimous enough to rescue our personnel?”

General Ma gave a sullen nod. “It would be a mistake to put anything past the American CIA. I would not be surprised if they were behind the bombing of the subway construction site.”

The foreign minister interjected. “We are referring to that as a gas explosion, are we not?”

“Of course, of course,” Ma said. “But we in this room are all aware Uyghur separatists were behind it — financed by the Americans, no doubt.”

The general secretary raised an eyebrow. “The bombing of the new subway tunnel was obviously a terrorist act. This matter of Orion, however… Is it not more likely that some bureaucrat cut corners during safety inspections? Perhaps someone accepted bribes to line his own pockets and those overlooked violations caused the explosion and eventual sinking of our container ship.”

Zhao’s anticorruption initiative had already seen top executives from six state-run companies and several prominent party leaders, including a PLA general, thrown into prison. Three of the executives had been convicted of crimes stemming from the shoddy workmanship of an apartment building in Shanghai that collapsed, killing forty-nine. The men were given the death penalty but received the customary two-year probationary period whereby they might, with good behavior, have their sentences commuted. Zhao made it clear that he was not pleased with that loophole in the law. He was more than passionate about the topic.

Admiral Qian spoke next. “The sea is over a hundred fathoms deep where Orion was lost, so there it will be impossible to look at any physical evidence. And we all know that the Americans will cover up any relevant facts.”

“Can any of the twenty-two survivors fill in the missing pieces?” Zhao asked.

“Perhaps,” General Ma said. “But that leads to a question. What if the United States is behind this?”

“We will cross that river if we come to it,” the general secretary said.

Premier Cao spoke next. “That the American trespass into our territorial waters is bad enough. Now we must kowtow to the Ryan regime and thank him for rescuing men on a ship they likely sank.”

Zhao scoffed at that. “Do you imply that allowing our seamen to be saved will be seen as a weakness?”

The admiral, general, and premier nodded in unison. Foreign Minister Li sat and smiled, taking no position, which was, Colonel Huang thought, in and of itself a position.

“More than a few have taken to Weibo to show their displeasure at American meddling,” Premier Cao said.

“More than a few?”

“Thousands,” Cao said.

“A dog barks at something,” Zhao said, quoting a proverb. “And the other dogs bark at him.”

“But they all bark,” General Ma said. “There is danger enough in that.”

“This is true,” Zhao said, “but I tend to give the people of China more credit. In any case, what would you have had me do? Call the President of the United States and tell him to let our sailors drown? That is flawed thinking, gentlemen. I have no love lost for the Americans or Jack Ryan, but I will not presume to give the man so much power over our country as to dictate who we will and will not allow to be rescued.”

The premier gave a solemn tip of his head. He was, after all, appointed by Zhao.

“And what of the USS San Antonio?” the admiral asked. “I urge you to allow an increase in opposition to these criminal acts of incursion.”

The general secretary took a deep breath through his nose but said nothing.

“Zhao Zhuxi,” Admiral Qian said, using the title that had meant “chairman” in Mao’s day but was now usually translated as “president” by the media. It was a matter of semantics that amounted to little consequence; the sentiment in the Chinese mind had changed little. “I know you have kept a hands-off policy, but I do not see how we can help but concern ourselves with this escalation. Jack Ryan is exactly what he accuses us to be — a hegemon. He presumes to dictate Chinese national policy from halfway around the globe.”

General Ma gave a somber nod, as did Premier Cao. Again, Foreign Minister Li did not outwardly agree with the admiral. It was not lost on Colonel Huang, however, that neither did he offer support to President Zhao. He merely sat in his padded chair and smiled a benign smile that Huang suspected was as cancerous as any politician’s in all of China. But Zhao considered Minister Li a friend, so the colonel simply watched and said nothing. Politicians of any stripe made him feel as though he’d downed a mouthful of spoiled milk. He preferred black-and-white realities to the intrigue of party politics — though the duties of protecting the paramount leader put the colonel and his men afoul of politicians on a daily, if not an hourly, basis.

General Secretary Zhao, on the other hand, thrived on the brinksmanship. He was obviously skilled at it, having gained the attention of Deng Xiaoping and his faction of princelings within the Standing Committee of the Politburo. He’d followed in Deng’s footsteps as mayor of Chongqing in the early nineties, and like his predecessor, Zhao was an economic reformer. He was not, however, so quick to order crackdowns like Tiananmen — a propensity that some feared made him appear weak to the Western world.

Zhao leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Admiral, China is powerful enough that we need not rise every time America dangles a baited hook. There are other ways of achieving our aims than by the rattling of sabers.”

