“Ahh…” murmured the premier, who had trouble conceiving of such a number. His own private investments, assembled from the hundreds of bribes that had come his way, totaled just a fraction of that.
“Why so much?” Chairman Han queried.
“When you forced the PLA to divest its holdings a couple of years ago Han Fubai made sure he was first in line to grab a small chunk of each spun off company,” the Interior Minister replied. “Han sells everything from diesel generators to AK-47s overseas. His biggest market is the United States. The Defense Minister’s annual income is something in the neighborhood of 30 million dollars….”
The three of them silently contemplated that figure for a few minutes.
“The most interesting thing that we uncovered was a stake in several major Taiwan corporations,” Ren continued. “Han Fubai is heavily invested on the island. There are frequent communications between his son, who is his business representative in Hong Kong, and certain individuals in Taiwan.”
Chairman Han arched his eyebrows. “So you think…”
“The Minister of Defense was adamantly opposed to the invasion plan that Fu Zemin put forward,” Ren reminded him. “This may be more than just a desire to protect his business empire. Han Fubai may be a defeatist, or he may be a…” Ren paused so his listeners could fill in the blank.
“What about Su Zhongqiang?” Chairman Han queried. “He also opposed our plans.”
“Old Su is no traitor,” Premier Wang answered. “ ‘War is bad for business, Fuguo,’ he told me. ‘After the Tiananmen incident, foreign investment dried up for a couple of years.’ But then they came back, I pointed out, more eager than ever to build their factories here.”
“I talked to him also,” Minister Ren added. “I told him that our little action against Quemoy would be over in a matter of days. The capitalists need China’s cheap labor and huge market too much to boycott us. He just shook his head and complained about the shock to the economy.”
“We don’t need a defeatist like him,” Chairman Han said decisively. “Fuguo, I suggest you offer him an honorable retirement.” Premier Wang nodded silently.
“Is there anyone else who’s wavering?” Han asked already knowing the answer.
“Everyone else is with us,” Ren assured his comrades.
Fu Zemin was escorted to the Chairman’s quarters. The Chairman greeted him like an old friend, asking him to take the place of honor directly across from him at the table. “You know Minister Ren and Premier Wang, of course,” the Chairman said, introducing the two others at the table.
The servers, young women selected for their grace and beauty, began to noiselessly bring delicacies to the table.
“Try some of this Dry Roasted Chicken,” the Chairman suggested, delicately picking up one of the choicest pieces with his chopsticks and placing it on Fu’s plate.
“You’re too polite,” Fu responded nervously, embarrassed by the Chairman’s attentions. “I’ll help myself.” He popped the piece into his mouth immediately to show his appreciation. It felt like his mouth had been invaded by a torchlight procession. The Chairman, being from Shanghai, liked his food hot, Fu recalled too late. He could scarcely stop his eyes from watering.
“Little too hot, eh?” the Chairman chuckled. “You know my cook buys everything locally for me when we travel, everything except the hot peppers. Wherever we go he brings along a case of Hunan peppers, the hottest in China. Without them the food would be tasteless.”
Minister Ren and Premier Wang smiled knowingly.
Now initiated into the inner circle, Fu just nodded dumbly, still unable to speak.
The other dishes proved as hot as the first, and Fu picked his way gingerly through the rest of the meal. The Chairman ate heartily, belched to show his appreciation of the cuisine, and then got down to business.
“You found my Hunan hot peppers a little too hot for your taste,” he began with a smile. “Just so, some of my colleagues found your plan to invade Taiwan a little too hot for their taste.”
“Please forgive my stupidity,” Fu began apologizing. “I lack experience…”
The Chairman cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t apologize,” he said. “Those of us seated at this table appreciate… no, we share… your breadth of vision. And although we can’t adopt your plan to launch a full-scale attack on Taiwan itself at this time, we will incorporate important elements of it in Operation Dragon Strike, the assault on Quemoy. Your proposed diversions in Korea, the Mideast, and East Timor will all be used to thin the American ranks.
“To show our appreciation we are appointing you Special Emissary of the CCP Central Committee to the Fuzhou Military Region, which has overall responsibility for Dragon Strike. You will be the Party’s eyes and ears in Fujian.”
Fu opened his mouth but found he was unable to speak. A broad, sunlit path of advancement had opened before him, dazzling him with hope and promise. His grandest ambitions were about to be realized.
“And there is one more thing, Zemin,” the Chairman said paternally, calling him by his given name for the first time. “In your capacity as Special Emissary you will report to me personally.”
The path led to the very top. “Yes, Mr. Chairman,” was all that Fu was finally able to say.
11
Only Son — Dusheng Dz
The road began to climb as soon as it left the suburbs of Amoy City. Chu Dugen, newly promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel in the People’s Liberation Army, bore down on the accelerator of the jeep he was driving. He zipped his parka up a little further against the February chill in the drafty four-by-four. Chu smiled in anticipation of the stir the jeep would cause in his native village. The vehicle leapt forward despite the grade, and he passed a slower-moving bus. Always before he had ridden such a bus back to the county seat, and then had to hitch a ride on a produce truck up the mountain to his village. Not this time. This time he would drive into the village in his own jeep, wearing the bright new stars of his new rank. “Dugen is now a Lieutenant Colonel!” the children would run about saying, “and he has his own jeep!”
Of course it wasn’t his jeep. Lieutenant Colonels didn’t have their own jeeps, at least not in PLA commando units. It was on loan from the commanding officer of his regiment, who had not wanted to give him leave just two days before his battalion was due to ship out. “Take my jeep, Dugen,” Colonel Lin had said finally, handing over the keys this morning. “It’ll save you time. But be back tomorrow night without fail. Jia Battalion’s orders are top priority — and top secret. Even I don’t know where you are going, or the special command to which you will be attached.”
Neither did Chu, of course, but he had wanted to see his parents before he left — and to show off his new rank. It would give his father face, and his mother pleasure.
At 178 centimeters, Chu was tall for a southern Chinese. He had inherited his father’s muscular frame and iron will. That, combined with his mother’s piercing eyes and quiet intelligence, had placed him first in every classroom test and field competition since he had graduated from the PLA academy thirteen years before — and unexpectedly given him an extra star two years before his classmates. This farmer’s son has beaten the general’s sons, he thought to himself, still astonished at his good fortune. Of course, a large part of your good fortune happens to be linked to Tiananmen Square and the fact that the platoon of southern farmers’ sons you led willingly felled so many elitist college students that day. Chu frowned as he usually did when thinking of the events in Tiananmen Square…