Quiller Bamboo

by Adam Hall

  I took another swallow of tea; it was thin, bitter, sharp with tannin, but hot, scalding still from the big black insulated jug they carried from one table to the next; it warmed my hands, burned them, as I sat here with the skin crawling and the nerves flickering along their pathways like liquid fire, a lone spook cut off now from all support, contact, and communication, sitting here like a rabbit on a firing range, divorced from the mission, sequestered in a location unknown to my director in the field, offering myself body and soul to the opposition in the hope that all could be reversed as the hours mounted slowly through the day, to allow me at last a chance, however small, of finding him, Xingyu, Dr. Xingyu Baibing, and of bringing him to safety.

  You know what it is, the ploy.

  She was standing up suddenly, Su-May, at the far table in the corner, still talking to the man in black leather, looking down at him, one hand resting on the tabletop, a bag of some kind slung from her shoulder.

  You know what it is, my good friend, if you’ve soldiered with me before: it is a matter of getting in their way. If you cannot find them, let them find you. Let them see you, let them come for you, let them trap you, and if it becomes necessary let them do the most dangerous thing of all -let them take you.

  Voila.

  Jason did it in Sri Lanka and got away with it, brought home the product. Tomlin did it in Costa Rica, got in and got out and left a chief of police hanging from his feet in a brothel. Cartwright did it in Tokyo, took on their mafiosi and got a British national home and followed on with a smashed hip and his nerves like a bombed piano -but they were the success stories, the ones we pass around in the Caff between missions to remind ourselves how good we are at this game, how successful, how intrepid, as an antidote to the fear of going out again. There are also the others, the other stories, which are not passed around in the Caff - Brockley tried the get-in-their-way thing in Athens and the colonels had him shot at dawn; Fairchild tried it in Calcutta and went out wearing a garotte; Myers tried it in Damascus and lasted three days and died mad, I was there in the signals room when the DIP reported through a drug runner’s radio: executive seized, believed under torture, am pulling out.

  So that is the way it is, it sometimes works and then you’re in spooks’ heaven and hallowed by the name around the tea-slopped tables in the Caff, but it very often doesn’t work and you can end up in the scuppers of some stinking hulk with your throat cut or spreadeagled on a trash heap with their heavy bone-white beaks picking at the still-warm flesh, I don’t mean, I do not mean to sound discouraging, my good friend, but that, as I say, is the way it is, we must keep our fingers crossed and from the depths of the timorous soul pluck up a prayer that this time it will work for us. She had taken a step, had turned again and was coming between the tables, coughing in the smoke, and I angled my head to make sure she’d recognize me and she slowed at once, almost tripping, then went on past my table without looking at me again, her voice just loud enough for me to catch.

  ‘You are in great danger.’

  Swallowed some more tea, didn’t actually need telling of course but she’d meant well, could have saved me as she’d done before in the other place, went out, she went out through the wide-open doorway into the street.

  He stayed ten minutes, the young Oriental in black leather, then put some money down and left the table, moving along the bar on the far side without coming anywhere near me, though the path Su-May had taken was the more direct. So I had made contact, and must follow up.

  Put five yen on the table, the generosity of a man with nothing to lose, got up and went to the door and found the smoke drifting into the sunlit street and some policemen pulling up in a jeep, it looked in fact as if the whole place was on fire, turned my face away and followed the man in black.

  He wouldn’t carry a gun; the police were fussy here, pick you up on the spot and search you and he’d known that. But he was a senior belt, by his walk, and that was far more dangerous. And he wouldn’t be alone: he was walking alone toward the marketplace, but there would be others not far away; this was already a mobile trap they’d got me in - it hadn’t, you see, failed; it never does.

  They wouldn’t like it in London.

  Executive in immediate contact with opposition and fully compromised.

  It’s the way they say things on the signal boards, and I suppose it works, as a kind of shorthand. They wouldn’t know, of course, for a while; they’d have to wait until I’d surfaced and reported my new position to Pepperidge, or had not of course reported at all, because of the bone-white-beaks thing they so charmingly call sky-burial.

