by Adam Hall
“British Intelligence,” the interpreter said as he swung from Tung to Sinitsin like a duellist, “has a high reputation for its activities against the Soviets in the Cold War, with notable successes.”
“The high reputation of British Intelligence is going to need a little adjusting, if the Soviets, keep up their notable success in turning homosexuals among the intelligentsia into serviceable moles for Moscow.”
Sinitsin didn’t glance at me; he had no reason to believe I understood Russian.
Tung left it alone. “My action group has reported to me that our operation is in jeopardy. At this stage, when we are halfway to success in our intentions, it would be invaluable to use this agent for our purposes, and I am confident that someone of your status in the intelligence field will recognise the opportunity.”
The twin reflections of the interpreter’s glasses swung across the wall as he turned his head back and forth against the hard light of the gas lamps.
“This is why you asked me not to kill him?”
“Yes.”
“What do you suggest he signals?”
“Disinformation.”
“To the effect?”
“I would leave that to you, as someone skilled in such matters.”
Light flashed again from the submachine gun of one of the men outside. Through the arches I could see the indigo haze of the mountains, with the moon’s light silvering what looked like a waterfall several miles away, and the curving line of a pagoda roof in the foreground. One of those men would be Yang, because he never left me out of his sight: he would have been watching me through the grilled apertures of Tung’s chamber ten minutes ago, though I hadn’t seen him then. I’d heard his name earlier, when they’d ordered me out of my cell to go and see Tung Kuofeng; he was the tracksuited North Korean who had prodded my spine with the gun on our way up to the monastery, and when they had pushed me into the monk’s cell this afternoon and slammed the heavy door shut he’d said something to me in Korean, a few short words with their sibilants spat out in my face with his eyes narrowed like a cat’s. I appreciated his warning; he was under orders to leave me alone, but I knew now that he was waiting for me to make a too-sudden movement or break into a run, and give him an excuse to shoot me down. Perhaps the marksman had been his brother.
“You should know,” I heard Igor Sinitsin saying, “that this agent is very experienced.”
“So my action group has reported.”
“If we let him use the radio, he would certainly slip in what we call an ‘ignore’ signal, making it clear he was giving out disinformation.”
The twin reflections swung across and across the wall.
“I finished my education at the University of Singapore,” Tung said evenly, “and have a perfect understanding of the English language. I would instruct him to say precisely what you wish, and no more.”
“Captain Samoteykin here understands a certain amount of English, you know.”
Not true. If anyone among the Russian or Korean contingent understood a word of English, Sinitsin would have told them to be present when Tung had talked to me in his chamber.
“So much the better,” Tung said through the interpreter. “He’ll be able to supervise the exchange of signals. In any case I shall make it clear to him that this is the only chance he has of saving his life, and that if he attempts any kind of deception I shall order him summarily shot.”
“He’ll be shot anyway, before we leave here.”
“I shall not tell him that.”
The KGB colonel had started moving about, his hands clasped neatly behind him and his grey suede shoes making a series of soft clicking sounds at precise intervals across the flagstones. He’d like to tell Tung Kuofeng to press on with his operation and deal ruthlessly with any opposition, because he was a KGB officer and that was the way a KGB officer would think, with a million-strong organisation behind him and almost limitless resources; in fact the only reason why Department V wasn’t running this project directly was that if any mistakes were made, if there were the slightest risk of world exposure, the faces on the front page would have to be Asiatic, not Caucasian. The KGB had chosen Tung not only to carry out the operation but to take the blame if anything went wrong - or forfeit his son’s life. But Tung now had him worried: Sinitsin would know from the radio reports that Tung’s group was encountering opposition and that the murder of the British delegate had been a mistake; by now the KGB were walking on eggshells, because the one thing they feared was exposure: to have it known that the Soviets were behind the attempt to destroy Chinese-American relations would bring total diplomatic disaster.
If the operation failed, and failed because a British Intelligence cell had infiltrated it and blown it up, Colonel Igor Sinitsin’s head would roll; and Tung was giving him a chance to avoid it.
For Tung the situation was different, and totally personal. He was fighting to save his son.
His own life was already lost, and he knew that. Whether the operation failed or succeeded, they would never let him live to expose the Kremlin.
“Ask him if he understands the situation,” Sinitsin said, and came to a halt with his feet together.
“He already understands. He is ready to cooperate.”
I saw anger behind Sinitsin’s eyes; he was having to give in, and he wasn’t used to that. “He is ready to do anything In his power to destroy us. To destroy us all. And to destroy our operation. If you use him, you’ll be picking up a scorpion.”
“A scorpion will hardly sting the hand that protects it.”
Sinitsin held the silence, standing with his head tilted back as he considered, looking at no one; then he swung round and came towards me in three measured strides until I was looking into his cold blue stare.
“Do you understand any Russian?”
I looked blank.
“Tung,” he said through the interpreter, “does this man understand Chinese?”
“No.”
“Have you tried to trip him?”
“Yes.”
