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  “That is only wise,” Zou said. Then he added, “You’ve never told the Vietnamese your name. Must it remain a secret?”

  The man’s face was impassive as he considered his answer. “Victor Kamigami.”

  “You were in the American Army?” A brief nod of Kamigami’s head answered. “Your rank?” There was no answer.

  Monday, January 8

  The Executive Office Building,

  Washington, D.C.

  The woman slipped into the conference room early and found a seat at the far end of the table. Mazie Kamigami was short, overweight, and as usual, dressed in a comfortable but very drab gray suit. She settled her short body into the chair, her feet not touching the floor. Her round but pretty face mirrored her frustration. It’s the Japanese in my blood that did this to me, Mazie Kamigami thought. She often wished the powers that be realized short people also worked in Washington, D.C.

  Still, she decided, this particular seat was perfect for watching the delicate steps the staff members were taking as they jockeyed for position around the newly appointed national security advisor, William Gibbons Carroll. Mazie had seen the intricate minuet before as old staff members danced around a new appointee. James Finlay, the veteran chief of staff Carroll had inherited, entered the room surrounded by his little bevy of cronies. That’s a swarm of wanna bees, she decided.

  They ignored Mazie, since her chair was safely outside the inner orbit where the national security advisor sat during staff meetings. Her geographical position relative to the president’s most trusted advisor wasn’t something Mazie worried about. But the rumor that Finlay was calling her “the Frump” had cut deeply. One of Finlay’s aides threw copies of the meeting’s agenda on the table, not bothering to distribute them. Mazie squirmed out of her chair and placed one at each position.

  More staffers filed in and the room rapidly filled. Wentworth Hazelton was the last to enter. He surveyed the table, unhappy that all the prime seats had been taken. He gave an inward sigh and took the last vacant chair, beside Mazie. Hazelton had all the right credentials for the National Security Council. His lineage was impeccable: main line establishment that blended the best families of Boston and Philadelphia, old money, master’s degree in Middle Eastern Studies from Georgetown, a closet of Savile Row suits, old but well-brushed shoes, and an ambitious mother.

  His mother took pride in her son’s rangy good looks and mass of dark hair cut to the Kennedy image. She was certain that he had a future. Wentworth agreed and saw only two obstacles in front of him. One was his age—twenty-five was considered young for the NSC. The other was much more temporary—he had to sit next to the Frump. “Do you have anything for Mr. Carroll today?” Hazelton asked Mazie, trying to be sociable and show that he was willing to associate with the less important members of the NSC, even ones that were rumored to be on the way out.

  “I’m last on the agenda.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Nothing important then.” It was a smug pronouncement.

  “Who knows?” Mazie said. She smothered what she really wanted to say. What a bunch of idiots, she thought. Bill Carroll knows what’s important when he hears it. True, her division, the Far East, had been given a low priority lately. But Mazie trusted Carroll and was certain he would listen to her when events needed his, and by implication, the president’s attention.

  “It’s going to be fun watching this,” Hazelton continued, now adopting the easy manner of the informed insider. “Finny”—he used the nickname the prickly Finlay hated—”should have gotten the appointment, not Carroll. Our Mr. Carroll is in over his head and isn’t going to know what hit him. The poor bastard.”

  “Do you really think so?” she asked.

  “I know so.” It was another smug pronouncement. “Finny will run staff meetings exactly the way he’ll run the NSC. He’ll decide who talks to Carroll and when.” Like the other members of the NSC staff who had come on board with the current president, Hazelton seriously underestimated Mazie, dismissing her as a lightweight, totally out of her element. He personally attributed her presence on the staff to tokenism—a female of Oriental descent to keep the scales of equal opportunity in balance.

  The veteran staff members, and more important, Bill Carroll, did not suffer from any such illusions.

  Finlay stood up. “Before Mr. Carroll gets here,” he said, “let me reassure you that my staff meetings have not changed. The agenda is prioritized and we will follow it. Mr. Carroll has a very full schedule, so if we run short of time, I’ll call the meeting to an end and save what isn’t covered for the next time.” One of the old heads gave Mazie a knowing smile.

