Despite the downpour, the Secret Service agents went to work at once, letting their machines sniff the exterior of the car, in a pattern that closely duplicated the visual inspection that their fellow agents had just completed. And, like their fellow agents, they gave no hint of even noticing the rain that pounded down on them from the dark Washington sky. Tian could not help but admire their patience and determination.
Satisfied at last, the Secret Service agents retreated into the guardhouse.
The Marine guard took a step backward, came to attention, and saluted.
As if in response, the inner gate slid open, allowing Tian’s limousine access to the White House grounds. With barely a nod of acknowledgment, Tian’s silent driver steered the car into the White House driveway and turned toward the famed West Wing.
Tian reached across the seat for his diplomatic pouch, pulled it to him, and held it in his lap. The esteemed members of the Politburo could not seem to grasp the fact that the Americans were different now. The terrorist attacks on New York and Washington had changed them, hardened them — as fire hardens steel. They were less trusting now and a good deal less naive about world affairs. And — after decades spent trying to broker peace at nearly any price — they had become awfully eager to reach for their guns. Surely the American invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq were ample evidence of that.
Tian tightened his grip on the diplomatic pouch, rubbing the largest, most familiar nick in the old leather with the ball of his thumb. He had not been told why he was being called to task, so he was reduced to guessing — a thoroughly uncomfortable situation for an international diplomat to find himself in. If the Americans were truly angry, it might well be over his country’s most recent ballistic missile test. Based on that as yet untested assumption, his staff had drafted extensive notes on potential arguments that he might employ. His diplomatic pouch contained twenty-two pages of Chinese pictographs in the neat calligraphy of his deputy chief of mission. Tian did not anticipate having to refer to those notes. He had read and re-read them until he could nearly recite them from memory. Still, there was a vague comfort in the knowledge that they were available to him if needed — the same sense of sufficiency that came from knowing that your vehicle carried a spare tire, even if you did not expect to need it, or know how to change it.
His staff had done their work well, and Tian intended to score some points — provided that the missile test did, in fact, prove to be the subject of this meeting. Despite his preparations, he had no desire to argue this point. Unfortunately, he had no choice — his orders from the Politburo were unmistakable. If the Americans raised the issue of the missile test, he was to give no ground. The words of Premier Xiao had been quite clear on this: Bu huan er san— to part on hard terms—was acceptable. He was not to bend, or even appear to bend on this matter.
Tian shifted in his seat and hoped fervently that he had guessed wrong.
This was an issue on which it was not even remotely wise to anger the Americans. They had become quick to react to anything they perceived as a threat, and these days it was difficult to predict what would fall into that category.
Despite his hopes to the contrary, he had little doubt that the missile test would be the topic of this meeting. He would know in a few seconds.
The Laws of Protocol were about to give him a final clue. He would be able to take a reading on the disposition of the Americans according to who was waiting to meet him at the entrance to the West Wing. If tempers were reasonable, he would be greeted by David Spiros, the National Security Council country officer assigned to China. If the Americans were pleased with China, or if they wanted to ask a favor, they would send Gregory Brenthoven, the national security advisor himself. If they were truly angry, they would send a minor functionary from the NSC, probably someone whom Tian would not recognize.
The limousine pulled out of the rain under the curved overhang of the West Wing portico and stopped opposite the marble steps that led into the White House. The rhythmic whunk-whunk of the wipers swept the windshield uselessly a few times before the driver shut them off. Heart in his mouth and lips pressed tightly together, Tian peered through the steamy window toward the door at the top of the steps. It was guarded by a pair of United States Marines in full dress uniforms. As was the custom, one of the Marines came to attention and honored the Chinese Embassy’s vehicle with a crisp salute. Then the guard dropped his salute and marched down the steps to open the rear door of the limousine.
Able to learn nothing further from his vantage point in the back seat, Tian uttered a sigh and, clutching his leather diplomatic pouch, pulled himself from the automobile. Then, as Tian stood and straightened his suit, the Marine came to attention again, and rendered a second salute.
Tian acknowledged the salute with a nod and started walking up the steps. The damp night air enveloped him like an evil spell; he felt flares of arthritic pain in his knees and hips, echoed dully by an ache of anxiety in his chest. He concentrated on keeping his steps even and his face implacable. One did not show weakness in the face of a potential adversary.
The Marine remaining at the top of the steps opened the door, and Tian caught sight of the person assigned to greet him. It was a youngish woman, and Tian did not recognize her at all.
“Bao tian tian wu,” he said under his breath. Literally a reckless waste of grain, but in this context it meant an ill omen. This was not going to go well. He smiled and extended his hand for the woman to shake.
This was not going to go well at all.
CHAPTER 3
Dirty-looking clouds scudded across an iron-colored sky. In a few hours, the spring sun would burn away the overcast, but for now, the damp remnants of winter hung over the harbor. The water that lapped up against the rusting steel pilings seemed oily and dark, its froth the color of a dead fish’s belly.
Kapitan Stefan Gröeler leaned against the dock railing and watched the huge yellow ammunition crane lift the last of the torpedoes off the ordnance barge. Suspended from the crane’s heavy cable by a four-way sling, the weapon swung slowly out to hover above the aft deck of Gröeler’s submarine, the U-307. Crewmen in gray coveralls grabbed the dangling weapon’s tag-lines and began to guide it into the proper attitude for lowering through the main hatch. The men worked in near silence, as they should have, with the Team Leader watching closely and issuing brief commands. “Hold fast on the forward line,” or “Bring the nose down farther,” or “Check the crane,” or “Watch your deck clearance!”
Gröeler nodded almost imperceptibly. They were good men — a good crew.
His eyes lingered on the weapon suspended above the deck. It hung nose down and tail high, close to the thirty-seven — degree angle needed to lower it through the weapons hatch.
The Team Leader issued another command, and the nose dropped a few more degrees. Satisfied, he turned, made eye contact with the crane operator, and opened and closed the fingers of his right hand several times like the quacking of a duck: the hand signal for lower slowly.
The polymerized coating of the Ozeankriegsführungtechnologien DMA37 torpedo gave the weapon a shiny green look, as though it were a child’s toy made of plastic. In comparison, the rounded profile of the Type 212B submarine seemed especially menacing: a sleek, dark-skinned predator floating low in the water. It was a false impression; both machines were dangerous. The quietest, most capable diesel submarine ever built, paired with one of the most sophisticated and lethal undersea weapons that modern military science could devise.