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.
3
Beijing
Tuesday, 12 March, 13:10 hours GMT (21:10 Local)
Deputy Yong En Flou read through the reports again. The numbers hadn’t changed. He sighed, put down his reading glasses and lit a cigarette. Looking at the ceiling and the single bulb glowing in the darkness, he walked himself through the last several months.
After trying for what sometimes seemed to be forever, finally he had gotten through to Premier Fang. Demographics weren’t going to change on their own – something had to be done to change them. The question had been: What?
China’s leaders expected to be able to urbanize another 200 million Chinese from rural areas over the next decade. Urbanization was the only way to achieve economic progress for China’s hundreds of millions of people, to sustain its growing economy, and to lift its population out of deep poverty. Unbeknownst to most, the economic damage to China was tremendous when America, its largest customer, sustained a terrorist attack. When terror or even credible threats of an attack occurred, American consumers simply stopped spending, destroying Chinese jobs. The attack last October had proved this again.
Once the senior members of the Politburo Standing Committee of the Communist Party of China addressed the economic damage that Islamist terrorism directed against the West, particularly against America, was inflicting on the Chinese economy and modernization plans, they arrived at the only answer that made sense to them.
The discussion surrounding the implementation of their answer continued at the most senior levels for some time. By the time it made it to the rest of the Politburo it seemed to have been a nearly-completely-resolved plan of action awaiting only the right time.
Into this Deputy Yong had injected his concern over demographics, seeing it as a likely way to, as Americans said, “Kill two birds with one stone.” How apt a phrase, he thought as he considered the smoke dribbling from his nose and rising lazily toward the ceiling.
He sipped from a cup of coffee, now nearly empty and tepid at best, inhaled again from his American cigarette, and considered some more.
Because of both ignorance and tradition China now had a deficit of approximately eight million females in the age range of 0-14 years of age. The deficit aged 15-30 added another twenty million. Nearly thirty million males already born would never find a mate, would not reproduce, drastically aging China, as well as failing to create another generation of consumers or workers, harming the long-term vitality of the nation.
Another puff and another sip, this time draining his cup. He set it down softly, still deep in thought.
The post-puberty problem would be more difficult to fix, he knew. If only we could find eight million females not yet at puberty. The younger, the better, of course, due to assimilation issues, as well as weaning them from their parents and societies, whoever and wherever they were. And another 10-20 million who had already reached their reproductive years. 30 million females…
And there his idea had sat for fourteen