Spy Games (21 page)

London

They drove him to an office block in Ealing, early in the morning. Patterson told him: “Don’t drink any coffee, Philip, it makes you jittery and affects the readings.” He was left in an interview room. Two chairs, a table and a mirrored window, through which, he was fairly certain, someone was watching him. The room intimidated by its blankness, its lack of affect.

Minutes passed. Mangan felt alert, hungry.

The door opened and a man entered. He carried a chunky case, which he laid on the table. A faded suit, bony hands, thin, downy hair, a mouth that fell at the corners. The pallor of secrecy, thought Mangan, too many windowless rooms, ingrown lives.
My examiner
. The man fussed with the clasps on the case.

A cuff was attached to his arm, a band around his chest, an oximeter clipped to his finger.

“What’s most important,” intoned the examiner, “is that you tell the truth. Whatever it is. You must not try to deceive us. I hope that is clear.”

The man said that they would chat about the questions a bit and
he would calibrate the machine, and they’d chat a bit more. Then he’d administer the test. Simple questions to begin with. Name. Date of birth. Queries related to counterintelligence, foreign contacts, that sort of thing. And then a bit of lifestyle. The man peered at a screen.

“Is your name Philip Mangan?”

“Yes.”

“Are you thirty-seven years old?”

“Yes.”

“Are you wearing a pink shirt?”

“No.”

“Is your father dead?”

“Yes.”

“Is your mother dead?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have siblings?”

“No. No siblings.”

“Have you lived in China?”

“Yes.”

They talked, the examiner delivering questions in a low monotone, in a manner used to communicate with the gravely ill.

“Drug use, Philip, have you ever used illegal drugs?”

“Umm, yes.”

“Have you used marijuana or cannabis?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“What? Well, at various times, I’d say.”

“Be as precise as possible. When?”

“When I was at university. And since.”

“Can you pinpoint some dates?”

“Is this strictly relevant?”

“Please don’t question me, but answer my question.”

“The last time was about six months ago.”

“And before that?”

“I really don’t have any idea.”

“Have you used cocaine?”

“No.”

“Have you used LSD?”

“Possibly.”

“Yes or no. Have you ever used LSD?”

“Someone once gave me something at a party in Bangkok and I knocked it back and an hour later I was watching the walls emit great billows of stars. But I have no idea what it was. Wouldn’t mind finding out, actually.”

“Please be as truthful and precise as you can.”

“I’m trying to be bloody truthful.”

A pause. The man stood up and left the room.

Fifteen minutes later, he came back.

“I’d like you to tell me about an experience that you found humiliating,” he said. “When in your life did you feel most humiliated?”

Mangan cast about hopelessly.

“People often reach back into their childhood to find such experiences,” the examiner said, matter-of-factly.

Mangan shrugged.

“There were some moments at school, I suppose.”

“At your boarding school? Tell me about one of them.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“Please be explicit and truthful.”

Mangan sighed, discomfited now.

“Well, my first night at boarding school…”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

“And what happened?” The examiner was watching his screen closely.

“The parents dropped the new boys off. It was a Sunday, a beautiful September day. We all dragged our trunks and cases inside, and upstairs, and then the parents drove away, and we were taken to supper and then back to our houses. And in my house there was this
enormous stairwell, four floors, towering windows, with elaborate contraptions of brass poles and levers for opening them.”

Mangan stopped, licked his lips.

“And the new boys were on our way up this huge, echoing stairwell to the dormitory, to bed. But a bat had got in, somehow. This tiny bat. And it was fluttering and swooping up and down the stairwell. I remember noticing how quickly it moved. The minute your eye found it, it was gone. It kept hurling itself against the windows, and falling, and fluttering downward. I thought bats didn’t do that. But this one did. Or that’s how I remember it, anyway.”

He paused.

“Go on,” said the examiner.

