The Pekin Target q-10 Read online

  I didn't want to talk about Croder and I didn't want to think about needing three more changes of cover: the statistics are that if an executive gets blown more than twice he's either dead or back in London with the psychiatrists trying to stop him jumping out of windows.

  "Have you got a safe-house for me?" I asked Ferris.

  "Spur says you can stay with him."

  "Civil of him, but he happens to keep a full-grown boa constrictor as a pet. You'll have to find somewhere else."

  "Surely it's harmless?"

  "Till it wants someone to play with."

  "It's going to take time to find somewhere else."

  "Then hurry."

  "How long," he asked with a shut face, "can you stay at Sadie's?"

  "I'm not going back there. These people are only one step behind me and one fine day she's going to have to call in the cleaners to get the blood off the rug, and you know how fussy London is about involving the public at large in our operations. Until you can find me somewhere I'll hire a car and use it as base. I can sleep in it if I've got to. That whole area's a distinct red sector now and I'm going to stay clear of it after I've seen Spur tonight."

  Ferris stopped his beer for an instant in mid-air. "He's got something for you?"

  "So he told me, on the phone. I'm seeing him at nine o'clock."

  Silhouette.

  "Then I'll be at the Embassy from nine onwards. Phone me when you've talked to Spur."

  "Will do." I watched the silhouette in the entrance, against the glare of the sunlight. Ferris said:

  "Until London can dig up something from signals analysis, Spur's our only hope of finding a way in."

  The silhouette was wearing a peaked cap and a holstered revolver. I told Ferris: "Give me everything you've got for me. I might have to leave."

  His eyes flicked to the entrance and back to me. "There's been a major break in Pekin. The police there suspect Soong Yongshen."

  I began listening carefully. "Suspect him of what?"

  "The funeral bombing."

  "He worked the remote detonator?"

  "So they believe. They're keeping us informed."

  The man with the peaked cap and the holstered revolver came into the room and the lanterns showed up his uniform and I relaxed; he was a US Navy officer, not a policeman. "Let me know," I told Ferris, "what progress they make with the Soong Yongshen angle."

  "Of course. We checked on his sister for you. She's on the records as a bona fide interpreter for Korean Airlines."

  "All right." In a moment he was going to ask me where she was located, and I wasn't going to tell him, and he probably knew that.

  "The reason," he said a fraction too casually, "why Control has put all that support into the field is because this thing is a lot bigger than anyone thought."

  "I see," I said.

  He tried again. "No one will get in your way. You've got my word."

  I was getting fed up. "I can't take your word for anything, you know that. Croder's making the rules and if he wants you to do something then you do it. Without telling me, if those are your instructions."

  In a moment he said: "You're being difficult."

  "That's a shame."

  The thing was that after six missions together we knew each other quite well, because a mission is like a lifetime; and he knew that if the Pekin police found hard evidence that Soong Yongshen had blown up that coffin, we'd have a way into the opposition: through his sister. I didn't think she was in the Tung Triad, but she knew who they were: possibly her,dead brother and certainly the «friend» who'd lent her a gun and sent her to Room 29 of the Chonju Hotel to kill me with it. But if I went to see Soong Li-fei I'd go alone, without Ferris covering the area with support in case I needed it.

  To move closer to Li-fei would be to move closer to Tung, and into danger. But I won't have Control pushing me across the field like a pawn across a chessboard and I won't work for any local director, even Ferris, who isn't given total discretion and total authority to act independently of London if he decides it's necessary.

  Croder was sitting at the centre of a signals network in London and getting instant replay of what was happening in Pekin and Seoul, but at a distance of three and a half thousand miles he couldn't sense danger in a glance from cinnamon eyes or feel the hands at the throat on a hotel stairway. The epicentre of Jade One was the shadow executive and it moved with him through the eye of the storm, and that was the way it must be.

  "Any other business?" Ferris asked me. His voice was like a stone.

