Black Heart, page 34
'Ah yes, we have not yet mastered the speed for which you Westerners are so justifiably famous.' His teeth showed again in what might have been a smile in someone else but in the Monk was nothing more than a kind of primitive animal rictus not unlike the baring of one's teeth. 'I want the world and I want it now!' he mimicked in an astonishingly accurate portrayal of an American accent. He looked to Macomber like a gorilla, dressed up, taken out of its cage. 'I like you Mac-omber.' The Monk ground out the failing butt of his cigarette, called the waiter. 'You are not spineless, a fault I find most prevalent among your race.'
'Is that what you consider our major flaw?" He asked for a Scotch on the rocks and the Chinese ordered Stolichnaya.
The Monk considered this question as if it had been put in a perfectly serious way. 'Ah, Mac-omber, faintheartedness is not the quality displayed by a true man. That is so.'
'Yes,' Macomber said. 'I agree with you.'
'Indeed.' The Monk contemplated him for a time. Then he drew out another of his obnoxious cigarettes, lit up. 'Well, perhaps I should not be surprised. After all' - he shrugged - 'you are here with me now. That takes a certain amount of courage.' He bared his teeth again as the drinks came. They lifted their glasses and toasted something each other, their as yet unconsummated business dealings - in silent communion.
Macomber was surprised at how smooth the liquor was and said so.
'Oh, everything here is imported,' the Monk said. 'Otherwise it would be unpotable.'
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'I cannot,' Macomber said, 'understand why you insisted on the meet here.'
'You mean in the Jin Jiang Club?' The Monk ordered another vodka. 'It is the only public place to be in Shanghai. The only truly civilized place to meet.' He waved a hand. 'There is the Red House, of course - or Chez Louis, as the older foreigners here still refer to it - but in my humble opinion, the food is not nearly so fine as here.'
'Not what I meant.' Macomber sipped at his whisky, watching the Chinese down the potent vodka with appalling swiftness; the Monk lifted a hand, signed for another. 'Why China at all? There were any number of cities to choose from: Hong Kong, Singapore, Bangkok. All places where we could more easily be lost in the woodwork.'
'More neutral territory, hum?' The Monk accepted his fourth vodka; he had been finishing one when Macomber had come in. 'Well, the fact of the matter is, my dear Mac-omber, I was more concerned with you.' He put a hand up to his chubby chin. 'I blend in in any of those cities." He chuckled. 'I've got the face for it, you see.'
'But you you're an American and a well-known American at that. What are you doing in Singapore or Bangkok, hum? In business, so I am given to understand, you deal with the Japanese, primarily. Even Hong Kong is out of the way for you.
'Seen in this light, I found the prospect of the Trilateral Commission's presence here impossible to pass up. In your own country you are publicized as going overseas: your presence here, then, is satisfactorily explained. There is no comment.'
Macomber could find no fault with this analysis. But far from reassuring him, it somehow added to his anxiety. He felt China like the cold fist of an unseen ghost clamping his heart. He thought of how this continent had just swallowed Tisah up as if she had been nothing more than the wrapper off a candy bar; as if she had not been a thinking, feeling human being.
Eerie tendrils seemed to enfold him. He did not understand the Chinese; and he did not like them. They made him feel wary because he could never seem to predict what they were thinking or what they were about to do next. They had alway* been
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Tracy Richter's strong suit. He seemed able to get inside these foreign minds; he could think like them. Where the hell had Richter gone when he had dropped out of sight? Then, nine years later, resurfacing as John Holmgren's media advisor.
Well, it didn't matter a damn. Now he was in it and would have to be dealt with.
He had instructed Khieu to get the bug back without causing any kind of disturbance. After he had heard the tape, he had sat and thought for a time. A frontal assault was out of the question. With Richter, subtlety had to be the watchword. Khieu was to retrieve his bug but not until after Richter had passed it on. He had never liked Richter; had always envied him his skills. All Macomber had been able to do in Cambodia was kill. Richter had done much more.
