Read Online An American Spy by Olen Steinhauer - Free Book Online
Authors: Olen Steinhauer
Tags: Milo Weaver
Ads: Link
said, “but I’ll bring it along in case you change your mind.”
It was a fair enough proposition, and Zhu accepted it. “Where do we face our doom?”
The Beijing Hall was not far away, down a long corridor past bas-reliefs of glorious times that were either historical moments Zhu had never witnessed or hopes for the future. A guard stood outside the room itself but didn’t check their papers, and inside they found fourteen low upholstered chairs arranged in a half oval, so that one side could face the other. Behind them were eight more wooden chairs, arranged in parentheses. Thick carpet covered the floor, pushed this way and that by the morning’s vacuum cleaner, and though the walls had been meticulously cleaned, the green paint was fading in spots. Someone would be in trouble for that.
Sun Bingjun was already seated in a chair on the left side, which was a surprise. A known drunk, the frail, thin old man was usually late to meetings, if he attended at all. Zhu approached, and they shook hands. “How was Shanghai?” Sun Bingjun asked, red-faced and baffled-looking.
“I can’t keep anything a secret, can I?”
Sun Bingjun smiled. Looking at him, it was easy to forget he was a lieutenant general, a decorated veteran of Vietnam, and a Hero of the Cultural Revolution. Years and vice had undermined him, but his illustrious history, as well as a brief but successful tenure as the minister of state security, protected him and his current position in the Politburo from most attacks.
“Shanghai was a place to clear my head.”
“That should be useful today.”
“Absolutely.”
Zhu bowed his head and retreated to the right side, settling in the center seat. Shen An-ling took a wooden chair behind him and began rummaging through his bag.
The Supervision and Liaison Committee had been formed in 1992 as an offshoot of the Central Committee’s Political and Legislative Affairs Committee, whose six members had felt overburdened by the scope of overseeing the entire spectrum of Chinese law enforcement. So they created a separate committee, with a membership of twenty-six, to deal primarily with interministry conflicts, which had ballooned during the nineties. This year’s secretary was a Central Committee hotshot named Yang Xiaoming, from Sichuan, who was usually more interested in his oil concerns than in attending committee meetings. It was his deputy secretary from the Ministry of Public Security, Wu Liang, who shouldered most of his responsibilities. Though he had been invited many times to face the committee’s questions, Xin Zhu had never been invited to become a member.
Yang Qing-Nian, the youngest of this committee’s members, strolled in with tall, white-haired Wu Liang, who was the same age as Xin Zhu. Both came over and offered hands, and Zhu was surprised to find no hint of gloating in Wu Liang’s behavior. Wu Liang had worked hard to set up this morning’s meeting and keep its agenda secret, but by his demeanor, it could have been a gathering to discuss traffic lamps in Lhasa.
“How is Sung Hui?” Wu Liang asked.
“She’s very fine.”
“I’m glad to hear that. A lovely woman.”
“And Chu Liawa?”
Wu Liang’s wife was older than both of them, a storybook rearguard tigress, or so the rumors suggested. She had pushed her husband up through the ranks, angling him against foes in Yunnan, then in Nanning, and finally in Beijing, where over the last decade he had risen to the top of the food chain while insufferable absolutists like Xin Zhu remained in their dusty outlying offices, collecting intelligence but little else. “Very healthy,” Wu Liang said finally, and from his lips, it sounded like a threat. Yang Qing-Nian said nothing; he didn’t have to. His face took care of the gloating his sage was too cultured to show.
Feng Yi came in next, shaking hands with everyone, beginning with Wu Liang and ending with Xin Zhu, following the correct sequence from political superior to
It was a fair enough proposition, and Zhu accepted it. “Where do we face our doom?”
The Beijing Hall was not far away, down a long corridor past bas-reliefs of glorious times that were either historical moments Zhu had never witnessed or hopes for the future. A guard stood outside the room itself but didn’t check their papers, and inside they found fourteen low upholstered chairs arranged in a half oval, so that one side could face the other. Behind them were eight more wooden chairs, arranged in parentheses. Thick carpet covered the floor, pushed this way and that by the morning’s vacuum cleaner, and though the walls had been meticulously cleaned, the green paint was fading in spots. Someone would be in trouble for that.
Sun Bingjun was already seated in a chair on the left side, which was a surprise. A known drunk, the frail, thin old man was usually late to meetings, if he attended at all. Zhu approached, and they shook hands. “How was Shanghai?” Sun Bingjun asked, red-faced and baffled-looking.
“I can’t keep anything a secret, can I?”
Sun Bingjun smiled. Looking at him, it was easy to forget he was a lieutenant general, a decorated veteran of Vietnam, and a Hero of the Cultural Revolution. Years and vice had undermined him, but his illustrious history, as well as a brief but successful tenure as the minister of state security, protected him and his current position in the Politburo from most attacks.
“Shanghai was a place to clear my head.”
“That should be useful today.”
“Absolutely.”
Zhu bowed his head and retreated to the right side, settling in the center seat. Shen An-ling took a wooden chair behind him and began rummaging through his bag.
The Supervision and Liaison Committee had been formed in 1992 as an offshoot of the Central Committee’s Political and Legislative Affairs Committee, whose six members had felt overburdened by the scope of overseeing the entire spectrum of Chinese law enforcement. So they created a separate committee, with a membership of twenty-six, to deal primarily with interministry conflicts, which had ballooned during the nineties. This year’s secretary was a Central Committee hotshot named Yang Xiaoming, from Sichuan, who was usually more interested in his oil concerns than in attending committee meetings. It was his deputy secretary from the Ministry of Public Security, Wu Liang, who shouldered most of his responsibilities. Though he had been invited many times to face the committee’s questions, Xin Zhu had never been invited to become a member.
Yang Qing-Nian, the youngest of this committee’s members, strolled in with tall, white-haired Wu Liang, who was the same age as Xin Zhu. Both came over and offered hands, and Zhu was surprised to find no hint of gloating in Wu Liang’s behavior. Wu Liang had worked hard to set up this morning’s meeting and keep its agenda secret, but by his demeanor, it could have been a gathering to discuss traffic lamps in Lhasa.
“How is Sung Hui?” Wu Liang asked.
“She’s very fine.”
“I’m glad to hear that. A lovely woman.”
“And Chu Liawa?”
Wu Liang’s wife was older than both of them, a storybook rearguard tigress, or so the rumors suggested. She had pushed her husband up through the ranks, angling him against foes in Yunnan, then in Nanning, and finally in Beijing, where over the last decade he had risen to the top of the food chain while insufferable absolutists like Xin Zhu remained in their dusty outlying offices, collecting intelligence but little else. “Very healthy,” Wu Liang said finally, and from his lips, it sounded like a threat. Yang Qing-Nian said nothing; he didn’t have to. His face took care of the gloating his sage was too cultured to show.
Feng Yi came in next, shaking hands with everyone, beginning with Wu Liang and ending with Xin Zhu, following the correct sequence from political superior to
Similar Books