  Hazelton glanced at the agenda. “Finny’s out to score some points,” he said. “Supposedly Carroll’s forte is the Middle East. We’ll play to that today.”

  “Maybe it’s not smart to tell someone what they already know,” Mazie replied as the new national security advisor I walked in and sat down. Hazelton dismissed her with a condescending look. He was the Middle East expert who had prepared most of the material on the agenda.

  “I wish he at least looked the part,” Hazelton complained. It was the only point they agreed on. The slender, athletic, dark-complected Carroll looked more like a high-school football coach in his mid-thirties than a former major general in the Air Force.

  The meeting started, and as Hazelton had predicted, they stayed glued to the latest instability coursing through the Middle East. Many of the questions were funneled to Hazelton, and he found that being at the bottom of the table among the nobodies highlighted his importance. He casually explained that the situation was taking a new turn as the tide of Islamic fundamentalism engulfed the countries of North Africa.

  Mazie listened, and since that part of the world was not her area of concern, concentrated on the reaction of the staff. She felt Hazelton stiffen when he realized Carroll was asking for much more than a cursory discussion of problems. He wanted hard analysis followed by workable solutions. Hazelton and a few other Middle East “experts” would be spending many late nights at work patching up their bruised egos with hard work and the creation of a new briefing book for the president.

  “What else is on the agenda for today?” Carroll asked. It was a question no one wanted to answer.

  “Sir,” Finlay said, “we’ve covered the important issues.”

  Mazie raised her hand as Carroll stood up to leave. “For Christ’s sake,” Hazelton whispered, “what are you doing? Finny will rip you a new one.”

  Carroll looked down the table. “What do you have, Mazie?”

  Finlay glared at Mazie, willing her to evaporate. “We’re running late, Mr. Carroll,” he said. “You’re scheduled to appear before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence in twenty minutes.”

  “The PRC is going after the Fourth Dragon,” Mazie said. Her eyes sparkled, belying the passive look on her round face.

  Carroll sat back down. “I didn’t need to hear that, Mazie,” he said. “Lay it out.”

  “The senators …” Finlay whispered. He motioned at the door.

  “Send my apologies and tell them I’ll be fifteen minutes late, Finny. We wasted too much time on the obvious.”

  Thursday, January 11

  Near Bose, Guangxi Province, China

  The old man and girl approached the river from the southern hills, not seeing it. The girl walked silently, and occasionally she would glance at her grandfather. They had been walking since five-thirty that morning and she was thirsty. But they had drained their water bottle hours ago and she hoped they would stop. Only the flip-flop of his ragged sandals broke the silence of the unusually warm and muggy afternoon. “We’re almost there, child,” the old man said in Cantonese. His voice was weak and raspy, a suitable match for his bent and worn body. Still, he spoke in a pure Cantonese, a master of that difficult language with its five tones.

  The girl nodded, glad that this part of her journey would soon be over. This was the furthest Li Jin Chu had ever traveled fr
om her village in the southern hills of China and her lithe body ached with fatigue. The girl shifted her grip on the heavy cord that bound her bag. Her grandfather offered to carry it but she shook her head. Everything Jin Chu claimed as her own was in the bundle and it was only proper she carry it. Another glance confirmed her suspicions. Li Jiyu had passed his fifty-eighth birthday two days before and was tired to the point of exhaustion. He looked and acted as if he were eighty years old.

  “Oh,” she gasped, when she saw the river and the bridge at the same time. Li Jiyu smiled. He had planned it that way. His eyes never wandered from his granddaughter’s face. He had seen the river before and would see it again before he died. But he would never see his granddaughter’s face again. It was one of the pleasures of his life to see her come alive with surprise or happiness. Now he was going to lose that. But it had to be if Jin Chu was to bring honor and wealth to her family.

