Assignment Peking

by Edward S. Aarons

  "That's true."

  "So, frankly, you have forfeited my life by taking my place and acting as a traitor to my beloved China. Yes, I love my country, as you love yours, and my people's welfare and safety are all that concern me. But you have made me a dead man in my motherland. When I returned and heard, through my own sources, that a 'Major Shan* had done this and that, I knew it would be suicidal to show myself and attempt to explain." Shan shrugged. "I did not really believe it possible for another man to be molded so exactly in my own image. It is uncanny. I find it difficult to accept, seeing you, and I am sure you feel the same way. But you have an advantage. You look like Shan, but underneath, I know you are Sam Durell, from K Section, an American, and if you are successful, you will once again be shaped to look like yourself. For me, there is no hope of escaping the consequences of what has been done to us by our superiors. We are victims of the work we do, obedient to orders and dedicated to—what?" Shan spread his hands. "In the end, we will die and be forgotten, except in some dusty file marked 'Secret—Classified —Closed.'"

  "You are philosophical, for someone in our business," Durell observed.

  "It helps one to survive. To an intelligent man, our vocation would be difficult to accept without an inner conviction as to the lightness of things."

  "Do you think an atomic war would be right?"

  "Of course not. I work for peace." Shan's smile made his mouth dip at the corners. "It is an ambiguity, is it not, that men such as we deal in dark violence, to preserve the world?"

  "Do you know of the Six Sentinels?" Durell asked sharply.

  "I do. They were my assignment, just as they are yours."

  "In what way?"

  "To learn who these men are, and who their counterparts are in China. It is a silent, tacit conspiracy between these two groups to provoke nuclear warfare between our nations. The irony of it is that both groups are certain that they, and only they, will be the victors in such a showdown. But to my mind, everyone in the human race will be the losers if this happens."

  "What did you learn of the Six Sentinels?"

  "Not much." Shan was rueful. "My mission was rudely interrupted by your Colonel Chu."

  "He's not on my side," Durell said flatly. "He's working with you."

  "No. Only for himself, that man. He should be killed."

  "He may already have been," Durell said grimly. "Now tell me how you got here, and what you expect to do,"

  "May I—may I have something to eat first?"

  "No."

  "You do not trust me?"

  "Should I?"

  "I suppose not. Well, a stomach that has been empty as long as mine can wait a bit longer. When I was pulled out of the Tanshui River by what I think were K Section men, I was almost dead, of course. This was more that five weeks ago—and in the course of that time, you went through your transformation to duplicate me." Shan shook his head in wonder. "I was badly injured. Chu left me for dead. I was certainly more dead than alive. I do not remember where I was taken and nursed back to a reasonable facsimile of health. You need not fear me, Cajun. I am invalided. You could knock me down with the back of your hand. And I fear I may be more of a liability than an asset."

  "How so?"

  The Chinese said flatly: "Why, you and I must work together, somehow. We both have the same goal, to uncover the identities of the Six Sentinels and stop their scheme to provoke nuclear war. Is that not so?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Then, in any case, I remember very little. My medical care was excellent, but until a week ago, I was too ill to do much. Then I was flown here, three days ago, in a Lotus plane. The men who took me were anonymous. They said very little. They only told me you had taken my place in China and that if I had any hope of living, I must find you and join you. They said you would know what to do. I'm not sure, now, since my appearance is such a surprise to you. In any case, we both share the same leaky boat, eh? We must bail it out together, or drown."

  "How do you propose any advantage out of this?"

  "We have one great asset," said Shan. "We are identical."

  Durell nodded. "Yes, I think the fact that I am really two men, in a sense, can get us out of China and back to Taiwan."

  "You mean to go back there?"

  "I mean to find the head of the Sentinel conspiracy and kill or expose him."

  Shan was silent. He kneaded his hands together, pushed back his thick black hair, and sighed. "I have every reason to believe, Durell, that the true conspirator at the head of it all is your own chief, General McFee."

