Power Curve (27 page)

Without a word, he lifted the drum and looped its thick leather strap over a shoulder. He beat the drum with a slow cadence. Liz turned to face the camera. Behind her, the women were chanting, “No more wars, Maddy! No more wars!”

Liz’s tip had been accurate, and she had the story. She spoke into her microphone. “In this unusual alliance, we may be seeing the birth of an antiwar movement.” The sounding drum reached across Pennsylvania Avenue and wrapped around the White House.

Paris, France

“H
ow’s the jet lag?” Mazie Hazelton asked. It was late morning the next day and the hurried trip from Washington had been hectic.

“As long as I can stretch out and sleep,” Bender answered, “it’s not a problem.”

“You’re lucky,” she said. “I lose my appetite, can’t eat, can’t sleep, and get edgy.” She looked out the Lincoln’s window as they left the city limits of Paris and drove to the chateaux where Wang Mocun was waiting. “I think we’re expecting too much,” she said. “We’ll probably see a repeat of the last meeting so Wang can recover some face.”

“So you don’t think we can get them to recognize an air corridor?”

“Very doubtful,” she answered. “But it would be a very positive step, which could lead to other breakthroughs.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” They rode in silence until they reached the chateaux. The same group of dark-suited young men were waiting to escort them to the meeting room. As before. Bender entered from his side of the room at the same moment Wang entered from his. They both sat, and Bender spoke the required opening lines. But Wang wasn’t reading from the same script and began a long monologue accusing the United States of unwarranted
aggression. Bender listened while the translator murmured in his ear. Wang reached a resounding crescendo, paused, took a deep breath, and said, “The People’s Republic of China awaits your apology, General Bender.”

“You forgot to say ‘Yankee air pirate,’” Bender said.

A flurry of Chinese broke out across the table, and he chanced a sideways glance at Hazelton. Her face was impassive, but her eyes were dancing with amusement. “We fail to understand the term
Yankee air pirate
,” Wang replied.

“The North Vietnamese liked to call us that,” Bender told him. “I will, of course, relay your comments to my government.” He closed his folder and capped his pen.

“General Bender,” Wang said, “it was our understanding that you were here to negotiate for your government, not relay messages.”

“My discretionary powers match yours, and I can negotiate on matters of mutual concern. But I did not come here to listen to propaganda.” He stood to leave. “It was our understanding that the air corridor between Okinawa and the Japanese mainland was a de facto arrangement because you did
not
mention it at our first meeting. We wish to avoid future misunderstandings of this nature. Please tell your government that we deeply regret this incident because it could have been avoided by a prompt and timely agreement here.”

Wang’s face paled. He had to produce results for his masters in Beijing if he was to survive, and Bender had him by the diplomatic short hairs. Bender instinctively understood and decided to jerk those hairs harder. “As you know, Minister Wang, I am a fighter pilot. I am deeply distressed when I see so many good men die in such a senseless manner. But, given what appears to be a fundamental misunderstanding, for us to continue here, I must present my government with a sign of your good intentions.”

“What would you suggest?” Wang asked.

“I can initial an agreement that recognizes the security of all existing air corridors over international waters.”

“Of course,” Wang said, “that would include any de facto corridors into Okinawa.” He allowed a little smile.
“And what would that gain my government, General Bender?”

Bender fixed Wang with the coldest look he could muster. “Our agreement not to embargo your commercial aircraft flying to and from international destinations.”

“The international community will never allow that,” Wang said.

“I merely wanted to suggest that an embargo is an option”—again, the cold look—“which we will consider.” A hard silence ruled the room as the two men looked at each other.

“We will have an answer to you shortly,” Wang finally said.

Who’s the messenger service?
Bender wondered.
Maybe it’s time I make that point
. “Ah, yes,” he said, his tone patronizing, “I see. I leave for Washington late tomorrow morning. If you do not have a reply by men, please forward your response through normal diplomatic channels.”

The meeting was over, and Hazelton followed him out to the waiting limousine. She settled into the seat and was silent until they had left the chateau. “You really worked Wang over in there.”

“Mazie, unless I am sadly mistaken, he was the one who came out swinging.”

