Chapter 27
Transportation
Diggs didn’t entirely like what he saw, but it wasn’t all that unexpected. A battalion of Colonel Lisle’s 2nd Brigade was out there, maneuvering through the exercise area—clumsily, Diggs thought. He had to amend his thoughts, of course. This wasn’t the National Training Center at Fort Irwin, California, and Lisle’s 2nd Brigade wasn’t the 11th ACR, whose troopers were out there training practically every day, and as a result knew soldiering about as well as a surgeon knew cutting. No, 1st Armored Division had turned into a garrison force since the demise of the Soviet Union, and all that wasted time in what was left of Yugoslavia, trying to be “peacekeepers,” hadn’t sharpened their war-fighting skills. That was a term Diggs hated. Peacekeepers be damned, the general thought, they were supposed to be soldiers, not policemen in battle dress uniform. The opposing force here was a German brigade, and by the looks of it, a pretty good one, with their Leopard-II tanks. Well, the Germans had soldiering in their genetic code somewhere, but they weren’t any better trained than Americans, and training was the difference between some ignorant damned civilian and a soldier. Training meant knowing where to look and what to do when you saw something there. Training meant knowing what the tank to your left was going to do without having to look. Training meant knowing how to fix your tank or Bradley when something broke. Training eventually meant pride, because with training came confidence, the sure knowledge that you were the baddest motherf*cker in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and you didn’t have to fear no evil at all.
Colonel Boyle was flying the UH-60A in which Diggs was riding. Diggs was in the jump seat immediately aft and between the pilots’ seats. They were cruising about five hundred feet over the ground.
“Oops, that platoon down there just walked into something,” Boyle reported, pointing. Sure enough the lead tank’s blinking yellow light started flashing the I’m dead signal.
“Let’s see how the platoon sergeant recovers,” General Diggs said.
They watched, and sure enough, the sergeant pulled the remaining three tanks back while the crew bailed out of the platoon leader’s M1A2 main battle tank. As a practical matter, both it and its crew would probably have survived whatever administrative “hit” it had taken from the Germans. Nobody had yet come up with a weapon to punch reliably through the Chobham armor, but someone might someday, and so the tank crews were not encouraged to think themselves immortal and their tanks invulnerable.
“Okay, that sergeant knows his job,” Diggs observed, as the helicopter moved to another venue. The general saw that Colonel Masterman was making notes aplenty on his pad. “What do you think, Duke?”
“I think they’re at about seventy-five percent efficiency, sir,” the G-3 operations officer replied. “Maybe a little better. We need to put everybody on the SimNet, to shake ’em all up a little.” That was one of the Army’s better investments. SIMNET, the simulator network, comprised a warehouse full of M1 and Bradley simulators, linked by supercomputer and satellite with two additional such warehouses, so that highly complex and realistic battles could be fought out electronically. It had been hugely expensive, and while it could never fully simulate training in the field, it was nevertheless a training aid without parallel.
“General, all that time in Yugoslavia didn’t help Lisle’s boys,” Boyle said from the chopper’s right seat.
“I know that,” Diggs agreed. “I’m not going to kill anybody’s career just yet,” he promised.
Boyle’s head turned to grin. “Good, sir. I’ll spread that word around.”
“What do you think of the Germans?”
“I know their boss, General Major Siegfried Model. He’s damned smart. Plays a hell of a game of cards. Be warned, General.”
“Is that a fact?” Diggs had commanded the NTC until quite recently, and had occasionally tried his luck at Las Vegas, a mere two hours up I-15 from the post.
“Sir, I know what you’re thinking. Think again,” Boyle cautioned his boss.
“Your helicopters seem to be doing well.”
“Yep, Yugoslavia was fairly decent training for us, and long as we have gas, I can train my people.”
“What about live-fire?” the commanding general of First Tanks asked.
“We haven’t done that in a while, sir, but again, the simulators are almost as good as the real thing,” Boyle replied over the intercom. “But I think you’ll want your track toads to get some in, General.” And Boyle was right on that one. Nothing substituted for live-fire in an Abrams or a Bradley.
