Assignment Peking

by Edward S. Aarons

  "In here, Comrade."

  She opened the door and stepped back a little too quickly. The room beyond looked shadowed, with blinds drawn down over the utilitarian windows. Durell had no choice but to go in. The shadow of a man loomed to his right. He stepped sidewise, used his elbow, chopped at the wrist of the hand that held the glint of a gun, stabbed at the man's side with stiff fingers, and dropped to his knees, all in one swift, blindingly fluid movement. The man gave a stifled scream and staggered into a steel desk, folded over it, and began vomiting. Then something whipped over Durell's head as he ducked, came up, and kicked backward at a second soldier's kneecap. There was a crack of bone and cartilage, very satisfying. Then he saw the first man lift himself up, round face spasmed with pain, and level a revolver at him.

  The picture changed abruptly. They were not out to capture him alive. They meant to kill him. Death lurked in a dark pool behind the man's eyes.

  Durell's gun was in his hand like swift magic. In the same instant, he knew he couldn't fire. The sound would turn the whole station into an uproar. But the soldier didn't think of this; he froze and swallowed loudly.

  "Exactly," Durell said softly. "Or you are a dead man."

  "And who shall speak for you, Comrade Shan, from the grave?" came another voice.

  Durell backed up slowly until his shoulders were against the wall. He kicked the first soldier's weapon across the room. The second soldier had fainted from the pain of his broken knee. Then he looked for the third man.

  In today's Chinese People's Republic, there were not many fat men. And this one was not merely fat. He was enormous in all dimensions, crowding a side door that opened into an adjacent station office. He wore a Russian-style double-breasted serge suit that bulged and stretched and strained about his massive shoulders and enormous arms and belly. His necktie was wide and florid.

  The Chinese spoke in soft, impeccable Mandarin. "Welcome back to the homeland, Major Shan."

  Durell wondered if he was supposed to recognize this monster of a man. He kept his voice impersonal.

  "The welcome is not what I expected, after so many long years of faithful duty abroad," he said. "You seem to have been expecting me."

  "Of course."

  "I was not aware of another apparatus in Taipei."

  "Naturally. We have none." The man may have smiled, but it was difficult to tell. His big face folded and creased; his naked, bald scalp wrinkled; but nothing changed in his black, slitted eyes. "I am here only to hasten your return to the Black House, where we look forward to your report on the American imperialist warmongering organization known as the Six Sentinels."

  There was no Oriental lack of directness here, Durell thought grimly. He decided he had to take a chance and said, "Comrade, we have never met before."

  "A thousand apologies. My name is Tai Ma Cho."

  The big Chinese face was direct, bleak, inquisitive. The two injured soldiers were quiet, except for an occasional groan. Tai Ma Cho did not even seem to know they existed.

  "You are fortunate," he said, "that we found you first, Shan. We have many enemies, and not all of them are abroad, as you must know. The others look for you and will not let you live. But you are safe now. The train will be here in fifteen minutes, and in the meantime we shall drink tea together."

  "Both in the motherland and among our foreign enemies," Durell said quietly, "there are two parallel lines. One is sane. The other is headed by madmen. And each line connects on the sublime horizon of Peking." He smiled to remove any sting from his archaic expression.

  Tai Ma Cho nodded seriously. "Proletarian truths are self-evident. And which of those who smile among us are our enemies is a question we shall answer soon, with your help. Please, come this way."

  The huge man gestured Durell through the doorway. There wasn't much room to squeeze past his bulk, and this did not give Durell much leverage when, in squeezing by, he slammed his left fist into the big, hard belly, kicked with his right heel at the fat man's ankle, and then dived forward into the other room. Tai Ma grunted and lifted an arm that came down on the back of Durell's neck like a poleax. Durell fell on his knees, rolled around a steel desk, came up and started for the window. Tai Ma was shouting in a thin, furious voice. A shot crashed, and the bullet screamed off the steel desk top. He glimpsed the other's face and had no doubt now that the whole setup was designed to execute him quietly and without fuss. The desperate shot ended that part of the plan. There were shouts from outside the station house, and the blaring loudspeaker went up a number of decibels as someone had the initiative to try to drown out the sounds of murder.

