“No grandstanding in here, Charlie,” the president said.
“Okay, John and I are concerned about the economy in varying degrees.”
“Much better.”
“Damn right I’m concerned about it,” Gooch said. “Mr. President, if what Assistant Secretary Baker says is correct—”
“Who?”
“Anthony Baker. NSC staff member, sir. East Asian Affairs. He’s across the hall in the Roosevelt Room if we need him.”
“Go ahead.”
Gooch cleared his throat and adjusted his pale-blue Hermès tie. “We push France, in effect, China, on this Oman thing and China pushes back, big time, economically. As you are only too aware, sir, they are the largest holders of U.S. Treasury bonds in the world. Which keeps our interest rates low. China gets pissed off, sir, and stops buying U.S. bonds—well, I don’t need to tell you what happens.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“What happens is, to get new buyers, Treasury has to increase interest rates they pay on bonds. Ripple effect—everyone’s interest payments go up. Next, China stops selling cheap goods. The average American’s cost of living shoots up, China’s unemployment spikes, their export sector shuts down. U.S. inflation goes through the roof and so does everybody’s mortgage and credit card charges.”
“A lose-lose situation for both of us. Charlie?”
“I’m far more concerned about Taiwan, sir. What John says about the economic implications of any showdown with China is indisputable. Currency is the most decisive factor in foreign affairs. And they can sink our currency. But, here’s the thing. And, this point is nonnegotiable. China must have oil. It is absolutely essential. Everything else is bullshit. Push them and they will, Mr. President, I repeat, they will play the Taiwan card.”
“They’re doing just fine without Taiwan. Double-digit growth. Why are they so goddamn obsessive about it?”
“Because they’re not too keen on having a model of democracy just off their coast and they don’t particularly like us using Taiwan as our personal naval air station.”
“General Moore, put this whole goddamn thing in English for me.”
“If we order France out of Oman, China will push back using Taiwan. And I’m not talking about rampant U.S. inflation or goddamn spiking credit card charges. I’m talking about a nuclear confrontation that could change the quality of American life, sir. They will put Taiwan on the table because they have no choice. They will make that move.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it for me, Mr. President,” Moore said.
“John?”
“I’ve been saying this for four years, Mr. President. We’re vulnerable where China is concerned. But it’s a perfectly balanced symbiotic relationship, sir. They need us every bit as much as we need them. Economically. They won’t touch Taiwan. It would destroy everything they’ve worked to build. Wipe it out. They won’t do that.”
“Thanks for stopping by, gentlemen. Charlie, could you stick around for a couple of minutes? I’ve got something else.”
As the president got to his feet, the two men were already up. As they turned to leave, the president put his hand on General Moore’s shoulder. Gooch kept moving. As he left, the president took the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff by the arm and guided him over to the bourbon decanter. He poured each of them a healthy one.
“If you think they’ll move on Taiwan, Charlie, that’s good enough for me.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“So, we damn well better be ready for them. Operation Wild Card.”
Moore looked at the president. Those were the three words he’d been dreading.
“We will be ready, Mr. President,” Moore said.
“Harry Brock’s working directly for you on this, right? Not CIA?”
“I sent him to China. I sent him to Oman, sir.”
“You getting any direct word from Brock or Alex Hawke? This whole Gulf thing gets a lot less nerve-wracking if we can point the finger directly at France. At this fucking Bonaparte.”
“Not a word since they went in. We should know within the hour, sir.”
“You’ll let me know as soon as you’ve got something?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
“Mr. President?” Betsey Hall had reappeared in the doorway.
“Yes?”
“Sorry, sir. Mr. Gooch would like to—”
Gooch brushed past her and came into the room, his face drawn.
“I’ve just received word, sir. French troops and armored vehicles are landing on the Omani coast. They’ve opened up a naval bombardment of the capital of Muscat and certain important coastal cities. Paratroops are on the ground at the airport.”
“Jesus,” McAtee said. “Any word from Hawke?”
“Just now, sir. He’s safely out.”
“Did he bring Sultan Abbas out with him?”
“No, sir. The sultan is dead. He was killed during the rescue attempt.”
“Goddamn it.”
“There is some good news. Hawke’s got it, sir. He’s got the sultan on tape pointing the finger straight at France. Denouncing Bonaparte. Denying that he invited France in.”
“Thank you, John. Call the networks and get that tape on the air immediately. CNN, FOX, Al Jazeera.”
“Done.”
“And get Mr. Bonaparte on the phone. It’s time I had a little têteà-tête with this asshole.”
Chapter Fifty-six
Hong Kong
OF ALL THE WATERFRONT DIVES IN MACAO, STOKE THOUGHT, she had to pick this one.
He’d called Jet as soon as he’d arrived that morning. Twelve hours after saying good-bye to Hawke at Muscat airport, he was checking into his hotel in Hong Kong. Hawke wanted him to follow the threads he’d picked up in Berlin. To find out what the hell this General Moon was up to and fast. He stretched out on his bed overlooking the beautiful harbor. Thinking about what he’d say, he called the number on the card she’d handed to him in Berlin. On the phone, she’d sounded good. Upbeat. Staying out of sight at some girlfriend’s house in Macao.
Before he could even get to the purpose of his visit, she asked about Alex, which Stoke found pretty interesting. Wanted to know how he was, what he was up to. Yeah, he’d been right all along. The girl was a torch-bearer for Alex Hawke, all right. Get in line. Well, if it was true, good luck. Hawke had only loved two women in his whole damn life besides his mother. Consuelo de los Reyes, who wasn’t talking to him right now. And Victoria Sweet, who was dead.
Stoke told her that a good friend of Alex’s, a wonderful guy named Ambrose Congreve, had been shot at some fancy party out on Long Island and had been rushed to a hospital. All they knew, so far. Alex was en route to New York now to be by his friend’s side. Stoke was headed there, too, soon as he’d done what needed doing here in Hong Kong.
Said she was sorry about the friend; that she wanted to help Alex in any way she could. Help them. Alex needed her help more than he knew, she said. Stoke was still thinking about that one when she added, “Whatever you’ve figured out about von Draxis and Leviathan, I’m guessing it isn’t the whole story. As I told you, I don’t know the whole story myself. But I know one thing, Stokely. You don’t have China. You don’t have my father.”
“You can’t tell me.”
“I can’t tell you because I don’t know. And I don’t want to know. My relationship with him is complicated enough.”
Stoke told her some stuff he and Alex had discussed with Brick Kelly at CIA and she said, yeah, that was the right direction. It was definitely a French, German, Chinese connection. It was all about oil. But there were a whole lot more pieces to this puzzle. Bad pieces.
They should meet, she said. Tonight.