Doyle nodded and made rapid notes on the input screen of her palm-top. “Good idea, Mr. President. I’m starting to fade myself, sir.”
Her appearance belied her words. Her short black hair was flawlessly styled, her turquoise silk business suit was immaculate, and if there was any fatigue behind her flint-gray eyes it certainly wasn’t visible to mere mortals.
The president stood up. “All right. Send for the ambassador. Let’s get this over with.”
The bullpen consisted of two couches and four chairs, laid out in a rough rectangle around a low-topped French Empire bureau that served as a coffee table. The table was an authentic piece from the President Monroe collection, burnished ebony with curving saber-style legs that were chased with gold leaf. The source of a minor point of contention, the date of the table’s manufacture could be set at either 1827 or 1830, and a fairly good case could be made for either date. The chairs and couches — which appeared to be matching French Empire pieces — were actually excellent reproductions, crafted by the famed Kittinger Furniture, suppliers of White House furnishings for nearly a hundred and fifty years.
The president had given the bullpen its name during his first week in office. In baseball, the bullpen was a designated area of the ballpark where the pitchers warmed up before they trudged out to the pitcher’s mound, where the real work began. The nickname had not proven to be very accurate, because he generally accomplished more serious work in the bullpen than he did at his desk — which (according to the metaphor) should have been the pitcher’s mound. But, apropos or not, the nickname had stuck.
The president walked over to the bullpen and spent a few minutes greeting the members of his meeting team and shaking hands. Not counting himself and his chief of staff, Veronica Doyle, the team consisted of Secretary of State Elizabeth Whelkin; National Security Advisor Gregory Brenthoven; Assistant Secretary of State for Southeast Asian Affairs William Collins; and a designated note taker, Marine Corps Lieutenant Michael Summers, on loan from the National Security Council.
There would be no need for an interpreter, as the Chinese ambassador spoke excellent English.
The hallway door opened and the ambassador was ushered in by a deputy assistant to somebody-or-other in the National Security Council.
The young woman, who probably didn’t know that she had been selected on the basis of her obscurity, was visibly nervous over what was obviously her first visit to the Oval Office. Despite her nervousness, she made her announcement flawlessly. “Mr. President, may I present Ambassador Shaozu Tian, minister plenipotentiary of the People’s Republic of China.”
The president smiled and stepped forward to shake the ambassador’s hand. “Good evening, Ambassador Shaozu. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
The ambassador returned his smile. “I am honored to be of service, Mr. President. And I bring you greetings on behalf of the citizens and government of the People’s Republic of China.”
The next few moments were dedicated to handshakes and pleasantries as the ambassador was introduced to the rest of the team.
When the members of the team took their seats, they fell silent. In accordance with the dictates of protocol, the president would speak as the sole representative of the United States — just as the ambassador would speak as the sole representative of his own government. The other members of the team were there to watch, gather information, and formulate ideas for the discussion that would immediately follow the meeting. During the meeting itself, they might pass the president notes or documents, but they would not contribute directly to the conversation.
There was an additional point to having so many non-speaking members in the room. Few people are comfortable under close scrutiny.
Having a room full of people watch your every gesture and listen to your every word — all without speaking themselves — can be highly unsettling.
It is difficult for even the most accomplished of diplomats to concentrate properly under such circumstances. In Washington circles, the technique has often been likened to a low-intensity version of Psychological Warfare.
When everyone was finally seated, the president said, “I hope you will forgive me if I come directly to matters of business.”
The ambassador smiled slightly. “An excellent idea, Mr. President. I am an old man, and I must confess that the passage of years has somewhat blunted my taste for polite small talk.”
“Good,” the president said. “I would like to discuss the matter of your country’s most recent ballistic missile launch.”
The ambassador’s eyebrows went up slightly. “I see. Is there a problem?”
“Yes,” the president said. “There is a problem, or rather — there are two problems. The first is with the trajectory of the missile, and the second is with the timing of the launch.”
“Oh? And why should either of those pose difficulties? To my understanding, the launch was conducted safely, without incident or threat to life.”
“Without incident — yes,” the president said. “It’s the ‘threat to life’ part that we are not so certain about.”
“How so?”
“The missile in question was a DF-21C, designed to carry the NV-6 nuclear warhead; is that correct?”
“I believe that is so.”
“Does the DF-21C have the capability to carry any non-nuclear payloads?”
The ambassador’s hand stole down to the black leather diplomatic pouch in his lap. He made no move to open it. His fingers began to play over the creased leather, almost as though the pouch were some sort of worry stone, or talisman. “I … cannot speak on this issue,” he said. “That is, I am not an expert on the subject of ballistic missile systems.”
The national security advisor scribbled something on a slip of paper, folded it, and passed it to the president. The president read it and then paused for a second before continuing. “I’m sure that it will come as no surprise to you that I have numerous ballistic missile experts at my disposal, some of whom are quite knowledgeable on the subject of the weapons systems of your People’s Liberation Army. My experts assure me that the DF-21C has no conventional warhead capability.”
The ambassador tilted his head slightly to the side. “If your experts are — as you say, expert—then I am sure that their assessments are correct. May I now ask the point of this question?”
“The point is this,” the president said. “Your military fired a ballistic missile directly over Taiwan, less than a week before the Taiwanese national election — an election in which the front-running candidate just happens to be a strong proponent of Taiwanese independence. The missile in question is designed solely for offensive nuclear strikes. You have to admit, that sounds an awful lot like deliberate intimidation. What my grandfather used to call strong-arm politics.”
The Chinese ambassador shot to his feet, his black leather pouch falling to the carpet. “You accuse my country of playing politics with nuclear weapons?” His voice was a near shout. Then he seemed to realize where he was and sank slowly to his seat, groping around the floor for a few seconds before he recovered his diplomatic pouch and set it in his lap again.
President Chandler raised his eyebrows a fraction. “What would you call it?”
The ambassador paused for a few seconds before speaking. His tone was much calmer now. “I would call it … I believe … a routine test-launch of an unarmed missile. A launch, I might add, that traveled entirely through Chinese airspace, passed over only Chinese territory, and landed safely in Chinese national waters. As for the timing? I would call that a coincidence.”