Spy Games (28 page)

London

Patterson, red-eyed, caffeine-jangled, stood at the door to Hopko’s sanctum. Hopko was standing behind her desk, gathering papers, a notepad, her handheld. She spoke quietly, without looking at Patterson.

“Where were you yesterday evening?”

Patterson did not reply.

“Did you take the evening off? You probably deserved it, I should say.” She looked up and smiled.

“Val… they’re here. On UK soil,” said Patterson.

“Who is?”

“The Chen people. Military. I think something might… might have happened. In Oxford.”

Hopko nodded, non-committal.

“I see,” she said.

She peered at what seemed to be an encounter report. Then she straightened as if a thought had struck her. The movement injected a streak of menace into the air.

“Good communication is awfully important, isn’t it?” Hopko said. “I mean, for a business that’s all about betrayal, trust is vital. Don’t you think?”

Patterson, confused, nodded. Hopko spoke again.

“The trouble with going off the reservation, Trish, is that it corrupts the intelligence, doesn’t it? Makes it unusable, don’t you see?”

Hopko gave her a lingering look, then was suddenly all motion, sweeping past her.

“Come with me,” she said.

Patterson followed, clenching her fist to generate self-recriminatory pain, jabbing her fingernails into the palm of her hand.

They were in the secure conference room, Hopko herself presiding, wearing her battle face, expensively suited in black, at once austere and lavish.

“The sample,” she told the room, “will soon be under the microscopes in the Defence Intelligence labs at Gosport. The memory stick is on its way to Cheltenham to be disinfected.”

Hopko leaned over the table.

“Early indications,” she said, “are that
HYPNOTIST
’s latest offerings are of prodigious importance. He appears to have spilled the beans on the J-20 stealth fighter. For which we are truly grateful. We anticipate starred CX. We intend to grade the product A1.”

The highest grade of intelligence, from a proven source. Prodigious indeed, thought Patterson.

“Amen,” said Chapman-Biggs.

C was unfolding, mantis-like.

“My,” he said.

Hopko waited to see if anything more was forthcoming. Security Branch was silent. She went on.

“Our attention must now turn to the complex operational exigencies of the case.” She looked over her glasses, fingered the Coptic cross around her neck. “Everybody’s thoughts, please.”

It’s a triumph, Val. We’ve stumbled across the best-placed, most loose-lipped China source in years. He’s deep in 2PLA and he’s got dirt on the leadership. And never mind if he’s also got ulterior motives and a band of groupies. Wring him dry.

It’s a bust, Val.
HYPNOTIST
is just a player. Someone else is leading us a dance. We’re dating a psychopath and soon he’s going to want to screw us. Get out while we can.

It’s all academic, Val. The opposition is sniffing us like we’re in heat. Nice while it lasted. Rain stops play and everybody goes home.

“Trish?” said Hopko.

Oh, Christ.

“Our immediate concern must be the welfare of
BRAMBLE
.” She licked her lips and tried not to bark out the words. “He is highly exposed. He is the object of aggressive surveillance. We must extract him. Only then should we make decisions about the future of the operation, when we have his read on it.”

C spoke.

“
BRAMBLE
remains in place.”

He stood, stalked from the room.

Hopko picked it up.

“It has been decided,” she said, “that you will deploy as soon as possible, Trish. You will establish a safe house. You’ll debrief
BRAMBLE
. You and he will reestablish contact with
HYPNOTIST
as soon as is feasible. You’ll be joined by E Squadron personnel who will take over responsibility for his security.”

Her years in the army and in the Service had lent Patterson the ability to decrypt orders given her, to strip them down and reduce them to their essence.

This one: Go, with heavies. Force Mangan back into the breach
.

A pause.

“Do you have any questions?” said Hopko.

Plenty.

“None,” she said.

Chiang Mai

Mangan woke mid-afternoon, wrenching himself from some place of panic, from images of a cold highway in sleet, of a bulbous little knife with a rubber handle in his palm, blood-sheened.

He tried to move, but his ribs screamed. In the course of sleep, his injuries seemed to have multiplied. His wrists and forearms throbbed, his neck felt stiff and jarred. He lay, tried to flex each limb, feeling ridiculous.

He forced himself from the bed, went to the shower, stood in the cool water, thinking about the previous night, the fall from the roof, the visitation from the big, brush-cut figure that, were he to dwell on it, would preoccupy him entirely.
How the hell?
He put on a T-shirt and jeans, limped downstairs to the reception desk, where he pressed two hundred baht into the hands of the permed lady and asked for someone to send out for food. Anything, he said. Anything will do. And some water. He went back upstairs.

He logged onto the darknet site.

A tap at the door. He wondered why he had put the sidearm in the cistern.

“Food, mister.”

“Just leave it outside.”

“Food.”

“Yes, just leave it.”

