PACING back and forth on the hotel terrace, nursing a cup of hot green tea, Blair hugged herself with one arm, shivering. The wind was chilly, as their hotel room had been all night long. Either summer was late, or the haze from the nuclear exchange was still diluting the sunlight. And the power was still off. All over the city, as far as she could tell.
Not that they’d seen much. Except for their hotel, and the Forbidden City, where the sessions were taking place. Today marked their fourth meeting with the provisional government, and Yangerhans had made it clear this would be the last. They’d all done enough posturing. Enough accusing. Enough advocating extreme positions and inadmissible concessions, none of which the other side seemed willing to consider.
Tomorrow, at the latest, they would wrap. The mission would convene to finalize and forward their recommendations to the Allied heads of state conference, scheduled two weeks from now. Transmit it, on the scrambling gear the DS people had brought with them. And then, finally, leave.
She shivered again and sighed, rubbing her arm. She was waiting out here for Shira Salyers. The petite State rep had been up late, looking over notes from the past negotiation sessions. Each sit-down had been less courteous, less productive, as the differences between the Allied positions and those of the interim government, apparently headed by Minister Chen, had only widened, ripping apart the always-delicate membrane of diplomatic protocol.
State dinners were usually fairly sociable. But the one hosted on their third evening in the city, in the Hall of Supreme Harmony, had been icy. Their hosts, standoffish. She’d faked it on the toasts, not caring for the raw distilled baijiu the Chinese bolted down glass after glass without flinching. Yangerhans and Ammermann had tried to keep pace for a while, but given up at last, red-faced and reeling. Only Bankey Talmadge had stayed with them to the end, finishing by drinking General Pei under the table. Boozily reeling away, the old senator had nearly fallen down the steps. But he’d been steadied at the last moment by one of the DPS personnel, a tall, darkly complected black agent named Maple Chaldroniere.
The State rep came out onto the terrace at last, adjusting a sweater over her shoulders. “Sheez, it’s chilly out here, when you’re not in the sun … We have a problem, Blair.”
“Another one, Shira? What now?”
“The Russians want in.”
Blair frowned and sipped her rapidly cooling tea. “In?… Into Manchuria? Well, we knew that. They have a long history there. Not that it’s right, but—”
“No. I mean, not just that. They want into this conference.”
Blair’s eyebrows lifted. “What? No way. They were in the war all of, what, four days? And we’re almost done here. Aren’t we?”
“Maybe so, but they’ve insisted. Their representative’s arriving this morning. Bankey says shutting them out wouldn’t be a good idea. The admiral agrees.”
Ayala, the little translator, poked his head out. “Ladies. Time.”
Blair finished her tea, and stared down for a moment at the final settling flakes at the bottom of her china cup. Did they really foretell the future?
If only it were so easy.
THE videoteleconference was set up in the same bland room they’d met in after arriving. A quantum scrambled satellite link powered by a military solar generator was set up on the roof. The ever-present security people had swept the room again. Now two of them, with the tall DSS agent helping, were hanging the antieavsdropping curtain across the window. Each day of the negotiations had begun with a VTC, mainly because of the time difference with Washington. Beijing and Washington were twelve hours apart, meaning 8 A.M. in the former city was 8 P.M. in DC.
In some ways she thought it might have been better the other way around, reporting on the day just past to fresh morning eyes in DC. But she hadn’t been asked for an input to that decision. It probably didn’t matter. The advance party was down to seven principals now, not counting security people, translators, and aides. In rough order of rank, it was Talmadge, Yangerhans, Ammermann, Shira, herself, Tony Provanzano, and General Naar, though the old senator didn’t typically show for the morning briefs, depending, instead, on a murmured summary from her as they were limo’d to the City.
When the screens came up, they were facing three people: the secretary of state, who looked more haggard and closer to eternity than Blair had ever seen him; the chairman, JCS, husky and beribboned General Ricardo Vincenzo, USAF; and dapper, silver-haired Edward Szerenci, the national security advisor.
