Spy Games

by Adam Brookes

  Footsteps on the deck above. Muffled shouts.

  He could barely breathe, the air thick with rubber, mold, the stench of the river.

  Footsteps closer, now. In the galley, perhaps. Entering the storage compartment. Rapid-fire Mandarin, an officious tone. And a second quieter voice, explanatory. A patrol? Customs? Then more movement, and silence.

  Minutes passed. Mangan felt sick. The roll of the boat, the stench, the heat. His ribs pulsed with pain. He tried to breathe, but the nausea grew and he felt the prickle of sweat. He tried not to but he threw up, soiled his shirt, retched.

  Interminable, there, in the dark and the filth. He closed his eyes, let his mind wander. He thought about Maja, standing in the mauve evening light, looking over the thatched huts, the wood smoke. He thought of her questioning of him, her immediate knowledge of the lie in him, its carving away of the truth like the current carves a riverbank, leaving only warped fragments, oxbows on a plain.

  And he thought of Maja’s dismissal of him. Of her turning away.

  Why do I allow this to go on? What need in me does it fulfill?

  And then the panel was unlatched and pulled away and the crewmen pulled him out, recoiling at him, the stench of him.

  He stripped and washed from a bucket, and they loaned him some coveralls. He rinsed out his foul shirt, laid it on the deck to dry. He lay in the cabin, trembling. They brought him food, a bowl of rice loaded with mapo bean curd. Mangan felt his senses strangely heightened, watched the startling reds and ambers of the sauce bleed into the white rice, smelled the oil and peppercorns rising from it.

  Darkness came on, and the boat moved upriver, toward China.

  Not long, now.

  They docked at midnight. Mangan changed out of the coveralls, emerged from the cabin with the run bag, the sidearm at the base of his back, loaded. The weapon gave him comfort, a sense that he retained some measure of autonomy.

  The night was close and hot, filled with the hiss and chatter of insects. The Clown stood on the dock with two heavies in polo shirts and khakis. One of the heavies held a machine pistol, covering the boat, his eyes following Mangan as he clambered over the side.

  Beyond the dock, Mangan saw palm trees, lawns crisscrossed by torch-lit, gravelled paths leading to a sprawling complex of buildings in pale brick. The buildings were lit, blindingly bright, rearing up into the night out of the trees. Atop them, a faux temple roof, fringed with neon. Some sort of resort?

  The Clown motioned to him and they walked, one heavy in front, one behind, their footsteps crunching on the gravel. The path wound across the lawn, up some steps, to a reception area of teak and marble, flickering candles, frangipani spilling down the walls. The staff were suited in impeccable cream uniforms with high collars in the manner of hotel porters. They smiled, made little bowing motions. Mangan saw the cameras, high up in corners, heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie. The two heavies handed him off to three more, all in their cream suits, buttoned to the collar. Nothing was said. They walked a corridor, glassed on one side to provide a view of ornamental gardens, pools. The Clown followed.

  Situational awareness, Philip, at all times.

  Mangan, every sense strung taut, tried to map the place in his mind, retaining the position of the dock relative to where he was, where the river was.

  If I have to run, I run this way.

  They took a lift. One of the suited staff held the door open, murmured, “Qing.” Please. So—Chinese.

  The lift doors opened and Mangan was led out into a dim, cavernous space.

  A casino floor.

  A vast, murmuring, low-lit casino floor.

  Two of the cream-suited minders, compact, controlled men, moved in close to him, almost crowding him as they walked, as if ready for him to make a move. Mangan slowed deliberately, trying to take the scene in.

  The casino was suffused with blue light. Prominent at its center was a roulette table of rich polished wood. Mangan heard the clack clack as the wheel spun. To one side, a row of perhaps fifty or sixty screens for digital poker, the players washed in their glow. Mangan saw blackjack and baccarat tables. The players were young women dressed in black, with numbers fixed to their uniforms. The women wore headsets, earphones, little tubular cameras. They swivelled their heads robotically, fixing their cameras on the cards, on the croupier or another player, laid their cards down slowly, carefully. And all, Mangan realized, at the remote command of some distant player in Beijing or Changsha or Wuhan.

