by Adam Brookes
But on the Monday, when she presented herself at the Embassy on Mass. Ave., she was suddenly back in England, in its taut, murmuring contradictions, and she felt the weekend’s momentary sense of liberation fall away. She spent an hour and a half getting through a silent admin office and picking up her badge, and then reported to Station—a series of open-plan rooms, their windows tinted, behind secure doors at the back of the building. The Deputy Chief of Station, Tipton, regarded her across a blond-wood table as she sat ramrod straight in her chair.
“The work of Liaison with our American counterparts is among the most important work the Service does,” he said. “It is work of great delicacy.”
She nodded. He looked at her.
“It is its own kind of diplomacy.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Call me Anthony, please.”
She nodded again.
“You’ll need to be across all, and I mean all, the traffic with London. You’ll attend Five Eyes briefings at State and CIA. You’ll relay requests and questions from London. Considering your background, I’m going to put you into the Counter-Terror Liaison Group as well, so there’ll be some work with the FBI.”
She nodded. He cocked his head.
“Now I appreciate that this is not an operational assignment, and you may find the change of pace difficult to accept.”
“No, I—”
“I do want you to understand that many in our Service would regard this assignment as a most enviable situation.”
“I do understand.”
“Val Hopko tells me you are an able officer in need of some time to grow, was the way she put it, I believe. Though I must say I’m not entirely cognisant of her meaning.”
He paused, as if waiting for her to respond. Which she didn’t.
“Can you tell me why you need to grow?”
She licked her lips.
“I had a very difficult couple of years, operationally. I was engaged in operations that were successful, very successful. But … difficult. So it was agreed I would take some time away from the Far East Controllerate and … broaden my horizons.”
Broaden my horizons? Christ. What am I, fifteen?
The Deputy Chief of Station allowed a flicker of bemusement to cross his face. Very deliberate, she thought. A micro-expression, to intimidate.
“Well, I’m very relieved to hear your posting here was agreed. And I do hope our horizons are sufficiently wide to facilitate your growth.”
He was looking right at her now, and she forced herself to meet his eye.
“I’m sure they will be, sir. Anthony.”
“Lord, now you’ve knighted me.” He was standing, signalling the meeting was over. She felt a flush of embarrassment, gave him a tight smile and left the room.
They gave her a desk near the heavy steel doors. She had two screens and a monstrous daily load of reading, cross-referencing and annotating. The time difference with London meant that VX was always ahead of her, a pent-up wave of requests crashing onto her desk each morning, many of which she barely understood. Clarification on Ukraine assessments, please, with reference to deployment of Russian surface-to-air missiles. Implications of Kyrgyzstan elections, CIA assessments of, please. FISINT collection, China, overview and implications for customers, please. Patterson had to remind herself what FISINT was. Foreign Instrumentation Signals Intelligence. Stealing the signals from the cockpits of Chinese fighter aircraft, the pilot’s helmet display, his computer keystrokes, the sound of his breathing. Why on earth was she dealing with this? Surely someone else dealt with fucking FISINT?
There was a café in the Embassy foyer, where she would go and order coffee and sit with her head in her hands. She’d leave the Station by eight or nine at night, jogging down Mass. Ave. in the darkness, stopping to pick up a burrito or some pizza.
Her first Five Eyes briefing was terrifying. She drove out to Langley and sat across a table from a whey-faced CIA analyst who walked her through the agency’s assessments of radical Islamist networks in Lebanon and Jordan. The Australians and Canadians present asked knowledgeable questions. She took frantic notes, but understood little, Arab names and aliases and backstories flying past her. She expended blood writing it up, and submitted it. Anthony fired it back at her spattered with red ink.
