The Bear and the Dragon

American government knew what had happened in Beijing long before the government of the People’s Republic did. What appeared in the White House Office of Signals appeared also in the State Department’s Operations Center, and there the senior officer present had decided, naturally enough, to get the information immediately to the U.S. Embassy in Beijing. There Ambassador Carl Hitch took the call at his desk on the encrypted line. He forced the caller from Foggy Bottom to confirm the news twice before making his first reaction, a whistle. It wasn’t often that an accredited ambassador of any sort got killed in a host country, much less by a host country. What the hell, he wondered, was Washington going to do about this?

“Damn,” Hitch whispered. He hadn’t even met Cardinal DiMilo yet. The official reception had been planned for two weeks from now in a future that would never come. What was he supposed to do? First, he figured, get off a message of condolence to the Vatican mission. (Foggy Bottom would so notify the Vatican through the Nuncio in Washington, probably. Maybe even Secretary Adler would drive over himself to offer official condolences. Hell, President Ryan was Catholic, and maybe he would go himself, Hitch speculated.) Okay, Hitch told himself, things to do here. He had his secretary call the Nuncio’s residence, but all he got there was a Chinese national answering the phone, and that wasn’t worth a damn. That would have to go on the back burner … what about the Italian Embassy? he thought next. The Nuncio was an Italian citizen, wasn’t he? Probably. Okay. He checked his card file and dialed up the Italian ambassador’s private line.

“Paulo? This is Carl Hitch. Thanks, and you? I have some bad news, I’m afraid … the Papal Nuncio, Cardinal DiMilo, he’s been shot and killed in some Beijing hospital by a Chinese policeman … it’s going to be on CNN soon, not sure how soon … we’re pretty certain of it, I’m afraid … I’m not entirely sure, but what I’ve been told is that he was there trying to prevent the death of a child, or one of those late-term abortions they do here … yeah … say, doesn’t he come from a prominent family?” Then Hitch started taking notes. “Vincenzo, you said? I see … Minister of Justice two years ago? I tried to call over there, but all I got was some local answering the phone. German? Schepke?” More notes. “I see. Thank you, Paulo. Hey, if there’s anything we can help you with over here … right. Okay. Bye.” He hung up. “Damn. Now what?” he asked the desk. He could spread the bad news to the German Embassy, but, no, he’d let someone else do that. For now … he checked his watch. It was still short of sunrise in Washington, and the people there would wake up to find a firestorm. His job, he figured, was to verify what had happened so that he could make sure Washington had good information. But how the hell to do that? His best potential source of information was this Monsignor Schepke, but the only way to get him was to stake out the Vatican Embassy and wait for him to come home. Hmm, would the Chinese be holding him somewhere? No, probably not. Once their Foreign Ministry found out about this, they’d probably fall all over themselves trying to apologize. So, they’d put extra security on the Nuncio’s place, and that would keep newsies away, but they’re not going to mess with accredited diplomats, not after killing one. This was just so bizarre. Carl Hitch had been a foreign-service officer since his early twenties. He’d never come across anything like this before, at least not since Spike Dobbs had been held hostage in Afghanistan by guerrillas, and the Russians had screwed up the rescue mission and gotten him killed. Some said that had been deliberate, but even the Soviets weren’t that dumb, Hitch thought. Similarly, this hadn’t been a deliberate act either. The Chinese were communists, and communists didn’t gamble that way. It just wasn’t part of their nature or their training.

So, how had this happened? And what, exactly, had happened?

And when would he tell Cliff Rutledge about it? And what effect might this have on the trade talks? Carl Hitch figured he’d have a full evening.

The People’s Republic will not be dictated to,” Foreign Minister Shen Tang concluded.

“Minister,” Rutledge replied, “it is not the intention of the United States to dictate to anyone. You make your national policy to suit your nation’s needs. We understand and respect that. We require, however, that you understand and respect our right to make our national policy as well, to suit our country’s needs. In this case, that means invoking the provisions of the Trade Reform Act.”

