The Mandarin Club (46 page)

“I tried to believe. At first, it was not so hard to respect my leaders.”

“Hey, we all respect China, your history, your future.”

“It was not so hard at first because your government was so arrogant—all those belligerent fantasies about Star Wars machines, all those inflated fears about the Sandinistas invading Texas, your obsession with pathetic little Fidel Castro.”

“C’mon, Lee. Let’s not open old arguments.”

“Your government had no appreciation for the history of other cultures, none of that ‘decent respect for the opinion of mankind’ that your founding fathers had promised. It was easy for me to disrespect America. Then, when the Soviet empire collapsed, you thought you could rule the world on your own. I made a career of explaining America to my people.”

“You seemed settled in once upon a time,” Mickey said, determined to change the subject.

“Yes. I married. But things didn’t work out. I was lonely. I divorced. I missed my American days, and the freedom I felt with all of you. Then I allowed myself to dream. All those intoxicating ideas I had been exposed to. Thoreau. Jefferson. My ability to conform was undermined by my search for a more enduring truth. I grew to hate bureaucrats.”

“They are just careerists,” Mickey said as they sat on the log bench. Mickey burrowed into his paper bag now. He was famished and began to peel an orange. “Just like bureaucrats anywhere—they try to perpetuate themselves in power.”

Lee ignored him as he continued. “Worse yet, I secretly encouraged this belief among the young. Their dreams were crushed under Li Peng’s tanks at Tiananmen Square. And the new group of ideological suck-ups running the show now were the lead cheerleaders back then—the very ones urging the Army on against the people. For me, Tiananmen changed everything.”

“But you stayed.”

“I admired the students so very much. The democracy activists who were killed at Tiananmen—they had big dreams for the future.” He took a section of fruit from Mickey. “You know, they would have fit right into our little club at Stanford. They were just a bunch of Martin Booths with noble visions.”

“Sounds like you were quite a help to Branko.”

“I merely provided some insights from our internal debates. That is what I offered, from time to time. When I chose to. We spied on you. I helped
you
listen to us.”

“Amazing.”

“Transparency—that was my policy. There was a mischievous symmetry to my approach. I was determined to reduce the chances of miscalculation on either side. I helped you understand us by letting you hear our internal debates.”

“But you were playing with fire.”

“I was playing God,” Lee said. “It was easy to rationalize. I sat on a precipice, viewing two worlds and the chasm that separates them. I told myself that, if in one hour a few American and Chinese generals can incinerate the planet—and any memory of our existence—there could be nothing more important for me to do. Spies tell themselves these things.”

Mickey was struggling to fit together old pieces, wondering about the future. Lee was moving too fast. After a time, Mickey spoke cautiously. “So what about this ‘relationship’ you mentioned?”

“What about it?”

“I mean, who is she?”

“Her name is Xu An. She is a healer. She was my father’s nurse. She became family, my friend, my confidant. I trusted her in all things these last weeks. Maybe I am just being a fool, Mickey. I do her no favor sharing these burdens. But it is nice to have hopes.” Lee paused, before adding, “I stayed for Father as well—for my father and the game.”

“Did the CIA pressure you?”

“Not really. I was always the one in control. That was the illusion. I could choose what to give the Americans. Sometimes, I would go months, a year even, without passing anything on. Sometimes, I would pass on something false, or take some hard line at home—just to allay suspicion.”

Mickey regarded Lee in a new light, impressed by the risks with which he had lived for decades. Mickey’s own life of compartmentalization seemed easy by comparison.

“I developed a fantasy about my final act,” Lee said. “To return to the U.S.-China Relations Program at Serra House. To go public with everything at some Stanford policy conference. To tell all the little secrets of the game—with a bunch of Chinese diplomats there to be shocked. To speak truth to power.”

“Do it!” said Mickey, embracing the idea immediately. “I mean, Booth is already there. I hear Rachel may come out and finally finish her doctorate. Alexander may even be coming. This is something you need to do!”

