by James Adams
What mattered now, he reflected, was the act of betrayal itself. He needed Adams to cross that line between complicity and duplicity, where he moved from merely talking of subverting his own organization to actually doing it.
Dickens had spent much of his adult life analysing the IRA and exploring the motives of its leaders. He understood and even sympathized with the flame of Republicanism which some leaders like Adams had inherited from the previous generation. He had no doubt that Republicanism would win out in the end. The British would leave Northern Ireland with some kind of fudged compromise that would allow the south a say in the north’s politics and with some guarantee for the Protestants to stop them rising in revolt against the deal. It would be a good thing too, he thought: nobody really gave a damn about Northern Ireland. It was a suppurating boil on the rump of Britain and everyone knew it. The British public didn’t care if the whole of Ireland sank beneath the sea. In fact they would be rather pleased to see it go. But no politician could afford to be seen to give in to the terrorists and until the IRA were a total irrelevance the Army would stay and terrorism would continue.
Where he parted company with Adams was over the use of terrorism. There could be no justification for the kind of violence Adams encouraged. The murdering of innocent civilians was never right, whatever the cause. And expanding the killings to civil servants or to men and women who worked for the British government was just an excuse to widen the terrorist net as more “legitimate” targets became increasingly difficult to hit.
If this little ploy worked, then terrorism in England could be stopped until the IRA inserted another team to carry out the bombings and the killings. But, by then, he could have his hooks in Adams. It would have to be played with consummate delicacy. Too much pressure and Adams would fall, too little and he would continue to run the show and be of little use. The balance would be a delicate one, but then, wasn’t it always? The important thing was to create the opportunity and then manoeuvre for maximum exploitation.
The front door bell rang — God he hated the tasteless ding-dong note that seemed to accompany all government housing. Rising from his chair, he walked out of the sitting room to the front door, turned on the porch light and peered through the spyhole.
Rita stood looking directly at the tiny glass circle and her eyes met his. He took a step back, astonishment vying with concern for her safety.
He flung open the door and dragged her inside. “Rita, for God’s sake, you’re mad to come here,” he whispered as his head darted to left and right to check that no one had observed her arrival. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He shut the door and moved towards the sitting room. There was no sound from upstairs. His wife was used to the late-night visitors and knew enough to keep out of the way while the secret business was done.
“I’ve brought you a message, Bryan,” Rita replied.
There was a flatness to her voice, a hesitancy in her movements that set Bryan’s antennae twitching. “A message? What message? Who from?”
Rita turned to look at him. He noticed that her face looked terribly sad, her eyes watery with unshed tears. He had an awful premonition of what she was going to say.
“It’s from Gerry Adams, Bryan,” she said.
And then he knew. All these years that bastard had been toying with him. All these years while he was being so clever, Adams had known about his relationship with Rita. He had used her just as Bryan now wanted to use him. But Adams had turned defeat not into victory but into another shabby episode in British-IRA relations. The clever British scheme designed to entrap Adams into betrayal had succeeded — but only at the price of Bryan realizing he had been fatally compromised. Now there were trades Adams could demand as a price for his silence. The choice of messenger was a signal that there were no winners in this war, only victims.
He felt the bitter taste of betrayal in his own mouth. He recalled that delicate seduction in the prison cell, the physical relationship that came later, the pride he had taken in the recruiting and running of this, his best agent. Ah, what a fool he had been.
But there was business to be done. She had come to deliver two messages: the first the knowledge that her presence alone would supply, the second the information that was worth the compromise of Rita — the price Adams would pay for continued political power. It was an expensive bargain for both sides. Now he wanted to know its full dimensions.
“So, do you have a name and a time?” he asked, his voice hard, dismissing the past and setting the tone for the future.
“The name I have been given is Sir Robert Sanford and the time is tomorrow.”
