by Adam Hall
To delay, also, would be dangerous.
The man below me paced with his gun. All the salient factors were the same now except one. The terrain was the same and from this height I could take him down and even more easily, and do it without the gun hitting the stones if I got the angle right; and now I could do it alone, before he saw my shadow: if I could do it blind. This was my worry now, and it was in the form of a linear pattern: at the precise place where I could most easily drop on him, the moon and my head and the flagstone immediately in front of him would be lined up, and he’d see my shadow. I would have to watch him nearing below me, then move back and wait, judging the time and then dropping at once and almost blind, seeing him only as I went down.
I didn’t like that, and the sweat was prickling on me as the watch on my wrist pulsed indetectably; to hurry and to delay were both dangerous, and for the first time since I’d left London I wondered if I were losing my nerve. It can happen, during a chain-action mission when there’s no time between phases to relax; stress is cumulative, and these people had been hounding me from the minute I’d seen Sinclair fished out of the Thames eight days ago; stress is also at its highest when there is frequent killing: the theory is that when we go into the field we know we’re moving into hazard and we’ve done it before and we know how to cope and we’re ready to kill if we have to, rather than not go home; but in practice it doesn’t work like that: when they come at us and we get away with it there’s no relief, but just the feeling of Christ, that was close, while the stress builds up in the nerves and that bloody little pest somewhere deep in the organism starts snivelling, we ought to go home now, raising the small and trembling voice that we learn to loathe because we know it’s the voice of cowardice, and you can call it caution if you like but we know better - if we’d got any sense of caution in our souls we wouldn’t be out here at all.
It’s like that when they come at us and we get away with it: there’s no relief. And when we’ve got to go for them and make a killing it’s no different, because they are our opposite number and we understand them, sometimes more than we can understand ourselves, and underneath the scaly carapace that shelters us and our conscience we know we’re brothers, and when we’ve got to do it to them we don’t do it lightly; we do it with pain, however subdued, and the stress goes on building and there’s no relief, just the feeling of Christ, there but for the grace, so forth, it could have been me, and in a way, it was.
Night thoughts.
Ignore.
Death thoughts.
Let them come.
Let ‘em come, my brave lads, let nothing you dismay, the bugle’s sounding and the flag’s a-flutter in the wind, so let ‘em come, my boys … but it’s not like that anymore and it’s not like that when you’re alone and the notes of the bugle fade and the colours of the flag grow dark in the shadows of night and all you can see is his squat foreshortened body and the barrel of the gun sticking out and the moon’s light on his white clown’s face as you wait and count off the time and then kick forward from the edge of the tiles, oh come on for Christ’s sake it’s quite simple but I might have got it wrong as I drop and go down and take my fear with me, ice in the gut, watching his gun, death on my breath, all the way down, all the way down.
Chapter 27
Storm
Tung Kuofeng sat perfectly still.
“My son is precious to me,” he said in his toneless English. “Our line stems from the Ch’ing dynasty, and he is my oldest.”
I said nothing.
“They knew that,” he said with his night-dark eyes brooding on mine. “That is why they abducted him.”
For an instant I saw a sinuous shadow moving towards him across the flagstones; then it was gone. This time it was not a dream.
The submachine gun lay in the corner of the small ornate room under a folded tapestry he’d taken down from the wall. The body of the Korean guard was among the rocks below the parapet; in the pocket of his tracksuit I’d found some bookmatches and a half-empty packet of cigarettes; they were all the tools I would need.
Tung had asked me nothing, a few minutes ago when I’d called his name through the grilled aperture and said I must talk to him. Seeing the gun and the empty courtyard he knew what must have happened. Now we were sitting facing each other in the lotus position on the Thai silk carpet. I asked him how much he valued his son’s life, and he’d answered me.
“There’s a chance I can save him,” I said now.
“Was there a message?” He meant from Ferris, on the radio.
“There was a message,” I said, “from Moscow.”
