He didn’t consider them friends, either. So it was well worth a little further enquiry.
Behind the locked doors of his Yasenevo office, further protected by the bright red ‘no entry’ light, Colonel Fyodor Tudin spread out for convenience the bulky file that he knew Natalia had already studied on the intriguing Englishman.
As Natalia Fedova’s immediate deputy, Tudin was aware of most ongoing operations, and there had been no indication, in any discussion or internal memorandum, of any official activity involving someone called Charles Edward Muffin: no indication of anything ongoing concerning England at all. Which left the possible conjecture that the woman was interested in someone with whom she had once been connected. And retained an interest.
Only a conjecture, Tudin warned himself. But wasn’t conjecture one of the central threads of basic intelligence? Unquestionably. It was definitely worth pursuing. But how? He couldn’t initiate any enquiry to London. It would be traceable, to him by name. And officially Western targets weren’t his responsibility anyway, so he had no explainable reason. The only obviously safe way would be to continue discreetly monitoring everything the bitch did. And be ready to move when she made a mistake.
Tudin felt the excitement warm through him at the thought of at last finding what he had been looking for.
Sixteen
Jeremy Snow’s initial reaction was a reason-blurring, breath-robbing anger which diminished only gradually, never completely leaving him. Neither did the asthma. He rejected outright the congratulatory cable and the warning messages as any sort of praise or concern for his safety. Instead he saw them – and the refusal for the second meeting he’d insisted upon – as London accepting Walter Foster’s bowel-opening hysteria rather than his own properly balanced assessment.
He’d come inches close to making the open accusation – actually considering calling Foster a coward – in the first few irrational hours, after waiting fruitlessly in the park and later collecting the London communications from the dead-letter drop. In his drop-delivered reply he accused both Foster and London of blatant over-reaction. He appreciated their congratulations and their evaluation of his worth. He was not, however, any longer prepared to operate under the conditions now being imposed. He wanted an entirely revised operational procedure and most particularly to work through someone different at the embassy. He had no intention, therefore, of doing anything further until he heard direct from London. Until the changes were agreed, he was temporarily terminating their relationship.
It was the letter he’d wanted and planned to write about Foster for a long time – even before the latest panic had brought everything to a head – but there still remained more frustration than satisfaction after he sent it.
In the days following the threat to quit, Snow’s anger subsided further and he had time to consider what it would mean. And concluded, with some concern, that it would mean a great deal to him not to go on.
He rationalized that his feelings did not in any way conflict with his more important vocation as a Jesuit. Rather, they were closely related. It was impossible, in any sense of the word, for him properly to function in his true vocation. It was a sham, lecturing on basic English to a varying handful of Chinese: as much a sham as Father Robertson remaining as caretaker of an echoing, dead church in which only the two of them could practise their faith and that – because of the old man’s fear – surreptitiously, afraid the simple act of praying might offend some unknown official into some unanticipated gesture of correction or punishment. So he’d come to see his second role as the only way he could operate as a soldier priest. At his theological college, his Jesuit tutor had frequently preached Busenbaum’s creed of the end justifying the means. Snow could relate to that: get something like spiritual comfort from it, in the sterile religious situation in which he was forced to exist. Until now, the secret work had justified his continuing there, with no one able to forecast what the end might be. But now Snow realized that by quitting he had precipitated that end. It was too late to change his mind – he didn’t want to change his mind, about working with Foster – but he didn’t want to stop an activity he believed gave some purpose to his being in Beijing.
His concern kept the anger bubbling, particularly with his conviction that London had already come down on Foster’s side.
Having demanded a decision direct from London, Snow daily visited the four use-at-random message drops in and around the Forbidden City for their reply. Each day they remained empty. He considered trying to prompt a response by leaving a message for Foster to collect and transmit to London, before accepting he’d already told them he would not any longer communicate through the man, who therefore probably wasn’t maintaining any checks upon the drops anyway. After a week Snow came close to eroding his threat against Foster by activating the emergency meeting procedure at the Taoist temple, but in the end he didn’t do that either: the warning cancellation of the second park meeting had prohibited any further public place encounters, so Foster would not have turned up, even if he’d monitored the demand.
Snow recognized that effectively he had, for the moment, been abandoned, as much by his own decision as by London’s. Nevertheless he knew when there would be a meeting. Only a week away there was a reception at the embassy for visiting British industrialists to which both he and Father Robertson had been invited.
It became a period of permanent impatience which Snow thought, however, he kept from becoming obvious. Despite their being thrown together in such a self-enclosed environment, from which a mutually dependent friendship might have been expected, Snow’s relationship with the head of mission had always been distantly formal, so Father Robertson did not notice the younger man drawing even further within himself. And the association with the current English students was even more formal: only twice did Snow come close to snapping at irritating mistakes and both times stopped himself.
He was glad of the restraint on the second occasion, because that was the day Mr Li made his unexpected visit.
