The Bear and the Dragon - Tom Clancy [187]
Thank God, Cathy didnt say aloud, that I dont have to do much of that! For her, a speech was telling a patient how she was going to fix his or her eyes.
"Theres a new Papal Nuncio in Beijing," the producer said.
"Thats an ambassador, like, isnt it?"
The producer nodded. "Pretty much. Italian guy, Cardinal Renato DiMilo. Old guy, dont know anything about him."
"Well, maybe we can drive over and meet the guy," Barry thought as he knotted his tie. "Got an address and phone number?"
"No, but our contact at the American Embassy can get em quick enough."
"Give the guy a call," Wise ordered gently. He and the producer had been together for eleven years, and together theyd dodged bullets and won those Emmys, which wasnt bad for a couple of ex-Marine sergeants.
"Right."
Wise checked his watch. The timing worked just fine. He could get a report at his leisure, upload it on the satellite, and Atlanta could edit it and show it to people for breakfast in America. That would pretty much take care of his day in this heathen country. Damn, why couldnt they do trade conferences in Italy? He remembered Italian food fondly from his time in the Mediterranean Fleet Marine Force. And the Italian women. Theyd like the United States Marine uniform. Well, lots of women did.
One thing neither Cardinal DiMilo nor Monsignor Schepke had learned to like was Chinese breakfast food, which was totally alien from anything Europeans had ever served for the early-morning meal. And so Schepke fixed breakfast every morning before their Chinese staff came in—theyd do the dishes, which was enough for both churchmen. Both had already said their morning mass, which necessitated their rising before six every morning, rather like soldiers did, the elderly Italian had often remarked to himself.
The morning paper was the International Herald Tribune, which was too American-oriented, but the world was an imperfect place. At least the paper showed the football scores, and European football was a sport of interest to both of them, and one which Schepke could still go out and play when the opportunity arose. DiMilo, whod been a pretty good midfielder in his day, had to content himself with watching and kibitzing now.
The CNN crew had their own van, an American make that had been shipped into the PRC ages ago. It had its own miniature satellite transceiver rig, a small technical miracle of sorts that enabled instant contact with any place in the world via orbiting communications satellites. It could do anything but operate when the vehicle was moving, and someone was working on that feature, which would be the next major breakthrough, because then the mobile crews could work with little threat of interference from the goffers in whatever country they happened to be operating.
They also had a satellite-navigation system, which was a genuine miracle that allowed them to navigate anywhere, in any city for which they had a CD-ROM map. With it, they could find any address faster than a local taxi driver. And with a cell phone, they could get the address itself, in this case from the U.S. embassy, which had the street addresses for all foreign legations, of which the Papal Nuncios house was just one more. The cell phone also allowed them to call ahead. The call was answered by a Chinese voice at first, then one that sounded German, of all things, but which said, sure, come on over.
Barry Wise was dressed in his usual coat and tie—his neatness was another leftover from the Marines—and he knocked on the door, finding the expected local—he was tempted to call them "natives," but that was too English, and distantly racist—at the door to conduct them in. The first Westerner they met was clearly not a Cardinal. Too young, too tall, and far too German.
"Hello, I am Monsignor Schepke," the man greeted him.
"Good day, I am Barry Wise of CNN."
"Yes," Schepke acknowledged with a smile. "I have seen you many times on the television. What brings you here?"
"Were here to cover the trade meeting between America and China, but we decided to look