The Pekin Target

by Adam Hall

  By 00:19 the transmission was completed. Sinitsin had ended his message with the implication that Ferris should ignore the events in Pekin and turn his full attention to preventing the imminent coup in North Korea. I would send further signals when I had more information. This message did not go through. Tung ended his transmission with a warning that in two days’ time the first of three further assassinations was due to take place, unless his son were located and brought to safety.

  Ferris came back with a formal acknowledgement and I shut the set down and sat for a moment with my eyes closed and the sweat drying on me and the strange feeling that inside the next two days we could achieve the objective and phase out the mission and let everyone go home. The Bureau had massive and effective facilities in the Asian theatre, and Croder would press them into service to the limit, because apart from anything else his reputation was at stake: in the last eight days jade One had been driven into the ground by the opposition, and now there was a chance.

  A chance for the mission, but not for me. I wouldn’t be going home. Even if Tung Chuan were found and released, the KGB contingent here wouldn’t be threatened; they would simply go home like everyone else, after they’d shot Tung Kuofeng to stop his exposing them, and after they’d shot me for destroying their operation.

  I heard Sinitsin pacing now, his shoes clicking over the flagstones. Tung Kuofeng had left the console, and I could feel the release of tension in the air as the aura of his ki was withdrawn. Yang would still be behind me with the gun.

  In a moment I heard Sinitsin say: “Take him to his cell.”

  The muzzle bit into my spine.

  Chapter 25

  Moscow

  The fat crumpled face of a god.

  A shadow passing.

  Playing with bricks again.

  The shadow belonged to Yang. It was his tour of duty.

  These bricks had belonged to the monk, I suppose, who had lived in this cell; blocks, rather than bricks, smelling of ancient wood and with yellow dust in the carving, perhaps fibres from his saffron robe. I lined up the three fat gods in a row, putting the five thinner ones below them and adding the ram, the deer and the eagle, giving the left hemisphere something to do while I ransacked the other one for ideas.

  But there weren’t any. It was the evening of the next day and for seventeen hours I’d been stuck in here while Tung’s Triad were carefully lining up the next shot in Seoul or Pekin or Tokyo, the next step in the destruction of Chinese-American relations and Chinese-American-Japanese triangle diplomacy.

  Tung was powerless to do anything, I knew that. The KGB never let him go near the radio console unless two interpreters were also there; he couldn’t send a signal to his Triad, ordering them to postpone the three final assassinations in the hope that the Bureau could find his son. I couldn’t get near the radios myself, and even if I could, Tung would be listening, and in any case I’d got nothing definite to tell Ferris; two of the three people on the death list were likely to be the US Charge d’Affaires in Pekin and the Japanese Ambassador; the third was certain to be the Premier of the People’s Republic of China, though his death would have to suggest natural causes: the Soviets wouldn’t want China’s ostensible responsibility for these assassinations to extend to the killing off of her own; but Tung’s scenario of a pro-Russian general’s assuming power in China would obviously require the Premier out of the way.

  It wasn’t easy to play with my bricks while somewhere a telescopic rifle was swinging into the aim with an innocent man’s head in the cross-hairs.

  Tung Kuofeng, I’d written on a ten won note, and on the other side in English: Urgent we talk again. I’d waited until Yang’s relief had taken over the guard outside my cell and given the note to him, tapping my finger on Tung’s name; he’d gone off with it but I doubted if Tung ever received it; Yang had a particular hatred for me but the others had the look of the executioner on their faces whenever they came into the cell; I’d killed one of their own and they were all hoping I’d try running for it.

  At noon they’d brought me some bean curd in a small black iron cooking-pot; it was still on the floor, empty - a lethal weapon, except that they never came in without a submachine gun levelled at my heart; and if I could ever close up on one of them I knew better ways to do it than with a saucepan.

