Beijing

With the assistance of a siren and flashing lights, along with a police motorcycle escort, President Zhou’s driver threaded his way through heavy early evening traffic. Zhou in the back seat was headed for his brother’s house to celebrate Dalton’s assassination.

To Zhou’s pleasant surprise, Orlov had done exactly what Zhou had asked. He had called his brother and said, “Chill the champagne. I’m coming over this evening.”

Zhou could’ve asked his brother to come to the Presidential House, but he wanted to be free of Androshka, at least for this evening. He was finding her whining increasingly annoying. What did she think she would find when she moved to China? She should have learned the language. Then she would have friends. She was no longer pleasant to be with.

Truth is, he brought her with him to Beijing for one thing and one thing only: she could make his stalk harden and stand up. But since his return, often she couldn’t do that. On those occasions when he failed, he was convinced it was her fault. She was too miserable to give him pleasure. Well, she had better improve. China was full of young women with talented mouths and fingers who could succeed and would give anything for the opportunity.

Zhou was so disgusted with Androshka, that if it weren’t for her brother, whom Zhou needed for one more mission, Zhou would have Androshka killed. He could never permit her to leave the country. She knew too many of his secrets.

What he would do, he decided, was wait until he was finished with Orlov. Then have her murdered, making it look like an accident.

Euphoric with Dalton’s assassination, Zhou’s brother opened a bottle of Krug the minute Zhou walked into his mansion. As he raised his glass, Zhou Yun said, “Dalton would have crippled our economy with his sanctions. Good riddance to him.”

It had been his brother’s words which had given Zhou the idea of assassinating Dalton. Zhou asked, “Will Treadwell be any better
for us?”

“I’ve attended business conferences at which he spoke. He was a businessman in California before he went into politics. He’s pragmatic and he understands that his country’s economic health depends upon China’s economic vitality. I once heard him say, ‘For better or worse our economies are joined at the hip. If one catches cold, the other will be sick as well.’ He won’t be a pushover on military matters though. As chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, he engaged in aggressive American defense policy vis-à-vis China.”

“Good. I enjoy a challenge,” General Zhou said.

His brother looked alarmed. “For now, we should move slowly to develop a firm and friendly relationship with Treadwell. We must not act precipitously to confront him.”

“Have I ever done that?” Zhou said, and then he laughed. His brother wasn’t laughing.

Zhou couldn’t understand why his brother was so hung up on friendship with Treadwell. He guessed it was because his entire focus was on what was good for business and increased profits. He’d lost sight of the larger objective: Chinese political and military superiority, not just an enhanced GNP.

Zhou had no intention of debating the issue with his brother, who could be unyielding on matters like this. Nor did he have any intention of telling his brother what he planned to do next with Orlov. His brother would never have approved. Well, too bad. He was the President of China. Not his brother.

Once the champagne was finished, President Zhou rode back to Tiananmen Square and his office. He had summoned the twenty members of the Central Committee to a ten o’clock evening meeting.

The subject was the assassination of President Dalton. General Zhou had invited Yin Bao, the Intelligence Minister, who had been appointed by President Li to provide his assessment of Dalton’s assassination and what the elevation of Treadwell to the American presidency would mean for Chinese American relations.

Zhou waited in his office down the corridor from the ornate large conference room used for Central Committee meetings for the others to arrive.

He removed a Cuban cigar from the humidor, lit it, and took a deep puff. Zhou thought about this evening’s meeting and his objective. Zhou had never liked Yin. The man was a lackey for President Li. He never had an independent or creative thought, but merely parroted what staff members told him. Director of Intelligence was too important to be held by someone like that. And besides, Zhou needed total loyalty from the occupant of the position.

In their initial meeting, Yin had told Zhou, “Some physicians have questioned the mysterious circumstances of President Li’s death. Perhaps I should launch a comprehensive investigation.”

Zhou had told Yin to leave it alone, but he was afraid the issue wasn’t closed.

Zhou could have simply replaced Yin, but then, outside of Zhou’s control, Yin might have become a lightning rod for those who wanted to question Li’s death. No, a more radical approach was needed in dealing with Yin.

Zhou had another objective this evening. He was aware that nine members of the Central Committee had preferred Mei Ling to become president. And he knew who they were. He had no chance of winning their unqualified support. That meant they would constantly be searching for a way to depose him as president and bring Mei Ling back unless he could instill sufficient fear within them that they would abandon Mei Ling. This evening, he was launching his campaign of fear.

Captain Cheng came into the office. “They’re all here.”

“All twenty?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Grumbling about a ten o’clock time for the meeting?”

“Yes. As you expected.”

“Too bad. Has Yin arrived?”

“A couple of minutes ago.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

Lit cigar in hand, Zhou strode confidently down the hall. Captain Cheng was two steps behind.

When Li had been president, he had sat along one side of the heavily polished walnut table. Zhou, believing he had to assert his authority, reconstructed the room to place a raised platform at one end with a table and a single chair. Zhou’s position.

While Captain Cheng settled into a seat near the door in the back of the room, Zhou moved to the front, while puffing on his cigar, and climbed the three stairs up to the platform. An armed soldier stood in each corner.

Zhou called on Yin, who was also seated near the door, close to Cheng.

“Tell us about the Dalton assassination,” Zhou demanded.

The Intelligence Minster rose. Briefcase in hand, he approached the table, pulled out some papers, and sat down. He glanced at Zhou and began speaking. “Dalton’s assassination…”

“Stand when you speak to me and look directly at me,” Zhou commanded.

Yin stood and started again, “Dalton’s assassination represents one more example of the continuing war which Muslim fundamentalists, Al Qaeda, and Jihadists are waging against the United States. It follows the model of their 9/11 attacks as being completely unanticipated by the Americans. There will be others. The question for us is how…”

The fool had no idea what he was talking about. He had fallen into Zhou’s trap. Zhou interrupted and said, “Exactly what evidence do you have to support your conclusion that Jihadists were responsible for the assassination?”

With confidence, Yin replied. “I’ve learned from intelligence assets in the United States that a Pakistani was the shooter. A Koran was found close to his dead body. He took his own life.”

“So what?” Zhou snapped. “Anybody could have hired a Pakistani and put a Koran there. I have good relations with top people in the Pakistan military. So do many others. Any of us could have been responsible. I can’t have an Intelligence Minister who leaps to unjustified conclusions. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Yin said meekly.

“You’re an incompetent fool,” Zhou shouted, “reaching totally unsupported conclusions and wasting our time with them. I have no idea why President Li appointed you to this important position. I want you to apologize now to me and the members of the Committee for your incompetence.”

For a few seconds, Yin was too stunned to respond. Then, red-faced, he stammered, “I apologize for my incompetence.”

“Louder,” Zhou ordered.

“I apologize for my incompetence,” Yin shouted out, his face a picture of humiliation.

“I have no intention of retaining you in this important job.”

Zhou signaled to Captain Cheng. “Arrest Yin. I want him taken to a prison and interrogated. His report may not have been the result of incompetence. He may be an American agent.”

Following the script Zhou had prepared, Cheng motioned to two of the soldiers. They closed in on Yin, roughly grabbed him, and dragged him out of the room.

“Let me make one other point,” Zhou said to the startled members of the Central Committee. “In the United States, the transition from Dalton to Treadwell will be difficult and awkward. This will be a perfect time for China to gain an edge on the American military.”

“What do you intend to do?” one of the members asked.

“I’m considering a number of possibilities. You can be sure I’ll come back to you before I take any action.”

Zhou had no intention of doing that. And he was certain nobody in the room thought he would.