“How do you know?”
He alone here spoke English, the only language he believed I understood. Only he could have told me there’d been a message from Moscow.
“It was the message we listened to in there, last night. It was about Tung Chuan, your son. Remember?”
He lifted his head, his back straightening slightly, and the movement was almost startling: it was like a reptile moving, after that total stillness. “You understand Russian?”
“Perfectly.”
His eyes burned; he’d lost face: I’d deceived him.
“What did the message say?”
“That there’s a chance I can save your son.”
“What did it say, in words?”
I could feel the force in him, as I’d known I would. He was going to fight me on this issue of the message. I attacked at once.
“I’m not giving you the actual words, and if you try forcing them out of me in any way you’ll lose the last chance of saving your son, because only I can do it, and only if I can work extremely fast.”
He was silent, watching me. I didn’t envy him the decision he had to make. If he could force me to give him the exact message he could signal his Triad and repeat it, using a speechcode of his own, and they could go straight to Kimpo Airport and wait for Tung Chuan to arrive. But how long would it take to make me talk, if he could do it at all?
“Why is time so important?” he asked me, his tone strident.
“At any minute they’re going to find my cell unguarded. They’ll tear the whole place apart, looking for me. Before that happens I must get away. Otherwise I can’t save your son.”
The air was trembling, and I wanted to close my eyes, but that would be dangerous: I mustn’t give him ground.
“Where is my son?”
The air shuddered and I was appalled.
He’d made his decision: he would force me to talk and he’d do it without wasting time.
“I don’t know.”
If his Triad could free his son, he would never have to do what I was here to make him do. Jade One had become a double mission: it wasn’t enough to halt Tung’s operation; the damage to Chinese-American relations was already too great. We had to make him expose the instigators: the Soviets. I was here to do a deal with him.
Reptilian stillness, his eyes on mine, dark, shimmering with an inner light, the sound of soundlessness shaking the air and drumming softly against my ears as the force in him rose like a storm.
“Where is my son?”
“They’re going to - “
Christ alive, don’t let him do this.
“They are going to what?”
His voice came through the drumming air like a shaft of thunder aimed at my head and I shook it away, dragging in breath, my own prana, my own ki, you’re not the only one, damn you -
“You’re not the only one!”
“What are you saying?”
The gong on the wall vibrating, pushing out rings of sound, waves of brass vibration that boomed in my head while I sat there staring into the dark shimmering eyes, look away, his terrible stillness at the heart of the storm, look away -
“Where is my son?”
His voice crashed over me like waves over a rock and the rock shuddered and I was afraid, crouching under the onslaught of the force he was gathering in him and hurling against me, look away, yes, look away, t
he patterns on the Thai silk carpet, a sea of leaves with white beasts leaping, leaping but never moving, suddenly still, the air clearing, you’ll lose your -
“You’ll lose your son, don’t you understand? You’ll - “
“Where is he?”
Waves crashed, but I dodged them - “You’ll lose him, you bloody fool, if you go on like this, you want him dead? You want him dead, I’ll - “
“Where is he?”
Huge waves beating me back, beating me down under their darkness - “You’ll kill him like this! I’m the only one who can save him, and you’re trying to - “
“Where is my son?”
Crashed against me and flung me back and I hit the wall and fell down and got up and fell down and got up and started staggering, where is he, behind me, don’t let him, I suppose I was a bloody fool to shove that gun in the corner, I should have kicked the fucking door down and shot him right between the fucking eyes, that would have shown him what was - steady, we need time to think, we need to stop waste, stop wasting -
“Time - you’re wasting time - “
“Where is my son?”
Great force hurling its waves from wall to wall and I stood swaying in it, a swimmer in black water, strike out, black water booming as my head went under and came up again, strike out or you’re going to drown, strike out or he’s got you -
“Strike out - “
“What are you saying - “
“Listen to me, damn you, I can’t save him if you waste my time like this, you’re killing him like this don’t you understand? Because I’m not going under, I don’t care what you - “
“Where is he?”
