Satori (11 page)

Chen then proceeded to ask him about a tea merchant on the Hill that didn’t exist and Nicholai admitted to ignorance of any such place. It would have been a childishly easy trap to avoid had Nicholai been anywhere near sober, but with three brands of strong liquor swirling around his stomach and brain, nothing was easy.

He realized that they had been at the table for nigh unto four hours, and not a jot of business had been discussed.

But I have been vetted, he thought, and now I must wait to see if I’ve passed the tests.

Voroshenin rose unsteadily to his feet. “Back to the office for me, I’m afraid. You know the Kremlin — night owls.”

“It is the same with us,” Yu said, pushing back his chair. Chen steadied him as he got up.

“A pleasure,” Voroshenin said to Nicholai. “Those eyes … I wish I could remember … A countess, would you believe … I will see you at the opera, then? Thursday night?”

“It’s a date,” Nicholai answered.

I will kill you during
The Dream of the West Chamber.

Sleep well, Comrade Voroshenin.

26

V
OROSHENIN CHOSE TO WALK
home from the banquet, to let the cold air attempt to clear the alcohol-induced fog from his head.

One bodyguard walked ahead, the other two kept a pace or so behind him, their hands in their coats, on the butts of their pistols. Idiots, Voroshenin thought. Beijing — especially this quarter — is perhaps the safest city in the world. The criminal class had been mostly exterminated in public executions, and an assassination attempt was highly unlikely. The only people who might try are the Chinese themselves, and if they want to kill me, these three aren’t going to stop them.

But Mao still needs to maintain his crouching posture and suck Stalin’s balls, so we are all pretty safe in China. The greatest risk is being bored to death. Or the related danger of cirrhosis of the liver.

But this Guibert, if that’s his name.

If he’s a French gunrunner, I’m a Japanese sumo wrestler.

The man is a Frenchman, all right, down to the stench of his cologne, but an arms merchant? He’s far too … aristocratic … for that bourgeois occupation. He possesses the slightly remote and superior air of a Russian —

Those damn green eyes.

Was it possible?

Back in his legation quarters, Voroshenin picked up the phone and dialed Leotov’s rooms.

“Get down here.”

“It’s two o’clock in the —”

“I own a watch. I said to bring your skinny ass down here.”

Five minutes later, a sleepy and slightly resentful-looking Leotov appeared in Voroshenin’s office.

“Get on a secure line to Moscow,” Voroshenin ordered. “I want everything on this Michel Guibert and his family.”

Leotov glanced at his watch.

“Don’t say it,” Voroshenin ordered. “Beria’s men rather famously work nights, or would you like to find that out for yourself? Also, I want everything on an old White, the Countess Alexandra Ivanovna. I believe she might have left Petrograd sometime in ‘22.”

“That’s thirty years ago.”

“Is it? Well done, Vasili. See, you’ve already got a start on it.”

A soon as Leotov left, Voroshenin opened the desk drawer and pulled out the bottle. Despite himself, he poured a stiff drink and knocked it back.

Those damn green eyes …

27

G
ENERAL
L
IU
Z
HU
D
E
was small of stature.

His iron-gray hair was cut short, and his browned, lined face showed both his southern roots and every step he had taken on the long journey from guerrilla leader in Sichuan, through the Long March and creation of the 8th Route Army, to the hideous losses he had suffered in command of the Korean venture.

It was said that Liu felt the death of every soldier. He had opposed the Korea invasion, hadn’t wanted the command, but took it as a matter of duty. Now, almost two years later, each of the three hundred thousand casualties showed in his eyes, and rumor had it that he blamed Mao for every one of them.

Colonel Yu knocked on his door, received permission to enter, and sat down in the gray metal chair across from the general’s desk.

He admired Liu more than any man alive. A fellow native of Sichuan, the general was a true Communist and a patriot, unlike the would-be emperor Mao. General Liu worked for China and the people, Mao worked for Mao and Mao.

“How was dinner?” Liu asked. His voice sounded tired.

“Voroshenin showed up.”

“Didn’t we think that he would?”

“He knows about the weapons to the Viet Minh.”

Liu nodded. “Kang tipped him off. He has spies in our department, I’m sure.”

“Shall I send Guibert away?”

“Not necessarily,” Liu said. “Tell me about him.”