  "Look," I told him, "if Croder wanted to send in an executive who could work best with a flock of bloody nursemaids to look after him he should have done that. But he didn't. He sent me. That's simple enough, surely? Any other business? Yes, I think they meant to kill the American Vice-President, not our chap at all."

  I like getting a reaction from Ferris because he hates showing any. Not that he shot down the chandeliers or anything on this occasion; he just murmured, "Holy God."

  "Amen."

  "Tell me."

  "It didn't add up," I told him, "until you said the Pekin police suspect Soong Yongshen of doing that bang over there. But now it does. The woman Li-fei told me — her brother had done something wrong, and that it was something to do with 'that dreadful thing over there' — she meant the bombing. Her brother died by ritual murder, from all reports, with his head off. From what Spur told me about Tung Kuo-feng I'd say he's the kind of man who would punish any member of his Triad who made a serious mistake, and probably with death. I think Soong Yongshen might have made a mistake of that order when he pressed the beam transmitter in Tien'anmen Square while our Secretary of State was placing his wreath. If you look at the photos of both those men — Bygreave and the American Vice-President — you'll notice they look rather alike; and to the Asians, one round-eye looks much like the next."

  Ferris was quiet for a time, and I waited, watching the oblong of sunlight. The huge sailor at the next table had started singing; it sounded like Greek, and he had quite a good voice; it sounded much better than the hard rock coming out of the wall.

  "You mean the original target," Ferris said as he leaned towards me across the table, "was the American Vice-President?"

  "And they shot the American Ambassador to compensate for Soong Yongshen's little mistake."

  "This wasn't a random attack on the Western delegates, or some kind of terrorist action with no specific target?"

  "It was an attack," I nodded, "specifically directed against the United States."

  "If you're right."

  "If I'm right."

  Four Koreans came through the crowd and stood in a circle round the big sailor and for a moment I thought they were going to form a chorus, but they were asking him to leave. He didn't make any fuss; he embraced two of them heartily enough to leave bruises, knocked over the chair and hit his head on one of the lanterns before he blocked the entrance on his way out and put the whole place into eclipse.

  It was easier to talk now, but there wasn't much else to say.

  "Haven't you got any way in for me?" I asked Ferris

  "No."

  He said: "I'm hoping Spur can set you running. We all are."

  "Good old Spur."

  I paid the bill and asked him to send someone round to Sadie's place with two hundred thousand won and a bunch of flowers and he said he'd do that. He told me to maintain signals by phone through Spur until he'd trod on the bug in the Embassy and I told him I would. We didn't mention Li-fei. A few minutes later he got up and I watched him walk through the bright doorway into the street, with the thought in my mind — one of those thoughts that cling to the psyche like a limpet mine when the mission goes badly-that I might never see him again.

  8:51.

  John Victor Miles, journalist, the Far East representative of Political Scene, a left-wing independent quarterly published in London. Passport, entry visa, WHO smallpox certificate, four letters of reference, photographs of wife, tw
o children, international driving licence, ticket for the violin recital at the National Theatre in two days' time, various credit cards, other material.

  Datsun ZX, dark blue, hired from the Korean Tourist Bureau's Arirang service. The passenger's seat tilted back flat for reclining and the speedometer dial showed a top speed of 220 kph.

  I parked it off Toegye Street and walked four blocks through the alleyways to the wine shop in the square, doubling twice and using random cover as a routine exercise and halting for a moment to look around, uncertain of my way, as I reached one of the sightlines through the wine shop window display, giving Spur a chance to recognise me and to note, during the next half minute as I approached, that I wasn't bringing anyone with me.

  The air was perfectly still after the monsoon and last night's deluge; gutters still ran glittering in the lamplight as water from higher ground found its way into the square; in the far corner two dogs fought over scraps in a blocked drain.

