Satori - Don Winslow [38]
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.
The other diners noticed the very Western, very un-Chinese, directness of this standoff, and Chen, seated to Nicholai’s left, was relieved when the waiters broke the tension by arriving with a platter of fried pig’s livers wrapped in iris blossoms.
But Voroshenin would not let it go. “The French have some colonies in Asia, I’m given to understand.”
Nicholai agreed. “French Indochina, to be precise.”
“Well, precision is important.”
“Precisely.”
“Although,” Voroshenin said, testing the waters, “I don’t know how much longer the French can hold on to, say, Vietnam. Ho Chi Minh is kicking the traces, isn’t he?”
“It’s a matter of time,” Yu said.
“And arms,” Voroshenin opined. “Wouldn’t you say, as a military man, that the Viet Minh insurgency can’t progress to the next phase of the struggle without a reliable supply of modern weaponry? I mean, they really can’t stand up to French firepower with what they have now, especially with the Americans arming the French.”
“To succeed,” Yu answered as he looked over the platter, “every insurgency must make the transition from guerrilla to conventional warfare. Our beloved Chairman taught us that.”
He pinched a piece of the liver and transferred it to Nicholai’s plate.
“But,” Voroshenin pressed, “it can’t be done without guns.”
“No,” Yu said simply. “It can’t.”
“And what brings you to Beijing?” Voroshenin asked Nicholai, supposedly switching subjects but fully aware of what he was doing.
“Business,” Nicholai answered.
“Agricultural equipment?” Voroshenin asked with faux innocence. “Irrigation systems, that sort of thing? In the face of the American embargo? Good for you, Comrade. But, damn, you look familiar, Michel. Something in the eyes. Have you ever been to Russia?”
Nicholai saw the man’s eyes scanning for a reaction. He knew that he was being baited, knew that Voroshenin was trying to assess him. But why? Nicholai wondered. Could he have an inkling, could there have been a leak? Could Voroshenin know the real reason for my being in Beijing?
“No,” Nicholai answered. “Have you ever been to Montpellier?”
“The one in France?”
“That’s the one.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t there,” Voroshenin answered. He rudely stared at Nicholai for another moment, then said, “No offense, but I once knew a woman, in Leningrad, with eyes like yours. She … well, we’re all comrades here, right? Friends?”
He was met with silence, Nicholai noted, but despite the well-known Chinese reticence about public discussions of sexuality, Voroshenin continued. “She was a tiger in the sheets. I had her every which way, if you know what I mean.”
The slight laughter was forced, the moment horribly awkward. Voroshenin must be very confident in his power, Nicholai thought, to so brazenly offend his hosts’ sensibilities. Certainly he knew better — he just didn’t seem to care, as evidenced by the self-satisfied leer that lingered on his face.
And his vulgar reference to my mother? Nicholai wondered. A shot in the dark, or does he know? And is testing me?
A part of Nicholai wanted to do it now. It would be easy, a simple matter of thrusting a chopstick through his eye and into his brain. Done in a flash, before Voroshenin’s thugs, lurking like dogs along the wall, could do anything but confirm their boss’s death.
But that would be suicide.
So he met Voroshenin’s gaze, smiled, and asked, “Can you keep a