A few of the sloganeers even showed sly humor:
“1.5 billion Chinese can’t be wrong.”
“The American century is over! The Chinese millennium begins today!”
The first morning after the
Decatur
sank the fishing trawler, 50,000 people came to Tiananmen. Two days later, the Beijing police estimated the crowd at 150,000. Similar crowds filled People’s Park in Shanghai, Yuexiu Park in Guangzhou, and the central squares in the rest of China’s metropolises.
On the fifth day, with the Beijing police estimating the crowd in Tiananmen at a quarter-million, Li Ping took a helicopter over the square and looked down on the people, his people. They weren’t yet close to filling the square—Tiananmen could hold a million or more—but even so Li’s heart swelled at the sight.
What a change from 1989, the last time Tiananmen had been so full, Li thought. Then the people had been angry at their leaders. Not this time. The peasants were glad to have an officially sanctioned outlet for their fury at being left behind. The middle class wanted to show the world that China could no longer be cowed. The sinking of the trawler had brought them together.
Li
had brought them together. This outpouring was the living emblem of his will. Soon he would replace Zhang as the unofficial leader of the Standing Committee. Two of the liberals on the committee had already reached out to him, hinting they would support him if he promised not to push them off the committee when he took charge.
Then, at the next Party Congress, he’d take over from Xu as the party’s general secretary. It was time for the old man to retire. Li would be the head of the army
and
the party, the most powerful leader since Mao. He would remake China, making sure ordinary people shared in its prosperity, while building up the armed forces. No longer would the United States be the world’s only superpower. This was China’s destiny, and his own. Around him the great city rose in every direction, Beijing’s apartment buildings and office towers stretching through the haze, traffic thick on the ring roads and boulevards, and Li thought:
Mine.
All this.
Mine.
But first he needed to press his advantage. The people filling the square beneath him were crucial to his next step toward power. Zhang, that weakling, wouldn’t like his new proposal. But Li believed that old man Xu saw the situation the same way that he did, though the general secretary was too canny to promise his support explicitly. Li waved to the crowds below—not that they could recognize him—and checked his watch. 11:18. Good. A lucky time. He tapped his pilot on the shoulder and they swung back to the landing pad inside Zhongnanhai.
THE MEETING BEGAN TWO HOURS LATER,
in the banquet hall in Huairentang, the Palace Steeped in Compassion. The foreign minister spoke first, discussing the international reaction to the sinking. The world had sided with China. The United Nations had voted to condemn the United States for its “unprovoked aggression against a civilian boat.” Even America’s closest allies, like Britain and Poland, agreed that the United States had overstepped its bounds and provoked the confrontation.
“We must remember, if a Chinese warship rammed an American boat near New York, the American anger would be unsurpassed,” the French prime minister said. The United States had refused to apologize for the collision, arguing that it had happened in international waters and the
Decatur
had warned the trawlers away. In the days since the accident, the
Decatur
had pulled back two hundred miles off the coast, but other American warships had taken its place.
“The world has seen the violence of the Americans,” the foreign minister said. “Our position is secure. Of course, if we act rashly, we may lose support.”
“Thank you, Foreign Minister,” Xu said. “Now, Minister Li.”
“The People’s Liberation Army is prepared to carry out the will of the Standing Committee, General Secretary. Whatever we decide.”
“And what is your view of the correct action?”
“We must punish the hegemonist aggression.”
“But what about the risks?” This from Zhang. Li looked around the room, as if the interruption were hardly worth answering.
“Do you know why the Mongols burst through our walls eight hundred years ago, Comrade Zhang?”
“I’m not a general, Comrade Li. I imagine their troops were strong, like the Americans.”
“Wrong. They defeated us because we let them. And then we blamed them for being stronger than we were. The people want us to show our strength. They remember what the Americans did in Yugoslavia.” In 1999, American jets had bombed the Chinese embassy in Belgrade, killing three Chinese. The United States had always insisted the bombing was accidental, but many Chinese didn’t accept that explanation. “The people are tired of excuses from the hegemonists. They want us to act.”
“And when the Americans counterattack, when they destroy our navy, what will the people say then?”
“The Americans won’t attack us, Comrade Zhang. The world won’t allow it.”
“Perhaps the world won’t stop it.”
“We will push them once more, just once, and then give them a way out.”
“What do you mean, push them? Speak clearly now.”
The moment he’d been working toward for all these months had arrived, Li knew. He explained his plan. When he was finished, the room was silent.
“And you think the Americans won’t respond.”
“As long as they understand that we don’t intend to invade Taiwan, they’ll accept our response as justified. They know they’ve overstepped their bounds even if they won’t admit it. Besides, our action will give them a new respect for our capabilities.”
Zhang pounded a fist against the table. “Comrade Li, go back to your tanks and leave strategy to wiser men. We’ve gone up the mountain twice now, first with the agreement with Iran and then with our missile tests. Now you want us to go up a third time. We will surely encounter the tiger.”
“The Americans aren’t the tiger. Our people are the tiger, Minister Zhang. If we don’t defend the honor of the Chinese nation, they won’t forgive us.”
“The honor of the Chinese nation?”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten what those words mean.”
“Because I’m not a warmonger?”
Xu pushed himself to his feet. “Ministers. We are all servants of the people. There is no need for this. Now. I have decided.”
“You
have decided?” Zhang couldn’t hide his astonishment at the old man’s tone.
“I have, Economics Minister. Am I not the general secretary?”
Xu paused. And Li realized that the old lion was enjoying himself. For years, Zhang had usurped Xu’s power, leaving Xu as a figurehead. Now Li’s challenge to Zhang had given Xu a taste of his lost power. So Xu’s next words didn’t surprise Li.