  How does it feel to have the left eye plucked from the socket and carried aloft, and then the right, carried aloft by those great black wings and digested in the airy pathways of their going, the eyes and the tongue and the genitals and then the whole thing buried in the sky with only the skeleton left down there, grinning at its fate, how does it feel? But we must not be morbid, we must keep on walking, keep up a steady pace and not bump into any monks, they’re everywhere, there must surely be redemption for this doomed spook in a place so holy, turning to the right, into an alleyway, the man in black leather, and I followed him.

  The sun beat down from a brazen sky and the smells from an apothecary’s stall were rich and strange as I passed through them; they grind the bones of tigers here, and bottle the ashes of snakes and sea horses, a different smell, you will acknowledge, than your good old milk of magnesia.

  I walked into the alleyway and in a moment they followed, the others, but simply kept station, not crowding me, and I felt pleased, as well as frightened, horribly frightened, pleased that even though I might never get out of this alive at least I had decided to make a final effort and get in their way, not for his sake, Xingyu’s, not for the future of the Chinese people or the stock market in Hong Kong but of course from pride, the stinking pride of the professional, that and vanity, the constant itch to take on dangerous things to prove not that I can do them but won’t die in the doing, that personal and very special game of hide-and-seek you play in the shadows, so that when the grim reaper comes you can take him by surprise and with his own dread scythe cut him asunder.

  There were stray dogs here in the alley, mangy and hollow-flanked, their eyes milky, and one of them, dirty white with brown patches, backed off from me as I went down on my knees and stayed like that for a moment and then fell prostrate like the monks I’d seen, the dog coming close now and sniffing at me as I wondered if I was facing the east as I should be, prone on the ground like this.

  Chapter 22

  Mad

  Naked, she was more slender than I’d imagined.

  It had been the clothes she’d worn, thick and padded against the cold, that had made her look almost dumpy, in spite of her small face. Sitting like this in the soft light of the lamp she had the stillness of an ivory figurine, one arm resting across her raised knee, her dark eyes watching me and her mouth pensive, her throat shadowed, flawless, a tuft of silken black hair curling from her armpit, her small breasts high on her chest, their nipples erect in the center of their large ocher-colored aureoles. She hadn’t spoken since we’d come in here.

  For a time I just let my eyes take in the beauty of her face, her body, and then I began feeling restless because it wasn’t enough, and I put my hand on her sharp, delicate shoulder blade and she came against me at once, but I couldn’t see her so clearly now because they’d taken one of my eyes, the shadows of their great wings falling across her body, and then I was sightless, and my tongue flared and they began tearing at my genitals and I think I called out, though there wasn’t any pain, just a feeling of surprise that I knew what it was like now, to be buried in the sky.

  ‘Ta kuai xingle.’

  Indefinable scents in the air, and colored lights drifting against the walls, casting rainbows across the huge gold man.

  ‘Yao wo qu jao ta ma?’

  No, colored lights not drifting anywhere, it was when I’d turned my head; the
lights weren’t moving.

  ‘S/H.’

  The huge gold man sat very still. I’d seen one as big as this before, in the monastery. They were all over the place, all sizes.

  ‘Water.’

  I heard sandals scuffing across the floor, opened my eyes again - the lids had closed without my knowing it - saw the head and shoulders of a man going through a doorway, I must be lying on my back.

  ‘Here.’

  A face near me, creased into fine lines, a dark mole on the temple just above the eye, reflections throwing light across it, reflections from the glass of water.

  A stray thought, quick as a spark - he’d known I would be thirsty: the water had been here. He wasn’t the man who’d gone through the arched doorway.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Drink.’

  Yes, thirsty.

  ‘Where’s the dog?’

  He frowned, shaking his head, tugging his robes tighter around his thin body. Perhaps he didn’t know about the dog, the dirty white one with the brown patch.

  ‘Feel pain?’

  ‘What? No.’ I finished the water and he took the glass away, putting it down on something hard, perhaps marble: this was a temple, and the colored light came from a window high in the arched roof.

