Free Able One by Ben Bova Page A

over, gray and gloomy. Yet she felt excited, eager.
    How often had she used this suite over the past few years? she wondered idly. It fit perfectly her need for an informal meeting place, a spot where she could chat quietly in privacy with men or women who preferred to stay safely out of the glare of publicity, a place where she could develop the back-channel contacts of her own, without the State Department bureaucracy’s officious meddling. The Jefferson was perfect: downtown, close to the White House, old, elegant, and very discreet.
    After leaving the White House that morning she had changed her attire for this meeting: a quietly elegant pantsuit of pearl gray over a tailored white blouse, with a small choker of pink pearls and matching earrings. She turned away from the rain-swept windows, thinking, He’ll come. He’s got to come.
    The phone on the desk buzzed, and she rushed to it before it could ring twice. The face of the young security woman down in the hotel’s lobby appeared on the screen. “Mr. Quang is on his way up, Madam Secretary.”
    The Secretary’s pulse quickened. “Good.”
    In less than a minute the doorbell chimed. The Secretary of State crossed the thickly carpeted sitting room and admitted a portly, blank-faced Chinese. He was wearing a dark business suit, white starched shirt, pale blue necktie--and a tiny red star pin on his lapel.
    He bowed slightly as she ushered him into the sitting room. The Secretary of State said, “Mr. Quang, it’s good of you to come on such short notice.”
    His bland expression warmed slightly into a tentative smile. “Madam Secretary, there’s no need for formalities,” he said in perfect American English. “I understand the gravity of the situation.”
    Gesturing to one of the comfortable armchairs in front of the dark, unlit fireplace, the Secretary of State said, “We’ve been unable to establish a reliable communications link with Beijing. Your ambassador seems unable to give us a clear picture of what’s going on there.”
    Quang nodded as he settled into the chair. “I would think there is great turmoil in Beijing at this moment.”
    “They prefer not to talk to us?”
    “They prefer” --he hesitated a heartbeat, searching for a word-- “not to commit themselves.”
    The Secretary of State took the armchair facing Quang’s and studied his round, almond-eyed face. How many times have we met like this? she asked herself. How many times have we cut through the red tape and talked clearly and honestly to one another? She had known Quang since she’d first visited Beijing, back when she’d been a law student with political ambitions and he a fast-rising industrial tycoon. She realized that, in truth, she owed much of her advancement to the private, authoritative back-channel link he offered to the highest levels of the Chinese government.
    “Have you been able to reach the chairman?” asked the Secretary of State. “Or any of the council members?”
    With a modest smile, Quang replied, “As you know, I am merely a businessman. I have no position in the government.”
    “You are the chairman’s brother-in-law.”
    His smile widened slightly. “A brother-in-law is usually without much influence.”
    The Secretary leaned slightly toward him, her fists clenched on her lap. “You’re the best link I have to the chairman. You’ve got to help us avert a nuclear war!”
    Quang’s smile faded. “I will do whatever I can, of course.”
    “Did the People’s Republic of China provide nuclear weapons to North Korea?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Are you certain?”
    Quang’s eyes shifted slightly, then refocused on the Secretary. “I can tell you this much. Three nuclear warheads were smuggled into the DPRK from Russia last month.”
    “Last month! And your government didn’t inform us!”
    “We confirmed the information only two days ago. The council was debating what our response should be when the Koreans set off one of the warheads in