Yangerhans opened the brief in clipped tones, recapitulating yesterday’s negotiations, which had focused on coordinating Chinese and Allied humanitarian efforts, food supplies, and medicines. “They were grateful for the formula of the flu drug, LJL 4789. They requested additional electrical generation, food, water, and medical assistance in the port cities, as soon as we can provide it, plus teams to restore electrical generation and internet router systems. As you know, these were largely destroyed or compromised in the course of the war.”
The SecState said heavily, as if short of breath, “I’ll so advise the president. But we’re in rough shape here concerning the budget and the debt. I doubt there’ll be much for foreign aid.”
“And little enthusiasm for providing it to a former enemy,” Szerenci put in, looking more foxlike than ever. He waved. “Hello, Blair. Do the Chinese still think you’re my mistress?”
She ground her molars. Not funny. Minister Chen had tossed that insult her way back in Dublin, at their first meeting. He’d called her “a pliable puppet, wife of the notorious war criminal Admiral Daniel V. Lenson, and most likely the mistress of the insane national security advisor, Dr. Edward Szerenci.” She forced a liquid-nitrogen smile. “No, Ed. Nobody here’s saying that anymore.”
“Before we discuss helping former enemies, we have to rebuild our own forces,” Vincenzo said. “There are new threats emerging, and we’re fighting rebels here at home. We’ve got to think about the homeland first. Restoring government. Restoring confidence.”
Yangerhans said patiently, “We’ll have our recommendations ready for the heads of state well in advance of the convening date. Right now, I’ll forward their aid requests via cable.” The Department of State term for what the Navy called a “message.” “Moving on … we’ll be getting into some delicate issues today. Nuclear limitations. Conventional force limitations. Governmental structure.”
Szerenci said, “Our position should be total nuclear disarmament. Disband their Internal Security divisions. Stand down their surveillance of the population. No more than a five-division standing army, and limits on conventional missiles.”
Yangerhans let that hang. Finally he said mildly, “That may be a recipe for the fall of this government, sir. There are already active separatist movements in Tibet, Hong Kong, Xinjiang—”
The NSA smiled coldly. “Let’s be realistic, Jim. Tibet and Taiwan are already gone. They declared independence. The Russians are fomenting separatism in Manchuria. Hong Kong wants out too. They see this as their chance at independence.
“But why should we fight that? Wouldn’t disintegration be in our best interest? Let China fall apart! Let the warlords rule again! It’s the last survivor of the old empires. The old imperial powers. It deserved to die long ago.
“If you can only keep a country together with oppression and surveillance, it isn’t really a country. It’s just one big prison.”
He was going into lecture mode; to cut him short Blair cleared her throat. “That’s … a defensible point of view, Ed. For the short term. But let’s look farther down the road. If we divide China into smaller states, the humiliation will fester. These people have enormous pride. If we humiliate them, it could turn them against democracy. Mean another war, eventually. Like Hitler’s crusade against Versailles. Or Putin’s drive to rebuild the Soviet empire.”
The SecState lifted a shaky hand. “What would you recommend, Shira?”
Beside Blair, the petite woman looked up from her tablet. “Mr. Secretary, I’d agree with Abraham Lincoln’s advice. ‘Let ’em up easy.’ I’d concentrate on trying to gradually foster democratic institutions. The way MacArthur did in Japan. This provisional government, these former-regime Party bureaucrats, they’re not going to be whom we’re dealing with in a year. But this has been an authoritarian state for a long time. If the center loses control, we could have another Iraq, another Syria, on our hands. Only a hundred times bigger.”
Blair started to speak, but Shira waved her to silence, taking a breath. “I think our primary mission for what time remains, sir, should be to clarify the shape of the government going forward. Work with the ROC and the Hong Kong democrats to outline a federal arrangement. A joint government, with an interim president. Sure, why not Chen, pending elections? Pull in the KMT and DPP from Taiwan for advice. Or to be the nuclei of new all-China parties.”
“Those few who survived General Pei’s massacres,” Szerenci said drily.
