Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (467 page)

He’d picked a Western-style restaurant. There were more than a few of them in Beijing now, catering both to the locals and to tourists who felt nostalgic for the taste of home (or who worried about their GI systems over here—not unreasonably, Nomuri thought). The quality wasn’t anything close to a real American restaurant, but it was considerably more appealing than the deep-fried rat he suspected was on the menu of many Beijing eateries.

He’d arrived first, and was relaxing with a cheap American bourbon when Ming came through the door. Nomuri waved in what he hoped was not an overly boyish way. She saw him do so, and her resulting smile was just about right, he thought. Ming was glad to see him, and that was step one in the plan for the evening. She made her way to his corner table in the back. He stood, showing a degree of gentlemanliness unusual in China, where women were nowhere near as valued as they were back home. Nomuri wondered if that would change, if all the killing of female babies could suddenly make Ming a valuable commodity, despite her plainness. He still couldn’t get over the casual killing of children; he kept it in the front of his mind, just to keep clear who the good guys were in the world, and who the bad guys were.

“It’s so good to see you,” he said with an engaging smile. “I was worried you might not meet me here.”

“Oh, really? Why?”

“Well, your superior at work ... I’m sure that he ... well ... needs you, I suppose is the polite way to put it,” Nomuri said with a hesitant voice, delivering his rehearsed line pretty well, he thought. He had. The girl giggled a little.

“Comrade Fang is over sixty-five,” she said. “He is a good man, a good superior, and a fine minister, but he works long hours, and he is no longer a young man.”

Okay,
so he
fucks you, but not all that much,
Nomuri interpreted that to mean.
And maybe you’d like a little more, from somebody closer to your age, eh?
Of course, if Fang was over sixty-five and still getting it on, then maybe he is worthy of some respect, Nomuri added to himself, then tossed the thought aside.

“Have you eaten here before?” The place was called Vincenzo’s, and pretended to be Italian. In fact the owner/operator was a half-breed Italian-Chinese from Vancouver, whose spoken Italian would have gotten him hit by the Mafia had he tried it in Palermo, or even Mulberry Street in Manhattan, but here in Beijing it seemed genuinely ethnic enough.

“No,” Ming replied, looking around at, to her, this most exotic of locations. Every table had an old wine bottle, its bottom wrapped in twine, and an old drippy red candle at the top. The tablecloth was checked white and red. Whoever had decorated this place had evidently seen too many old movies. That said, it didn’t look anything like a local restaurant, even with the Chinese servers. Dark wood paneling, hooks near the door for hanging coats. It could have been in any East Coast city in America, where it would have been recognized as one of those old family Italian places, a mom-and-pop joint with good food and little flash. “What is Italian food like?”

“At its best, Italian cooking is among the very finest in the world,” Nomuri answered. “You’ve never had Italian food? Never at all? Then may I select for you?”

Her response was girlish in its charm. Women were all the same. Treat them in the right way, and they turn into wax in your hand, to be kneaded and shaped to your will. Nomuri was starting to like this part of the job, and someday it might be useful in his
personal
personal life, too. He waved to the waiter, who came over with a subservient smile. Nomuri first of all ordered a genuine Italian white wine—strangely, the wine list here was actually first rate, and quite pricey to boot, of course—and, with a deep breath, fettuccine Alfredo, quintessential Italian heart-attack food. From looking at Ming, he figured that she’d not refuse rich food.

“So, the new computer and printer systems continue to work out?”

“Yes, and Minister Fang has praised me before the rest of the staff for choosing it. You have made me something of a hero, Comrade Nomuri.”

“I am pleased to hear that,” the CIA officer replied, wondering if being called “comrade” was a good thing for the current mission or a bad one. “We are bringing out a new portable computer now, one you could take home with you, but which has the same power as your office mainframe, with all the same features and software, of course, even a modem for accessing the Internet.”

“Really? I get to do that so seldom. At work, you see, it is not encouraged for us to surf the ’Net, except when the Minister wants something specific.”

“Is that so? What ’Net interests does Minister Fang have?”

“Mainly political commentary, and mainly in America and Europe. Every morning I print up various pieces from the newspapers, the
Times of London, New York Times, Washington Post,
and so on. The Minister especially likes to see what the Americans are thinking.”

“Not very much,” Nomuri observed, as the wine arrived.

“Excuse me?” Ming asked, getting him to turn back.

