“Then we don’t need the Protector system at all, do we, Secretary Kott?”
Stanton challenged.
Kott’s voice remained polite, almost neutral. “As a matter of fact, we do need it. We need it very much. As General Guerrero said, we’ve got serious potential adversaries out there — China, Russia, Serbia, India, Pakistan, India, and — don’t forget — Iran and Iraq. Our long-range bombers are powerful but not always accurate. Artillery’s still the key to winning a major battle. We like the Protector because it’s far superior to our current Paladin system. It gives us the superiority to deter big military adversaries. By the way, the Protector is easily airlifted.”
“It’s easy to fly into remote areas only if it remains at the forty-two tons you stripped it down to. You discarded a lot of the armor you really want. Everyone knows you’ll put it back on as soon as you can.
Then the damn thing’ll be too heavy to fly anywhere.”
“It will remain airlift capable,” General Guerrero retorted.
“I doubt that, General. The army loves heavy armor. You’ll find a way to regain that weight once you’ve got the government’s commitment to build it. Just remember what the Germans learned in Russia and the Ardennes in World War Two: Poor roads, old bridges, narrow tunnels, and bad terrain can torpedo any advantage heavy tanks and artillery have. Throw in bad weather, and you might as well dig your grave on the spot.”
“On the other hand, light forces fail every time against heavy weapons and large manpower,” Secretary Kott pointed out. “That’s impossible to deny. What you want, Stanton, is a recipe for disaster.”
As the men around the table bristled, ready to resume arguing, Admiral Brose raised his voice, “I believe we have defined our positions sufficiently. Funds for weaponry are not unlimited, right, Emily?”
The National Security Adviser nodded soberly. “Unfortunately.”
“So I tend to side with the defense secretary on this,” Brose told them.
“Our first priority is to develop the fleeter forces our experiences from Somalia to the present tell us we need. We also need to hold the line on what we have and keep a wary eye on the military developments of potential enemies.” He gazed across the table to the president. “What do you say, sir?”
Although President Castilla had remained oddly silent through the lengthy discussion, he was known to favor a sparer military. He nodded almost to himself. “Each of you has made cogent arguments that must be considered. The need for a quick-response force large enough and powerful enough to handle any brushfire war or Third World threat, or to protect our citizens and interests in developing nations, is clear. We can’t have a repeat of Somalia. At the same time, we can’t rely on nations doing nothing while America builds up massive forces on their borders, as Saddam Hussein allowed us during the Gulf War.”
The president nodded to Admiral Brose and Secretary Stanton. “On the other hand, the generals and Secretary Kott are reminding us we may face conflicts on a monumental scale as well, against major-league opponents with nuclear weapons. We may have to fight on vast landmasses where light forces are inadequate.” He seemed to brood again. Finally he announced, “We may have to consider a larger military allocation than we anticipated.”
Puzzled, everyone in the room looked at one another and back at the president. He was vacillating, a rare occurrence for such a firm decision maker. Only Admiral Brose had an inkling of what could be causing the uncharacteristic hesitancy — The Dowager Empress and China’s strategic interests in her.
The president stood. “We’ll meet again soon to discuss this further.
Emily, I need to speak with you and Charlie on another matter.”
The assorted generals, cabinet members, and assistants filed out, frowning and exchanging cryptic comments about what they obviously considered an unsatisfying meeting. President Castilla watched them go, his expression grave.
In the taxi, Smith changed into the suit and tie he had retrieved from poor Andy earlier. Every few minutes, he looked over his shoulder at the jockeying headlights on the street behind. He could not shake the sense of being followed. At the same time, the faces of Andy An and Avery Mondragon haunted him. Was there something he could have — should have — done that would have saved their lives?
In his mind, he went back over the last two days, searching for what he might have missed. For a decision that would have altered everything.
Anger surged through him again. His muscles tensed. His chest ached with rage. Who were these people who killed so easily?
At last, he shook off the worst of it. Too much fury clouded the mind.
He needed all of his intelligence, because finding the manifest was critical.
He finished dressing and shoved his black work clothes into his backpack. He had a job to do. A job made more vital by Mondragon’s and Andy’s deaths.
The taxi dropped him two blocks up the Bund, and he blended into the throngs out for an evening walk by the river. When he reached the corner across from the Peace Hotel, he turned into Nanjing Dong Lu. Here the famed shopping paradise reverted to the narrow, stinking, teeming street it had been before the mall was built. The sidewalks were so constricted that most of the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd walked in the street.
Across from the hotel’s revolving door, Smith shrank back into an alley.
He focused on the hotel entrance, hoping to spot the red-and-white hair of Feng Dun. One vendor of fake Rolex watches who buttonholed everyone going in or out of the hotel could have been someone he had spotted at Yongfu’s mansion. A dumpling seller on the sidewalk beside his steaming pot definitely was — one of the two who had passed under the windows of the master bedroom.
They looked their parts, but they also showed the telltale signs of men on stakeout: They were uninterested in what they were selling, never really looked at anyone who stopped to inspect their wares, and never bothered with the customary loud pitches. Instead, they strained to scrutinize everyone who moved through the hotel’s doors. There was no point in checking the other entrances; they would be similarly covered.
These people were organized and adept.
He needed to draw them away or somehow remove them. Showing himself as bait was risky. This was their city, not his, and he spoke no Chinese.
At last, he joined the crowds walking back to the Bund, located a public telephone, and used the 1C card Dr. Liang had given him. He dialed the hotel.
The desk clerk answered in Chinese but switched quickly to English the moment Smith gave his name.
“Yes, sir. How may we help you?”
“It’s a bit embarrassing, but I have a small problem. Earlier today, I had an unpleasant altercation with a pair of street vendors.
Unfortunately, they’re back, watching the hotel entrance. That makes me uneasy about my safety. I mean, why are they out there?”
“I will take care of it. Can you describe them? There are so many on this part of Nanjing Dong Lu.”
“One is selling fake Rolexes, and the other Shanghai dumplings.”
“That should suffice, Dr. Smith.”
“Thank you. I feel safer already.” He hung up and wove back through the swarming pedestrians to stand by a planter where he could watch.
Less than two minutes later, a municipal police car honked and bulled its way through to stop in front of the hotel. Two officers in dark-blue pants and light-blue shirts jumped out, and the fake street vendors made a mistake: They showed no interest, which made the police immediately suspicious. Street vendors everywhere started looking over their shoulders when the police appeared. Seconds later, the phony vendors were in a shouting match with the officers.
Smith waited. Soon, the door of a large black sedan that had been parked across the street opened, and two men in street clothes got out. They pushed through the crowds, everyone cringing back, quickly giving them space.
Public Security Bureau. They joined the municipal policemen. One spoke sharply. Instantly, the police officers and the vendors turned their shouts onto the Public Security agents, each side screaming its case.
The vendors waved permits. The police pointed to the hotel. The Public Security people shouted back.
When a large black Lincoln stopped at the entrance and disgorged three European businessmen and three young Chinese women in slit dresses, Smith attached himself to their happy party, laughing with them as they sauntered into the lobby while a larger and larger crowd encircled the arguing police and vendors.
