War of Eagles

THIRTY-TWO

Beijing, China Wednesday, 8:00 P.M.

Being a guest in China was a little like making a souffle. If you opened the door at the wrong time, the result wouldn’t be a happy one.

Unlike their counterparts in Washington, dignitaries in China did not arrive fashionably late for a party. Not only was it considered extremely bad manners, it assured the latecomer that he or she would be ignored. The Chinese were very good at turning away from or looking through someone who was ungracious.

Arriving early was also considered discourteous, an imposition on the host’s charity. The result, of course, was an inevitable bottleneck at the door. But there was a benefit to that as well. People were obliged to meet and chat with whomever was standing around them under the long, long canopy that led to the street. The canopy was only erected for receptions. It was a gesture so guests would not feel as though they were waiting outside, exposed to elements and passersby. That would have been considered bad manners.

In Hood’s case, he ended up chatting with two people he did not know. A third individual was one he did recognize, a Chinese national who worked for the Beijing bureau of the Washington Post. Hood did not want to talk to him. The man did not recognize Hood, and he wanted to keep it that way. A good reporter would not simply accept, “I happened to be in Beijing, and the ambassador invited me,” as a reason for being here.

Presenting his back to the reporter left Hood facing the Brazilian ambassador and his wife. They looked to be in their sixties. The woman was wearing a small diamond engagement ring, which suggested that she was the original Mrs. Ambassador. The man was a former architect who was admiring the Huabiao, an ornamental marble pillar engraved with twining dragons and ominous clouds. He said that the origin of the Huabiao dated to the legendary kings Yao and Shun, who ruled some 4,000 years ago. He said that they were originally wooden columns used as landmarks for travelers.

His wife smiled benignly. She was a historian, a professor at Pontificia Universidade Catolica do Rio de Janeiro. The handsome, gray-haired woman was on sabbatical to be with her husband during his tenure.

“The Biaos were not that,” she said, addressing Hood. “They evolved from a pole called a Biao, which was used in building much more recently, around 700 B.C. The Biao was placed in the ground to determine plumb and to mark the boundaries of construction. As larger structures came to be built, stone Biaos were used. By 400 B.C., they had become part of the structure.”

“While we are here, we are collecting data to ascertain which of us is right,” the ambassador said with a smile for his wife. He added pragmatically, “Whichever of us wins or loses, scholarship benefits.”

Hood smiled. There was something sweet about their rivalry. The couple had found an activity that allowed them to be together yet still individual. He envied them that.

They made it through the door and into the ballroom after nearly ten minutes. Their names were checked against a master list by men wearing formal black Chinese military uniforms. Though Hood and most of the guests were dressed formally, the Chinese made no attempt to evoke the dynasties or Western styles. This was a show of traditional Red Chinese influence and authority. Inside, the Chinese leaders were dressed in tuxedos with necks reminiscent of the high-collared Mao jacket.

The American ambassador was already working on a martini as he chatted with the prime minister through a young female interpreter. Hood felt a flash of anger, not because the man had Le Kwan Po’s ear but because Hasen did not have to wait in line. The feeling passed when the ambassador saw Hood and waved him over. Simultaneously, Hasen excused himself and walked toward Hood. He was glad to see that. Hood did not know who he was supposed to be or why he was here. That was something he was to have discussed with the ambassador before coming. He knew only that he was posing as an observer attached to the embassy.

The room was already loud with chatter, the voices a combination of English and everything else, most notably the clucking sounds of the Chinese tongue. The ambassador put a hand on Hood’s shoulder as he brought him forward.

“Sorry I couldn’t meet you earlier,” Hasen said. The very tall, round ambassador spoke softly, his voice nearly swallowed by the din. “The prime minister wanted to meet with someone, and I had to arrange it quickly.”

“Someone obviously more important than a special envoy to the president,” Hood said with a trace of sarcasm.

“In this instance, yes,” Hasen said. “It was a friend of yours, actually. General Mike Rodgers.”

Hood frowned. He had not yet conferred with Rodgers about coordinating their work here, because he was not yet sure what needed to be done. Obviously, that had not stopped Mike.

Hood did not get to follow up because they reached the prime minister’s side. Le Kwan Po had been distracted by someone who was speaking through his own translator. The Russian ambassador, from the sound of it. The man looked vaguely familiar, and Hood wondered if they had met before. It was possible. He had been to Russia and had worked closely with Sergei Orlov, his counterpart at the Russian Op-Center in Saint Petersburg.

My former counterpart, Hood reminded himself. Orlov was still running that facility.

Hasen took that moment to present Hood to the young woman who had been translating for them.

“Paul, allow me to introduce Ms. Anita Le, daughter of the prime minister,” Hasen said. “Ms. Le, this is Mr. Hood. Paul Hood. He is a presidential aide sent here and there to make sure administration policy is being upheld.”

“The president should have more faith in his ambassadors,” Anita said to both men.

“Some of us fall victim to a variation of the Stockholm syndrome,” the ambassador remarked.

“You start to empathize with your hosts,” Anita said.

“Speaking of hosts, I’m going to see if I can recapture the prime minister,” Hasen said. “Will you excuse me?”

“Of course,” Anita said.

Hasen left, and Hood asked Anita if she would like a drink. She said yes and motioned to a waiter. The whitejacketed young Chinese hurried over. She asked for champagne. Hood ordered a Coke.

“Do you not drink?” the woman asked.

“Rarely,” Hood replied. “I like to remember what I hear. More important, I like to remember what I said.”

“Moderation, Mr. Hood.”

“Not something Americans are very good at,” he replied.

“I understand. When I was in school I read novels by Mr. Hemingway and Mr. Fitzgerald. The men were always drinking too much.”

“The authors, too, I fear.”

The woman smiled. Anita Le was a striking woman. She was dressed in a sequined white gown that did justice to her slender, athletic figure. She had straight black hair with hints of red and a round, open face with large eyes. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties. She had poise that came from years of negotiating the sharp edges of life.

Hood glanced over at Hasen. He was still trying to insert himself into a conversation with the prime minister. The crowd around him had grown considerably.

“Is this your first visit to Beijing?”

“It is,” Hood replied. “Do you work full-time as a translator?”

“No. I teach literature at Beijing University. You can tell a lot about the ethos of a culture from its fiction.”

“Do you follow contemporary literature or just the classics?”

“I stay as current as time allows,” she said. “Though I must confess I have no particular interest in most of the work being produced by your country right now. Most of it is wish fulfillment for women and men, with very little to offer both. That divides rather than unites a culture.”

“You mean romances for the women and spy stories for the men.”

“Yes.”