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Dejiang thinks about that for a moment. He says, “In the usual manner, the Americans would make a large production of arresting our people in their country. Somber men in suits behind microphones. Press releases. Warnings from their elected officials about the new emerging ‘yellow peril.’ Making quiet inquiries through back channels to set up a prisoner exchange. But nothing this time, correct?”
“No, sir.”
Dejiang says, “Unofficially, what do you know?”
Zheng says, “I have an asset at the State Department. The asset has made inquiries. It was not local police, or province or state police, or FBI action. It has something to do with President Barrett.”
Surprised, Dejiang says, “It was done under his orders?”
“With his knowledge, that’s all I can say. But my State Department asset did pass along a message, from someone he’s friends with at the White House.”
Zheng takes a slip of paper from his side coat pocket. It’s white notepaper with the wordsTHE WHITE HOUSEcentered at the top.Before reading the typed note, Dejiang says, “Is this legitimate? Not a fake? Or a provocation?”
His assistant looks troubled. “I don’t know for sure. But based on what we’ve seen from this president during the past months …”
Dejiang knows exactly what Zheng is thinking. The president is what his friends and supporters call a lone wolf, operating the government like it was his personal fiefdom yet maintaining a positive popularity rating among the populace and actually getting some legislation passed among the nation’s squabbling factions. But he is maddeningly inconsistent, loudly making threats and making confidential messages of goodwill at the same time, rocketing from one position or crisis to another.
For millennia the emperors and rulers of the Middle Kingdom have sought stability above everything else, through wars or trade deals or espionage, and this American president refuses to cooperate, or at least maintain a consistent and predictable position to Beijing’s advantage.
He reads the note:
Best regards from John T. Downey and Richard G. Fecteau.
The typed note is unsigned.
He drops it on his desk.
“Who are these two men?” Dejiang asks.
“They are CIA operatives.”
“Where are they?”
“One is retired, the other is deceased, of natural causes,” Zheng says.
Dejiang asks, “What’s the significance of these men?”
“They were prisoners of ours, from many years ago.”
“How many years?”
“They were both captured in 1952 when their aircraft was shot down in Manchuria, as part of a CIA mission.”
“How long were they kept prisoner?”
“For more than twenty years, and for the first few years of their captivity … our government didn’t acknowledge their existence,” Zheng answers.
Dejiang pokes at the notepaper. “Highly irregular, don’t you think? Not a diplomatic note or demand. An … insult of sorts. Sending a message. But what kind of message?”
“Perhaps the president is gaining revenge for onetime members of the CIA, which he used to head. We know he values loyalty above all.”
Dejiang gazes again at the simple paper and simple typeface. Once again, this lone warrior, this solitary tribesman of a president, has done something entirely unexpected, something that will make Dejiang’s life more difficult in the days ahead.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Dejiang says. “Are we still seeking revenge for our half-million soldiers the Americans killed in Korea? No. We have moved on. But Barrett …”
He thinks again, then looks to his assistant.
“We need to come up with some sort of response, but a measured one. Something to gain the president’s attention so we can open some sort of dialogue to determine what he wants.”
