Charlie’s Apprentice cm-10

by Brian Freemantle

  Gower pushed forward, easing his way through the shoppers. The street connected with a slightly wider road cutting diagonally across about two hundred yards beyond a tiny, two- or three-stall market. Gower paused at the junction, looking expectantly to his left. He could see much more of the tip-pointed roof but not the temple itself, hidden by other buildings in another side-street three hundred yards further down, but on the other side.

  Gower waited for a break in the traffic to cross, so that he could turn without any hesitation when he reached the street he wanted. Bicycles plied in either direction and Gower had the impression of a river again: of walking along the bank of a fast-flowing waterway in which occasionally an out-of-place car floated by. People jostled, behind and against him, so that he had constantly to twist to his left and right to avoid colliding.

  He turned abruptly, without pause, when he reached the street. His imagery still on a river, Gower thought this was like a backwater: there were far fewer people, far fewer bicycles and no cars at all. The only stall was that selling threadbare blooms, for the temple. Four he remembered: orange, to be placed on the left of the offering shelf on the shrine. The theatricality of it all suddenly struck him as absurd: no one would believe it if he ever did tell them. The seller was a woman, shapelessly layered despite the heat in brown and black, a shawl over a smock over a dress. There was a black cowl covering her head and her face appeared to be caving inwards on a toothless mouth. Gower smiled and pointed to the flowers he wanted, holding up six fingers. As she gathered them, he assembled the foreign exchange currency in readiness, holding the money out for her to help herself. She took the money before offering the meagre flowers. Gower moved towards the pots and troughs, variously filled with scraggy contributions.

  He never reached them.

  It started with a shout: an alert, not a challenge. At once there was a matching yell, like a reply, and then a whistle sounded and people were running at him, not just from the main road but behind from further up the side-street. There were uniforms – blue, he thought, and then khaki – and a very thin man who reached him first lashed out, hitting him in the chest. It would not have been hard enough to knock him over if the troughs hadn’t caught him behind his knees, tripping him backwards. The first jar into his back was where he fell into someone’s knee but the second blow, into the side of his face, was a deliberate kick. Everyone seemed to be shouting at once, too many people trying to grab at him: there were several more kicks and two obvious punches before Gower was able to turn on to his hands and knees to get upright. Before he fully succeeded, hands did get to him, finally pulling him from the ground.

  One voice persisted louder than the rest, gradually forcing the uproar to subside. The squad pulled back, creating a tiny space, but stayed in a tight, enclosing circle.

  The loud voice belonged to a thickset, neckless man in one of the khaki uniforms. Gower couldn’t detect any insignia of rank.

  ‘Spy!’ Although it was now comparatively quiet, the man still shouted, in English.

  ‘I am attached to the British …’ Gower tried, but there was a sudden thrust in his back, winding him so that he couldn’t finish.

  ‘Spy!’ yelled the man once more.

  Hands grabbed at Gower again, thrusting him forward. He staggered, wishing his attempt to recover his breath didn’t sound like a whine. His head was bent forward in the strained, gasping effort: he saw the signal flowers trampled underfoot. There was a windowless van blocking the street where it joined the larger road. A lot of people were anxious to push him inside. Gower fell at the last moment, pitching full-length on the metal floor, but scrabbling up before he could be kicked any more. He just managed to get on to one of the metal benches that ran along either side before the van lurched away with a jerk that would have thrown him off his feet again.

  Gower remained doubled up, arms across his body, face hidden so they couldn’t see his eyes and mouth squeezed tightly closed with the determination with which he was fighting against his bladder collapsing. No, he prayed: please God, no!

  It happened but it wasn’t much: not enough for the wet stain to show for them to know how frightened he was.

  Panicked desperation drove Fyodor Tudin personally to go to Petrovka, although he didn’t at the moment of arrival properly know why the Militia enquiry had been made at Mytninskaya, only that it had something to do with the boy: knew even less how to explain his coming there at all. So initially he didn’t attempt an explanation, clawing for guidance from the reaction of the policeman. He judged himself lucky with Kapitsa: one of the old school, only knowing the old ways.

  ‘I expected her to come back: not somebody else.’ The room was thick with cigarette smoke.

  ‘Is that what she said?’ He had to feel out with every word, like someone walking across a frozen lake unsure of the thickness of the ice.

  ‘Something about needing time to work out what we were going to do.’

  Good but not good enough: not quite. ‘That was all?’

  Kapitsa frowned. ‘You haven’t discussed it with her?’

  Tudin thought he knew the way, although the personal risk was appalling: but then all the risks he faced were appalling. ‘I’m here on behalf of the Agency as much as for General Fedova: we’ve got to work out the proper balance, to avoid embarrassment to the Agency as well as General Fedova. You see that, don’t you?’

  The investigator remained doubtful. ‘I would have thought the two were virtually the same.’

  Tudin nodded. ‘For the moment, until everything is sorted out, this meeting – this discussion – must remain strictly between ourselves.’ Still hardly good enough, he conceded.

  The policeman’s uncertainty was still obvious. ‘But we’re talking of some arrangement, aren’t we: something acceptable to everyone? Everything settled to everyone’s satisfaction?’

