by Adam Hall
'Are they satisfied it was an accident?'
'The enquiries are closed. Coroner's verdict misadventure.'
'Any valid suspicions of foul play?'
'None whatsoever.'
Of course I could have read all this for myself on the plane but he knew what I wanted: the bare bones of the thing so that I could put any relevant questions on the spot. You can't get cleared satisfactorily until you know what you're going into.
He still wasn't having to read anything, just the odd heading to jog his memory: he knew this material pretty thoroughly and I thought again about that. An executive of Macklin's status and experience shouldn't be handling a minor operation like this one, wouldn't have enough time to give to it. The top briefing officers at the Bureau don't work regular hours; they won't even show up unless there's a big mission breaking, but once they show up they won't go home again till the whole show's ready to run. To look at him, I would have said Macklin had been working twenty-four hours at a stretch and he could have gone home and left a second-stringer to brief me on this squib-sized assignment. He hadn't.
With Egerton it was different: he was a top controller but would handle anything that came along, up to half a dozen operations unless there was something really critical on the board.
'You can use a safe-house,' Macklin said, 'if you need one.'
I didn't ask him where. It would be in the material.
'There's a local contact?'
'At the safe-house.'
'What's his rating?'
'Total reliability but not well informed. He's all right on topography, of course — he's been there fifteen years.'
'Can I have something again, Macklin? Something in specific instructions.'
He went back to page two, the paper making a soft scuffing tattoo until he pressed his hand against the desk.
'Report at discretion, treat as highest priority, preserve all cover,' but his eyes weren't moving quite as fast as he was meant to be reading. 'Utmost care in approaching — '
'Fine, that's what I thought you said.'
What the bloody hell did they mean, highest priority?
'Signals through the Admiralty, and you'd better pick up a cypher.'
'Fair enough.'
It was no good asking him. And no good asking Egerton — who'd probably gone home by this time, past midnight.
Macklin was a top briefer and shouldn't be handling this one and they'd used the very circumspect phrase 'highest priority' for a distinctly low-key operation but there was a plane for me, take off in four hours from now, get out of London and head for Hong Kong and stand by for Egerton's signal, the real one that'd trigger the mission he'd got lined up for me, so don't start asking silly questions or they'd say we thought you were keen on going, well you don't have to, be doing it on my own doorstep.
'Fair enough,' I said again and got up.
'You'll be briefed on Mandarin when you get out there.'
'That's the big one?'
'Yes.'
'Who's going to be my director in the field?'
'We don't know.'
'Oh, come on, Macklin — '
'Really,' he said. 'We'll probably fly someone in from Pekin.'
Oh, will you, I thought. There was only one place in Pekin where they could get me a director and that was the Embassy, so they must have a man in place, narrowed it down a bit, I could even find out for myself if I got my phone-numbers right. It was very important and normally it's one of the first things you' re told, Because you can refuse any given director if you don't feel you can work with him: your life's usually involved and you can get someone like Loman, brilliant but desperate for personal kudos, talk you into a suicide bid if it'll get him a medal, it wasn't his fault I'd come out of Tunis alive; or someone like Thornton, totally dependable, pull you out of the gates of hell if he can get there in time, but short on Rusk-think patterns and mission sense and therefore dangerous; you can refuse anyone they want to give you and you don't even have to say why. Otherwise I suppose the insurance company would never stand for it.
Macklin was stifling a yawn, getting another cigarette. I said:
'Been pushing you, have they?'
'I've done my bit today, old boy.'
'Off home now?'
'You bet.'
I said give my love to Marcia; that was his wife.
The security guard used his key and took me in.
'All right Sam,' she told him.
The guard went out, snap-locking the door, 'Long time,' she said.
'Too long.'
She spun the combination, her back to me, touching a hand to her greying hair, waiting for the timer to stop. The auto-destruct warning buzzed and she threw the tumblers, starting on the second combination.
'What was your last one?'
