by Adam Brookes
“This is a stupid place to meet. I couldn’t find it,” Peanut said.
“I didn’t choose it.”
“Better we make our own arrangements next time.”
“Our next meeting will be in two days, at oh-six-forty at the east gate of the Temple of Heaven Park. If you cannot make it, then one day after that, and again the day after that. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes.” He sounded bad-tempered.
Mangan pushed on, the way he’d been told.
“You are to prepare the sub-source for the delivery of an item and instructions.”
“What item?”
Mangan looked at him.
“I don’t know what item.”
“How can I ready him for the delivery of an item if I don’t know what the item is?”
“It will be something small and everyday. I think they’re going to pass all the instructions at our next meeting.”
“You think?”
Mangan paused.
“Well?” said Peanut.
“I have a commitment for you.”
That got his attention.
“Go on,” said Peanut.
“They agree in principle to your fee. These are their words, not mine. They undertake to pay you as long as the material turned over is deemed sufficient. In cash. It will be waiting for you in a destination country.”
“What do they mean, ‘sufficient’?”
“That’s just what they said.”
Peanut spat.
“And the travel?”
“They agree in principle to helping you leave the country. They will provide travel papers and expenses. They say leaving the country will be up to you, though they will suggest to you ways out. They will not undertake to find you citizenship of another country, but they undertake to find you legal status abroad, a visa, residency, something.”
Peanut was staring fixedly down the path.
“Did they say where?”
“No.”
“Somewhere warm, maybe.”
“Maybe.”
Mangan closed the door to the flat. The clack of the lock echoed around the room. He took off his down coat and poured a vodka, left the lights off, went to the window. He took his binoculars. Not much to see tonight, most of the windows were already dark, the little theatres closed. But, there, a woman wearing red stood at a sink. She shook the water from her hands and turned as if someone had called her name, and walked listlessly from the room. There, two floors up, a man sat bent over a low glass table. He was examining something closely, but the audience could not know what. And over there, the wujing on the gate turned up the collars on their green overcoats and tied down the earflaps of their fur hats.
The cold was deepening and the dusty smog muted the city’s lights, spun halos around the cars’ headlamps.
A flicker of movement. Mangan turned his binoculars to it. A muffled figure, wearing a white surgical mask against the freezing, particulate-sodden air, made its way from the main gate along the path that wound between gray arid flowerbeds, walking carefully on the ice. The figure stopped. Mangan watched. The figure raised a gloved hand, pulled the surgical mask down to the chin and turned its face upwards, towards Mangan’s window. Towards him. The figure stood still, its gaze fastened on the window. Mangan stepped quickly back into shadow.
He stood in the darkness, listened to his own breathing.
The woman, “Rachel Davies,” would want to know that Peanut had accepted. Charteris was due to call him tomorrow, and he’d say, the proposal’s been accepted. And Charteris would congratulate him. And then he was to wait. “Rachel Davies” was very big on that idea, that this racket, as she called it, was all about waiting. Waiting, and keeping it light. Keep it light, Philip, as light as possible, she’d said. A good operation is a whisper.
He ran his finger along the base of the window frame, felt the fine grit between his fingers.
Mangan did not have to wait long. There was a short hold-up while alternative operating systems were installed on the gadget, just in case, and the logo had to match that of the professor’s car, of course, but these things were done quickly, at Hopko’s persistent urging. And when they were done the gadget was dispatched by secure bag, couriered to Beijing Station.
A London winter twilight, a misty stillness drifting with smell, a sudden rush of roasting and herbs, a tiny twist of perfume on the air, above dank leaves. The smell of steaks in passageways, thought Patterson as she walked.
Hopko’s house was in Canonbury Square. The houses here were of gray brick, their understatement a guarantee of their opulence. How the hell, she thought, on a Service salary, but bit the thought back as mean-spirited, even for her.
She knocked at a black door. It was opened by an elderly Asian man in a white waiter’s jacket and a bow tie, who gestured her in. A heavy in a black suit and earpiece reviewed her invitation, murmured, frowned and lingered over a list before checking her name. She took off her coat and handed it over. Dressing for the evening had been traumatic: her one good dress, short, of white crushed silk, left her sleek and, well, muscular. She walked up a flight of stairs. The entire first floor was a reception room with cream walls, green curtains of some heavy embroidered cloth sweeping from ceiling to floor, and leather benches before a slate fireplace. At one end of the room a baby grand piano, at which a young man with Chinese looks was playing something jazzy and clever, and an enormous Christmas tree. She felt eyes on her as she walked in. The crowd was Whitehall, mainly secret, some diplomatic and liaison services, many wives. There was the Permanent Under-Secretary, tieless, in a very good suit. There was Yeats, rumpled and flushed, explaining something slowly to the Japanese liaison officer. She took a glass of red wine from a waiter. It was hot and had things floating in it. No matter, move to secure position. She made her way to the fireplace, where she towered over the men sitting on the leather benches. They looked up at her and she pretended not to notice them. She felt a hand on her arm. Hopko was in a layered black chiffon thing and half the silver of China. Patterson was glad of her approach.
