The Chinese Agenda

by Joe Poyer

'Which side are they on?' Gillon asked quietly.

  Stowe waited a moment before answering.

  On the Russian side, I think ...'

  'Let's hope to hell you're right.'

  'If nothing else, all the troop movements in this area would have alerted them . . . and just maybe they are smart enough to put two and two together,' Stowe muttered, half convinced.

  Gillon hoped that the Russians did have sense enough to realize what was going on.

  Coded messages should be swarming back and forth between the border and Moscow . .

  . the last thing he wanted was to be shot by Russians as he tried to cross.

  Far down the valley almost out of sight around a shallow bend in the mountain flank was a watchtower. They estimated its distance at twelve miles, too far away to tell if it was occupied.

  In a desultory way, he and Stowe discussed the planned approach to the border. Except for drifted snow, there was no cover of any kind. They speculated that the border was probably mined up to a quarter of a mile deep on both sides and decided that the snow was deep enough to prevent the mines from exploding. As a safety precaution, Stowe suggested cutting up the remaining four pounds of gelignite into quarter-pound cubes. Using ten-second fuses, they could clear a path through the minefield with sympathetic detonations if it became necessary. It was not a plan to inspire confidence, but then, Gillon thought ruefully, nothing about this mission ever had, and in any event, after all they had been through and still expected to face, a few mines hardly seemed worth bothering about. But he agreed anyway and they both returned to the shelter.

  Knowing that the missiqn was drawing to a conclusion, Gillon was aware of a deepening lassitude. He could see it in the faces of the other three as well. They had done their job; the weather had worked both for and against them and now that the final task was almost complete, he dared not allow himself to become careless.

  When they had finished with the explosives and were slumped in various attitudes of exhaustion, Gillon' put his share of the explosive away into his almost empty pack and shoved it against the wall next to his carbine.

  Òkay,' he announced, mustering as much forcefulness as possible. 'Moonrise is at midnight. By oh one hundred or so, it should be high enough to see by, and that's when we go. Until then, we are going to break into two-hour shifts . .. outside. If the Chicoms come over that pass, I want as much time as possible to get down into the valley.'

  The other three groaned, but no one argued, and Gillon 'pointed to Dmietriev. 'You lead off. Stowe, you take the second, Leycock, third and I'll go last.'

  Dmietriev nodded and got slowly to his feet. He picked up his carbine and paused at the entrance. He looked back at the three upturned faces, his own expression blank, then stepped out onto the ledge.

  He awoke sluggishly, forcing himself out of the drugged depths of exhaustion. Leycock was prodding his arm ° with the carbine. Gillon sat up to see his haggard face peering at him, almost hidden by the low hood and the ten-day growth of heavy beard.

  Ìt's your turn,' Leycock said softly, then shuffled to his pack and sank down with a groan. His chin dropped. forward onto his chest and he was asleep instantly. Gillon got slowly to his feet, using his own carbine

  as a cane, astounded at the variety of ways that his body could ache .. and all simultaneously. He stepped out into the wind and cold that had grown more bitter with each passing hour.

  He checked his watch. Twenty minutes to make sure they were all sound asleep and he would go. In spite of his exhaustion, he could feel the tension twisting his abdominal muscles into knots. He glanced up at the sky. It had become sharp and clear as the last of the aborted storm dissipated and the Milky Way was an almost solid river of stars between the valley walls.

  He swore under his breath at the cold and forced himself to pace up and down the length of the ledge. The wind whipped his parka against his back and deep into any opening it found. With the wind speed at forty to fifty miles an hour his difficulties in covering that last mile on skis would only be increased.

  Gillon reached the far side of the ledge and started back. He paused for a moment to peer upward, searching for any movement along the crest of the pass. There was none and the night was quiet but for the steady whine of the wind. Reaching the center of the ledge again where it pulled away from the wall, he stopped and stared down into the valley, which had become a pale blur barely visible in the starlight. With the binoculars he searched in the direction of the watchtower but could see nothing in the starlit blackness except the dim glimmer of snow. There were no lights of any kind along the border and he knew that the Russians would be foolish to try to maintain a garrison here during the winter. Resupply would be difficult at best in the summer and impossible in the winter.

