Orienting to the Orient

Outside in the Manor terrace, happily buried in Sir Thomas Browne's Discourse on Sepulchral Urns, I didn't hear the phone ring.

Irving did, came out, and handed me the receiver. His look told me that poor Sir Thomas was going to get short shrift.

I took the receiver, and heard one word: "Ernestine."

Shit! I thought. That was the code to place a call. Work. I left the terrace, and went to my office to use the secure line.

"Well?"

"The Chinese want to talk to you." Harry, my handler, always came right to the point.

"Do I want to talk to them?"

"You do. And soon."

"Visas," I replied, "particularly that visa, take time."

"Won't be necessary. They have arranged a meeting in Toronto. At the Consulate. It's on St. George --"

"I know where it is. When?"

"Tonight. At eight o'clock. You will be met by a Mr. Wen."

"I would have thought at the least it would be Hu Jintao."

"Always the idiotic remark." Harry had never appreciated anything approaching a lightness of touch. He continued, "But go there alone, and leave that Mossad butler of yours at home."

"Which could mean that I won't get back to home."

"You will. This has been discussed. Oh, and wear something pretty. Mr. Wen is drawn to the female figure."

"Harry, what a sexist thing -- " But the line had gone dead.

Irving, of course, was determined to accompany me. We compromised on his being somewhere in the area.

Following Harry's directions, I took a bit more time with my wardrobe. My Donna Karan black pencil skirt, with a silk Givenchy blouse, would do nicely. For shoes I chose the Milano Blahniks, the pair that that harridan at Chicago O'Hare had tried to scoff last month. I debated whether to insert my small Beretta into my bag -- Prada of course -- but decided against it. Harry would have warned me if all wasn't on the up and up, and his information tended to be accurate. Not many have deceived Harry, and those that did have lived to regret it.

Ahmed drove me to the Consulate, dropped me off, and went to park somewhere to await a call from me to get picked up. As I approached the Consulate, I looked around for Irving, but of course he was nowhere to be seen. But I knew he was there.

I was welcomed in by an elderly gentleman, and taken to a meeting room somewhere towards the rear of the building. There I was greeted by a person who introduced himself as Mr. Wen. He appeared older than the man who had shown me in, and I wondered if the Chinese diplomatic corps had a policy of not allowing anyone to serve until they had been properly aged. Like cheeses.

"Ah, Lady Simone," he began "a real pleasure. Please, sit down." He took the adjacent chair, and looked me up and down, looks that would be more appropriate at a slave auction.

"Mr. Wen," I replied, ignoring his ogling, "I understand you wished to see me. Might I enquire what it is about?"

"You Westerners always want to rush things," he sighed. "However, when in Rome -- what do you know about North Korea?"

The question was so abrupt I was momentarily off-guard. "Uh, not a great deal. It's not a place to visit or vacation in."

"But you have visited. A year ago, if I have it right."

Had Harry let this slip? I doubted it. More likely this was straightforward intelligence work by the Chinese themselves. In any event, there would be little point in denying the matter.

"I may have spent a minuscule amount of time there."

"And wrote a report. This is a copy. Your employers were good enough to make it available."

Good Lord, so it was Harry after all. Wonder what he got in return?

"Well," I said, "if you've seen the report, why this meeting?"

"To clarify one or two things. And to get any further advice you may care to offer. Our government is aware of some of your -- activities -- and is impressed."

"I can't wait to get a card of commendation from President Hu."

"Our information also mentions that you are a bit of a smart ass, but let that pass. What we are interested in is any further thoughts that you have had on the situation, or information that might not have been in your report."

I thought for a moment.

"There were only two items I withheld," I said, "on the grounds they were ludicrous. One was the fact that Kim Jong Il, the Dear Leader, plays with Barbie dolls. The other was his huge crush on Jennifer Aniston. This didn't seem to be of earth-shaking importance."

"You may have erred there. But things are, how do you say, heating up. I would be interested in what suggestions you might have to, er, relieve things somewhat."

There are several things the People's Republic might do. All of them dangerous. You must realize that the Dear Leader is bat-shit crazy --"

"What? I don't understand the term."

"He's loco. Deranged. Therefore, my first and really only suggestion is to deal with the generals that surround him. They've got to be worried as well, and they can't all be as nuts as Kim. You do have contact with some of the generals, surely. God knows we don't."

"It's an avenue we have been looking at."

I crossed my legs, which got his full attention. "Do more than look, " I stated. "Much more. And that's really all I can give you. Now some tea would be nice. Oolong."

"Certainly. You have been most helpful. You know, should you ever decide to settle down in the East --"

"Doubtful. I am content right here. And I remember my Kipling."

"How so?"

I'm sure you know the lines, and I recited:

"At the end of a flight is a tombstone, with the name of the late deceased;
And the epitaph drear: 'A fool lies here, who tried to hustle the East.'"

He nodded, rose, and said."I'll arrange for the tea. And Lady Simone, I really don't think you're a hustler."

I thought, don't be too sure of that, Mr. Wen.