  And the visible clientele? Mangan made out Chinese kids, Shanghai hip, in quiet, nervous groups. Older Chinese men in poor suits, the maker’s label still on the left cuff, cadres from central China hemorrhaging someone else’s cash. Here, some Russians in sportswear and gold, sour-faced, dismissive, their Italian girls in couture frocks hanging on their arms, sullen. Willowy girls in cream cheongsam split to the thigh toted trays of martinis, iced bottles of vodka. And at the far end of the floor, on a low stage, to a subdued beat, two naked European girls performed a sex show, writhing and quivering in the half-light. As he walked past them, Mangan saw the gooseflesh on their thighs from the air conditioning’s chill.

  They walked on, left the casino floor, entered a cavernous split-level marble lobby, a hissing, bubbling fountain at its center—to beat the listening devices, Mangan thought. He smelled cigar smoke. Men lounged on sofas of cream leather, staring at tablets, laptops, whispering into mobile phones.

  Another lift. One of the cream-suited minders punched in a security code. They went up three floors and the doors opened into a suite.

  “Here we are,” said the Clown.

  And there he was, standing by the window, arms wide in welcome. He wore a gray suit and a white shirt open at the collar.

  “Philip,” Rocky said, walking across the room to greet him. “Sorry for all this, this trouble for you.”

  “Rocky,” he said.

  “Come. Come and sit down.”

  He took Mangan by the arm and walked him to a sofa. His grip was hard, pulsing with tension. Mangan looked at him. His eyes were bright, feverish, his face moist, shiny. Two of the cream suits were by the lift door. The Clown stood behind him, slightly off to the side.

  “Come,” he said. “Oh, and sorry for this also, but…” and he gestured to the Clown, who came at Mangan quickly as Rocky gripped his arm, reached behind him and took the weapon from his waistband.

  Mangan felt panic seeding in his gut.

  “I’m sorry,” said Rocky, again. The Clown took the clip from the weapon and worked the slide. He walked across the room and disappeared through a door.

  “You need to tell me what is happening, now, Rocky,” Mangan said.

  “Yes. Yes, absolutely.” He walked to a veneered drinks cabinet, opened it, ran his finger across the bottles, chose Black Label. He poured two shots, dropped ice into the glasses, walked back to the sofa. He took out a packet of cigarettes, dropped them in front of Mangan.

  “You like our place?” he said.

  “This place? Do I like it? Well, no, not really. Where are we, Rocky? I mean, what fucking country are we in?”

  Rocky grinned his over-extended grin, his eyes skittish, febrile.

  “This is our safe place. We call it a special economic zone!” Hilarious!

  “Are we in China?”

  “Physically, no. We are in a different place. We have many guests. You see them? They come here, they stay awhile. Nice rooms, nice food, girls. There’s a golf course. They get some privacy, do some business. It’s a place where our people can meet and be secure. And we’d like you to stay for a time.”

  “I’m not staying a minute longer than I have to.”

  “There is something you need to do. For us. And when it is done, then you can go.”

  “I suppose I have to ask what.”

  “That would be best.”

  “Well?”

  Rocky sipped his whisky, the left knee jigging, the tremor in the hand.

  They’re all h
ere tonight, aren’t they? All the symptoms. It’s crunch time.

  “We have,” Rocky said, “certain requirements.”

  “And what requirements would those be?”

  “Intelligence requirements. And you must help us satisfy them.”

  Mangan wondered, again, if he was in the presence of madness.

  “And how am I going to do that?”

  “You will contact your Service, you will talk to them, reasonably, and they will supply us with what we need. And all this will happen very fast.”

  The tongue flicked across the lips.

  You leak fear like a weeping faucet.

  Mangan swallowed.

  “What are you doing, Rocky? Am I a captive here?”

  The Clown came back into the room and leaned against the window sill.

  “No, Philip, no! We just need you here while this business is finished.” Rocky was breathing hard, the leg going up-down, hands clutching at the sofa’s upholstery.

  Mangan stood. Tried to breathe, felt his knees shaky. He picked up the run bag.

