Night Heron (24 page)

He slid the drive back into the port and the diode began to flash. He counted off the seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Still it flashed. Forty.
Dear God, stop.
A minute, for heaven’s sake. And just as he reached to pull it out, it turned to a continuous green. He yanked it from the computer, clipped the key back together, his fingers rigid and fumbling, and reattached it to the key ring.

All business, now. He cleared the papers from his desk, locked them in the drawer. Logged off the network. He stood up, made himself straighten. Down the corridors towards the main entrance, holding the key ring, letting it jangle. Nothing to see. A janitor watched him pass. He turned towards the double doors and the main entrance hall.

“Professor.” The voice came from off to his left and was accompanied by rapid footsteps. Wen did not slow down.

“Professor, a moment, please.” It was Check Shirt. The professor felt his throat constrict. Fear was sickening. It really was.

Check Shirt came towards him, making an effort to be quick, breaking into a moderate jog.

“Professor, sorry to keep you. May I ask, have you had any problems with your computer terminal this afternoon?”

Have I? he thought.

“No. Not that I noticed.”

“Oh.”

“Perhaps it was running a little slowly.”

“I see. Well, you were looking at a great deal of data, weren’t you?”

Was I?

He shrugged.

“It’s just, well, no matter, it all seems fine now,” said Check Shirt.

Wen Jinghan nodded and gave a tight smile.

“Have a good weekend, Professor.”

From a dark, silent perch deep inside himself, Wen wondered if he would make it to the front desk, or whether his legs would go and he would sit on the floor, absurd, a silver-haired charlatan.

They held. He walked across the parking lot, started his car and pulled out into the street, tears running down his cheeks.

Beijing

The signal from Hong Kong was marked
URGENT
. It arrived in Beijing at the intake station of the Ministry of State Security’s 2nd Bureau, Foreign Operations, towards evening, at a moment when the setting sun poured through the Bureau’s windows, and the frosted trees and lakes of the Summer Palace were washed in indigo and tangerine. It arrived as the night watch was coming on, and the corridors were filled with the smell of food, pork with garlic bolts, potato shreds in chili.

The signal concerned an agent debriefing that had taken place in Hong Kong that same day and appeared to have been written in haste. It called for immediate evaluation of the agent’s product by personnel in the 7th Bureau, Circulation and Analysis.

The signal, numbered and marked
juemi
, Top Secret, found its way to the desk of a young man surnamed Ouyang who hailed from Liaoning Province, China’s icy north-east, and who had trained as an electrical engineer. Analyst Ouyang, a gentle, spindly young man with an abiding love for Japanese graphic novels, knew missiles. He knew who made them, how, and where China needed to look to acquire missile technology. And he knew, or
believed he knew, how to distinguish between real intelligence, even of the most technical kind, and dross.

But this, this was something different. The DF-41, well, everyone would know about that sooner or later. But the April 16th incident? What was that? An asset operating in the United States had heard mention of it from an American intelligence analyst. How did some American intelligence analyst know all about it, when Analyst Ouyang did not? He sat back in his chair, reluctant to read further, and bit his lip.
This
was not a matter for Ouyang. The signal smelled dangerous. It smelled of a foreign operation. This was a counter-intelligence matter, and the signal needed to be directed, speedily, to the 9th Bureau, Anti-Defection and Counter-Surveillance, a region of the Ministry that Ouyang preferred to avoid, where possible.

In this case, however, it was not possible. And, at three o’clock in the morning, Ouyang found himself sitting across a table in a conference room from a granite-eyed investigator of the 9th Bureau.

“Have you mentioned the contents of this signal to anybody?” said the investigator.

“No,” replied Ouyang.

“Has anybody spoken about it to you?”

“No.”

“Are you aware of anybody in the 7th Bureau who knows the contents of the signal?”

“Well, it was routed to my desk from the intake station, so someone there must have read it and responded to its contents.”

“Why must they?”

Ouyang was stumped.

“Well, they must have read it to know where to send it.”

“Must they? Is that an assumption or do you know that someone on the intake station read it?”

