by Adam Hall
That had been the reason for the silence on the line: he'd been thinking out how to put it, because this was going to be rough.
In a moment I said, 'To find the subject?'
It was an army vehicle, a camouflaged personnel carrier; I watched it through the gaps in the gates, past Cheng's motionless figure. It was loaded, the carrier, Chinese troops in battle dress. It was going slowly, toward the centre of the city.
'Yes,' Pepperidge said, 'your plans are to find the subject, of course. But London will ask for details.'
Either they were coming down from the intersections in the north, the roadblocks, or they were moving into the town from an outlying base, to begin a house-to-house search for Xingyu Baibing.
'Tell London they can't have any details,' I said into the phone.
The carrier had stopped, not far from the big green Jeifang, and Chong turned and stood facing me now, his mouth working on the chewing gum, his eyes blanked off. We'd agreed, on our way south through the night, that we would go on using the truck as our base, at least for the first hour or two of theday, that it wasn't a risk, wouldn't call attention. There were hundreds of these things in the city and around it and along the roads to Chengdu, Golmud, Kathmandu, most of them painted green like this one. The only man who could have recognized it as ours was dead.
But perhaps we were wrong, because boots were hitting the ground as men dropped from the carrier. Or their citywide search was going to start here, at the truck depot.
'It's like this, you see' — Pepperidge — 'I've got every confidence in you, and I think you've got as good a chance as anyone of bringing this thing home.'
The mission. As good a chance of bringing it home as any other executive they might fly out here to take over and do what he could to go in cold and try pulling something else out of the wreckage.
'The only point,' I said, 'in getting someone else out here would be that he could work at street level.' Unknown to the police and the PSB, unknown to the private cell.
Boots on the outside. I watched the gates. The engine on the personnel carrier was still running; it hadn't moved on.
'What they'll say' — Pepperidge — 'is that while I have total confidence in you, they cannot share it. Unless you can give me any idea of where you plan to go from here, they may well instruct me to send you out of the field.'
He hadn't liked saying that. He would have done anything not to say it.
'I quite understand.'
Best I could do, put him out of his misery, take it like a man, so forth, as I watched the gates and saw coming over to them, three soldiers.
Chong didn't move. He was standing twenty feet away between me and the gates, facing them now, perfectly still. There were trucks standing in the depot, a dozen or more, most of them big Jeifangs, adequate cover.
On the far side was a low wall, and that was the way I would have to go. And this is the problem of going to ground: you can be forced at any minute to run, and keep on running. There's no base anymore that you can work from, no stability; the sands are shifting all the time under your feet.
You can see their point, can't you, in London, quite understand.
Shivering in the first pale light of the new day, shivering under the warm padded coat, the one I'd taken from the man in the temple, first his life and then his coat, uncivil of me, I will admit, shivering despite its warmth as the soldiers came to the gates and started banging on them.
'Da kai!'
Chong didn't move, shouted back at them — 'Zher hai mei ren.'
Pepperidge: 'I can only obey their instructions, of course.' London's. 'If they-' he broke off, 'was that someone shouting?'
'Yes.'
'Are you pressed?'
'Not really.'
'Tamen shenme shihou dao?'
Crackling on the line. 'Who is shouting?'
'Chong. He's all right, but I might have to ring off. If I do, I'll get through to you again from somewhere else.'
In a moment, 'Don't leave anything too late.'
Chong hadn't moved. 'Jiu dian!' Shouting at them.
He would give me time, I knew that. If they started forcing the gates he'd turn and give me the signal and we'd separate, make our own way out, if they didn't start shooting first.
'Look,' I said, 'they can't get him out of Lhasa. He's still here somewhere. I'm going to find him.'
Soldiers banging at the gates.
Chong standing perfectly still, shouting at them.
'Lihai zher ba. Jiu dian huilai!'
Pepperidge on the line, worried by the noise. 'I'd be happier if you'd ring off and look after things there.'