In the middle of her second week, Markham, who did counter-terror, took her over to the FBI in its brutalist fortress on Pennsylvania Ave. Not a briefing, mercifully, just introductions. They ate sandwiches with three FBI special agents—quiet, burly men in loose-fitting suits—and when Markham mentioned her army background they looked at her and nodded approvingly, as if she had instantly shot up in their estimation. Afterwards, inexplicably, they went to an auditorium and sat in the third row. There was no one else there, just them. Instead of a stage, they faced a huge wall of bulletproof glass. On the other side of the glass, a firing range. For twenty minutes, she and Markham sat and watched the three agents blatting away with their Glocks, their rapid draws from inside their boxy grey jackets, their fires from standing and kneeling positions, popping out from behind cover, all sorts. Patterson found it odd but said nothing. Markham fiddled with his phone.
When it was over, one of the agents, perspiring, gave her a card. Polk, his name. Franklin Polk. Not counter-terror at all, but counter-intelligence. A jowly white guy with the build of a football player, mousy hair and creases around cobalt-blue eyes, one of those big men who’d surprise you with their quickness.
“Anything you need,” he said. Patterson wondered if he meant it.
Polk gestured to the range.
“Oh, and how’d I do?”
“Not bad,” said Patterson.
“You gonna give me pointers now?”
She smiled.
“Wouldn’t want to tax you,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows.
“I find it all taxing, all of it. The guns. The spies. This fuckin’ place. How long have you been in this game, anyway? Whatever game it is you’re in.”
“Not long. Few years. I’m a newbie.” She glanced at Markham. He was talking to one of the other agents.
Polk shrugged. “Well, like I say. Washington’s a bitch. Every fucker thinks he’s James Jesus Angleton. So if you need any help finding your way around …”
She leaned in to him a little.
“Careful. I might hold you to that.”
“Hold me,” he said. “Any time.”
In the taxi back to the Embassy, Markham spoke, used a desultory tone.
“So. How did you find them?”
“Interesting. Clever. Street clever.”
Markham was looking out of the cab’s window.
“Watch yourself around Polk.”
“Why?”
“He is clever.” He paused. “Very, very clever.”
“How so?”
Markham shifted in his seat, turned to face her.
“Do you remember the PRIMROSE case? That was Polk.”
Patterson didn’t know.
“It was a while ago. He was in California then. They had him on counter-intelligence in the LA field office, working the China target. There was an asset, a woman. Chinese immigrant, still very well-connected in Beijing. She worked in venture capital, used to go back and forth a lot. The FBI had her reporting on people, comings and goings. She helped winkle out Chinese front companies, penetrations of the tech sector, that sort of thing. Anyway. Turns out she was a double, working for MSS all along, reporting on the workings of the FBI’s LA field office, and feeding the FBI all sorts of garbage. Very neat. Polk finally figured it out. Didn’t help that two of PRIMROSE’s FBI handlers had affairs with her. Can you believe it? The office was a smoking ruin by the time Polk finished. He put a couple of people behind bars. Destroyed the careers of a whole lot more. Not the FBI’s finest moment.”
“That’s extraordinary.”
“You can ask him. He’ll tell you all about it. Quite the raconteur, is Polk.”
“PRIMROSE? She copped a plea and disappeared. Probably back in Beijing now. Polk was incandescent, still is. He said he was close to unravelling all the support networks and funding and everything else, but it got away from him. Said it was like finding a leech on you, sucking away at a vein, and you rip it off but leave the head buried in your flesh.”
8
It was Dubai. Hopko had her arriving late afternoon, and a Service car met her at the airport. Two men in polo shirts and sunglasses gently took her luggage and sat her in the back.
Eileen didn’t like it.
“Why, Val?” she said, as they sat by the pool at a safe house in Jumeirah, a villa with high walls, broken glass atop them, overhung with palms. A bottle of Meursault sat on the table, chilling. Hopko wore a beige suit, a necklace of pink coral, and her most indulgent, gratified expression. It was dark, and hot. Eileen couldn’t tell how many people were in the compound.
“Oh, Eileen, you deserve a little coddling.” Hopko grinned.
“Not necessary.”
“Of course it is.”
What is this? thought Eileen.
“I make my own way. We agreed. Just us.”
Hopko said nothing, leaned forward, poured the wine, green-gold in the glass.
“Something change, Val?”
