“Hell and damnation!” the vice president breathed.
The president simply nodded. “We expected something, Stevens.”
“Yessir, we did. But this is bolder than I figured from what I heard of your meeting with the ambassador.” “I agree,” Castilla said. “A submarine threatening a frigate that’s threatening a cargo ship doesn’t leave a great deal of wiggle room for anyone.” Erikson asked, “How powerful is a Chinese submarine, Admiral?”
Brose’s brow furrowed. “That’d depend on its class. Commander Chernko on the Crowe has some experience with Chinese subs from when he served in Seventh Fleet’s Task Force 75 around the Taiwan Strait. He and his sonar technician think the sub’s an old Han class. That’d be logical, since the majority of their operational subs are Hans. But it could be the more powerful Xia back at sea once again. It’d almost certainly be modified and updated … or even a new class, launched in secret. We know they’ve been working on a better boat for years.” Erikson pressed, “But what’s their power like?”
“The Crowe should be able to handle a Han on its own, although you never know for sure what upgrades there could be. With the Xia, it’s hard to say. We know little about it except that the design’s had problems and that it’s definitely stronger than the Han class. If it’s a new class, then the Crowe’s in a bad way, playing Russian roulette.”
Erikson looked worried as the president asked the admiral, “You have some ideas about why the Chinese’s reaction is so big?”
“Beyond muscle flexing for internal consumption, no, sir. They could be trying to show us they’re stronger now than at the time of the Yinhe and eager to challenge us in the international arena.”
The president frowned. “Demanding respect, you might say.”
“That’s it, sir,” Brose said. “Maybe it’s a hint to our allies to beware, too.”
“Probably an effective hint,” the president added grimly. He drank coffee. “Of course, it could be that someone there overreacted.”
“A mistake?” Erikson considered. “That’s really frightening, Sam.”
“What if it’s deliberate? What if it’s some Standing Committee hardliner who wants to scare his own people by escalating the confrontation?”
Brose exhaled. “That’d mean there’s a power struggle inside the walls of Zhongnanhai.”
The president nodded. “If that’s so, the Empress could become the line in the sand between the factions. With us in the middle, too, the situation could turn catastrophic.”
“With fingers on the buttons, the world would end up in the middle.”
Brandon Erikson shook his head worriedly. “In the Cuban missile crisis, you remember, the Soviets sent subs to shadow our blockade ships. One of their skippers was so furious he gave the order to prepare to fire a torpedo into us. The other Soviet commanders had to talk him out of it.
That was far too close for anyone’s comfort, on either side of the Cold War.”
“It can happen,” Brose admitted. “Chervenko’s a steady man, but you never know what strain will do. Truthfully, I’m more worried about the Chinese sub commander. God knows what in hell’s going on in his mind.”
The trio lapsed into anxious silence.
At last, Brose grunted and heaved a sigh. “What do you want to do, Mr. President?”
“Is the Chinese sub making any aggressive moves?”
“Chervenko says not.”
“Then we continue exactly what we’re doing.”
“There’s not a lot of time left, sir.”
“I know.”
Vice President Erikson said, “It’s getting to the brink, Sam. Isn’t it time to inform the country? The cabinet. Congress. The people? They should know what we’re facing and against whom. We have to be prepared for the worst. We have to prepare them.”
The vice president and admiral studied the president where he sat at the table, his eyes staring at something only he could see.
At last, he nodded unhappily. “I suppose you’re right. But we’ll bring in only the cabinet and Congress for now. Brandon, talk to our key people on the Hill. I’ll convene the cabinet. When it’s time to alert the public, I’ll let you know. But not right now. Not yet.” The vice president said, “Are you sure it’s wise to leave them uninformed? If this thing blows up in our faces, it won’t look good for you.”
“There’ll be a war of words before anyone shoots.”
“And if there isn’t?” Erikson pressed.
“That’s why I get paid to stay up all night with a bellyache, Brandon.
To take the risk. I won’t cry wolf until I see an actual one. That’s a dangerous game that wears people down so that after a while they no longer listen to warnings. When I cry wolf, it’s because there’s a real damn wolf, dripping fangs and all. That way I know people will listen.”
Admiral Brose agreed. “That’s how I’d play it, Mr. President. Better we concentrate on facts and evidence.”
The worldwide headquarters of Donk & Lapierre was a four-story brick building built in 1610 in the usual Flemish step style. Because it was convenient to her apartment — just north of the Meir and not far from the Grote Markt, the Kathedrale, and the Schelde River — Dianne Kerr decided to walk to her appointment with Louis Lapierre, chairman and managing director. The receptionist immediately sent her up to the top floor.
There an excited young man hurried to greet her. “Mademoiselle Kerr, what an honor. I read your novel Marionette with great interest. I’m Monsieur Lapierre’s private secretary, and he is eager to speak with you. Please come this way.”
The corridors of the old building were narrow, but the ceilings were high, graced by tall windows. The same was true of Louis Lapierre’s private office. It was relatively small — heating was a problem in the seventeenth century— but high-ceilinged, with tall windows, a handsome fireplace, and a view across Antwerp’s vast docks.
The managing director himself was small and slender, with an Old World elegance in dress and manner. “Ah, Mademoiselle Kerr,” he said in meticulous English with only the slightest French accent. “I have, of course, read your books. They are, shall we say, most exciting. Such adventures, such intrigue, such deviousness, and so vivid. I particularly enjoyed The Monday Men. How could you know so much about assassins? Surely you were a covert operator yourself?”
“No, Monsieur Director,” Kerr said modestly and completely inaccurately.
One did not talk about being MI6. That credo had been broken in recent years, even by some of those whom she had thought trustworthy.
Fortunately, most still adhered to the code. Besides, for an adventure novelist, it was probably wise not to invite speculation as to the possible truth of her plots.
Lapierre laughed. “I doubt that, Mademoiselle Kerr, but please sit and tell me the purpose of this visit.”
Kerr chose a wood-and-brocade Flemish chair. It was thoroughly uncomfortable. “In a single word, research.”
“Research?” Lapierre arched an eyebrow. “You are planning a thriller about Donk & Lapierre?”
“An adventure novel concerning the eighteenth-and nineteenth-century China trade. I thought it would be interesting to do something historical for a change. Your company’s renowned, of course. I believe the original Jan Donk Importers had their start even before then.
Correct?”
“Quite true. You wish, then, to examine our archives?”
“With your permission.”
“Of course, of course. Our directors enjoy the right kind of publicity.
They will be delighted.” Lapierre smiled and then appeared to have a sudden thought that concerned him. “But are you aware that our archives — in fact, all of our records up to today — are here in this building?”
Kerr acted startled as she lied smoothly, “No, I didn’t. You mean … they’re still active? All of them, back to the sixteenth century?”
Lapierre nodded. “Of course, early records were few, and trade was far simpler then. Those from the
