“The People’s Republic of China?”
Bannerman looked across the circle at the Chinese ambassador, a tall, spare man clothed in a fashionable gray suit and red tie. The man’s dark eyes met his as he spoke. “China abstains. We shall neither oppose nor support this resolution.”
The American secretary of state felt his jaw dropping open and closed it hurriedly. The room around him was in an uproar as the observer’s gallery realized what had just happened. The resolution had passed. He felt one of his aides clap him on the shoulder and saw the others grinning. He could also see the consternation on Vlasov’s face as the Russian grabbed one of his assistants and started working his way through the crowd toward the Chinese delegation.
Somehow the Secretary General’s soft brogue cut through all the hubbub in the Council Chamber. “The vote being nine to four, the motion is carried and the resolution is adopted. The Council will reconvene tomorrow evening at the same hour to consider its implementation.”
The Chinese ambassador stood calmly and began making his way out through the crowded aisles, ignoring the pandemonium all around him — a mass of shouting reporters, TV cameras, and stunned fellow diplomats. Bannerman watched him go and saw a broad-shouldered Chinese security guard shove Vlasov’s messenger bodily out of the way as the Russian tried to get closer.
Bannerman sat motionless in his chair, his mind working furiously despite all the commotion surrounding the American delegation. He’d felt the pieces in the international diplomacy game shift under his hands just now. Not because of the resolution. That was only a simple scrap of paper — devoid of real power. But China’s abstention… now that was something real.
Blake Fowler agreed wholeheartedly with the secretary of state’s assessment — something that would have surprised and disconcerted both men had they known of it. China’s position on the war seemed to have changed, however imperceptibly, and that had to be followed up.
He leaned across his desk and snapped off the small, portable TV perched precariously on one of his bookshelves. That done, he dropped back into his chair and rolled far enough away from the desk to poke his head out the door. “Katie, would you get Bob Gillespie, Harry Phelps, and that new guy, Kruger, up here right away? Say in” — he looked at his watch — “ten minutes or so?”
His secretary stopped in midyawn, nodded, and reached for her phone.
Fowler rolled back into his office, stopped, and then rolled back out. Katie was just starting to punch the Gillespies’ number into her phone. She paused as he stuck his head through the doorway again. “Yes?”
“Ask them to bring everything on the PRC they’ve got easily to hand — political data, economic status, military readiness, all that kind of stuff.”
“Right.”
Fowler went to work preparing for the meeting. It was tough to concentrate. His thoughts were jumping from one possibility to another and back again in a rapid, whirling sequence. He’d had an instinct about China and now it might really be panning out. He started paging through a pile of recent State Department, CIA, and academic analyses on China’s internal politics, but something nagged at him. Something he’d left undone.
It took him a few minutes to figure out what it was.
He got up out of his chair and leaned around the door. “Oh, Katie? Thanks.”
She smiled briefly and turned away to finish logging in another stack of NSA intercepts. Blake went back to work, doggedly trying to cram a mass of data on China into his overtired brain, information that he’d ignored while concentrating on South and North Korea for all these months.
Something important was happening inside the PRC’s carefully guarded government buildings, and he’d damned well do his best to find out just what exactly was going on.
Kim Jong-Il could smell the man’s fear and relished it. Its sickly sweet odor was a welcome reminder of the power he still wielded. It had helped him control the terrible wave of anger that had overcome him when the news from New York arrived. It had been news of a betrayal of the blackest sort. Kim clamped his lips together tightly at the thought. He must be careful, he knew, careful to control the rage surging just below the surface.
At least until he had a worthy target for his hate. It wouldn’t do at all to prove his foolish doctors right by suffering a heart attack — not during this most crucial of times. His political enemies would take full advantage of any weakness he showed.
Kim grimaced. He didn’t have time for these wasted thoughts. He stared at the man waiting rigidly at attention. “Well? Speak up. What is it?”
His aide’s voice quavered. “Your pardon, Dear Leader, the ambassador has arrived for his meeting.”
Kim nodded abruptly. “Show him in. And tell Captain Lew to stand ready. One cannot be too careful when dealing with creatures of this kind.” He dismissed the aide with an impatient gesture and concentrated on the matter closest at hand — Colonel General Cho’s latest report from the front.
“The ambassador from the People’s Republic of China.”
Kim heard the Chinese diplomat ushered in, but he kept his eyes focused on the report in front of him. Let the swine wait. Let the man stand, stewing in the shame that rightly belonged to his whole mongrel country.
The news from the front was good. The jaws of his trap had swung shut below Seoul, and Cho’s troops were pursuing the beaten imperialist armies as they fled south. Casualties were heavy, of course, but that had been expected. In any event, individual lives were of little importance in the greater scheme of things. No, the news was very good, and Kim almost smiled as he skimmed through the report.
But then he heard a delicate cough from the other side of his desk and his good humor vanished. Everything was going well, save on the international front. One cowardly act by the damned Chinese had unnecessarily embarrassed his Soviet allies and had made it somewhat more difficult for them to give him the aid he required. He kept reading.
At last he snapped the report binder shut with a single decisive motion. The crash it made seemed to hang in the still air of his silent office. Slowly Kim Jong-Il raised his head to stare at the diplomat waiting quietly in front of his desk.
He was disappointed. The Chinese showed no signs of fear or shame. Not even embarrassment or anger at the rude treatment he’d been accorded. Instead, the man stood calmly, his legs splayed apart as if he were some sort of peasant lounging at rest. Again Kim felt the anger rise up inside him. The insolent bastard. How dare this so-called ambassador stand there without showing the slightest sign of contrition for the treacherous actions of his nation.
“Well? What is your business with me? I’m busy, as I’m sure you can see.”
The ambassador inclined his head, more a nod than a bow. “I’m grateful for your time, Comrade Kim. My premier and Politburo have instructed me to deliver this.” The ambassador stepped forward suddenly, coming right up against the desk with something held out in his hand.
Kim half-reached for the panic buzzer by his knee and then stopped. It was a piece of paper, nothing more. He took it and ran his eyes over the major headings: Munitions, Armored Fighting Vehicles, Artillery. He pursed his lips. Why, this was a Chinese proposal to dramatically increase its logistical support of North Korea’s war effort.
“What is the meaning of this?” Kim demanded. “This directly contradicts your government’s refusal to support us in the Security Council.”