by Adam Brookes
“Which one?”
Rocky sighed.
“Fan Rong. The Fan family. The corporation that they control, that they run like their… their personal whorehouse. China National Century. Come on, Philip, you know what I am talking about.”
“What sort of example?”
“We will expose them and ruin them. They will be arrested, tried and punished.”
“A trial? Whose court are you planning on using, I wonder?”
Rocky ignored the question. He looked at Mangan.
“When this happens, Philip, foreign governments will think, like you, that it is a coup, some terrible upheaval. They will go pale, get upset. Oh no, China’s unstable, they will scream. And, like you say, everybody gets frightened, and that has consequences for us. Big consequences. Business men will all run away, pull their investments. Cost of borrowing goes up. Consumption drops. People pull their money from the banks. Markets fall. Everything goes to shit.”
He put his hand to his mouth, swallowed.
“We wish to prevent this. So you will warn them, Philip. You will tell them, no. This is not a coup. This is a correction. We have had big corrections before. Remember? Gang of Four? And 1989? But we are always okay. We survive. You will tell them they must understand it, welcome it, even. Nothing to fear.”
He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, his weird earnestness returning.
“That way, the West, Japan, Korea, everyone will understand. China is correcting itself, cutting out the corruption, cleaning the wound, so it can heal. Yes?”
He raised his hands, palms up, trembling. You see? “That is the first thing. You will tell your Service that this is nothing to worry about. And your Service will tell everybody, the Americans, the Germans. And everybody will listen, and there will be no panic.”
Mangan said nothing.
Inexplicably, Rocky had broken into English.
“The second thing, Philip, the second thing is more complicated. But you will help us. The second thing is about evidence. We need evidence.”
“No evidence? You have no evidence? You are looking for evidence now?”
Again, Rocky ignored him.
“You know what is a ‘junket,’ Philip? The real meaning? In China?”
Mangan frowned.
“A junket, Philip, is a company. A gambling company. The junket company say to you, you like gambling? Like casinos? Okay, let’s go to Macau. The junket will buy the plane ticket, make the reservation, everything. Lots of casinos in Macau. Much bigger than Vegas, even. You can gamble there till you are broke or dead.”
He raised a warning finger.
“But there’s a problem. For Chinese, you can only take a few thousand dollars out of mainland China. Any more, not allowed. Not enough to gamble in Macau! So, the junket says, no problem. You deposit your money with us, in China, maybe a hundred thousand, maybe a million, ten million. Then you go to Macau and you can draw on your account. Like a bank. You deposit one million in China, we’ll give you one million to gamble with in Macau, less commission. All very legal. So legal you are surprised, yes? That is one way to move money out of China. A good way.
“So, the Fan family. Number one daughter Charlotte Fan. You know? The oil-well woman? I told you about her, yes? She likes Macau, goes all the time. She gambles a lot! Plays VIP baccarat.”
Rocky frowned now, looked disapproving.
“That is a very dangerous game. You play against the house. Big stakes. Private room. Only the cameras can see how much you bet. Charlotte Fan, she goes to one casino. Always the same. Drives up in her pink Porsche, tips the valet a hundred dollar. A really disgusting car, believe me. Then she goes to the VIP room for baccarat.”
He was lighting a cigarette.
“And she loses! Always, she loses. We are told this. She loses maybe two hundred thousand, three hundred thousand sometimes. But she comes out, gets in her whore car and drives away. Next night, still she goes back, plays more, loses. The casino just take her money, like candy from a baby.”
“Now, and you must listen here, Philip. The casino has need of certain services. It needs consulting services. Consulting on what, do you think?”
He had his wide-eyed look on. What could it be? Mark my innocence.
“The casino needs advising on its information systems, yes. And on security. And on forecasting. And finance, yes, lots of finance consulting. So, the casino hires a consulting company. Several consulting companies, in fact. Pay a lot of money for this confidential consulting. A lot! This is what the General has found out. And the consulting companies, they are based mainly in Hong Kong. And who owns them, do you think?”
