Jack Ryan 11 - Bear And The Dragon (36 page)

“Yeah, might be fun to see him have a cow right here in the Oval Office. This tape isn't classified, is it?”

“Yes, it is, but only 'confidential.'”

“Okay, I want to show this one to Cathy tonight.” That level of classification wouldn't faze anybody, not even a major city newspaper.

“You want one with subtitles or a voice-over translation?”

“We both hate subtitles,” Jack informed his aide, with a look.

“I'll have Langley get it done for you, then,” Goodley promised.

“She'll flip out when she sees that pelt.” With the money from his investment portfolio, Ryan had become a connoisseur of fine jewelry and furs. For the former, he had an arrangement with Blickman's, a very special firm in Rockefeller Center. Two weeks before the previous Christmas, one of their salespeople had come by train to Washington, accompanied by two armed guards, who hadn't been allowed into the White House proper -- the outside guards had gone slightly nuts on learning that armed men were on campus, but Andrea Price-O'Day had smoothed that over -- and shown the President about five million dollars' worth of estate jewelry, and some pieces newly made just across the street from their office, some of which Ryan had purchased. His reward had been to see Cathy's eyes pop nearly out of her head under the Christmas tree, and lament the fact that all she'd gotten him was a nice set of Taylor golf clubs. But that was fine with SWORDSMAN. To see his wife smile on Christmas morning was as fine a prize as he expected in life. Besides, it was proof that he had taste in jewelry, one of the better things for a man to have -- at least in his woman's eyes. But damn, if he could have gotten her one of those wolf-fur coats...could he cut a deal with Sergey Golovko? Jack wondered briefly. But where the hell could you wear such a thing? He had to be practical.

“Would look nice in the closet,” Goodley agreed, seeing the distant look in his boss's eyes.

Color would go so nice with her butter-blond hair Ryan mused on for a few more seconds, then shook his head to dismiss the thought.

“What else today?”

“SORGE has developed new information. It's being couriered down even as we speak.”

“Important?”

“Mrs. Foley didn't say so, but you know how it works.”

“Oh, yeah, even the minor stuff fits together into a real pretty picture when you need it.” The major download still sat in his private safe. The sad truth was that while he did, technically, have the time to read it, that would have entailed taking time away from his family, and it would have had to have been really important for the President to do that.

“So, what will the Americans do?” Fang asked Zhang.

“On the trade issue? They will, finally, bow to the inevitable, and grant us most-favored-nation status and remove their objection to our full entry into the World Trade Organization,” the minister replied.

“None too soon,” Fang Gan observed.

“That is true,” Zhang Han San agreed. The financial conditions in the PRC had been well concealed to this point, which was one advantage of the communist form of government, both ministers would have agreed, if they had ever considered another form of government. The cold truth of the matter was that the PRC was nearly out of foreign exchange, having spent it mainly on armaments and arms-related technology all over the world. Only incidental goods had come from America -- mainly computer chips, which could be used in nearly any sort of mechanical contrivance. The overtly military material they'd purchased came most often from Western Europe, and sometimes from Israel. America sold what arms it released to this part of the world to the renegades on Taiwan, who paid cash, of course. That was like a mosquito bite to the mainland regime, not large, not life-threatening, but an annoyance that they continuously scratched at, in the process making it worse instead of better. There were over a billion -- a thousand million -- people in mainland China, and less than thirty million on the island across the strait. The misnamed Republic of China used its people well, producing more than a quarter of the goods and services the PRC turned out in a given year with forty times as many workers and peasants. However, while the mainland coveted the goods and services and the riches that resulted, they did not covet the political and economic system that made it possible. Their system was far superior, of course, because theirs was the better ideology. Mao himself had said so.

