by Don Winslow
He turned his mind to his mission.
Envisioning it step by step, he walked himself through the evening. Chen would pick him up at the hotel and drop him at the theater. He would go to Voroshenin’s box, sit down, and enjoy the opera. At precisely the right moment — as the drums pounded and the gongs clanged — he would strike his mother’s tormentor with a single, explosive blow to the heart. Then he would simply walk out of the theater, elude his watchers, and make his way to refuge at the mosque.
Suddenly, something about it troubled him.
He reenvisioned it, and the same troubling feeling lingered, but he could not discover its source.
Switching paradigms, he envisioned the scenario as the Go board, set his black stones down, and played the game. It had its expected challenges, but nothing more. If, Nicholai thought, Voroshenin knows my real identity and recalls his treatment of the Countess Alexandra Ivanovna, then I might well be moving into a trap, but I already know that and am prepared.
There is something else.
He switched mental models again and decided to play the white stones against his own black.
It was a revelation.
Oddly, he found that he counted among the white stones not only the Russians and the “Red” Chinese, but the Americans as well. His mind lined them up as white stones and, examining the board as he would if he were playing that side, he saw it.
Satori.
57
NINETY MINUTES from operational status.
Unable to contain his nervous energy, Haverford paced the situation room. In thirty minutes they would go “dark,” all substantive cable and telephonic traffic would cease. Some “flak” would be thrown up — run-of-the-mill crap to let the Soviets and Chinese think that it was just business as usual, but there would be no communication between Langley and the situation room.
Singleton would go off to some affair at the White House. Diamond was going hunting with his buddies.
If this went south, it would all be on the Tokyo station.
“Do a final status check.”
“We just did —”
“Did I ask you what you just did?”
They ran another check.
Alpha Tiger: In place.
Bravo Team: In place.
The Monk: In place.
Go Player: In place.
Papa Bear …
Papa Bear.
“Papa Bear’s off the radar.”
“What?”
“Papa Bear,” the nervous young agent said. “He’s off the radar.”
“Run it down.”
Frantic phone calls to Hong Kong turned up nothing. Emile Guibert wasn’t at his house on Victoria Peak, not at his office downtown, his club in Western. Not at his mistress’s pad. Off the radar.
They were thin on the ground in HK because of British hypersensitivity. In fact, Haverford briefly considered reaching out to Wooten for help. The MI-6 man had the Hong Kong police on his payroll and could scour the island quicker than the small American contingent.
But he decided that he couldn’t answer the questions that Wooten would ask, and that the payback would be too ferocious, so he had to leave it to Benton’s people.
The search took twenty-eight endless minutes.
Haverford jumped on the cable.
P-BEAR OFF GRID. ABORT? ADVISE.
John Singleton took his wool overcoat off the coat rack and put it on. His left shoulder suffered from bursitis, so it took a few seconds. He wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck, put on his hat, and headed out the door of his office.
For most people, going to the White House was a thrill; for Singleton, it was a chore. He was halfway down the hall when his assistant scurried up behind him.
“Yes?”
“An urgent cable from Tokyo.”
He glanced at it and said, “Not now.”
“You don’t want to res —”
“I can’t very well respond to something that you didn’t give to me, can I?” he said. “I had already left the building. I’ll look at it when I come back.”
The elevator doors slid open.
“We’re dark,” the young agent said.
That is not good, Haverford thought.
Singleton had hung him out to dry. The old spymaster would take credit for the success, but dump blame for the failure on Haverford.
“It’s your call.”
“Just find Emile Guibert,” Haverford snapped, “and spare me your observations of the obvious.”
“Sorry.”
Fifty-nine minutes out.
Once operational, Haverford had the authority to abort the mission at his discretion. He could flip the “kill switch,” which would trigger an alert that Hel knew to look for. In that case, Hel would simply walk out of his hotel, a preplanned diversion would occupy his surveillance, and he would go straight to the Niujie Mosque.
“Keep trying on Papa Bear.”
“Yes, sir.”
Assume the worst-case scenario, Haverford told himself.
Assume that Voroshenin has Guibert and is sweating him.
Assume that Guibert has given it up.
Given that scenario, Voroshenin knows that Guibert is a cover, but Guibert couldn’t have given him Hel’s real identity. All Voroshenin knows is that “Michel Guibert” is a cover under British control, which is what Guibert believes. Voroshenin will take the next logical mental step, though — he’ll believe that the British were subbing in for us. He’ll know it’s an American operation.
So what does he do?
He gives it to the Chinese, to his buddy Kang.
What does Kang do?
Either he lets Hel stay operational to see where it leads him, or he picks Hel up and tortures the truth out of him. Everything they knew about Kang indicated the latter course of action.
“You confirmed that Go Player is in place?” Haverford asked.
“He signaled.”
Their watchers outside the hotel had seen Hel go in but not come out, and they observed the correct arrangement of the window curtains. Only ten minutes ago, Hel had called room service to request a fresh thermos of water for his tea, so there was every reason to believe that he was safely in his room and not in Kang’s hands.
