The Mandarin Club (19 page)

At forty-eight, Booth retained an ideological purity that was almost quaint. He could tolerate Smithson’s serial dalliances with the opposite sex because the senator fought the good political fight. Smithson sailed into the wind with conviction, if not reckless abandon. But the senator’s ability to balance cause-politics with hard-nosed realism did not come naturally to the righteous aide. Booth questioned once again his ability to stomach the endless compromises ahead.

They are wrong and we are right
, Booth thought as he waited for the boss.
It’s that simple
.

“Buck up, buddy-boy,” Smithson chirped as he approached with confident strides. “Let’s go make nice.”

“You’re really up for this?” Booth asked as they fell in step, bouncing down the long marble staircase heading west into the sunlight.

“Sure thing.”

“I can’t wait to hear Talbott’s introduction.”

“Hey! Tomorrow, he’ll be helping us get funding for an AIDS prevention program, or something else.”

“Meanwhile, the gang at Telstar will be raking it in from the Chinese,” Booth said. “What was it Lenin said about the capitalists: ‘They are stupid enough to sell us the rope with which we will hang them’?”

“Now, don’t go bad-mouthing free enterprise.”

“You know, fundraisers are the one thing I’ll never miss when I’m gone from this town.”

“A necessary evil.”

“But you know what the real sin is? It’s not that our most powerful elected officials become supplicants,” Booth said, suddenly aware he was coming on a bit strong. “It’s the
time
, Senator.”

“Huh?”

“The time. When you get closer to the presidential primaries, you’ll be putting in twenty hours a week on the phone just asking strangers for dough.”

“At least.”

“Do the American people know this? Do they know many of our leaders spend half their days closeted in some campaign office begging rich guys for contributions? It has always struck me as an almost criminal waste of talent.”

“Hey, it’s the mother’s milk, Martin. The grease that lubricates the wheels of our fine government machinery here. Like Churchill said, democracy is the worst form of government on the planet. . . except all the others.”

As they quickened their pace, Smithson was clearly enjoying himself, welcoming the brisk stroll. All those NASA years in cramped space capsule mock-ups had made him eager to hoof it—the heck with Town Cars, and security, and being on time.

Passing unnoticed among foreign tourists, they traversed the site of the next presidential inaugural stand, and Booth wondered at the contraposition.
Where will I be that day?
Despite all his misgivings about what lay ahead, he could still daydream.

They paused before jogging with the light across the six lanes of Constitution Avenue, just where it began to climb up to the Senate-side office buildings. “It’ll be interesting to see how today’s victory rallies our good Ms. Paulson,” Smithson said.

“Yeah. First time back in circulation.”

“I meant to tell you, a colleague I saw in the cloakroom—a guy who is on the Judiciary Committee—told me the FBI’s about to break that case. Some Asian connection. Justice Department is starting to brief Talbott and his people about it,” Smithson continued. “Weren’t you at Stanford with her and that Telstar guy? What’s-his-name? Dooley?”

“Mickey Dooley, yes. We were all in a club together.”

“Somehow I can’t picture you as a frat boy.”

“Actually, it was more like a cross between a debate club and a drinking society. We lived together. Sort of an Animal House for China scholars. We’d argue all week; we were the TA’s for many of the seminars. Then we’d blow off steam together on the weekends. Half of us were out to do good, the others—like Dooley—to make a buck.”

“So don’t be giving me such a hard time about the company I keep. And, you know, old Jonathan Talbott is a great guy. He’s done a lot more good than harm in this world. He’s pro-environment, pro-choice. We agree on more than we disagree about.”

“Sure. He’s a friend whose buddies are going to nail us at the—”

“Listen, Martin. If anybody in Silicon Valley is there for me in New Hampshire, it’ll probably be because Jonathan convinces them to bury the hatchet. Jonathan fights fair. My amendment passes and his client loses a lot of business. They’ve got every right to try to trounce us. All’s fair in love and politics.”

“Senator, did you ever think maybe you’re too forgiving sometimes?”

Smithson chuckled. “Nobody promised me a cakewalk when I got into this gig.”

“I admire your ability to tolerate the situational ethics of others.”

“
My
dad was a bricklayer, not a preacher. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I mellowed out a bit staring back at the earth from one of those rockets.”

They were crossing now under the aged cherry trees flanking the Capitol’s northern grounds, great sturdy trunks with gnarled branches, thick with green leaves tinted by the setting sun. At the crosswalk, they joined the flow heading to Charlie Palmer’s Restaurant, and “The Spring Tribute to Senator Smithson.”

Charlie Palmer’s was the steakhouse alternative to the Monocle or La Brasserie, the other Senate-side restaurants of choice for hosts in the lobbying business. The building was too modern and flashy. But the location was irresistible, and the owners made up for the ambience deficit by producing surprisingly good meals.

At the fundraiser, the young ladies running Smithson’s finance team put on a great show, several notches above the usual cocktail hour fare. There were strolling accordion players. Waiters in gaily-striped shirts. Cleverly strung Japanese lanterns. Pseudo can-can girls in frilly skirts worked the door, checking in guests and accepting their campaign donations. The overall effect was a sort of retro Renoir picnic: not exactly politically correct, but it
was
springtime.