He looked expectantly at Mangan.
“Hm?”
Mangan shook his head.
“Well, these consulting companies, they are owned by other companies, shell companies. Not real, just one address, some phony director. These shell companies, well, some are based in Jersey. You know Jersey? Yes, of course. And one is based in the British Virgin Islands. And one is based in Cayman Islands. And one is based… in London! Yes. London!”
He dragged on the cigarette, exhaled.
“Now, we try very hard to find out who owns these shell companies. Really we try. But, you know, your country makes it very hard to find out. We go to Jersey, we try to look up who owns this company. Well, it’s just another company! Maybe in Gibraltar, or in Cook Islands. Or some place. We go to the British Virgin Islands. We send good people. They ask, who own this company? No answer. Nothing. Really, British are very secret. More secret than Chinese.
“But the one in London, we find out something. We find out that Charlotte Fan is listed as Director. Charlotte Fan. Yes. Charlotte Fan is director of the company which owns the company which owns the company which consults for casino where Charlotte Fan loses all her money. How about that?”
Mangan shook his head. Rocky looked exasperated.
“She is moving money out of China. Millions. Money they steal from China National Century. Or money they get in corrupt deals, like the oil wells. It’s China’s money. It’s not her money. You understand this? She washes it in the casino. The casino take a cut. Then gives the money back to Charlotte Fan by hiring her phony consulting companies. The money is all clean now, so clean. All sparkly. So she puts it in these shell companies, a bit here, a bit there. All offshore, no tax. Very secret. And suddenly the Fans are living in a big apartment in London. Very fancy. Servants, everything. And all that money…”
He made a strange effeminate gesture, wiggling his fingertips in the air.
“Pfff. It just disappeared. Gone. So many companies, so many secret places. Turks and Caicos. Isle of Man. You never find it. But the Fans know where it is. Only them.”
He thought for a moment.
“Well, one other man, in Hong Kong. We try to talk to him, but he killed himself.”
He put his index finger to his lips, an overwrought parody of thoughtfulness. Spying as performance art, thought Mangan. Agent as artiste of camp.
“Funny thing. All these secret places, well, nearly all—they are British! Yes! They belong to Britain. What are they called? Crown Dependencies. Yes. UK Overseas Territories. Such glorious names, like full of tradition or something. Very ancient. Imperial flags and uniforms and the Queen, everything. To an ignorant Chinese soldier like me, they sound very important, very… intimidating.” He got up, came and stood over Mangan, smiling, ingratiating.
“Britain…”
He looked up, as if searching for the words.
“Britain is like… what do you say… an accomplice.”
He blinked and looked Mangan in the eye.
“So we thought, Philip, you can say to your Service: find out for us, please, where all this money has gone. Just tell us. We need evidence. We need to show the Chinese people. We need to show the court. Just tell us. UK Secret Intelligence Service! Of course they can find out fast. Then they tell us. Bank accounts, amounts. Where it is. How much.�
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He turned away.
“Then once they tell us, you can go.”
Mangan closed his eyes.
“Sound good?”
Sounds deranged, Rocky. Sounds twenty-four-carat bloody barking.
“So you are holding me hostage,” he said, letting his voice rise. “You little shit.”
Rocky held his hands up in a feeble protest, but the Clown was moving across the cell fast. He walked around behind Mangan’s chair. Rocky’s expression turned sorrowful. And then Mangan’s head exploded in pain, white particles spinning in his eyes, his neck jarred and wracked.
Then a voice in his ear, the Clown’s.
“Let us concentrate on the issue at hand, shall we? Or I will hit you again. And again.”
Rocky was wearing his best distraught expression.
“We just need you to stay for a while. We find out this very important information, where the Fan money is, evidence of all their corruptness, and we can show all China the evidence. Then we shoot them. Then we all go home.”
The Clown dropped the run bag at his feet, felt in his pocket, pulled out a clasp knife. He leaned over Mangan, opened the blade, brought it down just a shade closer to Mangan’s face than it needed to be, cut the cuff off him. Mangan’s hands were swollen, a dark, unhealthy color. He reached into the run bag, pulled out the laptop.
