Borchert had read the national mood with uncanny accuracy. As events unfolded that Sunday it became plain that whatever constituency there might have been in favour of United States intervention was evaporating quickly. Congressional leaders would have none of it. Congressional feeling was carefully stoked by some astute media management by Bland, Michael & Judd, PR adviser and chief lobbyist for the Communist Party. With a couple of telephone calls to leading Washington and West Coast think tanks Judd pointed out that the various institutions' China experts' continued access to China might be helped if they adopted a balanced approach to the South China Sea gambit. At the same time others at the firm were making sure that talk show hosts knew the right experts from whom to seek comment. Throughout the day the White House switchboard was inundated with telephone calls, mostly from citizens opposed to any intervention. Messages via less public points of access also started arriving from the chairmen and chief executives of some of the nation's leading companies, Boeing and Microsoft in Seattle, General Motors in Detroit, Compaq in Houston, and others. By the time the President was readying himself for a public engagement that evening he had pretty well made up his mind that the US would try and stay out of the conflict and seek to play the role of `honest broker'.
The presidential motorcade drew up outside the severely classical entrance to the National Gallery. It had been built by a banker to house his collection, which he had generously donated to the nation. I. M. Pei, the Chinese/ American architect, had designed a dramatic glass and poured-concrete extension to the main gallery but even that had failed to soften the severity of the building. The party at the National Gallery was one of those Washington events. The diplomatic corps rubbed shoulders with the cream of the Senate, the House as well as the administration. When Makoto Katayama, the Japanese Ambassador, first sighted Bradlay he was deep in conversation with the senators from Kansas and Washington state, a Long Beach, California congressman, and the chief Washington representative for Bland, Michael & Judd. With such a coalition there could be only one topic of conversation: China. These states were so enmeshed with the Chinese economy — aerospace in California and Washington, wheat in Kansas — that their representatives were sometimes referred to as the Congress's China clique. Katayama circulated as diplomats do on such occasions awaiting his opportunity to engage Bradlay.
Just then Katayama noticed a third secretary from the Japanese embassy making his way through the crowd. At the same time a White House aide was working his way towards the President. Both officials met their objectives at the same time. Katayama listened as the embassy official told him about the UN Security Council vote. As expected the Chinese had exercised their veto. There would be no UN condemnation of China's actions in the South China Sea. What was worse, however, was how the other members of the Council had voted. A smattering of African and South Pacific nations who sat on the Council by rotation had abstained. They were beneficiaries of Chinese military aid. Britain and France were prepared to condemn the Chinese but Japan's permanent representative at the UN had observed a certain reluctance on the part of the US to embrace the toughest language put up by London and Paris. Russia had abstained. In the end, however, the US had sided with its Atlantic partners.
As Katayama considered what he was hearing, another of Bradlay's aides approached. The President, he said, would like to talk to him. An ante-room in the museum was being prepared. When the President was due to leave he would make as if he was doing so, but stop by the anteroom on his way out. Could the Ambassador be waiting for him there? Katayama was more than pleased. He had not relished the task Tokyo had set: sounding out Bradlay at a public function.
The meeting, having been arranged in such an ad hoc fashion, lacked the usual formality that attends a meeting between the President of the United States and the Japanese Ambassador. For a start it was held in English, a language Katayama knew frighteningly well, although he affected to be a poor student. The encounter got off to a good start with Bradlay warmly shaking Katayama by the hand, but soon deteriorated when the Ambassador pressed Bradlay on what the United States would do about China's behaviour in the South China Sea.
`Well, Mr Ambassador, it seems as though we are back to the bad old days of the Cold War at the UN. As I think you already know, the Chinese representative vetoed a resolution at about the time we both arrived at this reception. It was no surprise to us. Indeed, we were less keen than our allies that we should attempt such a manoeuvre. China was always going to veto it.'
`Quite,' said Katayama.
`I spoke with the Prime Minister this morning,' Bradlay said. `I appreciate the concerns you must have.'
That was the opening Katayama wanted. `Indeed, sir. I am asked by Tokyo to convey your assurance that the United States intends to live up to its treaty obligations.'
The President stopped. He replied: `Well, Mr Ambassador, you know as well as I do that our mutual security treaty which has served both parties well s drawn up during the Cold War, when the threat posed by Russian and Chinese Communism was at its height. Russia has changed. China has changed. The world has changed. We must change with it. Tell your government that I give the highest priority to settling this crisis in the Pacific in a peaceful way.'
The guerrillas looked for all the world as if they were wearing black pyjamas. On closer inspection they were armed with the deadly attributes of highly trained assassins sub-machine-gun with silencer, knives, a wire garrotte. There were eight in all and they clung to the shadows as they passed through the virtually empty streets of Xiatung, a village some 7 kilometres across into Chinese territory from the Vietnamese border. Between the jungle fringe on the outskirts of the village and their objective — the compound housing of the Party Secretary and the Head of Public Security — they had encountered only two Chinese. One, an alcoholic vagrant, the other, a woman on her way home, were killed efficiently and cleanly, their bodies dragged deep into the shadows to hide them.
It was nearly midnight and the moon was obscured when they came upon the compound at Huaihai Avenue where the village leadership lived. The entrance to the compound, 200 metres ahead, was guarded by one dejected-looking guard in the sloppy green uniform of the People's Liberation Army. He didn't even have time to lift his weapon to firing position before three rounds of silenced automatic gunfire ripped into his chest. They placed him inside his sentry box and moved through the open gate. Not a soul stirred. On gaining entry to the compound they spilt into two groups: one would take care of the Party Secretary and the other the Head of Public Security. They knew where the officials lived and moved with speed and economy of action towards their objectives.
The Xiatong Daily reported that both men put up a stout fight against their assailants. The truth, however, was more prosaic. The Party Secretary, a Mr Zhou Hua, lay asleep when the guerrilla leader came into his bedroom. His wife woke first and lived long enough to see her husband die before she too was gunned down. The Head of Public Security, Mr Sun Ping, was reading when he heard a knock at his door. To his horror he admitted four Vietnamese guerrillas. The leader, speaking rough Chinese, told him to kneel. He begged for his life before it was taken.