THE huge gray transport shook as it corkscrewed downward, and a barrage of violent bangs rattled the fuselage.
Decoy flares being fired? The slim, fair-haired woman gripping the armrests hoped so. No doubt, to lessen the chance of some rogue commander targeting them as the mission came in to land.
No one was really certain this war was over, after all. And for some elements in China, Iran, and Pakistan, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs had warned, it probably wasn’t.
Blair Titus closed her eyes, fighting to avoid losing her cool in front of the other passengers. The C-5 Galaxy capped a huge cargo bay with a low-ceilinged passenger compartment. For this flight, it was occupied by the fourteen civilian and military members of the Allied Advance Mission. The seats were roomy, and the box lunches the flight crew had handed around after their takeoff from Andrews had been adequate to sustain life.
But since one of her previous flights had been cyberjacked by an enemy AI midway through the war, turned into a bomb, and targeted on Los Alamos, flying hadn’t been a relaxing interlude for her. Twice so far on this trip she’d had to retreat to the little enclosed restroom, to perch on the toilet and practice her deep breathing.
Blair’s family had been active in politics since Francis Preston Blair had moved to Washington to start a pro–Andrew Jackson newspaper. After being narrowly defeated in a bid for Congress, she’d reluctantly joined the administration, invited aboard to bridge the expertise gap as the country plunged into a world war with China, North Korea, Iran, and the other Opposed Powers.
Now she was the undersecretary for strategy, plans, and forces at Defense, with an office on the third floor of the E wing. And nearly four years of bitter conflict had ironed creases into her forehead and daubed shadows no concealer could hide.
“Four fighters are closing in,” a petite African American woman said, sliding back in beside her. Shira Salyers, who looked meek and pliable, was anything but. “Saw them through the little window back there. They’re practically wingtip on us.”
“Ours or theirs?”
“We should have both,” said an Air Force general across the aisle. “F-35s in the air corridor, and J-20s in barrier lanes.”
Trying to quell panic, Blair flipped open the order binder. She’d read it three times, festooning it with sticky notes covered with green scribbles, but it was still disturbingly vague on exactly what they were supposed to accomplish here. The official tasking had been outlined in bullet points:
• Establish contacts with interim government and military leaders
• Evaluate that government for support or regime change
• Ensure no rogue military or security elements remain active
• Make sure remaining nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons sites are secure
• Recommend size/constitution of residual self-defense force structure
She rubbed her mouth, considering. The problem was, their goals were contradictory. If no government remained that the Allies could trust, and there were still rogue security elements loose out there, who exactly was going to secure these nuclear sites? The only Allied troops on the ground were Indonesian and Vietnamese forces, plus a few American support units, fifteen hundred miles to the south, on Hainan Island; and US Army and Marines a thousand miles to the east, on Taiwan.
But maybe it wouldn’t be that hard. According to StratCom, one of whose generals was sitting up front, most Chinese nuclear and missile sites had been wiped out by the massive American retaliation for the attack on the Midwest.
On its way west the C-5 had been forced to dogleg around large areas of the northern United States. Some of the heavy missiles from north China had been shot down by a Navy task force based in the Sea of Okhotsk. Others had been blown from the sky by ground-based missile defense in Alaska, or smashed out of existence by microsatellites steered to impact. As the survivors of that gauntlet reached American airspace, more had fallen to shorter-ranged Patriots and THAAD batteries.
But some had still gotten through. Seattle had been obliterated by megaton-range airbursts. San Francisco had been struck by a leaker that detonated over Pacifica. Montana and North Dakota had been hit hardest, with ground-penetrating warheads eliminating half of the US ground-based deterrent. Omaha was gone. Colorado and Wyoming had been blasted too, so heavily that no one really knew yet how many missiles had fallen.
The casualties were still being counted. Both from blast and radiation; the ground bursts had smeared massive plumes of fallout across the Midwest as far as Ohio and Ontario. Millions were dead or missing, her husband’s daughter among them. She’d never understood the rationale behind placing America’s heaviest deterrent smack in the middle of the United States. Forcing the enemy to incinerate the very heartland of the country, instead of some outlying bastion.
But many things looked different now. Illuminated, by the searching rays of bomblight.
Shira Salyers leaned over to say something. But just then the engines bellowed. Blair grabbed the armrests again as she was yanked violently forward in her seat. Biting her lips, squeezing her eyes shut, she steeled herself for impact, disaster, fire, death.
