Читать книгу China Rising - Alexander Scipio - Страница 5

Ramenskoye Airfield, Moscow

One month earlier

Friday, 8 March, 22:00 hours GMT (Saturday, 9 March, 02:00 Local)

Premier Fang Li Wong of the People’s Republic of China looked Russian President Alexander Scharanov in the eye across the broad conference table. The men were alone in the room.

Fang was running out of time. The initial stages of the operation already had begun. He needed to assure Scharanov of his intentions. He must gain his agreement now. The two men had talked pleasantly enough over the past hours. Fang, however, had not been able to conclude his work.

“Mr. President,” Fang said, lighting another cigarette and sitting back in the hard chair of the airbase conference room. “This plan gives us both something we need. I assure you it is sincere.”

Both men spoke English, a difficult language to learn, but easier than either Russian or Mandarin. Given the shape of the world throughout their lives, English was the logical language of business. And of war.

Fang inhaled deeply and then studied the glowing ember at the end of his cigarette before reaching forward and killing it in the overflowing ashtray before him. Normally a steward at the airbase would have ensured a steady supply of clean service items. These talks however, were far too secret for mere stewards to attend – or even be aware of.

Fang had arrived late the night before specifically to conclude this arrangement. Outside of his senior staff, the senior members of the Politburo and General Hu, Commander of the People’s Liberation Army, no one knew he was here. He wanted to finish this business and return before he was missed. Before rumors began.

Coming to power many years ago, Fang had moved his country forward ceaselessly, moving hundreds of millions of his people from the poverty of rural China to the growing prosperity and jobs of China’s increasingly capitalist cities and economy. It was time to take the biggest step of all.

To do this Scharanov and he must reach agreement.

Unbeknownst to the Russian, time was of the essence. The next step already was in motion and could not be called back. To let that slip at this point in the negotiations, however, would be foolish. No one reaches the highest level of the Chinese Communist Party by being foolish.

For his part, President Scharanov knew that whatever decision he made would stand. Concluding this negotiation would be good for his great country. Many would not like it, he knew. They did not truly understand the issues facing Russia.

Scharanov looked down again at the map spread before the men. Various red lines criss-crossed it, lines crossed out and then re-drawn across other locations. The two men had been working for many hours.

Yes, he thought, this made sense. He pointed at the map, placing his finger on the line of a river.

“You want the Ob-Irtysh River line. I want the Yenisey line,” Scharanov said, pressing down on the map with an outstretched finger, looking up at Fang.

“You want the Ob-Irtysh money for the Yenisey line, Mr. President,” Fang replied. “That is not the offer.”

Scharanov lifted his finger. He sat back and looked his counterpart in the eye.

Fang said, “Is there a mid-point that would make sense that we can reach amicably? That you can sell to the Federal Assembly, and I can sell to the National People’s Congress?” Of course there is, Fang thought. But can we reach it in a short time - NOW? The timetable was unalterable.

Scharanov looked again at the map. Various lines showed alternatives offered and discarded. He looked up and then down again.

Fang spoke again. “Mr. President. Let me reiterate. Russia is losing population at an increasing rate. Your great country will be down 30 million people in 40 years. You cannot farm that land. You cannot mine it or drill it or harvest its forests. The land and its resources are wasted.” Fang stopped. Scharanov looked at him expressionlessly.

Fang knew the Russian did not like to hear what he was being told; but he also knew that Scharanov recognized its truth.

Fang continued, “My country needs land and resources. We have the human and capital resources to do what you cannot. And both of us need energy – oil – not under the domination of religious fanatics.”

“Yes, but it will take time to develop the oil and other resources in this land,” replied Scharanov. He paused, thinking. He knew his country was dying, especially east of the Urals. “And we both need oil now.”

Fang nodded, “That is true, Mr. President. We are working on that as quickly as we can. We have hundreds of millions of dollars of new equipment on-order, and contracts are being let right now. We will be moving oil more quickly, I think, than you can imagine.” Considering a moment, he continued, “Your have on your western border countries filled with hard, good workers. These people are tired of sending their money to those in southern Europe who refuse to work, yes?”

