GLANCING out the third-floor window at a bituminous sky looming over Christ Church Cathedral, Blair Titus decided she’d better dress for rain. She and Shira Salyers—the slight, almost frail-looking woman from State, now the official head of the U.S. delegation—had been invited to stay at the ambassador’s residence, outside the city. But Salyers had said staying in town would save time going and coming. The VIP Suite at the Radisson Blu St. Helen’s was spacious and private, with a separate elevator and discreet access onto a side street, bypassing the lobby. She took one bedroom, Shira the other. The rest of the delegation were staying in the city too, at Jurys in Christchurch.
The conference was at Dublin Castle. The stone fortress hearted the old city, a short uphill stroll from the Liffey. A thousand years before, it had been a Viking stronghold. A century before, center of administration for the Protestant Ascendancy. Blair wanted to walk over from the hotel, but the Garda sergeant assigned to protect them had warned against it. The Irish government provided a black Mercedes, complete with driver and opaque windows.
She decided on a black pencil skirt, white silk high-necked blouse, and gray cashmere jacket. She frowned at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Too austere? Not for an international conference. She no longer wore earrings, because of the missing lobe, but added a vintage silver and green-enamel lapel pin in a Celtic knot pattern, a gift from Dan two birthdays ago.
By the time she and Salyers got to the castle it was raining hard. Shira had been appointed by the secretary of state as a special envoy. The driver escorted them under the stone arch of the main gate, holding an umbrella. They picked their way across the flagstones of a wide court, then though another archway. She recognized it from a recent documentary about the Easter Rising.
In the upper courtyard bereted troops patrolled with rifles and a sniffer dog team, working the perimeters. “Shira, is this usual? All this security.”
“Not out of the ordinary.” Salyers cocked a wrenlike head. “Think of the bombings in their recent past. Having something go bad here … some madman break in and wreak havoc … I’m sure they’d rather it didn’t happen.”
In the Portrait Gallery a pale-blue-and-white ceiling garlanded in eighteenth-century plasterwork lofted far overhead. Eighteenth- and nineteenth-century visages peered down haughtily from gilded frames, resplendently draped in scarlet and ermine robes. A vanished race from a vanished empire. She wondered why the Irish hadn’t torn them down, and burned the portraits of their oppressors. Too civilized, probably. Erasing history too often meant repeating it. Low murmurs floated upward, echoing like the imperious voices of vanished viceroys.
As ten o’clock approached, the conferees gathered at a long table. The hall quieted as a dignified woman in her late fifties tapped a gavel.
Blair had met Liz McManus the night before, at the opening drinks reception in the Throne Room. A harpist played Celtic airs as the diplomats picked at canapés. McManus, the “rapporteur” and chairperson, was tall, silver-haired, with elegant cheekbones. A former teachta dála, a congresswoman in American parlance, she’d led the Labour Party before retiring. McManus had been gracious but reserved, and Blair had noted her chatting with the Chinese delegates later. A balancing act, no doubt …
A man in his seventies, with springy gray tufts sprinkled across an otherwise bare scalp, introduced himself in French. He was from West Africa. Actually, quite a few of the attendees seemed to be African. When McManus began speaking, he excused himself and picked up headphones, as did half the men and women around the table.
“Good morning. Welcome to the initial session of the United Nations conference on possible human rights violations and war crimes by both sides during ongoing military actions in southern Asia and the western Pacific,” the chairperson said gravely. “It’s worth noting that several possible infringements and infractions have already been reported from this conflict. The Security Council was the initial setting for these charges, and there have been hearings in the council and resolutions proposed, though not agreed on, relating to them.
“In my personal view, no UNSCRs have been adopted because the permanent members are in opposition on this issue.
“Therefore, the UNSC has suggested this special conference. This meeting will not concern itself with specific charges. Instead, we hope for a general exposition of issues. If any charges are brought forward, a separate committee of inquiry can be convened.