  The door of the wine shop was open and I went inside, but Spur wasn't there. I called out twice, but he didn't answer and there was no sign of Kim. A boy ran past the open doorway hauling a handcart full of what looked like papayas, the wheels rattling over the stones; then the silence came down again.

  "Spur?"

  I'd told him nine o'clock and he'd said all right. It was nine now.

  "Spur?"

  No one answered so I went up the wide staircase and looked through the grille at the top. Two of the arabesque lanterns were burning, their light throwing a mottled pattern across the rugs where Spur was lying, his body half hidden by the strong dark coils that had formed a spiral around it.

  11: Shockwave

  I hadn't made a mistake.

  The digital clock on the instrument panel of the ZX flicked to 9:14 as I drove south, perhaps instinctively drawn to the place where I'd talked to Ferris earlier today.

  But I hadn't made a mistake. What was starting to happen now was unavoidable.

  Drawn to the place where I'd talked to Ferris, I suppose, because there I'd felt safe for a while and in physical touch with London, via the director in the field and the Embassy cypher room and the radio waves. Most of the time we curse London because it makes inhuman demands on us, but now and then, when the pressure becomes relentless and we know we can only lose, we think of London as a mother, or God — something omniscient and indestructible, with a signalling network as complex and efficient as a spider's web and with brains like Croder's watching over us and protecting us from evil.

  I hadn't telephoned Ferris. He said he'd be standing by at the Embassy from nine onwards, waiting to hear whether Spur had given me information we could use as a way into the opposition, to Tung Kuo-feng. To have telephoned Ferris would have been a mistake, and tonight a mistake could be fatal. I had stayed long enough at the top of the stairs, looking through the grille at the shapes lit by the arabesque lamps, to be sure.

  The man and the snake were both dead. Spur's face didn't leave any doubt; his lungs had been crushed. It took longer to be sure that the creature was also dead; it had still been coiled round the man's body, but no longer tightly: I could see narrow areas of lamplight between the coils and the man's body, and the thing's head was lying flat along the floor, upside down, with the jaws open and flecked with foam.

  I wasn't going to open the grilled gate and go in there to look closer: it would have made me sick; instead I threw a hundred-won coin and landed it an inch from the snake's head, and got no reaction, trying again and thinking they should perhaps put a notice on the gate here: Do Not Throw Coins at the Boa Constrictor. The mind is irrational, and finds little jokes for you in the midst of horror.

  Then I came away.,

  I walked the four blocks through the alleys and side streets with due care and attention, and knew by the time I reached the Datsun that I hadn't been followed. It would have been a mistake not to check this carefully, and, as I say, I hadn't made a mistake. What was happening now was unavoidable.

  He'd be lonely without me.

  Well then, he wasn't lonely now; they were cuddled up together.

  What kind of man had Spur been?

  Everyone loves old Alexander.

  Not really.

  I had been driving south for three minutes and was now going round Namsan Park. The car went very well, though the gearbox was a fraction tight because there were only 3,476 miles on the clock. Traffic wasn't too bad because most people were eating at this hour or watching the prime time shows.

  I'd wanted to drive for a while before phoning Ferris at the Embassy because I was safer in the car than on foot: you can see at once if there's a tag on you.

  There was one on me now.

  It had occurred to me, during the last few minutes, that Spur had been killed because he'd got too close to the Triad.

  I didn't know how it was possible for that bloody thing to have been incited to kill, but I didn't have any doubts. Spur must have had it for some time because the screws in the hinges of the grilled gate were dulled over and one of them had started to rust, presumably because of the humidity here in the summer rains; and it must have been born in captivity because that Armenian in Calcutta hadn't just pulled the thing out of the jungle and wrapped it up for Spur: it'd be like giving someone a live lion. Old Alexander, whom everybody loved, had been a domesticated pet until by some potent magic its primitive brain had been goaded into the area of racial memory and inherited characteristics and it thought it was back in the rotting dark of the jungle, where this other creature that walked in jerks on its hind legs was an enemy, and food.

