Spy Games

by Adam Brookes

  It was, Chapman-Biggs remarked to Hopko, one of the most important CX reports that the Service had produced in years, and Hopko did not disagree.

  The report was read immediately in the Cabinet Office by the National Security Adviser and several members of the Joint Intelligence Committee. A crash meeting of the Current Intelligence Group for China set about drafting an assessment which expanded upon and contextualized its content. At the Foreign Office, the Director for China readied herself to interrupt the Foreign Secretary’s evening. A Cabinet-level meeting was called for first thing in the morning. The report was sent to Langley, Ottawa, Sydney and Auckland. A stripped-down version, scrubbed almost into invisibility, went to the European Union Situation Centre in Brussels.

  Patterson lay awake in the hills outside Chiang Mai, her mind racing.

  She threw the sheet off, padded in her underwear to the bathroom, splashed her face with water, drank from a plastic bottle. The ghastly limbo of the operational officer awaiting a decision, an order, an outcome.

  She checked the website for further communications from Mangan. Nothing. From London, just:

  standby>

  She lay down again.

  She listened to the hum and hiss of insects in the night.

  The sudden import and complexity of the operation terrified her, sapped her will, even as her role in it shrank. She could feel the grinding of the machinery of national power, the abrupt gaze of powerful men, who, she was certain, would examine her and find her wanting, in her youth and amateurishness, her outsiderness, her background. The thought sent her stomach writhing. She sat up, hugged her knees.

  Why was she so frightened of these people?

  She hated herself anew for the self-doubt.

  65

  The Cabinet meeting was unusually short. The running was made by the Foreign Secretary, whose doughty certainties reassured the others at the table.

  “It is clear to us,” said the Foreign Secretary, elbows on table, leaning forward, “that any move by a group of military officers against prominent Chinese political and corporate leaders constitutes a serious threat to Chinese stability.” He paused. “It is concomitantly clear that the interests of the United Kingdom, as well as those of UK corporate entities, will not be served by such instability. Nor will those of the global financial system as a whole.”

  He took a sip of water.

  “I have, by the by, spoken to my colleagues in the Treasury, in the financial regulatory apparatus and in the Corporation of the City of London, and they have made it abundantly clear that revealing the disposition of the Fan family jewels is neither possible nor desirable, nor legal, probably.”

  The Foreign Secretary looked around the table.

  “It is however, my view, that we should avail ourselves of this opportunity to relay to the Chinese leadership what we know of this impending political crisis.”

  A short document was drafted.

  Within the hour, the National Security Adviser and C made their way to a secure communications facility in the Cabinet Office building, where they oversaw the encryption of the document and its transmission as an email to China. The email went by way of a dedicated, secure line which led directly to the Communist Party Headquarters in Zhongnanhai. The Chinese account was managed by senior staff of the Ministry of State Security, who, by common agreement with the British, possessed an encryption key.

  It has been brought to the attention of the government of the United Kingdom.

  Her Majesty’s Government takes the view.

  The document named General Chen and Colonel Shi, both of 2PLA, as suspected conspirators.

  It suggested a possible location for Colonel Shi, supplying GPS coordinates, lifted from the last known location of Mangan’s phone.

  The Service and cabinet office fully expected, and were prepared for, a barrage of questions and demands from the Chinese in response to their message. They were utterly unprepared for what came back.

  It read:

  Your message received and passed to responsible departments>

  And that was all.

  Perhaps, someone suggested, they already knew.

  It was about two hours later—barely any time at all—that Patterson saw the monitoring report from Hong Kong.

  On a Hong Kong website, a blurred photograph snapped in the business class lounge at Beijing airport. An elderly man in a business suit held his hands out for the cuffs and glowered at the camera. A Chinese general, gushed the copy. Detained! In full view! A General Chen, along with several members of his retinue, were led away by paramilitary police and operatives of the Ministry of State Security, just before they boarded a flight to southwest China. On what charge, no one knew.

  Minutes later Reuters came through with a two-line flash.

  Patterson felt the entire operation lurch and stagger, felt the chill of failure creeping into her stomach.

  She dialed Hopko on the secure handheld, knowing full well she hadn’t thought it through, a voice in the back of her head whispering, Don’t do this.

  “Hopko.”

  “Val? Trish. The General’s arrest. Is it confirmed? How did they find out? Did we—”

  “Calm down.”

  “Did we…?”

  “Did you expect otherwise?”

  “I expected—” but she caught herself. “I’ll go and get him, Val. I’ll go. I’ll get both of them.”

  Hopko sounded distant.

  “Mangan is a cutout, Trish.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I mean that he is on his own. For now.”

  Mangan, exhausted, lay in a foul and roiled sleep as the day wore on, the mosquitoes whining in his ears. He had been bitten on his eyelids and they had swollen. The cell was fetid and sweltering. His hands beneath the cuff had regained their ugly, dark color.

  Earlier, they had come, Rocky and the Clown, and made him log on to the darknet site to check for messages.

  standby>

  Mangan, astonished, disheartened, looked at them, unspeaking. Rocky rubbed his chin, and the Clown shook his head and looked accusingly at Mangan. They snapped the laptop shut and left.