“It’s… it’s an assumption.”

The investigator was middle-aged, with a skin of tanned leather and his hair combed over his head from a parting an inch above his left ear.

“Is it also an assumption,” said the investigator, “that no one in the rest of the 7th Bureau has read it?”

“Well, I can’t know for sure.”

“You don’t know for sure? I’ll ask you again. Did you show it to anybody?”

“No.”

“Analyst Ouyang, why are you presenting me with assumptions dressed up as facts?”

“I… I… that was not my intention.” Ouyang was beginning to feel his grip on the situation loosen.

“Why did the intake station send the signal to you?”

“Well, I am the duty officer on the Science and Technology Desk.”

“But why to you? Why not to the Americas desk?”

“I… I don’t know. You must ask them.”

“Must I?”

A pause.

“Analyst Ouyang, why did you send an alert to the 9th Bureau?”

Ouyang swallowed. The investigator was watching his every move, his every tic, he could feel it.

“Because I judged this to be a counter-intelligence matter.”

“Why?”

“The signal suggested that an asset operating in the United States had unearthed state secrets from China in the hands of an American intelligence analyst. I assumed you ought to know. I mean, I thought you ought to know.”

“Why?”

“Well, because, could it not be possible that we have a leak?” Oh, God.

There was a silence. Then the investigator spoke again.

“Analyst Ouyang, are you suggesting that some unidentified person is giving China’s state secrets to a foreign power?”

“I don’t know, I…“

“That is a very serious accusation.”

“I’m not accusing… I just thought you should
know.
”

“Analyst Ouyang, thanks to your… intervention, this is now a counter-intelligence investigation. You will remain in this building until our investigation is complete. You will be escorted to quarters where you will remain for the duration, and you will be monitored by officers of the 9th Bureau. We will be speaking again.”

Ouyang gaped. The duration? He felt a hand on his shoulder, pressuring him to move. He stood up shakily, tried to summon the nerve to protest, but the investigator was looking down at the file, making notes. Ouyang turned and walked to the door.

The investigator watched him go. Frightened shitless, he thought. How are we raising such spineless children these days?

The investigator sighed. Four in the morning, and this. He would go now and have a cigarette, some tea, think about his next move.

The little twerp was quite right, of course. Spineless, but smart. The revived DF-41 program was common knowledge across the military-industrial establishment. No surprise that was out. But knowledge of the April 16th incident, the investigator reflected, was closely held. And the investigator knew exactly how closely held, because he himself had been instrumental in ensuring that no one shot their mouth off about it, and that it never made its way into the press, or into any document with a classification lower than
juemi
. Weeks out in dreary Shaanxi, reminding, cajoling and finally threatening the families, the staff, anyone who knew anything.

So how in hell did an American know all about it?

There were official reports, of course, which had been circulated in six areas only: the Central Military Commission, the
PLA General Staff, the Launch Vehicle Academy, the General Armaments Department, the Leading Small Group on Military Affairs, the Second Artillery.

But.

Most of that reporting did not mention casualties. The casualty numbers were sequestered in a series of numbered reports with a much more limited distribution. They went to two places only: the Central Military Commission and the Leading Small Group on Military Affairs.

The investigator, whose name was Han, and who had spent seven years now working security and counter-intelligence on the missile program, made for the canteen. At this time of night it was half in darkness. A canteen worker in a white cap and an apron sat at one of the tables, leaning forward on the tabletop, asleep on her folded arms. She slept next to a stainless steel pan of
baozi
covered with a cloth, another of noodles and vegetables.

He sat in a corner and pulled a packet of Tiananmen cigarettes from his jacket pocket, took one out, threw the packet on the table with a cardboard
plock
. The canteen worker stirred and looked up for a moment, then let her head fall again. Silence, but for the hum of refrigerators, a vending machine. He lit the cigarette, felt its warm, fibrous wash in his throat.

