When he stepped through, the light almost blinded him. Jasmine pressed quickly after him. He saw that what he had taken to be her uniform was really a dark blue cotton suit, with a brightly designed scarf and an embroidered blouse. Somehow, despite her dishevelment, she looked lovely and smart.
Now he heard the swelling roar and marching of feet like some great tidal wave, martial in sound, disciplined in its distantly shouted slogans from thousands of simultaneous throats. He found himself in a small room paneled in bright vermilion, with yellow-timbered ceilings and openings that yielded onto a paved court with twisted, stunted trees, enormous flower beds, and elaborately carved marble bridges. An artificial waterfall tinkled dimly through the distant uproar.
"Oh, Sam—your face! If you're seen "
He grinned. "Not good enough to be shown to the past and present glories of the Middle Kingdom and the People's Republic?"
"Don't joke. We'll never make it. The streets are jammed, and we have to get to the Summer Palace to meet Hao, and by now, Tai Ma will be scouring the city for us."
"Come along," he said.
He stepped out of the vermilion room into the intimate little court with its marble bridge and fountain. It felt empty, as if the ordinary tourists who swarmed through this vast splendor of history had been barred during today's celebrations. He was surprised to find it was still early in the afternoon. He had been in the Black House since dawn, some six hours, and rain still fell from gray skies; it was made colder by an icy wind that rippled the artificial pond and sent a fine spray from the waterfall. He knelt by the pool and considered his reflection in the water. The battered face of Shan stared back at him, bloody, dusty, and swollen. His blue cotton suit was not too bad—the tears in the sleeve and shoulder could be hidden enough to avoid comment. But his face . . .
"Let me help," said Jasmine.
She took her colored scarf and dipped it into the pool and then bathed Durell's eyes and nose. The cold water smarted. There were tears in the girl's eyes as she knelt and tended to his wounds. "Oh, I'm sorry I couldn't help you sooner! But when you didn't come back, I made Hao tell me how to reach you."
"Why didn't Hao tell me how to get in that way before?"
"I don't think he knew. I think he just discovered it, himself, after you left."
He said abruptly, "Jasmine, what am I being set up for?"
"I don't understand."
"I'm being used—shaped, molded, brainwashed. You name it. I'm being led into something, I'm not sure what—"
"I don't know, Sam," she said.
"No other job was like this. Why did McFee assign you to watch me? What's he afraid I might do?"
She made no reply. His face felt better for the cold water, and he could breathe again through his nose; he decided that Chu had not broken it after all. His face still looked like a reasonable facsimile of Major Shan's. He drank some of the fountain water, suddenly accepting thirst and hunger as signs that he was better. The thin rain had soaked through his clothes, and he saw that Jasmine was shivering.
"Let's go."
She gave him an appraising look. "I guess you'll do. If this were anywhere else in the world, you could pretend to be drunk. But not in Peking today. The first passerby would take it as his citizen's duty to upbraid you for non-socialist, demoralizing, weak behavior."
They walked briskly, as if on urgent business. There were sheafs of flags stuck in sconces in the hallway they traversed, and Durell took two of the banners and gave one to Jasmine. One was red, the other yellow and blue, and they were inscribed with the mottos, Unite And Care For Each Other and Socialism Is Good. The flapping banners helped conceal the bedraggled state of their clothing.
A hubbub of voices sounded ahead. They came into a great audience hall, a dream of timber colored deep saffron and red, lofty and airy. Long outdoor walks led to wide terraces facing the Palace Grounds. The hall was filled with uniformed schoolgirls with placards, waiting their place in the march. In the light rain, Durell glimpsed incredible masses of people marching through the Gate of Heavenly Peace, which stood like an enormous fortress, eighty feet thick, with carmine walls. Atop the gate were the dignitaries of the Chinese People's Republic, watching the massed thousands parade through the hundred-acre concourse. He thought wryly that the Ming Emperors, who had thrown out the Mongol dynasty established by Genghis Khan, could not have conceived of this spectacle before their autocratic, divine eyes. From the top of the terrace, as he pushed through the waiting marchers with Jasmine's hand in his, he saw a vista of multiple roofs in turquoise and sapphire, upright lines of tall wooden pillars beneath amber arabesques upturned to the rain. Shrubs flowered everywhere, and for the occasion, along every marble pavilion, there were huge tubs of chrysanthemums, carinas, and cyclamen to add to the color of the festival.
