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〃So mainly we're going to be training up their instructors？〃
Clark nodded。 〃That's how I read it； yeah。〃
〃Fair enough；〃 Chavez agreed； as the lunch menu appeared。 Why was it； he wondered； that airline food never seemed to have what you wanted？ This was dinner food； not lunch food。 What the hell was wrong with a cheeseburger and fries？ Oh； well； at least he could have a decent beer。 The one thing he'd e to love about life in the UK was the beer。 There wouldn't be anything like it in Russia； he was sure。
Sunrise in Beijing was as drab as the polluted air could make it； Mark Gant thought。 For some reason he'd slipped out of synch with the local time； despite the black capsule and planned sleep。 He'd found himself awake just at first light； which fought through air that was as bad as Los Angeles on its worst…ever day。 Certainly there was no EPA in the PRC； and this place didn't even have much in the way of automobiles yet。 If that ever happened； China might solve its local population problem with mass gassing。 He hadn't been around enough to recognize this as a problem of Marxist nations…but there weren't many of them left to be examples； were there？ Gant had never smoked…it was a vice largely removed from the stock…trading munity； where the normal working stress was enough of a killer that they needed few others…and this degree of air pollution made his eyes water。
He had nothing to do and lots of time in which to do it… once awake he was never able to escape back into sleep…so he decided to flip on his reading light and go over some documents； most of which he'd been given without any particular expectation that he would read them。 The purpose of diplomacy； mander Spock had once said on Star Trek； was to prolong a crisis。 Certainly the discourse meandered enough to make the Mississippi River look like a laser beam； but like the Father of Waters； it eventually had to get downstream； or downhill； or wherever the hell it was that rivers went。 But this morning…what had awakened him？ He looked out the window； seeing the orange…pink smudge beginning to form at the horizon； backlighting the buildings。 Gant found them ugly； but he knew he just wasn't used to them。 The tenements of Chicago weren't exactly the Taj Mahal； and the wood…frame house of his youth wasn't Buckingham Palace。 Still； the sense of different…ness here was overpowering。 Everywhere you looked； things seemed alien； and he wasn't cosmopolitan enough to overe that feeling。 It was like a background buzz in the Muzak； never quite there； but never gone away either。 It was almost a sense of foreboding； but he shook it off。 There was no reason to feel anything like that。 He didn't know that he would be proven wrong very soon。
Barry Wise was already up in his hotel room； with breakfast ing…the hotel was one of an American chain； and the breakfast menu approximately American as well。 The local bacon would be different； but even Chinese chickens laid real eggs； he was sure。 His previous day's experiment with waffles hadn't worked out very well； and Wise was a man who needed a proper breakfast to function throughout the day。
Unlike most American TV correspondent/reporters； Wise looked for his own stories。 His producer was a partner； not a boss…handler。 He credited that fact for his collection of Emmy awards； though his wife just grumbled about dusting the damned things behind the basement bar。
He needed a fresh new story for today。 His American audience would be bored with another talking…head…plus…Broll piece on the trade negotiations。 He needed some local color； he thought； something to make the American people feel as one with the Chinese people。 It wasn't easy； and there'd been enough stories on Chinese restaurants； which was the only Chinese thing with which most Americans were familiar。 What； then？ What did Americans have in mon with the citizens of the People's Republic of China？ Not a hell of a lot； Wise told himself； but there had to be something he could use。 He stood when breakfast arrived； looking out the picture windows as the waiter wheeled the cart close to the bed。 It turned out that they'd goofed on his order； ham instead of bacon； but the ham looked okay and he went with it； tipping the waiter and sitting back down。
Something； he thought； pouring his coffee； but what？ He'd been through this process often enough。 The writers of fiction often chided reporters for their own sort of 〃creativity；〃 but the process was real。 Finding stuff of interest was doubly hard for reporters； because； unlike novelists； they couldn't make things up。 They had to use reality； and reality could be a son of a bitch； Barry Wise thought。 He reached for his reading glasses in the drawer of the night table and was surprised to see。。。
Well； it wasn't all that surprising。 It was a matter of routine in any American hotel； a Bible left there by the Gideon Society。 It was only here； probably； because the hotel was American…owned and …operated； and they had a deal with the Gideon people 。 。 。 but what a strange place to find a Bible。 The People's Republic wasn't exactly overrun with churches。 Were there Christians here？ Hmph。 Why not find out？ Maybe there was a story in that。 。 。 。 Better than nothing； anyway。 With that semi…decided； he went back to breakfast。 His crew would be waking up about now。 He'd have his producer look around for a Christian minister； maybe even a Catholic priest。 A rabbi was too much to hope for。 That would mean the Israeli embassy； and that was cheating； wasn't it？
How was your day； Jack？〃 Cathy asked。
The night was an accident。 They had nothing to do； no political dinner； no speech； no reception； no play or concert at the Kennedy Center； not even an intimate party of twenty or thirty on the bedroom level of the residence portion of the White House； which Jack hated and Cathy enjoyed； because they could invite people they actually knew and liked to those； or at least people whom they wanted to meet。 Jack didn't mind the parties as such； but he felt that the bedroom level of The House （as the Secret Service called it； as opposed to the other House； sixteen blocks down the street） was the only private space he had left… even the place they owned at Peregrine Cliff on Chesapeake Bay had been redone by the Service。 Now it had fire…protection sprinklers； about seventy phone lines； an alarm system like they used to protect nuclear…weapon storage sites； and a new building to house the protective detail who deployed there on the weekends when the Ryan's decided to see if they still had a house to retreat to when this official museum got to be too much。
But tonight there was none of that。 Tonight they were almost real people again。 The difference was that if Jack wanted a beer or drink； he couldn't just walk to the kitchen and get it。 That wasn't allowed。 No； he had to order it through one of the White House ushers； who'd either take the elevator down to the basement…level kitchen； or to the upstairs bar。 He could； of course； have insisted and walked off to make his own； but that would have meant insulting one of the ushers； and while these men； mainly black （some said they traced their lineage back to Andrew Jackson's personal slaves