  It was like a signpost, lighted before him. ‘Is that what she said?’ he chanced, tailoring his reply from the investigator’s attitude.

  ‘Not precisely: it was definitely to that effect.’

  Gold-dust, thought Tudin, ecstatically: sparkling, glittering, life-saving gold-dust. ‘That an arrangement could be found?’ he pressed.

  ‘Yes.’ There was another hopeful smile. ‘We want to cooperate as much as possible, of course. Within reason. We need a prosecution.’

  We both do, thought Tudin. ‘Everything will be worked out.’ He smiled, leaning forward, man to man. ‘It’s important wires don’t get crossed: what arrangement was General Fedova considering?’

  ‘She didn’t say. It was actually the boy who first used the word arrangement. She agreed that one had to be found.’

  Tudin guessed his already flushed face was an even deeper red, in his excitement. He couldn’t have expected it to be this good: not in a million years. Striving to keep his voice level, he said: ‘What did Eduard say?’

  Kapitsa shrugged, as if disassociating himself from the remark. ‘Seems he’s boasted about his mother’s position, in the KGB and in the new security agency: let the Lubertsy Family know he’d be protected if ever there was any trouble.’

  ‘And she agreed that he would be?’ Oh God! Oh dear, wonderful, rewarding God! Careful. Calm down. Shouldn’t get too euphoric; too carried away. This was the chance, the incredible, unimaginable chance to destroy the bitch absolutely, and he had to drain every last drop that was available.

  The shrug came again from the policeman. ‘She wanted time to think: to fix it. Eduard was very upset, later. Still is. He expected to be released at once.’

  Dare he see the boy? Try to get him to repeat the claim, even in some sort of legal, devastating affidavit? Yes! he decided, positively. Already, at this stage, there was probably enough for an internal agency investigation into the propriety of what she was doing, but Tudin wanted more than that. Regulations existed for an officer to lay a formal accusation of abuse of power against another before the ultimate chairman, and at that moment this was the course upon wh
ich Tudin determined. He’d get his evidence and confront her face to face, be her prosecutor at their own mini-trial. Eduard could be forced to testify, lured by the promise of immunity. And this disgusting, smoke-stained man would quickly realize whose side he had to take. It would all have to be handled with infinite care but he knew he could do it. He could bury her, Tudin concluded, triumphantly: bury her alive. ‘You’ve helped a lot.’

  ‘What would you have us do?’ asked Kapitsa.

  ‘Just give us a little more time. And remember, no mention of this visit. It’s not important for her to know how concerned we are. How much we want to protect her.’

  That night Fyodor Tudin got very drunk.

  Thirty-two

  Only two men travelled with him in the van. One was the thickset officer who had appeared to be in charge of the arrest. The other was a civilian, a thin, bony man in a black, Western-style suit who made frequent gestures as he talked. There was a lot of conversation between the two of them. Although he could not understand what was being said, Gower got the impression the civilian was in some way superior to the officer, whose attitude was deferential.

  Gower guessed from the length of the journey that he was being taken outside the city. He was glad of the time, using it to recover. He remained hollowed out with fear but it was lessening: certainly he’d pulled back from the collapse that was still making it uncomfortable to sit on the cold metal bench. He hoped there wouldn’t be a visibly damp patch when he stood up.

  Had to think! Had to work out what had happened – what was happening – and decide how to confront it. Remember all the interrogation resistance! Think! Always take, never give, he remembered. Say the minimum at this stage then. Make the protests necessary for an innocent diplomat but no more: wait to see what the accusations were. What could they be? Difficult to anticipate yet. He had to assume Jeremy Snow had been arrested: confessed about the Taoist temple and what they used it for. But Snow couldn’t have identified him, either by name or description, because the priest didn’t have either! So there was nothing personally incriminating against him. Couldn’t be. Deny anything and everything. Certainly any knowledge of a priest named Jeremy Snow. Which wasn’t cowardice. Or abandoning the man. It was common, practical sense. Snow had been told again and again to run. And arrogantly refused. He was the architect of his own destruction. Now it all came down to damage limitation. Interrogation resistance. Vital they weren’t able to link him with anything, to form a provable connection with the embassy. A good liar tells the fewest lies. Important to remember that. Important to remember everything. He was in a difficult situation but that’s all it was, difficult. Not disastrous. Possible, even, to extricate himself. Thank God for this journey, giving him the chance to think. Not frightened any more: properly apprehensive, properly alert, but not frightened. Ridiculous to have pissed himself. No one would ever know. Make the necessary protests of an innocent diplomat, he thought again. Now was the time: to wait might indicate an acceptance of guilt.

  Addressing the officer who spoke at least some English, Gower said: ‘I demand an explanation for this illegal detention. I am an accredited British diplomat, guaranteed protection in your country according to the Vienna Convention.’

  It was the civilian who answered. ‘Be quiet. You are a spy.’ The tone was extremely soft, almost difficult to hear: the sibilants hissed.

  ‘That is a ridiculous accusation!’

  ‘Quiet.’ The hands made a damping-down movement.