The sound was enormous. The powerful politicians atop the Gate looked minute, waving tiny arms in automatic gestures to the troops of marchers going by in the huge square.
"This way," Jasmine called above the noise.
They pushed through ranks of workers who gave them annoyed looks. Jasmine tightened her grip on his hand, as if afraid she might lose him in this frightening, organized sea of humanity. Turning left, she squeezed through a small gate in terra-cotta walls and paused under the dark branches of dripping cypress trees. An elaborate, circular pavilion with Chinese gingerbread doors and roofs stood before them.
"Through here."
Looking back, Durell saw a massive Red Star of China being carried by a new segment of marchers. Their chanted slogans shook the air and sounded obscene among the delicate elegances of this fantasy of palace, pavilion, terrace, and walls.
"Hurry, Shan!"
They raced along covered walkways, with mossy marble floors, doubled back along empty pathways, gardens, and marble bridges, and suddenly debouched on a small side street. Durell realized that she had led him accurately and speedily out of the Forbidden City and the massed festival marchers. The rain beat down coldly. They abandoned their camouflage of sloganed flags and started around a corner, saw a trolley bursting with uniformed children, waited while a battalion of blue-uniformed militia marched by, ignored a vender's plea to buy paper flowers, and waited under a huge, round scarlet lantern.
Jasmine looked exhausted. "He's not here."
"Are you waiting for Hao?"
"One of his aides. He—no, there he is."
Durell watched for any sign of Tai Ma's people, who were surely turning the city upside down in a desperate search for him; but in these crowded, exuberant streets, it was impossible to pick out anyone who might be an L-5 agent. He watched a float go by, then another, wheeling slowly around the corner in the direction from which they had come. Martial music sounded briefly through the rain. Banners hung limp, dripping, then flapped and sent a sharp, icy spattering down upon them.
"Here. Oh, good," Jasmine murmured.
A rare motorcar on Peking's streets eased between the floats and headed for them as they stood under a dripping tree on the sidewalk. It was a Polish Warszawa, dull black, driven by a thin, scholarly-looking Chinese.
"It's Jen Feng-Bao. He teaches Japanese at Peking University. He works with Hao."
They got in and the driver nodded, smiled, and then set his mouth in tense anxiety as he eased the Warszawa away from the curb. In a moment, they were on an emptier boulevard, lined with young trees, fighting the tides of people sucked as if by a siphon toward the reviewing stands at the Gate of Heavenly Peace.
"You are fortunate," the driver said. "One did not really expect you to be successful, Jasmine."
"Has there been any trouble?"
"I monitored L-5's radio. Of course there is trouble. The most insignificant ant, if he tunnels just right, can topple a mountain," Jen Feng-Bao smiled.
They headed for the Summer Palace, under festive trees that defied the cold rain with enormous, fringed scarlet lanterns and more posters and banners hailing the Party leaders. Jen drove carefully,
with academic precision. In twenty minutes they entered the 800-acre grounds of the Summer Palace. There were over one hundred buildings here, and on normal days the halls and temples would be swarming with sightseers at their ease. Built by the Ming Emperor, K'ang Hsi, in the seventeenth century, and enlarged with more modern buildings by Ch'ien Lung, the area had been restored to its former splendor that not even the dismal rain could hide. The small Warszawa swung along empty drives toward the Buddhist "Sea of Wisdom" temple on its artificial hill overlooking a wide, man-made lake. Scarlet and emerald timbers flickered by; the painted boats for public use lay in tidy, idle rows this day. The wind was stronger, the rain colder, the trees and shrubbery bowed before the desolation of the day.
Jasmine leaned forward. "Do you see him, Jen?"
"Not yet."
They passed tinkling waterfalls, lakes full of blossoms, and the Dowager Empress's marble barge in its shallow pond. They halted briefly near the Hall of Listening to the Birds, again at the Hall of Virtuous Harmony.
