The Girl From Peking

by George B Mair

  A compliment and a complication.

  Until she remembered these weeks inside plaster wrapped up like a mummy, these frightful days when she had been bound to a woman whose fear had been infectious.

  She owed these days to David Grant, and her eyes darkened.

  Almost unconsciously she opened her cigar box. Bill Badams’ Romeo y Julieta Coronas were surviving nicely and she decided to have one last long think before bedding down. With luck a message would come before she fell asleep.

  But it came from where she least expected it. There was a cautious noise at the door and she watched the handle softly turn while a master key tinkled against metal.

  It was the press photographer who was, for this night at least, her only link with Maksud. He bowed and gave her a scrap of paper. ‘Sorry but better this way. Telephones tell secrets. One moment. First find bug,’ she read.

  He walked round the room and examined every ornament. Then he scrutinised every panel of wall paper, the skirting boards and clock before turning up carpets and searching the floor for signs of disturbance.

  Tania knew that he was looking for the microphone which someone must almost certainly have hidden, somewhere. French Counter Intelligence didn’t miss tricks like that and it was simply a matter of finding it. She watched his methodical approach and remembered that this was China. Here, in her room, was the painstaking thoroughness, the patient worrying at riddles, the same secrecy in forming policy which was part of China’s built-in character. Her cover was a traveller’s sample of over eight hundred million people.

  He stopped, pointing to the handle of the door.

  She watched him scribble characters on another slip of paper and then tiptoe across to her chair. ‘Other rooms different door handles. This painted not many days ago. Now we start press interview.’

  She tore up the paper and burned it on a deep ash tray, grinding the ashes to powder while the unobtrusive man stood beside her and watched her with eyes which missed nothing. ‘Forgive coming to see you this time of night,’ he said at last, ‘but we newsmen have sometimes to try for scoops.’

  She rose to the hint. ‘If I press this bell I can call the house detective and have you thrown in jail for anything I like to accuse you of.’

  He beamed with satisfaction and showed that he was pleased. ‘But you have always been kind to the press and I need a scoop or my editor will fire me.’

  ‘I’ll give you five minutes. What do you want?’

  ‘You go to Élysée party tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you wear?’

  She laughed. ‘I think I’ll go Chinese. Gold and blue brocade with high mandarin collar and short sleeves: jade accessories and my hair in plaits to the waist. A chinchilla wrap and white suède gloves, my crystal beaded handbag and a Mercedes car with chauffeur in olive green livery.’

  ‘Taking any guns this time?’

  They both laughed. ‘Maybe one. A little one. Paris can be dangerous.’

  ‘You meet any of the V.I.P.s?’

  Tania laughed aloud. ‘My dance programme is empty but I hope to sit beside one of the British Parliamentary delegation during dinner.’

  ‘You can give name, please?’

  ‘No.’ This time Tania was playing it safe. ‘They may make changes at the last moment. So it wouldn’t be fair to my partner to talk about this till everything is certain.’

  ‘You want to meet the British Prime Minister?’

  This was an easy one. ‘I like top people. So if his Excellency can spare me a dance that will be wonderful.’

  ‘And the President?’

  ‘Naturally I want to meet the President. Though he may not want to meet a woman like me.’

  ‘Can I quote you on that?’

  She hesitated. ‘If you like. But not if your editor thinks it would spoil my chances. I like your President. He is brave. He has a great past and he is enigmatic.’

  ‘You prefer him to the British Prime Minister?’

  Tania knew that everything would be printed, and that only later would final instructions be issued. ‘The Englishman has sex appeal and I know a lot of women who could fall for him. He looks very normal sometimes. But then . . .’ she gave a sort of sigh . . . ‘at other times when there is a big crisis he behaves like a great leader. And history shows that almost all great leaders have been great lovers.’

  ‘So I may say you think the Premier is a great lover?’

  Tania almost shouted the word. ‘No.’ And then she allowed her voice to soften. ‘I think he is very nice. He is a born leader and I’m sure he knows how to make people laugh.’