'He's still in this town,' I said, 'and I'm going to find him. Tell them to give me a bit more time. A few hours.'
Banging at the gates.
'That's all I'm asking. A few hours.'
Chapter 21: Dog
Chong hit the brakes and the big truck lurched to a stop.
'What did you tell them?'
'Jesus,' he said, 'we've done a kilometre in thirty minutes down this goddam road.' We were blocked off by a yak wagon, couldn't overtake. 'I told them nobody was at the depot yet, they'd have to come back.'
'They didn't argue?'
He rested his hand on the huge vibrating gear lever, the engine rumbling. 'Sure they argued. But their heads are full of rice.'
One of the yaks was lying slumped in the shafts. 'What's the problem?'
'It's died. Everything dies, wait long enough.' He kicked the clutch and hit the gear lever and we moved off again. 'We going anywhere?' He was still furious, his throat tight when he spoke. 'We going to find where they took him, maybe?'
I watched the road ahead.
'Eventually.'
This was the road south into the town, Linkuo Lu, where the temple was, where I'd taken the coat from the man. Grit blew in through the cracks of the doors; there was a wind getting up. Eventually, yes, of course, we would find where they'd taken Dr Xingyu Baibing, and we would bring him back under our protection, but meanwhile they would not be very happy in London, there would be no dancing in the streets.
Subject seized, location unknown. PLA sergeant deceased.
Croder at the signals board, his black basilisk eyes watching the man with the piece of chalk as the stuff came in from Pepperidge, Hyde standing there poking his tongue in his cheek, the whole place very quiet as they listened to his voice, the calm and gentle voice of my director in the field as it reached them through the government communications mast in Cheltenham and the unscrambler in Codes and Cyphers three floors above.
Subject is expected to reveal critical information with or without duress. His captors believed to be private cell, repeat, private cell operating in the field.
There's a bell, in Lloyd's of London, the Lutine bell, since that is the name of the vessel it was salvaged from, and they ring it whenever news comes that a ship has gone down, and there is a silence afterward. It's rather like that in the Signals room, when news comes of the kind that Pepperidge had given them now, that the mission had foundered.
Executive to ground and inactive.
The two major items of course were that the subject was expected to 'reveal critical information' — to blow Bamboo — and that the executive had gone to ground and was inactive, which meant that he must be wanted by the police and security forces of the host country and could no longer operate at street level, and that he had no further ability to advance or even protect the mission.
'Who's this bastard?' Chong said.
Man waving.
The signal reporting a deceased PLA sergeant in the field was obligatory: any 'terminal incident' must be noted in the records. But it also told London Control that there was now a hue and cry going on as a result, with the military searching earnestly for the assassin.
'Pull up,' I told Chong.
The report that a private cell had entered the field was of critical importance, but with the mission crashed and the executive incapable of fur
ther action there wasn't much that London could do about it.
'You say pull up?'
'Yes.'
Not quite incapable: that is a mortuary word, suggestive of worms and the silence of the tomb. Pressed, harassed, beleaguered, what you will.
The man who had been waving came to the side of the cab as the truck ground to a stop with the brake drums moaning. His Beijing jeep was standing at the roadside.
'Keyi da nide bian che ma?'
'Chong, what's he saying?'
Stink of diesel gas seeping through the floorboards. I wound the window down.
'Wants a lift.'
'We'll give him one.'
Chong looked at me. 'He a friend?'
As distinct from foe, trade argot.
'Yes.'
'Shang che.'
As the man came around the front of the truck I said, 'Chong. You don't speak English.'
'Gotcha.'
I pushed the door open and shifted over to make room and the man came aboard, hauling himself up by the big iron handgrip, expensive duffel jacket, heavy black beard, an energetic, barrel-shaped body, dropping onto the seat beside me, pulling the door shut with a noise like a bomb.
'Xiexie.'
'That's all right,' I said.