"There," Jen said with sudden relief.
Hurrying toward them, under a preposterously large black umbrella, was the slight, gray-robed figure of the monk. Hao got in quickly, looked at DurelTs face. "There has been much trouble. They—ah—questioned you?"
"Somewhat. Is your temple still safe?"
"Yes, we go there at once." The monk was agitated. His eyes did not meet DurelTs. "Nothing happens as we plan, under the Eye of Heaven. Heaven cares nothing for mortal man and our hopes. We have problems."
"That's an understatement," Durell said dryly.
Hao leaned forward to speak over the driver's shoulder. His hands trembled. Until now, since Wuhan, he had been calm. Now he said to the driver, "Be very careful. Circle three times. Make sure we are not seen. Otherwise, we must go to the country, do you understand? And I cannot have you under suspicion, Jen. It would destroy everything. My own life has little value, but you would have to take command after me."
"I understand," Jen said.
Durell said quietly: "What's happened?"
Hao's eyes searched Durell's battered face. "Do you need medical attention? You look different to me."
"A few bruises only. How do you mean, different?"
"Forgive me, I've had a shock. You will understand when we arrive."
The little temple and its hidden court, set among the streets of old Peking that the regime had not yet cleared for more workers' barracks, looked secure and familiar as the Warszawa swung around the corner. Hao, Jasmine, and Durell got out in the rain and watched as the professor waved and drove off.
"Inside," Hao said.
They crossed the courtyard to the little apartment behind the temple. An old sweeping woman in a traditional, high-collared tunic, with trousers and black cotton shoes, bowed and handed Hao a copy of the Renmin Ribao —the People's Daily. The little monk folded it and handed it back. He looked pale. Hao said something too quickly for Durell to catch, and the woman's almond eyes slewed to Durell. This time he did not miss the expression in her eyes. They reflected shock and disbelief. "What's the trouble, Hao?" "Nothing. All is well." "What's the old woman afraid of?" "She was surprised to see you, that is all." Hao led the way into the apartment that had served them for the past ten days. It seemed to Durell he had been away for a long time since going to the Black House. Nothing was changed in the sitting-room or kitchen. There was a new rush mat on the stone floor, a table with four wooden chairs under a window that looked out on the temple court, an alarm clock, and one of the Chinese Thermos bottles in bright green with an ugly floral design painted on it. On the single-ring gas stove was a stew of pork and fish and vegetables, sliced with the razor-sharp chopper dear to all Chinese housewives. A fistful of North China's favorite steamed bread stood on the wooden table, as if someone had been eating there and had just put it down.
Durell picked up the kitchen chopper at the stove. The room seemed dark, surrounded by the walled court outside, veiled by the lowering clouds that swept over Peking.
"All right, Hao. Level with me."
Hao wrung his hands. "I do not know what to do."
Jasmine stood with Durell. "Something's wrong. Someone else is here, isn't that right, Hao?"
"Yes. Yes, indeed."
"Who is it?" Durell asked. "Why do you all look at me as if I were a ghost?"
"You shall see for yourself. In there."
Hao gestured to the tiny bedroom that Durell had shared earlier with Jasmine. The painted yellow door was closed. Suddenly he wished he had a weapon better than the chopper. His stomach curled with apprehension, and then he yanked open the door.
There was a single oil lamp inside, reflecting on the polished stone floor. A man sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Durell. He had heavy shoulders, thick black hair, an air of tension in the way he held his body, a smooth coordination of nerve and muscle under his simple cotton suit. He stood up, the bedsprings creaking, still with his back to Durell.
"Hello, Major Shan," the man said.
Then he turned, and Durell looked at an identical reflection of his own image.
Fifteen
There was a moment of mutual shock as they stared at each other. The apartment was utterly silent. Then Durell heard the gurgling of rain in the ceramic eaves, the splash of the courtyard fountain, a sudden hissing of steam as the old woman put on a tea kettle in the kitchen. Durell watched the other man—himself—smile tightly. He smiled in return. Neither moved, studying each other with awe. DurelTs estimate of the job that Ike Greentree had done on his face soared to gratification. At the same time, he was staring at a man supposed to be long dead.
