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But he stumbled badly last month when he proposed new restrictions on political parties and public protests as soon as China assumes control. The proposals themselves were not severe: amending current statutes so that demonstrators would be required to seek advance permission for the street protests that have become a regular Hong Kong ritual and barring political parties from accepting foreign contributions, as in the U.S. But clumsy writing and ominous references to "national security" stoked widespread alarm that more draconian gags and shackles lay ahead.
Amid the barrage of domestic and international criticism, Tung was condemned as a puppet--or else as a high-handed authoritarian--ready to roll back democratic reforms at Beijing's command. "This is the first real test of what the 'one country, two systems' slogan means," says Michael DeGolyer, chairman of the poll-taking Hong Kong Transition Project. "People want to know whether Tung is Beijing's representative in Hong Kong or Hong Kong's representative in Beijing."
The furor played straight into Lee's vigorous campaign to warn the world of what he sees as dire threats emanating from Beijing. He is convinced the leadership intends to control Hong Kong so tightly that all its current economic and political freedoms will disappear. While Tung was struggling to defend his unpopular proposals, Lee enjoyed a triumphant tour of the U.S., including a symbolically important chat with President Clinton. Lee's Democrats threatened to mount protest marches on hand-over night in deliberate violation of the proposed restrictions and tie up the courts in a skein of lawsuits if Tung refuses to rewrite the offending amendments. A series of revisions announced by Tung's office in response to the outcry did little to mollify critics.
Behind the clamor lies a fundamental mystery: To what extent is Tung free to make decisions without Beijing's interference? As Tung prepares to govern, analysts feverishly search for clues as to where his true loyalties lie.
In an enclave where business interests hold the real power, Tung has the right pedigree. The 60-year-old son of a multimillionaire shipowner, educated in Britain, schooled in business in New York City, Tung is on a first-name basis with Asia's political and business leaders.
When his father, the flamboyant founder of the Orient Overseas shipping empire, died suddenly in 1982, he bequeathed his heirs a collapsing empire indebted to more than 200 banks for loans of $2.68 billion. For the next 17 months, C.H. Tung labored seven days a week to build a consensus among creditors to restructure the tangle of public and private companies. When he needed a large infusion of new capital, he turned to the Taipei government. The answer was no. Tung then approached mainland Chinese, and a local businessman with ties to Beijing kicked in the money. Only this year did Tung admit that the businessman's bailout funds came from the state-owned Bank of China.