PRESIDENT ZHANG OPENED the bedroom door in his pajamas. It was 11.30pm in Beijing. In front of him stood his personal secretary. His knocking had woken Zhang’s wife. The Chinese president himself had not been asleep.
‘President Zhang, there is an email,’ said the man.
Zhang didn’t understand. He followed him out. The secretary had been alerted that an email had come to the secure account that was linked to the president of the United States.
They had never used it. It took ten minutes of both of them looking in cupboards and files before they found the password for the account.
Zhang opened the message, triggering the receipt function that alerted the other side to the fact that it had been accessed. He scanned the note quickly. Then he pressed to print it. The secretary opened a door to go and retrieve it from the printer.
‘No!’ said Zhang quickly. He closed the email account and went to get the paper himself.
‘Do you want it translated, President Zhang?’
Zhang shook his head. The secretary watched as the Chinese president took the note to his study. ‘Wait here,’ he said, and closed the door.
He sat down and read the text. No translation was required. It had been sent not only in English but in Mandarin, as if it was understood that Zhang might choose to read it without involving an interpreter. It laid out the actions the United States was going to take over the next fourteen hours. The tone of the note was firm. It said Knowles would be happy to take a call for clarification if there was anything that required explanation.
It wasn’t intended as a backdown, Zhang knew. He was being told what would happen. If anything, it could be interpreted as an act of humiliation towards him, like the note a parent would send to a child who couldn’t manage his own affairs.
But Zhang wasn’t looking for such interpretations. He was looking for something, anything that would enable him to give the order to turn the Chou Enlai and Mao Zedong around with confidence that it would be obeyed.
He studied the note. There would be an hour between the release of the ships and the rescue of the American soldiers. His mind fixed on that, toyed with it, turned it around. An hour. That was the thing this note gave him. What possibilities did it create?
An idea began to form in his mind. One hour was very little. Two would be good. Four would be better. But if he rang Knowles and asked for four, he would need to explain why. If he didn’t explain why, the American leader would think he was prevaricating. And he could not divulge the reason.
So it was one hour. That was what he would have. But that was something. It might be sufficient.
In his mind he inspected it from every side, this one hour that he would have, like a precious piece of treasure that had suddenly appeared from nowhere and that might – or might not – be enough.
Zhang read the note one last time. No one but his private secretary knew the note existed, and not even he knew what was in it. The Chinese president began to tear it up. Tear after tear, until it was in little pieces. He put the pieces in an ashtray and set a match to them.
He watched them burn.
The note changed the entire balance of the situation. When the Kunming and Changchun were released, there would be no reason for the carrier groups to keep approaching. Xu could tell them to stop, even if Fan wanted them to proceed. Would he? What would happen, he wondered, if he spoke to Xu and said he had spoken with the American president and that Knowles was going to back down and release the ships? What if he said the American president was doing this in order to get China’s help to solve America’s economic problems?
That would turn the situation on its head. That would show his version of China’s true power, its economic strength, trumping Fan’s military muscle.
Where would Xu stand then? Would he turn the ships around? Would he believe that his admirals would agree to do so? As far as they were aware, they would have won. The Americans would have backed down.
Then there would be one hour before the Americans went in to get their men. Where would Xu stand if he, Zhang, went to Fan during that hour and gave him a choice?