The Third World War: A Terrifying Novel of Global Conflict

28

'I think we should walk outside,' said Jamie Song, as General Yan began on a subject he did not want to hear and had hoped would not come up. He looked out the window, welcoming the ice-cold air. Fresh snow was falling. He took his black cashmere coat from the stand in the corner of the office. Yan was still wearing his military olive-green greatcoat and leather gloves. Outside on the steps, Song pulled on his own gloves and put on a cat-fur hat with flaps which covered his ears. It was a windless sub-zero day. Their breath hung in a cloud in front of them. They crossed the road, careful not to slip on ice underneath the snow.

An expression of irritation crossed Song's face as his private mobile telephone rang. But he relaxed when he recognized the mischievous face of his son, Yun, on the screen, in shirt-sleeves, and positioning himself so that his father would have a brilliant sun-swept view of Hong Kong harbour in the background.

'Dad, have you got a moment?' said Yun, smiling, then waving his hand back. 'You like my new office? I moved in last week.'

'It's Yun,' whispered Song to Yan, who dropped back to allow the Chinese President privacy.

'It's great,' said Song. 'And you're looking very well on it. Business must be good.' Song stepped on to the paved edge of the lake, looking across, and keeping the drab, low-rise buildings of the compound behind him.

'Business is always good down here,' said Yun, switching to English and imitating the accent of a New York fund manager. Then effortlessly he switched again into an Italian accent to imitate a Mafia don. 'Give up all your meetings and come and join us. I will make you an offer you cannot refuse.'

Song laughed. Yun, his only child, had just turned thirty. Song had managed to fly to Hong Kong in secret for the celebrations. It had been a magnificent party in a friend's house overlooking Deep Water Bay, and for one evening, at least, Song had been free of the constraints of office. His wife, Xiaomei, with her delicate fine-boned features, had looked as glamorous as twenty years earlier, and the invitees had been their own friends from the international business community and Yun's friends from London, Hong Kong, China and New York.

On becoming president, Song had put some of his businesses into a blind trust, but had sold off others to raise cash and give Yun a head start. Yun had used it well, taking advantage of low prices during the downturn and turning a few million dollars into assets now worth much more.

Xiaomei and Yun kept out of his political work, although as the family of the President, they were courted and feted everywhere they went. The only thing that Song insisted on was that every purchase Yun made and every deal he struck was vetted by compliance and monopoly experts. It had been a wise move. On several occasions, his enemies had tried to get to him through his family. Allegations of insider trading, fraud and favouritism had been made but had never stuck. Song hoped that his example could be replicated bit by bit in every element of the new system of government he was trying to create in China.

Yun now put on a pompous English accent, picked up from his postgraduate days at Oxford. 'Mother and I have been talking about a weekend visit, and wonder what dates would be convenient for you.'

'Any time, as you know,' chuckled Song, unable to mimic as Yun could. 'My doors are always open.'

'Your doors might be open, but the last time I came up you had buggered off to Bangkok for an ASEAN-EU conference.'

'Something cropped up,' said Song. 'We should get our secretaries to copy each other's diaries.' He sensed Yun was heading somewhere, but couldn't work out where.

'Dad,' said Yun, dropping his voice. 'I shouldn't have to tell you this, but it's for your wedding anniversary.'

'Oh my God,' exclaimed Song, smiling. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yan, deliberately, yet discreetly, shifting himself into his line of vision. 'You are a true son. Of course. It's a date. We'll do it. But I've got to go now. Technically, I'm in a meeting.'

'A meeting by a lake in below zero temperatures? I'd get a new job, if I were you.'

'Look after yourself,' said Song jovially. He shut down his telephone and spent a moment gathering his thoughts, while examining a pattern of broken branches trapped into the lake's ice. He felt more than saw Yan silently bringing himself beside him, keen to finish the conversation they were not able to have in the office.

'Yun is well?' Yan inquired politely.

'Very well,' said Song, not wanting to linger on the subject of his family. 'Now, you were suggesting that if we don't find a way through this we would be, as you put it, blackmailed.'

'Yes,' said Yan, his face unusually drawn.

'My dear Yan,' said Song. 'Whether you are a mosquito, a tiger or a human being, life is a relentless series of compromises. Blackmail is the only certain companion which will accompany you from cradle to grave. It is simply a matter of recognizing it and not fighting it.'

With an incredibly slow movement, as he was trying to work out Song's meaning, Yan stopped and turned to him. 'Did you anticipate this?' he asked softly.

Song squatted down, picked up a twig, snapped it in two and tossed the pieces into the air towards the lake. They hit the ice slightly apart, but skidded away in different directions. 'See,' said Song, pointing. 'You never can tell exactly what will happen. If you anticipate ten threats coming towards you, nine will fall into a ditch before they get to you. Yes, I did anticipate it. But I put it to one side. Now it has reached us, we must deal with it.'

