to tell his superiors that. And so, his daily report was forwarded electronically to his supervisor, who looked it over, coded it, and then forwarded it to CIA, where three more analysts looked it over, decided that they didn’t know what to make of it either, and then filed it away, electronically. In this case, the data went onto VHS-sized tape cassettes, one of which went into storage container Doc, and the other into Grumpy—there are seven such storage units in the CIA computer room, each named after one of Disney’s Seven Dwarfs—while the reference names went into the mainframe so that the computer would know where to look for the data for which the United States government as yet had no understanding. That situation was hardly unknown, of course, and for that reason CIA had every bit of information it generated in a computerized and thoroughly cross-referenced index, instantly accessible, depending on classification, to anyone in either the New or Old Headquarters Buildings located one ridgeline away from the Potomac River. Most of the data in the Seven Dwarfs just sat there, forevermore to be untouched, footnotes to footnotes, never to be of interest even to the driest of academics.
And so?” Zhang Han San asked.
“And so, our Russian neighbors have the luck of the devil,” Fang Gan replied, handing the folder over to the senior Minister Without Portfolio. Zhang was seven years older than Fang, closer to his country’s Premier. But not that much, and there was little competition between the two ministers. “What we could do with such blessings ...” His voice trailed off.
“Indeed.” That any country could have made constructive use of oil and gold was an obvious truth left unsaid. What mattered here and now was that China would not, and Russia would.
“I had planned for this, you know.”
“Your plans were masterful, my friend,” Fang said from his seat, reaching inside his jacket for a pack of cigarettes. He held it up to seek approval from his host, who’d quit the habit five years before. The response was a dismissive wave of the hand, and Fang tapped one out and lit it from a butane lighter. “But anyone can have bad luck.”
“First the Japanese failed us, and then that religious fool in Tehran,” Zhang groused. “Had either of our supposed allies performed as promised, the gold and the oil would now be ours ...”
“Useful, certainly, for our own purposes, but I am somewhat doubtful on the subject of world acceptance of our notionally prosperous status,” Fang said, with a lengthy puff.
The response was yet another wave of the hand. “You think the capitalists are governed by principle? They need oil and gold, and whoever can provide it cheaply gets to sell the most of it. Look whom they buy from, my old friend, anyone who happens to have it. With all the oil in Mexico, the Americans can’t even work up the courage to seize it. How cowardly of them! In our case, the Japanese, as we have learned to our sorrow, have no principles at all. If they could buy oil from the company which made the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, they would. They call it realism,” Zhang concluded scornfully. The real cite came from Vladimir Il’ych Ulyanov, Lenin himself, who’d predicted, not unreasonably, that capitalist nations would compete among themselves to sell the Soviet Union the rope with which the Russians would later hang them all. But Lenin had never planned for Marxism to fail, had he? Just as Mao hadn’t planned for his perfect political/economic vision to fail in the People’s Republic, as evidenced by such slogans as “The Great Leap Forward,” which, among other things, had encouraged ordinary peasants to smelt iron in their backyards. That the resulting slag hadn’t been useful even to make andirons with was a fact not widely advertised in the East or West.
“Alas, fortune did not smile upon us, and so, the oil and gold are not ours.”
“For the moment,” Zhang murmured.
“What was that?” Fang asked, not having quite caught the comment.
Zhang looked up, almost startled from his internal reverie. “Hmph? Oh, nothing, my friend.” And with that the discussion turned to domestic matters. It lasted a total of seventy-five minutes before Fang went back to his office. There began another routine. “Ming,” Fang called, gesturing on the way to his inner office.
The secretary stood and scampered after him, closing the door behind before finding her seat.
“New entry,” Fang said tiredly, for it had been