“We will consider protocols and staffing for tracking and bringing to public attention possible war crimes resulting from the current hostilities between the Allied Powers, namely the United States, the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, Australia, the Republic of India, and other powers; and the Associated or United Powers, among them the People’s Republic of China, the Islamic Republic of Iran, the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, the Lao People’s Democratic Republic, and the People’s Republic of Miandan.”
Blair propped her chin on both hands. “Miandan” was the Chinese puppet state in northern Myanmar. It had been Burma when the men in those portraits had administered the globe. Just another, more distant piece of the British Empire then. Now, conquered territory once more, where a new colonial power was slaughtering thousands who resisted its rule.
The Chinese were seated across the table from the U.S. delegation. A place card in front of the eldest read DEPUTY MINISTER CHEN JIALUO. With pudgy hands folded, Chen returned her stare with a fixed, unblinking gaze through heavy black-framed glasses. All four wore them, as if mimicking their ruthless Leader, President for Life Zhang Zurong.
In measured tones, pausing for the translators, McManus outlined the conference’s charter. If they could agree, protocols would be formulated for observation by small teams composed of respected individuals—statespersons, diplomats, military officers, physicians, and attorneys—from nonaligned nations. These teams would not so much gather evidence, as provide unbiased reporting and, perhaps, inhibit by their very existence atrocities and other crimes.
“Our brief is to detect and record any and all violations of international humanitarian and human rights law. We do not, I repeat not, intend to inhibit or replace any law of armed conflict investigations or prosecutions carried out internally by the states involved. For obvious reasons, self-policing is the preferred way to prosecute LOAC violations. But if such states default in their duties and a lack of responsibility becomes evident—as it has in several past conflicts—our reports may constitute the basis for action within the context of the International Criminal Court or ad hoc tribunals like the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia.”
She nodded to a bearded, dark-skinned man beside her. “Pursuant to this I have asked Dr. Abir al-Mughrabi, a former appeals division judge, International Criminal Court at The Hague, to outline his proposals for how such oversight might function. Dr. al-Mughrabi has been involved in prosecutions for internal civil wars and genocide in Lebanon, Rwanda, and Syria. He also oversaw the recent investigations into war crimes in Afghanistan. Dr. al-Mughrabi.”
Blair fitted the headphones, taking care with her ear, but largely tuned out the translation. Proposals by someone who’d prosecuted the U.S. before? A membership dominated by Africans, when Africa had been penetrated by Chinese companies, their governments bought off with grants and cheap development loans? The rapporteur herself, McManus, seemed determinedly neutral.
But aside from that, just half an hour in, she wasn’t getting a good feeling about this.
* * *
THE morning was mainly devoted to orienting the members, but many seemed less interested in the mechanics of peacekeeping than in the wines and snacks set out between sessions. Blair kept an eye on the Chinese team. Four of them, all men, in dark suits and with the same bland expressions, the same pale blue ties, the same red-flag lapel pins. Whenever their gazes crossed hers they quickly turned away to mingle with the other attendees. Who often crossed the room to greet said Chinese, whereas she and Shira stood alone under a portrait of Clive. Not one person approached them.
She muttered, “What’s your reading on this, Shira? We’re lepers?”
“I’m not feeling very comfortable either,” the diplomat murmured. “This is quite unusual. Delegations are never intentionally isolated in diplomatic gatherings.”
“So why now?”
“I really don’t know. But don’t take it personally. Remember, we’re the ones they’re proposing to keep tabs on.”
“Granted, but they seem to be chummy enough with China. I feel hostility. Especially from the Europeans.” She wanted to say, And the Africans, but didn’t, since the State rep was black.
Salyers supplied it for her. “I don’t like all these Africans. I mean, I like Africans, and international oversight’s a good thing, overall. But I don’t think they can be totally disinterested. Considering all the grants and soft loans the Chinese have been spreading around their continent.”
Blair pointed her chin across the room at the bearded diplomat. “This al-Mughrabi. You know him? Where’s he from?”
“Morocco. Though his family was originally Lebanese.” Salyers sighed, fiddling with a plastic glass of nonalcoholic fruit drink. “They have to signal anti-Americanism. But that doesn’t mean they won’t give us the benefit of the doubt.”
