by Adam Brookes
At the end of the mews stood a Victorian pub with hanging baskets of geraniums, The Compasses, which Mangan came quickly to love. But Patterson surprised him by warning him sternly, and prudishly, about engaging in anything more than polite chat with the Hungarian girls behind the bar, an admonition he found at once patronizing and verging on prejudiced, he thought.
He bought a pint and sat at a wooden table outside, by himself.
He would, he had learned, leave his job at the paper. No great hardship there.
He would establish himself as an independent journalist. He would have a website, a blog. On it, he would post travel writing, commentary, reviews. He would commission pieces from others. There would be seed money from a generous and open-minded venture capitalist who specialized in media startups. The website would be speckled with ads, and it would flourish in a modest sort of way.
And, crucially, the website would provide Mangan with the journalist’s enviable prerogative: to be exactly wherever he wished, whenever he wished, talking to whomever he wished. He would travel light and move quickly.
A grand life fiction. Philip Mangan would hide in plain sight.
And there’d be a salary. A real one. Paid discreetly into a quiet little account in a jurisdiction where not too many questions were asked, one whose flag had distinctly British overtones.
“Journalism is a marvelous cover,” Hopko had said. “But we were ordered hands off journalists, oh, years ago. Couldn’t touch them, let alone recruit them. Supposedly we were protecting the reputations of the media companies, keeping the reporters above suspicion. Perhaps it was wise. But, now. Well, things are a little different.”
“As cover goes, Philip, it’s cushy,” said Patterson, and there had been laughter. Mangan wondered what un-cushy cover would be.
He drank his pint, felt the gentle bite of it in the warm evening. Londoners were emerging from offices, shops, from the station, clutching bags, children, a woman held a bouquet and looked around herself, puzzling out the streets. Mangan thought for a moment about lives he might live. At some point in the future.
His operational focus would be HYPNOTIST. He might be required to assist with other operations. In Asia, or elsewhere.
He was to undergo a month of intensive indoctrination and training.
This is how.
43
The following day, a beginning. At eight in the morning, Mangan opened the door to Patterson and two tech wallahs holding black flight cases.
In the conference room, they quietly unpacked two laptop computers, set them on the table and connected them to the Internet. The men worked quietly, fastidiously. They were both young, had the look of students, postgraduates perhaps.
“So, what we have here,” murmured one, to Mangan, “is a connection to a darknet.” Mangan looked over his shoulder. “An ironclad browser, all encrypted, which will take you off to places your everyday white bread browser won’t, you see. And all twenty-four-carat anonymous as you do it.”
“What places?” said Mangan.
“Well, that’s just it. All sorts of places down there. Some of it’s not very nice, is it, Jeff?”
The other man shook his head.
“Shocking, some of it.”
“There’s lots of drugs. Big sites where you can order up your crystal or your skag. Pay in Bitcoin. There’s crims, looking for jobs. Kiddie fiddlers. Crypto-anarchists. Terrorists. Carders. All sorts.”
“Spend much time down there, do you?” said Patterson.
“Oh, yes,” said the man, mildly. “Because in the dark no one can see you. No one knows who you are. So the spies like it just as much as all the other low-lifes. Don’t we, Jeff?”
“We’re right at home, Michael.”
“So, if we’re careful, and we set up a nice little encrypted file-sharing site, we can talk to people down here and exchange all sorts of goodies, without any danger of being seen, or overheard.”
“And that,” said Jeff, “is exactly what your friend seems to have done, bless him.”
On the other laptop, Hopko suddenly filled the screen, peering at her camera with the air of a troubled landlady.
The site, when they found it, was nondescript. Black screen, with a password prompt.
“Everybody agreed?” said Hopko, raspy over the wireless link. The two techs nodded.
“We’re happy,” said Patterson.
“Philip?” said Hopko.
“Yes. Sure.”
“Tally-ho, then.”
Michael slowly read out the password, a long jumble of letters and digits, one at a time. Jeff repeated them back and tapped them in, hit Enter.
The cursor blinked for a few seconds. A single line of text appeared.
Please wait for respond>
They waited. Hopko bustled off. Jeff and Michael gazed at the screen, seemed to enter a sort of vegetative state. Mangan went upstairs, made tea and toast. After a while, Patterson joined him and sat, watched him spreading butter, marmalade.
“Have you thought about it?” she said.
“Of course. I haven’t thought about anything else.”
“And?”
Mangan took a bite of toast.
“I’m still here.”
“There’s something they didn’t tell you.”
He stopped chewing.
“You’re going to be fluttered.”
There was a noise on the stairs. Jeffrey was standing there, looking awkward.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I think we might have something.”
A brief ribbon of text in the darkness.
Please identify>
“Since you have no recognition code,” said Michael, the tech wallah, slowly, “I would suggest no name, just a relevant identifier.”
Patterson looked at him, questioningly.
“Well, Philip?”