A scuffing at the door, footsteps receding down the stairs.

It was a big bowl of
khao soi
, the noodles in a coconut curry, loaded with glistening, crispy belly pork and pickles and scattered with fresh coriander. Mangan looked at it and his hands began to shake and hunger hit him like a train. He sat on the bed, squeezed lime juice into the bowl, started to eat, then to wolf it, the sweet, mellow heat of it blazing in him, strength surging back.

Remain in place.

This is how it works.

He stayed in the room for two days. He slept, sent the boy out for more food and waited.

Chiang Mai

To Patterson’s considerable relief, Bangkok station made the arrangements for the safe house. It was a villa to the north of Chiang Mai in the hills, a tourist rental, barely visible behind high walls and a creaking steel gate. She pulled up in a rented Toyota. The gate opened for her. She got out of the car, smelling the evening perfume in the air: champak, water jasmine.

The E Squadron types, two of them, were already there. One beckoned her inside. He was fortyish, sandy, trim, sharp-featured in a way that looked accusatory. To her he reeked of army, the sergeant’s mess. She felt all her old snobbery surging back.

“No names,” he said. “So I’m Mac.”

Oh, God, she thought, I’ve landed in an airport thriller.

“And this is Cliff.” He gestured behind him. Cliff was tall, dark hair past the collar, a jaw you could sharpen your bayonet on, but a posture that said calm. Cool, gray eyes that caught Patterson’s attention immediately, to her annoyance.

“And what do we call you?” said Cliff, with a half-smile. He sounded Antipodean. New Zealand, perhaps?

“How about ‘Boss’?” she said.

Mac raised his eyebrows, turned and glanced at Cliff, who didn’t respond.

“Boss it is,” said Mac.

“How do,” said Cliff, and picked up her bags for her, led her upstairs to an echoing bedroom, laid the bags down.

“Whenever you’re ready, Boss,” he said, and left her.

She unpacked, made sure her run bag was together and took out the laptop. She cabled it to the sat phone and signaled her arrival.

Downstairs, someone had brewed coffee. She poured a cup, went looking for the two of them. The villa was bigger than it seemed. A long wallpapered corridor took her to a gloomy annex. She walked in on Cliff unpacking equipment. On a camp bed were laid out lightweight body armor, boxes of ammunition, two sidearms and two MP7s, the quiet, vicious, compact submachine guns.

“Christ, we’re not here to start a war,” she said. He turned quickly, looked startled.

“No. But we like to be prepared, you know?” he said. He began putting the weapons into a duffel bag.

“Whose idea was it to bring all this?” she said.

“Normal operating procedure.”

“Not for me, it’s not. Whose idea?”

“We were just told to be… prepared for contingencies.”

“What bloody contingencies?”

“Nothing specific.” He held his hands out, conciliatory. “Look, we really don’t expect to be using any of it.”

“Bloody right,” she said. “Kitchen. And bring Mac.”

She pointed to the screen.

“His phone signal puts him about a mile north of the old city, on this street, probably in this building. It appears to be a guest house called the Banyan.”

“Well, what’s he doing there? He’s supposed to be at the Palm Pavilion,” said Mac.

“Using his initiative, I expect,” she said.

Mac rubbed his chin, doing a very-concerned act.

“Think you can manage?” she said.

Now he looked affronted, made to speak, but Cliff cut in.

“I’m sure we can,” he said. “When do we go?”

“Later. When he says he’s ready. You’ll bring him back here. We let him rest for a bit and then begin the debrief.”

Cliff nodded.

“And no weapons,” she said.

Mac was leaning forward.

“Hang on. What are we supposed to bloody do if the entire bloody Chinese State Security lands on us?”

“Use your charming personality,” she said. She loathed his type, aggressive, insecure men, always second-guessing the female officer, the black woman. Loathed them because, like a cracked mirror, they showed her some version of herself.

She signaled Mangan on the darknet.

Now, Cliff, on the other hand—she could get used to him.

Mangan lay on the bed, smoking.

Another tap at the door.

“What is it?” said Mangan.

“Mister,” said the boy.

He walked to the door, listened.

“
Kai men.
” Open the door, said the Clown, quietly.

In the villa Patterson waited. No response came from Mangan. Mac paced and sighed, shook his head. Cliff lounged on a sofa reading a book.

At one in the morning, Patterson stood up.

“All right, let’s go. Let’s just go and see.”

They took the Toyota, Cliff driving. Less than fifteen minutes and they were approaching the
soi.
Cliff stayed with the car. Patterson and Mac tapped at the gate of the Banyan guest house. No response. She rapped. The slap of footsteps on paving, the scrape of the bolt. The gate opened a few inches to reveal a sleepy-eyed boy in a T-shirt.

Patterson smiled winningly.

“Hello there. So sorry to wake you up. One of your guests. Tall man. Red hair. We need to see him. It’s rather urgent. Sorry.”