  Sixteen

  The old woman began to serve food in the kitchen. It was late in the afternoon now, and the rain had settled into a steady downpour. Dusk came early. While the real Shan wolfed down the pork and steamed bread the old woman handed him, Durell followed Hao's gesture and climbed an old, polished bamboo ladder to the top attic of the Buddhist temple. From here there was an unexpected view, through a slit in the rafters, of a nearby boulevard where thousands of marchers still persisted in their celebration. There were acrobats, peasants, dancers, choruses, all with bands and floats, flowers and pennants, animal figures and dragons, lions and tigers, as well as the ubiquitous Chinese cymbals. Hao shut the trapdoor in the attic room. It was cool and damp here, above the incense burners and the chanting monks below. "I am sorry I had to surprise you. You can imagine my shock when Major Shan appeared. He knew of this place and all my activities, for many months, he said. It was information he kept to himself, while he worked on his mission, in order to keep me under personal surveillance." The little monk clasped his hands together. "For a moment, of course, I thought he was you. But he was very weak—he has a limp, even yet—and he behaved reasonably, wishing only to meet and confer with you."

  "You did the right thing," Durell said.

  "What will you do with him?" Hao asked anxiously.

  "Well use him," Durell said. "He's willing to cooperate. Not every enemy agent," he added with a small smile, "is a monster."

  "True, Shan seems to be a reasonable man."

  "And a dangerous one."

  Hao paused nervously. "Jasmine told me that she gave you the transmitter pen—the Zebra microminiaturized transmitter."

  "That's right."

  "Have you examined it?"

  "How many do you have?"

  "Originally, we received six. Their range is most extraordinary." Hao smiled thinly. "Under Heaven's Eye, man seems to work miracles. Let Heaven see to it that these miracles are used beneficently."

  "I think it's up to us to see to that," Durell said.

  In the shadows of the temple attic, he took the pen that Jasmine had given him and examined it curiously. He knew enough about electronics to appreciate the infinitely detailed workings of the device when he unscrewed it and drew out the tiny cylinder of microscopic circuitry, together with a power source he could not analyze. Like the strides taken in space photography, detection mikes had developed far beyond the point known in the public mind. Except for a slight overweight, the pen looked utterly innocent when closed up.

  "How much range does this have?" he asked the monk.

  "I have never tested it fully. We planted three of these and three other forms with officials in the government hierarchy. Each has a different frequency and is monitored on recording tape hidden in the apartment downstairs. At regular intervals, these are sent off to Zebra headquarters in Taiwan."

  "How do you get them back?"

  "By airplane pickup, north of here. The courier is due in four days. Do you plan to leave with Shan?"

  "I must. I'll take Shan with me."

  "Do you trust him, sir?"

  "No," Durell said. "Can you make a transmission to the courier and to Taiwan direcdy?"

  "I have contacted the courier twice, in emergencies— when two previous K Section men came here and failed. It was necessary to report their capture and execution."

  Durell handed him the pencil. "Can you do so again, with this?"

>   "It will be dangerous. Others besides Shan may now be aware of my activities." The little monk was apologetic. "My life is in Buddha's blessed hands; but the cause for which I have labored, often against my conscience for China, must not fail. Peace for all men is my goal, my dear sir. I will try to contact the courier."

  "Good. Tell him there will be three of us, then—two men and Jasmine."

  "Yes. As for the woman " Hao coughed again.

  "She is most devoted to you, sir. She has been waiting "

  "All right," Durell said. "Make the transmission as soon as you can."

  There was a distant popping of firecrackers on the boulevard as evening fell, and once a party of young schoolgirls invaded the temple courtyard, carrying with them fluttering scarves which they used for dancing. Everyone in the apartment kept silent until the small flood of celebrants was gone and the quiet bells and intonations of the priests resumed. A few lanterns were lit in the courtyard as night came.

  Hao did not come down from the attic with Durell, but Jasmine was waiting for him. Her eyes anxiously searched his face.