  No pain, but felt heavy, weighed down, when I moved, when I tried to sit up, couldn’t manage it.

  Someone was coming.

  Tried again to sit up and the big man came across the room and got me gently by the arms and gave a heave— ‘Let me help you, my dear fellow.’

  White teeth in a thick black beard, dark intelligent eyes, couldn’t think of his name for the moment, things a bit hazy still, sitting on the ledge now, a kind of plinth where they’d kept altar bowls and prayer wheels, they’d been moved onto the floor to make room for the blankets, for me, this was a temple, got it now, Trotter, yes.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘hello.’

  ‘This is Dr. Chen.’ Trotter turned to him. ‘What do you think, Doctor?’

  ‘He is all right soon. Is the altitude sickness, that is all.’

  ‘There you are,’ Trotter said, ‘nothing to worry about, rest up a bit, right as rain.’ He looked around and brought a teakwood stool over and sat on it facing me. ‘But tell me how you feel.’

  Tone hearty, voice coming from a barrel. I’d noticed how strong he’d felt when he pulled me upright, formidably strong.

  ‘I feel,’ I said, ‘like anyone else would feel when someone’s drugged his fucking tea.’

  I’d meant to follow them to their base so that I’d know where it was, but this place could be anywhere; there were a thousand temples like this one all over Lhasa.

  Trotter said, ‘Sorry about that, yes.’ His tone had changed, dropping the false bonhomie. ‘Time was of the essence, you understand. I needed you here.’

  The colored light was fading now; dusk would soon be down. I’d been out cold for five or six hours: we were running it terribly close. All I could hear were distant sounds, some dogs fighting, the chanting of monks, the rumble of a cart, prayer bells, no modern traffic, no trucks. This temple was on the outskirts of town.

  ‘I see.’ I tilted forward and got onto my feet, nearly fell but he caught me, used some kind of cologne. We stood like that for a bit, dancing in a sinister way, sinister because this man was so strong and even if I’d been in good condition I wasn’t sure I could have reached his nerves before he threw me against the wall.

  ‘Take it easy,’ he said, and when he thought I could stand on my own he took his hands away. ‘Doing rather well.’

  Stray shred of incoming data: he wanted me on my feet, not sitting down anymore.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. Jumping to conclusions could be misleading, possibly dangerous. He’d probably killed Bian, the monk, or had him killed, but that didn’t make him a barbarian, in this trade. If I got a chance of playing him I might do well to play him like an English gentleman, in deep with some kind of spook faction; he didn’t seem deranged but he could be neurotic, psychotic, a latter-day Philby, and he was certainly running a professional cell.

  ‘Want to walk about?’ he asked me.

  ‘Yes.’

  Took a few steps, felt the motor nerves stirring, the balance mechanism making frantic adjustments and then getting it right until I could walk from one wall to the other, looking at my watch when I turned, didn’t want him to know how very important it was that I should get it all back, a clear head and usable muscles, reasonable strength, enough to overwhelm if I could be quick and get in there for the major paralysis strikes. Dr. Chen wouldn’t give me any trouble unless he had a gun under his robes and I didn’t think so, he looked so very old, so very wise, could be perfectly genuine, a doctor turned monk or a monk turned doctor, his services available to anyone in need of them, to a man like Trotter, who would be generous, pay him well. But I didn’t count on it; those people running China were old, too, and murderous.

  A lot of thinking to do but I’d got one thing now: it didn’t make any difference to Trotter whether I could walk from one wall to the other; he wanted my head clear, because he’d brought me here to talk, so we needed to get the circulation going again, get blood to the brain and the liver, deal with the lingering effects of the drug.

  That was all right: I wanted my head clear too and it was no good making out I was still groggy, there wasn’t time.

  ‘The military,’ I said, ‘have they been here?’

  ‘Yes. They searched the place late yesterday. They won’t disturb us.’

  I kept walking, throwing in the odd word or two when I was facing him because I had to see his reactions if he let any get through. ‘Were you in Bombay?’