Vincenzo was looking doubtful. “Do you really think democracy can work in China? Maybe some societies need authoritarian rule.”
“Another way of putting what I just said,” Szerenci cut in. “If they need a tyrant, they’re not really a functional polity.”
“The Taiwanese are arguing for a free China. We owe them that chance,” Salyers said.
The secretary of state spoke again, and his age and illness were clear in the slow dragging way he pronounced long words. “The real question, as I see it, is what is our foreign policy in this sit-u-a-tion. We need to rebuild. That goes without saying. But General Vincenzo is right too. Right now, with wartime losses, we have more commitments than we have resources. We’ve got vacuums to fill in Africa. In the Mideast. We have to arrive at some understanding with Iran, now that we have a temporary cease-fire with that power. And eastern Europe is under threat.
“When our accounts are insolvent, we don’t prevent wars we could have prevented. And above all, right now, we need peace. So do the Chinese.
“So let’s arrive at whatever un-der-standing we can get to now. So we can stand down out here. Any agreement is better than no agreement.”
Someone was talking urgently to Szerenci, though off-camera; the voice was muffled. His smooth head was nodding. But when he pivoted back to the lens he looked grim. “Some bad news. Zhang’s resurfaced.”
“Where?” Blair and Yangerhans both said, together.
“Somewhere in Russia, with two of his former ministers. He’s giving a press conference to the tame media there. Saying they still constitute the legal government of China.”
“Oh, fuck,” Ammermann said.
“So now there’s a government in exile,” Shira breathed. “You’re right, Adam. This could complicate things.”
Szerenci said, “It doesn’t change where we are, going forward. We have an armistice. He’s out of the country. Out of power. But that’s right. He’ll still have active supporters.
“Which may mean, now, we have to strengthen this ad hoc government. Go the distance with them, more than we would have liked to before.”
He stopped. The room was quiet. Until the secretary of state said, “Keep us advised.” His screen went blank. Then so did Szerenci’s. And Vincenzo’s, last of all.
THE hall was set up less for a brunch than for a sumptuous dinner. The Chinese masses might be starving, Blair reflected, but their masters were definitely well fed. Unless it was just a show, a Potemkin feast, to impress the Americans … The tables were filled with sliced roast pork, savory spiced dishes, mounds of rice. Western foods, too: a chef was slicing a huge prime rib. She loaded up with broccoli florets, red potatoes, and a whitefish fillet she suspected was … cobia?
The first table she approached was occupied by Chinese. They ceased talking as she approached, and looked away when she gestured a request to join them. A frigid silence supervened. No one met her gaze. She took the hint and moved on, to the one table that had only a single occupant. She was setting her plate down before she realized who it was.
The Russian. He was Moscow’s representative? She’d met him once before, in a café in Zurich, where he’d introduced himself as Dick. He was tall, even seated, and his hair shone so blond it was nearly white. He looked to be about her age, or a little older. His blue suit bore the blue-white-and-red pin of the Federation on one lapel.
His real name, she knew now—of course she’d researched him, after Zurich—was Rostislav Pyzhianov. He’d occupied much the same position she did, but in the Russian ministry of defense. These days, apparently, he was the special representative of the president of the Russian Federation on central Asian issues, and apparently, for China now as well.
They nodded warily over the place settings. “Am I still calling you ‘Dick’?” she asked.
“Let’s make it Rostek. Good to meet you again, Blair.”
“I wish I could say the same. Is it true you have Zhang Zurong in custody?”
Pyzhianov smiled. “Not ‘in custody.’ He’s visiting us. As a friend. Yes.”
“Are you going to recognize his government?”
He shrugged. “We have for many years. Will you give us a reason to stop?”
“I see you’re not sitting with our Allied delegation. Despite wanting to be treated like an ally.”
“Russia’s true interests may lie in other areas,” he agreed gravely.
“Last time we met, your ‘interest’ was two trillion dollars.”
