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CHAPTER 96
IN THE LONG minutes that it takes to pass through the West Wing of the White House, Xi Dejiang of the Chinese Ministry of State Security keeps a slight smile on his face, enjoying every moment of being in the so-called belly of the beast, the center of America’s imperialist government.
Yet he is under no illusions, as each White House staffer, all wearing those silly lanyards with colored cards that make them look like farm animals being sorted for later slaughter, gives him looks of anger or distaste as he strolls along. They don’t know who he is, only that he’s a high-ranking Chinese diplomat, coming in for a face-to-face meeting with their increasingly irrational boss.
That’s fine.
He’s not concerned at all about their looks, or their hate.
It is expected to receive such discourteous looks from a class of people who sense within their very bones that their famed American empire is in decline, to be replaced by another. With their internal squabbles, their willingness to bend over to give the Middle Kingdom technology and knowledge, and the opening of their finest universities to train the next generation of Beijing technocrats, what do they expect?
“Just this way, sir,” the unctuous young male aide says, walkingDejiang down an elegant hallway, and thus to the first surprise of his visit: being brought to an open elevator door.
Dejiang says, “I’m sorry, what is this? I’ve always thought the president’s work area was the Oval Office, on the first floor.”
A knowing smile from the aide. “Notthispresident.”
Just a few seconds later the elevator opens to an old-fashioned living area, decorated with antique American paintings, furniture, and sculptures that should be in a dusty museum instead of this supposed powerful house.
They go down a short corridor with a female Secret Service agent in a black suit standing guard. The aide raps on a door, opens it, and says, “Here you go, sir. The president.”
Dejiang gives a slight bow of thanks, walks in, and a host of familiar smells come to him. The room is small, with a wooden desk, no windows, two couches facing each other, two chairs, and a small table.
On the table are platters of breakfast foods—Chinese—and President Barrett stands up from the far couch and waves him in.
“Mr. Xi, do come in, please,” he says, in that pleasant baritone voice of his. “I know it’s late and practically lunchtime, but I asked the White House Mess to prepare a traditional breakfast for you, and I hope they’ve done you a service. Have a seat.”
Dejiang slowly sits down on the opposite couch, still staring at the food. The president gives a quick tutorial of what is available, saying, “Here’s your steamedbaozi,half with pork and the other half with vegetables. This one I think is calledjianbing. To me it looks like a French crepe that ended up in the wrong neighborhood.”
Barrett laughs but Dejiang doesn’t join.
What is this man doing? Is he becoming even more mad, after that note mentioning the two old CIA agents, and the cruise missile attack?
“And lastly,youtiao,fried flour sticks and warm and sweetened soy milk. You know,” he says, sitting down, “thoseyoutiaolook mighty fine. I think I’m going to try one.”
He picks up a napkin and Dejiang sits there, feeling out of order, slightly humiliated, like he’s some junior official from the Ministry of Trade, here to finalize a contract about soybean deliveries.
The president starts munching on one of the fried sticks and he says, “Damn, that tastes pretty good. I might have the White House Mess put this on the regular breakfast menu.”
Focus,he thinks, and says, “Mr. President, thank you for seeing me on such short notice. There are evolving issues involving our two nations and I hope that we can talk out our differences this morning, reach some sort of understanding, some way to reduce tensions.”
The American leader finishes off hisyoutiaoand gently wipes his fingers with the white cloth napkin. “You ready to stop suppressing the Uighurs?”
“Ah, well—”
“Abandon your illegal military bases on your man-made islands in East China?”
“Mr. President, I—”
“Return autonomy to Tibet and Hong Kong?”
Dejiang keeps quiet. The man is ranting.
“Or stop stealing our technological information? Hacking every computer system from local water works to the federal government? Are you telling me, Mr. Xi, that Beijing is prepared to do all of this? For real?”
Dejiang feels color come to his face. “Those are unreasonable demands, sir. And you know it. We are a great and proud nation. We will not be humbled.”
The president says, “Unreasonable or not, that’s all you’re going to get today. And if I hadn’t made myself clear, I love and admire the Chinese people, but you and your Communist government can go fuck off.”