Charlie’s Apprentice (35 page)

The Shanghai prints were last. There were five, the same number that he had taken of the warships and proudly sent to London. But there were no warships in any of these shots. The positioning was the same and the lighting was the same and the time of day was the same but Snow knew
they
were not the same. The innocuous and quite meaningless photographs had to have been taken subsequently, after the flotilla had sailed.

‘Now I can have mine, in exchange, can’t I?’ smiled Li.

They’d anticipated him, Snow accepted: beaten him. ‘I would hope so, very shortly,’ he said. How? he wondered.

Thirty-five

It took several hours for Gower to get hold of himself and fully comprehend the psychological pressure being imposed upon him. Finally, thankfully, he began to draw on the interrogation resistance in which he had done so well in training – and which had been further refined during those last, unorthodox sessions – and to concentrate upon behaving professionally. He’d faltered, admittedly: initially forgotten everything he’d ever been taught, all the training he’d undergone. But now he’d recovered: now he could fight back. Win.

So far it was almost classically textbook: there were even elements of it dating back as far as 1953 and recorded by men taken prisoner by the Chinese during the Korean war. He knew all those techniques. And others that followed later. So he could anticipate them: not completely perhaps, but enough. Fear – of the unknown, of what might happen next – was the first, eroding, intention of every interrogation. Once fear was instilled, every other collapse was inevitable, simply a matter of time. But it wasn’t going to happen to him. Not now he’d collected himself. There was apprehension, naturally. But no longer the panicked emptiness that had made him piss himself, in those first few moments. He could think ahead: guess what was coming. And what he could guess, even incompletely, wouldn’t be erodingly unknown.

The filthy, shit-smelling cell and the lice-ridden, stinking uniform were very much part of the ritual, calculated to degrade him into the deepest despair as quickly as possible. There was no toilet paper, if he was forced to use the fly- and excrement-encrusted hole. Water would be fouled, to give him dysentery. He’d have to expect any food to be rotten, to achieve the same illness: possibly even maggot-infested, openly to revolt him. And for as long as he was detained, he’d be denied any washing facilities. Not allowed to shave.

From the concrete shelf, Gower at last surveyed the rest of the cell in the necessary detail, seeking how they would watch him, surprised when he couldn’t detect any electronic device in any part of the ceiling or upper walls. All that was obvious was the round Judas-hole, in the solid metal door. He stood at last and went entirely around the cell to look more closely and still found nothing. There would be the minimal warning, from the covering scraping back, when they looked. He would have to be prepared to move quickly to conceal from them any indication that he’d regained control. My advantage, decided Gower.

Moving about the cell brought him close enough to the lavatory hole to hear the permanent buzz of the flies. Revulsion could be eroding, although not as much as fear. Equally essential that it be controlled: overcome. Alert for any sound from the door, he forced himself towards the hole, tensed against the stench and the sudden cloud swarm disturbed by his approach. More insects rose up about him in protest when he began to urinate. As he did so, he was aware of a positive scratching, from inside the hole. How many rats would there be, he wondered.

Gower was back on the concrete ledge when the observation point scraped open. He was sure he hunched forward, arms around himself in the near broken pose they wanted, before anyone looked in. Gower remained unmoving. It was several moments before it scraped loudly closed again.

Gower started his mental count from that observation, remaining bent, intent on gauging their routine. Roughly every fifteen minutes, he estimated, after the third inspection. Part of a careful pattern constantly to disconcert him by the noise and by his becoming unsettled at how frequently he was being watched. But counter-productive because he could match his pattern to theirs and move around the cell, even relax as much as possible, in between their checks.

Think ahead, he reminded himself, as he exercised. There would be the tainted food some time. They might even make him beg for the infected water, to demean him. He’d have to do that, if it became obvious they expected it: had to take the greatest care against their realizing he was resisting them. What else? Noise, he remembered. It would get worse as the night progressed, to keep him awake. Sleep deprivation was inextricably linked with fear, in the very beginning: the mentally strongest man, indoctrinated with every resistance skill ever devised, could be reduced to a puttylike automaton if he were continuously deprived of sleep longer than seventy-two hours. It was important that he get as much as possible, before the noise disturbance became louder and more sustained, which he knew it would.