The cold blue eyes watched mine. “I have decided not to permit him to send a signal. I have decided to have him taken out immediately and shot.”
I went on looking blank as the interpreter translated.
Tung must know the man was trying to trip me in Russian, but decided to play it straight. “That will lose us a valuable chance of saving the operation.”
Sinitsin was silent, watching my eyes. He didn’t worry me, but I thought I felt vibrations again from Tung Kuo feng’s direction; perhaps he expected a final show of resistance, and was developing his ki to combat it. The little Korean stood in the middle of us, his body leaning awkwardly away from his deformed leg.
“Tung Kuofeng,” the Russian said at last, “will you interpret for us?”
“I will.”
The game began, and it was for four people, in three languages, while Sinitsin and I watched each other’s eyes to catch any meaning that was lost on its way from Russian through Chinese to English; the KGB man was also watching for me to react to what he was saying in Russian, or to answer too fast once I’d got it in English, having had time to consider the question. I would have to be careful; after the gruelling trek through the mountains I was still fatigued enough to miss a trick, and that would be fatal.
“You’re prepared to send disinformation to your group?”
The interpreter took it and passed it to Tung while I stood waiting, watching Sinitsin. Sinitsin had said “signal” and “cell,” but this was normal: Tung was a terrorist, not an intelligence officer.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yau.”
“Ya.”
“You’re obviously not worried about your reputation.”
Bounce.
Bounce, like a ball.
“I’ve got a reputation for surviving.”
“You’re ready to sell your country?”
The interpreter moved back a little, so that we formed a ring to make things easie
r: he didn’t have to keep on turning his head now from Sinitsin to Tung and back.
“If the price is right,” I said.
“Even if the price is only your neck?”
Going faster now, getting into our stride.
“All right, I’ll have to live with my conscience, but that’s more than a dead man can do.”
“Are you all like that over there in the capitalist states, ready to sell your comrades?”
Sinitsin put a lot of contempt into his tone for my immediate benefit, knowing it would be lost in Tung’s flat metallic voice.
“I’ve told you, I value my neck.”
“I could never betray my comrades.”
“Then you should get a more valuable neck.”
He dismissed this with a raised eyebrow, and changed the subject. I don’t think he’d been trying to trap me into saying something that would call the whole thing off; I think he was just showing his contempt for the decadent West and its perfidious agents, in front of Tung Kuofeng. That was all right; it meant he wasn’t thinking about anything else.
I wanted to get at that radio. It was the only chance.
“Do you trust Tung Kuofeng?”
“With what?”
“Your life.”
“I think he’ll keep me alive as long as it’s in his own interests.”
“They are also my interests.”
Wrong.
I said: “Then I’ve got a double chance.”
“Your chance of remaining alive for more than a few hours precisely nil.” Ice in his eyes.
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m your direct access to the opposition. You can funnel enough dope through me to knock them right out of the running.”
Dismissed with a shrug. “Where is your safe-house in Seoul?”
“There isn’t one.”
“Then where will you send your signals, if I permit it?”
“To my director in the field.”
“What is his name?”
“Murray.”
“Where can he be reached?”
“At the British Embassy.”
He swung away from me and paced for a while, probably to show Tung that he was in total control here and still hadn’t decided whether to use me or not. Beyond him I saw one of the Koreans standing closer to the archways, looking in at us; when he saw I was watching him he brought up his submachine gun and aimed it at me and I thought yes, Sinitsin was probably right: my chances of remaining alive for more than a few hours were precisely nil.
We listened to the sound of the grey suede shoes across the flagstones, like the ticking of a clock. I was getting no emanations from Tung; when I looked away from the muzzle of the submachine gun I saw he had his eyes closed, perhaps in meditation.
The little interpreter shuffled a few steps away, perhaps needing movement to ease his leg; he wasn’t wearing a track suit like the rest of them; I suppose he was just a civilian from one of the Communist liaison groups in Pyongyang or the Demilitarised Zone.
I watched Sinitsin. If he said no, Tung would have to abide by it, and they’d have no further use for me; there’d be the wall and the rattle of shots, and the name of my replacement would go onto the board for Jade One in London.
If he said yes, my voice would vibrate the speaker in the Embassy signals room and Ferris would look up in disbelief, and we could start work again, and use our one chance in hell of saving the mission.
Shoes on the flagstones, like the ticking of a clock. Then Sinitsin stopped pacing. “No,” he said.
Chapter 23
Shoot
It was only a short walk.
Tung Kuofeng didn’t come with us, probably because this was Sinitsin’s show and they didn’t like each other. Sinitsin himself led the way out of the stone-flagged hall, through one of the arches and along the narrow courtyard between the monastery and the ruined temple nearby. The two tracksuited guards came forward and I recognised one them as Yang; apparently he knew Russian, because Sinitsin spoke a few words to him directly, without the interpreter’s help, just saying I was to be executed immediately. Yang moved behind me and pushed the muzzle of his submachine gun into my spine; it wasn’t necessary, because I couldn’t run away; he was just expressing his feelings. They took me to the middle of the long wall between the Monastery and the little pagoda, opposite one of those carved stone Buddhas that were everywhere. Yang left me now, (swinging the gun barrel round and moving back to where the others stood, about thirty feet away.
