Charlie’s Apprentice cm-10

by Brian Freemantle

  And Snow won, succeeding – although not to the degree of detail he would have wanted, such as developing another source like Zhang Su Lin – in his information-gathering mission. He had not expected to, in the first two days of their meeting in Zhengzhou. During those early days he had, in fact, been despondent at the control he was now under, refusing to weigh the undeniable successes before he’d met Li against the futility of achieving anything worthwhile afterwards.

  And then he realized Li would identify for him anything he wanted to isolate as officially restricted, in any of the closed areas through which they moved.

  All he had to do was ask.

  If Li agreed, then where Snow wanted to go did not have anything the authorities wanted to keep hidden. If Li refused, it was a specifically designated high-security area, the best possible map coordinates of which were memorized or actually written down, in confused or apparently meaningless fashion, in the journal Snow was officially keeping of his travels, to be passed on to Walter Foster on his return to Beijing, possibly for some satellite aerial reconnaissance if the information was considered sufficiently interesting to be pursued further.

  It was nevertheless exhausting, particularly with a companion who never relaxed the intrusive personal interrogation or the ambiguous, incriminating-reply questions. Snow visited copy-book communes epitomizing the Beijing government’s successful marriage of communism to the private enterprise system which gave the country its economic strength, visits which Snow judged not to be an entire waste of time, hopeful of their being of some interest in London. He visited another private enterprise pottery and three agricultural centres boasting self-sufficient rice harvest for a vast area. He politely admired two bicycle manufacturing plants, and was properly respectful in four Buddhist temples the only occupants of which, besides themselves, were monks who seemed surprised to see any visitors, one mosque and an archeological site which Li claimed to be the remains of one of the first Confusian meditation centres in China. Somone had chipped ‘J.W. Iowa. 1987’ in one of the larger stones. Snow wondered how the graffiti carver had been able to finish his meaningless memorial before being arrested.

  But at the same time Snow collected his information from the unsuspecting official escort.

  There was an area to the south-east of Wuhan, in the direction of Echeng, that Li said was impossible to visit, using a hastily concocted excuse of transport difficulties. The man went to extraordinary trouble ensuring they took a night train to Tongling, from which Snow inferred there to be something of interest that could be seen from the line: the first hour of the journey was in fading daylight, narrowing the location, and Li became agitated near Huangmei, as they were passing what appeared to be a large factory complex brightly illuminated by its own lights. At Tongling Snow suggested a Sunday cruise on the Yangtze. Li was adament they take a boat northwards down the river. From the timetable Snow calculated the southerly boats sailed for a total of two hours, before returning, from which he estimated whatever it was Li did not want him to see was between Tongling and Huaining. Shanghai, where Snow planned to remain for three days, was not officially restricted and he was initially intrigued that Li did not leave him there. On their first full day Li pressed for a trip inland, which Snow refused. In the afternoon, on a walk along the Bund, the historic road bordering the Huanpu River, Snow counted a flotilla of warships, three with what appeared to be extremely sophisticated radar and electronic equipment visible on their superstructures. Snow managed four photographs. Again he was matched by the rapidly snapping Li.

  Throughout the trip Li had steadfastly insisted upon a precise division of every expenditure, but on their last night together Snow demanded to be the host for dinner. As always, Li sat them at a table that could only be occupied by two.

  ‘It has been a successful tour?’ asked Li.

  ‘Extremely interesting.’ Snow was curious at the report the man would submit. He had little doubt by now that Li was a member of the Public Security Bureau: if he was, he had to be one of their best informers. The closeness with which his movements had been monitored was something he should also report upon, to Foster, although he was personally sure he had avoided all suspicion. He’d try to make contact with the embassy man as soon as he got back: he was excited by what he had to pass on. ‘You are returning to Beijing?’

  ‘I am meeting a party of American tourists here in Shanghai. They are going south, as far as Tunxi.’

  The reason for Li remaining with him, accepted Snow. Quickly he realized a possible benefit. ‘So many rail journeys,’ he suggested, hopefully.

  ‘We are travelling by car,’ disclosed Li.

  Something else to pass on. Car hire was only possible for foreign visitors in China with a driver and a guide to determine the route. What was there on the road to Tunxi that had to be avoided? ‘You must miss your family?’

  ‘I will see them again in ten days.’

  Snow determined to put the limit into his account as well: the driving time to Tunxi could be estimated, so the length of any detour might be possible to calculate. ‘Perhaps we will meet again, if I make another vacation tour?’

  ‘You intend travelling again?’ demanded Li, alertly.

  Snow regretted the careless remark. ‘I am always anxious to extend my understanding of China.’

  ‘You see your life being here?’

  It was a personally intriguing question, conceded Snow. China was his first posting and he hadn’t ever imagined another. Father Robertson had to be in his sixties and should be withdrawn, although Snow suspected the old man wanted to die in the country in which he had served all his life. ‘I will remain as long as I think I can help China,’ said Snow.

  ‘Are you happy here?’

