Shadow of Eden (8 page)

“Rudy, are you hurt?” Ms. Chan asked, looking past the camera.

“No, I’m okay,” an off-camera voice said.

“Good.” She looked back at the camera. “We’ve been through some scary moments this last bit and I don’t know if we will get out alive. It seems the Chinese Army is slaughtering every one in the Park. As far as we can guess, they’ve covered all the exits. We hear gunshots from all directions. They are apparently killing the demonstrators just because, because, I guess, the Falun Gong want the freedom to worship like they want.”

As Ms. Chan’s words poured forth, Resnick sat down hugging herself, leaning forward in her chair, her eyes fixed on the dim TV picture.

Chan’s eyes sharpened with a fresh poise and calm to her voice. “We have an English legacy here in Hong Kong and while we never reached full independence, we enjoyed many freedoms: freedom of expression and peaceful assembly, freedom of the press and freedom of religion. All of these were brutally slaughtered today in Kowloon Park by the callous, calculating powers in Beijing. There is no love for the individual in Beijing, only love for the money Hong Kong brings to China. That and the power they cling to with their threats and—Ohh!”

Chan’s neck erupted, spewing blood and tissue. She jerked like a marionette as more projectiles ripped through her body.

The camera spun toward the source of the shots and showed the brutally impassive face of the army private who had just ended Amy’s life.

They heard a man’s cry of pain and the camera image streaked. The picture stabilized with a disorienting sideways image of grass. Just at the edge of the screen, they saw the still jerking leg of a man on the ground.

CNN cut back to the ashen face of anchorman, Frank Robinson. He stared a long moment at the camera. “We’ve . . .” Robinson stopped. He took a deep breath. “It appears reporter Amy Chan and her cameraman, Rudy Winchong, have been shot, apparently by members of the People’s Liberation Army, the Chinese regular army. I—I don’t know what to say.” He paused, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. When he replaced them a few moments later, he appeared more composed.

“Our heartfelt condolences go to their families and the families of all those demonstrators slain in the Kowloon Park Massacre.” Then, in a steadier voice, he turned to a map displayed on a monitor next to him, showing Kowloon Park. “As best we can tell—”

Dixon muted the sound. “Good God.” His voice had a changed timbre, making Resnick tear her eyes from the TV to look at him. “This will not fucking stand.” Dixon stared at the silent image and then slid to his knees, grasping the arm of the chair and bowed his head in prayer.

Resnick exchanged a surprised glance with Crusoe at this new and unfamiliar act.

“Ambassador Gung’s calling, Madam Secretary,” Joan Pascal said over the intercom. “Line three.”

With a deep sense of disquietude, Resnick walked over to the President’s desk and, picking up the handset, punched the line. “Secretary Resnick.” Her voice was husky and dry.

“Madam Secretary,” Gung said. “You were right. My country has assembled the military around Kowloon Park, but . . .” he spoke as if he were reading, “. . . its intentions were humanitarian. I was initially unaware of the buildup, but it was done under an emergency situation.”

Linda detected strain in his voice.

“It was an attempt to prevent the Falun Gong from committing mass suicide.”

Chapter 14

“L
arry, I need State to help us with our Hong Kong staff.” Ernie Whiteside, CNN’s senior Washington producer, stood in front of Larry Calhoun’s desk. Balding and gray at the temples, Whiteside nevertheless had the square, handsome face of an ex-news anchor. “Our coverage has jeopardized the safety of our remaining staff. They are all in hiding asking us what to do next.”

Whiteside had called Calhoun to request an ASAP meeting after the China massacre. They had known each other for several years and had developed a good working relationship that verged on friendship.

“I’m pretty sure we can help,” Calhoun replied. He voiced the question he had been thinking about all morning. “Ernie, was this all to eliminate the Falun Gong? Maybe you can provide some insight here. I’ve been scratching my head over this whole massacre thing.”

“You can’t stamp out a religion. It’s been tried.” Whiteside sat down heavily in one of the tufted leather chairs, worn from serving three administrations. He looked as tired as Calhoun felt. “With that in mind, and I assume the Chinese know it as well, I can’t figure it out either. I still can’t believe their fucking balls for trying to pull that mass suicide bullshit.”

He continued. “Obviously, they learned from the damage the media caused over Tiananmen. With us out of the way, and they goddamn nearly succeeded, they can pretty well say and do what they want, including lying about what they really did.”

“Larry,” Whiteside returned to his earlier request. “Can you help us? We’re hurting bad. We lost two people and one is unaccounted for. Herb Wong and three more are in hiding. Worse, one of our engineers got shot in the knee for resisting the order to shut down the station’s transmitters and is now in a hospital. We hope. Larry, we want you to assist Herb Wong and his staff, five in all, get out of Hong Kong, preferably to the States. We also want you to provide political cover for our other people spread throughout China. I have a list here.” Whiteside slid an envelope across Calhoun’s desk.

Calhoun opened the envelope and glanced over the list. “We would be happy to grant asylum and give them Visas.”

“I’m afraid I’m asking for more.” Whiteside paused. “They may need some more direct help.”

“Like what?”

“The Army’s presence throughout Hong Kong has pretty well stranded them. They’re already in hiding. We need to get them out ASAP before the PLA locates them. Anybody you have there to help make that happen would be greatly appreciated.”

It took a while for Whiteside’s meaning to penetrate. Calhoun had thought he could shield them in the consulate or grant them diplomatic immunity, but, no, Whiteside was asking for more. “You want an agent to extract them.”