But heard only the shriek of tires as the huge aircraft touched down, then the rumble of landing gear over uneven tarmac.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Shahezhen Military Airbase, Beijing. Our escort is waiting. Our radiation monitors register only slightly above background level. It seems safe to disembark,” the pilot announced over the onboard PA.
Knees shaking, she tripped her seat belt, gathered up coat and briefcase and tablet, and got ready to go to work.
SHE craned around as they descended a deplaning ramp toward four blocky black limousines. Barbed wire marked the airfield as military, but except for revetments in the distance it looked deserted. Obviously they were far outside Beijing proper, and she had no idea in which direction the capital lay. Beyond the waiting limos, military vehicles and a cordon of troops circled them, spaced out in a wide perimeter.
Ahead of her, Senator Bankey Talmadge, the senior member of the mission, limped down the stairs very slowly, supporting himself on the handrail. She’d worked for the old man years before, on the Armed Services Committee. Now she hovered behind him as he descended, ready to grab his arm if he made a misstep.
She lifted her face, to a sky blue and clear and somehow … rigid. She’d expected smog, but the horizon was only slightly hazy, tinted reddish brown as if with dust or a thin smoke from far away. Low mountains poked up to the north. Contrails, probably from their fighter escorts, were turning back southward. Buildings prickled the sky in that same direction. Temperature, moderate. Early summer, so no need for the wool jacket she’d packed.
At the bottom of the ramp Talmadge paused, looking around, gathering his strength. She heard the effort in his breathing, the rattle in his chest. Two lines of troops in olive drab battle dress lined a path from the ramp to a low combination terminal and control tower in Stalinesque gray concrete. At parade rest, rifles grounded, they faced outward. Motionless. Expressionless. Not one spared the debarking arrivals a glance.
The flight crew stood around a tripodded instrument set up on the pavement near the nose. She flicked them an inquiring look, a raised eyebrow. They nodded slightly, and turned back to their readouts. Four State agents, Diplomatic Security personnel, stood off to the side, ready to accompany the principals. In plain clothes, suits, and dresses, they carried short-barreled submachine guns. But if it came to a shoot-out here, against all these troops, it was perfectly clear who would prevail.
Beyond the soldiery, another line stretched across the tarmac. Seen from close up, the military vehicles she’d noted earlier were tracked machines, green, tanklike, but too small to contain human beings. Their gun turrets, topped and shouldered with strange domed lenses, faced outward as well.
She shivered, looking up at that remorseless sky, then caught her heel on a step and almost pitched headlong down the last flight of stairs off the ramp. A strong hand on one shoulder barely saved her. “Thanks, Adam,” she muttered.
Heavyset, chain-smoking, master campaign fund-raiser Adam Ammermann was the deputy chief of staff at the White House. He was close to the president. A fixer. A hatchet man. Whatever they recommended here, he’d carry it up the line.
Or torpedo it, if he disagreed.
SHE had twenty minutes in her hotel room. Just enough time to pee, shower, change, and touch up mascara and lipstick. She’d brought a gray pantsuit that had seen better days, but with a crisp white blouse and her bright blue scarf with the foxes on it, it should suffice.
A tap at the door. Shira’s murmur. “Blair? They want us downstairs.”
The mission assembled in a worn-looking meeting room that two security technicians were just finishing scanning. The heat was stifling. The air-conditioning was off, as it had been in the lobby and their rooms. The only light came from the windows, since the overheads were dark. The oversized armchairs seemed to have been built for pro wrestlers. She looked around. Talmadge wasn’t there yet. She nodded to Tony Provanzano, from the CIA, and the various generals.
A lanky, klutzy-looking, Lincolnesque man in a civilian suit with too-short sleeves motioned her over. He extended a bony, long-fingered hand. “Blair. Glad you could make it. Good flight from DC?”
“Passable. Admiral, good to see you again. Yours?”
“Jim, please. Direct flight from Hawaii, can’t complain. How’s Dan?”
“I believe he’s headed back to the States. Since you relieved him of command.”
Justin Yangerhans was the ranking military member of the delegation. The commander, Indo-Pacific Command, and usually both the ugliest man in any room and the one everyone else looked to for the final say. She found it deeply satisfying and yet somehow totally unexpected that the man in charge of fighting the war in the Pacific was now involved in how it might be ended.