That was a big, sharp sword to wave, and everyone in the room knew it, Mark Gant thought. The TRA enabled the Executive Branch to replicate any nation’s trade laws as applied to American goods, and mirror-image them against that nation’s own goods. It was international proof of the adage that the shoe could sure pinch if it was on the other foot. In this case, everything China did to exclude American manufactured goods from the Chinese marketplace would simply be invoked in order to do the same to Chinese goods, and with a trade surplus of seventy billion dollars per year, that could well mean seventy billion dollars-all of it hard currency. The money to buy the things the PRC government wanted from America or elsewhere wouldn’t be there anymore. Trade would become trade, one of mine for one of yours, which was the theory that somehow never became reality.

“If America embargoes Chinese trade, China can and will do the same to America,” Shen shot back.

“Which serves neither your purposes nor our own,” Rutledge responded. And that dog ain’t gonna hunt, he didn’t have to say. The Chinese knew that well enough without being told.

“And what of most-favored-nation status for our country? What of entry into the World Trade Organization?” the Chinese foreign minister demanded.

“Mr. Minister, America cannot look favorably upon either so long as your country expects open export markets while closing your import markets. Trade, sir, means trade, the even exchange of your goods for ours,” Rutledge pointed out again-about the twelfth time since lunch, he reckoned. Maybe the guy would get it this time. But that was unfair. He already got it. He just wasn’t acknowledging the fact. It was just domestic Chinese politics projected into the international arena.

“And again you dictate to the People’s Republic!” Shen replied, with enough anger, real or feigned, to suggest that Rutledge had usurped his parking place.

“No, Minister, we do no such thing. It is you, sir, who tried to dictate to the United States of America. You say that we must accept your trade terms. In that, sir, you are mistaken. We see no more need to buy your goods than you do to buy ours.” Just that you need our hard cash a damned sight more than we need your chew toys for our fucking dogs!

“We can buy our airliners from Airbus just as easily as from Boeing.”

This really was getting tiresome. Rutledge wanted to respond: But without our dollars, what will you pay for them with, Charlie? But Airbus had excellent credit terms for its customers, one more way in which a European government-subsidized enterprise played “fair” in the marketplace with a private American corporation. So, instead he said:

“Yes, Mr. Minister, you can do that, and we can buy trade goods from Taiwan, or Korea, or Thailand, or Singapore, just as easily as we can buy them here.” And they’ll fucking well buy their airplanes from Boeing! “But that does not serve the needs of your people, or of ours,” he concluded reasonably.

“We are a sovereign nation and a sovereign people,” Shen retorted, continuing on as he had before, and Rutledge figured that the rhetoric was all about taking command of the verbiage. It was a strategy that had worked many times before, but Rutledge had instructions to disregard all the diplomatic theatrics, and the Chinese just hadn’t caught on yet. Maybe in a few more days, he thought.

“As are we, Minister,” Rutledge said, when Shen concluded. Then he ostentatiously checked his watch, and here Shen took the cue.

“1 suggest we adjourn until tomorrow,” the PRC foreign minister said.

“Good. I look forward to seeing you in the morning, Minister,” Rutledge responded, rising and leaning across the table to shake hands. The rest of the party did the same, though Mark Gant didn’t have a counterpart to be nice to at the moment. The American party shuffled out, downstairs toward their waiting cars.

“Well, that was lively,” Gant observed, as soon as they were outside.

Rutledge actually had himself a nice grin. “Yeah, it was kind of diverting, wasn’t it?” A pause. “I think they’re exploring how far bluster can take them. Shen is actually rather a sedate kind of guy. He likes it nice and gentle most of the time.”

“So, he has his instructions, too?” Gant wondered.

“Of course, but he reports to a committee, their Politburo, whereas we report to Scott Adler, and he reports to President Ryan. You know, I was a little mad about the instructions I had coming over here, but this is actually turning into fun. We don’t get to snarl back at people very often. We’re the U.S. of A., and we’re supposed to be nice and calm and accommodating to everybody. That’s what I’m used to doing. But this-this feels good.” That