The deal made, he suddenly wanted to ask her why she had done what she had. What had led her to betray him. But then he realized he would only sound as foolish as he must appear. She hadn’t betrayed anything at all. It was she who was true to her faith and he who had been courted and then seduced.
With the truth came an understanding that they had nothing between them. All those years of careful meetings in safe houses, the afternoons spent making love, the information exchanges, they had no substance. The new relationship was that of betrayer and betrayed but he was no longer sure what role he was supposed to be playing.
Bryan moved to the door, opened it and allowed her to pass out into the night.
CHAPTER XXIII
Jonny walked down Whitehall, past Admiralty House and Horse Guards, turned into the Cabinet Office and then down to COBRA. He had listened to the news before coming in and had heard nothing but speculation and updates so assumed that the reconnaissance had gone smoothly. The offices told a different story.
The main conference room was filled with the detritus of crisis: ashtrays filled with cigarettes smoked down to the filter; coffee cups with the overflow congealed in the saucer, binding the cup to the base; above all, the stench of frying. Jonny had been warned about the food at COBRA and in particular about the breakfasts. Apparently they are delivered the night before from the canteen at New Scotland Yard and after sitting all night are heated in the microwave in the morning. The result is what is supposed to be the most disgusting breakfast in London. Judging by the smell, the reputation was well justified, Jonny thought.
There appeared to be a lull in the activities of the centre. There was no meeting in progress, just individuals in and out of uniform walking around with the glazed look that real exhaustion brings.
Jonny ducked into the communications room to ask a soldier on duty for an update.
“Christ, it’s a fucking disaster, mate,” the corporal said. Seeing the question in Jonny’s face the man continued with the relish of the depressed embracing a newcomer into the brotherhood. “Yeah, they went in last night all right. But they walked right into a fucking ambush. Cut to pieces, they were. Seventeen dead by the latest count, three in hospital. Oh, and one civilian bought it too.”
“What’s happening at this end?” Jonny asked.
“Everyone’s been running round with fires up their bums all night,” the soldier replied caustically. “But nothing’s actually been done. They can’t decide what to do. Go in and you die. Stay out and the hostages die. Give in and its curtains for the politicians. Mug’s game if you ask me.” The soldier turned back to his radio and replaced his headphones.
Jonny walked through the main room into the smaller conference area where he had met Hurd the day before. He saw John Witherow of SO13 sitting in a corner, nursing a steaming cup of coffee. The dark pouches under his eyes and the growth of stubble were mute testament to the man’s exhaustion. Jonny walked over.
“I’ve heard the news,” he began. “What a mess.”
Witherow only nodded, too tired to indulge in small talk.
“There must be something we can do,” Jonny persisted.
“Well, if you’ve got any bright ideas, do let us know. The fact is those policemen walked straight into a trap. The terrorists had laid mines in the Tunnel and the men just walked straight into them. The
y’d even primed them with ball bearings.” Witherow shook his head in anger and sorrow. “It was carnage. The lads never stood a chance. Well, I’m off for a wash and brush up,” he said, levering himself out of the seat with a small groan as unwilling limbs were forced into action yet again. “I’d better look my best for the PM and his mob. It’s their party now. Poor bastards.”
Jonny glanced at his watch. There was nothing for him here and it was time to head for his rendezvous with Julie and Lin Yung.
Stanley Kung had taken a comfortable apartment in Clarges Street in Mayfair. It was perfectly situated within walking distance of the gambling at Les Ambassadeurs, the spinach soufflé with anchovy sauce at Langan’s, and his shirtmaker in Jermyn Street, across Piccadilly. He might be running a terrorist operation but there was no need to slum it. After all, he had operated as the head of White Lotus for years in Hong Kong. Everyone who needed to know knew what he did, from the police commissioner through to the Governor, and there was never any difficulty. He did not see why a trip to London should alter his pleasure patterns at all. The police would probably not know of his existence but even if they did, there would be no evidence linking him to any of the criminals involved. And even if there were, nobody would speak out against him for fear of retribution, which would be swiftly enacted back in Hong Kong. So it was a relaxed and confident Stanley Kung who stepped out from his flat to walk across to Cork Street. He had an appointment at Waddington’s to see some Nicholson sculptures.