The stakeout on the park bench turned out to be lengthy and boring. First of all, of course, they’d pulled the container, opened it, and discovered that the contents were two sheets of paper, closely printed with Cyrillic characters, but encrypted. So the sheet had been photographed and sent off to the cryppies for decryption. This had not proven to be easy. In fact, it had thus far proven to be impossible, leading the officers from the Federal Security Service to conclude that the Chinese (if that was who it was) had adopted the old KGB practice of using one-time pads. These were unbreakable in theoretical terms because there was no pattern, formula, or algorithm to crack.
The rest of the time was just a matter of waiting to see who came to pick up the package.
It ended up taking days. The FSS put three cars on the case. Two of them were vans with long-lens cameras on the target. In the meanwhile, Suvorov/Koniev’s apartment was as closely watched as the Moscow Stock Exchange ticker. The subject himself had a permanent shadow of up to ten trained officers, mainly KGB-trained spy-chasers instead of Provalov’s homicide investigators, but with a leavening of the latter because it was technically still their case. It would remain a homicide case until some foreign national—they hoped—picked up the package under the bench.
Since it was a park bench, people sat on it regularly. Adults reading papers, children reading comic books, teenagers holding hands, people chatting amiably, even two elderly men who met every afternoon for a game of chess played on a small magnetic board. After every such visit, the stash was checked for movement or disturbance, always without result. By the fourth day, people speculated aloud that it was all some sort of trick. This was Suvorov/Koniev’s way of seeing if he were being trailed or not. If so, he was a clever son of a bitch, the surveillance people all agreed. But they already knew that.
The break came in the late afternoon of day five, and it was the man they wanted it to be. His name was Kong Deshi, and he was a minor diplomat on the official list, age forty-six, a man of modest dimensions, and, the form card at the Foreign Ministry said, modest intellectual gifts—that was a polite way of saying he was considered a dunce. But as others had noted, that was the perfect cover for a spy, and one which wasted a lot of time for counterintelligence people, making them trail dumb diplomats all over the world who turned out to be nothing more than just that—dumb diplomats—of which the global supply was ample. The man was walking casually with another Chinese national, who was a businessman of some sort, or so they’d thought. Sitting, they’d continued to chat, gesturing around until the second man had turned to look at something Kong had pointed at. Then Kong’s right hand had slipped rapidly and almost invisibly under the bench and retrieved the stash, possibly replacing it with another before his hand went back in his lap. Five minutes later, after a smoke, they’d both walked off, back in the direction of the nearest Metro station.
“Patience,” the head FSS officer had told his people over the radio circuit, and so they’d waited over an hour, until they were certain that there were no parked cars about keeping an eye on the dead-drop. Only then had an FSS man walked to the bench, sat down with his afternoon paper, and pulled the package. The way he flicked his cigarette away told the rest of the team that there had been a substitution.
In the laboratory, it was immediately discovered that the package had a key lock, and that got everyone’s attention. The package was x-rayed immediately and found to contain a battery and some wires, plus a semi-opaque rectangle that collectively represented a pyrotechnic device. Whatever was inside the package was therefore valuable. A skilled locksmith took twenty minutes picking the lock, and then the holder was opened to reveal a few sheets of flash paper. These were removed and photographed, to show a solid collection of Cyrillic letters—and they were all random. It was a one-time-pad key sheet, the best thing they could have hoped to find. The sheets were refolded exactly as they had been replaced in the holder, and then the thin metal container—it looked like a cheap cigarette case—was returned to the bench.
“So?” Provalov asked the Federal Security Service officer on the case.
“So, the next time our subject sends a message, we’ll be able to read it.”
“And then we’ll know,” Provalov went on.
“Perhaps. We’ll know something more than we know now. We’ll have proof that this Suvorov fellow is a spy. That I can promise you,” the counterintelligence officer pronounced.
Provalov had to admit to himself that they were no closer to solving his murder case than they’d been two weeks before, but at least things were moving, even if the path merely led them deeper into the fog.
So, Mike?” Dan Murray asked, eight time zones away. ”No nibbles yet, Director, but now it looks like we’re chasing a spook. The subject’s name is Klementi Ivan’ch Suvorov, currently living as Ivan Yurievich Koniev.” Reilly read off the address. ”The trail leads to him, or at least it seems to, and we spotted him making probable contact with a Chinese diplomat.”
