War of Eagles

TWENTY-ONE

When he was a boy, Tam Li was self-conscious about the ruddy mole on his left temple. His mother told him it meant he was special, that he had been kissed by the sun. She said this little gift from the sky would watch over him, help him to find his way. She added that she was counting on her “little flame” to lead the way for all of them. His mother meant the family, of course. Tam Li took it to mean something bigger than that. After all, where the sun moved the earth followed.

General Tam Li was gratified when he left the prime minister’s office. Le Kwan Po was not a hard-liner. He was a pragmatist. He was effective at keeping a balance between the old guard and the new without disturbing or affecting either.

That was why the struggle between himself and Chou would continue a little longer. Just long enough to give the general what he really wanted. It had nothing to do with the small profit he made from the slave trade. That was a laboratory. That was how he learned who he could trust and who he could not. The real profit was in doing what men like Tam Li did best: fighting.

The general went from the prime minister’s office to his car, which was parked in the underground garage. He was on the topmost of three levels. During the day, Tam Li had an aide drive him to meetings or airfields. There had not been time to arrange for that now.

The garage was empty at this hour, and the general could see out into the street and watched as a farmer stopped his truck on a street corner and delivered produce to restaurants. His son, who could not have been more than seven or eight, was there to help him. When they were done, they would drive home, and the boy would go to school while the father went into the fields.

Tam Li came from a world like that. His family grew corn on a small farm thirty-five miles from Beijing. They made long drives every day during the seven-month growing season. Their clients were military installations, which was where the young Tam Li became fascinated by the crisp uniforms, the smart salutes, and the imposing weapons. He also learned how officers demanded kickback for allowing vendors onto government property. It was an accepted way of doing business.

Tam Li drove to the small apartment he kept in the city. The apartment was at the top of a four-story structure built in the early 1960s, part of the vast modernization program instituted by Mao. Former military personnel got first pick of the new apartments, an incentive for young men to join. It was a comfortable and spacious residence that he shared with his elderly mother. She had sold the farm three years ago when his father died, and she spent most of her day chatting with women in the courtyard or sitting on the rooftop embroidering. She was a very heavy sleeper, which made it easy for Tam Li to return at any hour.

Attached to the Beijing Military Base Joint Command, and serving a second four-year term as a vice chairman of the powerful Central Military Committee, the general spent half his time in the city and half his time in the field. He got back as the sun was coming up. Tam Li was more alert now than when he had been awakened by the prime minister’s call. He did not want to go back to sleep, even though he had to be well rested for what was to come.

He went into his small office and turned on the radio. He removed his army jacket and hung it carefully in a small freestanding bureau. The office was a windowless alcove off his bedroom. The walls were painted white, and there were no pictures. The desk was bare save for the radio, telephone, and the computer. Tam Li was not a hoarder. He was not sentimental. His vision was external, about the future. He lit a cigarette, sat back in the desk chair, and contemplated the future as he listened to Beijing People’s News, a round-the-clock station of international events. They were still talking about the attack on the police in Taiwan.

Tam Li could not prove that Chou Shin was behind the assaults. Not that proof was required. The men had been adversaries for over twenty years, ever since they met at the Tianjin military base. Over two hundred cadets had come down with a severe case of food poisoning. Tam Li was the officer in charge of the mess, and Chou Shin was an investigator with the PLA internal police detachment. Chou discovered that Tam Li had bought tainted pork in exchange for a sizable payoff from the farmer who had produced it. The inspector was never able to prove that Tam Li knew the meat was bad. In fact, he did not. But another kind of poison had been generated between the two men, a toxic suspicion that was fueled by their very different political beliefs. As the men rose through their respective services, their mistrust and finally hatred also grew. Chou watched Tam Li, and Tam Li did everything he could to put false leads under the intelligence officer’s nose.

This time, however, Chou Shin had tried a different approach. Instead of trying to attach evidence of wrongdoing on Tam Li, he destroyed the offending target altogether. He had struck back with his own reserve plan, the blast in Durban. Chou Shin had retaliated in Taipei. He was trying to show the general that he would not only match his actions but surpass them. Unfortunately, while the Guoanbu director had demonstrated determination, he had not shown sufficient insight.

What Tam Li had told the prime minister was true. Soldiers were not paid enough for the work they did. But for Tam Li, the transportation of indentured women was only a profitable hobby. The real work was being done in a way that Chou and the prime minister would not see.

Until it was too late. While Chou Shin chased prostitutes, slave traders, the general had the real prize tucked somewhere else. Somewhere Chou Shin and Le Kwan Po would never think to look.

The general listened to the weather. It was not true that he only looked ahead. Sometimes he experienced flashes from the past, like now. His father used to stop by the house of old Chan Juan on their way back to the farm. She had a tube filled with mercury, which told them whether the next day would be cloudy or clear. They paid her an ear of corn for her report. It was not just the primitive barometer she used to make her predictions. She also observed the birds and insects and kept careful records from year to year. She was rarely wrong.

Today meteorologists used computers and satellites to generate forecasts. Their predictions were no better than those of Chan Juan. New ways were not always superior; they were simply more complex. In the old days, the general would have challenged a rival like Chou Shin to combat with sword, spear, or staff. Their conflict would be resolved in just a few minutes.

He shook his head as he lit a new cigarette with the old.

Such a tiny red ember, the general thought as he passed the fire from one tip to the other. Yet unchecked, this spark had the power to level a city and, in so doing, bring down a nation. In effect, the only difference between a little flame and a big flame was the amount of time it had to do its work unchecked.

Finishing the cigarette, Tam Li shut the radio off, and then he shut his eyes. A drowsy sense of contentment had come over him, and sleep followed quickly. When he woke, he could hear his mother moving about in the kitchen. He looked at his watch. Two hours had passed.

His legs complained a little when he stood. He ignored them the way his father had ignored his daily aches and stiffness. The general put on his jacket and went to greet his mother. It was late, but not too late to have breakfast with her. After that, he would shower and drive to his office. He had work to do before he had his weekly meeting with the other members of the Central Military Committee.

So they could finalize their plans to do what had to be done while Chou and his old-school dinosaurs prepared to become extinct.