“We have effective courts. The rule of law. A free press. At least, mostly. The Chinese don’t. Shouldn’t we get more than ‘the benefit of the doubt’?”
“Let’s rejoin,” McManus said just then into the PA system. “Gentlemen, ladies, next on the agenda: the warring powers have requested ten minutes each to make statements. Let’s start with Her Excellency Shira Salyers, United States of America, special envoy and head of delegation to this conference. Ms. Salyers, welcome.”
Blair tensed. UN meetings, Shira had told her, were carefully choreographed and rigidly scripted. Diplomats adhered religiously to protocols, and surprises weren’t welcome. The HOD spoke for his or her entire government. Ill-chosen words could have unpleasant consequences.
They’d drafted this statement together over the last week, passing each iteration back for comments by both State and the White House.
Blair herself had no right to speak. She could sit next to Salyers, assist on points of fact, and whisper discreet advice. But defense and military officials deferred to their diplomatic heads of delegation. All HODs, in turn, reported to their permanent reps to the UN, who reported formally to their heads of state. But informally, and in every meaningful way, to their SecState equivalent.
The Chinese were smiling. Tenting their fingers. Waiting.
All right, Blair thought. Let’s see if you’re still grinning after this.
Shira stood, meeting not just the stares from the Europeans, the veiled disliking eyes of the Middle Easterners and Africans, but the steady red pilots of television cameras too. Irish TV, or recordings? Blair jotted on a pad. YOU ARE ICY COOL, she scrawled in letters an inch high. The State rep glanced down, smiled faintly, then straightened.
Blair blinked. Suddenly Shira didn’t look quite so fragile anymore.
“Madam Chairman, honored delegates, Mr. al-Mughrabi,” Salyers began smoothly, voice raised so everyone could hear. “The United States has upheld the rule of international law since its founding, and has supported the United Nations from the beginning.
“Let me recapitulate, to set the stage for a resolution I will move at the end of my statement.
“The current state of hostilities originated after General Zhang Zurong’s execution of his rivals in government, consolidating his position as both party general secretary and state president. He now holds all leading titles in what he calls the People’s Empire of China.
“Almost two years ago Pakistan and India opened hostilities. China invaded Bhutan, citing a mutual-defense understanding with Pakistan. They also undertook gray-force activities, including the mining of Yokosuka Harbor. Shoot-downs and blinding of observation, communication, and global positioning satellites occurred at the same time as cyberattacks on American banking and financial systems, industrial plants, and power grids.
“The United States retaliated, yes. But our responses were always calibrated to avoid escalation. Again and again, we offered to negotiate our differences.
“However, General Zhang’s responses were ultimata and threats. He initiated strikes on American and Japanese defenses in the Pacific. He threatened our allies and our homeland with multiwarhead, long-range missiles developed secretly and in violation of mutually agreed upon strategic arms limitation regimes. He torpedoed Allied shipping, and violently seized islands belonging to regional powers allied with the United States.
“Then, in Operation Sheng Chi, he destroyed the Taiwanese air force and navy and invaded that island. Terrible reprisals have followed, including mass murder, incarceration, and torture of large segments of the population.
“In the most egregious violation of the laws of war, he then carried out an unprovoked nuclear attack on a U.S. carrier group in international waters, destroying the carrier USS Franklin D. Roosevelt, destroyer Elisha Eaker, destroyer Richmond P. Hobson, USS Gault, a frigate, and badly damaging another, USS Crommelin.
“In all, almost ten thousand sailors, marines, and civilians were killed in this dastardly attack. In comparison, two thousand four hundred soldiers, sailors, and civilians were lost in the Pearl Harbor attack on December 7, 1941, and just under three thousand military and civilian dead on September 11, 2001.”