“And what the hell does all this mean?” FBI Director Murray wondered aloud into the secure phone.
“You got me there, Director, but it sure has turned into an interesting case.”
“You must be pretty tight with this Provalov guy.”
“He’s a good cop, and yes, sir, we get along just fine.”
That was more than Cliff Rutledge could say about his relationship with Shen Tang.
“Your news coverage of this incident was bad enough, but your President’s remarks on our domestic policy is a violation of Chinese sovereignty!” the Chinese foreign minister said almost in a shout, for the seventh time since lunch.
“Minister,” Cliff Rutledge replied. “None of this would have happened but for your policeman shooting an accredited diplomat, and that is not, strictly speaking, an entirely civilized act.”
“Our internal affairs are our internal affairs,” Shen retorted at once.
“That is so, Minister, but America has her own beliefs, and if you ask us to honor yours, then we may request that you show some respect for ours.”
“We grow weary of America’s interference with Chinese internal affairs. First you recognize our rebellious province on Taiwan. Then you encourage foreigners to interfere with our internal policies. Then you send a spy under the cover of religious beliefs to violate our laws with a diplomat from yet another country, then you photograph a Chinese policeman doing his duty, and then your President condemns us for your interference with our internal affairs. The People’s Republic will not tolerate this uncivilized activity!”
And now you’re going to demand most-favored-nation trade status, eh? Mark Gant thought in his chair. Damn, this was like a meeting with investment bankers—the pirate kind—on Wall Street.
“Minister, you call us uncivilized,” Rutledge replied. “But there is no blood on our hands. Now, we are here, as I recall, to discuss trade issues. Can we return to that agenda?”
“Mr. Rutledge, America does not have the right to dictate to the People’s Republic on one hand and to deny us our rights on the other,” Shen retorted.
“Minister, America has made no such intrusion on China’s internal affairs. If you kill a diplomat, you must expect a reaction. On the question of the Republic of China—”
“There is no Republic of China!” the PRC’s Foreign Minister nearly screamed. “They are a renegade province, and you have violated our sovereignty by recognizing them!”
“Minister, the Republic of China is an independent nation with a freely elected government, and we are not the only country to recognize this fact. It is the policy of the United States of America to encourage the self-determination of peoples. At such time as the people in the ROC elect to become part of the mainland, that is their choice. But since they have freely chosen to be what they are, America chooses to recognize them. As we expect others to recognize America as a legitimate government because it represents the will of her people, so it is incumbent upon America to recognize the will of other peoples.” Rutledge sat back in his chair, evidently bored with the course the afternoon had taken. The morning he’d expected. The PRC had to blow off some steam, but one morning was enough for that. This was getting tiresome.
“And if another of our provinces rebels, will you recognize that?”
“Is the Minister telling me of further political unrest in the People’s Republic?” Rutledge inquired at once, a little too fast and too glibly, he told himself a moment later. “In any case, I have no instructions for that eventuality.” It was supposed to have been a (semi) humorous response to rather a dumb question, but Minister Shen evidently didn’t have his sense of humor turned on today. His hand came up, finger extended, and now he shook it at Cliff Rutledge and the United States.
“You cheat us. You interfere with us. You insult us. You blame us for the inefficiency of your economy. You deny us fair access to your markets. And you sit there as though you are the seat of the world’s virtue. We will have none of this!”
“Minister, we have opened our doors to trade with your country, and you have closed your door in our face. It is your door to open or close,” he conceded, “but we have our doors to close as well if you so force us. We have no wish to do this. We wish for fair and free trade between the great Chinese people and the American people, but the impediments to that trade are not to be found in America.”
“You insult us, and then you expect us to invite you into our home?”