“Trish. My god, you’re fabulous. Who knew?”
“Val.”
“You’re wasted on us, my love. Come quickly now and meet an air vice marshal.”
He was the wry type, gray eyes and sensible haircut, young for his rank, much cleverer than he was willing to let on. He was something big in Information Operations.
“Val tells me you’re army,” he said. “How on earth did you make the transition?”
“Not sure I have,” she said.
“Do tell,” he said, smiling.
“Well, that’s the thing, I can’t. Tell.”
“What, not even someone like me?”
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to eat you,” she said.
He laughed at the old line. She looked down.
“I’m not sure I believe it,” he said. “Val Hopko’s protégés always seem to do just fine.”
“Is that what I am?” she said.
He looked startled.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”
“No,” she said, trying to row back. “It’s just… I’m not anyone’s protégé.”
He blinked.
“Of course not. Please don’t take it that way.”
An awkward pause.
“Val has sorted a place for smoking cigars,” he said. “Shall we go and have a look?”
They went up another flight of stairs, to where French windows opened on to a roof terrace with wrought iron furniture. Gas heaters threw out a tent of warmth. They selected cigars from a divan, Patterson’s long and slender.
“You smoke like a pro,” he said, and put his jacket around her bare shoulders. They eased into conversation with some people from Five. She shook hands, said hello. They all sat and puffed under the gas heaters. One told an absurd story from Belfast days, something about burgling a Provo house to bug it, dogs in the garden, a drugged sausage that they wo
uldn’t eat. Patterson tried to think of something to contribute but got stuck outside Nasiriyah in the heat, the eyeless corpses.
She got up and mouthed, bathroom. The air vice marshal, Liam was his name, half-stood as she went, and smiled at her.
She went up another two floors. She passed a half-open door and glimpsed low light and bookshelves. She stopped and pushed the door open further. The room was a study. The bookshelves were floor to ceiling, many of the books in Chinese. Opposite, beneath a sash window, stood an open bureau, its desk covered with papers. Patterson walked over to it. On top lay a dictionary of classical Chinese. Next to it a book of what, poetry? Patterson puzzled through the characters. Poems of Bai Juyi. And a page of translation, handwritten, scarred with crossings out, corrections.
Mourning Peony Flowers
Heartsick, there by the steps, for the red peonies.
By evening time, there were only two stems left.
When morning comes the wind will rise, and surely blow them away.
In the night I mourn the waning red, and take a lamp to look.
“Are you spying?”
Patterson jumped, put one hand on the desktop. Hopko stood in the doorway.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…“
“Oh, Trish, don’t worry. It’s fine. You’ve discovered my little pastime.”
Patterson looked down, tried to gather herself under Hopko’s gaze.
“They’ve all been translated many times before, of course,” Hopko went on, giving Patterson time, “but there’s something elusive to them, so I always want to try again.”
“My Chinese doesn’t run to classical poetry, I’m afraid,” said Patterson, realizing as she said it how curt it sounded.
“No reason it should,” said Hopko. “How are you finding them, downstairs?”
“Well, you know. I’m just a junior officer.”
“You probably have more experience than most of them put together,” said Hopko.
“Few successes.”
“Well, perhaps we’re on the verge of something this time.”
“Do you think?”
“I think it’s possible. But I have a feeling things are going to become a little… unpredictable.” Hopko made a wry face.
“Something I should know?”
“If I knew for sure, I still wouldn’t be able to tell you. But this brings me to a delicate request.”
Patterson waited. Hopko was leaning against the door jamb. She spoke in a very level tone, and quickly.
“I’m thinking contingencies, Trish. And I want you to familiarize yourself with a contingency operation that we have available to us in extremis. It’s on file as CALIPER. I’ve cleared you in. But perhaps we can keep to ourselves that this is a part of our operational thinking, for now. Would you do that?”
“Can I ask what CALIPER does?”
Hopko thought for a moment.
“I’d rather you read the file.”
Patterson nodded.
“Now come on, if you don’t fancy the air vice marshal, there’s a rather dashing covert operations chap down there. He’s got a little mustache that we won’t hold against him.” And she took Patterson by the arm, the height disparity between them ridiculous, and led her back down the stairs.
The purpose of the invitation had been served, and Patterson left a short time later. As she took her coat, Liam gave her a card with his number on it and made a regretful face as she turned away. She walked out into the square, the night air chill against her skin. Her heels clattered on the pavement. Somewhere a blackbird started up, reedy and solitary in the darkness.
January. After a few days’ rest in Hong Kong, GODDESS was back in position. Beijing was foul with smog and early dust. Eileen and Frederick Poon made a trip to a factory in Tianjin. They ordered a consignment of orange whistles, wind-up penguins and miniature skateboards. The latter item was particularly sought after that season on the playgrounds of the eastern United States, and would be good business. Winston Poon, happy in his hotel room in front of a Cantonese movie channel, signaled, “Awaiting instructions.” Patterson signaled back, “Standby.”