  ‘I demand the embassy is told of my arrest.’

  The plainclothes man ignored him, saying something instead to the uniformed officer. The thickset man shrugged, looked directly at Gower, then back to the other, shrugging a second time.

  Enough, judged Gower: no more. He wondered how much further they had to go. They seemed to have been driving for almost an hour. He wished he’d thought to time it, when they’d set off. Too frightened then: not thinking properly. Recovered now. He could get himself out of this: sure he could.

  Because he had belatedly fixed the time, Gower knew it was a further fifteen minutes before they stopped. Gower emerged into what appeared to be a huge area of single- and two-storey barracks: where he stood there was a group of taller buildings which he guessed marked the centre of the camp. Soldiers piled out of a van which had obviously followed them from the city: there were other men in a variety of uniforms moving around the buildings. Between a gap separating two of the barracks Gower could see a group of men drilling.

  The black-suited civilian herded Gower into the block outside which they had halted. They went the full length of the block, along a corridor of closed doors on either side, encountering no one on their way. It was absolutely quiet. The walls were yellow and dirty: their feet squeaked on the rubber composite floor. The plain-clothes man opened a door at the far end of the corridor without knocking or giving any warning. Another Chinese sat at a table, waiting. The man was bespectacled and wore a buttoned-to-the-neck tunic. He appeared very young: younger, decided Gower, than he was. As he got further into the room, Gower saw two more Chinese at a side-table, behind the door: there was recording apparatus on the table and both men had notebooks opened before them.

  The man who had travelled with him in the van indicated a chair directly opposite the already seated man. Gower hesitated, unsure if he should obey or if he should make another protest, finally sitting down. He was pleased at how calm he felt. There was no discomfiting wetness, either: he had forgotten to look behind him in the van, to see if he’d marked the metal bench.

  ‘You will tell us your name,’ declared the open-faced man at the table. ‘Mine is Chen Hong Qi. You will come to know me.’ The English was better than that of the escort in the van.

  ‘I am an accredited British diplomat, attached to Her Majesty’s embassy in Beijing. I demand immediate access to my embassy. And an explanation of this outrage!’

  ‘Name.’ The tone was practically conversational.

  ‘I am required by no protocol applicable here to supply my name to you.’

  ‘Name,’ persisted the young man.

  They couldn’t deny him access to the British embassy, Gower thought. They would need a name to give to the legation, when they made contact. ‘John Gower,’ he supplied at last. The ambassador and the political officer would finally go apoplectic when they heard: both would regard it as precisely the type of problem they had so fervently wanted to avoid.

  ‘What is the reason for your being in Beijing?’

  ‘I demand immediate communication with my embassy!’

  ‘Turn out all your pockets.’

  ‘No!’

  There was a sigh. ‘We will allow you to turn out your pockets yourself. Or you will be forcibly searched.’

  ‘It is improper for you to threaten any physical assault or restraint.’

  ‘Empty your pockets.’ The tone now was not so much conversational as dismissive, a weariness at having to deal with an irritant.

  The man who had travelled in the van was standing beside the notetakers. Now he pushed himself away from the wall, as if expecting to receive an order. Gower realized for the first time that the squat man in the khaki uniform had not come into the room. Take, don’t give. But why not? He was carrying nothing incriminating: nothing that could even be twisted to be made so. Taking his time – consciously moving more slowly than was necessary – he started stacking the contents of his pockets on the table between them. There was a flare of anger, instantly subdued, when the man flicked open his wallet and looked curiously for several moments at the photograph of Marcia. The printed card he had intended leaving beneath the lion statue for Jeremy Snow was the last thing he put upon the table.

  The original escort came further from the wall, standing beside the other Chinese as they went through everything. As they did so, initially unspeaking, Gower suddenly wondered if the thin man in the black suit was the suspicious Mr Li who was demanding the photographs from the priest. Both took a long t
ime over the street map of Beijing: Chen held it before him, twisting it to the light, seeking any markings. It was impossible to infer anything from their facial reactions, which were minimal anyway, but towards the end of the examination Chen grunted and Gower decided they were two very disappointed men. There was a staccato exchange of Chinese between them. Picking up the card, the man said: ‘What is this?’

  ‘The address here in Beijing of the British embassy.’ And utterly meaningless to you, thought Gower.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I do not know the city: I needed the address with me if I got lost.’ An explanation against which it was impossible to argue.

  ‘You bought flowers, by the temple?’

  Careful, thought Gower: very, very careful. The one action that might cause him difficulties. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  The lie had to be one from which he would not deviate. ‘For my room, at the embassy.’

  ‘You were going towards the shrine, where flowers are displayed.’

  ‘I was curious. I wanted to look at the shrine.’

  ‘You were going to put flowers there.’

  ‘Nonsense! I have told you why I wanted them.’ They’d seized him too soon, Gower realized, abruptly: just minutes or seconds too soon! If they’d waited just a moment longer he would have arranged the flowers and not now been able to explain them.

  ‘You were going to leave a signal,’ insisted Chen. ‘You are engaged in counter-revolutionary activities in my country.’