When we arrived, we found a couple of military vehicles parked inside the compound. One of them was equipped with a machine gun, its long barrel pointed at the sky. Six impassive soldiers with assault rifles slung across their chests watched as we approached. Henry drove right by them. We were not challenged. Our dogs—the ones in the backseat—began to bark. There was no answer from the rest of the pack, and as the Humvee rolled on we saw that all the other chows lay scattered on the ground. They did not move. They looked stiff, as if frozen in place like Bear Mulligan’s dinosaurs in the last nanosecond of life. I saw no signs of blood or mutilation. I had never before seen the slightest sign of anger in Henry, but he was furious now. He drove up to the big yurt, slammed on the brakes, and leapt out of the vehicle. I followed. Before I could stop them, so did the dogs. They broke discipline, abandoning us humans, rushing to the prostate animals, sniffing and whining.
Inside the yurt, a slender, erect Chinese with a Waterford glass in his hand was conversing amiably with Henry. He wore an immaculate uniform with many campaign ribbons and decorations. His blue-black hair was turning gray. Three younger men, also in the uniform of the People’s Liberation Army, stood by, also holding glasses. I smelled Scotch whisky. Daeng appeared, smiling as though he knew nothing of the dead dogs lying just outside the door. He carried a tray of canapés and passed light-footedly among the officers as if serving at a cocktail party.
Henry beckoned me closer and introduced me to the older man. His name was General Yao. He was from the China Association for International Friendly Contacts, otherwise known as the counterespionage arm of the intelligence service of the People’s Liberation Army.
Smiling, he said in flawless California English, “I must apologize for the dogs. Let me assure you they will soon wake up and be as good as new. Unfortunately they attacked us when we arrived. We were forced to subdue them with a humane gas. Had I realized they were going to sleep so long, I would have had them removed from sight. We didn’t know exactly how much gas is required to render a dog unconscious. I am assured they will soon be all right.”
“Thank you, General Yao. That’s very comforting,” I said.
The general’s eyes became colder by a degree or two. Henry shot me a cautionary look. Clearly he and General Yao knew each other well. Just as clearly, the general found it difficult to be entirely frank in my presence. I drifted away and joined the young officers. For the fun of it, I gave no sign that I spoke their language. I understood fragments of the things they were saying about me in Mandarin. Two of them didn’t like my blue eyes—”ghost eyes,” one man called them. The third found them mysterious. They all liked my body even though they agreed that the breasts were a little too large to be truly beautiful.
General Yao joined us. If he harbored resentment of my earlier snippiness about the gassed chows, he showed no sign of it.
“The dogs have awakened,” he said. “They’re quite frisky. In humans, recovery time is related to body weight. No doubt the same is true of dogs. Or elephants. You are an animal lover, I gather.”
“You could say that. After all, we’re animals, too.”
He smiled charmingly. He escorted me to the table and helped me into my chair. He poured mao-tai into my glass. He placed food on my plate in the Chinese manner, as if I were the honored guest and he the host. He asked polite questions about my family, my work, my education, my time in Shanghai. I got the impression that he knew the answers to his questions before I supplied them. He regretted that he had not read any of my books. I offered to send him one. No, no, he wished to buy one. He would order it from Amazon.com. Perhaps I would be so kind as to inscribe it the next time we met. He was charm itself.
“It is so interesting that the American people and the Chinese people became friends again on the very day that the great President Nixon came to China and the animosity between our two populations ceased to exist,” he said. “Forty years of the most outrageous propaganda vanished like the smoke of a couple of cheap cigarettes.”
His smile asked how anyone could possibly question this sunny view of Sino-American relations.
Over coffee, General Yao turned to Henry.
“Something rather curious is happening,” he said. “The American government is suddenly very interested in you, Henry.”
“Really?” Henry said. “How so?”
People from the American embassy, Yao said, had asked him and certain of his colleagues questions about Henry’s activities in Hsi-tau and elsewhere in China.
“We are puzzled by this gossip,” General Yao said. “It’s unusual for the Americans to ask us about one of their own citizens, especially one as prominent as Henry Peel.”
These Americans had heard that Henry was investing heavily in certain Chinese companies. They were especially curious about his dealings with Ng Fred and his company. They were curious about the mysterious ring of booster rockets. They knew from their satellite images that they were not military vehicles, but they were somewhat alarmed by their size. What was their purpose? The CIA had asked permission to visit the site to inspect the boosters. They told General Yao that the president of the United States himself was concerned about them. CIA briefers had shown him photographs taken from orbit. He had been intensely interested, even agitated. He thought the rockets might be a threat to America’s national security. He had demanded more information. The situation was uncomfortable.
Henry said, “Have you granted permission for an inspection?”
“Our government has taken the request under advisement. It will move slowly, Henry, but it’s difficult for us to say no to the CIA. As you know, it has done good and valuable things for China.”
For instance? I was dying to hear, but Henry did not ask the question, no doubt because he, like his friend General Yao, already knew the answers.