Snow was not initially aware of the man’s presence, so he did not know how long he had been standing in the half-lit rear of the room. It was only after he’d almost shouted at a boy he’d taught for six months and who therefore should not have repeatedly confused the verb with an adjective in a practice sentence that Snow detected movement at the back. It had started off as a small class, and Snow thought it might have been a late arrival, momentarily holding back from interrupting the session. Or someone temporarily sheltering: there had been two Gobi storms, although the wind outside hadn’t seemed too strong that day.
Snow stopped the lesson and said: ‘Jin-lai’, waiting for the newcomer to enter further, never quite sure if he kept the surprise from showing when he finally recognized his cloying escort from the information-gathering journey.
‘I am sorry,’ said Li, speaking in English. ‘I do not wish to intrude.’
There were five men and three girls forming that day’s class. Each turned, at the interruption. The instinctive recognition of Li as an official was immediate and the stir of unease rippled discernibly among them.
‘I am glad you accepted my invitation,’ said Snow. Conscious of the need to reassure his students, he repeated in Mandarin the circumstances of his meeting with Li.
‘We became friends,’ exaggerated Li, expanding the explanation after Snow finished, in Chinese himself this time.
None of the students looked reassured. To Li, Snow said: ‘Please join us.’
The Chinese shook his head. ‘Please go ahead: I will just observe.’ He finished the sentence already withdrawing into the gloom: the scant light was such that Snow’s view was of a pair of disembodied legs, the upper part of the man lost in darkness.
Snow made a determined effort but it wasn’t a success, more from his students’ apprehension than from any uncertainty of his. Two of the men repeatedly twisted in their seats, trying to see what Li was doing, and all of them made so many stumbling mistakes in the conversat
ional exchanges that finally Snow abandoned that part of the lesson. He ended the session early, setting revision to be done in their own time before the next lesson.
Throughout Li remained apparently unmoving at the back, not coming forward until after everyone apart from Snow had left: all the class did so hurriedly, three with their heads averted from the man.
‘It was obviously a beginners’ class,’ said Li, pointedly. As always, he wore a buttoned-to-the-neck tunic suit.
‘I am surprised to see you,’ admitted Snow. He wished the session that Li had witnessed had not been such a shambles. ‘I did not think you were serious, about coming here.’
‘I’m usually serious.’
There was no doubt about that: Snow found it difficult to imagine the man ever laughing. He gestured around the now empty room. ‘Sometimes the classes are much better attended: the students more mature.’
‘And not held in your temple?’
‘I told you they were not,’ reminded Snow. Li’s visit did surprise him but he still refused to be alarmed. Father Robertson would be, though. And doubtlessly London, if they learned about it. Snow decided not to tell either.
‘Of course you did.’
‘How was your visit to Tunxi?’
‘You have an excellent memory.’
‘Not really,’ denied Snow. He decided some Chinese played ping-pong with a ball, others with words.
‘They were from Texas. The man smoked cigars that smelled like perfume. They invited me to visit them if I ever go to America.’
‘The Americans are hospitable people: you will enjoy it.’
‘I have no wish to visit America.’
‘Yet you have learned the language.’
‘For the benefit of China.’
Imagining an opening, Snow said: ‘How, exactly?’
Li smiled again, as if pleased at some success. ‘Showing its greatness to others.’
‘Which you do very well.’
Li looked around the sparse room. ‘So this is where you teach?’
‘Always,’ insisted Snow, believing the man was pressing the obvious suspicion about meetings in the adjacent church.
‘Three times a week?’
Snow couldn’t remember telling Li the extent of the curriculum. ‘I fit in with the other demands upon my students’ time.’
‘Which must leave you a lot unfilled, for yourself?’
Snow wished he had anticipated the pitfall. ‘There are quite a lot of extra-curricular duties: work out of school hours to be marked and commented upon. And administration.’
‘I suppose there must be.’
Snow felt the beginnings of breathlessness, the familiar insidious closing around his chest. ‘I could offer you tea?’ Whereabouts would Father Robertson be? Although he went out every day, the mission chief seemed to spend most of his time around the complex.
‘No thank you. I wondered if you had managed yet to get your photographs developed. I would like to see them.’
The oversight hit Snow like a blow. There was no danger from those he’d taken at Anqing, but the Shanghai shots were incriminating. There would be a delay but he could retrieve the Anqing prints from London. But Li was too astute to forget the others. Stalling – unable to think of anything better – Snow said: ‘I didn’t consider getting anything developed here. I sent all the negative rolls home to my family, in England.’
‘But they will be returned to you here, after they are printed?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Snow, anxious now.
‘You took six of me,’ said Li, definitely. ‘I would be extremely grateful if you could let me have copies as a memento of our trip. The Shanghai pictures, against the river, should be particularly good. I would like to see them, as well.’
Snow was well aware of the yawning hole into which he was about to fall but couldn’t think of a way to avoid it. His chest was constricting even more tightly. ‘It would be a pleasure.’ He would have to tell London of this visit from Li: and be forced to maintain contact with the Chinese.
‘Are you not well?’ demanded Li, perceptively.
