The Pekin Target q-10

by Adam Hall

  The fatigue was leaving me, and I felt a singing in the blood as the thought in my mind released adrenalin.

  "You must find my son," he said.

  His voice seemed to echo among the stone walls, as if he had shouted the words from a long way off, as if they were echoing among the mountains out there as well as in here, where the lamplight sparked on the gold of his robe and darkened his eyes in shadow.

  One thing, yes, to be done, and to be done at once. Without awareness that I was preparing myself I could sense nerve and muscle and sinew awakening and becoming a force, and so rapidly that the explosion was only instants away as my eyes measured, my hands tensed, my thought raced toward detonation.

  I think I had begun moving before his voice came.

  "No. Not that way."

  He sat perfectly still as the air became silent thunder, hurling me back against the wall.

  22: Sinitsin

  Igor Sinitsin.

  I had heard of him more than once along the bleak corridors of the Bureau in London.

  I had heard of him because he was one of our opposite numbers in the field; he worked for V, the Executive Action Department, a special service of one of the three Sub-directorates of the First Chief Directorate of the KGB.

  Department V is the most secret arm of Soviet operations and responsible for mokrie dela, the 'wet affairs' outside the USSR involving sabotage, kidnapping, political assassination and similar blood-letting operations designed to create chaos in foreign governments at times of internal crisis, to paralyse communications, provoke hostility among non-Communist nations and generally to render foreign soil fertile for the seeds of Marxist-Leninism. V was once called the Thirteenth Department, or Line F, just as the Bureau was once designated Liaison 9 before it broke away from D16.

  It is said, along the bleak corridors in London, that Colonel Igor Sinitsin was in Paris when the charge d'affaires of the Persian Embassy was found on the top floor of an apartment in the Place Pigalle with a steel knitting needle buried into his brain through the left eye and no trace of the belle de nuit who had lived and worked there for the last three years before striking up an acquaintance with a member of the visiting Ballet Russe.

  It is said that Sinitsin was in Buenos Aires when one of our people got on to his track and was found the next day in the wreck of an elevator in the Hotel Conquistador with his spine driven upwards into his skull.

  Tilson says that Sinitsin was involved in the assassinations of General Batista, President Sri Phouma and Minister of State Hasan Kazan, and that he personally despatched two gentleman acquaintances of Eva Peron in the hope of receiving her favours in their place.

  "Not permitted," he said.

  The small Korean interpreter, a cripple with thick glasses, put it straight into Chinese for Tung Kuo-feng.

  Igor Sinitsin didn't look like the archetypal KGB officer; when I had come into the room with Tung five minutes ago I'd thought at first glance that he was a Scandinavian; of middling height, he was quick-moving and rather graceful, striking poses to suit what he was saying: feet equally balanced when he was being firm, as he was now; one leg bent and arms folded pensively when he considered. His eyes were light blue and he had the attractively crumpled features of an experienced ladies' man, not unlike Philby's; he dressed casually and at some cost: a silk scarf tucked inside the open neck of a Cardin shirt, the grey alpaca suit from Savile Row and the thin gold watch from Cartier's; this, anyway, was the impression they gave and the impression he wanted to create; for a ruthless KGB colonel it amounted almost to a disguise.

  "You will have to permit it," the interpreter said in Russian, turning from Tung to Sinitsin.

  The tension in the room was increasing rapidly; it had begun when Tung had brought me in here to find Sinitsin and his two aides sitting near one of the big radio transceivers. They had all stood up, less out of courtesy, I think, than out of an unwillingness to be caught off their guard; whether Tung carried some kind of ninja weapon in the folds of his robe or not, they were uneasy in his presence, perhaps because they sensed the same powerful emanations of ki that had seemed to throw me against the wall not long ago.

