The Third World War: A Terrifying Novel of Global Conflict

49

From the windows of the American embassy's armour-plated Lincoln Town Car, Newman looked out at the lights on the edges of Tiananmen Square shining through the smog from cheap coal that engulfed the city. Soldiers, bored and stamping their feet against the cold, stood at intervals guarding this haunting symbol of Chinese communist power.

At this time of night, no one was around, and a furtive, eerie silence hung across Tiananmen's hundred acres and its buildings. Through the mist, Newman could make out the dark shape of the Great Hall of the People, further away the Mausoleum of Mao Tse-tung and lines of red flags flying in the strong wind.

There was no place so blatantly nationalistic anywhere else in the world. Tiananmen made Moscow's Red Square look like a suburban theme park. London's historic symbols were confined to chaotic traffic congestion on Hyde Park Corner and in Trafalgar Square. Washington had its monuments and icons, but none as arrogant as this. And India — she wished she hadn't followed this train of thought — India used to have the landscaped vistas of Rajpath and Raisana Hill. But like everyone else, Newman had seen the pictures. She shook her head at the thought, too grotesque and ghastly to contemplate.

Up ahead and just to the right was Tiananmen Gate, where in 1949 Mao Tse-tung had proclaimed his victory and had begun the upheavals and violence that created the robust one-party state China was now. His enduring portrait, its spotlight shrouded in smog, hung above it, looking down on Newman as her limousine slowed and turned right at the entrance of Zhongnanhai, just past the Forbidden City.

Slogans painted on the high red walls flanked the gate. On the west side, the Chinese characters translated as Long live the great Communist Party. On the east side, they paid a tribute — Long live the unbeatable thoughts of Chairman Mao.

The guards checked the Lincoln's number plate. A set of red metal double doors opened. The driver was waved inside and an anti-terror ramp slid down into the ground to let the vehicle pass.

Within the compound was a quietness which even at this early-morning hour did not seem possible in Tiananmen Square itself. The flapping of flags in the wind and the rumbling trucks from the provinces kept the square alive and in the real world. Zhongnanhai was a different place altogether, a tranquil place, where the snow was melting and the moonlight showed cracks in the ice on the lake.

As the car slowed, Newman saw Jamie Song, wearing no coat, just a scarf wrapped round his neck, walk out on to the steps. He was lit up by powerful lamps on the side of the building, both hands outstretched, although he would not have been able to see through Newman's tinted windows. In his expression, he managed to blend a smile of greeting with a deeper grief for what had happened in India. His was the face of a powerful man at a loss how to control events.

The driver pulled up and Song himself opened the door. His hand offered to take Newman's elbow to steady her in case of hidden ice. She let him take it, then turned and shook his hand. 'Jamie, these are terrible times and it's good to be here,' she began.

'I'm sorry for not being able to see you earlier,' he replied, guiding her up the steps and through a blast of heat being thrust down from the ceiling.

The meeting was a culmination of hours of frustration: Jamie Song's refusal to see her, and John Kozerski calling every half-hour from the White House, telling her that an impatient Jim West wanted to make an address to the nation — but Newman needed to see Song first. Finally, two hours earlier, West himself had called.

'I've done the sums, Mary,' he had told her. 'There's no turning back. There's no surrender. We're right and they're wrong. Their grievances are illegitimate, their methods abhorrent. If Song stands in our way either with Pakistan or North Korea, he is against us. I need you to make that clear. Once you have his response, I need to tell the American people what is happening. Cuba, Pakistan and North Korea — China is the key to them all. I can't let this situation hang, Mary. You've got to see the man. Give him three more hours, and if he doesn't show go back to Japan.'

Song took Newman's coat, hung it on a rack by the door and showed her into a small but comfortably decorated room.

'I've asked General Yan Xiaodong to join us,' said Song. Uncharacteristically for a Chinese official, Yan's jacket was off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and he was bending down to stub out a cigarette as Newman came in. He jerked upright and met her with outstretched hand, his breath reeking of smoke. 'Secretary of State,' he said in heavily accented English. 'Welcome. Welcome.'

'Yan is my personal military adviser,' said Song. 'He lets me know what the generals are thinking, and we find ourselves in a situation where I'm sure many different generals are thinking many different things all over the world.'

He indicated that Newman should take a seat. She chose an armchair away from the heating, which was drying up her throat. Song took a seat next to Newman's, and continued: 'Yan can explain some of the discrepancies that have become apparent in Chinese policy.'

'It is terrible, terrible what has happened,' said Yan. 'It must stop. Stop straight away.' He punched his fist into his hand to make his point.

Newman sat back and crossed her legs. Deliberately, she had brought no files, no notes, no photographic evidence of China's rogue alliances. The only administrative aid she had was a mobile phone in her skirt pocket next to her thigh, with a pre-programmed scrambler and a line directly to Kozerski at the White House.

'But we're meeting on your initiative, Mary,' said Song. 'So you go first.'