‘I suffer from asthma. Sometimes the weather affects me.’ The chain reaction began, Snow’s breathing worsening because of Li’s awareness of it. He forced himself on: ‘I shall need an address: somewhere to deliver the photographs when they arrive.’
‘I will not put you to such inconvenience. I will come to you, here.’
‘I don’t know when I will get them back. You could have many wasted journeys.’
‘It will not be a problem.’
Snow could not think of any better, stronger objections. ‘As you wish,’ he conceded. Finally he hurried the inhaler to his mouth, sucking in deeply. Almost at once the relief started.
Snow expected the man to make some comment. Instead Li said: ‘I have another request.’
Snow regarded the other man nervously, trying to anticipate what was to come. ‘If I can help in any way.’
‘I would like to see your temple. As you saw ours.’
Why? wondered Snow, not believing that anything this man said or asked was casual, without some hidden reason. ‘Of course.’
‘When?’
‘Why not now?’
‘You don’t need notice?’
‘Why should I need notice?’
‘I just thought …’
‘… What?’
The smile was like a camera shutter, something missed if a person blinked. ‘Nothing. I did not want to impose.’
‘You won’t be,’ assured Snow. He led ahead through the interlinking closed-in passages and open paths. As he approached, Snow thought the church looked like a medieval boat, beached to get it clear to rot: it had to be a visual distortion, because of how he was squinting against the wind, but it even appeared to be tilting slightly sideways as if it were collapsing.
Father Robertson was turning away from the altar before which he had apparently been bowed in prayer when they entered: Snow felt another snatch of breathlessness. The head of mission came to an immediate halt, a frightened man immediately expecting disaster: his head moved between Snow and Li, like a spectator at a tennis tournament.
‘You must be Father Robertson?’ said Li.
‘That is so.’ Only at the very end of the short sentence did the confirmation become a throat-clearing cough.
Hurrying to cover the awkwardness, Snow made the formal introductions, identifying the Chinese as his recent travel companion. ‘Mr Li asked if he could see our church.’
‘And the photographs?’ said Li, at once.
‘Photographs?’ The question rasped from the older priest. The whisky intake was discernible.
‘Souvenir photographs,’ elaborated Snow. ‘Reminders of the trip.’
Father Robertson remained where he had stopped, appearing lost in a church in which he should have felt most at home. Li gazed around at everything, tilting his head to look up into the organ loft, then closely examining the altar area. The day had faded even more now, much of the main church already dark, the two side chapels blacked out from view. The spiked stand for votive candles was empty, showing no sign of use, beside a confessional in which Snow occasionally went through the charade with Father Robertson, never once making a proper confession, satisfied the avoidance would not lead to eternal damnation because of the necessity of what he was secretly doing. Father Robertson must have extinguished the two larger, thicker altar candles before they entered: both still sent a tangled thread of smoke upwards, quickly to be lost in the expanse of the place. Li returned up the aisle from the altar, dragging his finger over the pew backs to make arrow trails in the dust. Snow realized the Chinese was looking for indications that the church was used for regular group worship, happy the man was going to be disappointed.
Li halted, beside them, and said: ‘It is a large building. This could be a home for many people.’
‘It was, in the past,’ scored Snow, immediately, careless of the tremor that visib
ly passed through Father Robertson.
‘That was a use of words that I don’t quite understand,’ complained Li.
Snow didn’t believe the protest. Before Snow could respond, however, Father Robertson said: ‘It is no longer used for worship! The government has agreed it can remain as it is, though.’
‘Yes,’ said Li, as if already aware. Looking directly at Snow, he said: ‘You worship here?’
‘I do,’ confirmed Snow, at once. ‘There is no official restriction upon our doing that.’
‘Quite so,’ agreed Li, again as if he already knew.
‘Is there anything else you would like to see?’ invited Snow.
‘Is there anything else I should see?’
Snow gestured around the vaulted building. ‘This is what there is. All there is.’
‘Thank you, for giving me so much of your time.’
‘You gave me so much of yours,’ said Snow, conscious of Father Robertson’s head swivelling worriedly back and forth again.
‘You won’t forget the photographs?’
‘I would not expect to hear back very quickly.’
‘It is not difficult for me to call.’ To Father Robertson, Li said: ‘I will probably see you again then?’
‘Yes,’ The quaver was scarcely noticeable.
Pointedly Snow said: ‘The front door of the church is permanently locked. I will guide you out the way we came in.’
Li fell into step with the priest without any attempt at conversation: at a turning, Snow saw Father Robertson at a hesitating distance. The chief of mission was hovering in the office corridor when Snow came back from the street exit, one hand clasped over the other.
‘What photographs?’ the white-haired man demanded once more.
‘Ordinary tourist photographs.’ Snow was not alarmed by Li’s visit, but for the first time he was prepared to admit, to himself, that the man’s interest was going beyond that of a normal tour escort: he didn’t want an additional inquisition from his superior.
‘Your trip has offended them! We’re under scrutiny.’
‘Which will discover what?’
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