Saturn Run by John Sandford, Ctein Page A

consequences would be more severe if you didn’t follow them. Orders from the President. Court-martial, instead of a bunch of surf rats on a jury from Venice Beach.”
    “I could—”
    “There’s a little more,” Crow interrupted. “We’d want you to stay under cover. Keep your current persona. The rich and flaky vid guy whose father probably bought him a job on the ship. In other words, we wouldn’t want people to know you’re actually Superman, until it’s time to leap over the building.”
    “Let me think about that a second,” Sandy said. He thought one second, then brought out his toothy grin. “Okay. I’m in.”
    “And you’ll do what we want.” A statement, not a question.
    “I’ll tell you what, Crow,” Sandy said, the smile slipping away. “I’ll not only do what you want, I’ll do what you need.”

6 .
    Jiang, the ambassador from the People’s Republic of China to the United States, grumbled over the morning briefings. Today’s minor crisis involved a glitch in mining and trade negotiations, and he’d probably have to smooth a few ruffled feathers. What the hell was rhenium used for, anyway?
    Chen poked his head in the door without knocking: “Boss? Hate to interrupt, but I got a call from my little birdie. He says we need to watch the President’s speech. More than that: he’s sending a messenger with an advance copy. He said you should read it . . . for your own good.”
    “My own good? Your little birdie is presumptuous,” Jiang said. “What else did he say? Is this going to be ugly? Everything seems smooth right now. Haven’t heard anything from home . . .”
    “That’s why I stuck my head in—my contact is very, very close to Santeros. He hinted that we’re getting an advance look because they basically like us, and don’t want you to look bad, back home. You’ll be able to tip them off.”
    “It’s already ten o’clock. The announcement said she’s speaking at one o’clock. What good will three hours do us?”
    “Better than no hours, if she’s about to drop a bomb.” Chen looked at his watch. “And it’ll be less than three hours—I got the impression that the messenger wasn’t on his way, yet. The messenger, by the way, will arrive in a Secret Service car. I suspect his arrival will be very closely calculated to give you just enough time to tip off the minister, but not enough time to shoot down whatever balloon Santeros is planning to float.”
    Jiang pulled on an ear, thinking, then said, “Tell Chong if he takes more than nine seconds to get from the street to my office, I’ll have him hanged in the basement.”
    “Boss, that would be cruel. You know how serious . . .”
    Jiang waved him off. “Okay. Tell him he’ll be flogged in the basement.”
    A Secret Service agent, in the middle car of a three-car caravan,delivered a sealed package to Chong at 11:45. Chong made it to the ambassador’s door in 7.5 seconds, handed it off to Chen, who stuck his head in again: “Boss, the package is here.”
    “They took their time with it,” Jiang said, as Chen crossed the long Oriental carpet to his desk.
    Chen handed him the package and asked, “Do you want me to . . .” He tipped his head toward the door.
    “No. I prefer to have a witness,” Jiang said. “Sit down.”
    He ripped off the top of the envelope, using the dangling ribbon that protruded from one end.
    Chen nodded, and sat. He’d been Jiang’s right-hand man since Jiang had joined the diplomatic service. Jiang wasn’t entirely sure what the slight and shy man had done before joining the corps, but he was well-connected in Beijing and had excellent intuition. Chen seemed to possess certain kinds of information before other people even knew it existed.
    Inside the package, Jiang found a thin sheaf of papers, cheap stuff available at any office supply store. There was no identification on the papers, and they’d apparently been produced on a routine office printer.
    “This is