Yan snapped his own twig in three and tossed them in the air. They slid in the same direction ending up side by side. Song chuckled. The grounds of Zhongnanhai relaxed him. The compound, the Forbidden City next door and Tiananmen Square nearby acted as a natural lung to the pollution of Beijing. The air was far from fresh, but at least it was breathable.

'Was it a threat?' said Song, starting to walk again. 'Or did he say it was out of his control?'

'He said it is out of his control,' replied the general. Even when strolling, he moved as if on a parade ground march.

'But to his advantage?'

'If Pakistan is defeated, if either the Americans or the Indians dismantle the security system, hundreds of trained terrorists will look for new sanctuary. From Afghanistan they fled to Pakistan. Some went to South-East Asia. You have seen the result. But they are now being routed from there.'

'And you believe the new sanctuary will be Xinjiang on our western border?'

Yan nodded. 'Yes. I do.'

'Then we smoke them out, too.'

'We can't, Ligong,' replied Yan, using a familiar term of address. 'Pakistan has been our protection. It has prevented terror attacks within our own Muslim areas. It physically stops the terrorists from going there. It shares intelligence with us. Pakistani agents help in interrogations. If we end our alliance with Pakistan, we lose that protection. Our western flank will be wide open.'

Jamie Song looked skywards towards Tiananmen Square. The day was too cold for the kites to be out and the air was too still for them to fly well. He walked on ahead, keeping his thoughts to himself. Yan had spoken for China; blunt, unsubtle and without frills. Years ago — and it must have been an act of the subconscious — Song had spotted the candid but sophisticated Yan to use as his sounding board. Today, Yan was earning his pension.

Song himself was a child of globalization. He had believed he could be President of China and a citizen of corporate America at the same time; a champion of the developing world and the master of blind-trust companies which, with the help of visionary lawyers, had been made safe from all avaricious hands, including crippling taxation, asset freezing and international sanctions.

For too many years Song had straddled both worlds with the ease of a broad-minded man, always believing that compromise was possible. He had brokered peace with the United States to neutralize any pending conflict. He had earned a reputation as a bridge between the developed and developing world. He was a favourite in the contacts books of BBC and CNN producers for his forceful and well-argued thoughts. He was the respected and successful voice in the secret debates behind the walls of Zhongnanhai. He was a popular figure, but not a man of the people; privately, he remained torn between his native culture and the one across the Pacific that had spawned his wealth and educated his son.

'We have to keep control of our oil,' said Yan softly, catching up with him. 'With Russia, we can control that area. With the United States we will have to fight for it.'

'Yes,' said Song. 'I know.'

China was using six, maybe seven million barrels of oil a day, 50 per cent more than a decade ago. Half was produced in China. Half was imported, and as oil consumption grew, so would the imports. Its suppliers had become its allies. The more wretched the country, the more China could step in with aid and weapons and cut deals for oil. Yemen, Iran, Sudan and Libya were among the unhealthy relationships Jamie Song was nurturing to fulfil China's energy needs.

But real long-term security lay in securing access to the oil and gas fields in Xinjiang, Kazakhstan and the rest of Central Asia. It meant building eastbound pipelines from there to the great trading centres of Hong Kong and Shanghai on the southern and eastern coastlines. It would spread wealth to Xinjiang and draw it into China's own economy, but it needed peace for a quarter of a century at least for it to work.

If Song carried out his threat and ended China's alliance with Pakistan, all that could be put at risk. His footsteps disturbed a lone winter bird from its tree. Where did it come from? Song remembered a sparrow he had killed for food as a young man. It had filled him with shame. China had no birds left, because no one had enough to eat. This bird — and he didn't even know what species — flitted in front of him, dipped down to skim the ice, found it too hard and decided on a bush, thick with icicles and stark branches, on the other side of the lake.

In watching it, Song envisaged a tawdry mess of political misjudgement all around him. It was a picture of madness, filled with black waters, icy and unbreakable, and cries of distress from ships all around. There was no voice of sanity. Each was sinking; each determined to save itself, and, in doing so, each destroying the other.

In the tranquillity of Zhongnanhai, the fury of Vasant Mehta rang in his head. What you owe this country after supporting those bastards for forty years, the Indian Prime Minister had shouted.

Yes, China had bankrolled Pakistan, allowing it to create havoc in Kashmir in order to keep India weak. The more Indian troops were tied up there, the fewer China would have to deploy on their own disputed border. The more the spectre of war hung over India, the less chance it would have to grow into a powerful nation. While India and Pakistan fought, China was able to modernize and become the Asian superpower.