'I'll be blunt, Jamie,' said Newman, glancing at Yan and pausing for him to sit down. But he remained on his feet, in a corner of the room away from her and Song. The conversation was being recorded, of course, but with only three of them in the room, and knowing Jamie Song well, she spoke more frankly than she would have done otherwise.

'Almost simultaneously, North Korea released the smallpox virus against a target area in the Pacific and Pakistan destroyed Delhi,' she began. 'To both those governments, China is at best neutral, at worst an ally. On top of that, we have the issue of your missiles being secretly flown to Cuba.' She checked her watch. 'Very soon, the President will be addressing the nation. The focus, of course, will be the nuclear attack. But Jim wants to be able to say that China is with him.'

'What's he going to say?' said Song, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees. Suddenly, he seemed boyish, innocent, over-curious at what Newman had to tell him.

'Much of it depends on you,' answered Newman and stopped there, revealing nothing more.

Momentarily, Song glanced over at Yan, then sat upright in the chair, drummed one finger on the arm and, finally, clasped his hands together. For the first time, Newman sensed real unease in the usually urbane Chinese President. 'I am the President of China, Mary. But I am not the General Secretary of the Communist Party. Nor am I Chairman of the Military Commission. Most times, there is no problem with this arrangement. Right now, however, there is.'

He paused and fixed Newman with a stare. 'There is a debate going on now within the Chinese government, as you might have guessed. But this is an internal matter. Whatever arguments we have between ourselves, I remain the President of China. I will lead this country along the next path we choose to take. In your country, such debate takes place in the press and Congress, and you call it democracy. In China, we are more discreet, and you call it dictatorship. The depth of argument, however, is the same.'

Newman swallowed hard because of the dryness of the air, and she realized it might have made her look apprehensive. She looked quickly around the room for some bottled water. But there was none, and she didn't want to ask. 'Perhaps you could explain your options, Jamie,' she said flatly, but knowing that the options had already been discussed and a decision had been made.

'The missile shipments to Cuba — indeed the agreement signed in 2001 to move our signals intelligence to Havana — was carried out by the Military Commission. I knew nothing about it.' He shrugged. 'But the missiles are now there. So what do we do? The military relationship with Pakistan which began almost fifty years ago was handled by the Military Commission. The details, such as the transfer of the centrifuges to Pakistan to separate off weapons-grade uranium, were carried out without the Chinese President being made aware. The overarching strategic policy to prop up Pakistan in order to weaken India was reached many years ago, but the Military Commission handled the details.'

'And with North Korea?' asked Newman.

'We have discovered,' said Song, looking again at Yan, 'that some missile technology was illegally sold to North Korea. It was not government policy, but it has happened.'

'Unfortunate,' remarked Newman, her tone thick with irony. Briefly she closed her eyes and saw the Osprey's pictures of Delhi, the bodies in the river like an image from eternal hell, and she had to contain her anger as Jamie Song explained it away as administrative rivalry. She opened her eyes and found herself looking straight at Yan, who, remarkably, reacted by smiling at her and shaking his head. 'Terrible,' he said. 'Just terrible.' And he maintained the same expression throughout.

'The question is this, Mary,' said Song. 'What do we do now? What should I do, and what should Jim do?'

'This isn't the boardroom meeting of a multinational, Jamie,' whispered Newman. 'We're both looking into a goddamn abyss, if you don't sort your own house out.'

Song's eyes flared. She knew that she shouldn't have said it and admitted it. 'I'm sorry, Jamie,' she sighed. 'It's been a tough couple of days.'

'It's not a matter of sorting houses out, Mary,' said Song softly, his expression changing from irritation to sympathy. 'It's a matter of where we all go from here, and how much leeway we can give each other.'

'Leeway?' questioned Newman. But Song held up his hand. 'Please, let me finish.'

'I did not sanction Pakistan's nuclear strike. Nor did I provide or sanction Park Ho's missile programme and his biological weapons programme. I had no hand in the coup in which he took power. But, if I now set about undoing it all, letting you destroy the North Korean regime, letting you reprimand my government for getting it wrong, letting the US undermine the legitimacy of my nation as you did with the Soviet Union, letting you dictate policy on the post-nuclear-holocaust Indian subcontinent, letting you and Japan hatch the future security policy for the Asia-Pacific—' he gazed around the room, decorated formally with Chinese calligraphy and pictures of storks and mountains. 'I can't do it,' he said shaking his head. 'I have to take the situation as we have it now and use it. Yes, I know that is brutal, but that is how you wanted me to tell it. I have to use what we have now and move on. And so does Jim West.'

'How, Jamie?' asked Newman. 'How? Use what? What the hell are you saying?'

'Yan has talked to Park Ho,' said Song delicately. 'Park has promised to freeze his missile launches and put his smallpox virus back on ice, while we talk with him.'

'Talk with him,' said Newman incredulously. 'Jamie, this is not something about which anyone can negotiate. What the hell are you saying to him: "Put it on ice and if Jim West does something you don't like, bring it out again"?'

