by Adam Brookes
“So you’re… back, Huasheng.”
“Yes, I am. Back.”
“Well. This is a surprise.” Peanut heard, behind the words, the rush of calculation. The distinguished man’s eyes flickered up and down, took in the odd jacket, the cheap shoes. “A wonderful surprise.”
“We’ve so much to talk about, Jinghan.” Peanut’s face was a rictus, now.
Wen Jinghan looked levelly back at him, spoke quietly.
“It’s so strange. I hadn’t heard you’d… been released.”
“Well. That’s quite a story.”
“Well, it must be. And one I want to hear.” Wen Jinghan nodded.
A pause. Peanut had harbored faint, ridiculous hopes that their long friendship might still have some life to it, but this was going nowhere. To hell with it.
“Well, do you know, it’s probably a story I’m not going to tell you.” Peanut dropped his arms. And the smile. Wen Jinghan took a step back and slightly to the side.
“Listen carefully now, Jinghan. Because things are going to start moving fast. Are you still at the Launch Vehicle Academy?”
“I don’t know what things you’re talking about. And I suggest you listen carefully.”
Peanut spoke quietly. “Answer the question.”
“Do you need help, Huasheng? I have resources. I can help you. But you will not threaten me.”
Peanut stepped forward and gripped the professor’s arm. Hard. Wen Jinghan looked down, as if the power in Peanut’s big hand made him fully cognizant of the differences that had grown between them.
Peanut spoke into his ear. “Twenty years. In the desert. Twenty years. I never gave you up. I never gave anyone up. And yes, you will help me.”
Wen Jinghan licked his lips. “This will not work.”
“Yes, it will. Because if it doesn’t, I am telling them everything. Who we were. What we did.”
The other man summoned a contemptuous laugh, but in it Peanut heard weakening.
“They would shoot you as well as me, Huasheng.”
“But they won’t find me.”
A pause. Peanut tightened his grip still further. Wen Jinghan was trying to maintain his balance, some semblance of control, but it was bleeding out of him.
“We are going back into business, Jinghan,” said Peanut.
The other man tried to wrench himself away, hissing now.
“Get away from me!”
Peanut held him easily and walked him to the temple wall, pushed him hard up against the faded vermilion, a thick forearm against his throat. Wen’s eyes were blank, flecks of white spittle at the corners of his mouth. He’d stopped speaking. With his free hand, Peanut reached inside the overcoat.
“I have two letters here. One is to the head of the Launch Vehicle Academy. It says only that an employee was an agent for British Intelligence. No names. It’ll take them a while. If I send it, you’ve got time to get out.”
Wen Jinghan mouthed something incomprehensible.
“The second one is addressed to the Ministry of State Security and it denounces you by name. If I send this one, you’ll have no time.”
The professor sat on the pine needles. Wen Jinghan had shouted a little and then cried a little. He had implored, and babbled about his wife, his child. Which had led Peanut to a loss of temper, because, as he informed the professor, he had neither wife nor child, because he’d just spent two decades in a labor reform facility in the Qinghai desert, where marriage and joyful conjugal relations were not readily available. Peanut had relayed this forcefully and then delivered a thump to the distinguished solar plexus and an open-handed, but still formidable, blow to the side of the silvered head. The professor had writhed on the ground for a while and then sat up, his silver hair awry, laced with pine needles, the tears flowing, snot hanging in strings from the distinguished nose.
Peanut stood, hands on hips, over him.
“This will go very fast. In a week, maybe two or three, it’ll be over. And you’ll never see me again.”
Silence. Labored professorial breathing.
“Now you’ll return to your car. You came by car, yes?”
A pause and then a nod. And Peanut knew he had him. And the future unfolded in Peanut’s mind.
“You’ll go back to your car and you’ll drive to the Launch Vehicle Academy, and you’ll get something good—something good, as a proof—and you’ll bring it to me tonight.”
The professor was looking down now and a strange mewling sound escaped him. Peanut knew to move on fast.
“What have you got in your office, Jinghan?”