“And there is another problem—two problems, actually,” said General Yao. “The booster rockets do not belong to the Chinese government, nor are they in China. As you know, they are just across the frontier in Mongolia.”
Henry said, “I don’t mind their having a look from a suitable distance, in case that’s part of the dilemma.”
“It’s not. They have already had a look from a suitable distance. Our concern is that the president might conclude that we are going to boost some sort of military hardware into space that will be targeted on the United States or its space station and satellites.”
“But the rockets are harmless. The satellite photos should tell them that.”
“One would think so. One would also think the CIA and the Pentagon know that the rockets are in Mongolia.”
“I’m sure they do,” Henry said. “So why are you humoring them?”
“Because humoring them seems to be what they’re asking us to do,” General Yao said. “It’s all very puzzling.”
“Why not just state the obvious? Why play this game?”
“The president of the United States is a nervous man. He might not believe the obvious. He leads a volatile democracy that might throw him out of office for letting China get ahead of America. He might be tempted to reassure the voters and assure his reelection by putting some kind of battle star in orbit, with all missiles pointed at us.”
Henry said, “I’ll talk to him.”
“And tell him what? The truth?”
“As you say, that’s probably the last thing he’d believe.”
“Don’t be so certain of that, Henry,” General Yao said. “He’s been briefed on the core of the earth problem.”
“He has?”
“Of course. He was strongly affected. Maybe he has made the connection to you and this new project of yours. Or his experts have made it, which is the same thing.”
“Who are his experts?”
“Who knows?” Yao said with a smile. “In China they would of course be astrologers, geomancers.”
Henry did not ask how General Yao happened to know what the president of the United States had been briefed on and how he reacted. His demeanor suggested that he just took it for granted that Yao knew what he was talking about.
“It’s only a matter of time before your government sees the future, or the possible lack of it, and decides to save itself,” General Yao said in his reasonable manner. “After that will come the European Union, Russia, Japan, India. And private enterprise, which is already busy—meaning you, of course.”
“Not China?”
“That’s a different question. But my government is worried. We fear this situation is a recipe for space war.”
“Which Henry Peel will have caused?” Henry said.
“Quite possibly. You mean well, Henry. You are greatly admired in this country. The whole world owes you its gratitude for your inventions and for what you’re trying to do by virtuous stealth to preserve civilization. But if your work is mistaken by the American government for a Chinese plot to conquer space, which could only mean to a mind like the president’s that China intends to conquer the United States, the speed with which things could get out of hand could take the world’s breath away.”
Henry gave General Yao a very long look. He said, “I hear what you’re saying to me, General. May I ask why you’re saying it?”
General Yao stopped smiling. The difference this made in his appearance was astonishing. The light in his smooth countenance went out as if a circuit breaker had popped. His eyes dulled, his complexion became a shade darker.
“I was not told why I should deliver this briefing, Henry,” he said. “But I hope nevertheless that you are hearing what I am saying to you.”
~ * ~
3
I FLEW OUT THE NEXT
morning. Henry remained behind. As usual, there were no good-byes. In Newark, Melissa, whom I had not seen for weeks, was waiting for me outside customs. In her severe dark suit and perfect maquillage, she looked every bit the big-time Wall Street lawyer.
“Henry has a surprise for you,” she said.
“What kind of a surprise?”
“If I told you that, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
On the drive into the city, we talked about her children. They were teenagers now. The girl was beautiful and boy-crazy. Melissa suspected her son, who was a soccer star, of taking steroids. She suspected both kids of living dangerously behind her back. With their looks and allowances, how could things be otherwise? As a single mother, Melissa was a worrier and a spy. She had a tracking device that could pinpoint both kids’ precise whereabouts by locating their cell phones. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she implanted computer chips beneath their skin.
The car pulled up in front of an apartment building on Central Park West. The doorman watched appreciatively as Melissa’s very long legs unfolded from the backseat.
“Hello, Edward,” Melissa said. “Remember this lady.”
In the elevator, Melissa provided a short biography of the doorman. Edward was a retired army sergeant, a former member of Delta Force who had gone on secret missions all over the world, shooting bad guys and rescuing good guys. All the other doormen were ex-Delta Force or Navy Seals or had even more impressive top-secret resumes.
The apartment was on the top floor. Melissa unlocked the door with a remote control like the ones that come with expensive cars. Four deadbolts snapped open, one after the other. Then the door swung open. The lights switched on by themselves. A large painting, unmistakably an original Edward Hopper, dominated the hall. Other pictures were displayed in the lofty living room, including what looked like a lost Seurat and a pre-Raphaelite portrait of a postcoital woman that could only have been painted by Dante Gabriel Rossetti himself. Every other room in the apartment was also loaded with pictures and sculpture—a Rauschenberg in the master bedroom, a wall of Old Master drawings in the second bedroom, Henry Moore bronzes and at least a thousand leather-bound books, including all of mine, in the study. The ceilings were at least fifteen feet high. The view of the park was terrific.