Olen Steinhauer - An American spy

“More, I’d guess. I’m not sure I want them looking at all that.”

“Okay,” he said, “but I’ll bring it along in case you change your mind.”

It was a fair enough proposition, and Zhu accepted it. “Where do we face our doom?”

The Beijing Hall was not far away, down a long corridor past bas-reliefs of glorious times that were either historical moments Zhu had never witnessed or hopes for the future. A guard stood outside the room itself but didn’t check their papers, and inside they found fourteen low upholstered chairs arranged in a half oval, so that one side could face the other. Behind them were eight more wooden chairs, arranged in parentheses. Thick carpet covered the floor, pushed this way and that by the morning’s vacuum cleaner, and though the walls had been meticulously cleaned, the green paint was fading in spots. Someone would be in trouble for that.

Sun Bingjun was already seated in a chair on the left side, which was a surprise. A known drunk, the frail, thin old man was usually late to meetings, if he attended at all. Zhu approached, and they shook hands. “How was Shanghai?” Sun Bingjun asked, red-faced and baffled-looking.

“I can’t keep anything a secret, can I?”

Sun Bingjun smiled. Looking at him, it was easy to forget he was a lieutenant general, a decorated veteran of Vietnam, and a Hero of the Cultural Revolution. Years and vice had undermined him, but his illustrious history, as well as a brief but successful tenure as the minister of state security, protected him and his current position in the Politburo from most attacks.

“Shanghai was a place to clear my head.”

“That should be useful today.”

“Absolutely.”

Zhu bowed his head and retreated to the right side, settling in the center seat. Shen An-ling took a wooden chair behind him and began rummaging through his bag.

The Supervision and Liaison Committee had been formed in 1992 as an offshoot of the Central Committee’s Political and Legislative Affairs Committee, whose six members had felt overburdened by the scope of overseeing the entire spectrum of Chinese law enforcement. So they created a separate committee, with a membership of twenty-six, to deal primarily with interministry conflicts, which had ballooned during the nineties. This year’s secretary was a Central Committee hotshot named Yang Xiaoming, from Sichuan, who was usually more interested in his oil concerns than in attending committee meetings. It was his deputy secretary from the Ministry of Public Security, Wu Liang, who shouldered most of his responsibilities. Though he had been invited many times to face the committee’s questions, Xin Zhu had never been invited to become a member.

Yang Qing-Nian, the youngest of this committee’s members, strolled in with tall, white-haired Wu Liang, who was the same age as Xin Zhu. Both came over and offered hands, and Zhu was surprised to find no hint of gloating in Wu Liang’s behavior. Wu Liang had worked hard to set up this morning’s meeting and keep its agenda secret, but by his demeanor, it could have been a gathering to discuss traffic lamps in Lhasa.

“How is Sung Hui?” Wu Liang asked.

“She’s very fine.”

“I’m glad to hear that. A lovely woman.”

“And Chu Liawa?”

Wu Liang’s wife was older than both of them, a storybook rearguard tigress, or so the rumors suggested. She had pushed her husband up through the ranks, angling him against foes in Yunnan, then in Nanning, and finally in Beijing, where over the last decade he had risen to the top of the food chain while insufferable absolutists like Xin Zhu remained in their dusty outlying offices, collecting intelligence but little else. “Very healthy,” Wu Liang said finally, and from his lips, it sounded like a threat. Yang Qing-Nian said nothing; he didn’t have to. His face took care of the gloating his sage was too cultured to show.

Feng Yi came in next, shaking hands with everyone, beginning with Wu Liang and ending with Xin Zhu, following the correct sequence from political superior to inferior. Unlike the others, he was purely political, having gained entrance into the Central Committee by flattery and knowing how to keep his mouth shut, avoiding committed opinions at all costs. Recently, he’d been handed a ranking position in the Guoanbu’s Second Bureau, but he still remained the most reserved during discussions of any importance.

Zhang Guo, on the other hand, shook hands with no one. He came in clutching a file to his chest, like a schoolgirl, settled into a free chair, and started unpacking his cigarettes. He looked more tired than the others, or perhaps it was anxiety. When the waiter came around, delivering tea, Zhang Guo’s cup shivered to his lips. His eyes were bloodshot, unlike when they’d met on Friday, and Zhu decided that it had nothing to do with what was occurring at this moment; Zhang Guo was learning how a young mistress, particularly the well-known Chi Shanshan, could wear out a man of his age. He was, Zhu suspected, entertaining second thoughts.

For whatever reason, Wu Liang had not asked them to meet in their usual building, but had reserved this spare Central Committee space, and as the meeting was informal only these five members of the committee arrived. Zhu had no idea how many had been invited, but he doubted that Yang Xiaoming, the committee’s absent head, even knew it was occurring. If he’d been informed, though, the disasters in Sichuan, his old stomping grounds, would have kept him far away.

Once the waiters had left and the guard closed the doors, Wu Liang stood wearily and placed a digital audio recorder in the center of the floor, equidistant from all the participants. “Just in case,” he said to everyone as he returned to his chair.

“In case of what?” asked Zhu.

“In case of disputes later on,” Wu Liang informed him. “None of us are young men-except, perhaps, Yang Qing-Nian,” he said with a smile. “I’d hate to run a security apparatus based on our memories.”

“Perfect reasoning,” Zhu admitted. “And I’d like to thank the committee for inviting me here this morning. I consider it an honor.”

“Bullshit,” said Yang Qing-Nian. “I suggest we skip the formalities. Can we agree to that?”

“Yang Qing-Nian speaks with the voice of youth,” Wu Liang said with a calmness that proved they’d planned that outburst. “I’m agreeable to dispensing with formalities, as this meeting is intended to be unofficial… exploratory in nature. However, I do not want to steer this particular boat. Are there opinions?”

“Were the better rooms occupied?” That was Sun Bingjun, chewing at the corner of his mouth.

Wu Liang blinked at him. “Yes, Comrade Lieutenant General. It’s a busy time, and my request was last-minute.”

Sun Bingjun set down his teacup and nodded; Feng Yi said, “Dispensing with formalities is all right with me.” Zhang Guo lowered his head in agreement.

Looking across the room with raised brows, Wu Liang said, “Xin Zhu?”

Zhu said, “I always agree with the masses. Please.” Behind him, he heard Shen An-ling cough his amusement.

Wu Liang removed a sheet of paper from an open briefcase propped against his chair. “It is May 19, 2008, and…” He checked his watch. “Nine fourteen in the morning.” He listed the attendees, then said, “Before we start, I would like to remind everyone that, at 2:28 P. M., there begins a three-minute moment of silence for the victims of the Sichuan Wenchuan earthquake.”

There was no need for Wu Liang to remind anyone of this, but with a recording device nearby, he couldn’t help himself. Feng Yi said, “Perhaps we could offer ten seconds of silence right now?”

Zhu looked at him, then at the others. He caught Sun Bingjun rolling his eyes.