'Third series, seventh.'
The door of the safe swung open and she brought a single sheet across to the table, a Xerox copy in a plastic cover. There were only three cyphers currently available, which explained why Macklin had been working the clock round: there must be some special units overseas, probably Cyprus.
'What's this one?'
'Just come up.'
'Gor blimey.'
It was replacing a whole series. The Bureau hang on to their pet numbers till they're too dog-eared to use, so it could only mean this series had been busted somewhere out there where the signals were hot, and I just hoped it hadn't blown anyone through the roof.
'Fancy,' I said.
The thing was built up with extended-phase digits, sometimes three or four to a numeral, with reverse transfers and the alert provided by omissions in the blanks: you just left out the space between any two phrases and 'forgot' to reverse.
'Have they got someone new?'
'It's Mr Hanbury,' she said rather sharply. We're never terribly impressed with the stuff they give us and it makes them touchy.
I said I'd take it and she picked out a box, small, flat, waterproof, fireproof, neutral grey.
'Any acid,' she said, 'but it takes thirty seconds.'
'All right.' If I worked at it I could probably wipe it out in Rome.
There wasn't anyone in Accounts till someone shot in from next door: its common knowledge that anyone holding up a shadow executive on his way through clearance gets taken to bits and sold as Meccano.
'Sorry, sir.'
'Hell d'you think this place is — MI5?'
I filled in the form: Nothing of value, no next of kin, no messages. TC's for five hundred pounds, a Barclaycard, two hundred in cash, it seemed a lot for the Hong Kong end but maybe it'd have to finance Mandarin as well.
'You can obtain local currency anywhere, sir, day or night.'
'Fair enough. Can I have the rates?'
He gave me the booklet and I put it into the briefcase with the rest of the stuff.
In Firearms they were well on the ball: there'd been a rush on from the mob Macklin had sent out, pack enough submachine-guns on board and you have to leave the navigator behind.
Weapons drawn: none. I'm rather a disappointment to them: they're always wanting people to try out the latest models for them.
Capsules drawn: none.
He'd got them ready in his hand but put them away again in the locked drawer when he saw what I'd entered. They never know what we're going to do and sometimes we don't know ourselves: it depends on so many things: what field you're going into, who your director is, what degree of risk, what info memorized, so forth. Also it's a peculiarly personal thing and involves much more than just life and death: it raises issues like motivation, the will, the threshold of pain, the question of identity itself, what is this thing that's screaming like this and can it remain whole, can it retain command of whatever it is? I used to take capsules with me in the early days but after they'd roughed me up in Leningrad and again in Cairo I realized cyanide wasn't the answer because pain carries its own anaesthetic if you can hold on for the first few stages and they can't get anything out of you i
f you're unconscious or a gibbering idiot and they know that — or at least the professionals do, and they're the people we're usually up against.
Another thing is that if they find a capsule on you they assume you must have some pretty interesting stories to tell, so they go to work intensively.
All I needed from Travel was the air ticket 'Are you the one for Hong Kong?'
'Yes.' I put it into my wallet. 'What about China?'
'Taiwan?'
'The mainland.'
He went over to the files and checked and came back, 'Are you detailed for Mandarin?'
'Yes.'
'They'll fix you up in HK. There's no regular visa — you'll be processed by the Secretary for Chinese Affairs,'
Even if Field Briefing could have taken me earlier I would have had to hang around for Credentials because they'd produced the complete works, covering me for Mandarin as well as the Hong Kong thing.
'Never thought we'd get through in time.'
Marge was the only one at the Bureau who could make you look round, not that it was saying a lot, china blue eyes and a big blonde wig and so much eye shadow it looked like sunglasses, but the thing about Marge was that if you came back after a year's absence she'd say hello you've changed your parting. She's gone now, seduced by the totally counterfeit charisma of MI5.