She sat at her desk alone, late in the evening, and brought up the file labeled TOP SECRET/UK EYES ALPHA/CALIPER, and read it again.
Charteris had booked the room, a musty box with stained quilts in a backpacker hostel off Nanluoxiang. Mangan turned on the television, took the battery from his mobile phone. Peanut arrived late, jumpy.
“Why a hotel, Mang An? This is not good.”
Mangan put a finger to his lips, motioned to Peanut’s mobile phone. He took it, disabled it and left it on the bed next to his own. He took Peanut’s arm and pushed him into the tiny bathroom, turned on the taps. They squatted on the tiled floor.
Mangan handed him the gadget and watched the smile spread over his face. Mangan made him practice and repeat back the instructions three times.
“This is good, Mang An,” said Peanut. “Very, very good.”
Mangan just nodded. Peanut stowed the thing in an inside pocket.
“What else do they say, Mang An?”
“About what?”
“About me. About this thing.”
He will look for reassurance, “Rachel Davies” had said. You must convey to him that he’s being taken seriously, that his work is about more than the money.
“They know exactly what you are doing. They respect you. I can hear it in the way they speak.”
“And they have watchers out, yes?”
“I’m sure they do.”
“Who’s in charge? Can you tell me that?”
“Best not. I don’t even know their real name.”
“Yes, best not.”
We want him to feel loyal to us. We give stability and purpose, and a future.
“But they are very senior officers, and they want you to succeed,” said Mangan.
“This has become quite a big operation,” said Peanut.
“Yes, it has. Let’s make it work,” said Mangan.
“Oh, I will.”
Mangan watched Peanut pull the scarf up over his face against the smog and slip out of the door. The landing was empty and Peanut made quickly for the stairs and was gone.
Mangan settled down to wait for an hour before he left. He lay on the bed, lit a cigarette. One more of these meetings and it was done. The entire weird episode would be over.
24
Beijing
The sky over Beijing was a filthy gray brown in daylight, orange at evening. One’s fingers and lips cracked, grit in the mouth. And the dust had a dry mineral odor that Peanut would forever associate with the hutong homes of elderly relatives, where it worked its way into cupboards and linen year after year. It lingered on books.
He remembered his father on his knees in their apartment, picking up the books that the Red Guards had hurled to the floor. He had bent to help. They put the books into a brown trunk. After a few minutes his fingers were gray with the dust. His father had wiped his nose with the back of his hand. His mother had been in the next room, kneeling over an electric ring, trying to cook cabbage in a little oil.
Yin stood at the salon window, cold, clutching herself. They had shut up shop, bolting the doors. Each morning the sinks, the hairdryers were coated with dust. Dandan Mama sat cracking sunflower seeds in her teeth. The television showed the dust swirling across north China, its origins in Mongolia.
He stood.
“I’m going out for a bit.”
Yin shook her head.
“What for? It’s horrible.”
“Just some business.”
He unbolted the door.
He lingered at the end of the thoroughfare, his hood up. The smog was a bitter shroud, wiping the features from the tower blocks. The streets were all but empty.
He had chosen a rattletrap cinema in Fangzhuang, a late-afternoon showing of a risible action film, its shirtless star in a jungle somewhere, oiled and subtitled into poor Mandarin.
The professor was sat exactly where he’d been told, high up at the back, no one behind him. Peanut climbed the steps, sat beside him, leaned in and whispered.
“I could do better than this,” said Peanut. Wen Jinghan stared at the screen. “What do you think, Jinghan, you and me, with our ill-gotten gains. We’ll produce a movie. A spy story.”
The professor said nothing. Peanut looked at him, shook his head, then reached into his pocket and took out a small pouch of a suede-like material. It was sealed with a drawstring, which Peanut pulled open. Inside was a car key, its head black, plastic and boxy, a key of the sort that might permit a driver to open or start a vehicle from a distance.
“Look at me, Jinghan.”
The professor turned, his gaze blank.
“It’s a car key,” said Peanut. “For your shiny Japanese car. You put it on your key chain.”
The professor looked, expressionless.
“But,” said Peanut, and, his thumb exerting pressure on the shoulder of the key, a snick. The shaft came away, revealing a rectangular plug protruding from the black plastic head, a plug of the sort one might insert into a port on a computer.
The professor looked away.
“Very clever,” he said.
“It is, isn’t it?” said Peanut.
“The system’s alarmed,” said the professor. “It’s alarmed against any external hardware. I told you this. When I plug that in, the alarms go off. And security puts an electric baton up my arse. Or in my mouth. They do that, you know. It doesn’t leave marks.”
Peanut leaned in very close now.
“Do not tell me about electric batons, Jinghan.”
The professor shrank away.
“You do not tell me about electric batons, do you know why? Because electric batons have featured in my life the way that shiny Japanese cars have featured in yours. In that I encountered them frequently. Do you understand?”
“I didn’t mean…“
“Shut your fatuous, condescending mouth and listen.”
The professor closed his eyes, then opened them and turned, not meeting Peanut’s gaze. He pointed at the key and spoke in a furious whisper.