  Later, the Clown had come with a bottle of water and plate of sandwiches that contained a vile pulpy meat paste.

  Mangan tried to engage him.

  “Tell me what the situation is,” he said. “Let me message them again.”

  The Clown said nothing, went to close the door.

  “We should message them again,” called Mangan after him, and he could hear the pleading tone in his own voice. They took him to the bathroom, and he had diarrhea. He walked unsteadily back to the cell, weak, depleted.

  66

  The rapping on the steel gate made Patterson jump. She leaped from the bed and hurtled down the stairs.

  Cliff was there before her. He held his hands up to her.

  “I’ll deal with it,” she said.

  “Let me,” said Cliff.

  Irritated, she snapped at him.

  “I will deal with it.”

  “Boss, let me. I look the part.”

  He was fresh from a shower in baggy shorts, flip-flops, a vest which showed his shoulders and arms, thought Patterson, to alarmingly good advantage. A prominent clavicle, smooth chest.

  She breathed out.

  “All right. Go.”

  He nodded, as if accepting an order. Deftly done, she thought.

  More rapping, loud, urgent.

  He ambled across the courtyard, dragging his feet, slowing everything down. From outside, a voice in broken English, the accent Thai.

  “Open, please. Police here.”

  “Coming, coming,” said Cliff. Patterson watched from the doorway.

  He worked the bolt on the door, creaked the gate open about a foot. Patterson could see a Thai police officer on the other side, the tight brown uniform, the cap. Cliff spoke, a tone of languid Kiwi surprise.

  “Well, hello, officer.”

  “Sorry to disturb.�
�

  “Not a problem. What can I do to help?”

  “We receive report that you are staying here, this house, but not registered with police.”

  “Not registered with police,” said Cliff, blankly.

  “Yes. All aliens must register with police. Local police station. You rent this big villa, so you must register with police.”

  “Oh,” said Cliff. The police officer had one hand on the gate, was pushing it open. He was plump, bull-necked. He looked straight at Patterson, then scanned the courtyard. Behind him, Patterson saw a squad car and another, unmarked car. At its wheel, a man in plainclothes, craning his neck to see into the courtyard.

  “Well,” said Cliff. “I do apologize. I had no idea. We will come and register at the police station tomorrow. What time should we come?”

  “OK, so we come in please.” The policeman gestured.

  Cliff waited a beat. The man was getting out of the unmarked car. And another. Both in jeans, polo shirts. One chewed gum.

  “Would you like us to come now, to register?”

  The policeman just gestured with his chin. Cliff opened the gate. The policeman walked into the courtyard and the two in plainclothes moved to come in behind him, but Cliff had taken a chance and shut the gate on them. The police officer glanced over his shoulder for them, but he was alone. He frowned, looked at Cliff, but something in Cliff’s movement, his face, dissuaded the officer from complaining.

  “How long you stay?” he said.

  “Six days,” said Cliff, with a smile, making it up.

  “Passport.” Patterson handed him her passport. Cliff walked into the house, took his from a table, came back out. The officer gave them both a cursory glance.

  “I look inside.”

  “Be my guest,” said Cliff, a look to Patterson. Nothing to be done. The policeman walked into the villa, through the living room, stuck his head in the kitchen, then looked down the gloomy passage toward the annex. Where a small arsenal, lovingly cleaned and oiled, was laid out on the bed.

  They came back once more as the evening progressed and the cell darkened, kicking the door open, the Clown barking at him. The Clown hauled him to a sitting position, didn’t take the cuff off this time. They made him kneel and tap in the passwords one finger at a time. Rocky stood over him smoking, trembling. Nothing from London. Nothing from Patterson. Rocky turned and paced, one hand in the air gesturing his fury. He spun and shouted at Mangan.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why they not answer?”

  “I don’t fucking know. Let me message them again.”

  “What will you say?”

  “I’ll… I’ll ask for clarification. Something.”

  “Tell them they must respond.”

  “I will tell them.”

  Rocky was looking straight at him, exhaling smoke through his nose. He pointed at Mangan.

  “I am disappointed,” he said.

  “Not as disappointed as I am. But what did you think they were going to do?”

  “I think they should cooperate.”

  “Why? Why would they cooperate with you?”

  Rocky’s eyes were widening. He leaned over as he spoke, as if forcing the words from his body.

  “Because we are the future. We can be. We can be the face of China.”

  He was breathing heavily.

  “A humane future. You know that word, humane? In Chinese we say ren.”

  He had steadied himself, lifted a finger.

  “From Confucius.”

  He was rubbing his eyes, mumbling.

  “Very important, this ren. It is how the ruler must rule. With humaneness. Just like the parent with the child. Like that.”

  You are repeating yourself, thought Mangan. You are falling back on what you think you know. You, the attacker, the insurgent, are now on the defensive. He shifted on the concrete floor.

  “Let me message them.”

  Rocky’s head had fallen, he was staring at his feet.

  “Nothing to say.”

  “When’s the General coming?”

  “He’s not coming.”

