by Adam Hall
But what had made it die, up there in the light of the arabesque lamps? Spur couldn’t have done anything to it: the thing was a huge galvanic spring that could strike and coil with the speed of a tension trap. What made me so sure that it had been incited to kill was that the Tung Triad always chose indirect means when it could.
Spur’s death had conformed to the pattern. Sinclair had been killed either in his car or thrown into the Thames half dead, to drown. They’d tried to smash me up in a hit and run and they’d killed the Secretary of State with a remote-controlled bomb and then they’d sent Li-fei to shoot me instead of doing it themselves. The US Ambassador had been shot dead, but it might not have happened directly by a Tung agent; they might have used someone like Li-fei.
I take note of patterns in the shifting sands of a mission: you can read from them a great deal about the opposition. This man Tung enjoyed high drama: a cloud of flowers exploding against the sun; a headless man on the temple steps; a woman’s grief in the shape of a gun; and a jungle death in downtown Seoul.
Also, he was a man of some magic, though it was not magic that had brought the black Porsche into my driving mirror; it was the result of expert planning. I had made sure that no one was shadowing me from the wine shop to the Datsun, but that was the most I could do, and I’d known that. They’d used chain surveillance, which is impossible to detect unless you can recognise your opponents. In any given network of streets there are always men standing still, waiting for a bus or buying a paper or looking into a shop window, and there’d been men like that in the streets I’d walked through a few minutes ago.
Four of them-at least four, because there were that number of exits from the square - had been positioned within sight of the wine shop, either in the street or at the windows of a tea house or a restaurant; they had seen me go into the wine shop and they’d seen me come out, and they’d started their routine looping action, one of them staying where he was and keeping me in sight while the others moved off to make quick detours round the streets where I walked, so that at all times there was one man watching me, standing still, as each of the others went ahead of me along a parallel street and took up his station.
I had used checks and cover all the way from the wine shop to the car to make certain I wasn’t followed. But I was followed. The Datsun had been delivered to me, left parked outside the Jang Chung Gymnasium by a runner from the Embassy at Ferris’s request, and when I’d taken it over I was unsurveilled; and when I’d driven it to Toegye Street the mirror had been clean all the way. They’d picked me up at the wine shop and let me lead them far enough from the area for Spur’s death and mine to seem unconnected, and now the black Porsche was turning left when I turned left, and right when I turned right, because chain surveillance isn’t possible when there are vehicles involved.
A flashy car, the Porsche, for an intelligence agency. But then, we weren’t up against an intelligence agency of any prescribed type; we were up against something more mystical than that, more exotic, more deadly: the two men whose faces made a blur behind the windscreen of the Porsche weren’t concerned that I knew they were there and were tailing me; wherever I would go they would go, until they were ready to make the kill.
Left, right, right again and left. The low curved snout of the Porsche heeled on the turns in the mirror, its gleaming body the shape of a shark.
9:17.
I took the street going west along the south boundary of Namsan Park and used the smaller streets through the blocks where the embassies were - Thai, Belgian, Indonesian - and twice hit the floor and changed down and got wheelspin and swung out past a taxi and a small truck, just as an essay. It was no go: they were professionals and they had a machine to beat mine if they tried hard enough. But already the pattern was changing ahead of me and at first I didn’t believe it because they’d had so little time; then it became perfectly clear because every time I tried to pass the Chevrolet pick-up ahead of me it pulled nearer the middle of the street to block me.
This was the pincer, and a classic.
The elements of the evening fell into shape in my mind as I drove a dozen yards behind the pick-up truck, a dozen yards in front of the Porsche. Spur had infiltrated the Triad to get information for the Bureau, and he’d been discovered, and the information was now locked safely in the cold relic of his brain. Tung’s agents had learned - from Spur himself or via a tapped signal - that the information was to have been passed onto me this evening; and they had moved in to follow me to a convenient place for the kill.
They would try very hard tonight. They’d been losing face: I’d defeated them in London, Pekin and this city on four occasions, but now they had me in their sights and this time they wouldn’t let me go.
The Porsche and the pick-up must be using short-wave radio with concealed antennae, and there would be other vehicles in the area, called in to strengthen the trap. But in these short city streets with traffic lights prohibiting a long fast run, two vehicles were enough, if they went for the pincer technique. It was a classic because it seldom failed. Two Americans, McDonald and Buchelli, had been taken as hostages in Salvador in 1979 by this method, and their chauffeur killed. The technique has been used in Beirut, Mexico City, Stuttgart and Budapest, and the defensive driving course in Norfolk attempts to train us in defeating it; but there’s not really much you can do. You can’t speed up because the vehicle ahead will block you; you can’t slow down because the one behind will keep you going; you’ll be allowed to stop when they are ready, and then it’s too late.