“Hmph, oh, the Americans, they don’t think very much. The shallowest people I have ever encountered. Loud, poorly educated, and their women ...” Chet let his voice trail off.

“What of their women, Comrade Nomuri?” Ming asked, virtually on command.

“Ahh.” He took a sip of the wine and nodded for the waiter to serve it properly. It was a pretty good one from Tuscany. “Have you ever seen the American toy, the Barbie doll?”

“Yes, they are made here in China, aren’t they?”

“That is what every American woman wishes to be, hugely tall, with massive bosoms, a waist you can put your hands around. That is not a woman. It’s a toy, a mannequin for children to play with. And about as intelligent as your average American woman. Do you think they have language skills, as you do? Consider: We now converse in English, a language native to neither of us, but we converse well, do we not?”

“Yes,” Ming agreed.

“How many Americans speak Mandarin, do you suppose? Or Japanese? No, Americans have no education, no sophistication. They are a backward nation, and their women are very backward. They even go to surgeons to have their bosoms made bigger, like that stupid child’s doll. It’s comical to see them, especially to see them nude,” he concluded with a dangle.

“You have?” she asked, on cue.

“Have what—you mean seen American women nude?” He got a welcome nod for his question. This was going well.
Yes, Ming, I
am
a man of the world.
“Yes, I have. I lived there for some months, and it was interesting in a grotesque sort of way. Some of them can be very sweet, but not like a decent Asian woman with proper proportions, and womanly hair that doesn’t come from some cosmetics bottle. And manners. Americans lack the manners of an Asian.”

“But there are many of our people over there. Didn’t you ... ?”

“Meet one? No, the round-eyes keep them for themselves. I suppose their men appreciate real women, even while their own women turn into something else.” He reached to pour some more wine into Ming’s glass. “But in fairness, there are some things Americans are good at.”

“Such as?” she asked. The wine was already loosening her tongue.

“I will show you later. Perhaps I owe you an apology, but I have taken the liberty of buying you some American things.”

“Really?” Excitement in her eyes. This was
really
going well, Nomuri told himself. He’d have to go easier on the wine. Well, half a bottle, two of these glasses, wouldn’t hurt him in any way. How did that song go ...
It’s okay to do it on the first date...
Well, he didn’t have to worry about much in the way of religious convictions or inhibitions here, did he? That was one advantage to communism, wasn’t it?

The fettuccine arrived right on time, and surprisingly it was pretty good. He watched her eyes as she took her first forkful. (Vincenzo’s used silverware instead of chopsticks, which was a better idea for fettuccine Alfredo anyway.) Her dark eyes were wide as the noodles entered her mouth.

“This is fine ... lots of eggs have gone into it. I love eggs,” she confided.

They’re your arteries, honey,
the case officer thought. He watched her inhale the first bit of the fettuccine. Nomuri reached across the table to top off her wineglass once more. She scarcely noticed, she attacked her pasta so furiously.

Halfway through the plate of pasta, she looked up. “I have never had so fine a dinner,” Ming told him.

Nomuri responded with a warm grin. “I am so pleased that you are enjoying yourself.”
Wait’ll you see the drawers I just got you, honey.

Attention to orders!”

Major General Marion Diggs wondered what his new command would bring him. The second star on his shoulder ... well, he told himself that he could feel the additional weight, but the truth was that he couldn’t, not really. His last five years in the uniform of his country had been interesting. The first commander of the reconstituted 10th Armored Cavalry Regiment—the Buffalo Soldiers—he’d made that ancient and honored regiment into the drill masters of the Israeli army, turning the Negev Desert into another National Training Center, and in two years he’d hammered every Israeli brigade commander into the ground, then built them up again, tripling their combat effectiveness by every quantifiable measure, so that now the Israeli troopers’ swagger was actually justified by their skills. Then he’d gone off to the real NTC in the high California desert, where he’d done the same thing for his own United States Army. He’d been there when the Bio War had begun, with his own 11th ACR, the famous Blackhorse Cavalry, and a brigade of National Guardsmen, whose unexpected use of advanced battlefield-control equipment had surprised the hell out of the Blackhorse and their proud commander, Colonel Al Hamm. The whole bunch had deployed to Saudi, along with the 10th from Israel, and together they’d given a world-class bloody nose to the army of the short-lived United Islamic Republic. After acing his colonel-command, he’d really distinguished himself as a one-star, and that was the gateway to the second sparkling silver device on his shoulder, and also the gateway to his new command, known variously as “First Tanks,” “Old Ironsides,” or “America’s Armored Division.” It was the 1st Armored Division, based in Bad Kreuznach, Germany, one of the few remaining heavy divisions under the American flag.