  “No!” Rocky yelled. He rushed across the room and planted himself in front of Mangan, grabbing a fistful of Mangan’s shirt and shaking it as if to bring the journalist to his senses. And then he was reaching under his jacket and pulling out a black pistol, and some part of Mangan’s brain was recognizing it as a PPK, and Rocky was shouting in Mangan’s face in Mandarin, Sit, sit, now, Philip, please, and Mangan smelled his foul breath, its load of alcohol and cigarettes and fear, and the black pistol was being rammed into his forehead and he felt the cold metal against his clammy skin and was teetering backward and falling onto the sofa, where he lay, still, rigid, ribs flaring with pain, Rocky leaning over him grinding the pistol down into his head.

  “You do not leave,” Rocky hissed. Mangan saw the flecks of white spittle at the corners of his mouth. He lay still and didn’t resist. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Clown pick up the run bag and leave the room again, and the two cream-suited heavies standing close by.

  Silence for a moment.

  Then Rocky stood back, leveled the pistol at Mangan’s face. Mangan felt his limbs rising involuntarily, pawing the air as if to stop what was coming. He tried to speak but couldn’t. Rocky was shouting again, gesturing with the weapon, raising it and flicking it downward like a wand, as if he were casting a spell. One of the cream suits was standing over Mangan now, and was rolling him onto his front, and Mangan felt his hands grabbed and forced against his back and a thin plastic cuff slipped over them and a crisp zip sound, and then he was rolled onto his back again and he lay there, looking up at Rocky, his hysteria, the sweat pouring off him, the weapon still now, dangling at his side.

  “Now,” Rocky said, breathing heavily, “now you listen. I am running out of time. So you listen to me.”

  Mangan, petrified, said nothing.

  Rocky put the pistol down on a table, rubbed his face.

  “We are a group of patriots. We are patriotic Chinese soldiers. And we are… we are bringing about changes. Are you listening?”

  Mangan gave a tight nod. He needed to piss, he realized.

  “Some parts of the Communist Party have become… become diseased. And we are going to cut them out. We will clean the wound.” The words came out hesitantly.

  This is it, thought Mangan. Now. This is the unblinding.

  “Who’s in charge?” he said.

  “A very great man. A general. His name is Chen. He is head of military intelligence now, and he has friends, supporters, all through the army. Really, a wonderful man. A leader! A leader who does not seek power for its own sake. He sees a future for us, for China. He knows. And right now, as we speak, he is moving. He is moving against those who have insulted us, have insulted and degraded China.”

  Script’s deteriorating, thought Mangan.

  “You are launching a military coup,” he said.

  Rocky’s face creased, and Mangan, for a split second, thought he might cry.

  “No! This is not a coup.”

  He closed his eyes for a second. “This is a purge. This is a purge of a few, to warn the many.”

  Mangan swallowed, spoke slowly, feeling the tremor in his voice.

  “If you launch a coup—no, sorry, a purge, in China, Rocky, do you… do you understand what the consequences will be?”

  “Yes! The consequences will be good! We will rectify China. No more corruption. No more disease.” Mangan shifted on the sofa, tried to loosen the cuff, let the words tumble out.

  “You… you’ll screw everything up. No one does coups. You’ll be ridiculous. China will look like some unstable basket case. Remember Moscow? Nineteen ninety-one? Whenever it was? The coup? Those frightened old men, sweating under the lights, trying to explain, while the entire world howled with laughter at them. That’ll be you. For fuck’s sake, Rocky.”

  Rocky turned and walked to the window.

  “You have no idea what he is, what he can do.”

  Not the faintest, Rocky. Not a clue.

  And then the Clown had taken him by the arm, was hauling him to his feet, walking him across the room, shoving him toward a door, pushing him down a corridor. Mangan glimpsed vast bedrooms, a bathroom suite with a hot tub. At the end of the corridor, a door marked “Fire Exit.” The Clown opened it and pushed him into a concrete stairwell.

  “Shangqu,” he said. Go up.

  Mangan climbed.