“It is a fantasy, Mickey,” Lee said, shaking his head. “It is not a serious proposition.”

“But it would be great. We could get all the old gang together and just blow everybody’s minds. Come full circle.”

“Mickey, how can you still be so naïve?”

“What?”

“They would kill me. If I ever surfaced, the Chinese security guys would hunt me down like an animal and kill me.”

“No.”

“Of course they would,” Lee insisted. “Just to make an example of me.”

“Not on American soil.”

“Sure, if only to save face. Heck, even Taiwan killed a critic on U.S. soil. That’s why we were so careful about getting together today. The Chinese will watch you—for years—to see if you come to me.”

“I figured that—”

“Besides, I wouldn’t do that to Stanford. Stanford was always good to me. China would never let their students come again; they would cut off all contact with Serra House. And my sponsors in Washington—even Branko—would not welcome the attention.”

“Branko probably has wanted to do it himself for years.”

“Too provocative.” Lee was still enjoying the idea even as he dismissed it. “Such work is best done in the shadows.”

“Too
provocative
? After the Chinese ram our planes out of the sky, hold our airmen for ransom, and send the plane home in pieces? After they push hundreds of missiles against Taiwan and violate their pledges of restraint? After their renegade outfit pulls shit like the F Street number? After the whole E-War disaster?
That’s
provocation.”

“It is simply not how Washington will want to use me.”

They were sitting now, sharing the bottled water. As they pondered their next move, Mickey peeled the last sections of orange. The juice ran down his fingers as he handed pieces to Lee, who took them appreciatively and tucked them in his mouth. It was several minutes before Lee spoke. “Some things in life you must accept, Mickey.”

“But it’s like you have a second chance. It’s like you came back from the dead.”

“Li Jianjun
is
dead—gone to dust.” He was stoic once more. “Let him rest.”

“We will make a new life for you.”

“It is resurrection I will hope for, yes. They say they will find me some new identity, like in your FBI’s Witness Protection Program.”

“But China needs you to—”

“China is a great country. We have survived and flourished over the many centuries. But I am done with all this rancor. I prefer to just write a bit, to live quietly with the knowledge and company of a few friends.”

“Maybe we can go back someday,” Mickey said. “You and I, together.”

“No, Mickey,” said Lee. “I will never go back.”

“You need to have some hope for the future.”

“I
have
hope. I have hope for many things. For knowledge. For understanding. For human love.”

“Let us help. Let Branko help—with Xu An, I mean. Can they get her out?”

“We don’t know if that will be possible. You know, I don’t even have a picture of her—just in my head. But maybe you will be able to meet her someday.”

Mickey was silent, watching Lee work through these things. Then Mickey reached for his coat pocket. “I almost forgot. I was in a similar situation that day I left. Couldn’t bring anything of my past with me. So. . . I brought you some pictures.” Mickey opened the small envelope and pulled out three small color prints, handing the stack to his friend.

The first two were of the boys, Michael and Henry. They were copies Mickey had gone back into the master bedroom for on his last night in Beijing. The children were grinning conspiratorially in Yankee pinstripes, their first Litttle League uniforms.

The last was a photograph from long ago. It was a snapshot from that New Year’s Eve party, the night they called the Last Dance. The camera had framed their tableau as they solemnly toasted from the couch, packing boxes on the margins—Booth and Barry, Rachel and Alexander, Branko, Mickey, and Lee, each peering anxiously into their future.

“It started then, you know,” Lee said as he examined the old photo.

“What?”

“It began that night.”

“
What
began?”

Lee was focused on something far distant now, examining the past, reconsidering his life as he watched the wind sweep through the towering trees far down the meadow.

“He asked me that night. Branko did.”

“He asked you what?”

“He recruited me. . . on the night of that last party.”

“No!”

“That is the remarkable thing about Branko. He
knew
. He knew even before I did. He could see it all then. To him, it was like a chess board; he was preparing for the end-game decades in advance. He knew the contradictions we would encounter, the choices we would have to make. He foresaw the paths we would take. He somehow saw it would come to this.” Lee was chuckling in admiration. “Mickey, he recruited me from the very beginning.”

