On no account would Li have allowed herself to acknowledge that she was the source of the President's ideas. If asked, she said, 'The President is of the opinion that. . .' or 'The President's view on the matter is…' No one needed to know how she tutored the lord and master of the White House, broadening his intellectual and cultural horizons and supplying him with opinions and ideas that he could call his own.
The members of his inner circle saw through it, of course, but all that mattered to Li was being rewarded for her ability at the right time, like during the Gulf War in 1991, when General Norman Schwarzkopf had discovered in her a gifted strategist and political tactician with a razor-sharp intellect and the guts to stand up to anyone or anything. By then Li had already amassed an impressive list of achievements: the first female ever to graduate from West Point, a degree in natural sciences, officer-training with the navy, admission to the US Command and General Staff College and the National War College and, to finish, a PhD in politics and history at Duke University. Schwarzkopf had taken Li under his wing and saw to it that she was invited to seminars and conferences with all the right people. Stormin' Norman, who took no interest in politics, smoothed the way for her to enter the murky realm where political and military interests mingled and the landscape of power was continually redrawn.
The first reward for her powerful patronage was the position of deputy commander of the Allied Forces in Central Europe. Within no time Li enjoyed immense popularity in European diplomatic circles. At last she was able to reap the full benefit of her upbringing, education and natural talent. Her father came from a long line of American generals and had played a key role in the White House's National Security Council until ill-health had forced him to step down. Her Chinese mother had made her mark as a cellist with the New York Opera and as a soloist on countless records. The couple expected even more from their only daughter than they did from themselves. Judith went to ballet classes, took ice-skating lessons, and learned the piano and the cello. She accompanied her father on his trips to Europe and Asia, and gained an insight into the diversity of different cultures at an early age. She never tired of hearing about the history and traditions of different ethnic groups, and pestered the locals to tell her about themselves, chattering away, usually in their native tongue. By the age of twelve she had perfected her knowledge of Mandarin, her mother's first language; at fifteen she spoke fluent German, French, Italian and Spanish; and by the time she was eighteen she could get by in Japanese and Korean. Her parents' attitudes were unbending as far as manners, dress and etiquette were concerned, though in other respects they were peculiarly tolerant. The marriage of her father's Presbyterian principles to her mother's Buddhist inclinations was as harmonious as their own.
The real surprise was that her father had insisted on taking his wife's name, a decision that had pitched him into a long, drawn-out struggle with the authorities. Judith Li worshipped her father for making this gesture towards the woman he loved and who had left her homeland for him. He was a man of contradictions, both liberal and dyed-in-the-wool Republican in his opinions, all of which he held with equal conviction. Someone with less strength of character would probably have been crushed by the family's determination to be the best at everything, but the youngest member rose to the challenge, finishing high school two years before her peers and with perfect grades to boot. Judith Li was convinced that she could do anything she turned her mind to. Even the Presidency wasn't beyond her reach.
In the mid-nineties she'd been appointed deputy chief of staff for Operations in the US Department of the Army and offered a lectureship in history at the West Point academy. Great things were being said about her in the Department of Defense. At the same time, her affinity for politics didn't go unnoticed. All she needed now was a significant military victory. The Pentagon insisted on active service before it opened the way to higher pastures, and Li hankered for a first-rate international crisis. She didn't have long to wait. In 1999 she was made US Deputy Commander in Kosovo, and her name was inscribed on the roll of honour.
This time her homecoming was marked by her appointment as commanding general at Fort Lewis and by the summons to join the National Security Council at the White House. A memo she'd written on national security had already been making weaves. She had taken a hard line on the topic. In many respects she was even less compromising than the Republican administration, but above all she was patriotic. For all her cosmopolitanism she sincerely believed that there was nowhere as just and as free as the United States of America, and in her memo she'd dealt with some of the country's most pressing security problems in that light.
Suddenly she found herself in the corridors of power.
But General Li was all too aware of the beast that lurked inside her: fiery, untamable emotion. It could be as useful as it was dangerous, depending on what she did next. No one could be allowed to think that she was vain or that she flaunted her abilities. She shone enough already. Every now and then she would swap her uniform for a strapless gown, playing Chopin, Schubert or Brahms to the delight of her listeners at the White House. In the ballroom she made the President feel like Fred Astaire, whisking him off his feet until he felt like he was floating. Or she serenaded him and his family and their grand old Republican friends with songs from the days of the founding fathers. This part of her image was all her own. She was adept at making close personal ties, sharing the defense secretary's passion for baseball and the secretary of state's enthusiasm for European history, securing invitations to dinner at the White House and spending entire weekends at the presidential ranch.
On the outside she seemed unassuming. She kept her personal opinions on political matters to herself. She mediated between the military and the politicians, appearing cultivated, charming, self-assured and always well-dressed, without seeming stiff or self-important. She was said to have had affairs with several influential men, although none of it was true. Li ignored it blithely. No question was awkward enough to ruffle her. With a talent for feeding journalists and politicians with easily digestible soundbites, she was always well organised, and had vast amounts of information at her fingertips, which she could call up like a zip file, the details compressed into manageable chunks.
Of course, she had no idea what was happening in the ocean, but she'd succeeded in putting the President in the picture. She'd broken the bulky CIA dossier into a few key points. As a result, she'd been sent to Chateau Whistler, and Li knew exactly what that meant.
It was the last big step she had to take.
Maybe she should call the President. A quick chat. He always appreciated that. She could tell him that all the delegates had arrived, or – as she would put it – that they'd followed the USA's informal summons, despite their crises at home. Or maybe she should tell him that NOAA had found similarities in the unidentified noises. He liked that kind of thing. It had the ring of 'Sir, we've made some progress'. Of course, she couldn't expect him to know about Bloop and Upsweep, or why the NOAA scientists thought they'd tracked down the origins of Slowdown. That was all too detailed and, besides, it wouldn't be necessary. Just a few reassuring words over the secure satellite connection and the President would be happy; and a happy President was a useful President. She'd call him.