Mangan considered, rubbed his unshaven chin.
“Try, African friend.”
African friend>
A pause.
Please, where we met?>
“Tell him, hyena town.”
Hyena town>
Very good. Here is peter.>
“What?” said Patterson. “What the hell does that mean?”
“What does that mean to you, Philip?” said Hopko, over the link.
Mangan swallowed. What?
“I’ve no idea,” he said.
“Think, Philip,” said Patterson. “Peter? Is it a word code?”
Mangan thought back, saw the market on the smoky hillside, the rattling shoe production line. Peter?
“Nary a Peter comes to mind, I’m afraid.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Patterson.
“Oh. Hang on,” he said.
“What?” said Patterson.
He looked at her.
“Just… just keep your knickers on, Trish.”
Patterson looked as if she might deliver a sharp blow to his throat.
“Philip, that is the wrong thing to say to me just now. If we do not reply, he may log off and we’ll lose him forever. So fucking think of something to say to him. Now.”
“If it’s him,” said Michael.
“It’s him,” said Mangan. “Ask him, what food do you hate most?”
What food do you hate most?>
The reply was immediate.
Ha ha red cook pork. Very disgusting>
A beat, then more text.
You can tell me why I hate it>
“Write, the fat. Kneeling in the snow.”
The fat. Kneeling in the snow>
So my friend good to hear you. This way we communicate. You check this site every day for message. I am back in home country. Much to tell you>
Hopko spoke via the link. “Where is he, precisely?”
Are you in your nation’s capital city?>
No>
Where? So we know how to find you if you need help>
Remember my investment fund? That city>
Yes I remember>
&nb
sp; “He’s in Kunming,” said Mangan, “the southwest.”
Hopko again. “I want you to get him to commit to a third country meeting. Soon. Make him plan.”
When can we meet? Somewhere safe. You tell me where. I’ll be there>
Ok maybe vacation ha ha thailand maybe>
Thailand would be very good. You make a plan, tell me, I will arrange everything>
Ok. I go now my friend. You use this site for message. Bye>
Good bye my friend. Good to talk to you>
Then just the blinking cursor in the blackness.
“The Peter thing,” said Mangan. “It’s derived from Latin, isn’t it? Or Greek? One of them. It means stone. His surname, Shi, means stone. He’s Peter. Rocky.”
Patterson was giving him a you-can’t-be-serious look.
“His sense of humor at work,” said Mangan, and Patterson noted the budding empathy of the handler for his agent.
“And that, Philip,” said Hopko up close to the camera, her features rounded, distorted, “is why we pay you the big bucks.”
44
Oxford
The Chen girl was not hard to find. Nicole attended an event sponsored by the Oxford University Chinese Students’ Association at the Business School, a lecture on the future of Anglo-Chinese business links given by a former British ambassador. The man droned on and on from a lectern, a face the color of uncooked pork, a soul-crushing hour of platitudinous jargon. Then, dear God, questions. She allowed her mind to drift, thought of New York, Hong Kong.
And then there she was, standing, reaching for the microphone, all petite and virginal, wearing leggings, a loose beige top that slipped from one shoulder. Her question, something earnest about the sustainability of China’s growth model, corruption, Western over-optimism.
The ambassador answered carefully, moved on, allowing his eyes to wander hopefully across the audience. For a second, Madeline Chen looked bemused, unimpressed, but yielded the microphone with a shake of her hair, a downward, impatient look.
Afterward, there was warm white wine under neon strip lights in the common room. Nicole circled, then approached.
“Hi!” she said, her language English, mannerisms American.
“Hi,” said Madeline Chen, frowning at her.
“I thought your question was the most interesting part of the evening so far. But there’s still time, right?” She laughed. “I’m Nicole.” Held out her hand. The Chen girl took it, let it go quickly.
“I am Madeline.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m new, just arrived, so I don’t know anyone.” She adopted a hopeful look. The Chen girl regarded her, her eyes flickering down and up again, registering the silk shirt, the jeans from Barney’s, the Tiffany bracelet.
“So where are you from?” said Nicole.
“Beijing. You are American?”
“No. Taiwanese. I’m from Taipei. But I’ve been in the States the last few years.”
The Chen girl was paying attention now, looking at her searchingly.
Nicole switched to Mandarin, peppered Madeline with questions about Oxford, about Britain, weather, food. Madeline answered guardedly, tried to turn the conversation around.
“So what’s your subject?” she said.
Nicole grinned a does-it-really-matter grin, flapped a hand.
“Oh, Chinese strategic doctrine. Ships, nukes, sea lanes. So tedious.”
Madeline smiled a disbelieving smile.
Nicole stood closer to her.
“So will you show me around a bit? I don’t know the first thing about this place except it’s old and creepy and damp. Perhaps we could meet up.” She looked expectant.
“Perhaps,” said Madeline.