But for how long? Haverford wondered.
Abort, he told himself.
Get a signal to the Monk, hit the kill switch now.
58
NICHOLAI STEPPED OUT on the little balcony.
Across the boulevard, lit by the amber streetlamp, the monk still stood under the tree, facing south.
The mission was a “go.”
Nicholai started to pull a cigarette out to light it and acknowledge.
Then the monk moved.
59
“WE HAVE Papa Bear.”
“Kill the abort signal,” Haverford said. “Where the hell was he?”
It turns out that Papa Guibert found himself a new honey and took her to her place. He was surprised and a little indignant to find out that handlers were looking for him.
“So I wanted a little variety,” he told the Brit who was under Haverford’s employ. “So what, I am French.” He didn’t really expect a Brit to comprehend a man’s sexual needs. The British were about as sensual as their food.
“Keep him on ice,” Haverford ordered. “Did you signal the Monk back?”
“Confirmed.”
Haverford sat down and looked at the illuminated wall clock.
Twelve minutes out.
60
VOROSHENIN WAS on the phone.
The old man had broken — no Frenchman of his generation would let a beautiful woman have her brains spattered all over the walls — and confirmed that his son had died in the car crash, and “Michel Guibert” was the cover of an agent working for the British.
The British my liver, Voroshenin thought. The British are assclenching happy just to hold on to Hong Kong, they’re not going to wake the dragon by messing about in China. Besides
, it wasn’t London that had control of Nicholai Hel, it was Washington.
Kang finally came on the line.
“Wei,” he asked blandly, as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on.
“The father confirmed my hypothesis,” Voroshenin said.
There was a long pause, then Kang said, “Enjoy the opera.”
I will, actually, Voroshenin thought.
61
NICHOLAI SAW THE MONK start to turn to the north, then change his mind and face south again.
The mission had been aborted, then just as quickly revived. That didn’t trouble Nicholai — the go-kang was a kinetic field that required fluid thought and action.
But then the monk did something unexpected. He turned to face the hotel and looked directly up at Nicholai. Even from that distance — five floors down and across the street — Nicholai could feel the monk’s eyes, almost as he had once sensed the intensity of Kishikawa-sama and Otake-san.
Nicholai nodded.
Cupping one hand around his cigarette, he lit it — the signal that he was ready to proceed. He took a long drag, then stepped back into the room and shut the doors behind him.
Then he left the room and went downstairs.
62
“GO PLAYER acknowledged.”
“Roger that.”
Now all Haverford could do was sit and wait.
Worst part of the job.
63
DIAMOND MADE A POINT not to be in, or even near, the office. But he left word where he could be reached and an order that he be immediately briefed on any developments coming out of Beijing.
Waiting around is the shits, he thought.
64
THE NORTH WIND had picked up again and Nicholai wrapped his scarf around his neck as he stepped out into the cold night air and waited for Chen and the car. Where were they? Chen was usually pathologically prompt.
Across the boulevard the monk walked away, toward the south.
The last check, Nicholai thought with a twinge of sorrow. The last chance to stop this thing literally just walked away.
The car came up the street, its red flags snapping in the stiff breeze. It pulled up in front of the hotel, the back door opened, and Chen got out.
“Sorry to be late,” he said. “Traffic.”
He looked afraid.
Chen ushered Nicholai into the backseat and got in beside him.
Nicholai started to greet Liang, but saw that it was a different driver.
“Where is Liang?” Nicholai asked.
“Sick,” Chen said. The smell of fear came off him. A sheen of greasy sweat shone on his cheeks.
Nicholai took two cigarettes from his pack and offered one to Chen. The escort took it, but his hands shook as Nicholai held the lighter up to the cigarette. He steadied Chen’s wrist and said, “Perhaps it was catching.”
“Maybe.”
“You should go home and take care of yourself.” Nicholai looked into his eyes. “It’s all right.”
“I’m so sorry,” Chen answered, “that I was … late.”
“Truly, it doesn’t matter.” He let go of Chen’s wrist. Nicholai sat back in his seat, smoked, looked out the window, and pretended not to notice when the car turned not for Xuanwu, but toward the Bell and Drum Towers.
65
KANG READIED THE STAGE.
He wanted it perfect, a flawless setting for the drama that he was about to enact, the play that he had already written.
This Nicholai Hel person would speak his intended lines. Maybe not at first, when his masculine pride would force him to resist; but eventually he would give in and pronounce the words. He would come in as a man but leave as a eunuch, enter the stage as a sheng but exit as a dan, shamed and pleading to die.
But the dignity of a private death was not on the page for this Hel. Kang would save what was left of him for another performance, his humiliation played before an audience of thousands at the Bridge of Heaven. Hel would have a placard on his back instead of an embroidered robe, he would be bound with heavy ropes, and he would take a final bow to the bark of rifles and the roar of the crowd.
Kang fingered the exquisitely thin, stiff wire — sharpened at one end, looped at the other — with which he intended to skewer Hel’s masculinity.