  The bell was chiming again at the far end of the courtyard, and in the narrow slit in the thick stone wall I could see a powdering of the dusk darkening the leaves of the acacia trees. The wooden clappers began soon afterwards, and the low monotone of chanting voices. When it was over, Yang came on duty again, throwing open the big tumbler lock and pushing the door inwards with his gun and looking at me with his black eyes narrowed as if in contemplation; I don’t think he was just trying to play on my nerves; I think he wanted to look at me and go through in his imagination what he would finally do with me. The bruise on his throat had darkened, though not so much perhaps as the bruise on his pride: he should have been quicker out there in the courtyard last night.

  He backed away until he was in the stone passage outside, then jerked his gun in a sign to me to go with him.

  Colonel Igor Sinitsin was in the operations room with his aides, Tung Kuofeng and the interpreter.

  “I want to know if your people have started to act on the disinformation you gave them last night.”

  While I waited for the translation I noted that Major Alyev and Captain Samoteykin had their right hands in the pockets of their sports coats, even though Yang was standing behind me with his submachine gun; I was close enough to Tung to reach him, and they’d seen what I’d done to Yang last night. Killing Tung was the only workable method of destroying their operation and they knew that I knew that, though I wasn’t so sure he needed their protection: I could still remember the impact of that subtle force that had thrown me against the wall of his private chamber.

  He said: “Call your Embassy. What sign can they give us if they find my son?”

  This was why I’d tried to see him. Even if Ferris wanted to risk sending us a signal he wouldn’t be able to do it: one of these sets was kept open for transmissions direct from Moscow and the other for the Triad to report on progress with their continuing operations.

  “All right,” I said and pressed down the transmit lever. An English voice answered this time, and Ferris came to the Embassy radio within fifteen seconds.

  “Jade One.”

  “Eagle to Jade One. If you find the objective, get a USAF fighter to make a low-altitude pass over the monastery.”

  “Understood, but we’ve made no progress yet. This is a tough one.”

  I began using speechcode. “Keep talking, and put in the names Pyongyang and North Korea, also President Kim Sung, with a neutral background.”

  After three sentences I turned to Tung. “Over to you.”

  He spoke to the interpreter and I heard the three names being spoken at roughly the same intervals used by Ferris. While I waited I tried to think how to slip in a warning to Ferris on the three next victims of Tung’s operation, but there wasn’t a chance, and in any case the deadline was up and the first one was probably on the ground by now with a hand outstretched and the security guards keeping the crowd back and the ambulance siren fading in, and nothing I could do about it except watch Tung Kuofeng from the corner of my eye and try to work out a murderously fast attack that would take him down on top of me as a shield when they opened up with their guns.

  But I would have to change my thinking on that. With this heavy a guard at the monastery I had no chance of getting away; the only chance for Jade One was to find Tung Chuan and try to free Kuofeng and set him up in a world spotlight and have him expose the Soviets; in no other way could the damage to Chinese-American relations be repaired. Even if a chance came, I mustn’t kill him now.

  I heard Sinitsin saying: “Five members of the Japanese Red Army will assist in the mock overthrow of President Kim Sung, and a few of his guards will be shot for the sake of appeara
nces. These men are now on their way from Tokyo by commercial airliner.”

  When Tung spoke, it seemed to me that he was using precisely similar cadences and intervals as in the original Russian, and I admired his skill; he used names and speechcode, as he’d heard me do, but when his totally dissimilar message came it carried a brute shock.

  “The American Charge d’Affaires has just been ambushed and shot dead in Pekin. You must find my son. The next action is scheduled for noon tomorrow.”

  I pushed down the transmit lever, sickened, and gave the message to Ferris. There were people above Croder in London, all the way up to the Prime Minister, though he could short-circuit them and reach her direct if he had to. And by now she’d be asking questions as the slaughter went on.

  The British Foreign Secretary, the American Ambassador, the passengers on board that airliner and now the American Charge d’Affaires. Have you replaced the agent in the field?

  No, Prime Minister. He’s close to the opposition now.

  How close?

  Very close. Within reach of an act of sanction.

  A pause on the line while she considered, watching the rain on the window. Then what is holding him up? The tone severe as she demanded of Croder, and Ferris, and the agent in the field to do what they were paid to do, and to do it now.

