Free The Mandarin Club by Gerald Felix Warburg Page B

correct?”
    “Well, Mr. Chairman, these are technical issues. I think you really would have to ask the Defense Department.”
    “With all due respect, General, upholding these standards is a key goal of American foreign policy. Last time I checked, foreign policy was conducted by the Department of State. My last question, in fact, relates to diplomatic policy. What is our government’s response to the recent delivery to Iran of M-70 missiles by the Chinese?”
    “M-70 missiles?” Hollandsworth said, unflinching as he held Smithson in a prolonged stare. His military training served him well.
    “M-70’s, yes.” Smithson was intent upon his target now.
    “M-70 missiles.”
    “Yes, Mr. Secretary. M-70 missiles. To Iran.”
    An aide was whispering in Hollandsworth’s ear from the first row of chairs behind him. Smithson was infinitely patient. Senator Landle darted back in through the doorway to the anteroom. He stood just behind Smithson at the dais now, engaged in a hasty conference with his legislative assistant.
    Hollandsworth spoke with deliberation: “Senator, some of these matters might best be briefed to the committee by others. These matters are quite sensitive.”
    “My question relates to diplomatic response. China is helping an unstable nation, a nation still in a state of declared war with the United States, to acquire delivery systems for weapons of mass destruction. What is to be our response?”
    “Mr. Chairman, if I may.” It was Landle, playing defense for the administration as he leaned down into his mike from a standing position. “Perhaps, if we’re going to deal with classified matters, this might be a subject for a closed session.”
    “Tom, there’s a legitimate policy issue here,” Smithson insisted. He knew it was the question—and the evidence now out in the general pub-lic—that mattered far more than the response. “China is in bed with Iran’s weapons program. Again. There’s been no refutation of the evidence by the administration witness here. Let’s see. . .”
    Smithson peered over his glasses at his notes before he continued. “Thirty missiles delivered in port last March the twenty-fourth, wasn’t it? My question is really quite simple. How is the administration going to respond to this latest Chinese outrage?”
    Hollandsworth and Landle were unmoved. Once more now in the silence, Booth could detect the wail of distant sirens growing louder . Was the president’s motorcade due on Capitol Hill for some meeting?
    “Mis-ter Chair-man,” the Assistant Secretary finally began, the twang of his Carolina accent prolonging the honorific. “The development of options in response to a hypothetical threat to U.S. national interests is a complicated matter. The allegation you are making in this public forum raises serious considerations. Let us examine them carefully one by one. . .”
    Thus, the filibuster was launched. Chairman Smithson had already pressed the limits of decorum. Now, he would be paid back in kind. He received a response so long and obtuse that, even as Hollandsworth ploughed forward, the timing lights governing Smithson’s five-minute question round shifted from green to yellow.
    A sharp commotion erupted in the back room, heard through the now open doorway. Within moments, aides and senators alike were chattering and passing notes, then disappearing into the anteroom. Smithson remained intent on his stare-down with Hollandsworth. The State Department official showed no signs of wrapping up, even as the disturbance spread to the press tables behind him and to his left. Few were still paying any attention to Hollandsworth’s remarks.
    “What the hell is going on?” Smithson muttered to Booth, who had just been handed a pink phone message slip he was beginning to read.
    “An explosion. There was. . . was some type of explosion across from the Treasury Department.” Booth spoke in an anxious whisper, his voice catching. “Senator, they say