As he left the doorway and turned left towards the junction with Curzon Street, his bodyguard fell in behind him. He might be confident but there was no point in behaving like an idiot. Anyway, Chang had been his shadow for ten years now and he would feel only half clothed without him.
He ambled along, taking in the atmosphere and admiring the attractive women who seemed to have a unique and very expensive style that was all Mayfair’s own. As he came level with the junction with Fitzmaurice Place and Curzon Street, he heard a soft “plop” behind him and then the sound of a falling body. He turned in time to see Chang’s body hit the pavement and the bloody exit wound of a bullet that had tom a hole in the back of his jacket. He turned to run but already the three men had rushed past the dead bodyguard and had his arms pinned by his side. Then his arms were forced behind him and a pair of plastic handcuffs slid over his wrists. He winced as they were tightened hard enough to bite into the flesh. He opened his mouth to shout. A car pulled up next to the pavement, the rear door opened and he was half led, half pushed into the back seat. As his brain completed the instruction to his vocal chords, the car pulled away from the kerb. Any noise he might have made was drowned by the car stereo playing some unrecognizable rock music.
The car headed back down Curzon Street, crossed over Park Lane and headed north up the Edgware Road into the anonymity of North London. At the start of the journey, he tried to ask questions of his captors but they simply ignored him. All the men were Chinese so he knew this was not a matter of “helping with inquiries” or “taken in for questioning”. These were people like him. He was about to pay a heavy price for his over-confidence.
Twenty minutes later, after passing Lord’s Cricket Ground, the car turned into Charles Lane and then turned again into the small driveway of a large Victorian house. The man in the front passenger seat pressed a small plastic box and the garage door opened in time for them to drive straight in. The door closed behind them and Stanley Kung knew that his fate was sealed.
Kung was helped out of the car with a gentleness that reflected his captors’ confidence in the strength of their position. Kung knew there was little point in struggling. Instead, he tried to prepare himself mentally for the real test which he knew lay ahead.
He was taken through a white door and directly into the kitchen of the house. He looked around and simply saw rather average wooden cabinets, an oven, fridge, freezer, gas hob. He was made to sit at the wooden table and his handcuffs were removed. Just as he began to draw breath, the door opposite opened and another
Chinese walked in. Kung sensed from the movement around him that this man was a leader.
“Stanley Kung. I have wanted to meet you for a long time. My name is Lin Yung. I am head of the Guojia anquanbu in Hong Kong.”
Kung watched as the newcomer bowed slightly. So this was Lin Yung. He knew of him, of course, but their paths had never crossed before. Frantically, Kung searched his memory banks for what he knew of Lin Yung, to see if there was anything that might give him a lever into the man’s mind.
He kept files on all these people, in some cases very detailed files, and as 1997 approached, he had been laying out very large sums in China itself to make sure that his files were the best. That way he could find weakness among the men soon to be his masters and position himself early to exploit it. But he could recall nothing about Lin Yung and that fact alone told him something. If he could remember nothing that meant there was nothing that made him attractive to the White Lotus. He was clean, which meant commitment, and that meant trouble today.
“I can’t say this is a pleasure,” Kung replied sarcastically. “I assume because of the way I was brought here that you have some questions to ask — questions which, I may say, I am very probably not going to be able to answer.”
Lin Yung had been taught by his masters in Beijing that there are two different methods of interrogation. The first is the slow erosion of a man’s will, its gradual corruption until the mind disintegrates and can be bent and twisted into any shape the torturer wants. The second method is the rapid application of intense psychological and physical pressure. Most men, he had been told, believe they can stand pain because they imagine only what they know and they believe in civilized bounds of behaviour. Show a man that there are no such bounds and the will breaks quickly. Lin Yung had always adopted the second method and he had found it to be most successful.