The Monk ordered the Hawaiian cocktail, the filet mignon Monte Carlo, a small green salad and, for dessert, the omelete Vesuvius. Macomber, inwardly disgusted by such caloric extravagance, selected the potage aux langoustes and the pheasant en casserole.
'No sweet?' The Monk's eyes opened wide in astonishment. 'But you must. The head chef is a refugee from a French cruise liner; you refuse his speciality. The souffle vanilla is superb.'
'I think not,' Macomber said, standing firm. 'I watch my sugar intake carefully.'
A peculiar look crossed the Monk's face as swiftly as a breeze. 'Another round of drinks,' he told the waiter.
Over bitter European coffee, Macomber said, 'About the consignment '
'Business is not a fit subject for the dining table,' the Monk interrupted. 'I make that a strict point.' He smiled winningly. 'Appearances mean everything here.' He looked at Macomber from beneath his wide brow. 'Surely you are not in a rush?' He giggled lightly. The vodka, Macomber could see, was taking effect. 'Not in China.'
Macomber sat back, relaxed at last. Personally, he disliked this man. He was a boor. But he could easily put his personal feelings on the side. Business was business and the Monk was the only man with a reputation spotless enough for Macomber to go to.
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It was not guns his consignment consisted of, not siphoned oil from the Middle East or diamonds smuggled out of South Africa, though he had no doubt that had he a need for any such item, the Monk could supply it within a week's notice No, his consignment was quite a bit more special than that The thought built patience within him like a fortress
At last they were through The Monk leaned back in his plush chair, stretching He belched mightily He noted Macomber's look of obvious distaste
He called for the bill, paid it with his MasterCard When the waiter returned, he had with him a plain brown paper shopping bag The Monk signed the receipt with a flourish, took possession of the bag With one knuckled fist he pushed himself away from the table
'Now,' he said, 'it is time for you to see some of our city '
Though it was after ten when they emerged onto the wide curving steps of the columned entrance, there were still plenty of people about Macomber followed the Monk's lead as they went down the steps and through the jasmine-scented garden Close by, he could see the lights of the Jin Jiang's new buildings, making it the city's largest hotel
They passed a clump of teenagers doing nothing in the semidarkness All talk ceased as they approached
'Do you know the phrase - let me see, how would one put it in English? - ah yes, iron rice bowl7' The shopping bag clacked against the Monk's leg as they walked
Macomber shook his head
'The Government has had a change of heart It now no longer will guarantee a young person a job It is, instead, encouraging free enterprise There are just too many people
They had come out onto Nanjing, one of Shanghai's mam roads Macomber saw poster ads for Sony Walkman cassette players, Pentax 3 5mm cameras A battered trolleybus rattled by, nearly empty inside There were still some pedicabs about
'Private enterprise,' the Monk said, standing still amid all the motion, 'used to be known as "the tail of capitalism" That was merely three years ago, not much time as these things go
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'They have been used to the security of state work, state medical insurance, and, eventually, a state pension. The iron rice bowl. Take these things away; tell them to go to work for themselves. They do not understand.'
He pointed to a vendor. 'Would you like a Rubik's Cube? My treat.' He laughed throatily. 'No?' He shrugged. There are five factories here engaged in making them now. More are sure to start up soon. There are many people in China to feed the craze.'
Macomber was growing impatient. 'Why tell me all this?'
The Monk spread his arms wide, the shopping bag swinging incongruously from one hand. 'All around us there is change. It is in the air, in the food we eat, the liquor we drink.' He turned into the wash of the streetlights, his face looking wider and flatter than it actually was. 'Think of it, Mac-omber, here is yet another potential customer for your wares of war. We are coming of age; we will need the advanced equipment your company designs and manufactures.'
Macomber was taken aback. 'If that's a joke, it's certainly not funny. I sell only to the United States Government and its allies under direct governmental sanction.' He leaned forward, his teeth clenched. 'That excludes all communist countries.'