Neither of these two Politburo members, nor any of the others, reflected much on the objective realities at hand. They were as certain in their beliefs as any Western clergyman was in his. They even ignored the self-evident fact that what prosperity the People's Republic possessed came from capitalist enterprise allowed by previous rulers, often over the screams and howls of other ministerial-rank politicians. The latter contented themselves by denying political influence to the people who were enriching their country, confident that this situation would go on forever, and that those businessmen and industrialists would be satisfied to make their money and live in relative luxury while they, the political theorists, continued to manage the nation's affairs. After all, the weapons and the soldiers belonged to them, didn't-they? And power still grew out of the barrel of a gun.

“You are certain of this?” Fang Gan asked.

“Yes, Comrade, I am quite certain. We have been 'good' for the Yankees, haven't we? We have not rattled our saber at the Taiwanese bandits lately, have we?”

“What of American trade complaints?”

“Do they not understand business?” Zhang asked grandly. “We sell goods to them because of their quality and price. We shop the same way. Yes, I admit, their Boeing airplane company makes fine airplanes, but so does Airbus in Europe, and the Europeans have been more...accommodating to us politically. America rants on about opening our markets to their goods, and we do this -- slowly, of course. We need to keep the surplus they so kindly give us, and spend it on items of importance to us. Next, we will expand our automobile production and enter their auto market, as the Japanese once did. In five years, Fang, we will be taking another ten billion dollars from America annually -- and that, my friend, is a very conservative estimate.”

“You think so?”

An emphatic nod. “Yes! We will not make the mistake the Japanese made early on, selling ugly little cars. We are already looking for American styling engineers who will help us design automobiles which are aesthetically pleasing to the white devils.”

“If you say so.”

“When we have the money we need to build up our military, we will be the world's leading power in every respect. Industrially, we will lead the world. Militarily, we are at the center of the world.”

“I fear these plans are too ambitious,” Fang said cautiously. “They will take more years than we have to implement in any case, but what legacy will we leave to our country if we point her on a erroneous path?”

“What error is this, Fang?” Zhang asked. “Do you doubt our ideas?”

Always that question, Fang thought with an inward sigh. “I remember when Deng said, 'It doesn't matter if the cat is black or white, so long as it catches mice.' To which Mao responded with a livid snarl: 'What emperor said that?'”

“But it does matter, my old friend, and well you know it.”

“That is true,” Fang agreed with a submissive nod, not wanting a confrontation this late in the day, not when he had a headache. Age had made Zhang even more ideologically pure than he'd been in his youth, and it hadn't tempered his imperial ambition. Fang sighed once more. He was of a mind to set the issue aside. It wasn't worth the trouble. Though he'd mention it just once more, to cover his political backside.

“What if they don't?” Fang asked finally.

“What?”

“What if they don't go along? What if the Americans are troublesome on the trade issue?”

“They will not be,” Zhang assured his old friend.

“But if they are, Comrade, what then will we do? What are our options?”

“Oh, I suppose we could punish with one hand and encourage with the other, cancel some purchases from America and then inquire about making some other ones. It's worked before many times,” Zhang assured his guest. “This President Ryan is predictable. We need merely control the news. We will give him nothing to use against us.”

Fang and Zhang continued their discussion into other issues, until the latter returned to his office, where, again, he dictated his notes of the discussion to Ming, who then typed them into her computer. The minister considered inviting her to his apartment, but decided against it. Though she'd become somewhat more attractive in the preceding weeks, catching his eye with her gentle smiles in the outer office, it had been a long day for him, and he was too tired for it, enjoyable though it often was with Ming. Minister Fang had no idea that his dictation would be in Washington, D.C., in less than three hours.

“What do you think, George?”

“Jack,” TRADER began, “what the hell is this, and how the hell did we get it?”

“George, this is an internal memorandum -- well, of sorts -- from the government of the People's Republic of China. How we got it, you do not, repeat, not need to know.”

The document had been laundered -- scrubbed -- better than Mafia income. All the surnames had been changed, as had the syntax and adjectives, to disguise patterns of speech. It was thought -- hoped would be a better term -- that even those whose discourse was being reported would not have recognized their own words. But the content had been protected -- even improved, in fact, since the nuances of Mandarin had been fully translated in to American English idiom. That had been the hardest part. Languages do not really translate into one another easily or well. The denotations of words were one thing. The connotations were another, and these never really paralleled from one tongue to another. The linguists employed by the intelligence services were among the best in the country, people who regularly read poetry, and sometimes published journal pieces, under their own names, so that they could communicate their expertise in -- and indeed, love of -- their chosen foreign language with others of a similar mind. What resulted were pretty good translations, Ryan thought, but he was always a little wary of them.