Hopko picked up her glass, regarded her.
“Do you think you saw him?” she said.
“I don’t know.”
“But the man on the bench, the smooth-cheeked man. Tell me.”
“He’s just one man on a bench.”
“But you saw something. Something in him.”
Eileen was rummaging in her purse, buying time. She pulled out a packet of beedi, wrapped in paper and tied with string. She took one deliberately, lit it from a hotel matchbook, exhaled, and watched the smoke rise in the darkness.
“Fewer people, better,” she said. Hopko tilted her head to one side. A younger man was approaching the table. He carried a laptop. Hopko motioned for him to sit.
“This is Brendan,” said Hopko. “He’s going to be helping us.”
The young man held out a slender hand. He was cool to the touch, with dark, wavy hair and a small, pale face—a clever face. A face, Eileen thought, to charm you and judge you at once.
“It’s a great pleasure to meet you,” said Brendan. “And an honour.” Eileen heard Northern Irish in his voice. She turned to Hopko, gave her a questioning look.
“Eileen, listen,” said Hopko, “we know roughly where he is, we think.”
She said nothing, just listened.
“On the drive you brought out, there’s a new letter. No name attached, of course. In it, he toys with us a little. You don’t know who I am, but all China trembles before me sort of thing. He tells us he’s sick to death of the numbskulls he works with, his feeble-minded family, you know the type.”
Eileen did. She had watched them, followed them, cleared their dead drops, handled their cash, cleared up their messes, and marvelled at their arrogance, narcissism and neuroses for forty years.
“But he’s given us enough to place him. Brendan here puts him at or around deputy director level, most likely in the front office of Ministry of State Security, don’t you, Brendan?” Hopko turned to the pale boy, who spoke softly to Eileen.
“I do, yes. Though which bureau within the MSS is harder to pinpoint. He has—appears to have—access to a variety of operational detail that would place him at senior level, but not too senior, if you take my meaning. He can see across different operational channels, but from a height that is not too elevated. He can see into foreign operations, particularly North American operations. He’s definitely close to the Americas desk, may even be in charge of it. So the detail is there, but also the breadth of vision.” He looked enquiringly at her.
Patronising little prick, thought Eileen. She nodded, drew on her beedi.
A pause. Hopko was watching her, then spoke.
“He offers us his access in return for money and muscle. We beef him up, he vanquishes his rivals.”
“Two-way street,” said Eileen.
“Two-way street,” Hopko repeated.
Eileen pointed at her with her beedi.
“Do it electronic. Go darknet. Safest way.”
“He says he won’t.”
“Why?”
“Why?” said Hopko. “Too hard. Too big a signature. Too many traces. Digital fingerprints everywhere. Evidence. What’s he going to do? Lock himself in a bathroom with an encrypted laptop? The answer’s no.”
Eileen Poon exhaled, shook her head. She thought of the hotel, its murmurings and scufflings, the long, long night. She remembered thinking it might have been the last time. She felt tired, suddenly.
“You want us to courier.”
“Are you playing hard to get, Eileen?” said Hopko. Brendan smiled. Eileen noticed that smile, and stored it away for a moment when she could ponder how to grind it off his face when he was least expecting it. She turned to Hopko.
“I can’t do it alone. I need the boys, everyone.” She thought of them, Peter and Frederick Poon, their cousin Winston—tough, loving boys—and felt a flush of strength.
“You’ll have everything you need,” said Hopko.
“This is asking a lot,” said Eileen. “Once, twice, even three times, fine. I can clear a drop, scoot in, scoot out. But to make us the primary communication channel? For what, years, maybe? And you want us to find him? Identify him?”
“I didn’t say I want you to identify him,” said Hopko quickly.
“That’s what I hear,” said Eileen.
“I think we need to focus on the modalities of the operation for now,” said Brendan. Eileen shot him a look that said, Shut it, sonny.
Hopko spoke very deliberately. “You are the only person I can rely on in this,” she said. “You know that is true.”