  "Shan is asleep. The man was badly injured." Her voice was uncertain. "Can't I do something for your face,

  Sam? Let me help you. I know you're in pain and won't admit it "

  He nodded. His head throbbed, and all his facial bones ached. He was aware of deep exhaustion, compounded by the questions that remained unanswered in the back of his mind. He gave himself into Jasmine's hands, and she led him into a deserted area of the temple, pushed him down on some cloth bales, and then returned for a pan of hot water and aspirin, and a tube of ointment which she applied to his worst bruises.

  "I don't think I'll ever adjust to it," she whispered. "I know you are my own Sam, and I love you—but you and Major Shan are identical, both of you more Chinese than I, really "

  "Take it easy, Jasmine," he said.

  She said pleadingly, "Just, please—trust me." She paused. "I don't want your gratitude. Haven't I done all you expected of me? Don't you know I'd give my life for you?"

  "McFee sent you to spy on me. Why?"

  "Is that so unusual, in something like this?"

  "He always trusted me before," Durell said.

  "This—this one is different. He's in terrible danger himself. K Section is in danger. Surely you know that now. If McFee loses, he'll be killed—oh, not obviously murdered, but in an auto accident or something like that He's fighting shadows, just like you, and can't trust anyone—just like you."

  Durell said grimly, "Both Chu and Shan said he's one of the Sentinels."

  "Can you believe that?"

  "I don't know what to believe. I'll know better, when we get back to Taiwan and find some facts."

  "What will you do if the evidence—which may be false -—shows that McFee is a traitor?" she asked

  "I don't know yet."

  "But I know you, Sam. There is no room for compromise in you. I'm afraid for you. I'm afraid of what they -—whoever they are—may make you do. If you don't survive, then my life—my life means nothing."

  He was aware of the warm, salty slide of tears on her cheeks as she pressed her face to his. Her mouth sought his hungrily. Her rich body was warm as she eased back upon him as they lay in the gloom, upon the bales of cloth. The storeroom smelled of incense and old spices. Dimly, he heard the sound of muted gongs again. He thought that it was good to be here for these moments, alone with her, apart from the dangers in the vast city around them. For these few minutes, he felt safe, and the imminent threat of sudden death with which he lived faded into the background.

  He rolled over in the dusk and took her gently, while the temple gongs made the air vibrate softly with their strange melodies.

  Seventeen

  Major shan was much improved in the morn-ing. Peking was back to normal, with the streetsweepers cleaning up the debris of paper flowers and festoons of wet banners. The rain had stopped briefly, and the air was a pale, washed blue, crisp with the tokens of coming winter. Durell had slept fitfully, and he remembered vague half-dreams in which he found himself helplessly trapped. He awoke to find his duplicate image staring at him over a cup of steaming tea. Another tray of breakfast tea and rice and delicately smoked fish rested beside his cot.

  He looked for Jasmine, but she was gone.

  "Where is the girl?"

  Shan was admiring. "I like the way you wake up, sir. In full possession of every faculty. The girl is with Hao. They are using the radio, carefully, trying to contact the courier. Do you truly mean to fly back to Taiwan?"

  "There's nothing more for me to do here. Chien Y-Wu is dead. He can't talk now 5 at any rate, and that part of the scheme to give China an excuse to attack the Nationalists is ended."

  "But the conspiracy in your country still exists, as it does in mine," Shan pointed out. "I see that is why you must return. But our lives are forfeited, both here and there."

  "They always have been," Durell said flatly. "But do we just roll over and die?"

  "Neither of us is made that way. I had hoped your mind would be open, when I came to you, and that you could accept my help as a temporary ally. I am pleased you will take me to Taiwan with you." The Chinese touched his face and smiled. "Perhaps you can think of some advantage in our looking so identical. Confusion to our enemies, eh? How do you say it? Now you see it, now you don't! We can be in two places at once."

  Durell reached for the pot of hot green tea and swallowed the steaming liquid gratefully. He would have preferred bourbon, or the chicory-flavored Louisiana coffee he was addicted to. He was suddenly hungry and ate the fish and steamed bun of bread with relish. "Do you really want to go back to Taiwan with me?"