“Yes.”

“You’re asking a lot.”

“I know.”

Calhoun pondered the possibilities. There were State ramifications for that direct an involvement, although at that precise moment, he really didn’t give a damn. He knew that all ground assets would be critically busy in their assigned roles—far too busy to assist CNN, but as he rolled it over in his mind, an idea struck him that involved an old ally. The more he thought about it, the better it looked. He would have to get the Secretary’s sign-off, but judging by her initial reaction towards the massacre, he figured that would not be difficult.

“I’ll call you in a few hours; maybe we can do something for your people.”

Chapter 15

T
he events in China had preceded the regular morning National Security Council meeting. While it was ten o’clock at night in Hong Kong—an hour and a half after Amy Chan’s death—it was nine in the morning Washington time.

The morning crew, as Linda called them, assembled on time and took seats around the mahogany table in the Roosevelt room, temporary quarters while the Oval office was set up for the presidential address. Seated around the table were Vice President John Sullivan; National Security Advisor August Crusoe; CIA Director George Bingham; Secretary of Defense Mark Painter, and Resnick. The last official member of the council, Secretary of the Treasury, Helen Norris, was in Brussels. Chief of Staff, Jeff Bell, rounded out the group.

“Let’s get started,” Dixon said curtly. “I’m really angry about this—George?”

“Here’s the latest,” the CIA Director began in his southern drawl. “The Chinese-controlled media sources continue to claim the Falun Gong demonstrators committed mass suicide.”

“What?” Dixon exclaimed. “What the hell did you say?”

Resnick frowned. She had told President Dixon about that right after her call from Ambassador Gung. Had he forgotten?

“They’re printing it and broadcasting it all over China,” Bingham continued, using his fingers to form quotation marks in the air, “‘Falun Gong demonstrators mysteriously commit mass suicide.’ Realize, Mr. President, this is all the Chinese people have to go on since there are now no international news sources to provide a counter to the government. The only external news sources are the Internet, which China has mostly closed down, some satellite TVs and satellite phones. They’ve pretty much locked down most everything else.

“According to the Chinese version,” Bingham continued, “the People’s Liberation Army had been tipped off about the intended mass suicide and tried to muster a force to prevent the slaughter, most regrettably too late.” Bingham rendered “most regrettably” in a sarcastic tone. “They are blaming the thousands of innocent deaths on their deranged leaders, who had them all under mass hypnotism—their terminology.”

The President stood up and walked over to the fireplace and watched the burning wood crackle. “Jesus! Who ordered this?”

Bingham thought about the answer a moment before replying. “I don’t really know, but we suspect a junta of hardliners led by General Yao Wenfu. He has gone on record repeatedly about the FG and his objection to its foul infestation of China.” Bingham shifted in his chair. “He’s the likely candidate here, but realize, this is only conjecture.”

Dixon rubbed his eyes. “Linda, what have you got for me?”

Linda cleared her throat. “Ambassador Justice has hit a wall. Nobody’s talking. So, except for Ambassador Gung, there is no word directly from the Chinese leadership. Apparently they are letting the media talk for them right now.”

“That’s alarming by itself, Mr. President,” National Security Advisor Crusoe interjected, waving his pipe for emphasis. “This likely indicates serious instability at the top. Our intercept of their internal communications is confused and contradictory. I haven’t seen this kind of pattern since Tiananmen.”

“Explain,” the President demanded.

“I don’t think the government is united on the massacre decision. There have been long nights at Zhongnanhai for four nights in a row, which is part of what tipped us off on their operation in Hong Kong. It’s not the usual hand-it-off-to-the-military either. This has the full attention of the politburo subcommittee.”

“So it’s political,” Vice President John Sullivan summarized.

“And controversial. We believe there are serious divisions at the top. I’m afraid, and George agrees, that the leadership situation could be in flux.”

Dixon turned to his Defense Secretary. “Mark?”

Mark Painter leaned forward in his chair. “We’re watching for any signs that this Hong Kong action is a cover for a military venture, and our Pacific units are under increased alert. So far, we haven’t seen anything unusual. Otherwise, there isn’t much for Defense.”

“Okay,” Dixon snapped, “Now I want options. Good ones. Linda?”

“Mr. President, you know our options are few, limited to booting their top level diplomats, technology transfers, scholarships, trade—”

“I don’t want to hear about trade embargoes or tariffs.”

“Our repertoire’s pretty thin, sir.”

“Apparently,” Dixon responded acerbically. “And our allies?”

“Publicly and personally outraged, but in talking with them, I don’t get the feeling that they want an all out confrontation over it.” Linda had been surprised and considerably dismayed at the tepid official responses coming from Europe and Asia.

“They don’t huh? I suppose they’re all too friggin’ tied up economically,” the President said bitterly. “If you’re rich, you can get away with murder.”

“We can get a UN resolution,” Linda said weakly.

“Great, a goddamn UN resolution.” The President walked back to his seat and picked up his water glass. Sipping at it, he stared at the ceiling. Unexpectedly he slammed the glass back on the table, making everybody jump.

“Dammit. We’ve got to do something.” He pointed at the group. “Find me a way to make those bastards wish they’d never done this.”

Press secretary Tyrone Grune stuck his head in. “It’s time for your address, sir.”

“Excellent, Ty. Let’s go.” Dixon strode quickly out of the room.