Tonight I tried playing the lights and took one on the yellow and led the Porsche through on the red in the hope that a police patrol would see it and give chase, but I was out of luck. Soon after turning south towards the Han River I hit the gear shift and put the ZX into a drift through the neck of a side street and made headway and drifted again at right angles into the next street and gunned up and pulled out to pass a Toyota and had to brake hard as it blocked me. Mirror: a dark blue Mercedes coming up fast and settling down as my own speed steadied.
Four vehicles. At least four, possibly six. I could have turned right instead of left and they knew that and would have been prepared. I suppose it was a compliment, but now I was afraid. There’s something about a trap that works quickly on the nerves, perhaps because it’s claustrophobic.
I tried again, bringing a thin howl from the gears and using controlled drifts that had the treads whimpering as I turned right and traversed the block and turned left and took up station immediately behind the Chevrolet pick-up again: they’d been sighting along the intersections and keeping pace.
Mirror: Porsche.
Sweat on the wheel-rim. Normal psychological reactions now: not afraid anymore, but angry. Felt good, drowning in adrenalin; breathing deeper, faster; vision very clear as the pupils expanded.
Fight the good fight, and so forth.
Whatever else may come to me, let fear be never a stranger.
Bloody Spur, got what he wanted, died with the fear of Christ in him as that thing started contracting, I’d rather smash this banger straight into a wall than go the way he’d gone.
All right, try it again, a side street to the right and then left again, clouting the kerb and skinning past a taxi and pushing the lights through the red, but it was no go: a Ford station-wagon blocked me at once and the black Porsche came up on full gun in the mirror; it had done as I had done, making the same turns one intersection behind and keeping station.
Very well. Force my way out.
Lights.
We waited on the red with the station-wagon immediately in front of me. I couldn’t see anything through the rear window because it was tinted. My foot was on the clutch and the gear shift was in first and I was ready to hit the gun if anyone got out of the wagon, smear them across the road if they came for me.
Watching all three mirrors, listening for the click of a door from the Porsche behind me: shoot the red if they came for me from behind.
Gr
een.
We drove three more blocks due south and the pace was slow because there was more traffic here, approaching the Third Han Bridge. Then the station-wagon began slowing, making me brake. There was nothing ahead of it at this point: it had a clear run, but it was still slowing, forcing me to slow with it. In the central mirror the Porsche was closing up.
So they were going to do it here.
Light traffic. There has to be a steady traffic stream for the pincer to work; otherwise you can wrench into a U-turn and lose them if they’re not quick enough. Tonight it wasn’t possible.
The pincer technique is terribly simple: the leading car jams its brakes on and you hit the rear while the trailing car rams your tail hard enough to force the doors open before you can do anything about it and when they come running you’ve got the choice of getting out of the car and moving into their gunfire or sitting still behind the wheel and waiting for them to come and pour shot into you there, better than the constrictor trick but very sticky, a study in red.
The wagon hit the brakes, but I was in first gear and used my right foot immediately. There was too much wheelspin, but it left enough traction to bring the weight down at the back as the power began piling up and I had the wheel hard over in case there was a chance; the treads were screaming a lot and I could smell rubber burning as the acceleration got us over the inertia and took the ZX in a short sharp swing to clear the rear end of the station-wagon with glass from my nearside headlamp flying up like snow: the wagon gave a shudder and shifted across a few inches as the ZX pulled away from the impact and I used the kerb in the neck of the side street to kick the car straight before I could change up and get some real speed going.
A shot or a tyre blown somewhere.
It was a short street with vehicles parked along one side and no traffic moving. The Porsche came into the mirror almost at once because I hadn’t been able to do anything difficult to follow and he didn’t have to knock the station-wagon out of the way in the acceleration phase. Headlights came full on, half-blinding me in the mirror as I drifted the ZX into a left turn at the intersection and saw the narrow perspective of the street opening up in front of me with the dark blue Mercedes and the pick-up truck standing at right angles to the street and blocking it.
They’d tracked us from the left side of the trap and got far enough ahead to set up the ambush and I knew now that the station-wagon had jammed its brakes on to try for the pincer but reserved the option of pushing me into the side street if I got clear. They’d decided not to waste any more time: the pincer depends on mobility, but now they wanted to make sure I stopped, and the ambush would do that for them.
The speed felt like a rising fifty and I slowed at once. The Mercedes and the pick-up truck didn’t leave any room on either side for me to get through; I couldn’t see anyone moving anywhere, but the Mercedes had still been rocking on its springs when I’d swung into this street so there hadn’t been time for them to get out: they were crouched below window level and waiting for me to stop.
Beyond the two vehicles I could see the flat sheen of the Han River, quite close, with a street running parallel with it on this bank. If I could do anything at all I’d have to reach the bridge, but the chances were thin.
I was sitting in my own sweat now with the full headlights of the Porsche closing on me from behind and throwing the shadow of the ZX against the flat grey sides of the pick-up ahead of me.
Feeling of intense anger again, but there were compensations: this was a better way to go than most and what you find yourself hoping for is an effective shot into the brain so that you can simply phase out, with no final thoughts of guilt -
I shouldn’t have let them snare me into anything so simple - and shame - mission unaccomplished, executive deceased.
