THE OLD VICARAGE, CHENIES, U.K.

TUESDAY, JULY 23, 2013, 6:01 A.M. BST

Berman’s body clock was shot. At two hours’ notice, he had flown twelve hours from Boulder to Milan, then refueled, turned around, and flown back west, although the journey from Italy to Stansted Airport in the U.K., London’s third airport, was much shorter.

Berman was very glad to have Jimmy Yan as his partner at this stage of his dealings with the Chinese government, as Jimmy was able to solve with ease and equanimity problems that might otherwise be intractable. Berman had established his own contacts airside at the Milan Linate airport with a general aviation enterprise, so coming and going discreetly had been no problem.

But now he had a piece of troublesome cargo he needed to get into the U.K., a country known to be more rigorous with import rules and regulations than the Italians. “No problem,” said Jimmy, “I’ll make your flight an official Chinese government one. No one will look at it. As for the cargo, a diplomatic pouch can be any size; just make sure the package is immobilized, and you can transport it in a large duffel bag. As for somewhere to stay, forget your West End hotel. What were you thinking anyway? The traffic in London is epically bad. The Chinese government has a house in the country used for diplomats and diplomatic purposes that is much more convenient. And much safer.”

Jimmy and his people had picked up Berman and his party and driven them west from Stansted around London’s orbital road, the M25. Berman noticed signs for quaint-sounding towns such as Potters Bar, Frogmore, and Chorleywood, which was where they got off the M25. They quickly decamped in a place he was told was called Chenies—pronounced “Cheney’s,” as if it belonged to the former USA vice president—in the county of Buckinghamshire.

Jimmy had been very quiet on the ride in the large, black limousine, only to tell Berman that he and his countrymen generally traveled by Mercedes station wagons and vans in the U.K. because SUVs stood out so much. With gas at $10 a gallon, only those with money to burn, almost literally, drove an SUV. He said that the Chinese delegation preferred to be more discreet.

Now Berman was sitting in the kitchen of a large, old stone house in this tiny village, looking out over a well-tended lawn and picture-perfect English garden surrounded by a sunk fence. He had noticed the massive iron gates, the numerous cameras and guards that represented the visual security. Although Jimmy had said something about diplomats, Berman thought that he was probably in a government safe house, perhaps belonging to the Guoanbu, the Ministry of State Security, China’s version of the CIA. Berman knew better than to ask which host he should send a thank-you gift to.