Ambassador Kuo thought for a moment; then: “Many in my country feel strongly that the Tiaoyutai, what Japan calls the Senkaku Islands, be returned to us, that they are spoils of war taken from us by imperial Japan.”
“We understand the source of the disagreement, Ambassador, but a Japanese woman is dead and seven more are injured, in the middle of a riot with over a thousand protesters and two hundred police and army units, and no one saw anything? No evidence? No suspects?” Vice President Whiting interjected incredulously. “It looks like a huge cover-up, Mr. Ambassador. The Japanese government is hopping mad, and they want us to set up an arms and technology embargo against your country. We need definitive action immediately, or our Asian coalition will be broken before it has a chance to solidify.”
“What do you suggest, Madame Vice President?” Kuo asked.
“We suggest your government ask for assistance from the American Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Whiting replied, “and I also strongly suggest that you — and this is totally off the record — round up some suspects and publicly arraign them, and fast. Let’s not be losing friends over some small, uninhabited piles of rocks while you lose friendly neighbors and your home island is in danger of being overrun.”
Kuo lowered his eyes for a moment, then raised them and nodded. “We feel that the Tiaoyutai is much more than a 'pile of rocks,’ Madame Vice President,” Kuo said solemnly. “But you are correct — I understand that our inability to solve the murder appears as if we condone it. I shall recommend that my government request immediate assistance from your government in the investigation, and I assure you that there will be swift action.”
“We also need a statement from you on exactly when your country will discontinue nuclear weapons development and begin dismantling your nuclear weapon stockpiles,” Secretary of Defense Chastain cut in.
Kuo swung toward Chastain, then to the President, with a look of horror in his face. “Nuclear weapons?” he sputtered. “Sir, the Republic of China possesses no nuclear weapons.”
“Our intelligence information tells us otherwise, Ambassador,” National Security Advisor Philip Freeman said. “According to our data, over the past fifteen years you have been involved in a nuclear weapons coproduction effort with the Republic of South Africa, and our information suggests you may have developed a warhead small enough to be used on a gravity bomb or cruise missile.”
“I most strenuously deny—! ”
“Don’t bother responding, Ambassador — denials will only embarrass you,” Freeman went on bitterly. “More recently, we’ve received information that you are sharing nuclear-weapons information with Israel, and that you have a nuclear warhead on some license-built versions of the Gabriel anti-ship cruise missile. Finally, we received information from the JIO of the Australian Ministry of Defense that you have been sharing nuclear and chemical weapons technology with Indonesia. Australia is so sure of its information that it has considered a preemptive air strike on Indonesian weapons plants — and some attacks on certain Taiwanese vessels suspected of carrying weapon-making equipment into Indonesia.” Kuo’s eyes bulged at that news — he was completely unable to contain his surprise. “If any of this news ever leaked out, Mr. Ambassador, it would be a political disaster for the Republic of China and a great embarrassment for the United States of America.”
“We trust you’ll do the right thing,” Secretary of State Flartman said, “and eliminate any sharing of nuclear weapons technology, with an eye on completely eliminating your nuclear weapons programs in the very near future. It would be extremely difficult for the United States to support any country secretly violating American nuclear weapons antiproliferation regulations. Very difficult.”
The President hadn’t said a word, but when Ambassador Kuo looked into his eyes, he saw disappointment and distrust conveyed to him as surely as if Martindale had screamed it in his face. The Taiwanese ambassador had noted with amusement the American people’s preoccupation with their new President’s hair, but now he saw what they all fixated on — the two silver-gray curls that had drooped across his forehead and eyes, making him look sinister, like a gray wolf ready to attack. “I… I will convey your message and request an immediate response,” Kuo stammered, averting his eyes apologetically. “I assure you all, the Republic of China will obey international law and honor our treaty obligations, and, most importantly, we would not knowingly do anything to harm our strong and steadfast relationship with the United States of America.”
“Then our commitment will remain equally strong to the Republic of China,” the President said, in a light voice that seemed to clear the room of a dense choking haze. Magically, without a touch, the silver curls were now gone from the President’s forehead. It is true, Kuo thought — this man certainly is bewitched!
Kuo looked very wobbly in the knees as he got to his feet when the President stood, signaling an end to the meeting. He extended a hand to Kuo, who accepted it and added a deep bow. “We’ll set up a hot-line system with President Lee’s office as soon as possible,” the President said. “Until then, we’ll be in contact with you, and you may contact my office or Secretary Hartman’s office twenty-four hours a day, for any reason whatsoever. It was a pleasure to see you again. Please convey my best wishes and support to President Lee and Premier Huang. Good day. ” Kuo looked pale and a little sweaty as he was shown out of the Oval Office.
“God bless it,” the President muttered, after Kuo had departed. “I’m getting ready to put our political necks on the chopping block for Taiwan, and the whole time Taiwan is handing over the ax to use on us. I’d like to talk with President Lee first thing in the morning — set it up,” he told his chief of staff. Jerrod Hale nodded and picked up a phone to relay the order.
In the reception area down the hall from the Oval Office, Ambassador Kuo was on his way to the staircase down to the West Wing driveway when several men walking toward the reception area from the National Security Advisor’s office caught his attention. Kuo stopped, then turned and walked over to them. “Forgive me, sir,” Kuo said to the youngest of the men walking by, “but do I have the pleasure of addressing Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters?”
Jon Masters was surprised to hear his name. “You got it,” he replied. “And who are you?”
“My name is Kuo Han-min, Ambassador to the United States from the Republic of China, at your service, sir,” Kuo replied, bowing and then extending a hand. “It is a great pleasure to meet you. We met many years ago at the Singapore Air Show. Your company’s exhibit was most impressive.”
“Thanks, Mr. Min,” Masters said, shaking hands with him, not realizing he had mixed up his surname and given name. When Kuo’s eyes wandered over to the other men, who had walked on past them, Masters, feeling obligated to make introductions, pointed to them and said, “Mr. Ambassador, that’s Brad Elliott, Patrick Me—”
“No you don’t, Dr. Masters,” Patrick McLanahan said. Jon Masters didn’t know, or had forgotten, about the extremely high security classification under which they were working, a classification definitely off- limits to foreign nationals. “Let’s go.”
“Elliott… General Bradley Elliott?” Kuo said, with a knowing twinkle in his eye. “And so you, sir, must be Colonel Patrick McLanahan of the United States Air Force. May I ask…?”