“I imagine that could turn just about anyone.”
The video zoomed in on Djinn, and Van Lynden studied the man, looking past his age-gaunt features and the stiffness of his movements to the alert glitter of his eyes and the calculating way he studied his surroundings. The Chinese Presidium had made a very bad enemy out of this old man.
The video clip ended and Ms. Sagada reached forward to call up another track.
“Okay. Here we go with the Communist delegation.”
Two more men descending another aircraft stairway. One, short, heavyset, and wearing an old-style Maoist suit. Haven’t seen one of those in a while. What might that indicate, Harry? A throwback of attitude or a statement of policy? The other was tall, soldierly in bearing, and clad in the uniform of the People’s Liberation Army.
“These are the two representatives from the People’s Republic,” Sagada continued. “Deputy Premier Chang Hui’an and General Ho Chunwa.”
“Very heavy metal indeed. I know Chang only by reputation. He’s not an international man. I don’t think he’s ever even been out of the country before. He does carry a lot of Party weight, though.
“As for Ho,” Van Lynden continued, “I’ve met him. It was years ago, before Tiananmen. Very sharp. Very tough. But he thinks. He’s open to reason. Who’s the senior man of the delegation?”
“That’s … rather nebulous at the moment, Mr. Secretary. The delegation appears to be under a joint leadership.”
Now, that’s interesting, Van Lynden thought. The only time the Communists don’t work with linear chain of command is when there’s a factional confrontation going on between two near-party power groups. A trust breakdown between the Party and the PLA? Is somebody afraid that somebody else is ready to sell out? Very interesting indeed …
Ms. Sagada snapped off the laptop. “That’s about all we have new on the delegations, sir. I also have a prospective conference agenda for your consideration and a request from the press corps for a statement from you concerning the goals of the United States in these talks.”
“I’ll be pleased to let them know as soon as I’m sure myself” Van Lynden laid his napkin across his plate “What’s the latest military update from the Chinese mainland? The short version.”
“Static, but with buildups continuing on all fronts The Nationalists are continuing to land troops within the Amoy beachhead, while the Communists continue to mass forces to the north and west of the city. Apparently, they’re preparing a major counterattack to drive the Nationalists back into the sea before UDFC can break through to them from the south.” The young Embassy liaison shook her head. “Our military attache says things should blow out there soon. Very soon.”
“That battle goes, so may go this conference.”
Van Lynden got to his feet “Is there a secure terminal here in the hotel?”
“Not yet, sir. The communications rooms for the delegations won’t be up and running until sometime this after noon.”
“Then we’ll need to go across to the Embassy for a while. Let me see, the opening session isn’t scheduled until ten tomorrow morning. Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Until then, from, say, noon today on see if you can dial us in to meet with as many of the other delegates, one on one, as possible. Nobody may be willing to talk substance before the first session, but at least we might be able to feel out some attitudes.”
“We, sir?” There was a faint hint of expectancy beyond the professionalism in Lucena Sagada’s voice.
Van Lynden paused in donning his suit jacket. “You’re my liaison officer, aren’t you? Part of your job is keeping Ambassador Dickenson fully apprised on the status of these talks. As far as I can see, the best way to accomplish that is for you to be directly involved in them Is that amenable to you?”
The young woman’s sobriety momentarily disappeared in the bright flash of her smile.
“I’d like that very much, sir.”
“Fine Start setting us up. In the meantime, I’ve got some people to talk to.”
Van Lynden started for the elevators, his security team deploying around him with the unobtrusive efficiency of the stage ninjas in a kabuki play. The secretary of state was already losing himself in what he had learned that morning, adding the scraps of information he had garnered to the matrix of knowledge, instinct, and intuition he was building around the China crisis. During his years in the diplomatic service, Van Lynden had developed an entire arsenal of mental mechanisms to help him maintain the clarity of thought and total focus needed for this brand of heavy gauge statesmanship. One of them was “tagging” — applying a descriptive and readily recallable symbol to each of the other involved parties. In those video clips today, he had found his tags for the Chinas — the planes the opposing delegations had arrived aboard. The Nationalists and UDFC had flown in on a gleaming new Taiwanese Air Force Dassault 9000. Sleek compact, and efficient, the little executive jet had more resemblance to a model put together by some painstaking hobbyist than it had to a real aircraft. The Communists had arrived on board an aging Boeing 727, its paint stripped by a myriad of hail and rainstorms, its tail cone blackened by years of burning low-grade jet propellant. An unmatching aileron and cabin door had indicated where another airframe had been stripped to make this one operational. That was the dichotomy. The cutting edge of tomorrow, driven by the power of global trade and technology, versus the outworn giant, obsolescent and weary, but not quite ready for the scrap heap.
11
“Closing on point item, Captain. Closing. Closing. Closing. And mark!”
“Very good, Quartermaster. Lee helm, all stop on main engines. Helmsman, initiate station keeping on hydrojets.”
“Aye, aye.”
Everyone on the Cunningham’s bridge kept his or her voice low. All odds were that a normal speaking tone wouldn’t have carried across to the shore of the inlet, but their reaction was instinctive to the black, looming presence of the hills that surrounded them on three sides. Sweat prickled under the combination flak vest and life jacket Amanda wore, and the Kevlar helmet she had donned over her command headset pinched painfully. She ignored the discomfort, and her eyes flicked from repeater to repeater the sweeping low-light televisions, the passive radar detectors, the radio frequency scanners. All clear.
“Deployment crew,” she spoke into her lip mike “We are on station Get it in the water.”
Sliding out of the captain’s chair, she crossed to the starboard side bridge doorway and stepped out onto the bridge wing. Below and forward, deckhands worked swiftly in the dim cool glow of light sticks. The VLS’s missile handling crane had been deployed and its cable was now linked to a dark lozenge-shaped object the size of a large hot-water tank. Now, with the howl of its motor muffled by a blanket, the crane lifted the module from the deck and swung it out over the rail. The winch reel reversed and swiftly the object was lowered into the low, oily swells. A line was yanked and a shackle released, freeing it It bobbed at the destroyer’s side for a few moments as ballast chambers flooded, and then it was gone, sinking from sight.