Satori - Don Winslow [28]
As life under capitalism was aggressively gauche, Nicholai thought, life under communism was deliberately drab.
The desk clerk, a young woman clad in the ubiquitous “Lenin suit” — a gray, double-breasted jacket with a sash belt — asked for his passport and was surprised when Nicholai produced it with a greeting in Chinese, “Have you eaten today?”
“I have, Comrade. And you?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Room 502. The porter will—”
“I’ll take my own bag, thank you,” Nicholai said. He reached into his pocket for a yuan note to give the porter, but Chen stopped him.
“Tipping is not permitted in the People’s Republic,” Chen said.
“Of course not,” Nicholai said.
“Patronizing imperialist anachronism,” Chen added.
Quite a burden to carry, Nicholai thought, for a small gratuity.
The elevator ride was frightening, and Nicholai wondered when was the last time that the creaky lift had seen maintenance. But they made it to the fifth floor alive and Chen led him down the long hallway to his room.
The room was basic but clean. A bed, a wardrobe, two chairs, a side table with a radio, and a thermos of hot water for making tea. The attached bathroom had a toilet and a bathtub, but no shower. French doors in the main room opened onto a small balcony, and Nicholai stepped out and looked down on the front of the hotel and East Chang Street. To his right he could see Tiananmen Square.
“These rooms are reserved for very special guests,” Chen said when Nicholai stepped back inside.
I’ll bet they are, Nicholai thought. He would further bet that these rooms were also wired for sound to record every conversation of said special guests. He took off his coat, gestured for Chen to do the same, and hung both coats up in the wardrobe.
“May I offer you tea?” Nicholai asked.
“Very kind.”
Nicholai took two large pinches of green tea from a canister and put them into the pot. Then he poured the hot water in, waited for a few moments, and then poured the tea into two cups. Normally he would not have served tea made in the first steep, but he knew that fuel for heating water was at a premium and that waste would be considered offensive. He handed Chen the tea and both men sat down in the chairs.
After a sufficiently awkward silence, Chen said, “This is very good. Warming. Thank you.”
“I can hardly accept gratitude for your hospitality.”
Chen was disconcerted at the thought that the visitor might be under the misapprehension that the hotel stay was complimentary. He got right to it. “But you are paying for your room.”
“Still,” Nicholai said, remembering now how blunt the Chinese could be about business matters. So unlike the Japanese, who would have engaged in ten minutes of circumlocution to subtly inform the guest that he was, after all, a paying guest.
Chen looked relieved. “There is a dinner tonight in your honor.”
“You needn’t go to the trouble and expense.”
“It is already organized.”
“I look forward to it.”
Chen nodded. “Colonel Yu, aide to General Liu himself, will be your host.”
General Liu Dehuai was a national hero, one of the key generals on the Long March and the founder of the legendary 8th Route Army. Until recently the commander of Chinese forces in Korea, he was now minister of defense. Liu would have to approve the deal for the sale of the weapons through “Guibert” to the Viet Minh. The fact that he was sending an apparently key aide to evaluate Guibert on his very first night in the country was significant.
And uncharacteristic of what Nicholai knew of the Chinese way of doing business. Typically, they would let a foreign guest cool his heels — easy to do in Beijing in January — for days if not weeks, occupying him with low-level subordinates and endless sightseeing, before getting down to business.
Liu was in a hurry to do this deal.
“I’m honored,” Nicholai said.
Chen stood up. “I am sure you are tired and would like to rest.”
Nicholai saw him to the door.
He waited five minutes, then put his