Don Winslow - Satori

Voroshenin tore his eyes off the woman and said, “Actually, I came on business.”

Kang smiled. You came on the pretext of business, he thought, but very well. We shall humor your self-delusion.

“The Vixen Yips an Opera,” he said to his assistant, naming a relatively mild yet exquisite torture that he knew Voroshenin would find compelling, both from his taste for pain and his passion for Beijing opera.

“Manban,” he added, meaning that he wanted the beating conducted at a slow tempo. Kang knew that Voroshenin would appreciate it. “We can go to my study.”

Voroshenin followed him into an adjoining room, where he noticed that Kang left the door ajar.

“You mentioned something about business,” Kang said, enjoying the Russian’s discomfiture.

“This Frenchman who arrived today,” Voroshenin said. Of course Kang would already know about him. Nothing of note occurred in Beijing without its being reported to the head of the Chinese secret police.

Voroshenin heard the high-pitched yelp, which did indeed sound like a vixen yipping for her mate.

Kang smiled in acknowledgment, then said, “Guibert?”

“I believe that’s his name.”

“And what of him?”

“What’s he doing here?” Voroshenin asked.

“Something to do with arms to our revolutionary little brothers in Vietnam,” Kang answered.

“Guns to the Viet Minh?”

“Apparently.”

“He’s French,” Voroshenin said, “and he’s selling weapons to be used against his own people?”

“Since when do gunrunners know nationality?” Kang asked. “Or capitalists morality?”

The woman’s cry was perfectly in tune with the overall composition.

Voroshenin objected, “Vietnam is in the Soviet sphere.”

“A glance at the globe would indicate differently.”

“You’ve never given a damn about Vietnamese independence,” Voroshenin grumbled, listening to the woman’s moans.

Kang heard them too. The whimpers were now an underlying theme. “I am offended. We care deeply about the plight of all peoples suffering under the imperialist lash.”

“This is Liu’s operation?”

“It would seem so.”

“And you trust him?”

“I trust no one.”

It was an open secret among the higher echelons of the intelligence communities that Liu loathed Mao and was always searching for an opportunity to displace him. It was only the general’s personal power and popularity among the army that kept him alive and out of this very cave.

As much as Voroshenin shared Liu’s distaste for the Chairman, Liu’s success would be a disaster for the Kremlin. They already had their man waiting in Manchuria. A complete puppet, unlike Liu, who would be independent and might very well edge China toward an alliance with the West.

It couldn’t be allowed.

The woman hit a high note of crystalline purity.

Voroshenin stood up. “I should be going.”

Ten years, Kang thought. It was absolutely essential to preserve the Soviet alliance for ten more years. The ultra-secret military-industrial development was already under way in the southwest and would be completed in a decade. And by that time, China would have the atomic bomb, would be an economic powerhouse as well, and they would have completed the transformation of the society. Then there would be a reckoning with the condescending, patriarchal, neo-imperialist Soviets.

But they would need ten more years of Russian economic aid and military protection to realize their plans, and nothing must be allowed to interfere with that. So he stood up, took Voroshenin by the elbow, ushered him back into the torture room, and asked, “Do you want her?”

The Russian didn’t answer, and Kang took his silence as assent. He walked over to the woman and asked, “Do you want to save your husband?”

“Yes.”

“There is something you can do.”

“Anything.”

Kang drew Voroshenin aside.

“Take her,” he said. “Any way you want. My gift to you. But for added pleasure? When you are about to climax, whisper into her ear the truth that her husband is already dead. It will be exquisite, I promise you.”

He left Voroshenin alone with the woman, but lingered outside the cave to savor the subtle change in the tone of her screams, what in the opera they would call wawa diao, an aria of highest emotion.

THE FOOD WAS EXQUISITE.

A native of Shanghai, Nicholai was something of a snob when it came to the superiority of southern cuisine over its northern – somewhat barbarian – counterpart, but he had to admit that these Mandarin dishes were as superb as they were surprising.

“ Yushangfang ,” Colonel Yu explained when Nicholai praised the food. “ ‘The Emperor’s Kitchen.’ It makes sense when you think about it – the emperor could command the best chefs in all of China. They all came here to cook, and their legacy lingers.”

Indeed, Nicholai thought.

The banquet started with hot-and-sour soup, then proceeded with spareribs in sweetened Chinkiang vinegar and zha xiao wan zi, small fried meatballs made with prime ground pork, and, of course, jiaozi , the distinctive Beijing dumplings. Yu had sat Nicholai directly to his left at the circular table, a place of honor, and personally used his chopsticks to select the best pieces and place them on Nicholai’s plate.

Another high honor.

Now the colonel perused the platter of cold pig’s ear, chose one, and put it on Nicholai’s plate. Then he took one for himself, tasted it, and nodded in approval. “I’m a southerner,” he said to Nicholai, “a Sichuan mountain ape, and it took me some time to get used to this northern food. But it’s all right, huh?”

“It’s very good,” Nicholai answered. And Yu was anything but simian. Surprisingly young for a man who was General Liu’s right hand, he was hardly a country bumpkin but a sharp, sophisticated staff officer. He was dressed tonight in civilian garb, his Mao jacket pressed, the corners of the large pockets sharply creased. His full black hair was cut short in the current style.

“Of course I miss my rice,” Yu said to the table at large. “All these noodles you eat…”

The other diners responded with the expected polite laughter.

Voroshenin said, “Surely, Colonel, a man of your position could have pearl rice brought up from the south.”

Nicholai was impressed with Voroshenin’s fluent Mandarin, and took further note of his tone of easy familiarity with the colonel. Perhaps it was the three mao-tais the man had consumed during the round of toasts that preceded dinner. Nicholai had politely downed three rounds as well, and had to admit that he was feeling them.

“But I am not an emperor,” Yu said pleasantly, although everyone at the table heard the subtle reference to Mao, who had the best rice brought into the city and hand-peeled to leave the husks on.

Nicholai found the remark significant – it indicated that Yu felt secure enough in his position to make a jibe at the Chairman.

Voroshenin leaned across the table and speared a pig’s foot. He used the moment to ask Nicholai, “Is this your first time in Beijing?”

“It is.”

“First time in China?”

“Not really,” Nicholai answered. “I was partially raised in Hong Kong.”

“That’s part of Great Britain, isn’t it?” Voroshenin asked. It was rude, a sly dig at his Chinese hosts.

“So think the British,” Nicholai answered. “But in reality Hong Kong is no more British than, say, Mongolia is Russian.”

Yu guffawed.

“No offense,” Nicholai said, looking directly at Voroshenin.

“None taken,” Voroshenin replied, although both men knew that offense had been intended and received. He kept his eyes locked on Nicholai’s.