Now, the Central Military Commission. Senior Party officials, very senior, and military top brass: the sort of people who don’t get investigated, at least not by Investigator Han. The Leading Small Group on Military Affairs, ditto. But advisers and support staff to the Leading Small Group, that’s a different story. Some wobbly characters in there, scientists, intellectuals, what have you. And we know which of them had access to those numbered reports.

So that’s where we’ll start.

Early Sunday morning, cigarette smoke curling through the gray light, the smell of frying meat. Peanut sat in a fetid café in Fengtai.
He had been woken by Yin, her hair awry, bleary, banging on his door at five. A phone call, she said. He didn’t leave his name. Said you’d know.

He sat with his back to the wall, faced the door.

The professor, when he came, wore a facemask, a blue fleece hat pulled low. He sat at Peanut’s table, arms, neck rigid, fear dripping from him.

He pulled down the facemask.

“Did you tell them who I am? Where I live?”

Peanut dragged on his cigarette, regarded him.

“Did you tell them?” repeated the professor, his voice taut as wire.

“Why would I do that?” said Peanut.

Wen Jinghan gave a tight shake of the head.

“Because I think someone’s there.”

“Where?”

“Near the house. There’s a car,” he hissed.

“What do they look like?”

“I don’t know. Not State Security. I don’t think. It’s a silver car. They just drive past, then go.”

“So give it to me,” said Peanut.

The professor’s face was crumpling.

“Who are they? Huasheng, help me.”

Peanut spoke quickly.

“It’s nobody. I have told no one, and it’s not police and it’s not State Security. Now give it to me.”

The professor reached into a pocket. An envelope. Peanut felt the boxy shape of it through the paper.

“So it worked? Like I said?”

The professor gave an exhausted shrug, then nodded.

“I’ll be in touch, Jinghan.” Peanut stood, stubbed out his cigarette. The metallic scrape of the chair against floor tile. The professor watched him, his face drawn, eyes feverish, hyper-alert.

“Is it finished?” he said.

But Peanut had left the café, walked fast. The street was quiet, the shop fronts still shuttered. He turned abruptly. Behind him a silver sedan pulled away from the curb, turned into a side street.

Investigator Han sat at a trestle table covered with green baize cloth. He was snappish and very tired. To his right a mug of tea. To his left an ashtray. Behind him the Deputy Director of the 9th Bureau plus acolytes, silent and watchful. And all around him the
dang an
—personal files—of three hundred and seventy-six people, each one of whom was known to have received a copy of a numbered report.
Certain Questions
.

Investigator Han’s personal system of triage, administered savagely through a long, stale night, had prized the files apart and reordered them in teetering stacks. Before him the stack of utmost urgency: files containing the lives of fifty-seven people whom Investigator Han deemed the most wobbly: academics; those with foreign contacts; those—only a handful, but still a number that surprised Investigator Han—with a history of anti-Party activity. If a full interrogation were authorized, well, the villa in the Western Hills, a team on standby.

Twenty-four officers of the Ministry of State Security’s 9th Bureau, Anti-Defection and Counter-Surveillance, had been seconded to the investigation group and now sat on metal folding chairs around the room. Investigator Han had split them into two-man teams and was assigning interviews. The Deputy Director spoke into his ear.

“Speed, Investigator Han. Speed,” he said.

“Yes, Deputy Director, speed.”

Officers were putting on coats, leaving the room. Investigator Han imagined the black cars pulling out of the Ministry, fanning out across Beijing.

SIS, Vauxhall Cross, London

GODDESS
2’s line was blinking. The technician tapped the screen. Hopko stood, leaning against the console. She looked like a predator scenting, thought Patterson.

“
Wei? Women de pengyou laile, zhunbeihao le.
” Our friend’s arrived and is ready. Meaning:
RATCHET’
s in position.

“
Hao. Xiexie.
” Thanks.

The map screen showed a red indicator where the encounter was to take place, and the route to destination.
GODDESS
2 was at the encounter point, the rest of the team sweeping the route as best they could. The encounter point was in a narrow alleyway behind the Landao department store, not far from the Workers’ Stadium, dead to surveillance. The alleyway served as a cut-through between larger thoroughfares, and shoppers frequently used it. It was mid-evening in Beijing, dark. The smog had lessened, but scarves and surgical masks were still commonplace.