“I’m sorry about having to relieve him. It’s become an international issue, apparently.” He blinked, and a furrow deepened between his eyes. “Let’s discuss that later, all right? We don’t have long before the first sit-down.”
One of the techs bustled up, holding out an instrument. “Admiral? Room’s clear.”
“Thanks, Bill.” Yangerhans raised his voice to the others. “Folks? Apparently we’re secure here, but don’t assume that’ll be true in any vehicles they may furnish, or anywhere in the Forbidden City. Where’s Mr. Ammermann? Hello, Adam. Senator Talmadge, General Naar, Mr. Provanzano, Ms. Salyers—Good, we’re all here. Take your seats, please, and let’s get this started.”
Yangerhans went on as they settled uneasily into the too-wide, too-overstuffed armchairs. “I think you all know me. I’m Justin Yangerhans, and I’ve been appointed the military envoy. Senator Bankey Talmadge, chair of Senate Armed Services, will be our overall leader. Would you like to say a few words, Senator?”
The old man shook his head, wheezing. “You have the ball, Admiral. Run with it.”
Yangerhans inclined his head. “Thank you, sir. Now, you all know each other, I think, except maybe for Mr. Ayala, whom Shira arranged as our official translator.” A slight unsmiling man in a black suit, standing against the wall, raised a hand. “No notes, please, and no recordings. I want to be able to lay our cards on the table while we’re all together here.”
The admiral started with a crisp recap. The enemy premier, and overall leader of the Opposed Powers, Zhang Zurong, was missing. Rumored to be dead, but no one had seen a body yet. Other talk had him fleeing, maybe to Russia. But the bottom line was he was off the map, at least for the moment.
The admiral coughed into a fist. “The North Korean premier’s definitely deceased. We found the body in a cave beneath Paektu Mountain. DNA’s a match. The provisional president, Jun Min Jung, is in Seoul. Reunification will be complicated, but Korea’s not our remit. We can limit ourselves to China.”
“Which is going to be quite enough,” Salyers put in quietly. “What we fear is the country splitting into warlord-ruled regions again. Also, the Europeans and the UN want to be involved in any postwar process. Plus the International Criminal Court—”
“Could be, Shira. But let me finish before we get into that. All right?”
“Sorry, sir.” She folded her hands demurely.
Yangerhans loped back and forth in long strides, fingers locked behind his back. He sounded as if he was thinking out loud. “CNN says Party headquarters throughout the country are being looted. Police stations and domestic surveillance centers trashed and burned. The gates of the prison camps opened as the guards desert. As Shira mentioned, the ICC’s indicted Zhang for war crimes, aggressive war, and murder. So even if he’s still alive, he’s offline, and for the moment the Party’s on the defensive too.
“Today we’ll be meeting a shadowy bunch that call themselves the Revitalized State Council. Tony?”
The CIA rep uncrossed his legs. “We read them as a truncated and not very representative interim government, mainly dominated by the military, with a few senior Party reps.” He nodded at Blair. “Dr. Titus made contact with them last year in Zurich. We’ll be counting on you to keep their trust, Blair.”
She forced a smile. The Agency had known about her contact with the Chinese? That was … unsettling. She’d thought it was between her and the national security advisor. Had Ed Szerenci ratted her out? Or worse yet, had the CIA been watching the whole time?
But Yangerhans was talking again. “We have an armistice, but we don’t have a peace. The most dangerous parts of a war are the beginning and the end. We thought we could wrap up this one without a nuclear exchange, despite what the simulations at the War College and Stanford said. Well, we were wrong.
“As Shira said, the shape of any agreement will have major downstream effects. Without a strong central authority, China may split apart again, as it did in the 1920s. And if we don’t manage this right, war can resume. We need to proceed delicately. Make sure all the stakeholders are heard from before we advance concrete proposals.
“But first, now, the Allies have to stabilize the environment, and enable civil authority. Help them form a provisional government that’s willing to at least consider a move toward democratic rule. And provide enough advice and aid to make that possible.”
He turned to the State rep. “What’s our desired end state here, Shira? Give me the bullet points.”
The tiny woman gestured gracefully. “Our national goals? First, peace. Replace the armistice with a formal treaty, preferably something the other Opposed Powers can sign on to as well. Then, justice. Pave the way to apprehend and try war criminals. Then, a government. A multiparty, representative democracy, if we can get there, to guard against a reversion to authoritarianism. A much smaller military, with perhaps a minimal nuclear deterrent for self-defense. And finally, formal independence for Tibet and Taiwan.”