Blair sat riveted as Salyers paused, surveying the inhospitable faces. The State rep took a deep breath. Then lowered her glance to hurl the next sentences across the table, into the round placid visages of the enemy. “The United States has deferred retaliating for these outrages, counting on China to cease its aggression and return to the family of nations without further bloodshed or escalation of this conflict. But other events since, including terror reprisals against China’s own minority populations in Hong Kong, Xianjiang, Tibet, and other areas, render it impossible for me to do otherwise than to move that this assembly end its first day in session by indicting Zhang Zurong for waging aggressive war and other crimes against humanity. I hereby make a motion to so resolve; and ask for a second.”
Beside her, Blair glared across the table at the Chinese. McManus had her head down, concentrating on a tablet computer, though her fingertips had gone white. The murmurs and headshaking had begun as Salyers spoke. As she concluded members rose from their seats, shaking fists and yelling at her. But among the shouts there seemed to be no second to her resolution.
The gavel banged again and again, echoing from the high ceilings, the plaster intaglio far above the angry throng.
* * *
THE Chinese had been conferring among themselves while Shira spoke. Now they requested a break before they made their statement. McManus agreed, also noting that as observers to the conference, not members, neither the United States’ representatives nor those of the Associated Powers could introduce resolutions. “I’m afraid Ms. Salyers’s, therefore, is moot.”
Blair and Shira found themselves sitting alone. She got up, wincing at a twisting agony in her hip. Were there chiropractors in Dublin?
No one spoke to her in the restroom. The silence was frigid, faces averted in the spotless mirrors over the marble sinks.
Well, too bad. They’d laid a marker on the table. Pissed against a tree, as Dan’s Navy friends might say. She washed her hands, using plenty of lavender-scented soap, then headed back.
After an introduction by the rapporteur, the eldest Chinese, Deputy Minister Chen, lumbered to his feet. A paper shook in his hand as he talked rapidly, round cheeks flushed, head bobbing. Blair closed her eyes to focus on the translation.
“The United States’ representative hijacks this solemn gathering to advance outrageous falsehoods. She slanders the good name of the Greater People’s Republic and of our revered leader, Premier Zhang Zurong, light of China and standard bearer of the united peoples of greater Asia.
“In fact, it is well known that the actions of the Greater People’s Republic were undertaken in self-defense after a long and increasingly dangerous series of adventurist provocations by the criminal and reckless leadership of the United States.
“Miss Ambassador alleges China began this war. In fact America did, with a policy of interfering with universally accepted claims in waters, reefs, and islands our ancient imperial dynasties discovered, explored, and populated over a period of more than four thousand years. Indeed, they themselves refer to the area in question as the ‘China’ Sea. After many years of threats and provocations, they began overt hostilities with the violent conquest and occupation of our islands in the Mischief Reef area. The U.S. and Indian navies then imposed an illegal blockade, cutting China’s billions off from badly needed food, medicines, and oil.
“Next, a U.S. missile cruiser shot down a peaceful communications satellite. Not content with this, American SEAL thugs carried out an armed raid on a peaceful fishing village on Yongxing, or Woody Island, spreading terror among the innocent coastal populace.
“Finally, the United States, along with renegade elements of the disgraced and corrupt former regime of South Korea, inserted itself into China’s internal affairs. They attacked civilian passenger ships and hospital ships during the peaceful and mutually agreed upon reunification of Taiwan with the mother country, killing thousands.
“This unprovoked attack, as is well known, forced Premier Zhang to reluctantly order the strike on the American carrier group, which was slinking toward our coast to carry out terror raids on defenseless cities. He regretted this necessity. But after all, can the United States, after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, protest with a straight face if Asians use nuclear weapons against her, far at sea, when no civilian populations are put at risk?”
Chen stared around belligerently. From the nods around the table, he’d scored a point. He resumed. “Not content with that, they continue to wage aggressive war, threatening China’s coasts and interfering with internal production and communications. They damage our nuclear generating stations, endangering large areas with the release of radioactive materials. They derail our high-speed trains. They bomb and strafe our coastal cities, inflicting thousands more civilian casualties. Finally, they foment rebellion by violent extremists within our borders, necessitating stern measures to restore order.”
Chen spread his hands, eyes wide, astonished and ingenuous. “All this, despite our respected premier’s repeated offers of peace and reconciliation on the basis of mutual respect and resumption of free trade.”