  Durell risked a glimpse above the desk that sheltered him. There was a window across the room and a brick wall opposite, indicating an alley about five feet wide. There was a hissing, clacking conversation from the doorway. The man from the Black House had retreated to the safety of the outer room.

  "Major Shan!"

  Dwell kept silent. It was always best to let the opposition guess and wonder. He weighed his chances of reaching the window safely. They were just about nil. And yet there was no other way out. Every second was important; he could hear Tai Ma Cho calling urgently for more men. The window would be covered soon and then his back would be exposed, too, with the desk made useless to him. A light, cold sweat made his shirt cling to his back.

  There was a stone paperweight on the desktop. He reached up with one hand, caught it, and threw it toward the doorway. A rapid series of muffled, silenced shots made the stone bounce, chip, and split apart. So much for that, he thought bitterly.

  He had been betrayed from just about every direction. The dark strands of the conspiracy stretched all the way back to Taipei and beyond, all the way to Washington and a number of faceless figures there. He did not know how or why he had been chosen as a scapegoat, or just what he was supposed or not supposed to accomplish for either side in this formless and as yet inchoate web of intrigue. His anger flared against McFee—one of the betrayers?—for not filling him in more accurately or honestly. But this line of thought was no help just now, he decided. The seconds were flying by too fast.

  Footsteps clattered in the outer room. There was a hurried conversation in Mandarin, pitched low and not clear enough to understand. Again Durell estimated the distance to the window. And when he looked at it, he saw Jasmine Jones' face there.

  It was only a fleeting glimpse. She wore a peasant's wide, conical straw hat and what seemed like the usual blue coolie jacket. He saw an arm come up, something flew into the room where he was trapped, and there followed a shattering blast of smoke and glass and acrid fumes.

  "Shan!"

  Her voice was high, shrill, imperative. Smoke rolled

  from the shattered doorway. He did not know if the fat Chinese was alive or dead—and did not care. He lifted to one knee, spun on his heel, and dived through the window, shattering the remaining glass. He fell a bit farther than expected, landed on outstretched hands, rolled over once, came up against a wall with a thump, and was instantly on his feet, crouching.

  "This way, Shan!"

  He followed Jasmine's voice. Flames shot through the window, and there were distant shouts and whistles. To his right, the alley followed the station building, under tiled eaves, to the glinting railroad tracks. He thought he heard a locomotive whistle in the distance, but he could not be sure, with all the noises of alarm around him. In the other direction, the alley opened on the street. He did not see Jasmine, but he turned that way, and in half a dozen steps Jasmine came from a niche in the wall and fell in stride with him. She pulled at his arm.

  "The other way—the train to Wuhan "

  "No."

  "But we must get to Wuhan!"

  "Shut up," he said.

  He looked back. Two soldiers tumbled through the shattered stationhouse window. They blocked the way to the tracks, and the decision was made for them. Jasmine ran with him into the street. Other people were running, too, in all directions. That made it easier. Jasmine
had done well for herself, he noted, one part of his mind curiously alert to her. She had found a People's Guard uniform and now wore it easily, the baggy shirt and trousers not concealing her lithe form; her black hair was tucked up under the curious little militia cap. She also carried a heavy revolver in a holster, which was banging at her hip.

  "That way." She pointed toward a street of shops.

  "You know your way around," he said dryly.

  "I had some time, waiting for you to show up."

  "You had no trouble with the landing?"

  "No."

  "I couldn't find you, Jasmine."

  She was silent. Her manner was tight. They passed a soup stall, and the cooking odors and charcoal smoke made him suddenly aware of his hunger. He looked back over his shoulder; there was no apparent pursuit. Jasmine deftly threaded her way through the chattering people, holding his hand, occasionally tugging him this way or that.