  There are difficulties, ma’am. The agent’s position is hazardous in the extreme.

  He’s alone?

  Yes.

  Can’t you invoke assistance from others? From NATO forces in the area, for instance?

  While the rain ran down the window and the red buses swayed through the streets, and the pigeons huddled along the parapets, as Big Ben chimed the hour, and the agent “in the area” sat in his sweat at the radio console feeling as Impotent and as incompetent as that clear and admonishing voice declared that he was.

  “Message understood.”

  Ferris.

  We waited. In a moment Sinitsin said: “In addition to the assistance of the Japanese Red Army team, there will be - ” Then he broke off as the other radio opened up with a signal, and our heads turned to watch the illuminated panel. The sender was speaking in Russian.

  “Zero-one-nine. Zero-one-nine to Action 5.”

  Major Alyev moved quickly to the transceiver and switched to transmit. “Action 5 to Zero-one-nine, receiving you.” Sinitsin took three precise paces and stood next to his aide. There were now only Captain Samoteykin and Yang behind me, but they were both armed and I knew that Yang had his finger inside the trigger-guard of the machine gun, and I was already feeling that sinister vibration in the air as Tung Kuofeng sensed my thoughts.

  “Zero-one-nine to Action 5. Further to our transmission of 14:16 hours, the developing opposition activities in the vicinity of Sinch’on-ni necessitate the removal of Tung Chuan to a more secure environment. Acknowledge.”

  I looked away from the transceiver but went on listening.

  This was Moscow.

  Alyev touched the transmit lever. “Action 5 acknowledging.

  This is a tough one, Ferris had said a few minutes ago on the other radio; but London had launched a massive intelligence search in response to my signal of last night, and local agents had been sensitised to the area where Tung Chuan was being held, and the KGB unit had felt the trembling of the web. At some time while I was in my cell playing with bricks there had been earlier transmissions, alerting Sinitsin, who in turn had reported to Moscow.

  “Zero-one-nine to Action 5. Tung Chuan and our party will board Cathay Pacific Flight 584 departing Kimpo Airport, Seoul, 02:18 tomorrow, destination Pyongyang, North Korea. Our party will signal you on arrival. Acknowledge and repeat.”

  Major Alyev responded.

  I sat picking at the grime that had got under my nails since I’d dropped out of the sky two nights ago. I was listening to the death knell of Jade One and there was nothing I could do about it. When Alyev completed the exchange and switched to automatic receive he was going to put the light out over the board in London.

  Croder had been getting warm: too warm. They had all lent their weight to the concerted effort to find Tung Chuan: the sleepers and the agents-in-place throughout South-east Asia, the Asian Signals Coordinate, the Soviet Department V Operations Monitor Section, Dossier File (Asia), Intelligence Support Stations (South Korea) and Active Signals Search. The mobile direction-finding units had deployed their equipment into the areas indicated by reports and information coming in from the departments and support stations in London and Asian theatre, and had gradually closed in on the region of Sinch’on-ni. In another few hours they would have made a hit, and signalled Ferris; London would have ordered a paramilitary operation to release Tung Chuan, and soon afterwards we would have heard the thunder of a fighter aircraft passing through the night sky low above the monastery here, and Tung Kuofeng would have turned to Colonel Sinitsin and said: I shall do no more for you.

  Mission completed, objective achieved, so forth.

  But not now.

  “Zero-one-nine to Action 5. You will remain open to receive.”

  The KGB major acknowledged and left the receiver circuit open.

  I had enough time. It would only need ten seconds to hit my own transmit lever and tell Ferris: Tung Chuan is being flown from Seoul to Pyongyang at 02:18 tomorrow, Cathay Pacific Flight 584. Get him. But I hadn’t been told to start transmitting again and the moment Sinitsin heard me he’d be auspicious and if he didn’t stop me before I’d finished the signal he’d pick up “Tung Chuan”, “Seoul”, “Pyongyang” and “Cathay Pacific” and would realise I understood Russian and was passing on the message from Moscow. He would then do two things: he would have me taken outside and shot and he would signal Moscow and tell them the plans would have to be changed. And Ferris could send in a whole battalion of NATO troops to pick up Tung Chuan at the airport tomorrow morning, and draw blank.

