Typhoon Season

THIRTEEN

Ambassador T’ing sprinkled a tiny amount of sugar across the surface of the tea, then watched contemplatively as it sank below the surface. Sarah Wexler decided he must be tracking each atom, timing the exact moment at which it either dissolved completely or sank to the bottom of the cup. She found herself staring, wondering if she would ever be able to understand how T’ing saw a cup of tea.

Or, for that matter, how he saw the currents of power and interest that flowed so chaotically between his country and hers. Was there any possibility that America could truly understand China? Or, for that matter, that China could understand the U.S.?

“As I said — a serious misunderstanding,” T’ing said finally.

Wexler snorted. “A lot of people dead over a misunderstanding.”

T’ing gave her a reproachful look. “Serious, I said. As I’ve said before, Sarah, you must learn to pay attention to the nuances involved.”

Sarah? Now just when did we get on a first name basis? Over the last several years, she thought she’d come to a better understanding of both T’ing and his masters at home than she’d had during the Spratly Islands conflict. She’d even understood what he’d meant when he’d said it was a “serious misunderstanding.” In such circumlocutions are the deals of diplomacy often worked, and she fancied herself more than a little familiar with what China was likely to do in a given situation.

False pride, she’d learned over the last several weeks. Thinking she understood them — it wasn’t a mistake she’d make again. She wondered if T’ing had the same misgivings, dealing with her.

And now first names. A mark of respect? A peace gesture? Or simply a reminder that much of her relationship with him would be wrapped in inscrutable layers of meanings?

She saw quiet amusement in his eyes, and realized that he’d achieved whatever he’d expected to by using her first name, perhaps no more than to throw her temporarily off balance.

Then another possibility occurred to her. Perhaps it was more in the line of a compliment — not using the name alone, but using it and acknowledging that she would take note that he’d done so.

Yes, that was it. She lifted her chin slightly, then gave the smallest of nods. T’ing returned it.

“And one that will end well,” he continued. “Out of the storm comes cleansing. Those unreliable elements in our Special Administrative Region have been pruned, the balance of the people’s government resolved.” He lifted his spoon carefully from the paper-thin cup and laid it on the small saucer to his side. He raised the cup, inclined it slightly toward her. “To a deepening spirit of harmony and cooperation between us, madam.”

“And between our nations, Su,” she said, slipping his first name into the conversation as though she’d been using it forever.

“And that will appear likely as well.” T’ing took a small, appreciative sip of his tea. “Your Mr. McIntyre — we are pleased that he has been restored to you. Such a terrible thing, to be kidnapped by gangsters.” He sighed.

“Indeed.” Wexler tried to keep the doubt out of her voice. Phillip McIntyre’s story agreed far too closely with China’s official party line for her taste. Kidnapped — she watched two grains of sugar collide in her own cup before continuing. “Perhaps some day we will round up the rest of the perpetrators.”

“Perhaps.” T’ing glanced up at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “For McIntyre to pledge so much of his fortune in humanitarian aid for Hong Kong — well, we are humbly pleased. Repairing the damage from the typhoon will take decades.”

“Indeed.” Wexler sensed another layer of meaning behind that statement as well, and filed it away for later examination. The orange blossom scent of the tea was relaxing her.

“And we’ve all learned a valuable lesson, have we not?” T’ing continued, his voice markedly more hearty. “Particularly on how to welcome back parts of our country as they return to the fold.”

“What do you mean?” Wexler said, then immediately regretted the question. With T’ing, one did not ask outright. She saw the faint disappointment in his eyes.

“Nothing specifically,” he said. “I was speaking in general terms.” His eyes held hers across the cup. “Of opportunities.”

Taiwan. A cold shot of adrenaline flooded her system. He’s warning me — Taiwan.

“As you said, opportunities,” she answered. “Opportunities to avoid more ‘serious misunderstandings’, perhaps?”

T’ing looked at her with new respect. “Perhaps.”