'Ah.' Peering at me, then — 'Well, well! You're getting a lift too?'
'Yes.'
I had sunglasses on; otherwise he would have recognized me sooner, even with the two-day stubble. A lot of people wore sunglasses here without attracting attention; the ultra-violet was intense at this altitude: this was cataract country.
'Trotter. How is the head?'
'Much better, thanks of course to you.'
'My dear fellow, I'm glad it turned out all right.' In a moment. 'That bloody jeep always gives trouble about here — I do this road every day. Grit in the carburettor, I daresay, an occupational hazard for every vehicle in Lhasa, but the thing is they never replace the air filters at the rental place.'
He sounded, I thought, a degree too talkative.
'That's a shame,' I said.
Chong shifted the huge gear lever again. For a truck as big as a dinosaur there wasn't much room in the cab. I felt Trotter moving closer to me.
Very quietly, under his breath, 'This chap speak English?'
'No.'
'Ah.' Gloved hands a little restless on his knees, fingers tapping. 'I don't know if you're aware of it, my dear fellow, but the police are looking for you. Locke, isn't it?'
'Yes. How do you know?'
'I'm sort of local here, on and off, come here to dig as often as I can. Police know me well, and they sometimes haul me in whenever there's a problem with a round-eye, ask me if I know anything and so on.' In a moment, 'From what I gather there was an agent of the KCCPC found dead in a temple yesterday.' A beat. 'The one where I picked you up. It appears someone described you.' He turned his face toward me. 'I can assure you it was not I.'
Chong hit the brakes again as a tour bus cut things close past a horse and cart, and we put our hands on the dashboard.
'Bie dang dao!'
I hadn't given Trotter any kind of an answer.
'Look,' he said, 'in the first place I told them I didn't know anything about you, obviously. It wouldn't be wise for me to refuse to help those buggers when I can, because they turn a blind eye if I'm still on the road after a curfew, back late from a dig, that sort of thing. But they get damned little out of me, I can assure you.'
Buildings were coming up as we passed the nomad camp ground, the big Telecommunications Office in the distance: we'd been making better time. I hadn't said anything.
'In the second place,' his deep voice muted, 'I'm not the slightest bit interested in your affairs, but if by chance you happen to have dispatched an agent of the KCCPC then I'm delighted, between you and me. You're certain, are you, that this chap doesn't understand English?'
'Certain.'
'Well and good, because this is tricky territory, as I imagine you realize. Never know who you're talking to' — his gloved hand on my knee for an instant — 'I mean the Chinese. So the thing is, since the police are after you, it might be a good idea to make yourself scarce, don't you agree?'
'It sounds logical.'
'Ni yao kouxiangtang ma?' Chong, holding out his packet of Wrigley's.
Trotter shook his head. 'Bu, xiexie ni. It's not easy,' he said, 'in a place like this, to make oneself scarce, with martial law and everything. Of course, the entire populace hates and detests the authorities, but one or two are so scared of reprisals that they'll give anyone away, even their friends, even their relatives.' We reached for the dashboard again as Chong used the brakes for the first traffic lights, the drums moaning. 'What I would like to tell you, my dear fellow, is that if you need a good place — a safe place — to sort of lie low till things blow over, I'd be delighted to assist.' He leaned forward, looking past me at Chong. 'Mafan ning, keyi rang wo zai xiayitiao jie xia che ma?'
'Keyi'
'I gave you my card, I believe?'
'Yes.'
'Phone me at any time, my dear fellow. At any time. I know a safe place, if you're really stuck — not the hotel, of course, it's just a tiny apartment in the native quarter. Dear God, the whole town used to be the native quarter, but now the Chinese are taking over, it's appalling. The sooner they get that gang of cutthroats out of power in Beijing the happier I shall be, not to mention my good friends the intellectuals.' He looked at Chong again. 'Wo qian ni shenme ma?'
'Bu. Heng huanying ni da wo de che.'