“His opening remarks were mostly pro forma, and when he ended by demanding an apology, you should have done the same. But you completely ignored him and bashed him silly with the biggest bat you could find.”

“I see,” he said. “So what did I do to our chances of negotiating an air corridor?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Wang is very upset, and there is no true quid pro quo. You offered not to do something we wouldn’t have done in the first place.”

“You mean the threat to embargo their commercial aircraft.”

“Wang probably read it as an empty threat,” Hazelton said.

“Then I screwed up in there.”

“It’s too early to tell. But you may have given Wang the leverage he needs to pry an agreement on the air corridor out of Beijing.” She reached out and touched the top
of his hand. “I love the ‘Yankee air pirate’ part.” She lay back in the seat and dissolved in a fit of unladylike laughter. “The look on their faces!”

Bender managed a little smile.
What look?

Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

Bender stood by the forward door of the C-137C and waited for the boarding stairs to be pushed into position. He looked out the window of the old Boeing 707 that had once served as the original
Air Force One
and was surprised to see a White House staff car waiting behind the stairs. The chauffeur and a White House aide got out. “What’s all this for?” he asked Hazelton.

“It goes with the job,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.”

How true
, he admitted to himself. The aircraft, limousines, VIP quarters, servants—all paid for by the public—had a powerful allure and were addictive.
The trappings of power
, he reminded himself. As a general, he was used to having staff cars and aides at his beck and call. But their function was to increase his efficiency, not pamper him. The Spartan side of his nature jolted him back to reality.
This is too much
, he told himself as an image of Shaw surrounded by his sycophants, young staffers, and gorgeous women flashed in front of him. This was not for him. “Mazie, you go on ahead.” He walked forward to speak to the pilots and get in touch with the real world.

She was standing beside the limousine door, shivering in the cold, when he came down the steps. “Mazie, get in.” He chided himself for not anticipating the dictates of protocol.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “The bags are loaded and we can go.” As protocol dictated, she entered first so he would be the first out. She spoke on the phone to the aide in the front seat. “President Turner is out of town building support for her tax proposals,” she told Bender. “The secretary of state is waiting to meet with you.” She extracted her leather-bound notebook from her briefcase, and they reviewed her notes, making good use of the time. The
limousine drove directly to the State Department and pulled up at the basement entrance. Her husband was waiting for them.

Everything about Wentworth Hazelton shouted East Coast establishment: impeccable suit, old but well-brushed wingtip shoes, and his hair cut to the Kennedy image. He was in his early thirties, younger than Mazie, and considered one of the comers in the State Department. “Secretary Francis has been with the Chinese ambassador and is furious,” he told her. “I don’t know why, but it must be tied to Paris.” He escorted them to the secretary’s large and ornate office. “Be careful,” he warned.

Nothing in Barnett Francis’s words or actions betrayed his anger as they shook hands and tea was poured. Wentworth sat off to the side, his black Mont Blanc fountain pen poised over his notebook. “Well, General Bender,” Francis finally said, coming to the reason for the hurried meeting. “We seem to be working at cross-purposes. Whenever I appear to be making headway with the Chinese, your talks in Paris get in the way. This must stop.”

Bender did not reply as Francis cataloged his list of woes in negotiating with the Chinese.

“With all due respect,” Bender said, “the Chinese want to negotiate while they whittle away at the Japanese. I am demanding a show of good faith to stop their salami tactics.”

“I do not subscribe to the so-called salami tactics you are so enthralled with,” Francis said. “The Chinese do have a valid historical basis for their actions. Taiwan was always part of China.”

“But not Okinawa,” Bender replied. “It was an independent kingdom until the Japanese annexed it by force in 1879.”

“Considering the strong Chinese elements in Okinawan culture,” Francis said, “the Chinese claim to Okinawa is not without merit.” Francis droned on about peaceful accommodation between the two countries. Suddenly, Bender’s head came up when he saw where Francis’s long speech was leading. He glanced at Mazie’s notepad.

“We got the air corridor” was written in big block letters.

“Mr. Secretary,” Bender said, “I take it we have an air corridor.”

“No,” Francis replied. “But the president has received a message from Chairman Lu.” Mazie Hazelton underlined the words on her notepad.

