BUT TAKING CONTROL WOULDN’T BE EASY. Li couldn’t openly challenge Zhang Fenshang, the economic minister and the most powerful man on the Standing Committee. Zhang was supposedly ranked second-in-command, behind the general secretary, Xu Xilan. In reality, Zhang was the most powerful man in China. Xu was eighty-two and feeble, a figurehead who “consulted” Zhang before any important decision.
Together, Zhang and the other liberals — Li gritted his teeth to think of the word — held six seats on the nine-member committee. To defeat them, Li needed to outmaneuver them. If he could take control of the committee, the people would rally around him. The rich businessmen might protest. But eventually even they would understand that Li didn’t want to destroy them, just make them share some of their wealth.
Li knew he would have only one chance to take power. If he failed, he wouldn’t just lose his spot on the Standing Committee. At best, he would spend the rest of his years under house arrest. At worst, he would suffer a tragic accident, and his death would be announced to the people in somber tones.
No, he couldn’t fail. And he needed to move quickly, before the people grew so angry that even he couldn’t calm them. In the last few months, he’d put a plan together. And now, after his visit to Iran, he believed he’d found the key to making it work.
“All warfare is based on deception,” Sun Tzu, China’s most famous military strategist, had written 2,500 years earlier. Under normal circumstances, Zhang could easily defeat Li. But what if Zhang suddenly faced a threat beyond his control, a threat not from inside China but from outside?
Li knew his plan was dangerous. But not acting would be even more dangerous.
DESSERT — A RICH PEAR CAKE with ginger ice cream — was served, and the plates cleared. The waiters poured cognac. Then they disappeared, leaving the nine men at the table to the country’s business.
Zhang, sitting beside Xu, the general secretary, raised his glass. “To the glory of the new China.”
“And to the people,” Xu said. “To the wisdom of the Chinese people.”
“Of course, Comrade Xu,” Zhang said. “We must always serve the people.”
Li sipped from his snifter, feeling the glow of the golden liquid in his mouth. Cognac was one of his indulgences. A glass before bed made his sleep pleasant.
The Standing Committee met for the banquets once a month. The dinners always followed the same script. Only when the waiters had left the hall did business begin. Of course, the committee met in regular sessions several times a week, but the truly important decisions were made at this table — with no aides to overhear or record the sessions. Even in here, even speaking only to one another, committee members chose their words as carefully as Mafia dons on a phone line tapped by the FBI. Speaking too clearly signaled weakness, not strength.
“Comrade Zhang,” Xu said. “Please begin.”
“The economic situation has not changed,” Zhang said. “The transition period”—what the liberals called the economy’s slowdown—“is continuing. But there’s no reason for concern. The will of the people is excellent. Business conditions are good.”
Zhang had said the same thing the month before, and the month before that. How much had Zhang stolen from the national treasury and hidden in banks in Singapore? Li wondered. How many bribes had he taken? Five hundred million yuan—$60 million? A billion yuan? Two billion? With money you are a dragon, with no money, a worm.
“Then what is the problem?” Xu said.
“General Secretary,” Zhang said, “just as a farmer must let a field lie fallow from time to time, the economy must slow occasionally before it grows again.” Though he’d lived most of his life in Shanghai, Zhang liked to use farming metaphors with Xu, whose parents had been peasants. “We’re pruning the deadwood so saplings can prosper. If the young trees aren’t rising fast enough, we must prune more vigorously.”
To the men at the table, Zhang’s meaning was clear. The government should close more state-owned factories, like the tire plant where Li’s father had worked. Li couldn’t believe that Zhang had the audacity to propose more layoffs with so many people already jobless. But arguing openly with Zhang would be futile.
“Yes,” Xu said. “I see.”
“I’ll propose a plan for the Congress next month”—the annual Communist Party Congress, which would officially ratify the decisions these nine men made.
“Does anyone else have thoughts on Comrade Zhang’s view?” Xu said. Li held his tongue. Then Xu turned toward him.
“Comrade General Li. How was your visit to Tehran?”
Now or never, Li thought. “Very productive, General Secretary.” He outlined the oil-for-nuclear-help deal he’d discussed with the Iranian president. Li could see that he’d caught Zhang by surprise, as he’d intended.
“Zhang, what do you think?” Xu asked.
Zhang sipped his cognac, trying to buy time. Li could imagine his calculation. An open alliance against the United States would have enormous risks. On the other hand, a confrontation with America would buy time to right the economy. And Zhang didn’t want to appear as though he feared the United States.
Zhang looked at Li. “What’s your view, Comrade General?”
Zhang was hoping to force the responsibility for the decision back on Li. In doing so, Zhang had slipped into Li’s trap. Zhang had never before given up control on an important issue. He would find retaking it more difficult than he expected, Li thought.
“My view, Comrade Zhang?” he said. “Let’s seize this opportunity. The Iranians can give us leverage against the hegemonists”—the Americans. “Our industries will benefit from a guaranteed supply of oil. And the Persians will be a new market for us. They see all that we’ve done. They can help us through the transition period. Anyway, why should we let the Americans decide what nations have certain weapons?”—nuclear bombs. “The Persians don’t threaten us.”
“And the Americans? What will they say?”
“Let them talk,” Li said. “Talk does not cook rice.”
“It isn’t their talk that concerns me,” Zhang said. “What if they misunderstand our peaceful intent?”
Li had to admit that Zhang could turn a phrase. Of course the United States would “misunderstand” if China allied with Iran, America’s biggest enemy.
“The hegemonists aren’t interested in any more wars.”
“You’re certain.”
“Nothing is certain, Comrade Zhang. But they are distracted now, and our army and navy are valiant.”
The table was silent when Li finished speaking, and he knew he’d won. They’d send him back to Tehran to finalize an agreement with Iran. For the first time since the end of the Cold War, the United States would face a challenge to its global dominance.
The Americans would want to respond. But they had their own problems, Li knew. The death of their North Korean spy had cost them their best intelligence on Pyongyang. The war in Iraq had sapped their army. They were on the defensive — and the public announcement of the Chinese/Iranian alliance would irritate them further. Like a wounded bear, they would lash out but with words, not actions. The American president would speak against the agreement, and that would irritate the men around him. No one in this room wanted advice from the United States on how China should conduct its affairs.
But neither Washington nor Beijing would expect the war of words to go any further. What no one at this table realized was that Li intended the agreement with Iran to be only the start of China’s confrontation with America.
“It’s agreed, then?” Li said. “We’ll accept the Iranian proposal?”