She had everything laid in a row along the counter, and I began on the left while she perched on her high stool like a life-size doll and watched me. Passport: Clive Wing, border frankings mostly European but two for Bangkok and one for Japan. General cover: coin dealer, member of the British Numismatic Association agents in Holland and Switzerland, specializing in Mexican and Austrian gold pieces, centennial medallions and high-value government proof sets, sole representative for Mendoza S.A. of Buenos Aires, investment brokers. A name like 'Wing' was to be expected: perfectly acceptable English surname but could also be Chinese on a written document in the absence of other identification.
Driving-licence, membership card of the BNA, letter of introduction to three leading coin and bullion brokers in Victoria and Kowloon from Mendoza S.A., latest issue of Coin Quarterly.
'When did you lose the other one?' asked Marge.
'Other what?' I signed for receipt of documents and started shuffling the stuff into my brief-case.
'You had a beautiful blue Parker.'
'Behave yourself, Marge, you don't have to advertise.'
She swung her legs and giggled and I went out and that was the last I ever saw of her; there's a typical number in there now, lisle stockings and a slight moustache.
It was still pouring with rain and the wipers had a hard job coping with it on the way back to the flat. I changed my wet sock and put some clothes in a bag and looked at my watch and thought no and then yes, picking up the phone and taking the risk that she'd mind being woken up at this hour, burr-burr, there wouldn't be time to go round there even if she were alone, burr-burr, she wouldn't be at the Connaught or anywhere because she had to be on the set at seven tomorrow, burr-burr, unless she'd been hello! Sleep still in her voice, a soft laugh, of course she didn't mind, long eyes and copper hair and the way she turned her head, my God are you off again? The whole of London suddenly full of Moira and not far away, no, I said, there's only just time to get the plane, New York, she hated quickies, she wanted everything and champagne afterwards, when will you be back, not long, I told her, not long. Goodbye.
Or maybe never, which of course was why I'd had to ring her, taking out insurance on the risk that one day soon I might get in so deep that I couldn't get out, or cross their sights and not have time to hear the hum, and go down wishing, in the confusion of rage and fright and refusal to believe, wishing I'd at least picked up a phone and said goodbye. They say you always think of your mother but I don't remember mine, but my God, I know when it comes I'm going to remember Moira.
At two-thirty the phone rang.
'Yes?'
'D'you want some transport, old horse?'
Tilson was back: he was admin, and worked shifts.
'I'll take the Jag.'
'Want it picked up?'
'If you will'
'OK. Take care.'
The line clicked, severing the last connection, and I went downstairs and threw the bag in the car.
The place was like a morgue, only seven flights on the board and one man with a mop trying to get some of the floor dry before the next coach came in: there was a blocked drain outside and the pavement was flooded.
'Rome.'
'Yes, sir.'
There was no delay on the screen printout.
'What time was this booked, can you tell me?'
He tore the perforation and used a stapler. 'You mean when. was the reservation actually made?'
'Right.'
He checked his books. 'Five p.m. yesterday, sir.'
'Thank you.'
Oh, that bastard Egerton.
On the way to the waiting area I saw a man who reminded me of someone, pale face and a kind of lost expression, couldn't think who, then I remembered: North, getting up so quietly like that, excuse me. They do it so often in bathrooms, I suppose because it's messy. I put a cheque into the Interflora box and a message, twelve red roses, Cheer up, Connie, life goes on.
A high faint whistling from beyond the roof and a sudden rush of lights. An entire Italian family in the waiting area, electing their next president, their hands presenting inarguable arguments in the air.
Taxiing to the end of the runway I got out my homework, committing the thing to memory: the extended-phase digits were in groups of vowels, labial consonants, labial and dental, so forth, and I ran off cheer… up… connie… and egerton… you… bas-tard… and reversed the transfers, forgetting the alert mechanism and having to look. This one wasn't going to be too easy, old Hanbury had done his nut.