“General Li. Please use our forces to carry out the plan you’ve outlined.”
“Thank you, General Secretary.” This time, Li didn’t even bother to look at Zhang as he walked out of the room.
Outside the hall, Li’s limousine waited to ferry him to his offices. As he trotted toward it, another limousine pulled up. General Baije Chen, head of the PLA’s intelligence directorate, jumped out.
“Minister. I’m sorry to disturb you. There’s something you need to see. May we speak alone?”
“As you wish.” Li followed Baije into the parking lot beside the hall. Whatever Baije wanted, it must be important. He lived on pots of green tea and rarely left his office. When they were well away from the entrance, Baije handed Li two sheets of paper, one in English, the other in Chinese.
“As you can see, it’s from our contact at the American embassy—”
Li raised a finger to his lips. He’d read the note for himself. When he was done, he had to call on all his discipline to keep from shouting curses at the sky. All his work, all his planning, and now
this?
A traitor among them?
“When did this come in?”
“This morning.”
“And it’s reliable?”
“Yes, General.”
Nearly a year before, Matt Kahn, a Marine guard at the American embassy, had fallen hard for Hua, a waitress in Sanlitun, a northeast Beijing neighborhood where expats gathered to drink cheap beer and watch day-old football and soccer. Only after they had been together for three months did the unfortunate Marine discover that his girl Hua was actually a boy named Hu. By the time the Beijing police arrived at Hu’s apartment, Kahn had gouged out one of Hu’s eyes and both of his testicles. The officers called in their captain, who saw the situation’s potential as soon as he learned where Kahn worked. Within an hour, the police had sent the case to the Second Directorate, who offered Kahn a choice. He could face a court-martial and public humiliation on two continents. Or he could give the Chinese a peek at the embassy’s intelligence files, whatever he could get in a quick one-time sweep.
“It will take only a few minutes,” the Second Directorate colonel told Kahn. “And then all this”—he gestured to the slim, hairless man in the bloody dress in the corner—“will be over.” For Kahn, the choice was no choice at all.
But Kahn realized too late that spying was easier to get into than out of. The colonel came back to him a month later, and a month after that, each time demanding more information. Now Kahn wished he’d taken his punishment at the beginning instead of stepping into this pit. Three times, he put his pistol into his mouth and wished he had the guts to pull the trigger. But he didn’t. Meanwhile, he needed to keep the Chinese happy. And so twice a month he filled a flash drive with all the files he could get and passed them to the Second Directorate.
This time, the files included Cao Se’s note to the agency asking for a meeting. Of course, he hadn’t used his name in the note. Still, its importance was obvious as soon as it was translated. It reached Baije in hours.
Li reread the note, to be sure he understood. A Chinese spy, code-named Ghost, was asking for an immediate meeting with a CIA operative, someone who had never worked in China. “How?” Li said, under his breath, more to himself than to Baije. He had been sure that his American mole had rooted out all of the CIA’s spies inside China. But he’d been wrong.
Yet this spy, whoever he was, obviously didn’t know that the Second Directorate’s had penetrated the embassy. The note explicitly set out the time and place of the meeting.
“Of course, the Americans may not respond,” Baije said. “They know we’ve penetrated them. They may think this Ghost of theirs has been doubled too.”
“General Baije.” Li put a finger into the smaller man’s chest. “Don’t tell me what the Americans may or may not do. Tell me that our men are tracking every American who comes into Beijing this week. Tell me that we are going to catch this agent, and the traitor who’s helping him. Those are the only words I want to hear.”
29
EVEN BEFORE HE REACHED THE CENTER OF BEIJING,
Wells felt the electricity of approaching war on the avenues of the giant city. Enormous banners in Chinese and English dangled from overpasses: “China stands as one!” “America will be sorry!” A torn American flag fluttered off the skeleton of a half-finished office tower, while the flag of the People’s Republic, five yellow stars against a blood-red background, waved off every car and truck.
As his cab swung from the airport expressway onto the third of the ring roads that surrounded Beijing, Wells saw a dozen mobile antiaircraft missile batteries, their green-painted rockets pointing in every direction. Hundreds of Chinese surrounded the launchers, taking pictures, saluting the PLA soldiers in their crisp uniforms. Their excitement was palpable. They were standing up to the United States, and the show was about to start. The First Battle of Bull Run must have felt this way, Wells thought, the crowds turning up to watch the Rebs and the Union boys fight, shocked when the pageantry ended and blood began to flow.
Indeed, aside from the flags and banners, life in Beijing seemed to be proceeding fairly smoothly. The immigration officers at Beijing airport hadn’t been overly hostile to Wells or the other Americans who’d come in from San Francisco. The cabbie outside the terminal had shown no irritation when Wells told him to head to the St. Regis, a five-star hotel close to the United States embassy and favored by Americans. Workers were hammering away everywhere on new buildings. And the traffic was the worst Wells had ever seen, making Washington’s supposedly busy roadways look like racetracks in comparison.
As the cab again stopped dead, the driver glanced at Wells in his rearview mirror.
“Where from?”
“California.” So his passport said, anyway. Wells waited for the driver to explode in anti-American slurs, or throw him out of the cab and make him walk the rest of the way. Instead the driver turned to Wells and smiled, revealing a mouthful of broken yellow teeth.
“Ca-li-fornia. My cousin—Los Angeles.”
“I’m from Palo Alto,” Wells said. His cover story. “Northern California. Near San Francisco.”
But the cabbie wasn’t interested in Palo Alto. “Los Angeles,” he said again. “Hollywood. Hungry.” The cabbie offered a thumbs-up.