  ‘So you prefer him to the President?’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ snapped Tania, ‘and if your paper writes that I’ll sue you. The President is a rich and mature wine. One likes such wine when in certain moods. At other times one prefers something more robust, and all men are like wine. Some wishy washy like a bad Sylvaner, others exciting like a rare claret, many are just insipid like some of your Rosés while a few sparkle like Champagne.’

  The press man smacked his knee with appreciation. ‘Examples! Compare men with wine and give reasons for each. The President of France?’

  ‘A 1945 Château Mouton-Rothschild because it is deep with the power to move both men and women.’

  ‘The Prime Minister of Britain?’

  ‘A Heidsiek Champagne 1959 because it bubbles with life, sparkles in the light and warms the heart.’

  ‘Splendid. Now one or two different types. How about Comrade Mao in China? I understand you have met some of these people.’

  Tania thought fast. ‘Mao is a dry sherry, say a Fino ’53. Something which drys the mouth, yet stimulates desire to have more. An appetiser, a sort of promise of things to come.’

  ‘And your friends in India. Mrs. Gandhi?’

  ‘That,’ said Tania firmly, ‘is unfair. But one might say that she is a Verdelho Madeira, soft, golden in her heart and impossible to resist.’

  ‘Finally,’ said the journalist. ‘You left the Thai Party with a very important man who works in a secret job. Of what wine does Doctor David Grant remind you?’

  Tania’s reply was almost immediate. ‘He is a Moselle . . . a Wehlener Sonnenuhr Auslese . . . because he is unforgettable. The 1959 was almost perfect and David Grant is 1959, but it is expensive and so is David. It is for connoisseurs and so is David. Finally,’ she added. ‘it can make a woman drunk with desire for more.’

  ‘And so,’ said the journalist sourly, ‘can David! May I quote you verbatim?’

  Tania knew that final decision would come from her superiors, but she had suddenly decided to try and involve Grant in her own life, and the best way to do this would be a story with a gimmick. Paris would revel in this wine angle, and she guessed that not even Britain’s Prime Minister would be able to resist having at least one dance with her once he had read the piece.

  The man had been busily scribbling on a pad while he was talking, though Tania knew that his notes had nothing to do with their conversation, which was being monitored by the small badge he was wearing on one lapel, and she could see the bulge of the tape recorder to which it was linked outlined on his inside jacket pocket.

  He dropped the note-book on to her chair. ‘You have been kind, Madame. Maybe even saved my job.’

  For an Asiatic his French was perfect and Tania escorted him to the door. A night waiter was passing with a trolley and Tania paused to speak to him. ‘Please bring a small slice of smoked salmon with brown bread and orange juice.’

  She bowed to the journalist and pointed to the elevator. ‘Till tomorrow, m’sieur, and my thanks for an entertaining interview. The press is often hum-drum. But tonight you have done well.’

  The waiter watched curiously. ‘I didn’t know you were entertaining, Madame.’

  ‘Why should you?’ she said coldly. ‘But tomorrow, if you care, you may read what we were talking about.’

  She guessed that the stor
y would break with the early afternoon editions and that Paris would be agog by dusk. The write up ought to guarantee a sensational appearance at the Élysée and she hoped only that she hadn’t been indiscreet. Men were peculiar. It would be dreadful if she had killed her chances with the Premier because of obvious preference for Grant.

  And then she lifted her note-book. The writing was in Cantonese and the characters drawn with meticulous care. But their meaning was dead precise. She decoded, using the design on her skirt and read the directions five times before burning the lot. The ashes were again crumpled to dust. But this time she washed them down the toilet, and when she went to bed she was very thoughtful. This assignment, at last, had turned really dangerous.

  Chapter Seven – ‘Tomorrow is going to be one of these days’

  Tania monham was asleep, and the Asiatic journalist returning his code book to a safe built into the floor of his bedroom when Admiral Cooper and Miss Sidders leaned back in their chairs, dopey with fatigue, but knowing that work was far from over.

