“What has happened now?” De Ming asked. The man’s hovering attentiveness was replaced by real concern. Not just about the event but for knowledge the prime minister possessed that he did not.
Le sat in a rocking chair. He leaned forward and took an ashtray from the coffee table by the sofa. He told the three men about the explosion at the Taipei hotel and the subsequent escape of the bombers.
The men seemed surprised by the news — for different reasons, the prime minister suspected.
“Do the Taiwanese police know who the hotel guests were?” Chou asked.
“Which information is the director of the Guoanbu concerned about?” General Tam Li asked as he blew smoke from the side of his mouth. “The names of the men or the fact that Taipei might have identified them?”
Chou did not reply.
The prime minister regarded the spy chief. “I would like to know the answer to that, Director Chou.”
The seventy-one-year-old hard-liner snickered. “Is that why we were called from our beds? To be interrogated by an amateur?”
“The technique is not important. The information is,” the prime minister replied. “It is no secret that the distinguished director of the Guoanbu and one of our most honored soldiers are not getting along. The foreign minister has kept me informed about attacks against Chinese interests abroad. These incidents do not seem to have been random. I hope both of you can tell me more about them.”
The foreign minister did not look happy. The prime minister did not care. Le wanted these men to know that De Ming Wang was a self-serving opportunist and not a potential ally.
“My interest in Taipei is professional,” Chou replied. He regarded Tam Li for the first time. “As for this honored soldier, the general and I have a very different vision of China and its place in the world. My views are in accord with the values and policies of the Zhōngúo Gòngchandang. His are not.”
Chou was near reverent when he mentioned the Communist Party of China. The spy master obviously did so to suggest that an attack on him was an attack against the nation itself.
“General?” Le asked.
“I do not intend to sit here as my devotion to our nation and its party are questioned,” Tam Li replied. His mild surprise at the news from Taipei had diminished. He continued to look ahead and not at anyone in the room. “Director Chou has failed to answer the prime minister’s question. I would like to know the answer as well. I would also like to know whether the resources of the Guoanbu are being used in ways other than their regulations permit.”
“Is there evidence of this?” the prime minister asked. He looked from the general to the spy chief. Until Le had more information—any information — he did not wish to take sides. Ultimately, there might not be a need to. Not if he could get the men to do that work for him.
Neither man spoke. Le did not bother asking the foreign minister. De Ming would not say anything, even if he knew.
The prime minister drew on his cigarette. He exhaled slowly. He had the authority to empanel a Special Bureau of Investigation to examine these matters. The ten-member group would be hand-picked by the minister of justice from among the representatives of twenty-three administrative divisions of China. Because the members came from outside the executive branch, the legislative branch, and the military, an SBI was generally unbiased and untouchable. The representatives were prohibited, by law, from seeking higher office. They had nothing to gain by coloring their findings.
But an SBI would not act quickly. And the prime minister needed immediate results, especially if the launch might be at risk. He also needed to keep the foreign minister from moving against him.
“Does the foreign minister have any comments?” Le asked.
“Chinese citizens were killed in the United States and Taipei,” De Ming said. “I would suggest at the very least an oversight committee be formed to collect information from foreign sources.”
“To place blame or redirect it?” General Tam Li asked.
Le regarded the officer. “I ask again, General. Do you have information you wish to share?”
“None,” Tam Li told him. “Only an observation. Absent détente, this situation will escalate.”
The prime minister did not bother to ask him how or when. No one seemed to want to say anything incriminating, something that might help an opponent. “What would it take to establish peace?” Le asked.
“There can be no peace without a singular vision,” Chou said. “We have a system of beliefs in China, one established by great men. One put in place through the sacrifice of millions of lives. There can be no deviation from that.”
Tam Li rolled what was left of his cigarette between his fingers. His pale eyes were fixed on the glowing tip. “The number of smokers in China surpasses the population of the United States. Should all of us smoke the same brand? Should those who do not smoke be forced to do so? I am told by my physician that millions of souls have died for that right as well.”
“Your comments are sickening,” Chou snapped. “They diminish the sacrifice others have made.”
“I had hoped to provide perspective,” Tam Li replied quietly.
“You failed,” Chou said. “Mr. Prime Minister, this meeting is pointless, and I am tired.”
“You should consider retiring,” the general said and then looked at the spy chief. “To bed, I mean.”
Chou Shin regarded the prime minister. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
“Not at the moment, thank you,” Le replied. The spy chief had just given him what he needed.
The head of the Guoanbu bowed slightly toward the foreign minister, then to the prime minister, then left.
“Ideologues are easy to bait,” the general said.
“Why did you want to?” Le asked. “You do not advocate our political philosophy?”
“I support the land,” Tam Li replied. “I support China, whatever form that takes. One day it is a dynasty, an empress, one day it is a party called Communism. The next day we are all looking the other way as Hong Kong and Taiwan force us to tolerate new ideas.”
“Not everyone tolerates them,” the foreign minister pointed out.
“No. Director Chou does not. Others do not. As a general, I have been trained to watch and evaluate the currents of battle. This one, the one Director Chou is fighting, is a losing one.”
“Do you think the director loves China any less than you, less than any of us?” Le asked.
“No. But he is a jealous lover.”
“A violent one?”
General Tam Li smiled self-consciously. He put the stub of the cigarette between his lips, then carefully folded the paper full of ashes. He stood and dropped the paper in a wastebasket. Then he walked over to the prime minister and put his cigarette in the ashtray.
“No, Mr. Prime Minister,” the general said.
“He is not a violent man?” Le asked.
“No — I will say nothing more,” Tam Li continued. “Director Chou and I share this much: the belief that a man fights his own battles.”
“Such battles could hurt China,” the prime minister pointed out.
“Internal struggle, however painful at the time, invariably strengthens the host. It builds new defenses, discards aspects of a system that do not work. If the system fails, it was not healthy to begin with.”
“We are talking about escalating attacks on Chinese holdings, not debates in the People’s Congress,” the prime minister complained.
“You are just giving us idealistic words and sweeping ideas,” the foreign minister added impatiently.
“What is Communism if not that?” Tam Li asked.
The foreign minister threw up his hand in disgust. Then he excused himself and left the room. The prime minister set the ashtray aside and rose. “General, I don’t care whether you and Director Chou claw each other to pieces,” he said. “I am not worried about the survival of China. I am, however, very concerned about the launch of the Red Eagle on Thursday. Your command will use it to link communications that are currently using landlines.”