  Two floors up, the Clown shoved him out onto a landing. No bedrooms here, no silk upholstery, just gray breeze-blocks, naked light bulbs surrounded by mesh of the sort used on a building site, their drooping cables.

  The entire floor had been crudely divided, Mangan realized, into cells.

  62

  Patterson, tense as a steel wire, hunched over her laptop in the villa in the darkness, waiting for orders. Only caustic queries from Hopko:

  CX LONDON

  TO: CX WEAVER

  REPORT

  1/ RELAY ALL INFORMATION REGARDING POSITION/CIRCUMSTANCES BRAMBLE/HYPNOTIST IMMEDIATELY

  2/ AWAIT INSTRUCTION

  END/

  Nothing from Mangan. She had left him five messages on the darknet site, ordering him to check in.

  The little red orb on the screen had progressed north following the Mekong, dropping out at times, then rested for a matter of hours at a point exactly on the China-Myanmar border, then disappeared. The battery in his handheld was dead, she assumed. Hoped.

  Her alarm had not yet spread to London. But it wouldn’t be long now.

  Mac prowled around downstairs, muttering. Cliff was asleep.

  The Clown propelled Mangan across the concrete floor, the cells on either side.

  “I need a bathroom,” he said.

  “What?”

  “A bathroom.”

  The Clown turned him round and looked at him, his face entirely blank, then clapped one tensile hand on Mangan’s throat, propelled him backward into a wall, ramming Mangan’s head against the breeze-block. Pulled him away from the wall, rammed him into it again, then leaned in, pressing on Mangan’s throat. Mangan could feel the pressure deep in his head, in his eyes, imagined capillaries bursting, leaking.

  Then, without a word, the Clown let go, pulled Mangan away from the wall, thrust him into one of the cells, slammed the plywood door, bolted it from the outside.

  Mangan stood there, hands cuffed behind him, shaking, head pulsing. He looked around. The cell was empty, the floor filthy with construction debris, dust. High up, a sliver of a window.

  After loneliness, fear. And, layered on top, for good measure, searing self-recrimination.

  Am I this stupid? Did I see none of this coming? Did Patterson?

  The lure. The blind. And here I am.

  He leaned his back against the wall and allowed himself to slide to the floor, sat there, tendrils of self-pity creeping upward. British secret agent unexpectedly acquires self-knowledge. Profoundly unsuited to line of work.

  Stop. />
  He took a breath, struggled to clear his mind.

  He made himself stand, shaky, blood sugar low, mouth like leather, bladder distended and painful.

  I will not piss myself, he thought.

  He walked to the door, kicked it. It vibrated in the frame, but didn’t give.

  He sat again on the floor of the cell, then lay on his back, brought his cuffed hands around his feet, so they were in front of him. He reached up, felt the back of his head. The hair was matted. Blood?

  He bit at the plastic cuff, gnawed on it. Nothing. Far too hard.

  They need me, he thought. Or they think they need me. I am a part of their mission. What leverage is in there?

  He lay on his side, pillowed his head on his arms, tried to think.

  The bolt on the door was being worked. He jerked upright. The door opened. The Clown walked in, carrying two plastic chairs, Rocky just behind him. Rocky looked exhausted, his face sallow and drawn, the grin long gone. The Clown put the chairs down, went and stood by the door. He had the run bag on his back, Mangan noticed.

  “Sit, Philip,” said Rocky.

  “I’m not bloody doing anything until you take me to a lavatory,” he managed.

  Rocky turned, looked at the Clown, shook his head in disgust. He gestured Go.

  Mangan stood, and the Clown took him roughly by the arms again and walked him past the cells to a squat lavatory, no door. Mangan pissed as the Clown watched. They went back to the cell.

  A small piece of territory regained, thought Mangan.

  Rocky was smoking a cigarette, gave one to him and lit it.

  “So now, Philip, you will help us.” He was speaking Mandarin.

  “I am to help you launch your coup.”

  Rocky just shook his head.

  “Not a coup. Please understand. General Chen will, what do you say, make an example.”

  “Of who?” said Mangan.

  “To start with, a member of the Politburo, and his family. His network. His protégés. His power.”