He picked up the Moulinex food processor from the kitchen counter and brought it over to the table.
“You know, Stanley, this is a very interesting device,” he began conversationally. “It has revolutionized cooking for millions all over the world. It even brings mousses and soufflés into the range of idiots like me.” He pointed at the metal blade in the base of the clear plastic container. This turns at 500 revolutions a minute. It chops almost anything: steaks, carrots, lobster shells.”
Lin Yung walked back to the sink, picked up a knife and returned to the table. He gave the top of the Moulinex bowl a half-turn and lifted it off. He then pressed the knife point down to bypass the safety device that is supposed to prevent the machine working without the lid. Immediately, the two steel blades at the bottom of the bowl began spinning with a soft humming sound.
One of the guards reached forward, picked up Kung’s arm and plunged it into the bottom of the bowl.
Without even a momentary pause, the blades chopped and cut through skin, tissue, veins and bone. Kung’s hand was shredded by the machine. In an instant the bowl was covered with bright red blood and then there was a horrible splatting sound as larger pieces of flesh and bone were cut from his fingers.
The pain was unimaginable. Stanley Kung screamed, his mouth wide open as if the noise could somehow diminish the agony that began at the end of his right arm but spread to cover every single part of his body. It was as if every nerve had touched a red-hot flame at the same instant.
Then, just as suddenly, it was over. Lin Yung lifted the knife, the connection was broken and the blades stopped.
The guard lifted Stanley Kung’s arm out of the bowl. When he saw what was left of his hand, Kung turned away with a half-cry, half-sob and vomited all over the shoes of the guard standing on his left.
His fingers looked as if they had been chewed by some ravenous beast. Three of his fingers had been cut back to the knuckle, the fourth was just a long piece of white bone with no flesh remaining. He had lost the top joint of his thumb although by some quirk the nail still hung from the flesh. Blood spurted from the
ends of all the fingers in a steady stream, covering the table and the white base of the dreadful machine.
“So, now that we understand each other, I have one or two questions I would like you to answer,” Yung continued in the same reasonable tone with which he had begun the conversation. “I need hardly add that if you fail to answer them, then we shall begin again. I can assure you that this little machine has a voracious appetite.”
Lin Yung paused for a moment to allow his words to be absorbed into the agonized mind of the man in front of him.
“I want to know what instructions the terrorists in the Tunnel have. I want to know how you communicate with them and I want to know who is supplying information on police movements to you.”
There was a moment when it looked as if Stanley Kung might be going to resist. But then his eyes fell on the bloody stump of his hand and he knew that resistance was pointless. There would simply be more torture and then more and in the end he would talk. He had seen it often enough to know that there were no heroes in such circumstances.
“Dai Choi has been ordered to kill half the hostages tonight in advance of the deadline as a final push to get what we want. If that fails, then the rest will die. But he will spread it out so that we can keep the pressure up for another few days.”
“He’s surely not going to decide when to do that,” Lin Yung interrupted. “How are you going to tell him?”
“We have agreed a stand-by watch for radio messages every odd hour on the hour,” Kung replied, his voice now so low that Lin Yung had to lean forward to hear him.
“And your informant outside?” he prompted.
“Lisu, the wife of Turnbull, the Hong Kong policeman,” Kung replied, his voice almost inaudible.
Lin Yung leaned further forward so that the two men’s faces were almost touching. “What radio frequency?” he shouted, desperate to keep his victim conscious.
Suddenly, Stanley Kung jerked upright, his left hand thrust out. He grabbed Lin Yung’s right wrist which had been resting on the table and pulled it back towards him. At the same time, he drove his head forward. The knife pierced his neck just below the ear and a huge fountain of blood spurted four feet across the room as the blade cut his jugular.