Gower did not attempt to stretch out full-length. He was crouched forward at the next Judas-hole check but didn’t bother to move after the visor screeched shut. Instead he remained as he was, although as far back on the shelf as possible to support his back, trying to doze. He was never wholly successful, never lapsing into a proper sleep, but he didn’t want to do that because it would have been a dangerous mistake: he drifted in a half consciousness, resting but aware every time of the rasping scrape of the peep-hole, alert enough when it came to the louder sound of the door opening to be awake and looking at who entered. The bow-shouldered, bowed-headed man carrying the food wore a stained and shapeless tunic like him, obviously another prisoner. There was a guarding soldier either side. The food slopped over the edge of the bowl when it was dumped on to the table. The soldiers looked at him, expressionlessly. The food-carrier didn’t try. Nothing was said by anyone. The sound of the door slamming shut was still echoing in the corridor when the covering metal was slid back from the observation point.

For a moment Gower remained undecided: he did not feel genuinely hungry and did not want to arouse suspicion by appearing so, after such a comparatively short time without food. The hole remained uncovered longer than at any other time and so Gower moved eventually, going across to the table.

He had grown used to the lavatory in the corner. The smell from what was being offered as food was quite different but equally revolting. The bowl contained a predominantly grey liquid, but it was glutinous, slimed on top. There were things floating or suspended in it but Gower could not tell what they were supposed to be: they appeared transparent, as jellyfish are transparent, and when he looked closer he saw that like jellyfish there were black blobs or spots on some parts of whatever it was. There was a cup beside the food, half filled. Gower was prepared for the water to be discoloured, maybe even with detritus floating in it, but it was unexpectedly clear.

Aware of the eyes upon him, Gower stood with his back to the door but in front of the table, so the food tray was hidden from his onlooker. He visibly went through the motions that from behind would have seemed to be his bringing the cup to his mouth but, sure his face was hidden from outside, kept his lips tight, barely letting the water wet them. It didn’t taste sour or bad, but he still didn’t drink. There was no spoon to eat with, so Gower lifted the food bowl, but still hidden from outside did not let it even touch his mouth. He tried to avoid inhaling, fighting against the bile building up in his throat. He made four or five lifting and head-back swallowing movements, then replaced the bowl. The visor swivelled shut as he sat down on the ledge. Gower rose at once, pouring half the water into the lavatory to make it appear to have been drunk, then emptied most of the viscous slops after it. The flies rose and settled: there was excited scratching from inside the clotted rim.

Gower drowsed through four more doorway checks before the louder noise began. There was a lot of activity in the outside corridor, sounding like squads of men moving up and down to bursts of shouted orders, and then two separate loudspeakers started up with contrasting, discordant wails, one clashing against the other. It was so raucous that Gower almost missed the rasp of the peep-hole opening. He didn’t have to prepare himself. He was sitting up, awake, his hands actually to his ears against the cacophony. He remained like that but with his head bent, no longer able to doze but with his eyes closed, still resting after a fashion, despite the row.

He hadn’t expected the middle-of-the-night resumption of the questioning, but it was one of the standard procedures so Gower was not disorientated by the abrupt entry of an escort squad, although he tried to appear confused. He kept up the pretence when he re-entered the room where Chen was waiting.

The table was clear now, all his belongings gone. The recording operators looked to be the same men. The black-suited man who had been present at the arrest wasn’t there any more, and on this occasion the three-man escort remained inside the room.

‘We have proof that you are a spy,’ announced Chen, at once.

‘I am not a spy,’ rejected Gower. Although the Chinese was wearing the same tunic it appeared freshly pressed. The man’s open face gleamed with cleanliness and there was the obvious fragrance of a heavy cologne. Gower recognized it all as another attempted psychological twist of the screw, for him mentally to compare his predicament with that of his questioner. He edged forward on the table separating them, for Chen to catch the odour seeping from him, hoping to offend the man.

‘The flowers were a signal.’

He was supposed to be muddled, remembered Gower. He blinked and made several attempts to form his words before saying: ‘Told you earlier what they were for.’