The professor shook his head. “It’s all changed. It’s all on computer now. Classified networks.”
“You will find something on paper. What do you have on paper?”
“I knew you’d be back. I always knew you’d be back.”
“What do you have on paper?”
The professor pawed the pine needles, picked up a handful and let them trickle through his fingers. Then sighed. “Some reports. Two or three. But they’re all individually numbered. I can’t give them away. They’ll know.”
“Go to your office. Take one of the reports. The best one. Bring it to me tonight. Seven o’clock. At the corner of Jianwai Avenue and Dongdaqiao. Just north, on the left side of the street, there’s a big place with photocopiers. Bring it to me there. We’ll copy it and then you’ll take it back. It’ll be out of your office for three hours.”
Wen Jinghan had closed his eyes and sat still.
“Are you back in contact with them?” he said.
“Yes,” Peanut lied. “And one other thing. Money. Bring me whatever money you can. As much as you can. Now get up.”
They walked back down the hillside in silence, skirting the temple, Wen Jinghan leading. Peanut smoked a cigarette, and spat. At the edge of the car park Peanut took the professor’s arm again. Wen Jinghan looked away, on the verge of tears.
“One more time. Seven o’clock, Jianwai Avenue and Dongdaqiao. I don’t need a huge pile of documents, just a proof. Go straight to the academy. Do not talk to anyone. Get this done and things will go fast. A week or two and you’re free and clear.”
The professor was unresponsive, looking into the middle distance.
“And remember those letters.”
The professor pulled away and walked across the car park, took his keys from his pocket, held them up. A whoop, and the lights flashed on a sleek blue Japanese sedan with darkened windows. Peanut stared, then jogged across the asphalt, catching the professor as he opened the car door.
“Is this really yours, Jinghan?”
Wen Jinghan forced a watery smile. “Yes.”
Peanut breathed out, looked around, and, seeing no one else in the car park, dealt the professor another vicious slap to the side of the head. The professor groaned and staggered against the side of the car.
“Don’t be late.”
The sedan pulled away. Peanut made a mental note of the license plate. Then he walked to the bus stop, where he waited, disgusted, angry, ashamed and triumphant, for the number 931 bus.
Lunch with the Foreign Ministry, and a chewing-out, polite but loud and clear. Mangan and Harvey were summoned to an enormous circular table at the Golden Peak Seafood Village, on the twenty-second floor of a marbled block full of telecoms companies. Silent girls glided across red carpet to bring them hot towels and Eight Treasure Tea. Across the table sat three suited minions and the Foreign Ministry’s deputy spokeswoman, coiffed, who quietly cleared her throat.
“So. Mr. Mangan. Mr. Harvey.” Her English was excellent. “We do appreciate your coming today. It’s a pleasure to see you. And of course we follow your reporting very closely.”
“Thank you for inviting us, Madam Wang.” Harvey, massive in his suit, was trying to look ingratiating, which, thought Mangan, gave him the air of a scolded teenager.
“Now, let us be very frank with each other. We know you must report, and you are free to report in China. Of
course.”
A pause and a knowing half-smile, as if to say, we all understand what that means, don’t we? “But other departments are sometimes rather quick to judge, let us say.”
Mangan couldn’t resist. “Which other departments would those be, Madam Wang?”
The half-smile again.
“Well, perhaps you encountered some of their representatives in, where was it now, yes, in Jinyi. Those departments.”
Mangan liked Deputy Spokeswoman Wang. He thought he sensed an ember of irony glowing somewhere in there, behind the façade. Now and then, speaking privately, she might actually tell you something, if you could break her code.
The silent girls brought bowls of fine, soft crab in a clear broth, shrimp sautéed in pepper and a flaking carp steamed in ginger and scallions. Madam Wang merely lifted her chopsticks and touched the food. Harvey loaded his bowl and ate voraciously.