  He had made the introductions through the interpreter: Mr West of British Intelligence, Colonel Igor Sinitsin of the KGB and his aides, Major Petr Alyev and Captain Viktor Samoteykin. The aides looked more traditional, with flat Slav faces and badly fitting suits; their expression hadn't changed during the introductions. Sinitsin had studied me with interest for a moment and then given me a brief energetic nod as from one professional to another; he hadn't bothered to hide the impression that as soon as possible he would have me shot dead. This wasn't only because I'd killed that marksman out there; in our trade the opposite numbers in the field don't bear each other any grudge, and there's even a degree of respect on an impersonal level; but the KGB have had their knife into me ever since I wiped out their Colonel Vader, right on his home ground in Dzerzhinsky Square: his own bloody fault, he shouldn't have tried to throw me into a political asylum, but it had really got them on the raw, and when I'd looked into Sinitsin's light blue eyes for the first time I'd known his thoughts.

  "You will have to permit it," I heard the interpreter saying in Russian, "because otherwise our operation will be increasingly endangered." This was from Tung Kuo-feng.

  After Tung had used the force of his ki against me as a warning that I must not try to kill him, we'd talked for only a few minutes longer. "I am taking you to the operations room," he had said, "to meet the Soviet contingent. I have decided not to attempt persuading them into accepting your cover as a NATO officer. Instead I am going to use you against them, and for this your true identity is essential."

  Then he had briefed me.

  We were still standing, all of us; the light was brighter in here than it had been in Tung's chamber; they'd set up two butane lamps, one on each side of the radio console, which was mounted on a wooden trestle; the light was bright and harsh, and shadows were sharp against the walls. This place wasn't an enclosed room but a kind of hall, with open arches at one end and massive double doors at the other, and iron sconces along the walls where the flames of oil lamps had left patches of soot on the ancient stones. In one corner a huge bench bore what looked like wooden printing blocks, carved with the letters of the Buddhist scriptures; along the main wall stood a hearth built of carved stone with a Buddha at each end, flanked by two faded tapestries.

  The heat of the day was still in the building, and the night air was still; through the archways I could see two figures moving as the moonlight sent an occasional reflection from the weapons they were carrying: from this distance they looked like submachine guns. One of those men would be Yang.

  He too was waiting to kill me.

  Tung was talking again through the interpreter, whose accent I recognised as North Korean. "Since this agent arrived from London, my action group has come under increasing difficulties. I have been told that other members of his cell are now dangerously close to infiltrating our operation."

  Sinitsin was listening carefully; the interpreter had run into trouble two or three times, hesitating while he looked for the right word, his dark head going down each time as if he were listening. He was good at his job: he knew what the situation was and he didn't try to alter the mood between Tung and Sinitsin by adding courtesies: when the Russian had said "Not permitted," a moment ago, the interpreter had spoken what sounded like only one word to the Chinese; in the same way, he'd told Sinitsin: "You will have to permit it," without any embroidery. The trouble he was running into was unavoidable even for an expert: the proximity of Korea and mainland China has led, over the centuries, to a degree of lingual transmigration; but the Russian influence in Communist North Korea has added specialist terms, particularly in the intelligence field, and the young crippled interpreter had probably had to change «Triad» to "action group" and come up with the strictly specialist phrase "infiltrating our operation" for Sinitsin's benefit.

 
; The interpreter was also scared; not perhaps by the personalities of either man as such, but by the atmosphere of tension that was affecting all of us. In the confrontation that Tung Kuo-feng had started when he'd brought me in here, either he or Sinitsin would finally have to back down, and I couldn't imagine either of them doing that.

  "If your operation is close to being infiltrated," the KGB Colonel said, "then you must take the necessary action." His ice blue eyes were levelled at Tung over his folded arms.

  "Our operation" had become "your operation". Noted. The Russian connection was telling the Chinese end that they expected the goods delivered, regardless of obstacles.

  "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 Kuo-feng; he was the track-suited 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 Kuo-feng 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 Kuo-feng," 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 n
ormal: 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 easier: 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 imcdiate 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 Kuo-feng. That was all right; it meant he wasn't thinking about anything else.