Scharanov nodded, intrigued.

“With the amount of money we are discussing,” Fang continued, “you can hire workers – hundreds of thousands of them, and offer them a better way forward economically than to continue wasting their money on Greeks and Italians.”

He stopped, gauging his counterpart. Feeling that he was making headway, he finished. “We offer you one trillion dollars in US Government bonds. That is more than half of your Gross Domestic Product – for what? For some land you can’t populate, can’t exploit and can’t defend. We can.”

Scharanov immediately noticed the “can’t defend” comment. It had not been in the discussion before. Was it exasperation leading Fang to show his hand? Or calculation?

Scharanov couldn’t read the expression on Fang’s face. Perhaps, he thought, but could China defend the land, either? Of course, either country could defend the land, but neither would go to that extreme.

Fang was correct. His offer made sense. Scharanov just needed to ensure that final outcome of this negotiation was the best he could get.

Scharanov put his finger on the mouth of the River Ob and traced it south, deviating east from the Irtysh, tracing the Ob southeast to Tomsk. When the river’s course turned south, Scharanov’s finger continued the arc through Tomsk, Kemerovo, east of Novokuznetsk, finally stopping his finger at the intersection of China and Mongolia, just east of Kazakhstan. He looked up expressionlessly and tapped his finger one time.

Fang looked from the map to Scharanov and then down again, thinking. This would be an acceptable compromise. Less than desired, more than expected. Again he looked up into the eyes of the Russian President. The man held his eyes steadily.

Fang nodded curtly once. “Done,” he said.

“Wait,” Scharanov said, removing his finger from the map.

“The money you have offered is acceptable,” he said, “But we will need royalties on the resources taken.” He stopped and considered, then said, “Thirty percent of the then-market price for everything you take from the land. For one hundred years.”

Excellent, thought Fang. He had been willing to go as high as forty percent. He looked back at Scharanov. “Twenty percent,” he said. “After all, you have kept half of the West Siberian Basin, the largest petroleum basin in the world.”

Scharanov considered without moving his eyes from Fang’s. A long minute passed in silence.

Scharanov stood and turned from the table. Walking to the sideboard, he reached into a steel bowl filled with ice and removed a new bottle of vodka. Breaking the seal with his thumbnail, he looked at Fang as he opened the bottle. Returning his eyes to the counter he chose and filled two glasses, capped the bottle and returned it to the ice. Fang stood watching him silently. Walking back to the table, Scharanov handed Fang one of the short, crystal glasses and raised his in a toast, “Ob. Twenty-five percent. One hundred years. To the future of our peoples.”

Fang studied the man before him. This was a good deal for both sides, he knew. Frankly, right now time was more important than five percent. Fang nodded once and raised his glass. “To the future,” he said.

Scharanov took a long drink from his vodka, finishing it at a gulp, and then looked at the map. Fang sipped the vodka and considered his next steps.

Scharanov had just sold Siberia, east from the Ob river, to China, negotiated a twenty-five percent royalty on all resources removed from this land, land he was not now using at anywhere near its productive limits. He had removed the drain on his treasury to supply and defend those millions of empty square kilometers, and taken over one trillion dollars of American foreign debt held by China, debt that paid billions annually in interest. He smiled inwardly. What would the new American president think of that?

Fang wondered exactly the same but knew the Americans and Russians soon would have more on their plates than a large real-estate deal.

Very soon.

Having drained his glass, Scharanov placed it on the table and turned full-face toward Fang, studying him.

Fang looked at Scharanov, holding his eyes for a long minute. He placed his half-full glass on the table, inhaled deeply and crushed-out his cigarette. Bowing shortly, he turned to his briefcase, began folding the map and returning pens and paper to their places. He picked up a small radio transmitter and, pressing a button, indicated to the commander of his aircraft that it was time to initiate engine start and prepare for departure.

Closing his briefcase, Fang stood and faced Scharanov. He held out his hand. The two men exchanged a strong, brief clasp. Then Fang turned toward the door and exited the room toward his waiting aircraft.