  "I think I must. I had to make sure you were here, in my place, and working on the same mission. Unless I can prove myself, the Black House will hunt me down and kill me. I'm a renegade, you see, and like you, have no choice." The Chinese spread his hands. "I want to work together with you. I will trust you until we die or win our way out of this dilemma."

  Durell thought about it, and then began talking of various ways in which they could make use of their identical looks. The Chinese listened with quiet care and nodded agreement.

  Hao said there was nothing in the newspapers or on the radio about an escaped imperialist agent from the Black House. Durell hadn't expected any announcement, but he had no illusions about how the Black House would be scouring Peking for him at this moment, searching trains, planes, and bullock carts in a desperate hunt for "Major Shan."

  The day passed quietly. The old woman brought some salve for the bruises on Durell's face, and he asked Jasmine for a cosmetic to hide the black-and-blue marks. He noted, with some dismay, that his skin was losing its yellowish-brown cast. The effect of Ike Greentree's pigmentation treatments for changing his complexion was not lasting as long as he'd hoped. Almost two weeks were gone. He had a week left. Toward noon of that day, Hao went out to obtain some uniforms he said he could get. He promised to be back in an hour, but by nightfall the monk had not returned, and there was no way of learning what had happened to him.

  After the evening meal the old woman vanished, too.

  With darkness, Durell noted that the gongs and chanting in the temple had ended, and he went there. The priests and the acolytes were gone. The temple was dark.

  He was alone with Jasmine and Major Shan.

  By midnight no one had come back. It began to rain again, a sullen downpour that did nothing to lift their morale. Durell felt trapped. He went into the temple attic room and considered the transmitters; he began to take the room apart, inch by inch. Shan and Jasmine joined him there.

  "You will not find it, Cajun," Shan said quietly. "Hao probably memorized everything."

  "I hope not."

  Jasmine said, "What are we searching for?"

  "Hao's code book," Durell said. "He was to send a message to the Lotus courier and the plane that can take us back. Every minute we stay here adds to our risk of being caught by th
e Black House people. They won't show us much mercy."

  "What has happened to Hao?" she asked.

  Durell exchanged a glance with Shan. "Odds are, Tai Ma nabbed him, and he's being questioned now."

  "Perhaps he will not talk," Shan said. "Hao is a very strong man, with his faith to support him—perhaps a

  stronger faith than my own Communism or your patriotism, Cajun."

  "Even if he dies in silence," Durell said, "they'll identify him, sooner or later, and trace their way here. Why do you think the old woman and priests have disappeared? It's only a matter of time. We must leave, but we must have Hao's code book first."

  Shan said, "I do not believe it exists. But we will search, of course. One must try, eh?"

  It was strange to work next to his mirror-image as they tore the storeroom apart and examined the transmitters and the Zebra device. Durell's knowledge of electronics, gleaned during many tedious hours at K Section's "Farm" in the Maryland countryside, soon solved the riddle of the microminiaturized pen transmitter. But he did not know frequency or code, or the landing field used by the Lotus courier. Even if they should be wildly lucky and get out of Peking and find the plane, he thought grimly, they might still run into treachery.

  An hour went by. And another. Shan used almost the identical search techniques Durell had been accustomed to use himself. At two o'clock in the morning Durell was ready to give up. Shan had found a cigarette somewhere, and smoked it quietly while he considered the room, trying to think of another place to search. It was then that Jasmine, who had watched helplessly, stood up.

  "The books!" she exclaimed.

  Durell turned his head. "What books?"

  "Hao collected old Buddhist scrolls. He told me about them while you were watching the Black House to locate Tai Ma. He was very proud of the collection."

  "Did he show them to you?"

  "Yes, they're in a temple room, behind the silk screens."

  The rain had grown heavier and colder. In the late-hour gloom, the courtyard looked desolate. They ran across into the temple proper. A cat scampered out of their way, and they all halted, breathing lightly and quickly. From the wide street outside came the sudden sound of a motorcar. It was unusual enough in Peking's streets to freeze them again. The motor sound was then drowned out by the melodic clanging of one of Peking's ubiquitous trolley buses going by. When it passed, Durell could no longer hear the engine noise of the car.