When King walked back into his office, Zhai Jintao, China’s ambassador to the United States, was seated in front of his desk. Jintao was fifty years old. He had a neatly coiffed head of black hair that was a tad long, and wore a stylish pair of round, tortoiseshell eyeglasses. Unlike many of his fellow Chinese government officials, he wore beautiful clothing, brightly striped button-down shirts, Hermès ties, Prada shoes, and suits that were made on Savile Row in London. Most unusual, however, was his smile. It was, in a word, infectious. That and his good looks had done much for him over the years, and there weren’t many people, inside or outside of diplomatic circles, who didn’t like Jintao. Jintao was alone. As King entered, he stood up immediately. King took off his sports coat and hung it on the back of his door, then shut it. “Adrian,” said Jintao, stepping toward him, “good to see you, my friend.” King ignored his outstretched hand. He went behind his desk. “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, Mr.