The fun part, Booth decided, was to watch them fawn over his boss. There were limousine liberals from Georgetown—wealthy white males with their black chauffeurs waiting outside. There were grungy environmentalists using the check of some movie star board member to purchase their admission ticket. There were defense contractors—some of the very same lobbyists who had opposed them that day. They rarely agreed with Smithson, but they did too much business in his state to risk staying away. There were “five-thousand-dollars-a-month men,” the harried small-town lobbyists who labored each year to secure modest earmarks for places like Eureka and Oceanside.

Smithson worked the crowd, soaking in the flood of adoration. He seemed to revel in it, like a sweaty trail dog rolling in mud at the end of a long day. The senator was a tactile man. As he spoke, he employed an almost Mediterranean manner of using his hands to gesture and to touch. He seized admirers, slapping backs, posing for pictures, kissing every woman between eighteen and eighty, drinking wine with one hand free. Smithson needed the attention and was restored by it.

Jonathan Talbott had been among the first to greet the senator. Smith-son asked after his health. Talbott congratulated him for completing the State Department bill. Neither mentioned the China amendment. The last Booth heard of the conversation, Talbott was recommending a play at the new Signature Theatre facility.

Rachel Paulson came next. She was stunning, tan and tall in a low-cut cocktail dress. Booth had expected to find her wan and wobbly. He had called twice, and Amy had tried to get her to bring Barry and Jamie for a family dinner. But he was chagrined to realize he had not seen her since a hospital visit the day after the explosion. Now she looked five years younger. It was remarkable: she had no sling or bandages, and possessed the freshness of a high school kid. While Booth propped himself at the bar to sip a ginger ale, Smithson chatted her up at some length. An attentive Talbott stood by.

Alexander Bonner was there, too. Booth knew he’d see him at the little reunion dinner Rachel had plotted for Mr. K’s later that evening. Alexander rarely put in an appearance at fundraisers. Yet, there he was talking with Talbott, and across him, with Rachel. It was such an animated group that Booth wanted to move close enough to listen.

Draining his soda and turning to set it back on the bar, Booth saw Mickey Dooley, of all people, taking Rachel’s arm. Mickey Dooley, bald on top and trimmed short on the side, but with the same big country grin. It was quite a tableau: Alexander Bonner, avoiding Mickey, who was clinging to Rachel, who was firmly escorted by Jonathan Talbott, who was sucking up to Senator Smithson, who was gamely trying to peer down Rachel’s dress.

Booth watched it all, then turned to order something stronger. As he waited on his glass of wine, he felt a beefy hand grip and spin his shoulder. It was Mickey.

“How the hell are you, buddy?” Mickey said, startling him with a hug. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you!”

Mickey was all over him, joking, name-dropping, ordering a scotch, and whipping out pictures of his Chinese-American boys in their baseball uniforms. Before Booth could say much of anything, Mickey was barreling ahead, utterly ignoring the business of the day, getting personal. He began pouring out his troubles, confiding in him, imploring him to help.

“I’ve got to come to you on something,” Mickey warned. “I’m in a real mess back home. I may need the senator to go to bat for me.”

Booth, flabbergasted, was just promising Mickey they could speak privately later in the week when his secretary, Charleen, appeared at his elbow, clearly agitated. The din around them had grown and Booth had to struggle to make out her words.

“This guy Kwan has called five times on his way from Vienna,” she said to Booth after smiling apologetically at Dooley. She handed the Senate aide another wad of pink phone messages.

“He’ll probably be at Dulles by now. Says it’s a critical matter. Something about nuclear proliferation. He’s expecting your call. Tonight.” She nodded for emphasis.

Vienna?
Booth stared at the call slip on top of the stack she’d thrust at him.
Vienna, Virginia? Home of that FBI traitor who’d gone KGB
?

Vienna?

Then it suddenly dawned on him as he recalled Landle’s oblique reference.
Vienna
.
As in Vienna, Austria. Headquarters of the International Atomic Energy Agency, the UN inspection group that had won the Nobel Peace Prize
.

Maybe Landle did have something solid
, Booth was appalled to concede.
Maybe something
was
rotten in Taiwan
.

“T
o neutral territory!” Mickey raised his Scotch at the table in the restaurant’s elegant bar, drawing sustenance from his smooth yellow juice.

“Neutral?” Alexander asked.

“Look around. It’s like the demilitarized zone,” Mickey continued. “It’s the only place where the Taiwans and the PRC guys will tolerate eating side by side. They park their ideology at the door. Wouldn’t happen in Asia.”

“Testament to the food, no doubt,” Alexander said as he glanced about warily.

Mickey was right. An uneasy truce was maintained by tacit consent at Mr. K’s. Most of the best Chinese places in the suburbs were not so fortunate, being firmly associated either with the Mainlanders and their Washington cohorts, or Taiwan. Seven Seas in Rockville, one of Alexander’s favorites, was frequented by the Taiwan independence crowd. The Yenching Palace on Connecticut Avenue was practically a lunchroom for Beijing’s embassy staff. But at Mr. K’s, diplomatic personnel, investors, and security men from both camps sat coolly in the pink and gold banquettes.

Alexander was looking forward to the company and a good meal. He’d found the fundraiser awkward, something forced and farcical in the mix of players. He had run by the small
Times
’ office in the National Press Building to check his story on the way. He expected the others to be waiting when he made Mr. K’s. In fact, only Mickey had arrived and was there at the bar, drinking alone.

“So, how the hell are you?” said Mickey, greeting him with a disarming wave.

“I’m good,” Alexander said. “I guess. Busy.”