The only way to approach a mammoth task was to divide it into manageable parts, and the minor challenge Kai had to deal with today was the United Nations resolution on the arms trade, proposed by the United States.
Countries such as Germany and Britain would support the US resolution routinely; others, such as North Korea and Iran, would equally automatically oppose it; but the outcome would depend upon the many non-aligned countries. Yesterday, Kai had learned that American ambassadors in several Third-World countries had petitioned their host governments to secure support for the resolution. Kai suspected that President Green was quietly mounting a massive diplomatic effort. He had ordered Guoanbu intelligence teams in every neutral country to find out immediately whether the government had been lobbied and with what success.
The results of that inquiry should be on his desk now.
He got out of the elevator on the top floor. There were three main offices here, belonging to the minister and the two vice-ministers. All three had support staff in adjacent rooms. Below this level, the headquarters organization was divided into geographical departments called desks – the US desk, the Japan desk – and technical divisions such as the signals intelligence division, the satellite intelligence division, the cyberwar division.
Kai went to his own suite of rooms, greeting secretaries and assistants as he passed through. The desks and chairs were utilitarian, made of laminated plywood and painted metal, but the computers and phones were state-of-the-art. On his own desk was a neat pile of messages from heads of Guoanbu stations in embassies around the world, replying to yesterday’s inquiry.
Before reading them he went into his private bathroom, took off his cycling clothes and showered. He kept a dark-grey suit here, one made for him by a Beijing tailor who had trained in Naples and knew how to achieve the relaxed modern look. He had brought with him in his backpack a clean white shirt and a wine-red tie. He dressed quickly and emerged ready for the day’s work.
As he feared, the messages showed that the American State Department had unobtrusively conducted an energetic and comprehensive lobbying campaign with considerable success. He came to the alarming conclusion that President Green’s UN resolution was on course to be passed. He was glad he had spotted this.
The UN had little power to enforce its will but the resolution was symbolic. If passed, it would be used by Washington as anti-Chinese propaganda. By contrast, its defeat would be a boost for China.
Kai picked up the bundle of papers and crossed the hallway to the minister’s rooms. He went through the open-plan office to the personal secretary’s room and said: ‘Is he free for something urgent?’
She picked up the phone and asked. After a moment she said: ‘Vice-Minister Li Jiankang is with him, but you can go in.’
Kai made a face. He would have preferred to see the minister alone, but he could not back out now. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and went in.
The Security Minister was Fu Chuyu, a man in his mid-sixties, a long-serving and reliable stalwart of the Communist Party of China. His desk was clear except for a gold-coloured pack of cigarettes, Double Happiness brand, plus a cheap plastic lighter and an ashtray made of a military shell case. The ashtray was already half full and there was a burning cigarette perched on its rim.
Kai said: ‘Good morning, sir. Thank you for seeing me so quickly.’
Then he looked at the other occupant of the room, Li Jiankang. Kai said nothing but his expression asked: What’s he doing here?
Fu picked up his cigarette, drew on it, blew out smoke, and said: ‘Li and I were just talking. But tell me why you wanted to see me.’
Kai explained about the UN resolution.
Fu looked grave. ‘This is a problem,’ he said. He did not thank Kai.
‘I’m glad I learned of it early,’ Kai said, making the point that he had sounded the warning before anyone else. ‘I think there’s still time to put matters right.’
‘We need to discuss this with the foreign minister.’ Fu looked at his watch. ‘The trouble is I’ve got to fly to Shanghai now.’
Kai said: ‘I’ll be happy to inform the Foreign Ministry, sir.’
Fu hesitated. He probably did not want Kai to speak directly to the minister: it put Kai on too high a level. The downside of being a princeling was that others resented it. Fu favoured Li, who was a traditionalist like himself. But he could not cancel a trip to Shanghai just to stop Kai talking to the foreign minister.
Reluctantly, Fu said: ‘Very well.’
Kai turned to leave, but Fu stopped him. ‘Before you go . . .’
‘Sir.’
‘Sit down.’
Kai sat. He had a bad feeling.
Fu turned to Li. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell Chang Kai what you told me a few minutes ago.’
Li was not much younger than the minister and he, too, was smoking. Both men had their hair cut like Mao’s, thick on the top and sides cut short. They wore the stiff boxy suits preferred by traditional old Communists. Kai had no doubt that they both regarded him as a dangerous young radical who needed to be kept in check by older, more experienced men.
Li said: ‘I’ve had a report from the Beautiful Films studio.’
Kai felt a cold hand grip his heart. Li’s job was to monitor discontented Chinese citizens, and he had found one in the place where Ting worked. It was almost certain to be someone close to Ting, if not herself. She was no subversive – in fact, she was not very interested in politics – but she was incautious, and sometimes said what came into her mind without pausing to reflect.
Li was getting at Kai through his wife. Many men would think it shameful to attack a man by threatening his family, but the Chinese secret service had never hesitated. And it was effective. Kai could withstand an assault on himself, but he could not bear to see Ting suffer on his account.
Li went on: ‘There have been conversations critical of the Party.’
Kai tried not to let his distress show. ‘I see,’ he said in a neutral voice.
‘I’m sorry to say that your wife, Tao Ting, participated in some of them.’
Kai directed a look of hatred and contempt at Li, who was clearly not sorry in the least. In fact, he was delighted to bring a charge against Ting.
This could have been handled differently. The comradely thing would have been for Li to tell Kai about the problem quietly, in private. But instead he had chosen to go to the minister, maximizing the damage. It was an act of naked hostility.
Kai told himself that such underhand tactics were the weapons of a man who knew he could not rise by merit. But this was small consolation. He was sick at heart.
Fu said: ‘This is serious. Tao Ting could be influential. She is probably more well known than I am!’
Of course she is, you fool, Kai thought. She’s a star, and you’re a narrow-minded old bureaucrat. Women want to emulate her. No one wants to be like you.
Fu went on: ‘My wife watches every episode of Love in the Palace. She seems to pay it more attention than the news.’ He was clearly disgruntled about this.
Kai was not surprised. His mother watched the show, but only if his father was out of the house.
Kai pulled himself together. With an effort he remained courteous and unruffled. ‘Thank you, Li,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you informed me about these allegations.’ He gave a distinct emphasis to the word allegations. Without directly denying what Li said, he was reminding Fu that such reports were not always true.
Li looked resentful at the implication, but said nothing.
‘Tell me,’ Kai went on, ‘who made this report?’
‘The senior Communist Party official at the studio,’ said Li promptly.
This was an evasive answer. All such reports came from Communist officials. Kai wanted to know the original source. But he did not challenge Li. Instead, he turned to Fu. ‘Would you like me to talk to Ting about this, quietly, before the might of the ministry is officially brought to bear?’