The dining room in the State Department was still full as the afternoon break for tea drew to a close. Bender sat across the table from Mazie and Wentworth wondering if he and Nancy had been the same at their age. The two were careful to maintain the formal, public dignity required by their professions when they were together, but underneath there was passion. The little touches of the hand, the veiled looks, the little smile at a twist of words, were all there.
Were we so obvious?
he wondered. “Why is Francis so angry about the air corridor?” he asked.

Wentworth answered. “Because State had nothing to do with it. You presented Secretary Francis with a done deal and you get all the credit. He merely takes care of the paperwork.”

Bender shook his head in disgust. “Let him take the credit as long as we get the corridor.”

“But it puts him in your camp,” Wentworth replied. “State has split into two factions on this issue. One group is pro-Chinese and is pressing for negotiations while the pro-Japanese faction wants direct intervention.”

“Many at Foggy Bottom,” Mazie added, “are backing the Chinese because they are anti-Japanese and believe this can serve as an object lesson. The disagreement runs very deep and is bordering on the edge of internecine warfare.”

“It sounds like department politics are driving our country’s foreign policy,” Bender said.

“That’s the way most of our government works,” Wentworth said. “Actually, the disagreement here is much worse than Mazie said. It is becoming quite bloody.”

Bender looked around the room at the protodiplomats practicing their best manners. “I don’t think anyone is in much danger,” he replied. “I can’t say the same about our people on Okinawa.”

With the president out of town, the White House was in an automatic mode of operation. The day-to-day routines went on, the tourists were ushered through the state rooms with brisk efficiency, and the mansion hummed with activity. But it lacked the tension, the crackling movement, the lively spirit that flowed from the Oval Office. The announcement that the president was returning early sent a shot of adrenaline through the staff, and a hushed anticipation held them in place, waiting for her return.

For Bender, it was a chance to get some much needed exercise, and he went to the gym for some one-on-one basketball with Chuck Sanford, the older of the two Secret Service agents permanently assigned to his watch. The exercise felt good, and Sanford was playing to win, which Bender liked. Sweat flew off his face as he broke around Sanford and pressed into the basket. But Sanford cut him off and took the ball away from him in a very aggressive move. He took the ball out and pounded in for a clean shot, sinking the ball. “You’re down by two,” Sanford puffed. “You don’t stand a chance now, General.” He was right and rebounded the next shot to score again. They walked off the court where Brian was waiting, dressed in gym togs and bouncing a ball.

“Want to shoot some hoops?” Brian asked.

“Sure, why not?” Bender answered. “I’ve got some time.” He nodded at Sanford who got the message and called Bender’s secretary to slip his next appointment. They walked onto the court and Brian shot a few warmups. Bender took a shot and sank it. “How’s school?”

“OK, I guess,” Brian replied. Bender waited. It was obvious Brian wanted to talk. “Do you know a girl named Shalandra?”

“Yep,” Bender answered. He sank another shot.

“She says you’re going to adopt her.”

“We’re sponsoring her,” Bender said. “I don’t know if you can call that adoption.” He sank another shot.

“That’s good,” Brian said. “One of my buddies says she’s a whore and he’s screwed her.”

Bender missed the shot. “Guys talk,” he said retrieving the ball.
Nine days
, he thought.
She lasted nine miserable
days
. “That doesn’t make her a whore,” Bender told him. “Did your buddy give her money?” Brian shook his head. “Did you do it, too?”

Brian looked at him, his eyes pleading for understanding. Slowly, he shook his head. “But I wanted to. The other guys are calling me a faggot for not doing it.”

Damn kids
, Bender raged to himself. He wanted to tell Brian that they were trying to get at him because of his mother. “And they all had sex with her?”

“All of them say they did, but I don’t believe them.”

Bender forced a laugh. “You played it smart. Shalandra is a girl with lots of potential and lots of problems. If those guys who had intercourse with her thought she was a whore, they are dumber than a fence post for doing it”—he passed the ball to Brian, who took a shot—“which”—he continued, dribbling the ball after catching it on the rebound—“doesn’t say too much about them.” He broke to the outside and sank a long shot. “Have you told anyone else?” Again, the slow head shake in answer. “I’ll take care of it.” He fed Brian the ball and let him make a basket. “Pretty good. You going to try out for basketball?”