Pyzhianov shrugged. “It’s actually closer to three. But that’s what is owed us. Our country made major investments in China during the war. Extended significant credits. If its repayment can’t be guaranteed, then we must seek restitution in some other form.”
“What ‘form’ might that be?”
But he waved the question off, and applied himself to a dripping slab of the roast pork. And not too much later, people began getting up, heading to the long polished table, surrounded by too-soft armchairs, where the last three sessions of wrangling, lengthy statements, protestations of innocence, and veiled threats had been exchanged.
Her hip hurt already, and the session hadn’t even started. Maybe, she thought grimly, the diplomats really did earn all their little luxuries, one way or another …
ONCE again the formerly warring powers faced each other across the ancient lacquered surface, as if across a battlefield. Yeah, which this in fact was. Negotiation was wearying, sometimes boring, sometimes infuriating; but it was as real as any military engagement, and the results, good or bad, would be as long-lasting.
General Pei. Marshal Chagatai. Admiral Lin. And the guy who in some ways seemed the least in control: the premier, Chen. Over the course of the days, primed and instructed by Salyers, Blair had noted who was inclined to bluster, who refused to budge, who could be reasoned with, who seemed to lead and who to follow. As, no doubt, they’d been doing with the American delegation.
She couldn’t help wondering where she ranked on that scale.
A technician, one of the men who’d scanned the room for bugs that morning, pushed a small device to the head of the table. One of Archipelago’s instantaneous digital translators. Ayala sat to the side, looking displaced but hopeful. Maybe he thought the device would fail.
“Good morning. The first topic for discussion today,” Yangerhans opened, “is the shape and magnitude of China’s postwar armed forces. We’ll treat residual nuclear forces first, based on the disclosures General Pei submitted to our staff on our arrival.
“I’ll start by reminding everyone that these are preliminary discussions, to place options before the heads of state conference, now scheduled in Singapore in two weeks. Nothing will be set in stone here. Meanwhile, the armistice holds.”
Immediately, Chen leaned forward to tap the table. “If we are to discuss China’s nuclear capabilities, we must also consider those of the United States. If our armaments are to be reduced, it is only fair it be matched. A mutual reduction.”
“Who exactly lost this fuckin’ war?” Ammermann muttered, beside her. But not so loudly the Chinese couldn’t pretend not to have heard.
“China is not the only possible opponent the United States faces,” General Naar said. The Air Force officer had been silent for most of the diplomatic discussion but seemed ready to take point now. “We have worldwide responsibilities, from defending our allies in eastern Europe, to the Horn of Africa, to resuming antipirate and humanitarian activities throughout the Pacific. China no longer has a navy, or really an air force. And for at least the foreseeable future, you won’t need one.”
“Look at it as an advantage,” Ammermann put in. “Y’all can concentrate on reconstruction. Which we are not going to fund.”
Chen said, “Let us leave that for the moment, and address our requirements. China must remain a P5 state. A nuclear weapons state. This is not a point for negotiation. It may be possible to reduce the number of warheads—”
“We’ve already reduced the number of your warheads.” Ammermann grinned. “Want to go for a second round on that?”
“Adam.” Yangerhans’s tone held a mild reproach. “Let’s keep it civil. The premier has a point he wants to make. And we ought to hear it.”
“But what about this,” Naar put in. “China promised no first use. Since 1964. Not to be the first to use nuclear weapons at any time, or under any circumstances. That was your policy when the war started. Yet you struck first, at the Roosevelt battle group. An unprovoked attack. You say you need a residual capability. I have to ask—why should we trust you with one again?”
Chen blotted his forehead with a sparkling white handkerchief. “That was President Zhang’s decision,” he muttered. “That was not decided by us. That was not a Party decision.”
“Zhang was the Party chairman,” Blair pointed out. “How can you say that wasn’t the Party’s doing?”
The premier waggled his head like a cornered bull. He said stubbornly, “Asia is a field of highly complex security dynamics. We must be able to defend ourselves. Against India. Japan. Against—” He cut his gaze sideways, and Blair caught its direction—toward Pyzhianov. “Against other enemies, as well,” he finished, rather lamely.
