“You really must want war.”
“America not understand what happening,” Cao said.
“So tell me.”
In his strained English, Cao explained to Wells what Li had done. How he’d betrayed the Drafter to the North Koreans, made the deal with the Iranians, and maneuvered the United States and China closer to war. When Cao was finished, Wells felt like a treasure hunter who’d drilled through a mountain to find an empty tomb. But not quite empty. In a corner, a single, tiny gold figurine. One man? One man had brought the world’s two most powerful nations to the brink of war?
“Why doesn’t anyone stop him?” Wells said when Cao was done. “On the Standing Committee.”
“They afraid they look weak. And also, they don’t like America telling China what to do. America should be quiet when China make agreement with Iran.”
“But the defector, Wen Shubai, he said—”
For the first time, Cao raised his voice. “Wen Shubai not real defector! Li Ping send Wen Shubai to fool you.”
“But the mole — Wen gave us enough to catch our mole—” Wells sputtered silent. Of course. Keith Robinson had been the bait that Wen had used to prove his bona fides. Li had known that Robinson’s most useful days as a mole were behind him. He’d told Wen to sacrifice Robinson. That way, Wen’s defection would seem credible.
Then, after Wen had proven his reliability by giving up Keith, he’d encouraged the United States to confront China — exactly the wrong strategy, one that gave Li Ping the leverage he needed internally to take control. Give up a pawn to position your forces for a wider attack. The gambit had worked perfectly. No wonder the agency and the White House hadn’t been able to understand why confronting China had back-fired so badly. Li’s foes on the Standing Committee were probably equally bewildered that the situation had deteriorated so fast. Li had played the United States against his internal enemies, and vice versa. For the biggest prize in history, the chance to rule the most populous nation in the world.
“Li want to be Mao,” Cao said.
“To save China.”
“Yes. But China not need saving.” Cao gestured at the prosperous street behind them. “Li good man, but he not see all this.”
Good man? Wells wasn’t so sure, not after the casual way in which Li had waved a hand across his throat and ordered Wells dead. He says it is nothingto himwhetheryou live or die. The casual cruelty of a man who had risked billions of lives in his quest to rule. But they could save that discussion for later.
“Then what?” he said to Cao. “When he takes over? Does he want war?”
“No war. He think once he take over, he make everything okay.”
“Nice of him.” Wells laughed. A mistake. The agony in his ribs surged and he bit his tongue to keep from filling the jeep with vomit. He closed his eyes and tried to be still. Cao squeezed his shoulder until the pain faded.
“So… General…” Wells fought to stay focused, keep the fog away. “How do we stop him? Can you tell the Standing Committee?”
“Say what to committee? That Li wants power? That I spy for America?”
Wells saw Cao’s point. “Then why did you bring me here if you didn’t have anything?”
Cao was silent. Then: “I don’t know. I thought—”
Wells fought down his anger. He couldn’t spare the energy. He rested a hand against his wounded ribs and tried to think things through. “The committee wants to stop Li. Some of them, anyway.”
“Yes. Minister Zhang hate him. But he afraid.”
“I understand.” Cao might have stars on his collar, but he wasn’t meant to lead, Wells saw already. He was a born subordinate. Smart and tough. But unimaginative. “We need proof he’s planned this all along. Something they can see. What did he hide from the committee?”
“Never told them about Wen.”
Wells felt a flash of hope, but it faded. The agency would need time to prove Wen’s defection was fake, and time was just what they didn’t have. “What else?”
The jeep was silent. Wells waited, meanwhile wondering if Cao had an escape route planned or if they’d be reduced to making a desperate break for the embassy.
“What else. Li had one other operation. Top secret. Started last year. I set up the money.”
“The funding.”
“Yes. Funding. Said United States would be angry if it knew. Was in Afghanistan.”
Just like that, Wells knew. “You were helping the Taliban.”
“He never told me, but I think so. But no Chinese soldiers.”
“No. Russian special forces.” Wells wondered if Pierre Kowalski had known all along where his money had come from.
“The account was in Banco Delta Asia,” Wells said. “In Macao. Yes?”
Cao didn’t hide his surprise. “How you know this?”
“Did he tell you what this was for, Cao?”
“For Iran. All he said.”
Of course. Wells saw the logic of the scheme. The Iranians had worried that China might walk away from the nukes-for-oil deal. By supporting the Taliban, Li had convinced Iran he was serious about standing up to America.
“Cao, those records prove Li has been planning war against America since last year. And he never told the Standing Committee. If you get them, we can stop him.”
If we live long enough to get them out of China, Wells didn’t say. If my guess is right, and they prove the money went to Kowalski. If the White House can get them back to Beijing, and to Zhang. And if Zhang can use them to get control of the committee back from Li.
But first they had to get the records, and get out.
“No war?” Cao said.
“No war.” Maybe.
“Then I get them.”
Cao reversed the jeep onto the road, looking sidelong at Wells as he did. “What your name? Real name.”
Crazy but true. Cao had saved his life, killed three of his own countrymen to do so, and didn’t even know his name. Wells wiped his hand against his mouth and came away with a pungent coating of dried blood and vomit. “John Wells.”
“Time Square Wells?”
“Time Square Wells.” Wells wondered if Cao was ready to move to Florida, live in a witness protection program. No matter what happened next, this would be his last day in China. “But if we get out, you can call me Tiananmen Square Wells. When we go to Disney World.”
“Disney World? Don’t understand.” The jeep hit a bump and Wells moaned a little.
“Me neither, Cao.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER CAO HONKED his way across four lanes of traffic and swung into an alley cluttered with wooden crates. A cloud of flies hovered around a pile of rotten vegetables. Normally the trash would hardly have bothered Wells, but the beating had left him weak and queasy. His green T-shirt was black with his blood. His heart was randomly speeding and slowing—thump, pause, thump,pause, thump-thump-thump-thump. He figured he was coming down off the adrenaline rush that had carried him through the immediate aftermath of the beating. Or maybe they’d done more damage to him than he first thought.
Cao stopped behind a low concrete building with a heavy steel door. The words “Dumping Home” were painted, in black and in English, on a splintered wooden sign. Dumping Home? Wells wondered if he was delirious, but when he looked again, the sign hadn’t changed.
Cao pointed at the building. “Friends inside. Christians.”
Wells wondered if he should mention his own confused beliefs. Probably not the time.
Cao honked. The back door creaked open and a man in a dirty chef’s apron jogged over. He and Cao spoke briefly before he nodded and ran back inside. Cao tapped his watch. Four P.M.