“If Liang were to offer a public apology, we would listen. However, we think it unlikely that he will do so.” Dunne stared at Tian, looking for any crack in the performance. He found none. “He is in danger of losing reelection,” Tian explained. “History teaches that desperate men often deflect scrutiny from their own deficiencies by turning the public attention to an external threat. And Liang likely believes that the United States will intervene on Taiwan’s behalf should we respond with more than words. I hope that your country’s past encouragement of Taiwan’s rebellious attitudes does not now drag us all into an unpleasant confrontation.”
“We have not encouraged independence,” Dunne said. “Our position has been to have both sides treat each other with respect.”
“And yet you have sold them weapons,” Tian countered.
“For self-defense only,” Dunne said. It was a weak protest, he thought. A gun was a gun. Two years to retirement and I get to head off a war. He knew his next suggestion would be futile. “We would hope that you would refer the matter to the UN Security Council for deliberations.”
Tian shook his head. “The Security Council has no place in resolving internal disputes.”
Tian’s meaning was quite clear. China has a permanent seat on the Council and a veto. You know a Security Council resolution won’t pass. Why waste time playing that game?
Dunne suppressed an inappropriate smile. He’d been speaking the subtle language of diplomats for decades and he was good at it. Better than good, in fact. It made him feel young to engage in the back-and-forth of subtle meanings hidden in delicate phrases. It was why he stayed on the job at an age when almost all his peers were retired. “Some would dispute that this is an internal affair, despite Taiwan’s size and proximity to your coast,” he said. To buy time. You don’t want a shooting war with Taiwan to get dragged out. Big country, small island — no one likes a bully.
“I hope that your nation would not be one of those. We have the right to maintain order within our borders.” Is the United States prepared to recognize a declaration of independence by Taiwan? Don’t intervene.
“Maintaining order can be a delicate task, as you know, where a soft hand is often required.” Let’s not see another Tiananmen Square, or worse.
“Indeed. Both determination and a firm hand are often needed to manage such events.” We’ll do it.
“Force is not the only tool that can secure peace. We would hope that an offer to mediate would be accepted by both sides.” Taiwan will accept our help, especially if it’s backed up by the US Navy.
“Your offer is appreciated, but the United States could best help us keep the peace by abstaining.” Tian took his time before speaking again. “Ambassador Dunne, if I may be blunt…?”
Dunne nodded. Straightforward talk was a diplomat’s knife — useful but dangerous if misused. Still, there was no polite way to reject it. “Of course.”
“In 1995, there was an unpleasant confrontation with the province. Your President Clinton sent an aircraft carrier into the Strait — the Nimitz, I believe. General Xiong Guangkai answered by saying that ‘you care more about Los Angeles than you do about Taipei.’”
What? Dunne lost his composure for a moment. He would have realized that it was the first time in his recent memory, had he been thinking about it. Instead his thoughts turned to fighting his urge to come out of his chair. “Are you—”
Tian held up his hand and Dunne stopped midquestion. “I enjoy the history of your country very much,” Tian said. “I have enjoyed studying the confrontation over Cuba with the Soviet Union in 1962. President Kennedy was quite masterful, I think. Still, the opportunity for miscommunication was so great. The world has never been so close to nuclear war.”
“It was Kennedy’s finest hour,” Dunne agreed. Tian had twisted the conversation and the American had lost his sense of direction. He suddenly felt like he was blind.
“Yes. His death was a great loss. He might have gone on to do great things.” Tian’s admiration for America’s youngest president seemed genuine. The Chinese president paused, whether to gather his thoughts or for dramatic emphasis Dunne couldn’t tell. “My own generals can be bellicose when their passions are aroused, and Taiwan is a passionate issue for us. Should your president choose to send your navy into our Strait, I want no miscommunication. We are reasonable men, unlike the stupid, selfish man in Taipei who is causing us both so much trouble.”
“I appreciate your candor,” Dunne said.
“If there is to be a confrontation, a good leader must consider the peace that is to come after the war, something I’m afraid your country has often failed to do. But if we do find ourselves at odds, your president certainly must care more for your navy than for Taipei.”
Dunne sat silent long enough for the silence to feel uncomfortable. He felt off-balance, inadequate, like his old skills in assembling diplomatic answers had abandoned him. He turned Tian’s last words around in his head over and over. “That would not be my decision to make,” he said finally. “I’m sure that President Stuart would be willing to discuss the matter.” It was the best answer he could find, but it was still weak.
“Of course.” Tian placed both hands on the table. “I wish to share with you a copy of the speech that I will give in response to President Liang’s remarks,” he said, taking the conversation down another path again. Tian took a leather portfolio from the small table sitting between their chairs and handed it to Dunne. “I will reaffirm our commitment to reunification and propose the immediate commencement of talks with Taiwan to that end. Please deliver this to President Stuart and extend my compliments.”
I didn’t hear the word peaceful anywhere in there. “I will, sir. And on behalf of the United States, I thank you for the advance copy of your pending remarks,” Dunne said. He looked down at the speech in his hands. So much for diplomacy, he thought.
The hard sound of the truck’s plow grinding on asphalt woke Kyra a good hour before the alarm had the chance. For a few happy moments she couldn’t remember where she was, and then the ache in her arm reminded her. Last night’s dinner tasted foul in her mouth. Beer at night didn’t agree with her, gumbo even less. She’d known that, had finished both anyway, and she prayed that she had some mouthwash somewhere in the bathroom cabinet. She honestly couldn’t remember.
Kyra opened her eyes and realized she couldn’t see straight yet either. She pushed herself up with the wrong arm and the pain sharpened enough to wake her up. She kneaded the muscle for a minute, more in fascination over the scarred depression running in a horizontal line over her triceps than over the relief the movement didn’t really offer. Well, there was something for that. She still had plenty of Vicodin, even though she was taking more than the dosage on the bottle allowed.
Kyra rolled over, put her feet on the floor, and pulled the curtains apart. It was still snowing. She forced her eyes to focus and turned on the small television on her dresser.
The Office of Personnel Management had again not closed the government, instead offering liberal leave to those with enough leave hours stored up to take it. Kyra couldn’t muster the strength to curse the OPM director. She promised herself she would get around to it after the shower.
The phone on her nightstand rang. Kyra let it sound off three times to help wake herself up before she answered the call. “Hello?”