Wave crashed and I went under, black water rising, crashing again, but could swim all -
“I can swim - listen to me, I’m not going under,” dragging in breath, not frightened now, but very angry, “Tung Kuofeng,” I said and looked down at him, swaying and looking down at him in the middle of the room, “you tried it and it didn’t work,” head hammering like a brass gong, but I knew now, “it didn’t work, you understand,” knew I was all right now and even the anger going because he looked so terribly pale, trick of the light perhaps, white as anything, and terribly still, “if you want your son to live you’ve got to let me go and see to it, now is that clear?”
Not swaying anymore, but rather weak, never mind, be better in a minute but by Christ I could have kicked his face in because I’d got an operation to run and time was of the essence, very much of the essence, my watch said 12:29.
“Listen to me. Do you want me to save Tung Chuan?”
I noticed his face was running with sweat, and deathly pale.
“Yes.” His voice was perfectly normal.
“I’m not sure I want to. You’re giving me a lot of trouble. Are you going to give me any more trouble?”
“No.”
“Well that’ll be a nice change.” I walked round the room a bit, finding my feet again, rotten headache but not surprising, covered in sweat, stinking with it, damn him, what did he want to go and do that for, bloody great brass gong, I wanted to kick it, bring it down off the wall with a bloody great boom, boom, boom, steady for Christ’s sake it’s over now and we’ve got to get moving. “Listen,” I said to him, “I’ve come here to do a deal. Tung Chuan’s life for exposing the Soviets, and I can’t give you long to think it over.”
“I will do anything,” he said.
I stopped walking about and looked down at him. He’d aged ten years in the last six minutes. I suppose it took an awful lot of effort to throw that much force around, serve him bloody well right.
“It’s going to be up to you,” I told him. “You make one false move and Tung Chuan won’t live. One false move. Just one. For Christ’s sake get that into your head.” I crouched on my haunches in front of him. “I’m getting out of this place now, or I’m going to try. You’ve got that submachine gun in the corner there, and there’s another one behind the Buddha at the end of the passage where they had me in that cell, you know where that is?”
“Yes.”
“If you need them, use them.”
“Both?”
“What? One at a time, of course.” Wild laughter ringing out, somewhere inside what he’d left of my head; long time since I’d heard a joke. “I don’t want either of them, that’s why I’m leaving them to you. I’m not going to try shooting my way out of here because you might get killed by a stray bullet, and you’re one end of the deal, remember. Besides, you can never do anything really useful with a gun.”
I straightened up and tried to think, still a bit wobbly but managing well enough now. “It’s your job to stay alive, you understand? That’s the deal. They won’t connect you with my getting out of here - you’ve been sitting here praying on your bloody mat all night and you never heard anything happening to the guard. As far as they’re concerned you’re still in charge of the Triad and your operation’s still going and you’ve got the next assassination set for noon tomorrow, or that’s what you told me. All that’s going to happen is that I’m going to get away, in order to save my own skin. Nothing to do with you.”
What else? Something else. I wish I didn’t feel so bloody tired, suppose I lack protein, bean curd’s not the answer, you can stick it. Yes, “Listen, if we can get your son away from the KGB unit we’ll keep him under guard till you’ve honoured your part of the deal.” Banner headlines, we’re interrupting our scheduled programme to bring you this flash, and so forth, Soviets Responsible for Pekin Assassinations. World Shock at Terrorist’s Exposure. “Sometime before dawn,” I told him, “we’ll be sending in paratroopers to pull you out of here, understand? I can’t take you with me, there’s too much risk. Wait for them to come. Don’t antagonise Sinitsin or anyone else. Keep a low profile, but if they try to get you away overland don’t let them: hide up somewhere or use the guns on them. Stay alive. That’s the deal, understand?”
“Yes.” He got up and stood facing me. “How will you escape?”