Blair admired how quickly she’d put her finger on the negotiating points, even if they seemed incredibly optimistic. At least, from where she was sitting.
Yangerhans turned to Ammermann next. “So that’s the State view. General Naar and I can handle the military side, securing WMD sites and outlining a postwar force structure. Adam, is the White House on the same page?”
Ammermann, who’d been fidgeting while Salyers spoke, jumped in, almost sputtering. “With all due respect, Admiral, you mentioned aid. Advice. Sure, we can advise. But it’s not our business to make China some kind of showcase of democracy. We have a terrible record in nation building. Iraq. Afghanistan. Syria. Why throw billions down another rathole? We lost millions of citizens in this war. Five trillion dollars, not counting aid to allies, vets’ benefits, interest on debt … It’ll take decades to rebuild the Midwest. And now there’s this epidemic, and a growing rebellion to deal with.
“No, sir.” He flicked a hand away, as if shooing a fly. “This administration will not support rebuilding former enemies. You can make promises, if you have to. But if there’s any money involved, it should come our way. As reparations.”
Yangerhans caressed a protuberant jaw. “So you’re saying, let ’em stew?”
The senior staffer spread his hands. “I wouldn’t put it exactly that way. But let’s be realistic. China isn’t the only threat, but they were the most dangerous. The longer they take to recover, the better for us.”
“Two opposing viewpoints on where we’re going,” the admiral muttered. “And both possibly equally valid. Okay, let’s look at the external power balance. Tony, what’s the CIA got for us?”
Provanzano grimaced. He hitched his chair forward, though it barely moved, and tapped a pencil on the table. “Taking the ten-thousand-foot view? China and the US have nearly destroyed each other as first-rate powers. Unfortunately, that leaves a vacuum. Our former allies are already fighting over who’ll fill it. The Vietnamese and Indonesians are squaring off over the islands we took in the South China Sea. Moscow’s thinking of occupying Manchuria, on the basis of their last-minute declaration of war. And possibly a foothold on the Chinese coast as well.” He glanced at Blair. “But there’s something Moscow wants even more than land. Repayment of over two trillion dollars’ worth of China’s war debt. Which they want the US to guarantee.”
“Dream on. Not gonna happen,” Ammermann snapped. “In this universe or any other.”
Yangerhans said, “I agree, but having it on the table for now might strengthen our hand later.”
A discreet tap at the door; one of the DSS women leaned in. “The vehicles are waiting, everyone.”
“Be finished in a minute,” Yangerhans said. “What else, Tony?”
“Moscow’s moving again on Ukraine, using hybrid warfare to occupy the rest of the Black Sea coast. Threatening Poland, the Baltic states, and Finland. They restructured the Russian Federation while we were at war; central Asian states, Georgia, Belarus, no longer have independent legislatures. Germany’s got a new president, populist sliding toward fascist. He’s mustering Hungary, Bulgaria, and the rest of Eastern Europe against Russian adventurism. But they’re playing catch-up. If the Russians move west, they’ll roll over them.”
Blair lifted a finger. “Can I make a point?”
“Blair, sure, go ahead,” Yangerhans said.
“Most of what we’re discussing here is outside our control. But let’s not forget, we’re also facing what could be the biggest humanitarian emergency in history. Taiwan’s in ruins. Korea’s devastated. And China’s starving. The famine killed millions, the Central Flower virus millions more, and our nuclear strikes—”
Ammermann cut her off angrily, punching the arm of his chair so hard dust rose. “To hell with them! They started this goddamned war—”
Yangerhans held up a hand. “All right. Enough! I see everybody’s points. Yours too, Blair—I agree, we have to find some way to feed these people. But first, let’s secure peace. Then, outline a Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action we can present to the heads of state meeting in Singapore.
“In fifteen minutes we’ll be headed over to meet this state council. For now, let’s concentrate on whoever thinks he speaks for the military. General Pei, maybe. He and I met before the war. He may be reasonable.
“If it seems like they have a handle on the security forces, our first priority has to be to work through them to stand the army down and secure the remaining nuclear sites. At least until we can pull in the International Atomic Energy Agency for a freeze in place, and reach some agreement on dismantlement, or some minimal remaining deterrent.”