Still slowing, as they would expect me to. Slowing, with the shapes of the Mercedes and the pick-up looming quite close now.
A sudden blizzard inside the ZX as they blew out the rear window with a silenced shot: glass snow everywhere, flying at the back of my head and the inside of the windscreen. I slumped lower in the seat and turned my own headlights full on so that I could work out the options better: there were only two; I could let them proceed with the kill or I could try ramming.
Slowing to something like twenty, to let them think I wouldn’t be giving them any trouble.
Then I hit the brakes hard and we were into the storm as the Porsche rammed into the rear of the ZX and they began shunting. An awful lot of noise now from the final drive couplings and metal hitting metal but they were still using the silencer and a shot ploughed into the windscreen frame above my head as if they’d simply thrown a stone. I thought the glare was less now from their lights: it had been quite an effective impact when I’d braked, and one of their lamps must have gone. I didn’t know what the speed was now, but it didn’t matter very much: linear thinking was phasing out as the organism realised the need to survive. Linear thought: the idea is to ram the stationary obstacle and the best place to go for is the rear wheel because that end is lighter in a front-engined vehicle; you don’t rely on your momentum to create the necessary force: you’ve got to do it on an acceleration curve with the power building up as you go. First gear, foot hard down, take aim at the target.
Then I stopped thinking because the conscious doesn’t stand a chance against the powers of the subconscious when the living creature reaches the edge of life and makes its decisions according to the laws of survival; all the conscious mind has to do is feed the data in and keep clear and shut up.
Shunting still going on. Metal tearing as we hit and parted and hit again, the flight of a bullet somewhere very close and then the bang of its impact against the door pillar. The street full of noise and light: the travail of the two machines as they worked together in collision and recoil, the acid glare of the headlamps as I left them full on, bringing reflections from the windows of the two motionless vehicles.
I shrugged the seat belt tighter and pushed the gear shift into first and hit the floor with my right foot and centered the ZX at the rear wheel of the stationary Mercedes while the power built up and took us through the final few yards to the impact. Fierce deceleration and pain burning against the ribs and shoulder as the weight of my body strained against the seat belt; secondary impact from the rear as the Porsche smashed into me and rebounded with both lamps dark and nothing but a blur in the mirrors. A glimpse of a face at the window of the Mercedes before the whole vehicle began shifting on its tyres, heeling against the shock and swinging wider, letting the ZX through with the nearside door panels shrieking as they grazed past the dark blue tail with the outside mirror snapping at the stem and falling away.
We were through and I dragged the gear shift into second and kept the power on and saw the bright surface of the river dead ahead as the Porsche followed me through and a shot ripped fabric from the roof lining and buried into the frame of the windscreen. There wasn’t room to do anything now except try making the turn into the road alongside the river and I started the drift, but a front tyre burst and the steering went wild and the ZX went almost straight on with its wheels ploughing across grass and a footpath and some kind of boating deck before the front end sailed clear and began going down in a curve; final impression: my own headlight beams striking the surface of the river and reflecting against the buildings on the other side in the few seconds before the front of the car hit the water and was buried in a white shockwave.
Chapter 12
Cat
Peace.
Peace, and the sense of another place.
My body weightless and at ease. So this is what it is like, and it will go on forever.
Night and silence, who is here?
My eyes open, watching the dark; my ears lulled by the soundless water; one hand drifting and touching but feeling nothing that has definition. So death, after all, is nothing spectacular; it is isolation, and the slow running on of the mind.
But there was something there.
/> Ignore it; there’s nothing here.
The weight of my body shifting in a slow dance, touching and coming away. Night, and easeful silence.
Pressure of some kind, a sudden huge rising of the dark under my face, and then no breathing.
Ignore it; the dead don’t breathe.
Listen, you’ve got to -
Be quiet, I’m resting. Go away.
My ears covered and uncovered by the slow rising and falling of the water; my eyes filled with dark, and nothing to -
Water, yes. Do you want to drown, you bloody fool?
Leave me alone and shut up. I’m not interested in panic.
For Christ’s sake you’ve got to -
Leave me alone and -
Got to wake up, wake up, wake up.
The huge rising of the dark again and no breathing.
Pressure in the lungs. Water, did you say?
Don’t you know what drowning is? Don’t you –
Shuddup.
But the night rose and slammed against my face and blocked off the breathing and I moved suddenly, throwing out one arm and feeling the soft resistance of the water.
Push yourself up. Push up.
Air, yes, and breathing.
A long time choking. This isn’t death. This is dying.
Then nightmare: where am I and can I make it and I don’t want to die, and so forth. A kind of consciousness returning, flying back into me and finding me embattled against the force of a primitive element. A time of uncertainty, until the black water rose again and I moved my head, tilting it back so that I could breathe, taking the first step towards the light.
For God’s sake get out of here.
Where?