  ‘Yes. I hate to seem uncivil, but I need answers from you, not the other way round.’

  Facing him - ‘Did you kill Sojourner?’

  No reaction.

  ‘Did you have that snake put in his bed?’

  ‘Of course not. That was the work of a jealous lover.’

  ‘But you got him out of hospital, sucked his brains dry, killed him, had him killed?’

  With studied patience, ‘As I have said, the questions are for me to ask, not for you. But first of all there are a few things you need to be told. It will help us both.’ I heard Dr. Chen moving behind me but not with any stealth: his sandals flapped. A spark came into each of Trotter’s eyes as a lamp was lit. ‘The operation I am running is precisely similar to yours, Mr. Locke. My avowed intention is to get Dr. Xingyu Baibing out of Lhasa and into Beijing, so that he can go in front of the cameras at eighteen hundred hours tomorrow. We—’

  ‘You’ve got him here?’

  ‘Yes. He’s perfectly well, and we’re giving him his injections as prescribed.’

  ‘You killed the monk? Had him killed?’

  I just wanted to know his style.

  ‘It was an accident, I’m afraid. Those were not my instructions. There was a struggle.’ He shrugged. ‘These things happen when there is a great deal at stake, but believe me, I feel about him - he was nothing more than a holy man doing what he believed was right. Exercise a little, if you want to. Just a little - don’t overdo it.’

  I swung my arms, up on the toes and down again. When I’d looked at my watch a few minutes ago it had been 5:46. Eleven minutes, now, give or take forty-five seconds. I began worrying, because I wanted to know things from this man, everything I could, before we were interrupted. And I wanted my strength back, as much of it as possible.

  ‘You also need to know,’ Trotter said, ‘that I have not only been keeping pace with your operation, but protecting it.’

  Keeping pace since Bombay, since he’d had Sojourner worked over, since Bamboo had been blown, oh Jesus, long before we knew it, the shadow executive, his director in the field and London Control, let them put that on the signals board.

  In the chill of this place with its marble and stone and hard surfaces I began feeling the outbreak of sweat. This English gentleman with his style and his
manners was not only formidably strong, he was formidably intelligent. It had crossed my mind that he could have been sent to Bombay by some other branch of the Secret Service, but he hadn’t used a word of the language, and that’s always the dead giveaway.

  I would have said he was from Beijing, not London.

  ‘Protecting my operation,” I asked him, ‘in what way?’

  ‘Oh, keeping a watching brief, that’s all. I told Wang Su-May to look after you, and I got you away from the temple out there where you killed that KCCPC agent, got your head fixed up, offered you sanctuary, nothing major, but helpful, I hope you feel. Try a few knee bends, what do you say?’

  ‘My head’s clear enough now.’

  ‘Oh, good. Well the crux of it is, Locke, that I can’t any longer protect you. That much is obvious.’

  ‘Not to worry.’

  He was left-handed; I’d noticed that before. If I could do anything at all I’d have to go in on his right side; he hadn’t turned his back to me since he’d come in here. He wasn’t Secret Service - ‘operation,’ not ‘mission,’

  ‘sanctuary,’ not ‘safe house’ - but he was nevertheless a professional, not to be underestimated - I could go in on his right side or anywhere else but I could get myself killed if I got it wrong.

  Nothing could be relied on. It wanted ten minutes, now, to six o’clock, but nothing could be relied on, and those ten minutes could give me the last chance I’d get.

  ‘Let me,’ Trotter said, ‘put it briefly for you.’ His thick arms hung easily, and this too I noticed. ‘You need perspective. Your operation is very big, and it’s sponsored by H.M. Government and its intentions are to secure the future of the Chinese Republic and incidentally to save Hong Kong. Now I take that very seriously, of course. But try to understand that I am now in a position to take over - that I have to take over - if those aims are to be achieved.’ His massive head on one side - ‘Trust me.’

  Dr. Chen moved and I turned my head to keep him in the periphery of my vision field. ‘Look,’ I told Trotter, ‘time is of the essence for me too, and I’ve got to go now.’