'Of course,' the Monk said hastily. 'Your politics are well known in our, uhm, community. I was merely making a general point. China is in the midst of vast and constant changes. What is true today, falls apart tomorrow. Policy ebbs and flows, eddies and turns back on itself like a dragon's body. We are like the man long blind who finds himself edging into the light. Gradually he begins to observe what is going on all around him. But what is he to make of it all? One day this, the next day that. In the beginning, his progress is slow and not without mistakes. But he goes forward all the same. Because, once having seen the light, he must.'
'I'm not concerned with China,' Macomber snapped. 'And my time is limited. Business calls me home. May we begin now?'
The Monk inclined his head slightly and stepped off the kerb into the midst of the rushing traffic. Before Macomber could
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react, a beatenup car screeched to a halt The Monk opened the back door, indicated that Macomber should enter
Macomber bent his head and sat down, the Monk followed him, slamming the door behind him He shouted something in incomprehensible Mandarin to the driver who bobbed his head Gears clashed and the cab took off in herky-jerky fashion
'Now,' the Monk said beside him, 'we'll get down to business '
Atherton Gottschalk was ushered into one of the six large conference rooms along the outer perimeter of the Pentagon Awaiting him in that darkly panelled room with its baffled black acoustic ceiling were the assembled Joint Chiefs of the armed forces of the United States Behind them was a now quiescent wall video screen flanked on one side by the Stars and Stripes and on the other by the triple flags of the military services
He took his place behind one angle of the octagonal burlwood table that had been left vacant for him Directly in front of him was a set of pens and a metal carafe filled with ice water, a wide-mouthed plain glass The same, he saw, was true for all the participants present They sat m high-backed swivel chairs covered in black vinyl Chrome ashtrays were set into the right arm of each chair The room was already blue with smoke
Gottschalk turned to his aide, nodded The man began to disperse blue-bmdered folders to each of the men sitting around the octagonal table
'Gentlemen,' Gottschalk began, 'what you see being placed before you now is a blueprint for your future A blueprint for the security and military superiority of the United States of America in the latter half of the 1980*5 and the beginning of the nineties '
He paused here, opening his folder in a silent bid for all of them to do the same 'Now as I am certain all of you are aware, my nomination for my party's candidacy for President is at a serious stage I need additional support, I won't deny that I have not come here to snow you' - Gottschalk smiled almost shyly
- 'but to snowball you '
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r
There was a generous amount of chuckling at his small joke. He looked around the room, from formidable face to formidable face, making eye contact with each in turn, giving them the impression that he was speaking intimately to each one alone, imparting a well-kept secret.
'Now most of you know me well. You know that in the past I have fought tooth and nail for military appropriations of a considerable order, especially during these past four trying years in the face of a truculent and, in my opinion, weak-willed Democratic administration. I have fought an at present losing battle against certain dovecote appointees to the National Security Council.'
He paused again, poured himself a glass of water, took a sip. 'The decided detentenik tilt to the present administration is in all ways alarming. The State Department's strained relations with Israel, an ally who even in the best of times which this certainly is not - is essential to this country's Middle East interests, comes from the mistaken notion that the Saudi princes must be cajoled at all costs.
'But there is another issue that you must face. My Republican competition come August is a man who brings with him all the dangerous baggage of the Republican Establishment detente policies so much in vogue a decade ago. He will weasel diplomatic talks with the Soviets while they cut us down to size in Afghanistan, Poland, and Third World nations I need not itemize here; while their trained minions infiltrate our own bases, murdering such heroes as Lieutenant Colonel DeWitt.'
