The Ninja and the Diplomat, page 21
part #2 of The Chinese Spymaster Series
“Weren’t the followers of the Dao often hermits who retired from towns and cities to work on wonder-making powers, including the drug to give man immortality?” persisted the lone voice.
Everyone else was sure he was a marked man, his name remembered. But what if he should be earmarked for special promotion?
Another voice was raised. “I have been told that the Monkey King was such a Daoist, perhaps even an Immortal himself.”
The students laughed with relief, as many of them had heard similar stories from doddering old men and women, their grandparents or family friends of that generation. Some of the stories, it had to be admitted, had reappeared in many computer games.
Yu remarked seriously, as if scolding the students for levity, “The Monkey King is a character from old literature. He did not seek a better state or society. He sought to gain more powers himself, and in the end, it was proved to him and his readers, that the Buddha’s power was stronger than any he exhibited. But I want to draw your attention to a passage that you might remember reading in preparation for today:
Though the next state can be seen
And its barking and cock crows heard,
The people of one state will age and die
Without having to deal with the other.
“In what way, if any, can this be interpreted as a statement about a social or political ideal?” asked Yu.
“I don’t have an answer but a question,” remarked a third student. “I don’t understand the verses just before these that you quoted. They suggest this society or state abstains from goods or weapons that it actually has. Is that because these material things were unnecessary or because they were not good enough?”
“Indeed, a thoughtful observation,” replied Yu. “Perhaps those verses about not using weapons, chariots or ships that they have are not unrelated to the notion of the ideal society or state.”
No, we will not say anything. The professor has the answer in his mind already. If we say anything, it might be right but most likely would be wrong. It is best to say nothing and do what we do best: We look inscrutable.
“Well, let me suggest a possibility to you. You tell me if you agree or not, and try to base your arguments on the text we have read,” Yu announced. “Let us say, the ideal state or society is one in which the inhabitants are not concerned with wealth or power. They remain poor or appear so to the states around them so no one from these other states wishes to conquer or even visit them.
“On the other hand, they are so well-governed, a fact that is not visible from outside the state, no one inside the state or society wishes to leave. Is that an ideal state?”
“Who would want to live in a poor state?”
“Who could govern the state so well that no one would want to leave?”
“You need power to govern well, and if you have power, why wouldn’t you use it to enrich yourself?”
Yu interjected an occasional question or remark that served only to keep the discussion rolling along. He grinned and waved at his visitors who prepared to leave.
“It is good to see him so happy in his work,” Wang observed to Penelope Cecil, the British spy-mistress who was on an official team visit to the People’s Republic to ascertain its intentions regarding the South China Sea.
She replied, “He reminds me of the best professors I had at college. Our foreign secretary will be pleased to learn that the worst has been averted in this case. He thought highly of Ambassador Yu.”
***
“You have something planned for me this evening?” asked the spy-mistress as they were driven away.
“Of course,” replied Wang. “I hope you will like this. It is dinner with a general, a deputy commissioner of police, a diplomat doing penance, and all our wives, naturally. When you arrive, a new generation of world conquerors may or may not be awake to receive you. I have told everybody that you have been practicing your Mandarin.”
The British spy-mistress was delighted to accept, of course, but the invitation left her wondering.
Are we divided also by our different conceptions of privacy?
Did she have friends she would be comfortable including in a dinner party for Wang or any of her counterparts in the intelligence community? She reflected also on the fact that she had never been invited by any other of her counterparts to such a gathering. There had been large receptions, one particularly memorable one in Southeast Asia at which a whole lamb had been roasted expertly in an open pit and served with freshly made mint sauce. The lamb tasted as good as any she had had in the Middle East, probably because all lamb now seemed to come from the same country, New Zealand.
Then there had been numerous, very secret working dinners, at which every ingredient had been absolutely top-notch but which no one could really appreciate, despite the formal protestations of delight, because of the focus on the issues or tactics or on second-guessing.
“We usually gather at six and eat at seven and that is what we will do, although you are welcome to arrive at any time,” informed Wang. “I’ll send my car out to pick you up. It will return you to your choice of destination.”
Penelope wondered what the spymaster could possibly have meant but she knew he would remain inscrutable.
***
Everyone at the dinner, especially those seated at the table for the younger generation, was curious about the spy-mistress, what she did, how she had coped with men at work and in private. They also insisted on taking the opportunity to practice their English.
“They are so young,” she remarked after she finally extricated herself from the young people. The oldest, the general’s daughter, was paying her dues as a very junior bureaucrat and Wen’s children were in various stages of higher education.
“You should see our son,” interjected Xiao Shu. “He’s only two months old and can be peeked at after dinner.”
“This dinner is a very welcome shift of scenery from the official buildings and the Party School,” remarked the spy-mistress.
“You witnessed our diplomat at work, I believe,” said General Chen. “He will arrive shortly.”
“The disciplinary process has suspended him from the party and the MFA,” added Wen. “But we are his friends.”