But now, supposing Pakistan turned its wrath on China? Suppose the United States used Pakistan to weaken China as China had weakened India? What if Xinjiang echoed with car bombs, firefights and the cries of torture victims as the Kashmir Valley had for two decades? What would happen to the money and expertise China needed for her pipelines? What would happen to her influence in the Central Asian states who, mistrustful of Russia and sceptical of America, saw China as a beacon of stability? What would happen to her eastern and southern flanks, with arrogant Taiwan, and with the wealthy provinces restless for independence?

Yes, he felt for Vasant Mehta. But to help him would be to hurt China. In threatening Qureshi, Song had acted out of guilt, out of compassion, out of a naive vision. But he had not acted as a statesman.

Yan, the reliable sentinel, allowed Song a few seconds to languish in his complex and dark vision, before touching him on the elbow. 'We can't do it,' he said cryptically, offering no reason, except that he knew Song would agree with him.

'Is our aircraft still in Islamabad?' asked Song firmly.

'It is,' said Yan.

'Tell Qureshi to load it up with any activists who have links with Xinjiang. They can be our sacrifical lambs.'

'Excuse me?' said Yan, querying Song's terminology.

'It's a phrase. I need terrorists to present to Mehta.'

'Very well,' said Yan, doubtfully.

Song began to walk on, but stopped after a couple of steps and turned round. 'Do you have a telephone on you?' Yan brought a handset out of his greatcoat pocket and handed it to Song. 'Give me a bit of space, will you?' asked Song. 'I need to talk to Kozlov privately.'

Song didn't bother with the video link. The screen on a portable satellite telephone was not clear enough to make it worth it. And besides, he had no wish to have to interpret the facial nuances of the Russian president, distorted by difficult light and technology.

'Andrei,' said Song, in Russian, as he was put through. 'Is India going to war with Pakistan?'

'It may, but I hope not,' said Kozlov.

'If it does, you will guarantee India's arms supplies?'

'Of course, as you will to Pakistan no doubt.'

'Of course,' agreed Song, although Kozlov may have picked up his split-second hesitation as he was meant to.

'As we would guarantee our arms contracts with China, Jamie,' added Kozlov pointedly.

'Providing we weren't marching on Moscow,' joked Song.

'Or Delhi,' said Kozlov, spicing his quip with a hard fact.

Song liked Kozlov, and had befriended him long before he came to power. When Song was steering his software company through stock market listings in the United States and Europe, Kozlov was living in poverty in an unheated apartment in Vladivostok. In the late nineties, Song had read one of his provocative papers, published only on the Internet, warning that the Russian Bear was being tempted into the claws of the American Eagle. He kept track of Kozlov's writings through the precarious last years of Boris Yeltsin, the election of Vladimir Putin and the rapid swing behind America in the War on Terror.

'Large sections of the Russian public do not share Mr Putin's confidence that Russia will be rewarded for its support of American interests,' Kozlov had written. 'US troops now surround our nation. From western Europe, through the Middle East, to Afghanistan and Central Asia, Moscow has surrendered influence to Washington.'

One argument specifically caught Song's attention. 'America has a military presence in 132 of the 190 member states of the United Nations. Each of the emerging powers, Russia, India and China, find American armour closer and closer to their territory. Whether they are warships in Sri Lanka, airbases in Pakistan and Kyrgyzstan, or sales of hostile submarines to Taiwan, the encroachment of the American empire is reaching areas we had never thought possible. Unless it is stopped, the pressure to follow American cultural and political values will become overwhelming.'

Song immediately arranged for Kozlov to come to Beijing as a guest of the China Association for Friendly International Contacts, which Song had adopted as his own intelligence-gathering think tank. Song learned about Kozlov's difficult family life, the desertion by most of his family, the loyalty of his gifted musical daughter, the friendship with Alexander Yushchuk. Kozlov's conversations were taped. His room was bugged. His telephone calls back to Yushchuk in Vladivostok were recorded. Song used his private resources in the United States to put together a psychological profile of Kozlov. The profile found Kozlov was determined, stubborn, arrogant and had a high regard for his own beliefs. He was not a team player and spoke his mind, often to his own detriment. It was enough for Song to ask Kozlov, a discredited academic, to share a drink with him, then Foreign Minister of the People's Republic of China.

Song rarely drank. At diplomatic receptions, he nursed a single glass of wine throughout, barely sipping it. But for Kozlov, he threw all that to the wind and got drunk with him. They discussed how Russia and China could develop, free of American pressure, and how it could be done without war. Kozlov quizzed Song about China's economic success. He asked how it could be applied to Russia. They talked about political dissidents, freedom of the press and underworld corruption. Nothing was decided, but Song had forged a bond with the Russian. Kozlov had turned down his offer of money. He wanted no political support. He had insisted on fighting the campaign for Russia's soul with his own resources. Yet, within an hour of his election victory, Kozlov had called Song and thanked him for his foresight.

'Andrei,' said Song, his voice becoming quieter and more serious. 'We need to meet privately.'