Admiral Lin lifted an eyebrow. “Unless the United States is willing to defend us? Extend the nuclear umbrella to China?”
Ammermann snorted, and Blair glanced at him. “Not a chance,” he muttered. So that was the White House turning thumbs-down.
Yangerhans made a note on his pad, long horsey face imperturbable, as one of the aides passed out single sheets. English at the top of the page, a Chinese translation beneath. “General Naar has formulated a compromise. A suggestion, for discussion. You’ve disclosed a hundred and eighty remaining operational warheads. We propose you renounce any first-strike capability once more. Only this time, not just in words, but in force structure.
“That means dismantling and rendering unusable any remaining ICBMs, specifically any and all MIRVed missiles, whether siloed or road-transportable. Discontinue development and testing of any hypersonic or boost-glide weapons. And do not replace the ballistic missile submarines the US and Indian navies destroyed in the opening days of the war.”
The faces opposite had gone rigid. After a few seconds, Chen said tightly, “What then do we retain?”
Yangerhans said, “China will remain a P5 + 1 power. You simply return to the same minimal-deterrence posture you maintained before Premier Zhang assumed the leadership.
“In outline: A central strategic force of no more than one hundred single-warhead IRBMs, limited in range to five thousand kilometers, for regional deterrence missions. Add to that fifty gravity bombs, and thirty warheads in reserve. This matches India’s current posture and exceeds those of Pakistan and Japan.”
Naar added, “Minister? Let me point out, this does not require you to dismantle any warheads you admitted to having. It assures you a credible, survivable, and deliverable second-strike capability against any regional threat. You may deploy any form or quantity of antimissile defense you wish. Such a limitation to be in effect for a term of twenty years.”
The Chinese sat as immobile and expressionless as the terra-cotta warriors of Emperor Qin. Finally General Pei murmured, “This is not acceptable. Not for a great power like China.”
Ammermann stirred in his chair. “Premier Chen. You present yourself as speaking for the provisional government. I think that’s a fair offer. What do you think? Have we finally got a deal here?”
Chen slipped his eyeglasses off and fiddled with them. Rubbed the lenses with a scrap of tissue from his pocket. He started to speak, then glanced at Marshal Chagatai. He carefully fitted his glasses back on, and muttered, at last, “No. We do not agree.”
“Obviously this requires further consideration.” Yangerhans nodded, laying the sheet aside. “But I will warn you, there are elements in Washington who want China stripped of all nuclear capabilities whatsoever. Bear in mind, it would be far better if we could submit this to the heads of state as acceptable to China’s provisional government. Much better for the stability, and continued existence, of that government, to be seen as party to a compromise, rather than having an agreement imposed on it by victors. I hope you see my point.”
Again, none of the Chinese reacted.
Yangerhans sighed, and turned a page in his briefing book. “Then, we proceed to conventional forces. Your navy and air force have already been reduced to acceptable levels for regional self-defense. So the remaining question is that of land forces.” He glanced at his watch. “But first, let’s take a short break.”
BLAIR visited the ladies’ room, a tiny cubicle far down a shadowed, musty corridor. She doubted the empress dowager had ever used this room, but the toilets might have dated from around her era. The massive porcelain thrones, with cisterns high above eye level, were trademarked with the logos of long-vanished English companies.
She washed her hands, checked her mascara, and brushed her hair. Sighed, looking at herself in the mirror. No, the years were not kind to women, and unlike men, they were judged far more on their appearances, even now.
Well, at least, aside from her hip and ear, she still had all her moving parts. She could still ride, though she hardly had time anymore. Maybe when she got back to Maryland, she’d take a weekend off.
But first they had to nail down a peace. Or what might pass for one for a few years. She suspected no one back at that table expected it to last forever. Even temporarily humbled, China was too massive, too populous, her people too industrious, to fade into obscurity.
But all the lives and treasure had to have bought the Allies something.
