Satori - Don Winslow [34]
“A French national. The son of an arms dealer with ties to the French Communist Party. The father was apparently quite useful to the Resistance.”
“Weren’t they all, after the fact?” Voroshenin said. “That was a rhetorical question, Leotov, it doesn’t call for you to come up with a correct response. I couldn’t bear watching you attempt it. What’s this Guibert doing in Beijing?”
“We don’t exactly know,” Leotov answered. “But we do know he’s having dinner with General Liu’s aide, a certain Colonel Yu, tonight.”
Well, that’s interesting, Voroshenin thought. A French fellow-traveler, an arms dealer, being received by a high-ranking officer in the Defense Ministry. Surely the Chinese aren’t looking to buy weapons from the French. But it must be a matter of some urgency, otherwise the Chinese would make this Guibert sit on his hands for weeks, just to improve their bargaining position. They would make him work his way up through multiple levels of bureaucracy before getting to an important general like Liu, if he ever got there at all. So, for a high-level officer like Yu to host Guibert on the first day …
“Where is this dinner?” Voroshenin asked.
“In the banquet room of the Beijing Hotel.”
“A banquet, is it?”
“Apparently.”
Voroshenin stared at him. “Do I detect irony, Vasili?”
“Certainly not.”
Voroshenin frowned until little dots of sweat emerged on Leotov’s upper lip. Satisfied, he said, “Get on the phone to Liu’s secretary and tell him that my invitation was apparently lost and I need to know what time I should show up.”
“Do you think he will —”
“We pay him enough, don’t we?” Voroshenin snapped. “He can come up with an invitation to a lousy dinner. Just tell him to strangle another chicken or press another duck, or whatever the hell it is these people do.”
“Yes, Comrade.”
“Oh, stop it. Get out, Vasili. Go see if the phones are working.” He watched as Leotov jumped up, crossed the room, then slowly closed the door so as to make the least possible noise and not give offense. It was profoundly aggravating.
As was the sudden appearance of a new player, this Guibert. The game was at a critical juncture — the move of a knight or even a pawn would achieve checkmate — and what a pleasure it would be to take this particular king off the board.
He’d had to deal with the obnoxious Chairman for twenty years — tolerate his boundless ego, his sexual voracity, his hypochondria and hypocrisy, his endless treachery and relentless ambition, but soon he would able to view Mao’s severed head in a bamboo cage hanging from the Gate of Heaven.
They’d already chosen his successor — Gao Gang was the Chinese party boss in Manchuria, and he was ready to step in. Just waiting for the word to be delivered via Voroshenin from the puppet-masters in Moscow.
If all goes as planned over the next few months, we will replace the troublesome Mao with the pliable Gao.
So this was not the time for an additional complication, especially one involving Liu. The general was too smart, too tough, and his own man. He’d already rebuffed numerous offers to buy him. And now what’s he up to with this gunrunning Frog?
Voroshenin opened his desk drawer and took out the vodka bottle. He’d promised himself that he would only take one drink in the afternoon, but Beijing was really getting to him and the alcohol might quell his sexual frustrations. Perhaps they would have actresses at the banquet tonight, maybe even whores.
As if there’s a difference.
As if there’s a chance, he admitted.
He knocked back the drink in one throw, looked at his watch, and decided that there was time to go and visit Kang Sheng, the head of the Chinese secret police. Another broken promise, he thought sadly. The better part of him didn’t want to go see the man, despised himself for it, and yet he was drawn.
22
KANG SHENG DRESSED all in black.
At this moment, the head of the Chinese secret police wore a black lounging robe and black pajama pants over black slippers, but he was known to go about in public in black padded coats, black suits, and black