“When we were boys,” explained Wang, “these two stood by me against the Red Guards who were hounding me because my father had been denounced. Now they have joined me in supporting Yu. He was China’s leading diplomat and we hope he will be again soon.”
“Was it his idea or yours to release the information about the theft from your Army supplies?” asked the spy-mistress. “That was all the news for several days.”
“No, that mischief was our spymaster’s idea,” grumbled the general. “Anticipate the medicine, he advised. He was right, of course. The recovery of the nuclear devices should further lessen the zeal of our Party inquisitors.”
“Try not to take it personally, general,” interjected Xiao Shu. “The military and the party achieved a balanced solution on maintaining oversight of your security process, I thought.”
“Have the Philippines requested your help to locate the missile launchers?” asked Penelope.
“No,” replied Wang. “I believe our ambassador there was asked to meet with the secretary of their foreign department and, in that conversation, did offer any assistance our intelligence service could give theirs.”
“Even the usual cooperation on criminal matters that we previously enjoyed seems to be waning,” lamented Wen.
“Perhaps their internal difficulties at achieving consensus are similar to ours,” remarked Wang. “Or maybe it is a diplomatic signal of their displeasure over the South Sea.”
“Shall we take a peek at your son and heir?” asked Penelope, signaling also that she would be leaving soon.
“Yes, come this way,” invited the happy mother.
In the hallway to the door the spy-mistress asked, “How do you do this, if I may be so bold as to inquire? I know that you both have very demanding and responsible jobs and wondered how you juggled both sets of responsibilities and a family.”
“We don’t mind your asking,” said Wang with a smile at Xiao Shu.
“He actually agreed with me when I told him we could have no personal secrets.”
***
Xiao Shu, I have the feeling that there is something important you have held back in all our discussions so far.
Yes, we have been able to talk freely to each other in ways I have always dreamt might be possible and should be the norm for every couple, but there is one thing that I think you and I have to feel comfortable about.
Are you afraid that we might not be?
Yes.
But if it is something very important, then we cannot NOT talk about it.
Of course, we must talk about this although we each live and work with many secrets. But we cannot have secrets from each other.
I agree!
They looked at each other for a while with concern and tenderness before she continued.
I do not need or want to know what military secrets from which country you have been able to uncover and you probably do not want to know what secret arrangements the Party has made about this province or that cooperative, but I do not think I could live knowing that there might be something that affects you or me or us both that you know and I don’t.
Again, I agree.
You do?
It seems subversive, doesn’t it?
Don’t laugh, it is very important!
We will need Senior Commissar Cai to explain properly the role of the collective versus the needs of individuals and couples, but I agree with you. We cannot have a successful marriage if we keep important things secret from each other.
I am very glad to hear you say this, and relieved also.
Relieved?
Yes, because I think I am pregnant.
***
“We do talk about other things as well, but more carefully.”
“As for having the baby, well, I had to tell my older sister, Mrs. Wen, about the possibility,” revealed Mrs. Wang. “She felt obliged to tell our mother, at which point the decision was made for us.”
Wang and she laughed. Then she continued,
“Fortunately, they have also been very helpful with our needs. If the occasion should arise in later years, everybody has told us there are good boarding schools.”
“This is not how I pictured Chinese men, somehow,” confessed Penelope. “The books paint a picture of a Chinese society that is dominated by men who are absorbed in their own careers or patriarchal clans.”
“That will remain the case,” replied Xiao Shu, “until Chinese men become more confident in themselves, stronger.”
Former Minister Yu and his wife joined the dinner party shortly before they ate, embarrassed by the courage of these friends who were determined that they should not be ostracized from Beijing society. It took the entire dinner for the couple to warm to the occasion.
“His eyes are so intensely black,” whispered the British spy-mistress to Wang. “I suppose they must be a very dark brown, since I understand that black eyes do not exist.”
“Most Asians, excluding the central Asians,” the spymaster whispered back, “have eyes that are a shade of brown.”
“So many shades,” exclaimed the spy-mistress softly.
“At least fifty,” declared the spymaster with a wink.
“I noticed,” chided Penelope, turning to address Yu with a warm smile, “that you hardly ate anything until the soup was served.”
“But then I made up for it,” declared Yu. “I think the wives conspired and arranged to have my favorite dish in the whole world served last.”
“I loved it too, but nobody warned me it would come after nine other courses,” exclaimed the spy-mistress.
“Traditionally, soup is the last dish. It is often an after-thought, but this was something my mother made whenever anyone needed what you would call comfort food. Before you ask, there is no recipe.”
“It consists of short ribs, usually pork, carrots, white winter radish, cabbage and ginger,” revealed Mrs. Yu, happy for the opportunity to join the conversation. “There are spices and sauces one could add or place in small bowls to the side, of course, but in Chinese home preparations, cooks are allowed leeway to experiment.”
“Yes, often with unsolicited comments from the diners: too salty, or pungent, or bland, or make it more like the last time,” elaborated Yu. “You are allowed five or ten years to get it right.”