  Blizzards that lasted for days and the constant wind that blew for weeks at a time were effective deterrents. But he also thought he knew the Russians well enough to realize that no matter what the weather or terrain, from the Arctic to the Crimea, the Sinkiang border to Western Europe, they would never for an instant leave a single inch of frontier unguarded. There were plenty of Russian troops over there, of that he was certain, and they would be waiting for them.

  Gillon paced up and down the length of the ledge

  several more times until finally, the moon, much reduced from its round opulence of a few days before, began to gleam behind the eastern peaks where he could see them through the gap in the ridge. Now was the time. To delay longer would rob him of desperately needed time and he turned toward the windbreak to gather his skis and equipment.

  Dmietriev was standing directly in front of him, a pistol held comfortably in his right hand; the dark, cylindrical shape of a silencer mounted on the muzzle. His expression was carved from ice and his dark eyes stared at Gillon unwinkingly. The dead, flat expression told him more eloquently than words that if he so much as twitched, a bullet would issue from the end of the silenced pistol.

  'Turn around and let the carbine fall,' Dmietriev said quietly. There was no trace of hesitation or deference in his voice and Gillon turned slowly, letting the weapon slide off his shoulder and clown his arm into the snow.

  'Walk to the edge.'

  He did so, then turned hack to Dmietriev, who motioned him to start down the slope.

  The pistol held steadily on the center of his chest.

  'Climb down until I tell you to stop. If you do anything else, you will die. Do you understand?'

  Gillon nodded. He knew that within a few minutes Dmietriev would shoot him to death anyway, but there was absolutely nothing that he could do about it. His own pistol was inside his parka, inaccessible. His knife he could probably reach, but to use it effectively, he would first have to sidestep the bullet that Dmietriev would fire reflexively and then whip the knife into Dmietriev's eye. He would never avoid the first shot and he knew it.

  Dmietriev had him; there was no way that he could move fast enough.

  They went carefully down the steep slope, feeling for footholds. Gillon thought about throwing himself headlong down the slope, depending on the darkness to shield him until he reached the meager cover of the snowdrifts below, but the reflected light was bright enough that Dmietriev would he able to see him for a good twenty feet – ample time to fire.

  `Stop.'

  Gillon stopped, his back muscles tensing uncontrollaby. He heard Dmietriev coming closer.

  `Give me the packet,' Dmietriev said quietly.

  Gillon shook his head. 'It's in my pack . . . we'll have to go back ...'

  `You're lying,' - Dmietriev said without inflection. 'I have searched your pack and it is not there. Give it to me or I will shoot you and take it from your body.'

  Gillon turned carefully, expecting to be told to stop, but Dmietriev said nothing and when Gillon was facing him, he simply motioned for him to raise his hands. Gillon did so and clasped them on top of his head.

  `The packet . . .' he repeated, and Gillon knew that he had no other choice.
/>
  Ìt's inside my parka.'

  Ùse your left hand and do not touch the pistol that you have in the shoulder holster nor the knife behind your neck.'

  `Very observant,' Gillon muttered, and when Dmietriev did not reply, did not even indicate that he had heard, he lowered his left hand slowly and unzipped the parka, pulling it wide. The wind tugged and flared the fabric out of his hand. Awkardly, he struggled with the zipper on the pocket. Dmietriev watched him, never moving, never blinking. He was like a great cat waiting for his prey to make one move, one wrong move and then he would spring,, snap once and it would be finished.

  Gillon got the pocket open, pulled the packet out and held it at arm's length.

  `No. Throw it to me . . . throw it carefully or I will shoot you before I catch it.'

  Gillon had no doubt that he would do just that and he tossed the packet carefully against the wind, so that it landed in Dmietriev's outstretched left hand. The Russian tucked it away inside his own parka, then stepped to his left and slipped his skis off his shoulder.