  But what had made it die, up there in the light of the arabesque lamps? Spur couldn't have done anything to it: the thing was a huge galvanic spring that could strike and coil with the speed of a tension trap. What made me so sure that it had been incited to kill was that the Tung Triad always chose indirect means when it could.

  Spur's death had conformed to the pattern. Sinclair had been killed either in his car or thrown into the Thames half dead, to drown. They'd tried to smash me up in a hit and run and they'd killed the Secretary of State with a remote-controlled bomb and then they'd sent Li-fei to shoot me instead of doing it themselves. The US Ambassador had been shot dead, but it might not have happened directly by a Tung agent; they might have used someone like Li-fei.

  I take note of patterns in the shifting sands of a mission: you can read from them a great deal about the opposition. This man Tung enjoyed high drama: a cloud of flowers exploding against the sun; a headless man on the temple steps; a woman's grief in the shape of a gun; and a jungle death in downtown Seoul.

  Also, he was a man of some magic, though it was not magic that had brought the black Porsche into my driving mirror; it was the result of expert planning. I had made sure that no one was shadowing me from the wine shop to the Datsun, but that was the most I could do, and I'd known that. They'd used chain surveillance, which is impossible to detect unless you can recognise your opponents. In any given network of streets there are always men standing still, waiting for a bus or buying a paper or looking into a shop window, and there'd been men like that in the streets I'd walked through a few minutes ago.

  Four of them-at least four, because there were that number of exits from the square — had been positioned within sight of the wine shop, either in the street or at the windows of a tea house or a restaurant; they had seen me go into the wine shop and they'd seen me come out, and they'd started their routine looping action, one of them staying where he was and keeping me in sight while the others moved off to make quick detours round the streets where I walked, so that at all times there was one man watching me, standing still, as each of the others went ahead of me along a parallel street and took up his station.

  I had used checks and cover all the way from the wine shop to the car to make certain I wasn't followed. But I was followed. The Datsun had been delivered to me, left parked outside the Jang Chung Gymnasium by a runner from the Embassy at Ferris's request, and w
hen I'd taken it over I was unsurveilled; and when I'd driven it to Toegye Street the mirror had been clean all the way. They'd picked me up at the wine shop and let me lead them far enough from the area for Spur's death and mine to seem unconnected, and now the black Porsche was turning left when I turned left, and right when I turned right, because chain surveillance isn't possible when there are vehicles involved.

  A flashy car, the Porsche, for an intelligence agency. But then, we weren't up against an intelligence agency of any prescribed type; we were up against something more mystical than that, more exotic, more deadly: the two men whose faces made a blur behind the windscreen of the Porsche weren't concerned that I knew they were there and were tailing me; wherever I would go they would go, until they were ready to make the kill.

  Left, right, right again and left. The low curved snout of the Porsche heeled on the turns in the mirror, its gleaming body the shape of a shark.

  9:17.

  I took the street going west along the south boundary of Namsan Park and used the smaller streets through the blocks where the embassies were — Thai, Belgian, Indonesian — and twice hit the floor and changed down and got wheelspin and swung out past a taxi and a small truck, just as an essay. It was no go: they were professionals and they had a machine to beat mine if they tried hard enough. But already the pattern was changing ahead of me and at first I didn't believe it because they'd had so little time; then it became perfectly clear because every time I tried to pass the Chevrolet pick-up ahead of me it pulled nearer the middle of the street to block me.

  This was the pincer, and a classic.

  The elements of the evening fell into shape in my mind as I drove a dozen yards behind the pick-up truck, a dozen yards in front of the Porsche. Spur had infiltrated the Triad to get information for the Bureau, and he'd been discovered, and the information was now locked safely in the cold relic of his brain. Tung's agents had learned — from Spur himself or via a tapped signal — that the information was to have been passed onto me this evening; and they had moved in to follow me to a convenient place for the kill.