Once there had been a lot of them. Two full corps of them right here in Germany, 1st and 3rd Armored, 3rd and 8th Infantry, plus a pair of Armored Cavalry Regiments, 2nd and 11th, and the POMCUS sites—monster equipment warehouses—for stateside units like the 2nd Armored, and the 1 st Infantry, the Big Red One out of Fort Riley, Kansas, which could redeploy to Europe just as fast as the airlines could deliver them, there to load up their equipment and move out. All that force—and it was a whole shitload of force, Diggs reflected—had been part of NATO’s commitment to defend Western Europe from a country called the Soviet Union and its mirror-image Warsaw Pact, huge formations whose objective was the Bay of Biscay, or so the operations and intelligence officers in Mons, Belgium, had always thought. And quite a clash it would have been. Who would have won? Probably NATO, Diggs thought, depending on political interference, and command skills on both sides of the equation.

But, now, the Soviet Union was no more. And with it was also gone the need for the presence of V and VII Corps in Western Germany, and so, 1st Armored was about the only vestige left of what had once been a vast and powerful force. Even the cavalry regiments were gone, the 11th to be the OpFor—“opposing force,” or Bad Guys—at the National Training Center and the 2nd “Dragoon” Regiment essentially disarmed at Fort Polk, Louisiana, trying to make up new doctrine for weaponless troopers. That left Old Ironsides, somewhat reduced in size from its halcyon days, but still a formidable force. Exactly whom Diggs might fight in the event hostilities sprang unexpectedly from the ground, he had no idea at the moment.

That, of course, was the job of his G-2 Intelligence Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Tom Richmond, and training for it was the problem assigned to his G-3 Operations Officer, Colonel Duke Masterman, whom Diggs had dragged kicking and screaming from the Pentagon. It was not exactly unknown in the United States Army for a senior officer to collect about him younger men whom he’d gotten to know on the way up. It was his job to look after their careers, and their jobs to take care of their mentor—called a “rabbi” in the NYPD or a “Sea Daddy” in the United States Navy—in a relationship that was more father/son than anything else. Neither Diggs nor Richmond nor Masterman expected much more than interesting professional time in the 1 st Armored Division, and that was more than enough. They’d seen the elephant—a phrase that went back in the United States Army to the Civil War to denote active participation in combat operations—and killing people with modern weapons wasn’t exactly a trip to Disney World. A quiet term of training and sand-table exercises would be plenty, they all thought. Besides, the beer was pretty good in Germany.

“Well, Mary, it’s all yours,” outgoing Major General (promotable) Sam Goodnight said after his formal salute. “Mary” was a nickname for Diggs that went back to West Point, and he was long since past getting mad about it. But only officers senior to him could use that moniker, and there weren’t all that many of them anymore, were there?

“Sam, looks like you have the kids trained up pretty well,” Diggs told the man he’d just relieved.

“I’m especially pleased with my helicopter troops. After the hoo-rah with the Apaches down in Yugoslavia, we decided to get those people up to speed. It took three months, but they’re ready to eat raw lion now—after they kill the fuckers with their pocketknives.”

“Who’s the boss rotor-head?”

“Colonel Dick Boyle. You’ll meet him in a few minutes. He’s been there and done that, and he knows how to run his command.”

“Nice to know,” Diggs allowed, as they boarded the World War II command car to troop the line, a goodbye ride for Sam Goodnight and welcome for Mary Diggs, whose service reputation was as one tough little black son of a bitch. His doctorate in management from the University of Minnesota didn’t seem to count, except to promotion boards, and whatever private company might want to hire him after retirement, a possibility he had to consider from time to time now, though he figured two stars were only about half of what he had coming. Diggs had fought in two wars and comported himself well in both cases. There were many ways to make a career in the armed services, but none so effective as successful command on the field of battle, because when you got down to it, the Army was about killing people and breaking things as efficiently as possible. It wasn’t fun, but it was occasionally necessary. You couldn’t allow yourself to lose sight of that. You trained your soldiers so that if they woke up the next morning in a war, they’d know what to do and how to go about it, whether their officers were around to tell them or not.