“Minister, America insults no one. A tragedy happened in the People’s Republic yesterday. It was probably something you would have preferred to avoid, but even so, it happened. The President of the United States has asked for you to investigate the incident. That is not an unreasonable request. What do you condemn us for? A journalist reported the facts. Does China deny the facts we saw on television? Do you claim that a private American company fabricated this event? I think not. Do you say that those two men are not dead? Regrettably, this is not the case. Do you say that your policeman was justified in killing an accredited diplomat and a clergyman holding a newborn child?” Rutledge asked in his most reasonable voice. “Minister, all you have said for the past three and a half hours is that America is wrong for objecting to what appears to be cold-blooded murder. And our objection was merely a request for your government to investigate the incident. Minister, America has neither done nor said anything unreasonable, and we grow weary of the accusation. My delegation and I came here to discuss trade. We would like the People’s Republic to open up its markets more so that trade can become trade, the free exchange of goods across international borders. You request a most-favored-nation trading relationship with the United States. That will not happen until such time as your markets are as open to America as America’s are open to China, but it can happen at such time as you make the changes we require.”
“The People’s Republic is finished with acceding to America’s insulting demands. We are finished with tolerating your insults to our sovereignty. We are finished with your interference in our internal affairs. It is time for America to consider our reasonable requests. China desires to have a fair trading relationship with the United States. We ask no more than what you give other nations: most favored nation.”
“Minister, that will not happen until such time as you open your markets to our goods. Trade is not free if it is not fair. We object also to the PRC’s violation of copyright and trademark treaties and agreements. We object to having industries fully owned by agencies of the government of the People’s Republic to violate patent treaties, even to the point of manufacturing proprietary American products without permission or compensation and—”
“So now you call us thieves?” Shen demanded.
“Minister, I point out that such words have not escaped my lips. It is a fact, however, that we have examples of products made in China by factories owned by agencies of your government, which products appear to contain American inventions for which the inventors have not been compensated, and from whom permission to manufacture the copies has not been obtained. I can show you examples of those products if you wish.” Shen’s reaction was an angry wave of the hand, which Rutledge took to mean No, thank you. Or something like that.
“I have no interest in seeing physical evidence of American lies and distortions.”
Gant just sat back in his chair while Rutledge made his injured reply, like a spectator at a prizefight, wondering if anyone would land the knockdown punch. Probably not, he thought. Neither had a glass chin, and both were too light on their feet. What resulted was a lot of flailing about, but no serious result. It was just a new kind of boring for him, exciting in its form, but dull in its result. He made some notes, but those were merely memory aids to help him remember how this had gone. It might make a fun chapter in his autobiography. What title, he wondered. Trader and Diplomat, maybe?
Forty-five minutes later, it broke up, with the usual handshakes, as cordial as the meeting had been contentious, which rather amazed Mark Gant.
“It’s all business, not personal,” Rutledge explained. “I’m surprised they’re dwelling on this so much. It’s not as though we’ve actually accused them of anything. Hell, even the President just asked for an investigation. Why are they so touchy?” he wondered aloud.
“Maybe they’re worried they won’t get what they want out of the talks,” Gant speculated.
“But why are they that worried?” Rutledge asked.
“Maybe their foreign-exchange reserves are even lower than my computer model suggests.” Gant shrugged.
“But even if they are, they’re not exactly following a course that would ameliorate it.” Rutledge slammed his hands together in frustration. “They’re not behaving logically. Okay, sure, they’re allowed to have a conniption fit over this shooting thing, and, yeah, maybe President Ryan pushed it a little too far saying some of the things he said—and Christ knows he’s a real Neanderthal on the abortion issue. But all of that does not justify the time and the passion in their position.”
“Fear?” Gant wondered.
“Fear of what?”
“If their cash reserves are that low, or maybe even lower, then they could be in a tight crack, Cliff. Tighter than we appreciate.”
“Assume that they are, Mark. What makes it something to be fearful about?”
“A couple of things,” Gant said, leaning forward in his limo seat. “It means they don’t have the cash to buy things, or to meet the payments on the things they’ve already bought. It’s an embarrassment, and like you said, these are proud people. I don’t see them admitting they’re wrong, or wanting to show weakness.”
“That’s a fact,” Rutledge agreed.
