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the script of his forthcoming
conversation with Huang.
    Mac enjoyed the people he was
talking with and would have lingered longer were it not for an interruption by
Yuri Leizarenko, counsellor and resident chief intelligence officer of the SVR,
the successor to the KGB, at the Russian embassy.
    “How are you, Mr. MacMurphy, my
old comrade?” boomed the sumo-sized Ukranian, pounding Mac on the back with a
large, callused hand as if they were old friends. “Where have you been hiding?
Have not seen you for very long time. Where have you been? In jail or
something?” He laughed heartily at his own joke and didn’t seem to be bothered
that no one else in the group was laughing.
    “Something,” replied Mac,
slipping into his blank, uncommunicative, boring stare routine. Mac had no time
to waste on this particular obnoxious Russian. The Ukranian essayed another
equally humorless joke, but Mac met it with the same glazed eyes and lack of
laughter. Twice more the golem tried, and twice more MacMurphy fielded the tasteless
questions with monosyllabic grunts. During the awkward silence that ensued, Mac
drifted away from the group. Behind him, he heard the SVR station chief mutter, “… asshole…. ”
     
    Chapter Seventeen
     
    M acMurphy stepped out onto the
balcony, where it was cooler, and briefly watched one of the cooks busily
barbecuing chicken wings and shish kabobs on a large grill. He couldn’t resist
the scent and plucked a shish kabob directly off the grill. It was difficult to
eat the thing gracefully, without dripping grease on his suit, but he was
concentrating on doing his best at it when he noticed the group of Chinese
officials at the far end of the balcony. They were dressed alike in gray Mao
jackets, keeping to themselves. Huang Tsung-yao was among them.
    Even though dressed in the drab
outfit favored by the late Chairman Mao, Huang stood out from the three other
men. He was tall by Chinese standards, slightly taller than Mac, and his
aristocratic wiry frame seemed to vibrate with barely suppressed energy. His
dark eyes gleamed with intelligence and he had the bearing and presence of a
natural leader. He was obviously the Alpha-male in the group.
    Watching them, Mac knew that
nothing was more boring than a group of Chinese diplomats at a cocktail party.
They tended to huddle together and most of them either had limited social
skills or were apprehensive about being overly chummy with foreigners. In any
event, Mac wanted to get Huang alone, so he made eye contact with Huang and
then drifted off to the other end of the balcony to wait for him.
    Mac stood at the balcony railing
and looked up into the clear night. The luminous moon seemed to take up more
than its fair share of the sky, and stars spread out over the rest of the black
velvet firmament like glitter spread by an over-enthusiastic three-year-old.
Only in Africa could the sky be displayed the way it was tonight.
    As he considered with trepidation
the night’s recruitment pitch to Huang, he briefly thought about other
recruitment operations he had orchestrated since arriving in the field. None
had been quite like the situation he faced this evening with Huang.
    Mac had excelled during his
recruitment training down at The Farm, and he had already racked up three solid
hard-target recruitments during his first tour in Addis. And that was precisely
why he did not want to pitch Huang this evening. You needed to identify
vulnerabilities or susceptibilities in your target before moving into the
recruitment phase.
    In Huang’s case there were no
such vulnerabilities or weaknesses to prey upon. He had no children to educate.
He was a rising star in the MSS, seemed actually to enjoy the Spartan life of a
third world diplomat, and was extremely proud of his Chinese heritage. There
was nothing that MacMurphy or anyone else had found that would indicate in the
slightest way that Huang would betray his country for money or anything else.
    Mac had spent hours