“There’s a wireless connection. Very good, very fast,” said Rocky.
Mangan opened the computer, balancing it on his knees, his eyes streaming, nose running, and booted it up.
Rocky reached inside his jacket, brought out three sheets of paper, which he unfolded and handed to Mangan. On them, a list of corporate titles and addresses.
PLBC Holdings Ltd
Purlaw Legal Services, PO Box 7710
Georgetown, Grand Cayman
Yung Chee Lucky Yield Investment Associates Ltd
PO Box 7940, Bermuda
Thirty or forty such addresses. And names. Lawyers, accountants, nominee directors.
“You let me see before you push Send,” said Rocky absently. “Oh, and tell them one more thing. To show we are serious, they should watch Charlotte Fan. In London. Today. And the boy. In Oxford. Fan Kaikai.”
The date. A reference number.
CX BRAMBLE
TO: CX WEAVER
TO: C/WFE
LEDGER UK T O P S E C R E T
URGENT
/REPORT
1/ BRAMBLE is being held at an unidentified location. HYPNOTIST and associates have insisted he remain until certain requirements are satisfied.
2/ HYPNOTIST relayed to BRAMBLE the outline of a plan to move against corrupt members of the Chinese Communist Party leadership. HYPNOTIST says the plan will be implemented by a group based in the People’s Liberation Army, led by “General CHEN, head of military intelligence.” Politburo member FAN RONG will be arrested, tried and executed. FAN RONG’s family, including the leadership of China National Century Corporation, will also be brought down. Implementation of the plan is imminent, starting with the arrest of FAN RONG.
3/ HYPNOTIST demands UK agencies provide advance warning to “Western governments” of the plan in order to reassure them of China’s underlying stability. HYPNOTIST insists that the plan does not constitute “a military coup,” and should be thought of as “a purge”. He insists the aim of the plan is not to replace the Party. He maintains that the plan will serve to reduce the culture of impunity among China’s elites and draw them closer to normative behavior, thus underpinning Chinese stability, not undermining it.
“Yes. All correct. Good,” said Rocky.
4/ HYPNOTIST has further demands. He requires UK agencies to furnish him with information regarding the disposition of funds secreted out of China by the FAN family and distributed among holding companies and trusts in UK-administered jurisdictions, including Jersey, the Cayman Islands, the British Virgin Islands and the UK itself. HYPNOTIST believes this information constitutes evidence against the FAN family and will justify their arrest in the eyes of the Chinese public. HYPNOTIST accuses the UK of complicity in the crimes of China’s corrupt elites through its administration of jurisdictions designed for secrecy, tax avoidance and money laundering.
“Yes! Philip, that is very good. That is exactly what I mean.”
5/ HYPNOTIST says that proof of the seriousness of his endeavor will come “today.” He insists that we should “watch CHARLOTTE FAN” at her address in London, and FAN KAIKAI at his residence in Oxford.
“Good, good,” said Rocky.
6/ Attached as appendix is a list of names and business addresses, supplied by HYPNOTIST, thought to be associated with the FANs and their financial concerns.
7/ HYPNOTIST insists that only when this information is made available will BRAMBLE be free to leave.
END\
Laboriously, he copied out the list of names and addresses, put them in the appendix. Rocky nodded. Mangan dropped the document, encrypted, on the darknet site.
They cuffed him again, and left.
The Clown came back with a plate of food which looked as if it had been arbitrarily assembled from a hotel buffet. Slices of prime rib, sickly salad, grilled shrimp, some cold dumplings, slices of cheese. He dropped the plate on the floor, spilling the food into the dust and grit.
63
Patterson saw Mangan’s message almost as soon as it dropped, the computer alert waking her from a subterranean sleep just after 4 a.m.
She had seen many versions of the crazed midnight telegram, an agent in a bad place, imagining footsteps outside, terror dictating their demands. She’d watched operations sink, and the Service’s deft pulling away, scattering plausible denials in its wake while the joe drifted into the dark.