‘Tell me again!’

‘My room at the embassy.’

‘Liar!’

More word-searching. ‘Demand the embassy be told. I have the right of access.’

‘Tell me who you were signalling and I will inform your embassy where you are. And why.’

Gower dropped his head, not sure if he could conceal his full reaction to what the other man had disclosed. If they wanted him to provide a name, they
hadn’t
arrested Snow! ‘Not signalling anyone,’ he mumbled. ‘Here inspecting embassy facilities.’

‘What is the importance of the Taoist shrine?’

‘Not important. It seemed unusual. I was interested.’

‘We’ve set a trap,’ announced Chen.

Gower decided he couldn’t respond: show any reaction at all. He moved his shoulders, barely shrugging, but said nothing.

‘We’re putting flowers at the shrine.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Yes, you do.’

Gower shrugged again.

‘We’re going to make the signal you were supposed to give. Trap the others.’

Could it work? Possibly. The colour of the flowers had to be right. And the precise position, in the troughs. The significance of the colour would probably be obvious but they wouldn’t know where to put them. But would it matter if the signal was wrong and the priest ignored it? Snow – a Westerner – would arouse suspicion merely by being there if they expected a Westerner: risk almost automatic arrest. Still no personal danger, Gower reassured himself, recalling his reflection at the earlier confrontation. Snow didn’t know
him:
couldn’t name him. But was there any safety there, either? If Snow were seized, merely for being in the same area, and under interrogation disclosed that the flowers were a signal, then the connection was established. And Snow hadn’t been trained to resist interrogation. There was nothing he could do. If it happened – and Snow broke – he was lost. ‘I don’t understand,’ he repeated.

‘It would be better for you if you confessed now.’

‘I am a diplomat. I want to talk to my embassy.’

‘You’re guilty.’

Gower stayed silent.

‘You’re a fool.’

Still silence.

‘We just have to wait,’ said Chen.

Charlie knew immediately from the expression on Julia’s face that there was a crisis. She stood unspeaking at the door of her house for several moments before backing away, for him to enter.

‘What?’ he demanded.

‘Gower,’ she said. ‘They’ve swept up your apprentice.’

Thirty-six

The gesture of pouring Charlie the Islay malt she was buying specifically for him now was practically automatic: that night Julia poured for herself, which was not: normally she didn’t drink whisky. Charlie accepted the glass but put it at once on the side-table before leaning forward from his facing chair to bring them very close. He reached out for her hands to direct her entire concentration upon him.

‘Every detail,’ he urged. ‘Everything you know.’

‘Very little,’ apologized the girl. ‘Nobody knows anything. He went out of the embassy in Beijing, telling people he would be back around midday. He never arrived.’

‘Beijing?’ queried Charlie.

‘That was the assignment. China, to bring out someone we think is under suspicion: liable to arrest.’

‘What about an announcement? An accusation?’

‘Nothing yet. We’re making official representations, enquiring about his whereabouts. As a missing diplomat, of course. That’s why I’m telling you now: you’d have learned anyway, in a few hours. The idea’s to create a fuss: the Director thinks it might make them cautious about the pressure they’ll put on him.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Charlie. ‘They’ll do what they like. It’s China, for Christ’s sake! They don’t care about Western opinion.’

‘I’m sorry, Charlie,’ said Julia, sadly. ‘Really very sorry.’

Charlie was grateful but indifferent to sympathy for himself. ‘Gower will be a bloody sight sorrier. Hardly anything of what we did … what he did before, at the proper training schools … prepared him. Why the fuck did it have to be China?’

‘There’s a hell of a flap at the Foreign Office. The DG – and Patricia – have made a lot in their memoranda about Gower’s resistance to interrogation.’

Charlie shook his head. ‘It’s not the same: never can be. You can go through all the motions … authentic physical stress … beating … drugs … sleep deprivation … all of that. But it’s not the same. You can always hold on to the fact that it’s a war game: that it’ll stop sometime. That insurance isn’t there, for the real thing. And the Chinese are good at it. They’ve been doing it longer and better than anybody else.’