Satori - Don Winslow [37]
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.
25
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