The results of that inquiry should be on his desk now.
He got out of the elevator on the top floor. There were three main offices here, belonging to the minister and the two vice-ministers. All three had support staff in adjacent rooms. Below this level, the headquarters organization was divided into geographical departments called desks – the US desk, the Japan desk – and technical divisions such as the signals intelligence division, the satellite intelligence division, the cyberwar division.
Kai went to his own suite of rooms, greeting secretaries and assistants as he passed through. The desks and chairs were utilitarian, made of laminated plywood and painted metal, but the computers and phones were state-of-the-art. On his own desk was a neat pile of messages from heads of Guoanbu stations in embassies around the world, replying to yesterday’s inquiry.
Before reading them he went into his private bathroom, took off his cycling clothes and showered. He kept a dark-grey suit here, one made for him by a Beijing tailor who had trained in Naples and knew how to achieve the relaxed modern look. He had brought with him in his backpack a clean white shirt and a wine-red tie. He dressed quickly and emerged ready for the day’s work.
As he feared, the messages showed that the American State Department had unobtrusively conducted an energetic and comprehensive lobbying campaign with considerable success. He came to the alarming conclusion that President Green’s UN resolution was on course to be passed. He was glad he had spotted this.
The UN had little power to enforce its will but the resolution was symbolic. If passed, it would be used by Washington as anti-Chinese propaganda. By contrast, its defeat would be a boost for China.
Kai picked up the bundle of papers and crossed the hallway to the minister’s rooms. He went through the open-plan office to the personal secretary’s room and said: ‘Is he free for something urgent?’
She picked up the phone and asked. After a moment she said: ‘Vice-Minister Li Jiankang is with him, but you can go in.’
Kai made a face. He would have preferred to see the minister alone, but he could not back out now. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and went in.
The Security Minister was Fu Chuyu, a man in his mid-sixties, a long-serving and reliable stalwart of the Communist Party of China. His desk was clear except for a gold-coloured pack of cigarettes, Double Happiness brand, plus a cheap plastic lighter and an ashtray made of a military shell case. The ashtray was already half full and there was a burning cigarette perched on its rim.
Kai said: ‘Good morning, sir. Thank you for seeing me so quickly.’
Then he looked at the other occupant of the room, Li Jiankang. Kai said nothing but his expression asked: What’s he doing here?
Fu picked up his cigarette, drew on it, blew out smoke, and said: ‘Li and I were just talking. But tell me why you wanted to see me.’
Kai explained about the UN resolution.
Fu looked grave. ‘This is a problem,’ he said. He did not thank Kai.
‘I’m glad I learned of it early,’ Kai said, making the point that he had sounded the warning before anyone else. ‘I think there’s still time to put matters right.’
‘We need to discuss this with the foreign minister.’ Fu looked at his watch. ‘The trouble is I’ve got to fly to Shanghai now.’
Kai said: ‘I’ll be happy to inform the Foreign Ministry, sir.’
Fu hesitated. He probably did not want Kai to speak directly to the minister: it put Kai on too high a level. The downside of being a princeling was that others resented it. Fu favoured Li, who was a traditionalist like himself. But he could not cancel a trip to Shanghai just to stop Kai talking to the foreign minister.
Reluctantly, Fu said: ‘Very well.’
Kai turned to leave, but Fu stopped him. ‘Before you go . . .’
‘Sir.’
‘Sit down.’
Kai sat. He had a bad feeling.
Fu turned to Li. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell Chang Kai what you told me a few minutes ago.’
Li was not much younger than the minister and he, too, was smoking. Both men had their hair cut like Mao’s, thick on the top and sides cut short. They wore the stiff boxy suits preferred by traditional old Communists. Kai had no doubt that they both regarded him as a dangerous young radical who needed to be kept in check by older, more experienced men.
Li said: ‘I’ve had a report from the Beautiful Films studio.’
Kai felt a cold hand grip his heart. Li’s job was to monitor discontented Chinese citizens, and he had found one in the place where Ting worked. It was almost certain to be someone close to Ting, if not herself. She was no subversive – in fact, she was not very interested in politics – but she was incautious, and sometimes said what came into her mind without pausing to reflect.