Free The Mandarin Club by Gerald Felix Warburg

whispered firmly. “You need to get the show on the road.”
    “Just one sec here.” Smithson was calmly steering them into a corner now, fellow staffers amused as they shuffled out through the impossibly heavy door, leaving the two of them alone. “Just want to make sure we’re all on the same page with this proliferation hit.”
    “Senator,” said Booth, “it’s a two-fer. You get news—above the fold, maybe—about the Iranian nuclear program. And you stick it to the Administration for being blind to promiscuous Chinese exports.”
    “Now Martin, I’m with you.” (Except for Booth’s spouse, only the senator used his given name.) “I’m just wondering about the time and place you’ve chosen for the hit. You certain this is the best forum?”
    “Sure,” Booth replied. “It tees up your Los Angeles speech. We may get a two-day bounce on the West Coast. And it sets the agenda for when you do the New York Times editorial board.”
    “You’re comfortable with sourcing?”
    “None of it is U.S. government origin,” Booth said. “So you’re not divulging any classified matter.”
    “But if you did get it from Langley, it would be?” Smithson asked.
    Booth tried not to be defensive as he struggled with the senator’s point. “They can’t just classify any fact that’s in the public domain, and then say nobody can discuss it.”
    Smithson paused to reflect as a head peered back in at the two of them from the doorway. It was Senator Landle’s aide, hesitant to interrupt, but clearly sent to prod.
    “Coming right now,” Smithson said, then pressed his last questions to Booth. “Where does Hollandsworth go with this? What’s his comeback?”
    “It doesn’t matter what he comes back with, Senator.”
    “Doesn’t matter?”
    “Once you’ve made the charge, you’ve made the news,” Booth insisted. “The facts will be out there. They’ll be tied up for days responding at the State Department. You can broaden the nuclear nonproliferation theme while they’re backing and filling.”
    Smithson tapped the papers in his hand with his pencil. “OK, my friend. Let’s rock and roll.”
    They strode out into the lights together, a bit of an odd couple. Smithson, the former astronaut, had the trustworthy face of a TV anchorman. Soft, ruddy features. Friendly, good neighbor eyes. He wore his warm chestnut hair long, seasoned with just enough gray to give balance to his sturdy frame kept trim through days of jogging and weekend 10k races.
    By contrast, Booth was short and heavy. His frame bespoke too many expense account lunches, too many hours behind a desk. He often appeared out of breath, as if he was a quarterback calling plays in an anxious last-minute huddle. In his graying hair, he had retained an arresting shock of red running from cowlick to forehead—a dagger-like line that hinted at his boundless energy. Amy called it his Harry Potter streak, caressing it admiringly as part of their foreplay.
    Smithson’s assault began with a disarming opening, a polished but predictable tour d’horizon. Using his best more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger tone, he surveyed the state of U.S.-Asian affairs, from Korea to Indonesia, lamenting the “lost opportunities” of unilateralist administration policies he alleged had “left the U.S. hated, and no longer respected.”
    “One is left wondering precisely which American values we stand for other than opposing terrorism. We have a growing democracy, and long time ally, in Taiwan. Yet, this administration refuses to significantly assist their defense against a Communist neighbor bent on intimidation. What if Taiwan’s deterrent fails? Then we will be forced to place American military forces in harm’s way to defend freedom.”
    In the armless chair behind Smithson, Booth was waiting to enjoy the senator’s hit.
    “And what of China’s recent export practices, aiding in the development of sophisticated weapons delivery systems by rogue nations near and far.