  "The train usually stops a few hundred yards out of the station to debark Red Guard platoons and others," she said. "We have our tickets, anyway. They won't expect us to be on the train already."

  She was clever enough. And it worked out exactly as she suggested. Within two minutes, they saw the locomotive, chuffing at a siding. Young boys and girls were tumbling off. Some were armed, some wore school uniforms, others were in nondescript dungarees and sneakers. All had a fanatical but disciplined bearing as they responded to their flag-waving leaders. No others were at the siding. Jasmine and Durell walked casually to the second coach from the locomotive and swung aboard, pushing against the tide of young people coming off. None glanced at them. After all, Durell thought wryly, he looked as Chinese as any of them.

  But as he swung aboard he felt something hard in his back, and he did not need to turn to know it was a gun. And Jasmine held it on him.

  He paused in the empty vestibule, and saw her as if she were a stranger, her face hard and bleak and alien.

  "You, too, Jasmine?"

  "I'm sorry, Sam."

  "I've been betrayed all around, is that it?"

  "You know it," she said quietly. "From here on, you do exactly as I say. I don't know where you've been or what you've been up to since we jumped from Chu's plane —and you know what my job really is."

  "So much for loving me."

  "I have a job to do."

  "So do I," he said. "Would you kill me, if you had to?"

  "Don't," she said bitterly, "make me decide about that."

  Nine

  Durell watched a young woman dust and polish the floors and windows of the coach while the train jolted toward Wuhan. The public-address system crackled endlessly with exhortations to keep the train clean and work for socialism; occasionally, scheduled stops were announced, along with food facilities at the various stations. There were folk songs, an occasional military chorus, frequent diatribes against Western imperialists. Once, for fifteen minutes, there was a screeching Chinese opera solo, and Jasmine reached under the window and turned a knob to cut off the sound.

  "We may be suspect for not listening to patriotic songs," she said, "but I can't stand my own country's music."

  He stared at her. "Is this your true country, Jasmine?"

  "You know I'm San Francisco-born. But I'm still one of these people."

  "Put away your gun," he said. "It makes me nervous. Take your hand out of your pocket."

  She smiled. "Are you angry?"

  "Let me see both hands or I'll kill you," he said.

  "How can we work together, if you "

  They were interrupted by a girl attendant in blue cotton, with a duster cloth over her black hair. She smiled, showing strong white teeth, and wiped soot from the window ledge, then took two mugs and small packets of green tea and poured hot water for them. The tea was weak and tasteless. It was hot in the train, and the sun glared off lush paddy fields and distant hills. The passengers chattered loudly in the overcrowded compartments, and their talk was not overheard.

  "We were lucky," she said. "Can't you see that? I'm sorry if you don't trust me, but I couldn't take a chance.

  McFee ordered me to make sure you—to see that you— —" She shook her head. "I can't tell you more. I'm just supposed to watch you, that's all, and make sure you don't—meet the wrong people."

  He tried to read her eyes, but her thick lashes came down as she drank her tea, and he sighed and stared through the window. The assignment, he thought, had been betrayed from the start. He could trust no one—not Haystead, who gave the orders, nor McFee. But he had to go on. It was a lonely feeling.

  Twenty minutes later, the train halted at a shabby village, and platoons of regular soldiers came aboard. The officer swaggered through the coach, glaring at everyone. Durell yawned and settled lower on his spine. Jasmine drank her tea. Outside, there were fields with green crops, small clumps of newly planted trees. The people who came and went during the brief halt wore simple blue cotton suits; a few women had on cheap floral dresses. The loudspeaker blared interminably, and when the officer stared at them, Jasmine turned up the volume control under their window. The soldier nodded, smiled, and walked on.

  "Was he looking for us?" Jasmine whispered.

  "I doubt it. They don't believe we got on the train."

  "Sooner or later, they'll know it and telegraph ahead."

  "We'll be in Wuhan in another hour."

