“Yes,” Guzenko answered. There was no problem in this. Standard party policy. Taiwan had no legitimacy at all either here in Beijing, Moscow, or anywhere else. It had long been relegated to the backwater of history — ejected even by the UN years ago.
“Thank you,” said the chairman, nodding his head and extending his hand. The Russian struggled awkwardly from the lounge chair, making a mess of the lace antimacassar. “Will Beijing contribute to the volunteer force?” he asked quickly.
“We will see,” said the chairman through his interpreter.
Satisfied the Chinese didn’t suspect that Moscow had dispatched the Far Eastern Fleet to remind the Chinese who was boss in Northeast Asia, the Soviet ambassador nevertheless left the Great Hall of the People dissatisfied with the meeting. Everything had been going fairly well, he thought, until Taiwan.
The orange light on the Zil’s phone console was blinking relentlessly. “Yes?”
“Mr. Ambassador?” It was his military attaché, a bright young man but with a high, piercing voice that irritated the ambassador.
“Yes?”
“The Kuomintang navy with transports is entering the Taiwan Strait on the Chinese side.”
The ambassador issued an oath for which he used to be soundly whipped as a boy. “Their course?” he demanded.
“Looks like Weitou.”
The ambassador repeated the oath. Weitou was on the Chinese mainland at the mouth of the Jinlong Jiang and within the range of the two offshore islands of Jinmen and Xiamen, formerly called Quemoy and Amoy. Both islands were heavily fortified and belonged to Taiwan. The ambassador felt ill. Soon as word got out, and the chairman would make sure it did, that through its ambassador Moscow had promised military intervention should the KMT attack the People’s Republic, the Soviet Politburo would be furious. He thumped the armrest. Damn the Chinese! They must have known the KMT were in the Taiwan Strait as they were talking to him. A trap, and he’d fallen for it. But who would have thought Taipei would—
“And sir—?” came the military attaché’s piercing voice.
“Yes, yes,” snapped Guzenko. “Go on.”
“Ah — Mrs. Guzenko would like some Lucky Strikes.”
The ambassador slumped back into the plush leather. “Friendship Store,” he ordered the driver, who was beaming broadly — it was a chance to stock up on Western goods with foreigners’ exchange yuan.
The ambassador knew that no promise with China would be honored unless the USSR was directly threatened — Moscow had enough problems of her own. But if the Kuomintang attacked Quemoy or one of the other offshore islands and Moscow didn’t supply military support, the ambassador’s career would be over. The driver was beeping the horn constantly and the Chinese moved — when they were ready.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A hundred fifty miles south of Seoul on the littered and burning outskirts of Taegu, long spirals of thick, blackish smoke-rubber tires burning — there was a no-man’s-land, not yet reached by the NKA but abandoned by the retreating ROK forces trying to consolidate the perimeter a few miles south of the city, the distant thunder of the NKA artillery unrelenting. James Law, a World Press photographer, was tired and disgusted with himself. Despite his best efforts he always seemed to be a half hour behind the action. The only people moving through now were terrified refugees, women crying, exhausted, some with babies strapped with blankets to their back, moving in a kind of shuffling half run, energy long gone but still going out of sheer terror. But the world had seen countless women and babies in countless wars. He called over two boys who, like so many others he’d already seen, didn’t seem to belong anywhere, as if appearing out of nowhere, scavenging through the rubble for food, clothes, anything they might barter away, including themselves. They were crouching over the body of an American GI, stripping it bare. As he approached, they started to run, but he held up his hands, patting the air to calm them. “You boys speak English?” They both looked at each other, frightened and suspicious. Finally one of them nodded. “Hello — how are you?”
“I’m fine,” said Law, smiling. “Listen—” He peeled two ten-dollar notes from his billfold. “You like?”
“Sure.”
“Okay—” Law looked about, indicating to them that he wanted something on which to write. They produced a few scraps of paper.
“No, no,” he said. “Big. Over there — boxes. You savvy?”
“Hello?”
“Here, I’ll show you. The packing box.” He stamped it flat and made a writing motion. One of the boys pointed to Law’s shirt pocket.
“No, no,” said Law. “No pens. Too small. Something big— super-duper.” One of the boys started to run toward one of the fires and came back with a block of soft charcoal.
“Now you’re talkin’,” said Law. “Good boy. Now here, hand me the carton.” He ripped it in half. Taking the most ragged part and using the piece of charcoal, he printed in a childish hand, “WE HATE AMERICANS. YANKEESS GO HOME.” He poured some water from the dead man’s canteen into a Kleenex and squeezed it under one of the boys’ eyes. He took ten shots with the ASA400 film, shooting half on f 16 and half on f8 as backup, and three with the Polaroid, one of which was very good because it showed the boys really scowling, their eyes full of hate, getting the American’s corpse in nearby and violating the old World War II photographers’ taboo by making sure the puffy face was plainly visible — flyblown and blood-congealed. Law heard the crack of a rifle, and the next minute shots were whizzing nearby. ROK or NKA, he didn’t care. He got into the jeep and took off, the two boys running into what had once been a bakery shop, its counter covered in glass and spilled flour that looked like snow.
When Law reached the Pusan office, he sauntered in, announcing to the army clearance officer that “I just got a shot you wouldn’t believe. Christ, make you sick.” He showed the officer one of the Polaroids, which he knew he could use to jump the fax line if the wire service dispatcher deemed it good enough.
“Jesus,” said the dispatcher. “This won’t get past the censor.”
“Christ, it’s not a military installation. We’re in a war. What are we talking here? Another Vietnam cover-up? That’s the way it is, Sam — that’s the way it is.”
The censor passed it, Law checking to make sure the photo credit was well within the fax-sized paper.
Within an hour it was the photograph of the Korean War; two Korean youngsters, crying in their sorrow, shouting their hatred for the United States, and pleading for it to stop the war — to get the hell out of their country.
In Moscow it came in over the wire from the Soviet Embassy in Washington and was rerouted to 2 Dzerzhinsky Square. These days Chernko was staying there, a cot set up in the annex to his fourth-floor office. He took the photograph to the major, who awoke, startled, from an early morning nap after having been up all night.
“Good,” he said. “Very—” Then he saw the photo credit: James Law. “Gospodi!”— “My God!”
“You see, Major,” said Chernko. “Now it pays off, eh? All the training. The waiting.”
“Yes,” agreed the major. He had difficulty recalling Law’s face, as he had been one of the early illegals they had shipped over in Gorbachev’s time.
The director was walking away, holding the photograph high. “Power of the press.”
In Washington protestors had already started to gather about the White House, the photo galvanizing opposition to the war.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
In East Berlin the loading of the two giant four-engined Russian Condors, the world’s largest military air transports, was delayed. Each plane, assigned to carry 345 members of the Communist freedom volunteer force from East Berlin to Pyongyang via Khabarovsk, was waiting for the Cubans to arrive. The East German commander was annoyed, but the members of his “shock troop” company, though in full battle packs, had no complaint. The shock troops, who had been waiting for more than an hour in the huge, overheated cavern of the Condors, had been told that some of the Cubans sent to help the Communist volunteer force aid North Korea were women. They had also been told by their political officer they must not call any of the women “senorita” or “senora”; this was something you heard only in the decadent American Western films so beloved by equally decadent West Germans. Nowadays, they were instructed, they must address the women as “Comrade”— “Compañera.”