daily events, and the atmosphere of suspicion, fear, and paranoia in the city was palpable.
No wonder Uncle Joe was jealous.
Voroshenin tipped back the rest of his vodka and then heard Leotov’s distinctive knock. The man taps on a door like a mouse, Voroshenin thought — timid and tentative. As the months in this frigid open-air prison went by, Voroshenin found his chief assistant more and more annoying.
Then again, he thought, Beijing is making us all crazy.
“Come in.”
Leotov opened the door and stuck only his head through, as if making doubly sure he’d received permission to enter. “It’s time for the three o’clock briefing.”
“Yes, it’s three o’clock.”
Leotov minced his slight frame over to the desk and stood there until Voroshenin said, “Sit down.”
We do this every afternoon, Voroshenin thought. Every damn afternoon at three o’clock you stand in front of my desk and every damn afternoon at three o’clock I tell you to sit down. Could you not just once come in and plant your skinny ass down in the chair without an invitation?
I’m going stir crazy, he thought.
I need a woman.
“So, what’s new in the asylum today?” he asked.
Leotov blinked, then hesitated. Was this some sort of rhetorical trap that would get him denounced and then purged?
“The briefing?” Voroshenin prodded.
Leotov sighed with relief. He ran down the usual goings-on, the reports from moles in the endless Chinese committee meetings, the Chinese Defense Ministry’s thoughts on the stalemate in Korea, the latest round of executions of corrupt officials and counterrevolutionaries, then added, “And a new Westerner arrived in the city.”
Voroshenin was bored out of his mind. “Indeed. Who?”
“One Michel Guibert.”
“Only one?”
“Yes.”
Leotov was devoid of humor. A literal-minded drone of the sort we seem to crank out like tractor gears, Voroshenin thought. And completely useless as a chess opponent — plodding, unimaginative, and tediously predictable. Maybe I should have him arrested and interrogated just for amusement. “Go on.”
“A French national. The son of an arms dealer with ties to the French Communist Party. The father was apparently quite useful to the Resistance.”
“Weren’t they all, after the fact?” Voroshenin said. “That was a rhetorical question, Leotov, it doesn’t call for you to come up with a correct response. I couldn’t bear watching you attempt it. What’s this Guibert doing in Beijing?”
“We don’t exactly know,” Leotov answered. “But we do know he’s having dinner with General Liu’s aide, a certain Colonel Yu, tonight.”
Well, that’s interesting, Voroshenin thought. A French fellow-traveler, an arms dealer, being received by a high-ranking officer in the Defense Ministry. Surely the Chinese aren’t looking to buy weapons from the French. But it must be a matter of some urgency, otherwise the Chinese would make this Guibert sit on his hands for weeks, just to improve their bargaining position. They would make him work his way up through multiple levels of bureaucracy before getting to an important general like Liu, if he ever got there at all. So, for a high-level officer like Yu to host Guibert on the first day …
“Where is this dinner?” Voroshenin asked.
“In the banquet room of the Beijing Hotel.”
“A banquet, is it?”
“Apparently.”
Voroshenin stared at him. “Do I detect irony, Vasili?”
“Certainly not.”
Voroshenin frowned until little dots of sweat emerged on Leotov’s upper lip. Satisfied, he said, “Get on the phone to Liu’s secretary and tell him that my invitation was apparently lost and I need to know what time I should show up.”
“Do you think he will —”
“We pay him enough, don’t we?” Voroshenin snapped. “He can come up with an invitation to a lousy dinner. Just tell him to strangle another chicken or press another duck, or whatever the hell it is these people do.”
“Yes,
No wonder Uncle Joe was jealous.
Voroshenin tipped back the rest of his vodka and then heard Leotov’s distinctive knock. The man taps on a door like a mouse, Voroshenin thought — timid and tentative. As the months in this frigid open-air prison went by, Voroshenin found his chief assistant more and more annoying.
Then again, he thought, Beijing is making us all crazy.
“Come in.”
Leotov opened the door and stuck only his head through, as if making doubly sure he’d received permission to enter. “It’s time for the three o’clock briefing.”
“Yes, it’s three o’clock.”
Leotov minced his slight frame over to the desk and stood there until Voroshenin said, “Sit down.”
We do this every afternoon, Voroshenin thought. Every damn afternoon at three o’clock you stand in front of my desk and every damn afternoon at three o’clock I tell you to sit down. Could you not just once come in and plant your skinny ass down in the chair without an invitation?
I’m going stir crazy, he thought.
I need a woman.
“So, what’s new in the asylum today?” he asked.
Leotov blinked, then hesitated. Was this some sort of rhetorical trap that would get him denounced and then purged?
“The briefing?” Voroshenin prodded.
Leotov sighed with relief. He ran down the usual goings-on, the reports from moles in the endless Chinese committee meetings, the Chinese Defense Ministry’s thoughts on the stalemate in Korea, the latest round of executions of corrupt officials and counterrevolutionaries, then added, “And a new Westerner arrived in the city.”
Voroshenin was bored out of his mind. “Indeed. Who?”
“One Michel Guibert.”
“Only one?”
“Yes.”
Leotov was devoid of humor. A literal-minded drone of the sort we seem to crank out like tractor gears, Voroshenin thought. And completely useless as a chess opponent — plodding, unimaginative, and tediously predictable. Maybe I should have him arrested and interrogated just for amusement. “Go on.”
“A French national. The son of an arms dealer with ties to the French Communist Party. The father was apparently quite useful to the Resistance.”
“Weren’t they all, after the fact?” Voroshenin said. “That was a rhetorical question, Leotov, it doesn’t call for you to come up with a correct response. I couldn’t bear watching you attempt it. What’s this Guibert doing in Beijing?”
“We don’t exactly know,” Leotov answered. “But we do know he’s having dinner with General Liu’s aide, a certain Colonel Yu, tonight.”
Well, that’s interesting, Voroshenin thought. A French fellow-traveler, an arms dealer, being received by a high-ranking officer in the Defense Ministry. Surely the Chinese aren’t looking to buy weapons from the French. But it must be a matter of some urgency, otherwise the Chinese would make this Guibert sit on his hands for weeks, just to improve their bargaining position. They would make him work his way up through multiple levels of bureaucracy before getting to an important general like Liu, if he ever got there at all. So, for a high-level officer like Yu to host Guibert on the first day …
“Where is this dinner?” Voroshenin asked.
“In the banquet room of the Beijing Hotel.”
“A banquet, is it?”
“Apparently.”
Voroshenin stared at him. “Do I detect irony, Vasili?”
“Certainly not.”
Voroshenin frowned until little dots of sweat emerged on Leotov’s upper lip. Satisfied, he said, “Get on the phone to Liu’s secretary and tell him that my invitation was apparently lost and I need to know what time I should show up.”
“Do you think he will —”
“We pay him enough, don’t we?” Voroshenin snapped. “He can come up with an invitation to a lousy dinner. Just tell him to strangle another chicken or press another duck, or whatever the hell it is these people do.”
“Yes,
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