“Those other departments, Mr. Mangan, Mr. Harvey, felt that your reporting of the authorities’ efforts to safeguard good order at Jinyi was not entirely fair. And they felt that you were not… straightforward with them. And on the basis of that, they have suggested a review of your accreditations as Beijing-based foreign correspondents.”
Oh, shit, thought Mangan.
Harvey stopped chewing.
“But we in the Foreign Ministry have suggested that would not be appropriate. At this time,” said Madam Wang. See? We protect you, for now. Don’t do it again.
After another half-hour of excruciating small talk Madam Wang and the minions took their leave. Mangan and Harvey stood, and thanked them gravely for the lunch. Mangan pledged full cooperation and begged the Foreign Ministry’s continued understanding. The restaurant staff escorted Madam Wang’s party out of the restaurant. Harvey turned to Mangan. They looked at each other for a beat and burst into laughter, and Harvey ordered beers.
8
Beijing
Stillness is the enemy. So Peanut walked.
The evening turned chill and clear. Sunset, coming early now, shards of purple cloud strewn to the west. Jianwai Avenue was fraught with traffic, long queues at the bus stops, Beijing ren all motion, heading home to the dim, overheated apartment, the mug of tea, the rice bowl, the pork sizzling in the wok.
Through Altar of the Sun Park, up to the Workers’ Stadium, where the young boys were busy on skateboards, and with the twilight, south on Dongdaqiao. Peanut laced his movement with stops and sudden turns, crossed the road in heavy traffic, readied himself for a first pass of the photocopy shop.
And there was Wen Jinghan, standing outside the shop, waving at him limply. Dear God, he thought. He crossed the street in sudden, gathering darkness. The professor stood hunched and silhouetted against the harsh neon spilling from the shop window. He held a plastic carrier bag. Inside the shop, assistants in blue shirts and baseball caps worked copiers and faxes.
“You’re early,” Peanut said.
“Huasheng, we have to talk.” His voice was weak, tentative.
“What did you bring?”
“Not here, for heaven’s sake.” Whining.
“Give it to me, now.”
The professor didn’t move.
“Now.”
Wen’s hands, Peanut saw, were trembling. He handed over the carrier bag. Peanut took him by the arm and walked him into the copy shop. Then stopped, unsure.
The professor looked at him. “You have to pay at the counter.”
“You pay. Hurry up.”
Wen Jinghan walked slowly to the counter and handed over yuan notes. The assistant gestured with her chin to a free copier. Peanut looked inside the carrier bag.
A document, thick, ringbound.
On the cover two characters in red, juemi, “Top Secret,” the highest level of classification. Then a number: 157.
Also, the title: A Preliminary Report on Certain Questions Relating to Second Stage Failure in Launch Vehicle DF-41, with Implications for Scheduling in MIRV Experimental Launch Programme.
And underneath: Leading Small Group on Military Affairs.
Peanut felt the dryness coming in his mouth. Dear fucking God.
“Copy it, Jinghan, now.”
“You will get us killed, like this.” His voice little more than a whisper. “You know that, don’t you?”
The professor looked close to collapse. Peanut had seen it before, in the prisons, the sudden shrinking of the spirit, in hours sometimes, utter defeat. Peanut shielded Wen as the professor took the document from the bag. The assistant was looking at them. Wen placed the document on the photocopier’s glass. Closed the lid. Pushed the button.
Opened the lid. Turned a page. Closed the lid.
Pushed the button.
Peanut saw the copy of the cover page spill smoothly from the bowels of the copier, and reached for it quickly. Then the second page, a table of contents.
A third page. Closed the lid. Pushed the button.
“For God’s sake. How many?”
The professor stopped and looked at him. “Sixty.”
Peanut looked around, licked his lips. The counter assistant was busy with another customer.
“Well, hurry.”
For twelve agonizing minutes the professor copied. Peanut put the sheets in the plastic bag. Then it was done.
Peanut propelled Wen out of the shop and they stood on the pavement, Wen still holding the report.
“How did you get it out?”
“Put it up my shirt.”
“Anyone see you?”
“Would I be here if they had?”
“You take it back tonight. Back to your safe, yes?”