Huang braced himself as Admiral Qian nearly came out of his chair.

“With respect, Zhao Zhuxi,” Qian said. “The Americans would sing a different song if we do more than rattle those sabers. Ryan made China look the fool under President Wei. The people of our country are weary of the bullying will of a nation on the other side of the world.”

Zhao cocked his head to one side. “Do you insinuate that China looks the fool under my leadership?”

“I do not, Zhao Zhuxi,” the admiral said, not quite backing down. “I merely mean to advise perceptions.”

Zhao’s jaw muscles flexed.

“The Americans can send their warships to our waters as much as they wish, but we have a major advantage over them.” Zhao nodded for effect. “We are already here. Even a man as bellicose as President Ryan will not provoke anything more than a war of words unless we ourselves raise the stakes.”

Admiral Qian continued to bluster. “As you say, Zhao Zhuxi, our ships are already here — and could easily demonstrate our true strength to the Americans — and the people of China.”

“Oh,” Zhao said. “China is far from weak, gentlemen. We do, however, have a severe problem with greed and corruption. I prefer we focus on getting our own house in order for the time being — and I expect each of you to do just that.”

“Even so,” Admiral Qian said. “The container ship—”

The paramount leader raised his hand once more, this time signaling it was time to move on. The admiral, unaccustomed to taking such orders, seemed to swell even more than usual with unspoken words. Had Huang been less of a professional, he would have laughed out loud.

“I assure you,” Zhao said, “if the Americans had anything to do with sinking the Orion, I will take decisive action.”

The white phone on Zhao’s desk buzzed, but he did not answer it, apparently expecting the signal. He stood, grimacing a little at the effort.

The others in the room rose with him, which is what one did for the most powerful man in China, even if they did not agree with him.

“Gentlemen,” Zhao said. “You must excuse me.” The men began to file out the door next to Huang, but the chairman spoke again. “Foreign Minister Li,” he said.

Li paused at the threshold, close enough that Huang got a noseful of his strong cologne.

“Would you be so kind as to remain a moment?”

Li Zhengsheng turned and gave a slight bow toward the man who had appointed him. “Of course, General Secretary.”

Zhao motioned to a chair and then turned toward a door that led to his private restroom, to the right of his desk.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” he said. “This meeting was agonizingly long.”

Huang took a step away from the wall, but Zhao waved him off.

“You may go now, Colonel,” Zhao said.

Huang paused, waiting, as if hoping Zhao might change his mind.

The paramount leader gave a forced smile, obviously in severe discomfort. “I will be fine, Huang,” he said. “Minister Li is like a brother to me.”

“Very well, sir,” Colonel Huang said. “I will remain outside the door. Please call if you need me.”

Colonel Huang closed the office door behind him, certain that he’d just left the man whom he was charged with protecting in the room with an extremely deadly snake.

The general secretary finished in his private restroom two agonizing minutes later. When he returned to his office, he found a small, skeletal man seated beside the foreign minister in front of his desk. The new arrival’s thinning gray hair revealed a strong crop of liver spots on a high forehead. He wore a white lab coat and black tie. His shirt pocket was stuffed with an array of expensive fountain pens, the way a military man might wear his medals.

“Dr. Hou.” Zhao regarded the man with a curt nod.

Both Hou and Foreign Minister Li stood and remained standing until Zhao was seated.

“Zhao Zhuxi,” the doctor said in a voice much too deep for his small stature. “Your secretary showed me in. I hope you do not mind.”

“Not at all,” Zhao said. “I trust that you read my notes and now you have some good news for me.”

Dr. Hou was one of three staff doctors serving within the walls of the Zhongnanhai. He was old enough to be Zhao’s father — possibly even his grandfather — and dispensed advice with great pomposity, as if he were Confucius himself. The other two doctors were attending some medical training in Nanjing until the following day. Zhao found himself in dire straits or he never would have summoned this man.

The doctor lifted his nose toward the ceiling and fluttered his eyelashes as if he were explaining something very simple to a small child. “I read your description of the ailment. General fatigue, pain, and difficulty in passing water, slight fever. Tell me, does it feel as if you are sitting on a stone?”

Zhao nodded. “You might say that,” he said.

The doctor took a bottle of pills from the pocket of his lab coat and pushed them across the desk. “No doubt the general secretary is suffering from an acutely aggravated prostate. I would prescribe two of these capsules three times a day. The pills are quite large, so be certain to take them with plenty of fluids. I also suggest a marked increase in the frequency of physical congress between the general secretary and Madame Zhao.”