One of the younger men passed him a paper. He scanned it, then lifted his head. Slammed his fist on the table.
“I have a further charge to make, and a most grievous one! Not content with causing famine through blockade, the so-called Allies have also released biological agents to decimate crops and livestock. Also, most heinously, this winter they spread infectious viruses among the population, resulting in hundreds of thousands of deaths among the aged, infirm, and those with weak systems.
“This is not merely war! It is conscious genocide against the entire people of China and her gallant Persian and Pakistani allies in this struggle against Western oppression.”
The deputy minister looked up at the ceiling, then at his colleagues. He glared at Salyers and Blair. Took a slow, elaborate sip of water, and cleared his throat.
“China respects this distinguished commission and will cooperate fully. At the same time, we will not insult it by introducing spurious resolutions we are not empowered to table.
“Nevertheless, we cannot help rejecting in the strongest terms the lying propaganda of villains such as the woman sitting next to the senior U.S. representative, who no doubt wrote those inflammatory and false words she uttered.
“The ‘Honorable’ Blair Titus is well known among the peaceful masses as a corrupt tool of the profit-hungry warmongers in the American defense industry. She is a pliable puppet, wife of the notorious war criminal Admiral Daniel V. Lenson, and most likely also the mistress of the insane and irresponsible national security adviser, Dr. Edward Szerenci.
“Truly, this is a woman wise friends of China will avoid. Depraved and malignant, she will be among those standing in the dock when this commission completes its work of documenting America’s genocide, war crimes, and other violations of international norms and treaties.
“Thank you.” Chen beamed around, scowled at her one last time, and slowly seated himself.
“Ooff,” Shira whispered. “Corrupt, pliable, depraved, and malignant. I like the mistress part best, though. Guess I didn’t catch that chemistry, when you and Ed were facing off in the Tank.”
Blair coolly rearranged her papers, though rage burned like sulfuric acid on her cheeks. Obfuscation, bluster, and lies, but repeat a falsehood often enough, loudly enough, and someone would believe it. Back it up with threats, like the one Chen had just made, and many of the smaller states would fall obediently into line, or at least hesitate to support any Allied charges.
The gavel rapped. The chairwoman admonished both parties, and moved on to the next business.
* * *
THE rest of the morning was devoted to procedural discussion, mainly of how delegates to the observation teams would be apportioned among various neutral countries. Blair had her doubts as to how disinterested they would actually be but, after McManus’s scolding, kept them to herself. Both the U.S. and China were here only as observers, after all, though as the main combatants, their cooperation would be essential.
This became evident as Dr. al-Mughrabi presented a plan for four teams, three geographic and one for cyberspace issues, to operate across the war zones. Each oversight team would have three members. One would be a physician, one a diplomat or jurist, and one an army officer. A delegate from Chile proposed that the term “army officers” be changed to “military officers,” as many of the hostilities so far had been naval. Al-Mughrabi countered politely that as few outrages against civilian populations occurred at sea, it was proper that monitors be army officers, particularly senior ones who’d seen action in such campaigns as that against FARC, in Colombia. After nearly an hour’s wrangling, the language stayed as it was.
The next issue was access. Al-Mughrabi asked both combatant representatives if it would be granted. Chen, speaking first this time, said China would grant full and free access, including transport and hosteling, to all oversight teams, guaranteeing them entrée to any portion of any battlefield at any time. He nodded benignantly. “We offer this in the certainty that impartial observers will attest to the scrupulous care the people’s armed forces have always taken to avoid collateral damage and civilian casualties.”
Shira whispered, “They’ll never implement that promise. They’d let them into Taipei? Hong Kong? Miandan, where they’re massacring Rohingyas in Rakhine? Near anything that even smells like an atrocity?”
McManus turned to them. “And the representative from the United States.”
Blair had discussed this with General Vincenzo during their call the night before. Unfortunately, JCS opposed unhindered access on security grounds. They’d drawn up a précis of his misgivings. Salyers rose, holding a copy. She said carefully, “The United States is prepared to cooperate, but with certain caveats.