“I can’t do this, Huasheng.”
“You are doing it. Give me the number of your mobile phone.”
Wen Jinghan told him and Peanut wrote it on a scrap of paper.
“And the money.”
A wad of one-hundred-yuan notes. A thick wad, Peanut noted.
“Now listen carefully. We are offering a one-time transaction. One time only. What you’ve given me tonight is the proof. You are in this now, Jinghan, and there is no turning back, do you understand?”
Silence. Peanut wanted to hit him again. “I’ll call you with instructions. It will all be over soon and no one the wiser.”
Wen Jinghan shook his silvered head and looked away, to the muffled figures in the street, the lights of the traffic flaring in the Beijing night.
“It’s never over,” he said.
PART TWO
The Op.
9
United Kingdom Secret Intelligence Service (SIS),
Vauxhall Cross, London
The view from the terrace was remarkable. One of the privileges, perhaps, of this work, this place, though God knew the privileges were few enough, once you discounted the sense of the special, the insiderness so cultivated by the Service. Leaning against the railing, she looked across the Thames, squinting against the river’s late autumn glitter, the sky a condensate blue. She turned and went back inside.
She sat in her cubicle, her gray cell. The telegram lay on the desk in front of her. Phone calls to Hopko always merited a little consideration.
She reached for the phone, hesitated, then forced her hand to the receiver and dialed.
A soft burr.
“Hopko.”
“Val, it’s Trish. Patterson.”
“Good morning, Trish Patterson.” The voice wry, non-committal.
“Well, yes. You’ll have seen the telegram from Charteris. I’ve run the traces. And it’s curious. I wonder if we should gather.”
“Well, Trish Patterson, gather we will. My office, say, one hour?”
“Fine, see you then.”
So, an hour to think about it. Perhaps rehearse a bit.
Patterson made notes, went for a cup of coffee in the staff cafeteria, sat alone and reread them. Meetings of the Service’s Western Hemisphere and Far East Controllerate were usually conducted on an assortment of chairs in Hopko’s sanctum. The air of coll
egiality could dissipate quickly. Rivalries and resentments turned the conversation spiky. Intelligence Officers who had been in their role for a paltry eight months knew not to make a point too forcefully.
She arrived first, of course. Hopko wasn’t there. So she took a chair in a corner—always secure your flanks and rear—and waited. Hopko had Chinese prints on her walls, delicate things from the Song dynasty: a butterfly, a grove of bamboo.
Next to arrive was Drinkwater, Security Officer, suited, hair cropped to gray stubble, meaty, ruddy, the suggestion of inner rancor.
Then, hard behind him, Waverley, Requirements Officer, Far East, who winked at her and sat with exaggerated relief. Waverley teetered on the edge of louche. He had long fair hair, an olive-green linen suit, a smile that failed to reassure.
Silence, as the three of them looked over Charteris’s telegram and the traces. Patterson tried to read their faces, but found nothing.
Patterson wondered if Hopko contrived her entrances. She breezed in now, coffee cup in hand, closing the door behind her with a foot clad in a black heel.
Hopko, Valentina. Targeting Officer, China. Visiting Case Officer, who knew where, though the stories abounded. Hopko placed the cup on her desk and then licked a finger of spilled coffee. Patterson could feel the energy pulsing from her like heat. Stocky, dark Hopko. She was dressed, to Patterson’s austere eye, too young for her nearly fifty years, the black skirt riding a little too high, the emerald blouse gaping a little too open, herringbone stockings. Hair the color of jet, teased or backcombed or something to give it body. Patterson, for all her army years, felt the stirring of her inner snob. She thought, She looks like a bloody waitress.
Hopko turned, as if she’d heard. Patterson shifted in her seat.
“Morning, Trish.” Hopko fastened that gaze on her. “Things afoot in the Middle Kingdom, are they?”
Hopko’s face had seen a great deal of sun, the skin imperfect, freckled, almost tawny. She wore heavy black-rimmed glasses. Behind them, restless eyes.