Yeats stood, arms folded, at the back of the suite. The Director, Requirements and Production, had been in earlier, made some comment about “the action” and left. Patterson shifted in her
seat, took a mouthful of a sandwich—mushroom and pesto—and waited.

Mangan had spent forty-five minutes inside the Landao department store. He had gone first to men’s clothing, where he surveyed jeans. He tried on a sweater, a blue zip-up thing of the sort Ting would laugh at. He looked in a mirror. The sweater’s sleeves were short on his lofty, gaunt frame, his winter pallor, his red hair flattened by a winter hat.

The store was busy and raucous. He walked past rows of sleek televisions. They all showed the same demonstration video of European girls in bikinis, lounging on decks, spreadeagled on river rocks. Knots of men stood and watched the videos. Staff in bow ties hovered and gestured.

In the household goods department Mangan engaged a member of the sales staff in conversation on the subject of toasters. The girl was very young, a school leaver, Mangan guessed. She wore her hair pulled off her face, gathered in a long ponytail, and she wore silver-framed glasses. Her little blue waistcoat fitted poorly, and her black bow tie was loose on her collar, which Mangan realized he found poignant. These Japanese toasters, she said, are very good but they are very expensive. Mangan found it in himself—he was struggling—to agree, and to ask whether, perhaps, there was a Chinese-made toaster available. The girl smiled, yes, of course. This Chinese toaster, she said, is made in the city of Qingdao, and is the equal of the Japanese toaster in every way, and is a good deal cheaper. Mangan bought the Chinese-made toaster. The cashier gave him a flimsy receipt, stamped with a little red chop. You speak Chinese very well, said the girl. Mangan said
nali
, modestly.

With the toaster in a plastic carrier bag in his left hand, his right hand free, Mangan descended two stories by escalator. It
cascaded down the central atrium of the store, sleek and silvery. He looked at the huge backlit advertisements for lipstick, lingerie, the models impossibly willowy, pale, their blue-black hair. Mangan was tempted to look over his shoulder, but he resisted the urge, as Charteris had told him to, because hyper-vigilance, Philip, is a very noticeable trait. And you will not be carrying a mobile phone, Philip, now will you? No, David, mobile phones leave spoor. They betray our location and broadcast our words; they make us targets, kill us.

At exactly seventeen minutes past eight he left the department store. He turned to his right, raising his carrier bag and turning side-on to move through a clot of people. It was cold. The store had loudspeakers attached to its frontage that broadcast a distorted stream of promises and exhortations. The frontage was floodlit and festooned with balloons and banners. A man touched him on the sleeve, tried to ask him something. He walked on. The mouth of the alleyway was dark and partly hidden by a builder’s skip. He stepped slowly into the gloom. And as he did so the large figure with its rolling, aggressive gait was almost on him. He raised his right hand slightly, opened it, to feel the man’s fingers fluttering around his, then pressing the key into his palm. Mangan took it, closed his fist around it, and walked forward quickly. As he approached the far end of the alleyway he put the key into his coat pocket and switched the carrier bag from his left hand to his right. You may feel relief at this point, Philip, that the brush pass has worked as planned, Charteris had told him, but that relief is misplaced. You are now carrying.

“
GODDESS
2 on the line.”

“
Wei? Hao xiaoxi! Women de pengyou shoudao xin le. Ta hao gaoxing a!
” Good news. Our friend received the letter. He’s very happy. The transfer has been effected. No sign of hostile surveillance.

“
Hao jile! Feichang gan xie.
” Excellent. Thank you very much.

Yeats made a small pumping action with his arm. Hopko stood, hands on hips, chewing her lip. The technician smiled.

“Not over yet,” said Hopko.

Investigator Han paced the corridor, smoked, murmured into his phone. The interviews were going slowly, the officers too thorough, too cautious. Kick some fucking doors down, he told them. Frighten them. Stir the pot. Don’t look for evidence, look for signs.

Still nothing.

But it wouldn’t be long.