The doctor shut the door as he left.
“I am all for Eastern medicine, Comrade Zhao,” the foreign minister said, offering a friendly smile, “but I will see to it that my doctor prescribes you some antibiotics.”
“I would appreciate that,” Zhao said. “This is a perfect example of how we must move forward. Herbs have their place, but there are times when one needs actual medicine.”
“If I may be so bold as to ask a question,” Li said.
“Of course,” Zhao said, swallowing two capsules of horny goat weed to hedge his bets.
“Do you think there is any chance the Americans are behind the sinking of the Orion?”
Zhao sighed. “It is possible. But to what end?”
“True,” Li said. “Truthfully, though, I would not put anything past Jack Ryan. He is, I believe, a man with much guile.”
“I do not think it is guile,” Zhao said. “It is determination. And that is sometimes more dangerous.”
“Again you are right,” Li said.
“There is something else on your mind, my friend?”
“You are an astute observer, Zhao Zhuxi,” Li said.
“Tell me.”
“I hesitate to bring it up, but I am concerned about your push against the wealthy of the party.”
Zhao waved that off. “I am not interested in wealth. You yourself are one of the wealthiest men I know. I am prosecuting corruption.”
“You know best, of course. I will see to your antibiotics. I hope your health improves quickly.” He gave a sly wink. “In the meantime, I must remind my wife of her conjugal responsibility to my health.”
Zhao gave a polite chuckle, letting the bawdy comment slide. He preferred to keep things on a loftier level when dealing with members of his cabinet. “I understand you are hosting a dinner party tomorrow.”
Li shook his head and shrugged. “Nothing special. General Ma will attend, as well as General Xu and a few other minor guests. Such periodic functions allow me to keep a finger on the pulse of Beijing.”
“General Xu of the Central Security Bureau?”
The foreign minister nodded. “Yes.”
“Be wary of that one,” Zhao said. “He gives me cause for concern.”
“How so?”
Zhao narrowed his eyes, studying the man across his desk. “He has . . . how shall I put this? A bad smell. I intend to make changes in that organization in the near future. The Central Security Bureau is, after all, tasked with your protection. I don’t want to see it turned into a personality cult. You should be watchful.”
“I appreciate your concern, Zhao Zhuxi, and I will be careful.”
“See that you do, my friend,” Zhao said. “I am very rarely wrong about my sense for a person’s character.”
The foreign minister gave him a passive smile. “That is interesting to note, Mr. Chairman.”
? ? ?
General Ma Xiannian exited the great hall that housed the general secretary’s office and turned left to make his way along one of the many wide pathways inside the high walls of the Zhongnanhai. His office was on the far side of the lake known as the Middle Sea, and he had to walk across a bridge to reach it. His status was such that he could have taken a cart, but the weather was dry and warm, and in any case, the walk allowed him to burn off some of his contempt for the young upstart who was now in charge of the party.
Deng Wenyuan, secretary of the Central Committee for Discipline Inspection, met the general before he reached the bridge. It was a well-known fact in the intelligence world that people stopped to chat on bridges, making them perfect spots in which to hide listening devices. People who wanted to speak openly avoided them, as well as any of the many benches that graced the parklike setting.
Secretary Deng was impeccably dressed in a dark business suit tailored especially for him in London on a recent junket. The CCDI oversaw the Propaganda and Organization Department, and as such had the power to sway and even direct public opinion.
The two men exchanged greetings, bowing slightly to each other. They kept their tone civil and their faces passive. Because they were senior members of the party, there was no doubt that passersby would pay them close attention, even while pretending not to do so.
“And?” Secretary Deng asked.
“It went as you might expect,” Ma said, keeping his words vague. He was thinking Pitiful, disastrous, unconscionable, but he said, “Disappointing.”
“Something must be done,” Deng said.
“And it is,” Ma said. “Even as we speak.”
“Something drastic?”
General Ma smiled. “Something final.”
10
Jack Ryan, Jr., parked the maroon Dodge Avenger across a side street from a weathered brick building in a sad parking lot tucked in off Harry Hines Boulevard. He and Chavez had purchased the car with cash from a dealership in East Dallas, on the off chance that someone had seen the rattle-can Taurus. Ryan now wore a shaggy wig with bleached-blond surfer tips pulled snuggly over his dark hair, just covering his ears. It was an expensive piece of equipment that looked ridiculously real and, he hoped, made him look a little less like the son of the President of the United States.
A large sign above the windowless building bore the red-neon outline of a busty woman bending over and peeking around her own thigh.
Ryan nodded toward the sign and mused. “Chicas Peligrosas,” he read.
Ding Chavez translated from the passenger seat of the Dodge. “Dangerous girls.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Even I could figure that one out.”
Chavez held a two-foot Yagi directional Wi-Fi antenna out his open window toward the front door of the Dangerous Girls strip club. The simple device resembled a miniature ladder made of a single aluminum bar with short aluminum cross-sections running along its length. Chavez fiddled for a few moments with the connected laptop, scrolling through a string of twelve-digit Bluetooth addresses, searching for Eddie Feng’s phone.
“Our tango’s in there, all right,” he said over the net, and then shot a glance at Ryan. “Don’t beat yourself up because you’re not multilingual, ’mano. You’re a damned savant when it comes to analysis.”
“Thanks for that,” Ryan said. “But I’ve decided I’m going to start working on my Russian.”
Chavez shut his computer and set it and the Yagi antenna on the floorboard at his feet. He opened the door and grinned. “We all got our individual strengths. You can’t help it if yours is staring at spreadsheets.”
Ryan laughed as he followed Chavez toward the double front doors of Chicas Peligrosas.
“You know I’m joking, right?” Chavez said.
Ryan patted Chavez on the back. “I learned a long time ago, if you’re not giving me shit, then something is terribly wrong.”
“Jack knows you love him,” Clark said over the net. “How about you guys go get us some intel on Eddie Feng?”
“Copy that,” Chavez said.