  Another intriguing question. Snow did not honestly know if he was happy or not: spiritually he was content, but to himself he admitted there was still sometimes a tug of apprehension about his other activities. ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Isn’t the philosophy of China in direct contradiction to your beliefs?’

  Persistently trying until the very end, thought Snow. ‘My beliefs sustain me, as yours sustain you. I do not make a comparison. My vocation here now is as a teacher, as I have already made clear.’

  ‘I detect some satisfaction in your attitude at the collapse of communism in the Soviet Union?’

  This was verging upon desperation, decided Snow. And was pleased: it had to confirm that he had not committed any indiscretion with which Li felt he could colour his report. ‘Then I have expressed myself wrongly. I have no satisfaction about that. The population of the Soviet Union have chosen a different method of government. That is their decision.’

  ‘No opinion at all of your own?’

  ‘My opinion is that people are free to make their own choice on how and under what authority they choose to live.’

  ‘Some counter-revolutionaries claim the people of China are not free to choose how they live.’

  Snow decided he could be straying into a conversational minefield if he allowed himself to become ensnared in such a direct debate. ‘Do they?’ he said. And stopped.

  Li stared across the restaurant table, waiting for Snow to continue. The priest busied himself with his rice bowl and when that was empty made much of refilling his teacup. Li had refused wine.

  ‘Do you?’ pressed Li, finally.

  ‘Do I what?’ questioned Snow, not finding it difficult to convey the false misunderstanding.

  ‘Consider that the population of China is not free to choose how it lives?’

  Snow fixed the frown. ‘To believe such a thing would surely make me a counter-revolutionary! Which we both know I am not.’ For the first time, in any of their fencing conversations, Snow thought he detected an angry tightening of the other man’s face. The spectacles came off once again, for a disgruntled polish.

  ‘From someone trained as a priest I would have expected judgements.’

  ‘A priest who is now a teacher.’
<
br />   ‘Have you abandoned your God?’

  ‘Of course not. It is not my function here to be a priest.’

  ‘You live in the temple of your faith.’

  ‘Church,’ corrected Snow. ‘By the instructions of the Chinese government, who wish us to act as caretakers. It is no longer used for religious purposes.’

  ‘I would be interested to see your temple.’

  Suspecting a reason for Li’s remark, Snow said: ‘I do not, of course, conduct my classes in the church. They’re in a quite separate building.’

  ‘Do you pray with your class?’ demanded the man, confirming Snow’s suspicion.

  ‘Never,’ replied Snow. ‘They only come to learn English.’ There had only ever been one Zhang Su Lin.

  ‘No one has ever asked about your religion, knowing you are a priest? Able to see you live in a temple, like other priests do?’

  If he answered honestly – that some had – Snow guessed he would be asked their names, if not now then later in Beijing. ‘Never,’ he insisted, strong-voiced.

  Li regarded him with open disbelief. ‘Maybe I will come one day.’

  Snow answered the look, unflinchingly. Father Robertson would regard any visit as hostile interest from the authorities – which it might well be – and be thrown into panic. With no alternative, Snow repeated: ‘You will be very welcome.’

  ‘So we will probably meet again,’ said Li, increasing Snow’s discomfort.

  ‘It would be my pleasure,’ lied the priest.

  Natalia finally gave way to her conscience, which she’d always known she would, and when she made the decision she became irritated at herself for needlessly delaying it. With so much authority at her unquestioned disposal, it only took two days to discover Eduard’s complete military record. After Baku – the last posting she had known about – her son had served briefly in Latvia and after that had been assigned to East Germany. It was there he had been promoted to lieutenant. His had been one of the last units to be withdrawn, after the reunification of Germany. His final posting, before the premature discharge brought about by the reduction in the armed forces, had been in Novomoskovsk. Eduard’s record listed one commendation and four convictions for drunkenness. His character was assessed as superior, an average classification. His Moscow address was given as the Mytninskaya apartment Natalia no longer occupied. The new occupants had been there for over a year: no one resembling Eduard whose photograph they were shown, had come there during that time believing it to be her home.

  Natalia got up from her desk after receiving the report of the Mytninskaya enquiry, going to the window to gaze out in the direction of the city, wondering where her lost son was now. She’d tried, Natalia told herself. But Eduard hadn’t made any attempt to find her. So there was nothing more she could do. Or wanted to do. About Eduard at least.

  How difficult would it be to find someone else: someone she wanted to see more than anyone else in the world?

  Eleven

  Gower was adamant they spend the weekend in Paris, calling it an anniversary of the time they had been living together. Both privately felt varying degrees of relief at how happy they were, although accepting it was ridiculously too soon to judge. Marcia still had to surrender the lease of her apartment.

  Gower booked the George V, a room with an avenue view, and announced they were tourists. So they watched the promenade along the Champs-Elysées from a pavement table at Fouquet’s, cruised in a bateau mouche along the floodlit Seine on the Saturday evening and later ate at L’Archistrate. Marcia said she didn’t think they had that much to celebrate. Gower said they did. He was hopeful the excitement of the trip would provide the opportunity he wanted.

  ‘You’ve changed,’ she declared, suddenly. They’d finished the meal but were lingering over brandy bowls, with their coffee.

