“You start to empathize with your hosts,” Anita said.
“Speaking of hosts, I’m going to see if I can recapture the prime minister,” Hasen said. “Will you excuse me?”
“Of course,” Anita said.
Hasen left, and Hood asked Anita if she would like a drink. She said yes and motioned to a waiter. The whitejacketed young Chinese hurried over. She asked for champagne. Hood ordered a Coke.
“Do you not drink?” the woman asked.
“Rarely,” Hood replied. “I like to remember what I hear. More important, I like to remember what I said.”
“Moderation, Mr. Hood.”
“Not something Americans are very good at,” he replied.
“I understand. When I was in school I read novels by Mr. Hemingway and Mr. Fitzgerald. The men were always drinking too much.”
“The authors, too, I fear.”
The woman smiled. Anita Le was a striking woman. She was dressed in a sequined white gown that did justice to her slender, athletic figure. She had straight black hair with hints of red and a round, open face with large eyes. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties. She had poise that came from years of negotiating the sharp edges of life.
Hood glanced over at Hasen. He was still trying to insert himself into a conversation with the prime minister. The crowd around him had grown considerably.
“Is this your first visit to Beijing?”
“It is,” Hood replied. “Do you work full-time as a translator?”
“No. I teach literature at Beijing University. You can tell a lot about the ethos of a culture from its fiction.”
“Do you follow contemporary literature or just the classics?”
“I stay as current as time allows,” she said. “Though I must confess I have no particular interest in most of the work being produced by your country right now. Most of it is wish fulfillment for women and men, with very little to offer both. That divides rather than unites a culture.”
“You mean romances for the women and spy stories for the men.”
“Yes.”
“I look at that stuff as aspirational,” Hood said. “It creates idealized heroes and heroines that make us want to be better.”
“They are comic books for adults,” Anita replied dismissively.
“What’s wrong with that?” Hood asked.
“Popular literature is more about superficial external desires, to be strong or beautiful, than about internal growth,” she replied. “There was a time in the nineteenth and early twentieth century when American authors like Herman Melville and John Steinbeck and Upton Sinclair addressed social and psychological issues instead of fantasies.”
“Fantasies have truth in them,” Hood said. “Moby-Dick is a fantasy.”
“Only as far as the whale is concerned,” the woman replied, “and it is not to be taken literally. The white whale is a personification of Captain Ahab’s destructive desires.”
“I’m sure many of the enemies in contemporary American literature can be seen that way.”
“No,” the woman replied with a firm shake of her head. “The Chinese are inevitably portrayed as enemies, as are the Russians. These are very specific references in all your spy novels, your James Bond adventures, and they distort reality in a quest for propaganda.”
“James Bond is British,” Hood pointed out.
“An irrelevant detail. The mentality is still Western.”
“To some degree,” Hood admitted the truth of that. “You have read James Bond novels?”
“Only Dr. No,” she said. “I saw several of the films. Comedies, really. Dr. No was a villain born in Beijing, a member of several tong gangs, a man with a translucent yellow skin with a Chinese Negro bodyguard. Destroying American missiles with a laser beam while posing as an exporter of guano. Mr. Hood, have you ever met a Chinese like that?”
“No,” he had to admit.
“Or a dazzlingly brilliant spy like Mr. Bond, who announces his identity to everyone he meets while moving through the world in a tailored tuxedo?” Anita said. She gestured vaguely at Hood’s attire. “A spy would be discreet.”
“One would think,” Hood said uncomfortably. He saw Hasen returning with the prime minister. Hood’s own powers of subtle intelligence gathering were about to be tested.
Hood did not know if they would ever find common ground where literature or literary protagonists was concerned. But the woman spoke English magnificently, and while she had the aggressive confidence of an academic, she listened when he was speaking. There was curiosity at work.
Anita’s manner changed instantly when the men returned. She moved between but slightly behind her father and Hood. Her chin was no longer high and proud but lowered, like her eyes. It was not subservience but respect. Hood wondered if the writers Anita disliked so much would have bothered to note the dynamics between a father and daughter, a prime minister and translator.
Not the ones who had made Le Kwan Po a Fu Manchu — style tyrant, he reflected.
Hood and the prime minister shook hands.
“Mr. Hood. Mr. Hasen says you wished to meet me,” the prime minister said through Anita.
“Yes, sir,” Hood replied. “Is there someplace we can talk for a moment, privately?”
“Right here,” the prime minister said. “No one can hear us, and most do not understand English. If you speak and I listen, we will be secure.”
“All right,” Hood said.
“But, Mr. Hood — I know your name. Why is that?” the prime minister asked.
“I’ve been in government for quite some time,” Hood replied.
“In what capacity?”
“Most recently as the director of the National Crisis Management Center,” Hood replied.
“Yes, of course. The renowned Op-Center. Your spies uncovered plots around the world, prevented wars.”
Anita looked at Hood as she finished translating. Her expression darkened, and Hood felt a flush.
“Then you know, of course, General Michael Rodgers,” Le Kwan Po said.
There was an edge to Anita’s voice that had not been there before. Anita had to feel as though Hood had been leading her, patronizing her.
“Yes, sir. I worked very closely with General Rodgers for years.”
“Are you here at his request?”
“Only partly, sir,” Hood admitted. “The president also had reasons for sending me.”
“I would like to hear those reasons,” Le Kwan Po said. “President Debenport seems to take a harder view of our government than his predecessor.”
“Harder in what sense, Mr. Prime Minister?”
“Black and white,” Le Kwan Po replied.
“I cannot answer for the president, sir,” Hood said. “I can tell you that his regard for you personally is very high. As is mine.”
“Thank you,” the prime minister replied. He looked at his watch. “The toasts do not begin for another forty minutes. Perhaps we had better go elsewhere.”
“All right.”
Le Kwan Po led the way through the crowd toward the back of the ballroom. Well-wishers bowed or clasped his hand. Le smiled politely and patiently as he continued moving forward. It was a tremendous political asset, being attentive without stopping, giving a moment of your time without breaking stride. Le did that and one thing more: he did not show any favoritism. Everyone got the same smile, the same moment of contact. Debenport — and James Bond — might see the Chinese as black, but Le Kwan Po was definitely gray.
And his daughter was definitely annoyed. She was still walking behind her father, which meant she was walking behind Hood. He caught her sharp stare whenever he maneuvered around someone in the packed hall.
The group reached the back of the hall. A soldier wearing a formal black uniform opened a door for the prime minister. Le extended an arm, urging the ambassador and Hood to enter. They did, followed by the prime minister and his daughter.