Beidaihe is a famous and scenic summer resort located at the southwest of Qinhuangdao Municipality a few hours by rail from bustling, overcrowded Beijing. A scenic coastal village providing a soothing change from the capital’s hectic pace, it encompasses both beaches and tidal woods home to an astonishing number of bird species. After the Mao Revolution in 1949, the Party leaders developed a love for the resort. Mao himself had a summer villa built there. The views of the sea are magnificent, the long stretches of beaches relaxing, and the proliferation of small coves offering perfect nesting places for any number of shorebirds.
Ouyang Jidan journeyed to Beidaihe by private train. He was accompanied in the plush car by Cho Xilan, Deng Tsu, and Kai. Naturally, there was also a large security contingent. The red silk seats, the tinkling miniature chandelier, the pair of cast-silver foo dogs all served to give the interior the appearance of a Party conference room or a hotel lobby.
These three men were the last people Ouyang had imagined as his traveling companions to the Party Congress, and after the confrontation in Deng Tsu’s limo, he made the 185-mile journey on edge, not knowing what to expect or whom to trust. Not that he wasn’t going to get his revenge on Cho and Deng for making him relinquish his hold on Maricruz. The agent of this revenge was even now on his way from Moscow.
Rageful though he was at his core, he showed none of his bitter enmity to the men in the train carriage. He was still coming to terms with the reality of never seeing his wife again. It seemed to him an absurd impossibility, an unimaginable loss that had altered his life forever. There would be hell to pay, of this he was absolutely certain.
“Now that we’re all together, snug as dung beetles in a rug,” Deng Tsu said, “I’d like to discuss the situation vis-à-vis Israel.” He crossed one leg over the other, Western-style. “Jidan, I believe you’re best qualified to start us off.”
So this is what it boils down to, Ouyang thought. This is what it’s all about: Israel.
“What would you have me say, Patriarch?”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Deng Tsu said easily.
“You remember Brigadier General Wadi Khalid, don’t you, Jidan?” Cho Xilan interjected.
“Khalid was my contact inside the Syrian government.”
“Oh, he was more than that,” Cho said, relishing each word. “You were the architect behind what came to be called the Torture Archipelago; you taught Khalid everything he knew about torture. And you know so much, Jidan, so very, very much.”
“I appreciate the compliment, Cho, but this is old news.”
“And yet it’s the genesis of your personal animus toward Israel and the Mossad, in particular.”
This from Deng Tsu, which caused Ouyang to listen carefully to not only the words but also the intonation.
“True enough,” Ouyang said, nodding. “But the Israelis were a thorn in our side even before that. Reuben Yadin, then the Director of Mossad, first spearheaded the electronic surveillance of entities in Africa and Southeast Asia controlled by us, then masterminded the first virus attacks on our military computer cores. His son, Eli, has only built upon the foundation his father put in place.”
Deng Tsu shifted uneasily in his seat. There were times when his aging bones discomfited him.
“Mossad has been using a more sophisticated form of the Stuxnet worm used to periodically shut down Iran’s nuclear project generators,” Ouyang concluded.
“And you can’t stop it,” Cho Xilan said smugly.
“On the contrary, we not only have stopped it, but we have launched our own cyber counterattack against Israel. We’re currently at a stalemate, but if history is any guide, that won’t last long. We need more programmers, which,” Ouyang emphasized, “is why I was in Shanghai.” He shook his head. “What puzzles me is why Cho Xilan did his best to impede my recruitment. Don’t you want us to succeed against the Israelis?”
There was silence between the men as the train rocketed along, the wheels tick-tocking over the tracks like a clock, the carriage swaying gently. Ouyang noted Kai’s gaze flicking back and forth between Cho and himself. Was he trying to assess the winner in this battle, or had he already been ordered to take a side by Deng Tsu? Impossible to say.
“That question is unworthy of you,” Cho Xilan said. “So far as I know, we all want the same thing.”
“Then why send your people to Shanghai to spy on me?”
“Is this true?” Deng Tsu said.
“Of course not, Patriarch,” Cho Xilan said.
“He’s lying.”
Everyone turned to look at Kai, who had spoken.
“Cho Xilan sent a young woman named Yue, along with one of his men, acting as her husband, to Shanghai.”
Cho Xilan clucked his tongue. “It was a fact-finding mission, nothing more.”
“Then,” Kai said, “how to explain the death of your man and the disappearance of Yue?”
Cho Xilan remained as still and silent as the seat on which he sat.
“This matter,” Deng Tsu said, “illustrates the time and energy wasted on this rivalry.” Suddenly he sat forward. “I’ll have none of it. Do you hear me? It appears to me that neither of you took to heart what I told you before we left Beijing. This distresses me greatly.”
So this is to be a contest of sorts, Ouyang thought. Will one of us be among the two members of the Politburo Standing Committee ousted at the Party Congress to whittle the committee down to seven?
The Patriarch bent over, opened a briefcase, withdrew a slim dossier. Its cover was crimson with three diagonal black stripes in the upper right-hand corner. Top secret, highest priority. It contained a single sheet of onionskin, which Deng Tsu perused before he spoke.
“What annoys me, Cho, is that you spoke up when you should have kept your mouth shut.”
Ouyang could not resist the tiniest of smiles as he registered the effect of the direct rebuke on his rival’s face. If he was right about the contest, then surely he was winning. However, his elation was short-lived, because now Deng Tsu speared him with his unwavering gaze.
“Cho Xilan was wrong when he said this affair began with Brigadier General Wadi Khalid, isn’t that so, Ouyang Jidan?”
Ouyang’s heart seemed to freeze in his chest. It was a very bad sign when the Patriarch addressed him by his full name. He looked to the silver foo dogs, who grinned at him mindlessly, then back to the gaze that seemed to penetrate to the core of him.
“Well,” Deng Tsu said authoritatively, “we are waiting for an answer.” Though no further emphasis to his words was needed, he plucked the sheet of onionskin out of its jacket and held it aloft.
“No, Patriarch.” Ouyang had to pause to clear his throat, which was as clotted as his emotions. “It began with Sara Yadin.” He looked around the rail carriage at each man in attendance. “The Mossad agent known as Rebeka.”