THE conventional-force talks went no better. Their hosts seemed to have lost interest in the discussions. They sat immobile, barely reacting except for brief denials or terse rejections, as Yangerhans sketched possible force structures.
Most of his proposals involved large reductions in the land and internal security forces. “You’ve mobilized far more men and women than you need for homeland defense,” the mission leader pointed out. “You’ll need that labor for postwar reconstruction. If you have to keep them on the payroll, transfer them to reserves, at least. Let them return home, with the opportunity to begin a peaceful and productive life. Start businesses. Look for other careers, pursue education. It might be possible for us to underwrite some of those costs, since they don’t directly strengthen your armed forces.”
Blair looked around for the senator—he’d be the one to introduce any aid packages on the Hill—but he still hadn’t rejoined them after the break. Should she worry? Bankey Talmadge was an old man, and not in the best of health. What if he just hadn’t woken up? She crooked a finger at Chaldroniere, and after a whispered exchange sent the DS agent to check on the senator.
When she tuned back to the discussion, Yangerhans was proposing the disbanding of all internal forces and domestic surveillance operations of the Ministry of State Security. The infamous Black Battalions had crushed dissent in Hong Kong, Taiwan, Tibet, and Xinjiang. Even before the war, they’d run a massive gulag system—the internment camps—rivaling that of the USSR at its most ruthless, and a system of digital surveillance and online “social credit” programs that made George Orwell’s dystopia in 1984 look laid-back and genial. When he finished there was silence once more around the table.
At last Marshal Chagatai held up a palm. He spoke in Chinese, but the digital translator seemed to be mimicking his gravelly tones. “This is not acceptable. Stability forces are internal matters. Not subject to negotiation. We are facing serious uprisings in the far west and south. For the same reason, it is impossible to close the reeducation camps. We are of course repatriating all prisoners of war, as rapidly as the conditions of our transport system allow. In any case, what will remain are not concentration camps, as you seem to believe. They are only for de-extremization and reeducation. The residents are happy, well fed, and gaining advantageous new skills.”
Blair exchanged a glance with Shira; the State rep, too, seemed to find it difficult to keep a straight face. Salyers said mildly, “Nevertheless, Marshal, they must be closed. It is possible your far west may become independent. That hinges on the decisions of the heads of state meeting.”
The marshal huffed. “Impossible! Xinjiang is historically Chinese.”
“Only since 1949.”
Chagatai all but rolled his eyes. “You confuse the date of the People’s Republic with the history of China. The Western Region has been Chinese since the days of the Han Dynasty. Over two thousand years. It is Chinese. Thoroughly Chinese.”
“You forget the Uighur Khanate,” Salyers said, but with a smile.
Chen smiled back at her, but much less pleasantly. “You know some of our history. But not all. The Tang withdrawal was only temporary. As the marshal says, it will remain Chinese.”
“If it’s so damn Chinese, why is it in armed revolt?” Blair asked him. Ammermann stifled a chuckle; Provanzano smiled silkily.
“The province is restive, that is true. But those who resist are terrorists. Bandits. Enemies of all law-abiding people.” Chen eyed Provanzano balefully. “And as you know, they are being encouraged by your American intelligence. Sit there, Anthony, and tell me you have not supplied and armed them, from the beginning.”
“Not at all true,” Provanzano said evenly. “This is an indigenous uprising, caused solely by your oppression. They only want their liberty. If they had it, perhaps they would not be so determined to leave.”
Blair reached for the water carafe. The atmosphere had definitely chilled today, in contrast to the collegial tone of the opening sessions. Obviously the Chinese were going to stonewall any attempt to disarm them, or weaken their iron grip on their minorities. Both would be stumbling blocks to any peace agreement.
And the Allies’ ability to impose change was limited. China could not be physically occupied and forcibly disarmed, as Japan, Germany, and Iraq had been. But the victors couldn’t leave a hardened, resentful Party in charge either. Or the war would have been fought for nothing.
They were sitting in silence when there was a commotion outside the doors. A shout from the guards, then countermanded orders. She twisted in her seat to look.