“These cocksuckers! They're talking about how they plan to fuck us over.” For all his money, George Winston retained the patois of his working-class origins.

“George, it's business, not personal,” the President tried as a tension-release gambit.

The Secretary of the Treasury looked up from the briefing document. “Jack, when I ran Columbus Group, I had to regard all of my investors as my family, okay? Their money had to be as important to me as my money. That was my professional obligation as an investment counselor.”

Jack nodded. “Okay, George. That's why I asked you into the cabinet. You're honest.”

“Okay, but now, I'm Sec-fucking-Treas, okay? That means that every citizen in our country is part of my family, and these Chink bastards are planning to fuck with my country -- all those people out there” -- Secretary Winston waved toward the thick windows of the Oval Office -- “the ones who trust us to keep the economy leveled out. So, they want MFN, do they? They want into the WTO, do they? Well, fuck them!”

President Ryan allowed himself an early-morning laugh, wondering if the Secret Service detail had heard George's voice, and might now be looking through the spy holes in the door to see what the commotion was. “Coffee and croissants, George. The grape jelly is Smuckers, even.”

TRADER stood and walked around the couch, tossing his head forcefully like a stallion circling a mare in heat. “Okay, Jack, I'll cool down, but you're used to this shit, and I'm not.” He paused and sat back down. “Oh, okay, up on The Street we trade jokes and stories, and we even plot a little bit, but deliberately fucking people over -- no! I've never done that! And you know what's worst?”

“What's that, George?”

“They're stupid, Jack. They think they can mess with the marketplace according to their little political theories, and it'll fall into line like a bunch of soldiers right out of boot camp. These little bastards couldn't run a Kmart and show a profit, but they let them dick around with a whole national economy -- and then they want to dick with ours, too.”

“Got it all out of your system?”

“Think this is funny?” Winston asked crossly.

“George, I've never seen you get this worked up. I'm surprised by your passion.”

“Who do you think I am, Jay Gould?”

“No,” Ryan said judiciously. “I was thinking more of J. P. Morgan.” The remark had the desired effect. SecTreas laughed.

“Okay, you got me there. Morgan was the first actual Chairman of the Fed, and he did it as a private citizen, and did it pretty well, but that's probably an institutional function, 'cuz there ain't that many J. P. Morgans waiting around on deck. Okay, Mr. President, sir, I am calmed down. Yes, this is business, not personal. And our reply to this miserable business attitude will be business, too. The PRC will not get MFN. They will not get into the WTO -- as a practical matter, they don't deserve it yet anyway, based on the size of their economy. And, I think we rattle the Trade Reform Act at them nice and hard. Oh, there's one other thing, and I'm surprised it's not in here,” Winston said, pointing down at the briefing sheet.

“What's that?”

“We can get 'em by the short hairs pretty easy, I think. CIA doesn't agree, but Mark Gant thinks their foreign exchange account's a little thin.”

“Oh?” the President asked, stirring his coffee.

Winston nodded emphatically. “Mark's my tech-weenie, remember. He's very good at modeling stuff on the computers. I've set him up with his own little section to keep an eye on various things. Pulled the professor of economics out of Boston University to work there, Morton Silber, another good man with the microchips. Anyway, Mark's been looking at the PRC, and he thinks they're driving off the edge of the Grand Canyon because they've been pissing away their money, mainly on military hardware and heavy-manufacturing equipment, like to make tanks and things. It's a repeat of the old communist stuff, they have a fixation on heavy industry. They are really missing the boat on electronics. They have little companies manufacturing computer games and stuff, but they're not applying it at home, except for that new computer factory they set up that's ripping off Dell.”