Everyone laughed. As they shook hands before she left, the spy-mistress teased Wang,
“Have you really given up playing mortal combat?” It had become a private joke the time they first met. Wang had just decided to end his weekly sparring session with Sergeant Major Li.
“I have really. I just take a walk these days though I am sometimes tempted to run.”
“When you face a downhill slope,” mocked Penelope gently.
“Actually, I am more tempted when the path goes upwards.”
A contrarian, thought the spy-mistress. Is that your secret?
As if he had read her thoughts, Wang explained, “It is hard on my knees to run downhill and I find the small rises in the road on my walks irresistible.”
Contents
EXTRACT FROM The Chinese Spymaster, volume 1:Operation Kashgar
PROLOGUE
(A suburb of Beijing)
It has been said that thought makes one wise. In hand to hand combat, however, thinking kills.
Spymaster Wang clasped his right fist in his left hand and made a slight bow as Sergeant Major Li reciprocated. Both men were alike in being slim and nearly six feet tall. Wang, however, was in his early fifties, and the sparring sessions were his self-imposed tests of physical fitness. Li was not quite 30, a trainer of army special forces in the finer art of close combat. Immediately the two men began a series of slow arm and body motions. They might have been those of ordinary men and women at their morning tai-ji-quan exercises that could be observed in a park in any Chinese city. As they moved around each other in the bare, medium-sized room used for Wang’s weekly test in hand to hand combat, the pace of their movements increased until they were so fast that fists, arms and legs were all a blur.
Li made several flying and spinning kicks. At times, he used a wall or two for leverage or positioning. His blows were aimed at particular pressure points. Had these landed precisely, they would have inflicted serious bodily damage as well as pain. Some of them could have maimed or even killed the Spymaster. The style of fighting that focused on attacking an opponent’s pressure points left them with unblemished faces, but their bodies were usually covered with painful bruises after each session. Li’s footwork was sure, and no observer could have doubted or mistaken the force behind his feet, fists, and knuckles.
Wang forced his mind to empty itself of all thought.
Act without desiring the results of your action!
Japanese Zen Masters taught this mantra. Chinese Chan Masters had taught the Zen Masters, and they had learned this kernel of insight that pre-dated Lord Buddha himself. But there were so many thoughts that demanded Wang’s attention; and a lifetime of deep and disciplined thinking distinguished him from most of his predecessors and peers. Nevertheless, for now, this was the imperative of combat. The combatants relied on instinct, intuition, “muscle memory,” gongfu, qi.
A swift thrust from Li connected. He barely missed one of those pressure points as Wang made just a small sideways jerk at the last split-second. The Spymaster winced even as he continued the whirring ballet of combat. His movements could not compare in speed and athleticism with those of the Sergeant’s. He moved more economically, mostly to deflect the thrusts and kicks that the Sergeant sent in a ceaseless, apparently effortless, barrage. Once or twice, Wang whipped out a jab or slashing blow. He usually connected, though never at the intended target points. Li grunted at those instances.
Why am I doing this?
The thought burst through Wang’s grimly controlled consciousness of a void in space-time. But this thought was only a dangerous distraction. Nothing could exist for either man except the ebb and flow and eddies of their movements. Movements fast enough to be indistinct, balletic, potentially lethal.
These weekly bouts were observed by no one. Few even knew they took place. General Chen, of a nearby army corps, was one who did. Wang had asked him two years earlier for a new sparring partner, and Chen had searched among those who trained his own men in hand to hand combat. He found and recommended the Sergeant Major, who then made his weekly visits to the Spymaster’s offices. Chen was among the handful of men that the Spymaster really trusted. They had been schoolmates for a decade, and the bonds forged between ages five and fifteen had survived subsequent decades of separate political education and military training. On rare occasions, they called on each other for favors, usually when survival was at stake and such favors were critical, maybe even perilous. Finding and recommending Sergeant Li had not seemed to be such a favor.
Then, a few weeks earlier, Chen discovered that Li had a well-concealed obligation to Comrade Commissar Jiang, someone known to nurse a vicious grudge against Wang. The friends believed this was because Wang had declined to appoint a Jiang protégé as his deputy. When he learned about the obligation, Chen immediately relayed the information to his friend and was startled that Wang chose to continue the weekly exercises. Chen and Wang had so far been unable to find a convenient occasion to discuss this distressing matter.
Li also concentrated on keeping his mind from distracting his body. He was fully confident in his skill as the best trainer in hand to hand combat in General Chen’s army corps. Even though he had never defeated the Spymaster in the two years of their weekly training sessions, he knew he had the edge in strength and speed. He also knew that, despite lingering bruises, he usually recovered by the next day from each sparring session, while the Spymaster occasionally carried a sore spot or two from a prior week’s encounter. What distracted him most this day, however, was that he had received word from Comrade Commissar Jiang two weeks before that it was time to “accidentally” kill or cripple the Spymaster. In the previous two exercises with the Spymaster, he had not yet found a way physically—or morally—to do so.