  `Now . . . back up five paces and sit down . . . keep your hands on top of your head.'

  Gillon did as he was told and Dmietriev knelt down, still holding the pistol rock steady.

  He undid the lash-

  ings that held the skis and poles together. Getting to his feet again, he thrust the ski poles into the snow beside his skis and paused.

  Gillon had curled the fingers of his left hand into the material of his hood. A quick push backward and he could reach his knife and throw in one swift movement, but Dmietriev never gave him a chance.

  The Russian walked around behind him and Gillon felt the brief touch of the heavy pistol. He took a deep breath, readying for the final blow.

  I am sorry this must be done,' Dmietriev said. 'We have been through much together and I had hoped we would finish together. But one of the four of us is a traitor. I know it is not me, but of no one else can I be sure. I cannot take the chance that you are the one, although I am certain that you are not.' He pushed Gillon's hood back and reached a cold hand into the collar and extracted the throwing knife.

  'I was betting it was you,' Gillon said wearily. 'I would have put money on your having brought the Chinese down on the caravan.'

  'On the caravan?' Dmietriev shot back, clearly surprised.

  'Yeah. Someone set off a red smoke marker behind the caravan and you were the last one in line .. . and you were carrying the explosives.'

  Dmietriev was silent for a moment. 'I see.'

  Dmietriev paused and Gillon heard him fumbling for something. A moment later, there was a sharp bang and he flinched. He spun around in time to see a flare of light blossom for a brief instant near the border before it plummeted into the snow and disappeared.

  Gillon realized that anyone not looking at that spot at the exact time would never have seen the flare.

  'Turn around,' Dmietriev ordered sharply, and Gillon did so.

  'They will now be waiting for me,' Dmietriev said quietly. 'If you can, make for the same spot and we will be waiting for you . . . on the other side of the border. But we cannot wait long . . . the Chinese will not let a mere border stop them from attempting to retrieve the information in this packet.'

  `Listen, you bastard,' Gillon snarled, but a crushing blow from the pistol butt knocked him face forward into the snow. As his face touched the icy crystals, consciousness fled.

  The ledge jutted just above his head, brightly outlined in the moonlight, and Gillon reached for it, hooked his fingers over the solid rock and struggled to pull himself up. He was almost finished and he knew it. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious but when he had come to, there had been no sign of the big Russian intelligence agent but for two thin ski tracks leading toward the border. In a daze, Gillon had started back up the slope . . . not really aware of what he was doing, but dimly realizing that he must have his skis to stay alive. When Dmietriev crossed the border, all hell could break loose and there would be no chance of anyone else crossing at that point. Beyond that, his mind refused to function. Who then was the double agent? Unless Dmietriev was lying . .

  . If any of them were to survive now, they would be forced to co-operate. Whichever of the other two it was, he should be quick to realize that the reception waiting for him in Peking without that packet was not going to be a hero's welcome.

  The climb had finished what little strength remained to him and he rested for a moment, his fingers still hooked over the ledge. Strong hands grasped and jerked him upward, dragging him painfully over the rock. For a moment he thought it was Stowe or Leycock but as he struggled to his knees, his arms still gripped tightly, he saw clearly in the moonlight the faces that surrounded him and he knew for certain then that they were all finished this time, for good and all.

  'Get up, you son-of-a-bitch.' Gillon looked in the direction of the voice, not wanting to believe. Leycock stood with his carbine cradled in his arms and a sneer on his face.

  'Get up,' he repeated.

  Gillon got painfully to his feet with the assistance of the two Chinese soldiers who continued to hold his arms. He glanced at Leycock, then at the others. Eight Chinese soldiers, all dressed in white snowsuits, were with him on the ledge. Three held their rifles ready but the rest were standing relaxed, weapons slung over their shoulders.

  The reason was obvious. Stowe was standing next to a tall Chinese whose captain's insignia gleamed on his fur hat.

  `So you two were together all along,' he muttered huskily.

  Stowe shook his head, still grinning. 'Yep. But until the cavalry showed up, I figured Leycock was on your side. It seems we were both planted on you all in case something happened to the other . . . sort of a fail-safe arrangement, you might call it.'