  The girl stopped and set the bag down. A gust of wind plastered her damp shirt against her body, outlining her small and immature breasts. With one graceful motion, she lifted the straw hat away from her head and let her long dark hair fall free. Li Jiyu had seen it before as Jin Chu became one with her physical surroundings. Wind and water, even the earth, the hills, and the heavens were joining with her. Only fire, thunder, and rain were not visibly present. But she would feel their influence, the old man reassured himself. He did not break her trance—he knew how fragile it was.

  The wind caught at Jin Chu’s hair and whipped it around, outlining her face. Such a beautiful face, Li Jiyu thought, it captures the best of our people, the Zhuang.

  How many times had he tried to determine the bloodlines that had formed his granddaughter? Every race would want to claim his granddaughter’s beautiful dark almond-shaped eyes, the glowing black lustrous hair, and the delicate facial structure with her high cheekbones. It was all there, he thought, Chinese, Thai, Malay. But it was also the curse of the Zhuang, for the Han Chinese distrusted all foreigners, even the Zhuang, who were as integrated into the mainstream of China as any of the minorities. Over his lifetime, Li had seen the Han, who made up 94 percent of the Chinese, alternate between amused condescension and toleration to outright hostility toward their minorities.

  Li Jiyu tried not to worry about the journey his granddaughter was making to Hong Kong. It isn’t that far from Guangxi Province, the home of the Zhuang, he reassured himself. Besides, he reasoned, his granddaughter had to go to Hong Kong to develop her gift. “Jin Chu,” he said, “we must hurry and not miss the bus.”

  Jin Chu studied the Pearl River below her, understanding it. The river spilled out of a gorge and onto the broad plain that formed the heart of Guangxi Province. She could see far to the east and traced the Pearl’s path as it meandered on its gentle way toward Guangzhou, the city westerners called Canton, and the sea. “I’ll remember this time,” she told him, “when I first saw the Pearl River.”

  Slowly, Jin Chu’s gaze focused on the bridge below them. It was a single-span structure supported by a curved arch of steel girders anchored in solid concrete footings on each side. A single traffic lane on top allowed vehicles of all descriptions and foot traffic to cross the gorge and enter Yunnan Province to the west. It was the main land link between the two provinces but it jarred the harmony and beauty of the land. The girl’s slender frame tensed as she watched the stream of trucks, foot traffic, and bicycles on the bridge. “Grandfather, did foreigners build this bridge?”

  “I was told engineers from Beijing built the bridge. Some foreigners helped them, but I don’t know where they came from. They were white.”

  “Are people from the north considered foreigners?”

  “They are Han and some would say yes.” The old man could not contain his curiosity. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because they built it in the wrong place and there are many angry dragons here.”

  The old man shuddered at the thought of how much bad luck a single angry dragon could bring down. And Jin Chu had clearly said there were many dragons present. “The stories say that a feng shui man, a very powerful geomancer, came from Canton to select the site for the bridge.”

  “He was wrong, Grandfather.”

  “Are the dragons angry at us? the Zhuang?” he asked. “No. Only foreigners. Let’s walk across and catch the bus on the far side.”

  Li Jiyu did not argue with his granddaughter. There might be foreigners on the bus and he saw no need to chance a dragon’s anger.

  PART 1

  Excerpt: President’s Daily Brief,

  Monday, January 8.

  DISSIDENT MOVEMENT CONFIRMED IN SOUTHERN CHINA.

  Independent sources now confirm the existence of a dissident movement in the Guangxi-Zhuang Autonomous Region (Guangxi Province) of southern China. The leader is reported to be a young, charismatic individual operating under the assumed name of Zou Rong. The exact strength of the dissidents is unknown but informed analysts see no threat to the political stability of the region at this time.

  CHAPTER 1

  Friday, January 12

  Knob Noster, Missouri

  “Knob Noster?” Shoshana asked, not able to control the humorous disbelief in her voice. She shook her head in dismay as they drove through the small Missouri town near Whiteman Air Force Base.