  ‘Better send for Doctor Grant.’ Miss Sidders had a knack of making decisions when she saw that her Chief was in a quandary. The news was hot. On the other hand they both wanted David Grant to be fresh as paint for duty on the following evening, when it was a certainty that he would need to use both luck and skill if he was to control the situation which lay ahead.

  The Admiral muttered into an intercom. A car would collect Grant at his flat, and until then they could have a nap. But as his eyes closed he wondered how Grant would react to the news which had just come through from Washington’s C.I.A., and from a lonely man who lived close to death working for ADSAD around the Bamboo curtain, a man who occasionally managed to get ‘inside’ on a tourist visa: who sometimes crossed illegally and who had contact men along the periphery from Macao to the Western edge of Sinkiang on the fringes of Afghanistan. China was one helluva big country, thought the Admiral.

  And then he was asleep, while Miss Sidders wrapped a rug around his legs, adjusted a cushion below his head and allowed herself to unwind, watching over the man she almost worshipped, while the hands of a clock jerked with infuriating slowness towards the next chapter.

  A muted buzzer showed that Grant had arrived. She watched the lights flicker, a long slow ‘orange’ . . . suggesting that he was dilly-dallying about something, then a swift green as he made up his mind at the corner, and finally an even more rapid flash of red as he strode to the door.

  The Admiral had wakened with the first low pitched ‘buzz’ and was sleeking a comb through his thinning hair. He knew that Miss Sidders would have ordered a non-stop supply of coffee and he had a half bottle of rum with which to lace it. ‘Sorry to disturb you, David, but an interesting situation has developed. Have you ever heard of Samos?’

  Grant was curious. ‘The island or the wine?’

  ‘Neither,’ said the Admiral softly. ‘One of America’s satellite things. It has been described as the eyes and ears of space.’

  The name was vaguely familiar, but Grant never preoccupied himself with anything which did not immediately affect the work he was doing. He was almost totally disinterested in any scientific development unless it affected himself, and then he mastered it from every angle until he knew as much about it as the experts. ‘A satellite, you said, sir?’

  ‘Explain, Miss Sidders.’ The old man poured a splash of Jamaica rum into his black coffee and forced himself to keep awake, while he watched his secretary gather her thoughts.

  ‘First,’ she said at last, ‘Samos is the name of a space craft. Call it a satellite if you wish, but which has been accurately described as the eyes and ears of space.

  ‘Second. So far as we know it is still the property of our American friends and we don’t think that the Soviets have developed anything comparable as at the moment of speaking.’

  She paused again to pour a spoonful of rum into her cup, added more sugar and eyed Grant with that clinical scrutiny which he had come to learn meant that she doubted whether he would match up to the needs of the moment. ‘Thirdly the satellite is the eyes and it is the ears of America in space, because it can not only photograph, but monitor, almost anything one wishes. Given, of course, that suitable equipment has been laid groundwise to allow for pick up.

  ‘Fourthly. There are several modifications of this device, but in general they all operate better when there is a certain type of transmitting apparatus in the area where bugging has proved to be necessary.

  ‘And fifth, thanks to the efforts of our few men inside Red China we have been able to implant the necessary apparatus in several places. One is in the office of a top Counter Intelligence officer called Maksud something or other, another is in a building which used to be called the House of One Hundred Eternal Lives, but which we now know to be a high quality research hospital for training special agents . . . something like our own Big House in Scotland. While there are others in certain government offices.’

  Grant dared to interrupt. ‘Surely it must have been tricky to pull off a coup like that.’

  Miss Sidders decided to put him firmly in his place. ‘We are well staffed, Doctor Grant. You are one specialist among many, but our Far East people are unique. They have patience and self-effacing qualities which are vital to success in any Intelligence work. Plus a delicacy of approach which people like ourselves can never learn. You see,’ she added, ‘we are products of a vulgar Western civilisation. But our Far East staff are the fruits of a more subtle culture. So . . .’ she shrugged her shoulders . . . ‘they can operate where men like yourself would be dead within the hour.’