  'And I thought that Dmietriev was the one . .. the flare was missing from his pack ...'

  Leycock laughed, thoroughly enjoying himself. 'I thought that would tie it for you. I took the flare that morning while the tents were being packed and dropped it as we came over the ridge. I used one of the time-delay fuses.'

  'Made up for breaking the radio too early, then, didn't you?'

  Leycock snarled at him. 'All right, so I made one mistake. But I did manage to pull it out and that's all that counts.'

  'When you went back down the pass that second day, was it just to count Chinese or to talk with them?'

  'What do you think?' Leycock smirked. 'They've been right behind us for quite a while.'

  Gillon shook his head. 'Both of you . . . I never even thought of that ...

  'Then it was one of you that warned the Chinese that we were coming . . . in fact . . . told them about the Rome meeting and had Phan killed, then led them to protest to the Russians so that we had to go through that little act at Ala Kul.'

  Leycock smirked at him. 'Yeah ... that was me.'

  Now that it was over, he did not even feel bitter. He was beyond that now. The packet had gone with Dmietriev . . . the Russians had won and everyone else, himself included, had lost.

  Gillon smiled at Stowe. 'It's all for nothing, you

  know,' he said softly. 'Dmietriev has the packet. He took it from me and by now he should be almost across the border.'

  Stowe and Leycock both laughed. The soldiers grinned at one another; even though they did not understand what Gillon had said, they must have been expecting this reply.

  Stowe spoke in Chinese and the soldiers' grins turned to laughter.

  `Not very damned likely,' Leycock said finally. 'They've got two squads of troops strung through the valley by now waiting for anyone to try. They moved in after dark and dug in. Dmietriev will never make the border.'

  Gillon stared at him, his brain frozen, unable to think coherently. The scene was a surrealistic painting, white-clad soldiers, the dull splash of white from the windbreak against the black rock, the varied attitudes of the participants and all washed in pale moonlight. He - looked around, unable to focus on any one detail until his stare was s
uddenly riveted by the sight of Leycock's pack, half in and half out the windbreak. He looked up to see Stowe watching him carefully. Without thinking, Gillon glanced back at the pack, which he knew contained Leycock's share of the explosives which they had divided earlier.

  Stowe stepped forward slightly and the muzzle of his pistol wavered toward the pack.

  Puzzled, Gillon looked up at Stowe, who nodded imperceptibly.

  The Chinese officer snapped out an order, breaking the intense expression on Stowe's face, and one of the soldiers pushed Gillon toward the rock wall. He stumbled toward Leycock, who suddenly swung his carbine at him in a vicious arc. Gillon saw it but was unable to do more than deflect the blow; it hit him in the ribs and he stumbled forward to his knees, almost going off the ledge.

  Before anyone else could move, Stowe shoved the officer out of the way and shouted Leycock's name. Ley-cock, startled, turned toward him as Stowe raised the pistol at arm'

  s length and shot him through the neck. Gillon saw the surprise on Leycock's face through his own haze of pain as Leycock swayed forward under the impact of the bullet.

  Stowe had not waited to see the

  effect before he had continued around in the same smooth motion and shot the Chinese officer in the face; three rifles crashed simultaneously and Stowe was slammed back against the rock wall.

  'Go!' he gasped. 'Now ! ' And Gillon saw the pistol wobble up to point at the pack.

  Without an instant's hesitation, he pitched himself over as the pistol roared and the face of the ledge erupted into incandescent gas. The concussion of the exploding gelignite, even though deflected partially by the ledge, slammed him against the snow and rolled him over and over down the ice-hard slope until he slammed against a snow-covered boulder. He lay on his back for an indeterminate amount of time, staring up into the hard, blue-black sky, his mind refusing to work properly while the blaze of flame and smoke died away above him. No sound, no movement of any kind came from the ledge.

  Beyond, he could see clearly the side of the ridge leading up to the crest of the pass and it shone balefully in the moonlight.