Talmadge lumbered in, bulling his way across the hall. Her heart sank. Just from his uneven, lurching gait, she judged he was half seas under. His noon scotch, followed, no doubt, by a few chasers. She looked away as the senator lunged into his overstuffed chair, nearly upsetting it. The Chinese looked away pointedly.
“Sorry, bit late,” Talmadge mumbled. He skated a paper fluttering across the table toward Chen. “Here’s what I got. See what y’all think.”
The premier looked astonished, then offended, but after a moment picked it up. Gingerly, with the tips of his fingers, as if it were a shred of carrion. After a short study he looked up, frowning. “What is this, Senator?”
“An outline of your new government,” Talmadge rumbled. “Based it on Sun Yat-Sen’s 1912 constitution. You still honor Sun, right? Strong central government. Weak federal system. Five branches: legislative, executive, judicial, civil service, and inspector general. Headed by a president. Oh, and I wrote up a bill of rights. Just to backstop everything.”
The paper trembled in Chen’s hands. “You wrote this up? Senator?”
“No, you did. Minister.” Talmadge lifted one haunch slightly, then settled back with a sigh. “It’s the Chen constitution. Laid out with the advice of the senior sitting member of the United States Senate, though. You’ll need to call a convention to ratify it. But it’ll give you a framework to start out with.”
Blair closed her eyes, breathless, unsure yet whether this was low comedy or the birth of a new China. The four men opposite gazed on stonefaced. Finally the premier murmured, gaze fixed on the paper again, “And where is the Party’s role in this … Chen constitution?”
“The Communist Party leads the people in the transition to democracy. Over a five-year implementation period. After that, it competes with the others on a level field. Don’t worry, everyone still has offices and retirements. Ever’body gets taken care of. Nobody left out in the cold.” Talmadge reached for the water carafe, and barely managed to fill his glass without knocking it over. Muttering an aside to Blair, “I did tell you, Missy, constitutional law, Georgetown? Yeah, I thought so.”
Heads together, the Chinese studied the document. Finally General Pei murmured, “And … prosecution? For war crimes? Senior officials must be protected. Guaranteed.”
Talmadge waved fat fingers. “Well, to be frank, that’s up to the heads of state. But committin’ to democracy will make y’all look a hell of a lot better to ’em, that’s for damn sure.”
Admiral Lin murmured, “This will require time to study.”
“Sure, sure,” Talmadge said good-naturedly, flapping a hand. “Talk it all over. Won’t happen overnight. But once you hold general elections, y’all can start a new tradition. No more Generalissimo Zhangs. Peaceful transfers of power.”
“And the camps? The police?” Chagatai narrowed his eyes.
Talmadge wiggled his fingers again. “Believe you me, son, you transition to a rule of law, devolve some self-government to your provinces, you’ll be surprised how fast these upsets can just simmer right down. But this here is somethin’ I can take to the heads of state. Get you a treaty. A high level of positive engagement. Show the Foreign Relations Committee, and pry loose a few billion in transitional aid. Get trade and agriculture started again, get your country back on its feet.” The old man shoved back from the table and looked to Yangerhans. “Jim, how about we let ’em stew on it awhile? It’s a good offer. They’ll be Fathers of their Country.”
Chen waited for the translation of that, eyes nearly closed. He seemed to be thinking it over.
Finally he nodded, and stood. “No promises,” he murmured. “But we will talk it over.”
The others stood too, and forced thin smiles. It seemed the meeting, and perhaps the negotiations, were at an end.
YANGERHANS caught up with her as she and Salyers were descending the broad steps of the Hall of Supreme Harmony. “Blair. A word?”
She excused herself to Shira, and halted. What now? Had she been too aggressive with Chen? Too bad. They were shooting themselves in the foot if they stonewalled. The heads of state were in no mood for a soft peace. Not after the unprovoked aggressions against so many countries, the massacres in the occupied territories. Even the noncombatant nations had suffered, from famine and environmental disruption, the cross-border flood tides of hungry refugees, the worldwide spread of radioactivity from the exchange that had climaxed the war. She crossed her arms. “What can I help you with, Admiral?”