"Major Shan?" he asked finally.
"Precisely. And you, too, are Major Shan. That makes two of us." The other's voice was a little higher in pitch than his own. "You are surprised? So am I. Hao told me about you, but I could not believe it. It is remarkable, eh? We are twins. Identical in all appearances."
"Skin deep, only," Durell said. He spoke harshly. "Where did you come from?"
"Obviously not from the grave." The Chinese smiled ruefully, his black eyes continuing to regard Durell with awe. "I was prepared for this; you were not. But I admire your control, Sam Durell. TTiey call you the Cajun, do they not? I have read your L-5 dossiers, of course. Your abilities were not exaggerated."
"Have you a weapon?" Durell asked.
"I am not armed. You may search me."
Durell did so, still holding the kitchen chopper. The man's body was thinner than his, even wasted; he was trembling slightly, but Durell did not think it was from
fear. Durell was about an inch taller; the real Shan's face was somewhat broader, his eyes longer; there was a series of small scars on his left cheek. Perhaps that was what Tai Ma had suddenly noticed in the Black House. It was
the only difference in features between them, except for DurelTs current lumps and bruises.
Shan's clothing was empty of weapons.
"All right," Durell said. "Sit down again. You have a lot to explain."
"So have you, Cajun."
"We were assured you were dead."
"And I am not." The man's voice was calm. He sat on the wooden chair in the bedroom and put his hands precisely on his knees, in the prescribed manner to show his good intentions. Now there were sounds from the kitchen —Hao was talking to the old woman, and Jasmine had interrupted, asking something in a sharp, frightened voice. Durell turned the iron key in the door lock.
"Very good," Shan said. "What we have to say had best be kept between ourselves for now."
"Did Colonel Chu lie? He said he had killed you."
"He thought he had. He was a bit careless. Indeed, I was close to death. On my body, you will find scars that you do not have, of course. But I was saved."
"How?"
"I do not know whose men they were. They found me floating in the Tanshui River, in Taipei." Shan began to tremble, and he said apologetically, "Forgive me, I am very hungry, and I smell the food i
n the kitchen. The body betrays us all, it seems. I have not eaten for three days, except for what I could steal; not much was available to a thief."
"Who knows you are here?"
"No one."
"You haven't reported to the Black House?"
"No, but I gave the young lady the maps of the tunnels to help you escape."
"Jasmine knew of you when she came for me?"
"Did she not tell you?" Shan asked curiously. "It is strange. Is she not your companion, your partner?"
"She's supposed to be. I'm not so sure."
Shan nodded quietly. There was something about him that Durell liked—and he reflected dourly that perhaps it was because the man was such an intimate duplicate of
himself. He put aside the knife, aware of Shan's eyes reflecting relief.
"You'll eat when the rest of us do—when you've explained yourself. Who pulled you out of the Tanshui River?"
"I did not know them. Americans, of course. Agents, I'm sure, from K Section. They were not Haystead's men, or I'd have been left for dead again. Neither, of course, were they Chu's people from the Zebra outfit. I can only conclude they were from your own agency."
Durell hid his puzzlement. McFee had said nothing about the fact that Shan was alive. But McFee must have known this. He felt a deeper confusion than he had ever known before. The shock of facing his duplicate, this man that he had been fashioned to represent, still vibrated in him. He had studied Shan's dossier, he knew this man to be a brilliant agent of the Black House. But the real Shan now sat here, quiet-spoken, hungry, obviously weak from injuries, speaking as a friend. It made no sense. The dim pattern he had begun to perceive vanished like a cobweb blown away by a sudden gust of wind. But he allowed none of his perplexity to show, and the real Major Shan smiled approval.
"Yes, you are very good, Cajun. Much better than we, of the Black House, had supposed you to be."
"How did you get here?" Durell demanded. "If you lie to me, I'll know it. If you're here to take me back to the Black House, forget it. If you have others outside the temple, then your mission is one of suicide, because you'll die first."
"I understand." Shan coughed and winced with inner pain. "And you must understand, too. We are both in a most difficult situation. My danger is no less than yours. I could not convince anyone that your acts in the Black House were not mine."
Assignment Peking Page 12