Getting the green from the tower: the brakes came off and my spine began pressing into the seat. Reverse transfer and regroup, try again. But I couldn't concentrate because a top man like Macklin doesn't normally handle a low-key operation and they'd used 'highest priority' in terms of cover security in a routine enquiry into an accidental death and now I'd got him: Egerton had booked me out to Hong Kong a full hour before I'd bust a gut persuading him to send me there.
Jets roaring, the shoulders pressed hard to the seat.
So I wasn't just helping them out and I wasn't going to hang around looking at the postcards till they switched the signals from Pekin and triggered the real one for me, the big one. It was already running: Mandarin.
Chapter Three: CONTACT
'Fettuccini.'
'Si, signore.'
While I was eating it I reversed ten transfers, switched all groups at random and dropped the alert in every time without making a mistake, running off rome air-port 07.45 who the hell is tew-son and why won't they tell me. Then I reached for the vinegar and leaked some into the little flat box and watched the plastic card slowly dissolve. She was dead right: it took a good thirty seconds, not exactly the kind of trick you'd want to leave till the last minute if you found yourself in a shut-ended situation. Most people keep the key on them throughout the whole mission unless they run into problems: it's as tough as a credit card and you can take it through fire and water and it won't break unless you actually stand it on edge at a bus stop but I like to get rid of it early-it gives me the creeps because if they do happen to get to you before you can stop them they can begin reading your signals and sending stuff back and you won't necessarily live to know you've blown the whole operation.
Si pregamo i passeggieri per Bangkok di recarsi all'entrata d'imbarco numero uno.
Final check for messages. Negative.
Bangkok and the heat of a humid noon burnishing the gilded cupolas; palms and tamarinds and somewhere in the reek of kerosene a hint of sandalwood. Inside the building a bunch of people, mainly Japanese, were crowding the Royal Bank of Thailand counter: that would be the devaluazione monetaria featured in La Strada.
Nothing on the message board for Clive Wing.
There was a twenty-minute delay on the screen at China Airlines and I asked about it and they said the plane had come in late from Tokyo avoiding a typhoon that was now moving north-eastwards towards Korea, so I had time to walk around, stiff as a board after twenty-one hours up there and already feeling the disorientation as the metabolism struggled to adjust, the windows full of jade and teak and silk, the smell of incense and a display of gold pieces on black velvet and a board showing the world market: Mexico 50 Pesos 1.21 tr. oz. US $242 Bid, $249 Asked, Austria 10 °Corona.980 tr. oz. US $190 Bid, $797 Asked, the only two that interested me, the prices much lower than in London or New York.
Will passengers for Hong Kong please go to Gate No. 1.
Twelve-twenty-five and the air steamy across the tarmac, tso sun, tso sun, music tinkling from the speakers, no smoking, seat-belts, so forth, the thing was he probably thought I'd blow up in his face if all they'd had for me was a routine investigation into Tewson's death and he was absolutely right, I would have. So he'd had to catch me softlee, softlee, and not the first time, it was Egerton's speciality, and I would have walked out on him flat at London Airport the minute I knew about the reservation except for two possibilities: either George Henry Tewson was a top kick in some kind of specialized field or this operation was just too sticky or tricky or hair-trigger sensitive for anyone else to want to take on. He could have gone right through the list without getting a bite — because we can refuse a mission and there's nothing they can do about it — so he'd come down to the one man who might conceivably be persuaded, the one who'd been out of ops for nearly two months and was ready to take anything, anything, so long as they wrapped it up to look fancy.
Silk and small hands, a cherry-red mouth.
'Would you like some tea?'
Eighteen-forty and a cloth of gold flung across the window where I sat, the humped green hills of two hundred islands growing night-black before their time as the day lingered along the Tropic of Cancer, we hope that you enjoyed your flight, a rhythmic vibration setting in and the weight coming off the seat, and will fly with us again on China Airlines, fishing junks below on the flat gold water, sampans and a submarine and the chalk-white wake of a hydrofoil as it settled to the surface, in from Macau.