ADAM HALL - The Pekin Target

The interpreter was also scared; not perhaps by the personalities of either man as such, but by the atmosphere of tension that was affecting all of us. In the confrontation that Tung Kuo-feng had started when he'd brought me in here, either he or Sinitsin would finally have to back down, and I couldn't imagine either of them doing that.

"If your operation is close to being infiltrated," the KGB Colonel said, "then you must take the necessary action." His ice blue eyes were levelled at Tung over his folded arms.

"Our operation" had become "your operation". Noted. The Russian connection was telling the Chinese end that they expected the goods delivered, regardless of obstacles.

"British Intelligence," the interpreter said as he swung from Tung to Sinitsin like a duellist, "has a high reputation for its activities against the Soviets in the Cold War, with notable successes."

"The high reputation of British Intelligence is going to need a little adjusting, if the Soviets, keep up their notable success in turning homosexuals among the intelligentsia into serviceable moles for Moscow."

Sinitsin didn't glance at me; he had no reason to believe I understood Russian.

Tung left it alone. "My action group has reported to me that our operation is in jeopardy. At this stage, when we are halfway to success in our intentions, it would be invaluable to use this agent for our purposes, and I am confident that someone of your status in the intelligence field will recognise the opportunity."

The twin reflections of the interpreter's glasses swung across the wall as he turned his head back and forth against the hard light of the gas lamps.

"This is why you asked me not to kill him?"

"Yes."

"What do you suggest he signals?"

"Disinformation."

"To the effect?"

"I would leave that to you, as someone skilled in such matters."

Light flashed again from the submachine gun of one of the men outside. Through the arches I could see the indigo haze of the mountains, with the moon's light silvering what looked like a waterfall several miles away, and the curving line of a pagoda roof in the foreground. One of those men would be Yang, because he never left me out of his sight: he would have been watching me through the grilled apertures of Tung's chamber ten minutes ago, though I hadn't seen him then. I'd heard his name earlier, when they'd ordered me out of my cell to go and see Tung Kuo-feng; he was the track-suited North Korean who had prodded my spine with the gun on our way up to the monastery, and when they had pushed me into the monk's cell this afternoon and slammed the heavy door shut he'd said something to me in Korean, a few short words with their sibilants spat out in my face with his eyes narrowed like a cat's. I appreciated his warning; he was under orders to leave me alone, but I knew now that he was waiting for me to make a too-sudden movement or break into a run, and give him an excuse to shoot me down. Perhaps the marksman had been his brother.

"You should know," I heard Igor Sinitsin saying, "that this agent is very experienced."

"So my action group has reported."

"If we let him use the radio, he would certainly slip in what we call an ‘ignore’ signal, making it clear he was giving out disinformation."

The twin reflections swung across and across the wall.

"I finished my education at the University of Singapore," Tung said evenly, "and have a perfect understanding of the English language. I would instruct him to say precisely what you wish, and no more."

"Captain Samoteykin here understands a certain amount of English, you know."

Not true. If anyone among the Russian or Korean contingent understood a word of English, Sinitsin would have told them to be present when Tung had talked to me in his chamber.

"So much the better," Tung said through the interpreter. "He'll be able to supervise the exchange of signals. In any case I shall make it clear to him that this is the only chance he has of saving his life, and that if he attempts any kind of deception I shall order him summarily shot."

"He'll be shot anyway, before we leave here."

"I shall not tell him that."

The KGB colonel had started moving about, his hands clasped neatly behind him and his grey suede shoes making a series of soft clicking sounds at precise intervals across the flagstones. He'd like to tell Tung Kuo-feng to press on with his operation and deal ruthlessly with any opposition, because he was a KGB officer and that was the way a KGB officer would think, with a million-strong organisation behind him and almost limitless resources; in fact the only reason why Department V wasn't running this project directly was that if any mistakes were made, if there were the slightest risk of world exposure, the faces on the front page would have to be Asiatic, not Caucasian. The KGB had chosen Tung not only to carry out the operation but to take the blame if anything went wrong — or forfeit his son's life. But Tung now had him worried: Sinitsin would know from the radio reports that Tung's group was encountering opposition and that the murder of the British delegate had been a mistake; by now the KGB were walking on eggshells, because the one thing they feared was exposure: to have it known that the Soviets were behind the attempt to destroy Chinese-American relations would bring total diplomatic disaster.

If the operation failed, and failed because a British Intelligence cell had infiltrated it and blown it up, Colonel Igor Sinitsin's head would roll; and Tung was giving him a chance to avoid it.

For Tung the situation was different, and totally personal. He was fighting to save his son.

His own life was already lost, and he knew that. Whether the operation failed or succeeded, they would never let him live to expose the Kremlin.

"Ask him if he understands the situation," Sinitsin said, and came to a halt with his feet together.

"He already understands. He is ready to cooperate."

I saw anger behind Sinitsin's eyes; he was having to give in, and he wasn't used to that. "He is ready to do anything In his power to destroy us. To destroy us all. And to destroy our operation. If you use him, you'll be picking up a scorpion."

"A scorpion will hardly sting the hand that protects it."

Sinitsin held the silence, standing with his head tilted back as he considered, looking at no one; then he swung round and came towards me in three measured strides until I was looking into his cold blue stare.

"Do you understand any Russian?"

I looked blank.

"Tung," he said through the interpreter, "does this man understand Chinese?"

"No."

"Have you tried to trip him?"

"Yes."

The cold blue eyes watched mine. "I have decided not to permit him to send a signal. I have decided to have him taken out immediately and shot."

I went on looking blank as the interpreter translated.

Tung must know the man was trying to trip me in Russian, but decided to play it straight. "That will lose us a valuable chance of saving the operation."

Sinitsin was silent, watching my eyes. He didn't worry me, but I thought I felt vibrations again from Tung Kuo feng's direction; perhaps he expected a final show of resistance, and was developing his ki to combat it. The little Korean stood in the middle of us, his body leaning awkwardly away from his deformed leg.

"Tung Kuo-feng," the Russian said at last, "will you interpret for us?"

"I will."

The game began, and it was for four people, in three languages, while Sinitsin and I watched each other's eyes to catch any meaning that was lost on its way from Russian through Chinese to English; the KGB man was also watching for me to react to what he was saying in Russian, or to answer too fast once I'd got it in English, having had time to consider the question. I would have to be careful; after the gruelling trek through the mountains I was still fatigued enough to miss a trick, and that would be fatal.