Nick Carter - Double Identity

From modern Peking Airport to the center of the ancient Forbidden City is about forty kilometers. That is the linear distance. Reckoned in terms of time, or in any other possible fourth dimension a traveler might conjure up, it could as easily be forty millenniums! Once through the busy Outer City where tall chimneys belch clouds of smoke and long rows of new apartments remind one strangely of Los Angeles — white stucco and red tile — the traveler can enter into the comparative peace and quiet of the Purple City. Beyond this, at the very center of the great yellow web that is China, is the Imperial City. Or, as the masters of China today prefer to call it, the Tartar City.

Wang-wei, Chief of Coordination of Chinese Secret Services, glanced impatiently at the watch on his slim wrist. It would never do to be late to this conference! The Celestial Twins — upon occasion Wang-wei permitted himself a sense of humor — the Twins themselves had summoned him. Mao and Chou.

Wang-wei glanced at his watch again and muttered impatiently to the driver of the small, black, Russian-built sedan, “Faster! T’ung-chih!”

The driver nodded and prodded the car. Wang-wei’s well-manicured nails played a busy tattoo on his pigskin briefcase, that inevitable badge of officialdom. He was a neat little man in his early fifties with a thin, sardonic copper-skinned face. He wore dark trousers and handsome British-made shoes and a black high-buttoned blouse in the para-military style. Because of the nip in the bright October day, he was wearing a conservative sport jacket. He was hatless, his graying hair neatly en brosse. Wang-wei was handsome and well preserved for his age, and he was vain of it.

The black car sped through a series of gates and came to T’ien An Men, the entrance to the Tartar City. Here, surrounded by golden-tiled roofs, was a large public square. The driver slowed and glanced back at Wang-wei for instructions.

For a moment Wang-wei paid him no attention. He was thinking that it would be a pity if he could not see his mistress, Sessi-yu, while he was in Peking. His eyes narrowed and he felt his loins stir as he thought of Sessi-yu and her Golden Lotus! What a Lotus it was — almost a thing apart from herself, an entity well versed in the tender arts, rich with the lore of ten thousand years of exquisite venery.

The driver grunted something, and Wang-wei returned to the mundane world. He had best keep his wits about him for the next few hours. Soon now he would find out what the Celestial Twins wanted with himself — and with his prize Turtle.

Across the square stood two drab government office buildings. Between them was a compound fenced by a high, blue-painted wall. Wang-wei left the car and entered the compound through a wooden gate guarded by a soldier of the Security Troops. The man carried a tommy gun slung over his shoulder. He scowled at the pass Wang-wei showed him, but waved him in.

It was very quiet in the compound. An ancient house, three-storied with a tiled roof and curved eaves in Old China style, stood in the center of the compound. For a moment Wang-wei stood and surveyed the house with an enigmatic little smile. Even had he not been quite familiar with it, he would have known from the style of architecture and the curvature of the eaves that it was a house of felicity. Many spirits had been consulted before it was built in this exact spot.

Another tommy-gunbearing guard came down a graveled path to meet him. Wang-wei displayed his pass again, after which he was escorted into the house and upstairs to a small anteroom on the third floor.

Because he had been ushered to this particular room Wang-wei knew that something very special was up. The main room, just beyond the sliding door of saffron paper, was a very special room indeed. Wang-wei had visited it many times before on both business and pleasure. It was, in a very real sense, his room! A mainstay of his work when he was in Peking. That the Twins had chosen it for this meeting meant that something of vast importance was afoot!

Wang-wei allowed himself to guess. Counter-espionage? Wang-wei permitted himself a small dry smile. What else? His Turtle, Turtle Nine, had also been brought to this place. Was probably downstairs at this very moment. Turtle Nine, so carefully groomed for so many years. So well trained. So meticulously indoctrinated and brainwashed. And, less than a year ago, the skillful plastic surgery! Wang-wei permitted his smile to become full blown. He was right. He must be right. They were going to use Turtle Nine at last. Use him on the one mission for which he had been trained for years.

The saffron paper door slid back with a hiss. A high ranking officer crooked a finger at Wang-wei. “Come,” said the officer in a soft Cantonese accent, “you are wanted.” He closed the paper door after Wang-wei, but did not follow him into the large rectangular room.

Wang-wei hesitated a moment at the entrance, clutching his briefcase to his narrow chest. He glanced down at the floor and felt the same start of surprise he always did, even though he had been in the room many times. The floor was of clear glass, looking into a large apartment below. It was, in effect, nothing more than a huge two-way mirror of the type used for peep shows — and spying — the World over. From below it appeared that the ceiling was a mirror intended for obvious uses.

At the far end of the room two men sat in comfortable chairs. On a low table between them were tea things and a bottle each of whisky and soda. There were glasses and ashtrays, but neither of the men was smoking or drinking. Both of them stared at the newcomer with interest.

The oldest of the men, a round little fat man with the bland face of a Buddha — which, in a modern version, he sometimes supposed himself to be — waved to a third chair and said, “Come, Wang-wei. Sit down. Things are about to start. We have only been waiting for you.”

As Wang-wei sank into the armchair he was aware of cynical amusement in the dark eyes of the other man. He had not yet spoken, this man. He was younger than the Buddha type, thinner, healthier looking. His dark hair was thick and glossy and blazed at the temples with a tinge of gray. Now he leaned forward, well-kept hands on his knees and smiled at Wang-wei. “So — it is the little Master of the Turtles! And how are all your slimy charges keeping these days, comrade?”

Wang-wei’s answering smile was nervous. He knew that Chou had never liked him, that he questioned Wang-wei’s competence for the high and important office he held. And that name— Turtle Master! Only Chou ever dared to taunt him with that. But then Chou could do pretty well as he liked — he was heir apparent.

Wang-wei kept his face impassive and, with an inward prayer that Mao’s decaying kidneys would hold out forever, he snapped open his briefcase and extracted a thick sheaf of papers. As he did so he glanced down through the glass floor into the apartment below. There was activity down there now, but nothing important. Merely a servant turning on soft lights and arranging bottles and glasses on a little bamboo bar in one corner.

Chou saw his glance and chuckled. “Not yet, Master of Turtles. The fun hasn’t started yet I hope you’re up to it. It might be a little bloody, you know. And if the blood turns out to be your Turtle’s—”

The Buddha type waggled a fat finger at Chou. “Enough!

Save your jokes for later. With all that I have on my shoulders I have come, in person, to see this thing. I am almost convinced that it will work — almost, but not quite. So let us get on with it.” He turned to Wang-wei. “What of this Turtle Nine of yours?” The fat little man tapped some papers on the table. “I know much of him already, but I wish to hear it from your lips. It is you, after all, who bears the ultimate responsibility.”