“None of your bloody business.”
I left him, checking the courtyard and using shadow cover, my bare feet silent across the stones.
Chapter 28
Fireball
I stood in the jungle shadows, with the moon’s light dappling the ground through the filigree pattern above my head. Then I went forward, stopping for a few seconds to listen.
12:48.
The luminous digits of my watch cast a faint glow across the hairs on my wrist. In twelve minutes they would relieve the guard on my cell, and see that Yang was gone.
I looked upwards, and the moon’s light burst against my eyes from the edge of the big black cross. I listened again, and then looked for a foothold, swinging upwards with one hand on the grip. The fuel-cap was now within reach and I unscrewed it, putting it in my pocket so that it shouldn’t fall and make a noise. Then I opened my jacket and took the bookmatches and lit the cigarette.
They were two Russian Mil Mi2s standing side by side under a single camouflage net, with only a few feet of clearance between their rotor radii; I’d seen this much when they’d brought me in from the mountains. This was the biggest area of flat ground anywhere near the monastery, but it wasn’t ideal: there wasn’t room for one of these things to be pushed clear of the other in an emergency, because of the parapet walls.
When I had arranged the cigarette and the bookmatches. I climbed down and made my way towards the second machine, pulling myself up and opening the door quietly. By the time I was sitting in the pilot’s seat my watch showed 12:56. I’d left it rather late, because that bastard Tung had decided to fight me for the information inside my head. The twelve minutes had narrowed to four.
I looked around the cabin. There were two seats forward and four behind, with the cyclic column and stick disposed for right-seat pilotage and the facia panel set centrally inside an anti-glare hood. The general layout was much the same as the one we used for refresher training; the only differences would be in the operating
requirements for the two GTD-350 turboshafts and the triple-bladed rotor.
A pair of string gloves was lying across the cyclic column: the pilot had sweaty hands; the navigational map was on the left seat, opened out and clipped to the board and showing South Korea. The radio display was central, with headsets hooked behind the seat squabs, and I found it tempting to switch the thing on and raise 5051 kHz and tell Ferris to alert the airport police at Kimpo and watch for Tung Chuan’s party coming through; but the sound of my voice in the stillness could reach one of the guards and if the Embassy didn’t answer immediately or if Ferris wasn’t actually at the console I wouldn’t have time to get the signal through before they came for me.
12:59.
Leaving it late.
I thought I heard voices; perhaps I did; they probably came from the operations room where the two radios were: twenty minutes ago when I’d crawled on my stomach below the parapet wall I’d heard Sinitsin talking in there. These weren’t raised voices I was listening to.
The moonlight picked up silver crescents from the chrome rims of the reserve fuel tank gauges; they should have been blacked over. Small sounds came as the landing-gear suspension shifted minutely under my weight, and I stopped moving and sat still and listened to the deep percussive rhythm of my heartbeat as the idea came to me that perhaps it wouldn’t work; technically I was satisfied, but the psychological aspect was starting to worry me: I was resting the outcome of the whole mission on a single cigarette, and not because it was the best way but the only possible way; it wasn’t that the odds were long; it was that the stakes were high.
Ignore.
01:00.
Deadline.
Synchronise your watches, gentlemen, so forth: maybe Yang’s relief had his watch a bit slow.
The incandescent end of the cigarette should have reached the match-heads by now.
Sweat. Sitting in my sweat. Left it too late.
Ignore negative reactions and concentrate and look at the map. There wasn’t enough light to see any of the figures but I’d worked them out already from the data de Haven and I had been given at the US Air Force base. Kimpo Airport, Seoul was 224 kilometres from here and the maximum cruise speed of this thing would be in the region of 200 kph and we’d need an hour and eight minutes to get there, giving us an ETA of 02:11 including a give-or-take five-minute delay in getting this thing off the ground, which gave us a margin of seven minutes before Cathay Pacific Flight 584 got the green from the tower and started rolling.