Those four letters, and the little man who embodied them — Lin Bao had feared both his entire professional life.
His golf cart arrived on the crest of the hill right as Zhao Leji was entering his backswing. Lin Bao sat completely still. If he had any lingering belief that the hospitality associate wasn’t involved with the communist party and its internal security apparatus, if he held on to a hope that she was simply a young woman from the provinces who’d come to Shenzhen and found a good job at Mission Hills, it was dispelled when Lin Bao noticed how she, too, sat completely still, equally fearful of distracting Zhao Leji.
Now, at the apex of his swing, the head of Zhao Leji’s club floated in the air, his entire body conforming to this upward articulation. With a swoosh, the club made a clean decapitation of the ball from its tee, his shot sailing out toward the horizon, where it disappeared into the mix of sun and afternoon smog. As Zhao Leji slid his club back into his bag, he noticed Lin Bao.
“Not bad for an old man,” said Zhao Leji, hoisting his clubs onto his shoulder. He would walk to the next hole, preferring the exercise, while his security detail trailed behind in a squadron of golf carts. He motioned for Lin Bao to join him, and to grab a set of clubs off the back of one of the carts. As Lin Bao followed after Zhao Leji, he noticed that the hospitality associate would not look at him, as if she suspected Lin Bao was about to meet a fate she had long feared for herself.
It was soon only the two of them, Lin Bao and Zhao Leji, hoofing it across the golf course, each burdened by their bag of clubs. Eventually, Zhao Leji began to talk. “These days, hiking across a golf course is the closest I get to honest labor….” He was breathing heavily. “I began my career during Mao’s Cultural Revolution, digging trenches on a commune…. You do the work yourself…. There is satisfaction in that…. You grew up in America, yes?” When he turned to face Lin Bao, Zhao Leji’s eyes became like tunnels. “That makes us very different, doesn’t it. Take our game of golf, for instance. Americans like to ride around in a cart and play with a caddy. When they take their caddy’s advice and win, they claim the win as their own. When they take that advice and lose, they blame their caddy…. It’s never good to be the caddy.”
They arrived at the next hole, a par-4.
Zhao Leji took his swing. It landed on the fairway.
Lin Bao took his swing. It landed in the trees.
Zhao Leji began to laugh. “Go on, my young friend. Try again.” Lin Bao said that it was all right, he didn’t need a second chance, he didn’t want to cheat. But Zhao Leji would hear nothing of it. “It’s not cheating,” he insisted, “if I make the rules.”
Lin Bao switched clubs.
He put his second shot on the fairway, a bit behind Zhao Leji’s, and as they walked to their balls, Zhao Leji resumed their conversation. “Some might say that after what happened at Zhanjiang, it’s frivolous for a man in my position to be out playing golf. But it’s important for our people to know that life goes on, that there is steady leadership at the helm, particularly in light of what might be coming next. If our intelligence is correct — and I suspect that it is — the Americans will have three carrier battle groups in position to blockade our coastline within the next two weeks. You’ve worked very closely with Minister Chiang, but I feel that I must let you know that he’s expressed some reservations as to your competence. He believes that you might have given him, and by that virtue the Politburo Standing Committee, bad advice with regard to American intentions. Your mother was American, correct? Minister Chiang believes that your affinity for her country might have clouded your judgment when advising him.”
The two gazed out at the next hole. The oblong fairway extended in front of them for almost two hundred yards. Then it cut sharply to the left, running between a copse of trees and a water obstacle. After reading the ground, Lin Bao concluded that if he hit too short, he’d wind up in the trees — which was recoverable. However, if he hit too long, he’d wind up in the water — which was not.
Zhao Leji stepped to the tee with a 3-wood.
Lin Bao stood behind him with a 2-iron.
As Zhao Leji sunk his tee into the green, he commented on Lin Bao’s club selection, noting that a 2-iron wouldn’t give him enough range. “It seems we’ve looked at the same problem and reached a different set of solutions,” he said.
Lin Bao averted his eyes to avoid any outward disagreement with Zhao Leji. But if he thought to exchange his 2-iron for a 3-wood, something within Lin Bao wouldn’t allow it; perhaps it was his pride, or dignity, or willfulness. Whatever it was, the defiance he felt when confronted by someone more powerful was familiar. He’d felt it as a naval cadet when older boys had teased him about his American heritage, or when he’d first been passed over for command of the Zheng He in favor of Ma Qiang, and now, staring at his 2-iron, he even felt that defiance when questioned by a man who with a single word could have a dark-suited thug put a bullet in his head. And so, Lin Bao explained, “A 3-wood is going to give you too much range. If you overplay, you’re going to wind up in the water. There’s no recovery then. If you underplay and wind up in the trees, at least you’ll be in a better position for your next shot instead of all the way back here on the tee. When the range falls between two clubs, it’s a better strategy to select the less ambitious choice.”
The old man nodded once, planted his feet firmly on the ground, and, with his 3-wood gripped tightly, reached into his backswing. His ball exploded off its tee, the sound alone signaling a perfect connection, which arced ever higher. When its trajectory reached its apex, it became apparent that Lin Bao was right. The 3-wood was too powerful of a club.
Zhao Leji’s ball sailed into the water with a plunk.
He bent over, picked up his tee, and then faced Lin Bao, who searched for any expression of disapproval or even disappointment in the old man. There was none; he simply made way for Lin Bao, who sunk his tee into the stubby grass. The thought did occur to him that he could angle his shot into the rough. He imagined that someone more obsequious — someone like Minister Chiang — might throw his game in favor of a senior official like Zhao Leji. But Lin Bao had only risen as far as he had because he’d never indulged the weaknesses of a superior, even when that superior could harm his career or — as was the case with Zhao Leji — end his life.
His 2-iron connected with the ball.
Its trajectory was low and fast, rocketing toward the bend in the fairway. His shot was gaining altitude, but it wasn’t certain that it would be enough to clear the trees. It was like watching an overburdened aircraft attempt to climb above a particularly treacherous mountain face. Lin Bao found himself gesturing with his hands, up, up, up. And then he noticed that Zhao Leji was doing the same; it was as if the old man wanted to be proven wrong. When the ball clipped the top of the trees, it kept going, landing on the fairway right as a few agitated birds took flight from the topmost branches.
“Looks like I’m one stroke behind,” said Zhao Leji through a broad smile. Then the old man stepped over to his golf bag and replaced his 3-wood with a 2-iron.
They spent the better part of the afternoon on the course. That would be the only hole Lin Bao won against Zhao Leji. Though Lin Bao played his best, the old man was a far superior golfer, and it soon became obvious how remarkable it was that Lin Bao had outfoxed him on even a single hole. While they made their circuit around the course, the conversation turned to Lin Bao’s duties and “their natural evolution,” as Zhao Leji put it. He would no longer report directly to Minister Chiang. The disaster at Zhanjiang had forced the Politburo Standing Committee to “reorganize the military command structure,” a statement that Lin Bao recognized for the disciplinary euphemism it was. Zhao Leji then reminded Lin Bao that the People’s Republic was “on death ground,” in an echo of the language used by Minister Chiang, while not attributing that language to him or his subsequent conclusion: “We must fight.” When it came to the details of that fight, Zhao Leji was prepared only to say, “We must take commensurate action to the Americans’ strike at Zhanjiang.”