  “Don’t blink,” Pontowski said, “or you’ll miss it.” Silence. He chalked it up to the long drive from Virginia. He reached over and stroked her cheek, stealing a glance as she caressed his hand. It amazed him that she could remain so unruffled and serene after wrestling with Little Matt for the thousand-mile drive from Washington, D.C. He automatically glanced at the trip odometer. Actually, 983 fun-filled miles, he thought. How many times had his grandfather said he was simply getting his comeuppance for all the trouble he had caused when he was young? He glanced back at the latest member of the Pontowski clan, who was now curled up asleep on the backseat of the minivan. I don’t believe it, he thought. He looks like an angel when he’s sleeping.

  “Knob Noster,” he explained, “is pretty much your standard midwestern farm town. It’s little more than a village.”

  “I didn’t know Missouri was considered part of the Midwest,” she said.

  “Depends on who you talk to.”

  “You Americans can never make up your mind about basics.”

  He could hear a trace of humor behind her words. “I guess so,” he replied.

  “Just like you.” Now there was definite amusement in her voice. Shoshana had been perplexed by his decision to resign his regular commission for one in the reserves in order to become commander of the 303rd Fighter Squadron. But she had not protested and humorously reminded him about his earlier comments on the aircraft the 303rd flew, the A-10 Thunderbolt II. Her esthetic sensibilities had been thoroughly assaulted when she first saw one. “No wonder you call it the ‘Warthog,’ “ she had said. “Why do you want to fly one of those?”

  It was a question he could not answer, especially since the Warthog was being phased out of the inventory and the 303rd was one of the few squadrons still flying the beast. But Ambler Furry, Pontowski’s old backseater from F-15Es, had convinced him the jet still had a few good kicks left and that it could be an interesting tour. After talking to Shoshana, he had filled out the paperwork and sent it up through normal channels.

  Not once did he make a phone call to lei a weil-placed friend know of his interest in the assignment. In the end, he got the job because the name Pontowski still carried weight and very few qualified pilots were interested in commanding a lame duck squadron whose aircraft would be consigned to the boneyard at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Arizona in a few years. The competition would have been intense if the 303rd were slated for a follow-on aircraft. But like the Warthog, the 303rd was also destined for the scrap heap.

  Still, it was a flying assignment that would last for a year or two. After that, it would be time to look for another career, free of politics and the Air Force. Pontowski consoled himself
with the old truism that flying fighters is a young man’s game. He would be pushing that envelope in a few more years and believed that it was always best to quit a winner. Shoshana knew the truth of the matter, even though she would never tell him unless he broached the subject. It was very simple: The love between Matt Pontowski and the Air Force had died.

  “I suppose,” she ventured, “you’ll be going to work tomorrow, even though it’s a Saturday.”

  “This weekend is what the reserves call a UTA—Unit Training Assembly. It’ll be a good chance to meet the troops.”

  “You Americans are funny. You work during the week and play at soldiering on the weekends.”

  “At least we come home horny.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  Friday, January 12

  Kansas City, Kansas

  The principal’s secretary collared John Leonard before he could escape from the teachers’ lounge and reach the parking lot. “Mr. Leonard,” she called, “the principal wants you in his office immediately.” She looked up and down the deserted hall like a conspirator. “It’s not about what you think. They haven’t selected the new English department chairman yet. You’re still in the running. It’s the Ratloffs and they’ve got a lawyer with them.”

  John Leonard glanced out the door and to freedom. The old urge to escape from his cares at Green Valley High School, one of Johnson County’s more prestigious high schools, swept over him. He knew the lawyer and Ratloffs meant big trouble, probably a lawsuit. “Is Troy with them?” he asked.

  The secretary shook her head. “No one can control that young man.” She paused for a moment. “What did you do that got them so riled?”

  “I asked Troy when I could expect his term paper, which was due two weeks ago. Troy’s answer was a memorable, ‘It’s none of your fucking business. I can flunk if I want and no dumb, sorry-ass shithead is going to tell me what I can do on my own time.”“ Leonard found the secretary’s silence encouraging. “Not a good way to influence the teacher.”