“I ain’t made no fuckin’ mistakes.”
“Make that three,” Pontowski replied. He looked in the direction of the four policemen heading toward them. The protesters turned, and Pontowski slipped past, into the consulate.
A dark-suited young Chinese woman was waiting for him. “Good afternoon, General Pontowski. This way, please. Mr. Zou will be a few minutes late, please forgive. But there is someone who wishes to speak to you.” She smiled at him. “I saw the way you handled the protesters. Most impressive.” He followed her up to the second floor and into a small reception room.
He froze when he saw the woman sitting there. He was vaguely aware of the door closing behind him, leaving them alone. The woman stood, her hands clasped demurely in front of her. She was five feet six inches tall, possessed beautiful dark almond-shaped eyes, lustrous black hair, and a delicate facial structure with high cheekbones. She was not Han Chinese but Zhuang from southern China. She was perhaps the most famous fortune-teller in China, and Zou’s mistress. “Jin Chu,” Pontowski said, “you’re as beautiful as ever.” The memories were all there — the time in China, the American Volunteer Group, and Zou’s abortive revolution.
“And you are charming above all men.” She beckoned for him to sit beside her on the couch. It was a royal command he hurried to obey. She folded her hands in her lap and gazed at him, looking deep into a world he could not see. “How is Victor?” she asked.
There was no emotion in her voice, but Pontowski knew it was there. Before Zou, Jin Chu had been Kamigami’s mistress. “I haven’t seen him since 1996,” he said. “I understand he’s living in Malaysia.”
“How is your son?”
“Zack is growing like a weed. He’s turning into a fine young man.” They talked, and the time flew by. A clock chimed four, and Zou Rong entered the room. His ever-present entourage of bodyguards and advisers trooped in behind him. Pontowski stood, and the two men shook hands. He was surprised at how Zou had aged. He had grown fat, and his hair was thinning. The boyish countenance that had charmed people was forever gone, replaced by a shrewd cunning.
“Mr. Zou has only a few moments,” an aide said.
“What brings you to Chicago?” Zou asked, knowing full well that Pontowski was there at his request.
“Politics,” Pontowski answered. “What else?”
“I was hoping for friendship,” Zou answered smoothly. He had just delivered the first part of his message to the Americans.
“There is always friendship. But that is a constant in my life, and I could never intrude for that alone.”
Zou laughed, and they sat down. “You were always the smooth devil. It is good to see you again.” He continued to dissemble, playing the surprised host glad to see an old friend. “How may I help you?”
“My president is worried about the trends in China. To be honest, her advisers are not sure how to read your government’s intentions.”
“Our admiration and friendship for the United States remain unchanged. But we are engaged in the new world order, which is economic. We must not lose sight of our friendship even though we are competing economically.” That was the second part of his message.
The aide interrupted. “Mr. Zou, your schedule, please.”
Zou frowned. “Please forgive me, there is so much to do.” He stood and spoke in Cantonese to Jin Chu. “See what you can learn.”
Pontowski stood with him. “Thank you for your time.” The two men shook hands again, and Zou was gone. “That was quick,” Pontowski said.
Jin Chu took him by the hand and led him to a window overlooking the interior courtyard. She held him in the light and placed her hands on his cheeks. “I have never told your fortune,” she said. Again he had the impression she was looking into another world. She took his right hand and held it against her cheek without speaking. Then she opened his hand and studied his palm. Slowly she moved a finger over his life line. “I see a mountain pass in a land I do not recognize. There is a man. It is you, but it is not you. There is a beautiful dark-haired woman.” She started to tremble. “I also see a great struggle and many deaths. But I cannot see further. There is so much confusion.” She looked at him, her eyes filling with tears, and whispered, “Victor.” She ran from the room.
Pontowski walked to the open door. The dark-suited aide was waiting for him. “You are the most privileged of men,” she said. “Jin Chu has not told a fortune in eight years.”
Patrick Flannery Shaw exploded in a loud guffaw as he read the New York Times. The sound carried out of his corner office and into the quiet halls of the West Wing. It was the modern equivalent of a bull elephant trumpeting victory or a lion roaring over the dead carcass of his latest kill. The president’s staff knew the sound: Maddy’s special assistant had barbecued some feckless politician. They didn’t know who was on the receiving end of Shaw’s attention or why, but they would figure it out in time. They always did.
Shaw’s intercom buzzed. He pulled himself off the couch and lumbered over to his desk. A short, thick finger jabbed at the buttons. “Hello, darlin’.”
The caller came right to the point. “Leland’s at the west gate with eight of his staff.”
Shaw checked the president’s daily calendar: Senator John Leland was scheduled for a personal conference with her in fifteen minutes. Shaw snorted. “Thanks for the heads up,” he said, breaking the connection. He pulled on his coat and ambled down the hall. “Lordy Lord,” he mumbled. “Eight sounds like an attack.” He plugged that number into his unique algebra of Washington politics. On one side of the equal sign, Leland thought eight was a show of strength. On the other side of the equation, Shaw saw political weakness. And he knew how to cancel Leland’s side. Shaw paused at the door leading into Maddy’s private study next to the Oval Office. He knocked twice, counted to three, and walked in.
Maddy looked up from her rocking chair and dropped the thick report she was reading. “Good morning, Patrick. I take it you’ve seen today’s New York Times.”
“Yes, ma’am. I did.”
“Enjoy it?”
Shaw nodded. It was all that would ever pass between them about the congressman who had made the mistake of spreading a malicious lie about the president and Matt Pontowski sharing the same bed.
“Leland brought eight of his advisers.”
Maddy arched an eyebrow. “I was expecting him, not his staff.” She paused. “Do I want to see all of them?”
He thought for a moment. “Why not? They’re totally out-matched.” Maddy nodded in agreement. “Let me set it up,” Shaw said.
“Make your entrance at the right time,” she told him. They were on the same wavelength.
The man entering the West Wing looked and sounded like a senator. John Leland was an accomplished orator with a deep, rolling southern accent, a full head of gray hair, and the jowly cheeks his constituency expected of the most influential and powerful senator in the Imperial City. His career in Congress stretched over forty years, and he was the chairman of the powerful Foreign Relations Committee. With a few well-chosen phone calls he could change the political weather of the capital and move whatever legislation he wanted through Congress. Shaw thought of Leland as the South’s permanent revenge on the United States for losing the Civil War. It was a quip he was saving for the right moment, preferably on a Sunday-morning political talk show.