Applause ringed the room and Gottschalk felt distinctly satisfied. It was a signal that an initial rapport, so vital in this kind of situation, had been secured. He had gained a beachhead; he was no longer the outsider, a poacher on private military territory, a problem every civilian, no matter his politics, faced when entering this sanctum:
'I have seen the monthly intelligence summaries and I, too, am becoming increasingly alarmed at the great strides the Soviet Union in particular has made in its arms development over the past four or five years. The previous Republican administration, as I am certain you are well aware, did its level best to increase
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military expenditure. But they only scratched the surface before opposition from several quarters scuttled their attempts.'
He glanced down for a moment. 'You will see on this first page, the vital statistics for a totally new, computer-controlled helicopter.' There was the rustle of pages being turned. 'It is fully armour-plated, capable of speeds approximately three times what even today's advanced choppers are capable of... either here or in the Soviet Union.
'It is equipped with total "night vision", the operator is computer-assisted, via a revolutionary laser-activated circuit and, best of all, it can carry up to eight cruise missiles. In short, gentlemen, the Vampire is a breakthrough in military technology: it makes us mobile and lethal at the same time.'
The senator took another sip of water. 'The folder before you contains six more militarily advantageous designs to give us the capability edge against our foes. All of them including the Vampire are not only off the drawing board but are fully operational. Yes you heard me correctly; Fully operational.' Gottschalk leaned forward again. 'All that remains is your approval and, of course, the most difficult part, additional appropriations.
'Now, gentlemen, as you can see, all these new weapons systems are the result of one company's efforts: Metronics, Inc. As you may know, the company's founder and president is Delmar Davis Macomber and as you also may know, he and I are not exactly the best of friends.' Chuckles again at the senator's wry smile. He lifted his hands, palms outward. 'Well. All right, I admit, we've had our differences.' His voice was almost boyish; he was confiding secrets again. 'And we continue to have our differences, personally, professionally and, yes, even politically. But' he lifted a forefinger in warning 'in one important matter we do agree. And that is in our belief that the Vampire provides us with an unequalled window of opportunity in determining this country's security from not only worldwide communism but worldwide terrorism.'
Gottschalk was grim again. 'Gentlemen, we have seen all too often in recent years the escalation of incidents of terrorism against the United States of America in Iran, West Germany,
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Egypt, and Peru. And these incidents are increasing as we head into the 1990*5. We have already seen it spread like a plague from the nations of the Third World into Europe. Such allies as West Germany, Italy, France and England have already succumbed.
'And I say to you now, our time is soon coming. We must be prepared for that occurrence and deal with it swiftly, strongly and surely. For, gentlemen, where will we be then, when the land of the free and the home of the brave is held hostage by forces hostile to our way of life?'
Gottschalk had timed it well, had judged his audience perfectly. Applause rang out again, smiles, head noddings and handshakes. Everyone wanted to congratulate him, and pledge his support in the coming convention and beyond into the
election.
Their applause and well wishes echoed in his mind even after he had left them, was safely ensconced in his limousine, being driven back to Alexandria. He turned, stared out of the window. Never had the lights of Washington seemed so clear and crisp to him, never had they seemed so alive and full of promise.
On impulse, he pressed the intercom, told his driver to turn around, take him across the bridge into the city. This was no time for home and Virginia. It was an awesome moment, a quintessentially DC moment.
As they rolled across the Arlington Memorial Bridge, he leaned forward, staring straight ahead at the brilliantly illuminated needle of the Washington Monument just beyond the long reflecting pool. The beams of the spotlights seemed to him ethereal guy wires holding the edifice tall and majestic.
He climbed out of the limo at the Lincoln Memorial, ascending alone up the white marble steps up which so many Americans had come over the years to marvel, just as he was doing now, at the wonder of the lifelike replica of the former
President.
For Gottschalk, it was as if he had been born again, as if this night he was seeing the enormous sculpture of Abraham Lincoln for the first time though in reality he could not count the number of times he had gazed at it.
The greatness of the man seemed to suffuse the night and
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Gottschalk came closer as if in a trance, feeling the power flooding into him. For that blazing instant Lincoln was again alive bestriding the earth with his energy and convictions.