“Pride can get people into a lot of trouble, Cliff,” Gant thought aloud. He remembered a fund on Wall Street that had taken a hundred-million-dollar hit because its managing director wouldn’t back off a position that he’d thought was correct a few days earlier, but then stayed with after it was manifestly clear that he was wrong. Why? Because he hadn’t wanted to look like a p-ssy on The Street. And so instead of appearing to be a p-ssy, he’d proclaimed to the whole world that he was an ass. But how did one translate that into foreign affairs? A chief of state was smarter than that, wasn’t he?
It’s not going well, my friend,” Zhang told Fang.
“That foolish policeman is to blame. Yes, the Americans were wrong to react so strongly, but that would not have taken place at all if not for the overzealous police officer.”
“President Ryan—why does he hate us so?”
“Zhang, twice you have plotted against the Russians, and twice you’ve played your intrigue against America. Is it not possible that the Americans know of this? Is it not possible that they guessed it was the case? Has it not occurred to you that this is why they recognized the Taiwan regime?”
Zhang Han San shook his head. “This is not possible. Nothing was ever written down.” And our security was perfect in both cases, he didn’t trouble himself to add.
“When things are said around people with ears, Zhang, they remember them. There are few secrets in the world. You can no more keep the affairs of state secret than you can conceal the sunrise,” Fang went on, thinking that he’d make sure that this phrase went into the record of the talk that Ming would write up for him. “They spread too far. They reach too many people, and each of them has a mouth.”
“Then what would you have us do?”
“The American has requested an investigation, so, we give him one. The facts we discover will be whatever facts we wish them to be. If a policeman must die, there are many others to take his place. Our trading relationship with America is more important than this trivial matter, Zhang.”
“We cannot afford to abase ourselves before the barbarian.”
“We cannot not afford not to in this case. We cannot allow false pride to put the country at risk.” Fang sighed. His friend Zhang had always been a proud one. A man able to see far, certainly, but too aware of himself and the place he wanted. Yet the one he’d chosen was difficult. He’d never wanted the first place for himself, but instead to be the man who influenced the man at the top, to be like the court eunuchs who had directed the various emperors for over a thousand years. Fang almost smiled, thinking that no amount of power was worth becoming a eunuch, at the royal court or not, and that Zhang probably didn’t wish to go that far, either. But to be the man of power behind the curtain was probably more difficult than to be the man in the first chair ... and yet, Fang remembered, Zhang had been the prime mover behind Xu’s selection to general secretary. Xu was an intellectual nonentity, a pleasant enough man with regal looks, able to speak in public well, but not himself a man of great ideas ...
... and that explained things, didn’t it? Zhang had helped make Xu the chief of the Politburo precisely because he was an empty vessel, and Zhang was the one to fill the void of ideas with his own thoughts. Of course. He ought to have seen it sooner. Elsewhere, it was believed that Xu had been chosen for his middle-of-the-road stance on everything—a conciliator, a consensus-maker, they called him outside the PRC. In fact, he was a man of few convictions, able to adopt those of anyone else, if that someone—Zhang—looked about first and decided where the Politburo should go.
Xu was not a complete puppet, of course. That was the problem with people. However useful they might be on some issues, on others they held to the illusion that they thought for themselves, and the most foolish of them did have ideas, and those ideas were rarely logical and almost never helpful. Xu had embarrassed Zhang on more than one occasion, and since he was chairman of the Politburo, Xu did have real personal power, just not the wit to make proper use of it. But—what? Sixty percent of the time, maybe a little more?—he was merely Zhang’s mouthpiece. And Zhang, for his part, was largely free to exert his own influence, and to make his own national policy. He did so mostly unseen and unknown outside the Politburo itself, and not entirely known inside, either, since so many of his meetings with Xu were private, and most of the time Zhang never spoke of them, even to Fang.
His old friend was a chameleon, Fang thought, hardly for the first time. But if he showed humility in not seeking prominence to match his influence, then he balanced that with the fault of pride, and, worse, he didn’t seem to know what weakness he displayed. He thought either that it wasn’t a fault at all, or that only he knew of it. All men had their weaknesses, and the greatest of these were invariably those unknown to their practitioners. Fang checked his watch and took his leave. With luck, he’d be home at a decent hour, after he transcribed his notes through Ming. What a novelty, getting home on time.