“Your tardiness surely indicates the contempt you feel toward the rest of us, Agricultural Minister,” Deng said.
“I beg your pardon,” Jian said. He’d had trouble at one of the checkpoints. It dawned on him that Deng might have engineered the trouble. The possibility put an icicle of renewed fear through Jian. Had Deng corrupted the Chairman’s bodyguards? Was Deng broadcasting his ability to assassinate the Chairman at his leisure? Jian wondered if he might have been wiser going to Deng in secret, falling on his knees and begging to become one of his followers.
Who am I to race with tigers? Jian thought to himself. These past weeks had been torture, as two more rice-riots had occurred in different parts of the country. Jian had maneuvered hard to keep his post, secretly using the last of his hidden food reserves to bolster stocks in the cities. In several months, real famine would stalk the inner provinces. They must find more sources of food.
In the old days before the new glacial period, the Earth’s food supply had come from two major areas: the great Euro-Russian plains and the American wheat-fields. China’s rice paddies had helped, as had other regions. But the bulk of the food supply to feed the masses, the world’s billions, came from the two key areas. With the new glaciation, the Gulf Stream had changed its flow, causing massive freezing on the Euro-Russian plains, but America was still blessed with warm enough weather to produce bumper crops. It meant that a starving world looked to America and to its Grain Union allies. It meant that Chinese wealth could only scrape up so much food on the open market—then it needed the Grain Union’s storehouses, which meant China needed American permission to buy.
Deng Fong stirred. He did not look like a tiger. He was in his mid-seventies and had a weak left eye that he could barely keep open. He wore a black suit of the finest make and had strangely smooth skin. It was one of Deng’s vanities—skin-tucks. Stories about his sexual exploits were legendary, as were the amounts of his testosterone injections and Viagra with which he was said to indulge himself. He looked old, but still acted with vitality.
Jian turned on his computer, the machine built into the table. He knew that one of the Chairman’s people would analyze everything he brought up, everything he read. The Chairman loved psychological profiles, placing an inordinate trust in them. Therefore, Jian had memorized a list of “safe” items he would look up here, items given to him by his staff.
Deng cleared his throat, the sound aimed toward the head of the table. He sat nearest the Chairman. The Chairman snorted, and his eyelids flickered. Slowly, the old man opened his eyes, and just as slowly, the Chairman straightened his body. Everyone here knew it pained the old man to sit up straight. They could see it on his face. But he did it anyway, refusing to hunch, and that frightened Jian. The Chairman examined each of them in turn. There were four other Politburo members in the room. They belonged to the Ruling Committee, the Chairman’s inner circle of advisors. When the old man’s eyes fell on him, Jian felt the gaze like hot pokers in his soul.
Jian’s key ally was the Minister of the Navy, Admiral Qiang—tall, handsome, and still athletic at seventy-one. He was easily the most adventuresome personality in the room in terms of military action.
Qiang and Deng were bitter enemies.
“Sir,” Deng told the Chairman. “I’m afraid that I have terrible news to report.”
The Chairman swiveled his head so those hot eyes locked onto Deng Fong.
“Sir,” Deng said, “I am afraid that we have taken a viper amongst us. We have trusted a warmonger who plans to tread on the charred remains of a billion corpses so he can climb to supreme power.”
“Elaborate,” whispered the Chairman.
The whispery dry words tightened Jian’s stomach, and suddenly, the room felt much too warm.
Deng bowed his head and turned toward Jian, staring at him fixedly. “There is one among us who sabotaged my talks in Sydney. I believe he did it in hopes of stirring war. This war will cover his negligent mistakes in the agricultural sector. He would rather see millions die in a nuclear exchange than have his corrupt mishandling brought to light.”
“These are serious charges,” the Chairman whispered.
Jian now felt limp with fear as Deng turned to the old man in the wheelchair. Jian hadn’t expected a direct and personal assault today. Even more, he hadn’t expected Deng to bypass Admiral Qiang in his admonishments. That had been part of the genius of Jian’s plan, or so he’d told himself more than once. Admiral Qiang had authorized the commando mission against the American oil well. Jian had hoped to use the admiral as a shield as Qiang bore the brunt of Deng’s verbal assault. Now—
“The Agricultural Minister used his insidious and occult powers to warp Admiral Qiang’s good judgment,” Deng was saying. “He lured the admiral and tricked him into committing an adventurous and foolhardy act at precisely the wrong moment. The destruction of the American oil well occurred in the early morning, twelve hours before I would speak alone with the American Secretary of State. It sabotaged what I believe would have been a healing accord between our two nations. The Americans have grain. We have oil. The Americans need oil and we need grain. What better way to bring harmony between our two nations than trading oil for grain?”
You didn’t count on me learning about your plan, you cunning snake, Jian thought. Deng would have been the hero, bringing grain to a hungry nation. He would die as the failed Agricultural Minister. No, he had a different plan, one he worked hard to implement.
“Please excuse my interruption,” Jian said. “With your permission, sir,” he said to the Chairman, “I would like to point out certain salient points that Minister Fong has conveniently forgotten.”
The Chairman’s head swiveled slightly so those ancient eyes fell onto Jian. Again, Jian felt the power there, and knew now that his life was in peril.
“Speak,” the Chairman whispered in his ancient voice, “but make it brief.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jian said. His voice sounded weak. He would never convince anyone if he came across as timid. Sitting straighter, clearing his throat, he spoke in a deeper tone, trying to come across as assured. “Three years ago, at Minister Fong’s insistence, I took over the Agricultural Ministry.”
“You snatched at the opportunity for power,” Deng said. “You acted like a monkey in a panda tree.”
“Let him speak,” said the Chairman.
Deng bowed his head.
Jian blinked in amazement. Deng’s inappropriate words gave him confidence, and with the rebuff from the Chairman—Jian felt his hopes soar. Then he wondered if the rebuff might have been engineered beforehand to give the appearance of fairness on the Chairman’s part. The thought was sobering, and it constricted his throat.
Jian lifted a glass of water, sipping, trying to marshal his thoughts. “As I was saying, sir—gentlemen—I took over the Agricultural Ministry at Minister Fong’s insistence. It was hoped I could turn around the disastrous failures of the previous years. I worked with painstaking zeal, routinely putting in sixteen-hour workdays. I tried many experiments. The sad truth is that nature has conspired against China. Glaciation combined with our great population has made self-sufficiency in foodstuffs an impossibility. It is the same everywhere as famine stalks the planet. Only a few nations export grain or other foods. Occidentals of European origin control each of the grain-exporting nations. They have formed a union—”