General Ma gave a somber nod, as did Premier Cao. Again, Foreign Minister Li did not outwardly agree with the admiral. It was not lost on Colonel Huang, however, that neither did he offer support to President Zhao. He merely sat in his padded chair and smiled a benign smile that Huang suspected was as cancerous as any politician’s in all of China. But Zhao considered Minister Li a friend, so the colonel simply watched and said nothing. Politicians of any stripe made him feel as though he’d downed a mouthful of spoiled milk. He preferred black-and-white realities to the intrigue of party politics—though the duties of protecting the paramount leader put the colonel and his men afoul of politicians on a daily, if not an hourly, basis.
General Secretary Zhao, on the other hand, thrived on the brinksmanship. He was obviously skilled at it, having gained the attention of Deng Xiaoping and his faction of princelings within the Standing Committee of the Politburo. He’d followed in Deng’s footsteps as mayor of Chongqing in the early nineties, and like his predecessor, Zhao was an economic reformer. He was not, however, so quick to order crackdowns like Tiananmen—a propensity that some feared made him appear weak to the Western world.
Zhao leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Admiral, China is powerful enough that we need not rise every time America dangles a baited hook. There are other ways of achieving our aims than by the rattling of sabers.”
Huang braced himself as Admiral Qian nearly came out of his chair.
“With respect, Zhao Zhuxi,” Qian said. “The Americans would sing a different song if we do more than rattle those sabers. Ryan made China look the fool under President Wei. The people of our country are weary of the bullying will of a nation on the other side of the world.”
Zhao cocked his head to one side. “Do you insinuate that China looks the fool under my leadership?”
“I do not, Zhao Zhuxi,” the admiral said, not quite backing down. “I merely mean to advise perceptions.”
Zhao’s jaw muscles flexed.
“The Americans can send their warships to our waters as much as they wish, but we have a major advantage over them.” Zhao nodded for effect. “We are already here. Even a man as bellicose as President Ryan will not provoke anything more than a war of words unless we ourselves raise the stakes.”
Admiral Qian continued to bluster. “As you say, Zhao Zhuxi, our ships are already here—and could easily demonstrate our true strength to the Americans—and the people of China.”
“Oh,” Zhao said. “China is far from weak, gentlemen. We do, however, have a severe problem with greed and corruption. I prefer we focus on getting our own house in order for the time being—and I expect each of you to do just that.”
“Even so,” Admiral Qian said. “The container ship—”
The paramount leader raised his hand once more, this time signaling it was time to move on. The admiral, unaccustomed to taking such orders, seemed to swell even more than usual with unspoken words. Had Huang been less of a professional, he would have laughed out loud.
“I assure you,” Zhao said, “if the Americans had anything to do with sinking the Orion, I will take decisive action.”
The white phone on Zhao’s desk buzzed, but he did not answer it, apparently expecting the signal. He stood, grimacing a little at the effort.
The others in the room rose with him, which is what one did for the most powerful man in China, even if they did not agree with him.
“Gentlemen,” Zhao said. “You must excuse me.” The men began to file out the door next to Huang, but the chairman spoke again. “Foreign Minister Li,” he said.
Li paused at the threshold, close enough that Huang got a noseful of his strong cologne.
“Would you be so kind as to remain a moment?”
Li Zhengsheng turned and gave a slight bow toward the man who had appointed him. “Of course, General Secretary.”
Zhao motioned to a chair and then turned toward a door that led to his private restroom, to the right of his desk.
“Please excuse me for a moment,” he said. “This meeting was agonizingly long.”
Huang took a step away from the wall, but Zhao waved him off.
“You may go now, Colonel,” Zhao said.
Huang paused, waiting, as if hoping Zhao might change his mind.
The paramount leader gave a forced smile, obviously in severe discomfort. “I will be fine, Huang,” he said. “Minister Li is like a brother to me.”
“Very well, sir,” Colonel Huang said. “I will remain outside the door. Please call if you need me.”
Colonel Huang closed the office door behind him, certain that he’d just left the man whom he was charged with protecting in the room with an extremely deadly snake.
? ? ?
The general secretary finished in his private restroom two agonizing minutes later. When he returned to his office, he found a small, skeletal man seated beside the foreign minister in front of his desk. The new arrival’s thinning gray hair revealed a strong crop of liver spots on a high forehead. He wore a white lab coat and black tie. His shirt pocket was stuffed with an array of expensive fountain pens, the way a military man might wear his medals.
“Dr. Hou.” Zhao regarded the man with a curt nod.
Both Hou and Foreign Minister Li stood and remained standing until Zhao was seated.
“Zhao Zhuxi,” the doctor said in a voice much too deep for his small stature. “Your secretary showed me in. I hope you do not mind.”
“Not at all,” Zhao said. “I trust that you read my notes and now you have some good news for me.”
Dr. Hou was one of three staff doctors serving within the walls of the Zhongnanhai. He was old enough to be Zhao’s father—possibly even his grandfather—and dispensed advice with great pomposity, as if he were Confucius himself. The other two doctors were attending some medical training in Nanjing until the following day. Zhao found himself in dire straits or he never would have summoned this man.
The doctor lifted his nose toward the ceiling and fluttered his eyelashes as if he were explaining something very simple to a small child. “I read your description of the ailment. General fatigue, pain, and difficulty in passing water, slight fever. Tell me, does it feel as if you are sitting on a stone?”
Zhao nodded. “You might say that,” he said.
The doctor took a bottle of pills from the pocket of his lab coat and pushed them across the desk. “No doubt the general secretary is suffering from an acutely aggravated prostate. I would prescribe two of these capsules three times a day. The pills are quite large, so be certain to take them with plenty of fluids. I also suggest a marked increase in the frequency of physical congress between the general secretary and Madame Zhao.”
Zhao took the pill bottle and rolled it around in his palm. “Swallowing a large pill will be an easy task when compared to the remainder of your prescription.” The notion of explaining to his wife that the doctor ordered them to have more sex would have been comical had he not been in so much pain. “What is in the capsules? Antibiotics?”
The doctor shook his head. “Yin yang huo,” he said.
“Horny goat weed?” the foreign minister repeated.
“And saw palmetto,” the doctor added. “A very effective remedy when combined with the increased—”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Zhao said.
Foreign Minister Li looked away, as if biting his tongue.
All three men were silent for a long moment and then the doctor said, “Was there anything else, General Secretary?”
Zhao shook his head. “No,” he said. “That will be all. I appreciate your diagnosis.”