“Some of the older boys, fifth-formers, decided they had to catch it. And they took string gym bags for nets and ran up and down the stairs, roaring, screaming. And the bat flew right to the top of the stairwell, banging against the walls and the ceiling, and they chased it up there and threw whatever they had at it, shoes, pillows, anything. And they killed it. And the house tutor came and wrapped it in a towel and took it away. I was pressed against the wall with all these huge boys hurtling by, and the noise, and I started crying. I was tired and overwrought and missing my parents already, and I sobbed. And the fifth-formers started yelling about the new boy blubbing, and the other new boys joined in, and in the dormitory it was just this feeding frenzy. Is that humiliating enough? Look, have you calibrated your machine yet?”

“Have you ever been contacted by a foreign intelligence organization?”

“Well, yes.”

“Are you an agent of a foreign intelligence organization?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Are you in the employ of a foreign intelligence organization?”

“No.”

“Have you passed information you know to be protected to a foreign intelligence organization?”

“No.”

“Have you been recruited by a foreign intelligence organization?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yes or no.”

“No.”

“Do you have a sexual partner?”

“Not sure.”

“Do you have a sexual partner?”

“Maybe. It’s not clear to me if she’s a partner or not.”

“Do you have a sexual partner?”

“No.”

“Do you have sex with men?”

“Don’t make a habit of it.”

“Yes or no.”

“No.”

“Do you engage in deviant forms of sexual activity?”

“Whenever possible.”

“Answer the question seriously, please.”

“What the hell is deviant?”

“Any form of sexual activity that goes beyond the norms of a healthy relationship.”

“I haven’t the first clue what you mean.”

“Are you homosexual?”

“Nope. Not for now.”

“Do you look at pornography?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you like to look at pornographic images of children?”

“Jesus Christ. No.”

“Have you ever had sex with a child?”

Mangan stood. The empty case that had contained the machine lay on the floor by the side of the table. He kicked it hard, sending it flying across the room as the examiner flinched. Then Mangan pulled off the cuff and the chest band and the oximeter and dropped them on the table, and walked out.

He ignored the waiting car and took a taxi back to the Paddington house, the day warm, clammy, overcast. He went inside and lay on the bed, turned the television on. Patterson showed up after an hour. A decent interval, he thought.

He opened the door to her. She stood hands in pockets, gave him a sideways look.

“That went well, then,” she said.

“I’m not doing it.”

“Can I come in?”

“Spare me the lecture.”

“No lecture,” she said, and went inside, following him upstairs.

“Who the hell was that ghoul?” he said over his shoulder. “How can it be remotely relevant what my sexual proclivities are?”

“You showed signs of deception on the sexual partner question.” She was suppressing a grin.

“Bloody intrusive wanker. I didn’t sign up for that crap.”

“You can spare
me
the lecture, too, if you like,” she said. “I get fluttered every two years.”

Mangan just shook his head.

“Anyway,” she said, sitting, “you’re a journalist, so we already know how deviant you are.”

He stopped and let his hands fall to his sides.

“Have I screwed it all up?” he said.

“No,” she replied. “You passed the counterintel test and that’s all anyone was interested in.”

He breathed out, letting his relief show. Why such relief? she wondered.

Because he doesn’t know what’s coming
.

Nicole and Madeline met two days later in a wine bar in Little Clarendon Street. The evening was sunny and still. Nicole wore an airy dress of white cotton, heels, more Tiffany, set herself against the other girl’s jeans, lycra top. They sat on stools by the window drinking a slightly-too-expensive white, slightly too fast. Nicole
crossed her legs, let the dress fall to reveal her long, smooth thighs, twirled the glass in her fingers. She asked Madeline about the other Chinese students. Who was who? Who belonged where? From which families? Who mattered?

Madeline thought, mentioned some names. Not Kai’s.

“But who’s
interesting
? There must be some exciting people here!”

Madeline shrugged.

“No one I know,” she said.

Not a hint, not a glimmer, of the fabulously wealthy telecoms heir, Fan Kaikai.

Nicole asked her about home and she answered obliquely. Nicole prodded her to talk about her professors and she was diplomatic. Nicole recounted an entirely fabulist version of her own years in the States, the wonders of Harvard, and the girl listened politely. The wine bottle emptied.

“So,” said Nicole. “What about men?”

Madeline made a snorting sound.