  Grant conceded the point. China was only for the élite. And what he knew about Chinese culture or manners could have been written on one sheet of note-paper. ‘You know best, ma’am. But I’m curious. How did they get inside government offices in a place like Peking?’

  Miss Sidders again sipped her coffee and primly wiped her lips on a hefty square of Irish linen embroidered at one corner with her initials. ‘On reflection, Doctor, it might be better not to discuss that even with you. It is enough to assure you that the necessary equipment has been put in the proper places and that Samos has been monitoring many conversations when within range. Which brings me to the reason for this meeting.’ She turned to the Admiral. ‘Shall I carry on, sir, or would you care to take over?’

  Grant’s Chief grunted non-committally. ‘A word or two more about Samos, David. It is a real bag of tricks. And even although it is still travelling like Hell in space it does pick up and photograph, whenever ground control figures it is within range of any conversation which matters.’

  ‘One point, sir, if I may.’ Grant liked to know how he stood. And he hated inter-departmental rivalries. ‘Our people planted the necessary ground equipment but apparently American monitor stations pick up signals from Samos. Am I to understand that two separate departments are involved?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘But that for this purpose we are still in sole control of whatever information may have been handed over by C.I.A.?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that this is an exclusive ADSAD party?’

  ‘For the moment, yes.’

  ‘So no deep American interests are involved, or one must suppose they would have sent someone over to work with us?’

  The Admiral nodded. ‘At present this is our affair and C.I.A. have only an hour ago transmitted their latest assessment.’

  ‘Based on messages from Samos?’

  ‘Correct. They have monitored every possible area, but naturally there is an element of luck. Samos can’t detail any long conversations. Thing travels too fast for that. But bits here and bits there begin to add up.’

  ‘And now they have added.’ Grant’s voice was cynical. ‘Why tonight? Why not yesterday? How long has Samos been operating?’

  ‘Irrelevant and not your affair, David. Just accept that C.I.A. knows its job and keeps all allies posted about ev-ery soli-tary elem-ent of in-forma-tion
which bears on the problems of both NATO and ADSAD.’

  Grant noted the syllabic hyphenation of the old man’s words and recognised a danger signal. ‘Sorry, sir. Not my business.’

  The old man was tired or else he might have let the incident slide. ‘You are too inquisitive, David. Kindly allow me to do the talking and concentrate on listening.’

  He stuffed some more tobacco into his briar and laid his pipe on the desk. ‘The facts are these. Tania Monham is a phoney. She has been planted here in order to compromise two world leaders . . . the French President and Britain’s Premier. The object of the exercise is to blackmail them into supporting Peking’s application for a seat on U.N.O. and gain recognition by the United States of America.’

  Grant was amused. As though either France or Britain could influence Washington in a decision like that! And how could it be done?

  The Admiral guessed how his mind was working. ‘America might be forced to toe the line if a few of her allies took appropriate steps. And China thinks on a long term basis. A campaign started tomorrow would be rated successful if it brought results within a couple of years.’

  ‘Why tomorrow?’

  ‘Let me put it this way. A Chinese agent in Paris has been receiving instructions tonight from Peking. Most of them have been picked up by Samos, and since this time they could be monitored all the way from Peking to Paris it follows that a good deal of dirt came through. In fact it is America’s biggest Samos scoop yet. Enough, in fact, to justify further development.’

  ‘And C.I.A. have also got the code book?’

  ‘Sure. Just as it is a hundred to one that Peking has broken any code used by either Washington or London, not to mention Paris, Vienna and Patagonia. That is routine stuff nowadays. Double agents are two a penny and one might almost as well scrub the whole idea of codes. They just make our work a little bit more difficult. They seldom make it impossible.’