  There was tension in the room again.

  “If they move him to Pyongyang,” Captain Samoteykin began, but Sinitsin cut him short.

  “Say nothing now.”

  Professional caution: he wasn’t trusting the Korean interpreter, the only non-Russian here - as far as he knew - who could speak the language.

  Tension from Tung Kuofeng, too. He must have picked up the same names from the Russian, especially “Tung Chuan”, and probably realised his son was being taken from Seoul to Pyongyang; he didn’t know the flight number or the time of departure, but the move was probably imminent and he’d heard the name of the airline; if he signalled his Triad they would move in on Kimpo Airport and wait for Tung Chuan to arrive and try to get him out of the hands of his KGB guards.

  But he couldn’t transmit without instructions, any more than I could; if he made an attempt, the interpreter would read his Chinese and warn Sinitsin before he’d finished transmitting.

  Some of the tension in the room was my own. While Tung was learning that his son was to be moved out of our reach and into North Korea, I was learning the most bitter lesson of the executive in the field: that he can come critically close to bringing off a mission and still have to see it snatched away from him without a chance in hell of holding on.

  I wanted only ten seconds with my director on this radio, but I couldn’t have it, and the only signal I could send that would make any sense would be: Ferris, we’re finished.

  Chapter 26

  Moon

  Tung Kuofeng sat perfectly still.

  “My son is precious to me,” he said in his toneless English. “Our line stems from the Ch’ing dynasty, and he is my eldest.”

  The thing moved closer to him.

  I said nothing.

  “They knew that,” he said with his night-dark eyes brooding on mine. “That is why they abducted him.”

  The thing had reached him now, or one end of it had. The rest of it lay across the flagstones like a heavy rope. I tried to warn him but there was no sound.

  “That is why it is so important for you to find my son
. If I die it is not important to me. If my son dies, the line will be finished. I will do anything you wish, if you can save him.”

  The narrow mottled head slipped gracefully between the arm and the body of Tung Kuofeng, appearing on his other side and curving across the golden dragons on the front of his robe, curving again and winding, compressing the dark silk.

  Tung Kuofeng began smiling, as if he knew a secret. I had never seen him smile before.

  “They must have put something in the rat. Inside the frozen rat. Kori, perhaps. Or something synthetic, like flarismine.” His body was almost hidden now by the squeezing coils. “Something to send it into a frenzy.”

  Then it constricted in one powerful spasm of nerve and muscle, and Tung’s face turned dark with blood; it constricted again and again like a tensed coil-spring retracting until Tung Kuofeng was a bloodied effigy in the shape of a man, with the dragons writhing across the wet silk of his robe as the boa went on squeezing, squeezing, until it blocked my breath and I woke shivering with the taste of his blood in my mouth, sour and primitive.

  I opened my eyes. The oblong gap of light was still there in the door, with shadows moving across the arched ceiling as the flames of the lanterns moved in a draught of air. Under me I could feel the soft resilience of the straw-filled hessian mattress.

  The sound came again.

  I often dream about snakes.

  Figures on my watch-face: 11:36.

  That bloody thing in Seoul had upset me; I was going to dream about it for a long time, if there was a long time left to me. Highly unlikely.

  Came again. So quiet that it could have just been in my mind; but I know my mind; it doesn’t play tricks on me; it lets me know things; it lets me know the kind of things I should know.

  The shadows on the arched ceiling outside the door of my cell looked much as I’d seen them before; they were moving in the same rhythm, as the mountain air breathed through the labyrinthine passages and apertures of the monastery, pulling at the lantern flames. These people could have lit this place like a supermarket if they’d wanted to; they had a generator going for the transceivers; but it was probably visible at night to some of the villages on the far slopes of the foothills, or to the wagoners and goatherds along the mountain tracks. They’d put camouflage nets over the two helicopters out there, so they wanted things to look normal.