“We can provide transport and housing, but subject to the agreement of our theater commanders. Also, we have to keep the personal safety of the monitors in mind. Subject to those limitations, we will host the observer teams.”
The old African next to Blair raised a finger. He mumbled, in English, “Why is it that the Chinese have nothing to hide? While you are afraid to offer full access?”
Salyers smiled down at him. “I believe you’ll find that American ‘limited access’ gives them more real opportunity for on-the-ground observation than Chinese ‘full access.’ Sir.”
“We object again to these barefaced lies,” Chen snapped from across the table.
At which point it seemed to be time to break for lunch.
* * *
MOST of the attendees left, with two hours off before the afternoon session. She and Shira stayed, and hit the remains of the breakfast table. They were standing isolated, as before, nibbling on slightly stale currant-studded scones, when the elderly African ambled up. Blair nodded politely. He inclined his head, smiling, and set a cup and saucer down in front of her. Flicked the saucer with a finger, and wandered away.
“What the hey,” Salyers muttered. “He just—”
“Shh,” Blair said. When the old diplomat rounded a corner and was out of sight, she set her own cup down. Pushed his aside surreptitiously, and replaced it on the saucer with her own.
Just as she’d suspected, when she picked it up a slip of paper lay under the saucer. She excused herself, went to the restroom again, and locked herself into a stall.
The note read
QUEEN OF TARTS 7 PM
She tore it across. A moment later the toilet flushed, whirling the bits away and out of sight.
* * *
THAT night, after a room-service dinner at the hotel, she told Shira, “I’m turning in early. Jet lag, ugh.”
Back in her room, instead of going to bed she pulled on a dark gray cable-knit sweater, black pants, and a brown hooded raincoat. She tied a dark green kerchief from the hotel gift shop over her hair, then glanced out into the shared living area. Empty.
She eased the door shut behind her, and took the private elevator down.
The alley was deserted. A wall sconce threw out a greenish glow. It was still raining, with gusts of chilly wind. Pressing the button to unfurl a compact umbrella, she stepped out and quickly left the Radisson behind, walking downhill toward the river, then veering right onto Dame Street, a wide avenue lined with pubs, jewelry stores, and touristy craft shops.
The squared-off steeple of Christ Church Cathedral loomed behind her. Couples she assumed were tourists chatted in German and Dutch and French, strolling past, heads bent under the steady drizzle. The streets glistened like patent leather. A raucous thumping of fiddle and drum accompanied a lively folk tune. Through a pub window she glimpsed people three deep at a long mahogany bar, holding pint glasses and laughing or singing along. Maybe after whatever she was headed for, she’d treat herself to a Guinness, anonymous at last in a happy, rowdy crowd.
The Queen of Tarts, a smartphone search had revealed, was a bakery café opposite the old city hall. It wasn’t far from the castle. Tilting the umbrella low over her face, she walked briskly past without looking into the wide front window.
Trying to remember tradecraft from the Graham Greene and Alan Furst novels she’d read, she checked out a window of shoes, then crossed to stroll west on the other side of the street, past the tart shop again. Its facade was painted an eye-catching bright red, punctuated with decorative prize medallions. On neither pass did she spot anyone suspicious, but these days street surveillance cameras could be recording her every step. An indignity James Bond had never had to consider.… Finally she took a deep breath, furled her dripping umbrella, and went in.
Four tables were occupied by sodden tourists in jeans and windbreakers in various stages of drying out. The shop smelled of cinnamon and butter and vanilla, with a sharp hint of berries. Across the back, a long glass bakery counter displayed lush-looking pastries, cheesecakes, lattice-topped tarts. She stood gazing down at an enormous raspberry-striped meringue, wondering exactly what she was doing here.
“Help ye, madam?” a red-aproned young woman asked. A smudge of flour dusted one cheek.
“I’m not sure. I was supposed to meet someone here.”
“And are ye sure it wasn’t at our other location?”
“Your … other location?”