“Drawing the Jinghu Bow Across the Strings” is what Kang had titled this new technique, and he could already imagine the notes that Hel would achieve as the wire was pushed and pulled back and forth through his testicles.
Kang had dressed for the occasion — a black jacket with black brocade over black silk pajamas and black slippers. He had slicked his hair back carefully, trimmed his eyebrows, and applied the most subtle, indistinguishable layer of rouge on his cheeks.
He looked forward to matching the rhythms of the mental torture along with the physical — show Hel the agony that was inevitable, then offer to rescind the sentence, and then apply it anyway. Draw the strings back and forth between despair and hope, terror and relief, anguish and cessation, building to a climax in which there was only pain.
As in any worthy opera, the music would be punctuated by passages of speech, as Hel recited his monologues. Yes, he was an American agent, yes he had been sent to pull the strings of the puppet, the traitor Liu, yes they conspired to deliver guns to antirevolutionary elements in Yunnan, yes, they hoped to murder Chairman Mao.
He heard car doors close, and then footsteps on the pebbled walkway.
The opera was about to begin.
66
THE LIGHTS IN THE HOUSE dimmed as the stage lamps came up.
Voroshenin, comfortable in his private box, leaned forward and looked down at the black square stage, traditionally placed to the north of the audience. He loved this old theater, with its red gilded columns framing the stage, its old wooden floor, the vendors milling around selling peanuts and steamy hot towels, the chatter, the laughter.
The chair beside him was empty.
Hel had not arrived.
Voroshenin knew that the foolish young man was attending an opera of his own, one in which he would unwillingly sing the lead role.
After a moment of anticipatory silence, the orchestra struck its first notes, and the audience hushed as Xun Huisheng stepped onto the stage. Dressed as a huadan — a saucy young woman — Xun wore a long scarlet Ming-era robe with flowers brocaded on the shoulders and wide “water” sleeves. He stood center stage and gave his shangching, the opening speech, identifying himself as the Red Maid.
Then, waving his hand with a grace born from decades of practice, he produced a scroll from the sleeve, paused, and began the famous first aria.
This letter is the evidence of the affair.
Commanded by my lady, I am on my way to the West Chamber.
In the early morning silence reigns supreme.
Let me, the Red Maid, have a little cough to warn him.
Voroshenin was delighted.
67
“GO PLAYER IS off the radar.”
Haverford felt his blood go cold and his stomach flip. “What?”
“He didn’t arrive at Point Zero.”
“Didn’t or hasn’t?” Haverford asked.
The young agent shrugged. A few seconds later he asked, “Do you want to give the scramble code?”
A scramble code would do just that — send the extraction team in the Niujie Mosque scrambling for cover before they could be rounded up, send the Monk, the Hui agents, all of them, running for the border.
He considered the possibilities:
The mundane — Hel was simply delayed, tied up in traffic.
The treacherous — Hel had chickened out and was running on his own.
The catastrophic—Hel was in Kang Sheng’s hands.
The last scenario would definitely trigger a scramble code.
“No,” Haverford said. “Let’s give it a while longer.”
Where are you, Nicholai?
68
THREE POLICE AGENTS hauled Nicholai from
the car, pushed him over the hood, and handcuffed him behind his back.
He didn’t resist. This wasn’t the moment.
They straightened him back up, and an agent held him by either elbow.
“Spy!” Chen yelled at him, his eyes begging forgiveness. Flicks of spit hit Nicholai in the face as Chen screamed, “Now you will feel the people’s righteous fury! Now you will know the anger of the workers and peasants!
Chen turned to get back into the car, but the driver was out of the car, pulled a pistol, and held it at Chen’s head. “Li Ar Chen, I arrest you for treason against the People’s Republic.”
The third policeman grabbed his arms, twisted them behind him, and cuffed him.
“No!” Chen yelled. “Not me! Him! Not me! I did everything you said!”
The driver holstered his pistol, slapped him hard across the face, then ordered, “Take him.”
The policeman pushed Chen in front of Nicholai.
Without a word, they frog-marched him through a stone garden to what looked improbably like a cave. One of the cops knocked on the thick wooden door and a moment later Nicholai heard a muffled, “Come.”
The door opened and the agents pushed Nicholai inside.
It was indeed a cave, or at least an effort to replicate one in concrete. Communists, Nicholai thought, they do love their concrete. The ceilings were curved and the walls painted with streaks to imitate geological striations.
This “cave” was beautifully furnished with rosewood tables and chairs, a lounging sofa, and the machinery of torture. There was a bench of sorts, obviously used for beatings and perhaps sodomy, a staggering variety of whips and flails hung neatly from assigned hooks, and two straight-backed chairs, the seats of which had been removed, bolted to the floor.
The cops shoved Nicholai down onto one of the chairs, removed the cuffs, and used heavy leather straps to tightly fasten his wrists to the arms of the chair. Nicholai watched as they took Chen, roughly stripped off his clothes, and then hung him by the handcuffs from a steel rail that ran across the ceiling. Then they tied his ankles down to bolts in the floor, so that he was spread-eagled.