  He felt trapped as the train rocked and chuffed across the countryside. The ancient way of life in the fields still persisted. He saw peasant women with lampshade hats, fringed with black cotton against the harsh sun; boys rode water buffalo and splashed in the irrigation canals; carts with rubber tires were pushed laboriously along dusty lanes; and each village platform was mobbed with crowds jostling around the food carts.

  "Sam?"

  "Keep your hands in sight."

  "Please, Sam. I had to do it. Don't be angry with me." She paused. "Please trust me."

  "I don't. Not until you level with me."

  Her black, slanted eyes glistened. He did not believe anything she might say. Someone had sold the project down the river from the start; the enemy had been waiting for him. He did not know who to trust or turn to, but again, he saw no choice except to go on.

  Wuhan was a sprawling industrial complex, including the cities of Hankow, Hanyang, and Wuchang, hundreds of miles inland from the mouth of the vast Yangtze River. There was smog over it from the ship-building, chemical, and textile factories, as well as the new huge steel bridge that spanned the river. There were western-style hotels, like the Victory, and the new, enormous Yang Cheng. The train slowed though newly built workers' housing, like barracks, low factories, and some of the old slums left by German and Japanese developers of the pre-"Lib-eration" days. There was a bustling among the passengers as the train halted in the station sheds. Jasmine stood up with him.

  "Do you know where to go?"

  "Haystead briefed me on the contacts to make. I don't know how safe they will be."

  She said sadly, "I won't betray you, Sam darling."

  He said nothing. The train stopped. There was a huge red and gold banner above the station platform, quoting Mao: The East Wind Will Prevail Over The West. He heard the inevitable blare of martial music from the loudspeakers, the rattle of an orator exhorting the people to voluntary labor on public projects to "defeat the dogs of imperialist capitalism." There were steaming noodle stands and endless swarms of people, who were better dressed here than in the countryside.

  Jasmine gripped his arm. "Listen."

  He had already heard the whistles. There was a surge of movement among the people on the platform, a turning of heads, a rising decibel-level of noise. Durell swung down into the middle of the crowd with Jasmine. He had to fight down the feeling that he was different and alien in this tide of Oriental faces and remember he was Major Shan and looked and thought Chinese. The cause of the disturbance was a row of militiamen with fixed bayonets, working their way down the station platform. He didn't doubt that wo
rd had been telegraphed ahead to trap him here. Jasmine's grip on his arm tightened. He looked toward the food stalls and worked that way, seeking further confusion in which to lose himself; but there was no real place to hide. In a few minutes, the line of militiaman would reach them.

  "Comrade Shan?" asked a mild voice.

  He turned, trying not to show surprise. There was a small knot of Buddhist monks with bald pates right behind them, carrying small parcels as if they, too, had been on the train. The speaker was a small man in a gray robe —not the usual saffron of the Buddhist hierarchy—and he wore round, gold-rimmed spectacles over smiling, slanted eyes.

  "I am from the Temple of Lute-Playing," the monk murmured. "Do you know it?"

  "It is an historic jewel," Durell replied, dredging the contact words from his memory of the long list of signals that Haystead had given him. "It is my humble wish to visit this ancient treasure at once."

  "You and the young lady—" the priest bowed and smiled at Jasmine—"must come with me. You both speak Mandarin?"

  "Just myself. The lady speaks only Cantonese."

  "Then let the woman be silent."

  The militiamen were only a few steps away, sifting through the crowds on the platform like fishermen seining for sardines. One of them had seen Durell and was calling for his sergeant and pointing. The little Buddhist priest wrinkled his eyes behind his gold spectacles.

  "We will discuss the restoration of my temple through the overflowing kindness of the People's Republic government. We will be very engrossed in our conversation. Have no fear."

  The soldiers were making directly for Durell and the gray-garbed priests. There was a subtle rearrangement of the monks, so that Durell and Jasmine were screened by four or five of them, and the chief monk, who called himself Hao, talked to Durell over the sound of a wistful little folk song that now came from the propaganda speakers. A train began to pull out on the opposite track, and a tide of people who had come to see others off disturbed the militiamen's even line.