“This is our wee bakery shop. The big café is around the corner.” She began to give directions with the air of someone who had to do this fifty times a day. Then paused, eyeing Blair sympathetically. “Bleeding awful out, isn’t it? We have a way there without going outside.” She opened a gate and motioned for her to step behind the counter. “This way. Mind the step down.”
Blair hesitated at the worn oak threshold that separated the cheerful bakery from a dim brick passageway. “Go on then,” said the girl. “It’s a shortcut.”
At last she stepped through. It felt ludicrous to suspect this kind, auburn-haired Irish shopgirl of being part of some deep-laid international plot.
The brick-lined, poorly lit corridor, obviously an alleyway in some previous incarnation of this Victorian-era block, zagged and backtracked. At one corner a stir and crackle from a stack of boxes made her flinch. When she peered in, a huge black cat stared up, amber eyes lambent. “Hello. I have a kitty kind of like you,” she told him. “His name is Jimbo. What’s yours?”
The cat hissed and leapt from the box. He turned disdainfully away and began vigorously washing, as if she’d somehow contaminated his fur.
A few more steps, and a crackle-painted door opened onto a busy, clattering kitchen. Servers pushed past, hefting trays of soups and salads and plates of the same heavenly-smelling pastries and lavishly iced cakes the bakeshop had displayed. She eyed a tray of cherry tarts with fork marks around the edges, the ripe red filling oozing along the darker seams. Yes, one of those, please?.… But pulled herself back to the task, whatever that was, and looked around.
The place was packed. Two full floors, every seat occupied. Half a dozen servers in bright red aprons and black pants wove dexterously among tables to deliver orders. Through large plate-glass windows, wire tables and chairs were visible on a patio outside, but they stood empty beneath dripping green awnings. A score of conversations babbled in a dozen languages. She unzipped her overcoat, looking about. Then caught a lifted hand from above.
A stairway led up to three tables set in front of doors that opened, apparently, to the restrooms. They overlooked the organized chaos below. Europeans of various sizes and nationalities occupied two of them.
She almost missed him, he was so unobtrusive. But at the farthest table, against the wall, alone, perched one of the Chinese she’d faced earlier that day. The youngest, perhaps, though she couldn’t be sure. Absent, now, the heavy black plastic-rimmed glasses.
“Good evening,” he said, half rising. “Ms. Titus. Will you have a seat?”
“I’m not sure. Who are you?”
“My name is Xie Yunlong.” He pronounced his family name with a sibilant syllable she knew she wouldn’t even try to reproduce. “Please call me Yun.”
“All right. Blair.”
One of the red-aproned servers appeared, brisk and blond, pencil poised. “Evenin’, luvs. Are we startin’ with tea today, then?”
Blair ordered Earl Grey and two small tarts, one with cherry, the other with apple filling. Xie quietly asked for cinnamon scones and coffee. When they came, he glanced at the Germans, who were busy with their Guinnesses. Then leaned to her. “I am here without knowledge of deputy minister. Without knowledge of head of mission.”
“All on your own?”
“No, not quite. I represent what you might call another faction within the administration.”
“I see,” she murmured. “A peace faction? One inclined to compromise?”
He pursed his lips. “That would be very premature to discuss.”
He spoke with great precision, one sentence at a time, as if reading from some internal script, committee-generated and carefully memorized. “First, I must emphasize that we all, every Chinese, fully agree with everything respected Minister Chen said today. The United States has behaved abominably. Threats and attacks can only be met with resolute defense. Premier Zhang’s peace offers are realistic and generous.”
“I see. But surely you haven’t been sent to meet me—whatever faction, whoever sent you—just to repeat what Chen already said.”
“The leadership is united. There is no ‘faction.’”
She frowned. Hadn’t he used the word first? “All right. I understand that,” she said. Thinking: I must tell you again, I am not mad.
Their drinks arrived. Xie sipped coffee. Blair stirred sugar into her tea. At last he murmured, “Still, there are matters best discussed in a way that is not fully public.”
“We call those ‘back channels.’”
“Back channels; yes. Ever during war, there must be communications between leaders.”
She narrowed her gaze, startled. “You’re representing Zhang?”