It was true, of course. Eileen looked at her, this fifty-something woman, her squat, strong frame, her blunt hands, her dark hair and tawny skin—a legacy of her Lebanese mother—the eyes that read you, that shimmered with humour and unspoken understandings. Valentina Hopko, now Controller, Far East and Western Hemisphere. The Poon family’s protector, mentor, patron and friend for many, many years. You’re my antennae, Eileen, you and the boys.
But as Eileen rose to go, the wine undrunk, the Gulf night scorched and dry, aglow from the light of the city beyond the safe-house walls, she sensed that her relationship with Hopko had been overtaken. Some powerful imperative was at work that overrode Hopko’s friendship, her loyalty.
So Eileen Poon would be going back to Beijing.
Dry as a bone.
9
Sorong, Indonesia
They know I am here, thought Mangan. So, move. Keep moving.
In the half-light, duffel bag on his shoulder, he made for the docks at a half run, his flip-flops thwap-thwapping on the concrete. He had wrapped a red checkered scarf around his face, put on his shades and a blue sun hat with a brim. The burner he’d left in the room. The streets were quiet but for an early, solitary pedlar of soto ayam. Mangan smelled the turmeric broth and chicken as he lumbered past, and his mouth watered. The air was already hot and close, flecked with the whoops and cackles of dawn birdsong.
Twice he doubled back, but there was no one.
At the edge of the port, the wharves and cranes and freighters gave way to a jumble of trash-strewn wooden jetties. Mangan stopped, put the duffel bag down, breathing heavily, sweat stinging his eyes, the bridge of his nose throbbing with pain. The sun was almost up. He looked out across the water, to where the pinisi boats rocked at anchor.
Three men squatted on the jetty, smoking. He walked towards them, and they turned, regarded him, frowning. One, an older man in faded shorts and vest, a face scoured by the sea, pointed at Mangan with his chin, a what do you want gesture. Mangan pulled the scarf down and licked his lips, forcing himself into his rudimentary I
ndonesian.
“Selamat pagi, pak. Apakah bapak kapten kapal?” Good morning. Are you a boat captain?
The man looked at him, dragged on his cigarette, nodding stiffly. The other two watched.
“Bapak ke mana?” Where are you headed?
The man considered for a moment.
“Wahai.”
Mangan had no idea where that was.
“Pak mengambil … penumpang?” Will you take a passenger?
The men laughed, all three of them. The kapten broke into English.
“Very ’spensive.”
Mangan forced a smile.
“I can pay.”
“Why you go Wahai?”
“I’m just a tourist.”
The man pointed to his own face, around the eyes.
“Touris have big fight.” He made a hitting gesture with his fist. “Tshaaa! Big fight.” The other two cracked up.
Mangan smiled again, nodded.
“Accident,” he said. “When do you leave? Pak kapan pergi?”
A car was moving slowly along the road behind the wharves.
“Maybe today.”
“How much?”
The kapten shrugged. “Two hundred dollar.”
“Okay,” Mangan said. He took a wad of bills from his pocket, counted them out quickly. “Two hundred.”
The kapten chortled and glanced at his friends and quickly reached out and took the money.
The car had several people in it. It was black and clean.
“I want to go to the boat now.”
“Go boat now?”
“Now. Sekarang. Please.”
The kapten frowned.
“Boat is not … not touris. Not kemewahan.” He shook his head. “Later.”
“Now. Another fifty dollars.” Mangan held out the bills.
The kapten looked bemused, turned to his friends, who chided him, telling him to take it.
The car was coming towards them.
The kapten flicked his cigarette end into the filthy water. He stood and beckoned to Mangan. They picked their way along the jetty. A fibreglass dinghy was tied up, bobbing among the flotsam. The kapten lowered himself off the jetty, the muscles in his arms standing out, his skin the colour of teak. Mangan followed, his duffel bag slipping off his shoulder, unbalancing him and almost taking him down into the water. The kapten grabbed his arm, steadied him and gave him a look. Are you sure about this? Mangan nodded at him, indicating that they should move.