“Eating at him?” Ryan finished her sentence.
“Yeah,” Foley said. “Ed liked to say Pat acted like his collars were too tight, even when he wore a T-shirt. We chuckled about that later when we found out he’d left the Agency to take his vows with the priesthood. Talk about tight collars…”
“That’s the thing,” Ryan said. “He’s not merely my friend. He’s one of us. Reluctant, conflicted, sure, but still one of us. And he obviously veered out of his clerical swim lane to find out more about this Calliope thing, whatever it is.”
Foley let him go on without interruption.
Ryan looked directly into her eyes. “What if it were you over there, Mary Pat? What would I not do to save you?”
“I have no doubt,” Foley said.
“President Gumelar won’t want to be a puppet of China,” Ryan said. “I can leverage that.”
“Maybe,” Foley said. “But a cryptic text isn’t much proof that China is involved.”
“I know.” Ryan leaned back, drumming his fingers on the desk. “I have a feeling something is unrolling faster than we can react. Father Pat’s been in custody for almost a month, if our information is correct. That’s a hell of a lot of catching up to do. Hang on a minute.” He punched the intercom button on his phone.
His lead secretary answered immediately.
“Three things, Betty,” Ryan said. “Ask Arnie to come back in, would you please? Then get Gary Montgomery and Ted Randall to come see me. Lastly, have Communications set up a call for me with the president of Indonesia as soon as it can be arranged.”
Montgomery was the special agent in charge of Ryan’s Secret Service detail. Randall was the director of the White House Military Office, the man who coordinated travel with Special Air Mission — the planes that served as Air Force One.
Foley took a deep breath. “Jack, it’s a little early in the game for you to be rushing off to Indonesia. There’s still a lot we don’t know.”
“Believe me”—Ryan gave a disdainful shake of his head—“Secret Service, White House Advance, HMX-1, and everyone else who has to jump through hoops for my travel will be happy that I’m letting them know now.”
“Happy might not be the right word.”
“They’re pros,” Ryan said. “And I’ll know more once I talk to President Gumelar. In the meantime, we have to find out what this Mr. Ackerman knows.”
“Jack,” Mary Pat said softly. “There is an avenue we haven’t explored.”
Ryan gave a slow nod, reaching a conclusion.
“To be honest,” he said, “I was just considering using them on this.”
“I wouldn’t be doing my job as your adviser and friend if I didn’t bring it up,” Foley said. “But I would be equally culpable if I didn’t remind you that you should ponder hard on Arnie’s advice. This scenario could be exactly what Senator Chadwick is looking for.”
“Let me worry about her,” Ryan said. “Ackerman could be the key. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not too keen on waiting around on bureaucracy while Father Pat stews in an Indonesian prison. I want Ackerman located ten minutes ago. They’ll be able to do it quickly and cleanly.”
“Understood, Mr. President,” Foley said. “I’ll make the call.”
16
General Song Biming sat in one of the plastic chairs at the back of the great hall, as far as possible from the heavier lapels who occupied the foremost rows. In a gathering of this many high-ranking generals, those like Song, who wore only a single star, might well be asked to serve the tea.
There was no assigned seating, but generals of the five theater commands, rocket forces, and other assorted three-stars customarily took the softer seats directly in front of the raised dais along with PLA Navy admirals at the chairman’s feet. The boot-licking sycophant, Lieutenant General Bai, sat among them.
Chairman Zhao did not seem to care who sat where, so long as they attended his mandatory meetings when they were in Beijing. The civilian commander in chief of the Central Military Commission liked to stay in contact with his leaders, looking them directly in the eye, checking their pulses — and their impulses — to see what they were up to. Military leaders could smell weakness, and there were many who would pounce on Zhao at the slightest stumble if he let them. Chairman Zhao understood this, and displayed his power periodically, figuratively cutting off the head of some person who thought himself indispensable. These sacrificial lambs were always a drain on the party, unloved by their peers, but often highly placed with important — but not so important as to make a difference — families. Song was reminded of the story when the emperor challenged Sun Tzu, the great Chinese warrior philosopher, to train the emperor’s concubines to march in formation like soldiers. Sun Tzu had taken up the challenge. The tittering women had shown up on the parade field, spoiled and hungover from drink. Try as he might, the great warrior could not get the concubines to listen to his direction — until he asked which among them was the emperor’s favorite. A sly-eyed woman had slinked forward, only to have Sun Tzu immediately draw his sword and cut off the favorite’s head. The other concubines fell quickly into line, marching in perfect order in no time.
Chairman Zhao was a benevolent dictator, but no one around him was ever completely safe from being turned into a lesson. Even benevolent people had bad days, suffered lapses in judgment, lost their tempers. As chairman of the Central Military Commission, general secretary of the Chinese Communist Party, and paramount leader, there were few aspects of Chinese life where Zhao did not exercise near-absolute control. One bad day affected many careers — many lives. Heavy was the crown, as the saying went, but over the years he’d developed an extremely strong neck while consolidating his presidency.
There were, of course, always reminders that any position at the top was inherently unstable, not the least of which was the bullet hole his predecessor had left in the wall behind the desk when he’d shot himself. Zhao had elected not to repair the hole, covering it with a painting instead, reminding himself and everyone else who knew it was there to be more cautious than his predecessor. Most respected Zhao for the authority he’d brought back to Beijing, to his office, and most especially for what he was doing to raise China’s star on the world stage.
The title Chairman had gradually gone out of style after Mao Zedong, giving over to the friendlier-sounding President. Zhao truly was a friendly human being — most of the time. He did, however prefer his title of guojia zhuxi be translated as State Chairman, believing it sounded more Chinese.
Today, Zhao Zhuxi had spent more than an hour speaking to his military commanders as a group, quizzing them, testing them, keeping them on their toes. Coups were not unheard of in China. Zhao himself had faced a particularly bloody one when his own foreign minister had attempted to usurp control of the country. The American President had helped save the day, which could have made Zhao appear weak. But the foreign minister and his entire family — a wife and teenage son — had been wiped from the face of the earth, if not by Zhao’s order, certainly with his blessing.
Benevolent indeed, until he was crossed.
Such harshness was necessary. A country of 1.3 billion people needed a strong hand to govern it. That strong hand needed generals and admirals and police chiefs whom he could trust.
General Song was old enough to know that he did not know much in the great scheme of the world. But of two things he was sure: He genuinely liked Chairman Zhao — and he was glad he wasn’t him.
As usual, the meeting broke up with the chairman stepping down off the dais to mingle with the attendees. Side tables with food had been set up along the walls, and most people took advantage of Zhao’s hospitality and excellent dumpling chefs. Lieutenant General Bai made a beeline directly for the chairman, intercepting him as he reached the floor. He’d wanted a meeting, but Zhao had been unable, so he was obviously lying in wait. Song drifted that way, curious to hear what fantastical deeds General Bai was claiming responsibility for this time.