“As I said, there are no factions.”
She understood less with every exchange. Through the unreality of the setting, the yeasty, fruity kitchen smells, the relaxed gemütlich chatter, a queer unease was bleeding. No factions? Yet he’d started by mentioning one. And if there weren’t any, then why an off-line meeting? Even with the Chinese and U.S. embassies withdrawn at the outbreak of war, the UN was still in session in New York.
Still, now that they were here, she should in good conscience try to sound out what he wanted. “The premier is always right. Got it. So what are we here for, Yun?”
He met her gaze for perhaps a tenth of a second before dropping his again. “Today we were arguing over how this war started. It is perhaps more worth inquiring, how it could be ended.”
Now they were getting somewhere. She said over the raised teacup, “The first step would be to establish communication.”
“That is what we are attempting.”
“I see that. And it’s encouraging. The second thing, then, the great thing, would be to begin to limit the severity of this very unfortunate war. Your premier has to show good faith. Establish trust. Which, so far, he hasn’t shown much interest in, frankly.”
The young man whispered, while dissecting his scone with knife and fork, meticulously placing each raisin to one side of the plate, “How could he do that? If he were willing.”
Blair thought back to the briefings at JCS. “One way might be … let’s see … for example, let’s say he ordered his armies in Vietnam to halt in place. Allow humanitarian corridors to Hanoi, to assist and supply the population. And, perhaps, elsewhere, refrain from further counterforce attacks.”
“One-sided concessions. What would you do in return?”
“I’d have to consult with my government. Maybe … letting some humanitarian supplies through the blockade. But if fighting died down, maybe both nations could back away from the nuclear brink.”
Dark eyes widened. “You are saying the United States is planning to attack us with nuclear weapons?”
She cursed herself. Unfortunately, she was actually privy to the plans for just such a strike. Or at least, the preliminary studies. “I’m not saying that. I don’t know. But I do know one thing. China and America are the most powerful countries in the world. If this war goes on, it will end with both exhausted and devastated. Surely your premier can’t want that.”
A tilt of the head. “It is not always easy for a courtier to know what the emperor desires. But I, in turn, will tell you something. You are using famine as a weapon. Your biological warfare targets our rice and grain crops, threatening millions with starvation.”
“I’m sure we’re not conducting anything remotely resembling biological warfare. And what about your repeated sabotage of our power plants, our power supplies? With these heat waves, we’re losing—”
Yun leaned forward. His voice vibrated, though it was still pitched beneath the clatter of silverware, the chatter of tourists.”Your electricity is a legitimate industrial target. Be quiet and listen! America is carrying out the greatest atrocity of all times. But China will no longer suffer quietly.
“I am here to warn you. We know what you are planning! We are not fools! Your dogs in Washington must know this: if the Party’s rule is threatened, we will not go down without turning your entire country into radioactive ashes.”
“I’m not sure—”
“I said listen! This is no empty threat. It would be most unwise to push him to that brink you mention. He will not step back from it … as the Russian, Khrushchev, once did.”
She bought time by starting on the apple tart. She’d hoped he might present a way forward. A message from a splinter group: disenchanted oligarchs frightened of losing their fortunes, generals wary of Zhang’s firing squads, disgruntled industrialists. Instead she was getting a declaration that the enemy government was solid. And that, pushed too far, Zhang would unleash catastrophe. “I have to tell you, there are those in my government who feel exactly the same way,” she murmured. “We will not retreat. Nor be pushed out of the western Pacific. And we will never abandon our allies. Even if it comes to trading city for city.”
“I will take your words back with me,” Yun said. He surveyed his raisin-littered plate, patted his lips with the napkin, and rose. He was gone before she realized he’d stuck her with the tab.
In the rain, the darkness, she stood outside, struggling with the folding umbrella in a little pedestrian mall whose slanting concrete slabs were sheeted with gleaming water. The icy rain, halfway to sleet now, pattered down cold and dispiriting and endless. Reflecting the helplessness chilling her heart.
No, it wouldn’t end so easily. Both sides would fight relentlessly on.
And many more would die.