Kong was the same age as Kai, but he looked younger; in fact, he looked like a precocious student, with his carefully disarranged hair style and his cheeky grin. In Chinese politics most people were careful to look conservative – as Kai was – but Kong allowed his appearance to advertise his liberal attitudes. Kai liked his nerve.
Wu said: ‘The demand arrived late yesterday, though I knew it was coming, thanks to advance intelligence from the Guoanbu.’ He looked at Fu Chuyu, who bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, happy to take the credit for Kai’s work.
Wu said in conclusion: ‘The message comes from Supreme Leader Kang U-jung to our president, Chen Haoran, and it is our task today to advise President Chen on his response.’
Kai had thought in advance about this meeting and he knew how the discussion would go. There would be a clash between the Communist old guard on the one hand and the progressive element on the other. That much was predictable. The question was how the conflict would be resolved. Kai had a plan for that.
Kong Zhao spoke first. ‘With your permission, director,’ he began, perhaps compensating for his earlier disrespectful attitude; and Hu nodded. Kong said: ‘In the past year or more the North Koreans have blatantly defied the Chinese government. They have mischievously provoked the South Korean regime in Seoul with minor incursions into their territory, both on land and at sea. Worse, they have continued to stir up international hostility by testing long-range missiles and nuclear warheads. This led to the United Nations imposing trade sanctions on North Korea –’ he held a finger up for emphasis – ‘those sanctions being one of the principal reasons for their continued economic crises!’
Kai nodded agreement. Everything Kong said was true. The Supreme Leader was the author of his own problems.
Kong went on: ‘Our protests have been ignored in Pyongyang. We must now punish the North Koreans for defying us. If we do not, what conclusion will they draw? They will think they can continue their nuclear programme, and thumb their noses at UN sanctions, because Beijing will always step in and save them from the consequences of their actions.’
Hu said: ‘Thank you, Kong, for those characteristically trenchant comments.’ Across the table from Kong, General Huang Ling was drumming his blunt fingers on the polished woodwork, desperately impatient to speak. Hu noticed and said: ‘General Huang.’
Huang was a friend of Fu Chuyu and of Kai’s father, Chang Jianjun. All three were members of the powerful National Security Commission, and shared a hawkish view of international affairs. ‘Allow me to make a few points,’ Huang said. His voice was an aggressive growl, and he spoke Mandarin with a harsh Northern Chinese accent. ‘One: North Korea forms a vital buffer zone between China and American-dominated South Korea. Two: If we refuse aid to Pyongyang, the government there will collapse. Three: There will immediately be an international demand for so-called “reunification” of North and South Korea. Four: Reunification is a euphemism for takeover by the capitalist West – remember what happened to East Germany! Five: China will end up with its implacable enemy on its border. Six: This is part of the Americans’ long-term encirclement plan whose ultimate aim is to destroy the People’s Republic of China the way they destroyed the Soviet Union. I conclude that we cannot refuse aid to North Korea. Thank you, director.’
Hu Aiguo looked faintly baffled. ‘Both of these perspectives make a good deal of sense,’ he said. ‘Yet they contradict one another directly.’
Kai said: ‘Director, if I may, I do not have the experience or wisdom of my older colleagues around the table, but it so happens that I debriefed a high-level North Korean source just the day before yesterday.’
‘Go ahead, please,’ said Hu.
‘North Korea has six weeks’ supply of food and other essentials. When that runs out, there will be mass starvation and social breakdown – not forgetting the danger of millions of starving Koreans walking across the border and throwing themselves on our mercy.’
Huang said: ‘So we should send them aid!’
‘But we also would like to punish their bad behaviour by withholding our help.’
Kong said: ‘We have to, otherwise we lose all control!’
Kai said: ‘My suggestion is simple. Refuse help now, to punish Pyongyang; but send aid in six weeks, just in time to prevent the collapse of the government.’
There was a moment of silence as they took this in.
Kong spoke first. ‘That’s an improvement on my proposal,’ he said generously.
‘It might be,’ said General Huang reluctantly. ‘The situation would have to be closely monitored, day by day, so that if the crisis is worse than expected, we can bring forward the dispatch of aid.’
Hu said: ‘Yes, that would be essential, thank you, general.’
Kai saw that his plan was going to be accepted. It was the right solution. He was on a roll.
Hu looked around the table. ‘If everyone is in agreement . . .?’
No one demurred.
‘Then we will propose this to President Chen.’
CHAPTER 12
Tamara and Tab were both invited to the wedding, but separately: their relationship was still secret. They arrived in different cars. Drew Sandberg, head of the press office at the American embassy, was marrying Annette Cecil from the British mission.
The marriage took place at the palatial home of a British oil man who was a relative of Annette’s, and the guests crowded into a large air-conditioned room with awnings shading the windows.
It was a humanist ceremony. Tamara was intrigued: she had never been to such a wedding before. The celebrant, a pleasant middle-aged woman called Claire, spoke briefly and sensibly about the joys and challenges of marriage. Annette and Drew had written their own vows, and said them with such feeling that Tamara teared up. They played one of her favourite old songs, ‘Happy’ by Pharrell Williams. She thought: If I ever get married again, I want it to be like this.
Four weeks ago she would not have had that thought.
She glanced discreetly across the room at Tab. Did he like the ceremony? Did the vows touch his emotions? Was he thinking about his own wedding? She could not tell.
The oil man had offered his house for the party, as well as the ceremony, but Annette had said that her friends were rowdy and might wreck the place. After the service, the bride and groom went to register their marriage and the guests were directed to a large local restaurant that had closed to the public for the day.
The place was owned by Christian Chadians who made North African food and had no problem serving alcohol. There was a big dining room fragrant with spicy cooking, plus a shaded courtyard where a fountain played. The buffet was mouth-watering: crisp golden sweet-potato fritters garnished with fragrant cut limes; a goat stew with okra that had the kick of chillies; fried millet doughballs called aiyisha with a peanut sauce dip; and more. Tamara particularly liked a brown-rice salad made with cucumber and banana slices in a spicy honey dressing. There was Moroccan wine and Gala beer.
The guests were mostly younger members of the N’Djamena diplomatic circuit. Tamara talked for a while to Nick Collinsworth’s secretary, Layan, a tall, elegant Chadian woman who had studied in Paris, as Tamara had. Layan had a somewhat aloof manner, but Tamara liked her. They talked about the wedding ceremony, which they had both enjoyed.
At the same time Tamara was constantly aware of Tab, and had to make an effort not to follow him around the room with her eyes, though she always knew where he was. She had not yet spoken to him. Every now and again she met his glance and looked away without acknowledging him. She felt as if she was walking around in a space suit, unable to touch or speak to him.
Annette and Drew reappeared dressed in party gear and looking deliriously happy. Tamara stared, envying them.
A band started playing and the party began to swing. Tamara at last allowed herself to talk to Tab. ‘Boy, oh boy, this is difficult,’ she said quietly. ‘Pretending we’re still no more than colleagues.’
He had a bottle of beer in his hand, to look convivial, but he had drunk hardly any. ‘For me, too.’