“Three things, Betty,” Ryan said. “Ask Arnie to come back in, would you please? Then get Gary Montgomery and Ted Randall to come see me. Lastly, have Communications set up a call for me with the president of Indonesia as soon as it can be arranged.”
Montgomery was the special agent in charge of Ryan’s Secret Service detail. Randall was the director of the White House Military Office, the man who coordinated travel with Special Air Mission — the planes that served as Air Force One.
Foley took a deep breath. “Jack, it’s a little early in the game for you to be rushing off to Indonesia. There’s still a lot we don’t know.”
“Believe me”—Ryan gave a disdainful shake of his head—“Secret Service, White House Advance, HMX-1, and everyone else who has to jump through hoops for my travel will be happy that I’m letting them know now.”
“
“They’re pros,” Ryan said. “And I’ll know more once I talk to President Gumelar. In the meantime, we have to find out what this Mr. Ackerman knows.”
“Jack,” Mary Pat said softly. “There is an avenue we haven’t explored.”
Ryan gave a slow nod, reaching a conclusion.
“To be honest,” he said, “I was just considering using them on this.”
“I wouldn’t be doing my job as your adviser and friend if I didn’t bring it up,” Foley said. “But I would be equally culpable if I didn’t remind you that you should ponder hard on Arnie’s advice. This scenario could be exactly what Senator Chadwick is looking for.”
“Let me worry about her,” Ryan said. “Ackerman could be the key. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not too keen on waiting around on bureaucracy while Father Pat stews in an Indonesian prison. I want Ackerman located ten minutes ago. They’ll be able to do it quickly and cleanly.”
“Understood, Mr. President,” Foley said. “I’ll make the call.”
General Song Biming sat in one of the plastic chairs at the back of the great hall, as far as possible from the heavier lapels who occupied the foremost rows. In a gathering of this many high-ranking generals, those like Song, who wore only a single star, might well be asked to serve the tea.
There was no assigned seating, but generals of the five theater commands, rocket forces, and other assorted three-stars customarily took the softer seats directly in front of the raised dais along with PLA Navy admirals at the chairman’s feet. The boot-licking sycophant, Lieutenant General Bai, sat among them.
Chairman Zhao did not seem to care who sat where, so long as they attended his mandatory meetings when they were in Beijing. The civilian commander in chief of the Central Military Commission liked to stay in contact with his leaders, looking them directly in the eye, checking their pulses — and their impulses — to see what they were up to. Military leaders could smell weakness, and there were many who would pounce on Zhao at the slightest stumble if he let them. Chairman Zhao understood this, and displayed his power periodically, figuratively cutting off the head of some person who thought himself indispensable. These sacrificial lambs were always a drain on the party, unloved by their peers, but often highly placed with important — but not so important as to make a difference — families. Song was reminded of the story when the emperor challenged Sun Tzu, the great Chinese warrior philosopher, to train the emperor’s concubines to march in formation like soldiers. Sun Tzu had taken up the challenge. The tittering women had shown up on the parade field, spoiled and hungover from drink. Try as he might, the great warrior could not get the concubines to listen to his direction — until he asked which among them was the emperor’s favorite. A sly-eyed woman had slinked forward, only to have Sun Tzu immediately draw his sword and cut off the favorite’s head. The other concubines fell quickly into line, marching in perfect order in no time.
Chairman Zhao was a benevolent dictator, but no one around him was ever completely safe from being turned into a lesson. Even benevolent people had bad days, suffered lapses in judgment, lost their tempers. As chairman of the Central Military Commission, general secretary of the Chinese Communist Party, and paramount leader, there were few aspects of Chinese life where Zhao did not exercise near-absolute control. One bad day affected many careers — many lives. Heavy was the crown, as the saying went, but over the years he’d developed an extremely strong neck while consolidating his presidency.