She could feel Mac straining at her shoulder, wanting, she guessed, to kick the gate open and put the boy in a stress position.

The boy frowned.

“English? Guest?”

“Yes. Very tall.” Patterson put her hand above her head, moved it up and down to indicate height.

The boy nodded.

“Yes. He go.” He gestured leaving, gone.

“Gone? When was that?”

“Maybe… eight. Nine. He go.”

From Mac a whispered
Jesus Christ.

“And where did he go?” she said.

“He say go away, maybe come back two… three day.”

“Did he say where?” Patterson’s face a rictus now, Mac shifting on his feet.

The boy shook his head.

“Was there anyone with him?”

The boy nodded. “One man, with him. Chinese man.” The boy made to close the gate.

“Wait,” said Patterson. “How did he look? Did he want to go with this man?”

The boy looked confused.

“Did he… did he look angry? Like it was a problem?” She gestured to her face.

The boy shook his head.

“No. No. He look okay. No problem.” He closed the door.

Mac looked at her, made a contemptuous snorting sound. She turned and walked quickly back to the car. She sat in the front seat, took out the laptop and activated the satellite link. The pulsing red orb on the map showed Mangan, or his phone at least, three hours or so north of Chiang Mai, heading toward the Mekong River.

I’m to force him back into the breach, and he’s already gone charging off by himself.

The Clown had begun to hustle him out of the room.

“We have to go now, Mr. Mangan.”

Mangan attempted to stand his ground.

“Tell me why, and where.”

“He needs to see you. We have to go fast.”

“Why the urgency?”

The Clown went to the window, looked out. Mangan shook his head.

“How about we drop the drama. Why do we have to move fast?”

The Clown looked at him, the rubber face, eyes like lead.

“You saw. They are here. Looking for us. Events, Mr. Mangan. Events have caused us to speed up our plans. So we move. And so do you, now.”

“Who is they?”

“He will explain everything. We have to go.”

“Where?”

“A safe place. Our place.”

“I cannot. Do you understand? I have orders to stay here.”

The Clown sighed. Made a regretful face.

“Mr. Mangan. You know a lot. You know my meaning? Too much maybe. You here… it is dangerous for us. If they find you.”

He held out his hands, supplicatory.

“So. Really. You are coming now. He will explain everything. He has very much to tell you. Lots of valuable things. So come.” The Clown’s expression had hardened. “Now.”

“Let me signal my… people.”

“No time. Now. You bring your computer, phone. Later you talk to them.”

Mangan considered. He picked up his run bag, went to the bathroom, closed and locked the door. He stood on the toilet seat and reached into the cistern, pulled out the dripping bags. He took one passport, some of the money. The pistol he stuck in his waistband, the spare clip went in the bag.

When he emerged, the Clown was standing, impatient, by the door. Mangan packed the computer in the run bag. Phone on? Or off? He thought for a moment. Phone on.

“How long are we going for?” he said

“Not long. A day, maybe two days,” said the Clown.

They went down the stairs. The boy was in reception watching television, K-pop music videos.

“I’ll be back in a couple of days,” said Mangan. The boy nodded.

They roared out of the city, heading north, the Clown apparently caring nothing for their silhouette, not even a glimpse over his shoulder. There’d be chase cars, Mangan assumed. They were silent and he watched the deepening night over the forests, the glistening lights through the trees, the insects in the headlights. After two hours they stopped. The Clown got out and made a phone call, spoke fast and urgently. Mangan stood by the car, stiff, his ribs aching. He tried to stretch, and lit a cigarette, felt the moist heat on his skin. Later, as they skirted Chiang Rai, Mangan broke the silence in Mandarin.

“Will you tell me where we are going?”

“Somewhere we control. To be safe.”

“You need to tell me where the threat is coming from.”

The Clown said nothing for a moment.

“They are people who want to stop us. To stop change. Kill us, maybe.”

“Why? Why do they want to stop you?”

“Because they… they fear we will take everything from them.”

“Are they right?”

“Probably.”

“Who are they? What do they want?”

The Clown smiled.

“Everything. They want everything. They want to buy everything. Own everything. Eat everything. Fuck everything.”

Mangan shook his head.

“I don’t understand. This is who? Is it the Communist Party? People in the Party? A faction? Who do you mean?”

“We tend to think,” said the Clown, “we tend to think these words—
Party
,
faction
—don’t mean much any more. These are just… empty shells. What we see are systems, structures, networks.”

“So we’re talking about a network. In China.”

“Oh, it goes far beyond China.” He lifted a hand from the steering wheel, waved away Mangan’s naivete. “Far beyond.”

The Clown sighed, shifted in his seat.

“That’s why you’re here,” he said.

They turned off the highway, onto an unmarked road snaking through fields, silent villages under a pale moon.