'Ni zhenshi ge re xin ren.' He braced himself as the truck slowed. The big black beard close to my ear — 'Please remember, Mr Locke, that you can count on me, for the aforesaid reasons. I have a feeling you are hardly a friend of those bastards in Beijing, which makes you one of mine.'
He used a fist on the door handle and dropped onto the street, looking up at me with his dark eyes serious. 'You know where to find me.' Swung the door shut with a bang.
Across the road was a red-and-white sign in Chinese and English: Truck Rental.
Chong gunned up and got into second gear. 'You know that guy?'
'Slightly.'
'British?'
'Yes. How many people,' I asked him, 'have we got in the field?'
'Maybe a dozen in support, some of them sleepers, got a short courier line to the airport, longer one to Kathmandu, then we can use-'
'All right, I want a two-way radio with a ten-kilometre range and fresh batteries. I want another one delivered to our DIP with the frequencies synchronized.' He slowed for traffic lights, and I gave him a rendezvous. 'I also want a different truck — what are those brown things with the rounded front?'
'Called a Dongfeng, sure, I can rent one of those.'
'How long will it take to get what I need?'
'How soon do you want it?'
'Fast as you can.'
He worked at his gum. 'Gimme an hour, okay?'
I switched to receive. 'Hear you.'
'I've had no response yet.'
There wouldn't have been time. With the signals board in the state it was, they'd have to call in Bureau One, the all-highest, and he'd have to confer with Croder and possibly that bastard Loman and decide which way to go, leave me out here in the hope that I could make another move or call me in and replace me.
'Did you tell them I'm asking for a few hours more?'
'Of course. But I assume nothing has changed.'
He waited.
You cannot lie. You can lie to every single human being you meet in the field, you can lie like a trooper, like Satan himself, because your life will often depend on it, and that is understood. But the shadow executive cannot lie to his director, because he is his link to London, to Control, and to the signals board and the mission screens in the computer room and finally to the decision-making process that is the crux and fulcrum of the entire operation. That too is understood.
'No,' I said into the radio. 'Nothing has changed.'
'But at least we are now in constant touch,' Pepperidge said.
That was like him: he'll always find the remnant of a silver lining in the darkest reaches of despair and bring it into the light.
Said yes.
'Location?'
It would be very dangerous to give it to him: there was no scrambler on these things. 'I can't do that.'
'Very well. I had a signal,' he said, 'through Beijing, an hour ago. The deadline has been moved up a little.'
Mother of God.
The briefing was that Premier Li Peng was due to address the Chinese nation on television from the Great Hall of the People at ten o'clock on the morning of the 15th, and that was the governing factor that fixed the timing of Bamboo: the premier was to be removed by force from his desk and Dr Xingyu Baibing installed in his place. The briefing had noted that if the deadline couldn't be met, we wouldn't get another chance for months: Premier Li wasn't scheduled to speak again until the spring.
I asked Pepperidge: 'By how much?'
'The speech was going to be made at ten hundred hours on the fifteenth, as you know. It's now down for eighteen hundred hours the previous evening, which means that the bomber will have to pick him up at Gonggar at three tomorrow afternoon, instead of midnight.' Short silence. 'Bit rough, I know.'
I watched the doorway.
Nine hours.
'What's London telling the coordinator?'
'In what way?'
I think he knew, but didn't want to get it wrong. This was sensitive ground. 'Is the coordinator being told that the subject is now missing? That we can't have him ready for the rendezvous at Gonggar in any case?'
In a moment, 'No.'
A gust of wind rocked the truck, blew dust along the street. 'When will they tell him?'
'I think they'll leave it to the last possible moment. There's not much to lose, after all. The bomber's scheduled to leave Beijing at fifteen hundred hours Beijing time, thirteen hundred hours Lhasa. If we can't make the rdv, all we have to do is put through a signal for them to cancel the flight, five minutes before takeoff. It gives us a slight edge, if there's anything we can do in the meantime.'
