Premier has his plans, although he hasn’t yet made me a full party to them.”
He turned to the window to watch yet another battalion march out the main gate, arms swinging high and rifles slung. He turned back to the colonel. “In the meantime, my friend, we have our orders to carry out. See to it that they are carried out expeditiously. The Premier has stressed the need for haste in this matter.”
“Of course, Comrade General.” The colonel saluted and left to hurry things along. Assembling an airborne division of more than nine thousand men took constant attention.
Choi Ki-Wan, a survivor of more than forty years of deadly intrigue, was as cautious in his choice of words as he was in his basic nature. “You have some further word from our mutual, ah, ‘friend’?”
Tai Han-Gi, the minister of communications, smiled indulgently at his older colleague on North Korea’s Politburo. The man was right to fear eavesdropping by Kim Jong-Il’s security forces, but there were, after all, certain advantages to commanding all communications facilities throughout the whole People’s Republic. And they included access to the latest Japanese antibugging equipment. Tai had no fear of Kim Jong-Il spies within the confines of his own office.
He folded his hands. “Indeed, Comrade Choi. I have heard much from our ‘friends’ within these past few hours.”
“Do they offer a solution to our common problem?”
Tai nodded and said flatly, “Yes.” Then he learned closer to the older man. “Actions are being taken now that should give us the opening we need. But there can be no hesitation, no wavering when the time comes for us to act. We are playing a high stakes game — a game with infinite rewards for the victors and infinite torments for the losers. You understand?”
He read the momentary indecision on Choi’s face and wondered if it might prove necessary to arrange a speedy accident for his old comrade in arms. He hoped not. It would be both personally painful and dangerous. Kim’s agents were everywhere.
To his relief Choi’s uncertain resolve hardened.
“Yes, I understand. Well, we must bear those risks. There is no other way to preserve our Revolution.”
Or to preserve our own positions and privileges, Tai thought cynically. No matter, he had Choi’s commitment, and with it the collaboration of all the older man’s supporters. His patrons outside Pyongyang would be pleased.
The five men crowding the Oval Office could not conceal their restlessness. The President paced ceaselessly, his face haggard from too many sleepless nights. Paul Bannerman, the secretary of state, paced beside him, looking equally worn and rumpled. South Korea’s ambassador, Kang Ki-baek, sat motionless by the fireplace, gazing intently into the dancing flames. Blake Fowler sat beside him, all too conscious of his own bleary, red-rimmed eyes, crumpled suit jacket, and notepad filled with nervous doodlings. Only Admiral Simpson seemed outwardly calm as he stood beside the President’s desk, staring out the window at his own reflection.
“Phil, what’s the latest word from Brown’s task force?”
Blake looked up.ThePresident had stopped pacing and nowstood shoulder to shoulder with the admiral.
Simpson glanced at the taller man. “The Soviet strike group is still closing, sir. Tom estimates they’ll cross into his declared exclusion zone within five hours. After that he’ll have just over an hour before the Russians get within missile range of his carriers.” The admiral squared his shoulders. “He’ll have to have permission to hit them before that happens, Mr. President.”
The President nodded absentmindedly and crossed the room back to Bannerman. “Well, where the hell is he, Paul? What are those folks in Beijing playing at? First their ambassador asks for an immediate meeting and now he’s late getting here.”
Bannerman looked to Blake for rescue. “Any ideas, Dr. Fowler? After all, you’re the China expert here.”
“I’m sure it’s not an intentional delay, Mr. President,” Blake said, hoping he was right. Too many lives depended on this meeting to contemplate being wrong. “The NSA says the signals traffic between the ambassador and Beijing has been extremely heavy all day. I suspect their embassy staff has had problems keeping up with the high-level decoding required.”
The President stared at him for a moment without speaking and then resumed his pacing.
His phone buzzed softly and he reached across the desk to get it. “Yes? Okay, June, send him right in.” The President hung up and turned to face the others. “The ambassador’s car just pulled up. He’ll be up shortly.”
Shortly was something of an understatement. The Chinese ambassador was ushered into the room two minutes later. And despite his evident hurry, he’d obviously taken great care in dressing. His perfectly pressed charcoal-gray suit, white shirt, and red tie made the small, prim man look more like a prosperous Hong Kong banker than the emissary of the world’s most populous communist nation. It also made Blake feel scruffy in comparison.
“Mr. President, I am deeply honored that you have agreed to receive me at this late hour.” The ambassador bowed slightly and straightened. “I hope you will forgive me for this inexcusable delay.”
The President donned his warmest “campaign” smile and stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “There’s nothing to forgive, Mr. Ambassador. As always, I’m delighted to see you.”
The two men shook hands and moved to a pair of chairs closer to the fire. South Korea’s ambassador settled himself beside them.
The Chinese ambassador wasted little time with the usual diplomatic pleasantries. He reached into the leather briefcase he’d brought with him and pulled out a sheaf of papers bearing the official seal of the People’s Republic. “I have my government’s response to your request that we aid you in bringing this unfortunate war to an end.”
He handed a copy to both the President and the South Korean ambassador.
As the two men scanned the documents, Blake felt his heart speeding up and pressed a hand hard onto his right knee to keep it from trembling visibly in nervous anticipation. He watched the President’s face closely and felt his hopes sink as he saw the Chief Executive arch an eyebrow. Had the Chinese refused them or set impossible conditions on their help?
At last the President looked up from his reading and stared hard at the ambassador. “Your government’s answer seems” — he searched visibly for the right word — ”somewhat tentative, Mr. Ambassador. Much seems to depend on events over which we have little control.”
He handed the papers to Bannerman and turned to South Korea’s ambassador. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Kang?”
The South Korean nodded somberly.
The Chinese emissary sat farther forward in his chair, an earnest and amiable smile on his lips. “Mr. President, Mr. Ambassador, please. It is true that there are certain, ah, conditional aspects to our reply to your proposal.” He glanced at his watch. “However, I have been personally assured by my Premier that, even as we speak, actions are being taken that will ensure that those conditions are met.”
Bannerman gave the Chinese reply to Blake, who scanned it quickly — astounded by the grand political design it described in such short, simple words. He stared for a moment at the papers, with his mind half a world away as he tried to assess the diplomatic and military pressures now set in motion. Would they be enough?
He felt the President’s eyes on him, looked up to meet them, and nodded. What the Chinese intended just might work. Hell, it had to work. There wasn’t time to try anything else.
The President nodded back. Blake’s unspoken assessment matched his own instinctive reaction. They’d have to hope that the Chinese knew what they were doing. He sat back in his high-backed Georgian chair. “Very well, Mr. Ambassador. We’ll wait with you for these ‘conditions’ to materialize.” He forced a smile. “In the meantime, can we offer your something to drink? Tea, or perhaps something stronger?”
The ambassador smiled back. “Thank you, Mr. President. Tea would be most welcome.”
“Splendid.” The President looked at his watch and frowned. He reached into an inner pocket, pulled out a pen and small notepad, and scribbled a quick note. He motioned to the admiral still standing by the window. “Phil, could you arrange for this to be sent immediately? I don’t want any unfortunate accidents while there’s still hope that this thing can be settled.”
Simpson crossed the room and read the note. It was addressed to Admiral Thomas Aldrige Brown. He nodded abruptly and left the Oval Office at a fast walk. Time was running out in the Yellow Sea.