I don’t know what had changed Sinitsin’s mind. I’d thought Tung had won his argument in there. Apparently not.
My eyes were getting used to the moonlight after the glare of the butane lamps in the hall where we’d been. The soft indigo haze across the mountains had lightened a little, and the tiles of the pagoda’s curving roof had begun shimmering. The air was still, with the scent of woodsmoke in it. You could say it was a fine night.
Those present Colonel Igor Sinitsin, Major Alyev and Captain Samoteykin of the KGB, five North Koreans in Olympic strip, and the crippled interpreter. The three Koreans who had come up were probably members of the helicopter crews, invited to watch the show because they still felt badly about the man I’d killed. Tit for tat, so forth, c’est la vie. You can’t have everything.
C’est la mort, also, of course; that you can have.
Moira.
One single rose, for Moira.
Listen, they can’t do this. They -
Shuddup. Die like a brave ferret.
Records for Jade One: Executive replaced July 16th following final signal reporting extreme hazard. As far as it can be ascertained, first executive in the field deceased shortly afterwards, remains never discovered.
Sinitsin was coming towards me, his leather heels clicking across the stones.
The last I’d heard from Moira was that she was shooting some retakes near Paris. I suppose it would be some bloody little second assistant director stopping her as she left the set, Miss Sutherland, there’re some flowers come for you in a box. Flower, you idiot, one flower, don’t you understand, one rose, don’t you know the difference? And don’t let her think it’s just from one of her fans, make her open it now.
No. Never let her open it. Throw it away somewhere.
There weren’t any lamps out here in the courtyard; there was just the moonlight, gleaming on the curved tiles of the pagoda and the bell in the archway and Yang’s gun.
They didn’t need any more light than this. Yang was thirty feet away and he could blast me into Christendom with one sustained burst of fire, even if I tried running for my life. The only logical place to run would be straight into his gun, to get it over with.
What will she do with the rose? Will she clasp it tenderly in her slender hands, closing her amethyst eyes while the first hot tears begin falling? You don’t know her, my friend. She’ll just look at it and say Christ, he was always so bloody sentimental, I wish he’d sent a case of gin so I could get smashed out of my mind.
Throw it away. Don’t let her know.
Executive deceased. Relevant records show –
Listen, there’s time to run. You can’t let them -
Shuddup, will you. Be brave, little man. You’re dying for Queen, country, a stack of piratical death duties and the overweening arrogance that made you think you could run this one solo, so stop snivelling and let that be your epitaph.
Colonel Sinitsin stopped in front of me with his grey suede shoes neatly together. “Tung spoke a certain amount of logic in there. You could have been valuable as a disinformer; but we know your record and we know you can’t be trusted to behave intelligently when it’s all over. You’d only try something stupid, and I’m not going to have that.”
I stared him back but didn’t show any reaction. There was no point now in concealing the fact that I understood Russian, but it’s the kind of thing we’ve been trained to do, in whatever circumstances: maintain the cover. Actually it’s a bit like running around like a ch
icken with its head cut off, and I would much rather have told Sinitsin something to annoy him, Lenin was a silly shit, something simple enough for him to understand.
“So you can only blame yourself,” he said, and gave a brief energetic nod, as he’d done earlier when I was introduced; then he turned his back on me and walked with his measured stride to where the others were standing, saying a word to Yang as he passed him; Yang was standing alone and slightly forward of the group, and I heard the interpreter catch the word from Sinitsin and translate it for him. Sinitsin had been walking with his back to me when he’d spoken, and I didn’t hear what he was actually saying; I suppose it was something like “in your own time.”
They say that we go through three phases in the last few moments of our life: we panic, then we get angry, then we accept. I had got through the first phase - Listen, there’s time to run, so forth; and my thoughts about Moira must have been part of the acceptance. I didn’t feel any anger, because in this branch of the trade you kill or get killed, and there’s nothing personal. I was still in the final phase, the acceptance bit, because my mind was clear enough to wonder why Sinitsin had bothered to come up and speak to me. He believed I didn’t understand Russian, or he wouldn’t have wasted his time with all that palaver in there, with the cripple and Tung translating. Was it conscience, then? Wanting to go through the motions of addressing the condemned man, telling him he’d only got himself to blame? A KGB colonel from Department V with a conscience, yes, that would do all right if I wanted to go out with a funny story.
I watched Yang bring the submachine gun into the aim. There would be fifty rounds in that model and the stuff would be coming into me with the force of a pneumatic drill. If there were any humanity in him he would start with the head and work downwards through a series of a dozen shots, so that the brain would go first and not understand what was happening afterwards; but there wouldn’t be any humanity in him; he’d just stand there and spread me all over the wall and leave it at that; or to put it another way he might have some humanity in him, but that marksman was either his brother or a good friend and he was very upset about him and he’d get a kick out of blowing me apart.