Bankey Talmadge stirred slowly, like an ancient tortoise. Blair didn’t like the way his cheeks were purpling. He grunted, “Congress isn’t going to approve leaving them with nuclear weapons.”
Ammermann twisted in his chair to face him. “That’s not up to Congress, Senator. Sorry. The executive will make those decisions.”
“And the Hill will fund them. Or not,” Talmadge rumbled, and the look in his eye did not bode well for that.
Yangerhans slammed a hand down on the table. Everyone flinched. “United front, people! If we have disagreements, we’ll settle them behind closed doors. I do not want them to see a divided American mission.
“We’ve just heard two clear policy options. Door A leads to trying to rebuild a central state along democratic lines while we hold off predators from the carcass. Which leads to decades of China being dependent on us, and, yeah, it’ll cost money.
“Door B, we let the country come apart at the seams. Russia and our allies tear off pieces to gorge on. Leading to a new war in twenty years, when China recovers and seeks revenge.”
Several people around the table waved their hands, trying to interrupt, but the admiral plowed on. “There’re arguments for both sides. But as I see it, the worst course of all is to try to drive down the middle of the road.”
Ammermann broke in again. “I say, let ’em fight each other. To the death. Our own country’s broke. Millions dead. Why should we pay a nickel more?”
Blair put her hand over Shira’s rising one. “I don’t agree, Adam. We made a huge mistake, letting Russia revert to authoritarianism when she had a chance to become a normal country. When we win, we have this history of not following through. Let’s not miss our chance this time.”
Yangerhans raised his palms as shouts broke out again. “Quiet. Quiet! I’ll present both options to the president. And to the Armed Services Committee, Senator. But the final decision’ll be up to the heads of state. They’ll provide guidance. But for right now, united front. Adam? Senator? Tony? Shira? Blair?”
They all nodded reluctantly. Yangerhans glared around once more, then snapped his attention back to Salyers. “Shira. Any last-minute diplomatic advice?”
“I can address that, sir,” the little man in black said, stepping forward from along the wall. “I have been at many meetings with these same men, during the trade negotiations before the war.”
“Fire away, Mr. Ayala,” Yangerhans said, looking bemused.
“Sir, it is essential to not humiliate the Chinese. They must save face. Second, resign yourself to a long negotiation. Identify the decision maker. Talk only to him, not underlings. Drink baiju with them if they ask. They are like Russians in that way. It establishes a bond.
“Above all, do not look eager to reach a deal. They will see it as weakness, as desperation, and ask for more.”
“Good advice, sounds like,” the admiral said after a moment. He nodded. “Are we ready?” No one spoke. “Then”—and he smiled grimly at the special agent at the door—“tell them we’re on our way.”
Blair took a deep breath, clawed herself out of the too-soft chair, and followed the others out.
SHE gazed up in wonder at the Hall of Supreme Harmony. The wide timeworn steps, the petal-scarlet tiles of the elegantly pagoda’d roofs, the solemn and absolute emptiness of the far-stretching plazas … all were familiar, from one of her favorite films. The forbidding, crabbed Empress Dowager Cixi, who’d doomed China to revolution and chaos. The child emperor Puyi hiding a pet cricket behind his throne. Then, after Mao came to power, becoming a humble gardener at this same walled enclave …
She shook off the awe and climbed the steps, catching up with Talmadge, who was toiling upward, leaning heavily on his cane. On impulse, she took the old senator’s arm. “We’re back together, Bankey.”
He squeezed her hand with his free one. “Like old times, Missy.”
His pet nickname for her, way back when. Her old employer was one of the few survivors of the age of the titans. He’d served with Barry Goldwater, Bob Dole, Robert Byrd, the other Talmadge, a distant cousin … With the passage of decades his offices had grown bigger, his perks greater, his clout colossal. Especially with defense contractors, whose purse strings the Armed Services Committee controlled. The war had only magnified his influence. Others might be bigger names, but in the ways that truly counted, he was the most powerful member of her party.
She said, in the chiding tone that had always made him smile, “I wasn’t gone, Bankey. Just moved to the executive.”
“The other side of the fence,” he grumbled.
“Oh, come on, Senator. You’re dinging me for joining a wartime coalition government?”
“For fronting for them. Breaking ranks with the party. That’s what don’t set so good with some of our supporters.”
“The White House wanted a hard-line strategy, Bankey. Without me standing on the brakes, this war could’ve been a lot worse.”