Yu related the events of the dinner — Guibert’s knowledge of Chinese, his manners, his intelligence, his little victories over Voroshenin.

“So you think he could be our man?” Liu asked.

“Possibly.”

Liu sat back in his chair to think.

Yu knew the issues.

The Russians were keen to prevent Chinese influence in Vietnam. As such, they wanted to interfere with arms shipments that might earn China just that influence.

Mao was a fool. He had already let Stalin trick him into the Korean disaster, and now he was falling even deeper into the Soviets’ arms. But a quick look at the map showed the danger — the Russians already controlled North Korea, and with it the long northeast border and the strategic Yellow Sea. They retained bases in Manchuria to the northeast and “Outer Mongolia” to the northwest. To the west, they threatened Xinjiang, its Muslim population eager to join their brethren in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan.

Let the Russians gain control of Vietnam as well, and they would have the southern border too. The French were walking ghosts in all of Southeast Asia; it was only a matter of time. The Russians would scoop up Cambodia, then move on to the weak sister in Siam and Burma. Soviet agents were already busy in India.

The Soviets could soon have China surrounded, and then they would gobble up Manchuria and the rest of Mongolia, and Xinjiang.

But for now, Vietnam was the key. The Korean stalemate was all but over, the Soviets would control the North, the Americans the South.

Vietnam was the next front.

The problem was that the Americans were going to move in to replace the French. That would be a terrible mistake for the United States and a huge problem for China. An American move against the Viet Minh would derail any possible détente between Beijing and Washington, and drive China toward Moscow.

The Americans were busy making their own worst nightmare come true — a Communist monolith.

But the future of China — General Liu knew it and Yu believed it — was not with Russia but with the United States. Only America could provide a counterweight against the Soviets, only an alliance — or at least a working relationship — with Washington could bring China the economic prosperity it needed to develop.

Approaches, indirect and tentative, had been made, but had been rebuffed by antiprogressive elements in the American intelligence and diplomatic communities. The diplomats in Washington were as afraid of their right-wing radicals as the Chinese were of their own left-wing extremists. Yet approaches had been made, people were at least talking, and if General Liu could count on Washington’s support, he might feel strong enough to make a move against the faux-Communist dictator who now terrorized China.

But Yu knew they were in a race against the clock.

The Viet Minh were going to win in Vietnam.

The Americans were also sending aid, money, and weapons to the French and had the CIA crawling all over the country, laying the foundation for the eventual takeover. Only a quick and decisive victory against the French might dissuade Washington from a disastrous intervention that would keep America and China apart for decades.

And such a quick victory would require weapons.

Rocket launchers, for instance.

But, Liu thought, we cannot afford to be seen doing it just yet.

We need middlemen.

We need the Michel Guiberts.

28

N
ICHOLAI KNELT OVER
the toilet and vomited
mao-tai,
vodka, Pernod, and most of the contents of what had been a superb feast.

It is as the Buddhists say, he thought, resting between retches — everything changes and at the end of the day the most pleasurable food turns a disgusting mess. He vomited again, then splashed some cold water on his face and brushed his teeth.

Not bothering to undress, he just flopped face first on the bed for a few hours’ sleep. He awoke early, just before dawn, got dressed, then jotted a quick note in code, which when Haverford transliterated it would read,
Zhengyici Opera, Thursday night.
He rolled the thin paper into a tight cylinder and put it in the left pocket of his jacket.

On the street just as a fragile sun was coming up over the city, he made a show of stretching just as a sleepy and very grouchy-looking Xiao Smiley emerged, his arms wrapped around his chest against the cold.

Nicholai took off jogging.

The air burned his lungs and the wind stung his face, but the exercise felt good and the acceleration of his heartbeat quickly warmed him as he ran north toward Beihai Park. Workers were already out, sweeping last night’s light dusting of snow off the sidewalks, and the night-soil collectors were coming back from delivering containers of human waste out to the countryside. On the
hutongs
of Xidan Market, the vendors were setting up their stands and lighting small fires in braziers, stopping from moment to moment to warm their hands over the flames. The smell of charcoal was in the air.

Nicholai kept running, aware that he was leaving the chugging Smiley far behind. It wouldn’t be long, though, before the Greyhound joined the chase and caught up with him. He sped up, barely avoided a spill on a sheen of black ice, regained his balance, and kept running until he reached Beihai Park.

