“Good evening, Mr. President,” she began. “The entire focus of my Desk, as I see it, is to monitor the single most important force at work in Chinese politics today: the worsening power struggle between the military and the civilians.” She drily recited several reports received by chance. All indications from Beijing were of mounting tensions. Six months earlier, the civilian prime minister had publicly warned the war-weary Chinese of the “grave risks of military adventurism.” All had interpreted that phrase to be a coded warning — for domestic political consumption — that nuclear war was a significant risk if the Chinese army invaded America. The civilians are now waiting in the wings, Clarissa explained, with an “I-told-you-so” should the American Campaign go poorly for the Chinese. “There is a chance,” Clarissa said hopefully, “that we can take advantage of the political instability in Beijing.”
She now had Bill’s complete attention. He opened his mouth to ask, “How?”
“Is there any sign of friction in our hemisphere?” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs asked first.
“Not yet,” Clarissa replied, “but Han Zhemin arrives in Cuba today, which could herald the start of the struggle.” She cast Bill a look of hidden significance.
Most furtively looked at the president, who stared at Clarissa. “Are you suggesting that I meet with Han?” Bill asked Clarissa. Art Dodd rushed to “clarify” his subordinates’ misunderstood position. “No,” Bill snapped, “it’s a legitimate question! All of you have read Time and Newsweek. Han Zhemin is a spoiled-rotten son of a bitch,” Bill said more loudly than he had meant, “but he was my roommate at Princeton and an acquaintance at graduate school and is, therefore, a legitimate personal contact that we might consider exploiting.”
Bill turned back to Clarissa. “Would you meet with Han? Negotiate our way into an alliance of sorts with the Chinese civilians as a means of undercutting the Chinese military?” Complete silence descended upon the room. Like a judge in a court, a president who was comfortable with his power could ask anyone anything. “Would you give away southern Florida to strengthen the civilians’ hand in the power struggle against the military? Or… or agree to some oppressive trade terms so that they can tout their prowess at diplomatic coercian? Or maybe disarm by treaty and live at the mercy of China’s benevolence forever,” Bill said, slamming his fist down and looking around the table, “if it would save eighty million Americans from incineration in nuclear war?”
Bill’s gaze sank to the table. He had spoken aloud the questions he had imagined putting to Clarissa’s father in a debate they would never have. He let Clarissa off the hook and took the step he knew he would have to take. He ordered the secretary of state to set up a meeting with Han Zhemin. Many were clearly stunned by his decision, but no one said a word. The president wagged his finger at everyone present and raised his voice. “I want this meeting kept so quiet that it never even happened!” He looked around the room, even at those who manned the walls. “I would consider it disloyalty to me personally — in the extreme—if anyone breathes a word of my planned meeting with Han outside this room.”
Without intending it, his gaze ended on Clarissa, and he turned away. She looked far more attractive than he recalled.
Clarissa’s people all worked late. She didn’t tell them to, they just did. All were JFK School of Government types, who generated huge quantities of electronic paper through which Clarissa had to wade. But in the process of discarding their memos and notes, she absorbed countless details and opinions. That had always been her knack. She wasn’t more educated than anyone else, necessarily, but she had the ability to synthesize patterns from information. Looking back over the last few years, Clarissa felt that she could’ve made decisions that would’ve changed the entire course of history for the better if only she had been in a position of power!
Support the Indians full-tilt. American air and seapower and Indian manpower. Stop China at the Himalayas. As it was, China seized India with fewer than a half million casualties. Spread across a 1.5–billion-person population, the Chinese families’ grief was swamped by the outpouring of national pride.
But even after India, President Peller could’ve stopped the Chinese in the Indian Ocean. Before they seized the Persian Gulf and Caspian Sea! They wouldn’t have had the fuel to power their non-nuclear fleets if Peller had only entered the fray! Clarissa’s father had told her an incredible story that was absolutely Top Secret, although whispers had long hinted at something. In the Battle of Diego Garcia four years earlier, the war-winning third Chinese fleet on its way to the rout of Europe’s navies had passed straight over American fourteen attack submarines, which lay in perfect ambush position. Peller had issued ironclad orders to the navy not to risk any confrontation with the Chinese. As a result, the American submarine commander had remained submerged, deep and quiet. Thirty minutes later, the skies above the European fleet had been black with Chinese warplanes.
Clarissa banged the keyboard suspended above her knees with her fist as she reclined in her chair. If only Peller had ordered those submarines to radio a warning and then attack! Clarissa raged. The man was a gutless fool!
Her flat screen binged. The computer thought she ought to look at three more memos before going home. A red “Paging” icon also appeared in the upper right-hand corner. She did nothing as the computer defaulted to “Answer.” A picture of a gold key indicated the video call was from a secure outside line.
A full-screen picture of her confused father appeared. “It beeped!” he yelled out to his secretary as he tapped to no effect on his keyboard.
“It’s me, Dad!” Clarissa said. She closed her office door in the faces of two curious passersby.
“That’s all right!” Tom Leffler shouted. “It’s Clarissa!” He looked so old as he peered straight into the camera. He could never find a mouse, but could always find a lens. “Thank God it’s you, Clarissa. I called you earlier.”
“I know, Dad. I was replying.” He was baffled. Clarissa more chastised than explained. “When you sat down at your desk, your intelligent agent told mine, and they jointly decided that this would be a good time for us to talk! I’ve explained the system to you before!”
“Does this have anything to do with that new key chain I have to carry?”
“You don’t have any keys anymore, do you Dad? It’s called a ‘remote,’ Dad! It’s an intelligent agent. It’s what unlocks your car. Takes care of your charges at restaurants, assuming you ever pay.”
“This is not what I called to talk to you about, Clarissa. But let me get my intelligent agent. Ms. Stewart! Could you close my door?” When it was done, he leaned toward the lens for a close-up. His face spread wide in the fish-eye lens. “Is your office secure?” She told him that it was swept every day. “I ask because,” Tom Leffler whispered, “they bugged my house.”