Nicole said nothing more, just smiled and handed her card to the hostile target and with a meaningful look swept from the room, Madeline Chen watching her go.
45
London
They drove him to an office block in Ealing, early in the morning. Patterson told him: “Don’t drink any coffee, Philip, it makes you jittery and affects the readings.” He was left in an interview room. Two chairs, a table and a mirrored window, through which, he was fairly certain, someone was watching him. The room intimidated by its blankness, its lack of affect.
Minutes passed. Mangan felt alert, hungry.
The door opened and a man entered. He carried a chunky case, which he laid on the table. A faded suit, bony hands, thin, downy hair, a mouth that fell at the corners. The pallor of secrecy, thought Mangan, too many windowless rooms, ingrown lives. My examiner. The man fussed with the clasps on the case.
A cuff was attached to his arm, a band around his chest, an oximeter clipped to his finger.
“What’s most important,” intoned the examiner, “is that you tell the truth. Whatever it is. You must not try to deceive us. I hope that is clear.”
The man said that they would chat about the questions a bit and he would calibrate the machine, and they’d chat a bit more. Then he’d administer the test. Simple questions to begin with. Name. Date of birth. Queries related to counterintelligence, foreign contacts, that sort of thing. And then a bit of lifestyle. The man peered at a screen.
“Is your name Philip Mangan?”
“Yes.”
“Are you thirty-seven years old?”
“Yes.”
“Are you wearing a pink shirt?”
“No.”
“Is your father dead?”
“Yes.”
“Is your mother dead?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have siblings?”
“No. No siblings.”
“Have you lived in China?”
“Yes.”
They talked, the examiner delivering questions in a low monotone, in a manner used to communicate with the gravely ill.
“Drug use, Philip, have you ever used illegal drugs?”
“Umm, yes.”
“Have you used marijuana or cannabis?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“What? Well, at various times, I’d say.”
“Be as precise as possible. When?”
“When I was at university. And since.”
“Can you pinpoint some dates?”
“Is this strictly relevant?”
“Please don’t question me, but answer my question.”
“The last time was about six months ago.”
“And before that?”
“I really don’t have any idea.”
“Have you used cocaine?”
“No.”
“Have you used LSD?”
“Possibly.”
“Yes or no. Have you ever used LSD?”
“Someone once gave me something at a party in Bangkok and I knocked it back and an hour later I was watching the walls emit great billows of stars. But I have no idea what it was. Wouldn’t mind finding out, actually.”
“Please be as truthful and precise as you can.”
“I’m trying to be bloody truthful.”
A pause. The man stood up and left the room.
Fifteen minutes later, he came back.
“I’d like you to tell me about an experience that you found humiliating,” he said. “When in your life did you feel most humiliated?”
Mangan cast about hopelessly.
“People often reach back into their childhood to find such experiences,” the examiner said, matter-of-factly.
Mangan shrugged.
“There were some moments at school, I suppose.”
“At your boarding school? Tell me about one of them.”
“Is this really necessary?”
“Please be explicit and truthful.”
Mangan sighed, discomfited now.
“Well, my first night at boarding school…”
“How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
“And what happened?” The examiner was watching his screen closely.
“The parents dro
pped the new boys off. It was a Sunday, a beautiful September day. We all dragged our trunks and cases inside, and upstairs, and then the parents drove away, and we were taken to supper and then back to our houses. And in my house there was this enormous stairwell, four floors, towering windows, with elaborate contraptions of brass poles and levers for opening them.”
Mangan stopped, licked his lips.
“And the new boys were on our way up this huge, echoing stairwell to the dormitory, to bed. But a bat had got in, somehow. This tiny bat. And it was fluttering and swooping up and down the stairwell. I remember noticing how quickly it moved. The minute your eye found it, it was gone. It kept hurling itself against the windows, and falling, and fluttering downward. I thought bats didn’t do that. But this one did. Or that’s how I remember it, anyway.”
He paused.
“Go on,” said the examiner.
“Some of the older boys, fifth-formers, decided they had to catch it. And they took string gym bags for nets and ran up and down the stairs, roaring, screaming. And the bat flew right to the top of the stairwell, banging against the walls and the ceiling, and they chased it up there and threw whatever they had at it, shoes, pillows, anything. And they killed it. And the house tutor came and wrapped it in a towel and took it away. I was pressed against the wall with all these huge boys hurtling by, and the noise, and I started crying. I was tired and overwrought and missing my parents already, and I sobbed. And the fifth-formers started yelling about the new boy blubbing, and the other new boys joined in, and in the dormitory it was just this feeding frenzy. Is that humiliating enough? Look, have you calibrated your machine yet?”
“Have you ever been contacted by a foreign intelligence organization?”
“Well, yes.”
“Are you an agent of a foreign intelligence organization?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Are you in the employ of a foreign intelligence organization?”
“No.”
“Have you passed information you know to be protected to a foreign intelligence organization?”