  Mangan swallowed.

  “Why not? Why is he not coming?”

  “Because he is too good. He gives himself for this. And we have failed here.”

  “How have we failed?”

  “Because of your people!” Rocky was screaming now, the muscles in his neck taut as cable. Mangan could smell him, saw his spittle flecking the air. “Your people. They betray us, maybe. Did they?”

  Mangan turned his head away.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What should we do?” Rocky spat. “What we do with you? Shoot you maybe?”

  And as he spoke the Clown gestured for them to be quiet. And they found themselves listening to the whump whump of rotor blades pulsing on the air.

  The Thai police officer walked purposefully down the passageway, the light failing now. Cliff was behind him, moving easily in a way Patterson knew well, the shoulders dropped, arms loose, hands open, ready to move very fast, very hard.

  The police officer slowed before he reached the back room, put his hand on the butt of his sidearm. Patterson saw him, silhouetted against the light, poke his head around the doorway, then enter the room. Cliff stayed close to him, Patterson followed.

  The police officer had stopped in the middle of the room, hand still on his weapon. Mac lay on one of the beds, reading a magazine.

  No sign of the weapons, the ammunition, the body armor, the duffel bags. A faint smell of oil on the air, windows open.

  Mac lowered the magazine, glanced up at the police officer, a surly expression.

  “What’s this?” he said.

  Cliff cleared his throat.

  “The officer says we need to register. Which of course we shall. At the station. He is just checking up on the house.”

  Mac looked the officer up and down, nodded, went back to his magazine.

  “You stand up,” said the officer.

  Mac lowered the magazine again, slowly swung his legs off the bed, stood. His every gesture exuded knowingness, one-upmanship. Why do they do this, these men? thought Patterson. Why do they act out these little scripts?

  “Passport.”

  Mac walked to the end of the bed, a half-smile, reached into a jacket pocket, gave him the passport. The policeman took it, barely glanced at it, threw it on the bed.

  “What you are all here for?”

  “Vacation,” said Patterson. “We are going to do some trekking, in the hills.”

  The policeman looked at her, then walked toward her.

  “You are going on trek,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He turned to Cliff.

  “You married to her?” he said. “This woman?”

  “No,” said Cliff. “Just friends.”

  “Girlfriend, yes? You have a nice black girlfriend?”

  Cliff gave the warmest of smiles, said nothing.

  “What are you doing here?” said the policeman. Cliff shrugged.

  “Like she said, officer. Holiday. Some trekking.”

  The officer walked to a sideboard, ran his finger along its surface, lifted the finger to his nose, sniffed. He walked to the bathroom, looked inside. Then, without a word, he left the room, walked quickly back to the living room, out into the courtyard, to the gate. He opened it. The two other men were waiting for him. They spoke Thai. One of the two men, the gum-chewer, was insistent, snappish, tried to pressure the policeman to do something. But the officer shrugged, pushed past them and walked back to his car. Patterson, mouth dry, walked over to close the gate, and the gum-chewer gave her a look of pure hatred.

  “Huanying lai Taiguo,” she said, quietly. Welcome to Thailand. The man, hearing Mandarin, looked at her sharply, shook his head and went back to his car. She closed the gate.

  “Who were they? The other two?” said Cliff.

  “China,” she said. Cliff
arched his eyebrows.

  Inside, Mac stood waiting for them, a triumphant look on his face. He made a magician’s ta-da! gesture.

  “Where are they?” she said.

  “In the duffel bags and over the back wall, sharpish,” he said, pleased with himself.

  She forced herself to give him a nod of acknowledgment.

  “We leave. As soon as it’s dark. Start loading,” she said, too curt, too quick.

  They went to the back of the house. The bags had fallen into a thicket of some ferocious gorse-like plant, and Cliff picked his way through the thorns, swearing. They loaded the weapons into the SUV. Mac insisted on having one of the MP7s under the driver’s seat. The darkness was coming on. Patterson jogged the road outside their house, half a mile in both directions, looking for surveillance. She couldn’t see it, though she was sure it was there. She stopped in the road, listened to the whir of the insects, the jabbering of some night bird in the trees, felt the warm movement of air against the sweat on her face.

  A Chinese team was in bed with Thai law enforcement.

  So move, now. Be a hard target.

  Mangan, if he is to get out, will come by the river, or by road through Myanmar. If he sets foot in China, it is over for him.

  She bent double, breathed deep, tried to still the quaking in her chest. What was this? Fear? She’d never been frightened before a fight. Fear of failure? Perhaps. Fear of inadequacy. That’s the fatal kind. She’d seen it in soldiers, in Iraq. Wild-eyed second lieutenants way out of their depth as the smoke cleared and some boy bled out by the side of the road. They’d make absurd decisions, demand their orders be followed.

  She jogged back to the villa.

  They sat in the kitchen, ate instant noodles and drank coffee in silence. Just before midnight, they drove slowly out of the gate, lights off, Mac at the wheel, Patterson with a satnav in the front seat, Cliff in the back with a pair of night-vision goggles. They bumped onto the road and made their way northeast, towards the Mekong.