He slowed to a jog again and trotted along the edge of the lake.

Even in winter, the early-morning tai chi players were out, moving slowly and gracefully against the silver sky, and Nicholai was suddenly, serenely happy to be back in China again. He ran along the lakeside and then turned left on the arched bridge to the Jade Isle.

He stopped at the apex of the bridge, put his hands on the tiled rail, and stretched his legs. Looking under his arm, he saw the Greyhound running along the lake, headed toward him. Nicholai reached into his left pocket, his hand screened by his body, took out the note, and slipped it under the loose tile.

Then he finished his stretch and resumed his run, making a circuit around the White Pagoda and then heading down toward the South Gate. Smiley stood on the south bridge, cupping a cigarette in his gloved hands. Nicholai ran past him and headed back toward the hotel.

The air in the lobby felt hot and close.

Nicholai went straight to his room, coaxed some lukewarm water from the tap, and took a quick bath. He made a single cup of tea from the water in his thermos, got dressed again, and went down to the dining room, where he got more tea, a
baozi,
and some pickled vegetables. He enjoyed the moist, chewy warmth of the steamed bun as he thought about the “dead drop” he had made on the bridge.

Fairly confident that he had done it cleanly, he had to acknowledge the possibility that he had been caught at it, in which case he knew that the note was now in the possession of code-breakers, and that he would soon be back in a prison cell, a torture chamber, or both.

He couldn’t read Chen’s face as his handler came through the door and approached him.

“How are you this morning?” Chen asked.

“A little the worse for wear,” Nicholai answered. “And you?”

“Very good,” Chen said. “Colonel Yu would like to see you now. Are you ready to go?”

Nicholai was ready.

29

T
HE MONK, HIS HANDS FOLDED
in front of him, stepped out of the White Pagoda.

Earlier, just after dawn, the monk known as Xue Xin had meditated in the tower and stared out the window onto the Jade Isle bridge and seen the man lean against the railing.

Now he walked slowly toward the bridge. Slowly because he did not want to appear to be in a hurry, but also because his legs were oddly bowed and he had little choice but to walk slowly.

He knew that he was risking his life, knew that there was a strong possibility that any of the other strollers in the park, or one of the tai chi players, or a street hawker, even one of the other monks might be a police spy waiting to see who came to pick up the message.

Then one of two things would happen. Either they would arrest him immediately, or they would lay back and follow him, hoping that he would lead them to the entire cell. But he knew that he wouldn’t let that happen — he was experienced enough to spot surveillance, and skilled enough to dispatch himself with his own hand should it come to that.

Xue Xin would not allow himself to be captured.

He had been captured before.

Tortured, he had learned what no man should have to learn — the sounds of his own screams — and when they returned him to the cage it was only the kindness of his cellmate that kept him alive, gave him hope when he wished to die, shared the meager handfuls of rice that were their starvation diet.

Now, ten years later, he still limped.

He knew that he shouldn’t be alive at all. His captors had decided to kill them all before the Japanese took over, so they marched them to a field outside the prison, handed them sharpened sticks, and made them dig a long trench.

When the common grave was finished, they were lined up in front of it, and Xue Xin was eager for the bullet that would end this life. But the commandant explained that they were not worthy of expensive bullets, and would be slashed and stabbed to death instead.

Then it started, a blur of silver blades and spraying blood, and Xue Xin felt himself fall backward into the trench and was glad for death. It seemed days later when he felt the dirt falling on him, and he wanted to scream that he was still alive but he swallowed his fear and pain with the dirt.

The monks came that night.

Like ghosts they padded through the fog and dug with their hands, literally pulling him from the grave. Weeks later he could stand, weeks after that he could walk, if you could call it walking. He had bad dreams every night, waking in that grave.

Now Xue Xin walked past the loosened tile in the bridge, deftly snatched the message, and tucked it into his robe. In his other hand he clutched a slim sharp blade, meant for his belly if they came for him or if he detected anyone following him.

But no one did.

He walked undetected out of the north gate into a
hutong
in the north-central district. Five minutes later he was in the back of a small house, squatting by the dim glow of a small radio transmitter, into which he read the coded message.

He left the house reciting,
“On mani padme hung.”

The jewel is in the lotus.