“He recruited you to do what?”

“He was a talent scout from the very first day. He anticipated future needs. He enlisted me to share information, to provide extra eyes and ears, to help in any way I chose. He recruited me to be his spy.”

“Jesus.”

Finished the thought, Lee sat in silence, resolving an old memory. Then he turned back to Mickey, tapping the photos. “And you must know, friend, these photos do help me have hope. For me, yes, but mostly for another generation.”

“For the boys. . .”

“Of course. I hope they can move freely back and forth across the bridges we tried to build. It is not about us any more. It is about Michael and Henry. About the world they can make.”

“Like I said, Lee, you’re a goddamn hero.”

“Enough with this hero talk.”

“It’s
true
. You’ve done a great service. To me, to my boys, to Branko, to us all. You’ve upheld everything we ever pledged to believe in, every toast we ever made.”

“We toasted to many things,” Lee said, gazing again at the photos. Then he cleared his throat, before adding quietly: “We were so very young.”

“To ‘wearing our hearts at the fire’s center.’ To never forgetting. You’ve taken risks, made a difference. What could possibly have more enduring a meaning?”

“Mickey, you credit me too much.”

“Because of you, I have my boys.”

“That was you. I hardly did—”

“No!” Mickey was shouting now, hopping about as he circled in front of Lee, crumpling the bag of trash in his spreading palms. He was full of pulsing energy once again. “I don’t even know exactly what you did that day at the airport with the soldiers, the fire. I don’t need to know. All I know is that my boys are free. We are together. Without you, it never would have happened.” Lee stood now as Mickey halted his pacing. “And I. . . we. . . we will honor you for it always.” They were quite close, facing each other. The fruit was finished. The water was gone. The fog was lifting.

“So, what now?”

“Yes, Mickey. What now?”

“Where to?”

“To work,” Lee said. “I will see if I can help Branko and his people, help to buy some time until wiser voices can prevail.”

Mickey nodded before Lee continued. “Then I will go sit on the mountaintop. Somewhere near this place, I hope, where I can dream again. Perhaps I will not be alone for so long.”

“Someday, the realities may change,” Mickey offered. “Maybe then you could hope to go home.”

“No. Not in my lifetime. In the boys’, perhaps.” Lee was still grimacing. But this last thought pleased him and, as he placed the photos in his breast pocket, his visage began finally to brighten. “You must learn patience, my friend. These things take time.”

“I’m trying, Lee,” Mickey promised. “I’m really trying.”

Now, at last, they could smile together, their confessions honored, their memories complete. They were redeemed and at peace.

Mickey laid a heavy arm around Lee’s shoulders. Tentatively, at first, then purposefully, they began to retrace the path into the sunlight before them, two old school friends heading back up the trail together.

The Mandarin Club,
while a work of the imagination, is fiction that echoes many true events. Also genuine are several of the current challenges in U.S.-China relations it explores.

Any parallels between the novel’s characters and actual living persons are, however, coincidental. It is true that the author once drank with idealistic Stanford scholars at a sketchy bar on El Camino Real. But the characters introduced at The Oasis are made up. So, too, are the lobbyists, journalists, senators, and spies they come to meet.

Fables are enriched by fact. Similarly, the weaving of a story about modern China—and the Americans who have chosen to engage that great civilization—has benefited from the guidance of experienced hands. Some of the assistance extended to the author was witting and deliberate. For this, special thanks go to friends such as Richard Bush, a former U.S ambassador to Taiwan who’s currently at the Brookings Institute; Michele de Nevers of the World Bank; and Frank Hawke. Their knowledge of things Chinese is remarkable. A word of respect is also due democracy activists on both sides of the Taiwan Strait with whom the author has been privileged to work. Their often anonymous voices have shown great courage and patriotism; their labors helped inspire the story at hand.