“Does that mean no?”

Madeline was looking at her nails.

“That means no.”

“Must be somebody interesting.”

“No!”

Nicole laughed.

“
Name hai xiu!
” So coy! She ran a finger down the girl’s arm.

“The boys here are just that. Boys,” said Madeline.

“What about all those handsome English boys? Big boys, pale skin, all so charming, so assured.”

“
Pfft
. Not for me. Nothing doing.”

“Why? Are you saving yourself?”

Madeline turned and looked at her, eyebrows raised.

“Aren’t you the curious one?”

“What about that other Chinese boy, what’s his name? The really rich one.”

“Who?”

Nicole tried to remember.

“Father is head of some big telecoms corporation.”

Madeline said nothing.

“Fan. That’s his name,” said Nicole. “Fan Kaikai. What about him?”

“You know him?”

Nicole shrugged.

“No. What’s he like?”

Madeline was looking at the ends of her hair, pulling the strands apart.

“Rich. Kind of awkward.”

“Oh! You’ve talked to him, then?”

But Madeleine was looking straight at her with a very level, wondering look.

“Not my type,” she said, deliberately.

Nicole calculated. Push on, or pull back?

“Ooh. I see,” she said, playing intrigued, a bit scandalized. “What don’t you like about him?”

“I really don’t know him.”

“But, wouldn’t your family want you to…”

The hostile target was looking hard at her now.

“Who’s asking?”

Nicole held her hands wide, a show of innocence.

“Just me, sweetheart.”

Madeline spoke very deliberately.

“And who are you, exactly?”

The mood had changed. And as Madeline got up and reached for her bag, Nicole considered the girl’s quiet awareness, her sense of self, and thought that this seduction might not be as simple as others she had effected in the past.

London

Chapman-Biggs brought Danish pastries in a paper bag. Mangan made coffee and sat at the conference table feeling like a home-schooled teenager. Lesson time. “A single-source CX report, Philip, is what we live for.” He took a laptop from his bag, booted it up, opened a file, some sort of template. “And I’m going to show you how to write one.”

Mangan listened. Chapman-Biggs walked him through the format he would use.

“All times in ZULU, please, Philip. We call it ZULU, not GMT. So 6 p.m. is 1800Z. Classification will be UK S E C R E T. Addressee here. That’ll be your case officer.”

Chapman-Biggs spoke primly, making Mangan think of a classics teacher in tweed, the whiff of the common room, rugby pitches and mentholatum.

“We’ll not want great scads of analysis or interpretation in the report. We do want just the facts. And attributable to a single asset. Don’t go cramming product from multiple sources in one report, please. It gets jolly confusing. And if you must add a gloss to what
you have learned, you will put it in an appendix and make it clear that it is you who is speaking, not the source. Is that quite clear?”

Yes, sir.

“I am a Requirements Officer, Philip, so everything that your source or sources supply comes via your case officer to me. And I’m the chap that writes it all up, cross references it and pushes it out of the door to the consumer. With me?”

Mangan, bemused, nodded and sipped his coffee.

“And I want every last shred. Everything.”

Mangan didn’t respond.

“Is everything quite all right?” asked Chapman-Biggs.

“I just hadn’t imagined spying would mean being evaluated on my report-writing skills.”

Chapman-Biggs looked affronted.

“Oh, yes, ’fraid so. Oh, dear me, yes. It’s awfully important.”

Mangan forbore from asking why, but Chapman-Biggs carried on speaking as if he had, the classics teacher explaining the ancient certainties of school to the recalcitrant, tearful new boy.

“Because, Philip, in the end, the purpose of intelligence agencies is to gather intelligence.” He paused, allowing the insight to linger in the air. “To
find things out
. And while we’ve been treated to quite the spectacle in the last twelve years and more, what with drones and renditions and valiant chaps on horseback galloping down from the Hindu Kush or wherever, that’s not what we are about, in the end. Not at all. We assemble knowledge, Philip. Where no knowledge is readily available, we hunt it. And we steal it.”

He sat back, satisfied.

“And then we put it in a single-source CX report.”