But never had she seen anything quite like this.
A purge?
She read it again, trying to break it down into its component parts, to prioritize. An agent held hostage. A demand for intelligence. A rupture in the delicate skein of power that held China together.
Military units, moving against the Fan family and its interests, and against the Communist Party, too.
Patterson imagined soldiers rattling along the gray brick hutongs of Beijing, smashing down the big red steel doors to beautiful courtyard mansions, dragging out the Fans, their retainers, allies, bankers, nieces, nephews, fixers, goons. Squirreling them off to God knows where. Some military base? Safe houses? Barreling through the offices of China National Century up there on the Third Ring Road in the ghastly silvered tumescence that was its corporate headquarters, breaking into the safes, the networks.
How on earth did they think they were going to do this?
Who did they have in Beijing, General Chen, Colonel Shi and their feverish little band of plotters? Did they have military? Elements of 2PLA? How the hell did they think they would get around the Ministry of State Security? The People’s Armed Police? The Capital Garrison, its two divisions right outside town?
And watch Charlotte Fan in London and Fan Kaikai in Oxford? Why? What were they going to do on UK soil?
Why on earth did they think Britain would help?
Because if we don’t, they will kill our agent.
She sat still for a moment, tried to rein in her thoughts, but nothing occurred to her that matched the enormity of what she saw.
What is my part in this? What are my lines now?
She began to pack, then abruptly stopped and sat back down to look at the telegram again. The only other addressee was Hopko. Mangan was keeping it close. It was 10 p.m. in London.
It was light by the time her secure handheld buzzed, birdsong coming in through the window. It was Hopko.
“You’ve seen it?” she said.
“Yes,” Patterson said.
“Secure video conference, twenty minutes.”
She spun up the sat phone, logged in to London on a scratchy secure feed, the signal squelching and pixelating. Arrayed across the screen were the sleep-slapped faces of Chapman-Bi
ggs and Mobbs, the Director, Requirements and Production. Hopko looked calm and serious, dressed as if she had arrived straight from the opera, her hair teased up, a dress of midnight blue silk, her tanned, stocky shoulders, a necklace of silver in beautiful, beaten ingots.
“So sorry to have dragged you all here,” she said. “But we do seem to be at a rather significant moment.” She looked straight at the camera, went on. “If HYPNOTIST is to be believed, and his reassurances notwithstanding, we find ourselves in a place one could best describe as perilous, and I submit we should send this intelligence up to Cabinet and we should alert our partners.”
“Do we believe him?” This from Mobbs, a sour tone to it.
“We find him credible,” said Hopko.
A pause. The Director spoke, deadpan.
“What are you telling me?”
“I am telling you,” said Hopko, “that the deal between the soldiers and the Party which has kept the world’s largest country afloat for sixty years and more appears to be coming apart.”
She left a beat for effect.
“Chairman Mao decreed that power grows out of the barrel of a gun, and the Party commands the gun, and the gun must never command the Party. Well, these clever chaps at 2PLA appear to envisage a new arrangement.”
Chapman-Biggs cleared his throat, spoke.
“And there is the matter of the UK’s role as a repository of certain funds which may prove problematic in the way it is perceived, were this information to become public.”
Now, thought Patterson.
“And there is the matter of our agent,” she said, “who is being held hostage in an impossible situation.” It sounded weak, childish, she knew as soon as she said it.
The Director turned his wolfish features straight to the camera.
“That,” he said, “I’m rather afraid, is the least of our concerns at this juncture.”
It was a sparkling July midmorning by the time they got the authorizations, flash messages to the Home Secretary, the Met, Thames Valley Police, Hopko and the Director working the secure phones. Two squad cars to the Fans’ flat in Kensington and two more to the house in Regent’s Park they were known to own. Two more to the Fan boy’s college in Oxford. The detective inspector in charge spoke to Hopko by secure video link, and, accustomed to her foibles, reported as much detail as he could.