The car continued to the front door of the main building, a Victorian-style mansion. Hood was met by a man who seemed to be about Hood’s age. He was short, thin, with a closely cropped mat of salt-and-pepper hair and a smartly tailored suit. His eyes were narrow and his forehead creased. He seemed too tense to be a diplomat.
“Mr. Hood, I’m Wesley Chase, the ambassador’s executive secretary,” the man informed him.
That explained it. This was the man who did all the work. Hood shook his hand and entered the embassy ahead of him. A marine guard sat at a desk in a large, open foyer. There was a six-foot-high omniglass wall in front of him — thick and explosion-proof. A blast in front of it would be directed back outside. The wall ran the length of the big receiving area. The only way in or out was a revolving door to the right of the desk. Mr. Chase told Hood to stand in the doorway. He placed a card on the scanner to the left. The door turned once, sweeping Hood with it. Chase stepped into the next slot, placed the card on the scanner, and the door moved again.
“You have to be quick or you lose your arm,” Chase said with a laugh when he reached the other side.
Hood knew that all this security was not just to protect the embassy from bombers and assassins. It was also to keep defectors safe. Several times each week, Chinese nationals came here seeking asylum. Some were dissidents, some simply wanted to be reunited with family in Taiwan, others wanted a better life in the United States. Rarely was political haven granted. Refusal was not simply a matter of accommodating the host government but of thwarting them. It was difficult to know which refugee was sincere and which was a potential spy. That was why so many Chinese ended up on the boats of people like Lo Tek.
The two men passed a large antechamber that was already beginning to fill with both American and Chinese citizens looking for help. The application fee for a visa cost one hundred dollars, whether the request was honored or not. Still they came, the Chinese who earned twice that a month — if they were lucky.
Hood was shown to one of the guest quarters. Chase told him the ambassador would be down to breakfast with him in about an hour. Hood’s luggage arrived as Chase was leaving. Tim Bullock set up a stand and hoisted the large bag on top. He asked if Hood wanted anything hung up or set out.
“No thanks,” Hood replied, and Bullock turned to go. Hood called out to him. “Hold on. Your tip.”
“Sir, we don’t—”
“Not that kind,” Hood said. He approached the young man.
“I know you said it’s ‘problematic,’ but don’t neglect the dating. It’s not enough to have professional acquaintances, even close ones. To make it through this business you need a home and a partner. The
Bullock smiled. Maybe he was pleased with the sentiment or just with the fact that someone had actually paid attention to him. Drivers tended to be the most invisible people in the dipco.
“Thank you for the tip, sir,” Bullock said. “I’ll get to work on that. Are you sure I can’t help with your baggage?”
Hood grinned and shook his head. Bullock left, leaving Hood with his suitcase — and his baggage. Hood hoped the kid would take his advice. Nancy Jo had once inspired him to overachievement, and a chat with Gloria Lynch- Hunt had helped get him through a miserable day. The attentions of former Op-Center press secretary Ann Farris had forced him to take a closer look at the health of his marriage.
Politics was a lot like that. The prize was at the top, and the participants became seduced by the heights and the worldview. Some of their senses were numbed by the rarified air. As they became more and more cloistered in the high tower, they also became protected by layers of security until the scrutiny of a Watergate or Irangate punched through and took lives. The intelligence community managed to avoid that problem because their coin was not personal access but information.
But perspective was a lesson Bullock would have to learn himself, if he learned it at all. He had ideals from Philadelphia, but he was already in the system and speaking the lingo. Faced with opportunity, ideals could be postponed or forgotten. Most career politicians Hood had known went a lifetime without ever looking back on the good reasons that may have brought them to public office.
Hood finished unpacking, then stretched out on the twin bed. It had been a very long time since he had traveled. It felt strange to put his head on a pillow that was not his own.
Getting out of Washington gave Hood a chance to look back on the events of the last few days. As much as he did not like the way things had played out, he could hardly consider himself abused. He was abroad in the service of the president, of the nation, of the world.
Intelligence personnel had to catch the balls that slipped through the gloves of the diplomats. Men like Hood and Bob Herbert and General Carrie went to work so that other Americans could pursue their lives without fear or compromise. It was difficult work. It was also dangerous and exhausting. And there was no one to grab the balls they missed. But there was one thing of which Hood never lost sight. The work was stressful and damned difficult, but it was not a burden.
It was the playing field of Franklin, Adams, and Jefferson.
It was a privilege.
TWENTY-SIX
Though General Tam Li held all his bases in high regard, he preferred the facility to which he was headed now. The Zhuhai base was the home of the PLA’s Macao forces, key players in his master plan. Macao was only six square miles, a narrow peninsula connected to the mainland by an even narrower isthmus. It was the oldest European settlement in China and had been administered by Portugal since 1557. Yet most of the inhabitants were Chinese, and the hilly, rocky peninsula adjoined the Guangdong province in southeastern China.
Tam Li wanted it for China. And one day he would have it. But first, his larger objective must be realized.
The general traveled to Zhuhai on board a Gazelle helicopter gunship. He did not do so for his personal security. He did it because ordinary citizens enjoyed seeing military aircraft. They always stopped what they were doing to look up. It inspired them, and it made them feel safe, more productive.
Soon it would give them much more.
The trip from the isolated military sector of the Beijing Capital Airport took a little over three hours, with a quick refueling stop in Wuhan. The general was at his desk by nine-thirty for the eleven o’clock meeting.
The other seven members of the Central Military Committee arrived at different hours throughout the morning. The generals and admirals had come from Beijing, Shanghai, Hong Kong, and other cities across the nation. They came separately and discreetly, by air. This was not one of the committee’s regular monthly meetings, and the men did not want to attract attention by gathering in Beijing or traveling together. Besides, the way Chou Shin was attacking Tam Li’s interests, the officers did not want to be out and about with him. None of them put it past the Guoanbu to assassinate the general. Especially if Chou found out what Tam Li was planning.
The irony, Tam Li knew, was that Chou would probably approve of the plan but for one thing. It would shift the balance of influence in Beijing from the old-line Communists to the more capitalistic-minded military. That was something Chou Shin would never permit.
The officers had all assembled by eleven. They gathered in the small tactics room down the hall from Tam Li’s office. The pale green walls were covered with maps printed on plastic sheets. Military planners could write on them with grease crayons, which could then be erased. The budget of the People’s Liberation Army did not include wallsize monitors linked to computers.