  ‘It’s just because you’re getting to know me properly.’

  ‘There’s a definite change.’

  Gower shifted, disconcerted, using one of the many tricks he’d so recently been taught to avoid the impression of guilt, gazing directly at her but with a mocking frown, remembering to answer any accusation with a question. ‘Changed how?’

  Marcia shrugged, disturbing the flowing blonde hair she was that night wearing loose to her shoulders: Gower thought she looked magnificent. ‘I can’t put it in words. It’s …’ The girl came to a halt. ‘Your clothes, for a start. It’s as if you’re dressing down. Are you dressing down, for some reason?’

  ‘You’re imagining it!’ Confronting uncertain points with ridicule was another dictum. Gower didn’t feel any difficulty, practising the lessons upon Marcia. It wasn’t cheating or misusing her: it followed the most repeated instruction, always to behave as if he were on duty until the denying innocence became instinctive.

  ‘Why aren’t you wearing the ring your father gave you?’

  ‘No reason,’ shrugged Gower.

  ‘And I liked the moustache.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  Marcia swirled the brandy in her glass. ‘And there’s an attitude. It’s like …’ There was another pause. ‘Like you’re more confident … you seem to do things now with more self-assurance. I know that sounds silly, but that’s the only way I can explain it.’

  Hadn’t he been warned about the danger of over-confidence? In an operational situation, Gower reminded himself: he was sure, after so much lecturing and so many practical demonstrations from the man who still remained nameless, that he wouldn’t make the mistake on an assignment. He wasn’t really surprised by what Marcia had said. He did feel more confident: surer than he had been before about the profession he had chosen, despite the warnings about loneliness and boredom and sometimes fear. ‘It’s because we’re together all the time now. What’s wrong with being confident, anyway?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she agreed. ‘I like it. Makes me feel comfortable.’

  This had to be the opportunity he’d sought by coming to Paris, hopefully to satisfy Marcia about the abrupt absences that were inevitable in the future. The hotel was superb and they’d already made love twice that day: she’d be lulled now, relaxed by being in such a restaurant, part of the romance of Paris. Embarking cautiously, Gower said: ‘I think this last training course will be over soon.’

  ‘You haven’t talked much about it.’

  ‘It’s been interesting,’ he said, generally. ‘Ironing out the final points, really. Could be that administration won’t be as boring as we thought it might be.’

  Marcia finished her brandy, looking curiously across the table at him. ‘Like what?’

  She was responding exactly as he’d hoped. ‘Seems I’m in line for the section that deals with embassies abroad: I might have to travel a bit, from time to time.’

  ‘I always thought overseas embassies were autonomous?’

  ‘They are, most of the time. It would be irregular.’

  ‘How long would you be away? Weeks? Months?’

  Gower didn’t want to get involved in too many specifics: her acceptance had to be gradual. ‘It would vary.’ He hesitated, deciding against suggesting there could even be a permanent attachment. There was time for that later: there was the far more important point to establish in her mind.

  ‘I hope it isn’t too often.’ She smiled. ‘Or too long. I’m getting to like having you around.’

  Gower recognized the invitation in her final remark but he ignored it. ‘So I guess I’ll be going through the big ceremony in the next week or so.’

  ‘What big ceremony?’

  ‘Swearing and signing the Official Secrets Act.’

  ‘Secrets!’ She frowned, head to one side, half-smiling as if anticipating a joke.

  ‘I’m joining the Foreign Office, darling! It’s routine to have to sign the Act.’ Which was quite true, so there was no lie upon which he could be caught out. Another lesson: a good liar only ever lies to the barest minimum.

  ‘It all sounds very dramatic’

  ‘It’s not really.’
He gestured for the bill. It was larger than he’d calculated but the setting had turned out to be perfect for the hurdle he believed he was crossing easily, so it had been worth it.

  ‘Why is it necessary to swear to an Act?’

  ‘I’ll come into contact with information and facts that are classified: things I can’t talk about.’

  ‘Not even to me?’ she demanded, in mock offence.

  ‘I can hardly imagine you’d be interested in any case. It’ll probably be dull statistics.’ He paid, smiling his thanks to the head waiter. It had all gone exceptionally well: she’d accepted without as much questioning as he’d anticipated the thought of his unexpectedly going abroad, and with the truthful explanation of the Official Secrets Act he had a shield behind which he could hide if ever she became persistently curious.

  ‘So you’re going to keep things from me!’ she said as they reached the vestibule leading out into the rue de Varenne, pretending still to be offended.

  ‘Nothing important that will ever affect you and me,’ promised Gower, taking her opening.

  They set out walking unhurriedly towards the Dôme des Invalides, the Eiffel Tower illuminated in the far distance. Marcia clung to his arm, pulling herself close to him. Not thinking any longer of the talk he had orchestrated between them or of how successful it had been, Gower said: ‘Nothing is going to stop it being like this always.’

  Marcia stopped, bringing Gower to a halt beside her, determined in her slight drunkenness to emphasize what she was going to say. ‘I’m never, ever, going to keep a secret from you! I love you so much I want you to know everything.’