“Well,” muttered the old man, laboring upward with a huffing groan, “I’m on your side, Missy. Always will be. You know that. But there are other folks out there, they’re never gonna forget.”
THEY straggled through the palace, then descended another set of broad marble steps. A hundred yards on Bankey halted, panting, cheeks flushed that deep purple she didn’t like to see. “Ah can’t walk any farther. They’re makin’ us sweat, Missy. Put up with this crap, we’re the ones losin’ face here.”
She signaled one of the soldiers who walked along with them, and sign-languaged that the old man was done. The trooper murmured into a radio. Within seconds an official came trotting up, pushing a wheelchair.
They caught up with the others in the side courtyard of a smaller, but if possible even more opulent, palace than the first. Its scarlet-and-gold columns stretched up to a roof so lofty it was lost in shadow. The carpet smoothed a floor of hand-set stone flags. In its center, before a divanlike throne, a long table had been set up, with a buffet to one side. Uniformed officers ushered them to more overstuffed seats. Across the table a group of stressed-looking Chinese, all in dark blue suits and bright red ties, stood by their chairs, waiting.
Ammermann took the center seat on the Allied side. Blair hesitated, then grabbed Talmadge’s wheelchair and shoved it in between Ammermann and Yangerhans, forcing the staffer to push his own chair over as the wheel slammed into it. Which moved him from the center, off to the side. Where he belonged … She headed for a seat at the far end, but was intercepted by two of the Chinese, who’d circled the table to intercept her. After a second glance she recognized them, and inclined her head. “Minister Chen. Good to see you again.”
“Good to see you again as well, Dr. Titus.” The chubby senior official returned her nod with a partial bow. Deputy Minister Chen Jialuo was older than she, and to judge by the way his hands trembled as he adjusted his spectacles, extremely nervous. The sopping palm she shook confirmed it.
And no wonder. It was Chen who’d called her “corrupt, untrustworthy, pliable, depraved, and malignant” at their first meeting, under UN auspices, in Dublin. But it was also Chen who’d secretly backchanneled the lower leadership’s openness to negotiation. First at Dublin, then again in Zurich.
Beside him stood the young man who’d carried the can on those dangerous covert meetings: the opaque-faced apparatchik Xie Yunlong. “Yun,” she murmured, shaking his hand too. His grip was firmer, but only a little less sweaty.
Or maybe the perspiration was actually her own?
Chen beckoned more Chinese over. “Dr. Titus, I would like to introduce you to three of our most distinguished military men. Marshal Chagatai. Admiral Lin. Lieutenant General Pei.”
She greeted them formally, trying to ignore the feeling each hand she took had been marinated in blood. Pei had shot hundreds of civilians in Taiwan. The barrel-chested, scowling Dewei Chagatai had crushed a revolt in Hong Kong and gassed whole villages in Xinjiang. And Admiral Lin’s fingerprints were on the thermonuclear obliteration of the USS Roosevelt strike group at the beginning of the war, killing ten thousand US sailors and fliers.
She murmured through numb lips, “I hope we can make progress together.”
“I hope so too. I will trust you to proceed on the basis you agreed to in Zurich.” A bead of sweat rolled down Chen’s quivering cheek. “The Party must continue to govern. Senior military leaders must be allowed honorable retirement. There can be no prosecutions, no trials. Otherwise we will continue the fight.”
She remembered a café near the Place Lenin, deep in the cobblestoned warrens of medieval Zurich. A tense, hostile face-off, with a shadowy Russian sitting in. Trying to profit from ending the war, just as they’d made money from the conflict itself.
Where was that Russian now? Probably not far away.
She retrieved her hand. Gently. Gently. “With all due respect, Minister, those were your positions, which you advanced as starting points. As I informed you then, I had no power to negotiate. I made that clear, I believe. But you can certainly present them as your conditions for peace, here, at this table, for our mission to transmit to the Allied heads of state.”
Yangerhans coughed into a fist again. He stood waiting, looking bored. Above all, do not look eager to reach a deal. Yeah, bored was probably the right tack to start out on. “Uh, Blair? Gentlemen, ladies, we have an armistice. Let’s see if we can make a peace.”
The Chinese stared at her, then at him. They bowed slightly once more, all together, expressions carefully neutral. Then took their seats, to face their enemies across six feet of lacquered tabletop.