“Jim, please. This has nothing to do with the mission. Not directly, anyway. But I wanted to sound you out on something.”
She glanced around. They were alone; the other members of the party were already far down the steps, heading for the limos that would take them back, accompanied by waiting sirens, to their chilly and still-unlighted hotel. Talmadge trailed them, limping, but the tall diplomatic security man was at his side, steadying his steps. “Uh … sure.”
“You’d have to agree to keep this under wraps.”
What the hell? She nodded reluctantly. “Okay. Agreed.”
He dawdled like a small boy, looking down at his shoes. “Well … you know we have the election coming up. This fall. I’d, um, like you to join my exploratory team. Head it, if possible.”
She bit her lip, not just surprised, but gobsmacked. “Uh … what did you plan to run for, Jim? Senate?”
“I thought we might start out aiming higher.” He looked abashed; then grinned that sad, twisted smile. It looked out of place on his long, ugly face, but also she could see how it might be called Lincolnesque.
“Aiming higher…?” she repeated.
“Since the president said he’s not going to run again. Just to, you know, explore it.”
“I see. And we’re talking which party?”
He glanced at the sky. “Haven’t decided yet. I’d run as a centrist.”
“The middle of the road’s where people get run over.” Someone had told her that once.
“Perhaps. But I think the country’s tired of being divided, at loggerheads. I could bring people together again. Or sure as hell try.”
“As the architect of victory? Yeah, that’d be a selling point.” God help her, she was thinking about the politics of it. America hadn’t had a war hero for president since Eisenhower. Wait, maybe Kennedy. Perhaps the elder Bush. All for World War II service. But then, there hadn’t really been a victorious war since then. Just more or less messy skirmishes that petered out, as often as not simply because the public had just had enough.
The wind was messing with her hair; she smoothed it back over her damaged ear. “Yeah, you could probably make a splash in the primary. But … Jim, look, I appreciate the compliment. But you realize, I’m already in government. And not terrifically popular with either party.”
“Again, that places you in the center. A progressive, but one who helped win the war.” He took her hand, but not in any untoward way. And he was married, anyway. Happily, as far as she knew. “I’m not looking for a huge persona. Just someone with organizational ability, clout with the funding sources, credibility. Maybe not head of the team. Necessarily. But high on the team. Essential.” He waited a beat, then added, releasing her hand, “Anyway, I’d like you to at least consider it. We don’t need to do anything more right now. But do tell me if you’re definitely ruling it out, for personal reasons, or that you don’t think I’m the right candidate, or whatever. I won’t ask why. Just a simple no will be enough.”
She smoothed her hair back again, stalling for time. Feeling that sense of the world shifting under her feet again. Of possibilities materializing, history happening. She’d felt it at the start of these negotiations. And again today, when Talmadge had seemed to make headway with the Chinese.
Oh, she knew why it felt so unreal. She’d just had to think about everything in terms of the fucking war for so fucking long she’d never had a chance to consider what might come next. But the postwar world was hurtling toward them all, faster than anyone could imagine.
He was still intently staring at her. Still waiting. She drew a breath. “Like you say, it’s too soon. To give you a yes or no answer.”
“Sure. I understand.”
“But if you want some kind of response right now … for your own planning … I’m not instantly saying no.”
Those unattractive features twisted into a delighted grin. Suddenly they weren’t all that ugly anymore. But they were still sad, with the compassion of a man who’d seen war, and death, yet who still hoped the world could be made better, despite it all.
Yeah. She could see him in a campaign video, easily. With the right coach. Yeah. Absolutely.
“That’s all I was asking for.” He glanced toward the limos. “Guess they’re holding a car for us.”
“Oh yes,” she said, pushing her hair back into place again. Feeling, for some obscure reason, a flush burning her cheeks. And together, they descended the ancient stone stairs.