'No,' said Song firmly, his right hand gripping the side of the chair. 'No, Mary. That is not what I am saying.'

'Then what the hell are you saying? Because if Park's regime is not destroyed, and his missile and biological and nuclear weapons programme with it, he can use it any time he wants. And if you prop him up, you can turn that tap on any time you want.' Her voice was raised. She felt tiredness prickle in her eyes. She swallowed again, but kept looking at Song. She would be damned if she blinked first.

'All right,' said Song quietly. 'Let us agree to disagree on that for the moment. I have managed to talk to Mehta. He is a broken man, trapped in the bunker, unable to leave. He is so horrified by what has happened that he told me he has no intention of retaliating and murdering innocent people — as long as I can guarantee that Pakistan does not attack again.'

There was the faintest ripple across his eyes, a shift of expression which showed that Jamie Song was claiming high ground and the first round which went with it. As far as Newman knew, West and Mehta had not yet talked. 'Andrei fixed it,' explained Song. 'The alliance between India and Russia is like your alliance with Great Britain. In times of crisis you turn to each other.'

Newman remembered Kozerski telling her that Kozlov had refused to take West's first couple of calls. They had spoken now, but their conversation had been brief and insubstantial.

'Have you given Vasant the guarantee over Pakistan?' asked Newman.

'Yes and no,' said Song. 'We don't know who is in control there at the moment. Nor do we know who authorized the strike on Delhi, although we suspect it was General Zaid Musa working with the cleric Ahmed Memed. He was the man who started the uprising in South-East Asia.'

'Stop,' said Newman, uncrossing her legs and sitting upright. 'Before Pakistan struck, Vasant asked you to guarantee a Pakistan no-strike policy, and you refused.'

'Exactly,' said Song, getting up from his chair. 'That was before the strike.' He glanced over at Yan, who checked his watch and nodded. 'Come, Mary, I have promised the BBC an interview. I would like you to listen in.'

Song held out his hand to help her up. He was running rings around her. She looked across to Yan, who remained loyally inexpressive on the other side of the room. He took a couple of steps to a door that connected with another room and opened it. A spotlight beam lit up his feet and Newman heard noises of radios crackling and furniture being moved.

For a second, Newman didn't move, held in her seat by confusion and anger.

'Come, Mary,' said Song again. 'All of us are trying to help. I have to balance my friendship and loyalty to you, my desire to stop all conflict, against the heaving movement and ambition of my people, most of whom are not as sophisticated in their dreams as you and I are. Unfortunately, the national will is less subtle than the personal will.'

As Newman stood up, the mobile phone vibrated silently against her thigh. She shot a glance at Song, then across to the open door. Yan stepped into the beam of the spotlight, throwing a huge, long shadow at their feet. It took a couple of seconds, while she was pulling the phone from her pocket, to recognize the silhouetted figure which crossed with Yan's as he went into the room. She pressed the answer button and heard Kozerski's voice. 'Mary, Russian and Chinese troops have gone into Pakistan. Are you with Song yet?'

'They've gone in?' she said in disbelief. 'Already?'

'The night skies over Islamabad and Karachi are white with parachutes,' said Kozerski with unusual eloquence.

Her expression must have told Song everything. His mask dropped. He simply nodded to confirm what Kozerski had said.

'I'll call you back,' said Newman. Suddenly detached, lost in a whirl of thoughts, she began following Song.

'Secretary of State,' exclaimed a cheerful voice. It was Song's son Yun. Jacket off and his tie loose, he moved easily, a relaxed man, used to power but without the responsibility of it. 'We came up for Dad's wedding anniversary but,' he paused, casting a long look at her, 'let's just say, it's been overtaken by events.' Yun gently touched Newman's elbow, and skilfully guided her away from the arc of lights coming from the studio. 'I'm only a spectator, but I am so, so glad you are here,' he said, dropping his voice. 'Dad needs your help to fix this. He's in a bind, but if he can't get out of it, no one can, and we're all sunk.'

The spotlight went off, prompting them both to look towards the door. Newman recognized the tall figure of Andrei Kozlov, with his head down to listen to words from his adviser, Alexander Yushchuk. Newman caught a glimpse of a television correspondent brushing the lapels of his jacket.

Newman stepped back, bumping into Yun, and leaving Kozlov's hand outstretched and grasping at air. There was no way she would go into that room and sit as an appendage while the leaders of two newly allied powers announced the invasion of another nation — however abhorrent the governing regime of that nation might be. If she spoke, she would be upstaging her own president. If she sat with them, she would be sanctioning their actions. If she remained silent in the room, she would be a symbol of America, the lame duck.

On a wall bracket behind her, she saw a television set. 'Jamie,' she said with a determined smile. 'Game's up. I'm not going in that room with you.' She pointed up to the television. 'Do me a favour and get your broadcast patched through here.'

Yun repeated Newman's request, while she brought the mobile phone back up to her ear. 'John, Kozlov's here. Both he and Song are about to go live on BBC World.'