Zhao took the pill bottle and rolled it around in his palm. “Swallowing a large pill will be an easy task when compared to the remainder of your prescription.” The notion of explaining to his wife that the doctor ordered them to have more sex would have been comical had he not been in so much pain. “What is in the capsules? Antibiotics?”

The doctor shook his head. “Yin yang huo,” he said.

“Horny goat weed?” the foreign minister repeated.

“And saw palmetto,” the doctor added. “A very effective remedy when combined with the increased—”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Zhao said.

Foreign Minister Li looked away, as if biting his tongue.

All three men were silent for a long moment and then the doctor said, “Was there anything else, General Secretary?”

Zhao shook his head. “No,” he said. “That will be all. I appreciate your diagnosis.”

The doctor shut the door as he left.

“I am all for Eastern medicine, Comrade Zhao,” the foreign minister said, offering a friendly smile, “but I will see to it that my doctor prescribes you some antibiotics.”

“I would appreciate that,” Zhao said. “This is a perfect example of how we must move forward. Herbs have their place, but there are times when one needs actual medicine.”

“If I may be so bold as to ask a question,” Li said.

“Of course,” Zhao said, swallowing two capsules of horny goat weed to hedge his bets.

“Do you think there is any chance the Americans are behind the sinking of the Orion?”

Zhao sighed. “It is possible. But to what end?”

“True,” Li said. “Truthfully, though, I would not put anything past Jack Ryan. He is, I believe, a man with much guile.”

“I do not think it is guile,” Zhao said. “It is determination. And that is sometimes more dangerous.”

“Again you are right,” Li said.

“There is something else on your mind, my friend?”

“You are an astute observer, Zhao Zhuxi,” Li said.

“Tell me.”

“I hesitate to bring it up, but I am concerned about your push against the wealthy of the party.”

Zhao waved that off. “I am not interested in wealth. You yourself are one of the wealthiest men I know. I am prosecuting corruption.”

“You know best, of course. I will see to your antibiotics. I hope your health improves quickly.” He gave a sly wink. “In the meantime, I must remind my wife of her conjugal responsibility to my health.”

Zhao gave a polite chuckle, letting the bawdy comment slide. He preferred to keep things on a loftier level when dealing with members of his cabinet. “I understand you are hosting a dinner party tomorrow.”

Li shook his head and shrugged. “Nothing special. General Ma will attend, as well as General Xu and a few other minor guests. Such periodic functions allow me to keep a finger on the pulse of Beijing.”

“General Xu of the Central Security Bureau?”

The foreign minister nodded. “Yes.”

“Be wary of that one,” Zhao said. “He gives me cause for concern.”

“How so?”

Zhao narrowed his eyes, studying the man across his desk. “He has… how shall I put this? A bad smell. I intend to make changes in that organization in the near future. The Central Security Bureau is, after all, tasked with your protection. I don’t want to see it turned into a personality cult. You should be watchful.”

“I appreciate your concern, Zhao Zhuxi, and I will be careful.”

“See that you do, my friend,” Zhao said. “I am very rarely wrong about my sense for a person’s character.”

The foreign minister gave him a passive smile. “That is interesting to note, Mr. Chairman.”

General Ma Xiannian exited the great hall that housed the general secretary’s office and turned left to make his way along one of the many wide pathways inside the high walls of the Zhongnanhai. His office was on the far side of the lake known as the Middle Sea, and he had to walk across a bridge to reach it. His status was such that he could have taken a cart, but the weather was dry and warm, and in any case, the walk allowed him to burn off some of his contempt for the young upstart who was now in charge of the party.

Deng Wenyuan, secretary of the Central Committee for Discipline Inspection, met the general before he reached the bridge. It was a well-known fact in the intelligence world that people stopped to chat on bridges, making them perfect spots in which to hide listening devices. People who wanted to speak openly avoided them, as well as any of the many benches that graced the parklike setting.

Secretary Deng was impeccably dressed in a dark business suit tailored especially for him in London on a recent junket. The CCDI oversaw the Propaganda and Organization Department, and as such had the power to sway and even direct public opinion.

The two men exchanged greetings, bowing slightly to each other. They kept their tone civil and their faces passive. Because they were senior members of the party, there was no doubt that passersby would pay them close attention, even while pretending not to do so.

“And?” Secretary Deng asked.

“It went as you might expect,” Ma said, keeping his words vague. He was thinking Pitiful, disastrous, unconscionable, but he said, “Disappointing.”

“Something must be done,” Deng said.

“And it is,” Ma said. “Even as we speak.”

“Something drastic?”

General Ma smiled. “Something final.”